On Mothers

The earliest memory I have of my mom is her scampering through the kitchen, freaking out because I put our cat, Dusty (just a clue as to what sort of cat she was...her nickname was "Old Miserable") in the garbage can and closed the lid. I distinctly remember her wearing a red sweater, and pulling the cat out of the can to rescue her.

I love my mom, Lucinda. She is truly a best friend. She has always been there to listen to me, to support me, and to love me. She read to me, cuddled me, and nurtured me. She taught me to do hard things. She showed me the patience, love and dedication it requires to be a stay-at-home mom, and instilled in me the wonderful values of a committed, dedicated marriage. She modeled how to strive to be better every day. But she was a parent and shepherd, first and foremost. She put her foot down countless times when I was growing up, refusing to let me do things that I thought were completely age appropriate, like not allowing me to attend a Smashing Pumpkins concert without any adult supervision when I was in 7th grade. Or not letting me wander aimlessly through the mall with other crowds of kids. Or being completely horrified when I thought it was the height of fashion to wear stack-heel sparkly jelly shoes with cutoff short shorts to the town library and then to my brother's football practice (let's not forget the fact that at 12 or 13 when this happened, puberty had hit overnight and suddenly there were hips and curves in all the right places), and to never let me wear the shoes with anything but non-form fitting pants again. Instead of letting me do whatever I wanted, and instead of trying to be my "friend," she was my parent, first and always. She protected me. Loved me. Guided me. Corrected me. And now, she is a best friend. I love her more than words can ever express. 

Me and my mom, at our Massachusetts backyard wedding reception, being ridiculous.

I was also blessed to marry into a family with a mother that is every bit as incredible as my own. I don't know why Heavenly Father thought I was worthy enough to have two incredible mothers, but He apparently did, and I am forever grateful. Cindy is a firecracker. With a sharp wit, a passion to learn and understand, and a spine of steel to get her through even the hardest times, she is truly an unstoppable force of nature. I have found a dear friend and a role model. This woman parented FOUR boys, all of which count as two children, because of their energy levels, so she really parented EIGHT boys, and is still sane! Her sense of humor and dedication to finding the good in even the darkest of situations is an inspiration. She welcomed me into her family lovingly, opening her home to me without qualification for visits and Christmas and my many trips to Utah while BJ and I were dating. I have never felt anything but loved, accepted and understood by Cindy. And she raised my sensitive, caring and hardworking husband. I am grateful to her for her friendship, love and hard work every day.

Me and Cindy in Boston, after eating lunch at the Barking Crab.

Mother's Day is right around the corner, and I know it is going to be a very hard day. I will go to church, and see lots of babies with their incandescently radiant mothers (yes, church mommies, you are that beautiful, even when you are covered in crumbs and desperately trying to get your children to quiet down). I will listen to talks about the joys of motherhood, the divine role of mothers, and the eternal blessings of being a mother. I will either cry like a baby through them, or completely shut down and tune it all out as a coping mechanism. Either way, I will go through the majority of that day feeling like absolute crap, because all I want in this world is to be called, "mother." But I can exercise the qualities of a mother now, to prepare to be one when the time is right for me. As a wise and strong woman who has never married and never had children of her own, Sheri Dew captured and defined this important idea for me when she said, 

"Nevertheless, the subject of motherhood is a very tender one, for it evokes some of our greatest joys and heartaches. This has been so from the beginning. Eve was 'glad' after the Fall, realizing she otherwise 'never should have had seed.' And yet, imagine her anguish over Cain and Abel. Some mothers experience pain because of the children they have borne; others feel pain because they do not bear children here. About this...John A. Widstoe was explicit: 'Women who through no fault of their own cannot exercise the gift of motherhood directly, may do so vicariously.' For reasons known to the Lord, some women are required to wait to have children. This delay is not easy for any righteous woman. But the Lord's timetable for each of us does not negate our nature. Some of us, then, must simply find other ways to mother. And all around us are those who need to be loved and led."

I am going to use the weeks leading up to Mother's Day to practice gratitude for my mothers, Lucinda and Cindy. I am also going to seek opportunities to "mother" others. I might not prevent them from attending a Smashing Pumpkins concert unsupervised, or rescue a cat that they trapped in a trashcan, or confiscate a pair of Jelly shoes that should be burned on the ash-heap of history, but I can find ways to practice compassion, caring, love and guidance. I don't think it will make Mother's Day sting any less, but it will be a balm and salve on my soul to mitigate the effects over the long term. 

I love you, moms the world over. Know that you are wonderful, amazing, beautiful and Christlike, and that you are all mothers, even if you have not borne your own children. Hugs.

When a Glass Breaks and Your Dog Escapes, Just Eat Some Granola

Yesterday started out perfectly. I taught the dog how to run alongside me while I bike, and we went for a beautiful jaunt through the park, soaking in sunshine and having a grand old time. It almost completely erased the bad memories of the day before, when beloved Maisey spent the morning ralphing up her weight in nasty dirt that she had eaten out of my in-law's neighbor's backyard. Needless to say, our carpet is in not-so-pristine and uber-stinky condition and we are sleeping in the tiny bed (we, meaning me, hubby and dog) in the spare room until we can clean the carpet tomorrow. So we haven't exactly slept well since dog vomitapalooza went down the other day, and the great time outside hit the reset button on a so far crap-tastic week.

But no. The joy was short-lived. We came home, Maisey snarfed some chicken broth and rice down to help her ailing tummy, and I cleaned the kitchen. And then a barrage of insanity and hysteria was unleashed upon my house like some sort of Old Testament scourge. 

It started out innocently enough, precipitated by some dish washing, which has apparently always been evil masquerading as culturally mandated cleanliness. I made it through the sink of dishes, and before my sudsy little sausage fingers could intervene, that heartless wench named gravity pulled a large drinking glass off the edge of the counter and hurled it to the ground. Glass shattered everywhere. It was like the glass was laced with explosives. Pieces hit the ceiling and flew through the kitchen into the living room. 

And then I heard it. The jingle of the dog's collar. She was slumbering in the corner like a giant woolly mammoth/snuffleupagus hybrid, and was jolted awake into a state of terror. I flew across the room (thankfully, wearing shoes), threw the back door open, and shoved the dog out onto the patio. We live in a condo complex and don't have a backyard, but we do have a gated patio. Which is great to sequester the dog in when she needs to be removed from the house. If the gate is shut. And the gate totally was not shut.

In a matter of seconds, the dog flew out of the gate, turned to look at me with an utterly devious look in her eye, and took off for the grassy common area. Stop one for psycho-beast: a gaggle of small, pre-school aged children. Of course. She began leaping at them, drool-covered tongue flapping in the breeze before it made contact with their peanut butter and jelly smeared faces. The carnage claimed five small munchkins before she lost interest. Beast begins chasing a man puffing a cigarette while pushing a stroller. I think he also claimed ownership of the previously assaulted children, but chose not to worry about an 80 pound monster licking them to death. Maisey jumped on the man. Maisey jumped on the stroller. Maisey graced the baby with a face slobber before she moved on to run psychotic circles around the rather large common area. 

I had no chance of catching her without some form of divine intervention. Maisey's favorite game is "chase me," so running to catch her only fuels the madness. Fifteen minutes later, as she stopped to smell what a male dog left on a tree, I managed to nab the scruff of her neck and get a firm grip on the collar. I herded her back into the gated area, and returned to the scene of the kitchen disaster.

I won't detail the cleaning of the glass, except to say this-after I picked up all of the large pieces and got the vacuum out to help with the thousands of small shards all over the floor, I thought I was home free. Nope. Not by a mile. The blasted vacuum struck the dog's massive one-gallon water bowl and dumped the whole thing all over the floor. Teensy-tiny shards of glass mixed with water. Freaking lovely. 

It was at this point that I let out some sort of primal growl that became a scream, channeling both a T-Rex and Velociraptor at the same time. It was lovely. I threw the vacuum to the ground, chucked a towel on the mess, and grabbed a giant jar of granola that had chocolate chips in it (the only chocolate in the house), sat down on the couch, and picked the chocolate out of the rest of the mix for a solid 15 minutes. 

I had no reason to share that story other than to (hopefully) entertain, and to serve as introduction to my recipe for some seriously trash-kicking granola. Go make some-it works out to about $8 for 10 cups of granola, and at 266 calories for a 1/3 cup serving, it is a nutritionally packed and totally scrumptious snack. I like it sprinkled on yogurt with fruit, dry, or served with a little almond milk. Every calorie is a hearty one, and is absolutely good for you. And it's a great decompression tool when you need a chocolate fix after your kitchen, gravity, dog and vacuum declare open war on you.

Crunchy Quinoa Granola

*Note: this can be gluten free, if you get certified gluten free oats and oat groats

*Can be easily adapted to use different nuts, fruits and flavorings. Experiment!

*Easily adapted to be organic too! Mine was about 80% organic, with the exception for the fruit, and still only came in around $8 for the batch.

• 2 cups whole rolled oats 
• 1 cup uncooked oat groats (whole oats, not rolled)
• 1 cup quinoa (1/2 cup red quinoa, 1/2 cup regular quinoa)-rinse well before using
• 1 cup raw almonds, chopped coarsely
• 1/4 cup raw unsalted sunflower seeds
• 1 cup chopped dried papaya (I purchased 1/2 pound from the bulk bin and chopped it)
• 1 cup chopped dried dates (1/2 pound from bulk section, chopped)
• 1 cup dried orange flavored cranberries, chopped
• 10 ounces of dark (85% cacoa) chocolate chips 
• 3 tsp cinnamon
• 1/2 cup raw honey, melted
• 1 cup coconut oil, melted

1. Preheat over to 225. Line 2 baking rimmed baking sheets with parchment

2. Combine all dry ingredients, including cinnamon.

3. Chop fruit and nuts, add to dry mixture and combine well to distribute all ingredients.

4. Melt coconut oil and honey. Pour evenly over the dry mixture and mix with wooden spoon to combine.

5. Spread 1/2 of the granola mixture on each baking sheet and bake for 60 minutes.

6. Remove from the oven, let cool. When cooled, add the chocolate chips and mix to combine.

7. Pour into airtight glass jars. Store for up to two weeks.

Serving size: 1/3 cup       Calories: 266

Running Faster Than I Have Strength after Justin Bieber and Naked Emperors

I am an exercise in extremes. 

I tend to run faster than I have strength, or not run at all.

Not literally. I hate running. I am pretty sure that long, long ago, some sadistic person told everyone in his kingdom over and over again that running was the best thing in the world, and after repeating the lie enough times, people began to believe it. Sort of an, "Emperor's New Clothes" deal. Or the whole obsession with Justin Bieber. Or the inexplicable resurgence in high-waisted, acid wash jeans. Hey, DJ Tanner called and is pleading for you to never, ever consider buying those again, no matter how many pairs of Keds you want to pair them with.

Why, world? Why?

Oh, DJ, I love you, but not your acid wash jeans

I have a feeling I am one following this fool far too often...

Running. Shudder.

So not literal running. Just the way we have to run through life. I've been thinking about this a lot lately. I'll thank my husband for that.

Last week, husband came home from work, and announced, "I'm going to run for three hours on Saturday." After I picked my jaw up from the floor, I tried to force my mind to construct a coherent response. You see, my husband is a person who can run a sub-8 minute mile with no training. He just gets up, runs and keeps running until he is tired. I have no doubt that he could probably go out, and through sheer determination, run marathon distance. Of course, I would be visiting him in the hospital after as he recovered from the experience, but he could probably make that distance. 

Our conversation went down the road of, "people who run marathon distance train for that. They eat well. They don't guzzle Mountain Dew by the gallon. You could make that distance, but the price you would pay for being physically unprepared wouldn't be worth it." Cute husband definitely was not happy that I was such a buzzkill. I definitely was. I felt like I squashed his joy, hopes and dreams, but avoiding an ambulance transport and ER bill was definitely worth it to me. He relented, has been eating wonderfully to properly fuel his body, and this weekend, went out to run 11 sub-8 minute miles, no sweat. 

I can learn some lessons from him.

I'm an all or nothing person. I am 100% committed, or I am just not present. I am out, hiking the mountains and being a total dominating beast, or I am at home, glued to the couch, more episodes of The West Wing in my "recently viewed" section of Netflix than should ever be viewed by any person that is not bedridden. I am either committed to the point of being obsessive in my work or church commitments, or I am completely checked out. The Justin Biebers and DJ Tanners  and naked emperors follow me around and yell to me, "run faster, try to catch us as we flitter around with our ribbon dancers and Skip-its! We're so cool and so is all of our stuff!" And I either run desperately to catch them, or just sit down on the sidewalk and draw pictures in the dirt.

It's time to reexamine the balance of priorities in my life. Where am I running faster than I have strength, and where am I not running at all? I have a feeling this is a challenge many people are facing. 

I think sometimes, I am doing the two simultaneously. I throw myself headlong into a commitment, becoming obsessively busy for the sake of appearing busy, while I am in fact moving nowhere and accomplishing very little that matters. I know that challenges with fertility have exacerbated this to an extreme for me. I think, "If I just throw myself into something and dedicate to it 100%, I will automatically be successful at everything! I'll be blessed for my industriousness and hard work. If I just do everything perfectly, I will be perfect." And all of a sudden, I am working very hard, but doing very little of value.

I would be better served by following the admonition to not run faster than I have strength, but to simply run. To set realistic goals and accomplish them. Not to run a marathon three days from now (sorry, BJ), but to run further than I did yesterday. And to always, always run with meaning and heart. 

I am going to follow the example of my husband (post-reality check provided by his loving wife)-I will fill my life with the things that will fuel my body, mind and soul properly. I will go out and try my best, pushing myself healthily, but not to an extreme. I will balance my commitments and time to make them meaningful  purposeful and beneficial. 

It is an experiment in self, but one that I know will yield wonderful results in all areas of my life, and one free from the Justin Biebers, DJ Tanners in acid wash jeans and Keds, and naked emperors that have previously taunted me from the sidelines as I run. 

Learning to Breathe

This past week has been awful. The Boston Marathon bombings and subsequent manhunt in the place that will always truly be home to me. Massive explosions and fires in Texas. Earthquakes. The general tumult of the world. I can't even form words that adequately articulate the deep ache in the pit of my stomach. I swear, the world is screaming for relief and my utter inability to soothe the wounds that seem to grow larger each day makes me suck in my breath and lose the capacity to breathe.

Not being able to breathe has been a motif in my life over these past few weeks. I'm still waiting on test results from the OBGYN and losing my breath every time I think about it. Making peace with the idea of going back to work in August, while acknowledging that this job is a reminder each day that I don't have a baby makes me feel winded. Hearing the heartbreaking yet triumphant story of a friend's journey through adoption over yummy salads and gentle pinches of chocolate-skinned baby legs just about knocked the wind out of me. My last breath felt like it was stolen from my lungs when I dreamed of my babies again.

One of the things I believe in so profoundly and deeply that it roots me to the very earth is the power of divine inspiration. There are times in our lives when we can feel the precious powers of heaven descend upon us to provide inspiration, comfort, guidance and healing. I have a deep testimony of the power of God to communicate with His beloved children and help them to understand and accept the challenges and opportunities of their lives. I have had those experiences personally, and one of them has been tied to the children that I know will someday be mine.

I think this is one of the reasons that infertility has been so difficult for me. Because I know who my children will be. Nearly two years ago, I sat in a beautiful room, a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord, communing with my Heavenly Father, thanking Him and praising Him, and I knew in my heart with the deepest of conviction who my children would be. I know this probably sounds completely crazy and that I need a one-way ticket to the nuthouse, but I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life. I know their names, their genders, and what they will look like. In this amazingly pure and inspired moment in my life, I felt my deep, eternal love for them, a love unlike anything else. I haven't met them, but I know them, and I love them fiercely and wonderfully. And waiting for them is literally taking my breath from me. I want them to come into this world, and to hold them tightly to me while I tell them about the uncle and great-great grandmother that they will be named for. I want them to grow up knowing that they were wanted with a desire unlike anything else that I have ever experienced. I want to take my babies in my arms and be with them every moment of every day, wiping noses, cleaning messes, kissing cheeks, and inhaling the scent of their divine little souls. I know who they are.

Yesterday I doubled over from not being able to breathe. I sat in church and watched newborn babies all around me snuggle and burrow into their beautiful mothers. I watched toddlers giggle and make a general ruckus and be caught, comforted and loved intensely by their wonderful fathers. I watched older children sink into their parents gentle embraces and share a deep bond of heavenly love that seemed to fly in the face of their adolescent independence. And my arms felt so very empty. 

Last night, I dreamed of them. Of what it will feel like to hold them for the first time. To nourish them with life and love from the very first moment of their creation. To smooth their hair back when they are sick or hurt. To bandage a scraped knee when they fall down. To lift them back up again. I dreamed of what it will feel like to watch them go to school for the first time. I caught a glimpse of the deep and unshakable love the Heavenly Father has for each of his children. I want that so intensely. And I cried and cried as it stole what little breath I had left. 

I know who my babies are. I know they will come to me somehow, perhaps through me and my husband, perhaps in a more unconventional way. But oh my freaking heck, I can't breathe anymore. 

It's Not About the Thigh Gap

It's not about the thigh gap. 

How many of you have seen pictures like these on Pinterest lately? Yeah, they make me want to punch someone. I thought about blowing these images up throughout my entire workout today. I hate this obsession with the thigh gap.

Today marked day one of being back in the gym on a regular basis. Let me be completely honest, I wish I did not have to go. But Operation Baby is at least partially contingent on improving my overall health, which includes and necessitates regular workouts. But it's not about the thigh gap. I don't want that, nor will I ever have it. I have the legs of an Italian grape stomping woman. It's who I am. But apparently, by today's standards, I am not enough, because I don't have a thigh gap. Screw the thigh gap. I want to be healthy, and for me that picture looks nothing like the pictures I see of women all around me. Needless to say, my workout today was a little emotionally charged.

I have a love-hate relationship with the gym. The love part comes from the fact that when I am working out regularly, I feel fabulous, both mentally and physically. I am healthier, in a holistic sense. It has been a wonderful aspect of my life in the past. The hate part comes from a variety of experiences, and that fabulous mental script of inadequacy that runs through my mind the entire time I am there. Let me clarify.

When I lived in Colorado, I worked out at 24-hour Fitness for a few months before I moved. Every time I went there, I saw them. Those people who come to the gym as part of the gym-rat culture. You know they are there multiple hours per day. They always look like they have been lubed up with baby oil. Their workout clothes cost more than the equipment they are working out with. Women in full make-up and jewelry with rhinestone blinged "sexy" scrawled across their velour-clad butts. Listen, I am all for people being healthy and working out. But I seriously have a hard time handling it when people come into the gym, give me a look like, "hey chunkers, you don't belong here," and then sashay away to lift 5 pound weights while they stick their chest out for the Arnold Schwarzenegger wanna-be across the room. I know some of this is mental, but there is a lot of judging that happens at the gym. I am trying really hard to live by the mantra of, "you are here to get healthy, and nobody else matters."  

The mental script of inadequacy is the other part of the gym that I really hate. Egged on by the very real judgmental looks that can be thrown my way by spandex-clad women as I huff and puff on the treadmill or the elliptical (yeah, I may be going at a snail's pace, but I'm going!)  in my oversize basketball shorts and t-shirt, I begin hearing those annoying little thoughts (Brene Brown calls them Gremlins) that love to kill my motivation. "You're wasting your time." "Go home, chubby." Or my favorite, "You're not thin enough to show your face here." Gotta love that one. I'm working on beating those down in my brain like a whack-a-mole game with my aforementioned mantra.

The gym that I go to now is our local Rec Center. And it's great. It caters to a wide cross-section of people, so in the mornings when I go, I encounter a lot of cute mamas trying to lose the baby weight and older gentleman that have a penchant for working out in jeans and flannel shirts. It's like a gym full of Al Borland's. I feel minimally judged there, and that is really nice. Plus, with our insurance discount, it is incredibly affordable, and they offer a ton of classes at no extra charge. 

So this is what happened today. I went to the gym at 7:30, did an hour of cardio, lifted for 25 minutes, felt really great, and came home to make my giant green drink for breakfast. I sat down at the computer, made the mistake of going to Pinterest, and was whacked in the face with my least-favorite internet craze, Fitspiration. I seriously hate things like this.

I know some people find these motivating, but I believe their end goal (even if not the original intent) is shaming women into hating the body they have. It's not about health, it's about appearance. Let's take a woman, chop off her head and anything that makes her a person, and show only the parts of her body that we as a culture focus on to decide whether or not she is attractive. 

The lowest weight I have ever been since puberty is 135 pounds. I was a size 4-6, was working out insane amounts each day, weighing myself every morning and evening, and not eating well or nearly enough to truly sustain health, all to be what I thought I needed to be for someone else. I felt like crap. The best I have ever felt was closer to 150, working out because I loved how I felt by alternating the gym with walking, hiking and enjoying the outdoors. I ate a well-balanced diet chock-full of fresh foods, and felt amazing. I was comfortable with me, I was comfortable in my size 8 jeans, and I was the healthiest I have ever been. But my stomach never looked like that. I never saw my hipbones. I never had a "thigh gap" (apparently enough of a rage with young women that Rush Limbaugh brought up his concern about it on his show the other week). Seriously, look thigh-gap up on Pinterest and see what you get. Oh, and I am only 5 feet tall. To the world, popular culture, and media-driven standards, I was still fat. In reality, I was muscular, toned, fit, healthy and loving life. The standards and images we perpetuate as women (particularly online and at the gym) are not about health in many cases-they are about image. For those who want to learn some more about this, Beauty Redefined has some fascinating research on the subject.

I am going to keep working out every day and making awesome choices about what I choose to fuel my body with, because my health, my fertility and my future children are worth it. I will learn to deal with the occasional judge-y attitudes of people at the gym, and I will self-filter these unattainable and unhealthy body standards that are all around me. The only thing that matters is how I feel, and how I improve my own personal health. To anyone who is struggling with the same thing-whether you feel underweight, overweight, or you simply dislike where you are right now, know that you are not alone, and that it is about being healthy-not if you have a thigh gap in your skinny jeans. Here's to health.

Chocolate Conversations

My husband is adorable. And handsome. Smokin' hot. Excessively manly. But to me, he is mostly adorable. That's why I can give him a pass on having incomprehensible taste buds.

On our honeymoon, we spent four awesome days in Park City, soaking in the summer, walking through the bright and exuberant downtown, drinking in the sights and sounds of the local boho-chic/"yuppie ski-bunny on summer holiday" feel of the quaint town. It was amazing. 

There was a discovery made on our honeymoon that has become a focus of consistent conversation in our relationship. Chocolate. Get your minds out of the gutter-not that type of discovery. 

What I learned is that men and women evaluate, savor and consume chocolate very differently. 

I am an admitted food snob. My dream vacation involves me and my best friend eating our way through Europe, wearing only yoga pants to allow for maximum stomach expansion. I love going to restaurants where I can order a killer cheese plate and smear mellow-roasted cranberry garlic on hunks of crusty bread. I think my husband would cry if I took him somewhere like that. He has been very, very sweet about eating whatever I concoct in the kitchen at home (and has surprisingly become a fan of roasted asparagus and cabbage!), but I throw him a bone every few weeks and whip up a giant pot of chili or order him pizza. I knew I would have to do this when we got married. What I didn't expect was a massive divide between us on the subject of chocolate.

While we were in Park City, we were threading our way through some gorgeous art installations and photography galleries. BJ spotted a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory around the corner, and suggested we go find a treat. I am going to play this experience out as best as I can imagine it in his mind, and with absolute reality in mine. All mental, no dialogue exchanged.

BJ: I'm hungry. Oh look, a chocolate store. Let's go get something. I'll score points with my new wife and it will only cost a dollar or two.

Lauren: How sweet! Rocky Mountain Chocolate is decent chocolate, for a domestic brand. Not bad. 

BJ: I guess we'll both get a truffle then, since that's what she is drooling over. I've never seen her eyes light up like that before. Man, those are really small. Ok, so they must be about fifty cents each. Why aren't there any prices on the display? Maybe they are samples...

Lauren: Truffles! How wonderful! I love truffles! 

BJ: What the what? $7 for two bites of chocolate! This is highway robbery! I could get 7 Hershey bars or Snickers for that price. Gah! Oh well. GULP.

Lauren: I love to savor these. Little bites and let it melt and mellow. Yum. OH MY GOSH HE ATE THE ENTIRE THING IN ONE BITE AND BASICALLY SWALLOWED IT WHOLE!!! SAVAGE!!! MISCREANT!!! HOW DID I MARRY YOU???

BJ: So not worth $3.50 a pop. I couldn't even taste it. Pizza for dinner is the only way to make up for this.

Further investigation of the chocolate travesty has yielded this data. BJ (and I am assuming many men) look at treats through the lens of "how much can I get for the least amount of money?" My sister-in-law had a similar experience with her husband and a Ghirardelli chocolate, and he expressed the same sentiment. If I can get five candy bars for the price of one nibble of chocolate, then why would I ever eat the expensive stuff? I suppose I should applaud them for their thrift and economy.

It is useless to point out that Hershey's tastes like wax, or that Nestle leaves a funny film on your teeth. It is futile to do a side-by-side comparison of the increased quality of Cadbury, Guittard or Ghirardelli against store-brand chocolate. It is a waste of time of the highest order to encourage a bite of Callebaut, Lindt or my personal favorite, Ritter Sport. Never mind attempting to convince him that a trip to Europe to taste local chocolatiers would be worth his time. 

Bites will be inhaled. Nothing will be savored. Snickers will be coveted. Sigh.

A number of conversations with other women have all revealed the same attitude of their husbands and boyfriends towards chocolate. Such a tragedy. 

Yet another "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" moment ;)

Oh well! Someday, cute husband will stay home with the children while I traipse through Europe with best friend, savoring every calorie-laden bite! He can have his Hershey bars. Heaven knows I love him for it!

Go eat some chocolate. You know you want to.

Choosing the Path Before You

I have been unemployed for nearly two years. When I got engaged and we decided living in Utah was the best option for us because of BJ's condo ownership, I resigned my position as a teacher at a school I loved. I would have stayed there forever, teaching ancient civilizations to hilarious junior high kids and been totally happy. The Classical Academy was my dream school. I thoroughly, completely and effervescently enjoyed every moment of working there. From the students, to fellow staff, to administration, to school philosophy, it was like TCA and Lauren were made for each other. Leaving was incredibly hard, and I miss it all the time. And since moving, job opportunities have been nonexistent. 

I have since moonlighted as a private tutor. It has been a lot of fun, rewarding, and a good source of some much-needed income. I especially love that this year I have been able to work with my 14-year-old nephew and develop an amazing personal relationship with him. It has been wonderful blessing. But now, that is all changing.

I was offered (and accepted) a full-time teaching job for next year. It is at an amazing charter school that is similar to TCA in many ways. I will be coming on board as a high school teacher, and will get the chance to really help build that school from the ground up as they continue adding a grade at the high school each year. I am excited at the prospect of creating curriculum, integrating technology and developing awesome relationships with my students. I will have an hour-long train commute back and forth each day, but I can use that time to plan and grade and make sure I am not always bringing work home with me. Inside, I can feel seeds of excitement about this job, and I am incredibly grateful and excited for the chance to work again.

It is also breaking my heart.

I think this week and the challenges of my doctor's appointment to deal with fertility challenges have really thrown my ability to judge my emotions accurately. I am just feeling a whole lot and not really thinking very much about what those feelings really mean when I dig into them.

I feel like I am sacrificing my ultimate dream of mommy-hood for a career. I never wanted to do that. In my guts, I feel like I have surrendered to the challenge and given up on getting pregnant, because I am going back to work. The original plan was to be a mom about six months ago. Somewhere, life and fate are sitting in a room having a good laugh over the plans I made. Very funny, guys. Right now, I can't shake this feeling that I am doing this because I failed at becoming a mother. Which is crazy and totally irrational, but it's just how I feel right now.

I had a good talk with my Dad today. He said I need to choose the path that is before me, and if I detour somewhere along the way, I just take that detour, and that nobody is going to fault me for having a baby down the road. So that is what I am going to do. If I get pregnant while working, I will just do what I need to do to best fit the needs of my family. And for me, that will mean being home with my little one. But if I have to wait a little while in between the school year finishing and my being able to be home, then we will work it out. I cannot continue to live my life on pause while I wait for something to come. It may not come, or it may come in a way that I do not expect. But either way, I need to be working, contributing, saving money and being intellectually challenged as the path unfolds in front of me.

I really want this job. I want to feel a great sense of purpose and have something valuable to do each day. I want to contribute my time and talents somewhere that matter. I think I will be great and do great and feel great when I start teaching again. If I move forward with faith and hope, I know things will fall into place.

It is bittersweet to the core though, right now. I think that's ok. It will mellow over time.

So I am choosing the path before me, pushing my teacher cart ahead and towing a dream of a baby behind.

Answers and Elephants

Yesterday, my afternoon ended with a phone call to my best friend. At some point during the call, I busted this gem out:

"I have this fear that the doctor is going to tell me my uterus is eating itself from the inside."

After appropriate laughter and snorting from best friend, I felt better. See, yesterday was D-Day. Doctor Day. It was also job interview day. Which was probably a bad scheduling move on my part. I am pretty sure that when I told the interviewers that the one piece of information I wanted them to know about me, and I said "I'm a really awesome teacher. I am excellent at my job, and I need to be teaching again. I need to be in your classrooms, and I want to spend my time and talents here" I had tears in my eyes and was .5 seconds away from hyperventilating. They scribbled on their interview sheets and for the love of all that is good and holy, I pray that they didn't write down that I was a basket case. The thing is, I totally was. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first appointment with my new OBGYN. I hate the gynecologist. I mean, going to get a pelvic is outranked on my list only by getting a root canal without anesthesia. Or having bamboo shoved under my fingernails. After 18 months of trying to have a baby with no success, my rational brain kicked in and I made the appointment and canceled my hotel room at the Hanoi Hilton.

I actually really liked the Avenues Women's Center. The people were very helpful and kind. The office setup was sort of strange, but the overall experience was really positive. I especially liked the Nurse Practitioner, Hillary, that I saw for my first appointment to get me established as a patient. She was an older woman with a really gentle tone and approach, and talked to me with a lot of compassion and empathy. As a mom of adopted children, I think she has been in my shoes before.

We talked for a long time about everything I filled out on my patient history. Hillary had read all of it before the appointment, which really put me at ease. We discussed all of the trials of the past year and a half, the necessary tests needed for my husband, and the possibility of PCOS being a factor. She wrote a referral, and ordered a round of blood-work and tests to check for some signs and markers. We discussed prenatal vitamins, genetic testing, two months of temperature charting, and all sorts of things that I can't remember anymore. After the inevitable awkwardness and discomfort of the usual happenings of an exam, we hit the big, rotund elephant in the room. Weight.

I have struggled with my weight since puberty. It went something like this. Hormones flooded my petite body, and all of a sudden, I wasn't a flat-as-a-board girl anymore. Between 5th and 6th grade, things developed and I shot up in sizes, reasonably at first, and then at a rate that I am sure raised parental and doctoral eyebrows. And it stayed that way through high school. Never on the really bad side of things, but enough to be a concern. Then, I went to college, lost a bunch of weight because of lifestyle changes, and I worked really hard to keep it off. Too hard. To the point of not eating nearly enough and killing myself in the gym to satisfy the image my then-boyfriend desired. Since then, I have fluctuated up and down. A few years ago, I lost a lot of weight again, to once again satisfy the image of a guy I was seriously dating. When that relationship blew up in my face, I realized how fabulous and healthy I felt, because for once I had lost weight the right way-an awesome, balance diet and consistent, healthy exercise.

And then, I got married. And everything in my life changed. I left a job I loved. I moved. I remained unemployed. I had very few friends or social supports. I became pretty discouraged and depressed. My husband worked his tail off and was so stressed trying to support us on one income that I think his stress entered my body as weight and kept packing on. For a variety of reasons, I haven't made the healthiest choices over the past year or so, and now, I am confronted with their consequence: They may be impacting my fertility.

So in the kindest, gentlest way possible (and only after she told me I had to take off the awful open in the back robe and put my regular clothes back on because being almost naked while discussing weight was a bad idea), Hillary told me that to maximize my chances of getting pregnant, losing weight is important and is a factor. That really, really sucked. And it's not like I didn't know already. And I am grateful that she was so gentle and honest in her communication. And she is right. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. As hard as I have tried to move past this connection, weight and worth have always been tied together for me.

Last night I just cried myself to sleep. I am going to make the changes I need to, because not only is a baby worth it, my health and quality of life is worth it. But that doesn't mean that this experience didn't rip every bandage, split every stitch and burst open every scar connected to how I feel about myself and my weight.

So while we remain in a holding pattern for two months, wait for test results, make more appointments and I take my temperature each morning to chart my cycles, I am holding onto this self-talk I had in the car yesterday as I drove to my interview: You do not need to be ashamed of yourself. You are not bad. You have made choices that have not been the best. All you can do now is make better choices. If you do your part, the doctors will do their part, and Heavenly Father will do His.

I feel all twisty and jumbled inside right now, but I feel pretty good about that self-talk. If my appointment gave me anything, beyond the answers I will get from my tests and the help from medical professionals, it was the gift of honesty and reality. I can deal with that versus the unknown, especially with the help of my Heavenly Father and my Savior.

So here's to early morning gym workouts, green smoothies, mindful eating, and living a truly healthy life. Here's to prenatal vitamins. Here's to temperature-taking. And being teary and overly honest in job interviews. And being able to call your best friend to tell her you are pretty sure the doctor is going to tell you  that your uterus is going to try eating itself from the inside.

The Empty Room

There is an empty room in my house. Ok, so it’s not exactly empty.  It’s the room my husband conceived and created on his own when he lived in our condo by himself. The walls are a dark blue. The décor is composed of primary colors. The visages that stare out from the border lining the walls are those of…superheroes. Yes, we have a superhero room in our house. Captain America, Spiderman and Batman grace this room with their presence. For now. Someday, this room will be our baby room. And because of that, the room is empty.

This room is a holding pen, literally and figuratively. It’s the room we use for storage-Christmas decorations, craft supplies, workout clothes that we hold on to and never use. It’s the catch-all room for everything that doesn't have a place to go, which seriously makes me laugh, because I know exactly what I would put in that room if I had a choice. The room holds nothing of real value and at the same time, contains the essence of everything that I dream of. In my life, I feel like it is the height of irony.

To extend this empty room irony a bit further, I have been bombarded with a pile of free baby stuff. I am beyond grateful for all of this-swings, vibrating bouncy chairs, a pack and play, high-chair, glider, bags of baby clothes, maternity clothes, bottles, and nursing equipment. It is seriously amazing. It will be a huge blessing down the road. But oh.my.gosh. every time I see these amazing blessings disguised as knives in my heart, I cannot help but cry. So I have an empty womb, an empty room, and a massive collection of stuff for a baby that doesn't exist. If it weren't able to laugh about how weirdly twisted this all is, I would probably never get out of bed in the morning.

I formulated an attack plan last weekend. BJ and I spring-cleaned the house from top to bottom. The first room I tackled was the empty room. I sorted through the clutter and got rid of everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Everything is organized and packed into boxes. I put the baby swings, pack and play and high chair in the closet and closed the door. I placed the glider by the window. I put the clothes, bottles and other small items in a tote and closed the lid. I thought it would all make me feel better. After I was finished, I didn't feel better. It felt like I packed up my dream and hid it in the closet. Out of sight and locked up tight.

I don’t know what I am going to do about the empty room. I think it’s a work in progress, a lot like me. The OCD and hyper-vigilant part of me hates this idea of being unfinished and unresolved. The part of me that is trying to be more open and honest about how much this hurts is whispering to me that it’s ok to let the room be empty, and that just because it is empty, and things are packed into the closet, it doesn't mean that I have packed away my dream.

Sometimes I go in the empty room to sit quietly and think about what it will be like when there is a baby to fill it. You know, when I haven’t showered in days, and the diaper pail is overflowing, and there is spit-up all over my yoga pants, and there is a perfect, precious, tiny soul swaddled in my arms. There is a palpable ache in the core of my body and soul, a psychosomatic manifestation of how much I want this little angel. At times like these, for a moment, the room doesn't feel so empty. Then I start fantasizing about painting the walls and removing the superhero border, and ridding the room of all traces of the Justice League, Christmas decorations and piles of displaced minutiae, and a smile plays across my face. Just breathe, and learn to keep breathing.

There is an empty room in my house.  Ok, so it’s not exactly empty. It’s full of hope and promise, fear and anticipation, boundless love and fierce desire. And baby stuff. Lots of baby stuff.

The Great Enchilada Debacle

There are moments in a marriage that make you scratch your head and wonder, "what the heck just happened?" Cute husband and I haven't been married too long (two years this summer), but we have had a few of those moments. My favorite is what I like to refer to as the Great Enchilada Debacle. I share this with the absolute permission of my husband. It's one of those moments of crazy that makes us laugh until we have tears in our eyes. I love that about our marriage.

My husband and his father have a long-standing tradition of movie night. They get together, watch some sort of manly action film, and eat a ton of junk food and drink crazy amounts of high-fructose corn syrup laced beverages. About three months after we got married, my father-in-law came up to our condo on a Wednesday evening to watch Thor with BJ while I went to a church meeting.

Hubby can pack away food in a way that defies physics and all consumption sensibilities. I don't know how he does it. BJ is not a big guy. He is compact, trim, and would have made a killer male gymnast because of his size and flexibility. Sometimes, when he eats, you would think he was an NFL linebacker. After only three months of marriage, I didn't fully understand his propensity for consumption. My father-in-law must be the genetic legacy for this ability, because the two of them together can decimate a large quantity of food. Ah, the bliss of marital ignorance, shattered once and for all by the Great Enchilada Debacle.

I am an OCD meal-planner. For this particular night, I planned to make Enchiladas Suizas, with the savory green sauce, from scratch. I didn't cull my own chicken, but everything besides that was made by my own two domesticity-loving hands. I roasted the tomatillos and peppers for the sauce. Blended them with delicious sour cream and chicken stock. Shredded and seasoned the chicken. Used the good Tillamook cheese. And made two dozen flour tortillas myself, rolling them out to perfection and quickly cooking them in a piping hot skillet. It was a meal any home chef would be proud of. After two hours of prep and assembly, two large 9 x 13 pans of crispy, melty enchiladas emerged from the oven, and I was in scent-induced heaven. I had to leave for my meeting so I decided to eat when I got home, bid farewell to hubby and father-in-law, and went on my merry way.

Throughout the entire meeting, I fantasized about these enchiladas. At 8:30, I made a beeline for the parking lot, buzzed home in the car, and threw open the back door in a triumphant burst of glory, mouth watering and stomach growling. Then I saw it. The carnage. The horror.

There was one enchilada left. Out of two dozen. One. And it had been packed into a plastic container for hubby's lunch the next day.

I stood, dumbfounded, and stared into our darkened living room as BJ and his Dad watched Thor's golden locks ripple in the breeze and the sunlight sparkle on his perfect washboard abs. And I wanted to smash them with Thor's hammer. Hubby and father-in-law, not Thor's abs. Heavens no. Who could ever want to destroy those?

Alright, I might be overly dramatizing things here. But I was seriously pissed. Who eats 23 enchiladas in one sitting? Gluttons! Gah!

I think they both figured out something was wrong as I stood motionless in the dimly-lit kitchen, purse dropped to the floor, hands on my hips, mouth open in horror over the enchilada murder scene in my kitchen. Maybe they felt the heat of rage permeating the space between us. Maybe it was the flecks of foam frothing out of my mouth as I mourned the loss of my dinner. I'm not really sure, but the next thing I knew, I was scooping up my purse and dashing out the door in a frenzied state.

I jumped in the car, snorting like a bull about to charge through the crowds at Pamplona. I was sweating, hands shaking, and tears sprung to my eyes as I drove out of the parking lot. In two short minutes, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the local frozen custard shop. I dashed in the door, and in a raspy and frantic voice ordered a large root beer float. It came out from behind the counter in all of it's frothy glory, and I gulped at it eagerly. Sweet carbonated nectar to my soul. Even better than Thor's abs...

It was about this time that sanity returned to my mind. I had run out the door like a whackadoodle, probably making wildebeest noises, with no explanation. I don't think that even Thor's abs could distract them enough to hide that fact. I slowly slugged my way back to the car as my body returned to homeostasis. The root beer and vanilla custard were working their way into my system, calming my frazzled nerves. I hopped in the car and fell back against the seat, temporarily satiated.

I drove home in silence, as the question, "what the heck just happened?" worked it's way into my mind. I was still mad, don't get me wrong, but I started to realize that maybe there was a slight overreaction on my part. I mean, I basically turned into the Hulk in my kitchen over enchiladas. Over dreamy, creamy enchiladas...delicious, but definitely not a reason for a psychotic break.

I arrived home to the credits rolling on the movie, and BJ looking confused and my precious father-in-law looking sheepish. They knew what had happened. There was no way to hide what I was upset about. The root beer float in my hand and crazy fire blazing in my eyes probably gave them a subtle hint. They both mumbled some apologies about eating all of the food, and then Dad left and BJ and I were left to debrief the Great Enchilada Debacle.

In the end, it took a few weeks before we arrived at a final post-mortem diagnosis of what happened. I could have asked BJ to save a few for me for dinner when I got home. BJ could have thought about my need to eat dinner before consuming 23 enchiladas. Lesson learned: communication is key! It wasn't until this experience that it dawned on me that I can't always expect my husband to meet my needs, especially if he doesn't know what they are. It actually helped me to be a lot more open about communicating what I needed, versus my previous modus operandi of being disappointed, guzzling rootbeer floats, and stewing over the injustice of pilfered dinner for weeks. My counselor introduced the idea to me that our partners can only meet our needs on their own 10% of the time. 90% of having our needs met is being able to communicate them effectively. This entire incident was a huge wake-up call for me, and I mark it as a turning point in our marriage.

Marriage and family are the hardest and greatest works of our lives. I am grateful to have the chance to learn, grow, laugh hysterically, and overcome being a complete nutjob with my sweetheart. Even if he does eat all of my enchiladas.

The Unholy Alliance of Fear and Shame

I was, and in a lot of ways, still am, afraid to blog about the things closest to my heart. Will I be able to authentically portray my feelings without masking them for public consumption? Even if nobody reads it, will it he helpful and therapeutic for me as a processing tool? All valid concerns. This last worry is the kicker, and at the root of my anxiety: Is my struggle difficult enough to warrant telling other people? Somewhere along the path of my life, I put up some thick defenses and walls. Often, I believe that if I can just get through everything on my own, then I won't need to depend on anyone else, and I will never have to open up about "weak" things, like those uncomfortable emotions I tend to cover up with sarcasm and wit.  Fear of not being "damaged" enough or "sad" enough, or truly "challenged" enough kept me from opening up to others for support as I have struggled with fertility. As a sort of experiment in the power of vulnerability, I am putting it out there, whatever the outcome. But it is seriously hard, because on some level, I still feel like I am admitting failure, and I am ashamed of that.

I have always considered myself to be a strong person. A woman who knew what she wanted, went ahead and got it, and still felt all womanly and empowered while doing so. I wanted to go to college, get a first-rate education, be a leader on my campus and in my community. I did that. For a while, I wanted to work as a savvy political staffer (that's me at my college graduation), impacting the country by helping to shape policy and steering the national dialogue. So I did that, and then changed my mind about that particular career path. Then, I wanted to be a teacher, and I got my master's degree and became a really good educator. I wanted to get married, and it took a little longer than I thought it would, but eventually, I got that too. For a long time, I really felt like I could have everything. So when I didn't get pregnant the first month that we tried, I felt like the floor dropped out from under me. I had failed.

I have failed before. More times than I would like to admit. But those failures have been things I have been able to overcome by just pulling myself up by my bootstraps and soldiering on. I studied more. I put in more hours. I invested my heart in whatever needed to be done. As much as I would like to think that the attitude of, "I will just work harder and the fruits of my labor will be rewarded," will yield me a result and a gold star, I cannot will a baby into existence. I fundamentally believe that God can work miracles, and that I could have a miracle happen in my life, but that is in His hands and on His time. I can't control that. And as someone with major control issues, not being able to create a baby out of sheer will and determination sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. Times a million. So much that I just want to scream.

It didn't start out this way. I had been married for about two months, when I had a sudden surge of panic. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I frantically ran to the calendar and counted backwards. I was late. By a week. I called my best friend and my mom. I freaked out. I wasn't ready for a baby! We were newlyweds. I wanted time to enjoy each other and go on trips and stay up late and enjoy all the general benefits of marriage that come after a chaste courtship (very Downton Abbey-ish, all lingering gazes and passionate hand-holding). I obsessed over things for a few days, and decided that when my best friend arrived for a visit at the end of the week, I would buck up, buy a pregnancy test, and seal my fate. Just my luck, I would know for sure that I was baking a little bun in my overachieving oven by the time the weekend rolled around. Friday arrived. I bought the test. I figured out how to use it. It was negative. And I was surprisingly heartbroken.

BJ came home from work and I immediately greeted him with this announcement: "I peed on the stick and it was negative." Best friend and husband knew me well enough to know that the casual sarcasm meant that I was devastated. So, we started trying.

We have approached this in countless ways. Try with vigor! Try with nonchalance. Try with hopeful enthusiasm. Count days. Track cycles. Take temperatures. Check physical signs for ovulation. Alternate days. Spend money on ovulation kits to discover that I am not having an LH surge. Eventually end up resenting the amazing gift of marital intimacy. Every month when my period doesn't come when I think it should come, run to the store and buy more tests. Throw them away and cry for days when there is only one pink line. Decide that the test was wrong, it was too early, and take another. Cry some more. I usually feel this major surge of relief when my period does come, so that I get a few blessed days of peace before the cycle begins all over again.

I lash out at people who I feel don't want children as much as I do, even if I love them with all of my heart. I strike out at my husband as he is infinitely patient with me, because my baby-deprived brain screams at me that there is no possible way he could ever want a baby as much as I do. And I fall deeper and deeper into the pit of despair created by the unholy alliance of fear and shame.

Fear and shame are downright evil. Ugh. I hate them so much I wish I could blow them up with some sort of large C4-laced explosive. I haven't figured all of this out yet, but I know these things for sure: I feel ashamed that I haven't been able to get pregnant, because I believe it is what I should be able to do as a woman. I fear that I will never be a mother because I  am terrified at the prospect of never being able to have a deep, maternal, chemically, genetically and emotionally bonded relationship with a divinely created soul that has been prepared just for my husband and I to raise, love and nurture. This shame and fear is paralyzing at times.

I am not as studied in the work of Brene Brown (all-around amazing researcher, doctor, and social worker) as I would like to be, but something that I love that she has developed is a definition of shame. She wrote in her book, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't), and made it the focus of her new book, Daring Greatly. "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection." I love this definition. It helps me to process and break down how I am feeling, and to dissect some of my behaviors and emotions that feel so irrational.

I don't understand everything about my challenge-not by a long shot, but I do know this (at least with my head, if not yet with my heart): Difficulty conceiving is not failure. It may never happen for me, but it is not failure. There is no shame in my challenge. It is not shameful for me to feel sad, discouraged, disappointed, or even, at times, like a failure. My fear comes from a place of love and a desire for the most deep, meaningful and important form of connection possible-that of a parent and child. What matters is what I do with the fear. Some days, I might let it beat me back into a corner and spend my time crying. Other days, I might learn a lot of new information about effective diets for fertility, or research treatments, or talk to a good friend, or pray for strength. If I can recognize that I feel it, embrace that it comes from a real place, and decide what I want to do with these feelings on any given day, I am one step closer to true learning and growth. I don't have to be a warrior who never reveals the chink in her armor. I don't have to shove my misguided feelings of fear and shame away. I can process these emotions, discover their roots, open myself to feeling and learning from the pain, and as the brilliant Brene Brown says, "lean into the discomfort."

So I'm learning to lean in. Sometimes on chocolate. Or Cherry Coke. Or Netflix. On my husband. On friends. Always on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. And I will learn to lean into the discomfort with whatever measure of grace I can muster, and for now, that is enough. Sometimes, even on days where it hurts so much I can't breathe, I feel like I catch a glimpse of the person I am becoming, and that helps the hard days to pass a little more easily. I am still a college graduate, a teacher, a friend, a sister, a daughter, and a wife. I can find joy in where I am now, even if there is a whole lot of discomfort and pain. And even if it takes me a long time to work through it, and even if I never have a baby, I don't have to let the unholy alliance of fear and shame rule my life. Hallelujah.

The Value of a Husband

I cannot imagine walking through life without my husband. On this crazy journey of fertility challenges, he is my touchstone and the grounding influence to balance my emotionally explosive self.

Isn't he cute? We have been married for a year and a half, and I am grateful for every day that we have had together.

Something that saddens me is the devaluation of husbands and fathers in our culture. We are constantly viewing them through the lens of being incapable, helpless, bumbling and out-of-touch. They are the perpetual Phil Dunphy's of the world (and I do think Phil is quite funny in his own right). So while my father will get his own special post someday, my husband is getting his today. I want to celebrate the amazing role of a husband in marriage. I love when husbands and wives speak positively about each other. It is a testament to a commitment to be better together, no matter how hard life gets.

BJ has become my rock and my shelter from the storm. When I am struggling with my lack of mommyhood and feel like I would be better off abandoning tracking my spotty ovulation cycles, getting a hysterectomy and becoming a crazy cat hoarder, he holds my hand and talks me back down to earth.

BJ and I met online. Yes. We are an online-dating success story. I think in some ways, the stars aligned, God poked us, prodded us and prompted us from on high, and we were able to find each other quickly, at moments when we were both ready and open to finding someone to build a life with. Less than two months after the heinous and unexpected end to a long-term relationship, I was blessed with this bright spot in my life because of him. I knew before we met in person that I would likely marry BJ. His warmth, kindness and sensitivity emanated through his emails, text messages and phone calls. I could tell right away how open and honest he was, and it was a vast departure from people I had previously dated.  BJ is exactly what I need in my life-someone who is supportive, loving, committed to his faith, and willing to accept me for who I am. Dating and getting engaged happened quickly for us. I believe that happened because we both made the choice to accept each other and make marriage our ultimate priority, instead of finding a million reasons not to be married. We didn't have a crazy, epic, whirlwind romance. We had great conversation, quick commitment, honesty and a genuine loved based in mutual faith. Getting married wasn't nerve-racking or scary. I had butterflies of excitement when we were sealed together for time and all eternity, but no crazy nausea or second thoughts. It just felt right, like the natural culmination of getting to be with your best friend forever. It was and still is real magic and real romance, even if it is simple and understated. No Bachelor-esque helicopter rides and dream vacations for us-just lots of love and lots of Netflix and pizza.

BJ is not perfect. But he is perfect for me. I stink at a lot of things. Like laundry. Specifically, all aspects of laundry-from the putting it into the basket, all the way to putting it away again when it is clean. He is a laundry master, and he never gets even remotely frustrated with me for being a miserable laundry wretch. I love it. He cleans of his own volition all the time. He compliments me when I am wearing no makeup, a pair of men's oversize sweatpants that have a hole in the crotch, and a ratty t-shirt. He always inquires about my needs, thoughts and feelings. BJ challenges me intellectually, taking an interest in my crazy obsession with all things political. He initiates wonderful faith-based discussions. He understands that good conversation is essential to a good relationship.

BJ has been nothing but supportive during my two years of unemployment and struggles with fertility. He supports my desire to return to work, and encourages me all the time to work towards my goals. He supports my every endeavor, whether it is being more dedicated to clipping coupons to help with our budget, concocting some new crazy meal, or my ramblings and musings about the young adult fiction books I would like to write.

We are crazily similar, but wildly different. He loves superheroes. I like Robert Downey Jr, Chris Evans, Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman, so that at least gives us a little common ground to work with. He is incredibly high-energy. I am more mellow. He can survive on Ramen, pickles and pizza. I would be a miserable bear-beast if I ate like that. He has the best laugh in the entire world. It is an instant pick-me-up. Everything about him is something I love, even if it is something I don't understand or an interest I don't share.

BJ works tirelessly at his job to take care of us. He is one of the hardest workers and most humble people I have ever met. I know he would clean toilets, mop floors, or work three jobs to provide for us. He is selfless, service-oriented, and always works to the best of his ability. I aspire to be more like him. I married someone who is committed to bettering himself and everyone around him. I think it was the smartest thing I have ever done.

He is gentle with children, and will be a wonderful father. Just check him out snuggling his newborn niece.

And playing Disney ballet princesses with his other nieces.

And snuggling them while watching Cinderella.

I thank God for him each day, and I am so blessed to have him as my husband and partner for eternity.

I never wanted to get married to have someone complete me or make me whole, and I never wanted to be that for someone else. I wanted to marry someone who would work with me to be our best selves, together as partners, cleaving unto one another. We find wholeness not in fixing each other, but in discovering ourselves together, as partners bound for the eternities, loving unceasingly. Yeah, we are totally at the beginning of that journey, and it will be hard at times (like someday when our kids won't sleep through the night and our house is drowning in piles of laundry), but I cannot think of another person that I would want to stay up all night and do laundry with.

I love you, BJ.