The Gift of Taking "Pause"

Yesterday was Mother's Day.

I spent the past week dreading it's impending arrival. Yesterday morning, cocooned in my bed and down comforter, I talked myself in and out of going to church and attending our family Mother's Day celebration.

I love everyone in my family so much. I wanted to go celebrate and spend time with them. I wanted the spiritual uplift from attending church. But holy crap on a cracker, I did not want to get out of that bed and face the world with my empty uterus, tragically peanut butter and jelly-free hands, and conspicuously child-free hips. 

At 8:05, while my husband was showering and getting ready for church, my phone vibrated. A sweet text from a friend at church who knew that I was probably going to spend the day blubbering like a walrus gave me just enough motivation to hop in the shower (though not enough to wash my hair) and put on a presentable outfit. I knew I could make it through the first hour of the meeting for the young women, and that we would be learning about a non-Mother's Day related topic. I went, and it was good, and then I hit the wall and left before Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting could commence. I knew that if sitting in Young Women's and seeing babies all over, being held and snuggled and cared for by their radiant mamas had almost sent me over the edge, the rest of the day would be an exercise in brinkmanship of the most dangerous kind. I had a very real fear that in the middle of a beautiful, spiritual talk about mothers and their divine roles, I would flip a nutty, start sobbing hysterically, and lob a hymnal at the pulpit. Which probably would just get me committed to the psych ward and not help me get an A+ on Project Baby. So we went home before I could use any hymnals as projectiles. 

We went to my in-law's for the rest of the day. There was something soothing about worshiping in the church of family yesterday. Surrounded by darling little nieces, nephews and cousins, I watched them discover, investigate, laugh, pout, and love. I have no doubt that Heavenly Father blessed me with positive feelings yesterday, helping me to focus on the pure love and joy of these sweet babies, instead of only the heartache and sense of incomplete that was gnawing around the edges of my spirit. I didn't feel resentful, or jealous, and losing those pangs of emotion made it easier to absorb the sadness I did feel and blot it out with the sweet experiences of being with family. And the great stories of cousins eating directly out of buckets of powdered sugar, and the antics of my brothers-in-law always brings a smile to my lips and heart. Just look at these darlings!

I missed my mom a lot yesterday. I wanted her to be with me, laughing and hugging and just spending time together. Living 2,000 miles away from home makes holidays like Mother's Day a little difficult to celebrate in the same city. But I know she was there for me, and as we spoke, I felt the very depth of how much we love and miss each other. Motherhood is an eternal bond, and I know that no matter how it comes about, I will someday experience that bond that stretches it's fingertips into the bright promise and shining hope of forever. 

I spoke with my mother-in-law about catching glimpses of our future that can help us make it through until our dreams become reality. I have had so many glimpses. They have been powerful-bright light piercing the choking and suffocating darkness. Sometimes, they don't feel like enough to get me to the next point, but yesterday, being with family was like drinking hungrily from a cool, desert oasis. Heavenly Father is letting me rest right now, and I have felt the touch of His hand upon my shoulders as He has allowed me to take pause. I never knew that "pause" could be such a beautiful and blessed word. 

Yesterday, surrounded by the love and laughter of people who love me and my sweet husband, and touched by the messages of some dear friends, I was buoyed up and given encouragement, and I haven't felt that for a long time. I am especially grateful that the divine hand restrained me and kept me from throwing hymnals at people. Talk about a tender mercy. Love and hugs to all of you mamas, mamas-to-be, and mamas to children that may not have been born of your own, beautiful selves. 

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.

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. 

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.

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 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.