The Right Person in the Right Place: A Note to Young Women on Marriage

I met my husband when I was 18 years old. I had just graduated high school and moved to college. We met at a meeting for the track team that we were both a part of. He had just returned home from his mission, and though we became instant friends we didn’t start dating until a few months later. From the time of our first date, it was only 3 months until we were engaged. A few weeks after we started dating, I knew I had very strong feelings for him and so I started praying constantly to know whether he was someone I could be with forever, as well as fasting and attending the temple looking for guidance from my Heavenly Father. I remember the moment I knew. We were in the living room of my apartment watching a movie. I was sitting with my head lying on his shoulder and I had such an overwhelming feeling come over me that he could and would make me happy forever. It was such a strong, warm and comforting feeling and I will never forget it. When he proposed a couple of months later, I didn’t even hesitate for a second to tell him yes.

We were engaged for 5 months. About a month before the wedding I was preparing to go through the temple and finishing up some last minute wedding details. I went for a weekend with some friends to another friend’s wedding, and during that weekend that I was away I began to feel so dark and alone. I can’t explain the way I felt. I still don’t fully understand it. I felt physically sick and couldn’t shake a dark feeling inside of me. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t find comfort. A good friend there gave me a priesthood blessing of peace and comfort, and following the blessing I had a very distinct impression that what I had been feeling was Satan’s influence. I am confident that he was very aware of the choice that I was making to go receive the blessings of the temple and to be sealed to a wonderful man for eternity. And he was doing everything in his power to stop me from doing it. With the power of the priesthood, I was able to overcome those feelings and proceed with my temple marriage.

The day I was sealed in the temple is one of the most sacred and special memories that I hold. Though the day was a blur, I will never forget the feelings of peace, joy and comfort that I felt as I was surrounded by my family and the man I love, being sealed to him for time and all eternity.

Marriage is not easy. Don’t let anyone fool you into thinking it is. I’m hopelessly in love with my dear husband. He is a wonderful husband, the best father, a hard worker with a sense of humor. He’s everything that was ever important to me and is important to me now. And it’s still hard to be married to him. We disagree about things on occasion, and when those times come I am so grateful that we have similar goals and priorities in our lives in relation to the gospel. At the end of the day, we both know that our home and marriage is centered on Christ. When we remember that, it becomes easier (or sometimes just less important) to see eye-to-eye.

A few years into our marriage, my husband and I encountered a major obstacle in our desire to start a family. We struggled through years of infertility, and I mean we really STRUGGLED. During those times, we relied heavily on the knowledge that we would be together forever because we were sealed in the temple. Additionally, the temple promises that we would one day have children (whether in this life or the life to come) brought us some comfort. Now we have 3 young, healthy and happy children and our lives are so different from what they were during those times of extreme trial. And still, our temple marriage is of utmost important to me. Seeing these tiny, beautiful little ones run around, I can’t imagine not having them with me forever. Because of my temple marriage, I don’t have to worry about that. The family is indeed of God, and I am so grateful that I will have mine with me forever.

Who you marry and where you choose to marry him will have a huge impact on your life. It may well be the biggest decision you will ever make. That’s not to scare you, but rather to encourage you to use dating as a time to find someone who makes your heart sing. Someone who lives the same kind of life that you live. Who wants the same things as you want. Don’t settle. Please, please, please don’t settle. Marry the right person in the right place and you will be well on your way to a joy-filled life.

Much love and best wishes for happiness!

Life is Like an Overgrown Currant Bush

Recently, my husband and I faced a serious disappointment. We had been working toward something for several years, and had gotten so close to fulfilling our dream. And then, after all of the hours and days and months and years of hard work, we got our answer. "No."

Really? No?! After everything we put into this, we get a no? It was really hard to face that gut-wrenching outcome. But that was our new reality. There was some anger and bitterness, and a few tears. And then my husband told me a story he had heard many years before of an overgrown currant bush, told by Hugh B. Brown back in 1973. His story, "The Currant Bush" from LDS.org, follows:

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and went after it, and I cut it down, and pruned it, and clipped it back until there was nothing left but a little clump of stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it, and smiled, and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush talk. And I thought I heard it say this: “How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me, because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.” That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and some day, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down, for caring enough about me to hurt me. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

(You can read the whole story here.)

Elder Brown goes on to talk about a time many years later when he was serving in the Canadian Army. He was eligible for a promotion to General, and had been working toward that rank for 10 years. When he went in for the interview, he was told that he was completely qualified for the promotion but would not be receiving it due to his being a Mormon. In his following moments of bitterness, he remembered the conversation he'd had with his overgrown currant bush. Only this time, he was the bush that had grown so tall, and the Master, the gardener.

I have no doubt that there's something for us to learn from all of this. That lofty goal that we had and almost achieved must not have been part of His plan. And although it is so heartbreaking right now, I have faith that there will come a time when we will thank our Gardener for cutting us down.

Tales of a Locked-In Mommy

Once upon a time (a couple of days ago), I was home with my sweet little girls. Charlie was having a sleep-over at his cousin's house. It was a weekday, so Forrest was at work. It was almost lunchtime, and Caroline and I were playing downstairs. Juliet woke up from her nap, so I went upstairs to get her. She had a full diaper, so I stayed up to change her. While I was doing that, Care Bear made her way upstairs too and was playing in the hallway for a minute or two before coming in the room and shutting the door. Then she jiggled the door handle and laughed and said "Me me lock it, mommy!" (Remember she calls herself "me me".) I didn't really think anything of it at first. I just thought she probably was struggling to get the door open but it didn't even occur to me that she had actually locked it until I tried the handle and it was indeed locked.
Here's the backstory on the door. When we bought our home and moved in, I noticed that the door to Juliet's room had key lock on the handle. It locked from the inside. I assumed that one of the many keys we'd been given at move-in fit that door. Well when Caroline learned how to work those twist locks on doors, she accidentally locked herself in Juliet's room and couldn't get out. So I searched and searched and tried every key in the house in the door and not a single one fit. So in a panic I called Forrest and he sent me some YouTube videos about how to use a credit card to unlock a door. I tried it and it worked pretty quickly. Then a few months later, Caroline started napping in Juliet's room and was consistently locking herself in, so I turned the doorknob around so it locked from the outside instead. It solved our problem at the time.
Well this time, it created a much BIGGER problem. There I was, in the room with a hungry baby and a toddler who was pleased as punch that she had locked the door, and I had no cell phone on me. No key to the door. Nothing.
My first reaction (after freaking out a little and saying a prayer with Caroline) was to dig in a drawer in the closet and find an old credit card to try my previously learned skill of unlocking the door with a card. But every angle I tried failed. I was on the wrong side of the door.
Next I attempted to pry the door from it's hinges, but I didn't have the right tools and the hinges were extremely tight.
My next move was to open the window and frantically look around, hoping that I would see a neighbor or somebody outside that I could call to for help (in the middle of January in below-freezing conditions).
For nearly an hour I rotated between these three activities in a desperate attempt to get us out of there. Meanwhile Caroline sat laying on the changing table pretending to take a nap, giggling, and saying "Mommy, me me lock it. Don't try it mommy. Door locked." And Juliet played happily, though she was getting fussier and hungrier every minute.
When I finally realized that neither of these three plans was going to work, I started scheming to pull out the window screen, climb out onto the roof and jump to the ground. I think I actually would have done that, too, if I'd had a way to get back into the house. Our front door was locked, back door locked, and although I could have used our code to get into the garage, the interior door to the garage was also locked. My next thought was that I could jump out and run to a neighbors house to borrow their phone to call Forrest, but his cell phone doesn't work in his office building and I don't have his office number memorized. Also the thought of leaving my kids alone in a room on the top floor with the window wide open was terrifying. Let alone the leap I'd have to make from the roof onto the grass below. So I ruled that out.
Finally I came to the realization that there was only one way I was going to get out of that mess. I had to kick the door down. I moved the girls back away from the door and got a little excited that I would actually be able to test my strength against a solid(ish) door. And then I kicked the door in. It took one solid kick to get the door on the other side of the frame, and then another good 2 or 3 kicks to get a gap big enough for me to get all three of us out through.
The whole time I was kicking the girls were just crying. Caroline kept telling me not to break the door, and Juliet had no clue what was going on except that there was a loud noise and Caroline was crying.
Once we finally got out, I called Forrest to tell him my tale. He just laughed and said it's a good thing I'm a she-hulk. Then he came home to take the door off the hinges and make the room accessible again. My dad came later and helped get the doorframe back in place. The door, on the other hand, is unfixable. I tried to be gentle (or at least as "gentle" as you can be when you're breaking down a door) but apparently that didn't help much.

Here she is in all her glory.

On the bright side, though, I felt like a Bona Fide Special Agent. You can call me Annie Walker, if you'd like.

Lessons in Parenting

Little M and Uncle Forrest

 

When I was newly married, we lived near one of my older sisters. She was the first of us to have any kids, and at the time that this story takes place she had a two-year-old daughter and a newborn little girl. She would come into town to do some shopping and if I wasn't in class or at track practice, I would tag along and play with the girls while she shopped. On one of these occasions, we were driving from one place to another. My sister was driving, I was in the passenger seat and the girls were, of course, in the back. Sweet little M, the two-year-old, was really upset about something and she was crying and kicking and screaming and crying. My sister asked her several times to relax, to which M finally got so exasperated that she threw her sippy cup in the direction of her mom. My sister immediately pulled the car over to the side of the road, opened her door, and marched around to the other side to talk to her daughter. I looked back at little M who's face was covered in tears. She looked absolutely terrified. I whispered to her "Uh oh, you're really in trouble now!" As my sister opened the door to talk to her tantrum-throwing, sobbing child, I fully expected her to get a swat on the bottom and a good talking to. But what my sister said and did that day is something I will never, ever forget. She climbed into the back seat next to her daughter, put her arms around her and gently said, "Little M, I love you so much. Will you please tell me what is wrong?" I don't remember what exactly it was that was upsetting M. Something small and silly to us, probably, but I do remember that after her mom acknowledged her and tried to resolve what was bothering her, there was far less crying and tantrum throwing for the remainder of the drive.

Now, 6 years later, I find myself in a position similar to my sister's all too often. Whether we are in the car, at home, or visiting some friends, it seems like somebody is always crying or upset about something. Though I'm not always successful, I try to repress my feelings of frustration and show instead my love and concern for my children as I try to help them overcome the challenge (however small and silly it may be) that they are facing.

I am so grateful for my sister and the example that she showed me that day. I hope that one day I can be half the mom that she is!

So long, 7:00 bedtime.

Charlie started climbing out of his crib when he was 17 months old. He didn't just climb out once and then not do it again, like a lot of kids do. Once he figured out he could escape there was no keeping him in. So we promptly took the bottom out of his crib and put his mattress flat on the ground to buy us a few more inches and a little more time. That worked for a couple of months until he figured out that he could tip his entire crib over and use the slats as monkey-bars. By the time he had that down, Caroline had finally gotten brave enough to climb out of her crib on a consistent basis. They were about 20 months old at this point. So we heeded the advice of some friends with much older twins and turned their cribs upside down on top of them like cages. At naptime and bedtime we would lift one side of the crib up off the ground, they would get on hands and knees and climb right in. It wasn't a perfect solution but it at least kept the madness contained to their cages. That lasted until just before they turned 2.

One day we had the brilliant idea to try out toddler beds. Sheer genius, I tell you (insert eye roll here). The first night we were completely shocked that they actually stayed in their beds. I thought it was going to be perfect and wonderful and way better than cages. I couldn't have been more wrong! It didn't take long for them to start getting out of bed. And pull every single article of clothing out of their drawers. And try on every single sock and every single shoe. And try fit six bowties around their waist at a time. Every time I entered their room, there was no floor to be seen.

But at least the mess was contained. Their room only. I could live with that. And then they figured out how to open doors. The dreaded day of days. I woke up at 4:30 AM with a tiny little finger (not mine) stuck up my nose. Good thing I had doorknob covers in stock and ready to pull out when needed. It took Charlie less that a day to figure out how to break them off the doorknobs (on Caroline's bidding, probably. I always say she is the brains and he is the muscle). For over a week they woke up between 4:30 and 5:30 AM. If there is one good thing about that, though, it is that it made me really appreciate their standard 7:30 AM wakeup time, which I used to think was far too early for little humans to be up and roaming around.

We passed the super early wake-up phase, thank heavens. And now we are stuck in the "never going to sleep" era. Oh how I miss those days of putting them down at 7:00 and knowing they would be asleep before long. I used to really look forward to bedtime. And now I dread it. Dread with a capital D. Caroline wants the light on so she can read. Charlie hates the light on but wants the door open with the hall light on. Caroline doesn't like the door open and keeps getting up to shut it. Charlie wants his bear to sit up next to him in bed but his bear keeps falling over, because it's stuffed and stuffed bears don't sit up very well. And when stuffed bears don't sit up very well, that's cause for many many tears in our house. Caroline demands that every single book in sight be on her bed. But then she can't lay down because the books are taking up the entire surface area of her bed. And heaven forbid you take the books out of the room. She NEEDS her books. If there is even a single book on top of the dresser, you'd better believe she will be found standing in one of the drawers trying to climb onto the top of the dresser to get it down and safely into her bed with the other books. Charlie has at least eight blue blankies. And try as I might to hide all but one or two of them in the dresser, he goes to bed with a couple of them and cries and cries that he needs "mo' blankies." He would steal Caroline's in a heart beat if she'd let him.

You get the gist. Lots of tears and bedtime. And when there aren't tears, there are giggles. I love giggles. But giggles are now an indication that somebody is out of bed and running around the room with a bare bum and yelling "nakey nakey!". How do you even get mad about that? Especially when accompanying the bare bum are a pair of blue dinosaur rain boots and the cutest little head of white hair you've ever seen?

Long story short, our 7:00 bedtime has turned into 7:00 bedtime that doesn't actually end until 9:30. I'm not too hopeful that it will get better anytime soon!

Stepping Up

Lately I've been feeling like I'm in survival mode (again. See my previous experience here). Though I guess when you have three kids under two, the only mode is survival mode. We're lucky if any of us are dressed before 10 AM. I finally gave the baby a bath today after a week and a half of baby grime started to smell. I have however nearly completed a 1000 piece puzzle and watched far too many episodes of MASH. Survival at it's finest.

So here I was going along thinking life was hard. And then I was looking through my journal and I came across a talk I had written for church 10+ years ago about my paternal grandparents. They were absolutely incredible people. And if I thought my life was hard - wow. My grandmother was absolutely stunning. Just gorgeous. I'm sure she had scores of boys chasing after her, but she fell for my grandpa, who was pretty good-looking himself. They married young, and at age 16 my grandmother was diagnosed with severe rheumatoid arthritis. I can't imagine getting that diagnoses at all, let alone at such a young age. Despite her crippled hands, she faithfully raised six children (5 of whom were boys, and after my brief experience raising a boy, I have some major respect for her). When my grandpa was 52, he broke his neck in a tragic accident and was paralyzed from the waist down. I hadn't been born yet, and so I never knew my grandpa without his wheelchair. Even so, he was the strongest man I have ever known. I vividly remember his hands. As worn and crippled as my grandmother's were, his were large and strong. When my grandma struggled to open cans or brush her hair, grandpa's hands were there to fill in the gaps.

Grandpa loved to garden. They planted their rows of fruits and vegetables far apart so that grandpa's wheelchair could fit in between. I remember going out with him and he'd let me pick fresh strawberries and eat them right there. That was heaven to little four-year-old me. Even as a very little girl, I was awed and amazed by my grandparents. There was never anything they couldn't do together. Grandpa was particularly fond of a story told by Elder Boyd K. Packer, titled "Equally Yoked Together." It's a story of two small, skinny looking oxen defeating a pair of much larger and much stronger oxen in a pulling contest. While the large, strong animals lacked coordination, the smaller team had great teamwork and pulled together at the same time. My grandparents' legacy has become being equally yoked and pulling together. When I think of their lives and trials, it is clear that it would have been much simpler for them to just survive. To forget going to church or gardening or hosting big family get-togethers. But they didn't just survive. Despite their incredible challenges, they thrived. And they were able to do it because they were equally yoked.

Recently I attended a graduation where the speaker re-told a familiar story of a mule who falls into the well. The farmer, instead of trying to lift the mule out, decides to bury him inside of the well. The mule becomes determined to conquer his challenge by telling himself that with every shovel full of dirt that falls, he will shake it off and step up. Eventually, by moving the dirt underneath himself instead of letting it remain on top of him, he finds his way to freedom. What could have buried and killed him ended up liberating him instead, all because of his attitude and determination to keep going.

The story of the mule and my memories of my grandparents have made me determined to do more than just survive. Sure, life is hard. Sure I have three very young children that require a lot (ok, ALL) of my time and attention. But that doesn't mean I have to let the rest of my life fall to shambles. Life is what we make of it. It will never be perfect or easy or trial-free. I don't want to spend every single day waiting for it to end. Life is good and we have so much to LIVE for! Not just to survive for.

So my goal is no more survival mode. Living life to it's fullest every day. Laughing instead of crying, and finding joy in the journey.

Outnumbered

I grew up in a family of 7. It was my mom, my dad, and 5 super awesome daughters. My poor dad - he is a very patient man. He handled it pretty well. He does blame us (the girls) for every single gray hair and every last inch of balding on his head, and I think he's probably right in doing that. We didn't exactly give him an easy time. I think I remember one of my sisters getting caught using my mom's razor to shave my dad's head while he was napping in the bathtub. I personally recall drawing pictures all over any part of exposed skin with my mom's lipstick while he napped on the couch (maybe he should have learned not to ever nap while we were around). My mom even has some blackmail pictures of him wearing one of her dresses, some heels, makeup and jewelry. He would occasionally let us paint his toenails and put clips in his hair. He was a good sport. And he was always our biggest supporter. Whatever we were doing - whether it was a sporting event, a play, cheerleading or a spelling bee - he made an effort to be there. In short, my dad is a rockstar.

When I was little, we bought a boat. Most of us called it the banana boat because it was as yellow as a perfectly ripe banana, but my dad officially named it "Outnumbered." It was quite fitting. The guy was surrounded by 6 females constantly. Even when we all started having kids of our own, it was years before a boy finally made an appearance.

I think I'm starting to have some sympathy pains for my dad's experiences. Not being outnumbered in terms of gender, but simply being outnumbered by my children. When it was just me and Charlie and Caroline at home, it was manageable. Crazy, yes, but doable. And then when Forrest was home from work we could move to a man-on-man defense. It worked well for us. Enter Juliet. Now life is a whole different story!

Life is now a whole new level of crazy. Still wonderful, of course. But so crazy. Juliet and I have had to learn to breastfeed "on the go." Meaning that I often have to jump up with her in the middle of a feeding to pry Charlie away from Caroline before he rips a chunk of hair out of her head. Or I have to intervene when Caroline is about to slam the door on Charlie's little fingers. Or when one of them has climbed onto the kitchen counter and is headed straight for something dangerous.

As an added bonus, I now have 3 children in 3 different sizes of diapers. Not at all confusing! My plan is to potty train ASAP, though I don't know how in the world I can give the twins enough attention to successfully potty train while I'm feeding a baby around the clock. Wish me luck with that one!

Even when Forrest is home to help, leaving the house takes us about 5,692 times longer than it used to. And once we do finally get out the door, inevitably someone is hungry, or a diaper needs changed, or I forgot to stock the diaper bag with diapers, wipes, or an extra change of clothes. Or I forgot to brush my teeth. Gross, I know, but when you are so focused on getting 3 little bodies ready to leave, it's easy to forget the basic things like that!

In all honesty though, having Juliet at home has still been 100 times easier than the first couple of months with the twins. Having two newborns was just so demanding! With only one baby to wake up with in the night, I feel so well rested. Seriously. So much easier with one, even though I am woefully outnumbered.

Juliet

Last Tuesday, I was 39 weeks and 1 day pregnant. Once again I felt like a whale, but in comparing pictures of me then vs. when I was 38 weeks with the twins, I literally think I was about half the size this time around. That morning I woke up, disappointed that I was still pregnant. Like so many of the nights before, I'd woken up in the middle of the night with a few strong and steady contractions, only to fall back asleep and wake up contraction-free. I had an appointment with my midwife that day, where the plan was to sweep my membranes and hopefully bring on labor.

I didn't think I'd be in any hurry. When I first found out I was pregnant, I was ready to have the baby stay inside of me as long as possible. Because every day the baby was inside of me meant that Charlie and Caroline would be one day older. And hopefully one day easier to care for. But then 38 and 39 weeks rolled along and I was beyond ready to not be a whale anymore. I longed to be able to roll around on the floor and rough house with my kids like I used to. And I desperately wanted to meet my baby. To know if the little tenant in my tummy was a boy or a girl, and to know whether he or she would be another white haired beauty or not.

And then there was this military training. A few days before, Forrest and I found out that he had a required military training at Camp Williams on March 6, 7 and 8. He would be gone day and night for those three days. And I was due March 9. I was absolutely terrified that I would go into labor while he was away and out of reach. So Forrest and I talked about it and decided that we would talk to my midwife about breaking my water early in the week, before his training so that there would be no chance of him missing the birth of our sweet little one.

So back to Tuesday. I woke up that morning and got myself and the twins ready for the day. Forrest went off to work. I drove to Salt Lake and dropped the kids off at a friend's house, then went in to my appointment. The midwife came in and swept my membranes (it hurt - I didn't expect it to hurt), then we began discussing my concerns and our options. She called over to the hospital and found an opening for me to go in for an induction the next day, Wednesday, March 4.

I didn't want to be induced. I had been having a fair amount of contractions and was reasonably dilated already, so breaking my water wasn't a big deal, but I still didn't want to have to be induced. I had decided I wanted a natural, un-medicated birth, and I hear inductions usually make that a little more difficult. But given the time constraints and my overwhelming desire to have Forrest present at the birth, I nervously agreed to be scheduled for Wednesday morning.

It's a strange thing, knowing what day your baby will arrive. Knowing that that day was our last as a little family of four. Knowing that my next few hours with the twins before I put them down to sleep would be my last with them as my only children. After I picked them up from my friend's house, I didn't just want to go home. I wanted to make some memories and have fun with my sweet Charlie and Caroline. So we went to a mall and walked around for a while and got a Jamba Juice.

Forrest met us at home where we bundled the kids up in their snowsuits for the first (and probably only) time this winter and went outside to play in the snow. They thought it was wonderful and so did I. Then we went and picked up some dinner, ate at home together, gave the twins a bath and kissed them goodnight. With my pregnancy hormones at their peak I cried and cried, knowing that the next day they wouldn't be my little babies anymore. Of course they will always be my babies, but I hate knowing how fast they will have to grow up now.

You know when you have something important the next day and you know you need to sleep, but you just can't? That was one of those nights. Forrest and I talked, watched TV, added some last minute things to our hospital bags, and went to bed well after midnight. And we were to check-in at the hospital at 9 AM. The next morning my mother-in-law came over to take care of the twins and we drove to the hospital.

Checked in at 9:30. Water broken at noon. Contractions started almost immediately. Then slowed. We walked, and walked, and walked. My mom came. Then my dad came. And my mother-in-law came. Forrest was there, and my nurse was there, and my midwife was there. I spent hours walking the halls with Forrest, pausing every 2-3 minutes to breathe through a contraction. I spent hours on a birthing ball, rolling my hips in a figure 8. All the while I was feeling pretty strong. I was hungry, yes, and tired, yes, but I was able to talk and laugh and join in conversations. And at every check, it was apparent that I was progressing pretty slowly. Finally around 8 PM, we decided to start some Pitocin to help increase the frequency of the contractions. After that, I wasn't much for conversation. I vaguely remember what was going on around me, but all I could do was breath and groan from the pain of the contractions and try to remember the end product.

My midwife was amazing. She was perfect and even though I hated it at the time, she knew exactly what to do to help me get closer to delivering. Sometime around 10 PM, she had me kneel up on the bed. It was completely agonizing and after only a few contractions of that, I remember yelling out that I needed to push. After some changing of position and a little confusion (at least it was confusing to me - the pain made everything so hazy), she checked me and told me I could start pushing. The time was finally here. It was nearly 10:30 PM and I had been in labor for over 10 hours.

And I thought the pain of the contractions was bad. Pushing was completely unbearable. I can't even describe the pain. It was like every fiber of my body was on fire. And I honestly and truly felt like I wanted to die. I remember telling Forrest that and he just smiled and said "no, you don't." And then suddenly, after 6 minutes, the pain was completely gone and there was a perfect little dark haired miracle laying on my chest. Forrest took a look and called out "It's a girl!" and we were all thrilled. We knew right away we would call her Juliet. Juliet Rose. She is the most perfect thing I've ever seen, just like her brother and sister.

Her birth was without a doubt the most difficult thing I've ever done. I have gained a whole new level of respect for anyone who has ever gone through that. I don't know if I will do it again, but it was a beautiful experience and I'm so glad to have gone through it.

Now that she's here, life is a whole new level of crazy. Today I sat in a chair nursing baby J. I was holding her with one arm, using that elbow to shield her head from the toys Charlie kept bring to put in my lap, and holding Caroline on my lap to read her a story with my other arm. The twins love her so much, but they are still learning how to control their impulses. They constantly want to touch her nose and poke her eyes and kiss her head. Caroline is obsessed with sharing things with Juliet - particularly her food. I can't put her anywhere close to the ground when the twinados are awake, but it is a wonderful kind of crazy and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

As for me, I feel fantastic. The recovery from a natural child birth has been a breeze compared to recovering after the twins. I am looking forward to being able to run again, hopefully soon. And life is good. So, so good.

Flashback to the 90's

I may have been a slightly awkward pre-teen. And by slightly awkward, I mean REALLY awkward. Everybody goes through a stage right? I wore Harry Potter glasses, never brushed my hair, and hadn't quite grown into my long arms and legs. There's a reason my sister nicknamed me "Lurpy." I really was. And to add to it all, I was terribly uncoordinated.


What does that have to do with anything, you ask? Well, yesterday as I dropped a 6th egg out of the refrigerator I had a flashback to 1999, or maybe the early 2000's. It was awkward, uncoordinated pre-teen and early-teen me, dropping a brand-new jug of milk on the front steps and watching it shatter. Or tripping over my own feet in the middle of a soccer field with nobody else around me to disguise it.


Flash-forward to today. And I'm pretty much the same person, plus a husband and 2.5 kids. I don't remember being this clumsy when I was pregnant with the twins, but maybe that's because all I ever did was sit in a chair with my feet propped up and watch reruns of Psych. But now that I'm pregnant AND I still have to care for my two tiny humans, the clumsiness is more apparent than ever.


And it's not just dropping eggs. This morning Charlie and Caroline were playing on a chair together and I was sitting on the floor next to them. Caroline dove off the chair and into my arms, and I lost my balance and tipped both of us over onto the ground. On the way down, I hit into the chair and knocked Charlie (who was standing up without holding on) off on top of me and Caroline, resulting in two crying babies and one extra-long contraction.


I have to double check the floors 10 times before bed to make sure there are no toys, clothes, pillows etc. in my path from the bed to the bathroom. Because if there is so much as a cheerio on the ground, I can guarantee my feet will find it and somehow trip over it (as evidenced by multiple trip-and-falls per day).


Thank goodness I only have 4.5 more weeks of this. Any longer and I'm not sure we'd all survive!

Just Ask

 

Anybody else feel like the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of parties, activities, festive dinners, sickness and gift opening? The month of December always seems like that, but I feel like it's exaggerated when you have little ones that still need to nap.

In the midst of the December whirlwind, we recently attended an extended family party with lots of cousins we hadn't seen for at least a year and all of their children, many of whom we had never met. It was a lot of fun visiting and catching up with everyone.

While we were there, we were also given a brief glimpse of some of the social challenges that our little Charlie might have to face. The kids were all running around and playing, Charlie among them, when some of the older children noticed his eyes. They commented to Forrest that his eyes looked red, and then, keeping their distance, they came to the conclusion that he was creepy. Forrest calmly explained why his eyes sometimes appear red, and told the kids that he thought it was pretty cool. They all walked away, not sure what to think about it.

When Forrest told me that story, my heart broke and I got tears in my eyes. I know they weren't intending to be hurtful. And I know that Charlie's eyes are very different, especially to someone who's never seen him (or a person with Albinism) before. But it was still quite painful to hear other children refer to my precious son as "creepy."

In contrast, at the same party I was standing in line getting food when I heard another young girl ask her mom about Charlie and his white hair. I was so grateful when the mom told her daughter that he had a condition called Albinism, and then turned to me to ask more about it. She explained his light coloring and vision difficulties, and then also mentioned another child in her daughter's school with the same condition. I can't even describe how refreshing it was to have someone ASK. What a great example for her daughter.

Nearly everywhere we go, I see people turn and whisper to their neighbor. People point and stare, many people smile as they do so to make it seem less awkward. But so few people ask. Sure we get comments like, "look at that towhead" and "which one of you had the white hair when you were kids?" and (from old people) "his hair is as white as mine!". Sometimes when people comment I do take the time to explain that he has Albinism. But most of the time I just nod and smile, or say he's very special or unique. Because he is. But I really appreciate it when people just ask me.

I know it's difficult to find the right words to use. How do you ask without being offensive? But if you are honestly trying to learn more about a person without passing judgment, they have no reason to be offended. I think children often learn to be bullies because of their parent's unintentional teachings. Parents who point and whisper and stare will teach their children that those with visible challenges are scary, creepy, or weird. Parents who aren't afraid to talk to and ask about those with difficulties will teach their children that they are people too, and not something to make jokes about, shy away from, or treat cruelly. Please don't inadvertently teach your children to be a bully.

I know Charlie is different and I know he will be faced with a lot of bullying in his life. But I also know that Forrest and I will pour our hearts and souls into teaching him to be the bigger person. Also, Forrest is determined to teach him karate, just in case.

It Takes Patience

I am a lot of things. I'm a mom, a wife, a sister and daughter. I'm an avid online shopper, a sour milk despiser, and a fan of The Biggest Loser. I'm a sloppy gift wrapper, a stomach sleeper, and a whimp at amusement parks. There are a lot of things that I am. And a lot more things that I am not. And let me tell you, I AM NOT PATIENT! I never have been. I have what my husband would call the "need-to-be-right" complex. I think my ideas are always the best way to do something, and I get really frustrated when someone tries to do it a different way (something I get from my dad).

So what in the world is a non-patient person doing raising twins?! Trying to learn patience I guess. In church on Sunday we had a lesson about patience, and it was one of those lessons where I sat thinking I was doing a pretty good job at it. I am not always the best at being patient with my husband (I know, I'm working on it), but during the lesson I was thinking about my children and my thoughts honestly were something like this: "I think I do a pretty good job at being patient with my kids.." and ended right about there.

And I think the Man Upstairs heard my thoughts and decided I needed a little motivation to take that lesson to heart. So He sent me yesterday. Yesterday my little monkies decided to climb onto the table and open the nearly full bag of cheerios and dump them all out. Including the dust at the bottom of the bag. And they thought it was hilarious, of course! And they chose to play in their cribs for 2+ hours instead of nap, so they were super cranky. And when I went to get them up from their "nap" I found a little boy with poop spread all over his mattress and clumped under his fingernails. And that was after 5 poopy diapers already changed earlier in the day. While I worked on doing the laundry and cleaning up the now-brown crib sheet, the littles climbed into the dryer and shut themselves in. I opened the door to find Charlie sitting right on top of Caroline. Charlie was thrilled and Caroline looked like she didn't know whether to hit him or cry. Most of the day went about like that. Caroline shut Charlie's hand in the door. Charlie pulled Caroline's hair. They both fell off the kitchen chairs multiple times while climbing onto the table, which I can't keep them off of. They refuse to sit in their high chairs. They insist on feeding themselves with the spoon instead of letting me feed them. I finally sent Forrest a message at 5 PM begging him to come home from work and rescue me. 

And when I think about it, I don't know if the incidents from yesterday were really that much worse than the average day; but for whatever reason, my patience was wearing quite thin. Perhaps it was a not so gentle reminder that nobody's perfect, and that while I am generally quite patient with my children, it is something that I still need to work on. Thank goodness they are so cute in the midst of their mischieviousness! That makes it much easier.

Moments like this make it easier too. They really do love each other!

Albino.

I cringe when I hear that word. For the first few months after Charlie was diagnosed with Albinism, I found myself getting frustrated and even angry with people whenever I would hear them refer to him as an albino. I felt like I needed to defend him from others who didn't understand who he really was, and that "albino" had nothing to do with his real identity.

Lately, though, I've been thinking a lot about my son's future. For years Forrest and I have dreamed about travelling around the world and spending years living in different countries. And I always imagined that we would take our children along with us, giving them new experiences that most children wouldn't have. We talked about travelling while the our children were young, and being settled by the time they reached high school. But now my thoughts have shifted toward Charlie, and what would be best for him. 

And I think it will be important for him to not be offended by the term "albino". Because he's going to get called that - not necessarily out of cruelty or meanness, but just because people don't know the proper term. I was one of those people, until my little Char-monster came along. I also think it will be important for Charlie not to be the new kid all his life. I think we will need to be settled long, long before his high school years so that he can grow up with people who know him and who don't think he's strange for having albinism.

I realize I can't protect him from every harm and evil out there. But oh how I wish I could. I realize that he will be teased and stared at, and the thought of it makes me want to cry. But I know he will be so much stronger because of it.

He reminds me of this talk in the April 2014 General Conference, given by Neil L. Andersen:

"In nature, trees that grow up in a windy environment become stronger. As winds whip around a young sapling, forces inside the tree do two things. First, they stimulate the roots to grow faster and spread farther. Second, the forces in the tree start creating cell structures that actually make the trunk and branches thicker and more flexible to the pressure of the wind. These stronger roots and branches protect the tree from winds that are sure to return."

That's my Charlie. I know the winds are going to come. And I know he will grow stronger and be given the tools he needs to withstand the damaging forces around him. I already find myself amazed by Charlie's determination. Where Caroline gets frustrated with something that she can't do and brings it to me to do instead, Charlie spins an object around in his hands and stares at it closely until he figures it out for himself. I have learned so much from him already, and I think he will continue to teach me things throughout my lifetime. I'm so blessed to be a parent to such a wonderful and special spirit.

The Silver Lining

With my husband having been gone for five weeks now, I've realized that it's A LOT harder having him gone than I expected. Some days are good and ok, but some days are not. We really miss him, and I am literally counting down every single day until we get to see him again. Did I mention that it's hard to have him gone? 

In an effort to stay positive and keep myself out of a hole of self-pity, I've been trying to look at the bright side of things. The "silver lining" to being husband-less for 10 weeks. And it's a short list:

- Much less laundry, and no work shirts to iron (unless you count the 10 shirts that have been laying on our bedroom floor for the past 5 weeks that have been washed but need ironing..)

- We get to have a long distance romance told through love letters (actually, they usually go something like "Dear Forrest. I threw up 7 times today. Caroline bit Charlie on the face. Love Alfalfa." Not romantic)

- The Army pay is pretty decent. They pay for all sorts of extra things while your soldier is away, like "family separation." Almost makes up for him being gone. Almost.

- I've learned to do all sorts of things that I never would have tried to do before. Like how to change lighbulbs inside of fixtures that I didn't know how to open; how to take apart, clean, and reassemble my vacuum; and how the garbage doesn't magically take itself out to the dumpster - someone actually has to do physically do it! (I kid a little on that last one. But only a little.)

- I have lots of extra time to do yoga, put together puzzles, read and nap. Somehow I still don't have enough time to cook, clean, do laundry, shower or do my hair. 

That's about it. I told you it was a short list! Here's to hoping the next five weeks go faster than the first five.

How He Works

When I was on the track team in college, I clearly remember making it to the half-way point in some incredibly difficult workouts and, despite our sheer exhaustion, a few of us bursting into an off-key rendition of Bon Jovi's "Livin on a Prayer." And that's how I'm feeling today - halfway there and living on a prayer. Forrest has been gone for 5 weeks, and in 35 days we get to see him again, hooray!

You know those days when you wake up early, feeling well-rested and refreshed, and everything goes right for you that day? Well today was not one of those days. I'm finally into my second trimester and I had been feeling much better lately. And then last night happened. It was a rough one filled with a lot of sickness and very little sleep (by me, not the babes. They did great). When I finally dragged myself out of bed I thought the day would be better, because it usually is. But it wasn't. What do you eat when you can't keep anything down? Usually my go-to is ice cream (I know - don't tell my midwife), but even that wasn't working today.

Enter amazing heaven-sent mother-in-law. She kindly checks on me often, and when she discovered I wasn't feeling well today she arrived with a full meal on hand, complete with still-warm-from-the-oven cookies. I couldn't eat much of it, but it was so kind and thoughtful and took the stress off of me to make dinner for the babes. And then as if that wasn't enough, she continued to wash my dishes, clean my kitchen, and pick up the living room. I know, she's incredible.

I am continually in awe of how in-tune with the Spirit people are. I had multiple offers for help today (many of which I gratefully accepted) and had some fresh bread delivered by a neighbor. It is such a testament to me that our Heavenly Father is aware of each of us and what we need, and he works to meet our needs through other people. I am so grateful for those people who have acted when I was in need, even when I wasn't aware of what I needed myself. People are good. And our Father in Heaven is so loving.

One time when I was a teenager, our family piled into my dad's car to make the 13 mile trek home from my grandparents' house. There were more of us than there were seatbelts, so my parents sat in the front and all the girls (I think there were only 4 of us) loaded into the back seat. It was a slightly foggy evening, but everything else seemed normal. The first half of the drive was quite uneventful. And by uneventful I mean that someone probably had their bum pinched, another likely suffered an attack from the tickle monster, and there may even have been a "full-moon" sighting. But let's stick to the facts. Four girls in the back seat makes for a fun time. As we rounded the corner into our little hometown, Ashley suddenly pushed Carlia's head down, opened and closed the car door quickly, and shouted, "Oh no, Carlia fell out of the car!" We all laughed, and my dad jokingly slammed on the brakes. I mean slammed on the brakes hard. So hard that my mom started giving him a hard time. And then the fog in front of us cleared, and less than 10 feet from where our car had skidded to a stop stood a giant black-as-night cow. Right in the middle of the road. There is absolutely no way that my dad could have or would have seen it if we had continued driving. The car went silent, and right then and there I became very aware that our Heavenly Father is aware of us, and that He works in mysterious ways.

I think the way the Spirit speaks to us is different from person to person and from situation to situation. In this case, Ashley and my dad may have been acting on impressions that they thought were silly at the time. But they didn't seem so silly as we sat looking at that cow that could have caused some serious harm to, if not killed, my family. I believe that as we live our lives in line with our Savior, our thoughts and the promptings of the Spirit become one. I am so grateful for those who have listened to their thoughts and the whispers and impressions of the Spirit to reach out to my little family when we've been in need. My point? Act. Always act. Even if the impression seems silly or you are afraid of what people will think. No bad can ever come of sending a text message, making a phone call, visiting a friend or taking a dinner. So go and do.

Grocery Store Games

Prior to having children, I'd heard friends tell horror stories of experiences with their children at the grocery store. I remember being absolutely terrified to every take my own children to the store. But once the kids arrived, it was inevitable. There were times that I had to decide whether to starve or to brave a trip for groceries. The first time I took both babes shopping by myself they were 6 weeks old. I left Caroline in her car seat and put that into the cart, and I put Charlie in a pack and wore him on my chest. And it was great! Sure I couldn't fit hardly anything into the cart because it was 98% occupied by a car seat, but the kids both slept the entire time and it was a piece of cake (relatively speaking). Being in the store was the easy part. The hard part was getting the kids and groceries back into the house. And it hasn't gotten any easier. I usually carry both babies in and set them in their cribs (which brings lots of tears and screaming) while I run out and bring in the freezer and refrigerator items. The rest of the groceries come in later after they are in bed, when Forrest gets home from work, or sometimes even the next day. I don't love that, but there are times that it just has to happen that way. 

After that first shopping trip, I remember thinking that I was supermom. Two kids and a grocery store? No problem. Bring it on. I continued to take them both to do the grocery shopping a few times a month until they were about 7 months old. Every time we went, I would leave one in the car seat and wear one in the pack. Easy peasy. Some days they were a little fussier and didn't sleep at all, but we still made it work. Once in a while I would go shopping while we were out on a walk. I would take some reusable grocery bags and use that in lieu of a cart. I would hand them from the stroller using the "mommy clip" which is an awesome giant carribeaner that fits on the handle of the stroller and can hold a lot of stuff. That worked well as long as we didn't need big and heavy things like milk etc. 

I thought we had it made. Shopping was no problem. Then they started getting bigger. And heavier. And much less content to just sit in their car seat or a pack. At about 7 months they wanted to sit in the seat in front of the cart. There are a few problems with this option: 1) unless you are at Costco, most carts only accomodate one child in that seat, 2) trying to carry both babes to a cart is ridiculously difficult. (Note to self - always park next to a stray cart. Always.) I drive around the parking lot until I find a stray cart, and then I put them both in that one single seat anyway. They just have to stick both legs through one hole. Actually what they usually end up doing is putting one leg through and bending the other leg up on the seat. They're not the most comfortable, but they usually sit happily like that and enjoy trying to reach out and grab every item we pass. Sometimes, though, they don't sit happily. Sometimes they steal eachother's toys. Sometimes (by sometimes I mean ALL times) Caroline pulls Charlie's glasses off his face. Sometimes Charlie pulls Caroline's hair. And sometimes I want to pull my own hair. Not feeling so much like supermom anymore. 

I need a new plan. Last time I was at the grocery store, I saw (far away from the rest of the grocery carts) some of those awesome carts that have a little car with steering wheels down at the front of the cart. And it's a little tender mercy that they have two buckles and two steering wheels. I'm hoping beyond all hope that those little car carts will distract my crazy little munchkins enough to prevent hair- and glasses-pulling, at least for 30 minutes so I can get enough food to keep us fed for a few days. Fingers crossed! Let the grocery store games continue.

Only for a Season

You know before you have kids when you look at other people with their children and think "I'll never do that" or "I can't believe they do it THAT way"? Yeah me too. I plead guilty on many, many accounts. In my pre-child mind, having kids wouldn't change the way that I lived my life. I would still like the same things, go on the same types of trips, hang out with all the same friends, still go on weekly date nights... you know. And even when I found out I was having twins I still thought it would be possible. "It's a choice" I thought. Which it is. I just failed to realize that my priorities might change. And that sometimes a baby getting in a good nap is more important than making it to a lunch date with a friend. Not always, but sometimes.

I love the thought of being outdoorsy and adventurous. I've done a lot of camping, boating, snowmobilling, and hiking (confession: according to my sister, I've done SOME hiking.. not a lot). The point is, I love doing all of that stuff and I thought I would make the choice to keep doing those things. And I still want to. But in the last ten months I've learned that some things aren't worth doing anymore. Someday they will be, but not right now.

My family is all about adventure too. In March they planned a trip to hike Havasupai. It's a trip I've heard rave reviews about, and I wanted to go SO bad. I tried just about every way to make it work, but when it came right down to it, I was nursing, Forrest was busy at work, and asking someone to take care of my twins for a week was A LOT to ask of someone. So I stayed home, and tried to be positive about it. And today, more of my family went to hike King's Peak. I had planned to go, until last week when Forrest got a last minute out-of-town work assignment. Camping trips to Goblin Valley, entire days spent with friends and family, late evening dinners and activities.. I want to do it all. But I have to remember that my kids will only be little for so long. Months and years from now they will LOVE to camp and hike and run and play and spend all day out in the sun without taking a nap. But for now, they are happiest when they can nap on schedule, have an air-conditioned (or heated) building nearby, and get to bed on time. And happy babies = happy me. 

So for now, sacrifices will be made. Today will pass all too soon and in the blink of an eye my babies will be grown. It is only a season. After all, isn't parenting all about putting your childrens' needs in front of your own?

This is Life

A few months ago a had a friend come over to visit. It was one of those mornings where we were all still in our pajamas and the house was a mess. When she got here, I apologized for the condition that we were in, and she responded, "Oh Holly, this is life."

Then I had a little bit of a paradigm shift. Before having children, I couldn't handle our house being cluttered/dirty/messy. I mean, of course there were days that it was that way.. but I tried really hard to minimize that. But babies come with a lot of stuff. And I mean A LOT. Especially when you have two. And you live in a small apartment. In our living room we have an exersaucer, three baskets of toys, a bouncer, a bookshelf, and Charlie's large toys from the vision specialist. That's in addition to all our furniture/decor that was already there. Then add to the kitchen two swings, two high chairs, two bumbo's.. you get my point. There's no helping the clutter now. I still try to keep it clean, but my friend's comment made me realize that my life has changed. So now I'm trying to adjust to my new life and the mess that often accompanies it. But it's a beautiful and wonderful mess, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Sometimes I think people feel sorry for me. Like last week when I completely forgot that the twins had their 9 month checkup. I remembered just in time to get there, but not in time to find someone to come with me. Just a tip: never EVER take twins to get shots by yourself. Check-ups are doable. But shots? No. Bad bad bad idea. The first part of the appointment went fine. But by the end they were getting tired and hungry. And then getting shots.. one baby screams after their shots and I'm trying to comfort them while the other baby is crawling all over getting into everything on the floor. Then I put baby #1 down while baby #2 gets shots. Putting baby 1 down brings many many tears. Then I have two screaming babies. And the poor nurse just looks at me and says, "I'm sorry." I can see the look of pity in her eyes. And of course this is hard for me, but it's just life. I'm used to having two crying babies. But other people aren't used to seeing women with two crying babies. So I just shrug and say, "This is life." And then I try to clean up as quickly as possible, get my two babes dressed and get out of there before I get any more pitying stares.

So when things like that happen, I just take it in stride. When I'm at the grocery store and one baby (or both) is just so sad, I try to continue my shopping trip if at all possible. Because if I bagged it and came home every time one cried, I'd never make it to checkout. And when someone stops by for a quick visit and my house is a mess, I try not to let it bother me. Because I can only do so much. And I think most people understand that. This is life. My crazy, hectic, beautiful and wonderful life.

Why I Sometimes Choose Ignorance

We've all heard the saying "ignorance is bliss." I'm just beginning to understand what that means. It seems like the more I watch the news, check my Facebook newsfeed, and listen to the radio, the more evil and sadness in the world becomes apparent to me.

I'm watching the news and I hear a story of a woman who has murdered 7 babies inside of her own home. Then I hear stories of a family who lost their father due to an affair or cancer or drugs. Then of a grieving family who lost their sweet and precious little one to pneumonia. Then of hundreds of girls being kidnapped by terrorist groups in war-torn countries. 

Becoming a mother has certainly made me more sensitive and emotional. When the twins were just a few days old, I was up feeding them in the middle of the night and reading a story of a girl I knew in high school. I didn't know her very well, but her story left me sobbing for hours. Her baby was born quite prematurely and was in the NICU. About the same time as my sweet little infants were placed in my arms, her precious little one passed beyond the veil to the other side. It still brings me to tears, thinking of losing a child. I can't imagine the pain and sorrow that accompanies such a horrific loss. And then I'm left to wonder why I am so blessed that I still have my two little miracles. Why me, and not her? I know everyone experiences different challenges in this life. And that our Father in Heaven would never ask us to endure anything that we were not capable of. And of course there is life after death. What a blessing to know that families can be together forever, even when they are only together for a short time here on this earth. 

Sometimes when I see a headline of a sad story, I turn off the television. Or I don't follow the online link to read the story at all. Because I feel like my heart can't handle it. Most of the time I feel like I would honestly rather not know what is going on. And then I struggle with myself because I know it's not good to be ignorant.

Last year when I was working at the high school, a group of college students came and put on an assembly on ignorance. They spoke about how when we hear about something sad we say, "Oh, that is so sad." And maybe shed a tear of two. And then go on with our life like nothing ever really happened. 

I know that's exactly what I do. It's so much easier to pretend like the evil and sorrowful things aren't really there. And more than that, even if I fully face it and acknowledge all these bad things that happen, what am I to do about it? Hold my family a little closer. Hug my kids a bit tighter. Be grateful for what I have every single day because there are those who go without. Live every day to it's fullest.

In truth I'm completely conflicted between turning a blind eye and pretending the bad doesn't exist, and becoming totally overwhelmed by it all and not knowing what I can actually do about it. I'm not at all comfortable with choosing ignorance, but nor am I comfortable with facing reality. I'm hoping to find a better way to cope, and am wide open to suggestions.

How I Survive as a Stay at Home Mom

When we were going through infertility, I resented every single day that I had to go to work. Of course I was grateful that I had a job, but every time I walked out the door and drove to work I wished that I could stay home. Because going to work meant that I didn't have kids to stay home with. 

Now that I have children and I'm able to be home with them, I absolutely love it. It's wonderful and exciting and joyful. But it's also really hard. There are days that I feel stretched beyond what I thought possible (that's most days, actually). Some days I probably shed as many tears, if not more, than the babies. I often want to pull my hair out (particularly during meal times) and scream at the top of my lungs.

Every day is different. But now that the twins are getting a little older I feel like I've settled into a bit of a groove. They have their routine, and I have mine. One of my good friends refers to the things that get her through as her "Diet Coke." So the following are my Diet Cokes.

TV shows - It's not like I sit and spend all day in front of the television. And I have a personal rule that I don't turn on the TV/iPad etc. when the twins are awake. But when they nap, I almost always sit down on the couch with my breakfast/lunch and watch my shows. Some of my favorites are Psych, White Collar, Modern Family, Dancing with the Stars, Duck Dynasty, and Once Upon a TIme (I know.. I can't believe I actually like that show. It's so nerdy! But I love it). After hours of reading stories, rolling around on the ground with the babes, holding and feeding them, watching TV helps me unwind and relax a little.

Setting realistic goals - Right before the twins were born, Forrest and I were talking about his paternity leave (he took 6 weeks) and what he was going to do while he was off of work. He rattled off a lengthy list of all the things he planned to do each day. After Charlie and Caroline came we both quickly realized how unrealistic that was. Some days it just seems impossible to do anything but survive. I hated feeling like I didn't do a single thing all day long (even though I know that taking care of two babies is actually doing a lot), so I set a goal for myself to do one thing a day. Whether that one thing is laundry, cleaning the bathroom, taking out the trash, or vacuuming, I still try to stick to that. Some days I get a lot more than one thing done. Other days I struggle to even do that one thing. But setting a reasonable goal for myself everyday helps me to feel accomplished and boosts my self-esteem.

Getting dressed - I know this seems really silly. But there seriously are days (a lot more than I would like to admit) when I don't ever change out of my pajamas. And if I don't change out of my pajamas, I probably haven't brushed my hair or teeth either. Getting dressed and then going through my morning routine of doing my hair, brushing my teeth, and putting on makeup (even if I do all this quickly) makes me feel a lot better about myself. Then I don't go through a panic when someone unexpectedly knocks on the door, because I'm presentable. Much better that way.

Exercising - This one is really important for me, because exercise is something I really enjoy. It makes me feel like a normal person. It was really hard for a few months because Forrest would work so late that I couldn't exercise in the evenings, and I was too tired (I prefer not to think of it as lazy) to wake up and run before he left in the mornings. And it was far too cold to take the kids outside for a walk. But now I am able to go much more frequently. I get together with a few friends and go running on Wednesday evenings after the kids are in bed. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to get out of the house, have some girl time, and get some exercise.

Doing things - Like getting dressed, this seems silly too. But seriously. It is so easy to just stay home and do nothing, because it's far easier when the twins can nap in their beds, I don't have to pack up any food etc. But going out makes a huge difference in my sanity. Sometimes I take trips to the grocery store even if I don't really need anything just because I need to get out of the house. Now that it's warming up I try to take the kids on walks and outside to sit in the courtyard and play with the neighbor kids. Sometimes I even go out and sit in the sun when they're napping, just because I need to be outside! And going to family events, friends houses etc. is so helpful too. Even when it's not convenient, I try to make it work. I need to stay sane.

Serving others - Whether it's something simple like getting up early to make Forrest's lunch, or making dinner for a friend who just had a baby, forgetting myself and doing something for someone else is wonderful. It's easy to think that I'm too busy, that my hands are too full, that I don't have time to do service. But finding even small ways to serve makes a big difference in my happiness. 

Blogging - Seriously, it helps me so much just to be able to write down my thoughts and emotions. It helps me sort through what I'm feeling, and it makes me feel good when others enjoy reading what I write. 

I'm sure as time passes I will find other things to add to my list. But for now, these things really help me love my new job as a full time mom! I love the term "play at home mom." That's what I feel like I do, I play at home with my beautiful children. And it's wonderful! 

The Witching Hour

You know what I'm talking about. That time of night when your baby is so tired, but they won't sleep. When all they can do is cry. And all you can do is cry. The Witching Hour.

It hit us especially hard once the twins were about 8 weeks old. Forrest would come home from work and I'd be a mess. And so would the house. The kids would be either in their beds crying or in their swimgs screaming. I didn't know what else to do. Sometimes I would put one in a pack on my belly and try and rock them while I cooked/cleaned. That rarely worked. I moved the bouncer into the kitchen and put them in there while I cooked/cleaned. That didn't work either. Finally I got to the point of just putting them in their beds and shutting the door. Because I couldn't hold them both (not that holding them really helped anyway) and just listening to them cry was torture. So I would shut their door and turn on some music. Sometimes if I got lucky they would actually fall asleep. Usually they didn't. But whatever was going on, things always got better when daddy walked through the door. I remember many nights calling him in tears hoping he would be home soon to help me. 

I don't know what changed. They just got older I guess. But finally when they were about 3 months old things got far better. I borrowed a second swing from my mom and set both swings up in the kitchen. Then every night when the kids got fussy (usually arond 4:30 or 5:00) I would put them in the swings, turn on some quiet music for them, and turn on Netflix for me. (Psych. The. Best. Show. Ever.) They would swing happily for an hour or two and usually took a little nap. And I could cook, clean, do laundry.. whatever I needed to do. It was amazing. We still have the same ritual, though it is changing a little bit. Caroline isn't content to just sit in her swing anymore. She sits up, throws her binky, and tries desperately to escape so she can go get it again. So now I often just let her crawl around on the floor while Charlie swings. One of their favorite activities involves Caroline sitting on the floor in front of Charlie's swing, waving her hands and singing/squealing while he watches her intently and laughs histerically at her show. It's completely adorable. Those swings transformed my evenings. No more witching hour for us, hallelujiah! Those early evening hours are now some of the best of my day. Moral of the story, swings = awesome.