Grief and Faith and Comfort

I joined BookBub a few months ago, downloaded a bunch of bad-quality, free books, and binge-read them while I was grieving over having a miscarriage.

Miscarriages suck, by the way. I knew that it was a statistical likelihood that I would have one, and I knew there was little if anything anyone could do to prevent it, as almost all of the early ones are caused by chromosomal abnormalities. I didn't even feel like someone had died, so I wasn't exactly grieving. The horrible thing about a miscarriage is that you feel the excitement of expectation, then the nausea and discomfort of early pregnancy, and then the disappointment of knowing it's ending; you feel the nasty cramping like labor, and then you're done. Nothing to show for it but a terrible hormone plunge and a dead heart. 

I have much to be grateful for. It hadn't progressed very far, so there were no fetal remains to identify. It was reasonably quick, and it resolved itself on its own without the need for medical intervention. I was able to work from home that day and the two days following, because I have an awesome boss who doesn't ask questions. And there weren't very many people to tell, because I hadn't announced the pregnancy yet. 

We love being parents, and we really wanted the baby. We tried again. And it's happening again. I know I will survive and be just fine, and that the Holy Spirit will give me just the right amount of comfort I need to keep going, but right at this moment I'm not sure how it will unfold. I'm dreading what the next few weeks will bring. I'm dreading the pain, both physical and emotional. I'm dreading the person I will be--the person who wants to stay in bed and cry, avoid responsibility, and let herself acknowledge and process this pain that is an attack on her entire being.

And at the same time, I'm crying and praying over the poor souls in Haiti, over 500 of whom have just died in the hurricane.

Earlier, I would have buried myself in books. I would be binge-reading books with lame plots, very little style, possibly a little bit of substance. I want to do that right now, but I have to go to bed like a responsible adult, because my little one now has a chronic health condition and is recovering from a crisis from earlier this week. She will need me through the night and all through the weekend. I want a shoulder to cry on, but there is none, because everyone else has their own grief, and I should be the one consoling them. Only Jesus can help me. And I don't have enough faith to think he can heal me of this in the way I want to be healed, because I don't want to heal from it--I want to not have to do it again.

Some might glory in tribulation, but I still fear it, because it exposes me to the reality of just how weak I am.

If I had been able to keep this baby, if I had been able to keep either one of them, I would have loved them so hard. Just like I love my first baby. But I don't love them now. They are just inconveniences in the form of cramps and discomfort and gushing blood and hormones, and I feel guilty because how can you really grieve over someone you never met? I happily shared my body with them, but I never met them. 

There is no envisioning this little embryo rushing up to heaven to rest from labor and care. I can't know for sure that it even ever lived, in the eternal sense. Obviously it was alive, and it might even be alive still, but did it have its own little spirit, half an inch long?

I hope the poor Haitians who survived this mess are comforted by thinking of their loved ones being safely in the arms of Jesus. It comforts me, at least. Faith doesn't mean expecting something to happen just because you believe in Jesus Christ and you want it to happen. There is no faith in events or feelings, only in Jesus and the eternity of His sacrifice. I do have enough faith to hope that whatever suffering those poor, dead souls went through, whatever suffering my ill-fated embryos went through, is going to somehow be made right.

Social Media

I've thought long and hard about what I wanted to blog about next, or whether I wanted to blog at all. Since Punkin was born, I've still been reading a lot, but not the kind of reading I used to do. And because I always had a goal of making my blog about books, or at least about reading, I think I've hit on something.

Hi, I'm (my name), and I am addicted to social media. Well, not really, but I've become a junkie. I read a lot of books about parenting, about education, about pop psychology ... but most of what I read is Facebook posts and links to things my "friends" are reading. Some of it is social commentary, a lot of it is mommy blogs or Huffpo parenting.

Here is what I have learned.

One, I should probably stop spending so much time doing this. I think in most ways it's not really good for me. It takes a lot of time away from more important things, it shortens my attention span, it focuses that shortened attention span on a lot of things that are either depressing or contentious, it exposes me to a lot of useless ignorance, and it is apt to reflect the feelings and opinions of people at their worst.

But two, it can be a good thing. I have a lot of friends on Facebook I have not seen for a very long time. So long that if we were to meet up in person, we probably wouldn't have anything to say to each other. I used to wonder why I still stayed "friends" with them, even. Because at this point, even if I "like" or comment on any of their social media activity, it would be awkward, considering all the filtering ability to only see feeds of people who are important to you—and even though we are "friends" it might seem odd that I am "following" their online activity. Is that stalkerish? I don't think so, but it borders on unhealthy and invasive curiosity ... regardless of how appropriate or inappropriate it is for them to share so much online. It's like a lot of that stuff is just expected to be ignored by anyone who isn't directly involved in the person's life anymore. That's just the impression I get.

Another reason I wonder why I stay "friends" with so many is because they express opinions on politics, religion, parenting, social behavior, and even cooking (hehe) that I outright disagree with and believe to be unhealthy and sometimes vindictive.

However, I finally decided the other day that it's probably a good thing. Haven't there been studies done about people and their idealogical tendencies being skewed by association? Most people associate with people who agree with them, they read things they agree with, and they put more emphasis on research that is going to validate their current beliefs rather than challenge them.

This is why I stay "friends" with these people. Husband says that intellectually honest people are not upset when they are wrong, they are glad to find out—and by maintaining constant contact with people who challenge your assumptions, you can continue to analyze why you have those assumptions, and you can slowly or quickly change your mind when you realize that your viewpoint has been limited.

There is certainly something to be said about repeated exposure to filth, that it has a desensitizing effect, but I mean more along the lines of personal stories from people whose experiences are radically outside of anything I have seen or done or thought of doing. People move outside my normal life of an educated office professional who works from 8 to 5 and chats around the coffee (or hot cocoa, in my case) machine with coworkers about weather, gym memberships, and the challenges of being a working parent.

I have gained a lot from reading the posts of people I disagree with—sometimes coming to the conclusion that I don't even disagree with them anymore—and while I probably will try to spend less time reading Facebook (and don't plan on getting a Twitter or Snapchat or any of those other online things), I don't think it's all been a waste.

Not Another Mormon Mommy Blog

I'm not planning on becoming another Mormon Mommy Blogger, so this post is actually about books... sort of. I've been trolling Mommy blogs lately because I want to make The Punkin a quiet book. I am told I should expect to spend 50 or 60 hours for a modest-sized one, and that supplies will cost around $40. It reminds me of a meme I saw on Facebook, "Why buy it for $10 when I can make it myself with $90 of craft supplies?!"

I'm not crafty, so I feel deficient in the motherhood department. And now that I'm a mother, I'm not really sure what I'm actually good at, considering all the juggling I do--I drop things a lot. Like the time I will never be forgiven by my sister for forgetting to buy lunch meat in my mad dash to the grocery store in the tiny window of time I had between work and dinner. And the time I literally dropped a bar of soap on The Punkin's head. Ouch.

One night The Punkin was giving me grief by refusing to settle herself to sleep, and none of my efforts at comforting her were working; she is not a cuddle-baby. All I could think was "You're ruining my life!" Then, immediately, the Spirit corrected my thoughts, and I remembered, "No--you are my life." After all, what else is there? I waited for this season for decades. I knew it would be hard. In some ways, it's not nearly as hard as I thought it would be, but in most ways it's harder.

For instance, The Punkin doesn't really care for being read to. She only likes books if she can put them in her mouth while wandering around the house ... although we are making small strides with her adorable baby version of Pride and Prejudice, a counting primer. She doesn't like to be cuddled, so I'm useless when it comes to comforting her if she is upset (fortunately, she rarely is). And I know babies and toddlers are always on the move, but she learned how to crawl at 5 months and started walking around 9 and a half. I couldn't be more proud, but it scares my socks off.

Nothing in the world scares me the way this child scares me. She is so small and so very alive. I look at her so often just to marvel that she is real.

And that is why I'm going to bite the bullet and buy that cartload of craft supplies and make that silly quiet book.

On Birth and Motherhood, Part I

This post is going to be very blunt, so feel free to skip it if you don't want gory details. Having a baby is something nothing and no one can prepare you for, but I'm going to describe it because I think there are some things that need to be said, if for no other reason than that it is therapeutic for me.

It was a Wednesday night. I had gone to sleep around 10:30, but I woke up when Husband came to bed around midnight. I sleepily realized I was having some odd cramping sensations in my back. Not too bad, I thought. The baby is due in 5 days, this must be Braxton-Hicks. I told Husband I was having some pre-labor symptoms and tried to go back to sleep. An hour later, I thought, you know, I should time these things. They were coming at regular 5-minute intervals.

We tried to call my doctor's pager, but our internet was down (yay for what is essentially a local monopoly--crappy service for lots of money and very few options--and what is worse, we rely on our internet signal for phone service because our provider has bad coverage in our area, and we use a microcell). Fortunately, it came back up after about half an hour. Sometimes it is down for as long as 11 hours.

The doctor said I was definitely in labor and should come in and get checked. The pain was getting more uncomfortable, but I could still easily breathe my way through it, so we grabbed the hospital bag I had so carefully packed the preceding week and took off.

The check indicated that I was dilated 2 cm, and the doctor felt the best thing to do was go home, try to rest, and come back in the morning when things had progressed more. We agreed. By this time, it was about 4 am. We went home, while the contractions came stronger and faster, and Husband made me some breakfast, which I promptly barfed up.

At that point, he was trying to help me with pain management—we learned all about pressure points and massage in our birth class, and he is a good man. For the next hour or so, it did help quite a bit, but by about 7 am, I was screaming and writhing while the contractions came at 1-minute intervals. We called the doctor back and went in again.

That ride back to the hospital was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. We got stuck in morning traffic, and I yelled and cried the entire way. Then we got temporarily stuck in the revolving door on the way inside the hospital, which was completely not fun.

As soon as we got back to the "triage" room, I told my doctor I needed an epidural. How quickly one can change the mind! I had drunk the Ina May Gaskin koolaid and convinced myself that I could give birth the natural, hippie way ... after 8 hours of that labor, I never want to hear another word about how your body knows what to do and you can breathe your way through the pain. I'm glad it works that way for some people, but if it weren't for modern medicine, I would never let my husband near me ever again.

It took a while to get wheeled into the labor/delivery room and wait for the anesthesiologist to show up and take care of things. By that time, I was dilated to 6.5. Once the epidural kicked in, I was ok for a while. The contractions, of course, slowed back down to 4 minutes apart instead of 1. And then, we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Husband's parents both showed up in the early afternoon expecting to see a baby. I had not expected his dad to come, but I was glad to see him. They were great, and we had a nice time conversing. At that point, the epidural had made me comfortable enough to breathe through the contractions. Still uncomfortable, but manageable.

Then it was nighttime again, and still no progression. The epidural was wearing off, and my legs were completely numb. Our excellent nurse changed shifts, and we got another excellent nurse. It was a good thing we were at a teaching hospital, because the nurses all had students there to observe and help. It took both of them to lift my dead legs and shift my position in several attempts to get labor to progress again. Plus, some pitocin, which made the contractions even more uncomfortable.

It turns out labor did not move forward because Baby's head was sideways. I had always worried about either a breech or posterior baby. This didn't sound nearly as bad, but unfortunately, it was bad enough that my body couldn't manage to relax enough to allow her to descend into the birth canal; it was the wrong fit—I didn't know until afterwards, but she was banging against my pelvic bone (she ended up with a nasty, scabby bruise on her poor little head).

The doctor punctured the water bag so that it would drain slowly, in hopes that that would turn the baby. It did work, but it still took several hours and lots of assisted changes in position. In the meantime night fell, and I got sick to my stomach and threw up two or three more times. It was particularly vile, considering I hadn't eaten anything all day and had been sustained by IV fluids. I told husband I was going to vomit, and that, apparently, is the one thing he is squeamish about. I paged the nurse, and he ran to find something to catch it in—which was great, because he got back to my bedside right as it all flew out of my mouth (and splattered on his clothes). I felt so bad for him, but he handled it like a champ.

In addition to the vomiting, I also started having panic attacks. The room was dark, my legs were numb so I couldn't move, and I just felt claustrophobic and stuck. I couldn't sleep because every time I did, I would startle myself awake and freak out. Again, Husband was amazing. He just sat by me and held my hand and helped me breathe my way through. It was torture for him, because he hates to see me in pain.

Early, early in the morning I started to cry and told the doctor I just needed it all to be over. The epidural wore off several times and I had to ask for more and more. And finally, they had given me their strongest dose and had to switch to a different drug (yikes!).

One of the weird things that happened was the representative for cord blood donations kept coming and bugging us to read through the materials and sign the form. I wanted to participate and told him so, but I was a bit preoccupied with other things, so reading and signing didn't quite work out on his timetable. That was a major nuisance.

Then around 7 am on Friday, after 31 hours, I started to feel the pressure moving away from my back and into my pelvic area, and I was pretty sure the baby was coming out. The doctor came in to talk to me about it. She said I had been stuck at an 8 for long enough that they were concerned that we would need to discuss a c-section. They don't bring that up lightly (our hospital has very low c-section rates, and doesn't like to perform them at all), but if we couldn't make the baby come out with what we had already done, it would be necessary. I told her I thought the baby was moving into the birth canal, and I wanted her to check. She was also concerned to do that too often, because once the water is broken there are risks of infection if they poke and prod too much. But she did just look down without reaching in, and she saw the baby's head.

That was a great boost to my self-confidence—knowing that I had been able to correctly identify where the baby was, even as drugged up as I had been.

So, around 7:45 or so, they got everyone (EVERYONE) in the room and ready, and I started pushing. A few comments on that—the epidural had completely worn off by that point, and I let them know. They said it doesn't numb the parts that hurt during the actual delivery, so it wouldn't help to give me any more. She told me, very compassionately, that it was going to be terribly painful. I'm glad—I like to be prepared. The other thing was that there were suddenly a dozen people in the room. Nothing like being completely naked, with your business exposed for everyone. They called in a NICU team because there was some meconium in the fluid, and that is a potential problem (turns out it was fine, though); there was the nurse (our third one), her student shadow, our resident doctor, the resident doctor relieving her of duty (they change shifts at 8 am), their supervising doctor, Husband (of course), and some other random people he said were hanging out by the curtains.

The surprising part was that I didn't feel any pain while pushing, just lots of pressure and an urgent need to get it done. They all cheered me on and helped me focus on doing it right. Husband said it was very quiet and very spiritual. This part can last for hours, but fortunately, we got her out in about 30 minutes. Yay!

They gave her to me immediately. It was surreal. All this waiting. A lifetime of waiting. And then there is a wet, crying baby in your arms.

I didn't feel the placenta come out. I didn't feel the doctor stitching me up (I had a second-degree tear). I could only distinguish a few snippets of conversation. They were all anxious to know the baby's name, because we had kept it to ourselves until then. It was fun to finally tell people.

Baby was 8 lbs, 7 oz. A perfect size in my mind, considering the 36-week ultrasound predicted she would be close to 10 lbs. She had to get her glucose checked several times (she hated it and ended up a bit traumatized—for the first several days she screamed every time anyone even touched her feet, after all the times she had to be stuck) because of my diabetic condition, but we had controlled it so well, she was completely normal and fine. She was perfect.

I had some help getting into some crazy mesh underwear and some gigantic pads, someone came in to measure the baby, and then we went to recovery.

That was interesting as well. I can't say enough in praise of our hospital staff. I loved every single one of our nurses and attendants. But it was a trying time. They said they could take the baby to the nursery so I could get some sleep, but I was unwilling to part with her. Partially because I was completely in love and wanted to be with her every second, and partially because a woman I know told me that when she had her son, she let them take him to the nursery, and he died some time in the night, and no one ever found out why.

So we did not sleep much in the hospital. Baby is of the sort that likes to be constantly held. She screamed every time we put her down. Breast milk doesn't come in for several days, but colostrum is supposed to be there immediately. I think I got too dehydrated to make much of it, because feeding in the hospital did not go well, in spite of several lactation consultants and an excellent nurse.

Husband was exhausted at this point, and he went to sleep on the couch next to the bed, but eventually I had to send him home because he was snoring. And between that and the crying baby I was not doing well. That was a sad, sad moment.

We went home a day early because I was done with hospital life. The food, oddly enough, was excellent, and I could ask for whatever I wanted, but the bed was uncomfortable, and just thinking about another night in tight quarters like that made me anticipate more panic attacks. It was actually really hard to say goodbye to our nurse—she was more like a friend than anything by then.

There was a flurry of activity to get our discharge paperwork completed, then Husband came for us and there was an issue with getting the car seat properly installed (again, help from our excellent nurse). He only had enough time to drop us off at home before he rushed off to work.

We were fine until the middle of that night. Then the post-traumatic stress really hit hard. I started re-living the labor emotionally, and having a physical response to it. It wasn't physical pain, but my body reacted as if it were—screaming, crying, writhing. We called the doctor for help, but we had to do it several times, because it took them a while to realize from what we were saying that it was me and not the baby who was having the problems. Baby was fine, even though I was convinced she wasn't. I thought I would never be able to take care of her and would have to give her to someone who could. Husband called his mom, and she came over, because he couldn't handle both me and the baby at the same time.

I don't remember a lot of what I said during those days, but I do remember hysterically pleading with Husband to be satisfied with just one child, because I couldn't face ever having another baby. He, of course, said I didn't need to worry about it, that one baby was enough.

We did get through it, but it took a few weeks, some prescription meds, and a visit to a psychiatrist for the attacks to go away. And did you know newborn babies are completely bizarre? Little girls bleed from their mom's estrogen, so it's almost like they have a mini period. Plus, there's a lot of choking going on in the first few days when they get the fluid out of their little lungs. Both of those things freaked me out and caused another call to the doctor.

Also, some people may not have any trouble whatsoever figuring out how to breastfeed, but it did not come naturally for me. My milk came in around day 4, which is pretty good, but it was slow going, and baby had trouble latching. The lactation consultants won't say this, but I am convinced it's because she has a tiny mouth. After lots of soreness and bleeding (I was ready to start calling her my little bloodsucker, because it seemed she was getting more blood than milk a few times), we got some prescription cream and a silicon shield. It helps a lot. She did not regain her birth weight during the recommended timeframe, so we had lots of follow-ups with the nurse and lactation consultants. I was desperately trying to feed her regularly, the way the books say—no more than three hours from the beginning of her feeding to the next. But how do you do that when it takes two hours to feed her? And then when she finally does go to sleep she wants to stay asleep and nothing, nothing will wake her? All their recommended tricks for getting/keeping her alert were complete failures. Also, it's impossible to tell if a breastfed baby is getting enough to eat, because you can't measure input. After 3 weeks of all the following up, we did some letting go. I refuse to put her through the stress anymore, and I just let her sleep. That has improved things quite a bit, even though there is still a lot of frustration with her efficiency in eating. She seems to be finally gaining weight, though, so I don't worry as much as I did.

My physical recovery went much better than I expected. The bleeding was not nearly as heavy as I was thinking it would be, and it was mostly gone after a few days. The stitches hurt, and I had to use a squirt bottle instead of toilet paper for a week or two, but that was all. I lost the baby weight super fast, mostly due to my diabetes diet, I think—within two weeks my pre-pregnancy clothes were a little too big. There is still a bit of a belly, but I'm not concerned about it. And I have this impressive array of stretch marks that looks like someone tried to draw a campfire on my tummy. I am told the marks won't go away, but their purple color will eventually fade.

So there you have it. I'm sure this is TMI, but really—why don't people talk about it? I thought I had been sufficiently warned! I would never discourage anyone from having a child, but I do think sometimes people don't talk realistically about how it works. There is plenty of warning about labor pain, but it's buried under so much cliche that it can't really sink in for someone who hasn't experienced it. Obviously it's different for everyone, and a lot of women say it wasn't that bad. Wow. Either they are much stronger than I am, or I was just not cut out for motherhood. We survived, obviously, but at a great price. I don't know if I would have survived if not for modern medicine. Pain like that is no joke. The part that was the biggest surprise, though, was the post-partum hormone drop. I knew it would happen, but I had no idea it would make me such a crazy mess.

In spite of all of that, or maybe partially because of it, I am completely in love with my baby. She is the sweetest and the cutest as far as I'm concerned. She mostly looks like her daddy, especially in profile, and I love to see them together. We are taking one day at a time and trying to enjoy every minute we can while she's still little. Being a mother is the best thing ever, now that we're past the crisis, even though it is so very difficult. It is one of the most bonding experiences we could have as a couple to be parents together, and I love Husband even more than I did before ... if that's possible.

Celebrate!

The baby will not be here in time for Mother's Day this year, but I think I can safely claim the title of "Mother" for the first time ever, without feeling a little like an impostor. All the sacrifices I've made to keep the baby healthy during her gestation certainly qualify me for it, I think.

I think it's actually pretty cool that, at least in the wards I've been in, the Church recognizes that every woman is a mother and gives her a little treat at the end of the first hour. Those of us who haven't (yet) actively participated in that role by raising children are still honored, and appropriately so. Some women may think it cheapens the sacrifices active mothers make, but I really don't. Their quiver is full, and they have their blessings. I would never belittle the effort they put in every day to raise their children, but we are looking beyond every-day tasks, at the eternities, and I feel like there is a lot we don't know about what the eternal role of a mother is, outside of the (important) task of bearing and nurturing children.

Even so, when I think of eternity, I think of roles and responsibilities being innate and without time, so even when it isn't our "time", we still have the role, and all the blessings that go along with it are ours. It was only my insecurity that held me back from embracing the recognition—and the chocolate.

Is it easier now to understand some of the eternities, now that all the desires of my heart are in the midst of tangible fulfillment? Of course. But the only thing that has changed is my understanding. I always had the same value, and the same eternal potential. The thing that makes life so difficult is often that we, all of us, are limited in our ability to see the challenges and the pains we face as the temporary things they are. I hope this doesn't seem to trivialize anyone's painful circumstances. Whatever it is I've genuinely suffered in this life so far has had a definite expiration date, unlike a lot of people I know and care about, so I'm not the most qualified to write about it.

I remember a huge breakthrough I made one day in how I perceived my life. It hit me to my core that no matter what blessings I did or did not have in this life—and at the time my main concern was marriage and children—I would never once in the eternities look back on my mortal experience and feel like I had missed something or been cheated of any important experiences.

We are promised that if we keep God's commandments, all of the blessings of eternity will be ours, and it's true.

"How Are You?" Is a Loaded Question

I usually don't mind being asked, "how are you?" It's a token that the person asking is thinking about my well-being, at least enough to ask the question, if not to listen to my response. It is a customary greeting, and it's better than most others I could think of.

But lately, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of people asking, because it could mean one of many things, two of which are:

1) I know you've been struggling, and I care about you, so I genuinely want to know what is going on.
2) I know you've been struggling, and I want to feel you out to see if you are emotionally resilient enough to help me unload my baggage.

I know this, not only because it has been done to me on countless occasions by other people, but also because I am sure I have done it myself. So this post is self-accusation as much as a rant against the treatment I have received from others.

The truth is, I am fine as long as I can talk about what is bothering me on my own terms. My terms include that you have to understand that I am grieving for something that might not be real for you but is catastrophically real for me. If you are unable to acknowledge that, I don't want to talk about it with you, but I definitely don't want you to assume that just because I'm not talking about it I am not thinking about it. I can't deal with being told that I should just shut up and be happy. I can't deal with being told that my fears and worries are irrational. I can't deal with being told that "everything will be okay, you'll see." I can't even deal with being told that it isn't my fault so why do I torture myself over it.

Grief doesn't make logical sense, particularly not to the person not experiencing it. For years and years I wondered why my mom grieved so hard (in my mind, irrationally hard) over the deaths of her father and brother, when we know that people die all the time and we will see them again in the next life. I hope I can be excused by the fact that I was a teenager who didn't understand how life works.

But the Millennial Generation, and those who raised them, seem to all have this problem to a certain extent. The prevalent belief in society is that "If you can dream it, you can do it!" and everyone can have a trophy if they just work hard enough ... and even if they don't work very hard, if they put in a token effort, they can have a trophy anyway, because it is the duty of everyone around them to be nice and fair and inclusive. We aren't equipped to process our own pain and sense of loss, because First World Problems are just that. Hey, to put it the way a friend did, we aren't starving in China with only one arm, so what's the big deal?

And someone else's pain? Well, that just doesn't compute. We want to apply the "If you can dream it, you can do it!" philosophy by telling them that if they would just adjust their attitude, everything would fall into place. Um ... no. There is a lot of value in positive thinking and in focusing on your own attitude as the source of your feelings rather than your circumstances as the source of your feelings. BUT. You can't help someone by making them feel that the big emotions involved in the grieving process are not valid or important. Chronic pain and illness? It's not all in their head, and they don't just "get used to it". Infertility? It's not as easy as quickly changing the plan from procreation to adoption without some feelings involved. Unemployment? More complicated than just going downtown and dropping in on businesses and handing them your resume.

Some advice to grieving people is good, but most of it is unwanted and unnecessary and can be downright damaging. What I'm really hearing with all these social media posts ("Seven things not to say to a migraine sufferer", "21 things you shouldn't say to a stay-at-home mom", "58 ways to avoid divorce") is that most of us are feeling, rightly or not, that empathy is a lost art, and we're tired, so tired, of being made to feel like we can't possibly have things to grieve about when we live in a time and place with so many things to be thankful for.

I think it is a form of survivor's guilt (and I didn't come up with this on my own--a friend pointed out to me today that this has a lot to do with my current situation, and I think she is right). It is a good thing to be aware of the horrible conditions people suffer in places like sub-Saharan Africa and the Indian slums. It is a good thing for me to be aware that not everyone who desires parenthood has the ability to get pregnant easily and carry a baby to term. However, it ceases to be a good thing when we are not allowed to enjoy any of our material prosperity without feeling like we don't deserve it because "starving children in Africa" or I am not allowed to mourn the loss of my plan for a healthy, risk-free pregnancy because "isn't modern medicine so great? If this had happened a hundred years ago, I might be risking death, and at least I can have a baby and isn't that what I always wanted?"

I do feel guilty. I feel guilty because I wanted a husband and a baby to love for so long that I'm still stunned about having them dropped in my lap like this, when I have many friends and family members who are still waiting. And I feel even more guilty because I still can't see, with the onset of our health complications, the possibility of a c-section being anything but irreparably traumatic. For some people, having a baby is enough, and they don't give a flip whether they push it out or have it cut out of them. For me, it's not enough. It is so far from what I expected and wanted that I don't know that it is something I could ever emotionally recover from. Does that mean I am lacking resilience? Probably. Would it be best if I could just suck it up and be happy? Heck yes. But does it give someone else permission to tell me that it's not a big deal and I am being irrational? I don't think it does.

As much as I hate the expectation that everyone is responsible for being so sensitive to the needs and individual concerns of every single person they talk to, to the point that if someone is offended by what you say, it is all on you and not on them; I still think the majority of us are in need of some thought and education in empathy. In the big scheme of things, my problems aren't much, but they are real problems, and I hope that, at the very least, I can figure out how to use this to be a kinder person, even when other people's grief doesn't make sense to me.

2014: What I Read Last Year

It seems like I just wrote one of these. Maybe I should stop doing them annually and skip to more like once every 5 or 10 years... and then I would never remember to do it and thus cheat the world of such great reading pleasure. It looks like I didn't read so very much this year. I used to be more competitive about it, but this year has changed a lot of things for me. Besides, there are some serious whoppers on this list. Check it out. If you read all the way to the end, you deserve to have someone buy you a steak dinner. But, unfortunately, it won't be me. 

* Harry Potter's Bookshelf: I picked this up off one of those display tables at Barnes and Noble on a whim. That store kills me ... or at least my pocketbook. It took me a while to decide to read it, but I'm glad I did. It explores the classic literature and philosophy that influenced J.K. Rowling in her writing of the Harry Potter books. I'm a big enough fan to have read all of the published Harry stuff, but I've lost patience with the Pottermore site and so have not been able to read recent online backstories. Disappointing, for sure. If you have any interest in literary history and theory and/or Harry Potter, read this book. 

* Call the Midwife: Shadows of the Workhouse: This is the second in Jennifer Worth's Call the Midwife memoirs. I must say that while I tired of the television show's sappiness and was very well glad the last season was actually the last season, I loved the books for providing a unique and real perspective on a time and place and profession I really didn't know anything about.

* In the Beginning: At one time (ahem, my depressive phase in college), I was Chaim Potok's biggest fan. I still think he writes a beautiful book, but this was one was sorta been-there-done-that. I might have liked it a lot more if I hadn't already read The Chosen, My Name Is Asher Lev, and even Davita's Harp—all of which are far superior.

* Phantom Island: Watermark: Continuation of a fun teen series written by my friend. It was good.

* The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands: My reading of this book came about because of a conversation I had with some married girlfriends. They both said that they have read it and re-read it, and it always helps their marriages. I had been curious about it since my parents mentioned it to me many years ago, but never enough to read it. After all, I didn't need to know what to do with a husband. I wasn't married. But the conversation was powerful enough that I suggested it as one of the monthly readings for my book group, and it got enough votes to be included. It was funny hosting that discussion, the only single woman in the group (with my boyfriend hanging out in the background because we hadn't got to spend much time together that week, and anyway, he was curious how women's book club meetings rolled). It sounds like a book that would mortally offend any strong-minded, independent, feminist woman ... and I don't think Dr. Laura particularly cares if she does offend that group of people. However, she did write what, in my opinion, is an eye-opening book about respect and how many women may just not understand that many of the things they do are sending the wrong message to their husbands. The premise is so refreshing—most men (excluding obvious jerks and sociopaths) want their wives to be happy, and they are willing to do quite a bit to make their wives happy. A man just needs his wife to communicate what she wants in a way that is intelligible to him, and women can, and should, take equal responsibility for effecting change when a relationship is heading in a troubling direction.

* Call the Midwife: Farewell to the East End: They run together. I don't have anything to say about this one that I didn't already say about Shadows of the Workhouse.

* How to Make People Like You in 90 Seconds or Less: I listened to this short audiobook one day while I was bored at work. It had some good pointers, but nothing earth-shattering, other than just making sure you practice coming across as a friendly, empathetic, and well-adjusted person.

* Eater's Manifesto: Another trendy audiobook I picked up when I was bored. He pretty much thinks people should avoid processed food.

* Between Two Ends: This is one of those advanced reader copies I got at the last library conference I went to. The premise sounded pretty exciting—a kid being magicked into another world in order to save Shaharazade from an untimely death—but it was ultimately predictable and doesn't stand up well to other similar stuff if you've ever read a children's book before.

* Anne Frank: The Anne Frank House Authorized Graphic Biography: Good, but I've read an awful lot of Anne Frank stuff over the years.

* The Gate Thief: Second in Orson Scott Card's Mither Mages series, this one was as good—and weird—as the first. I do look forward to more. The main characters can open gates in space and transport themselves (or things) to other places. Pretty cool stuff.

* Miss Buncle's Book: This adorable book was recommended to me by my sister. I recommend it to anyone who wants a sweet, light read. It's not without substance, but it doesn't take any effort. Barbara Buncle is completely endearing without being sappy, and the picture of small town drama is quirky enough to not be as predictable as one would fear.

* Laddie: A True Blue Story: I'm not sure what to make of this one. On one hand, it's terribly sappy and preachy. On the other, it's pretty brilliant. Told from the perspective of "Little Sister", who only half understands what's going on, it is an attempt to paint a picture of a set of parents who have good hearts and did everything right, whose efforts yield honest, happy lives for their children—both the ones who are grown up and the ones who are still small. Its effort to portray the pastoral American family, one with the land and faithful to God, as vastly superior to those corrupted by either city life or the classist ways of the Old Country is both touching and annoying.

* All Creatures Great and Small: If you haven't heard of it before, this is part of a series of memoirs written by a man about when he was a young veterinarian in England. It's hilarious—more so because of his dealings with his employer/room mate and with the farmers and other clients than because of his stories about animals. I got a tiny taste of it when I was still an 8th grade teacher and an excerpt of one of the chapters was used as text for one of the kids' standardized reading test practice material. In spite of my inauspicious introduction, it is a serious treat. Read it. You'll love it.

* On Writing Well: A surprisingly entertaining take on how to (and how not to) write nonfiction. It should be standard reading, along with Strunk and White's Elements of Style. And anyone who thinks a book on the mechanics of writing is boring needs their head examined.

* Lady of Devices: My first foray into the genre of Steampunk. These books were recommended by a friend whose taste is sketchy, but because the first one was free for Kindle, I gave it a shot. It was a fun little ride. I read several of the sequels as well—which I will go ahead and list here because they're really all just one continuous story split up into several parts. Her Own Devices, Magnificent Devices, and Brilliant Devices. They are about a privileged young woman in Victorian-style England (like all Steampunk) whose days in prep school are followed by a family disaster that necessitates her going to the streets and figuring out how to live by her wits, incognito, while still maintaining what relationships to "society" she still can. The action is peppered with lightning guns and airships, all while girls wear corsets and little boys speak Cockney. It impressively avoids a lot of the cliches of most of the teen fiction aka drivel out there these days.

* The Fault in Our Stars: It wasn't bad, but it didn't really have much to offer. It was just a typical story of two teenagers who fall in love and then die. And why, why do they always have to sleep together? I understand that teenagers have a really strong sex drive, but there are plenty of other meaningful things to do when you know you're dying, aside from losing your virginity. 

* I Am a Mother: This book was pretty good, but it wasn't really anything I hadn't heard before, and really, I have a problem with books that try to make motherhood sound super hard—at least I did at the moment, because I was planning on having a baby. I think there is a such thing as a healthy amount of fear, but when you're in the midst of the "I think I might be pregnant" phase, you don't want to be told that a woman who never, ever slept and worked as a news anchor in one of the most demanding careers out there found being a full-time stay-at-home mom more difficult than the career she left. Admittedly, that is the fault of the reader and not the author, though, and I think even with that dire warning, the sheer hardness of parenthood is likely to catch me off guard—rather like how naive I was about morning sickness. I seriously had no expectation that I would find pregnancy to be anything other than joyful and fulfilling (which it really is, now that the 8 weeks of nausea and 3 weeks of headaches are mostly behind us ... addendum, by the time I finished writing this post I got another headache, so no, pregnancy isn't super fun). But yes, I think it was probably a good book, but I didn't need all the feel-good quotes of how important motherhood is, I just needed something that told me I wasn't going to ruin my kid (embryo).

* Atlas Shrugged: I already wrote about it in an earlier post. Husband is still reading it. Hehe.

* Man's Search For Meaning: Nothing I say will do this book justice. I was expecting something terribly depressing, but it is a triumphant account of how people survive the unthinkable and a beautiful tribute to those who never came back.

* Home: Home is the third-person limited account of Glory Boughton, one of eight siblings, a middle-aged woman gone back to her home-town to take care of her dying father. It is one of the deepest and most interesting explorations of perspective I've ever come across. Her reflections center around her "black sheep" brother, Jack, who left home in scandal and never came back, not even for their mother's funeral, until she wrote and asked him to come see their father as he grows increasingly feeble and wants nothing out of the rest of his life but to see his beloved son. None of the problems and questions Glory asks have easy answers. It's difficult to tell if the author figured the reader would pick up on certain details that Glory didn't, or if Glory's sudden understanding of one more piece of the complexity is meant to be just as much a surprise to everyone sharing her tale. Either way, this story was not a neat, clean little package and all its ends tied up. 

* Gilead: a sort of companion novel to Home, this one is written as the memoir of John Ames, the Boughton family's neighbor, the father's dearest friend, also a minister (of a different faith). Ames writes to his small son, Robert, who was born to him so late in life that he never really got over the shock of finding himself, after decades of loneliness (his first wife died in childbirth, along with their only daughter, when he was very young), a husband and father with something to live for. His voice is beautiful—a humble, unpretentious man who sincerely believes what he preached and lived for all the years of his life, but also a man who understands that his religion doesn't always answer everyone's deepest and most heartfelt questions. There is an understanding and reconciliation he has come to in his own heart, but he admits his own inability to express it to those who grieve and mourn and wonder, without sounding cliché, flippant, or dismissive of their sorrow. I love the beautiful things he observes about his wife and little boy and how he describes his love for and joy in them. 

* Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea: I didn't want to read this book because I knew it would be depressing, but I had been to too many book club meetings (one?) for which I didn't do the reading, so I checked it out from the library and made myself sit down and read it until it was finished. It took most of a Saturday. Worth it? Yes. The author, a journalist, interviewed six different people who had lived in North Korea and escaped to tell the tale. It is every bit as horrible as you could imagine. Probably worse. I don't want to go into detail, but if you read the book, don't expect a happy ending even though you know because they are available for interviews that they got out of it. People don't survive things like that unscathed.

* The Way of Kings: Highly recommended. Every Mormon who likes fantasy loves Brandon Sanderson, and with good reason. This is not light reading, though. It is well over 1,000 pages and is only the beginning of what plans to be a 10-book epic series. Lots of violence. Lots of despair. But there is also lots of characters understanding that the way to conquer evil is not to embrace it but to listen to the better, encouraging, inspirational voices. The main characters are Shallan, a girl from a rich and influential family who are extremely down on their luck and desperate not only to make a comeback but to avoid certain death; Kaladin, the gifted son of a village surgeon who has been cruelly enslaved for trying to do the right thing; and Dalinar, renowned warrior and brother to the former king, who becomes increasingly conflicted about his role under the rule of the new king, his nephew. 

* Bringing Up Bébé: Ok, I really liked this when I was reading it, but it has some serious flaws. The author's objective, other than to continue her successful freelance career, was to write a memoir of her own observations—and some light research—about the difference between French and American parenting. Some of it was quite good, but it must be taken with a grain of salt. It's easy to lump all American parents into one category and all French parents into another, but really, most of her observations were solely of New Yorkers and Parisians, and I'm not so sure they are a representative sample of all American parents and all French parents. But she doesn't claim they are, so that makes it ok. I like a lot of the French conventions she points out—there are no "Mommy Wars" in France. French people tend to think their parenting is their own business and don't worry too much about what other people think. Their kids are not their trophies, they are their kids. The author claims that most French children sleep through the night by the age of 2 months, always eat their vegetables, learn to bake on their own when they are three, are better able to entertain themselves and interact with adults, and never feel undue pressure to be ahead of the curve in school. At first I totally bought the sleeping through the night thing. Well, I really wanted to. I'm expecting a baby and the thought of going back to my full-time job after my brief maternity leave and still staying up all night with an infant is terrifying. There is something to it, I'm sure, and I'm not going to be one of those insane people who comments on parenting blogs and accuses people who use the cry-it-out method of child abuse and claim those people deserve to have CPS come and seize their children and revoke their parental rights for good. And goodness knows I hope my baby will want to sleep through the night so I don't lose my job after I fall asleep at my desk for the seventieth time. But everything else I have read proves more empirically that babies thrive when they feel safe, and if that means I need to pick it up every time it cries, I will do it. I like the theory that exposing a child to "adult" (read: real) food early—puréed or chopped tiny according to the child's needs—and not making a fuss about things is more likely to help the child develop a varied palate. I don't like that the author claims that French people consider daycare to be essential once the baby is three months old, even if there is a stay-at-home mom. I'm vain enough to think that my kid needs more attention from me than the best of paid childcare providers ... I may end up having to put my kid in daycare, and my heart hurts about that already. I definitely want to teach my children to be independent in the kitchen, as well as elsewhere around the house, but that is always easier said than done. Time will tell if I'm successful. The last thing I will comment on is the claim that French parents do not helicopter. They teach their children that they are there for them, but that it is not their job to entertain them, and they teach them that it is common courtesy to say "hello" and "goodbye" to everyone they interact with, including adults. Even very shy kids know this is expected of them. I think it's a very healthy expectation, acknowledging and welcoming people's presence. Anyway, I'm sure there are plenty of American parents who do it "right" and plenty of French parents who do it "wrong", so again, the book has its limitations, but it was an interesting read all the same.

* The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks: Henrietta Lacks was a black woman in the 1940s whose cancer cells were used in labs for replication and scientific research. The book is incredibly interesting as far as ethics—did you know that any time you have a sample taken in a doctor's office, they can keep it and use it without your knowledge or permission? That has always been true and has never changed. Poor Henrietta died before she had any knowledge of how influential her cells became in the scientific research department, but her family sure knew. Most of them were poor and completely uneducated, and their lack of understanding about what happened and how her cells were used was the source of unending grief and trauma. How do you explain a situation like that? They knew their mother's cells were used to discover the cure to all kinds of nasty diseases, but they were never even well-off enough to go to the doctor when they themselves were sick. Plus, many of them never understood what a cell even was. The book is one of the most interesting "biographies" I've read so far.

* Our Bodies, Ourselves: Pregnancy and Childbirth: Duh. I'm pregnant. They gave me this book at the clinic and encouraged me to read it instead of What To Expect When You're Expecting (that book gives me the chills—I have no idea why it's so popular; the woman who wrote it has no credentials). This one is a nice, no-nonsense, informative guide. It does lean a little too socialist for me at the end, when it brings up concerns about the plight of pregnant and nursing mothers in America. I agree that their concerns are definitely valid, but I disagree with their proposed solutions. Regardless, I recommend it to anyone who is expecting a baby.

* Lila: This is another companion novel to Home and Gilead, written from the perspective of John Ames' wife. She is given just enough attention in the other two books to be intriguing, and this one covers her back story, which is rather awful—but again, the book manages to be sweet at the same time. It ends before the other two books begin, just after little Robert Ames is born. 

* Fever, 1793: has been sitting on my bookshelf for years, since I was a teacher and read other books by the author. I would have liked it a lot more if I had read it in middle school, because it is written for the young'uns. The Yellow Fever Epidemic in Philadelphia, when it was still the capital of the young United States, is an interesting part of history that doesn't seem to ever get covered in the standard public school curriculum. Oh well. I was interested in reading a fictional account of it, since I read a nonfiction book about it several years ago as a graduate student. It was a good read.

* The Boy Who Dared: Another one I picked up when I was teaching, this book didn't grab me like I wanted it to. It is the story of Helmuth Hubner, a young man growing up in Nazi Germany. He was actually a member of the LDS Church, and his beliefs about God and his fellow men and what was right and wrong were what came between him and his affiliation with the Nazi party. He got ahold of a radio and started listening to Allied news, then, with the help of some friends, started distributing leaflets with the truth about the War. Sadly, he was turned in, imprisoned, and executed. Definitely an impressive story. I wonder if there is another account of it published somewhere. The author is quite good, but I wasn't hooked by her present-tense narration.

* Twelve Years A Slave: Because of the movie that recently came out, most people by now have at least heard of Solomon Northup, who was born pre-Emancipation as a free black man and then captured and sold into slavery. His true account of the treatment he received at the hands of his psychopathic masters is a brutal read. There is a lot of speculation about Northup's life outside of those twelve years. Some say he was trying to make easy money by allowing himself to be sold into slavery with the promise that his partners would come get him back later. I don't know if that's a fair accusation. The really sad part was what I was told by my book club leader, whose copy of the book had annotations and commentary—after Northup's liberation, he went home and traveled around educating people about what slavery in the South was like, but not long after that, he disappeared and was never seen or heard from again. No one knows if he was abducted and sold again, or what. So terribly sad.

* The Story of the Trapp Family Singers: I read most of this when I was a teenager, but somehow I never finished it, so I started over. A very nice read. I don't think Maria Trapp is the best writer ever; she tends to ramble a bit, but it is delightful to read about the experiences of a family so devoted and unabashedly faithful to God. The Sound of Music is a sweet tribute to their experiences, but it really glosses over everything in true musical style, so the book lent a lot of excellent background. 

* Brain Rules for Baby: A friend loaned me this book. She is just a few years younger than me and had her first child last year. We share the same philosophies on parenting, so I figured it would be a good book to read, and it was. It's an engagingly-written compilation of the research that correlates with raising a child who is happy and intelligent. Nothing in it is super surprising, but I'm glad I read it. The major premise is that humans are not driven by the desire to be happy and to learn, they are driven by the urge to be safe. This is particularly true for babies and children under 5. If children feel safe, they will learn. The best part was the chapter on emotions. Children whose parents teach them how to express their emotions and who model extreme empathy end up much happier. And children whose parents discipline consistently, timely, and lovingly (no corporal punishment), and who explain the logic behind their rules, are generally happier, moral people who follow their parents' rules not out of fear but out of their own acceptance of them. I like that the author doesn't present anything as causal or definitive, and even states several times that only about 50% of what a parent does is going to make a difference. The rest is all genetic. Anyway, most parenting books tend to leave me with a lot of anxiety and worry that I'll ruin my kid if I do a certain thing the "experts" say is wrong, but this one left me feeling more empowered to be a loving parent of a happy, well-adjusted child.

Game-Changer

I read a blog about a woman and her husband who decided that they needed to go ahead and have a child, even though they had originally planned on waiting longer. Acting on guidance from the Spirit, they moved happily forward. However, she hated being pregnant. It was uncomfortable and difficult. She had a lot of complications and suffered quite a bit. In the end, she expressed her gratitude and love for a healthy baby, but she sincerely acknowledged that pregnancy was one of the most difficult things she had ever gone through.

I thought it was sweet. Then I read the comments.

Women—nice, compassionate people—came out of the woodwork and posted hateful, catty things, criticizing her and trying to invalidate her. Why? Because so many of them want babies and can't have them, or have lost them, or have been pregnant many, many times more than she has and think she just needs to suck it up.

When did it ever become socially acceptable, much less expected behavior for mostly Latter-day Saint women, to engage in this type of one-upmanship?—

The danger to your health that you suffered in bringing your baby into the world doesn't matter because I had a miscarriage.

Your feelings about the discomfort of pregnancy don't matter. You should be grateful. 

If only it were as easy for everyone to just decide to have a baby and magically be pregnant. 

I want a baby and would suffer anything for one, therefore, it is unrighteous for you to struggle with this thing that I want.

Why is it so hard to live without comparisons? Why is it so hard sometimes not to think that if this one particular thing someone else has struggled with is the hardest thing they've ever had, their life must somehow be so much easier than our own, or that even if it is easier it somehow means that person isn't worthy of respect and compassion? This is not a competition over whose life is the hardest.

I used to be this way. I would listen to and read people talking about their marriages and their children and I would think it all sounded so much better compared to what I had to wake up to every morning. And I think sometimes I was envious. They had the one thing that I wanted, and that made it justifiable in my mind to think they needed to check their privilege.

Then I did get exactly what I wanted, and it is better than I ever dreamed it would be. There are stars in my eyes every time I think about my husband, every time I talk about him, every time I'm with him; and even though I won't meet my baby for a long time and right now it is only a little bigger than a peach, thinking about it makes me happy to tears. But it does sometimes take a lot of work to be married, and being pregnant is sometimes really difficult.

And now I am ashamed that I ever thought those kinds of thoughts, that I ever let myself be any kind of bitter or make any kind of judgment about someone else's circumstances and how they compared with mine.

I think about Leah and Rachel in the Bible. Who knows what their relationship was like before they were married to Jacob, and who knows what it would have been like if they hadn't been in the circumstances they were—when it looks like they spent years of their womanhood jealous of each other? One because her sister was the favorite wife, the other because her sister had many sons. What kind of example of jealousy did that set for their children, many of whom were so full of hate that they wanted to kill their own brother and only backed down when the alternative to sell him into slavery was presented?

None of us have to live in circumstances that are that brand of difficult (sharing a husband with one's sister, I mean ... ouch), but regardless of what it is we want that we see other people having, shouldn't we be able to love and support and empathize with our sisters and our brothers no matter what?

I happened upon a friend at the gym the other day, and we had a long conversation. She confirmed something that I had only suspected before—she has been married for ten years, and in all that time, she has not been able to have a child. I felt almost bad telling her that I'm pregnant and how happy and excited I am about it. But what she had to say about it is something I will probably never forget.

When she sees other couples having children, including most of her younger siblings, she is just glad that her struggle is not everyone's struggle. It makes it better for her to know that it's not widespread and there aren't that many people who have a problem with this. She loves kids and would love to be a mother, but in the meantime she is just happy that other women get to be mothers.

No comparisons. No jealousy. No "my life is harder than yours". No "you should be more grateful".

Wouldn't that solve about every problem in the world, if we could simply see everyone's experiences as being just as valid as our own?

There is a shocking lack of empathy in this world, both among those who follow Jesus Christ and those who don't. I was touched by another conversation I had with a dear friend, who said something to the effect that our mortal lives involve so many needs that will simply never be met by others because we are incapable of truly understanding what it is like to be someone else. We are desperate to be understood, but it's unrealistic to expect it. I don't mean to be depressing, but I think there is a lot of truth in saying that "Most men live lives of quiet desperation." Even my husband, who has the kindest heart and the strongest incentive to understand how I feel when I am sad, will still never completely understand.

The beautiful part is that we can be grateful to Jesus, who is capable of understanding it, and that is more than enough to heal us if we will be healed, though it may take time.

During that time, we have an obligation to at least try to do the same for others. The scriptures don't say comfort those you think have it harder than you, or judge those that mourn whether or not they actually deserve to be sad. They say comfort those who stand in need of comfort, mourn with those that mourn. This means even if you are mourning, even if you need comfort yourself, that is something you are expected to do if you follow Jesus.

I don't want to ever let that kind of poison into my mind and heart again, much less think it's ok to express it in words—in person, or on social media.

The Heat Is On

We are experimenting with ways to keep our electric bill down. One of them was to turn the temperature down to 60 (which really means it's about 40) and just dress really warm. Wool socks and a hoodie aren't cutting it for me. Husband consented to turn it up a notch when I threatened to break out the blanket-that-shall-not-be-named.

I don't understand the problem. I mean, sure, it's over 30 years old and it's been stained by barf and nosebleeds and boogers ... but it's been washed multiple times. In both detergent and bleach. He claims that the life of a blanket is 5 to 10 years. But who are we to set limits on a the life of a blanket with so much potential?

It doesn't have much to do with Rainbow Bright herself... though I did really love playing with that color form set when I was little. The 80s might have had bad hair, but they had great toys.

I love this blanket because my mom made it for me, and it's been the perfect weight and softness to bring comfort to a sick girl for many, many years. And, honestly, even though Husband is my favorite, he's only been in my life for a fraction of that time. I threw away my old feather pillow just for him ... but I'm not sure I'm ready to give up the blanket.

This Is What I Think About

I woke up from my Sunday afternoon nap weeping happy tears because I was re-living the beauty of my wedding day.

When I finally felt well enough to go out and get some fresh air, it was completely ruined because someone's dog (or everyone's dog, more likely) decided to take a poo on the trail, and I could smell it half a mile away.

I hate said dog and all dog owners. I want to projectile vomit on all of them, and their progeny, to the 7th generation.

I, who used to pride myself on my superior bladder control, now have to wake up to pee at least 3 times every night.

My reaction to that one video about mommies I saw on Facebook.

I call my mom every day.

I'm having a baby!!!

I am convinced that I doubled my child's chances of getting ADHD, autism, Alzheimers, ALS, and every autoimmune disorder out there because I took a tylenol to stifle the pain of a debilitating migraine. After puking so violently I burst a blood vessel... oh, wait. I think I took the tylenol before I puked. Maybe that means the baby didn't absorb any of it.

My sister sends me pictures of a pregnant fitness trainer who has muscles on top of her baby bump, and I just want to cry--because even though running and weight-lifting used to be my favorite things to do besides reading books, just getting up and walking across the room makes me want to hurl.

We did a tour of the local birthing center, and Man thinks they're so hippie he's surprised the whole place doesn't smell like vegan farts. It's ok, Hunny. I read a story on the internet about how hard childbirth is for daddies. There was one who passed out as the baby was born—poor dude broke his leg. It's a good thing they were in a hospital. 

Everyone thinks it's a girl.

What is there to get so excited about? We signed away our firstborn child a few months ago when we changed the terms of our lease.

One Thousand

This post is about my book 1,000. I'm really glad I picked what I did. Husband was reading it with me, but now he is reading by himself, because I am finished!

After much internal debate, a few half-hearted suggestions from friends and family, and a brief but interesting first encounter with YA Steampunk (which was fun but not worth blog time), I decided to go with Atlas Shrugged. Not because I believe in Objectivism, but because from everything I have heard, the book is unique for its depiction of what freedom and justice really look like.

The book is well worth reading, whether you agree with it or not. Because so many people hate it, it is generally put in a class of its own, or dismissed as political philosophy, but really, this book has close ties to Urban Fantasy and even Steampunk--but I would actually say that it's Anti-steampunk, because Steampunk a lot of the time acknowledges magic, whereas Atlas Shrugged is a direct attempt to prove that nothing happens by magic, but by hard work and ingenuity.

It would be easy here to go off on a political rant instead of doing a review of the book. In fact, I did just that, but fortunately for you, I deleted it before I went too far.

Rand's writing is brilliant in many ways. She provides excellent imagery, particularly in allowing for the visualization of the characters. Every page reads like a scene from a Classic movie. Black and white, high contrast lighting; busy, energetic backdrop. I haven't seen the movies that are being made from this story--I don't see how they could be made in color with 21st-Century actors and still achieve the right tone and visual effect the story needs.

She shares the ability with Tolstoy, another Russian, to give a panoramic view of life in all its complexities. In some ways, it's a lot like Anna Karenina.

However, like George Eliot, she can be heavy. She overstates her points with prose. While the illustrations are apt, the monologues could use some heavy editing. And unlike Eliot, whose heaviness conveys erudition, Rand's can have a tone of condescension.

Before I started reading it this last time (I actually attempted to read it twice before and didn't get very far), I skimmed through the reviews on Amazon. Incidentally, you can learn a lot about something from Amazon by reading the 1-star reviews. That's what I always do, anyway. If the bad reviews are written by petty, uneducated people who are miffed about something, whether it be that the ideas in the book challenge their worldview or the book just didn't get there fast enough, it's probably going to be at least marginally good. The negative reviews about AS on Amazon were mostly written by people who were offended by the author's narrow, judgmental viewpoint. Well, there you go. As soon as you pull the "You're so judgmental" card, especially with reference to fiction, I'm sick of you and more likely to disagree with everything you say. There were many objections that I find to be very legitimate, but most of those were brought up in the positive reviews--such as the fact that she is overly verbose in stating her points, and that she has a limited scope and view of the world.

In acknowledging that limited scope, I'm reminded of a crazy experience I had one time watching a Bollywood film. It was set in Las Vegas and Mexico, and featured two star-crossed lovers--one from India, one from Mexico. I've seen violent movies before. I've seen movies before that depicted corruption of lawmakers and law enforcers. At first I couldn't figure out why I found the movie so much more disturbing than others of that kind--and my sister helped me see that it was probably because the makers of the movie were accustomed to a different type of corruption, and to a political system that is much more murky than what we're used to experiencing as Americans--and that they injected that worldview into their depiction of American lives.

I feel like maybe that is what happened with Ayn Rand as she wrote Atlas Shrugged. She was scarred by her experiences with Russian Communism, and she would have seen anything remotely resembling those kinds of tendencies and thoughts very differently than someone who was born in a non-Communist country.

However, I do not feel that her points are rendered invalid by her experiences. Those experiences and fears are natural and just, and the situations she fabricated are not that far off from reality, so regardless of how much we might agree or disagree with her politically, it is important to weigh the kinds of concerns she brings up and put some serious thought into what is happening around us, as well as how we are perceiving political and economic events.

At any rate, it has given me a new understanding of the importance of taking charge of my own success and allowed me a stronger sense of pride in a job well done--both at work and at home. And for that, I appreciate her genius.

Next book review (potentially): Man's Search For Meaning, by Victor Frankl.

Bridezilla

The closest I came to being bridezilla was telling my mom in an email that I don't like turquoise, but that she could wear a turquoise dress to my wedding if she really wants to. I don't know that I have it in me to be bridezilla anyway (gosh, I hope not), but from the very beginning of this engagement, I've been determined not to be it.

I fear there might be something worse than bridezilla. I think it might be more difficult for people to deal with bride-I-just-want-everyone-to-be-happy-and-have-a-good-time-so-I'm-always-changing-my-mind-about-what-I-really-want-for-the-wedding.

Some coworkers sweetly let me know I was crazy for telling four of my siblings that they could all stay with me in my 600-square-foot apartment for two days before the wedding. I think it will be lots of fun, and I'm never ever going to tell a family member that they can't stay with me—particularly considering the effort it takes to come to a wedding over 1,000 miles away. It will be like a bachelorette party. Only without all the yucky stuff. And with some of my favorite people, except without Man ... sad. So, okay, not really like a bachelorette party. But fun nevertheless, because my siblings are brilliant.

There was a moment at my third visit to the (second) tailor shop that I almost didn't tell them to adjust the dress again, because I hate being hard to please. But then I reminded myself that I did not pay all that money for alterations—they cost more than the dress itself—only to end up with a dress that puffs out in an unflattering way right at the belly.

Even when you try to keep things as simple as possible, planning a wedding is expensive and stressful. How expensive and stressful you would never know unless you've tried looking for bridal gowns (what the ...! is going on with those price tags??). I never realized before venturing into this world myself that some people will actually get a second job for a year or two just to pay for a wedding. My goal was just to manage it without cleaning out my entire savings account. My coworkers might marvel at how put-together I seem, and they might kindly observe that it must be because my focus is on the marriage rather than the wedding. Maybe that's true, but weddings are messy, and I don't think I'm as put together as I seemed during that conversation.

The last straw for this people-pleasing bride was being told that several members of the groom's extended family don't want to come unless there is a ring ceremony. There are only two weeks left before the wedding. I'm now planning one, but it makes me want to cry big tears. I may or may not have already cried big tears.

One day it will all be worth it. It is important to Man that these people come and have a good experience—and because it is important to him, it's important to me. We will look back on the day and just remember how nice it was to have all our family here to support us.

All the same, it's a good thing it's too late to elope.

Stop Eating Worms

Please weigh in, and correct me if I'm wrong.

When I was a little girl and I was determined to be upset about something, my mom used to say I should go eat worms. This makes sense to anyone who knows me, because I'm kind of a princess about food and, well, a lot of other things. It was her ultimate way of bringing home the point that I was the one choosing to feel ill-used.

And with that introduction, I want to talk about passive aggressivism. This is on my mind because not long ago I listened to a motivational talk that was mostly about marital relationships but can apply to just about anyone's dealings with other people.

People, no matter how much they love you, can not read your mind. Period. It doesn't somehow mean that they love you more if they happen to guess what you want or need at just the right moment. It doesn't mean they love you less if they actually ask you what you want or what you need.

This is one of the big problems I have with Relief Society and Visiting Teaching culture. And maybe friendships as well. Maybe I'm trying to rationalize how bad of a visiting teacher I am (although in my defense, I try to see my ladies, but they are very upfront about the fact that they would rather just be friends than have me stop by their house with a message from the Ensign). Maybe I'm just bad at reading people. Maybe I'm too self-absorbed to anticipate needs and wants. I dunno, but I'm tired of stressing about it.

It seems to me to equate to the story about the wife who sits around sniffing audibly and then gets massively offended because her husband doesn't automatically know that he was supposed to take out the trash before it got smelly. Um ... how about just asking him to take out the trash?

Yes, we've all heard those sweet stories about women who just called up on a prompting from the Spirit and it happened to be the moment when her visiting teachee was going into premature labor and needed to be rushed to the hospital immediately and provided with childcare and meals for her family. Those are great stories. They are powerful stories. I do not discount them.

However, there is another side to this. The Spirit does not tell us every little thing we are supposed to do that is good and right and saving. Sometimes we honestly don't know what someone needs, and the Spirit is not going to tell us. Because that would make us lazy.

At the same time, we seem to have built up this culture that says our visiting teachers and our friends— and whoever else—is supposed to just know what we need and do it without being asked.

That's stupid. If you are offended by someone asking you what you want or need, that's your problem. If you choose to believe that it is a lazy question that is intended to avoid the responsibility of anticipating what you need, well, you have big issues and you need to work through them. Almost every time someone asks you what you need, it is from a sincere desire to help. And if you don't believe that, go have a little therapy. I'm serious.

And what's more, it's really ok to have to ask someone for help. Don't wait for them to offer and feel ill-used when they either forget or aren't specific enough. Just ask.

I'm done feeling bad that I actually have to ask how I can help. There is only so much you can observe about someone, especially when they are too busy to have you come into your home and hang out with you for half an hour (no hard feelings ladies, I totally understand). And the Spirit works better when your mind is informed. It's not magic, it's inspiration. Two completely different things.

Takeaway: I will continue to come up with random acts of service that I offer to my visiting teachees and friends, but if they choose to believe that I'm supposed to just know, and that I should automatically know what they want or even that I should randomly know what they need before they even know they need it, I'm not going to worry or assume that I don't have the Spirit. I love serving people, and I love helping them in ways that are actually helpful—this is not a case of "I'm going to do this nice thing for you so that I can feel good about myself while it's not really doing much to help you and may even be adding stress to your already stressful life."

I want to help. I am not going to read your mind. And I am going to continue to ask how I can help.

Addendum:
The Church is true. The more I think about it and the more I live it, the more I know it. There is not another organization that is so perfectly designed to take people who with all their hearts want to be good and systematically teach them how.

Critters

I should probably blog about something important, like my wedding plans or the insanity at my job. But instead, I want to talk about critters.

First, I love butterflies. Who doesn't? I have fake butterflies pinned up on the walls of my apartment, and they make me so very happy. When the nice photographer who is doing our wedding announcements was asking me what my "style" was, I wasn't sure—Man said butterflies. And he is right.

So I was actually a little bit thrilled when I discovered that the other night when we were saying goodnight on the doorstep and occupied with things other than what was coming in and out the door, a butterfly (well, it's probably a moth) came in and took up residence. The great thing about it is that it attached itself to the wall in very close proximity to the fake butterflies so it blended right in. So cute.

It did leave me wondering what it was going to do for survival, and I made a mental note to check on it in the morning. Of course it was gone by then. Somewhere else inside, I figured. As long as it didn't end up landing on my face while I was sleeping, I wasn't concerned.

Then I found it today. In a spider web. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Anyway, the other thing I have to say about critters is that some people just need to understand that not everyone thinks that their yappy dog who gets excited/angry on a regular basis in the middle of the night (and at various and sundry times of the day) is as cute as they think it is. I want to be a nice neighbor and not go straight to apartment management about it, but how would it look if I showed up in my jammies at 1am and just told them straight up--your dog is keeping me from getting some desperately needed sleep? Let's work on some conflict resolution here.

But I can't think of any good way to ask them to work with me. For now, I'm just praying they move soon, like it seems everyone else in that particular apartment does. People must hate living below me. Maybe it has something to do with how often I drop my liter-sized shampoo bottles while showering. I dunno. And maybe that is just as rude as having a yappy dog. I guess everyone is unintentionally rude sometimes. Even spiders who let butterflies get caught in their webs.

One Thousandth

This might just be the biggest first world problem in the universe, but I'm going to write about it anyway, because really, what else is a blog for? No, I shouldn't say that. I know a lot of blogs that are very nontrivial. Maybe it is me who is trivial and not blogs.

I was going over the list of books I've read, or, more accurately, the list of books I can remember having read. I am about 14 titles shy of 1,000. I won't pretend that I'm not impressed with myself. At one point I wanted to set a goal to read 1,000 books by the time I turned 30, but I abandoned it because I knew it was unrealistic. It could have been done, only at a really stupid cost. But this is the year, regardless of my age.

However, book number 1,000 needs to be special. It can't be just any book, right?

So, what's it gonna be? I need some ideas. I've already read pretty much every work of classic/highly acclaimed literature, and if I haven't read it yet, it's probably because I have concerns about the content and/or its possible effect on my mental and emotional wellbeing. Although I can't say that for certain, because as of last year I had not read The Grapes of Wrath or For Whom the Bell Tolls.

I have the top shelf of one of my bookcases reserved for literary masterpieces, and I studied it for a moment, wondering if the authors represented have works as yet unexplored by me. They do, but I've already read their greatest works. Book 1,000 can't be The Toilers of the Sea if I've already read Les Miserables. A Tale of Two Cities is there, but I don't think I'll ever be bored enough to want to read Little Dorrit.

If I don't come up with anything better it will probably end up being The Way of Kings, by Brandon Sanderson. I have heard good things about this book by people who are maybe just a little obsessive over it. The only drawback is that it is the first in what will turn out to be a massive epic fantasy series, and I'm just not sure I want to get involved right now. And yet, I will get involved at some point, and if I wait too long I might get overwhelmed by the number of words to read rather than the time I will have to wait until the next part is written and published. Maybe Sanderson will be 999 or 1,001. 

It wouldn't be that difficult of a decision if I counted re-reads. But I don't. So reading Jane Eyre for the 10th (or 11th or 12th ... or something) time isn't an option.

I could totally go ancient and read something like Pilgrim's Progress, or Paradise Lost. Pilgrim's Progress is the most famous allegory ever. And as for Paradise Lost, in order to graduate with an English Literature degree from BYU, you have to take a course solely on Shakespeare, Chaucer, or Milton. Milton is the only one I'm not too familiar with (though I'd be lying if I said I've read all of The Canterbury Tales or even the majority of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets). That could work.

I wonder if it should be a book about a bibliophile. Or about bibliophilia in general. Like Ex Libris or Experiment in Criticism. But I've already read them. Bibliokleptomania:  The Book Thief? Already read it.

The sad truth is—and I seem to remember having written something similar to this on my blog already, so forgive me for repeating myself—that the more you read, the harder you have to work to be truly impressed by a book.

Thus, here it is. A blog post serving a dual role—1) asking for reading recommendations and 2) serving as an illustration of the oftentimes trivial nature of life in a developed country.

And to further that thought, I am really miffed about this snowstorm that hit today. Not because I don't have a safe, warm place to curl up while I wait it out, because I do, and I will mention that I'm really, really grateful for that, but because it means that I can't go to the gym today or tomorrow. And, more important, me and the Man are both off work at the same time for once, and because he lives in the next county, we can't see each other on his day off. It was officially recommended around 2 pm today that if you weren't already home, you should just stay at work overnight. And that led me to think about how fun it would be to have a game of hide and seek in my office building. Then I just wanted to see him. Because he is one in a thousand. Or a billion. Or something.