On Love

Soren, Soren, Soren. It must seem to you he's all I ever write about. But what can I say? I'm in love. And as I write this, I feel guilty, because it should be Abraham, Abraham, Abraham for whom my heart beats, and certainly there is a large portion of my heart that does beat for him, that pounds for him even, but that doesn't compensate for the fact that 95% of my posts on this blog are dedicated to my baby, 3% are dedicated to me, and 2% are related to my husband. (This is all in direct proportion, by the way, to the dedication of my time and energy.) In fact, the poor man, he recently said to me, "I knew you would love our children more than me-- my mother loves us more than she loves Dad--but I just didn't expect it to hurt so much." But, upon reflection, I think I have identified two main components of mommy love that are often lacking in wifely love (at least in my brand of wifely love).

The first is an absolute purity of service that defines the mother/child relationship. The time, the energy, the strength, the sleep, the love that I give to Soren is given freely, without expectation of reciprocation or even gratitude on his behalf. He needs me to comfort him when he awakens at night with a stomach ache. He needs me to lift him out of his crib in the morning. He needs me to break his food into bite-sized pieces. He needs me to dress him, to undress him, to make sure that he's covered with blankies while he sleeps, to keep him clean. He needs me to wrestle him to the ground, pin him there with my feet, and, using half a container of baby wipes, properly dispose of the hazardous waste he daily produces in his diapers. I perform these labor and usually do them without resentment. I don't ask for his thanks. I don't expect him to repay him. All I want is for him to be safe and happy. For him to feel loved. For him to grow and develop in the ways that are best for him.

The second is the fleeting nature of childhood. This concept is best captured, not in words of explanation, but in an image:

It's me. I'm holding my son in my arms in his bedroom, rocking in the glider rocker. He is wearing blue-and-white-striped winter pajamas that are too small for him: sleeves that were once long now reach just past his elbows. I am cradling his head in my right arm and his bum is tucked into the crook of my elbow. His head is tilted back just a little, making his neck look stretched and turtle-y. His arms are crossed and his dimpled fingers are relaxed. I kiss his little cheek; it is cool and soft and smooth and elastic, like well-kneaded bread dough that has been left to rise. In the glow of the nightlight I gaze at his face and try to burn its details into my memory; I know that when he awakens in the morning something will be different, and the day after that something else will have changed. My heart breaks to think that, tomorrow, the Soren I hold in my arms will be gone and a new one will have replaced him. And that someday too soon he will be too big to be held and rocked and soothed at night. I will love him then just as much as I do now-- probably more!-- but there is something about this Soren that I don't want to lose. The sweet curve of his eyeballs resting under delicately veined eyelids. The way his bottom lip tucks in slightly when he sleeps. The unadulterated innocence and un-self-consciousness that attend him in sleep and waking. I don't want to forget the way he gives tooth-heavy kisses while pulling my hair. I don't want to forget the shine in his round blue eyes when he gives me a drink from his glass or a bite from his apple. I don't want to forget the way he inevitably smiles when I read to him the first line of his favorite book. I don't want to forget dancing with his little head resting on my shoulder. I don't want to forget the music of his smile and the poetry of his laughter. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. And so I watch and adore as much as I can, hoping that I can retain at least a small portion of the radiating and filling happiness, the pure, golden, brightly-lit love that mothering Soren has brought to me.

This sort of unadulterated love is very good for the soul. I believe it's the sort of love we need to strive to cultivate in all our encounters with fellow human beings. And I believe it's the sort of love I would like to develop more in my relationship with my sweet husband. I should set aside my expectations for those things I think he should do for me and simply seek for his happiness and well-being. And I should remember that my time with him, too, is fleeting and precious. I think I feel a New Year's resolution coming on...

NoNoWriMo, Day 6

I must confess that I gave up on my novel after only two days.

Before you all heave a great sigh of disgust, however, let me say that, while I'm not working on a novel, I am writing 5 double-spaced pages every day. I decided to make the switch because I was absolutely dreading my nightly sessions with the computer, dragging through painful hours of horrible writing in order to complete my nightly goal. Now I look forward to writing time, sit down, blithely type for an hour, and feel much better about the quality of materials produced. A lot of it is just random and gibberish, practice in expressing ideas and describing sensations, emotions, conversations, places, but I've also nearly carved out a short short story from the mess. So I'm producing more, moving toward my goal of become a bona fide writer, and feeling happy while doing it. I think it's a win-win.

Here is a sample of the more freestyle writing that I've been participating in as of late:

Words are the things that are supposed to come out of my fingers when I sit for thirty minutes every day with my eyes closed and write. Today I am thinking about motherhood, and how good it feels, after a long day of cleaning dishes and cuddling with a golden gleam of eyelashed light and doing such ordinary things like browning beef and singing silly songs and going for a walk down the road a little ways and back. I rock my boy at night and think the most cliché things: how glad I am to be a mom, because it is the job that entails doing everything: I am director of creativity, of human resources, of housekeeping, of meal planning and preparation. I am the interior decorator and the laundress and the cook (oh dear, I just remembered the laundry that needs to be done) and I am a lover of a little soul and the giver of baths and the organizer of time and the creator of fun things and the scrubber of toilets and the sweeper of floors and I am a little piece of God in all of her divinest and most beautiful majesty that climbs and climbs and climbs and climbs and takes the old man with the smelly sweatpants and the long gray beard in hand and holds him and rocks him and tells him that it will be okay, it will be okay, it will be okay. I never knew how painful an infant’s cry could be the the human soul, how it would tear into the flesh like a knife that punctures the tender tissues of a lung and takes away your air, the air that you breathed once just for yourself and maybe a little for your parents and your siblings and your sweetheart and your friends but now that you breathe mostly for this little creature that is a part of you and yet so separate, so distinct, so magnificently and radiantly and exquisitely distinct.

My "Vision Board"

As part of my recent fit of openness and vulnerability, I've decided to share with my hopes and dreams for myself. This is a document I mainly composed in December of '06 but re-discovered and finished tonight. It was inspired by some darling co-workers of mine (you know who you are!) who discovered "The Secret" and created vision boards for themselves. Being a word-oriented person, my vision board is not visual; it's verbal.

1) Self-assurance

a. This is a complex thing. It’s frightening to commit wholly to a Self, fearing that that Self might be fundamentally flawed. I fear that if I become too self-assured, I’ll cease to progress and improve myself. However, insecurity is a horrible motivation for improvement. Self-love is probably a much greater motivation. A child who is told that she is horrible and no-good is not going to suddenly leap into a frenzy of self-improvement. She will probably become more horrible and no-good. A child who is loved and nurtured and encouraged is more apt to become a happy, well-adjusted, contributing human being. That isn’t to say that she doesn’t need to be directed; the directing just needs to be done in a positive way.

b. Another challenge presented to me by the idea of submitting to self-assurance is the fear that self-assurance will lead to closed-mindedness and pride. But closed-mindedness and pride aren’t usually derived from self-assurance; rather, they arise from insecurity. Someone who is truly self-confident is not afraid to consider different ways of being and thinking.

c. Self-assurance is fundamental to happiness not only because of the above reasons (it gives us the ability to improve ourselves and opens us up to new and different ways of being), but also because it gives us the ability to overcomes fear, helping us to do things we would otherwise not be able to accomplish. Living without fear gives us the ability to love everyone, to give freely, and to take risks, three essential components of what I have deemed to be The Good Life.

2) Limitless love

a. I believe it is possible to cultivate a deep and meaningful love for all human beings and essential to nurture this love for every person with whom we come in contact. Part of developing this love, I believe, is learning to become mindful (in the Buddhist sense) of each person we encounter. It’s learning to forget all of the Tasks That Must Be Performed and turning all of your focus onto the other human being standing before you, making them, their thoughts, their needs, and their very existence the most interesting and most important thing in the world. This is not an easy thing to do, but it is the enlightened thing to do.

b. I love the aspotle Paul’s description of the greatest sort of love: ““Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

3) (Inner) Serenity

a. Internal unrest separates us from happiness. For me, at least, constant fears prevent me from being happy. When I am alone, I wonder if I “should” be with people; when I am with people, I wonder if I “should” be alone. When I am working, I worry that I “should” be still; when I am still, I worry that I “should” be working. I worry, worry, worry, worry constantly that whatever I’m doing, whatever I’m thinking, whatever I’m feeling is the “wrong” thing to be doing, thinking, and feeling. There’s a nagging fear inside that whever I’m going is a place that is not as good as wherever else I might be going, that I’m going to miss out on something essential, that everything I’m not doing is better than what I am doing. To cast this all away, to simply be happy with what I have and feel and think and do, to trust myself enough to know that whever my purest self takes me will be a good place, would be serene indeed.

b. I believe another component of serenity comes with relinquishing any attempts to control other people: what they think of you, how they feel, and what they do are all choices of their own. To center one’s happiness around the thoughts and actions of others is to build upon a sandy foundation indeed.

4) Connection with Divinity

a. The ultimate source of love in the universe—perfectly kind, patience, abundant, and forgiving—sits and watches and waits for its little children to open themselves up to boundless grace. I want to open myself up.

The next few considerations are things I hope for, which do not create happiness, but would certainly enhance it.

1) A happy marriage.

2) Loving friendships.

3) Healthy, happy children.

4) A modest, clean, and tidy home; a modest, clean, and tidy car; money left over for family vacations and charitable donations.

5) Success and happiness in a career as a writer.

a. Success here is defined as actually creating works of literature, not necessary publishing them and/or becoming wealthy, though I certainly wouldn’t object to such perks.

6) Physical health.

7) Lifelong learning.

It's dream-chasing time again.

October is waning and on the horizon a more significant month looms:I do not call it November. I call it NaNoWriMo. For those too lazy to follow the link (or those with dial-up internet and little patience), I'll tender an explanation: NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month. It's been around for nine years now, and I discovered it last October in the library. A flier tucked at the top of the winding ramp caught my eye as I doubled over my bulbous pregnant belly and attempted to resume breathing after exerting myself so in the one-story climb to the second floor. Anyway, according to the NaNoWriMo website, the month is simply "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing" in which participants begin writing November 1 and work towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by midnight, November 30.

My life dream has long been to be a writer (I'm talking since at least the first grade), but fear has always held me back. The notorious Inner Editor often keeps me from even attempting to write, telling me before I even sit down at the keyboard that whatever words and ideas and characters and situations are inside of me are unoriginal, dumb, insipid, embarrassing, and/or poorly put together. So the idea of just sitting down and crapping out a whole bunch of unfiltered and loosely tied together thoughts and ideas with a press-forward-and-don't-look-back attitude appealed to me. So I signed up. And wrote, oh, about 30 double-spaced 1-inch-margin pages before collapsing into a heap of shame and giving up on the whole endeavor.

But a year has passed, and the sweet scent of rotting foliage is making me want to try my hand again at writing a novel in a month. And, for extra motivation, I've decided to go public with the goal. Would you all be my cheerleaders? I'll even buy you dollar-store pom-poms. Please? Pretty please?

To meet my goal I would need to write at least 5 pages a day. This I could do after Soren retires for the evening, though it would mean neglecting other aspects of my life, such as my marriage, housework, reading, documentary night, relationships, and church callings. I'm so scared. I think that there is nothing scarier in this world that pursuing the dreams that mean the most to you, especially when you feel so completely inadequate. My worst fear of all time is not remaining unpublished, but of producing the sort of mindless drivel that abuses adverbs, speaks of "honey-blond" hair, and tops the bestseller list at Deseret Book. I don't fear not writing; I fear bad writing. But fear only restricts and never frees, and so, by way of working to overcome my fear of myself, I have decided to post the first paragraph from my last year's attempt at novel-writing.

Here it is:

"The enormous hostility Sara felt toward the two ladies standing in the check-out line was mostly inexplicable. There was nothing wrong with the women, per se-- they weren’t saying anything even slightly offensive-- but there was something about the way they pursued their lips and lilted of their voices and leaned on their hips that just…irritated her. To the point of raising her blood pressure, even. She examined them, studied their faces and mannerisms for clues that might unlock the mystery of her great distaste. They both wore their hair in the way expected of middle-aged women: short curling-iron sculpted layers, hair-sprayed into place. And they both wore their jeans in the way expected of middle-aged women: pulled up high over slightly pooching bellies made round by years of having babies and eating hot white rolls on Sunday evenings. Their make-up was tastefully applied, obviously there, but not classless in quantity. They wore dressy blouses and matching jewelry and the one with the graying blond hair had to pull out her gold-rimmed reading glasses while she signed the receipt for her credit card purchase. They were cute. Chatty. Personable. But every word that came out of their mouths made her stomach churn and her jaw tighten."

It's all been said before. But still.

"Imagine...wearing your swimsuit...without the embarrassment of varicose veins..."

"Find out my secrets for looking younger."

"Eliminate unsightly cellulite in JUST 3 DAYS!"

"The Way You Eat Now Is Destroying Your Efforts To Keep Your Body fat In the 'Jaw Dropping' Swimsuit Range!"

The above are actual advertising slogans I've had the misfortune of encountering while innocently going about my own business throughout the past several days. And you all will attest that you've seen similar ones nearly every single day of your lives, that you've read them since you knew how to read, and that you've internalized them, despite your best efforts to resist. They're posted on billboards, they're printed in newspapers, they're flashed across television screens. They're usually accompanied by "before" and "after" pictures that leave you feeling bleak, as your own body almost inevitably more closely resembles "before" than it does "after." And while you may not be persuaded to buy the advertisement's product, you almost certainly have been persuaded to believe in the advertisement's underlying message: "There is something terribly, terribly shameful about the way your body looks."

What has caused Americans to become so afraid of their own bodies? Afraid of things that are NORMAL and NOT AT ALL SHAMEFUL? We pride ourselves on skepticism but often fail to think critically about our more subtly ingrained beliefs. It's easy to say, "I'm not sure I believe in God," because people everywhere are saying, quite explicitly, "You need to believe in God." But, because advertisers very cleverly make implicit the beliefs they peddle, we forget to say, "I'm not sure I believe that the cellulite on my legs is hideous and embarrassing." We just think, "Oh my gosh. I've got cellulite. It's hideous. Where can I find some shorts to wear with my swimsuit?"

(Abe poses in 2005 for some classic "Before" and "After" photos.)

So I've got some stretch marks. Is it shameful to have grown? Is it shameful to have borne a baby?

And yes, I've got some body fat that undulates in a lovely rolling fashion across my belly. And do you know what that means? It means I like to eat. Is there anything wrong with that? No. It's actually a really good survival mechanism. You don't eat, you don't live. You stock up, you survive the next famine.

Wrinkles are a result of smiling, of worrying, of spending time in the sun, of laughing, of living a few years and figuring out a couple things. Nothing shameful there.

And one certainly shouldn't be embarrassed of having committed the sin of having a circulatory system that makes one prone to varicose veins.

If your varicose veins are hurting, get 'em fixed. If you can't walk up a flight of stairs without losing your breath, consider dropping some pounds. But don't HATE YOURSELF. Don't writhe in agony every time one of your marks of life makes a public appearance. Don't be embarrassed of having used your face to express yourself over a period of years.

Imagine...wearing your swimsuit with fat rolls, cellulite, stretch marks, and varicose veins protruding every which way...and not even giving it a thought. Imagine feeling ashamed of things actually worth feeling shame over: cruelty, snottiness, pride, gossip, self-centeredness, selfishness, ignorance.

I wish there was some way to reprogram the public consciousness, to tear our focus away from the shallow and plunk it firmly onto the meaningful. But that's an awful lot of reprogramming. And truth be told, even though I KNOW it's wrong, I'm still going to feel somewhat embarrassed when I put on my swimming suit this year. I've purchased one that will cover as much skin as possible (selected not so much out of a sense of modesty as out of a fear of ridicule) but even with a lot of coverage, I'll remain keenly aware of my white, white skin and my untoned thighs, though I'll try as hard as I can to pretend that I'm not.

(Soren lounges boldly in nothing but a diaper.)

True Confessions of a Compulsive Mother

First of all, before I complain, I shall post a really, really ridiculously cute picture of my baby.

I just want to get some worries out on paper so that I can stop churning them around in my mind:

I think I must produce bad milk. Soren seems to have 5 stomachaches a day. Also, he spits up a lot. I occasionally think about switching to formula so that I won't poison him anymore with my horrible poisonous breastmilk.

I let Soren cry himself to sleep tonight. He only cried for 20 minutes, but it was a very long 20 minutes and I felt like a horrible louse. But he seems to have discovered recently that he gets to stay up later if he cries when I put him in his bed. And that's no good. I gave him a massage, I played him Enya, I read him a story, I swaddled him, I rocked him, and I put him in bed. And then he cried. And I let him. This doesn't make me a bad mother, does it? This won't cause him permanent psychological damage, will it? I'm also planning on letting him cry if he wakes up in the middle of the night. The child weighs 20 pounds. Surely he can sleep for twelve hours? Or will he waste away? Will he fail to thrive? Will our mother-son bond be broken forever?

Along these lines, my little guy has been quite cranky as of late. If things don't go JUST HIS WAY, he lets me know. Loudly and with passion. Many times a day. He's a little young for the terrible 2s, but sometimes I feel like I'm living with an onery little preschooler. And I worry and worry. I worry that I'm not filling his needs; I worry that I'll be encouraging whining if I do whatever I can to make him stop crying. I wonder if he needs to be held more often; I contemplate the possibility that he needs more opportunity for independent play. I think perhaps he's understimulated; I wonder if I've overstimulated him.

And now, as I type, an hour after he finally stopped crying and went to sleep, my baby is crying again. And now I'm faced with the awful dilemma: To go comfort him? Or make him go to sleep by himself? He sounds so sad. And I wonder if something's hurting, or if he's got a dirty diaper, or if he's terribly hungry. Maybe I should go feed him.

OK, I'm back. I lifted my baby out of his crib and kissed his salty tear-stained cheeks and smelled his beautiful baby smell and nursed him until he was limp in my arms. There's a red scratch on his cheek that he must have inflicted himself while flailing his arms around. (It's really difficult to clip his nails, so they become clawlike at times.) Now I feel really awful. I just don't think I have the stomach for this if there are other alternatives. Perhaps I will go to Amazon.com and order "The No Cry Sleep Solution."

Nobody ever told me how hard being a mom would be. Probably because it is impossible to express in a way that an inexperienced person would understand. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just me that finds it to be the most excruciatingly difficult thing I have ever done in my life. Give me 48 hours of labor any old day. That's a cakewalk compared to being a 24/7 Mom. Here I am, the owner of a hand the rocks the cradle and therefore the world, and I feel so inadequate to the task. This is part of the reason I hide in an office for several hours of a week. I'm good at organizing and counting and compartmentalizing. It's very straightforward. Nobody's emotional health hangs on the decisions I make at work. I just keep the books and do a darn good job at it. It's a heady release from my other job, my real job, the one in which there are no straight answers, from which there are no real breaks, and from which spring very real, perhaps even eternal, consequences.

Week In Review

Sunday evening I received a call from Abe's Great Aunt Sandra, who said that she was in Idaho and would like to come meet our new baby. I harbor a strange love for this woman whom I had only met once before, so I looked forward to seeing her the following day.

So on Monday, after spending two joyous hours picking out food from the shelves of our favorite supermarket (our first trip to WinCo in at least three weeks!) a whirlwind hit our house. Accompany Aunt Sandra and Uncle Bob were their daughter, Melissa, who lives in Sugar City, and her four youngest children. The children tore in, ran about, went outside, came back in. They ate some crackers and cheese and drank purple grape juice without spilling it on the carpet. The littlest one attempted to bite Soren's foot. The next littlest one poked and prodded my son in various ways, making his Nana very nervous-- which made ME very nervous. Would he, too, attempt to make a meal out of my little boy? The adults sat around and chatted as much as was possible amidst fearful glances and warnings cast toward unruly younglings. Aunt Sandra took many pictures and the whirlwind moved on, to Sam's Club and then beyond.

Here's a photo of Sandra holding Soren. "This will just make Brenda so green!" she exulted.



The quality of the photo is poor. This was my fault. Poor lighting, I suppose. Soren was a little uncertain about this new lady, so Sandra is attempting to entertain him with my mom's "Visiting Teaching: Do it/Done" magnet.

On Wednesday I went visiting teaching for the last time with my dear visiting teaching companion, Joyce Hall. She is moving to Blackfoot and I will miss her terribly. She's been a wonderful companion. When we finished visiting our ladies, I swung by our house to pick up Abe so we could drive up to the Stake Center and have interviews to renew our temple recommends. Soren was in bed, but his grandma and grandpa were nowhere to be found, which meant we weren't going anywhere with just each other. We really wanted to get those interviews done, however, so I ran out to the car and asked Joyce if she would sit in our home and listen for Soren on the baby monitor while we drove to Shelley, met with the stake presidency, and drove back. Joyce agreed, so I brought her in, showed her the monitor, and bade farewell. The poor dear. She has a hearing problem and was terrified that she wouldn't hear Soren on the monitor if he woke up, so she went downstairs and sat, among a lot of dirty shoes, in the hallway outside his bedroom door. And of COURSE he woke up. And of COURSE when she came in to pick him up he freaked out because she was a stranger. Poor Joycey had to hold my inconsolably loud baby until my parents came home. Fortunately, it was only about five minutes. But five minutes can be a very very long time when you are holding a screaming child. Sigh.

For our date on Friday, Abraham and I went to see "Joseph Smith: The Prophet of the Restoration" at the temple visitor's center. Abe's mother told him he should go see it months and months ago and we finally did. And, as moms are apt to be, she was right about the film. It was extremely well done. I had heard the stories but never really felt the sacrifices that Joseph (and Emma!) made to bring about the restoration of the gospel. It really gave me a lot of food for thought.

Saturday was a day of bad mothering.
Friday night I fell asleep with the perfect plan for the following day. It was to be a day full of noble acts. I was going to wake up, spend some hours in the office while Soren happily played on a blanket on the floor. Then I was going to come home, clean the house, then journey across the street to my Uncle Dewey's house to give him a much needed haircut and beard trim and also clean his house. I was then going to reward myself with a pedicure a la my dear friend Ressa. All the while Soren would be in tow, happily playing and gurgling and taking naps.

Unfortunately, Soren (and his stomach) had other plans. We woke up, bathed, and drove to the office. I sat my child on the afore-mentioned blanket, retrieved the money to be deposited that week, and turned on my computer.

Soren began to fuss.

"You need a nap," I told him, wrapping him up and popping a binky in his mouth. He began to scream. "Just go to sleep!" I said, rocking him in my office chair. He continued to scream. "I'm trying to get some work done, child!" I told him, laying him down in his seat and letting him scream while I sorted through cash and checks. He wriggled and writhed and screamed and thrashed. I picked him up and tried to nurse him while I created a spreadsheet. He would have nothing of eating. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't be placated by a toy. And it made me mad. After several minutes of impatiently trying to calm my child so he would Be Quiet and Let Me Get Important Things Done, I called Abe in tears and begged him to come watch Soren while I worked. So Abe dropped what he was doing, drove to town in my parents' hideous and filthy van, and rocked Soren to sleep. I completed my work and we returned home.

Back at the home front, Abe asked me to give him a haircut. I sat Soren down on a blanket, got out the clippers, and began to shave Abe's head. Soren again began to fuss. I tried giving him a toy. This did not please him. I tried wrapping him up and putting him down for a nap. This only made him angry. I tried to nurse him. He gagged and coughed and shook his little fists and proclaimed his rage in a loud voice. So for the second time that day, I laid him down and left while he screamed. I finished cutting Abe's hair, brushed the excess hair off my clothes, and then retrieved my upset child from his crib, holding him and singing him songs until Abraham came and put him down for a nap. His nap lasted approximately 15 minutes. The MOMENT Abe left for work, he woke up and began crying again. I was at my wit's end: tired, cranky, and most of all, thwarted. I was home alone and beginning to feel desperate, so I called my friend Nicholas, who came over with two Capri Suns -- "liquid happiness," he called it-- and helped me load up Soren for a walk. We rambled down to the cemetery, where we discovered piles of flowers near the garbage ("God put these flowers here to make you happy," declared Nick), which we raided, loading the stroller to capacity with silken colors.


This is Nicholas pushing our stroller full of flowers. He would probably want me to remark here that he is NOT gay. Just happy. (Editor's note, circa 2010: after years of vehement denials, Nick did finally come out of the closet...)


And this is Soren posing with our ill-gotten graveyard stash.

Later that afternoon little Sorenito projectile vomited multiple times and created an enormous diaperful of orange poo. I remarked that he had experienced carrots for the first time the day previous and wondered aloud if perhaps that might have been the cause of his sour mood. "These are the ramifications of carrots," said Nick. We decided that a book should be written by the same title: "The Ramifications of Carrots: A Memoir."

I felt like a wretch and a horrible mother all day long. And when I finally sat down to contemplate the problem, I realized that I had woken up that day with the idea that I was Rachel Skousen, Person Who Does Things and Accomplishes Stuff. I SHOULD have woken up with the idea that I was Rachel Skousen, Mom of Soren Skousen, Who Needs Things and Who is a Big Accomplishment That Doesn't Always Seem Like One at the Time.


An adorable shot of The Big Accomplishment That Doesn't Always Seem Like One at the Time.

Anyway, this week also marked the beginning of a new church calling for me. I'm the ward Laurel's Advisor, which means I'll be teaching the 16-and-17-year-old girls in the ward. I'm pretty pumped about the whole thing. Tonight I'll be attending a daddy-daughter date luau. Hawaiian Haystacks will be served.

Dee-licious.