It's One of Those

One of those posts that fly in the face of every Mormon Mommy Blog stereotype.  Here's a list of things that sort of piss me off.

• Daisy, my beautiful 15 month old daughter, whines. Constantly.  I'm working really hard to get her to learn some words, but part of me hopes she doesn't talk.  Because then she would turn into Alice, who never stops talking.
• Alice never stops talking
• Alice refuses to go to bed every night, and then cries because I am mean.  Just once, ONCE I would like to be listened to.  I mean, I listen to everything they want: juice, food, activities, I would just like to be listened to once.
• Obama.  He pissed me off big time.
• The world in general.  The fact that they think that this man is capable of making things in our country better is unimaginable to me.  The leader of Iran endorsed Obama.  Doesn't that say anything?
• I am really pissed that I am fat.  I am really pissed that I am fat because I had two children, and no matter what I do, nothing seems to change.
• I am mad that I haven't woken up on my own in three years.  I really want to wake up one day without someone screaming at me for juice.
• Sometimes, late at night when I am by myself and I really want to go somewhere and get out of my house, I can't.  Because it is not good parenting to leave your kids alone, even though they are sound asleep and I know they will never wake up.  That really makes me mad.
• I am mad that I don't work anymore.  I know I spent the better part of two years complaining because I couldn't stay home, but now I realize, other than being with my kids (which I do love a lot), I don't like anything else about staying home. I hate cleaning.  I hate laundry.  I hate that there is no reason for me to get dressed in the morning.  I used to love cooking, but now I hate it because no matter what I make, no one will eat it.
• I'm mad because I'm stuck in this stupid, dumb, small house, with its stupid, dumb 36 stairs.  I'm mad because Alice refuses to walk up the stairs, and I cannot carry two children up the stupid 36 stairs by myself, so she usually ends up crying at the bottom of the stairs for twenty minutes, and then walking up, and then crying for another hour because she misses daddy, who will carry her up any time she wants.  
• I'm mad because Daddy continues to carry her up the stairs, which means that I will continue to be the bad guy.

I'm just tired.  And I'm tired of being tired.  And I'm tired of everyone calling called America a democracy.  It's not.  It's a republic.  

The Story of the Cocaine Miracle

So, about a month ago, I left a tantalizing teaser about the happenings in our house in one crazy week.  A lot of people have asked me about it, and Joe has insisted I blog it since we want this catalogued for posterity.  It's that good.  There is a slight warning here--this is NOT a short story.  But just stick with me, and you will be amazed at the miraculous cocaine.  Not kidding.  Cocaine.

First, a little back story (which I am sure many of you know, but again...that pesky posterity).  When Joe and I decided to try to have a second baby, I knew I couldn't handle working full time.  I couldn't handle it mentally, emotionally, and to me it wasn't worth it financially.  I felt strongly that I needed to be home with the new little spirit for whatever reason.

Let me just say right here that it wasn't because I thought being a working mom was bad.  I want to be clear on this: I think having Alice at a baby sitter's for the first two years of her life was very good for her.  It was difficult to leave her, and there were times when she was mad at me for leaving her, but I think she learned how to play with other kids and to relate to other kids that, as the only child at the time, she needed--Alice needed it, not all kids, Alice--her being, her personality, her spirit, needed the non-mommy interaction.

Having said that, after I had Daisy and got to know her sweet little personality, it was clear to me that she would have shriveled up and died a little bit if I left her everyday.  Again, not all kids--Daisy--her being, her personality, her spirit, needed constant Mommy interaction.  I strongly believe that, because Heavenly Father knew Daisy and knew what she needed in a mommy, that I was prompted to stay home.  Joe was prompted, too.  So, without a game plan, I quit.  BAM!  Like that.

Previously, I had been the insurance provider and the one with a stable income.  Joe technically made more money than me, but his fiscal salary depended on wet winters and car accidents.  No car accidents, no money.  It's really hard to budget when your pay depends on the weather.  We knew that, even though Joe loved his career in Auto Collision Repair, it just wasn't going to be secure enough for me to quit.  So Joe started looking for a job.  Prospects, in this wonderful Obama Recovery, were slim.  Finally, the Tuesday after I quit (coincidence? I think not) Joe was offered a job as a temp at a company called Flowserve, with great prospects to get hired on full time after six months.  The pay was pretty good, but it wasn't anything near to what we used to make, so adjusting to our new budget was difficult, and I thought I was going to die.  But I didn't.

Well, long story short (no jokes) Joe loved the job, the job loved Joe, but he was allowed to leave after six months.  We were stunned.  We had felt so good about this, I had been prompted to quit?  Not fair, not fair, not fair!  If Heavenly Father had a plan, I thought, it would be nice if he let us in on it.  Why keep everything such a secret?  Luckily, right when Joe's job was about to run out, the business that Joe's dad worked for needed a welder.  Joe got his degree in welding (coincidence?  Hmmm).  So, because they worshipped the very ground my Father-in-Law walked on, Joe got a job and was able to transition seamlessly.  For less money.  So it was another hit.  But rather than being properly humbled, we were stubborn and complained about our sorry lot in life.

Joe continued to look for a job.  Things would come, look good, but then fall through.  Joe's job was getting stressful with workplace drama, and Joe hated what he was doing.  The savings we had worked so hard to build was slowly but surely diminishing in order to meet ends.  This went on for about six months, when finally I had to approach Joe with the bad news: we had enough money left in savings to get us through one more month, but that was it.  Something had to happen, and now.  We felt we should inform Heavenly Father about all this, too.  We were starting to wonder if things were ever going to work out for us, or if we had mis-interpreted our prompting about my quitting.  Regardless, there was nothing more we could do other than what we were doing: keep looking, keep praying, and hold on.

Finally, one year to the day I quit, and one month before our savings ran out, Joe was offered a job at BD Medical.  The pay was decent, at least a little more than what we had been living with, and more importantly, we would have insurance.  Glory Be!  Happy Day!  We could go to the Dr. again (don't worry--the girls were on Medicaid, so it was just Joe and I who couldn't get sick)!  We were ecstatic.  We started making plans, like how long we had until we could finally start making payments on our debts, and how long it would be before we could get a house.  For the first time in a long time, we started planning and dreaming again.   The job offer was contingent on a clean drug test, of course, but what active, faithful Mormon can't pass a drug test?  We said prayers of thanks that night-- but Joe's parting plea, "Heavenly Father, please don't give us any more trials for a while," must have proved to the Lord that we had not been sufficiently humbled yet.

Joe's drug test was scheduled for a Tuesday.  The Monday before, I had just signed Alice up for preschool, something that I wouldn't have been able to afford at the old job.  Things were finally starting to look up.

Tuesday came.  Joe went to work, happy to know that he only had one and a half weeks left.  Everything was going so well--and his job was even going to throw him a going-away party his last day at work.  Later that morning, Victor, a man from Bolivia, passed around his favorite drink from back home.  It was an herbal tea, and Joe double checked that the tea was decaf.  He should have asked it if was legal.  He had a sip.  Joe later found out that tea in Bolivia didn't have caffeine because instead, it had cocaine.  Yes, on the day of Joe's first drug test in over a year, and after six months of having harmless work days, Joe drank cocaine.  Apparently, Joe went into the bathroom and said a prayer.  The spirit touched him, letting him know that everything would be okay.  He went that day and peed in a cup.

We didn't hear anything from the drug test company for a week, so we figured Heavenly Father had worked a miracle on our behalf.  We were too soon to assume all was well.

The following Tuesday, exactly one week after the drug test, we received a phone call from the drug company, asking if Joe had an explanation for the trace amounts of cocaine detected in his urine.  With shaking fingers, Joe called BD Medical, trying to head off the storm.  He was informed that there was a no drug policy with the company.  The offer had been withdrawn.

Joe was devastated.  He cried, he threw things, and he melodramatically cursed the heavens.  I didn't know what to do, except hold my husband while he apologized for ruining the future of our family.  I tried to tell him that we would be taken care of, but it seemed as if my words were hollow--I was starting to doubt that maybe Heavenly Father wouldn't help us, that maybe we were on our own.

Joe went to work on Wednesday.  His work had already hired his replacement and had a cake ready for his going away party.  He had to ask for his job back.  I cannot imagine the humiliation that Joe had to have felt in that moment.  I ached for him because I knew what he had to do that day.  He came home and cried again that night.  We got on our knees and cried to Heavenly Father, pleading for help, and telling him we couldn't do this anymore on our own....We needed help.

On Thursday night, Joe came home from work, still smarting from his hurt pride, and feeling guilty for what he saw as his failure as a husband and a father.  The mood in our house was somber.  I started to make dinner, trying not to wish for more money so we could go out to eat.  The knife in my hand slipped, and I stared down at my open hand, through layers of muscle and fat to see the bone in my finger.  Joe lost a job, we didn't have insurance, and I needed stitches.  Up until this point, I had never had stitches in my life.  We just started to laugh.  It was that or sit in my blood and sob.  Again that night, even though Joe and I were at the lowest point we have ever been, we said our prayers, thanking Heavenly Father for keeping us afloat, and keeping our girls healthy.  And then we asked for help like we have never asked before.

Joe had the next day, Friday, off.  My parents had offered to pay Joe to work on their old Chevy truck, so Joe decided he had better get started.  Joe had been working on the truck for a couple hours when I heard yelling from the garage.  I thought maybe he had cut off his foot or something, and didn't have the energy to go see what happened.  The next thing I knew, Joe burst into the house and started jumping up and down yelling, "I got a job!  I got a job!"  I couldn't believe it.  We had been so busy licking our wounds over the whole week that we hadn't even applied for any new jobs.  How could he get one?

Flowserve, the company that he had loved, that he could not get hired on to six months earlier when his temp job was over, had called him and offered a job he had not applied for.  The job would be more money than BD Medical with benefits, retirement, and promise of promotion in the future.

It was the most physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausting week of our lives.  When we sat back and looked at all that had happened that week: the cocaine, the drug test, the stitches, and the incredibly hopeless and humiliating events, we could not deny the hand of the Lord in it all.  I don't know why BD Medical was not in our cards, but obviously, it wasn't, and after the week we had, I'm not going to question it.  Heavenly Father had to go to pretty extensive lengths, it seems, for us finally humble ourselves and trust in him, and it will not be a lesson soon forgotten.

Edit: Joe also had a haircut by my sister, Nat Hall.  Nat's haircuts are famous for getting people jobs.  It wasn't two hours after Joe's haircut that he got the job call.  Nat's haircuts are MAGICAL.

My Mormon-Mommy Life--without the Downeast Outfitters Shirt

I think this is my pet peeve.  People, both non Mormon and Mormon alike, criticizing our "Mormon Culture" because we always seem so happy.  There has been much analysis and debate over why Mormons are so happy, particularly their women, who don't swear, bake cakes and babies from scratch, and always have a wreath with lots of tulle around it.  The synthesis has ranged from hypothesizing that we are always happy because we are told to be happy, or that we feel pressured to be plastic-y happy, and that we are brainwashed and we are not really happy.  The underlying assumption of all this is that it has to be fake, because no real person in real life can ever be that happy.  I've even read recently that if life is hard, Mormons are told that it's our fault because we haven't been obedient and faithful enough, so we need to feel better, causing incredible amounts of guilt.  Tell that to Job.

I guess the reason that I get so annoyed is because when people say these things, it sends the message that my way of life is a huge Stepford deception with lots of bad self-esteem.  Well.  It's simply not true.

Has it ever occurred to anyone that Mormons are happy because we love life?  And guess what?  My life isn't any easier than someone else's life that isn't Mormon.  When you love your life, you are happy, even if crappy things happen, which, let's face it, kids, crap happens.  To EVERYONE.

I will say this, though.  I believe I am happy because I love my life.  I believe I love my life, because as a member of the Gospel, I am constantly reminded that everything that is good in my life comes from my Heavenly Father.  In this case, I didn't build that.  God did.  And I am every day so grateful for what God has built and given me.  I think it is my religion and the Gospel of Jesus Christ that helps me recognize these gifts (a.k.a blessings), and with the realization of the many things I have, I have come to realize that

1. Heavenly Father thinks I'm worth giving things to.  And he's perfect, right? So he can't be wrong about that one.  I must be pretty awesome.

2. Being the perfect parent, Heavenly Father gives me things that I need, that are good for me, and that are safe.  Is it fun?  No.

Ask Alice and she'll tell you that it's a lot more fun to jump up and down in the car while the car is in motion than being strapped down.  And it's a lot more fun to sit on Daddy's lap and drive around the parking lot (don't ask) than it is to sit in the back.  But are these things good for her?  No.  Are they safe for her?  No.  And because I am a grown up, and I realize these things, and I love Alice unlike I have loved anyone else, I give her rules and guidelines to keep her safe.  And a car seat.  Alice cries, throws a fit, and asks why.  She makes promises that she'll be good and do everything I say.  She tells me I'm not fair.  She tells me that she hates me.  She tells me she's sorry and she won't be naughty anymore.  And then she throws another tantrum.  But I don't give in.  Why?  Because I am her parent, and I know what will keep her safe.

I believe Heavenly Father is the parent that's just trying to keep his tantrum-throwing children safe and, in the long run, happy. Once you realize that everything, the fair and the not fair, is to keep us safe and whole and happy, it's a lot easier to deal with.

3. My unhappiness or crappiness in life isn't because I'm not good enough.  It's because life sucks.  It really does.  And it has to suck.  Otherwise, if you didn't have sucky times, you would never realize how good the un-sucky times truly are.  Let me elucidate:

When Joe and I got married, we had two incomes.  I was a beginning teacher, so I made about 25,000 - 30,000 a year.  It's not much by yourself, but when you combine that with a 50,000 salary, well...pre-kids we were pretty happy and a little reckless with our money.  Don't get me wrong, we didn't buy things we couldn't afford.  We never used credit, but we bought a lot of things we didn't need.  Well, after I had Daisy (my second baby), I knew I couldn't go back to work.  That baby looked at me the day she was born and smiled.  I would send her to the nursery every night so I could have some time alone, but she would not have it.  It never failed--they would bring her back around 3:00 in the morning, saying that they couldn't get her to calm down.  I would pick up that Daisy baby, and she would stop.  She would go to sleep, and I would sleep with her the rest of the night.  I couldn't leave her.  And I couldn't leave Alice. With that decision, we lost the 35,000 I was making at the time.  Along with my quitting, Joe had to find a different job because we were nervous about the straight-commission world of auto collision repair.  He found another job--for 25,000 dollars less a year.  We went from 80,000 a year  to 25,000 a year with two kids and no insurance.

It has taken us a year to figure out how to budget, how to make do, and how to save.  I don't wear real clothes anymore because I have gained weight to have babies and can't afford to buy nice clothes.  It's hard to diet when your family's meals usually include ground hamburger, mac & cheese, and frozen corn.  It's not fair that I can't put my girls in dance classes like I want to, or that I can't buy that new pair of shoes I really want (only 25.00).  It's not fair that Joe doesn't get to go fishing or shooting like he loves to do.  And there are some nights when I see another neighbor with a another new car that I go into my room and cry, because we used to make ALL THAT MONEY, and I would give anything to have even half of that back.

But then, and this is the cool part, I start thinking, someday, we will have it back. And do you know what?  We will appreciate it.  We will want to help young families who are struggling, just as so many have helped us.  We will be smarter about it.  And we will be one hundred million times happier then than we ever were before, because we will recognize what we will have because once upon a time, we didn't have.

And, on top of that, I will be able to say that I watched my babies grow.  Not only did I watch, but I was there and I helped.  None of our financial difficulties are the result of our disobedience or our unfaithfulness.  In fact, these problems came when we decided to be obedient and follow the teachings of the Gospel.  It might be cause for resentment, but it's not.  It's really a validation and a peace.  It's kind of like the Lord telling me that yeah, it's hard, but someday...  And sometimes, knowing that, is all that gets me through the day.

4. I take anti-depressants.  I know. Another Mormon-Mommy statistic that proves we're not all as happy as we claim.  First of all, nu-uh.  If we're all hepped up an happy pills, how can we not be happy?  All joking aside, I take anti-depressants because I have inherited an inclination to depression, especially post-partum depression.  It is not proof that I find myself falling short of the "perfection model" that all Mormon Mommies are said to aspire.  In fact, I was so worried that I would be another example of unhappy Mormons, that it took me ten months after my daughter was born to realize something had to change.  I decided that I needed to see someone after I yelled at my Bishop right before our Christmas choir program, and then yelled at the first counselor in the Bishopric right after.  I feel that, besides it being hereditary, my depression stemmed from unrealistic "perfection" expectations I put on myself--I needed to be 100% mom and 100% teacher, and 100% choir director. I was demanding 300% when I only had 100 to give.

You might say, well, those expectations were engrained in you by your church.

 No.

In fact, I would say that I got those ideas listening to other women, powerful women, women of the world, telling me that I could have it all.  I could be the professional and have a family, and I could make it, because I was woman, hear me roar. It's just that someone--Hilary Clinton, Oprah, or someone-- forgot to tell me that I was also human and couldn't give more than I had.  No one told me that it was the far safer and happier path to choose one thing and work hard so I could feel successful instead of doing fifty things and settling with mediocrity.

In those difficult months, before I finally visited the doctor and sobbed on his chair, the only time I truly felt good about myself was when I went to church and listened to lessons about the simplistic beauty of the Gospel, the love Heavenly Father had for me, and the encouragement from other sisters who were in the same boat.  In this case, the church didn't cause my depression.  It helped my family survive my depression by giving me a weekly reminder that I wasn't perfect, but if I was trying, it was good enough.

I can't speak for all women of the world, or for all the Mormon Mommies.  All I can say is that everyone experiences crap in their lives.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  Crap happens.  Just the color and the smell are different for everyone.

The bottom line is this: Mormons don't pretend to be happy just because we feel societal or cultural pressures to be so.  Ask my bishop: I certainly don't pretend to be happy if I'm not.  Mormon women aren't secretly depressed because of an inane desire to be perfect.

We are happy because we find joy in the fact that Heavenly Father loves us enough to give us stuff like jobs and food and people we love. We are happy because we realize that we don't always know what's good for us, and we have someone watching to keep us safe.  We are happy because we understand what happiness looks like and we can appreciate it, because we've experienced unhappiness many, many times.

 It's so much easier to bear your burdens when the Savior has taken them away from you.  It's so much easier to feel like everything is going to be okay when you're tenderly cradled in the very capable arms of our Redeemer.  So, we do what we must--yes, we silly Mormon women are obedient and have faith-- to live life in the strength of His arms and the easy grasp of His hands.

And in case you didn't know, being in the arms of your Big Brother is alway a happy place to be.

P.S.  As for the Downeast Outfitters style choice.  I have no explanation.  That may, indeed, be a cultural thing.

Giraffe Blankie

Daisy became attached to a giraffe blankie at my mom's house. You know the kind, super soft minky and satin, like this one?

I decided to make one of our own, just to see if I could. Here's the result:

Ummm... I know you're not supposed to say this about your own creations, but CUU-UUTE!

This was my first foray into creating my own pattern, and, true to Sarah form, I didn't write anything down.  So, judging by Trying-to-Duplicate-the-First-Perfect-Ear-Fiasco, I am pretty sure I can't re-create this.  Except for the squares, since I got them in my granny square book.  I feel really old writing "granny square" with the personal adjective of "my" in there.  

Sure.  It's not Minky.  It's not Satin.  But it cost a total of four dollars, since all I had to buy was the skein of green yarn--about half the price if you buy the original at the store.  And I made it for my baby.

And it looks like she is happy with it.  And I have to admit, I'm kind of proud of it myself.

I think my next attempt will be Pocoyo--any maybe this time I'll write the stupid pattern down!

May and June Update

I was tempted to title this "May and June Photo Dump," but I just couldn't do it.  The phrase "Photo Dump" sounds so...something you should always do by yourself. It just brings to mind other types of dump. "Update" will suffice.

 It has been a good long while since I have used my blog to record the happy part of my life rather than the nitty-gritty depressing stuff. So, for this entry and this entry only, I am going to tell everybody how blessed I am. Seriously.

 Miss Daisy is 11 months old. I KNOW. That was the fastest year ever in the history of fast years. She has teeth and everything, and today (sob) we bought a new car seat and turned her around. But, she's still bald, so at least she still looks babyish.

 Alice has always been a good show-monkey. "Hey, Alice, go give grandpa puppy kisses." And she does. "Hey, Alice, shake your butt." And she does. Daisy, however, is not one to perform on command. She has a very small collection of tricks, and will only perform when food is involved. My all-time favorite trick is "Oh, No!" As demonstrated below:

Even though we have no hopes of one day selling her out to Disney, we still love her, and have decided that we will be irresponsible with Alice's performing funds alone.

Alice is in that age where she will only do the opposite of what I say, or do only as much as she can get away with.  I am told that this will last another fifteen years.  Lately, I have been telling Alice to Look At the Camera.  What I get is a head turned toward the lens, but eyes defiantly averted.  "Alice, look at me."

"I am, Mommy":

Whatever.  You have to admit, though, that my girls are SUPER CUTE.  Award-winning cute.  But we'll get to that later.

Alice has decided that since Daisy doesn't just lay around and poop anymore, and since Daisy follows Alice every where she goes, and since is seems that Mommy and Daddy love her just as much as they love Daisy, and since Daisy doesn't seem to be going any where any time soon, Alice might as well try to play with her:

The cute factor lasts about three seconds.  Then Alice decides that the best thing to play is a game called "Don't Let Daisy Move" and proceeds to grab her legs, body slam her, head-butt her, or lock her out of rooms. Alice usually ends up with a spanking (gasp!  I spank my kids!) and Daisy is usually crying far more dramatically than necessary.  Ahhh.  Love at Home.

In other news, last week was the annual Lehi Roundup Rodeo, and it was the 75 year anniversary.  This is a tradition that I love... in theory.  In reality, this week is filled with tired kids, depleted funds, and A LOT of sweat. Roundup week is kind of like being pregnant: it seriously sucks and is a huge inconvenience, yet you seem to forget the sucky parts and look back on it with fondness.

This year, we entered Daisy in the baby contest.  I thought she was the cutest baby there.  I mean, c'mon.  This kid could make the Gerber baby look like a troll. She did not win, however.  I think the whole thing was rigged.  The contest claimed it was just a beauty thing, but I think it was decided on costume and talent.  And as I said before, Daisy doesn't perform if she doesn't want to.  Even though she was in great spirits, Daisy just didn't care.  But I have proof that this little gal is the cutest on the block.

We took Alice to the Rodeo last year.  I thought it was a colossal failure, due to the fact that Alice was so little and the rodeo STARTS way past bed time.  As not-fun as it was last year, Alice tended to remember it as the highlight of her life, and she has been talking about the Cowboy Show, the Horsey Show, or the Cowgirl Rodeo (they are all the same event, but periodically go by different names) for about six months now.  I did not have the heart to disappoint the little stinker.  And we had stellar tickets.  When I say "stellar," I mean stellar if you have a toddler. Front row is probably least desirable for real Rodeo Aficionados, but for us, it was perfect.  Alice could see everything, and she could get up and walk around without bugging people in front of us.  We caught her off guard for this picture, hence the actual looking at the camera.

Alice did really well for the first hour or so, but once it started getting dark, she was done.  She persevered, though.  She was not going to sleep, boy howdy.  The girl refused to sit down.  Instead, she ran between the fence and our seat, played in the dirt, danced to the music, and cried whenever you looked at her cross-eyed.


A little off the subject: look at this awesome picture.  It has nothing to do with Alice, but Joe was quite pleased with the performance of our camera

About halfway through the show, we realized that my sister and her family were there, too.  They had okay seats, but not as good as ours.  We had lots of empty space around us, so they came and joined our little par-tay.  Alice and cousin Taytum are great chums.  They play well together...when they're not fighting.  I love this picture for a couple of reasons: one, it's further proof that Alice refuses to look at a camera if she is told to do so, and two, these two little girls' personalities are told perfectly through what they chose to wear that evening:

On Saturday, it was the famous Mammoth parade.  For some reason, Lehi has the knack of choosing the hottest weekend of the year for their Roundup Parade.  This one was by far the worst in recent memory.  For some reason, heat has no effect on children.  We stayed long enough for Alice to see the floats and the princesses, but when it got to the part with the business owners in fancy cars, I was done.  We left a half hour early and spent the rest of the day recovering by laying in front of the air conditioning vents and eating watermelon.  Alice loved the floats and the princesses, especially the princesses in the cowboy hats.

Daisy just loved the hats.

Our Fourth was spent at a BBQ at my Aunt and Uncle's house.  It was great company, great food, and a great load of whining and crying.  Around eight o' clock, we toted two ornery babies home, both of whom fell asleep in the car.  After we got them all tucked away (still in their clothes) Joe and I spent our Fourth of July playing Ticket to Ride and Life.  No fireworks here, but a very pleasant evening with my boyfriend all the same.

See, even when a lot of things suck in life, there are always one or two things that make the rest of it totally worth while.  I am Seriously, So Blessed.

F. Scott Fitzgerald Had Problems and His Wife Was Crazy

But he did, perhaps write the Great American Novel.  As many people know, The Great Gatsby is my all time favorite book for many reasons, which I will not detail.  So how perfect is it and my favorite book, the book that started my love affair with language, is pairing up with one of my favorite directors of all time, Baz Luhrmann? I would say just about as perfect as ever.  I am sure, when the time comes, people will ask me, since I've read the book at least 35 times, probably more, if the movie is any good.  So, about 6 months before the premier, I have a list of things that MUST be included in the movie in order for me to truly approve:

1.  Three Daisy quotes (or reference to the quotes): "Fine, I'm glad she's a girl.  And I hope she'll be a fool.  A beautiful little fool," "They're such beautiful shirts.  It makes me sad because they're such beautiful shirts," and finally, "Oh, look at those clouds.  I wish I could take one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around."  Weird quotes, all three of them.  Probably the weirdest of the book.  They are also the reasons I LOVE Daisy.

2. Human molars as Wolfsheim's cuff-links.  This isn't a deal breaker, but I think it's important, and if you've read the book, you know why.

3. Owl-Eyes in the library.  Very telling scene, if you know what to look for.

4. The car accident.  I won't tell you much about it, since it will ruin the BEST PART OF THE WHOLE BOOK, but it's good.  Best gory description ever.

5.  Chapter 7 must be EXPLOSIVE.  I've pictured serious yelling and a nervous breakdown all these years, and I have yet to see a good version of Chapter 7.  Best chapter in the book.  I used to have Chapter 7 Party Days in class, it's that good.  You should read it.

And judging by the trailer, it will probably be the best movie ever.  I'm pretty sure.  I watched this and I started having heart palpitations.

Letter to My Second Lover

Dear Diet Coke,

It has been a while--almost three weeks to be exact--since we've been together.  Even though there have been times when your absence wasn't too gut-wrenching, life just hasn't been the same.

I was warned when I was a little girl that someday something would come along and tell me pretty lies and I would fall in love, and I wasn't to give in, but I did anyway, and it has been a difficult relationship.  I know it was mostly my fault, that it was I who abused you and took all the good things you did for me for granted, but I must admit, you abused me, too.  Because of you run the risk of kidney damage, bone loss, weight gain, and tooth enamel damage.  And I tried to leave you.  But, like Rhianna, I just couldn't stay away.

How can I turn my back on you now, after all we've been through?  It was you who saved me during late night grading sessions all those times before grades were due.  It was you who talked me off the ledge when I arrived at school and looked at Londen and Billy and decided I just couldn't go on anymore.  It was you who prevented me when I wanted to kill Zach.  You were there for me when no one else was.  Even now, when all danger and threat to my life through my career is gone, you still stand by my side--my reward for cleaning the house, and my support when I stay up into the wee hours of the morning to finish my writing assignments.  It is you to whom I owe my sanity.  And I Love You.

Today I came back to you again--Burger King now sells you for a dollar, any size.  And I promised myself, just this one time, a goodbye, friends with benefits, farewell get-together.  But, like Monica and Richard, I am afraid there is no such thing as friends with benefits with you.  It is either all or nothing.

I know I should choose nothing, but I don't know if I can.  Getting over you was the worst thing I ever had to do, and I don't want to do it again.  I must admit, that my body has gotten better since you've been gone, and, just as Kelly Clarkson said, I can breathe for the first time when I work out.  And Shaun T might not look on your existence in my life with much affection.

I am afraid that I must make this final decision to cut you out completely.  It will be difficult, and I can't say that I won't long for you most days when Alice will say nothing but Chicken Butt, and Daisy will try with all her might to eat my food.  But it must be done--for both of us.

You will always hold a special place in my heart, and I don't think I will ever fully get over you.  I will never forget you.

Love Alway,
Sarah

p.s.  I might still make a booty call once in a while...please don't hate me for my imperfections.

Recent Thoughts About Being a Mormon.

I know.  When you've lived your whole life going to church in Utah County, it is very rare that an actual practicing Mormon considers her Mormon-ness.  But lately I have been bombarded by people who hate Mormons (that's my fault for reading comments on political websites), or who are, as they phrase it, "Recovering Mormons," as if they were recovering from some debilitating disease.

The most commented thing is the issue of polygamy, and how Joseph Smith coulda done it, how women are disrespected, and why in the world would the Mormons stop practicing polygamy just because the US Government OUTLAWED IT?  Like God has to follow earthly laws.

Let me just say right now that I don't know.  I don't know how the people in our early history dealt with it.  I have thought about it a lot, and for some reason it doesn't bother me at all.  Really, it doesn't.  Don't get me wrong, if I knew Joe was going somewhere else to have sex with another women different nights of the week, I would probably gouge my eyes out and die of that horrible pain that sinks in your stomach when something that you really love isn't available to you.  So I can't say that the reality wouldn't be heartbreaking now, but the reality of what it was then doesn't bother me.  For one thing, it wasn't just like a free-for-all, "Hey, all you hot men!  Take the all the women and  PAR-TAY!  Sex it UP!"  I don't think so.  It was a calling, and it was a calling that you could or could not accept, just like being the Sunday School teacher.  And if you did it without being called, well just imagine walking into Primary and start running Sharing Time when you're not the President.  It would just be weird.  Sometimes men were asked to marry older women just so the women could have someone to take care of them.  Sometimes the men married younger women, and I don't know why.  I don't know why it was okay, but something tells me it was about giving everyone the opportunity to be sealed in the highest degree of heaven, since there were a lot more women than men, and something about the Lord needing to send many new spirits to the earth to build up his kingdom--which is not, as some people say, an army or drones--and there were not enough men to help women have children in the acceptable way, meaning marriage.  So there.   As to the issue of having polygamy in heaven, well, it's not a pleasant thought, but  I'm hoping that by the time that happens that I will have a fuller vision of the Gospel, and will have been perfected enough to open up my family to others who want to experience those blessings.  Bottom line, I don't know.  I can't explain it away.  And guess what?  It's not my job to explain it away, and it doesn't matter to me right now.  Someday, when I'm actually faced with the issue, I'll suppose I'll do what I do with everything I'm told by the church: pray about it and decide for myself.  Yes, I am a Mormon, I am a woman, and I think for myself.  THE SHOCK!

And finally, "Why would the church just stop practicing polygamy if it was from God.  Does God have to answer to American Government?"  In a word, yes.  "We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates and in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law."(That's the Twelfth Article of Faith, by the way).  God wants us to be good citizens and follow the law, because otherwise, there would be a bunch of people running around going, "You can't tell me what to do!  You're not my real Heavenly Father, so neener, neener, neener."  God likes orderliness, cleanliness, and all that other -iness stuff.  Chaos and confusion is just so chaotic and confusing,  so God wants us to be orderly people so we follow laws.  Is that so hard to believe?

 I don't find it hard to believe that Heavenly Father would tell his people, "So, society doesn't really understand what we're doing here, and really, they never will.  And look, you've already been ridiculed, persecuted, and pushed out of everywhere you've ever tried to live.  And now, you're going to be outlaws.  So, for now, because the rest of the world isn't ready for this, we're gonna stop the polygamy thing.  Because we follow the law around here."  Why is that so hard to believe?  It's not that an unchanging God is changing.  It's God giving respect to the government and allowing his followers to not run from the law the rest of their lives.  It's Him being merciful.

And the whole beef people have with women "not being able to hold higher offices because of the lack of a p-----."  Believe it or not, that was an actual quote I read on a blog.  So let me tell you my view, and remember, this is the Gospel According to Sarah, so take it for what it's worth, but it makes sense in my brain:  When Alice or Daisy are sick, I instinctively know what to do, like hold their hair back when they puke, rub their bellies, sing them songs, talk quieter, call the doctor, give them fluids, or just plain make them feel better by being next to them and letting them wear their favorite jammies.

Joe, on the other hand, has to be told what to do.  And it's not because he's inept, because heaven knows he has his crap together a lot more than I do, but there's something about GROWING A HUMAN FROM SCRATCH and then FEEDING THAT PERSON WITH YOUR BOOBS (actually, I didn't breast feed.  But I did get up every night to feed a person with a bottles.  My boobs don't really work properly) that makes you a little bit more in tune to what that person needs.

So why can't women hold "upper offices?"  I don't know.  But I know why I couldn't be a Bishop or a Stake President.  Because, while I would be tending to other people, who would be watching my kids? Again, Joe is a really good person, and an excellent father, but he didn't grow a person inside his body.  He doesn't know how to troubleshoot things that talk back and spew lots of different kinds of bodily fluids at you.  And, let's be completely honest, I would be a horrible Bishop or Stake President, because I am too emotionally invested in people, because I am a girl.

I would say things like, "you did what?" or, "I know, why don't you get a job," or, "maybe it's because you are a mean person," or "Have you ever thought about not looking like a slut?" But someone like Joe, or my dad, could look at a problem from all angles and give good, logical, wisdom.  And I think it's because men are biologically wired to do that, just as I am biologically wired to invest emotionally.  Let me tell you, if you want logical, measured advice to a problem, you talk to my dad.  If you want someone to hate people who are mean to you and to threaten to scratch out her skinny eyes, you talk to my mom.  And I think it's supposed to be that way in order to meet people's needs.

So that's what I think.

One last thought: I have read blogs from "recovering Mormons," and they seem so sad, cynical, or just plain lost.  I'm not going to tell everyone that I know the Church is true, even though I do.  But I am going to say, so what if it's not true?  I have a good family, and I am a good person.  So what if I'm wrong in my religion?  How does that hurt other people?  My church gives me hope, and helps my children cultivate a relationship with a Higher Being, which we like to call God.  I feel good when I read about Christ, and I like the way that my church emphasizes nuclear families.  I like that I give more money to charity than most other Americans, and I like the the way my church helps people with that money and takes care of one another.  And if someone out there doesn't like Joseph Smith, and thinks I'm stupid for believing him, so what?  I'm not a skeezy crack-whore, I don't have any STDs, I have pretty good grammar, my children are taken care of, and when I have problems, I feel like I have someone Up There that knows what I'm going through and can help me through it.  And I have yet to not come out the happy end of a bad problem.

So, tell me again why my church is bad?

30 Things Before You're 30. Hmmmm. Not so much.

So I saw this article circulating on Pinterest.   I read it, and after spending all night reading My Year with Eleanor, I was feeling like I hadn't done what I was somehow "supposed" to do with my life in the last 30 years.

Then I started thinking.  This sucks.  People are telling me what I should do, and when.  So I made a comment on the post.  But it was too long.  And I couldn't edit it.  I just couldn't take some of these thoughts out, because, I realized as I was typing them, they are true and I believe them.  So I'm putting it here, on my blog.  That no one probably reads.  But it's out there in the cosmic at any rate.


"As far as I am concerned, this list is perfect for where it was published--Glamour. Glamour, along with a lot of other magazines aimed at women, is a magazine which is dedicated to making women forget what is really important about being a woman and focusing on things that aren't important, like lace bras, scores of boyfriends and sexual exploits, and 'finding yourself.'

A great deal of emphasis has been put on this finding yourself thing, but someone really super smart (and perfect) once said that in order to find yourself, you need to lose yourself in serving others.  It was only after I quit my job and started focusing on other people, namely my demanding children and what my husband was doing for us, that I started to realize that I didn't know who I was.  I had spent so much of my life focusing my education, my career, and how I was performing, that I didn't even know how to have fun, or what books I liked to read.  Don't get me wrong--education is so important, and I wouldn't change the years I spent in my career for anything.  I miss my career A LOT.  But it was only when I stopped focusing on myself that I was able to see myself for the first time.

I realized that I was pretty when I wanted to be, and I didn't need sexy underwear for my husband (although I have some).  I realized that I shared every single bit of myself with my husband--my email password, my bank account, and access to my voicemail.  And I realized that in sharing myself with my husband, I am fully complete and secure.  I don't care when my husband is in my email account, reads my texts, or sees my expenditures, because he knows everything anyway.

I don't think this list was meant to be taken literally, and it was printed in GLAMOUR--C'mon, people, not exactly a serious journalistic feat.  But, due to its popularity, and it giving birth to a BOOK, it is being taken seriously by a lot of women.  Unfortunately, whether this was the intent or not, women are judging themselves by these ridiculous standards.  It's sad that, after so much emphasis on being a feminist, people are still telling women who they should be, what they should be and when they should be it by.  The landscape has changed in the lat 70 years, but unfortunately, the narrative is the same."

So there.

So Much So Much So Much

And yet nothing to say. I feel like my family and I have been put through the spiritual ringer lately. Nothing very huge that it's worth a conversation, yet something big enough to keep me awake at night. The bottom line is this: We made a decision, and worrying about it won't make it different. I'm being quite cryptic, aren't I? I hate it when public blogs do that. If you don't want me to know, why write about it, right?

When I quit my job, Joe got this great new job that he loved. Unfortunately, he was only hired as a temp, but we were sure it would turn into a permanent position, especially after he was working so hard and people started to like him so much. Unfortunately, we were falling short some money every month. Not enough to get us in trouble, but enough that there would be trouble if we didn't do something soon. Joe got a night job welding. So now he works 7 - 3:30 Monday through Friday at his "real" job, and 5 - 9 Monday through Thursday at his "fake" job, which is how we refer to things. While the money is nice, and I can breathe a little easier, the not seeing Joe more than 2 hours over the course of four days is not. And to make matters worse, his temp job has turned into just that: "temp." His Last day is March 26. Yep. A little more than a week away. And we have no prospects. The company Joe temps through just sent us an email that says, "Too bad about not getting that job. We'll think of you when something comes up." Not very promising, if you ask me. So we're on the hunt again.

I have come to realize that Joe is not only my husband, but he is my best friend as well, which shocker right? Most husbands and wives are best friends. But lately, not only do I feel like I lost my husband, but I don't even have a friend to bitch about it with. Hmmm. See? Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing more than what many, many people have gone through. But enough to keep me up at nights. While Joe sleeps. Loudly.

This isn't really a pity-post, because, even though I do miss my career, I would miss my girls so much more, and if this is what is we need to do so my girls can be raised by their parents, then so be it. But I just wish it wasn't so inconvenient. I wish having faith in Heavenly Father were a little easier. But then again, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So. Faith. Tally-ho!

And since no post is complete without my two little gorgeous girls, here they are.

Daisy Fay, at seven months. She's SO CUTE! She is the happiest baby I have ever seen, and she loves her Mama. The only time she cries is when I put her down for a nap, and her little cry is so gut wrenching, you would think her first boyfriend dumped her over Facebook. But she is my baby.

Alice Nichole, or as she says it, "Ayis MNicho-ol Bingham," Two years and ten months . Alice is full of piss and vinegar. She is bossy, independent, and has a very strong sense of what she wants. Which makes her a very difficult to raise as a toddler, but I am hoping will make her very strong as an adult. I am hoping what I call "stubborn" and "impossible" will turn into "secure" and "integrity" when she gets older. That's the only thing that keeps me from "breaking" her. I try to work with her sense of independence instead: "Alice, these are your choices: you can either eat the dinner Mommy has cooked, or you can go to bed hungry. Which do you choose?" And sometimes she chooses to be hungry. She doesn't get in trouble at all, she is just hungry. She doesn't like it much; in fact, the other day, she said, "Mommy, I don't want choices." Well, I don't either. But that's the way things are. And Alice is purely Daddy's Girl.

So, we are as good as it gets right now, and we are praying that when God closes a door, he opens a window. We're looking for a window to climb through right now.

"We're Concerned About You..."

That was the title of an email I received from my instructor at the Institute of Children's Literature. For the last year and a half, I have been taking an online course in Creative Writing for children. In reality, the course is only supposed to be 6 months to a year long--you can move as quickly as you like--but I took a 6 month leave of absence when the last three months and the last six months of work and pregnancy were just too much for me. It's only worth like, ten college credits, or something small like that, but it's taken me forever to work through the course. I am finally on Part A the last assignment. But I have been putting it off. It was due January 1, thus prompting the email: "We're Concerned About You."

Yes, I am sure you are, as most other people, who know more about me than you, are. There is much to be concerned about, but my late assignment is not one of those things. For example, I would be concerned that I enjoy disco music and 70's soft rock. I know. The two red-headed step-children of the seventies music scene, the aspects that so many would love to forget, I have a yen for.

I would also be concerned that I have three sets of the Harry Potter Collection: The American version, the children's British version, and the adult British Version (this is just more sophisticated artwork and different typset. This is not, as so many people think when I say the "adult" version, the version where Hermione and Ron get it on in the back seat of a car and Pansy Parkinson is the newest star of 16 and Pregnant). And I am on the campaign for a Valentine's Day paperback set, as well. I don't know why. It think it's a disease.

I would be concerned that when I watch a DVD season, or a Netflix streaming season of a show I like (Gilmore Girls, Friends, Frasier, Family Ties, Biggest Loser, etc), I must watch every episode --even if I have already seen the episode, or I do not care for the episode. I have to watch EVERY ONE. Why? Because it is a set, and I need to keep them all together.

I would be concerned that when I was little, I would alternate every day which shoe I put on first: on Monday, the right shoe got to go first, and and Tuesday, the left one, and so on. Why? Because I didn't want the left shoe to feel left out when the right shoe got to go first every day. It's cute when you're five, but it's concerning when you're 30.

I would be concerned that I have allowed Joe to teach our two year old to moon people. Bare-butt mooning. And I think it's funny.

I would be concerned that it takes me 45 minutes to peel and orange. Yes. Forty-five minutes. I do not like the yellow gunk on my orange, so I peel as much off as I possibly can. Alice doesn't ask me to peel oranges anymore. She has learned to go straight to Daddy.

I would be concerned that I do not like using the bathroom. It is the most inconvenient thing in the history of the world, although Salem Witch Trials are a close second. The point is, you always have to pee when there is no bathroom around. You always have to...ahem...when you're in a store and all you really want to do is peruse the As Seen on TV aisle (yes, that would be another thing to be concerned about). And your two year old always has to "pee" when you go to a new place. Peeing, in any form, is not convenient and I just don't like it.

I would be concerned that I don't loan out my jigsaw puzzles unless I have completed them first. I would feel like I was the loser because I didn't conquer the puzzle first. I told you. Concerning.

I would be concerned that I like to watch The Biggest Loser, not because it's inspirational, but because I think it is funny to see fat people cry.

See, there are many things to be concerned about when it comes to me, but I assure you, Children's Institute of Literature, being late on my assignment is not one of them. I have one baby, one toddler who decided that today she would be a tiger and so drew lines on her face with a pen, a husband whom I see for 30 minutes tops every day, an iPad with an AllRecipes app, and an invitation to Pinterest. Being late on my assignment is inevitable--but not concerning.