Wednesday, September 28, 2016


Day 12 prompt here.

I got pregnant and carried my oldest two kids with no problems.  Other than emergency c-sections, everything was just fine.  My husband had applied to and had gotten into Physicians Assistant school with the Army.  We had two years of intense school ahead of us.  And because of that, I decided that I would not get pregnant and have a baby while he was in school.  Towards the end of the second year, We decided that we would get pregnant.  Everything was fine, as far as I knew.  Went to an appointment about 17 weeks, and no heartbeat.  Decided to induce labor, rather than wait for my body to do it.  This crushed me.  Shortly after we moved, and then moved again, and then my husband deployed.  No getting pregnant.  He came home.  We tried again.  Again, got pregnant.  All was well.  My body was contracting for two days and I didn't realize that was what it was.  On the third day, the contractions began to feel like contractions.  I was only 16 weeks along.  My water broke at home, and what followed after was fairly traumatic.  I ended up losing a liter of blood, almost had to have a transfusion, and was a disaster.  As I was coming out of anesthesia after my D&C, Matt said 'We should just adopt!'.  I hadn't even begun to process what had just happened.  I was torn.  These miscarriages were awful.  They were almost halfway.  What was going on? Why was my body doing this?  Should we try again?  Should we just adopt?  My mental health wasn't that great, but I had a fantastic therapist.  I made a deal with God.  Which isn't something you're supposed to do.  I decided I would try again.  Only once more.  And then if I lost that one too, then I was done.  I couldn't go through that nightmare again.  So.  I got pregnant.  As with the previous pregnancy, I was terrified that something would happen.  I didn't tell anyone until I was 5 months.  And now I have a crazy four and a half year old.  Because I didn't have a good track record, as well as getting the worst Postpartum Depression I had had yet, (yay zoloft!) we decided we were done.  It was a difficult decision.  Occasionally I regret it when I discover sharpie on the walls or can't seem to ever not have duplos on the floor.  But mostly I'm glad.

Losing things

Day 11 prompt here.

I have gone to the same church for my entire life.  I chose to give 18 months of my life being a missionary.  I did all the right things.

Being a military family, we move a lot.  And that means each ward/congregation has different people and things run differently.  I feel like I've been pretty good to adapting to whatever the local ward does, and doing my best to fill the needs that I can.  I used to be rock solid.

The older I get, the harder this is getting.  I'm seeing a lot of just not ok stuff that happens behind the scenes.  I'm getting tired of hearing the same old stuff with no improvements, or improvements taking years and years to change.

I'm losing my confidence and a bit of faith.  I get that all churches are run by men and women that aren't perfect, and I feel are truly doing what they think is best.  And I'm trying to focus on that and then do my best to be a voice for change, for progress.  I find that I don't fit in as well as I used to, And that is hard.  So I stick with safe callings, playing the piano for the kids.  I hope to get to a better place eventually.  I'm not sure if the latest move has made this change, or just that I am changing.  I'm trying to find a happy medium.  It's hard.  And a bit painful.  I'm not sure where this will take me. Right now, I'm going to try and speak up where I can, be a safe place for others that may be feeling the same, and being patient with myself and others as we all progress through this life.  Because it's just hard.


Day 10 prompt here.

My entire life is a mess.

Keeping things organized, picked up, and generally looking great is near impossible for me.  I have a few hypothesis.  1) It's a ridiculous way to rebel because picking up and cleaning always felt like it was a huge priority growing up. 2) I'm lazy 3) I'm easily overwhelmed with how much there is to do 4) I hate housekeeping because it feels like total drudge and I'd literally rather do almost anything else.

I'm sure it's a combination of all those things.  While I do try to keep the mess down to mild clutter, sometimes it's like everything explodes.

In our little family of five, we have a variety of mental health issues.  I have depression, my husband has ADD with a touch of depression and maybe some OCD, my oldest has ADD and Anxiety, and we're all medicated for these things.  Before we were medicated, my house was in even worse shape.  Now that things are much better for all of us, the house is also much better.  Still not anywhere near perfection, but I'm ok with that.

I love going to my friends houses and finding things not perfect.  I love toys on the floor, dishes in the sink and laundry baskets of clothes.  It's a daily struggle, and we all have to choose where to put our energy, and sometimes the toys on the floor will just have to wait until tomorrow.  I also love that my friends are comfortable enough with me to show me their not perfectness.  I will still like them if their kitchen is a mess.  I will still be their friend if their laundry is in a pile on the couch.  I don't need perfect.  I need real.  For some of us, picked up and organized is real.  For others, it isn't.  I aspire to the picked up and organized, and I will do your dishes or fold your laundry with you for those that aren't.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


Day 8 prompt here.

I don't remember much about being eight years old.  We had recently moved into a new city, and I had just started second grade.

I remember being the tallest.  Like always.  

I remember having few friends at school.  I have memories of walking by myself around the playground, until I started jump roping with some other girls.

I had to share a room with my sister, and eventually another sister until we moved into a bigger house.  

I remember loving being around my cousins and aunts and uncles.  

I truly don't remember much else.  

I know I was eight when I met my best friend.  We met at church.  

I remember I had learned to ride a two wheeled bike that year.  I was a late bloomer in many ways.

I got baptized at church, on my brothers first birthday.  

Dang. I should go read my journal, or look at pictures.  


Day 8 prompt here.

Birthdays are weird for me.  I always felt awkward when people would sing to me, or make a big deal about it.  My mom would make a big deal out of all of our birthdays, and I was never very comfortable with that.

Birthdays are still weird for me as an adult.  Like, yay it's my birthday, I get to do laundry, and deal with arguing kids, and make dinner.  YAY.  And I usually buy myself gifts, rather than expect my husband to do it.  It just works out better in the long run.  Also, our birthdays are four days apart, so we usually go out to dinner and call it good.  And we each buy ourselves our own gifts.

My kids birthdays are still awkward for me.  I try to do what they want, rather than doing what I want.  Sometimes that means having ten nine year old girls in my house.  Other times it means a trip to the trampoline place.

Birthdays are just weird and awkward.  I don't know why they are so awkward for me.  I would like to avoid them.  Not because I don't want to grow old, but I don't like being the center of attention, I don't like all eyes on me.  I prefer to sit quietly, on the side, observing.  And that just seems impossible on a birthday.  Everyone wants you to be the center of attention, even if you don't want it.  Ugh.  Why are birthdays so hard???  I even removed my birthday from my facebook profile on purpose.  I am very uncomfortable with facebook birthday wishes.  They just seems so fake.  So empty.

Birthdays are just so weird.

Monday, September 12, 2016


Day 7 prompt here.

My husband loves doing triathlons.  I don't understand it, but he loves it, so we support him.

A few years ago, we lived in Washington State.  Fort Lewis would sponsor three spring triathlons each summer, and my husband would try to do all three each summer.  We would get up super early, load bike and kids and stuff in the car (along with sweatshirts because it's Washington and cold even in the summer) and head up.  He would be super pumped, and would push himself the entire race.  He would usually be in the top 10-15 out of the water, and we would cheer!!

There were all types of people that would do the race. One year, there was one woman who was taking a long time to do the swim.  All the other swimmers were in.  One of the lifeguards was following her in a kayak as she slowly made her way to the finish.  My heart was breaking for her.  People around started to notice and to cheer her on.  She would backstroke, then free style, then backstroke again.  She was so tired.  The water was cold, and she didn't have a wet suit on.  More people started to notice.  The announcer on the mic started to cheer for her.  And she did it.  She finished the swim.  Everyone there was cheering her on as she made her way to the transition area.  I don't know how she did for the rest of the race.  I wish I had payed attention, but I was probably trying to keep my eyes on two busy kids that wouldn't stay in the same place for two seconds.

Slow and steady.  She finished.  She dug deep, and even though she was the last out of the water, she did it.  I've always remembered that.


Day 6 prompt here.

I truly detest playing games.

I enjoyed it as a kid.  I would play card games with my cousins, attempt to play Monopoly.  We would play Clue and Chutes and Ladders.  Candyland was a favorite.  Even when I was first married, I didn't mind playing games.  But then I discovered how much my husband loved to play games.  He got intense.  A little too intense for me.  To the point where playing games just wasn't fun anymore.  Friends would get together to play games and inside I would groan.  It was torture to me.  Learn all the dang rules, then attempt to play.  I stopped caring about winning two seconds in.  I would die, or lose, or whatever almost on purpose so I could stop playing and just talk to people. I wasn't interested in strategy, or getting more wood/straw/bricks.  What was there to be gained by winning a dumb game??  Ugh.

I still don't play games.  The only game I love is basketball.  And even then I'm more interested in having fun (which sometimes involves winning, but for me usually means I made a basket).  If given the choice, I would rather do almost anything than play a game.  You want to torture me?  Force me to play a game.

Now, as a parent, keeping track of all the dang pieces to games makes me feel crazy.  With all our moves, kids that dump things out, and things that get vacuumed up, I'm surprised we even have games with pieces in them.