Post Partum

 Chelsea and Jordan welcomed her beautiful baby boy yesterday, one week to the day after Hailey and Colin. WHAT A SPECIAL WEEK!! What a lucky aunt.

I wanted to elaborate on something I hinted at a couple of weeks ago in my letter to my sisters. In addition to describing the love that washed over me with the births of each of my babies, I assured them that if they encountered moments or periods of not feeling like themselves, that they were going to be okay. 

I don't know if it is hormones, lack of sleep, or my being somewhat predisposed for depression (a mix of all three I am sure), but having a baby can create the perfect storm for a funky mood for me in the days and weeks immediately after. Going in informed helps a lot, and knowing you're not the only one helps a lot, too.  

I wrote this piece in 2013, 20 days after little brother was born. 

 

"I can throw this away for you if you like," said the Walgreen's pharmacy tech. He was holding my empty bottle of Motrin in his hand. I'd taken one a day from that bottle since baby boy was born. He was done using the label on the old bottle to fill my new prescription.

Little did he know the battle that was waging inside of me.

"Yes, that'll be great," I said, confidently.

I had won again.

I tried not to look too triumphant as I heard the bottle clunk in the trash underneath the counter.

When my babies are born, I have a borderline obsession with objects that were part of those first few days and weeks of life with them.

Not just the first outfit they wore home from the hospital, but the plastic from their first package of diapers, or the mug they send home with me from my hospital stay.

I don't know what my reasoning is. Something along the lines of being able to preserve their tenderness and innocence through clutter.

I know I struggled with this when little girl was born and that if left unchecked it could hinder my progress in getting to and keeping a healthy state of mind as a new mom, so when we got home from the hospital this time, I took a garbage sack through the house at least once daily and threw away stuff.

If it hurt to throw something away, I tried to step out of my emotions and look at it objectively. How happy are you going to be in three years that you saved the styrofoam cup you chewed ice chips from as you waited for labor to progress? If I couldn't provide a rational answer, it went in the garbage. I will admit, I hung on to the disposable cover to little brother's bilirubin bed for three days before it went in the trash. He'd punched out that cute hole with his arm! Some things must be allowed a little more time. :)

This is one facet of my personal experience with postpartum depression. I wondered to what extent I would experience it after my second baby was born. I am thankful that it has been fairly mild this go round.

It's interesting though, this experience at Walgreen's happened 45 minutes ago. I have step back and laugh a little that I really do have to think that hard about throwing away an empty prescription bottle. The fact that it's a decision at all tells me it's still lingering a little, but the way I win a little "battle" each day makes me so thankful that I am doing so well.

Here are some other facets to my whole postpartum experience.

I love my hospital experience. I am especially emotional after giving birth, and it makes me especially appreciative of the care that is shown to me by the nurses. It actually makes it really hard for me to go home. I become attached to my nurses. This time one of the nurses slid an envelope into the paperwork I was bringing home the evening we checked out. When I got home I opened it to find a card signed by all the nurses that had cared for me. It made me cry. Now it makes me smile. It did not go in the garbage.

For several days after giving birth, I have a heightened sense of how fragile mortality is. Danilo turned on Tarzan one night at home shortly after little girl was born, and I didn't tell him, but I got so upset inside and couldn't enjoy the rest movie when Tarzan's parents were killed by the cheetah in the beginning. I can (kind of) laugh at it now (having just experienced becoming a mother again), but I was truly, truly angry. 

The hardest part of the postpartum experience for me is an intense fear or anxiety that settles in and nearly paralyzes me. Fear of all kinds of things. Parent-killing cheetahs, Danilo making it safely home from work, and mostly over the responsibility of being a parent. Will I be able to do this as well as my parents did? I feel so broken and inadequate. This little person depends on me for everything. Will I be able to rise to the task and give them everything they need?

And then there's the need to know I will experience normalcy again. I was comfortable with life before the baby and now I feel like my whole world has been thrown up in the air and come down scrambled.

The night we brought little brother home from the hospital, he cried all night long. I wanted Danilo to sleep so we could have at least one alert parent the next day, so I made a bed on the floor in his room and tried to calm him from sun down to sun up. As I lay there, I had a wave of anxiety rush over me all night long. It was kind of uncomfortable and scary, but I just kind of let it do its thing.

Because this time I can say, hey, I have a three-year-old now and I felt this way when she was born too, but now she is mine and her daddy's whole world. It took several nights to figure out and adjust to life with her, but now it's impossible to imagine life without her.

Something else that has helped make my postpartum experience easier this time round is having little girl here with me. At a time when my emotions could cause me to take life and myself and this whole experience too seriously, she provides comic relief. She laughs when he burps. She laughs when he spits up. She laughs when he goes cross-eyed. She laughs when he chooses to relieve himself when his diaper is off. It's a truly amused laugh. And it makes me laugh too. And while I laugh, I'm thankful that I'm not all by myself taking life too seriously.

Lastly, I taught a lesson a couple of months ago to the young women at church on the topic of grace. It changed my life. I have come to understand that after all we can do, God will bless us with a strengthening power (grace) that will make the seemingly difficult or impossible possible. So when postpartum panic starts to set in, I just remember my testimony of His grace and move forward. Sometimes the manifestations of His grace have been through my own daughter, sometimes a text message from a friend, the words of a blessing spoken on my behalf, or moments when I'm blessed with clearer understanding. These verses were part of my scripture study this morning and I loved them:

This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope.
It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him.
Lamentations 3:21-24

All that being said, it would be cool if I knew I am not the only one who has become attached to an empty package of newborn sized Pampers. Is anybody with me?  

Summer 2013

To My Sisters Who Are Both Making Me an Aunt This Week

due six days apart both with little boys

For two brief seconds, I thought I invented the term, "bundle of joy."

I was rocking my newborn baby boy and could not believe how much happiness I felt with him wrapped up in my arms. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and just by being there, he literally brought Heaven into our home. 

I struggled to know how to express my love for him. "You're just, a bundle of joy!"

That was a lovely way to tell him how you feel, all swaddled up in a blanket in your arms! I thought to myself. But it seemed oddly familiar. And then I realized, it was the same saying plastered on gift bags, and baby shower cards, used in television and movies over and over again. Probably one of the most overused phrases used to describe babies ever.

I felt a little silly, but it didn't matter. I meant what I said. 

I snuggled him close. And breathed him in. And kissed his forehead. And whispered, "You are MY bundle of joy."

Something similar happened this week as we were driving with the family in the car. Danilo and I were trying to explain to little girl why no matter how much she grew up, she would always be our little girl. My parents used to tell me that all the time and I just thought they were silly.

But I get it now.

You, my darling sisters, are embarking with your husbands on one of the sweetest journeys life has to offer. In a few weeks you will be rocking your little boy wondering what you ever did so right to get to hold him in your arms.

You have not yet known the kind of joy that awaits you.

*****

I just want you to know that if your joy is ever eclipsed by moments of feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or overly emotional, you are okay. I hadn't anticipated anything but being completely overjoyed at the birth and bringing home of my baby so when I started to feel this way for periods of my day, I was concerned and worried.

If you're having funky thoughts or feelings, call Mom or call me or some other wonderful lady so we can help you realize you're okay, cheer you up and come over and lift your load when you need it. 

Your baby is safe with you. Even if you feel inadequate. And especially if you call for help when you need it.

I think what unnerved me the most was that these thoughts and feelings made me not feel like myself anymore, and with the dramatic life change I had just undergone, I was worried that I wasn't going to feel like myself ever again. I just want you to know that it's okay. Things will level out. And you will feel like yourself again.

The truth is, having a baby has changed you. Into your baby's mom. And you will love who you become because of him. You will find you have the courage to be better than you were before you had him. 

And he will love you. He will think the world of you. 

You are his mom.

 P.S. Oh, and hey. Thanks for making me an aunt! ♥♥♥

Unselfish

Did you know that in a few weeks, on May 5, Kim Kardashian is releasing a new book called Selfish, containing over 350 of her favorite pictures she has taken of herself?

Read that last part again. Containing over 350 of her favorite pictures she has taken of herself.

This is not a joke.

Bless her heart.

It is available for pre-order on Amazon now. 

*****

This is not a post about whether or not you should be keeping up with the Kardashians. This is not a post analyzing whether or not Kim Kardashian is a good person. I like to hope that there's a little bit of goodness in everyone. And besides, I don't have enough content to work with, because around here we are keeping up with Elmo, and that cute Australian show about mermaids on Netflix.

This is a post about another book coming out on the same day as Kim Kardashian's, but this one is titled, Unselfish.

It is a book that contains 99 stories of people putting others before themselves. 

I feel like everyday we are constantly shown examples of humanity getting it wrong. This book is refreshing as page after page demonstrates stories and beautiful photography of people getting it right. I felt grateful that the people inside are scattered all over the same planet where you and I live.

I'll be honest, while I was excited about having the opportunity to review a book before it was released, I got a little nervous as I started reading. I was worried this book would make me feel like I sometimes feel at a university graduation ceremony. You know, when all the accolades of highly successful individuals are read. That it would be full of stories of people who dropped everything and moved to a third world country to help the people there. Or people whose passion for an issue developed into a gigantic foundation. That it would make me feel like I haven't accomplished much at all.

Sorry for my bad attitude.

While the book is full of stories like that, it is also sprinkled with stories that made me feel like, hey, I could do that.

One of my very very favorite pieces in the book is about two auto shops in the same Georgia town. In 2011, one of them was leveled by a tornado. In the aftermath, the auto shop that was still standing opened its doors and let its competitor in. The two businesses shared car bays and office space and worked side-by-side for ten months. "We truly believe that God wants us to take care of our fellow man, and when we do, he will take care of us," said the shop that opened its doors.

Along the way I learned that unselfishness is like a muscle. We all have that muscle. Kim Kardashian has that muscle.We better ourselves and the world around us every time we exercise it. 

Some are blessed with the vision to apply unselfishness on a grand scale and can bless vast numbers of lives. Others quietly apply it on smaller scales and have profound impacts on individual lives.

It took me about five or six sittings to get through the whole thing, and each time I put it down, I found myself wanting more and more to get outside of myself and be more selfless.

I stand with the book's claim that, "Unselfish will reignite your faith in humanity and may just inspire you to love your neighbor as thy selfie."

*****

Since I read Unselfish, selfless acts around me seem to be happening more often.

Yesterday I was watching my kids play at the park. The weather was lovely, it was the perfect afternoon to be out. But one little girl kept interrupting the scene by screaming at the top of her lungs. Her mom apologetically smiled at us. "Mildly autistic and I'm forcing her to be social today." She carried a baby in her arms as she knelt down and gently talked to her daughter in distress. I observed with admiration this mother who had her hands full as another child, a little older than the screamer started calling, "Mom! MOM! I need a PUSH!" I realized this woman had a third child who was not enjoying her time on the swing because her mom was required to tend to the crisis at hand.

A mom among the rest of us stood up. "Is that your mom?" she spoke to the girl, motioning to the other woman. "Is it okay if I push you while she helps your sister?"

And she did. Not just five or six times, but for nine or ten minutes.

What was so beautiful about the scene to me was that it was clear by their outward appearance that these mommas would not probably run in the same social circles. Their differences in dress and hair fed my assumption. But the inner beauty of each of those two mommas was so apparent in that moment. The one with her I'm sure day-in, day-out patience with her children, and the others willingness to step in and lighten her load made me grateful for the unselfishness I was witnessing in my very own neighborhood.  

I don't think selfless acts are actually happening more often. I think I am just more in tune to recognize them better. And they inspire me to be better. And the world seems a more beautiful place.

*****

 

Interested in learning more about Unselfish or owning a copy?

You may do that here:

unseflishstories.com

here:


https://www.facebook.com/unselfishstories


and find it for sale on Amazon here.

Pink Cadillac Summer

As I followed little girl in her pink Cadillac to the park this week, little brother and a friend in tow, my mind wandered back to that phone call with Dad a couple of years ago. And I smiled.

He had a co-worker with a gently used pink Barbie Cadillac Escalade. The co-worker would not accept any money. He just wanted a little girl to be able to enjoy it as much as his little girl did before she grew out of it.

"He's bringing it to work sometime this week and I can drop it off to you."

Heh heh. 

This was going to take some swallowing of pride.

*****

 
I know what it's like to be walking down the aisle at Toys R Us and happen upon a Barbie car when you're a little girl. It's magical. You climb inside and you dream of cruising the neighborhood in it.

But I never had one. And I had a lovely childhood void of frivolous pink cars. And I grew up to be responsible. With my priorities straight. 

So every time my husband suggested we consider getting a motorized car for our daughter, I turned him down with my little speech about how not having a pink Barbie car made me into the woman I am today. Even when we came across one for $50 at a yard sale. I assured him it was best we walk away.

But there's no way I was going to get away with turning it down now.

I recall the night he got home. "So, uh, honey. My dad's got a little something for us....".

If you'd seen his eyes light up when I told him what it was, you would've known it was all over too.

*****

Once we had the Cadillac in our possession, I had to admit, it was an impressive sight. And very fun.

And as we cruised the neighborhood behind our little girl, I felt the need to explain to everyone how we got it.

"Yeah, my dad had this co-worker who just didn't want it on his hands anymore. See, we were actually helping the guy get rid of it."

One summer night as we were getting ready for bed, my husband made a request. "Could you stop explaining to everyone how we got a hold of that car? It takes you five minutes. It's okay if they don't know the whole back story."

He had a point.

I just didn't know how else to stop people from thinking that I would buy a pink Barbie Cadillac Escalade for my little girl. 

*****

And then one summer's night when we were again cruising the neighborhood, we bumped into a family just a stage ahead of ours. They had two daughters in school. I had always admired them, their friendliness, their sweet kids.

After saying our hellos, she motioned over to the Barbie car. "These are so fun. We got one for our daughters two Christmases ago. They just love it. It makes me sad to think of they day they'll outgrow it."

You mean, they bought one on purpose? It wasn't thrust upon them?

With that, she totally shattered my image of people who buy pink Cadillacs for their daughters.

Ever since then, I've kind of embraced the car.

*****

Driving home from the park one day a little later that same summer, there he was.

A decade and a few gray hairs older than my dad, shaking his head.

The epitome of everything I had feared when the pink Cadillac came to live at our home standing there in front of us.

"You know if you get her one of those at this age what she's going to expect when she's 16." His words and body language reeked of disapproval. 

I knew this day would come.

But I was prepared. Because the pink Cadillac had taught me some lessons that summer that made me look at things differently.
 
The first of those lessons being, don't lump everyone into the same box, ie, people who buy pink Cadillacs for their children.

Don't be so fast to make assumptions about people.  More often than not, you are wrong.

People with pink Cadillacs have feelings too.

Be flexible in marriage on things that aren't as earth-shattering as I may perceive them to be. 

And finally, the most ground-breaking for me, one I am still perfecting, that it is not my job to stop people from thinking anything. That is in fact a very exhausting route to take in life. It's really just my job to live a good life, without or with a pink Cadillac.

I endured the shaking of his head back and forth with zero words in my defense, only a smile. Not a smug smile. A genuinely kind and friendly smile. Because I recognized a lot of me in him. He and I would probably get along better than he would assume.

If I was going to be one of these pink Cadillac owners, it was time to start building some bridges.

That and any other disapproving glance since (and there have been a few) have been the price I have paid to learn the lessons of that pink Cadillac summer.

And it has been worth it. 

To the Commenter Who Got Under My Skin

About a week ago, I was enjoying a very well-written article on how silence will not solve our nation's suicide problem. Experience has taught me not to scroll down to the comments section after reading something I like on a large website, because I'd rather not see it torn apart, but I was curious to read the conversation that would be taking place in relation to mental illness. And that's where I met you, my friend. You had some pretty strong words for the depressed and suicidal. You used phrases like "wishy-washy crap."   

You scoffed at the suggestion that talking openly about depression could do any significant good. Instead you instructed the depressed to take a firm stand against these feelings and fight for their lives.

You got under my skin.

I am not going to direct a post at you laced with synonyms for the word ignorant. I don't want to shower you with insults, shame, or disgrace. There's too much of that spewed all over the internet these days and it does nothing but make me feel terrible.

For all I know, you're a really nice person.

And kindness always matters. Even on the internet.

I am going to talk to you as if you were my friend. I don't know if we'll get anywhere, but I hope we do.

*****

My friend, I admire you for your strong words. Faith in God is something we have in common.  It is not the only thing we have in common.

It is especially easy for me to talk to you on this matter because I once took a similar stance as you on the topic of mental illness. One day in a college class, the topic of depression came up. I raised my hand and commented that if those who came before us could weather back-breaking farm work, starting over in a new country with nothing, the Great Depression and other such challenges, then surely we could "get over" depression as we sit in our comfortable air conditioned cars and houses.

My words were bold, but cold and unfeeling. They were the words of a person who has not been there. And so, my friend, are yours. I can tell. Had you been there before, if you knew of what you spoke, I promise you would not speak the way you do.

Had you been there, you would understand that living in a body with a severely depressed mind is like living in a madhouse.

It should work just as you said it should. You should be able to seize control of the situation with your willpower and fight your way through triumphantly. But it doesn't. If you had been there before, you would understand how depression hijacks and disables your willpower. It robs you of your sense of self. You think in terms of who you were and who you are now as two separate people. You hate the one for destroying the other.

If you had ever been there, you would know about the demonic voices that screech in your head all day long. Worthless, worthless, worthless, they scream. The noise is deafening. You would also understand the struggle to stay calm on the outside. Though you are in fight or flight mode, you fear what would happen if people knew what was going on inside your head. So you act as if you are fine.

I will not, my friend, tell you to go to hell. But I have considered how a quick trip there could help you understand. You've heard of lakes of fire and brimstone? A severely depressed mind continually runs tours there daily. You've heard of weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth? If a depressed person can ever get away to a secluded place, they find relief in their screams.

I would not want your visit to hell to last long, my friend. I did not know the meaning of the phrase, "I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy," until I experienced a severe bout with depression. You and I aren't enemies anyway.

I just am trying to help you understand that black pavement roasting in the heat is to the feet what intense mental anguish is to the brain.

In this condition, had someone handed me a contract to sign away my arms and legs to have my sanity back, I would have snatched the opportunity immediately. In fact, I dreamed of a scenario like that daily. That's the way your powers of reasoning function in a body with a severely depressed mind. You hope for the kinds of things that only a person in another dimension would think about. Because that's where you are.

In a depressed mind, this state you are in is your new reality. You are as sure of that as you are sure of the day of the week. Even more so. Because Tuesday used to mean something. Saturday used to mean something, but everything seems to have lost its meaning.

And it is permanent. Of that you are certain, for you have exhausted your heart in your search for a way out.

I know you said the depressed need to fight, my friend. I told myself the same thing. What you don't understand is that that's what so many of them are already doing. They have fought until their hearts have all but quit beating. 

*****

If you have indulged me at all, friend, in trying to imagine what it is like to be severely depressed, I thank you. Let me lay one more scenario before you.

I was a twenty-year old girl with so much hope in the future that I bounced out of bed every morning. Before I was slammed with a bout of depression. After that, considering what the next day held caused me to shudder, forget the next year. My future had become a portrait of darkness.

But every Saturday, my dad would take me on a walk, and he would affirm his faith in me over and over again for the course of an hour. I could not talk him out of it, no matter what I said.

A neighbor stopped by with a pamphlet outlining the symptoms of depression. While I was certain I was dealing with a case of moral failure, reading the pamphlet was strangely comforting. 

Cards appeared on the doorstep, "You're going to be okay, I've been there."

"I am worthless," I told one trusted family figure. "Some days I never even get out of bed." And he went on to tell me about the times he would come home to find his wife curled up in a ball just where he left her.

And I will never, ever forget the day my doctor told me during his personal bout with depression a number of years earlier, he had had a suicide plan. He knew what it was like down there. His words told me so. And he had gotten out. For the first time, I felt real hope.

You see my friend, every time someone was willing to reach out and talk to me about depression, indirectly or directly, they handed me a shred of light. Over time, my collection became bright enough that I had not only the strength to get up and fight again, but this time I had hope on my side.  

The article was right my friend. Depression insidiously reigns over the minds and the hearts of so many because they are afraid to bring it out in the open. But oh how I can attest to the fact that each time you talk about it, its grip loosens ever so slightly.

*****

If you ever visit the place we have discussed, I will know. I will hear it in your words. If we ever chance to meet, I will see it in your eyes.

But should you never, and that is what I earnestly hope, with this little glimpse may you be among the ones that those who are suffering can trust will have a heart willing to listen and then encourage.

In so doing, you might save a life.

It's a Love Story

When this blog was just an idea in my head, I wanted it to do two things for people: (1) expose what depression can do to a person, and (2) demonstrate that an extremely fulfilling life can be lived afterwards. I wanted to create something that could have infused me with so much hope had I stumbled across it during that period of my life.

The scary thing about depression is that everything is permanently permanent in your head. I was certain marriage and motherhood were long-lost dreams. I would have been happy to live the rest of my life just not loathing myself anymore.

In the Book of Mormon there is a scripture where the prophet Alma talks of a time when for three days and nights he was "racked, even with the pains of a damned soul...racked with torment." I could relate to that scripture terrifyingly well. But in the weeks and months of my recovery, I could also understand these beautiful words: "...My soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain." 
  
And this boy who entered my life in the midst of it (making my parents a little nervous) played a major role in it all.

 *****

(For best results, read in a charming Chilean accent. Like instead of "Brittney", say "Breetney".)

For Valentine's day Brittney has asked me to write a "Love story" about how we met.

Before I begin with the story, let me tell you a little bit about myself.  I'm from Chile and I have been in the United States since I was 13 years of age. Since I immigrated to the Unites States, I've always been drawn to my culture, therefore I've always been involved and socialized with Hispanics.  With few exceptions, I've always dated Hispanic girls, so naturally I thought that's the type of girl I would marry.

My family was baptized into the LDS faith when I was 3 years old. I have been active in the LDS church all my life and served a full-time mission for the church from 2003-2005. When I came home from the mission my goal in life was to go to school and marry when the time was right. I was in no hurry to get married. I dated, had fun with friends, went to Young Single Adult activities and enrolled in school.

Brittney came out of nowhere.

I first saw Brittney during a Family Home Evening activity at a friends house.  Brittney was there accompanied by a mutual friend Vanesa.  A friend and I were leading the program and I noticed her and thought she was pretty.  I don't like to rush things or be pushy so I didn't talk to her at that time, but since I knew her friend, I knew I would see her again.

I saw her again during a fireside at a chapel in Kaysville. It was the perfect chance to go talk to her, and, since she was there with Vanesa, I had a way in. As I approached them I of course said hello to Vanesa, but then immediately drifted to this new comer.  I had to find out a little bit more about her. I found out that she is fluent in Spanish, has a beautiful smile and learned the language in college. She was enrolled in the teaching program.

After the fireside I invited a big group to come to my house and watch the movie "Charly."  I like to give girls their space and I was still feeling the situation out so I didn't sit next to her during the movie, but sat in between two other girls. My wife to this day still gives me a hard time for doing that.

I guess I wasn't indifferent to her either.  After the movie I sat next to her while I showed her a few pictures.  I remember she smelled nice and I also remember feeling little tickles in my stomach when sitting next to her.

We hit it off from the beginning and after a few days I got the courage to ask her to come Latin dancing me. It was an experience she'd never had. Later, she tells me that her dad asked, "Isn't that kind of dancing a little steamy?" hahahahha! Pretty funny stuff.

We were going to meet up with friends, but things worked out in our favor and we ended up being by ourselves. I led her by the hand to the dance floor. She was a pretty quick learner. I held her by the waist, laughed, twisted and turned, we had an amazing night.

We could talk for hours! it was like a part that had been missing in my life that didn't know was there was finally filling the void which I did not know it was even there to begin with!

How did you ask her to be your girlfriend you ask? Around two months after we met we had "the exclusivity" conversation. Brittney was dropping me off at the Macey's parking lot where I was parked. We were sitting in her car for a long time, after we had enjoyed some ice cream at Cold Stone. I don't know, during a moment of silence I found my self lost in her gaze, I leaned over and kissed her. After catching my breath I said, "Brittney, what have you become of me?" Right after and a little scared I asked her "What are we? Are you my girlfriend?" and she replied, "Only if you'll be my boyfriend."

Everything advanced pretty quickly from there and three months later we were married in the Salt Lake Temple.

We are not perfect. Merging two different backgrounds and cultures has not always been easy, but I can tell you that it has been worth it.  I love how much of a better man my wife has made me. I love the beautiful children that she has given me. I love how hard she inspires me to work in order to be a good provider for my family.  I love how my wife and children are attached to me for all time and all eternity.

Brittney is truly my forever after, my joy and my everything.

Happy Valentines mi amor.

On Bad Hair Days

It was one of those times you ask a question and you are totally floored by the response. I was a senior in high school getting my hair cut a couple of miles from home. My shoulder length hair and the way I styled it had become overly plain for me. I was tired of it and I wanted something new. So I asked. "What kind of hair would you recommend for me other than shoulder length?"

"Nothing," she said.

Wait wait wait wait.

"Nothing," she repeated. "Your hair is so thick, it would be bushy short and unmanageable long. You're going to have to keep it shoulder length all your life."

I wanted something new and exciting and instead I got a life sentence.

I never went back and on that day I was determined to prove she was wrong. 

*****

Long hair has always been good to me in all those years since. I can truly say I went a full decade without a bad hair day. Hair not working for you one day? Pull it into a pony tail, wrap it on top of your head in a bun. Braid it. It's hard to go wrong.

Truly the only complaint I have from the last several years is that it is hard to get a fresh new look. Every time I go in for a trim, the instructions are the same. Keep the length, just cut off the dead stuff. And when I come out, nobody bats an eye. And so then I come home and keep doing it the same way I have been doing it for weeks and months and years.

In January, I finally snapped. I wanted something new, something different, and since I like the color of my hair, it was going to have to be the length that I played with.

I told my friend and hair stylist that I wanted to my hair to be as short as it possibly could while still falling in the long hair category. So she took it from tickling my elbows to a couple of inches past my shoulders. 

She styled it and it looked fantastic. This was a good move.

And then a couple days later I washed it, and I was on my own during the styling process. When I was through, I bore a dangerously close resemblance to my senior class picture. And I panicked.  And I put it in a ponytail.

That had to be a freak accident, I thought. But the next time I curled my hair, I got the same results. And I cried a little. And tried really hard not to resent every woman in public who had hair cascading down her back."My hair is just as long as yours... in my heart!" I wanted to cry.

I cried the next time I did it, too. It finally occurred to me that the difference between the way I was doing my hair and the way my friend had styled it in the salon was that she had curled it away from my face, and I was curling towards it.

A few years ago, I mastered the art of curling hair with a flat iron. It takes a special flick of the wrist and when I'm done, not even I know how I produced a spiral curl with that flat-plated contraption. Somehow I was going to have to reverse the process so that the curl twisted the opposite way in the end.

I was pretty sure it involved standing on my head, but I would figure it out.

And I did.

*****

As I looked at myself, crying in the mirror over my hair last week, words from Elder Holland's talk, Like a Broken Vessel, echoed through my mind.  "When I speak of [depression], I am not speaking of bad hair days, tax deadlines, or other discouraging moments we all have. Everyone is going to be anxious or downhearted on occasion."

I knew I had made a pretty significant recovery from my serious bout of depression the day something trivial made me sad. I don't even know what it was. But I remember I was in the living room of my grandparents' house, living there while they were on a mission. 

Maybe I found out I could have gotten more money back for my text books. Maybe some plans I had been looking forward to had been cancelled. Whatever it was, I sat there, disappointed. And then the way I was feeling sunk in. And joy overwhelmed my soul.

I had never been so grateful to be sad. It was a regular kind of sad. The fact that healthy, normal feelings like sadness, frustration and irritation were registering inside of me again was extremely noteworthy.

On that day, a bad hair day would have been reason for celebration.

Isn't it amazing the way the things that happen to us in this life can completely change the way we look at things?

Or which way we curl our hair. ;)