How to Turn A Sweet, Gentle Mother Into a A Shakespearean Curse Hurling Demon: Sleep Training

Have you ever wondered what a text conversation between Andrew and I looks like?  Well, here's one from last week:

 I can't do sleep training. I'm going to find whoever came up with it and punch them  

  brutally in the face. With a feather duster filled with pepper. Cayenne pepper. 

 2:35 PM  

Satan is the father of all lies, misery, and sleep training.

2:39 PM

Hahaha
2:40 PM

What is the purpose in abandoning your child to cry himself to sleep? 

Are we trying to teach him that no one hears him or cares?

2:41 PM

And leaving your child to sleep in a puddle of their own snot and tears seems cruel.

2:41 PM

 I bet flies and mosquitoes were in on the sleep training plotting committee. Few other creatures could be so vile and heartless.

2:43 PM

There is no joy or beauty any more. Only sadness, tears, self-loathing, and a lot of snot.

2:46 PM

I'm going to take one of those giant nerf guns with the big rotating rounds, and instead of darts, I'll use eclairs. Only instead of delicious eclairs, I'll make them of salt pastry cream flavored with anti-plague, and use playdough instead of profiterole. That way, when the hard-hearted stone creature who thought sleep training was a great invention gets hit with eclairs, he'll get excited and eat a bunch- and then he will be ingesting agony of the acutest sort, agony second only to sleep training. The agony of disappointed taste buds. 

2:51 PM

The church is true. That means that somehow Charlie knows that I don't hate him and the Evil One will get his just rewards. Rap, tofu, hangnails, overly scratched DVDs that won't play, and eternal spinach between the front teeth are just a few of those rewards. 

2:55 PM

 The Princeling is asleep now, but I'm too emotionally drained to shower. I'm going to go undo my morning workout by drowning my sorrows in the leftover brownies. And maybe some apples and peanut butter.

2:57 PM

Wow... Such vitriol... Those are some harsh curses. 
2:58 PM

If you and Hermione ever dueled, you would crush her. She wouldn't even know what hit her. She'd never stand a chance against you. 
3:02 PM

Such anger has been stirred in this mother's breast! Anger fueled by sorrow great, and woe unbounded. Anger seethed with lust of vengeance, vruel and swift. Anger shall bring this mother forth with haste, anger shall make her hunt brief in its rapidity, and anger shall make her heart deaf to the pleading of her prey. Anger shall deny her quarry of any refuge, anger shall defy her quarry's every attempt of respite, anger shall decry her quarry's infamy and disrepute. Anger shall be her release, and his captivity.

3:04 PM

And thus we see that hell hath no insanity in pursuit of vengeance like a mother of child scorned.

3:05 PM

 All done now.

3:06 PM

*Shakespearean-like applause*
3:07 PM

Charlie woke up again, so I ran in there, seized him to me, and now we're cuddling and eating. :)

3:20 PM

...can I quote you on any of this?
3:23 PM

 I like cuddles.

3:23 PM 

Not too soon to ask, I hope.
3:24 PM

Quote me? Like in a paper, or everyday conversation? Because if in a paper, we need to work out in-text citations.

3:25 PM

Sigh. 
3:27 PM

So... um... how is your day going? Anything interesting happening?

3:30 PM

Nope. Next to that Shakespearean tragedy, my day doesn't even merit a cheap paperback.
3:32 PM

Has the lad recovered from the traumatic episode? Have you?
3:35 PM

This day will go down in history as the day we all died on the inside. In other news, yes, we are doing a little better. How are you? :)

3:39 PM

Now for a bit of commentary:

Tashya: "I said what I said and I'll stand by it until death."

Andrew:  I would like to make a few points.  

First of all:

Voldemort is lucky that Tashya is not in HarryPotterLand (and as it turns out, Sauron and Middle-Earth too, respectively).  

Second:

I think I now more fully understand the language of the Old Testament.  It's very possible that Isaiah, Jeremiah, and others simply had children who would not sleep well.

Third:

 I think the little chap is doing even better than normal after the last couple of nights of this.  His mother, however, is at wit's end.

And now for a bit of art inspired by the above:

And one final note from Tashya:

Charlie really is a grand and wonderful baby.  None of this is a reflection on him, of course - just the evil souls who thought up the idea of putting a baby through something like this.

I would like to give thanks to people who were willing to lend me some great books, and share some personal experience with me. Rachelle, that book you recommended was pivotal in giving some insights. It makes a big difference if you understand what you baby might be trying to tell you about his sleep needs. So thanks.

Also, Charlie did really well when we tried this at bedtime rather than nap time. There was some crying, but not nearly as much as some other babies. The only good part about this whole thing (other than finding out that I have a penchant for horrendous hexes) was waking up the next morning and seeing the Princeling's happy smile and seeing that he still loved me. Relief and happiness! Charlie is the dream first baby, and always has been. I'm so glad he puts up so well with my parental blunderings. Together, the three of us make up a happy little family, and we feel so blessed. There is more to life than sadness, tears, self-loathing, and lots of snot. Life is actually quite wonderful.

Taking Your Child To Church Makes Him Naked

The first time Charlie went to church was the day of his baby blessing. He wore a smart little white romper made for him by his Grandmother Heim. Very dapper. His Grandparents Chelson and Uncle Spud were there all the way from Tennessee. All adored, fawned over, and cooed at the scrumptious little baby boy. After sacrament meeting and the blessing, we went outside to take some pictures to remember the auspicious occasion. Cameras were pulled from pockets, flashes were going off, successes being achieved, when there came upon us THUNDER BELOW.

I knew I needed to change his outfit before his bright yellow poop became a beacon of incorrigible childhood shining for all to see on the back of his stark white romper. That blessing outfit was intended for the use of all grandsons. I was supposed to give it back. I was supposed to not ruin it. And thus, I dashed off with great haste.

I rapidly tore (in a gentle, non-tearing sort of way) the romper off just in time to see yellow seeping through Charlie's white onesie, the way that ink starts pooling out and spreading when you hold a marker or a fountain pen to paper for too long. I had saved the romper! With my mother's help, I then changed Charlie into a fresh diaper and onesie, and we all set off home. I took with me the lesson that it is imperative to have a spare outfit, as well as diapers, in your bag at all times.

The next time the young Princeling went to church, we were out visiting my family. He wore a smart little sailor romper bought for him by his mother. Very dashing. He was finally big enough to wear it without swimming in it. (Strange how swimming in his sailor suit is undesirable. Ah well, fashion at its finest, I suppose.) We made it through sacrament meeting without incident. Sunday School was forgone in favor of feeding the young Prince and chatting with Mum in the mother's lounge.

But then he needed a diaper change.

Mother set Charlie on the changing table while I gathered the necessary equipment from my bag. Everything was going smoothly until Charlie felt the need to shower us with his blessings.

Mother and I managed to save ourselves. but Charlie's debonair little suit was quite wet, even his as yet unfastened and formerly fresh diaper. I victoriously pulled the extra onesie out of my bag, and we set about changing the lad for a second time. Once cleaned and clad only in onesie, socks, and blanket, we deemed Charlie decent and adjourned to Relief Society.

Where I stayed for only about ten minutes. Talk about some thunderings down below!

After begging pardon for my savage son's comportment, I excused myself from the room, taking with me the pack of wipes, a diaper, and my sister Megan. Megan actually came because she wanted to, not because I picked her up with other diaper changing accouterments. We got Charlie on the changing table again, and got his little bottom all cleaned up, and as the diaper was going on, Charlie struck us once again with his benevolence.

After the Prince had finished, we took stock of the damage. Charlie was wet. His clothes were wet. His socks were wet. His diaper was wet. And he was upset. I quickly set to work stripping him of his wet things, and took a fresh diaper (a size too large) from the emergency stash in the mother's lounge. Fortunately, his blanket had been set down on a chair away from the scene of the incident, and was therefore dry. Instead of being able to victoriously reach into my bag for some more clothes for my son, I was reduced to wrapping my naked-save-for-a-diaper child up in his blanket. Good thing that he likes being swaddled.  He remained naked until we returned home and I was able to get more clothes.

The next time Little Man went to church was this recent Sunday. He wore a onesie and some sweatpants. Very comfy. We were running late to get to our 8:30 meeting time, and efficiency and speed were the names of the game. Actually, the predominate name of the game was try not to wake the baby as we get him ready for church now. And we played that game pretty well until we actually got to church, at which point Charlie required my attention in the mother's lounge. I missed just about all of sacrament meeting.

By the time I had calmed Charlie to sleep, Andrew had already reported to his duty of nursery helper, so I went to Sunday School. On the way, I was stopped by my friend Aleece. She presented me with a pair of pants that went with an outfit she had given me for my baby shower months ago.

During Relief Society, the young Prince required feeding. I once again retired to the mother's lounge. I was burping him afterwards, when rather than a burp from his mouth, he presented me with what Andrew affectionately calls an Australian burp, due to the fact that this form of belch resounds from down under. I made my way to the changing table. I pulled off his sweats and noticed that they were soiled. SOILED. As was his onesie. I changed his diaper and stripped him down of his dirtied things.

I rummaged about in my bag, and found a spare onesie. And then, thanks to Aleece, a small pair of pants came out of my bag.

Thanks to Aleece, the cycle of Bring Your Baby To Church Dressed, Bring Him Home Naked would perhaps be broken. Aleece, to you, I give my sincerest gratitude. Thank you for saving me from looking like a horrid mother who doesn't dress her child before taking him out but really had spare clothes all along but not enough. You're a real pal.

And thus we see that taking a little boy to church can be a perilous adventure, full of much clothes changing, diving for cover, and memory making. I will from here on out be keeping more than one spare item of clothing in my bag when I go out with our little boy in tow. otherwise, he just might end up naked. Lesson now learnt.

PS. I found the camera!

Feast Your Eyes

Dear Folks,

Feast your eyes. This is the only pregnancy belly bump picture that you'll be getting. I, unlike many women, do not like advertising my belly for the world to see. My family video chats weekly, and I stand up to show them my profile only once each week- if someone misses it, then they miss it. Yes, I even do that to my family. The only reason that I'm posting this photo on the blog is because of my beloved Aunt Debbie. She sent me an email a while back, and was very sweet. In return for my compliance with her request, she offered a promise of her own. I shall let you see it in her own words. Behold:

Maybe that Prince Charming of yours could send along a photo of your growing Mommy self so we can enjoy the time of changes with you. Of course, I know not to touch The Belly - not even to swipe over it on my iPhone. ☺️

Aunt Debbie is a very smart woman. She has remembered that I have certain strong opinions about belly rubbing. In fact, you may remember some rather boldly put images in a Pictorial from a month or two ago, complete with massive threats to all who felt the need to harass me. Aunt Debbie, because I love you so much, here. A picture taken by my Prince Charming just yesterday. That would make me 37 weeks and two days pregnant in this photo.

(Andrew:  Don't touch it!  Yes - even the picture!)

And there you go. If anyone else has been wondering what I look like now with a belly, you may all say "Thank you, Aunt Debbie!" in the comments. This is all her fault.

In other news, I will be posting tomorrow or the next day about last week, which was filled with a birthday, a baby shower, and a book club. Definitely a big B week.

PS. I've decided to include a little present for you all. This is what Andrew had to work with yesterday while trying to get me to smile for the camera. Not exactly the princess of grace and poise you were expecting. Notice the rather displeased grimace in place of a real smile. Yup. That's just about how it goes around here.

NOTE: Just so you know, I do actually let Andrew touch my belly. It's his kid in there too, after all. And I like him. So he can feel the baby move and all that jazz. But he's just about the only one. 

Fits of Pregnancy Madness Vs. Phantom of the Horridly Horrible Haircut

A month or two ago, I was thinking about my personal appearance, and I decided that I needed to have my bangs trimmed a bit. They were constantly falling into my eyes, and I felt like I looked a bit too emo for the sheer amount of pink that I consistently insist on wearing. And then, it happened. In a fit of pregnancy madness, I seized some scissors, and attempted to trim and style my bangs on my own.

A big mistake.

I lived with my mistake instead of going to get it fixed in an attempt to impress upon me this valuable lesson learned: Don't. Just don't. I also lived with it because I have some awesomely wide headbands that don't give me headaches and cover up most of my bangs. That meant I didn't have to see my bangs, or let anyone else see them, while they were growing back out.

Fast forward to last Saturday. Andrew has been pining for a haircut for some time, but he's afraid to go in anywhere to actually accomplish the job. Why? Because haircut people down here are insane, and don't really know how to cut his hair without making him feel like a foolish child. They always cut it too short in the back, so that it sticks up all over the place, instead of listening to him and giving him a haircut like Han Solo's. Maybe haircut people down here just don't watch Star Wars by rule.

But it had gotten to the point where it was either look like a foolish child with rebellious hair, or look like a slob. I don't like when he gets his hair cut because I like the curls that form on the nape of his neck. Andrew prefers looking like a gentleman with tidy hair. I support gentlemanliness, so I allow him to get his hair cut.

We went to a hair salon- actually, lest you gather from the word "salon" that this was a fine or spendy establishment, I shall be frank. It wasn't. It was Great Clips. But it is possible to get a good haircut there. We were ushered to our stylish stylists' chairs at the same time. And thus began the horror.

I will take a moment to say that the girl cutting my hair did an excellent, albeit incredibly slow, job with the back of my hair. Some stylists have a hard time with long layers, but she was wonderful with that task. I was very pleased with how my layers came out. That being accomplished, I will now inform you of what happened to the front of my head. I asked her to start the bang at my right eyebrow, and swoop it down to my left cheek bone. A side bang. A swoop bang. Here is a picture of what I could see since the stylist was standing directly in front of me and was blocking the mirror.

That large mass of pasty whiteness is my skin, yes. And that horrible claw-like appendage is meant to represent the stylist's hand. But pay more attention to the hair flying everywhere. She didn't put any water on my bangs, so with every snip of her sheers, hairs shot out explosively like so many bits of shrapnel. That especially large brown blob was a hair that tried to take up residence in my eye. I kept my peepers firmly shut after that, but I could still feel the little rain of hairs sticking to my nose, cheeks, and lips. At one point, the lady actually dabbed at my face with a cloth to try to alleviate this surfeit of unattached hairs.

But the worst part of it all was this: Look at how she's cutting my bangs. In a straightish line. Does that look like a swoop to you? Nope. It doesn't. And if you tried to say yes, you're wrong, because it doesn't look anything like a swoop. Go get an education.

When she stopped to ask me how I liked it, I just stared in the mirror for a moment. They were very short bangs. Very short. I saw that she had added a bit of a slant to my bangs. Unfortunately, instead of being a sweeping swoop from one side to the other, it started and ended within half an inch. Right at the end. It looked something like I had tried to do it. Since I had asked her to feather it a bit (I have very thick hair), she grabbed her thinning sheers, and snipped at my bangs. That meant that half of my bang hairs were short than the other half. Right next to that cowlick on  my forehead. Yup.

Basically, if you spread and curve your fingers into a claw formation, as if you're pretending to be a monster or something, and then stick that up by your hairline, that's what my bangs looked like.

Since she was waiting for an answer, I turned to ask Andrew what he thought.

He wasn't at all reassuring. I looked back in the mirror, then smiled at the lady, and said, "All done now."

We paid, then left. However, instead of being able to rush home and fully assess the damage done, we had to go grocery shopping. As we walked into the store, a breeze rushed past us, lifting my hair as if I were in some commercial. Only, I don't know what I was advertising. Maybe something like this: "Get your hair cut, and you too can walk slow-mo through a door with bits of hair shrapnel flying off behind you and your bangs sticking all about like a hideous loon!" Not very persuasive. Too bad I was the poster child.

When we were home, I decided that I would just have to wear my faithful old gray headband until my bangs grew back. It was too short to be able to fix with more cutting. I seized the headband and donned it. I dropped my head on the counter. My bangs were too short to stay up in the headband. Too short and sticking out all over the place. I wailed in frustration and went to bed.

The next morning was church. I managed to get my bangs to stay back with a double headband approach to styling. When I got home, I switched to my gray (more comfortable) headband, but kept the band just barely on the hairline. I looked pretty clever.

I started becoming worried that someone would bump into me and knock my headband off. Then I wouldn't be covered in its protective concealment. I knew that if that were to ever happen, dramatically loud chords from The Phantom of the Opera would instantly start playing, and that there would be screaming and general horror all about.

Then I would have to give up the one person that I loved, and go live by myself in a cave somewhere with a little toy wind-up monkey that played "Masquerade." And people might even try to kill me. Not good on either account.

So now I'm trying to decide which is better: Being seized by a fit of pregnancy madness and mangling your own bangs, or paying someone else to make you into the hair version of the Phantom. Only without that sheer musical genius, which at least would be an upside. But also without the homicidal tendencies, which is at least one bright point in all of this.

I think it's the fit of pregnancy madness - because at least that's free ugliness.

The Maintenance Man: A Thriller

We live in an apartment complex. That means that sometimes management sends around people for maintenance checks, appearance upkeep checks, and the suchlike. On occasion they send out notices to say that the maintenance people will be coming into your apartment, and they give you a two-week period of when that will happen.

I don't always handle these situations very well. Especially after an experience I had when we first moved here, and a guy came over while Andrew was gone, and he was here for several hours, and I was uncomfortable and couldn't really get him to leave. I didn't open my blinds or make a noise (seriously, I didn't even play any music) for weeks after that because I was afraid that he or someone like that would come back. I was a bit like the Grinch when he was sliding about, slithering on the floor to get places.

And I don't know if you know this, but some pregnant women have incredibly active, horrid, graphic, and horrifying nightmares. Suffice it to say that with my already overactive imagination, I've had enough nightmares of a certain nature to be afraid of anyone being in my apartment ever.

A while ago, there was an apartment wide pretty-fication going on, and that included people coming over and switching out the window blinds. Now this was a very good thing seeing as one of my blinds had fallen off and broken, and I was using a scroungy looking towel in its place. Very attractive. But I'd lately had a string of nasty nightmares regarding ruffians of the worst sort breaking in and becoming violent.

Andrew was at work, and I was feeling jittery, so I called Mama up for our not-regularly-spaced-out-but-frequently-occurring chat. I was lounging on my bed, gabbing away with Mama, telling her about the dreams in all of their horrifying and disgusting detail, when I heard something faint and eerie. I stopped talking. It was the sound of a deadbolt sliding. Someone was trying to get into my home while I was telling Mama about my nightmares about people trying to get into my home! I have two deadbolts, one of which can only be operated from inside, so the intruder couldn't come in. But someone was trying to get into my house. And I was absolutely terrified.

"I think someone's trying to break in," I whispered to my mother. I peeked my head around the bedroom door frame, and the deadbolt actually was moved. It wasn't my imagination. I could hear someone pushing against the door to open it.

But of course, that quickly became this.

And I backed into my room, closed and locked the door, and looked around, trying to figure out what to do. I decided that if someone actually made it in, my best option was to run screaming through the bedroom window.

Never mind the fact that I live on the ground floor. That, along with most other facts, is irrelevant in my zoom out scenes of dramatic intensity.

My heart was beating so frantically that I almost couldn't hear my mother on the phone. I was seconds away from bursting through the window panes when I heard:

THUMP! THUMP! "MAINTENANCE!"

Maintenance? MAINTENANCE? I completely collapsed on the bed. Why hadn't they STARTED with that approach, instead of just trying to let themselves in?  Andrew:  Though, with the way that Tashya and her mother talk, and all the way in the back room, who KNOWS how long they were there knocking first! My heart started slowing from its pittering hysteria to beats so hard that they actually hurt my chest.

The knock and bellow came again. I didn't move. After nearly killing me with fright, they deserved to be inconvenienced by having to come back again later.

Mama spoke soothingly to me between spurts of spouts against that kind of behavior. And when Mama had to end the phone call, I just stayed on my bed, quivering under/in/around/on top of/through/tangled in my fuzzy pink blanket.

I didn't go out for lunch. I didn't get up for the afternoon. For hours, I hid, not willing to make sounds lest those people (who were portrayed in my imagination as the baddies from nightmares) come back and demand entrance to my home. Andrew had a real lump of joy to work with when he got home that evening. Good thing he's so wonderful.

But that was a few months ago. This time was different. I received a notice of entry for a routine maintenance check they do once a year. It was scheduled for one day, not a two week time period. I planned an outing to the library to avoid any scary encounters, find a book or two, and work on one of my writing projects (which, according to my sisters, is a very desirable read- I want to read it, too, and I'm mad that someone else hasn't written it so that I could just READ it already!). After a nice morning tidy, I was trying to decide between having a post-lunch nap, doing the dishes, and going to the library when I heard a voice outside my open window. He sounded older. I heard him say, "I've got to go now, honey. I have a lot of work to do. I love you." I thought he was adorable, and continued on trying to decide what to do.

It turns out that the adorable conversation maker was going to make my decision for me. There was a gentle knock on the door, which I opened to find a cheerfully smiling older man. He was standing there calmly, and politely asked if he could come in and do some maintenance.

I was so pleasantly surprised that I actually let him in. I did dishes while he did maintenance. He saw my open scriptures on the table, and gave me an approving smile. He asked if I went to church, and we talked about where we worshiped. I apologized for the baskets and boxes in his way- we're trying to make room for our baby. He gave hearty congratulations, and told me about his family.

So I, Natashya, did something brave today, and I didn't even almost die as a result. Rather, I met a kind maintenance man who loves his wife, and whose cheerful smile made me smile in return. I liked today much better than that time I didn't answer the door and was almost murdered in my bed by someone not even in my apartment. Which, you have to admit, would actually be pretty impressive.

Ponderings on A Weekly Focus and Goal Making

I have a friend who's pretty brilliant. I look up to her in a lot of ways. Her name is Tanney, and she has a blog called Our Fairy Tale that she maintains much better than I maintain this here blog of mine. There are two blogs that I actually read, hers and my friend Michele's, because I love them and I miss them.

And you know what? For a while, I tried to be like other bloggers. I tried to do the different link-ups and different daily designations of topics, like Tasty Tuesdays and what not. I tried to fit in with the blogging world. And then I got bored and stopped. I'm not that kind of blogger. I'm the kind of person who just likes to sit down and write a note to my friends and family, or to myself, add some dumb pictures I created on the fly, and then call it good. And that works for me.

BUT my friend Tanney has a link-up that I actually think is a good idea. It makes sense. She calls it the Weekly Focus. You know what I think? I think that a lot of people make yearly goals, and then forget to make plans to attain those ideals. I think that people neglect the fact that it is the everyday and weekly adjustments that make the most considerable difference in the outcomes of our actions. Having a weekly focus is a great way to gear your attentions on a specific area in which you aim to gain greater control and achievement. 

So I shall participate in this link-up. I doubt that anyone will really read this post, since it has none of my nonsensical pictorials or hair brained witticisms, but that is absolutely fine. I have thoughts and ponderings on this subject, and as a true student of my subject, I'm going to write about them.

If you hadn't noticed from some previous posts, pregnancy and I do not always get along like good chums. Sometimes we don't even get along as well as the snot-nosed geek and the snot-everything-elsed bully on the school playground. One of the biggest problems is hormones, mood swings, that part of you that rises up and fights with the other part of you for no other purpose than to make you confused and irately irrational. This just makes me more upset, since I'm not the kind of girl who was granted monthly practice with these evils during my formative years. Nope. Hormone-induced idiocy to this extent is new, horrid, and blatantly stupid. 

I made a goal that I would stop being ridiculous about my hormone swings. Actually, I called Mama in a fit of tears and begged her to tell me what to do. She suggested that I learn to differentiate between myself and the hormones, because getting upset at myself when there was not always a lot I could do was just pointless and aggravating to the situation. As usual, Mama was right. And that's when I made the goal to stop being ridiculous about how I reacted to hormonal swings.

But that's a tall order, isn't it?

So what was I supposed to do? Just stop it? That wouldn't work. That wouldn't work at all. If that were an option, I think more pregnant women before me would have opted for that one. You can't really effectively work for a goal if there isn't a way to have applicable, practical, and viable steps of achievement along the road to the ultimate finish. Rather than declaring brashly that I am no longer going to be ridiculous about the most ridiculous part of pregnancy, I must rather detail blatantly the steps that I will take when I come into a situation that would test this goal of mine.

For example, please consider the following:

1. I become overly emotional regarding the selection of a dinner item. I am disheartened that no dinner selection is made, that Andrew isn't more specific in what he wants to eat, that I am now very hungry, that I have no reason to be so emotionally upset over this decision process and I am anyway, and that all of this is pathetically lacking in any kind of result, especially results that would lead to us eating dinner any time soon.

2. What do I do? I have a goal to be non-ridiculous about my hormones influencing my reactions and actions and feelings. But HOW do I make that an application right now, when it actually matters?

3. I have to recognize that the hormones aren't necessarily me, and that I should stop getting more upset at myself. If I'm trying to fight a battle against irrationality, my rational side getting beaten up by my rational side itself is not going to help anyone.

4. I should take a step back from the situation. Is there an underlying cause for this? Well, when I get hungry, I'm not known for my charm and easy-going nature. Could my hormones be aggrandizing this typical reaction of mine to megalithic proportions? It could be that having a quick snack could help me to be more realistic about what is happening.

5. I should do something about the actual problem. We need dinner? Well, shoot. Let's have something for dinner. Even if it's cereal as a placeholder till we can find a real supper, that's still something for now. Stopping looking for grand, miraculous ways out, and do something small and simple while you can.

6. Maybe tonight is a crisis because nothing was done to prepare for this moment earlier. I can avoid future repetitions of this problem by making sure that dinner articles are prepared earlier. Meat to be thawed can be stuck in the fridge to defrost, menus can be made so that there are no decisions to be made nightly, shopping can be done so that ingredients are available to use. 

Do you see what I mean? There has to be a method in which to apply your goal to your actual real life. Your life isn't a hypothesis, so don't make goals like it is one. Make goals that are livable by having steps you can actually do on the way to becoming that goal.

And those are my ponderings on weekly focuses, which will help you to break down your bigger goal into manageable portions, and goal making. If nothing else, my head is clearer. That tends to happen when I write things down. I'm a writer. What can I say?

So, have any thoughts on the subject? Want to see what my friend Tanney has to say on it? You can read her blog post at that link right there. Happy thinkings!

Pregnancy: What I Did the First Few Months (An Answer for My Beehives)

A few weeks ago, I was in charge of the Beehive activity on a Wednesday night. We were having a lesson on budgeting and then decorating and gluing and flowering and taping and bejeweling little budget folders. All sorts of fun, right? And then one of the girls commented on my being gone from church for so long. As in, several months long. I told them that I had been ill during the beginning of my pregnancy. And then one of them asked, "So what were you doing for all those months? Just lying around all the time?"

And I stopped to think about it. I raised my eyebrow. I smiled. I considered the happy state of the those women who do not fall desperately ill during their pregnancies, and may even be able to carry on with normal lives and activities. In answer to that young woman's question of what I did for the first few months of pregnancy, here. I made this myself. A documentation of what it's like to make another person within your own person.

First of all, I didn't eat much.

Why? Because I couldn't. I had no choice in the matter. "Morning" sickness is the biggest misnomer in the book. It's actually breathing sickness, because you're sick every time you breathe, not just in the morning.

Andrew did his best to help me to eat healthily. He offered me some of my favorites.

Nope. No vegetables of any kind.

Definitely not. The very thought of chicken or turkey was enough to trigger my gag reflexes. And that went for just about any kind of meat. Just seeing raw meat had the potential to slaughter me. So no meat protein.

I love fruit. I always have. But I couldn't. Nope. No. Don't. No fruits. Andrew was pretty worried about the fact that I wasn't getting good healthy food in my diet. His parents and common sense were encouraging him to help me to eat like a healthy minded person. It wasn't working out for him.

As if the smells of warming pans (and therefore any cooking) didn't make me ill enough, the smell of cooking eggs could have me running for the toilet or any other receptacle. So none of that protein either.

Ever since I was little, I've loved pickles. I eat whole pickles straight from the jar. I eat whole jars. But not now. I couldn't even manage a healthy cereal like Raisin Bran. It's not like I don't like eating healthy food. I like eating. I could never be anorexic because I like food too much.

Andrew was desperate by this point. I mean, I was practically perishing for want of food.

Well, I had an idea at that point. It turns out that my stomach could handle tomato soup (which I downed by the can), and Marshmallow Mateys. This had the tendency to distress Andrew, seeing as neither of these are full of the variety of nutrients required by a normal person, let alone a pregnant woman. It didn't help that I couldn't even take my prenatal vitamins because they made me even sicker. Sicker than a dog. Sicker than a dog who sneaks into my room and eats all of my miniature peanut butter cups AND the goodies in the package from my aunt (which is an entirely different story, one that very much still has the power to rankle my goat's beard and cause me to wobble my fist violently towards all evil dogs).

Andrew broke down eventually because he realized that I needed to eat. Some husbands have to encourage their wives to eat veggies because they don't like them. Any time Andrew came at me with veggies, it turned, churned, burned, and genuinely destroyed my stomach and any chance of happiness for the day. It's not his fault. He's wonderful. So no one blame him for not helping me to get all of the nutrition that a pregnant lady needs, or they'll be answering to ME!

May I just add a thought here? I will, because this is my blog, and I can say and add what I please. Whoever writes those books and such about pregnant women eating all that healthy produce, low-fat dairy, and good protein MUST be: A) entirely too optimistic, B) a man, C) a woman who's never had a child or a lousy pregnancy, or D) just plain nuts. ESPECIALLY the ones who tell you to ignore your cravings if they're unhealthy.

Moving on. So eating is what I didn't do. What did I do? This.

I am really happy for those people who have good pregnancies, and who enjoy being pregnant. I know that they exist. I've heard of them, and I'm even friends with one of them. But I'm even more grateful for my mother, who was so disgustingly ill with her first pregnancy she couldn't eat hardly anything, and then went on to have another nine children after that. My mother is a true hero. She is wonderful. I call her a lot when I don't think that I can handle this any more. It's not fun being sick and being far away from your family.

And there are really nice people in the ward. My visiting teachers not only kept my secret (we didn't tell anyone outside the family for several months), but they also brought over dinner twice a week so Andrew didn't starve. Wasn't that so wonderfully nice of them? Shannon and Joy are the two best visiting teachers in the world. I don't think we would have survived without them.

When I was about 18 or 19 weeks along, I stopped being deathly ill all the time. That was good. Functioning is good. Being able to walk about/eat/bathe/act like a human and not a zombie is good. And at that point, Andrew and I started travelling for the holidays, so no one saw us for another few weeks. I think at one point people probably thought we'd moved out of the ward or something. But we didn't.

And now we're back. I'm 29 weeks along as of yesterday, and I've moved on to an entirely different set of pregnancy joys. Sore legs, for example. But that's an entirely different story, and one that isn't as entertaining as what I did during my second trimester.

But you'll get that next Pictorial.

Blue or Pink?

Read this post from last time first. Here is the link: The Girl and the Awful Morning. Go read that, and then come read this. Ready, go!

NOTE: Really. Go read it now. Before reading this.

NOTE: Read it? Good. Carry on.

The girl sat in the waiting room. She was not embarrassed. She was not uncomfortable. She was excited. She was anxious. She had woken up early, and kept herself from getting distracted by anything, not even the wonderfully warm shower water. She managed to shave in a reasonable amount of time. It was amazing how much quicker that whole shaving business was if you bothered doing it more than once a week. When she stepped out of the shower, she had plenty of time to do her makeup, hair, get into her pre-selected outfit, and eat a nice breakfast. She was feeling rather pretty.

In the car, she wasn't stressed about turning left, even if there were lots of people on the road during morning traffic. Not only did she know where she was going this time, she wasn't driving. She was comfortably seated in the passenger seat, sending happy little smiles over to her handsome husband driver. He looked back at her, and laughed. She laughed, too. They must have had the same thought.

"Remember four weeks ago today when you were running late, and had no idea where you were going?" he asked.

She gave him a disdainful look of her best snobbery. Apparently they were not having the same thought. "I have decided to put that portion of my past firmly into my past, and not think about it."

He laughed again. As he accelerated after a red light turned green, he shot her a quick smile that let her know that he actually was thinking the same thing as she. And he was just as excited.

"Should we let our families know that we're on the way?" she asked.

"And ask their guesses?" he offered as a fun idea.

"Agreed!" she declared while whipping out her phone. She dialed the number for her parent's house, and was startled when her mother's voice answered. "Mama! You answered the phone!"

"Was I supposed to let it ring?"

"No. I was just... Well, I guess that I don't desperately need to get hold of you right this moment, so it is in keeping with traditional mom form to pick up the phone. Well, I'm just glad you answered. We're on our way!"

Her mother gasped. "Oh, so early? Yay! How exciting!"

"Yes, and we are now accepting guesses and bets," she said with a laugh.

She heard a multitude of muffled noises as Mama asked Daddy and the various kids around them for their input. "Well, it looks like Karsten is the only one who thinks pink, and he only picked that because he wants you to be happy," said Mama. "Daddy says you're doomed to no pink, since you want it so much."

"Stop cursing me!"

Mama laughed and said, "Call us and let us know!"

"Will do, Mama. Stay by the phone!"

As she hung up, she looked at her husband. "I've been cursed. And Daddy knows everything, so he must be right."

Her husband laughed again. He was happy this morning. It was a good morning. They were getting close, and both were anxiously excited.

"I was really certain that it was going to be blue, and then I had a dream that they did this all without me there, and I was really mad at them for not waiting for me. I mean, how rude! And then I didn't want them to tell me yet, but they did anyway, and it was pink. But I'm not sure how accurate this whole thing is without me present," she said in a thoughtful voice. Maybe more distracted than thoughtful. They could see the building now.

They jumped out of the car and quick marched to the building, holding hands like excited little kids going to the fair. She dragged him into the elevator. There was no one else in there. She confidently pressed the button for the third floor herself. When the doors dinged shut, he grabbed her close for a kiss. She giggled.

The elevator opened up, and they walked up to the check-in counter together. There was only one person in line in front of them, and it was soon their turn.

"I'd like to check-in," she said, and gave her name, doctor, and proof of insurance. There was scrolling, clicking, and a quick brush of the hair along her neck by her husband. The nurse stood up and went to the printer.

"You don't need to fill this out, just hold onto it for checkout," the nurse said while handing over a blue sheet of paper on a clipboard. "Go ahead a take a seat. They'll call your name when they're ready for you."

It was a much better morning than four weeks ago, she thought. She sat in the waiting room. She was not embarrassed, she was not uncomfortable. She was with her husband, and she hadn't done anything silly or wrong. She was excited. He was excited.

"Natashya?"

They both jumped up and ran over the lady in the doorway, who laughed. "You have an empty bladder, right?"

"Uh, no. They said they'd need a "sample" before the appointment," she said. Now she was uncomfortable.

The new nurse who had called her name said, "Well, you can just stroll back through the doors like you own the place and leave your sample back there, and come back up here."

Then her husband and her purse followed the nurse back into a different room, and she was left out there alone, to walk back across the whole waiting room while people stared at her, and stroll through the doors that said "Personnel Only" in big letters, all so she could tinkle in a cup. Sheesh. She started walking. She was embarrassed. She was uncomfortable. The same people who had watched her make a mad dash for one door now watched her walk slowly to the other door.

Once the ignominious task was completed, she scurried back to the appointment room to be reunited with her husband and her purse. She was excited again.

An hour or two later, everything was done. They'd met with all the different people, and they had what they really wanted with them in their hands. Who knew that black and white photos could be so misleading? Because obviously, this little picture was actually only one color.

They called their families, and made ready their announcement:

The Girl and the Awful Morning

The girl sat in the waiting room. She was embarrassed. She was uncomfortable.She had woken up late that morning, and then been immediately distracted by the invasion of ants in her kitchen. Rather than showering and getting ready, she instead seized her vacuum cleaner and went after the ants. She sucked up ants, crumbs, and almost lost her favorite dishcloth in her zeal to dismiss those ants from her kitchen and the world.

When she had finally stepped into the shower, she then promptly forgot all sense of time. She took her own sweet time shaving- it would have been a massacre on her legs to go any faster, considering she hadn't shaved for several... whiles. By the time she was wrapped in her towel and looking at a clock, it was eight minutes past time to go. Oops. She threw on some clothes, hastily tied her long, soaking wet hair into a knot at the base of her neck, grabbed her keys, and fled the premises. Never mind makeup! Who had time for such frivolities?

After turning left onto the main road, she realized that she honestly didn't know where she was going. She'd only been to this doctor once before, and she couldn't remember the way to get there. She snatched her phone and attempted to phone her mother. No such luck.  She tried again.

"Please leave your message at the---" She shut the machine up with a savage jab at the end call button. She continued down the road in silence. She knew that she was supposed to be on this road for a good while. It was when she turned off the long road and faced all the turns in smaller roads that presented the looming danger. And she was already late. Brilliant! she thought, feeling suddenly clever. She called her father. As the phone rang, she wondered why she had even attempted to call her mother. Not only are mothers notorious for not picking up the phone, her mother in particular had a very poor sense of direction.

"Hello?" came her father's gruff voice. He never enjoyed the phone. He said it made his ears itch.

"Daddy! Hello!" Some silence. "How are you doing today?"

"Tired."

"Did you work until four in the morning again?" she asked. He did that sometimes while building the house.

"No. I slept," her daddy said with a short laugh.

"Well, that explains it," she replied. "You tried something new. That's never good for rest." They shared a laugh, and then some silence. "So, Daddy... I'm on my way to a doctor's appointment."

"Do you know where you're going, or do you need me to look up a map and give you directions?" he asked immediately.

"Funny that you should ask that, Daddy," she said with a laugh, "because I don't really know how to get where I'm going."

She told him where she was and could hear him typing and pulling up Google maps on his computer. "Found where you are," her daddy said. "Where are you going?"

Where...? If she hadn't been driving down the road at a goodly pace, she would have bonked her makeup-less face against the steering wheel. She settled on a strangled gargle instead. "Actually, Daddy, I have no idea where I'm going. I forgot the address. It's the doctor I go to when I pass Hairy Man Road. Does that help?"

She heard him laughing and rubbing his hand on his face. "You," he said, "are just like Mom."

Apparently more of her mother's directionless skills had been passed on than she had originally hoped. Her father, however, had a wonderfully accurate memory and sense of direction. He had given her directions to the doctor's office once before, and was able to get her there again. As she parked, she marveled that her father really was that good. He lived in another state, and he could still get her around better than she could. Of course, he'd always just been that good. Daddy really did know everything.

She jumped out of the car, and quick-marched to the building. She called her husband to let him know she had arrived safely, and scuttled into the now-closing elevator. The man already in there turned to ask which floor she wanted, but noticed she was on the phone and hesitated- especially since she was saying "I love you, too." The man pointed at the buttons. She realized she didn't know which floor she wanted. She hadn't paused to check the map in the lobby. She timidly held up three fingers, and the kind mind obligingly pressed the button for her. She felt doubly dumb: on the phone in the elevator, and she didn't even know which floor her doctor was on. Fortunately, the man exited a floor before she did. He wouldn't know if she exited and then immediately re-entered the elevator.

The elevator doors dinged open. She stuck out her head cautiously, and completely sideways, to see if it was the right floor. It was, and there were plenty of people there to see her sideways meerkat impersonation. Lovely. She scurried to the check-in line. She was very late. The line was very slow, and she was growing even more stressed. She really disliked being late. It was rude, and embarrassing. It was finally her turn at the window.

"I'd like to check in," she said and stated her name and her doctor. After the attendant scrolled and clicked for several moments, she added in an embarrassed tone, "I'm some twenty minutes late, I'm afraid."

"Oh, hon, I don't know if the doctor will be able to see you anymore. Let me call back and see."

Well, rats, she though. Now she was holding up the long waiting line by making the nurse attendant desk helper person call back to see if the doctor would be benevolent enough to see a very tardy patient. A very embarrassed tardy patient.

"The doctor will see you, but you'll be worked in around other appointments who make it on time. Take this paper and wait for your name to be called."

She took the paper with a meek thank you, and went to sit in the waiting room. She looked around. The other women were much better groomed than she. Sure, she had been late because of taking care grooming, but it had been her legs, not her face. And no once could even see her legs under her jeans and knee-high socks. She wished that she had taken time for such frivolities as makeup. She looked like she had no reason to be late.

But she was late. She was very embarrassed. She was very uncomfortable sitting in that waiting room. So she took her notebook and pen out of her purse, and began writing.

The girl sat in the waiting room. She was embarrassed. She was uncomfortable. She had woken up late that morning...

Tashya sighed and sank into her seat. What an awful morning.

Well and Good

There are a lot of rather nice people in my acquaintance. It's true. People that I had no idea knew that I was ill, or even that they knew about this blog, came and asked me today how I was doing today. To all of those people, thank you for caring. You are so very sweet and kind.

But you see, what's even more important than my followers is grammar. That's right. GRAMMAR. And do you know the correct response to the query "How are you today?" Andrew did his best, and answered with confidence.

NOTE: Andrew is the most handsome man alive. He looks very handsome and good in his suit. I can't draw. Just imagine him looking handsome and very presentable, with a perfectly knotted tie and all. Or you can take my image more literally if you'd like.

Now everyone who's read more than two of my posts knows two things. 1) I love Andrew more than anything, and think that he's the smartest, handsomest, sweetest, manliest, handiest, wonderfulest stud in the world, and 2) Grammar Abuse happens to be one of my all-time biggest pet peeves! These two facts put me into a difficult predicament whenever Andrew happens to say "good" instead of "well" when it definitely should be the adverb. That's why I have to look at him in both horror and awe at the same time, which is very hard to capture on Microsoft Paint, let me tell you!

But while I was thinking about how I love Andrew no matter how much he abuses my darling adverbs, a thought came to me. A thought about wellness and goodness, and how the two are so connected. So I will answer inquiries about my health and then give an idea about how to further the wellness of us all.

How am I doing?

"Very well, thank you, how are you?" That's what my baby sister Teannka says every time someone inquires after her health. She's cute. As to how I am doing these days, the answer is similar. I'm doing well for the most part. I'm healing, but not in some huge puff of magical smoke. There are definite improvements, however, that are quite noticeable.

 VS.

No, not all days are pink and red sparklies and hearts, but days are getting better. I'm getting better. I'm less sick, and more healthy, and more happy. I have more energy and strength. This is great news, isn't it? And I can only account it to God, since I'm not taking any medicine right now. I am going to the chiropractor, but I still give the praise and glory to God.

Andrew's grammatical faux pas made me think, though. I'm doing well, but am I doing good? When Jesus Christ healed the infirm man at the pool of Bethesda, he said unto him, "Rise, take up thy bed, and walk" (John 5:8). And that man did exactly as his Lord commanded him. But do you think that maybe that man was walking somewhere? Just walking around is all very well and good for a stroll in the park, but it won't get you anywhere in life. You need a direction. I need a direction. Christ is the direction. But how to walk in that direction?

I see that once infirm man carrying his bed, going down the streets. He may have seen others who were in need, who lacked, who hurt, who suffered, who longed for relief. His hands full of bedding, and his heart full of gratitude, he must have wished to do something for those still languishing in pain in this world. Having been healed not long ago, I am sure that he desired to do as the Lord and to reach out to others. He desired to do good.

Doing good isn't just a nice intention to be put into effect when we have the time or inclination. "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from this world" (James 1:27). Doing good, serving others, is the manifestation of true religion in our lives. When we follow Jesus and his gospel, then our attitudes towards other people change. We are filled with more love, with more desire to lift, to assist, to help, and to reach out.

I fully intend to put my new found energy, wellness, and strength to good use. I fully believe that doing good and serving other people is the way to be happy. I believe that the more that I focus on lifting the burdens of others, the more that my burdens will be lifted. God gives no commandments unto the children of men without first preparing a way for them to accomplish that commandment (1 Nephi 3:7). Doing good is a commandment. God will help me to do it. I also believe that doing good for others will help me to become more self-reliant and even stronger. I will have to start out softly, but I will get stronger and have more endurance as I continue to work out my kinks and knots.

Walking towards Christ is walking towards life. Look to God and live. Christ spent his life reaching out to others who were suffering so much less than himself. He looked outwards and ministered. I want to be known as Jesus of Nazareth, my Savior and King. I want to be known as a person who "went about doing good" (Acts 10:38).

PS. For other posts about happiness, see How To Be A Blossoming Flower and How to Be Happy With Your Miserable Life.

Almost Murdered and Almost Murderer

*WRITTEN SATURDAY!*

Today was an interesting day in the life of Tashya. And by interesting, I definitely mean harrowing and life-threatening to the extreme! Or maybe there were two incidents that made today slightly less average than usual. But the manner of said incidents is what made them stand out. Both involved near death or maiming. Sorta. Or maybe you just had to be there. I'll see if I can recreate the scenes for you.

1. Almost Murdered

Have I ever told you that I love driving? If I did, I'm sorry. That was a lie. A downright dirty stinkin' lie. I'm generally a very honest person. I even announce when I'm about to cheat in a board game so that everyone knows in advance, so I doubt that I'd tell you as blatant a lie as me actually liking driving. I'm not a bad driver, I'm a safe driver. But loads of other people on the road tend to make nervous, especially if I'm the only one in the car.

Well, today I was out doing good in the world, and I was taught that Elphaba's song really is true: No good deed goes unpunished! I made some of my good brownies (and I mean, really good brownies. I really enjoy my brownies!) for a friend's Eagle Scout project thing, and took them over to his place to drop them off. I made it there alright, but on the way home, I really botched the job. I was trying to turn left onto a busy street from a side street, and it was kind of on a turn in the road. I waited a while, and then saw my chance. There was a small gap between loads of cars. I decided to take it!

I crept forward since no one was in the lanes going to the right, and prepared to gun it. The space came and opened before me exactly as planned! I gunned it exactly as planned! Only, I didn't. I missed the gas and hit the brake. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But by the time I got out into the lane and was going, the car was upon me, right on my bumper. And even though I was speeding up rather quickly, they did not slow down! I even went over the speed limit a little to try to get away from them, but that didn't work either! I was so glad to turn off that road into my apartment complex and leave the creepy tailer behind!

2. Almost Murderer

Andrew and I live in a gated apartment complex. We have little clicker remotes that open the three gates around the community. You don't need to click the button in order to get out, but if you don't click it, then you have to nose your car right up to the gate and then wait for it to open. It's faster if you use the clicker as you're approaching. Today my impatience with the gate almost maimed an innocent young woman.

Andrew, Teannka, and I were leaving to run some errands. Huzzah for the library! Hooray for mailing packages! Haloo for getting groceries! We got into the car, and started off towards the gate closest to us, which is around a sharp corner. I pulled my keys out in preparation for the clicking ceremony so I would be ready to speed our exodus from the apartment complex. When we turned the corner, we saw two people climbing over the fence to get out of the community. The guy had jumped down, but the girl was still crossing over the top. That fact registered about .5 seconds after I had clicked the button.

What had started as a button clicking ceremony to bring us out of the gate almost turned into a sacrificial ceremony offering up the girl's foot. Since her weight had been balanced on top of the gate, when it started to move, she fell forward. She didn't face plant because she caught herself on her hands, but her feet were still up in the air. It looked like an extremely showy push up that a guy could use to try to impress the ladies. Her foot got caught between the bars of the moving gate, and became lodged in the sliding gate as it continued to open. Fortunately, the good engineers who had designed the gate somehow incorporated magic into the machine so that it knew something was there, and it automatically closed again, releasing her foot.

Thank goodness that was over without anyone actually losing life and limb.

PS. I wrote this last Saturday. I'm not sure why it didn't go up. I am now busy with other posts, so I'm going to stop bothering with wondering if this post is quality or not, and just put it up. Have a nice day!