Art

They say it is something special. 

They say it is grand, touching, and relatable. 

But I just see this thing I made,

This thing I thought was only

Kind of

Okay. 

They say that they want more. 

They say I have a lot to give, show, and say. 

But all I see is vague repetition,

That cannot be valuable. 

And really--

What?

They say that I've got...something. 

They say I do it right, well, and poignantly. 

But all I see are half-baked drafts,

And they are probably not grand,

But share...

I do. 

I say that my work has changed. 

I say these works are no longer mine: ill and earthly.

For I see that feeble thoughts are touched
With power I did not request,

Because---

They're His. 

He says what He thinks they should.

He says what each person needs, wants, and craves. 

But He does not force the feelings down;
He invites us to look.
They are free

To keep. 

New Body

I kept feeling like I should write this post, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to share this. Or admit to it. Or accept it. Or be it.

But I'm ready now.

I've viewed my illness as a detour from the life I'm supposed to get back to any time now. A set back. A frontage road running along my favored course. Sometime, it will merge, right?

Because when you get sick and you're barely in your twenties, you get better, right? Your prime is still ahead, right? Your body is confused or having a meltdown, but it will get back with the program because it's young, right?

Do I have to answer that question?

I finished Ann Romney's book, In This Together. It tells her story of having MS. I dog-eared the pages that touched me, where she articulated my feelings about having a debilitating chronic illness so well. The beginning third of the book impressed me the most. Here, I directly quote what she said, because after four drafts, I still can't do a fair job of summarizing. 

A friend of a friend who was a few years ahead of Ann in her own MS journey offered Ann counsel over the phone. 

"'You've basically moved into a new body,' she began. 'The things you took for granted before are no longer true anymore, and it's your job to take care of this new body. You have to listen to it and pay more attention to it than you're used to doing, and you have to understand and accept the fact that you have limitations...People are going to try to push you a little, because you don't look any differently to them...the people who love you most have to understand that you're not who you were before and can't do the same things...Learn your limitations,' she said."

A new body. Limitations. No going back. Neat. 

I mean, obviously, we get new bodies through life. Think toddler bodies vs. school-aged bodies, pre-pubescent bodies vs. post-pubescent bodies, newlywed bodies vs. elderly bodies, and all the many bodies in between, like athletic, post surgical, and menopausal.

But ill bodies, if expected at all, are not expected until the late, late years. This is why it's so shocking and tragic when illness touches someone at a younger age. It doesn't seem right.  

I certainly didn't expect illness. I went to university on a dance scholarship and had a powerful, lithe body. I had a baby as I graduated with my bachelors degree and hoped for at LEAST nine more. 

I remember the alarm and devastation of living in my recovering, post-birth body and wondering if I could never be put back together again. I cried, "I'm leaking from almost every oriface all at once! Motherhood has broken my body!"

I recovered quickly to a new normal, yet I was a bit altered. I still danced--muscle memory is a gift. But my perfect ballet abdominals were sacrificed for my baby. Every "improvement" to my post-birth body was a reminder that the heavens opened and two of the brightest souls in the universe came into the world via my little mortal frame.

But illness? Illness. 

I haven't been able to figure illness out. It's stuck to me. I can't shake it because it's my new body. 

It's going to take some time to swallow. I've always wanted to be the tough girl who helps put up chairs after church, the dainty girl who clears the plates after dinner, the tough mother who lifts a turkey in and out of the oven with sinewy arms glistening from the heat of the kitchen. I've wanted to kick box and shoot hoops and run half marathons. I've wanted to rearrange furniture and clean the house by myself, run kids to school and activities, handle the finances and be my husband's business sidekick, be the mom who swims with her kids and takes them to a new park every week. And I wanted to have a baby attached to me in some way at all times. 

But thank goodness that Heavenly Father has changed my heart and made me content without all that. 

My doctor says I should focus on what I CAN do and not on what I CAN'T do. I heard that again about three times during General Conference last week. 

It seems that since my abilities have changed SO MUCH, I need to find new purpose. I need to build a new life. It's super intimidating. My old plan was pretty cool. 

I can't make babies, can't scurry around as a nurse, can't handle play dates or loud groups of little people. Can't bake bread, afford more schooling, beautify my home, grocery shop, or pull in a paycheck just now. 

I can do personal daily worship, love my husband, teach my children, read, write, crochet, do a little family history work (it stresses me out), read to my children, talk to them for long periods of time, do family home evening, scripture study, family prayers, plan the menu, start simple dinners, carry out a very low-key calling, be available to my husband and children, make our home smell nice...

And miraculously, Heavenly Father allows me to feel well enough to go to church and partake of the Sacrament every Sunday. This is truly a miracle to me. 

But anyway, as far as comments like:

"Hope you feel better soon." 

"Maybe tomorrow will be better." 

"You should be good after this treatment, right?" 

I'm not offended, and I do have an answer. 

Probably no. 

I have a new body. It has problems. But it is still good for something. 

A Poem

My arms are so full

Of parcels and things--

I want to let go

But I'm too persistent. 

So my fingers will cramp

And I'll shudder with pain. 

But I can't let go. 

I can't let go. 

I can't let go. 

I can't let go because they're my hopes and dreams

My deepest wishes

My greatest mistakes

They're maps and statues

And things to keep

To remind me of who I was

Who I was

Who I was long ago. 

There is a Person taking parcels

From the arms of the travelers

But I won't give them

I have earned them

They are MINE,

And I've taken them this far

This far

This far.

But He says, That is heavy,

And this is my job. 

Please, you will, please believe me:

For you are mine

You are mine 

You are mine. 

My heart says He's right

And I groan inside. 

If I'm His, then these parcels--

These parcels are His. 

They're all His, and it's His job

To take them away. 

But the price of giving them 

Is too much.

So I will keep keeping

Keep keeping

Keep keeping them safe. 

But I can't

And I know that

And without another Word.

So I drop just a little pen into His hand. 

But it's nothing compared to

The pot-bellied stove that I carry around my middle. 

I HAVE to keep that. 

But the rest He can have, I guess,

If He must

If He must

If He must. 

Off with the suitcase, the textbooks, the scrubs,

The kettle, the apron, the pool, and the checkbook,

Down go the beads and the ledgers and books,

And lastly, with a grunt,

Lastly, with a grunt, 

Lastly, with a grunt go my dancing shoes. 

Heave ho! I am fine,

Pot belly and all. 

It hurts, but I'll manage, probably,

I think--

Sigh, I'm wrong. 

But I can't

But I can't

But I can't!

Not the oven full of buns,

The source of our heat

The warmer of hands

And the cooker or meat. 

Not the embers round which

All our family talks

Til it's late in the night

And we've built on our Rock. 

Where the knickknacks from holiday Traditions collect

And pieces of artwork

We made stand erect. 

That potbellied stove is 

The thing I would like

To be seen of me first when 

In churches I stride. 

But His eyes are like fire

Wilder and warmer than the embers

And I feel safe

I feel safe

I feel safe handing it over. 

That potbellied stove! 

I feel safe handing it over. 

So light now, I am sent onward 

But what can I do?

What is tomorrow?

Don't I have somewhere to be?

Something to do?

My things--my tools--

They're far off behind me

I'm lighter, but loster. 

With nothing in my hands,

And no way to care for my own...

What shall I do?

What shall I do?

What shall I do?

Washing Day

This post is my way of praising God for His tender mercies toward me. I celebrate a routine He has helped me keep going for about six weeks. I know cannot claim any degree perfection in any part of my life, and this post is not meant to sound boastful. I'm just so stunned and grateful! 

I finally feel like a homemaker!

A few months ago, I did not have the physical get-up-and-go to follow through on even ONE load of laundry. I think Heavenly Father knew how much I desired to contribute to my family and has now given me a day of strength every week to be the best homemaker I can be. Who knew it was such a privilege to do laundry, and that a woman could get SO MUCH JOY from it?!

Also, even though I present my best successes regarding my Monday routine here, please know I readily acknowledge that I am SO not successful yet in may other ways. The feelings I have towards dishes, for example, are so disdainful that they probably aren't Christian. My husband and children all seem to feel the same way, so you can expect to see dirty dishes littering the counter if you come to visit. You'll see that I have to shop once a week on our current system, which is rather inefficient (plus, grocery shopping, EW!). Our blinds have never been cleaned. Our baseboards are a horror…

You get the idea. We struggle. But I have one successful homemaking routine because of the Lord, and this is it.

On to the post!

I think my favorite day of the week is Washing Day.

It's the day in which I do the most and lie around the least. I have instant gratification of my accomplishments. The rest of our week is better because of Washing Day.

Washing Day takes place after the Day of Rest. I call it "Monday, Mom's Day" or "Monday, My Day," or simply just, "Washing Day."

It's the day I get my head together for the following week. It's the day I exercise my full jurisdiction as wife, mother, homemaker, and nurturer. Even if I'm in the middle of a sick episode, I have to do Washing Day. It's a selfish pleasure, and the first step I take towards creating a house of order for my family. It brings me great joy to pull some weight. Plus, I truly believe that if I can get this system down, other productive routines will eventually fall into place.

Here's how it goes down.

After everyone has left for school or work, I start filling the washing machine with hot water while I gather all the dirty towels in the house. I designed this house to have pigmented walls so that white could be an intentional accent color. Thus, all our towels are white. The bathroom towels and kitchen towels each get a load but are both bleached every week. While the washtub is filling, I run to our bathrooms and get towels. But before I leave our half bath (the one visitors are most likely to use), I pour bleach in the toilet and spray down the mirror and vanity with cleaners. Then I wipe the whole bathroom down, swirl out the toilet, and tidy up. I love that this only takes three minutes and is done for the week. Before heading to the washer, I grab the used white hand towels from this half bathroom and also the "wet bucket" from the pantry (which is full of used kitchen towels from the week). 

By the time I get back, the washer has just finishing filling. The bathroom towels take an agitated, bleachy bath. I start up the washer and gather the rest of the dirty laundry in the house. Because I do this every week, it is not overwhelming. (It did take an initial, colossal laundry week and purging everyone's too-small, worn-out clothing to get on top of this process completely.) Each person has a mesh laundry basket, and I sort everyone's clothes into respective loads: darks, whites, jeans, lights, reds, and delicates/hang to dry/cold water wash.

When we first got married, we bought two, wheeled laundry trolleys from Costco. Each has three laundry bags attached. I also brought my childhood hamper into our marriage, so we have seven spaces altogether for dirty laundry. It's great for the basic loads we do every week. (Inevitably, there are always random things to wash, like blankets or a large tablecloth.) The trolleys and hamper are parked under a countertop I designed into our laundry room, with a countertop above it and a set of cabinets yet above that. We pushed the entire front of our home out by two feet so we could have this space, and I am grateful every day that we did! 

While the wash gets going, I go to the kitchen. I throw the beans that soaked overnight into the crockpot with some salt and garlic, maybe an onion. Meanwhile, I usually brew myself a cup of fruity herbal tea. Dinner will be ready this afternoon!

Then I sit down to plan our menu for the week. I use a binder that has our family's favorite recipes photocopied and alphabetized to create a diverse menu that will hopefully interest everyone. Then I create a short shopping list and plan on shopping later in the day, usually after I've picked up our kindergartener.

The other thing I do while I'm sitting down is make a plan for carrying out the items talked about during our Family Council. We just started having Family Council on Sunday afternoons. Basically, we discuss at the following week through Sunday so we are all on the same page and there are no surprises for anyone. We also talk about goals, counsel our church leaders have given us, etc. (For example, recently we made of list of ways we can keep the Sabbath day holy.) The whole meeting takes five or ten minutes. We have a dry erase calendar that we update every week. At BYU Education Week this year, I was taught that if you don't talk about a project due on Wednesday, you'll be fighting about it on Tuesday night! (That tip came from professional organizer Marie Ricks.) 

Some things from Family Council are left up to the mom. Have I bought a wedding gift for the reception coming up this week? Does our son have treats that start with the letter H for his class on Wednesday? Are our daughter's dance clothes clean and in good working order? Have we sent in the donation money for her school class yet? Etc. etc.

Several years ago, my husband bought us matching iPod touches so our calendars would sync easily. I was working nights, and we had to make sure our children had childcare at all times. Sycning our calendars saved our bacon when we were in survival mode, but recently I have really missed my old paper planner. It was always the place I brainstormed without having to have random papers and notebooks to do it in. About a month ago, I finally bought myself a Moleskine paper planner and have LOVED it. The calendar between our phones is still synced, but I brainstorm our menus and make shopping lists and make little journal-type notes in my little paper planner. Washing Day is the day the most writing happens as I get organized.

Usually by this time, it's time to rotate laundry. I stay home as much as I can all day so I can switch over loads immediately. I have a goal to fold and put everything away while it's still warm. It makes life so much tidier. My kids are usually home during the thick of this process and are used to me jumping up and coming back ten minutes later with my arms full of whatever warm laundry I just folded. No, I haven't gotten them folding their laundry much yet because I'm a control freak on this and want orderly, instant gratification…but when my children moan less on their other chores and can handle their possessions without causing a riptide in their rooms, I'll get them folding their own clothes. I'm hoping for this by the time they're eight (wish me boatloads of luck!). The way I fold their clothes now, their drawers look like little bookshelves and it's so beautiful. I can't let go of that order yet because I lack emotional maturity on this. Baby steps, okay?!

Bathroom towels are easiest for me to put away: I don't even have to fold the large towels because they get hung on the towel racks. Each bathroom gets three or four hand towels, and each person gets a washcloth. We have two backup large towels, but they never get used (the blessings of living in such a DRY climate!). The delicates are hung to dry and put away on Tuesday…theoretically. 

That's how Washing Day goes for me. I'm selfish about it. I look forward to it. I love it. I defend Monday, My Day. It isn't just my day though; it's the day I do my job the most, and keeps my family from getting hangry and going into chaos later in the week. It prevents frantic runs to the store and gives us time to prepare for talks or projects. We all need Washing Day. And at the end of it, we have Family Home Evening and watch Studio C. Washing Day is a personal day and a family day, and I am grateful for it.

After I established Washing Day as a tradition, I remembered that it may be in my very genes to hold this day every week. My great grandmother lived in Washington, or "Warshington" as she so sweetly called it. She and my Great Granddad lived next door to my grandparents. They had a clothesline out back between their house and their farmland. That's where the wet "warsh" was hung after it had been through the machine on their back patio.

My great Grandma thrived on routine all of her ninety-plus years. She had her own weekly Warshing Day (I don't know that she called it that) on which she made a big pot of beans for her family. I never talked to her about this, but I wish I could now. I'm sure she worked harder than I do, pinning up wet sheets and socks on the clothesline and stirring the beans on the stove now and then. As she and Granddad grew older, she still made a big pot of beans that they would eat the rest of the week. 

Great Grandma's mother was born in England; my mother remembers her and that she had the sweetest English accent. I like to believe that she loved sipping tea, like me, and was immensely organized, like her daughter, and like I hope to be. As I clear cobwebs from the recesses of my mind that are designed to create order in our home, I find how much I need organization and routine too and how much I may be like the great women who have come before me. My mother was the best homemaker, and I see now that she learned from several generations of good training.

I look forward to routine. I LOVE it! I know every Monday I make beans for dinner, and that 2/3 of a cup feeds our family with no leftovers, and that's perfect because we won't willingly eat the leftover beans anyway. I know I need to get dinner started before lunchtime every single day because I have no energy in the afternoon to cook. When my "Start dinner!" alarm goes off at 10:15 every morning, I already know we will all have full bellies when we go to bed. We'll sit down for dinnertime, also a new novelty in our home. I will be giving my children the best chance for health, growth, and success at school tomorrow. I will feel like I did something for my family that day. I will have helped and contributed and pulled my weight. I'll plop into bed exhausted, but amazed yet again that I stayed vertical and that Washing Day was another smashing success.

That is why I love Washing Day. It's a hallowed day for me. I fold each article and dot every I and know the week will get its best chances because of these efforts. I do my job and receive clarity as to how to guide my children along in their work. My husband's burdens are lifted just a little as he has clothing to wear and food to eat, work he didn't have to do himself. I'll know where the jackets are and what trousers have worn out and which dinners weren't popular with us so I can try again next time. Life feels like it's chugging into motion again from hazy stagnation, because on Washing Day the wheels are greased.

The holiest day is the Sabbath Day, but to me, Washing Day is not too far behind.

Random Updates

Hello. In the spirit of pretending I don't have any illness, it has been a long time since I've posted.

I started a new treatment over a month ago called LDI (low-dose immunotherapy, I believe). It is a series of weekly injections into the skin on my forearms. In any illness or allergy, it is the body's immune system that creates body symptoms and causes one grief. The purpose of LDI is to train the immune system to stop reacting so much to foreign substances, whether it is Lyme, a virus, peanuts, or even a sample of your own tissue.

I have undergone five weeks of treatment so far. It makes me feel quite Lyme-y sometimes, but my guts are feeling so much better than they used to. In fact, I am basically eating only gluten- and soy-free now. Isn't that crazy?! I still keep up a lot of Paleo habits because they work for me, but I enjoy having more variety in my diet. The first week I ate small portions of dairy, I gained four glorious pounds—and I haven't lost them yet! I'm so happy about this, and that my gut seems to be healing.

Recently, I read a book by a Japanese organizer named Marie Kondo. It has changed my life, and I am finally setting our house in order. So far, I have discarded about 1 ½ or two SUVs full of stuff, and I'm not even halfway through. As I go through our belongings, I have learned a lot about what I want from my life and what kind of energy we want in our home. I'll post on this once I'm further into the process. But I will say it is extremely fulfilling to gain mastery over our objects.

My husband planted a large garden this year, knowing I would most likely not help with maintaining it. He has cheerfully farmed that little piece of dirt, and it has given back more than we expected. We have kale out the wazoo! Our compost pile is growing, and our neighbor who breeds rabbits gives us all the manure we could possibly need.

My little family seems to be doing well. My husband has been extremely busy with work this summer, and I'm so glad. I knew that someday our prayer would be answered and we may miss the slow business days. But my husband continues on as cheerfully as ever. Our daughter had surgery over a week ago—tonsils and adenoids. We feel like parents of a newborn again with all the times we have been awake with her in the night. But she is recovering as well as can be expected and will have a renewed burst of health and apnea-free sleeping from now on, we hope. Our son is the most good-natured, silly boy, and I have needed his steady pleasantness as I've nursed our daughter back to health while Daddy is working. I'm not kidding when I say that every single thing about him is almost unbearably cute to me. I can't believe how adorable my children are and how blessed we are to have them.

In fact, a friend commented to me yesterday as she observed them playing, that she always wanted a boy and a girl—that it would be just perfect. And as I looked at my peeps through her eyes, I agreed—I have a great situation. I'm so very grateful they came thirteen months apart while I was still so young.

Speaking of children, there are sure a lot of them being born and announced lately. And I am soooo delighted for their parents! Per suggestion from someone who has done the same due to health issues and promptings, I asked Heavenly Father to remove my desire for more babies if He truly didn't want me to worry about bringing them to earth at this time. And He really has. Just this past weekend, I gave away baby items without a twinge of sentiment or regret. Happily, I let them sail on to a new life without us. While I used to be unsatisfied with our "small" brood, I don't feel guilt anymore about being happy about our family of four.

I should talk about my mood. It's been awesome! It's a miracle, as slow as the night sky waking up as the sun approaches the horizon. I never knew if I would ever be okay again—a hallmark of despair. Yet, I feel great. Truly happy and full of gratitude.

Sure, I get spells of anxiety in social situations still. If I'm hammered with outside negative energy, I crumble. But those are moments instead of my existence. I know the sun will come back out. I can't believe I am so happy.

I do still have limitations. But I feel more powerful than I have in years.

Scriptures, prayer, and journaling have also saved me. I started the Book of Mormon again and slowly digested first Nephi, because come on guys, Nephi is the man. I also feel he is among the most expressive and candid of the Book of Mormon writers. I relate to a lot of his emotions; he shows vulnerability and fortitude all at once. I love Nephi. Every time we begin the Book of Mormon together, I can't help but think that he was meant to be at the beginning as a relatable and invitational voice to all who start the Book again.

There is a difficulty unrelated to health or anything I've talked about that I am working through. It's exciting to get to work through challenges and find out how I am stronger afterwards. This one is a doozy, but Heavenly Father is really helping me.

I guess the only other thing to update you about is my birthday. It's coming up soon, and I'm excited to finish yet another trip around the sun. I start a new journal on my birthday every year, and this past year's journal will definitely exceed the number of words in the third Harry Potter book (>107,000). I like that this time of year is hallmarked by school supplies and new clothes in the stores. I like sipping herbal tea and dreaming of fall, then winter…but I still like folding few socks from the laundry because everyone is running around in sandals. There's a seriousness and simplicity before impending school structure hits us all again. It's weird and wonderful, sweet and stressful. I approach my birthday with new goals and hopes in my heart.

That's my story for now. I barely keep my eyes open as I type this. The Lyme is fierce today, but I don't mind giving in. Love you all!

"I'm Doing Just Fine."

Boyd K. Packer, a beloved Apostle, recently passed away. I got to hear parts of his funeral on TV. One story from his funeral has stuck with me especially.

 

Elder Dallin H. Oaks spoke as a fellow Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, and also as President Packer's long-time friend. Elder Oaks said that no matter the condition President Packer was in, he answered the question, "How are you?" the very same way:

 

"I'm doing just fine."

 

(I hope I got his verbiage exactly correct.)

 

If you're a long-time reader of my blog, you know I have typically addressed that very question with some combination of four levels of candor when it is asked of me. When I heard this story about President Packer, with a standard answer despite the standard and superstandard ups and downs of his life, I had to stop and think for awhile. How could one simple phrase sum it all up, every time? My first thought was, "That doesn't seem very honest. Everyone has good and rough days, including Apostles."

 

But I've talked it over with several people, and a stunning thought keeps hitting me in the face. It seems to me that President Packer wasn't necessarily avoiding the truth or putting up a wall to hide his best or worst of days.

 

President Packer was saying this sentence to himself, and he believed it. It was an affirmation.

 

 

"The storms are swirling, but I'm doing just fine."

 

"My body ages, but I'm doing just fine."

 

"I don't know how things will turn out, but I believe all will be well. I'm doing just fine."

 

"I see immense successes from my efforts, but they do not come by my power. All glory goes to The Father. I am lowly and have much to learn. I don't need credit. I'm doing just fine."

 

"I feel sorrow and loss, but I know the truth and am comforted by it. I'm doing just fine."

 

 

That sentence is faithful. It is believing. Managing, making it, and still here, we thrive. Indeed, we are doing just fine!

 

Zoom out past this mortal life, and I realize that God carries us through it. Um, WOW?! Our Maker has a plan that fulfills our every need and develops us into our finest. Trials are opportunities to be refined. We work toward being finished and complete.

 

I submit that it is completely possible to reprogram a calamity complex into a calming complex, and it is as easy to wear grumpy pants as it is to wear giggle pants. Why not be fine? Be in a state of wonder instead of worry.

 

I have been trying it out, and I think it's nice to feel "just fine" and really mean it. I believe in good things to come. And whether I am asking a probing question or thinking it to myself, I try to live by President Packer's paradigm because I like it. I smile more on the inside because I realize in wonder that—wow—I'm doing just fine.

Three-Week Hiatus

Hi y'all. I have been in denial about ever having had Lyme the last few weeks. I stopped IV antibiotics and had my PICC line pulled three weeks ago, and I have taken a mental vacation from the sick life. It's been awesome. 

Now the reality of illness is peeking out from behind the trees of hope I planted. It burns holes in facets of life that I hoped it would never touch again. I feel so DONE with chronic illness, yet it remains. The recovery is slow. 

And actually, I don't know if recovery ever took root. I like to hope so. But as symptoms emerge (like exhausting twitching spells and migraines), I wonder. Is it healing, illness, or good ol' detoxing?

That's one of the most frustrating parts of all: I don't know where I am on this mountainous journey. Am I peaking? On a decline? Or am I bobbing up and down a few degrees day to day? What is the next step? Should I take really tough steps uphill, with muscles shaking and sweat dripping to the earth, while I begin to grow in hope and strength? Should I allow myself to be swallowed in a new avalanche while I wait upon The Lord for direction on if I should dig out? Or should I set up a nice campsite and wait while until the storm passes to keep hiking? WHAT?

The hardest part of any trial is not knowing how long it will last. If I could see a graph of my trials to know when the worst part of that huge emotional contraction is cresting, that would make panting through it a whole lot easier. 

And so, three weeks of wondering has not given me much headway in the self-motivational department. 

I had a great holiday weekend out of town with our family. I was practically my old self, but with dietary restrictions. It was miraculous. It was like slipping back so easily into a pair of jeans you haven't worn since before pregnancy; it's like they've always fit, but you KNOW you've undergone such dramatic changes. Heck, you sustained a PERSON who was ready for the outside world. And that person is proof that you changed; and that person changes the world by being born. Yet, the jeans fit. It's like noting ever happened for just a split second. You could never forget your child permanently, but you flashback to the unaffected you. 

But since we got home, I've spent 90% of my time lying down, in pajamas, wondering how this weekend even happened. The jeans are in the wash, and I don't have energy to launder them. 

In short, I hoped to blog during this three-week hiatus about a grand, positive change. I can't. It would be nice to report that I have perfected the art of patience. Not in this lifetime. 

But I'll tell you this. I'm still here, and this journey, wherever I am in it, somehow matters.