Love One Another

On a day where there is a lot of red to be seen and a lot of talk about equality, politics, love, marriage, definitions, and more, this simple quote made the most sense to me:

Our culture has accepted two huge lies.

 

The first is that if you disagree with someone's lifestyle, you must fear or hate them.

 

The second is that to love someone means you agree with everything they believe or do.

 

Both are nonsense.

 

You don't have to compromise convictions to be compassionate.

 

~Rick Warren

Define: "Sexy"

The other day my son asked me what "sexy" means.

After retrieving my jaw from my lap, I sputtered out some jargon about how it means "beautiful" but not in a very nice way and that it really isn't something we should be saying. By the time I reached the end of my muddled definition, his attention had already wandered and he was crawling around on the floor in search of the perfect Lego piece to add to his ship.

I don't know if he even gave it any further thought, but I sure did.

Hmm...What does sexy mean?

I mean there's the obvious definition that the world gives us in every song, picture, movie, TV commercial, magazine, billboard, etc.

Big boobs. Big booties. Big hair.
Big big big and tiny tiny tiny.
Tiny waists. Tiny eyebrows. Tiny clothes. Tiny appetites.
Rippling pecs. Ripping bodices.
Fast. Fast cars. Fast relationships. Fast money.
Bright colors and shades of grey.
And everything in between.

Sexy.

According to the dictionary...

sex·y/ˈsɛksi/

1. concerned predominantly or excessively with sex; risqué: a sexy novel.
2. sexually interesting or exciting; radiating sexuality: the sexiest professor on campus.
3. excitingly appealing; glamorous: a sexy new car.

Sexy.

Really??

None of the above is how I would define "sexy" because this is what I found to be "sexy" last week....

I went searching for my missing husband to find him in the cold garage, in his coveralls, covered in grease and oil, devoting his Saturday, his one free day, to fixing our one working vehicle.

Using his hands, time, knowledge, and skills to save us money and keep our old minivan going a few more miles.

Now that's sexy.

Eat your heart out, Channing Tatum.

Love is...

At 17 years old I knew what love was.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Then at 22, as a newlywed, I just KNEW what love was.

Wrong again.

Now, I'm 31, still married with four children, and I certainly know what love is.

Love is...

...tag teaming bath night.
...listening to country music even though you hate country music.
...saving the biggest piece of meat/peanut butter candy/Milano cookie for him.
...watching your husband dance with another girl...your daughter.
...going to Stake Conference with four young children.
...eating sushi when you'd rather have "real food".
...sitting through Les Miserables/Twilight/Pride and Prejudice.
...saying "no".
...saying "yes".
...laughing during *cough* loooove-making *cough*.
...calling to check-in every night.
...siding with your spouse.
...driving a beat-up mini-van instead of a brand new Ford pickup.
...staying home.
...shaving your legs even though it isn't Sunday.
...not having to shave your legs.
...emptying the dishwasher.
...TWO boxes of chocolate just to make sure she gets the kind she really likes.
...making chocolate chip pancakes for the kids while she goes for a run.
...knowing when to let the stupid, little things slide.
...giving your wife, who is applying mascara, a warning BEFORE stopping the car.
...looking past stretch marks and saggy, deflated, post-baby breasts.
...knowing when to keep it to yourself.
...cutting your shower short so there's enough hot water left for someone else.
...replacing the toilet paper roll the "right" way.
...leaving tomatoes off half of the dinner.
...knowing lost wedding bands don't really matter in the long run.
...not using the "D" word.
...bringing in the mail, pumping gas, and shoveling snow.
...trying to replicate his mother's recipe.
...telling your children how wonderful their mother/father is.
...leftovers and Netflix.
...not cutting your hair because he likes it long.
...clearing the table after dinner.
...never, ever, ever giving up, even when the rest of the world seems to be.

That's what I think love is. But maybe when I'm 83, I'll really know.

Sister, Sisters

Today I am grateful for sisters.



I spent the entire day with my sister, Erin, who lives a mere 30 minutes away and was in desperate need of some adult time.

As our children ran around my house we sat and talked about our childhood memories. We swapped tips on local grocery deals and clipped coupons. We rolled our eyes at the things our husbands do as we professed our gratitude that they saw past our dorkiness and actually wanted to marry us.

We made Christmas plans and wondered about the future of our aging parents. We debated the pros and cons of sister wives as we fed seven hungry children. We ate leftover Halloween candy and coaxed little ones to smile for the camera.

It was a long full day of sister time. Time I no longer take for granted now that I have spent a few years living far far away from "home".

I love both of my sisters. Erin and Camille.


 I'm grateful for the companions they were in childhood and remain to be as we stumble through adulthood, parenthood, and onwards through sisterhood.

From climbing trees, giggling in our bunkbeds late at night, and dancing in the basement to swapping babysitting, sharing recipes, and laughing over sushi. The calenders and faces are changing, but the fun and love is ever the same.

I look at my three little girls and can't help but smile with the anticipation of their forming sisterhood.

They will learn as I have learned that sisters are one of the dearest things we can have in this life. I hope they hold tight to their sisters no matter who steals who's clothes, no matter what friends may come and go, no matter the distance or time that separates them.

Sisters will always be there. Teasing, listening, provoking, cheering, advising, competing, gossiping, remembering, suffering, lifting, laughing, loving as no one else can.

Size Does Matter

Every so often I come across a worn, yellowed sheet of paper.

It just seems to magically turn up as I am sorting and filing paperwork.

It's a receipt.

From a small town jewelry store.

For the engagement and wedding ring set that Joe purchased the day he asked me to marry him.

On April 15, 2003.

Eight years ago today.

That ring set cost all of 735 dollars.

Do you know what that price tag means to me?

It is a symbol of the humble and simple man my husband is. He doesn't need money or possessions or "bling" to illustrate how capable or manly or important he is. He didn't feel the need to go into thousands of dollars of debt just to prove something to me or the world. With that small ring he gave me his heart, his love, his loyalty, and his life.

I cannot claim to be so consistently pure of heart as he is.

Sometimes I look at this ring I wear on my left hand and get a little wistful, maybe even slightly jealous when I see my sisters and friends with their big fat bands and diamonds.

Sometimes I want something fat and ferocious on my finger too.

Maybe someday I will.

But can I tell you something?

I think there is a reason that yellowed piece of paper keeps "magically" reappearing in my pile of paperwork.

I need a reminder.

Of the good heart my husband has.

Of how simple and precious life and love and marriage can be.

Of what is truly important.

Funny how one little $735 gold wedding band set can be worth more than a whole pile of diamonds.

Happy "Will You Marry Me?" Day Joe! I love you!

Christmas at the House of Dreams {2002}

The Christmas season of 2002 I lived in a very large, very old, creaky, drafty house with four other college girls.

The house was in appalling physical condition. When you walked upstairs you felt a little dizzy as the whole upstairs was shifted ever so slightly at an angle. A very narrow stair case led down to a dark and dank basement. Unless I had laundry that needed to be done, I rarely went down there out of pure unadulterated fear. There was a large dirt-filled recess at one end that would have been the perfect place to stash bodies.

As if that wasn't enough to spook a bunch of single girls, a large attic-like room full of sticky cobwebs, piles of ancient insulation, and inky-black mysterious space lurked strangely in the middle of the house.

Whatever the house lacked in charm, warmth, and safety, I found in my roommates. I had lived with other roommates in other apartments and houses before, but these four girls became my sisters. We just clicked. We called our strange twisted abode the House of Dreams. We stayed up way too late most nights talking about anything and everything, simply enjoying each others' kindred spirits.

That Christmas in the House of Dreams we decided to swap names for a roommate gift exchange. Chelsea had picked my name and I believe I had hers in return. Sadly, I can't for the life of me remember what I gave her that Christmas, but I will NEVER forget what she gave me.

Although we were a bunch of single college students, we had pooled our money to buy a real Christmas tree for our living room. The five of us gathered near the glow of its twinkling lights on the predetermined night before the Christmas holiday to exchange our gifts.

My gift was the last to be given. Chelsea handed me a stack of papers and envelopes, varying in size and shape and color, carefully tied with a ribbon.

As I untied the ribbon and began to investigate my lapful of envelopes, I realized these were letters written by dozens of people for...me.

I was stunned.

How had she done this without me knowing? How had she managed to get so many people from so many different areas of my life (family, church, school, work, high school, etc.) to cooperate with something like this?

And how had she known this is exactly what my heart and soul needed at that time? She could have spent hundreds of dollars on a gift for me and it would not have meant nearly as much as this simple stack of letters did.

If you have read my blog for long, you already know I tend to be a bit of a weepy person, but I was out-right sobbing as I began to silently read some of the letters. They were brimming full of love and inspiration and friendship and encouragement.

I tried to read a few quickly, not wanting to hold up our little roommate Christmas celebration and hoping to absorb the rest in private later, but was quickly encouraged to read my letters out loud. As I did, immense love filled the room and each of my dear sister-roommates became emotional as well. We were up for hours that night reading letters and expressing gratitude for the goodness in our lives.

That night will always be one of my most magical and treasured Christmas memories. It was the pinnacle of my living experience in that creepy old house with those wonderful women.

I still keep my stack of letters tucked away in a box and every couple of years I start reading them again letting the love and the memories of The House of Dreams wash over me again.

Good Things Come to Those Who Blog

But do I really need to convince you of that?

Chances are, if you are reading this, you already think blogging is pretty fantastic. It's those darn husbands that need the convincing, right?

No dear husbands. Despite what you may believe, blogging is not a modern mass movement to empty your wallets or take attention away from you and your manly needs or to bore you with stories about even more people you don't know. We promise.

Blogging is fun. Blogging is funny. Blogging is therapy. Blogging is connection. Blogging is cheering, sustaining, inspiring, touching, lasting.

Blogging is a way to connect with other women who just "get it".

This year has been one of the loneliest years I have ever experienced. I have yet to make any friends in our new town. I blame some of that on the language and culture barriers and some on how hectic it has been to tend to my own little garden patch of three kiddos and one on the way. In other words, it's my fault too.

How can one feel so lonely when so surrounded and busy? Believe me. It's possible. There has been many a day in the past year that I have felt like my only friends are those I know by pseudo names, digital pictures, and typed conversations.

Does that sound a tad pathetic to anyone else?

Wait. You're a blogger. You get it.

This last year especially, blogging has brought many a good thing to my life.

A chance to record memories and family history.
Friendships with now very dear friends.
Advice, wisdom, and experience beyond my own.
Paychecks earned while sitting in my jammies at home surrounded by my children.
A medium to express and share my self, my accomplishments, my struggles, and my joys with others who reach back, validate, sympathize, and balance me.

And how can I not mention the really marvelous packages (at least the most recent ones) that have floated over to my neck of the woods?

Very thoughtful packages like this one that was sent by Sarah Cardell after I wrote a post about persevering. Thank you so much Sarah. I choked up when I opened it. Can you believe I was already in need of a reminder?

Sympathetic packages like this one sent by Mamarazzi, a firm believer in "Good Mail", from one swap host to another...

Speaking of swaps, packages like this one from Cherie Bakow, my ornament swap partner through the ornament swap hosted by Carrie from The Rowdy Stroudys (who also sent a very thoughtful and fragrant parcel earlier this year that I am still enjoying daily in my car.) Thank you Cherie and Carrie!

And don't forget packages from past swap partners who have become incredible friends and who also happen to know how to put all sorts of fun into blogging with monthly contests and games. I {almost} blushed when I pulled out all my winnings from this box from Sami the other day. How can one girl get this lucky?

The prize for Symfully Sweet Saturday...

...and the prizes for Quince Quote. (How did she know I love Junior Mints?)

And a little extra love "just because". And a handmade card to boot?? Thank you Sami!

And thank you to all of you for the Christmas cards, the packages, the letters, the notes, the comments of humor and genuine love and concern. It has meant more than I can ever tell you through any post or package.

But I'll keep trying...

***The winner of the Snugalicious Giveaway thanks to Random.org was...

Lisa @ Little Angels with Dirty Faces!

Merry Christmas Lisa and Lisa's arms! The snuggie is in the mail! ***

I'd like to give the world a blog...

♪♫♪ ...and keep it company. ♪♫♪

Brothers and Sisters! I am here to testify of the goodness of blogging!

Can I get an "AMEN"???

I was thinking yesterday about a friend of mine, Myya, trying to figure out how the heck I knew her. Just when and where had we met? How long had I known her? Then it dawned on me. I know her strictly from blogging. But now we are friends on Facebook. We talk about each other's kids. She wishes my brother a happy birthday. She wonders how I am doing if I don't update my blog and I wonder how she is when I am slacking off on checking my blogs.

Isn't blogging amazing in that it brings total strangers together?!

Can I get a "HALLELUJAH"???

A few months ago I participated in a blog swap, thanks to the gracious Mamarazzi, where I was partnered with Sami. That swap was months ago. But I received more than a package in the mail; I made a friend! A life-long friend from a perfect stranger.

Last week, when I accidentally sent my cell phone on a Farewell Bon Voyage tour in my washing machine, I sent out a hopeless cry for help. Guess who answered it? SAMI! When that beautiful old to her/new to me/saving grace replacement cell phone arrived in the mail only a few days later, I did what any mature lady blogger would do. I turned to my dear skeptical husband and in the most obnoxious and taunting tone I could conjure up I {lovingly} said, "I TOLD YOU GOOD THINGS COME FROM BLOGGING!! Neener Neener Neener!". Now he's convinced.

My friend Lisa and I have met in person like...what Lisa... once? And that was in our swim suits! But it wasn't weird to be sitting with some strange girl in a hot pool while our kids played with each other. I KNEW her and she KNEW me...because of our blogs.

Anymore I can hardly differentiate between my blog buddies and my "real life" friends. In all reality, I probably "talk" more to my virtual friends than my (non-virtual?) friends. I suppose some would say that's kind of sad, but I think it's wonderful!

To all my blog buddies out there: I heart you!

(I would say "love", but that seems so presumptuous, especially this early in the morning...You know what I mean, right?)

So there it is. Blogging is good.

TESTIFY!

On a more serious note...

I keep finding myself wandering back to this site. Maybe I'm hoping a miracle has happened and that little Preslee did not actually pass away. It is just too sad.

Last Friday when I discovered she had passed away, I grabbed my girls, held them tightly, and sobbed and sobbed. They were very confused by their weeping mama, but I tried to explain why I was so sad and how important they are to me.

Throughout the week I have found myself just watching them playing and thinking about the Sullengers who returned to an empty and silent house full of toys with no one to play with them. Even when my children have shown less than desirable behavior I have thought about those who would take the sound of screaming or whining over the silence that fills the air. When I have started to get frustrated with their mid-night wakings or milk spills or sibling arguments, I can't help but feel grateful to take the bad along with all the good.

It has been a somber and pensive week.

I am incredibly saddened for the Sullenger family as well as other families who deal with sickness, loss, death, or whatever trials may come. Sometimes this world is such a heavy, tragic place.

But I am so grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who is master of it all. Who knows far more than we ever will in this lifetime. Who gives us hope of life after death. I know that families can be together forever. I know that death does not destroy. It's just that wait to be reunited that is so painful.

I want to remember how I felt this week. Maybe tying blankets around little super hero shoulders is more important than neatly-made beds. Maybe that blog post can wait until we've read stories together. Maybe a family walk is more necessary than keeping up with my favorite TV show. Maybe having little helpers in the kitchen is more of a priority than a sparkling clean kitchen floor. Maybe it would be better for me to listen while snuggling rather than yell while sending them to their room.

Not "maybe". Definitely.

On Wife-ing

It's Wednesday and that means another guest-post by Cannwin! Find me over at her blog today. We tackled the same topic: Wife-ing. Make sure to leave her a little bloggy love in the form of a comment and come visit me over at The Great and Random Ramblings of Cannwin. And Happy Wednesday!


A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday. - Erma Bombeck

I have been married for nearly ten years now--we've been together for nearly eleven years--and you know what? He still buys me size 20 pants.

I used to think it was ridiculous for women to cry over such things... that was before I got married.

I used to say it was the wife's fault for marrying someone who can't tell sizes... before I got married.

Now I know.

"Honey." He'll say in that happy, boyishly excited tone. "I got you something."

Two things run through my head at this point--1) uh-oh 2) maybe he got something good this time. Inevitably I get my hopes up.

The worst present I've ever received was actually not clothing.

"You are going to love this!"

He got me so excited. I was practically bouncing when Christmas morning came.

It was two boxes. I opened the big one first (because big presents are rarely as good as small ones).

It was a remote controlled car.

"It's great isn't it?" My husband of three years asked me. I stared at him as he finished unwrapping it.

Then he handed me the next one. "Hurry, open it."

I hesitated, I had honestly thought this was a new camera, but I was beginning to rethink that assumption (you know what happens when people assume, don't you?). It was a battery for the car.

Yep. That's what happens when you're married. It's not really a matter of marrying the right man. It's more a matter of marrying a MAN.

They just don't think the way women do. I could almost equate it to taking a child shopping for a friends birthday, they always buy what they want.

One time he did, honestly try... and that's the time I cried. I had been out with friends watching a monumentally sappy love story and when I got home I was filled with an overabundance of love for him.

"I love you!" I exclaimed passionately.

"I love you too." He said equally as fervent. "And I bought you something."

What a man, I thought to myself. Without hesitation I ripped the bag open. It was a pair of Arizona State capris (Sparky sitting neatly on the side of my behind). I lifted them excitedly into the air and unfolded them.

And unfolded.
And unfolded.
And unfolded.

"Honey!" I cried out, "what size do you think I am?"

His face went from giddy to guarded in .02 seconds.

Poor guy, he didn't understand why I burst into tears. He didn't understand why I would barely talk to him for the rest of the night. It wasn't his fault that I'm a woman and full of inexplicable, uncontrollable emotions.

As the years have gone past I've learned to deal with these 'presents' I just smile, pat his arm and take them down to my sewing machine.... hoping that at some point in our lives I don't actually fit into the clothes he buys me.

And to me, that's what wife-ing is all about. Learning to deal with the idiosyncrasies that make men what they are.... all logic.

My friends tell me I should just buy him things I want for his birthday. I can't do that, because in all honesty I know that he's trying his hardest and I sure do love the effort.

How Do I Know?

Yesterday, the kids and I sat down to watch Enchanted.

Don't you love that movie? I catch myself laughing every time we watch it. I mean seriously... How did they know this is exactly what I look like when I clean house?? Uncanny!


Yesterday, I couldn't help it; I caught myself choking up a bit too. Blame it on those darn hormones coursing through my blood stream, but I couldn't help but think about my own "Prince Charming" during this song:



How do I know Joe loves me???

He may not sport puffy sleeves and thigh-high boots or carry a sword. He's not too keen on balls and dancing. You won't ever catch him singing in public (or in private for that matter). I doubt he'd even be willing to stand on a moving bus if we got separated in a crowd.

It's really the little things...

Like how every morning when I go to open our front door, it's locked because he made sure it was on his way out to work at 4 am.

Like how he never complains (out loud at least) about the piles of dirty laundry or dishes.

Like how I start telling him how worthless I feel and he just makes jokes trying to change the subject and knock me out of my little pity-party.

Like how he'll change a stinky diaper instead of waiting for me to do it.

Like how he sends me a text every. single. night. letting me know he's just gotten off work and will be home shortly.

Like how I tell him I need a date night and he never argues about it being a waste of money AND then how he ALWAYS lets me pick the movie AND the restaurant. Every time.

Aren't happily-ever-afters grand sometimes?

So, how do YOU know???