My sisters and I want to make our husbands t-shirts that say I Survived Day 24.
"Day 24" is the phrase we coined to describe Ultra-Durko-PMS-Gone-Wrong. It took me years to decipher that my erratic monthly behavior generally fell around Day 24.
Saturday, February 2, 2013 at 4:29PM 
I’m losing her.
It was so easy when I could dress her in a demure romper, secure two tiny pigtails, snuggle her on my lap with her white blankie and read Eric Carle books all morning. I dictated how she would spend her time whether it was napping, sitting on the counter as my cookie dough apprentice/chocolate chip adder, or being shoved in a cart with some popcorn while I whittled the day away at Target. She liked everything I liked. I had a sweet, submissive Mini Me that lived for nothing more than a tube of mini M&Ms. Our lives had a wonderful absence of school bells and permission slips and science projects. I was her only friend.
No more. She is particular about everything: her fashion, her hair, her room, her books, her spare time. She is a social butterfly that flits to the land of Boycrazy several times a day. I feel like I’m only needed for transportation or to tie the bow on the back of her Sunday dress.
I have been struggling with this new reality of being lower on her totem pole than I’ve ever been. I know the whole point of raising kids is to create moral, independent characters that can handle the world on their own. She shouldn’t need me forever because I won’t be here forever. I just didn’t think I’d feel extinct this quickly. Elizabeth Stone said having a child is like having your heart go walking around outside your body. That's exactly how I feel. My heart is her. I can't live without my heart. It hurts when that heart I need is far away.
How to bridge the gap? How to prove that I count? How to be at her side without helicoptering?
My old journals.
I gave her my fourteen old journals. She found the one from 1987-88 where I am her age. She walks around with it, laughing and repeating what I wrote in her silly voice. Apparently I wrote about Josh McGary a lot. Like every day. According to my words I so foolishly etched in pen I wanted to cuddle with him during tornado drills and even referred to him as (shoot me now, I cringe just to type this) "lovable" and "sexy.” She reads me my old scribbles and just as I am beginning to wish I had burned them when I had the chance she pauses, “Mom...you were JUST like me.”
My continuing embarrassment has been worth the breakthrough of her realizing I am not only human but that I am linked to her in ways she never knew. I am more than the annoyance that tells her to feed the dog and show her work in math.
In the wee hours of this morning she crawled under my covers in footie pajamas and pulled my arms around her. She’s almost as long as I am. She should end up close to my 5'10" in the six years she has left under our roof. I have already offered my wedding dress to her since the length shouldn’t need altering. I know I'm being dramatic but footie pajamas are my kryptonite. Wear footies and I love you. It's that simple. While embracing my fleece-footed alternate heart I suppressed the knot in my throat and defiantly reminded myself, once again, I am not ready to let her go.
I’ll end up losing her, but she will never lose me.
*To be truthful, I do remember why I fell for Josh McGary. We were playing kickball as a class and I was running to home plate when Mann Brown tripped me and I got blacktop gravel under my skin. Josh ran over and threatened to beat Mann up. Then we all went to the office, me for an ice pack and the boys for discipline. I guess I'm a sucker not only for footie pajamas but also for my honor being defended during kickball.
Thursday, January 31, 2013 at 6:33PM 
THE BEST THINGS ABOUT WINTER:
THE WORST THINGS ABOUT WINTER:
FOODS THAT MAKE ME ILL
PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME BY:
PLEASE JUDGE ME BY:
Saturday, January 26, 2013 at 6:16PM 
Something good always happens when it’s blueberry cheesecake day at Culver’s.
Culver’s rotates the custard-of-the-day down a lengthy list of flavors, so it’s only blueberry cheesecake day once a month at best. When the day is over they pack up the leftovers in pint containers and sell them from the freezer.
My mouth was introduced to the wonder of blueberry cheesecake custard with Michelle after a looooong day. I was skeptical of custard because its cousin, ice cream, makes my stomach hurt. Custard, however, offends me in no fashion. I ate my portion with Michelle until closing time and we made a huge deal about how awesome it was to the manager. He gave us extra cheesecake bites and agreed to make the next blueberry cheesecake day April 4 for Michelle’s birthday.
My second blueberry cheesecake day was April 4, and the manager even put HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICHELLE on the marquee while we were all lunching there as female neighbors + Matt McMullin.
My third blueberry cheesecake day was illegitimate as I went in for a fish sandwich with Frenchie on orange dreamsicle day. Dreamsicle doesn't tempt me. As I ordered, the manager Dave (we were on a first name basis by then) exclaimed, “Hey, it was blueberry cheesecake day yesterday and you didn’t come in!” While Frenchie and I ate our fish sandwiches he walked over and gave me a free pint of blueberry cheesecake. What Dave didn't know is two days ago my IVF failed and this was the first time I was out in public. I have written on one of my lists to THANK DAVE with a nice note and a jar of homemade spaghetti sauce.
My fourth blueberry cheesecake day was last Wednesday. I was trying to ignore flavor of the day on the marquee as I drove home from yoga. Please be gross. Please be gross. Please be orange dreamsicle. BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE. Cripes. I barely made it home with my custard-free willpower. Thing is, on the way home from yoga I was all sad because everywhere I look people have what I want. I know it’s not really true but it’s how my eyes see it sometimes. Pregnancy and babies everywhere. People moving everywhere. People going to Disneyland and Europe everywhere. Thick ponytails everywhere. You know what I mean. My state of mind was low and I was feeling sorry for myself. I had been thinking about my friend Julia because she is one of two people I personally know that had a failed IVF. It’s so random, but I remember as passed the blueberry cheesecake sign thinking Julia, I need you.
At home I soaked in the tub while my ipad read me The Book of Mormon. Multitasking. As soon as I was dressed there was a knock at the door and it was Julia. (Keep in mind I’ve probably only talked to Julia ten times in my life. We were fast friends but never cross paths.) Beautiful Julia in her pink coat and scarf and sleeping kids in the car and knowledge of how I feel. How it feels to pay off the Discover bill without a souvenir to show for the spending. How it feels to have knots of progesterone in your hips a month later. How it feels to second-guess yourself and wonder if you heard all the inspiration and saw all the miracles wrong. How it feels to be haunted by ticking clocks and question marks.
Julia said she wrote me a letter December 13 but ran out of ink and then intended on reprinting the letter on pretty paper. She also made me homemade caramels but then her family got sick and now they were weeks old and she guessed they were probably stale. Guess what? Her timing, her words and her caramels could not have been more perfect. I thought about this essay I love as I pulled the twists of wax paper off of the not-even-close-to-stale caramels and reveled at how wonderful days can unfold from such yucky starts. I have to quote the essay:
Most ministering opportunities are spontaneous, not planned in advance. Chapter 9 of the Gospel of Matthew is an amazing illustration of that. Early in the chapter, the Savior disembarked a ship. A man with palsy was brought to Him. Jesus stopped and healed him. Then Jesus had a discussion with the Pharisees and a man interrupted, saying his daughter had died. So Jesus left to assist the man. On His way, a woman touched His garment. Jesus healed her. He continued on His way and raised the girl from the dead. As He departed her home, two blind men followed Him, and He healed them. As He continued on His way, He cast the devil from a man possessed. All of this took place as He went.
My friends are all loving, helpful people. But none of my friends sit around bored all day wondering who they should love and help. They are busy. We are all busy. We buzz to and fro with our calendars and schedules and to-do lists and somehow squeeze in unplanned drive bys or texts or Dough Boy brownies or chats. I am learning that between all of life’s necessary busyness is where the good stuff happens.
This blueberry cheesecake day was a winner because Julia took the time as she went to show up at my house with grand-but-unfulfilled-intentions. I didn’t need pretty paper or darker ink or fresher treats. I needed her.
Every time it’s blueberry cheesecake day I've had a living witness people are extraordinary, unexpected and sincere. Custard is good, people are better.
*This is my real pint of custard. I did not write the flavor. It came that way. It does not contain any chess pieces. Funny typo. I also went to Culver's last night (1-28-13) and delivered the note and jar of sauce. Feeling good.
Saturday, January 26, 2013 at 4:31PM 
This is a portrait of Samuel Beckett, Irish novelist and playwright, from the back. He had great ears. I originally saw this framed in my aunt's art studio. Ever since it has become a mantra of mine. I am not afraid of failure. I think it's a stupid word, but we use it because it's the easiest way to describe something that went sour. It is a word that should never be used for people.
I've been thinking a lot about FAIL. IVF was a technical failure. But I am not a failure. This chapter of my life is not a failure. Elder Walter Gonzales said,
When all doors seem to be closed, when everything else seems to fail, He will not fail you. Christ will help and is the way out.
This gives me tremendous security, especially since I know what it feels like to have all the doors closed and nothing work. President Howard W. Hunter said that Christ is "the ultimate man for all seasons." I am learning, through life's varied seasons, that this is true. He is the man for hopeful harvests and confusing, foggy inversions. He is the man for daffodil springs and sizzling, still summers. He is constant. No matter the forecast, He will be there.
I've also been thinking about BETTER. Back in the day Greg and I used to pay for a trainer. At the end of every workout he'd say, "There is no limit to better." I love that there is no cap on betterment and joy and happiness and increase. One's cup really can run over forever.
It is easy to tell people that are having a rough time, "Everything will be okay." It's even easier if you are saying it from a personally happy place. It is another thing entirely to say from the rough place, "Everything is okay." And that is what I am saying. Everything really is okay.
Failure is just a starting point for another try.
*"Samuel Beckett" coloured lithograph by English artist Tom Phillips, 1984, quote from Beckett's "Worstward Ho"
Thursday, January 24, 2013 at 1:21PM