Starting in the right place

This is a writing post. Maybe no one will appreciate it but me, but here goes...

I have one of the most beautiful toddlers in the whole world. Seriously, she's so darling. To add to that beauty, she has a very vivid personality. There is never a dull moment when this child is around. She lights up any room she's in, and boy does she let you know what's on her mind.

As soon as school let out in June I began taking my kids to the pool. We have a couple of friends who own memberships, so we were tagging along. It's a fun way to get out of the house--thus reducing the mess I have to clean at the end of the day and the amounts of fighting that go on otherwise. Everything was fine. We were having a fantabulous summer, and I was hopeful that I would make it without killing anyone.

But that all changed when my toddler's hair began falling out. And I don't mean just a little bit. It was a lot. I first noticed it when her car seat was covered in fine, blondish white strands. At first I brushed it off, thinking it was nothing. But it got worse and worse, until I finally noticed that she actually had a bald spot. And when I washed her hair, the whole top of her hair looked bald compared to the back. I googled Alopecia, hoping it had nothing to do with that.

Let me tell you something. Trying to self-diagnose hair loss is for the birds. It's practically impossible. So off to the doctor we went. They did some blood work which all came back normal. Thankfully.

Our appointment with the dermatologist was going to take months. Apparently, a toddler losing her hair is not high on the priority list. Not to them anyway. But it definitely was to me.

So I did what I always do when the doctor can't figure it out fast enough for my liking--I used my noggin and tried to figure it out myself.

As I went through all the things it could be, I had every normal thought a parent would have. What if it's permanent? Will she need a wig? Can we do some kind of hair transplant? How will this affect her social life? Is there any guy in this world who isn't so shallow that he could see past something like this and want to marry this darling girl?

Let me tell you, it was worrisome.

I couldn't pull her bangs back, or brush her hair. Every touch made her hair fall out. It got to the point that I had to let my husband brush her hair because the worry it caused me to see it fill the brush in clumps made me sick to my stomach.

I did finally figure out that it was the pool that was doing it to her. I'm not sure exactly if it's the chlorine, or being in the sun after being in the pool, or what, but every time we took her to the pool, for the next couple of days, her hair would expel in torrents from her scalp.

I was relieved. It was a easy fix. We just stopped swimming. It was a bummer for the rest of the kids, but a small price to pay for their sweet little sister. They graciously conceded, because my kids are amazing like that.

But it got me to thinking... What about those girls who can't figure it out? What about those girls who can't do anything about it? What about their future? And their plans? How would it be to have this problem? So of course I wanted to write about it.

I've been thinking about it all summer. I kept sitting down to start it, but I couldn't get it to go anywhere. It just never felt right. But I was determined--I wanted to write about this. I was going to do it. The eleven attempts on my hard drive would not disappear into a pile of unused words.

Then the other night, I realized, I'm trying to start in the wrong place. Like completely in the wrong place. As soon as I figured it out, the uneasy feeling left and I was so stinking happy.

How do I know I'm starting in the right place? It's the difference between dreading writing, and looking for any excuse to sneak back to your computer to jot down a few more paragraphs. When I have that feeling, I know I've hit it right on the head.

Life is like a box of chocolates

Yesterday was one of those days.

The really bad kind where the weight of the world is hanging on your shoulders and you just can't seem to get past it. The kind where you sink down to your knees and cry even though you know it's the kind of crying that's only going to leave you feeling worse. The kind of crying where you sob so hard that your eyeballs feel like they're going to explode right out of your head, and you almost wish they would, to ease some of the pressure.

And then I got on Facebook, and my day got a little bit worse, and a little bit better at the same time.

You see, one of my best friends in this world messaged me. She told me that she felt awful. Of course I asked her why. And she said, "I bought you a box of See's candies."

See's are my favorite, and hers too. It's something nice she does for me now that she's moved away to Vegas a.k.a The Face of the Sun, where See's is readily available anytime between the hours of 10 a.m. and 9 p.m. And she feels sorry for me since the only way I can get any of this euphoric yumminess is to mail order a box for myself.

Her very next sentence explains the 'worse' part. She left the box in her car overnight and now my chocolates were melted all over the place.

I was sad, I tell you! Sad. If there was ever a day I needed a box of chocolates, or at least needed to know that there was one on the way--it was yesterday.

But I felt a little better too, because it meant she'd been thinking of me. She's a very good friend like that. When she lived here, just a few hundred yards away, she'd drop by to bring cookies over unannounced, or offered to watch my kids so my husband and I could go on a date. And I tried to be that kind of friend back to her.

So then I felt worse, because I realized, that she sent (or at least tried to) me See's a whole lot more than I do anything for her.

So the day goes on, and I'm trying to pull myself together. My kids come home and it's pure craziness, and I've lost all of my motivation to get anything done. Instead, I sit down and finish the book I'm reading. Yes, someone else's published novel. I know, it's like rubbing salt in my wound.

Then it's time for Oldest Son to head off to soccer. When I realize this, I jump up and begin to frantically reheat the homemade chicken noodle soup and rolls from the day before (when I had my act together). My husband pulls up. I can see his truck in front of the house, and I exhale. I really need a hug. I'm sure that's the only good thing that's going to happen to make things better.

But. I'm wrong.

He comes walking in the house with a package in his arms. He looks a little baffled and says, "Do you know what this is?"

I glance over and look at the logo on the box.

Lake Champlain.

My eyes immediately fill up with tears--because when you've already bawled your head off that day, tears are at the ready for hours afterwards--and I nod my head.

"That's my brother feeling sorry for me."

Number One got me some of these chocolates for my birthday this year. They're no Sees candies. They completely in a league of their own. I have no idea how much they cost. Probably 5 bucks apiece. And I'm betting they're swirled with gold spoons, and all the ingredients are imported from India, or some exotic place I can't pronounce. Seriously, they melt in your mouth. You never eat a whole one at a time, because you try to make them last as long as you can. But they have to be gone in at least two weeks, because it says right there on the package that they don't have any preservatives, so consume quickly.

We slice the tape open on the box, and remove the lid.

And they're melted.

But not melted so much that a little refrigeration won't save them.

And then I read the card that came with them. I won't tell you what it said, because not everything should be shared on a public blog. But I will tell you that his simple words reminded me that I'm not the first person, nor the last to ever have their heart broken by a speedbump on the way to their dreams. He also buoys me up--as if his chocolates hadn't done that already--by telling me that he knows everything is going to work out for me.

As soon as my son is on his way to soccer with his dad, I call Number One to let him know that I got the chocolates.

He says, "I'm kind of irritated. I ordered them last week (you know, when we found out I wasn't getting published) and I even paid for overnight shipping, but they didn't ship on time."

I get choked up and tell him. "No. I really needed them today. It was perfect."

Don't underestimate those brothers, girls. Sometimes a brother is exactly what you need. Take it from me--I have the three best brothers around. The cool thing is--they're like a fine wine--(not that I would know) they get better and better with age.

See, life really is like a box of chocolates. Melted ones that show up fashionably late, yet right on time.

Take a deep breath

Just a quick post to let you know about the fun we've been having.

Saturday morning was full of soccer games.

I don't know how, because my husband and I are so headstrong and competitive, but we ended up with a bunch of kids that hold back when they play sports. Especially our oldest daughter. She is the epitome of demure. Usually.

Well, one of the opposing team members stepped on her friend's hand. It's soccer. It happens. But she didn't care. It made her mad. I couldn't figure out why she suddenly became a lion--raging and all over the place on that soccer field, but I was proud of her. She was everywhere, taking that ball away, dribbling up the field, assisting, and scrapping, and doing all the things a good little soccer player should. And then she accidently knocked a girl from the other team down, and ran right over her hand with those soccer cleats. Ouch. And then she was back to demure. Her face turned red, and her mouth clamped up and she looked all horrified.

But they won 5-1, and it was great fun.

I heard, but didn't get to see since I was at my daughter's game, that our second son had the sweetest throw in, in the history of first grade soccer. He threw it right in front of the goal, his buddy swooped in and kicked that ball straight into the net. And I missed it! Darn it all.

Oh well. That'll teach me not to send the video camera next time.

After the soccer games, on a whim, we threw some stuff in the back of our van and headed down to the 'Ham, to my parent's farm. Oldest son and Hubby shot skeet with my brother and his boy. Man, the guys in my family are scary. They blew that skeet to powder. I didn't even hit it. I couldn't even throw the skeet right. They just kept laughing at me. So I quit.

Then my friend came to visit, and my hubby took us, and six kids on the Ranger (like a gigantic four wheeler) and we came home covered in grass seed. (I'll let you figure that one out.)

It was a perfect day. It's not too often down in the 'Ham that it's not so humid and buggy that you're not cursing under your breathe, but it was perfect and glorious this weekend. Didn't break 80 and not a cloud in the sky. The air smelled like fresh cut hay (because my dad and my uncle had just clipped the fields) and the cows were mooing, and my mom fed us well, like she always does, and we got one last swim in the pool before we closed it up for the summer.

Can't wait to go back!

Then last night back at our house, right before bed, somebody suggested a wild game of hide and seek.

Let me tell you about H & S at the Auten's. It's not tame. If you have heart issues, you should not participate. I'm not sure why or who started this (probably my husband), but when you find somebody at our house, you and they, have to scream like crazy, trying to see if you can make them jump. Well, last night, nobody could find my hubby. They looked and looked and looked but he was nowhere. Then all of a sudden he jumps out of the hallway and screams bloody murder. We all jumped about ten feet in the air. Our oldest son was so scared, he fell on the floor, burst into tears, and cried for about five minutes. Not kidding.

It was awesome.

Gotta love spontaneity and just simply acting goofy. It cleanses the soul.

The Sun after the storm

Seven years ago, I was called to be a seminary teacher. Back then, the church paid for seminary teachers to go to Utah for a CES conference. I only went one year, but that particular year, Elder Maxwell was the keynote speaker for the conference. And he gave a talk entitled, "Our Creator's Cosmos." Sometimes, for me, trying to understand that man is like trying to decipher Isaiah, but this particular talk is amazing, and wonderful and not hard to comprehend at all. The basic gist of the message is that the Son, Jesus Christ, literally is the Sun. The Sun lights the sky every morning, the moon comes out at night, and the stars twinkle in the darkness, providing points of light to the flat black expanse, all because He exists.

This has been a really rough couple of days for me. Something I really wanted--and not only wanted, but fully believed was going to happen--was taken away, without explanation. It's hard not to be disappointed, or to feel like a failure or to not really dislike people who seem to be lacking sympathy. I prayed, and pondered, I vented, and cried. But I was still feeling heartbroken.

It is times like this when you see who really loves you. I mean REALLY loves you. They are the people who email multiple times, venting with you, and telling you they love you, and that they are praying for you. They call you on the phone from thousands of miles away to make sure you're okay. They are the people who try to help you figure out what your next move should be, and make you feel like you are not the scum that you feel like you are. They are the ones that cry with you. They are the ones who care.

I have a friend in particular who emailed me at least four times on Monday, told me she was praying for me, and how awful she felt. She knew exactly how badly I wanted this dream. She's been there every step of the way with me, cheering me on and telling me to keep going. She reminded me that I have a husband who holds the priesthood--the same power that the Savior had when he walked the earth. The same power the Savior has now.

So this morning, as the first rays of sunshine began to seep into the horizon, causing ribbons of purple and orange to spread across the edge of the sky, I sat in a chair in my living room, with my husband's hands on my head. I didn't need a blessing to know I was going to be okay. I'm too much of a spitfire not to be alright. I refuse to let someone else knock me down and keep me there. But as my husband told me that he loved me, and that Heavenly Father loved me, and that all my righteous desires would still happen, and that someday my joy would be so full and I would be able to share my talents to help others as I have always wanted to--the coolest thing happened.

The sun lifted above the horizon, filtered through the glass of our double doors, and landed right on Bryan and me. As the blessing continued, the sun rose higher and faster. And as it rose, the room, and my heart, got lighter, and lighter, and lighter. It filled me from the outside in. And finally the things that I already knew in my head, I once again knew in my heart.

I'm going to be just fine. More than that--I'm going to be great.

Because He is the Sun. He fills our home with love and light, and as long as I know that--really, does anything else matter?

"Given all that God has done to prepare a place for us in the stretching universe, might we not develop and display greater faith? In the perplexities and crunches of life, will we have faith in the Creator's having made ample provision to bring to pass all His purposes?"

"Think of it, brothers and sisters, even with their extensive longevity, stars are not immortal. But you are."

--Elder Neal A. Maxwell

Nothin's better than the real thing baby

Funny things overheard at the annual ward softball game:

A cute little kid who is quite the softball player dips the end of his bat in a huge mud puddle. I ask him, "What'dya do that for?"

He says, "My bat was dirty. I was cleaning it off." In a mud puddle. Hmmm. Had to laugh at that logic.

Other funny thing I heard.

"Mom, I need to go home. I need a bubble bath." Not just a bath. A bubble bath.

This was spoken by my six year old son who just got finished romping through the mud and rain, tearing up the field with his friends. But when you need bubbles you need bubbles, right?

It doesn't matter if you're a boy.

There were plenty of things going on that could have kept people away.

Rain.

The Hokies played JMU.

BYU played Air Force.

Most people would've stayed home just to watch those two games alone. But not my ward. They came to THE softball game.

And you know what? I'd rather hang with those people playing softball on a muddy field, watching two brothers get into a knock down drag out fight right on top of first base, laughing at toddlers jumping in mud puddles, listening to the screams of my primary kids when they hit the ball, ohhing and ahhhing as my hot husband sent one flying over the fence, any day of the week.

Unlike the Cougars and Hokies nobody lost at our softball game because we didn't keep score. Nobody struck out because we didn't let them. And it didn't matter if we stunk, we cheered 'til we lost our voices anyway.

Real life is always better than the stuff they put on t.v. Especially in the C'burg ward.

So I say, put away your cell phones, and your iPods, and your DVRs (since all the teams lost anyway, why watch bother watching?), and get out there and join in the game. It's called Life. You only get one. Don't waste it on cyberstuff when you've got the real thing staring you in the eye, waiting for you to Bring It!

Last thing I heard from one of my sweet little Junior primary boys, that melted my heart: "Sister Auten, that was a great game. Today was such a great day!"

It really, really was. I'm so glad I decided not to miss it.

When my brain is flat

You've seen t.v. shows where people die and the little blip on the heart monitor flatlines. Yes, that means their heart has stopped completely. Well, I think my brain is flatlining. But that can't be possible because I'm definitely still alive. Definitely.

Could it be possible that my brain is now on meltdown mode because I was supposed to be hearing from a certain publisher this week, and wouldn'tyaknow, nothing...

Or maybe it's just really rankling me that 53 people read my blog on Saturday (This may be nothing to be people like Crash and Melanie J., but for me--this is the big time!) and I don't know who half of them are. Or maybe I do, but I just don't know. Ya know? Oh, it's tearing me up. I'm just too nosey. I NEED to know. Sadly Google Analytics doesn't tell me exactly who that reader in Mexico city is. I sure hope she doesn't own a potato peeler.

Either way, I have a cutesy little anecdotal thing to tell you.

The other night I was sitting in bed, reading Twilight for the five hundredth time--I don't know why. Probably because I'm too cheap to buy another book--When my oldest son and daughter start giggling about something. And then Daughter snorts. You know you've all done it. You laugh so hard it comes out your nose.

She turns to me and says all surprised, "Mom, I got my snort back!" It must have been missing, but I never realized.

And then I burst out laughing.

I wonder if I laugh hard enough if I can get my writing mojo back.

All the reasons why I hate Glee

I know I'll probably get slammed from all you crazy Glee fans, but I have to go there because my brother just spurred a brilliant analogy in my brain. And when that happens I must share it.

Okay. So. When I was in college, Brother Number Three had a girl waiting for him while he was on his mission. She and I hung out every now and then, because I was pretty sure she was going to be my sis-in-law in the not too far off future. Which she is.

I don't know why, but every now and then I found myself hanging out with the friends of my two older brothers who had already graduated from BYU. Number One and Dos had moved on to bigger things like getting Master's degrees, or working at the 'Ham's Sheriffs office as the night shift dispatcher. But some of their friends were still at the Y. And like I said, somehow I ended up seeing their old friends, who were very geeky and a little off socially and not the kind of people I would ever usually hang out with because, to be truthful, they were so intelligent and their humor so different from mine that usually I just found myself staring at them with a raised eyebrow while I chewed on my lip. Seriously, it was like watching an episode of Big Bang Theory, except it wasn't funny.

One of these boys, I honestly believe, had a crush on my brother's girlfriend. He did. I don't care what any of you say! I know this kind of stuff. So one time he invited me and J. (the girlfriend) over to his house to make Reuben sandwiches. I grew up in the 'Ham and had no idea what that even was. I didn't think anything of it until he informed me that I was going to have to pay for my own ingredients. I was really poor, and saved my pennies faithfully for my monthly trip to the Gap. Anything that took my money away from my traditional visit to the clearance rack, had better be made of gold.

So I asked him what a Reuben sandwich consisted of.

He says, "It's corned beef--"

"Never mind. That's disgusting," I tell him.

But he wouldn't be thwarted.

"Well, it also has sauerkraut."

"Bleck!"

"And there's swiss cheese. Who doesn't like swiss cheese?"

"Umm. Me. It tastes like ear wax."

"Well you can't argue with rye bread!" The sweat was beading on his forehead because by this time I have my hand on the doorknob, and like I said, he needed me to stay if only to keep up the pretense that he was just having some chicks over for his Yucky Sandwich Fest. But truly he just wanted to be around J. without freaking her out. Or maybe he was poorer than me and he just really needed the money back for the ingredients he'd already bought. But I'm thinking it was the former rather than the latter.

"Yes, I can. Oh yes, I can! I detest every single one of the ingredients in that sandwich yet here you are trying to talk me into paying to eat one!"

We haggle this out for a few minutes before he finally realizes I'm not going to cave. Because I'm really stubborn like that. It goes against my inner fiber.

So then he says, "Okay. Just try it. You don't have to pay for it. I just want you to try it."

I find myself cocking that eyebrow, wondering if there's a catch. He promises there isn't.

I take a bite, and come up spewing. Eccckkkk!!!! "That was seriously the nastiest thing I've ever put into my mouth." He acted shocked. Shocked! What did he expect? I guess he thought that even though, individually, I despised every ingredient in that sandwich, that if he put them altogether I would magically fall in love.

Then he tells me I have to pay for the sandwich because I had injested a bite? Yes, he did. That conniving, little...

I rolled my eyes and walked out the door as he was still spouting off whatever nonsense was coming out of his mouth. I'm sure he thought he was completely rational.

This brings me to the big hit show Glee, everyone is raving over.

Why, people? Why? There is nothing redeemable about this one hour of wasted time, except maybe the music. But since I'm not even into music that much, I can't even give it that much. I watched the pilot, excited for the concept that had been presented so carefully on the trailers. Really. I was ready to love it. What a disappointment. I took me a while to pinpoint exactly why it bugged so much. So I'll admit, I watched it a few more times. I really wanted it to grow on me, but after a few episodes I just couldn't swallow it anymore. I flipped it on one more time the second season, and I was intrigued for about ten minutes. It was the episode where the main teacher (see, i can't even remember their names, that's how much I didn't love it) finally gets together with the other teacher with the reddish hair. She's been in love with him forever. I thought okay, this is kind of sweet. Maybe I'll like this episode.

The red head confesses that she's never been with a man before, and I'm thinking, she's a little neurotic. Not because she hadn't been with a man. That actually made me like her more. I thought she was a little neurotic because, um, well, she kind of is. The Glee coach tells her that's okay, and I'm thinking this guy is pretty wonderful. He's the one character I kind of connected with. Kind of. But you know what?! Ten minutes later he's hooking up--literally--with some chick he just met a few minutes before. WHAT?! IS?! THAT?!

I'm getting up on my spiritual soap box for a sec, okay. Just bare with me.

John Bytheway (yes I'm actually going to quote him, because sometimes, even if you don't embrace his nerdiness, he comes up with some great Universal Truth that just can't be ignored) said, "Satan will sell you ten truths if he can sneak in one lie."

I have never heard a truer statement, and it totally applies to this show. Want to know why I hate Glee? I don't actually have that many reasons, but I don't feel that I need them because they are so solid.

-Every single character sucks. They're either completely selfish, self-serving, or like I already said, neurotic. And the red head isn't the only one who needs to see a shrink.

--There is not a single character on this show that owns a set of morals. Not one. (And even if there was one it wouldn't be enough to make up for everyone else) Yet I see my LDS friends quoting this show and supporting it all over Facebook and who knows where else.

Really, those are my only two reasons. Don't y'all remember that quote? I can't remember which General Authority said it, but I still remember the meaning--if there is that one show that you know you shouldn't watch because it just doesn't jive with the teachings of the church, but you keep doing it anyway because you just can't give it up, SHAME ON YOU!

Okay, he didn't actually say shame on you. I inserted that. I say again: SHAME ON YOU!!!!

It's crap, just like that sandwich, disguised with fancy sounding ingredients to make it more appealing. And you're paying for it! Literally. By allowing yourself to be pulled away from the things you know are right.

Now if you want to only partake of the Thousand Island dressing, a.k.a the only redeemable part of a Reuben, that is possible. Did that translate? If you love the music, for heavens sake (literally), just download it off of iTunes.

But remember this: if you keep eating Reubens sandwiches your insides will shrivel up.

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Disclaimer: I actually quite love Corned Beef and Sauerkraut now, so don't give me stink about it. My aunt, who is an amazing cook, converted me later on. But still, I would never order a Reuben of my own free will. And I will still like you if it's your very favorite food on the face of the earth. I just won't understand you.

--Also, I will still love you, even if you continue to partake of the nastiness that is Glee.

No pain, no gain, right?

WARNING: This is loonnnggg. So get ready.

_______________________________

Six a.m. on a Sunday morning (when I can't sleep because my antiobiotic is giving me insomnia) seems like a good time to write that blog about my husband.

I'm a little competitive, so I'm throwing out this dare--let's see if your how-we-met story is as awesome as mine. Even if it's not, I'd love to hear it below in my comments section. There is nothing I love more than to ask people how they met their spouse. Love me a love story.

Every time we have new missionaries over for dinner, they always say, "Elder So and So says I should ask you how you met each other." Or some version of that statement. Bryan rolls his eyes, and I laugh, because secretly I'm glad they asked. I love to tell it to willing ears. I get all kinds of responses when I'm done, but usually the missionary is wishing the same thing would happen to him. I'm glad I give them a little hope.

Let's get on with this. Oh, just so you know, I'm probably going to get a little spiritual on you. And that's okay, because it's Sunday. Here we go.

I went to college in Utah. I did this because I grew up in the middle of nowhere and the chances of me finding a good Mormon boy were, let's be honest, almost zilch. Of course I did it for the education too, but I could have gotten one of those in Virginia. I also stayed out in Utah during the summers because having a social life and landing a decent paying summer job in my hometown were also zilch. Anyway, I always came home for a week's visit sometime during the summer--monetarily sponsored by my parents, since I was already eating beans and rice. No butter on top. It's a long habit I need to get rid of one of these days.

So I go home, and the first thing my mom says is, "We have a missionary here with brown, curly hair. He's really cute. I think you might like him." This was not the first time she'd spoken these words, and the last time the kid was kind of nerdy, so I was thinking, nah. He'll be a dork. Besides I was officially older than the missionaries now, and too mature for that kind of thing anymore. I will say that I think they send their most socially handicapped missionaries to my parents branch on occasion. Maybe the mission president thinks they'll fit out there in the backwoods of the 'Ham. Anyway, my hesitancy was well warranted, I think.

Oh my goodness, that's not what happened.

So I'm sitting at the piano tinkering around, waiting for these missionaries to show up so we can all hit the Bateau festival (google it) together. These two guys walk in, and I look up, and wow, they're both cute. The other one is blonde, most definitely from Southern Utah, and too short for me. (Sorry, Rod, if you ever read this. You know I still adore you.) But the one with the brown, curly hair? Wow. He had the best smile I'd ever seen. Or at least in a very, very long time. And he's smiling at me.

It wasn't love at first sight or anything like that, or maybe it was. But I say no because I had a boyfriend out in Utah that I was pretty serious about, though I'm sure I didn't think about him as much as he would have liked that week. My mind was too much on somebody else.

So I talked to Elder A. and I promise you he flirted with me. And anybody who says missionaries don't or shouldn't flirt need to take a splashing dive back to reality. It happens ALLLL the time. They're budding young men with raging hormones. He says he didn't flirt, but I'd been doing this feel-you-out game for longer than him, and he was definitely sending I-think-you're-pretty vibes.

I see him a couple of times that week, and every time he grows on me. And then I'm whooshing off back to Utah. Back to my boyfriend of almost two years, who had a major commitment problem. He had no problem being my boyfriend, just a problem of taking me to the temple and making me his. Which is a completely other, really heartbreaking story that I won't be getting into. So, I'm back in Utah, ironically working as a cashier at Deseret Book, spending my summer divided over whether I should break up with this boy, or sink my heart even deeper into a relationship that was going nowhere. Nowhere. NOWHERE! So I break up with him. Either I'm heartless, or I was emotionally exhausted (it was definitely that one), but I'm not too remorseful about it. Two years is long enough to cry and beat your head against the wall before walking away, right?

An-y-way, my school was on a block system back then, so my summer goes late. My mom calls me one day in July and asks if I want to come home for one more visit before school starts back up. She's paying. I perk up. This has never happened before. I have never gone home for two visits in the summer. It's just too expensive. So of course I say yes. I hang up the phone, and from that second on, Elder A.'s name began pulsing through my brain. Nonstop, this name went through my head, to the point that it was irritating, and no matter what I did, I couldn't get rid of it. Not for more than a minute. I'm not joking. This went on for weeks.

You need to know, I am not one of those girls that chases missionary's. Not at all. I had never written a missionary before that time. Okay, not totally true. My cousin talked me into writing her brother in law who was serving. That lasted two letters. So other than that, never before had I written a missionary. Except for my cousin J. who was serving at that very moment in California. This will be muy importante later.

So, like I said, I can't stop thinking about Elder A. Finally I realize, Heavenly Father wants me to do something about this. So I tell Him, fine IF Elder A is still in my parent's branch when I get there in September, THEN I will write him a letter when I get back to Utah. IF was the key word. I wasn't going to hunt the boy down if he'd been transferred by then. I wasn't going to send a letter for him to the mission office. I wasn't going to think about him one more second if he was gone. I made that very clear. I was not up for making a fool of myself, and I wanted some kind of sign that this was divine rather than something I'd conjured up on my own.

And then the wait begins.

Every week, I ask my parents about the missionaries, on the down low of course. If my parents had known about my little plan, I can promise this Elder would have found out long before I returned. And I couldn't have that. It was all about not making myself look like a psychotic missionary chaser. Every week, I hear that Elder A. is still there. Three weeks before I was going to return, I stopped inquiring, because I already knew. This was from Him, and Elder A. was definitely going to be there, whether it took a miracle as big as parting the Red Sea. He would be there.

And he was. Talk about weirdness. The whole week I was home, I kept running into him, and all I could think was, "I might marry this guy." But nothing he said or did scared me off. If anything the more I got to know him, the happier I was. So the day before I'm returning to Utah, Elder A. asks if I will chorister for a baptism they are having. Of course I say yes. Afterwards, I stood there talking to him over the refreshment table. It was funny, because I think my cousin K. knew. He walked past us with a smirk on his face. I blushed. I remember that. During my conversation with Elder A. I tell him about my cousin J. who is serving a mission in California, very close to where Elder A. is from.

The next day I hop back on that plane. It was really hard, walking away from that guy and putting all of my faith in Heavenly Father. What if he never wrote me back? By this point I would have been crushed, and there would have been lots of chocolate consuming and chick flick watching. LOTS. While I'm on the plane I pull out some paper and carefully compose the most neutral Hi-it-was-good-to-see-you-again letter in the history of the world. I mean that. There was nothing in that letter that would have even hinted that I liked this guy. Because personally, the fact that I was writing him at all should have been sign enough.

Heavenly Father must have disagreed.

I write my cousin J. a letter too, while I'm on the plane. I tell him all about my trip home: how I saw his family, and the cows and the farm. And then I tell him about this cute curly haired missionary with the killer smile. And how I was going to write said missionary to see if he'd write me back. And how I was positive said missionary thought I was pretty. Yeah, I was pretty confident.

Sometime during my flight I got this feeling: I needed to get the letter to Elder A. in the mail as soon as I got off the plane. He was going to be tranferred. I knew this. I just did. The post office would be closing in about an hour. I panicked. I didn't know his address.

I got back to my room I was living in, thanks to my amazing cousin C. (I know, I have cousin's all over the place. Don't you?) And I call my mom on the phone. You see, Elder A. and his companion lived in my grandmother's basement, and my parents owned that house. Surely, they had the address, right? Wrong!

"They have a P.O. box," my mom tells me.

Uggghhhh! So I plead with her just to call over there (now that I think about it, what would I have done if Elder A. and his companion had been out doing, heaven forbid, missionary work? Luckily for me, it was P-day.) She says, "I can't. What will I do when they come over for dinner after he gets your letter. It will be so awkward." What? My mom is actually thinking about something like that? So unlike her. Then she says, "I'll tell you what I'll do. The next time I'm over at grandma's, and the missionaries car is gone, I will sneak down into their apartment, go through their mail, and snag you that address."

She's serious. Can you picture that? Those of you who know my mom? Can you see her creeping down their stairs and flipping through their personal letters? I would have been rolling on the floor if I wasn't so baffled.

I don't have time for this, I thought. "Put Dad on the phone," I say. The perpetual match-maker. I knew he would do it for me, and he didn't disappoint. In less than two minutes I had that address.

So I carefully--yes CAREFULLY-slip my letters into their envelopes, seal them up, and head off to the Post office.

And then I wait. About five days later, I get a letter from my cousin J. I open it. But then i'm confused because the letter I sent Elder A. is sitting right there in that envelope. My cousin also sent me a letter and says, "I have no idea how you did this, but you switched the letters. This is so funny. You're going to marry this guy. I just know it. By the way, what did the letter you write me say?"

Oh. My. Word. I wanted to die. Die, I tell you! Remember, Elder A. has now received a letter from me telling him what a hottie I think he is, and that I know he likes me.

My cousin C.'s husband says something strange later that night, but I think, probably true. "Some angel must have wanted to liven things up a little, and made you switch those letters. Just think though, that angel just saved this missionary months of trying to figure out how you feel about him."

Very true statement, because I STILL remember how careful I was to put those letters in the correct envelopes. Hmmm. Maybe I wasn't as careful addressing them.

I honestly just wished he wouldn't write me back. Ever. And I halfway didn't think he would, but I was wrong. A few days later, I get a letter from him, telling me he'd been transferred (which I already knew via my parents) and that he thought it was hysterical that I sent him the wrong letter. And that it made his day. And that he would like a letter from me that was actually written to him.

And that was that. The next July we got married, forever and ever.

I went all the way to Utah to find my dream guy, and I find him standing there in my parent's living room.

I think God is a romantic. Oh, and He has a sense of humor too.

Randomness, and my Husband.

My husband isn't random. Just my thoughts.

First thing, thanks to all that had a 'conversation' with me about Mockingjay. None of you swayed me into loving it, because love isn't something that can be forced. But I can see the importance of it now. So thanks.

Sorry I've been absent from my blog. I thought life would slow down when school started up again, but I forgot about soccer, and orchestra, and piano and grocery shopping and how sometimes my kids like to leave their backpack at home and then I have to drive all the way home and back to school again, and then they talk me into staying for lunch. Oh, and I forgot about Relief Society and all the other craziness that I love but keeps me busy. And on top of all of that, I got a cold that has wiped me out. I kind of like it when I have to stay home and curl up in my pajamas and read books to my toddler, but I couldn't even do that this week because it was just too chaotic. Do all of my run on sentences make you feel haggard? Good. Now you know what my week's been like. But I'm not complaining. I'm really not. I love that my kids are discovering new things and returning to old favorites.

I have to make one huge apology on here. I have this writer friend who is near and dear to my heart, and usually when the kids are in school we play email tag off and on through the day, you know, when we're not making pb and J's, or doing laundry, or dishes, or working on our own novels. Just little blips about how great her book is, or something we read on a writing blog. Every writer needs a friend like this, to keep them excited about their goals, and she is mine. And I've been completely MIA this week. M.H-I'll be back at it next week. I promise!!! I miss you.

One more big announcement: MY BROTHER LANDED AN AGENT FOR HIS BOOK!!!! I can not stress the excitement over this enough. His agent is with Paradigm (have no idea if I spelled that right) publishing and his book will be getting shopped around at Simon and Schuster, Penguin, and a bunch of other biggies. Yay, Dos!!! See, Heavenly Father does love you after all. You know, even though you shot that bus window out. (Just had to get that jab in. :-)

Last bit of randomness before I move on to my cute husband.

A couple of sweet/funny things have happened in our home this week, but of course all but one has slipped my mind. When they come back, I'll be sure to write them down. But here's the one I remember.

It happened yesterday.

Our oldest daughter has the opportunity to join a 3rd/4th grade orchestra. The director called and said that my daughter could pick whichever instrument she would like--violin, viola, cello or bass. So I picked all the kids up from school and told Daughter we were headed to the violin maker's shop to be fitted, and that she had approximately 15 minutes to choose her string career. I was telling her about all the instruments. Personally, I was rooting for the cello. People just look so dang cool playing them, and they sound pretty beautiful too. But I really did want her to make her own choice. I told her to think about it, and then I heard this from my six year old son in the backseat.

"Just listen to what your heart tells you. Then you'll know what to pick."

Awwww. Does anyone else not think that is the sweetest thing ever?

Oh, she picked the violin, and I'm very happy for her. She's been fiddling around with it ever since. I just hope in two months she still loves it this much.

On to my husband.

First thing you have to understand--I have ALWAYS said I was going to marry a boy with brown curly, or at least wavy, hair. I can't remember a time when I did not think this. Usually quirky goals like this fly by the wayside when we grow up, but it never did for me.

It was my main goal, besides the guy needing to be LDS and a returned missionary. And guess what? I got it!!! I touch that hair every night and smile, as he snores in my ear. Maybe no snoring should have been on my list. But I didn't know about the snoring until after we got married! Oh well. I still got the hair.

Back to my husband.

He is no Edward, or Mr. Darcy, or any of the other sex symbols that are so romantic it just makes you want to sigh, or heave your breakfast into the bushes. He's a real man. Real as in--emotionally constipated (thank you, Neal!), tough, doesn't cry much, gets irritated at the kids, and works his rear end off to provide for our family. Without a doubt, he's the hardest worker I have ever met. He taught me to work. My parents, bless them both, tried, but it took Bryan to get me to love to work. He grabs my butt when I'm on the phone, which is so irritating but funny. He likes me to pick his toe jam in the evenings when he comes home from work (and yes, he's going to kill me when he reads this, because like I said he needs an emotional laxative). He's not very outgoing at all, and sometimes I horrify him with my 'friendliness.' I don't know what else to say about him except that right before he comes home from work, I get butterflies. Not because after 12 years I think he's as hot as ever, though he still looks better than probably 99 percent of men his age, but because I'm excited to have him home. I can't wait for our kids to go to sleep so we can curl up on the couch and talk, or watch a show together. And after twelve years he still likes to hold me as he falls asleep. Of course, I'm rolling away as soon as the snoring starts. A girl needs a little space.

Oh, and he's my biggest fan. Did you ever wonder why Stephenie Meyer didn't tell her husband about writing Twilight until she landed an agent? Not me. I knew. When you tell someone you're a writer before you actually get published, people are skeptical. I'm sorry, but they are. Not all. But most of them. They may try to conceal it, but the eyes always give it away. This is one reason why I love having other writer friends. They get you, and they don't look at you like you have one eye when you tell them about that pipe dream you're pulling out of the closet.

So when I told Bryan I wanted to be a writer, I was hesitant. But you know what? His eyes never did that skeptical thing. They were clear and truthful and all he said was, "I'm sure you can do it. You're a great writer. Now make us a million bucks."

Too bad for him, I'm writing for the LDS market, but even that, he's very supportive of. I read him my first book out loud when we were on a long road trip to California and back--it's a story about a girl who loves a boy, and then another boy at school rapes her out of spite, and then this girl has to pick up the pieces and learn to love life again.

I was self-conscious of what he thought of the book, and then I look over and my husband is crying.

I made him cry.

Like I said above, he NEVER cries. Okay, not never but I could easily count it on both hands, which means he cries less than once a year. He cried when our first child was born, and when our brother in law passed away, leaving his sister a widow. And he cried when we lost a baby, and I almost died in the process. I can't even remember when else he's cried. But he cried at the pain of my main character. And then he told me, "If they don't want to publish it, they are crazy."

Aw, how could I not love him.

This isn't at all what I got on here to say, but this post has gotten long enough, and I need to sign off and work on my latest WIP. But next time, be prepared for what I'd meant tell you--The story of how we met. Bring out the Kleenex, because you'll be wiping away tears of laughter when you read what an idiot I was.

***I remembered another of the cute things that happened.

My husband is a butter snob. He refuses to eat margarine, no matter that we're poor and butter is expensive. I bought margarine yesterday and told him, "Too bad." We need to tighten the belts, figuratively, in this house.

So we sit down to dinner. As a side we are enjoying the last of the corn on the cob that will shortly be disappearing off of grocer's shelves. My kids roll their corn in the margarine, and salt and pepper it. Then they all stare at their corn.

Oldest son says, "What is this cheesy stuff you gave us to put on our corn?"

Oldest daughter says "Yeah it's not a normal color, and it won't melt." And then they actually scrunched up their noses.

It was then decided that we may be eating beans and rice, but at least our rice will have real butter melted on top.