Nie Nie and Recapturing Beauty

Two years ago when I first learned about Nie Nie, I instantly fell in love with her.

I went to her blog and read way, way back into her posts about her life as mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, and woman.

She embodied all that is lovely and became a huge role model for me.

I loved reading about how she liked to get dressed up nice for her husband when he came home from work. I loved all the little feminine details she included in her dress and house and style.

I got a kick out of one post where her children were staring at her through the sliding glass door after she had humorously locked them all out of the house so she could try to get some things done.

I thought it was wonderful and hilarious how she documented her neighbors front porch goose statue that they dressed up for all the holidays.

She did wonder-mom awesome citizen things with her children such as writing nice, upbeat phrases such as "God Loves You" and posting them around town to brighten up random people's days.

She felt so relatable (even though I'd never have the guts to be so bold and forthcoming!) in her post about hiking up the Y Mountain and arguing multiple times with a man who called her LADY and told her that her dogs must be leashed. Then later she found out the man was one of her dad's friends. She ends her post with "Beware SS (the mans intials) , I’ll be back…don’t you worry dogs in tow!"

I loved her romantic love letters to her husband.

But even more than all of that which was enough alone to inspire me to live my life more fully and love the journey, she taught me and the world the true meaning of beauty as she shared and shares her incredible-in-every-sense-of-the-word journey as a burn survivor. Choosing to see beauty all around her as she lives to watch her children grow, and be with her husband, and laugh with her family and teach us all how to live a good and beautiful life.

I got to see her speak yesterday for the Recapturing Beauty campaign at BYU.

I've been lucky enough to see George Bush speak when he was the president, and both President Obama and Hillary Clinton speak at different rallies. I was actually taken back a bit about how excited and thrilling it was to see and hear all three of these people speak in front of me in real life.

But I was more excited to see Nie Nie speak than all of the excitement of those three combined and then some.

I seriously wanted and was close to giving her a standing ovation as soon as she walked out on the stage.

She did a wonderful job. She testified so powerfully that God lives.

She told beautiful stories like when Mr. Nielson got to go and see her for the first time after the accident. She was in a coma and when he reached for and held her hand her heart rate sped up so much so that the nurses ran into the room and told him that he better not touch her because it was making her too excited. "That was about as hot and heavy as it got during that time," she said as we all burst into laughter.

She cried, and we cried. I think everyone was crying. We all had our eyes and noses dripping!

Nie Nie has helped and continues to help countless women recognize and celebrate the beauty that each of us has in us. truly. She is the greatest role model I've had and have the privilege to look up to.

I, along with the hundreds? thousands? of women that got to hear her speak feel very blessed for that.

The Most Expensive Breasts in the Universe.

I would have never imagined that my journey to breastfeeding would hit a climax with me bawling my eyes out as I walked away from my house and into our quiet neighborhood at 1:00 a.m. husband and baby in tow.

A pot of melted pump parts seething on the front porch.

"I'm sooooo sorry!" " I was just trying to feed G!" "How could I be so stupid!" in between sobs.

***

I have a love/hate relationship with the pump.

Love that it is a way for me to provide nutrition for my baby. Love that it helps ensure my milk supply stays intact. Love that it ultimately hopefully is a means to an end of baby at breast.

Hate hate hate it.

HATE!

Anyone who has had to spend a lot of time pumping, feeling tired, sore and unattractive as you glance down at your body in pumping action- a sight so foreign and strangely normal when really really you just want to nurse your baby yourself (and can't) understands this meaning of hate.

***

"And that will be $162," the shopkeeper tells me. On the counter is a hospital grade pump emblazoned with the words "The Liquid Gold Standard."

I am a mother in distress. Truly. I look it too. Holding my little babe I hand over the money, listen to the instructions and take home my bag of goods: a one month pump rental, a bunch of new pump parts that connect to the machine, and some bottles that apparently mimic breasts.

Our breastfeeding journey on day one seemed normal- a bit painful but lovely. But at one week it was discovered that our baby, round and pleasantly sized at birth was not gaining weight.

And so the pumping began.

***

When we were first married we bought a little Martha Stewart kitchen island cart on wheels. In all four apartments we lived in prior to home ownership it was incredibly handy and much used. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it once there was no obvious space for it in our new kitchen. Somehow I knew it would still come in handy.

The pump is now housed on the cart along with a few other things to help us in the pumping/breastfeeding process- water bottles, ointments, etc. The kitchen island transformed into "the lactation station," as we affectionately and a bit sarcastically call it.

Some days I get overly confident and cheerily wheel the lactation station away and into the closet.

But over the next 5 weeks I wheel it out again and again as our breastfeeding roller coaster includes: nipple confusion (yes it's true!), thrush, mastitis, and a big discovery.

***

"I never really see him stick his tongue out much, do you?" I ask Dashing Boy one day.

Since having our baby I had heard the term "tongue tie" a few times. Our baby had been checked for a classic tongue tie immediately following his birth. But there are other tongue ties apparently. Less obvious ones.

One morning I decided to google it. "Posterior tongue tie," and "Tongue tie symptoms."

An article comes up and goodness gracious we have every single symptom: slow weight gain, breast infections, baby tiring at breast then hungry again, marathon feedings, sore nipples etc, etc.

***

"By the time all this is done, you are going to have the most expensive breasts in the universe!" my mom tells me one day.

We had just had our baby's tongue clipped- a procedure not covered by insurance.

One of the benefits of breastfeeding you hear, is that it is free!

Between pump and scale rentals, pump parts, lactation consultants, ointments and medications- and now this- well, lets just say that getting liquid gold to our baby has not been a cost-savings journey.

***

A large pot of water sits on the stove. It has been there for weeks now, part of the pumping routine.

The method goes like this: feed baby, pump, sterilize.

over and over.

This extra step to everything is incredibly annoying but I am determined to fight away the thrush monster.

***

"Six weeks. Just make it through six weeks and I promise you it will get better," my mother-in-law advised me about breastfeeding when I was pregnant.

Six weeks! I thought. That is a long time!

***

11:00 at night and time for bed. Rinsed off pump parts are sitting on the counter.

Feeling really responsible I think to myself and even say out loud, "I better sterilize these pump parts so I don't have to do it in the middle of the night."

We have gotten into sort of a routine. Baby sleeps for a nice 4-5 hour stretch, I feed him, then I pump right after. With all that has gone on, I'm just not confident yet that I can stop pumping. I want to make sure I keep my supply up, save the liquid gold.

I fill up the pot, plop all the parts inside and turn the heat to high.

***

12:30 I am laying in bed, just having nursed the baby when I hear a faucet running.

Oh no! We must have left a faucet on. I better go turn it off so it doesn't run all night.

Sleepily, I walk into the bathroom. No leaking faucet. I barely make it to the kitchen and see it immediately.

The pot is sitting on the stove, plastic sizzling and bubbling. Smoke fills the kitchen- a terrible, chemical burning smoke.

"DASHING BOY!" I scream as I take the pot off the stove and set it on our cutting board, burning that in the process.

***

Looking into the pot you would think I would be saying to myself. "I can't believe I forgot about this but thank goodness I caught it before I burned the house down." Or maybe even. "Oh my goodness perhaps I should put a shirt on before I handle this thing as it is extremely dangerous."

But no.

I look into the pot and the first thing that comes to my mind that seems so devastating is, "Oh no! How am I going to pump tonight?" staring at the parts all jumbled up as if I can problem solve and come up with a way to make them still work.

And then I know I've reached my breaking point. Entered into the crazy.

Thankfully Dashing Boy comes downstairs with some sense. He takes the pot and sets it outside. He opens some windows to begin to air the house out. I snap out of it for a second and follow suit.

The smoke seriously burns when you breath it in. We have got to get G out of here, we both say.

***

So here we are walking around the neighborhood in the middle of the night, waiting for things to clear up before we can sleep soundly again.

"It's ok honey." "It could have been a lot worse." Says my kind Dashing Boy.

and I cry and cry.

Eventually we make it back to the house, lay a blanket and some pillows on the lawn and wait just a bit longer.

***

I look at the pot again, and part of me feels very victorious. Like, "yeah! in your face pump!" as I stare at half-there flanges that never will be again. And then another part is sad to see it go down so viciously as I suddenly feel sentimental toward the pump parts that helped me and my baby through our breastfeeding journey, tear.

Still another parts knows that likely I will be back at the store buying all the parts again. And that part of me makes a mental tally of that expense-and even more-so the cost of our beautiful pot. Just add it to the list.

***

But it's been 5 days now and I haven't pumped once. Baby is happy- he's eating. His cheeks are getting chubby.

And we are six weeks out.

(And boy do I hope we stay here! Thank you to everyone that helped so much- Dashing Boy, Mom, Cristie, Lactation Consultant, kind friends- and the wonderful la leche league. The support means everything.)

Nesting Times

This weekend I went to the DI and had one of those "hit" kind of days. It began with a perfect, inexpensive little bookcase for the baby's room, then next, this awesome retro little school desk that had me excitedly talking to myself out loud, and it ended with a lone gliding ottoman for the cheap.

It was just a little too exciting to have such a successful thrift store day all in one store, so I called Juju. Because if anyone can understand the thrills to your soul of great thrift finding days, it is Juju. I do believe going to the DI is one of her relaxing joys in life.

I wanted so badly to sit in that desk. It just looked fun, you know? Well that is a pretty dumb idea when you are almost 9 months pregnant. And I was defeated very quickly. Dashing Boy however, did get to try it out. And then he said, "He is going to love it Jenny." Which was very nice of him, as he could see my excitement and eagerness for him to approve random DI purchase.

Seeing him test that chair out and be excited made my heart melt a bit.

It is a bit riveting for us, transforming our house for our baby.

I seriously can't believe it.

Yesterday I made a long to-do list. The to-do before baby comes list (although none of it is really that important if it doesn't get done).

I'm feeling ambitious, And Dashing Boy has told me that he thinks I am in that "nesting time" everyone talks about.

But really I know the truth. The truth being that I can tell my productive energy is quickly sinking into I-would-just-love-to-watch movies and take naps and imagine our baby and process just a little bit this transition from me to motherhood.

Mothers (and Fathers) Will Protect Their Babies.

Last night we had a crazy wind storm.

Dashing Boy and I had just gotten securely, safely inside our house after being out when I remembered something important.

The little birds nest in our front tree. Perfect and sweet with 5 blue eggs nestled inside. How were the babies coping in this storm? Had they come out of their shells yet? Would they be ok?

I ran out the front door and peeked inside. I couldn't see anything. It was so dark, the wind was howling, and the little tree was swaying back and forth.

"Do you think they are ok? Do you think they're still in there?" I asked Dashing Boy.

And then I ran inside to find a little light. Nothing too bright, just something to check with quickly.

Just like Dashing Boy is very gentle and gingerly whenever he feels our baby moving around in my stomach ("Don't push hard!" he'll say. "We don't want to hurt him!") he was protective of the little birds too. He wondered if shining a light was really the best idea.

But I was already in action. I had grabbed my cell phone (often a handy flashlight) and headed back out to the nest. I opened it up, held it close. And I realized my face was about two inches away from Mama Bird. She was there, of course, protecting her little babies.

It was a beautiful sight. There she was, all ruffled out, covering her little ones as the wind tossed the tree back and forth, back and forth. She was with them, weathering the storm.

I knew I could go back inside and sleep peacefully. Mother bird had it covered. And mothers know just how to make the world safe for their babies when things are windy and rough.

As I was falling asleep, feeling the movements of our little baby inside me, I thought about the wind. Thought about it howling over our house. I thought about how we were safely nestled inside our home and our baby was safely nestled inside me. No idea of the storm that was outside. Safe and protected.

My mom knows just the ways to make me feel safe and loved in all types of life weather. And now I am a mom. It is crazy, exciting, and sometimes scary to think about.

But one thing I know for sure. I love our son so much, and will be there for him wholeheartedly. Like a Mama Bird.

Baby birds this morning

A Family Heart.

Over a year ago, after a much thought out season, we decided it was time to start our family. The decision had been looming for quite some time. It sat, unspoken for many months, present as it became more and more obvious it was time to take a step in its direction.

I, in particular, wanted to make sure I was ready for something so life-changing. This decision is so personal, so deep-running. It opens you up.

And so when I was ready (with only just the tiniest fraction of hesitancy left) to make it, I felt READY. I wanted to be a mother. It was so obvious. The desire ran through my core- not the youthful hunger-for-a-baby desire-- it was the I want to be-a-mother-to-children desire, to care for them and teach them and watch them grow.

And suddenly, even if we were to conceive that very first month, nine months seemed like an agonizing amount of time to have to wait. Waiting is hard when your heart feels ready.

I don't know why some people get pregnant right away, some accidentally in tough situations, and others so ready- who will be the most wonderful, loving parents must wait different, hard lengths of time.

But I do know this, a baby is always a blessing. Always. And that knowledge, despite how long or unexpected the road is to achieving a family, blesses those who are on the journey. God blesses those with a mother heart and a father heart.

I have felt that this year in some of my hardest, heartbroken moments.

And now, as I have felt (well, I think I have anyway) the first tiny little flutters and movements of the baby growing inside me, I am deeply, deeply humbled.

We are with child.

A beautiful child that fills my heart with joy. That I love already so much.

I am so excited.

And grateful for my mother heart that has been with me all along.

Crazy Girls

Tonight I am going to see New Moon at midnight.

With hundreds of other crazy girls. A girl in my neighborhood rented out a whole theater. There will be games, and door prizes, and I'm sure lots of screaming.

I got invited months ago by my friend J. She is the one I accidentally pulled my pants down in front of. Against an unsightly beginning, we've become good friends :)

I wasn't interested in the Twilight series at all but once it kept getting bigger and bigger, I decided it was becoming too much a part of our pop culture to not read. I did the same thing with Harry Potter (which is the best!).

The books for me were just ok. They were interesting because I felt like I was pushing through them sometimes but then I read them so fast, so I guess that's saying something. And in the movie Bella was way too pouty for me. The same distant, gazing face over and over. And also I agreed on many fronts with how Natalie felt about the movie.

But here I am, excited for 10:00 to roll around and snacks with ladies and being out on the town.

Will I scream when Jacob takes his shirt off?
Will Bella still be really pouty with weird music in the background?
Will I manage to not do anything too embarrassing (you know like pull my pants down) and maybe make a new friend?

We shall see!

Strong Men.

Last week Dashing Boy was out of town. Mom is out of town too.

And so I was all alone in our house. Which is fun sometimes. But last week, what was more fun was to stay with Dad and Juju.

I love my family so much. "We have the best Dad," I said to Juju one of the days. "I know," she said with emphasis. "It makes such a hard standard for me with boys. I want them to be like Dad."

For a long time Dashing Boy has talked about a book he wants to read one day when we have a little girl. Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters. I don't know much about it or anything, but I do know that title is true.

My Dad is confident man. He is strong. But he is also soft, and loving, and sensitive too. All through growing up and even now still, my Dad introduces me as his "beautiful daughter Jenny." As he says it, I can see and feel his love for me. That kind of confidence was way better than anything a boy could have said about me while growing up.

So last week every night Dad and I would sit and talk for a few hours. Then Dad would start to fall asleep on the armchair.

Then Juju and I would talk for a long time. Every night she would lay in bed with me and chat chat away. She kept talking so loud and I kept saying, "Juju, could you try to talk a little quieter?" and she would say, "Oh! Am I talking loud?!" and then she would talk softly for two seconds and be loud again. She would talk until I feel asleep and then go to bed herself. It was great.

At 7:45 prompt, every morning Dad brought me and Juju breakfast in bed. It was amazing and so fun.

For dinner one night he brought us mini cupcakes.

I was talking to Dashing Boy on the phone and he said "Oh man, I'm going to have to up the ante! You're not going to want to come home!"

But of course I wanted to go home. I could hardly wait for Dashing Boy to get back home!

Growing up, my Dad showed me lots of traits that I knew I would want in a strong man. And I found them and other lovely things in Dashing Boy.

A girl could never feel more special.

Hobbies, Love, and Thoughtful Advice.

When I was in high school I had a wonderful group of girlfriends. Strong, amazing women. I loved them (and still do) and admired their commanding talents: One was a master swimmer, literally breaking all kinds of records. One a skilled and savvy soccer star. Another a poet and artist with an aura like a peaceful river (seriously).

Of course each possessing many wonderful, lovely qualities in addition to their hobbies- they all had a fierce (for better of worse) defining thing that they loved to do.

I couldn't help but wonder, what do I have?

And you know what? Nothing really big came up. I thought of things like: I'm a nice person, I try to be a good friend, I care about others... But at seventeen, what I really wanted, what I really thought would be cool would be something flashy like: I'm a dancer, or a surfer (ok, not realistic in the mountains but...) or something like that.

Of course it's silly to put too much into the labels we put on ourselves and each other, but even then, beyond the glitzy thoughts, I recognized the power in having something- a hobby or sport or whatever, that you do because you love doing it.

A couple of years later I got married. And thoughts of being a good friend/neighbor/wife/mother occupied my mind. What could I do that would help me in these roles? Something I would love to do? The time was ripe for some defining.

And so I thought about some of the women I looked up to as I was growing up. And one woman in particular came to mind.

Alice was a wonderful baker. One of my mom's best friends and the mother to a friend of mine, her house was always filled with the sweet scents of good baking-made with love and skill. Many times you would go to her house and a fresh sheet pan of chocolate covered candies would be cooling on her counter. She shared her treats with all those she loved.

I wanted to be like Alice.

And so, a few months after being married I decided that I was going to learn how to bake. I made toffee first- and learned all about candy crystallization after my first batch failed just minutes into the process. But I kept learning. I keep learning. And I love it.

This week Grandma is giving me sewing lessons. Grandma is the most amazing seamstress I have ever seen. Truly, each piece is so perfect with attention given to all the little details.

She sews 12 hours a day. And she loves it. At the fabric store yesterday as we admired all the beautiful fabrics, Grandma exclaimed "I need to live until I'm 150 so I can sew all the projects I'd like to sew!"

And then today, Grandma told me that she was so glad that I was interested in learning how to sew because it is so important to have a hobby that you enjoy doing. "I have all this time," she said, "and I have something to do with it, instead of being lonely."

Grandma sews for herself, and she sews for others- almost every project that she does is done with someone in mind. She gives in such a valuable, appreciated, loving way.

I was thinking about what she said today, about having a hobby. I've been soaking it in, pondering her wise words.

Then tonight I helped bring dinner to an older couple from church. She had fallen recently, and needed some help with their meals.

And so I brought some food over to their home. She sat in a chair and explained her broken knee, while her husband, slow and sweet walked from the couch to the kitchen to the couch. Another lady had helped bring food too. So we both sat on the couch and talked. And then the lady told me, admiring, serious, "Mary is a wonderful quilter. She has made dozens and dozens and dozens of tiny-pieced, intricate quilts that are just beautiful." Mary sat in her chair and talked about quilting and crocheting a bit.

And then the lady and I left. I was just about to get in the car when Mary's husband got to the front door and shouted, "You forgot your dish towels!" His arms extended, holding two towels for us.

"Mary has a lot of time and likes to make these and give them away," he said.

Mary was giving a dish towel, beautifully crocheted with three different colors, to everyone that was helping bring her food. Mary was giving in such a loving way, her way.

Thank you Grandma and thank you Mary and thank you Alice, for your beautiful examples and wise words.

I long to follow in your footsteps.

Funky Dance.

Last night I made 40 chocolate pudding "dirt" cups for cub scouts.

The theme was "Jurassic Pack."

I was going to do something very low maintenance like yogurt pretzels and m&m's (dino bones and eggs). But then I thought I should be a tad more scouting homemakerish. And so I made something with a jello product. Which definitely did the trick. I was very proud of myself.

Plus who doesn't love dirt cups?

Lately, I've been feeling a little in-a-funk funky.

I'm in a place somewhere between homemaker and career girl. But not really either.

I love making and keeping a home and can't wait to be a mother.
And I also love having a job and contributing monetarily to the building of my family.

The guilt I feel for being out of a job right now is big. And even though Dashing Boy is supportive of my in-between-ness, I'm hard on myself about it. And although I know most of it is me being sensitive, it feels like others are hard on me about it too, saying little comments in conversation.

The truth is, I am very blessed. Three years ago, Dashing Boy and I went crazy, working extra to pay off debt, establish an emergency fund, and stick to a budget. During this time, we've been working hard to be able to live off of only Dashing Boy's income, so that one day I can be home with kids.

That means not eating out much, or planning extra to go to a full-price movie (which we haven't done in months). It means, eating random meals when we've spent the allotted grocery budget. It means saving a little each month so birthdays and Christmas don't sneak up on us. It means the world to me, and I feel so humbled and blessed to have a husband that is fully behind this plan. It's a choice. With purposeful budgeting this choice sometimes let's us treat someone to a meal, or buy a few fancy chocolates, planned and prioritized.

For most of this time, I've been working full-time +. And it's been wonderful. And then we moved and for a few months I worked just bits and pieces. I organized our house, and nested and you know what? It was wonderful, and hard, and temporary, and worked for us.

Career-wise, I want to contribute the most and best to my family in whatever way possible. That's what is most important to me.

So right now the job search is on, but I'm taking my time a bit, praying, and being in tune to the needs of my family.

And so I'm grateful.
for the Lord,
for my family,
for my funk,
for 10-year-old awkward/sweet cub scout boys,
for nesting,
for baking,
for serving,
for life.

Life is Sweeter With Girl Friends.

"There isn't a definition in our culture for this kind of bond between women."-Oprah (when speaking about her friendship with Gayle King)

When I was just one-year-old I was blessed with a female cousin that would forever occupy a space in my heart.

A kindred spirit.

I have a plethora of fantastic childhood memories with K: preparing songs and dances (sometimes very dramatic in nature) to perform at family functions. Learning that metal does not belong in the microwave after we tried to melt otter pops in an easy-bake-oven pan. Practicing countless times the scene from It Takes Two where Mary Kate and Ashley accidentally bump into each other for the first time and discover that they have a twin!

When we started our periods K. and I read each other the tampon instructions piece by piece for days, completely perplexed.

Childhood through puberty through college and now, K. has been there.

We cry with each other over hard things, and things that seem hard but are really silly. And we laugh until our stomachs hurt.

Conversations with K. frequently go something like:
K: Ok, what do you have going on?
Jenny: This, that, blah blah. What do you have going on?
K: This, that, blah blah.
Then we decide who should go first with the talking and who should go first with the listening. And the talker will talk until she is ready, then say to the listener "Ok. You go," and then the talker will listen.

I can't even count the times either of us have shown up at the others house in tears (hundreds?) ready for an understanding smile and a place where we can just be whatever and it's ok. Even if we're being ridiculous.

I took that picture of K. one night when she showed up at my house in her Dad's shoes, slipping on the easiest pair as she left her house. It's beautiful. I love it.

You'd think these dramatic antics would slow down now that we're reaching (reached?) (nah) adulthood. But oh no. I have come to appreciate this bond more and more immensely.

Because sometimes you just need a shoulder to cry on. Or a sister like friend to snuggle with as you watch Lifetime movies. Sometimes you need a friend to listen to your dreams and fears, and let you be happy or sad, or whatever. And sometimes you need someone to slap you back into reality and suggest that instead of talking about serious stuff, you can only talk about Brangelina.

And when such times arrive, no one but a best girl friend will do.

You Go Girl!

Yesterday I had a conversation with an impressive woman. I told her about a decision I had recently made, wondering what her response would be. When just as soon as I was done speaking, she looked me squarely in the eyes and said "YOU GO GIRL!"

She said it with power. She meant it.

And then she gave me some words of wisdom. And incidentally some inspiration through her positive example and approach to life.

* * *

When I was in elementary school my favorite, most favorite of all, thing to have in my lunch was cucumber sandwiches. I loved this sandwich so much. Bread, cucumbers, dill- so simple but so good.

I happily carried this sandwich in my lunch for months when one day, another girl at school decided to make fun of me for my weird sandwich. She made a point of this. And a scene. Then she checked everyday at lunch to see if I brought a cucumber sandwich that she could make fun of. And little girl Jenny was sad, and confused, and no longer brought cucumber sandwiches to school anymore.

I also loved hostess sno-balls. You know, those gooey coconut marshmallow covered chocolate cakes with creme in the middle. The cafeteria bully and other children as well thought that sno-balls were weird also, and sick. Which is absurd. Look at that picture! Now how can you think that?

But my Mother, being the wise lady she is, allowed me to be sad about my cafeteria heartaches and then she explained to me that the girl at school was going through a hard time, there was nothing wrong with my sandwich, and that although I felt hurt I could turn that hurt into kindness and do something nice for her.

So Mom and I secretly did the Twelve Days of Christmas. Each day, bringing something new, with a nice poem or note, special just for her. It was wonderful.

Mom taught me a beautiful lesson. And although she didn't really say it, she taught me "You go girl!" You eat your cucumber sandwiches and neon sno-balls if that is what you love! And "You go girl!" you be a stronger, more compassionate person to those around you! "You go girl!" You hold you head up high and stand for something higher.

And so to all of you out there- those of you dealing with heartaches of your own, big or small, those of you who are making and facing decisions and choices in your life, and those of you who are just doing your thing day to day,

YOU GO GIRL!

I'd Rather Be Wearing An Apron.

When I was in college I listened to a whole series of lectures about The Girl With The Flying Hair (don't even try to google that phrase).

I will describe this girl to you: She is classy and poised and beautifully put-together from head to toe. She is a savvy businesswoman, a fabulous mom, and a sexy wife. Her house is clean and well-kept. Her children are happy. She carries a briefcase and a baby with ease and grace. She can do it all.

Can you picture her? Her hair is flying (beautifully) because she is always on the run. Go go go. In the illustrations I saw in this class (taken directly out of ad campaigns and magazines geared toward women) the glossy woman captured the essence of the above paragraph completely. An amazing standard. A ridiculous, unachievable standard. A standard that is every woman's dilemma.

Stay-at-home? Work? Both? All? Implications all around.

I am not a mother yet, but I'm definitely emerged in this dilemma and have been for years (even before I met Dashing Boy.). Long-term vision. It has led me to take and leave jobs. It changes the way I think about money and my body and health. My future children weigh in to almost every decision I make.

Am I crazy?

My grandma made that beautiful apron and gave it to me a few days ago. Oh how I love it so.

Lately, when I really think about my "dream job" --you know, the "If you could be doing anything right now regardless of training, or education, or money, or whatever that you would need to obtain that job what would it be?" dream job-- I find myself dreaming of that apron.

Seriously.

Housekeeper, Housekeeper, Keep Me A House

(title magnificently provided by Dashing Boy)

In college I took a fabulous sociology of gender class where I read the book The Second Shift. It was about dual-earner households (where both husband and wife were working about equal hours), and raised the question: With both partners working out of the home, who becomes responsible for the majority of the housework? childcare? and upkeep of home life?

Across the board it was the woman.

Thus, The Second Shift.

Now, being the forward thinking feminist college gal that I was, I resolved that I definitely would not have The Second Shift in my marriage one day. In the future. You know, whenever that happened.

Earlier, freshman year in fact, I had also resolved that I wouldn't be one of those Mormon girls that gets married young. yuck.

Which didn't work. sucker!

So there I was a mere year or so after my Second Shift class. Married. Working. Full-time student. Dashing Boy and I were busy. We were a dual-working household.

And so, Dashing Boy quickly learned the term "second shift" as I would energetically bemoan about it in melodramatic moments.

Oh, The Second Shift!

Don't worry. 98% of me was just being silly. (The other 2% was fiery feminist Jenny wanting to make sure she put in her two cents (she can't help it)).

The truth is, Dashing Boy is very in-tune, responsible and unassuming. He doesn't just expect things to be done for him. Which actually makes me want to do them for him anyway. I do find joy in it.

Anyway, back in the first months of our marriage, we both just kind-of took on certain tasks that we were responsible for. Of course there are times where they mesh together and overlap but in general:

I love to bake and make the house look pretty.

Dashing Boy can do a mean stir-fry.

I like to use power tools to install things on the walls like pot racks and put together bookshelves and such. (I can't wait to learn some home improvement skills someday when we have a house).

Dashing Boy is the resident computer guru.

I like to tackle big organization projects.

Dashing Boy cleans the bathroom.

I sweep and mop the floors.

and

Dashing Boy does the laundry.

Which I love. In the process I have lost two new bras, a few shirts (I didn't need them anyway) and last week my green cardigan accidentally became two sizes too small. But I don't care!

Every week I see my sweet husband going through the clothes as he puts them in the dryer. He knows which clothes stay out (the green sweater was a new addition). And as he hangs those few items up to dry I feel so overcome in love and so blessed.

And maternal homemaker Jenny sighs and smiles and yearns to go bake a pie for her husband, search for a task that will make his day easier, and give him a good back rub.

Mrs. Hear. Me. Roar.

Yesterday Dashing Boy and I received an invitation for an alumni dinner at our Alma Mater.

The card was classy and nice and very alumni special looking. Yet something was glaringly wrong with this piece of mail sent out from a university.

It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Dashing Boy.

Now, this has happened before with our mail. But usually it is a letter from a sweet older couple or something of the like. Which makes it a lot easier to smile (after a very small huff) and say "what a sweet couple."

But a University?!!! Come on! I did not attend four years of classes and graduate magna cum laude to be referred to by my university as Mrs. Husband.

And so, this morning I made a phone call.

Me: "Hello. I have a question concerning the invitation my husband and I received for the Alumni Dinner."

Assistant to important so and so: "yes, what can I do?"

Me: "Well I attended your university and my information listed on the address is wrong. You see, it is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Dashing Boy and my name isn't Dashing, it's Jenny."

BOOM! Exhilaration! I am WOMAN!

Assistant: "Oh, ok" (said in very sweet lady voice).

Me: "I just wanted to make sure you could correct this. Thank you so much."

Sweet Lady: "Oh yes, let me make sure I write this down correctly..."

For one half second I felt a little cautious about my empowering declaration. But I was very nice to the sweet lady, so it's all good. And then after that half second I was filled with excitement because it was such a satisfying and necessary (seriously.) phone call to make.

Nie Tees and Latte Bowls

A few months ago I, along with he rest of the world, was introduced to Nie Nie.

I was instantly smitten with her. A mother and lover of art and pretty things, family and home-life and most importantly God and her beloved Mr. Nielson.

I read her entire blog.

I watched as my sister Juju did the same. Juju is adorable- fun, smart, beautiful-- she underestimates herself. As her sister, I have told her this many times but it is Nie Nie who has gotten the message across: Love yourself! Celebrate life! Take a picture of yourself in those new turquoise cowboy boots! Tell yourself you're beautiful-because you are!

One day Juju and I were sitting on the couch talking about boys. Juju had been "hanging out" with a boy and on this particular day was very impassioned about stating what she wanted in a boyfriend/eventual husband. "He just would never be like Mr. Nielson! Not even close! And I want that." Juju said. "No, he's no Mr. Nielson," I agreed with a smile- (this hanging out boy was not my favorite).

This Christmas morning Juju and I opened up a favorite gift- a Nie Tee for each of us. I feel so happy when I wear it.

Nie Nie has become a topic that Juju and I relate on- a wonderful role model- that has brought us even closer as sisters. She has inspired both of us. Me to look forward to one day being a mother and raising a family. To savor romantic moments with my husband- and to love and respect him even more fully. To be braver about sharing the gospel with others. To notice the beauty and joy in small things.

And isn't that what this season- this life- is all about? Nie unapologetically chose her path- one that celebrates motherhood, family, and love for her husband. One that honors Our Savior.

Today I'm going on a little shopping trip to Anthropologie to purchase some latte bowls- A gift that Juju gave me over five years ago as I made my way to college. These bowls have been very well-loved and now there are just two left- one of which has a crackline just waiting to break. I've wanted to purchase more latte bowls for quite some time now but I always talk myself out of it. There are other bowls in the kitchen.

Yet every morning I find myself searching for a latte bowl. Sometimes washing one right then just so I can use it. One day, I read about Nie Nie's beautiful latte bowl tradition -the same latte bowls from Juju! The perfect bowl for cereal, soup, or ice cream! I've really been thinking about it and I could use some more latte bowls.

And couldn't we all use a little more Nie?

I'm bringing these to a friend's wedding shower tonight...

Because when else do you get to make bra and panty cookies?

A Witches' Tea.

Last night I was lucky enough to join my mom and sister for A Witches' Tea- an annual event put on by some good friends who love tea parties and know how to do them in style!

These tea parties are a big deal and were a HUGE part of my childhood and growing up. All kinds of occasions were celebrated with tea parties- Valentines Day (my favorite), babies, weddings, and (my not-so-favorite when it was for me) periods. Yes. That's right. We had a tea party when somebody started their period. It was called a coming-out party and they were celebrated with all kinds of yucky, yummy things associated with entering womanhood. I was worried for years about mine before it was my turn.

Alas, that time has passed.

On to bigger things like Witches Tea. I don't know if I could ever pull off something this snazzy- I honestly felt like I had walked into a magazine spread.



Try these donuts from Beyond Glaze! It's our friends business-the one who threw the party- and they are seriously delicious.

What's happening to me?

I've heard recently that brain development pretty much reaches its completion in the early-twenties. Sigh of relief that the past decade of confusing, coming-of-age hormones is now over. Right? My brain is now complete?!

The past few years though, some peculiar changes have come over me. What was once fairly unemotional in my adolescent years- baby blessings, General Conference, cheesy songs... now almost always brings me to tears.

This:

and I find joy in organizing and keeping my house clean. That's right. I just said I find joy in keeping my house clean. Making pies, curtains, babies (just kidding!), dinner, this is what I'm truly delighted about doing right now.

Just today, I heard the song Grateful by Bianca Merkely for the first time and fought back my urge to cry. It's beautiful. Listen to it. And following this lovely song and hours of fabric shopping I subjected my cousin Katharine to watching my current favorite film- The Business of Being Born, a documentary which I have seen about 7 times now (Dashing Boy says more like over 20 times.) And which always inevitably brings out an emotional, cushy, motherly side that is a fairly new phenomena for me.

No, I'm not pregnant.

But seriously what's the deal? My brain has developed into Susie housewife and you know what? I like it.