In defense of formula.

My chubby Bubby and me, 2008

Last week, I stumbled upon a blog called The Fearless Formula Feeder. As the name suggests, the author is a woman whose mission is to defend the use of formula in feeding babies, but she doesn't condemn those who breastfeed. My kind of gal.

You all know I breastfed Smush for a year. Part of me is very proud of that fact, but part of me doesn't think I should be. I mean, I fed my baby for a year (don't worry; I still feed him). Who really cares how? I don't deserve a medal. Yeah, it was hard and we met our fair share of hurdles, but so what? What part of parenting doesn't have hurdles?

Maybe this indifference toward breastfeeding comes from the fact I did NOT breastfeed Bubby. I tried for about 6 weeks; it just didn't work out. It was a huge relief for the whole family when I finally offered her a bottle. Despite the fact formula was the right choice for Bubby, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was doing something bad. That giving my baby formula was NOT "my best." This feeling stemmed from message boards and blogs I read which blatantly condemned formula and bottle feeding. I had read them all before Bubby was born and was determined not to join the "dark side." It wasn't so much that I wanted to breastfeed, though I did. But mostly, I didn't want to become the subject of attack for thousands of militant breastfeeders. I didn't want to become that mom who just couldn't hack it and gave up.

I was put in my place right away -- Bubby had wicked awful lactose intolerance and reflux. Her boob days were characterized by non-stop screaming, a stiff belly and frequent vomiting. Obviously, babies don't cry for nothing -- it's usually a rather loud and uncomfortable indication that something isn't right. After weeks of unsuccessfully trying to soothe my inconsolable child, I listened to my instinct and it said "It's the breastmilk." That pill was hard to swallow. As a first-time mom armed with all the evidence, statistics and criticism the world had to offer, I wanted to breastfeed: I didn't want to buy formula. But I bit the bullet and trudged to Costco. As soon as Bubby sipped her new soy formula, she changed into the happy, calm baby I knew she was.

You'll be pleased to know Bubby suffered no ill effects from the formula. As a baby, she developed rapidly and was always very strong, with the appropriate amount of baby chub (see picture above). She rarely got sick. And she was as smart as a whip -- still is. So I praise formula: it nourished my baby for 10 months and rescued our mother-daughter relationship. It did what it needed to do.

Would it have been nice to breastfeed Bubby for as long as I did Smush? Sure. I could have saved about $600 dollars, for one thing. And maybe we would have bonded better; I don't know. But, do I regret not breastfeeding her? No. It is what it is. The past is gone; time to move on. And you can't put a price on your sanity.

Unfortunately for us mothers, there is a nasty stigma against formula and those who use it. I will wholeheartedly acknowledge that breastmilk is nutritionally superior to formula. And breastfeeding itself is wonderful; it has all sorts of benefits and it's free. I'll back that up 'til I'm blue in the face. But it's not "best" for everyone. Sorry, it just isn't. And it's no one's place to judge what warrants a good "excuse" to use forgo breastfeeding.

It used to be that the formula-feeders were the elites, paying top dollar for engineered nutritional "perfection"; the breastfeeders were the lower-class citizens who simply couldn't afford it. Any modern mother will tell you the tables have certainly turned. Nowadays, breastfeeding is a magic super-power that only the best mothers possess. You're met with (at the very least) a raised eyebrow if you dare to offer your child a plastic nipple. You're seen as uneducated and undisciplined if you mix powder with water and feed it to your baby. You "gave in" to the easier way of doing things. You don't really care about your child, because if you did, you'd still be lactating.

Well, I don't buy it.

Mothers are smart. They're equipped with instincts that guide them in the best ways to rear their kids. I have faith in mothers. If they feel inclined to bottle-feed their babies, they're doing the right thing. I believe that.

The one thing you can count on as a mother is that things will rarely go according to plan. Our babies come to us in all different ways, shapes and sizes and without an instruction manual. I applaud mothers who do their research and create a plan before having babies. Read all the literature you can -- this is an open book test! But don't be surprised if things go awry and you're suddenly standing in the formula aisle at the nearest grocery store, trying to decide between Similac and Enfamil . It happens to the best of us. But don't feel bad. Don't let the haters get you down. You're doing what's best for your child, and only you -- YOU -- can know what that is.  

That's your super-power.

Why would anyone buy regular animal crackers ...

When CHOCOLATE is the obvious choice? Nom nom nom. They're even a penny less than the plain ones at Wal-Mart. You don't have to tell me twice.

Also, today Bubby's preschool teacher dropped by a fun packet for us to do to get pumped for preschool (which starts in 6 WEEKS. Can't believe it). It was all about jelly-beans, as you can see. We even made a ShrinkyDink jellybean necklace! WOOOOOOOO! It was off the hizzook, let me tell you. I've never made ShrinkyDinks on my own and was surprised when they basically shriveled up in a second flat. But I trusted the instructions and they came out perfectly. And there were no fires.

P.S. I'm going to the Backstreet Boys/New Kids on the Block concert TOMORROW. Eeeeeeeeee! More about that later. In the meantime, the best pop song EVARRRR!!! Enjoi.


Backstreet Boys - I Want It That Way by val6210

Live Your Best Challenge #5: Saying sorry.

My siblings and me at the end of 5th grade. I'm holding the baby.

Raise your hand.

Yep, you. You lookin' at that there screen. Raise it.

Oh look at that, we're all raising our hands. Why?

We're all guilty. We all owe somebody something. It's not cash (necessarily ... though lots of us are probably guilty of that, too). It's much more meaningful and important.

It's an apology.

And the thing is, you probably don't have to try hard to come up with a person to whom you need to say sorry. No, you probably have a readily-available list on the tip of your tongue. I know I do.

Just before I started 5th grade, my parents moved. I began 5th grade at a new school, completely unknown to everyone there. Also, you need to know that in 5th grade, I was incredibly awkward. Way taller than most of the girls, hair changing from straight to wavy, no sense of fashion whatsoever, clumsy, uni-brow, hairy-legged and AWKWARD. And I just desperately wanted to fit in.

There was a girl in my class. We'll call her Amelia to protect her identity. She was a year younger than the rest of us -- skipped a grade. She was the only left-handed person in the class. She had really long hair all the way down her back. Back then, my classmates and I thought she was "weird," though looking back, I don't think she was any weirder than the rest of us. We were ALL weird. What 10-year-old isn't?

I don't know why Amelia was chosen to be picked on, but she became the class scapegoat. No one wanted to be her friend. People said not-so-nice things about her. I said nothing. I thought taking a neutral stance was the right thing to do. Turns out, doing nothing can be just as harmful as being mean.

I went through 5th grade relatively friendless, but I had my sights set on one girl in particular -- Kristi (I changed her name, too). Kristi was outgoing, bubbly, stylish and adored by all. She was funny, too. And sometimes a bit ruthless. But I knew if I could be her friend, I'd be "in" for life. I just wanted to be accepted and cared about and Kristi seemed like the ideal best friend.

By 6th grade, I had started spending time with Kristi more regularly. She even invited me over to her house a few times. At recess, we'd hang out with a group of other kids, playing football or tag, or sometimes we'd talk about boys and other adolescent stuff. It was harmless, 11-year-old fun.

Someone (probably Kristi) came up with this really fun game that was a combination of hide-and-seek and tag. I don't remember all the rules, but I remember it was exciting and a lot of people wanted to play. Including Amelia. And we let her -- who'd have the nerve to outright say no? But begrudgingly. Even so, we had a lot of fun and the end of recess always seemed to come way too soon.

One day, I don't know how it happened or what provoked it, but Kristi gathered the tag gang up in a huddle at the start of recess. She whispered that we should all throw clumps of clovers at Amelia's head during the game, getting the burrs to stick in her long hair. My stomach dropped. I didn't want to be part of this. But I was afraid, afraid of rejecting Kristi and becoming the next name on her bad list. So I went with it. Didn't stand up for what I knew was wrong. I had my chance to bow out but I didn't take it. I was a coward.

The game commenced, Amelia completely unaware of her fate. Sure enough, within a few minutes, everyone was flinging large clumps of clovers at Amelia's head. Laughing, pointing cruelly. She was crying. Sobbing, really. I had thrown a clump myself and immediately regretted doing so as it left my hand. I still remember the feeling I had, thinking I had become the bully I most feared. I stared as she shrieked at the group to stop, tears streaming down her face . I felt awful. I cowered in shame. I wanted to hug her and tell her I was sorry right then.

But I didn't. One of my biggest regrets to date.

Life went on. Amelia and I went to junior high together but I rarely saw her. We parted ways at high school. I haven't seen her in about 10 years.

Kristi and I did not go to junior high together, but we did attend the same high school. We had some music classes together. She remained funny, popular and charismatic. We didn't really share the same group of friends, but we got along well and had some good times together. I even saw her quite a bit at BYU and even attended her wedding reception after my graduation. I'll always consider her a friend.

I don't mean to demonize Kristi -- all of us who tormented Amelia were equally guilty. Kristi was probably looking to be accepted and liked as much as the rest of us were; she was just more assertive about it. Kristi is a good person and I value her friendship. But, I still wish I had the courage to stand up to her 12 years ago. And I wholly regret never apologizing to Amelia for what I did.

I found Amelia's Facebook profile recently. Something inside me churned at the sight of her profile picture. It was my conscience, telling me what I already knew. This is my opportunity. I need to say sorry. I can write her a note and finally relieve my conscience of this long-standing burden. I can patch things up and allow her to heal.

Unfortunately, I haven't done it yet. Amelia's Facebook page is highly private and I can't even send her a message unless she accepts my friend request. See how the tables have turned? I may have missed my chance to make amends and now the ball is in her court. Hopefully she'll see my request as an olive branch of sorts. But I won't begrudge her if she doesn't.

All of us have outstanding apologies that we need to deliver to their rightful owners. So, here's your challenge: Identify a person in your past who you wronged. Apologize to them.

Let the healing begin.

Things I don't get.

My friend Crystal recently posted about all the weird things she doesn't "get," including Lady Gaga, pierced baby ears and cloth diapers. Go here to read about it. Crystal's really opinionated and doesn't care what people think. She's awesome!

(I could learn a lesson or two from her, apparently.)

Crystal inspired me to create my own list of things I don't "get." I've kind of done this before, but let's face it -- the world is overflowing with weird, uncomfortable and/or mind-boggling things. So let's blog about 'em! Even if we already did just a few months ago!

1. Camping. I have never liked to camp, as in pitch a tent in the wilderness with no running water or electricity. I have tried time and time again and I have concluded I just don't do well in the woods. First of all, running water is a must for me. I don't know about you, but I like to have clean hands for eating, flossing my teeth and taking contacts out of my eyeballs. Among other things. And Wet Ones and hand sanitizer DO NOT CUT IT. Clean hands = running warm water, soap and a clean towel. Second, every time I go camping I start my period. Which is super fun in the middle of the woods with no running water. Third, I hate bugs and the woods are literally crawling with them. So, no camping for me. However, I do enjoy a woodland cabin retreat, complete with running water and electricity. That's my idea of camping.

I realize I'm going to have a hard time surviving in an apocalypse. Please, don't remind me.

2. Low-rise pants. You all know how frustrated I am about not being able to find jeans that fit me. Half of this frustration comes from the fact 99% of pants that are cute are way too freaking low. I am not a rail-thin supermodel/13-year-old, Pants Manufacturers of the World. I've carried small people in my body and I cannot wear your low pants. I don't want my butt crack hanging out. I don't want the button at my boobs, either, but can we please compromise? Right now it's like Grandma Pants or Hooker Pants are the only pants in existence. Those are my choices.

But seriously, low-rise jeans are so Britney Spears/Christina Aguilera early 2000's. Remember how 10 years ago, you were sitting in math class and suddenly, your eyes were seared right out of their sockets when they happened to fall upon some chick's thong hanging out of her pants? WHEN HAS THAT EVER BEEN ACCEPTABLE? Please, low-rise pants, GO AWAY and never come back. I'm convinced you contributed to my near-sightedness. Too many nasty thong-sightings in junior high and high school.

3. Super-high-heeled shoes. Ladies, help me understand. I really want to like these shoes. You know what I am talking about:

So sexy and cute, right?

But they HURT so dang much!!!

I own a pair of heels quite like these. I bought them for my brother's wedding a few years back, thinking I'd look amazing and knock everyone dead with my sexiness. Turns out I could only wear them in 15-minute increments before I felt like I needed an ambulance. And the way I have to walk to avoid falling over/twisting my ankle is anything BUT sexy.

Maybe it's because I don't work out. Maybe it's because I have weak ankles. Maybe I'm just a wuss, plain and simple. I can't figure it out. But these shoes are not meant for me and never will be. You young cute thangs can go ahead and wear them on my behalf because I am simply incapable.

4. Facebook games/apps. Farmville, Mafia Wars, Zoo World, Gnome Garden Hookerville World, whatever it is ... I don't want it. Please, PLEEEEEEASE don't send me a request for this if we are Facebook friends. I will probably never play. And I will definitely judge you if I see that you're indulging in these timesuck-games in my news feed. Kidding (kind of).

But truthfully, I have enough anxiety in my life over real money and people. I don't need the added stress over fake people and fake money.

5. Caillou. Please tell me you have seen this, the weirdest and most annoying kids' show ever. (If you haven't, consider yourself lucky.) The premise seems innocent enough -- a young preschooler and the adventures he has with his toddler sister, parents and friends. But there's a catch: this kid is WHINY. To the max. His voice is grating. It's like nails on a chalkboard. No, it's like GRATING A CHALKBOARD. He cries/whines about everything. Happy, sad, mad, scared, excited, bummed out ... it doesn't matter. He's whining away. It's uncomfortable. I'm embarrassed for Caillou's parents, which is saying something because they are animated fictitious people. If you don't believe in corporal punishment, you might make an exception for Caillou. I'm just sayin.'

But the worst part about Caillou is how much my kids love it. Smush just stares like he's in a trance when Caillou's on (maybe he's a hypnotist masquerading as a whiny brat? Plausible ... ). Plus, the show airs at 7:30 in the morning and sometimes I need a few more minutes of sleep at that time so I turn it on. But I don't know why I even bother since the freaking kid's obnoxious bleating keeps me awake anyway.

What don't YOU get?

Haterz gonna hate.

I just got back from a wonderful evening with my family, which was quickly ruined by a few disheartening and frankly rude comments on my "Religious Humor" post.

Call me crazy, but I went ahead and deleted said posts, which even went so far as to call me "digusting." I don't appreciate personal attacks on my own blog as I'm sure you wouldn't either. You know who you are. If you want to trash me and other Mormons, there are plenty of other outlets on the Web where you can do that. You don't even have to look hard to find them.

Second, I've already cleared this up in the comments of that post, but I guess I'm going to have to again, where everyone can see it: I am not even trying to compare the mistreatment of European Jews in the 1930's-40's to the mistreatment of Mormons today. My more perceptive readers have picked up on this, but some of the more close-minded have not. In case you've missed the crux of my post, I will restate it. It can be summed up in one sentence:

"It sickens me that not even 100 years [after the Holocaust], society has already seemed to forget how a small seed of distaste for a particular religious group can quickly grow into a forest of hatred."

If you want to see my post as something else -- a far-fetched comparison between the Holocaust and a stupid play, as some of you have grossly misjudged, that's within your right. It's also within my right to call your B.S. and delete it. All's fair in love and war.

Also, I've disallowed anonymous comments for obvious reasons. It's so easy to spew your venom when you're hiding behind a mask of anonymity, isn't it?

Peace out.

Some pictures to lighten the mood.

Whew, is it warm in here? I was a little (OK, a lot) worried about posting that last entry. But it had been weighing on my conscience for quite a while and I felt like I needed to put my voice out there. I know, not everyone is going to agree with me and that's OK. But how can I live with myself if I don't stand up for what I know in my heart to be right?

Back to the funny, light-hearted mommy blog. For now. (This doesn't mean I'm not going to get all bleeding heart on you in the future, though!)

First item of business: You can like me on Facebook now! I know, the day you were all waiting for has arrived. I have a confession: I was actually quite nervous to set this up -- does it look ultra-pretentious to have a Page on Facebook? It basically means I think you should all quite literally LIKE me, right? And I'm hoping you do, since you're obviously reading this, but just because you're reading this doesn't necessarily mean you DO like me, you might just be searching for stuff about pixie cuts and getting kites stuck in trees ...

I'm probably overthinking things.

Anyway, like me or don't. Whatevs. Just sayin'.

Also, see that new widget over there on my sidebar? --> It says, "I tweet." And underneath that self-explanatory heading are my latest tweets. Yes, folks, I am on Twitter. I am a twit. And I have been since January 2009. It ain't no thang. So follow me if you want. Be forewarned I rarely have anything witty to say; I save the good stuff for here. But I do like to reply to people and retweet Joel McHale. Now, THERE's a twit worth following. The jury's still out on Justin Bieber.

Finally, as promised, some pictures. Kind of random, but random's what we do best.

Remember those chair pictures  I used to take? The other day, I was on the computer and Bubby came running in, saying "Smush climbed up on the chair all by himself! You gotta take a picture, Mom!" So I did. And it turned out pretty darned cute if I do say so myself. He's such a ham.

Bubby's on a Yo Gabba Gabba! kick lately. It's a weird show, let me tell you. But it kind of grows on you. Give it a chance. I like the 8-bit music and the Nintendo-esque video game sequences. Actually, I was thinking about it and it's pretty much a kids' hipster show. The kids on it even have super-cool hipster names, like Juliet and Garrison. True statement.

Anyway, there's one part of the show where they do all these funny faces. So Bubby has naturally taken to making them every time I pull out the camera. Kewl. There's the photographic evidence.

This is a new self-portrait. See how my eyes are all shiny? No, they're not naturally that sparkly; I used The Pioneer Woman's "Bring on the Eyes" Photoshop action (it's free; go download it!). Nifty. Also, I think I need to lighten my hair. Thoughts?

'Religious humor' should be an oxymoron.

Me and my family (minus Smush) at the Mesa Temple, 2009

A few weeks ago, a new Broadway musical took home nine Tony awards. Nine! An impressive feat. Must have been a pretty touching masterpiece to earn such accolades, right? Well, I don't know; I haven't seen it. But based on the content, I can safely say it didn't deserve it.

The big winner is "The Book of Mormon," written by the guys behind South Park. In case you haven't heard, the musical is about two Mormon missionaries in Uganda and the adventures they have there. Sounds innocent enough, right? Wrong. It's not meant to be respectful, heartfelt or touching -- it's meant to make fun of Mormons and their beliefs, and it takes no shame in doing so.

Sure, some theater-goers have called it "surprisingly sweet," so maybe it's not as crass and crude as critics have claimed. Again, I don't know and won't know -- I'm not going to see it. And not just because I'm a Mormon, although I am and I revere my faith highly. No, actually, it goes much deeper than that.

Last month, I went to Washington, D.C. and toured the Holocaust Museum.We all know what happened -- millions of Jewish people, as well as Jehovah's Witnesses, disabled individuals, gypsies, Polish people, Soviet war prisoners, homosexuals and anyone who opposed the Nazi government were systematically slaughtered. In the end, the death toll reached between 11 and 17 MILLION people. Real, human lives. Of those, six million were Jews. Of course, it is horrifying to think this ever happened, that it was allowed to happen. It's astonishing to learn that one group of human beings could decide other groups weren't good enough to exist and then murder them in the most brutal ways. It's not fun to think about, but we must.

Part of the museum includes an exhibit about Nazi propaganda, the media used to plant pro-Nazi and anti-Semitic ideas into the heads of Europeans. One thing that struck me was the way Jews were portrayed in the propaganda -- always as grossly exaggerated caricatures with huge noses, beady eyes and unhuman ways. They were painted as vile, evil, scary people without morals. They were made fun of in films, cartoons and books and likened to rats or poisonous mushrooms. Children were taught to revile them from an early age through these media.

Sure enough, as soon as enough of Europe viewed Jewish people the way the Nazis intended, it became easy to cart them off and kill them. They called it the "Final Solution." Many Europeans (but not all) turned their heads and looked away as their neighbors were transferred to ghettos and later to killing camps. In their eyes, it was just the way it is. For the greater good, they'd been told.

It sickens me that not even 100 years later, society has already seemed to forget how a small seed of distaste for a particular religious group can quickly grow into a forest of hatred. How often do we see religion mocked for humor's sake? All. The. Time. In television, movies, books, cartoons and on Broadway. And somehow, it elicits laughter and wins awards, when in reality, we ought to be shaking our heads in disgust.

Why do we allow this? As Americans, who believe in "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," why do we not only permit but praise theatrical and artistic works which makes light of others' sacred faiths? Have we not seen enough tragedy come from religious intolerance?

It's easy to pick on people who aren't like you, isn't it? People who might be seen as weird or different -- they're the obvious scapegoats. If you can't understand them, make fun of them. Bully them. You'll feel better about yourself. Right?

Well, when you put it like that ...

I know, you think I'm overreacting. No, I'm just calling it like I see it. This country was founded so people could practice their beliefs in peace. Check the First Amendment if you don't believe me. So far, it looks like we've got the "practice their beliefs" part down, but what about "in peace?" Not even close, in my opinion. No one should ever have to experience the stabbing hurt and anger we feel when our religious faiths are pushed around and peddled as comedy. It's just not American to satirize what people regard as sacred. It's not even human.

I readily acknowledge the First Amendment protects freedom of speech, too. Believe me, I am grateful for this. You don't need to tell a journalist twice. Humans need to be able to speak our minds, to argue with the status quo, to challenge others. I don't think we need laws to criminalize religious taunting; I just think it should be common sense. It's tactless, it's hurtful, it's wrong. What more evidence do you need to stop doing it?

So go ahead, make your hysterical religion-bashing musicals. It's within your right to do so. You'll make a quick buck and everyone will applaud your boldness. People will cheer and call it "cute." You'll be the momentary hero, soaking up your 15 minutes of fame in battery-powered limelight. But at the end of the day, your offensive play will hardly stand against the truly inspiring masterpieces on Broadway. In a few years, we'll forget about that play that made fun of Mormons. But I can guarantee we'll still be buying tickets to "Les Miserables," "The Phantom of the Opera" and "Wicked."

For additional reasons not to see "The Book of Mormon" on Broadway, check out this well-written and researched article from the Deseret News: 'Mormon' msuical: Pride in prejudice?. Basically: my thoughts exactly.

When relationships go awry, Facebook-style.

Zits, one of my favorite comic strips. Via here

I really love Facebook. It's a pretty fantastic way to keep in touch with people with minimal effort. I remember as a teenager, whenever I met someone awesome I'd think, "If I don't get their number (their home phone number, mind you, none of this cell phone business), I will NEVER see them again!" This, of course, was a wee over-dramatic. But that's how it used to be. At the end of the school year, you felt pressure to buy a $50 yearbook so you wouldn't forget anyone's face. Now, if you friend them on Facebook, you can ogle their face all day (but don't, because that's creepy). And it's free.

(But really, don't.)

Along with the greatness of Facebook, though, comes the weirdness. One of the most awkward things about Facebook is the relationship status. You know, the little heart icon in your news feed that tells you who's happily married, who's engaged, who's in a relationship and who's single. And of course, we can't forget the squirm-inducing "it's complicated." If that little gem's not going to get people clicking on your profile, I don't know what will.

We've all seen it happen: two happy birds find love, post a cute picture of the two of them (probably in a car), officially declare their love on Facebook ("So Andso is in a relationship with Whats Herface") and get married a few months later ("So Andso is now married to Whats Herface Andso"). You see the announcement in your news feed and you can't help but click on their profiles, gawking at their wedding pictures for who knows how long. Ah, wuv. Sweet wuv. Just melts your heart, doesn't it? And you get to be a part of it because of Facebook. Even though you barely know the people. (But that's OK, because if they don't want you doing it, they can make their profile private, amiright?)

(Thanks, Facebook, for making stalking super-easy!)

Then, months, years, maybe weeks (heaven forbid) down the road, you see something strange: the wedding pictures have up and disappeared. All of them. Not a single one left anywhere in the world. Huh. Then, the girl changes her last name back to her maiden name. Double Huh. Then, if you go through their Wall, you'll see some cryptic status updates/messages that don't explain anything but give you enough information to solve the puzzle on your own. Things like, "Some people are rotten scumbags YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE." Or maybe a slew of Wall posts from friends in this vein: "Hugs, honey. You deserve so much better!" or "Dude, let's PARTAAYYYY!"

Yeah. Awkward. AWWWWKWARD.

Facebook is all kinds of cool if your life is awesome. If you've got a kick-butt job, make tons of dough and have a hot spouse and darling children, you're proud to have a Facebook account. You want people to click on you. You're all like, "LOOK AT HOW I FREAKING RULE AT LIFE AND YOU DON'T!" It's basically the premise of every class reunion, but you get to do it every day on the World Wide Web. Sweet.

But what happens when your life takes a turn for the worse? The job went POOF, the wife ran off, the kids turned into drug lords or strippers. Suddenly, Facebook becomes a wide-open window into a world of hurt. WHAT is a war-torn person supposed to do?

Well, you shut the blinds, and QUICK.

You immediately employ some damage control -- take down the pictures, un-friend the former wife/husband and every one of their family members, change your relationship status, change your name. Maybe you even delete your whole profile and start over.

In any case, nine out of 10 times, the rest of us -- the casual friends who aren't privy to such information -- are left scratching our heads, going, "What happened?"

And nine out of 10 times, we don't find out. Such is the consequence of casual friendship.

And then, the awkwardness is multiplied by 100 when you randomly encounter them in public. You're friends on Facebook, they know it and you know it, so you have to say hi. And since you're Facebook chums, you should KNOW that something went down, but you don't know what because they never outright said it, so it'd be really creepy if you did. The conversation goes as follows:

Me: Oh hi, Susie! So good to see you!

Susie: Yeah, you too! (hug) How are your kids? How's Dill?

Me: Oh, they're great! How's ... um, your ...  mom?

Susie: ...

Somehow, this is supposed to be better than the way it was before Facebook existed. I can't see how. I'd rather be truly ignorant than faking ignorance so as not to hurt someone's feelings.

In a world where everyone can see what you're doing by simply checking Facebook, how are we supposed to cope with life's tragedies? Do we broadcast them to all our friends? Should it be announced in a note, or in a status update? Do we keep them to ourselves? Or do we completely erase ourselves off the Facebook map to avoid the drama altogether?

How do YOU handle it?

And what should the rest of us do? Ask for an explanation or wonder in silence for the rest of forever?

How do we reconcile the Information Age with tact and politeness when it comes to failed relationships?

Why the furry face?

If you read my Fathers' Day post from Saturday, you know that I am now married to the Bearded Wonder.

Also, if you've known Dill for any amount of time, you know he's a clean-cut, never-had-long-hair conservative type of guy. Not a rebel or hipster in the least. And definitely not a lumberjack. So, it might be a little awkward if you encounter him in public and see his untamed face for the first time. You might think he's gone crazy, or apostate (since Mormons tend to shun facial hair), or maybe a combination of the two. And since I don't want people going around thinking I allowed a rebellious-psycho-hipster-Al Borland-wannabe to father my children, I will go ahead and explain.

It all began a few months ago. At church, someone announced over the pulpit that our Church was going to make a new film about the life of Jesus Christ and they needed extras. They said if you have "Jewish/Roman/Arab" features, you should go to a particular Web site and apply. The filming would take place in Utah Valley and extras would be paid $100 a day. I thought this sounded like a very exciting adventure and was so bummed that my features are exactly opposite to what they're looking for. But Dill definitely has the whole Jewish/Roman thing going on with his dark hair, super-thick brows and ... prominent nose (sorry, Dill, but it is. No two ways around it). So, I lovingly encouraged him to apply (read: forced him to take headshots and filled out the application for him).

A few weeks later, Dill received an e-mail back saying he would have to go to a local improv club and perform a live audition. Again, if you know Dill at all, you know he doesn't really do theatrics. At all. Or any performing art, really. I, on the other hand, have taken a few dance/drama/anchoring classes and am basically a really good faker, so I helped him learn the script. It was hilarious. I mean, try teaching several very difficult old English lines to someone who hasn't acted a day in their life (wait, I guess he did have a line in his 6th grade production of Johnny Appleseed ... can't dismiss those credentials!). It's a good laugh, let me tell you.

The next day, Dill went to the improv club for his audition. He explained he didn't want a lead role, just to be an extra. They said no biggie; everyone has to audition. It'd be a fairly painless reading in front of a camera and he could go on his merry way. So he did his thing and we waited to hear back.

Within a few months, Dill was informed he'd made the first cut to be an extra in the film! Yaaaay! But he was required to start growing out his beard and hair "in earnest" immediately. Of course, we saw this coming. No surprise. Guys had beards in the Bible, and the movie has to be authentic. So, he waited until after David and Rachel's wedding and then the growing commenced.

That was just about a month ago. Here he is today:

I must say, my hubby looks HOT in a beard. He wears it quite well, don't you think?

He hasn't officially been cast for the film yet -- he is still waiting to be given a schedule and all that jazz. But so far, it's looking good! And if they don't cast him (which would be a shame, with Johnny Appleseed on his resume), at least he got to see first-hand what it's like to be a hipster.

Maybe I should have Dill write a guest post about what it's like to have a full-on beard. What say ye? Ask him your specific questions about beardedness in the comments and we'll see if he's at least willing to be interviewed.

Another gushing Dad's Day post.

This one's for you, Dill.

(So you better make a comment!)

Thank you for working hard so we can have a house, drive, eat and do fun things. We know you don't have a ton of fun at your job, but we really, reeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllly* appreciate that you work, and so hard, too!

*(Spelling doesn't matter when it comes to sincere gratitude expressions. In fact, gross misspellings are encouraged in these cases.)

Thank you for being the kind of dad kids scream for ... in a delighted way. You're more exciting than the ice cream man around here ("We all scream for DADDY!"). As soon as Bubby hears the garage door opening at the end of the day, she squeals and runs to the door to greet you. Smush sees you come in and immediately tries to jump out of my arms to go to you. You're the best thing since sliced bread. Forget Mom -- at 4:15 p.m., it's all about YOU!

Thank you for taking care of bath time every night. Bubby and Smush love bath time, but I think they really love it because of how fun you make it. Also, thank you for cleaning Smush's poo out of the tub all three times. That was nasty and I would have died.

Thank you for doing the whole bedtime routine, too -- teeth brushing, hair-combing, story. You really are something.

Thank you for playing with the kids. Swimming, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders (I know that's not your favorite), Princess Yahtzee, park days. Even rough-housing. I know, I act like I hate it, but I secretly love it. (Just try not to drop Smush on his head, mmkay?)

Thank you for getting up with the kids on the weekends and letting me sleep in. Oh, how I loooooooove sleeping in.

Thank you for being such a fabulous husband. Being a good husband is an important part of being a good dad. Our son is seeing your example and is learning how to be a real man to his future wife. Props.

Thank you for all the hot dates. Thank you for always letting me pick the restaurant and acting happy when we spend forever at Forever 21 (fitting, huh?). I also like when we stay in for date night and have peanut butter caramel popcorn while watching Netflix in bed. You are the best movie-snuggling buddy.

Thank you for always loving me and making me feel like a billion bucks. You never fail to tell me I'm beautiful, even when I think I look like trash. Our kids know you love their mother.

You are the best dad around -- can't believe how lucky I got in snagging you! Best husband, best dad AND best kisser -- even with your beard.

(Hopefully, I'll have some news about the beard soon! In the meantime, you'll just have to wonder if my husband's becoming a hipster.)

Happy Fathers' Day, Dill. I predict there will be chocolate in your future.

Love,
Your Wife and Kidlets

We we we we so excited.

It's Fridayee, it's Fridayee! Gotta get down, peeps!

Did you hear poor Rebecca Black's "Friday" video has been yanked from YouTube? Apparently there's some kind of dispute going on with the video producers. Sad day.

But wait! I found it here. So if you still haven't seen it, I just bought you some time to jump on that bandwagon with the rest of us poserzzzz.

(Also, pretty sure the "Friday" video is the archenemy of the hipster movement.)

To make your weekend extra special, here are some swell pictures Dill's amazing cousin Michele took of us in D.C. We are for sure the hottest couple ever. Everyone wants to be us.

At the rooftop dinner

At the end of James Madison's garden path

Happy Friday! Oh, and be sure to check out my friend Mandy's cool giveaway. Two words: sequined heart.

Why I can't be a hipster.

The other day, I noticed one of my Facebook friends had "liked" a page called Verbal Vomit. Well, with such a colorful title (and since verbal vomiting is practically all I do over here), I decided I needed to check it out.

I'm glad I did because 1) the author, Hannah, is an illustration student at BYU and 2) she is hilarious. And so is her blog. She illustrates every post with the quirkiest, cutest drawings. It's pure genius.

Anyway, being a first-timer at her blog, I quickly located the most popular posts list and saw one titled "How to Be a Hipster" at the top. Hannah does have 500+ followers (something I do not), so I figured this must be some pretty good stuff. And oh, it was. She even has a Part Two addendum, in case you couldn't figure out how to be a hipster from Part 1.

So, you're saying, "Jenna, I have a kid (or two, maybe even three) and am no longer cool-aware so I don't know what a hipster is." It's OK; don't lose your dentures over it. I didn't know either until I read Hannah's post. Well, actually, I DID -- I just didn't know what they were called.

Hipsters being hip, c/o Urban Outfitters

 You might be a hipster if most or all of these things apply to you:

-Vintage fashion
-Thrift stores
-Beard
-Large glasses (might be fake)
-Flannel shirt
-Romper
-Feathers
-Skinny pants
-Mustache
-Shoes that resemble moccasins or Oxfords in any way
-Sneakers
-Obscure music taste, usually "indie" or folk-y in nature
-Obscure film taste (stuff only seen at Sundance)
-Prefer "deep" literature and conversation
-Keen interest in organic, homemade or other eco-friendly items

Now, before I lose some followers (ha, who am I trying to kid? I doubt any hipsters are following this uncool lady!), let me say, being a hipster is not a bad thing. In fact, I'm pretty jealous of all the vintage-y photos and laid-back style y'all are rockin' all the time. When I throw on random clothes, I look homeless, not hip. I've even gone to Claire's and tried on the big fake glasses for fun. But it's just not me, I guess.

Being a "hipster" is great if it just happens to be what you like and identify with. It's only bad to be a hipster if you are forcing yourself to do it, wearing flannel shirts and rompers while watching Garden State only because you want to be trendy (and because you were hoping to see Zach Braff being funny in a movie.)

(In which, he's not. Garden State: not a funny movie, let me reassure you.)

Anyway, after reading Hannah's how-to guides I realized how totally un-hipster I am. I mean, I sometimes shop at thrift stores, but only a few times a year (I used to be a thrift store FIEND in high school -- but back when it was weird and not cool at all). I usually leave Goodwill feeling frustrated at having sifted through so much junk, only to leave empty-handed smelling like pee. And I like Buffalo Exchange, but mostly for the jeans. Definitely not for the fedoras. I look sad in fedoras.

I do value healthy, local produce, plus I do that whole 50% raw thing and bake my own bread, but not because it's good for the earth. I do it because I'm CHEAP and because if I don't I can't poop.

(Oh yeah, and pretty sure hipsters don't talk about poop, ever. Probably don't even poop.)

I don't have an Etsy shop. Nor do I sew. But I do wield a hot glue gun with fierceness!

I have a few indie/folksy songs on my iTunes, but only because they were free downloads of the week. And I'm glad because I like them and I probably wouldn't have downloaded them if they hadn't been. But I have to be honest, I LOVE hip-hop. Almost too much. And I love pop. I listen to songs that have words like "swagger" and "gettin' paperrrrr" in them regularly. And I like it.

I'll admit, one of my favorite movies is Lars and the Real Girl. A pretty hipster-ish flick if you ask me. But I saw it about 5 years ago, before hipsters were even cool. And I love it because it's so weird and quirky. Not because of some deep hidden meaning about true love or whatev.

I like to read, but you should know most of my favorite books can be found in the YA section of the library. Yes, I checked out A Tale of Two Cities a few months ago. No, I did not finish it. Didn't even get 10 pages in before I fell asleep. But I sure as heck read Mockingjay in less than 24 hours!

I don't own a bike. I don't wear rompers (but my kids do!). I have a few vintage items in my home, but they're hand-me-downs at which true hipsters would merely shrug. I do like IKEA, but again, mainly for the cheapness factor. I don't own a Polaroid or a fancy DSLR and I can't really take those cool asymmetrical someone's-being-partially-cut-off-but-it-still-looks-awesome pictures you see all the time (exhibit A):

I wonder how that girl on the right felt after seeing this. Two words: third wheel

But I do like to learn new things and I play an instrument (just not guitar or banjo or accordion), and I enjoy talking about deeper subjects, things that make you go, "Hmm." (Except politics. I'm working on it.) And picnics are fun, but I'd rather eat in my car.

Most importantly, though? I can't be a hipster because ... I look terrible in skinny jeans/pants. I've tried; it ain't happening. Let's just leave it at that.

I guess what we've learned by this is I am not a hipster -- I am just me. A little hip-hop, a little Mormon housewife, a little hipster, a little weird, a LOT nerdy. I'm a Jennaster.

Maybe we're all just [insert name here]sters.

By the way, Hannah's blog totally inspired me to draw myself in Paint last night. So I did. 

Great, now I'm a hipster-wanna-be ...

Whatcha lookin' for?

So, did you subscribe to Netflix yet? Get on that if you haven't. You get a month free. Then you can start doing Pilates videos, plopping your kids in front of Dora or creeping yourself out with Hoarders. It's awesome!

Ever wonder what people are searching for to get to your blog? If you're with Blogger, you'll notice the handy Stats tab on your dashboard. In there, you can see where people are coming from, what they're looking at and what terms they're Googling to come upon your blog. Pretty sweet. And a bit disconcerting at times. Like, who's looking at my blog in India? Show yourselves!

But the thing that gets me are the search terms people use to find me. Here are some of the weirdest of the past week:

1. "How to defeat a cockroach" - Oh yes, there was that time I had a half-dead cockroach in my bathroom and it nearly ended my life. But I won by sticking a trash can over the sucker so I could go about my bathroomly duties only semi-freaked-out (Dill nabbed it up when he got home later that day). You'll be proud to know I have since upgraded to sucking them up with a vacuum (with my eyes clammed shut, screaming "Ew! Ew! Ew!"). I've even convinced Bubby to do it a few times. Does that make me a bad mom? Don't answer that.

*I realize this makes me sound like I have a filthy, roach-infested house. I don't. They're unfortunately normal here in the summer. And I just convinced at least 30 people never to move to Mesa.

Apparently, people are having the same problem I did once upon a time and are consulting with Teh Internetz for help. Brilliant. Just don't ask me how to defeat a scorpion, because my current battle plan is to scream and cry and then call my father-in-law to come get it for me.

2. "Peeing your pants" - Tell me, readers, have I ever blogged about this? I mean, I don't pee my pants. And if I did, you can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn't be blogging about it (or maybe I would ... ). Perhaps this query is in reference to my potty training saga with Bubby? I really can't figure it out. Enlighten me.

But more importantly, why are people searching "peeing your pants" on Google? Are they looking for solutions to an incontinence problem? Or maybe funny videos? Sorry, but I'm not going to be much help with either of those. However, I am 1-1 on potty training, so I might be able to offer a little insight ... ?

3. "Potty break" - see #2. (No, not THAT #2.) I must blog a lot about bodily functions, I guess. I'm surprised there aren't more queries about broken crotches or messed up lady parts.

4. "Love your short hair" - Ok, I totally get this one. You took a leap of faith, got a pixie cut and realize you hate it. It makes you want to become a hermit. So, you turn to Google in your despair. "Help me love my short hair, Google!" you desperately cry. And then my blog comes up because I really did love my short hair. I am practically the shining example of a short hair lover. In fact, I'm about thisclose to going back to a cropped cut because this A-line bob thing takes forever to style. (Shh, don't tell my mom.) Hopefully, my incessant posts about pixie cuts have allowed you to embrace your 'do. Otherwise ... sorry?

5. "How to get a kite stuck in tall tree" - Really, people? You need to Google this? Maybe you meant, "How to be a moron the hard way." Or, more likely, "How to rub salt in Jenna's wound for sitting idly by as her daughter flew her kite straight into a tree."

Anyway, I'll go ahead and entertain this question with a thoughtful and not-at-all sarcastic answer.

First, take your kite out on a super-windy day. Hurricane conditions will be best. Go to a park with lots of tall trees -- or better yet, a forest if you can. Throw the kite up into the air (a flying buddy will not be necessary in gale force winds) and let the string out. When the kite achieves a reasonable altitude, walk -- no, RUN towards any of the trees in said park/forest. Pull the kite string taut and allow it to make contact with the branches (or even the trunk -- yeah, trunk's probably better) of the tree. Jerk the string up and down and all around to ensure maximum tangling. Let go of the spool of string for good measure.

And that's how you get your kite stuck in a tall tree, Internet.

So tell me, what wacky terms are getting people to YOUR blogs?

Hoarding.

I might be OBSESSED with Netflix. Ok, let's not kid ourselves -- I am, just a little bit. I love that I can turn on Dora the Explorer at any point during the day and escape from my kids for a bit (even if she does yell a lot ... can someone at Nickelodeon get that girl to calm the heck down?!). I love that for in-home date night, we can scroll through the list of movies and watch whatever looks good with the click of a Wii remote. And if we fall asleep half-way through? No biggie, we can just resume it later. Or if it really sucks, we can just pick a new movie. It's pretty much the best.

Last week, I was overjoyed when I saw that Netflix added Hoarders to their list of TV shows. I had heard all sorts of things about this show: "It's crazy," "It sets my OCD off," "It makes me want to take a shower," and I decided it was a show I'd probably like. I'm into all those psychiatric shows that delve into people's weirdness. Everyone has a little weird to them, and I find it fascinating that some are willing to broadcast their weird on network television. So I can't help but tune in.

Please don't judge me for liking weird shows. At least I'm not watching Jackass. Things could be worse.

Anyway, I watched the first episode of Hoarders last week. I spent most of the episode with my eyebrows raised and mouth open. I also had to keep pausing it to tell Dill about what was happening. He didn't want to watch it with me, but I gave him the play-by-play anyway. Best wife ever, right here.

If you've never watched Hoarders, here's how it goes down:

-Two people are featured on each episode of the show, which is filmed in documentary style. These people are self-described hoarders. They cannot easily part with things and they acquire a lot of things. Sometimes the problem comes from the fact they are compulsive shoppers. Other times, they have a fear of getting rid of something they might need. Or they might be sentimental and develop unusually strong attachments to objects. Almost every time, there is some kind of history of hoarding in the family (mom did it, dad did it) and there are usually some mental disorders to go with it (ADHD, OCD, personality disorders, etc.).

- Each person has a house FULL of a LOT of stuff. I mean a LOT. Like, every inch of floor is covered with stuff except for a very narrow walkway. Often it is described as malodorous and hazardous.

This is what I'm talking about:

via

This isn't a simple "clutter" problem. This is Clutter freakin' Kong.

- The producers interview the hoarders and their family members/friends about their problem. They alternate between shots of the interview and the house and its enormous collection of stuff.

- A professional organizer/psychologist/helper person comes to the hoarder's house and tours the place, then lovingly but firmly states the person has a problem and they need help throwing some crap (literal and figurative) out. Meaning, almost all of it.

- Clean-up crews show up the next day with huge dump trucks. The helper person goes through each item in the house with the hoarder and asks him or her if it's something they are willing to part with. Sometimes, they're holding up a candy wrapper or a broken shoe or even a piece of lint and you think, "No brainer," but the person doesn't want to throw it away. It never gets old, this unexpected twist. Sometimes, you're just left with your mouth hanging open in utter shock that a broken tile piece or a wrapper could be considered valuable.

-The ending is not always the same. Sometimes, the hoarder makes such significant progress on the mess that you'd never know they even had a hoarding problem by the after pictures. Other times, they are unwilling to bend and the house remains in its overflowing state.

I used to have a little bit of a hoarding problem. Not this extreme at all. But I was terrified to throw out papers from school because I feared I'd need it and then I'd be failed or sent to the principal's office or held back a grade since I didn't have it. Absurd, right? Well, yeah. But the absurdity was pretty real to me, so I can identify with these hoarders on that level. I also valued sentimental objects more than is healthy. Like, I HAD to save every picture, nametag, lanyard, wristband, EVERYTHING from summer church camps as a youth because of the fond memories I had there (don't worry, I've since tossed them ... I think ...). I really believe my mother saved me from being a serious hoarder because she was so adamant that we donate or trash our junk. She'd regularly hand us giant trash bags, direct us to our closets and say, "Chuck or donate whatever you don't need."  And we did, because we knew if we didn't, she'd chuck it out herself. She was also very organized and encouraged us to be that way, too. So things never got out of hand for me, thank goodness. Now, I am very organized and my house is quite clean.

Watching Hoarders is not at all like watching, say, Jersey Shore or Cake Boss. Those are some shows you can just enjoy or veg out to without having to contemplate too much. Hoarders is not. For one thing, I cannot snack while I watch Hoarders because hello, try chowing down on some Cheez-Its while you're witnessing how much rat poo or dog hair a person has in their house. Dry heaves.

Second, it really stresses me out. I can only watch one episode a day or I will lose it. My heart just aches for these people. They know they have a problem, they (often times) want to fix it, but it's just become this uncontrollable MONSTER that's completely out of their control. Just seeing their huge stuff explosion overwhelms me. I can't imagine living in it. And then going through each item and deeming it keep-worthy or trash-worthy? How emotionally depleting that must be.

The thing that keeps me hooked, though, is the sheer humanity and kindness of the helper people. They never judge; they just diagnose the problem and provide solutions. They are always so optimistic, even when there is urine and/or fecal matter involved. They are so patient, allowing the person to touch and analyze every object before they decide if it goes or stays if that's what they need to do. And they sincerely believe the hoarders can change. Which, they're right -- they can, with their professional help. But they don't sugar-coat the problem at all and always present logical facts when helping a person decide if something is trash or treasure. Things like, "That yogurt expired 3 years ago." DIRECT QUOTE, PEOPLE.

Since watching Hoarders, I've become hyper-aware of any disarray and immediately took to organizing a few areas of my house. Most of the hoarders on the show came from a long line of hoarding, but others started as adults. Life suddenly became overwhelming and before they knew it, they were drowning in their stuff and knew no way out. So they just kept adding things to their infinite piles. I am not too proud to think I could never fall into that trap. Anyone can. Massive amounts of clutter do not happen overnight. It takes time (and money -- maybe that's why my house is so clean!) to acquire so much stuff and then to allow it to accumulate to such a hazardous degree.

In short, see that toy/wrapper/old bill/DVD lying on your floor/counter/desk/bed? Go put it away. Trash, drawer, closet, wherever it goes.

And then subscribe to Netflix if you haven't yet, because it seriously rocks my world.

Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.

"What do we do? We swim!"

I love Finding Nemo.

And I love that Bubby can swim!

The first two days were fraught with tears. It was almost tragic. Bubby screamed as if she were being murdered in cold blood but life went on. Day 3 had less screaming but still tears. But on the fourth day, everything clicked and she was suddenly unafraid! Jumping in and swimming around like a fish. I couldn't have been more proud.

Seriously, if you're in the Mesa area and need an awesome swimming teacher, you need Ms. Rolayne. Fifty dollars and six days later, your kid (or you ... not everyone can swim; I don't judge) will know how to swim! And if your kid feels the need to wipe a wad of snot on Ms. Rolayne's face mid-session, she'll act like it's no big deal (yeah, that happened).

E-mail me at momtheintern @ gmail dot com if you're interested.

Belonging as a mom.

As you all know, I am 24. A baby, as some of the older folks say.

I got married very young, just a few months shy of 19. Yes, I WAS 18. But I was at BYU, the college where young marriedness is accepted (and somewhat expected). So even after I put on the ring, I still felt like I fit in with my peers. A lot of my friends were married or getting married, anyway. Sometimes, it was a little awkward to inform obviously interested male classmates of my marital status. But this was BYU. What did they expect? Slightly awkward, but the show went on.

Then, I got pregnant. (It was intentional, just so you know.) I was only about half-way done with my degree. All of my classmates were taking fabulous anchor jobs on campus, running off on fabulous internships with their fabulous hair and fabulous clothes; meanwhile, I was just trying to survive my beginning reporting class in the Provo heat with a massive belly and some non-fabulous maternity shirts (and ONE skirt). Let me say, pregnancy is a definite game-changer, even at BYU. Young and married? Cool. Young, married and pregnant? Weird. Try telling your assigned study group that you might not be coming to class EVER because you can't stop puking and you will probably be bed-ridden most of the semester. Or try soaking up the stares you'll most definitely receive when you decide the floor is probably more comfortable for your pubic symphasis diastasis than a chair. Point being, pregnant women are an anomaly and people want to avoid them. Especially in college.

(Maybe they think pregnancy is contagious? Wouldn't put it past the BYU population, unfortunately.)

The awkwardness of pregnancy eventually ended and Bubby was born. Mind you, I was a little more than half-way done with college at that point and I was bound and determined to finish. For me, going to school with a kid was way harder than going to school pregnant. At least when you're pregnant, you can just drag your sorry carcass to class and study groups and meetings on a moment's notice. People may even pity your obvious condition. Not when you have a child. Different story.

Now, I know there are BYU students who bring their babies to class. I am not one of them. Babies don't belong at school, methinks. So I arranged for sitters. I paid for them or I traded babysitting hours with them. Sometimes, I was lucky enough to have family watch Bubby for free. Dill was able to rework his schedule to have an entire day off during the week, so that's when I took the bulk of my classes during my first semester back. It was not easy to coordinate classes and study sessions around my sitters, but I felt it had to be done. My motherhood might hinder my education a little bit, but I wasn't going to let it hinder that of others.

Then, I got an internship and started this blog. At BYU, when people find out you're in the "family way," they might be slightly surprised, but they figure it's the next logical step for a married Mormon woman. In the real world, at a real news station? Utter shock. With each revelation, it was, "You're a MOM?!" and my response was a tentative, "Yep!" I don't know what people were thinking, but I can guess "accident" and "teen pregnancy" may have been part of the thought process. And understandably so. I'm ashamed to admit I was a little embarrassed by it. People were supportive, though. I won't forget when seasoned reporter and expectant dad Jason Barry asked me for parenting advice on a ride-along, or when I showed Bubby's baby pictures to anchor Nicole Crites, a young mom herself. But for the most part, my being a mom was especially awkward while I interned at KPHO. All the other interns were heading off to bigger and better things when they finished -- I was heading home. And everyone knew it. This time: really awkward.

Once I completed my internship and graduated, I breathed a big sigh of relief as I took my natural place as a stay-at-home mom. This is the job I'm meant for. It fits, it feels right. And I finally feel like I belong.

This morning, a good friend and neighbor invited me and several other moms with our kids over for breakfast and Mary Poppins. How nice it was to sit together and chat about the momly things we do all day while our kids ran around (and ate chalk, in the case of Smushyboy)! I always feel so at home at these meet-ups. I don't have to defend the fact I'm married and have children. I don't have to defend my decision to be a homemaker. I don't have to ever feel ashamed of my kids and the gross or crazy things they do -- in fact, I wear those moments like badges of honor! The pregnancy grossness, the aftermath of childbirth, the potty-training, the fishing foreign objects out of my kid's mouth -- they're my work experience. And they look really good on my résumé.

I don't know where I'm going with this, except to say that I am comfortable as a mom. At this time in my life, I am happy raising and teaching my little ones every day. This is where I am supposed to be. Is it always a party? No. Is it rewarding? Yes. Is it worthwhile? You bet. Is it hard to see the rewards? Often, it is. But you learn to rely on love and as you do, your eyes are opened to what a wonderful, special, and dare I say, sacred thing it is to be a mother. I'm grateful I've finally found a place where I belong.

And, I'm proud to say, it's not awkward at all.

Let's talk politics -- or not.

James Madison's "Old Library", where he first devised a plan for the American government.
(Montpelier, 2011)

I have something weighing on my mind and it's been causing me some uneasiness for the past few days. And I've decided to put it all out here, kind of like a big brain-purge.

So, here it goes.

I hate shopping for jeans.

And I hate politics.

There, I said it. (Feels good to get that off my chest!)

I hate discussing political matters, I hate campaign season, I hate the venom that pundits from both sides spew at their opponents. I hate how divisive it is.

Mostly, I hate that people get so hung up on who's "electable" and who can win the race for their "team" that they won't even consider candidates who might actually do a good job.

The problem with the bipartisan system we currently have in place is that it severely limits our choices. To vote in the primary elections, you have to register with a party -- Republican or Democrat, elephant or donkey (ironically, both very smelly animals). So in the end, we're essentially left with a Republican and a Democrat to choose from for whatever office it may be (let's not even pretend the other candidates even stand a chance, because we all know they don't). Our choices are never anything in between those two polar opposites. So we choose between the lesser of two evils. We "put up with" the one who's just OK, like buying a bad pair of jeans and wearing them even though they fit pretty terribly and only get worse as time goes on. It seems like it's always been this way, at least it has been in my recent memory. The best pair of jeans is usually left behind after the Primaries, lying on the floor somewhere. Meanwhile, America is running around with a, muffin top, baggy butt and a dragging hem, dying for the next opportunity to find a pair of jeans that make our tush look good.

Let me ask you this, Americans: Is the two-party system working for us? Doesn't appear to be, in my opinion.

Does America need a conservative leader? Does America need a liberal leader? No, and no. America needs a leader who does what's best for our country, despite what side his ideals happen to land on. Someone who doesn't favor an agenda. Someone who doesn't pass legislation as an act of revenge on her opponents. Someone who doesn't base his decisions on party precedent. Someone who listens to the voice of the people.

Does America need someone who can take us back to our roots? Does America need someone ultra-progressive, who will take us on the path never trodden? No, and no. America needs a leader who will examine each issue and problem facing our nation and make decisions that allow us to move forward, not backward as we have been doing for so long.

America needs someone honest, someone who will not allow us to pass a horrendous national debt onto our children. America needs a strong, respectable leader who does not let fear guide her decisions. America needs someone compassionate yet concerned with the law; merciful yet just. America needs someone who will uphold the Constitution and protect the freedoms our Founding Fathers gave their lives for. And America needs someone who cares about families and values our children.

But most of all, America needs someone who will consult with God, first and foremost. Someone who will acknowledge He is the reason our country even exists and rely on Him for guidance. Because the answer does not lie in the White House, nor on Capitol Hill, nor in the Supreme Court. It lies with God.

That's what I think.

"So, Jenna," you ask, "is this 'someone' Republican? Democrat? Conservative? Liberal? Libertarian?"

Well, that's for you to figure out for yourself. Here's my Live Your Best challenge for you this week:

Do some research. Find a candidate (or even a few candidates -- no need to narrow it down just yet!) who you can really support. If he or she happens to be a GOP or Democratic front runner, don't take that as a sign that you picked the wrong one. It doesn't matter who you choose to support, as long as in your heart and mind you know you are making a good choice.

And I hate to put a time constraint on something so important, so feel free to take longer than a week with this one. But the challenge is to do a little digging this week, learn some new names. Read up on the issues.

Remember: it's almost always unwise to buy the first pair of jeans you see.

Lo-Poo.

Ok, guys. Now that my big D.C. trip is all recorded and preserved for posterity (I can't promise I won't lose my mind someday and not be able to recall any of it), I have a confession to make. Please don't disown me. It was just something I had to do.

I started pooing again.

You know, shampooing. My hair. In the shower. Regularly.

It all started in D.C. My hair was, how can I put it nicely? Uncooperative. To put it meanly: jacked the eff up. And I think it had something to do with the humidity. But in reality, the problem had been festering for months and it kind of came to a head in D.C.'s balmy air.

So let's back up to about, oh, January. This was when Smush started to wean and his feedings dropped considerably. I noticed all sorts of wonkiness suddenly happening in my body, including greasy, unmanageable hair. At this point, I had been successfully no-pooing for nearly two years, so I didn't think it could have anything to do with that. No, even now I'm certain it was my hormones, first and foremost. Nursing slows down, estrogen picks back up, face explodes with acne, hair explodes with grease. And the second issue was the fact I was stupidly trying to grow my hair out at the same time as the hormone bomb went off.

I figured out quickly that hormone explosion + growing out hair + no-poo = unpredictable grease-headed awfulness.

I got a little haircut in February, at which time my hairdresser washed my head with shampoo. Yes, I had an affair with shampoo back in February and my hair girl was the accomplice. Everything felt great again and I figured I'd be good to no-poo from that point on. Certainly, my hair would forgive me ... ?

WRONG.

A few weeks (maybe even days?) passed and I was back to being an ugly greaseball again, much to my sorrow.

So, I did what any good no-pooer would do and I washed with baking soda and vinegar. Like, 3 or 4 days in a row. And it helped very little. Actually, I'll admit it made things worse because my ends got really dry and my roots stayed greasy. Not to mention my head itched like it was constantly being attacked by a swarm of ants. Winning!

But I stubbornly endured. I didn't want to falter on the No-Poo Path to Greatness. I wanted to stick with it. I really did! So I just kept at it. Even though I looked worse than trailer trash my scalp was on fire. I kept on, DANGIT!

Sometime in March, maybe early April, I got the (somewhat desperate) idea that maybe I just needed to embrace my curly hair and stop straightening it. Curly hair kind of needs grease, right? Well, it made sense in my addled brain. So, I tried that for a few days and ended up not liking it at ALL. It was still greasy, only now the top was flat and the ends were all frizzy and crap. It just wasn't happening.

Mid-April, I got desperate and started using a teeeeeeny, tiiiiiiiiny amount of Dill's Head and Shoulders in the shower, along with the cone-free Suave conditioner I'd been using for the past 2 years. A very small amount of shampoo, just enough for my bangs, temples and the itchy parts of my head. My head practically sighed with relief. It stopped itching and my roots were no longer mangled with grease. YEAH, BABY! But then, I tried to style it. Oh no, my hair was like straw! And ridden with fly-aways! And FLAT everywhere!

But at least my head stopped burning. I'll take what I can get.

I kept up this shampoo theft (sorry, Dill) for a few weeks and then we were headed off to D.C. I don't know what I was expecting there but it was NOT flat, lifeless hair. But that's exactly what happened, of course! The first day, I told you I tried to wave my hair with my flat-iron and it was the biggest joke of all time. So on the second day, I bought some hairspray at a CVS in Crystal City so I could wear my hair curly, but that was a joke, too. Luckily, the air dried up quite a bit before the wedding so I was able to blow it out and straighten it for the special occasion (aka PICTURES), and it stayed nice. But it was then I realized my hair had a serious problem and it would need to be remedied ASAP.

When I got back to Phoenix I gave in and made the decision to quit no-pooing. I felt like I had failed and I was kind of sad, but let's face it -- my hair had changed since I'd begun the no-poo routine and it NEEDED shampoo. However, I didn't want to go back to the drying, sulfate-laden shampoo and 'cone-filled conditioner of my past. Not after all the reading I'd done about how damaging they are!

Basically, the no-poo philosophy is NO shampoo whatsoever. But there's another way, a less-scary way: Lo-poo. It's about shampooing less, and using sulfate-free, non-drying products to cleanse your hair when you (infrequently) do.

I promptly went to Wal-Mart (when am I ever NOT at Wal-Mart?) when I got back and browsed their sulfate-free shampoo options. One in particular stuck out to me, called SimplyU. It was cheap, said "paraben and sulfate-free" on the bottle and seemed like it could work. So I bought it. A huge bottle for less than $5.

I've been using it for about 2 weeks now and I really like it (good thing, since I have so much). Since it doesn't contain sulfates, it doesn't lather up a whole lot and it doesn't leave your hair feeling squeaky clean like regular shampoo does. But that's kind of the point -- you don't want that squeaky feeling, because that means your hair is as dry as a bone. And even without the sulfates, it cleans really well -- I've only had to wash my hair every 3 days or so. And no more fire-scalp! I still use the cone-free Suave conditioner, too.

So, the story of how I broke up with no-poo. I still stand by it and think it's GREAT for short hair. Like, pixie cuts and no-poo are seriously made for each other. But, at least for me, longer hair needs shampoo. So I am using shampoo again, but it's sulfate-free and I only wash 2-3 times a week tops. I think that's a good compromise.

If you're still wanting to try no-pooing but think it might kill you, take a step in between and go lo-poo. Most major drug stores have sulfate-free shampoos. I know L'Oreal has a line called EverPure that is supposed to be good. There's also Burt's Bees and Say Yes to Carrots that might be excellent more natural options. Or head to Wal-Mart and try SimplyU!

Remember how cute I was with short hair? Well ...

Long hair, here I come!

(and if that doesn't work out, I'll just hack it all off again. No biggie.)

Newsies, spies, butterflies.

Melanie went home early Sunday morning. I'm sad she did, because she missed my favorite museum of all, the Newseum. I guess that means she has a reason to go back (not that she couldn't find a hundred others)!

Ok, so call me a nerd or whatever, but when I found out about 3 years ago that there was a NEWS MUSEUM, I knew I just had to go. Had to see what this place was all about. News is obviously one of my passions so it was kind of a given.

We set aside a huge block of time for it on Sunday morning. Sunday was the best day to go because there were hardly any people there.

First thing -- the design of this museum is wicked cool. Really modern and ... newsy. If you've ever been in a newsroom, it felt very much like that. High-tech and fast-paced and current. First thing you see when you walk into the giant atrium is a HUGE hi-def screen broadcasting the latest news and a crawling marquee displaying current headlines. Suspended in the air is a real-life news chopper. Pretty much awesome.

So you get there and you take the glass elevator up to the 6th floor and then work your way down through the exhibits. I like museums that have a natural flow but still allow for some freedom so this was perfect.

Some of the highlights:

*9/11 Exhibit: The first thing you see is the mangled broadcast antenna from the World Trade Center surrounded by front-page headlines from the morning after.

 

In the gallery's mini theater, you get to watch this 11-minute film about reporters and photojournalists who ran TOWARDS the danger that fateful day. One reporter talked about how he and his photog captured the falling towers on film, then they showed the footage. Harrowing. We all remember that tragic day, but it is especially heart-wrenching to hear the perspective of the journalists -- they are the ones who risked their lives to show the world the atrocities of terrorism and record that historic day for our posterity. Definitely a tear-jerker, that film.

*Pulitzer Gallery: Bring a tissue (or 10) to this one. Each of these prize-winning photos are enlarged and displayed next to a synopsis. Some of the famous pictures included the flag-raising at Iwo Jima and a firefighter carrying a badly-wounded infant out of the wreckage from the Oklahoma City bombing. I get chills just thinking about some of those images.

*Berlin Wall: This exhibit is one of the first you see when you walk into the Newseum. I found it ironic that the Smithsonian only had a fake Berlin Wall but the Newseum had a real section of it. Here we are in front of it.

It was interesting to read how the Wall could not stop information, by way of news, from getting to East Germany. The spreading of information was the catalyst for the Wall's demise. See how important freedom of the press is?

Speaking of which, this wall was another one of my favorite parts of the Newseum:

This world map shows which countries have a free press. As you can probably tell, green countries are free. Yellow countries are partly-free, and red countries do not have a free press.

*Covering Katrina: Hurricane Katrina wreaked havoc just half a decade ago, yet how many of us are still relatively unaware of the damage she left in her wake? The Katrina exhibit was HUGE. So many videos, newspaper articles and artifacts. A lot of people died, which seems like an obvious fact, but it's an outright shame if you think about it. Here we are in the 21st century and a perfectly preventable disaster took the lives of nearly 2,000 and displaced over a million. Blows my mind.

*News History: I LOVED the News History gallery. It housed the very newspapers which chronicled such historic events as the Revolutionary War, the dissolution of the Union prior to the Civil War, the lunar landing, Princess Diana's death and so forth. Really cool. I could have spent hours in there.

Bombing of Pearl Harbor headline

We also had a lot of fun in the Interactive Newsroom. Dill got to do his first stand-up.

Notice how he's now wearing a jacket -- his green shirt wouldn't cooperate with the key. 1st rule of on-set reporting: Never wear green in front of the green screen!

I did a stand-up as well and it was great fun. Felt like riding a bicycle. Unfortunately, my photographer (Dill) was a little busy with his own stand-up and couldn't get a picture of me. So here's an oldie of me, for kicks:

Doin' the weather in 2008.

If you're ever in D.C., go to the Newseum. It's a little pricey -- about $20 a person -- but most of the other museums are free anyway and it's entirely worth paying for. I felt like I could relate to every exhibit on a very personal level, and not just because I majored in broadcast journalism.

After the Newseum, we grabbed some lunch with Dill's brother and his family at 5 Guys. Hate to say it, but 5 Guys is not all it's cracked up to be (except for the free peanuts ... har har). Seriously, though? In-N-Out is so much better.  After that we headed to TangySweet for some fake Pinkberry. It was pretty good, actually!

Dill and I took our frozen yogurt and headed to Barnes and Noble to meet up with my friend Katie and her husband, Nick. So good to catch up and rest our feet for a bit!

We finished up the day with the Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian. Ugghhhh. Not my favorite museum ever. It's pretty outdated. Plus it smells weird. And I was so tired of walking by that point, it was really hard to enjoy the place. But the airplanes and rockets and modules hanging up in the air are pretty cool! And I thought it was fascinating to read about how much commercial airlines have changed and see all the old flight attendant and pilot uniforms.

Look out, Dill!

After the Air and Space, we went to Union Station to get some pizza and then headed home. They were working on the Metro so we had to wait an extra 20 minutes or so to catch the next one. We'd heard rumors that we might have to get off early and take a bus the rest of the way which we were a little worried about, but that never came true (thank goodness).

The next day, we got up early again and went to the International Spy Museum. Photography was not allowed in that museum so I have no pictures of it, but I'll just say it was really cool. All those cool spy gadgets you seen in James Bond movies were real -- single-shot lipstick pistols, umbrella guns, transmitter shoes, even a fake piece of dog poo with a transmitter in it! They also had quite a bit about the Cold War era and anti-terrorism groups. Very informative museum, and pretty short, considering we got through it in less than 2 hours and read quite a bit as we went.

When we were done at the Spy Museum, we had just enough time to go to the American Natural History Museum before we needed to get to the airport to go home. I am glad we had time to see it because there were some awesome exhibits. I really liked all the gemstones, crystals and rock formations. Plus, we got to see the Hope diamond. Of course, there were lots of dinosaur bones and stuffed critters to ogle, too. They do have a "Butterflies" exhibit that seems really cool, and probably is -- but it's an extra $6 to go into it. It's basically a mini greenhouse full of live plants and butterflies. We peeked into the window and saw a girl with a big butterfly right on her head! I was kind of sad I couldn't go in, but I wasn't about to pay $6 for it. I guess I'm cheap. Surprise, surprise.

An elephant + me in my cool "I Heart Jack Bauer" shirt, courtesy of the Spy Museum

We finished up there around 1, just in time to get back to Baltimore and hop on a plane back to Phoenix. I was a little sad to leave D.C. but excited to see and hug my kids again. All in all, I felt very rejuvenated (yet simultaneously tired -- good thing I got to sleep on the plane!) and ready to be a mom again. I will say this, though: kidless vacations for couples are awesome. Highly recommend.

Candid Camera (aka Debbie) caught us snoozing in the gate