My abusive boyfriend-child

I had a friend tell me that toddlers are like abusive boyfriends and we are like their low self esteem girlfriends. "We keep coming back to them, love them more and more each time."

It makes me feel like a crazy woman sometimes. How is she at once so endearing and maddening?

This morning I was over-the-moon in love with her. She was shirtless, doing a veggie dance and taking laps around the kitchen while eating "pock-warm" (popcorn). She would pause about every 30 seconds and stand back from her whiteboard to exclaim, "Oh my goodness! Look at THAT!!" She sang, "And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went, Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary Mary went."

My heart couldn't take it.

*     *     *

In an obvious moment of deep contemplation Mike turned to me the other day and said, "Isn't it crazy that we have the capacity to create people we'll someday associate with?"

"Like, our children?" I had to clarify.

"Yeah. You know—don't have any friends? Have some babies."

So weird. Though it is becoming truer and truer. Ada is turning into my buddy.

*     *     *

Most buddies of mine, however, don't take dry erase marker and scribble up and down the length of their shins before coming in to ask for forgiveness and wipe. (See what I mean?! Abusive. But how could I not love her even more after her obvious try at rectification?) Or throw themselves to the ground and start writhing because I filled their cup with water rather that milk.

When I put her down for a nap  she looked up and apologized again. "Sorry, Mommy. No, no color on pants. Color on paper!"

What was going to be a reluctant, guilt-inducing, not-so-motherly, begrudgingly bestowed kiss turned into a shower of smooching. She hated it.

I love her for it.

my two loves at the park on my 60 degrees, sunny birthday

Inauguration Day

The days leading up to the inauguration were crowded in DC. We went out to dinner for my birthday the Saturday before, and called half a dozen restaurants the Wednesday before that to get a reservation at a regular dinner hour. ("Hi, would you like a 4:00 or 9:30 reservation? Everything else is booked." "Um..." We ate at Tabard's Inn and it was an excellent—even romantic!—meal at a normal 6:00 hour.)

I got all sorts of emails about road closures and extra security measures to take (like, write your and your child's personal information on a note card and fix it to their person if you plan on taking them Downtown. Yikes).

The day of the inauguration, Capitol hill was eerily quiet. Either people were all already on the Mall by mid-morning or they were smart enough to sleep in, have brunch and take the day off. We were neither.

We opted to not leave the house at an ungodly hour and wait in the cold with our toddler just for a good seat, so at 10—and calling upon the strength of our pioneer stock—we left the house for the day with a tin of peanuts, a package of licorice, a PB&J and a few water bottles.

"We don't always agree with the President, but we always pray for him (1 Tim 2:1-4)"

I sort of regret not buying an "Official Inauguration" something. I'm so not a souvenir person, but it would have been fun to wave a flag or something. Right?

The walk down was a cultural slice of life. Being a non-ticketed attendee meant walking, and walking, and shuffling past vendors and closed streets and innumerable police men. The entrance at 7th Street (above) was close by the time we got there—minutes before the speech began. The group dynamic of being collectively rerouted was interesting to say the least. There was a collective sigh as people regrouped and figured out where to go. It was like being in a river of people. When a we came upon a roadblock, we trickled out in a dozen different directions and white capped on occasion. There were numerous frustrating moments when I questioned the authority of nearly every cop who said, "Sorry. This road is closed. Walk two blocks to the south and then over 5 blocks and up two more blocks and you'll be where you want to be." "Grrrr..."

Vendors lined the streets and back roads that snaked through the maze-like city. At one point Mike commented that maybe all this extra rerouting and walking was some secret part of Michelle Obama's Let's Move! campaign. I think he may be right . . .

Our view. I know. High quality photo.

We walked over 25 blocks down to the Washington Monument where we caught the tail-end of the inaugural address. It was actually nice to not be pressed up on by a thousand people like I heard the view a few blocks closer was. We heard enough, ate our peanuts and licorice, ran around a bit, took a few pictures and then started the mass exodus back east (when I swear even more roads were closed...) towards our house.

Hooray we made it!

Awesome mothering tip: give your kid licorice constantly and they'll be happy as a clown in their stroller all day.

 People have asked me, "Are you glad you went?" I answer, "Totally. It was a great experience...to do once." I don't think I'll ever have to make the trek again (unless I had awesome tickets and handwarmers).

There were moments that I don't think I'll ever forget, like watching the pride on a black woman's face as she glaced over a row of Obama Calendars, fixed her eyes on a picture of the First Lady and exclaimed over and over, "Michelle is gorgeous! Just gorgeous!!" I agree. She is. And I like her haircut.

Or the guy selling Romney and Obama condoms. Or the vendor who used the back of an old Romney/Ryan campaign sign as the backing to his sign advertising Obama inauguration gear. How resourceful.

Or Ada watching the horses before they took off for the parade. Or how sweetly she would ask for "More licorice, please." After getting reminded to use her manners 20 times first and "Ask nicely."

It was a 6 hour outing. Needless to say we stopped for a pizza on the way home.

So much trash every where. The can on the left is long before the ceremony actually began.

Inauguration porta-potties anyone?

Merry & Bright

a free couch...

I keep thinking about my couch.

It's become quite a personal symbol of God's love for me. You see, DC met us with surprise expenses and a mostly unfurnished apartment, meaning the futon that was left here had to cut it, because there just wasn't any wiggle room in our budget. And it was a huge blow for me. I can't even completely say why. It's probably partly due to the fact that I fantasize about decorating each apartment we move into and then am faced with harsh realities every time. Or it's because I was so desperate for friends but the ugliness of the futon was enough to make me turn down play-dates at my house. Or it's because after an evening of sitting on it, catching up on Parks and Recreation my tailbone literally ached from the lumpy, awkwardly angled, hideousness that was to be our "couch" for the next 9 months. I just couldn't take it.

I cried about it. More than once. Yes! Cried! About how ugly and uncomfortable my futon was! And the knowledge of just how petty and stupid I was being would cause me to plunge deeper into my tears.

Sigh.

Those were the days.

But I got over it. Sometimes it takes a good cry and a good bath to realign your perspective so that you see you actually have everything you could possibly need. I have four walls and a roof. And a sweet (albeit force to be reckoned with) daughter. And a loving husband. And access to a billion free things in the city to distract my toddler (and myself) with. And food. And a bike. In many ways I'm living the life I suppose.

So I went to bed repenting, but grateful one night. Grateful that I have so abundantly much. And repenting for have forgotten so completely.

The next morning Mike woke me up saying, "Free couch!" (I thought he said, "FREAK OUT!" and I was so confused coming out of my blurry-sleep that I thought there was a terrorist attack or something). But no. No terrorist. Just a free, not-bad-looking, genuine leather couch that was up for grabs to whomever would haul it away. We made a phone call, rented a van, and by lunch had a new couch.

It only took me letting go a little bit and realizing that I am blessed beyond measure. And I do believe that God was involved, as silly as it may sound when taking about free couches.

So there's this wearing pants to church thing going around. And like everything that comes and seems to rock the boat a bit, so too has come the sort of vitriolic comments (see, I would have linked to the Facebook group that started the pants-wearing-thing, but the comments are so off-putting it's not even worth revisiting the page to get the hyperlink) and back-and-forths that make me want to delete my Facebook, ditch this blog, and take my family to the hills. But that's not very courageous, now is it?

But the pants thing keeps turning my thoughts to my couch. I guess I can't stop thinking about God's love for us. That He cares about what we care about; that he cares about what others care about (even when it seems as silly as a couch; that He cares that some of his daughters (and sons) feel belittled and underrepresented in His Church; that He cares about our questions and our doubts and even about us wearing pants to church. Because he loves us.

I read two things recently that also have been swirling around my brain and mixing with all these thoughts about feminism and couches and pants-wearing. The first are the verses in Mosiah 18 about  mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that need comfort; about knitting our hearts together in love; about compassion and service and standing together with one heart and an eye towards God. I love those verses. I think they speak to what we strive toward. I think they stand as a stark contrast to what I read online between passionate members ofttimes. The second is in 2 Nephi 30. We read that chapter last night and the last few verses stuck with me because it reminded me that there is yet so much to be revealed. We just have to trust God and keep on keeping on.

I guess I just want to say that I'm hopeful that answers will come and hearts will be mended. Because I got a couch. And that is way more silly and inconsequential than any of the things so many of those that I love are grappling with every day. That's why I'm hopeful and how I know that God loves us.

In the small of my back

I was in my mom's math classes for three years in high school. Algebra. Geometry. Pre-Calculus. I sat in her classroom every day and watched her be a teacher, not my mother (though the lines blurred a bit for me anyway. I grew up in a house where a hasty clean up would merit a, "Yeah, that's about a B+ job"-type response from my mom).

I remember some of the nuances of the way she moved in front of the white board at the head of the class; how she erased the multicolored dry erase marker in big swooshes with her whole arm; the way she would wipe her fingers clean after they got black from writing. I always loved that she used a different colored marker for each problem we worked out on the board.

She rested her left hand in the small of her back as she wrote and erased with her right. For hours it must have sat there, nestled, and I remember thinking about why she did that. Isn't it easier to let it hang loose? I asked her once. I don't remember what she said.

I spent a few hours painting today (actually, I'm in the middle of it now, but I wanted to write this while I was thinking about it). I realized as I was into it about an hour that my left arm was resting in the small of my back, just the way my mother does it. I realized soon thereafter that it's often nestled there for hours as I work. And I'm glad to be like her in another little way. I've heard people lament, "Heaven help me! I'm turning into my mother!" But it never seems like a crisis to me.

Maybe it's because mine is so awesome.

Like a grandfather clock

I've never considered myself one of those pendulum-people who are constantly swinging between immense joy and immense trepidation and fear, but seeing as this post follows the previous one, you (and I) might reconsider.

Packing is in full swing. I've boxed up what kitchen supplies I can fit, stuffed all of our linens and towels into a bag, begun the tedious (but often freeing) process of sorting through clothes and trying to predict what things we can do without. When I'm being completely honest I know I can do with so much less. But the thought of all of these things spending another year in a basement while I rotate between the same 10 shirts makes me sad. And I hate that I'm sad about it.

I realized how much we could do without when we lived in Italy. The simplicity was refreshing. Six suitcases. That's it. If it didn't fit, it couldn't come. We didn't need it. And we truly didn't. I found as so many often do that so many of our "needs" are fabricated.

But it's easy to fall back into "needing" things again, into comparing, and wanting, and opening a box you haven't opened in years and realizing that you do have pretty dishes and things that you'd love to haul along. But there just isn't room for pretty apothecary jars when more important things like irons and towels and pots take precedence. So I'm learning again: you don't need it.

I fell into pieces last night thinking about this (and other things). As it always goes, a string of events brought me to a puddle in my husband's arms (I'm so grateful for those arms) but there I was, mad at myself for wanting things, sad that I couldn't take it all with me, frustrated by the constraints of packing, fearing making new friends, overwhelmed by the thought of driving across the country, completely exhausted by my day.

This morning I woke to a kiss and the words, "It will all work out, honey."

Things are looking more rosy already. See? Pendulum.

Reaching

When I heard her sudden screaming cry I thought it must be the middle of the night. I lit up my phone as I got out of bed to check the time: 11:18. She had only been sleeping for a few hours.

I entered her room and saw her small body, still lying down, with arms extended, reaching. I instinctively pulled her heaving body close to mine, her hummingbird-heartbeat pattering against my chest. She writhed in my arms, still crying. She scratched at my shoulder like she wanted to climb inside my skin.

I laid her on the bed, checked her all over. Mikey came in and helped. Both of us agreed: nothing seemed to be wrong.

She wanted to be close to me, next to me wouldn't do. So we laid together on the bed, her head on my chest, her little arms tucked tightly under her now-still body.

I stayed awake while watching her fall asleep. This girl of mine. I felt so lucky in that quiet, still, midnight hour. So lucky to have her and for her to have need of me. That feeling of being needed drives so much of what I do. In my head I reviewed lines from the talk Mikey and I had listened to just hours before. This line stuck out to me as I felt the cool wind blow in the open window: One of the great discoveries of parenthood is that we learn far more about what really matters from our children than we ever did from our parents.

I tried putting Ada gently back in her crib after she was asleep, but before I closed her bedroom door behind me she was thrashing in her crib, crying out, and soon standing, arms extended, reaching again. I came to her. Tried to calm her. Felt bad for trying to escape back to my bed. And this time her cries elevated quickly, as if she was angry with me for leaving her there alone.


Soon Michael came in again, he lifted Ada from me in his strong, fatherly arms and offered comfort. I freeze-framed that image in my head. She wasn't calm, but he seemed to be calm enough for the three of us just then. He blessed her, and told me to bring her to bed with us.

It was just the thing she needed.

Maybe so many new faces and places each day makes our girl need extra reassurance that her parents are still here, that we love her, and that we'll always meet her outstretched arms with ours.

Sometimes I wish he was my dad

See her face? She adores her daddy.

Ada is a lucky girl because Michael is her daddy. I feel lucky because I'm surrounded by men who are great fathers (and husbands). My dad, my Mikey, my father-in-law, my grandfathers, uncles, cousins, friends . . .

Happy Father's Day to the love of my life (and love of Ada's—so far, at least)

The chemist

My husband's eating habits can be described metaphorically in a number of ways: he's a scavenger, a human garbage disposal. He forages in the fridge and grubbers through the cupboards. I've described him in these ways before. But it wasn't until just a little while ago that I think I nailed what it's like to watch him come home after work and dig about for food.

To be true, it consists of much less digging and much more concocting.

He's like a chemist.

He pulls out all sorts of jars and bottles and with a sauce in one hand and a dressing in the other gets to work creating. The flurry of motion is not unlike what I imagine the mad scientist to look like soon after his brilliant idea strikes.

It takes only a few minutes for the blur to die down. Slowly the various potions make their way back where they came from and the chemist turns around, satisfied.

Confident in her own skin

I'm still in the phase of life where I welcome every birthday because it makes me feel less like a baby (with a baby). Similarly, I like thinking my siblings are right along my side, getting older too.

My baby sister turns 20 today. Hooray! (It's crazy to me to think that when I turned 20 I had been engaged for a week. I feel even more crazy about it now than I did then. But also even more glad).

My relationship with all my siblings is something I truly treasure. Being here, close to all of them, has made me realize even more how great it is to grow up in a big family, surrounded by teasing and tickles and tough love. Being the middle sister had all sorts of perks. I will be forever grateful for my two sisters who cushioned me on either side from things that could have hurt me. I'm a lucky one I am.

Lil' Lou (though, now that Ada Lou has followed suit in the nickname department we might just have to start calling her Big Lou) has taken on womanhood with grace. What a fitting middle name she has—Grace. When I think back just a few years to the self-absorbed typical teenager she was, it makes even more overwhelmed to see how far a person can come in just a few short years. Alison is beautiful. She is confident. She is comfortable in her own skin (and while I think that quality is worn beautifully on just about everybody, it's especially beautiful on her). She is hilarious and goofy and fun. She's tough. She has become a woman with sincere thoughts and opinions. She's a thinking girl and I feel lucky that she often bounces her thoughts off of Mike and I. Alison is caring. And she's also a sassy-pants.

Happy 20th birthday my radiant little sister. I'm so glad we're toiling away together in this life journey of ours. I can't wait to see where yours takes you.

All the love in the Universe,
Paige

Guess who's here?

I've been palling around with my bestie/roommate from freshman year.

Me and her circa 2008 and the only photo I could find of the two of us on my computer/facebook. Sad, right?

It's been so awesome to have her here. She's said a few times, "Paige, you live here." I know. It's still bizarre. And what's more bizarre is how soon I'm moving back to the States.

Oh, Bologna!

Three years in go-go mode

Today marks three years. Three years simultaneously feels like: Three years! Look at us!! and Three years? That's it? It has seemed like so much longer than that.

Maybe it's because we've pack a lot into our three years—7 moves, 1 new baby, 20 airplanes, 12 states, 6 countries, 6 different jobs, 1 new language, 2 degrees, and countless hours of time spent together wondering when we'll ever settle down. Or maybe it's because once your love someone completely you can't remember what it was like before they came around.

Whatever the case, I think this go-go mode might just be the way we are. We may be on the go forever, but as long as I've got Mike by my side, I'm sure we can handle whatever comes our way. The chaos, the motion, and state of constant flux has made our relationship more nuanced, more real and more enduring. I love you Michael Neal.

I still remember how I felt when this picture was taken. Today, I think I feel like that times three. Marriage just keeps getting better. Because he's my person and I'm his.

Tonight we're going out to dinner and to poke around some book stores in search of the perfect coffee table book about Bologna. What could be more romantic than a coffee table book, right? It's going to be a quiet, relaxing evening without distraction, which is exactly what both of us need.

Newspaper floors

There's a story my grandmother told me about her mom; about waxing the floor and covering it in newspapers for the next several days to preserve the shine.

The story has stuck with me. I think of it in lots of instances. Most recently, after mopping my own floor and wishing I could make us wear the booties they give out at home shows for the next week or so. (Unfortunately, I don't think they come in a size small enough for The Lou.)

But I think of it also when I want to preserve shining moments; when the tendency in me to photograph, record, write or sketch something into some post-existence—to keep it pristine, at least in my mind—overwhelms by better senses. Or when the desire wells up to preserve relationships they way they once existed, rather than letting them grow as the organic things they are. I pause before taking my first bite of a meal I'm particularly proud of. I try to keep my hair and clothes looking the way they did when I walked out the (bathroom) door that morning.

I think most of us have a tendency to preserve.

And is it bad?

I've had countless conversations with Mike about the culture of preservation we see in the Italian people. The recipes, the churches, the way things are done just so. And truly, I think tradition is important.

But it can be taken too far. Crinkled newspapers aren't nearly as nice as a worn in floor. Some things don't need preserving.

Our conversations on preservation always conclude with thoughts on why we feel it's important to be innovative, to embrace modernity, to be forward-looking and stare the future in the face. And how the message of The Restoration is not about looking backwards, but about preparing for something greater.

After all, there's so much to look forward to.

Still connected to my village

After she woke up from her afternoon nap, I felt stupid for being flustered and crying that morning. Before she went down I wrote my mom and dad a hurried email, "any way we could chat for a few minutes this morning? i know your mornings are already early and busy and every thing else, i just want a little ada advice."

Even though I knew it inside, I needed my parents to reaffirm to me that this is normal child behavior. That Ada is okay. That I'm doing fine. That she's growing and developing and we just need to keep on keeping on.

They called and our minutes quickly turned to hours. I had forgotten it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day back in the States, but it was a welcome surprise to have so much time to sit and be with my family. Even if it was through a screen. The Lou didn't seem to mind either. She played peek-a-boo and copied movements she saw my parents doing. We laughed at her silliness and they reassured me about her tantrums. It felt so good.

I needed my parents to help me refocus my energy and perspective. With a few adjustments I saw her as a picture of vibrance and energy, rather than a ball of flailing limbs and tears. I needed my parents to help me see her seemingly violent outbursts as her only means of expressing her frustrations. I had never thought about her feeling trapped in a little body without words and fine movements, but I came to see her then as a smart, precocious baby with more to say than she is able to.

The rest of the day was nearly picture perfect. And I was grateful that I can still be connected to my village even though I'm across a continent, an ocean, and the Tyrrhenian Sea. We never are too far away with technology.

This morning I read a friend's post about her friend's son being diagnosed with brain cancer. I felt a shadow of the unspeakable sorrow that mother must feel. That feeling was accompanied by a pang of guilt for getting so caught up in tantrums that I failed to see how full of life my daughter is. And the guilt was quickly replaced with a swell of gratitude for health and safety and security.

I can't wait for her to wake up from her nap. In Rosie's words, "Every moment feels like sunlight. We can feel it, we can love it, but we cannot bottle it up for later. And no matter how much time we get with our loved ones, it will never be enough. Nothing short of eternity will do."

At the park last week. If only you could see how muddy we were when we got home.

Month 11

My sweet baby is becoming less of a baby every day. At this rate, I swear she'll be completely independent by age 3. (Sigh). Also, this past month seemed really, really long, not in a bad way, just in a "Whoa, that picture is from December? That feels like ages ago," sort of way.

I hope the next month feels even longer. I can't handle the thought of having a one-year-old yet.

Wait until I tell your mother

Strange windows and used-to-be windows overlooking the Piazza Santo Stefano

One of my besties is staying with us for a bit. It's been gratifying to see our beloved red futon used. When we found this place one of the first things I thought when I saw it was, "House guests." Really flexible, don't-mind-sharing-a-microscopic-bathroom, don't-mind-not-really-having-privacy house guests. She is our third. And it's been absolutely delightful.

Sunday afternoon we went to the Basilica of Santo Stefano. It's a complex of seven churches built hundreds of years apart but all connected with cloisters or other edifices. The oldest church, The Church of the Sepulcher (where the body of the patron saint of Bologna, San Petronius laid before being moved to the Basilica later built in his honor in the Piazza Maggiore), was originally built in the 5th century. It in, there is a column of black, African marble that was supposedly left over from the temple of Isis that the Church of the Sepulcher was built over, gives you 200 years of indulgences every time you visit. (Every time. As in, "Oh shoot! My 200 years is almost up! I'd better get back to Santo Stefano in a jiffy!) My futon is looking that much more appealing now, yes? What would you do with 200 years of indulgences, my friend?

Detail of the exterior of The Church of the Sepulcher as seen from the adjacent cloister.

Ada enjoyed increasing independence as we let her walk around the church as she liked. Michael was nearby but neither of us hovered close. When I later tried to pick her up and move her to another room she screamed and hollered and flailed her little self-determined body in every direction. She made me feel as embarrassed as I have ever felt as a mother in public. Too bad I couldn't use the trick I learned at one of my baby showers because I don't know how to say it in Italian. (Trick: When your child is screaming in public, just look at them and sternly say, "Wait until you get home and I tell your mother about the way you've been acting. She won't be happy." Goal: Learn to say this in Italian).

The church of San Vitale and Martyr Sant'Agricola was originally dedicated to St. Peter because it was rumored to have housed his tomb.  After the Pope caught wind that it was drawing pilgrims from the majestic Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome, however, he ordered that this church be covered over and filled with dirt until rededicated. It was left buried for nearly 70 years until rededicated to the first martyrs of Bologna (victims of the persecution of Diocletian, an emperor in the 3rd century who was a little nuts-o and killed lots of people and burned lots of churches).

Preserved mosaics from the church when it was dedicated to S. Peter.

One thing I loved about the church was all of the fascinating brick work. It was almost Byzantine in detail and form. Like really big mosaics. Made of brick. All over the exterior of the building (and in that sense, it was very un-Byzantine). But because the churches were built (and rebuilt) in such a wide variety of times, Santo Stefano has so many architectural and decorative motifs. I think I'll go there and sketch more often when the weather warms up.

A creepy capitol.

A darling baby.

 Most of Ada's time was spent running. But for a brief moment she stood and looked around. I wonder if she'll ever have flashes of memory and remember the beautiful places she visited when she was just learning to walk.

Dear Ada, You practiced walking at la Basilica di Santo Stefano. It was good practice because the ground was pretty uneven in spots. You didn't mind getting tripped though. It just meant you got to take an extra close look at all of the interesting things that made up the floor.

A classic attempt at trying to take a picture of my girl.

Give me your answer true

This pretty lady is getting hitched today. I can't wait.

Image credit via

Piena Vita

The view from the courtyard where we lock up our bikes at home.

In forced and broken Italian, we tried to explain what we feel makes up a "full life." In the article we had just read, Alexandra said her life was full: she had a good job, a beautiful house. My Italian teacher began asking each of us: What does it mean to have a full life? (Che cosa significa 'una piena vita?'")

My friend was asked first. She is probably one of the most sincere women I have met here. You can tell by watching her for just a few moments that she would do anything for her family. She's an extremely devoted mother and wife. She works hard. She doesn't complain. I'm always impressed by her day-in and day-out positivity and cheerfulness. She responded, "Mia famiglia. E . . . basta!"

I was asked next. "Anchio, ma anche abitare in un bellissimo posto." In a different setting, perhaps both of us would have answered in a different way. As the rest of the class answered, I thought of how I would answer the question if I had all of the words and ability that I did in English. At the top of the list, undoubtedly, was my family. But without being surrounded by beautiful and inspiring things, would I still think my life was full? What about without other relationships? Without friends? Is there room in a full life for good food? For working hard? For achievement?

I began feeling guilty for not giving my friend's answer. I felt that maybe she was better than I because she said her family is all she needs.  

Does it make me a discontented person to confess that I need more than just my family (even though they make up the large majority of what I need) to feel like I have a full life?

I took these questions to Michael and we talked while we ate leftover tomato soup from the night before. He has a way of teaching me while we talk, but not making me feel like a louse in the process. It makes me grateful every day. We talked about how we have both always felt stirrings and tuggings that there is something important for us to do. We both agreed that while the most important thing to do is to raise a family that Heavenly Father would be proud of, the gifts and talents that He placed in our hearts are also worthy and important pursuits.

Michael shared a quote with me from Joseph Smith that says,

"A man filled with the love of God is not content with blessing his family alone, but ranges through the whole world, anxious to bless the whole human race.” (History of the Church 4:227) 

Those words settled on me softly and made me feel dignified again. And I thought how grateful I am for the Restored Gospel and modern-day prophets.

I think when we're acting as our best self, we could boil our efforts down to blessing the human race. The feeling of wanting to surround myself with beautiful things and thoughts and people and places isn't selfish in its very nature. It can be used as a tool to show others the beauty in the being I worship every day. It makes me happy to have beauty as a constant presence in my life, and the God I worship cares about my happiness.

I feel deep gratitude, especially on Thanksgiving Day, as I think about what I have been given and what I have to do. My life is full. From the stirrings in my heart to the dinner on the table, I feel blessed by and indebted to a host of people, but most of all to Jesus Christ for placing those stirrings there and giving me the power to turn them into actions.

Take a walk around

I had a bit of a break down yesterday. It came out of nowhere and probably stemmed from a lack of sleep more than anything (Dear Ada, when will you sleep again like you did at 2 months? Remember the 9 hour stretches?)

It came all at once and left me dissolved to tears about nothing in particular (but it felt like it was about everything in particular. You know, I have to give Ada a bath tomorrow and bathe myself, and leave the house by 10.  How did my life get so hard?)

Retrospectively I think most of us would agree that our meltdowns are silly, but in the moment they are serious and paralyzing. I also think that we have mini-breakthroughs in moments where facing a flood of tears makes us face questions that may have been pressing to be heard. Jack Johnson sings "I hope this old train breaks down, so I can take a walk around." I think I really needed the walk around. That's what breakdowns allow us to do.

I was asked this past weekend if my life was isolating. It might seem so, I answered. But gratefully I haven't felt isolated. The Italians are a warm and though I can't speak their language well (at all) yet, I feel communicated with. My day-to-day routine isn't glamorous or exciting, but it's comfortable and sweet.

But the question was like a canker sore. I thought about it over and over. It may have sowed the discontented sadness. Who knows.

I realized in it all that I missed my husband. Yes, we were together more over the last weekend than we had been in the days previous, but it felt like it had been many, many days since I had had a meaningful conversation with him. And he's the only person to have real conversation with. He's my person. And I realized that he too missed having me as his person.

We sat on the couch and held each other and came to understand a little better what it means to be husband and wife and what it means be intentional about our relationship. It was one of the sweetest moments since we've arrived.

And one of the biggest goals I made for myself while we're here started to happen: the closeness I feel to my little family swelled and grew even more. I might be bursting by the end of this adventure.

Sometimes she helps me tie my shoe

She's my sister. And she's getting hitched. And she asked me to take her engagements. Here's a little peek.