While I haven’t been blogging these last few months, I have been learning. I’ve been learning a lot!

Part of me wishes I wasn’t learning because for me learning equates going through something very hard. And if I’m not going through hard things, I’m comfy. And I yearn for that comfort sometimes -the shallow outlook I had before that consisted mainly of worrying about what other people thought of me… that’s pretty much all gone now.

I can’t share with you everything I’ve learned, mostly because I feel I shouldn’t and partly because I don’t know how to put it all into precise words.
I don’t usually blog on Sunday, but Sunday is a good day for truth, and I’d love nothing more than to share this TED talk with you because it contains SO MANY of the truths that have been thrust upon me as of late.

I don’t know much which is 100% LESS than I thought it was a few years ago. I thought I knew how to help and save and answer… but now I walk around rested, comfortable in my knowledge of what I don’t know.
And that’s everything, pretty much.
And look! It turns out I’m in a different comfy place -one that involves less worry, even. But a lot more inner burning and growth (ouch, okay?).

I want to end with something bold, something that’s been on my mind all day, something that’s pestering and festering.
Here’s the thing: I lie when people ask me how I am -not because I feel a need to put a front on (you know me better than that and I have a picture of my dirty bathroom posted on the world wide web to prove it) but because I DON’T WANT TO BE FIXED.
When someone asks me, “How are you?”
I want the freedom to say, “Tired” without someone telling me to be grateful.
I want to say “exhausted” without someone giving me a diagnosis and herbal remedy.
I want to be able to say “stressed” without someone freaking out because I’M NOT OKAY.

I AM NOT OKAY, but I’m totally okay with it.
When someone feels inspired to drop by or to give me an herbal remedy, that’s different… and I can feel the difference, and I appreciate the difference. But when someone does it because they want to fix me, I begin to lie about how I’m doing.

I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.

But I’m not fine. And really? Who really IS fine all of the time?
Sometimes I’m happy and grateful and calm or serene. Sometimes I’m relaxed and basking. Oftentimes, I’m genuinely filled with joy. But not always.

Because the point of life is soul burning, improvement, progression, work and truth finding! And those elements rarely -if ever -come about with limitless happiness. Underlying happiness? Probably. But immediate and instantly instated happiness? Gosh, no.

And I just want to say that when I feel it. I’m tired today. I’m maxed out emotionally. I’m stressed. I’m frustrated.

I’m okay with it.
And maybe someday others will be okay with others not being okay without feeling a need to somehow remedy the situation, manipulating it back into HAPPINESS.
Their motives are so pure -it’s true. And I don’t mean to hurl insults at well-intentioned people.

But a few years ago, I miscarried and was on the receiving end of some of the most awful comments from some of the nicest people.

At least you can get pregnant (Your pain doesn’t matter as much as you are letting it).
Thank goodness your body kicked it out -it wasn’t properly growing. (Your freaky body somehow rejects it’s own monsterly mutated children.)
Miscarriages are more common than people realize (hello, Statistic.)

Don’t fix my miscarriage pain. Just hug it, tell it you love it, and then do what you inspired to do -whether that’s walk away or extend a chocolate bar.

Today, my grandest wish is to leave my fixing to only One who really knows how to fix me: My Father in Heaven. My second grandest wish? To be brave enough to stop lying about how I’m doing REALLY. My third grandest wish? To extend the freedom to others to be real with me without fears of my heaping my “intellect” on them -because I’m learning THE HARD WAY that there’s really no such thing as Alicia’s Intellect.

But since I’ve stripped that cape off, I’m sporting something better… and that’s love. I can extend you my love, no matter what you’re going through and I hope you know you can embrace it or reject it or have no emotion toward it whatsoever, and cheers to you… because if you’re like me, you’re going through something hard as well.
Maybe it’s health, maybe it’s finances, maybe it’s emotional, maybe it’s relationships.

And I wish you peace, though happiness can not always be constantly present, peace can.

With that, I’ll log off… having been bravely honest and feeling a lot like a very n@ked baby standing in a wide open field surrounded by my 40 faithful readers (Hi, Mom).

This past week, I’ve tried a few ideas I found online and fell in love. Since it is FINALLY the month of love (my favorite!), I’m going to share them with you.
Because I love them.
And I love you.

No really. I do.

The first is putting baby power in hair. I’ve done this before, but it was 2002 and I was playing the part of Mammy in our high school production of Lil’ Abner.

It made me look like an old lady.
This week, I applied my Ol’ Mammy trick to my hair, and it worked wonders. I’ve had such a busy week, friends. I’ve been hopping from one thing to another. This meant I had time for a shower, but time to wash my hair?
Have you SEEN my hair lately? It’s been on the back burner of Things I Care About, falling behind House and Home, Sleep, and Eating.
As I woke up and got ready to be with Mom at the hospital, I did NOT have time for an hour and a half of washing, drying, and curling. So I pulled my baby powder out, sprinkled some on my hands and rubbed it here and there throughout my hair.

The grease that was in my slept-on hair left. My hair didn’t scream “DAY OLD SLEPT ON UNKEMPT HORRIBLE HYGIENE POOR HUMAN!”
I was able to spend time with mom and my hair took it’s rightful seat behind priorities, like helping Mom with her physical therapy.
Win!

And when I woke up late for work a few days ago, I used the same trick -keep in mind that I hadn’t washed my hair since SUNDAY -and the results were again satisfactory. Obviously fresh hair would be preferred, but when life comes at you as fast as it did this week, baby powder is a great option.
Of course all hair is different, and I can’t vouch for your variety. I usually wash my hair every other day, but I can go as long as 4 days without washing it without it being totally obvious.
And now with baby powder on my side, I can go at least 7 days IF I HAVE TO (hopefully I won’t always have to!).
Here’s my hair last night, at the end of the 5th day without washing it, two baby powder applications:

Sorry about the blurry face Trenton! It’s the best picture I could find that had my hair in it, even then it’s not all that great.
You can Google more about it, or you can just try it. I started with a very small amount and just did my best to wing it. It worked really well for me.

My husband has been working hard to help me with housework. I used to have a great routine nailed down, and I miss it. With a one year old and a job, any remnants of a Working Routine are scarce… rare… okay, extinct.
I came home from the hospital on Wednesday, and my house was clean. My husband cleaned it and I appreciated it SO much. I even texted him in ALL CAPS to tell him JUST HOW MUCH I APPRECIATE HIM. He and I had worked together earlier in the week to clean our oven burners using ammonia and zip locs.

CLICK HERE for image and link to instructions (just click the picture).

Burners are the bane of my existence. Burners and goatheads. and math.
I’m so happy to have found something that will help me on my way!

And also because I love you, I’m going to share my pictures from last night of My Baby Alice (TM).
She found her way into the Polly Pocket bins… my sweet cousin gave Lacy two bins full of Polly Pockets. Every kid who comes over loves playing with them, and Alice is no different. We keep a closer eye on her while she’s around them because of all the small parts. She was SO PROUD of herself. This picture is just adorable unto me.

Even better… a few seconds later, she wanted OUT and couldn’t. I snapped this picture and sent to my husband, “Polly can’t figure out how to get out of her pocket.”

SO SAD!
Can I just keep going? At this point, it’s less about my love for you and more about my love for Alice. Her sad faces are the cutest thing since… puppies.

KNIT BROW!

And this last one we’re going back to my love for you… I wouldn’t show you this if I didn’t love you enough to make you feel better about yourself.
I took a bath, okay? That’s ALL I did. And I only took one long enough to shave my harribly neglected legs.
And LOOK! She’s like the most adorable tornado ever! How can I ever keep up?

Look at her clapping her hands… Good Gaming herself.

Anyone have any tips or tricks on Keeping Up with a One Year Old? Yeesh.

Alice loves to talk.
Scratch that… Alice loves to COMMUNICATE. She wants to interact, to look you in the eyes and have you communicate with her. She loves playing the parrot game (also known as the echo game). It’s adorable, and she can turn anyone -even strangers in the grocery store -into proficient parrots.

She says “uh, oh” when she drops something or sees something on the ground she wants. Each version of “uh, oh” sounds different, and you can tell which one she’s using if you’re her mom.
She asks for Dad-dee. She loves her Maaammaaa. She asks very plainly for her bah-doh (bottle). And her favorite toy is hands-down, her bay-bee. If you hand her something she wants, she will frequently say “thank you.”
We understand Alice. Alice understands us.

But Alice.
refuses FLATLY.
to say.
PLEASE.

Oh, she CAN. I’ve heard her. It’s cute and short and if you’re not focusing on her, you might miss it because she never says it when you ask for it. Oh, NO! (her newest phrase, by the way)

She only says it when SHE believes it’s a good idea.

The other night we had a full blown melt down because I wouldn’t give her a cookie.
“Say pleeeeease,” I coaxed.
She screamed.
“Say… pleeeeeease!” I continued.
Head thrash, screaming, arms thrashed, head went to floor. She forced herself into my arms only to be disgusted with her own mother and push AWAY from me.
“Say please!”
Full-body contact with the floor. She has had it. She begins to crawl away, stopping only to look back at me and (you guessed it) pout n’ scream.

I finally captured another bout of The Please Fit a few days ago. You have to understand how HARD it is for a baby to realize that her getting what she wants is contingent on doing what someone ELSE wants you do to.
This girl is HER OWN BOSS, and she’ll stand her ground at any cost be it cookies, gummy bears, or pudding.

Look at those eyes!
So sad! They don’t understand this world where you have to say PLEASE! Isn’t this a world where you just HAVE what you want?
This shift in reality isn’t going over well, and something tells me this stubborn girl will be a go-getter.
Ain’t nobody gonna tell her she can’t have what she’s after.

Besides, any girl wearing a pink tutu with a denim jacket should be fully accommodated.

Do you ever have days where you seem to never ever stop, and your brain seems to never ever stop?

Today is one of those days.
For

Sorry, I left the computer to get the cookies out of the oven (1 C. Peanut Butter, 1 C. Sugar, 1 egg. 350 degrees, nine minutes: by all accounts, amaze balls) and I forgot my train of thought.
Oh! That’s right.
Silly me. I was going to write down my train of thought for posterity’s sake.
Then I lost my train of thought about my train of thought which, in and of itself, sounds like a brainwreck.

Here’s my present brainwreck, filed neatly away for future generations to scoff at… “so cute how she thought she was busy…”

[I typed out an ENTIRE brainwreck here that detailed my thoughts on buying a milk cow, why I don’t sniff wet paper towels I find on my carpet, and how going gluten free is about as much fun as watching Caillou while I’m PMSing. And then an evil force -probably related to the cold I had last week -came and erased it ALL, and now my piano lesson is here after which I have a piano lesson after which I have a flute lesson after which I have dinner after which I have meetings after which I’m going to die. That’s all.]

But at least I have my Hulk tatt.

About a year and a half ago, I sat in the hospital while my husband had surgery.  I was so out of place, so uncomfortable.  I didn’t know how to get the cafeteria, how much the food was, IF it was even good… I felt nervous and lost and I wanted my Mommy.

Today I found myself walking the hospital halls like a regular VET.  I know where to get food, what tastes good, and how to find the gift shop from most any location.  Between having my husband’s surgery, having a BABY there and then enduring some hellish sort of Family Version of Hospital Renaissance, my hospital know how has become something like sanitized street savvy.

I can’t decide if it’s cool… or awful.

It’s both, really.  It’s both.

It’s cool to stroll the halls at midnight in your jammies and socks like you own the joint (because you ARE paying for what feels like an entire wing of hospital staff and gear).

It’s awful to try and work the hot cocoa machine and end up filling up two entire cups of White Chocolate Caramel Cappuccino only to pour them out because you don’t drink coffee, and when you finally get the hot chocolate you want spill it all over the cups which then have to be thrown out.

It’s cool to talk shop with the Physical Therapists like you KNOW a thing or two because you’ve been through the same routines so many times.

It’s awful to deal with elevators that close their doors so fast you invariably have your arm CHOPPED which sends your fruit salad FLYING everywhere.

It’s cool to take care of your Mom.

(Why does that sound so middle school?  Why does anything with “your mom” in it sound so middle school?)

 

All in all, I made it home and my kids were happy to see me for almost 5 whole seconds.

 

Watching my mom endure excruciating pain was awful (speaking of awful, as we were), and it reminded me to take better care of my bones which are predisposed to arthritis… and I don’t know if I’d told you this, but my joints hurt all the time.

(again, I feel stupid saying that and there’s a 12 year old boy somewhere out there laughing because I said “your mom” and “joints.”)

Seriously, they ache.  It hurts to bend, to run, to walk, to twist, to squat (it hurts to even THINK about that).  For a long time, I decided not to think about it because I knew if I didn’t… it would just go away.  Right?  That’s how stuff works, right?

Yeah, right.

And then I ignored it.  And then I went to a Dr. because my hip was out so badly it made living impossible.  He told me that I could most likely successfully gain a diagnosis for arthritis from a physician, but he could almost bet money on the fact that I was simply eating something my body didn’t like.

And that, boys and girls, is how I came to finally accept my fate (it seriously took me a month to finally start dabbling in this) (and that month included sitting in a room full of people who had just had surgery to replace joints) (joints, har har)… and I’m here to share it with you.

 

I’m going gluten-free.

 

I’m scared, and I’m also accepting donations because gluten-free stuff is esspensive.  But not as esspensive as hospital bills which I know all too much about.

After Mom comes home, I’m hoping to Dear John the hospital on behalf of our Hansen Family.

Dear Flag Medical Center,
It’s not you.  It’s Me.  I really need some space.  I know it isn’t ethical, but I’ll pay you off.
~Alicia
PS: Never change.  Every girl needs someone like you: ever available and stocked with gluten free cookies.

I used to operate under the belief that love had to be earned.

That means I spent a great deal of time doing things for others (to try and manipulate their perception of me) and feeling always like I wasn’t good enough.

I wasn’t a good enough mom. I wasn’t a good enough housekeeper. I wasn’t a good enough seamstress. I wasn’t a good enough conversationalist (less is more, Alicia). I wasn’t a good enough friend or neighbor or leader or house guest or visiting teacher or or or or…

So I would do stuff for others to earn their love. What’s more (and this is the part that really breaks my heart) I would do things for myself to earn my own love. And MORE (read: MORE heart-breaking) I applied this same principle to my Father in Heaven.

In order to have Him love me, I had to read more, pray more… to have a relationship with Him I must and would be better! more! stronger! wiser! worthy!

That’s all over now. It all ended in a sort of gigantic heap of a train wreck in my soul, sirens wailing and all. I think it was even raining…

But now I see clearly (because the rain is gone?) (sorry, couldn’t resist)… and now I can rest.
Love is the most powerful driving force on earth. It can bring heroes to the front line, give mothers strength to lift cars, and pull families so close together their hearts beat in rhythm and time.
Love isn’t about couples or sex or some sappy sentiment plastered on the side of a cardboard-shaped heart box full of chocolates. Love is about seeing someone intimately and knowing who they are.

I love my children. They don’t earn it… my love for them simply IS, no matter what, when, how, where, or why. They can be stinking rotten and I still love them. They can be angelic and sweet, and I love them.

I have a relationship with them ALWAYS.

A few weeks ago, I sat in church and listened to a teacher pose the question, “How do we strengthen our relationship with Heavenly Father?”
I sat back and listened to the answers.
“Read our scriptures more.”
“Pray more often.”

And I KNOW they didn’t mean it like this, but my Old Self began crying out from within, “earn, earn, earn… work harder and more and when you feel shame because you’ll never EVER reach that goal… self-medicate with chocolate or Downton or even a nap because you’ll never be enough, Alicia, no matter how hard you work at it. You simply exist to BE LESS.”

So I raised my hand and told God and everyone about the file in my computer. The one labeled “Valentines.”
Because the more I learn about LOVE, the more I come to appreciate Valentine’s Day.
And although I still spend time in my scriptures and on my knees, I don’t do it to try and manage any kind of relationship with anyone… I do it because I need it.
Instead, I take my phone out with me into the world and look for God’s hand in MY life. I look for Him reaching out to ME.
The pendulum has swung the other way for the time being, and I’m sure someday I’ll find that happy medium of reaching out and seeing Him reach back, but right now I’m cleansing The Earning Pool.

I’m looking for His hand in my life EVEN THOUGH I haven’t earned it.

And when I see it, I snap a picture, label it, and put it in my file. I’d like to share my file with you today, if that’s all right with you. These are my Valentines (sometimes called Tender Mercies by other Mormons, ha!).
Today I’ll be on the lookout for more Valentines from my Father in Heaven as I spend time with Mom in the hospital. She officially has TWO new knees (whereas she used to only have the one).
Enjoy my pictures, and maybe snap a few yourself. And I won’t complain ONE little bit if you send them my way. I already have a file full of other people’s Valentines, and I love looking through them. (You should add yours to the mix, just sayin’)

And then there’s the Valentines I make just for fun… it’s a hobby of mine. Is that crazy? Maybe. But I can’t stop the crazy.

I have a favorite fat quote.

What’s more, I believe everyone should have a favorite fat quote.

As a little girl, I remember sitting at the breakfast table with my family. I was always seated to my Dad’s left, and my Dad is an avid reader. His reading tends more toward the “on the go” variety rather than the “sit and soak” sort. For example, my Dad reads newspapers and boxes and things like that… but I’ve never seen him sit down with a book of poetry. On this particular morning, he was looking at the side of the Corn Flakes breakfast cereal. On the side of the box was a black and white picture of a bright-eyed young woman.
“Isn’t she pretty?” my Dad asked.
“Yeah,” I said, because I never disagreed with Dad… Dad was always so very right, I was SURE of it.
The Sweetheart of the Corn was reprinted on the side for Old Time’s Sake.

“Look at that,” he said, “Look at her… see how she’s a little plump? She looks good. That’s how they used to have their models -with more on ’em. It looks good.”

It looks good? It was such a foreign thing for me to hear, and Dad probably didn’t even think twice about saying it. But I remembered that conversation forever. What a message to be sent to a growing girl’s ears… firstly, that beauty was not defined by thinness (which at that point I was starting to believe it was) and second that eating corn products makes a woman lovely.
I’m sure Dad DID mean to ingrain the “corn makes ladies lovely” into my brain because, aside from loving and serving us corn and grits (and Corn Flakes, apparently) pretty frequently, he had us planting, weeding, and harvesting hearty-sized fields of waving corn.

After that conversation, my mind was broadened a little… that maybe there was more to beauty than size… that maybe beauty had more to do with WHO I am and less of WHAT I am or what I had to offer.
Dad raised me to be hearty -his very own personal Sweetheart of the Corn (I had to say it, Dad… and I’m laughing so hard I’m crying).

I also found this quote by J.K. Rowling last year and immediately fell in love. After I had my third baby, my outlook on my body and beauty REALLY changed.
My body is amazing… it’s done some miraculous stunts (including but not limited to herding cattle, creating babies, and 1/8th of a P90X yoga video -cheers to whoever has made it any farther).

That’s why this morning I fed it well. I adapted a healthy recipe and made it country (read: added actual sugar and oil) and served it to my family. Despite the sugar and oil, it was hearty and healthy and so darn filling that no one even finished ONE waffle without some amount of groaning.
Carrot Cake Waffles!

I took this recipe and quadrupled it, in case you’re wondering where I found it.

Alice and Trenton made sure I had Music to Cook By (mp3 will be made available soon) (jesting).

After breakfast, I sat down and read my favorite “fat” quote.
I hope you like it as much as I do.

“Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.

I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’

‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’

What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.”

― J.K. Rowling

Last week, the kids watched a movie with me. It detailed the life of a child who lived in an abusive home with a drug addicted parent who made him stay in his room all of the time. There was never any food on hand.

Lacy told me soon after watching it that she felt equally as victimized.

Since she has a beautiful room, a bathroom, a full wardrobe PLUS a wardrobe of dress up clothes, three meals a day, quality family time, several pets (shall I go on?) I sort of threw up my hands.

You guys, according to my oldest, I am the meanest and worst mom EVER. Except when I’m the BEST and GREATEST mom ever. There’s no half-way ground with this girl. There’s just not.
I’m either a blithering failure or a raging success.

This morning, I was -according to my daughter -a blithering failure. I’m going to tell you why because in 20 years, she’s going to read this and then call me an apologize. (Or visit my grave with flowers, since I sometimes believe I’m headed directly to the cemetery. Okay, I’m joking.)

I made oatmeal with blueberries.
And curled. her. hair.

There were wails and tears and coughing… there were excuses and pleadings to her father. The bus was missed.
Life was DISMAL! AWFUL!

“I want to go to school HUNGRY!”
“I LOVE the cafeteria food!”
“This tastes so WEIRD!”

And while I believe that Anne Shirley and I really ARE kindred spirits, I also believe that Lacy and Fancy Nancy are the very same being.
Even as I combed through her long, ratted hair she wailed out, victim-style.
I’ve been telling her that her hair is a little too long to be managed and that it needs to be cut, but she hates the whole idea.
This morning her tears (of which there have been MANY over her long locks) reminded me and I said again, “We need to cut your hair if you’re not going to brush it every night.”
She mustered up a frail, tear-ridden, “A trim!”

It’s all she’ll put up with. She loves her crazy ratted hair, and I kind of love that she loves it.
Eventually she’ll realize she loves me too. You know… in 20 years when she’s making her own breakfast and curling her own hair.
And not sleeping next to Barbies (and headbands and books).

(Meet ROCK BARBIE on the left who sings with Lacy all of the time, but most especially right before bed. Lacy sings herself to sleep almost every night, and I never want to forget the sweet sound of singing I hear nightly through the wall.)
And making my grocery lists in neon green gel pens… milk, embelopes, crayons (or something like it)

After going through all of that this morning, my son popped out of bed and came sleepy-eyed into the kitchen.
“Can I have some oatmeal wiff blueberries?” he asked.
The heavens parted. So willing, so sweet… I made him a big bowl and he POLISHED it off.

Boys are sometimes just SO easy. Maybe it’s because they don’t have tons of hair?
Alice is so happy, so loving, and always ready to giggle. Until you touch her hair. She’s my very own batch of “Round 2.”

And thanks to her, I’ve got a sore nose from where she threw her cute little head back into it. And yes, I cried. A one year old beat me up last night.

Beaten in my own home, and somehow I’m still the bad guy. Cry-key.

This cold has a demon in it.

A teasing demon.

It loves to lead you on, let you think you’ve got it licked and then *BAM* you’re flat on your back under a mountain of toilet paper (because the tissues ran out DAYS ago) coming to the awful realization that if Chewbacca and Rudloph procreated, the offspring would look exactly like you: hag-haired and raw-nosed.

Classic.

My son sat across from me at lunch (for which he insisted on Top Ramen sprinkled with freeze-dried blueberries, and who am I to deny nutrition? and creativity?) and said as he pulled a long hair from his noodles, “Too much hair, Mom. You need to cut it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I shrugged.
“Not maybe,” he replied without missing a beat.

And that comes just days after his older sister brought me a brush and said, “Here. It’s like… a tangled mess.”

Handle that business, Mom, instead of letting it handle you.

The good news is, I woke up feeling better. But I don’t trust it. I know this cold too well by now.

As I said, there’s a DEMON in it. And I’m pretty sure that demon works for Halls’ Cough Drop company. Or Star Wars. Or Santa.