Top Guns

I’m not a huge reality TV fan. I prefer TV that isn’t real because that’s why I watch TV -to escape reality. But there is a few exceptions.
Top Shot is one of those exceptions.

My husband and I both enjoy watching it, but the BOY more than enjoys it. He has a thing with guns.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked him last month.
“A cowboy,” he said.
“So you can have a big gun?” I asked.
“I awweady have big guns.” He quipped back.
Good point. You have a bin full of guns.
And it was really cute to watch him curl up next to his Dad as they had shooting challenges and slowly eliminated the team members. As we watched, my son would disappear into his room and come out with more and more of his toy guns. He was shooting whatever “guitargets” he could find (who wants to correct that, huh? No, son. It’s isn’t guitargets. It’s just targets. No way am I fixing THAT adorableness) which included the deep freeze, and, when he was practicing his fine archery skils, the bench by the door where we keep our shoes.

“Oh, he’s a dead eye, ain’t he?” (name that quote!)
He mimicked every stunt Top Shot had to offer, and THEN the contestants started throwing tomahawks.
Q: Where can a three year old find tomahawks in the bliss of his domestic home?
A: The silverware drawer.
The next thing I knew, he had emptied my fork and spoon supply and was pitching them at a 5-gallon paint bucket. It was just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen, so I took down a decorative board I have on my piano, used duct tape to put a guitarget in the middle of it and I let him go to it.

My daughter couldn’t stand being left out, and Dad and Mom were giving so much attention to the Top Guns Boy (he calls the show “Top Guns”) that she ditched her lowly Polly Pockets to join the game.
Being the lady that she is, she cleaned things up a bit -organized, so to speak. She dressed in red so they could be just like the show: a red team and a blue team.

She put up benches (one for the red team, one for the blue team -just like in the show):

The weapons were organized:

And then she went and found a RED team (cast of characters: Elmo, a Red Flannel Horse from Grandpa, and a red Angry Bird). Everyone was given a chance to throw:

Not to be outdone, the boy organized a team of his own:

Incidentally, none of this team actually got to play. Why would they, when they had someone as awesome as him?

Diagnosis: Heavy

It took all of 5 minutes to get our son’s diagnosis yesterday: Long QT syndrome.
“He may have no effects from it all all,” the doctor said, “Or he may go into sudden cardiac arrest and die.”

We were given a prescription for him, and we drove home. I’m completely dazed that my healthy, active boy has a heart condition. He’s never fainted. He’s never been out of breath. He’s never stopped going, going, going… and now I’m looking online at defibrillators for him.

As we made the long drive home, my husband fell asleep. I drove and thought about the diagnosis.
He will either grow up and never know the difference. Or he won’t completely grow up at all.

Basically, he was given the same diagnosis ALL of us have, but when you HEAR it… when someone with a doctorate actually looks you in the eye and says it: it hits home where it counts.
You will be fine, or you will die.
No control, no choice, no accident.

I really thought his EKG would come back squeaky clean. The Lord knows how much I have on my plate right now. As open book as this blog is, I regret (or maybe rejoice?) to inform you that you don’t.
I’m so durn heavy (I’m not just talking about pregnancy weight here, so save your guffaws) (or maybe don’t, because it is kind of funny to think of a pregnant lady talking about how heavy she is). I was heavy three weeks ago when I told my husband, “I have nothing extra on my plate right now. I’m even on a break from piano lessons, and there’s just so much to handle. I’m handling it. I am. I’m just heavy.”

The Lord knew how heavy I was that day, and He’s been extra close to me for the last month or so. I’ve been blessed beyond measure and I’ve been privileged to sacred experiences that have carried me through.
In a blessing given to me by my dad a few weeks ago, I was told I would have the strength to bear the unbearable.

And here I am.
In the eye of a raging tornado.
And I’m like:


Except I’m wearing combat boots, a construction helmet, and a bullet-proof vest.
It’s all very SERENITY NOW.

I keep looking around at the chaos and crap swirling around me, and I drop out of my yoga pose and onto my knees and say, “Thank thee. Help me. Amen.”
My blog is usually funnier and lighter. I love to find humor in hurricanes, but this? This is an F6 tornado.
It’s just not fun.

In the Temple on Tuesday, the Lord gave me some guidance that I thought was for one situation in my life that is causing me pain. It turns out it was more for my son and the concern and worry I have for him.
“Don’t think about the future,” He told me, “Don’t even think about tomorrow. Live today and then wake up and live today and then wake up and live today.”

Nora Ephron wrote an essay about life.
She said that we all know that we’re going to die, and yet… it feels avoidable, somehow. It feels avoidable because we get our mammograms and our skin checked and our shots and our this’s and that’s. It feels avoidable because we think we are in control.

We are not in control.
The only thing we can control is whether or not we’re going to tree pose it in the middle of a raging tornado or whether we’re going to plunge into the swirling chaos.
Either way, don’t forget your combat boots.

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.”

“You must do the things you think you cannot do.”

~Eleanor Roosevelt

Big Heart

My little son is not little, you know. He’s BIG. He tells me all of the time.
“Sit on your little butt,” my Dad told him once.
“Gwannpa, it’s not little. It’s a BIG butt,” he replied. OF course it’s big because HE is big.
“Give me your little arm,” I’ll say.
“Big arm,” he’ll correct me.
I do it on purpose now to see if he’ll catch me and correct me, and he’s never missed a beat.

When we took him to see a pediatric heart specialist 6 weeks ago, we found out not only that he had two innocent heart murmurs but also that his EKG showed a lengthened QT interval.
The doctor asked us to please come back for another EKG and that if it showed again that he had a lengthened QT interval, we would have to make some changes for our BIG boy… some medication changes, some life changes.
“What can we expect if his EKG shows up irregular again?” I asked the doctor.
He refused to tell me and insisted that I not look it up on the internet. It goes against everything in my research-loving nature to NOT look it up but on account of my stubborn prenatal anxiety, I restrained myself.
My husband didn’t, but he’s kept silent about everything he’d read on it.
He’s seen my anxiety in full bloom, and he doesn’t want to fan the spark.
“It may come back regular,” the doctor said, “If it does, we’ll do one EKG a month later, just to be sure. If is doesn’t come back regular, we’ll talk about it then.”

Well, today is the day. I can’t tell you how many prayers I’ve said, how many prayers OTHERS have said, and how worried I’ve been about my BIG man. My husband and I have found ourselves being more patient and loving with him.
We had a family fast for him on Sunday, and I did let the Bishop of our ward know. I didn’t expect him to tell the ward from the pulpit, and at first I was a little embarrassed thinking that I was sort of burdening people with news that may or may not be nothing.
And then I thought about how I’d like to know if one of my Primary kids needed prayers.
That’s all the ward members and family members can do… pray, and the more people that pray, the better off my amazing kid is.
As I kneeled to say my nightly prayers the other night, I mentioned -like I had so very many times before -my son and his upcoming EKG, only this time I was allowed to feel something I’ve never been privileged to feel.
As I spoke, my heart was FLOODED with an overpowering feeling of LOVE – this time it was different from the Christ-like love I normally feel when I pray. I could FEEL in my heartest of hearts, the LOVE and CONCERN others were showing. Heavenly Father let me be a part of a heavenly feeling, and it was overpowering.
I will never, NEVER forget the brief moment that my heart almost burst because I was allowed to feel the pure love of family and friends who had sent up prayers on my son’s behalf.
Extra. Ordinary.
As I curled up with my son, I hugged him tight and without thinking asked, “How’s your little heart?”
“It’s BIG, mom,” he corrected me, “It’s just a BIG heart.”

Forgive my momentary lapse in thinking, Big Man. Your heart and spirit have always been bigger than your physical body.

But no matter what you say and no matter much your body grows, you will always just be a little baby to me.
Always, always, always.


My visiting teachers came today.

I *almost* called and cancelled the visit because I was embarrassed about the way my house looked. I had a really, really hard Sunday.
Then I had a really hard Monday, followed by a hard Monday night.
By the time bedtime rolled around on Tuesday, I was all right again.

When I’m having really hard days, I don’t clean my house. Instead, I turn my thoughts away from what’s going on in the world and toward what’s going on in my heart. I throw myself down in the trenches and I don’t come up until I’ve got a game plan.
I never make a game plan without talking to Heavenly Father first.
While I was busy studying, pondering, praying, writing, thinking… I wasn’t cleaning. I didn’t completely give up on cleaning -I did the basic upkeep.
But my house was in no wise prepared for visitors.
I decided I would cancel. They couldn’t see my house like THIS! It was mort-iii-fying!
And then, right in the middle of my hating my lack of housekeeping skills, a wonderfully small voice spoke to my soul.

“Yes, they can. They can see you and your house like this. The last few days have been hard. You took care of yourself the best way you knew how. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

I knew it was true.

What’s the worst thing they would think? That I wasn’t PERFECT? *sarcastic GASP*
I woke up early this morning, made pancake batter, woke up my kids, and we all went pajama-clad to my folk’s house where we had a family breakfast on account of my brother and his wife being in town, just for this morning.
I had a great morning with my family.
We laughed and joked and laughed and ate, and eventually I packed my griddle up and reluctantly left.
The girl had a play date (the one she missed yesterday) and I dropped her off in my PJ’s, grease stains all over the white shirt covering my protruding belly.
I pulled into my driveway the same time my visiting teachers did.

It was time to face the music.
As we walked into my house together, I admitted that the last few days had been hard for me and that my house had suffered because of it.
And guess what? They didn’t judge me. Not even a little. They offered to help me clean if I needed it, which I didn’t… because I have nothing going on at all. I’m not sick or busy or bawling.
I’m okay now.
I can clean now.

I took a long afternoon nap (conveniently still in my PJs) and when I woke up, my darling daughter took my face in her hands.
“Mom,” she said, “You don’t hafta just LOOK like this. You CAN wear lipstick.”
Oh, darling girl.

I feel so inferior in the blogging world. I can’t give you a tour of my house because it’s a real, lived in house. It’s not picture ready, and to get it to that point would take roughly $6,000 and a miracle.
I can’t take pictures of my fashion and style and list where I bought all my awesome garb because everything I consider awesomest was probably picked up at a used clothing store or a free clothing exchange. Or I made it.
I’m not going to take time to style any pictures.
I’m not going to dress my kids up and pose them perfectly.
I’m not going to NOT take a picture if the area behind the subject is less-than-public-worthy.

The quality of my life isn’t up to impossible blogging standards if for no other reason than my camera is a lowly point and shoot and I’d rather use picmonkey (a free online “cheater” photo shopping site) than try and figure out (and pay for) photoshop any day.

And though I feel inferior, I’m not going to apologize -or change, really.
I guess I don’t know how else to be but completely, honestly Alicia.
I COULD have sacrificed time with my family to clean my house and put on a front… but why? What would the point be? I opted instead to spend time with my family and not lie to my friends’ faces.
“My house is messy because the last few days have been hard ones. But I’m okay now.”

I don’t need people thinking I can keep up with domestic competition.
I can’t.
I do other stuff though. It’s important too.
I know it is because Heavenly Father tells me it’s my special job to do the things I do. No one could do them quite like I do because no one else is made quite like me.
He did that on purpose.
Don’t mistake me: I’m not BETTER than others. I’m just different.
And my wallpaper is outdated.
But my kids get home spun (straight outta my noggin!) bedtime stories.
And my clothing isn’t fashion worthy.
But I’m researching family history because it is absolutely FASCINATING to me.
And my hair hasn’t been professionally touched in a year.
But I’m making a blanket for the baby growing inside of my body, and as I run my hook through the yarn I can imagine just what it will feel like to wrap MY BABY, my VERY OWN BABY in the blanket. I put what I have finished up to my nose and inhale deeply… and if I concentrate really hard, I can ALMOST smell my new baby.

My life, daughter, is simply lipstickless.
Sometimes I have moments of Lipsticky triumph when my hair is professionally done

(once a year, apparently) or my home decor just WORKS or my outfit, Goodwill though it might be, rocks my socks.

But I’m not all lipstick.
To put it in the words of a not-well-known country song that I just adore:
I’m not perfect, but I’m perfectly me.

Just What I Needed

The Moment When You Decide

Remember that one time I got engaged and then my life fell apart? What? You don’t? Well, I do. It was a fine time for me. I was sporting a lovely ring and looking forward to eternity with the man I loved most in the world. And then I lost my job. And then I couldn’t see my fiance because he was 4 hours away and my car broke down.
And his car broke down.
And he lost HIS job.
And we talked on the phone and wondered if all of these were small warning signs about what we were getting ourselves into. We got married anyway.
It rained a lot that day.

Are the stars stacked against us? Maybe. But God’s on our side, and I think he sometimes plays pool with stars.

Isn’t the Temple in the background of our picture beautiful? I went there today. Alone.
I like to go alone sometimes. I like the quiet ride over and back. I like keeping my thoughts inside while I’m in the Temple and only letting them out to my Father in Heaven. We talk. I tell Him things. I ask Him things. He speaks peace to my soul, and I am completely wrapped up in a something of a Heavenly Hug.
I come home refreshed, recharged, refocused, and skinnier.
Except not skinnier. Especially not today, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

I made a decision to go to the Temple. I secured a sitter for the boy. I secured a play date for the girl. I called the Temple and secured myself a seat in the 10:30 session. What could be more perfect than a mid-morning, mid-week session? Those are the best! They’re the smallest: quiet, cozy little sessions that go on while everyone else is at work.
I got up early and got ready, doing my best to look my best because the Temple IS the best and when you’re inside you don’t want to look anything BUT your best. I woke the kids up. We were out of the door by 9:00.
It is a 45 minute drive to the Temple, that gave me 15 minutes to get my kiddos squared away at their destinations and put me at the Temple by 10.
A full thirty minutes early to take my time, soak in the spirit of the Temple, and breathe the humidified air (and use the lotion in the bathroom which I so dearly love).
I made sure I had all my gear. I made sure the kids had all THEIR gear. And I started the car.
Except it wouldn’t start.
The rain came down and my own personal flood started to come up. I unloaded the kids, reloaded them into our little blue truck that is -I kid you not -the vehicular equivalent of a three-legged dog.
I had to take the truck to the Temple and just PRAY it made it, PRAY the speedometer would work and gas gauge would give me a correct reading and and and…
I counted my blessings that my husband had unloaded the trash bins from the bed of the truck, and I pulled out of my driveway.
I kissed the boy approximately 20 times and sent him off.
I drove the girl to her play date to find only to find that the date was off -so I rushed my daughter back to the sitter. Kissed her brow as rain rolled down our faces (not really, but it sounded nice), and off I went.
By this time it was just after 9:30.
I pulled onto the highway, hoping, PRAYING that the truck would make it. The AC is broken, but air (hot air) still blows through the vents. I turned the dial to “defrost” and cranked the air in hopes of reducing the fog that was mounting all around.
The gas gauge read 1/4 tank. I HAD to believe it because there was no time to stop.
I would make it to the Temple at 10:15 which was almost TOO close for comfort, but I had called. I had a seat reserved. It would be fine.
I did get there at 10:15 and found, very much to my surprise, that not everyone was working on a Tuesday (mid-morning). In fact, SOME people were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and they had lots of children and grandchildren, and all of them wanted to attend the same session I did.
I barely made it in that session -by the SKIN of my teeth (teeth don’t have skin, but IF THEY DID).
I’ve never been to a fuller session in my life. We weren’t able to start until 11.

I told my sitter I would be home around 1. I walked out of the Temple doors sometime around 1:15, and I was STARVING.
I called the sitter, apologized, and went directly to Arby’s where I ordered enough food to feed a starving family in Africa.

And let. me. tell. you.
I almost did NOT take that trip. I almost turned around and bagged the whole thing approximately 5 times, including once while I was actually waiting in line to go to the session. I know that sounds crazy, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see the line!
Why? Why did I go forward with something that every force of Hell’s Nature was obviously up against? Because I wanted to prove that I could.
I wanted to show my Heavenly Father that despite EVERYTHING, he could count on me to DO what I SAID I’D DO. And you know what? I did.
Sometimes we just need those fighter days. We need days where we don’t give up even though we want to, and we rest our heads peacefully on our pillows that night with a clear, confident conscience.
An I DID IT conscience.

Do I think the Lord would still love me if I had bagged the trip? Yes, I do. I think He understands when we’re just too beaten to handle one more thing.
But I think when he sees us handle that one more thing on top of everything else… when he sees us take it and make LUNCH out of it, He bursts with pride. I want to make Him proud.
I think of President Monson pointing to his chest and saying something like, “If the Lord needs something done, he can count on Tom Monson.”

Here’s the actual quote:

“The sweetest experience I know in life is to feel a prompting and act upon it and later find out that it was the fulfillment of someone’s prayer or someone’s need.  And I always want the Lord to know that if He needs an errand run, Tom Monson will run that errand for Him.” ~President Thomas S. Monson
I wanted to show the Lord that it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a car or a job, I was GOING to the Temple. And I did.
I wanted to show the Lord that it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a nice car or pretty hair (oh sweet rain and humidity and lack of AC -you worked your magic today) or a serene countenance, I was GOING to the Temple.
And I did.
There’s something great about doing hard things. There’s so many lessons buried under the muck of it all, and it’s so satisfying to get down there, get covered in all manner of muds, and come away a better person with an armload of lessons you wouldn’t have learned any other way.
Of course I’m not talking about a hectic morning that has the potential to keep us from the Temple. I’m talking about much, much more than that. It’s the first lesson the Lord taught me this morning.
I kept going in the muck, and I learned that WHEN I DO THAT whether it’s trivial muck (like this morning) or serious muck that makes me cry myself to sleep… My Heavenly Father notices me.
He sees me not giving up.
He blesses me and teaches me things I wouldn’t learn if I wasn’t willing to go through it.
He KNOWS my heart.

Today I almost stayed home to bake food in the comfort of my kitchen, and that would have been okay. Sometimes we can’t handle hard things, so we take breaks and breathers and we become escape artists (How can I avoid dealing with this today? Hmmmm… time to read a book!).
And while baking is a good thing to do, it wasn’t the BEST thing to do. It was the easiest, but not the most beneficial.
The words of peace, revelation, and comfort that my Heavenly Father SPOKE to me today in the Temple are priceless gems… the value of which no freshly baked cookie could compensate for.
I’m refreshed, refocused, repaired, recharged and substantially fatter (physically fat as well as spiritually).

Life is hard.
Thank goodness for that.

A Daily Dose

…of awwwwwwwwww.

Dates Night

Because I was feeling awful the Friday night we were supposed to have our garden date, we put it off for a week. We only have $20 in our babysitting budget, so instead of hiring out a sitter to stay inside with the kids while we worked out in the garden, we opted for a different game.
I told the kids they got to go on a date while mom and dad worked in the garden.
“You can pop your own popcorn, share a soda, eat some brownies, jump on the couch, and watch a movie!” I told them. They were thrilled, and they didn’t bother us ONCE while we were outside together.

We enjoyed having a hour together to talk about our Gardens of the Past.
“Remember the first time we had a few plants and you took a picture of our first tomato?” I asked.
“Remember when we tilled our garden up without looking at the slope of the land and ended up flooding the area?” he asked. I do remember that. Yes I do. Because I was home alone and pregnant and my dang flip flop got stuck in the mud while I shoveled muck and tried to save our rows.
I failed.
This year’s garden is nothing to shout about. Due to pregnancy and morning sickness, I haven’t been helping. Gardens are much harder when you don’t have help. It’s all right though. We’ll keep it.

We enjoyed a gorgeous sunset to the west and an incoming storm on the north:

And we even took a picture even though we were covered in dirt and the wind was whipping around us.

This week’s date? A lonnnnng walk.
We’re both surprisingly excited about this.

If I Had $141,037.97

I recently confessed to a dear friend that my husband has a crush on Jennifer Aniston circa 1995. As in: he loves Rachael Green. I used to spend hours watching “Friends” and then I’d make the mistake of looking in the mirror. I was hideous! HIDEOUS!
I’d suck in my stomach. I’d tug at my eyes. And then I’d feel exactly like the girl from The Princess Diaries who stood in front of her full-length mirror, sighing and saying, “Once again, this is as good as it’s going to get.”
I told my friend that I don’t watch “Friends” much anymore.
A few days later she called me and said she’d just read a news article that detailed how much money Jennifer Aniston spent on her beauty routines.
It’s $141,037.97 annually.


WELL! If I had that kind of money to invest in my beauty, I’d be a blithering knock-out!
Of course if I had that kind of money AT ALL, I’d just use it to buy a house. But I digress.

Yesterday I didn’t do my hair or make-up. I normally DO, even if I’m not going anywhere simply because I enjoy doing it. I enjoy 30 minutes of alone time it takes to style my hair and plaster my face with paint. I don’t spend a lot of money of beauty products (thanks be to the inflation gods), and I haven’t been to a beauty salon since August ’11.
No foolin.

When my husband came home from work, and I was mid-bite into the a fancy mint brownie I muttered an apology for my appearance.
“Sorry I don’t look all that great,” I said, milk and cocoa dripping from my lower lip.
Also: I was sporting socks and my dirty tennis shoes. I have to wear my heel, people! I spent last night on the couch crocheting myself some slippers that are heel friendly so I can walk around the house with even legs.
(PS: I’ve always been terrible at yoga, and I’m blaming my uneven legs. In fact, I’m doing my best to blame most all of my problems on my short leg. It’s going swimmingly.)
As I sat on the couch, surrounded by a pile of the ugliest shade of orange yarn you’ve ever seen (trying to use up scraps, see) and counting stitches… with my hair frizzled out around my face, and no make-up to mask my blemishes or enhance my lashes… I proudly held up the first finished slipper.
“DONE!” I announced to my husband. He smiled at me.
He told me that I was glowing and beautiful.

I think he might be sick, but that’s beside the point.
The point is while Jennifer Aniston is stunning, I think I’d go crazy having to fuss so much over my looks all of the time.
It’s nice to look nice, but isn’t there more to life than that?
And anyway, I don’t know about you but lately I’ve come to really appreciate and love the natural woman. The more TV I see… the more pinterest pins that reek on the edge of soft pornography and say things like, “These 5 tricks will change your life” and all you can think is “I’m horribly ugly and NEED those 5 tricks to SURVIVE”…
Where was I going with this?
Oh yeah: the more projection of perfection I see, the more I come to appreciate a REAL woman. I appreciate her curves, her rolls, her wonderful serving and selfless hands. I love her wrinkles and her grey hair. I love her understanding tears and watching her sway back and forth out of habit whether she’s holding a baby or not. I see her walking for fitness and clarity. I see her enduring trials unimaginable. I see her fighting fearlessly and loving endlessly.
Women -natural women -are breathlessly beautiful.

What It's All About :)

And I’m not just saying that to make myself feel better about my rolls and lack of beauty routine cash.  And really: I wonder if Jennifer Aniston wouldn’t kill to not keep up on beauty for awhile, but she can’t… because she’s always got someone jabbing a  camera in her face and plastering her pictures on magazines.  Poor lass.  I’d kill myself, rolls first.

And as much as I love natural beauty, I’m blessed to be the canvas of a blossoming artist.

Jennifer Aniston,
Eat your heart out.

One of These Knees is Not Like the Other

When I was pregnant with the boy, I had serious low back pain. All I had to do was sit on the floor in front of the couch, relax my back on the cushions behind it and I’d hear a low *pop* sound.
And then I was stuck. Movement was excruciating, and I wither and twist and cry trying to get up. When I’d had enough, I went to see a chiropractor.
He popped my back in. I went home. It popped back out THAT VERY NIGHT.
A few weeks went by and I made another appointment with the chiropractor. I was desperate for some relief.
He popped my back in. I went home. It popped back out THAT VERY NIGHT.
I so I trudged through my pregnancy, holding my back and writhing in pain. After my son was born, my bones gradually hardened and the back pain became a minor irritation.
I told my husband I didn’t want to get pregnant again until I’d fixed the back situation. Except that we got pregnant anyway.
A few weeks into my pregnancy, I sat on the floor in front of my couch and relaxed my back against the cushion.
I heard a sickening low *pop* and said, “ohhhhhhhhh grrrrrrreat.”
At the end of each day, I’d be rubbing my lower back and walking around with something of a labored limp. I didn’t think it was possible, but the pain was WORSE this time.
“Call the chiropractor,” was my husband’s theme song.
“It will get popped in and it will pop back out!” was my refrain.
And then Tuesday came. I cooked all day, barefoot, in my kitchen. Wednesday I couldn’t get out of bed until 1:30 in the PM.
I finally called the chiropractor. This time, I went to see my parent’s chiropractor -the guy who treats my father who works on his feet all day, doing hard labor and cracking his back out at least once a year. He also treats my mother with great success.
I’d seen him once before for a minor sports injury. I don’t remember much except that his tall, thin frame certainly doesn’t feel thin when he’s using it to pop your back.

I took my kids with me, sat them in the corner with Netflix on my phone (lifesaver!) and The Good Doctor studied my legs.
I wondered what he could be doing… I thought back doctors just cracked and popped. This one was just… looking.
As I laid on my back, he gently pushed my feet toward my body, bending my knees.
“Do you see that?” He asked, “Look at your kneecaps.”
“What?” I asked, “My right knee has been hurting pretty bad…”
“But look…” he pointed at my kneecaps.”
I didn’t see anything but the kneecaps I’d been staring at for years and years and years.

“What is it?” I finally asked.
“They’re not even,” he said, and placed the tips of his fingers on each one.
“Ohhhhh,” I could suddenly see it. Once an object was placed on each one it became glaringly obvious.

“Your right leg is shorter than your left leg,” he said.
And I couldn’t help it -I burst out laughing.
He popped and cracked and adjusted me and then checked my knees again. All the adjustments he had made had lengthened my right leg by 1/8″.
He told me that sometimes minor adjustments would fix a problem like mine… but not mine. Because my leg difference was too great.
He sent me home with a heel insert to wear in my shoes and strict instructions to be VERY careful about how much time I spend going barefoot.
So today, after I’ve showered and gotten the house in somewhat working order, I’m going to crochet myself some tight-fitting slippers to wear around the house.
To think that I’d spent all day Tuesday on a hard floor, BAREFOOT… no wonder I couldn’t get out of bed the next day!
The Good Doctor also explained that had I not caught this problem until I was much older, I would have been riddled with arthritis, scoliosis and a myriad of other not-so-fun health issues.
I guess I still have the potential to be riddled with those awesome ailments, in the case that I sacrifice my health for my vanity and sport sandals all summer without my cool special heel insert.
My back in hurting because it’s adjusting to the heel, but I slept so soundly last night. I haven’t slept THAT soundly in weeks.
Thanks be to The Good Doctor. In a few months, I’ll be back in his care getting some insoles ordered for my high-arched feet… the heel will be built into the right side.
The upside? I get to do some shoe shopping! I’m going to be needing QUITE a few more pairs since half the ones I own are now obsolete.
With love,