Parents are Basically Just Tall Children.

Parenting really brings out the immaturity in a person.

My son is 2. He’s learning stuff in leaps and bounds. (Actually, one of the things he’s learning is how to leap and bound.) And I’m trying to keep up. One of the things I’ve noticed over the past few weeks is that me and my husband Ethan are actually pretty good at this. Parenting, for the most part, seems to come naturally to us.

This is probably because neither of us has properly acted our age since we were toddlers ourselves.

For one of our first dates, we went to the Provo library and sat in the children’s section, reading books. We laughed so hard at Dr. De Soto Goes to Africa that I actually peed myself. This was when I realized I liked Ethan.

Last night, we were up late dancing around the kitchen, having a funny-face contest, and making nachos. We had to make the nachos. I had three ripe avocados. I mean, what else were we going to do with an entire pint of guacamole? And of course, we had to do the dance. It’s the nacho dance.

This morning, I keep finding myself lingering as I walk past my dresser. The thing I’m lingering on is a little booklet that Ethan brought home the other day from work. He found it in a used book, being used as a bookmark, I suppose. It’s a few pages of temporary tattoos. Wild animal tattoos. I keep telling myself to save them for when John wakes up—but that rhino just looks so cool.

I usually finish the Dr. Seuss books, even after John has lost interest and wandered off.

We were going to watch a movie last night, but then decided John wasn’t being good enough to sit still for an hour and a half. I’m still a little disappointed I didn’t get to watch Tarzan.

My best form of flirting is to just kick my husband and then say, “Hey, I like you.” So far, he seems alright with this. As long as I don’t kick too hard.

I realized the other day that there’s really nothing stopping me from having hot chocolate for breakfast. I’ve had nearly 2 quarts of Abuelita this week.

Basically, what I’m saying is that if you’re good with children, there’s a decent chance it’s because you’re a child. ♦

If You’re Not Doing What You Love, You’re Probably Just Like Everyone Else.

Can I just talk for a second?

I see a lot of headlines (mostly ad headlines) telling me to stop what I’m doing, drop everything, and start doing what I love! Because if I would just stop for a minute and think about it, I would realize that there’s absolutely nothing between me and my dreams! Just do it! Forget your fears, and leap!


Here’s the thing. I am 100% in favor of following your passions and pursuing your dreams. And I think everybody should be happy. I also think a lot of us (myself included) need to do some spring cleaning in our lives, and get rid of the stuff, ideas, and obligations that are holding us back from becoming who we want to become.

But you can’t be thrilled all the time. It’s not an option. We’re human beings—we need a wide range of emotions in order to maintain stability, and that includes some negative ones. It even includes the boring ones. You can go pursue your dreams all day if you want, but eventually you’re going to have to find a place to take a dump. Eventually, you’re going to have to wash the dishes. Whether or not you love them, it is illegal to just ignore your taxes.


And those are just the “taking care of me” ones. Now plug in the “relationships” part of the equation. My marriage brings me a lot of happiness. But that means that sometimes I have to take care of a sick husband. It means putting up with him when he’s hungry. It means admitting when I’m wrong (which might be more difficult than putting up with him when he’s hungry.) My son brings me a lot of happiness, too—but he’s in diapers. And they don’t change themselves.

I would love to just drop everything and go pursue my crazy dream… except I don’t really have a set-out “crazy dream.” When I envision happiness, it’s usually a motorcycle, a long highway, and a really hot sun overhead. But somehow, I would have to pay for the gas—and the motorcycle—and even motorcycle riding gets boring after 16 waking hours. Most people don’t have one specific passion that surpasses everything else. That’s the advertisers talking. (Hint: the “one passion” they want you to have is the thing they’re selling.)


I literally had a dream like this.

And here’s the thing: even once you find something that makes you happy—even if you’re the sort who can do the same thing for years, and it will still make you happy, and it will never get boring—eventually, somebody’s going to die. Someone you know will die. And it will be sad. And it isn’t healthy to expect to be happy while you’re sad.

Society screams at us that we’re supposed to be happy. I agree (but without the screaming.) There’s a scripture in the Book of Mormon that specifically states, “Men are that they might have joy.” It doesn’t get much more explicit than that: God wants us to be happy. We usually want that for ourselves. But there’s a difference between being a happy person and feeling happy all the time. That’s where the advertisers are lying; no product will make you happy all the time. No job change will solve all your problems. No relationship will make all the bad days disappear.

We aren’t supposed to be manically happy. We’re supposed to find a way to become happy people. That means doing some things that you don’t like (like the dishes I’m avoiding at this very moment.) And a lot of the time, it means working through the hard stuff to get to the good stuff (like the clean kitchen.)


This doesn’t mean that being miserable is a good thing. If something makes you miserable, you need to do something about it. It’s probably not necessary. You can get a new job. You can communicate better with your spouse. You can get a nanny for one or two days a week. Even the most unavoidable of problems can still be addressed; I have Seasonal Affective Disorder (which basically means I find winter really, really depressing.) So every year around February, Ethan takes me down to the Arizona border for a couple days to get some sun. If you’re an unhappy person generally, change something. Start looking for the positive things you have. Start eliminating or changing the negative things.

I was lugging my infant son around shortly after he was born, trying to get into the bookstore to talk to my husband. I walked around the mini-van and pulled out the baby carrier, then the diaper bag, then my purse, then realized I didn’t have enough arms, so I put down a few bags to adjust…

And then it hit me. I was that mom. The mom I had always made fun of. And I nearly cried. But then I realized something else: I’m only going twenty feet into a bookstore. I don’t need the diaper bag. Or my whole purse. Or the infant carrier. In fact, all I really needed was my wallet and the baby. So I got the kid out of the car seat, got my wallet out, and carried him on my hip while I wandered through a bookstore. Then I took him through the Asian market, just for kicks and giggles.

And then he blew out a diaper and peed the floor at the Asian market.

But you know what? The diaper bag was still just around the corner. We survived. And more than that, I started parenting differently, because I had realized I didn’t need all that baggage.

I’ve been out of shape for years, and I finally just started working out. Lo and behold, my depression, anxiety, and PMS have become easier to manage. Oh, and also, I’m in better shape. I’m not thrilled with my body yet. I’m still not a joy to behold during my period. But it’s better, and I’m happier. You can’t expect instant solutions, but you can expect improvements. That’s what I think we should all be working toward.

You shouldn’t be miserable. But you’re going to experience some serious discomfort in life, and you need to be okay with that. Learn from it. Grow from it. And use it to learn about yourself. Don’t drop everything and do something that makes you happy. Do things that shape yourself into a happier person. ♦

Why I Can No Longer Leave My Baby Alone in the Bathtub

Many moms have told me that if I leave my baby in the bathtub for longer than 10 seconds unsupervised, I will return to find a tiny, drowned body and a lifetime of remorse. There are horror stories to accompany this tale. For the first few months of his life, I refused to let him leave my sight when there was water anywhere in the room.

I’m over it. When he was 3 months old, I took every precaution, and he still ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. Now, I chuck him in the wave pool at the water park and he jumps around like some kind of fish on a spring.

So yesterday, I left him alone in the bathtub for a few minutes while I cleaned up his high chair and a few dinner dishes. (The current state of the dishes is a story for another day, when I know the conclusion.) I usually figure as long as I can hear him happily chirping and splashing, I know he’s not drowning.

He chirped. I washed dishes. After a few minutes, he started chirping louder, and then yelling “Mom!” Then the chirping stopped.

I turned off the water, listening to see if he was okay. The chirping did not return. I heard sounds of a struggle, then a soft thud, and a short cry. I dried my hands, told myself not to panic, and hurried to the hallway.

He met me halfway, running naked down the hall. He was thrilled. He had single-handedly pulled down two towels, climbed out of the bathtub without hurting himself, and now he was free, naked, and Mom knew how clever he was! I was legitimately impressed. But now I can’t help feeling a little doomed. I’m just one step closer to that day when he learns how to open doorknobs, and I never get another moment’s peace. ♦

Is This Depression, Or Am I Just Depressed?

Is anybody else having a hard time functioning, or is it just me?

For the past few weeks, I haven’t been eating well. That’s because in order to eat food, I need to actually make food. Like, a sandwich. I look at the bread and the cheese and I think, “Well, I can make it another hour.”

I haven’t been sleeping well, either. I keep staying up late trying to feel like I’ve accomplished something, which is ridiculous, because if you’ve ever seen me try to accomplish something while exhausted, it’s something like watching a drunk woman trying to hula-hoop on one foot.

I skipped book club yesterday. I put the baby in the stroller, walked the two blocks to book club, and discovered I was falling asleep while walking. So I came home, went to bed, got up to eat dinner with Ethan, and went back to bed. Still didn’t end up asleep until after midnight, because my body just isn’t used to it.

I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen right now.

All this has led me to wondering: when did the basic stuff get so hard? I mean, I graduated high school. And college. I served a mission. I have literally climbed mountains. So why is it so hard to make it from breakfast to nap time? Fellow moms: is this normal for a first-child experience? And how do I get myself back up to speed? Like, any speed? ♦


Baby John just figured out how to wrestle!

He already knew how to be wrestled. He’s pretty good at that. You make growling noises and strike an aggressive (tickle-monster) pose, and he screams, runs, turns around, then runs toward you (because he kind of likes the tickle monster). Then you tickle him, roll over him, and shout, “Squish!”

Well, today, he figured out how to squish Mom! While we were rolling around and tickle-fighting on the bed, he suddenly climbed up and over my belly, swung a leg over, and “pinned” me down. Awesome! So I acted stuck and yelled, “Oh, no! Squished!” and he giggled. Then I returned the favor. “Squish!” More giggles.

This repeated, back and forth, for about 4 or 5 more squishes. Then suddenly, he got all serious. He sat on top of me, no longer pleased with his squish. He sucked his thumb. He cuddled up under my chin. Wow, I thought. Maybe I squished him to sleep. I snuggled up.

He threw up grape juice all over my chin and down my shirt. Squish.

This is a parenting rite of passage, I’m sure. ♦

Lunchtime Fears

Apparently, my toddler is afraid of lunchmeat.

I don’t mean that he won’t eat lunchmeat, or that he refuses to touch lunchmeat, or that he fusses whenever I try to give it to him. I mean that he gets a little panicky when he sees it. It’s like he’s squeamish and just a little worried that the texture might actually attack him. He backs away from it, pressing himself against the side of the high chair, and looks at me like, “Mom! You’re an adult! Do something!

Of all things, my child is afraid of lunchmeat. ♦

El Monito

My baby is determined to kill himself.

He’s been climbing lately – like he climbs more often than I walk. (And he can’t walk – which means he definitely climbs more often than he walks.) He climbs up onto the futon, he climbs all over the coffee table (I use “coffee table” here as a loose translation for “that army chest we plunked in the middle of the living room), and he does his darnedest to climb up onto the bed. He tries to climb the drawer handles in the hallway. The other night, when he was tired, Ethan caught him trying to climb into his crib.

The most difficult part of this is instilling in him a proper fear and respect for gravity. I have no problem with my little monkey learning how to climb. I refer to him as “Monito,” (“Little Monkey”), and I’m rather proud of his newfound abilities, especially compared with the motionless blob of diaper that he was just over half a year ago. No, my problem with the climbing is more in the falling.

He started out by falling off the bed. Ethan and I have a fairly standard, double-sized bed. It stands about two to three feet off the ground, which isn’t that far to fall, unless you’re only two feet tall. El Monito has mastered the edge of the bed; after falling to his doom one too many times, he has grown wary of it.

The high chair, however, is a different story. He’s only fallen out of that one a few times, and he hasn’t quite associated it with the warning bells that the edge of the bed set off in his head. It has a seat belt (which he hates), but I don’t usually belt him in, because he usually sits reasonably still while eating (and because he hates it).

Last night, while I was cooking, I scooted his high chair up near the countertop so he could watch (and not cry). He immediately climbed out of the high chair and onto the counter. So I scooted the chair back so he couldn’t reach the counter. He turned to the side and climbed the dish drainer.

I scooted the high chair back into the very center of the room, where he couldn’t reach anything. He spun like a top in dizzy circles, trying to find anything he could climb on. Finding nothing, he just kept spinning while I cooked. I got the rice all put together, seasoned, and in the rice cooker, closed the lid, and heard a crash.

The baby had dive-bombed onto the tile, head-first, in a desperate attempt to find something to climb. I picked up my screaming child, turned on the rice cooker, and went to go sing some songs while he cried it off. ♦