A Short History of My Breasts

I wrote this a few weeks ago as a post for Feminist Mormon Housewives. I also wanted to post it here.

A Short History of My Breasts

The other day I saw a beautiful picture of a naked woman in the woods. Surprisingly enough, when I saw the picture, it brought tears to my eyes. Apparently seeing someone the way they are, still smiling, even though another person is present to see their nakedness, to feel so comfortable to share yourself in such a way, was deeply touching to me. And also filling me a bit with envy. Because I'd rather die than have anyone see me naked. It got me thinking about my own discomfort with my body, and a life-long dislike in particular of my breasts. So, let me share with you a short history of my breasts.

When I was 11 years old, I got in a car with a strange man. He took me to a near-by forest, where supposedly an injured foal was laying, needing (my expert) help. Obviously, there was no foal. And as the man was walking in front of me into the forest, I suddenly realized the danger I was in, and thought I would get murdered in this forest. But the man turned around, said this was not the right spot, and we got back in his car. While sitting in his car, I noticed his penis hanging out of his pants. I also knew I had to get away, and decided to jump out of the driving car.  Unhurt, I got up and was heading for a corn field, when the man made one more attempt to lure me in, asking me to "do him some favors". I just ran off.

This experience set an early tone for how I would view my body - an object, wanted or needed by others for their own purposes. Maybe a year after this traumatizing event, I went to the public pool in my little home town. I do not recall the exact events, but remember wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit, and that I was standing in line for the slide, when some boys, maybe 14 years old, commented on my breasts. Even though I cannot remember if the comments were positive or negative, I can still almost feel the blush on my cheeks, and the embarrassment I felt. There I was, with nowhere to hide, and my body had just become an object of public commentary, something to be noticed, talked about, critiqued, like the rest of me was not there.

Then, one day, after visiting a friend who was also a member of the Church, I came home with a bikini the mother of the family had given me to keep. I had never worn a bikini, but appreciated the gift. Yet, when my parents found out about the bikini, it was promptly taken away. I did not understand my parents actions then. I was unsure why the bikini was upsetting to them. Nonetheless, I did understand that wearing one was not ok, and I felt guilty for having wanted to wear it. I was thirteen.

As a teenager I started dressing in ways to hide the shape of my body, especially my ever-present, and ever-sticking-out breasts. When I was looking for a dress for a dance, I found a beautiful dress that was luckily not emphasizing my breasts more than I wanted, and that I felt looked beautiful on me. However, my parents strongly objected to my wearing this dress, since the sleeves were half-off the shoulders. I ended up wearing a borrowed, simple dress from a friend, that fit too snuggly around my chest. The evening was spent self-consciously folding my arms in front of my chest.

I kept hiding myself under unshapely clothes, in hopes that no one would notice my body, or especially my breasts. That no one would comment. Maybe I was succeeding when a boy I really liked at age 16 called me fat. But I couldn't help thinking that part of my "fatness" was just my large breasts that would stick out and make the large clothes fall like a tent around me.

At 18 I was looking into breast reduction surgery. At the first appointment to schedule the surgery, I had to stand topless in front of a doctor, who analyzed the shape of my breasts, drew lines on  them and took pictures of them. A normal medical procedure, I'm sure. Yet, I felt deeply ashamed, and humiliated, wondering what this man was thinking as he drew on me and looked at me. The final obstacle to my surgery was having to see a gynecologist who approved of the surgery. Again, I was being seen by a man. He was kind, and felt that I was pursuing the surgery merely out of desperation (I certainly was! I just wanted those evil breasts gone), and encouraged me to wait a little, give the idea more time, and that as a professional, he felt my breast size was completely normal. When I came home from this appointment (that effectively prevented me from having the surgery), I grabbed a pair of scissors and chopped off my hair. I hated my body. I hated who I was. I hated the face looking back at me from the mirror. And in that moment, I wanted every part of my body to look as ugly and horrible as I felt.

Shortly before my twentieth birthday, I got endowed. Again, I remember the discomfort of not wanting my breasts to be noticed, and yet not wanting to look fat in the tent-like temple dresses rented out to patrons. My garments also complicated life as they kept riding around under my bra. Sometimes they'd get "sucked in" and slipped below my chest. I had now entered a new stage of life, where I'd be adding constant adjustments to a body part I already tried to not draw any attention to. Even further, for one part of my temple ceremonies, I could not wear a bra, and I tried to hide the embarrassment of walking around with completely uncontained full breasts with a humble look at the floor. They did not seem like receptacles of pure and virtuous principles. Instead, they were weighing me down with fear, shame and self-hatred. They seemed to make others uncomfortable in one way or another, and no matter what I did, they were always there. Doing what breasts do, without asking my permission.

I carried on, covering up, trying to hide the breasts God gave me, often times hating him for having burdened me in such a way. Why would he give me something that was impossible to hide, yet seemed to only bring out the worst in others, something that seemed to take over everything else I was? I hated God sometimes. Hated him for obviously being a man, because a woman never would have given me these breasts. A woman would have understood.

Then I met my future husband. When he brought me to a family reunion to meet his family, I later found out how some of them joked that he must be dating me for my breasts. There they were again, those breasts. They seemed to be what people noticed first.  But I did not want my husband to notice them. I wanted him to see me, love me, talk to me. For a long time, I avoided any water activities, because I did not want my husband to see me in a swimsuit. I knew my breasts were being squished together into a big "monoboob" in a swimsuit, and looked so unattractive along with being so very visible, that I couldn't bear the thought of a man I liked seeing me like that.

When I had to start looking for wedding dresses, terror filled my heart - terror that no dress would accommodate my chest, or that they would not fit well, making my breasts ooze out, take front and center stage, and possibly, on top of it all make me look fat.  I cried quite a few tears as I tried on dress after  dress, trying to find one that worked with those hated breasts.

But there was a deeper-seated fear in my heart, beyond the fear of how I would look in a wedding dress. I was terrified of my husband seeing me naked. In my heart, I just knew he'd be disappointed. I knew I could not measure up to whatever he had hoped for. Even though society seemed to value large breasts, I knew that my breasts were ugly. And bad, because they made me feel so uncomfortable when others noticed them.  The weeks leading up to our wedding, I would often stand in the shower, and end up crying on the floor of the tub as I looked at and felt my naked body.

During our wedding night, my husband left my breasts alone. Those hated breasts. Then I cried and cried the next morning, while my husband got us some food. I had faithfully hid them away all those years, and tried to ignore the discomfort and embarrassment they brought into my life. But now, as much as I hated them, I still wanted someone to love them, or love me, despite everything those breasts seemed to entail. Luckily, it was just a misunderstanding, and my husband simply did not want to objectify me, or make me think he only cared about my breasts. Because that's what we care about in society - breasts.  And that's is all I thought I was, for better or worse, - a pair of breasts.

With marriage, eventually, came pregnancy, and the breast hiding continued. I was now constantly tugging at my bra, as my breasts gained in size, and didn't fit into my bras properly. They'd spill out on top, once again leaving me embarrassed as I tried to push the "double-boobs" back into a bra that refused to fit. No blanket seemed big enough to cover the space I needed covered when nursing. The first weeks of motherhood, I hid in my bed room, too ashamed to have anyone see me, even my own mother. To make nursing easier, I now also wore my garment tops  over my bra. Yet, an unpleasant side-effect was that my big breasts made pretty much any shirt a tight fit, and parts of my garments that I had covenanted to keep private were on constant display. I tried to remedy the situation by getting silk-screened tops, but the distribution center said they could not do that. Finally, during a flight my husband was trying to help me stay covered as I nursed our baby, and had to endure my anger when he accidentally bared some of my breasts for a second. No one should have to see my breasts.

But if it was not pregnancy or nursing, it was always something else. About a year after my first child was born, I ran my first half-marathon. My husband took a video clip of me as I passed the 10-mile marker. When I saw the clip, I immediately deleted it. Even though I looked proud and strong as I passed mile 10, my breasts were clearly swinging side to side, despite two sports bras I was wearing. The image horrified me, and overshadowed my accomplishments of a race well run with concerns of people having seen me with breasts bobbing all over the place.

Now my breasts just sag, almost down to my belly button (ok, maybe not quite), after having busted the buttons on many a shirt, moved garments up and down, exposed themselves by accident to various people, have been drawn on, felt and squished by various doctors and nurses, invited commentary, created inappropriate thoughts, fed 3 babies, pleased my husband, and met people before I did. My breasts  - two parts of me that seem to define me, control me, and dictate what the world notices about me.

When I saw the picture of that naked woman, I thought of my breasts. My body. And how I feel I've never owned myself. I wish that I could experience that paradisiacal moment Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden of Eden. To be naked,  to be without shame over my body, to push away the world that tries to own it, and see myself, the human God made, and know that this body I wear is "very good". "And I, God, saw everything that I had made, and, behold, all things which I had made were very ^agood;" (Moses 2:31).

Catching Up On Pictures

I'm finally trying to get caught up on pictures. In the post beneath, I posted a million pictures of our trip to Germany/Spain this year. I haven't put in any comments yet. I'll try to get caught up on more pictures in the next few days from stuff like birthdays, Easter, and...dunno, random goodness.

What else do I want to write down? On Wednesday I had two good friends call me. I was so happy. No one ever calls (and I guess I hardly ever call anyone either, so there's no one to blame). It was just so nice feeling like I still had friends. It was nice getting phone calls and chatting with people.

I still am trying to figure out what makes me such an ass at times. :) I need to call my therapist and schedule an appointment, because I think it would be helpful to work with someone else through my strong reactions to some things, why I resist certain things (like stuff where I know rationally that it's not as big of a deal, or where I know I should be nicer/behave differently, but there is this huge inner resistance, almost like an inner temper tantrum?), and how I can maybe handle some of my issues in a more mature, productive manner.

I definitely want to be nicer to people. I know it's so important to act with charity and kindness. I totally believe that every person is fighting their own battles, and if we could only really understand where everyone is coming from, what's making them who they are, etc. we'd have so much more compassion. I want to be compassionate. I want to be kind and patient. But often I'm just loud and opinionated, and in shouting out my thoughts on the faults and ills and injustices of the world, I trample over 20 people right in front of me. :(

I think I honestly need to work on listening better. Much better. Much much better. Like, waiting till someone is really done speaking, even if I feel like I know what they are going to say. Or even if I know I'll hate what they say. I had an online discussion where someone mentioned using a lot of questions when having discussions. I loved that. Asking lots of questions makes people feel like you care about what they have to say. It also helps you clarify and really understand where they're coming from. I want to try and do that more.

Part of why I'm often such a poor listener is probably part how I've grown up (I think I had to learn to talk over a lot of people to be heard) and part that sometimes I feel like my mind goes a million miles a minute when I'm in a discussion. Someone says something, and half-way into what they're saying I'm having 20,000 thoughts on what they're saying, and it just all bursts out, and then even as I talk I have more thoughts rushing out, and ...Dunno. It's like I really struggling with reigning in the overload of ideas and thoughts etc. Like if I don't get it all out, it'll be gone, or I won't have a chance to share it?

Anyway, I'm sure Ms. Therapist can help me make a bit more sense of why MY ideas and thoughts need to be shared to urgently, and why I can't take a deep breath, and lighten up, and let some things (lots of things) slide, and just listen more to others, and whatever, take a breather in general about life. It's probably not all always as serious/urgent as it appears to me?

Little Sister

I thought that I haven't really written much about my pregnancy with little girl no. 3. And I've written so much now, I'm tired of writing more. And, there really isn't much to write about. This little pumpkin seems to move even less than her 2 sisters - and I thought those two weren't moving much. Because of that, we got another ultra sound done at 29 weeks, just to make sure everything is fine. And...it is. It was fun to see her move around, take a deep swallow, see little fuzzy hair, and so forth.

I'm excited for this little girl to join us. I just wish Henry and I could agree on a name. I've searched far and wide for the "perfect" name, but just keep coming back to the same name, which isn't as unique as I'd like it to be, but I feel like it fits. Henry isn't 100% on board yet, so we'll see what happens. If you're curious what the name may be, well...I'm not sure if I want to tell yet.

Other than the name issue though, things are going well. I've gained 12 lbs, still have 7.5 weeks to go, feeling very tired this pregnancy, and I've had pretty bad pelvic pains since week 25 or so, but other than that things are great. We're still trying to figure out whether we're really doing a home birth with midwives or using the hospital here. I love the idea of just doing it at home, but am terrified of possible complications. Hopefully we can feel sure about our decision once we make one. I don't want to mess anything up, and make a bad choice....

Here's a picture of little sister:

And a few more pictures and videos of Alba and Sophia...

Chicken Farming

At last - my post about chicken farming. Basically, I just had to make sure I didn't let the experience of raising chickens go undocumented.

When we got here to Burney, we had a couple from the ward, who had to move a few months after we came. They happened to have 4 chickens, and they couldn't take them with them. Henry had been wanting to raise chickens before (the way he's been wanting to raise a cow for milk, a sheep for milk, and a goat for who knows what), and he jumped at the opportunity. For only $40 we could have the 4 chickens, the coup, any left-over feed, any supplies they had, and...we took them.

Henry arranged for an agreement with his dad that he'd provide the fencing we'd need for our little back-yard chicken area, and we'd take care of the chickens, and share the eggs they'd lay.

By the time we could pick up the chickens, however, only 2 were left. The other 2 got eaten by "something". Oh well. Two is better than none. But it turned out that the one chicken stopped laying once it got moved to our house. So, we basically only had one chicken laying eggs, and we decided that 6 eggs a week weren't worth all the hassle. Thus, Henry set out to get more chickens.

In May, he picked up 2 chickens that were supposedly 10 weeks old. Egg-laying chickens don't lay eggs until they're about 6 months old or so. So, we still had to wait on our eggs for a while, but at least we were expanding the flock. You also need to know that you cannot just add an uneven number of chickens to an "old herd". Chickens can be sort of, urm, cliquish, and they'll peck the newcomers if they're not matching them in number. So, we had to get at least 2. But, before you knew it (I think 2-3 days into it), one of the new chickens had disappeared. Henry thought it had somehow gotten outside the fencing, and gotten lost. No prob - he quickly bought 2 more chickens (also about 10 weeks old), and voila - we had a nice crowd of chickens now (5 total, in case you can't keep track of the numbers).

The non-laying old chicken, however, was a meanie and harrassed the newbies. Thus, we cast her out of the chicken area, and let her just roam free in the back yard. Well, "we" wouldn't be correct. Henry let her. I didn't mind at first, but when she started pecking the windows on the door to the back yard, and would poop right in front of it (thus occasionally having the kids step into bird poop when going outside) - I was getting less enthused about that free-range chicken of ours. I wanted her gone. Henry didn't know how to slaughter a chicken though, and so we just hoped to find someone who'd take her. I hung up a sign, but no luck. Time passed.

One Sunday, we got home from Church, and...meanie chicken was gone. We couldn't find her anywhere. We couldn't find a trace of her. And she didn't return at night. We'd tried before for her to 'just get lost'. But somehow she'd always come back at night and wander into her little cage ( chickens roost at night, which means they want to come somewhere inside/sheltered and hop on a bar or something and sleep?). I was so happy we had finally resolved the pooping, wandering free-range chicken issue.  But my happiness wouldn't last.

A few days later, another chicken disappeared. And it happened to be the only one who was laying eggs at the time. That didn't make me happy. And now our flock of chickens had dwindled from 5 to 3 in just a few days. Chicken No. 2 also disappeared without any signs, so we started to wonder if some hawk or something was snatching the chickens out of their area. We started paying better attention, and actually closing the coop at night. But a week later, when we had forgotten to close the coop, we were only greeted by 2 chickens in the morning.

Arghhhhhh....months of feeding those silly chickens, getting basically no eggs, buying more chickens, and...now we were basically back to square one. It was so frustrating. But hey, we still had our 2 chickens.

Then one morning, when I walked over to Henry's parents' house, past our 2 chickens, I heard a sound. A sound that I wasn't supposed to hear if I ever wanted to get eggs out of those chickens - I heard a crow. A rooster crow. And the crowing sound came very clearly from our chicken coop.

Yup, our one little hen was a rooster. Fantastic. NOT! Those rooster are so loud. Chickens don't really make any noise at all, but that freakin' rooster would wake up the kids every morning with his crow. Alba would start crowing back from her bed early in the morning and silly stuff like that (ok, that part was actually pretty cute). Henry wouldn't believe it at first. He insisted it was a hen, and that she'd only get excited in the morning when he opened the coop and got some food. Sure, Henry. That huge, strutting, feather-fluffing, aggressive, fighting hen with a huge comb on its head that happens to crow early in the morning when the sun gets up is ONLY excited to see you...I named the rooster "Henry's Little Hen", because, ya know..

So, there we were. Months later. Still no eggs. Lots of dead chicken of which we got to eat none, and we were down to 1 hen and a rooster. We were getting a bit tired of trying to raise chickens. It seems a lot easier to just spend 3 bucks at the store and buy a dozen eggs or so than going through all this hassle. But we still had that one chicken. For maybe a week. Then, one night, Henry and I both woke up in the middle of the night because we heard these crazy loud noises coming from the back yard. Henry ran out in a dash...but he was too late. Something had taken the last chicken.

And the rooster was literally the last man standing. I was done. So, when a guy from Church was over at Henry's parents house and said he'd know someone who'd take the rooster, I didn't think twice.

I figured we were done with chicken farming. I was done. But Henry is not one to throw in the towel after going "only" through about 8 chickens. A few weeks ago, he bought more. 3 little chickens, which the owner guaranteed are not roosters, or we can bring them back. We put them in the coop, and the next morning...we were already down to two. Henry was ready to rip out his hair, and I could only laugh.

However, it turned out that we only were dealing with an esacpee. This chicken has gotten out a few times by now and roamed around. I've named her "Houdini" since. As of now, we still have all 3 chickens. They're also younger ones, so they won't lay for a few more months. But, at least they're still alive. However, after watching them for a few weeks now, Henry, his mom and I have a sneaky feeling, we've got another rooster in the mix. Again.

We'll know when we hear the first crow. So, if you're trying to figure out whether it's worth raising chickens...don't ask me. Their manure is great for gardening. The kids love the chickens, and they're actually (to my own surprise), sort of fun and cute little back yard friends. And if you can keep them alive, those fresh eggs may be a real perk. I just wouldn't know about that...yet.

Change

I've never necessarily enjoyed change. I've always needed a lot of time to make friends, real friends. I've always struggled to fit in. At least I can't think of a time where my social interactions have been smooth sailing and something that has come easily to me.

When I moved to the US,  more changes were required. Some more challenging and personally painful than I ever would have anticipated. In many ways, immigrating to the US has been a very difficult road for me.

Sometimes I think I'm making headway, and things are getting better. But then something just happens again to throw everything off.

So, now we're in a new ward. And I've already had this whole "primary" debacle. Last night the bishop came over to talk to us, and we almost got into a fight. (He mentioned stuff that sounded like the whole ward was concerned about my behavior or views, I'm not sure, over this whole primary German thing, and that he couldn't even understand why I made a huge deal out of this, and Sophia's primary language is English, and we speak English in America, and yadayadayada). I'm sure he wanted the discussion to be productive. But it  just left me feeling awful. I hate when people bring "what other people think" into discussions. I hate it. I hate it when a discussion runs along the lines of suggesting that I'm this awful freak, but alas, we'll be nice and forgive and/or we'll love you anyways.

I really hate it basically when discussions end in a way where I feel that despite my best efforts, the other person still doesn't get where I'm coming from. They don't understand an ounce of who I am or what "my issue is". I'm sure I've done this to others. But I'd like to think that usually I try to understand how others think, and where they're coming from.

I'd like to think that with all my flaws and faults, I try to understand people. And I try to get along. And I don't give up when it gets hard. And that I have a forgiving heart. And that I try to accommodate, assimilate and be part of the 'group'.

Now, however, I'm just tired. I'm so tired of it all. I don't want to accommodate anymore. I don't want to listen. I don't want to try to understand anymore. I don't want to fit in, or be part of anything anymore. I just feel tired, and incredibly alone. I honestly don't feel like going to Church here anymore right now. Why try to be part of something when it's so incredibly difficult. I'm so tired of all the drama. Nobody even understands the sacrifices that you make each day as a foreigner that everyone takes for so granted. And I just.can't.deal.with it anymore. I just don't have it in me.

I'm sure that I'm contributing to my own situation in some significant ways that I'm blind-sided to. I'm sure I'm not without fault. But no one, who's never left their homecountry behind for good, and packed up to raise a family in an other place, will ever really understand. And that's why it sucks. Because no one gets it. I get that. But I just don't want to help people understand anymore. I don't want to shut out this huge part of who I am all the time, just for the sake of others. I'm just done with it.

I just don't know what that means. Or what I can even do other than cry and feel incredibly alone, and wishing that there would just one place where I can feel like I fit in, wherever such a strange place may be.

To read more about my experience immigrating you may want to check out this essay I wrote HERE.

Urm, here below this post. I meant to create a link, but that doesn't work. So, I'll just post my essay here (it was published a few months ago in The Exponent magazine. Nice, eh?). Here it is:

Franziska Patterson

Planet Earth

(Columbus, Ohio)

Inbetween

Something was starting to crumble inside of me. I was biking along a beautiful trail in the Provo canyon, with my new husband.  Our wedding day, just a few weeks prior, had been a truly happy day and we were excited for our life together.  But when my husband and I stopped to look at the river running next to the trail, discussing our life as newly-weds, I burst into tears.  My husband tried unsuccessfully to console me, the stream of tears increasing with each question he asked.  I couldn’t quite put a finger on what was bothering me, but eventually I muttered “Who am I?”

That day on the trail, when I suddenly felt lost and unsure of myself, I realized that I had started on a journey that encompassed more than just married life. With my marriage I had not only become a wife but an immigrant. I had left behind a clear definition of self and home, and was left with a gaping hole in my heart that needed to be filled. And the severity of the pain took me by surprise. Naturally, I expected that on marrying I’d most likely leave my native Germany behind for good. I thought I knew what that meant. But I did not. It wasn’t until I was awkwardly trying to sign documents with a new last name that it dawned on me how vastly my core self would be affected by my marriage.

Initially I attributed my shaky sense of identity to getting a new last name and the immigration process.  I had been looking forward to trading my maiden name in for a new last name (my maiden name is about as common as Smith), but once it was gone suddenly I felt like a part of me had disappeared as well. The immigration process added to that sense of loss and confusion.  Having come from a nation that afforded  me any conceivable freedom, it was a rather harsh adjustment to get fingerprinted every time I entered the US, to have to report every change of address, to ask permission when wanting to leave the country for longer than 6 months, to not be able to travel outside the US until I had received a specific document (this was related to my pending immigration status, not to owning a passport), to not be able to vote (as a political science major, and avid voter, this was a real loss), and lastly to not be entitled to government benefits (despite paying taxes like any citizen). In addition, I had to undergo a thorough physical examination that included a genital health check, chest x-rays as well as testing for HIV and other STDs. I was also required to prove my married relationship was real by providing pictures of the wedding, notarized affidavits from friends and, if the USCIS deemed it necessary, provide proof that my marriage had been consummated.  I felt degraded, like a second-class human, and as a modest Mormon woman, simply embarrassed.

But, I struggled beyond the humiliating parts of the immigration process and the loss of freedoms to which I was accustomed.  I also felt tossed about by internal and external cultural dissonances. The cultural differences that appeared more like speed bumps during a temporary adventure while I was a student seemed like steep mountains to climb now that my stay had become a permanent one.  I suddenly worried about speaking a foreign language for the rest of my life. I was concerned about my children absorbing parts of the American culture that were foreign to me, or that I simply didn’t like.  The idea that my husband and children would feel “at home” while I was still a “wanderer in a strange land” (Jacob 7:26) was unsettling to me. I felt obligated to absorb the American culture or forever be an outsider, even within my own family. I wasn’t sure how I could feel at home when “me” felt so different from everyone else. Trying to bring my new life and old self together was a perfect recipe for cultural clashes. The typical German honesty and slight negativity (or realism as I like to call it) that I espoused, frequently came across as rude or offensive. More than once I was accused of hating the US, when all I tried to do was to share my opinion like everyone else. Occasionally it was suggested that if I did not like it here I should simply go back home. Those words stung in particular, because they suggested that I wasn’t home – I wasn’t “everyone else”. And, of course, going back to Germany was no longer a simple decision I could make any time, but a complex issue that involved other peoples’ lives.

Church posed a challenge for me as well. I dreaded the time around Independence Day, when I had to listen to songs and talks that had no spiritual or cultural meaning for me.  There would be accidental moments, like sitting in Relief Society, unable to recite the Young Women’s theme with the sisters because I had never memorized the theme in English that reminded me again of my uprooted state. It was upsetting that even at Church - a place I thought should feel like home no matter what – I felt like I didn’t belong.

And then with all the differences that faced me here in the US, there was also alienation from my home country.  When visiting family in Germany, I would walk into grocery stores, feeling prepared because I had a credit card with me, just to be reminded at the check-out that credit cards weren’t accepted. Or, I would say or do something maybe a bit atypical for Germans (maybe I was being too positive), only to hear how I was becoming “so American”.  Sometimes, it was a little thing such as not immediately remembering a word in German, being surprised that there wasn’t a diaper changing table in the public restroom, or sitting in a room with other women from Church nursing my baby, but being the only one using a nursing cover that tuned me in to my personal metamorphosis.  I seemed to not be German anymore. And yet I wasn’t American either.

My sense of self started to crumble when I got married – and has been under reconstruction since. It has been difficult for me at times to feel at home, to feel like I belong or to simply know who I am, now that I’m married, living in a foreign country.  It has been a journey over the years, and I have not reached my destination yet. But I have found comfort in the thought that this world is Heavenly Father’s creation, and that I, as his daughter, belong wherever I choose to go and be.  He has not created borders or nationalities for his children. I’ve also started to learn to dissociate my sense of self from what is written in my passport and from the customs of my childhood. Instead, I have decided to focus more on the customs of humanity and am finding a new sense of self in our human commonalities.  I used to think that “home is where the heart is” and that the heart, somehow, can only be in one place. A part of my heart will always linger in Germany. Through the years, however, my heart has embraced people and places all over this beautiful world, slowly weaving a net of “home” that spans beyond what I had ever imagined.  Home is where my heart is, but my heart is scattered across the globe.  I am a citizen of the world. I’m a daughter of the God who created this world.  This is my home – and I belong.

The Primary President from Hell

I never would have thought that I'd have the privilege of meeting the worst primary president ever, but I think I may just have found her. And in my  very own ward. Who wouldda thought it. Not me, that's for sure.

What happened, you ask? Oh, let me tell you...

Mrs. Primary President had been a little strange to me from day one. She never really introduced herself, never really was particularly talkative or inquisitive about my children, nor did she bother to explain how they run their teeny tiny primary of currently still 8 kids. Nothing. However, she asked me the first Sunday we were there wether I could teach Sophia's Sunbeam class (since there was one other little girl present that day). Well, since I was new, sick, and suck at teaching kids, I said no, but volunteered Henry. I then added that I don't want him alone with the kids though, and that I'll find someone else to be in there with him. Ever since that day, I think things have been bad with that president.

She tried to organize a formal class for Sophia (the only sunbeam, since the other kid basically never comes), and I said I'd rather have her in nursery for that one hour with the other two kids who are only 5 months younger than her. I could tell she didn't like that.

Then almost 2 weeks ago, I was looking at some sticker chart that they had in the primary room that Sophia wanted to see. She asked me if we were memorizing the Articles of Faith with Sophia. I said no. Anyway, that day it turned out that Sophia somehow didn't get a sticker in primary and it made her sad. I figured it was the whole sticker/articles of faith thing. So even though I think memorizing stuff is not a very effective teaching tool at all, and definitely not something I need to waste my 3-year old's time on, I asked Sophia whether she wanted to earn the sticker and learn an article of faith. She said yes.

The next Family Home Evening, we sat down with her and helped her learn the first one - in German. Since we do everything in German in our home. Then, last Sunday I proceeded to talk to the Primary President after Sacrament meeting to find out about what they do in regards to passing off those Articles of Faith. I figured Sophia could tell her in German while I stand there, and then I can let her know whether she got it right or not. But when I told her that Sophia had learned the Article of Faith in German, she informed me with a smile that "we don't speak German in Primary". I just about passed out. I then said that I don't have to bring my kids to primary then, to which she replied that that would be fine. Double gasp.

I was so shocked that I just left. I was in the hallway fuming, and then figured I probably just need to calmly address the matter, see if I offended her, resolve things etc. But when I tried to talk privately with her, she just said that I had been "unhappy with everything from the beginning", that I had been very aggressive about Henry not being alone with the little kids or Sophia not being alone, and in essence she told me that any exclusion Sophia experiences is my fault because of how I handle things ( I guess she meant me speaking German to her). I left crying.

After days of raging, I tried to figure out what the problem could be to meet such unreasonable resistance. I thought maybe she just felt  misunderstood and unappreciated. Maybe she just couldn't quite understand where I'm coming from, or simply didn't know how to deal with a foreign language situation. I figured, with some love, and listening ears, and careful conversation, certainly the matter could be resolved. So, yesterday morning I brought something to her house that she wanted to borrow from Henry's parents, and figured it'd be a good opportunity to talk. I asked her a little bit about where she grew up, lived, her family, etc. sympathized with her husband having fought in Vietnam, and so forth. I asked her what her perceptions were of our first encounters, and apologized for anything that may have hurt her feelings. I explained that I hadn't been unhappy with anything, and why I felt very strongly about my kids/husband not being alone. I explained that I didn't expect her to take care of those matters. Then I turned the conversation to the whole language thing.

To make a long story short - the lady wouldn't budge. I explained how much it matters to us for our kids to learn things in German. I explained how it's an international Church, how wards and temples across the US and world accommodate all kinds of languages. I offered options (I can translate or stand next to them as Sophia passes off, I could print the Articles of Faith, etc.). To no avail. She said I brought my kids to America, and in America we speak English. When I tried to show all the various Church places who don't live by that policy, she said that they had people who spoke either both languages or had enough people to have Church in their own language. We didn't have that. Then she looked at me all serious and asked whether I really expected her to accommodate our child (like that was an outrageous expectation). I said yes, since it's a small thing I'm asking. She said if it's so small then it goes both ways, and certainly Sophia can do it in English. Then I tried to explain that Sophia was 3 and she was an adult...But at the end of the day, no matter what I said, no matter what I explained, she was firm  with Sophia not being allowed to pass anything off to her in German, or pray in German or whatever. Wow.

Wow.Wow.Wow.

I've never met someone like this. I also haven't felt as angry as I've felt in the last days. I honestly want to punch this woman in the face right now, or say some very hurtful things. I want to stoop to the lowest and meanest levels I'm capable of. I cannot even start to say how upset I am  by her behavior. But apart from her blatant discrimination against my children based on language, the really telling part has been to me that in all of our dealings and conversations, in all of this, not once, NOT. ONE.SINGLE.TIME has she mentioned Sophia, asked about Sophia, or in any other way suggested that Sophia actually matters to her. Actually, I guess she made clear that she doesn't matter when she said it's fine if I don't bring my kids. She has not even suggest or mentioned to maybe discuss the situation with her counselor or pray about it or who knows what. She simply felt the had the authority to tell me how it's happening, and that I'd just have to deal with things.

I really, really, really, really cannot describe the grief, frustration and anger this situation is causing me. I actually don't want to make a scene. But there is no way on earth that I will let her get away with discrimination against my children like this, nor her utter lack of concern for her primary children. The war is officially on. Tomorrow I'll be talking to the Bishop. I don't know if it'll help, but I'm praying and hoping that he'll be reasonable. However, his wife is the president's counselor, and best friend, and backed her up, so...I don't know. If he won't listen, I WILL take it to the next level, but I don't feel optimistic about that either. I do feel that our Church has an overall sucky track record for really addressing and resolving conflicts and problems. And the few times where they try, I think the tendency is to stick with the leadership (because afterall leaders are more important than other members, and programs are more important than the people the programs are supposed to serve...).

I'm just so superpissed. I hate feeling forced to change my life for a nasty person like this. We're considering attending an other ward. But obviously that will come at a great expense to us. Of course, I could just drop the issue, and continue on in my ward, have Sophia learn the articles of faith double, or not at all, and just do our thing. But the fact that I already know that my child is not appreciated, loved or truly cared for makes me VERY uneasy having her in that environment. Clearly her leaders aren't looking out for her best interest. Why would I do that to my child to put her in such a place. Especially if she's the only little child (all the other kids are 7 years and up). It's just a stupid situation. And more so because they called a lady from Hell as primary president.

Goodness. I cannot fathom how heartless and unchrist-like some people can be. I just pray that I can make sure that in my frustration over this, I won't put Sophia in the line of fire. But there will be fire. The lady from hell unfortunately picked a fight with the wrong person. Bring it on, Sister Valentine - Bring. It. On!

The Curse of Fatness

I hate being fat. I hate it. It's that simple. I hate trying on clothes, and having fat roles stick out. Or having back fat. I hate having to readjust clothing all the time.

Before I got pregnant with Alba, I weighted 182lbs. I had worked hard after Sophia's birth to lose all my fat. I made it to 176lbs. My goal weight was 170lbs. Then I had the miscarriage, and ate 6 lbs or so back onto my bones. Anyway, so after I had Alba (like 2 weeks after!) I weighed 181 lbs. Yup, all my baby weight came of within 2 weeks. So, I decided then that I'd use that year to finally reach my goal, and make it to 170 lbs, or at least below 175 lbs. I trained for a marathon, thinking all that running and exercising would certainly help me with my weight loss goal.

After the marathon (in October 2011) I went on a diet, when I still hadn't lost the weight I was looking for. In fact, I had gained 4 lbs. The diet did nothing. Now it's February, almost a year later. I just bought a scale yesterday, and wasn't happy with the truth staring back at me. 192 lbs. Urgh.

I'm so frustrated. It seems to take so much for me to lose weight. We really try to live healthy. I usually don't buy crappy snacks, sugary foods, etc. I've been working out almost daily. And yet, I've gained another 7 lbs in the last 2-3 months. And it's really depressing. I hate looking in the mirror. Even worse, I hate to accidentally look at Henry's facebook page, just to have all his gorgeous, SKINNY!, ex-girlfriends stare at me.

No wonder Henry had issues with my weight/looks before we married. He could have had much hotter women...

Sometimes, (or rather often) I just really really hate my body. I wish I could be beautiful and skinny. And still eat crepes with nutella. But as it goes, I'll just have to workworkwork hard for it. Therefore, starting today, I'll do my Jillian work-outs TWICE a day. And stop eating, except for water and veggies, and nuts or something. Lame, I know. But apparently, just moving, and not eating too much crap is not enough for my body. And being fat is not an option for me.

Sigh...

Goals

Am I the only one who sets goals for the New Year? Well, in the last few years I've always set some goals that I've tried to focus on over the year, and it's been really fun and rewarding to push myself a little.

One of my goals for last year was to run a marathon. And I did. I also just lost the obligatory toe nail a few days ago. It was the one on my big left toe, to be precise. The best part was that I had Sophia bring the nasty, old, with-blood-blister-grown-to-it nail to Henry. Henry lost the nail somewhere in our extra bedroom/office. Then I caught Alba a few days later, chewing on something - which, of course, happened to be the lost toe nail. I almost threw up. So gross.

Anyway, so I reached that goal. I had some other goals I didn't do so well on, I think.

I still haven't quite decided yet what's on the list for this year, but I thought I'd start jotting down some of the ideas I've been having like:

• having another baby and giving birth naturally, and without any time pressure or emotional pressure or other drama that seems to leave only one option.
• cutting down on our dairy consumption. I always try to think about how we eat and improve how we eat. One of my goals has been to use more local foods. Now I've been thinking that simply cutting down even more on our animal products is another big step I can take in being more green as well as healthy. I have to figure this one out in more detail though and determine what exactly I want to do.
• start the day with prayer. I think that was my goal for last year, and it didn't go very well. I really would like to do this. I think I need to start my day with some calm reflection and petition of living the day to the fullest of what I want to achieve.
• I think I want to work on enjoying my kids more. I mean, I love Sophia and Alba. Lovelovelove. But playing with them seriously bores me to death at times. I want to find things we can do together that's enjoyable for all of us and, well, enjoy each other more, play more.
• I also want to work on specifically improving my marriage. But I have nothing specific yet I want to do. I just think there are things I really ought to change. Actually, maybe it's not about my marriage, but just me being nicer to my spouse.
• I'd love to take some college classes...but, I think this goal still has to wait a few years...

There are so many other things I want to do as well. I could go on and on. Does anyone else have any goals as well? Am I alone in my goal setting frenzy?

Two Roads Diverged

The story of my life...seems to be that no matter what, no matter how hard I try, or not, there will always be people who seem to not only misunderstand me (misunderstandings happen), but have to take something, misunderstand it, and then turn it into something negative. Bleh. Anyway, it's becoming painfully clear to me that certain sides of me simply cannot be shared in certain settings, not even a blog like this, because some people don't have the ability to simply not read something they don't enjoy or disagree with, and then let a person who they don't really understand or cannot really understand just based on written word, be. And I'm just tired of it.

So, I'm planning on starting another blog. The other blog will be only for anything that could even remotely be construed as controversial. If it has as much as a "c" in it, I'll post it on the "controversial" blog. I'm still happy to share that side of me, but I'll only do so with the elect few. Basically, only those I feel can handle it. The blog won't be private. I just won't inform anyone of the address, unless I think you're able to handle it.

This blog will become a typical, cheesy, Mormon mommy blog where I'll post all the gazillion pictures I take of our supercute kids, and talk about our sweet, perfect family life. That's it. Nothing that makes people have nightmares at night because it talks about something a bit more meaningful than the cool rolls you made for dinner. Yup.

Sorry for the sacrasm. I'm hurting a bit. I had a conversation today that left me on the verge of tears, and made me want to never come/go to RS again. Even though nothing hurtful was said or certainly intended (I truly appreciate and care for the person with whom the conversation took place), it somehow communicated nonetheless that the way I am spells trouble. That I'm controversial, or rather that what I say in RS is controversial. It sounded as if there had been a complaint about me from a RS sister. And there was concern for the testimonies of newer members (who may what, lose their testimony because of my comments?)...

How is it that sweet, tear-jerking falsehoods aren't "controversial", but honest questions or thought provoking comments that are just as doctrinal sound as anything are "controversial"???

At any rate, I just wanted to cry and never come back to RS again. I'm so tired of the judgmental, unchristlike attitudes that get espoused in Church most often by those who claim to be so devoutly following him. Urghhhh! Church is such a huuuuuuuuuuuuuggggge challenge for me right now. And just for you out there who read "Church" and equate it somehow with my testimony, the gospel or whatever. No. I'm not talking about the gospel, which poses no challenge at all. I'm talking about lame lessons, stupid culture, and people who don't necessarily reflect much of the things we supposedly believe as Mormons.

I can't wait to move.

If you want to read the "controversial" blog, let me know in a comment, and I'll consider your request. I'll email you the address of the blog if you're considered "worthy". :)

Body Hate

Urgh...I don't know how other people do it, but I have no idea how to love my body. And that's putting it nicely. Right now I just want to puke when I see myself. Bleh.

I just really hate pretty much everything about my body. I realize there isn't a whole lot that I can do about changing the way I look, but I figured weight is at least one thing that is somewhat in my control. Well, I guess it is, but it kind of isn't. My body just likes to be fat. I've started training for a marathon over 2 months ago now. I've definitely worked out more than I have in a while. The result? I've lost 1 lbs in the last 2 months. Wow.

So,  I'm still as fat as ever, except I was skinnier a week after I gave birth to Alba. To make matters worse, I thought I'd get some proper running gear, since I noticed that running as much as I'm running now, the usual attire doesn't work that well. I went and bought a running shirt so I wouldn't get chafing on my arms anymore, and I also got new pants. Honestly, when I went to the store this afternoon, I was a bit tired. I must have been really tired though because when I just tried the stuff on again now I realized how incredibly stupid and hideous I looked. I almost barfed at the mirror.

So, the shirt will be returned. The socks looked ok on my feet I guess, so I'll keep those. I looked stupid in the pants, but at least they were comfy so I'll keep those as well.

Anyway, sometimes (or probably almost always) I just wish Heavenly Father would have graced me with a body that the general society would consider feminine or beautiful - and not with this piece of work horse material that looks like a pending train wreck in just about any outfit.

Black Hole

Henry said yesterday that it's time for another blog post. Seeing how he's the patriarch of the family, he must be right. Just kidding - on the patriarch stuff. Anyway, it IS time. I've just had all kinds of stuff on my mind, and I didn't really have time to sit down and verbalize it all on here.

Anyway, so Henry is done with school. And after 2 months of non-stop family visiting, the last of them finally left 1 week ago. After that Henry and I were in a frenzy to clean and organize the house, get all kinds of stuff done that has gotten neglected over the last few months/years, and then it happened. Saturday, it happened. We had all our errands taken care off. There was nothing specific that needed to be done. And both of us were at home. And had time. It was so shocking, I didn't really know what to do. And it's been so long that we just had a day to do whatever we wanted, I almost couldn't think of anything. It was like we only knew how to be on one certain track, and now that we were on another one, we tried to keep going on the old track. We finally figured out how to get all of ourselves into the car and go swimming.

Then Sunday came along, as it usually does right after Saturday. And I think on Sunday I just sank into this black hole of my new reality. We had another rather un-edifying Sunday (for me) with a really annoying talk on how the men are the leaders in all areas of life (the talk was supposed to be on how the YM program prepares the young men to be fathers, I think), and then a lesson on obedience in RS that included beautiful tidbits such as blind faith being necessary for gaining testimonies (I don't think so...since there is no such thing as blind faith, at least not by common definition of faith) or how Joseph Smith always obeyed God in all things (really? trying to take the gold plates for personal gain, and being chastised by Moroni for it, or giving away the 116 pages of the BoM after Heavenly Father said no to that request twice, don't count? Not to mention all the transgressions Joseph Smith himself only allures to...).

I came home and I just felt down, and empty. And really alone. I have been feeling rather isolated recently. All my good friends I made here in Columbus have moved away. The last of them just moved now after graduation. And now I feel like this awkward left-over, who should be moving on, but isn't yet. I got overwhelmed by suddenly having all this time again, and realizing that I don't really have any good friends here. I miss having book clubs, I miss having people to talk to. I miss having someone around who can actually bear just hearing some of my "oh-so-apostate-or-liberal" thoughts. Having those lessons/talks in Church somehow just consolidated that feeling of isolation. It's hard when I feel my social life depends on the people in Church, and I feel like I have nothing in common with those people. Urgh.

So, I started feeling all gloomy and depressed and alone. And unsure what the future will bring. We have to actually find employment now (or rather a practice to buy). And I have to figure out what to do with my husband now that I actually get to see him. And figure out stuff that doesn't cost, because we're really broke.

I think the house just feels empty, and my world has been a whirlwind of craziness in the last months, and now that it's all quiet again, I just don't know what to do.

I have resolved, however, to be more believing again, and to be more loving. While it's really hard for me right now to hear some of the things I regularly hear in Church and that I think are a bunch of BS, I realize that my ultimate goal is to be like my Savior. Being like Christ, to me is being loving and long-suffering. I decided my focus is on the wrong things. There is no need for me to enlighten others to the error of their ways/thinking (like I could never be wrong?). I realized it's ok to let others believe some of the things they believe, no matter how problematic or uninformed those beliefs seem to me. Maybe more specifically I realized, Church really isn't so much about actual truth being taught consistently (which would be GREAT!), but rather it's a place of learning for all of us. A whole bunch of very imperfect people coming together and trying to come unto Christ. And then I also realized what matters is who I am, and how I live. And I want to live like my Savior - lifting up those around me, serving where I can, learning to love and forgive, regardless of person. Everything else, what others believe and do, is rather irrelevant. If I am close to my Heavenly Father, and live my life guided by the Spirit, I'll know what to do, and I can guide my kids accordingly, and the right things will be clear - regardless of what happens at Church. In short, I realized I'm judging, and whether my judgments are spot on or not, I'm still judging. I've been commanded not to. So, I better quit!

All that. And I want Henry to find a source of steady income. Quickly. Because it makes me nervous to live on so little, and knowing we have to pay back our debts soon, and wanting to move and settle down somewhere real bad, and plan my future and stuff and not being able to because we're in limbo.

I still miss my friends though. Fran is a herd animal. I'm not meant to be alone with my kids and husband all day every day.

P.S. Did  I mention that I started training for a marathon? Yeah...

Good Times

Despite our crazy trip to Detroit on Monday, we've had such a fun time with my sis-in-law and her two girls visiting for almost 3 weeks. Of course, I'm not surprised. We always have a good time when we get together, but it was just so nice to have so much time, and especially for the girls to play so much together. And, while it's nice to sort of have my house back, I really miss the good times already - the giggles, the pouting, the dancing and running, the teasing, and managing daily mommy life with a friend/sister by your side. It really makes it all twice as good.

Having "fun" at the Zoo

 Franklin Conservatory - I thought I'd throw in a picture of me...mainly because I actually like this one. I looked at it and thought "hey, I don't look as fat as I feel, maybe I'm not fat...?", but then I look at the picture of me above, and think "yeah, you're as fat as you think you are!". Oh well, at least I can look at this picture and revel in the glory of a good shot.

 World of Bounce

 This slide is not for whimps. It looked fun from the bottom. When I actually went up there once with Sophia I couldn't repress a scream while going down - freaky fast, and freaky steep! Sophia had a blast though, and kept sliding over and over (she's the blurr on the left).

If you can't play at the water park, create your own water fun at home...

 or watch a movie!

My future shopping experience?

 Alba and Pilou

 Henry being the awesome dad/uncle that he is!

Ahhh, sometimes I really wish I could scoop up all my family and make them live somewhere close.

Obstacle Course

Sometimes, you just have to wonder if all the things that go wrong are just mere chance, if Murphy's Law is indeed a law or if there is a God with a twisted sense of humor.

Today I had to drive my sis-in-law and her 2 kids (ages 6 and 4) to the Detroit airport (for their 2-months trip to Hawaii). Since Henry had to go to work and then play with my brother and his friend at King's Island, I had to take Sophia and Alba with me on the trip. No prob! We're experienced long-trip travelers - what's 3 hours out and 3 hours back in one ride? Nothing really. Unless...

you already start off by leaving a bit later than you had planned, then start the car just to notice the battery is dead, and silently thanking the heavens that your husband is still home with his car, then taking off for Detroit, to have one of the kids start asking how much longer the ride is 30 minutes into the drive followed by some comments on how she's feeling sick and might throw up, then having your own kid in the very back start crying, and looking kind of sick, then missing an exit and getting lost for a while wasting more time, and making you run even later, then having to stop because your kid actually DID throw up, which now means you're basically out of wipes because you tried to clean up everything as quickly as possible, now moving on with your hands smelling like barf, and ohhhh, now you're stuck behind every slow driver in Ohio, and you can't pass because of constant traffic (we're not on the free-way yet, but still in back-country Ohio), then you finally make it to the free-way, hoping to make up some time, but then you hear more crying in the back, and a glance in the rear-mirror reveals that your kid is barfing AGAIN, and much more, so now you're out of clothes for kid as well, and all you've got to cover her with are her barfy pants and a jacket, and you can't stop to clean her up because you're trying to make it to the airport on time, so sis-in-law cleans her up unbuckled while you keep driving, and then the other kids start whining again (the movie isn't loud enough, when are we there, wanting music on/not wanting music on etc.), and then, you notice you're out of gas, so you pull over at the next gas station you can find, which happens to be in the middle of nowhere and whaddayaknow - they don't have any gas! Yes. None of the pumps have gas, so you're back on the road, and before you know it, you're missing the next gas station right by the free-way, and then you have to take the next one, which happens to be off the beaten path in some little town, but you make it, and you get gas, and when you ask where the exit for the airport is you find out it's the next one (yipee!!!!) and that you can take a shortcut by not getting back on the free-way but just keep driving on the road you're on, and then take a right turn. So, we go for the short cut, but when we turn right at the correct road...a train is stuck on the crossing, and we have to turn around, drive all the way back and take the free-way after all. At this point, I've pulled out my last strands of hair, but as we get on the free way and then promptly exit, it turns out we are only 2 minutes away from the airport. Which is great, because at this point Alba has also woken up and decided to make her justified hunger known by loud crying. Ahhhhhhh...

Anyway, we made it with 1.5 hours to spare, which I figured should be enough time. I hung out at the curb side drop-off for quite a while trying to clean up the car a bit. Then we took off, and stopped at a store to get some non-smelly clothes for Sophia, some wet-wipes, and also a nail clipper, since I somehow tore a nail while at the airport, and it was bleeding, and getting stuck on stuff, and driving me nuts. Alba got fed, and we were on our way to peace and tranquility and showers at home. We had no more problems other than the usual slow drivers, and Sophia's unchanged diaper leaking  majorly. When I pulled her out of her seat at home, the whole back of her pants was completely drenched. But alas, what's a bit of urine on top of lots of barf, right?

I think Sophia, Alba and I will go to bed early today.

The Weaker Sex

During our 3-hour dinner at the Melting Pot on Thursday, Henry and I talked about fun memories we've had together. We talked about our many fun bike rides together, and then I remembered this story - the story of the weaker sex. I thought I should share.

One time Henry and I were biking the Provo Canyon trail (Henry on his cool road bike, me on my slow mountain bike). It was a lovely day, and we had a good time. I enjoyed watching Henry's rear as he was, as always a bit ahead of me going 'slow' so I could keep up. Suddenly, some old dude passed me on his fancy road bike, and then caught up to Henry. I could see him say something to Henry, and then saw him disappear. Henry now slowed down dramatically and I caught up with him. When I was next to Henry, he told me that the old bike dude had said something about me being behind because I was the weaker sex (I can't recall exactly what the guy said, but in essence he called me the weaker sex). And that did it. No one calls me weaker anything, especially not weaker sex, so I told Henry to meet me at the end of the trail, but that I'd step it up a notch to get my weaker sex body to pass the old dude on his bike and show him how fast the weaker sex can go. Phhhhhhh...So, fuming I sped off on my bike, giving it my all. Now, you need to know, that I wasn't a bad biker or anything. I'd bike fairly regularly, and overall was in pretty good shape. So, I felt pretty sure that I could catch up to that lame old dude, even though he was on a road bike and I was on my mountain bike. At some point, I could see him ahead of me, and so I kept biking like a maniac, trying to catch up. When it happened - the weaker sex gene kicked in. Suddenly I couldn't breathe anymore. My whole throat seemed to be constricted, and I was gasping frantically for air. I think it was an asthma attack, but I wouldn't know since I don't actually have asthma and never had anything like this happen before or since. Defeated, I had to stop, and try to not pass out because I couldn't breathe. When Henry caught up with me I was still gasping for air, unable to breathe properly, so Henry wasn't sure whether he should laugh that I furiously tried to catch up to some guy because he called me 'the weaker sex' or if he should be worried about my breathing. I think he chose to be concerned about my breathing...

Anyway, the moral of this story is that if some biker calls you the weaker sex, don't waste your energy on trying to catch up with him. Instead, bike back to your car, drive to the end of the trail, wait for the biker, and then punch him in the face when he least suspects it. Oh, and don't call me 'the weaker sex'. :)

Eternal Hugs

Henry and I celebrated our 5-year anniversary on Thursday. It felt more like it was my birthday, since Henry bought me 2 dozen of red roses, let me sleep in, made me the awesomest crepe breakfast (with Nutella, bananas, raspberries, lemon/powdered sugar, whipping cream, etc.), took me out for lunch in the park (we had a sunny day), and then let me nap, and finished the day with dinner at the Melting Pot. I got Henry nothing, and did nothing special for him - awesome wife that I am. :( Anyway, it was a great day. I can't believe it's already been 5 years. Then again, I can't believe it's ONLY been 5 years. I feel like we've known each other, well, for forever at least. I gotta say there is nothing greater than being married to your best friend. And, to me, there is nothing better than hugging that best friend.

I love you Henry! Here's to eternal hugging!