Not For Everyone

I took my first subscription to The New Yorker for a class when I was in my second year of college. Each week we were required to read the magazine cover to cover, summarize the content of the major articles, create a vocabulary list of words we were unfamiliar with and write a 2-5 page response paper based on something from the publication. In addition, we were two turn in two short human interest essays throughout the quarter and our final was a long piece--our own TNY-style article. The class was rigorous. (Can you say hyperbole?)

As much as the content was invigorating, challenging and exciting, the best part about it was that I began a friendship with the professor. A year later I was part of an honor society that hosted a dinner for our "Top Profs." She was the one I selected, an invitation which cemented our friendship for good. We began corresponding to one another: hers was the first letter I received when I arrived at our mission office in Australia. Some years later, her children started an honors scholarship in her name (she is the second from the left below), and though I was unable to make it to the dinner honoring her, my essay was one that was read as she was introduced.

You couldn't ask for a better correspondent. She is interested and prompt. Her letters are always sincere, packed with meaning and provocative. We have grown close over the years; including many personal visits during the two years we lived in Logan, where she is a long-time resident. Plantboy was actually her gardener for several weeks last year. After learning so much about him through our letters, she was so delighted to finally meet him and he saw in a moment why my friendship with her has meant so much.

So why this long tribute-post today when I really owe my dear friend a letter? Recently my TNY subscription lapsed, a thing my prof always chides me for. This common link gives us much to discuss and analyze. Admittedly, there have been times I've renewed it more out of wanting to please her than my own real desire: the magazine comes to often for me to keep up with properly, is often offensive (at least in part), makes no apology for its pretensions, and is liberal enough to make even my hair stand on end at times. (When it came with my forwarded mail while I was living with my parents it was almost the equivalent of allowing pornography in the house, from my dad's perspective.)

Having said this, however, when my few weeks passed without an issue, I genuinely missed it. I missed its familiarity. I missed turning the pages when I take a bath. I missed its provocative way of making me take a hard look at the world. I missed its biographies of people who, for good or ill, shape the world we live in. I even missed its dense critiques of new Broadway shows that I'll never see but often wish to. I mostly missed that inner dialogue in my head that I carry on with my professor. Hers is the voice that reminds me to think before I form an opinion; to understand before I judge.

And then my renewal issue showed up yesterday and I spent a happy hour this afternoon drinking cold grape juice and reading, forgetting for a few moments that this week has been primarily composed of dishes and laundry. I have linked it here and everything is posted on-line. I like the print form (bathtub and bedtime reading), but if you have some time today, get off the blogs and read about conservative Christians working harder on making consensus in the political arena, a personal history about a Black girl growing up in a racially divided Pennsylvania, a biography of the man whose money is driving the rejection of a separate Palestinian state, the medical musings of Dr. Gwande, or a short story by the brilliant Alice Munro. Some weeks I peruse and recycle within a few minutes. However, this week's issue, in my mind, represents the best writing in American journalism today.

Vindicated! (Or Just Vindictive?)

You know how in movies, the girl always gets to really confront her idiot ex and make him look like a fool. This is so the opposite of real life. Most relationships end quietly and if you hear about them again it is okay, or if you never hear about them again it is okay. Other relationships end badly, and usually you hear about that awful person becoming enormously successful. Or you know nothing, which might be worse. Anyway, I heard something this morning about somebody I used to date. Okay, I'll be honest, somebody I nearly married.

I won't repeat it. As triumphant as I feel, I know that I shouldn't because I'm really over all that and spelling it out here will just be too sour grapes for my very mature self. . .

But still.

I'm glad to know that ultimately my character judgment was entirely on and that he is struggling with all the things that I knew would be a struggle had I married him.

After a decade of wondering, today I finally see that it wasn't me. It was him.

Okay, I'm done. Any more will just be vindictive, and then I'll feel yucky instead of euphoric.

Whose Idea Was This Anyway?

Despite the fact that we introduce a huge variety of foods to our children very early on, they have each gone through an I'm-A-Picky-Eater phase. Finally, at 6 1/2, Scallywag seems to be making his way out of this mentality. Unfortunately, the Patchy Pirate, no doubt taking his cues from his older brother, began getting really picky around the time he turned three. The worst part, however, is that my BABY is really choosy about what he'll eat--often times throwing something on the ground he doesn't like the look of before even attempting it! He is an angel-child in almost every aspect, but he whines and points all through dinner, begging for THE THING he will eat from each meal.

Thank goodness for gummi-vitamins.

So yesterday, Scallywag gets the brilliant idea to eat outside. The weather was lovely, and though I made spaghetti, inside, on the stove, the boys kept calling it a barbecue. Fair enough--I thought maybe the gimmicky-ness would get them to eat.

Ha! Nice try.

The salad course went okay. The baby ate olives, the big boys mostly ate dressing and croutons, but a few stray homegrown, organic baby lettuce leaves made their way into mouths. Then to the main course.

I have noticed the boys do better with a meaty marinara sauce when I do penne or bowtie pasta, but some months ago in the name of Food Storage I bought approximately 8 tons of whole wheat spaghetti at Costco. In fact, it is the only item I would say that I have a year's supply of. So I cut it into smallish bites for the children. The baby took one look at it and proceded to whine for the next 20 minutes. Patchy took one bite and told me he'd eaten enough to get more olives and bread, ultimately refusing to eat when he learned it was not a dessert night. Scallywag needed me to reheat it three times, complaining that eating outside was cooling off his dinner too fast.

The meal ended with Tootypants throwing spaghetti all over the deck and the big boys in a wrestling soccer match (that is not a typo; this is the latest sports craze at our house). Plantboy looked discouraged--he is the Sunday chef. I said, "This is your fault. I wanted a daughter."

He raised his eyebrows and hardly missing a beat he said, "Don't look at me; I wanted a truck." I laughed until my sides hurt.

I am sure that one day I will look back and think about how much I miss their funny expressions and wild abandon and sweet baby moments. I know it. My six year old is missing three teeth right now and as they come back in this summer and he goes to all day school for the first time I will probably cry my eyes out for the early childhood we'll never have back. My three year old was quite sick a few weeks ago and lost some weight--his face has thinned slightly and he is looking more like a boy all the time, especially when he opens his mouth and talks like a five year old. And the baby! He is trying to stand on his own this week and I whisper in his tender little ears all the time, Slow down! Slow down! I am not unaware of how brief the time is to have them in their innocence.

But something tells me I'm never going to miss the dinnertime battles.
I'm never going to miss sleepless nights with a sick child.
I will not be one bit sorry when nobody asks me to turn on Diego.
I can't see myself regretting the WalMart tantrum.
And I will grin like a monkey the day I change the last poopy diaper.

Summer Solstice = Fried Brain

Okay, we have had approximately 70 hours of summertime-like weather here and I'm already on a slow burn into listlessness. I feel like all I want to do is sit in the sun, read, and pretend to get really brown and not just freckly.

I spent most of one day this week reading Goose Girl. I couldn't put it down and actually really liked it. As I finished though, I felt a bit, well, manipulated. Almost as if Shannon Hale had made a list of Ten Elements Contained, Whole Or In Part, in a Commercially Successful Young Adult Novel and then set out to ensure that her novel contained all ten elements.

1--Teenage protagonist

2--Said protagonist (usually female) starts out a bit bookish/shy/clumsy/awkward/misfit/etc.

3--Protagonist is not necessarily beautiful, but there is SOMETHING about her and at the other end of puberty (which always ends at like age 17 with these girls, what is UP with that?) the something becomes beauty which draws all to her.

4--Princesses and Princes.

5--Falls in love unwittingly with the man she is already betrothed to

6--Magical powers

7--A journey

8--Physical hardship that stretches the protagonist beyond their normal comfort zone

9--Facing impossible odds to do some terribly brave task

10--Happily ever after with said Prince/love interest

Anyway, that aside, I believe the story had a lot of heart and although it was a little formulaic and predictable, there are other cool things. I love the talking to the wind bit. I always wanted the wind to swirl around me and take my hair like that. But to be able to control it! Goddess-like. Some of her descriptions are also quite beautiful and she has a very clever way of turning a phrase. I am sure I'll read her other books too.

Confession time. I've been working on my own fantasy novel since I was about 13, or earlier. Maybe, at least in my head, ever since I heard the story of the girl-warrior, Joan of Arc. Robin McKinley and Madeline L'Engle fanned the flames of my love for the fantasy story. My novel has really taken a life of its own in many ways: I feel these characters as close to me as family members. That probably sounds strange to some of you. Anyway, I began the draft in its current form 8 years ago. The problem is that lately my most complete portion of the book feels more like a middle part to a trilogy. (That should probably go on the list above as #11.) But after I read Hale's book, I can't help but think that my novel may have a chance after all. It is the kind of thing I would have devoured when I was a young teenager.

I've done some writing lately--blogging, letters, bits and pieces of stories--but to REALLY write, I need the kind of time I don't have. When I'm really novel-ing I need stretches of two hours or more at a time. My first half hour is just a warm-up to get me back in the mode of that particular story's tone and rhythm. I used to stay up late to do it, but my a.m. papers have taken that off the table.

Maybe I just need to suspend all housework for the next year.

You Might Live In Western Oregon If . . . .

There are four different brands of tie-dye kits at the Wal-Mart.

You have to drive 20 miles just to find a Wal-Mart.

Your husband says, “Look, honey, weed in the garden.” And you reply, “Weeds?” He says, “No, weed,” and shows you a wild marijuana plant the size of your little finger.

The big battle for president (or almost any public office for that matter) is more about the democratic primary than the final election.

Your bike is more likely to be stolen than your car, which is bad because you probably consider your bike to be the equivalent of a car.

Liberal bumper stickers are an acceptable alternative to having your car painted.

The Republican Senator runs re-election television ads boasting how centrist he is.

A mom and pop bike shop has $100,000 worth of solar panels on the roof and refers to itself not as a store, but as “a way of life.”

You can buy your gas here. (The prices are a little outdated. Like two weeks probably at the rate it is going up. Also, if you cannot tell, that is grass growing on the roof and the awning is covered with solar panels.)

Someone pumps your gas.

The person pumping your gas hits on you. And she’s a woman. And you’re a woman.

References to the civil war almost always mean any time the University of Oregon Ducks play the Oregon State Beavers. If “Civil War” is capitalized, you are referring to the football game wherein the winner takes home the Platypus Trophy.

Part of the donations for the local food bank come from an organic garden run by volunteers. (This is an actual picture of one of the greenhouses this extremely awesome organization owns.)
Dreadlocks are in even if you’re homeless. Oh, wait, voluntary homelessness is in too.
You hang these instead of wind chimes on your back porch.

Bean Boy

Once upon a time there was a young girl with a difficult family. Her father was old enough to be her grandfather, and though kindly and interesting, he treated his large family with a kind of bemused detachment common to men of his age and demeanor. Her mother was a poor manager of money, of which there was never enough, and an even poorer manager of children, of which there were plenty. The young girl was clever and had a way of seeing quickly to the heart of an issue. She knew that their family was not entirely normal, and did what she could to teach her younger siblings what she had learned of the world despite her tender years.

It was about this time they moved from a smallish city to an even smaller town. It was as though a great magnifying glass had been shone on their oddities. The other girls her age seemed so capable, so tidy, so well-dressed. She felt shabby and embarrassed, and the other kids were happy to ignore or ridicule the girl and her motley siblings.

In the summer, to earn money, the young woman (for she had lived in this town a few years) and her sisters worked at the bean patch. They would work all day in the sun, filling large, flat boxes full of beans. As they filled each box, they would work together to drag and push the heavy flat to the end of the row. When it was in place, one of them would yell, "Bean Boy! Bean Boy!"

The girls who were pretty or popular or well-dressed or able to keep their hair in neat braids, would wait just moments for one of the farm boys to come along and easily lift the box to take to the truck. In the truck, the box would be weighed and a number would be made next to each person's name in the ledger book. At the end of the day, the girls were paid for how many beans they picked.

But to the young woman's deep embarrassment, she and her sisters would stand at the end of the row calling "Bean Boy!" over and over again, and nobody would come to help them, at least not for several minutes. Some times they ended up dragging the heavy box to the truck by themselves.

About this time, a new family of brothers started working at the bean patch. The oldest brother was the same age as the young lady. Despite his small stature, he was popular and athletic. Their family owned a small dairy and they worked hard. His family was even bigger than the young lady's, but his mother was not bad with money or children. She liked the way he had always looked her in the eye and had never made whispered comments behind her back.

But what she liked best is that when she called, "Bean Boy!" this young man would always make sure that her flat or her sisters' flats were picked up immediately. If he was unable to do it, then he asked one of his younger brothers to help her. In her whole life, she had never met anyone as genuinely nice as this boy.

She later married him and they had four children.

One day, many years later, her daughter was home from college. She had watched for years as the relationship between her eldest, bookish, daughter and her husband had deteriorated to almost mutual hostility. For all his generosity of heart, her husband was also stubborn to a fault and took it so personally when he was disagreed with. She wished there was a way that her daughter would see that all she despised in her father was absolutely reflected in herself. Except for her love of stories and the features of her pretty-ish face, she had inherited nearly everything else from him. She could see, as they didn't, that if they would both give in just a little bit, their relationship had potential to bring them much joy.

So the mother watched as her daughter and husband dug into each other one night. The daughter expressing her opinions with no filter and attacking her father for his; the father becoming so frustrated that he finally barked, "Just get out of my sight!" There was silence, the daughter's sharp tongue finally silenced, and a look of resolve the mother had never seen before moved through her eyes. The girl turned on her heel and left the room.

The mother momentarily thought that perhaps the daughter had made a breakthrough: had she finally just learned to walk away when tempers flared? And then, minutes later, she heard a car start in the driveway and walked outside. Her daughter's car was loaded with a mountain of half-finished laundry and she was backing out.

"What? No goodbye?" The mother said carefully.

The response was volatile. "How can you love him! He is mean and angry! He never has a kind word for me and he acts like a child. He hasn't said a nice word to me in months. . . " She went on in this vein for a couple of minutes and though she was certainly exaggerating, the mother knew her daughter did have some valid points.

Her tirade spent, the mother invited her daughter back in where they could talk. Her daughter refused saying, "I'm leaving today. He told me to. I don't know when I'm coming back." The mother let her go, not saying much, wise enough not to point out that the girl wouldn't get far if she decided to really make a break for it in a car which her father made the payments on.

Four days later, the college girl got a letter from her mother. The letter contained trouser socks: her mom was never able to send a letter without some kind of token present. The letter was four or five pages from a yellow legal pad--every line used on both sides of the paper. In the letter her mother told her why she loved this man by telling her the story of the Bean Boy, concluding with, "Whenever I feel frustrated or angry with your father, I just remember that inside he is still that Bean Boy--caring, compassionate and rescuing."

The girl cried. She drove to the mountains. She prayed. And in the end she heeded the best advice she ever got found at the end of her mother's letter: "I know that he is the adult. I would love to say that if you just bide your time he will one day reach out and this will all be behind you. But I know him. And I know that it is not in his nature to do so. If having a relationship with this man, your father, is important to you, then you must forget yourself. You cannot expect to meet him half-way. You need to go all the way. I think you'll be surprised by the man you find on the other side."

About six months later, that daughter went on a mission to Sydney, Australia. She cried when she hugged and said goodbye to her dad. All barriers down, he too wept unashamedly as he loaded her on the plane for the greatest adventure of her life. She had come to realize that he, in all his imperfection, was a part of who she was. She had finally come to see his generosity, his insecurity, the way he had always supported her, the respect he had for her as an adult. And she didn't have to go the entire distance on her own. He had come to meet her.

Years after her mission, that girl moved to Texas. Her father remarked to her mother that loading her and newish husband into the moving van was the second hardest thing he'd ever done. When asked what the hardest was, he replied, "Putting her on a plane for Australia."

I know this story is true, because it is my story.

I love my dad for teaching me how to work, how to ski, how to do algebra, and how to give. He never begrudges the money or time my mother spends trying to bail out her family. He showed by example that we never turn down callings, even when we feel unworthy and overwhelmed. I love my parents for making the decision early in their marriage to be active in the Church, though many in their families chose otherwise. I love him for coming to endless dance and music recitals and plays, though he hates that kind of thing. I love my dad for calling me on the phone just to say hi whenever he sees and Oregonian license plate. I love him for always making sure there was money in my pocket when I went out with friends and even now, filling up my tank "anonymously" before we head out on a road trip. He IS kind and generous and all of those things my mother helped me to see before it was too late.

Happy Father's Day Bean Boy.

Summer Survival Tips?

It is 11 am on the first day of summer vacation. I am sure there will be some good times, maybe even great times, but I think it is going to be a long few months too.

You home schooler parents are saints.

Pessimism Is More Damaging Than "Secular Humanism"

I like the Sunday School teacher in our current ward. He is always extremely well-prepared and encourages class discussion. He tries hard to cover the material, but not so hard that he overlooks spontaneous teaching moments.

He is, however, occassionally more political that is to my taste. I love the Book of Alma, but I think too many people read it as a treatise on theocracy, capitalism and war. It is true that these elements are there, but the spiritual richness in it should not be thrown out in exchange for Sunday School lessons that are thinly veiled as platforms for the Republican party.

The last few weeks have been fairly frustrating for me.

When we studied the Nephites living in the Lamanite lands under King Zeniff our teacher said, "Fifty percent doesn't sound too bad. At least for their 50% they are left alone. For my 50% the government wants to tell me how to run my life." (insert Appreciative Chuckle here, which was loud enough to drown out the clenching of my teeth) Two minutes later he goes on to tell the real story without retracting the comment--for their 50% they received NO services, but actually supported another nation (they were never PART of the Lamanites) as well themselves. In addition, the Lamanites set guards over them to make sure they didn't escape. They were riduculed and their workload was constantly increased. I don't know about you, but this sounds a lot more like Eastern Germany in the late 20th century than modern America.

Then last week we began the lesson talking about Alma the Younger's conversion from his perspective, both immediately following the event and then years later as related to his son. These scriptures are beautiful, telling us that any person with a sincere desire to repent can be forgiven, his sins washed clean by the blood of the Savior, and returned to the fold. I think that Alma and the sons of Mosiah lived their lives the way they did because they wanted to show God in every action that they were grateful for their incredible second chance. People CAN change. People DO change. We cannot reject this premise without rejecting the core of the gospel.

The problem is that we do it al the time. I'll explain what I mean.

Immediately following the discussion on these poetic, redemptive chapters, we began talking about four forms of government--theocracy, monarchy, republic, and democratic. The general consensus was that theocracy was ideal. At which point I raised my hand and pointed out that the only theocracies in the world today were in the Middle East. Just as Mosiah determined that a democratic republic was the best possible system for imperfect people, our own government follows this model. I added that as frustrated as we are when non-religious people complain and even sue over outward displays of religion in public places, it is actually the separation of church and state that allows our own religion to flourish. Indeed, there would be no LDS church if it was not a for a nation founded by men with no interest in organized religion.

While there was agreement about the theocracy part, there were several hands defending the general goodness of the founding fathers and their receipt of inspiration. (Which I had never denied.) The resounding agreement then in the class is that there are simply NO good men (nobody said women) running for public office anymore. "It is nearly impossible to vote for a candidate who is honest," declared our teacher who made a less than oblique reference to Bill Clinton. He reduced the state of our country to an us (I'm assuming members of the church and conservative Christians) and them situation.

I felt aghast. Yes, our country has problems. Big problems. But don't the leaders of our church teach that at the time of greatest evil, the greatest good will also be on the earth? Never before in the history of the world have women been given the opportunity and equal-ish status that men have always enjoyed. For all of our faults, people of all colors and cultures generally try to live together. There is more opportunity now for higher education than ever before. We generally have the easiest lifestyle ever conceived in all of human history. In most places, kids are safe, educated, fed, nurtured, loved--spoiled even. Child abuse and drug use are still decried by the population at large. Could an evil-to-the-core society (as we are to often told we live in) have created so much good?

I don't think so.

I am not a moral relativist. (Relatively speaking.) I think there are things that are right, and things that are wrong. But I don't think it is fair for us to judge the "rest" of the world by our own standard. I agree that people are born with the Light of Christ, but it is NOT the same as the Holy Ghost. And even it cannot compensate for a lack of teaching and instruction in things that are right and good.

The founding fathers were smart men. They were moral men, in the sense that they believed in equality and fair play as they understood it. But if these men were suddenly dropped into our neighborhoods, they would probably seem like a rather "unrighteous" lot--cross dressers, adulterous, steeped in worldly philosophy, cantakerous, elitist, smokers, drinkers, slave owners. . . .

To declare a politician to be "good" or "bad" is perhaps not as helpful as asking if he or she will be good for the country. Will that person listen to a variety of opinions and advisors before choosing a course? Will that person recognize the human rights and dignity of ALL people, not just citizens of our country? Will that person be careful before committing to an ideal, but then put their full efforts into a committment once made? Will that person consider both the lessons of history and the ramifications for the future before deciding on a present course of action?

Our two current presidential candidates have each done something very appealing, in my mind. John McCain told a group who isn't necessarily likely to vote for him that he knew his life was different than theirs, but if he was elected in the end, he wanted to be a president for ALL the people. Not just red states. Not just Republicans. Not just those who agreed with him at ever turn. And when Obama talks about hope, I think he is trying to say what I'm trying to say here. There IS good in people. People do want the same general things, and when they are listened to and helped to the right path, there can be real consensus. His message of hope and change is not that America is evil, its that America is the greatest country in the world and we need to start seeing that good in each other too. Either of these men could usher in a new, better era of American politics. Let's pray for these men. These good men. Even if they don't always remember to pray for themselves.

People CAN change. People DO change. Let's stop thinking in terms of "us" and "them" and think instead in terms of being children of God. After all, we all chose to come here. That single act gives us more in common than any of us can truly realize.

Boys, Boys, Boys, I Love Boys

Right after taking this shot, I climbed in the hammock too. How could I resist, right? I was laying there rocking gently, feeling quite content with myself and my life. The weather was beautiful, there was a counter-full of vegetables to go with dinner--most of which game from our garden, and I'd accomplished a fair amount last weekend. Plantboy was a little less relaxed--I think he expected the hammock and its occupants to go crashing down any moment.

The boys giggled and wiggled as we swung, but eventually the mood of lazy contentment took them too and it was quiet for a few moments. All you could hear was the creaking of the hammock as it rubbed against the rafter. Patchy Pirate waxed poetic, "I think the hammock is tooting." Of course Scallywag started laughing so hard that I thought he'd flip the hammock and that of course set me and Plantboy going. The baby then chimed in with his giggles because, hey, everyone else was laughing.

Perhaps it was not the idyllic scene I'd anticipated, but it was good. It was very, very good.

Nine Years and Nine Reasons

Tomorrow it will be nine years since Plantboy and I got married. Nine years ago today I was working frantically to get in grades on the last day of school for my first teaching job. I was so green that I was actually still taking work and grading it that day. Besides getting all the grades in, I had to leave a spotless room because I was changing jobs as well. Oh, and it rained all week, ruining any chance for the outdoor reception Plantboy and my mother had spent untold hours on. The temperature also plummeted to the 40's. Very unseasonable for the first week of June. I remember taking the hour ride to the temple where we were getting married with my parents--Plantboy was coming from another direction and we were meeting there--shivering in my summer dress, snapping at anyone who looked at me wrong, feeling so nervous I wanted to throw up and fighting the tears the whole way.

Hm . . . . probably not the way most people describe their emotional state as they head toward marital bliss, right?

I was exhausted and overworked; I had only spent a couple of days with Plantboy in the month previous because he was working in another state; the weather was a huge blow to our plans; I had just said goodbye to a job and a group of students that I absolutely loved; I was about to spend the summer living with my in-laws whom I hardly knew in another state . . . I suppose that there were definite reasons for my near breakdown the morning I got married.

But it wasn't until I walked into the foyer at the Logan temple that I really knew the source of the anxiety, which mounted and mounted until I actually saw him walk in--about two minutes after we did. He gave me a big hug and I immediately relaxed. I said to him, "You came." He looked at me like I was crazy and said, "Of course." I think in some corner of my mind, I really didn't think that marriage would be a part of my life. I wasn't that old, even, but for those who didn't know me in the 18 months leading up to my marriage, I was pretty much an emotional train wreck a lot of the time: maybe there were too many beginnings and endings and heartbreaks in too short of time for me to be entirely stable.

When we were married, the man who sealed us said that part of the symbolism of the altar in marriage ceremony is that we lay down all we have and are for the sake of the union. A true marriage is an act of sacrifice. He said a lot of other great things, that I'm sure were very useful, but it was that part about sacrifice that has stayed with me these nine years. I've learned that sacrifice brings amazing blessings.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of joy and sensation and yes, exhaustion. The third day of our honeymoon, I told Plantboy that I was going to take a "short" nap. He woke me up five hours later, no doubt wondering if I had entered some kind of alternative universe from which I'd never return. The whole first year of marriage was a little unsettling for me. I had been on my own and independent long enough that adjusting to the new "we" consciousness was a slow learning curve for me.

People talk about the "honeymoon" phase being the earliest part of a relationship and/or marriage. For me, however, I really believe that Plantboy and I finally hit our stride in the summer of 2005. I'm not exactly sure what changed, but since then we have been amazingly happy together. Even when things have been difficult, they are not difficult between us. As a youngish 20-something it was so easy for me to imagine myself being alone, but instead I was blessed to marry a man I'm still so in love with that at times it makes my heart ache for the joy of it. So, here it is,

Nine Reasons I Love Being Married to Plantboy

1. He can never keep the whole truth from me, even if he is trying to tease or surprise me. I can just read him too well.

2. Our favorite dating memory is of cuddling in a sleeping bag under the stars in Logan Canyon. We were way too unmarried to be there (I'm smarter now that it doesn't matter any more), but Plantboy was a perfect gentleman, keeping his hands and yes, his lips to himself while we talked for hours. Though I didn't admit it until several weeks afterward, that was the night I fell in love with him.

3. From the very beginning I always knew where I stood with him. In all the years I had dated (and not dated), I had never known a boy that was crazy about me from the moment he met me. Once I got past the feeling that he was human crazy glue, I knew that I was happy to not play games anymore and just know how somebody felt. Even now, I catch him looking at me sometimes and I know that time has not diminished his sincere and tender attachment.

4. His eyes. Oh yikes. I've never seen eyes as fantastic as his. (Except maybe me oldest son's!) When his optometrist told him that he may not be a great candidate for Lasic, I was secretly happy. I'm afraid that if he starts going around without his glasses on, women will start chatting him up in all kinds of random places whether he is with me or not.

5. Though he is beginning to gray and will probably be totally gray by the time he is 40, I'm just shallow enough to love that he still has a full head of thick hair and probably always will (as did his maternal grandfather). The irony is that every other guy I ever dated or was attracted to was losing his hair: they are probably all bald now.

6. I've never known a man (at least one who was straight and LDS) who loves the natural world the way Plantboy does. I love that our idea of the perfect vacation is to get as far away as possible from other people and look at God's creations. And when we hike or just drive around and I see plants or flowers or shrubs that I love, he can nearly always tell me the common and sometimes scientific name of what I'm looking at.

7. He is a great home teacher.

8. He is willing to listen to the other side of an argument before forming an opinion. We both like to read TNY, National Geographic and listen to NPR: we never run out of real things to talk about.

9. He loves our kids. When he spends time with them, he is NOT babysitting. He is parenting. We nearly always see eye to eye in our approach to raising kids and if one of us is grouchy and short of patience, the other can easily step in. He never acts like he's doing me a great favor when he takes the kids with him to the store or stays home so I can go alone.

I love this man with my whole heart. And, a year from now, I'm sure it will not be hard for me to come up with ten new ones. If you are lactose intolerant, you may want to skip the cheese next year.