Eden

My Real Garden: four unruly tomato plants that pulled their cages down like petulant children, purple and sweet basil minding themselves, a behemoth zuke mound attempting world domination, silent aloe vera quietly being crushed by said tomatoes, twelve leeks rigidly fattening for four different pots of my turnip soup come autumn.

My Spouse Garden: one hardy geranium that blooms continually despite lack of water and care. It's not my fault. It has been the summer of church service. We're still planning on celebrating our June anniversary before Christmas.

My Daughter Garden: A tweeny, leafy something growing exponentially that prefers to have no gardener. My mom said this is normal and that if she doesn't hit this social phase she'll never leave home someday. I hate being trumped by walks to the pool with friends or BFF trips to U-Swirl. Lameness.

My Sister Garden: Nine plants. This one requires a lot of estrogen and produces a lot of estrogen.

My Neighbor Garden: Several plants I was tending are gone, new ones took their place, I have to figure out the new care plan. The old plants are thriving, beaming, gone to seed. Maybe one fertilizer suits them all?

My Girlfriends Garden: Scarcely seen once a month.

My Long-Distance Friend Garden: Seen even less. A text here and there. I am a really bad caretaker of long-distance plants. Not my gift.

My Personal Sanity Garden: Split in three sections: Body, Spirit, Mind. I planted a Six Pack and Firm Rear variety in the Body section...that one died. The Spirit is thriving. The Mind is, too. Two out of three ain't bad. The picture above is the bulletin board containing snippets and reminders of all the things I want to make someday. Someday. When it's raining and I can't work in the garden. "Someday" can also be termed "when school starts."

My gardening method? The Impromptu Method. Each day I feel a heavenly whisper telling me which garden I can afford to leave and where I should cultivate more effort.

It is an ebb and flow, a tug-of-war between selfishness, mothering and sainthood to leave what I want to tend in order to quiet the promptings inside.

I am spraying Round-up on the Thorny Guilt Weed that pricks my pride by proclaiming that all of my gardens should thrive simultaneously. That is not truth. No woman can do this. That weed will slowly die, I will smooth salve onto my calloused hands and I will sleep. I cannot tend Eden unless I am tended to.

In Eden there is a difference between surviving and living. So it is with me.

Hurdle

The Olympics made me cry. A lot. Partly because I yearn for Duchess Kate's hair and wardrobe and partly from that still of Kerri Walsh's face when she realized she and Misty May won. But mostly I cried from the backstories that revealed how athletes killed their own personal leviathans (being shot in both legs, not having legs, the shanties of Jamaica, etc) with hard work and determination. I love the athletes that had a rocky road. The ones that rejected the hand life dealt them, about faced and leapt to the stratosphere of glory.

The Olympic athlete that resonated to the marrow of my brittle bones was Aries Merritt, who won gold in the Men's 110-Meter Hurdles. When interviewed he said the reason he won is because he made his weakness his strength, and that when your weakness is as strong as your strength you just can't lose.

I was puzzled and piqued with curiosity. What was his weakness? After a little digging I discovered his weakness was his first five hurdles. Aries had conquered the last five hurdles but had speed issues with the first five.

Elite hurdlers take seven steps from the starting line to the first hurdle. Aries was taking eight, which caused him to "put the brakes on" at times to jump the first hurdle. He decided earlier this year to convert to the seven-step start, which reversed his set-up and leading foot. One less step = one giant leap. He had to learn how to run hurdles all over again, and this after four years of opposition:

2008: Beijing Olympics, 4th place

2009: Twisted his ankle five minutes before the world championships, didn't advance past first round

2010: Season-ending painful stress fracture

2011: Hit a hurdle, tied for 5th at world championships

In his own words, "I was supposed to be this phenom. Then life happened."

Hitting the first hurdle with one less step increased Aries' speed and turned his weakness, the first five hurdles, into his strength. He changed what wasn't working and got a golden result. When I hear stories of people overcoming weaknesses I think of one of my favorite scriptures from the Book of Mormon:

"And if men will come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."

I hurt most of the time. Physical pain. Everywhere. I, too, was supposed to be a phenom and then life happened. It took nearly ten years to decipher what is wrong with me. I am not exaggerating when I say that I went to the doctor/chiropractor/homeopath/reflexologist/physical therapist over 300 times in ten years. I made a valid effort to fix myself. Most docs just offered drugs, which I had zero interest in. Some said "lupus" and "fibromyalgia" and "rheumatoid arthritis" and "Celiac disease." It's a whole separate story how I finally got my diagnosis, but it is Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, an inherited collagen disorder that affects every part of my body and has no treatment. My body breaks down the collagen it produces. Collagen is in bones, muscles, ligaments and skin. Collagen makes you tight and secure. Broken-down collagen is 35% of my body. No wonder I've felt like I'm 80 forever.

So my diagnosis was, "You're weak. Deal with it."

I don't believe in staying weak. Physically, mentally, or emotionally. I believe that scripture, that weaknesses can be made strong with God. I choose to believe it. I choose to see evidence of it almost everywhere I look, even during the Olympics.

Let me be clear: I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. My pre-diagnosis life was a decent and respectable 4th place. But I want a gold medal. I've had the wrong approach. I need to reverse it, like Aries. I haven't been grateful enough, especially for my body. I haven't been forward-thinking. I had given up on improvement. I'm not certain I believed things could change.

There are still things to work on physically. Specifically, I do up to two hours of stretching, physical therapy and working out a day. I am focusing on every joint and muscle in my body, especially the tiny muscles under the famous muscles. It is painstaking and slow-going and sometimes I feel infantile and wussy. I am never going to look like Schwarzenegger. I will lucky if I ever get quadriceps. But I am trying as hard as I can because, of course, I want to be strong enough to bring another baby into this world and strong enough to hold its car seat without my shoulder falling out of its joint.

We all have our weaknesses, our hurdles to jump. Some are more visible than others. I have friends that have hurdled being widowed (while pregnant!), abandonment, abuse, depression, addiction, self-loathing, divorce, the death of a child, the loss of a job, the loss of a home and infertility. Every friend I am referring to was made stronger in their shadowy valley by their faith in God and his son Jesus Christ. I realize the world offers several therapies to those seeking easier jumps and smaller obstacles, but God is the only tried-and-true way for me. I sincerely believe the quote "Two can do anything if one of them is the Lord."

I will get stronger. Who cares about the last ten years? I have a new approach. Hurdles, beware.

Charmed

My great-grandmother Beatrice "Honey Bee" Josephine Perry gave me this charm when I was 5. "Melissa" is Greek for "honey bee" (mythological Melissa fed infant Zeus honey instead of milk) so the keepsake was passed from one bee to another.

The story goes that Honey Bee was immersed in the world of horoscopes, hence the charm is likely a rendering of Libra's Balance. I recently took it from the tiny bag it has been stored in for 30 years and had it attached to a link chain and ring of significance. To me the charm signifies the scales of justice and it rests on my heart when worn.

As a mother it seems like I get more opportunities to be Bad Cop than Greg does. My primary role is to raise and nurture RE, so I'm naturally the one that corrects her when correction is needed. We all need expectations and parameters, but sometimes I fear I demand a little too much justice from such a tender plant trying her hardest to grow tall in an already windy world. I do not need to assist in blowing her down. Many others will attempt that.

As a mother I also get more opportunities to be Good Cop. I have more chances to love RE with a merciful heart. I brush away small mishaps and embrace her fragility while encouraging forward progress. I water her seed of deity with that mercy.

I wear the Scales of Justice over my Merciful Heart to continually remind myself that both traits are necessary in a good parent. The ultimate parent, God our Heavenly Father, demands justice but also bestows infinite mercy on all of us. Justice + Mercy. Keep them close together.

Glimpse

When I was pregnant with RE twelve years ago my taste buds were cuckoo and every grapefruit I ate tasted magically delicious. It was a gift I enjoyed for nine months. No sour grapefruits.

Three days before RE was born I waddled around every baby boutique on the Wasatch Front with my mom. We were killing time. I bought some imported nursing cream at Babinski Baby on Foothill Drive. It was my first time to venture as far as Foothill Drive because I wasn't a Ute, I was a Cougar. (Rise and shout.) We discovered a bistro a few doors south of Babinski Baby that sold fruit salad with grapefruit segments in it. Jackpot. Best fruit salad ever and my mom concurred.

Two days before RE was born I was really cranky because my mom spent over an hour perusing the showroom at Drexel Heritage while I perched in an obtuse angle on a pricey chaise. Luckily my mom still had her maternal instincts and decided that we shouldn't shop for furniture any further. She asked me what I wanted. I wanted more of that Foothill Fruit Salad. So we drove all the way back and got more. Forty-eight minutes each way. A long haul for citrus.

Eleven years passed.

This month I took the Foothill Drive exit three times to get to Primary Children's Hospital.  Every time I took the exit and passed Dan's grocery store I saw Babinski Baby. It is still open. The bistro has closed. It is now a Sweet Tooth Fairy. I took RE to Sweet Tooth Fairy and bought cake bites to take to Aunt Stephanie at the hospital. I told her about the magic grapefruit I ate in that exact spot the day before she was born. Foothill Drive still reminds me of having a baby.

Having a baby. Having a baby. Can I please just have a baby? Just kidding, I don't want one anymore. Now I do. Forget it, I'm over it. Okay, I'll take one, even a boy that pees all over. Actually, I'm good.

Welcome to the crossroads I've stood at for a decade: pursuit of additional child via modern medicine to the right, take my one child and call life complete to the left. I've gone down each road so many times and always end up back at the intersection. Stepping into unfamiliar territory isn't awesome. Sculpting my eternal future is a weighty matter.

Every day I battle. I battle the complacency of my current and good life and choose to fight for what I believe I have been promised. It is not convenient. Obstacle jumping is hard.

Every day I battle. I battle the devil on my shoulder that says I'm too old to have a baby. That I'm too weak. That I don't want to start over with an infant carrier that hogs the entire back seat and a stroller that fills my entire trunk. That diaper bags and immunizations and sleepless nights are water far, far, far under the bridge. That it is silly to start anew when I will be an empty-nester in less than seven years. Did I already say the part about being too old? My biological clock is screaming.

Every day I battle. I have to sort the voices in my head, figure out who they come from, and put them in their rightful place be it trash can or pedestal. It is a battle that is bookended with prayer.

It's a lot of battling, but this baby has to be won.

Baby, I am still fighting for you.

The few weeks I was pregnant in May I was overjoyed. Despite legitimate fears (my age, my recent diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, the economy, all of the psychos in the world) I felt at peace. I hoped a baby was right and the glimpse of pregnancy I enjoyed confirmed I was right. The glimpse convinced me that I absolutely, positively still want a baby despite the devil on my shoulder and all of my insecurities. I believe the road ahead is going to be a tough one. I believe it will be made easier with the assurance that I do, in fact, want this no matter the cost.

You wouldn't believe how hard it is to research doctors, secure old medical records, do phone consults and schedule personal consults. To see if we qualify. Then there will be seven weeks of drugs that will most likely make me crazy. DON'T. TOUCH. ME. Daily needles. Harvesting. Planting. Waiting. I can only assume I will be a hot mess. But if I don't try this one last try I cannot live the remainder of my complacent life complacently.

Baby, I still want you, and not just because I want a Pinterest baby board or the Magic Bullet Baby Bullet. I want you because I've had a glimpse of you and that glimpse made it obvious that you belong here. After all I can do, Baby. After all I can do. I still have more to do.

Stillwater

Sometimes you just need a Day of Nothing.

You know, a day where you toss the to-do list and enjoy an unexpected pleasure.

I was recently distracted by my dirty make-up brushes as I did my morning routine. So I immediately sat down on the bathroom floor, cleaned them with Sephora brush cleanser, squeezed the water out of them, reshaped them and lined them up in descending order on the windowsill to dry. While they were drying I dumped everything out of my make-up bag and edited the contents, which forced me to clean the inside of the bag. I even cleaned deep in the crevices with a wet Q-tip. I didn't want to hurt my nail polish bag's feelings, so I did the same thing to it, which led to an impromptu pedicure. Since my toes had to dry I tweezed my eyebrows for 20 minutes upside-down on my bed (where I get the perfect light from the window). Before I knew it lunch had passed and nothing was really accomplished other than my beauty products were organized and my feet looked amazing. THAT is a Day of Nothing. I need those days now and again.

Days of Nothing can be hard to come by.

I had my last one at our family reunion over July 4th. Reunion = 31 people, 4 dogs, 10 dining chairs, 3 toilets, 2 generators and limited square footage. It's all sorts of crazy. Not the place I expected to have such a day.

The scene for the final afternoon of our reunion:

Adults: playing canasta at the dining table of the big cabin

Teenagers: reading on the sofa

Youth: exploring and making spy forts

Littles: playing with dump trucks in the sand

Babies: napping

I stole myself away from the masses and retreated down to the unoccupied small cabin. I creeped up the spiral staircase to the bed under the tiny window. I lay sideways with an opened book and heavy eyes. Lucy curled up behind my knees (one of my favorite feelings). All I could hear was the cross breeze quietly floating from one screen door to the other.  No ticking clocks or air conditioners or dishwashers. No white noise. Just utter quiet.

Through some miracle not one child or adult came looking for me for the next two hours AND a storm blew in. Unadulterated Sleep + Mountain Rain = One of Life's Greatest Combo Meals

Our cabin is in a secluded forest in the middle of this:

The stormy air comes sweeping down the plains, but our forest slows it down. Our forest takes the raindrops and delegates whether they should land on thirsty meadow, smooth leaf, pointed needle or metal roof. Mountain rain smells raw and earthy and pure. It puts the dust to sleep and gives the pines halos of fresh scent.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for those two hours. I would rustle from a gust of deliciously-smelling wet wind or the pitter-patter of droplets and be back asleep before I could register where I was. My dreams continued despite their interruptions. It was the most peaceful sleep I can ever remember having.* Totally fluid, totally neutral and totally quiet. It was so quiet that when I had awakened for good I lay perfectly still and heard the difference of rain plinking on a leaf from rain plinking on the ground.

I enjoyed every second of the reality warp of that nap. Time froze, I forgot what day it was, I forget where I was and I listened to Nature tend to herself. Lao Tzu said, "Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished."

Nature has Days of Nothing, too.

*Other than the time I had my upper GI scoped and awoke from an anesthesia nap. THAT was awesome. I felt as light and carefree as a cloud. Greg says I repeatedly stroked the nurse's hand while saying "thank you"...I only remember the cloud.