Fifteen

Dear Greg,

Look at that crooked grin and those perfect chompers. Or, as our mutual friend Kim said, "Muscles can atrophy. Enamel lasts forever." Your maxillary anterior helped seal the deal fifteen years ago.

It seems like another life when we were taking wedding pictures in front of the Saint Louis Temple. We were younger then. You were my broncin' buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck. I was the first girl you ever kissed. (Still irked I believed that lie.) We were just a couple of clueless saplings. Remember how everything you owned fit in one cardboard box?

It's been enough years that when I think of US I see a montage of happiness. Waterfalls in Dominica, sunburned feet on a sailboat, hiding from the plague of moths under a twin sheet in Vermont, green Civic blasting Mariah Carey, sarsaparilla frostbite hands, McFlurries with spare change, building fences, you screaming I SEE HER HEAD! I SEE HER HEAD! WASS, SHE HAS SO MUCH HAIR!, always finding you in the vacuum aisle, me talking you to sleep, Levi's Silvertab Baggy, Nikes, hair gel, eating out all those last days of the month. On and on.

You've worn out a solid 100 white shirts in your service to others. I'm thankful you're gone so much doing The Work.

Your voice is still as soft and your forearms are still as awesome as they were in 1997. You're still pigeon-toed like Elway. You're still the balanced one, the solid nucleus to my flighty electron.

You're funnier now. Some recent quotes:

"Tami" is short for "Tamantha"

Why doesn't anyone give Amish Enemy Bread starts?

Do you know how hard it is to cream a tartar?

You don't need much. As long as we have eggs, sausage, Tropicana, clean socks, the newspaper, Eclipse gum (nasty), a charged iPad and Denver Broncos via DISH you're happy.

I love your day off, when we do the yard work in the morning and then make paninis for lunch on our cool wooden plates.

Just like automatic-repeat queen Jewel said, "You were meant for me. And I was meant for you." Who else hates the gooey inside of cinnamon rolls and would rather trade you for your crusty, frosting-free outer rim? No one else but me, that's who.

Let's just keep growing old, watching silver turn to gold. We'll learn to communicate later. And you're still my king.

Love, Your Wasa

*photo by Nickell Blair

Martyr

It's been five months since I started logging what I eat in an attempt to be all that I can be. Can I be pain-free? Can I have energy all the time? Can my skin glow without mineral make-up? Can I avoid being bloated and hormonal altogether? The answer is a resounding "NO."

But I did lose the bliss of nutritional ignorance.

Things I Used To Think About:

• Jane Austen
• Europe
• The Enjoyment Mowing Brings
• Others 

Things I Think About Now:

• Butter (specifically in shortbread form)
• Cream (in mousse or alfredo form)
• Bread (in any form)
• All Cheese (except American...that's not cheese)

I've had to change the battery in my digital food scale. I know that one cashew is 7 calories. I can tell you the weight, in grams, of an avocado by sight. I have stopped counting out 56 spaghetti noodles since I can eyeball a serving now. Sadly, I can taste the sugar in a Wheat Thin and the fake cheese/grease in a crunchy Cheeto, albeit the Cheeto still satisfies me.

Five months ago I would have guessed that it would be easy by now. But every day is still 24 hours and I can only sleep eight of those away. That leaves 16 hours to master my culinary weaknesses and hunt for willpower. I know, I know, it's about replacing bad habits with good ones. I don't know when it will ever be fun and easy to choose jicama over brownies. I resentfully watch Greg and RE eat their syrupy breakfasts with sides of sausage. I've become the food martyr, letting my tasty former life die for the cause of a ship-shape body strong enough for prospective IVF/pregnancy.

I do feel improved. I'm fantastic at drinking 10 glasses of water and I'm getting way beyond the needed fruits and veggies. For the love, I'm buying turnips! I am sleeping soundly. Greg says my skin looks better, but I should probably attribute that to my new Clarisonic (thanks, Rattie). Everything is healthier except my mind. Lately I've been fantasizing about hiding in the coat closet with a jar of Nutella and a butter knife.

One step at a time.

Cupcake(s)

Lately I've felt light-headed and like I can't breathe in all the way. My neighbor told me one's levels can be disheveled after a miscarriage. I don't know where my levels are at but I'm not used to feeling like this. A few steps and I'm winded. I want to sleep a lot. Then again, the temps are in the 90s and every human has that point in the day when they want to curl up on the floor and die because living is just so laborious. My point is usually around 4 pm.

At precisely 4 pm on Friday I was driving around town and felt a wave of sadness hit me about the baby. I have had such good thoughts. Really. But this was a strong sad one. I tried to call Greg and have him talk me out of my funk but he had a customer. I hate when that happens. So I did the next best thing I could think of: I called my neighbor Bonnie and hit her up for a cupcake.

Bonnie's teenage daughter recently acquired The Cupcake Bible and has been bringing us samples of her efforts. (Seriously, why do I do myfitnesspal?) Thursday night we received a plate of three chocolate-chocolate chip cheesecake cupcakes. I snarfed one down, Greg ate one, and then we split the last one because RE didn't eat her dinner (turnip soup...unfortunate for her). Friday morning as we awoke we both mentioned how good those stinking cupcakes were.  So without a husband to lean on in my moment of need I relied on that immortal cupcake. I called Bonnie:

Bonnie: (in her usual soothing, angelic voice) Hello.

Me: This is totally indecent and I know better but do you have any of those cupcakes left?

Bonnie: Why yes, we do!

Me: May I drive by in a few minutes and get one? It's an emergency.

Bonnie: Of course! Can I send the boys down to your house with one?

Me: No, I can pick it up. And really, I know this is bad etiquette.

Since I was on the phone and not paying attention I couldn't get over to the right lane at 100 East. I hate when that happens. I was forced to take Main Street home.

What happened next is completely true.

I was at the light at the Bank of American Fork, still feeling the sad wave, and I muttered outloud, "I'm never going to get a baby. It's just never going to happen." And then, while the light was still red, an older man in a muscle shirt walked out of the bank and the front of his shirt said IT'S GONNA HAPPEN. I nearly started crying. Two minutes later I was holding a plate of three cupcakes, which I polished off before I pulled into my garage. And then I felt better.

IT'S GONNA HAPPEN.

The Bee's Knees

Dear Dad,

As a kid my love for you was simple. You swam with me, you gave me underdogs on the big swing in between flipping meat on the grill and you always said I rubbed your feet better than Cristall did. I love that you wore cuff links when you came to my elementary school to teach kids how to brush and floss. Actually, you're well-dressed in all of my childhood memories with the exception of you mowing in your Larry Bird white Nike shorts that had a 1" inseam. I think all five children have memories of your white legs, their seven leg hairs, and your defined hamstrings. It's your legs I want to talk about, actually.

When we were buying groceries in Alabama I was walking in front of Greg and RE. I heard RE ask Greg very quietly, "Dad, do I walk like Mom?" He told her she didn't. I don't know why he lied to her other than he didn't want to ruin her spring break. About a month later RE and I were walking on the sidewalk together with the sun behind us. It was beyond evident from the synchronized shadows that our legs move the same way.

"Mom, do I walk like you?"

"Yes."

(slumping posture, exhale of sadness, head shaking) "Oh no."

I could relate to her feelings. I was a sophomore at BYU when you flew out to Utah for a dental convention. You pulled up to Heritage Halls in your rental car and I raced out to get my Hello Bear Hug. You hung out with me and my roommates and donated a giant pack of TP to our cause. After my Goodbye Bear Hug you walked back out to your car. We all raced to the balcony to wave you off. My roommate said, "You walk like your dad." I was stunned. Walked like you? Not a chance. You walked like an old man.

I am only 36 but the issue is confirmed: I walk like you. I have your knees and I have to wear braces for them to be able to work out or hike or do yard work. I wish I had your thick hair or your scuplted leg muscles but all I got were your lousy, good-for-nothing knees.

Then again, your knees HAVE done some impressive things. They endured jobs on horseback and survived Vietnam. They routinely beat some Tongans at racquetball during your prime. One knee folded enough for you to form a perfect Can Opener* at Aspen Grove and secure the "Biggest Splash" title. I believe your knees' swan song was hiking Mount Baldy at Philmont.

Your knees also prayed a lot. Morning family prayer before Suz raced to Seminary and kids jumped on buses. "On your ka-nees, please," was a saying you repeated for years before we all knelt to bless the food/peek at each other under the kitchen table. I recall you kneeling by your king-sized bed at night, leaning on your burnt orange blanket that had a fuzzy, foamy texture.

I'm all grown up and now you come to stay at my house. We generally talk until 2 a.m. before deciding it's time to hit the hay. Mom will be nasal rinsing in the bathroom and your bedroom door is ajar waiting for her return. I walk by your room on my way to let Lucy out and through the 2" opening spy you kneeling in prayer on the side of the guest bed. Just like when I was a kid.

You are loyal, Dad. You are loyal to mom and you are loyal as a father. I know you love me. I know you have loved me since the day I was born breech and that your love will not stop with death. I know you believe in my potential and that you will never give up on me. I know you pray for me by name a lot. Maybe even every night.

So I'll take your crummy knees and I'll pray for my daughter on them. And I'll swim with her even though I worry a little about other adults noticing my blinding whiteness and jiggly legs that have a shocking absence of hamstrings. And I'll give her underdogs when I grill outside, and you should know that I can cook a filet better than Greg now. I can even do the perfect 90-degree grill marks. If I grilled a T-bone, I would save the T for you so you could suck the marrow out and get greasy lips like you did when I was a kid.

I love you, Dad. Forever.

Love, Wass

*Known for the large splashes it produces, the Can Opener is performed by springing from a diving board, pulling one leg upwards towards the chest, securing the leg with one's arms, and tilting the body back to a 35 degree angle. After hitting the water with the correct combination of form and entry angle, the emergence of splashes exceeding 15 feet are common.

Dr. T.J. Eckleburg

Dr. T.J. Eckleburg has been staring at me. A few buildings south of Osmond Designs just prior to the Lehi Roller Mills exit.

Gatsby is on my mind. Leonardo buzz. (gag*) A Gatsby bag featured in this month's Real Simple "Finds Under $50" page. A woman in town wearing a draped white linen dress that was last worn by Jordan Baker. I saw a dad bullying his son in the weight room and I kind of wanted to step in and say, "Easy, Tom Buchanan." Every night as we lock up the house and turn off the lights I see the tiny, green light of the DISH receiver and think of Daisy's East Egg dock. So it's only natural that I am hallucinating and seeing the staring eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg from I-15.

I couldn't handle it any longer, so I drove through the Valley of Ashes to see for myself. (It might as well have been the Valley of Ashes as I had to park at the red railroad museum and walk along the tracks until I found it.) Turns out the eyeglasses are actually smiley faces. Graffiti smiley faces...surrounded by boarded up windows, junker cars and broken bottles. Well slap me silly and call me Meyer Wolfsheim.

* "What's wrong, Wass? I think he'd be a good Gatsby." -Greg