Pregnancy

It all starts with a sunny, freezing cold, Sunday morning. You're feeling angsty because you just tried to stand up with a bowl of lactose free milk, in the hopes of adding another layer of Life cereal to it, but you just spill the milk all over your microfiber couch instead, because you're clumsy. Yeah. It's one of those mornings. So when you're feeling angsty like this, you feel like writing. Your husband reminds you that you haven't written about your new-found parasite, yet. So that's a good place to start.

I'm pregnant. No, this isn't an announcement. I'm about half-way through, now, and, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm already quite pregnant. I announced ten weeks ago to the day, because my body just wasn't going to let me hide that baby a week longer.

So what is it like being pregnant? How did I know? How did it all go down?

Well, in the beginning, Nathan and I decided that we were pretty remarkable, amazing people, and that we should probably add to our ranks of remarkable people - a bit late in the game, compared to some of my other friends, who, in Utah fashion, all got married six years ago, and have sprouted out two or three of their own children, by this point. But better late than never!

When you're trying to have a baby, but before you can actually pee on the stick and know you're pregnant for sure, you see pregnancy symptoms everywhere. Do I feel abnormally sick this morning? Am I bloating? Are my bowels different than usual? And the truth is, all of these things are pregnancy symptoms, but many of them are simply symptoms of being a woman - which sucks, and can lead to some severe disappointment, when you don't see those two pink lines which tell you that you're pregnant.

This, though, led to a couple Lagoon trips, and general merry-making, which, I feel, is the ONLY way to respond to negative pregnancy tests. Don't let it get you too down! Enjoy doing the things you otherwise wouldn't be able to do! Like roller-coasters! Or visits to rotten-egg smelling lakes!

Finally, I remember actually feeling quite sick for about a week, and even mentioned to a nurse at work that I was feeling crappy. She was the first to suggest that I might be pregnant. I doubted it, of course. I sincerely wondered if I wasn't just sick - thus, I had asked a nurse. I went home and peed on a stick and everything, that night, but nothing. Sometimes, though, all you have to do is give it another week.

The first REAL symptom I had, besides feeling generally crappy, was congestion. Cold symptoms. Who would have ever thought? But because we were trying, and because the internet was surely invented for women who are pregnant or attempting to conceive, I googled it. Sure enough, congestion is a symptom of pregnancy! Very exciting times! I felt lethargic, I felt sluggish, I felt downright crummy, and now with congestion... The suspense was terrible! (And then my back went out, which was another story, but not an unusual one for me. Just tired, congested, nauseated, AND in pain.)

Knowing that I was pregnant was the best thing ever - the nausea, everything. Nathan and I had bought concert tickets to see Walk the Moon a month previously, but we weren't able to go, as I was doubled over in back pain and nausea. But it was okay, because I was pregnant, and it was confirmed!  I must surely have looked depressed, being as nauseated as I was, at work, which made working a little difficult, at times. Perceptive nurses that I worked with figured it out, quickly, without my saying a word. But I tried to keep it under wraps!

But this little baby of ours gave us some severe scares. I was diagnosed with a Subchorionic Hemorrhage, just a couple weeks into knowing that we were pregnant. Perhaps a little too much information for a blog, but I had some exciting bleeding. Nathan and I shed tears more than once, assuming the worst, that we'd lost our baby. After one bleed, I called off work the next day, and readied myself to go to the doctor's the next morning, already assuming everything was over. I didn't tell anybody, not wanting a big deal made, and not wanting to say anything until it was confirmed. They fit me into the schedule, where the doctor on call checked me out, then asked if I could wait a couple hours at the hospital until they had an opening for an Ultrasound. I went down to the cafeteria, told my sister, and ordered a deli-meat sandwich for lunch. (I'd been avoiding deli-meat up until that point, having heard it was no good for pregnancy. Frankly, I didn't care anymore, then.)

When it was my turn at the ultrasound, I nearly died. There, earlier than you're supposed to be able to hear, we heard my little baby's heartbeat. The tech said it was a little bit slower than usual, but probably because it had just started beating a couple days before. Everything was healthy, she said, aside from the hemorrhage. My baby was healthy!

But oh, the woes of a hemorrhage! Light bed rest for me! I wasn't allowed to vacuum, or do laundry, or work out, or do any number of things! (I know, SHUCKS, right?) The couch became my new best friend, and poor Nathan had to do everything. (I really did feel quite bad, and cheated a couple times.) Strangely, after receiving the diagnosis of the hemorrhage, I never had bleeding again. In simple terms, a subchorionic hemorrhage is a blood clot on the baby's sac. Ours was relatively small, which was very lucky! There are three options for those blood clots. 1) It breaks, and you risk a miscarriage. 2) It leaks, so you see some bleeding. (That's what was happening for me earlier.) or 3) Time heals it - and the blood sucks itself into the placenta - which is what happened for us. (Risk was over at 13-ish weeks!)

We told our families, and then it was out in the open. (In a fit of hormonal-ness, I told my husband that FINALLY, now I would have more people who could "pity me.") (Yes, I felt I needed pitying.)

My nausea was unrelenting. Not a lot of throwing up, though I certainly did that too. Eating was difficult - which made me lose a lot of my own previous weight, while gaining baby, so that I wasn't really gaining any weight, though I had certainly "popped" by that time, and was showing without shame. The only things that sounded good were things like fruit smoothies, pizza, ice cream, or, yes, mayonnaise. (Only ever on a sandwich, thankfully, and not straight from the jar.) Eventually, Fazoli's breadsticks made the list, as well. Leftovers were a HUGE "No." from baby - and continue to be. If I make pasta, I boil it a little less than I usually do, to avoid the "moist" noodle effect, etc. Earlier on in the pregnancy, I'd made a chicken tikka masala for dinner, one night, and literally cried at the table at the thought of having to eat it. Baby struggles in letting me eat certain meats - but only when cooked in a certain way, I guess. Moist, "soggy," chicken is a no, and beef pretty much has to be a burger.

Hormones have been fun. Still, my favorite "pregnancy crazy" experience to date was in a drive-thru. My good husband Nathan was taking us for shakes at Arctic Circle. I was perusing news stories on my phone, and came across one of those catcher stories, "You won't believe what this dog did," kind of things. I read the first two paragraphs, about a dog who attended mass on a daily basis because "it was the last place he had seen his owner alive," and LOST it! Hysterical sobbing. Shaking. Tears. Absolute heartbreak for this dog. Nathan attempted not to laugh, and so did I, because I knew that this was no ordinary sad. This was "possession" sad. But SO REAL!!! It lasted only a minute, thankfully, and ended, mostly, in hiccuped tears in between laughter at myself as we drove back home. But THAT DOG...

Often I get unusually angry or grumpy at Nathan. Fortunately, I recognize it's hormonal and warn him when I see it happening. Nathan is forgiving and notes that it's probably only directed at him because I'm with him more than anyone else, which is the truth. And positively, on the other swing of things, sometimes I'm just all the more outrageously obsessed and in love with him, which is often sweet. I find myself seeking him out, throughout the house, just so I can hug him, cuddle my face into his chest, and then run back to whatever it was I was doing.

Just recently, I've started to feel the baby moving. At first, I was just chalking it up to indigestion. (Another symptom of pregnancy. It happens, it's irregular and unpredictable, etc. Pregnancy symptoms are terrible.) But after awhile, I realized that this was it. Everyone says it feels like "a butterfly," when you first feel your baby move. I didn't have that experience. To me, it felt more like a slug moving through my belly. There were no wings.

I'm at the point where I wake up, get confused about why I woke up - (because it's too early for my new ritual of nightly peeing.) - and realize that there's something bumping around down there. He's still small enough that it's not unpleasant. Instead, it's strangely surreal. Several nights a week we're pulling out Nathan's stethoscope and listening for the baby. You have to be lucky to catch anything with a stethoscope, but sometimes we are lucky. Once, completely lucky, we even heard a heartbeat. Mostly, though, it's just my own stomach rumbling, or, occasionally, the sound of a kick.

After the most recent doctor's visit, where the doctor let us know that our baby is a kicker... (Dread...)... we learned that we wouldn't have our next ultrasound until the baby was 21 weeks, and we still didn't have a gender. So we went to a hole in the wall place, Fetal Fotos, just so we could find out. We were impatient parents!

Our first visit, the baby was sleeping. After walking around, turning on my sides, drinking cold water, etc, the baby was awake, but we couldn't see anything, due to an umbilical cord sitting in the way. So more walking and prodding the baby. Finally, the baby had had it, and hunkered down, crossed his legs, and sulked. We watched him live, as the ultrasound tech poked my belly. We watched him jostle with the poke, and throw his arms up next to his ears in "I'm not listening!" fashion. So Fetal Foto let us go back again a few days later, where, the child was awake, still with an umbilical cord in the way, but out of the way just enough so that we could make out a little boy.

So we have our Julian. (Our adorable girl name of Ada Mae will just have to keep waiting.) Yes, we're naming our child after the YouTube comedian, Julian Smith, but it is a beautiful name that I've always loved. So now we're still just waiting. I'm feeling those bumps in my stomach more and more often. I'm expanding at a more rapid rate, which is slightly alarming, for one who has tried not to gain weight her whole life, and now has to look at this as a good thing. The pregnancy symptoms just keep coming - UTI's and swollen kidneys. Back pain and a new maternity pillow. Itchy stomach and frequent urination. Hormonal rages and clumsy mishaps. Gagging while brushing my teeth and crying over food. Headaches and fears over brain tumors, or worse.

And this is just the beginning!

Why I Hate People

It's official. I said this blog was coming, so now it is. The "Why I Hate People" blog. I recognize that "hate" is a strong word, but if I used the word "disappointed" you may think me self-righteous, so frankly, that's why I'm not using THAT word.

Given the title, obviously, this blog will state some things that are negative, so if you're sensitive in heart, perhaps you ought to hit that little "X" in the corner of the screen and YouTube some more kitten videos, because after writing this, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Because I don't hate kittens. I don't hate babies. I don't even hate vegetables. But very often I DO hate people. People can be downright terrible.

My mother, bless her heart, has a history of falling down. It's some nerve thing in her leg, she thinks, but it's the reason I encourage her not to lose too much weight. She hasn't broken anything severely, yet, but I know if she were skin and bones and continued to fall as much as she does, it wouldn't be long before it was the hip fracture that did her in. (I make her sound terribly old. She's not old. She has an active job as a physical therapist, and travels the world for fun in her free time. She just keeps tripping herself up!)

Yesterday, walking independently down a busy road, without her cell phone, mind, my mother took another fall. "Face-planted" she describes it, a good mile away from home. She fell, rolled over, and sat, convinced she may have broken her patella, due to the pain she was feeling. Eventually she dragged herself to her feet, and, tears streaming down her face, walked/dragged herself the mile back home. "It was ugly," she reported.

This happened on a busy road. Hundreds of cars streaming past, and not a one of them stopped. Psychologically, this can be explained through Bystander Effect, but it still sucks, because it was MY mother, and no one cared enough to see if she was alright, or if they could drive her back home.

I understand that people have fears about helping strangers. I get that. I, myself, have been burned from helping others - ever since that one time I picked up a woman near the bank, who asked if I could give her a lift to the hospital. Of course, sweet old me, I picked her up and drove her there. She then proceeded to ask for money from me, to pay her copay. I gave her money, she got out of my car, and then, before I'd even driven away, started walking back towards the bank.

 I get that helping strangers can be hard. It can be risky. But a stranger who face-plants it in front of you? A stranger who is literally crying and limping down the road? She's obviously not manipulating anybody. Why don't you help her? What's the worst thing that happens? She snaps at you, because she's in pain, and tells you that she's fine, and doesn't need your stinkin' help? She takes you up on the offer to drive her home, and then decides that she might need to go to the hospital instead, and it takes an hour of your time out of a busy Saturday?

And you know, it's not just Bystander Effect that makes me hate people. I hate people because they're manipulative. It's the people who are your "friends" who try to make you buy the things that will make you live longer, get skinnier, run faster - but really all it is they're selling you is salt water, overpriced vitamins, and mint oil bandaids - all overpriced, to line their pyramid scheme pockets. (Sorry, multi-marketing plan.) If I get one more group invitation to a jewelry "party," I just might go, and verbally rake the crap out of them.

I hate people because they don't have integrity. They say they're one thing, and believe a certain way, but they don't act on it. It's the politicians, and the "religious" people who say, "We'll stop abortion," or "Love one another," but then never politically DO anything, or in the religious scenario, find new and interesting ways to despise their neighbor - be it calling them perverts, socialists, mocking or saying they "deserve" their misfortunes, or putting their own preferences above the needs of others, because they believe that they alone are "right."

I hate people because the only things people care about are the things that are "popular." Truth doesn't matter, anymore, if it will make you uncomfortable, unpopular, disadvantaged, or hindered from what YOU want, in any way. You can be your own god, in determining what is right, and what is wrong, because you WANT it that way. Like the toddler that bold-faced tells their mother that yes, they will have ice cream for dinner, they are WRONG, but insist that because they said it, it is fact. We have stopped looking for truths where we used to find them, but now look to ourselves to be our own judges.

So maybe the word IS "disappointed." I'm disappointed in people. People have so much potential, and to study the lives of people who have made a difference to humanity only proves this. But I feel that people have lost even that - the desire to make a positive difference. What matters now is "me," and what "I" want. We close our eyes to everyone else. I'm disappointed in people.

And that's why I want to be a dog. Because dogs are awesome.

Marriage and Courtship in LDS Culture

Recently, due to a late night at work, graveyard shift style, I decided I would create a survey. A masterful survey. A survey about Marriage and Courtship in LDS Culture. Because I was curious about many things! The following is my best summary of what I discovered:

I have 50 people take my survey, which I realize, is not a large amount, especially considering as one of them was me, and one of them was my husband. So I'll delete him, outside of percentages, and, for all intents and purposes, 49 people took my survey.

The first question was "At what age were you married to your current spouse?"
6% = 16-19
68% = 20-24
20% = 24-29
6% = 30+

Interesting other tidbits about age variations? Those who dated and were engaged for the longest amount of time were in the 20-24 category.

My second question: "What was your highest level of education at the time of your marriage?"
70% = Some College
26% = College Graduate
2% = High School
2% = "Other." (Even I'm not too sure what that means...)

Third question: "Where did you attend school?"
Let's be honest. I was looking for age at time of marriage, and specific school enrollments, but found some other fun information.
33% of BYU participants met in their Single's Ward.
30% of BYUI participants met at school.
37% of those who went to school out of state met through a Mutual Friend, while 62% met through either a Single's Ward, or another Church function.

My fourth and fifth questions were about activity in the church of both participant and their spouse, at the time of their marriage. 96% were active at the time of their marriage, which made those two questions slightly inconclusive, for me.

Likewise with question number 6: "Where were you married?"
94% = LDS Temple
6% = Other Venue
(Those Mormons. Predictable.)

Question Seven: "How did you meet your current spouse?"
26% = LDS Single's Ward
16% = Church - Other
20% = School
8% = Online Dating
20% = Mutual Friend / Blind Date
2% = Work
8% = Other

Who'd have guessed that people actually do get married through their Single's Wards!?

Eight: "How long did you date your spouse before you were engaged?"
Longest Response: 72 months
Shortest Response: 3 weeks
Mean: 8.8 months
Median: 5 months
Mode: 4 months

Nine: "How long were you engaged to your spouse before you were married?"
Longest Response: 18 months
Shortest Response: 3 weeks
Mean: 4.65 months
Median: 2 months
Mode: 3 months

Question ten was significantly more complicated. Again, I was looking for trends. I labeled out several different events that happen in your average relationship:
Held Hands, First Kiss, First Sexual Encounter, First Date, Sexual Intercourse, "Making Out", Became "Official" (Boyfriend and Girlfriend), and Marriage.
Then I asked people to rate in which order those events happened in their relationship:
On Average, things generally happen in the following order:

First Date
Held Hands
First Kiss followed closely by
Became "Official"
"Making Out"
Marriage followed closely by
First Sexual Encounter
Sexual Intercourse

When I say that things "follow closely," I don't mean in time, like, "I got married, and within an hour, I had my first sexual encounter." I don't mean that. This data means that,

About 52% (ish - I'm looking at a graph) of the time, after making out, the next step in a relationship, for people, is getting married. About 48% of the time, after making out, the next step in a relationship, for people, is having your first sexual experience.

34% of individuals in my study stated they had a sexual experience with their spouse before marriage. The greatest predictor of having a sexual experience prior to marriage? I'm not sure I can figure that out, cause when I try to punch numbers, it looks like the highest predictor is actually Becoming "Official." So... ???
Of those 34%, 88% were still married in an LDS Temple. 5% of those with sexual encounters were with non-members - so they wouldn't have gotten married in the temple in the first place, if that makes sense.

Obviously, with a lot of data, there are many more conclusions and interesting statistics to be found.
If you're interested in getting an answer to a specific question, please feel free to comment, and I will do my best to get the data to you! (For example, "I attended BYU. What percentage of BYU students get married after 24?") (40%).

Till my next crazy graveyard shift of curiosity.

Another Late Night

It's another late night at my graveyard shift job. This is where I usually get to blogging my good stuff. So here I am.

But what to blog about? Should I blog about the Utah Coalition Against Pornography Conference I attended today? About how any kind of social change in that arena has to take place through the federal government, and about how that frustrates me, and discourages me about the lack of backbone and moral fiber in our legal systems and society?

Or should I blog about the police officer who refused to shoot a man in Ohio, who he would have been completely justified in shooting - as the man was attempting a suicide-by-cop? Should I blog about how I get frustrated with all the biased media hooks, how they report the news that sells, rather than the news that matters?

Or should I blog about the "Hookers for Hillary" post Nathan found, which tells of a group of hookers in Nevada willing to offer some "additional services" for you if you'll vote for Hillary Clinton? (Starting to wonder if voting should be a right...)

But you know what? No. I don't want to talk about these things. These things are good pieces, but not tonight.

Tonight I want to talk about the painting that hangs over my desk, in my office, at work.

I've never really had a desk, or an office before. Back during one of my internships, I had a tiny table by the window, which barely had room for my knees to fit underneath, with a binder and a laptop on top. At the hospital, there were three of us crammed in a broom closet - hardly a private "office."

Now that I work at a care center, however... I have an office! I have two file cabinets and a massive wooden "power" desk. I have room for a chair, for my mini fridge, for a stack of my favorite psychology books. I have SO MUCH SPACE, it's remarkable! I have a diploma on the wall, two calendars, and two paintings.

But this one... This one's my favorite thing...

This hangs directly over my head, every day. Some beautiful... place... with two geese... I love it.

I've looked at those geese, the fenced balcony to the left, and wondered what inspired this artist to paint such a fantastic piece. Was he walking, one day, admiring God's winged creations, and thought, "Why yes. I should put those in a brown-toned Italian Villa."

Inspiring. Truly inspiring.

The blues, the browns, the flirtatious hints of red. You awe me, painter. You awe me. The beauty of this masterpiece is truly to be found in it's simplicity.

So let's be honest, that's really all I have to say about that.

The Secret Life

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is one of my favorite movies in the entire world. But seriously. Do you know it?

Walter Mitty is a boring guy who works his job at Life Magazine, developing photos. His life is so boring, that his imagination is vivid and wild. He imagines rescuing dogs from burning buildings, getting into epic street battles with his boss, and, of course, imagines himself the brave explorer with a Spanish accent, who woos the woman he has a crush on, in the office, with his roughness and his very own poetry falcon. Trailer

This is obviously not Walter Mitty's life, and yet, it is. These are the things he wished he had, the things he wished he was. In every one of his imaginations, we are shown a glimpse of Walter's goals, dreams, and the things he hopes for, the things he values.

What it must be like, to have such a secret life! (Not the kind where you have a second house in Montana, with a second family that your first family knows nothing about...) But a secret life! A secret world inside of your head! But... I wonder if we actually don't.

Though I've never imagined myself a mountaineer with a poetry falcon, I've done my fair share of imagining. I've rescued kids from terrible situations in epic fashion. I've befriended bikers, worked as a secret service agent, even had super powers. But I'm not even sure that the only secret lives we can live are the ones we live in our own imaginations, or in Montana.

I think most people have secrets about themselves, different sides of themselves, that others aren't aware of, because you don't necessarily show them. 

My first year of college, a friend of mine from high school was going through a crisis, and was talking to me - she wasn't sure what she should do about some such situation or other. It was obvious to me that what she needed was God's help. I told her, simply, that God would answer her prayers, if she asked Him what she should do, and I bore my testimony of prayer, and of God's love. Her reply has stuck with me. "I didn't realize you were so spiritual." We'd been friends for years, literally, but it was a side of me she hadn't had opportunity to see before.

The other night, working a graveyard shift, my BFF and boss, Karen, was staying late. She invited me into her office to watch a hilarious video - we watched it on repeat five or six times, laughing till there were tears. My co-worker, that I've worked with every other weekend for the last seven months or so, wandered into the office to see what all the laughing was about, and remarked, "This is a side of you I've never seen before, Grace." 

If you know me, you know I'm spiritual, you know I love to laugh. But all my coworker knew of Grace was that she was the quiet one, who sat in her chair struggling to keep her eyes open, wrote Sunday School lessons, or late night blog posts. The graveyard Grace rarely laughs. She's pretty serious. She's super tired. So he didn't know the laughing me.

What do we not know about people, from the faces they portray where we see them most? To assume that people are only what you see of them is akin to a baby's understanding of object permanence - other people only exist when you can see them.

This struck home to me, the other day, when Nathan and I were driving up to Salt Lake, to sign our new apartment lease. My husband used the word "ethos." 

He had to define it for me! I had no clue what he was talking about! Ethos? Apparently it's an Aristotle argumentative appeal to authority, or credibility of the author. And Nathan threw it out there, in our discussion, like he was using the word "strawberries." He just knew what it meant, and assumed I did too. Ethos!

Pondering on Ethos and my husband, I wondered how many people really know what Nathan's like. My husband can be quiet around people he doesn't know well, and so I wondered! How many people know that my husband is just as opinionated as I am, catches logical fallacies as fast as any master of debate, and wants to be a writer? How many people know that he was a genius at robotics in high school, and has done his fair share of studying architecture and design? How many people see his non-confrontational, often quiet demeanor, and make assumptions about him? How many people hear he's a CNA, and they stop right there. (There's nothing wrong with being a CNA, either. Heaven forbid. It just means that he likes to help people, too, in addition to being a smarty-pants!) 

How many people hear I'm a social worker, and make assumptions about what THAT means? Maybe they assume I'm an extrovert, or that I live to kidnap people's babies. I wonder how many people hear I'm a Mormon, and assume I'm going to be judgmental, or ignorant about the world and the different people in it. Maybe I'm digging a hole for myself, but I have to believe that people are more than any word you may use to define them. I have to believe that people are more than any given moment or belief.

If your cashier is slow, one day, and it irritates you, do you just see them as a slow person, or do you recognize that this person actually exists outside of this cash register, and outside of this Wal-Mart? Do you know anything about this person, how their day is going? Do you know what they are going home to, what that looks like? 

Perhaps I wonder about Secret Lives today because I'm starting a new job tomorrow, and I wonder what face they will see. Will I be Grace, the social worker, who is quite serious, painfully shy, terrified of the new job, or will I be Grace, the social worker, who loves people, who loves to laugh, who does her job, but does it with a smile on her face? I don't know. I don't know who I'll be tomorrow, how I'll feel, or which "life" I'll slip into. But I want to make tomorrow's life an honest one. After all, the life they see tomorrow may very well be the one they assume is ALL of me. First impressions stick. 

But maybe they shouldn't, so much. People are a wide assortment of feelings, experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. If they made a movie about your "secret life," what would we learn about you? What would you learn about me?  

Feminism and the Patriarchy

Sometimes I call Nathan "The Patriarchy." And then we wrestle, so that I can say I've fought the patriarchy. But he always wins. Not surprising.

I'm a feminist. I always have been. Which is scary, as so many conservative Christians are quite adamantly anti-feminist, and I would consider myself one of those, too. But, as I figure it, if people really knew what feminism was, they might find themselves feminists too.

The feminist agenda you hear about in the news is, more often than not, either liberal feminist, or radical feminist agenda. Did you know, though, that there are other types of feminists? And I, myself, am neither radical, and mostly not liberal, either.

Radical feminists want to do away with gender entirely. They think the family system itself is sexist. They're the ones who coined the term "patriarchy." They think men and traditional relationships are the cause of their oppression.

Liberal feminists believe that equal rights can be changed through law, and legal reform - they lean towards equality and "sameness" with men - I should be able to be a firefighter too! They also think women should be "liberated" in having abortions, etc.  However, they're also anti sexual harassment, etc, which is, for the most part, where I fall into this category.

There are other beliefs, about feminism, often overlapping, but a third category, where I relate the most, is called Cultural Feminism.

Cultural feminists believe that there ARE differences between men and women, and that those differences are essential. Instead of trying to be more like men, cultural feminists value the gentle kindness that women are more predisposed towards - not so interested in capitalism, which is all about competition. (They also believe that if the government were run by women, who behaved like your stereotypical women, the world might be a better place. And I can't disagree with that, because I've never seen it done. The Matriarchy?) They value relationships, cooperation, interdependence, sharing, peace, etc. They're usually not political, and just like to make changes individually, on their own.

So though some feminists are off their rocker, wanting to grow babies in technological bubbles, so that they don't have to feel like an oppressed woman with a uterus, some people are just feminists because they believe that you shouldn't abuse women, or assume you're better than them, because women have strengths too! In a religious sense, men and women are partners - opposites which complete each other, as a whole. Feminists merely state that we, as humans, need to remember this equality. Even though your CEO isn't a woman, and your wife stays at home with the kids while you bring home paychecks, you're not better than her. That's called feminism.

And so I'm a feminist. (I know, I know. You shouldn't sell your daughters as sex slaves, beat and rape your wives whenever you want to, etc. Her feelings are important too.) I'm a feminist.

So when my husband came back from his Priesthood meeting tonight, he told me about the talks they had given. And lets be honest, I got jealous, but mostly just confused.

How come Women's Conference was all about family, with soothing sentiments that, "You are daughters of God." and "You are vital to God's plan," and "Families are so important." where the men got talks about "Raise the Bar." "If you're still single - stop it!" "Fulfill your home teaching callings." "Stop worrying about looking religious - and actually just be a good person."

I'm getting pretty jealous that the men get talks, in their meeting, about things they can improve on, where women are just given comfort - not so much specific directions for improvement. Is it because women are less accountable, so aren't given detailed direction on how to improve? Or is it just because husbands, as presiders, are supposed to be passing this information down the line, helping their own families, by their own revelation and understanding of specific needs, know what to work on?

I imagine its the second. But what do you do when your husband doesn't lead?

We discussed this in depth.

Nathan hypothesized that, perhaps, sometimes men don't lead their families like they should because they hear so much of this radical/liberal feminist agenda, and they feel that, if they were to ever tell their wife, "Hey, you know, maybe you shouldn't wear that." or "Hey, you know, I think you're wrong, there." that they might be accused of being "the patriarchy," and just oppressing their wives. OR perhaps men just hear too much of women complaining about men!

How many women, do you know, who bash on men, or their husbands? (Plenty, here.) "He's lazy." "He doesn't understand anything." "I don't trust him." "Men don't do anything!" "Men are stupid." "Men are all in it for themselves." I hate to say it, but if people were saying that stuff about me, I probably wouldn't correct them in anything, or feel any reason to lead them, either! I'd be scared to try, when they so obviously dislike me!

But I think it's a vicious cycle, too. Because why are women complaining? Because the men aren't leading. Women get to resenting that the men aren't doing this that or the other, so she feels like she's got to pick up all the slack, gets mad at him, yells at him, or about him, and then he feels like the child in the relationship, and he continues to not lead, because he's scared of her, and she's mad at him for not doing enough, but he's not doing it, because he just wants to make her happy, and he doesn't want her to think he's bossing her around!

What drama!

So here it is, from a feminist. (Not a radical/liberal one, mind. Just a regular feminist.)

Men? We want you to lead. Men? When we complain, it's because we want you to be stronger. We want you to take over things more. We want you to take care of us. So we may be feminists, who are all about equal rights, and we might complain about how treatment of men vs women is unfair, and women aren't treated as well as they should be, but guess what? We still want you to lead. You don't have to run away from that! We want it, even though media pushes it that we women don't need you. We do.

In our culture, you preside in the home. We want you to take that position. We want you to enforce family prayers, family scripture reading. We want you to be the one who disciplines the kids too, who has the difficult conversations with family, who budgets, and reminds your wife when, perhaps, what she's saying or doing is wrong.

There's a reason men are given all the good stuff, in General Conference. It's because they're supposed to share it with their families, in the way their family needs it. But if you can't talk to your wife, how are you supposed to share it?

Feminists. I am one, but they've also screwed us over. All the loud ones, on the news, that is, tell men they can't correct women - it's not their right or place. But it's simply not true. We need you to talk to us honestly. You know just as much as we do, if not more, sometimes. We need you to talk to us, share with us your insights. Correct us as needed, and we'll do the same. Because we're a team.

When I tell you black and brown don't match, it's not culturally frowned on, but when you tell me that I shouldn't watch Married at First Sight, because it mocks the sanctity of marriage, I can ignore your counsel, and just assume you don't know anything? Not so.

Women, respect your husbands, and listen to them, which, by your nature, you're not always predisposed to do. Husbands, love your wives, and never be afraid to lead them closer to God.

Don't know if this blog post makes any sense, but it was my thoughts, tonight.

A Good Defense

I've been thinking about "Defense" today. I started the morning off with reading a news article about Curt Shilling, a famous baseball player who, when his daughter was being sexually harassed online, stood up for her - (by writing a blog post) - shaming those who were blatantly disgusting in their harassment, and encouraging anyone who knew those people - he named names - to give them a piece of their mind.

Aside from reminding me of a post I wrote on #YesAllWomen awhile back, on how it is up to men to change the harassment of women, this article touched me because of this father's profound sense of responsibility to defend his daughter, at any cost.

It got me thinking about defense. When have I been defended? When have I NOT? What happened after that? Who are we responsible to defend? How can we defend? In what circumstances? A lot of questions, needless to say.

In thinking about it, I realized that, throughout my life, there have been different sources of "defense."

Obviously, as a child, my parents defended me. In middle school, I was being bullied on the bus. It was because I had short hair. Some dude, who thought he was terribly clever, funny, and was getting a real power trip out of it, thought it was hilarious to loudly and rudely proclaim me a lesbian. If someone sat next to me, he made comments, came to loud conclusions, etc. He was loud, obnoxious, and rude. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I don't sit back and tolerate things well. I told him just what I thought of him, how wrong he was, and how "mature" bullying made him look, but, because he was a bully, my defending myself did nothing for me.

After a few months of this bullying, I finally told my mom. THE NEXT DAY, she took time off work to drive me to school, let me go to class on my own, walked into the principal's office, and THREATENED TO KILL HER. "My daughter is being bullied on the bus," she had explained. "And, as the principal, if you don't do anything about this, I will kill you." I want you to imagine being backed into a corner by this short, fierce, Australian woman, who is threatening to kill you. Honestly, I'm not sure how my mother intended to follow through on that threat, as she is a very honest, religious person, but the threat was made, and I know my mom would have followed through if she had to!

And it worked. The principal had the fear of God put into her, the boy, somehow, I still don't know,punished, and never spoke to me on the bus again, and, for the last year of my middle school experience, the principal knew me by name, was always smiling at me, and was overly dramatic about knowing how she could help me in any way she could. I think she sincerely believed my mother would kill her.

I didn't always have the luxury of family close by, to help defend me with all my minor struggles. So I had the opportunity to try and learn how to know and respect myself, as well as defend myself, appropriately - whether that was telling the teacher that, no, my answer to the test question was TOTALLY right, and I'd write a 5-page essay to prove it, all the way to using weaponry against entitled, grabby beggars I had the misfortune of dating. (My weapon of choice was a chess set to the groin. It worked quite well, thank you.) Now, it's organizing against our apartment management when they charge us fees for services they don't provide, etc. (We totally just won that whole petition/certified letter/talk to a lawyer at BYU thing, just a few days ago! I'm still stoked!) I learned to defend myself.

Unfortunately, you CAN'T always defend yourself. I've been in situations where I've felt completely and utterly swamped, incapable of doing anything, or saying anything that would stop a harmful occurrence from taking place, that hurt me, or affected me in a real way. I couldn't stop it, and maybe mom wasn't there, right then, to make everything better. Family, those close relationships, or even your own strength of will IS NOT ALWAYS ENOUGH to defend you. You are "defense-less."

People need defending every single day. Just look at the news! How many cases have you heard of, where some kid was abused by his parents, some baby was abandoned in a garbage can, or on the side of the road? How many kids live in houses where they have to walk through animal feces, to move in between rooms? How many kids go hungry because mom is too stoned to go out and buy them food? How many of mom's boyfriends are shaking their babies, throwing puppies off balconies? How many kids?

Let's leave kids and move on, to older. The rate of teenage suicides/attempts/suicidality is disgusting. It's increasing. In the crisis office at the hospital, there is a constant undercurrent of, "Not another one." "Not a teenager." "He's ELEVEN??" "This is ridiculous!" How many cases of suicide have been in the news, lately, because some kid was bullied? So many! So many kids feel alone. And how many of teens are being taken advantage of, because they think it's socially required to send nude selfies? How many of them sit alone at school, eat alone? How many have no friends, and no support from their parents? Some HAVE support from their parents, but still fall into trouble, to the point that their parents despair, "I'm taking him, and I'm running away with him to northern Canada, and keeping him in a box, where this doesn't happen, anymore!" (That's a quote.) And who helps this mom?

How many adults are defenseless? How many adults look at the world, and can't find their place in it? How many can't afford insurances, or healthcare, who live out of their cars because they're uneducated, and their minimum wage job and mental illness prevent them from keeping an apartment? How many elderly women fall down in their homes, can't get up, and aren't missed, so they aren't discovered for days, until they've starved to death and died, very much alone and in pain? (Okay, let's be honest, this DOES happen, but probably not as much as I think it does, as personally, that's my number one fear on how I'm going to go.) But how many are abused in nursing homes, or at least forgotten?

Defense. Where are the cheerleaders when you need them?

Who plays defense? Honestly, it should be all of us. If you see something wrong, you do something about it. Is it uncomfortable to play defense? Sometimes. Is it, necessarily, what you want to do at that moment? Probably not. It's terribly inconvenient to have to "do something." Do it anyway.

Am I saying you can solve all the world's problems? Heal all the broken hearts? Feed all the homeless? Absolutely not. That's crazy-making. But you can definitely do something within your immediate range of influence. You can be the defense. You can protect someone. You can help someone in desperate need. (This isn't meant to be political, but sometimes it's as easy as, "You can VOTE!")

Maybe the defense someone needs is for you to speak up, advocate for them, tell someone off, offer a shoulder to cry on. Maybe the defense is organizing committees, groups, or just pointing someone in the right direction. I don't know! But I don't think you can err, too seriously, on the side of doing "too much." (Don't neglect your family or your own mental health. Enough said.) Help people. Do something. Defend them with passion.

There are amazing examples of defenders among us, that we can learn from. Curt Schilling, Mother Theresa! (It's always Mother Theresa.) Nelson Mandela, Emma Watson, Jackson Katz, Rebecca Hosking! Honestly, the list is as long as it is diverse, and for all different kinds of reasons! (Defending their family, the poor, the needy, the abused, the ANIMALS.)

But there is one defender who tops the list, who proclaimed Himself to be even, "a father to the fatherless," "a defense," "a shelter." Christ. He loves us. He has defended us, and He will defend us always, when we are right, and when we need Him. If you follow His example of defending others, you will never go wrong. In defense, Christ was brave, loving, and willing to sacrifice everything. Literally, everything.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland gave a talk, once, at BYU. One simple story that he tells has alwaysgiven me the strength to press on, even when defending people feels like it is too much, or too costly, or too tiring.

"An old Arabic legend," he says, "tells of a rider finding a spindly sparrow lying on its back in the middle of the road. He dismounted and asked the sparrow why his feet were in the air.
Replied the sparrow, "I heard the heavens were going to fall today."
"And I suppose you think your puny bird legs can hold up the whole universe?" laughed the horseman.
"Perhaps not," said the sparrow with conviction, "but one does whatever one can.""

I think in our loud, and evil world, what we need more of is defenders - people willing to take stands, risk personal discomfort, and do what is best in the name of others. We have enough excusers - people who take the easy way out by saying, "Well, it's not THAT bad." or "It really won't make a difference in the long run."

We need defenders. We need people who address the issues. We need people to stand up for the innocent, and the people who are looking for help, comfort, support, and assistance.

I'm starting to look forward with optimism for the future. You can always find the bad in the world, but the lines are being drawn in the sand. "Good" and "evil" are becoming clearer, more easy to discern. And so it is in times like this, in times of certainty in moral grounds, that we CAN take stands of defense, and should. STRONG defense. With so much wrong, we need so much more good to oppose it. And even if you feel that all you have are some puny legs, those puny legs are just what we need to keep the sky from falling.

Lies My Depression Told Me

I've been debating on if I want to write this blog, or not, for the past couple of months, in truth. In one way, I think it will be helpful. I think it will validate others who may have similar feelings or experiences, or even questions. The downside, I've worried, is that people will feel this is some self-serving stunt, on my part, to get attention and gain sympathies. Fortunately or unfortunately, you pick, I decided that I feel passionately enough about it to not care what people think. I've found that my blogs, in the most unlikely of places, have a track record of helping people. I hope that this one, too, might help somebody.

Depression. I have it. So do a lot of people. It's actually pretty common.

(Hyperbole and a Half really describes it best. See picture.)

I've had Depression since high school, by my reckoning. I was easily upset, then. The littlest things would trigger me into a downward spiral of anger, bitterness, and loneliness. It could have nothing to do with my life, and have no affect on me at all, and it would depress the crap out of me. I felt completely unloved, much of the time. I felt quite alone, hated, and quite useless. College was a little better, the mission a little harder, and I still struggle with it today.

Throughout my life I've been told by friends, strangers, clergy, myself, that because I have Depression, I am:

• Selfish
• Weak
• Not keeping the commandments
• Not praying enough
• Just being dramatic
• Don't have faith
• Making excuses

Et cetera, et cetera. The first time I was prescribed an anti-depressant I cried in front of the doctor. I was so horrified, so embarrassed by the tears streaming down my face, and how quickly they had come. I had just told the man I was Depressed, and was instantly overcome with self-loathing and shame. He was more than happy to write the anti-depressant prescription. But because of my shame, I took one pill and stopped. 

I told myself it was my fault. I told myself it was because I was unmanageable. I was being dramatic, and if I'd just pray to God, more, I wouldn't feel this way. As a social work major, it was easy for me to say that Depression was a chemical imbalance, and has a biological root. It was easy to say, but for me, no, I was different. My Depression was a sign of my weak and flawed character. So if I could only do more, only be better, only be less selfish, I would be fine. God's grace was there to help my weaknesses, right? I only had to believe, and the Depression would go away. 

On the mission, I drove myself nuts. I was Depressed because I wasn't putting my full effort into the work. Every time I didn't have the enthusiasm to do a good, hard 30-minute workout in the morning, the natural result HAD to be Depression. I knew it. I had failed Him. I wasn't doing everything I could do. I snapped at my companion - I was going to Hell. I disliked a zone leader - surely I shouldn't be happy. How could such a hateful, horrible person ever deserve anything better? We didn't make our goals. I overslept on my lunchtime nap. I broke down in tears, sobbing hysterically, one morning, and I didn't know why - surely I didn't have the faith the Savior required of one of His servants. 

I got on an anti-depressant on the mission. It cost my family $90 a month. I couldn't do that to them. Not when it was just an issue of my faith. After a couple months on the anti-depressant, I quit it, again, and, in learned helplessness fashion, resigned myself to the work. Get up even when you don't feel like it. Put on your shoes. Kick your butt out the door and just do it. Exact obedience would show evidence of my faith, and my Depression would be healed, would it not? I couldn't make anyone else pay for weaknesses. $90 a month? I could just grow the faith I needed, for $90 a month, and cure myself that way. But we stayed too long at dinner appointments, regularly going over one hour. Each time, I beat myself up over it. Obviously I wasn't obedient enough. I was failing God.

I got back home from my mission two years ago, but even now, sometimes I still tell myself lies about my Depression - I didn't cook dinner like I said I was going to - I have a complete inability to care for and love my husband, by not cooking like I said I was going to. Why does he even love me? I'm just his trial. I am a trial. I am disobedient, because I didn't pray this morning - why should God love me, or bless me? I made someone upset - I deserve all the hate I receive, and it only makes sense that I am ignored, and have no one to talk to. Ultimately, all of my friends will leave me. This is inevitable. It has already begun. "What proof do you have otherwise?" I've debated anti-depressants again, off and on for the last two years. I've started and quit them repeatedly. (I'm a social worker. I know how bad that is, so don't tell me.) Eventually being on an anti-depressant just started causing me severe anxiety and panic attacks - so not worth it. 

I'm at a really good place right now, though, without anti-depressants - which is no easy task, and not something I'd necessarily recommend for everyone. I've worked hard to be where I am now. Not in the "work hard" way I thought I could do it, on my mission, though. No amount of "hard work" could help my Depression. Beating myself up like that only ever made it worse. But how do I do it? How am I doing better, now? Now, I've done it with sympathy and love for myself. 

Some days you don't cook. Screw it. Who cares? Some days you just feel like crying. Well you should do it, then! Don't judge yourself for it. So it's irrational and crazy to cry for no reason? That's okay. Accept yourself for who you are, and just cry it out. You are struggling, but you are an amazing person. You are strong, you are loving. You work hard, you care about doing what's right. Your heart is in such a good place, and you don't deserve a single minute of sitting around judging and hating yourself for who you are. You've done enough of that already. Love yourself. 

Depression. I have it. It kicks my butt, sometimes. 

BUT... (And that's a really big but) - It doesn't have to. 

My Depression has only as much power as I give it. The more I shirk away from being honest with myself and my emotions, the worse it gets. But when I can sit down, look at my heart and label the emotion - "Today I feel like I should maybe rot in Hell, I'm so worthless." - then I can do something about it. I can love myself as God loves me. All those lies I told myself, for years, were not God's words. God has done nothing but love me. And I need to learn to love myself too. It doesn't help to blame myself or hate myself for how I feel, just as it doesn't help to blame anyone else either. 

As I say in the "Relaxation Activity" for one of the groups I run, "Notice any areas of discomfort or pain you may feel. Be aware of that discomfort - it is neither good nor bad. Just be aware of it, and move on." (It's a group for people with chronic conditions. That's why we talk about pain.) 

The World Health Organization has a fantastic video on YouTube. Since discovering it, I've found that it helps me, in forming a mental picture. Black Dog - (Not the Led Zeppelin Song, though that's an awesome ringtone.)

"I have a black dog," it starts. "and his name is Depression." Everyone has their own black dog, it continues. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some sneak up on you, while some just sit on your chest and stare you in the face. Some are trained to your command, and some are far from it. 

Become aware of your "black dogs." Train them, tame them, teach them to heel. ("Heal." That's clever wording. See what they did there?) 

There's nothing you could do so wrong that would make you "deserve" Depression. Is it normal to be sad sometimes? Absolutely. Are you weak for it? Are you selfish? Is it just a sign that you're not praying enough? Not at all. Do not beat yourself up needlessly. 

God loves you. So often, with Depression, I think the secret lies in loving yourself. It's hard! A therapist and I discussed, once, how to teach someone that they are loved. I don't think you can. No amount of saying, "I love you." is going to make someone believe it. It never worked for me. The only way you can teach someone who feels that they are unlovable that they ARE lovable is by loving them. They have to learn through experience that they are loved. 

And if you have Depression, you can start with yourself. Instead of hating yourself, putting yourself down, or judging yourself, give yourself a hug. Love yourself. Imagine yourself back at a time when you felt you WERE worthy of love. Maybe that's when you were a child. I don't know. Imagine yourself as that child, and imagine putting that child down with all the negativity you are putting yourself down with right now, and stop it. You don't deserve it. You never have, and you never will deserve that kind of loathing. No one is perfect. You make mistakes. Should I hate you for them? No. Even if you killed my child, (on accident), I shouldn't hate you. Forgiveness is SO real, and it starts with yourself. 

So that was a lot of Depression STUFF. I guess, in summary, Depression is real. But it should never be something you destroy yourself with, as so many who suffer with it are prone to do. Don't believe the lies it tells you about yourself, or even the lies that misguided, well-intentioned others tell you about what Depression is. You're not weak. You're not being selfish. Trust me, it doesn't reflect on the level of your faith. But having faith in God, and loving yourself like God loves you, with all of your imperfections, IS the best help there is. 

Why I Still Call Him "Boyfriend"

There's a weekly occurrence in the Lisch home, that never seems to get old. It goes something like this:

Me: "Yo, Boyfriend!"
Him: "I'm not yo boyfriend."
Me: "You my boyfriend!"
Him: "I'm NOT yo BOYFRIEND. I'm yo HUSBAND."
Me: "Yeah. So boyfriend! I want ice cream."

That last sentence isn't the weekly occurrence I'm talking about... usually... but the rest of that conversation is a basic summary of the usual. I insist on calling him "boyfriend," and he insists that he's NOT my boyfriend.

Often this is accompanied by Nathan telling me that it's "better" to have a husband than a boyfriend, to which I insist, that no, having a boyfriend is better.

I've attempted to explain this to him several times. And because today, as I was heading out the door to go to my graveyard shift, complaining about what I would do for the next 8 hours, my husband was really sweet and said, "You always write good blog posts, on graveyard..." I decided to write on this.

"Boyfriend" > Husband > boyfriend.

This is complicated math. But it's really quite simple. See, "Boyfriend" and boyfriend are not the same.

A boyfriend is someone temporary in your life. It's someone who you decided you'd date for awhile, get to know better, and is someone that makes you happy. They turn your stomach in giggle-fits, they make you blush with each hand-hold, and cause you to have nonsensical hour-long conversations with your girlfriends. Also, a boyfriend pays for all of your dates, your food, etc. Thank you boyfriends.

But boyfriends only last for so long, you see. Boyfriends graduate on to being either an "ex," or a "husband." This is the way of the world. In our society, often some believe boyfriends can graduate on to being "significant others," but really, that's just a fancy way of saying someone who doesn't want to commit to being your husband, but isn't ready to be your "ex" yet. And they don't want to pay for all the dates anymore, like boyfriends are supposed to. So they become your "significant other."

So, with my current "Boyfriend," we then came to the category of "husband." Husbands are a fun thing to have. Unlike boyfriends, though, having a "husband" is a legal thing. I had to pay money to have a husband. I had to go to the Social Security building and legally change my name, I had to go to work, and have THEM change my name, and go through the painstaking process of changing my name on ALL THE THINGS. And then they sold me a license to marry him, like a fishing license, and he became my husband.

Husbands are fun, don't get me wrong! Once you have a husband, you get to live in the same house as them, and budget your money together, and file taxes together. Husbands are really handy, because socially, there are things they're supposed to do for you, like fix your car, and open jars. (My "Boyfriend" did these things when he was still just my boyfriend anyway, but when they're a husband, they're supposed to.) When you have a husband, you have what it takes to be called a family! (We still only have each other, a beta fish, and a potted plant that we're trying to keep alive, but we're still a family!) When you have a husband, you have pictures taken of you and your husband, just to remind you that legally, you now have a husband. It's a very serious matter.

But now for the important part. Because remember, "Boyfriend" > Husband.

Someday, and only sometimes, your husband graduates from husband back to "boyfriend."

Unlike being the original boyfriend, this boyfriend isn't temporary - because he's also a husband. But just like the original boyfriend, this boyfriend is someone you are ACTIVELY deciding to be with, and getting to know better, because he is someone that makes you happy. They turn your stomach in giggle-fits, they make you blush with each hand-hold, and cause you to post nonsensical pictures of them, or information about them on social media or in giddy-filled texts to your friends, on a regular basis. Because they're your boyfriend.

This relationship is an active choice, and a happy one, at that. (Not like the active choice of going to work, Monday through Friday, or working graveyard shifts on the weekend, which is kind of like a chore, sometimes, too.) This relationship is something you are super excited to be a part of. It doesn't mean he's super-human - (he still needs to be reminded to pick up his shoes) - but it DOES mean that he's super-human to ME.

My boyfriend takes me out for ice cream when I just can't stand it anymore - and tells me that I'm prettier than the models I'm often jealous of. (My boyfriend is a little blind, even though he claims he has 20/20 vision. I'm happy to accept this disability.) My boyfriend always asks the question, "What can I do?" About everything!

My boyfriend is my complete opposite, which is just what I need! My boyfriend is ALWAYS willing to listen, and stands up for me when I'm feeling doubtful or am second-guessing the things that are important to me. My boyfriend is also willing to say, "Maybe look at it this way, instead." My boyfriend encourages me to be my best self every day, and is always pushing me to be better, with his humble, considerate attitude.

My boyfriend is ambitious, and has strong hopes, dreams, and goals for himself. He also has a crazy collection of ties. My boyfriend waits to start the dishwasher until I'm getting home from work, so I can hear it running when I come in the door - which reminds me that my boyfriend is continually trying to woo me, and impress me. (Because let's be honest, sometimes I don't notice if he did the dishes or not! And he wants me to know, in a "I did the dishes," flirtatious kind of way.)

When I first started dating my boyfriend, and he was just my boyfriend, people asked me what I liked about him. I usually said things like, "He's cute." "He does a great Gollum impersonation." "He can lift heavy objects." Things like that. And those things are still true, plus I continue to discover more and more things about him, which only add to that original "amazing qualities about my boyfriend" list.

Legally, he's my husband. But seriously? He's still my boyfriend! I choose to be with him, every single day, because he still makes me happy, still makes me blush, and still makes me feel like I'm the luckiest girl alive, for what I have today. Husbands are great, and I'd recommend getting one to anyone - (Like getting a massage. You've got to try it!) - but boyfriends are better. Legally, your husband is your husband. But boyfriends? They're a choice.