A night in the life of a pregnant woman...

I pulled up in the church parking lot tonight to attend an enrichment. Another girl pulled up at the same time, so we walked inside together. “How are you feeling?” I can’t help but notice that she used the same wording that everyone seems to use now that I’m pregnant. It’s no longer “How are you doing?” but it’s “How are you feeling?” Even though people use this wording all the time now, I still hesitate for a second, wondering if she’s asking how I'm in relation to my physical well being in relation to the pregnancy or how I’m feeling as a unique human being who has feelings. Even though the answer is the same both ways, I still wish I knew exactly what I was answering.

At the enrichment, I sat among other pregnant women and/or new moms in the middle of the classroom learning how to crochet, and I had to laugh at the whole scene. I don’t know that I would want someone to judge me based solely on that image. And while it was nice to be around other pregnant women who I could relate to, it was also a reminder that I have entered a world where it is totally accepted to talk about all bodily functions in relation to the pregnancy. And when I stand up to leave with my pathetic crocheted chain in hand, I have to do a little dance to shimmy my pants up which is a common occurrence because it’s official—I can’t button up my pants anymore.

After enrichment I drove over to JB’s to visit Lance (he's manager there) and to bring him the car. Now comes the best part—one of the servers, who I would consider an acquaintance, stopped as she walked by to give my tummy a nice pat. Um…awkward? “Oh wow that’s nice and tight there, isn’t it?” I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I just smiled and nodded my head. Sure yeah whatever you say…

I really think the break was too short.

I don't think all of us were able to fully recover with the short week break we had. I'm personally taking a few trips in the next month, but what about the rest of us? What about the little people?

I think the general mind-wear from the last semester is destroying my creative ability. I picture my creative spark as this little Amish man (don't know why he's Amish,) in a room in my brain, sitting asleep in a rocking chair with his face resting on his hand. Wake up, little Amish man in my head-- I need good ideas.

Also, no matter how hard I try, I can't get to bed before 2. I'm too busy. Sister Morgan, did your sleep doctor give any good suggestions for forcing yourself to bed?

I received a letter today. It began something like this:

Dear Sara,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to Brigham Young University as a graduate student. We look forward to having you join us for your graduate studies and trust that your graduate experience will be both challenging and rewarding.

WAHOO! (I think an exclamation mark is warranted here)

I am excited. I wanted to let all of you know.

Thank you all for your friendship and encouragement.

Bear Stew and Bald Eagles

Whew. After the movie went about exactly as Sister Morgan predicted. Except for the fact that Travis and I couldn't make garlic bear burgers (for the lack of ingredients), so we had to make bear stew. It wasn't half bad, either, despite the inventive ingredients we had to add. If you're ever stranded in the wild, here's the recipe we used: (This is a look-alike bear to the one we skinned alive for our stew)


BLACK BEAR STEW
4 to 5 lbs. bear meat cut in 1 inch cubes
1/4 cup flour
1 tbs. italian seasoning (didn't have it, so we used dirt)
4 tbs. butter (we used extra fat from the bear. Didn't have butter)
2 tbs. vegetable or corn oil (Same here)
1 8 oz. tin beef broth
4 bay leaves (do not eat)
2 lb. small. potatoes
1 lb. fresh mushrooms (anything you can find is great)
5 carrots sliced
1 turnip cubed (important ingredient, so spend a while rummaging it up)
Preheat oven to 325 Degrees if you have an oven. If not, stoke a blazing fire (Leanna was good at this. You'd all be surprised.) In a large dutch oven add 2 or 3 qts. of water and all ingredients. Ideallly you'd have a skillet. We used coconut shells. Cook approx. 2 to 3 hrs. adding water if necessary checking every 30 mins.,
BON APPETITE!


I've never seen Sister Morgan dance around a fire with eagle feathers in her hair, but she must do it often because she was quite skilled at doing so. Sorry everyone missed it. I don't even have pictures of it--my camera dropped out of the tree I climbed (to surprise the bear) and shattered. Since Sister Morgan kept the eagle as a pet until Christmas, we do have pictures of him. I can't remember what she named him. Good looking guy, huh?

Slowing Down...

While many of you are reveling in the luxury of being done with finals and watching movies with friends, napping, eating chocolates, etc., I will still be sitting here in the library wrangling with the intellectual problem of Ataturk and how to write 4000 words about the historical debate over his reforms. (Due tomorrow, of course.)

This is not a topic that interests me, which is mistake number one with a research paper. I feel like a freshman who has picked a broad topic which supposedly will be easy to write about (global warming, anyone?).

That's really all I have to say. I figured since every else got a chance to whine about finals on the blog, I could too. After this paper, I have four history finals to take, so I will be living crisis-to-crisis for the next seven days, playing whack-a-mole with my tests. But--the consolation--this is the last paper I will ever have to write!! (theoretically) These are the last four finals I will ever have to take!!! Oh joy, oh bliss. After this week, life is just going to be one big peaceful sea of smooth sailing.

Celebrating My Authorship

I don't even know if "authorship" is a word, but I'm celebrating it. At least now I know that it wasn't my idiotic technology-deficient tendencies that inhibited me from contributing: I was never an author. What a relief. So, for my first post, I have some terrifying/supposedly exciting news and a movie announcement:
As for the news, Travis and I (no, we're NOT pregnant)finally decided on a graduate school. As of today, it's final. We're going to Villanova, Pennsylvania (right by Philadelphia) and we'll be leaving about the end of July. Julie, I'll be talking to you :) I'm not sure how close Villanova is to Hershey, but hey at least I know ONE person in Pennsylvania. That's a comfort. Philly is the fifth largest city in the U.S. and that is overwhelming for a Utah/Idaho-an like myself. It'll take some getting used to (that's quite the understatement), but we feel that it's the right decision. So bring it on. Here is a picture of Philly.

The movie announcement is this: (Pay attention, you bored citizens of Rexburg) we're going to see Nim's Island Wednesday at 4:20 at the Rex Theater. Those of you who can, please come! So far, it's Sister Morgan and I, but we'll have a blast with whoever shows up (cross your fingers that it's not a dumb movie. If it is, Sister Morgan is totally responsible). Here is a preview link for Nim's Island. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhPqz1VS4xU. I figure we're visual people.
Ok that's all for now. After more than a year, I finally feel part of the Writing Center all because of this blog.
~Jami Nichols~

Sorry to be a blog hog.

Wrote this last night. I needed to, for my own good. Kind of embarrassing since I promised myself I'd never write about a relationship that wasn't permanent. Sis. Morgan, if you like this better than my other essay I turned in, then please use this one. This one seems to actually have heart.

There I was, standing by the door, covered in yellow light from the street lamp. I looked down at my feet, then glanced up to watch her circle around and drive away. I was basking in the hurt, letting is fall upon me like a warm summer’s sun. Every time I would think about what she had done, the warm but almost comforting painful emotions would wash over me. She hadn’t done anything malicious, or intentionally tried to harm me, but it’s the entire situation itself. As she drove away, she yelled, “Love you!” and that painful doubt entered into my mind: did she mean it? Really, did she really mean what she just said right now?

This last weekend, for the first time in almost half a year, I had been emotionally hurt by someone else. That never happens to me. Never. I don’t allow it. The only one that ever has a real influence on how I feel about myself is me (and God, of course.) She was different, because I had let her in. For really the first time ever, I completely opened myself up to another human being. I put my trust in her arms. I actually cared what she thought about me and seriously wanted her to be happy with me. No, it had matured beyond want; it was now a need. I needed her to be happy and pleased with me. I was incomplete, unsatisfied if she wasn’t enjoying me.

That’s why this hurt. She was displeased with me, despite my best efforts. She had been mildly unsatisfied before, but it seems that in the last week she has been downright unhappy with me at times. We are at the point where we no longer see a glossy, perfect image of each other; we are beginning to see each other as we really are, good and bad. That’s hard. How could such a sweet voice be so shrill at times? Why was I hurting so much? I love her, and I want her own happiness above my own. I depended on her to feel I was worth something, to be valid.

But I had failed. I put too much dressing on the salad, which I had so proudly prepared to please her. I was too goofy around my friends she didn’t know and feel comfortable with. The movie I’ve really wanted to see was kind of weird to her. She told me to “shush” when I got in the car for our date; she was talking to her parents, but all I said was, “Say ‘hi’ to your dad for me.” It’s the shortness of patience that stings me and deflates me.

What makes those barbs sting so deep is that so often, they are only about small and unimportant things, like the salad. She got a pizza and salad from Papa Murphy’s tonight. The pizza was good. It was late, and we were hungry for some food. I remembered the salad, and had her go wait on the couch as I prepared it for her. There were two packets for dressing, and after deciding that only adding one was too little, I added the second. As I presented what I had so carefully tossed for her delight to her, I was met with a look of disdain. “Matt, there’s too much dressing on that salad, it’s gross. That salad was really expensive and I really wanted to eat it.” Oh, that hurt. It’s that feeling like someone is pulling your heart into itself. I didn’t know what to say. I sat down, and meekly apologized, and then just held my fork, not wanting to even raise it to the food we were supposed to share. She recognized what she had done, and began to apologize. She is good that, seeing when she’s accidentally let her patience slip and trying to sincerely correct the error. Despite her repairing words, I just wanted to leave. I just wanted to go home and go to bed or something, like a child would. I felt like a child. Childish, rather, so small and dependent. Then I wondered how she loved me—was is a real and deep love, as it had been for so long, or was it more of a “I have to tell you I love you even though I don’t feel it right now?” That hurt too.

Back in the yellow light, that last thought still circled my mind as she drove off. “Love you!” she shouted.

Do you? Do you really? I know she does, and realized that I love her, even when I’m down. Sometimes you just doubt.

Getting Ditched

And I don't mean getting pushed into a ditch or anything like that either, although I'm sure that would make a great blog post and story to tell the grandchildren, "so there was this one time your grandfather got pushed into a ditch and left there for dead but because he walked in the snow to school, uphill both ways in his father's pajamas, he made it through ok." No, my life is nothing like that, although walking around in this endless winter may seem like the infamous grandpa story that every old man covets to tell his grandchildren.

I guess this is a long winded way to get to my point of feeling like I got ditched. I'm the only one left in my apartment right now, everyone is gone. I have no more roomates, which also means that I don't have their messes. I don't mind so much, but I felt a twinge of sadness when I had to say goodbye to my good friend Mike Murdock, who was my roomate for this semester and a long time (or what seems like a long time) friend. I have a habit of watching for as long as I can when people I know I won't see for awhile drive away from me. I usually stand at the road's edge as they pull further and further out of sight. I wait until they really are gone from view before turning to the sound of grit under my feet and beginning the slow pondering walk back inside. Maybe I want the moment to last as long as possible, because, who knows, that may be the last time I ever see them in this mortal life.

I guess we didn't start off as friends. The first time I saw him was in a zone conference on my mission. He looked scared and new. We could see through the false bravado, and the bunch of us Chinese missionaries decided to abort our slightly evil highly mischievous plot to play a trick on him. A few months later we were companions. I was prideful, he was stubborn. We got along about as well as two people that didn't like each other could get along with each other. It seemed like he would take the contrary opinion at times just so he could argue with me (it turns out that he did that for that reason, just to make me mad). I remember one particular occasion where things got out of hand and we were busy yelling at each other in the car parked half under some palm tree trying its best to be shady. I said that God probably put us together because he wanted us to learn from each other. We were both students at BYU-I and we were both probably going to be in all the same Chinese classes together, so we better get along or else the rest of the mission and school would be tough. I don't know if I really meant what I said;I didn't know it would be prophecy.

A few months later we repented. We realized that we were both being dumb. Looking back now I attribute that to the hand of the Lord intervening and softening our hearts. We forgave each other openly and became good friends. There were hard times later, the usual trials that come from missionary work, but we were there for each other. We knew each others good sides and bad.

In November he came home, and I went to see him. I marveled at the person that he had become. Looking at him also made me think about who I had become since serving.

It's funny how things work out sometimes. The end of this semester made me think of how far Mike and I have come. He became a best friend, a friend that understood the "newer" me than my old friends from home and before. This past semester I took pride in announcing to people, "this is my roomate Mike. We used to be mission companions. We used to hate each other. We're good buddies now." And then I would grin obnoxiously, the grin that makes me look like a cartoon character.

The mission chapter has been over for some time. The school semester as well. Two and a half years of seeing each other frequently done. Now he's going to Provo because BYU-I doesn't have his major. Standing by the roadside, I had to say goodbye again to a best friend, something I realized that I'm always horrible at, and probably will be horrible at for the rest of my life.

Maybe one day, it'll all be back to the way things used to be. I really hope the scriptures are true when it says that the same sociality will exist, and I'll be able to scowl at him again when he walks into the room cheerful and smiling.

Hey, Hyrum

Couldn't get you off my mind last night. You OK over there? Well, that's a pretty dumb question. I know you're busy, but drop a line here and there to let us know you're still in one piece? Relatively speaking. And I'm not even going to write the joke I almost wrote, because I do not find this funny! Can you hear me yelling at you to stay awake and stay safe from clear across the ocean?
Sis. Morgan

There must be something in the water at the WC...

because it's going around. Summer semester, it was getting married. This fall/winter, it's getting pregnant. What I'm really trying to say? I'm pregnant now too! And I'm so excited about it! I can't believe a little person is growing inside of me. Not only is this a monumental event for me and Travis (as it's our first child), but it is also my parents first grandchild, my brother's first nephew or neice, and my grandparents (on my dad's side) first great grandchild. Woo-hoo! The expected delivery date is December 8, right before finals of my last semester--finishing school just in time to be able to stay home full-time with our baby. I'll keep you guys updated on how the pregnancy goes!

Tires. It's all about tires. Oh the delightful tires. I'm tired of tires.

I just had to use the word "Tire" no less than four times in the title of this post.

I had another one of those contemplative moments this morning. I was up until four last night working on finals. I figure two or three days a semester (and only two or three, Sister Morgan,) of mostly sleepless nights because you're busy is okay. Surprisingly, I was able to get up on time to be able to shower and take off for work and not be too late. I decided to ride my bike to save time. It's just a cheap bike my sister bought a year ago that is really worth more for its convenience than its actual monetary value (there's something to think about.) I haven't ridden it since November for the snow, and so when I pulled it out to coast off to work, the tires were flat and made this rubbery squeak as they moved along the ground. Frustrated, I stopped and used my small and inadequate hand pump to fill the tires as much as I thought was necessary.

Five minutes later, I thought I was done pumping and tried to take off again. I got down the driveway to the street, but the squeaking rubber and soggy feel of the tires let me know I wasn't done yet. I pulled over again and put more air in the tires. My triceps became sore because I was pumping so fast for so long. As usual, a thought came to my mind that attempted to validate the situation (it's interesting how my subconscious is kind enough to volunteer an explanation of my life for me without me having to actually try to find a meaning-- who cares if it's wrong?) that compared this situation to what Steven Covey calls "sharpening the saw." If we don't steal a few minutes from our labor to sharpen our saws, we'll spend all day sawing at tree but never completing the job. I was filling my tires, trying to take a few minutes to invest in a greater convenience.

I was already late for work, so I thought, "Screw it," and rode down the hill to the library. It's nice living at the top of the hill because I can just coast all the way to wherever I need to go. The tires weren't full, so the sound of rubber on metal was my companion, but it wasn't as bad as before. I was just worried that I'd hit a bump and then get a flat tire because my tires weren't full.

Now this is the typical Matt part, where I try to moralize my situation. I think I validate my life through finding some moral in events I don't find significant. I realized that right now, riding my bike was a symbol of how I felt. I am coasting through life, riding on low tires, and I don't have the time or energy to invest in filling them up. Going downhill is fine, but I'm going to have a heck of a time getting home on those low tires. Uphill riding is hazardous to the health of my inner tubes and exhausting. This inconvenience now will be a big problem later. Maybe I'll have to buy new inner tubes when they pop because they weren't full, I don't know. Don't really care right now. Just trying to get it all done.

Ominous.

Imploding

Thursday night I cried for an hour and a half, which is almost disappointing, because I managed
to reach the two hour mark the night before, and I’d hate to think I’m losing my touch.

I cried until the tears turned and ran down the inside of my face instead of the outside. They were still real, but they were now pooling in my stomach instead of on my pillow. Sometimes I choose to pull tears inside rather than show them to the world; this time they just weren’t strong enough to force their way out past all the pressure pushing in.

Every night this week brought a different kind of pressure: being caught in a nasty snowstorm and stranded in Pocatello for a night; missing classes due to said stranding; lack of sleep and proper nutrition all semester finally catching up with me; finals; white-glove checks. And then on Wednesday my older brother, my closest brother, coming and telling me he won’t be able to be at my wedding. It was something I already knew but we had never discussed. I held him and we cried for two hours.

By the time Thursday hit I was just hoping to get through the day. My Chinese teacher stopped me after class and asked, “Are you okay? Some days you seem…” I looked her in the eye and said, “Some days I’m here, some days I’m not. Today I wasn’t.” She nodded. What do you say to that? I made it all the way to seminar, and read my blood essay. That went well. I had been reliving and re-writing it all week, which probably contributed some to my current state. Then, as I walked home, I called my mom. Normally calling my mom is a good thing, a chance to vent, or a release, or a source of good advice. But this week happened to be as rough for her as it was for me.

How did I get caught between my mom and my brother? I still don’t know how I managed that one. My mom is telling me things to pass on to my brother because she can’t talk to him. He won’t answer her calls or her emails. He’s threatening to cut off contact with our entire family (in hopes of “finding himself”; we’ve all heard that one before), but decided this week that he couldn’t cut ties with me, and so when he moves he’s agreed to give me his new phone number. Will that forever make me the go-between? Yet I refuse to let him disappear, so I guess I’m taking on the mantle willingly.

Everything that had been beating at me all week had come to rest, and was now just there, close enough to be an extra layer of skin. I couldn’t take full breaths, because my lungs couldn’t expand that far; this new skin was not giving any ground. And it was shrinking. It tightened around me, pushing through my actual skin and squeezing my resisting organs experimentally as it drove anything mobile toward a central point: my stomach. The stomach protested; it was already full of tears, and now all my other emotions and stresses were being chased like refugees from my mind, heart, and limbs to hide within that poor organ. My stomach was feeling such contrasting pressures from within and without; I was pretty sure I was imploding. I wondered how long it would take; I was really tired, and wished that tightening noose would just finish collapsing me so I could either die or get some sleep.

Well, it turns out the human body doesn’t like to implode. Mine didn’t, anyway. It decided to rebel: if the pressure wanted to make it implode, my stomach was going to do the opposite.

I exploded.

That’s the first time I’ve ever puked from stress. It worked wonders—once I had a physical problem, I was somehow able to shut out the rest. No more finals, no more wedding, no more family—all gone in the pain of losing everything I’d eaten that day.

Discovered

I decided that I want to be discovered. I know. This sounds absolutely insane. But it is decided. That is what I want to with my life. I want to be discovered. I can go on Broadway and sing sad songs and learn how to dance and be told that I am wonderful. And after that I will become a famous playwright.

This implies so many tantalizing possibilities.

1- I don't have to hunt for a job! When your discovered, the job finds you. You just have to sit at some corner street cafe and look pretty. I can do that... Maybe.
2- I don't have to teach for the rest of my life.
3- I will have enough funds that I will never have to go to Wal-mart again. Enough said.

I explained this urge to David the other day. He attempted to satisfy me by making me stand next to a wall while he walked around the corner. Then he'd say, "You're perfect! You've been discovered." It made me smile.

Maybe I have had way too much Roadshow for the past month. That's the only way to explain this bizarre desire. If I am not thinking about student teaching, it's all about Roadshow. It's gotten to the point that yesterday at dinner I was talking about it yet again, and David said, "Do you remember that there was a time in our lives when we didn't talk about the Roadshow?" Sad. I can't remember.

I think I must have low self-esteem. I need other people to tell me that I am wonderful to feel valued.
This is a sad confession. I've always wanted to be a confidant, self-asserted individual. I don't want to have to rely on what other people say to feel good about myself. I just want to by myself. I probably wouldn't even like being a performer. The only thing I can play on a guitar is "Jet Plane" and the only play I've been in was Fiddler on the Roof. I was random mama Jew number 2.

So maybe being discovered isn't the answer. But it won't prevent me from sitting at a corner cafe for a few hours, just in case.

Answer to the toilet question

Breaking news--It's offical. The middle stall in a bathroom is the dirtiest. I just read it online in an MSN article. Now I know. And now, I will never again use the middle stall. Finally...my bathroom worries are over.

Empo

3:54 AM and frowning in the dark

God wants me awake. That’s the conclusion I have come to after laying here in my empty room for the past hour and a half. I’ve tried everything from Enya to Tylenol PM and still I just keep on trucking. I’m quickly becoming bitter as to why my body wants to go to sleep later and later. I swear I was Chinese in my past life and my biorhythms are reverting back to it. I might just be melodramatic, but I feel so incredibly frustrated that I can’t just do what I’m supposed to. Right now, the vast majority of Rexburg is sleeping away while I’m skulking in the glow of my computer screen. I should be used to this feeling by now, the feeling of frustration from not doing what I should. Mormons, by nature, get married quickly. We run around as fast as we can, trying to find that special someone who will last the eternities with us. It’s really the main reason why we’re here, and yet, I refuse. Well, refuse isn’t the right word. It’s frustrating me knowing that getting married is something that I should do, but the other half of me just won’t. I don’t know what it is about marriage that scares me, but it’s slowly creeping towards me and I’m putting on my Nikes. I used to think that it was because I didn’t like how there was a set Mormon timeline of what age you have to do everything by. I hate how we just expect someone to do something so monumental as to seal one’s self to another person before a certain age. I ruled this out as a good point, but not the source of the real problem. It’s not love. I have been in love before, that’s not the problem. I have been hurt before and I have hurt someone before and I don’t want to repeat either. Could that be the reason? No, I think that’s another symptom. Sometimes I forget who I am and feel so worthless. I just wonder who would deserve someone like me. I’m still trying to find the reason as I lay here, awake and frustrated.

jumbled thoughts

My mom called me from Ohio today. She took my siblings there for spring break. Weird that it's only a place to visit anymore.

I made a rather large quantity of donuts this morning. Cake donuts, yeast donuts, filled donuts, donut holes. Only my Canadian friend came over to help me eat them. It was really cool.

I decided to take a nap after the the 2 o'clock session of conference. I set my alarm to wake up at 5:30 so I would still make it to Shannon's bridal shower. I woke up at 6:45. Sorry Shannon.

While I was taking a nap, my roommate so kindly texted me from the living room demanding I do the dishes. Funny thing, I washed all the dishes I used making donuts and loaded the dishwasher besides. Do your own freakin' dishes.

I have three papers due Monday, and I'm taking two finals. What a joy.

My mom is coming to Rexburg for my graduation. I need to clean up my apartment and begin packing. She is going to help me move my stuff into a storage unit in Utah until I know what I’m doing.

After graduation, I am getting my wisdom teeth pulled. A dentist/oral surgeon in Rexburg will do the extraction at 8am on Monday morning. Promptly after, while I am still woozy, my mom is driving me down to Ogden. I am staying at my aunt’s house for a few days to recover. Then I am going down to Provo to stay with my cousin and look for an apartment.

I don't even know if I'm going to Grad School.

I am going to an advertising competition on April 25. I don’t think our campaign is very well-developed, yet I will be representing my team in front of hundreds of advertising professionals. I feel like a fool. If I don’t get accepted to Graduate School, this would be a great opportunity for me to interview for a job, but I don’t know anymore. Starting my career just isn’t what I want to do right now.

I’m visiting friends in Portland for a few days after the advertising competition and conference conclude. Then, I am flying ‘home’ to Georgia. My mother wants me to come live there so badly. I need a break, so I figure I’ll take the summer off and live with my family. I just wish they weren’t in Georgia.

I don’t want to leave my roommates, who over the course of a year have become my sisters. I know I’ll find new friends, but I’ll miss them.

I’m not ready to leave the Writing Center and the security it gives me. Here, I am valued. I’m afraid I’ll lose a piece of myself if I leave. What worries me more is that I’m not sure I know how to find it again.

I’m scared of starting over. I’ll be graduated, but I’m starting at zero again. In the business world, I am nothing. A greenie with no experience. In graduate school, I’m just a freshman again. In Georgia, I have no friends. No one knows me there. No matter where I go, the things I’ve worked to accomplish seem insignificant.

It reminds me of a song from August Rush.

King of the Earth
John Ondrasik

I'm as crazy as clown tonight
a clown without a crown tonight
a simple sack of wishes and bones.
I'm as useless as a memory
the day before it came to me
to save your time stitches and stones

But once in my life I was the king of the earth
once in my life,
I was.

I've flown horses on the skies above
that ain’t enough for you my love
to fill these empty castles with ghosts
I've married devils to their history
stood where you would bury me
through a time of statues and rows

But once in my life I was the king of the Earth
Once in my life,
I was.

Now that the stars have frozen in their places,
all that I hold seems gone
now that the stars have fallen from their faces
I will see you on

I'll never be your picture present
but I hope you go the rose I sent
to save your town of stitches and bones
I'm nothing more than a simple man
born to be American
out to draw these bridges and motes

but once in my life I was the kind of the Earth
Once in my life...

"PLEASE Forgive Me"

Because you don't say good-bye, I never realized that I had actually left Rexburg & thought I could run down & talk to you any time. Guess not. Has it been a year or so already?
How are you doing? I have thought about you & the writing center often. I just happened to luck out last night and find one blog link that led to another resulting in finding the writing center blog. It was joy to my soul! Of course, I must admit that I find it somewhat confusing because I don't know when things were written nor by whom they were written. It seems like people are getting married, going on missions, having babies, & of course, being as crazy as usual. OH MY GOODNESS! Life never stops. Nevertheless, I knew that I could no longer not write you.

So, I hope this does not get lost in your inbox like my essay did that one time. (Still waiting for feedback on that one). I hope you may have two seconds to write back something quick about what YOU are up to & HOW you are doing.
My life from the past year-ish has been documented on my blog: www.sarahsemptyspaces.blogspot.com. For a quick rundown (since I know you could be doing something more productive than surfing your inbox for random emails from former WC assistants) it goes like this:
1. We are having a baby girl some time around June 20. (Yes, that means my jeans don't fit)
2. Skyler is doing graduate work in Landscape Architecture at Utah State.
3. We are living in my parents house while they are on their mission.
4. They are living with us while they are home between two missions. (They were in Paraguay but came home earlier than expected because my dad has been called to be a mission president in California Ventura)
5. They are to be in the MTC June 21.
6. I miss you & BYU-Idaho.
7. I have been working two part-time jobs. One as a speech aide in a preschool & one as a receptionist in a dental office. Learning about real life.
8. I am a complete failure as a writer. I need to write more.
9. You will forever be an inspiration to me.

Hope this email finds you well. Say hi to everyone.
Love,
Sarah (Westergard)

Hey, Hi Girl. Congrats. Bring in baby and Skyler when you visit. We miss you also.

Emily's Diagnosis

Emily Poteet, Bryndie, Leanna, Julie, and soon others from the Center will be in the schools teaching. Emily showed us an image of her getting sucked in to a cute little game of bluff called "who's got the power here and who's smarter?" She wants a reason why she dropped to the cute girl's level. Emily, I thought you were wonderful. It was a play for power, and you won. Nice work. I think your diagnosis is you just had a strong reaction (not quite as strong as Hyrum's though) to dealing with someone who lacks manners, is already rude (at her age, what a shame) and who is caught up in judging rather than learning. (In this case she judges people by what they wear? Whew.) She also sounds like someone who wanted attention and used a negative way to get it. If you hadn't reacted, I would have worried about you. Lesson? Do something about these little snots. Change the path they walk on before they grow up to be pink robot Barbie Dolls. Those of you who teach actually do stand on a battleground just as hard and dangerous as Iraq. You’re fighting Satan, and the prize you’re fighting over is the children themselves. Make a difference. You are the teacher. When you change children and move them toward good manners, respect for other people, kindness, and curiosity, you’ll affect us all. You have great power. If you want to change the whole world, start with the children.

Random Act Confession

This blog is dedicated to the random acts in our lives (e.g. Sister Morgan building a snowman at 2 am). Think of the most random thing (at least out-of-the-ordinary for you) you have done today, and post it! I'll start.

I just signed up for a pony tail challenge--a week without doing my hair in a ponytail--on a friends blog. Have to say that that's a first for me.

At least there's only 6 weeks left...

Today during first period, just as I thought we were learning, an adorable little girl said, “Miss Poteet, your skirt bugs me.” I wish I could illustrate her face as she said it. It was one of those situations that causes me to want to hit someone…and I rarely feel that way.

I wanted to say, “Yeah? Well you bug me.” But then I remembered I’m not stuck in 8th grade anymore. I shouldn’t act like them. I’m the teacher, so I tried to be the adult in the situation and just said in my sweetest sarcastic voice, “That’s okay. You don’t have to like my clothes. Quite frankly, I don’t have to like your clothes, either. But none of that matters right now. You should be working on your questions.”

Hours later, I realize I was just as bratty as she was, but it felt good. It felt so good that I couldn’t stop there. I said to the class (but mainly I was just hoping “cute girl” was listening), “Oh, by the way class, since I’m thinking about it, you should probably stop passing notes to each other because every time you pass one, I take 10 more points from your participation grade. So some of you are failing. Oh well though. You don’t have to like my grading, either.”

RUDE! Who am I? Where did these sassy comments come from? Why am I acting like I’m 14? There’s got to be something psychologically wrong with me…can someone diagnose me, please?

This is me

This is me not writing my big fat essay that's due tomorrow in Bro. Samuelson's class. No big deal. It's 7:30, which means I have about eight hours before my brain hits the switch and says, "no more, buddy." Nine if I steal a can of Mountain Dew from my roommate.

I'm trying to think of what's been on my mind lately, but I'm not coming up with much. This paper I'm not working on, being a TA, and girl stuff. That's all. That's depressing. These are worries, and they're not even very cool ones. I want exciting and happy things hanging around in my head.

Sister Morgan, I think that snow falling past a light at night looks like a crowd of people all moving in the same direction, like people crossing the street in New York City or Chicago or someplace like that.

The first person to respond to this post gets a mint.

Chan