I got married at 23. Not exactly an old maid, right? Well, I'm going to tell you a little secret about me: I didn't like being single.

To me, singledom did not equal freedom. Yes, I had a college education, owned a condo, had a career, and could pretty much come and go as I pleased. But I always felt like it was incomplete. I did what I was supposed to. I went to the single's ward, I was involved in activities, I made friends. But I still didn't date.

I tried internet dating. I met a lot of creeps (yes, even on the LDS websites).

I went on blind dates. I met a lot of creeps (yes, even friends of friends).

I asked my mom for advice. She didn't know what to tell me (she married my dad at 19, in her first year of college).

I tried to let people know (without being obvious, of course) what a great catch I was. I was smart! Funny! Driven! Unique!

Still, no success.

I think part of my problem was my directness. I didn't play the games. If I was interested, I'd let you know. Likewise if I wasn't interested. I didn't wait around to be chased. If I wanted something, I went for it. I was open, honest, and maybe a little bit "in your face."

I asked my husband on our first date. Even after spending hours in his car talking (yes, really talking) after our date, he informed that he wasn't interested in me the way I was in him. Even when we started spending 3 or 4 evenings a week together, just as friends of course, he still wasn't interested in me "that way." He spent Christmas Eve with my family, but we were still in the Friend Zone. However, looking back at things, we actually moved rather fast: first date in November, officially together in February, engaged in April, and married in August.

Sometimes I lie awake at night in bed, looking at my sleeping husband, and wonder how I finally got it right. How did I finally catch this crazy, funny, greasy, tattooed man? How could I have ever doubted that someone this perfectly flawed could be waiting for me? He gets me in a way that no one else does. He lives with my emotional outbursts. He is patient with me, even when my crazy is showing. He lets me rant and rave and be angry, and then he changes the subject and we move on. He loves me unconditionally. I really, truly think that I have the best husband out there.

For me, anyway.

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Hit me with your best shot. 

YOUR best post of THIS week. 

Go! 

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Infertility can often feel like a never ending ferris wheel ride. You go around and around, the ferris wheel slows. You think it is your turn to get off, but suddenly it picks up speed and your hope of returning to solid ground is shattered.

This is a common feeling. There are amazing miracles that occur, there are the ones who are lucky enough to get off. But what if you are not one of them? Here are some ideas on how to ease the pain and make the ride, at least, bearable.

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The other day at the 99 cent store (love that place) I came upon a rarity...

Nestle. Tollhouse. Cookie dough. 

For a buck.  

A buck people!  And it wasn't just the plain ol' regular choc chip cookie dough....it was the their "ultimate's" selection.  Like Chocolate chips and chunks with pecans and chocolate chip cookies with chocolate filling and jumbo chocolate chip cookie dough.....so as you can guess, I filled up my cart with some yummy goodness.  Well, not the entire cart...just about 10 dollars worth....but hey, it was a lot for me.

So this entire week, our family has been munching and enjoying the sugary delight that only the makers of Nestle Toll House can produce.  "Forget the gym for a bit." I said to my inner self, as I licked the gooy chocolate goodness off my fingers.  And I did.  Until I checked the scale yesterday.  What the?!  Are you kidding me?!  I only had a few cookies....oh wait....I bought 10 dozen raw cookies......and I hate to admit it....but I had baked all but 2 of the packages I'd bought.  Crap.

I got home from the gym feeling quite ashamed of myself.  I looked at an empty cookie dough package sticking out of the trash and inwardly cried, "You evil thing you!"  I picked it up, ready to.....oh, I don't know....put it in time out?  Then I turned it over for some reason and read the top of the package that I'd half way cut off.  I immediately laughed.

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It was a rush to get my husband out of the door to work and my morning clock was already ticking too fast with a to-do list a mile long. I was scattered and a bit stressed far too early in the morning.

We both ended up loading into our cars at the same time and in the rush we had forgotton to say prayer. Once we realized this, we made a quick effort to do so. With my son buckled into his carseat with the door open, and myself standing right outside my husband's car door, we bowed our heads to pray.

My husband caught me off-guard. He thanked our Father in Heaven for where we are now. 

My mind wandered. We had hit a very rough spot. A spot that seemed difficult to get past and my mind was troubled with questions like, "why and how and when?"

And yet, he thanked Him.

All I thought was, "how could he thank Him?" I listened to the still small voice. And I am here. And I don't want to be here. I want to move forward, or backward, or go anywhere but here.

And in a very still moment, I felt my heart soften. It was peaceful and calm. And my mind joined his in prayer. And I found myself thanking our Maker too.

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Carrie lives in Seattle with her family of 4. Her passions include photography, writing, reading, and above all else-- being a wife and mother. She has been trying for ten years to make the perfect chocolate chip cookies, would secretly like to learn how to throw a yo-yo correctly, and is finally mature enough to admit that she's not a fan of decorating cupcakes. GASP. You can find more of her at The Rowdy Stroudy's.

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Do you have a favorite dish that you like to prepare? One that makes you feel like a cooking genius? One of mine is coconut rice. It's a recipe I have created and refined over the past few years.

I ate coconut rice for the first time at The Garden restaurant on the roof of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building in 2007. It's subtle sweetness melted in my mouth along with the contrasting saltiness of the teriyaki salmon it accompanied. Ever since that day, I have worked at recreating that dish.

Just this summer I have finally accomplished the perfect coconut rice! The good news is that I am going to share it with you. Also, I have found the perfect prepared teriyaki sauce for my salmon and I can't imagine why it would not be fabulous on chicken. I will share that with you also!

by Amy Dotson

1. Put olive oil, onions and raw coconut in a saucepan and sautee for 2 minutes. Add rice and salt. Sautee until lightly browned.

2. Add coconut/water mixture, sugar and butter to the rice. Stir until it comes to a boil.

3. Turn temperature to low, put on pan lid and cook covered for 13 minutes. After 13 minutes, taste for your own balance of sweet and salty. Add more sugar and/or salt of needed (personal taste). Replace the lid and cook an additional 7 minutes.

4. Toss with toasted coconut before serving.

1. Place salmon in a sealable container. Pour over desired amount of teriyaki sauce. Spread red onion slices over the top.

2. Replace lid and marinate for about 1 hour. Turn it a couple of times about 1/2 way through the time.

3. When ready to cook, place on foil lined baking sheet and put into a preheated 415 degree oven for 10 minutes. Check fish. Cook for up to 14 minutes depending on size of fillet.

4. Serve hot with the above coconut rice.

You will be considered a cooking rockstar if you will serve this meal at your next dinner party. And, because I love you, I am going to tell you how to make a delicious pineapple mango salsa you could serve on top of the salmon!

by Kamie Allen (my niece)

Chop up and mix!

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I was woken up at 0300 by small fingers poking my face. I opened my eyes to see our two year old looking expectantly up at me, his blankie clutched tightly in his arms. I hauled him up and settled him down between us, a familiar routine that didn't require any speech. I fell asleep quickly, but woke up soon after when Oliver and I found ourselves being pummeled by his little feet as he tried to sleep horizontally on the bed. He started crying when we protested this behavior, and I eventually settled onto a sliver of the bed for the rest of night, where I slept somewhat fitfully until dawn.

These nocturnal visits have become an almost nightly thing in the last few months, ever since we removed the side of Oscar's crib. He'd been showing some signs of being ready for night training, waking up and asking to go potty, so it seemed time. With many misgivings, we took the plunge and hoped for the best.

Unfortunately, the end result has not been an end to diapers, but an end to me being able to sleep through the night. I feel like I've time warped back to when he was nursing at night. Oliver and I have had more than one conversation in the light of day about what we can do to train him to stay in his bed.

I'll be honest, though. As much as I want my sleep, I'm loathe to do anything about this. The truth is I love it when he snuggles down next to me, his little body curling tightly next to mine. I love feeling so needed, so wanted by my little son that he will come out of his room soon after we put him to bed and loudly order me to "go to bed with Daddy" so he can come join us.

This little guy is well on his way to his third birthday, and I know that someday, these visits will stop on their own. Someday, he'll be too big and sleeping with his parents will not hold the same appeal it does now. Someday he won't let me cuddle him closely. I also know he may very well be our last child, which makes this all the more poignant.

So, I'm sacrificing some sleep right now. I think it's a small price to pay for memories that will make me smile long after he's grown and gone. That time is coming far too fast.

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Some children love to read. They peruse the picture book section of the library, excited to discover new stories. Eventually, they graduate to chapter books and young readers, their love affair with the written word growing as they do.

I was not one of those children. Reading came very hard for me and only after many, many years of frustration and determination--both on my part and my mother's.

Now, as a literate and book-addicted adult, I look back on my road to reading and realize just how crucial the summers were. My mother didn't allow us to lull away our summer vacation. She enrolled us every year in our local library's reading program and scheduled trips to the library every week. Thanks to my mother's dedication and a group of caring librarians who helped me find books that would capture the interest of a reluctant reader, I eventually began enjoying what I was reading enough for it to be worth the monumental effort the undertaking required.

So, this time of year I often find myself reflecting on those books I remember most from our annual summer reading fest.

Which books do you remember from your childhood? Which made an impact? Which have you shared with your own children?

I was fortunate to have a mother who didn't give up on me, who worked hard to help me develop a love of reading. She likely would never have guessed during those years of struggle that her daughter, who could hardly string words together and seldom made it through a book without pushing it aside in frustration, would grow up to be an author.

We as parents, as caregivers, as teachers may not know precisely what we are preparing our children to do, but we can profoundly impact the person they will become.

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The question pierced me this morning. Tears fell as I walked away. Sadness filled my heart.

Yet, I came away from the situation renewed and comforted by an understanding bigger than my sadness. I came away knowing that there WAS something wrong with my son.

We waited for the bus(es) to come in the rain. My son's bus comes at 8:11am and my daughter's at 8:13am. His bus takes him to his preschool within another elementary while my daughter attends the elementary school within our boundaries.

The timing of each bus schedule is perfect for us. As soon as I buckle him into his seat and wave goodbye, my daughter's bus turns around the corner to pick the other children up.

However, the moment he began riding the bus to his school it confused a lot of the children since his comes at relatively the same time. Eventually all the children and parents realized that the first bus was just for him.

This morning was the usual. We saw his bus come around the corner and the other children remained playing with the knowledge that it wasn't their turn yet. My son and I said hello to the bus driver and his classmate, buckled the seat belt and gave kisses before I walked back down the steps and out the door. My daughter and I waved through the window while he smiled back, and then she asked if I would stay until her bus arrived a minute later.

As hers was being loaded I chatted lightly with a grandfather about the nasty weather today compared to yesterday's full sunny bloom. He was the epitome of a "mountain man". Gruff on the outside, but you could see he was gentle and kind. He suddenly stepped a little closer and with a slight whisper asked, "I have been meaning to ask.. what is wrong with your son?"

Knowing what kind of man he was I immediately responded without sharpness and said, "oh nothing! He has a speech delay so he attends another school that caters to that." I knew his word of "wrong" simply meant "different." I was casual. I was cool. There was no reason to be offended because offense was not offered to me from him. Just simple curiosity. Unfounded of course, because the only thing different about my son in my eyes is that he attends another school.

We smiled and said our goodbyes and I ran to my car while the sky cried large drops. I closed my door and sat behind my steering wheel.

I couldn't turn on the ignition. The reality of what he said and what I said began caving in on me. I was wounded. My defenses were down. He was right. Unknowingly and unobtrusively right.

I remembered how my son has apraxia. I remembered how my son goes to a classroom only with other children who have delays. I remembered how we have to work with him every day to pronounce syllables correctly and to curb his frustration and to not hit. I remembered that just last month he bit his toes and fingers so badly they bled and he continued to do so regardless. I remembered that he's not like your child.

I had forgotten because what we deal with is the norm for our family. Each stage in his life is all we have ever known for him, and we embrace each and every growth. He's preparing to attend kindergarten in a year. He's preparing to be like everyone else, but he is not. We are hopeful, but right now he is not.

I explained to my MIL through my tears what had transpired. She was nonchalant as well. "But he seems just fine. You would never even think something was wrong," she said.

I know that. He is fine. And we are fine because it is what we know, but we are different. He rides a different bus. He attends a different school. Embracing that difference is what matters most and I know that now.

It was good to be reminded.

I am proud to say that there is something different about my son. Not wrong, but his battle at this point in life is truly and innately his own. Different from anyone else.


I remembered. And I am oh-so-grateful for that.

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Did you write something amazing this week?

Did you make a project or bake a fabulous cake?

Show us!

We want to see!

Link up!

Everyone's doing it!

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I noticed yesterday that Wal-Mart is starting to stock up on their school supplies. Notebooks and folders in primary colors will now start popping up near entrances in stores everywhere (they're the ones right next to the Christmas supplies).

School, it's the love/hate relationship of every mother from California to Maine and it all starts with those blasted notebooks.

Pretty soon there will be school lists and clothing lists. There will be open houses and kindergarten camps. Parents everywhere will be forking out hundreds of dollars for crayons, pencils, markers, erasers, paper, binders, headphones, and glue, none of which they will ever see again.

There will be backpacks, alarm clocks, and shoes to buy. Hair appointments to be made, bikes to fix-up and bedtimes to restart. All in the hopes that the fateful day will come and you can gratefully (yet lovingly) push them out the door with a kiss and a 'Have fun.'

Then you'll be able to crash on a chair and just breath.

Well, that is until you realize they've forgotten their lunch or when they call to inform you they missed the bus.

Don't forget that you'll have to be up at 6AM every morning and you'll STILL be racing to get them out the door on time. But you will be able to go grocery shopping in peace. You'll be able to go to the post office without a tornado following you in. You'll be able to listen to whatever dang music you want for as long as you want and as loud as you want!

Until 3PM when everyone will come screaming and pouting into the car, explaining how they didn't like what was for lunch (and somehow it's your fault they didn't eat). Ah, but they'll go to bed at 7PM and you can throw yourself on the couch and just breath for five minutes. . . . Before you realize there's no clean clothes or milk money.

Then there's those stupid reading logs. Who came up with those? Can't you just take my word for it that my kid read? Do I really need to fill out and sign an affidavit?

My favorite is the food requests. It's as if every teacher shops at the same exotic foods store and I've somehow missed the memo on where exactly the place is located. "Our class is learning about islands this week. I've asked each child to bring one island themed food to share with the class. To make things easier I've assigned everyone a specific item. Your daughter has been asked to bring Mango Marshmallows. Two bags should be enough."

If you thought being in school was hard... trying doing homework for four kids! But don't worry I've heard that the Science Fair isn't until next year.

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I asked a good friend to write me a letter of recommendation the other day. You see, I've decided to go back to school and better myself and I need money to do it - more specifically, scholarship money. One particular scholarship required people I know to write letters describing my good qualities.

Asking for this letter was like pulling my fingernails off with pliers. But I did it. ('Cause I'm bettering myself, right?)

I got one of those letters back today - and let me tell you, it was worse to get the letter than to ask for it! Not because it was bad. No, in fact, it was good. Too good. It discussed the many good qualities my friend thinks I have.

Boy, was he ever fooled!

At least, that's what goes through my head when I read/hear/see/think good things about me.

I'm not sure why this is. I know it's ridiculous to see myself so negatively. I know that I don't want my children to see themselves (or me) in such negative tones. I want them to grow up and appreciate how wonderful they are.

Just what my own mother wanted for me. (Help me, I'm turning into my mother!)

Why is it that we hesitate to take compliments? Those of you that share my penchant for That Girl's blogs will probably recall a post that talked about this very same issue. (I can give credit where credit is due, but don't try to make me take it.)

Perhaps I see myself too much in shades of black and white. Since I cannot be perfect then I must be the farthest thing from it. Since I ran out of patience, perhaps I never really had any. Since I cannot control my temper, maybe I am actually a mean person. Since I didn't execute my vision to it's full potential, then my vision must have been flawed to begin with.

Rather than seeing my potential as potential, I see it as my shortfall.

So, perhaps, my journey to bettering myself should begin today, with this letter from a friend. Perhaps my first step is outside myself, looking in, finding the goodness that others see and building on that. Perhaps my first lesson will be about perfection.

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