I know it's been forever and a day. A long time. This move has left my head spinning, and it's still spinning. This move has been the most stressful thing to happen to me in a long time. I've had a hard time getting a routine going. A hard time adjusting if said routine was thrown off, if even by a planned event. I clung to plans like a child clings to their safety blanket with pink bunnies printed on the fabric. I worked really hard at 'showing up'. Hard. And I worked hard at seeing things through other people's eyes, when really, I should have been using my own eyes and stating what I needed.
What I needed was space. And space is hard to come by when you're living with in-laws and parents. I felt like a bird, being held too tight. My wings were cramped and it was all I could do not to burst and fly the coop.
Slowly I have regained the independence I once had. A little each day, each hour I have alone at the house with Alaska. I prefer it that way. Me cleaning, her playing, and as I have started to feel better about life I notice myself reaching out to others. Brighter smiles because I want to, not because it's polite. Inviting people over for lunch because I want to, not because I need a friend.
It's been really hard and sometimes the hardness still catches me off-guard. Just when I think things are ok, something happens and I have to focus hard to make everything go in the right direction instead of flying every which way. It's still hard for me to make plans. I want every day at home, in my own home, and I want control over that. It's been almost 6 months. When will that go away? If I make plans to do some errands or take Alaska to the park I almost always chicken out and prefer to stay at home and clean the bathroom or mop one more time. I think, in all honesty, it's a sickness.
Our house is nearly always spotless and I know that's something that has got to stop. I get a hard thump in my heart if something is dirty. I need a new hobby, bad. I've printed all my pictures off. All of them. They came in a huge box while I was gone on vacation. I am still trying to get the courage to unbox them and sort, because I know it will make a mess. Who thinks that of something they used to love? I would rather have a clean house that scrap some photos? Something is definitely wrong. And it's not even that sorting will make a mess, the mess doesn't come until you start scrapping them all and there's pieces of paper and pictures all over the place.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
25 Mistakes Parents Make: episode 1
I may be jumping the gun on this one, but if I wait until Alaska
and Orson and Talmage and unknown baby girl (Steve it hoping for Emily) become
of the age to be practicing to prevent the top 25 mistakes parents make then I
am going to be too pooped and busy to sit down and read a book about it.
I've had this strong feeling lately. About families.
It probably started in college when we were writing research papers on
the dullest book in history, in fact, it was the first chapter book ever
written about the American West, a total classic, but as boring as all get-out
and it was either write a paper on that book or Huckleberry Finn, which had
already been ruined for me in highschool. Please don't make me sound out
every word Jim says in my head, ever again.
Anyways, I ended up writing about the role of men and women in
that book and when I was presenting my final project to my teacher he mentioned
that there has been quite a bit of research done on the "American
front-porch" and how it has been declining, and with that, family values
have been declining, and the significance of the two combined. I was
enthralled, but worn out from the research I had already done and was not about
to go do more. So I never learned anything concrete, but the idea has
been festering in my mind. This declining of family and family values and
how the idea of 'family' is changing to include any group of people that love
each other enough to sacrifice for one another and how is it really important
that you get together with your family if there is really no strong bonds and
is it just as important, or more important, to keep those close friends you
have made in your life and have 'friend reunions' on a regular basis.
AND THEN ever since the mission age has dropped for both young men
and young women I have a stronger desire build these children of mine and steer
them toward a mission. Not that I want that to be their life-goal, but
that I want to raise them so that their hearts are in the right place at that
time in their life to want to go on their own accord. And that when they
get back, they will just be touching down to the ground and will take off
running toward their next adventure. I don't want their mission to be the
main point of all that is good. It is good to be knowledgeable in the
gospel and have strong testimonies for so many more reasons than to serve a
mission.
I know it is a large goal, a huge endeavor, but if I can do one
thing in this world, it will be to raise righteous children who will become
courageous young adults who will become stalwart adults and create stalwart
families. That is my greatest desire, even as my first baby is a mere 18
months. And I will do all that I can to make sure that comes to past.
There are so many things I can worry about, as a mother, to hope that my
children are well-rounded. Social, talented, beautiful, and all the other
things. But as I study more about the gospel and rely on the promises
made about what a mother can do to raise wonderful children I find myself calm
in the knowledge that they will round themselves if I only lay the foundation
good and strong. That's not my job, to round them. My job is to
love unconditionally and teach with passion.
These are the promises I am clinging to. And if I have to
teach family home evening every single Monday night for the rest of my life on
these topics, so be it.
"Ninety-nine out of every hundred children who are taught by
their parents the principles of honesty and integrity, truth and virtue, will
observe them through life."
Wilford Woodruff
"Not one child in a hundred would go astray, if the home
environment, example and training, were in harmony with the truth in the gospel
of Christ, as revealed and taught to the Latter-Day Sants."
Joseph F. Smith
Mistake No 1: Failure to establish a home environment that
reflects the gospel.
Me: Conquered. I got our official "Jesus picture"
just this last time I was in Utah, and I can honestly say, it makes a
difference in our home. There's just something extra warm and cozy about
having a picture of the temple and a picture of Jesus in sight. Like
everything is right in the world, even if that world is just a 30x30 foot
combined living-room and kitchen.
The author also spoke about what we listen to, hang on our walls,
watch on t.v., what books are on our shelves and how we treat one another and
those people who come over. How these things should reflect our beliefs
and what we value.
He told a bit about Sister. Hinckley. How her mother had
placed a large picture of Christ in the room she shared with her sisters to
remind them of who they are and what they want to become. And she married
a prophet. Not that we all need to marry prophets, but it's nice to know
that the potential is there.
There was some good statistics about media in the house and media
in a youth's room, but it's not really that big of deal for me since Handsome
Husband and I have already decided about that. How there is no need for
the children to have media in their rooms and how there will be no t.v. in the
house but to watch movies on. It's how we both grew up, and we were fine.
There were a couple of times I had to watch some news for a social
studies class and for those few times I went over to a friend's house to watch.
No big deal.
I just wonder, how we can expect other kids to come over to our
house when we have no fancy t.v. set up with a fancy game system and lots of
channels to choose from. And how you can have family time that doesn't
revolve around the t.v. Already the kids in the apartment complex we live
in have noticed that we don't have a t.v. But they keep coming over, so
maybe it's not as important as I think it is.
I love this advice, "Look closely at posters or pictures that
are on the walls, along with CDs, DVDs, books, magazines, clothes, and shoes.
All tell a story of how children are doing. If you see no evidence
of Christ and abundant evidence of the world, there is reason to be
concerned."
And also, "Sit down in your most used furniture and look
straight ahead. What do you see? Is it a picture of Christ?
Do you see a beautiful temple picture? Remember that whatever you
see, everyone else who lives in your home or visits sees the same thing."
I am working really hard at making our home environment something
that others want to be a part of. It has always been a dream of mine to
be the house that all the kids want to be at. To be an example for good
to more than just my immediate family.
The past little while I was striving especially hard to have the
spirit of Christ in our home. And you know what I learned? I can
take the garbage out, I can hang things on the wall, I can move boxes and I can
set up a table. All by myself and all without nagging Handsome Husband
about it. And you know what the most miraculous thing about this whole
project was? He did the dishes. Picked up the living room.
Put Alaska to bed. Without me even expecting it or asking.
Because I had done my part of making our home welcoming instead of a
place where there were demands, I feel like that rubbed off on him and things
were much more peaceful and he helped because he wanted to.
And one more, just because I never want to forget. While I
was doing this little experiment of mine, one of the little girls that runs
around outside all the time, came over. She stepped in, walked over and
sat on the couch and said, "It feels good in here." Not,
"it looks good." or, "it smells good." The key
words of, "it FEELS good." I could have called my life complete
at that point. She doesn't know how those words made my heart leap, and
will never know, but I want everyone who comes to our house to notice the
difference and how it just feels good to be somewhere clean, taken care of and
where everyone is loved unconditionally.
Let's Talk Clothes for a Minute
I have a confession to make. I HATE getting dressed in the morning. Nix that, I hate getting dressed, doesn't matter so much what time of day it is.
It's just too hard to pick something for the day. The hardness has evolved, as all hard things do. In high school it was the whole 'try on the whole closet and leave it on the floor' kind of deal. In college it was the, "but i don't feel like wearing blue today, pink would be a better option." And now it's the "I have to save my cutest outfits for the days when I have the greatest probability of running into someone I know." It's super sad.
If only all of our clothes could be our 'cutest outfit', right? Which is exactly why I only ever buy one pair of jeans at a time, because whether I get two or three, one always becomes my favorite and the others don't get worn. Unfortunately, tops aren't as universal and those require mixing and matching. Right now I've got four that I can count on in a pinch, most days I run around in an old running shirt that isn't even mine. My favorite fauxpaus. Rummaging the racks of Goodwill searching for racing shirts that I never raced. It can make an embarrassing moment when someone asks you about it, but who cares, right? I love running, I don't need to pay a $20 entry fee to qualify myself as a 'runner'. I pick them up for $2 a tag and wear them proudly.
Right after high school I went through a crazy shirt-making phase where I bought cheap, fruit of the loom undershirts and would print a phrase out in bold and staple it under my shirt before tracing over it with a tube of puffy paint. I didn't even realize the collection I had until I was doing laundry one day and found a whole load of whites waiting for me, all t-shirts that I had branded. They were the best. Paired with a lace undershirt for special occasions and a solid for every day. Thinking of that, Alaska and I should start sporting some home-made shirts. Matching girly ones. Where one part of the phrase is on my shirt and the other half on hers. She's almost big enough where I can get them in a package of three. *note made*
Sundays are seriously the hardest days to get ready. Hands down. Slapped down flat on the table.
You don't want to look like you tried too hard, but you need to look like you tried, and your hair has to match the style of dress your wearing and if you're doing a skirt and shirt duo you've got to create that outfit, complete with shoes. Which is why I greatly prefer dresses. Takes three quarters of the problem out of your hands that still have red prints on them from being slapped on that table.
I've recently found two sites that I can rely on for dresses. Mikarose and jenclothing. They are life-savers and for the past two times I have needed a new dress to add into the mix I have gone to them. Bonus, for thanksgiving everything is 50% off. I am waiting and saving to stock up.
I also am forever hunting around at thrift stores for dresses. I have thrown on more than one under-shirt to complete a dress that originally has no sleeves. Aint no shame here.
Which brings us to the reasoning for this post. I am trying to kick out all my skirts that haven't been worn in the past two years. This is harder than you think. I have my reasons. a) it has such good memories attached to it. b) I haven't been the size I need to, to be able to fit into it again, until now c) it looked so cute with that one shirt d) smokin' hot deal
I know I should just let them all go. They seem so juvenile to me, now that I have become a true woman and back again. Meaning I gained x amount of pregnancy weight and then have lost it all. But they have such sweet memories, all of them. They were with me in all my high school awkwardness and followed me to college where I thought I wasn't as awkward, but maybe I was. And now I haven't worn them in so long, and it's hard enough to pick one thing to wear to church, let alone try to pair a skirt and shirt together.
I guess what I am trying to say is, it's time to say goodbye. And in order to do that, I need some closure and I need to talk it out. I mean, they're just skirts for goodness sakes! Let them go! Except for when I see them, I remember all the great times we had together. The EFY dances. A couple of dance nights, clubbin' it up in Portland, swing style. A long walk I had with Handsome Husband after devo at BYU-I when we were still trying to figure each other out. They're right there, wound into the very fabric those skirts are made of. And really, that's it. Except for these are the survivors. I have had my share of skirts. Weeding out and adding more, plenty of times. Yet these, these have stood the tests and have shown their valiance through many packings and un-packings.
Thinking of it, I could give them up to someone else. But what if they didn't treat them the way that they needed to be treated? What if they didn't know the history those skirts held? It would be better to give them to a generic thrift store than someone I know, in fear that I worry about them too much and still have too much connection. Or I could make them into a quilt of some sort. After all, isn't that what quilts used to be made of? But seriously, even the thought of that makes me squirm a little. After all, I don't need all those memories bundled around me all the time. It's just nice to see them, patiently waiting for me when I open a drawer.
And that's what happens. The hardness of getting dressed used to be just hard, but now on top of all the other hard things I do to get this little family of mine out the door on time on Sundays it has become too hard. I know those skirts need to go, I just needed to talk it over a little bit.
It's just too hard to pick something for the day. The hardness has evolved, as all hard things do. In high school it was the whole 'try on the whole closet and leave it on the floor' kind of deal. In college it was the, "but i don't feel like wearing blue today, pink would be a better option." And now it's the "I have to save my cutest outfits for the days when I have the greatest probability of running into someone I know." It's super sad.
If only all of our clothes could be our 'cutest outfit', right? Which is exactly why I only ever buy one pair of jeans at a time, because whether I get two or three, one always becomes my favorite and the others don't get worn. Unfortunately, tops aren't as universal and those require mixing and matching. Right now I've got four that I can count on in a pinch, most days I run around in an old running shirt that isn't even mine. My favorite fauxpaus. Rummaging the racks of Goodwill searching for racing shirts that I never raced. It can make an embarrassing moment when someone asks you about it, but who cares, right? I love running, I don't need to pay a $20 entry fee to qualify myself as a 'runner'. I pick them up for $2 a tag and wear them proudly.
Right after high school I went through a crazy shirt-making phase where I bought cheap, fruit of the loom undershirts and would print a phrase out in bold and staple it under my shirt before tracing over it with a tube of puffy paint. I didn't even realize the collection I had until I was doing laundry one day and found a whole load of whites waiting for me, all t-shirts that I had branded. They were the best. Paired with a lace undershirt for special occasions and a solid for every day. Thinking of that, Alaska and I should start sporting some home-made shirts. Matching girly ones. Where one part of the phrase is on my shirt and the other half on hers. She's almost big enough where I can get them in a package of three. *note made*
Sundays are seriously the hardest days to get ready. Hands down. Slapped down flat on the table.
You don't want to look like you tried too hard, but you need to look like you tried, and your hair has to match the style of dress your wearing and if you're doing a skirt and shirt duo you've got to create that outfit, complete with shoes. Which is why I greatly prefer dresses. Takes three quarters of the problem out of your hands that still have red prints on them from being slapped on that table.
I've recently found two sites that I can rely on for dresses. Mikarose and jenclothing. They are life-savers and for the past two times I have needed a new dress to add into the mix I have gone to them. Bonus, for thanksgiving everything is 50% off. I am waiting and saving to stock up.
I also am forever hunting around at thrift stores for dresses. I have thrown on more than one under-shirt to complete a dress that originally has no sleeves. Aint no shame here.
Which brings us to the reasoning for this post. I am trying to kick out all my skirts that haven't been worn in the past two years. This is harder than you think. I have my reasons. a) it has such good memories attached to it. b) I haven't been the size I need to, to be able to fit into it again, until now c) it looked so cute with that one shirt d) smokin' hot deal
I know I should just let them all go. They seem so juvenile to me, now that I have become a true woman and back again. Meaning I gained x amount of pregnancy weight and then have lost it all. But they have such sweet memories, all of them. They were with me in all my high school awkwardness and followed me to college where I thought I wasn't as awkward, but maybe I was. And now I haven't worn them in so long, and it's hard enough to pick one thing to wear to church, let alone try to pair a skirt and shirt together.
I guess what I am trying to say is, it's time to say goodbye. And in order to do that, I need some closure and I need to talk it out. I mean, they're just skirts for goodness sakes! Let them go! Except for when I see them, I remember all the great times we had together. The EFY dances. A couple of dance nights, clubbin' it up in Portland, swing style. A long walk I had with Handsome Husband after devo at BYU-I when we were still trying to figure each other out. They're right there, wound into the very fabric those skirts are made of. And really, that's it. Except for these are the survivors. I have had my share of skirts. Weeding out and adding more, plenty of times. Yet these, these have stood the tests and have shown their valiance through many packings and un-packings.
Thinking of it, I could give them up to someone else. But what if they didn't treat them the way that they needed to be treated? What if they didn't know the history those skirts held? It would be better to give them to a generic thrift store than someone I know, in fear that I worry about them too much and still have too much connection. Or I could make them into a quilt of some sort. After all, isn't that what quilts used to be made of? But seriously, even the thought of that makes me squirm a little. After all, I don't need all those memories bundled around me all the time. It's just nice to see them, patiently waiting for me when I open a drawer.
And that's what happens. The hardness of getting dressed used to be just hard, but now on top of all the other hard things I do to get this little family of mine out the door on time on Sundays it has become too hard. I know those skirts need to go, I just needed to talk it over a little bit.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Ephraim: The Best Two Years of My Life
Kimberly and I packed up the babies and hauled our soccer-mom-van, full of strollers and baby bags, down to Ephraim.
We drove down Main St. twice, once looking to the right, another time looking to the left before we pulled up on College Ave. to pass by the new on-campus apartments that filled up our once "magical field". Magical because it was where I got my first college kiss, watched the stars glisten on a still night, threw a football with the boys during the day and the time all my roommates and I blended in with the grass as security scanned their lights after 11, making sure everyone was in their dorms. Everyone but us, as we giggled under our star-gazing blankets, smooth lumps in the middle of the field, just out of reach of the head-lights.
The car looped around my sophomore apartment complex and I started bawling. My roommates had become my best friends that year and we had learned to love hard and fight hard for each other. Having dinners together every night really bonded us as a family as we always made extra for any significant others that wanted to join us. The boys that year were like family, coming and going, always with a few cookies or treats in hand and we were well protected, being the only girl apartment on the bottom floor with our choice of two boy apartments to hang out with that we became fast friends with.
The memories were so strong they were like shadows and I saw myself tossing a football for hours with a boy from Oregon. Barefoot, tan, short hair tucked behind my ear, throwing a ball with all my might through the middle stairwell of the complex. I got really good at throwing a football the last few weeks of that last semester.
The parking-lot to my freshmen dorms had been taken out and re-done, smoothing over the yellow lines that had housed the ugliest hippie van in all of the state of Utah. The very same van that, when I saw it, I died with embarrassment inside for the poor soul who had to drive it. And then found myself buckling into the passenger seat the very next week as a soon-to-be boyfriend took me to the store to pick up some foundation early Monday morning, as I was too insecure to go to class without makeup. They even covered up the stains that same boy had made when changing anti-freeze in his hippie van. Stains that have held fast to the towels we tried to use to mop it up, the ones that I still own and use for drying the cat after a bath.
We parked there and got out, buckling our strollers together for the toddlers and loading the third stroller with an infant and enough diapers, wipes and sippy-cups to last us three weeks. We hauled off, walking past the stretch of grass where I had held my first lacrosse stick and perfected the art of catching and throwing with a net.
Crossing the street we headed off for the middle of campus to check out the new library that had sprawled itself across the lawn we had used so many evenings for night-games. I ducked into the math building to go to the bathroom and as I entered the cool building I checked in on my old math classroom, making sure it still held the same breathtaking 'here we go again' feeling as I came to class every day and left having learned nothing other than what the football players that sat in-front of me had done over the weekend. I sneaked a peek into the math-lab (often, and with the best of feelings, called the meth-lab, as you never came out with a clear mind.). "My" table was still there, where "my" tutor had spent a hour a day with me, pouring over the homework from the class before. He was the only one who could make sense of my carefully taken, foreign notes and explain it back to me in plain English. Because of him I passed, with a C. My only C. Ever. And it was the hardest C I have ever earned, I can tell you that. The bathroom still smelled the same, that sweet smell of "this is a safe place" as I remember sitting on the second stall's toilet seat. Praying with all my heart to be able to have a clear mind for the final. The most powerfully hard hours of my life, and I smiled.
The library was awesome, as it should be, though what I had used the library for so many late nights it did not have. No student desks set up for silent studying. Everything was very 'group' designed. Glass rooms for group projects and studying, chairs pulled together in circles for discussions, seats joined by a side-table for texting, no desks to be seen. I don't think I would have spent much time there, beautiful as it was.
Concrete had replaced the fountain that had so often been the center of a practical joke. Bubbles, koi fish, food coloring, rubber ducks, they had all been placed in that fountain sometime within the two years I went to school at Snow. It's too bad. It was always the talk of campus and brightened everyone's mood as they walked past on their way to class, pausing a second to check out what was going on and taking the news on to class with them. It caused strangers to talk while waiting for the professor and allowed those of us who knew about it first-hand to share secret smiles with others.
The babies were sad and grumpy so we headed on back to the van, memories complete with a picture taken under the bell-tower with Alaska. Yes, The Bell Tower. And yes. I have been initiated into the True Badger Club. Twice. The rules are that you go to the Bell Tower on the full-moon at 12 o'clock midnight and kiss as the tower strikes twelve times. The first full-moon is the most talked about, but really, there aren't many people there. The last of the year, though, that one is so packed it's hard to get a spot underneath the tower and there are people kissing all over the sidewalk.
I walked away remembering. The best two years of my life. They were hard, stressful, emotional, and full of good, made all the more sweeter by the fight I had for those sweet memories. I have never grown so much in my life. The first two years of college, out on my own in the world, I grew up. Perhaps that is why missions are so often the best two years. So much growing, so much love, so much hard and so much good.
We drove down Main St. twice, once looking to the right, another time looking to the left before we pulled up on College Ave. to pass by the new on-campus apartments that filled up our once "magical field". Magical because it was where I got my first college kiss, watched the stars glisten on a still night, threw a football with the boys during the day and the time all my roommates and I blended in with the grass as security scanned their lights after 11, making sure everyone was in their dorms. Everyone but us, as we giggled under our star-gazing blankets, smooth lumps in the middle of the field, just out of reach of the head-lights.
The car looped around my sophomore apartment complex and I started bawling. My roommates had become my best friends that year and we had learned to love hard and fight hard for each other. Having dinners together every night really bonded us as a family as we always made extra for any significant others that wanted to join us. The boys that year were like family, coming and going, always with a few cookies or treats in hand and we were well protected, being the only girl apartment on the bottom floor with our choice of two boy apartments to hang out with that we became fast friends with.
The memories were so strong they were like shadows and I saw myself tossing a football for hours with a boy from Oregon. Barefoot, tan, short hair tucked behind my ear, throwing a ball with all my might through the middle stairwell of the complex. I got really good at throwing a football the last few weeks of that last semester.
The parking-lot to my freshmen dorms had been taken out and re-done, smoothing over the yellow lines that had housed the ugliest hippie van in all of the state of Utah. The very same van that, when I saw it, I died with embarrassment inside for the poor soul who had to drive it. And then found myself buckling into the passenger seat the very next week as a soon-to-be boyfriend took me to the store to pick up some foundation early Monday morning, as I was too insecure to go to class without makeup. They even covered up the stains that same boy had made when changing anti-freeze in his hippie van. Stains that have held fast to the towels we tried to use to mop it up, the ones that I still own and use for drying the cat after a bath.
We parked there and got out, buckling our strollers together for the toddlers and loading the third stroller with an infant and enough diapers, wipes and sippy-cups to last us three weeks. We hauled off, walking past the stretch of grass where I had held my first lacrosse stick and perfected the art of catching and throwing with a net.
Crossing the street we headed off for the middle of campus to check out the new library that had sprawled itself across the lawn we had used so many evenings for night-games. I ducked into the math building to go to the bathroom and as I entered the cool building I checked in on my old math classroom, making sure it still held the same breathtaking 'here we go again' feeling as I came to class every day and left having learned nothing other than what the football players that sat in-front of me had done over the weekend. I sneaked a peek into the math-lab (often, and with the best of feelings, called the meth-lab, as you never came out with a clear mind.). "My" table was still there, where "my" tutor had spent a hour a day with me, pouring over the homework from the class before. He was the only one who could make sense of my carefully taken, foreign notes and explain it back to me in plain English. Because of him I passed, with a C. My only C. Ever. And it was the hardest C I have ever earned, I can tell you that. The bathroom still smelled the same, that sweet smell of "this is a safe place" as I remember sitting on the second stall's toilet seat. Praying with all my heart to be able to have a clear mind for the final. The most powerfully hard hours of my life, and I smiled.
The library was awesome, as it should be, though what I had used the library for so many late nights it did not have. No student desks set up for silent studying. Everything was very 'group' designed. Glass rooms for group projects and studying, chairs pulled together in circles for discussions, seats joined by a side-table for texting, no desks to be seen. I don't think I would have spent much time there, beautiful as it was.
Concrete had replaced the fountain that had so often been the center of a practical joke. Bubbles, koi fish, food coloring, rubber ducks, they had all been placed in that fountain sometime within the two years I went to school at Snow. It's too bad. It was always the talk of campus and brightened everyone's mood as they walked past on their way to class, pausing a second to check out what was going on and taking the news on to class with them. It caused strangers to talk while waiting for the professor and allowed those of us who knew about it first-hand to share secret smiles with others.
The babies were sad and grumpy so we headed on back to the van, memories complete with a picture taken under the bell-tower with Alaska. Yes, The Bell Tower. And yes. I have been initiated into the True Badger Club. Twice. The rules are that you go to the Bell Tower on the full-moon at 12 o'clock midnight and kiss as the tower strikes twelve times. The first full-moon is the most talked about, but really, there aren't many people there. The last of the year, though, that one is so packed it's hard to get a spot underneath the tower and there are people kissing all over the sidewalk.
I walked away remembering. The best two years of my life. They were hard, stressful, emotional, and full of good, made all the more sweeter by the fight I had for those sweet memories. I have never grown so much in my life. The first two years of college, out on my own in the world, I grew up. Perhaps that is why missions are so often the best two years. So much growing, so much love, so much hard and so much good.
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