A flaw in Modern Medicine . . .

Let me be plain. I love modern medicine. I love that my child is vaccinated against diseases that wreak havoc on tiny bodies. I love that several of my family members are alive despite having cancer at one point or another in their lives. I love that my labor was not really unpleasant, thanks to the lovely anesthetics running through my peripheral nervous system.

However . . .

I'm kind of at a loss as to the biggest problem my son's pediatrician has with his health. It's his weight. James is in the 2nd percentile for weight for his age group. I could go into why I think this is a load of crap because he was breastfed and we didn't start him on solids for six months and blah blah blah. The real issue I have with this notion is that I am being asked to go against my child's own desires to try to get more food into him.

Because James is now two standard deviations away from the mean weight of children born on his birthday, we are now having to supplement his diet with Pediasure (which sucks, because so far James has really hated Pediasure). It's got 240 calories per bottle and I am supposed to give it to him all in one sitting, once a day. Our previous approach of "feed him more" didn't work so well. He needs to drink more whole milk and get more iron. I am kind of baffled.

Why am I feeding my son when he is not even hungry? Why am I trying to give him a certain amount of food that is completely unrelated to his own appetite? Why am shoving a nasty drink he dislikes in his face to drop straight fat and calories into his system when he is already satiated? What is that going to accomplish? So he can be more like the other kids? Do we even want that? What if these kids turned out like most adults? I certainly wouldn't want that.

Did you know that heart disease is the biggest killer in America? 25% of deaths every year are related to heart disease. Do you know what the biggest risk factors for heart disease are? Having diabetes, being overweight/obese, having a poor diet, and being physically inactive. So, basically, being a fat, lazy American is killing 25% more people than we would have had normally.

Is this the standard I am trying to fulfill? I'm trying to fatten my kid up so he will be "normal," but do I even want him to be normal? The only thing I could do to ensure my child a more quick death would be to give him cigarettes, according to the CDC. Do medical professionals see the irony that they are telling parents to give their kids "x" amount of food, even more food if their child is underweight, and they turn around and tell adults they need to scale back their diet. Am I the only one who wonders if the two are actually related?

So I spend the next few years conditioning James' metabolism and appetite handle more food. I go against his base instincts to bring him up to the standard by which we judge all kids (each other), but when he stops growing and still wants more food, I wonder why my child is getting overweight?

I'm not saying it's going to happen. I am just postulating the fact that maybe one of the reasons we are so freaking fat in this country is because we think we have to have our children weigh something that is based on something arbitrary and stupid. Of the other kids on that chart, how many parents are feeding their kids candy and pop and ice cream and pizza and all kids of other crap that are just packing on the pounds? And my child looks smaller because of it.

Maybe it is time to rethink the paradigm that we should go against a child's base urges to fit them into an unrealistic mold that clearly just results in him being unable to run up a staircase without being winded. Or lose his ability to see his feet over his gut by the time he hits 40. Or whatever. Doesn't his little body, which pumps blood, secretes hormones, converts oxygen into ATP, and eliminates toxins from the system deserve to be trusted in knowing how many calories it needs? And when to stop eating?

I dunno. Guess not.

A few of my favorite things . . .

Before I had James, I did a journal prompt that was titled "100 Things I Love." I recently revisited this list and enjoyed it so much, I wanted to add it to the blog.

Here we go:

100 Things I Love: (in no particular order)

Skinny jeans. Finishing an art project. Music. The feeling after working out. Candy. Surprises. Fruit. Painting. Pictures. Learning. Halloween. A clean kitchen. Cinnamon rolls. Nostalgia. Alphabetizing. Rain. Lemonade. Summer. Organized spaces. Dustin Kensrue. Spaghetti. Mean Girls. Psychology. Fireworks. Purple. Family. The smell of fall. Alaska. Sleeping in. Spice cake. The 4th of July. Tommy Boy. Being LDS. Neuroscience. Mountains. Presents. Harry Potter. Pad Thai. Reading. Mom. Singing in the car. Lists. The 90's. Sunshine. Temples. Warm concrete on bare feet after the sun goes down. Kissing. Crafting. Nieces and nephews. Picture frames. JACOB. The smell of laundry detergent. Laughing. Having the day off. Being outside. Vacation. Doodling. Thrice. Thunderstorms. Cuddling. Playing games. Trees. Volleyball. Buying small notebooks/journals. Mopping. Snow cones. Shopping (not grocery). Nail polish. Lemon meringue pie. Teal. Apple/cinnamon scents. Shaved legs + clean sheets. Guitars. Staying up late talking. Vans shoes. Hot tubs. Prismacolors. Christmas. Ron Swanson. Clouds. Garlic. Scrapbook paper. Walking barefoot on sand. Following through. Hanging out. Screen printing. Hermione Granger. Cardigans. Sushi. Mom's homemade ham & potato soup. Hugs. Screamo. Corn on the cob. Doner Kebab. Vienna. Virgin margaritas. JAMES. Volcom. Kayaking. Sour cream & onion potato chips.

I looooove making lists (obviously, it's in the above list), but this list has to make me more happy than any other list!

Permanence . . .

I am not sure if there is such a thing as permanence. Sure, we have the word, the meaning, and the usage, but I don't believe in it. What in this world is really permanent? Yes, I have always had this body, this brain, this soul, but it has changed so much over these past 22 years that I have serious doubts over whether any of it could really be considered "the same."

You can build anything up and break it all down the next day. What in this world is not perpetually changing? Becoming older never ceases. Even bones grow older, whiter, and more brittle in the sun as the years go on.

Nothing is ever as it was.

Once upon a time . . .

Once upon a time there was a girl who had everything. Or, more specifically, she had a boy who meant Everything to her. Everything was exactly what she wanted. He paid attention to her. He kissed her when she needed it. He loved her. At least, he told her he loved her.

Then, all at once, Everything was gone. He left her, and the reality crashed through her world and demolished all the things she worked for. Confidence. Self-esteem. Purpose. She felt lost and hopeless. Each new day was more long and painful than the last. Then, just as suddenly as he had gone, Everything was back.

Life was renewed to the girl who lost Everything. She was happy. She was beautiful. At least, that's what he told her. Everything had changed and become better. This time, things would work out.

When things did not work out, she hurt more than last time. Could that even be possible. The loss of Everything seemed too great to bear. She thought her body would shut down from the pain of it all. Everything could not be gone. He would come back, just like last time.

And he did. He came back, apologetic. Telling her all the beautiful words she loved to her. "I love you." "You are the one for me." Filling her with his beautiful lies. He kissed her, touched her, held her in all the ways he used to. And then, when the night was over, he was gone.

Three weeks passed, and she was in a trance. Food didn't taste. Sleep didn't welcome her each night. The only thing that she could do to pass the time was run. Run until her body dropped those pounds that might be keeping Everything away. Five pounds. Ten pounds. Fifteen pounds. Then he came again.

Hours and hours they lay together, whispering their sweet nothings that were, as always, really nothing at all. He breathed his wonderful lies into her soul and they renewed the dying spirit that had resided there for three weeks.

And then the truth came, as it always does.

"This was a mistake. I can't see you anymore. This won't happen again."

But she knew better. This time, only two weeks passed before he was back, with his sweet tantalizing words of praise and his increasingly wandering hands. There are no limits on a relationship that doesn't exist. She let the hours crawl by as she waste away her time with the one that could do no wrong in her eyes. And then he was gone again.

She couldn't contain the excitement of these visits. She told. And they told. Soon the World knew about the nighttime wandering and hours of bliss. And the World interfered. He was reprimanded and was forced to feel the guilt that confused her. What was there to feel guilty for? He was merely showing her how much he loved her. That he really was her Everything.

But the end would come, now that the World knew. He came to her, shamefully, with only a moment to spare, as he told her how things would be.

"You can't be in my life anymore. Don't try to talk to me. Don't be around me. Don't come to places I will be. I will never come back. Stay away from me and forget about me."

As she clattered to the ground, he walked away. Everything turned to nothing. And nothing feels like hell. She scraped against the ground as her body writhed in pain. She felt her body disappearing into nothing as the escaped into the Death that was so surely coming to claim her. Death can be the only thing waiting on the other side of pain like this. She felt like the smallest thing in the world. And she wanted that merciful master of Death to come take her from that floor and remove the sorrow that threatened to tear her apart.

As the weeks passed, Death did not come to get her. And neither did he. She didn't see him at all. Only heard of him. Heard of his new Everything. The one he whispered to "I love you." At least, that's what they said.

At last, the shadow was lifted from her eyes. And she understood what it meant. Hours of loving bliss to her were merely passing of time and a sick release of passion and lust. The body she had worked on, for him, felt ugly, used, and dirty. And then the realization came. The lies. The facade. The love that she had participated in was never to be reciprocated. For in that grand game of love, she had played alone.

And she, alone, had suffered for it.

She stands on the other side of it now. Alive and whole. And knowing that it is only her who can change herself from the one who tolerates Everything to the one who knows for herself what it is to be truly loved.

To love herself.

The greatest fiction ever written . . .

Two posts in one day. I'm on a roll. (Serious spoilers in this one.)

Tomorrow night I am going to go see "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2" with my husband. This is a monumental day, although it was more of a monumental day when the book series actually ended.

It marks the ending of a generational bonding moment really. When people talk about cohort effects in psychology classes years from now, maybe we will be referred to as the "Harry Potter" generation. We were the ones that were young while it came out. We were the perfect age to read the first one, still considered child-young adult fiction, and yet mature enough to read and understand the Deathly Hallows when it came out. Personally, I am glad that I apart of this generation. Harry Potter is so dang amazing.

I don't know how to even express it sometimes, but I think that Harry Potter is one of the most masterfully written book series of all time. I feel this way for several reasons.

Firstly, there is something exciting about reading stories that are monumental. There are plenty of books about everyday life. But Harry Potter is about the eternal fight of good vs. evil. Saving the world from evil is a lot more interesting to read about than breaking up with someone or junior prom. I like reading books that have a real purpose and meaning to them.

Second, I love the intricacies of the series (cannot believe that is a word.) There are so many tiny pieces of this series that fit together so nicely and make the story really seem realistic. J. K. Rowling is the queen of tying up loose ends. I am so impressed with the way she works in little things from the earlier books so they become significant in the last books.

Third, and perhaps I will step into controversial ground here, the symbolism in this book is amazing. Everytime I read the Deathly Hallows, I can't help being reminded of Christ. Yes, Harry is far from perfect and he is not the best Christ-figure in literature, but when he walks into death, willingly, lead by his white-haired father figure, I am reminded of the terrifying and painful sacrifice that Christ made to save us. Not to mention the whole resurrection thing. But I love that something that so many people deem as "evil" and banned it from libraries reminds me of the higher purpose in life.

So tomorrow night symbolizes the end of a long journey for me. From reading the Sorceror's stone in elementary school, to closing the final page of the Deathly Hallows, from watching the first movie, with its awkward children and sub-par visual effects, to experiencing "the motion-picture event of a lifetime" (that just happened to gross $100 million on opening day), it has been a great ride.

I will forever love Harry.

I Like Screamo Music . . .

Yeah, I really do. I am here today to defend it. Because I know the usual labels. "Emo." "Devil music." Etc. But I will tell you why I love it (you meaning the inside of my head because I have no followers.)

When I was younger, right after Britney Spears became a whore and I didn't know who to listen to anymore because I was NOT going to listen to a whore, I was super lost in the music world. I thought that listening to music was fun, there was just nothing out there that I really liked. Except blink-182. But there's only so many times that you can listen to the same album before it starts getting old. And there are only so many times that I can steal my brother's CD before he starts getting really mad.

So began my aimless wandering through the music world to try to find something I really liked. My dad had The Eagles, The Bee Gee's, Pink Floyd. My mom had Queen, Creedence Clearwater Revival. I wanted something that I really loved listening to. It took a while to find it.

High school consisted of piggy-backing off of my friends. They liked popular music. Things with a loud bumping beat and a woman trying to hit every note in an 8 octave range. Mostly it was irritating. I found Green Day but a lot of their stuff is, well . . . questionable. Continual emptiness of the music world.

When I was a Senior in high school, I finally found something I really liked. John Mayer. He fit my mood so well and he sang about things that mattered, much unlike the artists playing in my friend's cars. Okay, so now I have blink-182 and John Mayer. Still only amount to about 60 songs. There has to be more out there, right?

During college, I was introduced to the insanity that is screamo music. By a group of return missionaries, no less. It took some getting used to, but when I was with them, that was all we listened to. And I was finding that I really liked it. I know what you are thinking. . . brainwashing, right? No no

Reasons why I like screamo music:
*Energy: I have never listened to anything that has made me want to get up and move around and wakes me up and want to start punch dancing or something. I just love how excited I get when I listen to it. Its like a legal drug or something. (Yeah, that's me showing off my complete ignorance of the drug world. No worries.)

*Depth: I have never heard such amazing lyrics than while listening to screamo. These people don't just write about sex, drugs, and money (thanks, rap). They have so much to say on the most complicated and deep subjects. No one exemplifies this better than Thrice. Dustin Kensrue is not the immature, idiotic narcissist that other musicians are.

*Musicality: You can't be an "okay" musician and be in a good screamo band. There is no such thing as DDDD EEEE AAAA GGGG riffs with these guitarists. And I have never heard such amazing drumming in my entire life. I love the complexity and the talent that these bands have. This is especially true with The Devil Wears Prada (approach this band with caution, they are a little wild). "With Roots Above And Branches Below" is one of the most intricate, complex albums I have ever heard. I feel like I could listen to it over and over (like I already do) and find something new about the music that I had missed before.

*Worship: Though this is not true for a lot of screamo bands, a lot of the ones I listen to are Christian bands. These means no perversion and a lot of worshipful, thoughtful lyrics. I can tell that a lot of these bands have come unto Christ and love Him just as much as I do.

I know that many people think that these bands are awful, crazy devil-music. But, at least for the bands I love, that is far from true. The sound is hard and emotional, but there are many bands that are far from devil-worshiping. Don't get me wrong, they are out there.

Just thought I would share my message of how much I love this music and give you some solid reasons why you should, at the very least, not hate it.

The Middle Place . . .

No, not the lame attempt at a memoir by Kelly Corrigan. The place in between my childhood and my adulthood. Still in school, though working half the time. Still in my hometown, though not living with my parents. Still in contact with some high school friends, but not really.

When is my life going to start? When am I going to get out of here? When am I going to spend more time picking up toys and changing diapers than painting my nails and shaving my legs? When am I going to get a job that pays more than $7.50/hour? When will I leave what is still my childhood/adolescence and enter adulthood.

Step 1: Get married. Check.
Step 2: Graduate from college. So close!
Step 3: Attend graduate school. Nooooo! I don't wanna!
Step 4: Have a baby. Yikes.
Step 5: Move to where our life will be, wherever Jacob can get a good job. Wait, what?
Step 6: Start a career. No thanks.
Step 7: Buy a house. With what money?!
Step 8: Live your life. Finally

Growing up . . .

I spoke with my advisor last week to plan out my senior year. I can't believe I will have a Bachelor's degree in just over a year. Two more semesters. Nine more classes. It really snuck up on me, and now I have to worry about the GRE and grad school and starting a real life. Sometimes I wish I were still six years old. I wish I could go ouside in a shorts and a t-shirt and play in the mud. I wish I could still sleep in the backyard with my brother in a sleeping bag. I wish I could still play with plastic horses and Beanie Babies until I fell asleep face down on the floor. Life was so simple and easy. But I didn't know enough to realize it.

All kids want to do it grow up and get older. All I want to do is be 3 1/2 feet tall and go to first grade.

When I was young, I was constantly concerned with the future. Being old enough to date. Being old enough to drive. Being old enough to stay out later than 10:00. Now I am stuck. Stuck somewhere between the future and the past. By this, I do not mean the present. Half of the time I think about the next 8 tasks and when I should take the GRE and when I'll have to get a new job and when I'll have to move to grad school. The other half of the time I am thinking about the past. How fun it was to be 14 and just play all summer with my friends or be 8 and just ride my bike for hours and hours. How fun it was last summer when I wasn't taking the GRE or worrying about anything in particular.

I forget about my presence in the present. Right now, when I'm thinking about it, I can feel its weight. The homework assignment open in another window, the soreness of my calves from work, the strain of my eyelids from a long day. But soon enough, my mind will drift into another year, another decade, when reminiscing or predicting is more important that what I am doing.

One day, when I'm grown up, I'll learn how to live in the present. And to appreciate the moments that I have.

I'm going to go kiss my husband now.

Love is . . .

Love is blinding.
Love is crippling.
Nothing with can destroy your life like love can.

Love is intense.
Love is riveting.
Love can leave you reeling.

Love is not a crush.

A crush is blinding.
A crush is riveting.
A crush is fleeting.
A crush is momentary.
A crush means nothing.
Because it holds no weight.

A crush is a paper cup.
A crush lasts a week.
A crush is recyclable.
A crush is disposable.
A crush is flippant.
A crush means nothing
Because it holds no weight.

Love holds the weight.

Love is binding.
Love is complex.
Love is sure.
Love is steady.
Love is secure.
Because it can't be changed by a momentary glance.
A solemn moment in time.
Love endures.

Love perpetuates.
Love teaches.
Love entrances.
Love frees as it binds.
Love makes you better.

A crush makes you fantasize.
Love lives in the moment.

A crush leaves you wounded.
Love heals your bruises and scars.

A crush gives you sorrow.
Love makes you grateful.

Love creates.
Love simplifies.
Love equalizes.

"So come what may, I won't abandon. I won't leave you behind. Because love is a loyalty sworn, not a burning for a moment." -The Weight

Joy is . . .

not a passing fancy or a fleeting moment. Joy is permanent marker on a new pair of pants. Once joy has touched you, it is imprinted on your soul. You never are the same.

Joy is fragile. Its not like pleasure. Pleasure is easy to find, temporary, and translucent. Joy is like hand blown glass. It will last longer than you do if you care for it. But if let it slip past you, it is gone. Painfully gone.

Joy comes in those moments that leave you smiling for eight days. Those moments that you can't stop thinking about. Those moments that leave you full and whole. Those moments that, if you could, you would play over and over again to fill your whole lifetime.

Joy comes from hard work, patience, virtue, and appreciation of the beautiful things in the world. Joy comes from selfless love.

Joy is irreplaceable.

Joy is mine.

February 11th . . .

One year ago today Jacob proposed to me. I can't believe its been a year. I know people say that all the time, but its true. It's been a year of joy. Everyday I am just in awe of how lucky I am to be with him. I can't believe that in all my imperfection God still blessed me with a husband that is so amazing. I don't know how I fooled him into buying me a ring and asking me to marry him, but I am just so grateful that it worked and that I have this incredible person in my life. He is an inspiration and an example to me.

The natural man is an enemy unto God . . .

I know the title may give you some idea that this is going to be a religious ranting. It's not. We have been studying Sigmund Freud in my Personality Theory class. In previous classes, I had really hated studying Freud. I did not like being told about children's sexuality. Today, however, we discussed the concepts of the id, the ego, and the super-ego, terms I was familiar with but obviously did not fully understand. My professor illustrated the functions of these three "parts" of us by explaining behaviors that each part may be responsible for. These parts are the "id," the "ego," and the "super-ego."

The id is what we are born with. It is established to that we, as humans, can gain pleasure. Unfortunately, this comes in the most untactful, irrational ways. And so the ego evolves. The ego helps the id obtain the pleasure it so vehemently seeks, but it more realistic ways. The ego lives in reality. It is the one negotiating between reality's constraints and the id's needs.

Next the super-ego develops. The super-ego also develops to fulfill pleasure, but it is our voice of moral reasoning. The id may demand that we get a hamburger NOW, but the super-ego knows that politely standing in line is more socially appropriate that jumping on the counter and screaming at the poor Wendy's employees.

Now this is interesting and all, but is it at all true? And how does it relate to the natural man? Well, God states that the natural man (carnal, sensual, etc.) is unholy and must be contained in order to become a child of God. I thought it was pretty cool (and amazing) that something I learned about in psychology, of all disciplines, could be applied to religion. Who would have thought?