Addicted (AKA I'm a Writer)

Hi.  I'm Katy. 

You've probably never met a writer who's loved writing since she was a little kid, have you?  I mean, no one has had a lifelong passion for writing!  That's crazy!  

Right.  So, I'm a cliche in that regard, and when I inevitably have a book published (because I will, dang it.  I will!), that will likely go in my bio, just like it has gone in every author's bio since the dawn of storytelling.  (I'm willing to bet Sin-liqe-unninni's bio on the Epic of Gilgamesh says the same thing). And, like so many authors, I write because I can't not write.  (In other words, I don't write because I can, as the double-negative naysayers would correct, I write because I must.  Double-negatives serve a real purpose, people!)

The first stories I ever wrote were drawings of "The Heart People."  I would draw hearts and then give them eyes (and eyelashes, for the ladies) and smiles and stick arms and legs.  They were usually going down slides or swinging at the park.  I would write six or eight pages on lined notebook paper, tie the pages together through the three holes down the left side, and write "25¢" on the top right corner of the title page.  Then I'd sell them to my dad and buy penny candies from the Red Apple or Canadian Grocery (the two stores in my village.  Yes, village.).  

It was awesome.  I was making candy money for something I loved!  I was hooked.

As I grew up, I gravitated towards English and writing classes.  In college, I switched from English to Philosophy, which included an astounding number of papers and an adherence to grammar and language rules that had been a bit looser in my English classes.  Thus was born my obsessive love of grammar (and love of breaking the right rules at the right time.  If that broken rule involves a comma and you're not Cormac McCarthy, though, stop it.  Stop it right now.).

After college, I always had at least two or three story ideas bouncing around in my head (sometimes as many as eight or ten).  On my lunch break at work, I'd often stay at my computer and email ideas and scenes to myself.  I played around with a few of my ideas, but they were total turds.  Unreadable turds.  Then, one day, I had an idea that I thought was THE ONE.  I spent six years drafting and researching and world-building and writing this YA fantasy trilogy, then slashing and rewriting and re-revising it.  I even queried it to about 25 agents, had a couple of requests for partials, and won a "First 250 (words)" contest.  My beta readers loved the first book, and I loved the series more than I could handle.

Which is how I knew I had to let it go.  When people gave me suggestions, I'd roll my eyes, sure they just didn't get the story.  When someone mentioned a failing in my main character (who is totally, unequivocally, nerdfully me), I'd get mad.  

So I had to move on.

And I've been happy about my writing life ever since.  I blog with the clever, talented, fantastic Mormon Mommy Writers.  I completed two novels last year, including one for NaNoWriMo.  I have a completed novel that made it to the agent round of Pitch Madness and had six requests, and I've had a couple of other requests from other avenues.  I haven't formally started querying yet, but I feel incredible about this new book.  And I feel incredible about my (still unedited) NaNo novel, and...hopeful about my current WIP.  

I have no idea what will come of any of my works.  I'm optimistic that I'll find an agent and publish eventually (but that could very well be the famous family hubris talking).  Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter if I publish or not.  I write because I love thinking about the world in a different way.  I love helping my characters find themselves, a love interest or two, and the best pizza in their city.  I love exploring my deepest emotions and processing them on paper (or a laptop) for the world to see...or not to see.  It doesn't really matter.  

I'm addicted.

So, hello.  My name is Katy, and I'm a writer.

Stand for Something

I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Like the apostle Paul in the New Testament said, "I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ." I'm proud to belong to a religion that fills the world with so much good, and I don't mind people pulling a South Park and poking fun at us for being different. Because we are different. I am different. And I like it.

I like that when I stub my toe, a hundred words come to mind, and none of them are curse words. I like that the very idea of a cashier giving me back too much change makes my soul itch. I like that when I go to karaoke night, I don't have to be tipsy to work up the nerve to sing...I just wait for everyone else to be (so they won't remember me, or will at least remember me far more favorably than I deserve). I like having Family Home Evening on Monday nights with Hubsters and Baby Girl, even though our lessons are currently two minutes long and consist of a single scripture related to loving our neighbor (the subtext is "please don't hit people," which, at 20 months, Baby Girl is totally picking up on. Totally.). I like that even when I don't want to go to three hours of church on Sunday, by the time those three hours are up, I always feel better and closer to my Savior. I like that almost nothing makes me feel the Spirit more than serving others.

I like that many of the good things about Mormons aren't at all exclusive to Mormons. And I like belonging to a church that teaches its members to embrace the good in EVERYONE (whether or not we do it as well as we should...but then, that's not exclusive to Mormons, either).

What I don't like is when other people are leading a conversation about Mormons that has nothing to do with who we actually are, especially Mormon women.

In a culture increasingly confusing "equality" with "exacting sameness," many will look at our church and question why we have different groups for men and women. Why a Relief Society president has a different scope than a Bishop. Why so many women sacrifice successful careers to stay at home with their children when their husbands bring home the bacon and the glory (ha!). These questions, among others, were on my mind when a friend asked me recently to join Mormon Women Stand. I jumped at the opportunity.

I love that this group doesn't stand against anything. Those who've liked the page have done so because we want to help lead the conversation about what it means to be a Mormon woman. We want, as Elder Ballard said, to "Let (our voices) be heard in this great cause of the gospel of Jesus Christ."

Not everything I post has been or will be about my faith. I don't feel like it needs to be. Rather, my faith should influence everything I write. And when I inevitably fail by being too jaded or too snarky or too harsh about something, my faith will remind me that I can do better and try harder to love others--and myself. My faith will motivate me to be my best, just like your faith or belief system or core values motivate you.

We all make mistakes (and mistakes aren't the same as hypocrisy, no matter your religion). I believe a huge purpose of the mortal experience is to strive to make less and less mistakes and do more and more good. As Henry David Thoreau said, "Live your beliefs and you can turn the world around."

Let us all stand for something.

Staying at home

I've been a stay-at-home mom for all but two of the months I've been a mom. It's been wonderful.  I truly don't miss work at all.  I'm grateful that I was able to reach a lot of people and achieve a level of success that I feel reflects how hard I worked and how committed I was to excelling.  I was on billboards!  In commercials!  What?!  

(Okay, I'm embarrassed for myself right now.  Please, let's never mention this again.)

But the rewards I receive every day in Baby Girl's smile and her squeals when she sees me and her grabbing my hair or cheeks so she can eat my nose far eclipse all of the success I enjoyed at work.




I know that this doesn't mirror everyone's experience.  Baby Girl is fun, easy-going, and just so easy to make happy.  Sleep training was hard (for me, especially), but not insurmountable.  Feeding her can be trying because she's so social and wants to play more than eat.  But we all know she's not missing many meals.  For my friends who have to work or who have decided that it's necessary or important for their families/mental well-being/etc, I support you and your decision, because I know it wasn't made lightly.  I understand, too, the draw of contributing to the family income, being told you're doing a great job, and interacting with (hopefully) intelligent adults all day.  It's not just nice, it's gratifying (I won't list all of the reasons work also sucks far, far more than even the hardest day staying at home.).  But either way, it's your thing, girl.  Do what you wanna do. 




But recently I had an experience that I can't shake, and it confirmed to me the rightness of my place being at home.  More importantly, it strengthened my testimony of the divine role of motherhood and a child's need for the constant presence of her mother (particularly versus, say, a grandma.  Or an extra dad.).


I took Baby Girl to the library to play in the "First Five Years" play area.  While I was sitting on the floor playing with her at one of the little stations, a little girl of perhaps 6 or 7 sat near us, and her two littler sisters hovered nearby.  




"Is this your little baby?" she asked.




I smiled.  "Yes, she is."




"Do you work here?"




"Nope."




"Are you just here to play with your baby?"




"Yep.  We just came to play."

"Because you love your little baby?

"Yep."


She stared at me as if this was the most astonishing thing she'd ever heard.  Then she held open Where's Waldo and started to tell me about the book.  She asked me to play with her.  To read with her.  Her younger sisters came over and were almost sitting on my lap.  I talked to them about what they were reading and asked them a few questions.  They ate up the attention.  In that moment, I knew of a certainty that it wasn't just that a random woman was giving them attention.  It was that a mother was paying them attention.




It broke my heart.




As "The Family: A Proclamation to the World" teaches us:  "Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and to teach them to love and serve one another, observe the commandments of God, and be law-abiding citizens wherever they live. ...Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children."




Everyone's situation is different, and I'm sure that if these sweet little girls have a mother, she is doing her best to take care of them, just as I am for Baby Girl.  But my place is at home with her, and I'm eternally grateful that I have the opportunity to be in my place.

"Just" Nothing


On Sunday, a friend of mine spoke in church and took the opportunity to first introduce her family, including her highly educated and accomplished husband.  When she got to herself, she said, "And I'm just a mom at home with the kids."




I felt like someone had tried to slap me.  And I felt like slapping her (just a little bit.  Lovingly). 




Before becoming a mom, I had a successful, high profile career for twelve years.  I was very well respected at work and only had more opportunities in front of me.  When my years of infertility were finally rendered obsolete (YAY!), I returned to work for a short time, but ultimately decided to stay home.  When I left my job, I was overwhelmed by the number of people who reached out to me with their regrets (and support).  Yet now, not even nine months after I closed my office door for the last time, conferences and trainings and site visits are all still happening.  My former coworkers are going to lunch together.  My boss has taken my replacement under his wing, complete with inside and practical jokes.  My directors are thriving under the new regime.  All without me.


On the other hand, when I leave my kid for two minutes to go to the bathroom, it's like the apocalypse has come early at our house (okay, not quite, but you get the picture).  I’ve never felt more important, loved, wanted, needed, or fulfilled.  Instead of managing grown ups who too frequently choose not to change or grow, I get to shape the entire life of someone who is constantly developing and learning and laughing and calling the wrong things “Daddy!”  I love it.  So when someone says "just" to staying at home, it saddens me.  And I'm not alone.


Patricia Holland, wife of LDS Apostle, Jeffrey R. Holland, said:

"If I were Satan and wanted to destroy a society, I think I would stage a full-blown blitz on women. I would keep them so distraught and distracted that they would never find the calming strength and serenity for which their sex has always been known.

Satan has effectively done that, catching us in the crunch of trying to be superhuman instead of striving to reach our unique, God-given potential within such diversity. He tauntingly teases us that if we don’t have it all—fame, fortune, families, and fun, and have it all the time—we have been short-changed and are second-class citizens in the race of life. As a sex we are struggling, our families are struggling, and our society is struggling."1

She said this in 1987, over 25 years ago.  We all know the problem has only gotten worse.  We feel the pressure everywhere we go, sometimes even at church.  We see it in the media, read it in books, and are slapped in the face with it so frequently, our cheeks are numb. (And that’s not even mentioning Pinterest!)  Satan has one message for us as women:  you’re not enough.  You’re never enough. 

Bullpucky.




My mom passed away when I was a little girl.  I scour photo albums for glimpses of her (she hated having her picture taken) and pour over the baby journal she kept for me, eager to glean hints of her personality.  I pepper my grandma with questions about her and relive memories with my siblings.  When my dad or her old friends tell stories, I listen with wide eyes, an open heart, and a tightly closed mouth.  I cherish memories of the holidays that she took pains to make special, not because of the hand-crafted decorations-matching-the-invitations-matching-my-dress, but because of the thoughtful, personalized touches that made you know it was for you, not her. I revel in her wit and sass.  I admire her kindness and charity and the fact that virtually every woman in our small town felt that she was, in fact, my mom’s best friend.  I delight in her competitiveness and intelligence and her love of adventure and thirst for knowledge.  I miss her voice.  

She is with me always, a part of my world, an integral part of my identity, regardless of how little time I actually spent with her - less time than my career, in fact.  If someone tried to tell me she "just" stayed at home, I wouldn't be able to laugh or even grow angry at their ignorance.  I'd pity them.  


I respect the heck out of those moms who work, whether it's by choice or not.  It's hard and it's sometimes frustrating and it's sometimes wonderful.  And having experienced over a decade of unwanted childlessness, I know you can be happy and fulfilled in your life/marriage/career/church calling without a child.  Whatever path we find ourselves on, we can know joy and know our Heavenly Father, if we want to.   

There’s no “just” to any of our lives.  No woman is “just” single or married or working or at home or any combination thereof. 

And no woman has ever, ever, ever “just” been a mom.




1. Holland, Patricia. "One Thing Needful: Becoming Women of Greater Faith in Christ." LDS.Org. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 01 Oct. 1987. Web. 26 Aug. 2013.

Big Shoes to Fill

In 2004, Hubsters and I decided we wanted to start trying to have kids.  I say "start trying" now, but at the time, it was more a "let's have kids" sort of mentality.  Because, you know, why wouldn't we just get pregnant right off the bat?  (Okay, I knew there was virtually no way I'd be getting pregnant easily, but the naiveté of youth made me sufficiently hopeful to assume that, sure, despite that little fact of having the "cycle" (let's keep this G rated, people) of an anorexic Olympic runner, it'll happen.).  Fast forward a few years, several rounds of clomid and several dozen doctor's visits between three different specialists, and I was a little more practical.  Dejected, too, yet still hopeful, because that's sort of my thing.

My sister and I were at Target buying shoes for her beautiful daughter, who was a baby at the time.  I walked by a pair of little brown Mary Janes and just stopped.  

A desperate need filled my heart.  For the shoes, for a baby, for the answer to my urgent, relentless prayers.  I bought them.  And I hid them in the back of a really boring drawer so 22 (my husband) wouldn't find them, because I knew how sad he would be that I was torturing myself with the cuteness of these little Mary Janes.  Through more and more doctor's appointments, tests, and two failed rounds of IVF, these little shoes sat in the back of my drawer.  They represented everything I wanted.  Everything I feared I would never have.  When I pulled them out on occasion to look at them, a fierce battle between agony and hope raged in my chest.  Regardless of the future, I knew I'd never throw them away.  They were too precious.  More precious than cute, even.  Sometimes when I saw them, my throat caught.  Sometimes a sob ripped through me. But other times, I just smiled.  Agony won many a battle, but even without having a child, I think hope was always winning the war.

Maybe a year after I bought and hid these darling little shoes, we moved into our house, and 22 unpacked my sock drawer box and found them.  He was a little sad for me, but he was drawn to them, too.  When we went to England as a "consolation" for our failed IVF (and by consolation, I mean "my way of emotionally blackmailing 22 to finally get the vacation I'd wanted for like nine years"), he even suggested we buy a little Oxford t-shirt to add to our "collection." At the time, the shirt looked so tiny.  We couldn't imagine anything smaller!  It should fit Baby Girl when she's two.

At any rate, those shoes stayed with me.  They were at the back of my drawer when we received the distinct answer to prayer that we should not pursue IVF any further.  They were at the back of my drawer when I encountered more and more success at work - and when I decided to allow myself to enjoy that success.  They were at the back of my drawer when we went on seriously awesome vacations, when we bought beautiful things for our home, when we unabashedly enjoyed the fruits of our labors rather than punishing ourselves for not being able to have children.   They were at the back of my drawer every single morning and every single night when we prayed for a child.  They were at the back of my drawer when I realized that I no longer wanted to try fertility treatments and that I yearned, sincerely, painfully, hopefully yearned, to adopt.

One perfect day in July of 2012, they were moved from the back of my drawer to my tiny, baby girl's closet.  

And they were in my baby's closet Friday, August 2nd, when I realized my daughter was finally big enough to fit into them.  

Baby Girl, these are some very, very big shoes you've filled.  More than filled.  You're so sweet and loving.  Nothing in the world makes you happier than seeing other people happy (except for doggies - you are OBSESSED with doggies.).  You're sassy and funny and clever in a way that already thrills me.  You work hard for the things you want and you ignore (well, throw) the things that you don't care about.  You would rather climb over a mountain than go around it, even if going around it is easier (or makes more sense, frankly.  But then, you're a baby.).  That's just your style.  And lest anyone ever, ever think that I expect perfection out of you, or that I expect you to live up to every hope and dream I ever had about a child, they're wrong.  I expect imperfection out of you, because that's what makes you unique and special and silly and flat out beautiful.   There never was a "hope for a perfect child" in my head.  Just a knowledge that I had a cute pair of shoes waiting for a baby who would be the perfect fit.  And that's you.

You make the shoes look good, kid.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

So, uh, hey there.  How are you?  Long time, right?  I've been MIA, so let me catch you up on the haps over the last several months.

• Our day in court!  It was a neat experience to have the judge pronounce us officially as a family...but it was just the penultimate.  The warm-up, if you will.  The judge had the power to pronounce us a family till we die.  But that's not what we're in this for.  Eternity or bust, if you will.

The Whites...officially!

• We were sealed in the Mesa LDS temple for time and all eternity.  It was so special to have (some of) our family and friends join us for the most special day of our lives together.  When Baby Girl's hand was placed on ours in the sealing room, I don't think there was a dry eye in the room.  Incredible experience, one I'll never forget.

Practice run seeing the Mesa Temple lights

After we had been sealed for time and all eternity (and, yes, I'd dyed my hair redder for the occasion)

• I returned to work on Halloween.  It was awful.  I found that "awful" became "barely tolerable" after the first couple of weeks, but it was a no-brainer that I was going to leave.  It was hard saying goodbye to friends, but for the close friends, I know it won't really be goodbye (and I've already been able to prove that with several of them).  There were tiny flickers of temptation and reminders that accolades and success feel really, really nice.  Ultimately, though, it was a ridiculously easy decision to make.  A non-decision, really.  December 31st was a great day.

Last day in the office

• Baby Girl had her first Thanksgiving and her first Christmas (and New Years, and Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and...you get the picture), and they were beyond special and fun.  We made a point of getting BG "presents" that we were already planning to get her (being a cute new mom is fun, and all, but she thinks wrapping paper is a plate of truffles, y'all.  She doesn't care about presents), and we all had new pajamas.  I woke up early and brought BG in to "wake up" Daddy.  Cutest thing, watching 22's face.    

Halloween - we went to Birth Mom's family's Halloween party - it was a "Witch and Wizard" theme.  So we went as Wizards.  Washington style.  

Christmas

• New teeth, waving, shaking her head, sitting up, eating real food, saying "da da," "ba ba," "blah," "bthe," and "boof."

First tooth!

Getting her snack on

• Having random strangers consistently try to touch her and hold her and squeeze her...turns out that NEVER gets old.  EVER.  

• DISNEYLAND!  Baby Girl rocked that sucker (and Huntington Beach, and museums, and Wahoo's Fish Tacos black beans) like a champ.  Mickey made a guest appearance in her weekly bear pic.  She thought he was delicious, of course, but let's face it:  she has rubbish taste.  Girl.Eats.Anything.

Huntington Beach Pier

Mickey's special appearance

• BG went to her first spring training game!  The short stop for the White Sox, whom we were seeing, saw me with BG and tossed her a ball! How cute is that?

• Oh, and what else has been happening?  About eleventy million other cute things.  :)  

The last 8 1/2 months have been the best and happiest of my (already happy) life.  I pray every day to my Heavenly Father to thank him for each of these moments, and so many more.  I'm thankful every day, too, that 22 and I were committed to being happy in our blessings before BG came along, rather than focusing on the blessings we lacked.  In every possible way, she has only amplified (greatly) what joy was already there.  I think if we hadn't been living to have joy (2 Ne 2:27), we couldn't have experienced this new level of joy so fully.  So, for my dear friends who are still struggling with this trial that we struggled with for so long, be happy.  Happiness multiplied by misery ultimately doesn't yield happiness.  Happiness multiplied by happiness, however, equals crazy happiness.  

And I like it.

Remembering Suzy Part II

In two weeks, I will return to work from leave and from the three greatest months of my life.  I know it's only for a short time, but the idea of even being gone for two months has been killing me.  I'm blessed that my wonderful in-laws will be coming down to watch her, so I know she will be with people w ho love her.  But I can't help but think that she won't be with the person best suited to love and care for her in the world: me.

I don't remember very much about my mom.  I remember little things, like her picking a dry frosted flake from my cereal bowl once and what her hand looked like as she did so. I remember her voice and especially her laugh, low and throaty.  I remember her reading the Wizard of Oz to us on a road trip.  And I remember a song she used to sing to me called "The Little Blue Man."  It was funny and silly and cute, and it has stayed in my head for twenty plus years.  " 'I wub you, I wub you,' said the little blue man."

As little as I remember about her, I know that my mom loved me because all of those cute little things she did.  I try to do things like this for Baby Girl every day.  But it terrifies me to think that something could happen where she wouldn't remember me and those little things.  And more than that, it terrifies me to think that she could ever doubt that I love her more than anything.  More than everything.  I know that she feels perfectly loved right now.  I see it in her grin a hundred times a day.  I see it in the way she scrunches her little hands up to her face when I'm hugging her and kissing her perfect, round cheeks.  I feel it in the way that she snuggles against me when I'm holding her.  The idea that one day this could change - that she could forget how perfectly I love her because something happens to me or, worse still, that she could simply feel unloved for any reason whatsoever - causes me physical pain.  My gut and throat and face hurt just thinking about it.  Which I've been doing far too often as I've realized that I'm returning to work in two weeks.  Thirteen days, actually.  That countdown looms over me.

Baby Girl, I love you.  Please don't feel like I'm abandoning you for these two months that I can already promise you will be two of the hardest of my life.  Please never forget that I waited eight years for the privilege of being your mom, and I would have waited 80 just for the chance to hold you.  You are perfect and beautiful and clever and sweet and strong and so, so silly.  You have turned an already happy life into something transcendent.  Please, please never forget that.

I love you more than everything.