Hey you, yes you. I’m guest posting over here today. You should check that business out.
After church I changed into my bathing suit, grabbed a towel and sun-tan lotion, made a playlist on my iPod and headed outside.
For dinner I made a Very Berry smoothie and then went for a run.
In the words of Coldplay, “it’s such a perfect day.”
All I can say is, finally.
Her birthday week is finally over.
I can’t even tell you how many times this week it was “okay” to cheat on our diet because it was her birthday week.
Well it was twice, so I guess I can tell you, but I’m not proud of it.
Oh well, at least I got to wear a sombrero and eat Chocolate Reece’s Peanut Butter Cookie Cupcakes.
And really, how many times do you get to say that?
Happy Birthday Kaylee!
There, it’s over now.
Carrots for us all week.
“You were almost adopted.”
On a leisurely drive into town on Sunday afternoon my grandmother began spilling secrets. They were big secrets. Twenty-years of pressure had these secrets rattling around in her throat and spewing out of her mouth like the molten lava currently blanketing Iceland.
These secrets scorched my ears and left my brain foggy with ash.
“You mean, I was adopted? By y’all?”
She hesitated and I could tell that no, she wasn’t talking about their adopting me. I swallowed a thick lump in my throat and returned my gaze to the scenes passing by outside.
The low volume of the radio did nothing to dissipate the tense conversation.
Finally, she started to tell the story again.
“You were almost adopted. Your mother found an agency before you were born. Picked out a family.”
“And this woman, the woman who was supposed to adopt you, paid for everything. She paid for your mother’s doctors appointments, her apartment, everything. When your mom had you, the woman flew down from New York to be there. She flew all the way to Louisiana.”
The secrets kept coming, flowing out faster and faster, getting hotter and hotter, and the pressure in the car was steeping higher and higher.
“I kept hoping your mom would change her mind. I kept praying that once she had the C-section and saw you, she would change her mind.”
“Yes, she did. And I had to go tell the woman in the waiting room that your mom had changed her mind and she didn’t get to have you.”
“What was she like? The woman?”
“I don’t know much. She was a single woman, a biochemical something or other, and she lived in New York City.”
--Deep breath in. Process information. Deep breath out.--
“I almost lived in New York.”
“I almost had a different family. A different life.”
The pressure was too much. It exploded out of my body in the form of shaking hands and a quivering brain.
I don’t know what was harder to grasp—that I was unwanted, or that my life could have been 100% different.
I have been through a lot in my short life. I have had very definitive moments that have truly shaped who I am, what I stand for, what my divine purpose is. (And I truly believe that we each have one, and that finding out what it is is the most glorious thing on earth.)
Out of all of those things—even the surgery—nothing has shook me quite as much as the thought, “What would my life have been like?”
Who would I be? Where would I be? Who would my family be? My friends? Would I be in college?
The cancer scare/surgery would probably still have happened to me. Would I have developed the same relationship with God that I did during that trial?
It’s bizarre to think about a life I almost had. She was in the hospital.
She had a ticket back to New York City on a plane I should have been on. She had a house with a nursery painted pink and soft cotton onesies hanging in the closet.
I almost didn’t have this family. I almost didn’t have these best friends. Those groups of people make me who I am. To think of a life without them?
I don’t regret knowing, though. Not at all. I learned a lot on that Sunday afternoon drive.
First, every decision we make affects the rest of our lives. My mom could have handed me over to a completely different life, but she chose not to, and here I sit, writing this blog in my living room, my family asleep down the hall.
I also now have a greater appreciation for the people in my life. I didn’t realize how great my love was for them—how much they mean to me, how much they have shaped me—until I faced a life I could have had without them.
I wonder what that woman is doing now. I hope she found a baby to adopt.
One thing I know for sure?
I’m happy where I am.
I don’t know how to play Solitaire.
And now you’re saying things like “Whaaaat?!” and “How dumb are you?”
Go ahead, I have heard it all before.
Card games are equal to math in my mind.
Like, King comes before Queen and Ace after Jack and it’s all too much for me to remember.
Or is Queen before King and Ace before Jack?
I seriously don’t know.
I’m cool with games like Go! Fish (which to this day I call Gold Fish) and Spoons, because I have the reflexes of a cat.
And now, a new favorite card game: Mao.
You know why I love it so?
Because no one can talk and tell me I’m doing things wrong, you get to make up your own rules, and I don’t need to know things like Ace comes before Queen.
Okay, you can pick your brain up off the floor now.
I am Al and have a nice day.
That’s a Mao thing. Did you know?
Although I really do want you to
have a nice day. Did you?
I am taking sponsors for the month of Mane.
May + June.
And the best news?
You sponsor me, I sponsor you, and we both win.
You can check out the details here.
That page pretty much says what this post says, but it also has a picture of a zonkey and some buttons, which this post does not.
I am Al and I thought Mane was clever.
She also never reads my blog. Something about it having too many words and not enough pictures.
I’m a writer, that’s what I do.
And also, what great friends I have.
She recently came home from BYU-Idaho to thaw out for the summer and took some amazing photographs of Utah on the drive.
I love Utah.
If you’re a new reader, hear me loud and clear: I love Utah.
If you’re a seasoned reader, are you sick and tired of hearing about my freakish obsession with Utah?
I could try to cut back and only mention it once a week if need-be. But that’s getting serious and does that involve some sort of contract?
I don’t like signing things because I have terrible handwriting…
So when she posted these pictures last night on her Facebook, I knew I had to share them because:
1) She won’t because she never blogs! (!!!)
2) I love Utah and I haven’t signed anything yet.