Welcome Charlie Part 2

A lot of my friends and people I know on Facebook are having babies - it's that time of life. I feel like every time I see their pictures after birth, they look so beautiful, sitting up, cradling their babies, looking like they aren't in pain. My pictures are a bit different, because I felt a bit different...
(but maybe this happens to a lot of C-section mamas, and I'm nothing special. Every birth story is traumatic and exhausting, but, come on, guys. This is cathartic for me. Just roll with it.)

After they gave me that morphine, things got woozy and fuzzy.
I remember being wheeled out of the OR (this time more like Grey's Anatomy), and...where was Charlie? Was Kelly carrying him, walking next to me? Kelly must have been carrying him.

...Nope. I just asked Kelly.

Apparently Charlie was in my lap as they wheeled me to my recovery room. I don't remember any of this. Morphine does not sit well with me. I was so out of it and felt sick to my stomach. I do remember at one point, they gave me Charlie to hold. I held him to me and they encouraged me to try breastfeeding. I started to fidget with my gown, but couldn't do it.

"Someone needs to take Charlie before I throw up on him."

These pictures Emily took tell the story pretty well (remember what I said about birth being all about unflattering photos?):

Kelly said he felt pretty alone those first few hours. 

I felt sick and sad. I couldn't sit up. I couldn't hold my baby. I couldn't even hold my lunch (figuratively speaking, since I wasn't allowed to have lunch).

I was so sick from the Morphine, they had to give me Phenergan, which then just made me extremely tired and out of it. I could not stay awake, and I was imagining strange things. At one point, a nurse was telling me something important, and as I looked at her to show I was paying attention, all I remember her saying was something about Jedi chicken nuggets. I'm pretty sure she didn't say anything even remotely close to that.

 But eventually, the drugs wore off and I was able to hold my Charlie.

That first night was rough. I mean, ROUGH. Charlie cried every hour, on the hour. I was in pain, and didn't want to take any of the strong drugs after what I had just been through with the morphine. Kelly and I were both really cranky and exhausted. By 4am, we sent Charlie to the nursery so we could get some rest. Did I want them to wake me up when it was time for him to eat? I was just too tired... no. Just feed him. You guys are probably better at it than I am. 

The next day, I showered, took a walk, and visited with my mom and sister. I was glad to be coherent again, even if I moved like a 100 year old woman.

As the day went on, the nurses became increasingly concerned with Charlie's breathing. Normal breath rates for newborn are between 30-60 a minute. They counted Charlie's breaths in the 90's. They furrowed their brows, and said they'd keep an eye on it.

Meanwhile, Charlie wouldn't eat. He screamed any time I would bring him to my chest. That didn't make me feel too great as a new mom. 

We called in a few lactation specialists, which was the WORST. In our childbirth class, they praised lactation specialists. Oh, they're god-sends; definitely talk with one. You'll love it. They're life savers. You'll feel like you've died and gone to heaven. You might even start to pray to them. All hail the lactation specialists.

Our experience left us cursing them instead (sorry, great lactation specialists out there. I'm sure I would praise some of you had I the opportunity to meet with you instead).

It went pretty much like this:

Me: He screams every time I try to feed him. 

Lactation specialist: Well, you're holding him wrong. Hold him like this *a super uncomfortable way that was impossible*

Me: Okay, but he's still screaming when I try to feed him. See?

LS: Well, he can sense your insecurity. Be more confident and wait until he opens his mouth, and put him on.

*LS continues to shove Charlie's face into me as he screams, which makes him scream louder*

LS: His breathing is too fast. 

Me: Yeah, we've noticed that. The nurses are keeping an eye on it. Maybe it's because he's been crying so hard?

LS: I don't know why he's not in the NICU. It's way too fast. He should be in the NICU.

Me: *holding back tears* Well, how do I get him to eat?

LS: You're just doing it wrong. *SHOVE*

Me: This is stressing me out *burst into violent tears*

Kelly was not pleased with this encounter, and he let her know. And then he let the charge nurse know. He let everyone know, really. 

We finally got Charlie to eat a little bit with a tube taped to my chest, connected to some formula. That was a pain to set up. But by this time, his breaths per minute had gone up into the 100's. No one was concerned with my slight inconvenience.

After more furrowing of their brows, the nurses took him up for some tests, x-rays, and feeding with a tube. I had to stay behind to try to get some milk for the little guy, but Kelly went up with him after giving him his first father's blessing in my arms.

Kelly sent me these pictures from the NICU.

My new-mommy heart didn't know what to do about the tiny baby IV in his hand.

I had a nurse wheel me up to the NICU room as soon as I could, and sat in a chair next to Kelly as they put a little tube down into Charlie's stomach to feed him. Everyone was acting so normal, like what was happening wasn't at all out of the ordinary. Just feeding your baby with a tube, no big deal. I felt like I couldn't fall apart. With everyone acting so normal, things must be fine.

But watching them put a tube down his throat did not feel fine. Typical, worried mom stereotypes flooded my mind. I didn't want to just cry for seemingly no reason (boy, was I in for a surprise the next 2 weeks...) - I wanted to be strong and so not worried, like everyone else seemed to be. I was strong. I was calm and cool. I was a totally relaxed new mom.

But I wasn't.

I was neither calm nor cool. I was helpless as my tiny baby was poked and prodded.

Words from the blessing Kelly gave me Wednesday played in my mind on repeat: "Keep things in perspective. Don't overdramatize things."

I knew things would be fine. My mind was very rational. It said, Everything's fine, Natalie. This is probably unnecessary. This will be over very soon, and he'll be a healthy, happy boy. No need to worry. 

But my heart - my mushy, hypersensitive heart said, There's a tube down his throat, and he's covered in wires. Why is he covered in wires? He should be in your arms. His poor little heels - pricked and squeezed for blood. He must be so uncomfortable. He needs you. Nothing is okay! Can we just go back to everyone commenting on how round his head is?!

And so I silently wept in the uncomfortable hospital chair as I waited the moment to pass.

After the tube feeding, they put him - cords and all - on my chest. He was sedated with glucose (his first sugar coma), and his breathing was short and quick against the slow and steady rise and fall of my own.

After more tests over the next 3 days, they determined that he was just stressed out. A sensitive boy. He just needed us to be calm; he didn't need us shoving his face into my boob over and over again as he screamed.

Before we left the hospital, Charlie had one more breathing test. The sassy South African charge nurse came in to test Charlie's oxygen levels as he ate. She wrapped a tiny cuff monitor around his foot, and gave us the most sound advice we had heard since getting pregnant.

(Imagine a strong African accent and freezing cold hands)
"People will tell you to do all these things - hold him this way, feed him that way. You know what is best. You are the mother. Do what works for you."

It was exactly what we needed to hear after 4 days of being told how worried we should be by doctors. She was my spirit guide.

"Do you think puppies come out and they need a nurse to teach them to breastfeed? No! It is human nature. You are his mother - you know what to do."

I am Charlie's mother. I know what to do.
That should be my mantra.

I never once wore anything other than a hospital gown our 4 days in the hospital, and at the end of it all of Charlie's oxygen levels were perfect - we went home.

 And then I cried for 2 weeks straight and got an infection, which landed me back in the ER, and life was strange and confusing and wonderful and suddenly fulfilling...but those are all words for another post, another time. 

Welcome Charlie Part 1

For years I've been both fascinated and horrified by peoples birth stories online. Some of them share waaaay too much. Like TMI doesn't even begin to describe their posts. (Somehow I find myself liking those even more. Maybe it's like watching Grey's Anatomy.) I'm so grossed out, but it's crazy cool at the same time. Bringing life into this world is just so mind-blowing. Dr. Spaceman gets it.

I hesitate to share Charlie's "Birth Story" because well, frankly as much as I love reading all the grotesque birth stories out there, I can't help but also think the people writing them are a little crazy. Like the TMI TMI people. I mean, do I check constantly after someone's had a baby to see if they wrote about it? Yes. Do I get excited when I see a new birth story posted on Facebook, even if I barely know the person? Of course. I just never thought I'd be that person.

Crazy may be a strong word. And really, I have no reason to judge anyone. But, like all humans, I hesitate because I don't want to be judged. As much as I want to have a IDC attitude and flip my hair, that D just may stand, secretly, for do. 

*hair flip* Whatever. Let's do this.

Charlie, who at the time had no name and was maybe going to be named Henry or even Harold, stayed in an extra week. No one expected this. (Except for all the people who told me the first baby always comes late. What did they know? My baby was going to come on time, okay?) 

I took the week before my due date off from work, mom flew out on my due date, and I worked in the yard, pulling weeds and washing windows, trying to get that little babe out on time. I was born on my due date, and I had convinced myself that my baby would be the same. Punctual. Courteous. Agreeable. 

Nope.

(Ready to pop) 

5 days after my due date, I had a doctor's appointment to see what was up. As it turned out, Charlie was. Sitting up. His bum down, not even thinking about coming out the correct way. This was shocking to us because for the past 3 weeks our doctor had told us his head was down and he was in a great position. (We think he was just feeling it wrong. It was probably the bum down there the whole time. Sorry we confused your butt for your face, Charlie.) 

The doctor did an ultrasound to make sure he was feeling it right, and then things started happening fast. The ultrasound confirmed that Charlie (or Henry or Harold or Fredrick?) was breech, and the doctor  gave us 2 choices: Schedule a C-section, or try a Version (a procedure in which they try to flip the baby from the outside by stabbing their hands into you until you cry). We decided on the Version. I had a friend who had her baby successfully turned this way, and I was sure it would work for me. There was this one bump in the road, that was to be expected, but my pregnancy was so picture perfect, I had all confidence in the world that the delivery would be the same. We would get this baby flipped and everything would be fine.

Nope.

We went from the doctor's office to our house where I changed and Kelly gave me a blessing. Then had to hurry off to the hospital. I was put into a gown, given an IV in my hand, hooked up to monitors, and we waited hopefully for the doctor to show up. It was my first time ever admitted to the hospital and the first time I ever had an IV, which I hated and let the nurses know. "Oh boy, this does not feel good. I feel like my hand is going to explode!" I was vey verbal - sorry, nurses. I then got a shot to make sure I didn't have any contractions, which also didn't feel good, and which I was also verbal about. Sorry again, nurses.

(before the version)

The Version didn't take. It was awful. Imagine someone digging their hands into your stomach as hard as they can. But you can't clench any muscles to block it, and you have to be as still as possible. Isn't that basically how Houdini died? The doc tried his stabbing/digging/pushing thing with all his might to get the baby to budge 4 times, and there was zero movement. The little babe was upside down and that's how he was going to stay.

"Okay," my doctor said casually and calmly. "I'll go ahead and schedule a C-section for tomorrow at 10am. Don't eat or drink anything past..." and he went on, giving me instructions like he hadn't just Houdini-ed me and decided I needed to be cut open.

As soon as he stepped away from my bedside, I looked to Kelly and exploded in tears.

The nurse was so nice. She knelt down beside my bed, held my hand and told me how beautiful and special a C-section birth was; how it didn't matter how a baby comes into the world, as long as he gets here; and how there was no reason to be scared. I nodded through my sobbing, and when I finally caught my breath, I said, "It's not even any of those things. That just really hurt."

But I think it really was all of those things. It was all happening too fast. When we took our childbirth class, I had decided a C-section would be fine in an emergency, but I always imagined that in that emergency my water would break, I'd breathe through contractions, maybe do some pushing, and then they'd tell me I'd need a C-section. This was just so sudden, so out of left field.

I called my mom after leaving the hospital and told her we were going to get some dinner, and oh, by the way, I was having a C-section in the morning. It was very hard not to cry, saying the words out loud. I calmed down and we went to Texas Roadhouse for our Last Supper. The waitress commented on my big belly and asked when I was due. That was a complicated question.

"Uh, a week ago? He's coming out in the morning, actually."  

Dinner was fun and strange, knowing it was our last outing before adding a tiny person to our life. It's a funny feeling, knowing you won't feel any contractions, or do your breathing exercises, or hear people tell you to push; knowing the exact time your baby will arrive.

That night felt like Christmas Eve. Kelly and I could barely sleep, we were so excited and anxious and curious about how much our lives would change.

The morning of Charlie's arrival, we shuffled around the house, pretending we had any clue about what was about to happen. We giggled and joked and Kelly ate the leftover steak from Texas Roadhouse and a Mt. Dew for breakfast. We were out of our minds.

At the hospital, we ended up having to wait, which led to this unflattering picture. (Birth is all about unflattering pictures.)

When we got to a triage room, we waited some more. There were no rooms available yet.

(Who's got 2 thumbs and is about to have a baby? This girl!)

Once we got into our own room, we did some more waiting. The waiting turned into me crying out of excitement and nerves and hunger, but thankfully Kelly was there to cheer me up. Cheering me up consisted of playing cards, taking pictures, and interviewing each other (I'm watching the videos right now for the first time. I can hear the tears in my voice underneath my laughter, and my face looks much chubbier than I remember.)

Finally, after 4 hours of waiting, the doctor showed up. Bustling is a good word for it. He bustled into our room and told us it was time to go. Time sped up. It wasn't like in Grey's Anatomy. I wasn't rolled on a gurney down the hall, bursting through OR doors. Instead, a nurse held my IV bag as I tried to hold my gown closed in the back and slowly walk down the hall by myself. Kelly was busy getting into his OR gear that looked like a paper space suit. I was afraid to be away from him for even a minute and kept looking behind me as the nurse made me walk forward, making sure he was coming. 

The OR room was small and sterile. The table was too tall and they had to get me a stool so I could get up. Things really were happening too fast to even comprehend at this point, but I'll try to recount what I can remember. 

(The OR room. It's time.)

They had me roll on my side for the spinal block. I had Kelly hold my hand and I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could. It stung a little, and when he passed a nerve, it felt like someone had splashed bacon grease on my legs, but then he had me laying back on the table and it took about 5 seconds for the bottom third of my body to go completely numb. There were a lot of people in the room by now, all talking to each other, setting up for their specific jobs. It really was like one of those moments in the movies where a character is standing still as the world spins around them. 

They put up the blue paper drape. I guess the catheter went in at this point, and then Kelly said, "They're painting you orange." I kept my eyes on Kelly pulled him in to my bubble in the center of the spinning universe. I kept thinking, I can't think about what's happening right now, but my brain couldn't even begin to imagine - it was like the bottom third of me didn't even exist. I said things to Kelly like, "We're going to have a baby," over and over again. I wanted to be in the moment. I wanted to remember everything. But boy was it happening fast.

A female doctor was suddenly over me, pushing on the top of my stomach like she was giving me CPR. 

"They're pushing on me. What's happening?" I asked Kelly calmly. 

The female doctor glanced over the drape and said with a smile in her voice, "We're delivering!"

The anesthesiologist tapped Kelly and insisted, "Dad, start snapping pictures!" 

I grabbed Kelly's arm and tried to explain why he shouldn't. "You'll pass out." But Kelly stood, robotically, and indeed snapped some pictures. (I'll spare you the grotesque shots of Charlie being pulled out of me butt first.) He later told me he didn't even comprehend what he was seeing, he just pushed the button on his iPhone - it was too overwhelming to puke or pass out. 

And then he was here. A doctor lifted him up over the drape for a moment before taking him to get cleaned up, and I saw his little round head and scrunched up face. All the doctors were commenting on the shape of his head. "Look at that round head!" they repeated. We would hear this sentiment over and over again from every doctor and nurse and visitor we would see over the next few weeks. He has a very round head.

Kelly walked over to where the babe was being washed, weighed, and worried over, as they put me back together. I heard him cry. I heard the nurses continue to talk about his head. I laid my head back and was alone again in the spinning universe. I was a mother. I had a child, who had just been pulled out of me. Kelly was a father. We were parents. Tears welled in my eyes.

The anesthesiologist told me he was giving me some morphine, and I felt my mouth forget how to form words. When Kelly came back over to me, I made my mouth say, "His name's Charlie." It just was. Kelly agreed.

Charlie.

Charlie Kicks

Charlie's always been a kicker, but when you compare his 1 month kicking to his almost 5 month kicking, you're like: Wow. Now it just looks like he was trying to ride a tiny, underwater bike before.

ONE MONTH:

ALMOST 5:

I'm certain he's going to do that thing ninjas do when they flip themselves up to their feet from laying on their backs pretty soon. He'll do that before he crawls because he HATES tummy time. 

This kid has gotten strong. Strong enough to yank Kelly's beard nearly off, throw my glasses across the room, and almost launch himself out of that bouncy chair. We love him and all his muscles. 

Welcome Back, Me. And an Old Blog Post About Baby Things

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.

I just can't believe you're a baby and you're sleeping in my house and you wake me up in the middle of the night and you smile at me in the day because you're mine. My baby. You made me a mom. That's just unbelievable.

I have mini realizations all the time. Moments where I am suddenly struck with the truth of it all. I'm a mom. I said to Kelly the other day, "Kelly, our new names are Mom and Dad."

His response: "Who calls us that?"

But really.

We just past the year mark of when we found out I was pregnant. September 1st. So this almost-autumn air is making me remember the constant semi-queasy feeling of my first trimester. So constant and so semi, in fact, that I didn't even think I was feeling very sick at all. "Are you feeling sick at all?" people would ask, and I'd respond, "Oh, no. Not really. I just don't feel like eating sweet things and gag when I brush my teeth and want to eat ice all day. But I feel great."

Want to see the stick I peed on when I found out I was growing a tiny human?
How about the blog post I secretly wrote but never published when I was only 5 weeks along? You dooOOoo??? Well, here it is! (Welcome back to blogging, me)

Well, it's true. 

I know it's really gross to show the things you peed on, but come on, guys. This is my first time! Give me a break. 

The first one was so faint we didn't believe it. We kept saying, "That's not another line, is it? Nooo...it can't be..."

The next morning I took another one and it was quite clear. It was pretty unreal. 

So, yeah. There's a baby growing inside of me. I'm officially 5 weeks. 

Kelly and I just keep saying, "Whaaat?!" and "Wait, is this real?" and "Shut up." Lots of disbelief in the Thomson household right now.

I don't really have any being-pregnant symptoms. Like at all, so it's still pretty hard to believe. I'm not sick. I don't have any cravings. I don't have any mood swings....oh wait. 

We went to an Aquabats concert last night. We were standing on the floor and people just kept pushing in front of us. Do you know what my view looks like at a concert on the floor with people in front of me? Like this: 

Oh, nice backs, everyone. I was holding it in, but MAN was I about to burst into tears. I knew it was not something to cry over, but those tears just kept rising. I kept telling myself, "This is so stupid. This is not something I should cry about. I can still hear the music. Sometimes I can still see little bits, like oh, there's the drummer's head!...This is fine..." And then I'd have to take really deep breaths so I didn't cry like a baby. I just kept turning around to look at Kelly saying, "I might as well just look at you because I can't see anything else." 

Eventually we moved farther back, like to the back where all the old people stand, and we could finally see and there were no people around me and I felt so much better. Phew!

And I have some little cramps now and then. Don't worry, I googled it a million times and it's apparently fine. 

Anyway, the only people who know are me and Kelly and doctors and my parents. I told them on Labor day. It was pretty ridiculous. 

With them on speaker phone in a really shaky voice, gasping for air from adrenaline, I said, "So...you know how it's Labor day? Well that's weird *gasp* because *gasp* our labor day isn't until May. *deep exhale and weird shaky laugh*"

Mom and Dad were so excited. They screamed and cheered and asked lots of questions that I couldn't really answer. I don't know what's going on. Don't ask me!

Mom then promptly sent me 2 packages in the mail: One with my baby blessing dress, and one with tiny little baby socks. And then we had to quickly hide them because Jen came over and we went for a bike ride. Oh, and don't worry I'm still so weird about this still I googled "pregnant week 5 bike riding" before she came over. Don't worry, guys. It's fine. We had a great ride. And I didn't even spill my secret!

Not telling everyone is so hard. Do you know how good I am at keeping my own secrets? Uh, not good at all.

And we're doing this teacher bootcamp at school, learning all these Cross Fit moves which freak me out because exercise is okay, but what if this one move isn't okay? You know? So, I pretend I'm a wussy and don't do some of the stuff.  I'll tell them all in a few weeks and I'll be like, Joke's on you, suckers! I could do those moves this whole time, but I didn't what to hurt this little peppercorn that's growing inside of me! BOOM! Drop the mic. I'm out.

Blogging Again?

Remember when Kelly and I used to blog? Well, I would blog about me and Kelly? Those sure were some fun days...

Ice Bucket Challenge: Why We Love to Hate It

Nearly every Facebook and Instagram post recently is someone getting doused with a bucket full of ice water, screaming in shock. All the other posts are rants over the annoyance of having to see these videos 50 times a day.

The ALS ice bucket challenge. You've seen it. You've clicked the hashtag. You've probably even done it. (I'm doing it tomorrow. Peer pressure is real). 

 (Pics below)

In theory I really like it. It's a viral way to raise money for something important. I like that, and I've heard that they've raised over 41 million dollars from these ice bucket donations alone. That's amazing! I love the idea of people coming together for a good cause and getting such amazing results. So then, why are these videos beginning to grate on our nerves?

I realized the answer to my question tonight as I was washing dishes. This challenge is just a chain letter disguised as a viral video. Think about it. When us 90’s kids were in middle school, chain letter emails would consistently and annoyingly show up in our inboxes, accompanied by that pleasant voice announcing "you've got mail!" The voice however did not warn us about the type of mail we’d received.

The dreaded chain letter. They're all the same. First, they tell you some touching story such as a young girl finding the man of her dreams after forwarding an email to 20 people. Second, they grace you with a “stunning” visual display that dances with dashes and colons and greater-than signs as you scroll down the page. Finally, at the bottom, they always leave you with a threat. "Forward this to 10 people or your crush will hate you forever." No one wants their crush to hate them! So we hit the forward button and bugged our friends, relatives, and loved ones. That is until we came to our senses and realized that forwarding the messages would in no way impact how our crushes felt about us. If he didn't like my acid wash fanny pack before, he wasn't going to like it after receiving an annoying chain letter from me. 

Flash forward to today. Technology is more advanced and more clever; therefore chain letters have become more advanced and clever. A Super Chain Letter, if you will (cue the clawed, metal hand bursting forth from the pile of rubble). The touching story is now more tangible: an actual disease, for actual people, that needs curing. The fancy visuals are no longer 8-bit animations, but somewhat entertaining videos of your friends screaming as they are showered with ice. And the threat feels even more damning than before: "If you don't pour a bucket of ice on your head within 24 hours, everyone will know you hate science and love diseases." Okay, admittedly it's not that harsh, but it has started to feel that way. The urgency has also increased to Super status, requiring us to "forward this message" within only 24 hours since, hey, we all practically live on the internet now! The chain letter no longer sits in our inboxes for a few days because we check Instagram and Facebook about every 10 minutes. 

What’s next for chain letters? We all move to third world countries, make videos of the surgeries we perform, and call people out to Make The Move within 24 hours? Let’s hope not. 

(Hey, at least I got to wear my cat towel at school!)

The Downs and Ups of Life

Sometimes I read people's blogs and I think, I love reading blogs. And then I sit down to write a blog and think, we'll I certainly have nothing to write about.

Wouldn't that be great if this was the end of the blog?

But I guess I could think of something to write...

Emily got her mission call! Sao Palo Brazil west. My cocktail of emotions change everyday, but I am overwhelmingly proud of her. She is amazing. I have always looked up to her.

Kelly and I went camping for the first time since being married. Everything still smells like campfire. We've talked a lot about all the camping we want to do, but somehow we've always talked ourselves out of it. Not this time! Oh mama, did we camp!

I only have 2 months of school left! Driving home today, I practiced what speech I could give my students on our last day together. You know: real inspiring stuff. Be your self and whatnot. (and yes, I did cry as I gave my fake speech to the radio). I need them to know how much I care for them and how important it is to be nice to everyone. I don't even care if they remember the difference between there/their/they're if they end the year more accepting and positive than when they started. As I blabbered in my car over some Billie Holliday song, I realized that I am very wise, but far from eloquent.

In hopes that actions really are louder than words, I've tried very hard to develop a reputation of being positive all the time - even if they think I'm super annoying (and they do) in hopes that it will rub off. I really need them to know that it's okay to be different and for others to be different.

Recently, one of my old students took her life after being bullied because she was different. She came to see me just a day before and we had such a nice chat. We even talked about all the positive there was to focus on in life even when high school sucks; she had the most beautiful smile. As I've grieved, I have done what many do: thought, what could I have said or done to help her more? My heart compresses when I think about it.

The number 1 reason I became a teacher - aside from the fact that English was the only thing I liked - was to help these kids see the good parts of life and understand that even amongst all the bad, there is good. I always wished someone would have told me things like that when I was in school. I mean, my best friend was a cat for far too long. (Pictured below: Me and my BFF)

Aside from the inevitable darkness, life is insanely good.

I hope my students know that life gets better. I mean, look at me. I could go into lots of sappy details about how my insides used to be filled with tar, but how I've overcome and how much my heart has grown since being with Kelly and how he's the love of my life and how he reminds me of all the good in the world and makes me laugh and and and... I could even tell the story of when he taught me that it feels better to laugh than to cry - but I tell that story all the time - and I'll save the sap for another day. You're welcome.

If I was allowed, I would just show my students this talk and bare my testimony.
This talk speaks directly to my heart about what I've been rambling on about. And President Uchtdorf is just way more eloquent than I am.