There are few things that little children say that startle me. Mainly because our daughter has managed to say it all. But also because that’s what children do. They embarrass you, think you’re crazy, and boy, they’ll tell one of your secrets so fast your head will spin. So far, we’ve escaped that embarrassing moment. For now.

But what fascinates me, is the adoration little girls feel for their fathers sometimes. I mean, I spend all day with this girl, trying to keep her happy, trying to make her laugh, and trying to keep her fed. You’d think I’d be fun. But when daddy comes home, the need for mommy vanishes. A new parent’s in town and nothing compares to him. To her daddy. He flings her around, tells her silly jokes, and laughs loud. And he makes her feel special.

So, after watching them dance for what seemed like three hours, I thought, I can be cool, too. I can dance with her, too. I’ll look less ridiculous maybe, but just as cool.

So here we were, the next day. Listening to music, cleaning the house, laughing and having a great time together.  I asked her if she wanted to dance. How fun! She was so excited. So, we started dancing. I felt like I was the winner. I knew in my heart of hearts that my dancing was better than my husband’s, and that she’d definitely prefer our method of dancing- a mother and her sweet little girl, making memories. It was a sweet moment. Sweet and very short lived.

“Not like this, mom. Like this. Dance like daddy!”

She really said that. She really did. In the middle of our dance, she stopped and looked me straight in the face and told me to dance like daddy. Apparently, my idea of dancing was different than her idea of dancing. I’m just not daddy, that’s the difference. It was funny. I’ll be honest, it was hilarious. I even tried to mimic his strange rhythm, and his really bad expressions. I just couldn’t be a horrible dancer. I have style and rhythm. He has jerking motions and awkward steps. How anyone calls that dancing, I have no clue. But she does. She loves it. He takes her little hand and spins her around and around. He makes her giggle and shriek and laugh so hard I’m afraid she’ll be dizzy and fall over. But that’s what they do, and he is her daddy.

And that’s their dance.

She waits for him to come through that door, you know. If she hears a truck outside she gets excited and says over and over that her daddy is home. I have to tell her he isn’t home yet, and it makes her sad. I take care of her, but boy, he makes her live. No one can compare to that. Not ever. And not even the best dancer in the world could take his place.

Because no one can dance like daddy.

I hope when she’s older, she’ll remember this. Her little hand in his, the music playing, the laughter between them. I know I’ll always remember. It makes me love him more. It makes me proud that he’s her father.

And as I watch them dance across the floor, her eyes gazing up at him, full of adoration and love, I see it so clear.

That she’s proud of her father, too.

Have you ever held something so beautiful, so amazing, and so fragile in your hands that you didn’t want to put it down? Maybe a gift from someone you love? How about that dress hanging in your closet, that was so perfect you didn’t want to wear it? So you stared at it from time to time, waiting for the perfect time to put it on? How about those other moments, those heartbreaking moments when you’re not thinking, and you set that beautiful gift down, and it shatters. The dress you kept waiting to wear for a perfect moment? It no longer fits you. These are those moments that you would take back if you could, right? And it’s heartbreaking that you just can’t.

That’s how I feel about Emma.

“I’m leaving, mommy”. She had her backpack on, her serious expression set in defiance, and I could hear Dan laughing from the other room. Where did she think she was going? I had to laugh, too. But inside, I couldn’t help but ache. Right now she is a two year old little girl, playing games, jumping around, singing songs.

But she won’t be, forever.

Sometimes I see her older, going to school, playing with friends, getting her license. And sometimes I see her dressed in white. I see her dancing with her father, in the middle of the room, the lights down low, the crowd hushed.  I see her with her head on his shoulder, his arms around her tight, like he did when she was a little girl. And then I see her walk away happily, with the man she loves, starting her own little life. It’s going to happen, you know. So in moments like this, when she comes to me and says “I’m leaving, mommy”, I can’t help but hurt. I can’t help but miss her already.

“I’m leaving, mommy”. I know it’s going to happen. I see it clearly in my mind, that her childhood days are quickly passing us by, as each day she’s smarter and prettier and bigger than she ever was. She needs me less each day, and each day I need her more. When she tells me she loves me, I have to pull her close and tell her the same. When she cries when I leave, I long to stay. And when she tells me she’s leaving, I feel my heart break.

Because I know someday, she’ll mean it. It won’t be a silly game. It will be real.

There won’t be any toys to trip over. No singing down the hall.

Her room will be empty.

That inevitable day will come. We’ll walk her to the door and tell her how much we love her. Dan will tell a joke, but I know if I look into his eyes, I’ll see his heart breaking. She’ll smile that amazing smile.

And then she’ll kiss us goodbye.

I know. I already know how it ends. But I’m not going to wait until that dress is too tight, or until that cherished gift gets broken. I’m going to enjoy every moment with that little girl, every time she laughs or cries or screams or smiles. Because it won’t last. And I don’t want to regret what I didn’t do with her.

These moments won’t last forever, things will change. And so will Emma.

She won’t be little forever. And that’s okay. Because right now, she is.

And right now, she’s ours.

When I was a young girl I didn’t have the best relationship with my grandmother. She struggled with an addiction to pain medication and it drastically changed her once friendly and lively personality. She was the woman who could sing like a bird, and who was stunningly beautiful. But sadly, that struggle changed everything. So much that I truly, honestly believed she hated me. She was quite mean, and unfairly cruel to me. It was always like that with us. Nothing like what my daughter shares with my mother. The two are one and the same, and my daughter adores her. “Grandma WeeYoo” she calls her. My mom made up a song once about rocking in a chair & that happened to be the melody. “Weeyoo, weeyoo, rocking in the chair”. So Emma decided that would be her name. It’s their song, you know? Well, for my grandmother and I, there was no cute song. There were no kisses, hugs, or rocking gently in a rocking chair. And I remember feeling so darn sad about that. I remember feeling that need, that yearning. And not experiencing any of it. 

But what I didn’t understand as a young girl, was how Heavenly Father works. He doesn’t torture you your whole life and then never make it up to you. He doesn’t deal you a bad hand and then at the end of your life, say “Well, that’s it. Your life was painful & full of regrets. Too bad!”. No. No, no, no. He makes up for it. In one way or another He will make it up to you. Why am I expounding on all of this? This is why.

The other day Emma was sick. She had had a fever for two days and felt pretty crummy. I was so tired of her getting sick over and over and over again, week after week, so my attitude stunk. But I prayed really hard that this time, the sickness would pass quickly and she’d be watched over. You see, I was given a Priesthood blessing once, and in it I was told that angels were watching over our children. And that they were kept safe.  It said many angels.  So when I pray, I pray for that. For many angels to watch over them.

So, Emma was sick again. She was up every two hours that night, and I was sure by morning the fever would be raging and she would be sicker than I could imagine. I heard her stirring around 5:45 am. I got out of bed and walked toward her room, dreading what I’d find. But something stopped me. I listened near her door as she rambled on, not making out exactly what she was saying. She must have sensed me there, because without looking at me, she smiled and said something that I’ll never forget.

“I talked to grandma Wee-yoo’s mommy.”

Suddenly I felt my knees start to shake, and I forced myself to inhale. The first thing that came to mind was maybe she was mistaken, because my Grandmother was dead. We never talk about my grandmother, so how would she know to even mention her? So I said calmly, “What did you talk about? Where is she?” Emma ignored the question, and then turned and said, “I wasn’t afraid, mommy”.

Now, this is not the first time she has mentioned my Grandmother. Months ago, she  came to me and said, “Mommy. I saw Grandma WeeYoo’s mommy. And there were lots of lights!”. I remember thinking I should write it down or call my mom, or do something. But another part of me thought it was nothing.

Suddenly, standing in Emma’s room, watching her nonchalantly tell me, once again, that she’d seen my grandmother, I KNEW the truth. I knew it was real. She was real.

And for the first time in my life, I understood. I understood what was happening. Here I was, begging & pleading with the Lord that He would send angels down to heal my little girl. That He would keep her safe. And I could actually see it in my mind. I could see little Emma there, feverish and tired. Aching and sick. And I could see this woman. This woman dressed in white, glowing and radiant. Sent from Heavenly Father to watch over my child. To be the answer to the prayer of a pleading parent. But He didn’t send just anyone. He sent her. And I could almost see her sitting there with Emma, talking, smiling. Singing.  And oh, if I could’ve been there, really been there, to see such a sight. I think all of those sad thoughts & bad memories about this woman, would quickly vanish. And I’d see my grandmother just as my little girl eyes have always wanted to see her, as she deserves to be seen. As she truly was. 

And my heart wouldn’t ache for her anymore.

So maybe she and I were dealt a bad hand. Maybe we were doomed from the start. Perhaps our relationship was meant for another time, another place. And I don't blame her anymore. I love her more than I ever have.  And I’m absolutely sure of one thing. She loves me. She loves me. And she loves my little girl. And maybe this is her way of saying she’s sorry. Maybe this is her way of taking me in her arms and wiping away years of needless tears, and years of wondering if she ever loved me at all.

I know now that she did.

So next time Emma is sick and I’m pleading with the Lord to send His angels to help her, I’ll know exactly who He’ll send. And I’ll know Emma is watched over. I’ll know that while she sits beside my daughter’s bed, that she isn’t just watching over Emma. She’s watching over me, too.  

And maybe next time when I'm sick, or alone or my heart is aching, I'll toss out the anger & pain that the little girl inside of me may feel for her. And instead, I'll see my grandmother dressed in white, smiling, sitting beside me at my bed.

And she'll softly sing to me until I fall asleep.

And then I'll realize….. maybe we have our own song after all.

I couldn’t breathe. I honestly wanted to crumble to the ground like a broken cookie being devoured in a child’s hand. It was the dreaded phone call from my husband, and it was one of the scariest moments of my life.

“Emma’s with you, right?” I was standing with my clients, a mother and a daughter, and they were discussing whether or not they were going to take the house I was showing them. But when I heard those words from my husband, I couldn’t care less if that house was on fire, if thieves were shooting it up, or if a huge tsunami wave gushed by and carried it away. So, immediately I went into denial mode and said, “Very funny, sweetheart”. He really is a jokester. But this time was different. I could tell. I could hear him frantically walking through the house, and instantly I imagined him checking every corner and every nook in the house, for this two year old bandit. I felt my knees almost give, and I walked away from my clients, feeling suddenly & extremely frantic. “No,” I cried, “I left her there with you! She has to be there!” I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest, as I was considering dropping everything I had in my arms and running as fast as I could to my car, without a single word to my clients. I didn’t care. I just remember sputtering off bizarre pleas to anyone and anything listening, until Dan very calmly said, “Sweetie. There is nothing you can do about it right now.” He was right, you know. I was a good 23 minutes away. There was nothing I could do but wait and hope she’d be found.

Now. Mothers. I know you know what I’m talking about. That feeling.  That feeling that says, in a moment of complete terror, that this is a crazy dream. Where suddenly you’re going to open your eyes and your two year old little girl is going to suddenly appear. I remember it all so well, that distinct moment when I actually felt my mind going to la la land. Where my husband wasn’t frantically searching for our daughter. But that moment of wishful thinking lasted about two seconds, and then I regained my composure. I was there, in real life, with my head in my hands, and my body about to crumble to the ground. Where my daughter was gone. Where I actually did not know if she was safe.

And then I saw her. In my mind. Bundled up, under her covers, in her bed.  Asleep and completely hidden. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew.  “Dan, look in her bed”.

And there she was.

I don’t remember much after we hung up. I don’t remember finishing up the conversation with my clients, and I don’t remember much about the drive home. But I remember praying. And I remember wondering how long it would take for my body to stop shaking. All night. That’s how long. It took my body all night to return from the worst place it could possible venture. You see, I had so many things enter my mind during that two minute phone call. I imagined she’d followed my car out of the driveway and into the street. I imagined she’d escaped through a door and some evil person grabbed her. I imagined horrible, unthinkable things. And when my mind realized none of those things were true, it embraced it and moved on. But not my heart. It took my heart longer. It couldn’t quite move on as quickly, and honestly, it was torture. I kept seeing her blue eyes. I kept hearing her voice over and over in my mind. And I could feel her little arms around my neck, her tiny voice whispering “goodnight, mommy”.

And I imagined it all being taken away from me.  

But it wasn’t. That night I held her in my arms and kissed her forehead and made her go to sleep, even when she cried and begged for us to let her stay up extra and play with her animals. Boy, my heart wanted to let her. Oh, how I wanted to hold her a little extra that night. My heart yearned to keep her by my side. To watch her laugh, and play, and live. To have that reassurance that she really was okay…that she really was safe.

I probably should’ve let her.

But all is back to normal now. It's been days, weeks, months. Perhaps I’m a little more grateful then I was before. Perhaps we check on her more often while she plays. And maybe, someday, her daughter will do the same thing to her. And she’ll call me up, and tell me how scared she was. And she’ll tell me how grateful she is to know her daughter is safe.

And as we hang up, she’ll ask me if she should let her stay up extra that night to play with her animals. And I’ll smile.

And tell her she probably should.   

Dan here.  Being basically anti-social loners who love the game Settlers of Catan, a couple of years ago we found a pretty good 2-player version and tweaked it a little.  We have played this a LOT, and it really works well!  I know the first paragraph is a little tricky... just read it very carefully, it really does make sense.  Let us know if this works for you, and share it with your friends!

Never, ever, ever, ever again. Ever. I will never have the right to complain about my children again. Not when they misbehave, not when they don't listen, not when they wake me up early in the morning and whisper in my ear to get me up. I know I've said that before. But do you think I could ever feel the same after today? Should any of us feel the same after today?.

I feel anger and hate and sadness and pain. Why? Emma is just a bit younger than those children who died today. It makes me want to scream. But mostly I want to pull my children into my arms and feel them breathe. There she is, my dear sweet little Emma. Sleeping so peacefully. Dreaming of butterflies and dragons.
But tonight was different. I was driving home from Bunco, with the first place prize next to me. I've never won first place at Bunco before so I should've been raving. But as I drove home I thought to myself that this wasn't the real prize. My real prize was sleeping in her princess bed, waiting for me to wake her up in the morning with the green gummy bears I stole from the party.

And then I wanted to be home. I found I was hitting 80 mph. I wanted to rush through our front door and pull her into my arms and hold her until the sun came back up. I wanted to sob and scream and take my kids to a far away island where they could never be hurt. I wanted to look Emma in her innocent eyes and tell her she'd always be safe. My heart ached and I kept wondering, what if it had been her? 
Am I the only one? Are there others who did the same? Please, mothers, tell me I'm not the only one. Tell me I'm not crazy and hysterical. 

You know those little things you never notice? The untouched plate of food, the half-eaten cracker, the drawing she did just for you....they'd suddenly be unbearable to see. I couldn't do it, you know. 

I swear if it had been her I don't think I'd ever heal. I'd see her blanket, her bed, her finger prints on the television. The piles of toys strategically placed in fives, because that's her favorite number. I'd smell her baby shampoo and see the messes she left in every single room of the house. Her brush, her shoes, her dinosaur. Her unopened Christmas presents. I'll never let it all go unnoticed again, I swear.
Please. Oh, please don't ever let this happen.

I'd beg our God to pass her by. To let her stay.

Oh, sweet Emma. Will she ever know the kind of joy she brings to us with a single sentence, a single word, a single smile....The joy of merely being in the same room with her when she laughs.
And, oh, the horrific pain it'd bring us if she were taken. 
But she's here. And so is Rowen. And our family will go unchanged. Unlike the twenty other families who are left without the laughter. The smiles. The unopened presents are left under the tree. Their arms are left empty.

And now I'm home. The news is off. Our house is quiet. The children are sleeping silently in their beds, and my husband is patiently waiting for me.
I'll sneak into Emma's room, kneel beside her at her bed, softly kiss her forehead and watch her as she sleeps. I'll want to pull her close and whisper that I'll love her forever, but she won't know why. 

But I do.

And when I smother her in a million kisses tomorrow, she won't think twice about it. She'll wrap her arms around my neck & say, in her little voice, "I love you so much, mommy". And I'll desperately cling to that.

And all those sweet little things about her that I always let go unnoticed?...

...I'll notice them  ❤.

 

He was right in front of me. It was cold, and he was only a few inches from my face. I could almost feel his warm breath in my hair. And I knew it was coming, I could see it on his face. He was smiling and saying something I wasn't really paying attention to. And then he kissed me. Slow, so very slow. And soft. And it left me wanting to stay in his arms all night. And as we kissed and he wrapped his arms around me, everything was perfect....

But just as life goes, it wasn't always that perfect. It was shaky leading to that spectacular, first, hot kiss. I remember our second date, months prior. It started awesome.....but at the end of the night he asked about my last boyfriend. I told him we had broke up 6 weeks before, and that's when I saw it. His expression went from excitement & having a good time, to concern. I could've slapped my mouth as soon as the words came out. He told me he couldn't date me if I'd just been out of a relationship. He explained he was worried it wasn't enough time for me to grieve.  And I wanted to die. As he talked, I felt my heart drop lower & lower. He said he'd give me 3 months, and then maybe he'd call me. He said he'd date other people until then. I laughed and said of course! But my heart said otherwise. So I smiled, we hugged, I got in my car, and then I drove away.

And I cried all the way home.

Those months were sad, and confusing. I met men, dated, went out. I wrote him off. And honestly, when I went to sleep, and he appeared in my mind telling me that we couldn't be together, I'd shove him out of my head. Angrily. I'd kneel in prayer each night after dates with other guys, and his name would play over & over in my mind. His name would come up in different circles & I'd pretend I didn't care. 

It had been about 2 months- I had just returned to my apartment from jogging. I was sweating all over my floor, and getting ready for bed when my phone rang. I picked it up and saw the name. I must've stared at that screen for a full 10 seconds before I answered it. 
And we talked. And it was all over from there.

Now we have kids, bills, car problems, disagreements, tears, and a messy house. But we also have love. And laughter, and memories.
And why do I love him?
Let me let you in on why Dan is worth all this time it's taking me to write this....

He never forgets to open the door for me. He sings our children to sleep. It took 4 years before I had to get my own gas in any of our cars...he does it for me. He offers me his last bite. When 90210 is on, he sits next to me for an hour, and when Vampire Diaries plays, he tells me I'm prettier than Elena. After having Rowen, he told me my body was perfect. He runs me a hot bubble bath, & lights candles. Late at night when he thinks I'm sleeping he puts his arms around me. When I'm sad, he makes me smile. And when I don't want to, he lets me cry. When we were dating he'd drive 45 minutes to surprise me with a picnic on my lunch hour, spend endless money on my food fetish, let me drive when I wanted, kiss me when I begged him. When I tried to break up with him, he cried in my arms. He laughs at my jokes. Tells me I'm beautiful without make-up. Ignored phone calls from ex girlfriends. No matter how mad he gets when I beat him at SSX or Donkey Kong, he's still happy for my high scores. He surprises me with candy on my seat. Spends $200 on me, and $2 on himself. He lets me cut his hair & when I mess it up, he shrugs and hugs me. He makes me dinner at 1230 in the morning, and lets me sleep in. Never takes his ring off. He runs his hand through my hair & kisses my cheek. He takes me in his arms when I think I'm losing my mind, and then he tells me I'm a great mother. He holds my hand & leans into me when we kneel in prayer, even though I know it's uncomfortable. When I have guilt he laughs and kisses my lips. He tells our daughter stories until she falls asleep. He holds our son in his arms when he has a fever. Never raises his voice to me. When I've cried all day he texts me extra to tell me he believes in me. He accepts me and my past. He forgives me.
He loves me.

Will he ever know how much I adore him? No. Will he sometimes wonder if I love him at all? I'm sure of it. But I swear if I could cut open my heart and show him all the love I feel for him, I would. And he'd never wonder again. But I can't. So I'll have to prove it every chance I get. Because he's worth it. 

He's so alive. He's kind and gentle, and a hothead and passionate. He truly is my reason for smiling when I feel lonely. When I feel sad and beaten. He is all of those things I named up there, and a million more. And the funny thing is, he doesn't have to be. But he is anyway. 
So, yes. He is beautiful. He's my angel, my knight, my prince. What did I do without him? Is he really mine? He makes my life lovely. It's our fairy tale, you know.

Our sweet, sweet fairy tale.
 
It may not be perfect.....

But boy, he makes it beautiful. ♥♥♥♥♥.

Have you ever realized that we're all just a little too old? Have you noticed that? Us. Adults. Not "old" as in aging. I'm talking old, as in not free. We care too much about what we say, what we do, what we wear. We lack courage. We worry about offending people, and we worry about winning. We worry about how we look to others. But as I spend more time with my children, and less time around big people, I think I've realized we're all just a little old. 

She taught me that, you know. Emma. My daughter. It's the way she says things, does things. It tugs at my heart, it makes me want to cry.....and it reminds me why I'm alive. This little girl, not even tall enough to pass a children's carnival ride, and just small enough to hide under our bathroom sink and listen to me call her name fifty times. This little girl who holds my vulnerable heart in the palm of her tiny, perfect hand. Yes. She reminds me why I'm alive. 

And shouldn't we be reminded?

Oh, sweet Emma. If only I had her courage. "Mommy, don't be mad at me again." She steals my heart, you know. She's a little bandit that runs around shouting and laughing and crying and falling. She is free. And she knows it. She just tells me like it is. She doesn't beat around the bush. When wanting an ice cream cone, you don't hear her saying, "Um, mom. I've worked really hard, and I've eaten all 3 tater tots & 5 peas...and you know...well...you kinda, sorta promised I could have an ice cream cone....I mean, if I can." NOPE. She walks up to me, takes my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her, stares me straight in the eyes & says "Mommy, I want an ice cream cone." Does that work? Not all of the time. But it tells me she isn't afraid. She's not worrying about one thing to the next. She's not losing sleep over it. She wakes up, and guess what? It's a new day.  And it's perfect all over again. Why can't we be like that?? Can you imagine the world we'd live in, if everyone lived like tomorrow was the best day of their lives? I'm not suggesting living like there are rainbows and butterflies at every flippin' corner. I'm talking about loving life. If we didn't hold grudges, stay angry, make innocent people cry......if we lived like we were free. Really, truly free. How many hearts would be mended, how many friends could we hold onto? How many more hugs & eskimo kisses would we offer our children? 

More. A lot more. 

So, I'm going to try. I'm going to try not to be too old. I'll work on being free. When I stub my toe, I may just get mad. And when I see something funny in a crowd, I'm going to laugh out loud. And instead of holding it in when I see an elderly lady visiting her late husband's grave, I'll cry. And I'm going to teach Emma that it's okay. It's part of being free. 

And when she's older, and her heart is sad, and things are rough, I will remind her. I'll remind her of a two year old little girl with bright eyes & a wild heart...who taught me to live as if tomorrow were the best day of my life. Who taught me to be free.

And then I'll hug her tight and give her an eskimo kiss.

.....And an ice cream cone ♥.

 

Jayson is his name. 

I just found out that his parents have decided that tonight will be his last night.  
And tonight, he'll finally be at peace. He is one of many, many babies with Heterotaxy syndrome. One of three babies I know to have died because of it. I've asked myself before why I let it hurt me so much. He is Rowen's age, you know. So little.

So, what can I do about it? Absolutely nothing. 

I crawled into bed next to Emma and put my arms around her. It was one of the saddest feelings I've felt. Knowing somewhere a mother was crying and watching her baby slip away. 

I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob as I laid there next to Emma in the dark. 

I don't think I can ever take them for granted again. It would be selfish of me. I don't think it would be right for me to complain because Emma decides she doesn't like to pray, or listen, or do anything I ask her to do. And I shouldn't complain when she pushes her brother or screams or pees in the backyard. Or when Rowen is fussy, or wakes up at 330 am and wants to cuddle, or refuses his bottle because he just wants to play. Because you know what? They are here. With me. How can I complain? 
I can hug them whenever I want. I can hold them close to my heart and feel them breathe...whenever I want.


And there is a mother out there who can't. 

So I'm going to try. I really am. I'm gonna' try to remember the feeling I had tonight, as I lay next to my very healthy little girl. And when I find myself complaining, I hope I can stop. Stop and remember exactly what I have to be grateful for. 
Stop and remember all the little Jayson's out there. 

And the ones who are left to miss them.

  

I know that this Blog is normally written by my wife, Becky, about cute kid stuff.  If that’s what you are expecting, you might be warned to close this out, and go find some Baby Blues comics to read for a while instead, because I’m going to get a little political.  But it’s a bit different from the sort of thing you might normally hear, so maybe you can dare to read a little more.

My wife and I are both Conservative Republican Mormons.  So, it should be no surprise who we were rooting for in the recent 2012 presidential election.  (As an aside, I am one of three Mormons at my workplace, and the only one who voted for Mitt Romney.)  I must say, we did not vote for Romney in the primary since we thought there was a better candidate.  But from the first presidential debate, Romney had us, hook, line, and sinker.   The more I watched him, the more I realized he was the good kind of Mormon.  He’s not the type to throw his weight around as soon as he gets a little authority, as he supposes.  I am convinced that he is a very noble man.  A very good man.  And I believed that he would actually be the first president since – I dunno, Washington maybe, to actually do something about the national deficit / debt.  To me, that is the most important issue there is, more than any particular special interest, social program, or even military spending.  If the debt gets past a certain point, then the dollar will begin to fail, the economy will crumble, and all of those noble programs will come down with it anyway.

But enough about the political side of things, this is a sappy chick blog, so I better talk about my feelings for a while.  As I watched more and more news stories, Youtube videos, etc., I began to become more and more excited about Mitt.  So much that I confess, I found myself lying awake at night thinking about how wonderful he was, and what a phenomenal leader he would make.  I of course don’t care for Clinton or Obama.  But I think I dislike George W even more, and am not particularly fond of G H W Bush, so I was super-excited to finally have a candidate I really liked.  I like him even more than Reagan.  I began to think I might just go ahead and pop the question once the election was over.

I was so confident that Mitt would take it, it least by a hair, but maybe by a landslide.  The first sign of trouble came a couple days out when I decided to check the odds in Vegas.  You see, odds-makers don’t care about politics. They care about one thing, making $$$.  I didn’t trust the polls completely, but I figured odds-makers would favor the person who was truly likely to win.  Once I Wikipediaed how to read odds, to my surprise, they were favoring Obama, and that by a pretty wide margin.  That was a bad sign.  Then, to make it even more worrisome, no less than three conservative talk show personalities predicted an Obama victory.  Hmmmm.  But I still held on to my belief, my hope that Mitt would take it.  I wanted that sooooo badly.  

I got home early on election night.  The results began to come in, and the early news on the swing states was not positive.  In fact, there was very little of good news (from our point of view) the whole night.  I think we had maybe a combined 90 seconds where we were hopeful, but that didn’t last.  Eventually they called the election for B.O., and even then, we held on to a desperate hope that it would work out, until the truth was inescapable: Romney had lost.  Every state that the polls had shown leaning even a little to Romney went to Romney.  Every state leaning towards Barack went to Barack. And the battleground states, infuriatingly enough, well, every last one fell blue (except Florida so far).

Once we realized the truth of it, the finality of it, we were devastated.  Now, of course, I have been disappointed in the outcome of presidential elections before.  Who hasn’t?   You get angry, want to cuss and yell, and then you pretty much forget about it.  This was different.  There was a feeling deeper inside, a feeling of such despair, such denial that it was hard to deal with.  I had really put my hopes in Mitt, and it didn’t work out.  I felt almost as if I had just personally campaigned for months, and lost.  I guess it’s a little like the feeling of losing a long-time job, or even a loved one.  An ache that leaves for a while, but always returns.  I know I will be criticized for this – people will think, “Man, it’s just an election, get over it, dude!”  But it’s tied so strongly to our future as a nation, and I was so set on it, it is a horrible disappointment.

A little before the election, a friend of Becky’s, in response to a glowing post about Mitt, replied “putting your trust in one person is irresponsible. (in my opinion)”  We didn't really care for that, for he is such a good man, and there was such promise that he would be able to turn things around.  Well, jump forward to the day right after the election.  I found myself online, looking at a graph that shows the spending versus the income of the federal government.   Right around the housing crisis, the lines began to diverge.  As I stared at those red and blue lines to make sense of them, trying to see Obama’s hand in all of this, a new thought began to dawn on me.

 As much as I am against his ideology, it really isn’t the president’s fault.  Even Romney couldn’t have done too much right away.  I began to realize this truth: That annoying post on my wife’s Facebook was absolutely correct.  You can’t put too much confidence in one mortal man.  It follows, then, that you can’t place too much blame either.  I began to realize, this mess our nation is in, it isn’t really about the president.  This is our fault.  Greedy bankers anxious to loan as much as they could; greedy loan officers wanting quick commissions; not caring if the people should buy such a big house or could afford the payments; over-zealous folks buying way too much house for their budget; and above all, people just not living within their means: that’s where this really came from.  That is why we are in this mess.  If one man could come and fix everything, what would that mean for us?  We could do anything, be as irresponsible as can be, and as long as we elect a great politician, it will all be better.  Somehow, that just doesn’t seem right.

I think we are headed for some seriously difficult times as a nation.   If (or when, rather) the debt hits a critical mass, and the dollar begins to fail, it could mean 50% unemployment and 100% inflation (just imagine getting your salary cut in half each year).   But that’s not really the president’s fault, nor is it really his responsibility alone to fix it.  The fault and the responsibility are also ours.  So, I really don’t feel quite so badly anymore about the outcome of the election.  I will just go about trying to live a good life, and to live within our means and pay off our own debt, just as I had hoped Romney would do for the United States federal government.  And that, in the end, is really all that matters.