I remember watching a contraband episode of Friends long ago in which a pregnant Jennifer Aniston/Rachel Green was relishing in her baby shower. And why wouldn't she be enjoying it? She's about a million days through her pregnancy but her legs are still lanky and her Title 9 arms un-chubbed. This enjoyment started to wither, however, when her gifts began prompting questions of, "Why would I need that?" or "What's this for?" Before the third commercial break she had a completely adorable meltdown of, "I've been so focused on the pregnancy I forgot to figure out what I'd do with the baby!" [Cue audience laughter]

Even as a high school student, I watched it believing I would be very different when it was MY turn to be the skinniest pregnant woman alive. I was the 2nd of 4 children, and a highly solicited babysitter. And, I LOVE BABIES.

Now here I am, pregnant and the clock is ticking. After a couple of rude awakenings I realize I have been something of a pregnant Rachel Green, the flabby armed version. But I know there probably isn't much of a point to try to "figure it all out" before D-Day. When I got to Costa Rica for my mission, I remember thinking all the books I'd read in preparation, all the time I'd spent learning Spanish, all the lectures and lessons from returned missionary teachers in the Missionary Training Center, it was all a load of crap. NO, it was NOT a load of crap, but I may have muttered that under my breath a few times in that first week. It wasn't crap, it was just that they made us feel that we were prepared, and then I got there and learned you can't be. The mountains of time I'd spent training for my mission could be perhaps more accurately called "help". It was "helpful" to study Spanish and memorize scriptures, but it was not close to sufficient training. My scriptures were artistically hilighted in Provo and I was the best speaker in my district. I got to Costa Rica a pale gringa who didn't know Spanish could be spoken so quickly, and didn't even begin to understand who these people were, what they needed, and how I could help them. There were so many more variables than I had anticipated.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I am at the proverbial Salt Lake City International Airport all over again, and the adjustment to life after the flight will be just as difficult if not more painful. I have years of babysitting siblings, friends, nieces, and nephews under my belt. I have a bad-A stroller and the most comfortable glider of all the gliders in the kingdom. But I know that soon, I will be a rookie in the job I have always known to be my most important one.

Sometimes I panic when I am reminded that the world has changed a lot since I was a girl wearing a tutu day and night. Last month a child psychologist came to chat with the Relief Society about parenting tactics. I had no idea some of the things I would be up against. He offered more warnings and strategies for dealing with girls than boys and I left relieved that as of now, daughters are not my lot in life. Not so fast, Merz. The next Sunday's Relief Society lesson was about keeping our families safe from the evils of pornography which dealt more with, you guessed it, sons. I may have broken a sweat and in the middle of it my charming friend may have squeaked, "I can't do this! I have a little boy!" There are many times when I wonder how I'll ever keep up with the declining moral strength of the world and keep my home a happy refuge where my family wants to be protected.

At the end of these internal panics I usually just let an audible whimper slip out but come, again, to the conclusion that I will do my best and learn to swim after I've been flung into the Pacific. I have the examples of 2 strong, savvy mothers, Madame Meri and Madame Charissa, who will also continue to be premium grandmothers. Our grandmothers, aunts, sisters both Hayes and Eaton, cousins, friends, I know they are there to learn from and to comfort me and nudge me along. We have been promised by the general leaders of the LDS church that if we stay close to the Lord our families will be protected. I've never looked to a promise with such hope and humility, knowing that Jeff and I indisputably need heavenly help in this jou-- (ha! I almost wrote the "J" word on my blog!) -- I mean, in this new and everlasting phase of life we will enter in just a couple of months.

I take ever so much solace in knowing motherhood comes with a wardrobe a bit cuter than rayon dresses and orthopedic shoes and includes snuggling with my husband.

"And I'd like a Pink Parasol."

I was walking across that infamous bridge to meet my mom for lunch at South Coast Plaza a couple of days ago, and saw some women walking the other way with umbrellas open. It was about 90 million degrees and they were shielding themselves from the sun.

Who does that, anyway???

Then I remembered. Oh wait, I did. In my last area of my mission (I was there almost 5 months), the sun was so strong (it was also the most far South in Costa Rica I ever did get), all the women walked around during the day with their umbrellas up and out. I was paranoid about wrinkles, knowing I had to go home with skin supple enough to ensnare a man, and so I said to myself, I might as well.

Memories.

October 4, 2006

This past weekend not only did I score a 99% on Rock Band vocals, I saw come and go the 2 year anniversary of my MTC REPORT DATE. I remember opening my mission call all alone in our garden, with eyes averted, my shaky hand feeling around inside that infamous white envelope, locating the single sheet of paper, and then locating the booklet which I knew would contain pages and pages of wardrobe ideas (i.e. depressing jumpers and loafers). I thought the neighbors would hear my heart pound while pulling out both so I could cover the letter with the booklet and read line by line. I knew if I didn't, my disobedient eyes would dart straight to the location, and I wanted the proper crescendo of anticipation. As I did this, however, my eyes' willpower faltered and I saw somewhere in the 2nd paragraph, "October 4th". As it was JUNE, I groaned within myself, but then excitedly allowed myself to read about how I was thereby called to serve in Costa Rica.

I thought this occasion warranted a mission story, and not one that will make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I spent enough time with RMs before becoming one to know that those should only be told upon request, or you start and then you don’t stop, and it’s a great way to ruin a good friendship.

In my last area, I was as far south as they’ll allow the sisters to go. It was rural with so much lush greenery it almost seemed unfair. The attitude is a bit more “que sera sera” in the “campo,” which I loved, and which also made me seem even more high strung than I already did to those chillaxed Ticos.

There is one pista, or highway, that runs through the entire country. We spent a lot of time walking up and down the pista, as all our neighborhoods branched off from it. With the cars whizzing past us, conversation was usually dealt with in yells. If it were raining as well, conversation was futile. We would walk in silence with the rain beating holes in our umbrellas.

We often saw an old, skinny hobo, who would always pass us and yell, “Que Dios les bendiga!” or “God bless you!” We’d always smile and say “Igualmente!”

One afternoon we were walking/swimming down the pista, and I looked off in the distance ahead and saw our old hobo amigo coming toward us at a soggy run. I didn’t think much of it, and made a comment to my companion, who was looking at the ground. I looked up again and old hobo amigo was getting closer. I could see he was barefooted, wearing an open trench coat, and….huh? I felt it was like watching a bad car accident, there wasn’t enough time to react, (and how would I react?) as the otherwise buck naked old hobo amigo ran right in between my companion and I, yelling as usual, and for what would be the last time, “Que Dios les bendiga!”