Admittedly, my Facebook and Instagram coverage has been thorough, I thought blog world might find joy in our new bundle of joy.
Today was a special day, and here’s how I know it: I napped for an hour. A Whole Hour.
I am a frequent napper but usually only for five-ten minute bursts. I call these “synapses,” because they are short like a synapse and help me get something working again. But today, I had a genuine nap, though it was nothing special in and of itself. In fact, it gave me a headache afterwards.
Right before I left, Jeremy and I celebrated our first year of marriage in Chicago. It was a little bit of fanfare, because our real anniversary was on Sunday and Latter-day Saints try not to spend money on Sunday, so we celebrated Saturday. Both of us felt like it was cheating a little to celebrate the day before though, so we went ahead and celebrated Sunday anyways. That felt real and wonderful and romantic.
This empty blog post has been staring me down for hours. The cursor blinking. But I couldn’t write because I’ve been trying to marshall my thoughts, trying to get my thoughts them to behave, to order, to make sense. Also, I’ve had sore throat–like a thirsty fur ball tangling with my voice box. A lump that expanded every time I got on Facebook or read the news.
Facebook was half beautiful votes of sympathy, eloquent expressions of condolence, and cries for different positions on gun control. The other half was a stark juxtaposition to the typical status updates about summer fun, new dogs, and Bachelorette gossip. But one thing was clear: Yesterday Colorado was heavy with pain we’ve unfortunately had to bear before.
I said a silent prayer as I was walking through Old Town Chicago, which was unusual since Latter-day Saints usually try to pray with their heads bowed and eyes closed. This usually suggests that prayers are said in the stationary position. But Old Town is the quietest, most beautiful place in Chicago–perfect for prayer, eyes closed or not. The only sound I could hear were occasional children giggling as they rode their bikes. With every child’s laugh, I was reminded that life–even after everything– is still good.
The lump in my throat was for the victims of this horrendous tragedy in Aurora, Colorado. My prayer was for the world that we might find a way to counterstrike against gun violence, mass tragedy, and large criminal attacks.
From about ages 8 to 11, Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys looked down at me from my wall, my own personal guardian angel, the ultimate status symbol of “cool.” This was the first instance of my personality taking control of my room, and soon next to Nick Carter came Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson, 98 Degrees, N’Sync (even though they were Backstreet Boys rival) LFO, and any other picture that I could yank out of a magazine and masking tape to my wall (except NEVER the Spice Girls because I HATED the Spice Girls. Mainly because my older sister told me they were lame). Over time, the four walls in my room became scarcely visible, and I liked it that way. Chaotic masses of twenty of the same famous gaurdian angels keeping watch over me. My personality was defined by the images of others, these famous “celebs” that dominated my room decor. I was not yet Sierra, only just a fledgling that liked to have something all her own.