Stop Everything, and Know that I Love You.

Posted on by Sierra

I should probably apologize to any of you who felt the world stop spinning somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00 this morning. That’s because Jeremy and I put the world on pause and just allowed ourselves to believe for a moment that we had all the time in the world to just be. We lapsed into a comfortable cuddle–not the kind filled with pointy scapulas, uneven weight distribution, and a little too much muscle tension. This cuddle was perfect and relaxing as we drifted in and out of sleep, and dreamed together about spending an entire day with the world on pause.

I’m glad I don’t have to grow up yet.

Posted on by Sierra

This is the kind of post that internet trolls say mean things after. Because this is a post about my blankee.

Yes. I am 23 and 1/2 years old, and I still have a blankee. I still love my blankee. I brought my blankee across the country to be with me in Chicago. Sadly, it doesn’t look very blankee-like anymore.

It used to be soft, pink, and have embroidered hearts on it. 

The embroidered layer has worn away and got tangled in every successive wash (I wash it once a week, with my whites)

Recently I’ve noticed that you can kind of tie it together and it will take on another shape, if you’re feeling more “stuffed animal” that night.

Here it is: my (other) constant companion, my pillow, my comfort object. It’s not like I carry it around with me wherever I go. I can go weeks without it. I’m not dependent on it; I just like it.

No one has really understood my Linus tendencies. My dad sold his blankee to his parents for a nickel when he was 6, and he keeps offering to do the same (to be fair, he’s teasing). And I’ve had too many ex-boyfriends really misunderstand the blankee–sometimes in a very mean way. And to be honest, I didn’t blame them. Most of the time they were harsh about my blankee, I thought, Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s time to get rid of it. 

Those of you who know Jeremy and I well know this story already, but allow me to give you some insight on the type of man that Jeremy is for those who don’t know him. One night during our courtship, Jeremy and I were returning from a late night thing, and I was floppy-useless-tired, so Jeremy tucked me in. Unfortunately, I had left my blanket exposed, so he tugged at it and asked what it was.

I grimaced, bracing myself for the ridicule that always comes at the exposure of my biggest vulnerability. But he didn’t mock or scorn or tease.

He said, “Tell me about it.”

So I did, and he just laughed in an ever-endearing way, and said, “If anything, this just makes me like you more. Sierra Robinson: Scourge of the dating world–Blanket Owner.”

First of all, how can you resist a man who calls you the scourge of the dating world, and second of all, how could you not immediately fall in love with someone who loves you for your most tender, most vulnerable secret? It was the 2nd time in our relationship that I knew I wanted to marry him. Maybe someday I will blog about times 1 and 3.

I promised I would put my blankee away when we got married. Jeremy never indulged in this idea.

Every night without fail, my Jeremy Man fluffs my pillow, straightens my sheets, says “Legs!” which means I have to snap my legs into place for optimum tuckage, and swaddles my sheets around me. Then, every night, he sends me off into dreamland by finding my blanket and tucking it gently in between my arms and underneath my chin. Right where I like it.

And even though we are living such a grown-up life–married, in a Chicago high-rise, with big-people jobs–I am glad that he didn’t make me grow up all the way.

“Like, 10 Chickens had to die just so she could look that bad.”

Posted on by Sierra

It’s turquoise, and you know what? Off the rack it’s actually cute. Not flashy cute, definitely not compliment worthy but it’s a passably cute t-shirt that I bought for three dollars from Forever 21.
But when I put the shirt on, the shirt’s secret powers of ugliness release. I’m not sure why the shirt is so ugly, but I am certain that it is. Still, I wear it, maybe because I only have few t-shirts for hot days, or maybe because turquoise is so “in” right now, maybe because I deep down believe that it will look better today than it has the past fifteen times I’ve worn it. In theory the shirt should work. It doesn’t hug the curves I try to hide, it doesn’t come up too short or plunge too low. In all fashion theory, the shirt should work.
Since it doesn’t, I am led to conclude: the shirt is cursed. The shirt is not one that I would wear to an occasion that would require me to do my hair, so you can bet that I will leave my hair wavy on days like this. I call wavy hair my “50-50 Hair” because you have a 50% chance that it looks good (even with the exact same amount of mousse and the exact same towel drying), and there’s nothing you can do to control the outcome. It’s chancy, but on occasionless days, turquoise shirt days, I wear it wavy, and 99% of the time with the turquoise shirt, my wavy hair looks terrible.
And because I promised myself that I would never go out in public with wavy hair AND no makeup at the same time because the world can’t handle the ugly, I do my make-up on days like today. And when I wear the turquoise shirt, my eyeliner inevitably goes on too thick and one eye looks bigger than the other. At the end of it all, I look worse than when I started.
I’m sad that I tried marginally hard just to look this ugly. 
Do ugly days also happen to you?
Ten bonus points if you can guess which movie my title came from. 
Keeping this image small on purpose….But I thought you all needed proof. 

The Redesign

Posted on by Sierra

“Don’t put too much pressure on this next post,” Jeremy wisely counseled last night after correctly reading my body language. Sometimes it is downright irksome that he can read my thoughts before they are corporeal or even conceived. To him, I’m not just an open book—I’m an open book with big print, Braille underneath, and pictures on the side.

Observations: A Brief Foray into Parenthood

Posted on by Sierra

When I told my dad that Jeremy and I got called to the Nursery, my dad issued a trademark Tom chortle, a little too “knowing” for my liking.

“That will either really whet your appetite for kids, or—more likely—be really effective birth control,” he said wisely.
For those of you who aren’t LDS, allow me to explain. At our church, each member is given a “calling” to serve in a specific capacity. So you might be asked to play music on Sunday, or you might be asked to teach a gospel related class, or you might be asked to be bishop of the ward, or you might be asked to serve in the nursery.
Jeremy and I have taught Gospel Doctrine to people 30-40-50 years our senior before. We were confident. But going into the nursery today among the 1-2 year olds barely learning to toddle, I whispered to Jeremy, “Are you nervous?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Me too.”
I actually really like kids, but when they are not related to me, sometimes I need to look through the germ layer to find the kids underneath. Fortunately these kiddos were very clean; I am convinced that Chicagoans are a super breed of human who where perfect clothes, have perfect teeth, have perfect lives, and who somehow don’t annoy me with their perfection. Especially when their perfect spawn is bacteria-free.
I found that the kids made bonds with their nursery worker of choice with varying degrees of covalence. Though Brendan* (Name changed for the parents’ privacy, and also because I don’t remember) upon his mother’s departure threatened to break glass with his screaming, Jeremy skillfully distracted him by scooting a toy car over his toes. Brendan stopped crying for the rest of the two hours—unless Jeremy shifted in his chair, or stood up too quickly, or betrayed any indication of leaving Brandon. Kid had attachment issues. Of course, in my “Sierra Assessing my Spouse’s Ability to Work With Kids” mode, I was beaming.
I was paired with Myra,* a beautiful 1-year-old. It was her first day in nursery and she seemed to be processing things very cerebrally. She spoke never, but let me hold her the whole two hours. She just looked around with intensity, glared occasionally, and gently abstained from any sort of participation by pulling her arm protectively across her chest whenever I offered a toy, cracker, book, play-doh, etc. However, Myra did find one thing that she really liked, and as if scared I would take it from her, she secretly slipped it into her mouth.
Eager to prove that I was a good nursery leader, I wanted to return the students clean and happy. Myra had other ideas. Two minutes before parent retrieval, after successfully keeping Myra clean for two hours, she slipped her secret orange fruit snack from her mouth and kneaded it between her fingers, strung it in her hair, and smeared it across her face. We didn’t even have fruit snacks at snack time. 
So today I have learned the age-old parenting technique—If your kid is being quiet, she is hiding something. In her mouth.
Also: Kids are Sticky. Even Chicago kids. 
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