On [Not] Keeping Score

Not too long ago, I had this really bad habit of keeping score. Here's what I mean. In my head I kept a running list of all the stressful events that had occurred in my life over the past five years or so. It was a breathtaking list, too, that involved moving out of state twice, dealing with a major death in the family, buying a house and undergoing therapy for nerve pain. Anytime anyone asked about my life or my stress level, they got a full rundown of the list. In detail.

Surely no one else had endured so much stress in such a small space of time. It was almost like a competition: look how crazy my life is! Or maybe, I hesitate to admit, it was a plea for sympathy or attention.

I used the list to justify bad attitudes and reactions to stress. I used it to assure myself that I was doing ok...under the circumstances. I used it as a cosmic scorecard. Ok, I've had my fill of stress now. Time for a break. 

Then I miscarried. I started to add the event to the list. And then, I started thinking: Why am I even keeping this list? 

Why don't I have a corresponding list in my head of great memories I've made over the past 5 years?

Why don't I tell people about all the cute stuff William has said and done?

Why can't I remember half the cute stuff he's said and done??

Why am I always complaining and painting a tragic picture of my life?

See, right after the miscarriage, I had a dream. One of those realistic dreams that wake you up from sleep. In this dream, I was wearing my wedding dress at some kind of event. Calvin was in a suit. And we were spinning across the floor, dancing and laughing. Carefree. Obviously deeply in love.

I was watching myself from the sidelines. Watching that young woman I was with the glowing eyes and beaming smile. She looked at me as she whirled by, so young, so beautiful. She said something to me as she passed. I'm not sure what it was. But I think it may have been, "Look at what you have."

So I did. And I discovered something. I have so much. Not just food on the table or cars in the driveway. I have the love of my life right here with me. I have a wonderful child with this man. I have a heart that's full of love and peace. Enduring a parade of stressful situations has been worth every minute I get to spend with these people I adore. I have no reason to keep score.

So I'm throwing away the scorecard. No more complaining. No more dwelling on the past. I need room in my head for all the great memories we're making.  

Transformed

Wow, what a month. My brother arrived, and life suddenly took on a whirlwind rush. Bedtime came after 11 p.m. almost every night, and then I got up early every morning to feed William breakfast. During all this, I started writing on another website for a client, and William started cutting his last four teeth--morphing from a happy, lovable little Jekyll to a monstrous, destructive Hyde. Good times, good times.

At least I have some comfort. I started reading a terrific book called The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel. It's a book that investigates the validity of the biblical New Testament through interviews with top New Testament scholars and other experts. Some of the insights are simply profound and have encouraged my faith in a big way. I think all Christians and skeptics should read it.

I also have more inner peace than usual. Not long ago, I wrote a devotional that spoke of the Bible's description of the secular world. The Bible points out five basic characteristics of the world: (1) lust and pride, (2) immorality, (3) materialism, (4) division, envy and strife, and (5) a lack of compassion. That got me thinking about lust. Lust has been one of my biggest problems for years. Whenever I wanted to escape reality, I'd just fantasize about having an encounter with someone--who was not usually my husband. I felt guilty about it, but it was easy for a long time to just write it off as harmless imagination.

But it wasn't harmless. It was dishonoring my marriage. It was tempting me to cheat on my husband. It was making me feel anxious and on edge. However, after I wrote that devotional, something clicked inside of me. I suddenly didn't want to fantasize about other people anymore. Whenever my thoughts began to stray in the wrong direction, I stopped them. My love for my husband began to deepen further, and my anxiety vanished. I decided that my desire should be for my husband only. After all, isn't that what is marriage about?

There are other things I'm meditating on as well. Materialism. Lack of compassion. Is that really me? I spend a lot of time thinking about things I want or might eventually have when I already have so much and give very little of it away.

The Bible says, "Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." Not transformed by a simple repeat-after-me prayer. Not transformed by a song and dance. Not transformed by wearing the "right" clothes, saying the "right" things or shouting "Amen!" every other breath. Transformed by thinking differently about the world. Wow. How often does that come up in church?    

Revelations

Two days ago, my husband and I celebrated our 4th wedding anniversary. I use the term "celebrated" loosely because not only did we stay home, we also spent half the day cleaning the house. My brother's family is in the process of relocating to Ft. Meade, Maryland, so that means they're staying with us in Virginia until they can find an apartment up there. Since they arrived last night--about three days earlier than originally planned--that meant cleaning could not be put off. Plus, we were unable to find a babysitter for our son, and he's still several years too young to do certain things--like sit through a three-hour Harry Potter film at the theater.

But our anniversary was nice in another way. My husband had taken leave from work, so we got to spend the day together. And after we went to bed that night, we stayed up late just talking. It was then that I discovered just why I married my husband.

You see, when I was younger, I never thought I'd find someone like me. I was always the outsider--the kid who wanted to belong but never quite did. My childhood "friends" were often quick to turn on me, take advantage of me, talk behind my back, or leave me out of the juiciest discussions. They repulsed my intellect, calling me "goody two shoes" and "teacher's pet," often to my face. It didn't help that my mom actually taught at my school for a while. Looking back now, it's a wonder I didn't grow up to absolutely hate people.

My husband had an identical experience. If he was teased as much as I was, he hasn't said. But the similarities are striking: on the fringe of every group, only one or two close friends, related better to adults than his peer group, etc. When we found each other, we were lonely and looking for something different--someone who understood us. I was still painfully awkward then, but at least he was able to see past that, unlike so many others. Does he understand me completely? No, and he'll admit it anytime. However, I think what pulls us together is what we see in each other that's so similar to what we each see in ourselves. Call it a crutch. We'll happily hobble along together a little while longer.

Thanks for reading.

A Woman's Worth (Bible Style)

*I originally wrote this as a note on my Facebook page. Thought I would share it here as well.

These days, it seems people are critical of religion in general and of the Bible in particular. Many argue that God, if He indeed exists, cannot possibly be a moral entity because of certain things that were or are permitted in Christianity. One of these things is the subjugation of women. In Biblical times, women were treated almost as property, only allowed to marry and travel with a man's permission. Women were also excluded from priesthood, barred from receiving a formal education from temple rabbis, and forbidden to speak publicly during religious meetings. Today, many religious fundamentalists use scripture as an excuse to degrade women, excluding them from ministry and relegating them only to certain roles in society. Therefore, some reason, it would be better for women if such religion disappeared altogether.

But is the way secular society views and treats women any better?

I recently watched a roast of a famous actor on Comedy Central. (For those of you over 50, a "roast" is a stand-up comedy act that mercilessly mocks the guest of honor.) One of the comedians on the roast panel was Pamela Anderson, an actress made famous by Playboy Magazine and the show Baywatch. It's no secret that Ms. Anderson's career has been entirely built on her sex appeal. She was cast in Baywatch not because of skillful acting, but because of her voluptuous body. And the other comedians on the roast panel were quick to point this out. Repeatedly. While the men leered at her hungrily and made numerous sexual innuendos, they insulted the quality of her character and decisions, portraying her as a loose woman with no standards and no value beyond her looks. What's sad is that even as some of these "jokes" obviously stung her, Ms. Anderson continued to play right along, keeping up the stereotype. After all, society has told her this is the only way women like her will be successful.

The same is true for thousands of others. Models starve themselves to be on the covers of magazines, because normal-sized women aren't allowed in advertising. Actresses who gain more than a pound end up with their "shocking weight gain" photos plastered inside tabloids. Entire magazine issues are devoted to discussing who has the best bikini body and how every other woman can get one, too. Physical beauty is constantly praised in advertisement, while true intellect and integrity go almost completely unmentioned.

The only other option for gaining respect in a secular society is for women to have careers. It's no longer enough for women to raise successful families or to serve their husbands, or even to work as secretaries and librarians. These days, women are expected to make significant contributions to the workforce, even if that means delegating familial responsibilities to outsiders. Women who choose to be stay-at-home mothers or who work in "soft," "low-level" jobs are often seen as failing to reach their full potential.

So how is the Biblical view of women better?

Through the Bible, God shows us that woman are unique, possessing great power and influence, and having value far beyond looks or aspirations. The best example can be found in Proverbs 31, a chapter that celebrates the value of a good woman:

A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.

The Bible says a noble woman "works with eager hands," "provides food for her family," "watches over the affairs of her household," is strong, compassionate and generous, wise, and dignified. No voluptuous curves or pouty lips here. The woman described in Proverbs 31 is a skilled and efficient manager, a bold and confident decision-maker, an intelligent strategist, a shrewd businesswoman, and a great philanthropist.

What about the Biblical subjugation of women? Well, it's true that the Bible teaches women to "submit to your husbands...in everything" (Ephesians 5:22-24). But in the same breath it commands men to "love your wives just as Christ loved the church" (verses 25-33). How much did Christ love the church?

1. He laid down his life to redeem it.

2. He provided healing, instruction, and guidance for it.

3. He became an advocate for it (1 John 2:1).

4. He promised to provide for it and reward it.

5. He promised to protect it (Matthew 16:18).

Women may have been forbidden to speak in church or receive formal education from rabbis, but husbands were expected to answer their wives' questions regarding religious matters at home (1 Corinthians 14:35). They were not to be kept in ignorance. Even Jesus taught women (Luke 10:38-42). The Bible also commands men to not be harsh with their wives (Colossians 3:19). And 1 Corinthians 13 provides further details on love:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

So while women may be required to love, respect, and submit to their husbands, men are expected in turn to guide, protect, educate, heal, reward, forgive, provide for, sacrifice for and exercise patience toward their wives--hardly the one-way street many perceive it to be. Men who abuse their God-given leadership to oppress and mistreat women will no doubt face harsh judgment.

The Bible also illustrates the power that women possess. Sin entered the world through a woman. So did Christ. A noble woman brings honor to her husband and household, while a nagging one makes life unbearable (Proverbs 21:9, 19). Wealthy women financially supported the ministry of Christ. A woman prepared Jesus for his death and burial (Matthew 26:6-13). Women were the first to discover Jesus' resurrection and spread the word to his disciples. Many people became Christians through the testimony of women in the Bible (John 4:39). Two entire books in the Bible, Ruth and Esther, are dedicated to honoring the lives of noble, courageous women. Though it may seem that a few scriptures in the Bible seek to oppress or limit women, the truth is that the Bible recognizes and celebrates a woman's unique talents, contributions, and internal value far more than our secular society does today.

If you are a woman, know that you have significant value and awesome worth in the eyes of God far beyond physical beauty or a prestigious title. What you do matters greatly, even if it's cooking meals for your husband, raising children full-time, or volunteering at a local shelter. As women, we have many gifts to give.

Thanks for reading!

Self Image

I've been feeling a little self-conscious about my body lately. (I'll admit, it's easy to talk about celebrating one's body when you're normally a size 6.) Pregnancy definitely did a number on me. Despite rubbing lotion on my belly nearly every day, I still ended up with a crazy amount of stretch marks. I've got love handles for miles. And I'm avoiding form-fitting shirts like the plague for fear that my mushy muffin top will be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public. Most of the time I can still feel good about myself, but lately I've felt deeply frustrated at my altered appearance.

But there's at least one person who doesn't see all those flaws: my son. He looks at me like I'm the most beautiful person he's ever seen. When I walk by, his admiring gaze follows me wherever I go. When I go to his crib every morning, his eyes light up. He has a special smile just for me. And my singing voice, far from refined or beautiful, always calms him when he cries. I've never known a human love that was so unconditional--or an adoration so pure and free from bias.

I once told another blogger that children make us face the worst in ourselves. But they also reveal the best in us, too. They show us what we can be, and what we should aspire to. I hope to always be the beautiful woman my son sees, both inside and out. I know it's too much to hope that he'll always look at me this way, so I will treasure the moment while I can.

And do some sit-ups.

Learning to Laugh

Sorry if it seems I've abandoned my post lately. The past ten days have been unreal. First, my husband sold his truck--which is kind of a good thing because I now get to choose a mid-sized car to haul William around in. I've spent all week test driving cars WITH LEATHER SEATS! However, the day my husband cleaned out his truck for the sale, he dragged into the apartment two large saws and three Rubbermaid storage bins full of stuff he had been storing in his truck. I flipped out, especially when he suggested using the nursery closet to store the tools.

I've got news for you, buddy. I just organized the nursery closet, and it's packed to the ceiling. Good luck.

Fortunately, he managed to fit it all into his closet instead. I'm just frustrated that this place is about to burst at the seams.

Next, the TV went out. Yes, the beautiful 42" HD 1080p TV that we shelled out a thousand bucks for 18 months ago DIED. Also, the warranty has expired, and to fix the problem will cost the same amount as buying a new one. I'm not happy about missing new episodes of The Biggest Loser. I'm also not happy about spending another small fortune to replace a TV that should have lasted for years.

Know what else died this week? The childhood pet my brother and I shared: a giant tabby cat appropriately named Mr. Big. He had been a part of our family for 14 years. Two days ago, our mother accidentally ran him over in the driveway. This occurred on the same day I took William to the pediatrician, where he received his first vaccine shots. My heart broke when I heard him scream from the pain. I think I would have hurt less had the nurse instead jabbed the needle straight into my breastbone, Pulp Fiction style.

When my husband arrived home the afternoon of the flat cat/poked baby fiasco, I recounted to him William's painful day, then tearfully filled him in on the details of Mr. Big's demise. He snorted, then started laughing. Which, of course, made me laugh, too. Call it the absurdity of death.

My husband's thought was that Mr. Big had had enough of being old and living with my parents, and had decided to hasten his journey to the big litter box in the sky. We joked about the cat lying in wait for the car to back down the driveway, looking for the right opportunity to throw himself under the tires. Granted, it wasn't a bad way to go for the old fellow. Animals don't die gracefully from old age; it's a horrific process that can take days or even weeks. Mr. Big shuffled off this mortal coil in five minutes.

My depression has been bad recently, so learning to laugh at these little situations helps. I'm also teaching William to laugh. Babies can't laugh at birth; the ability is a developmental milestone that comes around the time they learn to coo. I've been on pins and needles for weeks waiting to hear Will's first real laugh. It finally came about two weeks ago when I bounced him on my knee. If I could bottle up the feeling that sound evokes within me and sell it, I swear I'd be a millionaire within a week. It's more healing than Prozac and more addictive than crack. But while Will smiles in spades, his laugh is still rare. Every day when I see his eyes shine a little brighter, I hope for the connections in his brain that will allow him to laugh long and loud, and thus shed a ray of light into my darker days.

In the meantime, I've started a second novel. This one is a fantasy. But don't fret; I haven't given up on getting the first one published. I'm taking a short "time out" to perfect my query and make some small corrections on the manuscript. Trust me: when I finally snag a publishing contract, laughing won't be hard to do at this house.

Speaking of Dissertations...

At last, I've finally made up my mind. I've decided to pursue a Master's degree in English. What did it, you ask? I found a graduate program through Old Dominion University that specializes in English composition. It also offers a certification for people who want to teach writing. It's absolutely perfect for me.

Now the real fun begins. If I want to start this fall, I need to submit my application, get letters of recommendation, take the GRE (Graduate Readiness Exam) and request my transcripts before June 1. If I can accomplish all of that in time and get accepted, then I have to start looking for childcare for William. The thought of leaving him in another's care, even to start this exciting phase of my life, is distressing. I know no one will care for him like I do. My husband informed me a few nights ago that he's taking me out to dinner for Mother's Day, sans baby, and he's arranging the childcare. I nearly freaked. But I know the day I leave William with a sitter must come eventually, and it will be good for me.

*Sigh*



He's just too precious.



The day is coming: tumbles, falls, bumps on the head, nightmares. I just want to be there for him. He cries, and I want to cry, too. But we both need to grow beyond each other. And I want him to know that I did everything in my power to fulfil my dreams and reach my full potential.

A Song for William

May you reach the heights of happiness that I have never reached,
And your breast contain the fire of every sermon ever preached.

May you come to smell the roses that ever smelled so sweet,
And if you chance into the rain, find courage to go out again.

May your hands find the sand and build a castle great,
Never leaving the best of you to either chance or fate.

May the song of the nightingale come neither too late nor too low,
And let every lover's kiss be genuine and slow.

May you always approach the knocks of life with gentle manly grace,
And never turn away when the sun is on your face.

Baby Love (and Other Things)

I get it now. I understand why so many women think motherhood is the greatest situation in the universe. Ok, so it still isn't everything to me. I confessed to my best friend early in my pregnancy that I always thought I'd be touring Europe and sipping lattes in French cafes at this point in my life. And that's not my only constraint: I'm forced to cram writing and beading projects in between feedings, laundry, and housework. But I get it.

The lightbulb blinked on about a week ago when I realized that William and I had finally settled into a pleasant routine. He was nursing fairly well and had started responding to me with smiles and coos. It was one of those moments when he looked at me with a joyous smile that my heart melted like butter in the sun. He cannot comprehend love, but he can somehow sense that he is loved--and that astounds me.

This week, he has started compulsively grasping objects that come within his reach. As soon as I pick him up, he grabs a fistful of my shirt and clings to me. The sensation sends me soaring to the heights of motherly love.

When my husband and I first talked of having a child, we didn't think there was room in our lives for a little one. Now it feels as if William has filled a gaping hole in our home that we didn't know existed. Many women say they cannot imagine their lives without their children; the same is true for me, except it seems that William has always existed somewhere. His expressions and noises seem familiar to me somehow, beyond the short six weeks that I've known him. It's both lovely and frightening--frightening because I've never felt this attached to anyone. Anyone. And if that attachment were severed...I don't even want to think about it.

At the same time, I'm realizing just how tough marriage can be. The commitment I made to "better or worse" is getting a real workout these days. Don't get me wrong: my husband is still a wonderful man. He came home yesterday and cleaned the kitchen, swept the entryway, and changed the litter box--all without me asking him to do so. He just seems different, especially since William's birth.

When I first started dating my husband, there was a sweetness about him--an inner glow. This glow was composed of a playfulness, a peace, a desire to dream. Now that sweetness appears to be smothered by anger or boredom or...something. I want to believe that sweetness is still inside of him somewhere, but it's been so long since I've seen it...I almost fear the worst.

I've thought about him lately--thought to myself "Is this still the person I married?" and "Shall this, too, pass?" And then he picks up William from his play mat and spends nearly an hour exchanging coos and smiles with him, and my hope returns.

Thanks for reading.

Motherhood

It's week three of my new life as a mother, and it feels like month three. Don't take that the wrong way. What I mean is that being a new mother is such an intense experience...it feels like 10 minutes crammed into one.

Of course, you could attribute some negativity to that first statement. Motherhood isn't exactly the dewey-eyed daydream that so many women claim it to be. I mean, darn it, I want to check my email, finish some writing projects, create a new piece of jewelry...not just sit and hold a fussy baby all day! When you have a 9 lb. son who can't support his own head in your arms, you can't do much of anything--including reach the TV remote. And then there's the forays into public that have become five times lengthier and more complicated than before: dress me, dress the baby, put baby in stroller, wheel stroller to car, take car seat out of stroller, put baby in car, put stroller in trunk, drive to destination, take stroller out of trunk...you get the idea. (I'd lament this loss of freedom more if I weren't so ecstatic to just be able to bend at the waist again. I'll gladly take raising a child for the next 18 years as long as I can tie my own shoes.)

At the same time, I wouldn't exactly define motherhood as "life interrupted." It's more like "life expanded." I look into my baby's slate-gray eyes and I love him though he is incapable of comprehending love, let alone having done anything deserving of it. I have never loved my husband more intensely than I have while watching him hold and kiss our son. Also, while gazing at my baby, I realize I have brought a unique life into the world--not having just knit together a body but a mind and a soul as well, using pieces of myself. The magnitude of that feeling...of responsibility, of ultimate creative power...is indescribable.

Of course, it's a weighty feeling. And it can get crowded out mopping up little rivers of regurgitated formula and washing load after load of soiled baby blankets. I get through the dirty and mundane parts of the job by taking one day at a time...and reminding myself that there's more to life than having a clean domicile. There's growing, succeeding, becoming stronger and more confident...which is what motherhood is helping me to do.

After two weeks of effort, I have finally gotten my son to nurse regularly. I've been off my Prozac for the past month, and things are looking up.

Welcome Little One

Well, wouldn't you know...

At 1:30 a.m. on Thursday, just hours after blogging about my frustration over waiting for my son's birth, the contractions started. At first I thought I just had an upset stomach. But after several trips to the bathroom and ending up doubled over in my mother-in-law's arms, we drove to the hospital at 3:45 a.m.

I delivered William at 2:01 on Thursday afternoon after just 12.5 hours of labor.



William's birth brought a mixture of joy, pride, relief, and disappointment: joy at finally meeting the little man that had started life inside of me and seeing him handsome and healthy...pride at having successfully delivered without having taken childbirth classes...relief that the long pregnancy and the pain of delivery had ended...and the crushing disappointment that followed as I realized that my pain hadn't quite ended just yet.

In fact, the worst was yet to come.

After the nurses carried William away to the warmer in the corner, the attending midwife began stitching the soft tissues between my legs that William had torn on his way out. At 8 lbs., 9 oz. and 20.5 inches long, William's body left me fairly devastated. Even with an epidural, the pain caused by the stitching was incredible.

For weeks I had been subjected to the line that "once you hold your baby in your arms, you forget about the pain of childbirth." I guess that's assuming the pain ends at childbirth. As of right now, sitting down on a chair requires great effort and care and cannot be accomplished without using a pillow that keeps my nether regions floating in midair. My back throbs from the pressure caused by the epidural, and William's attempts at breastfeeding have turned my nipples into two bright red targets of suffering. Only a regular dosing of Percocet, prescription strength Motrin, Dermoplast and witch hazel pads keeps me halfway on my feet.

The intense physical pain, combined with fluctuating hormones and the exhaustion of caring for a fussy newborn, has sent me into hysterics more than once in the past two days. The apartment is currently strewn with baby clothes and blankets, half of them soiled. Dirty dishes litter the living room. A pile of tissues, damp with my tears, lies on the floor beside my bed. My husband reports back to work in a week, which will leave me to care for the baby almost entirely on my own. And I can barely move.

But then I look at this precious little face...



...and ask myself if it's worth it.

Absolutely, unequivocally, yes. I have been smitten.

And I'm pretty sure this guy has been, too.



Welcome little baby.

Old Ends and New Beginnings

Well, friends, my long pregnancy is finally drawing to a close. The official word is that I can go into labor at any time now. I feel it, too.

I'd love to say that it seems like only yesterday I was posting the results of my pregnancy test on this blog, but that wouldn't be accurate at all. It feels like eons. So much has happened in the past year...like two years crammed into one. And life doesn't appear to be slowing down anytime soon. Such is life in the military.

But today marks the beginning of a new year, and I'm looking forward to finally holding my son in my arms. Life may still be hectic, but at least it will be different, and I'll have discovered a new love: a mother's love. Only in the past few weeks have I tasted the power of this new feeling...lying awake at night imagining my baby suckling at my breast, the smell of his new skin, his soft head against my shoulder. And then all the fears and worries: SIDS, falling, running out into the street, choking, getting beat up at school, falling in love too young...the scenarios play in my head like a bad Lifetime movie. Sometimes I just have to shut it out...and believe that everything will work out just fine.

Wishing all of you a beautiful new beginning!

Love Lessons

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my job the most.

Strange thing to say, I know. But I have never experienced such a great sense of fulfillment as I have when working. I love to teach...love expanding minds of all types.

A little while ago, I started thinking about my short stint a couple of years ago as a middle and high school English teacher at a private Christian school in Tennessee. It was my first real classroom teaching experience, and right off the bat I was put in charge of grades 6 through 12, holding one class per grade a day. The prep work required for that much variety was a living nightmare, and within two weeks of starting, I was struggling desperately to keep up.

What I managed to teach those children about English, I have no idea. The 12th graders stonewalled me, the 9th graders fought me on every assignment, and the 6th graders soon required super glue, duct tape, and threats of death to keep them seated and quiet. (And, to my chagrin, such methods were off limits!)

However, I like to think that maybe I left those students with something more in their heads. One of my most memorable days in class, with the 11th graders, didn't involve Orwell's Animal Farm or SAT-level vocabulary. It started when one of the guys commented (for probably the third time that week) that he thought "fat chicks are disgusting." The utterance was particularly alarming considering that a rather large, sweet girl sat in the back of the class.

Really, for her weight, I thought the girl was stunningly attractive: soft, round, well-proportioned curves; nice skin; long red hair that shone like a copper penny; and a bit of spunk to her personality that kept things interesting. I couldn't bear seeing her self-esteem destroyed by the shallow words of an insensitive teenage male. So I stopped the assigned lesson and confronted the issue...by talking about love.

Every person from age 5 to 25 (and beyond) has an image in their heads of "the perfect mate." I know I did, and, in a way, still do. If given the opportunity, I'd consider licking whipped cream off actor Daniel Craig's gorgeous pecks. My physical preferences weren't much different as a teen. One thing I didn't like back then: body hair. I swore to myself that I would never marry a hairy man.

Then my husband came along: strong, handsome, witty, intelligent...and enough hair on his chest to put Sasquatch to shame. I was actually frightened the first time I saw him shirtless--frightened at the conflicting emotions the sight generated within me. But as our friendship deepened and turned to love, I not only accepted my husband's body, but I came to like and enjoy it as well. I never knew chest hair could be so soft and warm. It's now one of the things I like most about my husband, and I certainly couldn't imagine him without it.

And that was the lesson: love can be surprising, so you shouldn't limit yourself to just one physical ideal. You never know who might be listening to your snide, offhand comments. A fat chick or a hairy man may turn out to be the love of your life.

The classroom became so quiet during that speech, we could hear the walls creak.

The most important question I ever asked my mother was "How do you know when you love someone enough to marry him?" The answer she gave me has stuck with me for years: "When you can't imagine living a single day without that person in your life."

It took me a while to figure out just what she meant. When I started dating as a teenager, I tried to convince myself that I couldn't live without some of my boyfriends. I wanted to find someone who would "fit the frame" as quickly as possible.

But when I met my husband, the force of my mother's words hit me like lightening: I had to have this person in my life, everyday, loving me. All the other times I imagined my life without certain people in it, I always felt some measure of relief; I wouldn't have to put up with this one questioning my loyalty or that one trying to manipulate me. But imagining life without my husband was truly devastating. I didn't care if we spent the next 50 years just holding hands. I needed him with me.

The long-term effect of this little love lesson? I may never know. But the short-term effect was nice: no more "fat" comments in class!