At 31 Years Old Joy Discovers a Disturbing Thing

She has inherited her father's nose hairs.

Joy here. That's right. I now have thick black hairs in my nostrils that like to play peek-a-boo with the world.

In fact, I just plucked one that was at least half an inch long.

Gross, right?

After doing this (and plucking a few of his smaller, less ambitious brothers) I walked into my bedroom and asked Mr. Marshall, "Want to hear something gross?"

"No. Thank you."

Spoilsport.

I opted to respect his feelings, though, rather than testing again how disgusted he'd have to be to no longer want to sleep with me.

So I had to come here to tell you, dear Internet.

Want to know one more thing?

Plucking nose hairs hurts like the Dickens. At least I think so. I'm not entirely clear about how much the Dickens hurt.

I think I'll keep plucking them anyway.

I really don't want my father's nostril hairs waving to the world from the middle of my face.

I'm curious. What have you inherited from your parents?

How I SHOULD Feel, How I DO Feel and The Space In Between

It is 5:37pm. I am still wearing my pajamas. The evidence of my good intentions is strewn throughout the house -- a vacuum in my messy room, luggage below the attic door, clean clothes in a basket in the living room, the dishwasher open and loaded halfway.

Outside it is a rainy, fall day. Usually my favorite kind. Our Aspen leaves have turned to golden coins. The sun, filtered through clouds, creates a glow around everything it touches. Puddles in the street. Troy and Keilauni playing barefoot, in over-sized denim jackets on the sidewalk. It is JOY made tangible outside my window.

My arms are full of the soft heaviness of a new baby. It should be the sweetest thing. But somehow, though I hold him in my arms, I can't quite hold him in my heart the way I want to.

This is what makes me so angry. The should-be-able-to, the why-can't-I. I should be enJOYing this day, soaking up the yellow glow, the rain cool on my feet and wet in my hair. I should be JOYous as I hold this precious boy in my arms, not two steps above resentful. And why can't I ever finish anything? Why can't I manage to get dressed before 6pm (and then only because I'm embarrassed to have Kevin come home and find me in pajamas)? Why can't I clean my room? Teach the baby to take naps somewhere other than my arms? Clean up after our vacation?

Why can't I just be happy?

Call it postpartum depression. Call it seasonal affective disorder. Call it major depression with a hint of anxiety. Call it maternal attachment disorder. Call it what you will.

I call it stolen time. It makes me angry, because there's this part of me that senses that how I am feeling much of the time lately is not normal. I should be able to enJOY this time, be as overwhelmed with JOY as I was 2 1/2 months ago. After all, this is the fulfillment of the months of expectation and preparation I have enJOYed this year. This should be the climax. Should be.

But it's not working this way. I'm finally able to admit it. I'm depressed. The lows are lower -- anger sharper, hurt deeper, sadness longer, guilt heavier. The highs, on the other hand, settle just above blah.

I have endured depression many times, in many forms. I have been more aware of it some times than others, more smart in the way I take it on. Sadly, one of the beasts of mental illness is that the very lethargy, sadness, guilt and apathy of the illness claw their way into one's resolve to get help, to make it end.

The idea of making a phone call seems a daunting task. Actually going to see a counselor, doctor or bishop for help -- nigh unconquerable.

But underneath it all, beneath the concrete and iron and lead, is a kernel of hope. The absolute knowledge that there is JOY here, too. Here in this abyss there is something to learn, a path toward growth. Deep in me there is a reserve of strength that knows I deserve the normalcy of fleeting emotions, of high highs and low lows that pass through me like the weather outside my window. I know that above it all, filtering through the clouds, there will always be JOY.

I'm going to get there. Just you try to stop me.

Introducing the Marshall Family

Hi there!

My name is Joy Marshall. I am thirty-one years old. I love writing, birth and my beautiful family.

I am married to my handsome husband, Kevin. I've loved him for, I don't know, forever. I think I started hoping that I'd marry him about one week after I met him. (I was fourteen years old.) He works. Hard. He is re-learning to play. Our spirited children help him a lot with this.

Lily is 11 years old and was born just shy of 9 months after our wedding. She also loves to write and is probably better at it than I am, when you factor in age and experience. She also loves reading, bikes, running and art. She's a beautiful person.

Troy is 9 years old. And he's good at it. But, lest you think he's ALL potty humor, legos and obnoxiousness, you should also know that he's terribly sensitive and tender-hearted. He is generous, kind, witty and playful. And he has a smile that melts my heart.

Ezra, 6, is a human tornado. He is messy, fun, loves gymnastics, can climb ANYTHING, has more scars than I care to count (but only a couple on his face) and can't resist a good competition. If you ask him to do a somersault, he'll do a front handspring. Ask for a cartwheel and he'll do three.

Kelley is 2. He is happy, funny, devoted to his older siblings (AKA buddies). He still thinks he should nurse, even though he self-weaned 6 months ago while I was pregnant. Shh... Sometimes I let him. He is just so stinkin' cute that it kills me.

And then there is our newest guy, Brennan, who is 9 weeks old, smiling and easygoing. Can't wait to see what form of "spirited" he takes.

This Week's Joy List

Things that made me joyful this week...

• When I picked up pizza for my daughter's birthday and the young man behind the counter offered to carry it out for me before I could even ask. I was trying to figure out in my head how to carry four boxes of pizza and a sleeping toddler at the same time.
• On the way home from getting pizza, seeing an old man driving down the sidewalk on his riding lawnmower. In the middle of the city. Made me smile.
• Today, going to my son's kindergarten graduation and watching him pick his nose while singing at the top of his lungs. I just kept thinking, man am I lucky! For better or worse, this is MY kid. Really, how many parents get to say that they have the funny kid?
• My two year old is learning to argue. It cracks me up. I tell him that we have no chocolate chips in the house. He puts his hands on his hips and says "Yes, do!" I tell him to sit down in the cart. "I am ditting!" I tell him he's sleepy and cute. "No, not! I not bleepy! Not dute!"
• Shhh... Don't tell anyone because they're not telling yet. My sister is pregnant!
• My neighbor and I spent about 15 minutes this morning trying to figure out how to get my sprinkler to not spray in a circle, thus watering our house and our van as well as the lawn. We never figured it out, but it sure was a funny 15 minutes.
• Our 8 year old did two sections of math today for school, because it was FUN! And we had fun learning to write cursive B's. We got a lot of laughter out of how some of them turned out. That's a fat B. That looks like a D with a loop. That looks like a one-eyed clown face. Oh, there now. THAT looks like a B!

First Post

There always has to be a first. And I have been stressing out about what to write. No more, my dearies.

This is the first post.

There you have it.

Done.






Whew.....

Glad that's out of the way.