Some nights my sweet little guy just demands to be cuddled to sleep. It is rare... and I am ever so grateful for these nights.

Tonight was an occasion rarer and sweeter than most. After going through our regular bedtime routine, he cried out for comfort after only a few minutes of playing quietly in his crib. It was one of those undeniable cries that say "I need you Mom!" and I was in his room lifting him from the crib within seconds. A minute later, he slowly twirled his fingers through my hair as he clung to my shoulder and softly hummed along to the song I was quietly singing in his little ear. As he slowly lulled into a peaceful slumber and grew limper and heavier in my arms, I felt the temptation to rouse him gently in hopes of extending the precious experience.

It was one of those moments that you're afraid to let go of. The kind you just want to live inside forever.

It seems that each time I blink these days, he grows a little more. As we near his first birthday, I find myself grasping at each moment and wondering if I will ever get it back. He barely holds still anymore amidst the new-found excitements of rolling balls, stacking blocks, and the endless possibilities for wreaking havoc throughout our apartment. I get caught up in the excitement of it all and find myself anxiously awaiting his next accomplishment or discovery.

He is curious, intelligent, incredibly social, and just a little bit mischievous - all the things a growing little boy should be. Still, I can't help but long for the days of him cuddling on my chest as the hours ticked by... and I can't help but look forward with dread to the days in his future when he may not really need me at all.

These days, I live for the precious moments. They are like fuel for my soul. The dirty diapers, food splattered table, Cheerios encrusted carpet, occasional temper tantrums and general chaos of motherhood all just melt away as I treasure the sloppy kisses, family tickle sessions, and rare bedtime snuggles.

In these precious moments, I can't help but wonder who is really taking care of whom. Perhaps my little guy truly needed me tonight for reassurance and comfort... or more likely, this incredibly intuitive child could sense that I was the one who needed him. Needed to be needed, if only for a moment.

Life can sometimes feel like a mundane daily grind of general repetition. It is in the precious moments that I am reminded that life is really about LIVING, not just existing.

Familiar Emptiness

**This particular post did not turn out quite as I had intended. It may not be incredibly eloquent, but it is honest. It is not something I talk about openly or frequently. It is only the bare bones of a story that is very personal and very painful.**

 Did you know that this week is National Infertility Awareness Week?

I have previously shared some personal thoughts on infertility here on our family blog. Some of you may already know that Mr. Jenkins and I struggled with infertility for some time before we were blessed with our little miracle. If you didn't know, now you do. I'd like to share a brief synopsis of my journey with you in an effort to perhaps lend my voice to those who are struggling in silence. 

By the age of 5, I knew with certainty that I wanted to be a mother. Even as a child, caring for children seemed to be at the center of my identity. As I got older, I began to ponder and plan for my future family. I wanted 8 kids, no more than 2 years apart. It was easy to imagine such ideals in my youth.

At the age of 17, I was diagnosed with severe hypothyroidism. I was given a prescription for synthetic thyroid hormone and told plainly that I would take it for the rest of my life. The doctors and nurses did not seem to think this was anything of much consequence. I was also told that my chances of conceiving children would be approximately 50% lower than the average person. That's when the fear and anxiety of infertility really began. Around the same time, I was put on birth control to produce a menstrual cycle that my body was not initiating on its own. Again, the doctors did not seem to think this was anything of much consequence. 

I started doing research on my own and discovered that many of my health concerns lined up directly with the symptoms of PCOS. I tried to discuss this with my doctor, who quickly made me feel as if my concerns were irrational. "Once we get your thyroid regulated, I am sure your periods will pick up on their own. This is very common. Nothing to worry about." Doctor after doctor (Family Practice, OBGYN, Endocrinology) continued to tell me the same thing for the next 6 years. At no point, did any doctor seem to be overly concerned that my body simply did not menstruate without artificial hormone supplements. They all claimed that my blood tests were always in normal ranges, even told me that I was "too pretty to have PCOS." I just didn't fit the mold. These doctors (who likely knew next to nothing about PCOS themselves) made me feel ashamed of my concerns--so much so that I didn't even dare seek out a specialist. Heaven forbid that I should want to know whether I was infertile before I was actually trying to get pregnant...

And so I lived in fear and anxiety. I dreaded that any boy should fall in love with me, want to marry me, want to have children with me. I knew if he loved me, I would have to tell him about the possibility that I could never give him those children that I wanted so badly myself.

Then I met my Mr. Wonderful. He fell in love with me despite my health problems, my insecurities, my many faults, and weaknesses. I warned him that I may not be able to give him children. "We'll adopt if we have to," he would tell me in his eternal optimism. But still, I silently fretted about what infertility might do to our marriage, knowing it could certainly destroy me, if not the both of us. I became Mrs. Jenkins and within months of marriage I was anxious to start trying for a little one, but we waited. He was ever positive that there would be no problems and I was ever insistent that we wouldn't know until we started trying. Anxiety. Fear. Anxiety.

When we did start trying, it was a struggle just to get me menstruating regularly. After 6 months, a very sweet 89-year-old OBGYN offered me some Clomid to help. He insisted that my blood work still looked great and that it wouldn't take long with the Clomid. (Clomid is miserable, for the record.)  For months and months, I took the Clomid. Slowly increasing the amount each cycle. NOTHING. Progesterone cream was next. It kept me menstruating, albeit not regularly. (It smelled terrible, and I hated it.) Oh and I forgot to mention, all this time I was tracking my Basal Body Temperature daily... watching the numbers on the chart and praying for the blessed peak that meant my body was doing something right. So much Anxiety! One thing the charting told us, was that I wasn't ovulating. "Oh, you're an-ovulatory," they told me. Again with the almost total lack of concern. Again with the insistence that I couldn't possibly have PCOS. 

After 18 months of basal body temperature tracking, pill popping, crazy periods, nasty cream, ovulation detection kits... Nothing. (Unless marital strife and the depths of anxiety and depression are results worth mentioning.) Finally, I was referred to see a Reproductive Endocrinologist. An appointment was made with the help of my insurance company (which was quick to explain that any treatment by this specialist would not be covered.) 

And so Anthony and I arrived at the Utah Fertility Center on a lovely July day in 2011 to meet with Dr. Faulk for a consult. We were seated across from him in his office for 30 seconds when he pronounced a diagnosis of PCOS by simply glancing at a lab result that had been taken over a year earlier by another doctor. He stated that it was one of the clearest cases of PCOS he had ever seen on a blood result. He then proceeded to describe to me each and every symptom I had suffered from up to that point. I cried. 6 years of being made to feel foolish had finally come to end. He did a quick pelvic ultrasound (which would be the first of MANY in coming months) to confirm the diagnosis. My ovaries looked like swiss cheese, there were so many cysts. He was honestly upset that the other doctors had ignored such obvious signs and promptly asked me for the name and number of the incompetent OBGYNs who had ignored my concerns. He then proceeded to lay out a potential treatment plan and sent me home with prescriptions for clomid and metformin to start the process of fertility treatments.  For the first time in 6 years, there was light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I felt HOPE, something I had forgotten existed.

My PCOS is quite severe. On top of the PCOS I also had extensive Fallopian tube scarring from a gangrene infection following my burst appendix (a story for another day) and difficulties with my uterine lining. It took A LOT of medication (pills, shots, suppositories) and a number of minor procedures (2 very painful HSG tests, endless ultrasounds) to achieve a pregnancy. The process of fertility treatments is both physically and emotionally draining. It took every last ounce of my energy and faith to complete each cycle. The first successful pregnancy ended in a heartbreaking and physically excruciating miscarriage. 

After that I wanted to be done for a time, I just didn't think I could take another miscarriage or even another month of the invasive process. Thankfully, Mr. Jenkins convinced me to try just one more time and from that treatment cycle, we got our precious Calvin. Truly a long-awaited miracle.

In many ways, I am now grateful for our trials with infertility. Memories of the long, difficult process of diagnosis and treatment help me remember to never take my child for granted, to shower him with more love than he can handle, and to never waste a single day or minute that I have with him. 

I wish I could say that was THE END of our infertility story. For some women with PCOS, a successful pregnancy can "reset" their reproductive system in a sense and they are able to have further children without the assistance of fertility treatments. Unfortunately, I don't currently fit that mold.

And so, as Calvin's first birthday approaches all too quickly, I am reminded of my dreams of a large family with children close in age. A familiar emptiness begins to seep in these days as I wonder whether Calvin will have other siblings and when. This time around, the questions have changed from "When do you think you'll have a baby?" to "How close together do you want your children?" and "When will you have another?" These questions carry the same sting and heartache, as my familiar response of "Only God knows" escapes my lips. 

This time around, the anxiety and pain are accompanied by a certain level of guilt. I feel guilt and pain as I stare into Calvin's sweet, smiling face and already long to be pregnant again. Not because he isn't everything I ever wanted but because just the thought of him growing up alone might shatter me into a million pieces. Really, the wide array of feelings that go along with infertility struggles are impossible to describe.

I don't share these memories and feelings with you lightly, and certainly not because I want your pity. I'm sharing this today because I believe that infertility is too often a silent battle surrounded by unnecessary shame. I share these things because infertility encompasses its own brand of incredible loneliness and perhaps one of you needs to know that you are not as alone as you feel. 

I know many couples who have suffered longer and harder than we did. I do not claim to be the expert on infertility nor do I think my story is incredibly unique. Hopefully, others who have struggled will lend their voices to this cause in their own way and in their own time.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, I encourage you to learn more about infertility. Do some research for yourself or for someone you love. If you are suffering through infertility in any of its stages, please reach out for the help you may need. Perhaps from a doctor, a therapist, a spouse, a family member, or a friend--but don't suffer alone. If someone you know or love is suffering from infertility, educate yourself and be available to them, but only on their own terms. Whatever you do, don't offer unsolicited advice or condolences and don't kid yourself into thinking you know that they are going through. Even if you have suffered through infertility, it is different for every couple who faces it.

One last warning to the wise... If you find yourself wanting to ask someone about their plans for starting or growing a family, just don't. It is their business, not yours. If they want you to know something, they will share it with you. This is true whether they are facing infertility or not. Tread lightly.

She's Listening...

I may not have a daughter yet, but I am one.

My mother taught me many, many things. She taught me to cook, to sew, to serve, to scrub a bathtub properly, to sing, to read, and many other valuable skills and lessons on life. Unfortunately, my wonderful mother also taught me to never be quite satisfied with myself.

Bless her heart, my mother is an angel. She is thoughtful, kind, beautiful, patient, creative, and strong. She may also be the most self-critical woman I've ever known. I've seen it in other women of her generation as well.

As a small child (and still today), I looked up to these wonderful women in my life. They sang like angels, had smiles and hugs that could warm a room, served incessantly in their families and communities, cooked the best darn food around, and seemed to always be juggling a hundred productive things at once. They were everything I wanted to be and more.

Unfortunately, they also spoke openly and frequently about all the ways in which they felt inadequate... all the ways in which their peers were more accomplished and more capable than they would ever be. They magnified their weaknesses and downplayed their strengths. They complained about their bodies and their difficult hair. They compared the worst of themselves against the best of others. Perhaps, they were taught that this was humility? They may not have spoken these things directly to me, but I was listening.

I am in no way trying to say that my mother failed me. I am simply saying that I wish she had known how deeply I was affected by her own negative self-talk. I wish she had loved herself as deeply and spoken of herself as highly as she did me. It was hard to believe that I could ever be good enough if someone as wonderful as her was apparently so deeply flawed.

I will say to you what I have tried to express to her on many occasions in the last few years. It applies to you as much as it does to her...

Please stop buying into all the ways in which society is telling you that you are not good enough. Please decide now to be more accepting of yourself both inwardly and outwardly. Please cease highlighting your weaknesses and start acknowledging your strengths. Please know that you are beautiful and important. Please stop comparing yourself to everyone around you and feeling like you always come up short.  When someone compliments you, say "Thank You" and then please take the compliment to heart and believe them. If there is supposedly so much wrong with you, then why do so many people love and admire you? You are beautiful and perfect because you are YOU and there is nobody else in the world just like you. I deeply and genuinely believe this.

There is a problem among women in our society with believing that we are valuable. We spend too much time and energy focusing on the ways in which we want to be different or better, rather than the ways in which we are already good enough. Too often, we are good at acknowledging the strengths of those around us, and yet terrible at doing the same for ourselves. Why would you want to be just like someone else? Or look just like someone else? Imagine how boring our world would be if we were all the same! Please help me stop this cycle. Look in the mirror and tell yourself you are wonderful and worthwhile - Do it every day! Each time you practice self-compassion, you give others permission to do the same.


In no way am I saying that I am perfect at this practice, but I am trying. I have been working on it for several years and I'll tell you that it gets easier with time. If loving yourself completely seems like an overwhelming endeavor, then just start by acting as if you believe it. If you just can't accept that you might already be perfect as you are, consult with God - ask Him to help you see yourself through His eyes. He will aid you in this endeavor. He loves you deeply just the way He made you, and He longs for you to value yourself the same.

So, if you don't yet have a daughter, then please take this opportunity to pledge that you will never NEVER never diminish yourself in her future presence. And if you already have children, please pledge to start now and be as kind to yourself as you are to them. Your children will learn to view themselves in a more compassionate light as they watch you do the same for yourself.

Every time I overhear a mother talking about her body dissatisfaction or belittling herself in any way in the presence of her children, I cringe. I desperately want to stop her in her tracks and shake her until she realizes... little ears are listening!

Your negative self-talk does not go unnoticed. She loves you and looks up to you and maybe even hopes to be Just. Like. You.  Each time you deplete your own worth, she wonders how she'll ever be good enough if you're not. Little ears are listening. Please be careful what you say.

Organized Chaos

Let's just be up front about this... I am NO domestic goddess. Don't get me wrong, I'm not totally inept. I am a pretty damn good cook, I just don't do windows. Really though, around here a spotless house is probably a sign that Mr. Jenkins had a day off work and took matters into his own hands.

He and I have a slight difference in opinion when it comes to the "cleanliness" of our abode. He is happiest in a home that is nearly spotless from top to bottom--organized and open. I, on the other hand, thrive more in an environment of organized chaos (i.e. everything may not be in its place, but I still know where everything is.)

I really do believe in having a "lived in" house. I think the day to day messes are a big part of what makes a house a home. Many women I know seem to feel strongly that their homes should always look Parade of Homes worthy when company comes over, or even when no company is expected. Well, out of courtesy to those women, I may tell you "Sorry for the mess!" when you come by, but I'm really not sorry at all. You can learn a lot about a family from their mess...

That pile of dishes in the sink?
Evidence of the lovingly prepared (or rewarmed) dinner from last night.

That toy-strewn floor in the living room?
Proof that I love to play with my child. Also an indication that I believe children should be able to explore their environment freely. It's how they learn!

The blanket laying haphazardly on the floor?
Staying comfy and cozy is a priority for me in our home.

Those streaks and handprints on the inside of my windows?
Ok, yes I really do just hate cleaning windows. But also, they are kind of adorable.

Anyways, you get the idea.

I'm not saying that I never clean! I really can scrub and organize with the best of them (I can even get windows to glisten, I just don't). My house may sometimes be cluttered, but it does not emit unidentifiable odors. Dishes may sit in the sink for a day, but probably not longer. Toys may litter the floor at all times, but only because they are used continuously. I may leave a cookbook out on the counter, but that's because I know I'm going to use it tomorrow. That is the kind of clean I believe in. A lived in home is not spotless and perfect all the time, but it can be occasionally.

Over the years, Mr. Jenkins and I have started to meet halfway on these issues (although he did scrub a pan last night while I was in between using it in the middle of cooking dinner, haha). I let him clean when he needs to, and I tidy up as much as I can day to day. In return, he understands that a messy house is either an indication that I had a rough day or that our little guy is sometimes just too cute to put down in order to focus on other things. We accept our different ideas of cleanliness more and more over time.

So, no, I don't believe that "a clean house is a sign of a wasted life" like I've seen in a few memes lately. However, I would submit to you that a neurotic need to clean your house incessantly might be a good indication that you are missing out on some beautiful pieces of life.

I will never regret putting off that dirty toilet to rock my sleeping baby, or ignoring the dishes so I could answer my sister's phone call. I can guarantee you though that I will always regret ignoring my loved ones in favor of cleaning yet another mess that arises amidst living life to the fullest.

So please, don't clean your house just because I'm coming by to visit, and don't bother apologizing for the mess. I'd rather hear about the game you played with your child that created said mess. Besides, if you clean up all of last night's dishes, how will I ever know that you ate something delicious so I can ask you for the recipe?