God bless America a little extra today.

I vividly remember when George Bush won the election for a second term. I was a senior in high school, and I really didn’t care. I wasn’t old enough to vote and I was never that interested in politics, so what did it matter? I had calculus first that morning, and as I looked around Mr. Degitz’s classroom, the devastation on so many of my classmates’ faces was so confusing to me. Why were they so upset? Life would go on like it always had, and come on, you’re basically children, how do you even understand what’s going on?

Today, I totally and completely understand the devastation. Today, I could not stop crying. It was this summer that I first became emotional and began caring about politics. One warm day, Tyler, Coltrane, and I planned to go for a bike ride along the Snake River. We were all sunscreened-up and excited for our little adventure. Tyler mentioned Bernie’s dropping out so briefly, I didn’t really register it at first. But then, the truth sunk in and I thought about the reality of a Bernie-less election. I suddenly started crying, which surprised me, and then I got sunscreen in my eyes, just to add to the burn.

Like in high school, I still don’t really understand politics, but I have come to really understand people. I am actually learning how to read faces and body language to learn more about a person’s state of health, but I’ve gained great insight into personality and character through these careful observations. I also believe that a person’s “vibe” is a real energy that can be identified and used to understand them more fully. Bernie’s “vibe” was healthy, and it jived with mine. His face showed that while a little nuts, sure, he was also a good person.

Hillary didn’t jive as well with me. Her face said she could get the job done, but possibly at the expense of others. But Trump… Trump made me feel sick. His face said he was deeply sad and insecure, and to compensate, he has spent his life searching for ways to “win.” Whatever the game, women, money, or business, he would do/say whatever was required to “win” the game. That’s fine on The Apprentice, or while hosting Saturday Night Live. It’s kind of okay as a CEO as long as the success is achieved through honesty and hard work. But, a presidential election is NOT a game, Donald. THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IS NOT A GAME. 

The office of President is about service. The president works for the people and represents all of us. When you think of Russia, who do you think about? Putin. Cuba? Castro. Canada? Trudeau (Oh, Trudeau, please don’t judge too harshly). When people from other countries think about America? Donald Trump? Seriously? He’s going to be the new face of America?! I’m embarrassed. Along with aspartame still being produced and non-paid maternity leave, this is an embarrassment. And now that he's won the game, what will be his purpose?

Coltrane and I did our usual routine tonight - we read the “monkey book” and the “sun book,” said our prayers, and then just smiled and hugged each other until Tyler came home from the gym. Tyler’s face as he peeked into the room told me all I needed to know about the election. And I just broke down. Maybe part of it was out of pride, but more deeply, it was for my perfectly sweet little Coltrane. Politics matter when you’re a part of raising the next generation. Which is why, for the first time ever, I actually voted. In Idaho, unfortunately, a non-republican vote is mostly pointless, but I still did it and it was emotional and beautiful and I felt really peaceful about my choices.

Trump is a bad choice. If you voted for him, you made a bad choice. I try really hard to be a nice person. I try not to judge and I’ll even make up stories for why someone behaves a certain way – for example, a person cuts me off on the road probably because their wife is in labor and courteous driving isn’t exactly a priority when your wife is pushing out your baby. I do this because I like to think that people are mostly good and I try to be mostly good and nice and kind. Today, I’m really struggling with being nice and kind. I want to scream and vandalize all Trump paraphernalia, because he is just the worst. THE WORST.

To the next four years, may they be less-than due to impeachment.

For information on my esoteric way of choosing a candidate:

http://www.jeanhaner.com/blog/reading-donald-trumps-face/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Eee8AL4WNI 

(Because of the nature of Conan's show, he makes fun of his guest's ideas, but there is so much truth to what he's saying.)

I Got You Babe: An Ode to the Father of My Child

Tyler and I don’t have “a song.” I compiled a playlist of cute and unconventional love songs for our wedding reception, but we’ve never picked just one song to really exemplify our relationship. A few days ago, while driving alone through Idaho Falls’ numbered streets, a magical neighborhood that we now call home, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” played through the speakers. I know this song well - from countless times watching “Groundhog Day” with my dad and, essentially, from having superb musical tastes. But, this day, while driving 5 mph under the speed limit to admire the world’s most adorable houses, I wept upon hearing, "Don't let them say your hair's too long, 'cause I don't care, with you I can't go wrong." This was the song. Our song. The song that perfectly exemplified how I love and feel about my one and only.

Tyler has been teased about many things throughout his life, by friends, family, and strangers. The most predominant being his career choice. “You’re studying music education? [begin condescending laugh] How are you going to raise a family doing that?!” This exact exchange actually happened between Tyler and some douche-y customer while Tyler was working one Saturday. This conversation happened several times over, perhaps sans laughter, with family members for years. YEARS.

But Tyler continued to pursue his goal of becoming a music teacher. And, dammit if he didn’t succeed!

Keep in mind, music majors are nuts. I watched someone do it and I still don’t understand how it’s done. I tried and failed miserably at being a music major. I still shudder a little at the site of a grand piano. After declaring and attempting to major in nearly every core subject, I can honestly say music was the most challenging by far and anyone who volunteers for that life for 4+ years is nuts.

Tyler not only graduated, but he graduated with a 3.8 GPA. He got a job offer one week after completing his student teaching. And, to make things even sweeter, that job gives him two weeks paid vacation every Christmas, three months paid vacation every summer, benefits, and he’s happy EVERYDAY when he returns home no later than 5:00 p.m. Suck on that, haters.

“But, Abbie, don’t you know you’ll have to work the rest of your life if your husband decides to keep teaching?” - another criticism we’ve heard. Well, guess what? Tyler married a girl who LOVES working and would do it whether or not it was necessary to pay our bills (it’s not, FYI). Clichés aside, we were destined to be together.

Besides his career choice, Tyler’s been made fun of for the music he listens to, the movies he watches, the clothes he wears, and the way he styles his hair. I’ve heard these criticisms myself as they were said in my presence. After each mention of his “flaws,” I kept thinking to myself that if all of those things were different, Tyler wouldn’t be Tyler. I guess a suit and tie, lawyer’s briefcase, short side-burns, and “Peter Priesthood” qualities are appealing to some people, but I find them kind of boring.

I love Tyler’s weird shirt and tie combinations (that he comes up with himself 99% of the time). I find it fascinating that he finds equal value in listening to Miles Davis, Kendrick Lamar, OkGo, and Stevie Wonder. He enthusiastically enjoys my favorite plot-less, artsy films and simultaneously has this child-like love for super hero movies, which makes him the funnest (yes, funnest) dad.

And, the reason for my 'Sonny and Cher'-induced tears: On the day of our wedding, Tyler’s hair was super long. There was plenty of time before the ceremony to get a haircut, but I encouraged him to forego the suggested trim. I mean, he looked like a Beatle and it was awesome. In hindsight, would he have looked equally handsome with shorter sideburns and a tighter shape overall? Sure. But, why is it anyone’s business but Tyler’s how his hair looks? Or how he lives all other aspects or his successful, loving, warm, hard-working, motivated, mostly-normal, and happy life?

Each line of that song made me cry even harder that day because we were really young and didn’t really know anything when we first decided to get married and were encouraged by others to wait. Our love didn’t really pay the rent, but financial aid did. I’m sad and scared a lot and I imagine I’m not an easy person to live with or be married to, but he makes me laugh and he’s always there. And, I am confident that there is no mountain we can’t climb… metaphorically, of course, because we really aren’t that into hiking.

I’ve never been so comfortable being my absolute truest self than when I met that ska-punk-loving saxophone player in that parking lot that September evening all those years ago. If anyone makes fun of you, babe, don’t worry, I got you.

Equal Rights for Dads!

Instead of all this Target boycott nonsense, who's ready to join a real cause for public restroom reform?

Demand changing tables in ALL public male restrooms!

It's 2016. Dads participate now. They expect to, want to, and deserve to! 

Some families have only a Dad. Or brother, uncle, grandpa. What are they supposed to do?

Some families have only two Dads. What are they supposed to do? 

Some families have stay-at-home Dads. What are they supposed to do? 

And some families just plain share responsibilities and Moms sometimes need a friggin break.


Ways to ACT:

• Write letters to the offending businesses, their parent companies, and franchises.
• Make and sign community petitions.
• Put notes on the walls and doors of restrooms with your requests.
• Write, "Where's the changing table? #ParentEquality" on the men's restroom mirrors with a dry erase marker.
• Dads, start changing poopy diapers in store aisles, restaurant tables, office hallways, and other inappropriate places. 
• Share more ideas in the comments!

It will be epic. Whatever you decide to do, take a picture and post it on social media with #ParentEquality (unless you come up with something more clever - if so, let me know!). Include the location so everyone else can be prepared when they frequent that business. Also include those businesses that recognize Dad Rights and celebrate them!

Dads can't breastfeed, but they can do everything else. That means they deserve to have the same opportunity and right to a public place to wipe their children's behinds.

We're All 16 Years Old On the Inside

Turns out, there’s no such thing as an adult. Yeah, I was shocked, too. I’m going to be 30 this year and I keep thinking that, for sure, I’ll feel like an adult by then. I mean, I’m married, I have a kid, I run a business – those are all real adult-like things – so why do I still feel like a child?

Why? Because I am still a child - or teenager, I suppose. Every adult is. It's my theory that we stop progressing socially after age 16. We have more responsibilities, maybe. And perhaps a more mature perspective. But after our 16^th birthday, we’re all basically still 16.

This theory first began when I had a conversation with a 60 year old woman about an experience she had going to her 40 year high school reunion. She ran into an old boyfriend – a relationship that ended kindly enough, but she married soon after high school and they hadn’t kept in touch. He confided in her that she had made him feel important and special and felt she was his first real, true friend. This wasn’t a romantic gesture, as he was happily married, but his life had been impacted so significantly by her friendship. As she told me this about this experience, I heard this 60 year old woman turn 16 years old in her voice, her mannerisms, her glee that a boy she had liked had really, actually liked her back, and that, in some way, she still mattered. In the end, isn’t that all a 16 year old girl really wants? A drivers’ license, and a boy to think she’s special.

The theory was further solidified when my mom, probably 50-ish years old at the time, said to me, in complete seriousness, “I know I look old, but I still feel 16 on the inside.” To this day, my mother doesn’t look old or her age. And we talk to each other often about boys and body image and stuff that stresses us out. We share clothes when I visit and shop together. And when I lived with her, it was like living with a roommate, not a mom. (Best roommate ever, BTW – she never asked me to pay my portion of rent and she always let me eat her food.)

Then, the theory was proven when my husband, Tyler, and I had separate altercations with “adults” on the very same day. He, in person - A colleague, 15 years his senior, yelled in his face about something Tyler did not do, and then stomped away without giving Tyler an opportunity to explain himself. And this was not the first time an interaction had gone this way. And me, via social media (that damn social media) – as an administrator on a support group page, where several women got in a cat fight, began name calling, and proceeded to private message me seven times over the course of the day to tell on the others and demand they be banned from the group. Again, approximately the third time something like this had happened to me.

Tyler and I nearly ripped all our hair out that day. Here we were, two kids, wondering what the hell was wrong with people – adults, even. One expects this kind of behavior in middle and high school. But, among people with respectable professions, higher education, and middle and high schoolers of their own? Are they serious? The only explanation for such behavior is that they’re 16 years old. Socially, they’re juniors in high school, they’ve just started seriously dating, emotions are confused and exaggerated, and they must not be told what to do or they’ll slam their bedroom door and paint their nails black. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I hypothesize that this theory will be beneficial for me during future altercations with “adults.” I can remind myself as they’re blasting insults at me or my husband, or hiding behind their computer complaining, that inside, they’re 16 and the way a 16 year old reacts may be irrational, but it’s the only way they know how to communicate. And I can be kindly, secretly condescending as I take the higher ground and attempt to turn my own insides a year older.

I Can Do (Almost) Anything

I recently took upon the task of building bookshelves for my office. I’ve accumulated a few (hundred) books over the last few years and particle-board bookshelves are THE WORST. Because I had more time than money, I looked up some ideas on Pinterest, headed to the hardware store and got to work staining and measuring. Upon time for actual assembly, I was still feeling pretty motivated and optimistic. I drilled my first hole . . . and stripped the very first screw. After a slight change in design, I switched to a countersink bit to make the shelves look more professional . . . and it snapped in half during my practice drill. After the second stripped screw, stripped beyond repair, I took the irrational leap to SCREW DIYs forever.

Then, I had a most important epiphany: I don’t have to make everything from scratch by myself - I can ask other people to help me; I can pay someone to help me; heck, I can even BUY something already made at a store! And, the kicker? It doesn’t make me less of a person, less of a woman, or less of a mom or wife. Turns out, Pinterest is NOT the golden standard of personhood.

So, woodworking is not one of my skills, whatever. Guess what other skills I have? A BUNCH of other things. Remember that list I made about all the things I’m interested in and all of the things I could pursue if I wanted to? I had graduated from college two years prior and was still on a mad search for my life’s purpose. At the time, because I couldn’t decide what was best for me, I half tried all of it and half didn’t do anything at all.

A few weeks before writing that post, I had enlisted the help of a life coach in order to possibly narrow the search for my “life’s purpose.” Near the end of our twelve weeks, she challenged me to dream: “Dream big,” she’d say, then I’d respond. “No, bigger!” she’d say, and I’d give a bigger response. “No, Abbie, I want you to dream even BIGGER!” Well, my dream got so big and real that, while packing my entire home and preparing to move from Rexburg to Las Vegas, I enrolled myself into a PhD program and started my own wellness consulting business.

Today, I sit facing my gorgeous bookshelves (that a friend lovingly assembled for me) in my home office, researching three different essay topics because I can’t decide which one I want to know more about. Sounds super nerdy to you, perhaps, but to me, it means that after ten long years of searching and praying to know what to do with my life, I’ve finally found an answer.