This is a story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down.

(Yes, the title of this blog is from the Fresh Prince theme song)

Thursday, December 27th 2018

Woke up and remembered I had a doctors appointment at 11:20 that afternoon. I always like going to the doctor because so far everything has gone well and they just keep telling me how healthy our baby is and that we are on track for our due date. I REALLY wanted to have our baby on my due date. It was my great grandpa's birthday.

(foreshadowing) 

Chas and I headed to the doctors office and once we got there they took my blood pressure. Happens every time. Ehhh... a little high but it has been a little high the last few times and they said that was totally fine. The doctor came in and checked our little mans heart rate. It's low. Not scary low, but low enough the doctor wass concerned. That, along with my high-ish blood pressure worried the doctor enough for him to set up an appointment at the hospital for some testing. Just to double check that everything is okay. The doctor told us that worst case scenario, I might be induced at the hospital. WHAT?

We had just enough time to grab a bite to eat and run home for a bit before we had to go to the hospital. Chas and I thought just in case, lets pack some things we might need if things go down. We cleaned the house a little and crossed our fingers we'd be back home soon. Fast forward to the hospital. They did an ultrasound as well as a blood pressure cuff to monitor Oliver and I.

My blood pressure had skyrocketed.

Everyone kept telling me to calm down and relax. The weird thing was that through all of this, when I'd usually be panicking, I felt calm. I wasn't panicking. I wasn't worried. But my BP kept rising. It was decided that I would be sent up to maternity to be monitored and to do a few more tests. If all went well, and they could get my BP down, I could go home.

We checked in at the maternity ward and we were brought to a huge room. I realized this is the room people have babies in. But not ME. Not TODAY. right?! I was just here for testing. (Still, uncharacteristically calm. Chas and I were joking that they must be pumping the hospital with some kind of calming gas because we were almost giggly!)

I put on the stupid gown, peed in a cup, and got hooked up to a bunch of monitors for myself and the baby. Our nurse came in after a few hours with a doctor and told us that my blood pressure was getting dangerously high and they found a large amount of protein in my urine. These were signs that I have pre-eclampsia. They don't know much about it, but if it gets bad enough, I could start having seizures, which is really bad news. The only way to fix it is to have the baby. They were going to induce labor and Oliver would be here the next day. It was almost like a cue was given because at that moment about three more nurses came in and began setting me up for an IV and talking to me about medicines they'd use to induce labor and I couldn't handle it. I started bawling. We were not prepared for this. Our house was a mess, we didn't have anyone to take care of our pets. We hadn't even opened the car seat or set up the crib! I didn't have enough time to mentally prepare. The nurses gave us a moment and I just sobbed while Chas held me.

This brings me to a very important part of our story. My husband. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect partner through all of this. He was kind and supportive and never once made me feel bad or weird for crying, or puking, or being splayed out half naked pushing out our son. He was and is just the greatest.

Okay, back to the nitty-gritty. In order to bring my BP down, I had to be put on this medicine the nurses called "Devil Juice." It was supposed to make me "feel like actual dirt." It was horrible. I felt foggy, and sick. Imagine really bad flu symptoms while also having contractions on top of a panic attack. That's sort of what it felt like. I was then put on more medicine that was supposed to induce labor. So from about 4pm to about 6am the next day, a nurse came in every hour or so to check to see how dilated I was, (which for the record, HURTS) give me more meds, or help me to the bathroom, all while every ten minutes or so a machine would check my BP. (not much sleep happened that night)

Friday, December 28th 2018

Here is where it gets exciting. About 6 in the morning, the nurse came in and told me that if my water didn't break on its own within the next hour or so, someone would be by to break it manually. Then I could get an epidural. What I didn't know was that by the time the person would be around to break my water, I would have missed the anesthesiologist. He would be going in to do a surgery and wouldn't be available for another few hours. My body knew this. I didn't... but my body did.  Not even 20 minutes after the conversation with the nurse, I felt this slight pain. It felt like I had a water balloon inside me and my muscles squeezed it until it broke! I couldn't believe it! I woke Chas up and called the nurse.

This was by far the most painful part. Once my water broke, the contractions really kicked into high gear. Thankfully, the anesthesiologist hadn't gone into surgery yet so he came by in less than a half hour. (Which was a HUGE blessing!) The epidural hurt, almost as bad as the contractions. Once I couldn't feel the lower half of my body anymore, they got me all set up to start pushing.

I pushed for two and a half hours. The doctor came in and saw that I was exhausted. He gave us a couple options to help get the little guy out. We decided on this suction-cup-plunger-type-thing that would grab Oliver's head and the doctor could pull him out. One push, Two push, suction-thingy, BABY! Oliver came out screaming, and peeing. He was healthy and strong. I cried, Chas cried and Oliver continued screaming. The nurses took him and made sure he was okay and then brought him to me. I thought he was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. I still can't believe I helped create something so perfect. While our little man rested on me, I began feeling a little foggy. I was tired and starting to feel really cold. Oliver felt like a little heating pad. That's when I noticed that the nurses and the doctor were acting strange. The fogginess made it so that I couldn't really understand what was happening. I was only able to focus on how cold I was and how warm my baby felt. I started shivering. I couldn't understand why my legs were still propped up. I just wanted them to put my legs down, cover me up, and give me blankets. I heard people talking about my blood type. I heard the doctor saying something wasn't working. I had been hooked up to another IV. Someone gave me a shot in my leg. A nurse came by and took my baby because I was shaking so bad. I managed to look over at Chas and I have never seen him more concerned.

I was hemorrhaging. A lot. They couldn't get the bleeding to stop. The doctor was about to start a blood transfusion when things finally started to slow down. At this point, I couldn't open my eyes or speak. I could sort of hear what was going on but the only thing I could focus on was how cold I was. I was trembling so bad that the nurses had to hold down my arm in order to stick me with another needle. My body was so tired. In hindsight, I am really glad that all of my other senses had been put on the back burner. I think if I was totally aware of what was happening, I would have panicked. The worst was over. The doctor got the bleeding to stop and some very nice nurses came to my rescue with warm blankets! I was just buried in blankets. They even put them around my head so just the smallest bit of my face was showing. Chas kept laying himself somewhat over me to try and warm me up. I remember being so grateful he was doing that but still too tired to speak. I trembled uncontrollably for another 2 hours or so. I've never been more exhausted in my life. I was told that I lost twice the amount of blood that women lose during child birth. I am so grateful for my doctor and the nurses for their hard work and quick thinking. They literally saved my life.

Chas went to see the baby and I rested. (as much as you can rest when your body is shaking constantly for what feels like forever.) Back to how amazing my husband is: Chas brought me water and fed me grapes when I started to come back to the land of the five sense. I felt like a baby bird. It was weird.

The rest of the story is pretty boring compared to all that excitement. Once I started feeling better, they put me back on the "Devil Juice" and I felt like a pile of dirt again. After a few hours they moved us out of the delivery room and into the "Mother and Baby" part of the hospital. You'd think that the hospital staff would think, "hey, she just had a baby, lets leave her alone to rest" nope. All night people kept coming in to make sure I wasn't bleeding more, or to check my blood pressure, or to give me more medicine. How dare they make sure I was okay? haha juuuussst kidding. We were so grateful for the nurses. They were so kind, and respectful. I mean, I would have loved to sleep, but I'm glad they did their job!

Over the next 48 hours I was monitored and visited by SO many people. We had the normal rounds from nurses as well as a visit from the lactation specialist, the pediatricians, the pharmacist, the people cleaning our room, people bringing us food, multiple doctors and the lady who wanted to make sure I'd seek help if I thought I had postpartum depression. Again, I totally get they are just doing their job. They are making sure the baby and I are taken care of. But man, I just wanted to sleep, eat, hold my baby, and visit with our friends and family who came to see us.

Sunday, December 30th 2018

Oliver was discharged before I was. My blood pressure was still incredibly high and we'd been at the hospital for four days. I was getting cabin fever. The doctor decided to send me home with some medicine and made me promise to monitor my BP. We were finally allowed to go home!

My BP is great now and I'm off all the medication besides Ibproven. Oliver is healthy and happy and enjoys wiggling, peeing on us, making funny noises, and not allowing his parents to sleep. Ever.

Life has been crazy the past month. I know parenting is going to be a hard road, but I am excited for this new adventure.

-R

Jeans. ugh.

Ready for a Rant?


We are going to real talk for a minute. I will be talking about my weight, my size, and lots of unflattering things about myself.
No bashing. Only love here please.

I hit my prime probably the year after I graduated Indian Creek High. I was 5' 5", 115 lbs, tan, long dark hair. A total babe. I moved to Utah and stayed pretty much the same for maybe two years. Within that time, I met my hubs. I continued to eat like a 15 year old boy but it didn't matter. I was still skinny! My husband and I dated for two years and when we got married I realized I put on, maybe 5-10lbs, no biggie. Now with three years of marriage under our belt, (along with too many cheeseburgers) I am now at approximately 140lbs. Let that sink in. I am TEN pounds shy of my buff, 5"11 husband.

Okay so here is my rant. I used to work for American Eagle Outfitters. I have this weird quality where if I work for a company, I become oddly defensive and proud of that company. It's like my soul responsibility to defend the honor of the store.
So I only buy my jeans from AEO and I always refer people strictly for their jeans. While I worked there I could fit into a zero. It was super snug at first but they stretch a little once worn in. I moved to a size two and have been the same up until recently. (I know I will continue to eat healthier and work out more but I have just been so sick of only having one pair of jeans that fit, that I went to buy a larger size.) I was braced emotionally for going up a size.

So I go in to my beloved American Eagle, grab my favorite jeans in a size up and go try them on...
I couldn't even get it past my knees. There had to be something wrong. I walked into the store wearing my size TWO jeans. They were just a bit snug so I knew the fours would fit. But they didn't?

So I go back to the jean wall and grab a six. Confused and sweating a bit from trying to yank the fours on to my once petite frame, I returned to my fitting room with the six. Still snug. These were a bit smaller than the twos I had on upon entering the store. I told myself, they'll stretch, it will be fine.

The store had a buy one get one half off sale so of course I had to grab another pair. So I grabbed a skinny jean in a different wash (in a 6) and headed back to my fitting room just to double check.
Heck to the no! No way did this pair even resemble something that could fit me! At this point, I broke down. I sat on the floor of this dirty dressing room, with these stupid six's not even to my knees and cried. How could my athletic handsome husband even find me remotely beautiful? I feel like a piece of lard trying to fit into a hot dog casing. (the jumping around to get the pants on had added "sweaty" to that happy list of adjectives.)

I grabbed the eight squeezed into it and decided that was good enough. No way in this world was I going to buy a size ten.

I  went into the store to buy a pair of pants that actually fit me. I ended up spending almost $80 on two pairs of pants that hardly fit. And then cried all the way home.

You know what shouldn't matter? The size of my jeans. You know why? No one else knows what size my pants are. All people see is if they fit or not. Ya know what else? Sizes are stupid.

My two's that I wore today are the largest size on the bottom of the pile. The six's are in the middle and the eight's are the lightest pair on the top. Seriously American Eagle? This is dumb. I got so worked up today and felt awful because of the size I could hardly fit into. I will be marching right back to that store, getting the size that fits me, no matter the number on the tag.

I mentioned in my first blog post that this is really more of a journal for me. I don't make these for anyone else but myself. However, if you relate, wanna know a little more about me, or just want to read about someone else's life, you are welcome to read my ramblings. I began this as a feel bad for me, mean old jeans, pitty party. I ended it realizing that I can't change the way a company chooses to size their clothing. but I can choose how to let it effect me.

I am going to choose clothes that fit me. And I'm going to look dang good in those ten's.

Until next time...
-R

one in the morning rant.

I think that I write when I am upset.
I write, or get inspired to write well after midnight.


Being a girl is hard. Being a somewhat.. not ugly girl is hard.

I had a conversation with someone where we were talking about things that are important to us. He said "I'm sure yours is clothes, or makeup, or something like that right?" Right, because the only thing that matters to a pretty girl is clothes and makeup. Just because I decide to care about what I look like, or enjoy looking nice, does not mean that I am a shallow, stupid, bimbo. But so many times, that is what people assume.

For 24 years I have been treated like a ditz. Having emotions is wrong. Having an opinion is wrong. Being more than a pretty face is wrong.

While I was in high school, I liked this guy, he of course didn't know I existed. After we graduated he messaged me on Facebook.

Guy: Hey :)
Me: Hello
Guy: Wow, you grew up ;)
Me: Yeah, that tends to happen over time... =]
Guy: what...?

Then the conversation quickly dwindled away before it even began. He didn't want a sarcastic answer,
he wanted "thanx *wink face *flirty-flirty-lame-small-talk

In my small amount of life experience, I believe that women are treated like machines. There are set amount of appropriate conversation topics, responses, and opinions. If you do not meet the criteria, you are not good enough. If someone asks for your opinion, but you don't give the correct response, you are wrong. If you show too much emotion "you must be getting ready to start your period" If you don't flirt the way someone expects, you are required to change, or they will move on.

Why is it that I have a limit to the amount of emotions I am allowed to show before it annoys you. Why is it okay for a man to tell me to go back to the kitchen where I belong, be dead serious, and everyone laughs like its a joke. Then I'm just being hormonal, uptight when I bite back. Why is it okay for you to make me feel like less of a person because I am a woman?

I am so tired of this. I am so tired of girls being vicious towards girls and boys treating us like oblivious objects. I am hard on myself as is, I don't need anybody else's help to bring my self esteem down.

They say that girls are hard on themselves. Did you ever stop to think that maybe it's because its socially acceptable to treat girls like they are worthless.

This is totally a rant, and I probably won't post this on Facebook for everyone to see. But I do think that this is a real problem. And I am working on not caring about what others think of me, and caring more about what I think of me.

until next time...

Living with IBS

Alright ladies and gents, ready for a topic that is a little... well... real?

I.B.S or Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I have it.

Let's get one thing out there now. We are all adults, (or close enough) and this syndrome means I have poop issues. There. I said it. Poop. Have we all giggled now? Can we move on? Okay.

I remember being in kindergarten and having really bad stomach aches. I would be in a lot of pain. I thought I had to go to the bathroom, but nothing would happen. So my mom took me to the doctor. After quite a bit of time talking to the doc, and not understanding what a stool had to do with my stomach... I realized she was talking about my poop. Certain foods irritate my insides. which causes pain, difficulty going to the bathroom and when a bowel movement happens, it is a bad day. So bad in fact, that as a child, I'd be in so much pain trying to poop that I would just hold it in until the pain went away. This resulted in me being very constipated. Which also makes for a lot of bad days.

The foods that really irritate my stomach are greasy foods, and acidic foods. Their are different types of acid. For example, oranges have one type, and tomatoes have another. This means anything with tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste or tomato chunks... it's a no go. I can't have pizza, pasta with tomato stuff in it, anything deep fried, fried in general, or meats that are fatty.

Little tid-bit about me. I am an extremely picky eater. Like, its bad. I also have major texture issues. I won't eat foods with weird textures. I'll totally start gagging. All of this on top of a restricted IBS diet, I only eat like four things.

Let's fast forward to middle school. IBS never goes away. At least not for me. I tried the diet but I really only had a few meals I could eat. So I began eating pizza and pasta and burgers and all of the things I was told not to eat. (That was the greatest and most painful day of my life.) When you have poop issues, especially as bad as mine, it causes your breath to stink. I was made fun of for YEARS and called "dog breath."        (Calling you out middle school bullies!)

IBS is a sneaky little booger. Sometimes I can eat fried chicken, pizza and a burger, (unhealthy but whatevs) all in one day and nothing happens. Sometimes I eat spaghetti for dinner and twenty minutes later I am on the floor in the fetal position crying and trying to crawl up the stairs to the bathroom. 

The worst example of this:

My husband and I were in the first few months of dating and his VW Jetta needed repairs. We were able to drive it up to Salt Lake (about 50 mins away) to a shop that specialized in VWs. They told us the repairs would take a few days so we went to dinner with my husbands uncle and he let us drive his car back home. We ate at Chilie's and I had some sort of taco something-or-other. (first mistake) As we got on the highway, I felt the familiar rumbly in my tumbly. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can just sweat it out. Literally. I sit in agonizing pain for about ten minutes, sweat like crazy, and it will pass. Nope. Not this time. I had to explain to my somewhat new boyfriend that we needed to stop. Now. "Hey um, do you think we could stop? I need to use the restroom." to which he replied, "We will be home in 30 minutes, do you think you can wait?"

ha. uh no. At this point I felt like I was going to blow a hole in the seat if we didn't stop in 30 seconds. Either try and keep my cool and possibly go in the car, or express the urgency and have to explain my poop issues way earlier than I planned. So after a lot of screaming, breathing like I was about to give birth, and crushing his right hand, I made it to a bathroom. This trip earned the code name Pompeii.

Life with IBS is tricky and quite embarrassing. I decided to write this blog early this morning between the hours of 2:30am and 5:30am while in the bathroom. I would go, then lay on the floor and sleep for 15 mins, get up and go again. For. Three. Hours. I was in so much pain that I remember thinking... giving birth to a human can't be much worse than this. 

This is, and will be the most real post I'll ever write. This is the least known fact about me. This is the most embarrassing fact about me. And this is what it is like living with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. 

Until next time...

Opinions

It's been a while hasn't it?

Yeah, this is why only the first three pages of my journals are the only ones written on. I stink at keeping up with this kind of stuff. BUT the advantage of the blog over journals, I just need to log back into my blog after a year of not using it. My journals? ... They are probably in some box in the attic back home.

I was trying to think about what I wanted to write about. The thing that I like about writing in a blog is I feel like I really get to sort through my thoughts. I thought, I could write about the annoying young'ins that are at the complex we manage (BTW that happened. new job! Woo!) No, maybe I could write about how Costa Vida (fav place to eat) has really been sucking lately. No. What I love about my blog is that writing everything out, posting it online for everyone to see, really puts things into perspective. I don't want to rant about trivial things like that.

So this evening, I'd like to write about opinions. Everyone has one. Everyone has to share theirs, Everyone's opinion is right, and Everyone has to be offended by others opinions.

This post could get really controversial. Brace yourself.

Recently, I've felt like anytime I post something on Facebook that isn't about puppies or something, somebody has to tell me how it offends them. Or how it isn't correct. I post a photo on social media and I get messages about how I have too much skin showing and i'm obviously out to get the wrong kind of attention. (please go to my Facebook or Instagram and show me a picture that is immodest. I dare you.) People feel the need to tell me that my religion is wrong, my choices are wrong, my clothes are wrong and my opinion is wrong. What I find most humorous about this entire situation, is that I am the LEAST judgmental person on the planet. You are Jewish? Catholic? Atheist? Dare I say even Muslim? Good for you! That's great! * I respect you for your decisions. Respect me for mine. Nope. Rebekah respects you, but you don't respect Rebekah. That must be a rule somewhere I guess.

* Let me clarify, if something you are doing or saying directly effects me, I will stand up for myself. That's not cool. If you go out and shoot somebody then no, I will not respect your decision to shoot someone.

Sometimes you just need to keep your negative opinions to yourself. It won't do anyone any good. To the protesters who come to BYU, to our religious Temples, I say to you, "Screw you man." How dare you come to a place where people are just trying to get an education, or worship the way they are choosing to worship and yell and scream at them. Wasn't that the point of coming to America? Freedom of religion? Freedom from oppression? I might have it wrong, but I am pretty sure that was the idea.



I understand that their are two sides to a coin. I have the right to go to church and worship the way I choose, and you have the right to disagree with it. The difference is, when I go to church, its not at your front door. I don't stand out side of your house and scream my religion at you. Just like you should't stand outside my church and scream your opinion at me. Please keep it inside that pleasant little mind of yours okay?

Stop trying to one-up other people. Stop bullying. Stop bashing people on the internet. If you wouldn't say it to their face, don't say it online. And if you would say it to their face, get over yourself. Its not cool.

Why can't we all just get along, huh?

Until next time...

Youth

Remember that time when I actually updated my blog? Yeah, life has been crazy as I am sure you can understand. Quick update for those who don't already know, I'm in Minnesota! I am living with my lovely in-laws and my hubby and I are here for the summer. He has a job as a tree doctor and I am babysitting when I can. Ta-Da, all caught up.

Today my post is a bit of a rant, but not necessarily whiny, more my insight on a comment I get very often.

"How old are you? 16? 17?"
"Aww you look like one of those kids from the Disney Channel!"
"Excuse me miss, is this ID fake? You don't look like you're even 18." (at the airport)
"Isn't it so funny!! I look older than you!" (said from a 15 year old)

I AM TWENTY-TWO.

Yes I understand that I'll love it when I'm older.
BUT when I am babysitting a 12 year old (who looks like she is 16) and her 15 year old sister (who looks like she is 20, no joke.) asks if I'm one of her little sisters friends... that my dear readers, is not fun.

My problem with this is that I am very much a girly-girl. I can't wear a dress without looking like a kid, I can't curl my hair without looking like a kid, I can't go with out makeup without looking like a kid.
"What is wrong with looking like a kid," you may ask? I don't get taken seriously. I was in a place of work and a co-worker would make fun of me in front of customers. Being a mature person I just brushed it off and went on with my job. Then customers got in on it. Saying I looked like somebody from Disney channel, while another customer said "oh I think it's because she's got the baby cheeks." Seriously? She might as well had called me fat. Saying I have baby cheeks or that I look like a kid IS NOT A COMPLIMENT.
There is a time and place for that. Try me again in 10-15+ years lady.

I have taken care of myself for a long time. I have always been mature and self sufficient for my age. I've always wanted to be treated fair regardless of my age, gender, and religion. Since I look young, people assume that I am naive, helpless, and lack the ability to carry on an adult conversation. Since I am a very much in-tune with my feminine side people assume I am a ditz, stuck up, and unable to be self sufficient. Lastly, since I am a Mormon (who looks barely 18) I fit in to the misconception that all Mormons marry young. In the world this is perceived as being a negative life choice. With all of these qualities I carry, I am constantly being misjudged in many unflattering ways.
Now, what you might not know is that I have more common sense in my pinkie that most people do in their whole bodies. I will stick up for myself and others because contrary to popular belief, I've got a backbone. I am smart, independent, and compassionate. I married not even a year ago to a man I love. We dated for two years and I trust him and he knows me better than anybody. I made the choice to marry young. Not because of my religion, not because I was pressured, not because I was naive. Because I love him and I want to spend the rest of forever with him.

SO, what have we learned?
When you tell me, or any other person that they look quite a bit younger than they are, you are lowering self-esteem. You are making me feel like I have to wear makeup every day to be taken seriously. That I can't wear that super cute floral dress I just bought because I look like a child. You are saying that you are the bigger, better adult, and I'm just this cute little girl. You may not think you're implying these things but you are. That is how it will be taken. Please think before you say anything that might be detrimental to someone.

Oh and for those of you who have said to me:
"youth is wasted on the young"
"stop being so sensitive"
"well you getting so worked up about it sounds pretty childish to me"

I want to punch you in the face.
With a chair.

Until Next Time..

Beauty

I have seen so many articles online about feeling beautiful in your own skin. I have a few things to add.

Imagine if you will, about twenty years ago. A two year old Rebekah. Chunky, curly haired, and almost Blonde. (I know. weird) I was the most girly little girl. Dresses. Princesses and Pink. Jump forward to elementary school. I inherited the nickname "scrawny". I had frizzy GIANT hair, and it is almost black. I still loved the dresses and being girly. I wasn't into the princesses (as much) and I hate the color pink. A lot has changed right?

The picture on the left was 7th grade. The picture on the right was about 4th grade. 

I was bullied. People thought it was funny that I was so thin that I could fit in lockers. I was shoved in mine multiple times. In middle school the cool and convenient thing to do was to "set" your lockers. You would put in your combination and leave it so when you came out of class you could just walk right up and open it. I came out of class and saw my locker open, boys going through it, and all my books, papers, and what ever else I had in there strewn all down the hall. I was told that the local thrift shop had just received donations, so I should probably go find some new clothes. I was called dog breath, goth, scrawny, bones, and anorexic. I was told that I looked like somebody that would come to school and kill everyone. I was handed tweezers in the hall and told to go take care of my eyebrows. Freshman year of high school, I LITERALLY had no friends. I sat at lunch alone while people threw their food at me. 

You can imagine the love I had for school back then. My grades suffered, my self confidence suffered, and in turn I didn't like myself for a very long time. I got my braces off, grew into my body a little more, and learned how to tame the hair I have. I tried SO hard to fit in. I wanted people to think that I was pretty. I wanted to have friends. My little sister happens to have super thick hair like me. She is getting ready to turn 15 and does not care one bit what people think of her. I wish that I could have been more like that. I would constantly try and dress her up, do her hair, and tweeze her eyebrows. One day we were getting ready for school and I was so angry that she kept wearing those pants that were way too short and that stupid little kid t-shirt. Her hair was sticking up in six different directions and I just wanted her to change. I wanted so badly for her to not have to go through the things I did at her age. The difference between us was that she is so much more confident that I could ever be. I was so blinded by my big sister tendency to protect her that I didn't see that she didn't need to be protected. I learned that my little sister was going to school and sticking up for herself and the other kids that were being bullied. Her courage and self confidence made me realize what a beautiful young lady she is inside and out.

After I moved out to Utah, I discovered who Rebekah really is. I am one weird chick. I like Star-Wars, and reading. I am the worst cook ever. I trip over nothing more often than I trip over something. I like trying to dance the weirdest way possible. I like singing really badly in the car. I LOVE wearing high heals. I run like a wounded animal. I really like shooting guns. I like to think i'm witty, but i'm usually not. I dream of being a race car driver. I really like doing manual labor, like building stuff. I wish I had more scars. I want to make a difference in the world someday. I don't have one style. Somedays I dress in my cowboy boots, other days I dress like a hipster. Occasionally I wear sweats... (ok, like a lot) I am not defined by who others think I should be. I am who ever I want to be. 

As a young person I was judged by my appearance as a nerd, someone who didn't know how to dress herself. As an adult I am judged as a goody-two-shoes, a snob, someone who only cares about my looks.

 I will tell you this right now. I know better than anybody not to judge a book by its cover. I have met some of the most fantastic, influential, kind-hearted people in all shapes and sizes. 

Show the world who you really are. No matter how strange you think that is. That's what makes us interesting. 

"There is no exquisite beauty, without some strangeness in the proportion"

-Edgar Allan Poe

Until next time..