And may you achieve your goals.
I personally am looking forward to sharing a wagon load of treasure.
That's when I try to give myself a pep talk, which by the way is the saddest, lamest pep talk ever. Also, don't ever ask me for a pep talk.
What else can you do though? It's already done. It's hard. Life. Is. Hard.
But- also good.
Welp, since nobody's lookin', I'll just air out a bit here. . .
ACK!
THE END
I am Mormon.
Being Mormon means praying. It means praying at stop lights, at the grocery store, during soccer games and kneeling on the floor of a messing toy room surrounded by your family. It means praying so long, you forget where you began and where you ended. It is prayers offered in Tagalog, sign language, and Russian. And knowing that Heavenly Father hears you all the same.
Being Mormon means 19 year old boys, far away at the ends of the earth. They are sitting in white washed rooms, in cinder block houses, some with flooring, some without, sharing their testimonies and eating fried cockroaches. They are flung to far corners of the planet, to places few have ever heard of, where they speak the native language and write home about having tape worm and hand washing their own clothes in a small creek.
Being Mormon means your wedding isn’t at a drive-through chapel with Elvis. It’s a spiritual ceremony with quiet laughter and streaming tears in a holy temple with spires piercing the heavens. It means wedding receptions where the finest thing may be waxy chocolates and sparkling punch and a basket ball hoop covered in balloons and streamers. But it's heaven and means eternity.
Being Mormon means not knowing exactly how many children Heavenly Father would like you to have, but being terrifyingly open to it all the same.
It means loving those children. Bearing them one by one, and then settling into your family structure, at last, like a comfortable chair. It means growing with your family, mellowing with the years until your children become your greatest offering to God. With a prayer, you place them on the altar, step back, and realize they are your life's work.
Being Mormon means funerals where the meal afterwards (the ham and funeral potatoes, lime jello and mint brownies) are as much anticipated as the stories told and songs sung, remembering your grandpa, your baby niece, your dear friend, now gone. But you know you will see them again, and along with hugs from everyone in your ward family, somehow, that helps.
Being Mormon means singing. Singing in a choir, in a congregation, at the top of your lungs or whispered hums in a baby’s ear. Songs that teach you the heart of what you believe. And you carry them with you as truth, flung over your shoulders ready to rescue you from dark and sad places.
Being Mormon means taking steps from darkness into light. It means taking your heavy heart to Christ and sharing it with him. Letting it go. It is the Atonement and forgiveness. It means service, even when you'd rather not make another casserole or be a nursery worker when you have 2 children already in there. You do it because you love Him and in truth, it is your privilege.
Being Mormon means falling asleep reading the scriptures more times than you'll ever admit. But knowing they are there, all the same, to wrap you in comfort and sanity.
It means Joseph Smith, the sacred grove, the visiting angels, and The Book of Mormon. It means finding out for yourself one dark night while kneeling. Knowing it was real. Knowing that it's true.
For every Mormon there is on this beautiful earth, there is a different growing up in the gospel experience. The flavor that gives to an individual’s testimony is unique every time. But it is all real and true. It is all of us.
I am Mormon. It is who I am.
When I was 14 years old I was growing out my bangs.
I had secret desires to still play with my barbies.
My sister followed me around EVERYWHERE.
I loved cheese hot dogs, going to the rodeos with friends and staring at myself in the mirror.
I also became an aunt.
To her:
So naturally you can understand why I adore her. 
When she was born, I cracked.
It's her fault. All of this nonsense about babies and munching on cheeks and aching ovaries. It's all because of those skinny little monkey arms that would hang over my shoulder.
When I was 14 I fell in love with a baby named Shelby.
She was one of the most beautiful daughters of God I had ever seen. And I have never been the same since.
Thank you to all of you out there who left a comment and have been thinking about our NieNie this past week.
She is doing amazingly well. We are so very blessed. She is quite the talented bone grower and is working hard to fuse the back of her head together.
The silver lining is the kick that I get out of hearing Chichi say "Did you fall dooooown and brokt your croooown?"
I'm still having a hard time getting her to eat solids. She was never big on them and since the accident she has little to no interest. This morning she had about 1 tsp of cereal and then gave up.
Do you have a trick to get your baby to eat food? Or a food that your baby just loves? 
Do I love messy baby faces? Yes, yes I do.
This blog has evolved for me over time. Conforming to whatever I have needed it to be. A journal, a field book, a soap box, a photo album.
Today, it is a journal for me again. I need this space. So please forgive me for the long winded post and the lactating hormonal mother filled words. I promise to get back to pretty things soon...
Yesterday my precious baby fell. As soon as her head made contact with the tile I heard the most sickening sound. It was like snapping a piece of wood. Panic filled the next few minutes as I held her and she heaped screaming cries and B frantically called the doctor. We waited. For three minutes that stretched on like hours and then decided to take her to the ER.
Once there I ran in, swallowing the huge knot in my throat I spoke through the glass in stutters "M-my baby f-fell and and hit her head." I must have sounded like an idiot, but it was all I could manage to get out.
We were quickly shuffled in. She fell asleep in my lap. The doctor cooed at her and sent her back for a CT scan. Strapped down she screamed and I held her head still. It was torture for us both.
After 3 doctors and one radiologist they determined that her skull was fractured and she needed to be admitted to the children's hospital in the city.
I kissed my other little ones goodbye and with two borrowed diapers and B's cellphone clung to my chest (no diaper bag) I followed the stretcher out to the ambulance.
Once we arrived they stripped her down and did a full skeletal x-ray. 20 x-rays. The room was so cold. She screamed and I stood outside the door smelling her onsie and hurting inside. B called right then and I sobbed into the phone. His calm words assured me that she was okay and we'd have her home soon. They handed her back to me and her tiny fists filled themselves with my hair and her wet check pressed against mine.
Back in the room they cathiderized her (more screaming), they gave her an IV (so much more screaming) and we were finally transferred into the neurology unit of the hospital. I'll never forget the ride through the hallways on that wheelchair. Her wrapped tightly in a blanket staring up into my eyes. There was peace for a few moments.
They disrobed her once more, weighed her, checked for vitals and finally left us alone to settle in for the night. B stayed with us. I will be forever thankful for that. He is my rock. (Thank you thank you to our dear Fergusons for watching our other girls.)
A nurse came in every hour and a half, all night long. I was so happy to see light start to come in through the window and a sweet smile on my baby's face in the morning.
They continued vitals, we saw doctors and nurses. In and out. In and out. She cried, she slept. Finally in the early afternoon they said she could go home to heal.
Home.
We came home. Into a sunny living room, as if nothing had ever happened. 
Her sisters squealed and brought her a lap full of toys. She meekly smiled and clung to my hair. I'm not sure if I care for that to ever change...
I sat in her room tonight, rocking her as the sun slowly went down. She fell asleep there, in my arms. Her tiny mouth fell open and her gentle, milky breath poured out over my ears. Heavenly. Her bruised baby hand rested on my cheek.
And for all of us, life just got a little sweeter.
You're welcome.
6 months ago today, this was happening:
And we all decided we kind of liked her.
The nurses loved her and kept commenting on how beautiful and tiny she was.
(B says it's because they were comparing her to the viking baby who shared the nursery with her. "He was HUGE. He cried like a grown man! ...... wait, don't write that." )
She came home a whopping 6 pounds.
We all loved to stare at her and guess who she was going to look like and what kind of baby she'd turn out to be....
She is NieNie.
And today, she doubled her birth weight.
Me: Miss Naughty, you're my BFF.
The Queen Herself: Uh... you're my YMCA.
Pop Culture: Something my kids are clueless about.
Oh, the faces she makes when putting on her goggles. It never gets old.
A little bit of this: 
Running in sprinklers with the pjs on.
(Rinse and repeat, every other day. Gad-zooks! I have lots of wet pajamas.)
A little bit of this:
Making my heart flutter.
When my family gets together we all revert back to childhood and act like huge dorks. That, among many other reasons, is why I love them.
Here we are in all our natural glory, from oldest to youngest.
A brother was missing this year so we had B stand in for him and I swapped his head. There might have been a little hind end goosing as well.
And through the magic of photo shop you get a bobble head for your sixth brother and a complete family.
No jokes about the t-shirts. Our mom made us do it.
(yes, their birthday's are one day apart. ... i need a paper bag to breath into.)
He makes me laugh, that kid.
And he has taught me how to love, unconditinally.
Here's a little something from my heart to yours B. I couldn't have said it better myself.
Queen NaNa just got a bit queenier. 
Happy birthday your eminence. And by the way, who said you could ask to wear a bra?
About gave me a heart attack.
Is there anything more delicous than a soft baby check? I submit no.
The marriage has already been arranged. NieNie will be very happy I'm sure.
The End.
But not really. I'll be back.
I'm home with a card full of pictures. This is my dear friend Wendi and her beautiful baby boy. I am always amazed at the moments that my camera finds to freeze. Definetley a new favorite.
So much more to come.