Creature Bug

Moving forward

We had big plans for 2012. Jason and I travelled to Scotland in April and had a family vacation in Reno, Nevada in August. My blog-friend-turned-real-life-friend Kim stayed with us for a week. We got new flooring in our house, renovated the girls' bathroom, painted the kitchen cabinets, installed wainscoting in a couple different areas. Jules started kindergarten and ballet. Sydney started piano lessons and learned how to ride a dirt bike. Addie just keeps growing up and is the only one of my three girls to make me sentimental about babies.

I grew a garden full of things that we actually ate.

I ran a marathon, a result of a New Year's day resolution.

Jason and I celebrated 15 years of marriage.

And at the end of the year, I can look back and see how we grew, how we changed, how our hearts broke and soared. To me, every year has a personality, a feeling. Twenty twelve? It was about creating an environment and life that made me see more clearly the kind of person I want to be. In lots of ways I took it easy and moved slowly. But in the end that helped me figure out what I want to keep, and what I want to give up.

And here we are again, at the beginning of another year.

I like New Year's day. It feels full of possibilities, and I am one of those people who likes to make resolutions.

My resolutions for this year?

Read more. I did not read enough books this last year. I read a lot of essays, particularly academic ones that inspired me, but they do little to stretch my brain beyond the classroom. I know why books didn't make it to the top of my priority list, and it's a long uninteresting story involving medication and short attention spans and fuzzy thinking. But this year I've already loaded the Kindle with some excellent books, and I have a goal to read 24 books.

Keep running. I like running. It makes me feel strong and sassy. Jason and I signed up for the Eugene Half-Marathon, although we won't be running it together since he's way faster than me.

Paint. I have had painting projects on my to-do list for ages, and so I'm putting it in writing: paint the filing cabinet and paint the china cabinet. I know. You were thinking that I meant creative, artistic painting. No. That is not my thing. But nesting? I'm kind of addicted to it.

Sew. I figured out my sewing machine. I sat down one day, read the manual, learned how to use all the gadgets, and then sewed myself some livingroom curtains. Then I didn't like the color of the curtains...so they are going to be playroom curtains. I have a goal to sew new curtains, and sew skirts for each of the girls.

Write. One thing I worked really hard on last year? Getting a lot of sleep. (Ultimately that's why I generally stopped blogging. I lost all my kid-free time, and so my computer sat and collected dust.) This year, however, I feel like I have to carve out time to write. I have to. I'm not going all crazy with the blog-every-day stuff, but I'm setting a goal for three times a week. There. I said it. On New Year's Day. I have to do it now.

I have character traits that I'm working on too, but not as New Year's resolutions. They are ones I've been working on, and will continue to work on for the rest of my life.

We spent our last day of 2012 catching snowflakes, looking at zoo lights, drinking hot chocolate, and hanging out with friends.

A perfect way to end the year.

Happy New Year, friends. I hope that 2013 is filled with more joy than you know what to do with.

Marathoned

A week ago I ran the Portland Marathon.

My goal was to run it in 5 hours, and I ended up running it in 5:10, so I consider that a goal met.

Even though I signed up to run the marathon back in January, I didn't really start training until June. I ran a little bit here and there before that, but the idea of starting training in rainy weather was not appealing to me, so pretty much I started putting the miles in when summer started.

I wasn't sure how my body would handle running 26.2 miles. The longest distance I'd ever done before was 10 miles back in late June, and I did not like it at all because it took my knees a week to return to normal. In fact, I didn't do any more distance runs after that. Just a lot of 4-6 mile runs. And an 8.5 mile run. But otherwise, I didn't have the time or the desire to go out and run 20 miles.

Which, by the way, is what you're supposed to do when training for a marathon.

But here's the deal: I just wanted to finish it. I didn't care that much about time. I thought 5 hours was a realistic goal because I just couldn't imagine running longer than that. My brother Jake--the hard core runner of our family--told me to prepare for 5 and a half hours. So, I did that. "If I can do it in 5:30, that will be good," I said to myself.

So last Sunday, I woke up at 4:45 am, drove into Portland at 5:15, got to my starting corral at 6:10, and crossed the starting line several minutes after 7 am.

Thousands of people ran the race, and thousands more lined the streets of Portland to cheer us on. I listened to my running playlist in one ear, and to the crowds cheering in the other ear.

And I never stopped smiling.

The whole thing was amazing. I've heard people say they'd never run a marathon again, say they wanted to give up, say they cried at mile 20, say it was the hardest thing they had ever done.

I went into it thinking: I'm doing this for me, for my girls, for my husband. I'm doing this because I want to, not because I have anything to prove.

The truth is I have faced harder things in my life. I suffered mind-numbing, soul crippling, darker than the darkest night depression during my pregnancy with Adelynn. THAT is the marker for the hardest thing I've ever done. Running 26.2 miles on a gorgeous day through one of the best cities in the country, with my family cheering me on? Yeah. Seriously. 

I never felt discouraged during the run, never wanted to give up, never hit the wall. Yes, my legs got tired. Very tired. If I had just been out there running for kicks and giggles and exercise, I would have stopped running at mile 19.

But I was there to finish.

Jason, my parents and my grandpa cheered me on at mile 8 and 11.

Sharon and my girls joined them at mile 18.

My brother and his girlfriend Christa joined at mile 21.

And my sister too! Over the phone! From Scotland!

After mile 21, I was on my own, knowing that they would all be waiting for me at the finish line.

Those last five miles were difficult only in that my legs were darn tired. But they were easy knowing that I was this close to being done. Five miles. Four miles. I imagined myself running down the main street of our town, turning left past the railroad tracks.

Three miles. I thought of running past the corn fields, the ones I had seen growing all summer, and seen harvested a week before the race.

Two miles. I saw myself running past the horses that Addie and I fed apples to when she would stroller along on my runs. I thought of running past the little league fields where I would hear the Saturday morning crowds cheering on kids.

One mile. I stopped imagining, and just took it all in. Down the streets, past the crowds, past the signs, the bands, the last aid station handing out Altima, water, gummy bears, and pretzels.

I saw brother Jake and Christa off to the right, waving me on, cheering me through the last .2 miles.

My girls. My husband. My parents and mom-in-law. My grandpa.

I crossed the line.

5:09:59

My legs were wobbly and my stomach filled with too many gummy bears.

It took my stomach three days to forgive me for the run and allow me to start eating regular food.

My left knee is still swollen.

No matter, though.

Some people go for the records, jump from 24 miles above the earth, train all their life for the one moment, believe that this one thing will make all the difference.

I broke no records, I trained as much as I had time and determination for, and I have accomplished greater things in my life than running a marathon. But this one thing? Running a marathon just because I thought it would be a fun thing to do?

Yeah. I did that.

And someday I might just do it again.

{More marathon pictures are on Flickr...with more play-by-play commentary...here.}

Turning 36

I turned 36 today.

I have to admit, 36 feels...old, well, old-ish. It feels a lot closer to 40 than 35 felt, although I am looking forward to turning 40 because Jason and I are going to Hawaii with our friends Robbie and Megan (the boys aren't sure about this; Megan and I are VERY SURE).

When I was 18--thinking about what it meant to be older--doubling my age would have put me squarely in that category. And now...I'm there. I'm twice the age of my students. I'm not old, but I'm definitely older. I am, as my youngest brother tried to advise me, too old to wear tall boots over my jeans because that's a look for young hipster girls. As it turns out, I love tall boots over jeans too much to follow my brother's advice, but since he was sweet enough to send me an Amazon gift card for my birthday all is forgiven.

I'm 4 x 9, and the 9 times table always felt like old numbers to me. 18, 27, 36, 45, 54, 63, 72, 81, 90. Important numbers.

(I relayed my 9 times table feelings to Jason just now, and he said he prefers to think of us as 12 x 3, but the 12 times table doesn't strike me emotionally for reasons that are between 12 and me.)

Thirty-six. Yep. That's me.

On my birthday I'm always reminded about blogging because I pay for my blog every year on this date. So, I ask myself, do I still want to be doing this? I've been doing it for eight years. Kind of a long time. In blog years it's a very long time. But I guess I'll keep doing it. I still got stuff I can talk about.

As for today...it was a lovely day.

I took Jules to her naturopath, who is happy with her progress (so are we) and we won't need to go back for a couple of weeks.

We went to Home Depot where I picked out a new light fixture for the entryway.

I got to sit in my mom's kitchen and visit with my mom and my aunt.

I saw my new niece Waverly, born a week ago today.

Sneak peek at some adorableness:

(Yes, that is my snot-nosed child giggling over a newborn. Goodness gracious.)

I got to squeal in glee at seeing my passport in the mail. Two months from today we will be in Scotland.

I got to find my birthday presents through following hot-and-cold directions from Jules. Going into the playroom...warmer! Going into the office...colder! Looking under the table...warmer...under the easel...hotter! And score. A box of Junior Mints and conversation hearts.

My girls know me all too well.

It was a good day to turn 36. Even when we were eating dinner at Red Robin and Addie was melting down because she hadn't had a nap, and Jules was crying because she had been asked to please not grab ice cubes out of my water glass, and Sydney was loudly practicing phrases she had learned in Spanish class today ("Buenes tardes! Como estas? Asi asi!"), I still felt happy. Happy to be with my family, crying children, loud Spanish greetings, melting ice cream sundae and all.

And that is the upside to turning 36. Because 18 years ago I would not have handled any of those things particularly well. Fifteen years ago, spending the day like I spent it today might not have seemed like a win. I definitely would not have been excited about having the electrician come and install an outdoor electrical socket. That's how I wanted to spend my birthday money? On a electrical socket? Yes. Yes, it is.

Turning 36? Yes, it does feel oldish. But the older I get the happier I am with where I am in life.

Another candle on the cake just means one more wish.

I like it.

Mountain climbing the new year

I love new beginnings. New day. New week. New month. New school year. New season. I just love that feeling of starting over, however small. The feeling of anything is possible. But a new year? Especially this new year that was a new day, a new week, a new month, and (for me) a new school semester all wrapped up in ONE DAY? It's like the Mt. Everest of new beginnings. There are your backyard-variety hills of beginnings, and there is the oxygen-depriving hallucination-inducing mountains of beginnings.

That's where I am.

I am at the top of this huge mountain looking out over 366 days just waiting for me. Maybe I could really climb Mt. Everest.

(No. Not really. Would not even make it on the top 5000 things to do before I die list. It's freaking cold at Mt. Everest. I hate cold.)

But you know what I am going to do this year? I'm going to run a marathon. I am. I'm telling you. And I told Jason. He got me running stuff for Christmas (I do actually own a fair amount of running stuff since I have, in fact, been a runner before). And now I have nine months to get myself ready for the Portland Marathon. I have no doubt that I can do it. I just have to make sure that my knees hold up, and--according to my athlete brother who is training for the Boston Marathon--my hips (like his hips) are prone to injury. Adding to his words of encouragement, Jake said, "And you've had three babies, so who knows what your hips will do to you."

I told my hips this morning to watch out because three babies or not, they are going to get in marathon running shape.

I have big dreams for the year, although I just did small things today. What is it about a new year that makes you want to go out and do something? Get outside. Organize the junk drawer. Meticulously apply lemon juice to all your wood cutting boards and wood countertops to kill all those pesky 2011 germs.

I know some folks might think that there's nothing special about starting a new year. That it's just another day, following yesterday, and will almost certainly be followed by another day. Zip a dee doo dah.

But I think starting a new year is amazing. It's not just buying a new calendar. It's buying into the psychology of starting over. When else do you get the chance to wake up and say, "Today I'll start something new. I'll do something new. I will CLIMB MT. EVEREST" and have the whole world behind you cheering you on to accomplish your goals? Yes, indeed. I like the new year. It brings out the optimism in me.

So 2012.

Things to look forward to this year:

• Going to Scotland. We bought the tickets. Jason and I are going, and the children are not going. My sister and I text almost every day about it. Spring break. SO EXCITED.
• Completing a marathon. Even if I have to walk part of it. I have no time goals.
• Getting new flooring throughout the whole house.
• Reading more. I have long-term borrowed my mom's Kindle DX (she doesn't use it), and already I'm reading more. I was not going to love a Kindle. But it turns out I do love it. Sydney loves it too. We have to share it.
• Finishing up photo books for a few years that I'm still missing.
• Planting a garden in the raised garden beds that Jason built me last fall.
• Taking another family trip to San Francisco and Reno.
• Celebrating 15 years of marriage. (yes, by going to Scotland. awesome.)

I have some personal resolutions in mind too--beyond the resolution of running--and those I will share later this week.

For now, I just want to enjoy my moment on top of the year. The view is spectacular.

Accent Vlog

Here in the Pacific Northwest, I think our dialect is considered standard English. Obviously we have certain words that are regional (granola isn't just a food; pop isn't just a sound; skookum isn't just a random made-up word), but otherwise? Pretty boring.

Boring aside, I decided to do the accent vlog because I thought Sam's was so cute. And I love linguistic studies. Plus (evidently) tons of bloggers are doing this, but I must not run in the right blog circles because I haven't seen any of them (except at Sam's encouragement I did watch Swistle's, Jonniker's, and Lee's). ANYWAY! Here I am. Crazy facial expressions and all. (Bonus: A certain cutie pie makes a cameo appearance.)

Directions:

Give some info on where you live/grew up.

Say the following words: aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught.

And answer these questions:
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?
What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
What do you call gym shoes?
What do you say to address a group of people?
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
What do you call your grandparents?
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?

Week 289: Falling in Love

I love starting the year over. It doesn't always have to be starting the calendar year over, either. Whether I'm starting from my birthday, starting from my wedding anniversary, or starting from the school year, new beginnings inspire me.

When it comes to how I talk, I think the pull of the school year calendar is generally stronger than the regular calendar. I don't think I'll ever be able to break the habit of referring to the new school year as "next year." As in, When do you think you'll get a new car? And I'd say, "Next year" (but I really mean this year, just in the fall). In my mind, "years" run from September to June (and then July and August belong only to themselves).

When it comes to how I think of life resolutions, however, January still wins out. I'm sure the media is largely responsible for creating this sense of starting anew, when really it's just buying a new calendar, but still. I like January 1st.

It feels bright and shiny, with a hint of new car smell.

It feels like permission to leave pain behind.

It seems like the perfect opportunity to take a deep breath and say, "What can I do differently in 2010 than I did in 2009?"

On January 1st I thought, What vice can I leave behind? What goal can I set for myself? What change can I embrace rather than fight against?

The last question is the most glaring. I can't ignore the fact that Jason isn't going to a teaching job tomorrow. I'd say it's the first time in 12 years he's been home the Monday after New Year's day, except he didn't go back to work in January when Jules was born. He stayed home, and boy oh boy did we all love that.

Instead of harboring disappointment, I can embrace the fact that Jason is home, with us. And truly, aside from the tiny substitute teaching paychecks, him being home is amazing. I stopped doing laundry in September, and never looked back, except to give Jason a tutorial on how to wash clothes on the delicate cycle. I'm not talking about throwing clothes in the washing machine. I'm talking about sorting, washing, folding, and putting all the clothes (except mine) away. I'm seriously lucky.

The girls love having him home, and I do too. And we are fortunate to be able to make it through this year--err...this school year--without him working full-time. That's amazing. Amazing.

And so that's my goal for this year: to love this life. This time with Jason, the preciousness of my girls, the closeness of family, the memories of my grandmas, the hours of reflection my 3-hour commute provides me, the view from my office window--I've been going through it with a small chip on my shoulder. I try not to be discontent, but I confess that I'm often distracted by how we're not living life as I had expected. Not living quite as I wanted.

But what I wanted isn't what I got, and I have to work with that. It's more than the cliche of making lemonade from lemons; it's realizing that I wasn't given lemons to begin with. I was given lemonade, it just tastes differently than I expected. The flavor isn't always perfect, but it's still sweet.

Not too sweet.

But sweet enough.

I don't know what this year holds, what kind of job Jason will get, what size our family will be at the end of the year, or whether or not we'll need a new car. I don't know if we'll lose someone we love, or if someone we love will bring someone new to our family. No matter how much I plan, it's still so much a mystery.

What is in my control is how I receive this glass of lemonade, and how thankful I am that it has been given to me at all. I don't write that with Pollyanna optimism--my 2009 gave me enough heartache to keep me realistic--but I write it with the conviction that I was not meant to live a life of bitterness, resentment, or sadness.

I was meant to love. The fact that I know this is possible even after our 2009 gives me hope that my goal is absolutely realistic.

My 2010 is planned out:  I'm falling in love.

The rest is a mystery. ♥

The Decade & The Year: in Review

::1999--10 years ago today::

• We were celebrating with friends, except for a few who were worried about Y2K. We weren't worried, but we weren't worried about much those days.
• We both had secured teaching jobs with relative ease, I was teaching some rather charming students, some of whom I was taking to London and Paris in the spring.
• We had just written our final check to pay for our nearly $40,000 in student loans...
• ...thanks mostly in part to a generous man who allowed us to live rent free in his basement

::2000--9 years ago today::

• We had just bought a house! We were anxiously waiting to move in to our new place, a place we would end up living for 7 1/2 years.

::2001--8 years ago today::

• Living a relatively ordinary life, although not quite sure what the future held since I had decided not to return to my current teaching job after the end of the school year.

::2002--7 years ago today::

• I had just resigned from a temporary teaching position, and was looking forward to never teaching again (which became partly true: I never did go back to teaching high school).

::2003--6 years ago today::

• We found out on December 31st, 2003, at 10 am in the morning that we were having a baby girl. Within minutes we had given her the name Sydney Kay.
• I wrote myself a letter thinking I would be pregnant with Baby #2 the following year.

::2004--5 years ago today::

• I wasn't pregnant, much to my relief.
• We were thankful beyond relief that Jason had gotten an amazing teaching job in the local public school system.
• Living a charmed, albeit sleep-deprived, life.

::2005--4 years ago today::

• Had just learned that Sydney would need to wear glasses.
• I had just accepted an adjunct position to teach speech, starting in January.
• I was pregnant...but not for long.

::2006--3 years ago today::

• Was holding a newborn Jules in my arms and thankful for God's mercy throughout that year.
• Looking forward to Jason using his paid family-leave days to stay home the month of January, so that I could go back to teaching a mere four weeks post-partum (don't worry...Jules came to school with me when Jason went back to work)
• Relieved to be taking my final graduate course.

::2007--2 years ago today::

• Returned on this day from the most amazing, most romantic surprise vacation to Camden, Maine. (We were going to go back this year, but it's hard to justify vacations when you're unemployed.)
• Jason loves his job teaching; I love mine.
• Jason is studying for his graduate exams (which he passes, of course).
• We get to go to work knowing that the world's best nanny is taking care of our girls.

::2008--1 year ago today::

• We were ringing in the New Year at Magic Kingdom!
• We were also living in an apartment because we had sold our house (yay!)...
• because we were moving closer to our family in Washington (yay!)...
• ...where Jason would get a new teaching job (he didn't)...
• ...and we'd be able to build our dream house (we didn't)...
• ...that we had spent more than two years planning for...
• ...as well as a whole lot of money.

::2009--Today::

Today is the last day of a year that broke our hearts more times than I thought possible. Tomorrow begins another year that is full of possibilities, and also some serious unknowns (oh how we want Jason to get hired somewhere!). We have been humbled by our circumstances, saddened at losing so much family, and bewildered at some of life's events.

Nevertheless, we also had a wonderful year: lots of time with family, two fun trips to Disney World, very cool design changes to our new home, the girls loving every minute of school. I know God will be faithful. No matter what happens this year, it will be full of love. Lots and lots of love. And with four silly people under our roof, I suspect there will be plenty of laughter too.

In the spirit of the tradition I started for myself last year, I bring you 2009 in pictures. (Music by Ingrid Michaelson and Snow Patrol.)

Happy New Year, friends. May love abound in your life.

In which I am prone to theatrics

Today was the day I headed back to school. For most of the summer I hadn't put too much thought into my classes because I knew I'd be teaching the same class that I've been teaching for the past three years. I don't mind teaching the same thing every year. Variety is not the spice of my life. Variety is stress inducing and full of anxiety attacks. Monotony is good for me. Monotony is totally underrated for persons such as myself who are easily riled by change.

Last week, however, I saw that my enrollment numbers were quite low in one of my classes. Low enrollment numbers are not good for adjuncts. Low enrollment numbers mean that the college will cancel the class because it is not profitable for them. (I understand it, and it's the best thing to do, so no bitterness of my part.)

I fretted.

I constantly checked my roster for more students.

I got a phone call on Wednesday: "The college is canceling your second section of speech."

Blah.

It wouldn't have been a huge deal except (1) it meant I would be driving six hours a week to teach three hours and (2) we need the income now more than ever.

I called the department chair, and discovered that I might be able to pick up a literature class because a professor in our department was suddenly having to step back from his teaching duties.

Perchance, could I teach a class about C.S. Lewis?

No, I could not. Unequivocally I could not. Teaching C.S. Lewis involves a heavy dose of theology, which I am ill equipped to teach at the college level.

How about, oh, say, teaching a literature of the Middle Ages class?

In a moment I died a thousand deaths, recalling my own experiences with taking that class as a student. Sorry, no, I could not teach it.

Well, then, what could I teach?

And there was my moment, my opportunity, the chance I had been waiting for all my life--or at least the past four years--and I blurted out in a moment of unbridled enthusiasm, "I can teach Irish literature!"

You see, in graduate school I took some classes on Irish literature. I even took a class solely focused on Joyce my first summer as a graduate student and my mind just about exploded. And then it didn't, and then I fell in love. Not especially with Joyce, but with Irish literature. Can I give you my speech? The one about how few other nations--and none as small as Ireland--has produced such talent and greatness? How conflict produces beauty and all that? Joyce, Yeats, Shaw, Wilde, Beckett, Doyle, Boland, Enright, Heaney...U2, Enya, The Cranberries, The Pogues, Van Morrison...seriously. SERIOUSLY. The best in the fields, these people.

I'm not even Irish. I just love Irish lit that much.

That was on Wednesday.

Friday morning I was approved to teach the class. Last Friday. Seven days ago.

And so in an instant my stress-level about the upcoming school year was multiplied by a million, and I alternately rejoiced at my good fortune, lamented about my lack of prep time, and freaked out--scratch that--FREAKED OUT about how on earth I was going to teach this class.

I was a mess.

And then today came, and I drove the 75 miles to school--alternately listening to Enya and Flogging Molly--walked into class with my head held high and my hand-outs firmly grasped in my hand and said, "Welcome to EN3111, the very first Irish literature class offered here."

And I didn't die. Or start crying. Or mix up the Nationalists with the Unionists, or mispronounce Sinn Fein, or forget when the Republic of Ireland came into existence.

Imagine that.

When I got home (after my traffic-filled two-hour commute), I danced in the kitchen and waved the spatula around. And Jason said, "It's good to have you back."

First day of school? Done and done.

1000th Post

Here's one reason why you photograph fireworks: to show a little celebration. This marks my 1000th Typepad blog post! How about that. It took me four-and-a-half years to get here, which averages out to about 20 posts a month. Not too shabby. Some months I did more (like the years I blogged every day in November for NaBloPoMo); some I did less (like when Jules was born). But I got here because clearly I had something to say.

That seems to pretty much always be the case.

I've tried to think of how to mark the occasion...

I could give away $1000, except I don't have $1000 to give away.

I could write a 1000 word essay about how blogging has changed my life. Eh. No doubt someone's already done that. 

I could go leave 1000 comments on blog posts/Facebook updates. I think that's about how far behind I am (unpacking and organizing the house has made me a terrible blogger/friend/emailer...at least I have Google Reader helping me out). 

One thousand things about me would be ridiculous. Even 100 things about me doesn't seem like much fun.

Let's go with Ten Random Things About Me and call it good.

1. I started running a few weeks ago. Sarah and I decided that we needed to insert a little exercise into our day, so we thought we'd start running (after all, she's even done a marathon, so she's no stranger to running). Off we go, our double strollers leading the way. I can now say that I can successfully run 5 miles without passing out. Progress.
2. I had the flu yesterday. It was terrible, and I didn't like it one bit. The upside is that I lost 2 pounds. That being said, I'd say I'm two flues away from my ideal weight.
3. This has not been a good reading year for me. I've hardly done any reading at all because I've been too distracted by Life and Transitions (they rightfully deserve uppercase letters). Some people read to escape, but I don't. I need to be in a good place emotionally before I can read. Which explains why I read very little when I taught high schoolers.
4. Some day I'd like to own a vacation house at the beach. If I won the lottery, a vacation house in Kauai would be nice; sans a multi-million dollar prize, I'd settle for the Oregon coast. Heck, I'd settle for just owning a house here on the farm.
5. My new favorite audiobook is Charlotte's Web. I love that book more than words can say.
6. I used to have my eyebrow pierced, and I've often thought of doing that again. Or maybe I'll get a tattoo on my foot. I won't tell my parents if I do get one though because they will. freak. out.
7. I have never visited North or South Carolina. I'd like to, but can't think of a good reason why I should.
8. My favorite ice cream is daiquiri ice (not technically an ice cream), which I think is only sold at Baskin & Robbins. One year for my birthday, my parents bought me a 10 gallon barrel of daiquiri ice. It was...a lot.
9. I really wish I owned the movie P.S. I Love You. I don't know why I don't. That's not a hint for someone to get it for me; it's just an observation.
10. I am very particular about having things clean. Oddly, however, I am not at all good about having things tidy. As a result, our house leans toward being messy, though very clean.

So, there you go. And if you were really itching to learn 990 more things about me, well, just peruse my archives. I can't imagine you'll get too far without discovering I'm kind of an emotionally crazy person who likes to read, tell stories, and take pictures.

Somehow my husband loves me anyway. And much to my surprise and constant delight, I think some of you folks tolerate me pretty well too. So, I'll see what I can do about writing up another 1000 posts.

Be forewarned though: I think it'll take me awhile.

It is what it is

The spring before I got pregnant with Sydney, Jason decided (along with my input) to enlist in the Coast Guard Reserves. He had all the paperwork filled out, had passed the necessary tests, had the support of his family, friends, and students.

A last minute eye-exam revealed that he is red/green color blind. He knew this, but never thinks of it as an issue. The military told him he could never be an officer because of his 'handicap.'

He didn't enlist.

When he went back to school the next fall everyone wanted to know how boot camp was.

*****

Just over a year before Jules was born I was pregnant and starting my new teaching job. Even though we had told our parents about the pregnancy (with some reserves since I had an idea not everything was quite right), we weren't telling too many people.

I decided to tell my students about my pregnancy on the first day of class.

A week later I was getting ready to leave for class when I miscarried the baby. I canceled class for that day, and I had to tell my students the news when I went back to teach the next day.

*****

A year and a half ago, my parents told us they were giving us land for us to build on. We got a general contractor, hired a designer, filled out pages of paperwork, sold our house. We lived in an apartment for nine months, all the while telling ourselves that the year's difficulties would be worth it in the end. People asked us almost daily when we were going to start building, and we'd hedge with uncertainty.

The economy crashed. Teaching jobs looks scarce.

We decided Jason isn't going to keep his job more than 60 miles away from where we're living.

New jobs don't look promising.

We decide not to build this year. Maybe next year.

At a bridal shower last weekend someone asked me how the house construction was coming along.

*****

One of the things Jason and I struggle with is when to tell people what's going on with our life. We don't want to be the folks who cry "EVENT!" at every turn and then everything falls apart. When do we tell others about the decisions we've made or events that are about to occur, and when do we wait silently, waiting for things to become more certain?

I don't have the answer because the truth is the bottom can always fall out, leaving you feeling foolish. Of course, even if you feel completely certain, things happen beyond our control. A small handicap, a mysterious health issue, a volatile economy...it happens, and it is what it is.

We aren't building our house. This dream that we've spent money on, moved our life for, postponed a pregnancy for, divided our family between two different homes for--it's not happening for awhile. A long enough while that I'm not talking about it anymore. I'm not thinking about it anymore. Don't ask me when we're building. I don't know.

The whole thing is very understanding. Everyone tells us that. It's the smart move to make, they say. I don't know if that makes me feel better or not. I wanted to be the one whose dream succeeded despite the odds, but instead my story is just like everyone else's. Economy crashed. Dreams put on hold.

Except not quite.

We didn't lose our house; we sold it and made a profit.

He didn't lose his job; he quit it so that we could live together as a family.

We aren't searching for a place to live; we're living in my grandma's former house, on the Family Farm, rent free.

Which is why, here at the end of the day, I'm not disappointed anymore about not building. In fact, once I made the decision to not build, I physically felt better. I'm relieved. So relieved. Utterly and completely relieved. Finally something is certain: we're here. We can unpack our boxes, paint the walls, set up residency and start life. No more living on hold; no more waiting. When I told our loan officer today to cancel our loan, she said, "I won't cancel your loan. Your loan will just be in suspension, waiting for you when you're ready."

I laughed and thought, "That's exactly what I'm not. I'm not in suspension. I'm not wondering, wandering, holding my breath, hanging in mid-air, suspended from doing something. I'm moving forward. I'm running forward. I'm loudly stomping my feet forward."

All this time my goal has been to build the house, but sometime this weekend I realized that living on the Family Farm--next to all my family--was really the goal. And just as soon as Jason is done with school, he'll be up here and we'll be all together. Living under one roof; living on the Family Farm.

A month ago I felt foolish about having told so many people about our dream house, knowing that I'd have to explain what went wrong. A month ago I refused to say we weren't building. Come hell or highwater was my motto. We were building, and no one was going to stop me. Then something fell away...my pride? my ego? my senseless determination? my expectations? Whatever it was I realized that it didn't make me a fool to make the decision not to build. We weren't fools for selling our house, for living in an apartment, and enduring this craptastic year of indecision. We made a choice to move, and the end result looks a little different than we thought, but it is what it is.

For the first time in almost a year, I feel good about the future. I'm not nervous, I'm not stressed, I'm not wondering what The Reason was behind all this. The reasons don't matter. I'm not sure there are any reasons. Who cares about the reasons. Life happens. That's reason enough.

I've spent the first six months of 2009 stressed out of my mind. I'm spending the next six months doing exactly the opposite.

Yes, indeed, exactly the opposite sounds absolutely perfect.

What's on my mind? Facebook wants to know.

About a year ago I saw on my blog's analytics that someone accessed Creature Bug from a Facebook account.

I didn't have a Facebook account because...I didn't want to. I never did MySpace, I still don't Twitter, I rarely even send text messages from my phone (thanks in part to not having free texts). I'm techno-savvy, but I blog, and that seemed to be enough.

But then there was that mysterious Facebook link. I was curious so I clicked on the link, which took me to the page to open a Facebook account. I dutifully did so, and then once that was done, I still couldn't figure out who had linked me because--and if you're on Facebook, you'll understand this--I didn't have any friends. So I couldn't figure out where the link came from.

(For the non-Facebooker, "friends" are your personal contacts. When you first join, you have to click around finding people you know, asking them if they want to be your friend.)

So, the account was open and then that was all I did for awhile. I figured (correctly) that a lot of my former students (from teaching high school and college) were on Facebook, but I wasn't going to be asking most of them if they wanted to be friends. That was just too weird. Even if they were all adults, many of them with children, and only a few years younger than me.

Slowly, though, people found me and asked if I wanted to be friends. My sister. My brother. My sister-in-law in Rhode Island. My good friend Devon. Eventually I figured out how to find old high school classmates. Then there were my MOPS friends. And my friends from the summer I went on a missions trip to Romania. And then lots and lots of old students found me and didn't think it was weird at all to be friends.

I became friends with blog friends whom I'd never met in real life.

I became friends with my dad (who doesn't update ever, but likes to see what we post).

I became friends with my father-in-law.

I became friends with my sister's roommate (which came in handy when she helped me pull off the surprise trip to Colorado).

A couple weeks ago, I ran into someone I went to school with years and years ago. Now we're friends on Facebook. She's having twins, and I saw the ultrasound pictures. How about that.

I became friends with my best friend from high school whom I hadn't spoken to in years. In the past week, I've seen her 3 times, talked with her on the phone, taken pictures of her daughter. It's...unbelievable. It's a story that's waiting to be told.

Last week I became friends with my uncle who's more than 70 years old. And tonight? Friends with my cousin and her husband. Who are also my neighbors. We can just yell our status updates out the window at each other if our Internet stops working.

While I'm definitely not a hard core Facebooker--I don't do the quizzes/poking/notes/games/virtual pet/become friends with celebrities thing--it has been a blast connecting and reconnecting with people from my life.

For me, it's a different kind of feeling than blogging. It's life in 150 characters. Discovering what someone is doing or feeling at a fixed point in time. Connecting in a context that's more in-the-moment. Creating a network of people who all know me and I know them, which I think is one of the key differences from blogging, where I do a lot of writing to an unknown audience. I've even learned to love Facebook comments as much as I love blog comments (which I do, by the way, in case you were wondering...).

I never thought I'd say it, but the realization came to me last week: I ♥ Facebook. It was a conversion a year in the making, but totally worth it.

Week 248: The View From There

What a difference five days makes away from my family.

I missed them, of course. But also? It was good to get away. It was good to be high in the mountains, eating too much food, staying up too late, and hiking trails that reminded me to exercise more often.

As I sat in the Denver airport, waiting for my return flight home, I looked out the window to pass the time. The view was not of the Rockies, but of the eastern plains that stretched for miles. I was fascinated by visions of telephone polls at least a mile away, maybe more. I was amazed that no tree or mountain interrupted the landscape.

There are no views like that around here. For one thing, there are the mountains which rise up on both sides: the Oregon Coast Range to the west, the Cascade Range to the east. For another, even if you're looking north or south, the view is always obstructed by a hill or trees. Lots and lots of trees.

Most of the time it's good to live with the mountains in sight. Gives you a sense of bearing. When my sister lived in Florida she complained that she had a hard time with direction because every direction looks the same. Not so, here in the Willamette Valley. You always have the mountains to point you in the right direction.

I looked out that airport window, and remembered advice that I gave to my students a few weeks ago: Use natural formations as metaphors in your speeches. The mountaintop experiences. The valleys of despair. They nodded in understanding. Familiar metaphors for these students who have Psalm 23 memorized.

But sitting there in the airport I remembered the other metaphor we use for mountains. A mountain of work. A mountain of laundry. Mountains aren't always majestic. Sometimes they keep us from having perspective. All we see is the mountain, never the vista. All we feel is trapped in, never sure of what's out there on the horizon. That huge pile of rocks and dirt becomes the very antithesis of inspiration.

Last night in the airport, I looked long and far. I wanted to permanently burn that image into my memory because I don't know when I'll have that kind of view again. Eventually I boarded the plane, and began my journey home--towards the mountains--but I was grateful for the reminder that the horizon is out there, even if I can't see it.

You can have your mountaintop experience.

As for me, I'll never forget the perspective of the plains reaching farther into the distance than my eyes could see.

Reluctant Honesty

One of the things I strive for in writing is honesty. I write my feelings honestly; I tell stories honestly. It rarely occurs to me to censor myself just because I happen to personally know most of the people who drop by this space. What you read is who I am.

Lately, however, my habit of honesty has paralyzed my writing. The fact that my voice is a known entity--to my friends, my parents, my family--keeps me from complaining too much, which is a good thing most of the time. When it doesn't work is when my fingers sit on the keyboard and the only thing I want to do is write about how frustrated/miserable/stressed/exasperated I am. I'm fine when I'm talking with people, but somehow that transparent relationship I have with writing isn't bringing out the best in me these days.

I can't write happy parenting posts because my parenting hasn't been happy. I can't write stories of my sunshiny days when most of the time I'm full of resentment. I have no one to be resentful towards, mind you. And really, I have no reason to be particularly resentful at all, but I am. Resentful about being ungrounded for months now. No real home. No date set in stone as to when we'll begin construction. And no sleep at night because Julianne has developed a persistent panic attack every time she has to go to sleep, as if entering that dream world is too far away from me.

I should pity her, feel sympathetic, feel empathetic (after all, I'm having plenty of panic attacks myself), but instead I resent her intrusion into the two hours I claim to myself. I count on 8-10 pm being for me, for watching tv or reading books or writing. But Jules doesn't go to sleep at 8 or 9 or 10. And when she finally does go to sleep, she wakes again an hour later, and then an hour after that. Her crib will not contain her; the little space next to our bed in our room will not appease her. It has to be me, holding her, all night long. 

So it is that this is the recipe for misery that lasts all day long, week after week. Sleep deprived, short-tempered, exhausted, and homeless: that's all I want to write about. I've kept it in--until now--because I wanted to return here with happy words, strong words, words different from the ones you read in the news these days.

And maybe this act of writing about it is therapeutic enough to get me balanced again, but if I'm absent for awhile it's because I can't find the silver lining to all this. I'll return when Jules starts sleeping through the night, and when my honesty starts feeling a little brighter.

I suspect those two things are related.

Small Surrenders

I thought about not observing Lent this year. Not because I suddenly found it unimportant, but mostly because I just wasn't in the mood. A lame reason, I know.

As Ash Wednesday approached, I found myself whining, "This whole school year is a sacrifice. Do I really need to take on the burden of sacrificing something else?" You didn't realize I was such a martyr, did you? A wallowing, self-pitying martyr. Meh.

Wednesday came and went, and I still rebelled against observing it. Next year, I thought. When my life is easier, when my thoughts are more coherent. To put it bluntly, I was clarifying my faith journey in my own terms: I'll be ready to be spiritual when I feel like it, thankyouverymuch.

Then someone asked me, "What are you giving up for Lent this year?" and the very question settled heavy on my heart. All the changes this year has brought me aren't really sacrifices. They're just changes. They're transitions. I haven't surrendered much of anything. It is precisely because of how I feel--or lack thereof--that Lent is important for me this year. Now, more than ever, I should be asking myself how well is my Christian life functioning? How well do I love others? In the midst of this upheaval, what is God teaching me? And do I rejoice in those lessons?

I can tell you that my ability to rejoice hasn't been strong these last few months. If the measure of true character is what happens to you when life isn't easy...well, let's say that my character still needs work.

Even though Lent means different things to different people--an archaic tradition, a religious observance, a ritual of superstition--I like to think it's an appropriate time to ask the important questions, to reflect, to see the big picture, particularly as we move towards Easter Sunday. I'm realizing bit by bit, it's about making adjustments in my attitude, however minor or major. It's about being deliberate in making a change.

This year, when I asked myself what needed to change, my first response was, "I'm living in change, and that's good enough, darn it."

Then I was reminded to ask again. What needs to change? And the answer was quite apparent.

I do.

good memories & moving from oregon

 

More answers...

When fellow mommy blogger (and new Facebook friend!) Goslyn asked me, "What is your happiest memory?" I had a flood memories rush to the front of the line. I have lots of happy memories, considering my perfectly regular childhood, a lovely marriage, and sweet children. But the one memory that stands out? The one I turn to when I'm feeling down?

Well, I have to say it's December 2007's anniversary trip to Camden, Maine.

I know I should probably pick a memory that involves the girls, but a trip to Maine? A surprise trip to Maine? A surprise trip to Maine where we honeymooned more than 10 years earlier? Well, really. It's hard to top that. 

It's funny because the timing was far from perfect. We didn't really have extra money to be spending on travel, but decided to do it anyway. Jason had to take along all of his study material for the comprehensive exams that he would be taking a month later. I hadn't exactly stopped nursing Jules, which is to say that she knew how to use a sippy cup, but still used me at sporadic intervals throughout the day.

Yep.

She and I went cold turkey when I stepped on that plane to Maine, and even though I did nurse her one more time when we got back it was essentially the end of the nursing road for both us. My mother-in-law was a saint for taking Jules, who adjusted just fine. As for my adjusting, I ended up being rather uncomfortable--even a quick stop for cabbage didn't help--and developed a pretty terrible cold as a result of my body not quite working right.

It didn't matter. 

Afterall, it was being together--driving down that snowy road listening to Alicia Keyes--that made it perfect. I never fail to smile when I remember our trip. It goes to show that the timing is often never perfect, but you go forward anyway.

*

Fellow Oregonian Diane asked me, "Why oh why would you think of moving out of Oregon, dearest CB?" It's a good question. Especially since I do love living in Oregon, particularly since Sydney was born. It's a great state. No sales tax. Home to Nike and the famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Strong identity. Easily recognizable on the national level (as opposed to Washington, which always has to be clarified as "Washington State" when one is traveling to the east coast). Even celebrating its 150th birthday on Valentine's Day. There's a lot to love.

So why the move?

The answer is that my parents gave us 2 1/2 acres in Brush Prairie, Washington. I can tell you that if it wasn't for the land, we wouldn't make the move. But the 2 1/2 acres is all the reason we need. It's the land where I grew up; it's the land where my great-grandparents lived many years ago. It's where my parents, my grandma, my aunt and uncle, my brother and his family, and my cousin and her family live. It's three miles away from the pre-school that Jason's mom owns. It's eight miles away from where Jason's parents live. Property, family, the chance to build our dream house: it was too perfect to turn down.

Fortunately, Brush Prairie is still close enough to Portland (a mere 20-minute drive away) that we'll be able to stay connected with a lot of our friends who make regular trips there from Salem. Plus, southwest Washington doesn't have any of its own news stations, so all our news is Oregon news anyway. It'll almost be like we still live in Oregon, except we'll have to pay sales tax and pump our own gas. But hey! the property taxes are low and the family is near. Can't beat that with a stick.

continuing answers on wishes and romance

Thank you all for chiming in on the last post. I'm so glad Heather asked me about my fears because the resulting self-reflection was just what I needed to do. Sometimes confronting our own fears becomes the catalyst for living fearlessly. And even more than sometimes, knowing that we are not alone in our fears brings immeasurable comfort. Your words have strengthened me more than you know.

Continuing on with answers to your questions...

Long-time blog friend Amy (who, alas, is no longer blogging) asked me, "Is there anything in your past that you wish had turned out differently?"

Hmm. Well, now it probably goes without saying that my biggest wish is that some of my college experiences turned out differently, considering what a huge impact those events had on my life. But beyond that?

Other than the normal regrets here and there, I suppose one big wish is that I would have been a little less emotional and a little more diplomatic in my first teaching job. I don't regret those first five years of teaching (because I ended up with some amazing relationships with my students), but I was hot-headed and head-strong, and when I left teaching I burned more than a few bridges behind me. So the short answer: I wish I hadn't left teaching so burned up and burned out.

*

Katy--who made a fabulously adorable cake for her son's first birthday--asked, "Do you always follow the speed limit or are you just lucky? How did you and Jason meet? I'm sure you have talked about it before, but I don't remember."

And since it touches on a similar theme, I'll follow-up with Margaret's question: "How did you meet your husband and what first attracted you to him?"

As you have probably read by now, I'm quite the stickler for the speed limit. And because Jason has had a few tickets in his driving career, I'm hyper-conscious about paying attention to posted speed-limit signs. The last thing we need is for our car insurance to go up.

How did Jason and I meet? (You were right, Katy. I have written about how Jason and I met, but it's been a few years.) For our eighth anniversary I wrote pretty much the whole story of our meeting/getting to know each other/dating/marrying history. And here--three and a half years later--I wouldn't add much to that post. It captures everything.

In case you decide not to visit that link, I'll just say we are high-school sweethearts. The first thing I noticed about him were his gorgeous blue eyes. And the first thing I was attracted to (aside from his good looks) was his emotional sensibility. He's a stable one, that Jason. His even keeled personality keeps me from going bonkers.

*

More answers to follow...but a trip to Costco is calling my name.

 

As well as this peculiar photo of me and Mr. Turtle. It leaves me speechless.

Standing up to fear

Sometimes we can get so used to living with a fear that it ceases to seem abnormal or unusual. This must be the explanation for why I drew a momentary blank when Heather asked, "Since my word for the year is fearless... name one thing you wish you could do if fear did not stand in your way."

What does fear keep me from doing?

If fear didn't stand in my way, I would be a better friend. 

It's not that I don't have friends, but I wouldn't say that I do a good job of maintaining or building my friendships. I've had a long-standing fear of calling people on the phone, and for many years I wouldn't even get together with others because the thought of social gatherings--outside of family--terrified me. It's a cop out, of course, to not form meaningful friendships because all it means is that I value my own comfort zone rather than people. Still. Recognizing that doesn't make living fearlessly any easier.

I wasn't always this way. When I was in college, I had a circle of friends that I loved to hang around. We all lived in the same hall our freshman year, and most of us had classes together. We called each other on the phone, wrote each other encouragement cards, laughed until we cried. We were good friends, some would say best friends.

My sophomore year, I developed some unfortunate personality traits. I don't know what it was...ego, or something. At any rate, my roommate got tired of me and moved out. A few days later I got a letter from her saying something to the effect of, "It just happened one day that we decided we didn't want to be friends with you anymore."

And just like that, I was unwanted.

I should be clear that I don't blame them for what happened. I did for a long time, but after all these years I've figured the blame went both ways. We did try to work things out the next school year--I even had a couple of them in my wedding--and we tried to build on our friendship again. But I was nervous, and probably came across as desperate to keep them as friends. Eventually I stopped being invited to things, and after Jason found me sobbing on the couch one day, he decided to confront them on their behavior. They told him that they just didn't want to be friends with me anymore.

No one should be forced to be friends with someone you don't like, but being the "someone you don't like" was heartbreaking.

So began my descent into the world of social anxiety. I stopped trying to make new friends; I stopped keeping in touch with the friends that I did have. I have a vivid memory of me sitting in my office, holding the phone number for my best friend from high school and wanting to call her but being terrified to actually dial the numbers. The phone sat on the desk, untouched. I never called her.

I stopped going to weddings, baby showers, friendly gatherings. Whenever Jason and I weren't invited to events, I (egocentrically) assumed it was because people didn't want me there. It was hard for me to see Jason being snubbed from invitations to things on account of my aloof behavior, but I just couldn't bring myself to move past superficial friendliness. Making friends post-college seemed impossible because everyone around me already had their best friends. As far as I could tell, I was too late to the party for anyone to want to hang out with me.

It's ridiculous, of course, to make excuses for my fear. But excuses were the only thing that kept me afloat. I suspect most people never guessed my deep seeded fears of being rejected. I faked exuberance well.

Things have improved.

Since Sydney was born, I've gotten better at connecting with people, particularly other moms. There's a natural conversation topic, and living in a city without any family forced me to ask other women for help. Going to my MOPS group has been highly therapeutic, and I genuinely enjoy being around other people now. I'm still not good at calling people on the phone, or inviting people over, or setting up play-dates--partly out of fear, partly my schedule, and mostly because I'm out of the habit. After so many years of fear, I came to normalize my social anxiety, and only when I wish I could call someone in the middle of the day to tell them I passed my graduate exams do I realize that I'm still not where I want to be.

It's a process, though, recreating and finding that part of myself that used to be outgoing and willing to find a friend in anyone. And so I take it one day at a time. Fear might always be part of my life, but it doesn't always have to stand in the way of picking up the phone and calling a friend.

Week 241: Answers at 33

Well, I did it.

I turned 33.

Wasn't too tricky, and other than coming down with some unfortunate respiratory illness (cough, cough cough) my aging has been celebrated excellently. Last night I was treated to a steak dinner and lemon meringue pie prepared by my parents who were celebrating their 33rd anniversary of becoming parents. I do what I can to help a party out.

Then today was full of lovely Facebook messages, and then we were off to the Oregon Coast Aquarium--which is always delightful. Especially the seahorses. They are really just too adorable for words.

 

Did you know that the male seahorses are the ones that have the babies? Yep. The aquarium is a fountain of information.

Also a fountain of information? Me. But only when I'm answering your questions that you so amazingly asked of me. Otherwise, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I decided that I can't possibly answer all the questions in one post, so I'll spend this week filling in details. It's better that way anyway, since Jules is so TWO, and I really need to be writing about things other than how exasperated--and also completed tickled--I am with her. So, thanks for providing a diversion of sorts.

First up is Becca, my college/MOPS/Wicked-attending friend. She asks:

Very deep. TiVo and DVR's do not exist. Two shows are on the same time same night. You can only choose one. Lost: In this episode they reveal everything. Including the black smoke and who Kate really loves: Jack or Sawyer. OR The Office: In this episode Pam and Jim get married. Michael adopts a Chinese baby with flash forwards of Jim and Pam's babies.
What do you choose?

Oh man. I'm assuming our VCR is also out of the scenario? This question sparked some intense debate over dinner last week, because my gut response was to choose "The Office" because it relies on physical comedy, which would mean I could read about "Lost" and get all the info I need. But then Jason said that "The Office" is only funny when it's dealing with office politics, and then he said that it doesn't matter who Kate really loves. I might have thrown a spoon at him, or maybe I just thought about it in my television fury. And then Thursday's episode came on, and I was torn. Because Kate and Sawyer...seriously.

It's tough, but I'm going to go with..."The Office." Unless Charlie is in the "Lost" episode, and then...oh, I don't know. That changes everything.

Next is Tamara, whom I was blessed to meet once when I was visiting churches, and just like that, we hit it off. Very cool. She asks:

How did you get your name, Stephanie? Is it a family name - who picked it? What does it mean? Does it suit you? Do you like it? What is your middle name? Is there meaning with your middle name?

Favorite dessert?

What is your favorite era? Do you think you missed the generation that most moves you?

I got my name from my dad Stephen, and I love it. I don't meet very many Stephanie's, oddly enough. I was going to be "Tyler" until I was born, and they discovered that I was a girl. Woohoo! They still liked the name Tyler, so they gave it to my brother when he was born 14 months later.

Stephanie means "Crowned One," and I think it suits me most of the time. I have some pretty strong leadership tendencies, particularly when I'm teaching or leading a group of some kind. My personality has subdued quite a bit over the years, so I'm not quite so Queenly around people when I'm not in charge. I think that's a good thing.

My middle name is Kay, which is my mom's middle name. Sydney also has the middle name Kay, which is after me, my mom, and my mother-in-law (her middle name is Kay too).

Favorite dessert is creme brulee, or black and white mousse torte if it's made by a restaurant here in town (three cheers for Konditerai!). Although, in all fairness, I really just love dessert. I was totally craving lemon meringue pie yesterday and my mom pulled through with flying colors. I like pie a lot.

I have a hard time picking out favorite eras. Favorite era to read from? The Victorian Era (late 19th century). Favorite era of architecture? Bungalow Era (mostly 1920's). Favorite era to live in? I would say modern day. Even though there are lots of things I love about other eras, I think they would all be pretty difficult to live in. I have no desire to wash my clothes by hand, or work in the kitchen all day, or not be allowed to vote, or be expected to allow a governess to raise my children. The trouble with having a history teacher as a spouse is that I don't romanticize any era. They all have some pretty serious shortcomings.

Good questions!

Next up is Heather's question, which I could answer briefly, but the longer version is something I've been wanting to write about, so it needs its own post. Stay tuned :)

Me & Yellow Paint, Part 3

Even before the police officer opened the door, I was sobbing. I just knew that my life was over. How exactly it was over, I couldn't tell you, but being pulled over by the cops certainly was some sort of signal to the end of life.

The officer at first just leaned into the car, but surveying the situation and perhaps picking up a sign that I was distraught about the circumstances, he knelt down. As if to be friendly. Right. As if.

"Do you know what to do when the blue and red lights start flashing?" Clearly not friendly. Clearly patronizing.

I was too emotional to be offended. "Of course, I do. But you're not supposed to pull people over when they're just sitting at red lights. You're supposed to pull people over when they're moving." Surely he must see how unfair he had been.

He (thankfully) ignored my advice, and changed tactics. "How long have you been driving?"

"A year."

"Have you ever been pulled over before?" I was horrified that he would consider me a repeat offender, and since I was crying too hard to answer, I shook my head in protest.

"Can I see your license and registration please?"

Oh. my. gosh. My license. I didn't have it because it had been stolen that Friday before, and I wasn't going to the DMV to get a new one until the next day. I was off to jail, I knew it.

"I - I - I - don't have my license," I stuttered out between sobs.

"No license?"

And then in one breath I told him the sad, sad story of my life. "My car was broken into on Friday - you can see the window is smashed - I don't have a CD player anymore and I'm not wearing my coat either and they took my wallet but they left my gloves and it - my wallet - had my license and my dad's senior picture and please don't get me in trouble because I had to drive to school without my license todaaaaaaay," and then the sobs overtook me.

"Do you have any identification on you at all?"

I pulled myself together long enough to think. What in my car had my name on it?

"Umm...uh...I have...I have..." I looked frantically around my car, "I have my math book." I pulled the Algebra 2 textbook out of my backpack and whipped open the cover to show him where I had written my name, complete with a heart dotting the "i" and everything. "Does that count?" Oh please, Lord. Let it count.

To his credit, the officer took the textbook and the vehicle's registration back to his car to do whatever it is they do in their cars (play solitaire? check their Facebook account?). He could have been gone for hours or minutes; for my part, I sobbed uncontrollably for the short eternity he was gone.

He returned with my textbook and papers, and said, "Your tags on your license plate are expired."

It was as if he was speaking a foreign language to me. I had no idea what he was saying.

"My what? My license is expired?"

"Your license plate. The tags are expired."

"I...but...my license...it's...tabs...what?" I was so confused. And distraught. And confusedly distraught.

"Your license plate, it goes on the back of your car, and there are stickers, and..." he didn't really want to be spending his afternoon explaining the technicalities of car registration to me, I could tell. "You just need to get them. Tags. For your license plate. Tell your parents. Send in verification that you've got this fixed and you won't get a ticket," and with that he handed me a yellow warning slip that was as good as gold.

No ticket.

The relief hadn't fully sunk in, and so I continued to cry and cry and cry. I think the officer might have said something else, but I wasn't listening. He closed the door and walked back to his car. I wasn't going to jail. I didn't get a ticket. And yet I couldn't stop crying. I leaned my head against the steering wheel, shaking with huge gasping sobs. The door opened again.

The officer was back, concerned that he was sending me out onto the road, I guess. "Do you want me to have someone come pick you up? Want me to call someone?"

I could only think of one thing I wanted most, and between my tears I said, "I...just...want...you...to...go awaaaay."

And bless him, he did.

Except, not completely because I never forgot that experience of being pulled over, of being unprepared, wishing I was somewhere else where I wasn't getting into trouble. It stayed me--that feeling--and made me a conscientious driver.

That officer has probably long forgotten about me, but I never forgot him. So for that, he did his job.

Me & Yellow Paint, Part 2

It had been a particularly miserable start to the weekend. On Friday, I had walked out of school to discover someone had broken into my car. A window was smashed in my precious 1986 gold Chevy Nova, and some local hooligans had ripped my stereo right out of the dashboard. Not just any stereo, mind you. A stereo that played CDs. Totally high tech for 1993. The local hooligans also ran off with my fabulously puffy green leather jacket and my wallet. Nothing much was in my wallet except my driver's license and my dad's senior picture. I cried the most over losing that picture of my dad.

So that was Friday.

Saturday and Sunday didn't shape up much better. Argument with my parents, stress over boys, not feeling well...the regular high school stuff.

It was no wonder, then, that half-way through classes on Monday I started feeling too ill to stay at school. Maybe it was a real illness, or maybe it was the kind of illness that overly emotional 11th grade girls get. Whatever it was I signed myself out, and started the 20-minute drive home.

And so as I was sitting there at the red light, on my way home, I was primed for serious drama when I saw those lights flashing in my rear-view mirror. Normally, when that sort of thing happens, people get nervous. I had so many other things on my mind that getting nervous didn't even cross my mind. What also didn't cross my mind was that the red lights were for me.

The lights flashed, and I sat there, at the red light, waiting for it to turn green. Then a deep voice spoke from the lights, "Pull your car over."

That police car wasn't talking to me, obviously. I was at a red light, waiting behind a string of cars. I hadn't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to cross three lanes of traffic just to get to the side of the road.

The voice, however, was persistent.

"Pull your car over to the right side of the road."

I looked in my rear-view mirror and made eye contact with the officer. He nodded at me, and pointed. "You. Pull your car over."

I was mortified, but I complied. Years of Sunday School--and 3 months of driver's ed--taught me that it never pays to disobey the law. Somehow I managed to safely get my car to the side of the road, although not far enough over for the officer to safely approach the driver's side.

He knocked on the passenger side window; I merely stared at him in terror. I could not fathom why on earth I was getting in trouble, but eventually I leaned over and unlocked the door.

The officer had no idea what he was getting into.

Me & Yellow Paint, part 1

Every day we drive the roads we practice a life of faith. Ultimately, on the roads, the only thing separating me from eternity is a four-inch strip of yellow paint. I have faith that the driver in the other lane believes that yellow paint matters.

*

Your comments (and questions) from the last post have made me smile, and perhaps check my ego a little for any particularly shiny spots. I'll tell you that there are a couple reasons why I haven't received any speeding tickets. Though my hubris in the last post may seem like I'm going to soon get what's coming to me (quite possibly), I do have a pretty good method for not getting speeding tickets.

I drive slow.

Like, almost painfully so.

I can't bring myself to ever go faster than 70 mph (what's that...110 kph?) on the freeway because (1) it feels like I'm wasting gas, (2) I feel like my car might explode, and (3) I constantly envision myself running into something going that fast and perishing in an unspeakable inferno. It's helpful that in Oregon the speed limit is 65, so I manage just fine. In Washington the speed limit in some places is 70. I suspect I will be permanently relegated to the right lane once we move to the Evergreen State.

As for going through town, I'm just a drive-the-speed-limit kind of person. The only stretch in town that I fear may be the death of my ticket record is that stretch along Pringle/Battle Creek, where the speed limit is an INSANE 25 mph. The road is wide, the stretch is downhill, and I have to ride the brake the whole time. It's ridiculous. So what that there's a school there? They shouldn't put such pretty, wide roads next to schools if they don't want people to drive fast on them.

The other reason why I drive slow is because I was pulled over by a cop when I was 16, and it scared me into safe driving.

Of course, the reason why I got pulled over wasn't because I was driving unsafely, it was for a different reason altogether.

Ask away

So, my birthday is on Sunday. Yay me. I'll turn 33, which I'm hoping will be better than being 32. Yes, I have great hopes for being 33. Maybe not as great as the hopes I had for turning 16, which was really quite a spectacular birthday, getting the driver's license and all. Being able to drive turned out to be a pretty nifty deal, even these many years later since I still have a record of no traffic tickets or accidents. Yay me again.

My spotless driving record aside (but not too far aside because seriously, that's some good driving), I thought I would open up this final week of being 32 to you, dear readers. I'm inviting you to ask me any of those serious/silly/random/life questions which perhaps you have wondered about all these days of reading my blog. I can't actually think of anything you might want to ask me, especially since I just revealed one of the grandest achievements of my life (that would be 17 years of perfect driving, ahem), but if there was something else...

Now is your chance to ask. Friends, relatives, countrymen, lurkers and all--ask away.

I'll post all the answers to your questions on my birthday, before the wisdom of turning 33 starts to sink in too deeply. Heh.

(Not that I wouldn't answer your questions if you asked me in a month or so, except that I'd probably forget to. My memory is not one of the grandest achievements of my life.

Except that I do remember not getting any tickets.)

Week 229: The Decisions We Make

I've been waiting for this week for a long time.

I've thought long and hard about it, made plans about it, studied the facts and issues for hours upon hours.

My decision for this week's event is based on what happened eight years ago. Eight long years ago.

As a result of that decision, my life has sometimes been turned upside down. It's been an emotional journey, and at times felt hopeless. But I've persevered because I knew that it was the only course. And now the time has come to put it all on the line.

I'm, of course, talking about my comprehensive graduate exams. (What? You thought I was talking about something else that's happening this week? Silly.)

Yes, it was eight years ago that I took my first graduate class at Western Oregon University, somehow turning a 3-summer program into an 8-summer program. I'm an overachiever like that.

No matter that some people *cough* my parents *cough* have worried I wouldn't finish, those same people have supported and loved me through it anyway. In fact, they're taking the girls for the two days that I'm taking the exams. All is forgiven, and no one will be happier or more relieved when that diploma comes in the mail than...my mother. Second place goes to my grandma. I think I'm probably fourth or fifth down the line.

The other good news is that I had an epiphany this weekend about my comps. Considering that "epiphany" is one of James Joyce's trademark themes, it was only fitting that it was while I was reading one of his books that I figured out how to pull everything together to answer one of the questions. I feel so much more relieved knowing that I won't totally embarrass myself on Friday (or Thursday, which is when I'm answering the education questions).

I can do this.

In fact, I'm glad I'm doing it. Not only because I've spent a considering amount of time, money and effort on the dang thing, but because I realized today that not once have I felt any measure of guilt that this has been part of my life as a parent. There may be things that I do give up, things that I sacrifice, many moments when "I" am low on the priority list, but getting this degree? I'm doing this for me.

It never occurred to me that I shouldn't do this. No one had to convince me that it was important. Even though the classwork was definitely harder to do after I became a mom, it was still something that I wanted to do. Always.

A lot of my life is about being a wife and a mom, but as Dr. Seuss said, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."

Fingers crossed that after Friday I will be Me-er than Me, with a master of science in education.

Helping me Grow

See, the thing is I'm not always very good at this parenting thing. Somedays I get it right, but then somedays....oh, somedays I just don't get it right at all.

Like last night, as I hunched over the computer screen and played back the entire day in my mind's not-quite-so-reliable eye. I saw a day that had left my parenting skills beaten and kicked to the curb. Harried. Exasperated. Wit's end. Frenzied. A touch of the crazies. I was there. I'm going out on a limb here and saying that we've all been there.

Believe me, at the end of the day there was no melancholy to be seen. No blues. No pinks. No greens. Maybe a little bit of red. Mostly it was just, "I have failed to parent my child into kindness. I have failed to convince her to sit at the table. Woe is me." Additionally, "I have failed to keep page-books from out of her mighty grasp and therefore am slowly but surely collecting a library of books held together with tape and staples." Melodramatic, much? Indeed.

So I typed it all out. And mourned the failure of my parenting skills.

But there you were, helping me out, letting me know that perhaps all was not lost with my sweet not-yet-2-year-old child. In fact, as you mentioned repeatedly, I would do well to see this as a stage, a phase, a moment in time that she would undoubtedly grow out of. (And dear Jules, if you're reading this when you're all grown up and not hitting people anymore, know that I love you to the moon and back even as you laughed and poked me in the eye.) Me, with my "I don't want to enable her or give her an excuse for bad behavior" attitude, but failing to recognize that, oh that's right, kids grow up.

Hey, did you know?

Kids grow up.

Pauline reminded me of that when I read her comment. By the way, I had Pauline as a high school student for four years, and even though she dodged out of AP English (I will not forget, Po, no never), she was an amazing person who hardly ever hit people, and probably never in the face. And now she's all grown up with a job, and husband, and a house. Just think. She was two years old once too, and then she grew up into a good person.

And I have every day, for years and years, to teach my girls to be like Pauline--to be girls who don't hit or push other people, with their fists, or their stuff, or their words. I get to help them learn to be kind and loving people, which, oddly enough, is a mentality they don't always come by naturally.

So thank you, for being here, for leaving comments, for the conversations today that I had in living rooms and kitchens, for even not leaving comments but just coming back to see how this all works out. It's why I write, why I creaturebug, why I love this little place. Because you set me straight and remind me that I'm not in this alone.

I'm growing up too. Little by little.

***

Now you know what I would miss if I didn't do all of...this. Tell me what you would miss, even if you don't keep a blog but just read them. What would you miss if it was gone? (*Update: I took Devon's advice and revised one of the categories.*)

(poll)

I know that according to last Saturday's poll, Wednesday is nobody's favorite, but it still turned out to be a good day, didn't it?

Hitting the Refresh Button

A colleague of mine wrote a most encouraging article in our local newspaper, where he concluded by saying:

"Maybe it's a good time for all of us to have a garage sale of the mind and spirit, to sort out who we are and what we most profoundly want and need, to let go of some of the gaudy economic furniture that has cluttered our lives and our thinking."

It was a good reminder for me, learning to be content with less.

In case it hasn't been wholly evident from the last month's posts, I am not handling our lifestyle transition well. Today I resolved not to write much more about my complaints, before my attitude appears toxic, and because it is so much of the same song, second verse. It's true, I'm failing mightily at maintaining my footing in the wave of changes. Were it not for the bright stars twinkling on the horizon, and my faith in a God who hung those stars there for me, I know I would be in a serious emotional crisis.

And yet, daily there are reminders that I need to refresh my perspective. Just last night, as I stood in the kitchen surrounded by the scent of french toast baking, the sound of the girls playing nicely with each other, the touch of Jason's hand on my shoulder as he nudged past me to get the syrup, I was overcome with emotion. It's hard, this particular stage of life we are in, but it is not unbearable. It's exhausting, but it is not without rewards.

My daily perspective gets cluttered with reminders of how hard this all is. When Sydney shows me the house she has drawn--"green, just like our old house that we loved"--when she says, "I miss our church," when I realize we don't have a muffin pan at the apartment, when the girls wake each other up for the 30th night in a row because they aren't used to sharing a room: I break. I sob. I wonder how to be strong.

But then someone encourages me to keep going, a quote finds its way into my vision, a verse resonates in my soul, a voice, a hand grasped in mine, and I take stock of what needs to go. Real stuff, mental stuff, spiritual stuff. Abandon the complaints, the sharp tone of voice. A simpler faith flashes before me again, fits into my daily stride. "The opposite of faith," says Anne Lamott, "is not doubt; the opposite of faith is certainty."

There is faith. For me, there is always faith.

And so I start again.

Week 225: Lost and Found

I thrive on organization. My file cabinet keeps track of all important documents, bills, notices, articles, maps, memberships, directions, and warranties. We have containers for craft supplies, bins for wrapping papers, buckets for crayons, baskets for coloring books. Drawers are labeled, files marked, photos boxed. Everything has a place, and if I can't find a place for it, then it must be thrown away, recycled, donated.

Or lost.

Since we moved, my system of organization doesn't exist anymore, and now I can't find anything. It's not just the stuff we boxed up. Obviously, I know there are things that we'll find when we unpack in a year (like library books I've now had to buy). It's that I don't know where things go, and so I put it somewhere--in some spot, in some bag, on some shelf--and then *poof* it's lost.

Sydney's red leotard.

The Music Man DVD.

Hair clips.

Sippy cups.

Money. Personal checks. Banking statements. All vanished into the ether of our existence. The reason is simple. It's because our stuff is scattered all over the Pacific Northwest. It could be in our apartment, at the farm house, at my parents' house, at my brother's house, at Jason's parents' house. It could be in the car, at school, in the truck, in the golf cart. We are in all these places during the week, always spending the night in at least two homes during the week (last week I stayed in three different beds).

Simple explanation or not, it's still maddening. No matter how hard I try to keep things in one spot--refusing to allow the girls to take their sippy cups up to the farm, making sure we keep certain pairs of shoes in the apartment--ultimately, my brain fails me. I forget my own rules and find thing where they don't belong, like last night when I reached into the cupboard for a sippy cup and found one, only it was full of juice, spoiled and sour. I reached for another one, and discovered it too was full of sour juice.

Bread by the pots and pans. Shoes next to the tv remotes. Bills absent-mindedly thrown away. Fortunately for me, all our bills are paid automatically so I don't have to worry about that responsibility.

It would be funny, except that it's costing us money to replace necessary lost/misplaced items. It's also exacting a sharp toll on me physically. I'm always running into things, dropping things, breaking things. I've even started stuttering, which I do find a little bit comical. My peripheral vision tricks me into seeing things, so I put all my senses on high alert when I'm driving so that I can safely get from here to there.

My poor brain. And my poor stubbed toes. 

Only nine more months until all our stuff is under one roof. *long sigh*

This is how it feels to lose your mind, one red leotard at a time.

Blue

Last week, as I was reading to Jason what I had written about our slug-adventures, I started laughing. The whole of the story seemed so ridiculous, and something about the slug both humored and mortified me. I laughed until I cried, and then somewhere in the midst of the laughing, I started sobbing. Are you laughing or are you crying? Jason asked. I don't know, I sobbed. Both.

That's where I am. Caught in the middle of emotions I can't seem to sort out.

I have found myself once again in the grip of depression, no doubt because living in two cities means I can't seem to figure out any method of organization to life. I forget where I've put things; I stop talking in the middle of conversations because I don't know what I'm saying; I make photocopies of assignments, and then turn around and make the photocopies again having forgotten that I already did that. Normally, I'm not absent-minded, so my descent into mental chaos is discouraging for me.

It's nothing new, of course. Depression and I aren't strangers. Yet, when I found myself facing this old acquaintance, I didn't initially recognize it. We sit next to each other, trying to remember again how to start this conversation. Unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Unknown. I'll be fine, of course. It's just hard right now.

And, particularly this time of year, it's hard not having any leafs of my own.

Our old familiar leafy tree is still there, at our old familiar house, where someone new is looking out the window and watching them fall. This year, there is no banner of the girls sitting the pile of leafs. And for a dozen different reasons that makes me cry. Tonight I put a new banner up, but it's not a leafy wonder. It's blue. We are similar that way, the banner and I.

It's kind of a lonely looking banner, definitely reflective of my creative emotion these days. Maybe it's too sad. Maybe that's okay. I need some reassurances here, and have thusly constructed a poll that will both reassure and amuse me. I'm not being flippant; I'm being honest. There is more to this relationship I have with depression, but it's too dark to write about. So...reassurance and amusement. That's pretty much what I need right now. And also for someone to give me a written inventory of where all our belongings are. That'd be helpful too.

Week 224: For my old choir pal

At my high school graduation, I remember one of the speakers saying something to the effect of, Look around. This is the last time you'll see some of these people because your lives won't cross paths again.

It was a surreal moment for me, as I think it must be for students who have spent day in and day out with the same people year after year. Never see them again? Really? It was hard to imagine. Of course, there were people I knew I wouldn't miss, people who had walked the halls near me but not with me. I could imagine not seeing them again. But I couldn't imagine not seeing other friends who had been such a strong part of my high school experience, especially those of us who had been in choir together.

I was a choir junkie. Not only was I in the main concert choir, but my senior year I was in the select ensemble. Almost all my friends were part of the choir crowd simply because we spent so much time together: hours of class time, weekends upon weekends of performances, and a week in the spring for choir tour. During class, I sat next to Megan Christensen and Sarah Cantrell. During performances, I stood next to Tim Fadel.

Tim Fadel was a year younger than me, but our hours of choir time, as well as bus rides for basketball games, allowed us to become good pals over the two years we went to school together. He stood behind me during ensemble performances and pulled my hair. He stood next to me during choir performances and tried to make me laugh by holding my hand. He sat in front of me on the bus trips for choir tour. We passed notes between classes, had a secret handshake, and made flirty eyes at each other just to make the other person laugh. Sarah Cantrell and I, Tim Fadel and Adam Watson--we were four amigos who knew how to make each other laugh.

And oh how we'd laugh. Loud boisterous laughs that older people no doubt disapproved of. We'd tell each other ridiculous "knock-knock" jokes, try out cheesy pick-up lines, and try to push each other into the lockers. We'd sing the wrong lyrics to the choir songs, and give each other handshakes where we'd try to squeeze the living daylights out of our fingers. We were all good enough friends that Tim and Adam said they'd take Sarah and me to our school's Winter Formal. (Jason said it was okay since he didn't want to go.) Unfortunately, I got grounded the weekend of the formal and my parents wouldn't let me go. Sarah went with Tim and Adam while I sat home and sobbed. Tim called me the next day to cheer me up. "It wasn't that much fun," he said. "You're lying," I laughed. "Well, maybe."

Now that I think of it, I think Tim probably made everyone feel like they were his good pal. He was that kind of guy.

At my high school graduation, our concert choir performed together again for the last time. As always, Tim stood next to me and after we concluded the final song of the program he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. "See you around," he said. I nodded and cried, and kissed him on the cheek. Of course I'd see him again.

I did see him again. One year later at his high school graduation, when the concert choir invited all the alumni back to sing the last song together, I stood next to Tim and Adam. We elbowed each other in the sides and laughed again. "See you around," we said to each other after the graduation ceremony. I don't think any of us were sure if we really would see each other again.

Occasionally, I'd read about him in the high school alumni magazine. He got married, had two children, still lived in Portland. At my 10-year reunion, our former principal announced that Tim had been diagnosed with cancer: synovial sarcoma. I was shocked, but still young enough to believe that my old pal Tim would be just fine.

For four years, Tim fought against cancer. I would periodically check his online journal and say a prayer for him and his family.

Yesterday I found out that Tim passed away on Saturday. Even though I haven't seen him--haven't even talked with him--in more than 13 years, I was still so sad to hear about his passing. As I laid in bed last night, I cried for Tim's family: his wife of 13 years, his 10-year-old son, his 8-year-old daughter, his parents and siblings. What a tremendous loss for them, and those who knew him.

It's amazing how much impact one person can have on our life, even if it was such a long time ago that it seems insignificant until you stop to remember it.

His journal posted his parting words, and I am taking the liberty to post them here as well:

I am here now.
I am finally home.
I can breathe. I can run. I can see color.
I am certain of love.
I have complete joy and complete peace.
I am exploring every corner of my imagination.
I am laughing with my family.
(Job says "hi" and not to stress about the little things)
I am singing and playing instruments.
I am playing ping pong and basketball.
I am resting.
I am free.
I am here with you.
I am here with God.

...Oh and I may have an overdue library book too, if someone could check on that for me, thanks.

Thanks for the laughs, Tim. For those two years of high school memories, for the jokes, the handshakes, the good times. I'll be sure to tell one of your knock-knock jokes to my daughter after your memorial service on Friday. Our laughter will be the best way I can think of to remember you. 

See you later, Tim. Keep that spot next to you in heaven's choir open for me.

Wandering Through Graveyards

One of the things we did a fair amount of on our trip back east was visit cemeteries. When you're visiting Boston and Philadelphia, naturally there's going to be a lot of "Here is where Samuel Adams is buried," or "Here is where Benjamin Franklin is buried." I don't know that I was really all that interested in finding out where Benjamin Franklin is buried--nothing against him, but he doesn't exactly stir the emotions of my heart, like, say, Louisa May Alcott might do--but I enjoy walking through graveyards. Not at nighttime, of course. That would freak. me. out. But during the daytime, I think they're very interesting, in a melancholic, picturesque, philosophical kind of way.

Boston had some really interesting cemeteries that were right downtown. We'd be walking along the Freedom Trail, and then randomly stop to wander past some tombstones.

I have a hard time capturing the feel of graveyards through photography. It doesn't help that some people (*ahem* you there in the upper left-hand corner of my picture) tote their Macy's shopping bag through the graveyard. That really ruins the feel of graveyards. More than that, though, there's something about the three-dimensional aspect that my non-fancy camera just can't quite get. Nevertheless, that didn't stop me from taking pictures.

Plus, cemeteries on the east coast are so old--well, comparatively old. Here in Oregon you don't find too many tombstones that date back to the 17th and 18th centuries.

Also, not a lot of skulls and crossbones either. Which I'm fine with. I definitely do not want a skull and crossbones on my tombstone, no offense to Cap. Nicholas Gardner here. It's just not my style.

Philadelphia had more famous dead people. Famous people like Benjamin Rush, signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Benjamin Rush just happens to be Jason's Great-great-great-great-great Grandfather's cousin. Yes, rebelliousness goes wayback in Jason's family. Fortunately it's patriotic rebelliousness, so I can excuse that. Except when Sydney wanted to paint a flag on the wall with magic markers. In our house there may be a little bit of tyrannical oppression when it comes to certain freedoms.

One of the things we did while we were DC was go on a ghost walk through Alexandria. Our guide--a chipper college student with a knack for storytelling--narrated our way up and down the streets of Alexandria, regaling us with horrifying tales of ghosts and graveyards. And when I say "horrifying" I really mean "funny with a gory twist." Like Fargo. Except more family friendly. And without the wood chipper. Or the fabulous Frances McDormand.

The end of our tour found us gathered in a graveyard where our guide told us a final tale of a tragic love story.

We laughed, we cried, we were distracted by fighting squirrels. And then off in the distance, I thought perhaps I too could see the ghosts of children playing by the tombstones. I quickly grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of them.

Oh what tragic tale surrounded these poor little children that they were doomed to wander the graveyard for all eternity? I will say that the little middle ghost wouldn't stop laughing, but the other two? I think they really wanted to be at some fun playground rather than a cemetery. But they kept showing up, so I kept taking pictures.

Now, wait a second...

 

Those little ghosts look awfully familiar...

And that name on the tombstone...I recognize that name...

Stout? Well, now that I think about it, I have seen these pictures before. These and a hundred others just like them that fill our family's photo albums. What's that? You think it's morbid, all these pictures of smiling children on tombstones? Well, then, you never had a mother who was a genealogist.

I knew there was a reason I felt a connection with graveyards.

  

Although I'm definitely not feeling the connection with those shorts.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Inadequate

I went to a baby shower today for a former professor of mine, and a few hours before the party I was trying to think of something to write in the card. For as much writing as I do, I find my card writing to be rather inadequate. Christmas, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries--the kind of writing I do doesn't fit well in a card. I'm a better storyteller than I am greeting card quipper. But today I tried to think of something more clever than "yay for having a baby," especially since this was the professor who taught the best writing course I've ever taken.

I settled on something about parenting being the best and hardest job he and his wife would ever have, as well as how much it changes you. More than you expect. More than you can define. Just more.

And as I've sat down this week (multiple times) trying to encapsulate another life-changing experience, I found myself again feeling inadequate. I had so wanted to write about my faith this week, but the words evaded me. This week--Easter week, Holy week, Passion week--this is the week that much of my faith hinges on. I wanted to write about faith, wanted to attend the Good Friday service at church, wanted to spend more time reflecting this week on the sacrifice. Instead I found myself doing other things, albeit important and necessary things. Ballet class, cooking, pediatrician appointments, laundry, teaching, birthday party-ing, baby shower-ing, dessert with friend-ing. The tension of desire and duty keeps me ever on my toes.

No matter if I can write about it or not, however, my faith persists. No matter if I get the laundry done or not, get to MOPS meetings on time or not, create dynamic lesson plans for my students or not. my faith--my personal relationship with God who chose to die for me, chose to forgive me, chose to love me--my faith persists. It's part of me, and has been for nearly as long as I can remember. Sometimes I make great strides in my faith, huge bounding leaps. Other times, like at this stage in my life parenting young children, I find that my desire for positive change outweighs the time and energy I have to put towards this.

One of the final chapters of the book I read for Lent (Small Surrenders by Emilie Griffin) has this passage which spoke greatly to me:

What must we do to clothe ourselves with a new self? In fact, this is a work of grace, which seemingly comes over us when we are attentive, faithful, and believing. This is the reason for our rejoicing: that Jesus came for us and gave us the way to imitate him, to imitate God. However inadequate we may feel to this amazing destiny, it is ours; it is the promise that Jesus has made to us and lived out for us. Our task is to accept the grace, to make our small surrenders.

Fortunately, my faith doesn't depend on what I do. It depends on what God has already done. Easter Sunday is coming, and for my life--whether I'm feeling adequate or not--Sunday has made all the difference. My thoughts this week on the Resurrection changed me. More than I expected. More than I can define. Just more.

Hallelujah for that.

(video 3:39)

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 198: Hypotheticals

Tonight we met with Todd (designer for our new house) to go over some changes in the plans. The big changes involved the master bedroom, the garage, and one particular wall in the dining room/living room. We had a good brainstorming session, and I feel good that Todd will come up with something that draws from our collective design sensibilities.

The other smaller change involved reconfiguring the upstairs bathroom--the one that the kids will use. Well, smaller change for him. But really the whole reconfiguration is based on one big hypothetical: having another child.

Which isn't to say that I am having another child, only that I might. And if that other child is a boy then I want the bathroom to function well as the siblings share the space. If we have a boy. Which we might not. If we have another child. Which is more probable than even having a boy.

It's a conversation I've been having with myself (and Jason) for the last couple months, and even though it's not something I lose sleep over (at least, not too much), it's something I toss around in my mind as I look at house plans and we wonder exactly how to divide up room space. The whole conversation with myself goes something along these lines. Are we having more kids? If we are, then when would be a good time to consider having this other child (though I realize, of course, that this isn't totally in my control, but hypothetically speaking...)? Should I get pregnant while we are assured of Jason's job and therefore awesome health insurance? How will this affect my teaching load? How will we afford a new car since we don't have one that could seat three carseats? How far apart do we ideally want the kids do be in age? Do I really want to be moving into a new house pregnant? Wouldn't it be easier to be pregnant next year so that Rebekah the Amazing Nanny can help out? Am I even suited to parent three children?

On the other hand, the conversation sometimes goes like this. Please dear Lord, we are not having any more kids. That easily answers all those other questions.

I realize that I am blessed to be even in the position to be having this conversation with myself, knowing that there are some people who would give the sun, moon, and stars to be in my spot. I also realize there is a lot that's not in my control regarding the whole thing. But still. It crosses my mind. More than occasionally.

It wouldn't really be a difficult choice if I was excited about the prospect of having another baby. Jason and I have always kind of thought we'd have three kids. It's a nice compromise between our two families. There were two kids in his family, and he always wished there were more. There were four kids in my family, and I always felt like my mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the stress we caused her. Three is good. A nice prime number. I don't care about the middle child syndrome because I figure once you have more than two, there are always middle children. Maybe you have one middle kid, maybe you have two or three. As my sister says, "Tyler and I are the middle kids in our family," and she's right. Oldest, youngest, and middles. You deal with whatever you get, and you parent accordingly.

The idea of a three-child family is more more appealing to me than actually having three kids. I'm not even dreading being pregnant anymore, which was the bigger concern last time around. It's the fact that most days I feel like I'm just treading water, trying not to drown in a sea of sippy cups, tiny socks, and play-dough. The thought of adding another child to the mix? Really? Me? The one taking Zoloft every day just to keep my head together?

I don't know. My gut says, "Wait a few years. It'll make it easier." My significant other (who also has an important say in the whole thing) says, "I'd really like to be out of the baby stage in a couple years instead of starting it all over again."

Seriously. I don't know.

It's not a decision I have to make right now, at this instant. It's not even a decision I have to make in the next couple months. It might be a decision we have to make this summer, if we're factoring in health insurance. I'm just thinking aloud here, not really expecting some sort of revelation. The only one who really knows the answer to the question "Are we having any more kids?" is God and my ovaries. Whatever my decision ultimately is, it's still not completely up to me.

Last week Sydney said to me, "I want a baby brother."

I smirked. "Did Daddy tell you to say that?"

"No. I just want one. I have one baby sister, and I want one baby brother."

"We'll see," I say.

She looked at me, smiled, and agreed. "We'll see."

*****

Just for spite, I'm giving away the pregnancy book I reviewed last July, Body, Soul, and Baby. If you're interested in winning it, leave a comment at that old post, and I'll choose a randomly lucky winner Wednesday at 8 pm PST.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Observe

Tonight I feel a bit worn down and tired. I think it's because of the frantic cleaning I did this morning, a child's birthday party at Chuck E Cheese this afternoon (hello overwhelming experience!), church this evening, and then more frantic cleaning after the girls went to bed. It could be any of that, all of that, or it might just be the exhaustion from an emotional church service.

It was a wonderful service, albeit a bit different than what we're normally used to since this is our first time attending our church's Saturday evening service. For the most part, we are strictly 11 am Sunday service attenders because it allows for us to spend our mornings together, enjoying breakfast, without rushing around. I've had friends say they don't like 11 am service because then they feel like church "takes up their whole day," a sentiment that makes me chuckle. Ah, we Americans do like our church services short and convenient.

But, enough about church services. I didn't get on here tonight to write about that. Not exactly anyway. Only that one of the things I noticed about the service tonight was that--like every other church service I've attended on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday--there was no mention of Lent. This isn't unusual, nor did it bother me at all, considering the church denominations I've been part of (Foursquare, Baptist, Calvary Chapel, respectively for each decade of my life). Most mainline evangelical Protestants aren't big on the Lent thing, probably because it seems like a very Catholic experience, and as this Slate article pointed out, John Calvin (a big name in Protestant churches) thought that Lent was a "superstitious observance," maybe because there's no scriptural mandate for observing it.

I'd never even heard of Lent until three years ago when I read about it on someone's blog (which I'd link except she's no longer blogging). She only mentioned it in passing--writing about cleaning out her cupboards of certain foods--but the idea took root in my mind. It was already a couple days into Lent, but I decided to give up chocolate that year.

I gave up chocolate again the next year, and then last year I gave up chocolate and candy. Even though traditionally there are other food restrictions regarding Lent, I don't follow those because they aren't meaningful (or sacrificial considering our one-income budget prevents us from eating much meat anyway). I wanted to give up something that I enjoy. And even though I read somewhere that giving up chocolate was "trivial" it was far from it for me. I eat chocolate every. single. day. Sometimes it's only a handful of chocolate chips, sometimes it's a cup of hot chocolate. It's one of the small daily pleasures I indulge in.

This year, however, I've been thinking a lot more about Lent and what I wanted to fast from. I keep asking myself, "What should I give up that distracts me from my faith and my family?"

As I pondered, I did some online research.

• I bought a devotional book called Small Surrenders that looks promising, and I'm considering going through Purpose Driven Life as well since it follows the 40-days pattern, and Lent is close to 40 days (with the Sundays it becomes 46 days).
• I came across this post from Internet Monk that provides lots of resources.
• Last year I utilized the Creighton website Praying Lent, and they have it running again for 2008.
• Sydney and I will be going through her Family Countdown to Easter book again.

Just like I wrote last year, there's nothing extra spiritual about me practicing Lent. I do it because it makes Easter seem more meaningful, and because I have found that deliberately fasting from something brings focus to my faith. Not only that, but this year I really want to focus praying for those who I know have serious needs, including Jack, Darian, Logan, Amanda.

I decided this week what I'm giving up for Lent, and it's not going to be easy. I've struggled a bit with my decision, but tonight at church I realized that it's not about what I'm giving up, but what I'll be receiving: grace, forgiveness, and joy. God may call me to give up something, but He's always ready to fill the void with something even better. Amen.

And so Wednesday, Lent begins.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Week 189: Words of Resolution

I'm finding it a bit hard to get back into the writing mode. I have all sorts of things I'd like to write--a birthday poem for Jules, a show-and-tell of some Photoshop actions Jason got me for Christmas, a review of 28: Stories of AIDS in Africa (if I could convince you to read one book of non-fiction, it would be this one)--but my mind is still wandering around the harbor in Maine. I sit at the computer, and think of snow drifts and chowder and Christmas lights reflecting on the water, and typing seems rather unexciting.

 

However, my mind has also been full of words today. Words swirling around my mind that I'd like to choose for my 2008 Resolution. Yesterday I read Christine Kane's post Resolution Revolution (which I found thanks to Jess). I read it, and then I read it again. And then I went to sleep thinking about it. What stood out to me was this:

The reason most resolutions don’t work is that they address only one level of your life. The DO level. It’s the DO-HAVE-BE model. “I will DO this thing.” (i.e., Lose weight) “So I can HAVE this other thing” (Self-Esteem) and I can BE this thing. (Confident.)

The average New Year’s Resolution doesn’t address the core of the issue - the “BE” level.

The best order for creating positive changes in your life is the BE-DO-HAVE model. This means you start from the BE level. When you begin changing on the BE level of your life, then the DO level and the HAVE level follow more easily.

When you start only on the DO level, then all the blocks on the BE level will often become the obstacles you can’t overcome.

It immediately made sense to me. In fact, I realized that I already strive to follow this method in my relationship with God (BE passionate about my faith, DO strive to be more godly, HAVE joy and peace), and yet I don't follow this concept in my day-to-day life. Which isn't to say that my faith isn't part of my day-to-day life, but rather the tone I take daily with myself and my family. I find myself in the rut of DO keep the house clean, HAVE an organized life, BE less stressed. DO not yell at my kids. DO keep track of every penny spent.

It's hard work. It's exhausting. And in the end, I never quite make it to the BE part.

I didn't even make any resolutions this year. Actually, I sort of forgot to. I knew what I didn't need to resolve to do: keep the house clean (impossible to do better than I did last year), lose weight (did last year), read more books (already finished two so far this year). I don't need to make those resolutions because those things are already built into my personality. But I do think resolutions are important. Goals are good. Focus is good. If I never made any resolutions at all then I'd never grow.

Instead of making resolutions that address the DO part of life, Christine suggests making resolutions that direct us to living at the BE level of life. So instead of a list of things to work on throughout the year that we inevitably give up by spring, choose a word--one word--that will be your theme for the year. Let that word guide you in making changes in life. If choosing one word seems impossible (as it was for me), then maybe two, no more than three. (Really, you should just read the article yourself.)

So what's my word for 2008?

After I looked through the list of words, the one I chose initially was discipline. That's it, I thought. I need to work harder. Be more focused. Stay away from the chocolate, the computer, the cleaning solvents that pollute the earth.

Then I rethought that choice. I'm hard on myself. And if I chose discipline, it would haunt me all through the year. No amount of Zoloft would get me through to next December if my daily mantra was discipline.

So I looked at the list again, and mulled some words over in my head all day long. What word could I choose that would be best for me, for my family, for my faith, for my students? What did I struggle with in 2007?

Compassion  Delight Generosity  Effortlessness  Wealth  Gratitude  Abundance  Creativity Willingness  Change  Growth Freedom Mastery Kindness  Health Presence  Acceptance Courage  Confidence  Self-Love  Action  Forgiveness  Forgive Release  Trust  Knowing  Patience  Friendship  Fun  Grace  Laughter Love  Expansion Exploration Adventure Openness  Discipline  Awe Awareness  Risk  Gentleness  Choice  Spirit  Prayerfulness Power  Allow Artfulness Attention  Beauty  Joy Focus Ritual Heal  Order  Clarity Pioneer Peace  Laziness  No  Yes  Deliberateness  Commitment  Savor  Integrity  Listen

I choose two words for 2008: Gentleness and Acceptance.

It won't be easy, but it'll be good.

And you? Your word for 2008?

Brown Eyes

'Tis the season for gift giving, and Parent Bloggers Network asked, "What makes a gift memorable?" My mind immediately went to a gift I have already written about, but thought it was worth sharing again. I just now read it again and got all weepy over it.

May your Christmas be filled with brown eyes.

*******

I would be hard pressed to remember every Christmas gift I have ever received. Of course, I'll always remember the Christmas I was pregnant and Jason got me diamond earrings. I'll remember the dress I received one year that a relative promptly proclaimed as "hideous." I'll remember the not-an-engagement ring that Jason gave me when we were dating. I'll remember the yellow puffy stuffed animal that still sits on my bed at my parents' house.

And never, for as long as I live, will I forget the year I got blue eyes instead of brown.

That year there were four identical boxes under the tree. This tag had "Stephanie," that one had "Tyler," and those over there had "Andrea" and "Jacob." Love, Mom.

With four kids, lots of grandparents, cousins, pets, aunts, uncles, and a mom and dad, you can imagine that under our Christmas tree were piles of presents. My parents didn't hold back the gifts until Christmas Eve. They were there for us to organize -- that side of the tree was for my presents, that corner for Andrea... -- and gently shake. We'd search the creases and corners of the wrapping paper to see if we could get any hints to the contents of the gift.

The four boxes were a total mystery. What could they be? What would we all be getting? Our imaginations never strayed to thoughts of socks, or pajamas, or shoes. These were real gifts. We knew it.

Christmas morning came, and we four kids tumbled into the living room after an early morning of opening stockings in my room. The 14-foot tree sparkled with tinsel and bubble lights, and there! beneath the tree! the four boxes.

Other gifts may have been opened, carols may have been sung, but the only thing on my mind was the box. Finally, with our own respective boxes in front of us, we simultaneously opened. For some reason I dawdled behind in opening, so I saw what everyone else got. My mom had made us -- hand stitched, hand stuffed, hand painted -- dolls. They looked kind of like Cabbage Patch dolls, except better because, oh! because they looked like each of us. Tyler's with sandy blond yarn hair, and blue eyes. Andrea's with long red hair, and brownish eyes. Jake's with brown hair, and brown eyes. The dolls were us.

I finished opening my present, ready to hug her close to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my doll wasn't the same. My doll was a real Cabbage Patch doll. One that my mom had stood in line for, paid extra for, bought in the knowledge that I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. My good manners kicked in, and I smiled and thanked my parents. A real Cabbage Patch doll with a shiny vinyl face and birth certificate.

But something wasn't right. I looked at my blond haired doll and noticed, of course, that she had blue eyes. I knew all blond haired dolls had blue eyes. I was old enough to know the doll codes: red hair with green eyes, brown hair with brown eyes, blond hair with blue eyes.

Blue eyes.

The wrong color.

The present opening celebration continued, but my subdued manner finally caught the attention of my mom. Stephanie, what's wrong?

I had always been proud of having blond hair and brown eyes. Dark brown, chocolate, without even a suggestion of blue. Norwegian in every way but the eyes. Those eyes were from my dad, a gift that I wasn't ashamed of. Yet, somehow, looking at this homogenized doll felt like ridicule. Being teased. Made fun of. For being different. Bitter tears of disappointment streaked down my face, even as I thought, "I should be grateful." I realized what my mom had done. She had thought I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. She had thought I would prefer the store bought one, the doll that all my friends had. She had tried to make Christmas special for me by getting me the gift that was at the top of the list. The real, not the fake.

Turns out, real and fake are sometimes in the eye of the beholder. I didn't want blue eyes. I wanted brown eyes. I wanted one that was like me, so that our four dolls could play together and be little replicas of our selves. And of course, it wasn't just about the eyes. It was also about something else -- something I couldn't articulate at that age -- about having something from my mom that I couldn't get from a store. "You didn't make me one," I cried. "You made one for them, and not for me. And her eyes are BLUE." Tears tears and more tears. (Can you believe it, I'm even crying as I type this up.)

I know I surprised my mom. She had guessed incorrectly about the state of my materialistic heart. Maybe it made her smile. Maybe it made her laugh. I hope it made her proud.

The best Christmas present I ever received wasn't the one that I got on Christmas, but the one that my mom gave me a couple weeks later. My very own Stephanie doll. Blond hair. Brown eyes.

The perfect color.

------

Share your story with PBN and be entered to win a gift certificate from Excitations.
Sk*rt this story.

'Tis the season for gift giving, and Parent Bloggers Network asked, "What makes a gift memorable?" My mind immediately went to a gift I have already written about, but thought it was worth sharing again. I just now read it again and got all weepy over it.

May your Christmas be filled with brown eyes.

*******

I would be hard pressed to remember every Christmas gift I have ever received. Of course, I'll always remember the Christmas I was pregnant and Jason got me diamond earrings. I'll remember the dress I received one year that a relative promptly proclaimed as "hideous." I'll remember the not-an-engagement ring that Jason gave me when we were dating. I'll remember the yellow puffy stuffed animal that still sits on my bed at my parents' house.

And never, for as long as I live, will I forget the year I got blue eyes instead of brown.

That year there were four identical boxes under the tree. This tag had "Stephanie," that one had "Tyler," and those over there had "Andrea" and "Jacob." Love, Mom.

With four kids, lots of grandparents, cousins, pets, aunts, uncles, and a mom and dad, you can imagine that under our Christmas tree were piles of presents. My parents didn't hold back the gifts until Christmas Eve. They were there for us to organize -- that side of the tree was for my presents, that corner for Andrea... -- and gently shake. We'd search the creases and corners of the wrapping paper to see if we could get any hints to the contents of the gift.

The four boxes were a total mystery. What could they be? What would we all be getting? Our imaginations never strayed to thoughts of socks, or pajamas, or shoes. These were real gifts. We knew it.

Christmas morning came, and we four kids tumbled into the living room after an early morning of opening stockings in my room. The 14-foot tree sparkled with tinsel and bubble lights, and there! beneath the tree! the four boxes.

Other gifts may have been opened, carols may have been sung, but the only thing on my mind was the box. Finally, with our own respective boxes in front of us, we simultaneously opened. For some reason I dawdled behind in opening, so I saw what everyone else got. My mom had made us -- hand stitched, hand stuffed, hand painted -- dolls. They looked kind of like Cabbage Patch dolls, except better because, oh! because they looked like each of us. Tyler's with sandy blond yarn hair, and blue eyes. Andrea's with long red hair, and brownish eyes. Jake's with brown hair, and brown eyes. The dolls were us.

I finished opening my present, ready to hug her close to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my doll wasn't the same. My doll was a real Cabbage Patch doll. One that my mom had stood in line for, paid extra for, bought in the knowledge that I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. My good manners kicked in, and I smiled and thanked my parents. A real Cabbage Patch doll with a shiny vinyl face and birth certificate.

But something wasn't right. I looked at my blond haired doll and noticed, of course, that she had blue eyes. I knew all blond haired dolls had blue eyes. I was old enough to know the doll codes: red hair with green eyes, brown hair with brown eyes, blond hair with blue eyes.

Blue eyes.

The wrong color.

The present opening celebration continued, but my subdued manner finally caught the attention of my mom. Stephanie, what's wrong?

I had always been proud of having blond hair and brown eyes. Dark brown, chocolate, without even a suggestion of blue. Norwegian in every way but the eyes. Those eyes were from my dad, a gift that I wasn't ashamed of. Yet, somehow, looking at this homogenized doll felt like ridicule. Being teased. Made fun of. For being different. Bitter tears of disappointment streaked down my face, even as I thought, "I should be grateful." I realized what my mom had done. She had thought I wouldn't want a hand-made doll. She had thought I would prefer the store bought one, the doll that all my friends had. She had tried to make Christmas special for me by getting me the gift that was at the top of the list. The real, not the fake.

Turns out, real and fake are sometimes in the eye of the beholder. I didn't want blue eyes. I wanted brown eyes. I wanted one that was like me, so that our four dolls could play together and be little replicas of our selves. And of course, it wasn't just about the eyes. It was also about something else -- something I couldn't articulate at that age -- about having something from my mom that I couldn't get from a store. "You didn't make me one," I cried. "You made one for them, and not for me. And her eyes are BLUE." Tears tears and more tears. (Can you believe it, I'm even crying as I type this up.)

I know I surprised my mom. She had guessed incorrectly about the state of my materialistic heart. Maybe it made her smile. Maybe it made her laugh. I hope it made her proud.

The best Christmas present I ever received wasn't the one that I got on Christmas, but the one that my mom gave me a couple weeks later. My very own Stephanie doll. Blond hair. Brown eyes.

The perfect color.

------

Share your story with PBN and be entered to win a gift certificate from Excitations.
Sk*rt this story.

Week 182: Homework is finished

If you're a teacher then you can fully appreciate the following statement: I am all caught up with my grading, and have my grades entered in the proper grading program. Yippee!

Even though I only have 40 students--which is nearly the size of just one classroom for some teachers--I don't allow myself nearly enough time to get the grading done (approximately 15 minutes, two days a week). Fortunately, since I teach speech then a lot of the grading is done in class as they give their speeches. However, I still manage to plague them with a few paper assignments. This week, I'm having individual conferences with students to discuss their grade and final speech project, so it is imperative that I actually have their grade handy. The paper work isn't what I get behind on; it's the pages and pages of emails that I receive on a daily basis. Most of my students email me their assignments (which I encourage because I'm all about saving paper), which works in theory but it actually takes more time to grade than a real honest-to-goodness sheet of paper.

Thanks to Jason, though, I had a few hours of uninterrupted time (or as uninterrupted as time gets with two kids in the house) and now I'm good to go for the rest of the semester. Which, incidentally, ends in three weeks. I'd rejoice, but I really love my classes and love teaching. It's so much easier than anything else I do in my real life.

And speaking of homework, in a couple weeks some of my real-life friends (who are also bloggers) are having a get-together. Part of my job is to complete this assignment. I'll gladly oblige since I don't have to grade it!

What is your motto?
A place for everything, and everything in its place. But maybe that's just because I spent the whole day organizing the coat closet/office.

What superhuman power would you most want to have?
I have to echo Becca's sentiment here: To be able to do things super fast.

What makes you laugh?
The better question is perhaps what doesn't make me laugh, since I laugh quite easily. But a few things: Sydney talking about how much she loves broccoli, Jules dancing, Jason's sarcasm, and The Office.

Cats or dogs?
Dogs (don't much care for cats and Jason is VERY allergic), but after Daisy isn't with us anymore then we'll be a pet-free household. The dirt drives me nuts.

Would you rather be a little smarter or sexier?
Well, since I'd really like to get my PhD at some point, I'm going to say smarter because I can always work-out and get in better shape, but my brain seems to be deteriorating a lightning quick pace.

What's one thing you'll never understand?
The NY Stock Exchange.

My life would be simpler if...?
...someone did my laundry. I'm at the point now where I would pay someone to do my laundry (and yes, I know there are businesses that do that but I'm sure they'd charge more than I'm willing to pay).

The big decision I'm currently wrestling with is...
...which designer/builder to choose to build our house. Do we go with a general contractor, and have someone else draw up our plans, or do we pick a designer who works closely with a builder? Questions to ponder.

Also...whether to go to bed now and have to get up early to write a review, or stay up late and write the review now. Hmm...I think I'm going to bed.

Week 175: Heard

Last Thursday, I spoke to my class about being good listeners and the connection listening has to delivering speeches. As I was illustrating the importance of listening and our need to be heard, I shared with them the role blogging plays in my life. While blogging certainly isn't the same as one-on-one contact with people, in my most difficult times I have often found it easier to write about how I feel than to talk about it. I spoke to my students about how, for me, it fulfills part of my need to be heard.

Then I wrote here on Friday. After all the months of essentially keeping my stress to myself, I wrote it out. I found a place for it and put it here. Even though I understand this Internet world pretty well and so therefore don't worry if particular posts get too many comments, Friday's post was different. I was vulnerable. I was broken. I was a puddle of tears. I wrote, and then I waited, hoping that someone was listening.

You listened. Your comments and emails (thank you, Katy!) hugged me, restored me, encouraged me, got me through a weekend in which my nerves felt raw and exposed. What ccap wrote summed up best what your words did for me: "...Wanted you to know that I was hear." I don't know if she was intentional in that spelling, but it was intentional to me. There is a big difference between being here and being hear, and for me it was all the difference in the world. I can't thank each of you enough for...everything.

On Friday I did a lot of sitting, because I wasn't strong enough to stand. I did a lot of crying, because I was broken with stress. I did a lot of praying, because it was the only thing that would sustain me. And I blinked, slowly. Waiting to wake up.

Jason had already come to terms with the house fiasco, but it was still very near to me. I actually said to him, "It would have been better to have never dreamed at all than to have dreamed and lost."

I don't really believe that, but I did on Friday.

I spent the weekend making pumpkin French toast, watching my brother Jake speed through Willamette's Cross Country Meet (can I brag for a moment that he ran 8K in 24:15), organizing my files of magazine tear sheets, visiting with my parents, going to church, making meatloaf, inviting friends over for brownies and ice cream, watching the leaves change color, administering cough medicine to Sydney, and listening to the rain pour down.

I breathed in. I turned the calendar to October.

And Monday morning I woke up.

Moving from September to October was more than moving from one month to another, more than moving from Sunday to Monday. It was moving from one place in my life to another. I breathed in. I held my breath, and exhaled. Feels good.

The leaves may be falling, but I'm standing. Moving forward.

Week 167: Explaining turquoise eye shadow

[EDITED TO ADD: My mom sent me that ninth grade photo, which I've included at the bottom of this post because clearly I have no dignity left (must be all that nursing babies in public). My memory failed me just a bit because I see that I did manage to keep the bangs up for photo day. Lucky, lucky me.]

I think it is one of the blessings of technology that digital photography wasn't around in the 80's. Otherwise, with a click of the mouse, we could all too easily pull photos displaying our collective penchant for neon colors and hairspray. I'm aware that some folks are still smitten with that era, but aside from the music, jelly bracelets, and perhaps the leg-warmers, I think it is an era best left unrepeated. Although my naturally curly hair spared me the tragedy of sporting bangs that reached to the high heavens (because I couldn't get my hair to uncurl off my forehead), I still fell victim to fantastically colored eye shadow. And by fantastic, I mean that as totally un-fantastic.

Although the 80's had passed by the time I entered high school, there was still a smattering of style hanging on through the early nineties. Therefore, my 9th grade school photo is a sight to behold. Hair semi-straightened (pre-flat irons), braces, white turtleneck, turquoise sweater, turquoise hoop earrings, pink lipstick, and glowing turquoise eye shadow that perfectly matched my sweater. Thankfully, I'm far enough removed in years from the picture to not cringe anymore. That was me. It was the era. That's the way it goes.

But for many years I asked my mom about this picture as well as most of my other junior high pictures, embarrassed to the core that I ever looked so unfortunate. "What on earth were you thinking, letting me wear that out in public?"

My mom would shrug and smile. "It was fine. You looked beautiful."

Yet somehow, in my pre-parenting days, I felt like my mom should have stopped me from looking so uncool. Told me that baggy tshirts were just not flattering, that neon pink lipstick should never leave the house, and my hair was best left without all the millions of tiny clips that perfectly coordinated my outfit (or, my second favorite hair choice: to pull back little strands of hair with a rainbow of rubberbands). What are parents for except to save their children from embarrassing fashion choices?

Of course, what would my mom have said? "You look ridiculous"? Oh, that would have gone over real well in improving our mother-daughter relationship. The truth is, though, my mom didn't think I looked ridiculous. She let me make my own choices, and at the time I looked like every other kid in my school.

As a young adult, I vowed that I would keep my kids from looking goofy. Make sure they coordinated. Matched socks. Combed hair. Looked respectable. In short, micromanage their sense of choice.

Quite honestly, it has been much easier to give up this notion than I thought it would be. If Sydney wants to wear her neon-green Crocs with her dress from Hawaii, that's fine. She wants me to put her hair into funky, curly pigtails (or "ears" as she calls them)? Fine and dandy. Shoes deliberately put on the wrong feet? If it makes her happy. It's so...not a big deal. I admit I don't let her wear just anything. Turtlenecks are totally unflattering on her, so they have to go. But I've learned that at some point it's important to let kids make their own choices about small things. I hardly even notice other little kids' fashion choices these days since I am so used to unique outfit choices that toddlers make. I smiled when I was at the park last week with Inkling and her boys because Critter had put his shorts on backward. I smiled not because I thought it was silly but because that's the way we parents let it roll sometimes.

And, as of Friday, part of letting it roll was to let Sydney pick out her own glasses.

It was time for a new pair. She's had her purple Disney ones since the beginning, and that was a year and half-ago. (Here's a picture from her first day of wearing glasses.) Back then I picked out her glasses. They seemed odd, too large for her tiny face, and magnified her eyes to dinner plates. Shari, our fabulous optometrist, told us that it would be awhile before she outgrew that pair. Over the past 18 months, we've made many a visit to Shari so she can work her magic in keeping the frames from getting too helter skelter. When we visited Shari again on Friday, she pulled out a new collection of frames. "I thought of Sydney when these came in."

The new glasses are sleek, very cool, with bendy frames, and we chose ones with transitional lenses.  I had Sydney try on the red frames. She looked in the mirror and tilted her head this way and that to get a good view. I held out the purple frames.

She took the turquoise frames. "Oh, how 'bout green!" she exclaimed.

"How 'bout pink?" I suggested.

"Or green?" she said as she put them on.

"Look at these pretty purple ones! Or orange! Do you want orange!" She ignored me as she looked at her turquoise frames in the mirror.

"I want green." And that was that. No matter how much I suggested she choose a different (dare I say girlish?) color, she had made up her mind. She doesn't care that strangers call her boy unless I have her in pink. She doesn't care that the tiny fleck of pink on the frames won't be large enough to indicate gender when others see this short haired, curly headed kid. She wanted green.

I briefly, very briefly, considered getting the purple ones anyway. There's a chance she'd forget which color she initially wanted. But then I decided that it was her choice. She picked green. She gets green. Plus, she can't stop talking about the new green glasses she'll get later this week.

Of course, she'll look adorable no matter what color she picks. Sure, her frames may not match most of her clothes, but that's okay. Turquoise eye shadow, turquoise glasses--what does it matter in the end? There are plenty of things Sydney won't get to choose, but in matters of identity and positive self-expression, I think she's old enough to make some choices. Maybe in many years she'll ask me, "Why on earth did you let me wear turquoise glasses?"

And I'll say, "It was fine. You looked beautiful."

-----

Seriously. Pimples and all.

 

The seventies, though. Now that's when I totally found my fashion.

Boxes

Despite the fact that it was hotter than blazes today (although you won't hear me complaining about sunshine), Jason and I undertook the project of partially sorting through the attic because we're going to have a garage sale next weekend. One of the reasons why I can be so determined about keeping the house clutter-free is because we have an attic where all the stuff goes that I can't quite part with. Stuff that doesn't exactly deserve a spot in the house, but it doesn't deserve to be tossed out either. Our attic is full of the obvious things, like Christmas ornaments and boxes (and boxes and boxes) of baby clothes. It's also holds four smallish boxes that are filled to the brim with memories.

Every year I think I'll throw stuff from these boxes away. So much paper and fluff that I only glance through every few years. Like the first box, full of papers from the summer of 1993 when I went on a missions trip to Romania with Teen Missions International. Letters home, letters from my parents, my friends, my teammates. Handbooks of rules (oh the rules!), songbooks, journal entries. I rummaged through it all, feeling kind of torn about throwing it away. And then there at the bottom of the box was a tea set that I bought one Saturday when our team went to some lake in Romania. I had forgotten about that day at the lake. I had had such a good time that day.

Jason sorted through other stuff around me, glancing up to see my paused in my mission of throwing things away. "You going to keep that?"

Oh dear. I made him haul all these boxes down just so I could throw them away, but now..."It's funny. I don't have any use at all for this stuff. Hardly ever even look at it. But I wouldn't have remembered that day at the lake if I hadn't gone through this box. If I get rid of all this, maybe it'll mean I'll get rid of that memory too."

Jason assured me that I didn't have to get rid of it. He'd take it back up to the attic.

Another box is full of letters from high school. I had every intention of throwing everything in that box away. The notes from Angie Collantino that she wrote during math class, the letters from Megan Christensen and Sarah Cantrell that made me laugh and laugh. The cards from old boyfriends (one of whom even has a blog now!), and cleverly folded papers from school friends. I hadn't read through these letters in years, so no sense keeping them.

Oh, except...then I started reading them. Ten minutes later, I boxed them all back up again. I really have no use for those letters. Some of them are pure nonsense, but as I read the old notes I remembered those days back from high school. So, the two boxes I was going to toss away, ended up going back to the attic.

The final two boxes are ones I wanted to check up on to make sure all the stuff was still okay. A box of toys, and a box of childhood papers. Things that haven't seen too much daylight since about 1985.

Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, and California Barbie are still doing fine. Their respective gadgets are still in working order, although this time around I noticed the considerable wear they received all those years ago. I debated about which toys to pull out for Sydney. I decided she could have one pony--which she spent the afternoon chatting with and giving rides to on her tricycle--and then I put the rest of the toys back in the attic. Another year I'll bring them down.

I glanced through the diary I kept my fifth grade year, marveling at the drama of March 3, 1987 ("I got in another fight with Rachel. I'm friends with her again though.") and the mundane ("I watched 'Who's the Boss?' and 'Growing Pains.' That was real touching."). It's almost uncomfortable reading about my elementary school nerdiness. I don't know why I bother keeping the diary since it's really so...awkward. Fortunately, I grew up some. I don't get into fights with my friends anymore, although I suspect I would still cry if I saw a particularly touching episode of "Growing Pains." Because really, what's not to cry about Kirk Cameron before he was Left Behind, and Leonardo DiCaprio before he was a mega-hot movie star?

I still have a thick envelope of paper dolls, which I was relieved to see since I thought I had lost it. Mostly I wanted to make sure I still had my Princess Diana paper dolls. She was there, with her seven glamorous paper outfits. At the bottom of this box is my sticker book that my mom put together for my tenth birthday. I still remember waking up that morning of my birthday, and looking down to see it on the floor, filled with all my stickers and some new ones too. It was one of the best birthday presents I ever remember receiving.

Flipping through the pages, it wasn't hard to tell that I was indeed a child of the 80's. Stickers of girls with leg warmers. Stickers of unicorns cheering for the American Olympic team. And pages and pages of stickers of baby animals, which I suspect has less to do with the 80's and more to do with being a pre-teen girl.

Oh, but my favorite sticker of all just captured everything about my childhood obsessions. I have no recollection of receiving this sticker, but I suspect I mailed away for it. I would wager to guess that my cousin Donnelle and I probably had matching stickers, because we were united in this particular devotion.

Seriously. Was I cool, or what?

Tales from the School Cafeteria

It's almost the end of the school year in these parts. Only a few more days. Five? Five more days? And then Jason's home for the summer? Oh my goodness gracious. Summer.

Over at PBN, they're asking about favorite cafeteria stories now that soon all these little school aged kiddos will be free of that perilous place. The first thing I think of when I hear the word "cafeteria" is a paper I wrote in college about my first day at a new school. (I was going to post it here, but it's really really awful. As in, awful writing. My pride prevents me from letting you see this atrocious piece of work.)

Since I'm all distracted by thinking about summer, let me just give you the run down of the story that might give you just a hint of the kind of person I was back in my cafeteria days.

• My junior year in high school I transferred to a new school, and that first day of lunch was traumatic. The whole experience of walking into the cafeteria still plays in slow motion in my head. Going through the double doors. The sea of unfamiliar faces. The chatter of everyone catching up on their summer stories. The tables with no extra chairs. Over there, back by the food line, there's an empty chair, not really at a table but turned away enough from the general crowd to be unnoticed. Unnoticed, but not invisible, which is exactly what I wanted to be at that moment. Could I make it to the chair? Would I faint from the terror? I walked past everyone and made it to the chair, feeling sick and not hungry a bit. I glanced around and after a moment I walked out, headed to my car, and ate lunch there. In fact, I ate lunch in my car for the first month of school.
• After a month of eating lunches in my car, I decided that I wasn't going to stick around at this new school. The bell rang, and I got in my car and started driving north. Soon enough I was out of Portland and back into Washington. Stopped by my old high school, said, "Hey! I'm sick of the new school, and so I'm driving off into the sunset." They all wished me good luck and off I drove, on my way to Seattle with no plans, no money, and only a full tank of gas in my Chevy Nova to take me wherever I was going. At some point, I figured I was going to get into a lot of trouble if my parents found out about this little escapade, plus my siblings would need a ride home from school. The thought of them wondering where I was, being frightened that they had been abandoned at their new school, broke my heart, and so after an hour of driving I turned around and headed back to school. I got there just in time to make the last class of the day, where I was a teacher's assistant for a computer class. During class I managed to hack into the school's attendance records where I changed the records to show that I had been at school all day so that the attendance office wouldn't call my parents. They never found out. Until. just. now.

So, there you go. A blast from my high school cafeteria past. The upside is I turned out okay, mostly. And I did end up making friends at the new school. Even a boyfriend, who I later married. There's the happy ending.

*****

Thinking about my own school experiences makes me (1) rather fearful about ever sending Sydney to school, and (2) grateful that there are web sites that are trying to make things just a little bit easier for kids tromping through the cafeteria lines. Check out School Menu and its parental counterpart Family Everyday, two sites that work together with School Food Services Directors to provide and promote healthy eating and physical fitness for kids and their parents. The Family Everyday site has recipes (recipes! woo!), and School Menu links to local schools to show you what's being served for lunch that day. You can even sign up for the newsletter and they'll email you stuff about lunch and food and everything that could make your life a little bit easier. Heck, maybe knowing what's being served for lunch will give your kid the info they need to find a friend in the cafeteria: "Hey! Did you see we're having enchiladas for lunch today? Let's be best friends!" Or you know, something like that.

Week 155: Eight Things

{Eight things in my head}

There's the trivial, like how Google Reader is seriously irking me because it has had issues feeding blogs properly. I hate being out of the loop, and when I don't get someone's blog post until THREE days after it's been posted, I call that being out of the loop.

There's the social life, like this weekend when we went to two beautiful weddings (congrats to Shelly & Eric and Brittany & Kenny!) and a birthday party (happy 4th birthday Emily!). We drove an hour north for one wedding where all the people we knew were our parents' age (and we therefore got the obligatory, "So what's going on in your life?" questions). Then we drove two hours south for another wedding where many of the people we knew were former students (where we do the asking of "So what's going on in your life?" questions). Quite a day of extremes.

There's the academic, like how this Teaching Grammar class that I'm taking is a lot of hard work and hard thinking and makes my brain too tired to even think about blogging. It's probably not that difficult, but I'm not in top form these days. As an added bonus (or not), it's also making me more self-conscious about my writing. Bother.

There's the blog stuff, like how I like reviewing things, but not sure if I like reviewing them here on my regular blog because it makes me feel like a commercial (but I do try to be funny. Am I at least entertaining you with my commercials? See, I'm all self-conscious these days.).

There's the semi-artistic, like how I've decided that I love creating photo banners for blogs. I just did a few this weekend for my sister's friends (and thereby, by extension, my friends), and I fully enjoyed myself. I'm not spectacular at it, but it's fun to do.

There's the reflecting, like how my sweet little girl is turning three years old next Tuesday. How did that happen?

There's the dreaming, like how I'm entering yet another backyard contest over at HGTV (thanks Alida, for the link!). I gave up pinning my hopes on Oprah.

And there's the parent stuff, like how Jules turned FIVE months old yesterday (!!) and has been rolling over for a couple weeks now so there's no keeping her contained in one place anymore.

But Sarah tagged me with "Eight Things You Don't Know About Me," so I'm going to do that. I'll try to outdo my sister and think of things not everyone in the whole world already knows about me.

{one}

Sydney went fishing this week with her grandpa, her cousin, and her great-uncle. The big thrill wasn't that she got to go on a boat for the first time, or put worms on the hook, or watch my Uncle Bud catch a fish. The big thrill was that there was a potty on the boat. Thrilling! Since her adventure, I've had to rethink my position on the whole outdoors. I am not a happy camper. Actually, I'm not much of any kind of camper. But -- and here's the new info part -- I'm thinking I might be able to handle the whole outdoorsy adventure thing. Maybe it's the fact that we can't be outdoors much at our house on account of the backyard, or maybe it's because Jason has rubbed off on me. Whatever it is, I dare say I might go camping this summer.

{two}

Even though I hardly have any spare time on my hands, I've decided to learn how to embroider. I saw this post over at Yvestown, and it brought to mind several pillowcases I have in which the embroidery has started to unravel. It has crossed my mind to repair the cases, but I didn't know how. Now I'm going to learn.

{three}

The oldest article of clothing in my closet is an oversized blue and white sweater from when I was 15. That makes it 16 years old. It gained it's own small amount of fame as being the chosen article of clothing I wore on my Sweet Sixteenth Birthday Party. I still wear it, but not out in public. There's not even a small chance that it will come back in style.

{four}

My favorite movie of all time is Pride & Prejudice (the 2005 version). I actually prefer it over the mini-series even if it's not as true to the book. On my list of favorite books? Pride and Prejudice. Favorite CD list? The soundtrack to Pride & Prejudice. Favorite sheet music for the piano? You guessed it. I'm nothing if not quite predictable. If someone wants to become my own personal hero for the year they can get me the annotated version of Pride and Prejudice.

{five}

My favorite (card) game to play is cribbage. I'm not fond of playing card games on account of me not being very good at them coupled with me having a bit of a competitive streak, but I do love cribbage. Jason taught me how to play when we were honeymooning in Maine, and that's also where we got our cribbage board. My least favorite game to play? Monopoly. I generally refuse to play that game.

{six}

I am not a cat person. Jason is severely allergic to them so I don't ever have to worry about owning a cat. I don't mind cats, but I don't like to pet them because I always get cat hair on my hands. I hate that. The exception: I like holding kittens. I never grew out of that "baby animals are fun" stage.

{seven}

If I could live anywhere outside of the Pacific Northwest, I'd live in Kauai. Or London. Both fabulous places, and both very expensive places to live (hence, me not living there).

{eight}

My least favorite household chore is folding laundry. Not sorting laundry, not putting it in the washing machine. Folding. Because after I fold it, then I have to put it away, and putting laundry away is my second least favorite household chore. However, since I overheard Jason casually remark this morning about not having any clean socks or clean undershirts (he really was just so kind about it!), then today is laundry day. And judging from the amount of laundry, tomorrow is laundry day too. So, that's what I'm off to do.

Week 146: Crumbs

Here is my moment of NCAA bragging. Humor me, please.

Me: I just looked online, and I'm in first place in both my tournament brackets.
J:    Good for you.
Me: Not too bad for someone who doesn't know anything about basketball.
J:    Well, that's not entirely true. You know something.
Me: I guess.
J:    Can you name any of the powerhouse conferences?
Me: ... Pac 10?
J:    Uh, not really. Can you name any players?
Me: No.
J:    Any coaches?
Me: No.
J:    Do you know who won last year?
Me: Umm....no.
J:   Can't name a conference, player, coach, or winning team and you're in first place.
Me: Yep.
J:   Good work.

*****

My mind is full of this post I want to write about Sydney negotiating the emotions of growing up, but the best I can do is write about college basketball. I confess I sometimes get all stressed out about writing on Mondays because I want my Monday posts to be meaningful and significant and capture what's going on in my life, and when I reach into my creative well, I find that it's full of crumbs. And not even crumbs of chocolate chip cookies. More like stale saltine cracker crumbs.

Sometimes I wish I was that writer. You know, the one that can type up some amazing post in 5 minutes without an edit. I am not that writer. I work hard at writing, even still, sweating the details and metaphors and phrases. It's fun...sometimes. And sometimes it's not fun.

That's when I start need to start talking about basketball. Because at least that's fun.

A decaffeinated post

(I have received several emails reporting that Typepad isn't letting some of you comment. Sorry about that. I don't know what the issue is, and hope they resolve it soon.)

How did I get so lucky to have friends who write me the nicest things? You do, you know. And I suspect I hardly deserve it too when it seems like every other week I'm writing about being at my wit's end. I'm not sure my mom is even this patient with me. But you guys, really. You keep me sane.

I've been taking deep breaths these last two days, letting the laundry pile up around me (at least it's clean!), getting behind on all sorts of things. Even though parenting an infant has been way easier the second time around, I have to say I was caught off guard by the effects of sleep deprivation. Sure I was tired during pregnancy, but of course it's totally not the same. I may have had trouble getting to sleep, and I may have had trouble staying asleep, but that's a far different (and better) world than having a tiny person scream at me to get out of bed already before I starve from hunger! And even if I pull her into bed with me, I'm not really sleeping that well. For good reason, no matter how tired I am, if I have a baby next to me my brain is only half sleeping. The other half is pulling the midnight guard duty in making sure I don't push my tiny bed partner out of bed. (Yes, and that's why she doesn't get to sleep with me much anymore because it drives me crazy.)

So, bear with me as I try to keep my sanity under control. And, to all my former students, revel in all the fragmented, grammatically incorrect sentences that will surely abound as I attempt to keep writing despite being tired. Of course, I could stop writing, but then I'd have to start paying for therapy and I'd rather spend that money on my favorite topic (the backyard, remember?). 

Sleep deprivation isn't the only culprit that's making me emotionally raw these days. My journey through Lent has also been good, albeit difficult. Difficult not because of the chocolate and candy I've given up, but difficult because I've been spending more time reflecting on my priorities and my bad habits. I've come to at least one conclusion: it bet it would be easier to reflect on priorities and bad habits if I could do it alongside a nice lunch of chocolate chips. Heh.

So, that's where I am right now. Tired, uncomfortable, reflective, and going through caffeine withdrawals. Sounds like a great place to be, huh?

Well, at least I have you guys to keep me company.

Week 143: Wanting to be better

I've started four different posts today. One about potty training (BIG NEWS: Sydney has had multiple dry nights and yesterday she pooped in the toilet--serious cause for celebration). One about Lent (the results of not eating chocolate or junk food? Massive migraines from the caffeine/sugar withdrawal). One about the Oscars (Yay for Martin! And yay for Jennifer Hudson, but that poor girl and her red dress! It so clearly didn't fit her, and I was nervous just watching her dance on the stage fearing that those little cherry tomatoes weren't going to make it through the song.) And one about my trip to the fabric store to get material for curtains (I had lunch with the always fabulous Diane, and after seeing all the lovely decorating projects she's got going, I was totally inspired to make curtains).

But in the end, I can't get any of those things into a coherent post because my mind is being pulled in so many different directions. Mostly I just feel like I need to re-evaluate my priorities, and figure out what I should give up, and what I should keep, and what I should give up even though I really want to keep. I'm finding that it's hard knowing how to balance parenting,
and mom grouping,
and teaching,
and blogging,
and wifeing,
and cleaning,
and friending,
and reading,
and praying
and... *sigh*

My head is so noisy these days with everything that's going on. I don't want to give anything up, because all those things are important to me. But I can't figure out how to do them all well. I'm even fretting about this post because I could have written it better, if only my mind was a little clearer.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm sleep deprived, and so I don't really have a good perspective about anything. Something has to change though. Something.

Week 140: Birthday cabbage

Thank you all for your wonderful birthday wishes! It was a nice birthday--not too exciting, but sometimes that's a good thing. Ordinarily we might have gone out for my birthday, but because it was Thursday then we were busy. On Thursdays, we meet up with several other couples from our church for a Bible study. I had, however, planned ahead and made myself in charge of bringing dessert for Thursday. My friend said I shouldn't have had to make my own birthday dessert, but I was happy to do it. Plus, that way I knew I was going to be eating something I enjoyed! The dessert? Blueberry/Cranberry Cobbler. It was delish. As it should be since it has 3 cups of sugar.

Really, it was a lovely birthday aside from one teeny tiny thing: I woke up with the tell-tale signs of a nursing infection (yes, I could call it a breast infection, but I'm trying to be specific here). Fortunately, I was a good girl scout and had already prepared for such an event. Having had a horrid case of mastitis six weeks after Sydney was born (I celebrated July 4th, 2004, with hot and cold packs), I didn't want to go through that again. So shortly after Jules was born I sent Jason off to the grocery store to pick me up a head of cabbage. Yep. Cabbage. One of the best remedies for fighting off those infections is to place a nice cold leaf of cabbage on the girls and let the healing begin. I don't know why cabbage works, I just know that it does. Four days and a refrigerator minus a head of cabbage later and I'm feeling much better now.

The downside? You mean minus the fact you have cabbage on your boob? Well, you may end up smelling a bit cabbagey. Also, cabbage leafs are extremely non-absorbent which--as any nursing mom can tell you--can be rather perilous. This I realized again Thursday night when I was at our Bible study. Although it is a very nursing-friendly group since all the families there have young children (and four of the moms have nursing babies at the group), I still do my best to maintain a level of discreetness. This is not always easy to do, especially since we're all rather cozy on couches. Last Thursday I was seated quite closely next to one of the dads of the group, so I did my level best not to flash him. With Jules in place, and a blanket draped over my front, I started to nurse her when I realized that I still had a cabbage leaf in place. I removed it and consequently released a small flood of milk that had pooled under the leaf. Julianne sputtered and coughed, and I contorted myself so that the milk didn't go dripping onto the leather couch where gravity would surely run it towards my backside (or worse: the backside of the dad next to me).

I imagined the conversation:
Other Dad: (noticing his jeans are all wet) What the....?
Me: Don't worry. Just a spot of milk. Make sure you wash those jeans. Don't want protein stains on your rear.

Yikes.

I managed to soak up the milk with my shirt, but as I fiddled around with that, at some point I lost track of where the leaf was.

Oh no. The leaf. Where's the leaf? WHERE'S THE LEAF?!! What if I stand up and a wilted cabbage leaf falls from under my shirt? What if the leaf is stuck to my shirt? What if it's stuck to Jule's head?! I have to find the leaf!

Mad scrambling under my shirt ensued like some PG-13 rated movie, but fortunately I was able to find the leaf and secure it, saving myself from future humiliation. Of course, the whole ordeal made me a bit flustered and when Jules finally emerged from under the blanket her face was dripping with milk. The dad next to me couldn't help but notice, and gave a knowing chuckle. I laughed too, perhaps more out of relief that there wasn't a cabbage leaf stuck to her forehead.

In short, I do recommend cabbage leafs for fighting off infections, but you have been duly warned of their mischievous nature.

Even though there were other bithday events--a party at McMenamins on Friday, shopping for a new computer monitor on Saturday, enjoying a Super Bowl party at a friend's on Sunday--I'm quite sure that turning 31 will forever be remembered as the day I held cabbage leaves near and dear to my heart. Literally.

Week 138: Beginning the Resolutions

I didn't start out the New Year with any sort of resolutions. I had enough on my mind, and figured just getting through the night would be a good enough resolution.

But today I'm trying to get myself back on track. I gave myself four weeks of guilt free lazing around, stuffing my face, pure inertia. Even though my friends all assure me that I can eat whatever I want and not gain any weight, it's not quite true. Those 20 pounds I lost the week after Jules was born has turned into less than 20 pounds because I have been eating massive amounts of food. Seriously. Nine months of no appetite caught up with me, and I find myself starving. All. the. time. It started the moment I gave birth to Julianne (actually, it started the hour before that) and it has continued since then.

Sure, I have some excuse to be eating more because I'm nursing, but it's gotten a bit out of hand. Just a couple weeks ago we were at Applebee's, and I ordered a meal. Per her request I ordered Sydney spaghetti, but when it arrived she burst into tears and cried, "I don't LIKE spaghetti!" in that whiny voice that she slips into more often than we'd like. I told her that she could opt not to eat anything (so she didn't). Then not only did I eat my meal, but I ate all of Sydney's meal too.

When Jason asked me where Sydney's spaghetti was (I suppose so we could take it home and have her eat it for dinner) I confessed: "I ate it."

"Well, where's your meal?"

"I ate that too." Then I checked his plate just to make sure there weren't any more leftovers I could eat.

Today I decided that I was feeling strong enough and recovered enough that I could start with some exercise to compensate for the million calories I eat every day. This morning I told Sydney that we were going to exercise, and she was all over that. She pulled out my post-pregnancy exercise DVD, ran to get the exercise mat, and then urged me on, "Let's go Momma!"

Okay, Coach.

We started with some pilates but it wasn't the usual routine that I do, and so I got annoyed with the instructor. Nevertheless, Sydney was encouraging. "Lay down! Legs up! Squeeze your gluts!"

"I am squeezing my gluts, Syd."

"Squeeze those gluts Momma! Gluts! Gluts!"

You think I'm joking, but really, she's fierce about those gluts. And she's energetic about getting all the moves down. When she's not coaching me on, she's making sure I notice what a great job she's doing. "Look at me! I'm doing it! I'm moving like her!" And indeed, she's certainly more flexible than I am. Hopefully I'll catch up with her eventually.

At the end of the workout, there's a Mommy and Me workout to be done with the baby, and even though I tried to get Sydney to do the exercises with her doll while I worked with Julianne, she would have none of that. "You take the baby, Momma. And I'll take Julianne." So, with some monitoring on my part, Sydney did all the stretching exercises with Jules. She worked her arms, her legs, and gently massaged her shoulders and tummy. I didn't get much of a workout, but my heart still seemed to get plenty of exercise anyway.

I had thought I would only do pilates a couple days a week, but if Sydney pulls out the floor mat tomorrow you can bet I'll be exercising with her. That's okay. The more I exercise the less I have to worry about those two three bowls of spaghetti I had for lunch.

Changing Landscapes

Hard to believe that just a few weeks ago we were enjoying a lovely early autumn evening down by the creek at my parents' house, and now--after a few days of heavy rains--it's all under water.

The flooding is actually normal, so while it's amazing to see the difference it isn't anything to be alarmed about. When I was growing up, we never paid that much attention to the seasonal flooding of the creek. The weather was never nice enough to go down there to play in the winter, so we didn't miss it. It was always curious, however, to go back to the creek late the next spring and see how the landscape had changed. A tree gone here and replaced by a rock. A new little creek here that had changed its course of travel over the months. A whole slew of mulligan golfballs that would be trapped in a mud hole thanks to the golf course upstream.

We never really lamented the change, just accepted it and made the new landscape our own. The only time I remember being particularly sad was the year that the rope-swing tree washed away. The swimming hole had filled up with debris, and so we spent that summer wading in and out of the shallows.

I would write something profound here, about how we can learn from kids who accept change as a part of life, but it isn't exactly a true observation. Just yesterday Sydney had a meltdown when I unwrapped her granola bar and it broke in two pieces. The world ended. "Fix it! Put it together! Fix it!" she wailed as she collapsed on the floor. I left her weeping on the floor, and after several minutes she found me. With two little pieces of granola clutched in her hands, and tears streaming down her red face, she tried again, "Mommy, please fix it." I couldn't fix it. Just like I couldn't get the too-small shoes to fit her feet the week before, or take the orange bowl out of the running dishwasher so she could have applesauce in it.

I suppose it's about perspective on what things you feel like you should have control over, and what things you don't. Last summer when the college student we had had living with us during the school year moved back home, Sydney was mostly unfazed even though she'd seen Rebekah nearly every day for nine months and loved her dearly. She'd pass by Rebekah's room and say casually, "Rebekah's gone," and then go back to playing. Or several weeks ago when we temporarily got rid of all our furniture and she found the living room empty one morning. "The couch is gone," she commented before pulling her blocks out to play.

Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to what affects us and what doesn't. This last weekend my brother's family moved to the Family Farm. I have been so happy thinking about how wonderful it is to have my family even more consolidated (it makes visiting with everyone that much easier), and can't wait to see what Sarah is going to do with the old farmhouse. And yet, this morning when I was on the phone with my mom, when I said, "I hope that Sydney still feels like the farm is hers even though Clover is living there now," I got all choked up and weepy. I guess even though most of me embraces the new changes, part of me is still a bit selfish in wanting it to stay the same.

I know I'm being extra reflective about change since in six weeks we'll be adding a new person to our family. It'll be good change. But it'll be different. One day we'll be roasting marshmallows by the fire, the next it'll all be underwater. Then eventually the waters will recede and we'll discover a whole new landscape of life filled with different wonders and places to explore. The trick will be to embrace all the newness, and not get drowned in the loss of how things used to be.

Perhaps easier said than done.

Week 123: Doing This

Last week I got an email from the head of the English department asking if I wanted to teach College Writing next semester. Or to be more specific: College Writing II, which is just a less threatening title for the class students like to call That Crazy Research Paper Writing Class that is Taking Up My Life. Professionally, teaching that class would be a step up for me. More opportunities in the English department, more room to show-off my specialty (although truthfully, my real specialty is complaining about pregnancy and eating ice cream directly from the carton).

So when the email came, I was a bit surprised at myself that I quickly and without regret wrote back the department chair and politely declined the offer. Thanks but no thanks. I'd rather teach speech.

I wrote that. I'd rather teach speech.

And I wondered briefly: who is that person that would rather teach speech over teaching writing? Over teaching research paper writing? Ah, yes, that would be me.

In my short commute from school to home I reflected on my decision. Was I giving it up because the writing class would pay less? Was I afraid of failing at teaching a subject I love? Was I lazy in not wanting to commit to a class with a heavier work load? Or was it because the idea of taking on a new class in January--a mere couple weeks after having a baby--doesn't sound the least bit enjoyable to me? I searched for some part of me that was disappointed about giving up this new opportunity and didn't find it.

I wasn't disappointed. I had simply come to terms with what I want right now in life. Not a career. Not a full-time teaching job. Not a PhD. Not more afternoons talking to college students. A year ago my dream job was becoming a full-time professor. But somehow, unexpectedly, I have become the mom who just wants to be a mom. I just want to stay home and color and play with dolls and keep up with the laundry. When Sydney and I have lunch together and she says, "Mommy, do this!" and claps her hands, I get a big kick out of clapping my hands with her. "Mommy, do this!" and I'm tapping my nose, then making screechy bird noises, then knocking my head against the back of the chair. Following my daughter's directions is what I live for. I have become that woman--that former high strung career oriented girl--that some other career women wonder about. You have a degree, someone asked me once, so doesn't it drive you crazy to not be doing something with it?

It did. But now it just doesn't seem to. I don't know what changed, except that I know that it did. That smart, academic part of me isn't gone, she just isn't chomping at the bit anymore. She isn't reminding me to keep on top of the communication journals. She isn't pestering me to submit that paper to the Irish literature conference. She's gotten kind of quiet, although she periodically drops names like Bahktin and Althusser and Amis back into my memory. But she's not bossing me around anymore, making me feel guilty for staying home instead of putting my academic skills to use.

Being a mom was never something I wished for. I never wished to hold a little hand in mine and help her plunk out "Twinkle Twinkle" on the piano. I was often perplexed by women who said, "I'm just happy being at home." For once upon a time, the idea of not working sounded rather terrifying and financially poor.

But now I have all that--being a mom, holding the little hand, listening to Sydney make suggestions about the next song to sing. "How 'bout...Old MacDonald?" she asks. "How 'bout...Winkle Winkle?" When did that become the highlight of my life? Not when she was born. Not when she turned one. Not really when she turned two. But gradually over the past few months, something changed. A little seed of contentment was planted, and it somehow survived. Sure, we have the financially poor part too, but it's okay. I'm even happy with that part.

Maybe someday that academic girl will come knocking at my door and say, "Let's try this again." But if she doesn't, I haven't lost anything. No matter what anybody says, me not teaching isn't a waste of ability or degree. It just isn't. Because I know when Sydney does her own version of Simon Says at lunch tomorrow-- "Mommy, do this!"--I'll be doing it.

And I'll be happy.

(Post Edit: I should add that I most certainly do not believe that all moms should make the decision to stay home. I only wanted to capture my own personal change because it is such a dramatic one.)

Week 116: The state of happiness

Abraham Lincoln said, "Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." I used to think that he must not have had much sympathy for emotional people, but after knowing quite a bit about President Lincoln's life, I realize that this must have been the little pep talk that he gave himself to get through it all--a nation at war, the death of a son, the distress of his wife, and a Presidential cabinet that hated each other. This last week is proof for me that you can believe in all the happiness you want and it sometimes you still fall apart.

I tried. I did. I gave an extremely valiant effort to stay cheery and peaceful and glass half full.

Like when my ab muscles ripped in half, I told myself that some things are worth sacrificing for pregnancy.

Or when I didn't get to catch up with my friends at our collegiate alumni soccer game, I remembered that earlier in the week I had been able to spend many hours with my friend Devon at a teahouse in Corvallis.

Or when Jason experienced severe pain and was diagnosed with a hernia, I remained thankful that it was diagnosed early and that our super duper awesome health insurance would cover the surgery (however, we found out today that--hallelujah--he doesn't have a hernia, only a strained ligament).

Or when Sydney came down with a serious case of the runs, resulting in not only one but two messy beds in 12 hours, I considered it a blessing that at least she wasn't throwing up. And I was thankful for our washing machine. Seven days later she still has seriously distraught diapers, but she remains in good spirits.

But by the time Friday came along, all my little pep talks were wearing thin. When my doctor's appointment on Friday was full of nothing but good news, I cried through the whole appointment. Cried because earlier in the week my brother's sister-in-law had a miscarriage. Cried because Sydney kept me up half the night. And cried because, vanity of vanities, I wasn't prepared to see the scale at the doctor's office reach that 130 mark. Yes, I know weight gain is part of pregnancy. Yes, I know that my doctor congratulated me on finally putting on some weight half way through the pregnancy. But I have to mentally prepare myself for every pound, and seeing that "3" on the scale was more than I was ready for at 10 in the morning.

Yet, I remembered: in a year I'll be back to normal. I crammed my mind with as much happiness as I could, praised God for all the blessings that I have, and whispered, "I make up my mind to be happy."

I make up my mind to be happy.

But, oh! Some of us have discovered that there are things stronger than our minds. Like the power of a toddler's total meltdown. Just yesterday, after a pleasant morning's walk to the park, after a handful of M&Ms, and after enjoying time together, the afternoon felt apart. Totally and completely. Naptime was met with hysteria and lunch was totally unacceptable. I held my sobbing child while listening to a peaceful piano rendition of "Amazing Grace" and said, "I make up my mind to be happy." Only--and here's the great lesson of the day--I couldn't get there. All I could think was, "I really wanted a tuna sandwich for lunch and now I won't get one."

I don't know how many people cry over tuna, but I will admit to being one of them. No matter how brightly the shone sun, how soundly my daughter eventually slept, how beautifully my new dining room light hung over the table--my mind wouldn't wasn't going to keep me from turning into a puddle of tears.

Sometimes, despite our best efforts to remain calm, breathe deeply, and consider how trivial some problems really are, there is no happy thought powerful enough to keep us from breaking down. Abraham Lincoln may have had good reasons behind his words of advice, but I bet he didn't have to try to get a toddler to take a nap or search his closet for a pair of shorts that still fit.

So don't mind me. I'm not unhappy. I'm not depressed or stressed or ill or miserable. I'm just pregnant and hormonal and a mom of a toddler. I've tried making up my mind to be happy, only sometimes I get peanut butter and jelly instead.

Memesis

The word is out: I like getting tagged. Raehan (who is back from her hiatus and is posting again, and I couldn't be happier) tagged me for this, and even if I didn't like memes I'd still do it because I admire her so much.

I AM: outgoing and charismatic in front of large groups, but shy in one-on-one interactions. I am a leader, who has learned to step back since becoming a mom. I am devoted to loving my family the best that I can. I am sometimes a slob, although very organized. I am rarely a perfectionist; I am sometimes bossy, but hopefully not condescending. I am learning that the best I can do today is not always the best I can do tomorrow.

I WANT: my daughter to grow up feeling loved by her parents, part of a community that she can contribute to, part of a world that she can make a difference in, part of a faith that is bigger than me.

I WISH: I was better at keeping in touch with people. I think about and pray for people often, but I wish I could shake off my insecurities and call people more often and set up lunch dates, play dates, movie dates.

I HATE: being late to things because I get so frazzled. My family was habitually late to everything, but Jason has helped me plan better for leaving on time.

I MISS: sleeping in and sleeping through the night (I just wake up in the middle of the night even if Sydney doesn't...it's so annoying). I miss going out to movies whenever we feel like it.

I FEAR: over-committing myself to projects-groups-tasks. I want to make sure that I always leave myself enough time and energy to be a good wife and mom. I used to never say "no" to a project, and now I do all the time, even if I would be good at it. It's hard for me to gage when I should stretch myself, and when I should just focus on what I'm already doing.

I WONDER: if I'll ever get my PhD. I'd really love to, but I wonder how I'd possibly find the time. Plus, the University of Oregon is the only local program, and that doesn't excite me at all.

I REGRET: not developing better friendships in college. I regret quitting a job I liked working for a yearbook publications company to take a teaching job I ended up hating (and quit three months later).

I AM NOT: diligent at staying on task, patient with my mistakes, happy with my squishy tummy, good at staying on a budget. I also am not one to lose my temper, hold grudges, make fun of others.

I DANCE: every day with Sydney. We hop down the hall, twirl in the living room, spin in the backyard.

I SING: all the time, sometimes real songs, sometimes made up ones. I sing first soprano, and really ought to sing in the church choir (but that's one of those "fear of over-commitment" things).

I CRY: at all the sappy moments on TV or in movies, but rarely when I read books. "Scrubs" almost always makes me cry. "Grey's Anatomy" too. I also cry when I'm tired, stressed, or late.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: independent, good at debating, patient with unorganized people, diligent to comment on your posts even though I love what you write. I am not always as discontented or worried or insecure as I sometimes portray myself.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: dinner for my family almost every night. I have learned to really enjoy cooking, and could spend a lot of time writing about food except that it's not very exciting.

I WRITE: because I enjoy it. I write better academic papers than creative non-fiction. I write with the hopes that someday I'll get to make a living at it (or teaching it).

I CONFUSE: my husband with moodiness. Heck, I confuse myself with my moodiness.

I NEED: to worry less about what other people think. (I would do well to recite this hourly!)

I SHOULD: exercise more often, eat less sugar, spend less time on the computer, read more books, videotape my daughter doing all these things that make me laugh.

I START: organization projects without always finishing them. I have four file cabinets with drawers dedicated to various projects--one for household miscellaneous, one for graduate work, one for American literature, one for British Literature, one for theatre, one for Sydney's info--and if I could get all the manila folders properly labeled we'd never have another stray piece of paper.

I FINISH: dessert, even though I rarely finish my dinner.

I TAG: anyone who hasn't blogged in the last few days!

Week 99: Oh, the Plans We Make!

I have this little game I like to play called, "Planning out the rest of my (Jason's, Sydney's) life." It's very similar to the game of Life, where you look ahead to see that if you roll a 6 then you get to live in a mansion. But if you roll a 1, too bad, you're living in a sleeping bag under the Burnside Bridge. There are little stops along the way to pick up a husband and a certain amount of children. Congratulations! It's a girl. Or twins! Or triplets! And hooray! they're all tax deductable and what a lot of money you get back for them when you're done playing.

In my little game, I start playing at unexpected moments, with varying options to work with. Like yesterday, in church, had you glanced over my way you would have seen me taking copious notes. Ah, yes, you might have remarked, she's really interested in this early church history bit. "The purpose of the church..." scribble scribble scribble... "and our mission as a church..." scribble scribble scribble. Diligent churchgoer.

But take a closer look at my bulletin and you would have seen numbers: 94, 96, 97, 00. The year that I graduated from high school, followed by the years that my siblings graduated from high school. Then off to the side: 12, 9, 8. The grades that, at this point, our hypothetical children will be in when Sydney is a senior. (I wasn't up to figuring out the math of when she'll graduate from high school.)

The "Siblings" version of the game.

At this point, the game gets a little bit crazy with all sorts of hypotheticals. I try to figure out how much value I should put on my experiences of going to high school with my siblings, so that if in some world (that is not run by me) Sydney does not end up with similar experiences I can estimate how much disappointment I will face as a parent. Emotional algebra, in which we have no control of the numbers.

Even after church I'm still trying to figure out how we (I) can make it work.

"If Sydney's in 12th grade," I say to Jason, "and hypothetical child #2--"

"---which we don't have---"

"---right, kid #2 is in 9th grade, that'll still be okay, right? Maybe some of the same sports? Maybe choir?"

"Or," he says, and here I have trapped him into my little game, "she could be old for her grade. Turn 19 at the end of her senior year. Like Joanna." Ever mindful of sports: Joanna was his star basketball player.

"Possibly." I mull it over and crunch more numbers.

"One tricky thing is if child #2 is graduating from high school the same summer that Sydney gets married. Don't want to take away attention from that."

Pause. He says, "You know, you can't actually plan when she gets married."

"Well, obviously. But if she is anything like me, then I would suspect she'd get married."

"But," he counters, "she really is more like me."

And here, Jason has lost a turn because he forgot that he got married. At the same age I did.

Clearly, playing games like these will drive a person crazy because just when you think you've got it planned out then it all goes haywire. Sydney was planned. End-of-the-school-year baby. We made plans for next baby. I look ahead and see that if I roll a 5, the kids will be two years apart.

But then we didn't get pregnant. I rolled a 2, got pregnant, so the kids would be two years, three months, apart. Then I misplayed, and got sent back to the beginning, and now we've missed the 2 1/2 years mark.

I realize how completely insane I am to even have these conversations with myself. And perhaps more insane to let you see into this crazy little corner of my brain.

I asked my mom to email me some pictures of me and my brother--we're 14 months apart--when he had his birthday was last week. He and I were good little buddies, even though there were a few rough years in there. I looked through all those pictures and thought, "That's what it was like to have a sibling."

I can't go back in time and give Sydney a sibling closer to her age. And to be fair, I didn't really want kids that close. Just now, as the window gets wider and wider, I start to feel a little panic. I try to calm down: my sister and I are 3 years apart. We're close. But we had my brother between us to bridge the gap.

Just when I think I should have done a better job on my game strategy, then beautiful moments in life pop up. Getting to spend time with Sydney. Getting to devote all my attention to her. And joy of joys, getting to see her play with her cousin Clover, a mere six weeks older.

Yesterday, as we were celebrating Clover's second birthday at my parents' house, I instinctively knew that no matter what happens she'll have her favorite cousin Clover right by her side. It isn't quite the same as having a sibling, but it's the next best thing.

It's impossible to plan everything, impossible to gauge how excited or disappointed we'll be when things go a certain way, impossible to know what life has around the next corner. I'll never stop planning--it's part of who I am--but I don't want to worry so much about the uncontrollable that I forget what I have.

If all I have at the end of the game is a little blue peg for Jason, a pink peg for me, and a pink peg for Sydney...I have to say, that's a win.