The Left Handed Rabbit

Not Your Average TV Tray

2011-05-17T12:33:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how much I used to love blogging. I mean, I actively looked for things to blog about. When I had a bad day, I’d think, “Well, at least I can blog about it.” Learning to laugh at things (and hoping other people found comfort in laughing at them, too) used to totally make my day.

Since Sam’s birth, I’ve lamented the loss of blogging, the loss of my valued self-expression. There was never enough time, or I was dog-tired from work. But something interesting has occurred over the past few weeks. Sam has gained some level of independence (which I love), and Brett has (on many occasions) taken snuggle time with Sam before bed, so I am actually left, all alone, out in our living room.

At first, I reveled in the alone time. Why, I could watch a show I wanted to watch. I could read my book! The strangest thing is that I found myself NOT wanting to blog. And even though I love my novel, I found myself not wanting to work on that, either.

I struggled within myself, since I am a writer, and in my heart, all I want to do is write. I mean, lock the doors, shut out the rest of the world, and write solidly for hours at a time. That, to me, sounds like a little bit of heaven. And here I was shying away from something I have loved from the moment Mom put a crayon in my hand.

I floundered for a while, until I realized what the problem was—a TV tray. That’s right, a plain wooden (cheap, cheap, cheap) TV tray that held our laptop. It was old and shaky and the thought of pouring my heart out on it just made me want to weep. I realized in that moment that I was an abject failure. My heart pounded, galloped, as I thought about having to write on that crappy TV tray.

You know I have not mourned the loss of our house from the bankruptcy. I have wished on occasion for my own washer/dryer, extra storage, a fenced-in backyard, but that giant albatross, that millstone about our necks, is not missed by me. Oh, but what I realized, I DID miss was my desk. The precious space that was all mine, not organized (because hey, I’m still me), but the space that housed old love notes from Brett, letters from my high school best friend, Tania, and framed photos of the bunnies and other family members that boosted me through those wordless plateaus (few as those were back in the day).

Our apartment has a desk, but it’s Brett’s desk. It’s piled high with clutter, receipts, his wallet, assorted keys, old calendars, reference books, phone books from 1994. You can take the clutter out of the house, but you can’t take the clutter out of my packrat (God love him).

The truth is I made a deal with Brett that if he could contain his clutter to his desktop, then I wouldn’t hassle him about how messy his desk was. That agreement has failed, as I know it would, since my sweet and caring husband (of this I am sincere!) just can’t help himself, and spreads clutter and trails tiny pieces of paper as sure as Pigpen spread his dust among the Peanuts gang.

This clutter has spread to the kitchen table, our countertops, and the three other TV trays, end tables, and bookshelves. Yet, somehow, I’ve managed to clear spaces here and there and make our home a place I can put up with – not love, because a clean and clear space is what I would love. But I know my own reality, and “put up with” is really quite a blessing and definitely good enough for me.

So, it was no wonder, as I stared at that dumpy, lilting tray, I felt failure staring back at me. My majestic hero cannot rise from a TV tray. He would be insulted, in spite of his own humble origins. And somehow, pouring my heart out felt like the least of my worries.

I know it’s silly to miss a desk. I know it’s ridiculous to get sentimental over a TV tray. But, I realized it was true. That stupid tray was holding me back. I purposed in my heart that I would longer be bound by flimsy fiberboard.

In the past week, blog posts have finally started pouring back in my head! My connection has been restored with the mother ship. I can’t guarantee this blog will be any better or even on par with my old posts. I’ve lost valuable brain cells to childbirth, and I don’t think they’re coming back. But, I’ll do my best.

Coming at you live from the stupid TV tray in my living room.

Tagged!

2010-10-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

So, my friend Cindy says she misses me blogging on a regular basis. She’s not the only one! I miss it, too.

Cindy tagged me in a post, so I would HAVE to blog, and so here we go…

Given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go?
I think I would go to Maine. I really want to go to Disneyworld in Florida, but if I’m only getting a plane ticket and not an all-expenses-paid trip in this little fictional exercise, then I would go to Maine. Why Maine? Because one of my all time fictional heroes, Jessica Fletcher, was/is from Maine.

I remember watching Murder She Wrote with my mom all those years and thinking how Maine would be such a nice (albeit murderous) place to visit.

Second (or third, if we’re still counting Florida) would be a nice, cozy cabin in Vermont in the dead of winter. If you know me at all, you know I hate summer weather, so a winter vacation in a snowy state would be right up my alley.

Who is your most admired woman, living or dead, and why?
Well, that’s easy. My mother, of course. I’ve extolled Mom’s many virtues in several other posts. All other places would go to my grandmother, mother-in-law, sister, and several of my wonderful sisters-in-law, nieces, aunts and cousins.

If I don’t include family, I guess I’d have to say Dr. Rosalie de Rosset, one of my professors at Moody. She was the first person to communicate clearly how much God loves women. Up until I met Dr. de Rosset, I thought God loved me less, because I was a woman.

It was Dr. de Rosset who challenged my perception and shoved me into the bright light that was God’s love for ME, as a person AND as a woman. I liked her style, her refusal to pacify male chauvinists, and her take-no-prisoners approach to teaching. Keep up or get out.

She loved the Lord, but everyone else better pay attention and work hard to get noticed. I sure did, and I was extremely pleased when my end-of-class essay was one of only two she chose to read out loud on the last day of class. I’ve done a lot of writing in my life, but that stands out as one of my proudest moments.

(Besides the Bible, of course) What is your favorite book, and why?
My favorite book is The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom. I’ve written about it numerous times. It never fails to move me. I am continually reminded to remember the over six million people who died in civilization’s greatest tragedy. Corrie’s book shows God’s love in such overwhelming circumstances from a vantage point that is uniquely heartbreaking.

Do you re-read favorite books? (If so, care to name which ones?)
Absolutely! My policy is to never buy a book unless I am sure I will re-read it. I mean, otherwise, there’s always the library, right?

I love to re-read Stones from the River (Ursula Hegi), Bad Luck and Trouble (Lee Child), Chocolate Malts and Nickel Sodas (Margaret Johnson – it’s now out of print, sadly), and Body Politic (by Paul Johnston).

What is the biggest difference (other than gender!) between you and your husband?
Wowsa. Loaded question. Does “everything” count as an answer? I mean, seriously, we are polar opposites. He’s mostly a pessimist (unless it comes to people); I’m an optimist (unless it comes to people). I’m ambitious; he’s laid back. I’m neat; he’s a pack rat. I’m a planner; he’s spontaneous. I could go on, but seriously, pick something, and I can almost guarantee we’ll be on opposite sides of it!

What is your favorite soup?
The Baked Potato Soup at The Olympic Tavern. Hands down, the best (potato or any other kind of) soup, I’ve ever had.

If calories, weight gain or health were no object, what food would you eat all you wanted of?
Yeah, like I’d let that stop me anyway. Okay, if you know me, if you read my blog, you already guessed this…bagels and cream cheese!

Untitled (because I’m literally that empty headed)

2010-09-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

Words, stories of any kind have just deserted me of late. I want to want to write, but I feel like a dry well. Once good for something, but now just creaky, parched, and kind of an eyesore someone should raze out of its misery.

I sat down to write a blog post, and ended up writing something pretty foreign to me – a poem. I like it, though, and I think it perfectly expresses how I feel.

Untitled

Maybe I’m not supposed to have the words

Maybe it’s the price I paid

For the baby in my womb

Frustrated, silent and unsaturated

Familiar friends, my verbs and nouns

They skirt the room, eluding me

I wish my urge to chase was stronger

But toys and books and children’s clutter

Calls to me with siren song

Oh housewife of yore

That twit you swore you’d never be

Looks back at you in shock

I can’t relent

I wouldn’t take it back

For all the pictures words would paint

My child’s cry is more

My Birthday with The Other Guys

2010-08-18T08:17:00.001-07:00

Yesterday Angie took me to the movies, ostensibly for my birthday. The truth is Angie and I will use any reason we can think of to go to the movies, including a solar eclipse, religious holidays, and the end of the world.

We pull the "birthday" ruse, so our husbands will think of how "nice" we're being to each other and be less likely to figure out that we are each having about six birthdays a year. (I kid, I kid.)

Anyway, a big thank you to Tim (Angie's husband) and Brett for taking the parental reigns solo and letting the two of us hit the town for dinner and couple $5 movies.

I had only planned on seeing one movie. When Angie and I had talked over the phone, I said I wanted to see The Other Guys (namely, because of the magnificent Mr. Wahlberg). I noticed, however, Ms. Actionista kept trying to persuade me that The Expendables would also be an excellent choice.

I didn't particularly want to see The Expendables, even if every action star ever born was in it, since the script was written by a solid piece of wood known as Sylvester Stallone. Said piece of wood was also the director of this plotless wonder.

But when Angie picked me up from work, she said, "I know you have to work tomorrow, but we could still see at least two movies."

She said it in such as way as to imply that if I didn't want to see two movies, I was a gutless, spiny old person. Washed up at (almost) 32.

I understand, though. Angie and I are true Movie Mavens. Back when Kerasotes had the $5 Club, we'd take a Friday, start in the afternoon, and see up to four movies. Our personal record was five movies in one day! We started at noon (I had taken the day off) and went until 2 a.m.

It was crazy, but it is also a great story to share and glory moment to relive. People are always like, "Five movies in one day! Are you nuts?!"

And we love to admit that we are a little nuts. But you knew that.

Anyway, I accepted Angie's challenge. We went to Panera for a delicious dinner (albeit extremely small portions for the exorbitant price). And then we had to stop at Wal-Mart, because Angie thought she might be cold in the theater. One of the hottest summers on record, and she thinks the theater might be over air-conditioned. Whereas, I, on the other hand, would be willing to sit in the front row hugging the AC vent for dear life.

Ah, well. It is our differences that make us friends.

Angie bought her sweatshirt (a man's Ultimate Fighting something or another – Angie loves the whole UFC thing, and because I listen to her, I actually noticed the logo, and pointed the sweatshirt out to her, despite my distaste for sports and sweaty men. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.). Then we headed to the movies.

We did stop along the way to take a photo of a dog driving a car in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Angie used her smart phone to snap the photo and upload it to Facebook while I cooed at the adorable mobile mutt.

At the theater, Angie pulled a surprise by announcing she had even budgeted for popcorn! This is quite a sacrifice, as popcorn at the AMC Theatres is now gone up to $100 per bag. Well, okay, not that much, but it was still a jump. At Kerasotes, we used to get the "Mega Combo" – two large drinks and a tub of popcorn for $13. At AMC, they will only give you a large bag (no tubs!) and two large drinks for a whopping $18! Holy cow!

Anyway, Angie said she had previously decided to offer the popcorn option ONLY if I agreed to two movies (since with two movies she felt like she'd be getting her money's worth of popcorn). So, I was very grateful, because we've been boycotting popcorn ever since the theater switch, even though we both stare longingly at the concession counter every time we see a movie.

So, we settled in with our (not-as-good-as-Kerasotes') popcorn to watch The Expendables. We had to sit through not one but TWO previews for movies about the devil – in one, a bunch of people are stuck in an elevator with the devil (but you don't know who it is), and a second one about an exorcism. No thank you.

Although, I admit I smiled slightly when I leaned over to Angie and whispered, "Why all the movies about the devil?" and she replied, "The end times." And continued to calmly eat her popcorn while I covered my eyes. I can't watch scary movies – or even scary movie previews – they give me nightmares for weeks!

The Expendables had a predictable plot and a horrible script (expected, as it was written by an oak tree), but the acting was decent, and it sure was something to see all those action stars in one movie. Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger showed up for some corny one-liners (but got cheers from our fellow moviegoers). Mickey Rourke continued to prove himself as an actor with some range in that messed up face.

My favorite was Jet Li who had some great dialogue and terrific martial arts action for an oldster. And, of course, Jason Statham was clearly in his element surrounded by his predecessors. It was actually a very cool torch-passing movie.

I could have done without Stallone or Lundgren and all the UFC fighters, wrestlers, Little Leaguers or whatever they were. But Angie thought they lent some real street cred to the movie, so whatever. It was a fun, popcorn movie and that's all we really wanted or expected.

The Other Guys was WAY funnier than I expected. Will Ferrell was pitch-perfect, and Mark was flawless (and funny) as usual. My favorite line in the whole movie is "You learned to dance, sarcastically?!" It's in the midst of a hilarious scene, but Will Ferrell delivered it so perfectly, I felt like I was saying it. I love it when the movie draws you in so well that you can chose a character and can easily follow his mindset.

The movie got a little bogged down in the middle, and there was some smut that could have easily been left out (the movie is poorer for it, actually), but the end came roaring back. Michael Keaton is excellent as the hardened police captain with a side job at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Eve Mendes does a passable job (high praise coming from me). The Rock and Samuel L. Jackson steal the first part of the movie with some jokes and a surprise twist that bump the whole movie up a couple of notches.

Overall, I was really impressed, and Angie and I were both relieved we ended on that movie. It's always better to end on a more lighthearted movie before heading back into the real world.

The late-night car ride home was filled with rich conversation that might just keep me satisfied until our next movie night – which will undoubtedly be next month. When we celebrate Angie's birthday. Again.

That Guy on Facebook Who Just Won’t Friend Me

2010-08-16T11:40:00.001-07:00

Well, my previous blog post lamenting my own selfishness and poor parenting skills brought many moms out of the boardrooms, playrooms and kitchens to commiserate with me. I thank you all – I really do – for the wonderfully supportive e-mails, blog comments, and Facebook "inboxes" (as my mother calls them).

(Side note: Mom thinks the Inbox on Facebook is a verb. So whenever she wants to send someone a private message, she tells me she is going to "inbox" them. Which of course makes me think of Mom walking up to someone and smacking them upside the head with a gigantic mail box. Which always makes me want to laugh, but I never do, partly because I want her to keep saying it.)

Seriously, I'm so touched by the many moms who told me my feelings were completely normal and that I don't qualify for the loony bin quite yet. I really wish people would talk about these things at church or in everyday conversations.

I wish more people would say, "Man, I have cereal loops in my hair." "Why is Jim-Joe being such a little crankpot today?" or "Has your kid ever tried to ride the vacuum?"

I think I'm going to start saying these things, just so someone is.

What my woe-is-me-just-because-I-got-everything-I-asked-for post DID do was unclog my brain just the tiniest bit, and so I thought I'd try to blog about the topic that is currently driving me nuts.

That Facebook guy who just won't friend me.

If you've read my blog for any length of time, then you know about The Bully Chronicles (see links at right for the full story). You know my experience at my tiny, legalistic "Christian" school left me physically battered and bruised as well as doing quite a number on my psyche.

I promise I'm not going to rehash those posts. They were painful enough to write the first time. I'm just using them as a springboard for some background.

While I dealt with bullies and bystanders, there were always people who were just on the sidelines. People who didn't sway one way or the other.

The neutrals.

My high school bullies were (mostly) in the class one grade higher than mine, my cousin Charity's class (and while Charity and I had our problems back then, she surely didn't bully me. I'm afraid I gave as good as I got on that particular score. But that's what family is for, right?).

My one-year-younger cousin Colleen's class was a sickeningly sweet swarm of do-gooders with plastic smiles, a penchant for antiquated rules, and a devotion to the dreaded culottes (I may be generalizing here a bit).

The REAL truth is the kids in Colleen's class were sincerely nice people, and not one of them ever treated me poorly, no matter how much I weighed or how sarcastic I was bent on being. Which is saying a lot. Because I was EXTREMELY sarcastic. (was?)

To be fair to Charity's class, the other two girls in her class are still two of my dearest friends (as is Charity, once our truce was negotiated).

Anyway, for the most part, the kids in Colleen's class were pretty neutral. I liked almost all of them, and have maintained a point of contact with several of the girls since high school (mostly through our mothers or shared friend Colleen).

But there is this one guy.

I saw him post a comment on our old science teacher's wife's Facebook status. I thought, "Oh, old Frank-n-Beans is on Facebook. I'll see if he wants to be friends."

I sent off my merry little friend request, and seeing as we already have 20 friends in common, I thought it would be a no-brainer. From a tiny school like Holy Rollers, knowing the same 20 people is akin to practically being family.

I didn't hear from good, ol' Frank for a while, and I chalked it up to his not being a regular Facebooker, like yours truly.

But then his comments started popping up on all my friends' statuses. So, I curiously visited his page to see the "Add as Friend" button grayed up in all its glory.

So, he'd ignored me. That little gray button seemed to taunt me as I began to wonder what was so wrong with me that Mr. Dudley-Do-Right, Mr. Frank-n-Beans would ignore me!

I lurked his page to discover he was married with kids. He looked relatively the same (as do I), and seemed to have a happy little life.

I gave myself the pep talk you give when you feel self-conscious. You know the one, where you say, "If someone doesn't want to be friends with you, then you don't want to be friends with them! It's their loss, so there!"

But it just gets under my skin that he doesn't want to be my friend.

I didn't DO anything mean to him. I was nice as pie. He wasn't exactly Mr. Popularity, but at 300 pounds I was hardly being crowned as Miss Typical Teenager, myself.

When I posted my insecurity on Facebook, I expected a blast of people telling me it didn't matter. Instead, I got sympathetic comments from friends who had felt the same way.

Other friends said they had former Sunday School teachers hit the Ignore button when it came to their friend request. Still other related horror stories about people removing them at a whim and even notifying them that they hadn't made the latest "friend" cut.

Ouch!

So, I suppose it could be worse.

I just wish there was a way to find out why he doesn't want to be my friend.

I think Facebook should invent a way for someone who ignores you to send you a message telling you why - a completely honest message - like, "Hey, I never really liked you." "I have a problem with fatties." "I have no interest in any part of your life, not even the tiniest bit. Not even if you write a blog post about me and how much I don't want anything to do with you."

Or, you know, something like that.

I Miss Me

2010-08-12T11:48:00.001-07:00

Caveat: This is not an upbeat post. I'm dealing with some life issues, and as always, you're invited to come along. It's not a laugh-a-minute post, just how I've been feeling lately.

Life is busier than I ever remember it being.

I love my job. I do. I love it, and we need it to keep us financially afloat. God has used it to graciously provide for us to live, and I am so grateful.

But with the "new" (sorta) job comes more hours and definitely more work. Part of my being overwhelmed comes from rushing home to spend time with Sam and trying to squeeze in conversation and dinner with Brett (still eaten in shifts– as one of us entertains Sam, and the other eats).

I am going to be completely honest here. I resent the loss of my time.

There, I said it. MY time is gone – whoosh, poof, vanished!

Now, I wake up and rush to work. I rush home. I rush to sleep. I rush to wake up. Rinse, lather, repeat.

I get inexplicably mad at my husband for wanting me to come home after work.

I envision a stop at Wal-Mart as a time for me to unwind, wander, and refresh my mind as I buy baby food we can barely afford. Instead, Brett calls me almost every day right at quitting time. He wants to know when I'll be home. He doesn't push. He's not panicked. He understands my new job requires more working hours, but he still misses me.

Thankfully, he's not overwhelmed with Sam. He's a great stay-at-home dad. But, he gets cabin fever. With only one car, he and Sam have only Brett's legs to carry them wherever they wish to go. And with heat indexes pushing 100, air-conditioned, toddler-friendly spaces within walking distance are few and far between.

So, he calls me.

"When are you coming home?"

I tell him. Then I casually mention my stopover at Wal-Mart on the way. "Pick us up first," he suggests. "We'll go with you. It'll be fun."

I know, I KNOW I should be thrilled to spend time with husband and especially my (nine-years-prayed-for) baby, but all I really want is TIME BY MYSELF.

It irks me. It irritates me. And what could be a pleasant family trip to Wal-Mart ends up being a huge hassle. All because all I really wanted was a MOMENT for MYSELF.

Now, look I get it. I was thinking how selfish it was for me to be this way. I pray nine years for a baby and when I get one, I can't get away fast enough? But that's not entirely the case. The truth is I love, love, love being with Sam, and I'm with him a lot of the time.

It's just…

It's just I need a break. A breather. A few moments peace while I make the transition from work to home, from professional to mommy, from provider to homemaker, from the person I used to be to this new, harried self.

I miss being me. I miss Ann-Marie. I miss the girl who got lost somewhere along the line. I liked her. I liked spending time with her. Now, all I get is a glimpse in the mirror in the two minutes I get by myself in the bathroom. (And I hear those moments disappear as kids get older and figure how to open doors.)

I was berating myself, self-flagellating verbally to my friend Carleen about this the other day. As I was very nearly in tears explaining my horrible parenting, she stopped me.

"Ann-Marie, I don't think it's being completely selfish. I think it's that there are two kinds of people in this world. People who like being by themselves, and people who hate it. I hate to be by myself. I get lonely. I feel alone. So, I had three kids. I'm never lonely, and I'm definitely never by myself."

At this point I was nodding. I understand never being alone. And I happen to be married to a person just like the one she was describing. Brett hates being alone. He always wants to be with me. He always wants to be with Sam. He misses us desperately if one of us is gone.

She went on. "Now, you're a lot like my sister. You both like being by yourselves. You like spending time with just you. You don't feel lonely; you feel refreshed and recharged, just as you would if spending time with a good friend. So, with the loss of all your 'me' time, you're essentially grieving the death of a dear friendship. There's nothing wrong with your parenting. You love your son, and you love your husband. You just need some time with your friend – yourself."

Her words made me feel 100% better, as I realized she was right. I tried explaining this to Brett, but he kept thinking I was saying I didn't want to be with him.

I said, "No. I want to be with you. I just don't want to be with you ALL THE TIME. I want to be with me, just me, for a little while." Still, he was hurt and insulted. We talked for a while, so I could explain how I needed to recharge.

I told him I understood he was home with the baby all day, but that didn't mean I had to go "on call" for all the baby duty as soon as I walked in the door. I needed the transition time. I also needed a weeknight away. I offered the same for him.

At first, he was reluctant, but when I explained it would mean a free night for him to go to his favorite place, the bookstore, once a week, unaccompanied by a squealing little person, his ears did perk up.

Alone time isn't nearly as important to him, but some quiet time sounded pretty darn good.

I am still struggling with the loss of my friend, the loss of my own identity. The truth is that I think there is some selfishness mixed in there.

I didn't think I would have to lose myself to become a working mother, but I think I have. A part of me is just gone forever, and I'm not happy about it.

Being Conservative

2010-06-29T05:40:00.000-07:00

I have become, like many of you, a Facebook addict.

I don’t obsess over it. However, I do feel something akin to loss and slight instability if I don’t check it at least once a day. Or twice a day. Or anytime I have a free hour.

It has become a burden to me, on many levels, and yet not one I’m willing to give up. (Never fear, at the end of this post, I will not be swearing off Facebook.)

Things I didn’t care about in the least, things I didn’t even know, are now common, even necessary, knowledge to my everyday life.

There are so many rants that have been done about Facebook, and I have to say all the best ones are already out there – people who join groups, people who join stupid groups, people who post things to provoke controversy, people who use hearts and smiley faces (guilty!), needy people who post co-dependent statuses, etc.

But that said, I have to put my own unique spin on what cracks me up.

Ready?

Here it is – people who “like” the group – Being Conservative.

Really? I mean, really? You “like” Being Conservative?

Okay, okay, well let me pare down why that makes me laugh every. single. time.

Thanks to my IFB-screwed-up background, every time I hear the word “conservative”, I picture zealous diatribes about female modesty, denim jumpers, and the ever-dreaded culottes.

So every time I see someone “like” Being Conservative, I picture them wearing culottes. And some of them, most of them, look pretty ridiculous. With men, it’s especially funny.

Me, I don’t “like” Being Conservative.

Being Conservative sounds boring and staid.

I mean, I’d like Being Passionate, Being Exciting, Being Fun, Being Joyful, etc. But, Being Conservative? Snore.

Being Conservative sounds like a root canal is about to take place.

So, I’m just saying - if you "like" Being Conservative, just realize - somewhere out there, someone is going to be visualizing you wearing culottes, and you are going to be looking pretty ludicrous.

And that’s something I can imagine Being Passionate about.

Back in the Saddle Again

2010-06-26T06:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve been so neglectful of my dear, sweet blog.

I can’t believe Sam is going to be a year old in July, and the last time I blogged was in January! I knew working and caring for a baby was going to take a lot of time, but I honestly can’t say it’s been just a time issue. I also stopped writing, because I was mentally exhausted. I still managed to find time to watch 2.5 hours of TV at night or spend an hour on Facebook. Recreational writing just seemed to come to a standstill.

Part of it is the increase of work at work. Before, I had slow times or down times, and now it’s a consistent flow with about the same velocity, as say, oh, Niagara Falls. I’m not complaining, since I know I am fortunate to be employed, and even better, to be employed at a job I sincerely, truly enjoy. But working more, both hours and projects, sends me home with a lot less energy than I used to posses.

The other, weird thing is that I seem to have “dried up” creatively. At first, I thought it was sleep deprivation, then I thought it was lack of time, and then I realized that I was now looking at the world differently. In the old days, I would come home practically panting to blog. I wanted to share my day, my realizations, my frustrations, and hopefully something funny. Now, I just come home, play with the baby, eat dinner, watch TV, check Facebook, read, and go to bed.

It’s not that nothing happens in my day – a lot happens. It’s just I don’t have the urge or the energy to put it all into carefully crafted words. I thought for a time that I’d lost my sense of humor, but my co-workers still laugh at my jokes, and since they’re not pity-laughers, I figure I’ve still got it.

There is so much people can’t tell you about parenting. What Brett and I are learning is that every. single. parenting. situation. is different and tailored specifically to your family.

I was explaining it to Mom yesterday. I told her the things that would drive her nuts if she were married to Brett are not necessarily the things that drive me nuts. And vice versa. You get used to some things when you’ve been married to someone for nearly ten years.

Some things still surprise you, and that can be both a bad and a good thing. Do I like that my husband cooks dinner every couple of days? Absolutely wonderful surprise. Do I like that Brett’s temper in traffic hasn’t tapered off in spite of having an impressionable nearly-one year old in the back seat. No, and not all that much of a surprise.

But you have to take your situation and (with apologies to Hannah Montana) make the best of both worlds.

One of the best things about Brett’s stint as a stay-at-home dad has been the mornings.

I am not, thankfully, forced to run around like a chicken with my head cut off. Sam wakes up (I use him in place of an alarm clock), and that’s my cue. I make the bottle, and Brett brings Sam into our room. I snuggle with him while he eats, and then let him and dad go back to napping, while I take my time making breakfast and getting ready for work.

Then it’s back in the bedroom for goodbye kisses and snuggles, and I’m off to make a living.

I like the balance of our a.m. routine. Sam loves the extra sleep in the morning, and it gives me time to get stuff done without feeling like my baby is being neglected.

There is so much more I could tell you about how Sam is raising us, but I’m thinking I’m going to let it come in drips and drops, instead of flooding you with my dissertation on parenting.

Because, let’s face it, I could be wrong. Sam’s only 11 months, so I am not about to get cocky.

The Unique Journey

2010-01-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

I love my cousin, Candice.

I mean, I’d love her anyway, because she’s family.

But I also love her because she’s honest with me when I wear something stupid and ask her opinion. She also keeps up with what’s trendy and what’s not and manages to look great without looking like she’s trying to look great.

I love knowing I can call her if a.) my husband locks himself out of our house, and I can’t leave work to let him in and b.) I just want to watch cable TV and eat cupcakes. She is always there for me, low-key and beautiful in all the right ways.

I love her for walking me through pregnancy and childbirth with a laid-back attitude. My first day home from the hospital after Sam’s birth was a nightmare. I was stressed, sleep-deprived, and a raw bundle of hormones and jacked-up nerves. I practically cried with relief when she showed up on my doorstep, Brielle in hand, and held the baby while I finally got to rest.

I think what I love best about Candice is that she assures me I can BE a mother. I don’t have to be Super Mom to be a super mom.

Growing up, my mother could not cook. I mean, she made “turkey burgers” that were actually gray and looked, smelled, and (I’m guessing) tasted like rotting, decaying flesh. Disgusting.

Dad and I used to joke about Mom’s cooking. We ate a LOT of TV dinners. Mom kept trying, and we kept tasting. Heaven knows I didn’t starve (quite the opposite, actually), but I never “filled up” on Mom’s cooking.

A couple of years ago, Mom and I were talking, and she mentioned her lack of cooking skills. I said the first thing that came to mind, “You didn’t have to be a good cook to be a good mom.”

I realized right after I said it how much I meant it. I mean, I’ve met some great cooks who were not great parents.

I thank God for the unique talents of my parents.

My dad was not a sports nut. He watched sports and would cheer for the Bears and the Bulls, but he wasn’t a fanatic. Instead, we bonded over reading books about World War II and watching sci-fi TV shows like the X-Files and Star Trek: The Next Generation.

My mom and I loved to go shopping and spend hours talking about anything and everything. Mom did crafts, but I wasn’t a fan, so I’d just talk to her as she cross-stitched sweatshirt after sweatshirt. We’d hole up on couches in the living room, and she’d read Dick Francis and Victoria Holt while I sped through my Calvin and Hobbes collection.

Getting back to Candice, and what prompted me to write this post in the first place, she sent me a birthday invitation the other day. Brielle, my beautiful not-niece, will turn 2 on Monday. I was so excited to have Sam’s (or “my Sammies” as Brielle calls him) first birthday party invitation!

I was even more excited to see it was a plain card with an adorable little monkey on the front (Small Paul, for those of you who know who he is). Candice had written in the information in plain black ink with a pen.

That’s it.

No personalized frou-frou handmade card with scalloped edges, no seed packet with re-planting instructions, no “please send a donation to Happy Little Helpers in Brielle’s name.”

Nope.

Just a “come out and party at the playground!” in black and white.

Now, I’m not saying fancy pants invitations are bad. I’m just saying for crying out loud, I sure don’t have the time or patience to mess with it when it’s my kid’s turn.

So, getting Brielle’s invitation once again reassured me I don’t have to completely reform my personality and turn into a pre-jail Martha Stewart happy little homemaker to be a quality parent.

I don’t have to do crafts.
I don’t have to breastfeed.
I don’t have to homeschool.
I don’t have to use cloth diapers.
I don’t have to teach my kid sign language.
I don’t have to feed my son only organic food.

I can be a good parent in so many ways. Ways that have nothing to do with any of those things.

Again, I’m not saying those are bad things. I’m just saying they are not me.

It is so freeing to look forward to being myself with Sam. I can’t wait to introduce him to the joys of reading. I can’t wait to make up special stories just for him. I can’t wait to see what HE wants to do.

My parents always encouraged me to find my passion. I played the drums in high school. I learned tennis with a bunch of public school kids through the Park District. I met other kids through the Whiz Kids writing class I took in middle school. And despite my deep and abiding loathing for the out-of-doors, I flourished alongside other thespians at Camp Joy’s Drama Camp.

I emerged from my parent’s home feeling like I really lived! And that’s the same experience I want for Sam. My parents didn’t change who they were in order to be good parents. They encouraged me to try new things and were excited when I found things I loved (tennis, no – writing, yes). They used our shared joys (reading, shopping) for bonding experiences. For the other things, they introduced me to mentors who loved the same things I did!

I’m hope I’m not discouraging the crafty, do-it-all moms out there with the time and talent who truly do it all, and do it all well. It’s just that I know my limitations. And I’m just so relieved they won’t stop me from mothering well.

In the end, I know we all want what’s best for our kids. We want them to be well-adjusted, accepting, loving, caring, and happy.

Every journey is different, and I plan to celebrate the uniqueness of ours.

Even if Sam loves sports and camping. I mean, of course, he can do those things.

With his dad.

Praying for Santa

2009-11-18T14:51:00.000-08:00

In spite of consisting of (mostly) devout Christians, my family firmly and fervently loves Santa Claus.

Every year as far back as I can remember, Santa has visited our Christmas Eve party.

Rehfeldt Christmas Eve parties are the stuff of legends. We head out in the winter weather to sing carols, enjoy fantastic family favorite foods (Aunt Judi's Chocolate Chip Cookies, Grandma's Potato Salad, and Tammy's Reuben Dip, etc.), and listen as Grandma reads the Christmas story from the Bible. We watch little kids sing songs and quote verses.

We hear a poem from Aunt Jan, laugh our way through one of BJ's mind-bending skits, and shed a tear or two during a sentimental reading of Christmas past. We play Uncle Scott's crazy games and catch up with our long-lost relatives who traveled over hill and dale to attend the party.

But there is always that magical moment.

The moment when Uncle Scott holds up the sleigh bells and merrily jingles them to the delight of everyone in the room. An electric tingle races through the room.

We switch from singing Silent Night and O Little Town of Bethlehem to Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, and the grand finale...Santa Claus Is Coming to Town. The singing gets louder and louder until the very last word is sung. When the last note dies out, a hearty HO, HO, HO rings out as Santa makes his entrance.

He waddles into the room resplendent in red and white, a huge sack thrown over his shoulder. He makes some glib comment about his reindeer and settles himself next to Grandma in a comfy chair at the head of the room. He digs deep into his bag and pulls out a present.

"Noah? Is there a Noah here?"

And before you know it, Noah is perched atop Santa's lap as photos are snapped, the flashes nearly blinding. No one is safe from Santa. No matter how old you are, there is always the possibility of getting called to sit on Santa's lap, the requisite requirement to receiving your gift.

Santa was there when I was a child, and Santa will be there for my child. Santa lives on.

Many men have contributed to Santa's long-standing longevity. There was the first Santa, my grandfather. I have a treasured family photo that shows a little red dress bedecked ragamuffin (yours truly) sitting on Grandpa Santa's lap, although I don’t remember it.

Over the years, my Uncle Timmy, Cousin Brad Molander, and even my dad helped fill Santa's shoes.

But the man who has pulled on those red trousers more than any other, the Santa of my childhood, is my Uncle Dave.

Any other time of year, Uncle Dave is one of those uncles.

You know the kind I mean. The loud uncle. The one with the constant beard stubble and the gruff voice. The one with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. He's the one person who always calls you "kid" no matter how old you are.

Underneath his hard-boiled exterior, however, lurks the teddy bear, revealed in small doses through sly winks, hair-tousling, and the rare and treasured hug.

How Uncle Dave inherited the Santa job from Grandpa I'll never know.

He is certainly not sentimental like Uncle Timmy, not gregarious like Uncle Scott, not uber-intellectual like Uncle Ronnie, and not likely to be featured in the pages of GQ like Uncle Bruce.

Perhaps what Uncle Dave is...is real. Making it especially ironic that he slips into his Santa persona, into character as one of the most fabled fiction entities of all time, with an ease the most seasoned actor would envy.

For those few minutes every year, Uncle Dave IS Santa. Even long after I figured out exactly who was hiding under that beard and felt-tipped hat, I found it easy to trust Santa walked among us.

If it was only for ten minutes a year, I had the opportunity to relive my childhood through that gravelly voice, the familiar belly laugh, and the slightly smoky hug I got from the man in red.

(As kids, we were told the “fireplace aroma” was from all the chimneys Santa had been sliding down!)

But this year is different.

This year, Santa was told he is suffering from six cancerous lesions on his brain. Stage four brain cancer.

My Uncle Dave is fighting back with all his typical bravado. Going up against cancer with a ferocity that should make cancer shake in its boots. You do not mess with Uncle Dave.

And you especially do not mess with Santa.

When asked, his doctor said he will be fighting a losing battle. Uncle Dave has not given up though, because Rehfeldts don’t give up. We trust, we pray, we love, and we hope.

I know Santa will never die. Santa will still come to our party. He will hand out gifts and delight children and adults alike. It will be his voice our children remember as they look back on their holiday memories.

But the man underneath, in all the white fur and red velvet trappings, will know he has some big shoes to fill.

We are Christians. We believe in miracles. We believe God can heal Uncle Dave if it is His will. It would be an answer to prayer to have Uncle Dave distributing presents and ho, ho, ho-ing his way down the aisles again.

Personally, I want Sam to receive his first Santa gift from Uncle Dave. But I know it will take an act of God.

It is because of this, I ask you to join my family in praying for Santa. Because while we love Santa, we firmly and fervently believe in God.

And we believe God can save Santa. In more ways than one.

Thank you for your prayers!

The Never Mets

2009-11-09T14:02:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I just sit back and think about people who I have never met.

People who have influenced my life without ever knowing it.

Like the guy who started the Africa Prayer Band at Moody in the 1960’s.

That’s where my parents met - Mom praying fervently on her knees for Africa, and Dad staring at the pretty girl in the tight sweater. Not thinking, I’m guessing, all that much about Africa.

One of my favorite “never-mets” is DL Moody. Good, ol’ DL.

I think about how he started a school where eventually my parents met, then Brett and I met, and I start getting a little sentimental about the guy.

In my mind, DL is sort of like Hagrid in Harry Potter. It’s not just that they look alike (although they do), but they seem like genuinely nice people who want to help people as much as they can.

To me, DL is sort of like my really, really old uncle.

If you know me at all, you know I resist jumping on bandwagons. I like to take my time and formulate an opinion on whatever the topic is.

Recently though, I noticed a lot of my Facebook friends and family were joining the same group.

Now, my friends are a very diverse group of people. I’ve got conservatives and liberals, homeschooling/organic /granola moms and career women, old school chauvinists and ardent feminists, etc.

Now, I obviously care about them all. After all, they *are* my friends.

However, because of their variety, it was very rare to see everyone virtually supporting the same cause.

Not Starbucks or Farmville. Not Li’l Aquarium or the Happy Sunshine Gardner. Not even the enormously popular “Add a Dislike Button to Facebook.”

It was the Pray for Sydney Ives group.

I didn’t know Syndey, her parents or even - I think - anyone in her extended family.

But a LOT of my Facebook friends knew her or her family and were joining this group.

So, I got curious.

I googled Sydney Ives and learned she was a local 11 year old girl with a brain tumor. At that time, I decided I would join the Pray for Sydney Ives group on Facebook and would pray for her and her parents.

This past Sunday, I was scanning updates on Facebook and learned Sydney had passed away.

I was sad. It is always sad when children die. It’s the normal human emotion to feel.

But then I pulled up the posted YouTube videos and listened to the family’s message of overwhelming faith and outpouring of blind trust in God’s perfect will, and I began to sob.

Both Sydney and her parents demonstrated tremendous faith in God’s will. Whether Sydney would live or die, they wanted God lifted up and glorified in the circumstances. As a result, their pleas for prayer and the turquoise (Sydney’s favorite color) ribbon campaign lit up places as far away as Nepal and South Africa.

They built off of Lance Armstrong’s “Livestrong” campaign, using their last name as a springboard for “Ivestrong.”

I watched those videos, and I began to think about when Sydney was a baby. I thought about how her mother had no idea she would have such an (earthly speaking) short time with her.

Of course, that made me start thinking about Sam. I started crying at the prospect of losing him even as I held him in my arms. I know our children are “on loan” from God, but knowing it and bravely living it are two very different things.

Other friends have blogged about Sydney. They knew her in person and were able to capture her spirit and loving, joyful heart, even in those last days. They have blogged her dear family’s witness far better than I ever could.

I speak as an outsider. I have watched this family’s testimony from afar and have been humbled and heartbroken by their sorrow and their loss.

But (heavenly speaking), I am not an outsider. I am Sydney’s sister and her friend. I did not have the pleasure of knowing her here on this earthly sphere, but I will sing with her someday far above the clouds.

I send my warmest condolences to the Ives family as they mourn this passing and look hopefully to the day they will all be reunited.

And I add Sydney to my “never-mets” list – the list of people who have changed my life without ever knowing it.

And I look forward to singing in that heavenly choir alongside my father, my sweet aunt Kathy, kindly DL Moody, and now brave and forever cancer-free Sydney Ives.

Gossip Girl

2009-11-08T18:07:00.001-08:00

Did you know today is National End Gossip Day?

I can’t say I’ve ever been all that hurt by gossip. When you’re a 300 pound teenager, you’re already aware of how people perceive you. There aren’t a whole lot of surprises.

And while I can’t say many good things about my middle school bullies, they were boys and therefore didn’t gossip about me as much as shout things to my face.

I wish I could say I have never gossiped about anyone. But it’s not the truth.

I love to talk, and I hate secrets. So sharing “secrets” was always fun for me. I don’t recall ever trying to gossip maliciously, to hurt someone. But I have to admit there were times I gossiped to fit in.

I remember sharing a cabin with several girls at Camp Northland one year. There was this one girl, Sherrie, who had frizzy hair and weighed even more than I did (highly unusual). She had only brought two outfits to camp and hadn’t really started caring about hygiene or taking daily showers like the rest of us.

In spite of all the Christian messages during chapel, we made fun of Sherrie behind her back. We mocked her hair by making air spirals and holding our noses when we *thought* she wasn’t looking. We didn’t make fun of her weight, I’m guessing, since the other girls thought I might be offended.

Sherrie was no dummy. She picked up on her status as a pariah pretty quickly. She tried to fit in, but since mocking her was the only thing the rest of us had in common, it didn’t work so well.

We thought we had been discreet until the morning Sherrie came running out of our counselor’s room with tears streaking down her face. She raced toward the door and went down the hill to the lake.

The counselor came out and sat us all down. It turned out she had been more than aware of our unkindness. She had been praying and hoping God would change our hearts, but Sherrie had come to her demanding to go home. We got a stern lecture and grounded to our cabin for the rest of the day.

I was embarrassed at having been caught and more than a little ashamed of myself. When Sherrie came back to the cabin, we all apologized to her. I doubt she thought we were sincere.

I learned a big lesson that summer. It could have easily been me who was labeled as the outcast. There were only a few strands of frizzy hair and a couple months of maturity separating Sherrie and I.

Since the “Sherrie Incident,” I tried to be more conscious of gossip. Or, should I say, my tendency to enjoy - to indulge in - gossip.

To me, gossip was (is) like a rich, chocolaty dessert. Plus, it helped me to connect to people (as a gossip, I know, but semantics, semantics).

As a writer, I soak up stories like a sponge and spin off my own web of words. Sometimes what I write teeters perilously close to gossip. I depend on my honest friends to call me if it ever dips into that pot.

And they do. Sometimes. And I get defensive. As one does.

I say all this to congratulate myself on what I haven’t yet said.

I love to write, and I especially love this blog. I pound on this keyboard, pouring my heart and soul into writing about my life. I’ve blogged about many topics, and I’m sure there are many more to explore.

There aren’t many topics off limits in my blog. Politics. Sports. Flip-flops. You know, the basics.

I had gotten so used to being able to blog about anything that when something came up, I automatically started a blog post in my head.

So, you can imagine how hard – very, very, very hard – it was when things came up that I couldn’t, in good conscience, blog in depth about. I tried to use only the most generic terms about the bankruptcy, losing the house, losing our car, having to move the same month I had the baby, etc. I tried to use gentle terms in talking about my husband, who is as human as the next person.

I hated having to couch everything in politeness. I wanted to be real. Not necessarily nice.

The day we moved was one of the worst days of my life. The whole week was terrible. I was exhausted, and we didn’t have nearly enough help. Due to a miscommunication, it was a small crew (who are extremely grateful to) who helped us move, and most everyone had to leave early. Essentially, without Mom and Gary, we would still not be moved in.

My husband spiraled into a deep depression (he would tell you this himself). It was horrendous.

I have been praying for God to change my husband’s heart since the great Marriage Trial of ’06. I knew my marriage would most likely be a lifelong trial. I had been honest with my pastor in saying I didn’t know if I could stay married to Brett. I felt like I was wasting my life with someone who chose to live in a dark hole of negativity and ungratefulness.

I knew leaving was the easy way out. Staying was the hardest choice I’ve ever had to make. Every fiber of my being was trying to convince me to leave. To just take Sam and leave. Start over. Start fresh. Walk away.

Except.

Except the Bible is pretty clear about it.

Frankly, at that point I didn’t care so much about the Bible. The Bible didn’t have to live with my husband.

Pastor did some pretty frantic counseling with me over the phone as I sat at my mother’s dining room table, sobbing like a child. I could tell Mom’s heart was breaking, too. She didn’t know what to do either.

After praying with Pastor and listening to his advice, I decided to take Sam and go home.

Brett had been awaiting my decision and met me at the door. He wrapped me in his arms and thanked me for coming home. I was skeptical of his promises to change. Although, he’d never tried before, so what did I know?

(I should stop at this point and say that Brett has never, ever been physically or verbally abusive. He has never been intentionally hurtful to me. He is a faithful husband who loves me. Our issues resolved around his spiritual condition, constant depression, and choice to live pessimistically. )

The moment I came home, I sensed something had happened, but I didn’t know exactly what.

Over the next few weeks, it became obvious God was working in Brett’s heart. His attitude began to change.

He started talking to me about joyful things. He wanted to spend time reading the Bible and praying. He wanted to go to church and fellowship with friends.

At first, I thought maybe it was an act. Just something to convince me to stay.

But Brett is a horrible faker. So, now, after two months, I have something to say –

The man I married is back! How I had missed him!

We were talking about it the other night, and he said how God had to take away all of his “things” in order to get his attention. He lost his house, his car, his hobby, and his employment. Finally, he realized God was making a point.

It is strange to suddenly be back with the man who was my best friend in college. To be able to joke and talk and work together happily without that ever-present string of tension that had been tightly wound around our hearts.

We bond over taking care of Sam. We sit on the bed and marvel at his ten tiny toes and slightly upturned nose that represent God’s blessing in a time of great trial. We realize how we have been given a second chance.

A chance to be in love again. A chance to be redeemed again.

I was a basket case the first month after Sam was born. No one told me how incredibly hard it was going to be.

My friend Alice confided to me that it is the unspoken code to withhold the knowledge of that first horrible month from prospective parents. “It’s just not nice,” she explained.

As I sat on my bed crying, holding a screaming baby, my husband sat down next to me on the bed. I stared at him blankly. Brett is not a talker, so it surprised me when he said, “You know, you’re not alone in this. We’re a team.”

Sure, it sounds generic now, but man, was it what I needed to hear. I latched onto it like a mantra and hung tightly to it. The “team” concept helped me feel not so alone and got me through the rest of that despicable month.

It was hard not to share these trials when I was going through them. I wanted so much to empty my heart onto these pages! But I knew I would be violating the marriage code in a big way.

So now, instead of gossip, I can share this in gratefulness.

I know there will still be trying times. People don’t change overnight. We all backslide at some point. But God can and does bring us back up to where we’re supposed to be.

The way I grew up, people don’t talk about their marriage issues. I think this hinders us so very much. It was the women who came alongside me and shared their marriage trials who helped me get through this.

And of course, God who graciously answered my prayer and changed my husband’s heart.

If there’s such a thing as good gossip, I’m passing this on!

Transparently Talkative

2009-10-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

I have always talked too much. And too loudly. And too much about myself.

Even as a kid.

When I had my adenoids taken out as a little girl, the doctors warned Mom and Dad that I wouldn’t feel like talking for a couple of days. My parents’ dream of peace and quiet was shattered as they entered my hospital room, and I chattered on like a monkey about my surroundings, my surgery, and the ice cream flavors I expected.

Growing up, I remember Mom constantly making a hand gesture that looked like she was frantically trying to stop an explosion and her calm, patient voice repeating “Lower your voice,” over and over.

Specifically, in high school, I remember talking to one of my girlfriends in the public restroom during an on-the-road stop-over with our volleyball (girls) and soccer (boys) teams. When we came out, the entire soccer team was staring at us.

Later, we learned everyone could hear every word I said. And I, apparently, had given a little TMI.

When it comes to saying too much, I am queen.

At four years old, I marched up to the wife of my Dad’s boss and told her the mole on her face made her look ugly. Dad rushed in to tug me away. Later in the car, I heard him lament to Mom, “I knew I was in trouble as soon as she headed over there!”

I have spent a good portion of my life apologizing for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. My mouth tends to process the words, the quips, the barbs, and the absolute worst thing to say at a much faster pace than my brain seems to be able to censor them.

And, as we all know, once the words are out – they’re out for good.

This was my Achilles’ heel. If Ann-Marie was known for one thing, it was being too much of a blabbermouth. Go ahead and ask my friends and family from those days. I shared way too much information at the top of my lungs.

It wasn’t until after college when I learned about a new word.

A word that would change my life.

Transparency.

I don’t remember where I heard it first. I do remember thinking it had something to do with being skinny, such as “She was so skinny you could see right through her! Man, she was transparent!”

Later, of course, I learned what it really meant.

As people bandied the word about, I was sort of surprised. My whole life I had been told I needed to keep my life to myself. As my husband likes to say, “No one needs a degree in Ann-Marie.”

Now, apparently, telling the whole world about your sad sack life was considered a heroic, selfless act of character. Being a loudmouth was suddenly in vogue!

Again, apparently, most people like to put on a brave face about how great their lives are, or at least not harp on how bad/dreary/depressing they are, and dropping that façade was this wonderful breath of fresh air. Finally being able to share the struggles, the trials, and the disappointments was a breath of fresh air, and the whole world was all a twitter about transparency.

Many well-meaning people have told me how much they appreciate my transparency. I have to be honest and say, “No, thank YOU for listening to me drone on and on.”

It is NOT hard for me to be an open book. I am the kind of open book that would follow you around the store and demand you read me, if you know what I’m saying.

One of the reasons I’m such a fan of blogging, is that it gives me an outlet to exposit my life, and people can choose if they want to “listen” or not.

Like bloggers worldwide, my eyes light up when people leave comments, and I feel the connection between my cyberpals, near and far.

So, going forth, you can continue to expect transparency at The Lefthanded Rabbit.

It’s just the sort of heroic, selfless, character-building thing you would expect of me.

Back from Hiatus

2009-10-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

Oh, blog! How I have missed you! I never realized how much I would miss writing.

Can I tell you what has really shocked me these past few months?

I had nothing to blog about.

Seriously, I’ve been so busy, and yet…nothing.

There’s the baby. Of course, there’s the baby. But, I found I didn’t want to blog about the baby. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE the baby. I adore the baby. I don’t get to spend enough time with baby, etc.

But what was going on with baby…goes on with every baby. Again, don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatically happy our sweet Sam is healthy and (for the most part) happy. For a time, I became consumed, on a practical level, with pacifiers, bottles, feeding, fussiness, etc.

But I didn’t want to blog about that. It isn’t the least bit interesting. Babies are like decorative plate collections; they’re only interesting to people who currently have them.

I am unbelievably grateful to my wonderful friends, family, co-workers, and church family for supporting me, giving me advice, and standing by my side. I am indebted to Candice, my baby guru; my friend, the incomparable Carleen, for having her son a mere two months before Sam, and all my church friends for stocking the baby nursery to FULL – there’s five babies in the nursery now, and Sam’s still the only boy!

In midst of becoming parents, we managed to finish downsizing our foreclosed two story (plus basement) house into a small two bedroom apartment. We finished grieving over our bankruptcy, car loss, and Brett’s unemployed status.

We are still fighting an uphill battle financially with hospital bills and a legal argument with unemployment (they want their money back, and we (duh) don’t have it to GIVE back). Thanks to the tenacity of the money-grubbing, ruthless, temp company Brett worked for briefly, he is not receiving unemployment benefits. Instead, we are being solely supported by my small paycheck.

I don’t say this to make you feel sorry for us. I’m not throwing a pity party.

In truth, I didn’t really struggle with going back to work – not like some women struggle. Sometimes, God is crystal clear in His plan for you. It was like that for me. God shut all the doors, but one. So, I stepped through it.

For the meantime, Brett is a stay-at-home dad. And a good one, at that. The Lord gave me great peace in going back to work, and one morning, as I was struggling with leaving, a thought came to me that eased the pressure tremendously.

“God is the one providing. I am only the conduit.”

Now, before I break into a chorus of “Channels Only,” let me break that down for you. I had to realize I couldn’t “boast” in my job or being a provider, because I am not the one who is providing. God is, and He’s chosen to use me, for now, as the one through whom He will channel His provision.

Do I wish I had the choice to stay home? Sure, I wish I had the choice. But I don’t, so in a way it was easier for me. God wanted me out in the world for His own reasons. By the same token, He wanted Brett home with Sam. He is at work in both of our lives, and who am I to question it?

I am blessed beyond measure with a job I dearly love. There are times when I feel the hammer hitting home on the things we’ve lost, and then I realize there is still so much to be grateful for.

My Pollyanna spirit can’t help but be thankful for my job, a roof over our heads, food in our pantry, and family and friends who bolster our downtrodden spirits on a daily basis. Add in a healthy baby, and shower gifts that have provided so fruitfully for Sam that we’ve hardly had to buy a thing!

In a lot of ways, going back to work helped me preserve a little of the sanity I had felt slipping away. Immersing myself in the hubbub of our office, currently in an ever-changing state of moving offices and changing personnel, made me feel like I was part of the human race again.

Those first few weeks after giving birth, I felt like an alien. Everything is so foreign and unfamiliar. I had never believed it was possible to be so tired. And no one had told me that everything hurts – for a long time – after having a baby. I couldn’t sit or stand without gallons and buckets of ouchies.

I fly my pain wuss flag bravely, and if I’m ever pregnant again, it will be an act of God (it was an act of God the first time, anyway).

And not to keep beating a dead horse (lovely analogy for an animal lover, eh?) but if one more person acts shocked that we’ve decided to have one child, I’m going to hit them over the head with my ovaries.

Please. It’s what we want. Do we criticize people for having more than one? I mean, we could. Anyway, I’m getting off my soapbox now.

Getting back to being back at work – I must say that I’d forgotten how much I love what I do. My new job has me buried neck deep in creative copy – my favorite – and happily writing, editing, proofreading, and spending time developing my very own specialized Girl Scout troop.

I truly love working with the girls. It’s amazing to watch them grow and change. I love the first time they interact with a news crew or get interviewed by a reporter. Their eyes just light up and I remember the first time I realized what I was born to do. I see how that same love of sharing information, becoming a spokesperson, and learning how to be an informed and passionate gatekeeper sparks their interest in just about every way.

I don’t mean to criticize my mom, but I truly wish she had signed me up for Girl Scouts. These girls develop a tight knit community where they accept one another and bond over shared experiences apart from traditional school, neighborhood, and church groups. Girl Scouts is living proof that you can make a community out of any group of people who come together with the desire to build relationships while changing the world.

It’s not a sales pitch, but after nine years of working for the Girl Scouts, I can honestly say I agree 100% with the Girl Scout Promise –

On my honor, I will try
To serve God and my country
To help people at all times
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.

I do miss Sam while I’m at work, of course. But it also makes coming home that much sweeter. It makes me appreciate his smiles, coos, and laughter even more.

My friend Angie said it best. “When some men come home after working all day, they just want some peace and quiet. Instead, their wives often thrust the children at them, because they really need a break. With you, it’s different. You come home from work and what you want most is to see your baby! So, Brett gets a break, and neither one of you feels guilty!”

Angie always makes me feel better about my life. She’s the friend who will find a silver lining, even if it’s just the duct tape holding up your cardboard house. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

I know our situation is hardly unique, what with so many men out of work here. I recently read how this generation of children is being raised by their unemployed fathers while their mothers work. And I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Fathers are parents, too.

Being part of an “untraditional” family is certainly challenging, and there are days I wish I had normal family circumstances.

But, when you think about it, when have I ever been normal?

Uh-huh.

So why start now?

Not My Most Refined Post

2009-08-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Note: I did write this on Sunday morning, but Blogger refused to let me post it then. So, here’s my second attempt!

Okay. So here I am at 4:45 a.m. on Sunday morning. Wide awake.

For once, the baby is sleeping peacefully. He’s cozied up next to Brett in the bed – which seems to suit them both very much. I can hardly put Sam in his bassinet before Brett is reaching in to take him out for “snuggle time.”

I have to say I think I am the only one NOT surprised by Brett’s reaction to fatherhood. Anyone who knows Brett knows he is not a fan of kids. I always knew it would be different once it was his own.

I was right. He adores Sam with every fiber of his being. And God knows I’m glad he is so patient. It helps that one of us is.

Sam is very much his daddy’s boy, and I couldn’t be happier. I know he loves me, too, but there is something very moving about watching a father and son bond. Especially when I happen to be head over heels crazy in love with both of them.

Over the past month, I’ve really wanted to blog.

There have been many topics I find myself needing to write about, wanting to explore. So much to say and no time to say it in.

I “knew” about the sleeplessness. At least, I’d heard about it. I had no idea it could be relentlessly exhausting. I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again – how do single mothers do it? I am endlessly amazed and impressed with the caliber of these women!

I mean, I have live-in help! I’m on maternity leave, and Brett is unemployed. There are two of us right now with the singular purpose of taking care of a little ten pound human being. And still. There is no time to eat, sleep, organize, and (my life’s breath) WRITE!

I had no idea how much I would mourn the loss of my time. Not that I don’t cherish the time with Sam.

I just miss being able to eat three times a day when I was hungry, as opposed to now, where I have to jam in whatever is available when the baby gives me a break.

My life had changed, as I knew it would. I’m glad, but also still adjusting.

Everything is compounded, of course, by Brett’s unemployment, my looming and possible job loss, our recent move to the apartment, and our race to clean out the house pre-foreclosure notice.

Perhaps the biggest change (aside from the lack of sleep, as that is the ever-present elephant in the room – God knows if there is ever need of evidence that man has indeed “fallen,” the newborn parents’ lack of sleep is rock solid), has been my membership in the circle of moms.

I find myself needing advice, wanting advice, on subjects that would have sent me snoring only a few short months ago.

What’s strangest of all is that – when I ask for advice – I receive it, on a variety of subjects, from wonderful women the world over. I have never been so grateful for the advice of relative strangers. God bless the pea-pickin’ internet.

I am also most appreciative for my cousin Candice who serves as my toll-free number for absurd baby questions.

Case in point, last night I was trying to sort Sam’s clothes. I called Candice, mystified, as to whether “24 months” was the same as “2T.” And what does the “T” mean, anyway? As I rambled on, I found myself peppering my long-suffering cousin with questions about clothes size, babies, and bottles.

Eventually, I just flat-out asked her, “How did you do this?”

She laughed and told me that the key is taking it one day at a time and not giving in to fear. “Every baby is different. You’ll figure it out,” she promised me.

Thanks to her help, I just might.

Speaking of bottles, I have to say my vocabulary has completely changed. Never in my life have I said “nipples” as many times a day as I do now.

My nearly-40-year-old husband still has a 15-year-old reaction to the word. Which leaves me rolling my eyes and asking if and when men ever grow up.

I also use the word “poopy” much more than I ever thought I would. I am not proud of this fact, but I am nothing if not transparent on this blog, and so now you know.

I am no longer ashamed of my “poopy” word usage. There I said it. Do you believe me?

There are so many things I am uncovering about motherhood. Some are hard (constant crying – me and the baby, not knowing what’s wrong, exasperation, and exhaustion), but there are moments.

Like singing my father’s favorite hymns to Sam and watching the wonder and peace move across his face. Seeing Brett lift Sam up for a kiss. Being the only one the baby wants. The joy in my mother’s eyes when she sees “her Sammy.”

Suffice it to say, the one thing I am most aware of is that Sam’s very existence is proof of God. Proof, even, that God answered my specific prayer.

Sometimes it’s easier to remember this than others. When Sam’s crying, and I don’t know why, I find myself praying, “Okay, Lord, this is YOUR child…”

Other times, like when I sing hymns to Sam, the realization that I hold tangible evidence of God’s love for me is overwhelming. And humbling.

I hope to find more time to write and balance it with my new life – with our new life.

Not writing, not blogging, is just not an option. I mean, I have to write.

Anything else would just be…poopy.

Sam at One Month

2009-08-19T15:02:00.001-07:00

On Being the Noisy Neighbors

2009-08-17T14:07:00.000-07:00

Freedom!

That’s what I think when I sit in the living room of our new apartment.

I mean - screaming, flag-waving, kilt-wearing, blue-faced Mel Gibson charging his horse down a hill - FREEDOM!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I love apartment living. I always have.

Far less space to clean. No more yard work. No more snow shoveling. No more home repairs.

I like both the social opportunities and delightful anonymity apartment living provides. I like knowing if Brett isn’t home, at least SOMEONE in the building is, and if some desperate robber/rapist (I say desperate because we don’t have any money, and I am about as far from a supermodel as one can get) breaks in, I can scream my lungs out and there’s a good chance someone will call 911 on my behalf.

I love hearing the bumps and thumps that come from living near other people. I love hearing a shower come on at 3:00 a.m. I like the thumping bass of our neighbor’s guitar. I like the sense of community. It makes me feel young, alive, and vital. In an apartment, I am urbane, engaged, and wired.

It also helps me not feel the least bit guilty when Sam screams his lungs off at 2:00 a.m., since we can barely hear him over the roar of hard rock emanating from the walls.

It’s funny how life comes full circle.

Back when we were first married and in an apartment, we lived above a couple of young guys who worked the night shift. They’d come home around 1:00 a.m. and turn on their game system full blast. Unfortunately for us, their game room was situated directly underneath our bedroom.

The incessant blare of gunfire, bombs, and witty dialogue present in Grand Theft Auto did not lull Brett to sleep. I, however, enjoyed the free massage thanks to the vibrations coming from the floor boards.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, Brett went downstairs several times and politely asked the “boys” to turn it down. They were polite right back with promises to turn it down. And, of course, they never did.

Brett (in the running to become the cranky old man who calls the cops on his neighbors) called the cops. But, in a strange twist, he was actually the one who got scolded.

I tried to talk him out of it. I did.

“It’s just not that big a deal,” I said. “They’re, like, 20 years old. Don’t you remember 20?” I said this from the perspective of actually BEING in my 20’s at the time.

He swore up and down that he had never been that obnoxious. I believed him. He’s actually a pretty polite guy (except in traffic. Oh, no. Not. In. Traffic.).

Now, you have to remember Brett grew up in the quaint, country town of Geneva. This was Geneva of 40-odd years ago, not the shopping and development metropolis it is today. I, on the other hand, grew up in crime-ridden, gritty Rockford, Illinois, where – while corruption may not be king; it is at least governor.

Don’t ask me when or how I knew this, but I KNEW that you ONLY call 911 in Rockford if someone is a.) dead, b.) dying, c.) bleeding profusely, or d.) actually on fire.

However, in Geneva, you call 911 if your cat is up a tree.

So, when Brett told me he was going to call the police and invoke the wrath of our downstairs neighbors, I ASSUMED he meant he was going to call the non-emergency number.

Ah-ha.

Instead, he called 911 where, when he explained the reason for his call, the dispatcher rightly reamed him for “wasting our valuable time.”

Brett was shaken, and I bit back the “told you so,” on my tongue.

When we moved to our house, Brett insisted a huge part of his happiness was due to leaving “those rude neighbors” behind.

During our first night in our new apartment, Sam got us up at 2:00 a.m. screaming his precious little lungs out. Brett’s eyes got as big as saucers as he frantically tried to shush our son.

I had to laugh, since Brett just kept saying an irritated, “Shhhh” louder and louder, as though that would have any effect on Sam. Meanwhile, I could see the thought coasting through his mind – “What will our neighbors think?”

We eventually got Sam calmed down and back to sleep. The next day Brett was freaking out about what the neighbors thought.

I told him I could give a rip because a.) we already know three people in the building have babies – they’ve been there, done that, b.) apartment living means making concessions to other people’s noise, and c.) what are we going to do? Move to a deserted island? Babies make noise, plain and simple. No matter where we live, Sam will have the volume cranked up to MAX occasionally.

Still, I could tell it really bothered Brett that we had become “those” neighbors.

Until last night. Blessed last night.

We arrived home late from moving some more house-to-apartment stuff. As we climbed the stairs, we reached our floor and were instantly surrounded by the pulsating rhythm of our neighbor’s stereo – a screaming lead vocalist accompanied by a raucous band of guitars, drums, and (I’m pretty sure) a cannon.

The noise continued well into the twilight and morning hours. Sam wasn’t the least affected by the noise, and we were both relieved our little boy would not be the annoyance we had feared.

As Brett expressed his gratefulness for our neighborly noisemakers, I made the observation that he might just owe an apology to those young kids from our early apartment years. He smiled, just a little ruefully. Oh, the lessons parenthood brings!

A few minutes later, he looked over at me. “You know, if they ever DO call the police on us, I hope they know not to call 911. If they do, they’ll really be in trouble!”

Oh, the lessons being a cranky old man brings.

P.S. - Have I mentioned how much I love my new apartment? Do you know how much I love it? I totally didn’t notice it doesn’t have a microwave! Oops. Don’t care. Still love it!

And Then There Were Three

2009-08-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

The truth is…I didn’t want to be induced.

All my fantasies of pregnancy and childbirth had included the penultimate moment of my water breaking.

I had visualized the moment in my mind a hundred times. Where would it happen? At work? At church? In the middle of Panera? (which would have seemed more than appropriate given this pregnancy.)

But, I had resigned myself to induction. I had spoken with friends who had never had their water break naturally. And, despite all the horror stories about Pitocin, I trusted my OB to know what was best for me.

After all, the man and his staff have spent nine years supporting us in our infertility and nine precarious months caring for me and my high-risk baby. He could have told me to walk backwards on my hands over London Bridge, and I would have done it, no questions asked.

Saturday night found us at Mom and Gary’s enjoying a delicious meal and several rousing rounds of Sequence. We went over our plans for Sunday – go grocery shopping and get the fridge stocked, pack all the “last-minute” items in the going-to-hospital bag, and get a solid night’s sleep before our Monday appointment.

We left Mom and Gary’s and headed home. I fell asleep almost immediately, but Brett couldn’t sleep and went downstairs to watch a movie.

At 4:30 a.m., I had my usual going-to-the-bathroom pregnancy urge and rolled out of bed. About six steps away from the bed, I felt a sudden rush and looked down to see a strange water spot spreading ruthlessly over the carpet.

The realization hit me in the gut as I stood frozen over the spot, afraid if I moved the mini-Niagara would stop. Eventually, I hunch-walked to the bathroom where I accomplished my original goal. Then, I went back to the water spot and confirmed that the whole thing wasn’t just a dream.

Feeling exhilarated and breathless, I fled to the top of the stairs where I shouted joyously, “Brett! My water broke!”

Proving he is not a man prone to panic, my husband calmly paused his movie and called up, “It did? Okay, be right up.”

In a minute, he was beside me staring at the water spot. When I expressed doubt in my own perception and bladder, he proved he is the man I love by getting down on his hands and knees and sniffing the spot like a dog just to be sure.

“Odorless,” he proclaimed, CSI-like, remembering the C.O.A.T. clause from our prenatal class (you can tell amniotic fluid by it’s Color, Odor, Amount, and Timing).

With our assessment agreed upon, I called Mom.

“Mom! My water just broke,” I crowed into the phone, as though I had something to do with it.

“What time is it?” Mom said, groggily re-surfacing.

“It’s a quarter to five.”

“I thought it was 2:00 a.m.” said Mom, still focusing on the time, the other news just background noise for the moment.

A second later, she seemed to energize with the news. After a short discussion, we decided Mom and Gary would head to the hospital just in case the baby came quickly.

(And the heavens fell helpless with laughter.)

Brett drove silently to the hospital while I chattered on like a magpie. I was strangely triumphant about my water-breaking, as though some great and mysterious power had been granted to me.

The streets were deserted at 5:00 a.m., and we were at the emergency room entrance to Swedes before we knew it. We gathered our accoutrements, like Civil War soldiers preparing for battle, and barged into the entrance like Elvis at the Apollo.

Our excitement took a chill pill as we had to wait at least twenty minutes for a nurse from the maternity ward to wheel me up to maternity admitting.

Before I knew it, I was hustled into a hospital gown and told that my water had “indeed” broken, and so I was actually “in labor.”

At that point, I had only experienced some twitches in my abdomen and was feeling pretty good, buoyed by the realization that nine years of waiting was almost to an end.

The nurse brought me back to reality when she pointed out that if I wanted an epidural, I should decide now, since they would have to do a blood test and many things would have to be confirmed before I could actually RECEIVE the epidural.

I felt fine, and I almost decided to wait, until I had a flashback of my cousin Candice in flown-blown labor before her epidural. I remembered the writhing, the pain in her face, and her impassioned plea that “No one should do this. EVER!”

So, I decided to fly my pain-wuss flag bravely, and told them to “hook me up!”

Somewhere in all the excitement, Mom and Gary arrived, already in proud grandparent mode.

A wonderful woman arrived a few moments later, introduced herself as my anesthesiologist, and proceeded to do an amazing job of keeping me distracted while giving me the best baby gift ever – no pain.

She also had one of the best quotes I’ve ever heard. “I’m a lot of peoples’ best friend for about ten minutes.”

The day slowly began to slip by. I was in labor, but I felt great. Mom, Brett, and Gary passed through the room, sat with me, and relieved the others as they ate, drank, and slept. I updated my status on Facebook (the supportive comments buoyed me even further toward the stratosphere), read my book, and chatted long-distance on the phone with my sister-cousin, Charity.

Suddenly, in the afternoon, I began to have some back pain. I wasn’t alarmed at first, since the anesthesiologist had warned me the epidural doesn’t always block all back pain.

However, the pain began to intensify, and before I knew it I was reliving my Candice flash-back from earlier - writhing in pain as horrible demon beasts feasted on my internal organs. I was panting, squeezing Brett’s hand, and cursing the human body’s high threshold for pain before passing out.

The nurses came in and were mystified. Brett was confused at how fast I had gone from serene to shrieking, and Mom looked terrified. Finally, in a burst of anger, I said, “I don’t think I’m getting the epidural anymore!”

Mom was brave enough to investigate, and sure enough, she discovered my epidural had become unhooked.

Apologetic for the mistake, the nurses plugged the tube back in. I had twenty more minutes of “real” contractions before the meds kicked in.

As I lay breathless on the bed, relief flooding to every corner of my being, I wondered aloud at the audacity and freakish fortitude of women who deliver naturally. Hats off to each and every one of you.

Never. Again.

I repeat. Never. Again.

The rest of the day slipped by. The nurses went on and off shift; my OB checked in and gave me kindness and kudos (which I felt were well-deserved, considering my twenty minutes of hellish torment). Brett slept on the rollaway bed; Mom and Gary dozed. I counted the ceiling tiles (106).

At 7:45 p.m., my OB sat on the edge of my bed. He looked me straight in the eyes with the directness, professionalism, and insightful nature I have come to love him for. “Do you think you can do this?”

I was a little startled. I knew he wanted a vaginal birth, if at all possible, but he was giving me the chance to ask for a C-section (perhaps the nurses had disclosed my earlier wussitude during the epidural-less twenty minutes).

Instead of answering confidently one way or the other, my sniveling inner-child sough affirmation. “Do you think I can do it?” I asked, just a tad fearful of his answer.

He clapped my leg and said, “I absolutely think you can do it.”

“Okay, then,” I said, emboldened by his confidence in me. “I can do it.”

(At which point, the heavens collapsed into the giggles. Again.)

He gave orders to begin pushing at 8:00 p.m. Brett took up his position on the other side of the nurse in the Red Zone, while Mom and Candice happily took up residence by my head.

I barely remember the next two hours. What I do remember is pushing. I felt exhaustion, but not pain (God bless my anesthesiologist and the evolution of medical wonders that led to the epidural). I remember my husband – the man I get so frustrated with at times – counting patiently to ten each and every time, and giving me every encouraging comment he could think of.

I know, I know. It’s an absolute cliché. But when he told me I was doing a great job, it was exactly what I needed to hear. Every time he told me to breathe, it was a reminder I needed. He was there every second of the way, and I will forever love him for the precious gift of being my partner when I needed a partner the most.

After pushing to each agonizing set of three ten-counts, Mom would feed me ice chips. Candice kept the hand-held, battery-operated fan blowing on me the whole time (I think her hand may have fallen asleep, but she never faltered.).

I could tell we were getting near the end when I felt like an oddly-shaped barbell was sitting on my tailbone. Mom, Brett, and Candice were happily shouting that they “could see the head.” After what seemed like five pushes and still no other comment, I finally said I didn’t care if they could see the head. I wanted to see some EARS!

The nurse offered to go get me a “birth mirror,” to which I ardently protested. No thank you. I mean. Gross. I had enough going on, you know?

Finally, the very last couple of pushes (Brett said, “Her lips are blue!” Candice said, “Her face is purple!” – see, these are the things I remember. I’m so vain.), and the baby, our baby – Sam – was welcomed to the world.

A very slimy alien being was placed on my chest for a split second and then whisked away for cleaning.

I vaguely remember Brett standing in the whirl of activity and just saying, “Wow.” There you have it, all the pain and suffering of childbirth through the ages and only word we can come up with is “Wow.”

I had incurred a surgical tear during the birth, so my legs were kept hoisted in the air, my OB repairing the damage, as the nurses cared for my already-quiet baby. They offered the clean baby to Brett who happily cradled his tiny son in his arms.

He held on so tightly and was so enthralled that Mom told me later, “I didn’t think he’d let anybody else hold him!”

Eventually, Mom got the chance to hold her grandson. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, and tangible heritage of the first man she ever loved, my father, Robert Lawrence Trotter. His spirit and that of Brett’s mom, Jean, were the unspoken loved ones in remembrance on the night of Sam’s birth.

We were reminded how much we missed them, and saluted them the best we know how, by promising to tell Sam how much he would have been loved by his departed Grandmother and Grandfather. It is no replacement for flesh-and-blood arms, but they were amazing and godly people, and his heritage will be enriched as we honor their memories.

Candice happily hugged her new not-nephew. I will forever be grateful for my biggest fan – and fan-holding – cousin. I don’t know what I would have done without her.

Eventually, they let me put my legs down. Hallelujah.

Mom, Gary, and Candice headed home for a reprieve from the day’s excitement (Mom told me later she couldn’t sleep a wink!).

Brett and I feasted on bag lunches (I hadn’t eaten since 6:00 p.m. the previous day) while Sam was getting his first check-up.

We did have a scary moment when I passed out while trying to make it to the bathroom. But it was just a combination of blood loss and low-blood sugar, and after I recovered, we were wheeled down to the post-partum ward to wait for our son.

It didn’t take long, and about 3:00 a.m., Sam was wheeled into our room. I got to hold my son for the first time, really hold him, much nicer now that he actually looked human.

I looked down into those eyes and saw the promise delivered.

I witnessed answered prayer. Observed generations of Trotters, Rehfeldts, Newells, and Soderstroms. Spotted potential. Glimpsed the present, future, and past.

But most of all.

Perhaps the simplest of all.

Manifested in human form, I saw my heart. Forever and always, the whole of my heart.

Thank you, God, for the safe delivery of Sam.

He's Here!

2009-07-29T18:45:00.001-07:00

Pack-n-(Com)Play(n)

2009-07-25T00:58:00.000-07:00

It’s tough to watch your dreams, aspirations, and hopes dissipate. I think it’s also hard to watch it happen to someone else.

I’m talking, of course, about my husband. Home ownership was a much bigger deal to him than it ever was to me.

I’ve admitted to everyone that I’m more of an apartment dweller by nature. The less space I live in, the less I have to clean. And don’t even get me started on the joy that wells up in my soul when I think about having no yard work, snow removal, or fix-it-yourself repair jobs.

To me, an apartment feels like freedom. I’ve felt tied down to this monstrous house ever since we moved in. It’s been too much to clean. I hate yard work (or even being outside) with a passion, and as much as I liked our neighbors, there’s a certain amount of anonymity I crave.

While I appreciated the security of having our own home, I also still thought of it as “just four walls.” Losing it is hard – because of the timing and the situation, but it isn’t like we are being tossed on the street or heading to the rescue mission. We will still have the four walls and ceiling we need, you know?

I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man or because he was raised in a family where home ownership is looked upon as the Holy Grail of accomplishment, but Brett is taking this very hard. I find myself dealing with a grumpy 15 year old with each box packed, sent off to the Salvation Army, or shipped to Mom and Gary’s basement.

We’ve been having our struggles getting on the same page. For instance:

Me: Starting over! No debt! Great apartment!
Brett: Obvious failure. Losing everything. Throwing money away every month.

Of course, if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know this reflects my Pollyanna nature, as well as Brett’s Eeyore nature.

There are other obstacles that have me feeling like I’m jumping hurdle after hurdle.

One is actually kind of funny. Brett has inherited his family’s tendency to pack-rat. Now, I love this man dearly, and it is that love that has prevented me from strangling him due to this proclivity.

I mean, we are talking about a man who saves empty medicine bottles to collect change. A man who will not throw away a scrap of old dishtowel, torn underwear, or ripped sock – but instead “collects” them to turn into rags. We currently have 8 (EIGHT!) industrial-size bags of saved “rags” sitting in our laundry room. He also saves slips of paper, advertisements, and out-of-date magazines, like they will someday turn to gold.

I, on the other hand, am ruthless with clutter. Sentimental items that are not going to be displayed are packed away lovingly. Decorative items go up. Everything else goes in the trash.

For nine years, we’ve been able to juggle this problem. He secretly saves his stash, while I mercilessly toss out every non-essential I can get my hands on. This is because we’ve had the space of the house to hide our Mr. Hyde sides.

Now, of course, as we pack and prepare to move, Brett’s addiction to clutter comes to light.

I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to throw away old dishtowels – OLD DISHTOWELS!!! I’ve taken a very hard line, no sympathy approach. I keep threatening him with, “Do you WANT our apartment to look like your parents’ basement?”

He doesn’t give in easily, and I get dirty glares with each empty medicine bottle I toss.

The other funny thing is that he also thinks we can “sell” our old junk.

Now, when I say “junk,” let me clarify. First of all, yes, we can sell some things – Mom has already collected a nice pile of house wares to take to the secondhand shop.

However, Brett thinks we can sell actual junk – like the Gift of Jesus 1982 coffee mug he got in – oh, 1982. I try (I really do) to tell him NICELY that the only people who will take that is the Salvation Army, and that’s only because they HAVE to.

He just doesn’t understand. He wants to sell our old VHS tapes. I explained VHS is already a twice-expired technology. I pointed out it would be like trying to sell old 8-track tapes. But he still won’t let me pitch the whole lot – or at least make them the Salvation Army’s problem.

I don’t know what it is that makes him want to hoard or profit off of the junk we’ve managed to accumulate. My guess is that “stuff” is very important to him while it’s (frankly) “just” stuff to me.

My viewpoint is A.) We don’t need it. B.) We don’t have the space to store it. C.) Maybe someone else would want it, and if we give it to SA, a very good cause is helped.

Oh bother.

We have this battle every time we start pack. Just ask Mom and Gary. If I didn’t act the part of callous, uncaring, hard-nosed shrew, we’d have packed exactly one box so far. But because I can be calculating and cunning when I have to be, most of the house is packed up.

No one loves me for it, but there you have it.

Today, I got a burst of energy to do some more packing. Call it nesting if you want, but I attribute it to the four hour afternoon nap.

Brett silently helped out as I packed, wrapped, and sing-songed about everything going on. Finally, I noticed he looked slightly disgruntled. I needled him about it, thinking it was just laziness or a bad attitude, but when I looked closer, I saw he was actually disturbed.

Finally, in the great tradition of wives everywhere, I accusatorily blurted out, “What is WRONG with you?”

“Nothing.”

Stony silence.

Finally, I waddled my pregnant self into the dining room (now our “staging” area) and eased myself down in the chair next to him.

This time I changed my tone of voice into something civil, and asked, “Seriously, what’s wrong? I can tell something is bothering you.”

At my changed tone, he seemed to relax a fraction. “It’s just that it’s becoming real to me now. I mean, we’re packing. It’s actually happening. We’re losing the house. It’s real. I worked so hard so we would have security and equity and be able to have our own home, and it’s gone. It’s really gone.”

He ducked his head down.

I felt bad. I really did. It was like watching a dream die.

I tried to reign in my Pollyanna who wanted to chirp out, “But we’re not dead yet!”

I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to point out we are having a baby and with that comes a joy to eclipse the loss of material items. I wanted to start counting out the blessings, name them one by one, as the song says. I wanted to inform him how we are fortunate in so many ways.

But I didn’t.

I’m not there often, but I have been down in the dumps occasionally. I may visit, but my Eeyore lives there. Still, I know nothing is more discouraging than a well-wisher thumping you on the back when all you need is a listening ear and a comforting smile.

And so I listened. And smiled. And encouraged him to pray about it. I’ve learned sometimes that’s all you can do for someone who’s not ready to let go.

Heaven knows, I’ve been there myself.

And so, with the induction scheduled for Monday, we start a new chapter in our lives. Hopefully, an uncluttered start to getting back on our feet. Think of us during this time, and pray for the contentment that only God can give.

And, if you really want to do something to help us, tell Brett you are willing to pay top dollar for the fabled rare edition of the 1982 Gift of Jesus coffee mug – if only you knew where to find it.

You’ll make his day.

The Trotter Traditions

2009-07-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when you were growing up, and you thought every family did things just like your family?

For instance, when I was a little girl, I had very long hair. Every Saturday night, Mom would give me a bath and wash my hair. Then, she’d sit on a chair in our living room, put me on the ottoman, and comb out my wet hair.

She’d empty out my drawer of teeny-tiny socks. Then, she’d separate out sections of my hair, put a sock at the bottom, roll it up to the crown of my head, and tie it in a knot. I would sleep on the wet, knotty mess all night.

In the morning, Mom would un-sock my head, comb out the mass of curls, and hose me down with Aqua Net, before we’d head off to church. There we’d go - two well-dressed adults and a brunette version of Little Orphan Annie.

I’m sure it was adorable. But, I HATED sleeping on all those socks. My head felt like a dented soup can in the morning.

The sad thing is that I think I was about eight or nine years old before I realized that none of my friends had to go through this Saturday night ritual! At some point, Mom took mercy on me and stopped socking my hair.

The funny thing? To this DAY, I use hot rollers on a daily basis. Something just doesn’t feel right if my hair isn’t bouncy or curly or (at the very least) big, sexy hair. Flat, straight hair just seems like an anomaly to me.

Personally, I blame the socks.

That’s not to say all my family traditions are drenched in inflicting pain, of course.

Perhaps the most wonderful Trotter tradition was our nightly ritual of ice cream consumption.

I don’t know when it started. I just remember it always being thus.

Every night, Mom would scoop us each a nice, big bowl of ice cream. The flavors varied over the years. So did the portion size. When we were on Weight Watchers, we switched to frozen yogurt and had ½ cup portions carefully measured out. When we didn’t feel like being good, we had the full-fat, two-bordering-on-three scoopfuls.

The best was when Mom was out of town, and Dad would bring the entire gallon into the living room with two spoons. Ah, those were the days!

I was fully aware that ice cream was a “treat,” but for us it was a daily treat. When I was visiting at friends’ house, I often wondered how they could fall asleep without their daily dose of dairy!

As I grew up, I discovered other families had THEIR unique traditions, as well. When we visited my parent’s friends, the Waggoners, I was awed by their tradition of ordering takeout pizza EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT! Wow. We hardly ever ordered pizza.

Some traditions, though, were just plain weird to me. My friend Jenny’s parents used to wash their girls’ hair in the sink. I was surprised, since I knew that Jenny and her sister could easily use the shower (like I did). But their mom and dad made a big production out of the hair washing, and they seemed to enjoy the family time splashing around in the kitchen.

My friend Sarah’s family had a tradition of having breakfast and then each family member retreating to their room to do devotions for a HALF HOUR. Do you know how long a HALF HOUR is to a kid?

When Sarah dragged me to her room and set the timer for a half hour, I didn’t think anything of it. I figured we’d read books, or play, or talk, but Sarah was dead-set on us reading her devotional book, memorizing a verse, and praying together.

Oh, come on!

I was exasperated.

But, I loved Sarah dearly, so every time I visited her, I faithfully had devotions with her while I dreamed about running through the sprinkler in her back yard.

I suppose I didn’t adhere to structure well, since my parents allowed me a lot of space to grow into myself. I was used to freedom, asking questions, and discovering things for myself.

I obeyed rules, but I easily chafed under rules I felt were unfair or even ridiculous. Such as those imposed on my friends by their parents.

My parents had rules, of course, but I was always allowed to ask why the rule was in place. They were more than happy to explain it to me.

When I visited my friends, and asked their parents “Why?,” I was given a peevish look and told I was being impertinent. To me, if you couldn’t give me a reason, there was no reason why I should have to follow the rule.

The words “because I said so” were not spoken in our home. My parents respected my power of reasoning and understanding and thankfully did not treat me like a brain-dead robot.

To this day, the “why” aspect of my personality drives my husband nuts. He will tell me something, act like it’s the absolute truth, and then get defensive when I ask for back-up facts or reasons.

“Just believe me,” he’ll say.

“But I really need to know why,” I’ll respond.

He usually ends up shaking his head and muttering something under his breath – something I’m probably better off not hearing.

Back to traditions, we had plenty. From my tire swing concerts - to all three of us reading books at the breakfast table - to popcorn and Murder, She Wrote on Sunday nights.

I revel in the recollection of those warm and fuzzy family times - those unique Trotter traditions that make up so much of who I am and what is important and sentimental to me.

I can’t help but wonder what our Soderstrom family traditions will be. Nightly ice cream? Marathon Sequence games? Family devotions?

All I can say for sure is that I absolutely will NOT roll my son’s hair full of socks.

Maybe Baby

2009-07-19T02:07:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends. I write to you this morning at the blisteringly early time of 3:00 a.m.

I am, not surprisingly, wide awake. Whether it is from the pregnancy hormones, or from the extremely large quantity of chocolate I consumed at Mom’s last night – we’ll never know. In any case, both Sam and I are awake and kicking.

We’ve had quite the roller coaster week. Okay, to be fair, if you’ve been reading my blog at all, you know it’s been a roller coaster kind of year.

First, some big news. Do you remember the two bedroom apartment we applied for in Roscoe? The one with the spacious layout, the glorious location (next to the library, bike path, and Dairy Queen), and the reasonable monthly rent?

Well, we GOT it! Hallelujah!

In spite of our horrible credit and past financial history (and because of the mighty prayers being offered up on our behalf), we sign the papers and hand over the security deposit this week for our bright, shiny new apartment.

Originally, we had hoped to move into the unit that was available August 1. However, another couple beat us to the punch. BUT, the property manager told us a unit would be available September 1, and we had been approved for that one if we were still interested.

Still interested?! We were practically salivating over the opportunity. The first of September should put us at 40 days (of the 90-100 days) that we still have in the house. Also, Lord willing, we will have the month of August with Sam. Hopefully, a month of getting used to new parenthood will help us be less nervous about moving with a newborn in tow.

Again, we were thinking August, but obviously God’s timing is September. It’s hard to doubt His wisdom, seeing He provided a place for us to live (as always in the nick of time)!

I was prepared to hear “no,” prepared to accept it, so when the “YES” came back, resoundingly clear, I was left with the impression of being a doubting Thomas, having to witness something by sight I should have taken by faith.

A mustard seed is so small. How come my faith never comes anywhere near its mass?

Our other big event? In case I forgot to mention it, we ALMOST had a baby Thursday night.

During my standard non-stress test, the OB nurse and my APN were worried Sam’s heartbeat had slowed to unacceptable levels. Now, up until this time, Sam’s non-stress test numbers have been great, nigh phenomenal, for a high-risk pregnancy.

Right off the bat, they explained there were several non-worrisome reasons for a substandard non-stress test. First, Sam might have just been in a long sleep cycle. Second, the time of day combined with my last meal may have made him sluggish.

They could easily confirm Sam’s health with a biophysical which can be done via ultrasound right in the OB’s office. Unfortunately, my OB is on vacation and since my appointment was late afternoon, there was no one able to operate the machine.

So, we were sent packing to the Labor and Delivery Ward at Swedes. Thanks to our prenatal class, at least we knew where it was and what procedure to follow (Thank you, Dr. Cuddy).

God sent comfort in the form of a friendly face. Amanda from church was working the L&D registration desk, and just seeing someone familiar eased the hundred clenched muscles in my stomach. Her sweet smile sent floods of joy through my heart, as I knew God places His people where they are supposed to be – and we were both supposed to be right there, at the right time, together.

Soon, we were settled in an L&D suite and what had seemed like a normal, routine test back at the OB’s office was starting to freak me out. I was so apprehensive I couldn’t even get into my hospital gown. I must have held it up at least twenty times in the bathroom. No matter what way I flipped it, there was only ONE arm hole.

Now, I am a reasonably intelligent person who had managed to dress herself for the better part of my 30 years. Yet here I was, reduced to tears, by an impossible, one-armed, stupid hospital gown.

Practically dry-heaving, I cajoled Brett into the bathroom. In face of my frantic, saucer-eyed appearance, he calmly buttoned up the other side of the gown (using snaps I SWEAR were not there before) and held out a two-armed garment which I meekly stepped into.

Settled back into bed, feeling foolish, I tried to talk myself down. I gave myself rational reassurances in spite of my hysterical brain screaming, “NOT TONIGHT! NOT TONIGHT!”

We had heard that a Dr. C was on call for the ward that night. Now, I should tell you that my OB, Dr. S, is a wonderful OB – his personality is calming and quite serious. Being a studious person myself, I have always appreciated his level of professionalism.

However, Dr. C was, well, to put it succinctly, a hoot.

From the moment he set foot in my room, he was joking and laughing and had Brett and I (and the nurse) in stitches within seconds. He even managed to joke me though that horrible, horrible exam where they have to root around and figure out how far you’re dilated.

Not that I didn’t feel it. But it was much less uncomfortable than it could have been were I not distracted.

After reviewing the second non-stress test, which we also failed, Dr. C presented us with our choices. He said they would do the biophysical via ultrasound. They would be looking for four things. Each thing was worth two points. A perfect score was eight points.

“You get eight points; you get to go home tonight. You get six points; you stay overnight, and we do the test again in the morning. You get four points or less; we deliver tonight.”

We sat shell-shocked. We had never considered immediate delivery as a possibility.

The starkness of what he said jabbed my stomach. I did not want to give birth right there, in a room where everything suddenly seemed dingy and scary. I know it was just common fear crowding my brain cells, as I nodded my understanding and tried valiantly to act cavalier about the whole thing.

We called Mom and Brett’s dad and gave them the scoop, telling them not to come just yet, since we didn’t have the test results. It all seemed so surreal, like an out-of-body experience.

A few minutes later, the ultrasound tech rolled a giant cart in my room and set about doing the exam. As she started to mark things down, I held a silent mind-meld conversation with my son.

“Sweetheart, Mommy doesn’t want to bully you, especially before you’ve seen the light of day or taken your first breath. I promise I won’t be one of those parents who pressure you to be competitive or scold you for not getting straight A’s. But, Momma would really appreciate it if you could just wake up long enough to score eight perfect points, so I can take you home tonight. We can come back when you’re ready.”

According to the tech, Sam scored a six almost immediately, which meant at the very least, a 12 hour reprieve. However, she kept me hooked up to the machine for another 20 minutes, and just as she was about to close – Sam’s wafer-thin diaphragm lifted four times in a perfect symphony of practice breathing motions.

“Eight points!” The tech exhaled with the breathlessness usually reserved for home team touchdowns. I joined her with an excited squeal (Brett’s sigh of relief was heard in several surrounding counties). My little boy had scored when it really mattered.

And, even though I know it was just a physical, I was strangely and staunchly proud of my little guy.

We called Mom and Brett’s dad and gave them the news. Unlike us, they were disappointed at having to wait a little longer to meet their grandson. But they took it in stride.

I don’t know what it was, but it was a certainty in my brain that I not supposed to have Sam on Thursday night. I don’t know when his time will be, but I think (after this experience) that I will know it.

So, as you can see it’s been a busy – emotional – couple of days.

This may be the last week before (or of) Sam’s arrival. It’s hard to believe 39 weeks have gone by. It seems like I was just announcing my pregnancy, and now I’m like a beached, sun-bathing walrus (who just couldn’t be happier…or more slow-moving).

It feels weird not knowing if this will be my last blog post before Sam. I keep thinking that way. This might be my last movie, my last book, my last load of laundry, my last everything – before my life changes forever.

I know it will never be the same. There is an element of apprehension, of suspended breathing, of watching everyone treat me like a ticking time bomb.

And yet.

I can’t help but think, “I prayed for this, and it’s actually happening.”

It’s like a 39 week miracle, and I’m getting to watch it in slow motion as it builds to the crescendo.

I don’t know if this will be my last pre-Sam blog post or not. But in any case, I want to thank you all for the prayers during infertility, the many, many encouraging comments after the BIG announcement, the advice, and your collective shoulders on which I frequently lean.

Technically, I know it just took Brett and me to make this baby. But in many ways, I can honestly say, I couldn’t have done it without you, my friends, my family, and my cohorts.

Could you please pray for the successful end of a healthy pregnancy, a safe delivery for Sam, and the comfort, strength, and blessing Brett and I are going to need?

We will appreciate it. And so will our perfect-eight-scoring son!

Trying Not to Be the Only One Offended

2009-07-14T14:03:00.000-07:00

We all say offensive things.

I mean, I know I am a walking example.

When my movie buddy Angie wanted us to go to the (now defunct) $1 movie theater, I said, “Isn’t that in a sleazy part of town? I don’t really want to be there after dark.”

Then, she said, “Hey, I live down the street from that theater.”

Awkward.

Thankfully, she forgave me. Although, she still enjoys teasing me about my faux pas. Good friends are allowed to needle you about those things.

And when I try to think about all the times I’ve said something innocently and put my foot in my mouth, I have to give everyone else a wide berth before being offended.

I think sometimes it’s easy to say or do something offensive, simply out of ignorance. Now that doesn’t make it totally excusable, but I always hope someone will give me the benefit of the doubt and perhaps EXPLAIN why what I said or did may have been perceived as offensive.

As you might have guessed, I’m tippy-toeing my way to explaining why I took offense at something the other day. It, too, was said totally innocently and matter-of-factly.

In fact, it was the matter-of-fact tone that actually sent my blood to boiling - as though this particular sentiment was widely held by the vast majority of people.

I was asking someone about their second child, and they said, “Well, of course we wanted to have another one. We didn’t want *Jonah to be an only child or anything like that.”

Well, color me offended.

I know I’ve pulled out this old soapbox before, but let me just say that I was/am/always will be HAPPY to be an only child. I did not feel deprived, and if you follow this blog at all, you know my childhood was quite idyllic.

There is this widely held, blatantly false, assumption that ALL only children are spoiled, lonely, selfish, socially maladjusted miscreants.

I’m not saying that SOME of us aren’t. I’m saying not ALL of us are. You are NOT intentionally doing your child a disservice IN ANY WAY if he/she is an only child.

I’ve spoken to a wide variety of only children. There are some who resent their sibling-less childhoods. And yes, there are the lonely kids out there, too. But the overwhelming response I get from my “only” compatriots is that they were happy kids and feel quite blessed.

I mean, how would people like it if I pointed out that I’ve met more than one “mess” of a family due to sibling rivalry?

My husband has advocated strongly for Sam to be an only child because – while he, of course, loves his four siblings - he grew up withered in the shadows of their popularity and needs and feels the poorer off for it. He looks at my childhood and sees the ocean of possibilities I was offered, and he wants those same things for Sam.

I’m not saying that everyone should have/be an only child. I’m just hoping to revise the notion that being/having an only child is a FATE WORSE THAN DEATH.

Because, I can gratefully, happily, assure you it is not.

It can be a blissful, fulfilling, and rewarding experience, and it’s time it was recognized as such.

I’ve said this before, but my mother was one of 12 children. I can’t imagine not having a single one of my aunts or uncles, and the mirthful myriad of cousins who share my sphere. My closest cousins, the Boehm’s, number four, and I wouldn’t give one of them away for the world.

So, I’m not bad-mouthing a family’s decision to have multiple children. Of course not. Nor am I saying that I KNOW for sure Sam will BE an only child.

I’m just still stubbornly trying to de-bunk a stupid myth that has annoyed me since childhood.

I’m loud. I’m proud. And I’m (most joyfully) ONE.

Coming Home

2009-07-13T09:10:00.000-07:00

You know how they say you don’t appreciate something until you lose it?

With us losing our house, I have found myself thinking more and more about my impression of “home.”

“Home” is such a beautifully fluid concept. I mean, we’ve all heard that “a house is not a home.” In spite of that, many of us do think of our house as our home. Home can simply be where you go after work is done – which is usually your house.

Then there are those warm and welcoming places where we say we feel “at home.” One of my favorite sayings is “Home is where your mother is.” Perhaps the most evocative feeling of home is the recollection of where we spent our childhood years.

My own first official memory happened at four years old. I remember wading through the green and yellow shag carpeting in our tiny house, climbing onto the 70’s-era blue-green couch, and demanding Dad read the comics to me.

What do I remember about that moment?

The shag carpeting? The paisley couch? The confines of our small house? Nope.

I remember my squeal of joy as Dad lifted me onto his lap, cracked open the newspaper, and did funny voices for Lucy and Charlie Brown which sent me into gales of laughter. That’s what I remember.

That is what “home” will always mean to me. Unconditional love and acceptance.

As Christians, we have another perception of “home,” being encouraged to look toward Heaven as our final place of residence.

When my Aunt Kathy lay dying in her hospital bed, her brother, my Uncle Scott, led us in singing Amazing Grace. Afterwards, he talked about Aunt Kathy gathering her skirts around her (Aunt Kathy loved wearing skirts. She once told Mom that wearing skirts made her feel closer to God.) and wading across the river before stepping onto Heaven’s shore.

It was a beautiful mind picture, and I could almost see Aunt Kathy’s face breaking into that unforgettable smile and hearing her tremendous belly laugh as those gates rolled back to reveal her new Home.

I suppose I remember more about how I felt during Aunt Kathy’s passing that I do Dad’s. Dad was taken from us so suddenly that most of my reflection is on what happened to Mom and I immediately following his death.

However, I have no doubt that he stepped on those same shores and was welcomed into his Savior’s embrace with the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Yesterday at church, we were singing an “old favorite.” I have sung this song as a child, and you probably have, too. However, this time, one of the secondary verses caught my eyes and touched my heart.

With all we are going through right now, not knowing where we are going to live, not knowing if we will have a tangible home to call our own, this simple stanza from Amazing Grace brought tears to my eyes -

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come.
T'was Grace that brought me safe thus far,
And Grace will lead me home.

I was reminded, again, that I can trust God’s grace to provide an earthly place for us to call home.

But, even better, I know, in the end, that same Grace will also lead me Home.

Worth It Wednesday

2009-07-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

Sometime during my first trimester, I decided I wanted to do something special and unique for myself during this time of pregnancy – a time I NEVER thought I would have. I waffled between getting a manicure/pedicure or getting a pregnancy massage.

In the end, I figured I could give myself a manicure, and since I can’t see my feet, a pedicure would be a waste of time. So, I decided on the pregnancy massage. It was no cheapie treat, either. I had to save up for a couple of months to swing the $60 splurge!

My cousin’s wife, Cari, is also pregnant, so I asked if she’d like to go with me. After rescheduling our original date, we set ourselves up for pampering this past Wednesday.

When I set up the appointment, I had no idea of the chaotic and complex direction my life would be taking this month. So, presented with a day off for the massage, I also had to schedule two apartment viewings and my non-stress test. At the last minute, we also decided to have lunch with Mom, Aunt Louise (Cari’s mother-in-law), and Cari’s sweet little boy, Dawson, after the massage.

I was stressing out a little, thinking I had way over-scheduled myself on what was supposed to be a relaxing spa day.

In the morning, Brett and I checked out Apartment #2 (our Apartment #1 experience is here). We really liked the apartment’s spacious 2 bedroom layout, the monthly rent amount, and the convenient location. We decided to put in an application, knowing full well our credit, bankruptcy, and current housing situation could possibly weigh against us.

But, you have to start somewhere.

I’ve been praying God will “put us where He wants us.” So, if the answer comes back “no,” then we know it isn’t there, and if it comes back “yes,” we will be praising Him all the same.

It’s hard to wait - even harder to know the answer might very well be “no” - but trusting means trusting. And so, I’m trusting and trying very hard to be patient.

After the showing, I headed across town to the Tranquility Café inside SwedishAmerican Hospital. If you have never been to the café, I can highly recommend it! There is a wonderful gift shop (lots of supplies for new moms, too!), a coffee shop, and a massage therapist on hand.

I signed in for my (FIRST EVER) massage. Let me just say – WOW! – it was truly amazing! All that scrimping and saving was TOTALLY worth it. The massage therapist, Linda, spent over 45 minutes massaging me, helping me relax, and seemed to bring all my energy back to the surface.

I could have run a marathon after she was done!

The baby must have liked it, too, because he slept like a little lamb through the whole thing.

My cousin’s wife was next in line, and while she was getting her massage, I sat in the coffee bar and just let the relaxation seep in from my head to my toes.

Afterwards, we met Mom, Aunt Louise, and Dawson for lunch at Red Lobster.

With my extended family, I am often torn when it comes to what to disclose about our financial/living predicament. Being a Rehfeldt, I’d rather have it all out there in the open. However, Brett is much more private, and it understandably annoys him that my family tends to be frank and sometimes VERY judgmental about situations they have not experienced.

It’s remarkable how people like to judge you when they know next to nothing about your unique situation. (I’m sure we’re all familiar with that feeling.)

It’s not so hard on me, as I am mostly anesthetized to family rudeness and the smart comment or flippant remark tends to roll off my back.

And, as you know, I am more than able to give back what I get when it comes to smart-aleck-ry.

Anyway, as we sat down to lunch, I told Mom how much we liked Apartment #2. She started to tell Aunt Louise, and I jumped in quickly to remind everyone that we aren’t counting any chickens just yet. Neither Brett nor I want to get our hopes up, because we’ve had enough hopes dashed lately.

Before I knew it, I spilled out all the financial hurdles that stand in our way to renting a decent apartment. I’m not sure what I expected from my Aunt Louise, perhaps a comment about how we should have made better financial decisions in the past, etc.

Instead, she nodded her head in agreement. She began to tell me how hard it was for her when she was looking for an apartment – a single teenage mother who had been kicked out of my grandparent’s house, addicted to alcohol, and completely on her own.

I felt a hot prick of tears come to my eyes. It amazing how hearing someone else’s hard-knock story can make you appreciate what you have. In my case, a husband, a family support system, and no addictions that could put my child in harm’s way.

I know how far Aunt Louise has come. Thanks to AA, she is a recovering alcoholic, sober for many, many years. She raised an incredible daughter, my cousin Tammy, who is, herself, a caring and loving mother.

Aunt Louise is also a generous, kind, and supreme grandmother. Which was firmly evidenced by Dawson who spent the entire lunch hour trying to crawl into his grandmother’s arms.

My family can be bluntly candid, sometimes even offensive. They can be loud, opinionated, and I can guarantee they’ll rarely let you finish a sentence. But they are also beautifully honest and truthful when they need to be.

Aunt Louise’s non-judgmental story reminded me how much we learn from our family. When she smiled that sad smile in memory of her darker days, I found myself wanting to comfort her all these years later. I knew she was telling me her story to comfort me in the midst of my trial.

At that moment, I was never so proud and grateful for my extended family. God loves the whole dysfunctional lot of them (just the way they are), and so do I.

After lunch, I went to a (thankfully) non-eventful, non-stress test. My OB was very pleased with Sam’s heart reactivity. He went as far as to say Sam’s numbers were some of the best he’d ever seen in a high, double-risk pregnancy such as mine.

Somehow, even with all this stress, our little Sam is holding his own.

The last appointment of the day was viewing Apartment #3. It was a very nice one bedroom layout, small but not tiny. The rent was more than reasonable, and it’s very close to where we currently live. We took an application but are waiting to hear back from Apartment #2 before proceeding any further.

By the time I got home and settled, I definitely felt like I’d had a full day. However, looking at the apartments made me feel like at least I was going in SOME direction towards getting ready for Sam. And reflecting back on Aunt Louise’s story gave me back the joyful heart and thankful spirit I’d been lacking.

I was also happy the $60 I’d saved had been more than worth it for the pregnancy massage.

I would have thought all the appointments and driving all over town would have left me stressed out, but the truth is that I felt like I’d been given a reprieve. Spending time with family, spending time with Brett looking at apartments, getting good news at the OB’s – all made me feel relaxed (I’m sure the massage didn’t hurt either!).

It was a middle-of-the-week blessing, and I’m counting it among one of the nicest days in this (soon-to-be accomplished) pregnancy.

P.S. – If you don’t mind, can you please pray God will provide a place for us live – that He would put us where He wants us in His perfect time? We would REALLY appreciate your prayers!

Don’t Panic!

2009-07-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

Deep, cleansing breaths.

Don’t panic!

I said, “DON’T PANIC!”

*slaps self*

Oh, how I love it! After all my blathering yesterday about “working without a net,” God decided to call my bluff.

After work, I headed to my OB for my bi-weekly, non-stress test. As the nurse hooked me up to the monitor, she asked if I was having any pain the doctor should address. I told her the only pain I have felt is the ever-increasing pressure on my pelvic bones.

When the doctor came in, he asked, “I see you are having increased pelvic pressure.” He paused for a minute and then asked, “Did you drive yourself today?”

Startled at the sudden change in topic, I said, “Yes. Why?”

He just smiled and slipped back out of the room, as I was left there somewhere between confusion and hyperventilation. A few minutes later, he was back informing me that he would perform an exam just to see “if that increased pressure means anything.”

I patted my stomach and said, “I’ve been telling him to stay in there until the 27th!”

My OB said, “Or he could be born on Thursday.”

I laughed. He didn’t. I guess only one of us thought he was joking.

As he cruised out of the room again, I looked stoically at my belly. “Listen kid, you’d better stay in there until the 27th, or you’re in big trouble.”

Sam kicked just then, and I chose to take it as a kick of acquiescence, not his first act of willful disobedience.

A long wait and a VERY uncomfortable exam later, I learned I was only dilated 1.5 centimeters. Which is the equivalent of bupkis in terms of labor and delivery. Thank you, Sam!

They let me go home, after extracting a promise that I’d be back on Wednesday for another non-stress test, and back again on Friday, for my final ultrasound.

When I arrived home, I found Brett sitting glumly on the couch. All my funny comments and thoughts about my semi-scary OB visit vanished.

“What is it?” I asked, concerned.

He told me he had taken the foreclosure paperwork down to our lawyer’s office. The lawyer was unavailable, but his secretary made a copy of the paper. Then, she told Brett that, in her understanding, after July 22, the property would be sold. We most likely would NOT get 30 days. We would be lucky to get a couple of days.

“I would recommend you try to be completely moved out by the 22nd,” she advised. “Because if they foreclose on you, anything left in the house becomes their property.”

I thought of all our precious baby supplies scattered around the living room and literally gasped out loud.

Stunned, I dropped to the couch beside Brett. Our minds reeling together.

We had thought – we had assumed (and you know what that means) – that at the VERY least, we had 30 days to find a new place and get moved out and moved in again. Now, we had 15 days from that very moment. I had been operating on that 30 days – thinking that no matter when Sam was born, at least I’d have a couple of weeks to pull a move together.

I thought back to my post yesterday and realized I’d been using the unconfirmed promise of “30 days” as my (albeit short) safety net.

God called my bluff.

“Trust me NOW, girl.” He seemed to be challenging.

I am a woman mobilized by crisis. Immediately, I pulled out the apartment listing I had located earlier in the day. I called the property manager; a very nice woman named Michelle, and asked if we could see the apartment immediately. She was more than accommodating, and I made an appointment for 7:30 p.m.

I drove, and as I turned down the street to the apartment, Brett pointed out the first building. “Condemned,” he said, as if he were the one being condemned, not the building in front of us.

“Oh relax, Eeyore,” I said, with a sigh. “Those aren’t the apartments we’re looking at.”

The fact that the apartments we WERE looking at were only three buildings down from the condemned one did nothing for my depressed husband.

I am Pollyanna-istic,b y nature, so I bounded out of the car to meet Michelle while Brett unfolded himself from the car and looked around in clear distaste of the surroundings.

Michelle, who was as nice in person as she was on the phone, greeted us warmly. She told us she lives in the building and acts as the property manager. I liked her instantly.

She took us inside the tiny, tiny apartment. The “living room” was (I’m not kidding) half the size of our walk-in closet. If more than two people stand in there together, they'd be living in sin.

The kitchen was very nice. Small, but big enough to fit our kitchen table. Also, it boasted all new appliances and a back door that opened out into a nice, wooded area with a grassy landing. There was also a cement area for backyard grilling.

Michelle led us down very narrow stairs (with a rickety banister straight out of the Bates motel) to the miniscule basement which boasted its own washer/dryer hookups and some storage space. Since, I desperately want to have my own laundry room with a newborn on the way, I was happy with this feature.

Brett looked around cautiously as if hockey-masked Jason from Friday the 13th was about to burst out his chainsaw in the darkened, spooky space.

Michelle cheerfully led us back up the stairs of death, past the “main floor” (it’s so small, calling it the main floor is really laughably ridiculous), up another treacherous stairway with yet another breakaway banister.

The top floor included two bedrooms. The first bedroom (would be the baby’s room) had a large closet (currently sans doors), no light fixtures, and was (as the rest of the house) teensy-weensy. The second bedroom was slightly larger (maybe by a foot?), but had a smallish closet (and I mean “smallish” on a molecular level).

The bathroom was actually a decent size with baby blue porcelain – everywhere. Appropriate for people expecting a baby boy?

As we descended down to the main floor, I peppered Michelle with questions about the neighbors, the neighborhood, apartment expectations, etc. Trying to distract her from Brett’s face, in which the disgusted sentiment clearly read, “What have I done to deserve this?”

I eagerly took the application and asked our hostess if there were any stipulations that would automatically disqualify us from renting. I was thinking about our bankruptcy and dismal credit rating.

She assured me the only disqualification would be if we were felons - which I was glad to assure her, we are not. She also said her opinion holds great sway with the owners of the building. She told us that the buildings and the neighborhood was in bad shape ten years ago, and the owners have been steadily trying to improve it with “quality” tenants.

Michelle told us she liked us very much, and she would recommend us for the rental. I was flattered and honored with her kind words. She reiterated that she and her family live in the building, and so it MATTERS to her who ELSE lives in the apartments.

She also told me there are several families with new babies and quite a few with kids, so it is a family-friendly place. I saw this for myself as several families traipsed in and out of the parking lot while we were there. I took comfort in the fact that at least if I was up with a crying baby – I wouldn’t be alone.

We waved goodbye to the likable Michelle and headed back home. Brett was completely silent on the way home, as I listed the pros and cons.

Cons – the death-trap stairs, cramped rooms (and if I, at 5’4,” felt squeezed, you can imagine how claustrophobic my 6’4” husband felt), limited privacy (the unit we’d be renting is smack in the middle of the building), one parking space (no garage),fixing up that would have to be done – closet doors, main bedroom, etc., small everything…

Pros – affordable (even on unemployment), washer/dryer hook-ups, on-site manager, two bedrooms, new kitchen appliances, family-friendly, across the street from a grocery store, between two main drags (Alpine, 251)…

“It’s not like we have to live there forever,” I pointed out. “It’s just a stop-gap measure until things settle down.”

Brett chose the old, “If you have nothing nice to say…” mantra and was pretty much silent the drive home. When I pestered him - as I am wont to do - he said he was just “thinking.”

“About how much you hate it.” I said to myself.

To appease him, as well as cover as many bases as possible, we rode around Roscoe for a while. We drove by several For Rent apartments, so I wrote those numbers down and made appointments for showings on Wednesday.

One of the apartment managers I had spoken to earlier in my apartment search did tell me that “Credit matters,” so my guess is that we would be automatically disqualified for those apartments. But, just to be sure, Brett is checking on our credit, so we know whether to put in the effort to go see the units or not.

It was past 8:30 p.m. when we got home, but with the July 22 deadline looming in my head, I threw myself into packing baby stuff. Up until then, I’d been opening one gift at a time, writing a thank you note, and then putting the gift away. Now, I haphazardly slapped cards in an I’ll-do-it-later envelope and sorted the baby gifts by category until a good majority were packed away.

I called Mom and Gary and arranged for more packing help on Thursday and Friday. Combining that with an already full day on Wednesday – pregnancy massage, 2 apartment showings, non-stress test, and more packing – should make for a very busy week.

After all my phone calls, I did laundry and finished packing my hospital bag. I dove into bed and waited for sleep to overtake my exhausted pregnant body. But my mind was still going a million miles a minute.

As the thoughts of the gotta-do-it-now circled my head, I prayed.

I wanted to say, “C’mon, God! Seriously? Like I wasn’t stressed ENOUGH, now you throw THIS at me? Seriously?”

Instead, I had to admit that if this was God’s perfect timing, then, well, it was. Maybe I didn’t understand it. Maybe I was overwhelmed. Maybe I was an untrusting, faithless idiot. But, that didn’t make God any less right, any less perfect, any less all-knowing.

And at this point, I had to face the fact that clearly He knows something I don’t.

Maybe this level of stress through my pregnancy will make Sam a genius? We can only hope. It’s not like he’ll come by it naturally.

Last night, I prayed myself to sleep. This morning I read my devotions and prayed again for guidance, stamina, energy, and wisdom.

When I was eating breakfast, the phone rang. It was the lawyer’s secretary again. The lawyer had looked at the papers Brett had left.

The secretary informed us she had been incorrect. The mortgage company would be obtaining permission to sell the house on July 22. From that date on, we had 90-100 days, called a “redemption period,” in which we could still legally be in the house.

Relief rushed through me as the deadline had inched back enough to allow me some room. As breath rushed back in my lungs, and I felt the lessening weight, I realized God had put a challenge in front of me to see how I’d react. Then, He’d mercifully extended His hand to offer help just when I needed it.

So, I’d panicked, sure. But I’d also prayed.

I felt a little burst of the Refiner’s fire brush past me. All of this – and really it seems like a quite a lot to me – is truly making me depend on God, not myself. I keep realizing (over and over again) that my lesson needs to be full dependence, not this piecemeal where I think I have some sort of magical power over my situations.

So, while I may be married to Eeyore, I can’t help but find my inner Pollyanna and play the glad game when I reflect on this -

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” - James 1:2-4

Now, there’s something to be glad about!

Oh, Help.

2009-07-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

One of my most beloved movies is The Sound of Music.

One of my favorite scenes is when the atypical nun is coming down off the high of singing I Have Confidence in Me. She’s been singing, dancing, and hanging off streetcars for the past few minutes, renewing her vigor, her anticipation, of succeeding at this new challenge in front of her.

You can practically see the wind leave her sails, as the music stops abruptly, and she finds herself staring, open-mouthed, at the monstrous estate of her new employer, surrounded by a high fence.

Her face drops all manner of built-up confidence, as she stares blankly for a minute, before uttering my favorite line in the whole movie.

“Oh, help.”

This is most often how I feel. I have an optimist’s nature and realist’s perspective. So, while I wish my life was a spectacular musical, complete with applause and catchy dance numbers, I know it is not.

I have never fully understood the concept of walking by faith. Perhaps, because I have never had to do it. I have to say – it is terrifying.

I am a “planner” by nature. Not a perfectionist, thank the good Lord, but an organized planner. My whole life has been dictated by a do this and get that mentality. Study in school, get good grades. Obey your parents, receive trust and privileges. Go to college, and get a good job. Get a good job, enjoy profit and security. Etc.

For the first time in my life, I am facing an uncertain future where there is no solid ground. The ground feels mushy and quicksand-y, like if I make the wrong step, everything will come crashing down.

“Oh, help.”

Let’s start of the beginning of the maze, shall we?

My OB has said if I don’t go into labor “naturally” by July 27th, then he will plan to induce on the 27th. This fits in fine with “my plan,” since the 27th is a mere three days before my “official” due date.

However, Brett and I received notice that the foreclosure papers should arrive around July 22nd. We don’t know how long we will be given to vacate our home of the past eight years. We are hoping at least 30 days. However, even at 30 days, we are looking at moving on the cusp of pregnancy or with a newborn in tow.

Of course, this doesn’t even take into consideration, the fact that we have no place to go. I have saved up roughly two months of paid leave, after which time, my company will dissolve, and I will quite possibly be unemployed.

Not knowing (even slightly) what our income will be in the next six months, leaves me in a quandary as to how to look for an apartment. I don’t even know what price range I can look at, since I don’t even know what our income will be.

And, of course, on that same road, I am torn. Do I immediately try to find a new job and leave my newborn? Or do I accept unemployment and stay with my child? Do I look for at-home work that offers no insurance? Or do I bite the bullet and head back out into the world in search of a reasonable paycheck that offers insurance and benefits?

I continue to pray God will guide us in His perfect timing. Knowing full well, that God’s perfect timing is often down-to-the-wire in human terms.

While I wrestle with these issues, I find myself speechless at the blessings God has bestowed. Through a miracle (the only way I can describe it), we have acquired a second car!

I also find myself increasingly grateful God gave me a burst of energy at the beginning of my pregnancy, so I was able to pack up the majority of the house. All we have left to pack now are the baby accoutrements, books, and kitchen cupboards.

The generosity of family, friends, and co-workers, has left me amazed. The sheer volume of baby gifts is pleasantly overwhelming.

And yet, I feel profound sadness as I pack everything up. Wishing I was preparing the baby’s room, instead of simply hoping the baby will have a room.

I feel alone in this drift. Hoping a white knight will ride down the mountain and hand-deliver a solution, and yet knowing my wishful thinking does nothing but bring me down.

I am a woman of action. I want to be proactive, tackle the situation, and beat it into submission of my will.

Of course, unable to do this, I feel weak, stupid, and clumsy. Trusting and praying seem like the coward’s way out.

I know this to be untrue. That trusting and praying and WAITING are the hardest things one must do by faith. But, bear with me, operating without a safety net is new to me. It feels wholly uncomfortable, treacherous, and paralyzing.

I wish I knew the right way to proceed. I wish I had the assurance that everything will work out perfectly. I wish I wasn’t facing uncertainty.

But, as we all know, wishing doesn’t do anybody any good, and it certainly doesn’t solve anything.

So, for now, I’m standing on my tightrope, balancing the best I can, looking heavenward and uttering.

“Oh, help.”

And praying God will deliver some of His Favorite Things.

Socially Unaware

2009-06-25T14:07:00.000-07:00

I went to this luncheon today for work. It was all about social media – Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, YouTube – and how to use it effectively both personally and professionally. The guest speakers were two young women from Chicago who work for Google.

Overall, the content was really good. I learned a lot of new features about my favorite sites and even more about the sites I don’t use. Best of all, the speakers were entertaining and had a wide variety of funny videos that proved their points.

Unfortunately, I was seated next to a complete douche bag. He was one of those “with it” guys who think they’re super cool. He had two phones out and spent almost the whole lunch playing with phone applications.

I kept thinking, “Dude, you are trying WAY too hard to show everyone you think you’re way too advanced for this luncheon.”

He told me he owns one of the local hot spots in downtown Rockford (which he actually does, I learned later).

Anyway, about twenty minutes into the presentation, he put his head in his hands. He swiveled around in his seat and snipped nastily, “If that girl says ‘um' one more time, that’s it.”

Well, she did.

He got up huffily and stormed out of the room. He returned about ten minutes later, smirking, and spent the rest of the lunch making our table uncomfortable by mocking the speaker’s (few and far between) “ums.”

Also, his "friend" who sat with him (a bromance is brewing, methinks) made several sexual and extremely inappropriate comments about the female speakers - at a table with four women, including ME, who could clearly hear him.

Why are people such jerks, sometimes?

I had a wide variety of the peanut gallery at the table behind me, too. One woman kept flapping her flip-flop off the end of her foot. So, every ten seconds, I’d hear this “Thwack!” sound. She kept this up the WHOLE time.

In what universe do you NOT know how annoying that is?

Also, at her table was a woman who I think had whooping cough. I say this because she started coughing and clearing her throat (and not discreetly) as soon as she sat down. Now, here’s the thing – one or two coughs/throat clearings are totally acceptable. If you’ve got to do more than that, please, please leave the room.

It’s common courtesy. Constant coughing and crying children are distracting. Always. And you are NOT the exception. Ever.

Perhaps, the RUDEST thing I experienced was people leaving before the emcee closed the event. It was like a mass exodus, and the poor guy at the microphone was left to sputter thank-you-for-comings to the four of us left in the 300 person room.

The workshop was on social media, but the majority of these people didn’t even know how to be socially polite.

I always want to ask these kinds of people why they are like this.

Do they think they are SO important that they must crudely dash off, or answer that text immediately, or split attention between a speaker and the little, electric darling in their hand?

I don’t get it.

I hate it that people – real, actual flesh-and-blood people – get lost in the shuffle.

I hope the next workshop will teach people to be social. Period.

Free & Funny

2009-06-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what mailing list I got on, but this is one I want to stay on!

Every couple of months, Kohl’s sends me a free $10 gift card good on anything in the store. Now, I know they only do it so I’ll spend MORE than $10, but I never do. In fact, last time, I got two bottles of body wash on sale for exactly $10, and they didn’t even charge TAX. So, it was completely free.

You’d think Kohl’s would stop sending me gift cards when their data tells then I am shamelessly milking their system. But they haven’t so far.

I love going in and wondering what free thing I’ll be wandering out with later.

Also, if you are ready for a good laugh, you’ve GOT to check out this website. I was crying with laughter after just a few seconds.

Enjoy!

Wonder Woman Wipeout

2009-06-22T20:18:00.000-07:00

Well, I’m stupid.

Altogether now – “How stupid are you?”

I am SO stupid that I have managed to seriously injure myself by simply not paying attention.

Allow me to explain.

This past Sunday, Brett went up to Geneva to spend Father’s Day with his dad. I begged off, since my OB has nixed any car trips over an hour this late in my pregnancy. While he was gone, I got a tremendous burst of organizing energy.

In the space of about five hours, I managed to completely pack my side of the study for the impending move. I also got a ton of personal papers shredded and put in trash bags. I felt amazing! I had been dreading the project, but after I tackled it, it went quickly. It produced a tremendous sense of satisfaction.

Near the end, I lifted one of the plastic containers up off the floor without thinking. Within about, oh, 1.2 seconds I realized the container was too heavy for me, and I staggered backwards before dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.

But, alas, it was too late.

In the middle of the night, I tried to get up to go to the bathroom. I was in HORRIBLE pain in my “nether regions.” It hurt to walk, to move, and even to slightly shift to one side (try going to the bathroom without doing any of that!).

As I hobbled back to bed, I realized I must have pulled a muscle (or all of them) with my stupid Wonder Woman move in the study. I was, however, able to go back to sleep. So, I knew it wasn’t labor or anything like that. I’ve been assured you cannot sleep though labor.

This morning, the pain had abated (a tiny, tiny) little bit. I didn’t want to unknowingly be putting Sam in danger, so I called my OB, and he said I’d better come in for a check-up.

I was (am still) so incapacitated, Brett had to help me with every tiny movement. It took me FOREVER to get ready.

They ran a battery of tests. The good news is that all the tests they ran on Sam came back with great results, and my OB was pleased. The bad news is that he concluded I had indeed pulled a vaginal muscle.

He was rather sweet when giving me the news. “Any other time, you might have hurt your shoulder or your knee, but unfortunately, this time, you hurt the muscle group that MATTERS!”

Yeah, he’s a comedian, my OB.

He recommended Tylenol for the pain, plenty of rest, and limited movement.

So, here I sit. In a lot of pain. Every little movement resulting in a torturous twinge. Regretting my stupidity and lack of attention.

Brett is waiting on me (the best he can), and I’ve got my laptop, a stack of People magazines, and a plethora of mystery books I can drown my sorrows in.

I hated taking a sick day from work to deal with this. I’m trying to save all my paid days for when the baby comes, but it just couldn’t be helped. I’m planning to try and go in tomorrow, even if I have to move at a snail’s pace.

I guess if nothing else, I learned that I can be pretty stupid and inattentive. But mostly, I learned that I am not now, nor will ever be, Wonder Woman.

PNC # 3: Correct Answer – D.) None of the Above

2009-06-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

After watching the horror show of a “natural” (read: insanely painful and bloody) birth via video last week, we were actually looking forward to the three other birth videos at this week’s prenatal class.

The rest of the class seemed to feel the same way, and the mood in the room was quite relaxed as Dr Cuddy fired up the big screen. She told us we would be observing a narcotics-assisted, epidural-assisted, and C-section birth.

We settled in for what (we were all assuming) would be a walk in the park. After all, these women received DRUGS – how hard could it be?

The answer? Plenty hard!

The poor woman who had the narcotics-assisted birth didn’t speak English, so she had an incredibly hard time communicating her pain to the hospital staff. At one point, she was in so much pain, she couldn’t even summon the strength to talk at all – even in Spanish! Eventually, her husband (who spoke a little English) was able to explain how the narcotics would take the edge off the pain.

She opted for the narcotics at that point. It did ease off the pain – but not a lot – she was still in quite a bit of pain. BUT, she was able to have the sensation of needing to push and was able to help with all the pushing. Her baby was so sweet, happily yelling his lungs out as soon as he was born.

The woman who had the epidural-assisted birth was extremely uncomfortable, as well. She had a lower pain threshold than all the other women we’d seen so far (probably more like mine – I’m a complete pain wuss). She opted for the epidural which DID help her pain but also prolonged her labor.

Of all the mom’s-to-be, her reactions were the funniest. She did NOT want anybody touching her during labor, and when anyone would try to soothe her, she’d say, “Unt-uh!” really loudly.

This was the one and ONLY time any of us laughed during any of the videos. We were pretty desperate for humor at that point.

I imagine I was pretty annoying during this video. I kept leaning over to Brett and saying, “They did that with Candice.” “That’s what Candice said.” That’s what they told us when Candice was in labor.”

Yeah, I’m SUCH an expert!

The last birth we watched was the C-section. Only the mom-to-be didn’t receive the C-section until she had been in labor for 30 hours and pushing for over 3 hours. The baby still hadn’t budged!

We all felt for her – having to go through all that, and then end up being wheeled off for major surgery. Thankfully, her baby was delivered safely by a team of very nice and caring surgeons who were incredibly kind to her.

As the lights flickered on, the girl sitting beside me turned to me.

“Well, I didn’t like any of those. What’s our next option?”

I had to smile. It did seem awfully daunting that women can receive high-quality drugs and still go through so much pain. I teased my sister-mom, “Well, we can always check “D,” none of the above, on our intake forms!”

She smiled gratefully back at me. Perhaps the greatest thing I’ve experienced through prenatal class is the wonderful feeling of not being alone in my worries, fears, and uncertainties.

Dr. Cuddy asked for questions after the videos, and I asked one I assumed was pretty common. I asked about the chances of becoming paralyzed (permanently) if we chose an epidural-assisted birth.

Her eyes got really BIG, and she asked, “Wherever did you hear THAT?”

I was like, “From a LOT of people!”

There was a murmur from around the room as the other couples agreed they’d head it, too.

Dr. Cuddy assured us that it is NOT a common thing. In fact, she pointed out the distance between where the spinal cord ends and where the epidural is administered. I felt a lot better after her reassurances.

Dr. Cuddy had started off the class by saying, “Tonight we’re going to talk about pain.”

And, boy, did we! We learned about all the drugs you can opt for (or ones that can be administered), what the drugs do, what can result, and so on.

It was VERY interesting, although the downside to ALL the drugs was the fact that if you get the drugs – so does your baby.

We got to see and handle an actual epidural needle and tubing, forceps (scary!), vacuum pump, and fetal head monitor. I’m glad the class is so hands-on. It helps to see what the actual equipment looks like and learn the uses of the surgical instruments.

Next week, we’ll be taking a tour of the Family Birthplace at Swedes. Dr. Cuddy told us it was good we weren’t taking the tour this week. She said there is definitely a baby boom in Rockford.

Yesterday, 17 babies were delivered. The day before, 15 babies entered the world via the Swedes maternity ward. The nurses are quite harassed, and there is a constant “Any OB in house!” call going out over the intercom.

Brett muttered, “Looks like we all had a busy fall!” (for him, this is a pretty decent joke – I’m working with him, people, I promise!)

Next week, it’s back to rhythmic breathing!

Ho-hee,
Ho-hee,
Ho-hee,
Ho-haw

Rinse and repeat as needed.

She's OUR Dr. Cuddy!

2009-06-19T09:04:00.000-07:00

Lisa Edelstein

"Our" Dr. Cuddy from Prenatal Class

See the comparison?!

Obstetrical Observations

2009-06-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

It seems like only yesterday I had completely given up on ever getting pregnant. So, when I discovered I was - I was excited, thrilled, and completely unprepared.

One thing that helped prepare me was the advice and tips other women posted on surviving and enjoying pregnancy.

As my pregnancy nears its last month, I decided to put together my own list of the things that have “saved” me during my pregnancy. I know everyone’s pregnancy is different, but here’s what has really helped me!

Plus Size Motherhood Maternity
You cannot imagine how hard it was to find maternity clothes in plus sizes! I would have driven all the way to Chicago if I’d had to, but thankfully, there was a store here, at Cherryville Mall. We only splurged on a few basics (because everything was expensive), but every single piece has been worth it. The clothes feel amazing and have a great fit.

My maternity jeans are a definite must-have, and were purchased in perfect timing, since my office has recently started allowing casual clothes on an everyday basis.

The black pants (my Aunt Louise sweetly hemmed for me) are perfect for church and the days I HAVE to be dressy at the office or for events. The faux-wrap dress is so comfortable it feels like I’m wearing practically nothing, but I get tons of compliments every time I wear it – plus it’s my favorite color, black!

I think the best investment has been the two long-sleeved and one short-sleeved casual shirts. I don’t know what fabric they make these out of, but I would like to spend the rest of my life in it!

I bought the shirts one size up, since I planned to use them as sleep shirts, but they are so snug and flexible, I made a HUGE exception (for me) and actually wore them out and about. They are the most relaxed thing I own!

TUMS
After trying nausea medication designed for cancer patients (it didn’t work) and a prescription that made me tired and groggy, I thought I was going to die from all the morning sickness. Someone finally asked if I’d tried plain, old TUMS. I hadn’t even thought about it, and at that point I was game for anything.

So, I bought a bottle and surprise, surprise – it worked. Granted, it only staves off the nausea for 10-20 minutes, but sometimes that’s all I need. I even calculated a morning routine that has SAVED my life!

In the old days, I would eat a big breakfast, take a shower, and get ready for work. After I got pregnant, I stayed on the same path and found myself sick “after shower” every morning.

Now, I take two TUMS and THEN take my shower. After my shower, I take two more TUMS. That usually conquers the nausea and allows me to get ready for work. Then and ONLY then, do I eat any breakfast.

Since I’ve started the routine, it’s been virtually morning-sickness proof. I still “feel” queasy, but since I don’t have anything in my stomach, it’s a lot less messy!

Quaker Chewy Granola Bars
People suggested I keep saltine crackers next to my bed for middle-of-the-night snacking and warding off nausea. For some reason, my stomach sent the crackers back up with alarming regularity, and I found I had to be really desperate to turn to crackers for hunger relief.

Instead, I tried Quaker Chewy Granola bars in Chocolate Chunk, S’mores, and Peanut Butter flavors. They have been a huge success! They calm my stomach and the sweetness factor makes them perfect for the 3 a.m. hunger pains. Plus, they’re low calorie!

Diabetic Socks
My feet and ankles look like baby whales these days. I was getting indentations in my skin from even my roomiest socks. We found diabetic socks at Wal-Mart. They were pricey but extremely easy on my feet and ankles. I can stay in them all day and not be the least bit miserable!

Bottled/Filtered Water
There is a lot of debate on this. Several of my pregnancy books said tap water was fine. Other books/websites said to stick to bottled water. Even more resources suggested bottled water was WORSE than tap water when it came to FDA guidelines.

Stymied, I asked my OB. He said to DEFINITELY stick to bottled or filtered water. So I have.

Fortunately, my office provides free filtered water (via the fabled water cooler). So, I’ve been able to have as much as I want all day long! This saves on the bottled water we have to buy for home.

Since I’ve given up my beloved Diet Coke (and all diet and regular sodas with caffeine), I’ve dedicated myself to drinking more water. It was tough at first, but persistence has paid off. My body is so used to copious amount of water that it practically cries out for it now.

Before, I could finish four to six Diet Cokes in a day – usually two at lunch. Now, if I have a non-caffeinated soda or root beer, I find myself only able to finish about half to two-thirds of the serving. It’s like my body KNOWS it’s a treat. I try to drink a full glass of water with every soda, and I find that works best for me in terms of balance.

I never knew water could taste so good!

Room Humidifier
I’ve suffered from pregnancy rhinitis since the beginning. I was (still am) blowing my nose ALL the time. It was horrible – the cold that never seemed to end. I would wake up during the night all stuffed up, unable to breathe, with dry, cracked lips.

Several websites suggested a room humidifier. Let me tell you, it was the BEST $40 bucks I spent. The humidifier has been an absolute godsend. Not only does it help ME sleep, Brett sleeps ten times better, too!

I still blow my nose all the time during my waking hours, but a good (partial) night’s sleep more than makes it bearable.

B-12 Complex
I know I am more medicated than the average pregnant person. I’m on meds for high blood pressure and insulin for diabetes, plus all the regular prenatal vitamin packs. However…

I have a health nut friend who gave me a HUGE bottle of B-12 Complex vitamins. I was grateful, since I knew folic acid was good for the baby’s development. The bonus was that the “complex” also provided nutrients that help manage stress!

To my skeptical surprise, taking just 3 “B’s” a day, has kept me calm and serene though most of the day. I am NOT a health nut (as you all know), but this stuff WORKS. I feel much more positive, and the vitamins act as a shield against all the stress. It has also prevented panic attacks from overtaking me, as I think they may have, otherwise.

Chocolate Milk
Okay, it’s a treat. I RARELY had chocolate milk growing up. Same for Brett. Just a couple of months into the pregnancy, I had a craving for it. We picked up a gallon and have kept restocking it since!

I let myself have one full glass in the morning – hey, it DOES have calcium! – but that’s it. I also try to balance it out with regular (more healthy) low-fat or skim milk.

It’s perfect for popping my pregnancy pills in the morning on the occasions when I don’t have time to eat, since it coats my stomach and allows the pills to do their jobs.

Plus, c’mon, I mean, it’s CHOCOLATE MILK and freakin’ delicious!

Apple Juice
I am a little picky here. The apple juice I CRAVE is Simply Apple and is in the fresh juice refrigerator case at the supermarket! This stuff is SO good – but it’s still juice (and $$$), so I limit myself to one glass a day, and often switch it off with chocolate milk. I know it’s chock full of natural sugar (still sugar), so I am careful with it.

But a nice, tall glass is just perfect if the weather is hot. And Simply Apple is so sweet, usually one glass is all I need, anyway.

Baked Cheetos & Little Debbie Brownies
I have tried to eat healthy as much as possible, but these are my treat allowances. These are the two things that ALWAYS sound good, even when nothing else does. I don’t put limits on these (or my plain bagels and plain cream cheese). I don’t think I’ve overdone it yet, but sometimes they have SAVED me from starvation when everything else sounded oh-so-gross!

Body Pillow
Thankfully, I already had a body pillow, so I didn’t have to go out and buy one. Putting the body pillow between my legs has helped me sleep so much better. I still HATE having to sleep on my side (I’m a belly and back sleeper by nature), but the big, fluffy pillow makes it much easier to doze off!

Well, those are just my tips and tricks! I hope they do someone else some good, too!

PNC: Part II – Scary Movie

2009-06-12T18:10:00.000-07:00

You know how in all the Hollywood comedies, the young, pregnant couple gets freaked out watching the “birth video” during their prenatal class?

For once, the movies have it right.

Brett and I attended Prenatal Class #2 this past Tuesday. We knew in advance we’d be watching one of three birthing videos. We just didn’t know exactly how traumatizing it would be.

We got to class early and settled in as the other couples started arriving. We are all still strangers to one another, even though we’ve been breathing rhythmically in each other’s laps for practically over four class hours now.

Our uncanny Dr. Cuddy look-a-like teacher went over the first stages of labor using a chart showing the “points” in labor. Before she could even start explaining, we (the women) were all gaping at the “transition labor” graphic. While the other stages showed a clean, simple arc, or soft curving slopes, the transition labor graphic was elevated above the others and had sharp, pointy spikes at the top.

One of our teen moms said, “I think I’ll skip that one.” We all nodded, as if that were an option.

Dr. Cuddy tried to reassure us that transition labor, while the most painful, is the shortest stage of labor. This did not reassure many of us, however, and soon Dr. Cuddy was distracting us with humor.

She told us stories of women who didn’t make it to the hospital in time. She told us about one father who’d had to pull his car over in the middle of winter, in 20 degrees below, crank up the heaters, strap his three year old in the front seat, and deliver his son in the backseat.

Another woman was on her way to Rush Hospital in Chicago. She was crossing the giant glass skywalk over the Interstate when she went into labor. She delivered her baby on the skywalk, her feet pressed up against the glass, giving her child a very unique birth story, and drivers below something to talk about in therapy.

When Dr. Cuddy had us all back in good spirits, she dropped another bombshell. She talked about the babies’ heads and how big they could get. The skeletal plates in the babies’ heads shift to accommodate their entrance out of such a small opening, but the head, she told us, is the hardest part to birth.

She talked about how head size is related directly to simple genetics. Mouth agape, I turned to stare my husband.

Have you ever really looked at Brett’s head? It’s gigantic. It’s like looking at Mr. Potato Head, with a whole other body attached. Not to mention his Neanderthal-like brow bone. He could break concrete using just that bone.

Dr. Cuddy’s sudden laughter brought me back out of my trance.

“I wish you could all see yourselves right now,” she squealed. “Every class does this!”

I looked around and saw all the other women glaring at their husbands. “Every woman thinks, ‘Why did I marry such a big-headed man?’” Dr. Cuddy teased smiles back out of us, as the men in the room tried not to look insulted.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived. Dr. Cuddy set up the video equipment, lamenting that we had a different room than she normally uses. “Usually, I’m able to put the video on the big screen,” she told us. “But, we’ll have to settle for watching it on a TV today.”

Thank God for small favors.

She told us the video for this class was of an “un-medicated” birth. The lights were turned down, and soon we were watching “Works of Wonder.”

The couple’s names were Chris and Paula.

I have to hand it to them. Even though their little Douglas in no doubt finishing his final year at Harvard Law (perhaps the video fund helped him get there), it takes serious chutzpah to let someone film your labor and delivery.

I have to say that I rejoiced, and I mean, REJOICED to see that mom-to-be Paula was…overweight! She looked just like me (and just like me pregnant and naked, although I didn’t know we were going to be seeing quite that much of Paula).

Acting as the narrator for the video, Chris seemed very much like my own gentle giant, although he was shaped more like Santa Claus and sported a Grizzly Adams beard. His pride, joy, and love for his wife was clearly and sweetly evident throughout the whole process.

Before stuff started to get gross (and I mean, gross) there were a few things that made me laugh.

The midwife’s name was Biddy. Seriously. Biddy! I don’t know how I could have resisted in the throes of labor not to scream out, “Shut up, you old biddy!”

The potential goldmine for comedy with a name like Biddy is highly irresistible. Especially for a sarcastic so-and-so like yours truly.

The second laugh came when Chris was being oh-so-pleasant with the nurse, telling her a story. Paula, who was in a LOT of pain at this time, yelled, “Shut up, Chris. I don’t want to hear your stupid stories when I’m in labor.”

I had to stifle a laugh, since I know what that means. All women everywhere know what that means.

It means that Paula barely tolerates Chris’ stories when she’s NOT in labor. Every wife has been THERE. Must have been nice for her to speak her mind for once.

Points in Chris’ favor, as he simply stopped talking and went back to rubbing her back and feeding her ice chips. I was really starting to like Chris.

As the labor process wore on, Paula was obviously in increasing pain. The only relief was when she was in the shower. She sat in there for a good portion of the video, with Chris joking (smartly out of Paula’s hearing) that they would “never” get her out of there.

Eventually, Paula got out of the shower. She began to change positions and after Biddy (Biddy!) said it was time to push, she started to push.

At first the pushing was normal to watch, I caught myself thinking, “Well, this isn’t so bad.”

Everything was covered, and at this point, Paula was still in her gown.

But then everything changed. Paula’s pain went WAY up (making those transition labor spikes look sissy in comparison). Off came the gown and all the coverings. I was staring at a person’s most private parts and watching what was happening was way worse than any horror movie I’d ever seen.

I managed to tear my gaze away from the grim spectacle on the screen to look around the room. Most everyone was mesmerized by the video. Almost all had the alarmed and surprised look corpses acquire in rigor mortis.

However, the mom-to-be across from me was staring straight at me.

At first, I thought she was doing what I was doing, gauging reactions to the blood fest spewing forth from the screen. I gave her a smile and a friendly head nod.

She gave no sign of having seen me, and just kept staring.

It took me a moment to realize she wasn’t seeking sisterhood or friendly smiles. She was doing everything in her power NOT to watch the video. At all.

I sympathized immediately. But, then Brett nudged me with his elbow, and I was forced to turn back to the Texas Birth Bloodbath on the screen.

By this point, both Biddy and Chris were encouraging Paula to reach down and “touch the head.” It was apparent that Paul did not want to do this. She wanted to keep pushing, but she bowed to pressure, and did as she was told.

Yucky.

Just when I thought Paula was never going to make it, faithful old Biddy reached right in “there,” and pulled. A little round head and a body slipped out as though it had just been waiting for the right time.

Tears sprung to my eyes as Biddy cleaned off the squalling infant and handed him gently to Paula. Biddy, Chris, Paula, and I were all bawling by this point. It was so amazingly beautiful. A miracle in every sense of the word.

I had thought myself prepared to watch the video. After all, hadn’t I been there for Brielle’s birth?

Ha.

I stayed safely above the sheet with Candice, fanning her, and handing out encouraging comments. I had no idea what was going on anywhere else. And now that I do, I can’t believe women do this more than once.

Dr. Cuddy turned the lights back on, and I wasn’t surprised to see tearful faces reflected back at me. Maybe these women could blame their emotions on pregnancy, but I had cried at Brielle’s entrance, so I know I’m just a sucker for watching babies be born.

I can think of worse things.

Dr. Cuddy assured us that the next two videos in the series – epidural and narcotic-assisted births – are much less graphic.

Well, they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? I mean, I can’t believe the FCC didn’t slap an NC-17 rating on this one.

As we emerged from the hospital, back into the fresh, non-bloodied air, I asked Brett what he had learned from the video. What fascinating tidbit he plans to take into the delivery room.

He said, “Well, I sure as heck won’t be telling any stories.” And restored my faith in that big-headed, Neanderthal-browed man I married.

I told him not to forget the ice chips, either.

In conclusion, I’d like to again tip my hat to Chris, Paula, and little (or maybe not so little anymore) Douglas for sharing their story – their humor, their pain, and ultimately their bliss.

Thanks guys.

Maybe someday the nightmares will stop.

A Pregnancy Poem

2009-06-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

People in my condition, oft excited to meet

Plump thighs and chubby feet
Rounded cheeks and dimpled knee

I just wish they weren’t on me.

Tumultuous Tuesday Thoughts

2009-06-09T09:40:00.000-07:00

My thoughts are all a flutter.

I wish I could explain better. Most of the time, I have a very orderly brain, especially when it comes to writing.

I’m able to rehearse what I want to say in my head, formulate a post, and then edit as I write. However, lately I find my thoughts jumping from jetty to jetty in the sea sludge of my brain.

I apologize for the haphazard tone of this post. I’ll understand if you’re too bewildered to comment.

So, in no particular order, here are the items taking up valuable thinking space in Ann-Marie’s mired mind:

1.) Should I delete the blogs at right that are not updated regularly? I understand that not everyone is a blogging fiend, such as yours truly, but if a blog hasn’t been updated in six months or a year, then it really starts to annoy me.

2.) It seems to be a tough time for so many people right now! Prayer requests have been pouring in.

My former middle school teacher had a sudden heart attack. He’s still relatively young and fit, so it came as a real shock. Thankfully, the doctors were able to save him, and he is recovering. But a heart attack is still a life changing event.

One of my dearest friends from high school just learned her father is gravely ill. She’s flying here to be with him, but the outlook does not look good. My cousin’s father-in-law has also been stricken and is quite possibly facing the rest of his life in a vegetative state. Another friend is dealing with her mother’s terminal cancer finding.

Two distant friends and a dear family (in my extended family) are struggling with difficult diagnosis of their children. Two babies and one toddler are looking at serious medical health problems, most likely life-altering conditions.

Two more families (in my extended family) are painstakingly working through separation and divorce proceedings. Their marriages are crumbling or have completely dissolved, leaving much inconsolable hurt and devastation in the wake. Four innocent children now have to bear a burden they should not have to shoulder.

3.) Our love/(mostly) hate relationship with Secund Staffing continues. They are once again protesting Brett’s unemployment claim.

I told him I’m sure it’s not personal. They probably have a policy to challenge anyone’s claim every so many days. But my husband takes everything personally, including global warming. He has been (I think unreasonably) angry and obsessed with their interference.

Please pray he will be able to calm down and address the unemployment agency clearly and confidently during his appointment this week. I pointed out that the LAST time this happened, they were VERY understanding and didn’t revoke his unemployment.

But he’s still mad as you-know-what.

4.) I am almost outlandishly at peace. It’s like God has settled a mantle of unmovable certainty on me.

Let me explain. You all know how I was freaking out recently (and not all that recently)? Well, the other day I was at a graduation party, and one of my family members began to interrogate me.

It’s not as bad as it sounds – we’re Rehfeldts; that’s what we do.

Anyway, she began to challenge me on the whirling dervish that is my life. She said, “Aren’t you worried about your job? Brett’s job? Where are you going to live? What if you have no income? What if the baby has health problems? What are going to do? You must be so worried!”

As I listened to her list EVERY single “what if” and complaint I’ve made (myself) over the past few months, I realized something profound.

I’m not worried anymore.

I told her, “Well, to be honest, I’m not worried. I believe God will take care of us.”

The words seems to come from somewhere outside of myself and felt foreign. Yet powerful. I DID believe it.

She said, “Well, I know you SAY that, but you still must be worried.”

I found myself shaking my head, happily. “You know? I’m really not.”

I left her there, looking skeptically at me.

And yet, I found myself rejoicing that the burden of worry had been lifted completely. I felt free, like a bird wanting to soar into the open air. I was striding confidently where I could see no path. And yet I knew there was one. The Trailblazer was far out in front of me, lighting my path, one step at a time.

At that was the truth that freed me. I can only take one step at a time. I can only take one day at a time. God has taken away my controlling, selfish need to plan ahead and is now leading me by the hand, one small stretch at a time.

I’m getting used to it, and even coming to love it.

However, while God has granted me peace, Brett is still struggling to get to that place. The other night he opened up to me. It was like uncorking an unhappy bottle of champagne. All the worries, stresses, and troubles on his mind spilled out like wave curls to the floor.

I listened patiently and nodded. I’m still surprised at how supportive just nodding can be.

The truth is – this was a conversation we’ve had many times before.

If you’d told me, during the Great Marriage Trial of ’06 (GMT), that I would one day be grateful for what I learned, I would have laughed hysterically in your face.

But as much as I HATED that trial and the accompanying emotional torture, as close as I came to walking away from my marriage – God’s grace saw me through, and I emerged from the Refiner’s fire equipped in ways I could never have imagined.

I smile to think of how “small” that trial was, compared to the snarling, ravenous behemoth of trials we face now. But God knew THIS was coming and prepared me through the GMT! He preps His own.

So, instead of reacting the way I used to – arguing, yelling, and trying to single-handedly combat negativity and depression – I was able to calmly listen and speak the Truth in love.

It wasn’t easy for Brett to hear the Truth. I don’t suppose it’s easy for any of us when we’re not at the place of acceptance. But he listened and tried to absorb what he could.

I SO want him to be happy. I want him to experience the peace that I currently have. But he’s not there. Yet.

That’s one of the other things I learned through GMT.

In and of myself, I can’t change anyone. Not a single person. And certainly not my husband. I can listen, love, and encourage – but NOT change, not FIX.

Because it’s not my JOB. It’s God’s.

Giving up that “control factor” (one I never really had anyway) was the single greatest lesson I learned from GMT. I have found it comforting and freeing to place that responsibility solely in God’s hands and step back to watch Him work.

And that’s what I’m doing now.

I’m stepping back, thinking of all these prayer requests, all the uncertainty in my life, and just watching Him work. Waiting for the fireworks to light up the sky, and the Done by God signature to be scrawled across the heavens.

It’s going to be one amazing show.

Another Pregnant Pal!

2009-06-07T17:33:00.001-07:00

Here is a photo of me and my cousin Jason's wife, Jennifer, taken at my cousin Leah's graduation open house this weekend. We are both expecting boys and are just a week apart on our due dates! I'm so excited to know Sam will have a playmate just around his age at future Rehfeldt gatherings. Now, we just have to wait and see which one will be the troublemaker. Why do I have a feeling I already know the answer to that one?

The Beginning of the End

2009-06-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

Last night Brett and I attended our first pre-natal class at the SwedishAmerican Family Birthplace.

We were both extremely excited to be there. When you’ve waited nearly ten years for a baby, every little thing is significant and momentous. The knowledge Sam is due next month (next month!) has made us apprehensive and in need of instruction and reassurance.

We were the second to last couple to arrive. There were nine couples already there. At this point, we were all strangers with nothing in common other than the fact we were 1.) all having our first baby and 2.) looked absolutely terrified.

I had already met our Registered Nurse instructor, since she taught my breastfeeding class. I warned Brett ahead of time that she was a younger, hotter version of the already smoking hot Dr. Cuddy on House.

Still, he was impressed enough to whisper, “Wow! She DOES look like Dr. Cuddy!”

About three times.

I get it. I GET it. She’s hot.

As we were seated, I looked around the room and took stock of my compatriots. There were eleven couples all together. I was pleased to see that many of the women looked to be about my age (whew! not an “old’ mom after all!), and several of the men looked even older than my nearly-40-year-old baby daddy.

Three of the women were quite young, still in their late teens, single, soon-to-be moms. I was encouraged by this, however, since they had all made the choice to keep their babies and obviously had a support system of family and friends to help them start their journey.

In a country where there is a murderous alternative to keeping your baby, these courageous young women stood out as examples of making the right - albeit tough - choice. I applauded them in my head.

The rest of us were married couples. Dr. Cuddy had us go around the room and share our names, due dates, and what we were looking to learn in the class. We were very surprised to learn that, out of the eleven couples there, ten of us are expecting boys!

Our lone girl-bearer joked she was going back to her OB to demand another ultrasound!

Dr. Cuddy took the floor and began to explain how the birthing process works. She had a table full of props, the most interesting of which was a stocking cap marked up to resemble a uterus.

I will never look at a stocking cap the same way again.

She took us through the process, at one point pulling a baby doll through the opening of an actual skeletal pelvic bone.

Ouch.

In the first hour, we learned about basic female anatomy and the changes our bodies go through in pregnancy. There was a great pictorial chart which showed the many changes to a pregnant female body enthralling even the men in the room.

When Cuddy asked us to list our pregnancy ailments, I was surprised to hear the men speak for their wives.

“Her back hurts.”
“She can’t sleep.”
“Her joints ache.”

These men were paying attention! Good for them.

I mentioned my swollen ankles. Dr. C picked though our complaints and listed causes and solutions. It was a relief to hear these women were experiencing many of the same things I have been.

We took a break about an hour into the class. As the eleven of us toddled off to the bathroom, we insisted our girl-bearer go first. “Ladies first,” we joked.

As we stood shoulder to shoulder in the little bathroom, another woman pointed to the “Maximum Capacity – 15 Persons” on the wall.

“We’re exceeding the limit,” she said laughing. “There’s 22 of us in here!”

After the break, we headed back for the second half of the class. Dr. Cuddy talked about the different kinds of pregnancy pain – what’s normal and what’s not.

At one point, she referred to our collective aching breasts as “the girls.” While the rest of the class was mature enough to take this in stride, my husband nearly spit his Sprite out through his nose.

Embarrassed, I leaned over and whispered viciously, “Grow up! You’re nearly 40, not 14!” Then, I rolled my eyes as he continued to smirk into his soda for the next five minutes.

Why does the rest of the world get George Clooney, and I get Seth Rogen? Huh? Why?

A few minutes later, he topped himself. Dr. Cuddy was talking about what she referred to as the “grossness of pregnancy” which included a discussion on hemorrhoids.

Brett leaned over and whispered, “You should ask about that.”

“Why? I don’t have hemorrhoids,” I pointed out.

So, I was shocked a split-second later, as he raised his hand and asked about the best way to treat the oh-so-nasty ailment. Twenty pairs of eyes honed in on me, as Dr. Cuddy talked earnestly to ME about treating them.

It took everything I had not to scream, “I DON’T HAVE HEMORRHOIDS! He’s just trying to get free medical advice from you, a hot nurse.”

Instead, I held my tongue and let the whole room look at me and think, “Oh, that poor fat lady and her hemorrhoid problem!”

I think it says a lot about my love for my husband that I was willing to fake being a poster child for Preparation H in front of a roomful of strangers I will have to see every week for four more weeks.

I’m pretty sure that is what the Proverbs 31 woman would have done.

Dr. Cuddy showed us the various positions that can ease the weight off our aching joints and back muscles. At one point, she hauled out an exercise ball and bounced on it.

I had to laugh when the girl next me elbowed her husband as he watched the good doctor bounce energetically up and down on the ball.

“We’ve got to get one of those,” he said hypnotically, his eyes transfixed on Lisa Edelstein’s body double.

Eventually, it was the moment we had all been waiting for. Dr. Cuddy asked our “labor support person” to go get the mats in the back of the room. Soon, we were spread out all over the room, our partners behind us, as Dr. Cuddy prepared the room.

She dimmed the lights and put on what she referred to as “cheesy relaxation music.”

“You know, the kind that got you here,” she said.

She explained that we were going to practice rhythmic breathing techniques to help manage pain during labor. “Don’t worry,” she assured us. “Next week, we’ll talk about the drugs.”

As she took us through the different pain management options, I was impressed by her balanced viewpoint.

She told us every labor and delivery experience is unique. Some of us might end up delivering via C-section and not need to use any of the techniques; others would have a 45 minute labor and need very little pain management; even others would try for natural childbirth only to discover a low pain threshold or a danger to the baby present without using drugs.

The most important thing, she told us, was to possess as much information as possible. Then, we could walk into labor and delivery informed of our choices and possibilities. We were assured that having a wealth of knowledge would bring comfort and security to us through the whole process.

She encouraged us to be flexible and adaptable, no matter what the situation.

We settled in around the room to begin practicing the breathing techniques. We were in a crunched part of the room, and one of the men had to lean so far back, he was nearly in my lap.

For part of the time, I felt like I was practicing delivering him. Poor guy.

Dr. Cuddy taught us about cleansing breaths and then took us through 4, 2, and 3 count rhythmic breathing. It was amazing. Not only did it relax me, but Sam starting kicking vigorously.

Other women around the room commented on the same thing, and Dr. C informed us that the babies love all that extra oxygen.

The partners in the room were instructed on how to massage our shoulders and necks or - if was distracting us from our breathing - to NOT touch us. Most of the men looked extremely uncomfortable touching their wives in front of the crowd, but Dr. C reminded them most people are home alone when labor starts.

As we went through the breathing exercises, I felt a burst of nostalgia. My mom and dad went through Lamaze classes when they were pregnant with me. Mom made several good friends through the class. She often talked about the fun she had in Lamaze class, and I grew up hearing the stories.

Although, as our instructor had pointed out earlier, Mom didn’t get to use her class information, as I made a hasty entrance into this world on the frosty morning of August 20, 1978.

Still, I imagined that the women behind and beside me could have been – in another generation – my mom and dad’s friends. I was bristling with joy over repeating the positive cycle of shared experience.

After we were all breathed out, the class was over. Dr. Cuddy mentioned the Boot Camp for Dads, and when Brett exclaimed over how much he’d enjoyed it, three guys signed up on the spot!

Maybe Swedes will take a little off our bill for the referral?

Brett put away our mat while I packed up our pillows. We headed out to our car, talking about what we’d learned, and looking forward to our next class.

I was especially pleased because everything Dr. Cuddy said matched up perfectly with what my pregnancy books said, and I was glad Brett was finally learning what I’ve been reading about for the last seven months.

When we got to the car, Brett smiled at me. “I wonder why I’m suddenly in the mood to watch some House reruns?”

Then I did something the Proverbs 31 woman probably wouldn’t have done.

I threw my TUMS at him.

Let’s Pretend

2009-06-05T00:36:00.000-07:00

When I found out I was pregnant, I signed up for a weekly e-mail – “Your Pregnancy This Week” – from www.babycenter.com.

I’ve really enjoyed the e-mails. Each week I learn something new, plus each edition features notes on the baby’s measurements, why my body does what it does, and advice from doctors.

At the end of every e-mail, there is usually a funny statement. This week’s funny coda was titled, “Let’s Pretend,” and included the following:

At your baby shower, pretend you understand how the diaper disposal system works.

When installing your car seat, pretend your partner doesn't seem like an extra from The Planet of the Apes.

Pretend it was the dog who farted.

Pretend that onion rings are part of the "best-baby" diet.

Pretend your prenatal vitamin is buried at the bottom of the ice cream container.

I laughed especially hard, because I could identify with every one! So, if you see me pretending to know how a diaper disposal system works at my shower, don’t be fooled!

(And, just so you know, I’ll probably also be the Planet of the Apes one when it comes to the car seat!)

I’ll Take the Sexy Silhouette Special, K?

2009-05-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

Oh my, certain commercials just make me laugh my head off.

Yesterday, I saw a commercial for Special K that promises to help me lose one inch off my waist. ONE INCH. Hahahahahaha! I mean, as if ONE inch is going to solve my problem. Or anyone’s problem.

If one inch is your problem, YOU DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM. You may, however, be anorexic.

Leave the inch increment claims to Viagra commercials, where it means more.

The second commercial that just MADE my day was for a skin lotion called My Silhouette. It shows this stick-thin (seriously, she’s in boy shorts and has NO curves. Her “silhouette” is a straight line) pre-pubescent girl masquerading as a possibly 20-30-something sliding silkily into skinny jeans.

The commercial promises that if you follow My Silhouette’s advice on fashion, nutrition, and style you will be just gorgeous (implying weight loss). Weigh loss from a LOTION? I mean, seriously?

I’m not saying I wouldn’t slather myself in this if I thought there was an ice cube’s chance in Havana it would work. But lotion is NOT going to help you lose weight. Unless there’s acid in it.

Come on. Please tell me no one in America is going to fall for this.

I have serious respect for marketing people. I’ve dabbled in marketing myself over the years, and I know it’s hard work. Marketing people get ribbed a lot, because they’re such easy targets. Their job is to make us love (or hate) something. In short, to make us believe what their bosses want us to believe.

And it works. A lot.

But this My Silhouette business has got to stop. My silhouette is as sexy as the Michelin Man, and no lotion or cereal is going to change that.

At least the marketing people can take comfort that I got a good laugh out of their commercials!

It’s All about the Dress

2009-05-27T13:33:00.000-07:00

For those of you, who just HAD to see Mom’s wedding dress; Mom has helpfully posted some of her best wedding photos on her blog.

Check out my gorgeous mom!

What’s In a (Nick)name?

2009-05-27T08:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve never really been a fan of nicknames.

It’s all Mom’s fault.

When I was little, people tried to shorten my name to “Ann,” thinking my middle name was “Marie.”

But I knew my middle name was “Joy,” chosen to reflect my parents’ emotions after waiting 11 years for a child. As a child, I could have cared less what people called me.

Mom, however, cared. She cared deeply. She let people know that calling me “Ann” was NOT an option.

“I named you Ann-Marie for a REASON,” she would insist. And while my mother is not a violent woman, her claws came out when people called me “Ann” or “Annie.”

The only exception to the rule was Mom’s brother, my Uncle Scott. For some reason, Mom allowed him to call me Raggedy Ann. I think it more a reflection on the scrapes I managed to get myself into than out of affection. Either way, it’s the only nickname Mom tolerated.

I was named after Dad’s mother, Annamarie, and Mom thought adding a hyphen would make my name unique and different. Well, let me tell you, that hyphen has been a thorn in my side ever since.

I feel, I really do, for people named D’shawn and the like. We spend half our lives incorporating the punctuation into our names, and people just think it’s weird.

When my purse was stolen out of my office, I had to apply for a new Social Security card. When I spelled my name to the woman at the Social Security office, she told me there was no way to put a hyphen on the card.

“But it’s part of my NAME!” I protested. “Are you leaving the ‘e’ out of other peoples’ names?”

She was not amused.

Someone once asked me how I felt about having “two names.” I said, “I don’t HAVE two names. What are you talking about?”

They were like, “You know. ‘Ann’ and ‘Marie,’ it’s like two names.”

I sighed. “The hyphen makes it all one word.” I neglected to add, “Did you MISS second grade?”

When Brett and I first met, he asked me if he could call me “Ann.”

I said, “Sure! If I can call you Brrrr.” (thinking “you clod.”)

Ah, you’re right. I don’t know WHY he called me up for a second date.

Thanks to Mom’s dogged determination, I squeaked safely though most of my childhood sans nickname. (There was the Moby Dick incident, but let’s not dwell on that.)

I, myself, violated Mom’s rule in eighth grade. When Mr. T passed out the forms for our eighth grade diplomas, I wrote my name as “Annie.” I’m not really sure why, maybe as a tiny rebellion for an otherwise pretty obedient kid.

I still remember being seated with my parents at Lino’s for the presentation. I was called up, accepted my diploma, and brought it proudly back to my seat.

Mom took one look at it and said, “Who is ‘Annie Trotter,’ and why do you have her diploma?”

Mom got the diploma “fixed” over the summer and insisted I’d appreciate it one day.

Thanks to Mom’s indoctrination, I became pretty regimented about my own name. I became an advocate for hyphens everywhere. I didn’t think twice about correcting people who called me “Ann,” after meeting me one measly time.

I considered myself lucky, since I’d observed others trying to break the nickname cycle.

My dad was called Tiny (because he was NOT) and Larry (short for his middle name of Lawrence) while growing up. He told me what a great relief it was to enter college and introduce himself as “Bob.”

“No 300 pound kid wants to be known as ‘Tiny,’” he’d insist, revisiting the trauma.

One of my Tennessee cousins was called “Frankie” growing up. At some point, he became the grown-up, handsome, father of four he is today. For a long time, he has tried, unsuccessfully, to get his “northern” (that’s us!) family to call him “Frank.” No such luck. He will FOREVER be “Frankie” to those of us who remember the fun-loving minx he was as a kid.

Frankie’s sister, Nicole, went through a similar phase. She was a beautiful child with a perfectly tanned complexion. Her mom introduced her to us as “Coco.” We dutifully called her “Coco” for years, until she finally stood up and said, “My name is NICOLE,” in a tone indicating she meant business.

It was the same way for a kid I knew in high school. We called him “Rusty” for what seemed like forever, until he started insisting his name was “Timothy.” His “official” name was foreign to us, and though we started calling him that to his face, whenever he wasn’t around, he was still “Rusty” in conversation.

He still is, actually.

Two of my cousins from Connecticut were “Beth Ann” and “Deborah Sue.” Forever, it seemed, I used those names, until my cousin Beth told me, “I’m just Beth. She’s just Deb. You don’t have to use our WHOLE names.”

Ah, got it.

My own husband was called “Bert” and “Bertram” growing up.

Did he like these nicknames?

Let me just say, if you ever want to get beaten to a pulp by the (normally passive) 6’4”, 250 pound giant I married – just call him “Bertram.” You’ll be coughing up blood for a week.

He still seethes when he hears it.

I mean, I wouldn’t even TRY to call him that, and he LOVES me.

Brett’s dad used to call one of the grandkids “Stinky.” Even though we were just married at the time, I made Brett promise to NEVER let his dad call our kid “Stinky.” That’s one nickname just asking for trouble (and a stint in juvie).

That’s not to say all nicknames are bad. In college, my first roommate called me “Murray,” out of affection. My third roommate called me “Ava Maria,” and sometimes just “Ava.” But neither was a replacement for my name.

Feeling the way we do about nicknames, it’s pretty hypocritical that we’re calling Sam all sorts of nicknames while he’s in the womb.

At first, we tried to stop ourselves from calling him “Sammy.” No luck so far.

Also, we have tried, valiantly, to stop talking to him in that squeaky-singsong voice, so high-pitched only the neighborhood dogs can hear it. Also, not happening yet.

We’ve also called him:
Little Bud
Little Punk
Samsung
Sambo
Samuel Adams (I think president; Brett thinks beer)
Samster (sounds cute and cuddly, like a hamster)
Samsod (makes me think of him as a hockey player, slamming guys into the side of the rink)
Samuel L. Jackson (I like to think my son will be able to kick butt - only in defense of himself and helpless others, of course)

Argh! We have become that which we hate!

I can’t see the future, so I don’t know what our success rate will be in calling a “Sam” a “Sam.”

Or if in 25 years, when he’s introduced as "Samsod," he’ll roll his eyes, and blame me.

At least, I’ll be able to tell him he’s lucky I didn’t stick a hyphen in there anywhere.

The Dad I Never Thought I’d Have

2009-05-22T02:36:00.000-07:00

After Dad died, people made a lot of assumptions about Mom.

“She’ll move to an apartment.”
“She’ll have to get a cat to keep her company.”
“She’ll never drive again.”

The most common sentiment I heard was, “She’ll never get married again.”

I could understand why people would assume such a thing. It was evident Mom and Dad had enjoyed an all-too-rare experience of a truly good marriage. If anyone should know, I should.

After all, I grew up carefully observing my parents’ union, and I can honestly say it was filled with willful selflessness and delighted servanthood.

That’s not to say they didn’t go through tough times.

Their marriage weathered 11 years of infertility, Dad’s crushing four year depression, and a slew of trials that would shake the foundations of any marriage. But their love, dedication, and commitment were the Rock of Gibraltar, and through it all, they remained devoted to one another.

They were a wonderful, unique couple who truly embodied “happily ever after.”

There are those of us who struggle in our marriages. Those of us for whom every small triumph, every light at the end of the tunnel, every shred of selfishness is weighed and measured. Those of us who labor like dogged slaves to make our marriages work and, sometimes, save them altogether.

There are those of us who count every day we didn’t walk away as a good day.

There are those of us who, if something were to happen, would not be so quick to jump back into the deep end of the pool.

This was not the case for Mom. She’d had a good marriage, and her outlook was untypically sunny.

I had another reason to believe Mom would find love again. I know I’m going to sound biased here, but it is the gospel truth.

Mom is beautiful. She has always been beautiful. She was a lovely child, and her school and college photos show the spitting image of Mary Tyler Moore-like perfection. At 54, she was still a stunner who could easily turn men’s heads.

(In this case, I am most DEFINITELY my father’s daughter.)

Plus, I knew my mom better than anyone. She was strong in ways other people couldn’t imagine. Mom had a plethora of qualities that made her a catch. She was blessed with common sense (not that she passed any on to her daughter), practicality, frugality, and a generous spirit. She was loving, godly, and placed other’s needs before her own.

Heck, I would have married her.

So, while it came as a surprise to some, I was not shocked when men began to ask Mom out. I still remember the first man, a divorced man who had once gone to our church. Mom was flattered but confided to me that, “Oh my, it was funny! He was much too young for me!”

That’s my mom, the reluctant Demi Moore of the Baptist set fending off the Ashton Kutchers of the world.

Soon, Mom was being ardently pursued by Gary, a long time bachelor divorced some 20 years prior, who people swore would never get married. It was shortly obvious to me he had simply been waiting 20 years for the right woman.

Oh my, was it ever fun to watch their courtship! Brett and I were ridiculously amused to see sensible 50-somethings suddenly turn as mushy-gushy as high school sweethearts.

The change in Mom’s life changed mine as well. For the majority of my life, Mom had listened as I babbled on about boys, college life, roommates, work, and so on. Now, she had news of her own at the end of every day and bubbled over in excitement to tell me. I could hardly get a word in edgewise.

I found myself drawn in as a relationship counselor. I listened to every single detail of every single date, examined the love letters that came regularly to the mailbox, and couldn’t help but smile as Mom overflowed with the “whys” and “what ifs” that accompany any serious relationship.

Of course, there were adjustments I had to make. I had been the center of my mom’s world for the whole of my life, and now it was apparent I was going to have to share the stage with Gary. It took some time for me to get used to playing second fiddle, but the sacrifice was worth it to see Mom’s effervescent smile resurface.

That was one of the things which drew Mom and Gary together. They both understood sorrow. Mom had lost the love of her life in the prime of life. Gary, barely married, had gone through a painful divorce and later the harrowing death of his 21 year old son in a car accident. They had both sobbed over carefully tended graves in abandoned cemeteries.

They had both lamented the loss of life while giving glory to the God who ordained it.

Mom and Gary commemorated this joint bond in their wedding invitations, part of which read, “Each recognizing the other to be a giver of joy and a sharer of sorrow…”

There were those who questioned if I was okay with Mom getting remarried. The truth is I was secure in the love my mom and dad had shared for over 33 years. I knew without a doubt Mom would always love Dad. He was the husband of her youth and produced the child I knew they both cherished.

Knowing that, it would have been terribly unfair of me to expect Mom to slink off into spinsterhood simply because Dad had died. Not if there was a chance she could find love again. I wanted desperately to see Mom happy again, and Gary brought that much needed spark that kindled Mom’s reawakening love of life.

As Mom and Gary prepared to get married, I was called into service as the Matron of Honor. Just married myself a mere two years earlier, I was still flush with wedding advice and thrilled to put it to good use.

Mom and I visited Vera’s House of Brides to purchase her wedding outfit. Mom had decided to buy a mother-of-the-bride, white linen suit for her walk down the aisle. As we examined mother-of-the-bride outfits, I teasingly pulled out a wedding dress from another rack.

“C’mon Mom, you’ve got to try at least one actual wedding dress!”

Mom happily relented “just for fun,” and soon we were settled into a spacious fitting room. Mom pulled the dress on and stepped on the pedestal. We laughed with each other before looking at the mirror.

As our eyes met in the mirror, our mouths gaped wide open. Mom was resplendent in the designer wedding dress.

As I looked at her in surprise, I knew there was no going back to any boring, old, mother-of-the bride dress.

We spent the rest of the day trying on dresses but kept returning to the gorgeous, off the shoulder, gold ivy bedecked gown Mom had first tried on. By the end of the day, the dress was Mom’s, and the wedding had gone from perfunctory to production.

The day of the wedding, Brett and I stood up for Mom while Gary’s daughter, Camille, and her husband stood up for Gary. We walked down the aisle as couples, each unbelievably happy with the turn of events.

Camille had spent almost the whole of her life with a single dad. She told me she thought he would never find anyone.

She told Mom, “I knew you were the one when I saw Dad hold your hand. I’d never seen him hold anyone’s hand before!”

After the vows were said and Mom and Gary began their descent down the aisle, Camille and I shared a joyful, tear-filled hug. We were both thrilled beyond belief to be getting a new sister out of the deal.

“We should be high-fiving,” Camille joked with me. “I thought we would never get those two married off!”

One of the funniest moments was when the photographer (who had done my wedding) said, “I’ve done mothers’ weddings and their daughters’ weddings years later. I’ve never done the daughter’s wedding first and THEN the mother’s!”

As Gary entered our life full force, I found myself instantly appreciative and grateful for God’s goodness and His grace.

Gary is not my dad. In fact, he’s nothing like my dad. While Dad was impatient (which he DID pass on to his daughter), Gary is infinitely long-suffering. While Dad could make a stone statue cry with laughter, Gary is literal and serious.

But, I was glad Gary was his own man. It negated the need for comparison.

Over the years, we have come to love Gary and accept him as family. Gary has always been there for us. I can’t count the number of times he’s come to our rescue when we were stranded somewhere, often dropping everything to help us.

He’s worked tirelessly, endlessly on projects where we couldn’t have succeeded without him. He’s generous, kind, and loves the Lord with a passion that provokes us to inspiration.

Oh, he’s not perfect. But he’s much more wonderful than any of us deserve.

There are many reasons to love Gary and to be thankful he’s a part of my family. The biggest reason, though, is that he makes my amazing mom happy, and I can’t ask for more than that.

So it is with much love, respect, and joy I wish them both a very happy 7th anniversary!

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Gary!

Bunch of Mama’s Boys

2009-05-19T02:38:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, Brett and I drove to his hometown of Geneva, Illinois. We’d been invited to a tribute/dedication for Brett’s Great Uncle Marsh (1906-2003).

Marsh, whose real name was John Marshall Butler, was Brett’s dad’s mother’s brother. His family knew him as “Marsh.”

Marsh had grown up with his sister Leah, Brett’s grandmother. When they were both young, their father left the family. Their mother became a single mother, much more unusual in those days. To support her family, she took a job at the Fabyan Estate in Geneva.

I don’t know much about the Fabyan Estate, except for that it was eventually donated to the city of Geneva as a park. It is a huge place and includes rose gardens, scenic bike paths, Japanese gardens, the historical Fabyan home, and lots of beautifully landscaped areas.

Fabyan Park is a big deal in Geneva and the neighboring cities of St. Charles and Batavia where Brett grew up. Over the years, Friends of Fabyan, a civic community group was formed. Since he had grown up as a young man on the estate, Marsh was tapped as the “local historian” for the group.

Uncle Marsh lived to be 97 years old, still in full control of his faculties, so he was able to add a great deal of knowledge to this local group as they wrote books and articles on the fabled Fabyan family and estate. After his death in 2003, the group decided to honor him by dedicating an antique sundial, located in the Fabyan Rose Gardens, in his name.

However, before they could do so, the sundial was stolen by local vandals and sold off for its metal parts. So the Friends of Fabyan went on a long search to locate a replica of the sundial. Finally, in 2009, they were able to find a similar sundial and plan the dedication.

Brett and I were honored to attend the ceremony. Since Marsh’s sister Leah had married Ernest Soderstrom, and the Soderstroms had Robert (now deceased), Ernie, Al (Brett’s dad), Paul, Kenneth, Ruth (now deaceased), and Rick, there were a lot of second generation Soderstroms present at the dedication.

Not to mention, the third generation (Brett, his cousins, and second cousins), and even a fourth generation (their children).

The ceremony itself was wonderful. There were a couple of funny moments, too. The Friends of Fabyan knew how much Uncle Marsh enjoyed banjo music, so they hired a banjo player to provide the music for the dedication.

Unfortunately, the banjo player seemed to think he was giving a concert. He went into (great) detail before each song and then played and played and played. Eventually, one of Marsh’s sons went up to the event organizer and whispered, “Do you have a hook? Otherwise, he’s just going to keep playing!”

She tactfully managed to edge him (reluctantly) off stage. She then gave a little history of Uncle Marsh, most of which I had never heard.

She talked about how he used to strap on ice skates in the winter and skate the length of the river down to the nearest town. He would do the family shopping and skate back, his arms laden down with bags. She mentioned how he would go with the Estate Supervisor, Jack “the sailor,” to fix areas around the estate, often employing secret progressive methods, so as not to offend the old-fashioned Fabyans.

She even spoke about how forward-thinking Uncle Marsh became a mechanic when the horse and buggy was still the main mode of transportation.

After her tribute, Marsh’s two sons and several of his grandchildren gave touching speeches about their father and grandfather. Al, Brett’s dad, was tapped to give the Soderstrom tribute.

Now, I have to stop here and say Brett’s dad may be the least emotional man I’ve ever met. I’ve known him for almost thirteen years and have not seen him cry once. He’s a wonderful man, kind, caring, jovial, generous to a fault, but definitely not over-choked with emotion.

However, as he stood on the steps of the sun dappled sundial podium, he broke down as talked about his Uncle Marsh and his mother, Leah.

He gestured around the lovely rose garden where we were seated. “We are surrounded by oak trees. Uncle Marsh and Mother Leah were like these oak trees, strong and steady. We are their acorns, their heritage, and we must follow their example by keeping our history strong and nurturing our own acorns.”

I couldn’t help looking over at Brett and smiled to think of my almost 40 year old husband as his father’s little acorn.

Brett’s dad had to stop speaking several times to regain control of his emotions. His intense admiration for his uncle, and overpowering love for his mother was expressly evident. I was moved to tears.

After all the tributes, and yet another mini-concert by the (somewhat egotistical) banjo maestro, the Friends of Fabyan presented honorary memberships to Marsh’s two sons and all of the Soderstrom brothers present – Ernie, Al, Paul, Kenneth, and Rick. Brett’s Uncle Rick even drove all the way down from Canada for the event.

As I watched the five remaining Soderstrom sons gather on the sundial steps, blue membership folders in hand, I couldn’t help but marvel at their shared respect and affection in honor of their uncle, but even more the deep love and loyalty to their mother that shone through.

I had the privilege of meeting Uncle Marsh several times before he passed away. I remember him as being soft-spoken and very sweet. I was relatively new to the family, and when I took his photo, he looked around and said, very nicely, “Who IS that girl?” I had to laugh.

After the dedication, we spent time with the Butler and Soderstrom families. It was a wonderful time of catching up, and both Brett and his dad were as proud as peacocks, showing off my pregnancy to anyone who would listen.

On our way back to the car, the chairperson of the Friends of Fabyan stopped us to wish us luck on our impending arrival. She was also the second person (ever) to rub my pregnant belly (to be honest, I love it when people do that. I know it drives some people nuts, but if I could, I would hire people just to rub my belly. I think it’s so cute!).

She asked us what we were having. When we told her about the Soderstrom’s extensively male birthright, she laughed.

Being a historian herself, she told us about a locally prominent woman who had two boys and when she gave birth to a third boy, she refused to go near him for ten days. She was so mad he wasn’t a girl! Then she told us about a former mayor of Geneva who had six girls and lamented his lack of a son.

“I say whatever you get, be happy,” she advised us with a smile.

On our way back home, I told Brett how moved I was by his father’s speech.

“The Soderstrom boys love their mothers,” he said.

I leaned back in my seat and reflected on Brett’s love for his own mother.

Brett was an “oops” baby, born after his mom and dad thought they were “done.” Still, Brett’s mother cherished her baby very much.

Brett was DEFINITELY the baby of the family, and while this threw the typical wrench in the works when it came to his four older brothers and sisters, it cultivated in him a deep appreciation for his mother.

Over the years, Brett spent a lot of time with his mom. They became good friends. She was saved only a short few years before he came to know the Lord, and how she REJOICED at news of his salvation!

Brett was fiercely protective of his mother and revered her greatly. He was also very affectionate, giving lots of hugs and always speaking highly of her. If Jean had been anyone else, it might have annoyed me as Brett’s young wife.

But Jean was one of the most genuinely sweet and caring people I have had the honor to know. She was tender and kind in all her ways. It would have been nearly impossible NOT to love her. Instead of judging me for marrying her “baby,” Jean welcomed me warmly into the family and lovingly referred to me as “her daughter by marriage.”

Brett was devastated when his mom passed away unexpectedly in December of 2005. Her death hit him like a ton of bricks, and even now his grief will trickle out in poignant moments. Just a few short months ago, we were aglow in our pregnancy news and discussing how we would tell Brett’s dad.

Brett looked wistfully into my eyes and said, “Mom would have loved this.”

I teared up and patted his hand. “She would have loved to know her baby is having a baby.” He nodded his head and swallowed his sorrow.

It may surprise you, knowing how close Mom and I are, but Mom wanted a son. She always defends herself by saying she wanted the Trotter name to be carried on. She says this in spite of the fact that my Uncle Jimmy Trotter, Dad’s brother, had THREE sons!

“But none of them have had sons,” she’ll protest.

I don’t mind that my name’s not Nathan and that I’m not a boy. Mom and Dad waited eleven years for me, and I think they were pretty happy to have me at all.

And Dad definitely wanted a girl. He used to joke with me, “You’re the one time I got what I wanted!”

When I got married, Mom wrote a wonderful vignette for our wedding program. She quoted the book of Ruth, where Naomi tells Ruth, “You are better to me than seven sons!” It was our own little inside joke.

Being an only child, the devotion I had/have for my parents was experienced through female eyes. I had heard the old saying, “A son’s a son until he takes a wife. A daughter’s a daughter all her life.”

I found myself prematurely anxious to learn I was having a boy. With all the hubbub, I was beginning to worry the love, affection, and desire to be close to my parents would be absent with Sam. I had visions of him running from me straight out of the womb.

This weekend did much to put those feelings at rest. Watching Brett’s dad and uncles relive their mother’s love, even a half century later, and knowing the special relationship shared by Brett and his mom, brought me great comfort.

I hope Brett passes this lesson on to Sam – “The Soderstrom boys love their mothers!”

And what a wonderful bunch of Mama’s boys they are.

Me 'n Carly

2009-05-16T19:30:00.001-07:00

Carleen is having her baby next week, and I'm (Lord willing) having Sam in ten weeks! We wanted to get a photo of the two of us while we are both still pregnant. Aren't we cute?

A Note from Agnes

2009-05-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

Every so often, I glimpse a little bit of myself in my family.

Today, I received a thank you note from Grandma for our Mother’s Day gift to her. I had to smile while reading it, since it sounds very much like my own personality coming through. I’d like to share it with you.

Keep in mind Grandma’s in her 90’s and still as sharp as a tack.

(Parenthetical comments are mine)

Dear Brett and Ann-Marie,
Thank you for the gift card you gave me for Mother’s Day. It sure was a very enjoyable time. I hadn’t expected to have any company (Grandma had 12 children and has over 100 grandkids, great grandkids, and great-great grandkids, and she didn’t expect anyone to remember her on Mother’s Day?!).

I sure enjoyed the KFC (Mom was going to order a nice meal from an upscale place, but Grandma had her heart set on KFC, so we had KFC) and another party on Monday (Mom’s birthday party). More kids, food, and fun.

Then your mom took me on Monday to the foot doctor, and we enjoyed Culver’s – quiet, peaceful, and onion rings (I don’t usually equate quiet and peaceful with onion rings, but to each her own. And Grandma LOVES onion rings).

I sure enjoy eating, especially good food (me too, Grandma, me too).

I’m so excited about Sammy. Can hardly wait. Who will he look like? Red hair? Freckles on his nose? No?

Love,
Grandma

That’s Agnes Theresa Rehfeldt for you! She’s a funny, classy lady, and I’m proud to claim her as my grandma. And Sam’s soon-to-be great-grandma!

Sam and the Savior

2009-05-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

I suffered a major meltdown last night.

I was up with my normal pregnancy insomnia, but instead of my usual 3:00 – 5:00 a.m. time, I was awake from 12:30 – 4:30 a.m. My mind was working overtime. I began to obsess on how completely unprepared I am.

I found myself overwhelmed. All I could think about was the state of limbo we are in right now. I still have a lot of packing to do; the house is a wreck, and we’ve barely made any preparations for Sam’s arrival. IN TWO AND A HALF MONTHS!

I was slowly, steadily freaking out.

The anxious thoughts formed barbed wire as they circled tight knots in my head. My mind drifted to my sleeping husband.

I think it’s ironic how the things you love about a person are also the things that can drive you stark-raving mad. For instance, Brett has many wonderful qualities. He’s kind, sensitive, caring, affectionate, and extremely supportive. He’s also very laid-back.

By virtue of being laid-back, one CANNOT also be ambitious, driven, or a go-getter. Those are MY characteristics; that’s why he married ME.

I began to think of Brett’s job search. He’s been looking, but he’s not been !!! LOOKING!!! with the same sense of urgency I would be.

As I sat there, stewing my own juices, I felt a familiar flare-up of anger. At 3:00 a.m., I shook my husband awake. In short order, I informed him he was a rotten provider for his family. I sat up in bed, with my arms crossed, ranting and raving about his shortcomings in the weak morning light.

Brett regarded me carefully though one open eye. He took in my wrath calmly and quietly. When I had run out of steam, I just sat there huffing.

Turning on his side, he propped himself up and opened both eyes. He patted my leg.

“Sweetheart, I am looking. I promise. I’m honestly trying very hard. It might not seem like it to you, but I am.”

He smiled serenely, and I fought the urge to scream.

One does NOT wake one’s husband up at 3:00 a.m., screaming insults, to be dealt with kindly and reasonably. One wakes up one’s husband at 3:00 a.m., screaming insults, to FIGHT with someone, to work off one’s anger until someone storms out and insists on sleeping on the couch.

The fact he was so darn nice to me made me seethe. For about a minute.

Then, of course, I burst into tears as Brett groggily sat up and held me tight.

Out tumbled all my worries.

…our uncertain housing situation, the pigsty/paper explosion state of our home, being ill-equipped for Sam, the fact all three of our furniture pieces are broken (which is inconvenient when you’re NOT pregnant, but downright infuriating if you are. I literally cannot sit down in my own living room.)

Our bed is 21 years old and in horrible condition which I’m 99% sure contributes to my insomnia. I hate that I can’t be comfortable in my own home. There is not even one resting place.

I’ll likely lose my job and insurance in October. What if he’s still unemployed then? And, of course, money, money, money difficulties.

On and on, my troubles just poured out. My big explosion was about Sam’s impending arrival.

“What if we don’t have anywhere for him to sleep ? What if our baby doesn’t even have a room? What if he’s a hobo baby?” I wailed.

Eventually, the sobs subsided to sniffles. The two of us just sat there silent on the bed.

I looked at Brett. His expression was loving, but he didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. He knows he can’t “fix” any of this. It’s just the way it is.

He just hugged me and eventually went back to sleep. I reluctantly lay down next to him. I started to pray God would even out these unpredictable pregnancy hormones. I prayed potently for sleep to come soon. I prayed God would give me peace and guidance and that my mind would be “stayed on Him.”

As soon as my prayers took wing, a thought occurred to me.

“Huh!” I said out loud.

Brett rolled over immediately, no doubt wondering if I was standing by his side of the bed, holding a meat cleaver and whistling the theme to Psycho.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about Mary.”

“Mary who?”

“Mary the mother of Jesus. I mean, she was on the move when she was pregnant. For crying out loud, she had to ride a donkey! She gave birth in a dirty, nasty stable. Mary didn’t have a baby room all set up. JESUS was a hobo baby!”

“Okay,” Brett breathed out a sigh of relief that I had regained some sense of perspective. In three seconds flat, he was snoring his way to a good night’s sleep.

My mind was still active, as I imagined the profound discomfort of riding a donkey for a long distance while pregnant. Or giving birth in a filthy stable far away from your family and friends.

I had to smile when I thought how no matter where I go into labor, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have to ride a donkey to my destination. And, unless I go into labor at Uncle Bruce and Aunt Louise’s farm, I doubt I’ll be giving birth in a stable.

I know if the foreclosure papers arrive right when Sam’s born, or a week before or a week after, God will provide a place for us to stay. I suddenly realized something else.

This was God’s PERFECT timing. I mean, we tried to have a baby for nine years. There were times of plenty in those years, times without the bleak burden of worry we constantly carry now. God did not choose those times. His timing is RIGHT now.

Sure, from a strictly human perspective, the timing of this baby sucks. But it’s not our timing that matters. I am not privy to the plans of God. I have no choice but to trust Him.

God knows I am a planner, and in His wisdom, He’s taken that control away from me. He’s not allowing me to plan. He’s just asking me to trust and obey. To have that tiny mustard seed of faith.

The definition of faith sang though my mind. Faith is believing in something you cannot see. Faith is sitting where you don’t see a chair. Faith is lying down where you don’t see a bed. Faith is saying goodbye to earthly security and embracing a wild, rambunctious, God-ordained unknown.

FAITH is the lesson we are learning.

Peace flooded through me. I know Christians through the years have experienced this very same moment. This basic, child-like lesson we must learn over and over again.

The Lord brought another thought to mind before I drifted off to sleep.

Brett’s unemployment is ALSO in God’s plan. The fact that Brett has been unemployed has allowed him to come to every single OB appointment, maternal-fetal medicine meeting, and ultrasound.

My doctors and nurses know him by sight, and he knows all the various details of my medical conditions. If I’m incapacitated at any moment, Brett is fully armed with the knowledge to make informed decisions in my best interest.

He’s experienced this pregnancy along with me, and in doing so, has come to love and advocate for Sam with a fervency I hadn’t expected.

We lost Brett’s Jeep in the bankruptcy. At the time, I was devastated. However, sharing the car and riding with each other has been a wonderful bonding experience. We look forward to our shared trips, when before it seemed our cars (and our lives) were compartmentalized into “his” and “hers.”

Now, it’s “ours.” And if that’s not what marriage is about, then I don’t know what is.

My last fleeting thoughts were of the similarities between Brett and I and Mary and Joseph. Between Sam and my Savior.

Like Mary and Joseph, we don’t know where we’ll be or what we’ll be doing when Sam arrives. We don’t know that we’ll have a place to go, but we have to trust God to provide it.

Like Jesus, Sam is being born in an uncertain time and place in our history. But also like Jesus, Sam will be loved by his parents, no matter what the surrounding circumstance.

And, who knows, maybe Sam will be a hobo baby, too.

Eventually, I was able to drift off. To sleep the calm, untroubled sleep of a child of God. I felt nurtured and cared for by my loving Father, almost as if His angels surrounded my bed watching me sleep.

Just like I imagine I’ll watch Sam sleep. Thinking, “I promise to take care of you, child.” Knowing that God carries us both close to His side.

Knowing He’ll take care of both of us. His child and her child.

Rest came easy.

The Most Honest Friend I Never Had

2009-05-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

I like being different.

I always have. I don’t know if it’s a product of being an only child and having to compare myself against the entire world, or if it’s just my personality.

I learned early on that being different in a “quirky” way was better than being different in a “weird” way (to steal a line from Runaway Bride).

For instance, I’ve always embraced my left-handedness, partially because Dad was a lefty, and partially because it made me part of a special club with limited, genetically-chosen membership.

Growing up, I eschewed the “norm” and felt free to embrace what I really loved. I stayed far away from competition, school spirit, and cliques. Not that any of them would have had me anyway.

In college, I abhorred the Gap. I remember saying, “If you want to look like everyone else, shop the Gap!” Later, I included my nemesis, Old Navy, in that old chestnut.

Of course, there were times I wanted desperately to fit in. I wanted to be able to swap clothes like my friends did, but I was always too big. There were times I wanted a boy to like me, but it never happened.

Overall, though, I was happy being who I was, because I had my words. My words allowed me to defend or advocate the quirks that made me Ann-Marie.

However, my own (non-stop) inner dialogue analyzes everything. It might shock you after reading this vocabulary volcano of a blog, but I don’t write or say a tenth of what my mind analyzes on a daily basis.

My husband hoards words like they are a limited commodity, but he admits to being fascinated when I stream-of-consciousness analyze my thoughts on any given topic. He’s way too nice to say it (and he wouldn’t waste the words anyway), but he thinks I over-analyze things.

He’s right, of course. One of my bosses used to say, “You can over-think anything to death.”

Brett is really the only person who has experienced me in “analysis mode.” Even though I chatter on like a woodpecker to my family and friends, I’ve spared them from this particular character flaw. I was pretty sure over-analyzing things was just “me.”

A couple of years ago, my Aunt Linda, who lives in France, began to visit the States regularly. Aunt Linda and I share a common bond – the same August 20 birthday. We also share our birthday with my Aunt Laurie.

I’ve always admired the symmetry. Aunt Linda is Mom’s oldest sister; Aunt Laurie is Mom’s youngest sister, and I am Mom’s only daughter. It’s a cool birthday trinity.

Since I didn’t grow up with either Aunt Linda (France) or Aunt Laurie (Tennessee), I didn’t know either of them very well. During Aunt Linda’s recent visits to the States, I was finally able to develop an adult friendship with her.

Mom and Gary hosted Aunt Linda for most of the time, so I often found myself sitting around the dining room table engaged in familial conversation.

I was surprised when Mom mentioned Aunt Linda tended to analyze everything. Intrigued, I began to pay attention. Much to my delight, I discovered Aunt Linda had the exact same thought process I did! Unlike me, though, she wasn’t afraid to express her thoughts and opinions out loud.

I sat mesmerized as she explained why I was the way I was, why Brett did the things he did, why her kids did things a certain way, and so on. I basked in finding another person who was a great deal like me.

Aunt Linda sought the reasons why – why people do what they do – why they are the way they are.

Questions that no one else asked out of politeness, Aunt Linda would barge right in and analyze to her heart’s content.

I am not a believer in astrology, but I will say that most descriptions of Leo’s illustrate me (and Aunt Linda) down to a “T.”

Either way, as much as I have come to adore and treasure my Aunt Linda, I’m afraid I will never be able to be as outspoken (at least verbally) and insightfully honest as she is.

One time I did, however, meet someone who was.

It’s no secret Brett and I have almost no “couple” friends. Other than Mom and Gary (who HAVE to hang out with us) and Linda and Aaron, we’ve yet to find people who like both of us enough to develop a close relationship.

I don’t mean to say we’re friendless – individually, we have friends.

But as a couple, we just don’t click with that many people. Either they like Brett and not me, or vice versa. Brett’s not a sports nut, and he hates small talk. I am not domestic (IN THE LEAST), and I tend to speak my sarcastic, little mind on pretty much everything.

It has taken us years and years and years (the third one is just for me) to accept this. When we finally realized it, we just shrugged our shoulders, thanked God at least we had each other, and sucked it up like the rejection pros we are.

For a short time after we got married, we tried very hard to make “couple” friends. Thankfully, we were part of a large group at Windsor and actually managed to make a few connections.

I remember meeting a couple who was part of the group, although we didn’t know them very well. They seemed very nice. He was a bit quieter, like my gigantic mute, and she seemed funny, lively, and quite compatible with yours truly.

After talking it over with Brett, I decided to invite them over for dinner.

I approached *Mamie and asked if she and *Conan would like to come over for dinner one night.

She turned to me politely, a condescending smile on her face.

“You know, we have a lot of family in the area and quite a few friends already. I guess what I’m trying to say, is that we’re really full up on friends right now. Thanks anyway.”

I swear I thought she was kidding.

I even did that “ha, ha” you do when you’re 99% sure someone’s joking. Then, horrors of horrors, I took in the slightly puzzled look on her face and realized she was completely serious.

I stood rooted to the ground in shock. The rejection shot through me like a sword. Even though she’d couched the slap-in-the-face in oh-so-nice politeness, I was fully aware I had been burned.

I stumbled out to the car in a daze, as Brett pumped me for information on our new friends. As I babbled out the story, Brett's eyes grew wide.

“They’re ‘full up’ on friends? What does that even mean? How can they have too many friends?”

My sweet, unassuming husband couldn’t comprehend the fact we could barely cajole two people to see a movie with us, and these people were turning away crowds of adoring fans.

“She…she wasn’t even nice about it. I mean, she could have at least said they’d have dinner with us and then dodged me for a date later. I mean, that would have spared my feelings,” I stuttered, still reeling.

We were both pretty silent on the way home, as we absorbed the incident. Then, out of nowhere, I started laughing.

Brett looked over, concerned. He knows (as many men do) a wife’s hysterical laughter is only a treacherous half-step removed from hysterical sobbing.

But I was really laughing.

“I mean, she was honest right? They don’t like us, and they don’t want to be our friends. She all but came out and said it.” I choked out, still cracking up.

I turned to Brett. “This is actually okay. I mean, it hurts, yeah, but think about it. This way we never have to wonder. I don’t have to put their names in our address book or send them a single Christmas card. We don’t ever have to worry they feel excluded when we don’t invite them to things. We don’t have to sit next to them or make small talk. No pretending. It takes all the pressure off.”

True, if I’d ever been approached by someone I didn’t want to be friends with (has yet to happen), I’d be absolutely polite and then dodge, dodge, dodge them like crazy. Mamie just wasn’t going to play games, so she laid it all out there on the line.

I’m not saying she wasn’t a stone, cold viper to treat us like that, but hey, at least she was honest about how she felt.

Even now, I can’t help but look back and laugh. The truth is that Mamie is the most honest friend I never had.

And I couldn’t be happier about it. After all, with friends like that…

But, who knows, maybe I’m just over-analyzing.

*Names have been changed, because you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

Twix and a Laugh Decades Young

2009-05-11T07:47:00.000-07:00

Someone else has to be responsible, right?

I mean, I can’t turn out this way and be the ONLY one responsible, can I? Well, the good news is that I’m not! The woman responsible for all of my successes and none of my failures is enjoying a BIG birthday today.

I promised Mom I wouldn’t reveal her age on my blog, so I will just say it rhymes with “twix-and-a-laugh” decades and that she now qualifies for Medicare.

I’m so grateful God had given me a mother who is loving, caring, kind, thoughtful, funny, and godly. I know what you’re thinking, but she guarantees I wasn’t adopted!

I would be most appreciative if you would stop over at Mom’s blog and wish her a Happy Birthday with many happy returns!

Happy birthday, Mom!