Friday, December 26, 2008
We had our candlelight service on Christmas Eve. I sung with the worship team and Troy, of course, preached a short sermon. That meant that, as always, Garrett would be in the child care room. The only problem was that he decided to have a major attitude. As I was warming up with the worship team, Troy set Garrett down in the back of the church for a couple of nanoseconds so that he could do something. Over all the instruments and the eight voices that accompanied them I heard my child screaming, "WANT DADDY NOW!!!" Repeatedly.
Charming. Once Troy put him in the nursery I guess that, after several minutes of screaming followed by a session of laying on the floor, my child snapped out of it and behaved normally for the rest of the evening.
After church we drove through the Sonic drive-thru because Troy and I hadn't eaten and it was 9:00 pm. Someone forgot to give this particular dining establishment the memo that it is, indeed, a fast food restaurant. We sat in the line for over twenty minutes and there were only two cars in front of us. Then we delivered a gift and headed home.
It's Doozleberry family tradition to open presents on Christmas Eve (and by Doozleberry I mean my husband's family...not me--I like the magic of Christmas morning). When we got home we opened presents from his family. Of course, Garrett loved them all and wanted to open the rest of the packages under the tree. We informed him that, being that it was nearly 11:00 and he goes to bed by 9:00 at the latest, he needed to head to bed and if he was a really good boy he could have more presents in the morning.
Morning came and we did stockings and Santa presents. Santa brought Garrett a green hat, per his request, and, of course, the drum set.
Me: Garrett what is that?
Garrett: A green shirt.
Me: What? No it isn't. Look closer.
Garrett: Green shirt.
Me: (pulling it out of the bag completely) Are you sure?
Garrett: A GREEN HAT!!!
He really, seriously, was excited about getting a green hat. What a weirdo.
But, of course, nothing was more exciting on Christmas morning than his very own drum set...
After the power came back on (Did I forget to mention that we were without power for a couple of hours in the morning? Praise God our gas fireplace had just been fixed because we would have been mighty cold enduring our snowstorm without heat.) we had eggs and bacon and potatoes and cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate and it was very yummy. Then we took showers and finally, at noon, we opened the rest of our presents. Troy and I love lazy Christmases. We vow never to turn our holiday into a rip and tear fest. We vow never to be one of those families that is finished with Christmas morning by 5:00 am. We vow to impart to our children the art of delaying gratification. I sincerely hope we can keep good on those vows.
Anyway, around noon we opened presents. Then Garrett napped and Troy shoveled the driveway. And shoveled the driveway. And shoveled the driveway. And why did we move to the snow, again? Ministry? Right. I sometimes forget. And then we went to a church family's house for dinner.
Before we tucked Garrett into bed we read him the Christmas story and explained (again) the real meaning of Christmas. Then Troy and I snuggled into the couch and watched a movie.
This morning I didn't hear my son get out of bed. But I heard the drum solo loud and clear.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
First of all, you have to listen to the way my son says the word cereal. It's hysterical. At least, I think it is.
My brother is 25 today. I have to admit that, lately, more than any other reason, he is the driving force behind my insane desire to welcome a second child into this family. I look back on my life, which was made so much richer by the fact that Jon was in it, and my heart aches for the same relationship for my own son. I watch all the other toddlers at church either interacting with their new siblings or waiting for them to be birthed and I long for Garrett to experience the joy of a brother or sister who is close in age.
I didn't want my brother.
I wanted the blonde baby in the incubator next to my nine-week premature pipsqueak of a sibling. He'd decided to arrive in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. I was two years, three months, and 16 days old. He was puny and, after weeks in the NICU, warranted showers and loads and oodles of attention. And I did not like that.
He grew into an obnoxious instigator of a little boy. So I hit him. In middle school and high school I generally tried my best to ignore him. Once I pulled a butcher knife on him. And, okay, so I just held it out and told him to get away from me and there was never ever a fraction of a moment where I considered using it on him but what with the way my dad reacted you'd have thought I'd actually killed my brother, right there in the kitchen.
Now that I'm a mother, I (mostly) understand. But, for the record dad...he started it!
Even when he was small and new and even when we had nothing in common and even when I was hitting him, he was mine. He's the only other person in the world who knows what it is like to be raised in our house. He's the only child who shared every vacation, every Christmas, every birthday, every day in and day out with me.
How he is 25 and engaged and walking around with two Master's degrees I'll never know. Because when I look at him I generally see my snaggle toothed kid brother. I see all the times I loved him and all the times I wanted to punch him in the face and all the memories we share because we had each other. And I long for that for my own child.
Happy Birthday, Jon. I just have one thing to say, "You're still not older than me."
Edited to add: My mom posted pictures on her website. You can see exactly what I mean by pipsqueak here.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Last night I had worship rehearsal for our Christmas Eve service. I called Troy at 8:45 to let him know that he should go ahead and put Garrett to bed without me because I wouldn't be home anytime soon. He told me that he'd put Garrett on the phone so that I could say goodnight to him.
Garrett: Hi, baby! (I say this to him sometimes and he's a very good copy cat.)
Me: I love you!
Garrett: I lub you too, mommy.
Me: I'll see you in the morning, okay?
Garrett: Nigh-night mommy.
How did he get big enough to hold a conversation, I wonder?
Also, should I be worried about the fact that I'm singing tomorrow night and I woke up this morning with a completely sore throat and a missing voice? I plan to down tea all day and keep the speaking to a minimum. Of course, it is quite a challenge to refrain from speech while simultaneously raising a two-year-old.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Me: I should as in should should or I should as in should shouldn't.
Troy: Should as in should should as long as you carefully choose your words. I wouldn't want you to lose any of your six loyal readers.
First, it should be noted that Troy and I have conversations like this all the time. Conversations that wouldn't make sense to anyone but us, really. I have drawn the conclusion that these past six years have been damaging to our ability to communicate with the rest of the world but, perhaps, have strengthened our marriage as we have developed a language seemingly all our own. Additionally, should begins to look horribly misspelled when you type it 72,000 times.
Anyway, back to the fact that I'm a total dogmatist when it comes to Christmas trees. I love myself a real, live, slaughtered on the farm, Christmas tree. I detest synthetic trees. But let me tell you why. When I was a kid the only fake trees I ever saw were ridiculously hideous. They were horrendously lopsided, "pine needles" (and I use that term loosely) were matted together, and the branches started three feet from the ground. My friend had one such tree. Her home was always impeccably decorated. Garland rode the banister in gorgeous loops, Christmas tunes filled the rooms from the first of December into the beginning of January, and the reds and greens were splattered everywhere in festive harmony. It was a snapshot of Christmas as it should be--except the hideous, misplaced, plastic tree. And hers wasn't the only one I'd been subjected to. Fake trees, in my opinion, were a Christmas abomination.
Now. Well, now they make gorgeous "Pre-lit Christmas Trees" and I myself have even admired some of them as I walk through stores. I have even (gasp!) wondered about purchasing such a tree. It is, after all, an option. An option, that is, if Garrett developed severe allergies and it was determined that he would die of anaphylactic shock if we brought a real tree into the house. Forget about it if I were put in the same predicament. I'd buy a surgical mask and take my chances. Or I'd fashion an igloo in my backyard and allow my family the joy of having a real Christmas tree.
I do understand that some people have to have a fake tree. I get it. I really do. I'd rather you have a fake tree than suffer from exploding sinuses all December long. I'd rather you have a fake tree than a cat who climbs your real one. Although, honestly, I've never understood this reasoning. If you have an animal who plays in a real tree, won't he play in a fake tree as well? And, of course, I have other exceptions to my own bigoted rule. College students, for example, ought to have a small fake tree adorning their dorm room and not deal with the possibility that sap will stain the carpet thus explaining the strange cleaning bill they have to pay before being allowed to walk with their graduating class. The elderly are not expected to get on their hands and knees to clean up pine needles and constantly water a real tree. Or, say, people who live on yachts. They should maybe get a break too.
But a real tree. That's where it's at. And the number one reason for such a conclusion is...the smell. Troy wondered, from the pulpit, if I would be alright with a fake tree as long as he hung pine scented air freshner from it. Yes dear, that would make it exactly the same. I love the way my house smells when we have a pine tree residing in it. It is the only thing that smells exactly like Christmas and, well, Lake Tahoe which I also happen to love. And I love the way that you have to hide the holes and show the best side, much like we try to do with our own selves. I mean, come on, a real tree is like, I don't know, a metaphor for life. I love that you don't have to store them! I love figuring out which ornaments will weigh down which branches for optimum Christmas tree perfection. I love hiding Ms. Piggy on the back and then praying I remember to take her off so that she doesn't get shipped to the recycling plant. I love watering it and hoping beyond hope that it doesn't dry out too much before Christmas.
And I love watching the lights twinkle when the rest of the room is dark. This year, Garrett has been amazingly good with our tree. There is one ornament that he is obsessed with touching. Humorously, it is a Chargers bulb so I hesitate to get on him too much--I'm too busy trying to make a fan out of him. Otherwise, he hasn't tried to climb it, pull ornaments off, or yank needles from branches. He's been, kind of, in awe of it I think.
Lately he has started offering "I love yous" unprompted. It's pretty much the most adorable thing in the history of the world (ever!). He hears us respond to each other with, "I love you, too." So, naturally, that's how he says it. Even when he's not prompted with "I love you" first. As we sat together and watched the twinkly lights of our tree, our conversation went something like this.
Me: Garrett, Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Jon and Aunt Heather are going to come and visit us after Santa comes.
Garrett: Ho Ho Ho!
Me: Yep. Santa will come on Christmas Eve. He's really fun but what's the real meaning of Christmas?
Garrett: Baby Jesus.
Me: That's right.
Then we sat quietly for a few moments and suddenly Garrett turned his attention away from the tree, grabbed my face between his two chubby little hands and stared deep into my eyes. "I love you too, Mommy."
I felt my heart surge just a tiny bit and I answered back, "And I love you, Garrett." Then we turned our attention back to our real, live tree. It's branches don't wait for three feet to start and it's needles aren't bent and misshapen from eleven months in the attic. It smells like pine and magic and Christmas memories being formed, anew.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Oh and, um... Thanks Broncos! The fact that you lost today was just sweet!
And maybe, just maybe, we'll find a way to kick your horsey haunches next week and make up for Hochuli's colossal blunder back at the beginning of the season.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
One such concert was when I was in college. My mom and I went to the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim and saw her Christmas concert. It was the second time I'd seen her live and the first time I'd seen her come out in a gorgeous Christmas dress and then promptly throw an acoustic guitar over the ensemble. She just comes across as being so normal. So relatable.
And, of course, there was eager anticipation of hearing, live, Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song). I've loved this song from the very first time I heard it. It always makes me think of what it must have been like for Mary on that night, so many, many years ago. And it makes me think, even, of my own self. God certainly didn't choose me to carry his only son but he has chosen me for many things which, if he wasn't God Almighty, I would consider an error in judgement.
As she sang the lyrics that were long ago imprinted on my own heart, the arena fell desperately quiet and we soaked in the magic of the words as we transcended time and entered, somehow, that holy night...
BREATH OF HEAVEN
I have traveled
Many moonless nights
Cold and weary
With a babe inside
And I wonder
What I've done
You have come
Chosen me now
To carry your son
I am waiting
in a silent prayer
I am frightened
by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone
Must I walk this path alone
Be with me now
Be with me now
Breath of Heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of Heaven
Breath of Heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me, your holiness
For you are holy
Breath of Heaven
Do you wonder
As you watch my face
If a wiser one
should of had my place
But I offer all I am
For the mercy of your plan
Help me be strong
Help me be
Friday, December 19, 2008
First, it should be noted that Garrett is a very tenderhearted little guy. If you tell him that something hurts, he is quick to kiss it. When I had the stomach flu last week he brought me another pillow and then kissed my stomach and wondered why I wasn't healed. I've yet to explain to him that only a mommy's kiss has the ability to magically fix owies. Somewhere during the short 28--29 tomorrow--months of Garrett's life he decided that moles are boo-boos. I have a mole next to my bellybutton and my son constantly kisses it, hoping, I suppose, that he will one day fix it. He will point to the mole on my arm and say, "Mole." He then follows this with a kiss. Freckles and zits are also "moles" and, therefore, warrant kisses.
Our dog has one place on his body that is not covered in hair and, for some reason, is freckled. It's his...oh I almost can't even talk about this...male parts. Specifically, the male parts that wouldn't be there if he were neutered. Our dog also likes to lay on his back, displaying his goods for all the world to see. I think you can all see where this is heading.
Today I was cleaning the kitchen and Garrett was playing in the family room. Beck was taking an afternoon snooze, on his back, puppy-making anatomy proudly, well, just hanging out. It got quiet and I looked down into the room. Garrett was staring at the dog's little boy parts. Then he poked them. "Garrett, don't poke the doggie there, okay? He, um, doesn't like it."
"Mommy," a look of deep concern spread across his face, "Mole. Owie."
"No, bud, they aren't moles. It's okay. The doggie isn't hurt. Come here."
"Mommy, me kiss." I know his grammar needs improvement but that was hardly at the top of my mind right then.
"No--" But it was too late. With all the tenderness my toddler could muster, he bent over and kissed the dog. Garrett looked at me and smiled. And the dog looked, well, confused. I vomited a little in my mouth I think.
It was the first time I had mandatory chapel three times a week. There are a whole lot of people who don't like mandatory chapel and resented the fact that it was imposed upon them. For me, it was a wonderful time of being held accountable for the faith I proclaimed. Being in chapel and living on a hall with other Christians and hearing Christmas songs, often with a biblical theme for several weeks before finals would send us home to our family lives really got me into the true spirit of the season. The year that I was 18, more than any other year I can remember before or after, was truly a year spent in reflection of that holy, holy night.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
MY OVARIES ARE ENORMOUS!
Enormous ovaries are a sign of PCOS which y'all know I have. However, when I went to the girly doctor yesterday she informed me that one of my ovaries felt enlarged. She then sent me to have an ultrasound done today. While I don't have any official results from the standard ultrasound turned internal ultrasound (because nothing can be easy and straightforward for me) I did find out that it ain't just my right ovary that's gigantic. For real. My ovaries could rival small countries in land mass.
Let's just say that a polycystic ovary typically measures between 14-20. Mine were a whopping 24. My uterus, which is normal (actually, the technician raved about how wonderful it was--which was weird) is only 63. My ovaries are a third the size of my uterus. That's a seriously unproportioned woman zone right there.
Anyway, there is really no reason for me to bring it up on my blog except that I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop wondering exactly how I pack that much ovary in that little space. I can't stop looking at my abdomen and thinking about the sorts of freak organs that lie beneath. I'm pretty much a mutant.
I've said before that my ovaries are dramatic. Perhaps psychotic would be a better adjective. Obese? Gargantuan?
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The next day we opened all our gifts and then my parents sent us outside. We pretended not to see it and walked back in. Eventually we "saw" it and clued my parents in on their neighborly blunder. We loved that trampoline to death and then we gave it to our cousins who, I think, are still loving it.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
My mommy tried to take a picture of her most favorite nativity scene but it simply would not photograph without giant light splotches all over it. It really didn't do it justice so she went with this one instead. Her friend gave her this one five years ago when she found out that my mommy, the pastor's wife, didn't have one. Mommy really likes it.
My mom's grandma got her this decoration. She loves it and I love pointing out the baby Jesus.
You see that reindeer hanging over the edge? That was given to my mom with a bunch of other "white elephant" decorations. She didn't keep any of the others but when mommy and daddy saw the reindeer, they didn't have the heart to get rid of it. It used to be someone's prized decoration. It's got cracks where the antler was broken off and then reattached but they've got soft spots for discarded things. Every old decoration has a story to tell...
My great grandma Betty painted these. My mama loves the expressions on their faces...
We don't have any extra space in this house so storing the Christmas mugs in the cupboard with the other mugs is out of the question. Mommy decided to put them up with a miniature tree and a giant bear holding a bear holding a bear.
This is one of mommy's most favorite Christmas possessions. Daddy bought it for her when they visited Israel together the year before I was born. It's made of olive wood and plays a Christmas tune. I also like pointing out the baby Jesus in this one.
And finally, yes we decorate with these guys. My daddy has a whole huge collection and they take up several shelves of the entertainment unit. This year, I was delighted to discover decorations that double as toys or is it toys that double as decorations?
I hope you've enjoyed stopping by and seeing some of our favorite decorations. Have yourselves a merry little Christmas.
I went out and bought two tiny picture frames. I placed the picture inside of each frame and wrapped them up. Then I placed them under my tree. I worked with my mom and, while I was never especially ill, there were days when I was feeling extremely under the weather. Keeping the BIGGEST SECRET EVER IN THE HISTORY OF SECRETS from her was nearly impossible.
When we lived in California, we always spent Christmas Eve with Troy's family and Christmas night with mine. We also saw my extended family on the 23rd. We really wanted to tell our parents for Christmas but couldn't think of a reason for my parents to crash the Doozleberry family Christmas Eve or Troy's parents to crash my family's Christmas Day festivities. We considered telling them at church during our Christmas Eve service but we had no intention of telling anyone but our immediate families until the second trimester and we figured that announcing it to our parents at church would be way too risky. So we concocted this ridiculous story...
After driving with my parents and seeing my extended family on the 23rd, we'd stop at his parents on the way home. We told my parents that Gary and DeDe wanted us to come over so that they could give my parents their gift for them. We told Gary and DeDe that my parents wanted us to stop by so that they could give them their gift. In actuality, no one wanted anyone stopping by. Well, I mean, it's not like they had a problem with it, it's just that we were totally the teenagers who tell one friend's parents that they're spending the night at the Smith's and they tell the Smith's that they're spending the night at the Brown's and really they go camping or drive to Vegas or something.
On the night of the 23rd we visited with my extended family. And the night dragged on and on. Normally I love long evenings with family but I just wanted it to end so that our plans weren't foiled. That night I don't even think we left my aunt's until almost ten. My parents suggested that they exchange gifts with the Doozleberry's at another time.
"Oh no," replied Troy, "my parents are really looking forward to seeing you. Tonight." My parents replied with a weary, "okay."
We pulled into the Doozleberry driveway and walked up to the door. I was super nervous. We'd managed to keep the secret for just over two weeks and I felt butterflies just thinking about the fact that it was all about to come out. Or maybe that was just the nausea talking. When we knocked on the door, Troy's parents looked slightly surprised to see us. Then his mom said something about how she was going to wrap their present and then she'd be right back.
We were so about to get caught in our web of lies.
My mom looked really confused.
Troy said something about how really we had planned the whole thing because we needed to give them something. Then I pulled out the two identical picture frames and handed one to his parents and one to mine.
I'll never forget the look on my mom's face when she saw the picture. In that one instant, I had made a grandmother. My father-in-law was stunned. They'd been praying for months and months and months for this and then they all latched on to the idea of adoption and I think it kind of came out of left field. He didn't speak for several minutes. When he did it was to say something about how it was the best Christmas present he had ever received. "Well dang," I thought, "I guess I won't ever be able to top this one then."
The gift of Garrett was the best present I've ever been given and it was certainly fun to give him to others.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Last night, three months of rehearsals came together as eleven kids and two adults performed to a pretty packed house. It's the first time I can ever remember not being extremely burned out by the time it was all over. This was the sixth year that I have spent my fall season wrangling kids, settling spats, and kissing boo-boos all in the name of theatre. There were minor mistakes and subtle hiccups but, all in all, I think it went very well. During the course of the last few months, Mean Raised Voice Lori had to come out a few times but I think that Logical and Generally Pretty Nice Lori visited often enough that the kids had a good time. Either that or they are faking these smiles...
They are actors though. You never can tell with their kind.
When we lived in Ramona I would shout choruses of Amens, Praises and Glories when the kid's play was over for the year but I loved and adored nearly all of the kids I worked with. When we decided to trade the sunny San Diego winters for Blizzardville I was devastated about leaving some of the kids I'd grown to love seeing at auditions every September. Never, never, would I love a cast of characters as much as I loved my Mountain View kids.
Do you see those smiles in the picture? I loved directing those grins. Oh, I miss my Mountain View kids like I miss good Mexican food but those kids in the picture make the homesickness downgrade from a violent stomach flu to the occasion wave of nausea. I. Love. Them.
I tell people that I have the spiritual gift of drama. (No, there is no actual spiritual gift of drama. My spiritual gift is administration and blah blah pocket protector this and file cabinet that.) I'll never do anything more than sit in a seat in a theatre on Broadway and I can think of mounds of people who worked beside me at Salomon Theatre that are more talented than I and very few who are less. (For example: "BUt, like a cloistress, she will veil-ed walkandwater once a day her chamber roundwitheye-offending brine..." sorry. Um. I realize that makes sense to only, like, one person who ever reads my blog but the butchering of Shakespeare had to be forever etched onto a page of my blog.) But if...IF...I got an 80,000 dollar education to be a stay at home mom and stand beside my husband in ministry then I will consider it an education well worth the loans I am paying--er, my husband is paying. And if that 80,000 dollar education prepared me for the life I am leading and if it kept me from making horrible decisions and if it authenticated my personal relationship with Jesus Christ in a more concrete fashion and if I learned the things that now play a small role in creating the smiles on the faces of those kids, then every dollar was worth it. Well, maybe not the dollars that went toward Chemistry and Biology. Those dollars I consider a complete waste.
I don't consider myself talented. Not in any sense of the word. Any level of success that comes to a night like the last one is purely a gracious God giving me a love for performance art and allowing me the opportunity to bring out that love in others. So when a dear friend calls me forward and hands me flowers for a job well done, I am grateful but I feel extremely perplexed. Because I am just doing what I do--what I love to do--what I feel the Lord called me to do. I'm just always so pleased that I was able to create, from start to finish, a memory for children, their families, and others. The flowers are lovely. And they smell divine on my table. But I feel unworthy of the gift.
After all, I'm just one of the kids, all grown up, thankful that the Lord gave me the chance to play.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
What I do know is that I remember, extremely clearly, a Christmas Eve at my Grandma Betty's and my Grandpa Bob's. My grandparents lived in a mobile home--my grandpa still lives there--and it didn't take much for it to fill with the heavenly scents of roast and potatoes and carrots. If I close my eyes I can almost smell it, mixing with the pine scent from their tiny tree...the one we would later plant on our hill. We gathered around the table, Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, Jon, Uncle Jason, Aunt Vicki, Kyle, Neil and I--Holly wasn't born yet, Neil was just a little guy himself. It was warm and homey and epitomized Christmas Eve.
When we opened our gifts I was thrilled to unwrap a Caboodle. At ten or eleven I was just dying for my own caboodly carrying case. I don't really know why. I wasn't wearing makeup so I have no clue what I actually intended to do with it. I remember putting temporary Charger tattoos and Blue Fins (my swim team) key chains in it. In any case, I was dying for a Caboodle. I still remember the smile on my grandma's face when I opened it. She was so pleased to have pleased me so much.
I'll never recapture the Christmas magic from childhoods at either of my grandparent's homes. I've been long grown and all of my cousins are well on their way. But the fact that discovering the magic of my Grandma Betty's smile at Christmas is now impossible makes me take a moment of pause. As I brought out my decorations this year I stopped and thought about my grandma. She made several of them and, as I placed them on shelves or hung them on walls, I thought of the Caboodle Christmas and a house full of delicious smells. I searched my mind for her smile and, when I found it, I carefully filed it back again, in a box marked, "Do Not Forget."
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Everyone before me opened traditional (can traditional be associated with the phrase "white elephant"?) gifts. There was Barbie stationery. There were cans of Cheez Whiz. There was Power Ranger Bubble Bath. I approached the pile of gifts and saw one that looked especially interesting. It was oddly shaped and wrapped in pretty paper. I snatched it up. As I eagerly unwrapped it I discovered that someone misunderstood the meaning of white elephant.
Inside of my package I discovered four empty soda cans tied together with a shoe lace. Obviously, no one traded for my gift.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Around the time that we moved to Ramona, we put an end to the nonstop Christmas day action. We started visiting one set of grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins on Christmas Eve. Then we would have a slow Christmas morning at our house and see the other set of grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins on Christmas night. Although, truthfully, I only had one cousin until I was nine. The next year we would switch which side of the family we saw on Christmas Eve and Christmas night. I don't know how our extended family felt about the arrangement but I loved it. Not only did Christmas last longer, we actually got to play with the stuff we got on Christmas morning.
When I was seven my brother and I got new bikes. I remember getting up that morning and creeping slowly and quietly down the hall before my parents woke up, just to see the magic before anyone else. Well, obviously, my new bike wasn't wrapped so I sped back down the hall so my parents wouldn't know I'd seen it already. After we opened our other presents, I rode the bike for a few minutes. Later, our neighbors, who had gotten a horse for Christmas, invited us on a ride. I was desperate for my own horse so my brother and I eagerly agreed. We started down the trail with my brother, myself, and the neighbor's son, David, atop the bareback horse. As David's dad walked beside us I suddenly felt all of us slipping. I gripped my brother tightly and held him as we toppled to the ground. Pain seared through my right arm and into my shoulder as we hit the ground. I sobbed all the way home.
I cried into the afternoon.
We were going to my aunt and uncle's house for Christmas night. When we were getting ready to leave my brother, who thought I was being overdramatic (I know. Weird right? Why would I suddenly start being overdramatic. I mean, I'd never been overdramatic before. Right mom? Mom...Mom...stop laughing!) punched me in the arm. "Is that where it hurts?"
I don't remember much about the time at my aunt's house--just that my arm hurt. And hurt.
Turns out that it was broken. Way up high, close to my shoulder. It couldn't be casted so I spent many weeks in a sling and Ace bandage. My shiny new bike sparkled in the garage while my brother raced up and down the street on his.
I still hate horseback riding.
For some reason, I as write this I am feeling like I broke my arm on the day after Christmas. Maybe, for some reason, we celebrated Christmas with my Dad's side of the family on the 26th that year instead of the 25th. Mom, can you clear this up for me?
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Just the thought of my mom in a kerchief and my dad sleeping in a stocking cap makes me smirk. They definitely don't slumber in such attire. In any case, out on the lawn--or somewhere, I don't know--there arose such a clatter, I awoke and froze in my bed...something was the matter. I was certain I'd heard Santa.
I was also certain that my bladder was extremely full and in serious need of relief. I also believed that if I got up and caught sight of Santa, he'd leave without bestowing gifts upon my brother and myself. I couldn't be responsible for such a Christmas catastrophe. So I laid there. And laid there. And laid there. I had no idea how long it took Santa to fill stockings and place gifts under the tree with care but I knew that I'd better make good and sure he was gone before I got up.
In all my five-year-oldness I squirmed. I couldn't take it anymore. I finally decided that I'd rather come face to face with Santa than wet my bed. I dashed from my room to the bathroom. I remember closing my eyes tightly and hoping that Santa would understand my basic human need to pee. When I finished I sprinted back to my bed, dove under the covers and whispered, "Sorry Santa. I really had to go."
In the morning my stocking was brimming with goodies and my name was on several of the packages under the tree. Santa had been there. Whether he'd been there at the exact time I had to go to the bathroom, I'll never know. I'll never know if he was there, unloading loot, at the precise moment that I was dashing down my hallway. I could have come face to face with jolly old St. Nicholas. But I didn't...
This blog writer believes that Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. She believes that he is THE reason for the Christmas season. She is also thankful that, as a child, her parents shared a little of the magic of St. Nick with her.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
So, in a way, yes, I'm pregnant again. But technically, no, I'm not.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Six years ago my husband and I sat across from each other on our first date.
Three years ago I saw not one but two lines on the stick.
Both boys, on their own, are immeasurably more than I deserve. Together, well, words don't begin to describe the joy in my heart.
December 7th is a very good day.
Friday, December 5, 2008
When Garrett was four and a half months old, my mom and dad took him to see Santa. Troy and I were running a Children's Christmas Play Dress Rehearsal. He was clad in Christmas colors complete with little green booties. Though he didn't cry, he promptly puked green baby food all over the crisp white cuff of Santa's sleeve. The picture is adorable, you can even spy the smeared peas on Santa's sleeve...if you look close enough.
Last year, my mom, aunt, and cousin took him to visit Santa on the day that Troy, my dad, and myself drove the moving van from San Diego to Salt Lake. My mom flew out a day later with Garrett. We don't have a Santa picture. The kid refused to sit on the scary man's lap. The helpful elf suggested that my mom sit on Santa's lap with my son so that they could get a picture. My mom decided that I didn't need a picture of her on Santa's lap with my ballistic child.
My mom is visiting for the week and we took Garrett to visit Santa today. I thought it would be a repeat of last year. It usually takes Garrett a few minutes to warm up to regular people. I was certain he wouldn't get within ten feet of the lap of a jolly, bearded, bowl full of jelly man. As we stood in line, we prepped him. I explained the procedure. I informed him of exactly what would happen. I told him that he would sit on Santa's lap and, in turn, Santa would give him a treat. Garrett really likes treats. We coached him on the fact that he could tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas.
Me: Okay buddy. You're going to sit on Santa's lap and then you'll get a treat. Okay?
Me: What are you going to ask Santa to bring you?
Garrett: A green hat.
It didn't matter how we prompted him to come up with something else. It didn't matter how I asked it. He was convinced. Sure. Decided. He wanted a green hat from Santa.
Me: Garrett, Santa will bring you a toy if you want.
Me: What kind of toy might you want?
Garrett: A green hat.
Well, in any case, when it was our turn I braced myself for the worst. I headed over to Santa with Garrett in my arms. I sat him down and Santa said, "Well hey there Garrett. My you've grown since last year." And then...well...I'll let the picture speak for itself...
That kid loves himself some Santa. They whispered words with each other. Perhaps Garrett mumbled something about his green hat, I don't know. What I know is that Santa gave him not one but two candy canes and a book. When it was time to leave, Garrett went back and hugged him. Then he tried to climb back up onto his lap. Santa, who was in a very good mood, said something about how he would love to hold him all day long but he needed to see the other children. So then Garrett said, "Die die, Santa. Tink to." Which does not mean that he wanted Santa to die but that he was saying, "Bye bye, Santa. Thank you."
It was precious.
And...um...then I promptly went shopping for a silly green hat.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Speaking of legendary. I come from a long line of cleaners. My dad. His mom. I'm sure a great-grandparent or two. My clean gene has always manifested itself in the nice, neat little compartment of organization. I certainly don't keep the cleanest house I've ever seen. My shelves can rarely pass a white glove test and sometimes I'll go weeks without cleaning the least frequented bathroom. I probably didn't need to confess that. I'm sure you think less of me now. But when it comes to being organized well...I should have maybe majored in it. I'm way better at that than I am at acting.
When I was little (and by little I mean eight or nine) I used to clean my closet. For fun. I loved to get things in better order than they were before. As the story goes, I was playing with a friend when she and her sister had to clean their own closet. It was horrors worse than my own closet and I acted as the drill sergeant making her get rid of things she hadn't used in several months. I can remember helping other friends and neighbors organize their own rooms throughout high school and college.
Then I married a piler. Troy really enjoys piles. Loves them, even. He maybe would have married a pile if it was decidedly female. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks but, the truth is, you kind of can. I know this because, the longer Troy and I are married, the less clutter my house takes on. I even see myself wearing off on him in ways I could only have dreamed of five years ago. There's only one problem. The better he gets, the worse I get. Oh, I don't replace his piles with my own. No. I replace his piles with higher expectations heaped upon him. My brother, the psychologist, says that everyone has areas of their life that are obsessive/compulsive. The problem is that my area, which I've always known was a severe allergy to clutter, is getting worse. And I can see it.
In my mind, all things have a place and when other things are added to that place, I feel uneasy. I feel, truthfully, a compulsion to move it that either must be consciously suppressed or must be acted upon. For example, my end table currently has three Christmas decorations and several Christmas books on it. That's fine. They can live there. But if someone (read: Troy) puts a cell phone or a newspaper or a set of keys on it, I have to move them to their rightful home. The phone goes to the night stand or into a pocket, the keys onto the hook by the door and the newspaper into the recycler because, well, it's after 10:00 am so it should be read and ready for recycling by now.
I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how I have a toddler, aren't you? Honestly, I spend a lot of my day picking up after him but I also let him have his way with his playroom constantly. It's not that I can't let him play and destroy spaces, I just have to "fix" them when he's finished. The trouble is I can see it getting worse and what worries me is not the fact that I am ruining my son's life--really, truly, he destroys his spaces on a daily basis--but the fact that I am 27 years old. What, on earth, am I going to be like at 40 or 50? I don't have to wash my hands three thousand times before I flip the light switch 82 times and then turn around in three circles and spit twice into the toilet or anything like that but I do, often times, have crazy urges to declutter things.
So the bottom line is this...is there medication for this? Or do I have to chalk it up to my clean genes and go about my life either driving those around me crazy or feeling all twisty and psychotic inside as I stare at a television remote thrown haphazardly onto the couch instead of placed neatly inside the cabinet?
Monday, December 1, 2008
We just switched from Comcast to Direct TV and we get the premium movie channels for free for a short while. I decided to check out what was on HBO tonight and my son is currently enthralled with Fievel and Tiger and the whole gang.
It's so special to share the things of my youth with him. And 22 years later this song still gets to me.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I do not feel ready for Christmas. There is still a Kid's Play to rehearse and cookies to be baked and presents to be bought. But I love this time of year. It is, shall I say, the most wonderful time of the year.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Did I mention that we put him in a toddler bed when we moved here? Well, he's been getting up a little before we're ready for him. This morning he got up a little before the sun. Troy put him back in bed. About a half hour later he bypassed our bedroom completely in favor of finding his grandpa. Gary is an early bird and Garrett figured he'd just come down and make him watch cartoons. And beg him for some bacon and eggs. And get to keep his pacifier for a little longer. Grandpa's are way better than parents.
And his grandma spent the last four days playing and reading and playing and reading and then playing. Garrett decided that she needed to spend the majority of her time playing Geo Trax. I'm sure she agreed wholeheartedly.
They helped us get the house and yard ready to turn over and they shared a Thanksgiving feast with us and we watched a lot of football. At the moment they are boarding a plane and heading back to Oregon...
And Garrett is adjusting to life without his personal playmates.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
I told him not to do that ever again. Though I questioned his cold water bath in late November I informed him that he ought not pull those shenanigans again. But man if I wasn't trying so desperately hard not to crack up. I cannot say the same for the other adults in the house who found it uproariously funny and didn't hide their mirth.
There was water everywhere and, as I cleaned it up I watched Garrett relieve his bladder on the carpet. Oh toddlers.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
But today, during our Old Rental Cleaning Session, I very nearly blew my own chunks. You see we got a ridiculous list of things we have to clean. I'm not kidding. I mean, one of the things we were supposed to do was dust the plumbing pipes under the bathroom sinks. I grew up with a clean freak father and he NEVER asked me to dust the pipes. So, back to the near chucking session. As I pulled the oven out to clean behind it I discovered that the previous tenants had, obviously, not completed every task on the Silly and Ridiculous Check-Out Cleaning List.
The sides of the oven looked like they were crying thick yellow grease. Lines of coagulated liquid fat crept from the top all the way to floor. But that alone wouldn't have made me almost puke. Under the oven there were pools of grease and layers and layers of dirt and grime and hundreds and hundreds of tiny rodent poops. And a cookie cutter that wasn't mine. We never had a rodent infestation while we were living there. It made me heave. More than once.
Monday, November 24, 2008
It was this last thing that I knew would be the most difficult. I wondered who would be there to fill in the gaps, help watch our son when we wanted a date night.
This last weekend our church family stepped up in a big way as we moved from one rental to another. They helped load all our earthly possessions into a moving van and several other vehicles. Then, at the new house, they unloaded our possessions. Several men even manhandled our behemoth of a couch through narrow doorways into our new family room. It was nice to realize that while our actual families may be miles away, we have a church family that is here for us.
Today the kindness continued. Several people from church stopped by to help us clean, unpack, and hang our pictures. One gentlemen did miscelaneous handyman work that my dear husband is sadly not proficient in getting accomplished.
While our families are miles away and we miss them very much, it is nice to know we are not alone out her in snowy Utah.*
*Thankfully the snows have not come yet. For this I am still greatly appreciative.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
In any case. Our modem at the old house got accidentally unplugged during the move and we can't get it up and running again. Our new modem isn't supposed to arrive at the new house tomorrow until sometime in the afternoon. So, today, I am blogging from Troy's office in between Sunday school hour and the church service.
Oh. Boy. Am I dedicated or what?
And I have decided that, for me, November is not National Blog Posting Month it is, in fact, National Moving Month. Next year I plan on boycotting this event. I am sick of moving.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Okay so this tank is definitely not clean. No way. In fact, it's going to take me the better part of next week to get it clean enough to get our deposit back. It's just that when you start packing boxes you stop dusting and vacuuming. But I've got Nemo on the brain. Anyway today is the day and we are gonna get out of here. Unfortunately we like here. But we'll survive and Troy will definitely enjoy cutting his commute in half.
It's time to move.
Also occuring next week:
Finish weeding backyard of the old place
Clean entire old place
Unpack boxes in the new place
Shop for entire Thanksgiving meal
Cook an entire Thanksgiving meal with the exception of the stuffing because my mother-in-law makes good stuffing so I am delegating that job to her. I decidedly do not make good stuffing because I think stuffing is the primary food group of the underworld. So I am glad that someone will be here who can make good stuffing and, therefore, make my husband happy.
And now I need to get back to packing and organizing and blah blah blah.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Today you are 2 and 1/3 years old. Or 28 months. Or 854 days. It seems nearly impossible that it has been that many days since you first laid eyes on this world, so many nights that I've listened to you breathe, so many memories. In some ways, I know you as though you have always been here. The dip in your chin, the curve of your belly, the exact shape of your scar, the perfect sound of your voice. In other ways, you are surprising me and reinventing yourself every day. You talk like there is no tomorrow and every word must be learned today. You master skills and concepts with ease and I wonder how my baby--my newborn--can climb onto counter tops and comprehend negotiation.
You still take several naps a week but have been choosing to refrain from them often. This leads me to believe that there is a lot of me up in that brain of yours. You love your GeoTrax DVD more than Nemo right now and find "ghost trains" wherever we go. Anything with a cover suddenly becomes a ghost train and we have to watch the 20 minute video at least once a day--usually twice. You also love marshmallows and ask for them several times a day. It should be pointed out that just because you ask does not mean you receive. The day that you stop referring to them as "ma-ma-os" and start calling them marshmallows, however, is the day I say goodbye to my baby altogether.
We're moving to a new house this weekend. If someone would have told me when I graduated from college that I'd miss my five year reunion because I'd be moving from one town in Utah to another with my toddler in tow, well, I'd have been surprised to say the least. Garrett, before I left to live on campus at that institution, I had lived in two homes in my entire life. At a precious 2 and a 1/3 you will have lived in three. I'm sorry that we haven't been able to give you the kind of deep, twisty roots I am accustomed to and therefore desire for you. But, you are adventurous and I think there is a fair amount of your father up in that brain of yours as well. I tried to explain that we are moving and now, every five minutes, you ask if we can go to the new house. I think I will mourn the loss of this house much more than you will. We made the decision to move closer to the church and save a little on rent but it doesn't change the fact that we spent our very first night in Utah here. And it doesn't change the fact that you learned to talk and sprint and feed yourself with a fork and spoon in this house. This is where you experienced snow for the first time and where we brought you after you had surgery. So even if you are always looking for an adventure, I'm sorry for uprooting your little life--again. And no, honey, contrary to what you might be thinking, your "Rampa" is not going to be waiting for you at the "ew house". But we will have Thanksgiving and Christmas there and I promise to make it feel like home in a matter of days and I assure you that if you are feeling displaced, your dog and cat will be downright neurotic.
This morning, when I went to pick you up after MOPS, I couldn't find you. I scanned the room of toddler heads for that perfectly fuzzy reddish blond head. The one that smells like Johnson & Johnson's and dreams come true and, on occasion, dirty sweaty two-year-old. I couldn't find you, though. There was a sea of blond pigtails and brown braids and red buzzes and black little boy cuts but your head was no where. One of the helpers asked me who my child was. I told her that it was you. She pointed to a little boy at her feet. "He's right here," she offered. The back to me had your name on it. First and last. But it wasn't you. It was a little brown haired boy and the shape of his head was all wrong. I continued to scan the room, curious as to why he had your name tag. She offered again, "Here's Garrett. Right here." I answered her that the boy was not my son. I don't overreact in situations like that but I was starting to feel my heart beat a bit faster. Where were you and why were they trying to convince me that a different boy was you? Just then you crawled out of a tunnel where you'd been hiding and ran to me, all smiles and excitement and just waiting for the piece of candy I promised you could have if you avoided tears when I left you there. Somehow you had given your sticker to Reese. But, like I said, every part of you is emblazoned in my mind. I'd know you from Reese with a blindfold on.
We stood by the car when we left and I told you to put your hands on it while I fished for my keys. You are usually very good at this and, though it looks like you're getting arrested, it's been highly effective for teaching you not to run into the street. Until today. You stood for a few moments with your hands on the door and then you bolted. I noticed the car coming out of the corner of my eye and I screamed bloody murder for you to stop. And you did. Praise God that my shriek stopped you cold, two feet from the front of the oncoming car. Garrett John, two feet is way too close for you to get to an oncoming vehicle. My heart practically stopped in my chest and I think I very nearly went into cardiac arrest in the parking lot. And then you got an ear full. Did. You. Ever.
Son, my heart is wrapped around your little finger. Oh, there are times when I want to drop kick you across the room but, even in those times, you are my answered prayers walking around in Velcro shoes and a striped sweater. You are a little bit daddy and a little bit me and entirely yourself. I don't think I have ever been more terrified than I was when I thought you weren't going to stop. Thank you for listening when I yelled. If you could continue that trend it would make for easier teenage years. I love you more than I ever thought possible--
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Thank you for your apology and I forgive you. When I wrote that last letter about getting your act together I hardly knew you would listen so well. I am pleased to discover that you are not above reproach. I respect that. Since that dismal day you have not snowed even once and I, for one, have been immeasurably grateful. And, dear Beehive State (although don't even get me started on that one), I will give credit where credit is due. Not only have you abstained from snow fall, you have had pleasurable weather in the high 50's and even the 60's. I glanced ahead at the ten day forecast and was pleased to discover that while the temperatures are supposed to fall into the 40's, there is no snow scheduled. I can only assume that this is the report you have given the weather people and, therefore, that it is your plan to take my advice on inappropriate November behavior. Thank you for caring about our relationship. I was starting to doubt you but then you stepped up and became a respectable contributor to this great nation. I figured that you would appreciate a public acknowledgement of such maturity. Don't make me regret my decision. Unfortunately, I must keep you on probation until the month is over but I am proud of the progress you've made. I care about you, Utah, and I want you to continue your Snowaholic Anonymous meetings. But, in the meantime, we can be friends again.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
We got a phone call that there was a family who wanted to place their son for adoption. They were a family of four complete with mother, father, son and daughter. The daughter was little. The son was sevenish. They contacted all of the couples who had been in our information meeting. Two couples responded. We were one of them. This in and of itself is odd because, unless God bashes us over the head with a sign, we don't want to disrupt Garrett's birth order. In any case, we started trying to one up this other couple so that we could "win" the child.
He was a very large boy. Think Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. And his parents just decided that they didn't want him anymore. Other than this decision, they seemed, well, normal...you know, with their heads attached to their necks, no drug addictions, no aliens had abducted them replacing them with robots. They just didn't want their son anymore.
So then it was like an auction and we got in this bidding war with the other couple. Truly, it was ludicrous. THEN we found out that while the boy looked seven he was really 22 but he remained a child permanently in physical appearance as well as mentally. And then I decided that I was only five years older than him so I couldn't possibly be a good mother to him so I told Troy we couldn't adopt him. But then Troy was attached to the idea of this boy so we took him to Disneyland and he told us that his parents had taken his sister several times but had never taken him. It was really sad.
But in the dream I managed to get myself really attached to this 22 year old man child. Then, when I woke up, I was kind of sad.
Monday, November 17, 2008
About the award:Uber (synonym to Super) Amazing Blog Award is a blog award given to sites who:~ inspire you~ make you smile and laugh~ give amazing information~ are a great read~ have an amazing design~ and any other reasons you can think of that makes them uber amazing!The rules of this award are:* Put the logo on your blog or post.* Nominate at least 5 blogs (can be more) that for you are Uber Amazing!* Let them know that they have received this Uber Amazing award by commenting on their blog.* Share the love and link to this post and to the person you received your award from.
And now for my Uber Amazing blogs. I'd love to nominate Crayl because her blog title alone always makes me smile but I fear that would keep this rolling in some sort of inescapable cycle. So without further ado, drum roll please...
I first started reading Missives From Suburbia when I won a Starbucks gift card from her after last year's NaBloPoMo. Then I discovered that her son is just days younger than my own son and her wit light years ahead of my own. Needless to say, I've kept reading.
My mom at Empty Nest-Full Life tells crazy stories about her children, vacations and life and cracks me up in the process.
Dena at Happily Ever After has the cutest blog design and she often posts pictures of her adorable house. Once she posted a picture of the cleanest most wonderful laundry room in the world and I realized that I had arrived as an adult. I also love knowing what is going on in the lives of her sweet family members.
I've never met Kate at Our Quiverfull but I have been following the story of her little Noah for quite some time now. He was born just a few weeks after Garrett and he, together with his family, fight for his life as he struggles with some serious health issues. Through it all they continue to praise God and inspire the rest of us.
I don't know Running Wildly personally. In fact, I usually just refer to her as "Running Wildly." I did this once in front of our mutual friend who kindly offered her real name to me. I love hearing about her adventures in nursing, motherhood, and spiders as she lives in our neighbor to the north.
There are so many blogs on my bloglines that it was difficult to choose just five. If you were not mentioned, please rest assured that I also love your blog! Also, Crayl, I have no idea who Mrs. Schnozeberry is. I am Mrs. Doozleberry. But I understand, it's a tough last name to pronounce. Even after all of these years...
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Sometimes I want to say, "Honey, what the heck is wrong with you? What are you nine?" And then I remember that, yep, they sure are. Oh the drama~
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I could feel my blood pressure rising.
I took a deep breath and tried again. He stuck his tongue out and allowed the rice to dribble everywhere before spitting the rest of the bits all over my floor. I grabbed his head between my two hands and stared deep into his eyes. "We do not spit our food out!" He answered my lecture with another round of spitting. I put him in time out.
You can lead a kid to food but you can't make him eat so Troy and I have decided that, when he won't consume what is put in front of him, he will have the option of eating a peanut butter sandwich. If he won't eat that, he goes hungry. While he thought about his actions in his bed I made him a sandwich.
I put him back into his high chair and told him to eat his sandwich. "No!" I personally picked up his sandwich and put it near his lips. "No!" I called Troy.
Me: Where are you?
Him: Two minutes from home.
Me: Good. You might find your son on the porch when you get here. I don't want to see him right now.
Him: I'll talk to him when I get home.
It should be noted that, when relaying this story to my mother she asked me if I would have seriously left him on my porch. I hope she was kidding.
I hung up the phone, turned to my son and said, "Garrett, Daddy is almost home and he is not very happy with how you've been treating me. You better be ready." I've never really done that whole threaten the kid with his father thing because, well, he's two. I hardly knew it would work at this tender age. But his eyes got big. I turned away and, glancing out of the corner of my own eye, I witnessed the following.
Garrett folded his little hands. He closed his eyes tight. He bowed his head and began whispering something to God. Something I couldn't quite hear. Something that probably went a little like this.
Please let me live another day.
I don't know for sure but that's what I used to pray when my mom uttered those dreadful words, "You just wait until your father gets home!"
Friday, November 14, 2008
And then Doogie Howser walked in. Except he was a she. A little baby dermatologist. I guess I'm under the impression that doctors should always be older than me. This will be a problem if I live to the ripe old age of 92. But for real. I feel like really young people should only be allowed to be pediatricians. And it seems like they keep getting younger. Or is it that I keep getting older? In any case, she was very friendly and very professional. I did not get the feeling that she had been drinking at a sorority party until late last night.
And apparently, I am not dying of moles yet and any removal would be cosmetic and, therefore, cost me 95$ each.
Me: And what is the procedure?
Her: We numb the area with an injection. It's a lot like having dental work done. So you know when you've been given nova--
Me: I've never actually had a cavity.
Her: Really!? Well, you have very nice teeth.
Me: Oh. Thank you. (I really wasn't fishing for a compliment, I was just explaining that her example would be difficult for me to comprehend.)
Her: Well, so, it's basically just a prick near the area.
Then she continued to discuss the procedure and I continued to think about my precious 95 dollars and the fact that she said none of them needed to be removed. Then I thought, well, hey, why don't I just wait until I get a cavity and then convince the dentist or the dermatologist to give me a two for one...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
My heart may have skipped a beat. My chest tightened the way it does when I'm hovering on the brink of something extremely life altering. My mind started screaming through scenarios that involve a child coming to live with us before Christmas even though I know this thought is as improbable as it is optimistic. But that's what this adoption process has started doing to me. I have to remind myself to be cautiously optimistic. In my normal, every day existence, I try to curb the intense level of pessimism draining from my pores. But, in the here and now of this process, I have dared to let myself really hope.
I'm sure I've mentioned before that Troy and I had a heart for adoption before we ever knew that biological children would be, well, difficult for us. I think we both recognized the biblical call to adopt. I don't think that it's God's plan for everyone to adopt but I do believe it's extremely important to him. In Ephesians 1 it says, In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will.
Genesis 15:3 says And Abram said, "You have given me no children; so a servant in my household will be my heir."
Romans 8:23 says that we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons.
James 1:27- Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.
Romans 8:15- For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, "Abba, Father."
John 14:18- I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you.
This is how I know that I will love a child born not of my own body just as much as I love Garrett. The way he stares at me now, with those deep oddly colored eyes, the same way he stared at me in the delivery room, my heart feels like it's going to burst with love. But it's my heart that feels that joy. It isn't my uterus or my ovaries that leap with adoration. I can't wait to stare deep into the eyes of my next child and feel that same depth of love.
And now our file is active. Praise God!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
In fact, this whole move has become an ordeal. Not that moving in and of itself isn't an ordeal because it is but, frankly, this one has become rather precarious.
The people we are going to be renting from are still living in the house that we are supposed to move into. They are buying a house south of here and it still hasn't closed. We're still praying that it actually will close but the closer we get to the end of the month the more I am trying not to worry. We have to be out of this house on November 30th because new renters are moving in on December 1. Technically speaking, we need to be moved out early on the 28th because the carpet cleaners are coming at 8:00 am.
I have a signed lease agreement so I am wondering at what point I need to start looking for something else. I mean, I've been checking on the classifieds page but I really don't want to be living in my husband's office with all of my stuff in the church parking lot because I wait too long to really, truly, officially start worrying.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Choo-Choo's given name is Eric. This may devastate my son. McFly is apparently named Opie and, as we were watching the Geo Trax DVD this morning, we discovered that he speaks with a serious southern accent and doesn't act like he's stepped out of Back to the Future at all. Tree Guy and Axe are known as Miter and Chopper.
I think we'll stick to the names we've given them.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Daisy: The only female. She is holding flowers.
Will: The actual name (on the box) of the burly mountain man.
Starbuck/Biss Guy: I refer to him as Starbuck because he's holding a coffee cup. Garrett thinks he is holding juice and refers to him as Juice Guy.
Axe: He's holding an axe. Don't worry. He came with a logger type set and is not, in fact, an axe murderer play thing.
McFly: He looks like he stepped right out of Back to the Future.
Choo-Choo: Garrett named this one because he is the driver of the main train.
Tree Guy: Garrett also named this one. Apparently Troy referred to him as Tree Guy once or twice because he's holding a tree. I tried to get him to name him something else but he was dead set on Tree Guy. He happens to be Garrett's most favorite Geo Trax figure.
Last night we were talking to Garrett about how maybe, one day, he just might, possibly, get a baby brother or sister. We have a girl name picked out but only have our boy name narrowed down to three. We gave him his options.
Me: Garrett do you want to name a baby brother Thaddeus*?
Troy: How about Wolfgang*?
Me: Moon Unit*?
Troy: Well what do you want to name your possible, one day, maybe, baby brother?
Garrett: (emphatically) Tree Guy!
"Hi, it's so nice to meet you. These are my sons, Garrett and Tree Guy."
*Not actual possibilities for our maybe, possibly, one day, son.