Hometown Super Chargers

Yes, I took a picture of my television. Yes, that is Peyton Manning and Philip Rivers talking to each other after the game. Yes, the score that you see underneath the Colt and the Bolt is 28 to 24. Yes, the 28 is next to MY team. No, (for all of you non-football fans out there) the lowest score doesn't win. Yes, if I was a betting person I would probably place my bets on the New England Patriots next weekend. No, I'm not a betting person. So I won't be placing any money on the undefeated Patriots. I will be wishing and hoping that my Chargers win because (long shot as it may be) I will be in San Diego for the Superbowl.

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In other news, at the beginning of the game, when I was preoccupied with a particular third down, I realized that my son was sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some kind of watery substance. He was swirling his hand around in it and then trying to blow bubbles (something he now tries to do in even the smallest amount of water). My dog had left his boundaries and was accompanying him. I thought the boy had spilled his drink but, upon further review, it was a smallish amount of upchuck. Garrett looked up at me and there was white vomity substance on his nose and chin. He smiled and then flopped over again, in his bubble blowing stance. When I whisked him to the sink to clean him up, the dog happily lapped up the remaining regurgitation. All this to say that dogs and little boys are kind of gross.

The States

Awhile back I said that it is a personal goal of mine to see a piece of every state before I die. I'm afraid that, in order to achieve this dream, I might have to strike it rich or wait until I'm 80 and see a whole darn lot of 'em at once. Otherwise I'll have to plan a vacation every summer to a different state, but that would not be cost effective, exactly. So out of the 50, these are the 18 that I've been to:

Arizona
California
Colorado
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois
Kansas
Missouri
Montana
Nevada
New Mexico
New York
Oklahoma
Oregon
Texas
Utah
Washington
Wyoming

I've seen a great deal of some and just a slice of others but they have all have left their mark on me. I'm sure that some impressions are a result of where I was in my life, what I was seeing, and what color the lens was that I was looking through. As an English student in college, I fell into a deep love with the American Writers who wrote about the country with such a raw depth that my heart was practically dripping with the blood of their words. I don't love this country because of its politics or its progressive thinking. I truly love this country because of its purple mountains majesty and its amber waves of grain. I love it for the way Cather describes Nebraska in "My Antonia" or the way I want nothing more than to float down the Mississippi in a chapter of Twain's "Huckleberry Finn." And though I wasn't ready for Steinbeck's "Travels With Charley" when I was first introduced to it, I identified with his description of California and saw it, for the first time, through the eyes of a man who died over a decade before I was even born. I love that the coast looks so different in San Diego than it does in northern Oregon. I love that there is desert and mountains and snow in Colorado and trade winds in Hawaii and moose and deer and alligators and waterfalls.

Periodically, as in, whenever nothing particularly funny or poignant or news worthy occurs in my life, I will discuss the states that I have been to, and the impressions they've given me. Who knows, maybe sometimes whatever I say will persuade you to visit the state (i.e. Wyoming) or move to the state (i.e. California) or avoid the state altogether (i.e. Kansas). And no offense meant to people who love Kansas and call it their home but I'd like to turn it into a giant, square, man made lake with house boating and water skiing in the summer and ice skating, ice fishing and ice hockey in the winter. But then, I only spent time in an itty bitty town in south eastern Kansas where the highlight of my stay was Sonic and people offered me fried chicken gizzards when I had a touch of the flu. This isn't the post on Kansas. That, in time, will come and I will give you a full rundown on the flying buttresses and the wretched Mexican food. Are you waiting with bated breath?

Snouter

Once upon a time there was born a babe. This baby wasn't your average, everyday, run of the mill kid. No indeed, this boy was a special boy, for this boy was born with an abnormality. Some would refer to this abnormality as a nubbin, others as a freakin' huge belly button, others as an umbilical hernia (these would be medical professional types of people) and still others (namely his parents) as a snout. It began innocently enough. Baby is born. Baby has regular looking gross slimy umbilical cord that withers into equally gross looking dried umbilical cord that one day flops off and, "Glory be! We can finally give him a bath!" Baby looks completely "normal" for approximately two days before his bellybuttonal area begins to look, well, enlarged. Button continues to enlarge until parents are quite concerned. Parents take baby to the doctor who hides a smirk behind his clipboard and informs parents that baby has an umbilical hernia that will, more than likely, close on its own by the time baby is four or five. If it does not, surgery will be performed on said baby before he scurries off to kindergarten and is forced to endure the ridicule and evil taunting of fellow classmates. Parents become accustomed to informing nursery workers that, "The baby is not dying." And, "Yes, we have seen it." And, "Yes, we know it doesn't look like a normal bellybutton." Parents also become accustomed to buying a lot of onesies and rompers, so that their baby does not begin to pick up on the negative attention. Baby gets bigger and becomes best friends with his constant companion, much like most baby boys become best friends with another constant companion. This particular baby rarely noticed his other constant companion because the snouter was twice as large and made funny sounds when squished inward. Around fifteen months baby begins vomiting excessively and, after some time it is determined that intestine is becoming trapped inside Snouter. This is not good. Eventually, and to make a long story short, surgery is scheduled for January 11.

Last night, I took this picture of my son's best friend, Snouter. I used to see his herniated bellybutton and think, "If this is my son's physical imperfection, praise God!"But that was exactly it, I saw it as a flaw, something that made my child different from all the other babies crawling around. I realized last night, as I sat only hours away from bidding Sir Snouter farewell, that I have come to love the bump. Since Garrett began walking he would proudly shove the fluid back into his abdominal wall thus making a giant slurping sound. This would delight him and he would squeal. I know he'll miss it for a couple of nanoseconds. But I'm sure that when he is sixteen he'll be thrilled that his friends don't know him as Snout Boy. Mom, on the other hand, well, she would have been okay with it for a while longer.

Below is another shot of the wondrous button, the bellyknob, if you will. In all of its glory.
We got up this morning and our little cherub went to Primary Children's Medical Center up at the University of Utah. He got all decked out in hospital jammies, complete with no-slip socks.

And then he took some medicine that made him, well, drunk. At least, he appeared to be drunk. They told us that it would make him drowsy and that he wouldn't have separation anxiety when they took him from us. They said it was medicine. If, by medicine, they meant bourbon, than I'm sure that's exactly what it was. I've never been drunk but I imagine it is much like he was behaving, plus taking off your clothes, dancing on a table and then promptly puking your guts out--or something. Below is a short video of the drunken fiasco. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to rotate it so that you can see him in an upright position. That's okay though because this kind of shows it like it was, an acid trip. If you really must see it upright, I suggest turning your computer monitor on its side.

Just before the toddler was given this mind altering drug, Allison showed up with her youngest to keep us company. Troy, Garrett and Snout were playing in a toy area and I was putting some things in my purse. She walked in and I almost said, "Hi, is Tim having surgery, too?" Because, like, I wouldn't have heard about it until then if he was? Of course she was there to chat the hour of waiting away, which was very nice and meant that I didn't even have to break out my book or revert to my childhood by watching the mullets take over an episode of Full House. In any case, she and Tim witnessed the hilarity, the drooling, the cracking up at nothing in particular, the loss of neck control. They thought it would make a funny story around the dinner table tonight.

Leaving your baby with an anesthesiologist is hard. Even when it's a routine surgery that's only supposed to take a half hour. But I did not cry when I walked away from my tiny patient, which is more than I can say for some of the mommies.

It seemed like no time at all when the doctor came out to tell us that the surgery had gone perfectly. He'd responded very well to the anesthesia and the hernia had been repaired. I would be allowed to see him once he started waking up and Troy could join us about fifteen minutes later. Well, actually, one of us could go to him once he woke up and the other could join fifteen minutes later. I pulled the birth card. You know the one, "I went through 25 hours of labor and therefore earned the right to be the one to go to him AS SOON AS IS HUMANLY POSSIBLE!" Husbands rarely argue against this point. I guess that when he woke up they gave him a bottle with apple juice in it. Garrett, not having had a bottle since his first birthday, looked at it like it was the plague. They switched to a sippy cup and he happily guzzled. "Duh. I'm a big boy. I've had surgery and everything. I'm so over the bottle." When I got to him they had just given him morphine and were rocking him. He was very angry about this:

"Get this green thing off of my ankle. I hate it and also, please remove the tape that is on my foot and make my toe stop glowing. My toe is not supposed to glow. And hey, also GET THIS IV OUT OF MY ARM RIGHT THIS FREAKING SECOND BECAUSE I HATE IT!"

Once I was holding him he would raise his arm to my face, look at me and groggily scream while waving it in front of my eyes. When I told him that we couldn't take it off yet he would yank at it. When he finally felt his eyes rolling back into his head he would take a sedentary break for about three minutes before angrily repeating the process. This went on for a good half hour. Scream, yank, comatose, repeat. Here he is during one of those comatose moments.

I notice that, in the picture, it kind of looks like he is wearing a diaper that is thirty sizes too big. Really, his large bandage blends in to his diaper. I promise. I also notice that he looks huge. When did my baby turn in to the jolly giant? Or, in this case, the not so jolly giant? He's asleep now, in his crib, which is good because when he's awake he causes self-induced pain. He's so used to poking his bellybutton in and out all day long and when he does it now, well, it hurts. Considerably.

We can't take the bandage off until Monday but I'll post a picture of the post-surgery nubbin sometime next week. I'm sure that it will just be a large flap of skin, like a stubby elephant trunk, where Snouter used to be.

Farewell Snouter, we'll miss you.

journey

My brother's Heather gave this frame to Troy and me for Christmas. (And hey, note to Jon and Heather, it would be totally awesome if you'd get engaged so I could say, "My brother's fiancee" or, even better, married, so that I could say, "My sister-in-law." But, whatever. I'll just keep referring to She-Who-Will-In-All-Probability-One-Day-Be-My-Sister-in-Law as My Brother's Heather.) Anyway, back to the frame. I love it. I got this particular image off of the Internet. Was anyone else wondering if Troy already got a second wife? Well he didn't. Not yet. Not ever, are you kidding me? I am more than enough wife for Troy to handle. So, no, we don't know that girl. But I want her jeans.

My in-laws had this verse hanging on their bathroom wall. During the time that I so desperately wanted a baby, each of Troy's three sisters birthed cuddly, cooing, offspring. Sometimes I think the only thing that got me through family gatherings was the fact that if I excused myself to the restroom, this verse would greet me.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

I clung to that verse during those long months of waiting. And I cling to it now. I find it so incredibly appropriate that it was the verse chosen to accompany the word journey. Right there, smack in the middle of the Word is the promise not only that He knows the plans but that they are plans of prosperity, plans of hope, plans of future. It doesn't say, "You know the plans and they really stink," and I find comfort in that.

When Troy opened it I informed my brother's Heather that I was going to put a picture of a U-Haul in it. I didn't. I used this one instead.

We took this picture at my parents house on Thanksgiving Day. We moved five days later. I love this picture because we are sitting on the brink of our journey. We're staring out into the darkness and, far off, we see just a glimmer of light, a lamp to our feet. In the picture there is one person who is excited about the journey, one who is not, and one who has no idea that anything is about to happen. I like that the one who is less than thrilled is the one who is smiling the biggest. Maybe she's learned enough in this life to understand that God knows the plans He has for her. Maybe she's learned that in those plans she has hope. Maybe she's learned that it's really all about the journey.

So thanks, Heather. It was the perfect gift.

One More

I'm a horrible Christian.

No, really. It's true. I'm always trying to make bargains with God. As a kid I was a huge test negotiator. Oh crap, I'm not ready for this exam. Dear God, if you help me get an A on this test, I will never ask you for another thing as long as I shall live. Of course, as an adult I realize the foolishness of such a prayer and, most definitely, the stupidity of telling God that I was never going to ask him for another thing as long as I lived. When I managed to escape the evil confines of the Ex Fiance Who Shall Remain Unnamed, and found myself, miraculously held by the arms of Troy, I praised His holy name. (God's, that is. I live with Troy, I see his cluttery messes and they are anything but holy.) Thank you so much for this incredible man. If I never receive another blessing as long as I live, this wonderful love should be enough. At least as a wise, spiritually mature, and, of course, all knowing 21 year-old, I had the good sense not to tell God that I would never ask for anything else. Because then the bargaining really began. Dear God, I want to be a mother in the worst way and you know the desires of my heart and if you give me a child I won't ask for another one. One biological blessing will be enough and please grant me this petition. It was the prayer of a woman completely terrified about the prospect of giving birth. One time through the stretching and mutilating and sheer, unworldly pain would be enough. Thanks. I am so blessed to be able to say that infertility has been my darkest hour. So many people my age have experienced so much worse. And I know that the blackest moments of my life are still to come, but thus far, the barren demon has been the one thing that has shaken me to my very core. I truly believed, with every fiber of my being, that if the Lord blessed us with a child, one child, I would be satisfied.

And then Garrett was born. From the moment I saw that child's face, it was as though my own soul was somehow existing outside of my body. I remember, in a few seconds of sheer insanity, not wanting his umbilical cord cut, because he would be severed from me, forever. Thankfully I didn't express this thought as I'm sure the doctors and nurses would have exchanged glances and started me, right there and then, on Prozac, Wellbutrin and Nardil all at the same time. Every single day with that child makes my heart swell a little more with pride and love and sheer joy. Each night I thank God for answering my prayers. Often, I praise him for the months of waiting that we endured. I am sure that they made me a more patient mother. It took approximately three months, two days, 118 minutes and six seconds before I began desperately wanting another child. Dear God, remember how I told you that one would be enough? Well, um, turns out that other than those four unbearable hours, the other 21 hours of my labor weren't so bad. Turns out that the months of sleep I lost worrying about the giant needle that was going to go through my spine were for nothing. Turns out that, when numb from the waist down, I actually enjoy the experience of giving birth. And now, being a mother is my greatest joy. Could I have another one? Just one more. Please?

So far He hasn't answered my prayer, and it has officially been nine months. And yes, I realize that is long enough for most women to conceive, incubate and then spew forth a child. But I'm trying not to focus on that. I'm trying to remember the lessons I learned from the first time around. I'm trying not to waste tears or Garrett's life worrying about the blessing that may or may not come with the next month. I'm trying to believe, with every fiber of my being, that whether or not we are blessed with another biological child, this is all part of His perfect plan.

I've never had a Quiverfull mindset, I don't have a problem with people who do, it's just that I want two or three, if we adopt. It is at this point in my life that I am so very thankful that it never crossed my mind to have ten or twelve. If I'd wanted even seven, I'd be heartbroken and devastated and on the fast track to the insane asylum where I would happily pull paint from the wall and recite Shakespeare while picking lint from between my toes. Wikipedia says that a quiver can hold between 25 and 30. And I always believe everything I read on the Internet. This is off topic but, that's too many kids, dude. Speaking of a lot of kids, sometimes, living here and passing the grocery carts full of three or four or sixteen children, I have an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. It's a common feeling, this one that my ovaries are hopelessly broken.

So since adopting a quiverfull attitude would mean imminent psychiatric hospitalization, I really do only want one more to come from within. On account of the fact that dealing with this a third time would send me into the loony bin for sure, all others will be bought and paid for. (I have a JetBlue credit card now so, potentially, I could earn plane tickets by adding to my family. Now that's killing two birds with one stone!) But I desperately want that one more. That one more positive pregnancy test, that one more baby moving inside me, that one more warm body laid on my exhausted one, that one more flesh of my flesh. The thought consumes me almost as much as it did when I yearned for the child that became Garrett. I know that I may not receive the blessing again, may not get that one more. Many of the barren in the Bible received only one. Sarah had Issac. Elizabeth had John. When Rachel had Benjamin after having Joseph, she died in childbirth and, really, no thanks. And when I dare to consider myself in the company of these woman, I am honored. I pray that Garrett may, one day, be a John, proclaiming the Messiah, or an Issac, laying himself down upon the altar without so much as a murmur, or a Joseph, showing himself to be a godly man of exemplary character.

The fact of the matter remains, every night and part of the day, I pray for just one more. But here is the truth of it, I have met so many couples along this road of infertility that are still waiting for their miracle. Still waiting for their John or their Issac or their Joseph or their Samuel or their Samson. I know where they are. I know that these women do not want to be Michal. So, if you only have time in your day to pray for one extra thing, do not pray for us to conceive another child, we accept that this may not be the Lord's will. Instead, please pray that these childless couples would receive their blessing.

*UPDATED* In The Fishbowl: Item One

I thought that my blog could use a little something fishy since, you know, we live in fishbowl and all. And it is so true that we do. Sometimes, when Garrett is pitching some toddler tizzy and working himself into a psychotic frenzy, I start thinking that Troy is going to lose his job on account of the fact that we cannot adequately control our tiny tyke. I mean, what, on earth, is teenagedom going to look like? (Let me clarify that the church has not told Troy that his job hinges on the behavior of our son, and that is a very good thing.) Right now he's not being naughty at all, though. He's sitting on the couch watching Spongebob. Unfortunately, this is one of those times that no one is watching. They've gone to bed and we've retreated inside our Buddha Head Freshwater Aquarium Decor. Oh yes, there is a Buddha Head inside this fishbowl with us. Why, you ask? We don't know. We didn't decorate our own fishbowl. So we just take what we get and swim on down through the top of Buddha's scalp and have dinner. Last night, while Troy was at his meeting, I'm ashamed to admit, it was corn dogs. (Anyone else find it funny that Buddha has no brain?) Anyway, all that talk to simply say, "I hope you like the new template because it's staying. I lost all my previous html and had to try to remember what I had from memory because I am not at all bloggity savvy and am, in fact, kind of computer illiterate."

Today the wee one and I went to the post office and the bank and Dollar Tree to buy fruit snacks. See, I started giving him vitamins that taste just like fruit snacks and he cries because he can't have them by the handful. I let him have a baggie of them today (fruit snacks not vitamins) to curb his hunger and, when they were gone, he still went and pointed to the cabinet where the vitamins are kept. I shouldn't have given him an afternoon snack at all because he ate a terrible lunch. I dropped in on Allison from church because I was in the area and managed to find her house. She invited us to stay for lunch and, since I think it's awesome to surprise people at their homes around lunchtime and then impose on them, we accepted. Garrett, entirely interested only in what he could discover in Allison's house, ate about three bites of his peanut butter and jelly and three tiny bites of apple. He has great manners, that kid. It was such a wonderful time for me though, despite his lunch-induced tantrum. He played with the big kids and I actually had a few minutes of adult conversation, on a day other than Sunday, over a delicious salad. And then my world sighed contentedly.

*Updated to add*
In case any of you were as confused about the Buddha head as my husband, let me explain that it was a M-E-T-A-P-H-O-R. Troy read my blog and promptly questioned, "Where is this Buddha head?" I asked him what he meant. "Well, I mean, where, in our house, is it?" We do not actually have a Buddha head in our home. We do not worship Buddha. We do not have Buddha figurines. Nothing Buddhaesqe is anywhere on the premises. Just as the fish in the fishbowl do not have control over which plants or aquarium accouterments cohabitate with them, we do not always choose our circumstances, we merely explore them and make the best of them. If you are still confused and have no idea what I am talking about, just go ahead and skip to tomorrow's post. I'll be in my Buddha head. Thank you and have a nice day.

Cleaning Angel

So the other day, the day that I was supposed to be cleaning, (oh don't worry, I'll get to that someday) I was actually sitting on my couch with the boy, trying to get him to watch just five minutes of The Lion King so that I could finish vacuuming without a wild-eyed leech clinging to my leg in sheer hysteria. We've got to work on his irrational fears. Being afraid of the winter Olympics or square hamburgers is one thing, being afraid of the vacuum is just downright absurd. In any case, there was a knock at my door.

First of all, if you aren't privy to the kind of house I run, you should know that when there is a knock at the door or, heaven help us, the bell actually rings, all pandemonium breaks loose. My golden retriever springs into action as though he hasn't been fed in twelve hundred days or walked in two thousand and the person standing on the porch has a leash and a rack of lamb meant exclusively for him. (As it would be because if someone on the porch was bringing me a rack of lamb, she could just go right back from whence she came.) He starts bouncing off the walls and running toward the door so fast that his legs go sliding in every direction and, near as I can tell, he is on the brink of cardiac arrest. Garrett, gleefully leaps from wherever he has been and runs, pointing and grunting, toward the noise. The two siblings almost inevitably collide in their attempt to reach the visitor first, despite the fact that neither has adequately discovered how to, actually, turn the knob. They bounce off one another, the two-legged one laughs, and they continue on their psychotic scramble to the door.

So, after the crazy frolic occurred, I scooped up the son, shooed the canine away and turned the knob. There stood a woman and a little girl. A huge smile spread across her face, "Hi! We're here for the cleaning party." I have to admit that my first thought went a little something like this...
Praise God from whom all blessings flow. I don't know who you are but you must be an angel sent by the Almighty Father. Here is a broom and a dust pan. The cleaning supplies are under the sink and, if you don't mind, I'm going to sit on the couch with my son and watch The Lion King.

This was followed quickly by the realization that I was very confused about who this woman was and why she was joining my one woman cleaning party...
Are you from the church? Do I know you and just not realize I know you? Did my husband send you? Because while that would be nice, I would have appreciated a little heads up from him so I didn't look like such a lunatic as I stood here and smiled awkwardly at you.

This was then followed with...
Oh my gosh, someone read my blog, knew I was cleaning, knew where I lived because I posted a freaking picture of the house and basically told everyone in the cyberworld how to get to it and since she has a little girl she is probably not going to kill me but what if she does and do I just invite her in and this is really, really weird.

As I thought these things, all I managed to do was smile an enormous grin, squint my eyes shut just a tad and stumble over, "Um. Oooookkkkkkaaaayyyyy." She just stood there smiling. There was a good few seconds of extremely awkward silence and finally, mercifully, she questioned, "Is this the Smith's* house?

Me: Oh! No! It's not! I'm sorry. We moved in at the end of November.
Her: Oh! That's why you look so confused!
Me: Well, I am cleaning but I wasn't sure how word got out that I was having a full blown party.
Her: I left the ward about a year ago and I got a call that there was a cleaning party at the Smiths* today. But, I guess they don't live here anymore.

If they do, let me tell you, they are very quiet, indeed. And they are more stealth, even, than the snow. And they owe me some serious rent. And I'm NOT IN THE WARD! (This is a common thought I have as it is assumed, always, that we are a little ward-going family.)

It was funny. We chatted for a couple of minutes and then it led, of course, to me having to take the canine and the small homosapien to the park because they both caught a glimpse, through the open door, of the great frontier and they had to discover it--and pee on it (the dog and, thankfully, not the boy, although I am sure, in time, that too will come). So, realistically, the angel woman who appeared to help me clean actually caused me to get less done. Maybe I should have handed her a broom while I took my boys to the park.

And then, I wonder, how long, if I'd actually invited her in and handed her a feather duster, would it have taken for her to say, "Hey, where is everyone else? And who, exactly, are you?"

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and myself, in case someone read this blog and thought, "Oh, I know where the Smiths* used to live and now I can hide in the house and murder the unsuspecting Nelsons*.

Chargers and A Comment

Yesterday, during the Seahawks stomping of the Redskins, we taught Garrett how to put his arms over his head, signaling a score in football, any time that we said, "Touchdown!" What we didn't realize was that any time we yelled anything at the TV, he would do it. It didn't matter if it was good yelling or bad yelling, Garrett would break into a giant grin and throw his hands over his head. So today, when the Chargers were not winning and the Titans broke into what seemed like the open field, I put my hands on my head and said, "Oh no!"My little guy, who was sitting next to us on the couch, turned to me and, with the biggest smile he could muster, threw his hands over his head signaling touchdown. I turned and said, "Oh, no, Honey. We aren't cheering for the Titans." Luckily, the Chargers outscored the Titans and I was happy to encourage all of his arm raising.

Go Chargers!

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I'd also like to respond to a comment that was posted anonymously on my last blog. By the vocabulary it seemed to come from someone here at the church and I want to assure the person that I have never once questioned that God sent us to the wrong place. Months of prayer led Troy and I here and while I may sometimes feel nostalgic for what was my home for 26 years, I have learned enough in those 26 years to know that the Lord does not make mistakes. Additionally, I am wholly committed to our ministry here, knowing, undoubtedly that God placed us in Utah "for such a time as this." With that being said, thank you for the encouraging verse.

The Wind Is Howling In My Soul

My husband took my son to Target. The house is dead quiet and I should be cleaning because I only got about half of it finished yesterday. I tried, really I did. But there was a walk to the park. There were cars that needed to be driven around the house and up the walls. There was lunch to be eaten and, when the nap was finally taken, there was a Christmas scrapbook that needed this year's page finished so that it could be put away. So I should be cleaning. Instead, (shock!) I'm blogging.


I think I'm finally starting to realize that I don't get to go home. Oh sure, I get to visit but IT IS NOT THE SAME! I don't think you can find yourself, permanently, in a completely different world and not feel changed, not feel shaken to your core, not feel, a little like hitting something. I'm not homesick the way I was at sixth grade camp where there were about 45 students for every one adult and I got the brilliant idea that since I only got one three-minute shower during the entire week I would put the shampoo in my hair before getting in, to save time, and consequently had greasy and disgusting hair for the rest of the week and the cold wind howled all night and I just wanted to go home. It's not like that. I cried at sixth grade camp, silently, in my bunk--and I'd been to camp before, I wasn't a weenie. I don't cry here. Here, I just feel, kind of, hollow. I know that cars are whizzing down Main Street and I can see them so clearly it's almost as if I'm there, running some errand. I know that women are walking up and down the aisles of my grocery store, stopping to chat when they see a friend. I know that world is spinning with a life that I am no longer a part of. This is the world I live in now. It's a world where I literally live for Sunday to come so that I can see a familiar face, so that I can soak up knowledge of my relationship with the Lord. I'm sure that is a very good thing. I am positive that there will be spiritual growth born of this journey.


Last night the wind whistled mournfully across the valley. It was cold and biting and, as I looked out the window, my street was asleep with the solitude that I feel, momentarily, when I throw a party laden with pity and invite...myself. I was suddenly sinfully jealous of people who, through circumstance, have security in the roots that have grown under them when I, myself, have been severed from mine. But how often do I mistake my own happiness for God's blessing? And how many times has God's reward shaken me to my very core? And how often is He right? Always. So if I could just push through this feeling that my feet are walking on uncomfortably foreign ground, maybe I would find that this is one of those times that He is carrying me. Maybe, upon further examination, I will discover only one set of footprints in the sand.

Forty six!

Something is wrong. It's 46 degrees outside and I feel like we're having a heat wave. I'm walking around wearing jeans and a thin turtleneck. And by walking around I mean, of course, wandering halfway down my street to the mailbox. Usually I'm cold in southern California when it's below 72. Would someone like to explain how 46 is feeling perfectly toasty? Is it psychological?

You Might Be Able To Hear A Pin Drop

The house is eerily quiet now. My mom, a.k.a. our final holiday guest, boarded a plane and flew back to my true love. I did not have to shed tears on my drive home. I did not have to open the closet in the guest room and hug the coat that she left (which is a darn good thing because this time she did not leave said coat). I did not have to wander around my house for a day and a half wondering if I could survive without her. So I guess I've made progress.

Last Wednesday my son's grandparents, Uncle Jon and Aunt Heather descended upon my house bearing luggage and enough gifts to make an orphanage smile. My parents moved in to the guest room. Heather was blessed with an air mattress in the playroom, you know, in case she got a midnight hankering for some Little People. (That sentence is wrong on so many levels.) And Jon, well, he was given the best bed of all, the couch. Merriment was had. For one amazing week it was as though nothing had changed at all this past year, except, of course, the weather.

Now they have gone and my little puppy* has been deposited into bed and it is quiet. It's no more silent than it was in Ramona when we put the boy to bed but it just feels different being so far from home. I mean, if a Lori talks incessantly in the middle of a Utah, but no one in her family is around to hear it, does she make a sound? These are the great ponderances of life. I can hear my clock tick and I can hear the laptop clack which means I can definitely hear myself think and y'all that's just not necessarily a good thing. Also it should be noted that awesomeness oozes when native Californians use the word y'all in the Beehive state, which has no affiliation with the south whatsoever.

Tomorrow I plan to begin The Great Cleaning Crusade. Anyone wanna place any bets on whether or not that will happen? I'll make it easy for you. Instead of cleaning I will probably begin counting the hours until my trip to San Diego. 28 days. I'm going to try not to think about the fact that I could do an entire rehab program in that amount of time. Do they have rehabilitation centers for people with state addictions? "Hi, my name is Lori and I'm a California addict. I've been clean for 37 days but I plan to take a hit the moment I graduate from this program." Hmmm.

*My son has decided that he is, indeed, a puppy. He barks constantly and he does so in the highest pitch possible. He'd make a soprano proud, that boy.

New Year

I used to love New Year's Eve, the thought of all that lay ahead in the days to come, the beauty of the blank slate, if you will. I could vow to exercise, stay away from chocolate, read my Bible every...single...day. The freedom was revitalizing and, let's face it, by the end of the year I was almost always in need of a recharge. New Year's Eve 2005 was, perhaps, the most exciting of all. I couldn't wait to welcome my firstborn in the summer. The last two years have been less than thrilling. Now that I'm a mom I almost hate saying goodbye to the year because it means that my son will never be sixteen months again. He'll never take his very first step. He'll never again see snow for the first time. Those moments belong to 2007, and have to be filed into the "Garrett Box" in my mind. They'll stay there until I succumb to senility and start referring to my son as Jake the pool boy or Grandpa George--which would be really strange since I don't even have a Grandpa George.

And it's strange but, with the way that my life changed during 2007, you'd think I'd want to shove the whole year into a lock box and stick it in my garage. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't praying for '08 to have a little more stability or hoping that maybe we would somehow find our way back home. But with all the ups and downs and all arounds of the past year I've gotten to the point where I've accepted that the Refiner's fire is going to burn but I'm ready to see just what the hands of the potter can do.

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In other news, my son would like to use my blog to wish his buddy, Tristan, a very happy first birthday! Sorry we can't be there to sing to you~

Sniff...

My brother's girlfriend is about to get on a plane and fly back to my mother ship. I am jealous of her in a mighty way.

Oh California, how I miss your 67 degree mornings. But, it's awesome here, too. Tonight, the low is 4. As in F-O-U-R. That's right. Work it, Tundra. Work it.

these are a few of my favorite things...

Of all my Christmas presents, this one could be my favorite. Yep. That's a blanket sleeper. I've been trying on blanket sleepers for, um, years. I've wriggled my way into girls size 16--too tight in the arms and legs and too short. I've tried on boys size 16--t00 short in the torso. I think I've even tried on husky boys to no avail. So this year, when I made my Christmas list, I searched the Internet for adult blanket sleepers and I found the wonder that was http://www.bigfeetpjs.com/ and I rejoiced. My husband thinks I'm silly despite the fact that he purchased the footed negligee himself, though he made my seventeen month-old son give me the desired jammies. My mother and brother's girlfriend, Heather, refuse to admit that they want a pair and, instead, hide their jealousy with smirking and/or eye rolling. My father and brother are quite seriously appalled and think that ridicule is beneficial. But in any case, I was warm tonight while we played a rousing game of Imaginiff. For this pastor's wife, hot cocoa, Imaginiff and adult sized blanket sleepers equal martinis and strip poker. And really, I'm okay with that. I mean, who really wants to play strip poker--especially, um, with her brother and father?

The husband also got me, among other things, a framed picture of the Old Point Loma Lighthouse. He wanted to get me a taste of San Diego. This picture now hangs on the wall in front of my bed. When I wake up I stare at the photo and feel, just for a moment, like I am home. Or, at least, I would, if I weren't blind as bat when I first wake up in the morning. So, once I wipe the drool from my cheek, sit up, and pop in my actual eyes, I gaze upon the joy of that slice of San Diego. If I listened to some seascape CD it would be kind of like having ocean front property. We opened presents tonight with my side of the family and my brother got me a drawing of the very same lighthouse. So not only have we proven that great minds think alike, we have also proven that I like lighthouses, I like the Point Loma Lighthouse, specifically, and now I can pretend to be in San Diego in at least two of my rooms. At least I can snuggle in my fuzzy footed jams while I dream about America's finest city.

Christmas morning

Christmas morning is a funny sort of thing when you have a toddler. Garrett decided that his favorite gift of the day was a candle that arrived via my own stocking. He carried it around as though it was his most prized possession. Don't get me wrong, he loved most of his gifts, he just didn't love them quite as much as he loved my candle.

This year was humorous. He liked to open one present and play with it for fifteen minutes before we finally coaxed him into opening another one. I think that next year we will officially enter the "rip/tear" phase that comes with two-year-oldness.