Too Hot for National Blog

I contribute on a monthly basis to a national blog for Mothers & More. You can find out about M & M at www.mothersandmore.org. I submitted the following blog entry for this month, but they voted not to post it. I can understand why and I (mostly) agree with their opinion. I am of the mindset, however, that censorship can be very dangerous. To that end, here is what they vetoed:

I was raised in an evangelically (born-again) Christian home. As such, I had very definite ideas about abortion. I considered myself Pro-Life, I wore a shirt that said “It’s a Child, Not a Choice,” etc. I was subjected to horror stories about botched abortions (sometimes pictures were included). I believed (and still do) that life begins at conception. I still consider myself an evangelical Christian; I attend church regularly and am active within my congregation. My beliefs have not changed, but my views on abortion have.

I am the mother of three small children, all of whom I will tell you were also conscious choices. I chose (on all three occasions) to conceive my children. I find “Pro-Life” and “Pro-Choice” to be inadequate labels. I find them polarizing and over-simplified. Growing up, I assumed that anyone who was Pro-Choice wanted to kill babies willy-nilly. At 34, I understand that is not the case at all. I could go on a tirade about how the Right has adopted the Pro-Life cause just to say that the Left is the de facto Babykiller Party, but I won’t. I don’t like the idea that babies are being aborted.

I do, however, think that women should be allowed the choice. Women who came before me worked to give me the chance to vote, to own property, etc. I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve been granted. I firmly believe, though, that this is a man’s world. Men don’t know the first thing about being a woman. Older, wealthy, white men with fabulous health benefits are not the best people to decide about whether or not I should be able to terminate my pregnancy.

Let me be clear. Even on days when I find poop on the ceiling in my kids’ bedroom, I can’t imagine not wanting them. My heart mourns for every child that doesn’t get a chance to go to dance class or see the ocean. Our family has struggled just paying for the birth of my youngest child. This is with my husband being employed and having health benefits. I cannot fathom, though, choosing to end my son’s life. I have friends who have had abortions and their hearts are still broken. I also know friends struggling with infertility who will lambast me for writing this, saying that there are so many families that want to adopt these children. That may be, but ultimately women need to choose what’s right for them, not what’s right for older, wealthy white men.

This blog entry may offend some readers; that is not my intention.  I hope it sparks some good discussions. A girlfriend of mine had a bumper sticker once that read “Keep Abortions Legal, Safe, and Rare.” I couldn’t agree more.      

Fun Times

Brian's surgery last week went well. He is recovering nicely, but still cannot help at all around the house. I haven't been the easiest to live with, as the stress from taking care of everyone's every need and wind-down from the fear and anxiety has been making me bitchy. I am glad to say the mass they removed was not cancerous, yay! His sutures come out on Friday, so he should be able to start helping again after that.

Meanwhile, I woke up this morning to discover that Bekah had pink eye. No dance class obviously. Had to cart all three off the doctor and then wait a half hour (in the van) at the pharmacy for the eye drops. Sent Jeremy to AWANA, but when I looked at his eyes before bed, they were starting to not look great. Ugh. No preschool for him tomorrow unless his eyes are much improved. This means my role of mommy as cruise director goes on for the whole day.

Bekah did make up for it a bit today. She found one of my measuring cups that is black and plastic and hit Jeremy over the head with it. I immediately recognized that she was being Rapunzel. I asked her about it and she gave me a shy smile and said yes. While viewing the movie, she stood on her chair (at the appropriate moment) and said "I have a dream." It was very cute.

Doug is upsetting me. He refuses to roll over and hates tummy time. He seems somewhat interested in sitting up, but mostly he wants to play in his exersaucer. But I guess I wouldn't be earning my pay if I wasn't worried about one of my kids, right?

Ramblings

I imagine he wouldn't be too surprised to see me, jawline clenched, fists with white knuckles at my side. He would enter the office with no hesitation; seeing me out of the corner of his eye, he would gesture towards a chair. I shake my head, hearing the sound of teeth grinding in my ears. I know he sees the steam rising from my skin as it does from a volcano, long dormant, that's about to erupt. He is the villager warning the town to flee; he understands, as no one else does, how lava and ash can wipe clean a landscape. The words spew before he can even sit down. Sulfur burns my tongue as it rolls by, the smell of anger and hatred. I pace back and forth in front of him, demanding answers. I want answers to questions, I want to see his forecast.

I imagine he is internally grinning but keeps his face somber. He nods from time to time, acknowledging what I'm saying. He is there at the moment of eruption, sees the lava spill over for others, sees it heading for relationships, for those I love. He scoops them up, one by one, so that they are spared the burns and pain of my vitriol. His skin blisters and heals for each person he scoops up, as the flow of lava and ash quickens. My words are sometimes even too heavy for me. My thoughts back up as the insults and anger refuse to budge from my tongue. I spit at him, watch it tumble down his face. I can't speak fast enough to empty the queue; sentences run together.

As with the volcano, it must eventually stop; my words start to slow. Sulfur and ash are replaced with sorrow, dark and heavy. The words are vaporous, hard to understand. He keeps nodding. He sits mute because he knows this has been building; he sits mute because he knows he is just supposed to listen. My shoulders start shaking as tiny rivulets of tears turn into tsunamis. He saw the water receding and knows a wave is coming to engulf the shore. He deciphers my words through my broken sobs. He comes to sit next to me without making a sound. He offers me Kleenex but doesn't discourage the tears.

The anger that has spewed forth is now turned in on myself. I loathe the decisions and indecisions I have made. I loathe the resentments and fears I carry as extra pounds. I have failed almost everywhere. I have hurt many with my words. My eyes are puffy, my body aching from the expectations that weigh me down. I am not surprised that the worst damage has been done to me. I am not shocked to find that the picture of myself that I carry around doesn't match the one hanging on the wall of his office. I see Dorian Gray in my picture, old and shriveled and evil-looking; his is a collage of my smiles, my successes, my failures. It's a mosaic, but as I step further away from it, I am at my most joyful, my most happy. He goes to the picture and starts removing the difficulties, struggles, trials. I can see the picture get blurry, unfinished; a Monet painting seen through a dirty lens. He replaces all that I despise, all from which I wish to escape. The picture snaps into focus.

I imagine that's why I call him Abba. He transforms that which I find ugliest into beauty. He calms the waters, quiets the volcanoes and allows me the space I need to express that which others would find disturbing.

Under the Rug

My mom is a pack rat; my dad is not. My mom has religiously saved everything with any significance to it--my baby book's binding fell apart long ago. My dad is a neat freak. I won't say he doesn't have a certain level of clutter that follows him, but he has fits of cleaning and throws away anything my mom hasn't hidden away. To this day, my mom is kind of a mess. She and my dad live in a modest 4-bedroom home. They occupy the master suite, my mom uses one of the rooms for her office, my dad uses one for his office and there is a room for guests (really, it's the Saint's bedroom, but he won't be back until August). My mom and dad have a cleaning lady that comes every other week. My mom is not someone who enjoys cleaning; my grandmother and I share the cleaning gene, but it skipped a generation. Since I had Jeremy, toys and books and baby equipment have slowly taken over some parts of their house. (If I don't say this and my mom ever reads this, she will be quick to point this out as a reason for the clutter.)

I have tried to help my mom get organized. There are blinds on the windows in her office. Clipped to many of the blinds are slips of paper containing important phone numbers, claim information and other flotsam. I spent an afternoon compiling all of the phone numbers onto one sheet of paper and clipping it to the linen display board she has. Within a matter of months, I noticed papers starting to reappear. She claims there is a method to her madness, that she can find anything she needs in the chaos. For the most part, I agree with her. There is growth, though; up until about 2 years ago, she had clothes in her walk-in closet (my dad has no space in it), the closet in her office and the closet in the Saint's bedroom. I dogged her for months about getting rid of some of her clothes. She would not say that the nagging worked, but she has downsized her wardrobe quite a bit. 

The contrast to this picture is that, growing up, when company came over the house was required to be spotless. I never, ever understood why. I was guilty of being messy, of leaving food wrappers lying around and generally being a slob (ask my college roommates). I got that there shouldn't be food left lying around and that we should wipe the counters down, but I never understood the frenzy with which she would clean the house. Entropy being what it was, it would stay clean for a while but slowly settle back into being slightly grimy and messy. 

Before I had kids, I employed this same frenzy to cleaning my house before guests arrived. My husband didn't understand it, either. I would literally stay up until all hours of the night before hosting a playgroup. I had to clear that never-ending pile of paperwork that sits perched precariously on top of my microwave. I couldn't let anyone see that there are five bags of bread, each with just one heel in it, sitting on top of my refrigerator. God forbid anyone would notice the grime baked onto the burners of my stove. I would clean until my back ached and my eyes were bleary with sleepiness. Even after having kids, I have been guilty of staying up way past when I should just to make sure the house is spotless for impending guests.

There is also a ritual that occurs at the beginning of play dates. I greet everyone and welcome them into my home. I preempt their questions; rather than let them notice the bits of wallpaper still stuck to the backsplash, I tell them about the hideous border that used to be there. I apologize for how beat up my couches are. I offer drinks, Diet Coke or water (the only things we ever have to drink at my house) and then apologize for not having more to offer. At lunchtime, I offer the other kids absolutely everything in my refrigerator. It's part of my lineage that would not allow someone to walk away from my house hungry. I apologize for the dog hair that coats every surface in my home, for the smell of the guinea pigs' cage, etc.

Unfortunately, when I employed this frenzy to cleaning, it was understandable that I didn't have people over all that often. I was having a conversation about this with a friend not too long ago. I confessed that I could care less what other people's houses look like. If I am going to spend time with them and their children, I am most likely bringing my children. That automatically means I will be leaving their house messier than when I arrived. If I am going to see a friend and watch a movie with her after her kids have gone to bed, I am going to plant my butt firmly in the most comfortable chair I can find. I am not going to inspect her bathroom to see if there are rings in the bowl. I will not be checking the expiration date on any food in her refrigerator.

I have also never had a mother (or anyone, really), do this to me. So I finally decided that I don't care what my house looks like. I am not a stay-at-home-housekeeper, I am a stay-at-home-mom. My first priority (and the first priority of all of my other SAHM friends) has to be the kids. Yes, I need to make sure there are no roaches, rodents, maggots, etc., living in my home. I do keep the kitchen (mostly) cleaned. About every other week, I attack the piles of paperwork perching precariously about the kitchen. They become like magpie nests, full of everything from junk mail to errant birthday/holiday cards to artwork from preschool. I carefully deconstruct the nests, throwing out what's not important, putting away what is, etc. I vacuum up crumbs and dog hair pretty regularly. The laundry gets done, although sometimes it takes two days to a week to be put away. Beyond that, I've stopped worrying. Sure, I still get in a tizzy from time to time. My computer has been acting wonky and I'm trying to get someone out to take a look at it. I started cleaning the office this evening, but I can guarantee that it won't be spotless by the time Mr. Computer Man comes to visit. 

I don't know why we all seem so obsessed with presenting the best version of our house and selves to one another. I have spoken with other mom friends who have confessed all sorts of things. I will admit that Doug, my youngest, doesn't get bathed as regularly as Bekah and Jeremy. There was even a day last summer when the kids needed a bath. We went to the splash pad after naps and the kids ran around, getting soaking wet. We changed them to go home and Brian asked me slyly, "does this count for baths?" I answered in the affirmative and yet this is the first public confession of that deed! We have all gone to the grocery store with our kids in various stages of dress, with mismatched socks, hair matted down with baby food, hair not brushed, our hair not done, teeth not brushed, etc.

I do my best to let my foibles shine through. So far, that's worked pretty well for me. People find me authentic and I think they are more at ease around me. My kids are good at clearing their dishes (at other people's houses more than ours) and cleaning up after themselves. I have also learned that people all have different definitions of "messy." Last week, I was at a girlfriend's house for a play date. We had met at a park and then headed over to her house. The three of us moms sat at her counter, eating lunch. She apologized for the huge mess. Sabrina and I looked at each other and then inspected her kitchen; we were not able to see the mess she saw. She pointed to two breakfast dishes, food still on them, sitting on her counter. I literally laughed out loud. I told her not to worry about it. 

(In)Securities Fraud

If you asked someone about me, they would tell you I'm pretty self-confident. Kind, compassionate, empathetic. That's because I keep the whimpering, third-grade version of myself hidden very well. I have never been great at forming relationships; I especially sucked at it when I was in grade school. I never quite got the nuances of female-female relationships. I had a biting sense of humor, but I was unable to take any of the barbs I handed out like leaflets. I have only recently developed a sense of humor about myself. It was a long, hard road to be able to laugh the hardest at the mistakes I made. But I digress.

By middle school, I had started to carve out some friendships here and there. In eighth grade, I wasn't popular, but I ran with the most popular girl. I became and stayed her friend because I was willing to break up with her boyfriends for her. Not something about which I'm proud, but it helped me survive the awkward years. Unfortunately, in the middle of eighth grade we moved. I was supposed to have gone to Streamwood High, home of the Sabres. The friends I knew and had grown close to were going to Streamwood High. It was not to be; I graduated as a Maroon, an alum of Elgin High. My freshman year was the absolute worst. I was outspoken about religious matters and I might as well have built a barbed-wire fence around myself. Nobody wanted to hang out with me. I felt isolated and alienated. Even the few times I tried to reach out to people, it was awkward.

There was a bright spot; my biology class. I struck up a friendship with these guys, Devon and Chris. Nice, nice guys. I developed a crush on Devon and things seemed to be going pretty well. We went to Turnabout dance together and had a blast. It was, by far, one of my best high school memories. I, of course, mucked the whole thing up (but we'll talk about that on another day). 

But female relationships eluded me my entire high school career. I couldn't find any group that I could join. As it turned out, I was a nerd but not nerdy enough to join the smart kids. I swam, but wasn't really good enough to hang with the swimmers. I didn't drink or do drugs, so those guys were out. I wasn't a gangbanger, so I didn't fit there. In my junior and senior years, I got very involved with creative writing. In that world, it turns out I was pretty cool. I still didn't form any friendships, but at least it was my refuge from the bullies.

I sprinted toward college. I figured that I would find my niche. My ego got in the way of me being very successful academically, but it was then that I started forming female friendships. There was still an immaturity to how I dealt with women, but I was making efforts. I thought that I had to lavish people with gifts to be my friend. This would have worked, had it not been for the fact that money management was never my strong suit.

Some of the women I met at college are still my friends today. Facebook has done wonders to extend the shelf-life of some of the friendships, but these are women that came to my wedding and baby shower. I may not see them all the time, but these are women I consider confidants and miss a lot. I have not been perfect in these friendships. Immaturity in relationships comes out as temper tantrums. My college friends have seen the worst of it. I am not proud of how I've acted with these women and this blog is not an amends to them. They simply happened upon me in my nascent stages of friendship-building.

Over the past 11 years or so, I've honed my craft. I am now able to do some small talk, even though I don't prefer it. I have a good memory for details. My temper is not as bad as it used to be, although new friends have seen flare-ups of my temper. By new, I mean in the past seven years. More recently, I have been able to keep the flares down. The trade-off has been increased anxiety and insecurity. I have reverted to the more timid version of myself, questioning every communique. The world of technology hasn't done me any favors, as reading tone and intent through e-mails, Facebook and text messages is nearly impossible. 

My circle of close friends has seen some turnover in recent years. There are various reasons for that, and I am not at liberty to discuss all of them. What I've carved out now is a nice inner circle. It's quite a rag-tag group of women. They are all wonderful. They have come through for me in some very tight situations. I think they would all say, though, that I'm a fairly confident person. Luckily, I've got them all fooled.

On the Mend

I am sitting here, eyes burning, trying to write just to stay in the habit of writing. Yesterday was a very rough day. I was still recovering from the stomach bug, while at the same time starting to feel achy and yucky. We were also on a death watch for one of the guinea pigs, Leather. She ended up passing away while we were away at Bekah's party. Guinea pigs are interesting in that they don't like to pass away while they're around their friends. I have had multiple piggies who have held on until I've removed them from their cage. Upon being placed in a different environment, they pass away in short time. In any case, we have had two other piggies (Laverne and Shirley) pass away since we moved in. Cagney and Lacey are still with us. When Laverne passed last year, we told Jeremy that she went to help her grandma in South America. Brian and I decided that Jeremy was too young to deal with the subject of death. Our hope was that this simple explanation would serve to answer any questions he might have.

What we underestimated was his memory. A year later and Jeremy is still asking about Laverne. "Where did she go, Mommy," he'll ask me. He also asks me about the "white one," Shirley, who passed when he was only like 20 months old. I mean, really. So now I am anxious about him realizing that Leather is no longer with us. It would seem ludicrous to think that this sick grandma pig needs three girls to help her convalesce. The guinea pigs no longer have the cache that they used to. Frankly, I think that the girls are quite happy being left alone. The friendliest ones we had have now passed (Laverne and Leather). I am not feeling well enough to deal with this, so I'm hoping it will come up in a few days.

Bekah's party was a huge success. We paid more than we had expected, but Pump it Up really handled it so well. I knew I was still not feeling great when just seeing the kids jump up and down made me feel nauseated. As the evening progressed, my achy and tired feeling did, too. Luckily, I felt well enough to participate and it was just a treat and a hoot to see Bekah enjoy herself. Jeremy struggled, though. He wasn't happy that he didn't get any gifts and then threw a fit that I hadn't made him a goody bag. By God's grace, Billy forgot his so I was able to at least let him hold it. Again, though, he was a step ahead. He knew it wasn't his name written on the outside. My dad proved to be a big help in dealing with Jeremy's emotions. He was holding Jeremy at one point and told him that he could have his birthday party at Pump it Up. Jeremy responded, "yeah, and I will get birthday presents and Bekah won't be able to open any of them, hah hah hah." (The hah hah hah was in the style of an evil villain.)

When we got home, I really started feeling awful. I had the worst chills. I couldn't get warm to save my life. I took my temperature but had no fever. I slept fitfully through most of Mission: Impossible and awoke during Quantum of Solace. At that point, I took my temperature and it was up to 101. I was burning up, dizzy, the whole nine. I went in to nurse Doug and then came out, still feeling awful. My throat felt like I was swallowing knives. I finally got the fever to break, but then I was sweating like crazy and couldn't get comfortable. I slept even more fitfully and woke up feeling worse. I was able to find someone to watch Jeremy and Bekah, then headed off to the doctor. My temperature there was 103.8 (under the armpit, so add a degree to that). I texted Brian, asking him to come home.

I have not been able to get more than a couple of hours of sleep over the past 48 hours. I am sitting here, sweating. I can't manage to get comfortable anywhere. My stomach is churning from the antibiotics and ibuprofen. I wish that I could fast forward through this. The worst part is that it's likely I'll have to have my tonsils out. My doctor is concerned because I've had strep twice in the past six months.

While all of this has been happening, I'm mourning the death of my friend, 27-year-old Remi. She was found by her parents yesterday morning. There is an autopsy, but the reality is that it was an alcohol-related death. I am a member of a 12-step program, which is where I met her. I had known her for about 4 years. She was 100 pounds and nothing, a worrywart and a lover of McFlurrys. I have not completely processed her death. I am grateful for my sobriety. I am grateful that my parents didn't have to find me like that. I miss her sense of humor, her predilection for multiple types of mascara, her melodrama and her baking. I keep hoping that this is all a bad dream, that she is still holed up in her townhome in Mundelein. She loved to go to Goodwill with her mom. She gave me a bunch of magnets for Bekah and Jeremy to play with-they still play with them to this day. She was so beautiful and everyone loved her. I am sad that she died the way she did; I can't blame myself because she did have the solution but didn't apply it. I am not sure why some are taken so long before they should be.

All of this happening at once has been a lot to handle. I wish I could get comfortable enough to sleep, but I'm not sure that's going to happen. I am grateful for so much today and hopeful that the antibiotics will begin to do their work before too long.

The 12th Hour

I had every intention of writing about my value as a SAHM relative to the cost of me staying at home. Unfortunately, I was struck with a violent stomach bug last night. I barely got any sleep because I was making multiple trips to the bathroom. Now it's like 16 hours until Bekah's birthday party and I'm cutting out Dora and Boots. I still have so much work to do, but I am sure that it will all be great. I wish the whole thing didn't cost so much money, but I love my baby girl. She is so excited about this party that I think her head may just explode. That is why I wear old clothes and never see movies in the theater at night; I want every single possible dollar to be put toward making Dora birthday parties happen. I will rant and rave about the system more tomorrow night. I have so much more cutting to do.....

Home Bittersweet Home

I have been remiss for not blogging more frequently. I would like to thank my dad, my biggest cheerleader, for encouraging me to stick with it. I am blogging tonight because I have no other recourse and because my anxiety has been hitting all time highs.

Let me start by saying that we are not going to be able to pay the mortgage this month. We are already behind by two months. When the calendar turns over, we are in the red. The amount we are short every month is not something that can be remedied by cutting back on frivolities (we have very few as it is). We were incredibly blessed over the holiday season to receive several large financial gifts. They were instrumental in allowing us to register Jeremy and Bekah for preschool for the coming school year. Unfortunately, because we are in the red every month, it seems like the money gets tossed into a furnace to be burned upon impact. It's a shame, really. We are about to go through another medical procedure. Brian has a (benign) growth on his thyroid. It is putting pressure on his larynx and his trachea. This is not an elective procedure--his life could be in danger if he didn't have the surgery. So we are doing our best to prepare, but financially there's nothing set aside for it. We are going to be buried in an avalanche of bills after he is discharged. Mind you, every person involved in the surgery will send a separate bill. We will receive a bill from the hospital where the surgery is being performed. We will receive an obnoxious amount of mail and correspondence from everyone. They will send us a bill about every two weeks. Usually, I exaggerate. This is not one of those times. The flurry of bills and invoices and EOBs we have received over the past 4 years fills the entire bottom drawer of our filing cabinet.

When I say that we are not able to pay our mortgage, don't think that we don't have a desire to pay our mortgage. I have a strong desire, as does Brian, to meet our financial obligations. We receive phone calls daily from collection agencies asking us if we would like to pay our bills. We would (and I can't emphasize this enough) LOVE to pay our bills. Nothing would make us happier. It would thrill us to not have to just shrug as the bills come in. I received a letter today from my OB/GYN that they are dropping me as a patient because I've not paid. Probably the most humiliating thing that's happened thus far. I've never been dropped as a patient. I had to sit across the desk from the business manager of that office and explain to her that my family falls through the cracks. We don't qualify for any kind of financial assistance, we aren't eligible for any kind of government subsidies, we have no assets of value to sell to cover our expenses. She sat there, looking like I served her lemonade sans sugar, not believing that there was a person such as I. How could such an irresponsible person become pregnant? How could you think about having a child when you don't have $700 saved up and ready to hand over before your 20th week of pregnancy? How do you sleep at night knowing that you owe this office money?

The answers are, in order--at the time I became pregnant, the health insurance Brian's work offered covered more and cost less than it did just a few short months later; I just filed bankruptcy, through which I discovered I had no possessions of any value (and used the last of my retirement money to cover lawyer's fees and court costs); and I really don't sleep well at night, honestly. '

I feel judged by my mom about this whole thing. I have intimated to her that we are in arrears on our mortgage. I have told her our plan; if we are put into foreclosure, we will use the money we're not paying to Wells Fargo to pay off our van. This will give us enough money to then rent something down the road, when the sheriff comes to evict us. Her consistent comment has been, "well, you have to pay to live somewhere." Our intention is to stay in our home until the sheriff knocks on our door. If that's six months from now, eighteen months from now, whatever it is, we will be here. We will not budge. We have done nothing wrong. I hate the feeling of being judged. I hate the feeling of powerlessness I have over the entire situation.

My anxiety is high because there is an enormous amount of uncertainty about what's going to happen next. I have never been through this before. I hope and pray that someone intercedes with Wells Fargo on my family's behalf. I am not looking to live somewhere for free (as my mother seems to think); I simply think it would have been good to know that the house I bought was not worth anything near what I paid for it. I would have loved to have known that the lack of regulations on Wall Street would hit hardest those of us living on Main Street. If God wants to pay off our mortgage, he will. I know He's a God that can. I don't understand why this is happening. I feel like we've already handled more than our fair share of hardships. I don't want to leech off the system. I don't want to live in a communist state. I just want to feel like my husband's hard work actually is enough to cover the bills. I want him to have the opportunity to earn an amount of money that would cover our expenses.

This entire process is demoralizing and humiliating. If you've taken the time to read this and you're not in this situation, have empathy for those of us that are. Please don't give me platitudes and direct me to government web sites. I assure you, there is no help for families like us. I have applied for charity countless times, but even the amounts that are left over are too much for us to pay. I am finding that the food pantries are starting to feel the sustained strain of families like us visiting them every month. The best thing you can do for us is pray without ceasing. Pray for us on a daily basis, that our faith and belief would be broadened and deepened. Pray for our country's leaders, that they would allow God's wisdom to govern their decisions. Pray that God would deliver us from this hardship, if it is His will; if it's not, that He would lift us up throughout it. Pray that I will have the discipline to document this entire process, so that others can see what it's like to walk in our shoes. Pray that there is something on the other side of this that can be used for God's glory. For crying out loud, just pray.

Heavy Expectations

Ugh. Did pretty well today. Didn't go to bed too late last night, got a lot of housework done, took only a brief nap and didn't keep the TV on non-stop. However, I feel like crap. My head hurts and I feel large and bloated.

I'm trying to focus on that for which I am grateful. I have a lovely friend from college who helped provide gifts for my kids for Christmas. Then, I was pleasantly surprised to find a stoop full of gifts this morning. So now we have no money that needs to be spent for the kids' Christmas. I got an awesome haircut that makes me feel lighter and younger. I taught my kids a prayer to say at night when they're scared. These are the things on which I am choosing to focus. I will get nowhere if the obsession of my mind is my food decisions. The more I can change my focus to others, to my worth that's inherent in who I am, the easier it will be to make healthful food choices that honor my body, God's temple.

A Piece of Peace

Starbucks by myself is just lovely. I usually get out for "coffee" at least once a week, but recently it's not been as often. I use coffee loosely because I've never been a big fan. I have been opting for water and a yogurt/granola treat.

Jeremy had a rough day at preschool today. He is prone to emotional outbursts-always has been. I have been working with him for a while to try to temper his emotions. Part of it, I've learned, has been about me tempering my emotions. I've noticed that he has started to scream at Bekah to leave him alone. Unfortunately, my temper doesn't look attractive on others. When I see him start to lose it, I physically hold him. He tends to want to push/hit/kick whoever is upsetting him. I hold him to get him to stop, to help him find an out. Then, very quietly (that's been my recent effort-trying to be more quiet) I tell him to take a couple of deep breaths. After he's done that, we say a simple prayer together "God, please help me calm down." I can't say that the emotional outbursts have stopped, but it's definitely raised my awareness about keeping my own emotions in check.

I try not to take credit when my kids do well because then I have to take the self-criticism if they do poorly. Both Bekah and Jeremy have a lot of really wonderful gifts, but the humility for me is stepping aside and letting God have that credit. I don't blame God for their shortcomings, though. That's also humility-recognizing that my kids are human beings with free will. I have been trying to show them more grace lately, which helps both them and me. If I can acknowledge that we all have bad moments/days, then it's okay if they are emotionally obtrusive. It's part and parcel with being that age. Heck, it's part and parcel with being my age.

The other thing on my mind has been my weight. I lost a good amount of weight after Doug was born, but lately the needle on the scale has been moving the other way. I had done Weight Watchers in the past but stopped going for different reasons. I have hesitated to rejoin, but now I'm realizing that I need help. I just need boundaries set for me in black and white. I need a guideline to fill out. I would love to be on the smaller side of 250 by Easter (that would be about 40ish pounds). The one obstacle is, of course, money. I am hoping Santa will bring me enough money to cover registration and a few months of service. I am going to do it online; meetings of another kind already chew up most of my free time. We'll see how this goes; my strong desire is to be able to wear my engagement/wedding band again. I've not been able to physically wear it for almost 4 years. Other than that, I'd love to buy cute nursing tops and jeans that don't have spandex in them.

Oh, my. I am grateful for so much, but it makes me crazy that there are people starving in the world and I am 100+ pounds overweight. That's craziness.

Christmas, Toddler-Style

Well, it's official. Today, we "built" the Christmas tree at our house. Jeremy watched 'A Bug's Life' on the iPad as I decorated the tree. He was fascinated by some of the ornaments, as was Bekah. They took off as many ornaments as they could. It came out looking pretty, even with the top containing most of the breakable (more beautiful) ornaments. My star has crapped out, so I'm going to be on the hunt for one.

After naps we went to my parents' house to "build" a tree. On the way, Jeremy asked me what tree we were going to "build" after d-da and bubba's tree. He then informed me that he'd like to do 100 trees. It was fun to have them so excited about decorating. My mom got the nativity set out. She and I made it when I was like 8 or 9. It's very cute; three wise men, a shepherd, Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, Gabriel and a sheep.

I can't remember when, but the next Christmas or so, my brother turned it into the Ninja nativity set. Mary and Joseph and the others fought each other in no-holds-barred competitions. It got to be that they started to show a tremendous amount of wear from all of the fights.

This year, as soon as my mom got it out, the tradition continued. I can't say there were ninja fights, but at one point, Gabriel was perched precariously, his hand caught in the wrought-iron decoration of my parents coffee table. Baby Jesus was batted around and even the sheep saw battle action.

It's these kind of little traditions that make the holiday for me. As I'm typing this, we're hearing Jeremy fighting sleep. I don't understand how he's still awake. He just told Brian that he's hungry. Gotta love preschoolers.

Blogging on the go!

This is new for me, but maybe now I can keep my blog updated. Took the big kids shopping tonight. I am just spent, but ha fun at the retreat this morning. I am grateful for my DH and his loving support.

The house is a pit and I need to wash the floors, but it isn't going to happen tonight.

Been praying about my treadmill. I have been wanting one for a while. I didn't tell anyone because my family has so many other needs. This last week at Bible study, though, a random lady came in saying she wanted to get rid of one. I would have never known about it except that I had gone to the nursery to nurse Doug (which I usually don't do). I am not sure if this treadmill is supposed to be mine or if it was just God's way of telling me He hears my prayers. She wants to sell it for $100-150, so of course the skeptic in me is worried that it's a piece of garbage. I am praying that God will provide a path forward for it.

Ugh. I should be headed to bed, but Sims 2 is calling my name. I started playing a few weeks ago. I tend to throw myself into the computer when I'm trying to insulate myself from hurt. My friend Leslie is going to be moving soon. I am heartsick about that. I have gotten close to both her and her family over the past couple of years. She is funny and lovely and I don't want to have to say goodbye. I also don't want to grieve the loss right now. It's inconvenient and cloying like a shirt that shrunk in the dryer. I keep pulling at the fabric, trying to stretch it, trying not to feel the discomfort. I don't want to have to explain to my kids why we can't go to "Miss Weswie's" house anymore. I would just like to set this aside until it fits me better, but I can't say that even then I'll want to deal with it. I hate that this is a part of life.

Anger, Inc.

It's been a rough couple of days and my spirits are really sagging. Bekah has really started showing her 2-year-old attitude. I am frustrated with her because I know that she's jealous of Doug, but there's nothing I can do to staunch the rolling tide of her anger. It's disheartening. She is tough to motivate and very articulate. I have been struggling with my emotions in dealing with her. I am grateful to have good support in place so that I don't do anything to her that I would regret. I know it's just a phase, but it's a tough one.

Job Creators: The New Oxymoron

This year has been a rough one financially for my family. There have been a number of factors that have been working at odds with our attempts to get out from under the rubble. First, we started off the year being covered by BCBS IL through my husband's employer. We had a deductible to meet and coinsurance. As of March first, the plan changed. My husband's company merged with a bigger company and we started being covered by Aetna. We had to start over with a brand new deductible. The plan had been sold to Brian's company as having a low deductible ($3000), so he was not allowed to continue to set money aside in a healthcare spending account. Upon closer inspection, however, we discovered that it's actually a $6000 family deductible. Each family member has to meet a deductible of $1000 before any medical costs would start to be applied to the family's deductible. Meanwhile, the coinsurance is higher with the new plan and the premiums are more. So we were no longer able to set aside money on a pre-tax basis and all of a sudden we had to come up with extra money out of our pockets.

Then, our computer went on the fritz. It is very difficult to function in a technological world without a computer. It's almost impossible to pay bills and do banking without one. It's also impossible to seek new employment without one. So there went more money.

Then, Jeremy was hospitalized for 4 days. The bills started pouring in pretty steady after that. I will say that Advocate Good Shepherd was fabulous. We were able to get some relief for some of the bills through their charity program. Unfortunately, other facilities have not been as understanding. Brian and I sat down and figured out that we had 13 (at the time) providers asking for money. I wrote them all a letter explaining that we had just gone bankrupt and were broke. We could send them $10 a month to show a good faith promise that we would pay. Unfortunately, as the months have gone by, the list of creditors has increased rather than decreased (due mostly to Doug's birth but also because of tests Brian has to have done to make sure the cancer has not come back).

So here we are. We are trying to be creative with our finances. I used some gift cards I received earlier in the year to buy groceries one week. I received a Kohl's gift card for Doug's birth that I will use to buy new sneakers for Jeremy. The one albatross around our neck continues to be our cell phones. I got an iPhone 3 years ago, back when we had just moved into our house, before Brian had been diagnosed with cancer and before the bottom fell out of the market. Brian got his iPhone almost 2 years ago. Last year, we were going to get a new phone for me (not an iPhone). The problem is, we only really pay $10 a month for me to be added onto the family plan through AT&T. It would have cost close to $200 to get out of the plan with AT&T last year, on top of the cost of buying new phones and accessories and paying the first month's (inflated) bill with a new carrier. We had cash flow issues that disallowed us from doing that.

So now, we are looking line by line to see what we can trim and we are stuck in this awful catch-22 with AT&T. I am no longer under contract--mine expired a year and half ago. But Brian's contract is not up with them until November 20th. In order to have the money to start anew with a different carrier, we need to save up cash, but we can't save up cash because we're paying so much for our cell phones. If I got a new phone with AT&T, then I would be in a new 2-year contract and we'd have to come up with the cash to buy a new phone and new accessories. We went last night to see if there's anything more we can trim from our bill, but we had already done that. So we have three more months of a bill that we can't afford that's making it impossible for us to get a plan that we can afford.

I wish I could say I'm handling all of these situations gracefully, but I'm not. I cried today in front of my kids, which I hate to do. I am frustrated that every single financial decision we make has to be agonized over. Brian and I talked three different times today at length about what to do with this cell phone mess. Bernie Madoff (and others like him) perpetrated this financial nightmare on millions of Americans like me. Yet we are calling his ilk "job creators." From where I'm sitting, that couldn't be further from the truth. I was watching a Law and Order: Criminal Intent today. The criminal was a Wall Street type who had set up a ponzi-esque scheme and then used his money and influence to try to cover it up (with a murder). I have seen this episode before, but today Vincent D'Onofrio's words hit home. It was the end of the episode and this man, who had perpetrated the murder (dressed in cuff links and a nice suit) was desperate to wriggle out of the charges. He was offering to name names of higher-ups. Vincent D'Onofrio said, "what they [the terrorists] did with weapons and ammunition, you did with money."

That's what makes me angry. We have spent billions of dollars fighting a war against the terrorists who attacked our country. Why are we continuing to allow people in our own country terrorize us? Why are we allowing them to continue in their lives as if nothing has happened? I can assure you, when Bernie Madoff gets out of jail (if he ever does), he will not have to agonize over what cell phone plan he can choose. The bankers who received bonuses even after we (the American taxpayers) bailed them out don't have to worry about how they're going to afford to throw their children birthday parties! There are 400 families in the US who hold 99% of the wealth. We outnumber them, and yet we cower because of this title we ascribe them. I, for one, am sick of it. I would love to know what kind of jobs they are truly creating because it seems like the major corporations are employing mostly Chinese workers and they're doing it for far below minimum wage. Meanwhile, we are begging and pleading with them to stay here, so we offer them subsidies on top of tax breaks. So their company is here in name, but it's not generating any revenue for our country.

I am sick to death of seeing the salaries of government workers in people's status updates on Facebook. I can assure you this country is not going broke because of what we pay our civil servants. And I don't enjoy how we call President Obama an elitist--he is actually much less wealthy than our previous president, has taken substantially less vacation time that President Bush and did not come into office with a surplus in the nation's budget. Is President Obama perfect? No, far from it. But this country is broken in a way that only bold initiatives can fix, and unfortunately we are so afraid of the "job creators" that no one is willing to be the one to take the first step in that direction.

This is by far my most rambling and disjointed blog entry and for that I apologize. I just feel like I need to shine a light on the things the press is glossing over. We are not in a recession; we are in a depression. It will most likely get worse before it gets better and getting better will never mean what it used to.

Milestones

Previously, on Mommyhood....

In our last episode, I was becoming impatient with my son, who was refusing to poop in the potty. I felt my fellow mothers were judging me and that my son would enter MIT still wearing diapers.

Today, we had major success!! After Jeremy had eaten breakfast, he told me he had to poop. He had already taken off his pajamas to pee, but he informed me that he needed some books to take with him. (Grandma has been working with him for a bit and was reading to him in the bathroom to convince him to sit on the potty.) I said, great. He wanted me to come with him, but I let him know I needed to finish my breakfast. Before I knew it, I heard him reading out loud to himself and then, "mommy, I did it! I made poopy in the potty!" I couldn't believe it, but it was true!!

I called Brian to relay the good news, but Jeremy was too embarrassed to talk to him about it. He also didn't want to share the news with his new preschool friend, Austin (or his mom). We went to the park after naps, though, to pass the time. The park we regularly visit has baseball fields there; today, there was softball practice. One of the girls was early and she was playing in the playground. Jeremy went right up to her and asked her what her name was. He followed her around the playground and then proudly informed her, while she was in the swings, that he went poopy in the potty. I am not even sure that she heard him, but I told Brian that it seemed like Jeremy was trying to convince this young lady of his maturity because of his new skill.

She left after a while to start practice; Jeremy ended up in the dugout at one point (with some of the other girls). I had to practically pull him out of there!! Then he proceeded to tell me that when he gets bigger, he's going to play baseball and people will stand up when he goes on the field. That was officially the first time he had ever talked about getting bigger or having any kind of dreams.

Quite a monumental day for my man! I am so proud of him because he is so friendly and outgoing with everyone! I am excited for him to start school and continue to develop his already amazing interpersonal skills. He's a great guy!!

Pre-sa-chool

Jeremy, Bekah, Doug and I went to see Jeremy's new preschool class today. Brian and I went last night to meet the teachers and be oriented. I am afraid I was initially more excited than my son, but today he made up for it. I am grateful for small miracles, too. We are still struggling with potty training. He has mastered the art of peeing in the toilet. He can take himself to the bathroom when he needs to and happily announces it to me all the time. However, he has not been able to poop in the potty. I have been agonizing over this inability for weeks. I have tried to coax him into it, I've tried to bribe him, I've tried yelling but nothing seems to convince him.

In talking about his potty-training progress with other people, I feel like I've fallen short. One of the aspects of motherhood that no one talks about is the constant, constant comparison game. I feel like every day is a performance review. When I meet new moms I am asking them questions and secretly grading myself--"okay, her son doesn't know what letter his name starts with, but Jeremy does," or "sheesh, her daughter can dress herself and Jeremy can't." It's exhausting mentally and emotionally and I have a sense it's only going to get worse. Potty-training is tougher for boys, that's the consensus, but in my own head it seems like Jeremy is struggling more than most.

In any case, I am taking Jeremy's inability to poop in the potty very personally. I am afraid to tell people that he can't do it and I feel ashamed. The logical part of my brain tells me to get over myself, that every child is different and goes at their own pace. There was a time I was afraid Jeremy's speech was delayed; now, I wish I had a mute button and have had to ask him for time-outs from questions (Jeremy, I'm begging you, please stop asking mommy questions for a few minutes).

So when we toured his preschool, we looked at one of the classrooms and it happened to have fish in it. Jeremy loves fish and I'm not sure why. He has always been fascinated with them. I used to take him to Meijer just so he could look at the fish. He was so excited when he saw the fish in his classroom. Then, last night, when I met the director, she told me that he would be in the young 3's classroom because he was still wearing a pull-up. I didn't realize that this would cause a problem until this morning.

We went to meet Mrs. Irwin, his teacher. I walked into the classroom we had toured a few weeks ago, but unfortunately that was not to be his classroom. Histrionics ensued in the hallway. We got into his classroom and he threw a fit again. Aha, I thought, this is the perfect chance to motivate him. I told him he couldn't be in that classroom because he didn't go poopy in the potty. I told him that when he was able to go poopy in the potty, he could go in that classroom.

Then, because I know God loves my son, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. When I turned my head, I saw it; a fish tank. I showed it to Jeremy, who immediately raced over to it. I know it seems inconsequential but it felt like I was being reassured that my son was in the right place. It felt God was telling me to stop obsessing about this particular milestone. Now I just wonder how long it will take him to be able to hold a pencil correctly....

Somalia

The following is a preview of an article I'm writing. I have become a (non-paid) contributor to the online magazine "Forum," the publication for the national organization Mothers and More. I was asked to write 250-500 words about any number of topics. This is what shook out from something that's been stuck in my craw over the past few weeks. I know I've been absent from blogging for a while, but now that I'm able to put Doug down a bit, I'm back. Please read and let me know what your thoughts are!

I am the mother of three children—Jeremy, 3, Rebekah, 2 and Douglas, 7 weeks. I have become accustomed to hearing loud noises outside my field of vision; most of them make me cringe. I hold my breath and wait because usually Jeremy will cry out, “I’m otay, Mommy.” He’s become accustomed to me asking “are you okay, Jeremy,” after hearing the loud noises. Three small children also isolate me from the world outside of Nick Jr. I was unaware of the tsunami in Japan because, as I informed my husband, they don’t interrupt Olivia for a special news break.

I have, however, been watching the news pretty carefully over the past few weeks. My dad sent me the link to an article about a mother in Somalia. At 29 years of age, she had to make what the Associated Press calls a “tortured choice.” She walked for two weeks from Somalia to Kenya with her 1-year-old on her back and her 4-year-old at her side. She was trying to escape her war-torn and famine-ravaged country, trying to take her children to a place where they could have food and water. Near the end of her journey, the article goes on to say, her 4-year-old son collapsed. She had very little water left and poured a little on his head, but he was unconscious. Those around her did not stop because they were also fighting to live. Seeing that he was not waking up, she left him on the side of the road so that she could carry her 1-year-old to safety.

I have been scanning the news stations on TV and the internet to see if there has been any other coverage. I have waited with bated breath, the same way I wait to hear my son say, “I’m otay.” I have waited to hear someone saying troops will be heading to Somalia to aid these poor women. I have heard nothing. I am 33 years old. Jeremy will be 4 years old in a few weeks. In my wildest dreams, I cannot fathom having to make a choice like that.

I read the article and my shoulders slumped; my family is strapped financially. We can’t pledge money to any causes helping those people. I am not in a position of influence per se. I visit a food pantry most months to help put food on my own table. I felt like there was nothing I could do, but see, I’m a mommy. I have the power to make wounds instantly heal. I can make myself disappear under blankets and reappear at will. Why can’t I see myself as my kids see me? I can contact my senator and congressmen. I can demand that they use our vast national resources to help my fellow mothers. If they don’t help, I can organize campaigns for candidates who will help. I can be the superhero my kids know I am.

I still cringe every night I don’t see any coverage of this story on the local or national news. I hope you will, too.

To My Unborn Child(ren): A (Brief) Manifesto

You have yet to meet me. I have known of you for almost 9 months. I have felt your kicks, your hiccups and your movements inside my body. I stare at Jeremy and Bekah's bellybuttons and realize that I am forever connected to them by what seems like an inconsequential thing. I will also be connected to you this way. By the time you enter my hospital room, I will have already been anxious about you, already worried about how you'll fit into the family, already thinking about how those first few months home will go.

I am your mom and I am a broken person. I tend to watch the same shows over and over again. I like to listen to contemplative music when the house is quiet. I prefer the cold to the heat. I have eaten eggs almost every morning for the past few years. I like being up late at night because the house is quiet and I have a chance to be alone with my thoughts. I was fortunate enough to marry my best friend, your father. I cry about things that other people don't find too sad.

I have spent a long time wondering what you will look like. I don't care if you are a boy or a girl; you are already imprinted in my mind and on my heart. I will be your mother until you draw your last breath. There is nothing that you could do to make me stop loving you. Sometimes I may do things that may anger you, but I will do them to protect you. I will discipline you because I want you to feel safe in the boundaries of our home and my love. I am going to make mistakes raising you, of this I am sure. I will be impatient and grumpy sometimes. I may drag my feet to come and feed you in the middle of the night. The mood on my face may not reflect it, but there is a deep and abiding love in my heart for you. I don't want you to ever have to doubt that about me.

I want you to know that you are going to be beautiful no matter how you look. I will gaze upon your face often and reflect on that fact. I will know every contour of your face, of the shape of your ears, where you're ticklish and where you might have gotten a booboo. I will do my best to feed you well, give you baths and smother you with as many kisses as I can manage.

There will be several years during your life that you will feel wonky. You will want me to hug you, but won't ask for a hug because you're too cool. I will respect the space between us, but know that I am always going to want to give you some affection. You will not know how to talk to me about difficult subjects. I confess I may not want to discuss difficult subjects. But I will pray for wisdom; I will do my best to listen without prejudice and give you advice or information or just be quiet. I hope that you are able to bring things to me. I hope that you are able to feel my love for you, even when the emotional chasm between us is great.

I want you to know that the world is full of broken people. You are going to meet a lot of them, like most of them and love a few of them. All people have infinite worth. I have found that those whom I can't stand the most are most like me. Pray over difficult people. Ask God to help them. Ask God for good things to happen to them. Give them the benefit of the doubt and a polite smile, even if just the sight of them makes you want to travel to the other side of the room.

Try as hard as you can to start the day smiling, even if you don't feel like it (and there are many mornings that you won't). When you are at the end of your emotional rope, go to sleep. Things always look better in the morning. Nothing good happens after 10 PM, so make sure you're where you're going to be for the night at that point (and then stay there). Pray for humility so that if you have had to much to drink, you can hand over the keys or take a taxi. Peace breeds peace, so avoid people who speak angrily or seem ready to fight at any moment. Try to be kind to everyone you meet; even a small act of kindness for a stranger can have a profound effect.

Jeremy and Bekah are excited to meet you, too. They are little, though, so you should know that their moods are capricious and they are not yet able to express everything well. They might not always have kind things to say about you. Just you being with me will make them jealous. They will not now how to handle such a little person, so you may be poked and prodded. You may have too many toys dumped on top of you. You may get a lot of kisses one moment and a scowl the next. They are broken people too, but they will also be connected to you because I'm their Mommy. You will have a long time to figure out how to best relate to them. Watch them as much as you can, because they're funny. They like to run around and chase each other. They like to give lots of kisses and hugs to me (for the moment). They get jealous of each other. They like silly shows and Jeremy especially enjoys watching the same shows over and over again. They're quirky, but I'm sure they will be good at being big brother and big sister.

You have two dogs, Scout and Rascal. Scout is very needy and she's not going to be sure what to do with herself when you get home. When I am nursing you, she will be sitting very close to me. She likes to have her belly scratched. She wanders around the neighborhood when she feels like we aren't paying enough attention to her. She eats food and loves to give sloppy kisses to everyone. Rascal, on the other hand, is afraid of his shadow. He will probably be terrified of you for at least the first 2 years of your life. He likes to have the black spot on his back (near his tail) scratched. He also likes to scavenge for food, but he is less likely to cover you with sloppy kisses.

Little one, I can't wait for you to come and meet me. I can feel you wedged under my ribcage right now. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but at least I know you're there. I've probably left a lot of things out here, but I feel like this is a good start. Until then.....

My Bexa Bex

I have not spent my whole life dreaming about being married and having kids. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I really dreamed about becoming a lifetime student, getting my Ph.D. and writing a book of poetry that was not a best-seller but was well-respected. I eschewed most things about being a girl; I didn't particularly care for dolls, makeup or dress-up. I had long hair for many years, but when I was in 4th grade, my mom got tired of fighting me to maintain it and had it all chopped off. To compound matters, I decided to wear a baseball cap almost every day that year. I became so used to wearing my baseball cap that I sometimes forgot that I had it on. I remember being on the soccer field and having people waving at me from the sidelines, telling me to take it off. For these reasons, my mom allowed me to get my ears pierced, but this really didn't stop most people from calling me "son" or "buddy" or some other derivative.

Fast forward to being a grown-up and I still wasn't one dreaming about having kids. I did obsess about being married for a few years, but to be fair I went to a small, private university where everyone was getting married, talking about getting married or getting ready to get married. I was fighting a rising tide of it and I got sucked in. Later, after I transferred, those thoughts drained from my head. I still didn't like to wear makeup (I've probably worn it on a total of 3 months' worth of days in my life), dressed in mainly t-shirts and jeans and was one of those scarily competitive people when it came to sports. This didn't mean I didn't like boys; I did, very much. I just didn't really excel at being a girl.

When I got married, I still wasn't sure I wanted to have kids. In fact, I swore up and down that I wouldn't have any. I was happy living in my two bedroom condo with my two dogs and my husband. I had time to do whatever I wanted when I wanted. I came and went as I pleased. Brian and I had a plan; we were going to be married a few years and then start trying to conceive. This would give us an opportunity to be married, go on vacations, etc. Then one Friday night in October of 2006, he came home with a dreamy look on his face. He had been hanging out with some of his male friends and their young children. He sat down on the bed in our guest room and talked to me while I played on the computer. He asked me if I wanted to have a baby. I said, no, we have a plan, let's stick to the plan. The truth was, the idea had started to occur to me more frequently, but I thought it was a trick question so I just kept saying no. After like the fifth time he asked me, I sheepishly admitted that I had been thinking about it. "Aha," he said, "I knew it. You want to divert from the plan." (It should be noted that Brian likes to have plans and that these plans customarily are set in stone. This is why I had not said anything to his accusations about me wanting to have kids two years before we were planning to start trying.)

At this point, I threw up my hands. I told him that he was the one who had been pressing the issue and I finally agreed just to get him off my back. From that point on, though, he smugly declared that it was my idea to have kids, not his. We decided within the next few minutes a boy's name and a girl's name. Jeremy Ryan and Rebekah Ann were the first and only names we picked out for the two children we now have. Our plan was to start trying in December of that year. I thought, good, this will give me some additional time to lose weight and get in shape. Everyone told me it took a few months or so before conceiving. I figured I had time to ease into the idea. Wrong. We conceived the first time we tried.

I will jump ahead in the narrative so I can make my point before Friday. Having Jeremy convinced me that I would be a really good boy mom. I knew little to nothing about dolls, makeup, dress-up, really anything girly or prissy. I fantasized about having all boys and how muss-free that would be. When we got pregnant again, though, I started to see the color pink more--and think it was really pretty. I began noticing dolls in the toy stores. I realized that boy clothes aren't really as much fun as girl clothes. There's more selection for girls and there are frilly dresses and tights and black patent Mary Janes. So when I found out that Bekah was going to be our second child, I was not sad. I was excited to meet her.

As much as Jeremy was punctual and gradual in his arrival, Bekah arrived like a roaring freight train. The Wednesday before she was born, our dog Scout ran away from home. She has a tendency to feel sorry for herself if she's not getting enough attention and takes it out on us by running away. It was a cold night in January, but I grabbed my coat and walked around the block twice, yelling out for her, knocking on people's doors and generally losing my mind that something had happened to her. I even enlisted our neighbor's help in trying to find her. Finally, I gave up. I called the police department to get animal control's number and they told me they had found her.

Three days later, I spent an obscene amount of money at Babies R Us. For both of my pregnancies, I have had irrational concerns about things the baby might not have. For Jeremy, it was blankets. I was convinced he wouldn't have enough. For Bekah, it was hats. And I didn't think she should have to sleep on "boy" sheets. So I went to Babies R Us, came home, dumped the stuff in her bedroom and went to bed. The next morning, while I was talking to a friend at church, I felt something inside my body snap. I can't describe it, but at that moment I knew I was in labor. It manifested itself as a nasty stomach flu, so I spent most of my day (Super Bowl Sunday) running back and forth to the bathroom. I got Brian to take me to the hospital, but they sent me home saying all I had was the stomach flu. I slept fitfully on the couch while the game was on. I couldn't get comfortable and it felt like I was having contractions, but they were different than the ones I had with Jeremy.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I called my parents and told them we were headed back to the hospital. My mom called us en route to tell us that Bekah wasn't supposed to come until Tuesday, which was much more convenient for her to take off from school. Brian, in the calmest voice I've ever heard him use, basically told my mom that he would take that under advisement but that there wasn't a whole lot he could do.

I had planned to have an epidural, as I did with Jeremy. By the time I got to the hospital, though, I was very dehydrated and 5 cm dilated. The nurse hung the first bag of fluids and said I had to have two bags before I could get the epidural. I watched the slow drip into my IV and knew that wasn't going to happen. A couple of hours later, the doctor literally walked in, had the nurse help him put his gown on, slipped on his gloves and caught Bekah as she was coming out. A few seconds later and Brian would have had to deliver her himself.

I have commented on how I feel children's birth stories mimic their eventual personality. Bekah is as wild as Jeremy is reserved. She prefers to be naked most of the time; he hardly likes to be naked for baths. She likes to get dirty, eats any kind of food you put in front of her and is stubborn as a mule. She is a daredevil (and I think she's taught some of that to her brother). She has been very opinionated since I met her. She also loves to shop (something that just escapes me). We were walking through a JC Penney once and she stopped in the jewelry department and was touching everything. She was just amazed by how many sparkly things there were (it even drew comments from the ladies working in that department).

She is a tomboy--she likes to be outside, she likes any form, size or shape of water, doesn't mind digging in the mud and likes to collect rocks and sticks. She is also a girly girl--she received a sparkly pair of shoes for her birthday and dropped everything to run over and put them on. I can usually coax her into getting dressed by showing her the pretty outfit I have picked out for her. Jeremy had to be convinced to dig into his cake on his first birthday; there was so much icing in the tub after Bekah had at her cake that I had to wash the bathtub twice. She loves animals in all shapes and sizes, but she will also run over to my mom if she sees her putting on Chapstick and demand some as well. She is very athletic and agile. It can sometimes take us a while to catch her in the house because she stops on a dime and turns in a way that's just amazing. I had people commenting to me a few weeks ago that she should be in soccer already because of how she was handling a soccer ball. She loves to flip and jump and find out different ways she can manipulate her body.

In short, I think she is the perfect girl. She is the perfect combination of girl and tomboy. I love her fiercely and for every time I tell her I think she's pretty, I tell her she's also smart and funny and lovely in general. I want her to grow up knowing that she's not just a pretty face. I want her to know that you can be a girl and still like sports and getting dirty and being opinionated. I am baffled by how much I enjoy looking at girl's clothes and I agonize over how to put her outfits together. I can't find an outfit for her that she doesn't look cute in, but I want to make sure I enhance how cute she is with her clothes. I try, as much as possible, to equal out my affection with her and Jeremy. I give her lots of kisses and tickle her and flip her and read to her. She is already a chatterbox (although she goes mute when we leave the house) and I enjoy having conversations with her.

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined wanting to have kids, let alone a daughter. Now, I can't imagine my life any other way!!

M-A-T-T

To be fair, any embarrassing stories I share about my brother could be countered by as many about me. I mention that because I'm sure he'll read this and cry foul. Please reference "Baby, You Should Drive My Car" for a primer on embarrassing Sue moments.

My brother will be 30 in August. We are three and a half years apart, almost to the day. I will swear up and down until I'm carried home that I wanted a baby sister, but now I know there's really very little control over what happens in that department. I vaguely remember my mom being pregnant, mostly from pictures and anecdotes. I know she craved vanilla ice cream with him (something that she still loves). She had preeclampsia while she was pregnant with Matt and had to be on bed rest. This I don't really recall, but I know it because she's mentioned it many times.

In the beginning, I am told that I loved my brother so much my mom had to put him in protective custody (the playpen). My mom tells me he cried for six months; I think it was colic but I'm not sure. As a small child, my brother was incredibly outgoing and mischievous. I stayed in my crib until I was too big for it; I would wait in the morning until my mom came and got me, or I would get out and immediately crawl into bed with my mom and dad. My brother, however, was well known for getting out of his crib and sneaking around like a ninja. For years, my dad would go to Weber's Bakery to buy birthday cakes for us. One year, when my brother must have been almost 2, we enjoyed some cake for my mom's birthday and went to bed. My parents knew about Matt's ninja skills, so they placed the rest of the cake on top of the refrigerator. We all went to bed. In the morning, I went to get my mom and dad and we all walked into the kitchen. There was a chair pulled up to the counter and on the ground was my brother, up to his elbows in the upturned cake.

There are pictures of me under my Snoopy umbrella, trying to protect myself from Matt's slobbering. He once flushed an entire roll of toilet paper down the toilet. He broke his arm at 18 months of age, we suspect from a botched escape from his crib. He liked to sleep with his butt up in the air, rocking on his head--he would wake up every morning looking like a rooster. I loved my brother back then, but mostly I was annoyed by him. He was born around the time Adam Walsh disappeared, and so whenever we travelled anywhere my mom used a plastic telephone cord (with wrist wraps on both ends) to keep track of him. He liked to walk up to anyone, stranger or not, and say hello. I was much more likely to stay hidden behind my mom, too petrified to talk to even relatives. He liked to watch TV while riding on a bouncy horse and would do it incessantly.

Later, he became known in our household for being a bit obsessive. The first Christmas we had a camcorder, my dad set it up in the corner and literally taped 4 hours of Christmas. My brother must have watched that tape 200 times, and I am not exaggerating. We would find him watching it over and over and over. He watched Alice in Wonderland that way and Lucky Luke and, over one summer, The Weather Channel. (This was before the Weather Channel had shows--he was just watching the weather forecast, over and over again.) Whenever we checked into a hotel, he would obsessively watch the hotel information channel. He found something he liked and for the next several months afterwards, that's all he would do. This happened with Dinosaurs, Garfield, Legos and eventually video games.

As we grew older, his cuteness wore off. When we moved from Belvidere to Streamwood, we attended a small church. We would usually sit in the front couple of rows during the sermon. The pastor would ask rhetorical questions, like "who among us hasn't struggled with such-and-such." My brother would sometimes raise his hand (and sometimes not) to answer the pastor's question. Out loud. While the sermon was still going on. I would turn a distinct shade of red and fantasize about the gymnasium floor opening up and swallowing me whole. He wore glasses for a while but would always forget them. My mom once picked him up from the library and noticed that he had forgotten his glasses. She sent him right back into the library to find them. He came back with a very odd-looking pair of glasses. Apparently, he had found the Lions bin of donated glasses and picked one out for himself.

And then I turned to torturing my little brother. My favorite happened in department stores. We would go shopping with my mom and he would see the Ladies' Underwear department (as he called it) from afar. He would get grossed out, especially if we had to go shopping for my mom in that department. I would tell him to close his eyes and I would tell him when we were either past the department or to a point where it was "safe" to open his eyes. Most of the time, I would wait until we were in the middle of the department and make him open his eyes. He would groan and yell at me, and then shut his eyes again. The funny thing is, this happened multiple, multiple times. He would ask me to protect him and then I would betray him.

Even funnier was playing Super Mario Bros. with him. We would play together for hours. For those in the know, when Mario touched a star, he became invincible for a brief time. On multiple occasions, I convinced him that Mario was still invincible even after the star wore off. It never failed-he would believe me and try to run into an enemy and immediately lose a life. He would get so angry at me as I sat there laughing at him.

We were also well known for our fights. They would start off benign but after a while we would get mad and be out for blood. My mom would eventually have to step in to make sure we didn't do serious harm. I think he took this fighting to heart, though, because he is now a second-degree black belt. At the age of 33, I don't usually try to mess with him anyway but knowing this gives me pause even for the most casual blow to the shoulder.

My brother was also famous for his homemade jokes. I can't remember any of them because they were quite lame, but I can tell you he thought they were hilarious. There wasn't a Scholastic book with the title "101 Best Jokes" that he didn't own. We uncovered some of them recently while cleaning out his room and had a giggle. Our family's sense of humor is slightly twisted and we discovered The Far Side when I was younger. Matt would "read" us Far Side comics from the back of the car on long road trips. I suggest you try that if you can't see why it would be so funny.

I watch Bekah and Jeremy now and I see how much they love each other and look out for each other. I don't know if I was like that with Matt ever. I feel like I spent a lot of time caught up with me, which is probably true but then I could have been very affectionate with him and forgotten about it. My mom said he was always lovey-dovey with her, but aside from him slobbering on me, we have never been much for hugs and kisses. It's just been within the past few years that we hug each other often, say we love each other and (gasp) give each other a peck on the cheek.

He is now the introvert of the family. My mom, dad and I will carry conversations for hours with minimal interaction from my brother. If you ask me a question, I will answer you in half-hour segments; if you ask my brother a question, you may get a few mumbled sentences. Most of the time you can be talking right to him and he will have no idea; he will have been nodding along with you but not really listening. He isn't known for sharing openly and my mom, dad and I have to conference with each other to get the full picture of what's going on with him. Usually, he'll tell me one part and my parents another. Once we have had a chance to talk to each other, we can finally make heads or tails out of what's going on with him. I finally had to sit him down and order him to call our mother once a week. He didn't understand why this was such a big deal; in his mind, he had nothing new to say so why should he call? I tried to explain (as patiently as I could) that our mom simply wanted to hear his voice and hear that he's okay. I think he finally took that advice to heart. He has a kind and tender heart, but he struggles with how to articulate all of those feelings. His favorite medium for conversation is e-mails or online chat because he can edit himself and take the time to construct cogent sentences. We often comment that he really is the "engineer" type.

A few years ago, he got tired of all of us bossing him around and decided to join the Navy. Yes, there is some irony in that sentence. Since I've been together with Brian, Matt was given the nickname "The Saint." It still seems at times like my brother can do no wrong and I can do nothing right. It seems like he's my parents' favorite, although he will swear that I'm the one receiving the favor. He is still brilliant but mostly clueless. Ask him about a nuclear reactor on a sub (that's where he serves) and he will talk circles around you. Ask him what he thinks about your home decor choices and expect to hear crickets. He has struggled to find a mate and for a while I thought it didn't bother him. Lately, though, he has started dating someone and I am hopeful that he won't be a confirmed bachelor.

Our relationship has changed from being contentious to one of mentor/mentee. There was a lot of healing when I made amends to him several years ago. I had to confess that I had taken money from him on several occasions (to which he replied, 'oh, I wondered where that money had gone'). Since that point, we have slowly grown closer. He calls me more often than he ever has before. He is in love with both of my kids and flew us all out to California last summer for a vacation. He and Jeremy especially are thick as thieves; he is in  town now for a week and when Jeremy heard about this he said, "Uncle Matt comes to our house to play blocks." He is a good uncle to my babies, spoiling them and also looking out for their future. He has helped us out of a few financial scrapes and has always been willing to watch the kids whenever he's in town.

There are parts of his story I won't tell because that's for him to share. He is an amazing man now, someone I respect immensely. He has always been better at managing money than I. I would barely have a few nickels to my name and he would have a healthy balance in his bank account. He is driving a car now that he bought a year or two before he joined the Navy. He drives with the windows down because running the A/C costs too much money. He has simple tastes and I'm hoping his new girl will eventually take him to task over his wardrobe, which leans toward 3 Stooges t-shirts and blue jeans. He has participated in triathlons and running races. He still plays video games (I think), but has recently cut way back on that as well. As a navigator, he's clueless. He could get lost going from one side of town to another. Our conversations continue to be a bit one-sided, although we had a lovely conversation the other night.

I only have one sibling. I have no perspective on siblings aside from my own. I know that sibling relationships change over time. My mom and uncle have never been that close; my dad barely speaks to his three surviving brothers. My grandma, on the other hand, is still close with her two sisters. I know that it's tough to share DNA with someone but seem to have nothing else in common. I have watched my brother over the years grow from awkward boy into an awkward (but slightly more confident) man. He is ever changing, just like our relationship. I had to share some advice with him today and I don't know how he took it. I felt it's gotten to the point where I need to be the protective older sister rather than the one who tricks him into opening his eyes in the middle of Ladies' Underwear. I hope he can understand that the advice came from a place of love.  I'm not perfect; I still get jealous of him. I still feel like he gets preferential treatment. But the twinges of jealousy are fewer and far between; they have been replaced by far greater twinges of pride.

I wonder what I'll write about next.....