I'm Not Dead ... Yet

Things that make one (or at least me) feel really old:

• Having two kids
• Owning both a guest bed and a chest freezer
• Canning - I did apricots, raspberry jam and applesauce this year, and will likely can green tomato sauce before the first hard freeze (which may be coming sooner than later - yikes)
• Getting excited over leaving the house without having two carseats to buckle
• Most of all ... spending more and more time at home and dreading anything that involves the words "road" and "trip."

This past week, I spent 8 days at The Parents' house. I bravely took Woodstock and Pebbles down to visit Grammpy and Papa - a 4-hour drive if one drives 70-75 mph the entire way. 6 hours if one has to stop and pick up apples (for the father-daughter applesauce canning project), feed a newborn, change two diapers, feed a toddler and do two emergency binky rescues.

Fortunately, I am apparently blessed with two children who don't mind the car so much (Woodstock likes it better than Pebbles, but that is to be expected, I suppose), because every relative we have requires a drive of some length. Unfortunately, the whole thing made me want to swear off road trips forever and ever. Especially the drive home, where Pebbles decided 64 miles from home that she had to eat rightthisverysecond. Sitting in a WalMart parking lot at 9 p.m. with a tired toddler and a ravenous infant is loads of fun. Especially when the toddler pipes up from the back seat and says, "Mommy, my bottom hurts! All done sitting!" You and me both kiddo!

Ever the glutton for punishment, I will again be testing fate in a few days as we load up the girls and everything we own (at least it feels like it) and set out for a 700+ mile trek to the Pacific Northwest for Himself's father's memorial service. At least this time there will be two adults, but the trip is 3 times longer - at least until you figure we'll be stopping every 2-3 hours to feed Pebbles, which means about 70 minutes of driving over every 2-hour span - not very good odds. At that rate, we might arrive in time for Thanksgiving.

And all I can do is sit here and stare at the mountain of laundry and the two-page "list of things not to forget for road trip" and try not to cry.

It's times like this when living in a familial compound don't sound so bad after all.

Enter the Drama Queen

My mother finds it a very amusing thing to tell her friends that I attract drama like honey attracts flies. I, of course, find it not-quite-as-amusing, though at least she says "attracts" and not "creates," because I do not actually create drama, it just sort of follows me around incessently - like a puppy or a toddler.

Heidi would call it being a "crap magnet" - although not all of my drama is of the bad sort, just, well ... dramatic.

Unfortunately, I have to agree. Especially after this week. This week was going fine until I mentioned I felt a gut feeling that something was "off" and the midwife ordered a non-stress test and ultra sound so I didn't drive myself crazy.

As it turns out, Pebbles, after being compliant and facing head down since 29 weeks, is now BREECH - lying sideways across my belly and trending toward moving vertical - only with her head UP. Woodstock was breech, but she was breech the entire time until 37(ish) weeks when she turned. I'm due in EIGHT DAYS and my child turned breech sometime in the last week when I wasn't paying attention.

Transverse babies cannot be delivered vaginally, for obvious reasons. On the flip side, doctors normally quite happy to "prescribe" a c-section don't want to, because who wants to perform surgery on a patient fully anti-coagulated? Not only that, but if I went into labor I would then need an emergency c-section with general anesthesia (no time to un-anti-coagulate, eliminating all spinal anesthesia possibilities). Two bad things about this: a. I miss the birth entirely. b. Me and general anesthesia are better off staying far, far away from each other. Five surgeries. four had complications. two had life-threatening complications. The odds aren't so fabulous. Never mind the fact that I DO NOT WANT a c-section.

This sent my perfectly planned world into a tailspin. Suddenly I can no longer wish to wake up in the throes of labor pains. Suddenly I have to sit with my rear in the air and tilted right, holding a bag of frozen spinach to Pebbles' head in hopes of persuading her to relocate to another position. Often. Repeatedly. Suddenly, I'm going to the chiropractor's office twice a day to fix my badly misaligned pelvis in hopes that will coax Pebbles to settle down and cooperate. Suddenly, it's twice-a-week non-stress tests and ultrasounds and midwife visits to "keep an eye on" the baby so when she turns we can take action (I'm very empathetic to Kristin at the moment). Suddenly, while I'm still technically "working" I'm spending most of my day driving all over The Frontier.

Then the phone rings at 1:30 a.m. It was Himself's sister letting him know that FIL1 had had a heart attack, was rushed to the hospital and had a second one - it's related to his cancer treatments, they're not sure he'll make it. Himself so eloquently put it at 2 a.m., "He's not dead ... yet."

Up until 3 getting updates and dealing with the adrenaline that comes from being woken up mid-sleep cycle. Himself went back to sleep. There was to be no more sleep for me - once I'm woken up, I'm up. I did the dishes, straightened the kitchen, checked my e-mail, found a chiropractor and played solitaire. I fell asleep watching some baby show at 5:30, only to have to wake up at 6:30.

Today I've spent the day coordinating with the midwife and perinatologist and chiropractor and waiting for updates from Himself and surfing for cheap tickets to the northwest in case he decides to see his dad this weekend. And trying to concentrate on the never-ending "to do list" I have at work.

Maybe mom is right - I may not create drama, but I certainly seem to attract it. I'll gladly share, if anyone is feeling left out and getting too comfortable in the "life is grand, nothing ever changes" stage.

The One Where the Pregnant Lady Ventures Into the Wilderness

Again.

No, the camping trip 4 weeks ago didn't cure me of my need to commune with the great outdoors this summer - though it did cure me of wanting to sleep on the ground the rest of the pregnancy. Himself's work schedule is a mess, so he couldn't get off. Grover was visiting relations in the Great Frozen North, so I took Woodstock and we set off on a 230-mile journey (36.5 miles of it on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere) to join up with The Parentals, my sister/bro-in-law/niece and a couple of other family members for four days of "luxury" camping.

It is "luxury" because I got to sleep in my parents' trailer. Although don't be too jealous - the bed was only slightly softer than the ground, and I did have to share a sleeping space with Woodstock, who would wake up each morning with the sun at 5:45 a.m. and declare, "All done sleeping mommy!" Um, sure. Me too ... I guess. It was also "luxury" because on this annual camping trip (I've gone 25 or so of my 30+ years), we eat like queens - an abudance of food was available at all times of night or day, in addition to the fabulous meals whipped up by The Parentals and my sister.

The only problem was at 36 weeks pregnant I got the a-okay to go from my Midwife only if I promised to not hike or take "long walks that other people would consider hiking" or do too much. The Parentals translated this as, "Sara should do nothing." Aggravation. I felt alternately useless and exhausted. The Parentals waivered between grateful I could come and paranoid that I'd go into labor at 9,000 feet, 2+ hours from the nearest (small) hospital.

On the way down, under strict instructions from The Parentals, I caravanned with my aunt who was also joining the family camping trip in the camping spot across the street. She told me I had to navigate, as she never could remember exactly how to get there. I joked that once we hit the dirt road, you spend the first 20 miles convinced you're on the wrong road (little to no signage) and the last 16 miles or so convinced you've passed the campground because the mileage sign (the ONE mileage sign) is wrong. I will admit, as fiercely independent as I am, I was a little nervous making the return trip today sans an escort - through nearly 40 miles of barren wilderness with no cell phone signal. I could just imagine getting a flat tire, being unable to change it due to my "condition" and having to hike (er, walk) the remaining lonely miles to the nearest town - population a few hundred people - with Woodstock on my back and a 9-month-pregnant belly.

Fortunately, lots of prayers and good fortune abounded and we made it home filthy, safe and only slightly grumpy.

Six hours later, I've unpacked, done three batches of laundry, bathed, gone to the grocery store (clean but unkempt), ordered Chinese food and tried not to think about how exhausted I am after four days of doing nothing but chasing Woodstock and sitting on my tail end.

Four weeks left (approximately), and I think I'm all adventured out.

The Martyr's Lament

This month's issue of The Atlantic has a "thought-provoking" (stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil-due-to-the-sheer-idiocy-of-the-argument kind of thought-provoking) article on the "outdated institution of marriage." (Side note: why must it always be referred to as an "institution?" - no wonder people are all for its demise. "Institution" sounds like somewhere youd send someone to be strapped to a bed and attended to by men in white lab coats, not something I'd actually wish to participate in.)

It starts by the author confessing to an extramarital affair. It then proceeds to detail her thoughts on how marriage is something best left to the 19th century agrarians where "it was considered to be a kind of trade union for a woman, her protection against the sexually wandering male."

People are entitled to their own opinions, though my brain is still sore from the verbal whiplash I endured as I bounced back and forth between her self-centered diatribe against stability, men in general and that venerable "institution": marriage.

The author, in the end, decides to get divorced, primarily because marriage takes (gasp) work - and while the author spends paragraphs assuring us she knows how to work (and is not afraid of it), alas, "Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance."

Wait a second. So the thing that should be most important above all in your life is being flung by the wayside like a used tissue because you are too tired after being a working mother to rekindle the romantic spark? Clearly she had some time to kindle some kind of romantic spark, given that she's just confessed (to the world, her therapist and her ex-husband) to having a brief extramarital affair.

She then laments: "My domestic evenings have typically revolved around five o’clock mac and cheese under bright lighting and then a slow melt into dishes and SpongeBob … because yet another of my marital failings was that I was never able to commit to a nanny"

I'm confused. So her life would have been better if she had a nanny? (No offense to nannys or those who hire them - I, after all, do my part to keep a sitter employed) But you can't conjure up a better evening than mac-n-cheese and SpongeBob? She goes on to complain about pondering these things in the middle of the night while dodging the elbows of her grade-school-aged girls.

Wait a minute.
She appears to be trying so hard to paint a picture of herself as a martyr that she is inadvertantly painting herself as rather inept at life in general (or so it seems). Not that there is anything wrong with mac-n-cheese (my own kid loves it) or SpongeBob (at least according to Himself) or snuggling with the kiddos, but I see a self-centered woman who overindulges her children because she's too tired (or something) to parent and tosses away her 20-year-marriage over a fling because it's more work than she can cram into her "woe-is-me" working mother schedule.

Here I feel, in some ways, qualified to comment. I'm a working mother. I work 40ish hours a week, in an office. It's hard. It's tiring. It's something I'd rather not do for the rest of my life. But that does NOT absolve me of my responsibilities as a wife, a parent and a citizen of planet Earth. Nor does the sacrifices that being a working mother/wife require earn me martyr status. I am not a single parent, underemployed, working multiple jobs or on public assistance. Neither was the author (until she chose single parenting over the "work" that rebuilding her marriage would take). And her selfish pursuit of excitement, lust and the easy way (over-indulging the children versus having an adult relationship with their father) certainly does not qualify as either sacrifice or martyr status.

I can only imagine the shock and awe that would result from Himself if I waltzed in the house day after day and said, "Oh I can only manage to cook dinner from a box and stick Woodstock in front of the TV, because I can't possibly be expected to do anything more for anyone - I am, after all, a working woman." Never mind the fact that Himself (and the author's husband) are both employed as well.

Which brings me to the next portion of the essay in which the author joins a friend to rail against her friend's spouse (who holds a job, cooks, chauffers the kiddos and generally dazzles all of their friends), because *gasp* he is too "stable."

In one sentance she lauds his goodness: "More accurately, [she is] reheating dinner; the dish is something wonderfully subtle yet complex, like a saffron-infused porcini risotto, that Ian made over the weekend and froze for us, in Tupperware neatly labeled with a Sharpie, because this is the sort of thoughtful thing he does." Several paragraphs later, she gleefully skewers him for his faults, while at the same time absolving her friend's faults because she "She sees herself as a failed mother, and is depressed and chronically overworked at her $120,000-a-year job (which she must cling to for the benefits because Ian freelances). At night, horny and sleepless, she paces the exquisite kitchen, gobbling mini Dove bars. The main breadwinner, Rachel is really the Traditional Dad, but instead of being handed her pipe and slippers at six, she appears to be marooned in a sexless remodeling project with a passive-aggressive Competitive Wife."

As I see it, women have created (by and large) their own monster. We have begged, pleaded, groveled, yelled and demanded to be treated not as mere equals to men but AS MEN. In the process, we emasculate men, demand that they take on everything we can't possibly handle as "poor working mothers," and then whine because they turn into "passive-aggressive Competitive Wi[ves]" - who are probably leaving their partners without intimacy because they are TOO DARN TIRED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT after a day of working, whipping up healthy meals and shuttling the kids to and from everything. Sure, they should focus on the relationship too, but if we're too busy crying "martyr!" and shoving everything into their laps, we hardly have room to complain.

Now, to be clear, I'm all for equal division of labor ESPECIALLY because I work. I want a partner in parenting, in household tasks and in life - in addition to someone who is also a romantic partner. But I'm not going to get that if I insist on whining about how rough my life is to be the main breadwinner, so therefore I cannot possibly be asked to do anything else. Isn't that the whole 1950s "Man gets home, gets pipe and newspaper ignores family" scenario that we as women have been campaigning against for some 50 years, only with the gender roles reversed?"

I want to know what is wrong with the "stable men" she rails against in her article. What's so wrong with being stable? Stable doesn't have to mean boring, and if it does, maybe she'd best look at herself as she critizes everyone else ... look where it got her ... at least now she can play the "woe is me, SINGLE working mom" card.

The problem is, she seems to confuse Love with Lust - which even a scientist would tell you are two completely different things - from a cellular level right on through your marital vows. That is never more clear than in her last paragraph, in which she states:

Avoid marriage—or you too may suffer the emotional pain, the humiliation, and the logistical difficulty, not to mention the expense, of breaking up a long-term union at midlife for something as demonstrably fleeting as love.

That just leaves me speechless.

The pregnant lady, the toddler and the tent (and one obliging Himself)

The first indication that a camping road trip with a toddler and a pregnant woman was a bad idea should have been when I ran over a screw in the 1.5 blocks between work and the bank on Thursday afternoon, necessitating a new tire (replacing the one, I might add, that we just replaced six months ago *grumble*).

Undaunted, I forged on with a spirit befitting a pioneer (or an asylum resident, it remains to be fully determined). No matter, we'd delay our start a bit in hopes the tire could be fixed. When it couldn't, I not-so-cheerfully loaded everything into the smaller car - the one that would mean a backseat ride with virtually no leg room (long car trips with a toddler are best fared with one adult in the back seat).

Flat tire, late start ... no matter, we were well on our way to the Great American Road Trip, clean air, cooler temperatures and some memory-making.

However, there are a few things that seem to always have to happen to make life into one adventure after another when it involves me:

• The late start meant it was raining by the time we reached Yellowstone. Raining buckets. I'm tough, I can rough it, but something about dealing with wet camping gear, a toddler and pregnancy (and a grumpy Himself) didn't appeal. We decided to keep driving until a) the rain quit or b) another alternative presented itself. The alternative presented itself around 7 p.m. Friday night (after the obligatory stop at Old Faithful, where Woodstock delighted onlookers by trying to put her hat on Himself, then giggling hysterically as Old Faithful erupted - she loved it!). At that point we were in Gardiner, Montana. We found a quaint little group of cabins with this sign: Enough to make you want to stop, right? It took some convincing, but they really were cute, charming (and antiquated) little cabins - and cheap (not as cheap as tent camping, but one cannot be picky if one doesn't wish to sleep on soggy ground). We stayed in this one:


• Sleeping with a toddler. I'm not sure how the co-sleeper people do it, but I am convinced they are probably so exhausted no one realizes how little sleep they are getting, because little people were not meant to sleep with big people. Night one we let Woodstock fall asleep in our bed before relocating her to (gasp!) her makeshift bed of quilts on the floor because we only had one bed. And the only way to confine her to one spot while falling asleep was to put her in between us. Night 2 we all shared a tent - where she again enjoyed prime sleeping space between us to minimize nocturnal acrobatics. I've never gotten so little sleep on vacation before. Woodstock kicking me one way, kiddo #2 kicking me from the inside.


• Tent camping. Did I really just do this at 32 weeks pregnant? Yes. And it wouldn't have been so bad if a) my small backpack tent would have actually been long enough for Himself to stretch out in (oops). b)It had not involved a wiggly toddler who slept beautifully even as she ensured her parents would not. c)I didn't have a hip that causes great pain when sleeping on hard surfaces - normally I sleep on my back or stomach while camping. Kind of an issue when one's tummy is out to here leaving no other choice.


• Holiday camping. Camping across from a group of teenagers, to be specific. Himself and I had just commented on how much we liked our campsite when viola! enter a group of 30+ teens and one or two people that might have passed as possible adult chaperones. It wasn't so bad until about 9 p.m., when we were still trying to get Woodstock down for the night and they had Bon Jovi blaring full volume, along with 30+ teenage voices singing along. Add in normal teenage shrieking and it made for a very curious Woodstock and a very grumpy mama bear. She got them back them back the next morning though when she woke up at 5:45 a.m. and declared, "All done sleeping mama. Go 'side (outside)" Turns out, toddlers aren't the most quiet morning people known to man.


• Driving. So the trip to Yellowstone on a good day with no stops takes about 5 hours. Throw in a toddler and a pregnant lady who has to pee every 90 miles and it can take ... oh, much, much longer than that. We spent A LOT of time in the car. Hundreds of miles in 3 days. We saw the West, North and South entrances of Yellowstone. We drove 190 miles within Yellowstone itself. Add in a 45 mph speed limit, numerous stops for photos, meandering down walkways and random animal sightings (buffalo herds crossing the road - or walking down the middle of it, bears on the side of the road, etc.) and it took up a good portion of the weekend, especially if you add in the fact that it the drive to/from is about 600 miles round-trip to begin with. Woodstock has proven herself as a road warrior - only the last day did cries of "Ouchie bum!" emanate from the back seat.


• Hard labor. Camping as a kid seemed easy. Camping as a single adult was only slightly more difficult. Camping with a kid while pregnant? Yeah, not so much. Keeping up with the toddler who was fascinated by the woods and didn't understand why she couldn't wander as she pleased was exhausting. Doing it on 4 hours of sleep in a two-night span is even more so. Doing it while dodging herds of enormous mosquitoes adds a particular element of fun. Adding in the tent set-up, cooking, clean up, tent tear-down, potty runs, and unpacking and re-packing the car makes one want to schedule a spa day on a beach far, far away. Coming home and realizing it will take 5 batches of laundry to get the campfire smell out of every piece of cloth that made the trek makes one just want to sit down and cry - especially given the sore hip, the 20 mosquito bites (turns out mosquitoes can and do bite through compression stockings!) and the sore muscles from sitting and/or hiking.

We definitely made memories, but I'm thinking we'll shelve planning any more vacations in the near future. I can't imagine repeating this scenario until I can actually bend over, breathe, sleep in my own space and hire a maid to clean up after we dirty every conceivable thing we own.

I need a vacation.

The Great American Vacation

Himself and I have not taken a vacation in 34 months - not since we went to Boston to see Boston College take three overtimes to beat BYU in September 2006. Prior to that, we took a vacation to Newport, RI, in 2005. Before that our last vacation was our New England honeymoon in 2003.

Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.

Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.

Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?

Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.

So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.

Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.

It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.

Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.

As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).

It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.

Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.

Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.

When There's Love at Home

As a child, whenever tensions rose at our house my mother would start singing (or worse yet, make us sing with her), "When There's Love at Home."

To this day, the hymn still grates on my nerves (enter big bolt of lightening right now to strike me down - I'm sure that is not terribly appropriate to admit). There is nothing wrong with it, it just brings up memories of being annoyed at having to set aside teenage indignation to join in singing a hymn in order to forget being upset.

Today, however, I thought about it as I went about my day. Particularly the stanza that says, "Peace and plenty here abide, Smiling sweet on ev'ry side, Time doth softly, sweetly glide, When there's love at home." I was particularly reflective today, because I had a good day. I got up early, studied my Sunday School lesson over my own quiet breakfast, prayed, got the house in order, got myself ready, got dinner mostly prepped and felt good. Really good. Full and productive and ... full of peace.

The first sight that greeted me upon arriving home was Woodstock, her blonde little head in the dining room window, nose pressed to the glass (I have a new straight back chair that she has claimed as her own and has now become her perch for bird and truck watching out the front window). The second sight that greeted me was a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove. The house was mostly unchaotic (clean is a word I've wiped from my vocabulary - unchaotic is what I aim for these days). Himself was in a good mood.

I was less harried than usual thinking of dinner and bedtime routine and this and that. I failed to even have a near meltdown when the broiler element went out, leaving mostly raw chicken to be dealt with. My anxiety levels were surprisingly low, given the complicated day I had had (and the fact that even with all my careful prep, dinner was still mostly raw an hour after arriving home).

It was if God himself were saying, "You gave me some time this morning, I am going to let it fill your day," and gave me Love at Home - exactly what I needed. Peace and plenty did abide here tonight, and I'm writing it down so I remember it the next time my "natural woman" takes over, tries to be master of the universe, forgets to kneel and study in humility and wonders why the world is falling apart at the seams.

In the cottage there is joy,
When there's love at home;
Hate and envy ne'er annoy
When there's love at home.
Roses blossom 'neath our feet,
All the earth's a garden sweet,
Making life a bliss complete,
When there's love at home.

Love at home, indeed. And if having that means upping my resolve to do better at my daily study, I can certainly stand to put in the effort.

One Hundred

Today, if he were alive, would be my grandfather's 100th birthday.

He was born at the tail-end of the lame-duck period of Teddy Roosevelt's presidency, a little more than a month before William H. Taft took the oath of office.

One hundred years ago, in 1909, the NAACP was founded. The first radio broadcast was transmitted via short-wave radio. The Navy opened its base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The Manhattan bridge opened. Barry Goldwater, Benny Goodman, Jessica Tandy, Burl Ives, Errol Flynn were all born that year.

It seems a lifetime away - too far back to comprehend, and yet I am only two generations removed.

He dropped out of school in the eighth grade when his father died - to go to work and provide for his mother and his seven siblings. In 1923, it's just what you did when you were the eldest son.

As a young man, he was thinning sugar beets alongside a friend, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground between them. The bolt split and hit both of them. My grandfather lived. His friend did not.

He didn't marry until he was 42 years old and all of his siblings were grown, married and self-sufficient. My grandmother was 16 years his junior. His younger sister had a daughter marry the same year he did.

He loved people and animals - and made a living as a police officer, bus driver and farmer - generally working all three jobs simultaneously to provide for his wife and five children.

He made excellent candy and peanut brittle, never missed a deer hunt on horse and

As a kid I remember him in his big recliner, playing 'I've got your nose' and giggling at our horror-stricken faces. He was a big man - tall and larger than life - who delighted in children. I remember gleefully going to visit him on "the farm" - his big hands lifting me up to right Cheeto, the Shetland Pony. I remember him cutting the grass with a push mower, his penchant for growing huge vegetables and his love of rhubarb.

He was my mom's hero - they had a father-daughter bond unlike any I've ever seen before. She dreamed of growing up to become a policeman and owning horses. Instead, she became a librarian and married my father who really doesn't like horses.

He was gentle and kind and stubborn as a farm mule. My favorite memory of him was two months before he died - at my uncle's wedding reception. He cradled my day-old niece - one just come from heaven, one speedily headed that way. They sat, in perfect stillness, not needing words for their spirit to commune. Someone captured the moment on film, exactly the same way my heart did.

My last memory of him was a week or so before he died - he came down to attend my sister's baptism. He was a skeleton with skin, I hardly knew how to respond to this shrunken giant. On the way home, he developed a blood clot that put him immediately in the hospital - he lost his leg and never made it home.

He died on the day my dad planted three pine trees in our front yard - and every single time I go home, I look at those pine trees and think of him. Everyone else in my family thinks it's odd - to associate those pine trees with a man who never saw them - but I distinctly remember the day he died, and I distinctly remember dad outside planting those trees - grown tall and broad and thick now.

He died three months shy of his 83rd birthday. I was 13 years old - the oldest of the grandchildren - one of the only to remember him before he grew sick and frail. I remember my mom's devastation, my grandmother's steadfast refusal to ever again utter the words "joy" or "fun" after he passed. I penned a poem about his passing the night before the funeral - it was only then that I cried at his passing. He was the first direct relative I had lost to death. Grandpa died knowing only 8 of his 16 grandchildren.

It seems odd to me that my grandfather would be older than most of my friends' great-grandfathers. His grandparents crossed the plains as pioneers, a mere sixty years before he was born. His life seems so remote, so far away, so far removed from the modern, crazy world we live in today. He was an adult through the Great Depression, too old to serve in World War II, a senior citizen when my parents married.

In the centennial year of his birth, were he alive, my grandfather would welcome great-grandchildren #3 and #4. His home and farm have been long sold - after the passing of my grandmother more than six years ago. His possessions have all been divided among children and grandchildren. His siblings have all passed. What remains of his generation, his life, are memories and photographs - fleeting glimpses of the hard-working, gentle man who answered to the name Ed.

Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa. We still miss you.

Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown

Five years ago, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, for the very first time.

It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.

It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.

Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.

The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.

Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.

I vowed, "Never Again!"

Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).

Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.

As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.

Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.

God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.



*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.

A Solemn Obligation

"They fought together as brothers-in-arms. They died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation." -Admiral Chester Nimitz

It is perfectly silent right now.

I am working form home. Woodstock is fast asleep. There is no traffic on the road in front of the house (sound proof, our windows are not). The wind isn't blowing. It's not raining. The sun is out. My living room carpet is cleaner than it was this morning (carpet spot cleaning - one of those joys you never realized adults got to experience over and over and over). The house is bright and full of sun.

And, there is a flag in my front yard.

Seven years ago yesterday, I stood on Pier 5 at the Norfolk Naval Base with Grover, then only 5, and waited. "God Bless the U.S.A." and "I'm Already There" - two anthems that had defined the deployment of the USS Enterprise, blared over the loudspeakers. Thousands of people huddled together in the unusually cold November air as the breeze blew off the Chesapeake Bay, up the mouth of the James River and across the pier. We barely noticed.

We put our hands up to shade our eyes from the early morning sun - searching to watch the Enterprise make its first debut on the horizon. We first caught sight of the Navy's largest, and fastest, carrier - returning from a scheduled deployment that had ended in unscheduled combat following the terror of 9/11 - a little after 7 a.m. It would take nearly four hours to reach the pier - it's rails manned by sailors dressed in their dress blues.

I cannot begin to describe the adrenaline, the tears, the joy, the pride, the anticipation that filled that pier that day. I absolutely will never be able to put into words the chills that ran down my spine and the tears that coursed down my face as the first sailors set foot on Pier 5. Following ship tradition, they were the "new daddies" - those whose wives had born children while they were out to sea. Gathered in a tent, the sailors met their newborn children for the very first time.

It was a day that I will remember forever. Next to Woodstock's birth, it was one of the most amazing days of my life - not everyone gets to stand on a pier and welcome a shipful of sailors home from combat.

Nearly three years later, my parents and sister stood in the quiet stillness of the California desert. They held signs, wore matching t-shirts and cheered as a bus rumbled down a long dusty road. My brother, a combat Marine veteran, was returning home from Iraq. He had witnessed all the horrors of war and was changed, physically and mentally and spirtually. Relief flooded the family members meeting their Marines in the lonely midnight desert. With that relief came a long moment of silence - a pause to remember the arms that would go empty that night for those Marines who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Twice my parents stood in the California desert to welcome my brother home. Twice he left to battle in the desert - the cradle of civilization - to answer his country's call. Twice he risked everything, beat the odds, returned to fill the arms of those left behind.

Two different experiences. Two different homecomings. Dozens of friends. Hundreds of acquaintances. A nearly four-year sojourn in a beachside community of military bases, squadrons, fleets, companies - family.

A day that means much to me as family, friends and dear strangers are honored for their service, sacrifice and devotion.

Happy Veteran's Day.

Perfection.

Typically, there is some amount of dread regarding General Conference weekends. While I love the instruction from the leadership of the church and I love having a more relaxed Sunday, it is a huge challenge for me to give up my one productive day -Saturday.

But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.

I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.

On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.

Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.

We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.

It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.

Happy Birthday Dear Sister

Today is my favorite (and only) sister's 25th birthday.

She is the queen of organization, maternal genes and home decor. She can go from absolute girly princess with closets of fabulous clothes, perfectly coiffed hair and just the right accessories to rough-and-tumble "hangin' out with the guys" in no time at all.

She bakes. She decorates. She is the most fantastic packer on the planet (she can get an amazing amount of items in a very small amount of space - and proved to be a huge asset during all the times I have moved out of, or back to, my parents' house). She can organize anything, and probably should own stock in Rubbermaid. She loves clothes and always looks perfect. She also loves four-wheeling, hunting, camping, hiking, rappelling, canyoneering and snowboarding as much as she loves jewelry and buying frilly outfits for her little girl.

She ended up with the most fantastic nurturing genes - first exercising them at a very young age on our youngest brother (barely a year younger) - who grew up not knowing how to function without her in his life. She was always "the mom" when we played house - even though I was half a decade older. She is creative, funny and can sleep in longer than anyone else I know.

She is fiercely competitive and enormously talented. As a kid, she once quipped "I'd like to play a game I don't always win." She has a sweet tooth and an apparently super metabolism to go with it. She was my coloring-in-bed-on-Saturday-mornings partner for years and even though she only had 24 hours free, she flew to Virginia to be with me on one of the most important days of my life.

Most of all, she loves helping people. She knew she wanted to be a nurse practically from birth, and nothing stood in her way. She has the most amazing spirit of charity I've ever known and would do anything to help anyone.

At the age of 3 she made my bed every day for 6 months because I told her it was "the right thing to do." She would have made it every day for the rest of forever had I not forced the issue when she was sick and Mom found out about it. I'm not sure my bed has been made regularly since.

She married eight months after I did and gave birth to her little girl four months prior to Woodstock's arrival. I have called her for countless advice and reassurance. She has cried with me, laughed with me, tolerated my not-as-organized self and loved me more than I deserved sometimes.

When I grow up, I want to be just like my "little" sister.

Happy 25th Birthday to the best sister I could ever ask for.

Adieu, Grover

Tonight, for the first time in 9.5 years, I heard Grover utter the words, "I'm not ready to go home yet."

Even with all of the drama. With all of the pain and anguish and hurt of years past, all I could remember was this summer, and my heart broke for him and for Woodstock. Siblings divided by fractured parentage, thousands of miles and 11 years. Siblings who share the same nose, the same birthday month, the same blond hair and blue eyes. Siblings who met 6 weeks ago and quickly developed a bond through a bear hug and a two-toothed smile.

Just before we left, Grover sat thumbing through the albums of photos of Woodstock, commenting here and there on how tiny she was. He selected six of the photos to take back with him - carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag inside a box.

As we went outside to load the car and depart for the airport, Grover stood off to the side, gazing at the Hobbit Hole next door. He nearly whispered, "I'm not ready to go home yet." It was followed by the pre-teen logic of how life would be better for everyone if we returned to the East ... it was hard not to agree with, "and then Woodstock and I could see each other a lot more."

I wondered, for the first time, how much of Himself's heart breaks every time Grover leaves. I saw myself in the same situation - if I was standing in the driveway readying myself to drop Woodstock off at the airport.

For the first time in 9.5 years, I wanted to cry as I drove Himself and Grover to the airport - for the brother Woodstock adores, for the son Himself must always bid farewell, for the redemptive summer we had - where Grover doted on Woodstock and Woodstock's very presence, her even-keeled, sunny nature thawed years' of buried icebergs that had capsized hundreds of other visits.

Adieu, Grover. May you resolve your fear of flying enough to visit more often.

Not Funny. Not Funny At All.

Updates to this.

I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.

I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.

Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.

And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.

Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.

Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.

Wish us well.

Greasy-Haired Nudists

Now I know why, in my memory, we only had two family pictures taken between the time all four siblings were born and I left for college.

It is a royal pain in the bottom side.

We've scheduled and rescheduled family pictures three times - the last one being tonight, a mere 5 hours befor Grover and Himself's plane is set to depart. If they weren't leaving tonight, I would cancel again. Woodstock scratched her nose two nights ago and I woke up with a giant red spont on my face.

I also woke up late - to discover that Grover had dutifully taken a shower. A long shower. A shower so long that I was left with tepid water. I cannot shave my legs in tepid water. Nor can I wash my hair in tepid water.

Woodstock woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Or, rather, she probably woke up just fine and only started screaming when she realized she cannot stand up in her crib while wearing her sleep sack ... and needed to let mom have it.

Himself, who is off today, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Then there was the matter of what we're all wearing for family pictures. We had to coordinate around Grover, who only has a limited number of clothes ... all in various shades of faded dark colors. I bought a white t-shirt at Target a few days ago - but we had no idea if it actually fit. Himself has a white t-shirt too, but it was dirty. Which meant we had to start a load of laundry.

I forgot to wash Woodstock's jean capris from camping - which is what she was supposed to wear. They clearly could not be washed with the whites ... upon close examination, I realized no one would know they'd even been worn before and stuck them on her.

Since I couldn't wash my hair in now cold water, I curled it. Never mind that I have to work a full day before pictures are actually taken - so my hair will end up a greasy disheveled mess by tonight. We didn't dry Woodstock's hair very well after her bath yesterday, which meant all of her fine, ultra-blonde hair is sticking straight up like a mohawk...and will continue to do so unless washed again. No chance of finding her cute pink headband either - so her hair will likely be a disheveled poofy mess.

Himself wanted to know why I cared what shoes he wore. I wondered why on earth I had to choose a color scheme that had me wearing shoes too ridiculous for a photo. Grover wanted to know why I had bought a shirt just for one photo session - and if he really had to take it home with him. Woodstock wanted to know why all she had been given for breakfast was "Krispies".

It will be a minor miracle if we are all dressed at the photo tonight, let alone looking presentable. I might just have to explain that we just escaped from a nudist colony where there wasn't any running water with which to wash our hair.

That ought to go over well enough.

Insanity Defined

* 8 days
* 33 hours in a car
* 1 3.5-month-old baby
* 4 snowstorms
* 4 major mountain passes
* 5 interstates, 3 US highways, 1 two-lane roads
* 2 Adults: 1 duffel bag, 1 overnight bag, 1 "entertainment" bag (books, laptop, etc)
* 1 Child: 1 suitcase, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 package diapers, 1 pumping bag (with cooler, pump, bottles), 1 stroller, 1 pack-n-play, 1 carseat with base
* 8 Christmas presents
* 1 mother, 1 step-father, 1 biological father, 1 step-mother, 2 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, 3 under-three nephews
* 4 states, 2 different destinations
* 2,000 miles (approximately)
* 1 house with no central heat
* 7 visits to Wal-Mart
* 1 movie theater visit
* 4 visits to the local Mexican restaurant
* 1 visit to Cracker Barrel
* 5 hours in Cabela's
* 1 prime rib Christmas dinner preparation, 3 other dinner preparations, 5 breakfast preparations
* $125 in groceries
* 10 packages of peanut butter or cheese crackers consumed
* 1 coconut cream pie preparation
* 1 batch of sadly awful orange rolls
* 4 assorted dogs, 1 cat, 1 baby with allergies
* 5 tanks of gas
* 2 novels and 1 WWII coffee table book read
* 1 misadventure involving a new television set, a 200-mile drive and an itty-bitty back seat
* 3 tired, cranky, ready to get back to real life people
* 100 photos

Visiting the in-laws in Washington state for Christmas: Priceless

And God Remembered ...

There is a passage in Genesis that struck me yesterday as I read it in a magazine article: "And God Remembered Rachel."

To put it in context, Rachel was barren and was stuggling to deal with it. She had essentially come to Jacob and said, "Give me children, or I shall die." I'm sure there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth - especially since her sister (and Jacob's first wife), Leah, had already borne him children. I'm sure there were long prayers in the middle of the night - pleading with God to hear her, to give her an answer.

And God Remembered. Rachel ended up bearing two sons and a daughter for Jacob - and not just any son, but Joseph who was sold into slavery and eventually became one of the most important men in Egypt.

The article was about something else, but the passage struck me as being incredibly timely right now - it's the Thanksgiving season, and I am making a concerted effort this season to being very, very grateful - not just in my heart, but publicly.

God Remembered ... After a couple of years of incredible challenges - many of which are unknown to all but a few people - 2007 ended up being a year of incredible blessings, answered prayers and surprising changes.

In a lesson at church on Sunday, the teacher admonished us to be grateful for even the difficult things, because after the trial of our faith comes the blessings. Easier said than done. I made a goal to list the difficult things for which I am grateful - some more difficult than others. Lest anyone think I'm some sort of saint for actually being able to be grateful for the hard things, I'm not. I was definitely not grateful for many of these DURING the rough period, until things came into focus and I realized that they were precursors to something much greater.

* I am grateful that I lost my job in February. I still miss the work and the people, but I now realize that it had to happen. I never would have willingly left, though I had contemplated it. We would have stayed and continued to run like a hampster in a wheel - faster and faster and just barely keeping pace.

* I am grateful for the miscarriage I had just over a year ago. At the time it was complex and confusing and the most physically painful thing I've ever been through (yes, worse than labor for me). Yet, it taught me what I needed to recognize about my body to be able to conceive and carry Baby Girl to term. And she is worth every agonizing moment I spent on the bathroom floor that night, terrified that I was dying.

* I am grateful that Himself didn't pass his nursing boards. This one is the one where there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth and pleading and ranting and making much noise. I'm still not entirely sure why the whole 18-month ordeal was necessary, but I know that it taught us a lot about each other, it helped Himself crystalize what he wanted to do professionally and, because he took it one last time, it meant he landed an incredible job in The Frontier.

* I am grateful for the promptings that Himself and I both had about moving to The Frontier. They came separately and Himself was afraid to even confess it, because he knew I was adamantly opposed to moving back to The Great Wild West. I still struggle with settling back down in the state of my childhood, but I am not as dumb as I occassionally look. I know that there are unbelievably good things that have occurred as a result. One of the greatest is having Baby Girl be surrounded with incredibly doting relatives.

* I am grateful that for 90 minutes in late July, I was unemployed. Again, this one was almost impossible to swallow at the time. However, it led (90 minutes later) to an even better opportunity that offers more stability, more flexibility and a better path toward an at-home consulting gig for me.

* I am grateful that I drop Baby Girl off at a wonderful sitter's every day. I might be struck by icicle glares from some for even admitting this out loud (and believe me, it has taken me a long time to come to this realization), but I can't change the status quo. At the moment, I have to work. We were blessed to find a wonderful sitter in Miss Jan. But I've discovered another benefit over the past two weeks: Baby Girl has some surrogate sisters in a pair of 3-year-olds that Miss Jan also watches. The two girls fuss over Baby Girl (from a distance) as much as Miss Jan will let them. One informed me last week that it was okay for me to take Baby Girl home for the night, but to bring her back, because Baby Girl was her baby. Every day when Baby Girl arrives, the girls rush to say hello. Every night when she leaves, they blow her kisses and say, "Goodbye Miss Baby Girl." It warms my heart to know that if Baby Girl can't spend her days at home with me, that she is spending them in the company of people who truly adore her.

Yes, I have realized that God truly does remember.
And I am grateful.

Neurotic Nonsense

My brain is all over today.

First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).

Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.

Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).

Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!

--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.

Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.

Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.

This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:

My younger sister is my hero: She’s a mom and an accountant for the state of West Virginia. She’s able to juggle a job, kids, volunteer work and church, and she still manages to cook dinner every night without feeling bogged down. There are lots of people out there who are literally heroic, but what she does counts too.

Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.

It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."

Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.

The Great Pie Gathering

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for which Himself has mocked me for the almost nine years we've known each other. He thinks it's silly to have a favorite holiday that is just about eating (and giving thanks, but he doesn't ever mention that part). It shouldn't be a surprise that a holiday about food is my favorite - especially since the preparation for the holiday and the leftovers are far better than the actual meal itself.

This year, for the first time in seven years, I am having Thanksgiving with my family. This will be Himself's first year celebrating The Great Feast with my family.

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point, Thanksgiving became a contest to see how many pies could be consumed during the four-day holiday. Unable to hold themselves back, my dad and uncle always start in on the pies the night before Thanksgiving, to the great consternation of the women (whose role it seems is to preserve one's appetite for The Great Feast over which they have been laboring - even if only in their minds - for months).

There is ALWAYS more than enough pie to go around, yet, in a great race to ensure that one gets pie before the men eat it all, slices begin magically disappearing the moment the first guests begin stirring Thanksgiving morning. Usually a couple of pies are gone before The Great Feast even begins. Perhaps this is the reason that it is a family "necessity" to have at least as many pies as people - whether or not said "people" are old enough to consume pie (for instance, this year, Baby Girl gets counted in the "people" category - meaning the pie count will be upped by one).

I didn't realize the madness surrounding all of this (it's quite normal when one grows up expecting there to be a massive amount of pies at Thanksgiving) until Himself stopped me last week while I was reciting the food assignments.

"Are we eating anything but pie?"
"Of course!"
"All you've mentioned is pie - and the fact we're supposed to bring two of your key lime pies and another pie of our choosing. Who is bringing the food?"

It was at that point I realized that food had not yet entered the food assignment conversations. Last night I phoned my parents to see what else I needed to bring besides three pies (it works out that you typically get assigned to bring one pie per member of your household attending The Great Feast). This year, the first year he is hosting at his new home with his new wife, my uncle is in charge (a bad sign, and probably the reason only pies had been discussed thus far). Dad said, "I don't know - your mom and uncle were discussing it earlier today, let me put her on."

Good news. The women are usually the only reason The Great Feast Happens - not for lack of help on the men's part, but more out of lack of caring if there is anything but pie for the holiday.

So I asked, "Mom - what are we supposed to bring besides pies?"

*Crickets*

"Mom, please tell me that you talked about more than who was bringing what pies!"

*Crickets* Then, "Well, we did finalize who was bringing what pies."

I related the conversation to Himself when I got off the phone. We laughed. He said, "You should bring your fabulous homemade macaroni and cheese."

I told him I would be the laughing stock of my family if I showed up with that - macaroni and cheese is not considered "real food," no matter if it is homemade or out of a blue box.

He countered with, "At least we'll know there is food."

This year's Great Feast might just end up being The Great Pie Gathering. And you know what? It's okay by us. Himself won't have to eat turkey and the women won't have to drive each other mad cooking dinner in someone else's kitchen.

Regardless, Thanksgiving will still remain my favorite holiday.

Serenity

Sunday ranks in the top five of all good days I've had in my life, even though it had a rough start.

Sunday, I dressed Baby Girl in a long white dress made by a family friend - the same one my sister and I wore as infants. I then added a pair of pink ballet shoes that were a gift from a friend in Virginia and a headband given to her by my sister. Dressed head-to-toe in love, she and I joined Himself, my immediate family, my extended family and a few friends at church. She was then formally named and blessed, surrounded by some of the most important men in her (and our) lives.

It was a moment rich in emotion as I sat in my new congregation and listened to the words of Himself haltingly bless Baby Girl. He was nervous - a strange thing for me to realize about Himself. I could feel the love throughout the rest of the meeting wrap itself around me, seated between Himself and my sister, with Baby Girl nestled between all of us.

Later, during Sunday School, I watched my brother cradle Baby Girl. I watched her snuggle up to him and sigh contentedly into arms that weren't quite sure what to do with such a tiny little baby, dressed almost as an angel. I sat next to an aunt as she held Baby Girl close during the women's service. My heart pounded and my eyes stung.

Just before church ended, I gathered Baby Girl in my arms and walked the 60 or so steps to our house in the warm, late autumn afternoon sun. I entered the Hobbit Hole to find it bursting at the seams with family and friends and the scents of good food. As I settled down in the nursery to rock and feed Baby Girl before our entrance into the frenzy that would move to the backyard (the Hobbit Hole is not equipped for entertaining), my heart swelled again. I listened to the women in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the appetizer spread Himself and I had coordinated. I listened to the men drifting in and out as they moved the tables and food outside - overhearing snatches of conversation about the big Patriots v. Colts football game.

I wanted to weep. Here, in my little home, cradling my infant daughter to my breast - still dressed in her achingly beautiful, long, white dress - I realized that sacrificing our own comfort zone, the proximity of so many dear friends and journeying to The Frontier was the best thing that could have ever happened to Baby Girl. Here she could grow up, basking in the glow of family, sheltered by a love that comes from deep relationships, knit tight by decades of growing up together.

We emerged out into the backyard, dappled by golden sunlight, awhile later, and I basked in the glow of being surrounded by those people who would act as the founding community of Baby Girl's life - those who, through their presence this incredible day, would pledge their love and support of her as she grows into the remarkable daughter of God she is destined to be.

Somehow, I am confident that Baby Girl was aware of the magnitude of the day - that she knew she was surrounded by a group of people who would move mountains for her.

It will be a day I will always remember - for it's goodness, it's love and the deep impression it left on my soul.