Seeing that his wife was teetering on the brink of catastrophic insanity - pushed even closer by a weekend ER visit and a few days of a puking toddler who had the directional sense of a deaf bat in a paper bag - Himself decided celebrating our anniversary early was in order. He booked a hotel, decided on a place to eat, conned (er, persuaded) our sitter to keep both girls overnight (Pebbles is still not reliably sleeping through the night yet - though she does about 75% of the time) and lavished me with little gifts in true Himself fashion (should it be any surprise that his love language is "GIFTS" in all capital letters?!).
It was HEAVENLY. It would have been heavenly to sleep anywhere but my chronically neglected house, but Himself got a room at The Anniversary Inn - a quaint historic home-turned-hotel downtown with themed rooms. Ours was Egyptian themed - complete with cobra snake shower head, sphinxes and "stone" interior. It felt rather like sleeping inside a pyramid (not that I've ever done that). We had sushi. And sparkling cider. And we ate breakfast in bed. And told funny Woodstock stories.
Today, he surprised me with my early Christmas present ... the new Google phone, Droid. I've long had just the cheapest phone on the market because I've had a job that paid for a "cool" phone. However, now that I work for The Company the cool phone perk has gone. I hate my phone. I haven't liked it for the entire almost 2 years I've had it. But at my very core, I'm cheap. Himself isn't (today, it is a good thing, many days it is not). Of course, he was excited to give it to me because it's cool. I was excited to get it because now, effectively, I could do my ENTIRE JOB on my phone. Which makes me wonder why I need to even go into the office, but that's an entirely different story.
Back to Himself. Like all relationships, we have our moments. Sometimes more than others. Especially when one half of the relationship is chronically exhausted, on the brink of having a total anxiety meltdown and the sole food source for a constantly hungry baby and the "go to" person for a toddler who truly believe the entire universe is at her beck and call. There is sometimes weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - real or imagined.
And yet ... Himself is still the person I run to with all of the latest news - glad, sad or otherwise. He is still my biggest champion in motherhood and my job. He is a wonderful dad to the girls and doesn't seem to mind that what once resided on my thighs migrated to my mid-section this past pregnancy or that said mid-section is covered in unsightly marks.
Best of all - he loves me enough to re-propose with the engagement ring I (er, Woodstock) lost 9 weeks ago during the new baby frenzy. Of course, we won't talk about putting your wife through 9 weeks of emotional torture and frenetic worry over the fact that she lost an irreplaceable ring. Nor will we discuss the irritation she's had about explaining to the masses that no, she did not in fact exchange her husband for a new baby even though she is sporting a naked finger. He found the ring, mere days after it went missing, had it cleaned, recoated, put in a jeweler's box and gave it to me last night.
Falling asleep with my ring back on my finger made me one of the happiest wives on the planet.
Waking up to sunshine, silence and Himself next to me did it all over again.
During this week of Thanksgiving, I'm grateful to have a partner, a lover, a friend and a father to my girls.
Showing posts with label Himself. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Himself. Show all posts
Friday, November 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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:
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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
It's Getting Closer ...
Himself got a call today. Looks like expensive, beachside move is an official option. Still waiting to hear about the desert option. Rumor has it we could also be offered the option to stay here and he'd just be on the road all the time.
Looks like tomorrow, I'll be having a conversation with The Boss of The Office as to whether or not telecommuting from several hundred miles away is an option. If not ... big fat wrench. I don't want to squash Himself's career chances, but I refuse to be a pregnant woman looking for a job again. Been there, done that, TWICE last pregnancy.
If you ever wondered why employment lawyers are still in business ... get pregnant and look for (or take) a new job. I'm not going through it again.
Prayers and good thoughts appreciated. We need all the guidance we can get this weekend.
Looks like tomorrow, I'll be having a conversation with The Boss of The Office as to whether or not telecommuting from several hundred miles away is an option. If not ... big fat wrench. I don't want to squash Himself's career chances, but I refuse to be a pregnant woman looking for a job again. Been there, done that, TWICE last pregnancy.
If you ever wondered why employment lawyers are still in business ... get pregnant and look for (or take) a new job. I'm not going through it again.
Prayers and good thoughts appreciated. We need all the guidance we can get this weekend.
Monday, March 23, 2009
It's Not So Much That I'm Perpetually Grumpy...
A sampling of my Facebook status over the last few days:
Today, someone (not a reader of this blog) mentioned how grumpy I've been on Facebook lately, and suggested I try positive thinking.
To which I respond:
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm venting so I don't go insane.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that the week before last I spent 4 days travelling (mostly for work, then I got unexpectedly stranded at my parents' house) - and came home to being behind at work, behind at home and missing my kiddo like crazy.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that 11 hours after I arrived home for said trip, Himself left on a week-long business trip - sans his cell charger, which meant he was nearly impossible to reach all week. You can imagine the mental state one might dissolve into as a pregnant woman, temporary single parent to a sick Woodstock (bad cold/teething), full-time job, while trying to keep herself and Woodstock properly fed, clothed and clean (easier said than done). If you are a single mom and either a) employed full-time or b) pregnant - you have every ounce of sympathy I can muster. I can't imagine being you permanently.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm worried about half a dozen things - some in my control, some not.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I've been perpetually overwhelmed the past couple of weeks between a couple of big work projects, travel and all the normal stuff of life.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I'm re-living my life 2 years ago all over again - sitting on egg shells, wondering if we're moving, when and to which state. And what it means for my job and the pregnancy and everything else.
In short, I'm not grumpy. There's just a lot going on ...
Sara is writing an e-mail to the Collin Raye fan club. Never thought she'd be saying something like that. ;)
Sara interviewed an awesome intern candidate today. Too bad nothing else has gone quite as planned.
Sara says seriously? Does everything have to go haywire the same week Dayna travels? Every single week he goes away, all hell breaks loose!
Sara is thinking positive thoughts so as not to be this grumpy the rest of the week.
Sara is Off to SMC of SLC Open Mic Night. Come join me. Starts at 5:30 at Neutron Interactive downtown.
Sara wants to know what happened to her kiddo who slept so well. Please tell her this not sleeping thing is a phase. Please!
Sara is wondering why she gets a burst of productivity an HOUR before closing time? It couldn't have come 7 hours ago?!
Sara is watching Woodstock try to clean up the huge mess she made on her kitchen floor. Papers and coins everywhere - and G saying "Wow! Cute! It's Funny!" Eh. Not so much.
Sara says the snow is not helping her Monday be any better. Aaarrggh.
Today, someone (not a reader of this blog) mentioned how grumpy I've been on Facebook lately, and suggested I try positive thinking.
To which I respond:
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm venting so I don't go insane.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that the week before last I spent 4 days travelling (mostly for work, then I got unexpectedly stranded at my parents' house) - and came home to being behind at work, behind at home and missing my kiddo like crazy.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that 11 hours after I arrived home for said trip, Himself left on a week-long business trip - sans his cell charger, which meant he was nearly impossible to reach all week. You can imagine the mental state one might dissolve into as a pregnant woman, temporary single parent to a sick Woodstock (bad cold/teething), full-time job, while trying to keep herself and Woodstock properly fed, clothed and clean (easier said than done). If you are a single mom and either a) employed full-time or b) pregnant - you have every ounce of sympathy I can muster. I can't imagine being you permanently.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm worried about half a dozen things - some in my control, some not.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I've been perpetually overwhelmed the past couple of weeks between a couple of big work projects, travel and all the normal stuff of life.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I'm re-living my life 2 years ago all over again - sitting on egg shells, wondering if we're moving, when and to which state. And what it means for my job and the pregnancy and everything else.
In short, I'm not grumpy. There's just a lot going on ...
Monday, March 09, 2009
I'll Take That Chicken Fried, Please.
It all started when my mom accidentally swiped my manual can-opener when she was here in February.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
One Decade Ago
Ten years ago tonight, Himself and I first met.
We met at a Murder Mystery dinner. The first two things I found out about him were that he disliked bread and Italian food (we were having spaghetti and garlic bread - the first and last time the two of us ever ate that meal together).
I remember the first thing that came to my mind, "We have NOTHING in common." I was pretty quick to dismiss him as a result (in truth, I was pretty quick to dismiss ANY guy at that point in my life - I did not want to get married, and the surest way to that was to not go out with the same guy more than a couple of times). As it turns out, he was friends with my best friend's boyfriend (who then became fiance, husband and ex-husband - all before Himself and I were ever married), so it wasn't as easy to dismiss him as I thought it would be. And, as it turns out, we had far more in common than I thought.
He was excellent at the Murder Mystery game, and I was intrigued by how different he was from everyone else. We ended up talking for quite awhile after the event. In fact, talking(ironically, given Himself's hermit-like personality) was the hallmark of our early relationship. In fact, my roommates, at the end of my tenure at Warren Hall, gave me an award for being the "Most Likely to be Found Outside at 3 a.m. Deep in Conversation." Let's just say I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep that spring.
It's hard to believe it has been 10 years. Ten years ago, I was on a year-long break from college, trying to decide what to do next - working full-time in educational programming for the national 4-H organization and serving as the resident advisor to Warren Hall - a co-ed house for 24 college-aged youth. Himself was living the barracks at the Navy Hospital, working as a corpsman in the Navy and a vampire at one of the local hospitals.
In the 10 years since, Himself has moved four times, I have moved six times and we've moved collectively four times. We've worked for 16 companies between us, lived in three different states, a total of 10 cities and one aircraft carrier. We've been married six years, had a Siamese cat (Rameses), one child and will welcome a second one this year. We've driven tens of thousands of miles to pick up or drop off Grover and have driven the stretches of I-95 and Route 13 between VA and DE hundreds of times in that pursuit.
We have made and moved away from dozens of close friends ... which probably explains our reticence to work to find any new ones. We have written thousands of e-mails, used up hours on the phone and road-tripped to all sorts of cool places. We have laughed, loved, cried, fought, mourned and celebrated - and eaten our way through more amazing food than either of us probably should have.
More than that, in ten years we have grown. Given the adventures (good and bad) of the last 10 years, I'm looking forward to what the next 10 years holds for us.
I love you, Himself.
We met at a Murder Mystery dinner. The first two things I found out about him were that he disliked bread and Italian food (we were having spaghetti and garlic bread - the first and last time the two of us ever ate that meal together).
I remember the first thing that came to my mind, "We have NOTHING in common." I was pretty quick to dismiss him as a result (in truth, I was pretty quick to dismiss ANY guy at that point in my life - I did not want to get married, and the surest way to that was to not go out with the same guy more than a couple of times). As it turns out, he was friends with my best friend's boyfriend (who then became fiance, husband and ex-husband - all before Himself and I were ever married), so it wasn't as easy to dismiss him as I thought it would be. And, as it turns out, we had far more in common than I thought.
He was excellent at the Murder Mystery game, and I was intrigued by how different he was from everyone else. We ended up talking for quite awhile after the event. In fact, talking(ironically, given Himself's hermit-like personality) was the hallmark of our early relationship. In fact, my roommates, at the end of my tenure at Warren Hall, gave me an award for being the "Most Likely to be Found Outside at 3 a.m. Deep in Conversation." Let's just say I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep that spring.
It's hard to believe it has been 10 years. Ten years ago, I was on a year-long break from college, trying to decide what to do next - working full-time in educational programming for the national 4-H organization and serving as the resident advisor to Warren Hall - a co-ed house for 24 college-aged youth. Himself was living the barracks at the Navy Hospital, working as a corpsman in the Navy and a vampire at one of the local hospitals.
In the 10 years since, Himself has moved four times, I have moved six times and we've moved collectively four times. We've worked for 16 companies between us, lived in three different states, a total of 10 cities and one aircraft carrier. We've been married six years, had a Siamese cat (Rameses), one child and will welcome a second one this year. We've driven tens of thousands of miles to pick up or drop off Grover and have driven the stretches of I-95 and Route 13 between VA and DE hundreds of times in that pursuit.
We have made and moved away from dozens of close friends ... which probably explains our reticence to work to find any new ones. We have written thousands of e-mails, used up hours on the phone and road-tripped to all sorts of cool places. We have laughed, loved, cried, fought, mourned and celebrated - and eaten our way through more amazing food than either of us probably should have.
More than that, in ten years we have grown. Given the adventures (good and bad) of the last 10 years, I'm looking forward to what the next 10 years holds for us.
I love you, Himself.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Corruption of Woodstock
Last night Himself took me to an Indian place he's been raving about for weeks on the other side of The Frontier. He found it his first day of work at The Store (making me ponder the sanity of applying to work at $9/hour when it takes $9 in gas just to get there and back!).
It was divine.
It was free samosa night - and they were huge and puffy and full of wonderful things like potatoes, peas and garam masala - one of my favorite spices ever.
I had brought leftover ratatouille for Woodstock to eat, in case she didn't like Indian food. She scarfed down the ratatouille, some tasty little crackers and then reached for the rest of my samosa and popped it in her mouth.
She then signed "more."
As it turns out, Woodstock likes Indian food almost as much as I do. It isn't just indiscriminate "I'll eat anything," because while Woodstock loves food, there are some things she will not eat. For instance, shse will not eat green beans - not in a pot, not in homemade chicken noodle soup, not in a box, not with mixed veggies, not with a fox, not pureed ... she will not eat green beans.
She loved the shahi paneer (of course - the kid inherited my love of all things cheese). She loved the nan. We already knew she preferred basmati rice to regular rice. She loved the vegetable curry (minus the green beans). Mostly, she loved the rice pudding. (She did not, however, like the carrot pudding - pulling so many faces that the table next to us broke out in laughter).
Of course, she delighted them by blowing them kisses and saying "ba ba" (bye-bye) as we left. I dread life in 13 years when loving to be the center of attention is full of drama instead of baby cuteness.
On the way out, I told Himself, "We just fed our kid eggplant and peppers and squash and an assortment of Indian food for dinner and that she liked it? We cannot afford this."
Himself drew the connection that she's had more different kinds of food at 11 months than Grover has had in almost 12 years.
We're in trouble.
Why did I have to go and decide against feeding Woodstock jarred baby food?
It was divine.
It was free samosa night - and they were huge and puffy and full of wonderful things like potatoes, peas and garam masala - one of my favorite spices ever.
I had brought leftover ratatouille for Woodstock to eat, in case she didn't like Indian food. She scarfed down the ratatouille, some tasty little crackers and then reached for the rest of my samosa and popped it in her mouth.
She then signed "more."
As it turns out, Woodstock likes Indian food almost as much as I do. It isn't just indiscriminate "I'll eat anything," because while Woodstock loves food, there are some things she will not eat. For instance, shse will not eat green beans - not in a pot, not in homemade chicken noodle soup, not in a box, not with mixed veggies, not with a fox, not pureed ... she will not eat green beans.
She loved the shahi paneer (of course - the kid inherited my love of all things cheese). She loved the nan. We already knew she preferred basmati rice to regular rice. She loved the vegetable curry (minus the green beans). Mostly, she loved the rice pudding. (She did not, however, like the carrot pudding - pulling so many faces that the table next to us broke out in laughter).
Of course, she delighted them by blowing them kisses and saying "ba ba" (bye-bye) as we left. I dread life in 13 years when loving to be the center of attention is full of drama instead of baby cuteness.
On the way out, I told Himself, "We just fed our kid eggplant and peppers and squash and an assortment of Indian food for dinner and that she liked it? We cannot afford this."
Himself drew the connection that she's had more different kinds of food at 11 months than Grover has had in almost 12 years.
We're in trouble.
Why did I have to go and decide against feeding Woodstock jarred baby food?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Coughing, Crying and Cursing
Himself has a bad cough - I'm placing money on bronchitis (because, hey, someone always gets sick the week we're supposed to have company ... bronchitis, strep, tonsilitis, pneumonia ... and it is Himself's turn to be sick). It's bad enough he's actually going to the doctor. I can count the number of times he's been to the doctor on one hand in the 9.5 years I've known him, if that gives you any idea how lousy he must feel.
Saturday night, Himself hacked up a lung. In one valiant, irritated moment at some unearthly hour, I said, "Himself. We still have the prescription cough syrup from when you had bronchitis in VA, I found it in the move..." Himself, who won't take an Advil if the expiration date was yesterday, bounded out of bed. Every light in the basement went on as he searched for the cough syrup (just because I saw it in the move doesn't mean a) it has been unpacked or b) that I actually have any idea where it is). He came in four or five times to ask about its location. After the last time, I said, "Himself, it is either in the linen closet in the guest bathroom, under the sink of the master bathroom or buried in a box - in which case it will take you until the next move to find it at the rate we're unpacking," and buried my head under the pillow.
Last night, Himself took the cough syrup, in hopes we'd both have a peaceful (relatively) night sleep. He pawed at the sheets, tossed, turned, hacked, groaned, yanked on the sheets again and started the whole process again. And then ... he woke up hacking up a lung. Finally, he said he was going to sleep on the couch. Never one for couch-sleeping, I didn't even argue. At this rate, neither of us were sleeping.
I blissfully settled into quiet slumber, unable to hear Himself hacking away upstairs .... what felt like minutes (but was, in fact, a couple of hours) later, Woodstock wakes up with a full on yell. Nothing would console her. Exhausted, feeling drugged and wanting nothing more than to be in the horizontal postion, I brought her back to my bed.
How someone who isn't even 2.5' tall and weighs less than 20 pounds can take up the entire bed is beyond me, but at 11.5 months, Woodstock is already a bed hog. Every time I'd roll over, Woodstock would snuggle up against me. I'd wait until she was in a deep sleep, then roll over further, to no avail. Soon her fingers would be tangled in my hair and her feet would be in the small of my back.
The cursing started at oh-dark-hundred when Woodstock sat up, sunny smile on her face, said, "alldoh!" (All done) and leaned over to slobber on my face.
Today is not a good day to ask me if I like Mondays.
Saturday night, Himself hacked up a lung. In one valiant, irritated moment at some unearthly hour, I said, "Himself. We still have the prescription cough syrup from when you had bronchitis in VA, I found it in the move..." Himself, who won't take an Advil if the expiration date was yesterday, bounded out of bed. Every light in the basement went on as he searched for the cough syrup (just because I saw it in the move doesn't mean a) it has been unpacked or b) that I actually have any idea where it is). He came in four or five times to ask about its location. After the last time, I said, "Himself, it is either in the linen closet in the guest bathroom, under the sink of the master bathroom or buried in a box - in which case it will take you until the next move to find it at the rate we're unpacking," and buried my head under the pillow.
Last night, Himself took the cough syrup, in hopes we'd both have a peaceful (relatively) night sleep. He pawed at the sheets, tossed, turned, hacked, groaned, yanked on the sheets again and started the whole process again. And then ... he woke up hacking up a lung. Finally, he said he was going to sleep on the couch. Never one for couch-sleeping, I didn't even argue. At this rate, neither of us were sleeping.
I blissfully settled into quiet slumber, unable to hear Himself hacking away upstairs .... what felt like minutes (but was, in fact, a couple of hours) later, Woodstock wakes up with a full on yell. Nothing would console her. Exhausted, feeling drugged and wanting nothing more than to be in the horizontal postion, I brought her back to my bed.
How someone who isn't even 2.5' tall and weighs less than 20 pounds can take up the entire bed is beyond me, but at 11.5 months, Woodstock is already a bed hog. Every time I'd roll over, Woodstock would snuggle up against me. I'd wait until she was in a deep sleep, then roll over further, to no avail. Soon her fingers would be tangled in my hair and her feet would be in the small of my back.
The cursing started at oh-dark-hundred when Woodstock sat up, sunny smile on her face, said, "alldoh!" (All done) and leaned over to slobber on my face.
Today is not a good day to ask me if I like Mondays.
Friday, August 08, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Himself and the Grand Vanishing Trick
Himself went and got a second job when my job went to part-time in June (before I saw the light and quit that job and went and got myself a new real job).
Of course, it took them six weeks to orient him. And now that he's sold his soul to the big box chain in blue, he owes them a certain number of hours in the first 30 days of employment, post-training. You know, just in case LG, Frigidaire, GE, Whirlpool and all the rest come out with all new appliances in the next 30 days and he can't figure out how to sell them. Or something.
This new venture means several things:
1. Renewed complaining about our old-as-dirt and teeny dishwasher. He will again become Mr. Appliance Expert (as he was 3 years ago) and will say things like, "Sigh, if only it had two water thingys inside, it would clean dishes so much more efficiently." (replace "water thingys" with the technical name, and you'll have it right).
2. Renewed drooling over Dysons from me. I just realized the other day that my probably-perfectly-good-vacuum is 7 years old. It's not so much that the vacuum doesn't work (it's an "eh" on the scale of worthless to fabulous), it's the fact that it takes half a day and half a dozen big box stores to find bags for the dumb thing. Apparently, no one uses their old vacuums any more or Eureka stopped making bags in size RR because they are nearly impossible to find. THAT (and envy) is the reaosn I want a Dyson - because if I'm going to have to buy a new vaccum, it will be one that lasts forever and sucks everything out of the carpet, so Baby Girl can't find it and shove it in her mouth.
3. Renewed coveting of some huge TV on Himself's part. If you know him, you know the agony he's been in for three years. Never mind the TV is newer than the vacuum.
4. He won't be home. Ever. This effectively renders me a single parent in a house that is only semi-unpacked and definitely not clean (thanks to Son and Nephew and Baby Girl). Between his real job and this new job and his flight back East to return Son and a 3-day, overnight conference in the mountains ... I expect to see him on the 29th and not before ... just as the out-of-town company arrives for Baby Girl's birthday party.
This means that we're 0 for 3 on camping trips this year, it means that Labor Day weekend will be only the second weekend since June that Himself will be home all weekend. It means that I really will have been able to pack, move and unpack the entire house almost entirely on my own, due to Himself's schedule. And it means another month of sheer exhaustion.
Labor Day will never have so much meaning as it does this year.
Of course, it took them six weeks to orient him. And now that he's sold his soul to the big box chain in blue, he owes them a certain number of hours in the first 30 days of employment, post-training. You know, just in case LG, Frigidaire, GE, Whirlpool and all the rest come out with all new appliances in the next 30 days and he can't figure out how to sell them. Or something.
This new venture means several things:
1. Renewed complaining about our old-as-dirt and teeny dishwasher. He will again become Mr. Appliance Expert (as he was 3 years ago) and will say things like, "Sigh, if only it had two water thingys inside, it would clean dishes so much more efficiently." (replace "water thingys" with the technical name, and you'll have it right).
2. Renewed drooling over Dysons from me. I just realized the other day that my probably-perfectly-good-vacuum is 7 years old. It's not so much that the vacuum doesn't work (it's an "eh" on the scale of worthless to fabulous), it's the fact that it takes half a day and half a dozen big box stores to find bags for the dumb thing. Apparently, no one uses their old vacuums any more or Eureka stopped making bags in size RR because they are nearly impossible to find. THAT (and envy) is the reaosn I want a Dyson - because if I'm going to have to buy a new vaccum, it will be one that lasts forever and sucks everything out of the carpet, so Baby Girl can't find it and shove it in her mouth.
3. Renewed coveting of some huge TV on Himself's part. If you know him, you know the agony he's been in for three years. Never mind the TV is newer than the vacuum.
4. He won't be home. Ever. This effectively renders me a single parent in a house that is only semi-unpacked and definitely not clean (thanks to Son and Nephew and Baby Girl). Between his real job and this new job and his flight back East to return Son and a 3-day, overnight conference in the mountains ... I expect to see him on the 29th and not before ... just as the out-of-town company arrives for Baby Girl's birthday party.
This means that we're 0 for 3 on camping trips this year, it means that Labor Day weekend will be only the second weekend since June that Himself will be home all weekend. It means that I really will have been able to pack, move and unpack the entire house almost entirely on my own, due to Himself's schedule. And it means another month of sheer exhaustion.
Labor Day will never have so much meaning as it does this year.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Somebody Stop Me, Please
This domestic stuff is getting to be a little insane.
So you already know about the water bath canner (which arrived yesterday!) ... but the new (to us) house is, well, doing things to me ... as in making me think of things my domestically challenged (and loving it) self normally shudders about.
This morning found me out picking apricots off the tree that is half in the Hobbit Hole's yard and half in our new yard. Our former landlords very generously offered whatever apricots we wanted. I'm not going to argue. After all, apricots are food - food that I NEVER buy in the store, as they are ridiculously overpriced.
Not only that, but Himself was out mowing the lawn at the same time. I stood, bathed in the warm sun, trying not to die of grass fumes (grass = asthma issues) and thought, "we're turning into quite the domestic palace these days."
Of course, the thought of how odd Himself looked mowing the lawn also made me laugh. In nearly 9 1/2 years I've known Himself, I've never seen him mow a lawn. Mostly because we didn't have one to mow. To be fair, Himself has never seen me mow a lawn either, but I am highly allergic to grass, so he's likely to NEVER see me mow a lawn.
I went back inside and thought about all the little "extras" I needed to organize the new space.
Things are getting weird around here.
So you already know about the water bath canner (which arrived yesterday!) ... but the new (to us) house is, well, doing things to me ... as in making me think of things my domestically challenged (and loving it) self normally shudders about.
This morning found me out picking apricots off the tree that is half in the Hobbit Hole's yard and half in our new yard. Our former landlords very generously offered whatever apricots we wanted. I'm not going to argue. After all, apricots are food - food that I NEVER buy in the store, as they are ridiculously overpriced.
Not only that, but Himself was out mowing the lawn at the same time. I stood, bathed in the warm sun, trying not to die of grass fumes (grass = asthma issues) and thought, "we're turning into quite the domestic palace these days."
Of course, the thought of how odd Himself looked mowing the lawn also made me laugh. In nearly 9 1/2 years I've known Himself, I've never seen him mow a lawn. Mostly because we didn't have one to mow. To be fair, Himself has never seen me mow a lawn either, but I am highly allergic to grass, so he's likely to NEVER see me mow a lawn.
I went back inside and thought about all the little "extras" I needed to organize the new space.
Things are getting weird around here.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Because Someday I'm Going to Run Out of Underwear
There are times when I wish that we were a little handier.
Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.
Himself: I work late all week.
Sara: Um, not a good excuse.
Himself: What's the rush?
Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).
Himself: Oh.
Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.
To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.
Wish us luck.
Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.
Himself: I work late all week.
Sara: Um, not a good excuse.
Himself: What's the rush?
Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).
Himself: Oh.
Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.
To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.
Wish us luck.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Eight Days
At The Factory, we're hard at work for a client, which means working to get mentions online.
This site is running a contest for one of the client's DVD sets - asking people what they would do if they had only 8 days to live - points go for funny and are deducted for sappy.
So ... what would you do if you only had 8 days?
I would dine at the French Laundry
I would take Baby Girl and Himself to Disney World, so I could experience their first time with them
I would voice my opinion on everything - for good measure
I would spend money on all those things I'm too cheap to spend money on - like aged, imported cheeses, king crab and other lovely things, with which to enjoy my last meals
I would travel to the New England coast ... unless it was the dead of winter, then I'd have to reconsider
I would write a letter to Baby Girl telling her to try everything once, learn to love avocados, travel and drive Himself crazy in my place
I would spend my last, quiet days in the blissful haven of my childhood wilderness - on the mountain, by the lake, with family and far away from bills, jobs, phones, e-mail and the never-ending pile of laundry
And reserve the right to change this as often as I want. :)
This site is running a contest for one of the client's DVD sets - asking people what they would do if they had only 8 days to live - points go for funny and are deducted for sappy.
So ... what would you do if you only had 8 days?
I would dine at the French Laundry
I would take Baby Girl and Himself to Disney World, so I could experience their first time with them
I would voice my opinion on everything - for good measure
I would spend money on all those things I'm too cheap to spend money on - like aged, imported cheeses, king crab and other lovely things, with which to enjoy my last meals
I would travel to the New England coast ... unless it was the dead of winter, then I'd have to reconsider
I would write a letter to Baby Girl telling her to try everything once, learn to love avocados, travel and drive Himself crazy in my place
I would spend my last, quiet days in the blissful haven of my childhood wilderness - on the mountain, by the lake, with family and far away from bills, jobs, phones, e-mail and the never-ending pile of laundry
And reserve the right to change this as often as I want. :)
Friday, March 07, 2008
The Case for Domestic Husbands
(As opposed to wild ones, you know!)
Himself is still unemployed, for which I am alternately either gnashing my teeth or trying to figure out what I'm going to do when he is no longer unemployed.
The crowning moment came when I was unable to make it to Baby Girl's 6-month well-baby checkup due to a grievous scheduling error. Himself took her, asked all the questions I had and gave me the information the doctor gave him.
For most of our married life, Himself has only worked three days a week, due to the nature of his profession. I had just started getting used to having to go back to getting my own oil changed, gassing my own car, doing all the errands, etc. when he lost his job.
I've quickly re-adapted.
Too bad the Hobbit Hole isn't free, I could get used to this life.
Himself is still unemployed, for which I am alternately either gnashing my teeth or trying to figure out what I'm going to do when he is no longer unemployed.
The crowning moment came when I was unable to make it to Baby Girl's 6-month well-baby checkup due to a grievous scheduling error. Himself took her, asked all the questions I had and gave me the information the doctor gave him.
For most of our married life, Himself has only worked three days a week, due to the nature of his profession. I had just started getting used to having to go back to getting my own oil changed, gassing my own car, doing all the errands, etc. when he lost his job.
I've quickly re-adapted.
Too bad the Hobbit Hole isn't free, I could get used to this life.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Daddy's Girl
Himself doesn't have a job anymore, for those who missed the post from a few days ago. I'm just not going there.
I have a job (that is driving me crazy, but that's not for this blog), but I also have the worst migraine I have had in years, maybe ever.
Therefore, we're all home having a pajama day today. Even Baby Girl got put into a clean nightie this morning - so we're all comfy.
I am on a conference call for work and Himself is taking care of Baby Girl. Right now he is wandering up and down the hall with her. She is babbling away, making googlie eyes at him and smiling. He is talking right back to her.
The last couple of days, Baby Girl has taken to staring at Himself while she eats, which isn't really conducive to eating. He has been doing the formula supplementation after I nurse her, which she still hates - but she loves to just stare up at him. It's easier (and more conducive to eating) for her to stare at him while he's feeding her.
Baby Girl loves her Daddy.
Minus the migraine, I love pajama days.
I have a job (that is driving me crazy, but that's not for this blog), but I also have the worst migraine I have had in years, maybe ever.
Therefore, we're all home having a pajama day today. Even Baby Girl got put into a clean nightie this morning - so we're all comfy.
I am on a conference call for work and Himself is taking care of Baby Girl. Right now he is wandering up and down the hall with her. She is babbling away, making googlie eyes at him and smiling. He is talking right back to her.
The last couple of days, Baby Girl has taken to staring at Himself while she eats, which isn't really conducive to eating. He has been doing the formula supplementation after I nurse her, which she still hates - but she loves to just stare up at him. It's easier (and more conducive to eating) for her to stare at him while he's feeding her.
Baby Girl loves her Daddy.
Minus the migraine, I love pajama days.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
When The Bottom Falls Out
When Himself tells me he has bad news, it is usually some overly horrible pronouncement, followed by something that, in comparison, doesn't sound quite so bad. He does this to temper my worry and concern and dramatic antics.
So when he called me on Friday and immediately said, "I have some bad news," I was expecting him to give me some dramatic scene amd then say that the $400 we'd just dropped on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem.
Instead, a strained voice said, "I don't have a job anymore."
There was no laughing and telling me that actually the bad news wasn't really so bad after all (in a great twist of irony we found out Friday evening that the $400 we'd plunked down on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem ... so it turns out that my clairvoyancy was somewhat accurate).
In fact, there was a strangled cry and a silence full of anguish and hurt and disbelief. I don't remember the rest of Friday very well, except I wished yet again that humans hibernated like bears and that we could curl up together and sleep until spring, when brighter days were already here.
While we've been careful to moderate the strain and questions and worry around Baby Girl, I think she's picked up on it on some level - she fussed most of last night and today is clingy and cranky - wanting to not just be held, but cuddled and sung to. She wants to eat every 90 minutes. I'm still in my pajamas, Baby Girl's warm little head snuggled into the crook of my arm, finally starting to drift off. It's one of those days when the healing balm of church is desparately needed (and required, since we have a class of 10-year-old boys to teach), but I'm not sure how we're going to make it, with a baby who is demanding 110% of our attention.
My heart hurts for Himself, who is not himself in any sense of the word. My insides hurt wondering how to solve a problem we really shouldn't be in. And my arms have no feeling as Baby Girl's head has effectively cut off all circulation.
The Hobbit Hole feels a bit like a cave - dim and cool during the winter - my flannel sheets are snuggly and Baby Girl is warm - if ever there was a case for winter hibernation, it would be today.
So when he called me on Friday and immediately said, "I have some bad news," I was expecting him to give me some dramatic scene amd then say that the $400 we'd just dropped on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem.
Instead, a strained voice said, "I don't have a job anymore."
There was no laughing and telling me that actually the bad news wasn't really so bad after all (in a great twist of irony we found out Friday evening that the $400 we'd plunked down on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem ... so it turns out that my clairvoyancy was somewhat accurate).
In fact, there was a strangled cry and a silence full of anguish and hurt and disbelief. I don't remember the rest of Friday very well, except I wished yet again that humans hibernated like bears and that we could curl up together and sleep until spring, when brighter days were already here.
While we've been careful to moderate the strain and questions and worry around Baby Girl, I think she's picked up on it on some level - she fussed most of last night and today is clingy and cranky - wanting to not just be held, but cuddled and sung to. She wants to eat every 90 minutes. I'm still in my pajamas, Baby Girl's warm little head snuggled into the crook of my arm, finally starting to drift off. It's one of those days when the healing balm of church is desparately needed (and required, since we have a class of 10-year-old boys to teach), but I'm not sure how we're going to make it, with a baby who is demanding 110% of our attention.
My heart hurts for Himself, who is not himself in any sense of the word. My insides hurt wondering how to solve a problem we really shouldn't be in. And my arms have no feeling as Baby Girl's head has effectively cut off all circulation.
The Hobbit Hole feels a bit like a cave - dim and cool during the winter - my flannel sheets are snuggly and Baby Girl is warm - if ever there was a case for winter hibernation, it would be today.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Happy Belated Anniversary Himself
Himself and I went out last night to celebrate our anniversary (which wasn't yesterday, but our sitter will watch Baby Girl on Thursday nights for free, so all "date" type activities occur then). As I sat grazing on sushi, I reflected on the past five years - Himself and I both remarked that it seemed weird that we were "old married people" now.
The past five years have been filled with a roller coaster of complete insanity. Since marrying, we've lived at four different addresses in three cities in two different states. Himself has graduated from school twice, we've had a total of nine different jobs between us and we've been through an alarming number of major life changes - including the birth of Baby Girl.
Himself and I manage to accumulate a lot of odd looks from friends, relatives and acquaintances who ponder out loud on on earth it works for us. We're both stubborn, fiercely independent, hate to be told what to do and passionate. In a lot of ways, we are complete opposites. In other ways, we are exactly alike.
Himself is my very best friend. He is my biggest champion. He is generous (almost to a fault - let's not discuss how he funded my over-the-top Christmas gift of a set of Calphalon pans and accessories) and a quiet champion of anything I set my mind to. He has never batted an eye when I've come up with crazy schemes - even one that cost us several thousand dollars and started us on a financial nightmare. He supports my road trip habit and doesn't try to cage my restless spirit. He offered to leave the entire move to The Frontier up to me to decide, knowing my aversion to moving back. He's my greatest sounding board for my career - always interested in whatever project, goal or career move I'm working on at the moment.
He loves me for who I am - he doesn't care that I hang out at home in flannel pants and a sweatshirt. It doesn't bother him that housekeeping is not a talent I possess. He loves that I don't mind going outside and getting dirty - but that I also have an obsession with high-heels (which has not been fed lately, due to the difficulty of getting Baby Girl interested in a shoe-buying trip). He encourages me to learn and achieve new things, but respects my individuality and independence. He is never critical of the person I am - together we rattle along as a couple of people who love being individuals as much as we love being together as a couple.
In our relationship, he doesn't mind that I have no concept of gender roles, except when it comes to taking out the trash. He loves to celebrate the smallest things and has the wonderful (though detrimental to my morning routine) habit of waking up just before the alarm to cuddle.
He has taught me to be a better cook, inspired me to be a better mother and soothes my ruffled feathers more times than not.
Together, we have adventured to new cities, new places, new careers, new roles.
While I hope the next five years isn't as dramatic, I celebrate the insanity that has come with spending my life, and sharing our daughter, with my best friend.
I love Himself.
The past five years have been filled with a roller coaster of complete insanity. Since marrying, we've lived at four different addresses in three cities in two different states. Himself has graduated from school twice, we've had a total of nine different jobs between us and we've been through an alarming number of major life changes - including the birth of Baby Girl.
Himself and I manage to accumulate a lot of odd looks from friends, relatives and acquaintances who ponder out loud on on earth it works for us. We're both stubborn, fiercely independent, hate to be told what to do and passionate. In a lot of ways, we are complete opposites. In other ways, we are exactly alike.
Himself is my very best friend. He is my biggest champion. He is generous (almost to a fault - let's not discuss how he funded my over-the-top Christmas gift of a set of Calphalon pans and accessories) and a quiet champion of anything I set my mind to. He has never batted an eye when I've come up with crazy schemes - even one that cost us several thousand dollars and started us on a financial nightmare. He supports my road trip habit and doesn't try to cage my restless spirit. He offered to leave the entire move to The Frontier up to me to decide, knowing my aversion to moving back. He's my greatest sounding board for my career - always interested in whatever project, goal or career move I'm working on at the moment.
He loves me for who I am - he doesn't care that I hang out at home in flannel pants and a sweatshirt. It doesn't bother him that housekeeping is not a talent I possess. He loves that I don't mind going outside and getting dirty - but that I also have an obsession with high-heels (which has not been fed lately, due to the difficulty of getting Baby Girl interested in a shoe-buying trip). He encourages me to learn and achieve new things, but respects my individuality and independence. He is never critical of the person I am - together we rattle along as a couple of people who love being individuals as much as we love being together as a couple.
In our relationship, he doesn't mind that I have no concept of gender roles, except when it comes to taking out the trash. He loves to celebrate the smallest things and has the wonderful (though detrimental to my morning routine) habit of waking up just before the alarm to cuddle.
He has taught me to be a better cook, inspired me to be a better mother and soothes my ruffled feathers more times than not.
Together, we have adventured to new cities, new places, new careers, new roles.
While I hope the next five years isn't as dramatic, I celebrate the insanity that has come with spending my life, and sharing our daughter, with my best friend.
I love Himself.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Just Another Day in Paradise
I have had a bad month. A bad several weeks, actually, since the month is only seven days old at this point. Himself and I have traded off between feeling like we've been smooshed by a gigantic steamroller and feeling like we can trudge through another day with only minor reminders that we aren't well.
We finally discovered the culprit. The doctor took one look at Himself's tonsils, and after running a rapid strep test, declared thatHimself had the worst case of strep he had ever seen. Our roller coaster rides through illness have been on alternating weeks (thank goodness for that, I suppose), and he is one week ahead of me, so his is worse, but I also have it. Of course, we spent a highly useful period of time last night discussing who felt what and who had had a higher temperature, etc.
The house looks like a bachelor pad - you know, the kind that they'd showcase in a movie like Animal House. We have ordered takeout Chinese twice in 10 days from the restaurant a few streets over who actually has a website where you can order your takeout online (and it is almost as good as Taste of Asia in Maryland). We've never ordered takeout Chinese before. Neither of us are hungry, but one of us is feeding two people with one person's daily caloric intake, so food is sort of a necessity.
The laundry has been done - between being sick and spreading germs all over and Baby Girl, the washer hasn't sat idle more than 24 hours in the last few weeks. What has resulted is lovely, artistically deposited piles of textiles all over my living room, the nursery, our bedroom ... wherever they got shoved if someone was rumored to drop by.
The Christmas tree is up because I felt I owed it to Baby Girl. We're missing one box of ornaments and our tree looks like something even Charlie Brown would have a hard time loving, so it's really more of a garish misappropriation of artificial holiday cheer than a decoration, but Baby Girl loves the thing anyway.
The coffee table is covered in saline drops for babies and adults, a snot sucker, a box of tissues, a digital thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol (formerly occupied by a bottle of Advil, when it was my turn to take up residence on the couch, er, sick bed), a couple of empty water glasses - one which held juice, one which held water, two prescription bottles, a packet of throat lozenges, a bag of throat lozenges (Himself and I have different preferences for those, in addition to our painkiller differences) and a host of other things we've been too lazy to displace.
Our nightstands look equally the same. The couch pillows are on the love seat and the couch is covered in blankets, as one or the other of us has been sleeping on the couch for the last 3 1/2 weeks. All of Baby Girl's entertainment options are stationed within arm's reach of the couch - her bouncy seat, play mat, blanket, etc. The tub of wrapping paper and bows and other assorted useless (we have no gifts purchased yet) holiday cheer sits behind the ottoman, as neither of us have had the energy or foresight to move it.
And we won't even mention the dust and grime that is covering every other surface. Or the fact that the refrigerator is full of ingredients none of us have had the energy to do anything with. Or the fact that somehow we neglected to unpack the winter clothes when we moved in, so there are two boxes in two different rooms with their contents strewn over every available surface. Every morning we go to our appropriate box, shove our hand in and pull out a new surprise - spending the rest of the morning trying to find something to wear with it.
And this morning I realized we leave in two weeks for the great state of Washington. We have no presents purchased. We haven't even discussed what we're giving. We haven't talked about travel logistics - exactly when we're leaving, where we're staying or when we're coming home, nor have we talked about anything else holiday-related.
Oh yeah, and the weatherman is calling for a big storm where snow will fall "in feet, not inches." Hopefully this one isn't as badly forecasted as the one last week where we got 8-10" out of a storm that was supposed to just drop a "dusting."
It's another day in paradise, er, The Hobbit Infirmary.
We finally discovered the culprit. The doctor took one look at Himself's tonsils, and after running a rapid strep test, declared thatHimself had the worst case of strep he had ever seen. Our roller coaster rides through illness have been on alternating weeks (thank goodness for that, I suppose), and he is one week ahead of me, so his is worse, but I also have it. Of course, we spent a highly useful period of time last night discussing who felt what and who had had a higher temperature, etc.
The house looks like a bachelor pad - you know, the kind that they'd showcase in a movie like Animal House. We have ordered takeout Chinese twice in 10 days from the restaurant a few streets over who actually has a website where you can order your takeout online (and it is almost as good as Taste of Asia in Maryland). We've never ordered takeout Chinese before. Neither of us are hungry, but one of us is feeding two people with one person's daily caloric intake, so food is sort of a necessity.
The laundry has been done - between being sick and spreading germs all over and Baby Girl, the washer hasn't sat idle more than 24 hours in the last few weeks. What has resulted is lovely, artistically deposited piles of textiles all over my living room, the nursery, our bedroom ... wherever they got shoved if someone was rumored to drop by.
The Christmas tree is up because I felt I owed it to Baby Girl. We're missing one box of ornaments and our tree looks like something even Charlie Brown would have a hard time loving, so it's really more of a garish misappropriation of artificial holiday cheer than a decoration, but Baby Girl loves the thing anyway.
The coffee table is covered in saline drops for babies and adults, a snot sucker, a box of tissues, a digital thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol (formerly occupied by a bottle of Advil, when it was my turn to take up residence on the couch, er, sick bed), a couple of empty water glasses - one which held juice, one which held water, two prescription bottles, a packet of throat lozenges, a bag of throat lozenges (Himself and I have different preferences for those, in addition to our painkiller differences) and a host of other things we've been too lazy to displace.
Our nightstands look equally the same. The couch pillows are on the love seat and the couch is covered in blankets, as one or the other of us has been sleeping on the couch for the last 3 1/2 weeks. All of Baby Girl's entertainment options are stationed within arm's reach of the couch - her bouncy seat, play mat, blanket, etc. The tub of wrapping paper and bows and other assorted useless (we have no gifts purchased yet) holiday cheer sits behind the ottoman, as neither of us have had the energy or foresight to move it.
And we won't even mention the dust and grime that is covering every other surface. Or the fact that the refrigerator is full of ingredients none of us have had the energy to do anything with. Or the fact that somehow we neglected to unpack the winter clothes when we moved in, so there are two boxes in two different rooms with their contents strewn over every available surface. Every morning we go to our appropriate box, shove our hand in and pull out a new surprise - spending the rest of the morning trying to find something to wear with it.
And this morning I realized we leave in two weeks for the great state of Washington. We have no presents purchased. We haven't even discussed what we're giving. We haven't talked about travel logistics - exactly when we're leaving, where we're staying or when we're coming home, nor have we talked about anything else holiday-related.
Oh yeah, and the weatherman is calling for a big storm where snow will fall "in feet, not inches." Hopefully this one isn't as badly forecasted as the one last week where we got 8-10" out of a storm that was supposed to just drop a "dusting."
It's another day in paradise, er, The Hobbit Infirmary.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Great Night Out
Last night, for the first time in just shy of a year, Himself and I went out and I was neither pregnant nor toting an infant. Granted, I wasn't feeling well, so it wasn't totally all daisies and sunshine, but it was wonderful nonetheless. I had to refrain from skipping down the ice-coated sidewalk outside the restaurant as I thought of a whole dinner out without having to worry about whether or not Baby Girl's baby noises were going to drive anyone mad.
Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:
* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.
* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.
* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.
* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).
The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).
The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.
I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.
(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)
Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:
* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.
* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.
* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.
* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).
The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).
The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.
I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.
(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
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.
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