Loving What Is

One evening, shortly after Himself and I were married, I was ata church function when what I'm sure was a well-meaning woman asked me when I was going to quit my job and stay at home.

Cue several long seconds of awkward silence while I tried to figure out if she was serious or if her attempt at humor had gone horribly awry. I responded with, "Well, not anytime soon. Himself is in school full-time."

I can't remember her response. I just remember feeling horribly perplexed as to why getting married in the 21st century would mean automatically quitting my job - even if it meant taking up residence in a homeless shelter or taking out even larger amounts of student loans than Himself already had.

Fast forward almost 8 years. I now have two children. I spent the first 2.5 years of life with children feeling guilty every.single.day. about leaving them to go to work. Never mind I've had a string of jobs each one more flexible than the last. Never mind I provided 75% of the household income. Never mind the stupid financial decisions I made in my 20s. Never mind any good that has come of it. I wracked myself with guilt. If someone asked me how I liked my job, I would say hopefully, "I'm lucky to have it?"

And then came the layoff last spring and the 3-month stint where I spent consulting. I had the time to be a stay-at-home (mostly) mom - who worked during the wee hours of the night so I could pretend I was a true SAHM. I made almost as much money consulting as I did working full-time. The girls and I took more field trips. I defrosted the freezer. I had my teeth cleaned and a mole removed and scheduled a physical - things that had been on my "to do" list for 2.5 years.

And I was miserable. I wasn't miserable being a SAHM. That part I loved. I was miserable being a SAHWM - that would be a stay-at-home-working-mom. All I ever did was think about my clients - securing new ones, doing new client proposals, keeping the current ones, all of the research and the constant flow of work that was keeping me up at night, giving me heartburn and causing my anxiety to flare out of control. I was constantly worrying about money. My guilt felt worse. I worried about the horrible economy.

And then ... a job fell into my lap. A real job. With an enormous company. I went from unknown to one of 80,000 employees in 10 days. The first words out of my mouth to Himself were, "I'm not taking it. I'd be crazy. Look, I'm home with the kids every day. We're making it work. There is no way this is the right answer."

I spent the weekend praying about it. And every time, this warm peaceful feeling came when I considered taking the job. I fought against it. Pure craziness! I was a mom, I should be doing every single thing I could to be a SAHM - even if my sanity was hanging by a single thread. And still, the peace.

So, I took the job - with the caveat that I not start for almost a full month - so I could play with my kids. I started the job and was amazed - it was uber-flexible - allowing for me to work from home several days a week. It has amazing vacation and personal time off benefits. And everyone in my direct line of reporting had children 3 and under. Best of all - I was sleeping 5 or 6 hours a night - because I wasn't working in the wee hours. I came home and didn't think about work - for the first time in years.

When I told people I had a new job, I was greeted with uncomfortable silence and then, "Well, that's nice, I guess, since you have to work and all." When people asked how my job was, I would hesitate and say, "it's nice."

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago when I was in one of my monthly head-shrinking sessions, and my headshrinker said, "Why are you not enjoying your life NOW. Why are you waiting for it to change?" She elaborated:

"We are in a culture that figuratively stones women for working. So even though
there are many women who, by necessity, must work - for whatever reason - we all impose this creed of 'Thou Shalt Not Enjoy Thyself' because, after all, you shouldn't dare find satisfaction in anything that isn't being a SAHM. And we trudge to work every day and feel guilty and grumpy and wesnap at people and we race through the week as fast as possible trying to run away from the guilt that consumes us and our own reality. And I say this: 'What is wrong with loving what is?'"

I think my jaw hit the floor. She said, "Do you like your job?" And I said, "I love my job, but ..." She stopped me. "But what? But you have kids. So you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you don't plan on working forever, so you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you feel like a horrible person when you say that, even though you KNOW you made the best decision for your FAMILY?"

Um. Yes.

So my challenge - my New Year's Resolution of sorts, was to Love What Is. All of it. To not wish away the imperfections, but to embrace them for what they are and find joy in living my life. If you ask me if I like my job now, I'll tell you, "I love it. I'm good at it. And it's working well for our family." I won't feel guilty. It doesn't mean I don't love my kids. It doesn't mean I'm not a good mom. It means I made a decision that was the best one for my family, and I feel blessed. I am blessed to have a flexible schedule and enjoyable work. I'm blessed to have a wonderful sitter whom the girls adore. I'm blessed to live in a place where the cost of living is low enough I don't have to sell my soul to the highest bidder. I'm blessed to have the education and skills that landed me this job.

I'm blessed. I'm happier and I'm more charitable and I'm a nicer person to be around and live with when I am Loving What Is.

What I've found, however, is that Loving What Is is more than just being okay with my current, imperfect, place in life. I've found that it means I find myself feeling oddly happy in the middle of the night when one of the girls wakes up and needs soothing - because the nights where I get to snuggle with a warm little head pressed to my chest are finite. I find joy in walking the halls of church with Pebbles rather than counting down the weeks until she's old enough for nursery - because that time too is finite. I find joy in folding the little socks and glittery princess undies because in the not-too-distant-future, they too will vanish. I find joy in lying on the floor with the girls and building houses out of blocks that they find great joy in destroying prior to completion. I find joy in my car rides each day with them as we sing along to primary songs. And while I did not find much joy in the situation when Woodstock got carsick in horrible traffic on the tail end of a roadtrip last week, I did find joy in the spontaneous stopover at a relative's home to change clothes and get a bite to eat.

Life is fleeting, and while there are days when my heart still mourns the inability to stay at home every day with my girls, I realize how blessed I am not only to be able to provide for them, but to have a newfound perspective on life.

Here's to a fabulous 2011.

If I Have to Ask

For a couple of weeks now, I've been listening to a relationships seminar by a fairly well-known communications expert and family therapist in The Frontier.

My sister gave it to me several years ago, and I listened to it during my long commutes over the river and through the woods between Virginia and Maryland. That time was also a transitory time - as I anticipated the transition from "married, no kids" to "married, with child." Just as now I am transitioning from "married, one kid" to "married, two kids" - which is a fairly large mental adjustment for me, whatever the reason.

Anyway, long-winded intro aside, there are several key things the seminar highlights that have struck me (they struck me nearly 3 years ago as well, but this time they fairly pounded me over the head). One of those is the speaker's comment that too many of us live our lives thinking:

If I have to ask, it doesn't mean anything (or as much). I shouldn't have to ask if he/she loves me.

It struck me hard, because I was raised in a home (lovingly, to be sure), where that sentiment was oft repeated. "I shouldn't have to tell you, you should just know." Of course, it was probably uttered in relation to the fact that I hadn't gotten around to doing the chores that were clearly explained/posted/expected. However, I internalized it as, "Because you are a part of this family, you should just know what is expected."

The obvious problem is that neither I, nor anyone else that I know of, can read minds. And yet, I, and probably a lot of others, go through life assuming that if someone loves us he/she should just know what I need or want. And if, heaven forbid, I actually have to vocalize those needs/wants/expectations to get someone to recognize them, it is null and void.

Put that way it sounds so obvious. Apparently it's not obvious enough, however, since I can still hear that childhood refrain, "I shouldn't have to tell you, you should just know."

I'm working on replacing it with vocal expectations, prefaced with, "I would appreciate it if..." or "It would mean a lot if..." or "I could use some help with ..."

Of course, on day one I caught myself thinking, "Himself should know I'm trying to be better at verbalizing things ... after all the CD has been playing over and over for days."

Ooops.

Note to Self: Read the Label, Dummy!

When all else fails, read the drug label.

Normally I obsessively read the drug insert label on new prescriptions. And I look it up in the Physician's Desk Reference. But when I filled my prescription a week or so ago, I didn't bother, after all I've been on it several times and so I know (more or less) what to expect, even if I haven't been on it in two years.

The last few days I've been complaining (excessively probably) to Himself about the extreme fatigue I've been feeling during the day - but especially between 8 a.m. and early afternoon (only then to run into my normal afternoon slumps, which lead into dinner time, then the exhaustive "I'm 9 months pregnant and need to go to bed two hours early" tired spells, which effectively makes me fatiqued all day long).

I've also felt "off" - just slightly - like everything is a little fuzzy around the edges - especially in the mornings.

I just read the drug insert. "May cause fatique and diziness."
I think I've found the answer - seeing as I take it every morning at breakfast, which is, hmmm .... right around 8 a.m.

I think I'll be taking it before bed from now on.

**(Side note: In my defense, I have never had this side effect before, but the side effects of the injection drug I'm on also list diziness and fatigue as potential side effects - I think the two together are maginifying the issue - well, that and Pebbles sucking the very life out of my brain, bones and energy stores).

Pause and Thank

Today's post was going to be about my nearly hysterical tax adventures (or mis-adventures), but then something profound happened, so you'll have to wait (I know you are counting the minutes) for that.

Over the last six months, I have been heard, more than once, saying, "I am so grateful for this economic crisis," which on it's face sounds like I've lost one too many brain cells. While I undoubtedly have lost more than one too many brain cells, I truly AM grateful for the economic crisis - for reminding me of just how blessed I am. I mourn for those who are victims of the topsy turvy "never-quite-sure-what-to-expect-next" chaos, for those who are biting their nails at how on earth they are going to get through the next day, month, week, for those who find themselves suddenly unemployed. I've been there. I've also been on the "spend too much and think too little" end, and I'm happy to have found a relative balance.

But today, I was profoundly reminded of how blessed every single one of us are. I was standing on the sidewalk, in 40-degree, windy, threatening-to-snow weather downtown. A colleague and I were chatting following a networking lunch of cheese and chocolate fondue. A woman, clean, but obviously distressed, carrying a baby in a Snugli draped with a small blanket - diaper bag over her shoulder - approached us.

She timidly said, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment a few days ago. I'm on a waiting list for a shelter and an apartment with vouchers, staying at the Motel 8. I was supposed to move in today, but the people in the apartment I'm getting didn't move out, and I am scrambling to find $35 to pay for another night at the hotel. Do you have anything you can spare? I called my ex-husband, and he won't help."

I will admit, I'm a bit jaded and terribly practical - too much so for my own (and others) good. But that baby. I didn't care what happened, it just broke my heart. I stood looking at her, tears nearly pricking my eyes, and I handed her the last $4 in cash I had from my wallet. Then I said, "I have an extra clean blanket in my car, would that help?" (Winter isn't over yet - I always have a blanket in the car during the winter). Her face lit up and she said, "Oh yes - I'm so worried about my baby in this cold."

I asked if I could see her baby. There he was, 4 months old, snuggled up in the Snugli under the small blanket with a pacifier, unaware that anything was wrong. He was beautiful. She wrapped the larger blanket around him. I wanted to hug her, sob and drag her out to buy a can of formula, but it wasn't really practical, given the circumstances.

When she departed, I told my colleague, "I don't normally do things like that, but oh, that baby!"

Right then, I remembered again just how fortunate I am. I have a more than adequate home. I know how I'm going to pay the rent this month. There is food - nutritious, fresh and abundant, in my pantry. I have a job. Himself has a job. I have a family. I have reliable transportation. There are people who love me.

I uttered a silent prayer on my way back to the office. "Heavenly Father, thank you for reminding me of how truly blessed I am, for giving me someone to help today, even just a little, and help me never to know what it feels like to not be able to provide the basic necessities for my children."

I'm hugging Woodstock extra close tonight and delighting in the aerobatics of her little sister, who seems to be quite content to kick my bladder repeatedly. May they never have to wonder where they will sleep at night. May I always be able to provide shelter, a bed, warmth, food and love.

May we not take for granted those things which place us among the most wealthy in the world.

The Hand of Providence

My Sunday School lesson this week is on personal revelation. As I've begun to study the materials and scriptures associated with it, I've become extraordinarily aware of just how much personal revelation, promptings and answers to prayer have played such a key role in my life over the last 12 months.

For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.

There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.

I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.

Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.

I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.

Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.

A Tale of Two Christmases

Two years ago, I was buried in gourmet gift baskets from clients, vendors and the like. We gorged ourselves on Mrs. Fields cookies, smoked salmon, artisan cheeses, pate, crackers, Godiva chocolates and the 50 other lesser items sent in the name of corporate holiday popularity contests.

We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.

My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.

Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.

Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.

We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.

On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.

Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.

This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.

Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.

Pausing.

The strangest sense of peace has settled over me the past few days. Even as the world's instability rages on, even as The Frontier slips slowly into the long, gray days of winter, I am at peace.

For the record, I am not a peaceful person. I am a peacemaker - the very thought of conflict makes my stomach not and my bed look more inviting than ever - but I am not internally peaceful. If I smoked, I'd be one of those nervous chain-smokers depicted in iconic movies from the 1950s. I fidget. I worry. I obsess. I am slightly neurotic, Type A and an adrenaline junkie. I like to solve problems, and I hate to be told I can't do something.

Somehow, right now, that's not me (well, except for the fidgeting part). This morning, there was a story of a mother, so desperate for money, she watered down her infant's formula and nearly killed him - not knowing the danger extra water poses to an infant. I wept, grateful that our myriad of job issues in the last 18 months have never left us so destitute as to have to worry about how to feed Woodstock, let alone ourselves. I was grateful for my work history, my education - that gives me a better chance, even in a bad economy, of being able to support my family when necessary.

On the way to the office today, I listened to Woodstock chatter in her car seat - waving "hi" to passing cars, talking to her "ayato" (alligator) - just rambling in that cute, broken baby English way of hers. I thought how grateful I was for health insurance - something I had never been without until this year. I thought how grateful I was for Woodstock's pediatrician, who made me promise that if I brought Woodstock in for all her well baby visits (not bringing her had never crossed my mind), even while uninsured, that she would only charge me the $25 I had been paying for co-pays. She wrote off the rest of the visit. I thought how grateful I am for two cars that are in good condition - and that the $300 I have to put into one this month is for tires and not for a "patch job" that, along with prayers, would be the only thing keeping it running.

And, for the first time, I thought about how grateful I am to be in The Frontier - away from the near-toxic gluttony that surrounded me daily - in both my work and personal life.

I'm certain I know from where this sense of serenity is originating, but it is puzzling that I have allowed it to linger so long. Last December was a cold, bleak month where the holidays held no magic, no allure, no respite. This year, I've happily set out to do holiday baking, the tree is up, and I'm gleefuly preparing for a holiday filled with love and family.

And for that, I am most thankful.

Thinking Out Loud, Part III

A Continuation of This

It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.

I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.

The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.

I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,

"Please come."

The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.

She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.

I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.

The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.

Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."

Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.

I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.

To be continued ...

There But For the Grace of God Go I

There are some days when I truly believe it is only by the Grace of God that I am still functioning. The last 18 months have been a cacophony of static, a rollercoaster ride worthy of inclusion at Cedar Point and a sensory overload that threatens to drive even the sanest person into an asylum.

Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.

Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.

Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.

More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.

Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."

This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).

My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).

That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.

Visiting the Past

It has been more than a decade since I last stepped foot in the valley I called home for a couple of years in college. Since the years there were my only true "stereotypical" college years (ie heavy on the socializing, living with roommates and seeing 3 a.m. numerous times), there are a lot of memories jam-packed into a valley that likely sports as many cows as people, and where the university and town's populations are about equal.

Himself and I had been planning to visit for weeks, and, only several breaths later, cancelling the visits, for a myriad of reasons. In the plan's third incarnation, we decided to take a quick day trip, picnic in the canyon and wander around campus (or drag Himself around campus, which is probably more accurate).

Sidenote: Only people who have lived in the insanity of a large metro area understand why a 200-mile round-trip drive could be considered a "quick day trip" (as in less than half a day). In reality, it's no big deal because we used to drive that distance, twice, every other weekend when bringing Grover to visit - during Friday rush hour through two cities. A Sunday drive to the Great Frozen North doesn't even come close.

From the moment we descended into the valley I felt an intense wave of nostalgia. I pointed out random landmarks (old and new) to Himself as we drove - including the fact that the left-turn arrow at 4th and Main was met with,

"This is a great concept!"

(Yes, stoplights were a novelty - at the time I left, my hometown's one stoplight was only three years old). It made me sound like an incredible hayseed, and I'm sure I had seen left-turn arrows before - after all I had been to most of the major cities in the west and a handful in the east before leaving for college. I just remember the exact feeling I had when I first hit that intersection, and for whatever reason, it was one of amazement.

A picnic in the canyon was met with adventure: when Himself and Woodstock launched leaf boats down the river, when Woodstock spent lunch time stuffing her lunch in the cracks of the picnic table (note to self: remember a tablecloth next time), when Woodstock kept yelling at the squirrels in excitement - puzzled as to why they kept scampering away, and when we threw the trash bag in the trunk only to discover one very angry wasp trapped inside.

But it was the campus itself that made me get all warm and mushy inside. Even more than 10 years after leaving, I still felt at home. Like the campus was mine. It was full of memories - croquet in the snow, buying a bag of bread ends at the on-campus bakery (too poor to buy the actual loaves), the heated sidewalks (a necessity in sub-zero temps), sledding down Old Main Hill, Big Blue, going to homecoming on a blind date, climbing three flights of stairs in the ag science building (past the best ice cream on the planet) for 5-day-a-week comms classes (I noticed that there is a new building housing some of comms - praise the alumni donors!), painting posters (always with "free food!" on them) in the student council suite, the opera-loving Dean who was my boss, Italian sodas at the monthly poetry and a beverage nights...

In truth, the stoplight at 4th and main was a symbol of my transition from itty bitty town to larger world. I loved the diversity, the vibrance, the sense of community (so formed because once the snows set in, no one can actually leave the valley without a lot of work and a harrowing drive out the canyons). I made friends quickly and easily, imersing myself in everything that sounded remotely interesting. I quickly found my niche and, while there were dark days, days of stress and frustration and male-induced-angst, I loved it. I had amazing roommates and mentors and professors and quirky landlords who wrote "no sleeping on the couches" into the lease.

And yet, I always knew it was fleeting. The very first day I moved into my apartment (the dungeon beneath a dentist office across from campus), I took a walk to where you could see the over whole valley from the west end of campus. As I stood there breathing in unseasonally cool air (the first snow storm would come only days later), I had the distinct impression,

"You aren't going to graduate from here."

I don't know why I felt that way, but it was the clearest impression I've ever had. There were words in my head and I felt ... puzzled. I had fallen in love with the Ivy League feel of the campus - old brick and stone buildings,lush green landscaping - and accepted the money the school threw my way. I fought against it, figuring if I filled up my days and nights and became a vital part of the university's community that nothing could make me leave.

I was wrong.

Two years later, I left it all - student council, a fabulous job, wonderful roommates, a fledgling major (the near collapse of which was the one thing, as it turns out, that could make me listen to the voice in my head) - an academic junior with more credits than a typical transfer student, unsure where to go. I accepted a job on the East Coast, then a position in a highly regarded major at a university farther south. I graduated with good grades, found a good job and a life of adventure and chaos in my beloved adopted state of Virginia.

But I never forgot the person I became in the valley of the cows, bitter canyon winds and eternal winters where the university was the center of the universe.

It felt good to wander around campus, void of all but a handful of students, looking very nearly like it did when I was first starting out on the adventure of life. It felt good to share the last piece of my history with Himself, to remember the days of $60 food budgets and $400 monthly paychecks ... to remember, and cherish the years I spent there, growing up, growing wiser and moving forward.

All Hail the Aggies.
(And my advanced apologies for rooting against you in next weekend's football game).

F-E-V-E-R Spells Disappointment

I am, by nature, rather high strung. As a result, there are very few activities or places that I find relaxing. In fact, there is only one place where I feel absolutely, totally relaxed - where I can seperate all of the nonsense chatter in my head from complete serenity.

It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).

This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).

The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.

We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.

An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.

For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.

I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.

Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.

The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"

I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.

I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.

It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.

I will keep on running. Running and running and running.

(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).

This is the part where panic sets in...

...or should set in. Would have set in if I hadn't broken down and amitted (while being gently poked by the head shrinker and the doctor) that I had to do something to stop the several-times-a-day near hysteria. It is amazing how, well, NORMAL 1/2 of a little blue pill can make one feel, now that the insomnia and headaches have passed.

It is also, apparently, prohibiting me from feeling any sort of panic about the fact that I am no longer technically employed or drawing an income - me, the one who earns 80% of the household income. I just can't summon up the gumption to be panicked - or care much at all.

In truth, I suspect only part of it has to do with the little blue pill. I suspect most of it has to do with the fact that for the first time in a long time I am feeling empowered. I feel IN CONTROL. In TOTAL control of my life.

For a control freak, that's a pretty big deal.

Soap Box: Marriage

My parents and I tend to have a lot of conversations regarding life, religion, politics, women, education, etc. I like this about my parents, especially since they don't automatically hate me if I have a different opinion. And because they raised me to have an opinion.

On a recent visit to The Parents', we had a conversation about Marriage as a destination vs. a process. Earlier today I read an article that referenced a similar thought, it made my fingers itch to analyze it on a keyboard. (Disclaimer: By nature of my fundamental beliefs about life, families and so forth, here's where I get slightly religious).

We believe that families are forever - that two people can be married by one with the proper authority from God (in the temple) and that they, and any offspring born to them, are linked forever in the eternities. Heaven would be a very sorrowful place to spend by oneself.

As a result, we teach our young women (I can't comment on the young men side, I am never was one, nor have I taught them), that Temple Marriage is the key to eternal salvation. In a matter of speaking. The problem is, here's where doctrine and culture get all mixed up. Doctrinally, yes, eternal (ie temple) marriage (regardless of when it happens) is a key tenet to salvation. But it is not a guarantee. It is not the end of the road. Culturally, however, we teach it as such. People sigh and think happy thoughts when someone is married in the temple, saying, "Oh good. They've made it."

In reality (and doctrinally), marriage (of any kind) is NOT a destination. It is a stepping stone in the process of life. I fundamentally believe that a temple marriage DOES provide extra support and strength to weather the storms of life (internal to, and external of, the marriage). But it does not mean "you've made it."

I have been particularly alarmed of late noticing that young women see marriage as an endpoint. An "arrival" where all will be well if they have the right kind of marriage ceremony. I see those with whom myself and my siblings were raised - with variations on the same theme - and see a staggering pattern of young women who view marriage as a dependent relationship and as their ultimate life's goal.

There is nothing wrong with marriage. There is nothing wrong with having a goal to be married. What scares me is the view of a marriage relationship as a dependency and as THE one and only goal. Should it be a goal? Absolutely! But it shouldn't be the culminating goal on a life's "to accomplish list" - it marks the end of a solitary journey and the beginning of a journey together, which should bring with it an even longer set of dreams, hopes and goals - and work.

Case in point: My youngest brother knows someone whose sole desire in life is to get married, at all costs. In her early 20s, she is desperate to get married. Rather than putting energy into improving herself and building a life (and a persona) that is attractive to men, she dropped out of school, works a dead-end job and lives at home - and concentrates on pushing marriage on every person she dates.

She will achieve her goal of marriage - and probably even temple marriage - but I wonder what kind of marriage it will be? Where does she go from there? What does she have to offer her husband, future children, society? It's not just a lack of formal education, but a lack of life education - the inability to cook, be independent, take care of a household. Yet everyone will cheer for her success and say "all is well," because "the goal" has been reached.

Marriage is hard. It is wonderful and sustaining and fulfilling, but it is hard. It takes work. Neither love (nor a temple marriage) is enough to sustain a relationship. An enormous amount of love combined with work, mutual goals, continual improvement, charity, long-suffering, patience, more work, selflessness, tolerance, acceptance, companionship, and so forth make up a marriage, a long with a good does of reality, forgiveness and a sense of humor.

I cringe to see young women (and young men) enter into one of the most sacred, complex unions completely unprepared. One can never be perfectly prepared, for that would require one (and one's spouse-to-be) to be perfect. Yet, there is an amount of preparedness that one can achieve prior saying "I do" - in preparing oneself to be able to take care of, and provide for, oneself. Some are ready very young. Some are not. Marriage is not a surrender to "here - take care of me forever!" it is a joining of two souls with mutual goals and aspirations, vowing to care for, love and support one another.

I'm by no means an expert. I've only been married five years, and Himself and I are still a work in progress (something akin to how I see Jackson Pollock paintings). But as the number of marriages that fail continues to rise, as the world screams "if you don't feel butterflies, it isn't love," I wonder what kind of disservice we as a culture and society are doing to teach our youth that marriage is a destination, implying that what follows are years of effortless perfection, bliss and butterflies.

I pray I don't fall into the same unintentional cycle as I raise Baby Girl.

End of rant. Off my soapbox.

Mass Exodus

For the sake of brevity, let's dismiss with how I ended up in a car with Baby Girl today without a diaper bag. Call it what you want, but it happened.

Between my doctor's visit and Baby Girl's doctor's visit (in the same medical complex), I decided to feed her. Halfway through, she screwed up her face and concentrated on expelling the remnants of past feedings in to her diaper. Apparently, she cannot multi-task, as she stopped eating for the duration. She then proceeded to protest loudly about the results.

Bravely, I peeked inside - thinking maybe it was one of her usual "small poops" - as I had neither a changing pad or wipes in my car. (I only had diapers that fit her because I haven't yet lugged the humungo box o' Costco diapers out of the car yet).

It was not. Rather, it was a spectacular explosion barely contained within the confines of the diaper. I lay her down and unfastened the diaper. It was hopeless with no wipes. Coming up with a very expensive alternative, I tried to use another diaper to wipe her little bum. No luck.

About the time I'd stunk up the car and only half-wiped her little bottom, Baby Girl decided she needed to expel more waste. I gave up, stuck the once clean diaper on her and rolled up the very, very messy one. Her appointment was in 15 minutes. There was a gas station down the street. Surely they would carry something I could use to scrub her bum with.

Failing to put on her pants or socks (or even button her onesie), I put Baby Girl back in her carseat for the block-long drive to the gas station. Once there, I took her out of her seat and schlepped her half-naked self into the convenience store to look for wipes.

I kept waiting for CPS spies to launch themselves at me, condemning me with accusations like, "what kind of mother takes her half-naked, dirty bummed self out in 38-degree weather?!" I got to the counter - the clerk asked how my days was going. I replied, "It's better not to ask, as evidenced by the fact that I am taking my half-naked baby to a gas station." He laughed. I explained the situation (why do I feel compelled to do this?) and left, wipes in hand.

We returned to the doctor's complex, and I changed Baby Girl's diaper. Knowing that she was going to have to strip naked for her weighing anyway, I snapped the onesie up, but didn't replace her pants and socks before I took her into the doctor's office.

Again, the visions of the receptionist pushing the silent "summon the CPS patrol" button and again my sad diatribe of how I ended up with a baby, a horribly explosive diaper, no diaper bag and a dire need for wipes.

When Baby Girl has her own kids and confesses that she got stranded with no useful baby supplies, I'll commiserate with her.

Until then, I'm stocking my car with wipes. Maybe the humungo box o' Costco diapers will remain in there as well.

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 Have and To Hold

Nothing can adequately describe the incredible range of emotions I have felt over the last 6 weeks, but this photo, taken last week, comes pretty close:



Baby Girl is growing, but still tiny. While nearly longer than most just-born babies, she has yet to reach the birth weight of any of the babies born to my friends over the past two months. Last week, she began smiling when smiled at during her happy periods right after being fed and having her diaper changed. Tummy time is limited since she is so wiggly - she always ends up on her side or her back. "Back to Sleep" is no longer, as she learned to turn onto her side at Day 4 and, while I still put her down on her back, she steadfastly refuses to stay that way any longer than 30 seconds. She loves nothing more than to hang out over a shoulder - content to watch the world from up high. She is just beginning to discover texture - fingering everything with which she comes into contact.

I've grown to love the feeding times I once dreaded - to indulge in holding her and watching her tiny hands grab onto anything within reach. Himself and I fight over who gets to hold her when we're cold - as Baby Girl has inherited her father's ability to radiate startling amounts of heat.

She is starting to coo and make happy baby noises that one could interpret for a slightly more two-sided conversation. When faced with a new scene or a different angle, Baby Girl turns and twists and stares, trying to take it all in. She delighted the entire back row of Sunday School yesterday (her first foray to church) by smiling and craning her neck to take everything in.

My heart is full of perfect love I didn't know existed.
And my heart aches because on Wednesday I will have to drop her off at Miss Jan's and try not to smear my make up as I cry all the way to work.

It's been six weeks and already she is growing up way too fast.

The Rest of the Story...

Today, Baby G is a month old. It hardly seems like it's been that long. In honor of her one-month birthday, I finally finished The Rest of the Story, continued from this.

First, you have to read the other side of the rest of the story: here and here.

I was three weeks shy of my 17th birthday when I almost died. It is an experience I will not soon forget, the harrowing panic that streamed through me is etched upon my soul forever.

I didn’t realize then that how the events of that day would profoundly affect my life – often in ways unknown to others. Always high-strung and anxious, I began having minor panic attacks. These attacks, which diminished in frequency, increased in intensity, as I grew older. I required more control over details of my life – any situation in which I felt out of control would produce sheer panic. Sometimes it would lead to migraines, hyperventilation and a complete meltdown.

It was then that my greatest fear manifested itself.

While we were dating, I confessed to Himself one night what my greatest fear in life was – a fear I had never vocalized. I was mortally terrified of childbirth, and the complete surrender of all control that I felt was requisite.

It was not something I dwelled on; preferring to bury it in the dark recesses of my mind, rather than stare it in the face. It grew dusty, covered in mental cobwebs, like a forgotten box in the back corner of an aged, dim attic.

It didn’t help that I had never heard one good labor and delivery story. I heard horror stories, mediocre stories and stories that either began or ended with, "I would do it differently next time,” or “I felt like I had no choice.”

When I found out we were going to have a baby, I had relatively few opinions on labor and delivery other than the fact that I didn’t want to go through it. I was forced to reach back in the dark corners and dust off my paralyzing fear – being in a situation in which I would seemingly have very little control. Over the course of my pregnancy through research, reading, speaking to friends and professionals, I began to slowly craft a vision of what I wanted Baby Girl's birth experience to be like. Still, it seemed I was probably crazy for doing so - no one I had spoken to had a birth experience that seemed to go the way they wanted it to. Nature, in all her capriciousness, seemed to dole out experiences at random. I continued to panic, fear gripping me in the sleepless hours of early morning.

After we moved to The Frontier, Heidi made an offer - to attend Baby Girl's birth, if I needed a shoulder to lean on. While closer to family than we were in Virginia, I was still far enough away to feel isolated. Through the course of my research and reading, I had determined that labor is best shared with a woman. It was at that point I took Heidi up on her offer.

As noted, I arrived at the hospital COMPLETELY overwhelmed and unprepared physically, emotionally and mentally for labor. My arrival wasn't at all how I had envisioned it, which is ridiculous because I was overdue. There wasn’t a single reason for me not to be ready to give birth.

I was a nightmare of a patient. I questioned everything. I asked hundreds of questions. I took agonizing minutes, in one case, hours, to make decisions. I paced the halls of the hospital in my backless nightie and fuzzy socks. I purposely avoided anything to do with Labor and Delivery during my excursion, afraid I would be apprehended, stuck with a needle and strapped down to a bed until Baby G arrived.

I steadfastly refused to be in bed. I paced, sat on, leaned over and draped myself on an exercise ball. I tried to run the hospital out of hot water in the shower. I held a running conversation with myself and anyone else present – hoping that the sound of my voice would drown out the pounding reality that I had arrived at the point most feared since that fateful day 12 years ago.

I don’t remember everything I babbled about – to Heidi, to my nurse, to Himself, after he returned to the hospital. What I do know, is that I felt a powerful sense of calm, a beautiful sense of clarity and peace.

Through all this, I managed to maintain the mental control I needed to stare down my greatest fear – my 20 questions about every drug, every procedure, every suggestion helped. Truly, I only made it because of two remarkable women and Himself: a miraculous nurse who approved of my feisty refusal to be conventional, a friend who that night became family and the man I shared my little girl and my heart with.

When it came time for Baby G to arrive, I was anxious to meet her. The first glimpse of her beautiful, blonde hair, made me want to work even harder to bring her into the world.

The moment she arrived will be engraved on my soul forever – just like the day 12 years before when I thought I had died. At that moment, time stood still, the world faded away and all I could see through my tears was Himself, his tears and a glimpse of our tiny little daughter.

But something was wrong. I didn’t realize then, like everyone else, that the cord had been wrapped around her neck. What I did know was that there was an airbag, there was no baby on my chest and she wasn’t crying. My tears of absolute joy and relief turned to tears of fear as I begged to know what was going on.

Repeatedly assured that she was all right, I refused to believe it, because the growing silence and efficiency of the hospital room pounded a message in my brain, “Not crying. Needs air. Not quite right.”

In the end, everything was fine, as I knew, deep down, it would be. The little girl with blond hair and enormous blue eyes that shown with remarkable intelligence, snuggled into my arms. Her daddy sported her footprint on his forearm and a subtle grin on his face. I had made it. We had made it. More than that, I had made it with memories I could take out and cherish once in awhile – memories that would brighten my day and replace the forgotten box in the dark corners of the attic. My greatest fear had become my greatest joy.

Our little family felt, for the moment, complete.

Loved

Early this morning, I held my little girl in my arms as she steadfastly refused to eat, then, an hour later, I held her as her little body convulsed she threw up the prior feeding - all over me, all over her, all over my bed.

For the next five minutes, I sat, held her close, and cried, great tears falling down my cheeks. Scared that something was very wrong, I gathered her up and took her upstairs, where my parents were beginning to get ready for the day.

My mom questioned my appearance, knowing that, sleep-deprived, I try and stretch the night out as long as possible. I walked into the hallway, tears still caressing my cheeks, and said, "She's sick."

Mom gently took Baby G and lovingly changed her out of her soiled pajamas, so that I could clean up. I placed a call to the pediatrician. Then I sat in the kitchen and just held her, my heart aching, as she clearly displayed signs of not feeling well.

For the first time, I was powerless to help her. For the first time, I began to understand the burden of love and pain that my parents have borne for me. As I sat gently rocking my infant daughter, I thought of how helpless and scared my parents must have felt when I was rushed to the hospital at age 8 with a serious viral infection; the dread that must have settled over them when I suffered a life-threatening surgical complication at age 16; the terror that must have sat like lead in their hearts when they were escorted out of my hospital room as I went into post-surgical respiratory arrest at age 18; the fear that seeped into my mother's voice as I told her of my upcoming appendectomy 18 months ago; and hundreds of other times when, through choice or circumstance, I had caused my parents pain.

I have never been more grateful to be in my parents' care than I was today. I have never been more appreciative of their love for me, as I conferred with them over my baby's obvious discomfort. I have never appreciated my mother more than when she gently lifted Baby G from my arms to care for her, so I could care for myself.

I can't imagine what I would have done, had she grown ill while I was in my own home. Surely, the tears would have flowed much longer, the feeling of utter helplessness settled much deeper, had I not been able to turn to my parents to share my burden.

As I cared for Baby G the rest of the day, patting her to sleep slung over my shoulder (the only positon which seemed to provide her with some relief), I realized, for the first time, the burden of love and pain my parents bore for me had now settled on my shoulders. I'll never truly know how much my parents love me, but in the quiet stillness this morning, I began to glimpse the enormity of it.

Baby G now sits, propped on my lap, fast asleep - her ailments momentarily pushed aside by fatigue. I realize, as I watch her sleep in perfect contentment, I am truly blessed to have someone love me so much, but even more blessed to experience that great love for someone else.

Sleep well, Baby G.

40 Weeks to Change a Life

Today is rather anti-climatic.

For the past 9 months, September 4 (or thereabouts) has been the countdown day - almost like counting down to Christmas or counting down to the day I finally turned 16. Except ... Christmas and my 16th Birthday were guarantees. The countdown ended at a specific time, with a specific result. I woke up this morning feeling a bit like I'd been taken advantage of by an oily salesman. Ta da! I have arrived - only to discover that there is no prize to be had today for patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently) counting down the months, weeks, days.

Intellectually, I knew that a due date, is in essence, the sort-of mid-point of a 5-week window in which you are "full-term." Yet when the entire world revolves around the calendar flipping each week based on an end date, it's a little disconcerting to arrive at said date only to realize nothing is happening.

And I mean nothing.

What this morning did bring was a lot of thought about how much my life has changed in the last 40 weeks. If someone would have asked me 40 weeks ago today what I would be doing on September 4, 2007, there are several words that would not have entered my answer: Pregnant. Baby. Labor. Childcare. The Frontier. New Jobs (yes, that is plural). Moving. And so forth.

I realized in the past 40 weeks, my life has taken a drastic turn, and not just the normal "we're having a baby" drama. In the past 40 weeks:

-I have interviewed more than 40 times, all of them while pregnant
-I have had four jobs and worked for three companies
-I have been laid off twice (yikes - is there a pattern?)
-I have moved 2,300 miles
-I have gone from a brand-new apartment to the Hobbit Hole
-I have gone from the world of big-business, high-stress career to tiny, quiet agency which is helping set me on course for independent consulting
-I have gone from my isolated "friends are family" life to "family is only a few hours away" life

That is in addition to all the fundamental changes that rush through you when you're confronted with the impending title of "parent." I've begun to see Himself in the light of a father (odd, since he's been a father the entire time I've known him - though it's somehow different when he is the father of your child, not someone else's). I don't think anyone thought it was possible, but I think I've become slightly more domestic (emphasis on the "slightly" part, don't get too excited). My priorites have shifted. My perspective has shifted. I've spent the past 40 weeks sharpening my worrying skills.

And there are other, more subtle changes - Mexican doesn't hold nearly the same appeal as it once did for me (it's been gone so long, I'm not sure the appetite I had for south-of-the-border food will ever return). My body is now the full-fledged body of an adult woman, bearing the scars of childbirth before I've even birthed a child. Having a few empty days on the calendar a week feels refreshing rather than feeling like indisputable evidence of a massive failure in social achievement. I turn my head at every pregnant woman or every infant I see - wondering how I look, wondering what Baby Girl will look like. My daydreams are of the kind of personality she'll have (though I have a good idea she'll be like her father - she's already going on stubborn and late), who she'll take after, what she'll do with her life, how many tears I'll shed over her.

40 weeks ago, I was on top of the world. Now, today, September 4, I am still on top of the world - it just happens to be another planet all together.

Switchpoints

When I was out walking the other day, trying to escape the raging heat of the Hobbit Hole (we discovered that the a/c got turned off upstairs by the upstairs neighbor's adult kids, while the neighbors are on vacation, turning the Hobbit Hole into a 90+degree furnace for three days), I was pondering how we ended up in The Frontier, when it was so far out of My Life's Plan.

It led me to think about other points in my life where drastic things happened as a result of one action, one response, one event - switchpoints, of sorts.

The first was the summer just before I turned 11, when I bravely embarked on my first airplane flight, my first foray to the East Coast and my first "all-by-myself" adventure. I spent the entire summer living in Northern Virginia with my uncle and his family. It was there that I fell in love with all things East Coast (okay, most things East Coast - The Frontier has far better dairy that the East ever will). It wasn't just a matter of falling in love with a suburb or a city - I had been to plenty of both, before and after my Virginia sojurn. It was Washington, D.C., itself. I faithfully recorded my adventures in a small journal that summer, for which I am forever grateful, as it has kept my memories in almost pristine condition. I remember the first day we went to Washington, D.C. - the 4th of July. I remember sitting on the curb along Constitution Ave. for 3 1/2 hours watching the Independence Day Parade. I remember eating freeze-dried neopolitan ice cream at the Air & Space Museum, and huddling under the trees outside of the Museum of American History, trying unsuccessfully to get out of the rain. And I loved it. Every single minute of it. I loved each subsequent trip back into the city - it was a passion that consumed me the minute I could see any of the familiar landmarks. When I returned home, I told my mom, "I am going to move to Washington, D.C., when I am old enough." Another trip to DC while I was in high school did nothing but continue to fuel my love of the nation's capitol.

Nine years after the original declarations of an almost-11-year-old, I moved to the DC area for the first time. It started out as a semester-long break from school. It ended up beginning a 9-year-odyssey that changed my life forever, but more on that later.

The second Switchpoint came in the 9th grade. I was 14 years old and terrified of being in front of people, talking to strangers or taking a risk. I suspected that I wanted to be a journalist and knew that I would have to talk to people somehow, so I did what every rational, shy teenageer would do - I joined the speech & debate team. Somehow, even though I hated it my Freshman year (probably as a result of going 0-40 that season), I came back the next year, and the next and the next. I learned how to structure a speech, how to debate, how to use logic and evidence and the power and cadence of words and delivery to win. I learned about masculine and feminine endings and when to use them. I studied case briefs, body language and practiced my arguments and speeches in front of the mirror with a pen in my mouth (for proper tongue placement, to ensure better diction). By my Junior year, my partner and I were the top-ranked debate team in the state and had been offered full-ride debate scholarships to a local college. In my Senior year, I took state in my individual event, weeks after having major jaw surgery.

Not only did it drastically improve my confidence and my interpersonal skills and hone my hidden persuasiveness gene, it taught me how to structure my thoughts, how to think critically and how there was always another side to an argument - all things that led to future success in college and my career. Nothing else - no teacher, no class, no event, no skill - impacted my life as much as the decision I made that fateful September day; a decision even my Freshman coach questioned after I showed no discernable talent that first year. The results of that decision have been the reason I have landed every scholarship, every internship, every job I've had since.

The third Switchpoint came when I moved to the DC area at the ripe old age of 20. I came for a semester and stayed for a lifetime - or so it seems now, given everything that happened in my life in the ensuing 9 years. I took a break from college and took a job, seeking adventure, freedom and the ability to become someone I could never become in the confines of my home state. I wanted to create myself, not be forever defined by the people with whom I had grown up. I wanted to be sophisticated, confident, knowledgeable beyond what I could find at home.

It was just as alluring as it was the first time, and I was quickly intoxicated by everything to do with my new life - the DC area, the history, the power, the politics, my friends, my freedom, the vast world that stretched beyond me. It led me to one of my best friends, Shaliece, which led me to Himself, to my marriage 4 1/2 years later, to the life I now lead. Like the decision to join the debate team, my move to suburban Maryland 9 years ago is ultimately responsible for everything else that has happened since.

As I neared the end of my walk, I realized that my move to The Frontier was the result of another Switchpoint, which occurred in the pre-dawn hours of Christmas Eve 2006, when the second line unexpectedly showed up on the test and my world changed forever. While I didn't realize it at the time, that line would be responsible over the ensuing months for every major decision Himself and I made. Decisions that ultimately led us to leaving my beloved city behind and returning to The Frontier.

Four times have I come to a Switchpoint in life, completely oblivious to what lay in the path before me, content to set off down a road that seemed intriguing. Each time, the result has brought a rich tapestry of hapiness, tempered by a little sorrow, and a stunning array of opportunities, experiences, friends and cherished memories. Four times have those Switchpoints proven to be powerfully positive, though some required more pain and sacrifice than others.

I have 16 days until Baby Girl is due to arrive (according to the all-knowing-estimated-due-date-chart). Sixteen days until the potential Switchpoint #5 - when the doctors will place her in my arms and life will change all over again. For the first time, I am seeing the crossroads before I arrive, and it is a bit daunting.

I wonder where the rest of my life will take me ...