The Women of Tidewater

Today was an odd, reflective sort of day - not quite melancholy, not quite "in a funk," just deep in thought - meditative, if one can use that word when one is dealing with month-end reporting at work and two kids with cabin-fever at home.

Anyway, as talking heads discussed the events of last night ad nauseum and friends and family shared their thanks and support of the miliary community, I found myself reflecting back a decade ago (simply typing that makes me feel old), when so much of what was on the news this morning was part of my every day life in some manner.

10 years ago this spring I was in the middle of so many changes I wasn't sure where my life would end up. I was four or five months into a new job, in a new town (living, for the first and last time of my life, 5 minutes from the beach), among a new community of mostly active duty military families, acting in a leadership role of the children's organization at church (yes - someone actually put ME semi-in-charge of small humans at the tender age of not-much-over-twenty - me! Somehow we all survived and I'm pretty sure I'm a better person for it) and writing e-mails to Himself who was cruising around the Mediterranean in an enormous ship, eating his way through Europe.

It was an era of many defining moments - not the least of which was the horrible, terrifying events that would commence that fall. The events spearheaded by the man whose name seemed to roll off someone's tongue every third word this morning.

It has been awhile since I've taken out that portion of my life and examined it much. Today, I did just that, as I reflected on what the events of last evening meant to me - and how I felt about them. I thought about "the beginning" - where I was the evening I got word of the USS Cole bombing - and how sick I felt, as I had just begun my foray into life with active duty military friends, which made the whole thing seem that much more vivid and painful. I thought about the gauzy, laid-back summer of 2001, spent learning the ropes of adulthood and responsibility and real life. I thought about the pain and confusion that commenced with the terrorist attacks on 9/11. I thought about the people I knew deployed to the heated sands of the Middle East to fight a war without geopolitical boundaries - and of the constant reminders at home that the world had changed - the loaded fighter jets, the naked horizon devoid of ships at port, the startling absence of the menfolk in the church congregation ... And I thought about the day I stood on a cold, windy pier with a restless, 5-year-old Grover, peering into the horizon for the first sight of Himself's massive ship - returning home after a 7.5-month absence and a combat engagement in the Persian Gulf. I thought of the thousands of people crowded onto a little strip of land jutting into the mouth of the James River, crying and belting out the words to the Lee Greenwood anthem that makes me cry every time I hear the starting chords.

Mostly, however, the startling, unsettling news of last night made me think of the wonderful people who became permanent parts of the fabric of my life that year, in the days before the world changed forever. The women - mostly military spouses - who taught me about strength and love and loyalty and faith. The women, hailing from far-flung places, ideologies and experiences, who taught me about true friendship, support and patriotism. Women who shared tears and laughter and road trips and stories and e-mails and testimonies of love and faith and commitment.

Strangely, I found myself today not reflecting on the terrors brought about by the man whose life ended yesterday, but the friendships that came about the year he left his indelible mark on the world - the relationships that grew, blossomed and still nourish me today - a husband, two kids, a half dozen moves, several jobs and a few gray hairs later.

I truly believe God had a hand in helping weave together an afghan of warm hearts and open arms to prepare me to face the challenges that lay far beyond my young adulthood.

It was that, I reflected on today - that blanket of warmth, love, acceptance and friendship - the good things and people that helped shaped me into who I am now, and who I hope to raise my girls to be. Sometimes, out of the ashes of something terrible, a true treasure is discovered.

Today, I thought not of innocence and life lost, but of wisdom, friendship and faith found. To those who played a role in that - you know who you are - God Bless You, every one.

The Food Rules

I realized the other day, as I was explaining to Woodstock why we weren't going to buy grapes at the grocery store even though they had a yellow sign (she has figured out I buy mostly things with yellow signs - signifying they are on sale), that I have an un-written list of "rules" when it comes to food.

Well, formerly un-written, since I'm about to list some of them here. Some of them are goofy. Others are based on health and research. Some are because I have to compensate for the ridiculous amount of junky food my kids get at the sitter's. Some have been long-standing. Others came as a result of playing primary food source to one kid or another for 4 straight years.

The Food Rules According to Sara

1. If a food comes in a package, it should have 5 ingredients or less.
2. Produce is consumed primarily in season. The exception to this is apples, potatoes, onions, carrots and some herbs. In the case of fruit, this means grapes in late summer, citrus and fruites I've preserved in the winter, pomegranets and cranberries in the fall, peaches in August, apricots in July, cherries in June, Strawberries in March through May, Mangoes in the spring and so forth.
3. Tomatoes come out of the garden in the summer and out of cans in the winter.
4. Cereal whose first, second or third ingredient is sugar is not to be used as a meal.
5. Dairy must be hormone-free.
6. Artificial sweeteners do not enter the house (this does indeed mean I have shaken a years-long Crystal Light addiction - I haven't had a single glass in 4 years.
7. If it can be homeade, I don't need to buy it.
8. If it is local, it is worth a little bit more.
9. If it is chocolate, it had better be good chocolate, not the cheap stuff - after years of thinking I didn't like chocolate, I have realized that a. I love dark chocolate and b. it had beter be GOOD chocolate - preferably European.
10. A well-stocked pantry is the cure for high grocery bills.
11. Roasting makes almost everything better.
12. If the word "artificial" is on the package, it is reserved for treat status. If the ingredient is wholly unpronouncable and/or undecipherable, it is better left on the grocery shelf.
13. Whole wheat pasta, brown rice and regular oatmeal are not foreign foods if one doesn't know any different (ie my kids, poor little ones who have been brainwashed for years now).
14. Fruit or veggie for breakfast. Fruit AND veggie (or two) for lunch. Two veggies for dinner. My meal-planning mantra - though it sometimes means the second dinner veggie is used to "enrich" the meal (like adding pureed cauliflower to mac-n-cheese.
15. Water is vital and is therefore not optional
16. If I'm going to consume the calories, it is going to be fabulous and make my mind, tongue and tummy happy - if not, it's not worth the caloric or monetary cost.
17. (The most important one) One can never have too many cookbooks - even when one's three-shelf kitchen bookcase is completely full of them

There are a lot of other random rules, I think I create them to create order in my life. I get mocked for them or praised for them or derided for them. I had someone tell me I was harming my kids' digestive systems by feeding them whole wheat. I am told I'm a leftist tree-hugging vegan wanna-be for shopping at certain stores and limiting meat in our diets. And yet - it works for me. All these rules and all these things that govern what I eat. They are unspoken. They are mine. They are not everyone's.

But I will say - while Himself likes to mock them, he definitely enjoys what results. I'm a half-decent cook and he gets a hot breakfast and a homemade dinner a minimum of 5-6 days a week.

Some may mock, but no one has ever left my house hungry.

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.

Still here: On Living With Anxiety

Let's play a game.

Go to your TV set and unplug your cable or turn off the satellite box or remove the rabbit ears.

Turn on the TV so you get no picture or sound only static ("bug races" my father used to call them). Turn the sound down so you can barely hear it, and go about your day.

If you didn't get enough sleep, turn the volume up a couple of notches for each hour missed or interrupted.
If you feel tired at any point during the day, turn the volume up again each time.
Each time part of your routine is interrupted, shifted or eliminated, turn the volume up.
Each time anything is out of place, turn the volume up some more.
Each time you have to say a prayer, read anything, balance your checkbook, pay a bill, run errands, sit in silence, sit in chaos, pay attention, use a mental capacity beyond that of a small child or concentrate, turn the volume up.
Each time someone touches one of your extremities, turn the volume up some more.
If you have a child or a spouse, turn the volume up for each.
Each time your toddler empties an entire package of wipes, one by one, turn the volume up.
Each time the baby refuses to nap and only wants to be held by you, turn the volume up.
If you are not independently wealthy and are unemployed, turn the volume up.
If you have church or social commitments, turn the volume up for each one, each time.
Each time you have an unpredictable moment, turn the volume up.
Each time you are stressed, upset, disappointed, tired (again), bored, overwhelmed or challenged - turn the volume up.

Repeat daily for at least a week (do not reset the volume, the noise level must carry over from one day to the next).

If you are not deaf or insane, you win.

It's the best analogy I can come up with as to what it is like living with the constant static of my brain. While I've always been anxious and certain scenarios have triggered anxiety, over the last two years, the static has become almost constant - resulting in a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

With the first onset of winter, the new long commute, life as a working mom with two kids and all the regular instances of life, things began to get worse.

And then I lost my job.

My first thought was, "Hallelujah, I can get back to healthy."

Except that structure is my one sure way to calm the noisy static, and being a work-at-home mom doing consulting projects while trying to decide the next move (and worrying about how to cover the deficit left when one's household income plunges by 65%) leaves little structure.

I'm at the beck and call of clients and my children and the tax man and bills and Himself, who is bewildered by the woman masquerading as his wife.

Just as in the game you cannot reset the volume, I cannot reset my brain. Quiet only makes the static seem louder. Even falling on my knees in desperation makes the static so loud I can recite nothing more than the simple prayers of my toddler. Every thought is filtered through static and a gauzy veil that muddles everything.

Every single nerve is over-stimulated - and anything that touches it (literally or figuratively) short-circuits and sparks.

Falling asleep requires a singular mental challenge tough enough to quiet the static for a few moments - (analogous to putting on noise-cancelling headphones). A crossword puzzle. Multiple rounds of solitaire. Counting all the edges in a room.

Hours are spent every day trying to remember what needs to be done - trying to muster enough concentration to finish a single task - trying not to melt down or sort circuit every time something happens.

Writing a sentence, problem-solving, discipline, praying, reading, thinking, sleeping ... doing anything that is not mechanical repetition requires every available brain cell and the absence of internal or external stimulation.

This is my life from the other side of crazy. It sounds crazy even to put it into words, and yet, it is my reality - one I am desperately trying to change.

Go on, play the game. I need someone who gets it.

Contemplating the Eternities

Tuesday wasn't a very good day.

First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.

Gives one a lot of perspective.

I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.

Life is too short.

As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?

Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?

Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?

Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?

Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.

I Hereby Resolve

For the past two weeks, scores of people (okay, really more like a half dozen) have asked me what my New Year's Resolutions are. I typically don't set any. January is not a month in which I am terribly motivated. In fact, I'm convinced I was made to hibernate right through January, February and the first half of March. That said, my "new year" starts somewhere with the appearance of the apricot blossoms and the rising of the mercury.

However, this year, I did make one resolution. A single resolution that could honestly revolutionize my entire existence. I've been loathe to share it though, and have usually muttered, "I'm resolving to do better" or something equally as generic.

The past 48 hours though I've been testing it out - and since no one has gasped in horror and exclaimed, "what kind of resolution is that?!" I'll share.

In 2010, I resolve to lower my expectations.

Shocking, I realize. If you don't know me well, you might think, "Oh sure, you're resolving to just skate by."

But that's not it at all. In fact, I'm resolving to lower my expectations so I don't feel like I'm just skating by because I can't possibly keep up with myself.

I'm realizing my house will not be perfectly de-cluttered and the floors won't be as clean as I'd like and that people will drop by when those house looks its absolute worst (Friday nights).

I'm conceding that the fat/tissue/skin that migrated from my thighs to my middle this last pregnancy is probably permanent and it will cause me to have to find a whole new style of pants/shirts that don't look like I've swallowed a spare tire.

I'm realizing that sleep is critically important and that all things cannot be shoved into life simply by eating into sleep time. Eliminating things is more important than losing sleep in order to accomodate them.

I'm vowing to love more freely, spend more time doing good and less time wondering if I am, in fact, an intrusion instead of a help. I'm going to expect no more of people than they tell me to. I'm going to ignore nonverbal communication "noise" and focus on what the person says. If he/she says "it's fine" I'm not going to drive myself crazy wondering what he/she really means.

And, hopefully, I will stop comparing myself to an impossible list of standards I cannot possible achieve and start living life a little more in the moment.

Perspectives

The Sunday before last the speakers were a young (very young) couple who had recently moved into the congregation. It was immediately apparent how young they really were (before they even revealed their ages - further highlighting how very young they are - no one else reveals how old they actually are!) when they began using exclusively stories from high school to illustrate the doctrinal points they were trying to make.

I feel terrible - I don't exactly remember what doctrinal points those were because Himself leaned over at some point and said, "Do you realize she was born AFTER I graduated from high school?!" To which I responded, "But you're OLD!"

It was then I realized that she was 7 when I graduated from high school. That made ME feel old.

And then, one of them (can't remember which one) revealed that the wife is pregnant.

For some reason, that made me just want to leap up and hug her and cry and say, "I'm so sorry," which is an utterly ridiculous sentiment to have because a) she's an adult b) she's married and c) the birth (or pending birth) of a child should ALWAYS be a celebration.

It's hard to see the world through someone else's lens. All I could do was see her life - only 2 years out of high school, no college, young, newlywed, pregnant, and her husband in much the same position (minus the pregnancy, obviously!) - through my lens.

I turned 20 days before I set off on the grandest adventure of my life - a year-long stint in Washington, D.C., which radically altered the course of my life in more ways than one. When I married, I was a college graduate (and had been for a couple of years)and lived in my own apartment 2,500+ miles from home. When I had my first baby, I was well out of the honeymoon stage of married life.

So looking at her life through my lens made me want to cry, because there is no way I would trade what I did and who I became in the nearly 11.5 years between graduating from high school and giving birth to Woodstock. I needed that time to develop who I was, become stronger in some areas and less insistent in others. I needed to develop a sense of self, needed to experience certain things.

That doesn't mean everyone needs to, I keep reminding myself. And yet, it also made me compose a mental list of things I want my girls to want for themselves - an education beyond high school, time on their own as their own people, opportunities to know themselves and their spouses, enough income to cover the basics.

It doesn't have to take 11.5 years beyond high school. In fact, I wouldn't even recommend it (though it worked for me). I just hope it takes more than 2.

The Magic 120 Minutes

I was beginning to wonder how long someone can go about accomplishing everything for everyone else, but getting nothing done on one's personal "to do" list. I vowed I'd not become one of those women who devoted 100% of herself to everyone else and spent nothing of value (time, money or reflection) on herself.

Somewhere about the 3rd month of pregnancy with Pebbles, that happened. Which is how I found myself in my stylist's chair on Saturday for the first time in exactly 10 months. For perspective, the last time I had my hair cut was 3 days before I found out I was pregnant, and I now have a 2-month-old baby.

It is amazing what transformation a hair cut and some highlights can do to a person. I felt a little more like myself and less like the haggard lady in the frumpy mommy costume. Although, if you look too close and the rest of the lumps and bumps on me ... well, there is a ways to go.

It almost seems like the haircut translated into energy. (That and the time change - about which, no one told the kiddos, but it means I got to put both of them to bed early, so I gained an hour last night instead of Saturday night). I washed, dried, folded and PUT AWAY (key phrase here) NINE batches of laundry this weekend. I brought in the winter clothes, put away the summer clothes and my maternity clothes. This morning I deboned chicken for tonight's meal, put the bones/skin/other bits to boil with seasonings, carrots and onions for chicken soup base, which will be a meal later in the week, made scrambled eggs and veggies for Woodstock (she'll eat anything you put in eggs!), dressed and fed myself and both kids, prepped the zucchini for roasted zucchini tonight and got us all out of the house only 5 minutes late.

Maybe I need to get my hair cut every few days ...?

Thank You Satellite Television

Late last spring, when we thought we were moving to the sunny beaches of California, we had our satellite TV service put on hold. For three blissful months we didn't have television.

I didn't miss it. Even Himself, who always has the TV on if he's in the same room as the TV, even if it's muted (sort of defeating the point, but he doesn't seem to realize that), didn't seem to miss it (then again, it wasn't football season).

However, since we do have to fill our contract, we opted to have it tuned on in late summer, about the time Grover showed up and not long before Pebbles was due to arrive.

And, after a recent discovery, I am SO GRATEFUL. (Words I never thought I'd utter about TV in my life).

It turns out that the BYU Channel has these wonderful, 30-minute segments in the morning and the late evening featuring professors of ancient scripture discussing various scriptures in a round-table format. The ones in the morning right now focus on the Book of Mormon. The ones in the evening focus on the Doctrine and Covenants. Each segment focuses on about 3 chapters and is full of insights, commentary and reading many of the verses aloud.

One of the things I've struggled with since going back to work and having two kids is how to fit in the morning quiet time that I require to be a fully-functioning person. As a true introvert, I require "alone time" to recharge. Usually this is when I would read my scriptures. But with an infant and a toddler and a body crying out desperately for sleep (or falling asleep at the mere opening of a book), quiet time is a rare commodity.

Enter the Discussions on the Scriptures segments. Each morning, I sit, baby and pump in hand, scriptures on my lap and watch/listen to the devotional. I've learned so much and feel that quiet Spirit that is so elusive in my house sometimes. It gives me both intellectual and spiritual stimulation that I have lacked for far too long.

Those 30 minutes a morning make whatever we're paying to have satellite TV, and that channel in particular, worth it.

And THAT is something I definitely never thought I'd say!

Charity Never Faileth ... But Sometimes it Goes Awry

Tuesday night I stood in my kitchen, a newborn happily swaddled and sitting in her bouncy seat on the counter (shhh! don't tell the child safety police), and toddler standing next to me on a dining room chair, peppering with questions like "whas dat?" and "chocat chip?" every 30 seconds. I was attempting to make pumpkin bars for a funeral.

Wait ... first week back at work, second day in, sleep-deprived, infant with acid reflux, toddler who developed "selective hearing" on her second birthday ... BAKING? For a funeral?! Are you insane?

Probably.

But I decided that I need to do more to help others out - because I've been on the receiving end a lot of late, and as much as I'd love to claim that I'm a big-hearted saint of a woman, it's really more half-truth than truth (half-truth because I aspire to be that, but I'm not so much). Besides, how hard is it to bake a batch of pumpkin bars for the funeral of the sister of a woman from church I'm assigned to visit?

Rather complicated, as it turns out.

So the baking went fairly well, but I had to frost them before I went to bed, so I could deliver them the following evening to another woman from church, as they wanted the deserts to be dropped off at 8 a.m. on Thursday - the morning of the funeral - and I'm lucky to get us all out of the house fully clothed and fed by 8:30 these days.

Anyway, the bars hadn't quite cooled, so the cream cheese frosting melted a little into the cake-like bars, but still ... not so bad. Except, remember the toddler, who was still helping - which means that the bars defintely tasted much better than they looked. And the newborn who had given up on peaceful slumber and was wailing that she might starve to death in the next 30 seconds if I didn't drop everything and feed her rightthisverysecond. Instant gratification starts early!

Fast forward to last night (Wednesday). I remember suddenly that they'd asked that we bring the "individual serving desserts" (ie cookies, cupcakes, bars) on something that was disposable, so the family wouldn't have to return the dish. Complication. It appears that in all my stocking-up, paper plates are not to be found anywhere in my house. And since there is no such thing as a "quick trip to the store" when it involves a newborn and a toddler, well ... never mind, I thought, I had to drop the bars off at someone else's house that evening and maybe she would have something suitable.

Meanwhile, it turns out Woodstock can reach way back on top of the chest freezer. Turns out she can reach a lot of things these days I didn't know about (like my vitamins - thank heavens it was just the Vitamin D!) Turns out toddler finger prints make a really big mess in cream cheese frosting. I smoothed it out the best I could - at least her fingers were clean.

I called the neighbor to see if she was home and I could drop off the bars. Pebbles picked that moment to need to eat rightthisverysecond (Murphys Law says that if the baby is crying, the phone will ring, and if you pick up the phone, the baby will start to cry just to spite you). Above the wailing, I heard the answering machine picked up. No worries, the evening was still youngish ... another couple of hours until my eyes would be so bleary I'd have to head to bed, whether or not I had accomplished anything.

Bedtime came and went, two middle-of-the-night feedings came and went (payback for falling asleep early and not waking up to feed Pebbles at 10:30 p.m. - curses!), the alarm clock came ... and went. (Twice this week I've slept through the annoying little artificial birdies that are supposed to wake me). This was the day - the pumpkin bars needed to be on something disposable and delivered to the relatives of the deceased by 8 a.m.

Wasn't going to happen.

I ran through various scenarios in my mind as I seared short ribs in my pjs in hopes that the crock pot would magically turn them into dinner by the time I got home. I could just not drop them off...except that invalidated the whole purpose to begin with and really who needs to be stuck with a sheet pan full of bars frosted with cream cheese, butter and sugar? I could try and see if anyone else in the neighborhood was dropping theirs off - and could they drop mine off too? But that required too much time.

And what to do about the #$%#$%^#%& disposable plate problem? In a flash of MacGuyver-like inspiration, I cut the flap off of a diaper box (of which we have plenty) and covered it in tinfoil. Voila! Disposable pumpkin bar transporter.

I slogged through the morning, barely able to keep my eyelids open. Of course, because I needed to leave the house early, everything (and everybody) moved in slow motion. We left the house at 8:40 a.m. - and gone were both my chances of making it to work or delivering the goodies reasonably close to on time.

I drove up to the home of the family to whom the bars needed to be delivered. Good sign - all vehicles were still present and accounted for. I rang the bell. For a moment I felt sheepish about ringing someone's doorbell at 8:40 a.m. - then realized of course they'd be up - today was a funeral after all.

The man of the house answered the door in his pjs. Odd.

He looked at me quizzically when I said, "These are for you," so I added, "For the funeral." He thanked me, still puzzled. I drove to work, slightly amazed at how much work it took to produce 24 pumpkin bars for a fumerarl, and put it out of my mind.

Until I checked my voice mail on my cell phone this morning.

"Sara, this is Sister X. I wanted to let you know we got the date of the funeral wrong. It is FRIDAY. Not Thursday. So you can drop them off at 8 a.m. Friday."

Odd. I don't remember missing any calls on Tuesday or Wednesday. I looked back through all of my calls ... not a single one that indicated it was missed. I simply just had a voice mail show up.

Creepy.

And aggravating! No wonder the man of the house appeared baffled and in his pjs. No wonder the woman I'd arranged to take my goodies early wasn't home the night before the funeral.

Do you think pumpkin bars - cut and placed on tinfoil-covered cardboard - will last until mid-day tomorrow and still taste okay?

I give up. Maybe I am insane.

"The End"

We had "the talk" this month. The one where we both confessed to each other, out loud, that this might be my very last pregnancy.

It's hard for me to imagine, less than 4 years after having "the talk" that determined we needed to try for a child, that we would be having the talk that would book-end it, discussing whether or not this second child would be "it" as in "the end."

I'm making no decisions, no promises, no anything else, for a couple of years, but I don't want to look back and mourn the fact that I didn't properly appreciate what may well be my final pregnancy. I don't want to lament that I didn't cherish the good parts of pregnancy - the internal acrobatics, spontaneous hiccups (except when they occur near a very full bladder), the feeling of being able to protect one's child from absolutely everything - even if for just 9 short months.

The whole thing has been on my mind a lot lately, as my pregnancy draws near to the end (3.5 weeks until the "estimated" day of delivery). Every time I outgrow another outfit, every time I lose my breath walking up the stairs, every time I look like a circus sideshow act putting on my granny hose in the morning (I can no longer reach - or see - my feet), every time I feel Pebbles kick ... I think, "this might be it." Yet, having the courage to voice it out loud has been nearly as difficult as finding a suitable real-life name for Pebbles.

Last night, we did it. We opened the door of possibility. I didn't know what to expect, how to feel - but a myriad of emotions washed over me. Tentative relief. A bit of sadness. A dose of selfishness and guilt. After all, my body is apparently (surprise, surprise) able to conceive and carry children. The same body, however, is apparently bound and determined to make it as difficult as possible each subsequent time. All of the testing indicates that all subsequent pregnancies would require the same treatment as a precaution - the 6+-month course of expensive, painful injections. The numerous lab visits, the coordination of care with a perinatal specialist, the side effects (extra fatigue and nausea). It all seems like such a small price, but I'm feeling barely human these days. Twice in the past two weeks I had to nap before I left for work at 8:30 a.m. One day I nearly danced in glee that I had to stay home with Woodstock who had a mysteriously high fever for a single day - because it meant a 2-hour afternoon nap.

I worry constantly about what all the medications are doing to Pebbles. I know statistically she'll likely be fine. But neither drug was studied for long-term use, and drugs, as a general rule, aren't studied using pregnant people as subjects. I worry about what they are doing to MY body - and then feel guilty. Anything that has "death" listed as a side effect tends to make one a bit queasy, but there is an internal component built into mothers that automatically makes them sacrifice for the good of their child. I just don't want my sacrifice to be so great I leave two little girls without a healthy, fully functioning, stable mother.

And then there is the anxiety - the feeling of losing absolute control when there are more than 3.5 people in the room at any given time (it is artifically high this week, given I have charge over two teenage boys and a toddler while 9 months pregnant). Chaos makes me physically ill - completely unable to function. We already guessed this would limit our "creating humans" capacity, but I'm only beginning to bring it out into the light of reality to examine it.

I knew the minute I gave birth to Woodstock that I wanted another child. I had baby lust FAR more after giving birth than I ever had before. Pregnant women, women with new babies, women planning on more babies, all made me pine for another one - even when I had a barely-sleeping-through-the-night infant of my own at home. I knew as strongly as I knew anything that there was another child waiting for me. It makes me wonder what crazy emotion will wash over me this time in the after-delivery delirium that makes women insane enough to think "it wasn't so bad, I can totally do this again!"

If it says, "Have another one," so be it, but I have to be prepared to give the "okay" to myself, to my body, if it doesn't. If Pebbles really is my last baby, I resolve to be the best two-child mother I can be and focus on those delightful spirits entrusted me, knowing I left no one out.

Still, there is something so ... final, so emotionally draining about even uttering the words, "The End."

One of These Things Is Not Like The Other

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who feels just a little out of place in nearly every scenario.

With Baby Girl on the way, I fit less and less in with my single friends (of which I still have a fair number) - because, let's face it, while Woodstock is adorable, not everyone wants to hang out with someone else's kid, and babysitters are incredibly difficult to come by, even though I only need one once in a blue moon. Add in a second kid, and it just multiplies exponentially. And, if I'm having man problems, they're no longer the kind I can just discuss at will with a girlfriend.

I've never felt like I "fit in" with Stay-at-Home-Moms. In some people's minds I'm a horrible mother, because I'm not a SAHM but it is what is necessary for our family, and I have peace regarding that decision. And this might give me double-strikes, but while I ADORE Woodstock, I don't need to talk about her (or kids in general) all that often. I have a much greater need to talk about other things and do other things. Like see Wicked (not that I bought tickets) or The Marriage of Figaro - not that I know anyone within an hour's drive of me who wouldn't laugh me out of The Frontier for wanting to see an opera.

Ironically, I feel even less like I fit in with the so-called "Mommy Blogger." I have zero desire to be crafty, to give others parenting tips or to be a mompreneur. Probably because I have a regular job, and can't fathom wanting more than ONE job. And I don't have all that many "mom" stories.

In that same vein, I no longer fit in with the "career types," because I honestly only care enough to keep my skills up-to-date and marketable. Yes, I know I could consult on the side and make good money, but I'm a wife, a mother and pregnant on top of being a full-time employee - do I really have to put in any more effort at the moment to do anything beyond survive?

I also don't know what it's like to feel so exasperated with my child that I just want to escape. Because I get to spend so little time with Woodstock, every moment is cherished. Of course, it helps that she is by nature sweet-tempered and easy going, and I realize that is a blessing. A BIG ONE. I can appreciate that others feel that way, but while I OFTEN want to escape, it's usually wanting to escape housework, expectations, work and adulthood, rarely because Woodstock is driving me nuts.

I've also come to realize lately that I have zero hobbies, and I'm not terribly into "typical women" activites. I don't own my own house, so decorating is out. I don't like to shop. I sleep through 98% of any movies I try watching. I'm a pop culture flunkie, and not all that sad about it. I scrapbook as a mental release, but it's a rather solitary activity. I read, but not Jane Austen or Twilight or the likes. I don't have a sister down the road to pal around with. I love to hike - and can easily take Woodstock on my back (even pregnant), but can't reasonably say I feel safe going alone, and serious hikers don't want kids along, even when carried in a backpack. Understandable, but hard when one's spouse works every-other-weekend.

But the real matter is the dark issue that lurks just under the surface all the time - it's always been there, but over the years it has progressed to near-crippling levels. The "label": Generalized Anxiety Disorder. We rarely have had anyone over in nearly 2 years - not because we don't like it, but because my anxiety is so bad I am a wreck before, during and after. I'm on eggshells all the time - about the state of the house, about prepping for/keeping track of little kids, about my near-obsessive need for order. It's bad enough that to control it I've had to purposely lead a more solitary life. And all the while, I feel like a terrible friend.

It's funny what kind of introspective things pop up when one is mentally preparing for what seems like an inevitable move. It's almost like I have to clean out my head before I can even think about tackling the mess that lurks in the four walls of the 70s Palace.

Deja Vous

In the last 13 years, I've lived in 10 cities and 4 states. I've lost track of how many addresses that includes or how many moves. There was a period of my life where the longest I lived anywhere was 4 months. In those 13 years, the longest I've lived at a single address is the 3 years we spent in No. VA together(as opposed to the first time we lived in No. VA as single people).

We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.

Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.

We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.

I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.

Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.

Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.

I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.

And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.

Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.

But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

It is inevitable that a moment, a day, a month, a year, will end. And, if it is remarkable enough, it is inevitable that someone will comment on it. For posterity, for analysis, for re-hashing the gruesome details for all the rubber neckers.

I listened to a lot of "best of" and "most important" lists today. It naturally put me in the frame of mine thinking about my own past year. Newsmakers indicated that everything indicates that 2008 is ending worse than it began. I thought about my year some more. It didn't take very many brain cells, or a news analyst, to conclude that, personally, 2008 only got progressively better during the latter half. We're definitely ending the year on a high(er) note around this household.

Then I realized, as I sat down to reflect on each month of 2008, I don't remember much of anything about the first half of the year. It is mostly marked by interactions with significant people in my life. At that point, I realized, 2008 was the year of People. People who surrounded me (and us), bouyed me up, made me better. People who laughed, cried and shared.

As I am set to ring in 2009, there are no regrets regarding 2008. I am simply happy it is over and that a new year is beginning. I am praying for less drama, more peace and the ability to savor every single moment with Himself and Woodstock.

2009 will be about simplicity and progress. And next year, I won't have to wonder what happened to the first six months of the year, buried beneath a thick blanket of mental fog.

Believing

For Kari, who tagged me.

6 Things I Believe

• I believe that spending time with Woodstock is more important than having a clean house, even if not cleaning it does drive me insane


• I believe that theory isn't as important as practice


• I believe winter is bad for my health


• I believe the Catholics were up to something when they came up with the Seven Deadly Sins, and we'd all lead better lives if we lived in moderation


• I believe step-parents get a bad rap


• I believe that NPR or a book on CD makes keeping house tolerable

6 Things I Don't Believe>

• I don't believe I will ever be able to get over my "work over play" guilty conscience and enjoy playing


• I don't believe that the kindgergarten one's child goes to will determine his or her future college entrance capability - but I still worry about Woodstock's education


• I don't believe the current financial crisis is a bad thing on a macro level


• I don't believe I will ever be able to handle my parents growing old


• I don't believe being a mother makes one woman more important than another


• I don't believe one must choose creationism or evolution - I believe in both

6 Things I'm Not Sure About

• I am not sure about who to believe in the HFCS and artificial coloring debates, but I strive to keep both from our diets


• I am not sure where we'll "settle down" - or how I feel about it possibly being The Frontier


• I am not sure when we will have another child - or even if it will be possible


• I am not sure I believe all of the Global Warming talk, but I am sure that we need to think about our impact on the environment more and innovate, reduce, reuse and recycle.


• I am not sure I will ever realize my grad school dream, and I'm not sure how I feel about that


• I am not sure I'll ever be "caught up" or organized

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.

I Have a Choice

I choose to live in The Frontier.

I choose this holiday season to exchange true sentiments versus more commercialized "stuff" - to spend this season of global economic hardship preparing my family rather than pandering to my whimsies and wants.

I choose to be picky about what I feed Woodstock.

I choose how many times a week I wash my hair.

I choose to eat (relatively) healthy, to extend my life.

I choose to worship each Sunday - and I choose the church in which to do that.

I choose to walk to the store if I need just one thing and it's daylight.

I choose to what I'm going to read.

I choose the kind of breakfast I want.

I choose when to visit my family.

I choose what to make for dinner each night.

I choose to go without a coat, except on the coldest of days.

I choose to dress Woodstock in new clothes, hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains with the same degree of glee.

I choose to do laundry only once a week.

I choose to sleep in once in awhile.

I choose hundreds, thousands of things every day.

And because I HAVE A CHOICE in how I live my life, I really do live a life of luxury.

Happy Thanksgiving. May 2008 cause each of us to pause and reflect on how much we DO have.

Life as Numbers

I want to know when I got so old.

I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.

Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.

Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.

Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.

The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.

Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).

In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.

It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).

It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.

Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.

Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.

It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.

That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.

A Solemn Obligation

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

It is perfectly silent right now.

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

And, there is a flag in my front yard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Veteran's Day.

Giving Thanks

The first semester I spent at a new college was tough. It was a new town, I was a senior. I knew no one. I had just left two of my best adult experiences behind and felt lost.

One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.

Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.

I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.

November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.

1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.

2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.

3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.

4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.

5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.

6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.

I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.

This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.