Unrecommended

I am just going to be completely honest here, and here's the forewarning- it's going to sound like a pity party even though it's not really meant that way. No pity, please. 

If you know me well, though, you know that writing out my thoughts is therapeutic (as in I have kept journals, written poetry, blogs, letters, notes... For as long as I can recall). I don't really want to unload this on my children, because they're children, and there are no adults here. And when I talk about emotional things I start crying and get snot faced, and when I'm sick, I cry and cough and gag and it's a mess. I also get pretty tongue tied and mix up nouns for no reason sometimes... So... Writing it is. I've prayed and cried it all out to God, but there's just something about writing to also help me process, and I often tell myself there might be someone out there struggling to pinpoint their own thoughts or feelings that may resonate with what I say.

But truthfully, I feel bad considering writing this, and even worse actually doing so, because my life is not nearly as difficult as countless others out there and I'm so very fortunate in so very many ways that it feels like I should just silence my thoughts and be simply grateful for the life that I have. I AM grateful for the life that I have, and for the countless blessings bestowed upon me and my children during this stressful time.

But yet, here's how I feel...

This past month has sucked- not all of the moments, but overall, it's been wretched and I want to just curl up in a ball in my bed and sleep for a few days because every part of my body, my mind, my spirit, my emotions, and my ambition is exhausted.  I used to tell the kids not to say "sucks" or forms of it, but during this isolation time, I agreed it was an acceptable description of the circumstances.  I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired while being a mom.

In the past, when I've gotten really sick, I've still been a mom, and really in those times the only parent around. This time is different in that their dad came back to their lives, but it's still very similar in that basically, because of the circumstances surrounding the Covid-19 pandemic, I'm the only parent around. They live with me and therefore they are considered contagious or potentially so, and they've had to quarantine with me while I have been "isolating" for a month.  And, since I can't "isolate" myself from them because they're not self-sufficient (or cannot be trusted) even when I'm finally better, they're supposed to be quarantined here. I feel absolutely terrible, guilty, ashamed, angry, and sad for their little hearts having to have not only been stuck here in this apartment for over 30 days now, but with a mom who is sick and tired of being sick and tired, who has little energy or ambition, and less patience than normal, although every effort is made for patience, grace, and mercy.  The only upside is that when I'm finally feeling better, at least I will hopefully be able to provide more enjoyment for them during this time than I currently have been, though goodness knows I've tried. 

I feel like I try so hard. I push to play games, listen to their stories, anecdotes, ramblings, and songs, cuddle, do creative things, watch movies, cook, and enjoy each other. I try so hard to be persistent and encouraging with the distance learning for school, which it seems, no matter what, ends in tears for at least half of us on a daily basis because the environment right now is not conducive to actual learning and it feels like  a chore or punishment to work through in such an array of distracting situations.  I feel like I fall short from their expectations or hopes though, and that slays me. 

• I know I'm not alone in my feelings, I just haven't had a homework assignment telling me to write about it yet.

In times past, when I've gotten sick, even though their dad was MIA, sometimes the boys could go to school, Norah could go to daycare, or friends or family could take them to church, or on a date, or hang out with them so I could rest. 

This time, that has all basically been stripped away because of coronavirus. 

So there's the diagnosis and the insanely long recovery time that I was finally working through, and then pneumonia hit me and set me back to basically square one. And while that's not an illness that would itself cause this isolation to continue... It's all wrapped up in the coronavirus pandemic. 

I worry my kids are suffering because of this. I know they're technically fine, and I know they know I don't feel well. Some days I had been doing better than others, and it has been such a rollercoaster all along, I feel like it's so hard for them to understand or anticipate and it's incredibly frustrating for them. It has to be, because it is for me. 

This month-long illness for me has been one unlike any other.  I cannot even fathom what it would be like to be a single parent with a terminal illness and it breaks my heart so heavily to think that there are people out there who have that reality as their life story. 

The doctors and advice all say to rest and not stress... And it just feels impossible when you're the only parent of three children in the home. 

528 out of 10 : I do not recommend getting sick when it means the world shuts down around you and locks you away like it does during the covid-19 pandemic. I do not hold strong opinions one way or another on the way the government and population are approaching things, because I see many facets of thinking and how many options are simultaneously good and not so good. 

I don't understand why this has happened. I do know that, just like every other difficult, overwhelming, exhausting, or traumatic thing we have been through in the last 7 or so years, we will come out declaring that God is still good (because He is). I am just... a beautiful mess singing a broken hallelujah, I suppose. 

Sorry, that was heavy and long. 

Thankfully, while I was writing this, worship music and prayers playing in the background gave me the press I need to carry on and try to tackle this day too. 

Special thank you to anyone who has prayed over us during this time, sent mail, texts or other messages, brought groceries or meals, helped us stay afloat, and so much more. I can't even imagine how much more difficult this would have been without you.

Storms

I'm As a young girl, thunderstorms absolutely terrified me. I would lay in my room with my pillows mothering my head trying to drown out the light and the sounds. I would run to my parents' room and lay on the floor by their bed trying not to cry.

I hated them.

Once, at my first summer job corn detasseling, probably as a pre-teen, the supervisor made us finish the field in the beginning of a storm. We were soaked and I was anxious as could be. When we were finally bussed back to town and dropped off, I ran to my grandma's house. It lightninged once while I bolted and I felt like my heart stopped and I was paralyzed as the air surrounding me flashed bright white.

As I went to high school and college, I grew much more fond of the storms and was interested in cloud formations, storms, and tornadoes. When I met my former husband, he too was keen on these things, and it became a shared interest.

There were many nights when we were dating when storms were on their way and we would grab our cameras, film DSLR at first and eventually digital, and head out of town or to the highest point we could find, and chase the clouds down with our shutters, attempting to catch beautiful photos of lightning.  We succeeded multiple times.  It was wonderful.

When we were married and shared our home, we would spend countless nights in the dark, watching the lightning dance across the sky as the thunder rumbled our walls.  We spent so many of those nights together.  They were some of our favorite times together.  There was something paradoxically exhilarating and serene in the storm.

Tonight, the sky flashes its magical show and the thunder rumbles.  My children are all soundly asleep, but I cannot seem to calm my mind.  With each flash, my mind also flashes back to the many storms we cherished, and the many storms we weathered.  

I've been through many storms without him in the last two years, figuratively and literally.  I shooed our children into the basement calmly during multiple tornado warnings one summer, and I fought my way through his betrayals, abandonment, and the repercussions that followed.  Storms and I are both old friends and old enemies.

Tonight, I lay awake.  I listen to the show outside as the room lights up every now and again.  I closed my curtains one moment to block out the flashing, and a few minutes later, I turned off the apartment lights and nature's strobe began to take full effect on my walls much like they used to.  I tried to fall asleep on the couch with the lights on and the lights off.  

But the storm of my memory continues on.  I see his smile.  I feel his arms.  I can hear his breath.  But, I am alone.  

It's amazing how I can still possess love for him even after it all.  It's the kind of romantic love that I had for him during our many joyful storms, of course, but the love that prays for his well-being, despite the popular consensus I shouldn't wish for that.  But, God loves him, and so should I. 

And that love that God allows me to hold for him and for his soul makes the storm tonight so much more lonely than I was prepared for.

Thank Heavens God calms the storms.  He has calmed each of the tempests that He helped me navigate or carried us through in the last two years, after all. I am not the strong one, and I am no sailor on the wicked seas. He is the strong one, and He is in me. He is the anchor and the guide. I'll cry out to Him.  I will beg Him to comfort me. These storms shall pass, too.

There are lyrics that resonate perfectly tonight in a song by Casting Crowns...

"As the thunder rolls

I barely hear Your whisper through the rain

"I'm with you"

And as Your mercy falls

I raise my hands and praise the God who gives

And takes away

[Chorus:]

And I'll praise You in this storm

And I will lift my hands

For You are who You are

No matter where I am

And every tear I've cried

You hold in Your hand

You never left my side

And though my heart is torn

I will praise You in this storm"

Burnt

Motherhood is exhausting. Being a single parent (with no involvement from the other party) multiplies the exhaustion exponentially.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm at the end of my rope, flirting with burnout.

It usually has nothing or very little to do with the three kids five and under I spend nearly all of my "free" time away from work with, except for the all-nighters my youngest has me pulling some nights and the decent sleep shortage she induces almost every night. Other than that, when I really look at it, there doesn't seem to be any differences between weeks I feel refreshed and ready to tackle parenting as opposed to the weeks I want to wave my white flag, hide under my blankets, and let the cat take the lead.

But sometimes, it's just extra taxing.

I toy with the thought "I could just give up."

It crosses my mind, but I never say it aloud.

I don't even know how I would give up. Even when I feel like the worst mom ever because I've had 6 cups of coffee and can't keep my eyes open, or every one of my nerves is fried to a crisp, or the sound of another request or inquiry makes me want to put on noise-cancelling headphones... I still don't know how I would give up when the thought of giving up crosses my mind.

I suppose that's a good thing.

What I will tell you is every so often, I reach my limit, or I get close to the edge of it, anyway, and silence and sleep sound so enticing I contemplate the "what if" situation where I wonder what it would be like had I not put my foot down, or didn't care about their father's poor choices and questionable, unstable parenting. I wonder what it would be like to have had a more "typical" or even amicable split where there was shared custody and I had a weekend to myself every so often to just sleep or do something for me.

But, that's not the case. 

Time to come out of my bedroom where I'm not really putting away the laundry so I can change another diaper.

Twelve... Thirteen...

And, once again, it's New Year's Eve.

Like the past few years in a row, I have nothing special planned. We don't have tv channels, so we won't be watching the ball drop. No fireworks.

I'm hoping Jake will be home from work before midnight and the two of us can calmly and quietly ring in the New Year, sitting in the living room, wishing Collin to sleep. Maybe we will have a glass of wine or two.

I remember years past being so excited about the change of the calendar year. Now, I am not so sure why. The numbers are so arbitrary and mean nothing to me really other than for record keeping.

I don't have New Year's resolutions. I find it silly to wait until the first day of a new year to make changes in one's life. I understand why some do it, but I don't really feel the urge to operate that way.

But, over the past months and weeks, I have come up with some changes I would like to and have been working on for myself. I want to pray more. Worry less. Sleep more. Organize more.

Create more.

That is my favorite change in lifestyle. I have been working for a best friend cutting fabric for her. She has her own business. It's been an honor and a pleasure. She also loaned me her old sewing machine. I used it to create Christmas stockings for the four if us. That is what inspired my urge to create more. Creation for me will not be confined to sewing (though I will be starting on a quilt for my sister shortly), but include other forms such as poetry, prose, handwritten journal letters to my friend Desi, drawings, crafts, photography, graphics, food...

I love to create.

The past year was wonderful, having Collin join the family, and moving out of our former wretched duplex rental to a single family home rental, with quite a large hardship in the middle bringing us closer together as a family. Ups and downs, like every year in the past and I am sure every year to come. I look forward to the next calendar year and what is has in store of course, but as I said, time is fluid, continuing always, and the change in number doesn't mean much as far as my life experiences go (except for things like taxes, haha).

Regardless of how big a deal it is to you, or even how little it may mean, Happy New Year, everyone.

Simple Pleasures

I get stressed. A. Lot. Lately. I hate to admit it, but it's true. Thankfully, it's not chronic-raise-your-blood-pressure-have-anxiety-eat-my-stress-away type stress, but it's stress, nonetheless, over random little things, or some bigger things.

I get stressed when the dog won't stop whining, because he wants to be outside, but then when I put him outside, he gets mad and barks and barks until he's inside, almost immediately after I turn my back.

I get stressed when Spencer freaks out, runs away from me, or fights me as I put a jacket on him.

I get stressed when I think about Jake being gone overnight.

I get stressed when the neighbor and her boyfriend can't seem to be quiet for more than 10 minutes at a time when it's dark outside and my toddler is sleeping... or at 4 in the morning when I'd like to be sleeping and she is still... loud.

I get stressed when Spencer won't eat, which is a new phase he's going through, I guess.

I get stressed thinking about travelling alone, running errands, feeding, bathing, diapering, and putting two children to sleep in a few months.

Among other things.

But, fortunately, I've been, as of late, finding stress relief in the little things. Simple pleasures that my son has shown me... taught me... or reminded me of.

• Bubbies! That's how Spencer says bubbles. He LOVES bubbles, which makes me love bubbles- even if I get a little lightheaded blowing them for him.
• Sharing a pop-tart in the morning, in our pajamas, on the couch, as we watch an episode of Blue's Clues.
• Anything that glows in the dark.
• Big bubbles, with bubble wands, in the backyard when it's windy.
• Writing with chalk... on his wall (where we now have a chalkboard decal).
• Bubbles in the bathtub, during bath time, when they stick to his wet body, and the tub, and float on top of the water.
• Goldfish crackers, fruit snacks, saltines, and yogurt! Yum!
• A lackadaisical walk around the neighborhood on a nice day (assuming he doesn't dart for the street, which he's getting better about).
• Watching fish swim!
• Sticking stickers on bare skin.
• Giggling with your friends again after you've been apart.
• Sitting by the window and watching the cars whiz by in the rain.
• A handful of M&Ms, Skittles, or Gummi Bears, every now and then.
• Coloring with crayons... outside the lines.
• Throwing balloons as high as you can and watching them fall down and hit you in the face.
• Cats and kittens!
• The satisfaction of making a basket playing ball, especially since my aim is not very great!
• Cuddling on the couch while watching the first... half... hour of a Disney movie.

Among other things. Those are some of the big, simple pleasures that are frequented in our daily lives.

Perhaps, though, my favorite is... when he's not even awake. Yes! I LOVE spending time with him, playing, exploring, and creating while he's awake. But, let's face it...

I love listening to his deep, slow breathing, watching his eyes flutter beneath their closed lids, as his face relaxes while he's curled up right next to me. Sometimes, I nap with him. Sometimes, I just lay there, with him lying on my arm, and watch him sleep for an hour. It's true.

Happy Birthday! (And also, bedtime wars part 23.3423)

Today is my beloved husband's birthday! I have been making fun of him a little bit for a few weeks, about how he's getting old. Granted, he isnot old. He's one year older than I am, and I'm not old, so... yeah. But, I like to poke fun, all in a good nature, anyway. He takes it like a pro. It's also his twin brother, Jesse's birthday (which I know, sounds obvious, but sometimes...)! Happy birthday, dearests!

Sad story. Jake had to work all day today. In fact, tonight is his overnight route, so he doesn't even come home! Okay, that's only sad for me, because he'll get a peaceful night's sleep tonight, while

there's a 50/50 chance of that at home. More on that soon.

My husband is awesome. This is evident by all these wonderful pictures (courtesy my friend Rena after a wonderful Skype session a month or two ago).

Oh wait, that seems like an odd way to prove his awesomeness. Well, let's see. He works SUPER hard, and long hours, in the crappy weather, and all that, to provide for Spencer and

I. While I complain about him being gone, I know he is doing it to support us. He makes me laugh. He makes Spencer laugh. He gets up with

Spencer at night! He is a fantastic musician. He's a wonderful friend.

And stuff.

Seeing as how I knew I'd only see him for about 23 minutes on his actual birthday, I decided we would celebrate it yesterday instead.

I started off by leaving the house with the baby in the morning. Okay, that wasn't for his sake, but

rather, Spencer and I went to visit the Hedgehogs (that's the name of the room I used to work in before I had Spencer). When we came back, I

brought Jake his favorite Starbucks beverage. That'd be a venti Cinnamon Dolce Latte with extra caramel drizzle on top. It smells, and tastes, like a gooey cinnamon roll, if you're wondering.

Then I made an awesome batch of soup, an original creation (recipe found here, because now I have a food blog), that he downright loved.

Tarah came and took Spencer for six hours, and

Jake and I went to the movies. We saw Breaking Dawn. Yup, we did. And we were the only ones in the theater, so I got to play "Mystery Science

Theater" and Jake let me make any snarky comments I want. And he laughed REALLY loud, because he could. Woot.

Then, I took him for a fancy-pants surprise supper. Well, he knew we were going to eat, but he didn't know where. I'm a really bad liar, so he didn't even guess, because he didn't want to ruin my surprise (for once, haha). I took him to Carnaval Brazillian Grill, which was AMAZING. Robert and Jillian joined us. We spent a good two hours there, enjoying the feast, laughing our buttoxes a size smaller, and having good conversation. Yes, it was fantastic.

After, we went and got our little man, and Jake read him a story or four, before giving him a bath and putting him to bed. Then, we watched a little tv (or TV on DVD) and went to bed.

Oh, and for the record. I wore MAKE-UP yesterday. Full out make-up, even. With foundation and everything. That's special, I tell you. I generally skip all make-up, except maybe mascara (which I accidentally told Jake I would be wearing "Marsala" instead of "mascara" thanks to my phone's auto-correct), because I feel like if I wear full-out make-up, I look almost like a drag queen. Okay, maybe not, but I feel like it looks odd on me. Though, yesterday, I think I actually looked kind of nice.

I asked Jake today, and he said he enjoyed his birthday celebration very much.

Success!

But... NOT succesfully... do I... put our son to sleep. Ever. Anymore. It seems.

For the past few weeks, I have been trying anything I can think of (that's sane and reasonable, anyway) to get Spencer to go to sleep with minimal fighting. It's just not working. I don't know what the issue is. Well, sometimes I have a good night and he goes to sleep easily.

The most frustrating part to me is that it seems like what works one night is NEVER the same as what will work another. For example, one night, rocking him to sleep worked. The next, pretending to cry on the floor of his room. Another night, pretending to sleep while he screamed in his crib, eventually falling asleep, too. Jake puts him to sleep by playing guitar and suggested that to me, and I tried, but that just made him even more mad. Some nights, rocking him to sleep torques him off pretty badly. Sometimes, singing "You Are my Sunshine" is the key to getting him to sleep, but other nights, it just fuels his anger.

I'm at such a loss.

Confession: it makes me feel like a bad mom! And, it's making me hate (maybe not quite that strong.. despise) bedtime.

*sigh*

Tonight, it took almost two hours of getting him to wind down and fight him to sleep. What worked? Letting him scream for twenty minutes before laying him face down in his crib and patting his back somewhat hard. Go figure.

And lately, again, he's waking up multiple times a night. And if I go into the room to put him to sleep, he just gets more mad than if Jake does, which is utterly confusing and frustrating to me.

Anyway, so, at night, I find myself feeling like a bad mom, because I can't figure this out. At all. Jake says he thinks I'm a fantastic mom, but he hasn't told me why. Clearly, my "get our son to sleep" skills do not rank that highly, so... there must be something good.

I guess I will go lay in bed now and try to fall asleep. Have I ever confessed that on Jake's overnight routes I have a very difficult time sleeping, because I worry that I will die in my sleep and no one will check up on me and Spencer will go an entire day stuck in his crib, painfully hungry, thirsty, soiled, sad, mad, and lonely. Guh. EVERY WEEK that keeps me up.

Okay, adios for the evening.

Scared-y-Pants can hit a ball!

Two months, or so, ago, my reproductive endocrinologist told me that I was going to be put on birth control and Metformin for two months, to let my uterus heal, post D&C surgery, before he would feel that we could "safely" start trying for another baby.

Well, two months is almost up.

When he first told me that, it felt like a giant stab in the hope sector of my heart. I felt like birth control was the complete opposite solution to my problem (though, medically, I understood why he was suggesting it, and of course, agreed to take that route), prohibiting us from having another child (temporarily, of course). The past two months, I have struggled with that over and over, each night as I took the tiny pill. I swallowed it hard (literally and figuratively, haha), and what do you know, I made it through it without excessive amounts of emotional baggage. Woohoo.

Now that we're getting closer to "starting over" on our journey to bring a brother or sister for Spencer into this world, I am nervous. More nervous that I was before we conceived Spencer or Sprout, I think. Maybe not more nervous. Maybe different nervous. And somewhat scared. With the potential to be terrified.

I am not necessarily scared that we won't get pregnant. I believe that we will. I hope it is sooner than later, even.

But, I am afraid of being pregnant again. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out.

When I was pregnant with SJ, I was super excited. I was nervous because we found out before I was four weeks pregnant, and cautious about it at first, until we heard the heartbeat. Then, we shared the joy with the world, and a few months later, Spencer was born.

With Sprout, it was the same. I was nervous (more so than with Spencer, looking at the event retrospectively, but we found out just one day earlier than we did with Spencer, too), and when we saw the heartbeat for the first time, we shared our joy publicly again.

Only, of course, we lost Sprout.

So, when we find out we're pregnant again, I'm nervous of how I will feel about it, and how I will react. Will I be invested in it, filled with joy? Or will I be totally detached and terrified to lose another child? I can't know, of course, and I hope it's the first option, but knowing myself, I could see the second coming to fruition just as easily (hey, I'm being honest).

Will I be too nervous to be "normal" feeling about it? Will I be overly-cautious? Will I over analyze every little thing and foresee another miscarriage? I sure hope not. I will try not to. I will pray that I don't become "that kind of woman," but, the possibility is seriously there, and it makes me nervous.

When we see a heartbeat again, will we feel comfortable sharing? I feel like we would, because, following the same path of thought as the first two pregnancies, if we share the news, we enlist countless friends and family as a prayer and support system. So, probably.

But, will I ever feel "at ease" being pregnant again? Or will I just be terrified?

I try not to think about it, but I can't help it.

I know they say that a miscarriage doesn't usually mean and increased risk for another miscarriage. But, you just never know.

So, there you have it. I'm a big scared-y-pants who wants to be pregnant so intensely, but isn't quite sure how to handle herself when that time comes again.

New subject.

Racquetball! Yeah! I never really saw myself being a racquetball player. I won't lie. The most I'd had interest in racquetball courts was in college when Jake and I would sneak our guitars into the racquetball courts at SMSU, turn off the lights, and play guitar and sing in the dark. (If you've never done that, do it, it's a phenomenal experience acoustically.)

But, a few weeks ago, I decided I would like to join Jake at the wellness center, and by golly, he invited me to learn how to play racquetball. Feeling a bit spunky and daring that day, I agreed to do just that.

Now, I won't brag, but I am a great racquetball player.

Haha, no I'm not. I am a great loser though. Meaning I haven't scored more than 6 points total (if I recall correctly) in my entire career (which is about three weeks long now), but I tell you what, I have FUN. Yes, I will admit, I enjoy playing racquetball!

Jake is a really good sport about it. He doesn't play "full force" against me, and he intentionally avoids beaming with the ball, especially in the head (I actually haven't been hit once by Jake, and I have accidentally hit him at least 3 times (which I apologize for repeatedly as he tells me it's his own fault)). He doesn't hit the ball insanely fast either, so I actually have a chance of lugging my slow self toward it and may actually hit it!

I have scored points though (not sure if they were "pity points" or not, but I'll pretend they are legit), and I have caused quite a few (at least 9) side-outs, AND I HIT THE BALL many, many times. I can even serve fairly reliably! Yeah. That's right. I'm a player. (Haha.)

Some day, maybe I'll even start scoring enough points to warrant having my own racquet, and not have to touch the creepy over-used-super-germy-from-tons-of-sweaty-hands racquets at the wellness center. That's my goal. To be good enough I can buy a $30 Wilson Hope Racquet (because it's a girly one that donates to breast cancer research).

And, to note, while I am "not good" at racquetball, I think I might be even worse at Squash, which Jake taught me to play on Sunday. But, again, it was a fun game!

Of course, the extra perk to my new found interest in racquetball is that it is making me go to the wellness center more and utilizing the membership I've been paying for, while also benefiting my health. ;-)

And now, to check on Wendell, who has been whining in the bathroom for about 45 minutes after I gave him a bath because he got sick all over himself in the kennel earlier, and I wouldn't let him tear around the house soaking wet, but didn't feel like wrestling him dry.

So many thoughts, so few words.

Do you ever have so much on your mind that it's hard to put your thoughts to words?

The past few days, that's how I feel.

My sisters left on Sunday, after a wonderful day visit with my father and his girlfriend. I was sad to see them go, but Monday was the sadder day, when I arrived home from work and the house was empty. They weren't here to greet Spencer and I. I miss them already.

I've been thinking about poetry lately, again, and how I haven't written any in ages. Perhaps my poetry has turned to prose, which is modeled solely after my personal thoughts and reflections on my blog. I guess that should be more acceptable to me than it is.

There is so much evil in the world today. On Sunday, a friend told me of a little boy, seven years of age, who was decapitated in Louisiana. The mother's boyfriend apparently confessed to the slaughter. As I updated my knowledge on the story, apparently to agitate my emotions more, or something, I read further that the evil man did it because he'd gotten tired of taking care of the boy, who was wheelchair bound, among other difficulties, and left the head on the sidewalk for his mother to see. Of course, I broke down sobbing for the poor child. I just cannot wrap my head around the vile act, though, of course, I don't really want to.

Then, I further began thinking about how some people in my life are just mean and spiteful. I wish that I, and the rest of my dear friends and family, could avoid them. I don't feel like anyone should be put through some of the things that they are, especially when it's from someone that "loves" them, so to speak. It just blows my mind, and makes my blood pressure boil.

I'm trying to be positive, but not looking forward to the end of the week, when one of my new, but very best friends, and my brother-in-law, leave early in the morning for a new life in Alaska. I know I'll see them both for Spencer's birthday, but beyond that, there's no saying when we'll be in each other's geographical presence again. Yes, we'll have Skype, email, Facebook, text, phonecalls, and letters, but they never truly replace the act of being in the same room.

But, with all the garbage, there's good surrounding us all, too. Sometimes, the smallest gestures are an incredible sign of compassion and love. It's amazing. For example, I'd wanted a hamburger since Saturday night when I picked up Jake from work. Yesterday evening, I still wanted one, and randomly posted it on Facebook (as I do many off-the-wall thoughts), and some dear friends from across town had a hamburger left. He even drove it to our house so I could enjoy it! What a wonderful, spunky, blessing!

And of course, I cannot forget to mention how absolutely amazing Jake is for me. The past week or so, I have been exceptionally exhausted and emotional, and in the middle of the night, more than once, when it wasn't even his "shift," he willingly awoke to change Spencer's diaper and put him back to sleep. I know he loves me. I don't deserve it.

There's more, I'm sure, but I would really like to cuddle up with our beagle (who has been naughty lately (and turned 5 yesterday)) and relax a bit before actually going to bed.

Let's Just Be Honest...

...sometimes, I'm an emotional basketcase.

Lately, a lot more than normal, it seems, but I might be mistaken. I guess I don't keep a log of how many times I cry.

The past week or so, I just have been weeping easily, more frequently than normal it seems (no, I am not pregnant for those who automatically associate emotions with pregnancy).

My brother deployed for Kuwait. I bawled myself to sleep.

I was having issues with low self-esteem and symptoms of my PCOS. I bawled myself to sleep.

One of my best friends (and she's a new friend, which makes it harder, I think) is moving to Alaska in less than a month. And, to top it off, Jake's twin is moving too! I cried and then fought back tears and then cried some more. Happy for both of them, but it's going to be a huge change to have them both gone.

I didn't have much alone time the past few weeks. I cried hard about it.

I was feeling super sick with a sinus infection yesterday and had to deal with Spencer teething. I cried multiple times.

And then.. the kicker. Spencer is getting teeth.

While that's a super-exciting-happy-milestone in babyland, it also send me into a fit of tears and sobs one night as I lay in bed next to Jake. He asked "what's wrong?" I broke down instantaneously and replied, sobbing heavily, "I don't want Spencer to get teeth!"

Why? It seems so strange and silly, but it makes sense. As I explained to him, the appearance of teeth means "goodbye, toothless baby-grin. hello, toddler-mouth."

Yeah, I associate, in my heart, his teeth with the absence of baby-hood. Granted, he's still a baby, but once those teeth come in fully, he'll look so much older. He's got more hair than many babies I know, and has for quite some time. He's very tall. He looks much older than he is without teeth, and with teeth, well... I don't want people asking how old he is and when I tell them "9 months" they say, "he looks so much older!"

I WANT HIM TO BE A BABY LONGER.

DANGIT, why can't time stand still, just for a while?! Seriously.

You hear all the time from experienced parents who say "time really flies by" and other variations of that. And I knew it, but I just didn't... feel it to my core.. like I did the other night. Time goes WAY TOO FAST. He is almost ONE! WHAT?!

ACK. Okay, time to go before I get emotional again. Haha.

Reuniting soon!

This coming weekend is the 2nd Annual "Leora's Family Gathering!" I, for one, am quite excited about the event.

My grandmother, Leora, passed away in 2007. Last year, I planned the reunion on her birthdate. It was significant to me to have the first "official" summer-time family reunion, since her passing, be on her birthdate. It was a birthday party, too, after all!

Growing up, on my mother's side of the family especially, I went to a lot of family reunions. Fosters, Flesners, Shellums, and then Webers, too, from time to time. There may have been a few more, but those were the ones that were held every summer. As a kid, they were fun, and boring at the same time. I mean, we got to run around like little hooligans at my great-grandpa's farm for one of them, and then sit around a small-town community center and try to behave at another, for example. But, we were there, as a family, almost every single year. I can't even recall how many reunions I went to. The best part, I think, is that we always went with my mom's sisters, brothers, and their children.

As a child, my cousins and I (on my mom's side especially) were very close. A lot of that was because the majority of us lived in the same area, southwest MN, and my grandmother had her children over very frequently. Most of my summers were spent with my cousins, going to the pool, camping in backyards, having sleepovers at our houses, raking leaves and making mazes with them, playing at the park near my grandmother's house, and so many more exciting activities. Truthfully, my cousins were some of my closest and dearest friends. I think we were all VERY blessed to be able to say that.

We are so very fortunate to have the parents we have and the grandmother that we had that helped us form those bonds, memories, and lasting sense of the value and importance of family!

As we got older, we grew apart a bit, in distance especially. We're spread out all over, and now we're all busy with things going on in our (mostly) adult lives. (I say mostly, because most of us are adults now.)

That doesn't keep us apart, though!

Even though my grandmother has passed away, we, as a family, think it's still very important to keep the value of family at the forefront. So, last year, I took it upon myself (with a little help from my cousin) to plan that reunion. But, instead of it being a "insertlastnamehere Family Reunion," I decided to call it "Leora's Family." See, a last name isn't as important as belonging to a family, and whether all of her family members are blood or legal relatives, they were definitely a big part of her life.. of all of our lives. For example, even though my parents are no longer together, my dad is still a part of Leora's family. Also, we invite family members who were from the other "branches" of Leora's family, say, her sisters children, other second cousins, my mom's cousins and aunts, for example.

Like I said, I feel very blessed to have the family that I have.

So, this coming weekend is the 2nd Annual "Leora's Family Reunion." It's not over her birthday weekend this year for a few reasons, one being that it's father's day weekend almost every year, and that makes it hard for planning, and second that my aunt, uncle, and their children from Washington state were coming to the area during this particular time of the summer this year. I decided that having it on/nearest her birthday wasn't AS important, because it's still focused on her family and our relationships that she gave us.

I'm so excited. I have, literally, been looking forward to the reunion since I left last summer. My husband wasn't able to attend last summer because of work conflicts (that he managed to work through this summer, hallelujah!), and I was still pregnant with Spencer last summer. So, this summer, I won't be traveling by myself (okay, I guess last summer I did bring Wendell with...), and will have both Jake and Spencer with! It's Spencer's first reunion! Yeah!!

Despite a little situation with the original location (where we had it last year), the planning has been basically effortless and carefree, which is also a blessing. My family is very flexible and willing to bring whatever they can to make it a spectacular time, so it's a potluck event, outdoors, at a park. Yeah, it's going to be hot, but it's going to be wonderful!

I love being able to sit and reminisce, tell stories from the past, and laugh until we cry. I love watching my aunts and uncles interact. I love spending time with my childhood best friends, my "gang" (a nice gang), and seeing how we've all grown so much, gone through so much, and who we've become. I love watching my cousin's children playing in the grass and in the dirt, getting into the food, making messes, laughing, crying, and running around. And OH MY GOSH this year I have a child too!

I love having my camera around, just in case I, or my sisters, or my husband, or my aunts, decide to "stalk" family members, taking photo after photo until they notice us and stick out their tongue or block their faces with their hands.

I hate saying goodbye.

But I love looking forward to the next year's reunion.

Ah! I am EXCITED.

Juror.

Wow, two blog posts in one night!

Normally, I don't blog about current events and matters in the media, but today, well, by golly, I am about to.

But, not in a way that you might think. No, it's not going to be a "I agree/disagree" post.

Yes, it is about the Casey Anthony trial. (I think that's how you spell her first name.)

I have to admit, I've only followed bits and pieces of the story since it happened. I remember it happening way back when, and hearing about it quite a bit, and then not hearing about it as much anymore. Coupled with the fact that we haven't had cable television in quite some time, and I usually don't have an impulse to read the news (sadly), well, I am not all "up on current events," as you might say.

However, I did get sucked right into the news coverage this afternoon as I heard the verdict was soon to be announced. I was covered in goosebumps as the silence on the screen enveloped everyone watching. And, as the "not guilty" charges were read, my jaw dropped, hand covering the shocked expression, and I found myself thinking the jurors were crazy for not charging her with the murder of her daughter.

Yup, I will admit it, initially, my reaction was "SHE IS SOOOOO guilty!"

It didn't take long for me to start questioning the ramification of a not-guilty sentence. Would she become famous now? Make millions writing a book? She sure looked happy. Would I have been?

Yes and no. Yes, if I was not guilty (and I would be RIGHTLY not guilty, mind you, like I would kill anyone, heck, I hate killing animals), I'd be happy. But, I don't know that I'd be so elated... knowing that my DAUGHTER WAS STILL DEAD.

Yeah. Dead. My baby. DEAD.

The thought makes me physically sick. I sat there thinking I might throw up all over the place.

And then, I wondered... "so, if people just keep changing their story, no one would EVER really know the truth, so how could they be found guilty?"

Blah.

Fast forward, tonight I'm sitting here.. thinking about it again as I see all these posts and what not flaring up on Facebook once again. And I found myself, again, initially thinking, "ugh, she is guilty."

But then almost immediately, I got to thinking, "but who am I to think that?"

I mean really. It's not my call. Not only was I not there when it happened, but I was not a juror, and I certainly haven't been well-informed on the case.

But more than that, who am I to decide? The murderer knows. God knows. He'll deal with it.

Just like he'll deal with the baby girl whose life was taken... as he wraps his arms around her and allows her to live with him, side-by-side, for all eternity, alongside the thousands of other innocent children who passed away all too soon.

Furthermore, I began thinking about how I truly hope I NEVER am called to be a juror. I mean, maybe I wouldn't have such a qualm with petty court matters like parking tickets, but seriously... having to decide someone's fate like that? I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I think I'd be physically sick the entire time. Especially in a trial like the one that ended on national television today.

Just a disclaimer: in no way is this post supposed to imply that we should not gave a jurored court system. It simply is to state I hope never to be a part of it.

Lullabies, Crafts, and Fireworks

I apologize in advance, and in retrospect, that almost all of my blogging lately has to do with Spencer or motherhood. It obviously is one of the very biggest parts of my life, and seriously, it's always on my mind, or nearly always.

Spencer has a CD with lullabies on it that plays in his room, pretty much non-stop, unless we realize it's running during the day and turn it off. It's a collection of songs, mostly that have meaning to him or our family. For example, "Never Grow Up" by Taylor Swift is the first song, for him and for me, because we danced to it right after he came home from the hospital, and it also reminds me not to take anything for granted, even his fussy evenings. Next is, "Godspeed" by the Dixie Chicks, as when I first heard it many years ago, I had hoped for a little boy to sing that song to at night. Somewhere further in the tracks is "A Page is Turned" by Bebo Norman, which was the song his daddy and I danced to at our wedding. Those are just a few.

Recently, I have decided that, since I have the linguistic abilities and some musical skills as well, maybe I should write him a personalized lullaby. Unfortunately, the idea hasn't taken off in depth, other than a few lyrics/melodies I sang to the voice recorder on my cell phone. I told the idea to Jake, and he wrote lyrics to his own lullaby. So, hopefully soon, Spencer will be spoiled with two of his own lullabies.

I happened upon Stumbleupon (or a friend told me about it and three weeks later I joined and started using it), and amidst some of my recommendations, I found a craft blog that I sat and read in its entirety and became inspired. The other day, I pulled out some of my craft papers, and constructed a tree. Yup, a tree. And I enjoyed it so much I started another (which is not yet finished).

It made me miss the days of Jake's big desk (that I was given when we moved in together) that I used for crafting- specifically book binding. Man, I LOVE binding books, but after we moved to Sioux Falls and didn't have room for the big desk, and therefore gave it to his brother, I stopped binding. We didn't have room. Still don't, really, but I found all of my old supplies that I just couldn't bear to part with, and I wish that I had space and time to make a few books again.

Last night, we took Spencer to a fireworks show here in town. He LOVED it. And while we were sitting there sharing our ice cream as Jake ate his own (he couldn't share, because he had peanuts and chocolate), I realized that another of our long-time family-oriented dreams had come true and we were living it right then and there. For as long as Jake and I have been together and discussing a future family, we would say things like, "I can't wait until someday when we show our kids fireworks." And there we were, all three of us... watching fireworks. And it was magical.

And a parting thought... I am ready for a new blog title. I just can't decide on one.

Various Topics

As you may know (if you're a follower of my blog), I had a cystectomy on my tail bone in March. It was not a joyous experience, but it wasn't as bad as I imagined either.

Post-surgery, I thought I was very well-behaved, taking it easy for about a week, doing not much of anything (thanks to my amazing husband who was daddy, mommy, housewife, and provider all week), and then light activity for a few weeks after. I went for a few post-op visits and everything "appeared" to be fine.

So, I was disgraced and saddened when I realized that, in fact, it was not healing properly. I've been back to the surgeon a few times, and up until this past week, he didn't seem very concerned, which annoyed me and my husband. Following this last appointment, he verified that the incision site isn't really healing that well. In fact, as gruesome as this sounds, there's a hole in it. Sweet. NO wonder it's been uncomfortable and painful, among other things, ever since. So, he gave us a few instructions to helpfully help it actually heal, and I go back in a month or so.

--

Lately, our little family is less financially stable than we used to be. I've been blaming myself for this a lot, especially since I make much less doing in-home daycare than I did doing center-based daycare, which was also less than teaching preschool, which was definitely less than social/community work. Ah!

--

Today, I took Spencer to the park, by myself. He and I have been to the park with Jake or Jillian and the daycare kids before, but never alone. It was a wonderful experience! I had him in the baby swing, and got to talking to another mommy there, whose baby is just three days older than Spencer. So we were comparing stories and stuff. It was pretty cool. He used the swing, then one of those bouncy/rocking sit-on toys (a duck, actually) until he bonked his face on the handlebars (I was holding him, and he still did it... whoops), and then we went on the play equiptment and played with the tic-tac-toe board thing for a while, and then back to the swing, together, then the toddler swing, then the baby swing. Then we played in the grass with toys. It hit me, while playing in the grass, that I was AT THE PARK with my BABY. I'd spent years driving or walking by parks and seeing mommies and their babies and children and I would just pray that some day I would get to take my baby to a park. And I WAS AT THE PARK WITH MY BABY. I almost started sobbing pure joy. It was overwhelming. I didn't have to wish anymore, I was living that dream! Ah! Pure bliss!

Then we went for an hour long walk, and came back and sat on the step with the dog watching the cars go by. Both Spencer and the dog like cars.

--

Spencer surprised me today and scooted five or so feet on his bottom and got the dog food bag. Didn't eat any, but was sure excited about his find.

--

My brother, who is 19 now, but my youngest brother, is in the National Guard. Right now, he's training in MN to be deployed to Kuwait for a month, followed by Iraq for a year. The send-off celebration is this coming Friday, in Minnesota. I don't know how to prepare myself, emotionally and mentally, for the event. I try not to think about it too much. It's funny though, because I'm not really scared he will die overseas... but that the events will change him and we won't know him like we do now. He's one of the most easy-going, funny guys I know, and I don't want him to lose that part of himself. I know he'll change, but I hope he comes back and we still know him, if that makes sense. Of course, I'm also concerned for his safety, but I trust that God will be watching over him.

Another thing that gets me about the entire situation is that, with the exception of a short pass in July that I just found out he'll have, before actually being deployed, I will not see him for over a year. In a year's time, Spencer will be walking (I assume) and talking (a bit, hopefully), and be a little boy, not just a baby. He'll be nothing like Bryan knows of him now. That's crazy! And you never know, there's always a chance that Spencer would have a sibling on the way by the time he comes back. He was in training/camp this fall when Spencer was born... and it's just... hard to wrap my mind around, I guess.

--

Anyway, the movie "Seven Pounds" is playing in the living room, and I should get to watching it, because it is almost to the area in which I fell asleep watching it last night (sorry about that, Jake, I had no idea I was so tired).

She used to write poetry... and take fine art photographs...

Last night, I wrote a post about how I used to play guitar and vowed that I would bring that back into my life.

Tonight, I was sitting on the computer, browsing a friend's etsy shop (which I happen to adore and hope to own an item from someday) when I also happened upon a list of that friends' etsy favorites, which included photographs of coffee. (I think that was a complete sentence...)

That made me realize that it's been quite a long time since I've picked up my camera to take a "fine art photograph," or photograph of anything that wasn't my son or other family member.

I used to do that frequently (read: I had a project 365 for over a year straight, until I found out I was pregnant, actually, and I stopped that day), and I would sell them online in my own etsy shop.

Once, I had someone from a college in Tennessee (I forget which one, which is kind of embarassing, because the entire event was a big deal to me) tell me that she wanted one of my images in her curated show in a local art gallery! One of my biggest dreams had been to be featured in an art gallery somewhere!

Anyway.... Photographing "fine art..." I did it mostly for fun, however, and with the "crazy" idea that someday I would have my own art gallery in my home. Not to sell or anything of that nature, just to display some of my favorite photographs.

I loved taking photos. Heck, I still do, my focus just has, undoubtedly, changed from "art" to photos of my adorable (yes, I'm biased) son.

But that doesn't mean that desire isn't still there. I still have some photos for sale on an etsy shop, but I haven't really done any marketing to find an audience. Part of me doesn't have any interest in selling it, but then again, the other part of me does.

Tonight, on facebook, I commented how I miss taking fine art photographs. A few friends told me that they'd buy my art, or display it, which was great to hear, I won't lie. This then lead to someone commenting on how I should publish a photography book.

That had been one of my dreams as well. I guess it still is, I just haven't focused on it at all since Spencer's arrival. I have always wanted a book of my work published.

Then, I remembered I used to write poetry. I had over 200, maybe three hundred, poems written and published on a long-deceased geocities website. Fortunately, I had a crazy whim once to make sure to save them all and made two copies of the entire "works," one for my high school German teacher, mentor, and friend, Frau. The other, I gave to my boyfriend at the time (who is now my husband). When geocities had their demise, the website was surely lost, but luckily, these works are around somewhere. Jake says he still has it, and I know Frau does, because she let my little sister read them at school, or something to that effect.

I miss writing poetry. I haven't done that in YEARS. I don't know why. It's not like my love of language has faded, nor have I really lost my words. I guess I should probably find a spark inside of me and get that going, too.

What does poetry have to do with anything, you might be wondering? Well, I had the idea that maybe I'd put poetry with my photography, and have the two mesh, somehow.

Maybe. I guess we'll see.

The photos in this post are a few of my personal collection. Be a pal, and don't steal them.

The Girl Who Never Entered a Wellness Center...

Up until a week ago last Saturday, I could have used "girl who had never entered a wellness center" as an identifying phrase.

After talking with Jillian about PCOS and the struggles it produces in our bodies, including being overweight, I was inspired to check out a local wellness center. I had seriously never done so, because I'd always seen them as scary, intimidating, and a potentially embarrassing rendezvous.

However, after talking with Jake about my initial interest in checking one out, and finding he was pretty excited about it, the idea never left my head.

We hadn't had much time as a family to go check it out, until almost two weeks ago. But, as soon as we did, I was latched on the idea of joining. We got a free week pass to try it out. The next day, Sunday, we took Spencer swimming. Shortly after, the center closed, so we didn't have time to do much else.

The following Wednesday, we again took Spencer swimming for almost an hour. That was followed by nearly two full hours of working out!

I have to tell you, I'm still proud of myself. On my very first visit, I did 27 minutes on the elliptical machine. I lifted some weights/used the weight machines (pardon me for not knowing what they're called), and realized I'm stronger than I thought I was! I can probably thank Spencer for that, I guess. Then we rode bikes for a bit (I did a bit over a mile while Jake tinkered on one to get it set right and then he quit and waited for me) and walked a mile on the track.

We haven't had the time to go back yet as a family because the next week was oddly busy and had a strange schedule with Easter holidays and everything thrown in, but I'm hoping we buy that membership this week and then make a regular event out of going. Generally, we're thinking we'll take SJ swimming one day each weekend, and again on Wednesdays, and work out together those days as well. Then, I just have to partition some time to go alone during the week.

So, while I can't report that I'm a sudden gym/fitness guru, I can proudly state that I HAVE in fact gone to a wellness center to work out, it didn't "kill" me, I was not at all embarassed, or self-conscious, and I did actually enjoy it.

Woah, right?

Never saw it coming!

Pinch me. Am I dreaming?

For so long, I dreamt that one day I would be a mother. I always guarded my heart, though, afraid my body wouldn't cooperate and that dream would never come true.

I know this is a topic I've visited over and over again. It's like my blog becomes a revolving door of thought, at times, and I'm sure that it annoys some people.

But it's my blog.

I'm sharing this photo because I recently fell in love with it... again. I took it on March 7th (I believe) and thought it adorable, but up until last night, hadn't really sat and looked at it, letting his expression and the whimsical emotion melt my heart like it has. It is one of my favorite photos of him, to date.

Anyway... today, I was discussing with Jillian the possibility of more children in my future. While discussing that, we ventured into a discussion about insurance and fertility treatments. After SJ was born and I switched jobs, we also switched insurance, and up until today, there was some confusion as to what would be covered and when.

After a few phone calls, we established a couple of things. One- that any treatments at any point from here on should be covered by our insurance because, despite a letter we received in the mail, we have no pre-existing condition clause, and two- that I was "officially" diagnosed with PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian sydrome) back in October of 2009. While I had always assumed this to be the case, post-treatments, I did not know for sure, because no one came straight out and told me it was charted or diagnosed.

With this knowledge, I know that if and when Jake and I decide to actively pursue another addition to our family, medical interventions would be covered.

Not that I'm saying we're going to start trying to conceive again any time soon. It's just pure knowledge.

I digress.

After these discussions, I found myself holding Spencer on the couch as he slept, just staring at his perfect little features. Daily, I find myself pinpointing things that are "Jake" and those that are "Nicole," both in his features but also his personality. It's an on-going game I play. Truthfully, I hope one day it stops and I just realize that it's not his father nor I that I see, but rather, Spencer as a whole person. But for now, it's kind of fun.

As I sit and stare, playing my game, I find myself wanting a "reality check," because there's still a part of me that feels that I'm living in a dream. Realistically, I am, but it's one I'm sometimes finding myself afraid to "wake up from" and that it's not real. I let my sinner's heart get the best of me, thinking occasionally that there's no real way that God would have given me this miracle that I wanted, hoped for, and prayed about, for so long.

It's crazy to think that a little over a year ago, Spencer was nothing more than a longing. A year ago, he was inside of me. And today, he's beside me, babbling and smiling and loving on me like I'm the best thing in his world. It's just too good to be true! Yet, it is true.

I also find it mind-boggling to sit and think about his name. Spencer. We picked it. That's who he is. That's what he'll be called, forever (assuming he doesn't get all uppity and change it someday). We decided that. It's a powerful thing, a name.

I apologize if this is all haphazardly strewn together. Tonight, my thoughts (as usual) fly faster than my fingers can share them.

Now Accepting Applications:

I've decided that it would be fantastic if I could get myself a 1950's cliche housewife. Either that, or a maid.

I am very happy to be back working, spending time with my dear friend, Jillian, and her son, Grayson, (and her sister Brieanne and her husband Robert, too...) as well as providing some income for our family so I don't feel as worthless as I did while not making money.

But, it comes with a price.

Jillian and I, today, were discussing Spencer's new crying habits, and how they are probably a product of many things: ear infection (which seemed to start it all, though it was probably just the timing of that coinciding with the next parts), going to daycare, me working, and a change in our routine and schedule.

I know from experience working in an infant room that babies going to daycare for the first time have a bit of a shock and hard time adjusting (generally). I don't know why I expected that to be any different for Spencer. Just because I am going to daycare with him as a provider doesn't mean that it's different for him. He just doesn't have to adjust to a new care provider as that role is still mine. But, he does have to share my attention with others, just like those in other daycares would. He doesn't necessarily get picked up every second he cries (not that he did while I was on leave, let me tell you!), and sometimes he has to wait a little longer than usual for feedings. He has to sleep through more noise. You know, various things like that. So, that might be part (a big part) of why he's been fussier lately. I'm hoping he adjusts and gets back to his jolly little self.

Anyway, now that I'm working outside of my own home, I'm (obviously) not at our place much. So, while I divide up my attention during the day, it's just as divided at night. That means that over the course of a day now, SJ gets less of my focus than he ever has before.

That's why I decided tonight I could use a housewife or a maid.

When I come home, between oh, say 6 and 10 (sometimes I stay and visit), I not only am trying to have one-on-one quality time with my precious son, but now I have to use what little time I have left of the day to do the things I normally spread throughout the day (while giving most of my attention to Spencer and also trying to remember to eat and use the bathroom and such). So, I come home and want to just cuddle and play with him, but I also have to take the dog out, feed the dog, do the dishes, wash the clothes, clean up whatever messes are left behind, eat supper, and get ready for bed and if I'm lucky, the day to follow.

That's a lot to do on my own in a few hours.

I feel horrible letting him cry in his chair, or swing, or on the floor while I wash dishes instead. What I really want to do is lay down next to him and make him laugh and smile at me. I can't always do it. It often breaks my heart. I hate listening to him cry, knowing that he would stop if I'd just hold him. But, I can't always hold him! Ack! It's torment!

Anyway, so, I'd like to accept applications for my 1950's houswife or maid. Please provide two references and your own uniform. Thanks! Haha.

Fluffy White Stuff

Snow. It's cold. It's white. It's pretty. Today, it's fluffy and falling beautifully outside!

This photo, to the left, is one of my all-time favorites that I have ever taken. It was taken January 20, 2009, apparently. These snowflakes were on my windshield, and I couldn't resist capturing their perfection.

I love watching snow fall. It's completely serene and mesmerizing. It calms me and lulls. It entrances me. I just found myself staring out the window watching the precipitation dance as it fall to the ground, for 15 minutes. It whirls and waltzes with such grace that I could have watched it for much longer, had I not the urge to sit here and write about it instead.

I love that snow is so soft after it's first fallen, that you can pick up a handful, and blow it away like a wish, or like a dandelion that's gone to seed.

Last year, my sisters and I were so excited about a snowfall much similar to that of today, that we

bundled ourselves up to go play outside, taking pictures of ourselves throwing snow, playing in it, blowing it around, and making snowballs as perfectly round as we could. It's one of my fonder memories of us spending time together.

I also adore how calm and peaceful the world looks as snow settles upon the ground, the stair railings, and the trees. It's as if it's been kissed with the beauty of heaven. I know that sounds corny, but I feel it to be the truth. Before the plows have thrown muddy snow onto our yards, or animals leave their marks in the fluff, everything looks like it belongs on a postcard of some sort. I absolutely love that pristine white landscape!

The one thing I really dislike about snow is that it makes traveling quite treacherous at times, especially if it is proceeded by rain and ice, and accompanied by wind.

If I am allowed to be safe at home, I do not mind it nearly as much, because I know that my safety is not threatened. Though, I worry about my husband on wintry roads, because he travels for work. Really though, driving in snow really makes me nervous. If it's just a little snow, that's fine, but as soon as it accumulates, or slushes, or ices, I'd much rather just stay at home with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate and watch it falling out the window, much like I am, today!

After roads are safe for travel, however, I do enjoy a venture out into the snow dusted world, especially if I have my camera in hand!

So, all this babble, and no real point, other than the fact that I do adore the aesthetics of a lovely winter snowfall. I don't even mind the cold so much, so long as I'm not forced to be outside for long in one of the famous midwestern sub-zero windchills. But a merry little jaunt to the yard to throw a few snowballs, make a snowman, a snow angel, possibly a fort, or just throw some snow around taking pictures? That sounds like a delightful way to spend a winter day. I can't wait until Spencer is a little older and can enjoy the snowfall

with me.

(All of these photos were taken by me, except the one of me, which was taken by my sister, Samantha. You can see the ones I took that day (and some that she or Allison took) by clicking this link. Please, do not copy, save, paste... well, steal, these photos.)

When did I stop?

When I was in high school, my main goal in life was, "to make a difference." That's what I'd tell people. That idea carried on through high school, to college, and after college... for a while.

Recently, I feel like I've lost that. Not that I don't want to make a difference, because I do, definitely. But, I've stopped vocalizing it. I've stopped using it as a driving force.

I'm conflicted about that.

I didn't necessarily think I was doing big things when I was working on this goal. In high school, it was writing poetry, mainly, and sharing it with the world. I know it sounds totally strange, but man, I was popular when it came to the online poetry community. I was on boards and people were reading my work left and right, praising me, and telling me how much they could relate. I received so many thanks and comments on my webpage (now deceased, due to the collapse or whatever of geocities) that I was completely astonished with myself. I didn't think I was really good at writing, I just wrote because it's what I could do. It was an outlet. It was a release and hey, an avenue for my ever burning creative fire. I made friendships with my poetry, online, and offline too. Even after my mother read my poetry about my inner pain and got mad at me for writing it, I continued, because it seemed to mean something, not only to me, but to the world. I felt powerful.

After high school, I joined outreach groups and other activities in college. At Augustana, I did youth overnight lock-ins with the IXOYE outreach ministry. It was wonderful! We were sharing the love of the Lord with so many children. It inspired me to work at Shetek Lutheran Ministries the summer of 2003 as a camp counselor. I loved the work we were doing. I returned the next summer as a daycamp director, and took other staff along with me as we shared the Lord with children all across southwestern Minnesota and southeastern South Dakota. I remember one camp where we re-wrote the Lord's prayer with the children, in their words. I still have my camp binders. I sang the love of the Lord with my guitar, for me, for staff, for children, for families. I felt I was really making a difference there, too.

I was an RA in college at Southwest MN State University two years later, and I was able to counsel and support freshmen students in our house as we went through some crazy situations. I allowed a random guy, who was drunk and drugged up, to grope and harass me for the protection of the students, and then work through it with them. I did everything I could for that house of students, everything they would let me. We formed some really great relationships, and it was really hard to say goodbye and get married that summer knowing I could never be an RA again.

During my junior and senior year, I worked at a Crisis Center in Marshall, doing supervised visitations. It was a relatively simple job most times, though it was always hard to pry children from their parents. But, I felt like I was making a difference, I was allowing these families to have time together that they wouldn't have otherwise.

My senior year of college, I took an internship at Western Community Action, and made it my mission to help combat the terror of poverty in our area. I loved it. I worked at the food shelf, basically running it, helping people have food. I helped run a free tax clinic where those who couldn't afford others to do their taxes could come and we would help. It was wonderful. I fell so in love with it that I applied to work there after graduation, and was hired. I then took on the food shelf, and started a group for girls, where they empowered themselves and learned leadership skills and other useful things. I ran a Big Buddies program in Redwood county (mentoring), and then my final project was to help form the Circles of Support program, where the community would come together on a regular basis, to relate, learn, lead by example, fight poverty, and form relationships, across all lines that are considered barriers (class, race, age, gender, etc.) I really felt I was doing something big.

During this time, I also volunteered at my other employment, the crisis center, as a Crisis Line advocate. The crisis line was a wonderful way to make a difference, with late night calls reporting rape, and I'd drive to hospitals to be an advocate for women who were going through perhaps the worst situation in their lives. I was there for suicidal callers. I was there for so much. They didn't always know me, but I was there. I was making a difference.

When I resigned from my WCA job and started as a preschool teacher, I felt important then too, not as important, but important. I mean really, I was educating young minds. Same goes for when I moved to Sioux Falls and started working in an infant room. But the impact didn't feel the same. I'm sure it's meaningful, but it just wasn't the same.

I sit here, raising my son, and am very, very proud of it. But at the same time, I don't feel like I'm making a difference like I hoped for, dreamed of, and wanted. I don't know why I feel that way. What did I actually mean when I told myself that? Was it to make a difference for countless people, or could it mean to make a difference in the life of one little boy sleeping on my bed? I don't know. I don't think there are clearly defined boundaries for my dream.

I think I just need to work on seeing the way things really are, and that I am still making a difference, just in a different way than I expected.

And who's to say I can't do something big, yet?

15 Days.

Spencer is 15 days old today.

The first week he was home, Jake was home as well, and I tell you what, that week flew by at the speed of sound (figuratively, of course).

We came home on Wednesday the 3rd, and were met by my dad, and my sisters. After they left, the rest of the week, looking back now, is somewhat of a blur. I know on Thursday we went out as a family and were shopping, and each day we tried to leave at least once. We went to Barnes & Noble one evening, and to church that Sunday, where everyone was in awe of his tiny cuteness and newborn status.

After Jake went to work the following Tuesday (the 9th), the week seemed to drag on. I was home alone with Spencer most of the day, still attempting to (successfully, mind you) get out of the house at least once a day, but with SJ sleeping most of the day and no adult to talk to (Wendell isn't really much of a conversationalist, despite my efforts to coax him into being one), the days got pretty long.

But I'm not complaining.

Jake and I discussed multiple times in the last 15 days how crazy it is that someone so small and... well, in a way, boring (he doesn't do much other than sleep, eat, and poop, really), can be so entertaining at the same time.

Here are some of my favorite Spencer moments:

• hearing him make silly grunting noises from across the house
• his super squeaky hiccups that sound like a kid's toy, which he gets from me
• his "puppy yawn" where it sounds like he's panting like a dog
• watching him make smiling faces in his sleep
• watching him make an "ooh" face as he stares around the room
• when he's lying on the floor and Wendell comes up and licks him and he doesn't even mind
• cuddling with him on my chest
• hearing Jake laugh as he changes a diaper, commenting on what's inside, or if SJ pees on him, or the wall, or the floor, or himself
• hearing Jake talk to Spencer and telling him stories
• seeing Jake and Spencer cuddling together on the couch or in the chair

Yup, you could say I'm already infatuated with this little guy, and in love with all the small moments.

For the record, I didn't realize I could be more in love with my husband than I already was, but I find that having a son has definitely brought more love for Jake as well. I wish I could explain how or why, but I can't. I just know it's true. And Jake has been the most wonderful companion, help, and father already. He's willing to get up in the middle of the night to give a bottle so I can sleep, or change any diaper at any time, and I don't have to ask. He has not complained about it once. He doesn't get frustrated when Spencer cries or anything. It's... absolutely amazing.

On Thursday of last week, he had his overnight route, and I didn't know how I was going to make it through the night without him. I did (because I'm a big girl, after all), and on Friday, Spencer and I drove to Howard, SD, to meet him for lunch... and then I followed him around town as he showed off his son to various customers. Melted my heart. I have never seen such a proud daddy!

And, in non-baby news...

(Well, this first part sort of is...)

The other day I was on the phone with Jake, and lonely, and I started crying, while holding my phone with my ear against my shoulder, and wouldn't you know it, it fried the keypad. The battery worked fine, but none of the buttons did, so I couldn't do anything with the phone, except answer it in the very off-chance that I noticed a call coming in. So, yesterday, SJ and I went to Worthington and I got a new phone. It's an LG Script. It's a pretty blue color. I'm not really a fan of texting with a full QWERTY keyboard, so I avoid using that function if possible, but other than that I don't hate it. Too bad, in January or whatever, AT&T is buying Unicel/Verizon and we'll have to get brand new phones anyway. But whatever. Since we were so close, we went a bit further and visited Jake's mom for four hours or so, before coming home. It was pretty fantastic.

Jake and I rented movies on Sunday (Jake actually picked them all out and brought them home), and despite my initial hesitation to watch The Karate Kid with Will Smith's son, I actually really enjoyed it. We are planning to watch it once more before it needs to be returned. We also watched Grown Ups, in which my friend Desi's cousin, Ashley Loren, has a small role, and I'd been wanting to see it ever since Desi told me that. It was hilarious!

Speaking of Desi, I gotta say, she sent us an awesome CD last week. It's the Barenaked Ladies Snacktime. There's a song on there about Ninjas! And my favorite is "Crazy ABCs." I listened to it at least 8 times in a row when I heard it. Here are the lyrics.

While watching a movie (not the two I mentioned) earlier in the week, there was a preview for Gone with the Wind. I told Jake I wanted to see it, because I never had. He asked if I had read the book, and I haven't, so we went to Barnes & Noble and he got me a copy. I was told I'm going to hate Scarlett O'Hara, but I'll love the book. I'm on page... 23 or so, but I'm really enjoying it so far. It's been a while since I read a book, actually. I feel kind of bad about that.

I need to do dishes and switch the laundry, so I should go.