Bye Bye Honda.

I should have known. There were so many signs and omens. The other day on the freeway I saw a truck just like the one we bought, on the back of a flatbed, crushed like a boulder had fallen from the side of a mountain and landed on top of it. I thought, that would suck. Then there was the way the Honda slid on the way to the gym, going around a corner, and I thought, oh I am so glad a car wasn't right there. And then the way I said goodbye to the girls after yoga, "Bye! Drive safe!"
"Yeah, you too!"
Big smile, and out the door I went.
I saw all the snow. I started to back out of the parking space and realized my back windshield was covered, so I stopped and got the scraper out and brushed the snow off. The car next to me was also pulling out with a snow covered back windshield, and I shook my scraper at them, indicating I'd brush off theirs too but they shook their head no. They are not being safe like me, I thought as I threw the scraper into my backseat.
I was so sick of this darn snow. I was so sick of going five miles an hour. And the snow was fresh, so I figured it wasn't too slippery. I should have known, given the fact God gave me one more last warning, coming around that same corner, I slid over to the other side of the road. Once again, I thought how great it was that there wasn't a car there, and I kept on going, turning my premium sound system up.
I think I was almost drunk on happy endorphins from my class. I wasn't even really thinking about the snow, other than it was the only thing making this night a little irritating.
The night was dark and cold and I could see the bits of snow hitting my windshield, flying into my headlights. I was alone on a long road, enjoying my music, thinking about dinner.
Before I knew it there was a turn. I knew a hill came after it, but it was too late, my car started to slip, and then I saw three sets of headlights coming up at me in the opposite direction. I started spinning, my car picking up speed as it slid like a little ice cube down the icy street. I'm sure I hit my breaks too hard.
I knew it was bad, that I was going to hit one of those cars. I screamed--Oh shit oh shit oh shit-BANG!
Then I spun some more before I stopped. Something was beeping, some lights were flashing, my stereo hiccuped but then kept playing, Kenny Chesney's voice filling the cold dark air.
Oh my god.
I tried to open my door but it wouldn't budge. I reached inside my purse for my phone, my hands shaking like my legs did after labor. I dialed Joey's number, hoping I was hitting the right buttons. He didn't answer, I left a message. "I got in an accident..." When he called back he was pissed. I could hear Noah crying in the background.
I crawled over and got out through the passenger side. I walked quickly on the wide street up to the Toyota Tacoma I hit. There were three little faced in the back seat looking out the window at me in absolute fear. I am so sorry...One of them was holding his nose.
After calling Joey back a couple of times, me finally getting it through to him that it was pretty bad, that I was shaken up enough to not be able to think clearly about what the heck we were even supposed to do, he packed up the boys and came out.
In the meantime, some really nice angel people stopped and got me and the pieces of my car out the middle of the road. They picked up my bumper and my tail lights, and the big pieces of my my back windshield that I had so carefully cleaned five minutes before. I didn't realize all this junk they were picking up was mine until I happened to glance at the driver side of my car, which pretty much looked like a big transformer had just punched it in.
My chest hurt, and so did my knee. We sat in the smashed Tacoma as we waited for the tow trucks to come (I have to say my Honda did a pretty good job of totalling the Toyota truck), and realized my pant leg was wet, right at my knee. I didn't want to look--this has happened to me before--I cut my leg bad when I was ten years old with a 1/2 inch piece of glass, all the way to my bone. I didn't even realize I had done it until my pant leg was soaked in blood and I pulled it up to see. That was the flash back I was having as I lifted my pant leg up. It wasn't that bad though.
Joey got there and was much more sympathetic to me once he saw the Honda. The boys were so good, even though we sat out there for two hours. Noah barely cried, a miracle since he hates being in his car seat in a stagnant vehicle. We're talking screaming at a stop light that lasts longer than seven seconds.
In the middle of calling Triple A, another tow truck out looking for idiots who drive too fast in the snow came. He said he worked for Triple A, but the dispatcher couldn't find his company in their system. As we went back and forth, I got the feeling I was in the middle of a bidding war as the two companies capitalized on my carelessness. That pissed me off.
We got home at eleven PM, put the boys to bed, and I took a hot bath. Two Tylenol later, Joey and I fell into bed.
And now we are in the process of dealing with insurance and used car salesmen, people I absolutely love to spend my weekends with.
Oh, one more thing. Ethan always comes with me to the gym on Monday nights. He likes to play in the child care while I teach. But last night he was putting together his new Lego set with daddy, and he said he didn't want to go. Well, OK.
It was his door that got slammed, his car seat that was filled with glass from the back windshield. God is so good to me, even when I am careless and stupid, He spares us so much pain.

Christmas Joy.

This Christmas has been extra special for me given the fact that I have been way down in the dumps of depression, post-partum, pre-partem, everyday-since-last-February-partem, and I am finally coming out of it. Two weeks ago the only reason I wasn't calling my doctor for meds is I don't want to pay for them--so if not meds than a choice, and being aware of things I can do to keep from wallowing in the fear and meaninglessness that grabbed a hold of me this last year.
I exercise, I socialize, I talk to myself just like every other wacko out there (which a lot of the times means telling myself to shut up with the negativity and bring on the thankfulness), and I am enjoying things once more. I am living my life instead of watching it pass by me, like I don't care.
I am enjoying myself and my family. I am choosing joy over despair. So this Christmas has been particularly peaceful and hopeful.
That aside, we are still in the middle of all the Christmas madness over here and I don't mind one bit. We started on the 23rd, doing our Christmas as a family because Joey worked all day on the 24th and 25th. Bless our police officers who work every holiday because criminals suck.
So really we started on the 22nd as our Christmas Eve. Joey and I have a little tradition of opening a gift together, alone, after the kids are asleep, so we can enjoy each other. Then we shack it up in the bedroom. There is nothing better than sex on Christmas.
We woke up the next morning to Ethan running in our bedroom, "Santa brought me a guitar!" and so it began. The tearing of paper, the glee, the look of surprise and happiness on his little face as he realizes what each new gift is. Four year olds are easy to please. He is especially attached to Buzz Lightyear.
From there we spent time with Joey's family which is always a treat. I married into a gem of a family, giving me three new sisters and three new brothers and so far, two great nephews. And my parents-in laws? You won't find a wiser, more joyful couple.
The next day, actual Christmas Eve, we spent with my dad's side of the family, a tradition we have been doing since I was a baby. Again, wonderful food, lots of fun gifts, and a ton of love floating around.
Christmas Day we went to my sister's for breakfast. I am so thankful we had boys at the same time--Andrew and Ethan entertain and enjoy one another. They still fight too, and argue at any given opportunity--at the table we all went around and shared our favorite part of Christmas. Andrew said his favorite part was airplanes.
"Christmas airplanes?" said Ethan.
"No, regular airplanes." said Andrew.
"Christmas airplanes."
"No! Regular airplanes!"
"Christmas airplanes!"
"Regular airplanes!"
And on and on. And on.
My favorite part of Christmas is the time shared with all the boys in my life and extended family. I also love to decorate my house, unwrapping all the special things, some of which are over twenty five years old. My favorite are sweet mouse ornaments my mom painted for for me, hung with yarn. One is in a mailbox, the other is sleeping on the moon.
I love mediating on what Jesus means in my life, the freedom, joy, and forgiveness He came to give.
But I have to say my favorite part is shacking it up with Joey in the bedroom. Heck, that's Christmas any day of the year.

Hey there.

I've got writer's block and am super busy but life is good. Things going on in my head:
I am fighting for joy everyday. Christ came so that we may have life abundantly.
Noah is the sweetest. He is a heavy load of love.
I am learning to appreciate the little people I work with. Finding joy in their mischievous looks; that little sparkle that comes out every so often. I am working on becoming a better teacher to them everyday: more caring, more patient, more creative. I bring my guitar and sing to them. Since December I have been singing Christmas songs with them. They always request "the pretty one" (Silent Night)and as I sing it their eyes all glaze over and they hold still, looking up at me in a trance of some sort. Later one of them ask if they can listen to me sing it on their ipod. I about melt.
I am so thankful I can teach exercise, a dream of mine. While most dreams have dissipated due to the demands of my offspring, this one has held on, somehow working itself out in the midst of real life. Thank you God.
We had a great evening with friends a couple of nights ago. There were almost as many kids as adults and it hit me that we have moved into a new phase of life officially: everyone we know practically are parents. The easy life is over, but we still managed to have a great time.
Ethan is having a hard time hearing. He had a cold a couple of weeks ago and ever since has really struggled to hear. I need to take him to the doctor; it breaks my heart to see him so oblivious to everything that is making noise around him. The TV has to be at like 40 for him to hear it.
Merry Christmas.

Stuck.

We are snowed in again. It's not quite as magical as it was on Monday, when I got to stay home for work. I wanted to go to kickboxing today, and visit my Grammie, and go to Walmart for a couple of extra things for Christmas, and here we are stuck in stead. In Stead.
I guess I will have to rest and relax. It is beautiful, and I don't mind shoveling and sweeping because for whatever reason snow makes outside peaceful, quiet, less busy and I feel rested after I work hard in the cold.

Costco, Always a Memory.

Got up early this morning. I love it when it works out that way. The house is quiet and dark and I can drink my coffee and write in peace. Rare times with two little men ruling the roost.
Noah also slept in until four which was a treat. I feel almost rested for the first time in...crap, a year maybe? (if you weren't around, pregnancy was a B!)
Last night when I got home from work at six thirty, after a forty five minute drive because of some accident, we loaded the boys in the car and drove in the dark cold night to Costco, my favorite family outing--not being sarcastic here.
Going at night is nice because it is not an insane zoo, even though Sarah Palin was there signing her book. I noticed the people milling around, holding her book, talking together--they all looked intellectual, like they had some great purpose; and rich, with long coats and gloves. I guess those are the kind of people that go to book signings. I took notice that I looked like all the other normal zoned out people walking around the the warehouse in a Costco coma without her book, which was O.K.
We wandered over to the soaps and toothpaste, found what we needed, and as we made our way deeper into the store a man with a red and white beard--which reminded me of Fiebe's beard-- asked Joey if he was a jar head. Joey laughed a handsome laugh and said no, and I took a moment to smile on the inside because I still think he is hot, and then I asked him, "What'd he say?"
I guess a jar head is a marine--Joey had just shaved his head.
After filling two baskets up we were waiting in the checkout. A pretty blond lady with bangs who looked about forty came behind us. She had a gray skirt on with dark tights and black boots. Her down coat was also black. And yes I was staring. She had to be here for that book signing. What made her look so stinking sophisticated was this huge turquoise leather bag hanging off her shoulder all the way down to her mid thigh. It looked old and extremely expensive and I wanted it so bad. I started throwing things up on to the black belt and Joey started talking to Noah in a cute little voice. The lady was also staring at us, (Hello? two baskets? two noisy boys, one who can't stop making a train whistle sound while pulling his fist down, as if he is actually pulling it?) but mostly I think it was just because we were in front of her and what else is she going to look at?
Anyway I think Joey knew that lady was watching us because he took Noah out of his car seat and lifted him high in the air, still talking to him in that cute little voice, and I thought to myself, dang, is he trying to impress this turquoise bag lady? I threw the frozen ravioli's on the belt, and reaffirmed myself that I definitely wanted a bag like that.
She kept watching us, and her eyes were kind, almost longing. I wondered if she had a family, or if that bag proved she didn't have kids. Or maybe she had kids and they were grown up and she was missing the chaos.
After checkout we pulled our two baskets over to the side as we tried to settle ourselves before going out to the parking lot and she passed us . She almost smiled at me. I watched her back for a little while as she made her way to the door, that beautiful bag swaying behind her.

Snowed In.

Inside.

Outside.
No work today. There is at least a foot of snow, if not more. Yesterday morning we had planned to go Christmas tree hunting, but just about five minutes outside of Reno we drove into a blizzard and decided buying one in town looked like a pretty good idea. This was more than a little bit of a disappointment since I have been talking about going to cut a tree this year for at least three months. I also have been building it up for Ethan, using the soon-to-be outing as a bedtime story. "When we go cut our tree, were going to take our new truck, and go way way way up into the mountains..." The outing wasn't easy to get ready for either. All the snow gear. The sled. The ax. The snacks and hot chocolate. Plus getting little Noah ready and dropped off with Grandma. As is the custom for these "family times" Joey was quite irritated at me--I guess messing around on Facebook thirty minutes before we have to go, with none of the above done, does look a little irresponsible.
When we were discussing this in the truck on the way into the blizzard, I told him next year I know what is important to him for outings like these is to be prepared and ready, like the night before. I told him what is important to me is that we are getting along and not in a bad mood. He nodded, and I took his hand, and we were O.K. We have come a long way when it comes to crap like this.
At first we thought we might as well save the gas and money and just pick up a tree at the grocery store. But when Ethan caught on to our idea in the Raley's parking lot, in a desperate little voice he said, "We're gonna get our Christmas tree here?" like all his Christmas hopes and dreams just came crashing down all around him. So we drove to a lot for a little atmosphere and paid the extra ten bucks, and Ethan was thrilled (he's read about Christmas tree lots in his Curious George Christmas book).
It's a cute little tree, with a little bit of smell. Nothing like the divine smell I remember from our Pinion Pines growing up, but it's there at least.
I don't ever want an artificial one again. Yes, they look perfect, and you don't have to spend money on a new one every year, but a real tree has a certain character in the house. It becomes a live presence in the home, and it just seems more genuine, which makes a lot of sense because it is!
I am trying to make Christmas more than about the gifts this year. What is important to me is making it special for Ethan, making ornaments together, gingerbread houses, decorating, baking, having him have his own presents to give away. Christmas so easily can become only a shopping affair (which I love to do!) but there are so many other fun things to do too, especially with a kid about four years old.
And this is a perfect day to take advantage of, since we are seriously snowed in. I think we will make a snowman, maybe some more ornaments, and I will get started on my Christmas cards. In my slippers. With a cup of joe.

Somewhere in the Middle.

I've learned this last year, after almost busting my family in two (yes, yes, it was that bad), that I have limits. I've done the whole overworked thing, working forty plus hours a week; I've done the whole stay at home thing, which left me desperately needy for affirmation and fulfillment from my husband which almost drove him mad; and now I am trying to stay in the middle, somewhere my life has work, a healthy amount of stress, rest, and joy. The balance when you have little children (and probably big children too) is tricky.
Now that I am back at work it is so easy to keep saying yes! yes! to every opportunity that is thrown my way. I'm learning to say no, to take the chunk of clay God has given me that is my life and carve away those things that aren't contributing to it becoming something good, something recognizable. My sculpture so far looks a little something like this:
Joey: time for us to do fun things together, not just the everyday crap. Keeping things special.
Ethan and Noah: right now these two are a huge chunk of the clay. They require meals and nap times and it seems twenty four hour attention, unless I put Thomas the Train on the TV. I want to have enough energy for stories and tickling, enough patience to not blow up when they aren't behaving the way I want them to, enough vision to see the big picture and help nurture them into the little men of the their potential.
Myself: working out, decorating and organizing my house, writing, making homemade things, cooking, reading, silence and time with God, music, pictures. Working enough to feel like I am growing, but not too much so that I feel overwhelmed and scared.
Somehow I want to serve and hang out with friends in the midst of all that. My time with God right now consists of long showers, but only if Ethan isn't in the bathroom opening the shower door every three minutes to tell me something or ask when I am going to get out. For right now, that's my solitude. I can totally relate to Sarah Edward putting a table cloth over her head in the middle of the kitchen--a sign to her children to KEEP AWAY so she could pray.
I've had a couple of people tell me lately that this phase of life ends, and I wanted to throw my hands in the air and say THANK YOU! Most of the time all I hear is "treasure this time!" and it makes me feel so guilty because I feel like we are barely making it, and by no means treasuring it. I love my little kids, but between not getting sleep, discipline, screaming in the car, babysitters, drive time, and the constant feeling of being NEEDED, I can honestly say I am looking forward to the day when the boys are somewhat self sufficient.
Most of the time I think I'd rather look back on this time and miss it than be in the middle of it.

Fifteen Minutes of My Day.

OK OK OK OK....Monday!! Got the morning started off fabulously with a six AM kickboxing class, came home to Ethan tripping over some toys in the dark hallway and when I picked him up and put my nose in his hair, the smell was sweet, breathtaking, like morning. I snuggled him and had a moment, thinking that it won't be long until he doesn't want me snuggling him anymore, so I took it in. Joey came out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes, in his underwear, and when he spoke his voice was all deep and sleepy.
The little booger started crying, so I went in and released him from his snugly, arms flying upward, legs stretching out all the way through his teeny toes. I love this stretch he does. When he does it his eyes are scrunched shut and his lips go into a straight line, making his cheeks bulge out like a chipmunk. It's pretty much breathtaking too.
We sat down to nurse. He's a little piglet, using his nose to nudge and bump and snuggle my breast until he finally latches on. He sounds like a little piggy too, grunting until he's on and gulping. I still cradle him in my arms, he's so small.

My thankful list.

Three little Turkeys.
I am thankful for...
The way Noah's hair feels soft and fuzzy on my cheek when I hold him. I can't keep my face away from his head.
Ethan's bright eyes, his high pitched voice when he's excited, and the way he throws back his head and laughs at silly stories.
Joey. Sitting on the couch with him while watching House, all tangled together like when we were dating, staying warm as the house gets colder and colder. The only word I can think to describe it is comfortable, but it's so far beyond that--relaxing and restful with a tad of excitement. Perfection.
I am thankful for my health. That I can run and sweat and breath.
For my little doggies--Fiebe and her crazy beard; Riley and her soft eyes.
I am thankful for my home, for it's coziness, and for my dreams of what colors I can paint it's rooms down the road.
I am thankful for my dreams, for growth, for change.
I am thankful for my older sister, that she is close. She is fun, dedicated and so inspiring. I love her.
I am thankful for my litter sister, far away. She is brave, sooooo caring, and the most generous person I know. I love her, and am so proud of her.
I am thankful for my parents. For Joey's parents, and siblings. We are surrounded by love, love, love.
I am thankful for God, for giving me all of this. Happy Thanksgiving.

Kickbox Babbling into Retreat Memories into My Heart.

Two months! He makes the sweetest conversations.
I got up in the darkness to go to kickboxing yesterday morning, the only time we've decided it works with our crazy life and the life and health of our boys to do it. So I sucked it up and did it, quite willingly, actually, despite the little thoughts of "gas money!" going through my head as I made the twenty minute drive there.
It was fabulous, just as I remembered (only my butt shakes more and so do my bigger boobs in the mirror) and then the rest of the day I could barely walk because I have two or three good size blisters on each foot from the turning and twisting on my recycled virgin kickboxing feet. Then by last night I felt it, the soreness in my neck and shoulders and triceps and hamstrings and calves and abs...you get the point. A massage on these sore muscles would be heavenly, and I have decided to spend some of my December spending money on one.
I got a massage last month at a women's retreat in Tahoe, and as I laid on that soft bed, feeling the masseuse's big hands kneed out knot after knot, I thought, man I need these more often. Afterwards I felt like I had spent time with God.
The retreat was restful, leaving me feeling peaceful and serene, with clear thinking and understanding about things that normally are smokey in my everyday mind. I went up wanting that to happen, but for the first day and a half, it was just a big old house crowded with a lot of women I didn't know. I still had Noah, still had the minute by minute demands a newborn puts on it's mother, so I really wasn't feeling the whole "retreat" thing.
But after a couple of sessions of worship, of playing my guitar for the first time in a long time in worship, of deep sharing and prayer with two women who are in such a different stage of life than I am but whose guts and hearts feel the same pain and torment as mine, I started to feel God's heavy, comforting presence.
I went for a run, thinking of my past. It was at this same retreat center that I realized I loved Joey, enough to take a step into the unknown and marry the boy. The mountains looked just as big and beautiful as they did six years ago, the lake just as clear, like turquoise liquid glass. The air was cold, making my face feel like refrigerated play dough. I could see my breath coming out in front of my face as I ran. I thought about Joey, and about the insaneness of us having two boys.
On the way home Joey's mom and and I talked about family history, of people and addictions and overcoming odds that seem like insurmountable mountains.
I know one of my mountains is fear.
"...but perfect love casts out all fear." This is what I am trying to understand, to know, to experience. I'm staring at the big ugly thing head on.
"...behold, old things have become new..."

Goodbye Guitar.

Remember when it all started, deep in the forbidden bedroom of a boy who played Stairway to Heaven on an old, yellowish acoustic guitar? I don't know if it was for the boy, or because the song was so sad and pretty (I'm pretty sure it was to impress the boy), I wanted to learn to play. I taught myself on my parents' old guitars which were years out of tune, until I decided to buy you.
Remember Jeremy took me to that small hole-in-the-wall guitar store? You were hung up high, your black body shining down on me. No other guitar even caught my eye. Jeremy asked if I wanted to play you first, to see how you sounded, and I said sure, even though that was not my first concern. I guess I should have paid more attention. At the time, the only thing that mattered was that you were beautiful, sleek, almost sexy.
We'd play together for hours, remember, in my bedroom? Remember when Dad stopped by one day and said, "Danae, that is so pretty," and we both beamed for days?
If I could only see then how significant you were, how my entire life would ride on our choices together.
We started branching out, me and you, with a courage hard to imagine. We played open mike nights for gosh sakes, at small, crowded coffee houses. I remember the first time, my gut twisting and my body sweating as we waited for our turn to play. When it finally was time, you were completely out of tune and I was so nervous I couldn't hear straight to fix you. I never really knew how to tune you by ear anyway. A kind, very encouraging friend offered to help while the listeners fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. Yeah, we've been through some seriously embarrassing moments together.
There's been good times too. Times were you were in tune, and so was I, and we blended together seamlessly, our music filling high ceilings. One of the best times was on the beach at Tahoe, playing that song we wrote together for Angel's wedding. With Joey. And his red guitar.
You were the one that led me to Joey's house in the first place. I would never had a reason to be there if it weren't for you. And then one day as we sat on one couch and he sat on the other, playing his own guitar with his feet stacked right on left, Joey and I fell in love.
You started all that, you know.
We've played for seniors in wheel chairs with drool hanging out one side of their mouths; we've played for wiggly preschoolers with wide eyes; we've played at weddings and church and camp and school. We've gone everywhere together.
And now it's time to say goodbye. Because you never stay in tune, darn you. You are memories now.
Goodbye guitar.

Our Date.

We took the new truck because Ethan thinks it is so cool. I feel pretty cool driving it too once I get up there. I mean, it's not even a big truck, but if I have super tight jeans on (and all my jeans are super tight right now), I can barely get my bent leg up to pull myself up. I feel so self conscious as I am hoisting myself in, wondering if my jeans are going to split right up the butt.
We drove down the street to McDonald's (affectionately call Old McDonald's by Ethan, who probably was learning the song at around the same time he first went to McDonald's, and so now the two are forever married in his small, genius of a mind) and as we walked in I thought how wonderful it was that going to McDonald's was the only thing on my agenda for the day; that I could hold Ethan's hand as we walked in, not rushing him, not thinking about anything else but the moment with him.
We walked into a small crowd. I hadn't been in a McDonald's in forever, and I noticed how they are trying to be Starbuck's--the muted colors, (Common! McDonald's in not forest green and egg plant purple! It's orange red and mustard yellow. Wear it.) and even the wall decor of coffee cups. Please.
I was overwhelmed by the menu, and decided to go with the huge, Swiss cheese and mushroom burger.
I think I must have been on drugs or something.
Ethan wanted a happy meal with chicken nuggets and apples with carmel dip and chocolate milk. He also wanted a specific toy, but I told him you get whatever they throw in the bag-it's a surprise! That seemed to appease him and I prayed it would ward off any sort of melt down if didn't get what he wanted.
I let Ethan choose where we wanted to sit. He chose the bar stools. We watched a mom and her two elementary school kids while we waited. I tried to talk to Ethan (so, how are you?) but he was more interested in swinging side to side int he bar stool, which was OK.
My burger had a cup of mayonnaise on the top bun and reminded me of this cream of mushroom dish my mom used to make served over noodles, only thicker, with chunky beef . I scraped the mayonnaise off with a straw, and took two or three bites because it cost $3.99, and then came to my senses and realized I wouldn't want to eat the rest of it even if someone would pay me a hundred dollars.
Ethan loved his apples and carmel dip. I asked if I could have his chicken nuggets, and he gave me all of them. He ended up getting stuck with a lame dragon instead of the shooting toy he wanted, but he started playing with it, thank you Jesus.
Ethan took his time, kicking his legs as he sucked his chocolate milk through a straw. I downed the chicken nuggets as if we had somewhere to go. I started to get restless. It's not like you want to spend thirty minutes in McDonald's. Heck my butt was starting to hurt from the plastic chair, and my stomach was still turning over from the after taste of my burger.
I promised him ice cream, so we had to get a cone. His mouth took little tiny licks, and I sat there watching him, getting more and more restless. "Commoncommoncommon, let's go buddy," I said to him, instantly feeling guilt for rushing the poor kid. Can't I slow down enough to let him finish his ice cream cone without feeling the rush that otherwise rules the roost?
Obviously not. I waited another thirty seconds and then told him it was time to go.
He gave me the second half of the ice cream cone, which I was really happy about because I really wanted it after sitting there and watching him eat the first half.
It was a really good experience for me, this little date. I realized how hard it is for me to slow down and enjoy my kid. I need practice. We'll do another one soon, but it sure as heck well not be at McDonald's and will involve nothing even close to resembling a Swiss mushroom burger. *Barf*

Naptime and God.

I have been moody and depressed lately, with seemingly nothing worth writing. As far as my emotional state goes, the clouds start to clear, and then they come back. I haven't had a bright sunny day in a while.
There is something big going on, something wanting to change deep inside me, and I am strapped in, along for the ride. I am trying desperately not to resist it.
I sit at the teacher table at nap time, while my kids are rolling around like marbles, reading new books that are rocking my world (Emotionally Healthy Spirituality, Love is a Choice, Boundaries in Marriage) and between spurts of telling little Johnny or Sue to be quiet and hold still, I feel the dark hole in my chest. Just feel it. Let it be what it is. I don't use verses to get rid of it, don't ignore it, don't feel guilty about it. Just let it be, and tell God, well, there it is. Here I am. A dark hole.
And we sit there, me and God, during nap time, and I can actually for the first time in a long long time, pray.

Good morning darkness.

I got up at 5:22 A.M. to feed the little piggy and as he gulped down his early breakfast, I kept thinking about my warm bed with flannel sheets waiting for me as soon as little the oinker was done. But then I remembered Joey is having surgery right now, and I have to drop Ethan off at Grandmas and then pick Joey up at the hospital by eight A.M. So I had to stay up.
I hopped in the shower to wake up, and I couldn't help but think about the Schneider Days, when I would get up at 4:20 A.M. and usually doze on and off, standing there with the hot water running all over me. Crazily, I had feelings of longing for those days again.
What I miss about Schneider is the recognition, the pats on the back. That job was all about competition, and if you did well, you felt like you won, everyday.
Those days are long gone, for better or for worse, and I would be better off if I let that era of my life go, and focus on right now: being the best mom I can be, the best preschool teacher, the best wife. There's a lot of good stuff going on there, like Ethan's cow costume we bought for the Harvest Festival.
It's too small, gives him the most painful looking permanent wedgie, has stuffing in the hips and butt that make him look like forty something obese woman, and he loves it. Wants to sleep in it. Wear it to church. To Costco. Everywhere. It's been a wonderful disciplinary tool, as in "Ethan, you must put your socks on or the cow is gone--" I've never seen someone put their socks on so fast.
I'll post pictures soon.

Six week mental check up.

Noah is six weeks old. I am trying to get into some routine that includes working out, but I also have to give myself a break. I read in a magazine at the doctors office that after you have a baby you have to let go of unrealistic expectations, like looking like Heidi Klum--who I have no idea who she is but I am sure she is the beautiful, Sports Illustrated type--in six months. Six months?? And here I am at six weeks banging my own head against the wall because my regular jeans are super duper hoochie tight and uncomfortable.
Is there a pill for this?
I remember with Ethan my clothes fitting differently, my hips being wider specifically. I remember not minding, liking my new, more round and soft motherly look. In fact, I think I wore my pregnancy pants for a few months after the baby was born.
This time? I think I packed up every last piece of maternity clothing I had and either gave it away or put it in the garage, far far far away from my closet, sometime that first week. I was determined the baby was going to do as little disrupting as possible in our life: our schedule, our time, our money and yes, my pants.
The pregnancy was so hard for so many reasons, I was bracing for the worst when Noah arrived, so in my mind I got everything in order: back to work at four weeks, a chore list with every chore possibly imaginable including dusting floorboards and the fans--weekly, and an exercise routine five days a week.
With a newborn. And a three year old.
I am surprised at how well my "expectations" have actually realized, despite them being terribly unrealistic. Borderline psycho really.
The only one that has fallen off the band wagon is the exercise, and that's partly because I have also been sick. And, well, I have ignored some of the stupid chores I originally thought were imperative to life going well. Like dusting the floorboards.
Noah has been such a trooper through all this madness, swinging in his chair, sucking his pacifier just like Maggie Simpson. It's good when I stop to remember to hold him just because, to feel his baby weight in my arms, run my fingers over his fat, baby man thighs. Those moments, I know somewhere inside of me, are more important than getting up at five a.m. to exercise.

What do you want?

This is a fun writing exercise--just start writing whatever pops in your head.
I want to paint pumpkins. I want to make pretty blankets with soft, pretty yarn, the kind you buy at a yarn store, not Wal-mart. I want to be a ballerina, or it least be as strong and flexible as one. I want a new car, and a new wedding ring. I want to take the time to cook yummy dishes. I want to run, three days a week. I want to run a 13K. I want to teach kickboxing again. I want to become a yoga instructor and teach somewhere. I want to love my dogs better. I want to be more patient with Ethan. I want to love Joey in total freedom--his and mine. I want a tattoo. I want to dance again. I want to sing again. I want to take voice lessons. I want to take a painting class. I want to take a dance class. I want to be a better teacher: more creative with my crafts, more responsible with my planning. I want to be more confident, especially when talking with parents, or anyone I think is cooler than I am. I want to care about people when I am talking to them. I want to believe that God created me for good works, and that my mind and my thoughts have value. I want to redecorate my master bedroom, I want it to be romantic and pretty and comfortable. I want to travel with Joey--Italy, Costa Rica. I want to stay connected to Brazil. I want to always remember Portuguese. I want to play my guitar and get good at it, more than the chords. I want to host parties, with good friends and wine and dessert. I want to give meaningful gifts, and wrap them so pretty. I want to not be afraid of getting old. I want to look into the future with more hope than fear. I want to be excited about what is to come.

You can't ever really get away from being mommy.

I went to the mall yesterday and had my face done at the Bobbi Brown counter. I felt like I needed a make-over of some sort, something to make me feel young and pretty.
It kinda worked.
The lady who worked on me was older (mind 50's) and her eyeliner was thick and black, taking up her whole eyelid. She was new and insecure, but sweet and kind too. She also gave me a nice thick line of eyeliner on each eyelid, which by the end of the day felt so heavy it was making my eyes close. In fact by the end of the day, my whole face felt like it was drooping there was so much make-up on it. And that was just the "day wear"--don't get me near the "going out" look.
Jen and Lily came too. Lily was good for almost the whole time. At the end, when she was screaming her head off and Jen's old make-up lady was rolling her eyes impatiently every time Jen reached down to give her the pacifier, I was reminded again how hard it can be to be a mom, especially a new one. Thinking about being a mom made my milk come in (or maybe it was Lily's cry) and as I sat there getting my mascara applied for me, I wondered if big wet spots were forming on my shirt. I put my arms up and put pressure on my boobs, something I have to do at the end of everyday at work when my milk decides it's time and lets down. (Unfortunately, this is also the time the parents are picking up their kids and I am walking around holding my breasts in the most inconspicuous way possible, if one exists, which I don't think it does.)
It is what it is.
I did like the lip base and liner and lipstick, so I am putting them on my Christmas list.

Blessings and miracles in the morning.

My first day back at work was refreshing. The schedule, having to get dressed, having to be nice and smile at people even if on the inside I feel less than Miss Perky--are all good things, grace to my own heart. God is good and directs our paths, that is for sure. I would never have chosen this job; there are still moments when I miss my old job terribly, but I know those feelings aren't good for me or my family. This new job works. The schedule, the stress level, the people I am with all day--it's a safe, good place for my soul. The old job was good for my pride and checking account.
The kids were all so good, I even thought some of them were cute at times.
I am praising God this morning, blessed to see His work and care in my life.
And Noah smiled for the first time today. Well, actually he did it yesterday, but I wasn't really sure if it was a fake farty one or not. But today there was no doubt--his eyes were involved, bright and steady as they looked back at me. The world stopped, and I sat in awe for a second, overwhelmed and feeling quite unworthy, like I just witnessed a miracle.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what it was.

Finding his place.

It's seven thirty five in the morning and Ethan isn't up yet. This is a miracle, as if I woke up with long, beautiful hair.
I took Ethan to preschool yesterday. He walks through the door so ready; ready to play and paint and sit at circle time and leave me at the door. This isn't a bad thing, just a little unexpected since he's done this from day one. As a mommy, you expect a little hesitation, a little clingyness to your pant leg, a little glance at least.
Nope.
Through the door, without a goodbye, unless I say, loudly, "Ethan! Tell your mama goodbye!"
And then without really looking at me he says, "Bye Mom," and that is that.
I always feel somewhat jilted as I walk back through the hallway by myself, carrying Noah in his big ole' carseat that I hate to lug around even though it is good for my biceps. But, by the time I get to the parking lot I am feeling great, free as a bird, thinking about all the wonderful things I can do with four hours, three-year old free, such as sleep! and read. And that's what I do until it's time to go pick him up again.
This heavenly situation is finished as of yesterday since I start work on Monday, but boy was it good while it lasted.
Pick up time is exciting. A reunion. I am anxious to see Ethan again, and usually, he wants to see me too. He doesn't always want to leave--OK, he never wants to leave--but at least I see his eyes brighten when he firsts sees me. Then they usually darken and his lips set downward and his eyebrows slant. "I don't wanna go home!"
Then we go through that whole routine (if you have ever had a three year old, or watched a parent trying to get their three year old to leave anywhere fun, like the park, or Nawnie's house, or even the doctor's office, you know what I mean).
His artwork--out of the-lines painting, hand-print leaves, whole pictures colored completely with one crayon--are like chocolate for my eyes. They always paint a picture of a part of him--he's diligent, thorough, a mini perfectionist--I know this because he actually wants to finish his art; do you know how hard it is to get some three, four and five year olds to color something with more than just one line, one stroke, of color?
We walk back to the car together, carrying his two blankies and his art and Noah and my purse and other miscellaneous papers, all the while talking about what he learned that day, or how he shared with someone, or didn't share with someone, how he rolled around at nap time but didn't get sent to the office (His teacher is kinder than I am).
I love it when he talks about "Miss Fawn" or when he teaches me a new song he learned. Makes him seem so grown up, so a part of this big world we all share. It's neat to see him begin to take his place, to see where he fits, what he brings to share.

Loot!

We took home eleven fat pumpkins yesterday. Most are babies, my favorite kind. Their stems are long and funny looking, giving them each a unique personality. Ethan is surprisingly coming out of his pants excited about Halloween. I say surprisingly because we have never celebrated it before with him-he's never had a costume, never participated in trick or treat or even a harvest festival. And he can't stop talking about it--When's Halloween? When are we going to make my costume? When can we carve my pumpkin? When? When? When? He's getting it from this book, Froggy's Halloween. He reads it over at Nawnie's every time we visit.
He wants to be a jumbo jet or a duck. I'm hoping in the end the duck wins out; I can manage some large yellow duck feet and a bill over trying to figure out how the heck to make him look like a jumbo jet.
Then yesterday he asked me what I wanted to be for Halloween, like it was the most normal--and obvious--question.
I haven't thought about that, since, like, fifteen hundred years ago.
Maybe we'll all be ducks.

It's a good day over here.

Uncles are the best, right up there with airplanes or ice cream.

Nawnies are special too, especially when they wear matching outfits.

Kisses from auntie. (The mohawk is unintentional.)

Our attempt at a family picture. Pretty much captures our life exactly.
This morning I woke up to Noah screaming his red face off, and Ethan telling me, "I WANT MY BREAKFAST FIRST!" (Usually Noah gets preference; he's the loudest.) So I said OK, you can have it first.
I sorta melted out of my bed and somehow made it to the bathroom to pee--at this point in the morning Ethan always asks me, "Are you going poop, or just pee?" to which I always reply, "Just pee." but this morning decided if I don't want to answer this question every morning for the rest of my life I better explain--"I don't usually poop in the morning, honey. It's always just pee."
We'll see if he asks tomorrow.
Anyway, by the time this was all done, and I got Ethan his Cinnamon Toast Crunch and some milk, Noah was sleeping, and I felt like the worst mama ever to let him cry himself to sleep. Don't children who get neglected have serious issues when they are older?
Logically I know this is probably good for him, and for me. But emotionally I feel he is ruined.
Today we are going to the pumpkin patch with Deana and Andrew. I am so excited! I want to put pumpkins everywhere. They have to be one of the cutest things ever invented by God.

Liana, Bad Dog, Friends.

Daelynn and Chuy are here with their lovely, bouncy little girl Liana. She is beautiful, a doll baby. Daelynn is so beautiful as a mama too. My grandparents are so happy when these babies are around.

I got up this morning and let the dogs out to do their thing, and Feibi ran out on the golf course because the wind blew our fence over, leaving a wide hole. She did this yesterday too, two times. This morning I was over it, over her. I went up there with treats and Riley to try and get her back, and she looked at me and then darted off. I left, OK in my heart that she probably would be coyote breakfast meat.
I made coffee and blueberry muffins that filled my house with a sweet, pastry smell. Ethan helped on his stool, licked the bowl.
And then I heard Joey say, " Well look who came back." and that naughty, selfish dog was scratching on my sliding glass door. I almost didn't let her back in, except she looks at you so completely trustingly with those ugly, dark eyes.
Lately we've had lots of visitors, and I must say one of the best things about having a baby is having friends and family come meet them. This is Heather, my best friend growing up. I love seeing her hold my babies.

Good Morning Sunshine.

This morning has been hard. The more attention I give Ethan, the more he wants. I get to the point where the sound of his voice saying, "Mooom!" makes me feel sick to my stomach. Or I don't hear him at all, and Joey has to tell me, "Danae, your son is standing right behind you. He's said your name like five times."
Really?
And my hormones are still messing me up, still making me want to cry when I get on the computer and then Joey comes in and tells me he was still working on something-so get off.
He took Ethan to the battery store, and I feel like I can breath. Feibi is laying in the sun and I can hear Riley take breaths, in and out.
Noah sleeps through all of this, silent, in his crib.
Oh, and my hair? I am at the most horrible growing out stage ever created in the history of hair. Barretts and bobby pins and goo and spray help only a little. I keep telling myself this is the best time to do it; heck, I am in my fat jeans too and everywhere I go the baby is what everyone cares about anyway.
I cannot wait for the day when I feel pretty again.
At least I've got big boobs right now--Ethan calls them "boo boos", as in when Noah is crying, "Mooom! Noah wants your boo boos!"--that's one thing that's going for me.

sleepy, pretty days.

September is beautiful. It's been so warm, it still feels like August, only it cools down at night making a warm bed feel so comforting, and in the morning a cup of coffee hits the spot. I could drink three cups if I let myself.
Last night we went to a BBQ at my dear friend's house. Lots of old friends were there, friends who went through my fun, if not somewhat troubled teen years with. We all have kids now, and it's like watching little mini me's run around. Little Angel, little Luke, little Joey. It's weird, like you are literally watching time pass in front of you.
Then today we went to a BBQ at Joey's parents house. Noah came along in that big, old car seat of his, quiet as a mouse. It's like he's been here all along.
We all walked down to the triangle park near the house and played a game of whiffle ball, something that we do once a summer or so with his family. This time, Ethan actually got to play.
I am so tired I am almost falling asleep as I sit here, typing.

Little wise one.

He's more like a wise, old soul than a baby. Especially after he eats. It's like he just spent hours of solitude in the desert, with God.

I need a bra.

This picture has nothing to do with the post. It's just cute.
It feels soooo amazing to have that kid out--of my pelvis, of my ribs, not smashing all my vital organs anymore. I can breath, I can go longer than twelve minutes without peeing, and my back can straighten. Ahhhhh....
The transition from one kid to two has been smooth, no unexpected bombs here. I've heard the second kid is harder, but that is a heavy load of bs. I don't feel completely disorientated, like I just became a different person (named "mother") like I did with Ethan. All the crazy feedings, all the red face screaming (because the little guy has to burp, duh. Why was that so hard to figure out the first time?) all the alone time gone--is no big deal.
I am enjoying him so much. His little weepy sounds he makes after I nurse him remind me of a tiny, hurt bird. He's so open and vulnerable.
Today we will venture to Target because Khole's and Wal-mart (Wal-mart doesn't carry something! Amazing!) have decided nursing mothers don't matter in this world so they don't carry nursing bras. Hello? This really hit me low. I mean, this is a vital piece of clothing, not like some dumb shirt. For the past week, I have either been going braless (braless!! with huge,wet boobs!) or I completely remove, (i.e. get halfway undressed) my regular bra. Nursing in public is bad enough with the proper attire. Without, it is unbearably embarrassing.
So anyway, I heard Target, bless them, carries nursing bras. I think I might tip the cashier on the way out.

Honeymoon at Home.

These first days with Noah have been so peaceful, a hundred and ten times easier than the first couple of weeks? months? years? with Ethan. Having a baby a second time makes me feel so darn competent. So far, Noah is happy as long as he's fed every two hours (my life is now broken up in two hour intervals; you'd be surprised how hard it is to: feed the baby, get dressed, eat, maybe get one thing done, and then it's time to feed again. Going out of the house? That's a whole different story altogether, especially with a fifteen to twenty minute drive time anywhere one way).
I don't mind getting up in the middle of the night when I hear his loud, desperate cry. The house is so still, and with just the hallway light on outside his bedroom, we sit together and rock and he eats, sucking the milk from my body. He looks up at me with his dark eyes, and I can tell he's starting to know me. Then he has to burp. He seems to do this on his own, but I pat his warm back anyway as I look at his face, which seems to already be changing. By this point, he's usually very sleepy and out of it, occasionally opening his eyes just a bit, and then closing them again as his head flops forward. I can't get enough of it.
When he's happy and fed, his diaper is changed, and he's back in his snuggly, I give him one last squeeze, on last smell of his soft head, and then leave him alone in his crib, happy we'll get to do it all over again in another two hours.
Seriously, I know that all sounds insane, but that's how it is.

Noah Jay's Birthday.

Noah is named after Papa Jay.

A couple of seconds old.


Big brother's first hold. "I think he likes me."

He's out and I am having real coffee. I have been up every other hour or so for the last three nights and I feel fabulous, somehow. Ethan is playing with his trains and Noah is sleeping, grunting every so often. He reminds me of a tiny little wrestler, or a cowboy. He's tough, despite his floppiness, his lack of neck control.
Labor was NOTHING like last time. I went in thinking, Well, if I leave alive, and the baby is alive, that's all I'm asking for. And right now I can't believe how good I feel. I came home yesterday, just a little bit over a day after having him, and was so ecstatic I could clean all the dog pee off my kitchen floor on my hands and knees. I have almost no blood, after two days. I bled after Ethan's birth for six months.
I mean, comparing the two experiences is almost ridiculous they are so different. Ethan almost killed me, Noah made me feel alive.
We got to the hospital at 2 PM, and I kept thinking there is no way they are going to let me stay, I am not even uncomfortable. My contractions are not consistent. I haven't even timed them.
My doctor (bless her, bless her) told them not to send me away, so they admitted me. As the nurse got me all hooked up to the tubes and wires, I kept thinking, we are going to be here for DAYS. I felt like we were sneaking in, like the nurse staff could tell I was a faker but couldn't send me home. One nurse even asked me, "So why are we here today?" (Uhhh, is that a trick question?)
I told her to have a baby in the most confident voice I could muster up and I hoped she believed me.
They gave me Pitocin and I was nervous as hell about what it was going to do, but it really didn't do anything. My contractions got a little harder, but Joey and I were still just sitting around. At 4 PM my doctor came in and broke my water. I was at four centimeters.
That got things rolling.
It was just me and Joey in the room, it was quiet and dark, and I was sitting on the bed, trying to count through my contractions, up to ten, then back down. My eyes were shut, and I felt like I was in so much pain I could not move, let alone tell Joey that things were getting out of hand and that I felt like my back was getting wrenched open with a crow bar could he please stop turning his back on me to get a drink or chew? I wanted his hand on my back constantly, pushing, counter-acting the pressure of Noah descending. But I couldn't say anything except ohhhhhhhhhh, and an occasional quiet f-word.
At five thirty the nurse came back to check me and I was at a seven. This surprised the heck out of me and despite the pain made me extremely happy. I wasn't convinced however, that I was done, or that labor would continue to go quickly. I knew there was no way I could continue in that pain for hours, stuck, like I was with Ethan, so I said, Yes! Yes! Give me something in that little IV bag to take the edge off. So she did, at the peak of two contractions. I watched her push the drug, which looked like water, into my IV.
Soon I felt a little buzzed, which was great, but the contractions were still there. It was like being in two places at once: my head was relaxed and felt great like I was out with friends a year ago, but my body was still in labor, still on that hospital bed. I don't know how long we were there; it felt like fifteen minutes, and then I felt like my body was going to explode.
I was not convinced that it was my baby my body want to explode out of me. I was so scared. I never felt the urge to push with Ethan, despite pushing like hell for two hours. I told Joey, Help me! Help me! I have to push!
I have never been so scared.
Joey got a nurse super quick and when she checked me all I heard was he's right there, you are ready--and then it was madness. All these people in blue scrubs came rushing in and a HUGE light came down from the ceiling, and I had to scoot my butt to the bottom of the bed and there was my doctor, telling me, One push Danae, one push and we'll have a baby.
I, of course, was still in denial. One push? Yeah right. Shove it.
Later I learned Joey was on the phone, telling his mom that we were starting to push, when he literally got sprayed with a burst of amniotic fluid as Noah slipped out, and he hung up on her.
My doctor told me, You are holding back. Push Danae. I decided to trust her, so I pushed hard, right into that ring of fire, and I felt my body open. I pushed one more time, and out he slipped.
And that was it.
He's beautiful too, you know. Perfect. He lays on my chest, all curled up, like a warm bag of flour, his little face like a doll's. He takes deep breaths sometimes that shiver out him with a little, baby sigh. He's so helpless and just lovely.
God is good to me, gracious and so good.

My Little Survivor.

So maybe Noah will come out today, or tomorrow. Am I ready? Yes, in the fact that I don't want to be lugging around this humongous belly any more, I want to fit in my old jeans, I want to feel like myself again instead of like a waddling womb, and I wouldn't mind my hormones coming back down to an appropriate level.
Am I ready emotionally, to take care of this little guy? No.
Am I ready physically, for pain? No.
It was good to get a little perspective today when on Facebook someone mentioned how thankful they were for life, in light of it being 9-11.
If in some miraculous way he actually does make in into the world today, it wouldn't be the first time he has lived up to his name in the sense of him being a survivor: this little guy has been exposed to the craziest things, included, but not limited to:
*A healthy amount of caffeine (and by healthy, I don't mean healthy for him, I mean healthy for me). I didn't give it up this time. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's how I felt in the morning, trying to care for Ethan who wakes up like a bowling ball on fire, shooting down a lane, versus me, who wakes up usually feeling close to being dead.
*A blow to the gut from Ethan's head, with a running head start of a good twenty feet. I fainted soon after, and my abdomen was sore for a week. I'm not sure how Noah felt.
*A car accident
*Relational stress like I have never experienced before.
*A New Year's Eve dose of wine, pre-pregnancy test.
*A ten day dose of antibiotics, which the doctor told me were perfectly safe but when I was reading the tiny print over breakfast on about day four, realized the doctor was full of crap because they actually never test these things on humans at all, just little rats.
*An oozing appendix.
*An hour or so of anesthesia.
*Lots of red 40 because besides not trying to avoid it in food, it was also an ingredient in each of my pre-natals, when I took them.
And to top it off:
*A good few days of Morphine, and then a week of Pitocin.
So this baby is the Lord's. Because as much as I felt like the best mama in the world for Ethan, in terms of health, I feel like the worst for Noah. But Ethan still came out with one ear. I like control, like to think that if I do--or don't do--A, B, and C, then E won't happen. And that's not how life works.
So today my prayer is small, the only thing I can think of when I close my eyes is Lord have mercy and gave me grace, no matter what happens. Hold my baby.

Sept. 8, 2009.

First week of work went well. I am thankful for the schedule and the money. The kids, well, they will have to grow on me. I can't tell you how many times I have said I will never be a teacher, and here I am, lessons plans and all.
The first day one kid pooed his pants. I swear he did it on purpose. Other than that--and feeling like the meanest woman ever on Thursday because by then I think the whole class and me were just plain sick of each other-- the week went surprisingly fast and well. And whoever planned Labor day the second week into school was an absolute genius.
I've noticed the last couple of days the weather is cooler; I don't open the doors anymore in the morning, and hot tea feels better than it has. Today I even ate breakfast with a blanket over my legs.
I am ready for this change.
The balloon races are this weekend and if I don't have a new baby I would like to be there, early in the cold morning with a cup of hot chocolate. I remember a time when Joey and I were dating, or maybe we were brand new married, and we went to the races with my sister. Something about a warm, fleece blanket and hot chocolate, walking in the dark down to the park holding his hand...it's a good memory, one that won't be able to be re-lived for who knows how long, but in a sense that is what makes it so dear.
I am having contractions sparadically (like now). I don't remember having these pre-labor fakies with Ethan. I think I was a different woman when I was pregnant with Ethan. If I remember correctly, there wasn't one bad thing about being pregnant to her.
Now? seriously, you don't want to ask. Ironically, I have gained HALF the amount of weight with Noah as I did with Ethan, yet I feel double or quadrouble the amount of discomfort. I fart without knowing it until it's too late. Sleeping well is a thing of the distant past. My butt probably has a permant toliet ring around it from peeing so much. I waddle, and people I hardly know point this fact out to me. My hormones (yes, I am blaming it on them) have called my husband the most horrible things, right to his face. And finally, I feel like I am lugging around a bumby, hard, six pound boulder that makes standing, sitting, and lying down somehow painful.
So I am on my hands and knees, praying to God I will be two or three centimeters on Friday, so my doctor will induce me.

Waiting,

I start work tomorrow, a fact that a part of me is totally unaware of, and then another part of me is screaming, Thank God, give me something new to think about than all this @%#& in my head.
Ethan is growing up faster and faster everyday. I think for a little while there I thought he would be a baby forever, or at least a toddler, and now here he is putting his underwear, shorts, shirt, and shoes on all by himself. He reads me his stories he has memorized, like The Best Mouse Cookie, and I sit on the couch with my mouth half opened, disbelieving. Seriously? This is how fast it goes? Crap.
And then at the very same time this baby cannot come out soon enough. I was ready for labor at 28 weeks, so mentally this kid is WAY overdue. I totally have pre-post partum going on; if I am alone, I am probably crying. It's lovely.
Today Joey responded to my rude quietness with grace; eventually he just gave me a longer hug than usual and then said to have a good day before he left. I bawled my eyes out as soon as the door shut on his way out.
Then, I fell asleep.
I woke up hungry so I made a plate full of salami, cheese, Wheathins, and big, purple grapes. It looked like something in a Renaissance painting.

Goodnight.

It's late and Joey is working overtime.
I am learning a bazillion million things, one of which is not to hate overtime. That it is an act of love, even though at first it feels like a punch in the gut.
That raising a family is like a climbing a huge, impossible mountain, but that somehow, we make it.
On that note, I can't really believe I am having a baby anytime now. I can't believe that there is a baby in my tummy that is going to cry a whole heck of a lot when he comes out. A person that will need to be bathed and fed and changed and bounced and sung to, even if I feel like I have to barf, or whatever. Right now he's so silent; a mound under my boobs that moves sometimes.
I can't believe I am starting this whole thing over, that I actually consented to another bomb to be dropped on our life about nine months ago. It seemed so far away then, and of course, our life has done a nose dive in the last nine months since then. But God knew it was going to do that. And here we are.
Things are fuzzy now, but they won't be for long. Clarity eventually comes, and so does peace. A way to live with the inevitable, unexpected blows of life. Faith that is stronger, a God that is bigger, and loves me more than I ever knew.

Insomnia.

I did not sleep last night. Not one half hour, not one minute. I DID NOT SLEEP. I watched the outside world get lighter. In the morning Google told me this is a common issue in pregnancy. Seriously? Can this get any more fun?
So right now (it's about five in the evening), I feel pretty much almost dead. My head is pounding and my eyes ache.
How did I miss all this when I was pregnant with Ethan? I felt like Audrey Hepburn with a bubble under my shirt the whole time: pretty, and like I could float anywhere I went.
And then at the craft fair this weekend I had a man ask me how many more minutes I had left till the baby fell out.
So when I got home, I figured it out, so the next time someone asks me such a nice, polite question I will have an answer: fifty thousand four hundred minutes. And thank you for reminding me.
I am taking Ethan to the park to hit the ball and ride his bike. He has been such a trooper with me and all my pregnancy blues. He gives me hugs and is quite happy to watch a movie while I try to sleep. He is so excited to meet Noah, and get his Gordan train which I promised him once he is a big brother.
I am blessed by his love.

Doctor Visit.

Went to the doctor today and she said as far as she can tell this baby is head down. Heck yes he is head down--I could have told her that from all the pressure down there. Yeah, his head is right there, like a small boulder I'm holding with my pelvis all day long.
It's root'en toot'en wonderful, especially when I lie down on my side (so I won't kill the baby due to loss of oxygen or blood or whatever) and it feels like my hips are about ready to collapse. And yes I have a freaken pillow between my legs.
On a brighter note, I feel really good. I love exercising even though I must look completely ridiculous on the elliptical, sweating and totally getting into it with my big belly along for the ride, but I don't care. I am not swollen (yet) and my belly is big, brown and beautiful, without one single stretch mark (don't worry ladies, I make up for this with all the cellulite on my butt and thighs).
Joey came with me to the doctor. He's come the last three times, which means pretty much the world to me, even though we don't talk while we are there. He looks at People and checks his phone, and I put lotion on and eat Tic Tacs. When the doctor, who I have been seeing for a good six months now, calls me "Dana" about ten or twenty times, neither of us say anything. I picture myself cussing her out while I am in labor and she tells me (Dana) that I am doing such a good job. She is really nice and I really don't want to do that.
I plan to tell her my real name next time as we walk to the elevators.
I lean into Joey when the elevator door closes, like it's a private little bubble made just for us for three seconds. I think this act of intimacy works because I know it will be over so quickly, that soon we will have something to do, like walk out of the elevator, and there is minimal awkwardness.

Preschool.

Noah's nursery is coming together; I don't feel like I want to puke every time I walk by it. In fact, it is stinken adorable. I'll post pictures when it is all done.
I've been subbing at Lion and the Lamb, hanging out with all these little three year old people. Tiny people. For the most part they are innocent and open, not afraid to ask if I am pregnant, or if Ethan's ear will change once he's grown up. Their eyes are bright.
Ethan didn't have to spend the whole day in the office but he still has trouble when he has to play in a certain area or with only certain toys (preschool is very structured you know). He melts down. The kids just stare at him like what's his problem? I pick him up and tell him it's going to be OK, that he can play with those toys later. I'm lucky if he doesn't slap my back.
He still likes it, still wants to go, which is the most important thing.