How to Have A Morning

Wake up at 3:00am. Roll first on your right side, then on your left side, then your right side again. Recognize, even in your bleary state that those are lyrics from mewithoutyou. Try to return to sleep. Fail. As the alarm "waca waca's" a beckoning call at 4:30 sit up (it's not graceful, but no one is awake to judge). Realize that your right ear is completely plugged. Shake your head, amazed, that no one told you pregnancy induces deafness. Determine to write a book for all young women after you, explaining the truth about pregnancy. With a sigh, realize this will probably bring the world's population boom to a staggering halt. Can't have that on your head.

In the process of getting ready, realize that you have no clothes that fit, and so determine to rescue a work appropriate outfit from the washing machine. In the dark, forget you put up the gate for Noah, find it with your shins, nearly tumble head first down eighteen stairs into the basement. Express gratitude to your Maker that you and Hannah are not now dead. Hurrah!

Complete the getting ready process, scoop up your sleeping boy, and head out for Nana's house. Stop to get gas. This is not relevant to the process of Having A Morning, but will perhaps seem an ironic reference point in the future. And it's cheap! Woohoo!

Drop off your boy, kiss him and request he behave as best he can. Realize that you rather need to go to the restroom, but determine that getting on the road and getting to work is far more important. It can wait.

Close to the freeway entrance notice that the temperature gauge on your Subaru is reading rather high. Flip the heater on high, and comfort yourself: it always goes down once you get moving. Drive. Watch the gauge climb. Pray. Pray hard. Hear a football commentator in your head: "She's at the yellow... she's at the orange... she's in the red... BREAK DOWN!" Push on the gas and get no response. Crank the wheel with all your might to navigate the sputtering Behemoth off to the shoulder. Smoke will pour out of every crevice in your car. It will smell terrible, and probably give your unborn child cancer. But it's kind of pretty.

Did you mention it's snowing now? Full on blizzard? Can't leave these important details out.

And you still really need to go to the restroom. Just not on the side of the freeway in a blizzard illuminated by the scowling headlights of oncoming mac trucks and your own trusty flashers. ... You can't find the flashers? Well, there's only one thing to do: scream. When no flashers turn on, scream again, just in case they didn't hear you the first time. Whimper.

Call your husband. Put on your calm, wise, optimistic voice. Ask him very kindly what you should do. Smile and nod often; because people can hear a good attitude and a happy demeanor through the phone. (Stop almost crying!) Be very grateful to your Defender that you have a liter of water in the backseat. Listen as your husband instructs you to pop the hood, poor said water into the coolant tank, let the whole thing cool for five minutes, and then try to limp it off the freeway. Pretend you are not utterly terrified by every step in the process he just outlined. Wish him goodbye (hopefully, not forever), climb your nine month pregnant self over the center console to get out on the passenger side so as not to be flattened by early morning traffic, and then remember the hood-popper thing is inside the vehicle. Climb back over the center console, pop the hood, climb again, and stand to face your smokey Suba in the snow.

It is now snowing heavily. And it is cold. And you still need to use the restroom.

Locate coolant tank. Unscrew cap. Do not get sprayed in the face by boiling coolant. Do be very thankful for that point. Empty a liter of water into the tank. Realize it is not enough. Sigh. Climb back over the center console once again, start up the car, pull into traffic, and start praying. Hard. Manage to limp the traitor vehicle to your parking spot across from the train stop. As you stop, ridiculous amounts of smoke will pour out again. And the lights will not turn off. Oh, you can try, try all day if you want, those buggers are staying on.

Notice how haunted your car seems with the snow swirling down around it, smoke billowing from under its hood, the rebellious lights eerily glowing in the night. Suppose that if your car is haunted that would make you the ghost. That can't be right: ghosts don't have to go to the bathroom really badly. Understand that the only other reasonable option is that while owned by you here on earth, this car is the property of the anti-christ in the spiritual realm. Consider a nickname for the demonic Subaru: the anti-christ mobile. No, that's not very catchy. The Beast Wagon! Haha, Beast Wagon. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Walk through the driving snow to your train, climb aboard. Despite the fact that you are pregnant out to here, no one will offer you a seat.

Have contractions.

Put on a face of deep discomfort, even moan a little and hold your belly. No one will offer you a seat. Curse them. Curse them, we hates them! (Turn into gollum in your mind. See yourself shrinking, getting skinny and vile.)

Pray. Pray hard. Pray that your worldly, diabolical self will go up in smoke. Smoke. Haha. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Arrive at work: still deaf, still needing to go to the restroom, smelling of engine and forest fire, still contracting. Wonder what exactly you are going to do at the end of the day (or if you go into labor). The Beast Wagon is parked fifteen minutes away, filled with all manner of demonic intentions. Don't care. Really, don't. "For who of you can add a minute to his life by worrying." Just have some breakfast, drink some cool water, trust in Your King of Glory, and for goodness sake, woman, go use the restroom!

The Dog Park

Initially, we bought an English Bulldog with visions in our head of our lazy, lumpy hound laying idly on the couch all day, only moving to begrudgingly trudge to his food dish. In our naivety, we didn't realize that putting an 'Olde' in front of 'English Bulldog', turns the sluggish pooch into a hyperactive, attention-hungry, hihihihilovemelovemeloveme assault on the senses. We do love him so much, but it has been a learning process. Expectations rarely match reality.

With me being pregnant out to here (envision my arm fully extended away from belly), the husband working, in school full time, and doing clinicals, and a Noah discovering the world is amazing (in a danger around every corner kind of way), Dumpster has been somewhat neglected. I can't wrangle his bulk well enough to make walks safe, so Justin has to steal 10-15 minutes a night to run him around in the back yard. We're trying to make life fair for him (and we continually remind him that other dogs as endearingly offensive as himself have to sleep outside in the cold instead of on a fluffy, warm couch [what's left of our fluffy, warm couch]), but my first born, human child takes precedence.

On Saturday, as a treat, we loaded up the family and took Dumpy to the dog park. We'd never tried this before, so we were somewhat unprepared. Dumpster didn't seem to care. He LOVED it. There were at least 12 other dogs there running around, and he could not get off the leash fast enough to go make friends. This is problem number one with our beloved bully: he thinks everyone in the universe wants to be his best friend, so he just strolls right up and introduces himself. (In the same way that a monster truck strolls up to a sedan in a demolition derby.) Someone had brought a herd of little yorkies, who were incredibly well-behaved. They trotted nobly by their master as he strolled around the perimeter of the park. Until Dumpster went to say hi that is... Just picture a big fuzzy white bowling ball, and a bunch of terrified, yipping, bowling pins.

The other problem with our Dumpy is he thinks he is exactly the same as every other dog. He thinks he is just as big as the Great Dane. He thinks he is just as fast and tireless as the hound. He believes himself to be as well-groomed and well-mannered as the little yorkies. He ran and played more than any over-sized bulldog probably ever has. I would love to see the self-image Dumpy has of himself. I imagine it looks something like this: 

                      

In reality, once we got him home, this is how our bully looked for the rest of the day... and even part of the next day: 

Not to mention the smell. Dumpster had at least ten other dog's drool on him, not to mention his own delightful bouquet. Imagine wet dog, mixed with raw trout, and a touch of a tummy ache. Voila, Ode de Dumpy.

Preparation for Labor

A dear friend loaned me a Lamaze video series when we first got pregnant after she found out I wanted to deliver naturally. I can’t explain this compulsion to needlessly endure pain. Perhaps it was fear of a giant needle being excruciatingly laced under the metalwork in my spine and through inches (which might as well be miles) of scar tissue. Perhaps I liked the idea of being able to lilt and skip about after pushing out what my doctor assured me was a “hunky” baby. The most likely reason (and this says far too much about the kind of person I am) is perhaps I just wanted everyone to gape at how tough I am, to be impressed. I wanted to win. There’s no medal in labor and delivery... But if there was it surely didn’t go to those women who got an epidural at a 3.

Yes, I may just be that stupid at times.

I learned many things from the video classes. I learned the about a high water break versus a gush. I learned the three breathing techniques, which accompanied each phase of labor. I learned about dilation, effacement, focus objects, forceps, C-sections, and a host of other concerning paraphernalia that they don't tell you about until after you're lugging around your precious bundle.

I'm now trying to recall these lessons because, although I am still 23 days away from Baby Hannah's due date, I go to bed each night hopeful that I will awaken in a pool of amniotic fluid (wow, that's quite the eww), and deliver my little 6 pound bundle (yeah right) an hour later. As you may imagine, mornings tend to hold a great deal of disappointment.

I don't remember that much. I remember the breathing patterns still... 'cause yeah, those really work. I remember that they APGAR your baby after birth... so we can be defined first in life by a number instead of a smiley face or frowny face. But mostly I realized that there is no knowing what will be at the hospital, when you first see your child, or for the next twenty-six years. So while prepping is good, the best defense against the insurmountable unknown is a laugh, a love, and an attitude problem.

Thirty Minutes

There is a great deal of whining, and fussing, and otherwise grumping about our house this week. The, for the moment, littlest Ririe is teething and has a nasty little cold. It's difficult to explain what the general unhappiness of a child does to his mother. It's exhausting, heart-breaking, frustrating, utterly grrrsome. Said mother being the size of a walrus with a glandular problem, doesn't help. The husband, realizing that my nerves were shot and my patience was thin, offered to take the Little Sicko, so I could have thirty minutes to myself. I just laughed.

What would I do with thirty selfish minutes? Take an uninterrupted shower? Make something sugary, delicious (and at this point nauseating)? Lay in bed trying to watch old episodes of "What Not to Wear", while my daughter does the marimba against my lungs? None of these seems like as good an option as reading The Monster at the End of this Book for the two hundredth time, or catching my wobbly walker and wiping his belligerent little nose. (FYI: he knows where his nose is now. It's all coming together.)

I worry about being a good mom. I wonder if I'm teaching him enough and the right things at the right times. I question my choice as I drive to work each day. I pray that I am patient enough, firm enough, fun enough. It's hard being imperfect (dreadfully imperfect) when you have another life in your hands.

But it's a little easier... everything is a little easier... when you have a wonderful Little Man.

Can't Help Falling

I was putting Noah down to bed, while Justin was doing homework. He listens to his playlist while working, a most strange conglomeration of heavy metal, punk, worship, and John Denver with a little of everything else sprinkled in. After a hardcore version of O Holy Night, on came Elvis "Can't Help Falling in Love with You." I heard my husband's voice softly singing along, "Like a river flows surely to the sea..."

I have never liked Elvis much. I know in some states this is a hanging offense. But if Justin keeps singing old Elvis songs, I may just move to Graceland and start eating peanut butter and banana.

With our daughter on the way and our son toddling all over the house, it delights me that I am still in love with my husband. Everyone told me the infatuation would wear off, and, no, we don't stay up until 2:00 just to be together anymore. But I still whistle whenever he takes off his shirt (a little harmless sexual harassment never hurt anyone, right?), and I still want to make him cookies every night, fresh out of the oven. Our love has matured, but with so many big-kid, adult decisions ahead, with so many life-changing actions and experiences in our lives, I revel that right now I am somewhat immaturely in love with Justin. I still think he's cute, funny, smart, sexy, strong, and handsome. Daily he reminds me that I am the luckiest girl alive.

In our church, with our family, among friends and colleagues, I feel I have to be so wise. It's nice to hear a voice that makes me shiver and grin remind me that:

"...Only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you."

Saintly Boxers - An Addendum to 'Satan's Panties'

The other day I came home from a long day at work, patted my bulldog on his massive head and set to work preparing dinner. It was on a third pass through the living room that I spotted them: a pair of perfectly innocent, somewhat camouflaged, rather unimposing boxers on the couch. Part of me smiled and thought perhaps there was justice in the universe after all. The rest of me quickly interceded on unfairness' behalf. These unders were dark, blending almost perfectly with the furniture. They were balled up, so if you weren't familiar with my husband's boxers, you could just as easily imagine they were a shirt or towel of some sort (and really, I hope no one out there is that familiar with my husband's underoos). And for a third mark: Boxers are just in general far more respectable than panties. I imagine certain men would have a much harder time taking themselves seriously if they were wearing bright red, lacy, high cut under-riggings beneath their slacks.
...
Oh and strange men weren't walking around our house all day to infer, surmise, and snicker at the naughties upon our sofa!

28

I don't feel twenty-eight. I lived my entire twenty-sixth year thinking I was twenty-seven and then tried to reverse the process for the following year. It didn't go well. I ended up being twenty-seven for two years, and now I'm having a difficult time breaking the habit. But whatever age you are, celebrations must ensue on your birthday, so here's ours.

Breakfast at Mimi's with the husband and Little Man. It was delicious, Noah only threw down all of his toys about 400 times each, and, I am happy to report, I kept it down... all the way until noon. Wahoo.

We took Noah to Farm Country at Thanksgiving Point. He seemed most interested in the goats. The horses scared him, and the chickens were rather concerning. Goats seem safe. (And yes, from the previous post, this is where I cried at a goat. For no particular reason at all. Poor goat: crazy lady crying at him and a baby boy pulling his ears. [It must be difficult to distinguish between a Dumpster, who's ears you can pull, and every other smelly, overweight creature out there.])



And what does an Abi want for her birthday? ...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

To end the day we went into the canyon to cook S'mores with the family. And somehow, although I can't stomach soup, crackers, or water; S'mores are no problem. I'm going to be living on Hersheys and marshmallows until November. Here's Baby Noah with his Grandma and Nana playing in the mountains:

All in all a grand birthday with only a little unsightly vomit. Now to figure out how to be twenty-eight years old...

The Wrecking Ball

At our ultrasound in two weeks we find out whether we are having a boy or a girl. It seems a formality only, to me. I'm 95 percent sure there is a sweet and fiery baby girl tumbling about inside of me. At my last appointment we had a hard time finding a heartbeat. This was not a matter of concern. Every time the doctor placed the ultrasound microphone against my belly, probably she/but maybe he would give it a firm kick. Eventually my OB guessed we were dealing with a girl. This doesn't mean much. He is the OB for my sister-in-law as well, and of the three children we already have, he's striking out on guesses. Noah was supposed to be a girl, and he is decidedly, all boy.

However, the real reason I know we have a wee femme on our hands is because I have become an emotional wrecking ball. I had a few little breakdowns with Noah, a few boohoos and woe-is-me's. But with this baby, it seems a weekly, if not daily occurrence. I walked out of our bedroom the other day, tears pouring in torrents down my face. "What's wrong?" my ever-concerned and ever-sweet husband asked.

"I need a sweater." ...

Justin's eyes flitted nervously back and forth. If he were a man of lesser character he would probably have bit his lip and looked for an escape. "OK," he replied cautiously, as you would speak if you were occupied with trying to diffuse an incendiary device. "So what's the problem?"

I just shrugged. There is no problem. Except that I am insane, swinging like a 100 lb concrete destroyer, ready to shatter anything I come in contact with.

I've cried at my brother, I've cried at my friends, I cried at the cable man, and at a bird. I cried at my dog, and a basil plant, and an umpire. (Poor guy. That must have been a first.) I have even cried at a goat. (Explanation in a future post.) And every one of these is a story that would take too much time to recount.

Mother's Day 2013

I didn't post forever because our Internet was down for a day. Our Internet provider promised it would be one day, but their days must be counted more biblically than everyone elses. 'To DISH Network a day is as a thousand years...' Punks. But I got them back. I called on Saturday when Justin needed to turn in his homework for online classes, and I wept like the mad, pregnant woman I am. There's nothing like having a customer crying on the phone to really turn someone's day cloudy. Perhaps, I was too cruel.

Noah decided to mark my first real mother's day by getting up at 4:15 in the morning, demanding milk, and then wanting to play instead of going back to sleep. The refusal of sleep lasted all day, and he was a joy to be around. He has been sleeping very well, so the sudden turn of events was both unexpected and untimely. All I wanted for mother's day was a nap, which was a request more impossible to fulfill than if I had wished for a Cadillac full of conflict diamonds.

However, Mother's Day night, my sleepy, grouchy boy, my own tired brain, and the week approaching, lost all meaning and matter in the light of the world crashing down. And this is more why I haven't blogged in a month.

Sunday morning my mother told me she had some concerning symptoms the night before. While working in the garden, she had pain in her face and jaw, felt feverish and generally ill. She googled symptoms for the most concerning of potential causes, and it didn't look like a stroke or a heart attack. She taught Sunday School, taught children's church, and was seemingly fine and dandy for the day. That night I got a call that my dad had taken her to insta-care. I still wasn't too worried. Our family frequents insta-care with an annoying amount of regularity, and generally, on holidays. We really ought to make it part of our traditional celebrations. Now dad will read the Christmas story, and now we will all bundle up and drive to Insta-care whereat we will have IVs and cake.

The following morning I got myself together, saw my husband off, fed my son, and lived my usual life. I decided to call my folks to make sure all was well. My dad answered the phone. "I'm going to the hospital, to see your mom," he said. The hospital is not Insta-care. "She had a heart attack."

There had been words after that. They were reassuring, explanatory, tired, and worried. They said she was fine. They explained how they ran a tube from her thigh to her heart, put in a stent. Lots of words. I heard almost none of them. The tears were drowning them out. Tears are so ear-drum shatteringly loud. Part of it was just the shock. My mother takes very good care of herself: she eats well, she goes on her treadmill, she lifts weights (otherwise known as a twenty-two year old handicap daughter). She doesn't look the way she wants, but who of us does. She's never had high blood pressure, or struggled with heart issues. I could formulate a very, very long list of names of persons who I thought would be more likely to have a heart attack than my mom. And my name might appear somewhere on that list.

My mother has always had a sort of agelessness to me, like Galadriel. Somehow you imagine that she has age, but simultaneously she is not old and never seems to approach old. She has always seemed strangely immortal. Not an immortality of power, but just of continuity, as every morning she rises like the sun and feeds her daughter, and does her Bible study without withering or faltering. It doesn't quite make sense that she could have a heart attack. Elves don't.

A week after the heart attack she fell and broke her ankle. Now, she seems like Galadriel caged in a body that does not suit her. As a dancer, I try to have a great deal of respect for the body and mind, how deeply they are connected, and how much our physicality is a part of us. But it doesn't seem a part of her. The woman I know is strong, graceful, and quiet, full of joy and fire. The body is weak, and a little clumsy, with a heavy boot and two extra crutch legs echoing on the concrete. I know she will heal, and she will appear as the beautiful elven lady again. But somehow I imagine she will have aged. Perhaps she will return to her agelessness slightly older, become again immortal further along life's road. Or perhaps I will be able to comprehend her as more human, and maybe that will be good for us. To be alive and dying and patient for our uncaging to be truly immortal again.

Tea Testimony

After a series of very humorous ploys by our loving Savior, I ended up sharing at the Women's Spring Tea. This is what it was sort of like:

"God has been incredibly faithful to me, and His promises have been so real in my life. Often these are very emotional experiences. And being so pregnant as I am, my emotions are neurotic enough. So I decided to share God’s faithfulness in my love story with my husband. Because it’s cuter and funnier and won’t make me weep like a little child.

At the beginning of 2006 I discovered a Youth for Christ summer missions trip to New Zealand. And I fell in love with this idea of serving people, and going on adventures, and pretending to be an elf off in Middle Earth. I became obsessed with New Zealand. All I thought about was going there, and serving God and His people, and following my Captain on His adventure. It was almost literally all I thought about.

Around the same time my-now-husband, but then just an undyingly handsome acquaintance joined Youth for Christ as well, and began planning a yearlong internship in where-else, but New Zealand. And around this time I started falling in love with him, but we are both such outgoing, big talkers (insert ripe sarcasm) that I didn’t dare say a word, and apparently neither did he. But with us both heading off to magical New Zealand, I imagined we must be cosmically connected somehow. Because once every five years I’m allowed to be a little girly.

God was amazingly faithful in helping me raise funds for this trip, and the people in my church were so generous. I started fund raising in February, and by the end of March I had raised $3000 dollars, which was $47 more than I needed. It was like this amazing confirmation that I was in God’s will and on the right path, and He was just going to bless me so much for making this decision.

Not so much.

The first week of April I got an email from YFC that my beloved trip to New Zealand was cancelled. I don’t tend to be dramatic, but let me tell you, I read this email and ran out of the office, tears pouring down my face. I was utterly devastated. I’m going to share what I wrote in my journal that night:

I thought if I read the email again it would change, that my eyes were just playing tricks on me. But reading the email three times more did not change the words on the screen. The dream which had become my obsession, the service I’d given my very heart to, the hope I’d fallen in love with was gone. And there was nothing I could do. You can’t imagine the sense of betrayal I feel, the first time I’d truly given my heart away to something, truly fallen in love, and my dreams are crushed. There is always the burning question, “Why God, why did You let this happen?” Why would God allow me to suffer after I followed His leading as best I could, after I took steps toward what I thought was His will, after I gave of myself to His work? And I had no clue. And I still have no clue.

Because I’m not at all ever dramatic.

But because his trip was just him and a year long, Justin was still planning to skip away to New Zealand for his missions trip. And let me tell you how happy that made me. Not only was I now stuck in Utah for the summer, betrayed by my Creator, it would be a year completely devoid of the man I was quickly losing my heart to. And I felt very sorry for myself.

Around this time I read Romans 8:26-28. I love this chapter of the Bible, and at the time it was so relevant. As my faith was faltering I knew I had an Intercessor, a hope, and a future.

In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.

I clung to this promise throughout the following year. Another New Zealand trip came up for 2007, and I instantly applied. All my funds were already raised so all I had to do was wait. And daydream about Mr. Perfect Justin for hours on end.

I still didn’t know why God would make me wait, and what His plan was, but I felt like I had perhaps grown a little in my faith. Isn’t it a shame that pain is often the best way to teach us. And sometimes the only way I learn.

So Justin returned from New Zealand on July 20^th, 2007 and I left for New Zealand on July 19^th, 2007 and because of the time change we very literally passed each other in the sky. And I snickered at my Lord because He’s just so funny. And I spent a month in New Zealand. It was everything I hoped (except I didn’t turn into an elf, which was disappointing). I served, I grew, I learned, and prayed, and somehow I became less a little girl and more a woman. And I raced go karts down a mountain, which was almost as cool as the fact that Justin got to build a snowman on Mount Doom.

After returning home, and readjusting to non-missions life, Justin asked me out to coffee… like, every night for the next few months. But we weren’t dating… I just have to make that clear. We weren’t dating officially, until December. I asked him since we are both so shy and quiet, why he finally asked me out. He said since I had just come back from New Zealand, and I knew the people he met there, and had seen the places he’d been so recently that he felt like we finally had something to talk about. We had both just come back from this amazing experience, and we had a connection, not something mystical or magical, but something definitely God-ordained.

So maybe that’s why I had to wait for a year. Because my soon-to-be husband needed some reason to ask me out. And New Zealand, if nothing else, is a good excuse for a date."

All Nighter

To deal with my wicked morning sickness I am using a combination of Promethazine at night, Zofran in the morning, anti-nausea preggo drops, and PSI wrist bands. With all of these remedies combined I still feel nauseous most of the time, but thankfully I'm only throwing up about once a day now instead of six times. For some reason I still don't feel like clicking my heels with delight, but I am trying to be grateful for the blessings I have. Like a new growing baby.

The Promethazine causes extreme drowsiness, which is why I take it at night. I tried taking half pills during the day, and ended up drooling into my keyboard for long stretches of the workweek. Last night I forgot to take it. And no sleeping occurred. I was awake as a chihuahua on espresso. Thankfully, (read deeply embittered sarcasm in that word) Dumpster was restless most of the night too. My tossing and turning was accompanied by the grunting and snuffling of a bulldog shaped like the world's largest sausage trying to squeeze himself under our bed. Like trying to stuff a salami in a mail slot. Then he got an itch and scratched himself right up against our bedroom door so it thunked against the wall at machine gun fire tempo. Then he found his bone and tossed it across the room for himself a couple times. And then, I will not share with you the awful noises and smells he made.

The moral of this section of the story is: although bulldog puppies are preeminent amongst God's adorable creations, at some point they grow up, and then, it's like owning a biochemical weapon with a tongue. He is an assault on all the senses.

I am now debating with myself if I should endure some more nausea and stop taking my night drugs or continue on in comatose bliss, less sicky.

It concerns me that I can't sleep without this drug now. And it also frightens me that if I'm so wigged out by it, what the baby might be feeling. Any intelligent comments on this dilemma would be greatly appreciated.

Satan's Panties

This post is based on two basic premises: 1)We don't do laundry that often, and 2) our dog has some severe psychological issues.

Living in America with a vast availability of comparatively expendable wealth and places at which to expend it, Justin and I have enough clothing to take us through at least a week or two without needing to do laundry. I'm sure we could go a good deal longer, but some of the combinations we would have to devise might leave the general public scratching their heads. At the end of every clothing rotation, once I've been through the comfy cottons, the seamless solids, and even the fun prints, are the red undies. Don't you blush for shame; we all have them. They are red and lacy and monstrously uncomfortable. Once intended for sexier purposes, they now merely serve to squeeze one more day out of any already maxed wash cycle.

Dumpster, our special puppy, has this unusual habit of transporting our dirty laundry one article at a time to the living room every night, and making himself a little nest of mom and dad's clothing. His favorite items are dad's socks, mom's unmentionables, and Noah's onesies. It is super annoying.

Friday was a rushed morning. We had someone coming in to clean our air vents, so we were trying to move furniture and pull covers off. In the rush of it, Dumpy snoozed away on the couch, on a small selection of our dirty clothes. I returned home that afternoon, after allowing strangers in my home all day to clean and dis-in-microbial-fect. There spread out across our couch, leaving no room for doubt as to their identity, were my lacy, red panties.

What do you do at that point? I'm sure this is the real reason the British claimed Australia. Every young British maid, whose knickers got left in public view, could run away to a hot desert land, where they would never again have to face polite company. Although I'm sure there are a few deranged kangaroos that probably make a habit of stealing frocks and bloomers to make little beds out of. There is a Dumpy in every bunch. Except maybe this Ririe bunch if he ever does that again.

Bye Bye Oil Can Mania

We used to watch a lot of television. Not that we would sit obsessed with the screen; it would just be on while we did homework, or ate, or let our tired brains dissolve. Now we have a child, who is not only far more entertaining than any show we could watch, but also absorbs time like a sponge. With this bouncing little time muncher and another on the way as well as nursing school, working three jobs, and being worshippers, we've decided to get rid of cable. We have Netflix to satisfy our depravity as needed. Cable is just one giant waste of money. (Or so we say now, but just wait until the Utes season starts, and we don't get any of the games. -shudder-)

There are some things I will miss. Perhaps not with the same nostalgia I hold for my carefree childhood days, but miss in that, "remember-how-we-used-to-have-time-to-watch-THAT?" kind of way.

You know you need a life when you watch American Pickers. Since I assume the very best of all three of my readers, I assume you have no idea what American Pickers is. Allow me to educate you. It's these two Iowa farm boys who travel all over the back roads of the country collecting old junk rusty gold. They meet people who haven't shaved since the signing at Appomattox Courthouse, and they dig through tetanus infested barns looking for motorcycle engines they can blow $42,000 on. It's quite boring, honestly. I wouldn't have ever watched it at all, except, at least once an episode, they say it... Sometimes it's a variation. Sometimes they try to just slip it in. But it is always so worth it...

"This would be a really great piece for someone who collects mid-1930s Fleet-Wing oil cans."

...

...

That's your target market?!?!

Who are these people???

Where did they get $300 to pay for a rusty oil can???

The fact that people with this kind of taste and disposable income exist in this God-forsaken land renders me utterly speechless. And then I die laughing. Oh, I will miss that fifteen seconds of each American Pickers episode. It always makes the other 2805 seconds totally worth it.

This is Frank and his beloved oil cans.

A Proper Tea

I’m not the tea party type. Lace gloves make no sense, tea has never been comforting or satisfying, and I believe sandwiches should not be finger foods, they should be foot longs. Growing up, my favorite color was olive green (the kind found in camo), my favorite pants were two sizes too big, and my single greatest joy was showing up the guys in… everything. Sitting and chatting with the girls over a steaming brew with little dried out biscuits sounded rather like punishment or at least a waste of a Saturday better spent looting, pillaging, or otherwise pirating.

But somehow, the tomboy got herself put in charge of the Ladies Spring Tea at church.

This evening I am off to purchase lace doilies, fake crystal bowls, and bright table clothes. I will spend some night soon figuring out how to make tissue paper flowers. (God help me.) Cute little scentsy door prizes need to be acquired soon as well. I will decorate with flowers and ribbons and glitter. I will set plates with little tarts, adorable cookies, and bite size cucumber sandwiches. I will play Celtic stringed hymns in the background with little bunny slides flashing on the power point screens.

And a little part of me will die inside.

Only to be reanimated Friday evening as I kick dirt, swing a bat, masticate unsightly amounts of Big League Chew, and throw like anything but a girl.

Because God made me a woman, and then He made me an athlete.

Catch Up

Since I wasn't blogging for awhile, allow me to catch you up:

For his eight month birthday Noah decided to have a cage pillow pen wrestling smackdown brawl with all his fluffy friends. The aftermath:

 

The sad thing is, even though he was wrestling inanimate objects, I'm not sure who ended up winning.

Whilest I was not blogging several other things of note occurred:

• Justin got his second 4.0 in nursing school. Am so very proud.
• I threw up... lots.
• We saw our first ultrasound of new baby Ririe.
• I threw up some more.
• I took on the Ladies Spring Tea at our church.
• I had 8 migraines, which caused me to throw up.
• Noah progressed to army crawling faster than the Flash can run.
• And I threw up.

10 pounds later, I am still blessing my God for working miracles in our lives. There's just much less of me to worship Him.



Announcement

I am aware that it has been nearly an eternity since I have blogged. It is difficult to write about anything else when there's a quite large something on your mind that you aren't allowed to blog about. However, the secret is out, so I can once again, merrily tap-tap-tappity on the keys.

There I stood at home plate staring down a pitcher, who I can only imagine had my utter destruction in mind. He'd already thrown a nasty twelve foot arc that only by grace was called a ball. I'm sure he was quite secure in his belief that before him stood another little girl, a bunting pansy, a softball wall flower. Poor lad couldn't have known that before him stood an Abi. A real Abi, the kind they don't make every day of the week, the kind they watch because she has no good in mind.

I glared. It's a bad habit. There's some wickedness in my subconscious that demands in the midst of battle I glower like a Greek in the face of the Persians. I'm sure it is no where near as terrifying as the picture in my mind. In my mind this is the glare that sent a thousand ships back the way they came, tails set firmly between their legs. In reality, Justin snickers every time he sees it and tells me how adorable it is. But I persist never-the-less, and glare I did with intense ferocity at said unsuspecting pitcher.

He let the ball fly, I swung the bat, and from the recesses of my primitivity came a grunt that would put Sharapova or Williams to shame. And that ball went. Far.

After I easily hit first, I turned to my brother-in-law and begged him for a pinch runner. He got the ump's attention, but kept throwing me strange glances. There was some atrocious to-do about getting me a runner, and in the end I don't imagine the rules were followed by said ump. Finally, my husband stepped in and defended my honor: "Give her a break! She's Pregnant!"

Well, that wasn't subtle. Nor conducive to game winning. As half our bench scraped their jaw out of the dirt, confusion ensued. It was a clever way to announce it, but I imagine the inning might not have ended on the next play if we weren't all so flummoxed.

So yes, I'm pregnant. And wishing I were dead. While quite amazing at hitting softballs, Abi's are not very good at being pregnant.

I'm sure amidst the first pregnancy as Eve held her swimming head over a hole and wretched up every good, bad, knowledgeable, and stupid fruit she had ever eaten, Adam (annoyed his own self at having to pull weeds all day) commented, "Well, that's what you get, Miss 'I-gotta-try-that'." And she promptly kicked him in his sheep-skin covered jewels, just to be sure she would not have to endure this havoc again any time soon.

Sister-in-law

I'm very shy. This may come as a shock to those who only read my blog. But it's true: take away my keyboard or my pen and paper, and suddenly I'm utterly, socially awkward. I don't know how to carry on conversations, and I am not terribly good at being friendly. Throughout my middle school / young adult life I was told that being quiet is a fault. No, being unable to experience reality in the way you want because you cannot engage people in dialogue is a fault. Being quiet is a rare gift. Those two things are very different.

The point is this: I'm rather fond of my sister-in-law. She probably doesn't know it, but I think she is sweet, and fun, and very bright. If I were capable of making friends, I think I would try to make friends with her.

And this is why. This appeared on her facebook page last week:

"Not much makes me more upset than being told I'm a grumpy pregnant lady. Maybe, just maybe, I'm grumpy because you're a Weiner, and I just so happen to be pregnant at the same time?"

 

Brilliant.

Spring Rain

The drought has ended. The spring rain of baseballs has returned to soak our dry and weary land with their precious entertainment-giving flood.

The end of college bowl games to opening night of the MLB season is the sports dead zone. Absolutely nothing of interest to decent sort of folk. I've heard rumors of something called March Madness. The only madness is that this kind of basketball-ish behavior can persist for an entire month. Just play a final and end it. I know the NBA is playing. But in terms of real sports, nothing what-so-ever of interest.

(If you are a basketball fan, you must understand I never had a chance. At the tender young age when wee lasses are so impressionable [which I recognize is almost every age] I hugged my friend dearly as she sobbed in her little golden tutu. Her daddy decided to go to watch the Utah Jazz in the NBA finals instead of coming to see his baby girl dance in her ballet recital. I immediately concluded that any sport which could cause human beings to be so callous to their own little princesses could not have any value to the human race. I now know that people go to football games instead of their son's little league games, I know they flock to the stands of baseball games as young tuba players look expectantly to the audience hoping mommy might come. But basketball suffers one further blow to it's morality: it has LeBron James and Kobe Bryant. With such upstanding individuals as the stars of a culture, I don't understand how anyone who attends a basketball game can really stand to look at themselves in the mirror the next day.) Cause I'm not dramatic at all.

But the drought has ended. And with what a glorious rain: Boston leading the AL East with 5 and 2! What brilliant hope! Noah is thrilled too as you can see.

In My Defense

At the end of a non-majors creative process class I taught one student wrote in his paper that he couldn't understand why anyone would ever study dance at a university. He was a chemistry major. A nice proper profession. I wrote out a brief defense of my decision, the field, and aesthetics in general on the back of his paper. He never came to pick it up. In the off chance that a chemistry major I knew two years ago for the span of a semester would ever stumble upon the blog of a dancing, Christian mom, who looks vaguely familiar, I now present my case.

The chemistry major, the aspiring scientist, the undergraduate physicist, enters the lab with the goal of conducting experiments. They learn how to make rational science happen. However, the goal of this practice is not truly to follow scientific method and prove a hypothesis. The undergraduate student does not produce original research. They recreate the experimental process of their predecessors. Success is not determined by the actuality of the results proven, but whether those results match previous endeavors. You can know if you have made a mistake. You can know how it should all turn out. As far as I understand it, the undergraduate scientist does not have to think, they have to replicate and regurgitate. I don't begrudge them this bliss. It is not a dangerous road.

The first day I entered the modern dance department as a Sophomore in the program, I had to create three movement phrases and manipulate them into a short work. These works we then combined with other students to make more complex pieces. The first day I was a dance student I fashioned something the world had never seen before. Original research, at 19 years old! It wasn't brilliant; it won't appear in experimental theatres along the dark alleys of New York, but it was new. And it mattered.

There are those who believe art is unnecessary, that we cannot live without experimental pharmacology, but could endure the millennia quite happily without Poe, Forsythe, and Cage. I propose quite the opposite. At this point, the young scientist can make no contribution to the field that will in any way prolong our lives. How could he/she when original research doesn't really occur until masters or even doctorate work? Even the most accomplished physicist, the leading minds of our time, our Hawking, our Haroche, our Gurdon and Yamanaka cannot cure us of our mortality. We all still die.

When I first read Bukowski, I flew. When I first moved with Koester and Handman in ways I had never imagined, I thought perhaps I understood immortality. Yet, it was when I first created, fashioned and sweated, built and devastated, when I took that thing from nothingness into fullness, that I transcended. I locked eyes with my God and understood a small breath of what it must be to fashion a gazelle and watch it run, to carve a waterfall and feed a valley, to mold a child and hear "I love You" from her lips. Science continually reminds us that we are dying. Art has a far better chance of making us immortal.

Ellen Dissanayake is credited as redefining art as "making special". Art takes the everyday, the ordinary, the plain, and makes it special, a little more alive, a little more lovely. If this is the case, I choose a short life without penicillin, I choose a minute reality without genetic engineering, I choose a brief flicker on this planet free from mechanical lungs, spinal rods, and slicing needles, if it be a flicker more beautiful. Of course I don't have to (and haven't) lived without science. But I don't have to (and haven't) and won't live without art.

Screaming in the Night

Three nights ago, I woke up to Noah fussing. I waited for him to get it out of his system, flip to his other side, and let the sleepies steal him back to a land where I assume he dreams of bananas monkeys. No theft to dreamland occurred. He kept right on crying. With a sigh I threw my legs out of bed, padded into his room, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. I gave him a pacifier and pulled his head out of the corner of the crib. He was still a mite bit unhappy, but I had to go to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door I heard it. It was the kind of screaming we usually associate with some combination of zombies and apocalypse. It was the kind of screaming that means needles, and death, and turnips are only moments away, their sharp pincers snapping. And it would.not.stop.

I scooped up my Little Man. Screaming. I stroked his head and bounced. Screaming. I sang, pleaded, prayed, tried the paci, tried his monkey friend, tried changing his diaper. Screaming. At this point Justin came in and asked, "What on Earth is wrong?" The side of me so consciously aware of the fact that it was after midnight spat, "Well, if I knew I wouldn't be holding a shrieking little banshee at 2:00am." The side of me that actually speaks and loves him so completely cried, "I don't know!"

Allow me to share the ridiculousness of my own mind in the seconds that followed:
   He's never screamed like this before, ever. Something is really wrong.
   He's ok. Babies cry.
   Not like this. Hormonal pregnant women being tortured with cruel implements don't cry like this.
   What if I have to take him to the ER?
   What if they find something wrong?
   What if they don't, and think I'm a bad mother?
   What if they take one look at my over-sized Bradley Hathaway t-shirt and Yellowstone      Huckleberry shorts and won't even let us in the hospital?

About this point, Justin had put Little Man in his car seat and was swinging him back and forth. In a few minutes he was calm enough to stop crying. A couple minutes after that he went back to sleep. He survived until morning, and lived a semi-happy day. . . And no one had to see my Huckleberry shorts.

And Justin once again proved that I married up.

FYI: it's teeth. He's cutting teeth on the top and just wants to be sure everyone in the valley knows how miserably unfair it is.

Noah's first Easter

I love Easter week. When I was little it heralded Easter baskets filled with candy, beautiful dresses and curly hair, singing at church, dyeing eggs, and Easter egg hunts. Easter was a day where it seemed like everyone felt a little more special, looked a little nicer, smiled a bit more. I hope Easter means all these things for Noah (well, maybe not the curly hair and dresses). I imagine we will spend hours together coloring eggs with blue fingers, tromping through the grass searching out chocolate-filled delights, and dressing up special in a wee suit and tie. He'll get an Easter bunny and just snuggle it to pieces. He'll get a basket and giggle with delight. But I hope as he grows, he will realize just why we can have such joy on Easter morning, that in the near memory of our laughter, our singing, and our ever-present hope is the bitterness of Good Friday.

As a little girl I knew why we had Easter. I knew the story of the Last Supper, the garden, and the trial. My little heart had cried when I heard how they beat Him, how they cursed Him, how He hung and died for my sins. With childlike faith I knew the story, and I thanked my Jesus. Yet, I feel it is only with age, as we begin to understand the bitterness of mortality, the hurt of life, and the true extent of our own darkness, that the Goodness of Friday becomes real. As Friday becomes all the more painful, Sunday becomes all the more miraculous.

I was happy on Easter as a child. I long for Noah to find that same happiness. Now, on Easter, my joy is inexplicable. I still love Easter egg hunts and dressing up with curly hair. So much more, now, I love that my Savior lives. What hope! What life! What jubiliation to know the story, and to know it is true! It isn't that I want my baby growing up too fast. He's doing that fine on his own. But I do hope that as childish happiness fades, true joy will be revealed in his heart. That he will find Easter his hope, his chance to face his living God and worship with a heart that knows what a costly price was paid, and what a victorious Savior we love.

Come on!

Sometimes it is the simpliest commands that are nearly impossible to follow. In the dark forests of my sin nature, the Mirkwood of all my nastiness, anger, and spite, stands the Dol Guldur of the enemy's stronghold: Impatience. (If you have never seen The Lord of the Rings I really can't imagine what we have to talk about.)

I am neurotically obsessed with the clock. If I went to one of those blessed contries where time is a suggestion and meetings occur when everyone arrives, I would probably turn into the Incredible Abi-Hulk. Off I would rampage into the jungle to uproot trees and clock myself in the head with stone mountains. It appeared most viciously in class. Anything the professor said after the class had ended according to the clock was really just wasted breath. As they rattled on I would begin to fume, my skin would bubble with glowing gamma-ray muscles and my eyes would flame green. It didn't matter if I was desperately interested in the topic or debate, or if it was life-shatteringly important to the rotation of the cosmos. If the clock was violated, darkness ensued.

It seems ridiculous, but this is the battleground of my spirit. Impatience is not loving. Impatience does not seek the best for another. It is self-serving, anger-enducing, and mind-numbing. I have appealed to my Captain on multiple accounts to help me deal with this vice. However, the problem is, when you ask the Lord for patience, He doesn't just zap you with His sparkly patience wand. He gives you situations in which patience can grow... The very same situations in which I go all Hulky. I am almost loathe to ask for patience now. Almost. There is still enough of me that loves my God to wait for my patience.

I am constantly trying to understand what I am really saying when I tap my foot at someone, when I check my watch, when I feels my skin start to bubble in irritation. Truth is reality from God's perspective. The truth is: Impatience declares human beings less important than time.

The "love" chapter in Corinthians 13 starts the very definition of love with patience. And so I wait on Him to make me new.

Don't talk to me

Because I know I haven't blogged in two weeks, but am too tired to think of anything. I made this list in the throes of pregnancy.

The top five things a pregnant woman doesn't want to hear:

1. "I didn't have any morning sickness at all. I just love being pregnant."
     Really, good for you; I spent the first five months thinking I might just throw up my own toes.

2. "You're glowing!"
     Are you telling me this sucker is nuclear?

3. "The day before I went into labor I taught a pilates class, and took kung fu, and ran a marathon, and won an academy award."
     Well, good for you; the day before I went into labor I ate a plate of nachos and took a nap.

4. "I delivered the baby at home in the bathtub."
     Umm... no. I want legalized opiates readily available. And I'd like to take a bath again sometime... ever.

5. "Can I touch your belly?"
     ... There's just too many retorts available for this one. I can't pick my favorite.

Bullseye

So when Abi is up to bat this coming softball season, perhaps a new jersey design is in order; something more like this:

We had our first practice of the season Sunday afternoon. In the ear-freezing breezes my father-in-law pitched softballs to us in turn. The very first pitch he sailed gently, leaf-on-the-wind style in my direction. I crushed it, probably flattening one side of the ball from the blow. Or maybe it was the contact with my father-in-law's shin that dented the ball. A second pitch came flying. This one seemed nye on determined to obliterate the pitcher's second shin. Once is a fluke, twice is bad luck. It couldn't happen three times.

Of course it couldn't. Because my father-in-law still has some strain of gazelle-like agility that barely skittered him out of the way of my third swing, which was headed straight for that knee of his, which needs replacing.

And it doesn't matter how much you swear up and down that you didn't mean it, after three bone shattering hits a man starts to get nervous. The poor man will probably jump every time I open a bag of chips at a barbeque now.

I really didn't mean to. Which you can tell the five inch red and blue welt on his tibia.

Sweets and sit-ups

In order to maintain my Pilates certification I have to take continuing education credits and not eat cookies. (It's in the requirements: "Trainee will pay us a lot of money, work out until her belly throws up its hands in surrender [or just throws up], and not eat cookies... Until the day she dies"). This month the trainings were "Ring Around the World" and "Small Ball Magic". ... I know you're all thinking it, but this is a family blog. Shame on you!

What the trainings should have been called and are referred to as by the goblins of fitness are "Beater" and "Biter".

After six hours of Pilates focusing on hamstrings, core strength, scapular stabilization, and mental overload, the mind encased and nurtured in said beaten and bitten body, starts to waver in its stalwart conviction that life as we know it should go on. It starts to not care that the fingers it is moving just ended that last sentence with a preposition. It starts to wonder if controlling lung expansion and contraction is really as necessary a function as hanging the mouth open and letting drool trickle out. The mind starts to mistrust a body that is so maliciously inclined that it would take a metal ring, stuff it between its own ankles and do 800 variations of Teaser followed up with a Jackknife chaser. Then it says "Ow" and whimpers... and picks up its child because six hours of abdominal curls later, it's still a mommy.

 TeaserJackknife

Justin and Little Man picked me up after the Inquisition. I noticed a plastic container in the cup holder, but didn't think much of it. The husband usually has some form of coffee within arms reach at all times. Just in case the worst should happen. A few minutes into the drive he said, "We stopped at the SweetTooth Fairy. You can help yourself." It was a plastic cup of cake bites.

Oh, I'm going to go to the special Pilates hell.

Splish Splash

Oh yeah, I have a blog to keep up. In all the come-on-really's and you-can't-be-serious's of this McEnroe life I forgot.

Curse that rubber ducky.

Bathtime was simple in the beginning. Fill Noah's adorable little tub with water; make sure the space heater is going; fill Noah's adorable little tub with adorable little Noah. We washed his little self; he giggled because apparently the washrag tickles. (The poor Little Man seems to have acquired his mother's ticklishness. He is doomed to years of daddy's tickling torment. Sorry Baby Bud.) We would rinse off, wrap Little Man in a towel, and be on our way to oh-my-yummy baby lotion smells. Sweet and simple.

Then came the dark times. Then came the ducky. He has four of them at our house, and another one at Nana's. One has arm wing floaties and goggles, one is white with baseball stripes, one is a pirate duck, and the other is a plain yellow ducky that screams HOT at you if the bath water is anything over 34 degrees Farenheit. There isn't one particular duck that causes my troubles. They are all weapons of splash destruction in my baby's hands.

Noah's been playing with trying to eat ducks in the bathtub for quite awhile now. Last night as I scrubbed his little back, he lunged forward for the goggle duck. He missed and his hands splash down into the tub causing a wee gyser gushing back up. It was a horrifying moment . I could see the light click on in his brain. He grinned and slapped both hands down again. A few drops spattered mommy. Within ten seconds he was kicking both feet up and splashing his hands down, and I was soaked from my knees to my neck. He squealed with delight. I desperately thought maybe he was just trying to get the duck. As I handed it to him, he shoved it out of his way and plunged his hands down again.

The damage: Mommy's shirt and pants, the corner of his bath towel, and a five foot square area of the kitchen floor and countertops. Thankfully, he missed the coffee maker. But only just barely. Maybe it's time we transition to the Little Man bath tub in the big boy bath tub. I don't really have that many outfits to splash through, unless I'm going to wear my bathing suit every time I bath my son... And right now, no one wants that.

Sick Boy

My Little Man is not feeling well. It's a mortal sickness, meaning I assume it's going to kill me. We're not sure exactly what's wrong or if it is a combination of ailments making him so grumpy. Usually he's a trooper, a smiling, giggling tough guy, even in the throes of illness. It could be those terrible teeth trying to break through on top. However, if so, I am begging: just sprout already and be done with it! It could be the tail end of a cold that seems determined to keep its clutches on both mom and child. It could be a wicked diaper rash, that I'm sure is like sitting in rose bushes. Or it could be some phantom source of un-shininess. Babies really should come with instruction manuals, or troubleshooting guides.

Whatever it is, Noah's appetite doesn't seem to be suffering any. Last night, I quadrupled his usual cereal intake with a blended fruit and milk chaser. We were following the Babywise book for awhile to get him sleeping through the night. At this point he should be down to about four feedings. Yesterday he had seven. Noah is not very baby wise. Never has been. (We'll discuss Baby Wise in posts to come.) And the kid has expensive taste. Grandma got him some of those Gerber pouches of blended fruits and veggies. He devoured one a half of them in one day. Those things are not cheap! You're killing me grandma!

Justin suggested that perhaps he is eating so much because he feels extra cool sitting in his new highchair. Let's hope this is the case because mommy cannot keep up with the Little Vacuum that Could.

Pennies and Gold

Our pastor spoke this morning about Mary's offering to Christ from John chapter 12. It was lavish, emotional, spontaneous, and extravagant. It was a year's salary poured out on the Priceless, the One with whom she was endlessly in love.

This made me think of the widow's offering in Luke 21. She gave two copper coins as the rich poured out their treasures in part. The point is, she gave all she had. She gave everything for the Priceless who she endlessly loved.

I wonder as a worshipper if sometimes we offer a widow's mite and leave the jar of costly perfume sitting on the shelf. Do we give pennies out of the blessings lavished on us? Would we stoop to wipe the feet of the King with the locks of our hair, would we give that of utmost value for the One with whom we are in love?

I've been on praise and worship teams for many years. I've been among christians for many more. Often, I hear how little we have to offer, and often I hear that what we sound like, what we give does not matter. And yes, our Savior wants our heart, but He also wants our all. If we are capable of singing like angels, if we are able to play strings like David, if we are able to put in another hour, be there with Him for another moment, able to put off our thoughts and words for His presence, why wouldn't we? Why wouldn't we meet Him with the utmost of our ability, He who fought so valiantly to win our hearts? What keeps us from really worshipping at every available moment, be it practice, performance, solitude or multitudes?

I sometimes wonder what choices we would make if we knew Chris Tomlin, Robin Mark, or Jeremy Camp was going to come and lead worship at our church for one Sunday. When would we arrive, how would we dress, how would we practice, what attitude, patience, and submission would we display? But doesn't the King of Glory, our Savior, the Holy One meet us each Sunday for corporate worship? What do we bring to this engagement? Do we bring a widow's mite when we have the wages of years to offer up?

Discipline the Parent

I thought when I had a child of my own, when I knew experientially how difficult it is to discipline, to be consistent, to be loving and just in the same breath, that I would have more compassion on badly behaving parents. I recognize that my little one is only six months and the greatest challenges are yet ahead of us. I understand that he is just now beginning the exploration of his sin nature and there are many hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed, pursed lip moments to come. But I thought I would have empathy.

I do not have more compassion. I have less. I have been tired, exhausted, on the verge of a coma, and you still have to be a parent. I have been frustrated, tearing my hair out, wanting to scream grumpy, and you still have to be the bigger person. The phone is not going to raise your child. And it isn't going to save you from having that responsibility.

Ok, I'm climbing down off my soapbox. This is why I shouldn't start composing blogs in my head in the middle of Wal-Mart.

Curiouser and curiouser

What a wiggle worm! I wish you could see my Little Man right now. He's laying on the edge of a large blanket surrounded by toys. The toys are serving not so much as amusement, but as speed bumps while he log rolls and wriggles across the nursery. I've twice already scooted him back onto the blanket, and twice he's almost collided with his swing. He is currently trying to assess the peculiar anatomy of a one-sided duck whose bottom half rattles like a snake... While trying to traverse, fittingly enough, a giant fuzzy snake blocking him on his blanket. And of course we are listening to Celtic Women. Not sure how that is related, but it seemed a useful note as long as we are setting the scene.

Little Man Noah cannot get enough information about the strange and marvelous world around him. If you ever find this world in the least bit dull, scoop up a six month old. I never before noticed how engaging my own socks are.

The trouble is, after a few seconds examination, a good slobbering on, and a swift thunk against the ol' noggin, Noah is convinced he knows everything about an object. And he wants another object to perfectly understand. He wiggles from discovery to discovery as if he were a cheetah cub in a world of mini gazelles.

Although as I say this he has been obsessed with the duck for the entire space of this post. And on his tummy even. Perhaps we have found the great riddle to occupy his ever-growing mind for a long enough period for mommy to finish half a thought... Nope, now he's trying to eat an airplane. Sigh.

Six Months

My six month old Little Man is napping in his crib. He won't nap in your arms, doesn't like being held like a little baby, and log rolls out of snuggles first thing on a Saturday morning. Despite this resistance to being held like an infant, he is incredibly affectionate. He'll grab your face with both hands and pull you close to him. When he's sleepy, he'll throw an arm around your neck and bury his face in your shoulder. During playtime he wants kisses, and zurberts, and tickles galore. As long as you remember that he is a whole six months now, and not a baby anymore.

Oh my Little Man. You are forevermore my baby. When you take your first steps, I will beam with pride and bite my lip with nerves. When you go off to school, I will smile and wave with joy and fight back tears. When you have your first heartbreak, I will sing Dashboard songs for you. When you pick a career, find a job, a wife, have little ones of your own, I will laugh, love, help, guide, and try not to meddle.

And I will pray and worship.

I will worship because you are of infinite worth. Regardless of the choices you make or the paths you tread, the fact that you are made in the image of our Captain makes you endlessly valuable. On every journey you will carry the marks of our Maker. In every dark place you will have the opportunity to share in the Light. I will love you because you are mine, a blessing and a gift. I will love you, and by loving I will worship.

And I will pray. Because though you are forever my baby, the object of my motherly affection, a human being of incredible worth regardless of how you choose to live, I know you have free will. I will pray that you grow to be a man like your father and even more a man like your Father. I will pray that you live fearlessly and in the fear of the One who most loves you. I will pray that you are brave, truthful, and strong in a world of cowardice, lies, and weakness. Above all, I pray that you will know Him who is unknowable. That you will meet the God of the Ages in this brief moment of your life.

And I will pray that somehow I can be part of this amazing adventure on which you are headed. That somehow I can show you the best way to live in our humanity, and the best way to live for eternity.

Happy six month birthday my Little Man. You may think you are all grown up, but we both still have a lot of growing up to do.

My Motley Crew

For day five of my Seven Days of Valentine's the Husband got me my very own pirate crew!

They are the very best sorts of pirates: rough to look at, but all sweets inside. I swear the man is fattening me up like Gretel, to have an Abi sandwich. We are basically living in a candy house.

And on that note: don't go see Hansel & Gretel. Terrible waste of money. And we went for free!

Seven Days of Valentines

Thursday afternoon I sat rather unsuspecting in my half demolished cubicle, resting my work computer on my lap and balancing a box of Lean Cuisine Sweet n Sour chicken in my one free hand. (Wow, there is nothing I'm proud of in that last sentence... except maybe my incredible sense of balance. Proprioception to the rescue!) Our office door squeaked open and a voice that probably belongs on a crabbing boat in the Bering Sea asked if there was an Abi Ririe here. 'No, Abi Ririe is off looting with pirates somewhere in the warm Caribbean. This husk typing numbers into Excel cells is merely a place holder.'

Mr. Gruff Voice then handed me a box and asked me to sign for it. Suddenly, Abi caught the first flight back from the Caribbean to reality land, confused and somewhat surprised that she would receive a package on a day so random as a Thursday. The box was from Pro-Flowers. For a brief moment I had a sinking feeling. The husband has been so busy, and stressed, and sick, and tired, and sick. Maybe he just forgot what day Valentine's is? The poor guy really needs a few weeks in Fiji.

Opening the box I was greeted with a beautiful, heart-covered vase, gorgeous fresh tulips and Irises, and a box of chocolate truffles. My cheeks all aflush and a smile threatening to tear me in two I pulled out the card. "The start of seven days of Valentine's!!!! -Jnoster". The other women in the office gravitated to my desk and oohed and awed with sufficient joy and envy. Several of the guys walked past with a sneer that said they were still recovering from the mistakes of Valentine's past. I was elated. I probably smiled to the point that my face might have stuck that way in the cold.

"Who's 'Jnoster'?" one coworker asked. I replied that I had no idea. I was 99 percent sure it was some nickname from the Husband that I should understand. The lingering 1 percent was terrified that I might be getting seven days of Valentine's from a secret (creepy) admirer. About 30 minutes later I realized it was all my boys names combined like a short-lived celebrity couple. Adorable.

I thanked the Husband profusely when I got home. He'd asked if I'd ever seen that Simpsons episode. Not for the last time I looked at him deeply confused. So yes, he got the idea from the Simpsons, but I don't care because I feel so special and loved and sick on chocolate. He's amazing. More than I could ever deserve.

So if anyone has a great idea for Valentines gifts for a guy, who is absolutely remarkable and wonderful, please let me know. I've only got two days left to figure something out.

SnowBall

This weekend the husband and I played in a SnowBall Tournament. For those of you who have never heard of a snowball tournament, allow me to explain. First move to Utah, make sure it is early February so that there is an 80 percent chance of snow ready to come blizzarding down on 2 feet of permafrost. Allow the sun to appear just long enough to melt the top two inches of solid infield and turn it into a mud-wrestling ring. Then bring on the snow. Once the feeling has completely left your hands, pick up a solid metal bat coated in semi-frozen mud. Request that a man who looks like he subs for tugboats in rough harbors lob a softball at you. He will do so after he dances around like he's got ants in his underoos for half a minute. Contact said ball with said bat. Listen to the joyous sounds of every bone in your hand shattering into a million pieces, whilst feeling the ringing slither up your arm muscles into your teeth. Run to first base. Correction: Slog toward first base, get stuck, slide, watch your life flash before your eyes. Make it. Hurrah!

I was going to begin this post with some comment on how SnowBall is the ultimate in male ideology, how testosterone and cold weather don't mix, how male blood flow to male brains must be hampered by the onslaught of February.

But there I stood out in the middle of the field with the rest of the dinks. So really I have no room to talk.

And really, is there anything he doesn't make look good? Up to our knees in mud, wearing eight layers of mismatched pajamas, so cold our eyes are watering, tummies rumbling without breakfast, and he looks like a Greek god.

Whereas I have an enormous eight-layer Nacho Libre wedgie.

The Cup Game

We used to have animal planet and no children. I watched a lot of gazelles being eaten by lions, super fishermen using themselves as pirannah bait, and stupid pet tricks. In some ways I feel my son has saved me from a mind-numbed fate. There was one show called "It's Me or the Dog" with a British dog trainer named Victoria. Victoria could take an untrained junkyard dog with neurological issues and have him sipping tea from a porcelain cup and peeing in the toilet... with the door closed... and washing his paws with little rose shaped soaps when he was done.

Victoria never met Dumpster.

Dumpster is an Olde English Bulldog, and a living testament to his name. He reminds everyone who meets him that once his kind was used to herd bulls, primarily by latching onto their throats and dragging them into a pen with a righteously indignant 'Woof'. He is a purebred, but we can't breed him. We took care of that a few years ago in hopes that he would mellow out enough to stop eating our apartment like it was made out of ginerbread and peanut butter. A tally of what this dog has consumed would include: two couches, three dining room chairs, several feet of drywall, three choclate chip cookies, a string of Christmas lights, inumerable shoes, and about 18 remote controls. Honestly, it is like the remote control graveyard in our basement. If Dumpy barks too close to the TV, the channel changes.

Dumpster weighs approximately 80 pounds, 90% of which is centered in his shoulders and head, giving him a battering ram look. If the orcs broke Grond trying to smash down the doors of Minas Tirith, Dumpster would be a good substitute. And then, once inside he would lick all the Gondorian soldiers to death. Despite his ferociousness toward remotes, he really is nothing but a big sweetheart. BIG sweetheart. With claws that he can't seem to control.

There was a bully on "It's me or the dog" who was similarly sized to Dumpster and played very rough. Victoria suggested a new kind of play for this dog that discouraged tugging, jumping, and maiming. She called it the cup game. The idea is, you place down three cups, one with a treat under it. Slide the cups around to mix them up, puppy tries to guess where the treat is, and when she figures it out, happiness ensues. Excitedly I got my cups and a little treat, set everything up, and called for Dumpster.

He bounded into the kitchen, stepped on one of the cups, and gave me a giant slurp across the face.

Okay, no plastic cups. I got out real cups, showed Dumpster the treat (this heated things up real quick), showed him how I was 'hiding' it under a cup, mixed them up, and then let him at them. At first things seemed to be going well. He sniffed vigorously at each cup. Then he sniffed the floor around the cups, under the table, and his own backside. I felt sorry for the big dummy. I removed one of the cups and let him try again. He was equally confused. Somehow mommy just had a treat and made it vanish. No fair! With a shake of my head, I removed another cup, showed him the treat again and put the cup down over it. He sniffed circles all over the kitchen, ran headlong into a dining room chair, and then started sniffing off into the living room.

I stared at him with astonishment on my face. My dog is too dumb for the cup game! One cup! There was only one cup to work with, and he couldn't handle it. In shock I lifted the cup and allowed Dumpy his treat.

So we are sadly back to tugging, jumping, and maiming as our primary form of play. Now that I think about it, though, maybe if we put a remote control under a cup, we would have better success...

And if anyone needs to buy a us a present, a Best Buy giftcard is always welcome. Or a new remote, we generally buy Logitech. Dumpy finds it has a nice battery acid bouquet.

(We don't make a habit of putting clothes on Dumpy. He would just eat them. The hat was a gift, and it stayed on for about 5 seconds.)

I'm fine; I have a giraffe

It's hard to blog when you have a family. At the moment I'm trying to compose a story in my head before putting it down on paper and Noah is shrieking just to hear his little lungs work, the husband is rattling off big words from his nursing homework, and Dumpster is trying to steal a monkey rattle from Noah without anyone noticing. It is like a really bad orchestra primarily composed of out of tune bagpipes in here. . . And I just heard a sound that suggests it will not smell so lovely in this room in a few seconds. I'll be right back...

I suppose it would be hard to blog without a family too. No fodder for the story beasts.

For Christmas we gave Noah a walker, and it is his primary joy in life after milk. Or to put it more correctly, running over Dumpy and mercilessly chasing him down is a primary life joy. (Don't feel too sorry for the great Bully. All he has to do to escape Noah is step onto the carpet. As he isn't clever enough to figure this out, I declare him too stupid to defend. He deserves a good chasin'. More on my beloved Bully's stupidity later.)

Mounted on either side of the walker are two plastic giraffes standing like great stone Argonath guarding the river of cereal flowing beneath them. At first these two giraffes were a cause of great concern to my little one. He swiveled his wrecking ball noggin from one to the other, unable to keep a wary eye on both. They encircled him like terrible velociraptors (see below), with those big, uncanny smiles painted on unfeeling, yellow faces.

Now that he has grown accustomed to the arrangement of his favorite gadget and realized that giraffes will not strike without extreme provocation, Baby Noah has put these creatures to use. He grabs them both like gear shifts pulling and pushing first this one then that. He drives his walker like a bulldozer, and I see a bright future in construction or gold digging on a Discovery Channel show ahead for him. And if, heavens forbid, he gets stuck on the carpet and his giraffe controls are unable to propel him anywhere, he greedily stuffs one into his mouth, gnawing on his horn, throwing a wicked look at the other as if to say, "Shape up, or you're next." Prey becomes predator in the wild kitchen jungle.

My son's life seems inextricably linked to these tall, spotted, Savannah creatures. At our baby shower he received a book about a dancing giraffe, and it remains one of his favorite. When given a Little People Noah's Ark, he immediately snagged the giraffes, two by two, and started teething on their heads. His great uncle Bob gave him a stuffed giraffe for Christmas and he was inseparable from it all day. So I imagine one day, my sweet Noah will be in an open jeep, cruising the plains of Africa, a sketch book in one hand and a tempting green shoot in the other.

But right now he's actually crying, not just screaming. The giraffes will have to wait until their destiny has his bath.