The Ick

For the last three weeks we have been embroiled in Ick. The weathermen call it Inversion, but it's really just Ick. For those of you who don't live in Utah, who aren't surrounding on all sides by mountains, who don't have an enormous smelter biting off entire mountains and chewing them to rubble, delving too greedily and too deep, I will kindly explain Inversion.

This is what Inversion looks like:

And this is what Inversion smells like:

And this is what Inversion sounds like:

And this is what Inversion feels like:

My mornings start very early, and in the midst of the Ick I had to drive across the valley. My mind wandered as I drove, and with a start I realized I had no idea where I was. I glanced about for familiar landmarks. Yet, I could see nothing around me but Ick. No billboards, no street signs, no buildings. Only gray and lifeless fog, the flickering flames of hazy tail lamps and the dreaded thick Ick. I suddenly realized where I must be: No color, no beauty, red flames, and the hopeless stench of a sunless sky. I was in hell. "Now just a minute!" I cried out in my mind. "I'm signed up for the eternity in Paradise plan. I fear there's been some horrible mistake." It began to dawn on me that I was not in fact in hell. I was in Utah in mid-January in the Ick. "Our situation has not improved."

I was born in Miami, and there are days where I remember that I was made to be a Florida girl. Days where 95 degrees and 95 percent humidity sounds down right divine and palm trees seem better scenery than sage. Mostly these days occur from January 7th to February 28th.

I Hate Teeth

As you will note in Noah's five month birthday photo (Wouldn't it be fantastic if even as adults we got to celebrate birthdays monthly."Hoorah, I am 329 months today! Bring on the cake!"), he has two adorable little  teeth. Thus far the fact that they are adorable is really their only redeeming feature. Ever since their appearance a little over one month ago, I have been battling biting, drooling, shrieking (banshee style, not sad/hungry/cuddle-me cries), and the occasional diaper from the abyss. Yet another thing someone failed to mention in my breast-feeding class. "By the way, they get teeth at four months, but it is highly encouraged that you nurse until one year." I'm thinking a male doctor is behind all this high encouraging. A male doctor without any children. Or a wife. Or a brain.

Noah is an amazingly good baby. He usually doesn't cry much (unless God-forbid you sneakily try to lay him on his tummy when he's not paying attention. I'm sure the neighbors, upon hearing the commotion, were calling child services.) Since ten weeks he has slept through the night without needing milk or a diaper change. Until last night, when for some reason the earth ceased its revolutions, shuddered and started spinning backwards. I had already been up with him twice, reassuring him that if he just shut his eyes and let his Sleepy Sheep lull him off to ocean lands all would be right with the world. By the third time I went in his room, all was distinctly unwell on earth and would not be made right by any amount of Sleepy Sheeped coaxing. As I sat there feeding him in the pitch black, with the wonderful Husband, trying to keep his eyes open and be supportive next to me, I wondered how I ever did this three times a night. It was less than half a year ago, but it seems like another lifetime. It was back before purposeful smiles, and mashed up green beans. It was before the walker and rolling over. It was before those two nasty, adorable little incisors.

Aside from how much his sprouting teeth bother him, those teeth are a reminder of how quickly time is progressing. Those teeth are little pictures that my baby is growing up, becoming a little man, and soon the responsibilities of midnight feedings will give way to midnight growth spurts, midnights waiting up for him, and midnight college decisions. They are a blessing and a curse those twin teeth. As are all parts of growing up.

Why I Know who is Playing in the Superbowl this Year

When asked in Jr. High if there were any careers I didn't think I would ever excel at I replied, "I doubt I'll ever be much of a sports commentator." This is because I was overly quiet, disliked useless banter, and knew absolutely nothing about sports that weren't tennis. I could list the top one hundred men's professional tennis players in order of ATP ranking, serve speed, and bicep circumference. Other than that, I knew baseballs were round, football players smashed into one another, and they show golf on Sunday afternoon because it coincides with nap time.

Fast forward fifteen years, and the calm, mild-mannered, quiet Abi has turned into a rabid University of Utah Ute hooligan, jumping up and screaming at the TV, sitting through entire games in the freezing rain/snow, and talking about "her boys" as if she was on a first name basis with Travis, Star, Joe, and John the "Wolfman" White.

What happened?

The Husband.

And it's not just college football. Ask me anything about baseball. Who acquired Josh Hamilton in the off season? The Angels. What's a Suicide Squeeze? Only the most gutsy, awesome play in the game. What is the best possible outcome when the New York Yankees play the Tampa Bay Rays? A meteor crashing into the stadium.

And professional football. Who is the rightful 49ers quarterback? Alex Smith. What's a Wildcat formation?... I can't explain it without chalk and a board. But I know what it is. And I still know tennis, and I kind of know golf, and I begrudgingly know some basketball.

Why?

Because I am a good wife, and am rather, quite, overly fond of my husband.

One Thing is Necessary

I do not purposefully make my life simple or easy; quite the opposite in fact. There have been times where I was simultaneously working three jobs, taking classes full time for my Masters, rehearsing for two dance performances and writing a thesis, all while three months pregnant (and hence, sick as a dog). I worked two part time jobs through much of my undergraduate career while going to school on average 18-21 credit hours per semester. I would be in the dance building from 8:00 in the morning until 9:00 at night. I went to eight-hour-day Pilates training courses, went to class, and then went to teach ballet. But I was never really stressed. (Neurotic, at times, yes.) For as much as all of this mattered; it didn’t really. I was safe. I am secure in words, and movement, and scholarship. I am at home in research. I could die a happy woman in the secure arms of the university.

There was a time shortly after starting college when I dramatically informed my mother of ever disaster befalling me. By nature, I am not dramatic. I had a dance professor not-so-kindly suggest I take an acting class; because, and I quote, “You’re terrible. I need you to be a spitting cobra, and you’re boring.” So believe you me, when I say I was being dramatic; I really thought the world might shatter around me.

My mother is very wise. This is why if I don’t see her several times a week, I call her every day. It does a soul a good turn to just be in the presence of such wisdom. So as I spat, cobra style, every vicious throe of life toward my mother, she simply smiled softly. It was not a mocking smile, not an empathetic smile; it was a smile of gentle correction. “Abigail, Abigail,” she whispered. “You are worried and bothered about so many things; but only one thing is necessary.”

My father is a Dallas man (as in Dallas Theological Seminary, not the Dallas Cowboys). When they were young, he taught my mother how to study the Bible. They shared wisdom, flowering from the Word of God. Growing up in a home with two such theologians, I instantly knew which Bible story my mother was referring to, and had heard it taught, analyzed, and sermonized nine ways from Sunday. Martha, so busy for the Lord, forgot to be still for Him.

Now, I am away from the university. I am in the world, and desperately trying to not be of the world. I do not have the security of theory, journals, and books. I miss the solace of free studio space, required attendance, and final grades. I reminisce for the time when I was not so responsible for my fate. Now, grades are replaced by bills and finances. Required attendance flounders in not enough time to be the mother, wife, employee, artist, and Christian I want to be. The security of theory has transformed into the insecurity of planning a life without being able to see the miles ahead. As I live, I know far less.

At times I allow these things to eat at the calm of my heart. At times I feel very dramatic because life demands it. Yet, when the panic rises, when my sense of control slips away, I can still hear my mother’s voice, “Only one thing is necessary.” I worship my Savior because this is all that is required. A heart of worship. I worship from a place of extreme blessing, having so many good things to concern myself with. And I pray that I will continue to worship from a place deep among the ashes, should my King ever send me there. Because, ultimately even among the ashes we are extremely blessed. A life of worship. This is all He requires and all I want to have.

All that Hair

After eighteen hours and fifteen minutes of labor I spent two hours and forty-five minutes pushing before I got a Noah out of the deal. For what seemed like the entire 2.75 hours of pushing all I heard was "Look at all that hair!" So there I was in the most unflattering position imaginable, pushing and pushing with no plausible end in sight and every one who came into the room (which was more people than I would have liked) exclaimed, "What a full head of hair!" or "Look at all of that dark hair!" or "Geez, did you have bad heartburn while you were pregnant?" (There is a medically proven link between the amount of hair a baby has and the severity of heartburn a mother experiences. I'm pretty sure we have Eve to thank for that one. I can't explain this link, but if you have any insight please leave a comment.) These concerning comments persisted to the point that I became somewhat worried. Was I giving birth to an ape? Would they, when baby finally entered the world, say, "Congratulations! It's a baboon?" I mean there are actually worse things I could imagine hearing at that point. "Mazel tov! It's a Wookie," tops the list.

At 8:45 when he entered the world he did in fact have a full head of hair, but was thankfully decidedly human.

At his two week appointment, Noah's pediatrician regretfully informed us that in the next two months all of those gorgeous locks would fall out. Our darling babe would be bald in a matter of days.

Not that we would love him any less.

But he had pretty pretty hair.

Only the pediatrician was wrong. That hair kept growing. The side burns fell out, but most everything else stayed long and baby hair luscious. Now, at five months, he's fuzzier than ever.

And more adorable.

And decidedly still human. Yeah!

Dark Subaru

The Transformers franchise is not a narrative based in reality. I’ll buy that aliens came to earth looking for a shiny rock they lost. I’ll buy that little itty bitty cars can suddenly morph into enormous walking, talking robots with way more moving parts than would fit in a standard Chevy.  I’ll even suspend my imagination long enough to buy that Shia LaBeouf would have a turkey’s chance on Thanksgiving with Megan Fox. Where they cross the line in terms of believability is when they suppose that some of these cars could transform into good guys. This is a complete impossibility. All cars are inherently and undeniably evil. Frozen in the lake of burning ice next to Satan the Dragon cast down from heaven by the hand of God himself will be a Subaru Outback.

Our Subaru Outback…

May it burn forever…

After we don’t need it anymore…

Learning to Breathe Again

His name is Noah. Everyone told me for the first twenty weeks of my pregnancy that it must be a girl. Why else would I be so sick, why else would his heart be so quick, why else would I burst into a fit of tears in the face of a poor, desperate bookstore employee charged with the unfortunate task of informing me I had to purchase a new cap and gown for graduation? (Aside from the fact that more than I’d like to admit I’m not a very nice person.) They all assumed it must be a fierce little redheaded girl. Justin and I even started believing them. But I really wanted a little boy first. I wanted Noah. And at our ultrasound there he lay (feet firmly planted in my bulging bladder), Noah, fidgeting in the dark, my baby boy.

 

And at the same time not mine. God is God who calls the leviathan from the deep and puts a hook in his nose. He owes me no answers. And Noah is His. I never had any delusions about being gifted with tremendous faith. Yet, somehow in the last year, I learned to trust without a doubt that He is God, and I am not, and things are better that way. I read the entire book of Job in one sitting at the lowest of my lows. I wept with Job, I raged at his so-called friends, and in the end I was silent in the face of my Maker. Those who don't know God tend to hate the book of Job. Most of those who love Him are not much more a fan of it. For me, it is the most beautiful book in the Bible and has offered solace in pain, strength in darkness, and hope that above all is God and closer than my baby's heartbeat is God.

 

I hadn't noticed that I had been holding my breath. Somehow after the pain of a miscarriage dulled and the grief wasn't so near I took in a sip of air and caged it in my lungs. I lived five months on one breath. I got pregnant again, taught classes, laughed, lived, loved all with one inhale. As I lay down staring at a screen, cool gel on my belly and my husbands hand in mine, I saw the Christmas light blinking of a heartbeat and I exhaled. I felt like I breathed again for the first time. I felt like all the oxygen in the world had been remade and for the first time I would taste sky and become alive.

Handsome's Day

The husband told me he doesn't like his birthday much. It is one of my favorite days of the year. All because of his birthday I sit in a beautiful home with a wonderful husband and amazing baby boy. Because of his birthday I am happier in these last five years of my life then I could have possibly imagined before. Because of January 6 so long ago I can say that I have a best friend, a guide, a brave father for my boy, and a reason to smile as my eyes flutter open each morning. He is a gift I could never have deserved. And it all started with that day...

Happy Birthday Handsome Husband!

The Medical System Part 2

Remember back in grade school how all the cool kids wore Air Jordans, and sagged their pants down to their ankles, and got hot lunch to eat? When you grow up and enter a liberal university dance department in search of a master’s degree, all the cool kids are gluten free. They saunter into potlucks with soupy looking cookies, peel the toppings off their pizza, and are constantly searching for the world’s most perfect gluten free beer.

When my doctor first mentioned that I might have Celiacs disease I told him that it is not possible because I am not cool enough to be gluten free. Hip, trendy people who shop at Whole Foods are gluten free. I told him that wheatlessness would just feel like such a lie. He gave me a look. You know the look; the one that says “I’ve got a psychiatrist friend I met at a conference who could maybe help us out here.”

Usually, I have a huge amount of respect for doctors, for the amount of time they put into their education and how they pour into other people’s lives. However, sometimes all the studying in the world can’t teach you more about a body than the lady living in it. As a dancer I understand this mortal coil, its quirks, faults, and beauties better than many. And I’m pretty sure my Little Debbie pounding mortal coil does not have a gluten problem. I have the opposite of Celiacs disease... I think they call that gluttony.

One of the doctors I saw in the last few months suggested I take a break from a new medication I started mid October. Remember this adventure in regurgitation all started at the end of October. Since stopping my regimen with this medication four days ago I have not thrown up. Could it really be that simple? Why did it take me and a highly trained team of disturbingly intelligent professionals two months to figure this out? I am continuing in the experiment before I drawn life-changing conclusions here; however, it is difficult to not be excited when you order a barbecue chicken pizza for dinner and for the first time in two months don't re-experience it twenty minutes later.

One step forward, Two steps back

Noah seems determined to skip crawling. He’s not too keen on rolling over either. Try putting him down for tummy time, and you’d better have some jolly good earplugs and a heart devoid of all human compassion. I think he would prefer being tarred and feathered to tummy time. He’s an upright kind of little man. Imagine his delight when Christmas rolled around, and we bought him a walker. He’ll be in it for hours, happy as a boy who’s never had to be on his belly ever.

As he is only four months, he doesn’t have the chutzpah to propel his walker forward. What he does have is a proclivity to top-heaviness and a basic understanding of Newton’s laws. The result is a boy who travels wherever he wants to go... in reverse. I’m going to have the first child who lives his entire life backwards. The Curious Case of Noah James.

At the end of the video Noah shows off his other new trick, which I alluded to in an earlier post: spitting. He’s very advanced in a backwards kind of way.

I apologize for our giant bulldog Dumpster in the frame. He’s horribly jealous of baby Noah, and is stoutly determined to position himself between my son and I whenever possible.

The Medical System

About two months ago the Husband was on a men's retreat doing manly things in manly ways (I assume this includes watching football, eating things that don't come on doilies, and not shaving). I spent a good deal of the weekend at home throwing up anything that passed my lips. Noah and I ventured out to the drug store for a pregnancy test. It was negative. Of course, I would be absolutely thrilled if the Loving Creator blessed us with another youngling. I would just be more thrilled if it was a few years down the road, not while the current youngling is still working on sleeping through the night and a purely milk diet.

When a week or so passed, and I was still not keeping my cookies, I took another pregnancy test because I'm just the type of person who would purchase that one test that was not in the 99.9% accuracy margin. Again it was negative. Again, I was happy that Noah would truly be my baby for awhile longer. Again, I threw up.

My first doctor appointment was the week before Thanksgiving, my ultrasound the next day. Over a week later, a very grumpy nurse begrudgingly gave me my results. I have a foreign object in my gallbladder. The snarky me silently spat, "Well, yes, I saw that. Did that take four years of radiology school?" The me that is trying to be more like her Captain held her tongue.

Two weeks and many headaches later I finally got a HIDA scan scheduled. Results: Not only is my gallbladder working, it's functioning "exceptionally well". Grand. So nice to be so healthy. (Insert vomit sounds.)

After a week and a half of waiting to get a scope scheduled (and more vomit and more headaches), I finally contacted my sister-in-law begging if she could very kindly save me or kill me. She was able to schedule a scope for the following week. Results: My stomach is "basically normal". A few days later my wonderful sister-in-law got me an appointment with another doctor, and today I had another appointment with another doctor.

Two months, six co-pays, and negative ten pounds later the conclusion the doctors reached is that I have Celiacs Disease. Right, Uh huh. I celebrated by eating a Little Debbie snack cake and a handful of Wheat Thins. I'm not sure if I have a rebellious streak or a masochistic streak. And want to know what? I kept them down. Felt just fine and dandy all day.

In my next post I will explain the deep irony of me being diagnosed with Celiacs Disease, and why I refuse to have it.

To be continued...

First Blog: "I'm Going on an Adventure"

I had several people ask me if I was going to keep a journal or a blog while I was pregnant. Honestly, it would have been a very dull read: "Vomitted again today. Am swollen." "Vomitted again today. Am congested." "Vomitted again today. And again. Whee." It gets old after awhile. I have heard there are women who just love being pregnant. I'm sure there are psychoactive drugs for this kind of mindset. For nine months I swore Noah would be an only child. I'm still not convinced he won't be.

However, now that the morning sickness is over (still vomiting, but more on that in posts to come), and I am able to hold the most beautiful baby boy ever fashioned, I'm realizing I need to record every amazing thing he does. And there's just no space in the baby book to write that he buzzed his lips spraying mommy in the face with saliva for fifteen seconds straight. And we really need to record this for posterity. Or at least for when he is dating.

So we're going to try blogging. I like to think I'm at least a tolerably good writer, so we'll try to keep this as painless as possible. No promises are being made here. I'll probably fail to blog for months on end. There probably won't be an audience for years anyway. All I offer is that I'm going to make a valiant effort to record the comings and goings of the young Ririe household, if only to use as evidence in future court cases.