59 days left. There are 59 days left until my husband has his pinning ceremony, signaling the end of his BSN coursework. I don't know if I am allowed to be excited yet.
He graduated already. That ceremony was at the end of March. The director of the college stood up and declared that the students had completed all necessary requirements for graduation, and she conferred upon them all the rights and responsibilities of their achievement.
I should have gotten that in writing.
Because the nursing students had another quarter of classes and clinicals and homework and no rights, but many, many responsibilities to go.
I was happy for my husband at this point, but we couldn't really celebrate. We couldn't exhale yet.
Now I am counting down the days to his pining ceremony, which will be a more official graduation for the nursing students. But I am counting down these days alone. Justin has 180 hours of clinical work to complete, and his preceptor works nights. I get the kids ready for bed. I feed them, I bathe them, I change them, I break up brawls, and dry tears, and kiss ouchies better. I tuck them in: once around 7:00pm and again around 12:30am or 2:00am, or whenever they wake up and realize that they miss dad because he's really the cool one. Then at 5:00am I drag them out of bed and change diapers and clothes, and serve bottles, and dry more tears. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
If nothing else, I am gaining empathy for single moms. I couldn't do it. Or I could, but I would turn into a robot, and my kids would be glued to Veggie Tales eight hours a day.
With the hope of graduation less than two months away, this whole process is getting easier.
However...
I can't really celebrate after the pining ceremony either. After the ceremony the husband will still be living in the basement as he studies for the NCLEX exam. And then after he takes the exam, we can't celebrate because we have to wait for results. And then he will need to find a job. And then he wants to apply for a masters or DNP program.
So when do I really get to exhale and say, "We are done!"? When do we really celebrate?
Well, never to the first question, and always to the second.
In dance we were often told that the seed to grow your next work in buried in the midst of your last piece. If we are living life correctly, aren't we never done? The seed for the next moment is buried in this moment, waiting for a little sunlight and a rainstorm to grow into the next adventure. There is peace and rest in the presence of my God, but there is not stagnancy. Life, if nothing else, can be defined by activity.
But why not celebrate now? I made rice krispie treats last night, and that seems an achievement worthy of some rejoicing. (Ignore the fact that I had to look up the recipe online because we get cheap bargain brand rice krispies on WIC, and they don't print recipes on the bags.) I have taste buds that can enjoy, and food on the table, and a stove that works... usually.
Hannah is learning new words at an alarming rate. Yesterday she squared me up in her sights, threw her hands on her hips, and declared, "DUCK! QUACK QUACK!" And that seems celebration worthy.
I made the mistake of kissing Noah's finger all better once. Now anytime he has the slightest collision with anything, he holds out each of his fingers individually for me to heal, along with a palm or an elbow for good measure. Having such a sweet boy is certainly worthy of a little joy.
I've stated my case on rejoicing in trouble many times. So perhaps I just need to remember my own advice. There are 59 days until a big celebration. And everyone of them is a day the Lord has made. May I rejoice and be glad in them!
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Saturday, April 11, 2015
The bulldog finally served a purpose
In the quiet and the dark I lay awake in bed. The thought had just struck me and snapped my eyes open: I left my laptop on the kitchen counter, and we left the blinds open. The mac would be out there blinking like a Vegas sign "Come and get me." Pictures. I have thousands of pictures on that laptop: our vacations, our children, our bulldog, our young marriage, my pre-Justin life. They can have the laptop, but maybe, out of common courtesy they would allow me to pull the pictures onto an external hard drive... and then not steal the hard drive.
After this thought, my spirit-filled self woke up, and reminded the rest of me that they can have the pictures as long as I can keep the kids, God is in control, and would you kindly go back to sleep because my holy side skipped it's coffee this morning.
Contented, I closed my eyes and started drifting into stage 1 sleep, wherein hallucinations happen. Suddenly, the bulldog (who had squeezed himself under our bed) darted out (ok, he tugged and sucked in his gut, and vowed to skip the lamb jerky treats for a few days until finally in a fuzzy, jell-o-ey blob he popped out from under the frame) and ran into the living room with a loud bark. I groaned. Dumpster will bark at anything: strangers, friends, family, cats, wind, and occasionally leaves that have an ill-favored look. As long as he doesn't wake up my children, we indulge his paranoia.
Then we heard the door handle jiggle.
Justin jumped up and pulled on some basketball shorts. (The reason he was not wearing said basketball shorts previously is another post entirely, and not the one you're thinking of.) He stormed out to the door with the heavy steps of a man who, like a puffer fish, is inflating his imposing torso to appear most imposing to all foes. In my disorientation I assumed the rattling lock was most likely the wind, Dumpster nosing at the door, trying to get out and disembody the neighbor's cat, or, at worst, a family member sneaking in to borrow their ladder back. (It's ours! the husband would scream in gollum tone, creepily caressing the ladder and muttering and spluttering about possession being nine tenths of the law... Not the point.) I decided to sit up; the distraction was a good opportunity for a midnight chocolate chip scarfing.
And then I heard the husband say, "Get off my property! Get out of here! I want you off my property now!" I mean, he didn't just say it; he sort of announced it with the cold clarity of a man under threat, who is secretly thrilled that he might have the opportunity to carry out his long-meditated upon plan of violence. I was almost horrified at the control and acuity in my husband's voice considering he had bolted out of bed only seconds before, and generally when something wakes him up (like a screaming child) he isn't lucid enough to know which way it is to the sound and ends up somewhere in the vicinity of the refrigerator.
In moments of intense stress people have been known to carry out amazing feats of heroism: women lifting cars off of infants, men jumping in front of speeding vehicles to pull damsels to safety, dogs keeping children warm through long frozen nights.
In approximately 1.36 seconds I was fully dressed (back to that whole other post, that is not what you think), and standing outside the rooms of my children like an ex-con bouncer outside a posh nightclub.
Justin stormed back to grab a shirt and his cell phone. Seeing me trying to look imposing in my 'penguin spicy chili sauce' shirt and bubblegum blue shorty-shorts, Justin said there was an old man who was very clearly inebriated trying to get in, but he had stumbled off the porch and wandered over to the neighbors. Going back to the door, the husband called 911 and spoke with the same frightening evenness in his voice to the 911 dispatcher. He gave them a description of the man, an account of what happened and some information about our house and family. The man stumbled back over to our porch, and was trying to get his keys in the door. This proves that the man was very clearly plastered. In terms of attempting a B&E, one of the last people on earth you want to throw the door open in your face is my husband. Justin is broad-shouldered, has biceps like pythons, an ex-marine corp haircut, six feet and four inches that he has filled out quite nicely, and self-control that suggests a concerning cunningness behind those steely blue eyes. Our would be attacker was 5' 9", 150 pounds soaking wet, and older than Moses. And drunk. Falling down drunk.
The 911 dispatcher asked Justin if he had any weapons to defend himself with... oh there are so many delicious answers to that questions:
"No, but I pretty sure I could aim my strong-willed fifteen-month-old in his direction, and you'd have to send a body bag instead of a cop car."
"Did you not hear the description? I could attack this guy with a marshmallow and be victorious... my wife could attack him with a marshmallow and be victorious" (Justin did not say this, because while generally very submissive and conforming to classical gender roles, said wife has a slightly feminist streak in her, and would not attack the husband with something so soft as a marshmallow.)
"I have two weapons, both of mass destruction, one is named Bi, the other Cep."
The response the husband finally selected was perhaps the most tame: "I have a Maori war club from fiji that I've always wanted to see in action." He said the dispatcher didn't laugh at all. But I found it amusing.
Shortly after this the police arrived. They tried to figure out where the man was from to see if they could get him home. Otherwise he would spend a night in the clink. (Oh how lovely, I've never had the opportunity to use the word 'clink' in a blog before!) One of the officers told Justin that the man was "blitzed." Getting first my Bachelor's and then my Master's degrees in a postmodern liberal arts program, I have become familiar with many unique references to a state of intoxication: plastered, smashed, shnockered, feeling no pain, sloshed, floored, trashed, pickled, ripped, slammed, and my personal favorite besotted. But blitzed was a new one. Always learning things, even at 12:45am.
Our midnight friend was taken away in handcuffs, and one by one the police cars drove off into the night. Justin sighed a little. "I was kind of wondering what would happen if I just really hauled off and punched a guy, you know, a scientific curiosity."
Note to future self: don't anger the husband. ... and let's make his favorite for dinner tonight ... and every night until we die.
So that was our midnight adventure. Even after crawling into bed at 1:00 am I was too hyper to sleep. I think I finally actually closed my eyes at about 3:30 am. I spent that time thanking my Mighty God for his protection, thanking him for my imposing husband, and thanking him that Justin's nightshift clinicals don't start until next week.
After this thought, my spirit-filled self woke up, and reminded the rest of me that they can have the pictures as long as I can keep the kids, God is in control, and would you kindly go back to sleep because my holy side skipped it's coffee this morning.
Contented, I closed my eyes and started drifting into stage 1 sleep, wherein hallucinations happen. Suddenly, the bulldog (who had squeezed himself under our bed) darted out (ok, he tugged and sucked in his gut, and vowed to skip the lamb jerky treats for a few days until finally in a fuzzy, jell-o-ey blob he popped out from under the frame) and ran into the living room with a loud bark. I groaned. Dumpster will bark at anything: strangers, friends, family, cats, wind, and occasionally leaves that have an ill-favored look. As long as he doesn't wake up my children, we indulge his paranoia.
Then we heard the door handle jiggle.
Justin jumped up and pulled on some basketball shorts. (The reason he was not wearing said basketball shorts previously is another post entirely, and not the one you're thinking of.) He stormed out to the door with the heavy steps of a man who, like a puffer fish, is inflating his imposing torso to appear most imposing to all foes. In my disorientation I assumed the rattling lock was most likely the wind, Dumpster nosing at the door, trying to get out and disembody the neighbor's cat, or, at worst, a family member sneaking in to borrow their ladder back. (It's ours! the husband would scream in gollum tone, creepily caressing the ladder and muttering and spluttering about possession being nine tenths of the law... Not the point.) I decided to sit up; the distraction was a good opportunity for a midnight chocolate chip scarfing.
And then I heard the husband say, "Get off my property! Get out of here! I want you off my property now!" I mean, he didn't just say it; he sort of announced it with the cold clarity of a man under threat, who is secretly thrilled that he might have the opportunity to carry out his long-meditated upon plan of violence. I was almost horrified at the control and acuity in my husband's voice considering he had bolted out of bed only seconds before, and generally when something wakes him up (like a screaming child) he isn't lucid enough to know which way it is to the sound and ends up somewhere in the vicinity of the refrigerator.
In moments of intense stress people have been known to carry out amazing feats of heroism: women lifting cars off of infants, men jumping in front of speeding vehicles to pull damsels to safety, dogs keeping children warm through long frozen nights.
In approximately 1.36 seconds I was fully dressed (back to that whole other post, that is not what you think), and standing outside the rooms of my children like an ex-con bouncer outside a posh nightclub.
Justin stormed back to grab a shirt and his cell phone. Seeing me trying to look imposing in my 'penguin spicy chili sauce' shirt and bubblegum blue shorty-shorts, Justin said there was an old man who was very clearly inebriated trying to get in, but he had stumbled off the porch and wandered over to the neighbors. Going back to the door, the husband called 911 and spoke with the same frightening evenness in his voice to the 911 dispatcher. He gave them a description of the man, an account of what happened and some information about our house and family. The man stumbled back over to our porch, and was trying to get his keys in the door. This proves that the man was very clearly plastered. In terms of attempting a B&E, one of the last people on earth you want to throw the door open in your face is my husband. Justin is broad-shouldered, has biceps like pythons, an ex-marine corp haircut, six feet and four inches that he has filled out quite nicely, and self-control that suggests a concerning cunningness behind those steely blue eyes. Our would be attacker was 5' 9", 150 pounds soaking wet, and older than Moses. And drunk. Falling down drunk.
The 911 dispatcher asked Justin if he had any weapons to defend himself with... oh there are so many delicious answers to that questions:
"No, but I pretty sure I could aim my strong-willed fifteen-month-old in his direction, and you'd have to send a body bag instead of a cop car."
"Did you not hear the description? I could attack this guy with a marshmallow and be victorious... my wife could attack him with a marshmallow and be victorious" (Justin did not say this, because while generally very submissive and conforming to classical gender roles, said wife has a slightly feminist streak in her, and would not attack the husband with something so soft as a marshmallow.)
"I have two weapons, both of mass destruction, one is named Bi, the other Cep."
The response the husband finally selected was perhaps the most tame: "I have a Maori war club from fiji that I've always wanted to see in action." He said the dispatcher didn't laugh at all. But I found it amusing.
Shortly after this the police arrived. They tried to figure out where the man was from to see if they could get him home. Otherwise he would spend a night in the clink. (Oh how lovely, I've never had the opportunity to use the word 'clink' in a blog before!) One of the officers told Justin that the man was "blitzed." Getting first my Bachelor's and then my Master's degrees in a postmodern liberal arts program, I have become familiar with many unique references to a state of intoxication: plastered, smashed, shnockered, feeling no pain, sloshed, floored, trashed, pickled, ripped, slammed, and my personal favorite besotted. But blitzed was a new one. Always learning things, even at 12:45am.
Our midnight friend was taken away in handcuffs, and one by one the police cars drove off into the night. Justin sighed a little. "I was kind of wondering what would happen if I just really hauled off and punched a guy, you know, a scientific curiosity."
Note to future self: don't anger the husband. ... and let's make his favorite for dinner tonight ... and every night until we die.
So that was our midnight adventure. Even after crawling into bed at 1:00 am I was too hyper to sleep. I think I finally actually closed my eyes at about 3:30 am. I spent that time thanking my Mighty God for his protection, thanking him for my imposing husband, and thanking him that Justin's nightshift clinicals don't start until next week.
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