So here's a fun mental exercise to see how well you know your significant other.
On the show The Office Jim knows everything about Pam, what she likes and more importantly, what she doesn't like. When Andy decides to ask Pam out, he seeks out Jim for advice. Jim proceeds to tell Andy to do and be everything that Pam hates. She sweetly endures the barrage of horrible advances, unwilling to spoil Jim's fun.
If someone wanted to ask out your significant other (or would-be significant other) on a date, what horrible things would you tell them to ensure their absolute failure?
For Justin: "Okay sweetie, here's what you have to do..."
Arrive in the following ensemble: denim jacket, sequined tube top, and mom capris with embroidery around the bottom hem. Accessorize with big hoop earrings, a chunky metal chain necklace, a lot of bangling charm bracelets, and (at this point Justin visibly shuddered) a couple toe rings. Also carry a purse that wouldn't be qualifiable as an airport carry-on, and would be all kinds of blinged out.
Drive to Applebees in conversational silence. Allow the blaring of cheap and easy pop music to fill the car. And be sure to drum along on the dashboard with your very acrylic nails... on the offbeats.
Once in the restaurant, make sure the conversation centers on the truth in your feelings, a myriad of complex topics upon which your opinions are both stalwartly immobile and utterly unsubstantiated, and how tomorrow never comes. Emphasize consumer culture; denounce bravery and hard work. Make sure you appear to be the victim of every situation life throws at you.
It would also help if you think you have every medical condition known to man. Hypochondria is the new sexy. Be sure to tell him you have an undiagnosed allergy to gluten and that wheat makes you sleepy and fat.
When he agrees (because every gentleman has his breaking point), be sure to ridicule him loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear.
Tell lots of "m'urse" jokes.
After a delightful plate of spinach cooked in vinegar and baloney sandwiches heaped with raw onions and topped with mayo (because they totally serve that at Applebees, right?) leave the table an appalling disaster. Make sure it is as messy as possible. Excuse the untidiness with a laugh and rudely remark that it's the waiter's job to clean it up. And when he tries to tip well tell him he is throwing his money away. They don't work hard enough to get a tip.
Use slang whenever possible. And please, for the love of God, don't pronounce the 't' in mountains.
Back at your door, with no subtlety, invite him into your unkempt trailer, which if possible should be illuminated in the flickering glow of florescent lights. Place the large terrareum holding your sweet pet baby, a twelve foot boa constrictor, clearly within view.
With Firefly flickering on the TV in the background, put on all your charm. Raise your eyebrows and flick your tongue out to reveal a large metal tongue stud.
After vomiting profusely all over the doorstep, Justin will excuse himself to gargle lots and lots of whiskey. ... which you should offer him from your pantry.
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Saturday, April 9, 2016
big man
There is an attending named Dr. Warren (name changed) in the PICU at Justin's hospital, who has the "old nurse demeanor." She thinks paper charting is where it's at. She doesn't smile too often for fear of losing all her hard-earned terror. No nonsense, to the point, lives are on the line. She is an older woman, unmarried, no children, whip-thin, keen eyes, mouth a line, peering over those glasses at the underlings scuttering about beneath her. She is excellent at her job. She DOES save lives. She is NOT Patch Adams.
This week Justin has been on 1:1 care with a six-week-old baby girl. 1:1 means that this child is not doing well, and it is Justin's job to sit next to her and make sure she doesn't die. He has no other patients or responsibility, just this: make sure she is breathing and her heart beats.
Dr. Warren came into the room the other night, and Justin snapped to attention. The piercing face took in the entire situation.
Dr. Warren's face suddenly and horrifically broke into a sunny disposition. "Well, how is my big man and the little baby girl?" she asked jovially.
......
Justin stared at the woman as if elves were crawling out of her ears. Dr. Warren, continued as if she had not just interrupted the flow of reality. She went over the baby's chart, checked the patient and left.
"WHAT?!" Justin sputtered out at the closed door. "Are we there yet? I didn't think anyone got there with you!"
The shudder was still visible as my husband relayed the traumatic story to me. He assured me years of intensive counseling might not set it right.
Everyone likes him! I swear that He is secretly Captain America, everybody's best friend. (Except of course for Iron Man. But give Justin and Tony Stark a week together, and I bet my husband would be Stark's "Big Man" too. ... Which is really all I need right now: my husband engaging in superhero bro-mances.) So to the rest of the planet: I know he's adorable, endearing, strong, smart, and funny, but lay off. The Big Man's mine!
This week Justin has been on 1:1 care with a six-week-old baby girl. 1:1 means that this child is not doing well, and it is Justin's job to sit next to her and make sure she doesn't die. He has no other patients or responsibility, just this: make sure she is breathing and her heart beats.
Dr. Warren came into the room the other night, and Justin snapped to attention. The piercing face took in the entire situation.
Dr. Warren's face suddenly and horrifically broke into a sunny disposition. "Well, how is my big man and the little baby girl?" she asked jovially.
......
Justin stared at the woman as if elves were crawling out of her ears. Dr. Warren, continued as if she had not just interrupted the flow of reality. She went over the baby's chart, checked the patient and left.
"WHAT?!" Justin sputtered out at the closed door. "Are we there yet? I didn't think anyone got there with you!"
The shudder was still visible as my husband relayed the traumatic story to me. He assured me years of intensive counseling might not set it right.
Everyone likes him! I swear that He is secretly Captain America, everybody's best friend. (Except of course for Iron Man. But give Justin and Tony Stark a week together, and I bet my husband would be Stark's "Big Man" too. ... Which is really all I need right now: my husband engaging in superhero bro-mances.) So to the rest of the planet: I know he's adorable, endearing, strong, smart, and funny, but lay off. The Big Man's mine!
Thursday, February 4, 2016
When life gives you lemons...
Lest, based on my last post, you thought the husband infallible, we decided we'd best try the Frisbee golf thing again.
In Justin's brain it is the most logical thing in the world: you go throw a Frisbee in a basket eighteen times. Like golf, but cheap! (Actually, no. Not cheap. After driving around a park we saw several dudes playing Frisbee golf. They had a backpack: a specially designed Frisbee golf back pack with slots for all your nifty discs [like a putter, a driver, and a mid range. Someone drunk invented this sport.] And a drink holder... cause we being sweaty? In comparison, what Justin and I have been calling Frisbee golf is akin to whacking a gopher in a hole with a tree branch, and calling it golf.)
This whole issue has become rather personal for my man. He can throw anything: baseballs, boomerangs, footballs, javelins, pint-sized wife... I'd fight back if I could find some stilts and a muscle suit. We even play Frisbee in the backyard, and he does a fine job of it. However, when confronted with a basket nestled 425 feet away... this happens:
Ah ha! Found it!
What? You don't see it? It's green. That should help.
Or maybe that's the orange one... nope, I'm pretty sure the orange one was up river a few yards. This must be the green one.
Ever creative and never one to give up, my husband decided to retrieve a long stick from the middle of the river and use it to lever the Frisbee back to safety. Having no success in acquiring the long stick, the man determined to snag a longer stick in order to retrieve the long stick, in order to lever the Frisbee out.
The pictures don't offer his efforts fair credit. The embankment was six feet high. And his children were continually lining up in lemming fashion to jump off the edge, which distracted from the delicate rescue and recovery process.
Justin claims to be a realist, but there's some certain part of him, which wins key battles and allows optimism to peek out into the bright light of day. Life stole the Frisbees, it muddied his flip flops, cut up his baby girl on some branches, and sullied his masculine "I'll rock any sport" pride...
But God gave him a new walking stick.
In Justin's brain it is the most logical thing in the world: you go throw a Frisbee in a basket eighteen times. Like golf, but cheap! (Actually, no. Not cheap. After driving around a park we saw several dudes playing Frisbee golf. They had a backpack: a specially designed Frisbee golf back pack with slots for all your nifty discs [like a putter, a driver, and a mid range. Someone drunk invented this sport.] And a drink holder... cause we being sweaty? In comparison, what Justin and I have been calling Frisbee golf is akin to whacking a gopher in a hole with a tree branch, and calling it golf.)
This whole issue has become rather personal for my man. He can throw anything: baseballs, boomerangs, footballs, javelins, pint-sized wife... I'd fight back if I could find some stilts and a muscle suit. We even play Frisbee in the backyard, and he does a fine job of it. However, when confronted with a basket nestled 425 feet away... this happens:
This may appear to be a man stoically pondering the mysteries of the universe in a serene rural setting. But it is in fact a man searching for his Frisbee.Ah ha! Found it!
Or maybe that's the orange one... nope, I'm pretty sure the orange one was up river a few yards. This must be the green one.
Ever creative and never one to give up, my husband decided to retrieve a long stick from the middle of the river and use it to lever the Frisbee back to safety. Having no success in acquiring the long stick, the man determined to snag a longer stick in order to retrieve the long stick, in order to lever the Frisbee out.
Justin claims to be a realist, but there's some certain part of him, which wins key battles and allows optimism to peek out into the bright light of day. Life stole the Frisbees, it muddied his flip flops, cut up his baby girl on some branches, and sullied his masculine "I'll rock any sport" pride...
But God gave him a new walking stick.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
The Man Makes Dinner
I should have known after all his sneakiness that something was up for our first Valentine's Day. However, I am sadly gullible. Someone should make me a gullible hat, and then a matching shirt that says, "Be nice, it's no fun, when she can't fight back."
He said we were going somewhere for a nice dinner. I went shopping for a gorgeous dress. I piled my curled hair on my head, put on make-up, donned spikey black heels, and waited with breathless anticipation (or I waited with some other bosom-heaving cliché). He showed up in a tie. That's how you know it's serious.
As we drove he said he had to pick up something from home. This is the point when those not blessed with an over active gullibility, would have raised a finger and declared triumphantly "Ah ha!" I merely smiled, refolded my fingers into knots and dug them further into my lap. At his house, Justin asked if I wanted to go in with him. Again, those cleverer type folk would have asked a snarky, "Why?" with arms folded over there chest and a knowing eyebrow quirk.
I innocently murmured, "Sure," and fumbled with the door handle. Thankfully, Justin is a gentleman, he showed that troublesome door handle who was boss.
He pulled open the door to his home, and ushered me in. The first thing that hit me was the scent of flowers. A lot of flowers. There were four vases of roses and baby's breath in ever imaginable color. There was a bit of an apology on his part. He hoped I wasn't disappointed that he was making dinner. He hoped I didn't feel the dress, make up, and heels were a waste.
Because I dress up for the restaurant? Silly boy.
Like an explorer in the heart of the Amazon, I parted the tangle of roses to see two places set, candles were lit, and wine was poured. He made Cajun-spiced salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. It was delicious. And romantic. And amazing. And, well, whatever other positive adjectives human kind has or will invent for studly men who can cook and look great in ties.
That night was the first time we said "I love you." It was supposed to be the night of our first kiss, however, a few nights earlier, when attempting to kiss my cheek in the dark, Justin "missed." And I'll let him have his delusion because it was sufficiently fairytale.
Eight years later... I have the flu. I'm achy, and sniffling, and sore throaty, and vomity. Romantic. With yakking.
However, the man is still a stud. While I read stories to the kids he made dinner.
He made the candles this afternoon while I napped. Out of limbs he pruned off our trees.
Who does that?
Why did this man marry me?
He is still a sweet, romantic, stud. Eight years later I still mean every, "I love you," with my whole heart.
Although this romantic Valentine's dinner had a few extra guests at the table:
Which is cool, I guess.
He said we were going somewhere for a nice dinner. I went shopping for a gorgeous dress. I piled my curled hair on my head, put on make-up, donned spikey black heels, and waited with breathless anticipation (or I waited with some other bosom-heaving cliché). He showed up in a tie. That's how you know it's serious.
As we drove he said he had to pick up something from home. This is the point when those not blessed with an over active gullibility, would have raised a finger and declared triumphantly "Ah ha!" I merely smiled, refolded my fingers into knots and dug them further into my lap. At his house, Justin asked if I wanted to go in with him. Again, those cleverer type folk would have asked a snarky, "Why?" with arms folded over there chest and a knowing eyebrow quirk.
I innocently murmured, "Sure," and fumbled with the door handle. Thankfully, Justin is a gentleman, he showed that troublesome door handle who was boss.
He pulled open the door to his home, and ushered me in. The first thing that hit me was the scent of flowers. A lot of flowers. There were four vases of roses and baby's breath in ever imaginable color. There was a bit of an apology on his part. He hoped I wasn't disappointed that he was making dinner. He hoped I didn't feel the dress, make up, and heels were a waste.
Because I dress up for the restaurant? Silly boy.
Like an explorer in the heart of the Amazon, I parted the tangle of roses to see two places set, candles were lit, and wine was poured. He made Cajun-spiced salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. It was delicious. And romantic. And amazing. And, well, whatever other positive adjectives human kind has or will invent for studly men who can cook and look great in ties.
That night was the first time we said "I love you." It was supposed to be the night of our first kiss, however, a few nights earlier, when attempting to kiss my cheek in the dark, Justin "missed." And I'll let him have his delusion because it was sufficiently fairytale.
Eight years later... I have the flu. I'm achy, and sniffling, and sore throaty, and vomity. Romantic. With yakking.
However, the man is still a stud. While I read stories to the kids he made dinner.
It is salmon with garlic orange crème sauce, herbed sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. And there were candles.
Who does that?
Why did this man marry me?
He is still a sweet, romantic, stud. Eight years later I still mean every, "I love you," with my whole heart.
Although this romantic Valentine's dinner had a few extra guests at the table:
I traded roses for babies.Which is cool, I guess.
Friday, January 22, 2016
What the Texas Wind Devours
The day started with a broken dish. Then things went bad. The Little Hurricane is attempting to dump the bottle. I suppose that is an inaccurate statement: mommy is trying to dump the bottle for the Hurricane. She is screaming. A lot. Because sun and moon and tide and seasons have revolved around, ebbed to, and changed with that bottle. My hand pauses several moments longer than normal as I twist her doorknob open in the morning. Psyching myself up for the shrieking storm to greet my milkless self. Noah isn't ready to be potty trained. I've pleaded, I've forced, I've bribed, but the Little Man is just not ready. Alas, I realized this as he stood in front of his potty peeing on his shoes. (I promise I will delete this blog before y'all are old enough to care to read it, my precious munchkins.)
Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.
A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.
I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns. It's got a chip on it's shoulder. The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition. H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.
Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.
Then I dragged them home.
Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).
We ended up here:
Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.
There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."
Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?
Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.
1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.
2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.
3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.
4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.
5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.
6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.
7. Don't have a two year old.
8. Don't have a three year old.
9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.
The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)
I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:
When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!
And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.
Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.
Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:
Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!
Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.
A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.
I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns. It's got a chip on it's shoulder. The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition. H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.
Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.
Then I dragged them home.
Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).
We ended up here:
Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.
There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."
Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?
Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.
1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.
2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.
3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.
4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.
5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.
6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.
7. Don't have a two year old.
8. Don't have a three year old.
9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.
The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)
I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:
When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!
And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.
Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.
Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:
Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Growing Pains
Nursing school changed us. Our faith was made malleable, then firm. Our hearts were fired, broken, and reformed in the hands of His grace. We faced our demons, faced spiritual battles, and though bruised we were never crushed. He endures, and so we endured. But in all this it was our lives in his sovereignty. It was Justin's battle, it was my perseverance, it was providence for my children. It was a great war in a very small world. In our great weakness, He proved His strength. But it was only us.
The shifts are twelve hours now. And the man who returns home at the end of half a day is different than the man who awoke at 5:00am. Families with patients in the ICU are having a life defining and faith forming (or destroying) moment. The nurses in the ICU try very hard to be unchanged every moment of every day. It is an impossible task. Some part of your heart wants to be unaffected, some part of your spirit never wants to remain unmoved.
There are things he can't tell me: patient confidentiality. So he sidles around the facts, creeps to the edge of what he is allowed to say; because he has to say something. You cannot hold so many lives alone.
Last week he did CPR on an infant. Nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists screamed at him: too fast, too slow, push harder, don't crack ribs! And with his own lungs he called a baby back to life. It was a hopeless endeavor. His God had already called the little one home. He didn't weep. But something in his eyes was hollow.
The snarling edges of a hurricane blew through our town. The relentless rain became heartless as a truck hydroplaned. Justin ran the halls of the ICU, fetching this, recovering that, calling for help. Trauma is the nice word for don't-look-too-close. He spread lidocaine over a young skull, preparation for a drill. He came home as calm and mellow as ever. He helped put the kids to bed, he had dinner with me. If you didn't look too close, you would never catch the emotional exhaustion leaking out of the cracks in his surface. My godly man, my rock, the fortress for my children and my heart, is now strong for other families, and stands unmovable for strangers.
She has CP. This one was not easy for me to hear. Blood. It is life when it is hidden. It is death when it is seen. And he saw. Too. Much. He told me he had never been so afraid. One patient, twelve hours, a life on egg shells. But he survived, and so did she. For now. We are constantly reminded: there is no promised tomorrow. Every breath is a blessing. And with every breath he is made new.
There are boys with cancer, and girls with diabetes. There is abuse, and accidents, and sicknesses that are no accident, but you wonder 'How could this be Your plan?'
And he has stood.
I have never loved him so completely. But even more I have never respected him so fully. I see the struggle, but just as clearly I see the courage. He is growing, changing, being made new for an end we cannot yet imagine. And I take it all in. I try to stand as strong and as tall. I try to listen every night without tears. I try to have some comfort available.
It is not easy.
But it is worth it.
Because I am seeing my husband with new eyes. And he is incredible.
The shifts are twelve hours now. And the man who returns home at the end of half a day is different than the man who awoke at 5:00am. Families with patients in the ICU are having a life defining and faith forming (or destroying) moment. The nurses in the ICU try very hard to be unchanged every moment of every day. It is an impossible task. Some part of your heart wants to be unaffected, some part of your spirit never wants to remain unmoved.
There are things he can't tell me: patient confidentiality. So he sidles around the facts, creeps to the edge of what he is allowed to say; because he has to say something. You cannot hold so many lives alone.
Last week he did CPR on an infant. Nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists screamed at him: too fast, too slow, push harder, don't crack ribs! And with his own lungs he called a baby back to life. It was a hopeless endeavor. His God had already called the little one home. He didn't weep. But something in his eyes was hollow.
The snarling edges of a hurricane blew through our town. The relentless rain became heartless as a truck hydroplaned. Justin ran the halls of the ICU, fetching this, recovering that, calling for help. Trauma is the nice word for don't-look-too-close. He spread lidocaine over a young skull, preparation for a drill. He came home as calm and mellow as ever. He helped put the kids to bed, he had dinner with me. If you didn't look too close, you would never catch the emotional exhaustion leaking out of the cracks in his surface. My godly man, my rock, the fortress for my children and my heart, is now strong for other families, and stands unmovable for strangers.
She has CP. This one was not easy for me to hear. Blood. It is life when it is hidden. It is death when it is seen. And he saw. Too. Much. He told me he had never been so afraid. One patient, twelve hours, a life on egg shells. But he survived, and so did she. For now. We are constantly reminded: there is no promised tomorrow. Every breath is a blessing. And with every breath he is made new.
There are boys with cancer, and girls with diabetes. There is abuse, and accidents, and sicknesses that are no accident, but you wonder 'How could this be Your plan?'
And he has stood.
I have never loved him so completely. But even more I have never respected him so fully. I see the struggle, but just as clearly I see the courage. He is growing, changing, being made new for an end we cannot yet imagine. And I take it all in. I try to stand as strong and as tall. I try to listen every night without tears. I try to have some comfort available.
It is not easy.
But it is worth it.
Because I am seeing my husband with new eyes. And he is incredible.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Do you think she's mad?
"Here's a hypothetical situation," my husband started as we cruised down the road toward the softball fields. "Let's say someone takes a shot to the head on the field, a line drive or something. What is your order of actions and priorities?"
As a dancer I was taught that there are no wrong answers. As the wife of a nursing student I was taught that there are only wrong answers (at least I think that was the point of the last three years). I assumed in his query that my husband was testing my knowledge of critical care and trauma procedures (because he does this for fun every now and then to prove that in the area of medical care not having to do with infants named Hannah and Noah, he is in fact smarter than me). After a moment's consideration I replied, "I would find someone on the field with a phone (our base coach is the most likely candidate) and have them dial 911. Then, I would assess the victim, checking vitals starting with bleeding, pulse, and breathing." I described what I would do if the sustainer of head trauma was bleeding, if they were unconscious with no pulse or respiration, or if they were conscious and alert x3. Justin agreed with my order of priorities, and we discussed whether it would be better to move the victim into a seated position or leave them laying flat, addressing the possible effects of each option. (Let me tell you that it is riveting to live our little lives. Our children are going to know how to properly wrap a laceration, but not know how to achieve a laceration in the pursuit of childishness... which sounds like a good thing, but I see as somewhat sad.)
Fast forward forty-five minutes. I jogged out onto the field for the start of the second inning. My husband usually plays short stop, and I am usually at second. If you are not overly familiar with base/softball playage: playing at second you actually stand back toward the grass and closer to first base. This gives you a better opportunity to get anything hit to the right side of the field, while leaving enough time to get back to the bag for a play. My point in offering this vital softball strategy education is to point out that I was standing quite a distance from my husband at short. I would have had to shout to get his attention.
Although for the purpose of attention-getting he uses other methods entirely...
I mentioned in my last post that my husband is sometimes still a thirteen-year-old boy. In my experience most guys are at various times in their adult life just kids. This is usually an endearing quality of his. I find it cute that he likes baseball, airplanes, candy, and bodily noises. I find it hilarious when his adult male mind reverts to making "pinning" jokes.
But, some things are less endearing than others...
He throws rocks at me. Junior high was not so long ago that I have forgotten that this is how boys flirt. I've taken my share of abuse in the name of 'crush'. But here's the thing: once you've got the girl, you can call off the aerial strike.
He always does this. He finds little pebbles or dirt clods and lobs them off to one side of me, just to see how long it takes me to notice. At softball games I am always just trying to impress him and make him proud. I get very focused. I ignore things like thirst and sun and projectiles. Ironic, isn't it? The very act by which I want to earn my husband's approval causes me to fail to notice his desperate plea for attention.
During this particular moment, I was shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot waiting for my father-in-law to pitch. What followed depends entirely on the perspective of reality you choose to believe.
From my perspective:
[I stared down the approaching batter. I glowered. There are so few opportunities in life to properly glower, that I was taking the most of it. I must have looked quite fierce, like a kitten attacking a laser pointer. My eyes narrowed in concentration, my toes dug into the dirt, my...
OUCH! What the crap was that?! Did I just get shot? I think someone shot me! Check the grassy knoll! (My hand flew up to my forehead to check for the almost certain gush of blood flowing down.) Looking up wildly to see if any further sniper shots were coming, I saw my husband...
The man I have stood by for seven years. The man whose children I bore, birthed, and raised. The man on whom my hopes of the last three years of grief and trouble rested, the protector of my family, the provider for our needs, the calmer of our fears. The man I committed to for better or worse.
The man who had just rocketed a boulder into my forehead.
He came jogging over as my face crumpled into my hands. "Are you okay?" he asked covered in concern and guilt (but still chuckling at the odds of making that shot - which helped matters immensely).
"Fine!" I nearly screamed.
"Are you sure, I'm sorry, I...."
"FINE!" I roared. "I.Am.Fine. But you need to go over there." I gestured madly at the shortstop position. He tried to continue speaking. But I kept pointing and growling, "Go over there!" ... Where I can't reach your throat with my nails. Where I can't scream at you in the tongues of men and angels. Where I can't start the first fight of our marriage over something so ridiculously stupid, but still downright infuriating! GO!
Another player jogged past and asked what just happened, "He hit me with a rock!" I shrieked.
Honestly, I wasn't that angry at him. I knew it was a mistake; I was 99% sure he would never purposely try to stone me. It was shock. The unnatural volume, the seething, the green I was turning and the sudden need for stretchy purple pants; it was all shock.
The pain was minimal. The lump was mortifying. I can't go to church like this! They give me grief enough for my shoes! Maybe I can get a haircut with bangs. Maybe I can run away to New Zealand. Maybe I can never ever leave the house again as long as I live. I suppose I should cut my husband some slack; at times, I am still a thirteen-year-old girl.
My primary consolation was, although I had forgiven him the second I looked up into those remorseful blue eyes, everyone else we knew would give him grief for weeks. Because I am a paradox: simultaneously merciful and malicious.]
His perspective: (and yes, I understand that it is not fair for me to be relaying his perspective, but I am only quoting from the story he had to relay 800 times after the incident.)
[You know when you are just messing around and it goes terribly, terribly wrong? I was throwing pebbles at her. I do this all the time. I picked up one and it was really flat, like you would skip across a river. Flat cylindrical objects tend to curve in flight. I threw it a good three feet out in front of her, and watched. Hmmm. That rock is turning. It's heading for my wife. No way.
Oh crap! I just hit my wife with a rock! Good thing we talked about this on the way here.
... What are the odds? That must have been a one in a million shot. That's pretty impressive.
... Do you think she's mad?]
We were on a roll. We took a marriage class, and the leader told a story about a couple who had been married for sixty-two years. At the husband's funeral, the wife laid her hand on the casket and whispered, "62 years and he never hurt me."
That was the goal.
Now, it will have to run: "75 years (we ain't quitters), and he never hurt me." Pause. "Except that time he hit me with a rock."
I love you, my un-matchable husband. And yes, it was a one in a million shot. Go you.
As a dancer I was taught that there are no wrong answers. As the wife of a nursing student I was taught that there are only wrong answers (at least I think that was the point of the last three years). I assumed in his query that my husband was testing my knowledge of critical care and trauma procedures (because he does this for fun every now and then to prove that in the area of medical care not having to do with infants named Hannah and Noah, he is in fact smarter than me). After a moment's consideration I replied, "I would find someone on the field with a phone (our base coach is the most likely candidate) and have them dial 911. Then, I would assess the victim, checking vitals starting with bleeding, pulse, and breathing." I described what I would do if the sustainer of head trauma was bleeding, if they were unconscious with no pulse or respiration, or if they were conscious and alert x3. Justin agreed with my order of priorities, and we discussed whether it would be better to move the victim into a seated position or leave them laying flat, addressing the possible effects of each option. (Let me tell you that it is riveting to live our little lives. Our children are going to know how to properly wrap a laceration, but not know how to achieve a laceration in the pursuit of childishness... which sounds like a good thing, but I see as somewhat sad.)
Fast forward forty-five minutes. I jogged out onto the field for the start of the second inning. My husband usually plays short stop, and I am usually at second. If you are not overly familiar with base/softball playage: playing at second you actually stand back toward the grass and closer to first base. This gives you a better opportunity to get anything hit to the right side of the field, while leaving enough time to get back to the bag for a play. My point in offering this vital softball strategy education is to point out that I was standing quite a distance from my husband at short. I would have had to shout to get his attention.
Although for the purpose of attention-getting he uses other methods entirely...
I mentioned in my last post that my husband is sometimes still a thirteen-year-old boy. In my experience most guys are at various times in their adult life just kids. This is usually an endearing quality of his. I find it cute that he likes baseball, airplanes, candy, and bodily noises. I find it hilarious when his adult male mind reverts to making "pinning" jokes.
But, some things are less endearing than others...
He throws rocks at me. Junior high was not so long ago that I have forgotten that this is how boys flirt. I've taken my share of abuse in the name of 'crush'. But here's the thing: once you've got the girl, you can call off the aerial strike.
He always does this. He finds little pebbles or dirt clods and lobs them off to one side of me, just to see how long it takes me to notice. At softball games I am always just trying to impress him and make him proud. I get very focused. I ignore things like thirst and sun and projectiles. Ironic, isn't it? The very act by which I want to earn my husband's approval causes me to fail to notice his desperate plea for attention.
During this particular moment, I was shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot waiting for my father-in-law to pitch. What followed depends entirely on the perspective of reality you choose to believe.
From my perspective:
[I stared down the approaching batter. I glowered. There are so few opportunities in life to properly glower, that I was taking the most of it. I must have looked quite fierce, like a kitten attacking a laser pointer. My eyes narrowed in concentration, my toes dug into the dirt, my...
OUCH! What the crap was that?! Did I just get shot? I think someone shot me! Check the grassy knoll! (My hand flew up to my forehead to check for the almost certain gush of blood flowing down.) Looking up wildly to see if any further sniper shots were coming, I saw my husband...
The man I have stood by for seven years. The man whose children I bore, birthed, and raised. The man on whom my hopes of the last three years of grief and trouble rested, the protector of my family, the provider for our needs, the calmer of our fears. The man I committed to for better or worse.
The man who had just rocketed a boulder into my forehead.
He came jogging over as my face crumpled into my hands. "Are you okay?" he asked covered in concern and guilt (but still chuckling at the odds of making that shot - which helped matters immensely).
"Fine!" I nearly screamed.
"Are you sure, I'm sorry, I...."
"FINE!" I roared. "I.Am.Fine. But you need to go over there." I gestured madly at the shortstop position. He tried to continue speaking. But I kept pointing and growling, "Go over there!" ... Where I can't reach your throat with my nails. Where I can't scream at you in the tongues of men and angels. Where I can't start the first fight of our marriage over something so ridiculously stupid, but still downright infuriating! GO!
Another player jogged past and asked what just happened, "He hit me with a rock!" I shrieked.
Honestly, I wasn't that angry at him. I knew it was a mistake; I was 99% sure he would never purposely try to stone me. It was shock. The unnatural volume, the seething, the green I was turning and the sudden need for stretchy purple pants; it was all shock.
The pain was minimal. The lump was mortifying. I can't go to church like this! They give me grief enough for my shoes! Maybe I can get a haircut with bangs. Maybe I can run away to New Zealand. Maybe I can never ever leave the house again as long as I live. I suppose I should cut my husband some slack; at times, I am still a thirteen-year-old girl.
My primary consolation was, although I had forgiven him the second I looked up into those remorseful blue eyes, everyone else we knew would give him grief for weeks. Because I am a paradox: simultaneously merciful and malicious.]
His perspective: (and yes, I understand that it is not fair for me to be relaying his perspective, but I am only quoting from the story he had to relay 800 times after the incident.)
[You know when you are just messing around and it goes terribly, terribly wrong? I was throwing pebbles at her. I do this all the time. I picked up one and it was really flat, like you would skip across a river. Flat cylindrical objects tend to curve in flight. I threw it a good three feet out in front of her, and watched. Hmmm. That rock is turning. It's heading for my wife. No way.
Oh crap! I just hit my wife with a rock! Good thing we talked about this on the way here.
... What are the odds? That must have been a one in a million shot. That's pretty impressive.
... Do you think she's mad?]
We were on a roll. We took a marriage class, and the leader told a story about a couple who had been married for sixty-two years. At the husband's funeral, the wife laid her hand on the casket and whispered, "62 years and he never hurt me."
That was the goal.
Now, it will have to run: "75 years (we ain't quitters), and he never hurt me." Pause. "Except that time he hit me with a rock."
I love you, my un-matchable husband. And yes, it was a one in a million shot. Go you.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Thoughts and Answers
As I was helping my husband complete a dosage calculations exam (He was allowed to use any resources at his disposal including his not entirely unintelligent wife; we weren't cheating.), we actually had the following conversation concerning a problem.
Scene: We sit, both furiously setting lead to paper to discover how many ml/hr the nurse should infuse.
Me: 18.
Justin: What?
Me: It's 18.
Justin: What's 18?
Me: The number that goes in the answer box. It's 18.
Justin: (with a quizzical expression) Why?
Me: Because we only have 76 minutes and 35 seconds to complete the test.
Justin: No, I mean I want to know how you got 18 as the answer.
Me: (with a quizzical expression) Why?
Justin: I just want to know why you put the 'X' on top of the 75mg, not the other way around.
Me: (mournfully) I don't know! I just lined up the numbers and at the end an 18 popped out!
Justin: (about to argue, but seeing the anguish on my face, holds his tongue)
Me: Didn't you say nurses don't actually do these calculations on the floor anymore? Don't the pharmacists do that?
Justin: Yes. It just frustrates me.
Me: But we have the answer.
Justin: But I want to know why.
Me: (Knowing this means he is a better person than I am, I drop my head and desperately try to figure out how I got 18 [which was in fact the right answer], while miserably watching seconds tick away on the test timer.)
All I have ever wanted is the right answer in the box. He wants to know why. I admire that. I am almost sure it means he is much more intelligent than me... Or at least much braver. I want to be smart. He wants to think.
Reason #732 why I love him.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
The Countdown
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!
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!
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.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
My Fever Pitch
After saying that we come from very different backgrounds a coworker asked what it was that brought Justin and I together. She jokingly quarried if it was our mutual love of dance. While the Husband loves a good bit of experimental art and postmodern movement explorations as much as the next guy, no, no it was not a love of dance that drew us close. In fact, dance just about turned me into Justin's pre-ex-girlfriend.
The year was 2007. The soon-to-be husband had just returned from a year long stint in New Zealand, fall was setting in, and I was finishing my senior year in the dance department. I was immersed in aesthetic philosophy, movement-based existential ponderings, and rice (200 pounds of which was dumped on our heads as we dove across the stage... rice that is... no one dumped 200 pounds aesthetic philosophy on us... not quite sure how you would do that... unless Immanuel Kant decided to come contact improv with us). (Sorry, I'm fine arts nerding out.) I had never watched a baseball game on TV, I had never scarfed a cheese-stuffed brat, buttery popcorn, and Dipping Dots all in one sitting, I had never heard of the curse of the Bambino. I had written on a Contemporary Views assignment just days before, "NO to answers handed out with program notes to a generation never required to think." 'Cause I was a right, proper, elitist pain in the keister. (Do you ever wish you could go back in time and just smack yourself on the back of the head?)
Fall semester I was selected to perform in Ghostship, a work choreographed by my mentor, a brilliant and very lost professor. It was an incredible opportunity. It was exactly what I wanted to do, and several times I tried to convince said mentor to create a dance company and hire me to kick dance butt day in and day out.
At the time I was into Justin. Really into Justin. (In the same way that lobster is really into butter, Noah is really into bubbles, and baptists are really into coffee.) When the time to perform came I invited him to come to the show. In some small way I wanted him to understand what I do and to believe it to be incredible. Somehow, I thought 200 pounds of rice and a few knee-sades later, he would be smitten.
The night of the show came. I danced. It was awesome. He did not come.
I wasn't devastated. I just assumed this was some kind of sign. He just wasn't that into me, and I actually believed I could be okay with that. He chose not to come. We could still be friends. We were okay...
Until I saw him the next day. "So you weren't able to make it last night," I tried to roll out casually. I expected maybe an awkward moment, maybe a shrug, and then the mutual acceptance that life would continue much as it had, and, after every friend I grew up with was married off, I would run away to New Zealand, and live with the possums in the trees of Whangerei.
However, with barely a pause the Adonis replied, "Yeah, the Red Sox were playing."
I tried not to look like a semi-truck had just side-swiped my heart, backed up, and hit it dead on just to be sure it didn't try anything so foolish as love again. I tried to not narrow my eyes and turn very Gollum-like and wish death to Beckett, Ortiz, Papelbon and anyone else on the planet who wore socks of any shade of redness.
I was not entirely successful in masking the massacre of my heart. Justin suddenly seemed to realize he had said something not entirely endearing. "It's the World Series." He added for clarification. My face must have taken on a deadlier pallor.
The mean part of me, that part that I contain (but not overly well) spat out, "It's called a DVR." Justin muttered something else about this being the World Series, and his Red Sox, and a quarry on what my problem might be.
We started dating not too long after this incident. (After the Red Sox had defeated the Diamondbacks and in fact clenched the Series.) Awhile into our relationship I brought this incident up. I asked Justin if he liked me at the time. "Well yeah, of course," he replied. Apparently the confusion was written on my face. "It's the Red Sox," he re-iterated. As if all those months ago I hadn't heard him quite correctly. As if I should have been slapping my forehead with an 'Oh, it's the Red Sox, how silly of me, of course that's worth breaking the heart of your betrothed over.' Exasperated, the poor man declared, "We weren't even dating at the time!"
Somehow, that makes it worse.
But obviously not bad enough to break us up. Because here we sit, seven years later, he having attended a fair amount of dance concerts, and me knowing the Red Sox line up front to back as well as most of the bull pen. And in spite of our Fever Pitch beginning, we've managed to create something truly amazing:
A Red Sox fan, and
a dancer.
The night of the show came. I danced. It was awesome. He did not come.
I wasn't devastated. I just assumed this was some kind of sign. He just wasn't that into me, and I actually believed I could be okay with that. He chose not to come. We could still be friends. We were okay...
Until I saw him the next day. "So you weren't able to make it last night," I tried to roll out casually. I expected maybe an awkward moment, maybe a shrug, and then the mutual acceptance that life would continue much as it had, and, after every friend I grew up with was married off, I would run away to New Zealand, and live with the possums in the trees of Whangerei.
However, with barely a pause the Adonis replied, "Yeah, the Red Sox were playing."
I tried not to look like a semi-truck had just side-swiped my heart, backed up, and hit it dead on just to be sure it didn't try anything so foolish as love again. I tried to not narrow my eyes and turn very Gollum-like and wish death to Beckett, Ortiz, Papelbon and anyone else on the planet who wore socks of any shade of redness.
I was not entirely successful in masking the massacre of my heart. Justin suddenly seemed to realize he had said something not entirely endearing. "It's the World Series." He added for clarification. My face must have taken on a deadlier pallor.
The mean part of me, that part that I contain (but not overly well) spat out, "It's called a DVR." Justin muttered something else about this being the World Series, and his Red Sox, and a quarry on what my problem might be.
We started dating not too long after this incident. (After the Red Sox had defeated the Diamondbacks and in fact clenched the Series.) Awhile into our relationship I brought this incident up. I asked Justin if he liked me at the time. "Well yeah, of course," he replied. Apparently the confusion was written on my face. "It's the Red Sox," he re-iterated. As if all those months ago I hadn't heard him quite correctly. As if I should have been slapping my forehead with an 'Oh, it's the Red Sox, how silly of me, of course that's worth breaking the heart of your betrothed over.' Exasperated, the poor man declared, "We weren't even dating at the time!"
Somehow, that makes it worse.
But obviously not bad enough to break us up. Because here we sit, seven years later, he having attended a fair amount of dance concerts, and me knowing the Red Sox line up front to back as well as most of the bull pen. And in spite of our Fever Pitch beginning, we've managed to create something truly amazing:
a dancer.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Advanced Plumbingly Disinclined
In a Sunday school class on marriage I said that the Husband is not a fix it guy. I meant this as a great compliment. When I am distressed, when I have a problem, when I just need to rage, he listens with patience and tenderness, he holds me, and he does not fix it. When I am done being despicably dramatic, then he will sit down with me, and we will set about putting the universe right. But at the start he is singularly the most comforting, empathetic creature on our planet, like a big panda bear... except chiseled out of granite like a Greek god... like Panda, the lesser know god of being an incredible husband and patron guardian of softball players... I digress.
What I did not mean is that Justin does not fix stuff around the house. He does. Oh, does he. It's part of his divine character. ... I am not sure if I mean that statement in a christian way or if I am referring back to my earlier pagan reference. Somehow this all went very wrong.
The Husband fixes cars, he digs up and repairs sprinklers (Often. There are two seasons in our house: Winter and Lowe's.), he lays carpet, nails up dry wall, balances washers, sews up couch cushions, and clips dog claws. He unclogs toilets, catches mice, hangs shelves, and threatens our Apple T.V. box with various hammers and mallets, until, quite embarrassed (and terrified), it starts working again (under the threat of Mjölnir). The fact that he has had to do all of these things, and mostseveral many times, is really just a little sad.
The thing is, he just doesn't have that kind of time anymore. Time not spent studying, eating, or sleeping (or some combination of those three) is stolen for his wife, children, and brief stints as a church drummer. Most of the time now shelves remain unhung, the Apple TV stays haughtily broken, the mice have to catch themselves, and the washer spins tipsy-turvy making that joyful, repetitive thunking sound - you know, the one that makes you want to gather your children and put out a For Sale sign. I don't know how to fix anything, and after a few misadventures, Justin prefers I just not try. Our home owner's insurance just doesn't cover acts of idiocy.
So when the bathtub started filling up, I ignored it. With water sloshing around my ankles, I sang a happy song in my head and kept my eyes up. When Dumpster jumped in the tub after showers and drank his heart's content, I closed my eyes and backed away. When the tub gurgled Liquid Plumber, like a child gurgles Cool-aid, sipped it down and remained stubbornly un-drain-y, I took deep breaths and contented to ten.
Finally, the Husband had enough. He took three minutes to assess, plan, and implement a solution.
Voila:
And yes, oh yes, that is a golf tee. I have no idea what the red thing is, but I am sure it also served a purpose for which it was not designed.
Oi. I don't know what else to say. This is where we are. And by grace we have golf tees from carefree spring days.
What I did not mean is that Justin does not fix stuff around the house. He does. Oh, does he. It's part of his divine character. ... I am not sure if I mean that statement in a christian way or if I am referring back to my earlier pagan reference. Somehow this all went very wrong.
The Husband fixes cars, he digs up and repairs sprinklers (Often. There are two seasons in our house: Winter and Lowe's.), he lays carpet, nails up dry wall, balances washers, sews up couch cushions, and clips dog claws. He unclogs toilets, catches mice, hangs shelves, and threatens our Apple T.V. box with various hammers and mallets, until, quite embarrassed (and terrified), it starts working again (under the threat of Mjölnir). The fact that he has had to do all of these things, and most
The thing is, he just doesn't have that kind of time anymore. Time not spent studying, eating, or sleeping (or some combination of those three) is stolen for his wife, children, and brief stints as a church drummer. Most of the time now shelves remain unhung, the Apple TV stays haughtily broken, the mice have to catch themselves, and the washer spins tipsy-turvy making that joyful, repetitive thunking sound - you know, the one that makes you want to gather your children and put out a For Sale sign. I don't know how to fix anything, and after a few misadventures, Justin prefers I just not try. Our home owner's insurance just doesn't cover acts of idiocy.
So when the bathtub started filling up, I ignored it. With water sloshing around my ankles, I sang a happy song in my head and kept my eyes up. When Dumpster jumped in the tub after showers and drank his heart's content, I closed my eyes and backed away. When the tub gurgled Liquid Plumber, like a child gurgles Cool-aid, sipped it down and remained stubbornly un-drain-y, I took deep breaths and contented to ten.
Finally, the Husband had enough. He took three minutes to assess, plan, and implement a solution.
Voila:
And yes, oh yes, that is a golf tee. I have no idea what the red thing is, but I am sure it also served a purpose for which it was not designed.
Oi. I don't know what else to say. This is where we are. And by grace we have golf tees from carefree spring days.
Friday, September 5, 2014
The Things I've Learned
My husband introduced me to many wonders of the world previously unknown in my small life. Like the mighty Chewbacca, the first wonders I think of are food-related: sushi, avocados, Indian food, and macaroni and tomato juice... okay, macaroni and tomato juice is not a wonder of the world, but when I can feed our entire family dinner for less than a dollar and leave the three of them smiling happily, it's pretty close to wonderful. Even the little one, who has no teeth (not sure what she's waiting on; life really opens up when you get teeth), loves it all smashed up and even nastier than usual. *
He also introduced me to sports. I knew sports existed, but I had no concept of how satisfying it is to see a 350 pound lineman smashing the enemy's quarterback like an over-boiled potato. (Ah, similes.) Since hooking up with Justin, I have experienced the desire to throw ball, putter, driver, bag, cart, and universe into a water hazard after recording yet another snowman. My voice has been shattered by screaming "GO UTES!" and "ATTA KID, Travis!" for hours at a time. And, I have had softball threads etched into my tibia and humerus as I attempt to stop a speeding line-drive with every conceivable appendage except the one with the glove on it. (Is your head considered an appendage?)
Thirdly, Justin has opened the door to the world of Marvel heroes, which the incredible Hulk succeeded in smashing shut behind me. I cannot remember the last movie we saw that did not have a superhero or a hobbit in it.
What do you say to the man who daily brings you so much joy that your heart might burst... like a bowl of mac and tom shattering on the floor... like it was smashed with a line drive... like The Thing and Hulk got in a fight over it and scattered it to the corners of the universe?... But in a good way.
I love him. Lots. And if he ever tries to leave, I'll kick him. Hard. And I never thought, after six years, I would still be so smitten. Happy Anniversary, husband. You've done so many amazing and important things for me and in my life... none of which are listed above.
* Think this sounds odd? It is. Read more about mac and tom here: http://ririerantings.blogspot.com/2013/06/macaroni-and-tomato-juice.html.
He also introduced me to sports. I knew sports existed, but I had no concept of how satisfying it is to see a 350 pound lineman smashing the enemy's quarterback like an over-boiled potato. (Ah, similes.) Since hooking up with Justin, I have experienced the desire to throw ball, putter, driver, bag, cart, and universe into a water hazard after recording yet another snowman. My voice has been shattered by screaming "GO UTES!" and "ATTA KID, Travis!" for hours at a time. And, I have had softball threads etched into my tibia and humerus as I attempt to stop a speeding line-drive with every conceivable appendage except the one with the glove on it. (Is your head considered an appendage?)
Thirdly, Justin has opened the door to the world of Marvel heroes, which the incredible Hulk succeeded in smashing shut behind me. I cannot remember the last movie we saw that did not have a superhero or a hobbit in it.
What do you say to the man who daily brings you so much joy that your heart might burst... like a bowl of mac and tom shattering on the floor... like it was smashed with a line drive... like The Thing and Hulk got in a fight over it and scattered it to the corners of the universe?... But in a good way.
I love him. Lots. And if he ever tries to leave, I'll kick him. Hard. And I never thought, after six years, I would still be so smitten. Happy Anniversary, husband. You've done so many amazing and important things for me and in my life... none of which are listed above.
* Think this sounds odd? It is. Read more about mac and tom here: http://ririerantings.blogspot.com/2013/06/macaroni-and-tomato-juice.html.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Stuck
There are some dear friends of ours who are going through a hard time in their lives and marriage. They are both wonderful, amazing people, and this seems to have come out of left field (although we are very outside the situation). It is a solemn reminder that no marriage is invincible. As Justin and I prayed for them, for reconciliation, and for God to make the wrongs right, we were reminded to pray for one another and our small family too. This was our dinner prayer, and as it ended and Justin headed for the tuna (alas, yes, I am serving tuna for dinner. We will all turn into cats... and then I'll be allergic to myself.), I warned him, "You're stuck with me, though, okay? I'm not going anywhere."
The Husband laughed, gave me a hug, and told me, "I was just about to say, 'Poor girl, you're stuck with me.'" We are stuck with one another. Which I am pretty okay with.
We are facing a hard ten months ahead. Due to the greed and selfishness of a select few and a host of political issues that I don't fully understand, Justin's school is closing. The doors shut at the close of business May 31st, 2015. My husband has a year and a half of classes that he still needs to take, so the faculty very graciously came up with a plan to squeeze it all in before then. It will be a hideous ten months. The volume of material to read/learn, the time in class, and the completion of clinical hours means he will be a ghost around our home, and for added fun, not able to work. We will be living on my income. We have already decided to cancel all gifts for each other, we are getting rid of every little extra, and we are trying to find ways to work more now.
As we head into this time I am beyond thankful to be stuck with such an amazing man. For him, because we see the Light at the end of the tunnel, I can do this. With God's power we will outlast. I am so excited to see the other side as we prepare for ministry and service on the mission field. I am excited to see the man my husband becomes, how my children grow, how I change. When it all ends, I am excited to sleep in sometimes, and have ESPN so we can watch Ute games and baseball!
It's not just the end I am looking forward to, however. That is the hope. But I know the next ten months are life too. In the next year there will be laughter I wouldn't trade for the world, and tears that break me down. There will be family, and friends, and work, and play. There will be Christmas with a Charlie Brown tree and two beautiful shining faces, glowing in its twinkling light. When we first decided this was the road we would take, I had in mind to squeeze my eyes shut, plunge on, and hope it all came out all right in the end. However, I realize there is too much to see in ten months. I will not spend the next year blind. I will spend it stuck. And happily, happily so.
The Husband laughed, gave me a hug, and told me, "I was just about to say, 'Poor girl, you're stuck with me.'" We are stuck with one another. Which I am pretty okay with.
We are facing a hard ten months ahead. Due to the greed and selfishness of a select few and a host of political issues that I don't fully understand, Justin's school is closing. The doors shut at the close of business May 31st, 2015. My husband has a year and a half of classes that he still needs to take, so the faculty very graciously came up with a plan to squeeze it all in before then. It will be a hideous ten months. The volume of material to read/learn, the time in class, and the completion of clinical hours means he will be a ghost around our home, and for added fun, not able to work. We will be living on my income. We have already decided to cancel all gifts for each other, we are getting rid of every little extra, and we are trying to find ways to work more now.
As we head into this time I am beyond thankful to be stuck with such an amazing man. For him, because we see the Light at the end of the tunnel, I can do this. With God's power we will outlast. I am so excited to see the other side as we prepare for ministry and service on the mission field. I am excited to see the man my husband becomes, how my children grow, how I change. When it all ends, I am excited to sleep in sometimes, and have ESPN so we can watch Ute games and baseball!
It's not just the end I am looking forward to, however. That is the hope. But I know the next ten months are life too. In the next year there will be laughter I wouldn't trade for the world, and tears that break me down. There will be family, and friends, and work, and play. There will be Christmas with a Charlie Brown tree and two beautiful shining faces, glowing in its twinkling light. When we first decided this was the road we would take, I had in mind to squeeze my eyes shut, plunge on, and hope it all came out all right in the end. However, I realize there is too much to see in ten months. I will not spend the next year blind. I will spend it stuck. And happily, happily so.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Summer pics
Last post was a lot of jabbering, so this post will be more pictury, just to shake things up. Justin is playing in a softball tournament with his work. Here are his loyal fans paying so much attention (yes, that's his game going on behind us).
I cannot tell you how difficult it is to take a group selfie, when one member of the groups has arms too short to hold the camera far enough away to squeeze all our selfies in, one member is grouching because he is not allowed to lick the camera, and one keeps counting blades of grass with her big toe. It's like trying to take a selfie in a mental institution.
And before we move on, I feel I should apologize for Little Man's 'Luke Skywalkert/Aunt Beru' haircut. I am aware it's not his best look. He still wears it better than Mark Hamill though.
This is Baby Girl, and Big Little Man at Lagoon... speaking of not our best look ever..
My kids have a polar magnetization to water. They are part water monkey... (is that a real thing?)
I cannot tell you how difficult it is to take a group selfie, when one member of the groups has arms too short to hold the camera far enough away to squeeze all our selfies in, one member is grouching because he is not allowed to lick the camera, and one keeps counting blades of grass with her big toe. It's like trying to take a selfie in a mental institution.
And before we move on, I feel I should apologize for Little Man's 'Luke Skywalkert/Aunt Beru' haircut. I am aware it's not his best look. He still wears it better than Mark Hamill though.
This is Baby Girl, and Big Little Man at Lagoon... speaking of not our best look ever..
My kids have a polar magnetization to water. They are part water monkey... (is that a real thing?)
Monday, May 12, 2014
Grand Ambitions
Last night the husband sighed and said, "You know, if we had a whole day off without the kids or school or work, I bet we could..."
Before he concluded the sentence my brain jumped into annoying Google mode trying to guess the end of his sentence before he could get there.
"... plant our garden and clean the entire house."
"... go hiking and have a picnic in the mountains."
"... actually enjoy what married couples get to enjoy legally and without moral condemnation."
How did his sentence actually end? "... sleep the entire day."
Oh. Well. Yes, that actually sounds like the best of all possible options. Good plan, sir!
Before he concluded the sentence my brain jumped into annoying Google mode trying to guess the end of his sentence before he could get there.
"... plant our garden and clean the entire house."
"... go hiking and have a picnic in the mountains."
"... actually enjoy what married couples get to enjoy legally and without moral condemnation."
How did his sentence actually end? "... sleep the entire day."
Oh. Well. Yes, that actually sounds like the best of all possible options. Good plan, sir!
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Spidey Sense
I have never liked Spiderman much. That has nothing to do with this blog, it is just something I told a friend today and felt would be worth repeating. Irrational, much?
Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.
Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.
But somehow they feel he is there.
The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.
Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.
If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.
How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.
Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.
I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience
Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.
Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.
Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.
But somehow they feel he is there.
The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.
Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.
If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.
How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.
Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.
I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience
Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Scrubs, Socks, Mittens, and the Wizard
A glance at the current state of our family through four articles of clothing(ish):
Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:
Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.
* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.
Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:
(He's the tall cute one in the back.)
Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.
Really, what else needs to be said. I traipsed about the field all night in hot pink knee-high socks. It's a living.
Mittens - Baby Girl: Shortly after her four month doctor appointment, Hannah developed some skin problems. It started on her face and has spread to most the rest of her body. A lesser (meaning less cute) girl would be in a sad state, but Hannah wears her rough, flaky, and red skin like a champ (an adorable champ). The worst part is she scratches at her face when it itches. For any of you who have little ones, you know how hard it is to keep baby nails short enough that they can't claw themselves to within an inch of your sanity. So, in order to save her face and my nerves we have been putting mittens on her for the last few weeks. We take them off so she can play, and if her skin has a good day. Otherwise, Hannah has some version of mittens on most of the time. Like so:
And yes, she is wearing boy clothes. That's what happens with babies: they wear everything they own in one week and then spit up on the last God-forsaken outfit... or worse. Usually worse.
The Wizard - Baby Noah: (Before we get to the explanation, I apologize that I don't have a picture for this section. I'm having a devise transferring issue. Next post about Little Man, I'll get a good Noah pic up. Until then, our imaginations are woefully underused; dust yours off and make this as cute, funny, or boring as you want.) Noah loves his blankets. He's on a sure path to being the next Linus in Peanuts. He's not partial, and will drag any available scrap of fabric around, but there is one for which he has a slight preference: It is white with blue and silver stars all over and a blue trim. Lately he has taken to wrapping this blanket around his shoulders before scampering about the house chanting all manner of incomprehensible incantations. Shy of one pointy hat, he looks like a little wizard ready to turn Dumpy into a toad (not too much challenge, really entry level magic. The same thing could be done with a razor and a bowl of water).
There you have it: us by garment.
* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.
Monday, October 28, 2013
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."
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."
Monday, June 3, 2013
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 20th, 2007 and I left for New Zealand on July 19th, 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."
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