Guest Writer

This is Henry.
Mommy is kind of a blog-hog. Yeah, yeah, I know, mostly what she writes about is me, but I think I oughtta set the record straight a bit. (Besides, my buddy G-love writes his blog and he's just 6 weeks old. But Mommy says that if I must blog, I must do it fully clothed. I tried to explain about how G-love does it in the buff and she went all "if he jumped off a bridge" on me. Why is it always someone jumping off a bridge?) I have, however, decided to let Mommy be my photographer.
So, I'm a big kid now.
No. I still poop in my pants. Don't get that excited. My buddy Nano goes in the potty and if you ask me, that just interferes with the playing. I like to poo on the go. I've heard Mommy say that she has 3 requirements before she'll start "the training." The first is that I must be able to say the word potty, second I must correctly answer the question 'Do you have poop in your pants?," and three, I must be able to pull off my own pants. Well, the thing is Mommy, you know I can strip down on my own, but I'm gonna hold off on saying potty for awhile and why do you need me to tell you there is poop in my pants when you can so obviously smell it. You're already making me learn how to crawl in and out of my car seat on my own, so please, cut me some friggin' slack. (Yeah, I said friggin'. I know, I'll probably get taken into the dining room and talked to.)
But I'm a big kid because I now sleep in a big kid bed. And it isn't just any big kid bed--it's Mommy's big kid bed, so it is wicked old. The coolest things about the bed are that Mommy can sit in it with me to read me books and it is made of balls. Balls, I tell you. BALLS! Mommy says some people count sheep. I count balls. (Right now, Mommy is laughing because I keep typing the word balls. But I don't know what it so funny about balls.) And Mommy even put in my new bed the nap lengthener with my two new books I got for my happy birthday--Curious George goes to the Zoo and Thomas Gets Tricked. Sweet!
Mommy put the bed together all on her own, which made Daddy mad because apparently Mommy has a hard time listening to Daddy and remembering what he says. I think I can use this against her in the future. Apparently "forgetting" something means it is okay to ignore Daddy's request.
Mommy says I should hurry up and show you guys some pictures. She also says I've picked out too many pictures. But Mom, have you seen me? I'm cute. My Auntie Robin says I'm objectively cute--Not just, oh I love you because you're my child cute, but as in the cuteness to which other babies are measured. So no, Mommy, I do NOT think I've picked too many photos.

This me right after Mommy got done putting the bed together having a post-nap sippy of milk while reading a book. And yeah, I'm wearing pink. And no pants.

There is also this cool railing that comes up. This is why this bed is better than my crib. The crib just seemed unnatural missing a side and I did not like that. At all. And these bars are made of balls! Whoopee!

Mommy needs to shorten the nap lengthener. It kind of droops below the matress now and I have to dig out the books. But I'm pretty good at digging, so it works for now.

Gratuitous picture of me loving Dog. (Yes, Mommy, I know it is a bunny. Get off it, already. He is a bunny named Dog. Once again, my bunny, I can call him whatever I want.)

Mommy told me it was time to get down off my new bed. She seems to think that just because she tells me to do something and now it is easy for me to do it, that I will obey. Sorry, Mommy, I "forgot" to listen. Also, Mommy, you can take Dog and Dog-Dog away all you want, but seriously, you know you love to sleep too much to keep them away from me at night.

I do not want to get down from this bed. And why did you throw Dog and Dog-Dog out into the hall. Does the snapping photos of me when I'm in distress help, Mommy?

Al-bert, Al-bert, Aaaaal-bert! (As sung in Bye Bye Birdie)

Well, people, it's on. We have officially erased the pencil ink and taken out the sharpie--my embryo transfer will be next Thursday, May 7th. I saw on a church billboard the other day that May 7th is also National Prayer Day. I'm thinking this bodes well for us (although I'm pretty sure it is just delusions of grandeur that is leading me to believe everyone will be praying for me to get pregnant.)
The shots begin this Saturday. It should be interesting this time around with the shots as I'm enlisting both the doctor's office and some friends to cover the days when Sloan is out of town with work. So if you see me in the church bathroom next Tuesday with my fanny exposed and a friend armed with a needle, do not be alarmed. It's just the body of Christ coming together to conceive our child. Just another subtle reminder that this next child, like Henry, really belongs to His family and is just chilling out in our family in between now and eternity.
In other news, the weather report for Elizabethtown--pollen induced itchy throat and hormone induced acne, with a mild case of train mania. In the tradition of large storms, I have taken to naming my zits. (This tradition began in high school where my best friend and I had zits named Billy and Todd.) The newest zit is named Albert. And he is ginormous and in the middle of my cheek. My darling husband told me that my zit made me look like young. To which I responded, "So you're saying I normally look old?" (The train mania is because I am now spending large amounts of time coming up with the awesomest train track/building scenarios. The island of Sodor has never looked so cool. In order to do this successfully, I must play with my trains when Henry is asleep. That's right people, I'm playing with trains. Choo-choo!)
We've also made a compromise about the bed. Due to Sloan's errant crown, we had to trek down to NC for a dental visit to my dad. And Henry slept in my old toddler bed while we were at Gigi and Papa's. He did awesome. So we brought it back with us and are setting it up this evening before bedtime. I was a bit worried that it might be rickety because it is an antique, but my dad reminded me that back in the day they made all furniture out of actual wood.
Henry was also a champ this morning at his 2 year check up. And for those mom's out there with kids younger than 2 yrs old, get excited--no shots required at the 2 yr check up. SCORE!!! But his stats are thus--28.8 lbs, 36 inches, and 39.5 cm in head circumference. So yes, he needs a 3T for the length of his shirt, but can still rock the 12-18 month shorts.
Perhaps he is more of a string bean than a pickle...

2nd Annual Henrypalooza

We caved.
We put the crib back together, deciding that the night before a party was not a good night to be without sleep. (Of course, Sloan and I put it back together while both sets of grandparents were downstairs Friday night playing with Henry. It was only until the f-bomb was dropped at one point that we were informed that the monitor was on and our stressed out "how in the heck does this go back together/why don't we get your father who is an Engineer to help us" conversation was being blasted in stereo downstairs. Awesome.) We'd planned on transitioning back to the toddler bed last night, but our AC was on the fritz and thought that was an excuse to keep him the crib as well. On the one hand, I'm feeling a bit like we are pushing him too early. And yet, on the other hand, I know that I won't be able to pick him up much should next week's embryo transfer take and I'm pregnant. So, like many older brothers before him, Henry is just going to have to 'man up' for the sake of the family. So we'll try again later this week.
And in addition to caving about the crib, our boy is quite spoiled. He racked it up for his birthday. So much that I spent his entire nap time on Saturday playing with the toys myself. We now have Tidmouth Shed, Knapford Station (complete with a microphone), a tunnel that toots and hoots like an owl, and many other Thomas train tracks and accessories. It's pretty much awesome. But I think the day can best be expressed in pictures.

The newest Phillips family tradition--birthday breakfast at Dunkin Donuts. (And also the perfect opportunity for you to see his super cute birthday T-shirt I found on Etsy. Yes, I know, I could make this. And next year, I will.)

Henry eyes Mommy's sprinkled donut while the first round of Happy Birthday is sung. Sorry, Henry; you have to wait until the party to get your shirt dirty.

Another Phillips tradition--Henry goes to the nearby nursery to pick out a tree for Grandpa Phillips to turn into a bonsai. This year's pick? A juniper tree. To say that my father-in-law is into bonsai trees would be a gross understatement. He attends conferences, takes classes, and has about 50 of them on display in his Davidson home. I'm pretty sure it is because he understands the importance of a hobby when you're retired. Probably why after 40-odd years, he and Ruth are still happy. Having all your friends over to play with Thomas? Awesome! From left--Anna (4), Anna's daddy, Chris, cousin Jonathan (almost 6), Henry, cousin Joshua (8), cousin Isabel (almost 3), and Nathan (2 1/2).

Enjoying Mommy's cheap post Easter birthday party activity--a Henry Hunt (aka Easter Egg hunt.) Seriously, 100 pre-filled eggs for $2. It was a big hit and I highly recommend it.Henry finally "gets" opening presents. Except that he is not greedy enough yet to just open them and move on. Each toy requires at least 10 minutes of trying to open the box and yank all those pesky twist-ties about.

Henry learns early the key words to getting whatever you want--the words "Gigi" and "Papa" (my parents' grandparent names). Even when they left, he kept asking for them. I think he believes (and rightly so) that simply calling their names may just be the key to all his dreams coming true.How I know I was a bratty little sister. (Otherwise known as Henry's favorite gift--a snare drum from my sister.)
It took a couple of tries to work out that cupcake. Mommy forgot to turn off the ceiling fans. But 2 candles on a Curios George cupcake work every time. One iced candle for each of his girlfriends--Anna Banana and Sweet Isabel. It should be noted that we had a Thomas/Curious George themed party. We took the pickle to Party City and held up George plates and Thomas plates and told him to pick. He grabbed both and said, "George Choo-Choo." So we gave a nod to his favorite toy, Thomas, and a nod to his favorite book, TV show, and movie--Curious George.
Nathan shows Henry how to eat a cupcake neatly with a fork.
Isabel prefers the shove it in your face method. Jonathan simply sucked off his icing and then handed it to my sister, saying, "Here mommy. A cupcake for you." Sonya, being 7 months pregnant, appreciated the cupcake.
And how does one end the perfect day? At dinner with Gigi and Papa and the Pusey cousins, and a kiss from his favorite cousin, Isabel.

Happy Henry Eve

The nap lengthener does NOT guarantee that upon converting a crib into a toddler bed that your child will stay in his or her crib.

I just spent the past hour and a half getting Henry to stay put in his bed for naptime. He loves that he can get into it and out of it at will. First we just tried telling him to stay put and then leaving. Within thirty seconds, I would hear the pitter-patter of feet and the pulling out of toys. Specifically a giant tractor. So I'd go in and tell him to get back into bed. The tractor came with him.

Then I would hear the tractor against his bedroom door. So back into the Pickle's room. I then removed the offending tractor from his room and once again explained that it was nap time and he was to stay in his bed.

Failure.

So then I got my book and hunkered down in his rocker. He stayed put in his bed while I was in the room. But would talk to me and point out all the balls in his room. Then he threw Dog and Dog-Dog on the floor. Then looked at me. I said, "You need to stay in your bed. You're a big boy now. You'll be 2 tomorrow." So he'd lay down, cantilevering over the edge of the bed, and yank Dog and Dog-Dog back onto the bed with him after it was obvious I was going to be no help. After an hour of this, I thought, "Well, he knows the deal. I can get up and clean the house before both sets of grandparents arrive."

Nope. He just waited until he heard the click of his door and Mommy was out of the room to get up. So I went back in and began again. Telling him that he needed to stay in bed. I even laid down next to him in the crib and rubbed his head for awhile. I was confident that this time was going to stick so I waited outside his shut door to listen.

Within 10 seconds, I heard him playing in his drapes. I opened the door and he went "Uh-oh" and immediately ran back to his bed before I could even admonish him.

Which told me that it wasn't a matter of understanding what he was supposed to be doing, just down right rebellion. So I informed him that if he got up from the bed again, I was going to spank him.

He waited a full minute to get out of the bed this time. So, being a Mommy of my word, I went back into his room, armed with my spatula. "Henry, you need to stay in bed. You did not. You disobeyed Mommy. You are going to get a spanking."

"No no no no no."

"Yes, sweet boy. Mommy loves you too much to ignore when you disobey." And so I spanked him. Then held him and told him I loved him and forgave him. We prayed for Jesus to forgive him and to help him stay on the bed and to fall asleep quickly. All the while, Henry is crying and rubbing his eyes. So I decided to do something I haven't gotten to do in awhile. Rock my dear boy to sleep. By the end of the second verse of Amazing Grace, the Pickle was out. And successfully made the transition to the bed without waking up.

I'm thinking that Henry Eve is going to be a long night.

Since Sliced Bread

I have just had my best idea. I've invented something. And it may just revolutionize my life.

Okay. I'm using the term "inventing" loosely. It was misleading of me to use it in that second sentence without quotations around it. It would be more accurate to say I "McGuyver'd" something. And it is sheer genius. Genius, I tell you.

What is it?

I call it "THE NAP LENGTHENER." (But it can also be used to buy an extra 30 minutes in the morning.) In Real Simple fashion--it is a laundry bag that doubles as a book bag.

And Henry loves it. It is a big, big hit. At bedtime, I load it up with 3 or 4 board books and when I check on him before I go to bed, I put the books back in the bag.

The necessity that was the mother of this "invention" was that Henry is starting to shorten his naps and wake up before 7. Two things that just ain't gonna happen as long as I'm in charge. I just don't think it is rational to wake up before 7am if you have no where to be other than home. Gotta dr's appt, fine--set the alarm early. But there is a reason they call waking early "ungodly."

And as to the shorter naps? No, thank you. I know I'm spoiled that the pickle sleeps for three hours every afternoon. However, lately, he has been waking up after just 2. But I need these hours. I'd like to say that it is during these hours that I clean my house, work in the yard, bake bread, read the Bible, write the next great American novel. But mostly, I just check facebook, read my book, drink Diet Dr. Pepper, leaving said soda sitting wherever I want, and make lists of all the things I should be doing. (Or like today, I just sat on my bum, drank Diet Dr Pepper, and chilled out with the super cool Jenny and baby Gray. Gray is 5 weeks old and is going to be Henry's "baby" trainer. Henry likes Gray. He particularly likes to point at him and laugh. Not because Gray is funny looking or anything, but because Henry thinks babies are awesome.)

And it is working people! This afternoon, after my four hour lunch date with the Brocks, Henry stayed upstairs for 3 hours. After Jenny left, I turned on H's monitor so I could hear him when he woke up. About 20 minutes later, I heard some grunting and rustling. Then squeals of delight. Then laughter. Then "Ball. Ball. Woof. Woof. Meow. Boat. Boat. Ruck. Ruck. on-on! on-on!" (I think this means honk honk.) And sure enough, when I went to get him, he was laying back in his crib, with his head on "Dog" (the stuffed animal formerly known as Mr. Bunny) and his little feet crossed at his ankles and propped up on "Dog-Dog" (the one that actually is a dog), looking at the Babies First Words book, simply pointing and shouting out all that he saw. (Which essentially means that my son can read. He's that smart.)

I'm also hoping that the Nap Lengthener will work to keep him in his crib as we're converting it to a toddler bed this weekend. Should I be pregnant in a month or so, I won't be able to pick him up to put him in a crib and I'll be too tired to wrangle him back in his crib should it be a total disaster (which I'm expecting it to be for the first couple of weeks). My first goal, like a friend told me, is to simply have him fall asleep in his room and the majority of the items in his room to survive the night.

Come on Nap Lengthener! No whammies.

T Minus 18 Days

Yesterday, my facebook status was thus: "Elizabeth Johnson Phillips feels like she is taking crazy pills. Oh wait, she is. And they are giving her hot flashes."

It's on, people. And by it, I mean the craziness. I'm not so sure if it is the hormones I'm taking to prep me for my frozen transfer or if it is simply that I now have a good excuse for my normal craziness and so my ego has called shotgun, letting id have a chance behind the wheel. Pending my ultrasound next Monday, my frozen transfer (also known as the day I get to take my Valium) will be Thursday, May 7th. Having been put into various holding patterns whilst trying for Henry, I have learned to write this date in pencil. But it is on the calendar, nonetheless.

The craziness manifests itself in various forms. First, in general snappiness. As in I snapped at my sweet Sloan for letting the pots and pans soak in the sink, rather than praise him for letting me sleep in an extra 30 minutes on Sunday morning and oh yeah, emptying and filling the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. Then, upon recognizing that I'm a shrew of a wife, the second wave of craziness hit.

The crying. Because I'm a horrible wife. And why does he even love me when I am so mean to him? And then, when at church the sermon is on the road to Emmaus and I remember how Sloan and I fell in love, I cry even more. (Sloan and I met at a Recreational Ministries conference in Montreat. At the end of the week, the scripture Luke 24:13-35 was read and then we were paired off to walk a path and instructed to discuss the ways in which God had opened our eyes to Him and then at the end of the path, we took communion with our partner. I was paired off with Sloan. I have no idea what we talked about. I only remember taking communion with him at the end. I ripped off my chunk of bread and dipped it into the chalice of wine, and suddenly I knew I was standing before my husband. Despite the fact that we'd met only a couple days before.) So I'm crying and crying at church. Which led me to the following act at lunch.
Ordering a JUMBO strawberry daiquiri.(You know the giant glass normally refered to as a fish bowl? Yeah. That's the one I ordered on a Sunday afternoon.) This did not really help with the crying, because I cried at lunch when our server brought me a beef enchilada rather than a cheese enchilada. When I tried to explain to our server what was wrong, it went something like this--
"I wanted a cheese enchilada. I think you got confused because I ordered my son's cheese enchilada right after I ordered my Speedy Gonzales." The waiter flips to our order and says, "No. Beef." And then I start crying. "But I never would've ordered beef. We come here every week and I always order the same thing. Ask him, he's usually our waiter, and it is always cheese. But it's okay." So the waiter leaves. And then, when 5 minutes later I realize that I have not, in fact, asked for a cheese enchilada to replace the offending beef, I cry again. Enter Sloan who flags down our usual waiter and asks for a cheese enchilada.
The booze also did not help with the hot flashes. And because the back of my house is windows, walking around in various states of undress is not really an option. I'm reduced to boxer shorts and tank tops and cranking the thermostat to 65.

So if you decide to visit Elizabethtown, you may want to bring a sweater. And a sugar-rimmed glass.

Crafty McCrafterson

Remember the old craft contest? The one that put out the word that I was, at the very least, 1% dorky? It's been awhile since I've updated about that. Mainly because craft #2 has been sitting in my foyer ready to mail for the past month and this week it finally made its way to the post office.
Craft #2. A mix CD for my best friend since the 5th grade, Meg Jokinen. In compiling this CD, I waded way deep into my CD collection and the search engine on Itunes. And as I looked through various Fiona Apple and Alanis Morrisette songs, I wondered, "Why was I so angry in high school? I was skinny, had a boyfriend, drove a convertible, and had absolutely no bills or responsibilities whatsoever. Why was I listening to all that angry chick music?" But here is the play list. Because most of it would confess to things that are too embarrassing to mention, you will get no explanation as to why the songs were chosen.
Meg's Mix:
1. Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls
2.Fast Car, Tracy Chapman
3.Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
4.Lean on Me, Club Neaveau
5.If I Ever Fall in Love, Shai
6.Blister in the Sun, Violent Femmes
7.Like A Prayer, Madonna
8.Head Over Feet, Alanis Morrisette
9.Addicted to Love, Robert Palmer
10. Send Me on My Way, Rusted Root
11.Been Caught Stealing, Jane's Addiction
12. Through the Eyes of Love (Theme from Ice Castles), Melissa Manchester
13.It Had to be You, Harry Connick, Jr.
14. The Nightingale, Julee Cruise
15. Romeo and Juliet, Dire Straits
And there have also been other crafts made for Henry's Auntie Ann who is having a baby in a month. We made Baby Long a diaper cake (containing both size 1 and 2 diapers, thank you very much) and painted the baby a picture for his or her little nursery. Oh, how we love Auntie Ann and Little Long! (And let's take a moment to reflect on how blue really is sweet Auntie Ann's color. I mean, has an 8 month pregnant woman ever looked so beautiful?!)

And Henry did help with the cake. He put the links together for me and didn't put a single one in his mouth. What a champ!

The face (and laughter) of compassion

It is no secret that I'm completely smitten with a one Master Henry Marshall Phillips. But sometimes, I'm so overcome with with love for him that I can't help but smile. Particularly when I get glimpses into the man he will become. From what I've seen today, he will be funny and he will be a good friend. (Not unlike his father.)

This morning, Henry "told" his first joke. Every morning when we walk down the stairs, I ask him to point to various people in the pictures on the wall, and he lovingly obliges. On several occasions, when asked to point to Mommy or Henry, he's pointed directly at me or himself, respectively. To which I always chuckle and say, "Well, yes, but where is Mommy in the picture?" This morning, we were putting away his trains into their Tupperware containers. (I've had to 'box' up all his toys in an effort to encourage him to ask for help. Despite having bought the most complicated and child proofed bins, it took all of 20 minutes for him to figure these out. He's also learned how to unzip the laundry bags the toys are in. And oh yeah, he even knows how to pull a stool up from the island, climb up it, undo the safety latch on the pantry doors, climb back down, move the stool, open the pantry door, and then climb back up the stool to fetch the goldfish box. Where am I during this? Usually just standing in awe at my boyish son, watching him sit elbow deep in the box of goldfish, thinking, "Why does he need to ask for help when he so obviously does not need it?" But his speech therapist says that asking for help is her goal for him, so I'm trying to raise the first man who will ask for help.)
Okay, so back to putting the trains in their containers and his joke. I'm naming all the trains and saying, "Bring me Toby. Put Toby in the box." And he brings me Toby and places him the box. "Okay, bring me Henry. Put Henry in the box." And the boy grabs the Henry train and his tender and then proceeds to jump into the box himself. Then he says, "No no!", throws his head back and just laughs and laughs. Then he steps out of the box, and through his laughter says, "Choo choo!" and then places the Henry train in the box. I gotta tell you, his first "joke" was a hit. He had the whole audience laughing. (And by whole audience, I mean me.)

Also this morning we went over to watch his BFF Nathan and Nathan's sister Anna. Nathan is 5 months older than Henry and Anna is 4. Nathan was playing with his dad's recliner and popped open the footrest, which he knows he is not supposed to do because it is a finger chomper. So I made Nathan set the recliner aright, and then we went into the dining room for a little refresher on recliner protocol. And then I made him put his nose on the wall and wait until he could play again. (Yes, I know this is a bit school marmish. But I've found that having to take a breather while watching others play is a bit much for a 2 year old boy to handle, so making him face the wall is actually me showing grace to him. And making him concentrate on keeping his nose to the wall is the only way I've found to keep a toddler occupied and actually turned in one direction.)
Well, Henry began to look for Nathan. "Nay-no? Nay-no?" To which, Nathan responded, "In here, Hen-hee. I rouble."
Henry proceeded to go into the dining room and join Nathan. He pressed his nose up to the wall beside Nathan, and put his hand on Nathan's back. This was a point of conflict for the older sister. "You are supposed to be alone when you are in time out." But I looked at her, coloring in the kitchen, and then looked at these two friends bearing one another's burdens, and told her, "You know, Anna. I know Nathan is supposed to be by himself during time out. But Henry is being compassionate. He is being a good friend." To which Anna responded, "Well, then I guess it's okay." "Yeah, Anna, " I said, "I guess it's okay too."
And the two boys stayed there, with their noses mashed against the wall, for probably another 30 seconds, until I said, "Okay, Nathan. Time's up." And then they went back to playing, fighting over Thomas, because while Henry can bear his friend's burden and be with him in his distress, he cannot seem to part with either of the blue engines.

Epistemology*

Truth presents itself in paradoxes--Truth is both objective and subjective. Truth is both absolute and relative. These paradoxes point out that an understanding of the words "true", "truth", and "truthful", etc. depends upon the context in which one is discussing truth. For instance, truth is relative when one is discussing a proper course of action within time, as in the statement, "Henry needs to be spanked." People might agree or disagree wheteher that statement is true in any individual situatuon, but no one would say it is always true. Truth is subjective when one is discussing a matter of perception, opinion, or personal taste as in, "Baskin Robbins' Chocolate Chip Ice Cream is the best ice cream around." Because subjective truth is perception-based, it does not adhere to the law of contradiction, therefore there can be multiple subjective truths. Absolute truth is like highlander--"there can be only one." Absolute truth is true at all times and in all situations, regardless of circumstances.

Okay, now that we've got the prolegomena** out of the way, let me propose the following absolute truth:

When one receives in the mail a box of fertility drugs, the number of valium should be directly proportional to the number of giant needles.

This, however, is not the case. I got a box containing 90 pills, 4 vials of progesterone suspended in oil, 40 syringes, and 40 ginormo needles, and 1 measley 5mg of Valium. (Ginormo being the technical term, seeing as we're having a vocabulary lesson today.) I had remembered the needles being approximately 4 inches long and about a cenimeter in diameter. Umm, I was a bit off. The needles are only 2 1/2 inches long and have a 21 gauge. 21 gauge is roughly twice the size of your average mechanical pencil lead. Talk about a pain in the butt.

1 valium? One? Uno? Une? Ein? This is for the day of the embryo transfer. A day that barely warrants a valium. What am I supposed to do the day I'm all hepped up on hormones and I finish my book and don't know what to read next? This has caused a mental breakdown in the past. Or how about when I realize that the shirt I want to wear is in the dirty clothes? What is going to keep me from falling on the floor in a puddle? Not valium, because I'll only have one.

And how is Sloan supposed to relate to me when I am uber-crazy? He's grown accustomed to living in Elizabethtown. (Elizabethtown is the land where I am mayor, homecoming queen, and most likely to succeed. And everyone else is expected to be a mind reader and oh yeah, my servant. My word is law in Elizabethtown and nothing is ever my fault there. Elizabethtown is not to be confused with Glendaville, where my mother reigns, everyone has a maid, and conflict is avoided at all costs. Glendaville is ruled by martial law enforced by a Sheriff who goes by the names Luke, Dad, or Papa. Elizabethtown is also not to be confused with Sonyaburg, my sister's township, which is completely chaotic, overun by children, 30 minutes late, but overall the sanest of the three towns as it attempts to be a benevolent dictatorship.) But on hormones, Elizabethtown gets all colonial and tries to expand its boundaries.

So Sloan should probably receive a prescription for Valium as well--because I ain't sharing mine.

*Epistemology is the study of human knowledge - the grounds and conditions under which we can know anything. Basically, it is the study of the nature of truth. (See Dad, I did do more in seminary than square dance and get a husband!)
**Prolegomena--a big old word which basically means preface. Or the things you must know before you begin. (That's more than a 10 cent word. It's probably worth a dollar.)

It's okay to steal Easter candy from a baby, right?

In case you've been worrying that I've been all doom and gloom, stumbling around in the dark for the past few days, God has given me this little person who really doesn't care if I'm morose--he still wants his sippy and oh yeah, why can't we eat Easter candy every meal? What a joy Henry is. Who woulda thunk that I would someday know ALL the names to every train on Thomas? But here are some snapshots to prove that we do still know how to have a good time around here.

Henry's first sleepover--and with a girl no less. My friends the Cowleys made a pit stop at our house driving between Charlotte and New Jersey, and we decided to let their eldest, Jenna (2 and a half) sleep in Henry's big boy bed while Henry slept in his crib. Henry was soooo excited to wake up and have a friend so close by. And I was sooo excited to steal snuggles from Jenna's little sister, 3 month old, Peyton. According to Sloan, I look good in baby.

At the Carrolls' Easter Egg Hunt. (Soo unlike last year where he was asleep the whole time.)

I had to take Henry off the beaten path to explain why we don't steal other kids' baskets. Notice that he is not paying attention to me. I think he is distracted by the beautiful landscaping. He wants to know, 'what is that soft plush green stuff that's everywhere?' It's grass, Henry. And no, we don't have any of that in our yard.
1. Why didn't my husband tell me to take off the stupid bunny ears? 2. Please note that I am wearing long pants and a sweater. Henry is wearing shortalls. Yes, my son is placing fashion before comfort. It was around 60 degrees and overcast, but how often can you wear an outfit with bunnies painting an Egg? It is a hand-me-down from H's cousin, William, and I'm certain my sister-in-law's mom paid a lot of money for this cute outfit so we were gonna get some wear out of it!

Broken Arrow!

Yeah, I can hear you calling for me, Daddy. But running in laps around the Carrolls' house is lots more fun than listening to you. Everything is so neat and well groomed. Although they sure could use a dirt pile like we have.
Hey, I wanna go inside. It looks warm in there!

Okay, now we're getting to the good stuff. I've been training for this since Autumn when Mommy made me pick up acorns.

Mommy, I don't mind being near the giant bunny. I'll even run up to him and slap him on the knee for you and laugh so hard at this I'll fall down. But if you try and make me hug him, I'm gonna rip the flesh off your neck.

Now this is what I'm talking about! I got my cars, my bunnies, a new sand bucket for the beach, and my peeps. And no, Mommy, you can't open them so they go stale and eat them. (Little does he know that I had to rebuy his Easter candy three times. And the first time the candy was purchased at Costco!) Mommy, this is my breakfast. It's Sugar Sunday after all. (We have a strict "Sugar Sunday" policy at the Phillips house. One must eat sugary cereal for breakfast. It's how we keep the Lord's day holy. Well, that and a trip to Casa Grande after church.)

Remembering Thomas

This is a 2 post kind of day. If you haven't read my earlier post, you should probably scroll down first as this may not make any sense. (It still may not.)

I was praying this afternoon on my way home from the memorial service. Well, I'm calling it praying because I was, in fact, talking to God, but not really so much in a reverent way. It went something like this...

This really sucks. And You keep reminding me of passages where you warn about this sort of thing. I know You said that in this world we'd have trouble but to take heart, You've overcome the world. But this is ringing hollow. What the hell does "take heart" even mean? Are you telling me to cheer up? And what does Your overcoming the world have to do with this tightness in my chest when I selfishly think, "Dear God, what if it had been Sloan?" Would I have to move back in with my parents? Would my brother step up to be the man in Henry's life?

Yeah. I know. This isn't about me. And I'm a selfish prat for thinking this way. But Lord, I just find no solace in the knowledge that you have overcome the world. What's wrong with me? If I am not moved by what you have already done, what else will it take?

But then suddenly, as I crossed the James, I remembered Thomas. I remembered that he didn't believe his friends when they said they'd seen Jesus. He told them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it."

And I remembered what Jesus did. He showed up, and lovingly told Thomas to touch his scars. And at this thought, I broke. (And it is quite dangerous to be crying in five o'clock traffic.)

What broke me was two-fold.
1. Jesus didn't admonish Thomas for his unbelief. Sure, he blessed those who believe without seeing, but he didn't tell Thomas he was foolish or out of the club for asking to reach out and touch him. He lovingly obliged him.
2. Jesus had scars. His glorified body still bore the marks of my sin. And these scars are what brought Thomas to greater faith. And my scars will continue to bring me to greater faith. They will turn from festering wounds to battle scars, telling of all the times God conquered death in the war zone of my heart.

And that, my friends, is a big friggin' deal.

BFD

I've had a difficult time with Easter this year. Maybe not as bad as when I was cussing about it when in the hospital, but just an Easter that has been somewhat joyless. And that's a real bummer, because in my mind I know Easter is glorious. It is life defeating death. God conquering sin. Joy triumphing over sorrow. But I still don't get what I'm supposed to do with that knowledge.
I'm just neck deep in cognitive dissonance. In one hand, I'm holding onto the knowledge that God loves His people and is for them. That He is so for them that He left comfy heaven to come to stinky earth, dwell with us, wash our feet, let us spit on him and kill him, and then, holy freakin' cow, rise again so that we might share in his glory. In the other hand, I'm holding onto the knowledge that life is hard. And rarely does it make sense.
Last week, the husband of an acquaintance of mine died. In his sleep. He was 44. I don't have a category into which to put this information and so it keeps ping ponging around my brain. I mean, who, in the 21st century, thinks of a young widow? I'm just not understanding it. And what aggravates me most of all is that I know I never will.
Sometimes bad things happen, like say, being infertile. But weeks and months go by and you can see God's hand in it. You can look back and see how it was a blessing and continues to be. So the pain is bittersweet. Still bitter, but bittersweet.
And on Easter, I'm supposed to be proclaiming, "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" But I feel death's sting--I don't really need to ask that question. The truth is death stings. And it is supposed to. It is a sign that the world is broken. But what is also true is that Easter happened and so that while death stings, it does not have the last word.
I would like to wrap all of this information up in a neat little theological package. Something that would make a great sound byte. Something I could put on a sticker--you know, "Smile, Jesus loves you" emblazoned over a rainbow. But that makes me want to punch someone in the face.
I don't think God is asking me to suck it up. I think that would be the opposite of rightly looking at Easter. I just don't know what living out the joy that Easter brings is supposed to mean. I don't feel joyful.

I feel like saying "He is Risen"--big flippin' deal.

I'm just thankful, that as I think that, I can hear the Spirit within me asking, "Well, Elizabeth, can you think of anything else that is a bigger deal?"

No. I cannot.

So I will not let the darkness allow me to forget what I've seen in the light.
So until He flips the lights back on, I'll try to remember where the furniture is and pray I don't stub my toe.

If Jesus Had a Farm...

Henry would be the shepherd.
Maybe because it is Easter, or because the Tarheels won and our Ramses porch flag is flying, or maybe because we live near a couple of farms, but sheep and lambs have replaced Dogs as the pickle's favorite animals. We'll drive down Huguenot trail, and suddenly I hear "Baa Baa" at increasing volumes as we pass by the sheep. I point out the cows, which get a disinterested "moo", followed very quickly by the boy's loud bleats.
This has also led me to introduce the never-annoying song "Barbara Ann." I'll sing a round of it, and then Henry will go "Baa baa baa, baa baa baa Ann." We even sang it this morning in The Fresh Market, to the delight of the cashier.
My favorite little lamb sounds came last night at our church's Maundy Thursday service. Normally, Henry is in nursery during big church. But since there was no nursery provided, Henry was strapped in his stroller, armed with goldfish, a fire truck, and some color wonder markers. We learned quickly why we keep the pickle in nursery.
The boy is a talker. Particularly when his mommy is a reader. So I'm up on the chancel reading scripture. From Exodus about Passover. And every time I say lamb, sheep, or goat, I hear a "Baa" from Henry. It took every ounce of power not to laugh. (Like I did later in the service when he belched during the prayer.) It was also very sweet when, while the elements were being passed and the hymn had been sung, Henry and another baby began to chirp at one another. You'd hear "Ahhh" from Henry. "Ahh" from somewhere behind us. Then the shushing of the two mothers. Then Henry started laughing, which made a bunch of others start laughing.
I think the chirps,the laughs, and even his little bleats are fitting. They are the noises of the people of God. And at least at my church, we're a noisy bunch.

First Office Visit for Q

My sister is expecting her 8th child, a boy, in June. We lovingly are calling this child "The Ocho." Yes, it should be el ocho, but The Ocho is funnier. While praying and waiting for Henry, we called him "Baby P". Well, now we are on to Q. I like this. It makes me think our second child will fashion lots of gadgets. Which will work well seeing as Q's older brother can turn a matchbox car into a cell phone at will.


Yesterday was my first official return to the wacky world of assisted reproductive technology. This time will be easier because I know what to expect and also, we'll be doing a frozen transfer of embryos harvested in the quest for P. So less shots, drugs, blood draws, ultrasounds, and waiting. And they have even switched the protocol from four months of progesterone shots to 4 weeks of shots followed by other means of progesterone therapy. SOOO happy about that one.


So I had my physical and trial transfer yesterday and got all of my prescriptions. My insurance may pick up the tab for the scripts this time as we're not actually trying to grow any eggs. We will be keeping our fingers crossed as this will save us around $700.


For now, I'm just beginning prenatal vitamins. (My hair and nails thank you, Dr. T.) At the beginning of my next cycle the craziness will begin. I'll start pill popping estrogen and baby aspirin and injecting progesterone. Then possibly around May 14th, we'll do the transfer.


They'll thaw out the embryo on the day of my transfer. I have four on ice. Because they were frozen in pairs, they'll thaw out two. My embryos are technically blastocysts at this point. This basically means they have greater cell division. Blastocysts are the most fragile and least likely to make the thaw of all embryos. That being said, should a blastocyst make it through the thaw, they are more likely to become viable pregnancies. So it could be that we thaw out 2, none of them are viable, so they very quickly thaw out the next two.

On the one hand, I'm nervous about the ethical (and logistical)dilemma that the thawing of two embryos at a time raises. What if both look fabulous? There is no refreezing these puppies and I'm also adverse to just tossing one. So then we'd have to transfer both. And then what? Pray for twins which will inevitably put me in the hospital on bed rest, wreaking havoc on Henry and Sloan? This is not a welcome thought. But it's a reality.

And so once again, I'm trying to trust without understanding. I trust that God is far more capable at managing all of the details. In fact, I'd say it is pretty fair to state that God is better at extending grace through my mistakes than I am at making good decisions. So there is some peace in that. Rationally, I'm quite calm about all of this. God is going to do His thing. He's going to show us His power and love for us. All I gotta do is wait and watch.

There have been no mental break downs this time around. I have yet to cuss out anyone I see that is pregnant. And I've been careful to only hold sweet babies like the 3 week old, Gray Brock, for a couple of minutes for fear I may want to steal him. Not that I'd really steal him. But the fact that I've consciously decided that it'd be better to steal a stranger's baby than a friend's gives me pause and insight into the depths of which my sin and desire for a baby could take me. So the restraint is really a stop gap to keep me from those baby-stealing thoughts. Yeah, it's funny for a bit--ha ha, don't leave me alone with your baby--but the fact that I've actually decided who amongst my friends' kids could be passed off as my own is not so funny. (Reppards, Puseys, and Cowleys are in the clear thanks to your fair haired genes.)

And yet, my body is still betraying me. As in, I've broken out in hives. Everywhere. At first I thought it was poison ivy from all of the yard work I've been doing lately. But the rash that used to just be at my neck spread to everywhere on my body save my back and face. And seeing as I'm not the type to do yard work in nothing but a bikini, it is safe to say it is NOT poison ivy. And, wouldn't you know it? The steroids the doctor has put me on mess with your cycle AND make you irritable.

Just what I need.

And yet, not because I'm level headed or pragmatic (2 words that have NEVER been used to describe me), I'm not really peeved about the snag this may or may not put into our plans. It is what it is. And this lack of hysteria, my dear friends, is a sign that God is at work already. I called the nurse at our fertility doctor's office to tell her that we'd probably have to wait until June to do the transfer and was completely cool with it. She thinks it may not mess me up, but I'm not even crossing my fingers.

What's an extra month? The earth will spin 30 more times. Big deal. I'll still have a lifetime to be Q's mommy and smother him or her with kisses. Besides, I've still got a big 'ol box of wine in my fridge and it isn't going to finish itself.

Tags

I'm pretty stoked that Courtney at The World According to Mommy tagged me for her "7 things you don't know about me" thingy. I feel a bit like her tagging me is a way of her saying, "Hey, I like you. Let's be friends."

You should know that I've never met Courtney. She lives in Austin, TX. We have become friends because of our blogs. Friendship is a weird thing in the 21st century. They say women count friendships based upon shared intimacy, men based upon shared activity. This is why 2 men can watch game after game with their best friend and yet still manage to not know the names of each other's kids. But this also explains why through the internet, I have managed to reconnect with my bestest ever camp friend, befriend someone that camp friend took pics of (the aforementioned Courtney), keep tabs with a woman who was in my bible study and helped pray Henry into being before she moved off to Alabama, and oh yeah, my favorite--the internet has helped me become friends with a girl Sloan dated in high school.

Despite their public forum, blogs have a way of bringing to light our hearts. This is why blogs are popular. Much of our culture shies away from honesty and vulnerability, and yet, without vulnerability--friendship, love, and community are impossible. And I'm grateful that the despite its new-fangled media outlet, blogs shows us that words still matter. Books matter. The pen is ever so much mightier than the sword. Hoorah!

“7 Things You Don’t Know About Me” Meme Rules
1. Link to your original tagger(s) and list these rules in your post.
2. Share seven facts about yourself in the post.
3. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they’ve been tagged.

Here are my 7 Things:

1. I was on Student Television in college. I'm pretty sure I was the only girl in a sorority to work at Carolina's STV. I hosted a live call-in love program that aired at 11pm on Wednesdays. It was called...wait for it...Live at 11. Take a moment to imagine who watches student television. Now imagine the people who call into a student television love advice program. If you are imagining the zitty roommates of the STV workers and potty humor, you have correctly imagined my TV show.

2. I know how to square dance call and even have several square dancing records in my collection. This is a skill I picked up in seminary. (I also learned how to make puppets and about 100 different crafts to make out of scrap pantyhose in this class. It was called "Multi-generational Recreation." We square danced at a local nursing home. When I talk to my dad about the grad school he paid for, I usually do not mention this class.)

3. I sleep with a teddy bear. His name is Baby Pea.

4. I love going out to dinner. This is probably because I hate hate HATE cooking. I do, however, enjoy baking because it requires using my pink mixer.

5. As a kid, I used to compete in dance competitions. Think big hair, sequins, and Jeanne Bennet make-up. And oh yeah, I have about a three foot tall trophy that proudly displays that in 1988, I was 1st in the nation in the Jazz category.

6. I made dean's list all 8 semesters I was in college. In fact, I made either an A, A-, or B+ in every class but 2. And the 2 classes I made lower grades in were the classes that I took as filler. Seriously. Geology 101--aka "Rocks for Jocks". The problem with Geology 101 was it was at 8am and, oh yeah, a class about rocks. I also bombed some Psychology class I took my junior year that all the cool people took to get an easy A. I got a C. I think attendance was something like a third of your grade. Well, have you ever been in Chapel Hill in the Springtime? There were blue cups to be drunk and darts to be thrown. And from the few classes I did attend it was all hippy dippy junk about shockras, shamans, and vision quests. I happily earned that C.

7. I have no heroes. It's not that I don't look up to people, it is simply that most of the folks I know are brave and lovely in very un-extraordinary ways. And I believe it would be a great disservice to them to idolize them. It is their brokenness that makes their bravery all the more impressive. But, if I were hard pressed, I would have to say that there are two main voices in my head that urge me on--my older brother, Bill, and one of my dearest friends and Creative Writing Professors, Doris Betts. They are 2 of the greatest blessings God has ever used to help me grow up and get over myself.

the people I’m tagging:

Jayme

Jenny

Ali

Shannon

Janell

Kristen

Michelle

Dearest Henry

Dear Henry,
This little note is to thank you.
Thank you for reminding Mommy what it will be like with no sleep.
Thank you for forcing to pray for patience and compassion as I parent you.
Thank you for convicting me of smugly judging other parents who have "fussy" babies. Thank you for waiting 23 months to become fussy.
Thank you for helping me put together all 8 puzzles you pulled down on top of yourself this morning because you were mad I turned off the TV.
Thank you for continually showing me how much I need Jesus.

But seriously, could you go ahead and get those last four teeth in? I know you're in pain, little buddy, but just because you are teething doesn't mean it is okay for you to throw all obedience and civility out the window. And this screaming and crying for every little thing has got to go. You are ruining my plans to read during your nap times by making me need those naps as well.

I love you, my little pickle. My little sour sour pickle. See you tonight when the Motrin wears off.

Love at First Chapter

I'm pretty sure that soon I'll be hosting a farewell party to "House of Mirth" as my favorite book.

I'm three chapters into A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and I am in love. By the end of the first page, I was reading slower. Like one would eat molten chocolate cake, I have to let the words sit in my mind for awhile, enjoying the flavor, before I can move on. Never before has a little girl sitting on a fire escape, eating peppermints and reading a book, captured my heart so completely.

It may be awhile before my next post. I'm planning on chewing on this one for awhile.

Bliss.