Thursday, May 28, 2009

Dear Neighbor

Filed under "Letters I'd like to Send".

Dear Next Door Neighbor,
I get it. You're an old lady with cats. At last count, I think you have five of them. That's cool. You're the old cat lady--that's your gig. Henry enjoys meowing at them whenever he sees them. What I don't seem to understand is why you let them roam the neighborhood. I was okay with it, sort of, when they'd wander into my back yard. Even when they crept into my backyard to poo. Even okay with it when Henry got to watch one of them drag a mouse from under your back porch to eat on the fence between our yards. (Actually, I really wasn't okay with that. It made Henry scream and I threw up a little in my mouth.)

You see, I hate cats. Wait, no, I don't think that quite explains the extent to which I detest cats. As much as I love my husband, that's how much I hate cats. I oppose cats as a species. I even look down upon people who like cats. (Sorry friends with cats. But it's the truth. There is only one thing on the planet I hate more than cats--Nicholas Sparks books and movies.) Let me explain. For starters, I'm allergic to cats. And I like to breath. Secondly, cats aren't friendly. In fact, they are snobby and stand offish. I find it offensive that a pet would make its owner earn its love. If I wanted that kind of pet, I'd adopt a middle schooler. Thirdly, what's up with the furr balls? Sure, dogs lick themselves, but they don't get all bulimic about it. Fourth, maybe I just saw it in a Stephen King movie, but I think cats are capable of eating human souls. Which may lead to the fifth reason I hate, no, detest, no, loathe cats--cat people. Seriously. You cat people are weirdos. You wear kitty sweatshirts. Have kitty posters. Hang Christmas stockings up for your cats and talk to me about them in the same way I talk about Henry. (News flash--pets aren't people.) Knit kitty sweaters out of kitty hair. And cat people have no idea that there are non-cat people out there, so when I come to your house and say, "Oh, you have a cat, I'm allergic," you don't feel the need to put your cat elsewhere. You, in fact, think it is cute when your soul-sucking snob of a cat wants to jump into Henry's bucket car seat. (I know of only one cat owner who is not like this--my dear friend Ann. Of all the times I've been to her house, the only way I know she has a cat is because he was on her Christmas card. A fact I'm only forgiving her because she said her husband made her do it. So maybe D is the crazy cat man and that seems to be Ann's problem, not mine.) Dog people aren't like this. The closest dog people get to that level of crazydom is those bone shaped bumper stickers. But even those people put the dog in the laundry room when they throw a party.

I think it can be aptly said that I hate cats more today than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow. So, neighbor, when I am bringing in groceries from my car and leave the front door open, it really is not okay that one of your practically feral kitties ran into my house. To say I jumped up my own fanny would be putting it nicely. You are lucky that your cat is fast, because Henry was chasing it, screaming "Meow Meow," while I was trying to lovingly kick it out the front door. It did, finally, make it back outside, but not before pooping in my foyer. So let me add to my list of reasons why I hate cats--cat poo.

My father thinks I should buy a BB gun to teach your cats to stay out of my yard and home. I will not resort to violence. But be on alert, cat lady neighbor, that my sister has teenage sons who have air soft pistols and they would love to resort to violence for me.

Thank you,
Your neighbor

PS. It would also be great if you could encourage the grown children who live with you to put on more clothing when they do yard work. Your son seems to be asking a lot of his shorts's drawstrings.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

In Case You Haven't Met Your Cute Quotient Today

My apologies to those of you who've already seen some of these on Facebook. The weather report for Elizabethtown today is sunny and clear and so I'm wanting to brag a bit about the cute little bundle of blessing we've come to know as Henry.

Henry's first trip into the ocean. Can you tell he loves it?

Touching a King Snake named "Link" at Alligator Adventure. He also touched an Australian Blue Tongued Skink. I kept calling it a "blue tongued skank" until Sloan chastised me saying, "Will you stop telling people we let our son touch a skank in Myrtle Beach? It's a skink!" Oops--two totally different things, skanks and skinks.

Driving the dunebuggies at the Pavilion Rides at Broadway at the Beach.

At Ripley's Aquarium. I promise that I did not plan for the boys to match. Sloan saw what I'd dressed Henry in and then changed shirts. That's just how they roll. Atop the "broken oak" at Litchfield By the Sea. Inspired by awkward family photos. (Thanks, Los for the tip off to this site. If you haven't ever been to this site, be prepared to lose an hour and laugh your tail off.)Because you can't go to the beach and NOT take pictures of your kid in khaki and white. I think there is some sort of fee you have to pay if you do not do it.
Making a break for it!Dear sweet Henry, I'm pretty sure that when you laugh, Jesus tells all the angels to stop their singing just so He can hear it.


Bye Bye Beach. Daddy promises a forlorn Henry that we will return to the beach soon.

Worst Phone Message Ever

I just left the following voice mail at Bethany Christian Services.

"Hi. This is Elizabeth Phillips. My husband and I are interested in adopting a baby but we don't know what to do. I'm sure there are papers we need to fill out, meetings to be had, and classes to be taken, but we really don't know what we're doing. (Pause as I consider that they are now placing me in a NEVER to get a baby file) Ummm. Yeah. So could you please call me and tell me what I'm supposed to do? Or whom I am supposed to meet with? Thanks. Oh yeah. This is Elizabeth Phillips. I can be reached at -----."

Awesome. I'm wanting to call and leave another message, remembering to tell them we are interested in a domestic adoption and that we've had friends adopt through them and go to a church I know they've heard of, but feel like that would be overkill.

Thank you Jesus for gently reminding me that when it comes to important things, I am so uncool. That most of the big moments in my life start off like an embarrassing episode of The Wonder Years. Geeze, Kevin. Why you gotta say that to Winny?

Monday, May 25, 2009

Unexpected Gravy

**** Written last week. On the day I took my pregnancy test.****

I love McAlister’s Deli. And they’ve left Richmond. But down here in Myrtle Beach, I am able to get my Spud Ole with extra onions fix on. Sloan, however, is not that big of a fan. But his love for me obliges me the occasional MD trip. Sloan this time ordered a “pick your own meats” deli sandwich. When it arrived at our table, Sloan’s eyes popped open. His sandwich was served with a side of gravy.
“Did you get the soup and sandwich?” I asked.
“No. I don’t know what this is.” He dipped his finger in it and tasted it. “Yes! It’s gravy. And it’s good.” So he eats his sandwich, dipping it in the gravy, dipping his chips in the gravy. Saying over and over again, “Oh my gravy. I need more of this gravy.” He even took Henry’s discarded hot dog bun and proceeded to dip it in the gravy. When there was nothing left to dip in it, he turned up the bowl and drank it.
“Today is awesome,” he proclaimed. “Nothing beats unexpected gravy.”

We just found out that our frozen transfer did not take. We will not get to meet or ever hold Baby Q and Tenderoni. I am not pregnant. I will not get to feel them kicking in my tummy or have that sweaty, I’m so tired I’m going to puke feeling post delivery.
We also found out that part of the reason the transfer did not take was because of low progesterone levels. Despite the fact that I’ve been injecting the junk in my heiny every day. Low progesterone is a common cause of miscarriage. It also has been the reason my bladder has been sore, I’ve been having hot flashes, and am peeing every 2 hours. I’d thought it was because I was pregnant. No not so much.
And we didn’t know what to do. Where do we go from here? IVF again. Shared risk like we did with Henry would cost 22,000 plus the costs of meds. And insurance covers nothing. What about adoption? That costs around 20,000, but at least comes with a tax credit. Am I really letting finances decide the future of our family?
But with IVF, I feel like I’m a bit in control of something. I’m being proactive. Taking pills. Getting shots. Procedure after procedure. Sure, God is in control—but I’m doing some of the heavy lifting as well. But with adoption? I’m not in control of anything. I’m just trusting God and waiting. Just being still and knowing that God is God.
Can I do that? I don’t think I have it in me. For all of my faith and belief, I must confess that I don’t know if I trust God enough to bring us a child. I don’t trust that I can be that patient. And to be even more honest, I must confess that God is causing some serious confusion and delay here and I’m pretty sure His plan is all kinds of whack. I’m not liking it. Not one bit. I’m pretty sure not only is my plan the better one, but His plan is just dead wrong.

And yet.

I feel a pull, a nudge, a tug towards adoption. It’s been growing for awhile. It began when we first were trying for Henry. With having a women in my bible study who has two adopted children. I confessed to her that theoretically, I thought adoption was beautiful. Maybe even more theologically correct than actually birthing kids. But that for our family, I didn’t know if my heart was ready. My friend assured me that preparing my heart for adoption was impossible. That it would be God’s job to prepare my heart.
And then I reconnected with a sorority sister who has recently adopted a beautiful little girl. And as she spoke of the process, despite the grief of losing a son and not being able to bear a child again, she was lit up. As we set in a Starbucks, joy radiated from her face like those sacred hearts of Jesus paintings . Something in my heart melted.

God was showing me his redemption of a broken heart through adoption.

But there are still questions. What will this child look like? Will he or she fit with our family? How will Henry react to him? Will she be introduced in pictures by relatives as “their adopted kid”? How would we react to him or her being sick if we don’t have access to their parents’ medical histories? Of if we do an open adoption is “Auntie Birth Mom” going to expect an invite to Thanksgiving dinner?

And yet.

God has made it abundantly clear that if my objections to adoption are unbelief, that He will give me greater faith. And that if my objections are what others will think, well, now—that’s just sinful. Sinful for other people to think anything other than our child is our child, and sinful of me to not heed God’s call for fear of what others may think. For the truth is this—God is in the habit of bringing together different peoples and making them family. It is, in fact, what He does best.
And so we will trust. And though our trust is feeble, it’s all we’ve got and certainly Jesus has fed the multitudes with less. We have prayed and will continue to do so. We have grieved Baby Q and Tenderoni and will continue to do so. But we will not being doing IVF again. We will trust God to bring us our child through adoption, ever praying, “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.”

Over and over I kept coming back in my mind to Romans 8:18-39. That we will hope for what we do not have. That the Spirit will pray for us as we do not know what to pray for. That in Christ, we are more than conquerors.
I am trusting that this, indeed, is the path God has for us. I am also reminded of Moses. That he didn’t have a Garmin to get him to the Promised Land. In fact, Moses never got to hear that lovely Australian lady tell him, “You have arrived.” Rather, he simply took one step of faith after another, following the Spirit of the Lord. So we are trusting God to be God to us. To be our help. To be our Savior. To be our Guide. Following that great pillar of smoke by day and fire by night.
And as soon as we made the decision, God brought us peace. Peace that with adoption there is no threat of death or bed rest and so I can be a better mommy to Henry. Peace that I will no longer have to suffer through the emotional and hormonal tornado of IVF. Peace that I’ll be able to go back on my meds for endometriosis and get back to a semblance of normalcy every 28 days.
While I have peace that this certainly is the right path for us, I must also confess that in addition to grieving Baby Q and Tenderoni, I must now begin to grieve the dream of being pregnant again. This, it seems, is a more in depth grief. A throwing in of the towel, even. Not a day goes by that I don’t think, “I wish I could just get knocked up by my husband like a normal person.” I told this to Sloan and he said, “Honey, nothing about you is normal. You’re fabulous. Why would this be any different? You don’t even want to be normal.” And he’s right. Even this week, I’ve loved driving in the special “Owner’s entrance” to the beach.

At dinner tonight, as we told Henry that Baby Q and Tenderoni went to be with Jesus (which was met with a sweet smile and then shoving more chicken into his mouth), we also told him that God was going to grow his new baby brother or sister in someone else’s tummy. (To which he looked down at his tummy. And then proceeded to point to his nose, eyes, and ears.) After dinner, we’d planned on some cuddle time on the couch with a movie, but Henry started saying, “Go. Go. Go” Indicating that he wanted to go on a golf cart ride.
I carried my sweet boy down the steps. Bounding joyfully not having to worry about his thirty pounds on my hip. As we were tooling around the neighborhood on the golf cart, I began to talk of all that I knew about adoption. “I think once you get your child, there is like a six month period where you are technically foster parents, then a court date, and then the child is legally yours.”
“Yeah,” Sloan said. “That sounds about right.”
“Well, the day after our court date. We are throwing a big party. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. We’re talking barbeque, everyone we know, maybe even a bounce house.”
Sloan started laughing. “I love you. There is no one like your Mommy, Henry. She is still grieving Baby Q and Tenderoni, and yet she’s so in love with your sibling already that she is planning a party for them.”

And that, my friends, is unexpected gravy.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Coming soon to Lifetime Television



The made for TV movie of my life. What will it be called? Elizabethtown, of course. (And yes, I did make Sloan pull off the interstate so I could get out of the car and take this picture.)

Literally, for at least 30 minutes a day and longer on the trips to and from, Sloan and I cast the bioepic of my life. I even decided some of the music for the Soundtrack. Because I have so many friends, we have only cast thus far my family.

The cast:

Me--Anne Hathaway. Yes, she'll have to Bridget Jones a bit to play the role. But if you don't think she has the comedic chops to play me, simply rent Bride Wars and pay specific attention to the Dance Off scene during the Bachelorette party.

Sloan--Ben Affleck. For a minute or two he was played by Neil Patrick Harris. And when he gets old he will sooooo be Alec Baldwin.

Sonya (my sister)--Mary Louise Parker.

Biff (Sonya's husband)--Tom Cruise. (This is a big budget made for TV movie.)

Bill (my brother)--Sean Patrick Leanard.

Pam (my sister-in-law)--Emily Proctor (of West Wing and CSI:Miami) Because Reese Witherspoon is too young and Julia Roberts is too tall.

My mom--Stockard Channing.

My dad--Henry Winkler. (Thank you Sloan for this perfect match as I couldn't get past thinking of Martin Sheen whose teeth are too huge to be a dentist's.)

Sloan's Mom--Sally Field.

Sloan's Dad--Brian Dennehy.

And from the soundtrack--

All My Life, David Wilcox

Wide Open Spaces, Dixie Chicks

Superstition, Stevie Wonder

Chocolate, Erin Ivey (for the sexy parts--I dare you not to want to make out with your honey to this song!)

One Angry Dwarf, Ben Folds Five (For the rolling credits, as a way to say "Hey, suck it!" to the people in high school who bothered me. That's right, I've got a bioepic on Lifetime. Only Kara's Tony award could top that in my graduating class.)

Superman, Lazlo Bane (Theme from the TV show Scrubs.)

Monday, May 18, 2009

no baby

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.

For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.

What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. Who is he that condemns? Christ Jesus, who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?
As it is written:
"For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered."

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:18-39

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Obedience, Black Bikers, and My Blogatical

Stairscream is gone.

Henry has now gotten the drill of coming down the steps on his own. He even re-latches the gate. (The fact that Henry can both unlatch and re-latch the gate, as well as figure out any anti-finger in socket device makes me think that any efforts to baby proof against him are futile.)

He also now knows to bring his diaper and lay on the floor for diaper changes.

He no longer throws his empty cup every time it is empty. About half the time, he hands it to me, say "Mommy" and then sign, "More, please." And even says thank you without being prompted when it is handed back to him. I can certainly tell that people (myself included) have been praying for him to have an obedient and humble heart. Thank you, Jesus. Now could you please give me one?

He has, however, not understood that "George is a monkey so he can do things you can't do." (This is the little legal jargon they say every Curious George episode.) And apparently, Henry CAN do the things George can. Like climb up out of his bed onto the top of his dresser to look at books and change his CD in his CD player. So now his bed is in the middle of the room.

Jenny (holding Henry who just loves looking Gray), Shannon (holding Gray), and me.

It has also helped that my dear friends Jenny and Shannon came over Wednesday to bring lunch, do chores, and "crazysit" me. (Does anyone else find it odd that no one in this picture is holding their own child and that Shannon left her 2 boys with Sugie?) Henry is very sweet with Gray. He giggles and runs around in circles for him and gently rocks his car seat. He also really likes Gray's froggy shoes.

We are very excited to take him to the beach. I have learned that it is supposed to rain all week. So we've looked up the Children's Museum, Aquarium, and various other child friendly activities. I've also learned that grizzly is an equal opportunity offender. As in, next week is Black Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. I was unaware Bike week was segregated. And let me be clear, it is all bike weeks that frustrate me. I merely find it both sad and comical that there is Black Bike week. (Sad because it is the 21st century and there are still groups that segregate and comical because Black Bike Week has a funny alliteration quality to it, particularly when my mom said, "Well, you know the blacks are coming on their bikes next week." "What?" I said. "All of them?") The bikes are noisy, the restaurants are full, and for the most part, the Phillips family has different grooming standards than bikers. Of course, I've only been at the beach during white bike week. When in front of the bar "Suck, Bang, Blow" there was a large construction sign signaling "Body found here Thursday night. Call 911 with info." So maybe black bike week will be entirely different. Maybe the first family will be there to classy the place up.

But as to next week. I will not be blogging. I will be taking a blogatical. I know this puts some of y'all's panties in a wad as I'll be finding out whether or not I'm pregnant next week. But I want to give my family some space. I want to leave my options open and not feel like I have to blog about every little thing. I want to simply feel and not parse my feelings for some greater truth. I will be in contact with some people in Richmond, so I'm sure were you to do some snooping, you'd be able to find out what is going on with Q and Tenderoni.


When trying for Henry, the first round was a bust. So I binged on wine, cigarettes and a giant bag of flaming hot cheetos. My friend Shannon had just met me and was on the church staff at the time when I emailed our pastor my plans. She says she was very concerned. Apparently, our dear pastor, knowing me, said," Nope. No need to worry. For her, this is the appropriate response."

The second round, we conceived but knew we would lose the baby. I didn't want to talk about it. To anyone. I was pretty much silent for a couple of weeks. Sloan says this is the most afraid for me he's ever been.

And then the third time, you know, the one they say that is the charm? Well I was sounding my barbaric yawp across the mountaintops.

I will be writing. Even though I said I didn't want to parse my feelings, just feel them, the truth is--I don't really get what I'm going through until I write about it. Hemingway once wrote that "The writer must write what he has to say. Not speak it." So I'm taking my laptop and my journal. And you may or may not get glimpses of it when I return after Memorial Day.

I will be reminding myself that no matter what happens, it is part of God's good plan for our family. That He will grow our family. In His perfect way and His perfect time. I've seen Him do it in the past and He will continue to be faithful. He can't not be faithful. He's a lot better at parenting than I am.

Have no fear, upon return, I'm sure you'll see some pictures of the pickle being cute on the beach. And I promise, should I see a road sign that says "Body Found" I will take a picture.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Not just a girl's name

Hope.

People say a lot of things about it.

Don't get your hopes up.
Don't give them false hope.
Hope is the thing with feathers (Emily Dickenson poem).
Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. (Shawshank Redemption)
I hope you dance. (Gosh, do you remember that cheesy Lee Ann Womack song?)
When all hope is gone, sad songs say so much. (Elton John)

And if you've ever been to a wedding, there is a good chance you've heard 1 Corinthians 13 where the Bible is pretty clear that God likes hope. In fact, He places it in his "top three things that really matter list." And God tells us that in Him, we have a living hope. As in, our hope is not in the past, nor the distant future, but is applicable at all times.

As you can tell, I've been thinking and hoping a lot these past few days. And sometimes I'm embarrassed to admit just how hopeful I am. The "ville" I grew up in, Glendaville, is the land of hopes and dreams. You know that joke where the two kids are standing in poo and one kid is so excited because he is sure with all that crap there must be a horse somewhere? Well, that's my mom. And so, during the longest 11 days of my life, I'm shovelin' a lot of crap because I'm just certain there's a horse around here somewhere.

Some of you are worried about this. That I'll get my hopes up and be disappointed should I not be pregnant. That I'm jumping the gun saying to Henry, "Mommy can't pick you up because there are babies in her tummy." I say this to him because: a) I want him to know that there is in fact a good reason I'm not picking him up and it has nothing to do with him or my love for him, and b) because I know he has no idea what I'm talking about. I think he thinks I'm crazy. He peers at my belly as if to say "Lady, that ain't a baby. I've seen babies. That's just unfitness." (I also say this very loudly when he is mad at having to walk with me across a parking lot and has just sat down in the middle of the road. I say it so the people going in and out of Target will stop judging me for letting my son sit in the road and scream and seemingly do nothing about it.)

A friend even said to me the other day, "So what are you going to do if this doesn't take and you're back at square one?"

1. Not helpful.
2. I don't know. Probably cry. And cuss. And pray. And drink heavily. Maybe even smoke a few cigarettes. I told my Bible study that I was planning on puking next Tuesday one way or the other.

The truth is I'm not thinking about it much. Not because I'm unaware of that possibility, but because I know a little something about loss, grief, and disappointment. You cannot prepare for it. At all. Any attempts to prepare for loss is simply time wasted. Because it never happens the way you thought and then you feel like a boob for spending all that time preparing for this thing. I mean, if we aren't pregnant, the roof will cave in. So it really seems silly of me to not just go ahead and make it a high rise. Roofs caving in hurt, no matter from what height they fall.

I also know about hope. Red (from Shawshank) is right--hope is a good thing. It is a gift. And it is rude to the Giver of hope if I don't open the gift and enjoy it. To say to God, "Hmm, I'm scared I might not like what you have for me, so instead of enjoying it, I'll just sit it on the mantle still wrapped." In fact, Scripture tells us that Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. (Proverbs 13:12)

So yes. I am going nuts about this. I've yanked off the paper like a toddler at Christmas and am enjoying this hope anabashedly. I'm thinking of names. I analyze every time I pee to discern whether or not I'm peeing more than usual. (I think I am.) I keep grabbing my chest to see if it's sore. (Sort of. But I am on all those hormones.) I'm having loopy dreams that wake me up. And when I'm awake, I have to go pee. The nuttiest thing is that I'm pretty sure I can feel my cervix and it is sore. It ached my entire pregnancy with Henry. My OB tried to tell me that it is a medical impossibility for one to "feel" one's own cervix, but I can. And maybe I am and maybe I'm not pregnant. Maybe I'll find out I'm psychosomatically experiencing pregnancy symptoms. That will be pretty embarrassing. Oh well.

At least my heart will not be sick.

Because my hope does not rest in Baby Q or Tenderoni. It never will. That's too much of a burden for a child to bear. My hope rests in Q and Tenderoni's Creator. Should I not be pregnant, He will be close at hand and very understanding when I yell at Him.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Monday, May 11, 2009

There's no place like home, when he goes away...(Or why this fish needs her bicycle)

I am like Walt Whitman--I contain multitudes.


This is what I'm telling myself to be okay with the tornado of emotions I've experienced today. Not a roller coaster, people, but something that operates in three dimensions and sometimes causes children to be taken to new worlds. The kind of emotional tornado that rips your house up from the ground and kills a witch. And you are the witch. And to make matter worse, someone goes and steals your pretty shoes.


It began wonderfully. All lollipop guilds and kisses. Reminded that we were off to Nathan's house for the morning, Henry cheerfully plodded down the steps chanting "Na-no-na-no-na-no." He was even pleasant at breakfast, using his please hand signal (which is a cross between wiping boogers off his shirt and calling a curve ball) and requesting a banana--"He (pointing to himself), nana (points to banana)." This is the first time he has ever named himself. (I'm assuming He is his version of Henry and not just him speaking in third person. After all, his friends call him Hen-he.)


But as soon as we got in the car, suddenly I was like a stalled computer. My brain that annoying rotating hourglass. I missed the turn to Nano's house, and had to take the long way. And then when I arrived at Nano's, I completely drove past it. Oops.

After Nano's, I had to go to the doctor's office to get my shot and I was late. Why, you ask? Because I stood in the elevator for five minutes wondering why it wouldn't take me to the third floor. Seriously, I even began complaining about the elevator. (Meanwhile, Henry kept pointing to the buttons going, "One, two, one, two, one, two...Like that's not annoying.) It wasn't until it opened, and someone else got on, that I remembered for the elevator to take me to the third floor, I would, in fact, have to press the button labeled three. (Maybe Henry wasn't trying to annoy me. Maybe he was trying to tell me what to do. He is an expert button pusher.)


And after my shot, since I was close, I called a friend to see if she was available for lunch. I was emphatically told that "She did not have time to talk to me." House. Falls. On. Me. I was undone. Let me say that I do not fault my friend for this. She is racing against the clock to train her replacement before her baby arrives. Also, I've had the tendency as of late to be really needy. Really needy. Like a parasite--sucking life, sanity, and love for my son out of those around me. It has become painfully apparent to me that some people's lives are not lived in Elizabethtown. (Despite the little day trips they make out of their gracious love for me.) I got off the phone and was standing in the hospital's parking lot, crying, saying OUT LOUD, "It's okay, Elizabeth. You know she loves you. She is your friend. She likes you. She loves you. You are not the center of the universe. You are not the center of the universe."

Not wanting my being in the West End to be wasted, I decided to go to Babies R Us to get some safety closer thingys for Henry's closet doors. He has figured out he can reach the bi-fold doors from his bed and enjoys pulling things out of the closet. (Why else would he wake up cuddled up with hangers?) But when we got there, after I'd coaxed Henry out of his car seat and managed to help him climb down all on his own, I realized--I can't shop here. I'm not allowed to pick him up. There's no way for me to put him in the cart. And once again I'm crying over the loss of simply picking up my son. I felt a little like that cheesy kitty in those posters, falling yet trying to "Hang in there."

But similar to the way Toto can change your day, so can Elvis. As in, when you find that you are talking to yourself in a parking garage, and crying to your son, "My sweet boy, I will hold you again," it is good to turn on the car radio and hear from the King that "a little less conversation a little more action" is in order.


And the action I'm taking is to be cool with the fact that I'm phoning it in. And by phoning it in, I mean that when Henry wakes up tomorrow, he will have spent roughly 40 hours in the same pairs of blue shorts and tacky Curious George t-shirt. Who cares? He's two. At least I've changed his diaper. Lots of times. I promise I'll change his clothes tomorrow. I relaxed during nap time. Finishing one book and starting another with no meltdown in between. I endured the fact that unlike in the morning, "Stairscream" reappeared and it took us 25 agony filled minutes of sitting on the steps slowing bumping down one by one to descend the stairs after nap. I endured another day with Prague-like weather.
Seriously, were I to select yet another song for Sloan and me, it would have to be Ain't No Sunshine.
Ain't no sunshine when he's gone. It's not warm when he's away. Ain't no sunshine when he's gone And he's always gone too long anytime he goes away...And this house just ain't no home anytime he goes away.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Mother's Day Weekend

In Elizabethtown, Mother's Day last for an entire weekend. I highly recommend this scenario even for those of you living in your own little suburbs of family life. And Mother's Day weekend means that I get to choose whatever we do. (And don't worry that I'm not just lolling about. The doctor's said that was not necessary after 24 hours and I spend loads of time lolling on Thursday and Friday.) So here is the run down of the MOST AWESOME Mother's Day weekend ever.
Friday night, watched Slumdog Millionaire. Yep. It really is as good as everybody says it is.
Saturday Morning, we hit the yard sales family style, going to a neighborhood community yard sale. Sloan would simply drive up, stop, I'd leer, and we'd move on to the next one if nothing caught my fancy. But people, I racked up some good stuff. Watch out, Rebecca Perry, your status as the Yard Sale Queen may just be in jeopardy. Here is the rundown...
  • 1 leaf blower, vacuum, mulcher thingy: Listed for $50. Paid $25.
  • One TOMY gear toy, one construction puzzle, and one Thomas the Tank Engine Magnetic book with no magnets missing: Listed for $5, $3, and $3. Paid $5 for all three.
  • One three drawered Tupperware drawers thingy: Listed for $8. Paid $3.
  • Set of bongos with dinosaurs painted on them: Listed for $5. Paid $1.
  • Framed with glass print of Babar flying airplane: Listed for $12. Paid $4.
  • And the ultimate talisman of my yard saling prowess--One Little Tykes Purple Dinosaur Sandbox: FREE!!!!!!! That's right people. I noticed it had a crack in the lid (easily fixed by that Mighty Putty stuff from TV), and voila! that afternoon Sloan was pushing 600 lbs of sand around in a cart in home depot.

Then we went out for breakfast at River City Dinner. Eggs, grits, bacon, and hot chocolate. Yum Yum Yum.

Then it was off to the Short Pump mall to see two of my nieces dressed up as Oompa Loompas at one of my favorite places in the world--Barnes and Noble. And books were bought by everyone. This was during the time that I let Sloan roam for books while I watched Henry. And since I can't pick him up, I had to enlist his Oompa Loompa cousin, Rebekah, to wrangle him back to the train table.

Then we took a ride on the Short Pump Train which was quite possibly the greatest moment in Henry's little life.

He road the whole way, smiling and saying, "Choo choo." The only thing that stopped him from choo-chooing was his new love of Exit signs. (Should you ever be in a burning building, pray you've been there with my son, as he will have pointed out to you EVERY. SINGLE. SIGN. He points to them and says "EEEEEEE EHHHH IIIIII TEEEEE." That's right. The boy can't say the word exit, but he can spell it for you. We should've name him Fire, so he could be Fire Marshall Phillips.)

Sloan having to explain to a forlorn Henry that he can't go on another train ride. But promising that he will ride the train again soon.

Then home for nap time--aka "lie on the couch and read time" while Sloan does yard work. I finished my sappy book and started a book I'm really enjoying. You see, I have a problem. I'm pretty sure that I've never not finished a book I started. (That's not true. I'm pretty sure that in middle school I attempted reading the Bible from cover to cover no less than four times. I don't think I ever made it out of Genesis.) Generally, I feel I owe it to the author to complete what he or she worked so hard on. Well, people, I read the Shack. It's this story about a forlorn man who meets God in person in a shack. While I understand what the book's intent was and even applaud it, discounting the several theological problems I had with the book, I thought it was trite. Cheesy. Kind of like if Michael W. Smith and Nicolas Sparks had a love child. (Which is disturbing in and of itself on many levels.) But I'm done with it! And now onto the godless book, Bad Mother, by Ayelet Waldman (thank you, Angie for your posting of the NY Times article on her on Facebook). I can guarantee that this book will warrant its own post when I finish it.

And Sunday morning did not disappoint, either. Henry slept in until 7:45. So I got breakfast in bed with just my sweet Sloan. Obeying the rules of Sugar Sundays, Sloan brought me (on a silver tray no less) two slices of pound cake, a bowl of strawberries, and a crystal goblet full of Diet Dr. Pepper. Breakfast of champions, people.

And we had lunch of champions as well, at Fleming's.
Yes, I have a corsage. That's how awesome I am.

Or maybe I'm not so awesome as Henry is giving me the Heisman as I try to snag a kiss.

Why is Mommy asking for a kiss so funny?

Thanks for the kiss, Henry. A little less tongue next time.

And again, Henry's afternoon nap time was spent how we used to spend every Sunday afternoon before Henry was born--cuddled up with one another and our books. Could there be anything better than to have your legs entwined with your beloved while reading? Bliss. Not to be outdone by his father, Henry is in "book time Sundays" training as well.

All in all a good Mother's Day weekend. The only downer was when during church I suddenly realized that,if I'm lucky, I will not be able to pick up and hold my dear son for the next nine months. He'll be a man by that time. Or at least wearing a size 2 men's shoe.

I think the key to having a wonderful Mother's Day is having a wonderful spouse. Henry has such a wonderful father. Despite the fact that I completely forgot, Sloan is the kind of man who remembered that yesterday was the 2 yr anniversary of when we were able to bring the pickle home from the hospital. And the six year anniversary of our first kiss.

My dearest Sloan, perhaps in addition to All My Life, I should add to the list How Sweet it is to be Loved by You.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Baby Q and Tender Roni


Every great love affair has a song. Sloan and my's song is All My Life by David Wilcox. And the song for me and my two sweet blastocyst babies is Beethoven's Symphony Number 4 in B Flat: Adagio. This is the song that was playing on my Ipod when I first saw them pop into view on the ultrasound screen.
Right around the time I took my Valium, Valerie called to tell me that they thawed out my first pair of blasts and that they did not look optimum so that they were going to thaw out the second pair. Okay, I said. By this time, according to Sloan, I was pretty baked.
After dropping Henry off at his beloved Na-no's house, we arrived at the center around 11:30. At noon, Dr. T came in with the above photo of our babies. He explained that the two on the right were the first pair they thawed. With embryos, there is a relatively basic grading system. But blast transfers are different and there isn't such a grading system. However according to the embryologists, the bottom left blast was rated "good", the top left blast was "fair", and the two on the right were poor to non-viable. So we decided to transfer the two on the left and allow the two on the right to grow for another day and should they survive, be refrozen and subsequently stored. (How American of us to have a system that ranks you before you are even born. My buddy Ann always laughs at the apgar score, "Welcome to the world, here's your score." Well, my two babies have already been graded. Hopefully, and I hope I get to regret this statement, I hope my babies grow up to be like their Momma and place little value on grades.)
I noticed that the blastocysts look like those pre-made pizza doughs. Or little pepperonis. Which led me then to tell the doctor that we would be transferring "Baby Q" and "Tender Roni".
Yes, I have named one of my in utero babies after a Bobby Brown song. In my defense, I'm all hepped up on hormones. We are very excited and scared at the prospect of twins. But also know that should God give us twins it will be His job to take care of the details and our job to simply love them.
Speaking of loving children, Sloan has had the pleasure of experiencing Henry's Transformer alter-ego--"Stairscream". I know it is evil of me, but it brings me joy to simply lie on the couch watching Al Roker (because I gotta raise these two babies on Al like their older brother was) while Sloan experiences Henry like he never has before. Henry screamed all through eating his breakfast waffle. He did stop screaming to cuddle with me on the couch and watch the movie Bolt. Although he did, from time to time, go up to the TV screen to point at the animals and identify them for me. Dog, woo woo. Ca--meow, meow. And the hamster? Well, he just fell into the category that all unidentified animals fall into--Baa. Baa.
At lunch time, he started screaming again so that Sloan finally said, "That's it. You obviously aren't hungry. You're taking your nap early. I need to not be around you for awhile." And as he took the Pickle upstairs, I simply sat on the couch and laughed my evil Count Chockula laugh. Ha Ha Ha.
We will find out whether one or both of these babies "take" on May 18th. We will be at the beach and I'll be getting tested at a LabCorp somewhere in South Carolina. Because we'll be at the beach and because of the nature of the news, I will be taking a Blogatical from May 16-25th. Should you desperately need something to read during that week, I suggest taking a gander at one of the blogs in my blog list.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Be quiet, Henry. I'm trying to listen to His song.

Today's the day. In a little over an hour, I'll get a shot and take my Valium. (Yippee!) The transfer is at noon. I think I am most looking forward to being told by a doctor to simply lie in bed for the afternoon. A little like a day off, which is something I've been wanting for awhile.

Yesterday was particularly difficult. It began with Henry screaming non-stop for thirty minutes because I wanted him to walk down the stairs on his own. I've seen him do it at other people's houses, but never at our own. He likes to stand at the top of the stairs, reach his arms up and say, "Mommy down. Mommy down." I told him, "Nope. I know you can do it. Mommy is not going to pick you up." I sat next to him on the steps, trying to show him that he could either walk, bump down on his bottom or slide down on his stomach, but he just sat next to me, trying to climb into my lap. Tears were streaming down his red face. And he was screaming. Those screams where the child takes a 15 second break to catch his breathe just so he can scream all the louder. And even when we finally got down the steps, the screaming didn't stop. He threw his milk at me. His cereal at me. His plate at me. He slapped me in the face and kicked me.

So I did what any rational Mom did--took him to the doctor, in the hopes that someone would confirm that something was wrong with my child, and not with me. Apparently, the doctor said he probably had a bad headache because his nose and ears looked inflamed from allergies. Awesome. I felt terrible because here my boy has been in agony and I've been to nutty to notice. (So yeah, there is something wrong with me.)

And knowing that I couldn't handle being alone with the pickle, we went to church to once again have lunch with Auntie Ann. I just needed to be loved. And I needed someone else to love my son for me. When I walked into the church I saw our pastor. He asked me how I was doing. I said, "Not great. Henry and I are both experiencing the terrible twos at the same time." He said, "Oh, well good. That way you can relate to one another better."

Not helpful.

What I wanted to hear was that it was okay for me to take the day off from loving my son. Dang those pastors and their truth telling!

But God was ever so faithful by supplying me with friends to love me and love me well. My dear friend Shannon called to say she loved me, loved Sloan, loved Henry, loved Baby Q and that because God had called me to be a Mommy, he certainly would supply me with all I needed to complete the task.

God also gave me the opportunity to see the first Henry I loved. I went to a retirement reception for my seminary professor, Henry Simmons--one of the two men my dear boy is named for (although it is primarily for Sloan's grandpa). And as I strolled Henry into the reception, Dr. Henry looked at me and smiled. He came across the room and I was expecting him to ooh and ahh over his adorable namesake. But instead, he walked deliberately to me, cupped my face in his hands and said, "Oh, Elizabeth, it is ever so good to see you." And then he hugged me. Tight. The kind of hug where you know the other person is closing his eyes and just loving you. I melted. Because I felt with certainty that it was not just my professor and friend hugging me, but my Lord and Creator as well.

And it was with that love, that lingering hug etched in my memory, that I have been able to love my son. Able to drift through the weather that is matching my mood (seriously, I feel like I'm living in the Twilight books. Or Prague as my new friend Jenn said.). Able to come home and play with a big Tupperware bin of beans. (Thank you Ali for the idea.) Able to make it to the time when Sloan got home from his business trip. And am continuing to live in, ever so weepily, still.

I am reminded of one of the scriptures that was read at my wedding--Zephaniah 3:17. (Bet you didn't know there was a book in the bible with that name, eh?)

The LORD your God is with you,
he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
he will quiet you with his love,
he will rejoice over you with singing."

This passage has always reminded me of a mother comforting her child. Rocking and shushing, and singing sweet lullabies. And having felt His hands on my face through the hands of a dear friend and brother, I find this a fitting passage to rest in as we attempt to bring forth Baby Q.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Just Supporting Cast

(Warning--I'm still a bit nuts. I mean, I did play Wii Tennis this afternoon at Wal-Mart for half an hour. Until the middle schooler next to me said, "Um, lady, do you think I could have a turn?")

I fully recognize that it is not normal to talk about your girl parts in public. Or, as the case may be, to write about their dysfunction ad nauseam on the world wide web. I just wanted you to know that I am aware of that fact.

And yet (what a wonderful way to approach the day!) somewhere in the midst of this hell-hole of infertility and incompetent cervix and just general ineffectualness of parenting, something special has happened. And like most GREAT things in my life, I've had little to do with it.

Recently, I've been getting emails, facebook messages, and phone calls about struggling with childlessness. And bed rest. Or how to relate to friends struggling with infertility. Or bed rest. And even emails about parenting. (Why people are asking me about parenting is a real shocker. Running down the aisles at Wal-Mart is our go-to rainy day activity. I mean, I entertained my son this afternoon by plopping him in a grocery cart and taking down Luigi.) I've even been stopped at the grocery store by a complete stranger who is struggling with infertility and a friend of hers told her about my blog. (Weird. A little creepy. But quite possibly one of the most fabulous moments of my life. Really wished I'd bathed that day.)

And most of you generally say something to the effect that you are in awe of my openness, encouraged by my willingness to be vulnerable, and appreciate my sense of humor.

To this I want to say several things--

1. It may be entirely possible that I'm too emotionally raw at this point to discern what I should and should not be saying. I'm simply too tired to suck it up and put on a brave face.

2. I've said it before and I'll say it again, when your adult life is once again centered around bodily functions that you apparently have no control over, you have two choices--you can laugh or you can cry. (As of late, I've been doing lots of both. But generally, laughing is my preference. It doesn't make my mascara run and I can count it as exercise.)

3. I would like to point out that through all of my "strength" I have been pretty passive. I cry. I cry out. I wake up with my face stuck to my pillow with snot from having cried my empty-armed self to sleep. I lay in bed for 12 weeks. I go to the doctor. I get shots. I pop pills. I lie on a table and put my feet in stirrups. That is the extent of what I have, am, and will be doing. I have a team of doctors and nurses to whom I am entrusting the heavy lifting. And I have The Author of Life who is ever so softly cradling me, breathing life into this wackadoo frame, and redeeming the entire heartbraking process.

4. That is pretty much all I'm doing. I do not want to discount your gratitude. I don't want to belittle whatever fruit God is growing here by saying it's not a big deal. It is a huge deal. I simply want you to see that I'm doing nothing; God is doing everything. I want you to see I'm only narrating a story of which I am a minor player. I want you to see Who this really is all about.

5. This rawness, this vulnerability, this desperation--it may just be the only time in my life where I understand reality for what it is. It is the time when I am most alive.

Most of the time, I'm pretty capable. I'm funny. I'm a good story teller. I'm crafty. I enjoy my husband and my son. In general, people like me. (I've actually had phone conversations with a friend where all we do for five minutes is talk about how awesome we are. It's a good friendship.) I'm American and rarely in my life have I wanted for much. (I'm pretty sure wanting a maid does not count.) I live 5 minutes from a Dunkin Donuts, Target, Wal-Mart, Michael's, and a Mexican restaurant. So most of the time, I simply go from place to place, not really thinking about the things I do or don't do. And for the most part, I really like this set up. It is comfortable.

But it is life on auto-pilot.

And I was not created to live life on auto-pilot.

I was created to live life intentionally and in relationship. God made me to love and be loved by Him and to be about loving and being loved by the other people He made in His image. And you just can't love other people if you don't risk losing face. Real love ALWAYS takes the path of humility. To the point of humiliation. To the point of death, even.

5. Lastly, and maybe most importantly, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I am very touched that my weakness has brought you strength. The knowledge of this, in turn, encourages me. I'm hoping my acknowledging what is going on here doesn't jinx us all.

What a sweet story it will be to tell Baby Q how he or she was dearly loved and prayed for by people even before he or she was born. That truly he or she was conceived by God through the prayers of so many people. And to those of you who were in on those early rambling emails and stories about our quest for P (now known as Henry), I'll let him know he's yours as well.

Elizabethtown Upside Down

I don't know what I'm doing.

Seriously.

Elizabethtown has gone all wonky. Usually, in my own little world, things stay pleasant because it is MY town. But lately, I'm lost in it. I spend large amounts of my time thinking, "Huh? What am I supposed to be doing now?" Yesterday, after spending the afternoon watching a friend's four kids, instead of driving home, I drove to the old condo. It wasn't until I started to unlatch Henry's car seat that I realized, "Hey, we don't live here anymore. Haven't for a year."

This morning, despite the knowledge I was going to Bible Study and a friend who is a nurse was going to be giving me my shot in the bathroom, I wore a dress. Not the best choice given I could in no way simply drop my pants a little bit for my shot in my hip. But our sons were in a playgroup together, so she was cool with it. (And she's a nurse, right?) And it also must've been a shocker to the visitor in our small group when about 15 minutes before the shot I pulled a bag of syringes out of my purse and said, "Dang it. I forgot my alcohol." So I had to raid a first aid kit for some alcohol wipes before I could load up my shot. I mean, my usual group has been together for 2 years and is used to my wackadoo antics. But this newcomer may have found it disconcerting that one of the small group's leaders was pulling out her needles and searching for alcohol in the church. And then mid-injection, I heard the door to the women's bathroom open. Imagining the shock of coming into the bathroom, seeing my dress hiked up, me bent over the sink, and a 7 month pregnant lady giving me a shot, I simply yelled out, "Warning: flesh!"

And after Bible Study I always have lunch at the church with my 2 best buds, Robin and Ann. I stroll Henry across the church parking lot to the Mediterranean Bakery and pick up our food. However, this week Robin is living la pura vida in Costa Rica, so I thought it'd be just me, Auntie Ann, and the pickle. But apparently Ann had forgotten to tell me that she was having lunch at the church with her small group. And because they are gracious, the group invited me to join them.

I just looked at them. I was holding on for dear life to the handlebar of H's stroller, wondering what to do next.

"I don't understand," I said.

"We're going to eat in the fellowship hall," Ann said.

"Uh-huh."

"You can eat with us."

"Uh-huh."

"Leave Henry here. Go get your food. You're going to go the Med and then come back here."

I looked at Ann, who will be 37 weeks tomorrow, and thought--do you think she knows he needs a high chair? What will she feed him? I didn't bring any food. Usually we eat upstairs in the work room.

I liken it a bit to reading a page and then losing your place so you have to start over again. Or how I still sometimes have to sing the alphabet song in my head to figure out what comes after L and if you were to distract me somewhere around H I'd have to start back again. My usual routine was demolished, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do next.

I did manage to get us some food, but even during the meal I was in a bit of a haze. Not quite sure who I was supposed to be talking to, and wishing that it was just me, Ann, and Robin so I wouldn't have to worry about what was or was not inappropriate to talk about. Mainly, so I could talk about my girls parts at length without judgement or consequence.

So if you try to talk to me, please pretend that I'm a deaf, foreign, toddler. Speak slowly, loudly, and use small words. You may even have to do what I do when Henry is lost in Henry County (ie playing at the train table, not the actual Henry County in Southern VA where my grandpa was sheriff). Place your hand on my arm, put your face about three inches from my head and tell me to look at your eyes so you know I'm listening. Then repeat your comments. Several times. You may even need to take me by the hand, and, with your hands on mine, have me do that which you want me to do.

I'm pretty overwhelmed with the fact that in two days we're having our embryo transfer. Not overwhelmed with fear or anything. I know God is going to do His thing. I know my heart and my family are in Capable Hands. It's just I'm having trouble remembering to breath in and out and find food. And you know that Elizabethtown is located near the Island of Sodor (where Thomas the Tank Engine lives) when you find yourself in prayer saying, "Jesus, you are causing confusion and delay." But if memory serves me right, I am in good company when it comes to being perplexed about the movements of our Risen Lord.

I think this happened last time, but I was only trying to keep track of myself so being lost in Elizabethtown was alright. Nothing that picking up a book and sitting on the couch couldn't handle. Now Elizabethtown has a permanent population of 2. And Henry seems to understand that things are askew and is not liking it. Friends have offered playdates and to take him for the afternoon, but really, trying to figure out just what would be helpful to me is more than I can deal with right now. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to go to a seminary professor's retirement party and then to some high school alumni dinner and I'm pretty sure that I should do neither of these things. But I also don't want to be alone with myself and Henry either--that seems more daunting. If I go and do these things there will be food provided and other people to tell me what I'm supposed to be doing next.

Sloan and my sister sometimes joke that what I need more than a husband is a handler. And I do. I need a handler. Big time.

After nap time, I think I am going to leave the parenting in the capable hands of Curious George. After all, he's got four of them.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Things you shouldn't say to a crazy person

1. Ugh. I just hate giving you shots.
2. I think the air conditioning may be broken. Again. (It's not. You just have to turn it on for it to work.)
3. It's your turn to change the poopy diaper.
4. If we have twin boys we should name them "Sir" and "Topham" and collectively call them "Hat."
5. Our next child should be named "Bandit Northwestern." Or if it is a girl, we should call her "Hillstrand." (Can you tell we're a little addicted to Deadliest Catch?)

And the worst thing ever to say to a crazy person all hepped up hormones with a sore heiny:

6. When are you going to get around to doing the laundry?

(The last is particularly annoying when the laundry has, in fact, been done. It's just this time I put it away instead of just letting it sit folded in the laundry basket for a week or so.)

All of these statements have been said to me. And all of them have made me cry, cuss, and drop on the floor in a puddle. I think I may have even thrown a hanger at Sloan when he asked about the laundry.

And then when at church the call to worship is the passage where Jesus says, "Come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest..." be prepared for the floodgates to open. Because people, I am weary and I'm what Sloan refers to as "primed to the pissed off position."

What is most difficult is that sometimes I am aware that I'm over-reacting, but once again, the knowledge of my own lunacy in no way stops me from being insane. In my mind, I may be thinking, "He's just not aware that I've hung up all his clothes," but instead, what spews out of my mouth is an attack on my dear husband's ability to take care of himself and oh yeah, his entire character. I think I even doubted that he knew who his father was, if you know what I mean. And I don't know how much of this can really be attributed to the hormones. I think maybe that deep down I'm just a mean person.

And let's talk about pregnesia, people. I'm not even pregnant yet and already I forget what I'm talking about mid-sentence. Which makes yelling at your husband pretty difficult. Okay, not difficult for me, the yeller, but for him, the yellee, to understand just what the heck I'm ranting about this time.

The sweet man apologized to me in regards to the laundry comment, saying, "Honey, I'm sorry I was such a jerk this morning. You're a wonderful wife and by the way, you are pretty."

My response? "That's not good enough. I want you to describe to me exactly the ways in which you are a jerk." WHAT?!? What rational woman poo-poos being told she's pretty?

I knew I needed more Valium. And Sloan could use some too.

It's a good thing he is out of town until Wednesday. I'm scared I might go all Liza Manelli on his ass.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Sour Pickles at Sears

So we took Henry for his 2 year photos this morning. Not as good as last year's. Mainly because last year he was much less mobile. He was very serious. And of course, as soon as we got him out of his nice outfit and told him we were headed to Red Robin for lunch--he was all smiles and giggles. Ugh. I know you want me to stand still by this giant number 2 Mommy.
But I really want to go see Daddy. He is making lots of funny faces.
You can sit me down and even hand me a train, but I'm still not going to smile for you. No matter how many times you say Peek-a-boo, shake your booty, or shake the feather duster at me. Hey, Photo lady, you are not as funny as you think you are. So now you're going to start shaking my George at me. Well, I'm going to scream "Mine" at the top of my lungs.


But when Daddy shakes his booty or Mommy puts her head in her shirt, now THAT'S funny.

Thank you for giving me my George. I will sit still and look sweet for you for 2 seconds.


Great shot, right? If you turn your head sideways.

Ready for my Rumspringa.

Have you ever seen such a cute cowboy?
If only Mom had let me bring my big black cowboy boots.