I'll have a meatball sub with a side of meatball sub.

Ok, now that the cat is out of the bag about our wee bun in the oven, I can start making lots of fun of myself and this entire weird and amazing experience in which a miniature alien aka the WILD BEAST in the Goble House takes over your body and in proper little person complex fashion usurps all authority you THOUGHT you had over your body, your emotions, your lifestyle, your eating habits, the way you speak to people, your dreams and anything and everything it can get it's grubby, er, nubby little hands on. And it all starts with food. Doesn't everything?

So, you've heard that you are what you eat, yes? Well, if that's the case, this baby is going to come out with dark hair, a tiny mustache and and singing Mama Mia with an Italian accent because all I have eaten for the past five days is meatball subs. In fact, it's probably more likely this baby will come out an ACTUAL MEATBALL as much as I'm craving them these days. And according to fans of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, meatball babies can be pretty cute.

Ok. So don't get me wrong I love a good meatball sub but it's not my uzh.

(SIDEBAR-how do you spell the abbreviation to the word 'usual'?! I have seriously spent way more time than is necessary pondering the answer to this. And what do you know, a little research and voila!, there is an entire website DEVOTED to people who have questions such as this! "English Language & Usage Stack Exchange is a question and answer site for linguists, etymologists, and serious English language enthusiasts. It's 100% free, no registration required." Have a ball fellow English language snobbies aka Laura Soto. http://english.stackexchange.com/ . And just so you know the answer, according to popular opinion; popular being the three people who answer questions like this, is one of the following: youzhe, youzh, yuzh, uzh, uzhe. I'd love your opinion!)

It just came over me one day. This unquenchable, burning desire for a meatball sub. Thankfully I was standing in line at Subway where they HAPPEN to have great meatball subs otherwise it might have gotten ugly. So, I ordered a meatball sub, no problem. Normal people; pregnant and non, order meatball subs all the time. It's perfectly fine that I ordered a meatball sub. Really. Why are we even making a big deal out of this? We're making a big deal out of it because a) the crazed behavior that this meatball sub obsession put into action wasn't perfectly fine and b) this was just the beginning. It's ALWAYS seemingly normal at the beginning. So, as I'm progressing in line, Andis texts me that he's running late and what he wants. I ask the Subway employee if it's ok to add his sandwich halfway through the line to which she replies, 'Sure'. I thought it was also fine (those employess can bust out a sammich in like 5 sec flat) but it was not fine to the tiny, 80 year old woman behind me who 'politely' asked if I would like for her to get in front of me so that my two sandwiches could 'be together'; like they're dating or something. The normal Whitney would have been perfectly ok with this and even followed up with a 'You are SO right! I'm sorry I didn't think of that! Go right ahead!', but the hormone driven, hangry, meatball crazed Whitney responded, "No thank you." and turned back around. Awesome. I'm now an senior hater. This is great. That lady probably needed to take her life saving meds and I was the one holding her up. In fact, it's likely that she has already sent a telepathic message to Santa AS WE SPEAK, but the truth is, she could have died in Subway and I wouldn't have known or cared because my face was shoved, literally BURIED in meatballs. I seriously did not even breathe until the last crumb was gone. My husband was shocked and amazed at the fervor with which I put that meatball sub away. What was probably even more shocking to him was my resemblence to a wild animal afterwards; hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, crumbs on my shirt, sauce on my face...that meatball sub didn't stand a chance. Which is why he should not have been surprised when the words 'I think I need another one' rebelliously escaped my lips instead of staying safe and silent inside my HEAD where they should have. Now visions of their wives swelling and turning INTO a meatball much like Blueberry girl from Charlie & the Chocolate Factory might have been going through most normal husbands heads at this point, followed by wondering how they can gently encourage said wifey to resist the temptation for a second meatball sub, all the while reminding her that she's beautiful and powerful and wonderful. But fortunately for me, Andis is much more afraid of crazy Whitney than he is of chubby Whitney so the only thing that came out of his mouth was, 'Well what are you waiting for? Get in line.' Music. To. My. Hormones. Day 1 of my 5 day love affair with meatball subs was off to a grand start.

Other than day dreaming about meatball subs, looking up recipes for meatball subs and achingly counting down the minutes until my lunch break when I can GET a meatball sub, days 2-4 were pretty uneventful. Aside from the fact that the employees started calling me by name and starting my sandwich when they saw me pull in the parking lot, nothing out of the ordinary. You know, just a normal customer, placing a normal order for a very normal sandwich; business as usual.

Day five however, could have ended up very differently than it did. Subway is only 3 miles from my work so over the course of the last week I have calculated that I can be there in about 4 minutes and 37 seconds if both lights are green and if there are no slow drivers or big trucks. And if I get there in 4 minutes and 37 seconds, I can typically be one of the first in line and avoid the lunch bunch. If not though, it gets ugly quick; a line out the door, people with multiple kids who can never make efficient sandwich decisions, a million and one contractors who ALWAYS get footlongs which take at least two minutes more....seriously, so crazy I don't even think about it I just try to GET THERE in under 5 minutes. But today, things were not working in my favor. On top of my lunch replacement being late, the phone ringing as I was dashing out and rude drivers not moving over one lane to let me out of the driveway, add 8, 18 wheelers crawling by at a snails pace and two red lights and you have a near meatball sub mission DISASTER. So naturally, as I'm crawling along behind the 8, 18 wheelers who actually were so long they seemed more like 36 wheelers, my patience is starting to wane and my hunger is starting to wax, BIG TIME. By the time I got to the SECOND red light I had bitten off all of my nails, changed the station a zillion times and had started sweating profusely at the stress of it all. Well, that and having no A/C probably helped. So this conversation begins in my head. You know the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Yeah, just like that. Of course it's always the devil that's the loudest, naturally. It starts in. 'Could this light be ANY longer? Could there be ANY more trucks? Could you have possibly gotten a later start?! The line is gonna be sooooo long. There will be a million contractors and a million kids and probably the day care bus that you saw earlier has already gotten there and they will probably be down two employees and probably the meatball shipment didn't come in so they are probably already out of meatball subs and probably by the time you get there, the apocolypse will have started and Subway will be the first building to be swallowed up in The Abyss and you will be standing over the crater in the ground considering throwing yourself in after it because there will be no more meatballs subs in ALL OF AMERICA, nay, the ENTIRE world. The angel me interrupting and valiantly fighting back, 'Whit. Get a freaking grip. You are less than a half mile away. You are only 4 minutes past the usual time. They won't run out of meatball subs. Maybe it will be a slow day. All is well. You will be fine. You won't start ripping people's throats out, I promise. Deep breath.' And for ONCE in my life in a moment of high stress I actually listen to the latter. I take a deep breath. I know that light will turn green any second and I'll be at Subway soon enough and I will not die from watiting in line and I will get my meatball sub because it's seriously probably against the LAW for a Subway to run out of meatball subs. As I start to call upon my more mature self, take a deep breath and start inching my way forward, just a little into the intersection because I'm SO SURE the light is about to turn green.....I see it. IT is an army van with 12-15 men army men inside and it's passing by on the opposite highway, faster than it should be because it's afraid the light is about to turn red and the world all of a sudden goes into slow motion mode and as I see them laughing and cutting up in that army van as they speed through the intersection, my stomach begins to mutiny and my face begins to contort because deep down in my spirit I KNOW! Call it intuition, call it wild beast sixth sense, call it what you will, but I KNOW that those army guys are on their way to Subway. And for maybe the second time in my life, I am actually RIGHT. And it's go time. Light turns green and I whip my gold kia through that intersection and I have all of a sudden downloaded a race car driver program (like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix) and the Eye of the Tiger is playing in the background and I am catching up and it's only a 1/2 mile MAYBE but I am weaving in and out of traffic and inspiring a slew of angry words and ugly gestures and....there's the turn! Good thing there's no curb and good thing no one knows who's tire tracks through the soccer field next door those are and good thing the army van isn't small enough to fit in one of the economy parking spots in the front because I have BEAT THEM! I! HAVE! BEAT! THEM! And like a spent Olympic athlete about to recieve their first gold medal, I take a deep breath, smooth my hair and blouse and step up to the stage to hear the most lovely words; words that confirm what I have spent all this time working towards......'6 inch or footlong ma'am?'

NOTE: The author wants you to know that for her own health, sanity and so that legal action not be taken against her, she has fought tooth and nail to remedy her meatball addiction and has sadly, not been to Subway at all this week. She's taking it one day at a time by admitting her powerlessness over meatballs and her need for accountability.

He gives good gifts. Happy birthday to ME! Pt. 2

If you did not read, "He gives good gifts. Happy birthday to ME! Pt. 1", please DO!

So, let me back up a little and give you some Goble history.

Andis and I are what you might consider 'kid-people'. We have both worked with kids for decades, we have neices and cousins and best friends babies and we are all over them and they are all over us. We love kids. Kids love us. Plain and simple. So, being 'kid-people' we thought of course we will HAVE kids. Hands down. No questions asked. We just sat back and waited for it to happen. Well, not just sat back but eh-hem, you know. And then it happened! In 2010 we found out we were pregnant! Yay! Woohoo! Yippeee skipppeeee! We were shocked and surprised and happy and ecstatic. We went to the doctor, confirmed the pregnancy and were supposed to go back in three weeks for our first ultrasound. We told our parents, close friends and family and started dreaming! It. Was. Awesome. And then, the pregnancy ended up ectopic and I ended up two feet away from six feet under and it was not so awesome. I haven't ever written about that experience so you'll have to wait on that gory story until next time. Point was. We didn't have a baby and not only that but we weren't sure we would ever be able to, as my reproductive system, like a pirate with a peg leg, was limping along with a severed fallopian tube. It took some time to heal from the loss and traumatic experience and embarrassment from telling people so early and the feelings of failure as a woman and a self appointed 'kid-person', but time heals and we did and we decided to start trying again, about this time last year. And one month passed. And then another. And then another. And like a mad scientist chasing cancer I was charting and taking temperatures every morning and checking this and that and the other thing and then came the hurry up and wait phase and then came the delusional phase when you try to convince yourself that the PMS you're having is ACTUALLY pregnancy symptoms and then comes the C.R.A.S.H, the day when you can't fool yourself anymore. You really ARE NOT pregnant this month. And you lay in bed, and you cry and you ask why and you call your mom and you start to want to give up and you tell your husband you're not good enough to be a mom and then you find yourself staring obsessively at babies in the grocery store and then you look up and see the woman who actually OWNS the baby you're staring at, staring back at you because you've now entered creeper level obsession and you start piling like 14 heads of cabbage into your cart because that seems normal and you hope that the words, 'It would be so easy to just grab that baby and run' actually did not come out of your mouth and just stayed bouncing around in your head, but you won't know because the mom is still staring at you and you are still piling cabbage into the cart and you stop and realize no amount of staring will make you a mom and no amount of cabbage will cover up the desperation of wanting to be. And then you try again. And again. And again. And months have passed by now and not only do you NOT have a baby on the way, but EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU KNOW now does. People who didn't want babies are now pregnant. People who didn't have periods are now magically pregnant. Your best friend is pregnant. The lesbian couple down the street are pregnant. People who just moved into town and moved out of town and EVERYONE on Facebook of course has now joined the 'I'm pregnant' group. Except YOU; the person who is actually trying to get pregnant and not just half way, loosey goosey trying, like TRY-ING-Tiger Mom, third string quarterback on the football team who is finally given a chance, dorky guy trying to get the girl to notice him, struggling musician pulling three gigs a night, homeless person looking for cans trying. And there they are. Walking around on clouds with their big perfect boobs and their big perfect bellies and their perfectly glowing skin and that tiny growing life inside of them. And you can't stab them because you love them all so much and that would be illegal, but seeing their fullness makes your emptiness that much more intolerable. And the cheeseburgers help a little but no matter how big you can get your belly so you at least superficially fit in, you still won't have that tiny, perfect life growing inside of you and let me tell you, no one is going to crochet baby booties for your cheeseburger belly. Believe me, I've tried to convince them.

So you cry and you pray and you cry and you pray and eventually it all becomes so overwhelming and exhausting and defeating that you just simply give up and move on because no one can sustain feeling like a failure in an area where they thought they would be so perfect for very long without wanting to jump off of a bridge, or push the nearest pregnant woman off of a bridge at least. And if you're not TRYING to get pregnant or just don't care, the disappointment doesn't have a hold over you. So you pretend. That life is fine and awesome without kids. You go where you want. You do what you want. You spend money on yourself. You stay up late and sleep in late and enjoy breakfast with your girlfriends without having to excuse yourself early to deal with a tantrum. You don't worry. You are not filled with anxiety. You have savings and a future. Life is perfect and awesome. Right? Maybe for some. But unfortunately for the people who LIKE to make Mickey Mouse pancakes and like to read parenting blogs, and like to play hide and seek and like to tickle and laugh and play and be little league coaches and have adventures with lots of little people, the above list does not equal perfect and awesome. And you can fake it for a while; you can avoid them and push your cart the other way when they come waddling down the grocery aisle and block them as FB friends so you don't have to see the disgustingly sweet maternity photos and baby shower gifts. But then, as those pregnant women get closer to having those babies, they need you; they need your prayers, and your encouragement and your party planning skills and your love and your oatmeal cookie recipes and your strength and you just can't pretend anymore because witnessing those little people come into the world bursts open places in your heart that you had sworn you would seal off until you had a child of your own. But with the bursting open of those raw, vulnerable heart places comes a longing that sometimes it seems like God himself can't even quench. So, then you try and 'manage' the situation. You turn off the tears and turn on the tiger. You say, 'Ok, God, you are obviously tied up with more pressing matters like abortion and Ethiopia or maybe the angel post service didn't forward you the memo that I am awesome and I want a freaking baby so it's time I take matters into my own hands. I can't imagine with all you have to do that you won't apprecicate that.' And you get to work. You start looking into fostering and adoption and you talk to people and you research and you scroll the pages and pages of faces and faces of forgotten children, who once aged out of the system will NEVER have a family of their own; never a mom to take care of them when they are sick or to send a care package when they have had a hard week, never a home to come to for Christmas or Thanksgiving, never a cheesy card with money in it for their birthday and a silly voicemail with two aging parents singing their hearts out like they were on 'The Voice'. Never any of the things you and a million others have taken advantage of your entire lives. And you cry and you cry and you try and convince your husband that converting your house into an orphanage and starting a non-profit called Whitney's Kids would be a very normal and sane idea. And then all of those pregnant women that you couldn't get away from turn into people with adopted kids; the couple with the perfect baby girl and the family with the five adopted stairstepped siblings and the security guard at work with the two adopted toddlers and the lady from your church who has the two adopted boys and is guest blogging about the awesome experience of adoption and doesn't ANYONE just get pregnant anymore?! Where did all of these adoptive parents COME FROM? And they are all so imperfectly perfect; a schmorgisbord of color and texture and personalities and backgrounds and awesomeness. And you want to be them and you cry and you pray and you cry and you pray and you cry and you start to purpose yourself towards that path and you are a tangled mess of nerves on the inside. You ask yourself questions like, Will we be good enough? Will they pick us? What if they take them back? What if they don't like us? What if our house isn't clean enough or the food in our pantry not healthy enough or what if I'm too short or what if I fail or what if it takes so long that I get old or what if my husband doesn't want to do it? Or what if children just isn't in the cards for the self appointed kid-person? What if no matter how hard we try or how perfectly I take my temperature or how 'on' we are or how much we want it, we are never given the family of our dreams because sometimes that's just how it works. And then you stop. Because the weight of that possibility is almost too much to bear. So you pray and you cry and you pray and you cry and you pray and you cry and as you let go of the fraying rope of 'the family of your dreams' you begin to fall into acceptance of the truth that was planted in your heart from the moment of your creation; that life is more that labels, that our joy does not have to be tied to anything but Him who created us and that all gifts, even the ones that don't come in baby shaped boxes are a reflection of the radical love that our Father has for us and testament to His desire to bring us to a place of peace when we are trying to fill our hearts with anything but Him.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart. I will then be found by you and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the places where I have banished you and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile," declares the Lord. Jeremiah 29:11-14

And then, when you have buried this truth in your heart. When you have accepted the unacceptable, embraced the unfathomable and followed His lead into places that you would not ever choose to go yourself, you wake up one day and realize.................that your period is late.

You may call this coincidence. I call it a GOOD GIFT from a LOVING Father who's plans are to prosper and not harm me, to gather me from the places of without and show me that it's only WITHIN my relationship with Him where I will find true peace and purpose....and maybe some awesome birthday surprises in baby shaped boxes every now and then as well!

He gives good gifts. Happy birthday to ME! Pt. 1

June 30. Definitely a day that needs to be marked on your calendars folks. The day that bawling squawling little ol' me entered the world at 6:30 something am. Actually I wasn't very little and I wasn't bawling and squawling because I came out with the umbilical chord wrapped around my neck, I was purple and I was SILENT for the ONLY time in my existence since then. A cruel joke played on my parents to be sure. I digress.

So, this year marks 32 amazing years on this Earth and by amazing I mean some amazing and some not so amazing but for some reason looking back they ALL seem amazing and every year they seem to be getting increasingly amazing; amazing-er if you will. I love that! A separate blog post entirely however.

Back to my birthday. If you know me at all, and maybe even if you don't, you know that I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY! I would start my birthday countdown the day AFTER my birthday if I could but to spare everyone the irritatingness of me, I only countdown out loud beginning on June 1. What I do inside my head is an entirely different story.

So, just to assure you that I'm not TOTALLY a spoiled brat; it's not so much the gifts that I prefer, it's the attention and celebration! I LOVE PARTIES! I love when people get together and eat and laugh and have fun and love on eachother and love on ME! It's one of my favorite things ever. The gifts are a sidebar but since I met Andis an awesome sidebar to be sure. He made the wonderful mistake of writing me a love letter on my birthday the first year that we met and he made the awful mistake of forgetting to write me a love letter once on my birthday since then. He thought it was a one time, above and beyond deal. Little did he know he his Shakespearean soliloquoys would fill my heart with so much joy that to stop would be like cancelling my birthday entirely. My birthday is now completely synonymous with a love letter from Andis. It's just reality now. Sorry babe. But not really. His love letters are not just full of the typical amazing lovey dovey make you vomit sweetness that one might expect but they also serve as an archive of what we've experienced; good, bad or otherwise, through his loving eyes. They are da bomb and I heart them, big time. They are hands down my favorite gift, every year.

Except this year.

.............................................................to be continued............................................................................