A wise person once said, 'You never know when you will meet your next lesson in life.' Well, okay, no wise person ever said that. I made that up just now but I'm pretty good at faking wise every now and then and it's TRUE. Lessons come in all shapes and sizes, most of them pretty surprising. Andis and I's most recent lesson has come in the shape and size of our 12 year old, recently adopted, geriatric dog Snoop-Lion. Let me back up a tad.
4 months ago we lost our sweet, sweet boy Jackson to lymphoma. It came and he went within a week and all of a sudden we were left with this huge gaping hole in our hearts shaped like a lanky Austrailian shepherd with one blue and one brown eye and the cutest freckles you ever did see. Don't get me wrong, I'm THANKFUL that he went so quickly and didn't have to suffer much, but oh my gosh talk about an emotional train wreck. I was. And of course when you are an emotional train wreck and you weren't expecting to be, the only thing TO DO is STUFF that hole with something that looks and feels and acts similar. The PROBLEM is, whatever you're stuffing with, usually ends up having the opposite affect as what you had originally hoped.
Snoop-Lion enter stage left.
I had spent a few weeks mourning and then I spent another few weeks feeling guilty for how quickly I wanted another dog and then I spent a few hours rationalizing that if we ADOPTED a dog and saved it from a life of small spaces and noisy neighbors and looming euthanasia, the fact that I wanted another dog so soon was appropriate, right? Say 'RIGHT'. So, naturally I'm looking for puppies because who wants an older dog anyway? That's like wanting to have another child and then stopping and saying, 'Nah. I'd rather change an OLD PERSON'S diaper instead, and adopting the first grandpa you see.' Pretty sure that happens never. But despite my inital thought process, it popped in my head that an older dog might be nice. Because let's face it, those midnight potty training sessions are not all their cracked up to be. However, I thought older as in a year or two or three, not three TIMES four! So, I'm scrolling through the pages and pages of dogs and becoming more and more depressed that I can't bring ALL of them home and then I see him. Snoopy. For such a terrible name I couldn't peel my eyes away from his face because he looked like Jackson's long lost twin, or maybe his dead beat dad or maybe a creepy uncle. My heart dropped into my stomach and time hung in the balance for 1,2...like the masochist that I tend to be in my darker moments, I clicked on his profile and there it was....Snoop-Dog was 12. That's 84 in dog years people. EIGHTY FOUR! He could have been Jackson's GREAT-GRANDPA. I started balling. I mean, break your heart in two, body wrecking sobs. Never mind that I was at WORK, at the FRONT DESK where crying of this nature is typically frowned upon. I had to have him. Throw out all reason and all common-sense, my grieving heart knew that NO ONE in the entire WORLD would adopt this old dog but ME, RIGHT NOW, and only because I was in the throes of grief. (NOTE to SELF: Probably not a good idea to make ANY permanent life changing decisions while in the throes of grief. A new hair color or some retail therapy would work, perhaps even some real therapy, but not adoption. In the future, let's spend some time thinking through this ok? Ok.) So, of course, next order of business, the Husband Call, dun, dun dun. What husband in his right mind would say NO to a slobbering, sobbing, broken hearted, grieving woman who lost her one and only furry baby. Well, if you MUST know, MY HUSBAND would. I don't call him 'the Risk Assessor' behind his back for no reason. So, in addition to my slobbery sobbing, I had a carefully crafted list of pros and cons to 'make sense' of this entire interaction. And if that didn't seal the deal, I followed it all up with an extra heart wrenching, but I WANNNNNNTTTTT HIM. Thankfully, I didn't have to pull out the snotty, 'Well, I don't care what you say, I'm going to the shelter anyway' card. That usually doesn't go over too well and needs to be reserved for extreme scenarios which thankfully are fewer and further between as I pretend to mature. Husband permission in my back pocket, borrowed cash from co-workers in my wallet and a heart full of hope, I pointed the car West. My destination? To Save A Life. Little did I know it might just be my own.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
The worst 4 letter word of them all.
S-P-A-M. SPAM! I'm not talking junk up your email, irritating virusey junk from a website you visited a million light years ago, I'm talking Specially Processed American Mystery, Spare Parts, All Meat, Shoulder of Pork and hAM, pink and white marbled block of pulverized mystery meat soaked in a gelatinous glaze that was created in 1937 two years before WWII began during which there was NOTHING LEFT TO EAT. Conspiracy? I think so.
And the life and times of SPAM didn't end there.
People all over the world eat spam. You can find that it's weasled its slimy little way into just about every meal and snack out there. From ASPAMagus rollups to my personal favorite, Huevos SPAMcheros and everything in between. In FACT, Hormel just sold it's 7 billionth can of spammy goodness in 2007!.....? Maybe people are wisening up....
SPAM is celebrated from coast to coast with ENTIRE festivals devoted to it's infamy.The annual Spam Jam held in Hawaii the last week of April for starters and Spamarama, a yearly festival held on April Fool's Day in our very own Austin, Tx. Even the small town of Shady Cove, Oregon is home to the annual Spam Parade and Festival. (Could they have done better with that title? I think so.)
Celebrities like Monty Pyton and Weird Al Yankovic have created ballads about SPAM and you can even find a few modern day songs on itunes with SPAM as the token muse.
You can find SPAM paraphenalia at the click of a mouse! Items like sweat bands, athletic (what the...?) tees and even iphone covers.
In fact, SPAM has really evolved since the late 30's and now is offered in a myriad of varieties like Jalapeno SPAM, Hickory SPAM, SPAM with cheese, Black Pepper SPAM, Hot & Spicy SPAM and don't forget SPAM Classic.
I'll spare you the nutritional, er lack of nutritional details but suffice it to say SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body, head to toe, least of all your heart, liver, thighs, belly, pancreas, bootay, love handles....ok, we're back the original thought; SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body; head to toe.
So, now that you've all been sufficiently disgusted and are probably gagging on your lunch, let me tell you, as Paul Harvey would say, 'the REST of the story'.........................
It was a normal Tuesday evening. Well, actually a bit abnormal because up to this point in pregnancy I have been a WRECK. I mean like, get home, eat a snack and get in bed by 5:21 wreck. Exhausted with a capital E and the triple digit temps don't help. So, let's start over. It was an abnormal Tuesday evening during which I actually had the energy to cook dinner! So, feeling great about myself and this surprise burst of energy, I decided to step it up a notch and make something out of the park healthy. This has not previously been the norm so you can imagine the pleasure I was having at my own sense of awesomeness. Baked sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies was on the menu and considering my diet had consisted of saltines, smoothies and let's not forget a few meatball subs thrown in for good measure, BOY did it smell good. The rice was done, veggies were on low and salmon had 15 minutes left on the timer. And all of a sudden, amidst the savory scents in my kitchen, it hit me like a ton of bricks, like a wave of babies, like a two ton truck.....ALL.I.WANTED.WAS.SPAM! And it wasn't just one of those fleeting 'oh my gosh what just came over me' moments. I wanted SPAM and I wanted it now. I was like Bella from Twilight when she was a baby vamp on the trail of her first human scent. If there was SPAM within 20 miles I was gonna find it. One problem. The salmon. Was cooking and by this time it had 14 minutes left. "I could totally make it to Brookshire Brothers and back in 14 minutes." I mean, in my fever, my energy was growing to Olympic proportions by the milli-second. In haste, I let Snoop-Lion out in case the place burned down, grabbed my keys and sprinted, literally sprinted out the door. And as I approached the automatic doors at Brookshire Brothers, I had a brief moment of rational sense during which I started to ask myself 'WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOin.......but then I felt it. My self-control, rationale and common sense blown to bits by the fan over the door. Within moments it was already headed toward the next town. And I was headed to the mystery meat product aisle. I'm usually pretty focused when it comes to 14 minute trips to the grocery store but I was like a carb and fat deprived caged beast who had been recently uncaged only to find myself as a lucky contestent on that game show, Supermarket Sweep. Everything that I had said 'no' to for the last 32 years in any shape, form or fashion found it's way into my cart that day. In under 12 minutes I had pillaged and the booty was bountiful. Flaky biscuits, white bread, creamy peanut butter, grape jelly, all beef hot dogs (or maybe they weren't; I wasn't THAT focused), BUTTER, velveeta mac and cheese and of course, the entire reason I was there in the first place....you guessed it. A can of Classic SPAM. I got home just as the timer on the salmon was going off. And despite it's deliciousness, I promptly put it in a tupperware and proceeded to slice and fry up my can of SPAM. I had some cold. I had some hot. And if it wasn't SO delicious it would have been disgusting. Well, let's call a spade a spade. SPAM was, is and always will be disgusting, but to me, that night, it might as well have been prepared by the Iron Chef himself because it was everything I had hoped it would be. I was hoping to have polished off the evidence before Mr. G came home but I was still reveling in my spamthusiasm when he clomped through the door. Not having been served actual dinner for several weeks at this point, you can imagine his surprise at the option of not one, but two dinner choices. Sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies (the obvious choice right?) or fried spam and maybe I had made some mac and cheese too....and maybe just a few biscuits were baking in the oven as well. A man after my own heart with a fondness for things slightly redneck, poor, fattening and trashy, we sat down to the best dinner the Goble table had seen in WEEKS. As we layed in bed that night, feet and hands swollen from the SPAM induced astronomical sodium levels, the common sense part of my brain kept trying to convince me to feel guilty for the crap I had just fed my baby. But there was another voice, a smaller voice that piped up and shouted above the guilt and worry. 'Meh. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and you never know when the next WW is coming.'
SPAM. It's not what SHOULD be for dinner, but sometimes the difference between what SHOULD be and what IS, is night and day.
For more useless information, comical recipes and time wasting activities, check out www.spam.com. Pay particular attention to the 'Catapult Dairy Cows from a castle and into a line of Frenchman' Game. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will. Regardless, don't eat SPAM. And don't wear it on your head either.
And the life and times of SPAM didn't end there.
People all over the world eat spam. You can find that it's weasled its slimy little way into just about every meal and snack out there. From ASPAMagus rollups to my personal favorite, Huevos SPAMcheros and everything in between. In FACT, Hormel just sold it's 7 billionth can of spammy goodness in 2007!.....? Maybe people are wisening up....
SPAM is celebrated from coast to coast with ENTIRE festivals devoted to it's infamy.The annual Spam Jam held in Hawaii the last week of April for starters and Spamarama, a yearly festival held on April Fool's Day in our very own Austin, Tx. Even the small town of Shady Cove, Oregon is home to the annual Spam Parade and Festival. (Could they have done better with that title? I think so.)
Celebrities like Monty Pyton and Weird Al Yankovic have created ballads about SPAM and you can even find a few modern day songs on itunes with SPAM as the token muse.
You can find SPAM paraphenalia at the click of a mouse! Items like sweat bands, athletic (what the...?) tees and even iphone covers.
In fact, SPAM has really evolved since the late 30's and now is offered in a myriad of varieties like Jalapeno SPAM, Hickory SPAM, SPAM with cheese, Black Pepper SPAM, Hot & Spicy SPAM and don't forget SPAM Classic.
I'll spare you the nutritional, er lack of nutritional details but suffice it to say SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body, head to toe, least of all your heart, liver, thighs, belly, pancreas, bootay, love handles....ok, we're back the original thought; SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body; head to toe.
So, now that you've all been sufficiently disgusted and are probably gagging on your lunch, let me tell you, as Paul Harvey would say, 'the REST of the story'.........................
It was a normal Tuesday evening. Well, actually a bit abnormal because up to this point in pregnancy I have been a WRECK. I mean like, get home, eat a snack and get in bed by 5:21 wreck. Exhausted with a capital E and the triple digit temps don't help. So, let's start over. It was an abnormal Tuesday evening during which I actually had the energy to cook dinner! So, feeling great about myself and this surprise burst of energy, I decided to step it up a notch and make something out of the park healthy. This has not previously been the norm so you can imagine the pleasure I was having at my own sense of awesomeness. Baked sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies was on the menu and considering my diet had consisted of saltines, smoothies and let's not forget a few meatball subs thrown in for good measure, BOY did it smell good. The rice was done, veggies were on low and salmon had 15 minutes left on the timer. And all of a sudden, amidst the savory scents in my kitchen, it hit me like a ton of bricks, like a wave of babies, like a two ton truck.....ALL.I.WANTED.WAS.SPAM! And it wasn't just one of those fleeting 'oh my gosh what just came over me' moments. I wanted SPAM and I wanted it now. I was like Bella from Twilight when she was a baby vamp on the trail of her first human scent. If there was SPAM within 20 miles I was gonna find it. One problem. The salmon. Was cooking and by this time it had 14 minutes left. "I could totally make it to Brookshire Brothers and back in 14 minutes." I mean, in my fever, my energy was growing to Olympic proportions by the milli-second. In haste, I let Snoop-Lion out in case the place burned down, grabbed my keys and sprinted, literally sprinted out the door. And as I approached the automatic doors at Brookshire Brothers, I had a brief moment of rational sense during which I started to ask myself 'WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOin.......but then I felt it. My self-control, rationale and common sense blown to bits by the fan over the door. Within moments it was already headed toward the next town. And I was headed to the mystery meat product aisle. I'm usually pretty focused when it comes to 14 minute trips to the grocery store but I was like a carb and fat deprived caged beast who had been recently uncaged only to find myself as a lucky contestent on that game show, Supermarket Sweep. Everything that I had said 'no' to for the last 32 years in any shape, form or fashion found it's way into my cart that day. In under 12 minutes I had pillaged and the booty was bountiful. Flaky biscuits, white bread, creamy peanut butter, grape jelly, all beef hot dogs (or maybe they weren't; I wasn't THAT focused), BUTTER, velveeta mac and cheese and of course, the entire reason I was there in the first place....you guessed it. A can of Classic SPAM. I got home just as the timer on the salmon was going off. And despite it's deliciousness, I promptly put it in a tupperware and proceeded to slice and fry up my can of SPAM. I had some cold. I had some hot. And if it wasn't SO delicious it would have been disgusting. Well, let's call a spade a spade. SPAM was, is and always will be disgusting, but to me, that night, it might as well have been prepared by the Iron Chef himself because it was everything I had hoped it would be. I was hoping to have polished off the evidence before Mr. G came home but I was still reveling in my spamthusiasm when he clomped through the door. Not having been served actual dinner for several weeks at this point, you can imagine his surprise at the option of not one, but two dinner choices. Sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies (the obvious choice right?) or fried spam and maybe I had made some mac and cheese too....and maybe just a few biscuits were baking in the oven as well. A man after my own heart with a fondness for things slightly redneck, poor, fattening and trashy, we sat down to the best dinner the Goble table had seen in WEEKS. As we layed in bed that night, feet and hands swollen from the SPAM induced astronomical sodium levels, the common sense part of my brain kept trying to convince me to feel guilty for the crap I had just fed my baby. But there was another voice, a smaller voice that piped up and shouted above the guilt and worry. 'Meh. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and you never know when the next WW is coming.'
SPAM. It's not what SHOULD be for dinner, but sometimes the difference between what SHOULD be and what IS, is night and day.
For more useless information, comical recipes and time wasting activities, check out www.spam.com. Pay particular attention to the 'Catapult Dairy Cows from a castle and into a line of Frenchman' Game. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will. Regardless, don't eat SPAM. And don't wear it on your head either.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
To Trust or Not to Trust. That is ALWAYS the question.
"The laughter died out on his face, and very seriously he asked, "Do you love me enough to be able to trust me completely, Much-Afraid?" She looked at him in the usual startled fashion...."You know that I do love you Shepherd, as much as my cold little heart is capable. You know that I love you and that I long to trust you as much as I love you, that I long to love and trust you still more." "Would you be willing to trust me, he asked, even if everything in the whole wide world seemed to say that I was deceiving you-indeed that I had deceived you all along?" She looked at him in perplexed amazement. "Why yes, she said. I'm sure I would, because one thing I know to be true, it is impossible that you should tell a lie. It is impossible that you should decieve me. I know that I am often very frightened at the things which you ask me to do, she added shamefacedly and apologetically, but I could never doubt you in that way. I'ts myself I am afraid of, never of you and though everyone in the world should tell me that you had deceived me, I should know it was impossible." "Much-Afraid, supposing I really did deceive you? What then?" It was her turn to be quite silent; trying to grasp this impossible thing he was suggesting and to think what her answer would be. What then? Would it be that she could never trust, never love Him again? Would she have to be alive in a world where there was no Shepherd, only a mirage and a broken lovely dream?....To lose him? Suddenly. She BURST into a passion of weeping..."MY LORD, if you can deceive me, you may! It can make no difference. I must love you as long as I continue to exist. I cannot LIVE without loving you." -Hannah Hurnard
Unlike most people, or LIKE ALL people who are desperately trying to get pregnant, and tracking every single thing that can possibly be tracked, Andis and I found out we were expecting uncannily early. Like two weeks. In fact, we were so early that our first ultrasound was a perfect picture of a happy, healthy and VERY EMPTY uterus. Insert furrowed brow, here. All things considered; our rocky baby history, how early it was, how empty my uterus still was, it would have been appropriate, like most normal people, to wait until the 'safe' 12-16 weeks before we started making baby announcements. If there's anything you've realized about us by now it's that you won't find 'normal' next to our names in the dictionary. So, true to irrational, passionate, spastic form, we waited 12-16 minutes. It started with a few close friends and family members and then it trickled to cousins and co-workers and then the lady at 7-11 and our realtor and our realtors sister and then the neighbors and then Edward at the post office and the brotherhood of fire fighters' and from there, to infinity and beyond. You see, despite my seemingly empty uterus and the rocky baby history and all the 'shouldn'ts' and 'not a good ideas' and 'maybe you should think about this's', my joy could not be contained. That's the thing about joy. It's sticky. If it catches you, it's REALLY difficult to shake even though that cloud of fear you feel is still hanging from your shoulders. Joy has a way of shining right through that cloud; like the sunshine after a thunderstorm. Doesn't mean the clouds disappear entirely, just means the sun is stronger. And so it was. My joy was more overwhelming than my fears. It couldn't be contained. And it couldn't be contained because joy in my world isn't a fleeting feeling but rather a philosophy; a choice, every day to BELIEVE, HOPE and TRUST in a GOOD GOD. "The Lord is my strength and my shield; in HIM my heart TRUSTS, and I am helped. My heart exults and with my song I give thanks to Him." Psalm 28:7 Do I always feel like trusting? No. Do I always feel like giving thanks when I'm in pain? No. But when I make that choice, I am helped and I am helped by being given the strength to find abundant joy that no amount of fear can snuff out. "Great peace have those who love your law, nothing can make them stumble." Psalm 119:165
You know it was difficult losing a baby several years ago after we had told friends and family. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and spent several months afterwards wanting to crawl into a deep, dark hole and disappear because the pain seemed too much to bear. Some of those memories still haunt me and at times have caused me to be a 'tad' OCD when it comes to aches, pains and random cramps, but are the memories of that pain enough to keep me quiet? HECK NO. That's the thing about pain right? It's easy to remember what it looked like, felt like, how it made us act, but when we think back on it, it's impossible to REALLY FEEL it like we did before. For example. My most painful moment after that situation was on Valentine's Day; 7 short days after I ended up with barely a pulse on an operating table. I had been sliced open in no delicate fashion and every single thing I tried to do induced a level of physical pain that I had not yet experienced. Walking, sitting, laying, rolling over, peeing, coughing; you name it, it hurt. And on top of that, every moment of physical pain reminded me of my empty belly and my aching heart which brought on the throes of emotional pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Yeah, life was not awesome then. But on that particular day, the day of Hallmark induced romance, the day that Andis and I had both sworn off permanently until we met and had our very first date 4 years earlier, I found Andis, in our kitchen, whipping up some amazing gourmet creation and telling me to stay on the couch, he would call me when it was ready. You see, I had gotten lost in a cloud of sleep, pain and vicodin over the last week and didn't realize it was Valentine's Day. And I panicked because I had nothing for him. I had no card, no special cologne, no homemade coupon book, no love letter, no lingerie. I had none of that.....and I had no baby. I felt like the ultimate failure. And usually when I find myself with nothing to give I'm pretty good about faking it, but as I sat on the couch with a crayon (the only writing utensil I could find; Go Figure.) and a torn piece of notebook paper with an old grocery list on the back of it, in an attempt to make a card or write a love letter of sorts, I realized I didn't even have the words . If I could have ripped out my bleeding heart and peeled back the layers and shown him that buried under all of that pain and anger and loss and vicodin was a love for him so pure, so powerful that St. Valentine had nothing on me, I would have. But open heart surgery is not my forte and even if it was, I might have been concerned that all we would find was not the big, perfect, red heart you see in cartoons but a small, shrively, barely pumping blood sad and angry heart in it's place. And I wept. I looked in the mirror at my swollen face, my wet hair, my tshirt and pj pants, no bra wearing self with my crayon written meager attempt at a love letter and I wept. Because it was painful. And to be honest as I recall that moment several years ago, I find myself tearing up at the thought of it, but no matter how hard I try it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to RE-FEEL the pain of that moment. Does the possibility of losing this baby and being there again scare me? YES, YES, YES. Does is scare me so much that it stops me from laughing in delight and shouting in joy that we are going to have a baby and TRUSTING God that everything will work out how it's supposed to?! NO WAY. "So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and NO ONE will take your joy from you." John 16:22
I trust him because I love Him. And because I trust Him, I have joy no matter what the future holds. It bursts through the clouds and shines through the pain, everytime.
So if you're day of joy is yet to come, just remember...."He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting." Job 8:21
Unlike most people, or LIKE ALL people who are desperately trying to get pregnant, and tracking every single thing that can possibly be tracked, Andis and I found out we were expecting uncannily early. Like two weeks. In fact, we were so early that our first ultrasound was a perfect picture of a happy, healthy and VERY EMPTY uterus. Insert furrowed brow, here. All things considered; our rocky baby history, how early it was, how empty my uterus still was, it would have been appropriate, like most normal people, to wait until the 'safe' 12-16 weeks before we started making baby announcements. If there's anything you've realized about us by now it's that you won't find 'normal' next to our names in the dictionary. So, true to irrational, passionate, spastic form, we waited 12-16 minutes. It started with a few close friends and family members and then it trickled to cousins and co-workers and then the lady at 7-11 and our realtor and our realtors sister and then the neighbors and then Edward at the post office and the brotherhood of fire fighters' and from there, to infinity and beyond. You see, despite my seemingly empty uterus and the rocky baby history and all the 'shouldn'ts' and 'not a good ideas' and 'maybe you should think about this's', my joy could not be contained. That's the thing about joy. It's sticky. If it catches you, it's REALLY difficult to shake even though that cloud of fear you feel is still hanging from your shoulders. Joy has a way of shining right through that cloud; like the sunshine after a thunderstorm. Doesn't mean the clouds disappear entirely, just means the sun is stronger. And so it was. My joy was more overwhelming than my fears. It couldn't be contained. And it couldn't be contained because joy in my world isn't a fleeting feeling but rather a philosophy; a choice, every day to BELIEVE, HOPE and TRUST in a GOOD GOD. "The Lord is my strength and my shield; in HIM my heart TRUSTS, and I am helped. My heart exults and with my song I give thanks to Him." Psalm 28:7 Do I always feel like trusting? No. Do I always feel like giving thanks when I'm in pain? No. But when I make that choice, I am helped and I am helped by being given the strength to find abundant joy that no amount of fear can snuff out. "Great peace have those who love your law, nothing can make them stumble." Psalm 119:165
You know it was difficult losing a baby several years ago after we had told friends and family. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and spent several months afterwards wanting to crawl into a deep, dark hole and disappear because the pain seemed too much to bear. Some of those memories still haunt me and at times have caused me to be a 'tad' OCD when it comes to aches, pains and random cramps, but are the memories of that pain enough to keep me quiet? HECK NO. That's the thing about pain right? It's easy to remember what it looked like, felt like, how it made us act, but when we think back on it, it's impossible to REALLY FEEL it like we did before. For example. My most painful moment after that situation was on Valentine's Day; 7 short days after I ended up with barely a pulse on an operating table. I had been sliced open in no delicate fashion and every single thing I tried to do induced a level of physical pain that I had not yet experienced. Walking, sitting, laying, rolling over, peeing, coughing; you name it, it hurt. And on top of that, every moment of physical pain reminded me of my empty belly and my aching heart which brought on the throes of emotional pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Yeah, life was not awesome then. But on that particular day, the day of Hallmark induced romance, the day that Andis and I had both sworn off permanently until we met and had our very first date 4 years earlier, I found Andis, in our kitchen, whipping up some amazing gourmet creation and telling me to stay on the couch, he would call me when it was ready. You see, I had gotten lost in a cloud of sleep, pain and vicodin over the last week and didn't realize it was Valentine's Day. And I panicked because I had nothing for him. I had no card, no special cologne, no homemade coupon book, no love letter, no lingerie. I had none of that.....and I had no baby. I felt like the ultimate failure. And usually when I find myself with nothing to give I'm pretty good about faking it, but as I sat on the couch with a crayon (the only writing utensil I could find; Go Figure.) and a torn piece of notebook paper with an old grocery list on the back of it, in an attempt to make a card or write a love letter of sorts, I realized I didn't even have the words . If I could have ripped out my bleeding heart and peeled back the layers and shown him that buried under all of that pain and anger and loss and vicodin was a love for him so pure, so powerful that St. Valentine had nothing on me, I would have. But open heart surgery is not my forte and even if it was, I might have been concerned that all we would find was not the big, perfect, red heart you see in cartoons but a small, shrively, barely pumping blood sad and angry heart in it's place. And I wept. I looked in the mirror at my swollen face, my wet hair, my tshirt and pj pants, no bra wearing self with my crayon written meager attempt at a love letter and I wept. Because it was painful. And to be honest as I recall that moment several years ago, I find myself tearing up at the thought of it, but no matter how hard I try it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to RE-FEEL the pain of that moment. Does the possibility of losing this baby and being there again scare me? YES, YES, YES. Does is scare me so much that it stops me from laughing in delight and shouting in joy that we are going to have a baby and TRUSTING God that everything will work out how it's supposed to?! NO WAY. "So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and NO ONE will take your joy from you." John 16:22
I trust him because I love Him. And because I trust Him, I have joy no matter what the future holds. It bursts through the clouds and shines through the pain, everytime.
So if you're day of joy is yet to come, just remember...."He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting." Job 8:21
Thursday, July 18, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
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!
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!
Monday, July 8, 2013
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............................................................................
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............................................................................
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Racism. As American as apple pie. My weigh in on the Paul Deen issue.
Alright people. I must first disclaim that I am not 'plugged in' if you will to most of what's happening around the world. I don't have tv, I don't read the newspaper, I don't have a million news apps on my phone. Most of what I know about what's going on outside of my Whitney bubble is through Social Media or conversation with those who do know. Judge me if you must but though it may label me 'clueless' and 'unengaged' I like spending my moments and energy focusing on those around me and how I might possibly impact their lives as opposed to 'keeping up'.
That being said, here is my 'off the cuff', mostly uninformed response to the Paula Deen issue.
My first interpretation of the 'Paula Deen' issue was that she used a derogatory racial slur 30 years ago, ONE TIME and because someone just happened to find out about it and leak it to the media, she's now being dropped from the Food Network, Wal-mart is taking her products off the shelves (as IF Wal-Mart is the beacon of ethical behavior), etc. etc. Of course, at first glance, this seems unreasonable and I understood where the 'all people should be forgiven', 'she was young and from Mississipi', rhetoric was coming from. However, thirty years ago would have put her somewhere in her 30's yes? Let me check. YES. It would have made her 36 to be exact. I'm not an expert on the stages of development, but I do know this. I'm from the south and there are even members of my family that have used racial slurs in the past and I'm pretty sure that by the time I could speak I knew that I had the choice to refrain from joining in on their hatred. So I would imagine that if Paula Deen used the 'n' word at 36, she probably meant it, no matter how few times she said it, or rather how few times she was actually caught saying it.
Unfortunately for her, it was not one time and it was not 30 years ago. In looking into the issue I came across the actual deposition from the formal complaint placed by Ms. Jackson, a GM for one of their restaurants on behalf of a majority of their staff, against the Paula Deen Corp. for YEARS of incorrigible behavior by both she and her brother Bobby Heir. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you read this legal document yourself before you 'like' anymore 'Support Paula Deen' posts on FB, because what was actually said, I will not repeat. And neither should you.
http://www.scribd.com/doc/148781831/Jackson-v-Deen-Et-Al-Complaint
Matthew 12:34 says "You snakes! How can you speak good, when you are evil? For out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks. I think we're missing the point here people. Stories like this show us two things in my opinion.
1) We have SO MUCH MORE WORK TO DO! We need to open our eyes to the fact that not all people are treated equal in our society and that has got to change. And even if you feel like you're not part of that larger story because you're unplugged like me, it doesn't make it any less your responsibility. It starts in your home. It starts in your community. By not standing up to hatred and bullying you are actually promoting those things. This is not ok. Get busy people.
2) We will never get it done by ourselves. As long as we exist in this plane, we will be surrounded by evil and the hatred and decay that comes with it. Without depending on the grace and mercy of a Savior, we will never be able to promote enough change in our society to fight back against that evil. So again, get busy people.
As for you Paula. My heart breaks for you. Not being able to avoide the natural consequences of bad choices and a heart that's marred by pride and arrogance is a painful experience. I'm excited for the changes that I hope this experience brings about in your family. This could be a game changer. On behalf of every person who has ever mistreated or misspoken of another, you have a choice. 66 is not too old to change. For real.
As for those countless hearts who have been bullied into fear and acceptance of bigotry by another or a group of people because of their percieved power over them, STAND UP and keep standing up until someone listens. Those of us who listen might just be in the suburbs baking apple pies, but we won't be using Paula Deen recipes. Of that we can assure you.
That being said, here is my 'off the cuff', mostly uninformed response to the Paula Deen issue.
My first interpretation of the 'Paula Deen' issue was that she used a derogatory racial slur 30 years ago, ONE TIME and because someone just happened to find out about it and leak it to the media, she's now being dropped from the Food Network, Wal-mart is taking her products off the shelves (as IF Wal-Mart is the beacon of ethical behavior), etc. etc. Of course, at first glance, this seems unreasonable and I understood where the 'all people should be forgiven', 'she was young and from Mississipi', rhetoric was coming from. However, thirty years ago would have put her somewhere in her 30's yes? Let me check. YES. It would have made her 36 to be exact. I'm not an expert on the stages of development, but I do know this. I'm from the south and there are even members of my family that have used racial slurs in the past and I'm pretty sure that by the time I could speak I knew that I had the choice to refrain from joining in on their hatred. So I would imagine that if Paula Deen used the 'n' word at 36, she probably meant it, no matter how few times she said it, or rather how few times she was actually caught saying it.
Unfortunately for her, it was not one time and it was not 30 years ago. In looking into the issue I came across the actual deposition from the formal complaint placed by Ms. Jackson, a GM for one of their restaurants on behalf of a majority of their staff, against the Paula Deen Corp. for YEARS of incorrigible behavior by both she and her brother Bobby Heir. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you read this legal document yourself before you 'like' anymore 'Support Paula Deen' posts on FB, because what was actually said, I will not repeat. And neither should you.
http://www.scribd.com/doc/148781831/Jackson-v-Deen-Et-Al-Complaint
Matthew 12:34 says "You snakes! How can you speak good, when you are evil? For out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks. I think we're missing the point here people. Stories like this show us two things in my opinion.
1) We have SO MUCH MORE WORK TO DO! We need to open our eyes to the fact that not all people are treated equal in our society and that has got to change. And even if you feel like you're not part of that larger story because you're unplugged like me, it doesn't make it any less your responsibility. It starts in your home. It starts in your community. By not standing up to hatred and bullying you are actually promoting those things. This is not ok. Get busy people.
2) We will never get it done by ourselves. As long as we exist in this plane, we will be surrounded by evil and the hatred and decay that comes with it. Without depending on the grace and mercy of a Savior, we will never be able to promote enough change in our society to fight back against that evil. So again, get busy people.
As for you Paula. My heart breaks for you. Not being able to avoide the natural consequences of bad choices and a heart that's marred by pride and arrogance is a painful experience. I'm excited for the changes that I hope this experience brings about in your family. This could be a game changer. On behalf of every person who has ever mistreated or misspoken of another, you have a choice. 66 is not too old to change. For real.
As for those countless hearts who have been bullied into fear and acceptance of bigotry by another or a group of people because of their percieved power over them, STAND UP and keep standing up until someone listens. Those of us who listen might just be in the suburbs baking apple pies, but we won't be using Paula Deen recipes. Of that we can assure you.
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