The End...Or To Be Continued...?

I never thought about what I would do with this blog once the hubster returned. It seemed like I would be spouting on here for an undetermined time. And yet here we are, 21 Sept, and this is my last post. No sadness here though!

My beloved returns today (technically early tomorrow) and I'm sporting my gray, not so attractive welcome home t-shirt for this momentous day. I never put much thought into what this day would look like. I daydream all the time about being in the gym and hearing the words, "You're released! Go enjoy your family!" and waiting to spot that cute face through the crowd and running into his arms - as fast as one can with a 3 month old attached to the hip. But the actual day before the ceremony? No idea what I'm supposed to do. I have a mile-long to do list, but really, none of it matters...it's all just filler.

I'm thinking back on this year and wondering if it was all filler...if I was a static character or a dynamic one. All praise to God I can thankfully say I'm a dynamic one! One might not think it by reading my posts here, but I enjoyed this year. Of course I missed my husband and I cried a lot and I wished he was sleeping next to me each night. I had many hard moments and many times being mad at him because I had to put something together by myself or take out the trash in the pouring rain while 6 months pregnant. Yet, looking at the entirety of it all, I had a pretty remarkable year.

I traveled all over: Michigan, Arizona, Florida, Oregon. I read a lot. I knit a lot. I lived with family and got to be back in high school, or so it felt. I got spoiled. Somebody else folded my sheets...especially the fitted sheet, bane of my housewifely existence. I ate dinners with friends, took home their leftovers, got to help kiddos with homework as I camped out at their house (literally). Enjoyed morning brunches and coffees with other amazing women. Took more naps then I'll ever be able to number (I dream about those now). Got involved with causes, efforts, and people. Cooked a lot of meals. Shopped a lot at Babies R Us. Grew in my faith. Met new people. Sat on my knees before Christ. Was devastated by loss. Laughed until I peed. Mastered a couple of puzzles. Found that God truly is sufficient for all things.

And here I am. Checking the clock and counting down the hours until it's all done. I'm in a joyful delirium as I look at this apartment and my chubby-cheeked son. The apartment will change once Phil steps through the door...somehow transform into a different space as I'll say adieu to my bachelorette pad. So here's to the end of finishing a great but long chapter and starting a fresh new one. I have no idea what it will look like, what conflicts these characters will face or what awaits them, but I'm ready for the adventure and I pray for guidance and grace from God through it all.

Thanks for taking this chapter with me.

And so it begins

There's a new kid in town and I am his proud momma!

To preface this post, it seems to me that everything on the subject of motherhood and children has been said, written, and sung about, and it's taken me this long to even desire writing about diaper changes, spit ups and nighttime feedings. But since my child is uniquely mine and my experience mine alone (and my blog for whatever I want!), I'm sharing my 5 weeks worth of motherhood.

Nothing will prepare you to be a parent: not a certain number of books, not all the parenting classes available, not interviews with all the moms in your town. As my previous posts will suggest, I felt confident and knowledgeable; I knew there would be some bumps in the road but I was ready for them.

Yikes.

Ethan has been an incredibly good baby, therefore I have no horror stories of him screaming through the night (yet) or tales of the non-latching baby. So even with him being a great baby, the past five weeks have been crazy tough. We got off to a rough start at the hospital and spent a grand total of five days there rather than two. My birth plan went right out the window as soon as my water broke and I realized holy crap this hurts like no other (God bless epidurals) and went even further out the window when the doctors came in and said - out of the blue - hey we're going to do a c-section in about...2 minutes. Thankfully I didn't have to get one but I DID get the pleasure of meeting a metal friend called forceps (again, thank God for epidurals). The doctors called Ethan's birth a distressed one, and therefore everything took him a couple extra days to regulate than most babies. Needless to say, Phil and I had many slow walking trips down to the NICU to visit (and attempt to feed) our boy.

We finally came home and discovered that we had no idea what we were doing and why in the world did the hospital send a TINY PERSON home with us?? Every little cough, burp, diaper, red spot, and facial expression warranted a call to the hospital (well, it would have had Phil not talked me out of it) and every question I posed to Phil - "Is he supposed to ___?" - was answered with raised eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders - "I don't know!"

Then you read that newborns eat a lot and so get prepared to be up in the night with them. Oh and ask your partner to participate so that you're not doing it alone. Do you know how TIRED you get at 11, 1, 3, 5, and 7am?? And that the two hour feedings go from the time you start to the next time you start with feedings taking up to an hour...so really you get an hour "sleep" between feedings. And you wake up your partner for support only to realize there's nothing he can do and you're getting mad at him because he's nodding off as this small mouth is attempting to extract liquid that isn't there from a raw cracked nipple while you're thinking things like, "My life is over."

This is all sounding dramatic though and really, it was two weeks of this...two weeks out of my whole life. Every parent goes through this and like I said, mine was easy compared to some people's experiences so I'm not going down that road of trying to make my story sound like the most pathetic. It wasn't too bad, I always had people there, he was/is super cute and he slept a lot.

The other things that books, classes and conversations don't prepare you for is the emotion you feel for this bitty boy immediately. I know some parents it takes a while for them to feel that love and they're not sure how they feel about their baby...not me. As soon as I saw that wrinkled up face pulled out from me and heard his loud squawking I knew I couldn't love anything else exactly like I loved him. And it's just gotten better as he's grown.

He makes this pouty face when he's so tired from crying and he juts out his bottom lip as every line in his face scrunches up...only to let out this sad half cry...breaks my heart and makes me laugh all at the same time. Or when he's feeding (yes, we finally got that down after two weeks) and he's looking at me sideways with his little mouth moving up and down as milk dribbles into his BAZILLION neck folds. Or his big eyes, wrinkly forehead and cheerio-shaped mouth as he stares up into the light, holding his big head with his strengthening neck muscles. I can't even invent adjectives and verbs to describe how these things make my heart feel...and you can't either until you have one - simply amazing.

The first month went by so fast and he's grown so much (11lbs already after weighing in at 8, 3!) and I love his personality that's starting to show. He loves to cuddle, he hates sitting in a wet diaper, he's alert after bath time, and he needs his hands up by his face when he sleeps. I'm still waiting for him to smile or giggle - soon I hope! - and we're working on tummy time and head support...he's getting there. And he doesn't look like a sea monkey - he really is cute! I don't think people are lying to me when they tell me that (or else there are a lot of liars out there). He's a good blend of Dad and Mom but right now he's got a teensy bit more Mom than Dad.

He's met a lot of the family so far, and I'm so blessed that Phil was able to get home before the birth and be there for everything. He was an awesome support and I couldn't have done it without him. He's coming home soon (September!) and I'm so anxious for him to get back on our journey together. I'm glad I have Ethan here to keep me busy because I think I would be a lot sadder after R&R...but again, 7 more weeks (ish) so we're almost done. Phil is an adorable Daddy and I can't wait to see him with his boy as Ethan grows and can do more things. It was a joy to see how sappy Phil was with him and how comfortable he was holding him...I was nervous he'd be all thumbs and always be passing E off to me. I was in the kitchen that first week home from the hospital and Phil was changing him in the other room. I heard uncontrollable laughter and went in to find a straight line of poop across the entire changing table and pee whizzing through the air...Ethan as calm as can be and his Daddy laughing. I knew then that Phil was a good dad.

To repeat my thesis....nothing prepares you. And yet it's the greatest joy I've known and the most rewarding thing to go to sleep each night knowing I survived another day, my baby is still alive and dry, and even in the exhaustion, I'm happy.

Remembering Mac

This is a little overdue, but here goes.

On Memorial Day, I agreed to go with my dear friend to attend the Memorial Day Service at the cemetery as well as to see her husband's grave. I had never been to see his grave in the 8 months since he's been gone, nor had I ever gone to a ceremony on Memorial Day. I wasn't sure what to expect or what kind of emotions would hit me, and since she acted as though it was a normal thing, I decided I needed to as well.

First of all, veteran cemeteries are such quiet battlefields. To walk among the headstones and see the names of men and women, young and old, serving from previous conflicts to the present one was like walking on pages of my high school history book. As we arrived at his particular grave before the service started, I slowed my pace in the muddy grass while the rain thumped on my rain jacket. His site is on the corner of a large plot of other graves, all lined up with such precision you could measure angles by them. Others had already left mementos for him: a single yellow daisy on top, a grocery store quality bouquet laid on the grass in front, a red flag with the letters "KIA" being soaked by the rain, a red white and blue pinwheel on the other side of the stone. His wife with their 3 month old daughter strapped to her front leaned down to place her bouquet of red roses front and center, commenting earlier how she, "should've gotten something more patriotic looking," instead of roses.

I clicked photos of the three of them, she bending down to be at his level, and I could only think, something is so wrong with this picture. He shouldn't be down there while these two beautiful girls are up here. I looked up and down the rows of the fallen and wondered if he was truly glad he sacrificed as he did. If he knew how much his baby had his forehead or opened her eyes wide like him when she jibbered...if he knew how much his wife cried when the house was quiet...would he still have given up his life so willingly? Would he have made comments like, "If I die when I go out there today"? Would he have taken more care in filling out the worst-case-scenario paperwork before he deployed?

We continued walking in the pouring rain down the boulevard lined with limp American flags until we got to the service site. A community band played off to the side, old men stood in ill-fitting uniforms smiling to themselves, kids ran around in their galoshes splashing through puddles, and flags with eagles, ships, stars, and anchors hung about the stage. Other women supporting my friend found her and pointed us where to go, googling and ahh-ing over her little one, and we stood under a giant golf umbrella in the rain as the ceremony started.

I don't remember much of what was said or it being anything of grand significance, but the scene is stamped in my brain. Spouses' arms around one another; hands over hearts as songs and pledges came over the sound system; the sun shining through for about 8 minutes; an eagle soaring overhead with his familiar cry. And at the end when they read off the KIA servicemen names, I touched my friend's arm as his familiar name sounded like glass being dropped on concrete.

We walked back to the car in the rain and as I saw families walking through the graves with their young children, it hit me. This is a day that no longer means barbecues, camping trips, swimming, or a nice long weekend to do yard work. This day now means a time to honor those who gave up so much, like a sweet young wife and adorable baby girl. I've only gotten a glimpse of what being a military family is like, but the respect I have for the men, women, and children who call this their life...who risk everything to serve ungrateful Americans...who are easily forgotten after the evening news reports of their death...I'll carry that respect forever.

God is calling my family to something different and that means leaving the military after my husband has served so faithfully for all of his adult life. I can only imagine the feelings that he will go through during that transition, but I can speak for myself and say that I will never look back on our time in the service as a black spot in our history. I never want to say, "So glad THAT'S over with," because look how much being a dependent has taught me. Look how much I've learned about all those who are lifers. Look at how many amazing opportunities have been given to me. I would have never met the group of people that I now call my best friends nor would I have appreciated their struggles as I do now. I am privileged and proud to say my husband is in the U.S. Army, even with all of their shenanigans, backward philosophies and low pay. I am proud to be an Army wife and proud to live in this country, as Toby-Keith-cliche as that sounds.

Next year I want to start the tradition of visiting soldiers' graves or going to a service, even if Ethan is too young to understand. I want him to know why there's a day set aside and why it's important to our family and to so many other families. We will barbecue and swim and pull weeds, but we will remember our dear friend with a bouquet of roses on his grave and his daughter who will continue his memory simply by smiling.

A+ Mom

I am going to be the best mother.

The end.

(What if I ended the post right there?)

No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.

Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.

I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."

Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:

You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!

Then the caps lock thoughts:

JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!

Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.

Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.

I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.

But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.

Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.

(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)

I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.

I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.

That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.

Ok seriously...

After browsing over my last few posts, I freak out/whine/spazz/complain regularly (ie constantly). It's time for change! (For real...not Obama change)

The biggest topic of discussion -- literally -- is my pregnancy. Still pregnant (36 weeks!) and although all of my previous complaints are still true and worse, I'm getting used to it. My outie is a proud figurehead on this ship of a body; my nightly bathroom breaks help me know what time it is; after getting stuck in the couch last week, I am now a master of the "huh!" and roll...throwing myself off chairs, beds, and sofas. And my boob doesn't hurt anymore.

June is no longer a topic of anxiety. First of all, it's next week. Where did May go? I'm praying for some warmer weather, you know...above 55 degrees...that's a fair request I think. I have so many things left to do in preparation for Phil's return and baby's arrival -- curtains to be made, kitchen linoleum to be washed, car mats to be vacuumed, husband's hygiene products to be stocked (yes, he's very particular about his soaps and shampoos), propane tanks to be refilled -- that's a good week or two right there! THEN my mom and my aunt are coming out for a week right before my due date! I'm excited to have company who will double as cooks, cleaners, errand runners...and I have no shame saying that because I've been alone for 7 months...I will take whatever help I can get!

After breaking down I don't know how many times, I'm done crying, I'm done thinking myself into a tornado, I'm done bargaining with God and trying to twist His arm into doing what I want. Believe it or not, I'm not as persuasive as I think and He really doesn't play into my games...imagine that (more like thank God!). It's going to work out and in the end He will still be a good God and I will have reason to praise Him: I'm getting a son and my husband is coming home after almost 8 months!

So rest...that's the name of the game. Few more weeks...no more complaining.

whine fest 2010

June will never get here.

I will always be pregnant.

Coffee never tastes like I need it to taste.

The Pacific Northwest is the wet blanket to summer.

I am not as strong as I need to be right now.

Stupid Army.

The end.

crud at 1pm

I don't know why I enjoy setting myself up for cruddy days. Does the cruddy part come first so I go with it, or do I subconsciously feel it coming so I start acting cruddily, (yes, it's a word) thus perpetuating the cruddiness?

Today started off a great morning: my strawberry plant is growing, sunshine was warming through my blinds, my english muffin toasted up extra crispy, and I finished knitting a frog hat for E. Great day for success, I thought. I then went to Bible study and anticipated Phil calling so I had my phone on vibrate literally touching my leg so I wouldn't miss it. [Side note: it's funny how when your spouse is deployed, all social etiquette goes out the window. If someone had her phone on her like that during a Bible study, I would be thinking all sort of judgmental thoughts. Now when I excuse myself and whisper, "Sorry my husband from Afghanistan" everyone nods and murmurs their approval.]

To continue.

During prayer at the end (I know I know and I'm sorry!), I checked the screen and sure enough, 1 missed call and 1 voicemail. Really? How did that happen? I ducked out afterward and found out he was online even though I wouldn't be home for another hour. I decided to save face for about an extra half hour - because how rude would I look if I just left?? - then I booked it home. Thankfully he responded to my, "Are you still there??" and we got to talk for another hour and a half.

So this should be added to the Good Things to Happen Today column on my list, but it didn't. I loved talking to him and I'm so happy to know he's safe, but talking to him on certain days just makes my heart cringe up like a charlie horse. I share with him how busy I am, all the fun things I'm getting to do (setting up E's room!), and then as I'm smiling and typing, giant tears splash onto the keyboard.

Yesterday I had to move five giant tactical boxes in the baby room to other strategically hidden places in our apartment so E's room wouldn't look like a military training facility. These were heavy when I moved them way back in November, but now with a person sticking off my front and my ears constantly popping from heavy breathing, it took me an hour to scoot [at a snail's pace] these stupid black crates to closets. And of course, my budding paranoid mother side was screaming, "You shouldn't be doing this! Sit down! Call someone! E hates you right now!"

When I finished, I felt accomplished and proud to have done so much. But after talking to Phil today and telling him about it, I turned into a martyr..."oh what a hard life I lead, without a husband, having to do all of these life-threatening tasks without my burly man to do it." It's true to a degree: I do wish he was here and could see all of the soft, squishy and tiny things...and could have moved those boxes. I don't understand, however, how yesterday's high turned into today's crud.

Maybe I needed a good cry...maybe it's all a part of the daily "stuff" of deployment...but I don't like it. I hate that feeling of being able to cry all day. As I sat there talking with Phil on the computer, I realized yet again how frustrating it is to not be able to tell your best friend that you're sitting there weeping (he had no idea as I inserted lots of !! and smiley faces). It'd be one thing if he were at work, I called him crying to tell him about my crappy day, and know that he can say, "I'm sorry honey. When I come home tonight, we can talk more about it/I'll snuggle you/I'll make you dinner," all things he would say if he were here. But what can he do? Pray, write me a sweet email, call me the next day to check on me...yes...but not crawl into bed with me at night, kiss my cheek and tell me how he loves the baby room.

It sounds as though I'm writing this at the end of a long rough day and I will now sign off and go to bed, waking up to the blooming rhododendrons and possibly pancakes or some other carby deliciousness. Unfortunately, it's only 1pm. (A lot of emotions can happen in 5 hours!) So what now...

Well, I'll take out the trash and count that as my exercise along with the workout I had earlier when I moved the last 2 boxes...there's my 30 minutes. I'll wrap a cute baby gift for a friend with my best taping and folding skills. I'll start knitting another adorable hat (hope E likes hats), then make my way to a friend's house to bake, even though crawling into bed or watching a movie sounds more appealing.

This is normal life, and I whine a lot about it. It would probably be easier if I cut out the whining part and recognized it as normal life. Another thing with deployment: no one is bold enough to say to you, "Buck up. You're fine. Your husband is fine. Stop crying and make this day a good one, cruddy or not" because that would seem insensitive or somehow deployment gives you that right to be a pouty cry-baby. So since no one else will:

Al, buck up. This is life. Blow your nose and take out the recycle.

5.5 months in, 30 weeks preggers

I'm ready to be unpregnant.

I know I shouldn't complain because I'm only 30 weeks and the road is just going to get steeper from here on out, but everyday I am bigger and everyday I realize how way in over my head I am. Common thoughts that rumble through my mind:

- What's with all of these new freckles? Are some of them cancer?
- What is just the left boob so sore? Shouldn't the right one be too?
- Will I ever sleep soundly again?
- Is my bellybutton turning into an outie? Of all things, please no.
- How do other women stay pregnant for 40 weeks?

On top of these first-timer questions, I am thoroughly psyching myself out for the month of June. I know I'm going to freak out - with excitement - about Phil coming home...June is a word that I love to say. But as I'm seeing what R&R looks like for guys coming home lately, none of them are home when they're supposed to be home...they're ALL 2+ days late. Super frustrating in and of itself. But THEN to be ready to pop at any second?? I can already envision the sleepless nights, trying to breathe deeply but getting sick to my stomach hoping that I don't go into labor.

How is this going to work? I'm getting myself ready to deliver all by myself, if necessary, so that I won't be disappointed if Phil's not there. But lets be serious...of course I'm going to be disappointed, crying my eyes out in between contractions, and hating Army for having such backwards flights and keeping my husband away from me (that's a long-standing grudge though).

I know God will work it out, but I still can't help obsessing over it, creating back up plans for back up plans. How can so much joy be surrounded by so much stress? What if my husband misses the birth of our first baby? Am I strong enough to do it alone?

I don't know. And I'm spazzing out just writing this post, so I'll move on to the joys of being pregnant.

Peeing 2-3 times per night...always peeing all day.
Baby having hiccups which feel like a steady drumbeat in your gut...while you're trying to sleep.
Heartburn 3 bites into a meal.
Squished stomach that only allows 3 bites per meal.
Making sound effects when you bend over, get out of a chair, lean down, or roll over in bed.
Learning how to heave yourself off couches and other absorbent materials.
Thinking a t-shirt still fits, putting it on, and having it actually cause you pain.
Needing to catch your breath after tying your shoelaces.
Forgetting you're pregnant and scaring yourself when you look in the mirror.

I'm exhausted, pre-freaking out about June, having a love/hate relationship with pregnancy, and need to pee, yet again. I wish I could Rip Van Winkle it until week 40...

daziness

Do you ever feel like you're in a daze? Life feels dazy right now. I don't know whether I should complain about this, add or subtract activities, start some project or new goal, or just daze.

Life will forever change in about 2.5 months...at least that's what I'm gearing myself up for. If you knew things would be drastically different at a certain point in time, would you ride the good ride until it happened or attempt to do something epic?

the new routine

Things are getting easier with Phil being gone, and this is sad to me.

The first two months of deployment, I was a wreck. It could have been the whole pregnant thing, but I prefer to think that I was so devastated because the love of my life disappeared for a year. Crying every night, tearing up when "Family Guy" would be on TV -- that was Phil's show -- purposefully scooting over to the other side of the bed to the coldness so I'd feel even more pathetic (I told myself it was cathartic), opening his drawers and smelling his clothes...all of this was a daily routine of mine. Healthy? Of course not. Necessary? Absolutely.

Now I've found my own routine around the apartment, and this is a good thing, mostly. I pick weekly breakfasts (oatmeal for a week, cereal for a week, eggs for a week, bagel weeks are my favorite), I have the cup of fresh morning milk, and the day begins. The nights used to be the hardest, and now I have a routine for that too: dinners (this could mean anything from nuked chicken nuggets or something that requires actual dishes), reading or listening to a sermon online, watching the ol' shows -- sadly, I do have a nightly show to watch...I used to despise people like that -- and then sitting in bed after I'm all flossed and lotioned to journal. Or sometimes stare at Phil's side of the bed, but with a smile and not tears.

I'm really proud of myself - I'm an Army wife with a deployed spouse, and even though we'll never do this again (God willing), I know I could do it if necessary. I read about this happening for military spouses...reaching that point of feeling in control again and powerful...they've figured things out, they know the handyman's number by heart, they can jump start a car (I'm a pro at that), and they know how to fill out the shipping labels that get stamped at least 14 times and smacked on the side of boxes going to APO addresses. Yep, I'm officially in the club.

But that's so sad to me. I don't want to be hardened; I don't want to have my new Saturday morning routine that is everything BUT seasoned eggs, toast, a good 3 cups of coffee and pajamas until noon. It bums me out to have plans every night with friends (this includes the TV) and have so many good laughs, all without Phil. It scares me to think that now I have to remember what Phil and I would do on a Friday night or how we used to do this or that. I have to think about it!

I'm whining, I know. Phil would probably start talking to me in this high-pitched, annoying voice to mock me: "I don't like deployment. Make me eggs. I had to pump my own gas." I deserve it. But it's my blog, dangit.

I must admit, however, that I am enjoying life right now. I feel guilty saying that - shouldn't I be sad and depressed the entire time? God has been so good in giving me things to do, awesome friends, joy in the little things (although NOT enjoying this new nightly heartburn...yay babies....). I truly have no complaints, I mean I shouldn't. I'm so proud of myself, so thankful that God has turned this time into a time of growth and blessing, and so glad that I'm figuring out life with Phil not here.

I just wish he was here.

need a narrator?

I've been sick and had some down time around the apartment the past week, and I've made a discovery.

I talk to myself. A lot. And not just mumbles here and there under my breath. No, full out conversations at a normal volume level.

A part of me is nervous that this is a bad habit to form.

Another part of me shrugs my shoulders because hey, if no one is here to listen, somebody's got to.

comfort

Yesterday was the first day that I hated and loved being comforted in Christ alone.

I had a heavy weekend after a conversation with a friend Friday night, and my way to get relief was to talk to Phil. I didn't know what he would say that would make me feel better, but I knew it would be something. I missed him all on Saturday and was hoping he would call or email...maybe my distress signals would telepathically reach him in Afghanistan.

But he didn't call and I had to do Saturday, alone, just God and me. Sunday, though, he would definitely call - I was sure of it. I didn't sleep well, hoping it would be 7:30am already; I allowed myself to get extra sad and pitiful so that when I talked to him it would be more cathartic. I was ready for the cell phone to ring.

Except it didn't.

As hard as I stared at it, it wouldn't ring. So I made myself an egg sandwich for breakfast, read a chapter of a book, drank two glasses of milk - all the while getting mopier and thinking it would be aaaaanny minute until he called. A new feeling came instead: fear. What if something was wrong? What if he wanted to call - he received my distress signals - but he couldn't? Panic.

I started to pace: I needed to get ready for church but that meant I was moving on and I didn't want to move on - I had to talk to Phil! (Prior to this point, the thoughts in my head ended with periods; now they were ending with exclamation points.) I picked up my phone, staring intently at it, then decided I would call him. Just to make sure he's okay, I told myself. I won't blab his ear off, was how I justified this needy act. So I called him. Ring. Ring. Ring. Nothing.

I hung up and decided I had waiting long enough to get ready. I got dressed, put on some makeup for the first time in a week - blush and all - and took my things with me out the door. Then - RING! It was him! He received my distress signal! (Not really, he received my actual phone signal.)

"Hey, did you call me?" And suddenly I felt embarrassed.
"Yes," I sheepishly answered. Why did I call him? I thought. Of course he's okay!
I mumbled a few words about how I had a bad feeling and I just wanted to hear his voice.
"Oh," he responded. "You okay?" he asked after an awkward lag time.
And then I remembered I was supposed to get my cathartic cry out! So I started crying except I couldn't articulate why.

"I had a hard conversation with her...I feel so heavy...I'm happy for our marriage...I am not very strong..." And though those seemed like stellar reasons for crying - the best, really - all he could respond with was, "I know. I'm sorry."

And I was thrilled I got to vent and tell him what a crappy weekend I was having, but I still felt crappy. And on top of that, I felt childish. Here my husband is off fighting in a war, and I'm blubbering because I had a bay day, so bad I had to CALL him on his EMERGENCY cell phone.

We hung up and then I was alone in the car, driving. Here's where I hated and loved being comforted by Christ (I take a while to get back to my point, but I do...eventually). I hated that I couldn't portray to Phil how cruddy I was feeling and in turn, he didn't know what to say. Normally my equation is Jesus + Phil = comfort. And this is in no way a blame on him, but for this particular scenario, my sadness was my own and not a shared one. How could he understand, not having heard the conversation or been present to hear all of the details afterward?

I'm glad, on the other hand, that he didn't offer much solace because then I HAD to rely on Christ. I was feeling so down and burdened - way more than a no-good day - and I had to stop feeling that. Who else could I turn to but Christ? I had to call a man almost 7,000 miles away in war, hoping he had answers. The God of the Universe, however, was right there the whole time with the answers all along, from when I woke up to while I was eating my egg sandwich to when I was streaking my freshly applied Apricot Breeze blush with tears.

And Jesus is always there! He always brings comfort! So in the midst of driving with wet eyes, I talked with God and relented. And maybe if I just looked to God for comfort in the early morning hours when I couldn't sleep rather than making my own plans (and also accumulating a hefty international calling fee in the process), I would have been a lot more rested and content. Christ is slowly showing me that He is all I need - not Christ + Phil. And as much as I adore my husband and am so thankful for the comfort and joy he brings, I realize that those are gifts I don't deserve. I won't have those forever.

Christ's comfort IS forever. And that, my friends, is all that matters.

humbled

Totally and completely humbled.

My mom flew back with me from Michigan to Washington on the 14th, and has been here until today, joined by my dad last Thursday. She came for the baby ultrasound (more to come on that!) and with that appointment being pushed back, she extended her stay and we convinced dad to come too.

The whole time she was here, I was floored by her selflessness, her generosity, her patience. She cleaned my apartment, taking out trash, doing dishes and laundry, buying me cleaning gadgets (I'm more of a wipe the furniture with my sleeve kind of duster rather than a spray cleaner on rags and move stuff around to clean kind of person) - in a word: awesome. I would love to tell you that her cleanliness bolstered me to do more and help her, but no, I laid on the couch and let her do her thing.

As for her generosity. A friend from church, pregnant with twins, suffered an ALMOST devastating blow when she was diagnosed with Twin-to-Twin transfusion syndrome and had emergency surgery to save the girls. Praise God she's okay, but our community group had to pitch in with meals and work shifts at her house since she was on bed rest with two other children...ages 2 and 1. This friend doesn't have much, so when I told my mom about it, we immediately went out so mom could buy her pots and pans, casserole dishes, and toys for the kids. She had never met this girl or been to her house to see if it was true - she just did it. I could have bought those things, but I'm really learning about giving cheerfully, and unfortunately I'm not there yet...I would have done so grumbling. But seeing my mom give so generously? I've been thinking a lot about my heart.

PATIENCE...holy schmoley my mom is a saint! So pregnancy...it makes you CRAZY. I have about a 6 or 7 hour window each day of being cheerful, productive, and an all-around decent human being. When 3 o'clock hits, however, I tap out. I'm done. I rust up and can't move like the Tin Man...only a woman...and pregnant (I just visualized a pregnant tin person...weird right?) The best story to illustrate this principal of my GCD (Gross Craziness per Day) is when we registered at Babies R Us for peanut. We got there a little after lunch with a game plan and a list of things we still needed. I had energy, I was ready to go, and then we got to the car seat aisle.

First of all, safety these days seems like it's on steroids. I'm all for keeping my child safe, and yes, I registered for outlet protectors, so I'm not knocking it. But with car seats, it's just madness! There are weight limits, harnesses (5-POINT!), expiration dates, side collision cushions, anchors...if you didn't know I was talking about car seats, you might think this was a discussion about jet planes or sky-diving equipment. THEN! As soon as you get to a certain weight limit on this one, perfectly operational seat, you have to buy a whole new one! How does one child need 3 different car seats?? I know, I know...mothers don't judge me...I got them all...but lets just say I was leaning against things to rest and a scowl was forming on my face after this episode in aisle 5.

So we still had to register for furniture, bedding, bumper whatevers and I was already pooped. Getting a little snappy with mom, pointing at things instead of actually talking, and shrugging a lot like a spazzoid teenager. Finally, my saint of a mother looked at me and said, "Sit in that glider over there. I'm going to register for a good mattress and bedding." Well alright momma, whatever you say. And there she went with the register gun, rounding up saleswomen, and shootin' mattresses and fitted sheets left and right.

If I had to have done that by myself?? I would have laid down in that demo car bench and cried myself to sleep. And I was NOT pleasant to shop with and yet mom had such joy and satisfaction shooting all of those things and keeping us on track. When we got home afterward, she sent me to bed and threw some towels into the laundry. What a wonder woman.

I could go on and on about her, and then my dad too when he got here (in summation: got me new tires, helped me do my taxes, jumped Phil's car - neglected by wife here - and drove it around, helped me build a dresser), but you'd never stop reading.

So I'm blessed right? What great parents! I'm a lucky gal! Life is great!

True.

But so much more than that. I am totally humbled, inspired, and challenged by the example of my parents. Humbled that they give so much to me...hello they both dropped their lives to come watch an ultrasound screen with me! Humbled that they served me, the elders serving the youth. Inspired to do the same for them. Inspired to serve others just as selflessly. Challenged to give more generously. Challenged to invest in my family.

SPEAKING of family! Well, as my hundreds of faithful readers know, I am with child (that makes me feel like Mary...no angel showed up to tell me). We have been anxiously waiting to find out if it was a boy or a girl. After what seemed like forever, February 1st finally came and I walked into that dim room with the black screen and blue-green gel. I got slathered up and within the first ten minutes, Mom crouched in a chair like a kid watching TV too closely and Dad with the camera pointed at the screen, the technician pointed out my child's adorable booty butt and asked,
"Do you want to know what you're having?"
"Yes!"
"Well, there's his penis!"SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!! Phil and I were so thrilled to be having a child, and we were excited about having either, but deep down we both were hoping boy. And then to see his little wee-wee! What a joy - what a delight - what a GIFT!

So humbled, part two. I've been pregnant all along, yes, but knowing that it's a boy and we can now call him his name made it so much more real. We're having a baby...God has entrusted a human being to our care...and baby is going to be strong and firm, just like his name means. How humbling can it get? I am impressed by monks and nuns who live a life of solitude and focus all their energy on pursuing God, but I think so much growth and learning comes when you get married and then have children. This baby is going to be used not only as a great man of God someday (I'm praying!), but as a sharpening iron for his parents. I will be on my knees every morning..."God give me what I need to be a good mom and show him Christ today." This is going to be the greatest challenge, the most beautiful hurdle I'll ever jump. I have never found a job that I love or am satisfied with, and now with this baby boy coming, my calling is clear: train up the child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.

Humbled beyond words and yet so full of joy - what a season of life! My boy has parents who are SO in love with him, have grandparents who are amazing, and a God who is the best loving Father he'll ever know. I'm walking each day in gratitude, peace, and wonder.

Oh, and his name is Ethan.

devastation

As we heard from Pastor Mark today about his visit to Haiti and the devastation he encountered, I am overwhelmed with sorrow and conviction. Sorrow because it was an in depth look through Mark's videos and photographs in ways the news doesn't show.

I saw a dead boy or 15 or 16 lying in the street with crimson blood trickling down the gravel moments after he was shot in the head as bystanders walked by and gave a flitting glance.

I saw a 24 year old man helping to dig out his 26 year old brother, a worship leader at a church, from the rubble of the building only to put him straight into a casket. They stripped him of his belt, boots, and wallet before closing the lid.

I saw a teenage girl, suffering under a tarp for days because she took a cinder block to the face and her family was unable to get her to the hospital for treatment since it was too expensive - $15 for a taxi.

I saw church after church devastated, whole floors collapsed on themselves. One church held the bodies of the choir singers who were practicing on that Tuesday.

I saw a young man with four boys right after his wife's funeral, and when Pastor Mark asked him how he could still smile - no wife, no home, no job - the man answered, "The LORD gives me joy!"

Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

Mark and another pastor from Chicago, James MacDonald, started an organization called Churches Helping Churches (www.churcheshelpingchurches.com) to raise awareness and support for the suffering churches in Haiti. When I first heard of the organization, I must shamefully admit that I thought, "Why did they start that? Shouldn't Mars Hill just partner up with a Christian aid organization to get these people food, water, medicine, and shelter?"

So here comes the conviction part. Mark preached about how we are all the church, as it says in Acts 1:8, "But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth." We are both the church locally and we are the church to the ends of the earth. Pastors in Haiti have lost their entire congregation; other people in churches don't know where their pastor is; some flee to the physical place representing sanctuary because their homes are devastated and their families are dead, only to find the church building decimated.

Where would I go to if my family was dead, my house gone, my stomach empty, and my church building was crumbled in a heap with bodies scattered around it? Where would you go?

How can we say we love the church when we don't see how atrocious it is that an entire country has lost all of its churches, those places of refuge, God's glory, and help for the broken? Brothers and sisters, it is time to step up and care for one another. I don't feel a call to travel to Haiti in the relief efforts, but I can give. Fifty bucks could have gotten that teenage girl with an open sore on her face to the hospital days ago. One hundred dollars could enable the church compound operating as a refugee camp to supply water to the thousands of people housed there.

We have it SO GOOD; we have reason to have MUCH JOY; we have resources to GIVE ABUNDANTLY; and yet so many don't support the church they attend financially. Haiti has no infrastructure, no order, no laws - help has to come from God's people. I am a child of God; I love the church; I need to support those people who are preaching the Gospel RIGHT NOW despite having no food, no home, no loved ones, and no outlook.

Yet those people are smiling because the LORD gives joy! Give faithfully, pray diligently, walk with joy for the glory of His Name.

If you would like to help, go to www.churcheshelpingchurches.com. Watch media coverage here.

hope

I have relished this season being home. Although I've had my moments of wishing Phil was here, he's been able to call quite a bit. In fact, one night I thought it would be a fitting night to have a good cry. It was Christmas night and I focused on the empty space in the bed, the single chair I sat in while opening presents, and other similar scenarios. And try as I may, I couldn't conjure up a single tear. So I said, "forget this," and rolled over for a good 12 hours of sleep...my latest pastime.

Surprisingly, New Years Eve turned out to be the event that brought on tears. I was at a gathering of college friends, feeling like I was 40 compared to everyone, and the countdown began. So holding my dixie cup of refreshing water, I joined in the countdown and got my share of hugs and kisses from friends. Then out of left field, BAM the tears flowed down. I commend people for the comfort they offered, but it was just one of those go sit on the toilet seat and cry for a few minutes moments. I would have given anything for Phil to have called at that moment to hear his voice and the amazing ability he has to calm me down with the phrase, "Hey babe" in that delicious voice. But unfortunately, my life isn't a ABC Family TV movie (maybe that's a fortunate thing) so I had to wipe myself up and go join the party again with my fake face on.

And yet, here I am, two months into this deployment and I'm finally feeling hope well up. I'm getting some vacations lined up for each month, it's officially the year he'll come home, and I get to find out if our baby is Ethan or Esther on January 21! Time does keep going, which sometimes is torturous and other times is the biggest comfort. Regardless of how I feel or what I do, time will keep ticking and this year does have an end. What a joyous end that will be too...this time next year...beautiful.

God is so good...everyday I'm constantly amazed at his goodness to me despite my lack of faith and my self-centeredness. I'm learning that anxiety, fear, and worry are all forms of unbelief. God's not up there, fiddling around trying to get 2010 figured out, like he missed a deadline. It's all taken care of and he's got a plan for us that is better than we can ever attempt to create. So I'm resting. I'm not even thinking about the future. I'm thinking about how I'd like to knit my sock after this, eat some chips and salsa and get some stretchy pants on.