As a creative person, my life is
inevitably full of unfinished projects. Thankfully for my family, my
unfinished projects typically exist in stacks of papers or saved on
hard drives, and not in an incomplete bathroom remodel or a broken
down car in the driveway. I came across this particular file a few
days ago, titled “Pregnancy Book”, and began reading it over. It
started on the day I confirmed my 4th pregnancy and my
intention was to write one little blurb, basically like a blog post,
for every day of my pregnancy. I would document and comment on the
little daily happenings and, after the baby was born, I hoped to also
give birth to an insightful and amusing little book. The average
pregnancy lasts around 280 days. I apparently had made it to day 19.
I don't know what I was thinking,
trying to write a book while pregnant and caring for my 3 children
under 5. Well, I do know what I was thinking. It's the same
illogical, overly-optimistic ambition that convinces me that I can
unload the dryer, clip the baby's fingernails, and reorganize the
garage ten minutes before we have to leave for church. But, woefully
incomplete as it is, I enjoyed reading through the 19 entries. Even
though it never made it to a book, if nothing else it serves as a
wonderful little scrap of family history.
I figure if I wrote it, I may as well
share it, albeit 4 years down the road. I have a blog, and a blog
should have, you know, posts or something. Since I've written one
post is the last 3 years, I'm thinking a post this gigantic should
about catch me up. Will anyone read 19 posts mushed into one?
Probably not. But to chop it all up and post it one day at a time,
well, that would require more diligence then I have right now, not to
mention the highly probable confusion it would cause. “Wait, are
the Braseltons pregnant again?” No, we're not. But you can
read about what it was like when the Braseltons were pregnant.
At least for the first 19 days.
(For an abridged version, check out my faves: Days 1, 5, 11, and 15)
Day One
I buy my pregnancy tests at the dollar
store. It seems to be a well-kept secret, though it should be shouted
from the rooftops, that a woman need not pay twelve dollars for
something at Walgreen's which can be had for a dollar six after tax
at the 99 Cent Mart. Sure, there is that potentially hazardous extra
step of peeing into the little cup rather then peeing directly on the
stick, but to me the inconvenience is worth the ten dollars and
ninety-four cents. I figure by now I must have saved at least sixty
bucks.
Matthew wanted to be the one to look
this time. I know I looked the first two times, then I think we
looked together on number 3, but this time he wanted to do it. So I
left it in the bathroom and we made casual conversation for 5
minutes. I remember making it so much more ceremonial the first time,
waiting for morning pee, sitting on the edge of the bed watching the
clock tick away exactly 5 minutes, taking deep breaths as I walked in
and feeling my world turn a flip along with my stomach at the sight
of the double pink lines. I guess this time I already knew, which is
why taking the test on a whim, knowing I'd had it for couple years
now and it was 7 months expired, didn't bother me. I always knew
those dates were a crock anyway. They just want me to go out and
spend another dollar six.
Matthew pokes his head out of the
bathroom with raised eyebrows and a big smile.
“Oh, boy...” he says.
“Or girl.” I add.
“Or girl.” He agrees, no longer
looking at me but staring off somewhere, surely envisioning another
pair of tiny feet and hearing the little baby sounds, rocking it to
sleep and feeling its soft skin on his cheek. He looks back at me
moments later, and I raise my eyebrows in anticipation of his
thoughts shared.
“You're going to get fat again.” he
states matter-of-factly.
“Yup...” I sigh. “Look out.”
Day 2
I spend the day today processing the
confirmation of what was much more then a sneaking suspicion. But
it's complicated because we had been looking forward to adopting
children for years, and after a long and somewhat tedious process,
were finally waiting for a placement any day. I call our caseworker
and, after congratulations, she tells me that we will need to wait at
least a year after the baby is born before taking a placement. I feel
simultaneously crushed and freed as I listen to her explain the
policy. We have been wrestling with what to do regarding adoption in
light of the pregnancy, but now the decision had been made for us.
This means pushing back our adoption plans two years, possibly more,
and I feel the gears that have been pushing so hard for so long come
grinding to a halt and my heart lurches forward as I come to grips
with our new timetable.
In times like these, the sovereignty of
God is a wonderful, freeing thing to know. This pregnancy was not an
accident on our part, and it certainly wasn't on His. He obviously
laid the desire for another baby on Matthew's heart, brought me
around to the idea, and continued bestowing on us the blessing of
rabbit-caliber fertility. Apparently God thought it best for our
family to wait for our adoptive children to come along. The time was
not to be now. Perhaps we are not ready. Perhaps our children are not
ready. This understanding relieves me of the weight of questions like
“what if” and “should we have” and “will we ever”. I go
through the day beating back these questions with the knowledge of
God's infinite wisdom and love for us, wielding it like a wet blanket
against the fledgling flames of fearfulness that, if left unchecked,
can readily consume a woman's heart.
Day 3
Today I have scheduled breakfast with
my best friend, who is pregnant with her first, about 14 weeks along.
We were due to have a meal together soon anyway, but now it has been
upgraded from a typical breakfast with Jenn to one of those
bomb-dropper meetings when the butterflies invade your stomach on the
drive over just thinking about how you will say it and when. I
question why I still feel the butterflies and feel a bit silly. After
all, I've sat across the table from Jenn 3 times before this with the
same news. I suppose having a baby never gets old.
We talked about her pregnancy until the
waitress sets the food down on the table- two plates of chicken fried
steak and eggs. Surely not what the doctor ordered, but the babies
did. There are only a handful of windows during a meal when it feels
natural to bring up something of weight and significance. One option
is to begin immediately after being seated, but then you are sure to
be quickly interrupted by server introductions and drink orders. The
next window comes after the orders have been taken and there is a
brief but distinguishable abeyance in conversation. This is the
moment I favor most because the next chance to speak is also the
first chance to eat and, being quite taken with food, I prefer not to
make momentous conversation while chewing. The final opportunity
comes after the bill has been paid and plates cleared. This is less
then ideal, however, because it requires not only that you endure
your butterflies for the entire meal, but that you sit at an empty
table under the disdainful eye of your server while you have an
inevitably long conversation. I pass on the first window, and miss
the second. When the waitress sets our food on the table, I decide to
go with the 3rd.
“So,” I say slightly leaning across
the table. “Our caseworker called yesterday and asked if we would
want to expand out family by three instead of two.” Jenn's eyes got
a little big as I continued. “She had two twin two-year-old boys
and a newborn baby girl.” Jenn's face softens and her head falls to
the side ever so slightly in the customary response elicited from a
woman when she hears the phrase “newborn baby girl”.
“Wow....” she coos, before
practicality sets in on her brow. “That would be crazy!”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding in
agreement. “We actually might have said yes, but we had to say no.”
Jenn lifts a forkful of potatoes to her
mouth.
“How come?” She asks
sympathetically. I look Jenn in the eyes, determined to take in every
detail of her response so I can later reenact it for Matthew with as
much accuracy as possible.
“Because we're pregnant.”
Jenn drops her fork on her plate and
subsequently throws her arms up in the air, which makes me glad for
the sequence in which she chooses to perform her gestures. Then, as
is required of Jenn when making surprising or scandalous discoveries,
her hands hasten to her mouth to cover it as if some sort of creature
would fly out of it if she did not. I grin from ear to ear enjoying
the show, and briefly she is speechless before managing a gleeful,
“You are?!”
After a few explanations and statistics
like original intentions and ovulation cycles, we settle back into
our chicken fried breakfast, and the butterflies have subsided.
I drop Jenn off with the strict charge
not to tell anyone but her husband to which she nobly agrees,
commending Matthew and me on our self control in spreading the news.
But honestly, not much self control is needed this time around, as I
am pretty certain that I have already received the most elated
response I will get from our announcement.
Day 4
Today we are invited to dinner on a
farm. We have very recently moved to Queen Creek, Arizona where there
are wide-open spaces, fields of crops, and lots and lots of cows.
This farm does not have any cows at the moment, but it has just about
everything else not to mention a trampoline in the yard, and for our
family you might as well have just plopped us down in Shangri-la.
Benjamin runs to the back fence in
delight, pointing and screaming “Chickens!” at the top of his
little lungs until I acknowledge his monumental discovery with
sufficient enthusiasm. Bethany is on the trampoline in an instant,
Harper collects the eggs right out of the hens' nests, and everyone
gets to feed the horse and no one loses any fingers. It was a
delightful evening, leaving both Matthew and me with that lingering
feeling of rightness. There's just something about experiencing a
farm. These are real people with real land and this is real food. The
chicken we had for dinner had roamed the yard not long before it sat
on the table. But as enchanting as it all seemed, neither Matthew or
I even allude to the thought of our family living on a farm. Maybe
it's our soft heart for animals, or maybe it's because killing any
bug larger then an earwig is traumatic mayhem in our house, but we
both know without saying it that we are simply not cut out for
farming.
We come home with dirty, exhausted
children. I am pretty exhausted myself and wonder as we unload the
kids if I have eaten anything unpasteurized tonight. I can't remember
what that can do to your pregnancy, but I'm sure it's something
awful. We come inside to discover that ants have taken over the
downstairs due to neither the front or the back door sealing shut
correctly, and for the next 10 or 15 minutes it is ant genocide. We
go upstairs leaving behind a wake of arthropod carcasses, the malodor
of Country Bouquet scented Raid, and a sticky note to call the
exterminator and the door-fixing people first thing in the morning.
Day 5
Today I realize that this baby has been
growing inside my stomach for several weeks now totally deprived of
prenatal vitamins. Some women start taking their vitamins when they
are simply trying to conceive. I'm sure they are the ones who's
children grow up to play the violin, or even more impressive the
viola, because no one knows exactly what that is but it sounds so
very cultured. I picture my little embryo languishing in my uterus,
silently imploring me to send down some vitamins, or at least to eat
a few vegetables for goodness sake. But I don't get along well with
many vegetables and I have no vitamins at home other than the kids'
gummy ones formed into shapes of Disney princesses. I consider
popping a couple of Cinderellas but decide if my embryo has waited
this long, one more day or two won't cost it a chair in the junior
high orchestra.
I do find that I have DHA supplements
in the cupboard, which as we all know is the very building block of
the brain, and I eagerly swallow one of the gel caps to give this kid
a fighting chance. The pill people put in a strawberry flavoring to
combat an aftertaste of what is inside the capsule, which is listed
as Pharmaceutical Grade Fish Oil. No one wants that revisiting them
in the afternoon. The flavoring fulfills its purpose in that I never
taste the fish, but instead I am plagued with a very potent
artificial strawberry-flavor throughout the day. The slight wave of
nausea that accompanies it reminds me that the prenatal vitamins had
also made me feel a bit sick in the last go-around. I decide that all
vitamins and supplements shall henceforth be taken directly before
bed, and that whenever this kid stands up to receive an award it had
better thank its mother.
Day 6
I can't quite get my face to stop
scowling. I don't know why people say they are so angry they could
spit, because I am about as angry as I get and spitting is the last
of inappropriate actions I would like to take right now.
This is how it all goes down. I have
the kids ready for bed so I send them down to say goodnight to Daddy.
Daddy tells them he wants to read them a Bible story so can they stay
up a little longer while he finishes up his work and of course they
oblige. I, however, am done parenting for the day hence having the
kids ready for early bedtime. So I tell the kids that Daddy's in
charge and I shut the door and go to bed. I neglect to tell Daddy
that he is in charge, which may or may not have prevented what
follows.
I lay there for a while trying to block
out the sound of feet running up and down the halls and the laughing
and screaming, until I hear Benjamin say something about lotion.
Benjamin with any lotion product is a combination I have experienced
before and never want to experience again, so I grudgingly climb out
of bed to make sure nothing slippery is going on. Turns out I am a
little too late. Just how long does it take for a two-year-old and a
four-year-old to smear an entire tub of Vaseline over the walls,
doors, banisters, and carpet? I'm not exactly sure, but it isn't very
long. At this point I make a mayday call down the stairs for back-up,
mostly so that I don't throw anyone through a window, and Matthew and
I empty the entire linen closet full of towels trying to wipe,
scrape, and rub down every glob of goo while the perpetrators sit in
the bathtub, covered from head to toe, laughing. I think the laughter
was the worst. By the end of it, they didn't think it was so funny
after all.
I start to fill the tub before
realizing the futility of trying to remove Vaseline with water, and
settle for wiping them down as best we can. Benjamin's hair is
standing four inches off the top of his head, and as difficult as it
is to stay mad at him looking like this, I think I have managed.
I know this sort of thing usually
becomes funny after some time passes, but I'm still at the point
where I cannot imagine this ever being funny. I guess an hour and 38
minutes is not enough time. Maybe a few days. Maybe a year. Maybe
when they come home from their first semester in college. That is, if
the little hoodlums don't get arrested first.
Day 7
As is natural and expected, we continue
to get questions from friends and family about our adoption plans and
have we heard anything and when do you think you'll get some kids. We
are vague at this point, careful to be truthful but we have decided
not to tell the world about this baby for a while.
We kept our little secret for 12 weeks
with all of the babies, 12 weeks being the threshold when rate of
miscarriage drops dramatically. Consequently, with a second baby or
beyond it also becomes quite difficult to hide after that point. I am
thankful that it is winter, and hoodies will be my best friends. It's
not only the possibility of miscarriage and having to deal with the
onslaught of well-intentioned sympathizers that makes us wait, but a
sort of cherishing the knowing between the two of us for a time.
Soon it will be public knowledge and there will be the joy in that,
but for now it's just between Matthew and me; a little treasure to
hide, a knowing smile across the table at a family gathering.
I must admit it was harder to keep
secret the first two then with the Boy and this baby. Matthew and I
both have one sister and I think that without anyone realizing it,
our families might have subconsciously assumed that we would stop at
two children. In fact, during those secret 12 weeks with Benjamin one
of our family members actually called specifically to tell us we
ought to slow down, as our girls were intentionally born close
together and this already raised some concern. So when we announced
we were pregnant for the third time, while there was certainly a
joyful response there was also a subtle sense of remonstrance, almost
like the rumbling of thunder that you cannot so much hear as feel
through your feet and in the air. No one was disdainful or
mean-spirited. Everyone was still elated at the announcement of a boy
and at his birth. But still there it was.
Both of our families had only two
children. Neither of our sisters has had children yet. And here we
are procreating like mad out here in farm ville Queen Creek. We don't
necessarily expect them to totally understand us, but with this
pregnancy on top of our highly controversial adoption plans, I'm
afraid after this announcement a pair of antenna will simultaneously
grow from each of our heads.
Day 8
I keep realizing that I still have not
gone onto one of those pregnancy websites and figured out how many
weeks I am or anything. I'm pretty sure I'm like 6 or 7 weeks along,
but I keep forgetting to do that, much less make a doctor's
appointment. Jenn, on the other hand, has more than perused the
pregnancy websites and is signed up for the weekly emails that tell
you about what your baby is like now and things you might be feeling
at this point and all kinds of logistical baby things you should be
planning for way too far in advance.
“Last week it was the size of an
avocado,” she tells me. “Now it's as big as a naval orange!”
I tell her that's pretty specific,
stating even the species of orange to compare it to, and she admits
that when she was in the produce section the other day she could only
locate Mandarin oranges and thus felt like she did not have a truly
accurate feel for the size of her fetus.
I used to have that book, “What to
Expect When You're Expecting”. I can't remember who I loaned it to,
but I haven't seen it for quite some time now, not that I was
planning on needing it again. I thought for a long time that Benjamin
would be our last biological baby, but ideas and desires do change,
which is why we held off on doing anything permanent. I did sell all
my maternity clothes on eBay, which gave me a pretty big sense of
finality, but obviously not enough to seal the deal. “Sorry Babe,
we just can't have another baby. I've already sold my maternity
clothes.”
I guess I'll be going shopping pretty
soon here. They've already come out with way cuter stuff then they
had even 3 years ago. My maternity clothes were great- no complaints-
especially after hearing these horror stories from mothers who
carried in the era of parachute panel pants and moo-moos. Maybe I'll
go on eBay and see if some size one woman that shares my taste in
clothing thinks she's done having kids too. I don't want to buy too
much... just a few things to get me through the 2nd and
3rd trimester, since this will certainly be my last
biological baby.
Right?
Day 9
Starting to feel slightly more
symptomatic.
Symptom 1:
I need to eat breakfast. And then I
need to eat breakfast again an hour later. Then once more before
lunch, and so on and so forth. Otherwise my tummy is not so happy
with me. Not super-sick, just an icky kind of feeling. Enough for an
excuse to eat constantly throughout the day.
Symptom 2:
Very, very tired. So tired that if I am
even remotely horizontal I feel I will fall asleep within 4 minutes.
I fear narcolepsy, though I have yet to drop off into a plate of food
or in the middle of a conversation. We had a Japanese foreign
exchange student with us for one weekend, and I swear she was
narcoleptic. She fell asleep in church, which I didn't find too
peculiar considering our pastor preaches for over an hour, in
English. But when we'd be talking and I'd go to the kitchen for a
moment, still talking, and I'd come back in and she'd be asleep, this
I found curious. This happened a number of times, until finally I
hopped on Google while she snoozed on the couch and typed in
“Japanese Narcolepsy”. Sure enough, there were links. There were
a couple of studies and a blog post or two. I found a message board
post from a bewildered CEO wondering why when he flew in his Japanese
business partners, they would fall asleep in his meetings. Apparently
it's not so much jet lag, but more of a cultural thing. Tokyo is like
New York in that it never sleeps. Its citizens average just a few
hours a night, so it's very common and socially acceptable to just
drop off for a few minutes on the train or in a waiting room. There's
talk now of a genetic link, but who knows.
Symptom 3: I want ice cream. All the
time. But I don't know if I can count it as a symptom, because I want
ice cream all of the time even when I'm not pregnant. Perhaps its
just a bit more acute now, and I have an excuse to eat more of it.
Fortunately for the mere 25-30 pounds of weight gain that I'm
supposed to stay within, “ice cream” in my book is actually
frozen yogurt. Even our here in cow-town, we have a Yogurt Jungle
just minutes away. Last night Matthew was out at band practice and he
promised to bring something back for me. I told him that if he came
home without ice cream I wouldn't let him in. He came through so he
got to come inside, and we watched Jay Cutler throw five picks and
the Bears got clobbered but I had my vanilla with Oreos so it was all
good. In the 4th quarter I curled up on the couch,
horizontally, and promptly fell asleep.
Day 10
When I
look out the window this morning it is mild and overcast and it is
Matthew's day off; perfect conditions for the zoo. We're members,
thanks to my mom's annual anniversary present, so we get in
admission-free every time. The best thing about that is then you
don't feel like you have to stay all day long and drag the kids
around until you've stood in front of every animal to get your
money's worth. We typically show up mid-morning and stay until we get
too hungry to continue resisting the smell of the 4 dollar hot dogs
and then go out to lunch, which is how today goes down. It's been
several months since we've been here, and every visit is more fun as
the kids grow older and get more into the animals. This visit is a
breakthrough for Benjamin who on previous visits was clearly more
interested in the railings than what was behind them.
Today is one of the
first days that the new Komodo dragons are out in their brand-new
exhibit that cost more than our last 3 houses combined, and it
doesn't even have a roof. They look an awful lot like really big
lizards, and they don't breath fire or have wings. But they do eat
people so I suppose that was enough for the zoologists to bump them
up to dragon status. The title “dragon” is also probably very
beneficial for a zoo in the middle of the desert that doesn't get a
lot of the really cool animals like polar bears or penguins. Maybe
next year they'll bring in a couple of unicorns.
Tonight is also
date night, so put this one down as a super fun day. Mom comes over
to hang with the kiddos and we go to a movie about the end of the
world where stuff is blowing up left and right and John Cusack jumps
a Winnebago across a 50-foot chasm. When we come home and mom leaves
and we head upstairs I realize mom went into the master bathroom to
put something back in there and my prenatal vitamins are sitting on
the counter. I have the label facing the wall but if I were my mom
and I saw a pill bottle by my sink I would so look at what it was. So
now I'm wondering if she knows because there's no way she would say
anything if she did.
I'm not super
concerned that she know or not know. It's not so much a secret as it
is a surprise. And I think surprise is exactly what we'll get when we
tell everyone at Christmas dinner. We decided to do it on Christmas
because it will be the end of my first trimester and our whole family
on both sides will be there and it's always fun to tell good news in
that kind of a setting. We know from experience, actually, because 3
Christmases ago we had Bethany tell everyone that a new baby was
coming in the summer. It's also a great method to keep from getting
grilled on the spot because most people wouldn't do that at the
dinner table. Except for Matthew's grandma, that is. Her filter
deteriorated years ago so she pretty much says whatever she wants to,
whenever she wants to. Even if she does say something totally
inappropriate, nothing could be worse then that time she interrogated
an eastern Indian about his turban in the middle of a crowded
restaurant.
38 days til
Christmas.
Day 11
Tonight is the big charity softball
tournament between several different churches to raise money for a
school and somehow I got roped into it. I love to play pretty much
any sport, but I haven't played catch in a long time, much less hit a
ball, and I doubt I will contribute much. But they seem hard up for
players and it sounds fun so we said yes and now we have to dust off
our gear and remember what it's like to hit a moving target with a
bat. Bethany has promised both of us one of her precious sparkly
stickers if we win, so the stakes are high.
We get there early and toss it around
with Luke and Molly, our good friends. Luke is the lead pastor at
Second Mile Church where Matthew is the associate pastor and music
guy. Luke played college ball and had a shot at the majors but took a
left turn into ministry. The rest of the team is made up of various
friends and acquaintances, all much better at softball than us. There
are two firefighters, 3 sisters who all played in high school, and a
guy that we've never met before but that has a bag full of really
fancy looking bats. My goal is not to screw anything up.
I ask Luke what position the worst
player on the team should play, and he suggests catcher, which in
slow pitch softball basically means catching the ball after it
bounces on the ground. I decide I can handle that. I stand behind the
batter with the umpire and make friendly conversation, figuring he
would be a good person to have on our side. Matthew and I both strike
out swinging on our first at-bat, but we're already up 4 to zero so I
don't feel too bad about it. The most exciting moment for me is when
there is a very large man running for home plate and someone throws
me the ball as he slides in and I tag him right on the chest. When
the dust clears the umpire calls him out and there is arguing but the
call stands and inside I know it is because the ump and I have
bonded. We end up skunking the first team 14 to 4 and then face-off
with the winner of the other game to determine who walks away the
overall victor.
The first team we played seemed like
pretty average guys, helping out for a church fund raiser on a
Saturday night. But these next guys are serious. They have gear and
they have special shoes and they have a coach that yells. But we are
determined to win it all. I go back to my spot behind the plate and
meet the umpire for this game, my new best friend. Things start off a
little rocky, and we fall behind early 0-2 in the 1st. It
gets to 0-6 before we finally put a couple on the board. We manage to
creep back over the next few innings, and it's 10-13 with an inning
to go. There have been a few heated moments- arguments over where
players can and cannot stand and a couple of close calls on the
bases, and it is clear that by this point both teams are out for
blood (in the most Christian way possible).
The inning begins and we get one across
and then two on before Matthew steps up to the plate with 2 outs. He
has been getting on base pretty much every at-bat, but now the
pressure is on and I am in the dugout just hoping he doesn't strike
out or hit an easy grounder or something else that I will need to
console him about later. I almost can't believe it when he takes a
big swing and launches it over the fence. I wait for my hero at the
plate as he comes around as the go-ahead run, feeling a little guilty
about how surprised I am, and the rest of the team is going nuts.
After the hubbub dies down, I go about my business making the 3rd
out once again and the inning ends, leaving us to defend our tenuous
lead. The other team ends up with the tying run on 3rd but
after a great catch in center field we are crowned the champions of
the 1st annual Calvary Christian Schools Bless-a-thon
Softball Tournament.
We come home and tell Bethany that she
owes us a sticker and the smile that spreads across her face is worth
all the dirt that is in my socks. We proudly wear our stickers
upstairs to our room, basking in the afterglow of our dramatic
come-back win. It's like Luke says. Everybody has their World Series.
Day
12
I haven't been mountain biking since we
moved into the new house, which has been several weeks now, and since
that is my sole form of exercise, I have realized that I am quite out
of shape. We have been moving progressively east, and we now live a
good 45 minutes away from the mountain where I used to ride. I'm
going to need to find another option for physical activity, or by the
end of this pregnancy I might be ready for one of these dairy farms.
I know that when I finally get around to making a doctor's
appointment, he will give me his little sheet of recommendations
during pregnancy, one of which is exercise. He will say to walk 30
minutes a day, but to me exercise should involve sweating and perhaps
even a little huffing and puffing.
I tried tennis for while and really
enjoyed it, though most of my energy was exerted running to the net
and picking up the ball. The trouble with tennis is that you are
dependent on another person and if they sleep in or if you don't plan
ahead then you're out of luck. There is always good old fashioned
running, but after a couple of miles on the pavement it feels like
there is a steak knife in my right knee and that is really hard to
push through. Not to mention all of the horror stories you hear about
things that happen to women out running alone. Thank goodness for
those chain emails, without which I would be completely ignorant of
boatloads of life-saving tips like never to sniff a peddler's
perfumes or open my front door if I hear a crying baby, and to always
look underneath my car as I approach it and how to use my key to
gouge out the eye of an attacker. All extremely useful for personal
safety, and great excuses not to go running.
There's still ice cream in the freezer,
right?
Day 13
Today we leave for a couple of days in
Sedona to celebrate our anniversary. The kids are staying over at my
mom's house for two nights, which will be a first for everyone
involved. I'm more worried about Mom than the kids, but she seems
sufficiently prepared and we head north for the red rocks.
I got a great deal on our hotel room,
though Trip Advisor advised me that this was because we would be
invited to a timeshare pitch upon arrival. I am very confident in my
ability to withstand any sales pitch, so I am not worried about
saying no thank you and getting on with our trip. When we get there,
however, she offers us a free 2 night stay at one of their hotels and
a $75 Visa gift card. We ask how long it will take and she promises
90 minutes and our room is not ready yet and we could do it right
after lunch. We tell her we will not be buying anything, and she says
there is no obligation and what if she made it $100? I am someone who
finds it very hard to pass up free stuff, so much to Matthew's
surprise I'm in and so we sign up for an appointment.
After lunch we are a few minutes early
so we sit in the car and practice saying “no”.
“The financial benefit of a timeshare
is undeniable.” I tell Matthew in an energetic voice. “You are
absolutely throwing your money away without one!”
“No.” He says definitively, staring
straight ahead out the windshield.
“Don't you love your family?” I
demand to know. “You don't love your family if you don't buy a
timeshare!”
“Yes I love my family, but I don't
want a timeshare.” He shoots back with steely eyes and his jaw set.
“You are ruining your life and the
lives of your children if you pass up this deal.”
“Not interested.” He says with
finality.
We are now sufficiently prepared, and
we sit across from Robert the vacation specialist not for 90 minutes,
but for two and a half hours. He has us fill out checklists of all
the places in the world we'd like to see and gets us fantasizing
about dream vacations. He crunches their prefigured numbers and sets
us up to look like fools if we don't buy in. He asks us obvious
questions that the answer is “yes” to so he can get us used to
saying “yes”, like “Wouldn't it be nice to spend less money and
get more of it?”
We politely explain that it seems like
a very nice program but that we just don't have the wiggle room in
our budget for something like this. When he sees we're not cracking,
he brings his supervisor over to have a go. His supervisor is
definitely more confrontational, and gets more so as the end draws
near. In a last ditch effort, he leans over the table, looks Matthew
in the eye, and says, “Let me just say that I can tell you, man to
man, that you can afford this. You can afford this.” We
laugh out loud at that and shake hands cordially before they leave
and yet another person sits down under pretext of a satisfaction
survey and tries to sell us again. But we are hardened professionals
by now, so we sign our name on the “we passed up this once in a
lifetime opportunity and we are idiots and we acknowledge that”
form and we finally get our $100 and free hotel stay.
We go back to the lobby to check in,
and suddenly the reservations lady now realizes that the newly
refurbished and updated room that she had signed us up for when we
first arrived is a handicapped-equipped room, so she puts us in
building 12 which looks like it was refurbished and updated too, just
not in this decade.
It takes a little while to get rid of
the icky feeling left on us by the sales pitch, but we feel good
about taking our stand and holding our ground together. We may not
travel across Europe staying in 5-star accommodations, but we're
going to have a great time with our hundred bucks.
Day
14
Eight years ago this morning I was
driving to a city park with my dad at 4:00am, the car filled with
tulle and fake ivy vines to decorate the Tempe Sister City Gardens
for my wedding day. I was 19, and my 21-year-old fiancée was asleep
at his dad's house, his tux hanging in the closet.
Upon this, our 8th
anniversary, we start out with a bike ride at Bell Rock, where we
rode once before when I was pregnant with Bethany. I think that I
have made it very clear to Matthew that I am expecting a nice,
leisurely ride with nothing too strenuous or technical. I have even
opted to wear blue jeans instead of the “I mean business” spandex
riding shorts, which Matthew is always quick to correct that they are
Lycra, not spandex, because no one finds terrible images flooding
their mind when they hear the word “Lycra”.
I should know that nothing will keep
Matthew from pushing the limit when he gets out on the trails, not
even the blue jeans. He yearns to explore every side trail we pass,
and wants to ride over every impossible-looking obstacle in sight.
It's much like walking a Labrador, really. Eventually I have
compassion on the poor thing tugging at his leash and follow him down
some trails that I end up walking great portions of, but it is always
impressive to watch him challenge physics and win. There are stunning
views and perfect weather, and after deciding that he could come back
here on his own tomorrow, we head back to the car.
Today is a nearly perfect day, and we
now remember why we go on these trips. Thank goodness for grandmas.
Day 15
I've noticed something since we've
moved to Queen Creek. There are not enough grocery stores to support
its population. The most troubling consequence of this fact is not
having to drive a little further to get there, but the sheer volume
of shoppers at any given day and time. The parking lot is always
full, and it is a miracle if we end up with a race car cart. The race
car carts are one of the most merciful inventions ever given to
parents of young children. It's basically a regular shopping cart but
with a big plastic race car complete with seat belts and steering
wheels attached to the front. This has several benefits for the
adult. 1. It immobilizes the children. 2. It puts most of the
products out of their arms' reach. 3. They end up about 3 feet in
front of you and practicality on the floor so you can hardly hear the
bickering and whining. And you still have the good old fashioned
in-the-cart kid seat, so when I show up with 3 kids I have a seat
and, more importantly, a restraint for each one.
The lure of the plastic race cars,
however, does not only apply to kids with siblings. Every little
rugrat wants to ride in one of those carts, regardless of whether
they will benefit from the extra space. And I can't judge the moms
with one kid who take the race car carts, though I have vowed to
myself that I will never use one unless I am in dire need of it. Such
is the case today, and as usual, there are no race car carts to be
found. So I shift into plan B, which should really be plan F if we
were basing it on effectiveness, where Harper sits in the child seat,
Benjamin sits in the cart itself, and Bethany hangs on the side like
a suction cup Garfield. Harper does just fine but Bethany hops off to
explore every time the cart stops and Benjamin always ends up
stepping on the tomatoes or sitting on the bread.
Shopping takes a lot longer in the
overpopulated aisles because we spend a lot of time trying to squeeze
our cart between another cart and the Stove Top Stuffing display, or
vying for position at the meat cooler, all the while making sure
Bethany doesn't lose an arm in the process. And forget about reading
labels or comparing prices. Once you get into an aisle, you really
have no choice but to keep moving with the flow of carts. If you
can't immediately locate your target item and you end up passing it,
turning around is out of the question. If you miss on the first pass,
you just have to circle back around and try again.
Today the cart is extra full, and
Benjamin is surrounded by food. We've been in this mad house for
about 30 minutes and we're still only half way through our list. I'm
trying to score a package of stew meat when I hear Benjamin call out
“Uh-oh Mommy!” I turn around to see him trying to keep his feet
out of a glob of spinach and artichoke dip that he must have opened
somehow. The glob is the residue of a greater glob, which had already
made its way through the holes in the bottom of the cart to the
floor, but not before sliding across multiple items I had stashed on
the bottom rack. I look around helplessly, but the world is oblivious
to my plight. I decide I need paper towels. A lot of paper towels. I
remember that there's that little bell at the seafood counter, and I
ring it for the first time ever. The seafood guy comes out ready to
dish me up some shrimp cocktail but ends up helping me mop up the
mess and salvage my groceries instead. He is very nice and I am very
appreciative, and I make sure to mention several times that the goop
is spinach dip so that he doesn't think he is cleaning up vomit or
something.
Benjamin has to walk due to the cart
contamination, so now I have both Bethany and Benjamin to keep away
from the wine-laden end caps or getting run over by other shoppers.
We miraculously reach the the end of our list and step into a
checkout line behind a lady with one snotty little boy in his race
car cart when Harper declares with urgency that she has to go potty.
I don't know what it is about kids. They never have to go potty a
little bit. They either don't have to go at all, or they are on the
verge of explosion. Harper is definitely in the latter boat, but
being the caring Mommy that I am, I tell her she can't go potty until
we pay for the groceries, like it's some kind of store policy or
something. So she dances around while I pay and pray that I won't
need to call the seafood guy again. The little trooper holds it in
and we dash back through the store to the bathroom just in time,
though now the clock is ticking on the ice cream sandwiches we just
bought. While the kids seem to care nothing about their mother's
sanity, they are quite motivated to save the ice cream sandwiches and
we make great time getting into the car and both the sandwiches and
the family make it home in tact.
Day 16
Today I suck it up and go for a run. I
can't go on without exercise, so I strap on my shoes and head out the
door. “I'll be back soon,” I tell Matthew on my way out. “Really
soon.” I go for about 15 minutes before my legs start giving me the
better-stop-soon-or-you'll-regret-it-tomorrow warning. My knees hold
up, so that's a plus. I feel good for doing something, even if it's
just 15 minutes. We'll see if this was an isolated incident or
something that might happen again.
Day 17
“I am en route. And I have mac
salad.” I text Jenn at the stoplight as I drive toward her house.
It's about 8:30 pm, way too late for someone my age to be leaving the
house, but I have yet to see an Ultimate Fighting bout and Jenn and
Adam have ordered it up on pay-per-view, along with pizza and wings.
I truly am interested in seeing the UFC fight, but it was the pizza
and wings that sealed the deal for me. I have the three kids in bed
and an enormous bowl of macaroni salad to contribute. “Fabulous!”
Jenn texts back.
When I get to her house Adam greets me
at the door and congratulates me. “Congratulations” still throws
me off at this point and I quickly initiate a rapid mental scan of
several possibilities of what he could be referring to. Had I
recently won an award that has slipped my mind? Was he simply
offering congratulations for coming to my first UFC fight? Has the
legend of our epic battle on the softball field traveled even here?
It takes a moment to realize he is talking about the baby and I say
thank you but remind him that it's still on the down low. He in turn
thanks me, because he had forgotten that part which doesn't surprise
me because men aren't usually very good about stuff like that. I'm
impressed he even remembered to say anything, considering what an
unreliable source of information Matthew is. As a pastor he hears all
the good news right away but neglects to tell me for several weeks. I
hear about pregnancies 20 weeks into it and with engagements I'm
lucky to find out before the shower invitation arrives in the mail.
Of course, now that I'm on facebook I have control of my own destiny.
The first few fights are kind of
opening acts to the main event, a fight between two pretty big guys
with gigantic ears. I learn that this is called “cauliflower ear”
and it comes from getting hit on the ears repeatedly over time. I
start to take note of each fighter's ears and try to estimate brain
damage. The first fights are pretty interesting and I ask a lot of
questions that are eagerly answered as everyone there knows all the
rules and who everybody is and all that. It is just as fun watching
them as it is watching the fighters.
I get through the whole thing without
throwing up or leaving the room. There was one time when there was
blood pouring out of a guy's eye and they were showing a close up of
his head getting smushed into the mat that I had to turn away and
watch it in the reflection on the arcadia door. Jenn and Adam have a
huge TV, so it was a pretty big bloody head.
I leave as a more enlightened
individual around eleven o'clock with what is left of the macaroni
salad. Even though I am freezing cold I still swing by Wendy's for a
Frosty, because nothing hits the spot after pizza and wings like ice
cream.
Day 18
Today I mailed a rock. The music
publisher that I write for in Nashville is a big fan of Sedona and
the red rocks, so when I told him we were going last week he told me
to bring him back a rock. I'm pretty sure he was joking, but I
thought it was a great idea. I got him a nice big one, like a
paperweight size, so that it would look “intentional” as I
explained to Matthew, when he puts it on his desk. I wrote “Randy's
Red Rock Sedona, AZ” on it with a Sharpie and wrapped it up with a
note that said “Don't say I never got you anything” and put it in
a box.
The post office closes at 5:00, but I
am waiting for Harper to wake up from her nap. At 4:50, I put the
girls in the van and we make a mad dash for it. We get there with
like a minute to spare but that's according to the clock on the
dashboard and I bet the post office has a nuclear clock synced up
with the White House or something so I unstrap the kids and tell them
to run inside. I figure if my kids are in there they have to let me
in too. We get in line and as they lock the doors and pull out the
iron curtain security thingy, I immediately see on Harper's face the
realization that we have been locked inside the post office
indefinitely. I reassure her that they will let us out, and that we
could always mail ourselves home anyway. Bethany looks at me like I'm
an idiot and informs me that you can't mail people.
It's our turn and the lady at the
counter puts the box on the scale and asks if the contents are
anything liquid, perishable, fragile, or otherwise hazardous.
“Nope,” I reply. “It's a rock.”
Her eyebrows raise. “A rock?”
I nod.
“Okay...” she says, and continues
processing the package. A few moments later she looks up again. “Is
it from your backyard or something....?”
“It's from Sedona.” I explain.
“Oh!” She says, visibly relieved
not to be dealing with someone mentally unstable. “Well that makes
more sense. That's really cool, actually.” She punches in a few
more things and then looks up as if she was going to ask another
question but stops and laughs, “I guess you probably don't want to
insure it.”
Even without insurance, I spent nine
dollars to mail a rock. It's a good thing that they let us out when
we're finished. It would've cost a small fortune to mail us home.
Day 19
I love to cook, but the last few years
when Thanksgiving rolls around, I end up doing hardly any cooking at
all. We've been having Thanksgiving at Matthew's mom's house for a
while now. She makes the turkey and stuffing and everyone else brings
the side dishes. Matthew's sister is in charge of the mashed potatoes
and gravy, my mom does the green bean casserole, Matthew's dad brings
pies from Marie Callanders, and I get left with bringing something
totally lame like frozen corn. This year I was assigned to rolls. I
said I would make some more stuffing, partly to make sure we didn't
run out and partly because I knew we'd want to be able to take it
home with us for leftovers afterwards. I also said I would bring
frozen corn since the kids like it so much. So basically I have
microwavable vegetables, store-bought bread, and renegade stuffing.
The cook in me is quite disappointed and gets the courageous idea to
make homemade dinner rolls.
This might not seem very courageous for
someone who loves to cook, but when I say “cook” I do not mean
“bake”. In my opinion, cooking and baking are two completely
different ballgames, especially for someone like me who doesn't like
to use recipes. When I cook, I go by look and smell and taste and
intuition, throwing in a little of this and a bit more of that until
I think it's right. It didn't take me long to realize that junk
doesn't fly in baking. You've got to have a recipe, and you've got to
stick with it, even if it doesn't look right along the way. You have
to measure everything in those little cups and little tsp spoons and
I never know if I'm supposed to pack it in or just lightly scoop it
or level it off or what. If you miss a step, you're screwed. If you
add ingredients out of order, you're screwed. If your baking soda is
too old, you're screwed. For me, baking anything that doesn't come
out of a box is just setting myself up for failure.
So I don't know why I think I should
attempt homemade dinner rolls on Thanksgiving Day. Maybe it was the
last two batches of cookies I baked from scratch that were actually
pretty good that has me thinking all hope is not lost. Maybe it's
that my cooking muscles are just twitching on Thanksgiving and I have
some kind of need to create something in the kitchen. Whatever it is,
I look up a recipe online and give it a go.
I buy yeast for the first time in my
life, and judging from the package it sounds a little like Sea
Monkeys. Matthew reads the recipe and looks doubtful. I tell him I
just think it will be fun to try, and homemade dinner rolls sound
pretty darn good. I envision light, airy, marshmallow-soft rolls with
a hint of butter and honey- like the ones they serve at Texas
Roadhouse. What I show up with at Bonnie's are a lot more like
biscuits. Or maybe hockey pucks.
I have no idea what I did wrong. I
thought I followed the recipe as best I could, though in my defense
it did leave some room for interpretation. My mom of course said they
were great and Dad nodded enthusiastically in agreement, but I
remember the stuff they used to tell me was fantastic when I was a
kid so they don't really count. Bonnie's husband's daughter.... I'll
give you a minute to trace that little familial line.... ate like 4
of them so she is now one of my favorite people. The stuffing turned
out fine and I successfully brought the corn from frozen to hot. The
rest of the meal was very good and I am quite full. I probably look
pretty pregnant now, but so does everybody else.
On the way home Bethany announces that
she is tired of sitting in the way back seat all alone and asks when
we are going to switch seats around. I tell her next summer we'll
switch things around and she won't be alone anymore. She seems
satisfied with that, and Matthew shoots me a sideways glance and a smile.
Next summer seems like such a long way off, but then again, 6 months
ago so did Christmas, and now Karen Carpenter is singing “Merry
Christmas, Darling” on the radio.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
Epilogue- August, 2014
Judah Justice Braselton was born on
June 23rd, 2010. When we told our families that we were
pregnant that Christmas morning, they were thrilled. A few weeks
later, when the ultrasound revealed that he was another boy, we were
ecstatic. Two girls and two boys. How much more perfect could it be?
He would bring balance to The Force. And yet, we didn't feel like it
was time to make a permanent decision about our family. Even though
we were still pursuing adoption, there was still this... something.
We wanted to leave the door open. Turns out we were leaving it open
for our beautiful little Shiloh Hope to come bursting through and
steal all of our hearts in May of 2012.
After our baby girl, we knew she would
be our last, and with peace we turned the page on our baby making
days. While adoption is not out of the question completely, the
likelihood of it being a part of our family has, frankly, greatly
diminished. Our life is wonderfully rich and full, but it feels like
it requires every bit of ourselves to cultivate it. And so I have
slowly been letting go of what I always thought would be, but knowing
that God will have His way with our family regardless of what
decisions we make or lines we draw in the sand. No matter how
hesitantly we push it closed or definitively we slam it shut, with
the great God of the universe writing our stories, every door in all
of our lives is forever beautifully open.
