Obla Dee Obla Da

We have mice. Which I do not approve of.

Correction: I do not approve of mice in my house. Despite Dr. Seussical rhyming, mice do not belong where people live, at least not while they still carry hantavirus. Maybe in heaven they will be disease free and we can contemplate their small furriness and twitching noses without spraying them down with Lysol. Until then, they aren't allowed in my attic.

Which leads to my dilemma. We set up traps and hid some poison up in the attic, away from the Man Child of Destruction and Eating Things That are Not Meant to be Eaten. And the practical side of me is content that the mice will soon be gone.

But the other part of me (not that there are only two parts of me - but these are the only two that pertain to mice) is a little stricken by the idea of killing mice. If perhaps there had been a book about giving a rat a cookie ... or if Beatrix Potter had portrayed mice as evil and not put sweet blue waistcoats on them ... maybe if they had red glowing eyes... I don't know.

I'm not even a vegetarian. But MICE. They're LITTLE. And CUTE. And I can just see the little mouse memorial service for the wayward teenage mouse who was warned against the evils of the trap, but didn't heed. Or the groups of maimed and brain-damaged mice in "Poison Eaters Anonymous". Call me ideological, but it's really hard to be responsible for killing cute things.

If only I needed to cause the death of sharks or snakes or spiders or cockroaches or fire ants (I. hate. fire ants.) or fascist, hairless cats... not that I want any of those to infest my house, but at least I wouldn't mind KILLING them.

But isn't that just the way of viruses? Hiding inside cute things to trick you into catching them? I mean, that's how the common cold gets around. Kids are cute, but when you get down to it, they're mainly just snotty factories of disease and malfeasance. Oh man. I came with that word all on my own, too.

But I didn't know how to spell it, so I had to look it up.

My point is, mice are really cute. And I hope they eat the poison but go off somewhere nice (and away from my attic) to die, so that their last hours are spend by the soft murmur of a peaceful stream.

That would help.

Ostriches Make Terrible Parents

It's about time, right?


Some people need to talk issues out, but I typically go all ostrich and bury my head in the sand for a bit while the world careens on around my big exposed butt. Do birds have butts? Tail. My big exposed tail.

All that to say, I'm in Virginia and I'm getting to see people I love and attempting to see more people I love and mostly showing off my adorable offspring (which is not very ostrich of me, because I'm pretty sure ostriches make horrid parents). Nathan had a first birthday party yesterday and will officially turn one on Wednesday, which makes me proud and sad and hungry for cake. He's speaking now, but his only words are "Uh-oh", which was his very first word and of which he is exceedingly proud, and "mama", which doesn't count, because it doesn't mean "mommy", but rather, "I want that", which can refer to food, a toy, the bathtub... or his actual mommy, when he condescends to need me.

The other day I was at Potbellies (the glorious thing about that statement is that I have eaten at Potbellies like 5 times since I've been here (!!!) and I have no idea which time this was) and I was getting ready to leave, packing up diaper bag, purse and baby after tossing the trash. I was feeling efficient and capable, when Nate chucked his sippy cup on the floor. Without skipping a beat (and in that "you think way faster than you move" way), I simultaneously bent over to get the cup without putting the baby down and thought to myself, "I'm so much more agile than my mom or mother in law - they would take longer to bend over to get this". I was SO agile and swift that I smacked Nathans head against a chair next to me. He screeched and commenced wailing. And I was humbled. And decided that grandmothers know what they're doing when they stall before bending over. And also, I am, after all, an ostrich kind of parent.

Shame.

So don't give up, I'll post birthday pictures soon. And the multitude of Nathan stories will commence. But if you're bored with toddlers and their ostrich mothers, let me know and I'll do something by myself to tell you about. Maybe like a nap.

Now I want chocolate cake and a nap.

God Exists

I usually reserve serious topics for my journal. It's so much more fun to read things that make you laugh, but I'm going to deviate today. Feel free to skip.

After all that I wrote the other day and all the precious prayers loved ones offered for our tiny baby, we lost the fight. I went in to the doctor's office yesterday and there was no heartbeat. Silence has never been so painful.

I was thinking about it all last night - specifically why we didn't lose the baby right away - why we had to go through weeks of hoping and desperate prayer, all to have the same devastating result. But I've decided if we had to lose our baby, I'd rather it be like this. This child was so loved and so well fought for. Many people were praying and hoping. What better legacy could there be for a life, than to be loved hard and fought for desperately? What a beautiful way to leave and enter the arms of Peace.

We named the baby Jesse. It's suitable for a boy or a girl and it means "God exists" or "Gift". Jesse is a gift. A precious blessing we won't meet for a long time, but probably the only child we will have that will never know pain or suffering. "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights, who does not change..." No pain - only heavenly light.

And God exists. Even in this. Especially in this. When nothing else makes sense and I doubt everything, I can rely on two solid truths: God is big and He is good. Always big. Always good. And that is more than enough for me. I feel the pain. I am heartbroken. I feel so empty where I used to have a life inside. I long for my baby. I ache to tell Jesse how much Jon and I love him or her. But the only one who understands is Big enough to hold me and good enough to cry with me. And He's holding our gift, better and stronger and with more love than I could ever provide. Our baby is safe. With a God who is real.

Thank you, friends, for your prayers for us in these last weeks. God has been gracious to us. He has provided everything we need, often through you. Your support means more than you know and your love is remarkable.

"'Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,' says the Lord who has compassion on you"
Isaiah 54:10

When it Rains...

My friend Mari has this phrase that she says and Jon and I say it all the time (I bet you didn't know that, did you, Mari?). When someone is ridiculous or something is stupid, she'll go, "Really? Really?!" The first 'really' sounds innocent and questioning and the second is dripping with sarcasm and half an octave lower. Ever since I experienced it in Pensacola, I have not found a phrase that more adequately fits my reaction to certain scenarios. Which is why I say it all the time.

Well, never has it been more appropriate. Please, pull up a chair and laugh with me at my past 4 weeks, shall we? You know how 'they' say when your husband deploys, everything will go wrong? Keep that in mind. You know how 'they' also say, "Go big or go home"? I'd rather go home, thank you very much.

Right before Jon leaves, I am finishing up a biostatistics class that I've been stressing about for a while. Right after he leaves I have the final exam. Right before he leaves we find out I'm pregnant (Exciting? yes. Planned? no. Overwhelmed? You bet your lily white!) Jon is due to make it back a month before the birth. That's nice of the Navy.

Right after Jon leaves, I start to hemorrhage. I never spell that word correctly. I always have to spell check it after three tries or so. But I go to the ER on Sunday, the nurse's office Tuesday, back to the ER again on Wednesday (more bleeding) and finally Wednesday afternoon, after two ER docs can neither confirm nor deny that the baby is okay, my OB spots a heartbeat. Relief floods. Then he tells me, the heartbeat is a little weak and let's just hold our breath, shall we? The following Tuesday (last Tuesday to be precise), I go back and the baby is doing great - growing and has a nice healthy heart beat. Oh but wait - there's pooled blood in my uterus. Up to the big ultrasound techs I go. Talk to the doc. Let's hope it absorbs.

Meanwhile, my momma flies out (GOD bless her!) because I was on home rest. What? Yes. that's bed rest without the bed. I think. No walks for Henry. No vacuuming. No anything that makes me feel useful. My mom and Mother in Law trade places taking care of Nathan and the laundry and the kitchen (etc) while I sit on my butt, going nuts because I hate having other people clean my house. But it's worth it.

I go back in tomorrow for more doc talk and my dad will fly out to help and will fly me and Nate back to VA for a month for some weddings and birthdays and lots of Potbellies.

Meanwhile, Henry has been getting into the trash and being kind of bad all of the sudden and Nate refuses to eat carbs or veggies or protein (that leaves fruit)... probably all because Jon is gone.

So TODAY, the friend that was going to stay and house sit and watch Henry had to back out... a week before we leave. That was fun. God provided, though, and I got another friend (I LOVE YOU REBEKAH CARTER!) to live here and take care of him. I have to give credit where it's due. God freakin' worked that one.

So when they say, "when your husband deploys, everything goes wrong", "They" have much wisdom.

But I hate them.

For being right.

I just want to turn to the universe and say, "Really? Really?!"

It's Just That With Jon Being Gone, Nothing Funny Happens

But here are some smile-worthy things. Old pictures that I was looking through (I'm printing some to frame... we have not one framed picture of our son in our entire house... yikes).


Note the name of the beer is "Loose Cannon". How appropriate.

Uncle Andy
Poor tortured kid.

Back Home

I get weekly emails from Babycenter about the progress my child should have made by month and week. This week, it said I should consider vacuuming regularly at this stage, since he's probably going to try to put things in his mouth.

I'm not sure how I feel about baby center calling me out on my cleaning habits. You don't know me. You haven't seen my carpets.

Also, Nate is trying to walk. Here he is a couple days ago. Note the T-rex arms.


Here he is last night way past his bedtime, so he's giddy. Which means he's braver and more willing to try walking, but absolutely void of the will to balance. Nathan Reckless Butterfield.


Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go vacuum.

How to Paint Your Nails... Mommy Style

Step one. Prime the suckers.

Apply base coat a couple minutes before you leave to run errands. It dries fast and if it gets smudged it doesn't matter.

Step two. Load the sucker.

Put the kiddo in the car and anything else you need for errands, then put your first coat of color on, wave your hands like you just don't care and get in. Alternate hands in front of the air conditioner vent while driving to the post office. Realize when you see something fly off your car that you left the bottle of nail polish and the package for the post office up there before you took off.

Retrace steps and be impressed that nail polish bottles survive flying off cars at 20 miles per hour.

Step three. Repeat.

Mail the package, reload the sucker in his car seat and apply coat #2. Repeat air conditioning drying aid while you drive to the library.

Step four. Repeat.

Return books, wait a long time to talk to the gal you need to talk to, reload the sucker in his car seat and apply the top coat right before you get in. But realize you left the top coat at home. Never mind... you managed to smudge your thumb anyhow. And said sucker bit your finger and smudged that nail, too.

Step five. Give up.

Go home, pour a glass of wine and decide you don't need lacquered nails to be pretty. You're not a woman, you're a mom. Paint your toes instead.