Gimme Some Advice

Today Nate got together with his best friend Braydon and they begged for candy at a local shopping center that was hosting a Halloween thing. Jon just sent us these awesome "Thai Boxing" shorts for Nate, so he went as a boxer.

We tried to get some photos before we left. Notice the chucks. Also note that he got abs added with eyeliner for the actual event.
One of the restaurants giving out candy was also handing out fortune cookies. Nate's said, "Many people are seeking you for your sounds advice", which makes me wonder. Do they mean sound as in *shriek* *yell* *holler* or are they referring to advice? Like the time we went to our friend's wedding in September and just as the bride was asked if she takes this man to be her blah blah blah, Nate yelled, "Uh-oh!"
That's probably what they meant.Here he is with abs a bit faded, but still visible. All that candy is totally going to ruin his 6 pack. Maybe he'll learn, "Look both ways before you cross the street".

A Dear Jon Letter

Why write two updates in one evening? Here is an excerpt of tonight's spousely email for your reading pleasure:

Henry won't shut up. He barks ALL the TIME now and he's SO loud and he won't stop when I tell him to and if you get a box in the mail with breathing holes in it, it might not be Nate. It's possible that I've sent the Navy a top-of-the-line alarm system that runs on table scraps. And by runs, I mean walks, because running is past the capacity of this particular model. It's slightly defective. But there's nothing wrong with the volume. This one goes to eleven.

I love you more than I love cold weather, chocolate cake, eyeliner, Henry, massages, boots, throw pillows, Stella Artois, cute undies, umbrellas, our Element, whiskey, clean sheets and cheese... combined... plus 20. Which is to say... a lot.

Look What I Found

This is what over ten pounds of baby looks like, four days late. I'm so glad he made it OUT and a year later looks like this:
The All Stars just melt my Southern California hipster heart.

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?!"