When I was young (but still old enough to know better) I used my allowance to buy an illicit hamster from the pet store. I smuggled it up to my bedroom, and my brothers and sisters “helped” keep the hamster a secret from Mom. When I say they helped, what I really mean is they giggled and whispered loudly to each other about it, and made such blatant innuendos during dinner conversation that it’s a miracle Mom didn’t know exactly what was hidden in the critter cage under my bed. Probably she did know, and just didn’t want to have to deal with the situation if she could avoid it.
Well, even denial has limits, and eventually Mom reached that point. My brothers had been playing with my hamster (his name was Chuck, if that interests you) and accidentally let him escape. The Great Hamster Hunt didn’t turn up anything, and Chuck wasn’t tempted by all the morsels of food us kids tried to trap him with. Apparently he had decided that the hamster cage with soft bedding and personal water bottle was inferior to his new chosen home…. Mom’s shoe. It’s rather ironic that all of us kids, searching frantically, couldn’t find what Mom’s foot found with such ease. And Mom, for all the blind eyes she’d already turned, couldn’t ignore one furry rodent foot-warmer.
I don’t quite remember what happened to Chuck, other than that I was soon hamster-less. That part isn’t as memorable, I guess. What I do find amusing is that I was so frustrated that Mom was so unfairly anti-rodent. Turns out I’m rather anti-rodent myself, especially when the rodents are illegal aliens stealing their daily bread out of the loaf I’ve got saved for supper!
At this point in our lives, Tim and I have a little home in the country. We’re happy here, and that’s really what’s most important. Gabe loves his home. It’s a special little place. Even the little creaks and quirks that come with it are part of the special-ness that we love. There is a line that I’ve come to draw in the love-fest though. I may love my house, but I do NOT love the annual fall mouse invasion that comes with it. When the wind has a bite to it, and the first snowfall’s on the ground, all the mice around here start thinking about their winter vacation, and my home, with it’s ready supply of kid-dropped food, warmth and cozy quirks,.. well, it’s kinda like Bora Bora, mouse-style.
Last year Shaun was living with us, and his puppy Mia helped evict the mouse invaders. This year Shaun’s in Germany, Mia’s three hours away, and our first line of defense is gone. The mice know this, and for a few weeks now, it’s been a war between me and the mice, with the mice winning. I’d set traps (okay, I’d have Tim set traps, because those wire thingies HURT when they snap on my fingers!) and the mice would eat the peanut butter, and leave the trap. I’d find special mouse turd presents left behind, like little taunting “While you were sleeping” notes just for me. Thoughtful little shits, pun intended!
This weekend I started “Operation Ocelot”. I thought about naming it “Operation Cougar” instead, but I just don’t feel old enough to identify myself as a cougar quite yet. A-hem. Anyway. And, I’m winning! I’ve got this pulse thing that you plug in and it makes it uncomfortable for mice to be in the walls. It appears to work, considering the scare Tim got when a mouse jumped out in front of him last night (2 hours or so after plugging it in). It also seems to scare them right into the traps, which are finally snapping on something other than fingers. And, today I discovered that some sneaky mice had crawled into a storage area we barely ever use. They were lucky to find something to nibble on in there… unluckily, it was mouse poison left over from last year. I call that suicide by gluttony. Between the electronic pulse emitter, traps and unintentional poison access, I can finally say that we have inflicted more casualties than we have received. I am victorious!
Granted, tomorrow is another day. Hopefully one in which I do not have to share my bread. Turns out I’m not very good at sharing. 
Gabe is turning into a little home-body. The first time he threw a temper tantrum because we weren’t home was Labor Day weekend, when we were visiting family. Tim and I thought it was kind of cute when he crawled into his car seat, crossed his arms and refused to move until we took him “home”. Unfortunately, it was 11pm, we were in Green Bay after a long day on the road, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that was going to happen like Gabe wanted it to. It wasn’t so bad for the rest of the weekend, although Gabe still reminded us every now and then that he wanted to go home. We thought it was cute.
We made an unexpected trip home a few weeks ago. We’d gotten the news that Tim’s grandpa was in the hospital, and after I got permission for a trip from my doctor, we decided to visit him. Gabe again got really upset when he couldn’t go home, and was much more upset than before. He loved visiting with his Grandpa and Grandma, but wanted nothing more than to “Go Home!”. Again Tim and I figured that we were a bit more emotional than usual with the concern over Grandpa, and things were unusual, and Gabe was out-of-sorts as a result. We thought it was understandable.
However, Gabe is now more of a homebody than ever. When we run errands, Gabe has a short tolerance, then demands, loudly and insistently, to go home. Today he refused to put his shoes or coat on, was upset to see Tim putting his own coat on and demanded that he take it off, and wouldn’t even be bribed by ice cream (and he’s very partial to soft-serve ice cream cones). He finally decided to go shopping with us when Tim offered to let him drive – Gabe helps Tim steer down the driveway, then we put him in his car seat. One of the reasons we were running today was to pick up the new-ish Thomas the Train movie for Gabe, and the new Shaun the Sheep for me. Once Gabe realized he was getting Thomas, he of course demanded that we go home immediately to watch it. And interspersed through all of our activities today was the familiar, and slightly-irritating-at-this-point refrain demanding to go home.
It’s actually kind of convenient in one way that Gabe is so home-focused lately. I’m pregnant, and doing my best to avoid the H1N1 flu bug that, according to my doctor, is deeply embedded in Platteville right now. Doctor’s advice is to stay away from public areas more now than usual. Today was my first time out and about this week, other than my prenatal appointment. Maybe shopping wasn’t the best way to stay healthy, but I was going a little bit crazy at home so much, and just needed the change of scenery.
What I find most interesting about all this is that Gabe is so attached to the concept of home. When he first wakes up Monday morning, and Tim’s gone to work, Gabe is upset that Daddy isn’t home. When Tim calls to let me know he’s left the office each evening, Gabe always asks if Daddy’s coming home. And when Tim walks in the door, Gabe races over to him screaming “HOME!!!”. Gabe will frequently race over and plow into me during the day, giving me a very rambunctious, little-boy-hug, and comment that we’re home with a big smile. My son loves his home.
What I wonder is why Gabe has such an attachment to home. He’s never been in day-care, never really been separated from me except on rare occasions – and only when Dad, Uncle Shaun, grandparents or Aunt LeeAnn are there with him. He’s never had attachment issues, and is a confident, secure kid. We spend alot of time at home, and Tim and I both have the general attitude that our family is our top priority, so we do things as a family. I’m glad that Gabe feels safe and secure at home; that home is a special place for him. It means that I’ve succeeded, in a way, at being a home-maker. I just worry that his attitude is too-much-of-a-good-thing kind of thing. Then again, he’s three, so it’s probably not anything to worry about just yet. Now, if he’s 18 and refusing to leave the house, then I’ll have a problem!
Well, maybe not bites, but there’s definitely tears. And a goodly dose of gnashing of teeth.
Actually, I’m always hesitant to use anything like hormonal to describe myself. Frankly, I find it insulting when some idiot suggests that women in general, and me in particular, are somehow lacking in logic or the ability to reason because of our hormones. It would be as short-sighted and limited an argument as if I were to point out that testosterone is also a hormone, and high amounts of testosterone can induce dangerous and life-threatening behavioral changes. Seriously, how did women get the stereotype as mentally unstable due to chemistry? Glass houses, people.
But anyway, enough soapboxing.
My family is completely wonderful and supportive, but we’re also very opinionated people, and we love the chance to share our opinions with each other. There’s definitely some of the “nobody gets to call my brother an idiot but me!” thing going on. And I love it. When I talk to any of my siblings, I know they’re going to always have my back… but they’re going to tell me the truth as they see it too. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.
So when, in the course of a conversation, my sister starts agreeing with everything I’m saying and using her it’s-gonna-be-okay voice… well, I have to acknowledge that just maybe I’m a bit more emotional than is normal for me. Just maybe, pregnancy hormones haven’t passed me by, no matter how much I will them out of my brain.
Between the special migraines I get during pregnancy, the brain-fog-inducing hydrocodone I take to allow me to function despite those migraines, the midnight trips to the bathroom to empty my bladder because the baby’s using it as a pillow/trampoline, and the constant poking and prodding by different doctors,.. I’m starting to look forward to getting cut open and the weeks of recovery from surgery! Even more than that though, I’m looking forward to the moment my sister calls me an idiot again, because then I’ll know everything’s back the way it should be
Somehow the seasons here in Wisconsin have a way of weaving themselves so completely into my mind, my emotions, my very life that they become more than just evidence of the passing of time, but an essential part of my own self. Last winter I felt as if my entire being was yearning for the newness of spring, as if the budding of leaves and grass would bring about the rebirth of my own heart. This summer felt more alive, more verdant to me than usual, and I’ve been relishing every aspect of fall (although I have yet to see a single red leaf. Fall isn’t fall without the russets set in a frame of gold.) This year has been an especially seasonal-ish year for me.
I think that spring brings potential, newness, promises. I find it impossible to enjoy the smell of fresh earth and the scent of new dandelions in spring without feeling my heart lighten. Summer is a rich and luxurious green. If spring is promises, then summer is sultry and passionate. Summer runs in my veins and intoxicates me like new wine. Winter is the season of opposites. It has a cold and distant beauty; it’s both untouchable and renewing. And yet I think that winter is one of the friendliest seasons, because my family stays inside; we enjoy each others company over hot chocolate and tea. My life is simpler in winter.
But my favorite of all seasons is fall. If winter renews, spring promises and summer intoxicates, then fall is fulfillment. Fall is the crowning glory of nature, the perfect blending of each season into a climax of nature. The promises of spring are realized in harvest; apple blossoms become rosy apples, new green leaves mature into golden crowns and russet cloaks. The new wine of summer ages into the golden brandy of fall, smooth and sweet with just enough bite to keep it interesting. And even winter adds to the splendor of fall, giving a brisk reminder each night to appreciate each moment while it lasts and creating appreciation for cozy fall quilts and cuddles with loved ones.
Pregnancy makes me introspective. Maybe it’s literally having a belly full of potential, or maybe it’s a by-product of all the hormones my baby books keep telling me I’m filled with, but I’ve been thinking about the road not taken, where I might have been, and where I ended up.
In August I had my thirtieth birthday, but that doesn’t have much meaning to me. I don’t feel like I’m older. I’ve got some wrinkles started on my face, and I’m watching for that first gray hair to make it’s inevitable appearance – I still haven’t decided if I’m going to dye it away or not yet. I suppose I’ll decide when the time comes. But me, the person I am inside, the only me that matters, doesn’t feel thirty. I’m too silly to be mature, too young to feel older, too wrapped up in each moment to feel the weight of time passing me. And it’s probably silly for me to even be thinking about these things tonight, as I blog this, because I’m only thirty after all, and there’s only time ahead of me. Maybe I’ll have a different blog to write when I’ve turned forty. I’ll have to wait and see.
When I do think about what in the past few years I treasure, I think about all the little experiences that make up my life. If Forrest Gump described life as a box of chocolates, then I think I’m free to describe it as a batch of wop. Life is the complete package, a jumble of everything, all recorded in the wrinkles, the smile lines, the memory pages, the scars. And I find it funny to realize that some of my most important experiences are those that were unpleasant. Could I truly understand the value of being treasured if I didn’t have the pain of rejection to compare it to? Could I value the worth of a true friendship if I hadn’t experienced betrayal because of a false friend? Would I realize the value of moderation if I hadn’t paid the price for overindulgence? Would life be as sweet without the splash of bitters mixed in?
I took a path many of the people I grew up with never traveled. I’ve spent the night arguing philosophy with strangers while blowing smoke rings at the moon. I’ve learned that tequila needs to be respected if you wish to maintain control of your bodily functions. I’ve had my heart stomped on a few times, and stomped on a few hearts myself. I’ve composed bad poetry while drinking box wine. I’ve learned that the worst thing to throw up is spaghetti, because you realize how much you don’t chew. I’ve got some stories that I’m saving to tell my grandchildren, because by then I’ll be less embarrassed and more proud that I once had that flexibility. I’ve danced in the moonlight, thrown myself into the fire of passion, and bayed at the moon, and I don’t regret a moment of it.
There’s so much life out there to touch, but it has to be grabbed with both hands. If people don’t see it, if they don’t value it, then I think it gets lost in the daily chores and weekly paychecks, the monthly bills and the yearly taxes. And that life isn’t all about wild youth; it’s also about things like sliding across kitchen floors in slippery wool socks, or treasuring the sweaty bundle of little boy snuggled around my neck after a temper tantrum. It’s about homemade applesauce spread over freshly baked bread, and chicken soup on an icky day. It’s about feeling completely exhausted at the end of a day, and realizing that even that exhaustion is something to treasure, because your little boy shared his whole day with you. It’s about living in the moment, because that moment is precious.
I truly believe that I’m better able to treasure my life, because I realize how special it is. I married the man who most perfectly matches me, and I feel as if the worst day with him is better than the best day with anybody else. I waited to share my life with anybody until I knew the value of myself, and my life. I’ve tasted the wop of life, and so I know that what I’ve got is truly something to treasure.
So I’m curious about some of the people I used to know. There was a guy I knew who had more talent than nearly anybody else. He had hopes and dreams, and was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. It didn’t matter what he wanted though, because his future was planned out for him from the moment he was born – he was going to take over the family farm. As far as I know, he’s done just that. I hope he’s truly happy, no matter what road he’s taken. How does his life taste?
I’m also curious about a girl I once knew, who married when she was still basically a child herself, and barely old enough to sign her own marriage certificate. She felt so proud at the time that she had gotten the guy. Does she still feel that way? While I was following whatever whimsical path caught my interest, she was taking care of kids. Which of us was the wiser one? How does her life taste?
When I dream dreams for my children, I wish for them a touch of pain, because I want them to truly be happy. I want them to taste everything that life has to offer, and treasure the choices they’ve made, because they understand the value of those choices. I want my children to someday write about what has shaped them into the people they’ve grown into, delighting in each sip along the way. I wish for them true joy.
I’ve heard over and over that kids grow up really fast. I know it’s true, too, because it feels like I’ve barely blinked in between the time that Gabe went from newborn to preschooler. My little boy now delights in solving Blue’s Clues, in throwing garbage in the trash all by himself, and in jumping on the bed while Mama admires each twist and hop. And he delights in kisses (he kissed Mama’s owie today) and in cuddles and in tickles.
Today, I cuddled Gabe while he settled down for a nap. He’s got this wonderful habit of using my shoulder as a pillow, and wrapping both my arms around him like a mama-cocoon. He’ll wiggle in as close as he can get, and whisper that he loves me,.. then he’ll fall asleep that way, or just lay there contentedly while I’m sleeping. And it’s so precious to me. I know that Gabe will someday be too big to wrap up so deeply in my arms, but he’ll always be my little cuddle bug with sweet-smelling hair, no matter how big he grows.
I try to glory in each moment, in each kiss, in each cuddle, and in each mess, because I feel like right now, my life is absolute perfection. Someday Gabe will have new things to show me, new feats for me to admire, but I can wait until then for that. Right now I’ve got a little boy who wants me to cuddle him, and I’m okay being right here, right now.
In January my dad died. It was an accident – he was fixing the snowblower in the garage, and even though he had the door open, the exhaust overpowered him and he died of carbon monoxide poisoning. He just sat down to have a cigarette, and didn’t get up again.
Tim got the call, and came home from work so he could tell me in person. We had just miscarried a baby two weeks prior, and I was still having a very hard time dealing with that loss. I was napping, and he woke me up. I think that moment will be burned into my memory for as long as I live,.. Tim’s face, so serious and concerned, as I tried to clear my head from sleeping to understand what he was telling me. I don’t know how long I just sat there,.. it felt like time just stood still for that moment.
I fell apart. I really didn’t have any emotional strength left… I’d been just reaching my 11th week of pregnancy, and that was a very hard loss. I’d been living in a fog since then, and the news that my dad died just crumbled the fog, so there was nothing,.. no padding, no insulation,.. just heart-rending grief that couldn’t be fixed.
Some people have said that they don’t understand what the big deal was, since I was mostly estranged from my dad anyway. Since we weren’t close, why did it matter to me? I could point out all the things that happened, all the reasons, big and small, that led to that estrangement,.. but that’s really not the point. When my dad died, I mourned him, because he was important to me, estranged or not.
Life is a series of choices, some easy and some very hard. Whether to have oatmeal or frosted flakes for breakfast, that’s an easy choice. Choosing between parents in a messy divorce, knowing that your choice will cut you to the quick no matter how you decide,.. that’s a very hard choice. I wish I didn’t have to make the choices I did. I wish that the situation hadn’t been what it was. I wish that a choice wasn’t forced on us. I wish we all could have made different choices.
I mourn the loss of my daddy, the man who had given me “horsie rides” as a little girl not much bigger than Gabe. I miss the man who called me Peanut, and Esmerelda. I think fondly of the man who taught me how to properly stain a pulpit, and varnish it to a glowing shine. I miss sneaking down for late night action movies, or early Saturday morning cartoon time with Dad. I miss going grocery shopping before the Sabbath and munching on chicken wings and laughing and joking together. I miss cherry picking every July, and racing to see who could fill more buckets. I miss the way he’d wipe his forehead with his arm when he was working so hard the sweat would be running into his eyes. I miss the way we could talk through gestures and facial expressions from across the room. I miss my Dad.
My dad had his great points, and all of us kids take after him in some way. He was a funny person, and could make anybody feel comfortable just a few minutes after meeting them. He could fix almost anything, and he could play music by ear. He was a gifted singer, and loved to pound away on the piano, or blow his horn – lol, if you know my dad, you get the joke hidden in that! He was a naturally compassionate person, and loved to help people out when they needed someone to depend on. And we take after him. My brother Tom is one of the most gifted people I’ve ever met at making people feel relaxed – he’s your best friend after a few minutes together. My sister LeeAnn has more musical talent than anybody else I know – she can play anything by ear, but isn’t limited to just that. And I,.. I’m a compassionate person, who can’t stand to see someone hurting without feeling like I need to do something to help. And we all have his humor,.. the best memorial service we gave Dad was the one with all of us kids, sitting around the table a few hours after we got that phone call, remembering Dad with stories that made us all laugh and cry at the same time.
For all that, Dad made some bad choices. He let anger and bitterness take over his life. He couldn’t understand that us kids didn’t feel the same way about our Mom as he did about his ex-wife. He felt that he had been wronged, and tried to hurt the people he felt had hurt him. He hurt what he should have protected. He lost his laughter.
I can’t change the things that happened, and the hurts that still sting. I can’t change the fact that my dad died alone. I wish desperately that none of the choices that led up to that had happened. And I pray, fervently, that God is everything He promises, and that my dad has found all the love and acceptance now that he so desperately sought during his life. I really hope that I can cling to all the good memories I have of my dad, and let go of the painful ones. And, more than anything, I hope I can learn from my dad, and make different choices in my life, so that I leave a happier legacy behind for my children.
In just a few days, I will have reached my official halfway point in this pregnancy. Thursday, to be exact, because that’s when BabyCenter sends me my 20-week “This is what your baby looks like” email. It doesn’t really feel like I’ve been pregnant that long, probably because I did my best to completely not think about anything pregnancy related the first 12 weeks in case I miscarried, and then Gabe decided to pack all his terrible two’s into a few weeks, and I haven’t had time to think about anything, let alone TWO kids.
But. My first ultrasound is coming up. With Gabe, I had a 12-week ultrasound, but this pregnancy has gone so well -knock on wood- that the doctor didn’t see any need. So, in a week, I’ll get the first peek at my little one. And it has me so nervous. I’m excited about seeing little fingers and little toes. Finding out if the baby is a boy or a girl feels kind of like I’m peeking at a Christmas present early, and I’m so excited about that, although I have absolutely no preference. But, I’m also nervous because I want everything to be perfect,.. I want this little one to be absolutely healthy and complete, and the first peek will confirm that, hopefully.
I just have normal jitters, I guess. During my first trimester, every bout of nausea was a blessing because it meant I was still pregnant,.. switching to maternity pants was thrilling because it showed evidence that those two little pink lines weren’t lying to me,.. I was trying not to think about being pregnant, but very conscious of it anyway. Now that I’m feeling better, I actually miss those daily reminders that yes, I’m still pregnant. Silly, I know.
And I really am doing fine. I have been feeling the baby move for far longer than most people would expect (11 weeks the first time) and I’ve heard the heartbeat – twice – and I’m getting excited. I couldn’t get enough Spicy Hot V8 for a few weeks, so I’ve already had my first freaky craving (thankfully, kraut juice-free this time). I’m already thinking about Halloween coming up, because the sooner it gets here, the sooner Christmas will come, and the sooner I’ll be able to count fingers and toes and remember just how much poop a newborn can poop.
When I first started this blog, I was pregnant with Gabe, and I kept it up pretty well during the first couple of months of his babyhood. Then, he got mobile, and I discovered that sitting and writing for any length of time was one of those luxuries that moms sigh over when they think of all the stuff they miss out on. I’ve got writing on that list, right next to seeing movies at the theater, and rather lower than going to the bathroom without a little helper begging for a bit of toilet paper.
Now that I’m well into my second pregnancy, I’ve realized that I should start putting a bit more effort into keeping track of things like I did with Gabe. This pregnancy already feels so different – with Gabe it felt like my every waking and sleeping thought was on the family we were gonna be, and now most of my thoughts are busy with whether Gabe will eat anything besides hot dogs today, or if the towels I forgot in the washer need to be rewashed before I stick them in the dryer.
There are two times of day when I really get to sit back and focus on the baby – in the morning when I’m trying to figure if my stomach’s going to successfully turn itself inside out, and at night, when I want nothing more than to sleep on my back and can’t. And occasionally times like now, when I get the chance to just stop and think about what this baby means to me.
Tim and I have been really blessed as parents, because Gabe’s a really special kid. He’s smart and stubborn, athletic and gentle, and the darn cutest kid ever. I’ve never once regretted the changes in my life that he brought about,.. I may not have my Master’s Degree in Psychology, but I’m a Mama, and that’s pretty special – no psychologist can kiss away owies as skillfully as I can 
I don’t want to fall into the expectation that this little one is going to be just like Gabe. I know better,.. Gabe has been his own little person since about three days after he was born, when he refused to sleep in the crib. I’m not even sure if I’m hoping for a little girl or little boy more,.. before Gabe was born I thought I wanted a little girl, but now I think little boys are special treasures, even when they bring especially wiggly bugs to Mama to show off. I just know that each day brings me closer to meeting the little person brewing in my tummy, and I’m getting more and more excited with every little flutter behind my belly button.
I love you already little one.
Last Christmas Tim and I had planned on getting Gabe a digital camera of his very own, since there are a few models that are designed for little hands and rough treatment. But, when the holidays actually came around, Gabe wasn’t interested in anything that wasn’t Thomas the Train, so we ended up getting him enough wooden track to fill a tote instead (and if you’ve ever bought anything Thomas, you know that Santa was VERY generous this year. Lucky kid).
Gabe is still a Thomas fan, but he’s now showing far more interest in my photography than he used to. Now, when I get the camera out, I’m lucky to get a handful of shots off before he’s demanding to be the one behind the camera instead of in front of it. And there’s nothing quite like the thrill of realizing your fearless toddler is playing with a camera that cost more than your wedding ring to give you an adrenaline rush in the morning!
Gabe’s also starting to dictate the kind of pictures he’d like to have taken. I may want a picture of him sitting on the couch with his feet sticking out, but he wants a picture of himself lying on the floor showing off his tummy. (See example). Yesterday he was walking around with his potty seat on his head, like a crown (giving a new dimension of reality to the idea of the toilet as a throne) and prancing around the bathroom, but as soon as the camera came out he decided that wasn’t the kind of image he wanted memorialized. Either that or he was just being a butthead. Smart kid.
