Ooey-Gooey, Lovey-Dovey Stuff

As I was reading through my Facebook newsfeed (well, actually, reading notifications from my sisters-in-law), I realized an interesting phenomenon:

My sisters-in-law post ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey stuff about their children ALL the time.

And people LIKE it.

*I* like it.

An adorable picture of Little Sis, accompanied by the text “Nothing is sweeter than ending the day with baby snuggles” gets 5 likes (as of now).

I can imagine the kind of reactions I’d get if I posted a picture of my (adorable) husband, accompanied by the text “Nothing is sweeter than ending the day with hubby snuggles.”

If I got likes, they’d be in the “you’re so silly” category. I’d probably be more likely to get “Eeww” or “Get a room” in response.

Why is it that we can say all sorts of ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey stuff about babies and no one blinks an eye, but if we were to act as obsessed with our husbands as we are with our children we’d be weirdos?

I don’t really have any answer to that question, nor do I really need an answer to that question (although you’re more than welcome to give your own theories)–but it was a thought I had.


Wondering at Overpasses

My Grandma lived in Bellevue, Nebraska–home of the gigantic Offutt Air Force base and suburb to Omaha. Omaha-Bellevue was the Big City.

We traveled there at least a half dozen times a year, for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas and for each cluster of birthdays (January, March, July, and October). A couple times a year we’d make the trip from Grandma’s house to Omaha’s famous Henry Dorley Zoo (or Henry Dorky, as we called it.)

The trip between Grandma’s and the Zoo (“Goin’ to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, Zoo–beeps and bomps and squeaks and squanks” we’d sing) was fast, on one or the other of the interstate highways running through and across and around Omaha.

But every time we came to a certain juncture, where two or three of those massive interstates met, I’d stop my singing and wonder at the “bridges”.

There were dozens of them, it seemed to me, curving and crossing one another. It was a jumble of engineering, one concrete structure arcing above the next. It was strangely exhilarating–and scary, at the same time. Drivers on the bottom road could have not one but three or four different cars atop them. Drivers on the top could look down and see dozens or even hundreds of cars driving their different directions.

It was wonderful.

I thought of the bridges this morning, as I arced across multiple off ramps getting onto Kellogg from I-135 after taking Daniel to work for a 6 am conference call with France.

Will my children wonder at the “bridges” as I did?

Or will they be calloused city-dwellers, inured to the wonders of human engineering, the miracle of layering human upon human driving at inhuman speeds?


Fits and Bursts

It seems I write in fits and bursts, just like I live the rest of my life.

I have a fit of kitchen zeal and my dishes get (almost) caught up, four dozen Runzas are packed away in the freezer, the load of cookie dough Daniel bought from a child is baked, and the fridge abounds with homemade yogurt. Above the fridge, an old Tupperware is full of homemade granola and two Pyrex with roasted chickpea snacks.

A fit of reading (on a trip, usually) has me writing reviews and book notes.

A fit of exercising means I walk to Braums for milk, to a friend’s house to drop off my husband for breakfast (yes, totally unnecessary, since he could have walked or driven himself–but still), to the library to drop off a book and get some more.

And then come the bursts.

I collapse on the couch after work, crying until my husband orders me into the bathtub to relax.

I burst into tears unprovoked and stare unseeingly at the wall, unable to contain my emotion.

I start the day crying and thank God that I have some time charting between clients because I need the moments for more fits of crying.

I just start to feel that things are getting better–that I’m making friends and finding my place. I just start to feel that I’m establishing routines and doing okay. I just start to feel that I’ve figured out how to be a wife and a woman at the same time.

And then the bubble bursts and I’m back in a fit.

I cry and cry.

I can’t see outside the moment, outside the days, the weeks of difficulty.

When does it get easy? I wonder. Will it ever?

When will I get out from under the cloud I’m living in? When will I gain perspective? When will I cease to be at the whim of these fits and bursts?

I despair.

I think I need help.

I tell myself that help is more trouble than it’s worth.

I don’t want to spend money for help. I want to pay down our debt so we can have a baby.

I want to help myself. I check out books from the library. Books on sleeping better, on overcoming depression, on managing the TMD related headaches. I don’t read them because the burst of energy to complete them never comes.

Daniel wants to help me, asks how he can help–but I don’t know how. I wish I did. I wish I knew what caused these fits, these crying jags, this persistent, lingering melancholy. We work our way through what we know, but we know so little.

What am I to do when the thunderstorm breaks and I find myself bawling in my office, unable to see any way out?


Liar, liar, pants on FI-AR

As a dietitian, I have a few hard measures, but the majority of the data I collect and analyze comes from self-report.

I can weigh and measure a child. I can poke their finger to determine what their hemoglobin is. I can observe whether the child is drinking out of a bottle in my office–and sometimes whether they’re drinking water, milk, or juice.

But the majority of my information comes from parents themselves.

Before they come to visit me, they have to fill out a diet questionnaire that attempts to ascertain health and dietary patterns. Once they’re in my office, I interview the parents for additional information.

I rarely have any way of corroborating whether the story the parents are telling me is true or not.

I *do* happen to know that at least some of my client’s parents lie to me though.

Probably the most frequent example of a client lying is when the health interview reads that “no one in the household smokes”–but the diet questionnaire I’m reviewing reeks of smoke so badly I’m having coughing fits in my office trying to prep for the interview.

Then, there are the lies that are evident to anyone who is thinking.

How many hours a day does your child spend actively playing? the questionnaire asks.

“18 hours/day,” a parent replies.

If so, he’s getting far too little sleep, I want to point out.

But my favorite lies of all are the kind that the child contradicts.

Like the time when I had a picture-perfect diet questionnaire in front of me. According to the questionnaire, my client drinks 2 cups of whole milk (great, since he’s one), 4 oz of diluted 100% fruit juice, and several glasses of water in a day.

I asked mom to describe what her son eats in a typical day–and then I probed deeper. “And what does he usually drink?” I asked.

Big brother (age 6) answered, “Mmm…pop, Koolaid, Gatorade, juice…”

Mom was quick to cover, insisting that she only gave her one year old SPRITE, not the BAD kinds of soda with CAFFEINE in them. And Gatorade is only if they’re outside. And…

Yeah.

In other words, you lied.

Liar, liar, pants on FI-AR.

Then there’s the ones you wish had a little shame and would at least try to be embarrassed about SOMETHING. But that’s a WHOLE ‘nother story.


No, it’s NOT okay

The Bubblicious bubble gum with its bright pink wrapper and bubble letters was too great a temptation.

I grabbed it from the supermarket checkout line, hid it in my pocket.

Mom discovered my theft before we made it to the car. She turned around, marched me back into the store where I was to return the item, apologize, and pay for it.

The shop lady was nice, trying to be kind.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“No, it is NOT okay,” my mother replied.

It was an offense, a punishable offense. Shoplifting, theft. Whatever you call it, it’s a crime. It’s not okay.

I think of my childhood shoplifting when a mortified child returns to my room with a plastic carrot in hand.

“I’m sorry I took your carrot,” says the mouth hidden in her chest.

I resist the urge to tell her that it’s okay.

It isn’t okay.

I tell her I forgive her. I thank her for returning it.

I’m glad there are still mothers like mine, who agree that it’s not okay.

There is hope yet for this next generation–some kids are still learning not to steal, some kids are still learning to confess their wrongdoings.

And I will do my part. I will condemn the behavior and give grace to the child. I will offer forgiveness without sweeping sin under the rug.

Inasmuch as I can, I will help these children learn law AND grace.


A (Third) Naming Exercise

The strange names just keep coming in my doors here at WIC–which means the naming exercises are continuing too.

A popular naming scheme is to name your child after something related to their conception. Just think of the 5 Ws and an H and get started.

When
Autumn (for a June baby)
Christmas
Dawn
Dusk
Eve
June (for a March baby)
Holiday
Independence
Millenium (Milly for short)
Sunday (Sunny for short)

Where
Austin
Boston
Chevy
Dodge
Houston
London
Mercedes
Paris
Texas

Who
(Yes, I know, this is a boring one that’s old as mud. Naming a child after his dad or granddad is nothing new. But it’s still a possibility. And it doesn’t have to just be a Junior. Consider naming your child after the person who introduced you to your baby’s daddy, or after the waitress at the restaurant where you had dinner before your baby was conceived. Did it happen during a football game? Commemorate the moment by naming your child after the MVP. Remember too, that last names make great first names–and you can always switch a letter or two to make it unique.)

How
Whoopi

I think you get the idea… :-)


Please note that all names are fictionalized. Any resemblance with actual WIC client names is entirely accidental. :-)


A Day of Rest

This last weekend was a busy one.

We had a friend over Friday night for dinner–and then I went out to clean the garage so Daniel and he could have guy time. When I was done, I was exhausted and covered with grime, but glad that the garage was not only walkable but could actually contain a car if we so desired.

Saturday, we were having an older couple over for dinner–actually, the wife was the Realtor who sold Daniel our house. So, of course, I was determined that the house must look as if someone has actually done something with it since she last saw it. I scraped the old medical stickers from the front door, cleaned both the screen door and the real door, took down the cobwebs from the front porch, swept the front porch… I tidied the dining room and living room, did a superficial dusting and a more complete sweeping and dust mopping… I scrubbed the bathroom–shower surround, tub, sink, commode, and floor. I finally got ALL the dishes washed and dried and put away. And then I made a roast chicken and roasted potatoes and sweet potatoes and a salad.

When they left, we rushed off to help a friend move. There were plenty of people there to help, so it wasn’t like it took forever–but it was more heavy lifting and stair climbing.

Sunday morning, I was coughing up loogies that looked like scrambled eggs from free-range chickens, only with streaks of blood throughout. The cold I’d been nursing since Friday was out in full force–and I did not at all feel rested.

At the last minute, we decided to skip church. Daniel really felt that I needed a day of rest–and that church would not be that day of rest*.

I took off my church shoes and climbed back into bed–where I slept until almost noon. I read a bit from Unbroken (which I’m reading for our new book club–it’s Ah-mazing!)

Daniel and I pulled some spaghetti sauce from the freezer and had lunch–then I piddled on the computer, virtually trying new exterior paint colors on our house (one of those projects that we’ve thought about but not too seriously yet.)

Daniel pulled me from the computer midway through the afternoon and brought me to the living room, where we sang a half an hour worth of hymns, spent some time in prayer, and then read and discussed several more pages from Martin Luther’s Bondage of the Will.

Then it was back to the computer, this time Daniel’s laptop, to play with colors more while half-watching The Adjustment Bureau (which turned out to be rather a chick-flick for all of it’s “action” aspects.)

It was wonderful.

A day of rest.


*Please note that we believe firmly in the importance of involvement in the local church. We do not make a practice of skipping church. This was a special case and an exception to our regular practice. Even when it is not particularly restful, we do not believe that one should forsake the “assembling of ourselves together, as is the habit of some” (Heb 10:25 NKJV).


Wood, Hay, Rubble

About two weeks after a massive tornado cut a swathe through Moore, Oklahoma, Daniel and I took a team from our church down to help with relief.

We essentially walked around until we found homeowners who were digging through the ruins of their homes–and asked if they needed help with anything.

Different people had different requests.

Daniel and I stopped first at a home where a woman was digging about for anything that might be salvageable. Helping was difficult, because we really didn’t know what she wanted or didn’t want. What was important to her? What did she consider worth saving? We didn’t know, so we busied ourselves with moving bricks and beams and broken furniture, piling up anything that was at all intact for her to sort through. Once she started looking herself, it became apparent that the items she cared about the most were DVDs.

Daniel amidst the rubble

Her next door neighbor stood outside her house, unsure of what to do. This second homeowner, unlike her neighbor, understood that insurance would cover ruined belongings. She wasn’t interested in searching for this item or that. Her daughter (in the elementary school that was devastated) was out of the hospital. Her sons were safe.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a request for us.

Her mother was worried that the church people might show up and see the couple dozen trash bags worth of beer cans now strewn across the property. What would they think? Her Christian reputation would be ruined if they could see that evidence of how much she drinks. Would we help?

Two friends held open trash bags as Daniel and I shoveled beer cans as fast as we could. We filled the bed of a pickup truck. They’d be able to recycle them for some cash.

When we met up with some others of our group, they had a different story to share.

A family was searching for an heirloom–a family Bible full of underlinings and notes, with leaves outlining births and deaths and baptisms. Our team searched with them, digging through the remains of their lives.

A Bible was found, was brought to the homeowner. The homeowner opened it, confirmed that this was indeed the Bible. The couple dropped what they were doing, called off the team.

That was it. The rest could be bulldozed. Nothing else mattered.

They circled the team for a prayer of thankfulness before they headed back to their temporary housing.

“Now if any man build upon this foundation gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, stubble; Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man’s work of what sort it is.”

I Corinthians 3:12-13 (KJV)

Before the Day stands these lowercase days, days when wind–not fire–exposes our hearts. Are we set on the entertainments of this world? Are we building merely a facade to hide our sin? Or will the wind expose a life that sets its hope in the eternal?

I pray that the Day…and every lowercase day…will find me building with gold, searching for silver, storing up precious stones.

What a loss, if the wind should come and all I be left with is wood, hay, and rubble.


Transitioning into Marriage

About a month ago, Melinda and Carrie from Wholesome Womanhood asked me if I would be willing to participate in a blog carnival answering the questions:

“How did you transition between singleness and marriage? Was it difficult? Were there some things about marriage that surprised you?”

I immediately agreed, thinking I’d love to share my (very) recent experiences. What I wasn’t necessarily thinking about at the time was what the really honest answer to those questions would be–and how hard it would be to write those down.

The truth is, to answer the questions in reverse: Sex surprised me. It was difficult. I’m not quite sure how the transition happened–except with lots of grace, lots of patience, and lots of communication.

I want to give a warning to my readers. I’m not going to be graphic, but I am going to talk about sex pretty frankly–since that has been the most difficult change for Daniel and I.


In retrospect, we were given some warning. Kevin Lehman talked in Sheet Music about how married sex is different than illicit premarital sex (I am so glad neither of us had to deal with comparisons there!) in that you’re learning what makes *one person* tick. My mom cautioned that all the books in the world couldn’t tell me what *Daniel* would want or what would feel good to *me*.

Still, I somehow had the impression that sex would just be a matter of doing the right things. Furthermore, I read three different books on sex (Kevin Lehman’s Sheet Music, Gary Smalley and Ted Cunningham’s The Language of Sex, and Ed Wheat’s Intended for Pleasure) so I had a good idea of what the right things were. Or so I thought.

I learned pretty quickly that my perception was completely wrong.

What I learned is that Daniel is not just any man and I am not just any woman. I am myself, he is himself. Just because the books say men prefer this or that doesn’t mean Daniel prefers either. Just because the books say women like this or that doesn’t mean I like either. Instead, we had to learn (mostly from scratch) what pleases one another.

What I learned about sex as a newly married woman (Okay, so I’m still a newly married woman–just three months in) is that sex is hard work. Sex requires practice, persistence, patience. And it requires communication.

We learned that we had to relax our expectations. Sex will not necessarily be amazing every time. Sometimes it might hurt. What seemed to work a few days ago may not work today. We learned that trying to make every time we had sex a “10” just stressed us out–and too often resulted in tears of disappointment instead of tears of joy. We had to relax and focus on intimacy, on learning about one another, on enjoying the small (and sometimes large) pleasures. As we did, our overall experience improved–as did our outlook towards the more “ho-hum” moments.

We learned that we had to be willing to experiment. A lot of the practical advice in the books I read was centered around spicing up a boring sex life–which I suppose is useful for a couple who’s been married for a while and maybe has gotten into a rut. But for the couple who hasn’t really figured out what works for them? The books weren’t too helpful. We had to learn to experiment on our own–with different positions, different types of foreplay, different ways of communicating with one another what we liked, different brands of lubrication, different times of day. We had to be willing to retry things that didn’t quite work, switching up a variable or two. As we did, we learned more about ourselves and each other–and added to our list of shared experiences.

We learned that we had to keep on communicating. We both of us had to be willing to say “That’s really not working for me” or “Why don’t you try…” We’ve had to be vocal about when we were enjoying something. We’ve learned that we need to keep talking about differing expectations for frequency of sex, length of sex, whatever. We’ve had to learn to ask when we don’t understand each other’s facial expressions or sounds. Even though we discussed sex, including our expectations, prior to getting married, we have had to keep on discussing sex frequently since then.

We learned that we had to be patient.

Sex isn’t learned overnight. Great sex doesn’t happen in a week-long honeymoon or even a month of regular practice. There are plenty of things that we still need to learn about each other and how to please one another more fully. But, the good news is that we know that practice and patience pays off. Communication and care produces results. And we have the rest of our lives to continue to learn how to have truly outstanding sex.


Please note: When I had my husband read this over, he reminded me that what I’ve said above isn’t really new. The books *did* warn of these same things–but in our premarital optimism we somehow glossed over those things. Daniel says that the most important thing *he’s* learned has been from the paragraph that starts “What I learned is that Daniel is not just any man and I am not just any woman.”


Don’t forget to visit Melinda and Carrie’s blog post to see how other women transitioned into marriage.


My “Personal” Collection

I don’t think my client’s intend to steal from me.

They’re in a hurry, the kids are screaming–they don’t notice that one of the kids has a toy up his sleeve.

Little Jenny has her bucket of personal toys. Mom checked to make sure she’s carrying the bucket out, but didn’t notice that Little Jenny had stashed all my sorting shapes inside.

I don’t make too big a deal of it.

Life happens.

I take the sorting lid off the bucket and now I have my own bucket, devoid of shapes to sort.

image

Likewise, I don’t intend to steal from my clients.

They’re in a hurry, the kids are screaming, I’ve got ten minutes to chart on all four before we close down the office–I didn’t notice that Little Johnny left behind his toy car.

By the time I find the toy the next morning when I’m tidying up my office before new clients, I can’t say for certain whose toy it was–and the client is long gone.

I don’t make too big a deal of it.

Life happens.

image

I collect the detritus in a corner of my desk.

So far, I have

  • 3 matchbox cars
  • 1 teething toy
  • 1 flip phone without a back
  • 1 gray and pink burp cloth

They nestle carefully in the shape sorting lid from my bucket, reminding me that sometimes you lose things and sometimes you gain things–but, generally, life happens.