Doin' That Mom Thing

Let me just tell you now - if you were suffering under the delusion that I have this "mom-thing" under control because I post cute but mediocre pictures of my deeply fabulous child, allow me to put you, and myself, out of such misery. I am in fact a hot mess.

The occasion for this self-revelation was a profound one.

Baby Time at the library.

I heard of this magical thing some months ago, before the holidays, in fact, and filed it in my mind under Things To Do When Adeline is Old Enough to Even Care. After all, I told myself, a five-month-old who still spends the vast majority of her waking hours asleep seemed an unlikely candidate for Baby-Time-at-the-library enthusiast. 

Yeah, well, then she got older. 

And ya'll, this kid, she likes action. 

Having read the insightful "Temperment God Gave Your Kids" book and suspecting myself the parental unit of a perky sanguine, I began giving my introverted self a series of pep talks on how I should find creative ways for this child of homebodies to get her social on. 

Enter Baby-Time-at-the-library. 

"Aha!" I thought, "Perfection! There will be other babies there, she can be social, and it is in a LIBRARY and I love libraries! They are quiet and calm and FULL OF BOOKS and librarians who shush people who speak and WOW, this is the best idea ever."

I imagine the wiser and more experienced reader has already discerned the flaw (make that flaws) in my logic.

But I sailed naively on, announcing blithely to my beloved husband, my dear mother, and my parent-level-BOSS boy-mom big-sister that I would be conveying our tiny darling to this place of bliss on such-and-such a day at such-and-such a time.

My older sister tried to warn me. Gently.

"Well, you might want to get there early...they have a crowd limit and if you come late they might not let you in." 

"A crowd limit?!?" I thought. "What the heck? What, is that, like, maybe eight or ten different people? Fifteen? What does a crowd in a library even look like?"

"Oh, wow," I said, only slightly daunted, "I guess I'll get there early, then."

I plowed ahead through the week, imagining the glories of Baby-Time-at-the-library-Day. Perhaps I would make a new bosom friend. Perhaps Adeline would meet her own future bosom friend. Perhaps I could go in a cute outfit and even do my makeup. Perhaps I would find a cloth-diaper mom and we could bond over how we never have to clean up blow-outs and some other mom would hear us and we could tell her how awesome cloth diapers are. 

As you can see, the day was growing to somewhat mythical proportions.

Then, it arrived.

The great event was to begin at 10:15.

At 8:45, I was sitting on the couch. At home. Arguing with myself. My mom-self with my me-self.

Me-self: "Well, I guess today won't work. I'm so tired. Let's go back to sleep. And I need a shower. I can't leave the house like this."

Mom-self: "Get up."

Me-self: "Meh."

Mom-self: "You'll be late."

Me-self: "Meh."

Mom-self: "You said you were going."

Me-self: "Yeah, but I'm busy."

Mom-self: "You're on Pinterest."

Me-self: "I am very busy pinning."

Mom-self: "OH MY GOSH."

One of the fascinating things about motherhood, I find, is that sometimes the Mom part of your brain takes over and you just are suddenly doing things you had no idea or intention of doing. I thus suddenly found myself racing around our apartment and showering, hair-drying, diaper-changing, snack-packing, water-bottle-filling, no-time-for-makeup-but-here's-the-coffee and grab-the-special-library-bag and so on. And the whole time the Me-self was reminding the Mom-self that we needed to put gas in the car, go to the post office, run these errands, etc. We therefore couldn't possibly make it to the library by 10:15, we were only going to the library to pick up my book on hold and maybe to wander around in the children's section to investigate the situation. For next week. When we might go for Baby Time. 

After all this, I found myself pulling into the library parking lot at 10am, and Mom-self was firmly declaiming on the reasons we would be running errands AFTER BABY TIME.

Then, I saw Them. 

A steady trickle of babies being swept towards the library doors in the arms of slim, serious mothers who looked like they had stolen the outfits off my Pinterest board. 

Me-self: "Well, yeah, uhh, we will just be grabbing my book and getting the heck out of here."

Mom-self: "Are you ducking behind the steering wheel?"

Me-self: "We need to get out of here before They see us."

Mom-self: "Park the car."

Me-self: "What if They think we were coming for Baby Time? What if They realize we presumed..."

Mom-self: "Oh look! A shady parking spot. How perfect. We have this Mom Thing in the bag!"

Me-self: "WE ARE ONLY GETTING MY HOLD BOOK AND WE ARE LEAVING."

Mom-self unloaded the kid and the diaper bag and Me-self. Me-self yanked out the ponytail holder because Mom-self was out of control and potentially going to drag us into a situation where ponytails were potentially social anathema because you just can't know these things and potentially ponytails weren't even a thing at Baby Time. 

The debate between Mom-self and Me-self raged on while I began the March of Doom toward the library doors. As we passed the windows of the kid section, I tried to inconspicuously peer inside to spy the gathering place of these solemn and stylish women who belonged at Baby Time. But instead of a growing knot I saw only that the kid section was totally awash in moms and babies.

I slunk in through the library doors, and found myself at the tail-end of a line. Not one headed into the library. One headed into the conference rooms. And there were at least 15 sets of mothers and babies in the line. 

Me-self: "No."

Mom-self: "What a great opportunity!" 

Me-self: "No."

Mom-self: "It must be a fabulous Baby Time if it's so popular! Clearly we are in the right place!"

Me-self: "No."

In we marched. Right over to the holds section. I snatched up the book. Marched over to the checkout. Marched out the doors. 

And stopped. 

Right there, outside the library doors. 

You guys. I was just...standing.

Mom-self: "What are you doing?!? We're here! You showered! You have a book to make you look smart! What is wrong with you?!?"

Me-self: "Look. People."

Mom-self: "Yeah! They're talking to each other, chatting, you know, like adults."

Me-self: "Too many adults."

Mom-self: "YOU are an adult! Adult! Be adult-y!"

Still just standing there. Diaper bag swaying. Chill baby chillin'. People walking by.

Me-self: "We'll try next week. Now that I know. I can mentally prepare."

Mom-self: "You don't go in now you know you never will."

Me-self: "I have years to find activities for her before she even remembers a thing."

Mom-self: "You will remember."

Me-self: *silence*

Mom-self: "Chicken."

Me-self: *silence*

Mom-self: "Coward."

Me-self: "Yep."

Mom-self: "Gahhhh come ON. Remember? We got this mom thing in the bag!"

Me-self: "Bags are great. I love bags. I'd like to be in a bag. On the way home. Let's go home and organize our bags!"

Mom-self took over again. I turned around and went right back in. I crept up to the perky and non-threatening-looking librarian who was standing by the door with her armful of song sheets now that the army of Real Adult Moms had made a state procession into the room. 

Librarian: "Hi! Who is this cutie?"

Me, in my head: "You're a librarian! Don't talk! SHUSH PEOPLE."

Me, out loud: "This is Adeline."

Librarian: "Well hello, pretty girl! Are you coming in?"

Me, out loud: "I think so."

Me, in my head: "Well, that's probably the dumbest thing anybody ever said to her."

But we made it inside. With the rest of the vast assembly. I think there ended up being at least thirty moms. Plus a few dads. And all the babies belonging thereto. It wasn't awful. Adeline appeared to be in the throes of bliss. 

I even ended up talking to a few people, actual adult people, in spite of managing to originally sit in the corner of the room with moms who were speaking Vietnamese to each other. We found some books afterwards. And got all the errands done.

We might even go back next week.

Maybe.

What They Said Was True. Sort Of.

It's a long-standing joke that pregnant women get all kinds of unsolicited advice, most of which is actually pretty weird.

No, really - weird. As in, I will not afflict you with some of the things pregnant women are told, because my poor ears can never unhear and your poor eyes could never unsee. Just...Weird.

It's not all even technically advice - some of it is more like unequivocable statements about what. will. happen.

Some of it is actually very good, though. Very good and very true. 

I have several pregnant friends (always. I mean always as in - always some of my friends are pregnant, that is, not some of my friends are always pregnant. Actually...nevermind) so I thought I would share the good ones I can remember.

Because one of the true statements is that you'll start forgetting more things. True. That one is true.

So, here is the list. Of the things I remember.

You forget things.

Covered that. True story, bro. 

AKA, "The baby ate my brain." 

Maybe TMI. Don't freak out. One of the things you'll forget is that you even care. About forgetting. So...be chill. 

Wait, what are we talking about?

The Mommy Wars are real.

Rise above. That's all.

Get snacks.

No, seriously. ALL THE SNACKS. For you, not the kid. The kid is drinking milk full-time. Snacks are for MOMMA. Do. Not. Take. My. Snacks.

Lots of Diapers.

Yep.

You'll love them anyway.

Yep.

Everybody thinks their kid is the cutest.

Strange. True. Beneficial. Be grateful. Don't ask too many questions. Of course your child is the cutest. (Actually MY child is the cutest, but...anyway carry on.)

Drink the coffee while you can.

My husband definitely just took away a cup that was two days old and handed me a new one. Excuse me while I...is that the baby crying?

There's nothing like it.

There really isn't. Nothing in the world. Before you experience it, you think nothing can explain it. After you experience it, you know nothing can explain it.

"Having a baby is falling in love with your husband all over again every day."

An amazing woman wrote this at one of my baby showers. Out of many messages, this one jumped. And stuck with me. Because it's true. (On that note, single friends - CHOOSE WISELY, as your husband will either win your heart repeatedly with his gentleness and consideration, or drive you nuts endlessly with his cluelessness. I have to imagine the second one, because my own husband is not afflicted with cluelessness.)

You have never experienced love before you meet your child.

And I don't mean just for your child...one of the most overwhelming things about meeting Adeline was not only how much I loved her, but realizing how much I was loved. One thing my mom said to me shortly before Adeline was born I will never forget: "I love you. You're about to find out just how much." This was so true. I suddenly felt closer to every parent I knew, especially the mothers. My aunts, my grandmothers, my sister who has kids...it's like you join a Not Secret Club, where it hits you how much love there really is to go around. Not mushy love...gut-wrenching, soul-fulfilling, vomit-cleaning love that wants to wrap every single thing up in itself and take all the hits and give all the grace. Makes you understand a lot more about God's love too. Definitely the most overwhelming aspect of being a mom. Also the best.

For the record, I honestly think there's more sleep than people let on. I mean, I feel like I sleep fine. So, there's that. OR, God is just lulling me into a false sense of security so I have! all! the babies! and then twelve kids in realize no, there was just that one good kid who was like her father and now there are eleven more cazy ones who are like me and hello sleep deprivation and crazy town. 

Anyway. Good times.

I love being a mom.

Dear Me, Five Years Ago...

Dear Me, Five Years Ago - 

Happy birthday, kid. 

21 years, huh? I think I remember that feeling like it sounded much too mature for you. It's a good year, though. I know you're wondering about that. There's a lot going on for you, isn't there? The past few months have been confusing...you've been having that stirred-up restless feeling, the one you know you get right before God makes some major change in your life. And you've been wanting Him to, haven't you? Been waiting on Him to change something.

Now you think you know what that something is. You started a new job just a few days ago, didn't you? On Monday. And now it's Thursday. I remember our 21st birthday was a Thursday, even five years later, and I think I probably always will, because you're working your very first benefit dinner at that new job. Those dinners are always on Thursdays. You got a birthday blessing from the priest who was speaking, and those "kids" (some of them older than you, smarty) from University of Houston who were volunteering sang "Happy Birthday" to you. 

It was a fun night. You met a ton of people. You'll know them better soon. You think this new work is going to be that big adventure God has been nudging you towards. 

You're right. 

You're wondering how long you'll be doing that job. 

I could tell you: four years, and four months. Almost to the day. But be glad no-one can tell you that now, because sometimes that will seem impossibly short, and other times it will seem unbearably long. Just work hard, kiddo. There is so very, very much to do. 

You're going to love that job. You're going to loathe that job. You're going to love it much, much more than you'll ever loathe it. I promise. And you'll always be grateful, even when it's rough, that you're the one who's getting to do it. That counts for a lot.

You're going into that job wanting to change lives. You're going to meet people who change yours. You really have no idea what you're doing, you know that much. As it turns out, that's really about all you do know right now. You'll learn. You actually learn a lot, and you get to learn it from incredible people. 

You want to get married, you want to have kids. You're not sure if that's what you're called to do.

You're going to go through discernment. Let's be blunt for a second: it's gonna be miserable, kiddo. It's gonna be awful. You hate crying and you are going to cry. A lot. But you know what? You'll get your answer. It's going to take a long time. You're going to go traipsing off to Corpus Christi and California and Spain trying to wring the answer out of God's hand and you know what? There's going to come a moment where you are finally able to let your guard down, look at Him unafraid and say, "Speak, Lord, your servant is listening." 

Then you'll be ready for the answer. And He'll give it to you.

After that, you're going to get impatient. Here's the answer, where's the action? You're gonna wait, kid. You're gonna wait longer than you want to. You're going to get disappointed in people. You're going to get frustrated. Really, really frustrated. But you're going to make some beautiful friends in these five years, and you're going to grow in friendship with other beautiful girls you already knew, and at just the right moment, over and over, God will send these sweet women to you with the perfect words of hope, peace, and trust. And you will be encouraged.

You're going to be afraid. A lot. One of the things you become most afraid of in these five years is that you won't find someone to love in the way you WANT to love. You are longing for marriage, you discern that's what God has for you, you try to wait patiently (you fail at that a lot, but anyway)...yet over and over, you start to be afraid that maybe your heart won't even be able to love in the way you desire so deeply to love. You're afraid you won't ever be able to let any man love you in the way you yearn to be loved.

Let me tell you something, kiddo...

You will.

There's a man out there. He's actually discerning in seminary right now so it's pretty good you haven't met him yet. You're both learning to be generous in the very different places God has you. That man learns a lot more about it than you do, you'll never be able to match that man for generosity, but that perfect smile of his will make you ache to try. 

I can't even begin to tell you how absolutely breathtaking he is. 

I actually try pretty regularly to convey to people what he means to me, and there are never the right words. We love words, kid, you then and me now, but there are not enough words for this man. The love you're longing for and the love I live with are absolutely real. It's always inside of me like the most unbearably sweet ache. You're going to reach a day where you look at that man and you say regularly, "I never thought I'd be able to love anybody the way I love you." And how could you have thought it? It grows every day. Every day there is more love and every day there are fewer words to describe it. In your mind you resort to images of the saints in ecstasy and you'll think: "Yes. That is the love inside me. That is how it feels."

The day you marry him is perfect. More than perfect. It's truly heavenly. You're trying to imagine it all the time. You never come close. Except the part where you want to get married at Annunciation, because that does happen. It's better than the best. And at the end of it you belong to that incredible man, and even if the day hadn't gone so beautifully, you really wouldn't have cared. But since it did go beautifully, you're overwhelmed with gratitiude when you think about it. 

But the love inside won't just be a feeling towards this precious, precious man. That love becomes a person. God gives generously, even more generously than your sweet husband, which is truly amazing. He sends a little girl right away (and hopefully more later. I don't know that part yet.) You'll love being pregnant. You'll also be crazy, and anxious, and REALLY ANXIOUS, and you'll get overwhelmed a lot, by all kinds of things, sometimes by gratitude, and sometimes by the fact that there are two dirty dishes in the sink. I know you think now that you're too rational for that...by the time you're me, you won't be. You will just be crazy.

However, you'll marry really well, and way up. That man will know sometimes after a look at you that the only thing to do is walk you to the bedroom, set you down gently on the bed, tell you to stay where you are, then clean the kitchen and cook dinner and do all kinds of tremendously helpful things. 

After he's been working all day.

On more than one occasion. 

And whenever you start fretting about not getting enough done, he'll scoop you up, hold you close (nothing will ever heal your heart the way this man's touch will, kid) and say with his sparkling eyes in his serious face, "Well, as long as you put the eyebrows on the baby today, you got a lot done. I can do everything else for us. Only you can put the baby together."

Since you're wondering, yes, he does melt your heart like that regularly. Such as when he writes you poetry on the bathroom mirror. Or sets out your hairdryer and brush while you're in the shower, so it's ready for you. Or discovers the perfect way to make decaf coffee (WITH CHOCOLATE) for you so it doesn't taste decaf, because you hate the way "fake" coffee tastes. 

Basically, he's amazing.

So be encouraged. 

Be grateful. 

Be joyful. 

Be not afraid. 

You're working on those things now, I'm working on them five years later. But we do learn a lot, kid. We really do. We make progress.

You'll celebrate that 21st birthday with a surprise party thrown by an incredible friend, by working a benefit dinner, and by having a lot of questions in your wandering heart.

I'll celebrate 26 with a heart-achingly beloved husband, a precious 30-week-old unborn daughter, a much-anticipated visit from an incredible sister and her family of gorgeous boys...and peace. A lot of peace. Still lots of questions, but they don't itch under the skin of the heart as much. There's too much to be amazed about. Too many people to love. 

You'll get better at that. 

I will too.

Sacramental Perks

Having been married for, like, five whole minutes, (156 days, to be totally precise) I feel I am now entitled to express my expert opinion and let you know that I think marriage is really great. Really, really.

There are just so many perks and cool features.

One cool feature, for instance, would be the app that used to count down for our wedding day and has now been reliably counting up since we got married. That's how I know I've enjoyed 156 days of marital bliss. (Wait, did you actually think I counted? Dude, pregnant over here. As if.)

An example of the many perks would be the sacramental graces that get "floooooowin' down to you and meeeee." Personally I think my husband got a lot of very interesting ones. Most notably: the Grace of Inexhaustible Good Humor and the Grace of Never-Ending Gentle Patience.

They're not listed in the Bible or anything but I really think that those are A Thing. 

I mean, he has always had a fantastic sense of humor and been incredibly patient with me, but seriously, you should see this guy in action since his little wifey went all crazy-pregnant-lady a few months ago. 

I shall elaborate for you: last night, it was getting late, and decisions had to be made, so decisions started getting made.

1. I decided Peanut and I needed to go to sleep.

2. Alex decided he wasn't ready to go to sleep, and was going to watch a movie.

3. I decided I couldn't go to sleep if he wasn't in the same room as me. Peanut agreed with this conclusion.

4. We decided he would watch his movie on the laptop with headphones next to me while I went to sleep. Peanut was again satisfied with this conclusion.

(In case you're wondering who translates for Peanut, that would be me. Definitely me.)

All these things being agreed upon, we started getting settled. Per usual, he took way less time than I did. After all, Peanut and I have a lot of pillows to arrange. Things like that take time. After he had gotten comfortable, he asked with no small amount of amusement: 

"Are you building your pillow palace?"

Me, haughtily: "I'm just arranging them."

Alex, grinning: "Okay."

Alex turns back to his movie but is interrupted two seconds later by:

Me, shrill with anxiety: "You have That One Pillow!"

Alex, alarmed: "What pillow?!?"

Me, getting hysterical: "That One Pillow!! I have to have That One Pillow! The extra-firm pillow with the special pillowcase on it that your mom gave me! I NEED THAT ONE."

Alex, instantly: "I am SO sorry, I didn't know, here you go! Here's your pillow, honey."

Me, starting to feel bad but still super serious about That One Pillow: "Here, you can have this pillow. And this pillow. Just not That Pillow. I need That One."

Alex, totally calm and gentle, taking the other pillows: "Okay. Thank you, honey. Those are great."

Alex turns back to his movie but is interrupted two minutes later by:

Me, poking his shoulder.

Alex removes his headphones, and looks at me with concern.

"What's wrong?"

Me, aware that this is a ridiculous reason to interrupt a movie but somehow unable to stop myself from being consumed with concern over it: "Uhm, is it okay with you if I eat the dinner leftovers for breakfast, or did you want to have some tomorrow?"

Now, that is a dumb question. But I was convinced I had a good reason. It has happened in the past that he has asked about leftovers, which it turned out that I had already eaten for breakfast. He's always super kind about it, and I always feel bad anyway. "I should have asked, I should have asked," so this time, I thought, I would ask. If he wanted them OF COURSE I would not eat them first thing in the morning like the ravenous pregnant woman I wake up being.

Once I had poked his shoulder though, I thought, "Oh, shoot - this is so dumb. I hate being interrupted, and here I am interrupting him to ask about dumb leftovers..."

All kinds of things could have happened at this moment. The poor man's pillow had been snatched, his movie kept getting interrupted for silly reasons...he could have rolled his eyes or something, you know? Something sad could have happened.

He just smiled at me. This really great smile like there was nothing more perfect I could have done in that moment, or like he'd never imagined anything more wonderful than his crazy wife poking his shoulder during a movie to ask about leftovers.

"No, sweetheart. You can have them. Thank you for checking."

And suddenly, everything was okay. I smiled back, and fell right to sleep.

That's the amazing thing about my husband.

Not that he has an inexhaustible good humor and never-ending patience, which he does, and which are also amazing things, but that my husband helps me feel like I could actually be the kind of wife I really want to be. Not just the kind that gets hysterical over pillows and can't sleep because of leftovers or has a little anxiety attack over poking someone's shoulder or gets crushed by someone rolling their eyes when, really, my execution is pretty bad and I deserve an eye-roll but I did mean well...Don't get me wrong, I am well aware I am that kind of wife. But he doesn't just see me that way. He sees me as the kind of wife who, after all, does mean well. The kind of wife who wants to consider her husband first. The kind of wife who is trying. 

I am positive that's a sacramental grace because I'm positive that's how God sees us. He doesn't just see our little anxiety attacks and moments where we spazz out and moments where our execution is really, really pretty bad. He sees our efforts, and in seeing them, helps us be more next time. Marriage keeps teaching me that. It's definitely a perk of this wonderful sacrament.

As I said before, there's a lot of those perks: this morning I woke up right before the sun was rising. I was sitting in our bed when it rose, in my pillow palace with my sweet warm husband in our room surrounded by all the beautiful sacred art our friends and family have given us, with my hot honey tea and everything glowing in this incredible orange-gold light. I thought about that sweet smile this precious man had given me the night before and all I could think was, "This is beautiful, Lord. This is really, really beautiful."

Crumb Confusion (Or: A possibly frightening glimpse inside a Pregnant Brain)

There are crumbs in my bed. 

It's really annoying. I keep trying to figure out why there are crumbs. I suspect I have started looking like a psycho lady springing up at random moments swatting at random spots in the pile of white cotton fluff that decks my bed while shrieking, "WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM?" 

I do not recall previously experiencing this phenomena. I was tempted to blame it on my husband (okay, I might actually have gone ahead and blamed it on my husband) because, hey, there were no crumbs before, and there was no husband before. Obviously. Husband. 

However, the husband WAS present a fairly good amount of time before the crumbs, so I suspected my deduction in this case to be...faulty.

I think I figured it out this morning, though. 

I woke up at 4:30 this morning...wait, I WAS AWAKE at 4:30 this morning, I don't know what time I woke up, I just know I was already awake when the alarm went off for my aforementioned, long-suffering husband. I felt positively ill. That is not an unusual occurence for the mornings in my recent experience. The tricky part is finding a solution to this Illness Which Does NOT Confine Itself to Mornings, HA. The trickiness of the solution lies in the fact that it varies based on the day/hour/current energy level/previous night's dinner/food sources available/possible surrounding smells, etc. This morning, part of the solution was to eat Triscuits. 

In bed.

You know what Triscuits have? 

Wait for it...

Crumbs.

Like, a lot, you guys.

I challenge you to eat an entire Triscuit. You can't. You really just can't, because Triscuits are so full of crumbs (as if they were, like, genetically engineered that way, in case that's a thing) you literally cannot get the entire thing in its entirety into your digestive system no matter how careful you are especially not if you are half asleep and possibly ill and around you there are SO MANY SMELLS OF ALL THE THINGS EVER and probably if you eat a Triscuit at 4:30AM or any other hour of o'dark'thirty or even during the day probably there will be crumbs around you in all the places ESPECIALLY...

In. My. bed.

I therefore conclude conclusively that there are crumbs in my bed because I've been eating in my sleep.

I really don't have much proof for that, since I don't actually remember it or have it on Candid Camera (creepy) or anything like that, but in all honesty it makes more sense than the husband theory.

I was going to write an amusing and helpful post about "Things Which Help You Not Be Sick If You Are Pregnant, At Least For Me They Work" but this Triscuit business distracted me, so...Priorities. 

Maybe later. 

If I remember.

Oooh, look! TRISCUITS.

I love Triscuits. Triscuits are Great. They are a Thing Which Help You Not Be Sick If You Are Pregnant, At Least For Me They Work, maybe they would for you. If you're pregnant. Which, maybe you are, I have like twelve pregnant friends right now who might be reading this. I have a list of those things. Things Which Help You Not Be Sick, not my twelve pregnant friends. I have a list of them too. I love lists. I should write a post about that sometime. The Not Sick Things, not the friends. Or the lists...or maybe the friends.

Maybe later.

Perfect Love: an Announcement

It's funny how things turn out. 

As in, when things turn out pretty much exactly NOT the way you anticipated.

For example, when we got married in July, my sweet husband was starting work less than a week later, so we didn't go on a big honeymoon trip. We planned to go a few months later when he got a long school break. 

We planned our big 5-day-getaway to Colorado, to see mountains and feel cold and take hikes and cuddle up in a little cabin far from civilization and...you know, be honeymoon-y.

Well, we did see mountains. We did feel cold. And there was one night in the cabin, so that much went as planned.

However, instead of hiking, we took a trip to the ER (yep, the Emergency Room kind of ER) in an ambulance (okay, I was in the ambulance, Alex had to drive our car) and another trip to a health center and spent a lot more time on the phone with our precious families than anyone on a honeymoon would ever expect to.

So, our honeymoon didn't exactly go the way we planned.

To explain why, I have to let you know there's something else that won't be going as planned:

the blog post where I officially tell all of you that my amazing husband and I are parents.

Baby Hanson was supposed to get an uber-cutesie blog post with pictures of Mommy & Daddy (me and Alex) doing cute baby-announcement things (I had only vague ideas about this, I'm not really sure what kind of pictures, that just seemd right) and all my siblings would be so relieved because they could FINALLY TALK ABOUT IT ON FACEBOOK and, and, and...and you get the idea.

Now, before we go further, I want to let you know: our sweet baby is still okay. Baby Hanson, or Peanut, as we affectionately refer to our tiniest family member, is okay. We had a real scare, and maybe there will be more. However, of the many things I have discovered about myself and my husband during the past week, it's that no matter how long we have our sweet baby with us, we are determined that we will do our best to love him or her more every day. 

We'd also like to humbly invite all of you to do the same.

Actually, I want to beg you: please love our baby.

See, I have thought about this long and hard. We told our families right away as soon as we were pregnant, and we told them pretty quickly that they could spread the word as much as they wanted. I know many people wait to announce their pregnancies, and I do understand all the reasons they decide that will be what works best for them. What Alex and I decided to do isn't meant as a judgement or commmentary on what any other new parents decide to do.

However, I would like to explain why we decided not to wait to let people know about Peanut before the big 12-week-mark. 

It's pretty simple, really: the thing I talked about more than any other when I was doing pro-life work was that what we needed was love. We needed to love people. Loving people is the only way to make any kind of mark or difference or offer any kind of help. How many times did I tell people, "Even if a mom chooses not to love her baby, or to accept our love for her, WE can love her and we can love her baby. Even if a baby dies, you will have offered that baby love." 

I can't do any less for my own baby.

No matter what happens to my baby - whether my baby lives 12 weeks, or 24 weeks, or 24 months, or 24 years, or 100 years...my baby deserves to be loved.

That's actually why my baby exists: to be loved. And to love. 

Or, as the Baltimore Catechism phrases it: "To know, love, and serve God in this life, and be happy with Him in the next."

We hope with all our hearts that our baby will live long enough for us to have the greatest joy of our lives: teaching this sweet new soul to know, love, and serve God. And I trust that regardless of how many weeks or days or months or years we get a chance to do that first part, God will take care of the second part. I trust God has an eternal plan for our baby, and I trust that eternal plan is Love. 

So, we will love our baby. 

And, since you know about our baby now, you can love our baby too. I know that may be a lot to ask, because maybe something will happen, and if it does, that love will hurt. I think, in the end though, it will have hurt more not to love.

Thinking for a few hours that our baby was dying, amazingly, through God's mercy, made us love our baby more. 

It's hard not to be afraid.

It is so hard. 

But, I think, there will always be something to be afraid of - maybe we'll have a miscarriage. Maybe we'll have a stillbirth. Maybe we'll have an illness or a car accident or a cancer or, or, or, or...

Or maybe not. 

It's a lot of maybes, and it makes my head spin and my heart ache sometimes. But, "perfect love casts out fear." And I don't want our tiny person inside of me surrounded by fear. I want our baby surrounded by love. Love, and prayers. That's why we're letting everybody know about our sweet little Hanson. We need your prayers. We need your love.

So, I am more than grateful.

I am grateful for the man, Aaron, who came running at that gas station in Colorado Springs to call 911 for us, who stayed there with us and told us he knew our pain and our fear, that his wife had miscarried and his heart was with us. I am grateful that man was not afraid to open his heart. I am grateful that Aaron was ready to offer love.

I am grateful for my precious midwife, Joi, who dropped everything to come to the phone and talk with me while I waited for help. I am grateful she told me everything that might happen in the ambulance and ER, so that I would know what to expect, because doctors and hospitals scare me. They always have. Joi offered me calm. Joi reminded me to breathe. Joi prayed over me and asked God that every person who met us that day would offer us compassion. And you know what? They did. I am grateful that Joi has the kind of heart that treats each mommy and baby she takes care of as if they are the only mommy and baby she has to take care of. I am so grateful she is not afraid to reach out to me, I am so grateful that when I talk to her or see her that she is so generous with her love.

I am grateful for the firetruck paramedic, Lisa, who came and knelt by me while we waited for the amblance, who was gentle and did her best to console me, who offered to ride in the ambulance with me because the EMS paramedics were both guys and she somehow read my mind that I didn't want to ride with just guys, because I was worried about that right then. I am grateful she held my hand and was not afraid to be present to one more stranger she was helping that day. I am grateful that Lisa was ready to offer love.

I am grateful for the doctor in the ER who was actually completely kind and not at all arrogant or stand-offish or condescending like I am ALWAYS terrified a doctor will be. I am grateful he did an ultrasound and turned the screen so we could see our baby's little arms and legs swimming around, bouncing and jumping like I used to see other people's babies doing, though our baby is the prettiest. And I am grateful that doctor took the time to tell us what he thought might be happening, explaining everything really clearly. I am grateful he told us about his wife, and how the same thing happened to her three times, and all three of their children were born safely. I am grateful when he talked about our baby he SAID "baby," and not "fetus" or "viable pregnancy" or something else cold or detached. I am grateful he didn't rush, I am grateful that he was ready to share about the people he loved.

I am grateful for Emily, our ER nurse. I am grateful for the warm blankets, and the gentle words, and for the way she celebrated when we found out our baby was doing okay. I am grateful she was not afraid to come close, I am grateful she was generous enough to offer our baby love.

I'm grateful for our families, who held us up in prayers and gentle words and loving counsel and offers of help. I am grateful they have not been afraid to love our baby. I am grateful that when our baby's life was threatened, they immediately loved our baby more.

I am grateful for my sweet, precious, perfect husband. I cannot even say how much. I am not a cryer, but when I think over everything he has done this past week, I cannot stop weeping. There is not one night I have not lay awake thinking how grateful I am. There is not one thing he could have done more perfectly. There is no one who could have loved me better. I am grateful he has not been afraid: of my weakness, my pain, my fear, my tears...I am more than grateful that he conquers every one of my prickly thorns and terror-built walls and wins my heart again and again...I am beyond grateful that he is so brave and steadfast and that he LOVES.

I am grateful that for a while, I will be able to carry around the sweet child of this precious man. I am grateful that he makes me strong enough to surround our baby with love. I am grateful our baby's life is filled with listening to the sound of his voice saying how very, very much he loves that baby. I am grateful our baby is still here.

I am grateful, grateful, grateful.

And I think that must be because of love. 

Arabian Nights & Cutie Pies

I have a weakness for food movies and Indian music, so I kind of had to go see "The Hundred-Foot Journey." My sweet husband induldged and took me...it was't quite as foodie as I was hoping but since there was Indian pop music and there were no trashy scenes, it turned out well. In addition, I realized I needed Marguerite's wardrobe:

and head-scarf collection:

All in all, it was a productive movie-going experience.

Afterwards, my genius hubby said, "Well, now I guess we should go eat Indian food!"

Except, we don't know where Indian food is and we left the food-looker-up device (my phone) at home. So, we decided Mediterranean was also ideal and went to hit up our spot, Pasha's. My amazing mother-in-law discovered this place and she's turned us into fans. Even better, it's right next door to this market called Ali Baba's. I needed to go to Ali Baba's because this:

Behold, my roadmap to San Antonio. I was actually going to buy a map, but then I found this and thought, hey, I have GPS, I don't know how to get anywhere, I just need to know where to go! I needed a food guide and Alex needed a poisonous snake guide, we found both at our giant H-E-B. Clearly, our priorities are well-organized. And this thing has proven itself incredibly reliable. Ali Baba's was listed as a place to hit up. Except, once I saw Ali Baba's I was no way going alone. 

The foodie movie was the instigator for the together-trip to Ali Baba's. And it was no disappointment. Coconut oil and Himalayan pink salt were SO cheap, plus we found THIS:

I know you are as green as It is with jealousy that we found this incredible Thing, although you may be wondering, like I was when my husband excitedly exclaimed that we MUST get It, what exactly IT is.

Well, I will tell you.

Actually, the Ali Baba's cashier will tell both of us: it is an Indian Bitter Melon. And, once I googled it upon arriving home, it turned out that "Indian Bitter Melon" did in fact bring up other objects resembling this bumpy verdant object. Apparently you soak it and saute it, and you absolutely must de-seed it, although whether or not you skin it seems to be up for debate. We shall see what happens when I face the thing in armed culinary combat.

Besides Indian Bitter Melon, we also foooouuuuund...TURKISH DELIGHT.

Narnia fans, rejoice. Don't worry, there was no White Witch circling the Turkish Delight section, so having selected a box of assorted sweets in safety we made plans to eat them and read some "Arabian Nights" upon returning home from dinner, because my husband just comes up with ideas like that at the slightest provocation. So, we bought the Turkish Delight and the Himalyan pink salt and the Indian Bitter Melon and we did NOT buy the yogurt soda (whatever that is) because...it was refrigerated and we did not have a cooler and we were going to dinner before home. Otherwise, my husband would have bought a whole liter.

Pasha's was a great choice because they were actually serving the yogurt drink I had just talked him out of buying. (He feels we need to go back to Ali Baba's for a liter, in case you're considering a yogurt soda spree for yourself.) Also, we had this funny little waitress who was very sweet, and who thought we were "just so cute" she brought us a free dessert. 

No, really, we got free dessert for being cute. Look:

She said it was called mango cheesecake, but I told Alex it was really a Cutie Pie. 

He thought it was funny.

We did read some "Arabian Nights," but since we fell asleep at home before we got to the Turkish Delight, he announced that he needed to bring me breakfast in bed this morning. (I know, I know...such a stud.) Having lived in Italy for so long he's a big believer in eating meals in courses, so my first course came in looking like this:

Tea. In a teacup. With Turkish Delight.

Such a Cutie Pie.