On the way to Grammy's house, five miles away.
"Where we goin', Mommy?"
"Grammy's house, honey. For lunch and a nap."
(fifteen seconds elapse while she looks out the window and I drive.)
"Where are we goin', Mommy?"
"Grammy's house, honey."
"I don't want to go to Grammy's."
(beat)
"Where we goin', Mommy?"
"To Grammy's, where we go almost every day. You love it there."
"Would you like to go to that restaurant, Mommy?"
"Huh?" (I see the local sandwich shop on our left.) "Oh, that's a nice place, isn't it?"
"Neighbor's Mill. You want to go there, Mommy?"
(beat)
"How 'bout Sonic? Sonic's good, Mommy. You want to go there?"
"Mommy, where we goin?"
My heart beats fast for Amish drygoods.
Friday, April 18, 2008
I have a secret love:
Lehman's.
It's a store in Ohio that originally was created to serve the Amish, providing simple tools for living that were becoming difficult to find elsewhere. But they also have a website, and it carries wonderful things.
A tabletop butter churner.
A wooden form to make seedling pots from newspaper.
A non-electric doorbell. (We actually need one of these.)
Composting toilets.
Amish-grown popcorn, dried on the cob in a corncrib. (Don't ask me why that's better, but doesn't the sound of it put poetry into your movie snack?)
Clotheslines, old fashioned toys, woodburning cookstoves, apple peelers: this stuff feeds my Inner Homesteader. I mean, really: how many online stores have a Home Butchering category, or sell German Fermenting Crocks for making your own sauerkraut? Where else could I browse and learn so much about home canning products or purchase a book titled "Anyone Can Build A Tub-Style Mechanical Chicken Plucker"?
My husband recently pointed out that I have a secret desire to build a cabin in the hills and live there squirreled away from the world, living off the grid and growing my own food and growing flowers to sell at the farmer's market. It's true, although I know enough to realize that it is not really going to happen. I think my yurt and tiny house fascinations tie into this, along with my irrational love of the idea of Urban Chickens and my much more rational love of Mel and the work of his Square Foot Gardening foundation.
I have two babies, each of which have more stuff and require more of my time than I ever imagined. I won't be fitting my and my husband's life into a 120 square foot cabin or learning to raise all my own food anytime soon. But in the meantime, I'll keep browsing at Lehman's, dreaming of simpler ways.
Lehman's.
It's a store in Ohio that originally was created to serve the Amish, providing simple tools for living that were becoming difficult to find elsewhere. But they also have a website, and it carries wonderful things.
A tabletop butter churner.
A wooden form to make seedling pots from newspaper.
A non-electric doorbell. (We actually need one of these.)
Composting toilets.
Amish-grown popcorn, dried on the cob in a corncrib. (Don't ask me why that's better, but doesn't the sound of it put poetry into your movie snack?)
Clotheslines, old fashioned toys, woodburning cookstoves, apple peelers: this stuff feeds my Inner Homesteader. I mean, really: how many online stores have a Home Butchering category, or sell German Fermenting Crocks for making your own sauerkraut? Where else could I browse and learn so much about home canning products or purchase a book titled "Anyone Can Build A Tub-Style Mechanical Chicken Plucker"?
My husband recently pointed out that I have a secret desire to build a cabin in the hills and live there squirreled away from the world, living off the grid and growing my own food and growing flowers to sell at the farmer's market. It's true, although I know enough to realize that it is not really going to happen. I think my yurt and tiny house fascinations tie into this, along with my irrational love of the idea of Urban Chickens and my much more rational love of Mel and the work of his Square Foot Gardening foundation.
I have two babies, each of which have more stuff and require more of my time than I ever imagined. I won't be fitting my and my husband's life into a 120 square foot cabin or learning to raise all my own food anytime soon. But in the meantime, I'll keep browsing at Lehman's, dreaming of simpler ways.
Getting it wrong.
I had a "first" this week: getting a second opinion on a pediatrician's diagnosis and treatment of my child.
Since about Month 3, Q's head has been itchy, scaly, scabby, and oozy. Whenever he was agitated or hungry, he'd claw at his scalp, often until it bled. His head left stains on his crib sheet overnight; I would obsessively try to pull the scales out of his hair while he ate. His hair has mostly fallen out at the sides except for a spectacular mohawk in the middle (where he can't reach to scrape); he's been wearing socks on his hands for months to help prevent the scraping and bleeding. It's been awful.
Almost two months ago, his pediatrician gave me a diagnosis of (basically) severe dandruff and possible allergies, and had me start using heavy-duty Head and Shoulders on his head, and told me to be patient, that it would take a couple of months to improve. That his head would look dry and icky. That I should persevere.
(What I hear in this, and what I've heard in his previous advice about my kids' illnesses, is basically, "don't come here bothering me unnecessarily about this." I'm not sure why, but something in his demeanor makes me feel like a paranoid mom any time I have a question or bring my kids in sick. So I committed myself to being patient, following his directions, waiting for the healing to begin.)
I made it about six weeks, bathing him daily, trying to ease his discomfort, waiting for the improvement. It wasn't really getting better, although it obviously looked and felt better for a few hours after a bath. But the mess would return overnight. I've hardly taken any pictures of my beautiful guy, because I don't feel like I want him to see how sad he's looked. When I do, the red patches and uneven hair stand out like beacons to me in the photos, and I sadly download them onto the computer and don't look at them again.
Finally, this weeek, we sought out another doctor; a family doctor, since there are only two pediatricians in town (and I've never known anyone to speak positively about the other one). This man was sweet with both kids, gentle with Quinton, and took one look at his sad scalp and made a different diagnosis: Impetigo.
I am so relieved to have some medication he can take and a new regimen to try. He says it should be mostly gone within a week. However, I'm more than a little embarassed to have such a icky, contagious infection on the baby I'm supposed to be lovingly caring for-- much like I've seen families feel about discovering lice on their kids' heads. I'm also feeling more than a little guilty that I waited so long to seek out another diagnosis.
This uncertain, aching, am-I-doing-the-right-thing-oh-crap-I-guess-I-wasn't feeling is so unique to motherhood for me. Making a mistake in my own care or life seems perfectly normal and forgivable; making a mistake (real or perceived) in my kids' care is agonizing, guilt-inducing, regret-filled.
However, the prospect of erasing the contagion, of restoring Q's sweet head to its healthy state, is so exciting that I feel almost slavishly grateful toward this doctor. If his diagnosis is correct, I think we'll be switching to his care for a while, to see if I'll feel a bit less intimidated by him.
Please heal, little Q. You don't deserve this nastiness.
Since about Month 3, Q's head has been itchy, scaly, scabby, and oozy. Whenever he was agitated or hungry, he'd claw at his scalp, often until it bled. His head left stains on his crib sheet overnight; I would obsessively try to pull the scales out of his hair while he ate. His hair has mostly fallen out at the sides except for a spectacular mohawk in the middle (where he can't reach to scrape); he's been wearing socks on his hands for months to help prevent the scraping and bleeding. It's been awful.
Almost two months ago, his pediatrician gave me a diagnosis of (basically) severe dandruff and possible allergies, and had me start using heavy-duty Head and Shoulders on his head, and told me to be patient, that it would take a couple of months to improve. That his head would look dry and icky. That I should persevere.
(What I hear in this, and what I've heard in his previous advice about my kids' illnesses, is basically, "don't come here bothering me unnecessarily about this." I'm not sure why, but something in his demeanor makes me feel like a paranoid mom any time I have a question or bring my kids in sick. So I committed myself to being patient, following his directions, waiting for the healing to begin.)
I made it about six weeks, bathing him daily, trying to ease his discomfort, waiting for the improvement. It wasn't really getting better, although it obviously looked and felt better for a few hours after a bath. But the mess would return overnight. I've hardly taken any pictures of my beautiful guy, because I don't feel like I want him to see how sad he's looked. When I do, the red patches and uneven hair stand out like beacons to me in the photos, and I sadly download them onto the computer and don't look at them again.
Finally, this weeek, we sought out another doctor; a family doctor, since there are only two pediatricians in town (and I've never known anyone to speak positively about the other one). This man was sweet with both kids, gentle with Quinton, and took one look at his sad scalp and made a different diagnosis: Impetigo.
I am so relieved to have some medication he can take and a new regimen to try. He says it should be mostly gone within a week. However, I'm more than a little embarassed to have such a icky, contagious infection on the baby I'm supposed to be lovingly caring for-- much like I've seen families feel about discovering lice on their kids' heads. I'm also feeling more than a little guilty that I waited so long to seek out another diagnosis.
This uncertain, aching, am-I-doing-the-right-thing-oh-crap-I-guess-I-wasn't feeling is so unique to motherhood for me. Making a mistake in my own care or life seems perfectly normal and forgivable; making a mistake (real or perceived) in my kids' care is agonizing, guilt-inducing, regret-filled.
However, the prospect of erasing the contagion, of restoring Q's sweet head to its healthy state, is so exciting that I feel almost slavishly grateful toward this doctor. If his diagnosis is correct, I think we'll be switching to his care for a while, to see if I'll feel a bit less intimidated by him.
Please heal, little Q. You don't deserve this nastiness.
Ten things about Baby Q at 3 months old
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
1) Baby Q, you have the most beautiful eyes. We can't tell yet what color they'll be, of course, but they are deep and dark and big and lovely. Those impossibly long eyelashes that come from your dad's side of the family are sprouting on you already, and with your slightly-curly dark hair and those amazing eyes gazing at me, I sometimes wonder how I (definitely not the most lovely of women) have managed to give birth to such a gorgeous creature.
2) Of course, you're also in the middle of your baby skin nastiness-- lots of cradle cap and irritated rashiness going on right now. We've found a lotion (Aveeno's heavy-duty moisture baby lotion) that helps tremendously, so hopefully this will be a short phase. Most babies have it, I think, especially winter babies like you who have to endure cold dry air on their tender tender skin.
3) You want SO BADLY to try to talk. You look earnestly into our eyes, your mouth working, struggling to remember how to form a sound. Eventually a little coo or grunt or squeal comes out, and we're enchanted. You want so much to be a part of the conversations we have with you. And your favorite person to talk to is definitely your Grammy-- your eyes get wide and you wriggle with excitement whenever she starts talking to you.
4) Your sister loves you more than anything else in the world. Despite the fact that you steal hours and hours of her Mommy's attention, despite the fact that you're the source of more "Gracie, NO!"s than any other part of her life, she would rather be playing with you than doing anything else. She loves to hold you on her lap (with lots of help), to lay next to you on the couch, to sing to you and babble in a strange language that she uses with no one else (I need to get that on video before it's gone). Whatever struggles the two of you have later in getting along, however annoyed with you she may be sometimes, I hope I remember to tell you both how much she loved you from the very first time she saw you.
5) This week when we returned to Children's Hospital in Little Rock to repeat your kidney tests, the technicians had a horrible time getting an IV into you. They stuck both your hands and both your feet, failing four miserable, painful times before a woman named Kim managed to get the needle into a vein in the inside of your left elbow. It was so hard to see you on that table, weighted down with sandbags, crying miserably as they struggled to do something that you didn't understand was for your good. You'd look at me as I stroked your hair and tried to talk to you during their attempts, and your eyes seemed to just beg me for help, desperate and confused about why I wasn't intervening on your behalf. (Your mom's side of the family gave you that little inconvenient trait-- my veins are hard to find too, and I often get myself bruised up pretty good when someone needs to get blood from me or put in an IV.)
6) You don't really like to be alone. When I put you down for your naps, your most successful and longest ones are in rooms where people are moving around within earshot. If you're crying in your room alone, I can often moved your swaddled little body into the room where I am, and without another word of complaint, you fall asleep within just a few minutes. I wonder if this is an indication that you're going to be a "people person"; it's definitely pretty convenient, since your sister hates to leave you alone to sleep in a room by yourself. I have a sleep book that recommends that babies learn to sleep in quiet dark rooms, though-- not sure yet if I'm going to try to persuade you to sleep in that environment or not.
7) You're growing like a weed and are much larger than your sister was at this age. I put a one-piece sleeper on you today that your sister wore well into the summer when she was your age; it looks like it might fit you for a month or so at the most. After worrying about Gracie's growth and tinyness so much, it's a huge relief to have a big strong boy who eats with gusto and grows like crazy.
8) You have broad, squatty hands like your daddy, but you have my narrow tiny feet. I think this is hilarious, because your sister has just the opposite-- rather delicate little hands, and big, flappy flat duck feet like her daddy's.
9) You're getting better about enjoying a swing or a rest on your back to look around by yourself, but you'd really prefer to be in someone's arms at all times. You're quite the snuggly baby, and you like to be held on your side and bury your face into your holder's elbow or chest. It looks like you'd smother doing that, but it's your favorite little spot and will put you right to sleep most of the time.
10) I realized today that, because you were born in November, that you've barely been outside at all in your entire life so far. Other than being shuttled from car to building and vice versa, you've rarely seen the sky, or trees, or felt the breeze or sun on your face. I look forward to changing this just as soon as the weather warms. I hope that you'll be a gardener and outside-lover like your sister and your momma.
2) Of course, you're also in the middle of your baby skin nastiness-- lots of cradle cap and irritated rashiness going on right now. We've found a lotion (Aveeno's heavy-duty moisture baby lotion) that helps tremendously, so hopefully this will be a short phase. Most babies have it, I think, especially winter babies like you who have to endure cold dry air on their tender tender skin.
3) You want SO BADLY to try to talk. You look earnestly into our eyes, your mouth working, struggling to remember how to form a sound. Eventually a little coo or grunt or squeal comes out, and we're enchanted. You want so much to be a part of the conversations we have with you. And your favorite person to talk to is definitely your Grammy-- your eyes get wide and you wriggle with excitement whenever she starts talking to you.
4) Your sister loves you more than anything else in the world. Despite the fact that you steal hours and hours of her Mommy's attention, despite the fact that you're the source of more "Gracie, NO!"s than any other part of her life, she would rather be playing with you than doing anything else. She loves to hold you on her lap (with lots of help), to lay next to you on the couch, to sing to you and babble in a strange language that she uses with no one else (I need to get that on video before it's gone). Whatever struggles the two of you have later in getting along, however annoyed with you she may be sometimes, I hope I remember to tell you both how much she loved you from the very first time she saw you.
5) This week when we returned to Children's Hospital in Little Rock to repeat your kidney tests, the technicians had a horrible time getting an IV into you. They stuck both your hands and both your feet, failing four miserable, painful times before a woman named Kim managed to get the needle into a vein in the inside of your left elbow. It was so hard to see you on that table, weighted down with sandbags, crying miserably as they struggled to do something that you didn't understand was for your good. You'd look at me as I stroked your hair and tried to talk to you during their attempts, and your eyes seemed to just beg me for help, desperate and confused about why I wasn't intervening on your behalf. (Your mom's side of the family gave you that little inconvenient trait-- my veins are hard to find too, and I often get myself bruised up pretty good when someone needs to get blood from me or put in an IV.)
6) You don't really like to be alone. When I put you down for your naps, your most successful and longest ones are in rooms where people are moving around within earshot. If you're crying in your room alone, I can often moved your swaddled little body into the room where I am, and without another word of complaint, you fall asleep within just a few minutes. I wonder if this is an indication that you're going to be a "people person"; it's definitely pretty convenient, since your sister hates to leave you alone to sleep in a room by yourself. I have a sleep book that recommends that babies learn to sleep in quiet dark rooms, though-- not sure yet if I'm going to try to persuade you to sleep in that environment or not.
7) You're growing like a weed and are much larger than your sister was at this age. I put a one-piece sleeper on you today that your sister wore well into the summer when she was your age; it looks like it might fit you for a month or so at the most. After worrying about Gracie's growth and tinyness so much, it's a huge relief to have a big strong boy who eats with gusto and grows like crazy.
8) You have broad, squatty hands like your daddy, but you have my narrow tiny feet. I think this is hilarious, because your sister has just the opposite-- rather delicate little hands, and big, flappy flat duck feet like her daddy's.
9) You're getting better about enjoying a swing or a rest on your back to look around by yourself, but you'd really prefer to be in someone's arms at all times. You're quite the snuggly baby, and you like to be held on your side and bury your face into your holder's elbow or chest. It looks like you'd smother doing that, but it's your favorite little spot and will put you right to sleep most of the time.
10) I realized today that, because you were born in November, that you've barely been outside at all in your entire life so far. Other than being shuttled from car to building and vice versa, you've rarely seen the sky, or trees, or felt the breeze or sun on your face. I look forward to changing this just as soon as the weather warms. I hope that you'll be a gardener and outside-lover like your sister and your momma.
Random is better than nuthin'.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Oh, my. So much time has gone by.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
Welcome.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Welcome baby Q.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
9 lbs 10 oz (!), 20 in
Absolutely beautiful, if you ask me. Not that I'm biased or anything.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
9 lbs 10 oz (!), 20 in
Absolutely beautiful, if you ask me. Not that I'm biased or anything.
BIRTH TOMORROW.
Monday, November 05, 2007
I have no time to write.
I just want to record my astonishment that, holy cow, I AM ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH IN A FEW HOURS.
Inducing is a weird thing. I'm not sure if it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen or not.
Ready or not, here we go. Welcome, baby Q!
I just want to record my astonishment that, holy cow, I AM ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH IN A FEW HOURS.
Inducing is a weird thing. I'm not sure if it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen or not.
Ready or not, here we go. Welcome, baby Q!
Sigh of relief-- 34 weeks!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Hi!
I don't have time to write out the drama that has been the past few weeks, but here's the short version.
House: Tenants finally out. Empty but filthy house. Paint. Carpet. Housecleaners. A/C repairs. About to be listed on the market. (Whew.)
Additional Tests and Babymonitoring. Premature labor imminent within 15 days, supposedly. Strict bed rest. (No computer access, mostly.) Grammy to the rescue to watch the Bird, church to the rescue to provide meals. Deeply grateful. Butt on couch, mostly.
15 days past-- no baby yet! 34 weeks milestone reached! Almost hospitalized three times-- but not! Steroid shots to help baby's lungs administered! All very good. Still on bedrest for 10 days or so, til 36 weeks. Then, give me baby or give me freedom to roam!
Major database project at work completed! (Two years of work-- finally put into action!) Working well 99% of the time. Hoorah.
So, if you can decipher all that, you'll see that we're doing well, the baby hasn't arrived yet, and I'm living in a happy haze of thankfulness for friends and family who have stepped up to help us. Life is good, and when the fella gets here, it'll be even better.
Thanks for your prayers and wellwishin'. Much appreciated!!
I don't have time to write out the drama that has been the past few weeks, but here's the short version.
House: Tenants finally out. Empty but filthy house. Paint. Carpet. Housecleaners. A/C repairs. About to be listed on the market. (Whew.)
Additional Tests and Babymonitoring. Premature labor imminent within 15 days, supposedly. Strict bed rest. (No computer access, mostly.) Grammy to the rescue to watch the Bird, church to the rescue to provide meals. Deeply grateful. Butt on couch, mostly.
15 days past-- no baby yet! 34 weeks milestone reached! Almost hospitalized three times-- but not! Steroid shots to help baby's lungs administered! All very good. Still on bedrest for 10 days or so, til 36 weeks. Then, give me baby or give me freedom to roam!
Major database project at work completed! (Two years of work-- finally put into action!) Working well 99% of the time. Hoorah.
So, if you can decipher all that, you'll see that we're doing well, the baby hasn't arrived yet, and I'm living in a happy haze of thankfulness for friends and family who have stepped up to help us. Life is good, and when the fella gets here, it'll be even better.
Thanks for your prayers and wellwishin'. Much appreciated!!
Already but not yet.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Howdy, fella. May I introduce to you-- and me-- my little boy's face, courtesy of an unexpected ultrasound yesterday.
Is he not beautiful? Just look at those fat little cheeks.
Mysteriously, those healthy, fat little cheeks have a left kidney that's "dilated"-- meaning that it's-- in my opinion-- enormous, at least four times the size of the right one. Along with that (probably because of that), I'm swollen with lots of extra amniotic fluid-- not a good thing. So now we've been launched from "absolutely uneventful, perfectly normal pregnancy" into "let's get you an appointment with a perinatologist asap. How about Friday morning? And we'll probably be needing to do stress tests, and see you more often, and" et cetera et cetera. Including the fact that my primary care provider, a midwife nurse, may have to turn over my care to the ob/gyn, a perfectly competent man (I'm sure) who I inherently distrust because he makes part of his living doing boob jobs and other plastic surgery. (Sigh. I took this risk when I chose this clinic, I suppose.)
And I'm trying not to google too much, worry too much, or say too much until after Friday. But oh, I am so afraid.
Not so much that he may be born with a bad kidney-- I've never been one to use the phrase "as long as it's healthy" as if health were a prerequisite for a parent's love or approval or thankfulness for the gift of a child. If he has a problem, we will learn and love and deal with it.
But I have a sick spot in my gut that simmers all day long over this thought: I am deeply afraid of not ever getting to touch those little cheeks or hold these little hands and feet that are drumming away at my insides these days.
Please, God, let it be something that can be helped or fixed or healed or managed, by you or doctors or me or anyone or anything else. Just let there be something we can do.
***
I was holding my anxiety in check pretty well until about thirty minutes ago, when I discovered that my washer was on strike. My "new" 15-year-old bare basics washer, which was donated by my parents to replace my 5-year-old energy-efficient fancy washer that needs a $400 keypad repair and, according to reviews and Consumer Reports and etc, is likely to have further motor, drain, and other repair issues. We've decided that paying for the pricey repair would be akin to pouring money into a lemon of a vehicle, so the fancy washer is getting the boot. Dad came and hooked the freebie up for us last weekend because my husband's back is injured. (Dad entering our basement and seeing the state of our workbench/tools/etc is never a good thing, particularly for our husband, but it couldn't be avoided-- we needed the washer, needed the help, and weren't able to prepare the basement before he showed up.) I did one load of clothes successfully tonight before it decided not to drain the water out of the tub for load #2.
Now I have a load to wring out and haul to my mom's (to use her fancy new washer that finally replaced this one). That is a stupid thing to sit in the dining room and cry about, I admit. But it was really just a final straw on a long list of stresses this week.
I also have tenants-- ex-tenants-- who cannot seem to get all their belongings (or their butts) out of my house in Florida, six days after their move-out date. This is deeply difficult to manage from eight hundred miles away or so. Painters, carpeters, realtors are all standing at the ready to begin fixing it up and taking it off our financial back. But they can do nothing until the place is empty and clean. I had a smooth, quick transition to On The Market planned, and now it's all shot to hell.
I also have a nice mixer with a burnt-out motor. A bathroom window that's been covered with a paper tablecloth for the last eight months-- which a certain toddler just shredded in her enthusiasm to see "owside!" (So now anyone peeking in can see us, facing them, setting on the pot.) There's a beautiful dishwasher out in the garage that I'd love to be using, but we need to hire a plumber to install it into 90-year-old iron pipes, and the money's not there. And I'm enjoying (ha) a steadily shrinking wardrobe as my belly gets bigger and bigger. I'm at 31 weeks pregnancywise, and 38 weeks sizewise. How big can I get in the next nine weeks-- assuming that I have the immense privilege of having a full-term baby? Will I have any clothes at all, or will I be buying used Mumus from the thrift stores and refusing to leave the house in a month or so?
I have the vintage gas stove of my dreams-- some parts of it are in my house, having been given $250 worth of reporcelaining. The rest is in a guy's garage in Tulsa, waiting for him to have time and inclination to restore it for me. It's been there since April.
I have a house that I adore-- that badly needs a $3500 paint job that I can't give it. It has beautiful horizontal board wooden interior walls-- covered with wallpaper, paint, and ugly wallboard that I'm not yet allowed to remove. And in four months, my rent-to-own lease expires, and the grumpy half of the two sisters that own it is likely to demand that we purchase. And without the Orlando house sold, no bank will give us the loan to do so. (We have the option of appealing to my father-- but oh, how sick I am of appealing to my father for help, be it washer installation or financial loans.)
I feel like I'm a living example of one of my husband's favorite spiritual illustrations-- living "in the already, but not yet."
I already have:
A husband
A beautiful sweet mischevious brilliant toddler gal
...thank God those things are present, settled, and being enjoyed here and now. We also have:
A house I love that we have resources to buy
A fabulous stove
A kitchenaid mixer
A washer
A dishwasher
A tidy house/garage/workbench
... and most of all a beautiful, beautiful little baby boy about to enter our lives. And it's possible that all this will come to fruition in a relatively quick time span.
...But the full experience of so many of those things hinge on other (known or unknown) factors. It's such an occasion for uncertainty, doubt, fear, faith. I have them already, but I cannot relax and enjoy them just yet.
These are hard days for me, I think. Even without the addition of a high-risk pregnancy-- which makes everything else on that "not yet" list seem suddenly trivial.
Please, God, make him okay. Or okayable.
22 months old.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Bird, I love this new you.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
expanding mind. in the toilet.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Today, after dinner, playing with Play-Doh with mom and dad:
I show her how to load dough (doh?) into the little compartment, position the circle shape over the extrusion spot, and push on the plunger. A tube of dough comes oozing out, snakelike.
Thoughtfully and softly, she says, "Poo."
I wouldn't have believed that she'd made the connection without doing it again and getting the same response.
Please tell me how a 20-month old who has never wiped her own rear can understand what poo looks like when it comes out, and that the play-doh toy we were using resembles that.
All we could do was laugh.
***
There is something magical about the way she's learning new words (and new uses) so quickly now.
Bird usually spends many hours a week with my mom while I work. While my mom was out of town last week, she spent every day with me, and took to preceding her one-syllable requests with my name:
Momma, out (of the high chair).
Momma, more.
Momma, HOLD!
Momma, SEE!
I loved it. But now that Grammy's returned, we see that she hasn't quite got it yet-- every request, to anyone, for anything, is likely to be preceded by "Momma."
Oh, well. It'll straighten itself out before long, I guess.
***
But I really adore the way she'll pause, just before entering a new room, going outside, or getting into the car, earnestly grab your hand, and say seriously, "Too." You must come too, Momma (or Daddy or Grammy or Aunt Leigh). "Too."
Too precious, is what it is.
I show her how to load dough (doh?) into the little compartment, position the circle shape over the extrusion spot, and push on the plunger. A tube of dough comes oozing out, snakelike.
Thoughtfully and softly, she says, "Poo."
I wouldn't have believed that she'd made the connection without doing it again and getting the same response.
Please tell me how a 20-month old who has never wiped her own rear can understand what poo looks like when it comes out, and that the play-doh toy we were using resembles that.
All we could do was laugh.
***
There is something magical about the way she's learning new words (and new uses) so quickly now.
Bird usually spends many hours a week with my mom while I work. While my mom was out of town last week, she spent every day with me, and took to preceding her one-syllable requests with my name:
Momma, out (of the high chair).
Momma, more.
Momma, HOLD!
Momma, SEE!
I loved it. But now that Grammy's returned, we see that she hasn't quite got it yet-- every request, to anyone, for anything, is likely to be preceded by "Momma."
Oh, well. It'll straighten itself out before long, I guess.
***
But I really adore the way she'll pause, just before entering a new room, going outside, or getting into the car, earnestly grab your hand, and say seriously, "Too." You must come too, Momma (or Daddy or Grammy or Aunt Leigh). "Too."
Too precious, is what it is.
multifaceted? schizophrenic? inconsistent?
Hey. Um, I'm doing fine after that rather dramatic post there. Things are still uncertain. But hasn't all of life been uncertain since we left Florida-- and really, since we arrived in Florida and found it wasn't what we believed it to be? I've been walking around learning to hand over my fear and panic for around six years now. What's a few more months? Pshaw.
That's not what I want to write about; it's just my response to my felt obligation to somehow apologize for or explain that Dark Night post. I can't really do either, and I refuse to delete it, because that is part of my life these days. So it stays, I try my best not to minimize it-- although I can see already that I just did-- and we move on to other fascinating topics.
Including: Who on earth am I? (note: fascinating to me. I rather guarantee this to be tedious to anyone else.)
I've lately become very puzzled by the inconsistent breadth of my own perspective.
I am part snarky modernist, sneering at the simpletons and fundamentalists and hippies. This man's derision of the homeschooling fundamentalist moms at the blueberry patch, for example, made me snort in my tea--- particularly when I clicked on the link to discover who Little Critter's Mom was.) I read snooty food blogs, lifehacker, and like geekery, and usually relish it.
But part of me hates the snarky modernist. I want to grow my own food, educate my own children, follow the God that's been in my heart since adolescence, eschew cable tv and video games and even Dora and Elmo. After laughing at Dutch's vitriol over the homeschoolers, I click right on over to another regular read--a homeschooling mom of 6 in Canada who writes the most beautiful and honest reflections I've ever seen about living life as a mother devoted to Christ. I soak up the wisdom in her writing, and it dissolves away some of the cynicism and arched-eyebrowness that comes from the snarkers.
Then I click over to my Wiccan teacher friend in Hawaii who writes beautifully about her dogs and her knitting projects. And then over to another Wiccan, a mom of a toddler in Virginia who lives with very little so that she can live deeply and richly with her son, giving him a world of hikes and flowers and friendly wolves instead of days of shuttling between a harried home and a chaotic daycare experience. And then over to my favorite snappy shopping blog, who gives me tips on where to find great stuff dirt cheap-- even as I'm contemplating how much less we could live with if we just tried.
I am all of these perspectives, but also a critic of all of these perspectives. I love parts of each and every one of them, but am fairly sure that, were we to need to be slotted into a particular "type," that I would fit in none of their respective compartments-- and possibly even be welcome at none of their dinner parties, because so many of my other sensibilities would not be shared there.
Perhaps this is some of what's sparking this question inside me: We have good friends here that are enthusiastically environmental and naturalistic in their viewpoints. I love those friends and in many ways love their viewpoints. But something in me can't commit to sharing them wholeheartedly. I am a skeptic of all things. I can listen with great interest as they mention their hatred of Wal-Mart, their refusal to vaccinate their children, their distrust of traditional medicine. But I can't join the bandwagon without tangible proof. Can anybody give me something to read that proves that Wal-Mart is worse than other corporate entities they're buying from instead-- not just bigger? (And why shop at Sam's when you drive to the bigger towns, if you don't like Wal-Mart?) Has any reputable source published anything about the dangers of vaccination, when the dangers of NOT vaccinating a society's children are so great? I want to ask these questions because I really would like to know their answers. But I don't want to seem like a prick, so I don't-- and feel myself a little withdrawn as a result.
Our church, which contains some of those good friends, is also full of older generations of a decidedly more conservative order-- Christians whose worlds are more black and white than mine, who would never dream of voting Democrat for any reason, who think that questioning the 7-day Creation account in Genesis is essentially questioning the validity of all of Scripture and even the Gospel itself. These are sweet, hearty, wonderful, loving, good people, and some of them helped shape my faith when I first came to God. I am honored to have them in my life. But my world is much more murky and uncertain than that, and I'm not sure I could return to that purity of perspective even if I wanted to.
My husband is one of those people who cannot help but speak his mind on almost everything. He'll challenge almost anyone's viewpoint, argue or debate if necessary, lay his own perspective out on the line before he knows what the other person believes at all. I sometimes admire this and sometimes think it's insane, but regardless, I have never been able to imitate it. You probably won't know my opinion unless you ask me outright. This is sometimes wise and safe, and sometimes overcautious, I know.
Apparently I am unclassifiable. Too conservative to be a hippie, too liberal to be a conservative. Too environmentally conscious to run around consuming thoughtlessly, but a bit too skeptical to believe every eco-rumor that gets passed down from a friend or natural foods store worker, and unwilling to modify my life for something I'm not sure of. So I end up with friends (and reads) in each camp, sampling from everyone, enthusiastic about everyone, and utterly unable to stake a tent in any one location.
It's odd, and I think it's part of what makes me always a little lonely. But isn't everyone always a little lonely?
That's not what I want to write about; it's just my response to my felt obligation to somehow apologize for or explain that Dark Night post. I can't really do either, and I refuse to delete it, because that is part of my life these days. So it stays, I try my best not to minimize it-- although I can see already that I just did-- and we move on to other fascinating topics.
Including: Who on earth am I? (note: fascinating to me. I rather guarantee this to be tedious to anyone else.)
I've lately become very puzzled by the inconsistent breadth of my own perspective.
I am part snarky modernist, sneering at the simpletons and fundamentalists and hippies. This man's derision of the homeschooling fundamentalist moms at the blueberry patch, for example, made me snort in my tea--- particularly when I clicked on the link to discover who Little Critter's Mom was.) I read snooty food blogs, lifehacker, and like geekery, and usually relish it.
But part of me hates the snarky modernist. I want to grow my own food, educate my own children, follow the God that's been in my heart since adolescence, eschew cable tv and video games and even Dora and Elmo. After laughing at Dutch's vitriol over the homeschoolers, I click right on over to another regular read--a homeschooling mom of 6 in Canada who writes the most beautiful and honest reflections I've ever seen about living life as a mother devoted to Christ. I soak up the wisdom in her writing, and it dissolves away some of the cynicism and arched-eyebrowness that comes from the snarkers.
Then I click over to my Wiccan teacher friend in Hawaii who writes beautifully about her dogs and her knitting projects. And then over to another Wiccan, a mom of a toddler in Virginia who lives with very little so that she can live deeply and richly with her son, giving him a world of hikes and flowers and friendly wolves instead of days of shuttling between a harried home and a chaotic daycare experience. And then over to my favorite snappy shopping blog, who gives me tips on where to find great stuff dirt cheap-- even as I'm contemplating how much less we could live with if we just tried.
I am all of these perspectives, but also a critic of all of these perspectives. I love parts of each and every one of them, but am fairly sure that, were we to need to be slotted into a particular "type," that I would fit in none of their respective compartments-- and possibly even be welcome at none of their dinner parties, because so many of my other sensibilities would not be shared there.
Perhaps this is some of what's sparking this question inside me: We have good friends here that are enthusiastically environmental and naturalistic in their viewpoints. I love those friends and in many ways love their viewpoints. But something in me can't commit to sharing them wholeheartedly. I am a skeptic of all things. I can listen with great interest as they mention their hatred of Wal-Mart, their refusal to vaccinate their children, their distrust of traditional medicine. But I can't join the bandwagon without tangible proof. Can anybody give me something to read that proves that Wal-Mart is worse than other corporate entities they're buying from instead-- not just bigger? (And why shop at Sam's when you drive to the bigger towns, if you don't like Wal-Mart?) Has any reputable source published anything about the dangers of vaccination, when the dangers of NOT vaccinating a society's children are so great? I want to ask these questions because I really would like to know their answers. But I don't want to seem like a prick, so I don't-- and feel myself a little withdrawn as a result.
Our church, which contains some of those good friends, is also full of older generations of a decidedly more conservative order-- Christians whose worlds are more black and white than mine, who would never dream of voting Democrat for any reason, who think that questioning the 7-day Creation account in Genesis is essentially questioning the validity of all of Scripture and even the Gospel itself. These are sweet, hearty, wonderful, loving, good people, and some of them helped shape my faith when I first came to God. I am honored to have them in my life. But my world is much more murky and uncertain than that, and I'm not sure I could return to that purity of perspective even if I wanted to.
My husband is one of those people who cannot help but speak his mind on almost everything. He'll challenge almost anyone's viewpoint, argue or debate if necessary, lay his own perspective out on the line before he knows what the other person believes at all. I sometimes admire this and sometimes think it's insane, but regardless, I have never been able to imitate it. You probably won't know my opinion unless you ask me outright. This is sometimes wise and safe, and sometimes overcautious, I know.
Apparently I am unclassifiable. Too conservative to be a hippie, too liberal to be a conservative. Too environmentally conscious to run around consuming thoughtlessly, but a bit too skeptical to believe every eco-rumor that gets passed down from a friend or natural foods store worker, and unwilling to modify my life for something I'm not sure of. So I end up with friends (and reads) in each camp, sampling from everyone, enthusiastic about everyone, and utterly unable to stake a tent in any one location.
It's odd, and I think it's part of what makes me always a little lonely. But isn't everyone always a little lonely?
Dark night.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Lord,
Here I am, sitting in the dark at your feet, miserable. I pour out my heart to you, because you are my refuge, my shelter, my mother hen. I know you know it all already, but still I do it-- even wondering why you find this precious, when none of it is new to you at all.
The two deeply interested buyers from June on our downtown house have not panned out. One simply lost interest, for reasons unkown-- "the house will not suit our needs at this time." (Assuming that our realtor's trustworthy and didn't fabricate the buyer at the end of May to get us to extend our contract. We're beginning to wonder about that, as it's happened repeatedly as the contract has expired and been renewed over the past few months.) Another has waffled all through last month-- about to make an offer, about to make a rent-to-purchase offer, about to make an offer again. Not one piece of paper has been offered-- nothing official, nothing written, just an array of questions, stated intentions, and long silences inbetween. Torturous. On Sunday we gave our realtor one more week with the house, to see if he could bring forth something from this man. It's Thursday night. Nothing so far.
That it itself makes me heartsick.
The other house's current tenants agreed to send us $5000 as a deposit on their purchase of the house in return for keeping the house for them for a month-- on May 23. We agreed, but didn't receive that check until June 26-- and their financing still hasn't come through for them to buy the house.
But thirty minutes ago, I checked our bank balance on our Orlando accounts. I deposited the deposit check before the holiday; it's bounced. We also haven't received July's rent yet, which they are supposed to pay us if the house didn't close in June (and it didn't, obviously).
I know we extended a certain risky amount of faith and good will to them in this. But they want the house, they're doing their best to find the financing, and we love the idea of helping someone buy the home that would otherwise have trouble buying one. Have we been monumentally stupid to trust them, to think that you'd want us to help them?
I really, really, REALLY need some indication that you are looking out for our interests, God. I cannot believe that you would lead us out of Orlando and then let us waste away financially. It does not make sense to me, does not match what I know of You in my life. Our bank accounts are spent, our tax return has been doled out to the mortgage companies, and we are at the end of our resources here.
I am not afraid of being poor, of making less than even Husband did when he was in ministry. We can work within that; many good people do, and live happy and righteous lives. But I do mind being financially ruined by houses that we bought as we tried to follow Your lead. That does not feel just to me.
(And I think of upright Job, and tremble. He never got an explanation for his financial and personal ruin, but the ruin came. Please, God, do not Job our life. I could not bear it as he did.)
I sit here thinking of my sweet, good husband, hopefully sleeping in our bed across the hall right now. If I tell him what's happened, he will not sleep tonight (as he did not last night, worrying about these things even without that terrifying bounced check). I cannot imagine sleeping next to him knowing about that without telling him. (I know I need to sleep, so I'll go lie down and feel the weight of this on me until I go unconscious; and I'll tell him in the morning, so at least he'll have a little rest tonight.) And so I'm stuck here, typing something to You that you already know, which feels somewhat absurd, and yet what else can I do?
My heart, God, it breaks. I am tired of breathing in and breathing out and waiting for houses to sell. Houses sell for other people, other people leaving Orlando for the same reasons we did, but they do not sell for us. Why is that? It's getting hard to continue breathing in faith. The alternative-- an asphyxiation of my hope, a panic of not having trust and not choosing to believe without seen evidence-- is too hard to contemplate. But the breathing, that's getting very hard too.
Where else can I go, but to Your feet, and sit here with tears blurring the screen and a bitter grapefruit lump in my throat and our total helplessness spread out before you like a pitiful offering?
It's all I can offer, my dependence and sorrow. I hope it's acceptable to you. I hope too that you choose to have mercy on us.
Please don't Job me. But even more, please don't Job my dear sweet husband. He is so tired, God. We need to see your hand at work. We've seen it before, in amazing ways.
Please hear me. Please do something. I sit here with my eyes downcast. There is nowhere else for me to go.
Here I am, sitting in the dark at your feet, miserable. I pour out my heart to you, because you are my refuge, my shelter, my mother hen. I know you know it all already, but still I do it-- even wondering why you find this precious, when none of it is new to you at all.
The two deeply interested buyers from June on our downtown house have not panned out. One simply lost interest, for reasons unkown-- "the house will not suit our needs at this time." (Assuming that our realtor's trustworthy and didn't fabricate the buyer at the end of May to get us to extend our contract. We're beginning to wonder about that, as it's happened repeatedly as the contract has expired and been renewed over the past few months.) Another has waffled all through last month-- about to make an offer, about to make a rent-to-purchase offer, about to make an offer again. Not one piece of paper has been offered-- nothing official, nothing written, just an array of questions, stated intentions, and long silences inbetween. Torturous. On Sunday we gave our realtor one more week with the house, to see if he could bring forth something from this man. It's Thursday night. Nothing so far.
That it itself makes me heartsick.
The other house's current tenants agreed to send us $5000 as a deposit on their purchase of the house in return for keeping the house for them for a month-- on May 23. We agreed, but didn't receive that check until June 26-- and their financing still hasn't come through for them to buy the house.
But thirty minutes ago, I checked our bank balance on our Orlando accounts. I deposited the deposit check before the holiday; it's bounced. We also haven't received July's rent yet, which they are supposed to pay us if the house didn't close in June (and it didn't, obviously).
I know we extended a certain risky amount of faith and good will to them in this. But they want the house, they're doing their best to find the financing, and we love the idea of helping someone buy the home that would otherwise have trouble buying one. Have we been monumentally stupid to trust them, to think that you'd want us to help them?
I really, really, REALLY need some indication that you are looking out for our interests, God. I cannot believe that you would lead us out of Orlando and then let us waste away financially. It does not make sense to me, does not match what I know of You in my life. Our bank accounts are spent, our tax return has been doled out to the mortgage companies, and we are at the end of our resources here.
I am not afraid of being poor, of making less than even Husband did when he was in ministry. We can work within that; many good people do, and live happy and righteous lives. But I do mind being financially ruined by houses that we bought as we tried to follow Your lead. That does not feel just to me.
(And I think of upright Job, and tremble. He never got an explanation for his financial and personal ruin, but the ruin came. Please, God, do not Job our life. I could not bear it as he did.)
I sit here thinking of my sweet, good husband, hopefully sleeping in our bed across the hall right now. If I tell him what's happened, he will not sleep tonight (as he did not last night, worrying about these things even without that terrifying bounced check). I cannot imagine sleeping next to him knowing about that without telling him. (I know I need to sleep, so I'll go lie down and feel the weight of this on me until I go unconscious; and I'll tell him in the morning, so at least he'll have a little rest tonight.) And so I'm stuck here, typing something to You that you already know, which feels somewhat absurd, and yet what else can I do?
My heart, God, it breaks. I am tired of breathing in and breathing out and waiting for houses to sell. Houses sell for other people, other people leaving Orlando for the same reasons we did, but they do not sell for us. Why is that? It's getting hard to continue breathing in faith. The alternative-- an asphyxiation of my hope, a panic of not having trust and not choosing to believe without seen evidence-- is too hard to contemplate. But the breathing, that's getting very hard too.
Where else can I go, but to Your feet, and sit here with tears blurring the screen and a bitter grapefruit lump in my throat and our total helplessness spread out before you like a pitiful offering?
It's all I can offer, my dependence and sorrow. I hope it's acceptable to you. I hope too that you choose to have mercy on us.
Please don't Job me. But even more, please don't Job my dear sweet husband. He is so tired, God. We need to see your hand at work. We've seen it before, in amazing ways.
Please hear me. Please do something. I sit here with my eyes downcast. There is nowhere else for me to go.
trouble underfoot, but not for long.
Friday, June 29, 2007
The floors we paid over $2000 to have refinished have had us a little stressed. Especially in the entry hall and the kitchen. They’re... spotty. Not shiny, or even sheeny, where water’s touched them repeatedly. If you spill grape juice or something greasy in the kitchen, it’s going to soak in and leave a spot that doesn’t completely come up.
As you know, this is not the way newly finished floors should be acting. We've been living with these for four months, eyeing the mess daily, mopping at it periodically, feeling a little sick.
The guy whose company refinished our floors is a local from Jasper—a real born-and-bred mountain guy. He’s over six foot four, booming, hyper, full of smiles. I instinctively trusted him on sight. His team worked hard, finished quickly, packed up and moved out like pros. He’s refinished floors in several historic hotels in the area—and at the home of the owners of Arkansas Products. I’m pretty sure he’s top notch.
But our sad floors—blotchy, stainy, ugly. Especially in front of the sink in the kitchen. We stressed and fretted. He promised to come back to take a look and fix problems, but seemed slow to get around to it. I stressed, first inwardly and then outwardly, about my conflict between my trust in this man’s integrity and reputation, and my husband’s (and my) unhappiness with our two-thousand-dollar floors.
I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight, when we finally touched base with him and got some additional clarification: The urethane he used was a bad batch. He’s had to redo fifteen houses in the past few months. He’ll be coming back, buffing every single board in every room we had refinished, and refinishing them. The splotches and stains and etc. will all go away.
When Husband came into the kitchen to tell me what he’d learned, I burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Yes, I’m pregnant, and that’s part of the emotional outburst.
But it was so nice to know that this unpleasant waiting, this one of several in our life right now, is going to have a pleasant and just ending. No wrangling, no arguments with the workmen. They’re going to make it all better.
SUCH relief—even though it’s just old floors.
As you know, this is not the way newly finished floors should be acting. We've been living with these for four months, eyeing the mess daily, mopping at it periodically, feeling a little sick.
The guy whose company refinished our floors is a local from Jasper—a real born-and-bred mountain guy. He’s over six foot four, booming, hyper, full of smiles. I instinctively trusted him on sight. His team worked hard, finished quickly, packed up and moved out like pros. He’s refinished floors in several historic hotels in the area—and at the home of the owners of Arkansas Products. I’m pretty sure he’s top notch.
But our sad floors—blotchy, stainy, ugly. Especially in front of the sink in the kitchen. We stressed and fretted. He promised to come back to take a look and fix problems, but seemed slow to get around to it. I stressed, first inwardly and then outwardly, about my conflict between my trust in this man’s integrity and reputation, and my husband’s (and my) unhappiness with our two-thousand-dollar floors.
I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight, when we finally touched base with him and got some additional clarification: The urethane he used was a bad batch. He’s had to redo fifteen houses in the past few months. He’ll be coming back, buffing every single board in every room we had refinished, and refinishing them. The splotches and stains and etc. will all go away.
When Husband came into the kitchen to tell me what he’d learned, I burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Yes, I’m pregnant, and that’s part of the emotional outburst.
But it was so nice to know that this unpleasant waiting, this one of several in our life right now, is going to have a pleasant and just ending. No wrangling, no arguments with the workmen. They’re going to make it all better.
SUCH relief—even though it’s just old floors.
One small step forward...
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
After dinner tonight, while we parents were tidying up and the wee one was running about underfoot undermining our efforts with Tupperware distribution, I spotted her squatting with an earnest look in her face.
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
It does happen.
Another doctor's visit today. Weight gain slight (that's good), blood pressure good, baby heartbeat strong and audible. Eighteen weeks along tomorrow.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
big news-- a little one.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Okay, here’s the deal. I’m just going to cut to the chase, and quit trying to find time to compose the perfect post to record the news. Weeks have passed while I’ve wistfully thought about having time to do some “real writing” on this subject. Weeks that I’ll not have back, and the weeks ahead don’t look to be any less busy. So out with it, already.
We’re expecting another babushka. Another wee little smidgen of a creature, due to arrive just a couple of weeks after the Bird turns two. A baby, to be clear about the matter. We were a little shocked (not a lot—we do understand how these things happen, after all), but mostly we’re just thrilled. I'm just past the twelve week mark, and feeling the nausea lift and some of the exhaustion fade away. It sure is good to be on this side of the first trimester.
Okay, and a little scared. I’m scared about handling a newborn and my little delight of a toddler, who’s so much fun right now. About being able to raise her well while also raising an infant—about making sure that she learns to behave in public, eat with her own spoon, come when she’s called, sing the rest of the ABC song—while my hands and boobs are full of baby duty. Already I get twinges in my stomach when I pick her up and hold her in my arms for more than a minute or two. How can I explain to her that I won’t be able to do that much longer? I’m sure her neverending fascination with babies will transfer to her new sister or brother, and that she'll love the baby—but will she get what she needs from me (and her Dad) as well?
...Of course she will, the rational part of my brain says. People raise kids two years apart all the time. They grow up just great. It’ll all work out. And then my worrybrain overrides and frets anyway. (sigh)
...But a bit of rational thinking helps me restore some equilibrium, when I remember to apply it. I live in the same town with my mother—and now, my sister, who’s returned to her hometown to start a new life here, just like us. And that grandmother and that aunt will be all too eager to help us when we feel a little overwhelmed—or even when we don’t. (They already take Bird for sleepovers at least once a week, just for fun.) And that is a luxury that almost no family has—to have two women (and a grandpapa) on hand, itching to help. I know we’ll be fine.
And another baby. Night wakings, burpings, that amazing smell in the folds of a baby’s neck. A sweet weight snuggled against me in the sling... tiny little hands grasping my fingers. I cannot wait to meet this little one. Gal or guy, it is going to be wonderful. Having already experienced it once just makes me all the more anxious.
So that's my news, the revelation that's rocked my world for the last month and a half. Here we go again...
We’re expecting another babushka. Another wee little smidgen of a creature, due to arrive just a couple of weeks after the Bird turns two. A baby, to be clear about the matter. We were a little shocked (not a lot—we do understand how these things happen, after all), but mostly we’re just thrilled. I'm just past the twelve week mark, and feeling the nausea lift and some of the exhaustion fade away. It sure is good to be on this side of the first trimester.
Okay, and a little scared. I’m scared about handling a newborn and my little delight of a toddler, who’s so much fun right now. About being able to raise her well while also raising an infant—about making sure that she learns to behave in public, eat with her own spoon, come when she’s called, sing the rest of the ABC song—while my hands and boobs are full of baby duty. Already I get twinges in my stomach when I pick her up and hold her in my arms for more than a minute or two. How can I explain to her that I won’t be able to do that much longer? I’m sure her neverending fascination with babies will transfer to her new sister or brother, and that she'll love the baby—but will she get what she needs from me (and her Dad) as well?
...Of course she will, the rational part of my brain says. People raise kids two years apart all the time. They grow up just great. It’ll all work out. And then my worrybrain overrides and frets anyway. (sigh)
...But a bit of rational thinking helps me restore some equilibrium, when I remember to apply it. I live in the same town with my mother—and now, my sister, who’s returned to her hometown to start a new life here, just like us. And that grandmother and that aunt will be all too eager to help us when we feel a little overwhelmed—or even when we don’t. (They already take Bird for sleepovers at least once a week, just for fun.) And that is a luxury that almost no family has—to have two women (and a grandpapa) on hand, itching to help. I know we’ll be fine.
And another baby. Night wakings, burpings, that amazing smell in the folds of a baby’s neck. A sweet weight snuggled against me in the sling... tiny little hands grasping my fingers. I cannot wait to meet this little one. Gal or guy, it is going to be wonderful. Having already experienced it once just makes me all the more anxious.
So that's my news, the revelation that's rocked my world for the last month and a half. Here we go again...
Quoting a quote. Recording a thought.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
from Anne Lamott-
One of ye olde pastors wrote my husband recently, asking for his take on our Orlando experience and whether there were hard feelings. It gave us a few weeks of intermittent pondering, prayer, and struggle. (Truthfully, the struggle was mostly my husband's-- as Wife, I was an am essentially a nonentity to these men; my opinion has never been a matter of interest.) What do you say, when the four years there were four years of conflict, drama, power plays, strife, and galling unlove? He implied that we should feel warm and fuzzy and peaceful and want to go on fishing trips with him, and that he sensed that maybe that wasn't true, and that troubled him.
Bizarre. We spent years trying to share our concerns, our needs, our panic, with our leaders. He acts like it's all a mystery to him. I'm all for forgiving everyone involved, and will continue to do that (it is a process, I admit). But no fishing trips or warm fuzzies are going to be forthcoming to assauge anyone's sense of guilt. Simply put, your church, under your leadership, was a nightmare for us.
My husband wrote a beautiful, measured response last night and sent it, and I hope (but doubt) it closes the discussion. Quoting it here would certainly get me into trouble, so I won't. But I am tremendously proud of him for the way that he said those things.
And tremendously glad that we're saying them from here, rather than being embroiled in the drama there.
My priest friend Tom Weston says that God's will for each of us is to have aI periodically return to this pondering-- the living of an "ordinary" Christian life instead of a high-rollin' Full Time Ministry lifestyle. It is a beautiful thing to us-- though still uneasy at times-- to put ourselves at His feet with the rest of humanity, without the special status and influence that comes from being a vital part of a church (as volunteers or staff).
life. "And it is up to us to go and get one. Find some work, some love, some
play. Taste things. Be of service. Feed the hungry and clean the beaches and
clothe the naked and work for justice. Love God, love your neighbor. Help build
a world where it is safe to be a child, and where it is safe to grow old. And
love cats, and the occasional dog." I think this pretty much says it.
One of ye olde pastors wrote my husband recently, asking for his take on our Orlando experience and whether there were hard feelings. It gave us a few weeks of intermittent pondering, prayer, and struggle. (Truthfully, the struggle was mostly my husband's-- as Wife, I was an am essentially a nonentity to these men; my opinion has never been a matter of interest.) What do you say, when the four years there were four years of conflict, drama, power plays, strife, and galling unlove? He implied that we should feel warm and fuzzy and peaceful and want to go on fishing trips with him, and that he sensed that maybe that wasn't true, and that troubled him.
Bizarre. We spent years trying to share our concerns, our needs, our panic, with our leaders. He acts like it's all a mystery to him. I'm all for forgiving everyone involved, and will continue to do that (it is a process, I admit). But no fishing trips or warm fuzzies are going to be forthcoming to assauge anyone's sense of guilt. Simply put, your church, under your leadership, was a nightmare for us.
My husband wrote a beautiful, measured response last night and sent it, and I hope (but doubt) it closes the discussion. Quoting it here would certainly get me into trouble, so I won't. But I am tremendously proud of him for the way that he said those things.
And tremendously glad that we're saying them from here, rather than being embroiled in the drama there.
too long it's been, young jedi.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Yeah, yeah, I know. It has been a long time...
It's midnight, I drank coffee at 8 pm, and it looks like I'm in for some insomnia as a result.
Good time for some catchin' up, I suppose.
New Old House:
We love living alone again. The house is not as expensive to heat as we'd feared (ie as my father had direly predicted). It's an enormous project, overwhelming at times, but we love it. The yard is full of flowers and lilac bushes and an enormous arching dogwood (blooming now) that takes my breath away every time I see it. We have a small problem with the refinishing job on the wood floors, one I need to schedule a visit about this week. Oh, and our renter's insurance was mysteriously cancelled by State Farm last week. But that should be easily fixed or replaced.
Someday, I'll write about what I learned last week about its original builders-- a childless couple who owned a hardware store on the square. But I want to save that to be written well, as it deserves.
Bird:
She is amazing. Talking a little, running around like a banshee, full of fun and mischief and will. Her favorite things are watching the Sesame Street Old School DVD episodes, taking baths, eating just about anything, and most especially running around outside and getting dirty. I am a little toddler-tired, and beginning the season of Weathering Tantrums Without Giving In, but so thankful and blessed every day that I get to spend my life with her. She is a wonder.
Orlando Houses:
Hooboy, not good. Our downtown home is still for sale. We thought we had a workable offer last week, but the offerers had misunderstood or misrepresented their financing qualifications. Our financial belt is tight, and getting tighter. Our tenants seem unable to buy the other house, and will be leaving at the end of their lease May 31. (They say they could have the money together by the end of June, but if they're wrong, that would ensure that we miss the best season for house-selling almost completely, and they're $40,000 short at this point. They've had a year to get their finances in order for this, and they haven't done it. I don't know what to do other than follow through with the deadlines we set, which means that they need to get ready to move out.) Which means their last rent payment comes in this week. Which instills a bit of panic in my breast, at the thought of having two houses for sale. We're sweating. But our best bet is to get that house ready and sell it early in the summer.
The downtown house is a big question mark right now. Why hasn't it sold? It's beautiful. We may drop our price again (we dropped it last month, which generated a lot of interest but no offers) and see if we can just get out of this. It's cost us so much money it makes me ill.
I hate feeling like we made a bad decision when we bought that house. It was a very good idea if we were going to stay in Orlando, which we believed we were at that point. But a year later, we'd decided to leave, and now, a year later than that, it's still up for sale. I worry that God's trying to teach us something, that we're not depending enough upon Him or displeasing Him and causing Him to not act on our behalf. Then I remind myself that that kind of secret blackballing is not the God I know, not the God that has been so good to me in my lifetime. I fret, I stew, I stay up too late at night worrying. Like this.
Enough said. Onward.
Health:
My attendance at a water aerobics class faded away with the move, and now that we're not residents at my parents' house, it would cost me $40/month to resume. Can't afford it. I'm trying to hoof Bird about in the stroller a few times a week, trying to do an exercise video occasionally, trying to eat well. Doing fine, I guess, but I feel less empowered about my health and shape these days. Oh, and we do all have health insurance again, which is good for one's peace of mind-- Husband in particular had been without for about two years. So, we survived that little gamble, thank God.
Dog:
Just lovely, greying a bit about the muzzle and sleeping more as she gets older. Eight and a half years now-- easing toward old age. Peeing and sniffing all over her 1.8 acres with abandon whenever she's allowed outside. (Need to build a fence to better protect our two Outdoor Gals when our finances stabilize.)
...Assuming they do stabilize. (Back to money again.)
This is a long season of bated breath and trying to be assured of what's hoped for and unseen at this point.
He has always been faithful to us. I dislike the doubt that creeps into my heart over this. We truly have made the best decisions we knew how to make as we moved here.
So we wait, and try to feel out what our next move should be. Trying to be full of faith, not anxious, believing that whole Romans 8:28 thing.
It's getting harder as the weeks drag on, though.
It's midnight, I drank coffee at 8 pm, and it looks like I'm in for some insomnia as a result.
Good time for some catchin' up, I suppose.
New Old House:
We love living alone again. The house is not as expensive to heat as we'd feared (ie as my father had direly predicted). It's an enormous project, overwhelming at times, but we love it. The yard is full of flowers and lilac bushes and an enormous arching dogwood (blooming now) that takes my breath away every time I see it. We have a small problem with the refinishing job on the wood floors, one I need to schedule a visit about this week. Oh, and our renter's insurance was mysteriously cancelled by State Farm last week. But that should be easily fixed or replaced.
Someday, I'll write about what I learned last week about its original builders-- a childless couple who owned a hardware store on the square. But I want to save that to be written well, as it deserves.
Bird:
She is amazing. Talking a little, running around like a banshee, full of fun and mischief and will. Her favorite things are watching the Sesame Street Old School DVD episodes, taking baths, eating just about anything, and most especially running around outside and getting dirty. I am a little toddler-tired, and beginning the season of Weathering Tantrums Without Giving In, but so thankful and blessed every day that I get to spend my life with her. She is a wonder.
Orlando Houses:
Hooboy, not good. Our downtown home is still for sale. We thought we had a workable offer last week, but the offerers had misunderstood or misrepresented their financing qualifications. Our financial belt is tight, and getting tighter. Our tenants seem unable to buy the other house, and will be leaving at the end of their lease May 31. (They say they could have the money together by the end of June, but if they're wrong, that would ensure that we miss the best season for house-selling almost completely, and they're $40,000 short at this point. They've had a year to get their finances in order for this, and they haven't done it. I don't know what to do other than follow through with the deadlines we set, which means that they need to get ready to move out.) Which means their last rent payment comes in this week. Which instills a bit of panic in my breast, at the thought of having two houses for sale. We're sweating. But our best bet is to get that house ready and sell it early in the summer.
The downtown house is a big question mark right now. Why hasn't it sold? It's beautiful. We may drop our price again (we dropped it last month, which generated a lot of interest but no offers) and see if we can just get out of this. It's cost us so much money it makes me ill.
I hate feeling like we made a bad decision when we bought that house. It was a very good idea if we were going to stay in Orlando, which we believed we were at that point. But a year later, we'd decided to leave, and now, a year later than that, it's still up for sale. I worry that God's trying to teach us something, that we're not depending enough upon Him or displeasing Him and causing Him to not act on our behalf. Then I remind myself that that kind of secret blackballing is not the God I know, not the God that has been so good to me in my lifetime. I fret, I stew, I stay up too late at night worrying. Like this.
Enough said. Onward.
Health:
My attendance at a water aerobics class faded away with the move, and now that we're not residents at my parents' house, it would cost me $40/month to resume. Can't afford it. I'm trying to hoof Bird about in the stroller a few times a week, trying to do an exercise video occasionally, trying to eat well. Doing fine, I guess, but I feel less empowered about my health and shape these days. Oh, and we do all have health insurance again, which is good for one's peace of mind-- Husband in particular had been without for about two years. So, we survived that little gamble, thank God.
Dog:
Just lovely, greying a bit about the muzzle and sleeping more as she gets older. Eight and a half years now-- easing toward old age. Peeing and sniffing all over her 1.8 acres with abandon whenever she's allowed outside. (Need to build a fence to better protect our two Outdoor Gals when our finances stabilize.)
...Assuming they do stabilize. (Back to money again.)
This is a long season of bated breath and trying to be assured of what's hoped for and unseen at this point.
He has always been faithful to us. I dislike the doubt that creeps into my heart over this. We truly have made the best decisions we knew how to make as we moved here.
So we wait, and try to feel out what our next move should be. Trying to be full of faith, not anxious, believing that whole Romans 8:28 thing.
It's getting harder as the weeks drag on, though.
Oh, to be in O-town again...
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Well, it's finally happened-- something makes me long with all my heart to be in Florida this week.
Best of luck to our little buddy in his public debut. My husband had a great (if sometimes bewildering) time teaching him guitar while we were there.
I always wanted to see that restaurant, too.
Best of luck to our little buddy in his public debut. My husband had a great (if sometimes bewildering) time teaching him guitar while we were there.
I always wanted to see that restaurant, too.
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