Worth Repeating to Myself (and other ramblings from the previous year)

I have stood on the edge of Unknown,
And peered timidly over
I have held on too tightly and let go too soon,
I have jumped without looking,
Fallen without caring,
Been caught without question.

I have been there, done that, regretted
Then wished I could do it again
I have stood hours in line to wait my turn
Then backed out at the last possible second
I have lost battles
Stolen moments
Remembered promises
Forgotten hurts.

I have fought demons
Removed bandages
Punctured old wounds
Needed a tourniquet
Wanted drugs.
I have gotten drunk off bitterness
After just one sip
Then tasted the joy of sweet release
I have found approval
Too many times
Hanging on a sale rack
I have paid too much for a pair of shoes
And sold my soul for cheap.


I have made friends
and created new traditions
I have burned bridges,
Trashed memories
Run without looking back
I have laughed 'til it hurt
Cried 'til it was numb
Pretended it didn't matter.
I have shared secrets
And hoarded truth.
I have f***ed up.
Over
and over.
I have come to the end of myself
to find the beginning of grace.


But most of all,
I have loved
And I have been loved.

What *Really* Happens in the Last Month of Pregnancy? (I'm Glad You Asked).

I have a confession: I hate the month of January. Always have. So what- it's cold and it snows. Big deal. Christmas isn't for another 11 months so there's no sense in getting excited about snow anymore. And the Christmas cards that once filled the mailbox have now been replaced with Christmas BILLS. (I'm convinced I have selective short-term memory loss. Really?? I spent THAT much?!) And what else could make the dismal, depressing month of January seem any longer? Getting it on with your husband at the end of the previous May, which apparently gives your little belly-dweller a due date in the first half of February. Yep, I just went there. (I mean, could we NOT have thought about shooting for the end of March and giving ourselves a nice little tax deduction? NOOOooo.) But, because sitting down with a calculator and a bottle of lube isn't exactly an appropriate (or romantic) form of foreplay, we wound up getting ourselves a little pre-Valentine's Day lovebug.

So the countdown is set: 3 weeks- possibly/hopefully/"please-dear-God-in-Heaven" even less- until we meet our little boy. Sometimes, it feels like a dream. And then suddenly, I cough and pee a little and nope, not a dream. I'm fully awake (and now incontinent to boot).

And in keeping with the cough/sneeze/laugh and pee conundrum, a few other things that tell me I'm solidly in the homestretch...


1. Performing the "is this pee or amniotic fluid?" sniff test every day, sometimes several times a day. Sorry, but I don't own any of those dipsticks they give you at the hospital to tell for sure whether or not your water has broken and God gave us noses for a reason. (For the record, you can be assured you've reached a whole new level of security in your marriage when your husband walks in your bedroom to find you holding a pair of underwear to your face and he doesn't even bat an eye anymore).

2. You begin to measure everything in contractions. As in, "I have to walk all the way to the back of the store to get the waffles?? That's a good 3 braxton hicks away...*sigh*" Today, I calculated that a loop around my neighborhood is precisely .9 miles (or approximately 13 braxton hicks). I didn't test it out to see if it was correct though. Math is not my strong point.

3. The belly stares. Not many people seem to acknowledge that I even have a head anymore and I actually find it pretty entertaining. The other day, I walked up to pay for my groceries and the cashier guy looked at me as if I might actually be crowning at that very moment. Maybe I should have asked for a separate bag for the placenta...

4. I waddled up to the bar in one of my favorite local cafes and ordered myself a lovely glass of Cabernet. Then- amidst curious stares- waddled over to a table and very slowly and unsteadily lowered myself into the chair. And then I sat with the glass perched tediously on my belly and let my eyes glaze over as I prepared to enjoy it- all by myself. This is another sign of entering the last month of pregnancy, which is what I also like to call the "I could really give a flying rat's @$$ what you think" month.

5. I can't read stories to Ella anymore without completely losing it. Currently on the "banned" book list are: "I'm a Big Sister," "Guess How Much I Love You?" "Corduroy," and "Love You Forever" (that last book especially does me in, no matter how creepy I think it is that a mother breaks in to her gown-up son's home to hold him in the middle of the night). So Jake does those books with her. Until Milo is born and the hormones calm down, Mommy is relegated to stories about potties, trees, bugs and poop.

6. Every time I've gone to the grocery store recently, I have a moment- albeit brief- when I look at the motorized scooters and have to talk myself down. In my mind, I picture myself zipping right to the bakery for some snickerdoodles and noshing away as I fulfill the rest of my shopping but I would feel pretty bad if an old gray-haired woman with an oxygen tank came shuffling up and there was no scooter to be found. (But then again, maybe I'd just offer her my snickerdoodles for her inconvenience).

7. During my 3rd trip to the bathroom last night, I distinctly remember sitting on the toilet thinking, " I can't WAIT to have this baby so I can get some sleep." And then I had a good chuckle, all by myself in the bathroom- a fine demonstration of what the combination of sleep deprivation and raging pregnancy hormones will do to you by week 37. So sleep is a thing of the past. But if I'm gonna lose it, I'd much rather lose it to an adorable baby boy than to my overworked bladder and sciatic nerve.


Yes, it's true that 21 days is but a drop in the bucket compared to the 252 that are under my belt. So it's onward and upward (even if it's at my new leisurely pace of 3 mph). Getting closer...

Things I Know For Sure

1. I'm a round, walking mass of hormones (might as well start with the obvious). I think I can best describe it as OCD meets Alanis Moriestte meets a Lifetime tear-jerker marathon. Believe it or not, I can move fluidly between all three scenarios in a matter of 4.2 seconds. Just ask my husband. I'm convinced that if I could step out of my own skin (which I would gladly do at this point), I would be both highly amused and completely wigged out by the metamorphosis.

2. I married a very good, good man. There is just no other way to say it. I think sometimes he might be scared of me (see #1) in this very pregnant state that I'm in. When he wraps his arms around me, his hands now barely clasp behind my back, but those wordless hugs do something to restore my soul that nothing else can. (I love you babe. ;) ).

3. There is no limit to God's grace.

4. There is, however, a limit to mine. Some days, I feel like I reach it about 26 times an hour and it's at those times I remind myself of #3.

5. I can eat chicken enchiladas at 10 pm and go to bed without even a hint of heartburn, but a handful of Craisins will inevitably bring me to my knees begging to the god of Zantac for relief. Riddle me that.

6. I have no problem admitting that I'm scared of what life with two under two will resemble. I'm also not ashamed to admit that the reason we decided to have two children is plain and simple: we do not want three.

7. Of the 45 lbs I've gained so far this pregnancy, I'm approximating 30 lbs of it to be semi-sweet chocolate chips and cherry limeades from Sonic (and the plethora of Arby's roast beef sandwiches I survived on during the first trimester).

8. I am loved. Absolutely, positively and unconditionally. But understanding and embracing this took far more than the years I spent sitting in church, nodding my head in quiet agreement whenever John 3:16 popped up on a projector screen. I've heard this all my life but in truth, those words never stopped me from continuing to try to earn something that was already mine, or to try to be something that I wasn't. There are still plenty of days that I struggle to accept that I am good enough- that I am just enough. Especially on days that I lose my patience with Ella and raise my voice at her, when my "fat" jeans are the only pair that fit, when I find it easier to run the other way than press in and press on. But at the end of those days remain the things that anchor me- my family, my friends. A little bit of breathing space. Rest (albeit very little). A relentless hope that no matter how "bad" the day was, I get a clean slate the next day. Good, good things.

9. Yoga pants are the little black dresses of pregnancy. You simply can't have too many. (Yes, I'm still trying to figure out a way to rock them with a pair of stilettos).

10. I will lose the weight. (I often say this in a sort of repetitive chant to myself when I happen to catch a glimpse of my naked body in a mirror). And for the record, I'm well aware of the many wonderful benefits of breastmilk, but I have to say that my intentions to do it again are quite possibly more selfish than selfless. You better believe I'm counting on that extra 600 calorie/day metabolism. So bring on the lanolin, cracked nipples and engorgement. No pain, no gain. (Or loss, in this case).

11. My daughter is going to make a fabulous big sister. She already possesses a very "take-charge" attitude- great for bossing around little brothers- and it's also become increasingly clear that she doesn't take crap from anyone. One high pitched squeal and she goes right for the hair. (Seriously, where did she learn this?) Yes, it appears our little girl is more of a fighter than a lover at the moment, but we're told it's just a phase. In the meantime, I'm comforted to know that her strong-willed spirit will never render her a doormat for someone else to walk on, and if my suspicions are correct, she will be all too willing to stick up for her little brother. Attitude and spunk aside, she's an incredibly loving and affectionate little Bug and I'm excited to watch her make the transformation into "Big Sister."



30 days... (although this is one thing I don't know for sure. Maybe less?? Please?) ;-)

Extraordinary Things

There's a load of dishes to unload from the dishwasher, and a Fisher-Price toy bomb has exploded all over the living room floor. The beds haven't been made and I may not get a shower today. Forget working out. Instead, I am snuggled on the couch with my daughter, flipping the channels between Sesame Street and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I sip my coffee and skim over the colorfully loud Black Friday ads and before I know it, I've started to convince myself that we actually do, in fact, need a 40-inch LCD TV. Then my eye catches an adorable Betsey Johnson charm bracelet that they're also practically giving away. I think to myself that maybe I "need" some more jewelry too. Before I realize what's happening, I've created a bulleted, detailed mental list of things that I'm sure I've said I wanted at some point in the past. Maybe it was sub-conscious, even. But I'm sure I want(ed) these things. And at $____ a pop, it would be a crime NOT to buy them.

The truth is, I don't really remember what I got last year for Christmas, with the exception of maybe one or two things. I don't even remember what I bought everyone else on my list- though I can be sure it was things like non-descript sweaters, bedroom slippers, jewelry, random stocking stuffers- all marked down to a ridiculously low price and all for the sake of putting a tiny check mark by a name. I do, however, remember the picture I painted for Jake last year to give him for Christmas as well as the poem I wrote and gave to him the very first "married" Christmas we celebrated. I remember car trips from the Detroit airport to my parents' house- my home away from home- laughing at crazy Mad-lib stories and playing games of peek-a-boo with Ella. I can almost always conjure up the smell of cinnamon rolls and my mom's famous egg and sausage bake that she makes every Christmas morning. I remember a fabulous bottle of wine that Jake and I shared after we barely made it home one snowy Friday evening last December when we got our first official snow of the year and the "ugly sweater party" we threw last year.

Yet, even with those memories, I seem to be a walking sucker for the over-sensationalism of the Christmas season (and you can bet that commissioned sales-people can smell me approaching from miles away). Finding obscure justifications for needless expenditures is an art form I strive to perfect. I am often guilty of over-indulging and I can almost guarantee that I will spend more than I should this year. My futile strive for perfectionism always seems to peak during the Christmas season. I envision myself making Christmas cookies and red-velvet mocha truffles that would grace even Martha Stewart's table. And darn-it, I want my Christmas gifts to be wrapped in color-coordinated wrapping paper. (True story). Every year, I face the "want-it-alls," as if my holiday season would be less memorable if I don't find the perfect Christmas Eve outfit for Ella or I end up having to mix my Christmas cookies in plain mixing bowls, as opposed to the dainty winter ones I've been eyeing at Sur Le Table. I catch myself chasing down picture-perfect memories to paste into a mental scrapbook that is nothing if less than perfect (and accurate). And the expenses for trying to create such a book are far more than just monetary.

But this morning, I am hit with a simple reality and it is this: I am an ordinary girl whose life is filled with the extraordinary. And it isn't because I throw on a pair of designer jeans (by the way, never make the mistake of buying said designer maternity jeans in your first trimester. It will only piss you off when you've gained too much weight to be able to wear them in your third. I'm pretty sure the word for this is "karma"). But seriously, there is nothing about my life that is "ho-hum" and it has nothing to do with stuff. (This is the exact conclusion that retailers during this time of year don't want any of us arriving at). The truth is, I wake up in mismatched pajamas in a bed that hasn't been stripped or washed in weeks and I don't even know the thread count of our sheets but I do know that I wake up next to the man who let me have his heart five years ago- free of charge. In return, I have experienced love that is always changing, always growing and never settling to leave me the same as I was yesterday.

Extraordinary.

I am overwhelmed with laundry because I'm fortunate enough to be able to buy all the clothes that we need- and even more that we just simply want. Same with cooking and grocery shopping and cleaning out the fridge.

Extraordinary. (And undeserved).

I complain that we are very quickly running out of space in our tiny 1100 square foot home, but it's cozy and warm and filled with sweet nostalgia: a slow dance after a proposal that took place in what would become our bedroom, the first time I made breakfast for Jake when I burned all of the Belgian waffles, the late-night take-out and movies and bottles of wine, family get-togethers and birthday celebrations. Walking the hall at 2 a.m. on countless nights, shushing a tiny, peanut Ella and getting ready to do it again with my son in just two short months. When we move into a bigger house, I will cry for all of the precious memories that will be boxed up along with the dishes and books and knick-knacks.

Extraordinary.

I am inundated with cuddles and sloppy wet kisses from my daughter. Just because. She makes my world brighter and richer and full of possibility.

Extraordinary.

I struggle against an anxiety that threatens to consume my time, energy and thoughts- but it's a battle I'm learning never belonged to me in the first place. I'm learning, perhaps for the first time in my life, to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the handle-bars and let go. And when I do, someone is always there to catch me. Lots of "someones," in fact.

Extraordinary.

I'm grateful for the beautiful, poignant tapestry that is woven out of all of these extraordinaries in my life. May it always be more than enough to keep me humble. More than enough to propel me forward. And more than enough enough so that I can't keep it only for myself.

The Sound of Sleep...

This is day #2 that Ella has decided to sleep in. Usually, the term "sleeping in" is thrown around pretty loosely in our house. If I make it to 7:30 a.m., I feel like I've slept in (ah, long gone are the days where I hit the snooze button at 9:30 and rolled over for a few more minutes of uninterrupted bliss). My body has finally seemed to adjust to "toddler time" as well. On days when Ella is over at Jake's parents house, or she otherwise decides to randomly go past her usual 6:30-7:30 bracket, I'm usually awake or starting to stir around 6:45 or 7. Even given the opportunity to sleep in, my body just won't let me. Yay motherhood. ;-)

She went down at 7:30 last night, after a 3 hour nap from 2-5. It is now 9:35, and she's still going strong. I know, because I've already checked on her twice to make sure she's still, in fact, breathing. (Because part of motherhood requires you to rid yourself of any paranoia that something might be wrong before you can truly let yourself enjoy every last drop of your extra cup of coffee). Having rid myself of the worry (for now), I find it odd that I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. On the mornings she wakes me up early (or even at her usual time), I tend to sit in a glazed over state, holding my cup of coffee and thinking of all the things I could be doing if she were still asleep and yet when given the gift of time that is truly at *my* disposal, I drum my fingers on my coffee cup and peruse the internet and get antsy. What's up with that?

I could get a head start on a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, hop on the treadmill for a quick powerwalk (if I'm feeling especially ambitious). Logically, I know there is a list a quarter-mile long that I could make of things that I *could* be doing. And while I'm always thankful to be given an extra few minutes of precious sleep (a commodity that will surely become even more rare and precious once Milo arrives), the truth is that my world wakes up and comes alive when she does. I wake up and immediately listen for her tiny, high pitched squeal and the sound of her musical seahorse and then eventually the dull thuds of all of her animals and books being chucked out of her crib. Something in me relaxes, even though I know that *my* time is over. No matter how tired and worn down I am from the previous days' antics, tantrums, nap-strikes, Sesame street songs and Elmo videos, jaunts in the yard, trips up and down the hall on my shoulders or driving in her cozy coupe, I am grateful for another day-another opportunity- to have my small world opened up by the tiny, curious hands of my daughter. My body might be unwilling and achy, but my heart is full and content. This is the reason I wake up. This, I have come to believe, is grace. ;-)

Christmas Shopping (According to Kdub)

It's about that time, peeps! (Or it already has been for some of us...) There are only 40 shopping days left 'til Christmas and while I suspect that most guys will wait until day 40 of this countdown, I have plans to have all of my gifts bought AND wrapped at least 2 weeks before the big man in the red suit makes his appearance (but we'll see how successful I really am at this). As entertaining as it is to watch my feet and ankles swell up like sausages, I've decided that, at 33 weeks pregnant, I will not want to go and stand in ridiculously long lines at the mall to find the perfect (and probably overpriced) sweater/earrings/scarf/kitchen gadget. I would reconsider if I had a Little Rascal to scoot around in, but my pride is too big to be swallowed at this point. (Give me another month though, and I might reconsider). Just for fun, and because I haven't posted anything in a while, some random thoughts (that I loosely refer to as "rules") when it applies to me and Christmas shopping. ;-)


1. Set a budget and stick to it.
You know, within a couple hundred bucks or so....

2. Shop when there are sales. If possible, combine with coupons or other savings cards you get in the mail.
This way, you can buy that cashmere scarf for your best friend and one for yourself.

3. Online shopping really is the way to go.
Coming from someone who loves to shop in stores and malls at Christmastime- if for nothing more than the nostalgia and overall warm Christmas fuzzies it gives me- even *I* can't deny the advantages of one-click purchasing. Really, who can argue with the concept of perusing stores in your pajamas with a cup of hot coffee while watching Christmas movies? Throw in some cinnamon rolls and I've pretty much died and gone to Heaven.

4. It's socially acceptable to start Christmas shopping as soon as Halloween is over.
(Maybe even sooner). I know a lot of people will disagree with this, but just take a walk through Target the day after Halloween. No sooner have the Jack-O-Lanterns been put on clearance than the Christmas trees, Santa figurines and holiday decor come busting out. If it's there on the shelf, then who can blame you for putting it in your cart? No time like the present!

5. While out Christmas shopping, it only makes sense to be listening to Christmas music.
Even if the weather is, oh, in the 70's- like it has been here in Richmond for the past 2 weeks. (Don't even get me started). It may feel like Christmas in July, but don't be ashamed. Go ahead and turn up the "Linus and Lucy" theme song and get your jam on. (Disclaimer: if you are caught listening to either "Christmas Shoes" or "Dominic the Donkey," you will be hunted and down and brusquely beat about the head with a giant candy cane).

6.. If you put it on a credit card, it doesn't really count towards your original Christmas budget.
This is probably one of my favorite self-imposed rules. If it doesn't come directly out of your account at that moment of purchase, you can pretend it didn't happen! This is especially beneficial for that pair of over-the-knee suede boots that were too good to pass up. Pure magic! Just tell yourself you'll deal with it in January. (I'm pretty much expecting Dave Ramsey to be beating down my door any second now...)

7. Buy people what they have specifically asked for.
Especially if you're lucky enough to have someone actually give you a specific list. I tend to adhere to this as the "Golden Rule" of Christmas shopping: do what you would like to have done to you. I'm sure we can all remember specific incidents as kids when we got what I like to call "filler gifts." If you left too much up in the air for the person shopping for you, you were liable to end up with granny panties, socks, a Richard Simmons workout DVD or some kind of inanimate object you can neither identify or determine it's use. These days, gift cards are not thought of as "taboo" or "thoughtless" as they might have been viewed once upon a time. If you don't have specifics, gift cards are the way to go.

8. It really isn't about the gifts.
(Duh). Contrary to some of the earlier "rules," of course, I know that it really isn't about checking off a list or maxing out a credit card, but it's easy to get sucked into the hype. Really, who doesn't love giving gifts to other people- even if it means going a little overboard? However, my excitement for Christmastime revolves more around being with family now-especially after having Ella- and sharing experiences together and reflecting upon a baby born in Bethlehem- a story that will bring even more significance to me this year as my own discomfort from being hugely pregnant with our son will serve as a precious reminder. (And yeah, I think riding on a donkey would be a sure-fire way to send me over the edge at this point). I know that the memories we will make this year will far outlast anything I could buy or wrap up in shiny paper, and this is a legacy I hope to pass on to Ella and Milo through the years. (Okay, that, first and foremeost- and THEN the art of Christmas shopping). ;-)

Is "One" the Loneliest Number? (Thoughts On Being An Only Child)

I had a lot of "pretend friends" when I was a little girl. I don't remember their names, only that one was native American (random, I know). Before you start to think I'm one sandwich short of a picnic, let me preface this by saying that I grew up in a small, rural town in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley and I was an only child. (Okay, I am still an only child). But there wasn't much to do around those parts. We lived in an old, renovated farmhouse; behind us, an apple orchard (that unfortunately wasn't ours) stretched for several acres and directly across our gravel driveway was a cow pasture. We're talking, po-dunk RURAL. My little invisible native American friend and I would run around outside all day once I got home from school. We climbed trees, made forts, looked for bugs and other creepy-crawlies and on days when "Tanto" needed a break, I would usually go and befriend the lazy cud-chewing bovine in the neighboring field. (Don't judge). That was all I was used to at the time. Of course, I had friends at school, and there were plenty of days when I would have my "non-invisible" friends over to play or spend the night, but overall, I was accustomed to stirring up fun (read: trouble) on days when I was on my own.

For the most part, being an only child was okay. It was sometimes hard not having someone else to blame things on. Mom: "Kristin, did you eat the 2 cookies I left sitting on the counter that I told you not to eat?? Me: (sheepish look) "Um, I think I saw Piper (our cat) take them out to the yard...." Anyway, I do remember that I wanted a brother or a sister, and I went through a phase where I was obsessed with little babies and would pray and ask God to give my mom another baby. But, shallow as it seems, each time Christmas rolled around and I had two sets of grandparents doting on me (one set for which I was the only grandchild), I would usually be up to my eye-balls in packages and I would suddenly realize I didn't really want a brother or sister that much. (Yes, being an only child has it's perks when it came to national holidays and my birthday. Up until about 2 years ago, I would get a check in the mail from my grandmother for Halloween- to go out and buy myself a halloween "treat." It usually funded a new pair of shoes. True story.) But all spoiling and monetary gifts aside, I have often looked back, as I've gotten older, and wondered how my perspective on life would be different had I had a brother or sister. How would my identity have shifted? Would it have shifted at all? How would my views of the world, my parents and my relationships be different now? I'll never really know, but I've always wondered.

One thing that being an only child did imprint on me was the notion that I wanted to have more than one child when it came time to start my own family. Not because I hated being an only child or because it was a miserable existence but more because it was just something I knew I wanted to do. I'm sure that a large part of it was because I never had it and because as parents, we all aim to give our children those things that we never got to have for ourselves. For some, it's a promise to sit down to dinners as a family every night of the week. For others, it's saving money to ensure that their son/daughter has a college education. For me, it's wanting my children to experience the deep bond of the love between a brother and a sister. And though I know that producing a blood relative with similar genetic makeup doesn't guarantee a "deep bond," it does guarantee that neither of them have to feel alone. They will hopefully always have each other to lean on, even when life will eventually take them down separate paths.

It was this hope that propelled me through the pukey days of the first trimester, when I could barely see the day ahead of me and even still, during those times when the anxiety is so thick that it almost feels hard to breathe. Even in those moments when I've broken down and said, "why...why did I want to do this again??" , I've at least been able to answer myself pretty truthfully. And the truth is that I didn't want to get pregnant for me. Not even for Jake. Of course, we both wanted another baby- and even talked about 3 or 4 *laughs deliriously at this now.* but if I could have skipped the pregnancy part and had the stork show up at our door with a tiny bundle, I would have made those arrangements in a heartbeat (and I doubt that I'm the only woman who's felt this way). The truth is, when I look at Ella, I simply know that she's the reason I'm pregnant again. This is as much-if not, more- for her as it is for me or Jake, or anyone else in our family. I'm sure she won't be thanking us right away, but hopefully she'll know we've done this because we love her, and one more person in the family means just one more way for her to know she's loved.

Of course, none of this is to imply that 5 years down the road, she won't actually be blaming me for the fact that he's chasing her around the house, crashing in on her tea parties and otherwise aggravating her to no end. After all, this is what brothers do best, supposedly. But it will be good for her. It will be good for all of us. ;-)