Dairy Divine

The day we confirmed the pregnancy via doctor (Kyle wouldn’t believe it till then), we went to Chick-fil-A. (This is when I could eat anything. Oh the naivete of a 4-week-pregnancy!)

Kyle ordered himself a “celebratory ice-cream cone.” I questioned, “Celebratory?”

“Sure. Might as well be.”

And this is one reason I love my husband.

While I cope by utilizing good-natured sarcasm (see last post for reference), he just copes, and moves on gracefully. He’s helped me to realize that, while God is undoubtedly laughing, he’s doing so pleasantly because he knows that he’s given us a gift beyond any other gift. I know he’s right (“he” being God and Kyle), and I’m ready to care for Little One with all my heart. And hopefully along the way I’ll begin feeling maternal. Because right now? Not so much.

Away in a Manger

Why haven't I posted in so long? Because recently my mind has been in a fog, I turn in at 9 p.m., and my meals are peanut-butter sandwiches.

And now? I’m sucking on a “Preggie Pop." A Sour Raspberry Preggie Pop.

Firstly, I’m really curious as to when terms like “preggo” and “preggie” entered our lexicon. I didn’t hear them until about a year ago, when all of my friends in town decided to get themselves fertilized. Kyle and I looked at these couples – as two by two, they fell into the trap – with horror and confusion.

“Why?” we would ask tearfully. “Why do you choose to do this to yourselves?” We had already decided that we were going to need to find younger friends. Maybe join a Singles group.

And now I’m sucking on a Preggie Pop. And God is up there, having a good ol’ time. I hear him laughing every time I turn down Chick-fil-A. I hear him laughing as I suck on my Preggie Pop. I hear him laughing approximately four times every night when I get up to go pee.

Because the doctor, six home pregnancy tests, two ultrasounds and my ever-thickening mid-section have told me that I’m knocked up indeed with child. We have ourselves an Oops!, and nowadays Kyle and I are looking at each other with horror and confusion.

This poor child’s going to be a Christmas baby.

Long live holidays

Anyone who knows Kyle and me – either individually or as a couple – also knows that we’re competitive. Now we have this record to break.

It means that I’m going to have to live till I’m at least 108, and Kyle will have to hang in there till he’s at least 107. Can we do it? I think so.

This weekend is going to be fabulous, by the way. My parents are coming to the LR metro area on Thursday, and then my brother-in-law and sister-in-law are (planning on) coming Friday! And then Easter on Sunday! I love Easter. Anyone have any special Easter customs to share? Since this will be my first married Easter, I want it to be more special than usual. : )

EDIT: What am I talking about? It's my second married Easter ... It's been a long week already.

Forever young?

Kyle: "Yeah, he's really successful. He has, like, one of those trophy wives, and everything."

I'm not sure how his definition of success meshes with our long-term marriage plan.

Never fear

I love a good dystopia: Big Brother, barren women, bald Natalie Portmans and Brave New Worlds. Social restrictions stifle, and I quiver on the couch while clutching my Mexican blanket, fearful of doom and all its inevitabilities. My husband sits beside me, cheerfully eating Blue Bell ice cream.

"Don't you KNOW that the world is going to be one giant Oppression? Probably tomorrow? And that I won't be able to have CHILDREN?"

"You don't even like children."

"True, but the government is going to start watching us through our TELEVISION."

I'm not sure when I took on such a dismal mind-set, but working at a newspaper certainly heightens it, as does life in general, sometimes. For instance, even a lost, gentle golden retriever isn't enough to spur goodwill nowadays.

Who knows how long Macy meandered through our friends' neighborhood, gazing at neighbors with confused eyes and a wagging tail. And who knows how many of these good neighbors thought, "Oh, I have to get to my pedicure in 10 minutes, so Nancy down the road will surely help the dog, who looks like the epitome of tenderness." And so Nancy becomes Bill, who becomes Josie, who becomes Niles, who becomes the unforgiving Ford Explorer. Then a family mourns, and those who should be ashamed aren't.

One by one, neighbors become a bit more callous and scoot even closer to the center of their islands. Would I have helped Macy? I don't know, but I hope I would have.

Luckily for me, I live with someone whose life-giving optimism pushes through bleakness, someone who deserves to enjoy a big bowl of his favorite ice cream. He's the hero of the dystopia film, the human equivalent of this:

Sock it to me

Kyle and I are ALWAYS in a hurry, mainly because his sense of time is like my sense of direction, except worse. I can find my way around if a map's handy, but Kyle apparently never learned how to tell time. I credit this deficiency to two factors:

1. He used to simultaneously play and broadcast his own football games in his backyard, himself playing I guess 23 characters, thereby developing a world of his own in which he created generous time restraints, which in turn were probably influenced by No. 2:

2. His best friend as a young-youngster was literally his dog. And dogs operate on a different timetable from us humans. This is a very confusing timetable, mind you, because I Googled "dog years," and Wikipedia gave me some sort of graph that hasn't helped me figure out Kyle. This is unfortunate, because I don't know why when I say this: "Hey Kyle, we need to leave for X in EIGHT MINUTES." He translates it to: "Wow, that's enough time to shave, shower, dry a load of laundry and play hide-and-go-seek with the DOG." But Kyle obviously can't live up to this warp-speed mentality even though he THINKS he can, so we're about 52 minutes late to everything because my powers of persuasion don't work on those who are operating under the canine influence.

Combine this false sense of reality with a crazy-good ability to misplace things, and we're now about, oh, 90 minutes late to everything.

Like Monday. We're already, you guessed it, running a little late, and Kyle needs his cleats for his softball game.

"They're not in my truck [where they stay permanently]," he says. "I just looked. Where ARE they?!!!"

"They should be in your truck. That's where they stay permanently," I comment.

"They're not in there," he yells with his fists in the air. "I DISTINCTLY remember bringing them into the house, and thinking that that was a dumb idea, and then not paying attention to where I set them down."

I poke around the closet for a moment and then sneak outdoors, where I see that the cleats are nestled on the truck's floorboard.

I return indoors to tell him as much. "Do you have some socks?"

"They're in the truck," he says. "I just now put them in there when I was looking for the shoes."

OK. So I head back to the truck in good faith, trying to be a doting and supportive wife who trusts her husband's word above any other.

"Oops! I DISTINCTLY remember putting them RIGHT HERE," he points to the console and scurries into our yellow house to retrieve a different pair of socks from the ones he had previously planned to take. The others, at this point, are apparently still MIA.

I had forgotten about the lost socks till we got home that night and I glanced upward while heading for the bathroom:



That is where he stuck his socks. Wedged between the bathroom and the cat's bedroom, 1.5 feet below the ceiling. It is an absentmindness that's characteristic of a special breed. Maybe it isn't as bad as wrapping one's keys in painter's tape and tossing them into the woods, but at least I'm not alone.

Super clean

Tonight at Kyle's softball game that wasn't, all us wives were chatting, and the conversation veered toward dry-cleaning. This is where I tried to mentally check-out of the conversation, because my household's idea of "dry-cleaning" is throwing clean but wrinkly clothes into the dryer, taking them out and then sort of waving them through the air.

The moral of this story is that while our friends are attributing hundreds of dollars monthly to Comet Cleaners and wearing their freshly pressed suits to work, Kyle and I spend our evenings playing old-school Super Mario Bros.

Kyle, Kyle makes me smile

Me: "Gee. I sure wish I could be a model," while looking at The Limited flier showcasing a girl looking seductively professional in her too-tight suit. Yes, I do wish I could somehow look like that in a suit.
Kyle, very matter-of-factly: "You are a model."
Kyle again: "You're a model citizen."

Kyle's doing some work. I walk into the living room, where he's working, and say:
"Hey there, busy bee."
Kyle: "Bzzzzz. Bzzzzyyyy."
Obviously I have to use this as blog fodder, since I've already broken my two-week-long vow to blog, so I go to the hall closet to retrieve my computer.
I'm greeted with this as I walk back into the living room: "Bzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzyyyy Beeeeeeeee."

Catlike reflections

A couple days ago Meredith said that she thinks cats are "misunderstood." And then I connected with the Cat.

I've decided that my newfound love of cats (primarily the sweet new Carter addition, Fiona) is because I am LIKE a cat. I am selective when it comes to friends, and I talk when I feel like talking. I also bathe regularly. I am independent and don't have obedience issues. I also don't feel obligated to like a person just because he or she is a person.

And sometimes I'm a little scaredy (note Kyle's background vocals):

To have and to hold

Parking three blocks from my downtown workplace has many cons and only three pros: I don't have to pay the $30 a month to park in the lot across from my workplace, I get some exercise (you know how they say to take the stairs instead of the elevator? this walk is my justification for not taking the stairs), and I pass the Christ Episcopal Church Book Store.

Yesterday after work I was feeling particularly unspiritual, I needed a book to read to my new cat, and I like to buy things, so the bookstore sensed my vulnerability and gave a shout out. I knew that I wanted a Lamott book, for I was also feeling particularly unwriterly and wanted inspiration.

(All those things are important in their own right and deserve to be noted, but reading and writing really don't have much at all to do with my point. Shopping does.)

I like shopping because I like Things. I am a gifts person. I am tactile,
and I think I would pray more if I were Catholic, because of the rosary. I admittedly know nothing about rosaries, except that my Irish great-aunt who's a very short nun in France gave one to my mom and that I want it.

(Kyle and I are doing a "love languages" group study, and during the "gifts" week one of the leaders said that he believes Jesus was a gifts person. I felt quite smug; I take all I can get.)

When I spend a night alone, I sleep with my Bible, for extra protection. God is actually there with me, when I hug my Bible.

At the wedding of Kyle and me, I was adamant that the preacher not explain the unity candle. Symbolism speaks for itself, I said. Things can say a lot, if you listen.

So when I stood at the counter, paying for my new book with part of the $30 I saved this month, my eye was caught by a little basket of "angel prayer charms" that had little birthstones stuck right into their hollow chests and functioned like lockets. I picked the one that held a blue stone for September. I paid the man again and left.

Today at work I typed up a 9-point-font, sentence-long prayer and folded it neatly into the angel and attached it to my key ring. I sat it in front of me, beside my cell phone and red coffee mug.

When I look at that little angel -- as when I felt it in my coat pocket on my three-block walk to work this morning -- I breathe a prayer, and I know that Kyle is safe in Georgia. I just know it, and the tiny blue stone twinkles.