I Grew Her

Ella was but 30 minutes old, and I was already hearing it.

"There's no denying her! She looks just like her father!"

Her birth pictures went up on Facebook, and it continued.

"She's the spitting image of her dad!"

Family members saw her and re-iterated it yet again.

"She's all him!"
Meanwhile, my boobs were bleeding, and my lady parts were never going to be the same because I'd pushed that so-called spitting image of my husband out of me.

Without a drop of medication, I might add.

Not. Fair.

Now, I've heard before that it's a God-given survival technique for babies to initially look like their fathers. That, because women already have hormones and our pregnancy bonding us to the baby, men need that little "That baby looks like me! Better not abandon it!" reminder so they properly attach to their child.

Makes sense.

But it still doesn't make it any easier to grasp.

Which is why, during the first few weeks, I often studied Ella mercilessly, trying to find an iota of me somewhere in her.

Her chin. Her eyelashes. Anything at all.

I know I carried her around for 9.5 months, and I know she holds half my DNA, but after the initial shock of, "Holy cow! That's my baby!" wore off I began to wonder what, exactly, she'd gotten from me, in light of all the, "She looks just like her dad!" discussion.

Luckily, it was my dad to the rescue. He brought several photos of me as a baby to compare to Ella.

And, honestly, it was a little bit astounding.

Here I am, as a newborn...
And at 10 days old...
And here's Ella as a newborn...

And at 6 weeks old...
Granted, she's not all me, but I'd say there's a distinct resemblance.

Yep. That's my baby.

I grew her, and there's definitely no denying it.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Birth-Order Anxiety

I am a first-born.

This probably comes as no shock to you, seeing as how I am all things typical when it comes to being a first-born.

I'm a leader. I'm bossy. I'm Type-A. I'm a worrier. I'm talkative. I'm a perfectionist. I'm a teacher's pet. I'm reliable and timely to a fault. I'm a cope-r. I'm driven but a bit of a steam-roller. I'm maternal. I am, and have always been, going on the approximate age of 65.

I've lived my whole life this way. It is in my nature. And, honestly, I've never thought much about it.

Until I got pregnant. With our first child.

Our first-born.

Baby Girl here is going to have the same role in our family as I did in mine: The loud, bossy, old-at-heart big sister.

Just ask my two younger brothers. They'll tell you. They'll tell you all about what it's like to have me as the family's oldest.

Just be warned: They may gripe a little.

Still, I have to admit, I like it. I've always liked it. I have lots of friends who are babies of their families. Heck, I married one. And while I adore them and their care-free natures, I swear, sometimes, they make me want to give them all a lecture on timeliness and punctuality.

And then, those middle children. Those poor, sensitive middle children. I don't understand them. I'm empathetic toward them, true. But I just don't get them, you know? When my brother - the classic middle child - talks through something or justifies a certain action of his, I just end up staring at him as if he's got two heads. I love him, but I also think he's bizarre.

Still, the fact remains that this child in my belly is not going to be my only child. We want at least four kids, whether they come from us or are adopted. So I will have to raise middle children and a youngest child. I will be the mother of more than just my first-born.

This, frankly, terrifies me.

Just a few weeks ago, at my baby shower, after all was said and done, I actually got a bit emotional about it.

I had just finished sorting through beautiful, home-made baby blankets; sweet, hand-sewn baby blocks and toys; a one-of-a-kind quilt, and - the final nail in my emo-pregnancy coffin - a beautiful book named "Who Loves [Our Baby Girl's Name?]"

In the book, our family members and close friends had scrap-booked pages together, filled with pictures of them and us and perfectly written letters to our first-born Baby Girl.

The letters brought tears to my eyes almost immediately. They were funny and sweet and told our daughter all about who they were and how much they already loved her.

It was one amazing gift, and I knew that, as long as she lived, my daughter was going to treasure that book.

Then, it hit me.

What about our next baby?

Our future-future son or daughter.

I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my family and friends would love our second child just as much as they loved Baby Girl, but my concern lay more along the lines of, "Will that child know it?"

After all, as a toddler, it's easy to count grapes in a bowl and yell, "Sissy has more than me!" But it's not always so tangible to see the love that we adults carry for the younger generations in our families.

I can almost picture the day when I'll be sitting on the floor of my living room, two or three kids around me, digging through the memory boxes I've started for them all.

Baby Girl will pull out her baby blankets. Her homemade quilt. Her precious family book.

And Child #2? He or she will be left with holding an old teddy bear and wondering, "Where's my book? Where's my letter from Aunt Sarah?"

It's enough to break my heart, honestly. Even if I, as a first-born, never really had to experience that.

I am the child in the family with memento after memento. My mother has more pictures of my first year of life than any other time in our family history. There are photos of me smiling, not smiling, sitting, standing, laying down, pooping, eating watermelon, laughing, crying, and crawling around with a Christmas bow stuck to my butt.

My brothers? Not so much. Somewhere, in some box, my mother does have some photos of them. But, especially for the baby in the family, they are much fewer and far between.

Even those that she does have tend to also bear her other children in them.

Poor Brad, my littlest brother. I doubt he so much as has one infant photo of himself where he's not surrounded by a 6-year-old yours truly and a somber toddler. (In true, middle-child fashion, the second-born in our family was a bit shy around the camera.)

Not that my parents didn't try. They adored us all and loved us all and never played favorites.

But my mother was too busy to scrapbook pictures of her third child. She was running around driving her first-born to kindergarten and potty-training her second.

It got so bad that, when Brad was but 4 or 5 years old, my mother had signed him up for pre-school soccer. She was taking him to his first practice, and on her way, she dropped 10-year-old me off at gymnastics and my 7-year-old brother at basketball practice.

Brad then promptly threw a fit and refused to go to soccer. My mother couldn't figure out why until she finally wheedled out of him, "Why don't Brittany and Brett have to come watch me at my practice? It's not fair!"

The poor kid had a point. He'd been dragged to our various events and practices and games and recitals since he'd popped out of the womb. He'd been breast-fed on bleachers, napped on auditorium chairs, and entertained and fed into submission during birthday parties.

And finally, just when he thought he was going to get revenge - we were going to have to wait on him for a change - his dreams were dashed.

Poor, poor baby.

It's the burden you bear, I guess, not being the first-born child.

Then again, there were definite advantages to being the baby, too. Especially on the flip-side.

By the time Brad's teenage years hit, my parents had mellowed out quite a bit.

He got away with things I'd never gotten away with. He spent years and years alone with my parents, something I hadn't done since I was 2.5 years old. He didn't have to fight over Friday-night pizza toppings or share his ice cream.

The kid had the house and our parents all to himself.

Still, I have a box full of memorabilia. His isn't so impressive.

I graduated college and shared the spotlight with no one. When he finishes college, he will share the spotlight with our new baby and my other brother's recent wedding.

You could chalk it all up to the fact that life's just not fair.

Then again, that seems a bit cruel. Especially when you're talking about children.

So, yeah, I worry.

I look at how immeasurably blessed Baby Girl has been - with gifts and love and people calling and checking in on me and her daily - and I worry that my other children won't have that.

My other kids will be old-hat by then. We won't be new parents. My parents won't be new grand-parents. Baby #2 will be born into the shadow that's inevitably cast by every first-born.

Not that he or she won't be any less loved.

And not that he or she won't be any less wanted.

Even now, sitting here, barely able to contain the immeasurable love I already feel for this baby in my belly, I know my heart will grow enough to fit the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that.

It's common knowledge that we don't simply run out of love.

But the fact remains that, when my subsequent children dig through their boxes of life, will they know it? Will they figure out that we - and all those around us - wanted them just as bad as our first? Will they know that, even if their receiving blanket was a hand-me-down, that we were just as thrilled bringing them home wrapped up in it as we were Baby Girl?

Will they know that we will never love another child more than we love them?

I hope so.

I think so.

I just wish I was sure.

***

I have made vain attempts and promises to myself, as I sit and sew Baby Girl's quilt or work on her scrapbook, that I will make myself do the same thing for our subsequent children.

But history and logic are not on my side. Too many moms have tried and failed.

And, yet, when you ask my brothers, my friends who are the babies in their family, and the middle children I know and love, if they felt any less love and affection from their parents, they will most likely tell you "No."

Or, at the very least, not when they look back on their childhoods as adults.

So how do we do that? How do we let our children know that we love them all equally? That life just means second-and third-born kids may not get as much one-on-one affection but that they are equally important to our family structure?

Am I the only one who worries about this? Is this just another manifestation of my first-born personality? Or is this a legitimate concern carried around by parents everywhere?

I'd love your input on this one! We're all somebody's child, even if we aren't mothers yet. So this is something we can all relate to!

Share below!

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

My Big, Fat, Widening Christmas Gift

We spent a lot of time over the holidays talking with both sides of our families about our grandparents' generation.

In many respects, they seemed to do a lot right. Without all the vestiges of control we have governing our lives - cell phones, TiVo, e-mails - they kind of took what life gave them and thrived anyway.

They were smarter with money than we are; they raised kids with less problems than we do; they understand honor and service to country and fellow man better than we do, in many respects.

Not that I'm about to go throwing away my new MacBook and wishing for the days of yore just yet.

But sometimes, I miss the fact that people whined less and lived more. It's why I have the utmost respect for my grandparents.

Still, sometimes, nostalgia is just that.

Nostalgia.

Because that generation has also picked up a few tendencies that we, or rather, I, could live without.

They weren't as willing to discuss differences; many grew up in a segregated world, for instance.

And quite a few never picked up a fair dose of tact, it seems.

Take my own grandfather, for instance.

A boisterous 80-something-year-old, the man has survived wars, economic depressions, six kids, and my teeny, tiny, Italian grandmother. He's nothing short of an exemplary senior citizen, who loves his family, stays healthy, saved money responsibly, volunteers his time admirably, and retired reasonably.

He does a lot of things right that my generation does wrong.

But he does it all without any sort of internal filter.

It's amazing he wasn't slapped with a lawsuit years ago. For sexual harassment. Or just plain harassment. Or, better yet, plain and stupid use of opening one's mouth and inserting one's foot.

Because, as I was leaving his house Christmas night, struggling to hold a gift and a purse and my mother's casserole dish, he hugs me good-bye and then stops and examines me for a bit.

He looks me over for a good 30 seconds before saying, loudly and to the entire room full of our relatives, "You know, your behind is getting wider back there, isn't it?"

Um, excuse me?

But then, as a simple afterthought, he managed to chuckle and add, "But oh well! I guess that can't be helped!"

Thanks, Grandpa.

I tried to wipe the surprised look off my face, which was hard, as I was now concentrating on not knocking down any token aunts or uncles with my ever-widening derriere, which, thanks to this child I'm carrying, seems to have become some kind of encroaching weapon of mass destruction, according to the elderly.

I eventually managed a laugh before hastily beating me and my big butt back to the car, trying to remember the one time one of my cousin's girlfriends - a curvy but shorter girl - had been accused of "not being petite at all," by the very same grand-father.

She had had it way worse.

Then again, she hadn't married into the family. In fact, after that eventful day, I'm pretty sure we never saw her again. She was smart, and she ran far, far away from us. And rightfully so.

But me? I was born in, and I was stuck with this grandfatherly comment on my record for the rest of my life.

It would outlive him, and people would be laughing about it for years to come. I could hear it.

My husband, meanwhile, was scrambling behind me, already trying to do damage control, reminding me how tiny I was, how the midwives said I was measuring under what most women who are four months along measure, how it was probably just the pants I was wearing.

I vowed to burn those maternity skinny jeans right there and then.

And also, never, ever long for the days of yore again.

Because while I miss the old American work ethic, I'd miss the fact that people in our generation lie even more.

People my age will say, with skill, "No, those jeans don't make you look fat."

Or, "You are just as tiny as you were before you were pregnant."

Or, "There's no way you're carrying around extra water weight in your face. Or your arms. And definitely not your butt."

They do it so well that I believe them. And like it.

Heck, I eat that stuff up.

And, for the next five months, I'd rather live in denial than face the brutal honesty, Grandpa.

So, lie to me. Lie to me and my growing-by-the-second behind.

Forget the days of yore, at least for now.

Me and my big butt thank you.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Bane of Air Traffic Everywhere

I intended to blog yesterday.

Until I sat on the tarmac on the Fayetteville, Ark., airport for 2.5 hours Sunday night.

While it was nothing short of miraculous that we made my husband's grandmother's funeral this weekend, it was nothing short of a disaster getting us back.

All because of an infamous Southern city, known in some circles as Hot-lanta. Or, for the more mundane Southerner out there, plain, old Atlanta, Ga.

But me? I like to call it Pure Evil.

You see, as any good Southerner knows, flying through Atlanta can wreak havoc on even the best of traveling itineraries.

Which, on Sunday, it did. To the hubs, me, and several other thousand travelers who made the unfortunate and almost unavoidable choice of booking a flight that touched down and/or took off from that ridiculous hole of an international hub.

We sat in Arkansas because of inclement weather, on the tarmac, for 150 minutes. Two-and-a-half hours. More than 1/12 of my day.

All waiting on Atlanta to give us permission to take off on our two-hour flight.

Finally, we managed to taxi off, but only after the oh-so-sensitive flight attendant warned us approximately 24 times that it was going to be "really bumpy, wild, badbadbad ride, so please keep your seat belts on, whatever you do. It's going to be crazy, people. Crazy."

So comforting, I tell you. She had the bedside manner of a sadistic nurse, who warns you, a full hour before injecting you with a huge syringe, that "this is going to be some of the worst pain of your life. So hold on and get ready!"

After I wiped away my tears - I'm not a great flyer, and that flight attendant seriously freaked me out - I managed to rally enough to survive the flight and sprint off the plane, only to see our connecting flight into South Carolina taxi off, even though they, too, had been delayed.

But just not enough for the hubs and me to make it back home before midnight.

Luckily, the hub's military haircut and panic-stricken look, along with his terrified and barely holding-back-sobs wife, managed to finagle us seats on the final plane into Charleston that evening.

Miracle of miracles, considering we were in The Airport of Pure Evil.

But not so miraculous that we got out promptly. Our final flight finally took off at 1 a.m.

Oh, sweet heavens.

We had dinner, luckily, while waiting. At 11 p.m. And we took a small nap. At 11:30 p.m. I finished a book and a magazine. At 12:15 p.m.

And, then, finally, we boarded our plane and took a blessedly uneventful flight home.

We plopped into bed bright and early at 3 a.m.

Only to get up at 6 a.m. Monday morning for work.

Holy heaven, I've never been so tired. Nor has my butt ever been so sore. If I never sit on a plane that long again, it will be too soon.

Still, I'm so glad we went. While funerals aren't exactly like taking a ride on a party bus, they are a celebration of someone's precious life and the legacy they've left behind.

Being with my in-laws and my husband's family was special and wonderful, even if there were tears shed (and not just those induced by threats of turbulence dancing in my head.)

There were also laughs exchanged and stories told. Even the occasional embarrassing incident occurred, which will undoubtedly become fodder for future family stories for years to come.

Case in point: One little nephew of mine pointing at the coffin mid-service, and mid-quiet, and asking, in the projectile voice only a 3 year old can manage, "Is that D- in there? Right there in that box? D-'s in there, right Mom? Right, Auntie? D's in that big old box right up there!"

The whole church heard.

Leave it to a toddler to make everyone crack a cackle at a funeral.

While some people probably thought it horrifying, we found it funny and adorable and oh-so-charming. It was just another memory in the wreath of this family's legacy.

Life is full of moments and memories, and none are exclusive. All, in fact, are important. And if you can't celebrate them all, then what's the point of get-togethers, weddings, funerals, baptisms, birthdays, embarrassing outbursts, and random cook-outs on your back porch?

Tears. Laughter. Smiles. Sighs. Shocked statements. All are little reactions to those we love. And, even though this weekend contained a funeral and a farewell to a beloved matriarch, it also contained more of those simple life moments.

Plenty of which were spent aboard a plane on a tarmac in Arkansas.

But even more of which were spent amid the arms and laughter of the ones we love.

And for that, I'm grateful.

***

Thank you all, yet again, for your support in these hard times. Your comments last Thursday were so appreciated. Your blessings and prayers warmed both the hubs' and my heart. Thank you for being there for us.

Happy Tuesday!

Yard of the Month

My parents moved into their current home about 11 years ago.

And from that my point on, my father had a clear-cut goal:

Our house was going to win the homeowner association's coveted title of "Yard of the Month."

So the man cut and clipped and planted and sewed. He sodded and watered and trimmed and mowed.

He put his heart and soul into that yard, and...

Nothing.

He watched neighbor after neighbor wake up to find the treasured "Yard of the Month" sign stuck in their lawn, all while scoffing, "Look at that uneven trim! And their hedges? We have much fuller hedges than they do!"

Month after month of gardening glory with no title to show for it? It stung.

My dad was like a pageant girl without a crown.

Worse yet, his humiliation hit an all-time low when his own sons - my two younger brothers - began mowing and clipping neighborhood lawns to make extra cash one summer.

Within weeks of starting their own business, the yards they worked on were also named "Yard of the Month."

The grasshoppers had become the teacher, and my father's bromeliads hadn't been given so much as a passing glance by the powers-that-be at the homeowner's association.

The poor man was livid.

And he only grew more so as years passed.

He wielded his lawn shears with venom; he mowed with an intensity that would put John Deere to shame. Fertilizer became his middle name.

Until, finally, one December about four years ago, Dad walked out the front door to go to work.

And saw it.

The little metal sign, proudly emblazoning "Yard of the Month," in his own front lawn.

No one was around to witness the discovery, so we can't be sure, but I'd wager, in that moment, the man did a little heel click of glee, he was so happy.

Soon after, we all started to receive phone calls.

Having moved away years before, I answered the call from my father with just enough time to hear him yell, "I HAVE EXCELLENT NEWS!"

My heart immediately leaped, and the guessing game began.

"Did Brett [my brother] get accepted into the Naval Academy?" (We found out later that he did.)

My Dad replied with a curt, "No. Better."

"Did you get a big raise or promotion?"

Again, Dad said, "No."

"Are you and Mom buying a bigger house/a car/getting another dog?"

I kept asking, and he kept replying with "No, no, no." Then he up-ed the ante by adding the line, "It's something even better than all that."

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. After a small, dramatic pause, he blurted out, "I GOT 'YARD OF THE MONTH!' VICTORY IS MINE!"

My resulting laughter was probably insulting to his green thumb.

But I couldn't help it. And he didn't much care.

He'd summitted his Everest, and all it took was a yard sign.

Still, we celebrated. Days later, I came home to visit for Christmas, bringing several friends with me. They gave him a standing ovation when he walked in the door.

We all patted him on the back and joked about taking pictures of him with the sign.

My mother may have even bought him a new garden hose and hanging perennial to celebrate.

Then, we moved on.

And four years later, it's never come back. The glory days have never returned.

The man's never won again.

His moment in the spotlight has passed.

Until now.

Because just yesterday, I returned to our new home after taking Marvin the Dog out for a walk, and I found a neighborhood newsletter stuck to my front door.

It was a bulletin, peppered with family events going on throughout our neighborhood on the naval base.

There's a family picnic going on tonight, and post-natal personal training classes starting in one week (taught by yours truly.) There's reminders about what day maintenance picks up yard clippings and trash. And there's warnings to keep neighborhood dogs on leashes at all times, for the safety of the small children that seem to be everywhere.

And, at the very end of the bulletin, lay one more note of interest:

Yard of the Month Competition Begins Now!
Winning family will receive a $25 gift card to restaurant of choice.
Good Luck!

For not being much of a gardener, I have to admit, my interest was peaked.

Since the Navy mows our lawns for us, winning this thing shouldn't be harder than planting a few annuals and purchasing a few yard flags, right?

Well, bring it on.

I have a family name to defend.

Time to bring the title back home.

Now somebody pass me my lawn shears. I've got a sign to win.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone! Don't miss out on the chance to win $100 gift card on my other blog.

A New Calling

I keep getting the question.

Every time I tell someone I'm moving, they ask it.

I can literally count - one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand - and then?

They say it.

They always say it.

"Do you have a job up there yet?"

Every. Single. Time.

I'm starting to dread it, really.

The answer. Or the lack of one, that is.

Because, the truth is, it's a kinda "Yes." And a kinda "No." And a whole lot of, "Of course I do, but you probably wouldn't consider it one, so I don't know what to say to you."

Honestly, when I get to South Carolina, I am 99.9-percent sure I will not be teaching when the next school year rolls around.

I will be working at a gym up there, and I have several freelancing jobs lined up that will allow me to write from home and help contribute to the household cash-flow.

But I will not be a teacher while we're living in South Carolina.

And - if I'm being brutally honest - that scares me a little bit.

After all, I've walked around now for a while with a lot of job titles. I've been a nanny, a sales clerk, a photographer's assistant, a coach, a fitness instructor, a trainer, an intern, an adjunct, a writer, a research assistant, a journalist, a counselor, a teacher, and more.

I've been working since I was 14, and I'm terribly tired.

Not that I haven't loved my jobs. In a way, I've loved them all, especially teaching.

I enjoy being an educator, and despite all my recent jokes with my students that their "bad behavior ran me out of the classroom," I'm not leaving the profession because I hate it. (Though I do have lots of emotional scars, fear and damage associated with administrators and educational powers-that-be that would make anyone think twice about stepping foot back in a classroom, but that's a different post for a different day.)

Being a teacher was a huge blessing. It taught me a lot. And, one day, I feel I'll return to it.

But not now.

Now, I'm putting that purposefully behind me, tough as it may be.

And, trust me, it is tough. I spent years "fighting the man." I graduated with multiple degrees, and I've fought my way through a lot of jobs. I'm not happy until I'm readily proficient in what I do, and if it's within my means, I want to be even better than proficient. Much better.

Before, when people asked me what I did, I always had an answer:

I'm a journalist.

I'm a graduate student

I'm a high-school teacher.

But now, I'm none of those things.

Because I'm moving to South Carolina to be a wife.

To, hopefully, be a mother.

To supplement and support my husband and family with whatever it takes for us to survive and flourish.

And that?

That is going to look very different than anything else I've done up until this point.

Some weeks, I'll be working from my home office; writing, editing, bringing in a small paycheck.

And others?

I'll be mopping floors, changing beds, stockpiling dinners, and scrubbing toilets for the umpteenth time.

Currently, my husband is working from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m.

That's a long day.

That's a day that won't allow him to take out the trash, or fix the computer, or cook dinner. That's a day that won't allow him to pay bills, or walk the dog, or schedule dentist appointments. That's a day that won't allow him to hang shelves, or vacuum carpets, or wash his own clothes.

That's a day that won't allow him to chip-in around the house like he used to. Like he did when we were both working 40-hour weeks.

Not that the household duties have changed. Someone's still got to do them.

So that someone will be me.

And, no, not because he's The Man, but because this move was about what was best for us.

Not about what was best for my career.

Not about what was best for my financial prosperity.

Not about what was best for my ego.

It was about Patrick and me, husband and wife. Thriving together.

So, then, I'll do it.

I'll do all of it.

The toilets, the trash, the bills, the breakfasts-lunches-dinners.

I'll walk the dog, and teach at the gym, and write a little. I'll do it.

In fact, I'm happy to do it.

More than three years ago, my husband moved to Florida to be closer to me. He sacrificed a lot so I could go to graduate school, before we were even married. After our wedding, he worked in a job he hated for almost two years while I worked as a teacher. And he did this all very selflessly.

But, then, he found a place in the U.S. Navy that would make him feel more fulfilled and would allow us both to better provide for a future family.

So he took it. We took it.

And now, we're finally moving toward it.

And I'm leaving my job behind.

I'm so happy; I'm beyond thrilled to return to my husband. I'm ecstatic to make him dinners and spend our (late) evenings together. I'm even excited about doing his dirty laundry; I've missed being in our married lifestyle just that much.

But there is a part of me that worries.

A part of me that feels bad.

A part of me that wonders if leaving my teaching career behind will leave a part of me behind.

It's been such a huge part of my life for years now. And I'm not sure what will define me if I don't have the words "Teacher" slapped across my forehead in invisible ink anymore.

Yet, I know it's unrealistic.

I know I can't work the hours I work while he works the hours he works and try to keep our household and family growing. I know we can't afford to certify me in a state where I most likely won't teach for more than 1.5 years. I know that we can't enjoy our marriage if we're both exhausted and brain-dead from long days at our respective offices.

But that doesn't mean I'm not scared.

Because, honestly, I am. I'm terrified.

I'm terrified that people will think I'm stupid - uneducated, even - because I don't have a typical job. I'm worried that I'll feel purpose-less, like I have no real worth in a world that values what we do and not who we are. I'm freaked out that I'll be less of a person without the very stress and worry that comes from being a part of the workforce.

However, I realize how lucky I am: To be able to make money from home. To be able to stay home with my children, when I have them. To support my husband's needs without worrying how they'll fit into my lunch break. To know that the military has given us a safety net, in case my working from home fails.

But I also know how society looks at women who "waste" their education and careers on their families.

And though I disagree with it - I was raised by a stay-at-home mother; I have friends who have made this sacrifice for their families - I'm still afraid to be the target of that kind of disdain.

I'm worried I'm not strong to enough to stand up for women who read classic literature and also bake cookies with their toddlers.

I'm worried my heart isn't strong enough to thrive at home under that kind of outside pressure.

I'm worried my blog isn't strong enough to carry on without the stories of educational days gone wrong and teenage angst.

No matter how much I fight it; no matter how right it feels - and don't get me wrong, it feels incredibly right to work from home and focus on my family instead of my job - I'm worried.

Because every time I hear the question "Do you have a job up there yet?" I'm worried what people will say when they hear my honest-to-goodness answer:

No, I don't. I'm not going to be teaching up there. I have a part-time job lined up as a trainer at the gym there, and I'm hoping to supplement our family income by returning to freelance-writing. But my husband's new job is very demanding, and we both need someone at home to focus on that front while he works. We've decided that person will be me. So that's where I'll be.

At home.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Don't forget to check out my $100 gift card giveaway!

We steal puppies

WARNING: Lengthy post, but kind of unbelievable. And I need some guidance. So if you can read all the way through this and offer some advice, I'd be most grateful. Thanks, sweet friends!

Let me take you back.

It was three weeks ago - a Friday night. I'd finished teaching school, then Body Pump, then I'd run to the grocery store.

It was 9:45 p.m. when I walked in the door, talking to my best friend, Sherri.

I put down my bags, kicked off my shoes, and switched the cell to the other ear.

And then, I saw them, sticking up and visible through the glass partition of the back door to the yard.

Not one, not two, but three tails.

Attached to not one, not two, but three dogs.

I believe my exact words were:

"Um, why in the world are there THREE dogs in my backyard right now?"

Two, sure. We've got Marvin and Fish.
But three? Three? THREE?

Yes, three.

There was a little reddish-brown puppy, tail a-wagging, nestled right between Marvin and Fish, waiting for her "Mommy's home!" treat, as if this was business as usual.

She was adorable.

She was sweet.

And she was missing both her ears.

Yes, both ears.

Someone appeared to have literally cut both her ears off with a blunt, rusted pair of scissors.

Poor thing.

Once I figured out what I was looking at, I'll admit, I cried.

I'm a softy when it comes to babies and puppies. Especially babies and puppies who have been treated cruelly.

But I wiped my tears, scooped her up and paced our backyard, trying to figure out if she'd broken some kind of unspoken Canine Law of Physics and actually dug into the yard.

No dice.

It appeared someone had chucked her over our privacy fence, after noting our two rather content, well-fed dogs taking a dip in their own kiddie pool. (Yes, I know. Sad but true. Our dogs have their own kiddie pool.)

I brought her in, along with her two new big brothers Marvin and Fish - who really didn't seem to understand what all the fuss was about - and then fed her. Marvin and Fish were very respectful, letting her eat a week's worth of their food from their bowl. (Apparently, she was starving, too.)

My husband got home and immediately went into action. And by action, I mean, rocking her like a baby and wiping her down with a moist towelette.

We ascertained she was a female, who had a natural propensity to hump air.

Yes, air. Not people, not dogs, not chair legs. Just air. (Don't know why I'm telling you this. Just seems important.)

We then tucked her into a make-shift towel bed and went to sleep ourselves.

By the time I woke up the next morning, Patrick had named her Ruby, after...well...himself. (Little known fact about my husband: The doctors thought he was a girl, and thus, his mother planned to call him Ruby, until he came out, and he was a big, bald, baby boy. He still maintains he named the puppy Ruby because of her reddish coat, but he's not fooling me.)

Anyways, Ruby had a blissful weekend, eating and swimming and playing with Marvin and Fish.

Until Sunday afternoon, when a 16-year-old kid came knocking on our door.

Patrick answered. The kid - who, I'm going to be honest, resembled more of a cop's worst nightmare than an actual child - said we had his dog in our backyard. And Patrick, not being scared of the Man-Child, proceeded to lay into him with a barrage of questions about the ears, her matted coat, her starvation.

The kid mumbled some answers. (I couldn't hear him. I was too busy crying in the back room.)

In the end, we gave him the dog back. She went to him happily when he called her, and we didn't know what to do.

Until the next day...

I was leaving for work, and she was sitting by my car. At 6:30 in the morning.

I put her in the backyard, where she stayed until the same Man-Child came forth to retrieve her that afternoon. The hubs gave him the dog back. Again.

But not before asking him where he lived.

The Man-Child pointed to a house at the end of our street. And Patrick gasped.

That house, three and half years ago, was where friends of ours rescued Marvin.

Marvin, at six weeks old, had been chained to a fence and left outside of that very home -without food, without water, withstanding rain and cold and what have you - for a week.

Who could abandon that little Marvy face? Who, I ask you, who?

A friend of ours had listened to Baby Marvin cry for about a week straight before getting up the nerve to, well, steal the dog.

No one ever came for him, and two months later - after bouncing around our friends' homes - I took him. And I've kept him, 80 pounds later.

Apparently, though, adopting Marv wasn't enough to break the cycle of abuse. Ruby was proof positive of that.

So at this point, both Patrick and I were in a fit. We actually hatched some ill-conceived plan to break into their fenced backyard and free Ruby one more time, hoping she could make a dash for a better life somewhere far, far away. But then, we thought better of it (considering the dog-abusing home has a lot of issues, least of all the fact that it's inhabited by dog abusers.)

But we swore, the next time Ruby ran, we'd get her out of there.

Or so we thought...

Patrick did find her frolicking in our front yard the next day.

He picked her up and put her in the backyard with her new ad-hoc babysitters Marvin and Fish and went to work, vowing he'd take her to the shelter as soon as he got home.

Except, when he returned, she was gone.

Apparently, Man-Child had just hopped the fence this time and taken Ruby. More proof that we've got two ferocious looking babies guarding our house, because Marv and Fish didn't appear to have even put up a fight for their new little foster sister.

Later that night, we figured things were over; we'd lost our chance. Our spirits were down. The Man-Child from the dog-abusing household had wised up to Ruby's wily ways and was keeping her somewhere where she could no longer escape.

We'd thought we'd won a few battles, but we'd lost the war.

Until...

...a week later.

When Patrick opens the front door at midnight because he hears a noise...

...a scratching noise!

Good old Rubes was at our front door, scratching to be let in!
She was even worse off. Skin and bones. She appeared to have chewed through a scratchy cord, which she must have been tied up with, as she had cuts from it around her neck and remnants of it hanging from her body.

Patrick was waiting for the Humane Society folks on their doorstep before they were even open for business the very next morning.

He explained we couldn't keep her; the Man-Child would come back for her, if recent history was any indicator, but he told them what he knew of her story. They took her in right away.

And we felt good. We felt great! We felt wonderful!

We had saved Rubes!

Until the Man-Child came asking for her later that day...

...and Patrick lied and said we didn't have her. (OK, it's technically not a lie, but you know...)

And then the guilt started.

I've stolen two dogs. Two dogs!

Two dogs from, apparently, the same people!

Do these people abuse dogs and/or children and/or run some kind of sex business out of their home?

Allegedly. (Seriously, not sure, but the matron of the home is either turning tricks or selling drugs, what with the coming and going and unsavory visitors that revolve through that home constantly. And come to think of it, her kids don't go to school and wander the streets at all hours. Wonder if I can rescue them, too...)

But still, the fact of the matter is, we still stole two of their dogs.

Two.

And yes, you can argue that we raised Marvin in the lap of doggie luxury, even after working with him for two years to fight serious abandonment issues. You can make a case for the fact that we gave Ruby a chance at a better life - a life she wanted, seeing as how she ran - to us! - no less than four times.

But we had to steal them to do it.

Which, let's face it, is technically wrong.

Oh, the guilt! It's killing me.

I feel like I've made Sophie's Choice right about now.

***

So, what would you have done? And better yet, what would you do now? Because get this...

We just found out they have two more dogs like Ruby. We saw them while walking the neighborhood yesterday. They are chained up in the backyard. And you guessed it. They don't have any ears and appear skeletal.

Patrick's afraid to call animal control, since they will definitely know it's us - those crazy hippie dog-lovers - who reported them. And, frankly, I'm not all that keen on seeing how they react to that, either.

But those dogs. They weigh on my heart.

So, I'm begging you.

We're desperate; we're a sad, sad case.

We have this terrible problem.

We steal puppies.

Help us, please, before we start stealing their children, too.

The end is near...

Scientists, Biblical scholars and conspiracy theorists everywhere have spent countless hours and tons of research power attempting to predict the end of times.

Priests, pastors and literary scholars have read and re-read Revelations, wondering what the Bible's final chapters are telling us with their Four Horseman of the Apocalypse and their veiled metaphorical statements about what lies ahead for the world at large.

Even Hollywood got in on the action, taking the Left Behind series of books, pulling Kurt Cameron out of his Growing Pains past, and placing him smack dab in the Great Tribulation and the resulting reign of the Antichrist.

And yet, I'm pretty sure everybody missed something.

Scientists, Biblical scholars, conspiracy theorists, novelists, film producers, and yes, even Kurt Cameron.

They all missed one big, glaring, "Holy cow! The end is coming!" sign.

But I have news for you. The end is coming.

Because just yesterday, I received the sign:

My mother has joined Facebook.

The woman who wouldn't let her children watch cartoons because they were too violent has up and joined the social media network known for giving young teenagers everywhere the ability to "poke" their friends via the World Wide Web.

Send in the Four Horsemen, people.

I mean, I suppose I should have known this would happen.

During family get-togethers, she's spent copious amounts of time peering over my brothers and my shoulders, staring at pictures of our childhood friends weddings, babies, and new homes.

She then started paying all her bills online, and like many a mom before her, started forwarding every virus, chain e-mail and sappy love story she could get her hands on.

One time, she even threatened to start a blog.

But who knew she'd take a flying leap and land Facebook-first?

Granted, I'm not so sure she's too good at it, yet. So far, she's managed to find her three children, declare her religious beliefs and proclaim the fact that she's "Interested In: Men."

She's also managed to give herself the affiliation "Married," although to who remains a mystery to cyperspace, as it's not like my father is joining Facebook anytime soon.

Dad, I'm sorry, but that marriage license counts for nothing. Haven't you heard? If it's not on Facebook, it's not, like, official official.

And Mom, if you've been married since the Dark Ages, there really isn't much of a need to declare you're "Interested In: Men." Your three children you managed to find and tag pretty much let cyperspace know that you like boys.

But back to the end of times...

My mother has also managed to post her birthday, then re-post her birthday without her tell-tale year of birth on her Facebook account.

And with lightening speed, she's even learned how to un-tag herself in all manner of photos.

While I'm not shocked, as she's been known to moonlight as the Woman Who Will Kill You If You Take a Picture of Her, I'm surprised she managed to learn the art of un-tagging so quickly.

Apparently, Facebook is easier to work than my father's beloved cable-TV remote control.

So now, I'm left with a choice.

Will I be a good daughter, leaving her loving messages all over her "Wall," or will my Subversive Daughter Self emerge, launching a four-part, photo-album series entitled the Life and Times of My Mother, where I can tag her in a good 200+ photos?

Let me tell you, fighting the the urge to do the latter may kill me.

I've only held back this long for fear she may very well finally come to her senses and disown me.

Although, really, she'd probably just "un-friend" me on Facebook, which, while quite the cyper-slap, wouldn't be the worst fight we ever had.

So, if you'll excuse me, I've got some photos of my mother to tag.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

"We're" having a baby!

On Saturday, I got a visit from one of my best friends in the whole wide world.

You know, the kind of friend that knows everything about you and still loves you any way?

Yeah, that kind of friend.
Sherri and I have been friends since we were kids, raised in the same town, by parents who home-schooled us both.

We have, together, survived it all, along with our third partner in crime, Melissa, who was right there alongside us, growing up in Central Florida, taking flute lessons and attending band practices, and throwing sleepovers and pigging out on junk food.

We were inseparable.

And as adults, while real life did separate us, placing us in different cities and even across the Atlantic Ocean from each other, we've still always been able to re-unite at important moments and in important times.

We were bridesmaids in each others' weddings; we've celebrated holidays together.

We've cried and laughed on the phone, in person, and over e-mail more times than seems possible considering the miles of water and land that have sometimes separated us.

We talk, incessantly at times, about everything.

About husbands; about families; about households, and for the last year especially, we talk about babies.

We talk about wanting them, having them, conceiving them, not conceiving them, struggling with the thoughts of raising them, crying at the thought of not having them, loving the ones "we" already have (Melissa's two beautiful boys,) and praying for the ones we've lost.

As weird as it sounds, the state of our collective wombs has, at times, been the biggest worry and the greatest source of joy for all of us over these last two years or so.

And still, on Saturday, when Sherri ventured two hours north to come visit me, I didn't think anything of it, other than fact that most likely, we had a long day of talking ahead of us.

Until she cleverly hid a little surprise for me by my kitchen sink...
...letting me know that on April 7, 2010, I was going to be an "aunt" again!

"We" are going to have a baby.

Quite literally, I felt my heart soar.

Because while it's technically not "my" baby, it is a child I have wanted and prayed for right along with her. We all have.

So I feel blessed. I feel happy. I feel so very thankful for this gift.

I will get to watch another one of my best friends become a mother.

I will get to celebrate her growing family right alongside her and her husband.

I will get to cuddle her new blessing, thank God for him/her, and worry over him/her over the next few months while she holds that baby in her womb and later, as he/she learns to walk, talk, run and move out into the world, away from all of "us."

Because yes, it is not my child, but she is my best friend.

And "we" are having a baby!

***

P.S. As a freshmen journalism major, I learned very early on that using words like "murder," "catastrophe," and "sex" in headlines for news stories that weren't actually about murder, catastrophe or sex is Big Journalism No-No Numero Uno.

And yet, I realize I've committed the female-blogger equivalent of that crime today. (Seriously, the word "baby" in the blogosphere can be like the word "bomb" in a crowded airport.)

So I apologize, fervently, if I misled you. However, my excitement far outweighs my ability to come up with a witty headline for this post, and I'll be honest. I just gave up and went with an abbreviated version of my original, yet still-truthful post title:

We are having a baby, and I don't have to give birth to it!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Something happens to my brain every Aug. 27? Aug. 28? The 24th? Oh, crud!

I have a mental block for two specific dates in the 365-day calendar. I have this same, exact block every, stinkin' year.

It just so happens that those dates happen to be the birthdays of the two most important men in my life.

Yeah, the girl with a photographic memory, who never forgets what week, day, time, and weather condition she eats popcorn in, can't remember her own father's birthday.

Since the age of 4, I've had some version of the same conversation with my mother on the last week of August.

Me: Mom, when in the heck is Dad's birthday? I know it's around this week, but when, exactly? Is it the 24th or the 27th? Wait, is it the 28th? No, it's definitely the 24th or the 27th. But, wait, Mom, which one???
Mom: Um, it's your father's birthday. It's the 27th. It's always been the 27th.
Me: Thanks, Ma. Phew! That was close! (As if she doesn't get off the phone and promptly tell him his eldest child forgot his birthday. Again. Like every year.)

I don't know why this happens. I remember my friends' birthdays, my brothers birthdays, my mother's birthday, even my dogs' birthdays.

But my Dad's birthday? It alludes me.

Every. Stinkin'. YEAR.

It's getting so bad that I'm at the point of trying to spin it into a family tradition.

"Now, kids, let's not call Grandpa today. It's his birthday, but remember, it's a special tradition we have to 'forget' his birthday and make Nonnie call us the day after and remind us that we didn't call him on his birthday, so we'll have to Express Overnight Ship our Plaster-of-Paris "World's Best Grandpa" hand-print plaques this afternoon. And dress you all in Green Bay Packers gear on the family Christmas card. Don't tell your father."

So, yep, you guessed it. Yesterday was my father's birthday. (The 27th, Brittany, duh! Was your panicked Monday-night phone call to your mother good for nothing this year?)

I forgot my father's birthday. Again.

So, happy belated birthday, Dad! You were, and still are, the best dad a girl could ask for! And I'm sorry I've got some sort of unspoken mental block against your birthday!

But don't feel terribly bad, Dad.

You know why?

You know the other date I can never remember? The other birthday on my calendar that eludes me every stinkin' year?

My husband's.

Figures, doesn't it?

Happy Birthday Dad! I love you very much!

(Practicing our walk during our wedding rehearsal. Side note: I need more pictures with my dad. This is literally the last one I have that I haven't already posted on the blog.)

P.S. While technically I remembered his birthday with enough time to call him last night, I didn't remember with enough time to give him the good old blog shout out he deserves. What makes this all the worse is that my dad reads my blog every day. And he was probably looking for his birthday post yesterday! Crap! Crap, crap, crap! OK. Let's just say it. Worst. Daughter. Ever.

Happy Mother's Day!

I know I'm not much of a weekend blogger, but I wanted to hop on and wish my beautiful, giving momma a happy Mother's Day!

Mom, I love you so much. You are my closest confidante and the person who inspires me me daily to one day raise children with my whole heart and mind, just like you raised us. I know I could not be where I am today without your love and life gifts. I hope you have an awesome day with the boys, and I can't wait to see you next month for your birthday. Please know I am thinking of you today (and all days). Happy Mother's Day!

And to all the rest of you wonderful mommies out there, Happy Mother's Day! I hope you have a wonderful day that truly celebrates all you do for your families. You deserve it!