Final Chad

It’s Soap Opera Sunday and our fourth and final Chad. (Need a refresher? Here’s part one, part two, and part three.)

Okay, fine. I confess that to say that he asked me to marry him is a bit of an exaggeration. But he began to refer to us as though we were engaged, and he would talk about our children and our life and our future as though it were a done deal. He told me that there was a ring, but he knew that I wasn’t ready for it yet, so he’d hold onto it until I was.

I never saw that ring.

Somewhere in here, Kate and I made up. Obviously. Anyone who’s ever read this blog knows about my BFF Kate. It was on a very special Groundhog’s Day that I called her and told her I was sorry and that my life without her in it was… stupid. Especially when I knew that the blame didn’t fall on her. (Groundhog’s Day is a significant holiday for us, but she’ll have to tell you that story on her own blog sometime. It’s hers to tell, not mine.)

Naturally, I was getting sicker and sicker and searching for some kind of escape from our game, but I began to feel like this was my destiny. But Chad didn’t want to marry me in the Temple, which is where I’d wanted to be married my whole life. Not just wanted, needed. But he wouldn’t do that. He would have felt like a hypocrite there, because he just didn’t believe in it all anymore. I didn’t blame him for not just doing it anyway. I mean, if he didn’t want to get married in the Temple, then I wouldn’t force him–I wouldn’t have wanted him to just do it for me.

From the beginning of our bizarre relationship, one thing had always been understood. I was going to serve a mission for the Church. I’d always wanted to, and now I had an opportunity to go two years earlier than most women get to go. I was passionate about this, and whatever was going to happen between us would have to happen when I got home. He never considered talking me into staying home and marrying him instead. He knew that this was just something I had to do.

So I turned in my application to serve a mission and soon received my assignment to go to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I was so excited. I’d spent time in Buenos Aires before and I was utterly in love with it. I couldn’t wait to go. And so I threw myself into preparations and made myself, well, scarce.

One day he came over and said, “I’m going on a date tonight.” I laughed. “No, really. I’m going on a date. W from that-one-house called and asked me out.”

I scoffed. “Well, did you tell her you had a girlfriend?” Of course, she KNEW he had a girlfriend. Everyone in the foreign language housing knew us. We weren’t exactly hermits…

“No. I didn’t tell her I had a girlfriend. Besides, it doesn’t matter. It’s just for some dance social thing and she needs a partner. It’s no big deal.”

Hmmmm, I thought. Who asks out a guy who has a girlfriend? Still, I didn’t really have time to worry about it. Or care very much.

It was decided that I would go and spend some time with my parents (who were, coincidentally, also living in Argentina–though on the opposite side of where I’d be serving my mission) before I began my mission. So, very suddenly, I up and left. I didn’t say goodbye.

He began writing me, and I wrote back at first, but finally I decided that this was dumb and I was through. So I wrote him a letter, telling him that if he were still around when I got home (in two years!) we’d see how we felt about each other. In the meantime, I asked him not to write me again–UNLESS (and this part had been a joke) it was to send me a wedding announcement for him and W.

Exactly one year later, I received a letter from him. A wedding announcement. For him and W, who he was marrying in the Salt Lake Temple.

There was no letter attached.  Just the announcement.

I nearly died. I examined it over and over again to make sure it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t. By the time I received the announcement, they were already married.

I have to say, though, that the moment I finally accepted that it was real, relief washed over me–like warm water being poured over my head. It was over. PHEW!!!!

I’ve never seen him or heard from him since. I sometimes wonder how I would act if I were to run into him somewhere. But it’s just done. Over. And I couldn’t have asked for a better ending.

I do sometimes wonder, though, if she’s wearing my ring…

THE END!

(Stay tuned for June’s Perfect Post Award! The Awards go up on Monday–generally they go up on the first day of the month, but they’ve chosen to put them up on Monday the 2nd instead. Woohoo!)

Home Again

It’s Flashback Friday, friends!

“So, what do you think of Mom and Dad selling the house and buying a condo?” my brother J asked me when he met me at the airport.  My parents were standing right there, shifting nervously.  Clearly they hadn’t intended for him to bring it up, especially because I knew NOTHING about it.

I’d been studying in Italy all summer while J had been working in Kentucky and my parents had been on some luxury cruise in Tahiti (and yes!  Those destinations describe our three distinct personalities perfectly).  I’d been very lonely in Italy and I was at an age (I’d just turned 15) where my friends and my social life trumped just about everything else.

And this bomb that J had just dropped meant that the friends that I was so excited to come home to were soon going to be miles away.

And plus, it was my house!  My house!!!  It was a great big house with 8 bedrooms, two huge family rooms, a formal living room and a music room.  The backyard was gigantic and had a swimming pool and a full-sized tennis court, along with lots of trees and grass to play in.

And now we were moving to a condo.

To say that I was furious would be an understatement.

J hadn’t been bothered by the news when he’d heard it.  He was off to college in a different state anyway, and then he’d serve a mission.  All of my other siblings were gone by now.  I would be the only one left at home.  It would only affect me.

Which is, perhaps, why I was so angry.  I still had 3 years left at home, and yet my parents were talking about this as their way of retiring and downsizing, as though I wasn’t a part of this picture.  It didn’t seem at all fair that my parents would make this leap without even consulting me.  If I were a baby, I would of course have to go along for the ride.  But at 15, I felt old enough to have my opinion taken into account.  And they’d clearly been sneaky about it.  They’d purposefully NOT told me.

When we got home that night from the airport, Emily (who lived next door) and Matt (who lived across the street) were waiting for me.  We were my bestest of friends–my whole world!–and I’d missed them so desperately.  I told them that the house had sold.  They knew this, of course.  They’d watched it all happen.  We all expressed our sorrow over it.  But as we all talked that night, trying to fall right back into where we’d always been, it was clear that we’d all changed a lot over the summer.  I suppose I had especially changed.   I’d been in Italy all summer, working and studying and indulging in a new culture, a new world.  They had been at home, doing what they did every summer at the same old places with the same old people.  We were all civil and polite, but I found that they couldn’t relate to me and I couldn’t relate to them.  We’d already moved away from each other emotionally.  The physical move wouldn’t be nearly so painful in comparison.
(Matt came back into my life in a huge way a few years later, as many of you who have been reading my blog for a while already know.  But that’s another story for another time.)

When everyone left that night, I knelt by the side of my bed and sobbed.  This was not the homecoming I’d anticipated.  Everything was wrong.

The next day, my parents took me to see the new condo.  I thought it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.  They explained that they were going to remodel this, add a room here and there, change the carpet and the walls, etc.  I tried to grasp their vision, but really I just thought it was ugly.

And the neighborhood?  It was Snob Hill.  Oh, I couldn’t bear it.  I’d spent the last many years mocking Snob Hill and couldn’t imagine living there, among the cheerleaders and jocks who drove BMW’s while snorting their cocaine.  These were the people that made everyone’s life a living hell in high school, and now they were going to be my neighbors.

Flash forward 14 years and here I am, in this very house, babysitting it while my parents are gone.  I’m sitting in my father’s office–now my office– and realizing how very pretty it is.  My parents had real vision as they were recreating it.  They added walls and removed walls and all in all made it a very lovely and functional place.  I love that there’s no yard work, but that there’s a playground right off to the side of us and a community swimming pool and tennis courts just around the corner.  You can hardly call it a “condo”–it’s so much more spacious than I ever think of when people say “condo.”  It only shares one wall and yes, I do hear the neighbors from time to time, but only in one part of the home.  And, frankly, they’re kind of entertaining!

I still keep in touch with most of the friends I met through living here (hi Jewels, Kate, and Hannah!) and it turned out that while yes, most of the people were awful, there were a few amazing people that my soul was just waiting to discover, and my life was never the same once I did.

Living here now is a bit surreal.  It’s like Flashback Friday every day.  I’m surrounded by memories and photos and pieces of my childhood family.  And I’m enjoying it so much.  I’ve been scanning in piles of my dad’s slides and photos and telling my kids the story behind various paintings and other collectibles.  While I don’t want to minimize how painful it was for me to move here back then, I have to acknowledge that my parents moving here all those years ago was the right choice, and all these years later I’m the one who’s reaping the benefits of that choice.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

I stole this from Nell today. Yup, I saw it, I was flabbergasted, and I stole it. I was laughing my head off, but blown away by this bizarre talent. Go on, watch it. You know you want to.

Responsible Parenting

And now for something completely different…

It was November of 1983, and the London air was cold and damp. I was bundled in my tan woolly coat with a cheap but adored scarf purchased at Bayswater Station wrapped tightly around my throat. My dear sister Amy, seven years my senior (though my closest sister in age), accompanied me through the dark streets as we made our way to the man who would help us.

I don’t know why we were allowed out after dark, just the two of us little girls. In my memory, it was very late at night. But since it gets dark around 4:30 p.m. in London during that time of year, it may have only been supper time. Either way, it felt sneaky to me in the moment. Amy was only 12, after all, and I was a wee 5 year old. Surely we’d said something very clever to our parents, who were likely too busy with research and students to want to fight with us over it, so they let us go. They certainly wouldn’t have understood our mission.

Finally we approached the man who would soothe our souls with the answer to our eternal question. The air was thick with the smell of rain, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke–all scents that would remind me of London for decades to come. Amy cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, in her ridiculous attempt at a British accent. (She should have let me do the talking. My accent was real. Hers sounded like a mix of Utahn and Kentucky-an and South African. Even at my tender age, I could tell that she was trying too hard.)

“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if you could tell me…”

My breath caught in my throat. Soon we would know!

“I was wondering if you could tell me when the next Duran Duran album will be released.”

I’m sure the man had to stifle a snicker. But we were earnest. Oh yes, this was vital information for us.

As it turned out, it wouldn’t be released until the next month there in England, and by then we’d be back in the US so we’d have to wait for several more months after that, as there was always a lag between release dates in the UK and release dates in the States. HOW WOULD WE BEAR IT?

I’m sure we whined and whined at the poor man, convinced somehow that if we just pleaded valiantly enough, he’d move up the release date for us. But when he wouldn’t budge, we left, defeated.

“Union of the Snake” had already been released as a single, which we’d bought on vinyl with our meager combined allowances, but it was only enough to tease us, not appease us. It seemed an eternity would have to pass before we could hear the rest of the Durany Deliciousness.

Yes, I was only five. But I had the great fortune of sharing a bedroom with Amy who at the wizened age of 12 seemed to know everything, and I was her apprentice. Thanks to her, I knew every lyric, guitar rift, and key change to every Duran Duran song ever. I collected posters and clipped interviews from silly British teen magazines. (I was FIVE, people! My oldest daughter is five, and she can sing the words to Barney… That’s the difference between the oldest, who is sheltered by mommy and daddy, and the youngest, who shares a bedroom with her teenage sister, I guess.)

I had five stuffed animals. They were Simon, Nick, John, Roger, and Andy.

And we had posters plastered to every last inch of wallspace. Amy had claimed John as her true love. Her best friend Alex (of whom I was TERRIBLY jealous, but that’s another story) had claimed Roger. They allowed me to pick from the remaining three.

Easiest choice EVER.

Hello, Simon!

(Though, I confess that over the years, when I no longer cared that Amy had already claimed him, I became excessively fond of John. Excessively.)

As the years went on, my obsession continued through my teens (and was very much revitalized in 1993, when I was 15, with the release of the single “Ordinary World”, which to this day I consider to be the pinnacle of modern music) but naturally it started to wane with age and maturity.

I grew up, and so did they.

A few days ago, I was cleaning the house and my kids were “helping.” I told Fluffy to turn on some music, so she grabbed my CD case and randomly put a CD into the player. Suddenly “Please, Please Tell Me Now” sounded out through the living room and all of my kids began singing and dancing as though their eyes had just been opened to the true beauties of this earth. I particularly watched my little Fluffy, who (for once) reminded me so much of myself at her age. And so, I pass the torch on to the next generation. While I’ve gotten rid of all the posters and the t-shirts and the interview clips and *gasp* even the cassette tapes, I’ve held onto the many, many vinyl records. One of these days, I will dust off my old record player and show her how to carefully place the needle just right, and I will bequeath my treasures to her.

Her world will never be the same.

This Hate Cycle

There are about 150 unread posts in my google reader right now. In order to catch up today, I bring you something from my archives. I wrote this when my blog was about a week old. I’d decided that things weren’t always going to be fun and games around here. Life had taken me to serious and terrifying places also, and I felt that it was time I talk about some of those things. This piece broke that barrier for me. And since only about three of you were reading this back when I wrote it, I figured it wouldn’t be too redundant to post it again.

——————————————

I came to you with an open mind–too open. Not being a part of this particular conflict, but just an impartial observer, I wanted to learn about both sides. I was learning BOTH languages. I was studying BOTH cultures. I knew that this was all bigger than me, but somehow I thought maybe one day I’d be able to help resolve it all.

I was only 12 years old. So were you.

We weren’t friends, or anything. We’d never met before. It was your assignment to show me around your school. I think we both thought that we could be friends.

You walked me through the hallways and discussed what you did at school and what you learned. You were learning Algebra. Hey, me too! You were learning biology, literature. We had so much in common.

At some point, we came to a glass-enclosed display. All I saw was cloth, stained and torn. I looked to you for an explanation.

And then your eyes changed. You grew dark, angry. It frightened me.

“Three weeks ago, three innocent men were killed. They are martyrs. This is their clothing here–the clothing they were wearing when they were brutally shot. You see their blood on their shirts. You see the bullet holes. We keep this here to remind us of our enemies and their wickedness. It reminds us of their unprovoked brutality towards us. They must be conquered. We must prevail.”

My breath caught in my throat. I considered telling you that you were wrong. Your eyes challenged me to do so. Thank heavens I didn’t–I likely wouldn’t have made it out of the country alive.

But I had been downtown the day those men lost their lives. These men, whose clothing hung here in a shrine, were no heroes. They had mercilessly slaughtered nine truly innocent people–three of them children–before the police had finally arrived and stopped them with their bullets. These three men were not martyrs, they were murderers.

“But you’re just children!” I said, instead. I had been forced to see blood, bullets, bombs. But I didn’t think that all children should have to. Certainly not at school!

“How else will we learn?”

And there it was–the great unbridgeable difference: My schooling taught me history. Yours taught you lies.
I couldn’t blame you for believing the lies. It was all you had ever heard. I couldn’t blame your friends, your parents, your teachers. It was all they had ever heard.

And now I was terrified. I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave. Your hatred, though not yet aimed at me, was suffocating and I couldn’t be there anymore. This place, this evil place, where children were taught to hate, was imprisoning me and I had to escape. I wanted to beg you to escape with me, though I knew you never would. I wanted to rescue you from this conflict, but you were too deeply entrenched. So I left you there.

We knew we could never, ever be friends.

I never said that the other side was right, but you are so very wrong.

And now I’m 28, as are you, and I think of you from time to time. I’m married. I have children. We live a safe, comfortable life. And you? Did you survive your hatred, or has it killed you yet, as it has killed so many of your countrymen? Is your life full of terror? Do you have children? Do you teach them what you were taught? Of course you do. You don’t know anything else. If you live long enough to raise another generation, that generation will be consumed with the same hate.

Someone has to break this cycle. I no longer think that it will be me. I can’t. I don’t understand. I feel helpless and hopeless. The more I learn, the less I know.

But I make an oath, here and now, that my children will never learn any form of hatred from me. And if that’s the best I can do, it will be a lot.

Following Up

It’s interesting how sometimes after you write something, hours go by, and you look back over it and think, “wow! I hope that didn’t come across that way!” And then you mull, and you stew, and you fret–at least I do. And then I wonder who I might have offended or who got the wrong impression of me.

So, I’m throwing in yet another little disclaimer about this post here.

I’m a faithful and devoted member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I refrain from talking about my religion very much here, mostly because I don’t want to isolate anyone or to come across as preachy. But it also means that I leave out a huge chunk of who I am. THIS is who I am: I believe in God, that He is my eternal and loving Heavenly Father. I believe in His Son, Jesus Christ, and that He is my Savior. I love Him with all my heart and I try to serve him as best as I can. I want to love everyone, the way He loved everyone. I make a lot of mistakes, but my ultimate goal is to be like Him. I believe in the Bible. I believe the Book of Mormon is also the word of God. It is Truth. It brings me closer to my Savior. I read from it every single day. I go to church, every single week. I can hardly bear to miss it–sometimes I have to, due to illness or other circumstances–and I feel a great loss when I’m not there. The Gospel has brought me true happiness and I would be completely lost without it. I am grateful for it every day of my life.

That last paragraph describes me better than anything you’ll read about me anywhere else. And yet, sadly, it mostly goes unsaid.

And so, when I bash on BYU–something I’m prone to do without thinking through it very clearly–I forget that someone could mistake that for Mormon-Bashing which, as you now see, never what’s intended. Because I grew up in the shadows of BYU and both of my parents were professors there, I was intimately familiar with both the good and the bad things about it–things that are NOT in harmony with my beliefs as a Mormon. There is corruption and silliness everywhere, and for some reason I was in a position to see a lot of it at BYU. But BYU isn’t the Church, it’s simply a private university run and attended mostly by Mormons. They try to keep a high standard there, a strong moral base in an attempt to help students find themselves, as opposed to losing themselves as they do in so many other environments. I commend them for this, but I’ve seen where it goes way too far. The crucial thing to remember is that universities are run by people, the Gospel is run by God. I believe that people are, in general, trying to be the best they know how. But they are, alas, people.

It’s a tricky thing, because I want to keep my writing honest. If something’s screwed up, I wanna be able to say that it’s screwed up! But I also don’t want anyone to misunderstand my rantings.

I don’t think I was offensive earlier–no one has said as much, anyway. But I was afraid that someone might read something I didn’t intend to be read. For my own peace of mind, I needed to get this off my chest.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming…

Third Chad

It’s Soap Opera Sunday and Chad Part Three (here’s part one and here’s part two if you need a refresher…)

By way of disclaimer, I’m going to tell some things here that I’m not proud of, and you, Gentle Readers, will refrain from berating me…

As it turned out, Chad and I did have one important thing in common: the art of manipulation.

To the untrained eye, we were this blissfully happy couple. While we would have sworn that we cared a lot about each other, I think that what we actually cared about was the game. I needed him to adore me, but I wasn’t prepared to adore him back. While he was incredibly charming, handsome, intelligent, and funny, if he’d fallen off a cliff, I’m not sure I would have cried.

Before you feel sorry him, he was playing the same game with me, even though I think that his emotions ran deeper for me than mine did for him. Still, he used me. I was his trophy girlfriend–the girl he could take to parties to show off, the girl he could use to keep the many freakishly-obsessed girls away, and the girl whose mind he could mess with just for the fun of it.

I confess that my loyalty and commitment to him were… lacking. In fact, I cheated on him–quite regularly. And he cheated on me, too. We were quite open about it, and we hated each other for it, but we stayed “together” anyway. Even with our cheating, though, there were limits. There were lines we just didn’t cross when it came to cheating. (Doesn’t that sound stupid? Cheating-boundaries? Remember when I said, “let the unhealthiness begin”? Yeah….)

One night, he and I and a bunch of our friends got together to watch a movie. I don’t even remember what movie it was, but I remember not having the least bit of interest in watching it, so I immersed myself in an online chatroom while everyone else cozied down to watch the movie. My best friend Kate was there, and while I thought it was strange
that the two of them got all snuggly on the couch, I wasn’t really all that concerned.

Eventually, I left, leaving Kate and Chad asleep together on the couch.

The next morning, Chad sat me down to tell me that he’d kissed my best friend. It felt like I’d just been smacked across the face. When I asked him to expound and tell me how it happened, he said there was no explanation. (I’m not sure what kind of an explanation I was looking for, anyway. “What? You tripped and accidentally fell on her face?”) I stormed out of his apartment, furious and scorned. He had crossed the line, big time. My first item of business was to call Kate and let her know that she was not welcome to call me or see me or come anywhere near me ever again.

Part of me felt slightly guilty freaking out at Kate like that, because I knew her and I knew Chad. I knew that if they’d kissed, it had been all him and not at all her. Still, I had to freak out at someone, and Kate was my lucky target.

Just screaming at her wasn’t enough. I had to get back. I had to get even. How?

I had to tell her mom.

Kate was only 16 at the time, and was therefore still in high school and still living with her mommy and playing the overly angelic act that her mother was still buying. The best revenge would be to tell her mom who she “really” was and let Kate live with her mommy’s wrath.

By the way, this was the worst idea ever.

So, I let Kate’s mom know, very cleverly and subtly. I assigned my dear friend Matt to go to Kate’s house to pick up some CD’s of mine, offering her mom the explanation that Brillig wasn’t speaking to Kate anymore and why–and then leaving just in time for all hell to break loose (while I waited for him in the car).

In the meantime, I forgave Chad. Stupid girl that I was, I dumped my friend–the innocent victim–and forgave the jerk. And we went on, playing our game.

Until the Honor Code Committee called us in.

Many of you will have no idea what that means. Let’s sum it up by calling it the BYU Gestapo. BYU has very strict rules, and in my experience, they have great fun finding rule-breakers and hanging them as examples. There are spies everywhere–people who consider tattling to be an attribute contributing to their uber-righteousness.

I was being called in because I had enabled a girl, my friend Kate, to be in a boy’s apartment “after hours.” Kate’s mom had reported me, and somehow this was all my fault. And all the female Chad-adorers who hated me and wanted to see me burned only confirmed the Gestapo’s hunch–that I was wicked and needed strict punishment. And so I was called in, sternly spoken to about righteousness and lawlessness and was told that they would discuss me in their committee meetings (really? They had nothing better to do than discuss the world’s most trivial infraction?) and get back to me later. Chad was called in and given a similar spiel.

Long story short, the result was Honor Code Probation, meaning that if I broke one more rule, I would be thrown out of the school. I looked at the man who was in charge of my “case” and said, “you and I both know that this is ridiculous. How do I fight it?” And in true Gestapo fashion, he replied, “don’t bother fighting it. We have people watching you everywhere. They’ll get you on something, even if it’s not this.”

I was completely shocked. He’d just threatened me. They were spying on me. He knew who my parents were, but he wasn’t scared. Wait. He wasn’t intimidated by who I was–who they were. Ahhhh, they were making a public example of me. It was BECAUSE of my special last name that I was being harshly dealt with.

You’ll be happy to know that Chad got the exact same punishment that I did.

You may recall that I was on full-ride scholarship at BYU and, since I’d dropped out of high school (yes, that’s a whole nother story, friends) I felt that my whole future hung in the balance. I was ready to spit in BYU’s face and storm out in dramatic tantrum style, but I knew that the truth was that I needed them. No one else would accept a drop-out (they’d accepted me before I dropped out, and never bothered to check to make sure I’d actually gotten my diploma). I was stuck.

And for WHAT? Because I had “allowed” Kate and Chad to be together after hours…

Does this make any sense? No? Good. Because even after all these years, it still doesn’t make any sense to me either.

(It should be noted that not everyone has such a miserable experience with BYU and their Gestapo… I recognize that many wonderful people have wonderful experiences there. This is just my own personal experience.)

So you see, Chad and I were on rocky ground (had we ever been on stable ground?) We professed eternal love to each other, while fighting constantly. Oh, how we fought. How we hated each other!

And yet, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world when he asked me to marry him…

Ready, Set, GO!!!!

Welcome, everyone! I can hardly believe that you’re here! Hey, I can hardly believe that I’m here! Expect many changes in color and style over the next little while (or possibly eternity). What a grand adventure we shall have!!!!

So Behind

One of these days I will post a real post. One of these days I will tell you about the sliver in my daughters foot that sent us to the Urgent Care after-hours place an hour away, because I couldn’t get it out the old fashioned way. One of these days I’ll catch up on reading and commenting on all of my favorite blogs, as well as making the correct changes to my blogroll. And one of these days I’ll tell you about my father-in-law’s retirement party which I’m just now getting back from, that I hauled all of my kids to all by myself with the youngest two snugly nestled into the stroller only to find out that the party was on the top floor and there was NO ELEVATOR. And one of these days I’ll catch up on my soap opera Sunday about Chad that I started last week but didn’t do anything on this week! And maybe, just MAYBE, one of these days I’ll tell you how the move went–but first, I’ll have to move. (Tomorrow is the BIG DAY!!) And maybe at some point I will do something about all my children–who I can hear screaming their heads off. And maybe one day I’ll even post some pictures.

But not today.

But I did want to pop in and post a great big THANK YOU to everyone for all of your emails and your notes and your well-wishes. I have the absolute greatest blog-buddies ever. Thanks for being so wonderful! How did I survive for so many years without you?

To Scooby

It’s Flashback Friday and Scooby’s birthday!!

When I was ten days past my due date, I’d had it. This was the longest pregancy ever.

For the first six months of the pregnancy, I puked every single day, multiple times a day. And on top of all the puking, I was spotting. Since I’d already had a handful of miscarriages by this point, I was freaking out. Both the severe dehydration and the bleeding sent me to the Emergency Room on various occasions. And you may have gathered by now that emergency rooms and I don’t exactly get along…

But the hardest part was being so sick while taking care of two very energetic toddlers. Fluffy and Bubba were 3 and almost 2 and were next to impossible. I was almost too sick to keep up with them, which meant that they were causing even more trouble than they would had I been well enough to be more diligent.

And on top of all of that, Hubby was not only working full time, but feverishly working on his Masters Degree. He was gone all day long and well into the night almost every single day.

I was sick, exhausted, hormonal, lonely, and extremely overwhelmed.

So making it to my due date and then going beyond it seemed so completely unfair.

We had decided not to find out the baby’s gender. We already had a boy and a girl, so we were prepared for either one. Still, Hubby and I were both convinced that it was a girl. Her name would be Sophia. I couldn’t wait to cuddle my little girl in my arms.

And so, on this day ten days past my due date, as I was on my way to my prenatal appointment, I decided that I would ask my midwife to break my water. This was a huge thing to me, since I was so completely devoted letting nature take its course…

But, SURPRISE! My water broke on its own on my way to my appointment! There I was, on the freeway in my minivan with Fluffy and Bubba, gushing amniotic fluid. Upon arriving at my midwife’s and looking like I’d been peeing myself, she checked me and announced that I was already dilated to a 7. Since my last labor had only lasted four hours, we expected that this baby would come any second. So I jumped back into my van with my kiddos and my midwife loaded her car with all of her supplies and followed me home, each of us gripping our cell phones, just in case it became necessary to deliver the baby on the side of the road!

Fortunately, we made it all the way to my house and even had time to get the birth tub set up, at which point I sat. And waited. And waited. The house slowly filled up with people–Hubby, my midwife, her two assistants, my mother-in-law, and then randomly two of my sisters-in-law and all of a sudden my FATHER-in-law (who stayed in the kitchen where he couldn’t, um, see stuff…) AND my two children: Fluffy who watched in awe, and Bubba who wanted to get in the birthing tub with me and took off all of his clothes and screamed and screamed and SCREAMED and NO ONE WOULD TAKE CARE OF HIM, though they scolded me when I tried, saying, “oh, don’t worry about him right now! We’re here to take care of him!” And yet… they didn’t. (He wasn’t even supposed to be there, by the way. Babysitter had bailed last minute.) And there I was, post-transition and well into the pushing stage with mass chaos around me. It was so completely nuts. My quiet, tranquil homebirth had turned into a circus. However, I was way too focused to even be bothered about the circus. I had a big job ahead of me, after all.

I pushed for two hours. It was agonizing. I’d been through natural childbirth a couple of times, and it’s NEVER easy, but this was different.

Finally the baby was born.

A boy.

It was Hubby’s job to announce the gender. I nearly died when he said “boy.” I had to look for myself, and then look again!

And, posterior. The last time I’d been checked, he was anterior. Somewhere in there he flipped and came out backwards. Hence the longer-than-expected labor and, well, the AGONY of the delivery!

But oh! how I loved him. Adored him. From the instant he was in my arms, he was the joy of my life–the piece of my soul that had been missing.

He didn’t have a name–he wouldn’t have a name for a couple more weeks! We couldn’t exactly name him Sophia, after all…

After much war with Hubby over names, we finally settled on one. The PERFECT one. (And no, it’s not “Scooby”–that’s a nickname that Fluffy came up with during the nameless-interum.)

And now he’s turning two! He’s rambunctious and hilarious and darling. He’s a little more crazy than his siblings, as evidenced in various trips for emergency x-rays and the like. Still, he keeps me laughing all day long. He’s a middle child, but he never gets lost in the mix. He’s so vibrant and colorful and delightful!

And so, on this very special day, I wish him a happy, HAPPY Birthday!!!!!!