the hardest things I've ever had to do

(Stolen from Kelly with much gratitude for breaking me out of my blogger writer's block)

Become a daughter of divorced parents
Remain a daughter of divorced parents
Move to New Jersey from Florida to go to grad school
Leave grad school and come home to Florida to save my sanity
Leave the sharp pain of school years behind me, again and again
Forgive myself for past screw-ups and failures
Be happy with my body
Let go of the children I lost and never met
Love my husband well
Know that God is in control of my life, so I don't have to be

Some of these are still works in progress, particularly the last one.

Tell me yours, too.

Kathie Lee Ick

Still waiting on those Colorado pics. Also waiting for Jason to come home to take a very late Belly Monday photo (we might have to permanently change these to Belly Friday photos...). In the meantime, here's a clip of one of my all-time favorite mommy bloggers, Heather Armstrong, putting up a brave face in the presence of catty computer-phobe Kathie Lee Complex Gifford. Heather looks adorable. Kathie appears dated, eyebrow-less, and only slightly hypocritical, given the number of years she spent on television gakking about her own children:



Someone, please, take that woman off the air permanently.

he sings for you and you and you

In order to distract myself from the hormonal-coaster going on with my emotions, I stumbled upon this collection of the worst album covers ever, run by the Orlando Sentinel. I am simultaneously laughing and gagging uncontrollably as I look through the contenders - they want me to just vote for one as the worst? Which one do I pick? Do I select:

...the many complex facets of Roger?



...or "little" David Wilkins, King of all the Taverns?



...and I can't ignore the handless organist:



...or the sweet stylin's and hawwwtt facial hair of Country Church:



...little Gary Dee will sing you a haunting rendition of the classic song "He Touched Me" followed, non-disturbingly, by "Get All Excited":



I was really stumped... but in the end, one album cover stood out above the rest. And if you know me, and know where I get to worship each Sunday, and know this man's namesake, well, I think you'll agree that this one takes the cake:




No, Mike, thank YOU.

the good, the bad, the ugly cry

Oh, it was a lovely week. Lovely mountains, lovely friends, lovely food, lovely times. I was in desperate need of a vacation, and I got a GREAT one, folks. I have never been more in love with a state than I am with Colorado. (Photographic proof of loveliness to come soon, I promise)

My last night in Colorado was perhaps the most fun, since my husband and my friends took me out for majorly yummy fondue in downtown Denver. I have officially restarted my love affair with cheese, and I also had a chance to reconnect with friends I hadn't seen in a very long time and meet some amazingly witty and fun new ones. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard over a discussion that ponders why Sean Bean's name doesn't rhyme with itself, but should.

The only crap-ass thing about vacations is that they eventually end, and this one wasn't a lovely end, not like the week was lovely. In the space of 24 hours, I:

--had major indigestion from the cheese-lovin' (okay, getting used to that one as an everyday occurrence, but still)
--got up at the butt crack of dawn to go to the airport
--didn't get to give the Clark family a huge hug goodbye (still in bed, recovering from the cheese love themselves)
--had to leave my husband in the beautiful, cool mountains to go back to flat, hot Florida
--sat in an aisle seat getting one elbow whacked by a beverage cart, the other squished by a very obese woman, and my back kicked and jostled by a very rude businessman
--was temporarily locked out of my apartment upon returning home
--faced a seemingly impossible amount of packing to do before our closing on Friday
--cleaned up some major cat barf on my carpet
--discovered my toilet was broken, uh, too late
--felt lonelier and sadder than I had in years, thanks to pregnancy hormones
--called Jason about 23 times in 4 hours, sad and sobbing each time, begging him to come home instead of going to Atlanta for a conference

So, it was maybe not such a great ending to my vacation. Thankfully, today is much better, thanks to a dose of 1980's Molly Ringwald movie therapy, an amazing new flavor of Breyer's ice cream that rocked my world (vanilla ice cream with chocolate crackles - ohhhhh), and a good night's sleep with a snuggly cat and without a single alarm to interrupt it. The sun is shining, I'm not minding the heat so much, I still have a LOT of ice cream left, and I just feel much better, though it feels strange and lonely to separated from my better half after spending the entire glorious week together.

There's a lot on my plate this week, but it's mostly positive: birthday teppanyaki and ice cream with dear friends tonight, packing to move to our new house, another ultrasound tomorrow morning, a close friend's wedding, Mother's Day. Jason comes home late Wednesday night, too, from a conference that I hope will add more fuel to his growing ministry fire. And I do still have a couple days yet before I have to go back to work.

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...

and your wallet, too

Overheard at dinner tonight:

"Hey - Sharon said I could have free office space in her basement if I wanted it."

"Honey, no."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Her basement is unfinished. AND she lives an hour away from us. Can you imagine driving two hours to commute every day?"

"So? I could drive that."

(look of incredulosity, points to large SUV parked outside) "SO? You drive the gas-guzzling machine of the century. You might as well STAB THE EARTH."

belly monday: 23 weeks, wednesday edition

Lots of Colorado vacation pics to follow soon. I'm a little late in posting because of all the good-time-ness we've been having out here, and also because it looks kind of like I'm arching my back in these photos, so I wasn't sure whether to use them. Also, I am very, very white.

But I decided to use them anyway because I know that I wasn't really arching my back, and the whiteness is just not going away, even after being under blazing bright sun at 6000 feet above sea level. I wore sunscreen, okay? Try not to be blinded by the gleaming alabaster skin...

Here you go - a full torso shot:


And a belly shot:


Edited to add: Jason wanted to make sure all two of my readers knew that these pictures were taken at Red Rocks Amphitheater, home to many famous live concert recordings by bands like these guys, these other guys, and this guy.

ready to fly

Tomorrow Jason and I leave on a plane for Denver. I would love to make some eloquent, well-crafted story about how I am so ready for a vacation, but I'm just tired, and I don't think tonight's the night for me to be Jane Austen.

This week has been really rough on me. Rest assured, our baby boy is doing wonderfully, kicking up a storm and being all healthy and baby-like, so yes, he's totally okay. But the rest of me is just trying to recover from a very trying week. Every day, I felt like I was hit with some kind of blow, something that made me feel like the very best of me that I have to offer, what I do best, the core of who I am, was not wanted, rejected, or stomped on and spat at. It's hard to go through a whole week of that and not come out of it feeling pretty lousy, doubting what you thought was your very best to give the world. You might say it was pregnancy hormones, or simply a run of bad luck, but I think I've cried way, way too much this week. You know, the ugly cry of snotty noses, puffy eyes, and popped eardrums. That kind of crying.

I don't tell you this to garner any sympathy - really, I know my mother is reading this, chomping at the bit to leave some sort of encouraging, well-written, uplifting comment on this blog page, and maybe you are, too. But all of it left me drained and feeling less of myself, and this recharge in God's beautiful mountain scenery has never been more necessary. I come out of this week wanting to quit pretty much everything I am a part of except for my marriage (thank God for my husband), and I'd like to come back in a week ready to give it all another shot. I know I never have to travel anywhere to find God, but I'm feeling the call to meet him on the mountaintop for renewal.

Plus, Jason is in possession of a most awesome camera, and I'm hoping to show off some pictures of our travels as the week progresses.

I'll be in touch.

summer breezes

If you're going to get your picture taken with Her Royal Majesty...



...might as well make sure you're properly aerated. (See happy gentleman to Queen's left.) Actual photo from a photo retrospective on Time.com on the Queen's 82nd birthday.

(Thanks, Kel.)

My birthday is in 10 days, but I don't know if I will be so lucky as to have a guy in a kilt sitting next to me like that. Then again, I'll hopefully be celebrating at Benihana, and hey, they do serve excellent sake there. Not that I'll be indulging, of course. But I can't speak for my skirt-wearing table neighbors. Teppanyaki makes people do some wild and crazy stuff, yo.

belly monday: 22 weeks

The belly at 22 weeks. Not a dramatic change from last week, and my face reveals I was a little peeved at my photographer for trying to photograph me from below (a very unflattering angle, making me look as large as a whale) rather than straight on. Hormones are so much fun.

on having a belly

Scrubs are the great figure-forgivers of workplace fashion, and I wear scrubs. A lot. In fact, when I'm at work, a lot of the time the only things that actually give away my maternity state are my pregnant poses - you know, the arching torso with the hands at the lower back, the subconscious self-rubbing of the belly, etc. One coworker recently asked me, after finding out that I was already 22 weeks along (she thought it was much less), where EXACTLY was I carrying this baby, and I have to smile a little when I hear that, because it's the sort of question I expect skinny pregnant women to get ("you're so little!") and not someone with, er, extra padding to start.

But I do occasionally venture out into the world wearing something other than scrubs and pajamas, and since I really can't fit into normal clothes anymore, I'm always swathed in maternity gear: the stretchy-paneled pants, the generously-cut tops. You know, the clothes designed to highlight one thing only: the Belly. And even having Crouching Diaper, Hidden Fetus in there (seriously - we might want to name this kid Jet Li or something), I still forget how out there my stomach is sticking out in belly-highlighting maternity wear, until one inevitable moment happens.

You moms know EXACTLY what that moment is: the RUB.

I'll say it (and probably garner hate mail in the process): I can't stand it when people rub my belly. It startles me, especially since most of the time, the hand is on the belly without anyone asking if it's okay. I don't hold any bad feelings against the excited Belly Toucher, no. I understand the sentiment: they're excited for me, babies are cute, mommy bellies are cute too, yada yada yada. There is just something about a pregnant belly that invites touch from everyone from your spouse (totally okay and welcome) to total strangers in the supermarket (uh, NOT okay). I get it, I really do.

I still don't like it. Even from people I know pretty well.

I actually really want to like it. I want to be one of those happy, Buddha-bellied gals you see on the cover of Parenting and Fit Pregnancy magazines, endlessly offering out my tummy to others like a lucky talisman, telling the world, "You know, I just feel so BLESSED all the time" with sincere head-nodding and rapt wonderment at the Life Inside of Me. Uh-HUH. Magazine covers are just as unrealistic for pregnant girls as Cosmo is for the rest of the unpregnant world...

(Side note: I would probably buy a lifetime subscription to a pregnancy magazine that had a real cover model: mismatched sweats, cankles propped up, bags under the eyes, half-finished bag of Cheetos at her side, with a very worried-looking husband in the background...)

I've been trying to figure out why I don't like people touching my stomach without permission. After all, I like giving and getting good hugs. I really enjoy and am proud of being pregnant, at least once I get past the initial barf-fest of the 1st trimester. I don't feel fat in the least, even though I started this pregnancy with some extra cushioning. And I know that after rubbing my stomach, no one is going to then grab one of my breasts and ask if I'm ready to breastfeed, or pat my crotch and say they can't wait to see my son come out down there.

I realized that, as a society, we just don't go around randomly rubbing each others' stomachs, except when there's a baby involved. I've been on this earth nearly 31 years now, and I've spent only a couple of those months visibly pregnant. I'm still getting used to the idea of it, especially the tangible, growing reality of my expanding body. No one ever went to rub my belly before, except maybe when I was a baby, so it seems strange, unnatural now to have people start doing that.

One mommy blogger whose URL address I have long since lost put it so beautifully: "You never rubbed your Uncle Jim's belly without permission, and he always looked like he was at least two weeks overdue."

I still haven't figured out how to handle it. Interestingly, it hasn't really been total strangers who go to touch me - I wouldn't have much of a problem asking them to not touch my belly. It's been people to whom I already have some association, sometimes a pretty strong one, and because I have relationship with these people, it makes telling them I'm uncomfortable, well... uncomfortable. I'm extremely non-confrontational, which is probably why I blather on so much in my blog (safe outlet). Do I shrink back? I did that today, and I immediately felt guilty, especially considering the other person involved. Do I politely tell them to ask me for permission first? Because I'll tell ya: you ask me first, and I'll probably grab your hand myself and smash it up excitedly against my bellybutton, asking if you can feel my son and hey, here's the top of my uterus, and over there is the pizza lunch I just ate, isn't it cool? But I never remember to say it. Do I do what one person humorously suggested and start rubbing their bellies back? I don't think I could pull that off with the required light-hearted humor instead of resentment.

I'm not even sticking out as much as I will soon, in a few short months when I am waddling instead of walking. Oh my.

For now, I'm learning how to be more okay with it, reminding myself of the reason for all the excitement, the little man we are so anxious to meet, this perfect, flawless little miracle that my imperfect, flawed body is so miraculously sustaining and growing. I'm learning to grin and bear it and to know the intentions behind the touching are nothing but positive and loving.

I'm also reminding myself that, once in labor and delivery, random hands on my stomach will be a cake walk compared to the insane level of exposure I will have to complete strangers accessing every area of my body.