A Few Good Men

I overheard a conversation a while back (I do that a lot because I seem to be inherently nosy) in which a couple of women were discussing a friend's husband in not-so-glowing terminology.  A third woman piped in, "Well, what do ya want?  He doesn't beat on Lisa or the kids, he holds down a job and as far as we know, he's never cheated on her."  It started my brain down one of those mental paths I go on every now and then that takes a while to get back.  What is a good man?  Has the idea of "a good man" really deteriorated to the point that the best we can expect for a husband is a job-holding no-beating probably-non-cheater?

I refuse to believe it.  Surely there is more to a good man than that. 

So, again, what is a good man?  Obviously he wouldn't beat on his wife and kids and he'd provide for his family and the no-cheating component is a no-brainer.  However, I can't help but think those things are really the bare minimum.  Non-beating no-cheating job-holders get skinned in divorce settlements every day.  Why?  What more are we really expecting?

Good Man Requirements

1.  Integrity  I don't know about every woman out there but I've got to be able to respect my man and a man with no integrity is pretty darned hard to respect.  If he's a man who is siphoning money from his employer or cheating on the taxes and buying things for free at Target with stacked coupons only to immediately return them for cash he's a man without integrity in my book.

2.  Speak Life  Back me up here ladies:  We will do just about anything for a man who makes us feel treasured.  Love is spoken in many different ways so figure out how your wife, kids or friends need love and give it to them. It can be in the form of compliments, a simple touch, a look, a smile, a gift, you name it.  Some ways to subtract from this bank account of love is to make your wife, friends or children feel diminished, unimportant or unappreciated.  This might be in the form of words, a touch, a look or just plain lack of attention.

3.  Listen  I know we harp on this a lot but that's because it's important and we have to keep harping on it because so many men don't do it.  There are few things that will make a woman feel more minimized than a husband who tunes out his wife when she speaks.  Granted, sometimes we could find better timing but that's a whole other blog.

4.  Don't give us a reason NOT to trust you Last year, I was at a block party wherein our neighbor, Bob (name changed to protect the guilty,) had a few too many beers and made an inappropriate suggestion to me right in front of my husband and his wife.  My husband responded, in that way that men have of sounding like they are joking when they really aren't, that if Bob followed up on that suggestion, the next sound he'd hear would be a shotgun cocking.  Everyone laughed, Bob backed down and the party went on.  I couldn't help but think about how incredibly insulting this was to his wife.  What kind of man propositions another woman right in front of his wife?! An about to be divorced one, apparently.  Bob's wife has now left him and taken their son with her.

I don't know for sure whether Bob ever cheated on his wife.  Maybe he started propositioning women who weren't right in front of their husbands and eventually got lucky.  Maybe he never went past the flirtation.  I don't know.  I do know that what Bob did was the epitome of disrespect not only to me and my husband but especially to his wife.  If I were in her position and my husband were flirting with another woman, I'd have to wonder if this ever went anywhere when he was out of my presence.  A husband who flirts with other women, even if he thinks it's all in fun, isn't laying a foundation of trust for his wife.

5.  Apologize  We don't expect men to be perfect.  We'd like it if they were but we know better.  It sounds so simple but it's important.  Don't just come downstairs the next day and pretend that everything's fine and try to just move on with life.  When you screw up (and you will, it's a given) apologize.  It won't kill you, I promise.

6.  Engage  No I'm not quoting Captain Picard.  When you are home, be truly with your family.  Your mere presence in the house is not enough.  Not that you shouldn't have some time to yourself.  Everyone needs a little alone time and we understand this but it shouldn't be ALL your time.  If you find yourself spending most of your time at home watching TV or trolling eBay your family is being shortchanged.  Make an effort to find something you can do together.  Go for a walk, play soccer in the backyard, ride bikes, play baseball, play Chutes and Ladders or Candyland.  It doesn't matter what you do so much as doing it with your family.  Don't underestimate for a second how much that time means to your wife and kids.


7.  Helpful  Overwhelmingly, women love that their husband helps out both around the house and with the kids.  It doesn't matter how your dad did it, you won't earn brownie points by shaking your tea glass at your wife in this day and age.  Get up and fill it yourself and fill hers up while you're at it.  Help get the kids put to bed.  Pick up the living room for her while she puts the kids to bed so she can relax in a clean room when she's done.

Just a side note here: For those of you men for whom sex is important, we women find it a lot easier to be "in the mood" when you do these things.  It's kind of tough to get worked up about a guy who sits on the recliner all night and ignores his wife while she cleans up supper, cleans up the kids and puts everybody to bed by herself.  Just something to think about.

8.  Honesty  Most of my friends agree that one of the things that drew them to their husband in the first place was his honesty.  This kind of goes hand in hand with integrity but it's an important distinction.  I'm not saying that you should say yes when your wife asks if her butt looks big in that dress.  That's just asking for a lesson in number five.  What we mean when we say honesty goes beyond the obvious sort of things like lying about where you've been, who you've been with and what you've been doing.  Honestly communicate with your wife. I have a friend who said, "Say what you mean and mean what you say."  We have to be able to count on your honesty. Be willing to talk things through when there are problems (and we all know there will be.)  I know this isn't always your first instincts. Some of you would rather just ignore it and hope it'll eventually go away.  Some guys get the communication gene naturally and some don't. If you didn't inherit that gene, it isn't an automatic "out" for you. Your marriage (and all relationships) will be much happier if you are willing to work on this.

9.  Generosity  This doesn't necessarily mean money.  If someone needs help, a good man is one of the first to step up.  He's always the guy helping people move and helping the neighbors replace the fence.  He's the guy that mows the grass at church and empties the trash can without being asked.


This is what I've come up with so far based on my own observations as well as the opinions of some of my friends.  What's your opinion?

Long Time No Write

It's been a really long time since I've carved a few minutes out of my day to write something.  I could say I've had a lot going on but how would that be different from any other time?  Who really doesn't have a lot going on, for Pete's sake?  The truth is, it just hasn't been a priority and that's sad because I really enjoy the process of writing.  I love words and how the right ones when put in just the right order work together to paint a picture in the mind.  It just makes my brain feel good to write a well-crafted sentence.  I think I might be a little OCD or something but I'm okay with it.

I've been dealing with a lot of junk that is rising to the surface in my life and I've been experiencing growth pains.  Just when I thought I was over my childhood need to please others in order to get approval, I find out that's not the case at all.  I might be better but I am in no way cured.  I've always admired my friends who just seemed to know who they were and didn't care what anybody else thought about them.  People called them rebels and troublemakers but I saw them as free.  They didn't bother to think about how other people were going to view them before they made a decision.  Granted, they had other problems but not that one.  As I've grown and worked at it, I'm better about just being me and even though I'm not always okay with the hurtful things that others might say and think about me, it doesn't drive my decisions like it used to.

The root of that drive was in the fear of rejection that I've struggled with my whole life.  My father deserted us before I was even born and even as a little kid it bothered me that before he even knew me, my father decided I wasn't worth it.  I was already displeasing before I even had a chance to try.  My step-father is a good man but I still always felt like I had to work harder for approval because I wasn't really his.  Not necessarily his fault but it was still there.  I always felt that I never really fit in to my family and wasn't really accepted because I was different.  I always like to read and write and play my piano.  I didn't see it as the epitome of a good time to fix fence and drive the tractor.

I didn't fit in in high school because I was weird.  I like to read and I enjoyed science and school just came easy to me.  I didn't enjoy drinking parties (and let's face it, what else is there to do in P-burg?) so I wasn't part of the in-crowd and they made fun of me for my weirdness.  I pretended not to care but it hurt a lot to be rejected day after day.  From my grown-up perspective, I know how threatened children are by someone who is different and many of them were probably just glad it wasn't them who was being teased on a daily basis.  Still it was just another layer that I added to the armor around my heart to avoid that rejection.  I stopped trying to make friends (outside of a very precious few that made life bearable) and just cocooned myself until I could leave.  I lived for the future and it never even occurred to me to live in the moment because the moment was hell.

Finally, I got to college and found a core of friends who liked me despite (and for a lot of them probably because) of my weirdness.  I guess we were all weird together and found value in each other that was outside of the clothes we wore and how much make-up I wore (or didn't wear.)  It was in that safe haven of accepting friends that I was able to begin that growth process of accepting myself for who I was and not on the basis of how many people liked me.

I can never be ________ enough to earn the right to be loved.  The bar will always increase and I will consistently fall short on somebody else's scale.  I might as well fall short just being me as trying and scrambling to be someone I'm not to earn approval.  Only on God's scale do I always measure up.  His scale is based on who He says I am and not on how skinny I am or pretty I am or how long or blond my hair is or how good I am or how smart I am.  It's not based on my bust-size or my butt-size or my dress size.  I am accepted and loved solely because when He sees me he doesn't see everything that's wrong with me.  He sees a beloved child, a beautiful bride. I am gradually working to accept that and live like I  believe it.

It's been a long road just to even get this far and it's always disappointing when I feel like I've gotten there only to have something happen that stirs up all those old hurts and fears again. I am reminded that life and growth are constant journeys with no actual destination in this world.  I will try to remember that when I'm tired of growth pains.

Me, Myself and I

I had to leave my son at Kindergarten for the first time yesterday.  It was difficult because he's my first-born and I feel like I just haven't had enough time with him.  I wasn't the only one.  I happened to know another mom who was dropping off her son for the first day as well.  This is her only child so she was experiencing everything I was times three.  She was trying valiantly not to cry because she didn't want to upset her son.  Her red eyes were a little more watery that they probably should have been but she was doing pretty well, I thought.  Her husband was being VERY insensitive to how emotional this was for her making comments like, "Oh Audrey, honestly!" in a tone that pretty much said "Just suck it up and get over it."  I'm working on having grace for others so I was able to restrain myself from clocking him in the face but I still felt bad for her.

I retold this story to a friend of mine this morning and she shared that she's working on overcoming fears that have followed her throughout her life.  She said that she would have felt sorry for that lady but her fears would have kept her from knowing what to do to help.  It came to me right then and there that I was unable to help, not because I was afraid, but because I'm selfish.  There.  I said it.  I'm selfish.  Self-centered, ego-centric, thoughtless, insensitive, you name it; that's me.  

I never saw it that way before.  Maybe I never wanted to.  Here's the thing: I'm not being what I always considered selfish.  I saw that grieving mom's plight and thought, "Oh.  Poor lady."  (In Texan that would be, "Awwwwweeee.  Bless her heart."  The word "heart" would be two syllables.)  In hindsight I should have asked her out for coffee or something just to give her a chance to talk to someone who would understand where she's coming from but I didn't.  Not because I thought about it and purposefully decided to go do my own thing, but because it never even occurred to me .  Lots of things never occur to me because I'm too busy dealing with my own crap. 

You see, I always thought that selfishness was choosing to think of yourself when others needed you more.  In my case, it's not a choice.  It's a habit.  My selfishness has become something that I just fall into without even trying or making a conscious decision.  I know for a fact that mom dropping her only child off at Kindergarten yesterday needed me a lot more than I needed to go spend money at IKEA.  If I had invited her for coffee she probably would have said no but she would have at least known that someone saw her in her pain and cared.

I have become obsessed with personal growth and becoming a better person that my kids can look up to and I have completely forgotten to love the people around me.  That's not true.  I haven't forgotten.  I just don't do it as much as I would like. How many times has someone needed me and I simply breezed on past them without even giving them a thought because I was so caught up in what I was doing at the moment?

The hard part is that I knew she was suffering and it never occurred to me to do anything about it.  Even when Jesus was mourning the horrific and senseless death of John the Baptist he had compassion for the crowds around him and fed them.  I think that maybe the issue here is not so much a lack of seeing as a lack of compulsion to do anything.   I think that's my problem more than anything else.  Most of the time I see others' pain and my heart is moved but not usually enough to do anything about it.  I think I often don't believe that anything I can do would be effectual anyway.

I guess that's my next project.  Realizing that I do have the power to do something to help; even if it's just inviting someone out for coffee and making a conscious effort to actually follow through.

Bye Mommy, I Gotta Go

I'm having a much harder time dealing with my son starting school tomorrow than I thought I would.  He's been especially troublesome lately so I thought I might actually be somewhat relieved to see him go (not that I would have actually admitted it.)  I'm not.

He excited and raring to go.  I'm glad that he is because it would be much harder for me if I were dealing with his fears AND my heartache.  I keep telling myself that he's going to have a great time and make lots of new friends and that this is just one more step into his eventual adulthood and independence.  That's my major job as a parent, right?  I'm supposed to make sure that he has the tools to be an independent, functional and Godly man when he's an adult.

This should be exciting for me that he's so ready to begin this next step.  Still, change has never been my strong suit.  This will be a big change that can never be taken back.  This isn't like a move to Montana or something that we can just move back if we find out it's a mistake.  This is a change that is permanent.  I can't help but feel that he will never fully be my little boy again.  From now on, he'll belong, just a little bit, to someone else.

That might not be such a bad thing.  I've been that someone else for lots of other parents.  It was a responsibility that I didn't take lightly.  I knew that I was, in some ways, the other adult that their children looked up to.  While I couldn't fully appreciate how hard that was for some of them, I did understand that it was a difficult transition for a lot of parents to let go.  However, I also understood that I could teach those kids in ways that their parents never could so I was not a replacement but an addition.

I guess that's how I have to see this.  This isn't someone else replacing me in my son's life but an addition to that whole "independence" education thing.  I'm working on seeing it that way, anyway.

10 Totally Useless Parent Factoids

A few things I've leared since becoming a parent that really don't help me in everyday life but are kind of important mommy things to know:

1.  There is no such thing as a leak-proof sippy-cup.  I don't care if it DOES come with a guarantee.  That sucker is gonna leak and there's nothing you can do about it.  It's chances of leaking increase exponentially if you put something red in there.

2.  If you cannot find pacifiers anywhere, they are all hiding under the crib.  That's where pacies go to hide from their horrible masters.  After everyone's asleep they have paci parties under there but don't bother trying to attend one.  I hear the punch sucks.

3.  Babies wait to poop in a fresh diaper.  If you've just changed them, they will poop in it.  Even if you think they've just pooped so it's safe to change them, they are always saving a little bit for the next diaper.  I'm convinced that this is some sort of conspiracy just to remind us who's really in charge.

4.  Legos are lethal weapons.  I'm not kidding.  The CIA should really look into this.  Need to assassinate Qaddafi and make it look like an accident?  Give his kid some Legos.  When Q gets up for a drink of water in the middle of the night, WHAMO!  He'll never know what hit him.  This also works with toy cars and jacks.

5.  Kids never ask stupid questions during commercials.  They always wait until NCIS has come back on to start asking if I'm going to buy an Eggie because they make perfect hard-boiled eggs quickly and easily.  Did you know the Eggie Slicer (free with purchase if you pay extra shipping and handling) makes perfect slices every time? No?  Well, watch TV with my 5-year old son and you'll soon be introduced to all manner of useless bits of information that can be gleaned from infomercials.

6.  They are neither hungry nor thirsty until bed-time.  It doesn't matter if it's 2 am.  If you say it's bed-time, they will suddenly be hit with a raging thirst that is only rivaled in the Sahara Desert.  No amount of water will assuage this thirst.

7.  Kids can be bought.  If I have to take my 5-year-old to the store, I promise him a trip to Bahama Bucks for shaved ice afterward if he's good.  I've decided this is rewarding rather than bribery.  I'm good at the store because I would be embarrassed by the comments and stares of other shoppers if I weren't.  Therefore, tricking the other shoppers into thinking that I'm somewhat normal is its own reward.  Kids don't embarrass that easily so Bahama Bucks it is.

8.  "Eating you out of house and home" doesn't just happen to parents of teens.  My son can plow through three turkey sandwiches and still claim hunger.  I shudder to think what our grocery bill is going to look like when he's 16.  My father-in-law jokes that we'll just have it delivered by 18-wheelers.

9.  Children must be deprogrammed every time they go to grandparents' houses.  This is not something you can escape.  I think my parents take great joy in spoiling my kids and then snicker to themselves when they send the little monst... children back to me all hyped up on sugar (that my mom wouldn't even let in our house when I was a kid) and useless toys.  The baby thinks she needs to be held 24/7 and the boy thinks he gets a toy every time we go to the store.  It takes a week at least to get all of that conditioning programmed out of them.  Then it's just time for them to go to the grandparents' house again.  It's never-ending.

10.  You don't get to take vacations with kids.  Any parent will tell you this.  A journey with a child is not a vacation.  It's a trip.  You will not get home and feel refreshed.  You will get home and beg to go back to your job because travelling with children is ten times harder.  God help you if you forget to take Blankie or Moose or Pink Kitty.  Even if you do, your kids won't sleep in a hotel and strapping kids into a car for 8 hours is really just the height of stupidity but we do it anyway.

I think God designed kids to remind us that we really are NOT in control as much as we'd like to think.

A Balancing Act

I keep telling myself that one of these days I'm going to grow up and be a good housekeeper and a good wife and a great mother that keeps all the balls in the air without dropping any of them.  I will have really clever dinner parties in my spotlessly clean house and make it all look effortless.  I will always have shaved legs and armpits and my hair will always be faultlessly coiffed. I will not spend most of the day in my pajamas and I will have nice clothes that don't have salsa stains on them or torn hems and my shoes will always match whatever outfit I have chosen for the day.  I will get my eyebrows waxed every two weeks without fail and my face will always be clear and expertly made-up with this season's latest colors.  I will not be an ounce over my ideal body weight and I will always eat what I know is good for me because junk food and pop do not have a place in the diet of a grown-up such as me.

I step back and inspect this grown-up version of me and can't help but think, "Sheesh!  How boring is she?!"  If I'm really honest with myself, that's not a grown-up version of me, that is someone else entirely.  Why is it that somehow I have this idea that to be "grown up" I have to completely change who I am?

I am the woman who spontaneously invites friends over and they hang out in her messy house while she throws some burgers on the grill.  I often play with my kids for most of the day in my pajamas and we have an absolute blast while dishes wait patiently in the sink and laundry sits in the drier for a couple of days (or weeks but who's counting?) if it even makes it to the drier.  I very rarely wear make-up because, well, I'm kind of lazy.  I just don't think about it that much.  If you don't like how I look without it, you can look somewhere else.  I'm overweight because I like junk food and ice cream and just plain food in general and I lack self control to tell myself no.


Here's where we run into the problem.  My eating habits are not healthy and my house really does need to be cleaner.  There shouldn't be so much clutter laying around on our kitchen table and the toys need to get put away in the living room.  I need to eat less Cheetos and popcorn and start eating more vegetables and balanced reasonable meals. I'm struggling right now to find that balance between being me but just being better.  I do want to be a good mom and a good wife and a good housekeeper so my family has a clean pleasant house to live in (because I like it better that way, too.)  I don't, however, want to turn into some June Cleaver wanna-be that my family doesn't even recognize or like anymore.

Sure I'll play with you honey...as soon as I'm done polishing the cutlery.

I guess, along with working to simplify our household, my goal will be to find that fine balance between being the overweight bad housekeeper and the "ideal" of a Stepford wife. 

Somewhere in the middle is who I am supposed to be and I guess once I get there that's when I'll be all grown up.  In the mean time, my family has managed to survive and be okay people even when I'm not perfect.

Kalen's Story

We'd been talking for a little while about having another baby.  By talking I mean I kept saying, "Let's have another one." and Lee kept saying, "Why?  We're finally at the point where he goes to the bathroom by himself and he dresses himself ... I don't want to change diapers again."  He finally agreed and we decided we'd start trying in August and see what happened.

This was probably not the best time to get pregnant from a work standpoint.  The stress of starting a new school year can be intense and this was my first year to teach science rather than special education so there was a lot of new stuff.  I don't handle new stuff well even when I'm at my best. Plus, everybody knows it's harder to get pregnant when you're stressed, right?  Well, not for us apparently.  Just like with Conner, the first month we tried to get pregnant we got pregnant.  As Lee's dad likes to say, "Lee's boys can swim on command."  I shudder to think how many kids we'd have by now if we hadn't used birth control all these years.

I found out I was pregnant by peeing on the stick on Labor Day.  I didn't quite catch the slight irony there until later.  It would have been even funnier if I had gone into labor that day but what are you gonna do?  I knew that I wanted to go with a midwife again for this birth and I was kicking around the idea of having this baby at home.  After giving birth at the birth center last time, I realized that it was just having the baby in someone else's home.  Better than a hospital for me but still not quite what I wanted.

Of course, I did my research.  The statistics are good for low-risk pregnancies and midwife assisted home-births.  I wasn't crazy enough to try one of those planned solo births.  I timed how long it took to get to the nearest emergency room if the need arose (less than 10 minutes) and decided to start interviewing midwives.

I didn't really feel comfortable with the midwife I had used with Conner because of the whole not listening to my wishes during Conner's birth thing.  Plus she was a pretty fur piece away from our house and the traffic on 75 is brutal.  The final straw for me was when I went in for my 6-week postpartum followup appointment and she thought my name was Jo-Anne.  Not really the kind of personal experience you expect from a midwife.

I prayed about it and decided to try a birth center in Garland that was much closer to my house.  I checked out their website first, of course, and found that they offered the option of  home birth.  They stated that they brought all of the equipment  to your house that you'd have access to at the birthcenter.  I emailed them and made the appointment to go meet them and get a feel for the place and the people.  I instantly felt comfortable and at home.  I had found my new midwives.  Robin and Joyce were a gift from God.

I couldn't have been happier with the level of care and personal attention that I got from our new birth center.  We went ahead with plans for a home birth (incidentally two of my friends from church were pregnant at the same time and all three of us were able to have home births.)  Strangely enough, Robin and Joyce didn't seem to have a hard time remembering that my name was not Jo-Anne.

As my due date got closer, I was getting more and more miserable.  The baby was carrying all out front.  When I was 9 months pregnant you couldn't tell I was even preggo from the back. Needless to say, my lower back was yelling at me a lot.  Other than some low iron that I was able to bring up with more supplements and some extra spinach salads, everything was medically going well.  We found out we were having a little girl and decided to name her Kalen Elizabeth. Then the midwife started getting concerned about my blood pressure by early April and it was slowly getting higher with each appointment.  By the time we were two weeks away from my due date, she put my on modified bed-rest.

I had to stop working and be in bed for an hour in the morning and two hours every afternoon.  I followed the rules for about a week and my blood pressure was back down to safe levels.  Joyce said something like "I think you just needed to stay home."  I wanted to make some smart-alek crack about how she'd have high blood pressure, too, if she had to deal with my fourth period class but I think I refrained.  I don't remember for sure.  My filters were not working so well by then.

My parents flew into town about a week before I was due. I was a little paranoid about going out to eat with them after what happened when I went into labor with Conner but this time it didn't seem to matter.  I walked  as much as my poor aching feet could stand.  I massaged my ankles.  I ate spicy food.  Still no dice.  Four days before my due date my midwife stripped my membranes a little bit just to get things going if the baby was ready.  It seemed like had more energy that day but I was afraid to hope.  I walked as much as I could even when it was pouring down rain.  By walked I actually mean waddled but you get the drift.

At four o'clock the next morning a contraction woke me up and, of course, I immediately had to pee.  At this point in the pregnancy it took an act of congress and a battalion of the Army Corps of Engineers just to turn over in bed so the idea of actually getting up was a huge undertaking.  I levered myself off the mattress and onto my only slightly swollen feet only to feel that same tearing/breaking feel and the trickle of warm water I had felt with Conner's birth.  I waddled my way to the bathroom as quickly as my enormous stomach and complaining bladder would allow. Once the bladder was silenced, I grabbed my cell phone and called my midwife from the bathroom.

"I don't know what you did to me in your office yesterday but it worked.  My water just broke."

"Your kidding."  she replied.  "I'm here in the birth center with a first-time mom who just went into labor, too."

I told her not to worry about it for a while.  I was doing okay and my contractions weren't bad yet.  She said to call back when they got strong and closer together.  I walked around the bathroom a bit and then hobbled out to the garage to turn up the hot water heater for the birthing tub.  (I was planning to try a water birth.)  Nobody else was awake yet because I just didn't see the point in waking them up when there wasn't really anything they could do anyway.  I wandered back to do some more walking back and forth in our bathroom with easy to clean floors.

About 5 o'clock the contractions got bad enough that I had to stop walking and breathe through them.  I called the midwife back and told her they were starting to get stronger and I was going to need her soon.  I woke up Lee and he got up and got dressed.  It was all so very calm.  Nothing like the racing around and backing the family car over garbage cans to race to the hospital that you see on commercials.

At about 5:45 Joyce arrived with all of the "stuff."  She checked my progress and I was about 5 cm.  My contractions got bad enough that I had to really concentrate.    Fifteen minutes later they got bad enough that I couldn't concentrate.  I remember some part of my brain thinking how fast this was going.  I barely had time to catch my breath between contractions before another one would start.  When I was in labor with Conner I was able to go to my place where pain was the calm ocean and I was floating on top.  When I was in labor with Kalen the pain was a tsunami that pounded me into a coral reef and stole my breath and I didn't know which way was up.  Then my poor unsuspecting husband walked up to me and touched my back right in the middle of the pain-tsunami.  I kept my voice as level as I could and ground out, "Don't touch me please."  He took the hint and walked away.

While I was being pounded into the bottom of the pain ocean, my mom and Lee were trying to get the birthing tub blown up and lined and filled up with warm water while Joyce got out all of her midwife stuff.  Mom and Lee kept arguing about the best way to get the tub blown up and I was about to let loose with a whole string of cuss words about how I didn't care how it was done as long as it was done NOW.  Luckily for them the tsunami still had all my breath so I couldn't really yell at anybody right then.

They finally got it blown up and I climbed right in while they were still filling it with water.  I was still wearing the tee shirt I had worn to bed and I didn't even care.  I remembered the instant relief I felt in the warm water when I was in labor with Conner and I had been really looking forward to it.  Kalen had taken after her brother and was sunny-side-up as well and I wasn't looking forward to that pushing experience again.  One top of all that, the back labor was not much fun.  I did feel better pretty quickly and the tub got filled up quicker with me in it.  That's displacement at work, folks.

I got about 10 minutes of relief before the contractions started coming faster until they were right on top of each other.  With one contraction I felt Kalen turn a little bit and with the next she turn all the way so she was faceing the correct way (anterior?  posterior?  I can never remember which one it's supposed to be.)  I don't know how I knew that but I just did.

With the next contraction I felt instantly like I MUST push.  There was no pushing "urge" or thinking I might need to push.  My body just did it.  It was completely involuntary - like a sneeze.  Joyce tried to tell me to slow down so I didn't tear and all I could do was scream, "I CAN'T."  I tried really hard to pant and blow and all that junk and my body just refused.  I'm not sure how long I pushed but it seemed like only 5 or 10 minutes before I had her in my arms.  My 9-pound 8-ounce baby girl came in a grand total of two and a half hours.

Having her at home was the best thing ever.  It didn't feel like a medical event.  It was a family event and she was welcomed into her family and her home at the same time.  I realize this wouldn't be the best thing for everybody and some people probably should not do it this way if there are problems with the pregnancy and what-not but I'm so happy that we were blessed with this experience.  (The fact that it only took 2 and half hours doesn't suck, either.)

Conner's Birth Story (and it's a long one)

I have decided that it was time to write down my kids' birth stories before I get too old and forget.  So, here goes Conner's:  (spoiler alert:  It might be a little TMI for the faint of heart.)

We couldn't afford birth control for a couple of months what with Christmas break and all the bills that go along with it.  I must say that I was not super-disappointed by this as I had been lobbying for kids for years but my beloved husband kept saying things like, "Have you seen my sister?  Why would you deliberately do that to yourself?"  My sister-in-law was miserable when she was pregnant.  I saw that but I also saw her beloved little babies and darnit,  I wanted one.  Well, suffice it to say, when we were into the second month of no birth control, we were somewhat less than careful.  (Which means that we had not an ounce of prevention whatsoever for something for which there is no cure.)  ;)

Well, I found out I was pregnant and that my insurance did not cover pregnancies on the same day.  Lucky me.  I wasn't worried at first because I knew that my teaching job would kick in in August and I'd have insurance by the end of August.  I wasn't due until November so no big deal, right?  I called my doctor and she handed me the cup and I dutifully peed in it.  They did something mysterious in the lab and confirmed that, yes indeed, I was pregnant.  She recommended a great OBGYN that delivered all of her babies and she just loved her.

Here's where the story takes a turn.  I found out that OBGYN's are expensive and they don't see you on the promise that you'll someday have insurance.  No sirree they want to be paid upfront.  All $5,000 of it that they would graciously allow me to split into two payments.  We were in that weird spot in the middle where we made too much money to get help and not enough money to pay for anything by ourselves.  After calling around, someone at one of the places that said they couldn't help me suggested that I see a midwife until my insurance came through.

Huh.  A midwife.  The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it.  I've always kind of leaned a little in the granola direction anyway so that actually held a kind of appeal for me.  Of course, being me, I had to do some research and found all of the stats showing that midwives are just as safe as hospitals etc. for low-risk pregnancies.  I talked it over with Lee for about two seconds and he kind of said, "It's your body so if that's what makes you comfortable, I'm cool with it."  (Lee has slowly started leaning a little in the granola direction, too.  The longer he's married to me, the more he leans.) So the upshot of it all is that I found out I was pregnant by peeing on the stick on Tuesday and by Friday I was touring the birth center that Lee's step-sister had used.

It was perfect for what I wanted.  It was an old Victorian home with a jetted tub and four poster bed and it was about a block from Baylor Medical Center and all of the shiny expensive equipment in case something went wrong.  I was concerned about that with this being my first pregnancy and frankly, the lack of pain medications (hereafter known as "drugs") scared me since I'd always considered myself a wimp about pain.

I got appointments starting at 8 weeks into my pregnancy and heard the heartbeat for the first time.  We went to childbirth classes once a week for 8 weeks and learned how to manage pain and what to expect in labor.  We made easy monthly payments until my insurance kicked in.  The whole idea of changing over to an OBGYN now that I had insurance never even entered my mind.  The childbirth classes had fully converted Lee over to the idea of a natural child-birth.  On the surface I was gung-ho but inside I was scared.  What if I couldn't do it?  What if the pain was just too much for me and I lost it?  What if I decided to waddle a block over to Baylor and demand that they "give me drugs stat!"?

By the time I got to 38 weeks or so I just didn't care anymore.  I just wanted it to be over.  I don't remember doing this but Lee said on the weekend before I gave birth I jumped up and down in the middle of our living room, glared at my protruding stomach and yelled, "Get out, get out, get OUT!"  It's kind of funny now but I don't remember laughing much at the time.  I was so huge I was sure I was going to go into labor early because surely I just couldn't last much longer.  That was dangerous thinking and someone should have warned me against it.  I had somehow decided that I would go into labor a week early.  When that ridiculously pie-in-the-sky I-must-have-been-dreaming due-date came and went I went into an emotional tailspin.  I was still working at this point teaching special education resource classes to some of the most wonderful children on earth and some who were... not so wonderful.  A week before my real due-date I called my long-term sub in and just started taking sick days.  I couldn't handle it anymore.

My due date approached and finally dawned with still no baby.  I picked my parents up at the airport and just resigned myself to being pregnant forever.  We went out to eat that night at a burger joint because by this time I had long given up on eating nutritious meals and just ate whatever tasted good.  We all stuffed ourselves to the point of being miserable and decided to go.

As I climbed out of the booth behind my husband I felt like something broke or tore inside and a trickle ran down my leg.  Yes, that's right ladies and gents I went into labor on my due date and my water not only broke before I went into labor (apparently that only happens about 20% of the time) but it happened in a public place. I should be on a sitcom. Unfortunately there was no handy jar of pickles sitting on the table at Red Robin.  I was mildly embarrassed but was so glad that I was finally going to have my baby that it passed pretty quickly.

I immediately called my best friend, Carol, to inform her that I had gone into labor (she also went into labor on her due date because we are just anal retentive prompt like that.)  I called the midwife once I got home and let her know that my water had broken but I wasn't having any real contractions yet.  She wanted to make sure that my labor got going since my water had broken so she suggested nipple stimulation.  I got off the phone and informed my husband about his chance to help the cause.  Ordinarily, he would have jumped at the opportunity but I think my parents being in the house made him shy.  :)  He did his part and 30 minutes later I was no longer wondering what real contractions felt like.

We got to the birth center and they checked to see how far along I was and then sent me to walk around the park for an hour.  I was at 4 cm dilated when we got there and after an excruciating hour of waddling around and around the park next door I was 5 cm.  I was ready to scream and throw things.  Surely all the walking should have accomplished more than that!!!

I was having back labor which I've heard is very painful.  I don't know if it's more painful than regular labor because both of my labors were back labor so I have no point of comparison.  I just remember going deep inside myself and finding areas of strength that I never knew were there.  I went to my place where pain was a quiet ocean and I just floated peacefully on top of it.  I visualized a valve in my feet and the pain just ran like water through my legs and out the valve.  I concentrated on nothing more than my next breath while I sang praise songs in my head. Between contractions I just tried to relax before the next one.

I finally asked if I could get in the bathtub. I sat in the tub of warm water and felt instant relief.  The water seemed to support and relax tight muscles and felt like heaven.  I still had to go to my happy place and open the pain valve in my feet but I didn't have to work at it so hard. I actually fell asleep and napped between contractions  Just when I was starting to think, "Ok.  I can do this.  It's obviously going to get much worse because this isn't so bad" it got worse.

Suddenly the pain was all new again and I was shaking and couldn't catch my breath and my contractions were no longer a silent ocean.  I yelled.  I moaned.  I roared.  Somehow it seemed to make it feel better to vocalize and boy did I vocalize.  Drugs started sounding REALLY good.  To hell with this natural childbirth crap.  Thank God for childbirth classes.  Because I'd dragged myself and Lee to 8 weeks of class, I knew to recognize the signs of transition and what it meant.  I could live through this pain because that meant that it was almost over.  I was almost there. If I survived just a little while longer the pain would be over.

The midwife came in and checked my progress again and, while she was getting her gloves on, casually asked if I felt like I might need to have a bowel movement .  I said, yes and she looked shocked.  "How long has this been going on?"  I couldn't answer her because time had really ceased to have meaning for me.  It was just about getting through the next contraction at that point.  She checked me and found that I had progressed from 5 cm to 10 cm in two hours and I'm putting the responsibility for that square on that lovely tub of hot water. It was finally time to push.

This was a new hell.  The midwife decided that I needed to squat to push.  She stated that first-time moms always hate to do this but I had to.  I gave it the old college try a couple of times and tried to tell her that it didn't feel right and this wasn't working.  She insisted I keep going.  In between contractions while I was resting on the floor I heard the midwife tell the birthing assistant to go inform my family that it would be another two hours.  In my head I thought, "Like hell.  I'm not doing this for another two hours.  You have another think coming lady."  I again tried to get out of pushing in a squat position but she kept saying no, I had to keep trying. Now, here's where the me who lives in the present looks at the past me and wonders why I wasn't more insistent.  I knew what was going on in my body and I knew that all of this effort wasn't getting the job done but I still didn't stand up to her.  To this day, I'm not sure why.  I guess it was because this was my first baby and I really did think that maybe I just didn't know what was going on.

After what seemed like an eternity,  I said again that this didn't feel right to me.  It felt like the baby was stuck and I didn't have energy for much more of this.  Eventually the midwife agreed to "let" me prop myself up in bed and push that way for a while.  Instantly I felt like this was working.  Conner was coming out sunny-side up so even though he was head down, he was facing the wrong way.  I think that perhaps this was why it felt like he was "stuck."  The new way of pushing might have just moved angles the right way so he moved into the birth canal easier.  I don't know.  After 5 hours of labor and  45 minutes of pushing and getting nowhere, I pushed my beautiful 8-pound-14-ounce boy into the world by sitting up on the bed like I'd wanted to do all along.

They placed him on my stomach and I looked down at his little face and said, "Hi McNugget."  We'd nicknamed him that before we knew if he was a boy or a girl and it kind of stuck.  To this day we often call him Nuggy or Nugget or Nuggetdoo or some other variation of the original "McNugget."  He moved his head toward the sound of my voice and looked up at me with his eyes open so wide and we just stared at each other for seemingly endless moments.  I can't even describe to you my feelings in those moments.  Probably the closest I could come would be to call it awe.   I was completely in awe of this little miracle.

Eventually Lee got to cut the cord and they wrapped him up and I held him while Lee held both of us.  He pushed my hair back and kissed my forehead and said, "You're so beautiful." and I knew he was lying because I looked like a hot mess but it made me all squishy inside just the same.

Within a couple of hours after I fainted in the shower, got tears sewn up and had to get catheterized (fun experience, that one) we got to go home with our new baby.  No three-day hospital wait or anything.   I looked down that afternoon and my feet weren't swollen for the first time in months.  Lee took Conner to the pediatrician where they pronounced him perfect with not a thing wrong with him and the adventure began.  Five years later I still can hardly believe that God has blessed me with such a wonderful little boy.

Conflicted

I woke up this morning to the news that Osama Bin Laden has been killed by Navy Seals as he hid in a million-dollar luxury compound a virtual stone's throw from the capitol city of our supposed allies in the war against terror.  There are so many emotions flowing through me right now that I almost can't get a good sense of what I'm feeling at any given moment.

My first instinct is "Heck yeah!  Take THAT you big jerk.  Enjoy your virgins you misogynistic bastard!"  But that didn't last long.  I just can't help but feel like there isn't rejoicing in Heaven right now.  As cruel and downright evil as Osama was, he was still a child of God and if God never gives up on me, he certainly would not have given up on Bin Laden, either.  I'm not sad that he's gone but I'm not really celebrating.

I'm also incredibly proud of the Navy Seals who went into the compound and managed to take him out without a single injury to U.S. forces.  That just speaks to the training and bravery of the people for whom violence is their job.  Not fun. I get the feeling that this has been a pretty frustrating 10 years for them. They've got to be feeling pretty good this morning.

It's entered my mind that the Obama administration has, so far, handled this situation pretty well.  It was smart not to try to capture him.  Just kill him and let people get on with life.  Don't waste money on a long drawn-out trial and media circus when the whole world knows he's at fault.  They buried the body at sea quickly so it can't turn into a shrine for extremists and it's all done and over with.  I feel like that was a smart way to handle it.

I also think about people who lost loved ones in the 9/11 attacks.  Does this bring closure or does it just tear off the scab?  I don't know.  I can't put myself in their place.  I've never lost a spouse or child in a terrorist attack so I just don't have a perspective on what they must be going through today.

Apparently a woman was killed in the compound because she was used as a human shield.  I guess that demonstrates pretty plainly how Osama and his ilk valued women.  How must the soldier who had to shoot her be feeling right now? I'm so glad that I serve a God who sees me as a beloved daughter and the apple of his eye rather than as a sexual reward for some man.

People are saying justice has been done.  I just feel slightly... stuck.  Was it really justice?  Justice, in my opinion, would be to take the billions of dollars that Osama had squirreled away and give it to the families of the firefighters killed on 9/11 who lost a breadwinner.  Give it to the families of soldiers killed in the last 10 years who lost a father or mother or child.  Give it to the families of people in the twin towers who were minding their own business and going to work on what they thought was a regular day until a plane crashed into their building.  Give it to the families of people who went to the Pentagon in Virginia that day just doing their jobs and going about their routines only to be suddenly surrounded by fire and terror.  Give it to the families of the brave people who crashed their plane in a field rather than let someone else be harmed.  I don't think it was really justice so much as a warning.  This is kind of a "Don't Tread on Me" flag.  "If you attack us, we will hunt you down and make you pay.  It might take almost 10 years but we'll eventually get you and you will never feel completely safe again."  While I feel that Osama's death was necessary, I don't really get the release that I usually feel when justice has been done.

I wonder what terror Osama had in the works that will never come to fruition.  How many lives were possibly saved by his death?  Only God knows, I guess, but I can't help but think about it.

As I said, my head is spinning this morning.  I think I'll get on the treadmill for a while.

Infectious

My husband recently bought a lottery ticket.  This is a HUGE deal in our house.  My husband is easily one of the most negative people you will ever meet.  He's the type that will shred the silver lining to find the cloud in any situation.  His defense of his philosophy is this: "If you expect the worst, anything else is a good surprise.  Being positive only leaves you open to disappointment." He doesn't hope for good things.  He prefers to be happily surprised when they happen.  Of course, then he assumes that all his "good luck" is used up on that good thing and something terrible will happen later because of it.

Why would such a scrooge do something so hopeful as to buy  a lottery ticket?  I haven't the faintest notion.  I'm not really a big fan of the lottery, myself.  In fact, I nodded my head in agreement when my husband once declared that the lottery was really just another tax on the poor and the mathematically inept.  Apparently the triggering event for this most illogical of moves was a twenty-dollar bill in the parking lot beside my husband's truck just waiting with bated breath for my beloved to get to work.  He decided then and there that it was going to be a lucky day.  My son did well at his soccer game and a couple of other good things happened so my husband decided that if ever there was a time to buy a lottery ticket, it was now.  Strike while the iron is hot, says he.  You gotta get while the gettin's good.

I have watched in a sort of bemused wonder as my pessimistic darling jokingly declared that it didn't matter what kind of insurance was offered by his employer next year because we are about to win five million dollars from the lottery.  I snicker and shake my head while I internally roll my eyes at his foolishness.  He has already checked the website tonight and was disappointed that he wouldn't hear anything until 10:12 pm Central Standard Time.

I must admit just between you, me and the fencepost that his enthusiasm has been infectious.  Suddenly, I look around our house and notice things I'd like to have fixed like the light switch that I've always wanted in the kitchen so you could actually turn the light on without walking all the way to the other side of the dark kitchen with your hand frantically waving about in front of you hoping no five-year-olds have left any matchbox cars in your path.  We could finally get solar panels and a wind turbine and the price of gas wouldn't matter anymore because we'd have five million dollars.  I would force my husband to FINALLY go on a vacation.

Don't worry.  I've still got both feet in reality.  We are not going to win the lottery but it sure is fun to dream.  I guess my point here is that your attitude is infectious.  Don't underestimate the power to spread a little something from person to person besides swine flu (pardon me- H1N1) and strep throat.  (Thank you, by the way, whoever you were who gave me THAT little gift.) Let's all catch the dream bug tomorrow.

If I Perish, I Perish

"I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.” Esther 4:16.  


I've had that phrase running through my head for the last couple of weeks. How much different could my life be if I lived in that place?  If I didn't worry so much about being "safe" and just went for it?  Just no holds barred, full bore, balls out go for it.  Wow.


Now, I realize that it took Esther a while to get to that place.  She didn't start out as the brave queen that I idolized as a child.  She was a selfish coward just like me.  The thing is, she had every right to feel sorry for herself and say, "Let the rest of the Jews worry about themselves.  I've got my own problems."  The king of Persia was not her Prince Charming that saved her from a life of poverty and they lived happily ever after.  This was no Edward and Victoria love story.  This man had the power to order her killed on a whim.  He had an entire harem of women that were at his disposal day and night.  There was no future of familial bliss in her outlook.


However, she grasped her destiny with both hands and rose to the occasion to leave Hadassah behind and become Queen Esther.  How often have I let my destiny pass me by because of my fears?  Maybe I need to write some PostIts with "If I perish, I perish" and leave them around the house to remind me not to let my destiny slip away because of fear, worry and the need to feel "safe."

Soare Women Kill Their Own Cockroaches

My intense and, admittedly irrational, dislike of snakes has been well-documented.  When I say that I don't get all squeally and girlie about other creepies like bugs, spiders and other undesirables that does not mean that I love them and want to share personal space and life stories with them.  Quite the opposite.  I find cockroaches disgusting and never more so than tonight when I found a gargantuan one scurrying around my feet in the shower.

After a surprised "Ewwwe," escaped my disgustedly curled lip, I called for back-up from my husband.  After several unsuccessful attempts to elicit some assistance from that quarter, I gave up since he couldn't hear me because our television was set to the "so loud the neighbors can hear it" setting.  Suddenly I could hear my mom's voice in my head.  "Soare women aren't sissies.  Soare women kill their own bugs."  Dang it.  What was I supposed to do?  Crush it with my bare foot?  Not gonna happen.  No. Way. In. Heck.

After backing to opposing corners of the shower to avoid having unknown diseases tracked across my feet courtesy of  my insect friend, I remembered paper towels in the bathroom linen closet.  Eureka!  I just scoop it up with a paper towel and throw it in the trash.  My shower could continue sans cockroach.

It was a really good plan.  In my head it worked.  Of course, in my head I'm skinny and I wear really fabulous shoes and I work for an international spy syndicate .  Anyway, those cockroaches are faster and stronger than they look.  They can also jump when cornered, much to my chagrin. After several attempts to corner the little bugger and catch him with my disposable weapon, I managed to grasp him in the now soggy paper towel and make my way to the trash can across the room.  Of course, he jumped out of the paper towel before I could get there and he's now running around relishing his victory under my sink.

I decided to let him have this one. Next time he won't be so lucky. I'll get him when he least expects it and I'm not naked and wet with soapy hair.

Head Shake

I'm so disappointed in our society right now.  Kadhafi is paying foreign mercenaries to murder his own people in the streets.  Libyan fighter pilots are defecting to Malta to avoid having to become a part of the slaughter.  Police and military personnel are laying down their arms and, in some cases, actually joining the protesters.  These people are laying their lives on the line to gain freedom for their country.  The news gave a short blurb about all of this. What's our big news story?  Gas prices are going up as a result of the "unrest" in the middle east.

What is wrong with us?  Really?!  Personally, I don't think I would have the guts to stand up to a cruel dictator who could not only kill me but my entire extended family and know that he would have no repercussions whatsoever.  Bravery doesn't even begin to describe what these people are doing right now.  "Ballsy" comes a little bit closer.  The name of their country means freedom and they're fighting to make that a reality.  I love it.

Are we celebrating that?  Finding a way to support them in their cause?  Calling in the UN to protect these people from the cruel man they are protesting against?  Nope.  We're worried because our gasoline might go up a few cents per gallon this week.

I wonder what went up in price during the American revolution?  Probably cotton. The funny thing is, the American revolution wasn't because they were being tortured and their families didn't disappear in the night because they said something against Crazy George.  No, they were mad because he had impacted their pocket-book.  I guess some things never change.

NOT doomed to failure

Yesterday at church, there were a few couples who stood at the front and talked about what had made their marriage successful after 12 years, 23 years, 25 years, 35 years, etc.  All of them mentioned that if you are not right with God and you don't pray together daily, your relationship with your mate is going to be at odds and you won't have a good marriage.  (I'm paraphrasing a little but it's my blog so live with it.)  I guess you can't expect otherwise being as we were in church but I've gotta say I was a little hurt. (If one of you is reading this, please don't feel like this is condemnation on you, I just have to get this out there.)

I understand what they are saying and I can agree with it up to a point but for me, personally, there are difficulties as my husband doesn't consider himself a Christian and is kind of mad at God and rebelling right now. However, my marriage is NOT somehow on the last swirl before the final flush.  All things considered, we have a fairly decent marriage.  Neither of us is sleeping with someone else on business trips to Poughkeepsie or during our lunch hour.  We don't have knock-down drag-out fights where we call each other horrible names and throw things. We don't go for days on end with strained and stressful silence filling our house as we give each other the cold shoulder. Would I like for my husband to start attending church with me and take his spiritual place in our family?  Absolutely.  Are we going to get a divorce if he doesn't?  Nope.

My husband may not call himself a Christian but he's a good man.  I am so proud of the man I married.  Does he drive me abso-stinkin-lutely insane sometimes?  You betcha.  But, he's a great father, a loving husband and he cares about the people and the world around him.  He's an AMAZING mentor for teens that have some home lives that would make your hair curl.  My husband is their safe place where they know they will be accepted for who they are right now and encouraged to become who they COULD be.  My husband is awesome.

Still, for a few moments in church yesterday, I got a little depressed listening to couple after couple talk about how necessary it was for both parties to be seeking after God.  While I'm sure it makes things easier it's not an absolute for everybody.  We don't all have that situation so where does that leave the rest of us?  Once I pulled myself out of the "poor little me" mud, I realized that you take what you've got when you've got it and you trudge on with a pretty darn good marriage.

A Little Guilt Goes a Long Way

So, I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking about guilt today.  I would appreciate your input on this one.  What is it that causes us to feel guilt (or lack thereof?)  I'm not talking about feeling true conviction when you've done something that wronged another (although, that's a blog for another day.) I'm talking about feeling guilt that drags you down and hobbles you. Is it something innate or is it learned?

Here's my thing: if it's learned, how do I avoid teaching it to my children? I was raised in a very legalistic cult that basically drummed guilt into my head with every sermon.  There's no mystery that my guilt complex is a product of legalistic crap.  However, I've had friends who weren't raised in cults.  They had a pretty normal (is there really any such thing?) childhood and they still struggle with guilt.  So, were they taught guilt in some subtle way? Perhaps our parents fell back on the old guilt complex to keep us in line.

But, now that I'm more sensitive to it, I'm seeing it everywhere.  We see it on TV and in books and in our everyday jargon.  "You should be ashamed of yourself."  What we really mean is that we hope they are somehow going to change their ways and not do that again.  We don't really want them to be ashamed of themselves as a person.  When we really think about what that means, it's a horrible thing to say that most of us wouldn't if we thought about it first.  So how do I teach my children to have grace for themselves and not follow in my guilt-ridden footsteps?

My personal opinion is that I need to get my crap together and start living it for them to see.  They can hear me talk about grace all day long but it's not going to mean anything to them unless they see it walked out in my life every day (or most days when my crap's together.)