Ain't Nothin' Like the Great Outdoors

This school year marks the second year that my daughter and I have been a part of a fabulous organization called MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers).  The basic goal of MOPS is to introduce women to other mommies and little ones in the same community through play dates, Bible studies, and fellowship.  And after trading a life as a professional, sophisticated career woman public school teacher for diluted Juicy Juice, Desitin cream, and Goldfish in the cracks of the couch cushions, I was in definite need of some mommy friends whose nose pickers throw just as many temper tantrums as my own child does.  MOPS  has allowed Margo and I to make some great new friends, and if you, too, are contemplating jumping off a bridge at another request to sing "Wheels on the Bus," I encourage you to check out MOPS... at least that way you can sing along with other tired, coffee-loving, yoga pants-wearing mommas in your area  :)

At our first meeting of this school year, our MOPS coordinator (and a good friend of mine) asked us to fill out a brief questionnaire about our backgrounds and families, all of which  would be compiled into a MOPS directory to be shared with the group.  Straightforward enough, right?

There are few other ways to make me feel like the most boring human walking the planet than to ask what my hobbies and/or interests are.  Um.... I like the satisfaction of a clean load of laundry with not one leftover, unmatched sock?.... I like to go to bed early?.... I like to put my feet up in the recliner and sip a Diet Coke?  Doing my best not to look like I was cheating on a test, I covertly peeked over my survey and glanced at a few questionnaires of moms sitting near me... I got the impression that everyone, absolutely each and every other mom, had some fancy schmancy claim to fame-- "world-renowned scrapbooker," "accomplished, master gardener," "aspiring singer/songwriter; will sign with label next month."

I'm not someone who works well under pressure.  The introvert in me needs ample time to absorb, process, and formulate some sort of cohesive response to even the simplest of questions; otherwise, a great big truck load of social awkwardness ensues.  How do moms have time for choir practice, cooking classes, AND a gym membership??? ... Does taking taking hot showers count as a hobby???  ... If I left the activities section blank, would I get the 'Biggest, Dullest Hermit' paper plate award at the end of the year???  My heart was beginning to race, so I grabbed a donut on my way out and headed to the bathroom.  P.S.  If you're wondering if I'm an emotional eater, allow me to remind you that I'm pregnant.  I'm an "Anywhere, Anytime, Anything" sort of eater :)

In the end, I painstakingly scribbled a few rather vague interests on my questionnaire-- "spending time with family" (duh; I'm a stay-at-home mom-- family, poop, and Kraft singles pretty much encompass 3/4 of my day).  I think I also wrote, "writing," which is as close to a therapist as our budget affords, as well as "spending time outside."

And for all my MOPS moms who may be reading this post, as well as any other friends who may now be inclined to perceive me as Jane of the Jungle (by the way, don't google that... just take my word for it), I feel convicted to clarify this specific hobby:

I like to sit outside, sometimes go for a stroll outside, and I wouldn't at all be opposed to hiring someone to dig a lazy river for my backyard for me to float outside.  But honestly, if it involves...

A) breaking a sweat
B) heavy equipment
C) bugs

... you can just go ahead and count me out.  While you're rolling your eyes and clicking the "submit" button for your application of your fifth triathlon of the year, allow me to entertain you with an illustration of a recent, glorious weekend Eric, Margo, & I spent in the oh so great outdoors--

We had been invited to an annual fall party at the property of some family friends.  In terms of outdoor space, these folks have really done it right-- tree house, out house, trails to walk, mini amphitheater, space for volleyball and ultimate frisbee, you name it.  But we've been to this party a time or two in years past, and we sort of had a hunch that "party" should be renamed, "gargantuan gathering in which aforementioned family invites everyone they know... and then encourages guests to extend the invitation to everyone they know."  I mentioned that I'm an introvert, so an invitation to an event like this is something that must be mulled over and played out, best and worst case scenarios in mind, for a solid 9-12 business days before committing.  At the end of the deliberation period, I decided that we'd attend so long as two criteria were met...

1.  The weather was decent
2.  We knew at least two other families attending

... I know, I know.  You're thinking that I'm shallow and that real friends would have been there rain or shine, with or without the mutual acquaintance safety net.  I don't disagree. But for the sake of full disclosure and transparency, cut me a little slack.  Besides, as I mentioned, I'm pregnant, which in my book, is a fair card to play whenever I darn well please ;)  On any given day, there's at least a fair chance that I will wake up and decide that my entire stretchy maternity pants wardrobe makes me look like an elephant wearing Grandma's hosiery, in which case, the only place I'm going is to Dairy Queen to wallow in my enormity over a peanut butter/hot fudge sundae, thank you very much.

The weather, however, looked to be perfect mid-70s, and many of the families from our church were planning to attend.  Prospects looked good that I would not, in fact, wake up feeling like a beached whale in Shakira's skinny jeans, so when the big day rolled around, we packed the mini van with 14 cans of bug spray, our cushy, Colts-themed camp chairs (by the way, we've never been camping), and a crock pot of macaroni and cheese (one of two items I bring to pitch-ins; the other is fruit, but once again, I'm pregnant, and slicing up a watermelon the size of my belly just didn't appeal).

When I say that this family lives "out the country," what I really mean is that the drive there is almost long enough to require a potty break and a stop for a bite to eat.  Unfortunately, though, the long haul takes trail blazers up and down, through twists and turns and bends in the road for what seems like 7 or 8 hours.  In actuality, it's probably only 45 minutes from our house to theirs, but when you're scanning the floorboard for a stray Wal-Mart sack to heave into, it's possible for one to lose track of time ;)  

The party didn't officially begin until 2pm, but we arrived there at 1:53.  Eric and I like to be punctual.  My dad taught me that tardiness was rude... and Eric's mammoth family has always run late, so for him, I think punctuality is either about mixing things up and trying something new... or proving that you really can teach an old dog new tricks ;)  So yes, we're typically the annoying guests who arrive just early enough to stand in the way of a host's final preparations.

I was still feeling the effects of the car ride, so while my initial plan was to eat a snack when we arrived, I opted out.  We unpacked all of our outdoor gear, which compared to what everyone else trickled in with, probably had our hosts wondering if we planned to stay until Thanksgiving.  The good news is that Margo was happy and toddling around, chewing on twigs and repeatedly pointing to the trees, which she calls "trucks" (Margo actually calls anything outside and larger than she is a "truck."  We praise her big time when she points out a pick up truck, a semi, or a flatbed.... and then like all other "She must be gifted!!!!" parents, we pretend we didn't hear her when she calls a "house" a "truck.").  Anyway, the bad news is that while the motion sickness was subsiding, I was beginning to feel the effects of not eating in a few hours.  I've always had some weird blood sugar quirks.  As a child I was a "grazer," who could easily snack the day away.  Now that the doctors are saying it's actually healthier to eat several, smaller meals a day, I'd like to think I was just way ahead of my time...  ;)  As a result, I can also tell you that crash dieting and/or cleanses definitely are NOT for me... unless, of course, you want to scrape me off the floor and provide me a scoop of peanut butter and a couple slices of lunch meat :)

Per the admonishment of my husband (read:  Eric didn't want a crabby, unfed pregnant wife with a low blood sugar headache), I snuck into some pizza that some friends of ours brought, once again citing the pregnancy clause.  By this time, I was starting to miss carpet and air conditioning, but since we'd only been to the outdoor extravaganza a grand total of probably 23 minutes, I figured we'd better stick it out awhile.  Eventually, we feasted on a smorgasbord pitch-in buffet, in which I more than compensated for the couple of hours I'd gone without munching. ;) Three dinner plates and two desserts later, I was certain my baby was hitting a growth spurt right in front of my eyes ;)

Eric strapped Margo into her stroller and headed for a few trails to hike, while I planted my keister firmly into a lawn chair to soak in the great outdoors for which we'd come so far.  At one point, I realized the chocolate cookie I was nibbling was attracting a few honeybees.  Being that I'm allergic (another reason that, just like some dogs are made for indoors and some for out, I think I was made to be an "indoor human"), it was time to toss the cookie and wrap up my dessert-course, which was quickly becoming every bit as large as my main course.  Oops! 

Evening was approaching, and several families and young people from our church were planning a few musical performances.  We were hoping to make it for some of those festivities before the switch was flipped and I transformed into anti-people, reclusive Sara.  My daughter was still quite content to entertain herself, pulling grass & weeds and loading them into a plastic, toy bus we'd brought.  My eyes once again fixated themselves on the dessert portion of the buffet line (everyone was finally cleared out, so I was scoping out what items needed finished off), and when I turned back to check on Margo, she was trying out a dessert of a different variety--namely, poison ivy.  We were unsure how much, if any, she had ingested.  But we rushed her to the house and scrubbed her, head to toe, in the family's kitchen sink, just in case she had gotten the oil from the plant onto her skin.  Did I mention that we make awesome party guests?!

Had we been at home, I probably would have settled for the impromptu bath, as we live a mere 3 minutes from the hospital.  But unfortunately, we were a good 45 minutes away from anything remotely close to civilization.  Having had a couple of scary allergic reactions, myself, the last thing I needed was a nonverbal toddler to swell up like Violet Beauregarde in the middle of nowhere; I'm not positive, but it's probably safe to say that these friends of ours, who get bonus points for digging and building an outhouse, didn't plan for an attached "squeezing room."  However, a few other party goers had caught wind of our situation and offered advice ranging from bizarre home remedies (my mother is a nurse, so anything labeled as a "natural remedy" always meets my ears with a tad bit of skepticism) to an old wive's tale suggesting that people who ingest poison ivy actually become immune to it (still not sure if I believe this... so experiment at your own risk).  

I finally decided it would be best to call the Poison Control Center, just to make sure Margo wasn't knocking on death's door.  Admittedly, I was a tad reluctant to make the call.  Had I been the representative on the other end of the line, most likely I would have honed in on the words "party," "woods," and "toddler," and assumed I was speaking to a drunken redneck who had neglectfully allowed her little one, probably dressed in just a diaper, to roam unsupervised while her parents played Euchre and listened to Garth Brooks.  Thankfully, the woman was far less elitist than I and actually complimented me for the kitchen sink scrub-down.  Margo would need to be monitored for a few days, mostly for a rash on her skin, but otherwise, the lady didn't seem overly concerned..... which made me imagine the nature of a typical call to the Poison Control Center, and I was relieved that I had just phoned in about a little poison ivy, not a tube of toothpaste or a cup full of bleach.

That said, both my husband and I still felt it best to head back into town, just so we'd be near the doctor, a hospital... and maybe a Rallyburger ;)  In the end, Margo showed no signs of an allergic reaction, which does make me reconsider the thought of the wive's tale, now that I think of it.   I can't imagine being lured back out into the great outdoors anytime soon to test this theory.... unless of course, I get wind of a buffet line :)

Freezer Meals... and Freezer Fiascos

I vividly remember sitting in a booth at the pizza place in our local shopping mall, marveling at how precisely my daughter, who was now able to sit unsupported in a high chair, used her thumb and index finger to place little pieces of breadstick into her mouth.  I was positively amazed by just how much she had learned in 9 months, and like every first-time mom, I felt like each day brought a new milestone worth recording in the baby book.  The sleepy little newborn who had fit so snugly in the crook of my arm had transformed, seemingly overnight, into a what was beginning to resemble a little human, almost a miniature adult.

Up and until this point, Eric and I had remained quiet on our plans for Cave Baby 2.0, primarily because we continued to flip-flop on the topic.  You see, in terms of birth order, Eric is nestled in between two sisters:  Emily, Eric's older sister, is 19 months older than he, while Erin, Eric's younger sister, is a mere 15 months younger than Eric (yes, all the Cave kids have names beginning with the letter "E."  And no, we're not doing the same thing with the letter "M.").  Anyway, the skinny of it is that those first three Cave children were born in a time span of less than 3 years!  I'm exhausted just writing that sentence; I can't fathom how my mother-in-law managed "three under three" at the young age of twenty.  I on the other hand, am 4.5 years older than my only sibling, a sister.  So while Eric was lobbying for the chaos of kids close together in age, I was firmly planted in the "Perfectly Spaced Children" camp, where kids are planned for and saved for before that first cell even thinks about dividing.

Yet, secretly, as I dined with my daughter that day at the pizza parlor, I was starting to get the itch.  Her first onesies and sleep sacks had been packed away for months, she was eating baby food and finger foods like a champ, and her newfound mode of transportation, crawling, brought about in me more cheers of applause than it did tears and sniffles.  I was thoroughly enjoying watching my little one grow & learn, and truth be told, I didn't miss the demands of an infant--night feedings, sour spit up down my back, liquid poo for the 4th time in an hour.....

In hindsight, what I think I was discovering in my near-toddler, was that although she needed more of my undivided attention in order to curb her consumption houseplant dirt, in some ways, life truly was getting easier.  We could run errands without even once hurdling ourselves into the back of the van to nurse; we could plan a day trip around a nap schedule that had become fairly predictable; and we could even enjoy a quick bite of pizza and breadsticks without the hassle of baby food jars, feeding spoons, and bibs.  And as tempting as it was to let out a giant sigh of relief for our newfound mobility, I recognized that unless we sped up the baby-making timetable, I'd get awfully content with my older, more totable child.

I'm a quick decision maker (some... namely my mother, would use the word impulsive or hasty, but I like to steer clear of words that make me sound like a total idiot).  I drove home from the pizza parlor, called my husband at work, and told him I was ready for our second baby.  It truly was a a decision that came to me just that quickly.  And when I think about it, I'd have to say that my very best... and very worst... decisions are typically more the result of lightbulb-type moments than carefully plotted and calculated determinations.  But Eric, who is a tad less adventuresome (think Friday night Bingo at the nursing home.... then tone it down a few notches), wasn't 100% ready to commit, citing something about his spontaneous, foolhardy wife who may change her mind in the next 60 seconds ;)  Regardless, we ultimately came to the conclusion that while we were open to another little Cave-lette, we'd allow God to pick his or her perfect timing.....

... A month later, I found out I was pregnant :)

While I may be more relaxed and carefree than my even-keeled hubby, when it comes to planning and scheduling, I'm your gal!  In high school, I was the girl who kept a laminated copy of her schedule firmly affixed to the inside of her locker... with cute, matching magnets, naturally.  While we're on the topic of confessions, I also stashed a spare toothbrush, wet wipes, and a forbidden bag cough drops in that aforementioned locker.  Just so you're not left guessing, I didn't exactly run with the popular crowd :)

So all this obsessive compulsive backstory is to legitimize the fact that at the end of the month when it came time to find out if a family expansion was in our immediate future, I was armed to the teeth with every early pregnancy test on the market.  Unfortunately, all came back negative.  I knew we couldn't afford to whittle away our life savings on pregnancy tests, so in a last ditch effort, I stopped at Dollar General to pick up just one more, this time a cheap-o generic test, and what do you know?!?!  Positive!

Cloud nine lasted roughly 42 minutes.  In the midst of the excitement, our daughter came down with a horrible head cold... which kept us wide awake two nights staving off a fever... which morphed into an ear infection... which had us at Saturday walk-in hours at the doctor's office... which landed us a prescription of Penicillin... which my daughter was allergic to... which put as back in the doctor's office, puffy-faced and with hives.  Oh yes, of course I was ready for a second baby!  I remember praying one night for confirmation that God hadn't, in fact, made a mistake with this new little one on board.  Considering that as I write this, I'm 22 weeks along with a healthy baby boy, I'd say I have my answer :)

But all of this is really just preface (albeit, a very long-winded preface) to the fact that from the moment I saw two pink lines, I was full-bore into organizing and nesting.  Truth be told, I'm probably a perpetual "nester."  I may never actually dust the window treatments or sweep out no man's land underneath the oven, but on rainy days, I rearrange the Tupperware just for kicks, have totes and bins for every person, project, and pastime under the sun, and am on a first-name basis with the fine folks at Goodwill, where I haul all sorts of clutter almost monthly.  If there is a mental illness that's diametrically opposed to hoarding, I'm most likely up to bat for it.  There are few things I hate more than superfluous "stuff."  By the way, if you haven't listened to George Carlin's skit on "stuff," I'd highly recommend it :)

And while we're on the topic of "Things Sara Hates," I also can't stand cooking, largely because a meal that's taken 2 hours to prepare will be scarfed down in 15 minutes, and then this less than happy housewife is left with 2 more hours of clean-up.  How is that fun????

We also don't have a dishwasher, something else I hate.  It's on the top of my wish list for my dream mansion, but if that doesn't come to fruition, I'm banking on teenage children who won't be going anywhere most school nights because I also hate the idea (and the price tag) of kids in 15 extracurricular activities per semester.  Yep, we'll be "those" parents who prevent their children from reaching their full potential because they're not signed up for underwater basket weaving this year ;)

Any-who, back to Sara's list of most hated household items.  Next up, our kitchen sink.  Quite literally, our sink runneth over with dishes at least twice a day (because remember, no dishwasher), so most evenings I scheme exactly how to pull off a mediocre meal using the fewest pots, pans, and utensils humanly possible, which is why I'm often tempted to put the "Cup O Soup," you know, the ones in the styrofoam containers, on the dinner rotation.  To top it off, the faucet on this sink really needs to be replaced, as it sprays as much water on the countertop as it actually manages to put in the sink.  Truly, I could wash dishes and Eric could stand in the kitchen and get a shower all at the same time.  Not sure how this would go over with the neighbors whose living room window stares right into our kitchen, but it's good to know we have options for bathing, while providing the neighbors options for free entertainment :)  Truth is though, both Eric and myself have a mean cheap streak, so until the faucet bites the dust, we'll refrain from biting the bullet and purchasing a new one.

And if there is one thing I hate more than actually spending any measurable time in the kitchen, it's pulling off dinner, clean-up, and dishwashing with a newborn.  Poor Eric feasted on his share of Little Caesar's Hot & Readys in the weeks following Margo's arrival.  And like I said, we're cheap, so I can't help but feel a little guilty about all the money we poured into that extra-nutritious endeavor.... although all this talk of Little Caesar's and now I could definitely go for some Crazy Bread, which is a nice change of pace from my typical 9pm Big Mac craving.  Shhhhh, don't tell my doctor ;)

Anyway, this time around, I vowed to be more prepared where menu-planning is concerned.  Last Christmas, my parents bought us a brand new stand-up freezer.  And on top of that, they gifted us roughly 100 pounds of beef-- steaks, roasts, hamburger, you name it  (if you're vegetarian, just go ahead and stop reading now; it only gets uglier).  We had been slowly but surely plowing our way through the freezer, feasting, sometimes gluttonously so, on some of the best red meat we had ever tasted.  By early summer, we had made a dent but were still up to our eyebrows in hamburger.  So my grand plan was to use it up in the way of freezer meals that I could make pre-baby and pull out once he arrives.... and look like a total organizational and domestic genius in the process.  Easy enough, right???

I must have been 10 or 11 weeks pregnant (read:  tired, bloated, and crabby) when Indiana turned into a barren desert wasteland-- 100 degree temperatures and no rain for days and days and days on end.  Like bugs that scatter at the slightest glimpse of daylight, we avoided the great outdoors at any cost, keeping cool inside with the blinds shut and the AC cranked.  However, occasionally we'd venture out to hide underneath someone else's tree stump... I mean, visit someone else's house.  On one particular scorching afternoon, Margo & I had made the blazing trek to the van in the garage, when I noticed a small pool of what looked to be gasoline or oil.  Figuring Eric had been tinkering around, Home Improvement style, with the lawn mower or weed eater, I didn't give it much thought... until I noticed that the pool of "oil" seemed to originate beneath our 7-month old freezer.  Upon closer investigation with Margo, you guessed it... our freezer had quit without warning, leaving several dozen pounds of beef completely thawed and rotting before my eyes.  It would have been a most inopportune time to mention starving children in Africa.

The first phone call I made was to my mother, who is experienced in just about every small domestic disaster, including sewage backups, basement sump pump floods, termite invasions... and freezer meltdowns.  Long story short, our freezer was still covered under the manufacturer's warranty, thankfully, but the beef we lost, stinky and now attracting maggots (lucky us), would not be compensated (it's still a sore subject with Eric, and I'd highly recommend not bringing it up). :)

But when it comes to making myself look good,  I'll stop at no cost!  So once our replacement freezer was delivered and installed, it was back to "Operation Domestic Goddess," in which I meticulously scoured recipe books, threw together a rather impressive grocery list, and purchased all sorts of tin pans and plastic bags that would not only get the job done, but would also make make my freezer an award-winning piece of organizational art. :)

By the time I had reached my second trimester, I had devised a solid Plan A-- pick one day a week, and start cooking as soon as Margo went down for a nap, which if calculated correctly, would allow me to prepare one recipe (two or three times over) from start to finish on any given cooking day.  It was a reasonable goal.  And on the morning of  Day #1, I even took Margo to a play date just to ensure that she'd be good and sleepy once we hit go-time.  What I did not anticipate, however, was a post-play date diaper change in the mini van which left Margo, myself, and the van carpet covered in urine.  Stuffing a screaming squirmy (at this point near-naked) child into a car seat isn't exactly my idea of an ideal morning, especially upon realizing we'd left the "silencer," Margo's pacifier, at home.  Frazzled, I quickly closed the sliding door that contained the beast my daughter, heaved my ever-expanding bod into the driver's seat.... only to crush with the weight of my colossal caboose the large McDonald's iced tea I'd temporarily placed in the seat.  So now both of our bottoms were soggy, but thank heavens for the pregnancy-induced, insulating whale blubber which was helping to stave off hypothermia ;)

We got home & cleaned up, and Margo went right down for her nap.  You know the old saying, "At first you don't succeed, try, try again?"  Yeah, that's definitely not me.  I'd say I'm more of a believer in "At first you don't succeed, get a bowl of ice cream and determine just how much you can spend at Kohl's while still managing to stay off 'budget radar' with the husband." ;)

Needless to say, things just weren't coming together.  A few days of sulking and a lot of McDonald's hash browns later, I was ready to give it another go.  My mother-in-law volunteered her 11 year old daughter to come help with Margo while I cooked.  And I should have known that would incite WWIII among the other children, so "Operation Domestic Goddess" quickly turned into "Make a Freezer Meal while Giving a Cave Kid a Chance to Crack an Egg or Two."  I'm happy to say that a month later, I've successfully produced four different freezer dinners-- 3 meat loaves, 2 quiches, 3 shepherd's pies, and 2 chicken stuffing casseroles. I think that's deserving of a "You Go, Girl!" if I do say so, myself :)  And just in case you were wondering, the Cave children are good for about 15 minutes of help in the kitchen before determining that playing with their niece is far more entertaining than browning chicken.

My goal is to keep this up for 6 more painstaking weeks, which means I'll have 10 different recipes, over 30 meals frozen and ready to go when baby makes his grand arrival!  But it should be noted, however, all of that is contingent on freezer function, dirty dish pile up, iced tea management.... and how often Eric wants to shower in the kitchen ;)

Guest Blog Post

This past weekend, my friend, Cheryl, asked if I would consider being a "guest blogger" on her page, Treasures from a Shoebox.  I met Cheryl shortly after Eric and I began dating, as she is a good friend of the Caves.  Cheryl was one of the first to suggest I start a blog, and admittedly, it took more than a little encouragement from her to muster the confidence to follow through :)

The article that Cheryl "published" is actually one I wrote a few months ago for our church's monthly newsletter.  Eric and I attend a small Baptist church that happens to meet in a hotel conference room.  Don't worry, nobody's asked us to sign an oath in blood or drink any Kool-Aid; the church's commitment to stay out of debt is actually quite appealing to us ;)  Additionally, our church is family-integrated, meaning families, which range in size from 2 to nearly a dozen, stay together for the duration of the service-- no Sunday school or children's church.  So you can imagine the pressure that accompanied writing an article for families who are much larger and much more experienced than our own!

Copy & paste the URL below into your browser bar, which will take you directly to Cheryl's page.  Thanks again to Cheryl for re-publishing this article, and thanks to all of you for taking a moment to read!

http://treasuresfromashoebox.blogspot.com/2012/09/so-now-what-new-parent-guest-post.html

P.S.  Also be sure to check back in the next day or so for a brand new post of my own entitled, "Freezer Meals.... and Freezer Fiascos."  :)

Boy Meets Girl Part III

For those of you new to my blog, you may want to start with "Boy Meets Girl" Parts I and II before you read this post.  Or do what you want.  I'll never know. :)

It didn't take long before I had gotten wind that Eric sat down with my dad for the "May I Marry Your Daughter?" talk (read: my mom was excited and spilled the beans), so I pretty much thought we were done jumping hurdles and could move on to bigger and better things-- like picking out wedding invitations (which was, by far, my favorite part of the whole wedding-planning process;  what can I say, I'm a sucker for paper products).

I don't know about you, but it seems like every so often, life has a way of sneaking up and surprising me with a "Not so fast, missy!" type moment... probably to keep me humble... but maybe just to pick on me for fun (I'm channeling that inner 7th grader again, can you tell?).  Eric's father must have also gotten wind of Eric's big talk with my dad.  Let me say up front that I absolutely, positively adore my father-in-law.  He has to be one of the more intelligent people I've come across in my lifetime... and if the artsy-fartsy liberal arts hipsters I went to college with could weigh in, I've met some real smarty-pants peeps ;)  Anyway, any man with eleven children who doesn't leave the house running, screaming and flailing his arms every morning earns some major street cred in my book.  Where I'm intimidated to confront anything larger than a dust mite, I'm convinced that Eric's dad actually thrives on blind-siding unassuming friends, family, innocent victims shoppers in the supermarket with questions appropriate for at least a 200-level philosophy course.  Personally, I like that about him; he keeps you on your toes.  And further, my father-in-law has a remarkable way of making truly deserving individuals feel like real morons without saying much at all, which if you're on the spectator side of things, is actually quite entertaining.  Oh yes, and did I mention that he's a Baptist preacher?  You get the gist.  He's a great guy, and he did a phenomenal job raising Eric.  But I'd be a liar to say he doesn't scare the pants off me from time to time.  ;)

But anyway, Eric and I had joined his family for dinner one night, and like usual, we retired afterward to the living room to watch the children make a Hot Wheels village out of empty toilet paper rolls and these annoying little battery-operated creatures called Zhu Zhu pets.  I can't exaggerate enough just how slowly my introverted brain processes information, so when Eric's dad began peppering me with questions about everything from my thoughts on education reform (p.s. they homeschool) ... to our plans for children (p.p.s. remember, there are eleven of them.)... to my stance on abortion (p.p.p.s did I mention that there are eleven of them???), I was a wee tongue-tied.  At one point, I seriously considered asking him to write down the laundry list of bullet points he planned to address and email it to me-- that I'd happily and thoroughly provide written responses he could read on his own time... when I was out of his house... or better yet, out of the country.  Mind, you all of this was taking place in front of the gaggle of children, so you can imagine the sea of egg shells that suddenly appeared before me.  If spontaneous combustion is, in fact, a true physiological and scientific phenomenon, there wouldn't have been a better time for it.

I honestly don't remember how I answered any of my father-in-law's detailed questions, except to say that I felt like a complete, bumbling idiot by the time Eric and I left that evening.  "If I never hear from you again, I'll totally understand" were my new boyfriend's exact words.  It was reassuring to know that Eric's dad had spread the thick layer of awkwardness equally among the two of us.  "He's like that with every guy or girl one of his kids brings home."  Once again, it was nice to know that I wasn't the only one who had wound up in the hot seat.  But where Eric should have just shut up, grabbed my hand, and walked me to the car, he continued... "I figured he'd grill eventually, but I didn't want you to worry about it ahead of time."  Wait a second.  This was expected behavior?  Instead of providing me the opportunity to arm myself with textbooks, a dictionary, and a Power Point, you hung me out to dry?!?!  Honestly, Eric looked so pathetic and humiliated that night, there was no way I could be angry, let alone dump him (although looking back, a few threats could have won me a few nice pieces of jewelry.  Oh well).  Instead, I just told Eric to let me know if I made the cut ;)  I don't know that he's ever gotten back to me on that... which does make me wonder a tad bit, come to think of it.....

In all fairness, I'm 100% sure the Caves have accepted me into the fold with open arms. I have, however, kindly requested that whenever the younger Cave-lettes start bringing home boyfriends and girlfriends, I be allowed to sit in on the interrogation sessions (with a big bowl of buttery popcorn).  Since I'm fairly proficient at nagging dropping hints, I imagine I'll get my way.  Stay tuned for that post.

By the time October rolled around (we had known each other about 2 months), I was full-swing into my second year of teaching, and Eric was busy with work and school.  So by the time a Saturday rolled around in which I didn't have a mound of papers to grade and Eric didn't have some sort of vague group project to attend to, we tried to make a fun day of it.  On this particular Saturday, Eric asked if I'd be interested in going out for dinner.  I absolutely hate cooking, so I can't imagine ever turning down a dinner date offer.  Even if Sponge Bob Square pants himself, undoubtedly the galaxy's most obnoxious cartoon creature, asked me out to the Krusty Krab, I know I'd go, just to get out of having to fix anything.  So needless to say, I responded to Eric's date idea with a resounding, "YES!"  Eric wouldn't give me many details, but he did suggest dressing up a bit (which is code for something other than my teacher khakis in every hue and my Target-special cardigan sweaters... and believe it or not, I truly am 26, not 58).  It should be noted that of the two of us, Eric is, by far, the more romantic.  In fact, compare me to any living organism, reptiles included, I'm sure I'd always come out the less romantic one.  Want to wine and dine me?  Make me a fried egg sandwich for breakfast or scrub the toilet once in awhile.  But not Eric.  He's always got something a little more creative up his sleeve.  So it wasn't at all unusual for him to plan a surprise dinner date.  Go ahead, ladies, be jealous ;)

By the time he picked me up, I was starting to get curious as to our destination, but Eric was being secretive about the whole thing, once again, not entirely atypical of him.  From the looks of where we were headed, I was expecting Nashville or Bloomington... but then he turned off on some obscure country road.  Where in the world are we going?  But Eric just kept driving, ignoring all of my questions or commentary.

If gas weren't so stinkin' expensive, I'd take a drive to the country every weekend.  I was raised 100% an in-town sort of gal, you know-- houses with fenced in yards, kids riding up and down the sidewalks on bikes and big wheels, neighborhood pitch-ins for the Fourth of July, the whole deal.  It was a good way to grow up, and in all likelihood, it's how our brood will grow up, too.  But there is something picturesque about country livin,' at least the idea of room to roam during the day and a clear sky for camp-outs at night.  I'm just not sure how I'd fare without the modern conveniences of Wal-Mart's deli mac & cheese less than ten minutes away.  Maybe if I could convince Eric to invest in a Taco Bell franchise, we could "git ourselves some land," as they say, and be set for life.  What more do you need when you've got a Crunch Wrap Supreme in one hand and a Diet Dew in the other???

So back to the story... It seemed like we'd been driving for a good half hour, and from my estimation, we were somewhere between Brown County and wherever Deliverance was filmed.  I was out of my element.  More accurately, I was out of my element when we turned off the highway.  I looked over to Eric, who was noticeably silent.....And that's when my mind started to wander...

How well do I really know this guy?  I mean, it's only been two months, and he seems sincere enough... but how can I really be sure he isn't living some double life with another girlfriend he met on EHarmony who lives in Oklahoma?  What if this whole romantic evening is some sort of ruse, and he's going tie me up, throw me into a black Hefty bag, and roll me over the hill????(Side note-- Do you know that I once signed up for EHarmony?  After filling out 7-8 hours of surveys, I was told that I was part of the 15% of the population who could not be matched.  Do you know how crushing that is???  To be desperate enough for a dating website, only to be told that you're un-matchable????  ).

"Hey, Eric?" I asked quietly.  "I'm afraid we're going to get lost out here, so why don't you at least tell me in what direction we're headed...." If he truly was a psychopath, I didn't want to rock the boat too hard, but I did need to come up with some sort of plan of escape....

"I know where I'm going, ok?"  Eric responded, clearly getting annoyed.  I could tell that he was starting to glance purposefully out the windows, as though he knew he was looking for a particular spot.  But all I saw were tree-lined hills and curves that were all beginning to look the same.  There's no way I could navigate my way out of here.

If he really is going to kill me, my parents should probably just go ahead and engrave "I told you so" on my headstone.  All those years of telling me what a naive, little princess I was, and what do I do? Fall in love with a serial killer and end up dead two months later.  This is just what I need.  Sara 0, Parents 20.  Game over.  No sooner did the thought materialize that Eric finally pulled off of the long, windy road we had been on for what seemed like hours.  But when we I lifted my eyes to see where Eric had parked, I was horrified to see that we were in a graveyard of all places.....  And that's when my mind hit the panic button--  I jumped out of the car, took off my heals, and made a break for it back down the road we had turned off of.  "Stop!" Eric shouted.  "Turn around!.... Please...."

And when I did, Eric had fallen to one knee and asked if I'd do him the honor of being his wife.  I get the sense that most women tear up the moment their knight in shining armor asks for their hand in marriage.  I cried, too, but probably for a different reason.... "I'm so glad you're not going to kill me!" is the first full sentence I could muster.  Romantic of me, don't you think?

We rolled out of the cemetery and on to dinner at the Story Inn, a wonderful little restaurant with a history of.... you guessed it.... hauntings :)  So it was no surprise to me that while we couldn't get cell phone reception to announce our big news to anyone else, I was able to briefly phone my grandma, the closest thing I know to a Sylvia Brown psychic medium.  Naturally, Eric and I left that evening on Cloud 9, thrilled to call our friends and families, who most certainly would share in our excitement... and the hilarity of our "unique" engagement story.  However, Eric did make sure to clarify that he never intended to pop the question in a graveyard, but that somebody's ranting and raving caused him to crack under pressure ;)  But for the life of me, I just can't quite figure out what he's talking about ;)

The next several months were dedicated to planning and shopping and organizing for the wedding, most of which my mother managed single-handedly, as details of party favors and appetizers were completely lost on me.  For the most part, I was just along for the ride.

Eric and I were married on June 19, 2010, less than one year after we met, on a hot and humid summer evening.  And looking back, it really is a remarkable, beautiful story, one I know I wouldn't have believed before I met Eric.  But even more so, I can't wait to hear the story I'll be telling 50 or 60 or 70 years from now... so long as Eric doesn't get a hold of any black Hefty bags between now and then ;)

Boy Meets Girl Part II

For those of you who've already read Part I of this story, I'm thrilled that you're back for more!  However, if you haven't read "Boy Meets Girl Part I," I strongly encourage you to do so before moving on to this post... unless you're one of those people who habitually reads the last page of the novel first, in which case, shame on you ;)

I left the bank that morning utterly stupefied.  I'm not the girl who sets her sights on a guy, then coyly shows all of her girlfriends how to weasel a phone number and a drink out of him.  Remember, I'm the girl who wears ice blue, ill-fitting ball caps and marvels at the original pulls on the drawers of a century-old house.  There is nothing sly or seductive about me.  At all.  Period.  And here I was with contact info and a date (sort of)?!  Even I was surprised... and impressed.... and so nervous I could have puked, pit-stained t-shirt and all, right there on the bank's sidewalk.  What was I thinking???  Go over to this guy's house, reintroduce myself to a girl who probably doesn't even remember my name, stay for supper with a family I've never met, and then casually thank them for a lovely, will-never-see-you-again evening?  Who does that???

I got a tattoo in college, a classic act of teenage rebellion even I was aware of at the time.  When I showed off to my family the beautiful outline of a dove on the top center of my back, I got a couple of shrugs, at least one eye roll, and a handful of smirks.  My grandma was the first the pipe up, though.  "Why in the world is there pigeon on your back???"  Nobody could really top that, and in the awkward silence of the moment, I realized I had made a mistake.  But the ink job seemed like small potatoes now that I, the introverted, non-confrontational idiot, had managed to get herself into this dinner debacle with the banker boy.

... And yet I was still captivated by the young man and the out of body, all the stars have aligned, experience at the bank.  So what did I do when I got home, you ask?  What any other highly sophisticated, college educated, independent female would.... I got on Facebook and stalked him looked him up.  The gawky, brace-faced 7th grader in me was fully prepared to find that the handsome hunk at the bank had given me some sort of bogus name and number... but there he was -- Eric Cave, North High School graduate, weird picture of him sitting pensively at a piano (strangely, in the same shirt he was wearing at the bank).  Either this guy was for real or... he was like one of those cartoon characters who only had one outfit, you know, like Ernie and that primary-colored striped shirt ;)

And just like in the movies where that puberty-laden, misfit girl in middle school morphs into a confident, knock-out of a woman with legs from here to China, I figured that perhaps my time had come.  So what did I do, you ask again?  I decided not to sit around on my can and wait for prince charming to text me his address... I requested to be his friend on Facebook!  Pretty bold move, isn't it? ;)  And after only a couple of hours and a few dozen hits of the "refresh" button on my part, I could see that Eric had accepted my friend request AND, get this, sent me a private message (insert squeals of delight)!!  This was getting serious. ;)

Eric and I messaged back and forth for the two days leading up to our "date."  I figured I had found someone just my speed when he asked things like my favorite Disney movie and my favorite holiday.  What a sweetheart.  So yes, by the time the big day rolled around, I was pretty much certain I was destined to marry this one.  Seriously.  I just knew it.

And if my instincts left any room for error, my jaw hit the floorboard of my Chevy Malibu when I pulled up to Eric's house for dinner... (in a new outfit, of course).  Do you remember the house I visited a year prior?  You know, the one with the built-in window seat and the creepy, supernatural feeling?  That, amazingly, was Eric's house.  You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Eric came out to greet me, along with a whole host of kids, all of whom had remarkably similar features and all about the same age... however that's possible.  Clearly, Eric had spent a lot of time preparing for my arrival-- dinner was ready and waiting, all of the kids looked freshly scrubbed, and I was asked my beverage order the moment I sat down (at the biggest kitchen table I had ever seen).  I wonder how many bribes he had to make in order to pull all this off?  The look on a kid's face when he's complying because he's been threatened within an inch of his life to be on his best behavior is pretty much universal.  Multiply that by about 10 pairs of big, kid eyes, and it becomes fairly obvious that one is being watched. ;)  

But I'm no dummy.  I made it a point to memorize all of Eric's siblings' names & ages (if there's one thing I learned in "teacher school," it's that knowing a kid's name on day one is the key to his heart).  After dinner, the rest of the family went for a walk around the park, leaving Eric and me at home to talk by ourselves, the first time we had done so in person since the bank morning.  The familiarity returned instantly, and truthfully, if he had asked me to marry him that night, I know I would have said yes... I would have never lived in down with the folks, so it probably turned out for the best, but you know.  For what it's worth, Eric has told me that after that first dinner date at his parents',  he was also certain that I would be his wife.  Romantic, isn't it?!

From that day on, Eric and I were inseparable.  We spent every free moment together-- going for walks, ordering pizza, playing with the dog (who Eric actually liked, miraculously), just normal, everyday stuff.  Coincidentally, my dad actually remembered Eric from the bank, and for a man of few words, "Yeah, he's a nice guy!" was more positive feedback than I expected when my dad was told that we were "talking."  Needless to say, Eric survived all of the introductions where my family was concerned; in fact, in another bizarre turn of events, he actually met a large portion of my extended family at a hospital when a cousin of mine delivered her son prematurely via C-Section.  No pressure there, though ;)

And I seemed to fit in nicely with Eric's super-sized family, too.  Having grown up with just one sister (and only one aunt, one uncle, and one first cousin), I throughly enjoyed the mayhem associated with kids... upon kids... upon kids.  Looking back, Eric's mom had to have thought I was a odd one-- happy to just to sit and observe the interworkings of a biggie-sized family.  The "Cave cave," was (and still is) one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon.  But although I felt comfortable for the most part, occasionally, something would creep up and catch me off guard... Like the time I reached under the recliner I was sitting in to grab a fallen crayon, only to discover a myriad of other fascinating trinkets, one of which was an uneaten, but partially unwrapped McDonald's cheeseburger.  We've all heard the legends-- about how you can leave a burger from the Golden Arches out for days, weeks, even years at a time and it won't mold or decay.  Well, from the looks of things, I'd be inclined to agree with that theory.  But how do you, as a guest in a new boyfriend's home, gracefully whip out a burger from underneath a Lazy Boy without embarrassing the heck out of his mother?  So once again, I did what anyone else would... I left it there... and for all I know it's still there, and without consulting Myth Busters, I'm guessing it's probably completely in-tact, to boot.

It didn't take long (in all seriousness, probably 2 or 3 weeks tops) for the topic of wedding bells to surface.  I'm not one for surprises.  In fact, I usually find a way to stick my foot in my mouth and ruin most surprises I've been let in on.  But especially when it comes to expensive jewelry I'll wear for the rest of my life, there was no way I was leaving anything up to chance.  I know, I know, such a spoil sport, huh?  Eric and I made just one trip to the jewelry store to look at engagement rings (if you think I'm a dud when it comes to a good surprise, you should see my taste in diamond rings.  You say "boring;" I say "classic.")  In accordance with Eric's idea of the perfect proposal, I showed him a few simple, solitaire rings I liked, and I'd leave it up to him to make a final decision the right one, which I wouldn't get a gander at until he popped the question.  In hindsight, I think Eric's terms of conditions were less about crafting the perfect ring and the perfect proposal and more about forcing me to give up a little bit of control... but I have no idea why he'd feel like he needed to do that. ;) Unbeknownst to me, Eric coordinated a trip back to the ring store with my mom, who nearly came from the womb a certified jeweler, and his mom, whose taste in jewelry is pretty similar to my own.  Eric also did the classy thing in asking my dad for permission in moving forward, and my dad, being a reasonable man (and a fan of Eric), gave his blessing... but not without first showing Eric his safe full of guns ;)

From that point on, all I could do was wait.... and since this post is already getting rather lengthy (and the fact that my child is dismantling everything on the bookshelf), it looks like you're going to have to wait, too ;)

** If I haven't completely lost your attention yet, I'll post our engagement story and wedding planning details in a third and final blog... hopefully later this week.  :)

Boy Meets Girl Part I...

Summer 2008.  I was entirely moved into my house by March, had survived (barely) my first semester of teaching in May, and was settling in to a rather uneventful summer... so boring that by fall, I had come up with the super stupid idea to adopt a 9-week old puppy (once again, another story for another day).  A teacher friend of mine had spent the summer months looking for a house in the area to purchase.  And since I had just been down that road a few months prior, I decided to tag along with her to several house showings, just to see what had come available.

On one particularly Indiana-esque, summer afternoon (read: so humid we would have fared better with gills), we visited a house about a half mile away from my own.  I'm a sucker for old homes, and this one being built near the turn of the century peaked my interest.  I vividly remember standing in the uncharacteristically large kitchen of the house, admiring a built-in window seat, complete with storage drawers that donned original hardware (see, I told you I'm a geek, but they just really don't make 'em like that anymore).  I've always felt that old buildings and houses have a certain "vibe" about them-- extra energy or something (but don't read too far into that; I definitely don't claim to be a psychic medium, and truth be told, brushes with the supernatural sort of creep me out).  But anyway, there was definitely something vibe-ish to this house-- I felt certain that maybe I had been there before, would be there again some day... or more logically, that I'd been to another home with similar "old house" features.  I left with sort of a silly, haunted feeling... which eventually, I dismissed.  End of story...

...Until exactly one year later.  Summer 2009.  The vast majority of my time that year had been occupied by two things:  1.)  trying to keep my head above the waters of planning, teaching, & grading, a task that truly is insurmountable and is completely worth a six-digit income (but let's not talk politics)... and 2.)  potty-training, deworming, de-flea-ing that hyper little creature I lovingly referred to as a pet.  They say you meet Mr. Right when you least expect it, and I certainly had my plate too full to be on the hunt for a man.  Besides, if moving away from a college town without my "Mrs." degree wasn't enough of a death sentence (I know, poor, old-fashioned me), moving back to my hometown seemed like the nail in the coffin for any hope of marriage.  The town I call home is a wild conglomeration of highly intelligent (read:  socially awkward) engineers mixed with folks who've probably never left the tri-county area.  The former group one only sees downtown during lunchtime, walking purposefully and in uniform in twos and threes like little ants.  The latter group can be spotted eating fried Twinkies at the 4-H fair.  You get the idea.  Having serious qualms about marrying an engineer... and not being a much of a fan snack cakes either, I had essentially resigned myself to spinster-hood-- Saturday evenings drinking decaf and grading a few hundred poorly-written Romeo & Juliet essays... I suppose there could be worse ways to spend my childbearing years. ;)

In the midst of all of those angst-ridden emotions, I was trying ever so diligently to convince myself that I was, indeed, a reasonably responsible adult.  And that meant tackling a whole host of new vocabulary terms-- tax deductions, escrow accounts, PMI, the list goes on and on (and still overwhelms me).  I had received in the mail several ominous and incomprehensible bank documents, collectively the size of the New York City phonebook, and my father, who works in banking, encouraged me to take everything downtown; the friendly folks at the bank would know exactly how to help....

After one unsuccessful trip, I was told I needed to return during regular, weekday business hours when someone who knew a lot more than the first guy would be able to point me in the right direction.  It should be noted that my confrontational abilities leave a lot to be desired.  I'd rather eat the undercooked steak or the overcooked fish than return my entree and would rather listen to the telemarketer's spiel than cut him off the moment he asks if I'm interested in completing the 2-minute survey.  And I'm the girl who, against my better judgement and the echo of my dad's booming voice raised eyebrows, buys the overpriced extended warranty because I just can't say, "no."And at the bank, I felt even more at a disadvantage because I had no idea what I was doing and my only strategy for coping was to fork over the phonebook and sheepishly mutter, "I need help" in the most distressed tone I could muster.  So as you can imagine, my motivation for returning to the back for a second go-round was really high ;)

But just in case you're taking notes and are psychoanalyzing me, I also live in a perpetual state of guilt that somehow I've royally messed up and it's only a matter of time before destiny catches up with me. So naturally, I figured that if I didn't deal with whatever documents the bank had sent, the IRS would throw me in jail for tax evasion, fraud, or some other term that seemed clear to everyone else but me.  By the way, in the back of my mind, I'm sort of wondering if everyone else has been through some sort of  "adulthood training."  If that's the case, please send a flyer this way.  I still don't know the difference between a routing number and a checking account number, nor am I ever certain how to spell the word diarrhea.  Would like to clear that up by the time I'm 30.  

So back to the story...

It was still summer, but the clock was ticking, and I needed to get my rear downtown before school started.  I had gotten up early one morning to clean the house and walk the gremlin dog, but my plan to head downtown was a spur of the moment decision.  Hanging on to the hope that all of this housing business could be resolved with a few signatures and a quick drop-off to some office in the basement, I headed downtown in the work clothes I had thrown on first thing-- an old pair of my sister's athletic shorts, a t-shirt with pit stains, and a neon blue Colts ball cap so ugly I've since let the dog use it as a chew toy.  Note:  I look positively ridiculous with a hat on... but I look even more hideous before I've quaffed my hair for the day, which in its natural state, resembles something cross between an afro and Abraham Lincoln's top hat.  Lucky me.

The bank was busier than I expected on a weekday morning.  As I mentioned earlier, my dad works at a bank--has for as a long as I've been alive, and coincidentally, he had actually worked at this particular bank for many of my growing-up years.  As you can imagine, I was holding my breath that between my unwashed face and the one-of-a-kind ball cap I was sporting, I could go unrecognized.

As I waited in line to speak with someone who could confirm that I was not, in fact, headed for a maximum security prison, a young banker caught my eye.  He was busy helping other clients with their own phonebook issues, smiling and nodding and listening to life stories about the 5-generation family farm, the ditzy daughter who, once again, overdrafted her account, and the price of gas in 1962.  I had several minutes to study this handsome, clean-cut fella with dark skin and hair.  And the longer I watched him, the more mesmerized I became.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved language.  I love how words can be manipulated, arranged, and rearranged to capture a moment, sometimes more beautifully than the moment itself.  I would argue that words largely shape how we think and what think about; but without the right ones, we're  almost imprisoned within the walls of language.  Anyone who has studied a foreign language knows what I'm talking about.  There are all sorts of words, phrases, and idioms that exist in Spanish, for example, for which there is no exact translation to English.  And unfortunately, the best I can do to describe my morning at the bank is to relay a clumsy, muddled mess of words that just don't quite fit.

The longer I watched the banker, the more I felt like I was in some sort of time warp-- something like deja vu meets the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  At one point, I remember looking at my arms and feet and hands just to make sure I was still firmly planted inside my own body.  I could have sworn this man was someone I knew well... but more like someone I knew I was going to know.  Even his outfit--khakis with a blue and white stripped, button-down shirt (which I still have) seemed like what I knew he'd be wearing when I met him.  I've been assured by many that there is no real evidence to support that human souls exist before conception.  But to this day, I can't shake the feeling that I knew Eric before I actually met him... or that I knew I was going to meet him, but somehow forgot between there and here... wherever "there" happens to be.

 Could I describe all that as love at first sight?  I sure hope not.  It's a tired, ugly cliche, if you ask me.

Trying to brush aside one of the most unusual and indescribable feelings of my life, I sat down at his desk and pulled off the fork lift the phonebook of documents that had become a real thorn in my side.  One look at my last name, and the banker perked up, "Oh, you must be related to Al!"  We chatted for a bit (he never once made fun of my goofy hat, so that pretty much sealed the deal for me), and most importantly, he revealed his name-- Eric Cave.  I vaguely remembered his older sister, who had hung around a couple of mutual friends in high school, but that was enough of a connection for smooth talkin' Eric to invite me over to his parents' house for dinner in a couple of days, you know, just to catch up with his sister... who I barely remembered ;)  We exchanged phone numbers, with the tentative plan to touch base before our romantic dinner date (which would include siblings of all ages, parents, two nieces, and a partridge in a pair tree).

And the rest is history... for another time...

** Part II of our fairy tale will most likely be the next blog post I write, so stay tuned... I promise talk of cheeseburgers, graveyards, and "I do!"

So, Are You Guys Moving?

The question was asked when my husband I married a couple of years ago.  It resurfaced when we were expecting our first child.  And now that we're expecting Cave Baby 2.0, I find myself, once again, responding to well-meaning, curious individuals who seem doubtful that we can possibly squeeze two children into a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom, 900 square-foot home.

In case you're in a hurry and have better things to do than keep reading (which I assume is true of most of us), the short answer is no, we're not moving.  We're not even thinking about moving.  Not even dreaming about it.  Not even glancing over houses we in the newspaper we would buy if we were thinking or dreaming about moving. Call me crazy, but I'm fairly certain we can even fit three children in this home, at least for a little while.  We're not out to prove anything, except that maybe in order for one to be a full-time, stay-at-home parent, especially in 2012, there must be sacrifices made.  In our case, that means living in a sardine can for now.  But that aside, we didn't exactly start out with this great big plan of living small.  

First, my husband and I both give a lot of credit to our parents for ingraining in us the value of frugal living within one's means.  Eric and I were raised differently (continue reading for more on that), but neither of our parents led us to believe that we were the center (or even close to the center.... or even somewhere on the radar screen in the general vicinity of the center) of the universe, which I have to believe must be a priority if one is to combat the cultural, "I deserve only the best" mentality.  Don't get me wrong, I was an indulged little princess.  The older of two girls, 4.5 years apart in age, I grew up with my own room, own bike, my own baby dolls, my own bedroom in the rental condominium at the beach, my own, my own, my own....and so on and so forth until reality finally hunted me down when I started working 40-hour weeks... which, true to princess form, wasn't until I graduated from college.  But cross my heart, to the best of my knowledge and memory, I wasn't the stereotypical bratty, My Super Sweet Sixteen, hasn't ever scrubbed a frying pan or folded a pair of Dad's underwear, type of girl.  As soon as I got that college diploma, I was left to fend for myself (or so I thought, at least).  Nice things and a comfortable lifestyle were to be earned, not expected.  Life owed me nothing.  And that was a hard thing to learn as a young adult, but it's what I consider the single-most important lesson my parents taught.

Eric, on the other hand, is the second oldest (first-born son) of eleven (and counting???) children, ranging in age from 26 years to 10 months old.  Instead of memories of playing alone on his own backyard swing set while belting out the theme song to Sesame Street for all of the neighbors to hear, nearly all of Eric's childhood memories involve one, or two, or seven other kids.... often centering on strange, entirely unrelated objects such as a bag of dominos, a leftover tuna can, and about 40 stuffed animals (all of whom had carefully-chosen names).  By the time Eric was 21 (while I was still living cushy in "Subsidized Adulthood" with a car, an allowance, and a fully-furnished apartment), Eric had worked at McDonald's, a local movie store, and the downtown bank.  With the right guidance from parents and mentors, he was working his way through college, pursing a degree in business... while sharing a room with three brothers, all of whom delighted in fiddling with Eric's laptop computer and filling his bed with Sand Art while he was away :)

So, there's the background on the two of us.  Thanks, Mom and Dad Roszczyk & Cave for not entirely screwing us up.  We're glad we're not sulking over the unrealistic expectations of brand new cars and annual cruises to the Bahamas... while living in your dimly-lit basements, eating corn dogs, and playing World of Warcraft. ;)

Getting back around to the house and why we're staying put.....

Through a bizarre set of divine interventions (or happy accidents or serendipities, depending on your world view), I ended up accepting a full-time teaching position in my hometown shortly after graduation.  Only in the Midwest can one actually purchase a house for less than one could rent, an oddity I came to learn when searching for a place to live...that was not my parents' basement.  At the same time, upon her passing, my great-great aunt left me a small, small inheritance--but enough to cover a down payment on modest 2 bedroom house in an older part of town.  (Note-- this was very early 2008, before the housing crisis and stock market crash.  Had I been house-hunting in 2012, there is no way I would have qualified for the loan).  I settled in well over a year before I met Eric, and so getting married and having children weren't exactly part of my 5-year plan ;)  But we did meet, got engaged quickly, and got married several months after that (another cool, God-coincidence story for another day).

So we're newly married and living in this cozy little house just perfect for two, and surprise...BIG surprise!... baby makes three!  Both Eric and I were raised with stay-at-home-moms, so for us
there was never a gut-wrenching decision to be made on whether we'd rely on one income or two.  We'd turn the office/dressing room/spare bedroom into a nursery... and problem solved.  Finances would be tight, barely doable some months, but we agreed that with responsible, within our means living and careful planning on our part, God would bless my decision to stay at home with our child and provide just what we needed.  And you know what?  God has never once let us down.  So yet again with baby #2, we'll make do.  Even better, we'll be thankful for it and do our best to be good stewards of this home, all 900 square feet of it. :)

The Name Story

I'll be honest, I often hesitate when I'm asked if we already have a name for our son (due to make his grand entrance in early January 2013).  Naturally, we've chosen a name that we like, one that will fit well with Margo's, and one that's timeless enough to work when he's 1, yet also when he's 100.  All of that makes perfectly good sense to me (and probably to you, too), but there's a back story to the name that's awaiting our little bun in the oven, and honestly, I don't know that many are interested in the backstory, especially when we're waiting for one's name to be called in the doctor's office waiting room or whizzing through the check-out line at Wal-Mart.  But unless someone's holding you at gunpoint to read this blog, I'll assume you're here by your own choosing.  So here's the name story...

As some of you also know, minor complications early on in my pregnancy allowed us the opportunity to get a few sneak peaks of our baby before the standard, 20-week ultrasound.  And much to my delight, it didn't take much cajoling and bribing on my part to persuade the technician to study the "parts"that would reveal gender.  Some of you scoff and roll your eyes at my impatience (and a part of me is a tad envious that I lack the self control to wait it out for all the hoopla and grandiosity of the big day), but what can I say--I'm a planner, and a baby seems like the happiest sort of thing to plan for!  That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it. ;)

It didn't take long for our chatty technician to zoom in and confirm what I had expected since the moment I saw two lines on the home pregnancy test.  And I will never forget the look on my husband's face as he carefully studied the monitor and enchantedly announced, almost in disbelief, "It's a BOY!!"

Eric and I are one of few couples I know who have absolutely no trouble whatsoever deciding on baby names.  In fact, we have a list of several complete, first and middle names that we hope to use in the future (You say I'm anal; I say I'm prepared.  So let's just agree to disagree.).  Our first-born son will be "Howard Sidney," named after William Howard, my maternal, 82-year old grandfather, as well as my late uncle, Sidney Roger.  Unlike Eric's gargantuan family (if you know a Cave, just assume he or she is related to Eric), mine is remarkably small, and little Howie will be the first boy born on my mother's side in nearly 60 years!  We think he deserves a pretty special name to accompany that sort of birth order!

Our Howie will truly be privileged to carry on the name of his great-grandfather, who is the epitome of a self-made man.  Howard, my grandfather, was the third-born child of Homer and Sarah Carte.  Tragically, Homer was killed in a mining accident when my grandfather was just a few years old, and widowed Sarah, with a mere 2nd grade education, was left to raised five children on her own.  From what I glean of the stories he has shared, my grandpa's childhood was not an easy one.  Hard work was an expectation almost as soon as one could walk, and by 8th grade, Howard was forced to quit school in order to pursue employment.  At sixteen, he purchased a car and moved to the town in which he would meet his bride and raise his own children. He pumped gas, worked in the showroom of a car dealership, became a mechanic, and eventually owned his successful own auto-body business, evidence that there really is something to the pick-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps philosophy.

Howard is the father of three children:  Marian (who died as an infant), Sidney (my late uncle), and Susan (my mother).  He is the devoted husband to Marjorie, to whom he will have been married 60 years on Valentine's Day 2013.  Howard is a Korean War vet and a cancer survivor.  A first-rate grandpa and magician, I have fond memories of sitting on his lap as a little one while he pulled quarters from behind my ears (still not sure exactly how that trick worked).  He makes the world's best scrambled eggs, and I've never known him not to have a stash of mints or Werther's Originals in his shirt pocket or nightstand.  He's a quick-witted man of few words whose patience runs deep.  I've never known my grandpa to lose his temper or raise his voice... unless, of course, he's running off the cats who dare to lighten their load in his backyard ;)  If our son is half the man my grandfather is, he will be nothing less than exceptional.

As I mentioned, our son's middle name, Sidney, will be in honor of my only uncle who died unexpectedly at the age of 44, when I was a Freshman in high school. It's hard to believe that in just a couple of years, I'll have lived longer without my uncle alive than with him.  As his first niece, I'd like to think that he and I had a special connection, and almost twelve years later, there isn't a day that passes that I don't think of him.  But thankfully, with time and faith, God has a way of transforming grief from something very raw and tender to something more scarred yet durable.  While the tears still occasionally flow, the majority of my thoughts of "Uncle Sid" center on his wild sense of humor, his playfulness.... and the Lunchables, mini Ball Park hotdogs, YooHoos, and essentially any other type of overpriced "kid food" he'd spoil us with ;)  In the summers, I looked forward to evenings spent at his apartment-- touring the garage of antique cars & "testing" the horns, drinking pop while watching forbidden shows like Married with Children and The Simpsons, and sitting in his lap while peering through a kaleidoscope whose home was a small end table next to my uncle's Lazy Boy recliner.  I still have that recliner, my so-called inheritance, and I can't imagine I'll ever part with it-- it accompanied me to my apartments at IU; returned to Columbus when I bought my first house; traveled to the basement to spruce up Eric's home office, which we lovingly refer to as the "Pit of Despair;" and is currently on loan, begrudgingly so, to my sister's dorm at Purdue (or "Pur-don't" as our daughter will learn to call it). ;)  Remember the old, duct-tapped chair from the TV show "Frazier?"  You get the idea.  That's my recliner.

Anyway, Uncle Sid never married or had children of his own.  I know how excited Eric is to bestow upon his son the Cave last name which Howie will carry into the next generation, and sadly, that's an opportunity my uncle never had.  So in choosing Sidney as a middle name, not only will my uncle's name live on, but more importantly, so will his memory.  I can't think of a more meaningful tribute, and I know my uncle will be pleased.... hopefully so much so that he'll sprinkle that some of that good sense of humor onto his great-nephew :)

So before you ask--yes, we know that "Howard" and "Sidney" don't exactly make the Top 10 (or even top 100)  list of most popular names in 2012.  We're ok with that.  And yes, we also know that Sidney is typically used as a girls name these days, and I've even read some articles that lump Howard into lists of "Terrible/You're Child Will Hate You Forever/Prepare for a Lifetime of Teasing & Torture" names like Rufus, Gaylord, and Kermit.  But there is something said for giving your child the gift of a legacy, even if connects more of an image of suspenders and white Reeboks than it does Mustang convertibles and The Bachelor.  And you have to admit-- "Howard Sidney" sounds a whole lot more like Presidential material than "Moxie Crimefighter" or "Snoop Dogg" (excuse me, "Snoop Lion"), don't you think? ;)

Why Blog???

Per the nudging of some rather pushy friends and my own desire to occasionally do something a little more intellectual than see how symmetrically I can cut up hot dogs, I'm giving a stab at blogging.  I'll admit that this takes me out of my 2-sentence Facebook post comfort zone, and the glass-half-empty prepubescent girl in me is sort of expecting to fail for a couple of reasons--

1.  I struggle not with committing, but with staying committed.  Without a deadline or minimum requirement, I slack...and slack... and slack.  So if I don't post again until December 2013, you'll know why.

1.  I have no idea what to write.  It seems that a great majority of potential readers are most interested in witty, slightly sarcastic humor that make some sort of amusing commentary on society as a whole.  Quite frankly, I don't know that I'm intelligent enough to come up with a post of that sort time and time again.


I'm not sure where that leaves me.... Is this a journal?  A scrapbook?  A great big editorial page?  For now, I'll write when it hits me... whatever "it" is.  Can you hear the inner right-brained, hippy English teacher in me???

So forgive my low-tech, feeble effort at a blog page (truly, I'd rather have my toenails removed without anesthesia than attempt to create another webpage).  If you like what I have to say, I'd love for you to "follow" my blog via email updates.  And even better, please feel free to comment below each post if you'd like!  I'd love to know that someone out there actually finds this whole undertaking remotely worthwhile.... if not, it's back to hot dog geometry ;)