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? ;)