Why I Like to Write

By and large, I feel like I was born with the need to write.  I don't this mean that in a, "I was born to be the next Jane Austen" sort of way.  That would be very annoying, let alone arrogant.  Putting it bluntly, I've always just liked to write stuff.  When I was a little older than Margo, I'd draw a bunch of scribbles on lined paper and ask my mom if I had written anything.  "No?"  I'd reply.  "Well did I at least write any letters?"  When I was about 8 or so, I got my first journal-- a Lisa Frank diary with a pair of ballet slippers painted on the cover.  I have no clue who gave it to me, and even more bewildering, why in the heck they picked out ballet slippers is beyond me.  "Two left feet" would be an extremely kind description of my God-given dancing ability.  Regardless, I loved this diary.  It had a lock and key, which I pretty much thought made me big stuff.  I filled that journal, cover to cover, mostly with thing about friends, who was mad at who at school, and why my little sister was the most irritating person on the planet.  By and large, I wrote exactly what you'd expect out of an 8 year old.  But from that point forward, I kept a diary until I was 22.  You're probably wondering why I stopped.  Or maybe you don't give a hoot.  I'm telling you anyway.  The truth is, I really don't have an answer.  I did adopt an 8 week old puppy when I was 22. That, aside from the time I tried to make chocolate covered pretzels with NesQuik, was probably one of the biggest disasters of my life.  So I'm going to say I was too busy de-worming a dog we think came from a puppy mill than to write about my day, which at that point, involved rowdy, know-it-all, honors level juniors in high school by day, crazy hyper Reggie dog by night.  Who wants to relive that in writing at the end of each day?

I'm not a particularly sentimental person when it comes to stuff.  I have no problem purging junk, as well as  things that aren't junk but that I'm tired of storing.  I like freeing up space in the house and then reorganizing.  It's like moving to a whole new house without nearly as much work.  I mean, yes, you've still got the leaky kitchen faucet you've always had, but a little TLC to the closet, and you can handle so much more out of that faucet.  But when it comes to my old journals, I'd probably consider them my top, if not only, prized possession (aside from my kids.  Do they count as possessions??).  "What about your wedding album?!" you ask.  Well, those pictures are on some disc in the hoity-toity photographer's studio.  Push comes to shove, all of that can be duplicated (for a pretty penny, I'm sure).  But the stomach flu on my 11th birthday that I wrote about?  That's priceless.  Occasionally, and I'm talking about maybe once every 2 or 3 years, I'll pull out one of those diaries.  I'm usually pretty embarrassed for the teenage version of myself, which is why anymore, I go straight for the Lisa Frank.  It's a lot easier to tolerate an 8 year old's obnoxiousness than it is a 17 year old's, even in (or maybe especially in) yourself.

Aside from journals, I love (and I mean LOVE) to make my grocery lists, to write invitations to parties, and to address envelopes.  That's sort of weird, isn't it?  I told you I like to write "stuff," and I'm not so egocentric as to just write things about me all day long.  I mean, I get that a blog sort of resides on the premise of me:  my life, observations, my thoughts.  Come to think of it, a blog is about the most self-absorbed type of literature out there.  Does it even count as literature??  This is a philosophical debate for another day, mostly because if I go down this road right now, I'm going to lose people.  You'll "x out" of this screen and go back to playing Candy Crush.  Don't even pretend you won't.  But I will say that I had to write a paper my senior year of high school that defined and described what literature really is.  What did I write, you ask?  I have no idea.  That was a long time ago. I don't even know why I still remember that assignment, especially when I keep forgetting to buy things like toilet bowl cleaner. But anyway, I do just like the physical act of writing stuff,whether pen and paper style, or on the computer.  I'm not saying that I like to draw on my computer screen.  I'm saying I like to type ideas.  Do I have to explain everything?

This may come as a surprise, especially if you've ever had a kid-free meal with me because I can talk and talk and talk, but in real life, I'm an introvert.  Now before you get carried away with that, allow me to clear up some common and aggravating misconceptions about introverts:  it doesn't mean I don't like people, nor does it mean I'm shy.  It doesn't mean I'm anti-social, which now that I brought that up-- the true definition of "anti-social" means a person who behaves contrary to social norms, not someone who shies away from crowds.  So the person who habitually steals purses off shoulders at Wal-Mart, then goes out to the parking lot and punches the cart kid in the face-- that's antisocial, because it's bizarre and inappropriate social behavior.  I took psychology my junior year of high school, so that's how I know I'm right about this.  Seriously, look it up.  And if you're thinking, "But Sara, all teenagers behave in bizarre and inappropriate ways."  I would agree with you, which is why many mental illnesses shouldn't be diagnosed until young adulthood, when hormones calm the heck down and people quit acting like morons 90% of the time. That doesn't always happen in real life, but I'm not getting in to the debate about over-medicated youth... at least not today.  I should say that a couple of months ago, I broke out in hives and my ears started to swell.  Imagine a bright red elephant.  The ER doctor asked if I needed any pain medication.  He wasn't joking, either.  There's something messed up about that.  Maybe I don't look like your typical drug seeker in that I have all my teeth and can usually carry on a conversation without twitching, but you hear about moms like me getting hooked to stuff all the time.  Have you seen Dr. Phil???  Just in case you're wondering, I responded to the doctor by saying that what I really needed was a prescription for some heavy-duty sleeping meds, maybe a muscle relaxer, and an anti-anxiety. I thoroughly expected a hearty laugh out of him.  No dice.

Back to the introvert thing.  Introverts need time alone. That's how we recharge our batteries.  We like quiet.  We like time away from the world.  And I'm not just talking about time away from your chatty Aunt Sharon with the uni-brow.  I'm talking about time away from even people you like best.  How much time we like sans people sort of depends on the individual and the situation.  If I go to a party, chances are I'll come home totally fried , useless for a good couple of hours.  Not because I didn't have fun.  In fact, if there are decent snacks, chances are I actually did have fun.  And because I rarely get invited to parties, it's sort of a big deal when it actually happens; it's something to get excited about. Heck, any event that doesn't involve cutting up food, putting shoes on the right feet, and being handed a booger is absolutely something to get excited about.  Introverts just need time to unwind from all the energy we used up at said gathering.  Unlike extroverts, who recharge their batteries by socializing, introverts re-energize by being alone with their thoughts. It's like a fuel tank:  introverts fill up on their own, extroverts fill up by engaging with others. I wish people understood that.  You say "introvert" and people assume you're a sociopath.  Here's another thing about introverts, which probably contributes to the brain dead social setting phenomenon:  we tend to find small talk incredibly cumbersome.  We'd rather just jump into a deep conversation about the deterioration of the traditional family unit, why young adults don't go to church, and the Republican Party's inability to produce a worthwhile Presidential candidate.  That's interesting to us.  The weather, however, is not.  If you see me at Aldi and have a thought on any of these topics, please feel free to stop me; just don't ask me "how things are going."

So the whole introvert description is just a segue, albeit a long one, to another reason I like to write.  By the way, "segue" is pronounced "seg-way."  See, you knew that word after all.  Don't worry, I had to look up the spelling, too, and I double checked because I didn't believe Google and I were talking about the same word at first.  So anyway, I like to write because it does give me that much needed time with my own thoughts.  Maybe this is true of everyone, but I've always sort of got this running dialogue going on in my head: conversations I'd like to have if Oprah ever interviewed me: things I'd like to say about kids, about living in a teeny house with kids, about maintaining your sanity in a teeny house with kids.  Writing allows me to collect all of those thoughts, organize them, then stick them in a file folder in my brain.  The goal is that I lay it to rest and move on to incessantly mulling over a different topic.  If you're anything like me, you understand what I'm talking about.  And if you have no clue what I'm saying, you're A) probably not an introvert and B) probably wondering why I haven't pursued medication for this.

It should also be noted that while other women my age (women?  Are you serious? I still feel like I'm 10), have hobbies-- cooking, crafting, working out, I have about none. No, not even "about none."  That's an overstatement.  I absolutely have no hobbies.  So yes, you're understanding correctly-- I rarely go to parties, and I have no pastimes.  Don't I sound like someone you want to be friends with?  Cooking, for example, makes a huge mess, and mostly, whatever I make is merely edible at best, nothing to write home about.  Crafting, and I'm not sure exactly what that includes, is super stinkin' expensive. I've tried scrapbooking on a few different occasions, and let's just say I don't think I've ever completed an entire scrapbook, maybe not even an entire page.  Do you know how much money that means I've flushed??  I don't even want to think about that.  Between the back and forth to Hobby Lobby for stickers and cut-outs and special scissors that make fancy, squiggly cuts, I just couldn't handle the commitment.  Where in the world are you supposed to store all that stuff, anyway??  I see all theses fancy craft rooms on Pinterest. Yeah, let me know when you actually design one of those.  Everyone I know crams all their art supplies in a couple of clear, shoe box-size Rubbermaids and that jams that in the coat closet, right underneath the basket of mismatched mittens. I don't care how organized you are, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  And as for working out.... are you kidding me?!  My hats go off to all the mommies out there squeezing in time for the gym.  It's just that I'd rather be reading the encyclopedia.  Or filing our taxes.  I made the volleyball team in the 7th grade, which I'm just going to go ahead and say publicly that I think the coach kept from cutting me merely because I was a really nice girl.  Seriously. I had absolutely no talent, and if truth be told, I think I caused more problems than anything else.  By problems, I mean that I was afraid of the ball.  That's a pretty major hang-up in volleyball.  Then, when I got to high school, I decided to join the Cross Country team.  It was a sport that didn't involve a ball, a net, a stick, or a racket.  Fairly non-threatening, right?  Only issue:  I hated running. And on top of that, I was slow.  And I mean super slow.  I did make a lot of friends on the team, so that was a positive.  But then there was that whole introvert thing. When the rest of the girls were gearing up to hang out after a race, I was ready to sit on the couch and veg out for the rest of the afternoon in complete solitude, maybe watch  a Lifetime movie or The Frugal Gourmet.  Just me and my thoughts. If you're thinking that the teenage Sara sounded a lot like a 95 year old, fuddy-duddy spinster, I'd say you're pretty perceptive. To re-read this actually makes me laugh.  What a weirdo I was.... er... am. ;)  It's a darn good thing Eric is a natural athlete and isn't half as awkward.  He may be stoic and serious, but he's not the awkward type.  Our kids would be S.O.L. without his genes.  I know you're nodding in agreement.

So, the last reason I enjoy writing (and yes, that means you're almost to the end of this post; please, curb your enthusiasm) is that it's sort of a super nerdy form of rebellion, right up there with Dungeons and Dragons in the school cafeteria on lunch break.  I learned all of these grammar rules in school and for the longest time, I'd follow them without deviation.  Sentences with complete subjects and predicates.  No run-ons, please.  Commas in all the right places (there actually are rules for commas, by the way; you don't just put them wherever it sounds good).  All of these are great rules, and if I didn't have kids, I'd probably still be teaching them to a bunch of apathetic teenagers on the brink of dozing off or checking their cell phones.  But then, once you've got all the rules mastered, you can start bending and breaking them.  Manipulating everything in language to say something original-- I love that! If you're lost, Google "e.e. Cummings poetry."

So there you go.  Thanks for indulging me by reading what I have to say.  Writing is truly just about my favorite thing in the world.  Other than my kids.  And being alone.  And looking up the spelling of words like "segue."

The Bieber Bust and My Mom's Green Recliner

So I get it, the Justin Bieber arrest, which I posted about on Facebook if you're interested, really doesn't qualify as real news.  We should probably fill our minds with much more important current events-- things like the price of crude oil, the whooping cough epidemic, who got kicked off the Bachelor last night.  But before I totally shut up about Bieber, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what it would take to get that kid back on track.  Yes, I realize I have too much time on my hands.  An older, wise friend of mine pointed out that I really need to get out more.  Janice, you know who you are :)  But seriously, I don't think the kid is beyond hope.  Am I too idealistic?  Probably.  Everyone in Hollywood seems be be about one screw up away from a a year in prison.  Except for maybe Ellen DeGeneres.  That woman is hysterical.  Maybe if people danced more, like she does, we'd stay more grounded.  But I digress.  The point is, don't turn your kid into the next Justin Bieber.  Or Miley Cyrus (shudder).  Or Brittney Spears (remember the shaved head??).  I think about my own childhood, and I'm so thankful I was never once enrolled in a Little Miss Pageant.  Not that it could have happened-- I had short hair and chicken legs.  I still have short hair and chicken legs.  Aside from keeping out of the Toddlers & Tiaras social circle, my parents also did some things right in the punishment department, which I think has deterred me from renting a yellow Lambo and drag racing it through Miami Beach while intoxicated.

Allow me to take you through a few of the creative (and completely real) punishments my parents, mostly my mother, derived for their own, sick pleasure.


1.  At the age of 8 or so, my mother drove me to a teenage babysitter's house to apologize for my overzealous (read:  sassy pants) attitude when it came to making a box of mac & cheese.  Apparently, I was  overstepping my bounds when I took the liberty of adding an additional Kraft single to the saucepan. But it's called improvisation, and call it passive aggressive, but I'm still adding that additional slice of processed cheese, while praying to God my kids don't gnaw off my calf as they wait for lunch. Anyway, the sitter had some friends over that day I came over to apologize.  So yes, I had to say "sorry" in front of a room full of super cool teenagers with letter jackets and driver's licenses, which was as embarrassing as all get out.  They say punishments shouldn't involvement humiliation.  Guess who never challenged a babysitter again?  And while we're talking about apologies, I had to apologize once to my sister after she she bit me.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I was pinned for provoking her, for "egging it on." I have no clue if I'm spelling that correctly.  Apparently, I deserved the razor-sharp chomp of a two year old straight to the wrist, which could have actually drawn blood.  It didn't, but it definitely could have under the right circumstances.  Like if her teeth were shards of glass.  I still don't entirely know why I was punished for that.  I do know, however, that I said sorry, and I absolutely didn't mean it.  Once again, they, I'm assuming child psychologists, none of whom have children of their own but maybe a pet chimp who can sign "apple," "Texas," and "That old pick-up is rusty,"  also say that forcing an apology out of a child is detrimental to his ego.  I'm not sure about that, but I do know I've apologized countless times for things I'm not sorry about.  For dumping cold water on my sister while she was in the shower, for cleaning out my mom's personal stash of Godiva, for swinging by Dairy Queen when it wasn't in the budget.  WARNING, LADIES-- If your husband suggests mint.com as a way of tracking your family's spending, run.  Don't look back.  Returning to what I was saying-- learning how to apologize is a good skill, I think.  Even when we don't want to do it.  Even when we think we're right.  Even when we know the person had it coming to him.

2.  Another incident.  I'm not recalling the specifics, but I do remember being punished by my mother and forced to copy out of the dictionary and/or write sentences.  You wanna know what?  I actually enjoyed that punishment.  I love the act of physically writing something.  It's calming, therapeutic.  And I like having legible penmanship, unlike my husband.  He works at a bank, and I'm telling you, if he had to come up with a hand-written note for a client, the recipient would be certain First Financial had hired a third grader as the bank manager.  So yeah, the sentence-writing sort of backfired on my mom, but at least she was gutsy enough to try something other than grounded me from TV like everyone else's mom.  She was usually tired of me by 8pm, so the TV in my bedroom room, now that I think of it, was probably more about getting me out of her hair than actually providing a luxury. Those crazy psychologists, believe it or not, also say you'll definitely screw up your kids by installing a television in their rooms.  My parents even hooked up cable.  GASP!  My mother must have been really desperate for me to shut the heck up at night.  On top of that, the English teachers of the world say punishment by forcing a child to read and/or write will turn them off from all things related to literature, creative writing, and the entire artistic process.  Um, yeah.  I'm going to go ahead and say I'm living proof that the aforementioned theory is a bunch of baloney.  Make your kids write.  And make them learn cursive, while they're at it.

3.  As I got older, most of my punishments came in the form of "a talk in the green chair."  My mom  has this green, leather recliner in my parents' family room.  Having my folks invite me to "take a seat," while they cleared their throats and turned off the TV (something that never happened), was pretty much like being escorted to a guillotine.  You see, my family rarely had "family time."  There's no way on God's green earth my dad would have signed up to attend a family meeting, and I'm sure my mom felt like she pretty much had everything under control without something hokey like that.  Family game night?  I think my dad and I both would have rather attended the family meeting!  Unless we were headed to some forced-family-fun activity at an apple orchard or a winery, our conversations were limited to the daily run-down about school-- what we learned, what we wanted to learn, and what we should have learned but didn't because we smuggled in a Nano Pet. You think I'm kidding.  Come to a family dinner at my parents' house.  Guaranteed, someone will tell you to pipe down and eat your food. "A little less talking, a little more eating."  That was the song title to my childhood.   Road trip with the Roszczyks?  Better not... unless you like silence for 8 hours. And no bathroom breaks. I don't say this to make my parents out to be monsters.  They were more like werewolves-- they could turn on you quick.  That's a good way of keeping teenagers on their toes, by the way.  Catch them off guard, get 'em when they least expect it.  Being a fairly oblivious child, I was an easy target.  So anyway, the conversations involving both parents that took place from the vantage point of that recliner were never very good.  There was a lot of bloodshed, and I was typically left to pick up my dismembered limbs piece by piece.  Questions like, "What were you thinking?!" in regard to stealing For Sale signs out of people's lawns, and "Are you stupid?!" after I was caught talking to strangers in chat rooms.  Granted, I was probably your ordinary teenager.  But the way my dad's eyebrows would dance around on the top of his forehead while he shook his head in disappointment honestly made me wonder if I was a breath away from the detention center.  I look back at all that, and I do sometimes wonder if calling your kid "stupid" is necessarily the best approach.  But I think that sometimes it's better than the alternative-- telling them they're special, probably gifted, and destined for greatness. Kids pretty much think those things on their own.

For the record, my younger sister never, and I mean never, got into trouble the way I did.  She is the favorite child.  She should have been busted for that biting episode, but whatever.  I'm totally over it.  Aside from that, I don't think she's ever done anything even remotely close to green chair worthy.  My mom says that second-borns are privileged to watch all of the first kid's screw ups, so that's the reason Erin turned out so much better than me. I must have screwed up a lot, because she's pretty frickin perfect.  I think the birth order comment is supposed to make me feel better.  Instead, I sort of feel like I got the raw end of the deal.

My whole point is that loving our kids often means punishing them, even when you know they'll end up in therapy someday because of it.  Therapy is better than rehab and definitely better than jail.  I think the problem, aside from just good 'ol fashioned American laziness, is that we equate "love" with more toys, more privileges, more yellow Lamborghinis.  I know that's not a new thought, by the way.  Everyone says we need to quit giving our teenagers the keys to the Honda and a couple of credit cards.  But that's tough because if truth be told, I think we, ourselves, were probably overindulged as kids, too.  That's a harder pill to swallow.  All of us can point out that kids these days are spoiled and know very little about hard work, but none of want to admit that we, too, were probably just as pampered.  Reading that may make you cringe.  It certainly does me.  And so we've sort of lost track what it means to be to spoiled.  It's the blind leading the blind.  We're navigating our way through at least a couple of generations that have been catered to way beyond what it actually means to successfully parent and provide for children.  For example, my first car was my grandpa's hand-me-down, crimson, 1989 Fleetwood Cadillac.  That car was a boat, but honestly, I loved it-- leather seats, a Bose stereo, and a remote control that could start and defrost the car for you.  Eventually, the land yacht took a major dump, and my parents bought me a car in college that was less than 1 year old when they purchased it.  At the time, I thought they were doing what most all reasonable parents would do-- replacing what was broken. They were the parents after all, and since they had way more money than I did, of course they'd extend their hand (and their wallet).  Duh.  But a "replacement" would have been a 1994 Chevy Lumina.  The Malibu, which my husband actually drives these days, was a total and complete, undeserved upgrade.  And do you want to know what I did to that car????  In less than a year, I managed to cause $1,000 in damage to it.  The car my dad bought with a bonus. I still feel really bad about that one, worse now than I did then.  Paying for your own life does that to a person.  But it probably wouldn't have happened with the Cadillac... mostly because that thing was a beast.  The dings, dents, and scratches that should have been there saved me a lot of money (and even more explaining).  But once again, my argument is that I probably should have never been gifted the car in the first place.  I should have been given my old Schwinn and told to start saving up.

Love means more time in Mom's lap and more time playing blocks with Dad.  It absolutely means less wanting more, and more of being content with what we've already got.  It means giving up on the idea that more money, more power, more stuff will make you a happier person.  It means teaching our kids how to be responsible.  How to be appreciative.  How to work and work and work.  How to work without acknowledgement.  How to live on less.  How to help ourselves, and then help others.  How to figure it out on our own.  How to graciously accept success, as well as defeat.  How to stand out for the right reasons. Loving our kids means knowing that the very best form of ordinary is far better than what we're told (and sold) to believe.  Can someone deliver that message to Hollywood for me?

Back to Blogging I Go???

As many of you may already know, I used to blog.  As in, I think I posted like 3 blog entries before I gave up.  And when I say I "gave up," I mean that I had a baby.  That baby is now a 1-year old (see picture below), and I think we're finally settling in to our new normal.... which is a great thing, because we're now expecting a THIRD baby this coming summer.  Kidding.  Well, I'm not joking about the new baby coming in July.  That's really happening, Lord willing.  I'm kidding about it taking a year to adjust to our last baby.  It took about 9 months, which incidentally, is when I got pregnant with this third little gremlin.  You think we're nuts, don't you?  That's ok.  So do we.  We also really like kids.  But then again, most people don't run around saying, "I actually really despise children." That would get you a lot of hairy eyeballs.  By the way, I have absolutely no idea where that expression came from.  Thank heavens for Google.  I'll have to add it to my list of "Things That Must Be Googled," which already includes "spider veins in pregnancy," "how to know if your phone is being tapped," and "how to get fabric paint off the wall."  But back to the kid thing.  I told my husband before we were married that my ultimate goal in life is to drive a great big full-size van.  One of those 15 passenger monstrosities that are usually purchased second-hand for the church youth group.  That's my dream.  And you know what?  My in-laws actually have one of those vans, which could be why I hunted down Eric and assumed he's be game for it, himself.  He is, just so you know; I'm not one of those Dr. Phil head cases who repeatedly flushes the birth control without her husband's knowledge.  I'd never do that.  I do, however, have a picture of a big van on the vision board I made like 10 years ago. You have no clue what a vision board is, do you?  Allow me to explain-- you cut out all these pictures from magazines of things you'd hope to have in life.  You glue them on a poster board, then hide the finished project in your closet, because you know everyone will make fun of you if they find out you've got a picture of Ashton Kutcher on there.  Let' me clarify.  It's not that I wanted to marry Ashton Kutcher or anything.  Well, let me take that back.  I would have been ok with marrying him.  Probably more than ok with marrying him.  It was more that Ashton stood for the type of person I hoped to marry-- funny and with a cool haircut.  Now that I think of it, Eric is nothing like Ashton Kutcher.  Darn-it.  So that's a vision board.  But the big van?  I'm still holding on to hope for that one.  You're wondering if I've realized that all three of my kids, ages 3 and 18 months when the new baby is born, will all be in car seats at the same time.  No, as a matter of fact, that didn't dawn on me until just this very second.  Yikes.  I'm going to have my hands full.  That's a condescending little expression I hate, mostly because it's often accompanied by a snort and an eye roll.  It's as though the person saying it assumes I never considered the headache that comes with hoisting three whole squirmy little children into car seats.  And true, I didn't think of that.  But it doesn't mean I can't do it.  Play the piano with my toes while gargling battery acid: I don't think I could do that.  But kids and vehicle-loading?  Totally doable.  I hope. ;)

Polar Pops

So, at the expense of exposing my truly trashy side, I gotta tell ya, I'm a sucker for a Polar Pop.  When I started teaching, I'd fuel up with a Diet Mountain Dew Polar Pop every single morning.

That's pretty embarrassing to type, even 5 years later

After maybe 6 months, I started getting heart palpitations.  Fearing for my life and convicted of my mom's refusal to allow us even one sip of Mountain Dew lest we'd be struck down by God himself, I switched to Diet Coke.  Became one of those people.  And then I read a bunch of stuff online that pretty much said I'd be better off smoking crystal meth than to let my teeth rot out of my head from drinking diet pop.

5 years of orthodontia-- 2 sets of braces, 1 middle school dumpster diving retainer retrieval, and more hours than I can count reclined in a dental chair with large-busted orthodontic assistants asking me to turn my head more to the right -- All that makes you value your teeth.  

So a couple months ago, I bought a fancy water bottle, which Margo dubbed, "Mommy's Sippy," and I scaled back again.  So now I'd consider myself a very, very occasional Polar Pop drinker.

Usually when I'm ready to claw my eyes out from a teething baby and a toddler who's been watching the same episode of Dora on Netflix for the past 3 days.  In case you wanted to know, Swiper is still up to his same swiping antics.  A little Dora goes a long way, but 3 days of the same 20 minute episode???  That would bring just about anyone to her knees begging for mercy.  So I hop in the car, fill me up a fountain pop, and eyeball all those other "sugar pop" drinkers who are sure diabetic. If I weren't concerned I'd start a bar fight, I'd wave my finger at them and say "Tisk! tisk!" in my most unapproving tone of voice. But the fact that I'm going with diet, even with all that I've read about it shredding my organs to a pulp, that makes me feel better about myself.  Cheers!

 But either something has changed at the pop trough, or I've been out to lunch for a very long while.... I'm seeing 44 ounce Styrofoam cups for polar pops.  You read that correctly.  44 ounces.  They're massive.  Like so big I could probably cram my head into one.  

You'd think that would cause a major ruckus.  But clearly, you haven't been to *my* Circle K.  That's nothing compared to the stunts I've seen pulled at this fine establishment, generally by grown men with droopy drawers on little kid bikes.  Let's just say I'd recommend applying for your concealed carry permit before you pull into the parking lot.  Or at least buy some mace.  

Anyway my beef is pretty obvious.  44 ounces of pop?!  As if Americans weren't already the butt of all international dialogue.

"Not only do they stuff their faces with fried Snickers bars while telling Chuck Norris jokes and revving their suped up Ford F150s, I've heard they also drink sods in 5-gallon drums!!!!"

There's no denying Americans, at least Midwesterners, are somewhat of a cultural embarrassment.  Without getting preachy and going into detail about our horrible diets, let's just all silently agree that we can think of at least one horrific food decision we've made in the last year.

2 sausage, egg, & cheese McGriddles in one day comes to mind for me.  Ooops. ;)

I just don't know at what point we're going to draw the line and say, "Ok buddy, it was one thing when you were sucking down 80 ounces of Big Red a day," (yuck, by the way), "but now that you've crossed over to filling the kiddie pool with that garbage and helping yourself to the grandbabies' crazy straws, we're gonna have to throw on the breaks there, pal."  Truly, it worries me.  It's gluttony.  And I do think it's getting worse.  Do you remember when the big thing was asking the cashier to "super size" the order?  That was like, "Oooooohhhh, Billy must be really hungry tonight!"  The super size meal is pretty much standard now, isn't it?  If your friend asks for a medium, you almost want to ask if they're on a diet.  "Ohhhh, you're saving room for the baked $2 apple pies.  That makes sense now."

It's a fine line.  I don't want turn into the old lady who tells everyone that back in her day, a Small was the size of a Dixie cup.  Clearly that's an exaggeration.  But a standard, 4-piece nugget?  True story!!  I remember when all the containers were Styrofoam, too.  But that's a tree-hugging post for another day.

At this point, I'd definitely recommend You-tubing Jim Gaffigan.  He has a lot of hilarious (and true!) things to say about food.  It's clean humor, so no need to worry about an uncomfortable pause while you change the subject and tell the chit'lins to scadaddle on to bed.  I'm all for good, wholesome humor.  When my son was 6 weeks old, he could belly laugh.  Truly!!  The fact that God made little babies to appreciate humor is proof enough for me that we should probably do more laughing.  Find things that tickle you.  Jim Gaffian is a good start.

So, needless to say, I passed on the 44-ouncer.  32 ounces seems like a much more conservative amount.... right? ;)

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.  :)