Boy Meets Girl Part I...

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

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

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

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

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

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

So back to the story...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, Are You Guys Moving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Name Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Blog???

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

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

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


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

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