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33 weeks

I heard Janet Jackson's "Miss You Much" on the way to Subway today, and it reminded me of all things I miss about my pre-pregnancy life. At 33 weeks, the list includes:

• The shape of my face (aka non-puffy)
• Eating any type of spaghetti sauce I want without fear of indigestion
• Being able to get in and out of bed without grunting in pain
• Sleeping without a pillow cushioned against my belly
• Walking in heels without resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa (Don't worry, I switched to flats months ago)
• Running
• Sitting the children on my lap instead of barely fitting them onto my knee
• Wearing pants with buttons instead of elastic waistbands
• Not worrying that my shirt is going to creep up and expose what must be the largest uterus on Planet Earth
• Overall energy level, zest for life

And... the photographic evidence:

 

This was taken last week; originally I intended to post a more current photo with this entry, but after reviewing the results of this morning's shoot I found that the lighting on my face is all wrong and part of my hair is sticking up and really, it would be better for everyone to gaze upon a version of my visage from happier days.

Fatigue continues to plague me constantly, whether I get eight hours of sleep or five. There is occasional swelling in my feet after a long day, but it's easily cured by putting them up the minute I get home. Two things that did worry me this past weekend were intermittent pains in my stomach and some light vomiting after taking my vitamin cocktail, so I called my OB/GYN's office on Monday and was seen that day to check my blood pressure, urine levels, and the baby's heartbeat. Luckily, everything is looking good; as for the vomiting, my doctor and I think it was the result of switching from the premium-grade vitamin samples I was using back to the generic ones I had been taking all along. They didn't make me throw up before, but that was before I was prescribed the iron supplement. I now have almost a month's worth of samples in my possession, which should see me through almost to the end of the pregnancy, and by that point, I may just pay the piper to avoid making out with the porcelain throne again.

Quite a lot has happened since the last time we pow-wowed, the biggest being Luke's follow-through with the snip at the end of April (the timing with the royal wedding was purely coincidental, I swear). He is just now beginning to feel like himself again, so I feel okay to talk about it.

The planner in me is so relieved to have this taken care of and cross such a huge thing off our post-partum to-do list, and for the first time in my life, I am absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent certain that I do not want to be pregnant ever again. Still, though, on the morning of, there was a huge rock in my stomach that stayed with me for the first half of the day, wondering if we were doing the right thing. Was I being selfish asking Luke to do this when I could just as easily get on the pill, despite my misgivings? Were we being fiscally irresponsible by spending precious hospital dollars to have this done, knowing that my insurance deductible would be met after Baby Brother's arrival and we could score a tubal for free? Was I really comfortable with the idea of the two of us never making a baby together again?

I always knew I would be sad when the time came to do something permanent with our reproductive parts; I just didn't know how sad.

Luke and I talked it out, and while we were both nervous, we also knew logically it was the best long-term choice for our family, and one we both could handle without regret. And so it was done, and now I have come full circle, because seriously. Giving birth is a miracle, and I will always be grateful for being a part of it, but I NEVER WANT TO BE PREGNANT AGAIN. Thanks, honey, for taking one for the team.

The urologist did ask Luke if we wanted to postpone the procedure until after Baby Brother was born, "just in case," but as devastated as we'd be over anything happening to this little guy, it wouldn't change the fact that we are just not up for another pregnancy.

Morbid "what-if" conversations with your spouse: yet another perk of the whole marriage and family planning package!

The second big thing is that we finally made a dent in Baby Brother's bedroom. We stuck with our decision to keep the paint and wall art as is, but we did rearrange the furniture so that it actually feels like it was set up for a brand new person. It's not picture-ready yet, as there is a pile of laundry that appears to be mating with itself next to the crib, but it finally feels like progress is being made.

 

The kids are doing great. Kara's last official day of "school" was last week, but this week they're throwing a last-hurrah carnival for all the kids and their families, so I will be taking the day off work so the four of us can attend together. One of the best decisions we made was to send Kara to this program, even if we could only swing one day a week; she has so enjoyed the Fridays where she gets to play with her friends and interact with her teachers and make "heart projects" (her original pronounciation of "art projects") to bring home.

I wish our finances and our family situation allowed us to send her to the church's preschool program in the fall, because Luke and I both know she would thrive in one, but with a tight budget and a newborn on the way, it just isn't feasible for us this year. But she's only three, and she will still have her one day a week, as will Nathan, and we can pay for those things without losing sleep, so it will have to be enough for now.

 

Inspired by Emily's recent post on summer strategizing, I fully intended to talk about Kara and Nathan's plans here, but this entry is already long enough, and with my sporadic posting schedule, it's probably best that I not place all of my blogging eggs into this one basket - er, post. Until next time, then!

The big 3-0 and musings on the working mother balance

Folks, we have officially entered single-digit territory - no more than nine weeks until we bring Baby Brother home. My word.

 

I will shoot daggers at anyone who might dare utter this to me, but at 30 weeks, even I have to admit that I'm looking large and in charge (and also in need of a haircut; THAT I hope to remedy next week). Sitting both children on my lap for storytime is damn near impossible, and several items of maternity clothing are no longer fit for public display, especially button-up shirts, which mistakenly give the impression that this child is going to burst through my uterus Incredible Hulk style. Thankfully, I have some things to tide me over courtesy of my book club friends until my sister delivers an entire bin of looser-fitting summer clothes late next month, because the goal is still to spend as little money in this area as possible. (To Katy: I get compliments on this top everytime I wear it, and your patterned black skirt, too.)

Despite the iron supplement I'm taking to address my anemia, I wear out so easily these days, and if there is ever an opportunity to nap on the weekends, I jump on it immediately. Unfortunately, now that we're inching into the final weeks, those opportunities are few and far between. Last weekend was all about The Great Bedroom Merge, and the weekend before that I FINALLY started on Nathan's baby book. Our current goals are to focus on preparing Baby Brother's room and addressing minor touch-ups and eyesores throughout the rest of the house. I've also been busy at work, training my coworkers to handle various projects and to-dos while I'm on maternity leave for 12 weeks.

The closer we get to the big day, the more apprehensive I feel about making it through those early months with a new baby. As a mother of toddlers, I have no doubts about their attachment to me or their understanding of my love for them. This knowledge has allowed me to grant myself permission to strike a manageable balance between my roles as mother, wife, working professional, and individual who continues to exist alongside (and sometimes independently of) all of those identities. In my day-to-day, that balance looks something like this:

I do not bring work home. I will arrive at the office early, or I will stay late, but aside from regularly checking e-mail on my smartphone, work stuff stays at work. It is much easier to stay put until the job is done than it is to stop my train of thought, pack up my laptop, get through dinner, clean-up, and bedtime, and THEN try to pick up where I left off. Not only am I easily distracted at home and get little accomplished whether the kids are awake or not, I also feel cheated out of quality time with Luke. So if coming home late for dinner once in a while helps me to be a more attentive wife (and really, a better employee), than that is what I will do.

Dinner clean-up is done after dinner, not after bedtime. I fought this for such a long time in the beginning, because I felt like those precious minutes before the bedtime routine begins should be spent on the living room floor playing with my kids, not at the kitchen sink washing dishes. So I used to let everything sit until after they were asleep; however, Kara and Nathan were not made from the early-to-bed cloth, so often I wouldn't be arriving downstairs until well after nine o'clock, which meant it could get as late as ten before my "real" evening officially began. This made for a crabby Frema and, once again, a neglected husband, who by this point was in dire need of adult interaction. Finally, I realized that it wasn't the end of the world to listen to the kids laugh and rough around with their father while I puttered around in the kitchen. There are some exceptions to this; on those days where I do come home late, for example, Luke is usually quick to shoo me into the living room while he takes on kitchen detail, and lately he's been making things even easier by wiping out the pre-dinner dishes before he starts cooking. Especially because of this last thing, I am often able to do both.

(Have I told you lately how wonderful my husband is? Because truly, he is so wonderful.)

I do not miss bedtime. This isn't an absolute, of course; sometimes there are evening work functions (though none during this pregnancy so far), Luke and I have splurged on date nights if we are in the vicinity of grandparents or can afford to hire our sitter, and for a few months in the fall I attended a monthly book club gathering on the other side of the city, but overall my general rule is to be present for Kara and Nathan's bedtime. Sometimes it's frustrating if the kids are acting up, and sometimes it's inconvenient, like last summer when I was constantly late for my weekly run with Jenn, but overall it's worth it to consistently be there for bathtime, lights out, and everything in between. I revel in holding them close and sniffing their freshly shampooed heads while reading them stories. It means a lot to me to be able to kiss their cheeks and tuck them in. So I make it a priority.

I do not volunteer. This one I'm not proud of, and it's another reality I fought for a long time, but in the end, it is what it is. I was a member of my college's alumni association for about five years, and I loved doing it, but the distance between Indianapolis and Rensselaer made traveling for quarterly meetings and participating in campus events highly undesirable, especially when I already spend enough time away from home. So in 2009, I sadly turned in my resignation. My employer is great about allowing time off during the work week to participate in volunteer activities, and on and off for a couple of years I was involved in a grade-school reading program for an hour a week, but once I had kids, even that one hour away from my desk was enough to throw off my entire day, so at the end of the 2010 school year, I told the program director that I wouldn't be signing up again. Last fall, my desire to reach beyond myself grew again, and I looked into donating my time at a local women's and children's shelter, possibly on the weekends. Then I got pregnant again, and then I got sick, and now the recommendation letters I solicited are collecting dust in my mail basket, and I'm at the point where I have to admit that now is not the time to throw myself into extracurricular activities that take me away from my family, no matter how worthy the cause. That said, Luke and I recently began going to church again, a church right here in town, and we sometimes talk about looking into their soup kitchen or Bible study classes or something to that effect. So it's not like I'm swearing off do-gooding or charitable works completely, but I have realized my limits, and I have to respect them.

All of that to say - almost three and a half years into this parenthood thing, and I have finally figured out what works for me and my family. And we're about to turn all of that on its head.

Because for me, as a working mother, when I have a baby and then reach the point where I have to go back to work, I'm NOT as secure in our attachment like I am when they're older, so everything feels like it's up for grabs. You can talk to a toddler about things like having to miss dinner and they understand. That is not the case with a baby. So my big-picture focus changes from maintaining balance to simply being there as much as I can.

What this translates into on a micro level: It's hard enough being away for an average work day when they're so little that the last thing I want to do is sit at my desk even one minute after five, even if the alternative is nodding off at my laptop at ten. And when I'm dividing my attention among three children, why would I concern myself with dishes when I could be doling out hugs and kisses? On top of all that, Luke and I have not wavered on our plans to put the house on the market next year, and whether it takes a month or a year to sell, preparing for the next stage of our lives will require me to start using and building on my professional network, and part of that will entail opening myself up to extracurricular programs and events, whether it's the right time or not.

I think about all of this, toss in a few random worries about nursing (yes, I have decided to try again), and my brain threatens to explode.

Then I remind myself to breathe and not get so caught up in the future. I remember that fortunately, another reality is that Luke and I are not brand spanking new parents anymore, and we HAVE figured out a system that works for us; and while there will be an initial period of deviation from that, eventually the dust will settle, and we'll embrace a familiar version of normal once again, even if it's not identical to what we had before. Until then, I will have to grant myself permission to take it one day at a time.

So, to sum up: I am 30 weeks pregnant. I am a tad worried about managing life with a third baby. But I'm also more seasoned now than I was with the first two. Plus, my husband rocks. It will be okay.

Be happy

Confession: I am a terrible book club member.

I fully embrace the concept of reading materials that fall outside my radar and that I would otherwise never be exposed to. Even more than that, I love getting together with folks who are reading these same books in order to generate thoughts and ideas about characters, plot, and overall meaning.

What is NOT working out for me, however, is actually reading the damn things.

While part of this can be attributed to pregnancy fatigue and its accompanying short attention span, I think the bigger issue is that it's difficult for me to push through books I personally wouldn't have selected for no other reason than to meet a deadline. The gals in my club are highly educated and have extremely smart taste (waves to Katy), and I'm sure I would enjoy these books if I could get over the inital reader's block that goes along with picking up a new title. Unfortunately, these days my ability to just hang in there is already at capacity. And because at this point I can only focus on one book at a time, what ends up happening is that I put off reading things I'm sincerely interested in in favor of fulfilling my "obligations," but because meeting those obligations feels like a chore, I find myself not reading anything at all.

For someone who's always described herself as an avid reader, this is unacceptable. Also, since I've taken a leave from the club to conserve budget dollars, anyway, there's no reason to continue this self-imposed form of restriction.

So this weekend, I returned last month's selection to the library and immediately dove into The Happiness Project, a book I've been chomping at the bit to read since I first heard about it last year. I even shelled out precious actual dollars to buy it when it was released in paperback earlier this month, because inherently I knew it would be the sort of book that required underlining, note-taking, and eventually, re-reading.

Funny, isn't it? In order to read The Happiness Project, first I had to grant myself permission to be happy.

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In the middle of last year, at a point where I felt stagnant and uninspired, I started giving serious thought as to why I felt unsatisfied and what it would take to make me happier. It involved owning up to my shortcomings and limitations, defining my long-term goals, and re-evaluating my priorities. It required sharing those insights with Luke and the two of us formulating a plan for changing the direction of our lives. Thankfully, we were in agreement as to what should come next, and while we're experiencing a brief delay in regards to its implemention, this plan is constantly at the forefront of our minds; it drives our savings habits, influences our short-term decisions, and keeps us hopeful about the future. I also find it easier to accencuate the positive in the day-to-day I have now, appreciate my blessings, and gain perspective.

But again, in order to reach these conclusions, Luke and I had to admit that all the great things we have in our lives right now aren't enough to bring us long-term joy. We also realized that we can't improve our situation by hoping to magically inherit traits and desires that aren't in sync with who we are.

Our plan will take some time to accomplish--many months, I'm sure, possibly even years. There are a lot of moving parts that can't be achieved in tandem. But I would rather spend the next few years in slow, baby-steps transition than an indefinite amount of time trying to settle for what society says should make me happy.

Chasing the clouds away

It's so easy to let money troubles define who you are by measuring your life against that which you cannot do. At least, that's how it feels to me sometimes. My monthly book club dinners are out. Luke can't join a gym to support his training for this year's Mini (!!). Kara can't take dance lessons, and Nathan can't start (pre-pre)school by his birthday like we once planned. Granted, these can'ts will resolve themselves in a few months, so they're not hindering us long term, but how do you get by in the interim? How can you turn your day-to-day into something meaningful using only what you already have? And during the coldest, darkest time of year?

Those were the questions Luke and I were asking ourselves at the beginning of the month, after evaluating our money situation for the remainder of winter and coming up with a game plan to get us through. It's easy to fall into a "Why me?" sort of attitude and feel sorry for yourself. But clearly, asking pointless questions and indulging useless emotions won't get you anywhere. So here are some of the ways in which we are accentuating the positive:

Cleaning house: Luke and I love to play the "What if?" game when it comes to remembering all the other houses we could have purchased instead of this one, but when she's wearing her Sunday best, it's easier to appreciate all the positives we gained with this place: open space, natural light, optimal number of bedrooms, and plenty of toilets to accommodate large family get-togethers. I am working hard to stop clutter from piling up in hot spots like the microwave top, the mail stand, and my dresser top. I make the bed every morning before I leave for work, and I've stopped using our CD rack as my own personal storage unit. We won't be implementing any major renovations this year, but we do plan to paint the kids' bathrooms and our kitchen before the baby comes, and a new splash of color can do wonders to improve the overall mood of a room. (Right, Molly?)

Being creative: Last week I received a gift certificate from my employer acknowledging my five-plus years of service. The certificate was for an undesignated amount of money for a site that very much reminded me of those catalogs from grade school - you know, the ones that told you what you could score for selling five to twenty candy bars (sparkly pen, bangle bracelets), fifty to seventy-five (NKOTB tribute band CD, piggy bank), etc. I could have redeemed it for a sassy new hobo bag, but Luke and I chose boring cookware instead, because our current set was scratched up something fierce and there was no room in our budget for replacing it. It wasn't a fun choice, but we saw an opportunity and jumped on it.

Taking stock: It's also been helpful to remind ourselves of all the things we do have that make this rough patch more manageable. The maternity clothes I once planned to unload to Goodwill, for one - I'll need more clothes when the weather gets warmer and my belly rivals the size of a world globe, but for now I can stretch out live off my regular work pants and the oodles of three-quarter-sleeved shirts I found at Kohl's near the end of my pregnancy with Nathan.

Thankfully, we need very little baby gear for Number Three. Nathan's room is still set up to accommodate a baby with a matching crib, changing table, and dresser set, courtesy of my 2008 Christmas bonus, and his and Kara's closets are jam-packed with items Luke and I weren't sure what to do with but didn't want to get rid of: crib mobile, swing, baby carriers, activity table, random infant toys, and so on, and our bassinet will come back to us from Samantha and Dan the next time they come to visit. And ninety-five percent of what we don't have is either being handed down to us from family and friends. We'll need a new single stroller, and we'd LOVE to get our hands on a jogging stroller, but ultimately we won't be missing anything necessary to bring the baby home.

We are also feeling better about our car situation. The plan was always to try and fit our current Chicco infant seat into the Outlander along with Kara's and Nathan's Britax convertibles, but thanks to some of the comments on my last post, we are now considering investing in smaller seats if that's what it will take to cram fit all three kids in there. Plus, there's a good chance that Kara can move into a booster seat by summer, and that will save us some room, so we're exploring that option, too. Not fretting over taking on a $300-plus car payment does wonders for a mother's piece of mind. Imagine that!

Finally, thanks to the size and layout of our house, we'll only need a smidge of rearranging to make room for Number Three. So far the plan is for the two older ones to share Kara's bedroom, which is the larger of the two rooms by about the double the square footage; they are so young right now that the gender issue doesn't come into play, and it just makes sense for the kids who share a bedtime routine to also share their sleeping quarters. We'll transition Kara into a twin-sized bed and Nathan into her toddler bed sometime this spring and leave his room pretty much as is for the baby (though we do plan to paint). All of this will require some creative thinking on our parts in regards to organization, but creative thinking is free, and paint is cheap. This is good.

And on the leisure and recreation front, Luke and I realized we still have plenty of ways to keep busy. We finally made space for his drawing table - which had been sadly collecting dust in our garage for almost as long as we've lived in this house - in the little nook in our bedroom, and we've been alternating between the library and our current book collection for new reading material. We have rediscovered the old Nintendo games saved on our Wii, and my brother- and sister-in-law passed along a TV antenna last week, so two nights ago, for the first time since August, we were able to view network television. LIVE. On our actual TV instead of a laptop. If I weren't pregnant and, you know, vehemently against smoking, it would've been the perfect moment to light a cigarette, post-coital style.

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It's easier to think positively when your stomach isn't hurting almost twenty-four hours a day. I'm in the middle of my sixteenth week, and over the few days or so, I've seen an increase in my energy level and a slightly higher tolerance for a wider menu of grocery items (though for some reason almost every tomato sauce I've had tastes terribly sweet and overall not right to me. What's up with that?), so when it comes to feeling like complete and utter crap, I think I'm finally, FINALLY, out of the woods. (I've even taken to washing dinner dishes again, hooray for Luke!) I'm still getting headaches, but they're not as frequent, and sleeping is still relatively uneventful, save for the three-year-old who has a habit of climbing into her parents' bed almost every night. However, while this pregnancy saw the quickest recovery of first(ish)-trimester symptoms, they definitely hit me the hardest this time. So...I win? Sort of?

My next doctor's appointment is February 7, at which time we'll get to see Number Three's privates and consequently start focusing on only one set of baby names. Time is flying by this go-around, it seems, so I'm not impatient with waiting, only excited. And for what it's worth, I'm not even as nervous about affording this baby, now that we (assuming) have the car thing under control. Hopefully that means my future posts will read more like this one and not my last.

Thank you, as always, for letting me be honest.

How number three came to be

I guess I can archive these past few years of drama regarding to three or not to three in my Waste of Time file, huh?

Thank you all so much for the congratulations and well wishes on this pregnancy. It's been a surreal few weeks around here, that's for sure.

For those interested, a timeline:

October 10
Let me preface this by saying the entire fall season has been a blur of activity for my young little family. Weddings, bachelorette parties, middle-of-the-night births, work trips, guy weekends - all of them took place one after the other, at least two and a half hours away from home. I worked one Friday in September and was out of the office six days in October (mixture of work and personal). We have certainly enjoyed celebrating these happy events and good times with our loved ones, but all that travel produced a constant undercurrent of fatigue among the adults in our house. Which does not exactly lay the groundwork for, ahem, proper romantic relations.

This particular weekend began with my returning from a corporate-related field visit to Clarksburg, West Virginia, at 10:30 p.m. that Friday, resulting from a 15-minute delay of my initial flight that caused me to miss my connecting flight, and of course the next couple of flights back home were either full or became full after passengers other than myself were rescued from Airport Hell via standby lottery. I missed Kara and Nathan's bedtime when I should have been home for their mid-afternoon snack. It was a long day.

The following morning, Luke and his brother drove to Sandusky, Ohio, to hang out at Cedar Point Amusement Park until Sunday afternoon. I had a wonderful time playing with my kids, but hot damn, I missed mah husband.

So that night, after the children were asleep and the dishes were washed and Facebook appropriately monitored, Luke and I cracked open a bottle of wine we had purchased more than two months ago and settled in for a quiet, relaxing evening. An evening that just so happened to end with me asking, "You do know what could have just happened, right?"

Luke nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Obviously the wine had lowered his inhibitions. (Not that I was complaining.)

Quickly I did the math regarding my September visit from Aunt Flo and measured it against the average length of my cycles (32-34 days), and as we turned out the lights I confidently summarized, "Well, my last cycle was before Gina's wedding, so it should be here any day now. I'm sure we're probably safe."

Only the longer I thought about it, the less confident I felt. Since Luke and I have consisently used protection since Nathan was born, I don't make a conscious effort to track my cycles; i.e., there were no helpful Xs on the calendar for me to verify this now-critical piece of information. Then I remembered that, in fact, I had NOT gotten my period before the wedding, but after, vividly recalling my thankfulness to Flo on the morning of September 19 for staying away from my two-hundred-plus-dollar bridesmaid dress. 

I eventually changed my stance and told Luke, who could barely keep his eyes in his sockets by this point, "If we had been TRYING to have a baby, we couldn't have picked a better time."

Obviously, that was not the case with Luke's urology consult (November 3) (which has since been cancelled) (of course).

Meanwhile, the opening scene from Look Who's Talking was being re-enacted in my uterus.

October 11 - October 20
For almost two weeks we were stuck in The Land of Not Knowing, hashing out next steps if it turned out I was pregnant, and me preparing myself for the news that I wasn't, because I so, so wanted another baby and I knew this was my only chance to realize this dream. We have been so cautious for so long that it was a miracle this random fluke even happened at all. We were not trying, and would not be trying. It was now or never.

I looked for cosmic signs that another pregnancy was meant to be, like our recent financial overhaul and the last-minute decision not to sell our carseat. The brand-new, twice-used Ergo carrier sitting in Nathan's closet begging to hold a child who wouldn't scream and flail about angrily because "I wanna walk, Mommy." Also, our track record for accidentally conceiving children.

Then again, we were living a wonderful life with the family we had right now, and it was so much easier for us to get around, and I didn't miss night feedings or nursing anxiety or c-section recovery or taking almost a year to resume my pre-pregnancy weight. We had exciting plans for the future. Financial security was in sight. I was going to visit another continent, even, to help Molly get her precious baby next year. And one day, we would be foster parents, and possibly even obtain our third child that way. Another baby would be like taking two steps back, right? Life is good, I told myself. I will be okay.

October 21
That week I confided in several people about my maybe baby, with varied responses. That Thursday afternoon, I finally told my coworkers, and because a number of us have been experiencing random bouts of baby fever since the summer, they were super-excited; to the point that they eventually convinced me to run to the pharmacy and take a First Response during lunch.

I only took it because I was sure it would be negative. Even if I were pregnant, it was too soon to tell. Wasn't it?

"I'm not even late yet," I warned them as I headed to the bathroom. "It's only Day 32."

On a related note, did you know that a home pregnancy test can now be accurate as early as six days before your missed period? When Nathan was conceived, they were only at five. Slowpokes!

Two minutes later, I was running downstairs with two pink lines and one shaky left hand.

They were all so surprised I didn't call Luke the minute I got the positive, but I knew the news had to be shared in person. So I left work a few minutes early and cornered Luke in the kitchen once I was home. He was at the sink, washing dishes.

"I told the girls at work today about maybe being pregnant," I said, hand in purse searching for my precious evidence. "They were so happy, they wanted me to take a test."

"Did you tell them it was too early?" he asked, his own hands submersed in dishwater.

"That's what I said, but they told me that now you can get a positive reading from a drugstore test six days before you miss your period!"

"Yeah? So do you want to--" He stopped short after turning around, slowly taking in the white stick held snugly between my fingers. His eyes grew wide.

"Oooh."

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Baby number three was definitely not part of our current life plan. Many adjustments will have to be made. Like, no more Africa next year (which I am so, so sad about, but Molly has been great), and a major vehicle upgrade, and money for prenatal visits and hospital bills and maternity leave. I will have to prepare myself to once again dance with nursing and hopefully, finally, make it my bitch. Plus, navigate all the insecurities that go along with mothering a brand-new person AS WELL AS adjust to being outnumbered by an army of children under the age of four.

And yet, just try to wipe this silly grin off my face. Just try.

On living honestly

This morning, Luke and I registered Kara for preschool.

Well, technically, not preschool. It's categorized as a children's ministry program, offered through a nearby church. Four hours a day, one day a week. The program isn't accredited with fancy acronyms, and the staff members don't have teaching licenses, but there will be free play and music and snack time and show-and-tell and take-home bulletins once a month. Plus, we'll have to get her a backpack and lunchbox. So for a two-year-old girl who's been hanging out at home with her dad and her baby brother almost her entire life, it's close enough.

It's plenty close for her parents, too.

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In an effort to get a better handle on our finances, Luke and I are trying something new at home. Suze Orman calls it the back-to-cash movement. I like to think of it as our new reality.

The new reality is this: Gone are the days where we put everything on the credit card and pay for it at the end of thirty days (which, near the end, wasn't working out so well, anyway). Good-bye to Excel spreadsheets that were intended to help us budget on a monthly basis rather than per-paycheck. From now on, if we want to buy something, we are going to the bank, making a withdrawal from the ATM, and paying for it in cash. There will be occasional exceptions, of course, like purchases online or the occasional Redbox rental, but ninety-five percent of the time, them's the rules.

We started on October 1. Six days in so far, and doing well.

 

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Luke and I have been talking a lot about what we want to accomplish in the short term--realistic goals we can achieve in the next six to twelve months. In the short term, we want more social networking opportunities for Kara and Nathan (not the Facebook and Twitter kind), to give them a chance to explore interests outside the confines of our living room, interacting with adults who are not us. We want to enjoy financial freedom and not have to itemize every single penny of a paycheck two months in advance in order to afford concert tickets or Christmas presents or a random date night. We want to formally close the baby chapter of our lives by New Year's and put our house on the market come spring. And I want to volunteer.

However, we're also in agreement on what we don't want. For example, we are not quite ready to enroll Nathan in any sort of program that takes him out of our care. He can have a few more months of home time with Luke and Kara, and enjoy the precious one-on-one time he's about to score with his dad, and at least blow out the candles on his second birthday cake before we re-evaluate our position. Also, we are not ready for Luke to go back to work, even if we could put another salary to good use ($1,600 worth of car repairs on the Outlander, I'm looking at you). We appreciate and depend on the benefits of being a one-income family: the extra bonding time for Luke and the kids, the flexibility of managing only one work schedule, the ability for me to concentrate on my corporate to-dos as needed instead of tossing my laptop into a bag the minute the clock turns five. We wouldn't be any worse for the wear for having those issues, but they would most definitely complicate things, and we have all the uncertainty we can handle right now, thankyouverymuch.

We've talked about me picking up some freelance work or Luke taking a part-time job with night and weekend hours to bring more money through the door, but honestly, right now we are content to just buckle down and do the best we can with what we have today. There is enough to pay the bills and buy the organic yogurt we like and travel north and even score dinner out once and a while. We are beefing up our short-term savings and still making regular deposits into our health savings account for medical expenses. We don't need a second mortgage, and we aren't defaulting on Sallie Mae. In every area that counts, we are fine. And believe me, we are thankful.

But still, we are making hard choices, like back in August when we discontinued satellite. This month, we stopped all contributions to my 401(k), an account that's been funded every two weeks rain or shine for the last five years AND saw generous matches from my employer, to make room in the budget for Kara's tutition. I am disappointed over this and understand there may be long-term ramifications come our golden years, but I do not regret it. Luke and I have been preparing for the future since before we even married. We're proud of the money we've accrued for retirement already. But right now, it is time to plan for now.

 

-------

In a conversation with Molly earlier this fall, she used the phrase "living honestly," and it has stuck with me ever since. Because that's what it feels like we're doing now: living a life that reflects our priorities and our resources, and sorting out the white noise that only gets in the way. For the first time in a long time, we're putting our money where our mouth is. What's that worth to you? I ask about almost everything now, from wedding RSVPs to a bag of Gummi Bears to preschool. What are you willing to sacrifice to make this happen?

Our short term is paving the way for the long term, a reality in which we are mortgage-free and in a position to entertain housing options that bring us closer to our loved ones, who I am missing more than ever these days. A reality that has both of us in careers that we love and best align with our strengths and passions. A reality that includes another child, obtained in a non-traditional way. It will take baby steps, but we will get there. I know it in my bones.

 

-------

As Kara and Nathan grow older, I become more aware of all the ways we can screw them up. I know, I know, they're only babies, all they need is love, blah blah blah, but even at this young age, we are setting the bar for how they will realize their potential. Take Kara's "school," for example. She'll be three in December, and is intellectually capable, I think, of handling a (slightly) more rigorous curriculum than the one we are placing her in; kids younger than her do this all the time in daycare, yes? But that benefit of school is not important to Luke and me right now, and as a result, her experience will be missing that formalized educational component. We'll revisit our feelings next year, obviously, but for now that's where we stand. 

We are also setting the bar for ourselves, I suppose, in regards to what Kara and Nathan can expect from us as parents. We did what we felt was necessary to get Kara into school, but we didn't even consider placing her more than one day a week (baby steps, remember?) or research more expensive options like the Goddard School or Montessori. We already know that retirement savings will always trump a 529. Many parents have different opinions on this, and that's okay. But as much as Luke and I want to give the kids the very best of ourselves, we are going to make ourselves a priority, too, and not apologize for that to anyone.

 

-------

I have come to learn that as a mother, I enjoy the toddler years far more than the infant ones. Kara's humor and sass are shining through these days, the product of two wise-cracking parents, to be sure, and builds upon both by relying on her razor-sharp memory. One day while we were eating dinner, she thought it a good idea to let milk dribble out of her mouth. She laughed as the milk traveled down her chin, and I hid a smile as I said, "Kara Leigh, please don't do that, that's not funny," and she replied, "Well, maybe a little funny," a phrase Luke uttered in passing the day before. (Thank you, dear.)

Meanwhile, Nathan speaks in full sentences and punctuates the majority of them with a question mark. "What's that noise, Mommy?  Want to build Mrs. Potato? Where's the moon, Mommy? Is that a oak leaf, Mommy? Want to read Turtle, Turtle, Watch Out? Should Momma hooold you?" And so on with the inquisitiveness. He is so curious, so observant, so willing to sit back and watch the action unfold. That is, when he's not bouncing off the couch, roaring like Michael Jackson circa "Scream," or body slamming his torso into the nearest gate.

They both have insatiable appetites for reading, which has been further enhanced by the recent discovery of our local library. At first I was worried they wouldn't get the concept of borrowing books, afraid they would pout and fuss when it came time to return them, but they totally get it, and now live for the next chance to play with the trains and scramble through the catepillar tunnel featured in the kids' room.

Our new reality is that our toddlers are becoming full-blown children. And man, do we just want to do right by them, and ourselves, too.

 

And things we're all too young to know

My oldest friend Gina, whom I've known since kindergarten, got married on Saturday. I was a member of the wedding party, and as I watched her walk down the aisle with her dad, tears sprang into my eyes, because she looked so beautiful in her dress, and her father so proud to have her on his arm. And when she met her husband-to-be at the altar, the soft way he looked at her made me cry some more. They've been together about ten years, but I truly believe that a couple's wedding day is the beginning of a whole new life. I am so excited for them to begin this journey.

Of course I got to thinking about my own marriage, which turns five years old in May.

-------

In the year following our wedding, I listened to a handful of husbands and wives in Blogland talk about how difficult marriage can be, and it's not that I didn't believe them, but...I didn't believe them. At least, it didn't seem applicable to us. Luke and I dated for five years before we tied the knot and lived together months before, and in those years and months we experienced a lot of drama over a Mary Poppins carpetbag full of issues: relating to each other physically and emotionally, establishing our relationship as an independent unit, setting priorities for the future. We trudged through painful conversations about sex and child-rearing and religion. We (eventually) learned to celebrate the best and accept the worst in ourselves and each other, and to aim to improve where we could. And once we (finally) got engaged, we embraced the sentiment of marriage with our whole hearts, banishing the word "divorce" from our vocabulary. "Always remember what brought you here," our pastor told us over burgers and fries at Joe's Crab Shack, two months before the wedding, and we promised to do just that.

In my opinion, the most difficult part was the getting there. Now that we weren't laboring over our intentions as a couple, now that we knew the general shape of our life path, there would be no stopping us.

It was with this unwavering mindset that we said "I do."

 

On our wedding day, May 12, 2006. How lovely we were, and utterly clueless, too.

Today, our marriage is almost equal the length of our courtship, but the highs and lows on our marital grid have delivered much stronger punches. We began with two full-time jobs, one sweet freelance gig, and only a teeny one-bedroom apartment to maintain, with no debt save for my college loans, and flexibility up the wazoo. We were making plans to move back to Chicago, travel across the world, add to our family, and phase me out of the workforce to fulfill my dream of being a stay-at-home mom.

It's easy to be idealistic when you have money in the bank and there is nobody to tend to but yourselves. It's easy to move into the future when everything is going according to plan.

By our first anniversary, I was pregnant with Kara, and we quickly learned that our neat and tidy life map simply wasn't sustainable. Luke didn't bring in enough money at his non-profit for me to stay home, but my job could support all three of us, so the day after his thirty-fourth birthday he bid farewell to office life and I prepared to wear the clothes of a working mother. I went through a lot of ugly feelings then: sadness over anticipated time lost with my daughter and any future children we would have, resentment over taking on a role I didn't want, fear of the unknown, and just plain anger because goddammit, I did not sign up for this.

Then, not six months after my c-section, I was pregnant with Nathan. Oh my goodness, what a blessing, and whoa, motherfucker, what have we gotten ourselves into.

So we whittled away the remainder of our nest egg preparing for our second life detour. Purchased a house to make room for another baby, investing in a down payment and closing fees and new carpet and paint. Bought a second set of nursery furniture, a different type of breast pump, more baby clothes. Accepted federal stimulus money we will have to repay in half-grand increments over the next fifteen years to afford a 2003 Outlander plagued with nail polish stains and a questionable smell that lingers almost two years after the sale. To offset the loss of all that cash, we pieced together a maternity leave comprising paid FMLA time from my company and ten vacation days, eight weeks total, even though I'd be recovering from another c-section, even though I'd be tangled up with an infant and a toddler. We anticipated the hospital bill that was sure to come from having an HSA baby at the start of the year instead of the end and were not disappointed.

Then Nathan was born, and we were over-the-moon happy to welcome him into our lives, and yet almost as frustrated, learning to deal with a newborn that was so drastically different from our first: he spit up all the time, cried for hours a day, and was overall hard to console until he was old enough to crawl. My stomach collapsed into itself from all the baby-making and lack of exercise, and it totally sucked the joy out of getting dressed for almost a year, which of course had an effect on my self-esteem, which doesn't exactly help you put your best foot forward in your most intimate relationship. We couldn't figure out an after-work routine that got the kids fed, bathed, and story-timed AND our kitchen cleaned before 10 p.m. until embarrassingly recently. Sometimes I still can't manage to put in a full day at work and still make it home for dinner.

A lot's happened in the last five years that's called us to re-examine our life plans and reshape our priorities. We are still trudging through painful conversations.

But we are making it.

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As husband and wife, Luke and I wear many hats. Sometimes it takes all of our energy to be parents and housekeepers and worker bees, and sometimes they are so in sync that we find 30 minutes in the day to spend as lovers. We don't have "Date Night" enough. Sometimes conversation is like a song and sometimes it just takes one misplaced sigh to throw the entire day off-track. Sometimes we huddle close in bed and sometimes our backs are turned. We apologize a lot, almost as often as we say "I love you." There are times when the cheap shot wins out over being the bigger person. We don't always make the effort to understand.

We have born witness to the most physically humbling moments of our lives. From his end, Luke has seen the slicing of my abdomen, the production of milk from my breasts, and postpartum blood in my underwear. There were entire months when my fingers resembled sausages, my legs tree trunks, my face a balloon. He's privy to birth marks and blackheads and cellulite and more loose skin than even Buffalo Bill would know what to do with. It's a miracle he found me attractive enough to conceive two children.

Money has played a bigger force in our marriage than I ever thought possible. We started out practically debt free, and now there are times when we're robbing Peter to pay Paul. To pull or not to pull out of my 401(k)? Do we have enough life insurance? How can we increase our income in a way that keeps our family arrangement and sanity intact? Will it always feel like we're catching up? When can we finally start getting ahead? And the kicker is that in this economy, we're actually doing well.

Sometimes it's hard to live up to our promises from 2006 and remember what brought us here. It is an active choice to be made every day. Many times we make the wrong choice.

But we are making it. Despite the hard times, somehow, we thrive.

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On the series finale of Scrubs (the Zach Braff finale, not the clunky Med School spin-off), they play a song near the end called, "The Book of Love." The Scrubs version is sung by Peter Gabriel, but at the time we downloaded it the only available file was the original, by The Magnetic Fields. Anyway, it's been years since I posted lyrics in an entry - so cheesy - but I can't help myself this time, because the words so simply capture the monotony of love, as well as the joy.

The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures
And instructions for dancing but

I...
I love it when you read to me and
You...
You can read me anything

The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from
Some of it is just transcendental
Some of it is just really dumb but

I...
I love it when you sing to me and
You...
You can sing me anything

The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know but

I...
I love it when you give me things and
You...
You ought to give me wedding rings
I...
I love it when you give me things and
You...
You ought to give me wedding rings

 

 

In which I (eventually) compare myself to Keanu Reeves

I'm not sure of the exact moment I started feeling better, but I'm pretty sure it was sometime after Luke's and my latest round of Scrabble, the beginning of which is captured below.

 

First person to use these words in a sentence wins the award for "Dirtiest Internet Mind." God help us all.

Anyway, I do feel better. My recent blog entries proved to be the content of some pretty interesting conversations between Luke and me, and for the first time in ages, I feel like we are moving forward in a specific way towards our future, as opposed to floundering like fish. For us, "moving forward" means:

• Being open to more children but closing the chapter on growing more babies in my uterus (on purpose, at least).
• Exploring opportunities to move closer to family but not ruling out a permanent stay in central Indiana.
• Investigating new career possibilities. 
• Remaining in this house until we know for sure where our next career paths will take us.

On the surface it reads like nothing's changed on a tactical level, and that may be true, but on a big-picture scale, this is huge. For so long it felt like I personally was operating from a black-and-white standpoint, where option A was all that and a bag of chips and option B was crippling devastation. Like, having another baby was the best (seemingly only, at the time) way to spice up our family dynamic, while settling down as a party of four without an option for more biological children would be like completing a jigsaw puzzle save for the most important piece. Moving back home would meet all of our needs for friendship and connectedness, and residing here would damn us to a life of isolation and misery. I felt pulled in conflicting directions and limited in my capacity to be the best version of myself, and it was affecting all the areas of my life.

Luckily, I have a very understanding husband who is willing to talk me through these middle-class, post-thirty sorts of crises. I also clocked a lot of driving time last weekend to attend a wedding shower up north, which gave me some time to reflect and ponder and dream. In the end, I was able to see more clearly that the grass on my side of the fence is growing just fine, thank you very much, albeit a little dry and brittle. But so what. I have a sprinkler. I can replenish my lawn.

(Your mom replenishes her lawn!)

(I'm back, baby!)

 

Kara's first night in her big girl bed this past Saturday. Two sets of smiles, only one crier.

Because I am still in a pensive mood and this is my blog so you have to listen to every word I say, let's elaborate. Take the issue of more children, which I not so subtly hinted at in my last entry. To three or not to three has been on my mind since we brought Nathan home from the hospital. Before then, Luke and I were both open to three. Afterwards, we weren't, at least for the first few months. And then, suddenly, I was. But Luke wasn't. Even after endless pestering and hypothesizing from me. (I know!) Eleven months ago, he STILL wasn't. And today: still, no.

And oh, did I fight this idea. I kept telling myself it was just a matter of time, that he needed to be away from the newborn stage long enough to miss it, that one day he would stand in the doorway with arms crossed and a tear in his eye as he observed the products of our love delight in each other's company, and he would bring me in for a hug and whisper, "Hell, what's one more, right?" And we would run upstairs right then and there to do the deed, giggling the whole time, and when we were done he'd lay his head on my stomach in anticipation of the life we had just created. Because that's probably what happened on an episode of Family Ties. Or maybe Growing Pains. That show was always the racier of the two.

But surprise! Life is not a 30-minute sitcom. Luke is not up for having another baby. The man's 36. I need to let him be done.

Plus, it's not even like he's saying no to more children. He's still interested in foster parenting and adoption for an out-of-diapers demographic as previously discussed, and pinky-swears he's not just saying this to appease me in the short term. But still, I wasn't ready to let go of baybee number three.

And as hard as it might be to believe, I did try. I told everyone, when asked, that we were finished with babies and Luke was going to get snipped and 13 months is an awfully close age gap and really it's better this way. But I never fully believed it.

And because he knows me so well, Luke didn't, either. So when I told him two Fridays ago that I wanted another baby, I could just have easily stated that the sky is blue. His reaction would have been the same.

"Okay."

"I'm not trying to change your mind," I said, and I meant it. "I just need to be honest about my feelings."

"Okay."

And yesterday, when I told him to start making calls for the snip, he said "okay" to that, too.

You guys. This is such a messy topic, how many kids to have, and not black-and-white at all. I think I was looking for the perfect answer that gives me complete peace. And I am finally trying to accept that such an answer does not exist for me. Would I welcome another baby? Yes. Would I be a loving mother to that baby? Yes. Would three babies/toddlers be an absolute blast? Yes. It would be wonderful.

 

Nathan, 18 months, 26.2 pounds, height already forgotten. Who wouldn't be up for another child when they come out this good-looking?

The stress would probably also kill me.

Not the run-of-the-mill "adding another person to the family" stress, but my specific circumstances. Being a working mom, for one, and coping with being separated from yet another infant for (at least) forty hours a week, while mourning the life of a stay-at-home mom and all the perks that go wth it, again. Being a person who is not instinctively patient, who benefits from regular doses of "me" time, who is doing her best to break unhealthy cycles decades in the making. None of these things would have kept me from having another baby, but it certainly would have made the experience ten times more frustrating. And in the process of accepting Luke's feelings, I need to acknowledge that in a lot of ways, this works out pretty well for me, too.

Same thing with where to live, and wanting an easy answer. Again last weekend, again for the zillionth time, I proposed the idea to Luke of moving closer to our families, and for the first time we actually had a productive dialogue about it, outlining what would need to be in place in order to make it happen. Later, on my own, I began to consider, maybe also for the first time, what we might lose if we stayed.

Another tough set of questions here. When it comes to family, how far is too far? Do I have it in me to forgo a "Wednesday night dinner" type of relationship with my parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, and friends during such formative years? Can I be just as useful and influential in their lives? On the flip side, how close is too close? Can I handle taking on a larger role of responsibility for issues I currently witness from the sidelines? Will I regret it if I don't?

Again, no black and white here. There is dark and light to everything. But at least I have the opportunity to ask the questions, make a choice, and follow it through. Not everyone is so lucky.

This new heightened sense of awareness has me feeling a little like Neo in The Matrix when he finally realizes the magnitude of his power and stops bullets with the simple raise of his hand. That's where I am now: paralyzing obstacles, discovering my potential. It's a good place to be.

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And now, photos.

 

I know the quality is poor, but I adore this shot of Kara and me at my company's "Bring Your Family to Work Day" a couple Fridays ago. People constantly call her my Mini-Me, and I just eat it up.

 

I'm also loving this one of me and my boy, with my jack-o-lantern grin and his piercing, dark-eyed stare. And the pout, of course, to die for.

 

We are making it, friends. I am making it. Thanks for hanging in there.
 

That's the Jingle Bell Run

When I checked the weather last Friday night and learned Saturday's high would be a respectable 41 degrees, I breathed a sigh of relief. I've run outside in the high to mid-thirties but never in below-freezing temperatures. Seeing as I'm still relying on baggy maternity pants and ratty cotton tee-shirts for training, my wardrobe isn't exactly prepared to handle frostbite-inducing conditions.

So of course I woke up that morning to a whopping 19 degrees. Oh, well. At least it was sunny.

What to say about my second 5K? Luke, Katy, and I participated in the Jingle Bell 5K Run/Walk for Arthritis, and it was awesome. There were close to two thousand people poised at the start line, most of us donning a Santa hat, reindeer antlers, or similar holiday gear. One of my coworkers dressed up as an elf, and we even saw a gal sporting a Christmas tree bodysuit. 'Tis the season!

This 5K was a big deal for the Frema-Useless Clutter household; I was hoping to improve my time from September's Corporate Challenge event, and Luke was marking his official reintroduction to running in general. He used to do it faithfully in college and slowly let it drop off once he graduated, but my company's support of local racing events by paying registration fees for employees and a plus-one had inspired him to pick it up again. This one wasn't originally part of our 2009 line-up, but work will sponsor any race as long as at least five employees are willing to sign up; I learned about the race through a local race event manager, and it only took a week to get 17 coworkers on board. I thought it would have been harder, convincing people to get outside on a frigid December day, but either we're all super ambitious or very, very stupid.

So anyway, Luke and I signed up, and Katy signed up, and as you would expect, it was extremely cold. I was especially thankful for my Santa hat and its ability to provide some much-needed head warmth.

 

Freezing my ass off in the "10-Minute Mile" group.

The race itself was awesome. I had no problems ditching my iPod to chat it up with Luke and Katy, and the time on the course went by pretty quickly. However, my fears about not training hard enough on my trail runs came to life around mile two, at which point Katy sprinted ahead and my legs took on the weight of frozen cement. Luke was keeping my pace and graciously gave me permission to catch up to her. "It's okay, I'll be fine," he assured me, but I just shook my head and willed my feet to keep moving. I couldn't have gone faster even if I wanted to. 

Out of the three of us, I was the last to cross the finish line, gloves off, fleece around my waist, and Santa hat in hand, physically drained but focused on my husband, pushing my body to catch up to him.

At first I was disappointed in myself--I thought that after consistently running a minimum of three miles at least twice a week, I should have been able to keep a faster pace or, at the very least, maintain the pace that I did without feeling like my lungs were going to explode. Luckily, though, Luke had the good sense to glance at the digital clock overhead as he finished, and when he reported a time under 33 minutes my spirits lifted immediately. We may have separated near the end, but he'd stayed in my line of sight the whole time. I couldn't have been more than 30 seconds behind him.

Thankfully, I was right. Official times were posted that afternoon, and despite my less than graceful performance, I shaved a good three minutes off my September time, finishing 33:05:02, and I am damn proud of it. (For more stats, check out my new Races page, where I plan to keep a complete record of my racing history.)

A snapshot of our course courtesy of Luke's cell phone.

Training for the Mini-Marathon starts next month, and there's still a lot to do. I need to pick a training program and find the best training log for measuring my progress. I want some better work-out gear. I would love to get a watch that tracks distance and counts laps. I need to plan how and when and how my gym training is going to take place. Thankfully, I've got few more weeks to iron these details out, so until then, I will continue to research my options. 

I'll also remain grateful for Luke's support and involvement. Running has turned out to be a fun way to feed the non-parenting aspect of our relationship as we help each other clock as much training time as our schedules allow, look for races to run, and share stories about thoughts and dreams born on the trail. Sometimes it's hard to justify spending time on individual hobbies once the kids are in bed because that's the only time we have during the week to be with each other, so we need activities like this that kill several birds with one stone, activities that foster alone time and address personal health and keep our marriage healthy, too. It's a tall order, but Luke is 6'4". I like tall.

 

Fireside chat, Internet-style

I think my children are trying to kill me.

For the entire month of October, it seemed, Luke and I were staring into the pit of hell. We slept in couple-hour patches as Kara and Nathan found various reasons to cry their bloody heads off in the middle of the night. Kara was sick three times, the most recent ailment rearing its ugly head over Halloween weekend in the middle of hosting Nathan's baptism. It was especially scary because her highest temperature clocked in over 105 degrees, and she felt so hot I swear I could have fried an egg on her forehead. We debated taking her to an urgent care center or ER but decided the drawbacks of being stuck in a waiting room with the possibility of receiving zero guidance in terms of treatment outweighed any possible benefit. Instead, we made an appointment with our pediatrician for Monday afternoon, where I was privy to the joyous experience of observing my toddler daughter's catheterization to make sure her recurring fever wasn't a symptom of a raging bladder infection. Her culture came back negative for a UTI, so apparently it was just another virus doing a number on her immume system.

So that's (mostly) why I've been MIA 'round these parts, what with the crying from all four of us and no sleep and taking off work to keep a cold washcloth on her face while ingesting hours of Max and Ruby episodes with the occasional Little Bear. As a result, there's a week and a half of unwatched All My Children episodes on the DVR and two layers of dust on this here blog. The hodge podge of images in this entry were uploaded and saved in draft form more than two weeks ago, with the intention of publishing them shortly after my last post. This means you're getting up-to-date content married with outdated photography, which was slightly outdated to begin with. But you're a go-with-the-flow type bunch. You can handle it.

 

Kara, Nathan, and me in the dolphin dome at the Indianapolis Zoo in September. Ah, memories of healthier days.

Let's transition from talk of sick children to my biggest piece of news, an idea that has consumed the majority of my non-parenting-related thoughts almost the entire time I've been away. You know that whole "half-marathon next fall" plan I came up with after my first 5K? Deliberately shelving it until next October so I would have plenty of time to train without overexerting myself? Yeah, well, I've since decided that moderation is for the birds. Not only have I upgraded my registration in the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon from a 5K to the real deal, I also signed up for all three training races that take place beforehand--a 5K in February, 10K in March, and 15K in April--as tangible motivators along the path to race day, set for Saturday, May 8, 2010. According to the Web site, "The Mini-Marathon is the largest half-marathon in the U.S., and overall, the fifth largest running event in America. The 2009 event sold out on December 26, 2008."

And I'm going to be part of it.

When I first learned about the Mini through work (God bless my employer for covering registration fees to such things), I was perfectly happy with running the 5K and absolutely terrified of committing to anything more strenuous than that. I'm new to running and swamped with responsibilities at home and still spotty when it comes to hitting the pavement on a regular basis. Of course I needed more time, right? Surely there were more appropriate endeavors to consider before taking on a lofty pipe dream. Not to mention that it's already November and the race is in the spring and how in the world am I going to train when the sun sets by five and there's snow and ice beneath my feet? It's not like I have a treadmill at home or free time to hit the gym.

So I went for the 5K, and encouraged Luke to do it, too, and that was that. End of story.

Luke and the kids in front of the elephants, Kara doing her best imitation of a stageshow diva.

Except that it wasn't the end. Suddenly I couldn't go a day without learning about somebody finishing their first half-marathon or training for that half-marathon or taking on a half-marathon in New Orleans four months from now or an entire group training for the race together. Marry that with the knowledge that a local blogger was willing to run the race with me, and my coffin was sealed. Suddenly I went from "Oh, HELL, no," to "Why the hell not?"

I've got some programs to review and some races to run before the end of the year, and in January I'll start training hardcore. I have no goals in regards to performance or rank or how much to run and how much to walk, and I still don't know where I'm going to find all this time to train. All I know is that I want to do this. So I will.

These years with young children and modest earnings are full of joy but also limitations. Luke and I won't be tackling an overseas trip anytime soon. We have at least five years before we can think about moving into a nicer house or investing in a better family car, and I don't have the intellectual gumption to focus on learning another language or picking up another degree, despite their attractiveness on my dream list. But completing a half-marathon? That's attainable now. I can run on the trail in my neighborhood or on the streets within my subdivision. I can take advantage of the free gym membership I'm offered at work and come up with a schedule to get myself there. I can train in ratty old tee-shirts and pants or I can pick up some gear from Target. I can change my eating habits. I can cross-train at home with The 30 Day Shred and other videos. I may not win this race, but I can definitely finish it. Is there a better way to celebrate your thirtieth year on Earth?

 

Nathan and I at the White River Gardens, adjacent to the zoo. He's excited about the race, too.

Last week, for the first time since before Kara was born, I clocked in below 140 pounds on the scale. This monumental achievement happened mostly by accident--when Kara got sick this last time I was too busy freaking out to remember to eat three meals a day--so when I weighed myself last Monday and the second number held steady at three, I was like, "Huh. Whadda know," and didn't think much of it. I figured it wouldn't last. Eating and running well enough to stay below 143 pounds is easy; it's pushing myself over the hump to shed another eight to ten pounds that seems impossible. But as of this morning I weighed in at 139.2, so maybe it's not a fluke. My current pair of jeans--size-fourteen, Old Navy jeans that were originally purchased after Kara was born, post-partum transitional jeans that I couldn't button without gasping out loud yet still had to wear to have lunch with my boss the week before I went back to work in March--are distastefully too big. I can put them on and take them off without undoing the button while the butt cheeks sag and reveal the waistband of my underwear when I bend over, so maybe it's not a fluke. There is still Halloween candy in my house a full week after Halloween.

So maybe, just maybe, it's not a fluke after all.

 

Luke and Kara at White River Gardens, admiring some lily pads.

One of my big projects for work last week was to itemize my budget for 2010, and one of the most notable changes from last year is the increased focus on travel. The second half of 2009 has me reaching into different sales territories for field visits and presentations, and that will continue next year, in addition to attending some conferences for my industry and for professional development purposes. Ninety-nine percent of them will be short overnights not requiring even a full day away from home, and I actually enjoy getting out into the field and learning more about what we do, not to mention being able to indulge in a book for hours at a time while I'm waiting at the airport/in flight/passing time at my hotel. Still, though, the thought of missing bedtime even one night a month (roughly) makes me a little sad. I went to Chicago this weekend with Nathan to visit with my sister Ryan, who was in from Germany, while Luke stayed home with Kara since she was so recently sick and also not sleeping well. And even though I had a blast with my family and enjoyed the extra one-on-one with my son, who turned out to be quite the easy travel companion, part of me felt so off because Luke and Kara weren't with us. I never realized how dependent my own personal balance is upon simply having the four of us together.

Kara and I looking for airplanes during one of our after-dinner walks.

That said, I think a key component of 2010 will be placing a stronger emphasis on Luke and I spending more time together as a couple outside of being Mom and Dad. A lack of family nearby and a very tight budget means we haven't solicited baby-sitters unless there's an evening work function I need to attend (awards dinner) or the occasional non-work-related event that doesn't allow for children (Billy Joel/Elton John concert in May, Tori Amos concert in August). And frankly, I am starting to feel the effects. I miss my husband. I want us to spend time together outside of watching Man vs. Food while we fold a load of towels in our pajamas. I want to go out with him wearing boot-cut jeans that fit my ass properly and a little eye shadow and talk over a nice steak and see a movie. Hell, at this point, I'll take sporty sneakers and soup and sandwiches at Panera. I just want us to have the occasional luxury of just paying attention to each other.

Of course, to make this happen, we need a baby-sitter we trust completely who won't charge us an arm and a leg to watch our children, and I still get weirded out at the idea of bringing a stranger into my house. However, the longer we go without spending any real quality time together, the closer I get to believing even that option isn't unthinkable. There are coworkers I know and trust who are willing to do this for us, but they live on the other side of town and, well, they're ADULTS, not twenty-year-olds looking to score extra money for gas or the junior prom. It's hard to muster up the courage to take them up on their generosity, as if they have nothing better to do than keep an eye on kids they aren't even related to. If only we had family nearby to hit up once and a while. If only we lived closer to where they are. But right now, we are here, and we need to embrace it, and I need to stop being afraid of what other people think and start doing whatever is necessity for my family to live a life full of color. And right now? That means finding a baby-sitter.

We have been making an effort to attend church more regularly, and my hope is to find someone there who takes to my kids instantly and is looking to sit at least one night a month. That's not so much to ask, is it? My marriage is worth at least that, right? (God, I'm looking at you. Hook a daughter up.)

Luke and the kids on the way to our walking trail.

There are so many posts brewing inside of me--a nine-month update for Nathan, Christmas shopping, ramblings about my house, more reflections on family planning and life with two children--but on my lunch hour I'm more inclined to click through my blogroll than hammer out a substantial thought track, and when I get home my top priority is to throw on my running clothes, stretch, and get out the door as soon as possible (and it still only happens twice a week!). Then it's bedtime and dishes and tallying receipts and comforting a child who is sick/teething/wet/poopy/determined to see that Luke and I sleep no more than five or six hours a night. I know it'll get easier, but I find myself growing impatient with the timeframe. Will I ever again blog with any sort of consistency, or will it always be feast or famine? Will the puzzle pieces ever just fall into place, or will I always have to work this hard to score any time with myself/my husband/my friends/hobbies, etc. etc.?

 

Don't ask this guy. He's one of them. 

Luke and Bree plus three?

Now that the kids are a little older and every second of the day isn't solely focused on survival, Luke and I are finally in a place to start putting the finishing touches on our home. We made the move last October, and yet we still have walls that are bare, pictures that are outdated or missing altogether (didn't we give birth to a son in January?), knick knacks that need staging, files that need organizing, boxes that need sorting through.... You get the picture. As a result, we're now re-evaluating the usefulness and/or necessity of every piece of furniture, every stitch of clothing, every picture, file, and knick knack that we have, the goal being to keep only those things that bring us the greatest joy, meet our basic needs, and make our lives a little easier so we can spend less time picking up after ourselves and more time doing. Yesterday, I gave an armful of clothes, five pairs of shoes, and several old duffel bags to Goodwill, and looking at all the new space in my closet was not unlike going on a first date that involves dinner and second base. Not that I could recite the technical definition of second base, mind you, but in my head, it's some pretty good stuff.

Anyway, when I received word that my Parents job was ending, another goal was thrown into the mix: make a little money. In this economy, it's all about the Benjamins, y'all, one man's trash is another man's treasure, and I've got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. (If you can think of other personal finance cliches, knock yourself out. Bonus points for those born from early nineties rap.)

ANYWAY. Enter the baby clothes.

As Kara (rapidly) outgrew each stage of (her precious, adorable) clothing, everything was laundered and folded and blessed and placed neatly into Tuperware bins to use for the next baby. Items ranged from onesies she practically lived in to a three-month winter suit she wore maybe once on a stroller ride with Daddy to a newborn coming-home outfit she never wore at all because as it turns out, eleven-pound infants were not built to wear such tiny things.

 

Another Parents.com gem taken about ten days after Kara was born, just in time for our annual Christmas card. In case you're wondering, the sleeper and the Santa hat both made the cut.

Since Nathan's closet is smaller, we've been going through his things every couple of sizes, but except for one major purging before we moved into the house, Kara's things were left relatively untouched. As she is our first precious baybeee, it was emotional for the both of us, going through those bins, and there were tears and heartfelt talks over what we wanted to hold onto and what we were okay offering to the world (for cash), and as I sniffled sadly into the sleeve of my shirt and lamented the possibility of never being in this exact stage again, I wailed for the zillionth time, "Do you really think we're done?"

My husband blew me away by replying that he really wasn't sure. However, he added, "I think we're sad for different reasons."

"What do you mean?" I said, recovering from my latest Ugly Cry.

"I'm sad about Kara never being this little again, not about not doing this again."

 

Kara at eight months, watching me leave for work on a random weekday morning. I can't remember if we kept these pjs or not. I hope so.

The topic of more children was revisited Saturday morning, after I reorganized Kara's closet to store our bassinet, which until today had been residing in our master bedroom, serving as a drying rack and/or storage unit, take your pick, and isn't THAT exactly what you want in your line of vision as you get ready to...well, you know.

As I refolded the few baby blankets we decided to hold onto and placed them on the bassinet's mattress, I asked Luke again, "Do you still think you're okay not having another baby?"

And he sighed, because hot damn, is he married to a woman with a one-track mind or what, but once again, he conceded, "Maybe not. I don't know. I don't mean to leave you hanging, but I really don't know," adding, "...but probably."

The conversation rarely ends here. There's been a lot of talk about other ways to add to our family; the door is currently open to either adoption or foster parenting, though Luke isn't ready to do any soul-searching on either one. Which is totally understandable, seeing as our oldest isn't even potty-trained and our youngest can't stand on his own two feet without assistance. Why do I keep pushing for an answer to a question that doesn't need an answer right now? Why can't I just be happy with the family we have and let the future work itself out?

 

Me at 40 weeks with Kara. If a third pregnancy isn't in the cards, I certainly won't miss looking like an item of interest on a whale expedition.

I'll tell you why. Because I don't want to worry about contraception for the entire length of my thirties. Because I don't want to drag out my child-birthing years with large age gaps between a second and third child. Because I know Luke wants to go back to work someday. Because I know we would want a parent at home with any kids younger than school age. Because we have other plans for our life, plans that don't include changing diapers, washing bottles, or rocking babies to sleep at two o'clock in the morning, and I want to know when those plans might possibly become a reality.

When it comes to physically producing another baby, Luke is very, very hesitant, not just because he's quite happy with the two we already have, the two who are extremely close in age and who try his patience on a daily basis, but he's also concerned about what a third pregnancy might mean for me. I developed pre-eclampsia with Nathan, and in hindsight, I think I probably had it with Kara, on a low enough scale that the doctors just missed it. If that's actually the case, I got it the second time around a little earlier, so who knows when it would rear its ugly head with number three. Plus, you know, gestation, so tiring, so draining, and recovery from a third c-section? I don't even want to think about it. Breastfeeding/pumping/weaning again? I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. It's just been in the last few months that I've finally started feeling like myself again. It started with the 30 Day Shred back in May and has climaxed these last couple of weeks as I build on my training for my upcoming 5K. I am 29 years old. I want to look and feel 29. I don't think that's unreasonable.

But then I think about never getting a positive pregnancy test again, never seeing a baby of mine on an ultrasound again, never feeling kicks and flutters inside my belly again, never having the most perfect human being I've ever seen in my life be removed from my uterus again, and I am filled with sadness. I remember being in recovery with Nathan a couple of hours after he was born, resting in bed, holding him in my arms, nuzzling his cheek and kissing his head, and telling Molly, "I understand why some women have eight babies." And I did understand. Those moments of getting to know him were worth every ounce of discomfort, every minute of confusion. I knew it with Kara and confirmed it with my son.

 

Nathan at eight or nine weeks, I think, donning a sleeper that Luke wore when he was a baby. I don't care if we get our next child at eight YEARS old, he/she is wearing this sleeper, damn it, family traditions and all that.

In the event, though, that we did close the pregnancy chapter of our lives and expand our clan using alternative methods, I think adoption or foster parenting would be a wonderful fit for Luke and me and the kids. I've always been drawn to the idea of taking in a child who needs a loving home; when I was in middle school, I told all my friends that I would never give birth to a baby, not ever, because there were too many children already in the world who didn't have anybody to love them. I spent half my junior year thinking about becoming a nun because I adored the sisters at my high school so much, so obviously lil' Frema's decision-making processes were a little extreme back then, but I still agree there are too many children who need parents and love and education and quality medical care, and Luke and I have such a good life to offer another child that I can't imagine not doing it. Though I can imagine not doing it, because of the oodles of money you have to shell out and the hoops you have to jump through and the fact that patience has never been my strong suit and it's already spread thin with two kids. A third might very well push me over the edge, however he/she gets here.

Nothing is set in stone either way, and like I said, Luke really isn't up for talking about this in-depth right now, but so far it seems like we might lean more towards foster parenting with an open option to adopt. I attribute my feelings to reading The Pinballs in fifth grade. What? It was a really, really good book.

 

Nathan around four months, probably, because he's still in his swing. Actually, it's Molly's swing, but whatever, we're all family around here.

Finally, I haven't written off going along with Luke's initial thought of just being happy with the two beautiful children we have. There's something to be said for leaving these early years in the past and enjoying the new experiences that come along with getting older. Luke and I have loved watching Kara come into her own, increasing her vocabulary, showing interest in potty training, delighting in chapter books, going down kiddie slides at the park. And Nathan is in one of my favorite baby stages--he can transport himself to any area he wants and entertain himself for longer periods of time, he's smiling and laughing and snuggling and kissing (read: sucking on your knee). And while he's once again taken to waking up at night, we can still count on getting in a respectable block of sleep. His newborn days were hard, so very hard, and it took us completely by surprise because Kara was such an easy-going baby, no gas problems, no screaming for hours a day despite being nestled safely in our arms. Who knows how a third child would rock our world?

We also have big plans for retirement savings and 529 plans and traveling the world and being charitable, and all of that takes money. The bigger our family, the smaller our financial nest egg will be for all of these areas.

 

This is a recent, non-Parents shot of Kara and Nathan oohing and aahing over the Lost A Sock family's shiny, red fire truck. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, bestowing my mad mothering skills only upon them.

The hardest thing about this decision is that there's no right or wrong answer. All of the reasons I've given for having another child are just as valid as the reasons for being done. In the end, it's not really about money for your golden years or nursing difficulties or your personal reserves, it's about what you feel called to do in your heart. All I can do right now is think and pray and continue to share my feelings with Luke and also SHUT UP ALREADY, because holy hell, the last thing we need as we work this out is pressure. Sometimes the best action plan isn't to search for answers, it's to let them come.

It's our anniversary

In honor of our three-year wedding anniversary, Luke and I drove to Merrillville last weekend to drop off the kids with his parents and enjoy some one-on-one time together. Even though things are getting easier at home (Nathan has four weeks of sleeping through the night under his belt, holla!), life is still crazy busy for us, and most of our energies are funneled into changing diapers, washing dishes, folding laundry, or some other maintenance-related activity. We weren't gone twenty-four hours, but oh, my gosh, we SO needed this.

Our destination: New Buffalo, Michigan, and the surrounding wine trail. Since we didn't want to spend the whole day parked in front of a bar, we decided to hang out at the Round Barn Winery, where for five dollars you can sample five traditional wines, one dessert wine, and one house vodka. Luke and I have never been regular drinkers, but we do enjoy wine and also hella-cheap activities for the older-than-two crowd, so this was a perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. We bought a bottle of the Cabernet Sauvignon to take back to our hotel room that night. Neither one of us tried the vodka--I sampled a second dessert wine (note to self: not a fan of dessert wines), while Luke traded his vodka and his dessert wine for beer.

 

I'm not an idiot who fake drinks out of paper bags but I play one on the Internet!

Afterwards, we drove into town and spent some time at the New Buffalo City Beach, just talking as we strolled along the lakeshore.

 

It's only been through my relationship with Luke that I've grown to love the beach, and since a lot of our vacations have been beach-centered, it makes sense that I think of it as "our" place, no matter where we are.

 

After making a quick pitstop at our hotel to change clothes, we went to dinner at Timothy's Restaurant at Gordon Beach Inn. It was a pricier meal than we originally planned on, but there was a fireplace in the dining room and no high chairs to be found. Worth every penny.

 

Part of the reason we felt comfortable having such a fancy dinner was that our hotel room was free. Luke had leftover reward points saved from his last job, so he used them to snag a reservation at a Fairfield Inn that had only been open eight weeks. I really loved the decor and took silly pictures of the carpet in the hallway to adequately capture the memory.

 

After dinner we grabbed some ice cream and headed back to the hotel, where we watched The Suze Orman Show and the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and then turned off the TV to drink our wine and talk and talk and talk. We were up by 6:30 a.m. the next morning, so eager were we to get back to our babies, even though they were in perfectly wonderful hands and probably wouldn't have minded a little more play time with Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe.

 

This trip will live in my memory as one of my favorites. It was the perfect amount of time to be away--long enough to recharge the marital battery, but not so long that missing the kids affected our ability to have a good time. It was so nice to just hang out with each other like we used to. We won't be doing it every weekend, but we have talked about making it a point to get out, just the two of us, every month or so. We're even trying to institute a weekly date night at home, though we have yet to actually follow through on that one. To be fair, Tuesday was the Billy Joel/Elton John concert, and while we had to miss the finale in order to relieve our baby-sitter, we did spend a good portion of Elton's "Levon" performance looking at pictures of the kids on Luke's cell phone. That counts as quality time when you're parents, right?

 

Happy (belated) anniversary, honey.

More honest than I planned on being about family size

Seeing as my return to work is a little more than a week away, I'm pushing really hard to get a few things done around the house that there hasn't been time for until now. One of those things is to remove all the maternity clothing from my closet, a task I began this afternoon while miracle of miracles, both kids were down for a nap.

As I took things off of hangers and folded them into neat little piles, separating capris from jeans and sweaters from tees, a small shudder ran through my body as I realized I never wanted to wear those clothes again. I'm OK with never being pregnant again.

But I won't be doing Essure.

I think the idea of this procedure is a great thing. I like that you can do it in an office visit with minimal anesthesia. And I LOVE that it would be free, free, free because I have a health savings account and my personal deductible has been met for the year (thanks, son). I'm not keen on the whole "metal clogging your reproductive parts" aspect of it, but I think I could've gotten over that. My biggest hang-up is how final it is. At least the big V is reversible.

Luke and I are kind of at an impasse right now. He is positive he doesn't want more children and is totally on board with getting The Snip. I'm pretty sure I don't want more but not a hundred percent—if Luke did want a third, I wouldn't be a hard sell, so long as we could wait until the two kids we have now were capable of peeing in something other than a diaper. The easiest solution would be for me to get an IUD or go on the Pill or use some other form of contraception that would allow us to revisit the issue in a few years, but I'm not comfortable with the way hormonal birth control works or could potentially work. Maybe that's not politically correct to say, but I'm just not. I could look into a diaphragm, cervical cap, or female condom, but seeing as I turn up my nose at even using a tampon, I have trouble putting my eggs in those baskets (no pun intended) (OK, a little intended). Before we got pregnant with Kara, I was following a fertility awareness method that worked pretty well, but now that we know how much my uterus loves to grow babies, Luke doesn't trust it anymore. If we put off sterilization, then our only other option is to subscribe to condom use long-term—certainly a viable option, but not ideal. That also allows a bigger window of opportunity for a surprise number three.

The original goal of this post was to say that I've decided against Essure. Now, though, I think the bigger issue is what to do when you and your partner aren't completely on the same page when it comes to family size. Luke and I are mostly on the same page, and the truth of the matter is, that will have to be enough. We already have with two beautiful, healthy children when some people go their whole lives wishing and praying for even one; to get all riled up about not having a third seems absolutely ridiculous. It's certainly not worth my marriage. Plus, even though the idea of not having any more children makes me terribly sad, I think I would always be sad no matter when we stopped. It's an incredible gift, the ability to give life, and I don't know that I would ever pump my fist in the air and dance for joy over being done with the baby-making part of my existence.

So, I'm not sure when it will happen, but at some point, Luke will most likely go in for The Snip. That way, if he's hit by a bus and Kiefer Sutherland wants to tone down his bad-boy image with a modern rendition of The Brady Bunch, my uterus will be ready and waiting. Just in case.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Raise your hand if you’re Essure

Today I celebrated St. Patrick's Day with corned beef and cabbage and my six-week post-partum check-up, where the doctor cleared me for vacuuming, heavy lifting, and doing the nasty and at my request outlined my options for permanent birth control. Luck of the Irish, indeed!

"To three or not to three" has been a hot topic of conversation since the day I came home from the hospital. Seriously. Because I am not an easy, breezy, let's-wait-and-see type of gal. I am a planner. I want to know if I should hold onto my maternity clothes or ship them off to Goodwill. If we need to keep the bouncy seat and the swing and the bassinet and the numerous Tupperware bins of the cutest baby clothing you ever did see or offer them to a family in need. If we're shopping for condoms or scheduling The Snip. If we're done having children, I told Luke, then I want to do something about it now so I can come to terms with closing the BABIES BABIES BABIES chapter of our life and focus on the future.

Luke has always been pretty consistent in his "two is enough" stance. He just turned 35, and if he stays home with the kids until Nathan starts kindergarten (not set in stone, but it's what we're aiming for right now), he won't rejoin the work force until he's 40; a third baby would force him to put off his career even further, and he's not comfortable with that. He's also excited to get to a place where the kids are a little older and we're not sinking money into diapers, formula, and baby wipes.

As for me, I used to be squarely in the "two is good, but three is even better!" camp. The oldest of five, I can appreciate a chaotic household rife with sibling rivalry and sleepless nights, and I was afraid that "just two" would be too tame, too quiet. I figured a third child would add a little zing to our family dynamic, and I talked and talked and talked about it to Luke until he agreed to think about it, and at one point during my pregnancy with Nathan I sort of won him over, and then Nathan was born, and just like that, I lost him. And that's OK. While I think I could do this one more time in another few years, I'm also insanely in love with the family I have now. I'm no longer worried about things being too quiet (two screaming babies will do that to you). I no longer feel like anyone will be missing from our dinner table if we stop at two, even if the very thought of parting with Kara's and Nathan's old sleepers makes me want to Ugly Cry.

Where was I? Birth control. Right.

I always (half) joke with Luke that since they had to cut me open twice to deliver our babies, he could certainly do his part by spending some time with a local urologist. But then I learned about a procedure for women that offers permanent sterilization and can be performed during an office visit in under an hour. It's called Essure, and it involves going through your cervix to insert metal coils into your fallopian tubes and taking a confirmation test three months later to verify that the coils were inserted successfully. It's less invasive than having your tubes tied, but unlike a vasectomy, it's not reversible. The procedure is relatively new—around five years old, I think—so it's not very common right now, but my doctor said there's been a surge of interest at her practice in the last year. I'm seriously thinking about doing this because it all sounds simple enough. I'm not interested in taking any form of hormonal birth control, so if for some reason Luke and I decided to put off doing anything permanent, we would just use condoms until we were ready.

Have any of you undergone Essure? If so, what did you think?

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Plus one for the "Love and Marriage" category

Not sure where this relationship meme originated--I think Dooce or Facebook--and the rest of the Internet got over this weeks ago, but it's been so BABIES BABIES BABIES around here that I thought it couldn't hurt to change things up a bit.

What are your middle names?
Mine is Elizabeth; Luke's is Byron (thus revealing the inspiration for Nathan's middle name).

How long have you been together?
Together almost nine eight years (whoops, sleep deprivation equals shit-poor counting skills), married almost three.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
A few months. In December 2000, I was a junior in college preparing for a semester-long internship with the town's only daily newspaper; the managing editor was out of the office when I arrived for a meet-and-greet, so Luke was assigned the task of giving me the job specifics. Despite already being in a serious relationship, I was instantly smitten. The bachelor auction took place the following April, and the rest is history. (Readers not familiar with my penchant for buying romantic affections can read all about it here.)

Who asked whom out?
Do you mean like boyfriend-girlfriend? There wasn't ever an official moment, but after the auction, we were seeing each other all the time, and then I went back to Chicago for the summer (the summer before my senior year, to be exact), and we were talking on the phone and e-mailing each other and swapping fun packages in the mail. My second weekend home, Luke drove from Rensselaer to visit me in Chicago, and we went to Navy Pier for dinner and afterwards walked along the strip. I was working there at the time, at a place called Popcorn Palace (all about the class, here, people), and I brought him by to meet my coworkers. Since we hadn't talked about our status yet, I was afraid to be presumptuous, so I introduced him as my friend. Once we were alone, I explained this to him in case he was insulted, but he wasn't. Instead, he grabbed my hand and said, "But when I talk about you to my friends, I'm going to call you my girlfriend."

(Are you melting? I am, just typing this.)

How old are each of you?
I'm 29; Luke is 35.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
It's probably about even. Even though Luke's brother lives in Indy with his family, we probably see them just as much as we do my siblings who live in Chicago, which is every couple of months or so.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Raising our children without the benefit of family or even friends close by. The last time Luke and I were out together without one or more children attached to our limbs was May 2008, during a weekend up north when we left Kara with Luke's parents and went out to dinner to celebrate our second wedding anniversary, a mere weeks before learning about our surprise second pregnancy. Technically, we were also alone when we drove to the hospital for Nathan's birth; if not for the c-section and the doctor's instructions to fast after midnight, I would have insisted we go out for breakfast, just to make the most of the occasion.

(Edited to add: I stand corrected; Luke reminded me that his brother watched Kara in August so he and I could attend an awards dinner for work. But still, not the most exciting way to spend a child-free evening.)

Luke and I didn't grow up in Indianapolis; this year will be our fourth in the area, and we haven't been very good about making an effort to meet other people. When we first got here, we spent a lot of time with one of Luke's friends and his then-fiancee, but they broke up a couple of months before the wedding. I tried staying in touch with the fiancee since we got along so well, but it was just too awkward, listening to each party badmouth the other and trying to determine who was right and who was overreacting, and I didn't want my relationship with her to sour Luke's relationship with his friend. Bummer situation all the way around.

Since then, we've pretty much kept to ourselves, which means our sole baby-sitting resource to date consists of Luke's brother and his wife, and they have their own busy lives, so we only call on them when we have specific plans; we haven't felt comfortable asking them to watch Kara (and now Nathan) just so we can go to a movie. Neither one of us wants to leave our kids with people we don't know, so that rules out a baby-sitting service. There are a couple of people at work around my age who have expressed an interest in helping out with childcare for date-night purposes, so I'm going to explore that more aggressively once I'm back; if those leads don't pan out, I'm not sure what we'll do. We really miss our couple time, not to mention hanging out with human beings who won't demand an umpteenth reading of Horton Hears a Who (Kara's latest literary obsession).

Did you go to the same school?
No. Luke earned a bachelor's degree from Purdue University in West Lafayette; I went to Saint Joseph's College
in Rensselaer for my undergrad and DePaul University in Chicago for my master's. Luke likes to talk about our kids going to school there someday and isn't a fan of small-school settings--not enough culture, limited curriculum, blah blah blah--but whose college sent congratulatory baby bibs for each one of our kids? That's right, so in your face, Boilermaker. 

Are you from the same home town?
No. I'm from the south side of Chicago, while Luke grew up in Merrillville, Indiana, about forty-five minutes away.

Who is smarter?
Hmmm. Luke can digest information quickly and easily, while I can find a new question to ask about movies I've seen eight million times (see: the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy). He also has more going for him in the common sense department. I would cateogorize myself more as a book-smart type of gal. But I also have a knack for organization and problem-solving. Those totally count as smart-people traits, right?

Who is the most sensitive?
I have cried over sharp glances, a sink full of dishes, and the last ten minutes of Terminator 2. So, totally Luke.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
I can only answer this if by "as a couple" you mean "with our children," even though our restaurant choices would be the same either way. Our favorite place for the last year or so has been Red Robin. (Again, all about the class.)

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
As a couple, Philadelphia to visit Luke's friends. However, while working for Saint Joe's publications department (I was there three years after I graduated), I wrote a story about the college's Habit for Humanity chapter for our alumni publication, and the school paid for me to join the group on their annual spring break trip in 2004 to San Antonio, Texas. It was a pretty easy-going group, and the trip was open to non-members, so Luke came along, and we all had a blast together. To this day, Luke talks about wanting to become involved with Habitat. Hopefully we can soon get to a place in our lives where long-term volunteer commitments are possible.

Who has the craziest exes?
One of my exes stole a pack of Pokemon cards from my work. (Yes, he was over eighteen.) So probably me. But I mean that in the nicest way possible. (I really do.)

Who has the worst temper?
Me, hands down. I can count on one hand the number of times Luke has raised his voice to me or even been sarcastic in a mean-spirited way, while one sideways glance is enough to set me off.

Who does the cooking?
Ha! Have you seen my "Adventures in the Kitchen" archives? Luke Luke Luke.

Who is the neat-freak?
Oh, this is me. Luke is great about domestic maintenance overall--washing dishes, doing laundry, major chores like that--but for me, the devil is in the details. I'm the one who takes care of splotches on the stove, water puddles around the sink, dust on picture frames and book cases, and so on and so on.

Who is the most stubborn?
Also me. After receiving shoddy service from our flooring company right before moving into our house, I was the one charged with calling the manager and demanding a big, fat discount for our troubles. We were on the phone for thirty minutes, because the manager had a canned answer for everything, but I matched him point-for-point and wouldn't hang up until he had shaved half a grand off our bill. What can I say? I will not be ignored!

Who hogs the bed?
Neither of us, I don't think.

Who wakes up earlier?
It depends. Luke is the one who gets up with Kara every morning, so he wakes up when she does, usually between six and six-thirty. If I'm feeling ambitious about getting to work by seven, though, I'll get up as early as five-fifteen.

Where was your first date?
Our first official date took place the Wednesday after the bachelor auction at the Rensselaer Pizza Hut. (Don't judge; in a town of 5,000 people, it was either that or the China Garden.) We split a pepperoni pizza and breadsticks; later, I learned that Luke doesn't care for pepperoni, but he knew all about my finicky eating habits by then and was afraid to suggest anything else. Plus, he wanted to make sure we ordered something I would actually like.

Who is more jealous?
Me. When we first got together and shared our dating history, it was hard not to obsess over Luke's last serious relationship, as he and the girl were an item for years and even lived together for a short time; meanwhile, my ex-boyfriends were living with their mothers and bumming money for cigarettes. I couldn't stop thinking about all the living Luke had done before he met me and how mature that living had been, and how now he was with a girl who was barely 21, still in college, living in a dorm room. I felt more secure after graduation, when I was working full-time for Saint Joe, but the pay was peanuts, so I was still living on campus and eating in the school cafeteria as a means of saving money. It wasn't until I moved off campus and rented a house in town with a friend that I felt adult enough to be with him.

How long did it take to get serious?
Not long. The bachelor auction took place at the end of April; we exchanged "I love yous" in May. 

Who eats more?
Me. Food is my weakness; I use it to self-medicate when I'm feeling sad/tired/emotionally drained. Since I've been on maternity leave, there have been several instances of me polishing off an entire bag of Hostess Donettes in a single day (but not a single sitting, jeez Louise, I do have some limits). Meanwhile, Luke is down twenty pounds since moving to Indianapolis. It's a good thing he's the stay-at-home parent instead of me; otherwise, I could end up a stunt double for the mom in What's Eating Gilbert Grape?

Who does the laundry?
Luke, though occasionally I help with the folding.

Who’s better with the computer?
Luke. I can create simple Word documents, crop images in Photoshop, and check my e-mail. He manages all routine maintenance.

Who drives when you are together?
Luke, especially since having children. He won't admit to this, but I think he's afraid I'll kill them. I wonder why?

(Anyone else wondering why Luke is still with me? Clearly I have nothing to offer but cellulite and stretch marks.)

(Also, I see that evil glint in your eye. Hands off, bitches. Me and the babies, we need him.)

 

Closer to Free

Geez, where have I been? You would think I have a full-time job and a family to tend to. Hmmm.

I'm working on a post about my high school reunion, but today is Luke's and my second wedding anniversary, so it's only right that I take some time to talk about marriage after two years in the trenches.

In the weeks and months before my wedding, I was a nervous wreck. I loved Luke and wanted to be with him, but I was also afraid. Afraid of having to negotiate who I was (long-time readers will remember how conflicted I was over changing my denomination), afraid of being a selfish wife, afraid that my ambitious nature would eventually clash with Luke's tendency to go with the flow. But second-guessing is a part of who I am. I keep one foot in the moment and the other on the fence, always looking for the first sign of trouble, searching for a sign that something is not meant to be.

But on May 12, 2006, standing in front of our pastor as the wind wrapped around our gazebo like a blanket, surrounded by family and friends, I believed our love was enough. I believed our future would be more than worth any hardships that came our way.

And there have been a few, the most significant one thus far being our decision to keep me at work and Luke at home. On paper, it was the best way to achieve all the goals we had for our family, but in my heart, I struggled. The weekend before I went back, there was a lump in my throat that would not go away, a proverbial devil on my shoulder that told me to be angry with Luke for not doing everything in his power to "let me" be a stay-at-home mom, to resent him for positioning me as Breadwinner, a title I never wanted.

I knew marriage would be hard, but only in the broadest sense. For the first time, Hard was tangible.

But I swallowed my tears and bit my tongue and became the person my family needed me to be. It wasn't easy, but here we are, two and a half months later, and there is a rhythm to our life that I never thought possible. Now I am completely sure it was meant to be this way, couldn't work any other way, and both our marriage and our daughter are better for it. It was only after saying good-bye to my preconceived notions of Wife and Mother and letting the good of our family take the lead that I found a level of fulfillment that couldn't have been achieved otherwise.

In the media and in our personal lives, relationships solidify and dissolve like snowflakes that stick to the pavement until the sun melts them away. And now, just two years into marriage, it's easier to understand why. I can't count how many times I've given Luke the cold shoulder over a perceived injustice, content to bask in self-righteousness, only to hang my head in front of him the next morning--unable to meet his eyes, tears running down my face--and stumble through an apology.

It's frustrating to rank second in the interest of the whole. It's embarrassing to say "I'm sorry." It's much easier to scrap the whole thing and start over with someone new.   

At our wedding, I thought love would be the glue that held our marriage together, but now I know it's commitment. Love is easy. People break up all the time and talk about how they still love their exes. Every person has traits worth falling for. But to accept their shortcomings? Forgive when they hurt you without keeping score and STILL be in love? Nothing is more difficult.

Or more rewarding.

When I was senior in college, in a class that placed my faith-based coursework in a wider context, my professor said something that really resonated with me. He said that with each choice you make, you become more free.

On the surface, it seems contradictory--when accepting one path, you inevitably say good-bye to another--but it's through the process of decision making that we open ourselves to advancement. My life with Luke is proof of that, because prior to our wedding, we were in a constant state of flux: should we say "I love you," should we move in together, should we tie the knot. Once we did that last thing, a brand-new set of choices lay before us, more sophisticated than those we contemplated before, but not as fundamental. Suddenly we were concerned with how to manage our careers, where we wanted to live, and when to expand our family.

These days, our jobs are chosen, for now. Housing will soon sort itself out. And we have the most beautiful baby I've ever seen. Now it's time to sort through the details, like saving for college and building retirement and bringing more children into the mix. I don't have to worry about whether or not we'll make it. The alternative is no longer an option.

Happy anniversary, honey.

-------

Visit Parental Discretion Advised to read about Kara's upcoming foray into cereal, my new parenting mantra, and the details of a very special Walgreens trip. You won't be disappointed.

As told by Luke, as played by Steve Martin

This is what happens when you engage in marital relations on day 30 of your cycle without protection, assuming Aunt Flo is just around the corner but realizing two weeks later she is still nowhere to be found.

Scene: Chevy Cobalt, Walgreens parking lot, Northwest Indiana

Bree: So…. Do you want to run in, or should I?

Luke: I don't know.
 
Bree: I should go. I'm the one who's going to pee on the stick, I should be the one to buy it.

Luke: No, I'll do it; you’re already back there with Kara. I'll just be a few minutes.

Bree: Remember, First Response or EPT, and make sure it's a bonus pack.

Luke: OK.

Luke enters Walgreens; stands in entranceway, searching for appropriate aisle. Picture furrowed brows and much head scratching.

Sales Clerk 1: Sir, is there something I can help you find?

Luke: I'm looking for a…

(Still grappling with the possibility of having two children less than a year and a half apart, his mind blanks on the correct terminology needed to verbalize his request)

…birth detection kit?

Sales Clerk 1: Do you mean a prophylactic?

Luke: No! The opposite of that!

Enter Sales Clerk 2.

Sales Clerk 2: Sir, are you talking about birth control?

Luke: No, no! It's too late for that!

Sales Clerk 2: Ooh! You want a pregnancy test!

Luke: Nods frantically, fights urge to smack forehead a la "I could've had a V-8!"

In the end, a First Response bonus pack was indeed purchased, and by Mother's Day morning, both tested negative. But this evening, when toasting to two years of marriage, we used sparkling grape juice instead of wine.

Anytime now, Aunt Flo. Anytime.

-------

Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Eavesdropping

You guys! You'll never guess what I heard the other day...

Scene: How should I know, I'm only three months old; Momma and Daddy staring at a big black box while Momma crazily waves a hand in front of my face:

Momma: Hey, look! Twelve Angry Men is in town! You know I did that play in high school? I was the guard.

Daddy: We can go, if you want.

Momma: That would be fun. Oh, yay! I haven't seen a play in forever.

Daddy: We'll have to get a sitter, you know.

Momma: Huh?

Daddy: You know, for Kara. You can't bring a baby to a play.

Momma: Oh. Right. Nevermind.

Daddy: Did you forget we have a child?

Momma: No?

Daddy: ....

Mommy! I am the love of your life! How could you blank on my smashing good looks?

It's a wonderful life

All is well.

Since my last entry, an incredible sense of calm and well being has covered Luke and me like a blanket, which has made these last couple of days the best ones since Kara's birth. I'll tell you about it soon enough, but for now, all I want to do is revel in how blessed we are and how thankful I am for everything God has given us.

Most of the members of my family have been too sick to make the trip to Indy, so it was extra special that my sister Ryan drove in from Chicago to spend Christmas with us. Newly married and desperately missing her army husband, who's currently in Germany awaiting February deployment to Iraq, a little baby fix was just what she needed to get through the holiday.

As for my own spouse, I can't tell you how mesmerizing it is to watch him with our daughter. He's so gentle with Kara, so enamored with her, and I honestly don't know what I've done to deserve such unconditional love and support. This last week has been the most exhilerating and terrifying one of my life, and he's been right by my side the entire time, holding me when I cry and telling me what a good job I'm doing when he's not washing bottles, refilling my water glass, and reminding me to take my pain meds. I couldn't ask for a better life partner or a more loving father for my baby.

I look at these two people and wonder how I ever lived without them.

Merry Christmas.

The title of my next post will be original, I swear.

Safety nets are sooo overrated

June 13th marked two years of employment with my current company, and my service was rewarded with a handsome raise that I believed would steer Luke and I down the path to Easy Street when it came to keeping one of us at home with Freka after the conclusion of my maternity leave.

Our household has managed on my salary before, back when he first came to Indianapolis and was searching for full-time work, so I assumed it would be easy to do again, plus one, especially since I was bringing in more money. Also, we've always intended to pay off our Cobalt in full before the baby's arrival, padding our budget with an extra $330 a month to absorb food, diapers, and other essential infant needs.

On Monday night, we opened Microsoft Excel for the first time since April to access our spreadsheet template and updated it with the numbers we'll be dealing with come next spring. We accounted for the ninety-five-dollar rent increase, the need for two cell phones instead of one, the absence of the Cobalt payment (and Luke's salary, sob), and factored in my raise. Since my contract with Parents expires at the end of December and there's no guarantee of a renewal, that particular source of income is not part of our postpartum finances.

We designated four hundred dollars a month to be directly deposited in my HSA. We drastically reduced allocations for entertainment and dining out and eliminated the "Gifts" category entirely.

"With all the cuts we're making, I bet we can even afford to sign up at the Y again!" I said, a move we've been seriously considering for the last couple of weeks.

We held our breath and added the totals.

Fortunately, my gut instinct was right. We can afford for one of us to stay home.

Unfortunately, it required whittling down our savings contribution to ninety dollars a month. (Farewell, safety cushion. To know you was to love you.) And it provided tangible proof that, right now, in our current situation, stay-at-home motherhood is not in the cards for me.

The two of us stared and stared at the new financial life glaring at us from the harsh light of the computer screen, me not believing how greedily that spreadsheet had devoured our Cobalt money, Luke not saying a word. Finally we just went out for shakes, because apparently, we better slop 'em up while we can.

I know things aren't as bleak as they seem. I'm extremely thankful we can afford to sock away so much money into our HSA each month; that combined with my employer's modest contributions should prevent us from being blindsided by any spontaneous medical emergencies. That takes a lot of the pressure off our savings, and good thing, too, because there won't be much in it for quite a while.

Also, managing to stay in the black on one income for three people is no small feat. Having anything left over for savings at all when tons of couples entering parenthood are forced to embrace a permanent balance on their credit card puts us on the fast track to success in my eyes. And of course, we both love that we'll be able to have a parent look after our child during the daytime hours and avoid the stress that often accompanies the lives of families with two working parents.

However, just out of curiosity, I placed a call with a local daycare facility yesterday afternoon. It's part of a national chain and happens to be located across the street from the major road that leads to our apartment complex.

How much to enroll an infant? I wanted to know. And what will that figure entitle me to?

The answer: it would take $222 a week (A WEEK) for this place to watch my baby Monday through Friday, from the hours of six-thirty to six. That includes formula during the infant stage and baby food and cereal for later months. And, you know, the promise that someone will change Freka's diaper every couple of hours.

Holy shit is daycare expensive.

But we could do it. If Luke wasn't up for being a stay-at-home dad, we could afford to send Freka to daycare and still have a sizable amount left over for savings. If both of us worked, we could keep that place at the dinner table for our safety net, lavishing him with praise over filet mignon and crumpets or whatever.

It's a lot to think about.

For about a year now, whenever the topic of kids came up, we talked about keeping one of us (originally me) at home. And part of my reasoning was that the benefit of two incomes wouldn't outweigh the drawbacks associated with placing our offspring in somebody else's care. But now, with all the facts and figures before me, it kind of seems like it would. The expense of having a baby isn't automatically forcing my husband out of the work force. We have a choice.

And our choice still stands. I'll bring home the bacon, and Luke will stay home with Freka when the time comes. We are dedicated to giving our preferred family dynamic a try. But if he decides he'd like to go back to work sooner than later? Man, do I have a new appreciation for what daycare could enable us to do.

I'm nervous. I'm scared. I'm excited. I'm terrified.

But it's a small price to pay for motherhood.

On a totally unrelated-yet-not-unrelated-at-all note, any money-saving tricks and tips y'all have shoved up your sleeves would be much appreciated. That Y membership isn't going to renew itself.

In case you're not a long-time reader, it would help you to know we don't have cable, we pay off our Visa bill every month, and though we plan on purchasing a new (used) car for Luke before the end of the year, we'll be paying for that in full.

Time won't give me time

As the summer gradually transitions into fall, the Frema-Useless Clutter household is making some drastic changes in the area of time management. Or rather, Frema is making some drastic changes. For the past few months I've been kind of skating around in my own little world, going with the flow, living la pregnant loca, and it's time to stop being so damned selfish.

Prior to my first-trimester morning sickness, I kept semi-regular hours at work, arriving around nine o'clock and leaving between five and five-thirty. Eventually, though, the fatigue from Nausea Fest 2007 caught up with me, and my feet refused to leave the sanctity of my mattress before eight o'clock. By the time I showered and forced myself out the door, it was almost nine-thirty, which wasn't a huge deal--my boss is very flexible--but it meant I had to stick around later to complete a standard work day. Once I was feeling up to par again, you'd think I'd have gone back to my old ways, but it still wasn't unusual for me mosey out the door as late as ten-thirty and peck away at the keyboard until seven or eight o'clock, thus issuing a proverbial slap in the face to the husband who's in charge of making dinner and would appreciate seeing his wife before the sun goes down.

What can I say? I am not a morning person.

Anyway, that schedule wrecked havoc on our evenings, because even though I'd make sure the apartment was clean before I left, there'd be at least one blog to update when I got home, an episode of All My Children to watch, a phone call to return, a book to flip through for class, and then suddenly it was one o'clock in the morning and I'd be wondering when exactly Luke had gone to bed and why I'd allowed him to hit the sheets alone. Again.

It took all the activity surrounding the last couple of weeks--BlogHer, camping, and playing catch-up at work--for me to realize how much I've missed the time Luke and I spend together and how quickly our existence as a DINKY twosome will morph into parenthood. Four months from now, a new person will enter the world, a person we created, a person who'll expand our family and capture our hearts and completely revolutionize the way we approach our lives.

Until then, though, we can snuggle on the couch and indulge in idle conversation, pour over photo albums, and simply enjoy each other's company, and I plan on doing just that, no matter how busy things get before then.

Yesterday, for the first time since spring, I hopped in the shower before eight a.m. I left work on time. I came home and sat at the table with Luke over a dinner of pork chops and biscuits and we talked about our day. We finally drafted a post-maternity leave budget (a story for another post, most definitely). We returned movies and picked up shakes. And we turned out our lights at the same time, before midnight. It was wonderful.

This morning, I instructed Luke to delete my daily AMC recording from the VCR. Tonight, we're going to a baseball game to witness Indianapolis's minor league baseball team in action. The dishes will be done. My blogs will be updated. And it will be just the two of us, the way it's been for more than six years, the way it will be for just a little while longer. I'll gladly soak up every second.

Yes, I cried. Do you think I'm made of stone?

Don't worry, this post isn't in lieu of TLF, but I just had to share the beautiful surprise I received this morning at work.

This isn't the first time Luke's sent me flowers in a corporate setting, but it is the first time I've gotten them here, and I was completely floored. Aren't they pretty? They are so, so pretty.

I am one lucky woman. Thank you, honey!

He agreed to buy the biscuits, but the baby had to beg.

Luke: <3
Frema: <3 <3
Luke: Hi, honey.
Will you be late today?
Frema: Hell no. I'll be out by 5:00.
Luke: OK. We're having steak for dinner.
Frema: Yum. And biscuits?
The baby likes the biscuits.
Luke: We don't have any biscuits.
Frema: :(
Poor little baby, with no biscuits to eat.
Luke: Poor baby.
Frema: There, there, sweet baby. Don't cry.
Maybe Daddy will pick up biscuits when he drops off his dry cleaning after work.
Luke: Maybe if Mommy wants biscuits she should ask for them.
Frema: Maybe if Daddy cared about his wife and daughter he'd buy the freaking biscuits.
Luke: Maybe you should stop talking in third person.
Frema: Your mom posts in the third person!
Luke: My mom posts in the first person.
Frema: You make my heart hurt.

Hopefully the diagnosis will be to eat a bowl of spinach dip and call back in the morning

Thankfully, thankfully, we're almost done with the organizing of the new apartment. Luke spent the first half of the day cursing at the elbow brackets and safety straps he had to attach to our new (Target) bookcases while I lay in bed with a pillow pressed to my stomach, crying from what I believe to be round ligament pain. My BabyCenter book was the only one that gave detailed explanations of what to expect, and it was the only reason I didn't leave a message with my ob/gyn's on-call doctor by noon. I was so afraid I'd done something to hurt the baby, replaying an incident on Sunday morning when I carried a sweater box into our bedroom and jabbed one of the corners into my right side. A warm bath helped a little, but today the pain is still there. Not constantly, but it hurts when I use the bathroom, when I pass gas, even when I get up from my chair. Like I said, I know this is normal (and possibly TMI for you), but to ease my mind, I placed a call to the office as soon as I got to work and left a message for the nurse, who'll call me before the end of the day.

I'll be eighteen weeks on Monday, and it feels like things are finally starting to pick up with this pregnancy. I can eat more (133 pounds, people!), I finally have a belly, we're on the cusp of learning the gender, and I should be feeling little Freke move any day now. I see newborns everywhere and wonder what ours will look like. My thoughts are occupied with which brand of breast pump to use, where to store dirty cloth diapers in our home, how long I want to labor without drugs, and when I should start writing in the blank journal I bought to document more private musings for the baby. If something happened at this point, when I'm almost halfway to the finish line, I don't know what I'd do.

Luckily, all of this brain activity is interspersed with jabbering to Luke about how much damn STUFF we seem to have.

The new apartment is working out for the most part, space-wise, but it's still a painful reminder that we've allowed ourselves to accumulate more material items than two people really need. More than half of our books are in storage, and the new media case we bought is smaller than the one we used in the old apartment, so all of our VHS tapes and a quarter of my CD collection have been designated to a plastic bin in Luke's closet, even though the majority of them haven't been played in at least a year. And much to his delight, we finally chucked every towel stained by one of my botched at-home pedicures. I've always prided myself on letting go of items that no longer hold any sort of emotional or practical value, so why was it so hard to say good-bye to a boom box that just gathers dust because we listen to all of our music on the computer? Why do I still own a copy of Soapdish?

Wait, I know the answer to that last one. The dialogue is funny enough to make me wet my pants. Plus, Robert Downey, Jr. is hot hot hot.

After this weekend, we should be completely settled, and I can move on to other phases of my life, like planning the curriculum for my blogging class. I've selected two books for assigned reading material, but I've only finished the first one. The more I think about this new venture, the more I worry that I'm in over my head; then I recall several of my own undergraduate professors and know with confidence that I can at least perform as well as they did. I won't be the most learned or most educated adjunct on Saint Joe's campus, but I'm enthusiastic about the subject matter and dedicated to present it in a way that'll hold students' interest even after the last class. That's a good start, at least.

Finally, because I know you totally care, I've decided to forgo a changing table. Instead, Luke and I are on board with getting our hands on a cradle for those early months, which will allow us to transport the baby into any room we choose and can also be used for diaper changings. Also, my mother- and father-in-law have graciously offered us the dresser they used for Luke when he was a baby, so we can cross that item off our list of "Major Things to Purchase," which seems to be growing longer every day.

And we love every minute of it.

Edited to add: Well, she didn't mention spinach dip, but my doctor returned my call personally to let me know everything I was experiencing was completely normal. We spoke for almost ten minutes. I love this practice.

Trading Spaces

Last night, for the first time since it was put on hold for us a month and a half ago, Luke and I walked through the two-bedroom unit we're scheduled to move into this weekend.

When we first discussed the possibility of upgrading our apartment, we were given the keys to the model unit behind the clubhouse and oohed and ahhed at the thought of gaining an extra few hundred square feet. Our bedroom would be smaller, but we'd have a separate dwelling place for the baby. Our living room would shrink, but we'd gain a dining room. There'd be less overall closet space but an extra bathroom. For the extra ninety-five dollars a month, the trade-offs seemed worth it.

I don't know what I was expecting when we entered the premises yesterday evening, but for some reason I was taken aback at how small everything seemed. Either the model falsely advertises a more spacious unit or my imagination's spent the last forty-five days restructuring the entire floor plan to its liking. Both are possible, but either way, we'll have just enough space for the impending third member of our family. Nothing less, and definitely nothing more.

My heart sank a little as I viewed what would soon be our home. I love the unit that Luke and I currently live in, and I hate the idea of moving into a place I'm not as crazy about. On the other hand, I'm so glad we can afford to make this move, and I know it's necessary. It really is the best thing for us.

When I was younger, I always thought that your "next step up" was bound to be better than the one you took before. As in, the next job I get will be more fulfilling than the one I have now. The next place we move to will be more exciting. This moving experience is the best example I have to show me each life upgrade won't be one-hundred-percent satisfactory. In any situation, you'll always find flaws.

Luckily, though, it can still bring you a whole lot of joy.

I've never lived in a two-bedroom apartment before, and I'm excited that Luke and I are doing this to make room for a child we created out of love for each other and the family we want to build. That's a pretty awesome upgrade, if you ask me.

Although I think we've changed our minds on the changing table. Ain't nothin' wrong with the crib or the floor.

(Luke also suggested the couch--the beautiful queen-sized sleeper sofa we ordered in beige to better match our decor--and if looks could kill, I'd be welcoming Freke into the world as a single mother.)

At least the box spring and bed frame were brand new. That counts for something, right?

So, have you noticed it's been a while since I last spoke about money? Because really, it's been a while since I spoke about money.

A few months ago, I had devised the ultimate spreadsheet for keeping track of our finances. Segmented by week, divided into categories, I envisioned dedicating fifteen minutes every Sunday night to adding receipts and typing figures into cute little Excel boxes, all to influence our purchasing habits for the rest of the month. And for a while, it worked. We didn't always stay within budget, but at least we knew just how much we'd overspent and which categories had received more than their fair share of TLC.

Then, on April Fool's Day, we found out I was pregnant, and it all went to pot. We have not updated a spreadsheet since, resigning ourselves to removing precious savings from our bank account each month to pay our credit card bill in full.

What can I say? My hands were too busy clutching the toilet to sort through all those tiny pieces of paper, and we knew we could always cover the Visa total, so it seemed better to focus our time on more important things, like bidding a formal farewell to life as we know it, sans any fruit of our loins.

Though we've not done well tracking our money lately, we've sure done a bang-up job of spending it. In two weekends, we'll move into a larger, two-bedroom apartment. In a few months, we'll be upgrading our cell phone plan--a plan that currently involves one phone shared between two people--so that by the end of my pregnancy we'll be readily available to each other at all times. There's talk of replacing Luke's rickety 1993 Chevy Lumina with a vehicle I would actually allow our child to ride in and paying off the Cobalt to make room in the budget for diapers, doctor's visits, and baby food. All of this while hoarding pennies for my maternity leave and preparing ourselves for Luke's eventual job loss.

To say I'm feeling overwhelmed by all we hope to accomplish during these next five months (holy crap, five months?!) would be an understatement.

Regarding our more immediate future, we've discussed replacing several pieces of furniture within our apartment to make life a little more comfortable. A kitchen table that seats more than two people, for one thing. A bookshelf not made of particle board. A sleeper sofa for accommodating the slew of guests we expect to receive once the baby is here because I refuse to put our parents on an air mattress and also refuse to sleep on one myself when I'll be getting up to feed a newborn every two to three hours.

So far we've been lucky in that we haven't had to blow any cash on major items or appliances in our adult lives. My first sofa set was purchased for a whopping hundred and twenty dollars and featured decor straight from the set of All in the Family, and I passed it on to my sister, Ryan, when Luke moved in because he had inherited a sturdier one from his brother. My parents bestowed upon me an old kitchen table and a brand-new microwave when I moved into my first apartment back in Rensselaer, and I scored coffee tables from my aunt. The TV we use was given to Luke for his birthday a few years ago, and I bought our "gently used" mattress from one of Saint Joe's administrative assistants back when I was an employee. If there were a universe called Free And Second Hand, we would be the masters of it and the bosses of you.

Keeping in mind our penchant for used (and eventually abused) furnishings, it should surprise no one that Luke and I both hyperventilate after agreeing to pay a thousand dollars for a couch or spend two hundred dollars on a damn table. We already have those things! Look! They're right there! What the hell are we thinking? Yet there were no qualms about dropping five hundred dollars on the Nintendo Wii and its related accessories, and there was never a question as to whether or not we'd take a vacation. Tell me we're not the only ones who subscribe to such madness.

In the end, it'll be OK. We have a respectable amount in our savings account, including what we'll need to cover my three months of FMLA time, and we add to it every two weeks. I'll be getting a raise this month, and possibly a bonus. I'm pursuing a freelance opportunity that'll reveal itself soon, and I'll bring in a small stipend for teaching the blogging class this fall. Luke will most likely get a raise of his own come August. There's no need to worry. Deep in my heart, I know this.

But it still breaks my arm to hand over that damn credit card.

How We Spent Our Last Baby-Free Vacation

Growing up, the concept of vacationing was foreign to me. With five children and a stay-at-home mother, time and money never seemed to be on my family's side. Visiting new places never seemed possible, and I was constantly in awe of friends who frolicked on the beach in Florida or camped out at a nearby park. They had to be rich, I remember thinking. Normal people can't afford to sleep in hotels or rent cabins or pay for admission into Disney World. And then I met Luke.

While we haven't exactly traveled the world, my husband and I have done our fair share of enjoying the U.S. since we started dating in 2001. We've hiked and camped and tobaggoned in various state parks throughout Indiana; gone to Pennsylvania to visit friends; accompanied Saint Joe's Habitat for Humanity chapter to Texas; seen the view at Niagara Falls from Canada and New York. And just this weekend, we embarked on our first trip to Mackinac Island, prefaced with a couple of days in Ludington and Traverse City, Michigan.

First day in Ludington, and the first of FIVE glorious days in the sun. A welcome change from our last few trips.

Luke's original plan for Friday was to hike to the lighthouse in Ludington State Park, but leaving Merrillville right around lunchtime, encountering one wrong turn, and fighting through interstate traffic meant we didn't even arrive in Ludington until early evening. We had dinner and spent the night in a quaint little motel watching two hours of Law and Order. All I did was sit in the damn car and I was still exhausted.

To make up for our lack of activity the day before, we were packed up and on the way to the park by nine o'clock the next morning. Hiking to the lighthouse took almost an hour, but I savored every minute. In between laying on the couch, gagging over the toilet, and sitting in front of the computer, I'd forgotten how good it felt to move my body. Meanwhile, Luke was so happy to be out and about I could have cried for him. He really has been so wonderful to me these last couple of months, and he more than deserved this time to play.

View from the top of the lighthouse. It's hard to believe we weren't overlooking an ocean.

Afterwards, we walked along the beach, grabbed our car, and moved on to our next destination: Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.

With all the hiking we did that morning, I knew I couldn't do any more, so we opted for a scenic driving tour that had twelve designated spots where you could get out of your car and take in the view. This was the third one, I think.

The sign isn't kidding about the 450-foot drop. Can you believe people were actually attempting to climb it? Because they were. Luke seemed interested, and I told him he was more than welcome. The baby and I were perfectly willing to wait in the car.

One of the few shots we have together from the trip. Every time I see the beach in our photos I die a little inside, wishing we could've taken a dip in the water, but the lake's temperature was cold, colder than your mom, even, and I decided that splashing around in our pool at home would suit me just fine.

A day ten times busier than our first, and I was ten times as tired. I swear I thought I was sunsick, even though I'd lathered on SPF 30 sunscreen before we left the motel.

Sunday was the big day--the day we headed for Mackinac Island! We made it to Mackinaw City (yes, correct spelling) in the early afternoon, amazed that the weather was still on our side. I can't tell you how many trips we've taken that were tainted with clouds or rain or both. Apparently, June is "the" month to travel.

Mackinac Bridge. We didn't cross it, but Luke took this shot from the ferry.

By the time we reached the island, it was three o'clock. After checking in at the hotel and making our way back to the main strip, it was almost four, making it too late to get in on any of the activities we'd planned (read: Luke planned) for our stay, so we basically just walked around and looked for a place to eat dinner. We were both a little bummed about not doing more but knew the second day would more than make up for it.

Here's where I'll say a few words about our lodging of choice: Mission Point Resort, one of the fancier overnight options available on the island.

Arrangements for our stay inspired a bit of a squabble back in April because Luke wanted to stay at one of the chain establishments in Mackinaw City and I wanted to splurge for something nicer, like a bed and breakfast. For each trip we've taken, we've always scrimped on our hotel; for our time in Niagara, we (read: Luke) chose a hotel room on the base level of the building, as in, we could see our car and the rest of the parking lot from our window, because the rate was fifty bucks a night. Seeing as this is the last "big" vacation we'll take together before Freke's arrival, I wanted to upgrade to a place that didn't market a box of doughnuts and a gallon of milk as a continental breakfast, nevermind that we'd be staying at the height of the tourist season, nevermind that two nights at this charming resort cost half a grand. Luke actually picked this place because it offered a package that included round-trip ferry tickets, breakfast at two of their four restaurants, and tickets to their in-house museum.

And was it worth it? you ask. Well, the breakfast buffet featured sausage, bacon, waffles, omelets, fresh fruit, and pastries. It was definitely worth it.

On Monday morning Luke went on a bike ride while I slept in, and the rest of the day was spent taking a leisurely carriage ride, visiting Fort Mackinac, walking in and out of fudge shops, and reminding ourselves to add Somewhere in Time (filmed on the island) to our Blockbuster queue.

The above picture is of the famous Grand Hotel, which charges twelve dollars per person just to walk in front of the damn building, so Luke took this from his seat in the carriage. The guide said they feature a suite available for three thousand dollars a night. THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS. A NIGHT. Holy God.

When you're on Mackinac Island, you gotta have fudge. On our first day we snacked on a quarter pound of Ryba's peanut butter but later remembered that we can get Ryba's any ole time we want to from Navy Pier, so when it came time to bring some home, we went with JoAnn's, and it actually tasted better. I was chowing down on some chocolate peanut butter goodness last night while yelling at the soon-to-be American citizen on Deal or No Deal to take the freaking seventy-one thousand dollars already and quit talking about rising like a Phoenix from the ashes or whatever.

Here's a view from Fort Mackinac. Are you seeing all the bright sun and blue sky and shimmery water? So gorgeous.

And the bonus to all that fun? The resort had HBO, so on Monday night we caught the premiere of the second season of Big Love.

Luke and I had such a wonderful time on this vacation, and all throughout we talked about different trips we want to take in the future and how we don't want the fact that we'll have a baby to hold us back from all the exciting things we want to do. Call us naive if you want, but we firmly believe that life is as easy or as difficult as you make it out to be, and if you approach traveling with children as a big deal, it's going to be a big deal. We don't want to it to be a big deal. We want to explore the country and eventually the world, even during the years Freke will be too young to remember, because life is not all about Freke. It's about the two of us being in this adventure together and how we choose to raise our family, and I refuse to make choices that might lead Freke to believe anything is out of reach or impossible.

Nothing is impossible.

As I continue to catch up on work and apartment upkeep, please forgive me for not responding individually to comments left in my absence. Consider me back on the bandwagon starting today.

In which I ponder moving to Canada. I hear mothers get one year of PAID leave there.

This morning I finally gathered the courage to speak to my human resources manager about an issue that's been troubling me for weeks.

Maternity leave.

First, some backstory.

It's no secret to anyone who reads this blog that the idea of being a stay-at-home mom has always appealed me. I grew up the oldest of five children with a mother worked maybe six months the entire time I lived at home, and I appreciate that she was there when we came home from school, there to see us perform in assemblies, there to put a hot dinner on the table for us every night. I loved having that mom, and I feel passionately about providing a similar environment for my own family.

When I first proposed the idea to Luke, he was supportive of the concept but worried about the money. When he first moved to Indianapolis and was searching for work, we were able to live on what I made with little problem, but we'd never had to do the reverse. Once we crunched the numbers and reviewed the data, I was shocked, because even though he has a great position that requires a college degree and years of professional experience, he works for a non-profit group and thus earns a wage that's not enough for a family of three to live on and still afford insurance. Hell, it'd be hard for even two.

And yet I was still determined to make it work. I was heartbroken over the thought of having my motherhood dream taken away from me. "Besides, it's not like you'd be willing to quit your job and stay home in my place," I said accusingly.

Only, as luck would have it, he was, which threw my desired family plan into a complete tailspin.

For as long as I'd been sniffing baby heads, I'd never really considered working after my first child was born, for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I never thought I'd have to. I always assumed that by the time we were ready to have kids, my husband's income would be enough to financially support us. I never imagined a scenario where we'd need two incomes to survive. I also never imagined marrying a man who'd eagerly "switch roles" and take on the role of primary caregiver while I took the corporate world by storm. But there it was, right in front of us, this new solution I'd never believed to be available, this new solution that looks like it's going to be the best fit for us.

What does all of this have to do with my maternity leave?

A lot. Once we decided to follow through with our new family plan, I realized the FMLA time I take after Freke's birth may be the only time I get to be a stay-at-home mother, so when Luke and I discussed the length of my leave, I was adamant about wanting the full twelve weeks. Even though not one cent of it will be paid.

I don't know any woman who's taken twelve weeks of maternity leave. In my experience, most take six weeks off and go back to work. When my mother's youngest sister had her daughter in the late nineties, she took three. THREE! But never twelve. I remember following Amalah's pregnancy and feeling a sense of awe that her employer "let her" stay away from the office for three months. That's like a whole season! Can people really DO that?

Turns out they can. Like I said waaaay back at the beginning of this entry, I spoke with HR this morning, and I outlined my situation, and the manager was totally supportive. It wasn't until then that it hit me how scared I was that work would be ticked off at me for requesting "so much time off," like I was a little girl who wanted a candy bar but was afraid of having my hand slapped and being told "No." Imagine my delight upon learning that if I want the leave, I have the leave, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it. I was so happy, I almost shed a tear in her office.

Luke and I will have to pad our savings account well before December 10th to make this happen, but we have enough time and dispensable income (right now, anyway) that money won't be a problem. We've even started discussing how long Luke might want to join the baby and me at home, so we can prepare for that, too.

During my meeting, I learned a surprising fact: it just so happens that I am the first person at my company to request the entire amount of available FMLA time. For an organization that's been around for almost twenty years, I'm once again in awe, only this feeling is tinged with sadness, because how many mothers would choose to spend more time recuperating from childbirth and adjusting to life with a new baby if they could? How many women have to go back to work because they can't afford not to?

I have a lot of thoughts swirling around in my head about this topic that'll probably inspire a series of posts in the near future. For now, though, I want to hear YOUR stories. Mothers and fathers out there, how long did you take off work to care for a new baby? Did you find yourself wanting more time, or were you ready to go back earlier? For those without children, what's it like when a co-worker takes maternity/paternity leave? Are people resentful? Supportive? Or just happy about extra vacancies in the company parking lot?

Rejuvenated

That's the most fitting word to describe my three-day weekend, because it was. The shenanigans began on Saturday morning when I spent two hours cleaning out the various nooks and crannies of our apartment--tupperware bins filled with shoes, shelves stuffed with books, VHS tapes confined to our storage unit since Luke moved in, and a closet featuring items that've been one size too small on a certain female someone for, oh, two summers now, items I had fervently vowed to fit into "come next year." All of it was sorted and distributed between the employees at Goodwill and my unsuspecting friends and family. There is no better time to clean than right before a visit home, because there will always be someone who'll want those white capris I never had any business wearing in the first place, a sibling itching to get her hands on "classic" movies like What About Bob? and It Could Happen to You. As for the shoes? Well, the purging was so thorough that I can now fit all of my footwear into our apartment. So long, Wicked Witch of the West heels. Farewell, three-dollar cork wedges. Some lucky bastard will provide you with a more fruitful life than you ever experienced with me.

When I surveyed the amount of material items I had decided I couldn't live without, I was surprised at how good it felt to rid our household of things that were essentially holding us back, and I talked Luke's ear off the whole car ride to Chicago about how liberating it was to only have things that truly meant something to us, and how it makes much more sense to center gifts around experiences instead of things, because the high I get off a salon pedicure is worth more than any CD I could find under the Christmas tree, and how our life would be richer if we surprised each other with annual passes to the zoo instead of DVD box sets and mindless video games.

That was Saturday. On Sunday, we found ourselves at a Best Buy in Merrillville, practically running to the first available check-out aisle to purchase the long-awaited Nintendo Wii. Sneaky materialism, blindly we succumb to thee!

In our defense, though, I did say it was perfectly acceptable to have things as long as they weren't just occupying empty space, and Luke's been foaming at the mouth over this system since it was first released in November, and I am personally tickled pink over having the ability to download and play original Nintendo games like Super Mario Brothers and Ninja Gaiden, so really, this is a win-win situation for the entire family. And we are all about the family.

Other superficial activities included getting a much-needed hair cut and scoring a new blowdryer. I am officially cut off until this baby starts spilling over the waistline of my pants. Which apparently is another topic of conversation in and of itself.

I don't know why, but I am still constantly amazed at all the attention my belly generates. When in the presence of family and friends who aren't graced with my pregnant aura on a daily basis, their first order of business is to demand that I lift up my shirt so they can see "what's going on in there." What follows is some sort of mmhmm sound from the back of their throat and an "Oh, yeah, that baby's definitely poking out!" exclamation that always, always gets under my skin, because then I have to inform them of the nine pounds I've lost since April and how I'm still wearing my regular clothes and even those are sagging around my stomach and how the baby they're seeing is actually the double gut I've carried around since I was thirteen, thanks so much for noticing.

If it sounds like I'm afraid of looking pregnant, it's due to the fact that I'm ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of looking pregnant. My body is going to change in ways I can't predict and can't control, and those changes will affect my eating habits, sleeping habits, choice of wardrobe, and sex life for who knows how long? Just because it's "worth it" doesn't mean I'm unreasonable for wanting to hold on to the familiar for as long as I can.

So, other than the occasional internal conflict over the physical, the weekend went famously. There were lots of pickles--my current favorite food--and lots of naps. Luke and I settled upon first and middle names for the baby, both male and female. I also finally started REALLY preparing for my blogging class this fall. I just learned that book orders are due in the first half of June, so Friday night was spent combing through Amazon.com for potential texts I can skim over the next couple of weeks. Ninja Gaiden will just have to wait.

I also turned twelve weeks yesterday. Can you believe it?

Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

Scene: The Frema-Useless Clutter household. Luke is cooking dinner while Frema runs a vaccuum through the apartment for the first time since February.

Frema: Thanks for not minding that I stayed late at work today. Come five o'clock tomorrow, all I want to do is get home, make my spinach dip, and pass out in a gas-induced coma on the couch.

Luke: Do you want to watch Stranger Than Fiction? Then you can go to Blockbuster tomorrow and exchange the mailer for another movie while I'm in Michigan.

Frema: Nope, I've got the third season of Sex and the City, the first season of Murder, She Wrote, and the entire My So-Called Life series. My time is better spent on shows you won't touch with a ten-foot pole.

Wraps up vacccuum cord, proceeds to Windex the bathroom mirror

Frema: I can't wait to sit back and relax!

Luke: Do I ever force you to do anything?

Frema: No, no, I'm just excited about having some quality Frema time. You know, to do Frema things. By myself.

Luke:

Frema [hastily]: It's not that I enjoy it when you're away, but I still need to make the most of it.

Pause

Frema: You know I'm going to miss you, right?

Luke: Whatever.

Living within Your Means is the New Black

Two weeks ago, after opening a credit card statement that was just pennies away from inducing Frema's first heart attack, Luke and I decided enough was enough. After several months of obliging every DINKy whim, it was time to buckle down and actively manage how we spent our money. Our little starter house isn't going to buy itself this summer, and if we're so lucky as to get knocked up within the first few months of trying, securing ample living space for our future family of three has to take precedence over feasting on the barbeque lunch platter at Squealer's. Thus, our budget was born.

In my previous life as a non-married Ms., I followed a budget...sort of. Every two months, I would write down my anticipated expenses for the next four pay periods, with each check designated to a particular quadrant; I'd note any variables particular to that moment in time, like a sibling's birthday or upcoming New York and Company sale, and plan accordingly. I was very proud of this system and went out of my way to share it with my family, therefore demonstrating my ability to sustain my own livelihood sans gravy train. "Look at Frema bein' all responsible-like," I wanted to say. "So what if I don't bother to track how much of my paycheck I actually spend? I write numbers in pretty columns on company stationery. I am cool."

This time around, with more at stake than a new pair of jeans, I knew the only way to hold ourselves accountable to our financial goals was to create a spreadsheet and record each and every purchase we made, from the five hundred and eighty-five dollars we pay in rent to the four bucks we occasionally turn over to Dairy Queen for a Reese's blizzard fix. Tracking our expenses over the course of the month and entering receipt data on a weekly basis would enable us to know where we stood with our budget at any given time. It would also take the guessing out of whether or not we could afford another trip to Steak 'N Shake or a Nintendo Wii for my very patient husband. (Not yet, sweetie.) Numbers don't lie, and they certainly won't help you justify the burger and fries you're itching for despite having spent all fifty of the dollars designated for eating out.

Before delving into this new project, I consulted Molly, Queen of Excel Spreadsheets, for some ideas on what to include in my template; however, once left to my own devices (Luke could do nothing but observe me with morbid fascination, I think, seeing as I created our template the same morning we opened the credit card statement, and I was so sick over our lack of common sense that red anger spots actually danced in front of my eyes), what started out as a simple column for our monthly bills turned into an elaborate marriage of pay stub information and sorting options for expenditures by week and category.

(Click to embiggen.)

Some notes about the spreadsheet:

• Even though I record payments made on our credit cards, since the individual expenses have already been accounted for, they're not included in our monthly totals.
• I debated including ATM transactions, knowing Amanda follows this practice on The Naked Ledger, but Luke and I don't really carry cash that often, and I'm more concerned with what happens to the money once it's in our pocket.
• I don't know why I included a line for additional savings. We already dump half of Luke's paycheck into that account every two weeks, and it's a given that any month-end surplus will go into savings as well, but what can I say. It's pretty. I am cool.

Don't trouble yourselves with commenting on my freakness. Believe me, Luke and I are both well aware.

Before you judge, though, this template has really been quite helpful, providing us (read: ME) with greater insight into our financial habits. Spending $389.84 on groceries and/or household goodies within a twenty-eight-day timespan might not seem too terrible (although for two people it really is, who are we kidding?), breaking it down by week draws attention to just how often you're running for milk and bread at Super Target. Thanks to this spreadsheet, I know we spent more than a hundred dollars on such necessities in week two AND week three. Granted, some trips happened at the beginning of week two and others at the end of week three, but still. Not great planning on our part. What can we do to eliminate so many trips to the store? How often are we picking up things that don't quite need restocking?

(Also, in case you were wondering, our grocery/household budget is NOT $389.84. It is $225. Though it might as well be $389.84, since that's what we ultimately spent, budget be damned. And damn you, too, Super Target!)

Luke and I had already made the decision to save all of our receipts last month, so accounting for dollars spent before The Spreadsheet was easy, but the actual implementation didn't come until February 10th--almost halfway through the month--so I was a little nervous about our ability to stay in the black. We allotted fifty dollars for dining out even though we were already four in the hole, and that was before we went out to dinner to celebrate Luke's birthday, another thirty bucks even though we had a coupon for a free entree at Abuelo's. Plus, the Lumina crapped out on us again, as fourteen-year-old cars are wont to do, this time demanding a new battery and seventy-five dollar tow from Luke's place of employment, an ordeal that altogether brought us over our three-hundred-and-thirty-dollar category cap (gas plus oil changes for both cars) by ... three hundred and thirty dollars. I was positive we'd be on our hands and knees crawling to Fifth Third, knocking our savings account flat on her ass once again.

However, by the end of the month, I found that we actually SAVED money. Three hundred and twenty-six dollars' worth of money that I want to kiss and hold in a tight embrace and never let go. Our saving grace? My recent tendency to pay off bills as soon as they arrive on our doorstep, even when there was a good three weeks before the drop-dead due date. There were no February expenses tallied for rent, either of my Sallie Mae loans, or the phone bill, which is the only reason we were able to come out ahead. With our new system, I'd like to get in the habit of paying bills in the same month they're due (after all, the whole point is to funnel money in our savings account, not get ahead on bills that have another twenty-five years before they're paid in full), so this shouldn't happen again, but I'm grateful for it now. Meanwhile, March is already looking pretty damn good because of our handsome tax refund, allowing us to pay for my BlogHer reservations and our car insurance premium without dipping into savings.

Are you totally bored now? I bet you're totally bored. Don't worry. Tragic Love Friday is on its way, even though this entry won't publish until 5:00 p.m. EST and I'm so afraid it'll get lost in the shuffle. Prove me wrong, Internet!

A Winter and Financial Wonderland

Indianapolis currently has its undies in a bundle over the snowfall that began late yesterday and is expected to shower the state's capitol with five to twelve inches of snow by tonight. Last week three inches of the white stuff turned my twenty-five-minute work commute into an hour-and-a-half nightmare, so I've decided to boycott the office today. Which means I can lounge around in my Peace Frog pajama bottoms, catch up on Monday's AMC, flip through the bajillion books* that have accumulated around my nightstand, and cringe over childhood and adolescent ramblings from days of old. Also possibly do The Track to "SexyBack." On a snow day, anything is possible.

I will also be recovering from Saturday's unveiling of our January Visa statement. A whopping two thousand six hundred and forty-one dollars and fifty-one cents worth of statement. Somebody grab me a bucket, because just typing this challenges my ability to keep the butter-and-jelly English muffin I just wolfed down--well, down.

Some of the charges are legitimate, like the five hundred bucks for my implant because my health savings account was short and the hundred and forty smackers I shelled out to update my plates a whopping year and a half after my move to this circular city. We also purchased a new digital camera, a camera we were eventually going to buy anyway but were "inspired" to do so last month after Luke's work one was damaged during his trip to California, because who isn't motivated by an employer's potential wrath over a cross-country business trip's lack of productivity?

These were costly necessities. However, I'm positive that the five hundred and eighty-five dollars we spent at Super Target between January 2nd and February 1st weren't all for milk, chicken, and vegetables, because otherwise I'd be much more depressed over Weight Loss Wednesday. That is the same number I write on our RENT CHECK, people. With all those "groceries" lying around the house, you'd think we avoided restaurants like the plague, but we still managed to rack up two hundred and eighty-three dollars and sixteen cents on activities of the eating-out variety. I'm truly embarrassed over how careless we've been with our money, because even though we cover our bills and remember to "pay ourselves first," that's no reason to be wasteful.

It used to be much easier to commit to a budget. Before Luke started working, I would diligently write out our expenses for each pay check two months in advance and estimate how much we'd have left for miscellaneous items like a parent's birthday or routine oil change. When Luke landed his job, we electronically deposited his entire check into savings with the hopes of paying off the Cobalt by spring. However, after penny-pinching for almost a year, we thought it might be fun to allot ourselves some play money and transferred a small portion of his take-home pay into our checking account. Then we went to the dentist and learned it would take the price of an arm and a leg to pull out Luke's wisdom teeth and accommodate some minor gum surgery and replace my extracted molar and botched crown, so we re-designated our funds to funnel half my check into the HSA and half of Luke's into checking to offset the difference. Because we're paid on alternate Fridays, we were suddenly getting checks every week, and because I'm not very smart, I stopped budgeting expenses and just paid the bills as they came in, not stressing over twenty-five dollar trips to the Original Pancake House until we had to withdraw the entire amount of this damn bill from savings. We spent that. damn. much.

On Sunday night, Luke and I sat ourselves down and, for the first time, actually did the math to figure out how much house we can afford on one income and what kind of down payment we can realistically expect to cough up by August in order to make a purchase by the end of the summer. We created a monthly spreadsheet template to track our spending and categorized our receipts into envelopes labeled for each week of the month, making them easier to record. We signed up for Blockbuster Online's ten-dollar monthly plan to provide ourselves with cheap entertainment. We're still jabbering on about buying a state park pass so we can hit the trails once all this damn snow stops falling and the long underwear can once again find a permanent home in our chest of drawers. And once again, we thanked God for being blessed with the financial means to correct our mistakes and move on with a smarter attitude.

Now, if you're so inclined, please suggest some movies we can add to our Blockbuster queue, even though we've made close to twenty selections already, because seriously, it's so much easier to pick a movie online than it is in the store. We can stand in front of the New Release section for a good half-hour, hemming and hawing over this title or that, because we so rarely rented movies before that we experienced a debilitating case of performance anxiety; who knew when we'd have another opportunity to spend four dollars on the first disc of the first season of Big Love**?

* Don't get crazy over all those pregnancy books. They've been handed down to me by Molly, who's very encouraging on the baby-making front.

** My pick, not Luke's. I'm strangely fascinated by polygamy.

*** This doesn't relate to anything, but did you know that the first season of She-Ra (Princess of Power!) is out on DVD? I'm so adding this to the queue.

Say A Little Prayer For Luke, Because He's Subjected to My Nonsensical Ramblings Every Single Day

Only thirty days into 2007 and already I can cross one of my New Year's resolutions off the list.

Luke and I, we'll not be paying off the car.

All this time I've been focused on eliminating the three-hundred-and-thirty-dollar monthly Cobalt payment from our vast array of bills, convinced that doing so would put us in a better position to buy a house. Financial advisors often encourage buyers to whittle down their consumer debt before applying for a mortgage, and if we could just "make do" in our one-bedroom apartment until next summer, the two of us could not only own our car outright, we'd also accumulate about ten percent for a down payment on a modest starter home. If we extended our lease to September 2008, maybe fifteen. As far as the whole baby thing (BAAAYBEEES), well, if the good Lord blessed us with one before we dug our heels into the confusing world of real estate, we vowed to make it work until our lease was up because it'd only be for a few months and Leigh wouldn't notice how cramped we were until she was ready to walk, but we wouldn't be in the apartment long enough for her to start walking because Hello! Our plan was to be in a house by then. So no worries.

(This "new" plan has, in reality, been in place since we got married, and yet I'm still inspired to rehash it once every three weeks or so, punching various numbers into my calculator and pestering Luke for his thoughts on what we can do save more more money, stressing how important it will be for us to choose a home that can be maintained on his income because that's what will enable me to stay at home with Leigh (or Lucy. Or Jillian. Or Nathan, because legend has it some women give birth to boys). And because Luke is used to my love for Rehashing Important Issues We've Already Covered In Excruciating Detail, he slips into his Devil's Advocate gear and reminds me of our salary differences and how difficult it might be to make ends meet with me out of the work force, all the while supporting our common goal to care for a child without forking over wads of dough to a daycare facility. Apparently we save all our fancy dance moves for the choreography of thought-provoking conversation.)

In order to get ready for the upcoming buying frenzy, we find ourselves drawn to the bookstore every few days, perusing the shelves for advice on how to select a home and how to pay for it without defaulting on my student loans. And every few days, we walk away empty-handed because I remember we still have my sister-in-law's copy of Home Buying for Dummies and Suze Orman's Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke, both of which have a wealth of practical information, and also because spending money on financial-planning books may not be the most sound financial plan. Anyway, while reflecting on some of Suze's gems, I recalled a scenario she described in which a young woman had several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt at an interest rate of twelve percent and a savings account that yielded an annual return of point-three percent at best. Why, Suze asked, why oh why was this girl socking away money at such a low rate when she could be using it to pay off the high-interest cards? "Use your head, girlfriend!" she said, wagging a literal finger as demonstrated by her flagrant use of exclamatory sentences.

And that's when it hit me: I was that young woman.

I don't know if I've ever shared this with you people before, but I have very good credit. When I bought the Cobalt in 2005, I scored a two-percent interest rate. Two percent! Over the life of my loan, I'll have shelled out fewer than four hundred dollars in interest to GMAC. Another tidbit you may not be aware of: the interest rate on mortgages? They are not two percent at all. In fact, they are the opposite of two percent, which is Frema-speak for triple. What the hell am I thinking, rushing to pay off a car three years early in order to save a few hundred smackers when we could be funneling that money towards a house, the cost of which will most likely pay for a bachelor's degree at a private college? Also, where did I get the lame-brained idea that we'd have any money to save once a baby enters the picture, especially since we plan to live on one income? My thought process was so faulty you'd swear I spent my free time drinking gasoline and then inhaling the fumes leaking from my ass.

Our new, "foulproof" plan: use our savings to get into a house sometime this year. Our lease ends in June, but if we need to, we can extend it for another three or even six months to make sure we're really ready. Once we're in the house, we can start saving to pay off the car. This plan allows us to properly situate ourselves as homeowners before the introduction of any offspring (BAAAYBEEES) into our family, which we both like. Not that there's anything wrong with apartment living. We love our little unit and have everything we need, but we'd have to make some major changes to accommodate the cohabitation of another person, even if that person's activity level will be limited to producing smelly bowel movements and sucking on my boob (God willing).

Now that we've got the financial logistics straightend out, we can devote our time and energy into my new favorite topic: Who Gets To Stay Home With The BAAAYBEEES?

It's no secret to the Internet that I want to stay home with my children, at least until they're in school. And even then, the idea of being That Mom, the mom who bakes cupcakes for snack time and volunteers for field trips and has dinner sitting on the table at five-thirty every night, stamps a smile on my heart, so I guess I just want to stay home. I have career aspirations, too, but I'm more than willing to put them on hold while Luke and I are in the early stages of building our family.

However, it's also no secret that by some divine twist of fate, I currently make more money than Luke, so much so that if our roles were reversed--that is, if I had Luke's job and he had mine--the question of whether or not we could afford to keep me at home wouldn't be an issue. We'd do without cable for another few years, and our dinners out would be reduced to an occasional extra-crispy chicken bucket from KFC, but it'd be managable.

In previous discussions regarding our previous plan, I would sometimes casually suggest that Luke consider being the at-home parent, and we'd both laugh, and he'd reply that he wasn't sure how he'd feel about taking a break from the traditional nine-to-five work force, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief because that meant it was OK to resign ourselves to a life of (temporary) poverty. If Luke didn't want to be a stay-at-home dad, I would never make him. But I still didn't want to pay for daycare.

That was all before this past Sunday, when Luke and I were out for breakfast and we let our collective gaze wander over to the table across from us, where a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy who couldn't have been more than eight months old was blowing raspberries with Gerber's latest fruit-and-meat concoction, and Luke said, "Maybe I could be a stay-at-home dad after all. It would make better financial sense."

At that point, my head started to shake and my eyes bulged out of their sockets, but not before they reduced Luke to a pile of ashes with the deadliest, most evil If Looks Could Kill staredown in the history of the universe.

After I stopped banging my head into the restaurant's coat rack in an effort to permanently erase his comment from my memory, I let myself process the information so we could give the matter some serious thought. When I think about having to redefine the image I've made for myself as a mother, I want to grab Luke by the collar and plead with him to work two jobs so I can bring that picture to life. But when I think about what's truly important to me--the ability to enable our children's parents to serve as their primary caregivers--and I realize that THAT dream can still come true, I start breathing again well enough to remember this family is not all about me. And Luke is going to be such a wonderful father. Our children would be truly blessed to be able to spend so much time with him.

Right now, it's too soon to make any definite decisions. Individually we'll keep doing our thing, career-wise, and revisit the issue once we have a baby to stay home with and I get a chance to see how I hold up after a three-month maternity leave.

Yesterday in a Google chat with Molly, I joked that I've gone from being a Catholic singleton with SAHM potential to a Protestant working mom. It's a good thing Luke can cook or this whole "challenging myself to be a more open-minded person" thing would be such a waste of time.

We Go Together Like A Horse And Carriage

Sent at 10:17 AM on Tuesday

Frema: Are you thinking of foods I hate?
Luke: Seafood, of all kinds. Cheese on sandwiches, but not on burgers.
Macaroni and cheese. Eggs.
Frema: Didn't you see the list I sent you?
Luke: No.
Frema: Those are already on the list.
Luke: I didn't get the list.
Frema: I'm looking at the copy in my Sent folder. I'll send it again.
Luke: OK
Frema: Did you get it?
Luke: When have you had Indian food? Or Thai food?
Frema: I haven't.
Luke: You liked the Japanese food you had at House of Kobe.
Frema: But I like beef.
Luke: You also liked the soup, and there are many noodles dishes you'd like, too. You just wouldn't like sushi. There's also a lot of Chinese food you'd like, too.
Frema: Well, what about stuff you know I don't like?
Luke: There are Chinese dishes not far off from the stirfry I make.
Since when don't you like burritos?
Frema: Have you ever seen me eat a burrito?
Luke: No. But they're pretty much closed tacos.
Frema: With beans!
Luke: Burritos don't have to have beans.
Frema: Then why can't I just have a taco?
Luke: I've had a lot of burritos with no beans.
Burritos are less mess, being rolled and all.
Frema: I can fold my taco.
Luke: They can have just about anything inside and still be a burrito.
They don't necessarily have beans to be a burrito.
But you wouldn't like a bean burrito.
Frema: OK.
Luke: Quiche.
Frema: Can you just answer my original question?
Luke: You wouldn't like quiche.
Frema: Oooh! Or any sort of pot pie.
Luke: But pot pies can be good if made right. They're pretty much stew in a crust.
Frema: But I don't want the crust.
Can I post this conversation on my blog?
Luke: Your mom posts this conversation!
Frema: I'll take that as a yes.

I've Got A Food Attitude

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a picky eater. If a food possesses a smell, texture, or physical appearance that's not to my liking, it's blackballed from my palette and never thought of again. When I was a kid, this posed a lot of problems for my mother, who cooked the majority of our meals, because she often wanted to prepare something that wasn't chicken, spaghetti, tacos, or pizza, and I didn't want to eat anything other than chicken, spaghetti, tacos (on flour tortillas only), or pizza. There were a couple of times where her "You're not leaving until you eat that!" directive meant me sitting at the kitchen table for hours, staring at yellow paint and wooden panels, the antique knick-knacks perched on top of the cabinets, or updated school pictures fastened to the refrigerator because I was too stubborn to take even one bite of her refried beans and she was too stubborn to let a nine-year-old kid break her spirit. One morning she threatened bodily harm if I didn't just EAT THE DAMN SCRAMBLED EGGS, so eat them I did. And then promptly threw up.

We didn't struggle a lot over food after that.

As an adult, I've continued to sustain my body on a limited menu. I still love chicken, spaghetti, tacos (actually, most forms of beef), and pizza and eat 'em at least once a week. I love barbeque ribs and ham and bacon and cheeseburgers and potatoes in any form (read: french fries). I enjoy whole kernel corn, green beans, onions (required for Outback's Bloomin' Onion), sugarsnap peas, cheese, and various types of fruit. Dessert items rock my socks off.

The following foods will only find themselves on my plate if I'm dead:

• Seafood of any kind
• Eggs (Ah, memories)
• Macaroni and cheese (The smell is unlike anything I've ever experienced)
• Macaroni noodles (You know, because of the mac and cheese thing) and other "thick" pasta shapes
• Oatmeal (Tasty to-go bars don't count)
• Sauces with a non-tomato base
• Beans (Unless they're in chili, and even then I pick them out)
• Whole mushrooms (Chopped up on pizza is acceptable)
• Tuna (Except in tuna cassarole)
• Salami
• Burritos
• French toast
• Avocados
• Salad (Because I hate lettuce)
• Sour cream
• Mayonnaise (Except in my spinach dip receipe)
• Custard
• Cranberries
• Cottage cheese
• Tapioca (Thanks for reminding me, Bdogg!)
• Quiche
• Tiramisu
• Any sort of pot pie
• Omelets
• Indian food (Too afraid to try it)
• Most Chinese food (Though I do enjoy orange chicken)
• Most Japanese food (Unless it's beef fried rice, and I still pick out the egg chunks)
• Select meat-and-cheese combinations (Shredded cheese on tacos is delish; sausage-and-cheese croissants inspire my gagging reflex; meats with cheese stuffed inside of them are also gross. Cheese does not make everything better, people!)

I'm sure there are others, and there are a few exceptions, but them's the biggies. Any dishes outside of my love/hate radar are tolerable, I suppose, but why bother with them when I can get my taste on with something I one-hundred-percent enjoy?

My contentedness with not trying anything new never bothered anyone until I started dating, and it didn't bother ME until I started dating Luke. Our relationship has always embraced a liberal dining-out policy, meaning an oil change is reason enough to flock to the nearest Applebee's, so this topic comes up all the time. I usually go for American grill or Italian-style restaurants, while he's interested in trying out the little Thai place across the street from Wal-Mart. If I suggest a place, it's usually to satisfy a specific craving. Outback equals Bloomin' Onion. Ted's Montana Grill (my new favorite place) means a bison cheeseburger and fries. Don Pablo's? Steak quesadillas. (Another instance where I sanction the marriage of meat and cheese.) I'll go anywhere you want, but you can bet your mother's life I'll ask for a burger, ribs, or chicken strips, and that's after I guilt you into ordering the dip.

For Luke's sake, sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind and just try a crab leg already. I know he'd take greater pleasure in our meals out if I took a more open-minded approach towards food. He also gets sick of my wrinkled nose and "Oooh, I don't like that, how can you eat that?" comments every time he takes a bite of something that didn't originate from a cow.

But what if I don't like the crab leg? Am I going to shell out eleven ninety-five for another platter? Stare at my entree forlornly until it's time to pay the bill? My daredevilism could very well come back to bite me in the ass.

This evening, Luke and I are going to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday. (Twenty-seven, thank you for asking!) It will actually be the culmination of a series of food-centric events held in the honor of my departure from my mother's uterus; the shenanigans started on Sunday, when we went to Ted's for dinner, and tonight Luke's making tacos, after which we'll visit the Factory for their to-die-for cheesecake. (I refused to try cheesecake until college because I thought it was literally a blend of cheese and cake. Like, American cheese. If that's not reason enough to loosen up, the only reason my passion for spinach dip exists is Luke's hankering for it on our first date and my unwillingness to rock the boat.) Our first visit was in December, when I feasted upon their brownie sundae concoction, a miracle because they also have banana cheesecake, and usually when I'm ordering a dessert I always go for the banana option. On that night, though, I could SEE the sigh in Luke's eyes as we considered our options, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell."

Because I subscribe to a strict "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" philosophy, I think I want the brownie sundae again. Or the banana. Or maybe I'll ask the Internets for their opinion.

Here is a link to the Factory's menu. While I wish I could say I'll go with the majority vote, I'll probably just do whatever I want. Nonetheless, feel free to de-lurk and offer a suggestion. I promise to think about it really, really hard.

Edited to add: I just re-read this entry and realized I listed my age as twenty-eight years old. I am only twenty-seven. Apparently "counting correctly" isn't on my list of ways to celebrate my birthday.

The Money Pit

When Luke scored his new job back in August, I had big plans for our financial future. Since we were already "making do" on my salary, I figured his paycheck would provide us with a chance to catch up on our plans to pay off my car and save for a house. We would pay off the remaining twelve thousand dollars on the Cobalt by February, then designate the extra three hundred bucks a month into our savings account, which would allow us to become homeowners by the time our lease ended in June. We would replace Luke's dying 1993 Lumina with a Pontiac Vibe or something equally family-friendly by summer, get knocked up on our first try in the fall, and spend the duration of my pregnancy accruing a sizable nest egg to fall back on once I quit my job to raise our baby. Lucy would be born in my twenty-eighth year (hooray for major events falling on even numbers!), and of course her birth wouldn't cost one out-of-pocket penny because of our diligence in contributing to my tax-free health savings account. I can see the white picket fence from here, can't you?

Now it's five months later, and the Lumina is still chugging along. My plan, sadly, is not.

The first glitch took place in November, when both Luke and I were greeted with flat tires on each of our cars--ON THE SAME DAY--moments before we were supposed to leave for work. We went to the dentist, where we learned we'll be forking over and arm and a leg for cavity fillings (both), post implants (me), minor gum surgery (Luke), and wisdom-teeth extraction (Luke again) (This is what happens when your husband visits the dentist after a TWELVE-YEAR hiatus). We paid little mind to the amount spent on gifts and charitable contributions over the holidays, and since we were home for so little of December, we wrote off trips to the grocery store, instead opting for nights of KFC, Steak 'n Shake, and Qdoba. Let's also not forget my trips to the salon for "necessary" cut-and-colors, self-indulgent shoe shopping, and the amount of moola it took to validate my online identity with a long-desired upgrade, which was about a hundred and seventy dollars, because I thought it made much better sense to pay for a year with TypePad upfront because I'm a sucker for "one-month free!" deals and prefer paying things off in one lump sum than needlessly writing checks month after month after month.

All of this means that since Halloween, the Frema-Useless Clutter household has shelled out no fewer than six thousand dollars on extracurricular activities, food, and gas.

This figure makes me want to vomit a little bit in my mouth. Meanwhile, the staff members at Chase Bank, U.S.A. probably received one hell of a Christmas bonus.

Things aren't as bleak as I make them out to be. For one, we don't charge anymore than we can pay off in full each month, so we're not paying any interest on our balances. Two, I received a handsome bonus of my own, which covered the extravagent clothing and shoe purchases, and three, we've still managed to set aside a respectable amount in savings and up my HSA contribution, so we're not hit too hard by all the future dental work (my implant is scheduled for Friday morning, and I'm trying really hard to avoid mental images of the doctor drilling a hole into my gum and placing a metal post in it. Ice cream helps). All three of our bank accounts are strong and healthy. We are very lucky.

But we're also having a hard time getting ahead. The Cobalt will not be paid off by February, and we've already made peace with residing in this apartment until 2008 because of our desire to obtain a mortgage that won't be too different from our rent, which requires saving a down payment of at least ten percent. As for the car? We'll continue to cross our fingers and limit its excursions to Luke's office commute; since his job is a whopping eight minutes from where we live, it should hold on at least another full year.

When discussing our house plans over Christmas with my lovely sister, who's currently mulling over similar home-ownership issues with her own husband, she revealed that she and Dan hope to have something this summer, fall at the latest. "You two make more money than we do," she said. "You shouldn't have any trouble getting into a place."

She's right. If we wanted to, Luke and I could start house-hunting today and fork over the dough for closing costs without batting an eye. We could find a cute little two-story ranch with three bedrooms and a yard and that white picket fence I mentioned eight paragraphs up. We could shop at Bed Bath & Beyond for new bathroom towels and a kitchen table that seats more than two people and then we could head on over to La-Z-Boy for a sleeper sofa in an effort to encourage more overnight guests. We're not rich, but we're doing well. It wouldn't break us.

As long as I work.

And therein lies the problem. Before Luke accepted his job, we were living on my salary. His salary is less than mine. If we wanted to live on it and pay all the bills we're paying right now, it would be really freakin' hard. And that's without a baby and a mortgage.

I know there might be a possibility I have to work once I pop out a kid. As much as I want to stay home, if Luke were having an especially hard time meeting our basic needs--and I'm talking food, heat, and insurance, not TiVo, an extra car, or hair appointments--there's no way I could let him bear the weight alone, not when my student loans make up such a large percentage of our debt and I could do something to make things better. However, we've agreed to give it a shot, and we're both nervous about what it'll be like to sustain three people on his income, so we're doing our best to make our goal as attainable as possible.

In my New Year's post, I mentioned the possibility of teaching a blogging class at my undergraduate alma mater in the fall. I think about what it would mean if that possibility materialized into an offer, and I wonder if I would be any good. If I am any good, I wonder if I would ever be invited to teach within the English department on a part-time basis, enabling me to stay home with my children the majority of the time and still bring in some money doing something I know I'd love. I wonder how long I'll have to wait for an answer. My professor friend e-mailed me three days before Christmas and the waiting is already killing me.

In keeping with my resolutions, I continue to remember no matter when we pay off our car, no matter when Luke carries me over the threshhold of our first home, we are still very blessed. Blessed to make the money we do, and have the savings we do, and opportunities we do. We have a home and food and health insurance. We have all of our fingers and all of our toes. We have lots of blankets to keep us warm at night. And we have hope, which thankfully, is free.

P.S. It's De-Lurking Week! Don't forget to say hi.

On the '06

My senior year in college, one of my professors said that with every choice you make, you become a little more free, as all the questions and doubts and fears once associated with that choice are now obsolete. This train of thought has always resonated with me but became even more meaningful the day I married Luke. Gone are the days where I wonder about our future, my ability to love another person both unconditionally and romantically, his ability to take all my idiosyncrasies in stride. This year we made the decision to love and honor and cherish each other for the rest of our lives, and doing so has enabled us to move forward and tackle new questions--harder questions, probably--but ones that acknowledge our past and honor our future. Instead of pestering Luke to move in with me and propose already, I get to nag him about making a baby and prepping ourselves for the responsibilities of home ownership. I'm definitely OK with the trade-off.

But getting married wasn't the only big thing that happened to me this past year. In reviewing the chain of events that occurred in 2006, I realize these last twelve months have shaped me into a different person: someone more independent, more emotionally adventurous, who isn't waiting for a family member or friend or Joe Schmoe on the street to validate her feelings.

I took a good, long look at my religious foundation and answered some hard questions about which aspects enriched my life and which ones I could've done without. I learned that pigeonholing God into limited definitions and avenues of grace doesn't help anyone, and his miracles aren't confined to a single denomination. At the same time, I learned how important the concept of community is in my faith and how deeply Luke and I want to pass that tradition on to our children. Nobody operates in a vaccuum, whether you're talking about religion, family, or society at large, and to live life ignoring your impact on all of those things seems naive. I severed a couple of once-important familial relationships last year, so even I don't measure up to my own standard of maturity, but who's perfect, right? I'm just proud of myself for not abandoning my convictions and refusing to sweep my hurt feelings under the rug. If that means I have to forgive others and myself for the results, so be it.

I finally grew the balls to say my online writing is important enough to take to the next level and I took it to the next level. I cursed and cried and beat my head against the PC monitor when I realized how much work it would take to meet my expectations, but I did it and now it's done and I'm so happy with the end product. I'm no longer disappointed in myself for admitting I don't want to write the next Great American Novel, that fiction isn't my bag, baby, and scribbling my thoughts and feelings on the Internet is the best use of my passion. I'm not ashamed that blogging is an insanely significant part of my creative identity; it forces me to put a name on my emotions and sort out my feelings, and it helps me connect with others without worrying if my new acquaintenance is paying more attention to my ideas or the zit that just started growing above my upper lip. I learned how to feel comfortable in my own Internet skin.

At the tail end of 2006, I also wet my pants in excitement over unique career opportunities. I've already been asked to conduct a one-hour workshop on blogging for a writing conference at Saint Joe this September, and if the stars align properly, I may even teach semester-long course in the fall. Blogging, it has been good to me, and I am so, so grateful.

While there was great joy in 2006, there were sad moments, too. One of my mother's sisters passed away after a long fight with brain cancer, and just when you think the grief can no longer touch you, you receive a Christmas card with three signatures, a Christmas card that once featured four, and you're reminded of the tangible effects of loss. My favorite aunt received a double whammy this spring as she was diagnosed with both breast cancer and brain cancer, a whammy that ushered her into chemotherapy and radiation and a horrible fear that she wouldn't live to see her eight-year-old daughter grow up. Today, she's almost cancer-free, something nobody in my family expected, but it's happened, and I'm grateful for that, too.

There's no way to predict the course of 2007, but there's no harm in working towards the following:

• Paying off our Cobalt three years ahead of schedule
• Finding a church to call our own
• Continuing to take our health and physical wellness more seriously
• Creating a financial situation that allows me to care for a child without the burden of a nine-to-five
• Counting our blessings, every one, every day

Happy New Year.

Romantic Comedy My Ass

A few weeks ago, Luke and I rented The Break-Up. And to my surprise, it was actually about a break-up. Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn played a couple who'd been together for a couple of years, bought a townhouse, and communicated so badly they were ready to call it quits.

The movie sat with me for a couple of days in an uncomfortable sort of way, like I'd just removed my glass from the adjoining wall of my neighbor's bedroom, listening to intimate conversations not meant for a stranger's ear drums. I've always been bothered by couples who argue in public, because those arguments are just that--intimate. They provoke frustrations and anger, assign hurt and blame, raise every doubt you've ever had to the surface. It's a miracle anyone ever makes it to the altar.

Luke and I are married six months today, and I think a lot about what it takes to make a relationship work. Who could blame me? Not a day goes by that somebody isn't breaking up, in Hollywood, at work, even in my own circle of friends. Each pairing starts out in faith, with hope, in love, and yet they allow one of those emotions to die in its sleep.

I think a lot of it is due to laziness, simply because it's so easy to be selfish. I've exnayed walks in the park to catch up on soap operas; frowned upon one of Luke's video game purchases after spending a hundred dollars on new clothes; ditched Victoria's Secret lingerie for the comfortable fabric of an oversized tee shirt. I'll let the entire evening pass in a quiet stew, answer "Nothing" when he asks what's wrong, only to unveil my anger at the exact moment he wants to turn off the lights for bed. I'm often guilty of neglecting and disrespecting the very union I swore to God in front of family and friends I'd put above everything else.

But God understands I'm not perfect, and so does Luke. He sees past my shortcomings in the same way I overlook his (most of the time--I'm still not a fan of the water puddles that form around the bathroom sink after he washes his face). In this first year of marriage, I believe we're learning how to see the forest for the trees, realizing no matter how bad a situation might seem in the moment, it'll only count for a small part of our life together, and each bad spot has to be approached with the confidence that it's going to get better. No more peeking over the fence for greener pastures, no more entertaining the "what ifs." On our wedding day, we promised not to give up on each other, and that means having the guts to answer tough questions, to rise above the monotony of the day-to-day, to cop to all of your hang-ups and admit you can't always be right. I'm sure many people who get married are incompatible from the very beginning but are too proud to admit it until later, while others could've made it but were too intimidated by all the work they'd have to do to fix their problems.

In The Break-Up, I'm not sure what kind of couple Gary and Brooke were, but I know it broke my heart to watch them fight, because their issues were so real, because they never took a step back to examine the big picture. What was probably a good thing ultimately failed because they were each too concerned with proving their point. Which they did.

But at a pretty steep price.

Bringing Stupid Back

After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal. "Pork and vegetables" was originally slated for last Monday, and since the main ingredients had already been purchased, pork and vegetables it was.

With a few dishes under my belt, the whole cooking thing is becoming much more enjoyable, thus making it easier to navigate through each step. It took just twenty minutes to cut the potatoes, slice the carrots, and "wedge" the onions, and according to my Pillsbury cookbook, the whole sensuous ensemble would be ready in the same amount of time it would take to recap the AMC episode of the day. Just stick the meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat to verify it cooked all the way through, and the triumph of another successful dinner would be mine.

True to Pillsbury's word, the time went off just as Zach and Dixie's murder trial came to fruition. Hurriedly I ran to the stove, eager to show off my mad housewifery skillz to a husband who graciously launders ninety-eight percent of our clothes, and became dismayed to find the face of the meat thermometer glued to the top of the oven. "Oh, well, at least the meat is done!"

"What do you mean, 'At least the meat is done?'" Luke jumped up from his seat on the couch in time to see me extract a now-ruined thermometer from the pork's caboose. "You're not supposed to cook that with the food!"

"But the book said to stick it in the thickest part of the meat!"

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

"Then why did they include it at the beginning of the directions?"

Luke: Bangs head against wall, wonders if this incident provides sufficient grounds for divorce.

Frema: Doesn't blame him.

Eating the Joneses' Dust

The first time I moved into a house, I was working in Rensselaer, and I was twenty-three. Armed with a co-worker from Saint Joe to fill the role of Roommate, we found a two-bedroom house on a corner lot in town available for rent and signed our lease just three days later.

It was perfect, with two full bathrooms, bedrooms with hardwood floors, a utility room for laundry, and a one-car garage ideal for storing recycling bins filled to capacity with empty wine bottles; plus, with two adults splitting a six-hundred-dollar payment, it was refreshingly affordable. I lived there about eight months, and during that time I took great joy in raking leaves, eating smores on the back porch, entertaining friends with food and drink and games. It was the first time I'd lived anywhere that could be described as cozy, that radiated a sense of permanency, even though I was only renting and my roommate and I had no plans to live out a Will and Grace spin-off. It was with great sadness I decided to leave, but David wanted to live with his boyfriend and I took that as a sign from God to find my own pad. I stayed in that apartment for a year and a half, at which point I moved to Indianapolis, fast on the heels of a job that promised career advancement and a paycheck large enough to cover my student loans.

The experience of living in that house has stayed with me, and it rises to the surface every time Luke and I talk about buying our first home. Two weeks ago, we circled several local neighborhoods to solicit information about places currently on the market and determine where we might get the best bang for our buck. One Sunday, we stumbled upon an open house for a budding townhouse community on the outskirts of Indianapolis; Luke had brought up the idea of a townhouse several times, as they were rumored to be less expensive than traditional houses and provided their owners with handsome profits upon resale, so "just for fun," we decided to check it out.

What it is about hardwood flooring that ignites hot passion in my girly parts, I don't know, but the minute I saw it, I fell in love.

The sales rep explained that building within the community started about fourteen months ago, and the several remaining units were in the final stages of construction. There were two models available; this one, the Fenwick, had an upstairs, downstairs, and finished basement and was the cheaper of the two we saw. There were two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and an open space designed for an office.

The master bedroom. This picture only captures half of the room's square footage.

Sexy closet space. More drool.

What started out as a harmless walk-through turned into an hour of crunching numbers and exploring the possibility of an October closing. Just for fun.

We were left alone for a short periods of time while the sales rep visited with other customers, allowing Luke and I to review our potential mortgage payment that reflected zero money down and an offer on behalf of the builder to pay off our lease and all closing costs. Visions of breakfast nooks and creamy white carpets danced in my head. "We could totally afford this," I told Luke confidently. "Sure, it'd be a little tight, and I'll have to keep working, but if we have a kid, I can totally work from home. Totally."

"We'll see, honey," he said.

It wasn't until we left the premises that my head began to clear and I realized I had actually volunteered to chuck my SAHM dreams for hardwood floor panels.

In a time where our friends are buying property, starting businesses, and producing offspring, it's easy to feel like we're losing ground in the race to Adulthood. Dinner parties are out, unless our guests would enjoy eating their food off our coffee table, which is what we do every night because one of our chairs is parked in front of my computer and neither of us has the motivation to move it. There's no room for a dog or a filing cabinet or a home office. There's no counter space in the kitchen, so we have to clean as we go. We'll reap unmeasurable benefits from our new commitment to stay out of the buyer's market for another couple of years, but in the meantime, the idea of celebrating New Year's 2008 in our one-bedroom apartment isn't something we look forward to.

I suppose every family has their cross to bear. My parents have lived in apartments for their entire married life; they didn't buy the building my siblings and I grew up in until they were thirty, and they chose to stick with apartment living so my (now deceased) grandmother could tag along, allowing her to maintain her independence and have access to 'round-the-clock help, if/when it ever became a necessity. When we moved in, there were four kids, two per bedroom, and when Donna Lyn was born, Geo was promoted to his own quarters, leaving four girls to share one room. Sad as they were when I left for college, my parents didn't let their grief prevent them from breathing a sigh of relief that Donna's dresser no longer had to compete for hallway space with the vaccuum. The situation might not've measured up compared to the three-hundred-thousand-dollar house my aunt and uncle owned in a posh Illinois suburb, but my parents made it work. There was no other choice.

Luke and I could've bought that gorgeous townhouse without a down payment and hoped for the best. We could've staked our claim on the American dream at the cost of being house poor, knowing an accidental pregnancy would send us into a financial tailspin. Knowing a job loss or major medical expense would probably lead to foreclosure. But it wasn't a choice we could live with.

While lurking on message boards to learn more about today's mothering culture, I "heard" from a variety of women who were violent advocates of staying at home with their children no matter what, who lamented over the current society that labeled the one-income family a luxury instead of a necessity; women who were college-educated and admitted to having the potential to garner respectable salaries yet still registered for WIC to make ends meet. Obviously I'm all about women tending to their kids full-time; it's the very reason Luke and I are waiting to try. However, the idea of middle-class suburbanites utilizing benefits originally designed to keep single parents and poverty-stricken families out of homeless shelters leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But those women aren't worried about the opinions of a judgemental twenty-something who's never had a baby. They had to make a choice they could live with, too.

What hard decisions have you made for your family? Which are you most proud of? Which do you get the most flack for? What would you change if you could?

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

OK, so I've already failed my Recommitment to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk plan, seeing as I didn't make it to the gym in time for tonight's hip-hop aerobics class. (Will I ever make it to this class?) Instead, I came home and prepared the barbequed roast beef sandwiches as directed by my online dinner menu, courtesy of Betty Crocker's famous red cookbook. It turned out pretty well, and I was delighted to see the recipe categorized as both fast AND low-fat, though I still prefer the trunk-friendly Sloppy Joe.

But enough of this nutritional nonsense. There are more important things to talk about than what's simmering on my stove. For example....

(Per Silly Hily) What is one thing that Luke does that drives you nuts and he knows it, but he still does it b/c that's "just him"?

Before I answer this question, let me be clear on one thing: when it comes to pitching in around the house, Luke is The Bomb. He cooks and does laundry and scrubs mold out of the grout in the shower without making a fuss, runs spontaneous errands without blinking an eye, and packs a lunch for me every day. I know any questionable housekeeping tendencies he might keep are due to unintentional oversight or ignorance of their existence.

That being said, he tends to splash water everywhere whenever he washes up for bed, and when he engages in his weekly hair buzzing, those hairs somehow end up on the walls, in the sink, around the ring of the bath tub, etc. Perhaps they become invisible once they're detached from his scalp. Maybe they sprout minds of their own and embark on treacherous journeys from the garbage can to the previously listed destinations, just to the spite the bitch who's trying to bring them down. Who's to say? I've spoken to Luke about this, but apparently it's a mystery to us both. He also has a bad habit of spilling coffee grounds on the floor near the garbage can.

I'm going to stop now, lest my husband reveal to the Internet any of MY bad habits, like my resistance to showering after returning home from the Y because when I wake up my hair is clean, yes, but flat and bent at odd angles, so why bother taking a shower when I'll just have to take one again in the morning to combat it all?

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

That's the million-dollar question right there. Many of you will remember the freak-out I had over Very Mom's post about possible effects of The Pill. I had been happily subscribing to this method of birth control for approximately eight years, and it only took twenty-four hours for me to swear off chemical contraception for the remainder of my reproductive years. Some might view my stance as overboard, but it's what allows me to sleep at night, so there you go.

Luckily, Very Mom's post also offered information about natural family planning via Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health. It's similar to the rhythm method in that it encourages women to watch for internal signs that ovulation is about to take place, but it differs in that it dismisses the conventionally held truth that women's cycles are typically twenty-eight days, a truth perpetuated by many doctors even today. (I'm a thirty-four dayer myself, thank you for asking.) After discussing matters with Luke, we decided to purchase the book and use condoms while I gave myself a crash course in the significance of waking temperatures and cervical fluid.

In the last seven months, my "crash course" has translated into devouring exactly fifty-two pages, two of which are dedicated to detailed graphics of male and female genitalia. Meanwhile, we continue to pump hard-earned dollahs into the convenience and protection offered by the latex industry.

I'll be the first to admit the situation's less than ideal. Condoms are for teenaged prom queens who want to safeguard their chances of pledging to an Ivy League sorority, not college-educated, properly wed DINKS with the financial means to support a child. Right? I was never fond of physical barriers to intimacy before I was married. I certainly didn't want to implement them with the man who's promised to love me for as long as we both shall live.

Here's the sticky part: As much as I desperately want to have a baby, I also have expectations I desperately want to follow in terms of child rearing. Meaning, I don't want to have to utilize daycare, which admittedly has more to do with my own needs than the baby's. I know plenty of little ones thrive in structured environments where they're regularly introduced to other children and adults besides their parents. I don't think a woman's role is serving her husband barefoot and pregnant, and I don't think a mother who works outside the home loves her children any less. My friend Gina recently opened up her own dance studio, and during our last phone conversation I remember thinking, "If I had a job like that, there's no way I'd want to leave it." Though if I did, the whole dilemma would be moot because I'd be the boss and as such could keep my offspring at my side all the livelong day.

As a writer, I'm lucky. My current job, boring as it may be at times, offers a lot of flexibility, and good thing, too, because between Luke and me, I make more money, so if we received a surprise package from Mr. Stork, and it was necessary for our well-being to do so, I could definitely work from home, even though the idea of juggling newsletter deadlines and screaming babies on a full-time basis is less than appealing. I want to change the diapers do the feedings read Beatrix Potter stories dance to Baby Mozart anytime I want to, because babies are only babies for a short time, and I don't want to miss any of it. Not one single minute.

Until we can make that happen, until we're in a place where we can bring a brand-new person into the world and raise him/her in the way we're most comfortable, I don't want to take any chances.

(Now, I could have spared you all that drama and simply said yes, we use birth control, but what fun would that have been?)

Have you and Luke found a church or a common ground in that area?

Another happy topic! Last time I mentioned this, I gave the impression of freeing myself from the perceived restriction of religious labels, opting instead to embrace all the practices in which my relationship with God can be strengthened. Today? Luke and I agree that our family's spiritual formation will most likely take place in the walls of a Protestant church, and we agree we want to have them baptized as infants in said church, but that's been the extent of it because I'm terrified of the day I can no longer call myself a Catholic. There's no other way to say it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I know Luke is the man I want as both a husband and father (not my father, you sick bastard), and I have no doubts that God put him in my life to fulfill those roles for me. Therefore, I imagine He's counting on me to find a way to make it all work. I haven't yet. And that's all I have to say about that.

Did you watch Sex and the City? If so, which character are you most like?

At last, a serious question. I was beginning to think Hilary wasn't interested in who I am as a person.

According to this survey, I take after Miranda, which I'm pretty happy about because she has the snappiest comebacks, hottest husband, and the ability to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. However, her reputation is slightly tainted in my eyes due to the name she chose for her son. Sure, it was a nice gesture to give the kid Steve's last name, but by the end of the show they were married, and even if she kept her maiden name, what about the boy? Did he remain Brady Hobbes, or did he become Brady Brady? Seriously, if anyone can shed some light on this very important subject, you'll be rewarded with dreams of furry kittens and gobs of raw cookie dough.

Of course, if you made it to the end of this post, you pretty much deserve that, anyway.

In Which I Learn My Hairdresser Is A Racist And My Brain Isn't Worth The Paper My English Degree's Printed On

Or, I'm Not So Sure The Second One Comes Off As Well In Print

Scene 1. The Salon That Must Not Be Named Because I Don't Care to be Sued, Thursday.

After weeks of split ends, Frema chances a second visit to Magda for a simple trim. (There's also about two months and three inches' worth of outgrowth, but Frema will continue to ignorance its existence until her bank account is sufficiently funded to handle emergencies unrelated to car insurance.)

Magda: So, do you live around here?

Frema: Yes. My husband and I like this area so much we'd like to buy a house here. We've even started neighborhood-shopping.

Magda: Well, it's a great place to live, except one thing. The schools in this township are horrible.

Frema: Really? I hadn't heard that.

Magda: Oh, yes. The kids get good grades and all, but there's a lot of blacks.

Frema (eyes widening): Excuse me?

Magda: This area used to be primarily white until about fifteen or twenty years ago, when blacks and Mexicans started moving in.

Frema: Well, that doesn't sound like a good reason not to send my kids here. (Notices shears poised above her tender, Hispanic scalp and chuckles nervously). I'm from Chicago. I actually enjoy diversity.

Magda: Good for you, hon!

Frema: Head explodes.

Scene 2. Frema-Useless Clutter Apartment, Sunday.

After several hours of AMC recaps, the VCR is turned off to reveal a news report about this plane crash.

Broadcaster: Forty-nine people were killed, including a couple that was married only the night before.

Frema: Oh my God, that's horrible!

Broadcaster: Yes, isn't it? In other news, Indianapolis saw more rain than it would've liked this past weekend...

Frema: Well, that was a crappy sēgue.

Luke: What?

Frema: A sēgue. You know, a transition?

Luke: You mean segway.

Frema: No, sēgue, with a long "e" sound. People on the Internet use it when they're going from one topic to another.

Luke: The hell?

Frema: Do I need to spell it out for you? (Spells it out for him.) There is no "way" in that word.

Luke: Starts to laugh while he makes a run for the dictionary. Minutes later, Frema stares in disbelief at the pronounciation key.

Frema: Well, shit, what do you know.

Luke: You really thought there was a long "e"?

Frema: I even said it that way on the phone once. Just last week, in fact.

Luke: Clutches sides, gasps for breath.

Frema: I'm an asshole.

Mr. Wife

Exciting things are happening in the Frema-Useless Clutter household as Luke prepares to go back to work full time and we begin to contemplate a day-to-day schedule that accounts for the two of us plugging away for The Man from eight to five.

While I couldn't be happier about the benefits this will bring to Luke's confidence and our quality of life, I'm also a little nervous, because for the past eleven months, I've enjoyed immensely the benefits of a stay-at-home husband, whose duties have included but not been limited to packing my lunch, cooking my dinner, washing my clothes, and rubbing my feet while I'm sprawled on the couch, one wrist fastened to my forehead in an effort to acurately portray an individual trapped in the throes of corporate agony, the other balancing a bowl of ice cream on her belly while simultaneously grabbing at the VCR remote just out of reach on the coffee table, because forty-five minutes of soap opera folly is the only way to convince me to go towards the light.

What? Isn't every husband's turn-on enabling his wife to watch AMC in her sweatpants while licking melted dairy off her chin?

On Wednesday, major changes to my Paris Hilton way of life are sure to take place. And I'm glad. Since starting my job last summer, I've been struggling with how to make the best use of my time. Working in Rensselaer, I lived a stone's throw from the college and stamped my proverbial time card at 4:30, which meant I could get home in enough time to savor the last twenty minutes of 90210 on SoapNet. Now I have an extra half-hour tacked on to my work day, and with it a half-hour commute involving highways and traffic and alternate routes, and if I leave at 5:00 on the dot, I can expect to walk through the door at 5:30, but sometimes I'll stick around to wrap up some e-mail or tweak the layout of our quarterly client newsletter and suddenly it's 6:15. Then I get home and it's time for bed. There simply aren't enough hours in the day to stimulate my brain, clean the grout in the bathtub, and make the world a better place to live in by explaining to Luke just how it came to be that Erica Kane's thirty-five-year-old abortion procedure produced a healthy baby boy.

Maybe the retiring of Luke's SAHH status is just the motivation I need to re-evaluate my time-management skills. For the first time since he moved here last September we'll have the "normal" schedule I've dreamed of, and I intend to make the most of it. First order of business? Adding some much-needed time to my afternoon. Because my responsibilities aren't directly related to or influenced by production, my boss couldn't care less about how I log my hours, so the plan is to start my work day at 7:30 and leave by 4:30, thus arriving home at 5:00 and having six hours of unadulterated leisure in which to occupy myself as I see fit. Seeing as I normally crawl out of bed at a quarter to seven and am pertetually fifteen minutes late to work, this will prove a bit of a challenge, but I made it on Friday without any problems, and even though this morning wasn't as successful, I was still turning on my computer by 7:45, which is close enough to 7:30, so there you go.

One pitfall I'm noticing already: Getting up an hour earlier means I'm hungry an hour earlier, so for the last two work days I've been eating lunch at 10:30. I'm assuming this is generally frowned upon.

Who Could Ask For Anything More?

Because of my recent raise at work, Luke's and my life has become relatively more comfortable. An extra hundred smackers every two weeks is nothing to sneeze over, and we decided to celebrate with dinner at the Outback on June 30. And Cheeseburger in Paradise on the ninth. And Bahama Breeze on the fourteenth. And Bub's Burgers the next afternoon. And Steak 'n Shake on Sunday night. Plus spontaneous trips to Barnes and Noble and Sephora (more on that next time). And as of yesterday, a Two-Adult Household YMCA membership. When balancing our checkbook last night, I was shocked to realize how much money we'd spent on pretty much nothing (except for the Y, and the Sephora purchase really was a necessity, but I'll get to that another day. One topic at a time, people!)

It was about a year and a half ago that I became more aware of money and the fact that frequent shopping sprees at New York and Company weren't going to pay off my car loan or release me from the thirty-year shackles Sallie Mae has cuffed to my ankles. Luke and I were talking about the future more often, and it suddenly hit me that houses and babies and family vacations all came with a price tag, and I was finally at the stage in my life where I needed to start making the proper financial accommodations. I was working at Saint Joe at the time making under thirty thousand a year, in all honesty a pretty good salary considering rent was under three hundred a month and my loans were content earning interest in the Land of Deferment until I graduated from DePaul. So I continued to live it up, financing a 2005 Chevy Cobalt after last year's (first) car accident and the subsequent totaling of my beloved Cavalier; by the end of my tenure at the college, I still hadn't saved a penny, as there were no match options for retirement-minded employees under twenty-five and I wasn't confident enough to select funds for a Roth IRA.

Moving to Indianapolis proved to be the push I needed to shape up my finances--a little. For one thing, my rent was almost three times higher and the cable bill jumped up a whopping twenty bucks. For the good of my grocery bill, I canceled the latter at the end of the trial run and learned a good lesson about separating needs from wants. I finally opened up a 401(k). Things were a little tight, but by that time Luke and I had agreed to live together in sin and assumed we'd experience only a couple of months of downtime until he secured full-time work in the city. Once he landed his job, we said, life would finally begin.

(That rumble in the sky you just heard was God laughing his @$$ off.)

September is fast approaching, and with it comes Luke's one-year anniversary of quitting his job at the Rensselaer Republican to come and be with me. With it I'm reminded of how much Luke and I have learned about ourselves, our relationship, and our heart's desire. It's a fascinating process, to whittle away the material fluff and figure out what you really need to make it in this world. We didn't talk about it on the Internet, but at the beginning of the year, Luke interviewed for a reporting position with a small weekly paper on the outskirts of Indianapolis. Because we'd learned how to live on my income from the lab and occasional checks from his temping gigs, we knew any job he accepted would make a huge impact on our lives. We'd bank all of his checks to cover a twenty-percent down payment on a house. Replace his '93 Lumina with a car that featured a fully functioning driver's-side door. Baby-make to our heart's content. I was barefoot and pregnant and living in a two-story brownstone before he was even offered the job.

But then he was offered the job, with a starting salary so low you'd think THEY thought he'd mistaken them for McDonald's. Factor in an hour round-trip commute on a car already on its last legs for a position he wasn't crazy about to begin with, and we found ourselves questioning just how badly we needed that money.

Luke thought about taking it. I could see it in his eyes that he was restless, that he hated temping, that he wanted to feel useful, even though I felt like I was the one taking advantage of him and his willingness to cook and launder and run errands in addition to conducting a job search, an involved activity in and of itself. In the end, though, he didn't, and every time we get down about not having a house and not being as ready for kids as we thought we were, I remember that our current situation is not a result of Luke's inability to find a job. Rather, it stems from a passionate belief that we don't have to settle for someone else's estimate of our self worth. It's OK to say thanks but no thanks, to set our standards high and hold out until they're met, because life is about more than driving a nice car and living in the suburbs and being debt-free. It's about being able to sleep at night knowing you made choices that honor your dignity as a human being. We wanted that money to enrich our life, but we didn't need it. We needed a roof over our heads, adequate health insurance, retirement and medical savings accounts (nothing screams "I love you" like "Please take care of Mommy and Daddy because we're old and sick and broke"), and one car that doesn't require major repair; we needed to get married to seal our commitment and take care of each other the way God intended. With a little planning and a lot of grace, we made all of those things happen. When Luke received his Anthem card in the mail last month after going ten months without any coverage at all, I felt like the last pieces of our foundation were finally cemented into place. We have nice clothes and good food and a little bit of savings and the means to get into better physical health. We have our family. Most importantly, we have each other, and I truly am so thankful to share each day of my life with this man I can at long last call my husband. Everything else will come in good time.

Meanwhile, if we choose to honor our dignity every once and a while with a Bloomin' Onion, ain't nothin' wrong with that. What do you think the insurance is for?

All Talk

Because after the big ole stink I made about wanting to wait to start our family, I thought I was pregnant this week. I was crampy. Gassy (and there's been no spinach dip in almost a month!). I've gone to bed the last couple of nights with painful headaches, and there have been fleeting signs of nausea, and there was that one time last month....

I thought I was pregnant and I was excited.

So we bought another pee stick, despite Aunt Flo's visit two weeks ago and the fact that I have a very recent negative already under my belt. This one produced a second negative result, which reduced me to crying just like the baby we don't have.

Luckily, Luke knew immediately how to remedy the situation:

"Want some ice cream?"

Proof enough he's the smartest man in the world.

Get On With It Already!

Holy crap! Has it really been a week since my last entry? That wasn't my intent. I'd actually begun a riveting post about the wild life and questionable times of my hair almost immediately, but Blogger thwarted my plans for posting three days in a row by once again refusing to upload my images. Then suddenly it was Saturday morning and Luke and I were running important errands like opening a savings account and seeing the new X-Men movie, which totally wasn't worth the hype and I kept referring to Ian McKellan's character as Gandolf. Sunday was Father's Day, so we spent the afternoon in Lafayette visiting Luke's parents (we saw my parents the week before), and yesterday I stayed at work until almost ten o'clock designing the lab's client newsletter, and now so much time has passed that nothing I write can in any way measure up to my absence. So, instead of continuing to tweak this follow-up, which has seriously been subjected to major editing since Friday, I'm just going to wrap it up with promises of something more coherent later.

My last entry was kind of a mess. Not in the literal sense, because for once the words I needed came when I needed them to, but emotionally. And that entry is still true. I do have aspirations for other career paths in the future, but the eventual idea is to stay home, procreate, and raise some kids who share my appreciation for sherbet, Erica Kane, and possibly world peace. That coupled with my pesky Sallie Mae loans have led Luke and I to decide that any future schooling will be paid for in cash, which in this scenario can be defined as charging a semester's worth of tuition and paying off the balance before the next bill's due. Luke's been toying with the idea of grad school a lot lately, sometimes for photography, sometimes for writing. No matter field of study he chooses, I think Luke would benefit from graduate school. If he wants it, I want it for him. And while he's not as dead-set on the whole stay-at-home-mom thing, he wants that for me, just because I want it so badly.

However, you know what else I want? To shut my big pie hole already and learn to live in the now. Why am I always ten steps ahead of myself? For years my dream has been to say "I do" to the only partner who's ever loved me for who I am, and once it happened, I couldn't wait to start whining over how weird it feels to be thisclose to thirty without a baby, and when would you like to start trying, honey? Now? How about now? Or now? How about NOW? Meanwhile, my husband is doing his damndest to find his current place in the world, whether it's school or a job or what have you, and would like to do that without the pressures of an additional mouth to feed. Isn't he lucky to have such a supportive wife?

In reading the comments from last Tuesday's post, it was PaintingChef in her infinite wisdom who reminded me that nothing should be a higher priority than my marriage. That I didn't get married because I was ready to start a family or because Luke would make a great daddy, even though I am and he will. I married him because he brings something to my life that nobody else does, and I want to do the same for him. And as wonderful as children are, their reason for existing shouldn't just be to fill a void but to thrive in the confines of a unit that was strong and healthy and loving to begin with. I owe it to Luke and our relationship to be the best wife I can be, whether or not I ever become a mother. And I owe it to my kids, so they can have in me a role model who realizes each day is a gift and should be lived to the fullest.

As I reflect on all the jobs I've held since high school, retail and professional, there's one theme that binds them all together: at some point, I've always wanted to give up. Either the job's too hard or the hours are too long or the neighborhood skank wants to rumble because she was three McNuggets short of a nine piece. When I'm near my breaking point, I suddenly don't care about gaps on my resume or how I'll make rent next month. I just want out.

Until Friday, I thought I wanted out of my job. I thought my voice wasn't being heard and my talents were being underused. But that was before my annual performance review, during which my boss came to appreciate my point of view and I came to appreciate the ten-percent pay raise that resulted from his enlightened appreciation. It's in meetings like that when you realize it's time to quit with the ragging and thank the Lord Jesus you're not making change in a drive-thru window. This job may not be My Dream, but it's certainly not a nightmare, either. It's a good administrative position in my field that offers flexible hours and an office with a window and a chance for Luke to go after his dreams for a change. It makes our dreams possible. And that's not something I'm willing to give up.

Instead of driving myself crazy with what-ifs and why-mes about religion, employment, and human beings who might one day slide out of my privates, I'm going to sit back and enjoy this down time. I'm going to read novels and learn how to cook and pick up crocheting again and pay more attention to this here blog. More importantly, I'll figure out what exactly in my diet causes me to pass gas during important meetings and how much longer I can get away with it before my coworkers realize it's me.

See? I'm growing already.

Another Anniversary

Today marks one year of cohabitation with my current company, and I'm not sure what to think about it. While the competitive wages, flexible hours, and one-hundred-percent vestment of employer 401(k) matches are to effing DIE for, they're not enough to make me happy about what I do. I'd like to blame this lack of fulfillment on the lab and the fact that my boss still doesn't know how to fully utilize my position, but the heart of the matter is I'm not sure where I belong in "the real world."

At the start of college I thought I'd be an executive powerhouse who took the subway to work and wore white tennis shoes over her tights while strutting my stuff to the office. My mom's older sister was a vice president for a national freight-train company, and she once told me about a disagreement with my uncle regarding whether or not to buy my younger cousin some insanely expensive toy for her birthday, and how she informed him that their daughter would get it no matter what. "I'll just take it from my checking account. He can't tell me what to do with my money," she said, and I was in awe. Any money my mother spent came straight from my father's paycheck. I remember wondering what would happen if my dad was killed on a firehouse run or they ever split up. How would she take care of five kids? Then and there I made a promise to myself that no matter what, I'd always be self-sufficient. No way would I allow my livelihood to be dictated by the financial generosity of my husband.

However, by the end of my first year in PR hell, I was ready to kiss off meetings; strategic plans; fundraising plans; action plans; pretentious corporate love-in plans; deadlines requiring two weeks of overtime and no fewer than eight bottles of Starbucks frappacinos to get through the nine-to-five grind. Let my aunt and other like-minded colleagues make the big bucks by working through dinner and answering e-mails before they released the first morning's pee. I had better things to do, like assume my future hubby would neither die nor leave me in the lurch and trust our combined salaries would be enough to keep us comfortable in middle class.

By that time, though, I was already halfway to completing a master's degree in writing, which, no worries, I'll just make enough moola to pay the loans off. That's the whole point of grad school, right?

But then I fell in loooove with a man who was smart and kind and funny and handsome and everything I was looking for. A man who happened to make less than me, which didn't matter until we started talking seriously about marriage and family and then I realized, holy crap, I don't want to work at all. I want to be a mother and I want to stay home, for reasons I've already stated here. And therein lies the problem.

Seeing as I've already committed the Frema-Useless Clutter household to a five-hundred-dollar monthly Sallie Mae payment for the next twenty-five years, my recent epiphany is a costly one, and I'm scared the education I've loved so much and been so proud of, the education that's not only made me a better writer but a better person, just might screw me out of accepting the only job that will ever really matter.

If I do have to work, I know there are options. I could go back to school and earn a teaching license, an idea I've tossed around since seeing my sister in action with her kindergarteners last year. I've also thought about high school guidance counseling and college admissions. (See a pattern here?) If I do have to work, there are certainly worse things in life than pursuing a career I could actually love.

But at what point does "have to" begin? If the ideal is for Luke to work while I raise our brood, what sense does it make to invest time and money into a career change, especially when we don't want to wait very long before trying for kids? On the other hand, who knows how long it'll take before we're successful? I've seen and heard tales from plenty of wonderful women who've struggled with infertility, and it's too early to tell whether or not we'll have issues of our own. If it takes years for me to have a baby, do I really want to spend that whole time in job limbo?

Which goal do I hang my hat on? What's the best way to balance living in the now and going after your dreams? And at what point do you realize it's time for plan B?

Anyone?

Thirty Days in the Marital Office

During the first weeks following Luke's and my wedding, I felt like a fraud thinking of us as husband and wife; our marriage was too new, too innocent, to be valid. Just like Jello has to sit in the fridge for a few hours before it'll assume its permanent shape, so must our relationship undergo the same process.

While I wait for time to mold our union into something less liquid-y, I think a lot about what it means to be a good wife. As a person, I thought my scorecard was pretty good: close family and friends, good job, nice car, strong belief in God, desire to make babies and improve the state of the universe. As a girlfriend, well, I patted myself on the back for that, too, taking pride in my salary for sustaining our livelihood and my unconventional attitude for letting it happen. I thought bringing home the bacon meant I was an equal contributor to our household. It was as if Ward Cleaver had staked his claim on the new millenium.

Since we've been married, I've been reading a lot of books, including one called Lies at the Altar: The Truth About Great Marriages, written by Oprah's new Dr. Phil, Robin Smith. The book uses a financial checks and balances metaphor to drive home the idea that just like a savings account, a marriage won't survive if you withdraw more than you deposit. It then challenged readers to transcribe one week's worth of their marital credit history.

My deposit? "Stayed up late to view wedding photos." Cuz, you know, I'm the breadwinner and need my beauty sleep. But even that doesn't really count, because a credit is described as something one spouse does for the other without complaint, and there may have been a "But I'm so tiiiiired" whine involved.

My withdrawals? "Didn't cook dinner." "Didn't do laundry." "Asked Luke to run boxes over to Goodwill." "Asked Luke to run to the post office for stamps." "Asked Luke for a foot massage."

Looks like Fifth Third isn't the only one who gets to harp on my @$$ for insufficient funds.

I think about how lucky I am to have Luke in my life and it hurts to breathe. Every morning he gets up to pack up my lunch. He begins his e-mails with "Hi, sweetie," and ends them with "I hope you're having a great day." He'll make a Wal-Mart run at 11:30 on a Thursday night because I forgot to buy contact solution on my way home from work. He never complains that the only dishes I make involve spinach and cheese, and when we go to sleep, he holds me as close as I'll allow, which usually isn't much, as my limbs have a mind of their own and need to be free in the event an urgent head scratch or toe stretch is required. He tells me often how proud he is to be my husband, and then I recall responses to simple requests like rubbing his temples to alleviate a headache and I'm embarassed. I can't rattle off the characteristics that comprise the perfect Eve to Luke's Adam, but I know what he's worth, and I fail to make par. My husband deserves better than eye rolls and sighs that imply my "allowing" him play Nintento DS before bed provides sufficient grounds for sainthood.

It's a good thing we'll be together the rest of our lives. I already have a lot to make up for.