What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

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.

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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.

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 celebrat