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

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?

Baby Steps Wednesday

Baby steps, indeed.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.2

I blame the absence of any truly significant weight loss this week on Luke's surprise dessert Tuesday night. The day had been going so well otherwise; me weighing in at a respectable 137.2 that morning, the two of us feasting on a light dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, my future plans of nursing a small bowl of berry rainbow sherbet before bed. Then, suddenly, I noticed the oven was on.

Surprise! Luke said. Pillsbury cinnamon bread!

Foiled again!

In an effort to remain content with eating at home, we often pick up fun breakfast items from the grocery store to have on the weekends, like muffins or cinnamon rolls. Who knew one could partake in the joy during the evening hours?

After it finished baking, Luke presented his spontaneous masterpiece on one of our largest Target dishes, along with two forks, and we delighted in the gooey, frosty goodness. Ten minutes later, Luke had stopped with the delighting; meanwhile, I was packing it away like a rabid squirrel on the cusp of hibernating for the winter. The look on my husband's face clued me in that we probably weren't meant to finish it off in one sitting.

And to think I told my new ob/gyn I was giving diet and exercise "an honest try." Ha!

My appointment yesterday ended my journey to find a doctor who could manage both the care of my nether region and the delivery of my first child before either was actually necessary. The first one I met with two Fridays ago was receptive to all of my questions, but Dr. Wonderful (do you think she'll mind if I call her that?) took a more proactive approach in providing information. She initiated conversations about office procedures, equipment capabilities (3D ultrasounds right in their office!), how to time conception, standard L & D practices, and anything else you could possibly think of; plus, the fact that she was a young, healthy woman currently experiencing pregnancy herself--she's due at the end of the month--put me at ease right away. I knew within the first five minutes I'd found the right person.

Before I left, Dr. Wonderful sent me off with a generous sampling of prenatal vitamins, and it's now starting to hit me that holy crap, I'm trying to grow a baby inside of me. For the first time in my life, I'm counting the days on the calendar in anticipation of my next fertile window, Luke and I both so excited about finally taking the next step in our relationship as a family. There's no guessing how long it will be before the little person I'm so in love with already will assume his/her rightful place in the world, but knowing that we're finally OK with putting ourselves out there, well, right now that's fantastic enough.

Not so much that I'm laying off the junk food, apparently, but fantastic just the same. I'll get there, sweet baby, I promise!

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

Wahoo! Wednesday

I did it! I lost weight! And all without resorting to bulimic tendencies.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

But don't pat me on the back just yet. Remember what I said last week about dumb luck? Well, she must've been a lady for every night of last week, because not only did I continue to avoid the gym, but Luke and I finally took official measures to axe our membership. We're both sad about it, because we really do like working out, but the motivation to get us through those blasted double doors just isn't there, and I don't want to flush another sixty-nine dollars down the toilet while we coax ourselves into a better mindset. Fortunately the Y doesn't charge registration or cancellation fees, so we can pick up where we left off any old time we want to. Which helps to lessen the blow--a little.

In the meantime, I'm going wallow in self-pity over the plethora of dental problems currently plaguing our household. You'll recall that two weeks ago a permanent crown fell out of my mouth, requiring another trip to the dentist and the refastening of my silver bling with temporary cement until he could schedule another appointment for an impression. "If it falls out again," he said, "don't worry about it. You'll be back in another few weeks and we'll take care of it then."

As luck would have it, the blasted thing DID fall out again, last Tuesday while I was at work. Because a root canal was performed on the original tooth just six months after the crown, I'm unable to detect sensitivity or pain, so I simply shrugged it off until Monday night, when a piece of said tooth broke off during a marathon viewing of the last four episodes of All My Children (Dixie is dead! Because she ingested poisoned peanut-butter-and-banana pancakes originally meant for her skanky daughter-in-law! If that's not infuriating enough, her 2006 storyline revolved entirely around finding the little girl she gave up for adoption four years ago after receiving substantial injuries from a plane crash in Switzerland and being suckered into signing away her parental rights by her doctor, who told her she was on the verge of death and hinted that Tad would resent Kate for taking Dixie's life. And then she croaks before learning her daughter is now living in PINE FREAKIN' VALLEY. Though viewers were treated to Dixie's spirit realizing the truth and blowing her daughter kisses before ascending into Heaven and flashbacks to all three of her weddings to Tad. Hiccup sob blah).

Anyway, the tooth. I tossed the fragment into the garbage can and indulged in a mini-freak out, because what if they can't save what's left? What if it's so weak and decayed that the dentist opts to pull it and drill another post into my gums? So I called his office in a slight panic yesterday morning, and Betty, the sent-from-above hygenist who held my hand and dried my tears during the whole implant procedure, assured me there were other ways of fastening the crown without replacing what little of the tooth I appear to have left. They'll assess the decay and outline my options first thing tomorrow. Because there's no better way to motivate yourself for a nine-hour work day than a consultation for hundreds of dollars of anticipated dental work, work that doesn't include the extraction of Luke's wisdom teeth OR the minor gum surgery he'll have this spring. Praise Jesus for insurance.

Moving on....

After reviewing yesterday's post, I realized that for all my talk of houses and cars and stay-at-home parenting, I neglected to address the most emotional topic of all: baby making!

Before the wedding, Luke and I had planned to start trying for kids as early as the honeymoon, so eager were we to start our family. However, when forty days passed and we confirmed I wasn't pregnant, we decided to hold off until Luke found a job and we had stabilized our finances. Once that happened, we agreed to start this summer. And even as we bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls over every other issue under the sun, this is the one plan we continue to agree on. It's the one plan that hasn't changed.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to spell that out for everyone. Maybe it's due to the fact that whenever I broach the subject of getting our ducks in a row before making The Leap, many people like to remind me that Luke and I can never adequately brace ourselves for parenthood; there will never be enough money or time or insurance or enough square footage, and we'll never have all the answers. And I know that. I have no intentions of allowing the best part of life to pass me by because I was busy worshipping a spreadsheet.

That said, I also don't like the idea that family, friends, or even blog readers might be calling me naive for wanting to buy a house or have a baby without worrying about foreclosure or having to transform one of my dresser drawers into a makeshift crib. For cripe's sake, I'm only 27 years old. My clock isn't ticking. I have not been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Waiting a few months or even a year to procreate doesn't seem unreasonable or even idealistic to me.

Not that I'm defensive or paranoid or anything. Not at all.

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.

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.

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?

In Which I Talk About Children For the Last Time Until I'm Actually Pregnant. Promise.

For the last few days, I've experienced a perpetual state of famish (famishment? famination? Who the hell knows?), which I've used as an excuse to double ice cream servings, dip into Betty's candy jar once again, and yesterday, eat two lunches. Lunch number one consisted of a sensible ham sandwich and two pieces of fruit--one to accompany the sandwich, the other intended as a mid-day snack. Somehow, I managed to eat all three items before ten-thirty, and seeing as I volunteer at a local elementary school on Wednesdays and don't step foot into the office until nine forty-five, this act is doubly impressive. By eleven-thirty I was ready for round two, so I joined the billing staff in their exploration of a new hot dog place located behind our industrial complex. After reading and seeing the eye-opening works of one Morgan Spurlock, I've sworn off major fast-food chains (except Steak 'N Shake, because their shakes are to die for and I don't want to feel guilty for suporting their efforts so I hope their quality standards are top notch) and was therefore relieved to learn the joint uses one-hundred-percent beef and makes their french fries from scratch. Literally. I saw them peel the potatoes with my own fat eyes.

You'll be happy to know that Frema's first food menu was quite a success; the sole variation took place on Saturday, as we received passes to a local amusement park as a wedding gift from my brother- and sister-in-law and spontaneously decided to redeem them. After step class last night, I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work preparing the cantonese beef chow mein recipe, which I've made once before, so at least I knew going in that the suggested thirty-five minute prep time would take no less than an hour and a half. It went pretty well, except I added four uncooked cups of rice where the book called for cooked, so after simmering on the stove in excess water the entire time it took to prepare everything else, the rice was finally deemed a bust and tossed in the trash.

There's been no menu-planning this week, as most of our dinners have included some sort of leftovers. I get paid tomorrow, though, so I'll get back on the saddle before our next shopping trip. Luke's biggest concern is buying two weeks' worth of fresh produce only to watch them spoil after a few days in the fridge, so weekly Target runs may be key to this new, organized lifestyle. How often do you all shop? What's the lifespan of your most popular non-canned, non-boxed items? Do share your secrets.

In the meantime, I'll share some of mine.

Judy, my new Internet Exercise Buddy, asked:

Which person, alive or dead, famous or not, would you most like to meet and converse with?

When I was eleven, the answer to this question was Eddie Furlong, who ROCKED as John Connor in Terminator 2 and appeared in my dreams as the boy who introduced me to my first French kiss. I'd pop in the VHS tape and spend entire afternoons rewinding his first appearance in the movie. ("She's not my mother, Todd!") The hair, so flippy! The mouth, so pouty! My mother didn't like us taping posters to the walls, so Eddie's Teen Beat spread was awarded full custody of the laundry hamper.

Alas, I'm an adult now, with a laundry basket unsuitable for pre-teen celebrity pin-ups, who doesn't follow current events very well, so there's no deep-seeded wish to meet any historical or political figures. Can I say my internet friends and leave it at that?

Which is your greatest guilty pleasure: sweet snacks or salty snacks?

Sweet snacks. Ice cream's sweet, right? I love candy, too. But is that sweet or just sugary?

Marriage-101 wants to know:

What one thing would you like to accomplish before you die?

Have a baby. Turn my pooch into a six-pack. Pay off my student-loan debt. Kick the @$$ of the acne that's plagued my face since the age of thirteen. Stay married. In that order, of course.

If you could go anywhere in the world, expenses paid, where would you go?

Somewhere hot and beachy, like Aruba or Hawaii. I'd spend my days swimming in crystal-blue water, shopping in yuppie boutiques, and eating at fancy restaurants. Absolute Heaven.

What is your dream job?

My love for writing started when I was seven, when I wrote my first short story: We'll Never Eat Candy Again. It was about two little girls who steal five bucks out of their mother's purse and spend it all on junk food at the local mom-and-pop. It was only six pages but featured a table of contents, chapter headings, and an "About the Author" section. From that point on, I told people that I wanted to be an author. And while I might not write the best-selling fiction books that little girl dreamed about, I did grow up to be a writer. I write magazine articles and relish in the byline. I publish press releases on the Internet and take pride in the compliments I receive on my writing style. I maintain this blog and experience genuine delight in sharing my silly thoughts and stories with the world. I think it's safe to say that my dream job has become my reality.

That said, my current position in the life sciences industry doesn't inspire me to my full potential, and the idea of exploring teaching or counseling positions in local school districts has intrigued me over the course of the last year. However, both of those career tracks require more education, which in turn require more money, and seeing as I plan on taking a hiatus from the work force after Luke and I have our first child, it doesn't make sense to make those investments.

(We officially settled on that last part just Monday, by the way, and I may take Lost A Sock's suggestion to request that Luke put our new agreement in writing. I'm so excited about this I could pee all over myself, even though it means holding off on trying for a year or two while we pay off the Cobalt and accumulate a twenty-percent down payment for our first house.)

Who do you think is the "sexiest man alive"? Luke does not count.

Kiefer Sutherland. Have you seen 24? His "urgent, noble widower in need of a healthy roll in the hay, because my God, faking my own death means I've been celibate for the last eighteen months" persona is sooo my type.

Until now, I've been tackling these questions in order, but in light of today's answers, Jill's question is undeniably appropriate.

What would you do if you are not able to have children?

Upon first reading this, my first instinct was to laugh. I was at home, so I turned to Luke, repeated the question, and said, "What a pointless thing to ask. Of course we're having children." And I meant it. If Luke and I can't conceive naturally or with the aid of fertility drugs, we'll go the adoption route. Somehow, someday, we will have a child, even if it's years from now, even if it costs a lot of money, even if we have to steal someone else's. (I hope I didn't say that out loud just now.) There's no doubt in mind. I will be a mother, and Luke will be a father.

I know that's not what Jill meant, though, so I'll rise to the occasion and offer a more direct response.

First of all, if I couldn't bear a child, I'd be devastated. One of the things that most excites me about having a baby is producing a human being who'll bring together the best of what Luke and I have to offer. My curly dark hair, Luke's model-friendly height, our shared admiration for Zach Braff. I want a fat belly to rub my hands over that's not a byproduct of gas or too many Blizzards. I want to use one of our awesome baby names and push something through my vagina. Having to bid farewell to all those wants would be really, really hard.

If we couldn't have children by any means, though, it would admittedly be a lot easier to iron out the logistics of my life. Money would no longer be an issue, so I'd probably go back to school. I'd search for a job more emotionally satisfying and not place so much weight on the potential salary. I'd hire a personal trainer to whip me into the best shape of my life. Luke and I could travel to exotic places without depleting anyone's college fund. And we'd be the most attentive aunt-and-uncle team you ever saw.

It's not a life I would pray for in a million years, but it's a damn fine plan B.

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.

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?

Fasten Your Seatbelts, 'Cuz You In For A Wild And Incoherent Ride

I feel like there's a lot for me to talk about: losing myself in memories as I sort through pictures for a wedding slideshow. Digesting the results of my cholesterol test. Painting my toes for the first time since June. But all I can think about are babies.

On January 19, I stopped taking the pill. I stopped because Luke and I want to prepare my body for some baby-making magic. I stopped because this post had me sobbing at my cubicle, horrified at the possibility that in my quest to prevent pregnancy I'd actually terminated one. Never mind that one of us is looking for work and we're not married yet; hell, we don't even know when we want to start trying. I stopped because I couldn't live with myself otherwise.

Seeing as I'm already five steps ahead my biological clock, I figured, why not jump over a few more flights by opening up the whole "stay at home or go to work" can of worms? It's all around me. I see truly wonderful women and how their lives have been transformed by the decision to raise their children full time. I read stories from courageous working mothers who place their children in day care to provide a life they wouldn't be able to otherwise.

So when Dooce wrote this post on Monday in response to a "Good Morning America" guest who declared that children with stay-at-home mothers are no better off than those placed in child care, I felt comforted that I wasn't the only one who couldn't erase this concept from my head. Heather opened up comments for the first time in over a year to encourage feedback, and to date more than fifteen hundred people have shared their experiences about the pros and cons of both. Not one to pass up an opportunity to share Deep and Meaningful Thoughts, I posted a comment that sort of attempted to kind of answer the following questions Heather posed:

• Did your mother stay at home? Did she work? How did you feel about what she did?
• If you could change anything about what she did what would that be?
• What do you hope your daughters grow up to do?

I present to you my Deep and Meaningful reply, which really wasn't Deep or Meaningful but sort of rambled on about baking cookies and selling my soul to Sallie Mae.

During my childhood, my father worked odd sorts of jobs--cab driver, flower guy on the highway--until he became a firefighter for the Chicago Fire Department when I was seven years old. In addition to this, he spent his time away from the firehouse doing construction jobs on the side. And for 95 percent of this, my mother stayed home. Just last fall she took a job with my youngest sister's former elementary school as a bus monitor. She works from about ten to four and loves saying that she has somewhere to go during the day and that she can finally contribute to their finances.

When I was younger, our house (apartment, actually) was the one where all the neighborhood kids wanted to be because my mom was one of the rare few who stayed home. She made cookies, cooked dinner, knew our friends and our schedules. In high school I was a good kid but got pretty wrapped up in my first real boyfriend, and if it wasn't for her constant nagging on where I was, who I was going to be with, were parents going to be around, etc., there's a good chance I'd be the mother of a 10-year-old child by now, fathered by a man who was unemployed and still living in his mother's basement by the time I finished my bachelor's degree.

When I was younger, I always thought my mom stayed home because my dad wanted her to. It wasn't until I was older that I realized she was exactly where she wanted to be. However, since they had me so young (19) and struggled for so long, neither of them had the chance to further their educations, which is why they're both so adamant about all of us kids going to college. I wish BOTH of them could've done that.

My fiancé and I are getting married in May and know we want to start our family soon. I have a master's degree and job that has great pay and benefits, but I want to be a SAHM so badly I could cry. However, I'm not willing to sacrifice everything to do that. I want to have the means to be able to help them pay for college so they're not drowning in debt after graduation. I'm paying over five hundred dollars a month to Sallie Mae because my parents had four other mouths to feed in addition to mine and there was no extra money for stuff like that. I'm not angry about it, but that doesn't mean I want my kids to be in the same position. Also, I want Luke and I to have a retirement account. My parents have always lived paycheck to paycheck, no savings, so they don't have anything but my dad's pension to depend on. They're nervous about that. I don't want that to happen to Luke and me.

Once they actually exist, I hope my children have the means to make the best choices for their families, whatever those choices may be. And I really, REALLY hope they aren't saddled with debt. :)

I know. A half-hour for THAT?

It wasn't until after hitting "Publish" that I realized these paragraphs in no way came close to describing how much I love and respect my parents for their decision to place us first--above new cars, fat savings accounts, trendy clothes, nights out, even above their own free time, so that we could experience the kind of life they thought we deserved. How amazing.

Because I read so many "mommy blogs," I also read a lot of comments from women defending the side of the fence they live on, whether they stay at home or go to work or breastfeed or bottlefeed or cosleep or whatever, because no matter what choice you make, someone is going to damn you. And I'm torn. I believe nobody will love and care for Lucy like I do, but it won't kill her if someone else is in charge of changing her diaper from nine to five five days a week. That she's only little once but will need me more when she's in fifth grade and offered a cigarette, or when she's seventeen and unsure if she wants the guy she's been dating for six months to be her first. I think some families complain they can't afford to live on one income because they're afraid of life without two cars or TiVo, but I also think Lucy should be able to earn her bachelor's degree without having forty thousand dollars of debt to her name. Five or ten? No problem. But not forty.

To anyone still reading, I apologize, because I'm sure after thirteen paragraphs you rightfully expected to glean some interesting philosophical insights. I don't have any interesting philosophical insights. I don't even have kids! What I do have are overwhelming emotions that are very possibly the result of my first chemical-free period in six years and the burning desire to be a mother. But not just any mother. A good mother. A loving mother. Someone like MY mother.

We'll see.

This One's For The Children

Lately I've gotten into the habit of thinking about my children--not children I have right now, of course, but the ones I hope to produce someday. Except less about the actual kids themselves and more about the material items I intend for them to inherit, items that will provide them with both a rich family history and tangible keepsake of A Mother's Love. In January, when Luke and I ordered pictures from Dan and Samantha's wedding, three wallet-sized orders were placed for pictures featuring the two of us, the newlyweds, and my entire family specifically for inclusion in Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan's baby books. When Luke's brother and sister-in-law offered us prints from their daughter's first-year photo shoot, I requested four; one five-by-seven for framing and three wallets for possible scrapbooking projects. In both scenarios, three seemed like a good number because that is the maximum capacity I've set for my womb, and naturally the best representation for that would be two girls and a boy because I'm better with girls' names. Even the possibility of a fourth throws all my plans out of wack, because THAT kid would have to steal my five-by-sevens and therefore come across as Mom and Dad's favorite. Perhaps the others could be appeased with Mommy's old diaries--who WOULDN'T be excited to know that the woman who gave them life used to make herself throw up?

Anyway, last night was relatively tame for Luke and me, so I figured it was about time to start filling out the engagement book we received from the wonderful Lost A Sock at the beginning of the year. I imagined myself writing pages about the start of our romance; pasting in photographs from our formative days; transcribing sage advice from family and friends who know us best. That is, until I actually put pen to paper. Then I was all, "Mommy is a freakin' idiot."

My first mistake? Messing up the "B" in my non-Internet first name. THE FIRST LETTER, people, and I had already doomed the entire book. In my signature B--as in signature standard, not signature hand-writing--the two vertical buttocks are interlocked tightly together with a perky little loop similar to that of a bunny-eared shoe lace. However, this B was wildly out of control, as if each buttock were experiencing some sort of hive-inducing allergic reaction to the other.

To make matters worse, I have the brilliant notion to fix the B by tracing over it several times, which not only doesn't bridge the gap but instead plumps up the right vertical buttock, which is just plain embarrassing to the left one. It's as if the pen was possessed with the penmanship of a nine-year-old boy who sees dead people.

Anyway, I'm disheartened but determined to press forward with the Creating of the Special Memories. The middle of the first line is divided with an "and," so I write our names in the appropriate spaces, tossing in an ampersandish symbol for good measure. I get to the second line but can't figure out what it's for, so I scribble in our wedding date. Then I get to "who were married on the ____ " and the lightbulb goes off, and I shout, "Aw, f*&^."

At this point I have a few options:

1) Invest in a bottle of white-out and get cracking so that Amelia, Lucy, and Nathan don't think their mommy is an idiot who can't follow even the simplest of instructions.

2) Buy a new copy of the journal and start over, because everyone deserves a white-out-free engagement book.

3) Leave the book as is and spend the rest of my life making it up to them.

Food, Glorious Food

Every Thursday at work, the lab and non-lab employees are united by one common goal: corporate take-out.

Every Thursday between the hours of eight and ten-thirty, approximately thirty orders are placed for foodie no-nos like high-school style pepperoni pizza, barbequed ribs, quarter pounders with cheese, beef manhattans, and chicken fried steak sandwiches with patties equivalent to the circumference of a basketball with some local diner-food type place. By noon, the guilty-pleasure goodness arrives in droves, each order protected by the sanctity of a styrofoam doggie-bag, and the smells permeate the entire building, announcing its presence better than a loudspeaker page ever could.

I rarely wait until noon to eat--I've usually started munching on the pretzel logs or fruit snacks meant to accompany a sandwich by nine--but yesterday when the clock struck twelve I was feasting over Campbell's Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup in the break room with a colleague who recently graduated from my last place of employment and just might be my only work friend. Anyway, it was me and my soup and Marissa and her tuna and we could do nothing but salivate over the greasy deliciousness surrounding us on both sides. When lunch was over, I was still hungry, and wondered what harm there would be in dashing over to the nearest White Castle to order a cheeseburger. There's only about a pinky finger's worth of meat on those damn things and the price of one could be paid for with the pennies in my pocketbook. How bad could that be?

Somehow I resisted the urge, and fought the bad voices again when I just happened to pass the vending machine that I didn't just happen to pass at all, because it's actually nowhere near my cubicle, but I still managed to hit C5 for Rold Golds instead of D3 for the Snickers I really wanted.

Since I was informed of my slightly high cholesterol in December, Luke and I have done a good job of keeping healthier foods in the house. We bake instead of fry the majority of our meals, and he makes a special point to include some sort of fruit or vegetable with dinner, something we weren't so good about before. But it's been really hard, and today it hit me how just much pleasure I get from the act of eating. I may not like a lot of stuff, but if I enjoy something, it's hard to digest it in moderation. A half-gallon of ice cream doesn't stand a chance in our freezer because I'll smush seven scoops' worth into each bowl I have. The idea of spinach dip as merely an appetizer is a foreign concept to me, and I'll eat it until the gas bubble in my stomach says it's time to head to the bathroom. Bacon isn't a side; it's the stuff that the best of sandwiches are made of, sandwiches that I don't bother to clutter with lettuce or tomato because they get in the way of the bacony goodness and besides I don't like lettuce.

I was supposed to have a cholesterol follow-up last Friday but cancelled it because of some glitches with my new HSA; now I've got another week and a half to make even more of an effort to cleanse my body of all the fatty foods I stuffed myself with prior to Christmas. I've heard from countless individuals about how just adding oatmeal to my diet should do the trick, but never in my life have I tasted such a heavy, lumpy, tasteless food, no matter how many spoons of cinnamon sugar are shoveled in there. Luckily, God invented Cheerios, which I like just fine, and we've drastically cut down on our meals out, but I'm still scared to see the results. Not because I'm afraid I'll die a premature, artery-clogged death, but because if it hasn't gone down, my doctor will propose medicine, which will lower my cholesterol but also eliminate any immediate plans to get pregnant, and while we're not trying now, we will sometime, whether it be in January 2007 or this August or at the Lees Inn at eleven fifty-seven p.m. on the night of May 12. Anyway, I don't want us to put off our hopes for a baby because the new Mrs. Fatty McFatterson (yes, I'm keeping my name) (no I'm not but I don't want you to think I'm implying Luke is MR. McFatterson) can't keep her damn hands off the Breyer's. Definitely good motivation.

But it's hard just the same.

Honey, We're Home

This was my thought when Luke and I returned from a weekend trip up north, the first in a series of four, as there are baby showers to cry over (quick shout-out to Molly and baby Jack!), Chuck E. Cheese parties to attend, turkeys to eat, and parental birthdays to celebrate. And as wonderful as all of those things are, there's still nothing like unlocking the door to your apartment, tossing your duffel bag over the thresh hold, and breathing a sigh of relief that you're finally off the road and alone with the one you love.

However, before heading home, the two of us ventured to Super Target and obtained our first "our," an "our" that, prior to Sunday night, was neither his nor mine nor a hand-me-down from a sibling nor a rental car from Enterprise: our first Christmas tree. It's not very big--only four-and-a-half feet and most likely a distant relative of Charlie Brown's little friend--but there's something particular about this "our" that brings home the realization that, wedding rings or not, we have made a home together. I get chastised for picking at the shredded cheese originally meant for tacos, and my disdain for all bread that is not Mother's All Butter will one day be the reason why I'm still single. Until then, we'll continue to argue over whether or not Clorox disinfectant wipes are any better than a roll of Brawny and a bottle of Windex.

This Christmas, the stockings won't be hung at "my" apartment, and there won't be lights in the windows at "Luke's." Instead, we'll be choosing Christmas cards and buying presents and decorating our tree with ornaments that will one day spark countless arguments between our children, all of whom will no doubt fight to the death for mementos from the first Christmas Mom and Dad spent under the same roof. And when we run out of ornaments, they'll have to settle for our vault of stories, stories about how their father used to wait in the wings for me to return from work so he could take candid shots like this one in the hallway:

 

...and about how Mom was so excited to start a family with Dad that she cried over other people's babies. Then the youngest one will snuggle into my arms and poop in my lap. Ah, the good life.

I can't wait.

Temperature Spike

Like a volcano, it lay dormant for months, patiently waiting to attack the vessel that is Frema. But the Baby Fever, it can no longer be contained.

I was doing so well, too. Since I moved to Indianapolis in May, I've paid regular visits to Matt, Patty, and their newest addition, thus curbing my desire to be a full-time mom. However, in the last week, there's been the birth of Noah, three baby-sitting shifts with Anna, and this shocking revelation. For cripe's sake, I thought the man was infertile. How much more is a girl who's already named her children supposed to take?

I know it's coming. Luke and I are doing great, and though we're not officially engaged yet, there's already been discussion about having our wedding next summer. And still, I'm ten steps ahead of myself. How long will Luke and I wait before we start trying? What if we have trouble? How would I feel about never being pregnant? What if I CAN get pregnant but need a C-section? If I decide not to breastfeed, would my love for my baby appear less than unconditional? How many children can we afford on one income? How would I feel placing my kids in day care?

Makes your head hurt, doesn't it?

This last picture was taken yesterday night and is the epitome of what I believe motherhood to be. Yes, I know it's not all sunshine and roses; I grew up t