Flare For The Dramatic

As you know, I'm nesting. Nesting entails cleaning everything out of our already extremely tidy and tiny studio flat. But not just the closets, cupboards, and shelves! Oh no, also the few keepsakes I tote around. For instance, my Tide detergent box of notes.

I have saved every note, card, and letter, every piece of paper scribbled back and forth upon by two friends during class, every address, every post-it hello, every piece of personal post I have ever received since 1998. It's a lot. And my Tide box has been mostly full for well over 2 years. But still, every time I get a card or a letter? It gets stuffed in the box.

Then I got married. And am now having a baby (it's unbelievable how many cards and letters you get for those two events). So my Tide box could no longer function as the container for all my correspondence - unless I threw some things out. Now, I did not count how many items were once in that orange and yellow box - but it was a lot. Remember when you used to fold notes up into cute little boxes or hearts or "pull tabs" or cats or frogs or houses? Well just think of how many of those little notes would fit into an old Tide detergent container when pressed. It's a large number. So, I had to throw some out.

I have always avoided throwing notes away, partially because it's hard to read about some of the issues I was facing and the things my friends were dealing with then decide what is worth keeping and what isn't. So, I finally undertook that task. It turns out? It is much easier to throw things away than I had imagined. A lot of them were just one big dramatic slur. I discovered that I had no desire to keep a majority of my notes. Some of them? Were great. Hilarious and full of love from one friend to another, but a lot of them were just permeating meaningless back and forth. And those aren't the memories I want to keep.

I definitely had favorites:
"I am writing this to you up against a window. While having sex. With an albino midget wigger."
"I'm applying to be your love slave... I don't mind working nights and weekends."
"If pineapples could had wings and had intelligent thought, where would they fly to?"
"It is the year of the dragon (who knows actually) and I can't wait to release my beast of a dragon."

And I kept quite a bit of what was there. Most of the cards and a handful of the notes. My Tide box is now about half full, just waiting for more letters from family and friends. From my husband and cards from my little Critter. I'm excited to fill it up again, but with happier and healthier words. All those letters brimming with the dramatic? I am no longer close with most of the authors. Not because they aren't good wonderful people and not because we didn't make fun memories. But because I don't want or need drama in my life. I am creating a tiny little Creature who will absorb all my time and energy in the best way possible. I don't need to be distracted people who feel their every issue is bigger than that. I want to devote my stress to the good things in life, nothing that brings me down.

If you don't want drama in your life, it won't be there. When you finally let your life be about more than your passing issues and let those around you know that you're not interested in being their vent about selfishness, that's when you gain. As much as it might sting to lose those people at first, it becomes a relief. - What I'm not saying is "cut them off." You should never do that to someone. But you should step back from anyone who puts their needs before the rest of the world. Let them know you're there for them if they ever really need you, and make sure you let them know when they ask for you and it's not something earth shattering.

Surround yourself with people who can see the bigger picture. Who value others as well as themselves and view friendship as a two way street. Be selfless instead of selfish and never stop being amazed at how much bigger the world is in comparison to you.

Life Hydroponic

I made a promise, long ago, that I was not permitted to mock Twilight until I tried it.

(Kids, that's how you get hooked on drugs! Just say no to the needle and Twilight!)

So, I read the books. I'm a fast reader, it drives my husband nuts, and I will dive into any book I pick up off the shelf with love and enthusiasm from cover to cover. But therein lies the problem with reading Twilight. I have to want to read a book, which is why my teachers hated me so much in school. It took me nearly 2 weeks to get through Twilight, book freaking one! - and this coming from someone who is one of those irritating people who read the Deathly Hallows in under ten hours. I can therefore say, with experience and whole heartedly:

Stephanie Meyer is the worst author to ever have been published.

Now, I can go into great lengths about how much I absolutely loathe these books, but I won't. Because that would be a very long and angry blog. To sum up? She writes at a third grade level about issues third graders should know not of. And, of course, there is the issue of dear Bella being the main character (I have similar issues with Sookie in True Blood). Anyway, I made this promise and I have kept this promise. I have painfully pulled myself through four books and three movies of absolute torture. To be fair, I prefer the movies. They don't take as long to get through, and I don't have to read Stephanie Meyer's horrid style. Sure, Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson are awkward and almost painful to watch, but I have a feeling that might just be the script.

Now, I am finally embarking on the fourth film. To my deepest displeasure, it is not the last leg of my Twilight torture, but hopefully I can find some strange redeeming quality? I do enjoy Alice and Jasper throughout the books, so perhaps there will be much of them and little of everyone else - doubtful, having read the book, but I'm still hopeful.

Moving on... I don't believe I remember to blog about the fact that I passed my gestational diabetes test - with flying colors, I might add. My hemoglobins are normal! Huzzah. In other pregnancy news, you are no longer told that a half a glass of wine is okay during your third trimester! Uhm excuse me, medical professionals, that is what gets most of us moms through those first two obnoxious trimesters. I'm not saying I'm an alcoholic and I gotta get me some booze, I'm just trying to enjoy some of the simple pleasures of life again. Seeing as I'm not allowed to play any sports or do any extreme yoga, eat sushi, have mixed drinks, eat lunch meat, lie on my back or on my stomach, stand or sit for too long, wear any of my normal clothing - and one million other things - the least you could do would be to let me know I can have half a glass of wine maybe once a week with my husband. Evil has come into the hearts of our hospital's staff, pure fucking evil.

Anyway, possibly every adult woman I have ever met has whined about how difficult it is to keep basil alive. I would like to point out that all these women are liars. Basil? Is difficult to kill.

Look at it! So pretty! Mark and I needed basil about 3 months ago for something or other and we literally could not find any basil at the grocery except starts. So we bought it, because it was the only basil in the store, and brought it home. After using what we wanted, I didn't want to just throw away perfectly good basil, but it seemed weird to put something with roots into a refrigerator. So I took one of the glasses Marko made (from a wine bottle, but that will be another DIY day), put some water in it and let it sit. Three months later? It's obviously doing well. It's currently looking a little sparse because we've made pizza twice in the last week and we typically use basil for the sauce and for on top with cheese! I really have no idea what anyone was talking about when they said it's difficult to keep basil alive. I can't seem to get rid of mine! Which lead to green onions in water, these ones are a little older and recently chopped up, but often times we have green onions growing halfway up the window.

Now I'm curious as to what else only needs water and sunlight, because taking care of these puppies is easy. They sit right above the sink so I see them everyday and can give them water when they need it, I think we are going to put the green onions in a bigger glass, maybe like the one the basil is in. It runs out of water faster and sometimes I miss it because of the cloudy quality of the glass. Anyone else a hydroponic gardener and have some ideas about what you can keep in acqua?

Rhubarb Chicken Sausage and Fresh Squeezed Lemonade

New addition to Where In The World - house rose posts! Why? Because I am the vagabond house rose, but am currently not vagabonding. Hopefully soon, but not currently. And so that leaves us with just house rose-ing.

In totally unrelated news, I literally just watched a beautiful sunny day become a lightning storm! One of the top ten reasons I love living in the countryside? You can see, hear, and smell a storm coming. And witnessing a storm come in? Is one of the things that should be on your bucket list.

So best friendling, Kendall, brought me two merry gifts yesterday when we met for coffee! An adorable outfit for Critter (it has duckies) and a whole lot of rhubarb. Then came the wonderfully interesting question - what does one do with rhubarb other than make Strawberry Rhubarb Pie? Answer? Have a fuck ton of fun.

My husband? Is a chef. I don't mean he likes to cook, I mean he is a chef - it was once his occupation. So when he cooks? It's an elaborate delicious ordeal. We shop for specific ingredients and the whole kitchen becomes slave to one meal. Two sinkfuls of dishes and a hot mess afterwards, it is entirely worth it. I am not a chef. I am a cook. I love to cook and I love to bake even more (to the chagrin of my husband as he claims his belt line suffers), but I am no chef. I typically use about three dishes when cooking, two if I can get away with it. And I cook from the cabinet and the fridge. What needs to be eaten and what can I create from it? Answer part one: Rhubarb. Answer part two: No idea.

(beautiful blue streak of lightning + thunder)

And so I googled. And pinterested. And searched my cookbooks and the internet in vain. I didn't have any pork and even if I did want to venture out of my bubble to get some? We only have one car and my husband was currently using it some 15 miles away at work. What I did have was chicken sausage. Purchased at Trader Joe's for the incredibly mean price of $2.99 for 12 links, I had a starting point. Rhubarb is good with cinnamon and so are sweet chicken sausages, go.

I cooked the chicken sausage and pulled it out of the pan in order to saute some veggies in the sausage oils, cause that's yummy! My lovely pan had onion, orange bell pepper, zucchini, and Kendall's rhubarb - but you could add whatever veggies you're most fond of. I figured I might add a little butter if the oils from the chicken sausage weren't enough, but it ended up being fine. After they were all heated up, I put a lid on that sucker and let them cook.

Then, like a good Asian, I put some jasmin rice in the rice cooker to give my veggies and chicken a nice bed to lay on (beds are important when cooking - or something). Once the rhubarb was mushy, I added a touch of salt and several shakes of cinnamon. I thought about adding a little sugar to even out the super tart of the rhubarb, but decided I could always go back and do that later if I wanted to. I threw the chicken sausage back in and let everything heat up and mix together until my rice was finished. And bam. Rhubarb Chicken Sausage over jasmin rice.

I don't mean to brag about how awesome I am, but it was delicious and I am awesome.Very North African with the cinnamon and the tart over rice. But my wonderous meal needed a thirst quencher! And I had been meaning to make lemonade for about a week... sometimes I forget what we get from Foley's. I also added a lime, because that sucker was turning into stone.

Now, in order to make a full pitcher of lemonade, you need 4-5 normal sized (not gargantuan) lemons. You do not need any more than that. I learned this the hard way, so please just trust me. This probably won't surprise you, but I like to do things the old fashioned way - which means I refuse to own a juicer. Hand squeezed is probably nine hundred million times better than anything your juicer can come up with, just saying. I get that they are an awesome invention and my bestie, Wesley, has one that he makes rather strange, but good, juices with. However, they got nothing on fresh hand squeezed. 

Plus, it's just more fun and interactive. You can only do about 1 1/2 lemons at a time in that little dish, but it has a very convenient spout (compliments to Sur La Table, Marko's favorite kitchen store)! 

Now add some local honey to give Critter all of the allergens needed to keep away allergies! Should I probably have gone with agave syrup, which everyone seems to have jumped all over as "healthy?" Maybe. But I didn't have any and I love to support my local businesses. How much you put in is totally up to your sweet tooth.

I forgot to take a picture of how much lemon juice there actually is versus water - but it's a little to a lot. That's a regular sized glass pitcher that ended up being full to just below the spout. I even ended up adding more water to mine this morning because I did five lemons and a lime. Sometimes I add whole strawberries, mint, basil... I even thought about using more of Kendall's rhubarb, but decided that would probably lead to adding more sugar. I never ever ever blend them with the lemonade though. They can steep and give off flavor. If it's mint or basil, I might slap them to break the leaves open, but I never cut them up and I never blend them in. That's gross and does not belong in my lemonade.

Anyway, my North African tasting meal was so yummy! As is the lemonade, of which I am drinking right now. Mark had some once he got home and we both lamented our lack of beer. It was the perfect meal to go with beer. Not for me, obviously, but that is a whole different lament.

Cheers!

Fat Rain

Hallo, Nesting! (picture/hear Hannah Hart in your head) I have so looked forward to your arrival and now you are here. Precious. I love the nesting, however, it does make it very difficult to concentrate on anything else. You want to talk to me about my day? I want to go home and reorganize my closet. What am I up to these days? Well, I - am just thinking about cleaning the carpet, so I really don't have an answer for you. Stop asking me questions and just let me wreak uncluttering havoc on my home!

Possibly the largest benefit from my overwhelming need to absterge, other than my neat home, is work. I work in an environment where my overly efficient pregnant self is exceedingly helpful. I get everything done in a timely manner and am on top of dates and times and programing and website upkeep and God knows what else. It's almost irritating, to be honest. Things don't take me as long as they normally do - which would be great, except I'm paid by the hour. My prompt pregnant mannerisms are depleting my paycheck. If only I had less scruples and could lie about my hours... but I work for a church and I feel like that's cheating. So, instead! I am making up stuff to do! Like working on things a month in advance and reorganizing all the files in the computer! Golly gee!

I'm listening to Britney, don't judge me.

Here's the issue lately: I want to be taken seriously. Seriously. Stop asking me if I'm ready to take care of an infant, then laughing and patting me on the head. I am far more prepared for 3 hour sleep intervals than I was to multiply my pants size, so shhhhhhhhhhhh. And while I realize the average childbearing age is rising, there was a time when being "16 and pregnant" was not news. Because it was normal. Now, I'm not advocating teenage pregnancy, there is something to be said about our generation maturing later. But for serious people - stop your judging! No judgey!

That "no judgey" line doesn't just apply to chastisement from older people, it also applies to all those young people who get irritated and uppity about their friends getting married and having babies. Do I judge you for going to club until 4am to "dance up on some honeys?" No. Well, sometimes. So I need to take my own advice! Live and let live, humans. I'm happy being married and preggo. And I'm happy for you if you're happy not remembering your Friday nights. Do I think you're nuts? Absolutely. But I'm overjoyed that you're having a good time, bro. Let me have mine.

Speaking of myself, my good friend Wynn found this gem and it made her think of me:
http://sadiedear.blogspot.com/2012/03/peek-inside.html
That, friends, is the nicer, more politely spoke, glasses wearing version of me with a better laid out blog. Have I offended you lately? Read her sweet verbage instead of my harsh and overexcited tones until you feel like we can be friends again. In all seriousness though, it's a cute blog.

In other news, the weather... yah.

I am not a multitasker. I always put that I am on resumes, but it's recently come to my attention? That I am a liar. I wasn't intentionally misrepresenting myself - I was misunderstanding myself. I thrive under high amounts of pressure and do well with lists, but that's not the same thing. Once I start a project, I am able to put it away and start/finish another, but I am not able to do them simultaneously. My ability prioritize well and do excellent work under duress lead me to believe myself a multitasker. Funny how you're never really done learning about yourself...

Marriage? Continues to be awesome. I married the anxious version of myself - right down to the curly hair (I keep praying that our child will have Mark's hair rather than mine, his is so nice and soft! Mine is just unruly.). We have deep lengthy conversations about world issues and make sex jokes, we watch Dr Who, have on going Canasta games to 50,000 points, Pinterest shamelessly, make delicious home cooked meals (on tonight's menu? Doughnuts, son!), laugh until it hurts, spend sunny days laying together in the hammock, fold laundry, slow dance in our kitchen, take long showers, and just love one another. It's disgustingly wonderful.

I love fat rain drops, it's one of those times being grossly overweight is incredibly beautiful.

Pregnancy continues to improve. I like nesting, nests are cool. I spend probably too much of my time daydreaming about baby, but I don't mind. I love the little (and big) kicks and that I can watch my belly move. I love the sleepy joy that overtakes me when I think about becoming a mom. Third trimester is definitely the best. 11 weeks to go as of Saturday? I think so. Strangely, thinking of it in terms of weeks? Makes the last leg seem a little shorter than thinking about it in terms of months. Mark keeps forgetting that the month of July exists, so every time someone reminds him it's not just June and then August and baby is here? He gets all pouty. It's pretty funny.

I'm really excited to teach Marko about babies. It's been so much fun to go through this process with him. He still firmly believes that our critter will come out and be able to go spear-fishing with Daddy and eat homemade baby food. I'm hoping reality will set in once August is here, but honestly? I wouldn't be surprised or disappointed if it doesn't. He's going to be such a good father, I married a good one.

Okay, love you, bubye!

Loving A Wild Thing

Beauty isn't in the eye of the beholder, it's everywhere. It just takes someone to behold it. Sometimes I dream in black and white, other times in color, but I think my favorite is when I dream and everything is tinted green. Walls, flooring, drapes, furniture, even the light spectrum themed forest. People talk about rose colored glasses, but I only see in shades of green. It brings me absolute, consuming joy. I've been weird lately, thinking a lot about the two/three years or so I spent pretty much functioning alone. I had friends, but no one really close to me. I was busy travelling, figuring out who I was, where I was going. I kept in touch with people, but intamacy was somewhat absent from the world I created. I had journals and blogging, I read books and thought up intricate plans for whatever was next, I listened to Putumayo and spoke in languages I only had a minor grasp on. It was a beautifully lonely time for me. I almost miss it, but then I realize that isn't what I miss. What I miss is embracing that loneliness with warmth and affection. Being alone takes a lot of work and even more work to enjoy it without letting it drag you into dark places. After some serious work? I accomplished living in the contentment of being lonely. Spending quite a bit of time on my own in the evenings these days means that I am facing that loneliness I once pressed into happily with an awkward sort of side hug. The kind you are supposed to give to people it's "inappropriate" to hug full frontally (which, for the record, a side hug is not any "less appropriate" - just more awkward). I'm working on making it more natural, slowly but surely... Shifting gears. I? Do not have gestational diabetes! What. Up. After a month of fretting about it and four days of torturing myself with the possibilities, there is nothing much wrong with me - aside from the usual nuerosis. I do have Moon River and the fire escape scene from Breakfast at Tiffany's playing over and over again in my head (I assume that if you don't know what I'm talking about you will run to the DVD store and purchase a copy to watch or http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7SI7N22k_A - but I'm disappointed either way that you didn't already know). I love that scene. It's the only time Audrey Hepburn ever sings for herself in a film. Happy sigh. Back to baby related things, our little one continues to kick and move. We won't hear his/her heartbeat again until June something, but after that? We will probably be visiting every two weeks instead of once a month. I'm not terribly excited about the next visit. They will just weigh me (which is depressing) and then take my heart rate (which couldn't be better) and finally let me hear little creature's heart (which is the only fun part and only lasts one minute). Other than that, they will ask me questions to which I will give near meaningless answers and ask if I have anything to ask them. Mark will probably jump in at that point with his myriad of worries and woes, which I'm grateful for. I can never think of anything to tell or ask a doctor. I always forget when I am sitting there with those high ceilings and blah colored walls with diagrams of my insides plastered to the doors and cabinets. I can only think about how I want to hear the heartbeat and go home. Mark is better at remembering every complaint or thought I've had about baby and baby related things over the last month. I suppose that's why I married him. I'm meant to be writing more, but I'm never sure what to write about these days. The iPad is too bright and I have too many thoughts running through my head, the baby is kicking and I would rather write with a pen... I'm too distracted. All the time. By everything. It's useless to try and do anything with me these days. Some yoga, old movies, and foreign music. Maybe Criminal Minds and getting pen all over my hands, some books, some sodoku, some cooking and cleaning... I'm kind of just floating on through. It's nice enough, but I do wish I could focus on one thing or another. Pregnancy brain is real. Now I'm too distracted to even finish, oh well. I think I'll watch Breakfast at Tiffany's instead. Bye, Fred Baby.

Captain America

Fade in on a girl...

First and foremost, H&M has a maternity line. Why did no one inform me of this?! I found it on accident whilst looking for baby clothing. In case you're wondering, their baby clothing is absolutely terrible. But the maternity wear? Despite it not even being a large section, I could very possibly go broke there. Go check it out.

On to the main events...

I recently had a friend tell me that Captain America was their least favorite comic film and least favorite Avenger. I very nearly took this as a personal offense. Steve Rogers has come to rival Batman for me in the comic world. Some of you who know me a little better might ask, "Really? Captain America? Since when is patriotism your thing, Malialani?" It's not. Him having "America" in his title is possibly the biggest deterrent a Superhero could have. Then why?

To be completely honest, I think it has a bit to do with me growing up a little. I'm no longer interested in self absorbed characters out for their own gain who enjoy the pleasures of this world with no thought to the cost. Everyone experiences hardships, but does that really excuse actions? Captain America represents goodness. That's a hero I can get behind. He fights against injustice and seeks to protect those around him who can't protect themselves without compromising his morals. He finds a way to be truly honorable and humble. My kind of guy.

Pregnancy continues into it's third trimester and I must report that I like this stage of pregnancy, with one exception. The Gestational Diabetes test. Swallowing 12oz of melted Otterpops mixed with syrup in 5 minutes is enough to give anyone diabetes, much less a girl who avoids candy and whose only sugar vice is 100% juice - gee thanks, guys. I threw it up, but they took three samples of blood over 2 hours anyway. I have yet to hear back from the hospital, but if they tell me I have to do it again? I might tell them to just give me the damn finger stick and check my blood sugar on a regular basis instead. It was awful, worse than my entire first trimester.

Other than that? I like being two-thirds the way there. I'm excited to be a mom and I kind of enjoy the stomach jolting kicks. I like watching the little creature move and feel like we are a part of one another. I'm still stoked to get baby out on it's own, but I am beginning to understand that glowy expression women get when they talk about being pregnant. That doesn't excuse them from not telling me it doesn't happen until week 26, but I'm starting to get it.

This morning I awoke to my little one telling me the sun was up, thanks sweetie. I checked my clock and the hour literally made me cringe, but there was no way the movement inside my belly was going to allow me to sleep so I got up. I read and journaled, then did my 45 minutes of yoga followed by breakfast and turning on the coffee pot for Marko, and crawled back into bed to find my husband awake as well. We got to cuddle and talk and watch about 5 episodes of My Drunk Kitchen (www.youtube.com/user/myharto) before getting out of bed for the day. Getting up at the crack of dawn has its benefits, and I think I like them. I will probably never set my alarm, but if baby is up? I'll get up.

Err, and get rid of all your excess stuff! That's all for now. More updates later when it's not nice out... Critter and I must soak up as much Vitamin D as humanly possible! Slurp!

Something Sweet or Something Savory

I don't get cravings, which is a little bit of a let down if I'm being honest. I was really looking forward to the excuse to spontaneously desire some food so badly that it would make my husband need to drive to the store at one a.m. But no, I just have rational needs concerning food intake. I want something sweet or something savory. But doesn't everyone?

When I was a little girl I loved to eat fruit at the bottom yogurt. It was so exciting to eat little bites of plain yogurt in order to get to the Indiana Jones treasure trove of syrupy fruit! I hadn't thought of it in years, but this morning my husband gave me a coffee mug with my favorite Vanilla Honey Yogurt and after a few bites? I discovered strawberries! It was like a magical throw back.

I'm one of those people who loves to listen to loud music in the car. One of those people who likes surround sound and a volume on my media player that upsets the people sitting next to me on a bus. It's not that I like loud music, I don't. Loud music is just loud. It's that I like to feel surrounded by my music. Like it's enveloping me, taking me to another place entirely. Often times the playlist you hear obnoxiously leaking from my headphones is made up of my favorite operatic numbers. Other times it's piano pieces or soft movie scores. Then there is all the worship music, the occasional country themed day, some reinvent-the-world hip hop, but very rarely is it ever rock music and I don't listen to metal. I simply enjoy escaping into my music. Shutting out the whole world and just melting into that sweet resonance. My own sweet resonance.

I'm sitting on the floor of what might be consider my living room, I say might only due to the fact that we currently occupy a tiny little studio house. And despite the wonderful sound technology offered to me here in the comforts of my own home, I have headphones on. Plugged into my phone and blaring at something too close to full volume to be entirely appropriate. I have fresh squeezed lemonade sitting just right of the computer and can't help but wish I was writing all of this on paper to be published in a journal rather than online. Technology is amazing, but what artisanship have we lost? Too much.

And still I blog...

Yesterday was a day filled with little kicks and squirming inside of me. From the moment I woke up to my last blurry eyelash filled vision. Today there is little movement, just the occasional twist to remind me that I love this new found belly. I'm so curious about the little life that exists therein. What will s/he be like? Like mom; passionate to a fault about too many things, overly forgiving, compassionate, a bit flakey and slightly OCD? Or more like dad; excitable, distant with newcomers and those who've not earned trust, dependable, deeply and fervently loving, loyal and immoderately worried? Or some terribly dysfunctional and yet probable mixture of both.

Becoming a parent is everything people say it is - and so much more. You can prepare yourself for the tasks; diapers, clothing, burping, doctors visits, discipline. But there is no way to ready your heart for the love. It's not that it's more than what you've known, because you've probably known a lot of great and wonderful love, it's just... ineffable. I can't imagine the wreck I'll be once baby is born. Your heart walking around outside your body indeed.

Mark and my plan to travel remain a solid fixture in our minds. There is so much pressure and demand from society to do anything but follow our hearts. Go to college, get yourself a career, buy a house. When they find out we are under 25 with technically part time work and rent a little mother-in-law in the countryside with a baby on the way? The looks are scathing, or at the very least, scornful. The haught of superiority sets in on their manicured faces in an attempt to shame us and make them feel better about their lives. And what's disappointing, is that those looks come so often from people that are meant to be allies, meant to be friends.

No, we did not live our lives according to what you think is appropriate or successful. But I've never read about anyone who did the things you're asking of me. I've only ever read wonderful and terrific stories and adventures about those people who went against the grain. Those who followed their dreams for better or for worse! And yah, sometimes it's for worse. But that is our decision to make, our mistakes to take us to new places. When my life is over, I want to look over it lovingly. Each tear, each triumph, each awkward and difficult moment, each horror, and each wonder. I want to look at it and know that I was happy and joyful and lived! I want to look back at my life and know that I wouldn't have done anything differently, not because I didn't make mistakes! but because I did. And they made my life the adventure it was!

I hear the scoffing and it hurts, but I see how much I love my life? And I know I'm doing the right things. Because even when I am tired, frustrated with my body, and itching to get out of this country? I am happy. Snuggling on the couch with my husband while we watch a slew of vastly different television shows, makes all the difference. Gardening in the sunshine and then crawling into the hammock with Marko so we can nap, makes all the difference. Fresh squeezed lemonade, makes all the difference. Scarlet by Brooke Fraser and Revelation Song by Kari Jobe bleeding out of my headphones in the middle of my living room, makes all the difference. Little kicks to the inside of my stomach, makes all the difference. I love my life. I love these choices. I love, I love, I love! Stop trying to tell me I should be doing anything differently because if you were half as happy as I am even on a day where I am teary and upset? You would recognize my joy and let it be.

I'm craving something sweet...

Half Way There

I am officially closer to my due date than conception date. On the roadmap that is pregnancy, I look ahead of me and feel slightly overwhelmed that I'm only half done. It's that halfway point in a marathon where you realize that as far as you've come? You have that much left. Yikes...

Don't get me wrong, I am ecstatic that I feel baby moving around and doing some serious yoga inside my stomach. I can't wait to meet the little one who has utterly and completely flipped my whole world upside down! I'm excited to snuggle, cuddle, smother, and love on the child growing inside me. And the miracle of life is not lost on me, it's fucking magical. My baby grew and inch this week - it's a pro. Sometimes I pretend it's a Super Nova inside my womb, fantastic Hubble photographs and all.

But, here's the thing: I'm going crazy. Between all the crying and low self esteem, I'm surprised I can even leave my bed - much less my house. I feel like a balloon. I'm wearing pants that are double the size I was before I was pregnant and the only consolation I receive from that is that they don't quite fit yet. But they will, because I'm only half done. My breast are literally in my face and seem to be always trying to fall out of whatever bra I've decided to cage them in for the day. I get good solid kicks to the bladder whenever I attempt my beloved yoga or walks, let's not even talk about running. And the damn doctors insist I get on a scale every month after I've already driven all the way to Bellevue, usually with a full bladder. I'm a bloated puppet.

I think the hardest thing is the self esteem. It's not just the roller coaster hormones, I've already had my ability to parent called into question and baby isn't even here. I have had to really rethink some of the friendships in my life and whether they are healthy or not - this is not the time I would have chosen to make that decision. But I have someone entering my life who will not just look up to me, but be entirely influenced by me and those I surround myself by. Some people, aren't making the cut. And weirdly, it has nothing to do with whether they have their shit together or not, and everything to do with how they treat others. Specifically me, but other people as well. I refuse for my child to think it's okay to treat people like doormats or that being treated like one qualifies as friendship.

It sucks that now is the time I'm realizing who I can actually count on. I'm overemotional and I really need good people in my life to depend on, but better now than later. Mark has been an absolute pillar for me, I have no idea how he puts up with all the "I'm fat" tears and my constant frustration with being in the USA. I don't understand how he still finds me attractive or scoops me up to take me to bed to cuddle. I can't comprehend how he manages to curtail his constant worries to deal with my newfound ability to stress out over just about every topic there is. He's my superhero and even Batman can't hold a candle.

I've been blessed with new people cropping up in my life and old friends stepping up - sometimes in ways they don't even realize. Human kindness knows no limits except those we place on it, and for some reason we are quick to put a harness and reigns over it's love as if we are concerned it might escape us. What we forget is that it can only grow in it's freedom.

I am plotting my hegira. I will abscond with my husband and child, leaving this "American Dream" in the dirt where it belongs. I will love my husband with a kind of love not found in statistics. I will raise my little one without the equal opportunity expectations this country places on so many shoulders, so that they might decide for themselves what path to put themselves on. We will create a new dream.

Being pregnant sucks, but trials are what make us who we are. I would be lying if I told you it was great and I believe in truth, as unpopular as it may be. Pregnancy is long, difficult, and it wears you down. You get one awe filled moment for every two miserable days and it's worth it. It's difficult and demanding, but what would it be without that? Sunshine, rainbows, and kittens? Then what would I appreciate? Nothing. I can pretend like that would be better, but it wouldn't. I don't love it, but I will. I will love it because of what I get out of it. Because of everything I have learned, because of all the things I will learn. The marathon is only half way finished, and then the real race begins.

Cheers

Hunger

I am afraid of my generation. Sitting in a dark theater watching a wonderful novel spring to life on screen, only to be deeply disgusted and disappointed as the crowd around me bursts into applause as a character dies. This concept exists, dear mob, exactly because of this. This disgusting approval of "reality" television and lust for entertainment. We put value on pleasure instead of goodness. With our nonexistent relationships and our overt sexuality. Our need for addictions diagnosis, and medication. Our misappropriation of trust, love, passion and our vacant inclinations of wonder, awe, hope, joy. My revulsion to this day and age only culminates as each day passes. I am at a loss.

Some days I believe technology to blame and wish to rid myself of all of it. Oh! how I would love nothing more than a small cabin somewhere far into the woods where no one could find it. Laundry in a tub and bathwater heated by a fire. Hunting and gardening and no more thought to the rest of the world, except perhaps whether or not everyone has killed each other off yet. But then, I realize the joy and beauty of technology and how it is merely its misuse that injures my senses so.

I am growing life inside of me. A tiny human with eyes and ears and a mind to make sense of all those things which will inundate the little one as soon as it arrives. Is that what that child has to look forward to? Because I yearn for something more having grown up surrounded by all of this. And it is not what I want for my baby. This life, this place, these things? Are toxic. This world we wrap ourselves up in, our "first world problems," this is all repugnant. This cannot be why we exist.

My heart has known some of the most beautiful things, and still, there is so much heartbreak and affliction. I need more. This is not the life I was meant for, I was intentioned for so much more than this simplistic and all consuming self-appreciation. I can see the rest and it is gloriously and joyfully better! I seek that. I reach for that, and that alone. My life is an open book that will be written not merely by what makes me happy, but by what goodness I seek and help other to seek as well. Whatever goodness it may be. To lighten the heart without letting it cease beating is a near impossible task.

Baby Bump

I have felt like a fat cow for weeks. I want to meet these women who felt like the mother of all creation when they were pregnant. And then? Then I want to punch them in the mouth. It makes the rest of us feel bad! Because do you know what I feel like? Nauseous, fat, crying, and like I want to play with the baby gestating in my belly. None of those things are helpful. And all you women who glow for your entire pregnancy make the rest of us normal human beings who love babies more than anything but think pregnancy up until the second trimester mark has been one awful rollercoaster of bad self esteem feel like terrible people. I love the little parasite growing in me. I have never been so excited to be creating life! But that doesn't make me feel better, it almost makes me feel worse. Like I should be appreciating some part of this misery more than I am. But I will level with you ladies, because I don't want you to feel like I feel right now. Alone and horrible for hating being pregnant.

Some people can't get pregnant and most women thoroughly adore having their bodies do a 180 on them, so you? Are terrible, Malia. Except I'm not! I am stoked to be having a baby. I am excited to be a mom and deal with crying babies, tantrum throwing toddlers, and lots of dirty diapers along the way. But being pregnant? It's hard! Why do you think I've left you in the dark for so long about my pregnancy? Because I'm living in the Dark Place! It's like Chuck Palahniuk and Dr Seuss wrote my life... at least, until about a day ago. Because I have a ray of hope for you, hopeful mommies to be, it gets better.

Finally, just barely into my second trimester and I have the tiniest of baby bumps. Self esteem? Back to normal - let me rephrase that - back to AWESOME! I bought a skirt that hangs ridiculously low on my hips so my tiny little bump can hang over it and I showed off that bump All. Day. Long. I've decided that being pregnant and getting to experience the pregnancy? Two very different things. When there was a little baby growing inside me, but I couldn't see any evidence other than my breakfast coming back up? It didn't feel like I was going to be a mom. It felt like I was never going to experience food coming out the other end ever again. Having a baby bump? I can see it! I can see, that is where my baby is! In that little bump! I am making room for him/her! And I am so excited I squeak. On a regular basis for no particular reason. Baby bump!

And not only do I have a bump, the baby moves. And damn, does our baby move. One minute it is hanging out low, just chilling, then it is pressed against the wall of my stomach like it wants to escape (not the most comfortable thing in the world, but so exciting!) We can find her/him almost all the time now. The baby is the size of a large apple. A freaking apple! Now? Now I feel like I am on top of the world. I don't mind that I don't fit my jeans like I used to, because I am creating life! Word. It's an entirely different stage of being pregnant, guess that's why it's referred to as the second trimester...

We are starting to get the influx of baby things. Already my parents are stock piling for us; a portable crib, a car seat that pops onto a stroller, blankets and swaddles, baby clothes, diapers - it's a baby party! I'm amazed at the generosity of the people around me (that, or they just finally found someone to load crap onto - I prefer to believe they're generous). And I am so thrilled about all the love and support around me. There is a disgusting amount of bad advice circulating the baby circuit, which is really unfortunate. I try to correct or ignore it, idiots will be idiots. For the most part though, this stage has been wonderful. I am relieved to find that I am not a terrible person who hates being pregnant, just a terrible person who hates the symptoms until she can she proof of her baby. I'm a visual learner, don't hate.

For all you gentlemen out there? I am sorry in advance. The first trimester is probably just as difficult for you as it is for your lady. You have to watch her get sick and know that there is nothing you can do about it, you have to listen to her hate on that body that you love so much you put a baby in it, you have to leave her basically stranded on the sofa when you go to work knowing she probably won't feel well enough to get up while you're gone except to pee (cause you gotta pee). Marko struggles an infinite amount with not being able to protect me from the big bad baby and I have come to find it is a pretty typical frustration from husbands and baby daddys. You're men, you want to fix it. I get it, but don't beat yourself up about it. Your wifey knows you can't do anything to help and she loves you just for wanting to. Trust me.

I officially love being pregnant. It took long enough. I have all this energy to clean and cook and organize. I constantly am redecorating our apartment in my head. But I am waiting until my little mind figures out the perfect design because I think it might drive Mark a little nutters having to watch the apartment shift with my moods. I think I'm getting close... I love my low sitting skirt and my bump sticking out over the fun purple patterns. I adore that I got my first belly rub today! I like tying my hair back in a bandana like a southern wash maid. I like doing the dishes by hand so my kitchen is clean and making a 2 course meal despite the fact that I can really only eat a half portion at a time right now. I love sweeping and mopping and making grocery lists where the fresh ingredients are three times as many as the packaged goods. I like being a wife and dancing around my little house to loud country music or some quality lmfao Pandora. I adore my husband and how he loves me despite my craziness. My very very very craziness. I love my friends and their willingness to save me from my cleaning frenzies. I love our little apple sized baby and how it does not sit still. It's obnoxious how much I love everything. Someone really should hit me in the mouth.

Now, I am on to daydreaming about baby showers. Ones themed in green. No blue or pink for this little lady! But really, are you surprised? I dream of green sodas, rock candy, and little tea sandwiches. Decorating bibs or onesies, diaper raffles, and green glasses from Goodwill. Green grapes, apples, and strawberry spinach salad! Green pajamas, swaddles, jackets, tshirts with jean overalls, and a forest green jogging stroller. You don't have to tell me I'm being ridiculous! I already know! But it doesn't stop me from loving every green smothered dream I have! Heh... I know you anxiously await the next moodswing of a blog post, so I will attempt to adhere to your needs as soon as I can think of something other than green baby related things. Maybe don't hold your breath :]

Spoken

i am not concerned with pattern

not worried about formality

i am unsure of where this is

but i know exactly i am

i'd rob you of your discontentment

and i would murder injustice

i would steal pain from you

and i'd slay oppression

i'd avenge your heartbreak

and i would kill malfeasance

this is my vendetta against evil

i have but one weapon

my fists are useless

and sharp edges can only cut the physical

bullets cannot pierce what is not corpreal

hope joy and love

these things cannot be destroyed

except by your own allowance

within you

is the greatest capacity for good

you are a fortress

in which goodness flourishes

if only you would care for it well

there is glory of the likes you have never seen
blossoming and unfolding
blushing we turn from it
embarrassed due to our undeserving
flustered and frustrated we look away
not seeing
not believing
running from the only thing worth running towards
burn us up
with the ashes they will paint a new world
a better world
don't wait for it
make it

Cry Me A River

The other morning I woke up and touched my flat tummy only to find... it's actually flat! There is no longer a dip between my two hip bones and if I trace it for long enough, I can imagine it's a little bump. I, of course, woke Mark up immediately to inform him of this and make him feel the imaginary baby bump. He mumbled something that sounded positive and rolled over - he loves me a lot to put up with me at 7am. I laid there in bed just touching my stomach as if I had never really noticed it before. Thinking of the little parasite growing in there, my little parasite.

My secondary visit with a midwife has be thrice postponed due to weather and my mental incapacity to plan well, but shall occur Thursday. I can't wait. The various websites I check each Saturday (baby's weekly conception day ("birthday" doesn't work if the baby isn't born yet)) tell me that baby is roughly the size of a kiwi and does summersaults. It also says that if I poke, the baby will squirm. I thought I felt it move the other day, but it may have just been a tummy grumble. I pretend I felt it move.

The mind altering and day shifting nausea is fading - thank you Jesus - and now? I cry. Dear Lord above do I cry. I get upset and the tears just start flowing. I get excited? And voila! I am a faucet. I watched V For Vendetta and when they show the clip of her mum being taken? Tears. And then again when Gordon is taken. And again for a full 3 minutes or so when she finds out the whole torture thing was fake. Again when V dies, finishing the film with little eyes shrink wrapped in salty residue. I used to be a badass.

This evening, I cleaned the kitchen as I made a delicious tuna casserole when I was suddenly struck by the image of doing all of these activities with a baby on my hip and Marko coming home to the two of us. He's going to be an amazing father. The picture was so vivid and clear, it was one of those moments where you truly see your future. No crystal ball needed. And then I smiled to myself because we won't be one of those families where dad comes home from work to mom and baby for long. We are headed into the unknown of the mission field, as God will have us. I can't wait.

Shortly thereafter, I received a phone call from one Alexis Allen. You may not know this shining star of my life, and I assure you - your life is less full because of that fact. She is, without a doubt, the other half of my soul (Marko is the third half). I don't remember who decided we should meet, but it was because of mutual friends that we became acquainted. I have no fonder memories of anyone in Bellingham, than I do of Alexis. I hate my birthday, so when I turned 19? Alexis and I stripped down to our underwear and swam in the fountain in the middle of Red Square. We went to nude beaches and BBQ's. We did long hikes and started our days with Mike's Hard Lemonade, even though it is the most disgusting form of alcohol on the planet. We spent long hours dancing to GirlTalk and curing hangovers at Little Cheerfuls. I can easily say she is one of the greatest people I know.

We caught up on each others lives with ease, even though we hardly ever have a chance to talk. And then she mentioned being pen pals and I almost sighed relief. You can only be pen pals with a true friend. I haven't been as good at it lately, but have desperately missed all my letter writing - especially with several of my correspondents out of reach for the time being. I am excited! With Marko working long hours so we can save up - well, there are only so many tv shows you can watch on hulu. I am excited to get into writing letters again...

I must say, being the selfish spoiled little thing that I am, having my husband work these long and tedious hours that just so happen to be opposite my normal work schedule? Not fun. Not even a little. I do appreciate that he has been given Sundays and Mondays off to spend with me, as well as being able to work the opening shift on Wednesdays to give us Small Group/Date Night. But, let's be honest, I just want to whine about him not being around whenever I want. I have had to do drastic things such as rediscovering hobbies - no! - reading entire novels - stop it! - cleaning my messily/conveniently arranged house - the horror! - having fun with recipes - the ... wait. That sounds, lovely. I get to have a clean house, homemade dinners ready for my husband, catch up on tv shows I like, sew clothes that need mending, read novels I love, listen to sick hip hop music about changing the world, google mission companies endlessly, write letters and blogs and emails, drink chilled limeade with ice cubes, finish work related things, play with old cameras, sketch a bit, and still have time to harass people on facebook? What a life!

To be honest, I miss Marko a ridiculous amount. But I've decided to look at it from a different perspective. We are making more money to save in order to take care of our bun in the oven and travel the world, while I have the opportunity to nest and get back into all the things I love and care about and have really been shelved while I got used to being married. I think that's a fairly blessed tradeoff that I can deal with. I reserve the right to whine like a little bitch though. I am pregnant and hormonal, after all, and what use is it if I can't play that card? It isn't, so there. Obviously my arguing skills are becoming far superior as I am great with child - or something.

I think I will wrap this session up as I have said nothing witty or sarcastic enough for my liking and don't want all those publishers to rescind their offers. Cheers!

Butterfly

Whenever a time of transformation occurs, whenever there is a metamorphosis, we compare ourselves to Butterflies. You know what I mean. Starting out as a caterpillar, humble beginnings. Then evolving, but not quite ready for ourselves, we hide away beneath the transparent but protective cocoon. And suddenly, we burst forth into the world as a beautiful glittering Butterfly. This? This tale of dramatic change and alteration?

Lie.

We live in a world where Suicide is Sexy, Alcoholism is Appropriate, Drug Abuse is Alluring, and Self Destruction is the greatest compliment to your life. We blame everyone and everything and we are just waiting to emerge from our cocoons of self pity and self importance. Sounds Delicious.

Don't pretend like you're above this lifestyle deemed worthy of attention and I won't either. You can blame society all you want, but you're a paying member of that club. Wholly and totally inclusive of all humanity. Your silence is your compliance. You are not a precious little Butterfly, you are a human being. Now act like one.

Our generation? We live for the moment. It's sexy, right? It's so freeing and rehabilitating coming up from all those rules. Except, is it? I believe in living in the moment just as much - actually, probably more than the next person if we are being honest. Go skinny dipping, try weird food in Thailand, tell the person you're in love with that you're in love with them, splurge and buy a bottle of 20 year whiskey for special occasions - but also? Floss, tell that stranger they have awesome shoes, defend the underdog even if they are someone you might not like, travel to a different country not just to vacation but to give people clean water, get outside of your comfort zone.

Live for the moment, hoping to create something that outlasts you - the next generation. Stop being so selfish, live for your today and someone else's tomorrow. Stop spending so much time worrying about when you're going to get a chance to come out of your cocoon and help someone else. What you find, might surprise you. You don't have wings, but you can help people fly.

The Pregnancy Files

Time is fascinating. This time last year, if you had told me I would be married to Mark Dullanty and just barely pregnant, I would have told you that I have a mohawk and wear pearls and I am not the fondest of Mark Thomas Dullanty. And then possibly punched you somewhere unpleasant. But you would have been right and I would have been wrong and all would be forgiven by this point. Because this Traveling House Rose has changed her last name and is creating life as we speak.

Warning: It's just a warning, heed it.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mom. There was a era in my life where I had no intention of every getting married, but I would still be a mom. No one was going to stop me. Some of you who know me a little better, know that I have this habit of seeing babies, toddlers, and really any child under the age of 12 and holding my stomach while I say "Babyyyyy." Always good for a laugh, this one. But what I never really gave any merit to was the whole actually being pregnant thing. Oops.

Throwing up a delicious dinner of Italian food (my favourite) and Sangiovese wine after a week of uncomfortable nausea? My husband was right to throw on his jacket and speed to the grocery store. And as he looked down on his purchase - a pregnancy test, peptobismal capsules, and juice - he realized the pregnancy test was probably a moot point. I barely got any pee on the damn thing before that little purple plus appeared. I didn't have to wait three minutes, I didn't have to wait three seconds! Pregnant. A little tatertot crisping inside the Malia Oven.

We were stoked/terrified/stoked/terrified/stoked... honestly I'm not sure which emotion outweighed the other. I was thrilled to be a mom and to get so super fat with a baby in my belly - the only kind of fat person who can't not be adorable. But we live in a studio mother-in-law apartment that is by no means even set up fully yet, much less anything close to baby-safe. However, I am an eternal optimist by nature and rather shitty at worrying, so my worries never overshadow my excitement. My husband on the other hand, well, I married my opposite. He was so excited to be a dad! But...
thebariworkedatjustclosedandi'mnotsurewhenthenewbarwouldbeopeningandthentherewastheissueofisuranceandhowmuchdoesababycostanywayandidon'tknowanythingaboutbabiesorhowtotakecareofthemhowamisupposedtodoanyofthis??? Multiply that stream of worries by 15 and you have a typical minute in the mind of my husband. To say he was ecstatic to be a father would be an understatement, but to say his worries had anything other than the exact same weight on his mind would be a lie.

One week later, standing in the lobby of the lab at Group Health Bellevue, my pregnancy test came back positive! Like, ohmygracious! Yah, they make you take a pregnancy test at the clinic you visit for their records. Couldn't I have just brought in my pee stick and saved you the time and man power? Don't you have something more important you could be doing? No? Oh... Anyway, with Mark basically attaching himself to me because of his fear/hatred of all things hospital related, we made our way to the fourth floor. Pediatrics, Gynecology, Obstetricians & Midwifery. This floor was by far the most welcoming, nothing smelled old or like death, just like overly sanitized door handles and carpet shampoo. We barely waited any time at all before the nurse saw us. She gave us a packet about what to expect with a pregnancy, but there isn't anything in that little pamphlet that you can't Google. We then got to decide whether we wanted a midwife or a doctor. With a midwife? They advocate for what you want, meet with you once a month throughout your pregnancy, and will be with you the entire time you are in the hospital for labor. With a doctor the benefits include a surgical background, but they might not be able to make it to deliver your baby if they have a scheduled surgery and even if you do, you will only see them briefly during the actual delivery, but there are fewer check up appointments... Who in their right mind would choose doctor?!

10 viles of blood and two cups of pee later, we were allowed to leave. Scheduled for an ultrasound Monday and appointment with my first midwife on Wednesday. The weekend wasn't good. Waves of nausea and no appetite whatsoever. Monday I had to drink a Nalgene bottle of water in the hour before my ultrasound appointment. A Nalgene bottle in one hour. By the time we made it to the clinic, I felt like I was leaking water out of my pores. Marko had the opportunity to weigh himself and check his blood pressure, which was like an early Christmas gift to him. It's probably good that my love for him is overwhelming.

So, ultrasound gel? It isn't cold. It's kept in a warmer so it's your body temperature. So Hollywood can knock that right off. Also, when you are barely along? They have an ultrasound thing that they actually stick right up inside you. Awkwarddd. Ladies, you know when you go in for your annual/biannual check up and the doctor tells you it will be cold and might "tickle," but it doesn't? It is cold, kind of hurts, and you really want to punch the bitch getting to third base with you? She didn't even buy you dinner. Cheap. This, is nothing like that. It's like a thin dildo and they actually squeeze some KY Lube onto that sucker. Almost more awkward - until you look at the screen and you realize you can actually see your baby. It's just a little bubble on a blurry looking television, but you know that little bubble is yours. It's your baby. A little clump of cells rapidly multiplying and it has a heartbeat. And you can watch it flicker as it's little heart pumps blood into it's forming body. Mark's hand went limp in mine and he asked the lady if this is why they make the husband sit. She kind of cocks her head at him before he explains "I would have passed the fuck out if I had been standing and you showed me my baby has a heartbeat."

When we got home, I threw up. I went to work the next day and threw up. 3-4 times a day I found myself bent over the toilet throwing up any and everything that went into my body. Wednesday we had our first appointment with a midwife, I lost 15 pounds in less than a week. Go pregnancy? The midwife asked us about a million questions and allowed Mark his million and five questions. She then explained the way having a midwife works. You don't get one, you get six. You have the opportunity to meet each of them over the course of your pregnancy and whichever is on-call when your water breaks and you go into the hospital, that's the one who will deliver your baby. So, I actually get 6 women vying for what I want and fighting the mean surgery doctors who - as I know from Grey's - only want me if there is a complication. Also, I have a plethora of birthing suite options. Yah, I get to have my baby in a birthing suite, not a hospital room. What up new age health care?! Want to have your baby standing? You can do that. Want to have an epidural? You can do that. Want to have a water birth? You can fucking do that. Do I want any of those things? No. I want to lay in whatever way is most comfortable and then cry like a little bitch while I endure massive amounts of pain bringing a baby into the world. Standing is for psychos, epidurals are for pansies, and water births freak me out. I am almost sure the crazies of this world have discovered more options, but I'm not interested in knowing. You people scare me. The only option that isn't optional? Is a c-section. They will do it if it is necessary, but you cannot choose it. Which, I think I like. but that's just me.

More vomiting and making sure my pee is clear as a gauge of hydration, life became a game. Throw up, try to eat something and down pills so they have a chance to dissolve before you throw up - and you will throw up - again. Funny story about "morning sickness." It doesn't just happen in the morning, it hits you all day every day. And all the nausea and vomiting in the world won't stop the cravings for food. You just have to hope that whatever you're craving is easy to throw back up. Google cures, try them all. Your best bet is to be ahead of the nausea and snack all day long. Crackers, cheese, water, pretzels, water, scrambled eggs, m&m's, water, peanut butter, just eat. All the time. Even when you don't want to, even when the thought of food makes you want to tear out your hair. And sip, don't gulp, water. Constantly. But you have to make sure you're eating salt so you can absorb the water, otherwise you're shit outta luck. Try ginger, try bands around your wrists, try every homemade and pharmaceutical cure you can. Because if you don't? And sometimes, even if you do, you'll end up in Urgent Care on Christmas Eve. Okay, maybe not on Christmas Eve, but I did!

Two bags of fluid and several dissolvable pills later? I felt awesome. Cold, but awesome. IV's are kept at room temperature, but your blood is much hotter than room temperature so when you get an IV you get chills. Fun hospital fact! But they have heated blankets they give you, which are the best thing since toast. Also, everyone has pregnancy advice for you. Including people who have never been pregnant. Thanks guys, but I'd really like this fountain of knowledge to come from the source. Your $3.15 bottled information is nice, but nothing beats fresh spring water. Nothing. My doctor that night informed me that, as weird as it seems, the sicker I am? The healthier my baby is - and the more likely it is that it will be a girl. Knew it. The girl part, not the healthy part. He also let me know that coming for an IV isn't a bad thing and I should always just come in if I have a feeling I'm dehydrated. Better to come in than end up sicker. He also let me know that it is entirely possible for "morning sickness" to last the entire pregnancy, not just the first trimester. And here's why...

Morning sickness? Is not your baby moving around and kicking at your stomach to make you regurgitate everything as a sick joke. Morning sickness occurs because your body's hormone levels are doubling every 48 hours and producing more vitamins and nutrients for the baby than you usually would for your lonely self, but the baby isn't really even quite big enough to absorb all the vitamins and nutrients or to grow with the rate of your hormones. So your body reacts to all this extra crap by trying to get rid of the extra - vomiting. Cool, right? Except you can't vomit hormones, so it's a terrible cycle of awful. This is why secondary, tertiary, etc pregnancies are usually easier on mom. Her body understands what's happening to it.

Basically, go apologize to your mother right now. Go on, I'll wait.

Thank you. So Mark and I rang in our first Christmas in Urgent Care. And, finally, at some point between 1:00-1:15am, we passed out cold. Waking up early on Christmas is almost a rite of passage, but we both slept pretty well until after 9, thank God. We sat on the sofa and admired our pleasant little Christmas Tree tacked to the ceiling and tilted by towels in it's Folger's coffee can so it could remain upright with our First Christmas Decorations on the floor around the tree, it being too weak to hold any actual ornaments or lights. And we exchanged gifts. A big beautiful Interlinear Bible with Hebrew and Greek literal translations and English in the sidebars for me - oh yah, my husband got lucky on Christmas - and a "Green Handbook" for Marko so he can save the world. He'll do it you know, I really believe it. We then did the Christmas at each parent's house. Next year? Next year we will be having Christmas just the 3 of us. No negotiating.

After my trip to Urgent Care, I stayed on top of eating and sipping and finally tried the last Google cure I hadn't already - lemons. Sniffing them and occasionally having a small nibble. It works. It is the only cure other than fun dissolve under your tongue pills that seems to do anything for me. I still have bad days, really really bad days. But sometimes it's almost like I am a normal functioning member of society. Hormones doubling every 48 hours means I cry more than usual, but that isn't exactly a difficult task. I'm not a crier. But I saw a preview for The Lake House with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock? And I wept like a little girl. A preview! Other than that though, I haven't been too bad. To be honest, Mark is much worse than I am. He can't watch anything with small children in it without having a mini-meltdown, bless his heart. I think becoming a dad is a bigger adjustment than becoming a mom. For the most part? Women are wired for it, men become wired for it once they have a baby in their arms.

My insides feel like a door the dog scratches at to be let out, not in pain exactly but definitely uncomfortable. I am currently sucking on a lemon and I seem to eat more popsicles than real food these days, but I don't have enough energy to do anything so I feel like the laziest human in existence. And fat. Damn being pregnant. You don't just magically become "cute fat" where you can where baby doll clothes and look like the most adorable creature on the earth. It's a slow process where your stomach becomes hard, almost like abs but not. Then all the sudden all the fat in your body starts migrating towards your middle to protect baby. You can almost watch it happening, like armies moving. "Right thigh! Prepare to move to the tummy! We must protect the baby!" So yah, you feel fat. Because literally all your chub is gathering in one place, but you're not quite big enough to wear tight fitting t-shirts and show of the bump. Awkward. However, your husband will notice that your shoulders stick out and your ribs show and your legs feel skinnier, which makes you happy. And he'll probably shower you with compliments anyway because he's afraid you'll turn into one of those raging hormonal women from the television.

Then there are your boobs. Whether you like it or not, you've suddenly got two more cup sizes to deal with. Without milk! And if you're like me and already hate Victoria Secret for not believing in small ribcages and large cup sizes? You do not want any more to rock in the chest department. Doesn't matter though. It happens and it happens fast. You're throwing up half of the things you eat and your boobs are literally defying laws by continuing to blossom out of your shirt - outlaws. And you sigh with frustration because you don't know of a bra that isn't a $90+ special order that will come in whatever size your boobs have decided to grow to today. And you flat out refuse to wear anything beige or "nude" and unflattering. Until... your HuffPo obsessed husband finds an article on parenthood from the sister online news source of Jezebel. The article is funny and this sister news source is alright, by women for women, but you don't find new age feminism anything more than a pathetic hypocrisy so many of the articles are a bit angry for your taste. But the ad for a product line called HotMilk? Click. Not pregnancy porn, which there is a surprising and disturbing amount of, but Designer Maternity Lingerie. What Up?! All nursing friendly and a 32 all the way up to a GG regularly and even H & I on some bras. You small chested ladies are lucky enough that you will never have to understand what I'm talking about, but I am so excited! Back massages every night are awesome, but I'd really just like for some part of my body to be cooperating at this point and, hello? Sexy bras in my size for under $75 is a flat out miracle. $49.95? I could faint from the joy.

(This paragraph is the definition of TMI) I read an article that said pregnant sex is the best sex ever. I would have to agree that it is pretty awesome, but honestly I am struggling with an upset stomach more often than not these days so it's kind of difficult to get in the mood. And not just for me, but Mark too. Having bigger boobs is only so much of an incentive before he starts worrying about how I'm feeling and how the baby is doing and his normal stream of other worries. Whoever said men think about sex more than women was a flat out liar, we objectify just as often - if not more - than men. There are just those handful of chauvinistic asshats who appear to be the majority. They aren't. Way to ruin it for the rest of your gender, dudes. Girls are just sneakier about it. Never underestimate a woman, most of the time we get what we want. But, seriously, pregnant sex. You've got all these hormones running through you and you stop thinking about what you're doing and just start doing what is comfortable because you're too uncomfortable every day to fuss with being uncomfortable during sex - so it leads to some different things. That's all you get on that subject - pervs.

I am due the 11th of August. Mark and I are excited because that means in the future we will have the opportunity to take the little rascal places for it's birthday! Plus, we live in Washington and August is like the only decent month of the year. I am nauseous all the time, but they say it's like a light switch when you hit your second trimester. I pray to God that's true. Nausea hit's your arms and legs. It makes your head feel woozy and your chest feel heavy. It makes food feel alien and every time you throw up? You feel like you have somehow lost a point to the morning sickness monster. It's like having the permanent flu, except you still have to function in everyday life. I'm going to publish my blog and retire so I can feel nauseous in peace. I feel like the whole world would appreciate my smart sarcastic wit, don't you? Okay, maybe not. But it was worth a shot. More updates on the awkward awesome that is pregnancy life soon. Cheers, kids. Have fun while you can.

Because eventually you will be married and pregnant and having even more fun than that! Suck it.

Fairytale Ending

Fairytale endings are all they are cracked up to be, but not because anything ends. Or perhaps it is. Mostly it's that things begin. A life you imagined to be perfect, but isn't. It's something better, something real. There was a hidden room, behind that bookshelf, wasn't it? I was never really sure. Maybe I am still there.

The imagination is a funny thing. It makes everything better. And worse. Depending on the impending moment. Those are the people you might expect to be there, in your dreams. This is a fantasy fairytale. Or is it? Confusing is the least of my problems at this point. There was a beautiful crown. A tiara that sat upon my head. I gave it away, but only because it wouldn't burn like the rest of it. Who would have ever thought I could be a princess?

Growing from a glass jar, all I have ever needed is just a little water and sunlight. I survive quite well in this environment of cold frost and low fog. Or perhaps I don't. I can't seem to remember. There is something beautiful in the decomposition between the roots. It makes everything healthier, but it shouldn't. Then again.

Glass walls and streaming attentions, I feel a little more than whelmed. This is French vocabulary, I never learned any German. It wasn't really my thing. But then, did I ever really have a thing? I am waiting for the next adventure, but maybe I need to find it. There in a wardrobe perhaps or the Spine, a letter from a magical place or in a quest to dispose of a ring. There in Paris, in Netherfield, Avonlea, London, Seville, Rotterdam, the Black Forest, Heaven or Hell. Whichever is most real to me in the moment.

I close my eyes and reach my arms out in front of me. Fingers stretching, cold in the winter air. I can feel the mist settling around me as I take a step forward. A scarf finds itself wrapped around my eyes and I take another step. It isn't dark beneath the blindfold, I am not afraid. The grass is frost laden and my bare toes melt it blade by blade until they are as frozen as the ground beneath them. My hands are still out before me, but I am moving fast now. Running. Searching.

There are warm arms that always catch me. It doesn't matter where I am or where I am going. There are always there. And I know the chest that my head is cradled against. This is home. Not a house or a building. Not a bed or a sofa. Not material possessions, not things. This. This is where I belong. Always. This is my fairytale ending. Beginning.

Never Nother

I'm dressed up on the sofa. Right over left, red high heels. With lashes that slay but nowhere to go. And I could belong to the night. My heart isn't made of muscle and I don't bleed red. Hands covered in black with only fingers showing. These are the finer things in life.

Do you remember the words you spoke to me? Because I don't. Never one for auditory, it's just a silent film ending in a cigarette burn. Dissolving the film with a quick lick of fire. Then the projector. And eventually the theatre. Everything up in flames.

This is the result of slight inebriation. Nothing more and nothing less than that absolute perfect honesty. Where do you live? Not where do you sleep, but where do you live? This is life unfiltered, tin barrels and all. Embarrassment was never a question, more of a statement. I deserve nothing and will refuse nothing. A cheap scapegoat for a real issue.

Television shows are shot from such an angle that everything seems beautiful. I've got this guilded life and excuses without truth or reality. I am broken against rocks in rivers running far and fast. There was a house with bamboo and it makes my heart feel safe. There was a house with rounded edges and it makes my heart feel safe. I am hidden away from all that's near.

This could compromise me forever. I am fighting the stock per volume and all I can muster is a head ache. This is where heroes are made. This is where normal people fall prey to those around them they deem to be special. I hate the word. I find it in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the edge of the bed, further than the sheet dare to creep beneath. It's quiet and lonely but surviving. Surviving so still.

There's nothing more to say except the heartbreak. That painful and confusing heartbreak. I have nothing to say to everyone surrounding me and the more people to join the fray the more alone I feel. There isn't anything and I can't seem to find the connection, rainbow or otherwise, it escapes me. Everything escapes. This is where my story ends.

But there is always another beginning.

Time Passing

Charcoal dusting my hands, toffee colored rubber flakes covering a smudged page. We don't need erasers, not really. Just an imagination. It's slow, Italian. I miss that hillside. I am painted with pumpkin. That dark orange that only Autumn brings. Foolish, I am foolish. The color teal dissolved by stomach acid. Suddenly I am sharp again.

Shake and hustle. Small tremors at first, then it builds. Sip this slowly. Is this the only song I love or do we ever really change? The earth is just a circle with corners. I am in a vintage film strip. Breaking bread in my niche little house and the sheet is pulled tight across the bed. No time to fiddle, only violin and cello. The rosin smeared across her lips as well as her strings. I never had the talent.

Solid ivory sullied with finger prints. It's a clever sort of wood, harder than most, polished. The Captain's cap falls over his eyes as he slumps comfortably into the chair, feet upon the wheel. Complete control. You have only a moment to throw distain in his general direction as you lose you last meal into the ocean. What had been precious only a few short hours ago, now refuse among the waves. Fish food.

It's cold but the rain is nice. Plink lightly against the metal. It's beautifully painful. The light purple with white crayon over the edge. This is Hallelujah. Singe the edge of the paper and spread the ash. Red fire is anything but hot. Beams caved in over broken hearts. Defrost and pressurize. Standing in all blue, with white underneath. Is there another option?

Screening the scene with a quick glance. Permanent ink dripping through the skin. Chainlink and walls I don't recognize. I could wait forever, but that would be a lie. What time is it really. I'll tuck it away beneath the pillow and pray that that soft plushy surface is enough to protect my dreams. Pull another drag of that fresh air through that carrot treated filter. My truth is as real as I need it to be.

Open my eyes and witness broken limbs stretching further than they should. Hope never fails, but it can flail. I know absolutely nothing. A child, with never-ending curiosity and never-ending ignorance, sometimes arrogance. I am anything but deserving.

Mercy doesn't care who you've been. Grace doesn't care what you've done. Hope doesn't care where you've gone. Faith doesn't care when you lost it. Love doesn't care why you've let it go. Somethings are true, whether you believe them or not. And the more ridiculous the story? The more likely it is.

This is not a can of soup, this is a permanence beyond my comprehension of the word. Forever is an awfully long time. Today I am present. I couldn't tell you how or why, but I am here. Standing with both feet firmly on the group and both hands stretched open toward the sky. Today is! Today is.

October Center

It is the middle of October. Literally. Autumn is more than just fall, it's a phoenix in bloom. Glorious, bright and vibrant bloom. I hold my hand out the car window, windows all the way down. The last warm day before the rain, maybe. But I am not concerned. I am full of warmth. From little toe to bouncy brunette curl. Perfection is not achievable, yet does exist. And we can only pray and strive for that goal. Not disappointed in our inability to achieve it, but terribly joyous that we have such a lovely prize to run toward.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I used to say I wanted nothing more than to be a housewife in pearls with a mohawk. Never typical, yet oh so practical. Did you know that you're loved? This is the smooth sound of contentment slipping over your eardrums. Did you recognize it? Or did it just slide past you. I've written a letter and it starts like this... well, let's not be vulgar. We'll always have Paris.

Now what do you do when all your dreams are coming true? Do you write a script Walt could place in the vault? Or do you already know? That dreams coming true just makes room for new ones. Oh dear, the love pouring out of these fingers every moment of every day. This is leather-bound, or maybe vinyl. Something secure, sweet, and new - yet so simple and old school. I read Home Economics for the 21st Century Household and sip a light glass of absinthe while I listen to Skrillex v Adele. Smyphonous.

This violent dichotomy of all that we know is what makes this life so precious. So much unstymied evil - yet - an unlimited amount of the purest good and loveliness. I can close my eyes and whisper words of prayer, but it is the moments I am silent that I hear. Anything, anything at all. I know there may be confusion. I'll tackle it head on. I know that I cannot possibly understand. And yet, I do. What a beautiful disaster this is.

This bright blessed day and dark sacred night. Life is so vital and yet inconsequential. I can smile and shake my head as I listen to the soft silence of sunset. Oh love divine. Delight. I am exhausted by the sheer wonder and amazement of all this surrounding beauty. A line in the sand is so easily washed away. But the lines on your heart stay. It speaks to who we are, who we will be. Each line so carefully etched. Planned.

Sweet spontaneity in the limelight, sharing it only with an unspeakable good. I am glad. This is my life and it is beautiful. No more than that of the next person, and yet... so much more in my mind. Love, love, love. Unfiltered and unkempt. Messy but complete. Whole and satisfying. I am still here.

Standard of Beauty

The knowledge you gain as you grow, is far more useful in retrospect.There is so much to teach, but more to learn. I'm wistful for that which I lacked. Precious in the eyes of now, but not then. It's heartbreaking really, there is so much more than what you imagine there to be. I could never know it all, I'd never want to. I'm enjoying the growth, but it makes my heart hurt for the child I was. Why didn't anyone tell me this?

To go about this, I'm confused and concerned. Worried, I want to be worth your admiration. To live up to the standard and make you proud. To teach you and to learn from you. I want you to know and fully understand your value, your worth. I want you to comprehend who you are. I'll listen and I'm here, for advice and counsel and just an ear to listen. But your relationship with me is not the important thing. It's you, it's you.

I kiss the lips that call me "wife" and hold the hand that holds me safe. In those arms I rest and in that serenity I find my piece of mind. Mine only, belonging and true. There are words I forget to recognize. And my neurotic behaviour and simplicity is distracting from the light that shines from eyes unhindered. There is a love greater even still.

Here in my chest is occupied space. Not rented or leased but owned without a price. Permanently paperclipped to the covenant by which I live. A covenant sealed by blood and tears and death, in this I live. Joy burdening my poor heart to the point of collapse. Happy, content, beautiful, victorious collapse. And my heart burns for this, for this intense and fiery passion. I break for that which does not hit me and bleed for those who do not cut me. I am joyful! in the return of vibrant colour!

I can hear the voices. They whisper behind corners, sharp as they are. The words cut like fiberglass, you don't even know it's there until it's under your skin. When I could hear the gossip, I was disappointed. Now that I cannot, I understand. I am not hurt, I am heartbroken. Fiberglass buries itself into you, you see, as far deep as it can manage. Too young, too soon, too typical, too little, too much, too foolish, too rash, too. I disagree and I am ashamed of your building and all that it is meant to stand for.

I hold each moment precious and I bleed the color of my words - transparent. I seek truth and light. Laughing at the clouds because they bring the rain I will dance in. These are children's rain boots. I am unconcerned with proving anyone wrong because that isn't what this is about. The smiles I find are hidden deep in a life everyone had given up on. I will follow. This is my path, my joy to follow.

My desire is for you to fully understand who I am. No lies, no hidden secrets. I have messed up more than my fair share. I have been a bad example to those more impressionable, I have made mistakes, I have injured those I love. And I am sorry. While I would not wish my life on anyone, I do not regret it. Not because it was worth it, but because I would not be who I am without those things. Because I have found forgiveness in the calm and quiet of my own mind, by the grace of One who always knows better than I.

The hope would be that you read these letters and that they form more than words but meaning. Meaning that bleeds onto the page with every ink splatter I make. Did you know that I fall in love every day? It wasn't just once, but it isn't a decision either. And I imagine it will be harder some days, but it will never be impossible. Because I have practice falling in love everyday with Someone who never fails to love me back.

Move Like

don't

just

stand

there

move like

printed on white paper

offwhite, really

no formalities here

the black is almost offsetting

pressed there against the white

offwhite

they are letters without form

deformed

not understood by any mind

but spoken by every tongue in every nation in all the earth

there is a gall

in all that black achieves

despite its circumstances

or perhaps because of

between the lines

and even over the top of them

told what to do only

by time without a clock and keys without doors

single, double, triple

free from the patterns of the mundane

demonstrating a command

a comprehension

creating anew

rest

effect affect

ingredients

marrow

bone

nerve and vein

organ

muscle tissue

greasy molecules reacting to uv radiation

blue and white woven

gene - jean

rayon and cotton

the percentage matters

color patterned

bounce sheets

rubber soul

ink

grey matter

gray

synaps and react

electric

no need for an outlet

the possibilities could break the scale

break

broken

vintage sunlight

8 minutes old

and today

that is far too long

sugar

sweetheart

dearling

by any other name

it just wouldn't be the same

does each word belong to you

or just disolve in your mouth

candy

ivy honey sweet

dripping onto the page

dark like ink

first learn the rules

so you can manipulate them to serve you

we live like this

the easy way out

stand up

marble statuesque

stoic

now move like