Blessings: A Giving Thing

Well, the time of year has come where action is required.  Its time to go through the house, room by room, and sort the junk from the treasures, the keeps from the donations, the sellables from the trashables.  Those of you that live with slightly more generous square footage refer to this event as "Spring Cleaning".  

However, we live in a small condo and oh-by-the-way had a baby for the very first time 17 months ago. And this baby was born with enough of his own gear and toys and clothes to fill a modest yacht. Seriously, at some point between the crowning head, & the delivery of the placenta, the storage yacht with the label "Baby Loot" was birthed.  This is the only way I can explain the overwhelming accumulation of all G's stuff. It certainly couldn't have happened gradually over the next super busy, super sleep-deprived, 17 months. Certainly not. Aaron & I work full-time, we barely make it to the grocery store weekly, let alone, baby stores. I can't recall purchasing the mountain of toys now barricading his door, or the stacks beyond stacks of piled-high baby blankets, layettes, onesies, prams, and other adorable tiny person clothes now serving as load-bearing wall reinforcements. We were dangerously approaching Hoarders status.

Sudden thought: Maybe Grandma has something to do with this. 

Anyway, I had forgotten what Garrett's closet looked like.  Aw heck, let's be honest, I forgot what color the carpet was in his room. And the stuff was beginning to spill over into the rest of the house. Now I'm  not talking about the typical scattered toys & supplies from designated play areas and changing stations in the master bedroom & living room, but rather, the stuff residing on the stairs & landings, the stuff resting on the dining room table, the stuff abandoned on our nightstands.  The stuff that no longer FITS in Garrett's room, and has stealthily (don't you LOVE that word?!) seeped out into these new locations, hiding in plain sight.  This stuff was causing his room to burst at the seams & the remainder of our condo to become bloated. So this year, for the Schroeder household, Spring Cleaning happens in February. So I began the daunting task of sorting.  

It went easier and harder than I anticipated.  The task itself was less time consuming than I thought it would be.  The task of saying goodbye to these non-living, material things was much more emotionally difficult than I thought it would be.  After some reflection, I realized It was SO hard to let go, because I cherish all the firsts that occurred with those items. 

Garrett first smiled in this sleeper.  He first grasped that teddy.  He first sat up unsupported on this blanket.  His first steps were in those overalls.  

I naturally wanted to keep every single item in these stacks and piles and mountains, because I could justify a first memory for each.  However, after further reflection (I know, I'm on this introspective kick lately) I found peace with letting these material things go.  I realized these joyful firsts are not tied to the actual tangible items, but rather to the experiences I was blessed to witness & that I am gifted these precious memories forever!  The joy I associate with each item isn't associated with the item really at all, but rather with the blessings! Each and every first, each and every memory, experience, event, is a blessing from God!  And God's blessings are not taken away.  They can not be lost or misplaced, God's blessings to us are ours to keep forever, and to share with others!

It's a correlation to how I long for God in a way.  I long for his tangible presence, but then I am filled with the blessing of experiencing God's presence through the kind acts of others, or beautiful music, or even (especially?) a rainbow and I'm reminded of His many promises. Endless blessings.  And then the tangible just doesn't seem so important. 

So I donated 15 or so full and bulging trash bags of Garrett's precious baby clothes & toys. AND YES, I held it together because it felt SO good to know that another child, whoever he may be, would experience his many firsts with these items. As i drove away from the donation drop, I realized that I could give this unknown family more than toys and clothes.  I could give them a prayer. So I prayed that this family would be showered with the same joy with which Aaron & I were blessed. I prayed as they witnessed these miraculous, precious firsts, that God's promises and blessings would be revealed to this family, and that His presence would fill their home.  

And I joyously smiled all the way back to my more stuff-less, more God-present blessing-filled home. 

Mothers=Schizophrenics

Thump…Thump…Thump…Thump

It’s a quarter to midnight on a Thursday night, and Baby G is on night number three of a bedtime sleeping strike.  The first night, he was playing with his pacifier, taking it out, popping it back in, yanking it out, popping back in, an endless cycle until one overzealous yank flung the binkie out of his reach and into the black abyss that is his nursery, at which point he started with the warning stutters of a pending full-on wail.   Last night, he was attempting to grab at the tiny teddy bears dangling from the mobile hanging above his crib, all the while happily babbling to himself, or to the bears, or to Jesus.   Tonight, he is protesting sleep by swinging his legs high in the air and plopping them down on his crib mattress repeatedly.  Thump…Thump…Thump…Thump. 

I expect him to peter out somewhere between midnight and 1 a.m., at which point he will start with those warning stutters of a pending full-on wail as a request to be ‘topped off’ as I say.  I’m not complaining. 

Someday I’ll sleep through the night again…I know I will.  Yes, I realize I’ve been saying that for all of his 9 months. 

At times, I would say it with more vigor & determination; especially if this was a workday morning following a night of 5-6 wakings. As a newborn all the way up until about 7 months, Baby G was dealing with some undiagnosed Eczema skin issues that we had mistaken for colic and gas and reflux and allergies and over-stimulation and under-stimulation and oversupply issues and low-supply  issues (get the idea?), so we weren't keen on putting him on a sleep schedule until we figured out what was going on with him.  Which was fun, as I learned how to function during the day as a SLP zombie for 3/4 of a school year, and in the evenings come home to a very fussy little dude.  Ah, those were the days. Good times!  Once we figured out the Eczema issues, and pinpointed the solutions, his sleep schedule has, for the most part, taken care of itself.  I digress.

Other times, I would say it with feigned anticipation, much like how you would say you’re looking forward to starting that new diet, because although you want the weight loss, you just aren’t sure if you really want to give up the chocolate fudge brownies.

As for tonight, it would definitely take on the latter tone.  In fact, I'm considering not saying it at all.  I don’t have to work in the morning and he’s only a baby once, and is growing WAY TOO FAST might I add, so to be perfectly honest, I cherish these late night nursings, even at 9 months.  Perhaps I should say I particularly cherish feeling needed by him and choose to see this as an extra bonding session where we can ‘touch base’ with each other, for I am given daily clues that these baby days are limited.   At 9 months, he is doing SO many more things that showcase his growing independence, and as a result, his inevitable separation from his mommy a little too quickly for her liking. 

Crawling, for example.  And usually in an away-from-mommy direction. 

Which is healthy and very exciting, but also a little bit saddening because the days of my tiny, stationary, pre-mobile baby are now a memory.  GAH!  No one ever warns you that motherhood is so schizophrenic. Or is it bipolar?  Watching my baby grow is my greatest pride and strangely, at the same time, my greatest sorrow.  Oh Lord, I’m one of THOSE moms.  Tissues, anyone?  

However, the joy reflected on HIS face when he accomplishes something for the very first time is truly, totally, and completely worth all the tearful goodbyes to his previous stages, phases, and ages.  

So, Baby Boy, here is my proposition to you.  You are welcome and strongly encouraged to grow, accomplish, excel, conquer, and explore all you want during the day, so long as you meet me at night to rock a bit and rest your still-so-very-sweet-and-not-yet-big-baby head on my shoulder as you drift off to those baby dreams, for just a little while longer.  

...And then there were three

This is the birth story of our new baby son, Garrett Michael Schroeder. His beautiful arrival was the result of 29 hours of a pain-medication-free labor, the complete emotional and encouragement support from my wonderful husband (all 29 of those hours, throughout the easy, the ugly, and the horrifying), and the positive, open-minded OB staff of the Bartlett Beginnings labor & delivery ward at Bartlett Regional Hospital in Juneau, AK. If you are of the mind that births occur much like they do on television sitcoms, you know-woman’s water breaks, mad-dash to hospital, doctor catches baby just in time and the new-mom barely breaks a sweat...well I’d advise you to stop reading NOW if you don’t want that little infatuation busted. This is a story of a REAL labor. An almost completely natural unmedicated labor that WAS pain medication free. It was long. It was difficult. It was messy. But most of all: It. Was. Perfect.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

3:00 PM

My water breaks. This actually rarely happens as the first indicator of initiation of labor. I had been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for over a month, but nothing that was effective or that led anywhere. Well that’s not entirely true. In August, I was diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension at 35 weeks, so I was admitted to the hospital for a day for observation. This took away the possibility that I could give birth at the birth center since my pregnancy was now considered high-risk. While under observation, they discovered that I was in fact having pre-term contractions every 3-5 minutes. I was unaware of these, as I wasn’t even feeling them. They were showing up on the monitors. So to stop these contractions and bring my blood pressure down into a normal range, I was prescribed strict bedrest until the baby came, or if he didn’t want to come, until the doctor decided to induce (which I wanted to avoid). Fortunately, God heard my prayers and gave Garrett the nudge to come on his own at 39 weeks & 4 days. Anywho, my water breaks. When that happens, you can’t just rush out the door like Rachel did on Friends. You have to analyze if that actually was your water breaking, or if you just peed yourself, which can happen during any trimester of your pregnancy, or if you are not pregnant, from drinking too much or laughing too hard. Also, once its determined that you did NOT pee your pants, and your water is in fact, broken, you go back and forth between disbelief that the baby is actually on HIS WAY and sheer joy that the baby is actually on HIS WAY. After you’ve decided to accept that the baby is coming, you JUMP in the shower, and then (now this is imperative, although I’ll save you from the explicit details pertaining to WHY its imperative) CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES. After that, you call your husband (if you haven’t already) if you are a normal woman in labor. But if you are me, who at this point, was a bit irrational and had lost most of my decent judgment due to the recent event that had put the executive functioning part of my brain on hiatus, you send a breezy text. Our conversation was as follows:

Me: So I think my water just broke.

Aaron: What do you mean YOU THINK?

Me: Well I’m pretty sure. But not positive, my water has never broken before. I think I should wait an hour before calling the clinic, just to see.

Aaron: What?! Call them.

Me:(debating about what to do next call the clinic, or respond to Aaron, or wait an hour like I had irrationally planned)

Aaron: (tires of waiting for me to respond with a decision and calls me at this point and convinces me to call the clinic)

4:30 PM

Aaron picks me up and we go to the clinic, where they determine that my water is broken, and I am going to have this baby. But not for at least a few hours. “At least” being the operative phrase here. So they send us home to eat and gather the rest of our stuff for the hospital.

4:30-7:00 PM

Contractions seem to begin. I scurry around making sure I have packed all the last minute hospital items, frantically fit in the last few minutes of psychotic cleaning and nesting, prepare the goodies for the nurses, & grab a little something to eat. Aaron glares at me with disapproval as I’m making the nurses’ goodies, as I “should be resting”. But in my mind, I’ll have plenty of time to “rest” when I’m confined to the hospital setting, as my contractions are still 8-9 minutes apart and aren’t painful at all, just noticeable. We head to the hospital.

7:30-midnight

We arrive at the hospital and get all settled. The nurses are quite pleased with their goodies and might I add, were all EXTREMELY nice and professional throughout the entire hospital stay. If you take away nothing else from this story, just take this: You must treat your nurses with respect, politeness, but above all else, with chocolate.

My contractions grow more intense, but not unbearable. They are about 5 minutes apart, and I’m having to stand up and move around to ease the pressure. Listening to my ipod is keeping me focused. Nurse checks me at midnight. I’m at 4 cm. Cool beans! I’m not even sweating yet! I’m starting to think maybe labor is like they show on TV.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Midnight -9 AM

Contractions continue every 5 minutes, but don’t really intensify at all. Doc comes in and checks me at 9 AM. I’m. Still. At. 4 cm. I didn’t sleep, because the contractions were every 5 minutes. Doc is worried about my stamina. He presents me with two options to get labor progressing again. 1) An inflatable balloon thing (I know, technical, right? I can’t remember the actual term) that they insert and blow up to manually expand the dilation. 2) A whiff of Pitocin. As opposed as I thought I was to Pitocin from everything I had read about and learned from the Business of Being Born documentary because once its started, Pit can easily be the slippery slope leading to other interventions, that was what I chose. Ultimately, because I wanted the option to labor in the jacuzzi tub, and I was informed that I could do that with an intermittent Pitocin drip, but could not get in the water with the balloon thingy. They also assured me that the “whiff” of Pitocin I would need would essentially be like they walk into the room with Pitocin in a candle warmer, do a lap around my hospital bed, then walk back out. They sure made it sound harmless. So I agreed.

9:30 AM

They start me on the IV with the lowest setting of Pitocin. I’m all chatty with Aaron and my sister-in-law, Kaci. Still texting and responding to those who are checking in with me on Facebook and email. Pretty sure I’m kicking this labor’s booty.

9:32 AM

Kaci excuses herself from the room as I’ve started to whisper obscenities to no one in particular, and have to roll over on to my side as the only way to deal with sledgehammer beating me from the inside out.

Noon

Doc checks my progress. 8 cm! Ok, I can hold out, I tell myself. Just two more centimeters. He is trying to explain something to me, but I keep interrupting him as I breathe through contractions that are coming every 90 seconds. I still don’t know what he was saying, but I’m thinking he finally just told Aaron whatever it was, so I could continue to stay in the zone.

Stay in the zone? It takes me the next 5 hours to go from 8 cm to 10 cm. I’ve had all the zone I can handle for this lifetime.

1-3 PM

I think this is where I hit transition. No position feels better then the last, just different. The sledgehammer has transformed into a semi-truck that has taken a wrong turn somewhere and has now lodged itself inside my uterus. I start moaning. Since I started researching natural childbirth, I had decided I just wasn’t going to be one of those vocal laborers. It turns out, I had no control over the noises my larynx decided it needed to express. And the sounds it settled on sounded kind of like the ‘moooos’ from my great Aunt’s dairy cow farm. These sounds also helped sooth the pain during a contraction somehow. I desperately beg for cold compresses only to immediately complain that I’m freezing and want an extra blanket, only to immediately throw the blankets on the floor as I’m burning up again. I don’t want poor Aaron to touch me, as I’m certain even a single feather would apply too much extra pressure on my body at this point. However, he can’t leave the room either, because I his presence and encouraging words (thats right, you read it correctly, encouraging) are the only two things keeping me from ripping the Pit drip from my hand, leaping off the bed, jumping out of that hospital window and running away from my pain-med-free labor. Oh, and by the way, laboring in the tub didn’t even occur to me because the Pit had kicked in so much more intensely than I expected, that I really felt like leaving the bed was like boarding a shuttle to the moon. The tub might as well have been Jupiter, for how attainable it was in my mind. So the best idea is for me to just continue mooing instead of trying to reach Jupiter.

3-5 PM

I start feeling the urge to push. Like, REALLLLLLLLY feel the urge to PUuuuuuUUUSH. Pressure I had never never never ever ever ever experienced ever before. This kind of pressure could drive a person to levels of sheer insanity. I believe I asked Aaron to go get the nurse to check me during every contraction for at least a half hour. The nurse checks me only twice. I’m at 9 both times. She teaches me how to blow out the ‘f’ sound while rapidly exhaling instead of pushing. I use the term ‘instead’ very loosely here. More often than not, my body was involuntarily pushing for me even though I was ‘f’ing the ‘f’ out of ‘f’ breathing.

5-8 PM

Finally, I am complete! 10 cm never seemed so significant until this moment. I’ve been given the OK to push. Wooohooo! With the amount of obscene pressure I was feeling over the last 5 hours, I was so SURE he would be out in 3 pushes. 3 pushes turned into 3 hours. The doc was great though, made me feel like I was an absolute champ at pushing, even though I was more like a turtle. Or maybe the baby was more like a turtle, being that he’s the one would make a little progress, then regress into his shell a little, then make a little more progress...etc, etc, etc. Regardless of who the turtle was, pushing was a slow process, but I knew it was the last step before I could collapse and sleep for more than 20 seconds at a time. (Which, I apparently actually appeared to be doing between contractions and pushes, so deeply at times that Aaron would check for signs of breathing. Kudos to God (sometimes I was praying) and to hypnobirthing (sometimes I was just entering a trancelike reality to give myself a break).

Finally, the doc exclaimed that the baby was crowning & I gave everything to get him out in those final three pushes. And he complied! Good baby. After 29 hours of labor, Garrett was born at 7:55 PM. 7 lbs 10 oz, 20 inches. Wide awake, quiet (he cried later), and taking in his new world. They put him on my chest immediately and I couldn’t take my eyes away from his. That hasn’t changed in the last 6 weeks. I thank God for this gift every single day, and sometimes, I even wake up while he’s still sleeping (happens rarely at this point, but it happens) just to be sure I didn’t dream him up. But the best part is watching him with his Dad. Garrett has taught me that Aaron is a great Dad, and its amazing watching them interact. I can’t wait to see what else Garrett has to teach us.

Unexpected...to us...

...I laugh as he stares at me with all the stoic seriousness he’s rather infamous for, but this is even a new level of stoic for Aaron. Like, I’m actually scared. When Aaron Schroeder tells you to take a pregnancy test, and to do it now, that’s exactly what you do. Period.

So I head up to our bathroom. I had a few tests left over from last January when Aaron unexpectedly returned from deployment 5 months early, and, well, his return wasn’t in my planner, on my calendar, or lining up with my immediate reality. So alternative preventative measures THAT time were shown to be quite effective. I checked out the expiration date, it had expired 4 months earlier. But it was all I had, & I wasn’t about to go back down to dictator Schroeder without an answer, or at the very least, without a peed-on test. No sir.

So I take it, in complete disbelief of what I’m actually doing. I KNOW I literally shook my head in denial of the whole situation and said to myself, “This is so crazy, cray-zeeeee! there is no way you are pregnant! You’ll show him the negative test in a few minutes, & you’ll laugh together about the ridiculousness of him being the one, for once, to jump to conclusions instead of being logical.”

The test is ready, & I look. Very, very, very faded double line. I dive for the instructions that were thrown on the bed a few minutes ago. Fact: Reading pregnancy test instructions beforehand may save you incredulous amounts of anxiety after looking at a possible double line on an expired pregnancy test.

It says any hint of a double line is indicative of pregnancy. However, is that still valid after knowing the test is expired? And, might I add, the test also says for most accurate results, test the first urine of the morning? Well, I’m sorry, EPT, it is inching toward noon, and this is far from my first pee of the day. I claim unreliable results. Error proof indeed. Pfft.

Aaron asks about the verdict, I say the jury is still out & explain why. He says he has to get to school, but orders me to go to Walgreens (sidenote: he doesn’t give me orders unless his paternity is on the line) & get a non-expired test. There’s that scary stoic Schroeder again! Oy, the nightmares. I agree to go.

Walgreens is the place to go if you want to get something you need. Or to get a whole lot of junk you don’t need at all in an attempt to conceal getting what you actually need. My checkout basket contained the following: Whoppers, razer blades, box of hair dye (because there was NO WAY I was really preggers), thinking-of-you card for...somebody, although I wasn’t sure who yet, I’m sure someone would pop into my mind at some point and I’d be thinking about them & musing, “boy, if only I had a thinking-of-you-card to send them”, & plus, looking at cards is such a great time killer-maybe I’d even forget what I’d come to Walgreens to get in the first place, no-show socks for work shoes, mascara, and a Snickers for Aaron. Oh yeah, and a home pregnancy test.

Arrive back home, take the non-expired test, read the instructions and wait. This one shows two double lines, a bit more solid than the last test. But its still not the first pee of the day! In my twisted mind, this could still mean margin for a false positive. I don’t care if the test says false positives are not possible. I’ll wait until the morning and take another. This pregnancy test business was not in my planner, on my calendar, or within my immediate reality.

Morning arrives, and I take yet another test. These two lines are undeniably bold, and I’m not registering the reality of this still. I guzzle a ton of water, eat breakfast, shower, & take the last test in the box. Two more lines. 4 tests in all, all indicative of pregnancy, all taken by the queen-of denial. I prepare to tell Aaron the news he’s already assumed for the last 24 hours. He handles it very well, and by well, I mean he nods and says ok, but doesn’t vomit or faint, or transform into the Incredible Hulk.

I give him a kiss & head off to work. I know we will discuss it that night. At work, I don’t even think about my life-changing news that took place earlier that morning on my toilet. I dive into paperwork and sessions with patients, and speech/language goals & objectives. This is the routine I know and am comfortable with. This is an environment that remains untouched by the events of the morning. My life is familiar here in THIS place. I’m SAFE in this place, because I don’t have to think about anything beyond the last patient of the day. I’ve never related MORE to my kiddos with Autism than I have through this experience. I’ve discovered such a genuine appreciation for possible ways in which they see and react to the world.

Work ends. At home Aaron & I begin our first of many discussions about what those four sticks hanging out in the bathroom will mean for us in the future. A “surprise” pregnancy brings about many emotions. Especially when a certain stoic personality doesn’t enjoy surprises, and a different personality only enjoys surprises if they come in the form of chocolate or clothes or books-the kind that don’t require a planner, calendar, or that could altar an immediate reality.

Well, the ultimate result of all of these discussions was the acceptance of this life-changing surprise. It was not an immediate acceptance, on either of our parts, but a gradual one. At the first OB appointment, 8 weeks along, I heard the baby’s heartbeat & really connected that this was not just any surprise. This was a gift, from our God. He chose this gift-this child- for us, or maybe God chose us for this child. We have no idea why. We weren’t planning on children, at least not in the foreseeable future. So many of our beloved friends and relatives have struggled with their dreams of becoming parents, and have desperately sought out all options, at all costs to achieve what came to us so unexpectedly. Unexpected to us, but a perfect plan in the eyes of God. This surprise will be the best of any we’ve ever had, if for no other reason than because its God’s way. “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11

8 Weeks

13 weeks

20 Weeks

Life, As We Knew It

Hi, my name is Amber and I’m a workaholic. Ok, ok, ok not reeeeeally. But, the last few months have taught me how very much I actually enjoy having, no make that, desire having (?), no, that’s not covering it either, lets go with physically, emotionally, & mentally NEED TO HAVE-a job, a routine, a paycheck, a life outside of my livingroom tv & couch. I have encompassed a whole new level of lazy that I’m ashamed to publicly announce, but I’ll get into that later. Ultimately, up until 4 days ago, I genuinely believed (and was desperately counting on the fact) that August would finally bring an end to my housewife days. Oh how very, very wrong was I.

Now, where should I begin my crazy whirlwind tale? Well, I’m sorry if you don’t have all day for a 9 month detailed history, but I clearly do. Oh relax, I'll break it up into segments. Afterall, a girl's gotta eat. So let’s start at the beginning...

Early January 2011. At the gym before work. I can not finish my warm up weights without needing to pause between reps and take a break. I check and recheck the weight to be sure I didn’t pick up a heavier set than I meant to. Verdict? I must be regressing, because this is my typical warm-up weight set. I decide I need to eat more protein.

Later that week, increase in protein has done nothing for me. Well it probably has, but not anything that can be useful during my weenie 10 lb warm up set. I decide to forgo resistance training for a while, and work on my cardio. Hello treadmill. I hate you, but I woke up early & already had my pre-workout shake. I’m here, you"re here, lets do this. I step on, waiting to find my stride which usually kicks in at about 1/2 mile. 1/2 mile comes and goes-strideless & I’m cramping already, 3/4 mile passes by with me huffing & puffing as if I’ve just run a 5k. I get to a the mile marker, and slow to a brisk walk, wheezing like an asthmatic Floridian grandmother. What. Is. Happening. I call it a day, get in my car, start to head home & totally break down. Bawling. Where has all the progress gone that I’ve worked so hard for over the last 6 months? Aaron had been such a good trainer. Now I can’t even get through a warm up? I must be coming down with something. But wait, am I really crying over a bad workout? LITERALLY CRYING? Why yes, yes I am.

I get home. Aaron asks how the gym was. He doesn’t know I’ve been crying. Until I start to tell him the horridness of my sudden decaying body & that I can’t believe the regression in the matter of only a week or two. He asks why I’m so emotional about it, everyone has periods of regression at the gym. Thanks sensitive hubby. Clearly, they had not yet covered the chapter of counseling devastated clients in his personal training courses yet. Clearly this is also a prime example of why its dangerous to take personal training advice from your spouse. I stalk out of the room, pouting like a 4 year old, & go change. As I’m taking off my sports bra, I realize I’m in pain. Not from the super strenuous warm up weights, or the marathon single mile leisure jog, but from taking off the bra. OhLordinheaven I prayed for the pain to go away or for me to just pass out. Never before had the boobies been a source of pure evil agony. I took a shower, hoping the hot water would relax things, I must be getting close to that time of the month. Normally, I’d know EXACTLY how close I was to starting, to the hour (for reals), as I diligently chart the cycles, temps, & whatnot. But one evening my darling husband ran to Blockbuster “real quick” (we were in the midst of watching Dexter, & we desperately needed the last DVD of season 4) & left our paper fetish dachshunds in our bedroom, where my charts lived on my nightstand. He returned to find our naughty dachshunds had eaten my charts. And silly Amber didn’t have a back up copy. And Amber had no recollection of the date of her last cycle. Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas is the best I could do.

Ok, no big deal right? We will just use alternative prevention measures (as becoming parents was not a role we could even fathom at the moment...Aaron had just gotten out of the Army in the spring, was currently unemployed & working on his personal training certificate, and I was working very full time & enjoying this new fitness lifestyle Aaron had helped me initiate). Alternative prevention measures are great & effective, if you are acclimated to using them (which we weren’t) or if you just USE THEM (which we did, almost every single time). ***Fun Fact: “almost” is a life-changing word.*** Before charting, I had been on the pill. It was a magic pill, but it was causing high blood pressure. So I stopped the magic pill and started charting. Charting was magic too, for the 8 months I had been using it. But the charts didn’t come in magic, dachshund-proof paper.

So anyway, my boobies are sore, I’m an emotional mess, my body is tired, weak, & decrepit at 28 years of age. I bet my cycle is just around the corner. I have a new sense of calm, just KNOWING that this must be what’s going on. I smile with relief as Aaron comes into the room & decides this is the moment to share with me that he’s been thinking & it really doesn’t make any sense for my workouts to have regressed to this level of low. What? I thought we had covered this. I know he’s still in school for this, but come-on, please don’t give me two completely opposing stances in 15 minutes & expect me to be ok with this. That’s all it took. I started bawling. He asked what was it now? I told him that my boobies are sore, I’m an emotional mess, my body is tired, weak, & decrepit at 28 years of age. The next thing he said caught me totally off guard. Everyone else probably would have seen it coming for miles, but not I, self-proclaimed queen of denial regarding anything that is not in my planner, on my calendar, or lining up with my immediate reality. “Take a pregnancy test. Do it now.”

My Firstborn Shall Be Named Dyson

I have a confession to make. I’ve been curiously intrigued with a certain love interest for quite sometime, and I can finally express my realized feelings with elated confidence: I Am in Love. My love interest just happens to be a phenomenal vacuum cleaner. I had been hearing great things about my love interest ever since I was working as a custodial assistant in college, which was really what kicked off my obsession to someday obtain him, but I always had the preconception that he was simply out of my league. There just was no way a frugal gal like myself could possibly spring for such a high-status icon. Although I knew I always loved him, from all the things I had heard, he was exactly everything I had ever wanted. He was rumored to be the most dependable, the most easy-going, and the most powerful. People would mention how his physique may not initially appear to have all the fancy bells and whistles of his competitors, as he is actually rather petite, but that I should not be deceived by his appearance. I found out tonight (our first true one-on-one interaction) that he presents me with every single item I could ever need, and then some. He really has redeemed my faith in cleaning, and empowered me to reclaim control over dirt, pet-dander, and hair. I had been broken for so long, when my ex-vacuum died. I am sorry his life ended before I could tell him how much I appreciated the first 2 months of our relationship, back when things were running smoothly and he was doing everything his packaging promised. However, this honeymoon stage was short lived.

You see, my ex-vacuum and I ended our partnership on horrid terms, and it was just over a year into our relationship. I suppose I am to blame. I pushed him too hard at times, and was guilty of neglect at other times. I admit to not emptying his bags as often as I should have, or reaching beneath his brushes and lovingly cleaning out those long hairs that always bogged him down. I won’t make a million excuses; I am fully guilty of badgering him again and again with my verbal abuse. However, it is only fair to say that the fault causing our partnership to go sour so quickly was not all mine. He did not follow through on his promises, and I had these promises in writing, right there on the box in which he came to me. However, I was a stupid woman, ignoring that little sentence about the limited warranty. I was naively determined that OUR relationship would be different. I just KNEW that he would be faithful to me long after that silly little warranty sentence said he would. But no. Only 13 months and 3 weeks after the day I brought him home for the first time to meet my carpets, he refused to pick anything up. The harder I pushed, and the more I fussed, the more he screeched. Fortunately, when the end came for him, it was quick and, I dearly hope, painless. It happened in the master bedroom. I plugged him in for what would be the last time. I gently pushed the ON switch, and he whined to life. I started to steer him to the front and back and to the front again, and that is when the aroma of burning hair overwhelmed me. A microsecond later, his brushes locked up and this awful scraping sound came from somewhere within him. It was somewhat reflective of a pitchfork scraping against an aluminum shed. I knew our time together was rapidly drawing to a close, so I shut him OFF, laid him on his back, and prepared to administer CPR: Clog Pickage & Removal. When I was sure I had adequately cleared the blockage, I went to turn him back on and realized the devasting truth: I was simply too late. He was a goner. Rest in peace, Yellow Eureka, rest in peace. Every time I see a sheer shawl with decorative fringe lying defeated and forgotten on the closet floor, know I will think only of you and how you were always so thorough with those devouring skills back in your early days.

After a few weeks without a vacuum in your life, no matter how negative previous vacuum experiences may have been, you realize just how much you miss having clean, sanitized floors, how much you miss walking around in stocking feet without stepping on something unidentifiable and most definately disgusting, how much you miss being able to tell your friends, that YES, they CAN stop by anytime,and when they do, they do NOT have to stay outside on the front stoop or in the garage. I knew it was time for me to find a replacement. During my search, I found myself thinking of that attractive vacuum I had first heard about from the head-custodian of the fine-arts building at EWU back in '05, a vacuum by the name of Dyson. Dyson had done a lot for himself since I first heard his name back then. He was even making commercial appearances, and co-workers were openly singing his praises. After consumer report-stalking him for about 4 nights straight, and reading overwhelmingly highly marked reviews, I decided it was time for me to commit. I was going to spend 3 times more on him than I had spent on his predecessor, but I also was sure to obtain a 5 year warranty. I planned to be much wiser this second time around.

He arrived, and as I was removing him from the box, I was immediately drawn to his rounded edges, and transparent parts: I knew there would be no guessing what was wrong with him, I could see right through him. That in itself was a blessing. Then I went to read the manual to figure out how in the world to assemble him, and felt a sudden tear of explicit joy slip out of the corner of my eye as I realized I was standing in the presence of a miracle: Total Assembly Procedure: ONE STEP. Yes, Dyson not only was easy on the eyes, he was just plain easy. And I loved him immediately. He was home.

Since that night, we have had several rounds about the floor that I can only describe as invigorating. The way Dyson and I connect is an experience I have never had before, and wouldn't trade for all the hardwood floors in the world. He just has a way of sensing all the problem areas and attacks them before I can even say “missed-a-spot”. He was worth every penny, and I tell him that each time I return him to his storage closet always after a successfully wonderful time of maneuvering (dancing) and suctioning. He thinks that the competent job he does is my favorite part about him, but if you want the truth, my absolute favorite part is the fact that he is a vibrant shade of purple. We obviously were meant to be.

80’s Quiz Time: The following song sums up my feelings about Dyson, what is the title & who sang it? Hint: Will Smith produced a version of this song with his son in the late 90’s. If he can dedicate this love song to his son, I don’t see why I can’t dedicate it to my vacuum. Any opposed?
I see the crystal raindrops fall
And see the beauty of it all
Is when the sun comes shining through
To make those rainbows in my mind
When I think of you some time
And I want to spend some time with you

Just the two of us
We can make it if we try
Just the two of us
Just the two of us
Building castles in the sky
Just the two of us
You and I

We look for love, no time for tears
Wasted waters's all that is
And it don't make no flowers grow
Good things might come to those who wait
Not to those who wait to late
We got to go for all we know

I hear the crystal raindrops fall
On the window down the hall
And it becomes the morning dew
Darling, when the morning comes
And I see the morning sun
I want to be the one with you
Just the two of us
We can make it if we try
Just the two of us
Just the two of us
Building big castles way up high
Just the two of us
You and I
Just the two of us
Let's get together, baby
Just the two of us
We can make it
Just the two of us
We can make it
Just the two of us

Crazies in Colorado Springs

So about a week ago, my highly eligible kindred spirit candidate, Lauren, and I are spending that particular Saturday afternoon driving around the Springs, heading to grab a bite at Chipotle after successfully perusing a craft fair at Fountain Ft. Carson High School. After which, we were planning to head to her house to take in an episode or six of the shamefully addictive Showtime series The Tudors on DVD (Who didn’t love Henry the VIII? What’s that? Oh….Everyone. Ok so the real reason I watch (lust?) is because Jonothan Rhys Meyers plays his character in the series and I have only two words to sum up his performance: Drool Inducer). Anyhow. On our way to Chipotle on this particularly gorgeous fall day, we are chitchatting at a degree and pace equal to that of those pair of old ladies you always see at nursing homes sitting in wheelchairs with the knitted afghan’s over their laps desperately debating whose aches and pains and broken hips and incontinence problems are worse, as Lauren pulls into a left-hand turn lane behind a Ford Explorer. Nothing show-stopping yet. But then Lauren and I watch (yet unphased, as we continued our serious discussion on a topic that I can not for the life of me remember, and the reason for this, I’m quite sure, is due to the immediately following sequence of events that caused my mind to achieve overload status as it could not make sense of what it was processing and chose to voluntarily delete data, and this conversation immediately preceding the craziness is lost forever in Amber Amnesia Land and is unable to be recalled). Now this is when things began to get weird. A young, yet rather intimidating, pregnant woman opens and exits the passenger side door of the Explorer. She promptly runway-struts her way to the rear of the Explorer, props one hand on her waist, props the other against the rear window, and exhibits an expression that can be best described as though she is good and ready to properly beat a bare-bottomed child caught stealing money from Daddy’s top dresser drawer with a wooden spoon (this is an entirely different story to be more appropriately shared at another time). That, or flip a few gang signs and draw a sorts of concealed weapons from her maternity jeans and go TombRaider style on the unsuspecting people of Colorado Springs. A few seconds go by, then some secret signal is transmitted (a trunk release lever is pushed perhaps?) and she opens the trunk, and lo-and-behold, a full-grown man with a full-grown molester-stash rolls out of the trunk. At this point Lauren’s and my conversation has ceased in mid-syllable, in order to fully conceive the scene before us. Lauren also executively decides that this would be the ideal moment to auto-lock our doors, and does so. Why this gentleman who might be most easily identified in a police line-up was laying in the trunk and not sitting in a seat like a typical human being may prefer is still a mystery to us, as it appeared that he (America’s Most Wanted poster-boy), Preggers, (The She-Thug on hiatus), and thus-far, the unseen Phantom Driver, were the only living creatures in the vehicle, and so, assumably, there would be ample seating. IJusDontGetIt. She-Thug places both hands on her hips, throws her head and shoulders back into a praying-mantis-I dominate-you-arch, and begins to not so politely converse with MugShot. They shut the trunk together as the left-turn-signal light turns green. Now the situation has abruptly warranted Lauren's and my direct involvement as the passengers in the vehicle behind the non-moving vehicle in a left-hand turn lane at a very busy intersection. Before Lauren or I can audibly express a “whathaheckerwesposedtadonow’, She-Thug and MugShot begin pushing the Explorer into the intersection. Lauren pulls forward to stop in the Explorer’s spot just as the light turns red, so we can again, be blessed with front row seats to watch Act II. Act II begins with She-Thug and Mug-Shot rolling the Explorer just onto the shoulder and ends with She-Thug transforming into less She-Thug and more Preggers as she doubles over and grips her belly. Well, so sorry Lara Croft, but you shouldn’t have tried to save the world by pushing a Jeep when you were 6 months pregnant. And more importantly, what was up with the evasive Phantom Driver? Lauren concluded that Phantom Driver had better have been more pregnant than Preggers the She-Thug was, or else her butt should have been pushin’ instead of sittin’. The turn-light changed to green before we could witness Act III, but, as it turned out, we were in store for yet another play...

So we finally pull into the Chipotle parking lot, which is in the SouthGate shopping center, and a few blocks down from a Home Depot. Lauren and I are about to exit the car, when an elderly man walks right beside my passenger side door pushing an empty Home Depot cart. Huhhhhhhwhaaa????????? For your comprehension convenience, I will reiterate two things: Home Depot is 3 blocks away. The cart is empty. Then, he pushes the cart up onto the curb in front of Lauren’s car, abandons it, and proceeds to walk off without looking back. Lauren and I are dumbfounded. We don’t even exchange so much as a word about this particular event until later in the day when our brains are finally settling back into place. Then, before we can even open our doors to head into Chipotle, a group of five men who appear to work as salesmen for the same cell phone company approach Lauren’s car and just stand between its hood and the freshly abandoned Home Depot cart. For the second time in a period of 13 minutes, I hear the auto-locks of Lauren's car click into place. A sixth cell-phone-company salesman strolls to my side from the rear of Lauren’s car and unlocks the driver’s side door to a white van 2 parking spaces down from us. Like a mother goose and her cell-phone-polo-shirted ducklings, the sixth-cell-phone-company salesman unlocks the van and the five remaining men single-file into the van and drive away. Lauren cautiously unlocks the doors, and we exchange a knowing glance that in light of recent events, this may be the last Chipotle meal we may ever devour together, and we shall cherish every bite. After we get our Chipotle (to-go, no less, Southgate Plaza has blatantly made its point…we will not be staying to experience the atmosphere) we get back in the car and as she is trying to back out, a Subaru screams (literally, I tell you, I heard shrieking) up next to my door, double-parking itself into the lane next to Lauren and Lauren’s lane. Lauren has to pull forward to re-maneuver so she doesn’t hit the obnoxious woman’s Subaru as her rear tire is fully in our lane. The entire time the Obnoxious Subaru driver is glaring at us and giving us dirty glares and mouthing words that resemble obscenities (poor woman had no way of knowing that the petite-chica staring back at her was a lip-reading Speech Therapist) because she can’t open her door to exit her car until we back out. We safely and slowly exit the parking spot, and just as we think nothing more can happen, a speed-walking, Spandex-wearing & Ipod-bearing marathon mad-lady narrowly avoids having her next power-walk be the one through heaven’s gates, as Lauren slams on her breaks so the lady can pass a comfortable 3 yards away from the pedestrian crosswalk and at the same time, pass so close to the hood of Lauren’s car that the oblivious-turbo-stepper could stick out her tongue and get a palate full of elaborate bug juice samples fresh from the grill.
My kindred spirit and I did survive this day. We did lust over the Tudors that afternoon. We have eaten Chipotle again. But we have not returned to Southgate Plaza since, and have no plans to. You can not make this stuff up.
But somebody had to make THIS up, do you know who it was?:

Who can it be knocking at my door?
Go 'way, don't come 'round here no more.
Can't you see that it's late at night?
I'm very tired, and I'm not feeling right.
All I wish is to be alone;
Stay away, don't you invade my home.
Best off if you hang outside,
Don't come in - I'll only run and hide.
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?Who can it be now?Who can it be knocking at my door?
Make no sound, tip-toe across the floor.
If he hears, he'll knock all day,
I'll be trapped, and here I'll have to stay.
I've done no harm, I keep to myself;
There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health.
I like it here with my childhood friend;
Here they come, those feelings again!