September 29, 2008
Hopefully I'll have a post for you in a few days.
James has learned how to trip his Grandmother by setting up boobie traps around the house. It's funny, but I just don't feel like writing about it.
Soon....
Give a Little, Take a Little
September 
26, 2008
Losing a pregnancy this far along has been all around sucky, but I'd have to say that one of the worst parts has been the fact that we have to get a funeral home involved.
I'm twenty-seven years old. In my opinion, I should have to make trips to The Gap, the Dairy Queen, and that damn freaking office where you beg them to cancel out your parking tickets--not the funeral home.
We walk past this particular funeral home often--as you may recall--and every time I do I think, "Gosh, I hope I don't have to do business with them for a looooong time." Or "Jared's gonna be a crabbiest old man in the world when he dies. It probably won't be so bad to drop him off."
But yesterday evening, when we pulled in and actually parked in the lot, all I could think was, "Oh my word, this isn't really happening."
But unfortunately, it was.
I actually walked up those steps with my own two feet, into the corridor, and took a seat in the very outdated office. I listened hazily with my own two ears as words like "cremation" and "medical examiner" and "complimentary flower arrangement" lazily bounced from wall to wall. All the while, I tried to listen, I honestly did, but my brain could only seem to make sense of my own repeating thought: Why didn't I take an Ativan before we came here?
But as the conversation progressed, I couldn't help but notice something. That very sore muscle, otherwise known as my heart, slowly began to unclench. As the conversation evolved from final arrangements into common people we know, my breaths deepened and my fingers, which had been pried to the sides of my folding chair, found their way to lap. Maybe it was the comfort in knowing that all of the formalities of this situation would be over within twenty-four hours, or maybe it was the fact that the owner of the funeral home seemed to treat his career as more of a calling...
Either way, I felt okay.
And when Jared asked how much we owe, and I heard the owner say, "Nothing. We don't charge anything for children," I think I felt myself smile for the third time in a week. As much as I hate to admit this, the happenings of this week--minor as they might seem--have the real potential to leave us in financial shambles. We have high deductible health insurance, we seem to owe a check to every healthcare provider on this planet, and don't forget--we just opened up our own practice.
If I had the money for a Greyhound Transit ticket, I swear to Buddha that I'd hop a bus to Washington, put on a pant-suit, sneak onto the Senate floor, and somehow work "The Lawson Family" into the nation's financial bail-out plan.
...Lehman Brothers, AIG, The Lawsons, Washington Mutual--I don't think it calls too much attention to itself, do you?
The real point of this story is that the hard work, compassion, and generosity of the funeral home director touched my heart deeply. So much, that when I picked James up, the first thing I said to my father-in-law as he rounded the corner into the kitchen was, "You know, when you die I'm definitely taking you to Robertson's Funeral Home. And I don't care what you say, I buying you the fanciest casket they've got." Then I turned to my mother-in-law, pointed my finger at her chest, and said, "That goes for you, too."
We all laughed.
Then they booted me out of their house with an armful of hot food and a chocolate cake made from scratch.
In closing, I'd like to thank everyone who has lightened our load with a cake, a call, a gift, a kind word, or a "put your checkbook away." If I haven't had the chance to thank you personally, please know that it's only because the world is a very good place, and I'm absolutely overwhelmed with the outpouring.
This entire experience has left me yearning to be a gentler, kinder, more generous and thoughtful person. So if you need anything--anything at all--call me. I owe the universe approximately 10,001 good deeds, and I'd like to give one to you.
26, 2008Losing a pregnancy this far along has been all around sucky, but I'd have to say that one of the worst parts has been the fact that we have to get a funeral home involved.
I'm twenty-seven years old. In my opinion, I should have to make trips to The Gap, the Dairy Queen, and that damn freaking office where you beg them to cancel out your parking tickets--not the funeral home.
We walk past this particular funeral home often--as you may recall--and every time I do I think, "Gosh, I hope I don't have to do business with them for a looooong time." Or "Jared's gonna be a crabbiest old man in the world when he dies. It probably won't be so bad to drop him off."
But yesterday evening, when we pulled in and actually parked in the lot, all I could think was, "Oh my word, this isn't really happening."
But unfortunately, it was.
I actually walked up those steps with my own two feet, into the corridor, and took a seat in the very outdated office. I listened hazily with my own two ears as words like "cremation" and "medical examiner" and "complimentary flower arrangement" lazily bounced from wall to wall. All the while, I tried to listen, I honestly did, but my brain could only seem to make sense of my own repeating thought: Why didn't I take an Ativan before we came here?
But as the conversation progressed, I couldn't help but notice something. That very sore muscle, otherwise known as my heart, slowly began to unclench. As the conversation evolved from final arrangements into common people we know, my breaths deepened and my fingers, which had been pried to the sides of my folding chair, found their way to lap. Maybe it was the comfort in knowing that all of the formalities of this situation would be over within twenty-four hours, or maybe it was the fact that the owner of the funeral home seemed to treat his career as more of a calling...
Either way, I felt okay.
And when Jared asked how much we owe, and I heard the owner say, "Nothing. We don't charge anything for children," I think I felt myself smile for the third time in a week. As much as I hate to admit this, the happenings of this week--minor as they might seem--have the real potential to leave us in financial shambles. We have high deductible health insurance, we seem to owe a check to every healthcare provider on this planet, and don't forget--we just opened up our own practice.
If I had the money for a Greyhound Transit ticket, I swear to Buddha that I'd hop a bus to Washington, put on a pant-suit, sneak onto the Senate floor, and somehow work "The Lawson Family" into the nation's financial bail-out plan.
...Lehman Brothers, AIG, The Lawsons, Washington Mutual--I don't think it calls too much attention to itself, do you?
The real point of this story is that the hard work, compassion, and generosity of the funeral home director touched my heart deeply. So much, that when I picked James up, the first thing I said to my father-in-law as he rounded the corner into the kitchen was, "You know, when you die I'm definitely taking you to Robertson's Funeral Home. And I don't care what you say, I buying you the fanciest casket they've got." Then I turned to my mother-in-law, pointed my finger at her chest, and said, "That goes for you, too."
We all laughed.
Then they booted me out of their house with an armful of hot food and a chocolate cake made from scratch.
In closing, I'd like to thank everyone who has lightened our load with a cake, a call, a gift, a kind word, or a "put your checkbook away." If I haven't had the chance to thank you personally, please know that it's only because the world is a very good place, and I'm absolutely overwhelmed with the outpouring.
This entire experience has left me yearning to be a gentler, kinder, more generous and thoughtful person. So if you need anything--anything at all--call me. I owe the universe approximately 10,001 good deeds, and I'd like to give one to you.
Update
September 25, 2008
I won't lie. The last couple of days have been horrible. Physically, I feel like I've been hit by a bike, or a scooter, or a Prius traveling at a very low speed. But emotionally? Emotionally, it kind of feels like I've been run down by an 18-wheeler with two trailers that was traveling over the speed limit.
In other words--it hurts. Badly.
But I will say that my readers are very tricky--and very, very kind. Even though I turned off the comments on Tuesday's post, you still managed to find me. I've received several hundred emails, dozens of Facebook messages, and a handful of comments on my "Mother of the Year" post.
Apparently I have people who care about me all over this planet, and I won't lie, it feels nice. So thank you, thank you, thank you for tracking me down. Your words, thoughts, prayers and personal experiences all mean a lot to me.
A lot of you, including Vanilla, let me know that if I need anything at all, I shouldn't hesitate to ask. Well, I do need something. I'm completely out of toilet paper, and I really don't feel up to going to the store. So Vanilla, buddy, if you could overnight mail me an eight-pack of one-ply toilet tissue, it would certainly lighten my burden.
Thanks in advance.
And in case you're curious, James handled the news really well. I bought him a bag of chips, sat him down on a park bench and said, "Buddy? Do you remember the baby that was in Mommy's belly?"
He nodded.
"Well," I continued, "the baby came out of Mommy's belly and went straight to live with Jesus."
James thought for a moment, and I watched an imaginative smile spread across his chubby little face. "Oh yeah," he said with all the confidence in the world. "That baby just crawled, and crawled, and crawled, and crawled to Jesus!"
He said it with all of the enthusiasm and enunciation of an evangelical preacher. It was really cute, and seriously--how could I not crack a smile at that one?
So thanks again for the thoughts and prayers. They mean a lot right now.
And just so you know, I think I'm going to be okay.
I think.
I won't lie. The last couple of days have been horrible. Physically, I feel like I've been hit by a bike, or a scooter, or a Prius traveling at a very low speed. But emotionally? Emotionally, it kind of feels like I've been run down by an 18-wheeler with two trailers that was traveling over the speed limit.
In other words--it hurts. Badly.
But I will say that my readers are very tricky--and very, very kind. Even though I turned off the comments on Tuesday's post, you still managed to find me. I've received several hundred emails, dozens of Facebook messages, and a handful of comments on my "Mother of the Year" post.
Apparently I have people who care about me all over this planet, and I won't lie, it feels nice. So thank you, thank you, thank you for tracking me down. Your words, thoughts, prayers and personal experiences all mean a lot to me.
A lot of you, including Vanilla, let me know that if I need anything at all, I shouldn't hesitate to ask. Well, I do need something. I'm completely out of toilet paper, and I really don't feel up to going to the store. So Vanilla, buddy, if you could overnight mail me an eight-pack of one-ply toilet tissue, it would certainly lighten my burden.
Thanks in advance.
And in case you're curious, James handled the news really well. I bought him a bag of chips, sat him down on a park bench and said, "Buddy? Do you remember the baby that was in Mommy's belly?"
He nodded.
"Well," I continued, "the baby came out of Mommy's belly and went straight to live with Jesus."
James thought for a moment, and I watched an imaginative smile spread across his chubby little face. "Oh yeah," he said with all the confidence in the world. "That baby just crawled, and crawled, and crawled, and crawled to Jesus!"
He said it with all of the enthusiasm and enunciation of an evangelical preacher. It was really cute, and seriously--how could I not crack a smile at that one?
So thanks again for the thoughts and prayers. They mean a lot right now.
And just so you know, I think I'm going to be okay.
I think.
A Sad Turn of Events
September 23, 2008
I know this is meant to be a humor blog, but sometimes there is absolutely nothing to laugh over in a given situation. You'll have to excuse me for this sharp divergence from my regular light-hearted topics, but there are only two things I know to do when I'm forced to cope with heartache--run or write.
Since I'm not allowed to run just yet, I'll do the only other thing I can....
Yesterday, Jared and I unexpectedly lost our unborn baby boy. And while I hesitate to share too many of my personal details, I will let you know that I was well into the second trimester of an uncomplicated, healthy pregnancy. My husband and I have been through more than I want to remember in the last 48 hours, and needless to say, we're both "functioning" in a shocked state of being.
I am 100% confident that I had nothing to do with the outcome of our little boy's shortened stay on Earth. I took my vitamins, I exercised regularly, I ate well. I prayed for my baby, I anticipated my baby, and I loved my baby as much as any waiting mother could.
Even though I know, through and through, that I had nothing to do with my untimely passing of my little baby boy, I'm still finding reasons to kick myself.
Why was I so reluctant to pose for belly shots? (I wish I had more tummy pictures, because in retrospect, I looked great--I never looked fat.)
Why didn't I ever take the initiative to start a baby book? (I really wish I had a sadly incomplete baby book--at least it would be something.)
Why was I so difficult and moody and hormonal? (Well, because I was pregnant. I guess it's as simple as that.)
Technically speaking--you know, by Earthly standards--I never really knew this little boy. But trust me when I tell you that this little boy knew me--his Mother--inside and out.
I was his warm, quiet & comfortable place. I was the one who gently bounced him up and down and sang him love songs as we ran together three or four times a week. I patted him. I rubbed him. And I fed him all kinds of crazy food combinations as I told him about my ridiculous meetings at work.
He knew me then, and I think he still does.
And even though I don't have the immediate chance to get to know my guy's little quirks, I know how much I love him.
And trust me....words can't do it justice.
I love you so much, baby boy! I miss you really badly.
I know this is meant to be a humor blog, but sometimes there is absolutely nothing to laugh over in a given situation. You'll have to excuse me for this sharp divergence from my regular light-hearted topics, but there are only two things I know to do when I'm forced to cope with heartache--run or write.
Since I'm not allowed to run just yet, I'll do the only other thing I can....
Yesterday, Jared and I unexpectedly lost our unborn baby boy. And while I hesitate to share too many of my personal details, I will let you know that I was well into the second trimester of an uncomplicated, healthy pregnancy. My husband and I have been through more than I want to remember in the last 48 hours, and needless to say, we're both "functioning" in a shocked state of being.
I am 100% confident that I had nothing to do with the outcome of our little boy's shortened stay on Earth. I took my vitamins, I exercised regularly, I ate well. I prayed for my baby, I anticipated my baby, and I loved my baby as much as any waiting mother could.
Even though I know, through and through, that I had nothing to do with my untimely passing of my little baby boy, I'm still finding reasons to kick myself.
Why was I so reluctant to pose for belly shots? (I wish I had more tummy pictures, because in retrospect, I looked great--I never looked fat.)
Why didn't I ever take the initiative to start a baby book? (I really wish I had a sadly incomplete baby book--at least it would be something.)
Why was I so difficult and moody and hormonal? (Well, because I was pregnant. I guess it's as simple as that.)
Technically speaking--you know, by Earthly standards--I never really knew this little boy. But trust me when I tell you that this little boy knew me--his Mother--inside and out.
I was his warm, quiet & comfortable place. I was the one who gently bounced him up and down and sang him love songs as we ran together three or four times a week. I patted him. I rubbed him. And I fed him all kinds of crazy food combinations as I told him about my ridiculous meetings at work.
He knew me then, and I think he still does.
And even though I don't have the immediate chance to get to know my guy's little quirks, I know how much I love him.
And trust me....words can't do it justice.
I love you so much, baby boy! I miss you really badly.
And the Mother of the Year Award goes to.....
September 19, 2008
...somebody else!!!!!
Pictured below is James's favorite mode of transportation--his wood-panelled cozy-coupe mini-van with the built in car phone. Sexy, no?
As you can see, if has its very own parking space in our two car garage. And in my mind, a vehicle as stealth as this one totally deserves that caliber of care and treatment.
Oh, who am I kidding? If I don't let the kid park his van in the garage he trows a rousing tantrum right between the snow blower and the lawnmower. I'd be pretty upset if James lost a finger in a moment of rage (or broke my yard equipment), so I'm like, "Fine. Park yer damn van in my spot. I'll be out here in the driveway scrubbing the bird poo off my windshield."
Last night the weatherman broke the unfortunate news that we'd have our first frost and should plan on scraping ice off our cars in the morning (also a good reminder to get the dog's coat out of storage and refill your Prozac prescription because, darn it, the winters up here are very freaking long).
Obviously I wanted my covered parking space back, so I did what any authoritative parent would do. I waited until James and Jared were fast asleep, tiptoed into the garage, moved Jared's car into the driveway and parked the sassy plastic van right in the middle of my husband's spot.
When I was pushing James's van across the garage, I noticed he had stocked a few toys inside of its pretend trunk. I was like, "Oh, how cute! What a boy! He packed his Lightening McQueen baseball glove (smile), a big ol' stick (gush), and...wait...hold on....an enormous pile of rusty screws and nails?!?!"
Holy bananas, folks. I think I'll go ahead and call CPS on myself. I'm sure a confession will move the process along.
...somebody else!!!!!
Pictured below is James's favorite mode of transportation--his wood-panelled cozy-coupe mini-van with the built in car phone. Sexy, no?
As you can see, if has its very own parking space in our two car garage. And in my mind, a vehicle as stealth as this one totally deserves that caliber of care and treatment.
Oh, who am I kidding? If I don't let the kid park his van in the garage he trows a rousing tantrum right between the snow blower and the lawnmower. I'd be pretty upset if James lost a finger in a moment of rage (or broke my yard equipment), so I'm like, "Fine. Park yer damn van in my spot. I'll be out here in the driveway scrubbing the bird poo off my windshield."
Last night the weatherman broke the unfortunate news that we'd have our first frost and should plan on scraping ice off our cars in the morning (also a good reminder to get the dog's coat out of storage and refill your Prozac prescription because, darn it, the winters up here are very freaking long).Obviously I wanted my covered parking space back, so I did what any authoritative parent would do. I waited until James and Jared were fast asleep, tiptoed into the garage, moved Jared's car into the driveway and parked the sassy plastic van right in the middle of my husband's spot.
When I was pushing James's van across the garage, I noticed he had stocked a few toys inside of its pretend trunk. I was like, "Oh, how cute! What a boy! He packed his Lightening McQueen baseball glove (smile), a big ol' stick (gush), and...wait...hold on....an enormous pile of rusty screws and nails?!?!"
Holy bananas, folks. I think I'll go ahead and call CPS on myself. I'm sure a confession will move the process along.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)