Ho! Ho! The Big Guy Arrived...

I have a bazillion photos to share from the Christmas Festivus. There was the making of the gingerbread house, the stringing of the popcorn, and the singing of the carols (which has caused Kate to believe that we should knock on random strangers' doors and sing Christmas songs loudly, any time of the year). Please forgive us if we show up at your house in the coming months (and please clap loudly and yell bravo after we conclude our version of Hark the Harold Angels Sing...because, you know, it makes the wee ones happy).

Here's just a brief snippet from Christmas morning. It was fun. Not as fun as last year. There was a tired and cranky four-year-old. There was a mama who was expecting a little more excitement and enthusiasm from two certain red heads. There was a man who didn't laugh as loudly as one might expect when he opened his brand new Batman underwear. I'm just sayin'...he should have been exstatic about such a gift, don't you think?

But all in all, it was a happy, joyful, relaxing Christmas morning, complete with a visit from Pappy and Grammy, and a breakfast of pancakes and bacon.

Pre-Christmas Drama...

There was a little drama before Christmas this year and it wasn't the normal last minute shopping, wrapping, what-the-heck-should-I-buy-Aunt-Sally type of drama. I mean, there was definitely that kind of drama and that kind of drama I can handle. I think best when I'm up against a deadline. But the kind of drama that came our way this year, well, let's just say that I was not prepared for it.

There was a seemingly healthy man in our household who was having chest pains when he took a deep breath. And since there's only one man in our household, that pretty much narrows it down for you. Steve works at a hospital and so it's pretty easy to get some basic tests run if he thinks he has a problem. You know...a random x-ray to check for a broken finger after a karate incident or a quick EKG to make sure his heart is beating in rhythm. It's a perk of the job. I prefer large bonuses and fancy conferences in sunny Florida myself, but last week I was happy that Steve had access to the random diagnostic test.

In response to his chest pain, Steve's coworkers ran a few tests that showed all was normal with his heart, but he just felt like something wasn't right. He went to his doctor, who told him that he probably had an inflammation and pulled a muscle. He gave him some special ibuprofen and sent him on his way. When the pain wasn't gone the next day, Steve asked a doctor that he works for to run a blood test. When the test came back abnormal, the doctor gave him an order for a CT to make sure he didn't have a blood clot in his lung (pulmonary embolism...scary stuff). Nobody really thought Steve had that, because his symptoms just didn't really sound like it, but they all wanted to be sure that he was okay.

Unfortunately, our insurance wouldn't give him the immediate thumbs up to cover the test, so Steve decided to come home that night. In the car on the way home, he just prayed that if he needed the test, that it would all work out and if the insurance company didn't approve it, that meant he didn't really need it anyway. The minute he pulled in the driveway, the phone rang. The insurance company approved the test and he was to come back to the hospital immediately. Two hours later I got a phone call that he was in the ER and he had at least one and probably two blood clots in his lungs. God was on top of things that night (as He always is, huh?).

They repeated the test and Steve had a blood clot in each lung. By the time I got to the ER, Steve was antsy and anxious to get out of there. He still had his sneakers on and refused to lay down and relax. The doctor came to tell him that he was being admitted and that he was hoping he might be out in a few days, but it could be up to a week.

Christmas was only three days away and Steve assured me that he would not be spending Christmas in the hospital. He also told me that it was 10 p.m., he hadn't eaten, and he needed a bacon cheeseburger, stat (in his kindest, sweetest voice)! Obviously, he was not too worried about the whole thing (as I ran to Hardees and then delivered the contraband burger to his room).

I, on the other hand, was about to hyperventilate and fall flat on the floor (which I have been known to do on rare occassions such as this) at the thought of my husband with a blood clot in his lung. The doctor told us that Steve's blood clot was not what they call "the widow maker" (which is just barely reassuring) and that he needed to have his blood thinned a bit to clear things up.

Pulmonary embolism. Widow maker. Blood thinners. Not exactly what I expected to be talking about three days before Christmas. I couldn't get to the hospital the next morning because I had to do some things with the girls, but my awesome husband asked the pulmonologist to call me at home to discuss his health. I can only imagine what Steve told him about me (although I suspect the words, crazy. worrywart. wife. were probably in there somewhere).

The pulmonologist told us that Steve is considered a spontaneous clotter. They are testing for a genetic cause (which would then mean that the girls would be tested as well). But for now, they really thought this was a random occurance, which (insert hyperventilating on my part here) could occur again at any time in the future. We have to discuss long term blood thinners (although Steve says he's made up his mind on that and will be not be continuing the medicine past four months). I haven't turned on my powers of persuasion concerning this subject, so we'll say the issue is unresolved. Thankfully, Steve was discharged the next night (taking blood thinners and complaining about the shots he has to give himself). We made it home (via Red Lobster, because apparently the hospital food just wasn't cutting it).

So yeah...he's fine, but I'm not so sure about me. I could have done without the pre-Christmas drama (and I still panic every time he mentions that he doesn't feel quite right). Mostly, though, I am so, so grateful that he is well and was right beside me on Christmas morning.

Speaking of Christmas morning...here's a sneak peak:

All things fuzzy...

As promised, here are some pictures of all things fuzzy (plus a few extras from my birthday celebration). Thus far, 36 is warm and cozy (and a little moody and bluesy, thanks to Adele, which I have been singing at the top of my lungs in the car everyday). I have not set out on sexy bra shopping trip yet. And when I do, there will no pictures of said trip. Just sayin'.

36

I'm thirty six today. Crazy, huh? I mean I still have a rockin' body, can run five miles without getting winded, and look like I could be sisters with my 16-year-old niece.

And after you all pick yourselves up off the floor from that major laughing spell, we will continue....

Just so you know what kind of woman I have become, let me share my birthday gift list from Steve: two pairs of fuzzy socks; two pairs of fuzzy slippers; one super comfy, white, fuzzy blanket; and an Adele CD. That's a whole lot of fuzzy, don't you think (which, coincidentally, is a word that could be used to describe my legs right this instant)? And the worst part is that I loved every single thing. He knows me well and he did a great job picking gifts.

But let's be real. I'm getting old.

That's why I was thrilled when my Victoria's Secret $10 off coupon came in the mail today. A sexy (super padded, push up) bra is just what I need to make me feel young again. Who wants to join me on this "fountain of youth" shopping spree? I'll lend you a pair of fuzzy socks and fuzzy slippers. We can have fuzzy feet and sexy bras. There's nothing like fuzzy feet and sexy bras to make you feel young and hot.

And there you have it. Life at 36.

It doesn't get much better than this. Seriously, though. It doesn't. Thirty-six is pretty great. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go put on my fuzzy feet and curl up in my fuzzy blanket and sing a little "Rolling in the Deep" at the top of my lungs.


P.S. Pictures of all things fuzzy coming soon (except the legs. enough said about them).

Want to talk about me…

Do you know that Toby Keith song called “I want to talk about me?” It goes:

I want to talk about me
Want to talk about my
Want to talk about number one
Oh my, me, my
What I think
What I want
What I know
What I love
What I see…

I like talking about you, you, you, you usually…
But Occasionally,
I want to talk about ME!

Yeah…that’s how I feel right now. I love photography and meeting all these sweet families. And I love looking at the photos and smiling because each family is captured in such a special way.

Don’t get me wrong. I love all that stuff.

But I want to talk about ME on this blog. My kids, my husband, my life, my fears, my thoughts.

I want to talk about plain. old. me.

But that will have to wait. Because I have four photoshoots booked this week.

And I’m getting ready for a Disney trip (Woo Hooo!)

And I have a Halloween costume to attempt to make. Don't worry. There's no sewing involved!

But I’ll be back. To talk about me. Wait for it, ladies and gentlemen, because I’m sure it will be good : )

I just wanted to include a few pictures.
Of Me.
In case you forgot what I looked like : )

Into the World....

How can it be that my girl is going to kindergarten in just over an hour? I cried last night...big, sobbing, alligator tears. I wondered if I had prepared her enough, if I had taught her enough. Mostly, I wondered how our five years together went by so quickly. It seems like she was just born, just smiling at me with her toothless grin, just waddling her first steps across the floor, just saying "mamamamamama" for the first time. And now she's heading out into the world. My heart is breaking. And today I am praying that the world will love my sweet Kate just as much as I do.
Now go get 'em, girlfriend. The world is out there waiting for you (and your mama will be just a few steps behind, cheering you on all the way)!

A promise kept...sort of.

We promised the girls a backyard campout, complete with a fire and smores. Seems like a simple promise to keep, right? Except who knew that on the very day we had planned said backyard campout, that it was going to be the hottest day of the entire year. We're talking capital H-O-T, triple digits, stinky, sweaty hot. But a promise is a promise and the girls had been counting down the days until the backyard campout. So we complied. Sort of.

Steve made a super small fire. We roasted approximately 15 marshmallows. I ate ten of them. The girls shared the other five.

At one point, Steve and I were quietly turning the skewers, in pursuit of the perfect, golden, gooey, toasted marshmallow, when I said, "It doesn't quite feel like we're camping." He just looked at me, wiped his brow and replied, "What? Is it the sweat running down your butt crack?" And then we both started laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing...roasting marshmallows by a fire in 90+ degree weather.

A few minutes later, Kate told me she had to get off the swing because her butt was wet from all the sweat. Yeah...there was lots of sweat. But we kept our promise and the girls had a blast.



We set up the tent in the family room. I tried to convince Steve that he should sleep there with the girls while I lounged in bed and watched a Hallmark movie. Unfortunely, he talked his way out of that one and took his sweaty butt to our comfy bed, leaving me to sleep on the floor between two chatty, giggly, goofy girls. It took them forever to fall asleep and I was about to give up when all of the sudden everything got quiet.

And then out of the quiet darkness, one little three-year-old girl whispered in a sleepy voice, "Guess what, Mama? I love you." And everyone fell asleep.

It is one of those perfect moments that I hope I will remember, even when I'm old and gray. And to think that I almost missed it, in favor of a comfy bed and Hallmark movie. I'm so glad Steve took his sweaty butt to bed and left me between those two giggly girls.

Around 1:30 a.m., I made two trips up the steps, carrying little girls off to their comfy beds before curling up in mine. Because the fun part is falling asleep in the tent. Who needs to wake up there? Now that is my kind of camping!

Ten...A Photo Tribute

Ten years.

Then and now...

He holds my hand, pushes me to try new things, encourages me to follow my dreams, wipes away my tears, laughs uncontrollably with me (and sometimes at me), makes me crazy, disagrees with me, indulges my crazy ideas, settles my restless (worrisome) heart.

Mostly, he loves me.
For ten years, he has loved me with his whole heart. Could a girl ask for anything more than that?








(As promised...here's an embarrassing picture! There is a dolphin under each of my feet and they are pushing me across the water in this picture. It was very cool...and the picture is a little embarrassing. No wonder everyone laughed at me that day!).




Steve, I pray that we have sixty more years to spend together (at least), and I look forward to all the fun adventures that lie ahead of us!

Weekends, Wineries, and a City Boy...

Amidst all the gardening talk and yard sale finds, I think I failed to mention that Steve and I celebrated our ten year anniversary last month. Ten years...Wow! I am planning a full out tribute post to Steve and to our ten, amazing years of marriage soon. Wait for it, ladies and gentlemen, as I suspect it will include some really great (and possibly a little embarrasing) photos from the past ten years!

But for now, let me tell you how we celebrated. Don't get too excited. It didn't include an airplane ride, a string bikini, or a fruity drink with an umbrella in it. We were planning to go to a Sandals resort in the Bahamas, to relive the crazy fun of our honeymoon (which was spent at a Sandals resort in St. Lucia). But a few months ago we made a decision to spend our Bahamas money on a trip to Disney with the girls. It seemed like a smart idea at the time, but right now, as I'm dreaming of a week with my man on a tropical island, I'm wondering what we were thinking when we made that decision.

So, instead of the Bahamas, we spent the weekend in beautiful, exotic, Virginia. We decided to do a little winery weekend tour. We woke up early and shopped in the coolest antique stores. Seriously, they were such cool stores (think Pottery Barn, except older and more stylish and more solidly made). Steve is a great shopper, and I love that about him. He even carried my purse around this huge antique store. How could you not love a man carrying a pink purse?

Side note: When I first started dating Steve, I told my mom that it wasn't going to work out because we didn't have anything in common. She asked me why I felt that way and I said, "Well, he doesn't hunt or fish or shoot archery...." She just kind of looked at me funny and said, "Yeah, but neither do you!" Ha...she had a good point! I had never dated a guy (or even known a guy, for that matter) who didn't do those things...that is, until I met Steve. He liked movies and shopping and going out to eat and drinking wine (or beer or jungle juice or tequila...ha!) and bunji jumping and being a little wild. I call him my "City Boy," though he would tell you that I'm more "city" than he is, because I scream at the sight of a spider and think camping should involve air conditioning.

So where was I? Oh yeah...my city boy and I shopped and ate lunch at a wood-burning pizza oven restaurant. We got "grown up" pizza (fancy cheeses and sauces, with lots of toppings). I think it was the best pizza I've eaten in my entire life (and I have eaten my fair share of pizza)! Then we set out on the winery tour.

The first place was beautiful.

Didn't I tell you? The wines...well, they were not so great. But we drank them anyway and then listened to some live music and took corny pictures on the deck.

Notice the water? We had to stay hydrated (and sober) so we could drive to winery two. We were goofier and louder(and possibly drunker?) at the next winery. This time, we swirled and sniffed and tried to see if the wines really tasted like the descriptions (who writes those descriptions anyway?).


Then we bought a bottle of wine and sat outside, stuffing our faces with warm ciabatta bread and tomato pesto sauce and drinking (Steve drank the wine, I stuck with gatorade...because someone had to drive). We decided that winery number three would have to wait for another day.


Later that night, we curled up together and watched a good Hallmark movie.

I guess my mom was right...my "City Boy" and I still have lots in common, even after ten years!

Patience, Young Jedhi....

Have I ever mentioned my love of craigslist? It's like a huge, online yardsale...what's not to love? I have some friends who steer clear of craigslist, for fear that they will be murdered. I'm not too concerned, mostly because I send Steve to do all the pick-ups. He's a black belt in karate. He can handle it.

So, I have been searching craigslist for the past year for a set of four counter height barstools with rush seats and high backs. I wanted the Pottery Barn look, but I can't afford the Pottery Barn price ($269 per stool...hello, crazy!). No offense to those of you who have purchased those lovely stools, because they're pretty and droolworthy, just not in my budget. Unfortunately, throughout the year, my search yielded nothing. Do you know how hard it is to find four stools that are exactly the same? I had not given up hope, but was starting to think I needed to increase my budget (or beg Santa to please stuff some stools down my faux fireplace).

That is, until last Saturday morning. Steve and I loaded up the girls to do a little yardsaling. My man likes to yardsale. That's hot, don't you think? We were running late (9:30 a.m.) and I was whining about all the good deals being gone. As we were speeding down the main street of our town, on the way to a rather wealthy neighborhood yard sale, I spotted them out my window.

"Barstools," I yelled, as Steve slammed on the brakes and said, "Where?" Good man, I tell you. We made a quick u-turn, and I wondered out loud about the size and the condition and whether there were three stools or four. As I was mentally going through how much I planned to pay for said stools, Steve screeched to the curb and said, "Go!" Right there in front of me were four, perfectly matching, sort-of-pottery-barn-like, barstools. Four. I tell you, I was about to pee my pants right there on Main Street (as I cooly turned around, smiled a huge smile and held up four fingers to Steve).

Then I calmly made my way to the owners and asked, "How much do you want for those barstools?"

The lady said, "Well, I'd like to get $25 for them."

I thought for a moment. $25 a piece...$100 total. I only had $80 with me.

And then I said, "So...$25 each or $25 total?" She looked at me like I was a little crazy and she said, "Oh, just $25 for all four of them, honey."

To which I yelled "SOLD" and started jumping up and down, right there on Main Street. It took ten minutes to figure out how to stuff them in the back of the car, but I was super excited!

And, now that you've made it through this long story, I present to you...
My Barstools...

I'm planning a little kitchen/family room redo (yes, it will be our fourth paint color in the family room)! When I do that, I'm going to repaint the stools (white or maybe turquoise or orange or red???). But for now, I'm just thrilled with my frugal find!

Everyday Miracles...

Just over six years ago I wrote this in my journal:

June 11, 2005 (8 a.m.) The day of third IVF egg retrieval.

Last June, I was undergoing my third IUI. At the time, I found a large, broken blue robin's egg in our backyard. I knew it was a bad sign...I just knew at the time that that cycle didn't work.

This year, a robin tried to build a nest on the wreath on our front door. We moved the nest several times and still, that robin kept coming back, trying again to build that nest. When we went to Mexico, she must have been relieved. She had an entire week to build her nest without interuption. It was complete and the day after we returned there was one perfect egg in there. The next day there were two and several days later, three eggs. Now...there are four.

These perfect eggs seem like good omens to me. I love seeing that robin sit on her eggs just as I am preparing mine. That's what mothers-to-be do, I guess...sit on their eggs, waiting, waiting. I'm anxious to see those baby birds. I pray for them and for me. I hope that with the hatching of those birds so, too, comes the good news of a baby for Steve and I.

It is spring.
Anything is possible.


Exactly six years ago today (around the same time that those baby birds were hatching) I found out that I was pregnant. After three years of infertility, three miscarriages, three unsuccessful rounds of IUI, and three rounds of IVF, my tiny miracle was just beginning.

Every year when I see the robins building a nest and I get my first peak at those perfect blue eggs, I am reminded, once again, that miracles happen every day. If you're still waiting...don't give up hope. Your miracle could be just around the corner.

Can you hear me now?

Kate has been really good at memorizing her Bible verses from church lately. She usually knows each one before she walks out of the classroom and she repeats them randomly throughout the week. Last week, her verse was, "I listen carefully to what God is saying."

So the other night at prayer time, just after Kate thanked God for her pillows, blankets, butterflies, garden, sister, camera, friends, roly poly,and on and on and on (and I was almost completely tuned out), her voice got firm and serious and she said:

"And God, I've been listening carefully to what you are saying, but I don't think you're talking loud enough because I can't hear you down here." And then she looked at me and giggled.

Oh my goodness, I almost peed my pants.

How many times have I wanted God to just "talk" a little louder? Should I build this house? Should I take this job? Am I ready to have a baby? Why am I not getting pregnant? Why aren't you answering my prayers? Can I please get an epidural the next time around? How can I be a better mother? Should I quit my job? What teacher will be best for Kate? How can I teach Ellie to share more? Should we really buy a boat? Should we try for Baby #3? And my list of questions goes on and on and on. I want answers. I want real, live answers from the One who wrote the entire book of my life.

Sometimes, I just want Him to talk a little louder. I want to be able to say, "Ten four, I heard ya loud and clear...over and out, Good Buddy."

And so the other night I giggled with Kate, realizing that her five-year-old, little girl self isn't all that different from my thirty-five-year-old grown-up self...

We just want to "hear" Him, loud and clear.

Because She Mattered...

It has been exactly one year since my Grandma died. The other day, I was cleaning our office and I came across a wrinkled piece of hand-written paper that had been erased and rewritten several times. It was the eulogy that I gave at my Grandma's funeral. I wasn't planning to speak, but about two hours before the funeral, I called my mom and asked if anyone was going to talk at the funeral. When she answered "no," I just knew that I had to do it. I think that funerals need to be personal. Take note: When I die, I really hope that one of you will stand up and talk about me. Tell some funny stories. Talk about the time I gave you good advice. Tell the world that I mattered. Because...isn't that what we all want? We want to matter. We want to know that we mattered to someone. And I know, realistically, that it doesn't matter what you say about me at my funeral, because I'm not going to be there to applaud (or to be embarrased or to cry or laugh or feel proud of my accomplishments). I'll be celebrating with the Big Guy, flying with the angels, singing beautifully in the choir (and yes, it will be the first time that I have ever sung beautifully)! I just feel like it's important to eulogize a person at their funeral, and so I got out my pencil and paper 90 minutes before my Grandma's funeral and I wrote her eulogy...because she mattered.

Her name was Norma. But to most us, she was known as Grandma Dell. Our Grandma Dell. She was a strong, tough, stubborn, generous, kind woman, all wrapped up in a teenie, tiny package. At just over 4 and a half feet tall, Grandma stood next to each of us and celebrated as we reached an important family milestone...being taller than her (which most of us accomplished by our teenage years).

But her short stature could not hide her big heart and her love for her family. You couldn't walk into her home without being offered a Coke or a slice of that cheese that she was so good at peeling. She would offer us money...or the last donut in the cupboard. She was a caregiver, a nuturer. At family dinners, she wouldn't eat (or even sit down) until she knew that everyone else was taken care of.

Our Grandma Dell was quick to laugh at our antics and patient enough to let us pull the string on the Christmas bell everytime we visited. Grandma Dell was also a strong, tough lady, enduring the unimaginable loss of her son, and later, her husband, with strength and grace.

Our Grandma Dell set a strong example for all of us. Whether it was a stray cat at the back door or her grandchild knocking on the front door, all were welcomed and cared for in her home.

Two months ago, Grandma told me that she believed in Jesus, but she wondered if she had done enough good things to go to heaven. I assured her that all she had to do was believe, but I know that every one of us could tell of a hundred good things that our Grandma Dell has done for us. I believe with all of my heart that she in heaven with Pappy today, waving at all of us, just as she did every time we left her home.

There is no doubt that she was good enough for heaven.
Her name was Norma...and she was our Grandma Dell.

I miss her. And she definitely mattered.

No Autographs, Please...

A few weeks ago, Steve and I picked up the girls from daycare and surprised them with a trip to a little arcade/go cart place. While we were there, the craziest thing happened. I started talking to this couple who had small children like us. They had just finished miniature golfing and I thought they were brave for handing metal clubs to small children and attemping to golf 18 holes. We have yet to attempt minature golfing with our girls. Anyway, the woman then told me that she recognized me from...my Blog! She even told me she saw Steve in Target a few weeks ago and recognized him while she was there. Isn't that the coolest thing? Someone recognized us from my blog. Ladies and gentleman, I felt like I had finally arrived. It also helped me to convince Steve that yes, there are people (other than me) reading my blog. I'm just bummed about one thing. She didn't ask for my autograph. So, here's a big shout out to Lisa! I hope you didn't stop reading after you met me in real life!

And to make you smile, here's some fabulous pictures of my batting skills. It's been at least 10 years since I've stepped foot in a batting cage, but my athletic ability did not disappoint! Well, there was that one ball that I missed and I was in the slow pitch cage, but let's just keep that among us, okay?