Saturday Morning Coffee

This morning, if you wake up and the first thing you think of is how many days you have left before goodbye...

If you are frustrated by the crumbs on the floor and the complete inability for either of your children to utilize an "inside voice" and the need to once again make breakfast and kiss boo-boos and break up fights...

If you find yourself putting the dirty diaper in the laundry basket and the snotty pajamas in the trash...

If you are achey from another sleepless night and your children insist on sitting on the lap that is no longer there...

Remember with me, will you:

The wonder that comes from cowboys and bucking horses and cheesecake on a stick:

The simple sweetness of snuggles:

The laughter that you give each other in the now and that won't get taken away from you:

And the small things that remind you to slow down, look for beauty, and take another step:

Take heart. The One who is in us has overcome the world. (John 16:33)

{encouraged this morning by this and this}

Fear and Faith

You know those butterflies you get right before a big trip? The way you wake up in the middle of the night terrified that you put your passport in the wrong place or will somehow forget your toothbrush in the morning? The paranoia that you're going to oversleep your alarm and  miss your flight? That ridiculous urge to check and recheck your tickets just to make sure you haven't skipped over some miniscule but terribly important detail?

Yes, that's how I felt about yesterday's ultrasound.

I couldn't fall asleep until close to eleven, only to be woken up by a wet bed in need of changing (cutting out night time diapers is fun!), followed by a meowing cat (we forgot to put him in the guest room last night--of course), followed by a little buddy climbing in next to me after a nightmare. Then my alarm went off at 5.30.

Really. It did.

And I got out of bed without hitting snooze, because when you have an hour to shower, dress, put together breakfast and lunch, get the boys dressed, get the pets prepped for a day alone, and anything else you might've forgotten the night before, every minute counts. But we made it in time--and even stopped for coffee...and multiple pee breaks. Sue me, I'm pregnant. Two hours is a long time to be in a car.

All of this is really just extra to try to help you get in my head for a moment. The truth is, the absolute truth is, that as much as I've anticipated and counted the days until that ultrasound, I was also dreading it, dreading what we could find out.

These last weeks of pregnancy I have looked every fear of mine in the face.

What if something is wrong with one of the twins? What if they are going to need medical intervention? What if we have an extended NICU stay with both boys stuck at home? What if one of them has a club foot and we have to drive 3.5 hours every week to get it worked on? What if I get put on bed rest before my mom gets here to help out? What if? What if? What if? All of this was, of course, exacerbated by the fact that the Man will not be here.

There have been many days where I have found myself crying while I prayed, begging the Lord for healthy babies, but more than that, begging the Lord that no matter what happened, He would help me figure it out, help me deal with it. I told the Man that I kept finding myself panic praying when what I wanted to be doing was trust praying.

It was never a matter of loving the babies. From the moment we knew it was twins, I loved both. It was just fear, pure unadulterated fear on my part. Fear because I remembered, I remembered how hard it was to be in and out of the hospital with a newborn when my husband was far away and in a war zone. Fear because they tell you that the chances of something going wrong when you are pregnant with multiples are much higher...and we'd already had "something go wrong" with our otherwise very healthy singleton. Fear because medical care is a little harder to come by in this corner of Oklahoma than it was in the giant metropolis of DC.

It was fear because sometimes I'm scared that God will push me past what I can emotionally handle...even with His help.

So I talked to the Man and to friends who love me and, most of all, to God, and I waited. I asked that He would give me the faith to deal with whatever came, the trust to remember that He was in control, and the grace to live in His strength regardless. And yesterday, as I walked into that ultrasound, literally sweating from nervousness (yes, that's gross, I know), I heard these words in my heart:

"Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him." (Job 13:15)

And I thought about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, facing death at the hands of a crazed king hungry for their capitulation, when they said, "If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty's hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up." (Dan 3:17-18, italics added)

As I sat on the crinkly hospital paper, with the cold ultrasound gel spread across my stretch marks and my hand tucked tightly in the Man's, I thought, "I know that God is able to shape two perfectly healthy babies in me, and I pray that in His grace He will. But even if He doesn't, even if He doesn't, I will still worship Him as completely sovereign, completely good, completely reliable, knowing that He must know something I do not. Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

I think that if I had gotten up and walked right out the door without seeing either baby or talking with a doctor, that God would've done what He wanted to do in my heart. Because in the long run, when it applies to my story (I am not talking here about any one else's story), I think it matters more to Him that my heart is in that position of surrender than that everything goes "right".

I say all this but you'd better believe I was still holding my breath and having to remind myself to let it out again almost the whole way through that almost two hour ultrasound.

You know the end of the story. Or at least what we think the end of the story is, for right now. The high-risk pregnancy doctor told me that both sets of feet look perfect, that the babies are healthy and strong and growing well, that I should be able to make it at least a full 38 weeks, and then he told me that I don't have to come back to see him again. I didn't realize what a big deal that was until I saw my own doctor this morning. She had to scrape her jaw off the floor. She said she's never had a twin pregnancy that hasn't had to go back for multiple screenings with yesterday's doctor. (She also double checked the feet, just to be sure, and they still look good.)

I know that many of you have been praying for us over the last few weeks. Thank you. Not just because God has blessed us with what looks like two beautifully healthy babies but because through your prayers and faith, God has done good work in my heart. And I hope that I would be saying that regardless of what we learned yesterday.

About a BORG

You know you're having twins when:
the sheet of ultrasound pictures you come
home with is as long as you are tall.

The polls have closed, and the results are in: real as well as mass-produced. The majority says that we are having one boy and one girl, and, as is generally the case, the majority rules!

Mother's intuition, however, has failed me once again. I thought that Baby B (the one who has camped out underneath my right rib cage) was a girl and Baby A (who's grabbed a seat on the exit row) was a boy. Nope. Turns out it's the other way around. You win some, you lose some.

But the best part, the absolute best part, is that the doctor said everything looked healthy, all the way down to two seemingly well-shaped pairs of feet.

And I have a lot more to write about that, and a lot more to write about today in general, but I am nodding off as I type. Bed sounds very good right now. Plus, I'd like tomorrow's thoughts to be a little more coherent than they would be if they were today's words.

The Silver Lining of Goodbye

Yesterday one of my oldest Oklahoma friends drove off with a moving truck. It was time. They'd been here several years, and Shirlee has never been the biggest fan of southwest Oklahoma. That's a hilarious understatement. But they're moving somewhere green and close to water where there are actually seasons and you don't have to plan a day trip to Target--so I am happy for her, but sad for myself.

We were pregnancy buddies this time around. We lived within walking distance and have traded off kids more than once when the need arose. She passed on clothes from her boy to ours and clothes from her growing belly to mine. She and her two best friends (I can't think of Shirlee without Kelly and Tammy--where one leaves off, the other two begin) taught me about really living life with your fellow military spouses. She's lovingly kicked my husband out of her garage after he and her husband engaged in yet another (very, very long) venting session about work. And yes, she called the cops on me once. Kidding! It was just her husband to help with our favourite (lies!) canine escapee, although she did tattle on me once to the Man for not asking for help while he was gone, and that could technically be termed "calling the cops" as well.

But we said goodbye on Sunday, and as the Man drove us home, I cried and thought melodramatically, "The military is nothing but goodbyes!" And to a certain extent, that's true. We're in the middle of what is fondly termed "PCS season" where half the people you know are going through a permanent change of station, and their houses are filling up with more people PCSing in (and I've already decided to hate whoever moves into Shirlee's house, of course). Shirlee has not been my first goodbye this summer, but for the most part the hard ones have been relatively well spaced out. That is not the case for the next few weeks. So maybe there was a reason behind my weepy over reaction.

Regardless, when I sat back and really looked at it, I realized that while our lives may be full of more goodbyes than the average person, they are also more full of wonderful hellos. If I had never said goodbye to my incredible Virginia friends, I wouldn't have been blessed with so many great hellos upon moving to Oklahoma. This is the way the world turns.

I am learning more and more that this is true of most aspects of our lives. In general, we end up focusing in on the goodbyes and forget about the hellos, if you will. But why is it so much easier to remember the difficult things and push aside the recollection of the many blessings that so often flow out of them?

In this case, there are blessings for Shirlee, of course, but wouldn't I, too, be better occupied considering the many wonderful blessings from knowing her the last two years instead of mourning the fact that those two years are over? Similarly, would it be a better use of my time to advance grieve the Man's deployment or to enjoy our last few days together? Should I spend the next twenty four hours waiting anxiously to discover that something could potentially be wrong with one of the babies or rejoicing that tomorrow we are one step closer to knowing more about the two sweet persons God has graciously added to our family?

This is not a new line of thought. The truth is that we do not see a complete picture of reality. Not ever. And there is nothing wrong with the sadness that comes with loss or even the fears that keep us up at night--so long as we do not stop there, unpack our bags, and move in for the rest of our lives.

I have to remember that God understands a bigger picture than I see: one of blessing for me and the Man and the boys and the twins (and Shirlee!). So I can bemoan the "goodbyes" or I can trust that the "hellos" in store for us are even better than I can imagine. Even if sometimes it takes longer for the hellos to arrive or they look a little different than we may originally wish.

{If you have not yet voted for your twin-gender (twinder?) preference, feel free to click over to the poll and pick your poison.}

Polling Now! (For a Limited Time Only!)

And I mean limited! You have a little bit more than 24 hours, people. Cast your vote now and relish the opportunity to be right about something as earth shattering as gender guesses!

 

Feel free to vote based on odd cravings you've noticed me having, unexplained premonitions received in the middle of the night, and inexplicably detailed dreams you have had of our unborn children (you're weird and that's why we're friends).

 

And for the inquiring minds that want to know, Littles is still voting for one boy and one "gwiyrl" and Tiny will vote for whatever gender you say last. Their responses are not going to be a part of the poll. All voting should be done by those capable of claiming (at least) that they are of sound mind and body and possessing the ability to pronounce the word "girl" correctly.

 

So, what do you think?
	You will continue as an all boy family: snips and snails and puppy dog tails!
	Variety is the spice of life: looks like one of each.
	Even out the testosterone level: have some girls and learn how to braid!
pollcode.com free polls

Twenty Weeks of Twinning

Welcome, welcome, welcome!

 

It's true: the time has come. The moment you have all been waiting for. The long awaited, much anticipated halfway point photo!

But first. A recap. Here is where you saw me last: looking a little gassy at nine weeks along. That's not gas. Those are twin bubbles of baby-ness in there.

 

Next we have a never before seen! shot of me at the beginning of the second trimester (akhirnya! or as you English speakers would say: finally!). It's at this point that I finally stopped barfing and started putting on some weight. Fun times were had by all.

 

 

Then, because I'm vain, I felt the need to include this picture of me all dressed up and looking fancy at, drum roll, please, Week Fifteen!!! (I am definitely imagining a crowd cheering and clapping along while I do this. Humour me.) Don't you just love the high class photographic staging for this shot?

 

 

And finally, in a great burst of charitable love, I present to you, Marian! Hugely pregnant! At what is merely the halfway point! Whoohoo! And yes, it is acceptable to laugh hysterically at the fact that I will be double this size by the time the twinadoes arrive at the end of the year. And no, I did not just shove a basketball up my shirt--this is real life, folks!

 

 

And here it is again, from another angle! Once again, yes, that is my belly button poking out there, because when you have two sentient beings taking up residence underneath your skin, there is obviously no room for unnecessary things like a well-placed innie.

That just about wraps it up for the night! Let's enjoy a brief word from our sponsors.

(The above blue maternity shirt comes courtesy of the incomparable Shirlee Daly, who should come back tomorrow for a blog mostly about her! Extra props to Shirlee, for believing in my ability to fit into a large this time around! I couldn't have done it without her.)

As for the rest of you, join us again at some point Wednesday for an Exciting Announcement that May or May Not have something to do with the ongoing and hotly debated Boys, Girls, or Combo Debate! Once again, we find that there is never a dull moment in La Casa de Frizz. And you can have a front seat view at all times if you follow along at inkblotcoffee.blogspot.com.

Thank you, and good night!

{You should consult your physician or other health care professional before starting twin pregnancy or committing any other similar act of insanity. For most of you, do not try this at home.}

Revelation and Prokofiev

A couple days ago, desperate for a change from our usual lunch time sound track of Matt Redman and Jason Gray (Littles has his favourites and subjects everyone to the same three songs multiple times a day--he comes by this honestly), I turned on the 1946 Disney version of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf for the boys. Educational and good for the digestion, right? Lazy Super Mom strikes again!

Let me preface the rest of this post by saying that we are very selective in what we let Littles watch. Not because we are those parents (though I have no problem being one of those parents) but because Littles has chronic nightmares that are easily exacerbated by watching seemingly innocent things.(Finding Nemo got him. Cars got him. A couple episodes of Veggie Tales even got him.) At any rate, since neither the Man nor I enjoy being woken up by blood curdling screams and having to share our already overcrowded bed (twinancy takes up a lot of space) with a kid whose feet are joined together by a metal bar at night...we don't let him watch very many things. And if he tells us that something is scaring him, we turn it off immediately.

So, I turned on Peter and the Wolf. Littles was curious about everything--the snow, Peter's gun, the different instruments--and Tiny was laughing hysterically at the antics of the little bird and the duck. And then the Wolf came on the scene, snarling and drooling viciously. And Littles immediately freaked out and asked to turn it off. I tried to explain that everyone makes it through alive, that Peter catches the Wolf, but no luck. So I turned it off. No big deal.

Less than two minutes later, having gathered his courage around him again (and possibly girded up his loins), he changed his mind and decided he wanted to watch the rest of it. Wondering if I was going to regret it around 2 a.m. after multiple trips down the hall, I turned it back on. And talked him through the rest of it.

As he jumped and started next to me, fearing for the life of the duck and the bird and Peter, I reminded him how the story ends: the Wolf is vanquished, Peter (with the help of the hunters) conquers!

That's when I realized how crucial it is for our children to have an understanding of the concept of evil. If the Little Man is constantly shielded from what is "scary" and "evil" (the Wolf, in this case), he will have no concept of courage and perseverance. Neither will he ever truly understand the hope that we have in Christ--death is defeated, we know who wins! I want him to understand that we can walk in hope through our lives regardless of the fears and challenges we may face, because we understand the long-term outcome.

I want my little men to grow up into strong, fearless warriors, and that is only possible if they understand that evil exists (not just in the abstract, but also in the tangible--this is what their father fights against every day) and have that understanding tempered by the astounding joy found in knowing how the story ends. Evil is vanquished; Christ conquers all!

Purely Scholastic Pic-tastic

I had a really deep and yet somehow intellectually hilarious (not really) post prepped for today. Then, after the boys got put in bed, I had a massive hormonal pregnancy meltdown and the Man sent me to bed with strict instructions to rest, eat chocolate, and do girly stuff like watch a chic flick or read a novel. I don't think writing about Prokofiev and the concept of evil would count in his book. Instead, I'm going to do a picture post--because even he cannot object to a picture post. Right? 

(Right, honey?)

Anyway, let's take a brief moment to pause and reflect on how wonderful the Man is to me and how I don't deserve him putting up with my weirdly weepy self.

Then let's celebrate the first day of "school" for the boys by looking at lots of pictures of them, occasionally accompanied by catty comments from me!

This is Tiny with his first day of school breakfast pancakes. When, later in life, he asks why all these pictures of him are blurry, I will tell him that it's his fault for never sitting still. Incidentally, does T-Fish sound like an awesome gangster name or what? (I am thinking about T-Bone, aren't I?) Although, Tiny would call it T-Peesh. Which is no where near as tough.

The T did not last long enough to get an unblurry picture. Now I can't stop thinking about The Phantom Tollbooth and wondering what a T should taste like. Also, A Search for Delicious comes to mind. And by the way, if these twins are born underweight, I'm blaming Tiny. He's been eating me and Littles under the table lately.

Littles is in a turtle phase. He asked for a snapping turtle with a long tail and claws. I am just not that awesome. Regardless, the letter/animal pancakes produced several "You're the best mommy ever!" comments from him. Amen. Let it be so. And don't ask me about that smile. I have no explanation for the creeptasticity of it. But good gravy, he's cute! 

This is their official first day of school picture. Then I realized that I would actually get their backpacks in and block out some of that window glare by taking the photo in landscape, but it was too late. Tiny had already abandoned ship and was busily taking his shoes off and throwing them at me. Thankfully, his aim is not the best.

Mommy snuggles. My babies! How can I possibly send them to "school" for two whole days a week? Never mind, I remember now, and it has something to do with the broken picture frames, sharpie-covered skin, and flooded bathrooms that seem to follow in the wake of those two pairs of innocent brown eyes.

So happy to be a big boy going to "school" that he can't sit still. Or stand still. Or lie down still. Pretty much, the word "still" is not in Tiny's vocabulary. Then again, neither are a lot of other really important ones like "common sense," "self-preservation," and "listening". Somehow he's mastered "turtle" and "cop car". Where are this kid's priorities?

I die for this face. I die for the other kid's face too, but it's really hard to get a decent picture of it. 

Them: Can we go now? Can we go now? Can we go now? Can we go now?

Me, still trying to brush my teeth, put on my own shoes, and collect everything that needs to go out the door with us: Impatient much?

Yes, put your lunch box on your brother's head. That makes perfect sense to me too! These kids should've grown up in Asia. They both squat like they lived in Indonesia their whole life, Tiny thinks shoes are optional, and now, evidently, they can transport half their body weight on their heads. Kidding. I didn't send that much lunch with them.

Finally, here they are sitting in the car, waiting to go in. I wanted to take a picture of them in their new classrooms or entering the school, but I have yet to find a pair of cute maternity jeans that has real pockets for my cell phone (all of mine have fake ones). And yes, they had a great day (the boys, not my maternity jeans). Although Tiny spent the entire afternoon at the commissary hugging on Littles. I guess that's who he really missed. Fine, be that way. I have two more on the way to replace you both!

Just as a final note, and because I really don't want to forget this myself, tonight when we asked Littles his favourite part of the day and least favourite part, he said he didn't have a least favourite. Everything about today was his favourite. I'm not sure when that's ever happened...but I love that it did today.

Plans for Life

God’s purposes are not for me to understand His plans: His plan is for me to understand Who He is.

Ann Voskamp

 

When I found out I was pregnant with Littles, pregnant at 22, pregnant just 4 months into marriage, I thought my life was over. My hopes and dreams were dead. My plans for myself were utterly destroyed.

Three and a half years later, there are days when I still struggle not to think that. I've certainly been told that. That I'm wasting my life. Being a stay-at-home mom was not a part of my game plan. I was going to get my masters, graduate with honours, travel the world with the Man, teach and write and gain a name for myself in the intellectual community. I had the skill set to do so.

But, you see, God likes to remember things that I would rather conveniently forget. Things like my potentially life-ending depression, an ongoing struggle that has defined great chunks of my life.

Perhaps that is why He gave me the Little Man, because having someone else to care about and care for, while certainly obliterating my chance of worldly success, gave me a desire to live. He gave me something tangible on the dark days, something demanding that I stand up and fight.

Years down the road, I can see this. See that what I thought was the end of my life was in fact God saving my life.

That's why it makes me wonder, why twins? Why now? In what is arguably the worst possible timing available. Does He see something I don't see? Is He remembering something that I would prefer to forget?

This gives me hope.

Because I know that our God is good, He is sovereign, and He doesn't let even the tiniest detail escape His notice. And it may take me another three and a half years before I understand the why, or another thirty, or I may never know. The point is that I can camp out in fear and anger or rest in hope--it all depends on how I choose to understand what He has planned for me.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Well, I've been afraid of changing 'cause I've built my life around you...

"Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac

 

Don't be led astray by the Fleetwood Mac quotation at the beginning. This is not a serious post. On the contrary, the "you" in that sentence would have to refer to regular sleep or some other such thing in order for it to be appropriate. I've just had that song stuck in my head while I've been planning this post.

Sweaty self-portrait

You see, things are changing around here. Every day I look around our house and things are different. The boys are bigger. My belly is larger (pictures to prove this will be posted next week). The Man's pre-deployment To Do list has shrunk a bit more. Last week, the Little Man opted out of night time diapers. This week, he and Tiny start their two day a week Mother's Day Out program. What am I going to do with all that free time? Oh, yeah, doctor's appointments. Never mind.

 

My crazy second child

 

Also, unfortunately for me, Tiny has finally decided that he's too cool for the crib, yes, even at naptime. This has led to a lot of excitement in the early afternoon for everyone involved and a lot of late afternoon grumpiness for me. So far, the boys have indulged themselves in water fights, each sitting on their own bed, slinging water at each other from their sippies while giggling hysterically. They have ripped the sheets off Tiny's bed and had a bed jumping party. They have man handled the blinds and done long-term damage to their library. They have gotten in a whole lot of trouble. And in between, maybe, they have taken naps. I miss them napping in separate rooms. Life is hard... And, incidentally, Tiny is an instigator--don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Demon Cat

Another, somewhat more positive change (depending on who you are in this scenario) is that the Man and I have finally reached our limit with being woken up in the middle of the night by Oswald. It took us seven months. Seriously. Nightly wake ups for seven months where that Cat demanded to be put in the room, then an hour later put out, then another hour later brought back in. And leaving the door open was not a solution. Neither was leaving the door closed. He would throw himself bodily against the door repeatedly until we let him in so that we didn't lose what is left of our sanity. But no more. As of last Friday, he (not quite voluntarily) sleeps in the guest room. Sure, this may seem cruel, but it's less cruel than my sleep deprived self accidentally strangling him in the middle of the night.

Sunday morning donuts--not a change, just awesome

I had another change I wanted to share with you, but I haven't quite made it happen yet, so talking about it seems a bit premature. Plus, there were supposed to be pictures. Awesome ones. So now that you know how badly I am slacking, I will just tell you that it has something to do with Littles and his deep and abiding love of schedules. First question out of that kid's mouth every day: Mommy, what are we doing today?

 

Evidently, today he's going to be building a pillow fort with his brother while his lazy mommy writes a blog and eats homemade bread in the kitchen. And on that note, I should probably go change (haha) Tiny's diaper.

Running for Three

I RUN. I'm slower than a herd of turtles running through peanut butter, but I RUN!

-Anon.

There are two things I love as much as books, three that make me sing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!" with feeling (we do live in Oklahoma). All of these things were more or less taken away from me during my first trimester. But no longer!

First, I'm drinking my first cup of home brewed coffee in weeks. And it tastes good. And yes, moms and doctors of the world, it is decaf. I haven't wanted coffee since around the time I discovered I was pregnant. It just hasn't sounded good. This has been akin to looking in the mirror and seeing someone else's face. WHO AM I?!?! But don't worry, my soul has found its way back into its body. Once again, I live!

Second, this week, I started running again. I realized that I felt just as crummy running as not running, so I'm borrowing the Man's Newtons (it's nice to wear the same shoe size as your husband), strapping on my maternity belt, and hitting the pavement. I've logged 1.5 miles three times this week. In intervals. But before you start laughing, please remember that I am, as my sister reminded me, running for three. But with only two feet.

Monday, Littles joined me for my run as I pushed Tiny in the stroller and Trig-Dog tore along beside us chasing rabbits. As my dad likes to say, the family that runs together, stays together. And the Little Man did a great job. Sure, we stopped a lot. And looked for turtles. And he had to take a pee break beneath a bridge (little boys are so handy like that), but he did the whole 1.5 miles. Then Tuesday I stuck him in the double stroller with his brother and really got a work out (again, being half dragged by the rabid-rabbit dog). This morning, though, as a reward for surviving the week, I actually set an alarm, met a friend before sunrise, and ran with a little more purpose. It was wonderful.

And I got home in time to take a shower and read my Bible before the boys woke up (which is number three on my list).

At any rate, this morning, my cup runneth over. So does my belly, but that's neither here nor there. Pictures to come in a week and a half, along with a gender announcement. Gender announcements? I think that's more appropriate. See, the coffee is helping already!

Snarl of Yarn

I've been meaning to come write for a few days now, but I have so very many things I want to write about and they're all jumbled together in my mind, twisted around each other and tangled up until they are one gigantic snarl of incomprehensibility. So, in an effort to untangle and comb through a few of my thoughts, I give you...

Insert cute picture for dramatic effect

(drumroll, please)

And one of the Trig-dog playing legos

...a Bullet Post! Hurray!

• I have developed an incredibly beautiful varicose vein running down my right thigh. Guys, I'm only twenty six. This hurts my pride. How is it possible that I am even capable of having varicose veins? I may never show my bare legs again (somewhere my mother is breathing a sigh of relief). In the meantime, the Man is having a grand old time making corny jokes about "vain" and "vein". And this is why I married him...
• My maternity wardrobe is shrinking rapidly. I will be wearing muumuus by the time December rolls around. Or, since I'm no longer showing my legs, I may just let my belly hang out. Never mind, it's covered in stretch marks.
• This morning Littles told me he didn't want me to wear flats to church. He thought I looked better in heels. I'm still deciding how to take this. I did tell him that it was tough luck for him since Mommy and her new friend, Varicose, are wearing ballet flats until I get depregnanted. His fashion preferences are going to have to take a backseat for now as the Magical Pregnancy Unicorn is no more.
• On a completely unrelated note (but really these are all unrelated notes), I've been spending some time brushing up on a few theological points this last week, reading good books and having long talks with friends, and I realized that while I think it is terribly important to have well-thought out, biblically based theology, if my study of Who God is doesn't develop in me more love for others, then it's not benefiting anyone. Knowledge puffs up, while love builds up (1 Cor. 8:1), right? If I'm really learning more about God, then that knowledge should automatically fill me with truer love for both Him and those made in His image. Otherwise, all I'm doing is feeding my own intellectual ego. And honestly, it's big enough as it is.
• Being asked for help gives me a high.
• This desire of mine to have a contingency plan for every potential emergency is teaching me a lot about myself and God. I can't plan for everything, and I don't need to. That doesn't mean I've stopped trying.
• A paperback book without a creased spine just looks sad. What is the point of a gingerly read book?
• Somewhere between dinner and bedtime last night, I lost my water bottle. Now, not only am I thirsty (and still going to the bathroom every thirty minutes), but I'm mad and being driven insane by how I could've lost it when I never even left the house. Every nook and cranny has been checked multiple times. I am losing. my. mind. And my best source of un-cat-contaminated water.
• I need to hear the words "judge not" at least a dozen times a day. I'm not a quick learner.
• Gene Stratton Porter and I are reviving our friendship. If you don't know who Gene Stratton Porter is, please find out, or I will rethink my friendship with you.
• My favourite part of every day is when the boys kiss the twins good night before bed. Their sweet little kisses on my belly followed by Little's "Take a good nap, twins!" never cease to make me smile. And I can snarkily remind them that the best way for the twins to "take a good nap" is for them to stop giggling and go to sleep themselves. Why do we have such happy children?!?

This is how I feel about varicose veins.
And that's the Man ignoring me griping about my varicose veins.
And that's my sad, lost, lonely water bottle.
Littles is a true photographer, capturing the depths of who we really are.

And it was so.