Moving On

For nearly 3 years now, Michael and I have been trying very unsuccessfully to have another child. For the past little while I have felt like we had no clear direction on whether we should keep trying or not, or really if God was answering any of our prayers.  I was weary from the journey and discouraged at our seemingly directionless flailing.

We had a lesson in church a couple of weeks ago about offering sincere prayers to the Lord and asking what His will is for us, instead of suggesting our will to Him.  I realized that in these past 3 years, I have never asked God if another child was meant for our family, I just asked Him to give us another one, and felt dismissed when we weren’t successful.  I decided to change my prayer.  Michael and I asked the Lord if there was another baby for us and should we keep trying.  Then we went to the temple.

As we were making the drive, I knew in my heart what the answer was but I dismissed it and pretended to be enjoying the scenery of dead winter trees and roadside litter.  I wanted to wait until we were in the temple to accept any answer.  Michael and I sat in the temple chapel waiting for our session to begin and I said another silent prayer.  I felt the answer come over me with more force than any other answer I have received in my life.  There was no mistaking or doubting the power of the resounding, “No.”  I was devastated.  As I began to cry, Michael knew precisely what was happening and put his arm around me in quiet comfort. He also knew the answer was no.

I sat and pondered what this meant for me.  Never again would I have my newborn baby sleeping in my arms.  I would never see more first steps, first words, or feel the overwhelming love that a new baby brings.  Eva won’t have a sibling.  She won’t know the bonds that I know of staying up late to talk to your sister or turning to her for comfort in times of need.  My sadness was overwhelming.  My answer was, “No,” and yet, in the quiet of the temple, I knew that God loves me.  I was peacefully heartbroken. 

The next question that came into my mind was, “Is my faith sufficient to accept God’s will?”  My answer to that question was an emphatic, “Yes.” I don’t know or understand why we can’t have another child.  I could drive myself mad asking why.  Instead, I choose to have faith; faith that God knows what He is doing, that He is eager to bless me, and that I will one day understand everything.  Right now that is enough for me.

I spent the weekend sobbing.  I have been grieving the loss of my desire and my hopes, and I have felt a palpable emptiness.  But I also feel blessed and grateful for the one little girl that I do have. 

Next week, a pregnant woman from my ward is coming over to take some of Eva’s baby things.  I am heartbroken over the finality of parting with our baby equipment, but glad to know another sweet family can use it. 

I think my heart will always ache for the child that never was.  But I find comfort in knowing that I asked the Lord and He answered me.  I will never have to question whether or not we did all that we could or if our family is complete.  It is.  I have the unbelievable honor and joy of Eva.  I love her deeply and purely, and I recognize that she truly is my miracle.

It’s a good life.

Conversations with a 4-year-old

In the bathroom:

Me: Eva, it’s time to take a shower.

Eva: I can’t.  Kitties hate water and I’m a kitty.

Dinnertime:

Me: Eva, come to dinner, please.

Eva: You can call me Dexter.

At Walgreens:

Eva: Let’s go look at the toys.

Me: Just a minute.  I’m looking at the cold medicine and then we’ll go look at the toys. 

Eva: (Wandering towards the toys with my shopping cart)  It’s okay, we can split up.

In the car headed to Fred Meyer:

Eva: If Playland is open, then I’ll go to Playland.  If it’s closed, then I’ll go with you and look at the toys.

Me: That sounds like a good plan.

Eva: Yeah, I just made it up.

Dinking around the house:

(Eva’s playing with her fishing pole and the magnet comes off the string.)

Me: I’ll glue that magnet back on for you in a minute.  Please don’t lose it.

Eva: Ok.

I look over to find Eva feeding the fishing pole line into the heating vent.

Me: Eva!  Did you drop the magnet down the heating vent?  We can’t get that back out.

Eva: Calm down, Mama.  It’s just a string.

Snuggling in bed:

Eva: Can I play on your phone?

Me: Not right now.

Eva: You've got to be kidding me!

Getting ready for bed:

Me: Eva, you’re getting to be a big girl now.  What do you think about not wearing a diaper to bed anymore? You can get up in the night and go pee in the potty instead.

Eva: (Pauses for a moment) I think I like peeing in my diaper.

Enough said.

Wanna See My Kids

If it was still cool to carry photos in your wallet, these are the photos I would have in my little plastic sheets. 

And I would be really obnoxious about showing people my kids.  Just like I’m doing right now.

Bottle Drop

Oregon charges a bottle deposit on any beverages that you purchase in the state.  It will cost ya just a nickel.  A nickel?  Riiight.

The only way to get your nickel back is to return your empty cans and bottles to a designated return site.  I hate returning cans but I also hate the idea of the state getting a bunch of free nickels out of me.  So I play along.  We have a couple large trash bags hanging in the laundry room and we throw all of our empty cans in them.  When the bags are bulging and making it impossible for me to move around in my tiny laundry room, it’s time to head to the Bottle Drop.  Then I procrastinate and kick the sacks around for another two weeks.

Since I try to only drink one soda a day and Michael drinks less than that, it takes months to accumulate enough cans to warrant a trip.  I had enough cans last week and decided it was time to face the Bottle Drop.  I loaded the sacks into my car, drove to the Bottle Drop, lugged them through the parking lot like a hobo, and went inside to surrender my dignity.

Here’s the thing.  The Bottle Drop smells rank.  Like really rank.  Like if booze were a sports team, then Bottle Drop smells like booze’s locker room.  The floor is sticky, the machines are sticky, and depending on when you go, there are plenty of creepy people inside.  And the machines are mean.  I was calmly feeding my cans into the slot and the machine kept flashing rude messages onto the screen.  “Don’t throw the cans!”  “Only one can at a time!”  “I gladly accept your dignity!”  Jerk.

Each time I go to the Bottle Drop I think, “Man, did I drink all this soda?  I should lay off.  This is a lot of soda.”  Then by the time I’m done, I’m parched and need a soda.  I also always think, “Woo-hoo-hoo!  I’m gonna be rich!”

I finished processing my cans and took my receipt over to scan at the money machine.  I rubbed my paws together and waited for me treasure to appear like a retiree in a Vegas casino.  Out scrambled my money.  $15.45.

Woo-hoo-hoo!  I’m rich!

Merry Christmas

We had the best Christmas!  We were blessed to go home to Idaho and spend the holiday with the people we love the most.  Incidentally, they are also the people who don’t care if we wear makeup or clean clothes.  It’s the ideal vacation.

Our only hope was that there would be snow.  Eva has been talking about playing in the snow in Idaho for months and I was worried her dreams would be slaughtered.  I didn’t need to worry because it snowed.  And snowed.  And snowed.  My daddy spent hours running his snow-blower up and down his neighborhood.  Our car almost got stuck in the snow.  It was a lot.  Eva loved it.

We were able to enjoy all the fun things that accompany Christmas; our annual gingerbread house competition (we didn’t win),  Swedish Christmas Eve dinner (I ate like a horse), Grandma Brown’s chicken noodle soup (I ate like a horse’s cousin), a jigsaw puzzle that was impossible to finish, conducting the train around the tree, seeing the Sasquatch Santa in Pendleton, and visiting dear friends.  We also had new adventures as well when Grandpa took us for ice cream at the Idaho Drug soda fountain.  The week was over too quickly. 

Eva didn’t bother to wake us up on Christmas morning and had her entire stocking emptied onto the floor and was starting in on her presents when Michael ran downstairs to stop her.  Then she had to patiently wait for Grandpa to come in from snow blowing the entire county before she could resume.  She was a good sport and was rewarded with the Princess Cupcake game she’s been asking for from Santa.  The old guy really delivered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The most exciting parts came courtesy of our dog.  We left Portland in the evening after Myke’s office Christmas party to drive as far as Pendleton.  Late at night and in the middle of nowhere, the inside of our car began to smell like a sewer.  We thought our dog had graced us with a flatulence, but after the smell didn’t dissipate with the windows down, I suspected something much fouler.    I looked back and there he was, teetering on top of our suitcase and hanging over the seat onto Eva's shoulder.  She was wailing out, “The dog’s stinky breath is on me!  Get him off!”  I knew that the dog had pooped in the back of the car.

Michael pulled over and hopped out to assess the poopage.  He opened the door and gasped, “Oh, no!” and then gagged.  It was poop all right.  The diarrhea kind.  And a nice pile of vomit as a consolation prize.  Our car was loaded to the brim, we had no garbage receptacles of any kind, and Eva was still hollering about the stinky dog breath in her face.  We had no choice but to litter.  And we littered good.  Michael rolled up the dog bed and chucked it into the sage brush on the side of the road.  Then we sped off into the darkness. 

We had guilt over breaking the law.  I’m not a litterbug and I really detest those who are. But we had no choice.  It was a poop emergency.  I quickly absolved my guilt but Michael had a harder time letting go of his sin.  He fretted that a gust of wind would pick up the poopy bed and slam it onto a car’s windshield, causing the driver to careen off the road and meet his death.  I laughed at the image and then told him to quit being ridiculous.  The worst thing that could happen is someone might stumble upon the dog bed and think he’d found a great treasure, only to be surprised with a diarrhea-vomit concoction.  That would be more tragic. 

But the most tragic thing of all happened when our dog decided he was nervous and needed to chew something.  He chose a wool Pendleton blanket at my parent’s house.  No problem. IT’S ONLY A TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLAR BLANKET, JACKASS!   Our dear dog is going to the kennel next time. I hope he finds something cheap to chew on there.  

Merry Christmas!