I am wishing you a happy Easter.

I'm probably jinxing it by telling you, but if he does it again tonight, T-Rex will have slept through the night seven nights in a row.

A full week of full nights of sleep?

I am a new woman. All of the things are clean. ALL OF THE THINGS.

I was going to write something lovely and meditational for Maundy Thursday and/or Good Friday and/or Easter, but. I didn't. Oh well.

I will say that Pope Francis seems like a pretty cool dude. I don't know if you're supposed to call the Pope "dude," but I'm not Catholic, so it's probably okay.

I'm not Catholic, but five years ago, I was in Rome for Holy Weekend (if that's not what it's called, it should be). We went to mass in St. Peter's for Good Friday, then out to the Coliseum for the stations of the cross. On our way out of St. Peter's we bought a loaf of bread and some cheese at a corner store, and all my pictures of us at the stations of the cross involve this GIANT loaf of bread. I think we named it Tony.

On Saturday, we went back to St. Peter's for the Holy Saturday vigil mass thing (I didn't know, prior to that, that Catholics had to go to mass on Holy Saturday, but apparently they do). The line to waiting to be let in to St. Peter's was forever long. We were in line behind a group of nuns from...I want to say Morocco, but I could be wrong there.

Anyway, these nuns were hilarious and very friendly. We shared snacks while waiting (probably the remains of Tony, honestly), and we managed to convince the nuns that it's an American tradition to toast with your food. You know how you clink beer or wine glasses together before drinking? We were doing that with bread.

Then our Catholic friend felt guilty about lying to nuns and told them that wasn't really how the Americans did it, but I insisted that yes, it really was, and continued to toast my food for the rest of the time we were in Italy, because I am good at nothing if not beating a joke to death.

We finally got in to the mass, where I got in trouble with my Catholic friend for talking and spilling candle wax on my pants.

I'm not sure why she was mad at me for spilling wax on MY pants, but there you are.

Rereading this, I wonder that my Catholic friend put up with me at all. I was being obnoxious. Which is weird, because I was actually very excited to have mass in St. Peter's and see the Pope up close and in person (well, I think I was the fourth person in from the aisle when he passed by; that counts). It was all very solemn and ceremonious and moving, but I was trying to explain things to our Non-Liturgical Christian friend and I'm clumsy and I swear I wasn't trying to act like a five-year-old, but not all of us have preternatural sitting-still abilities.

Ok, so we didn't get out of that mass until about one or two in the morning. The trains had long since stopped running, so we and about twenty thousand other people needed to catch taxis home. This was an adventure that perhaps deserves its own post sometime, but it ended with us driving the wrong way down a one-way street, backwards, because every stereotype you have ever encountered about Italian drivers is absolutely, one hundred percent true.

Catholic Friend exacted her revenge on Non-Liturgical Christian Friend and me the next morning. Though we hadn't arrived home until well after three, we had to be back at the Basilica at some ungodly hour, seven or eight a.m., all packed and checked out of our hostel. I'm not entirely sure how we did it, and without coffee, but Catholic Friend did it with a smile on her face.

Non-Liturgical Friend did it grousing like a champion grouse, but she also found us coffee and pastries while Catholic Friend and I saved us seats. Between Catholic Friends manic single-minded slave drivering and Non-Liturgical Friend's liberal provisions of our drug of choice (caffeine), I made it there.

But. It was...I can't even describe how beautiful and perfect that morning was. Sunny and warm, the most perfect, clear spring-morning light. The crowds of tired/happy people in their fancy dress clothes. The sound of myriad languages being spoken. The gleaming white of St. Peter's. The third Latin mass in a row; we were starting to catch on to it a bit. The cardinals and the Pope decked out in red and white and gold.

It was...I'm not Catholic, but it was an experience I'll never forget. For the first time I actually felt the globalness of the faith, the ancientness of it. The bigness of it.  

The joy of Easter was tangible in that moment.

Pope Benedict XVI, good ol' Ratzinger, speaks Latin and Italian with a German accent. My linguist ear loved listening to his papal address, though I have no idea what he said. I didn't need to. I'm a very rational, analytical type of person and do not entirely approve of touchy-feely church experiences, but that day, the emotional experience was enough. "Things from the heart don't have an explanation."

I've always loved Easter, the transformation from the darkness and black of Good Friday to the brightness and white of Sunday morning. The return of the Hallelujahs, said over and over and over again because they've been gone so long and you just can't get enough.

Three masses in a row in Latin and Italian and I didn't understand any of it, except those Hallelujahs. Over and over again. Hallelujah. Christ is risen. He is risen indeed! Hallelujah.

Happy Easter, friends.

An Ode to Doing Laundry

I love laundry. Perhaps I won't be saying that in a few years when I have the clothes of multiple and older children added to my loads, but for now, I really do.

There's a comfortable rhythm to it, the familiar cycles, the meditative act of folding.

I love figuring out the most efficient way to run the loads, the best settings for each kind of cloth.  Diapers on hot, towels on warm, clothing on cold. Balancing hot water against dishwashers and showers, following a bleached load with a load of something that won't be harmed if there's bleach residue left in the tub. Which loads get soap nuts, which get my homemade detergent, which run on Bulk or Delicate or Regular.

I love the loose predictability of my laundry schedule: Diapers on Sunday, adult clothes on Monday, baby clothes Tuesday, diapers again Wednesday, special/extra items on Thursday, towels on Friday, swimsuits on Saturday, and back to diapers again. Every day its load to wash, dry, fold, put away.

I love sorting, separating the differences and joining the samenesses. Collating. Keeping fuzzy socks away from the DDH's work shirts because he hates getting fuzz on them.

I love warm fluffy anything from the dryer (in this, at least, I'm sure I'm not alone).

I love watching Jayne examine every basket of clean laundry for possible stowaway tennis balls (I use them in the dryer instead of dryer sheets; one of these days I'll invest in actual wool dryer balls but for now tennis balls suffice.)

I love the Tetris puzzle that is hanging clothes and diaper covers to dry on the drying racks, packing the racks full with every item laid out just right.

I love folding most of all. The matching memory game of socks. The neat piles growing, the unfolded chaos shrinking. The sorting and stacking. It's peaceful. It's meditative, a mind-clearing action my muscles have memorized.

It's worship, this daily blotting out of stains, this offering of fresh starts, this service given in love. However else I might fail, as a mother, as a wife, as a person, this I can do. The clothes are made clean again; my soul is, too.

I'm not a hater of chores. I don't mind vacuuming, though I refuse to mop. I take a certain pleasure in dusting. I grit my teeth and clean the bathroom because it must be done.

But laundry. Laundry I love.

It's a T-Rex! (T-Rex's Birth Story, Part III)

The oh-so-thrilling conclusion! Read Parts I and II.

We arrived at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. and completed Round Two of paperwork, cervical checks, the works. I was not any more dilated than when I left the hospital on Friday, but everything seemed softer, apparently, which meant it was more likely that the induction drugs would take this time.

The nurse gave me another dose of misoprostol and the DDH spent a couple hours pacing the halls, to no avail. Not only was I not dilating further, but I wasn't even having the mild contractions I had been having before.

So we got yet another dose. We watched A Knight's Tale, which apparently the DDH had never seen before (how is that possible?).

At about 2:30 Monday afternoon, the nurse checked me again. I was dilated to about a two now, but not having any contractions. She did, however, think that things were ready for the next step.

My doctor came in and broke my water about 3:30 p.m. This was it--one way or another we'd have this baby within the next twenty-four hours or so now. At this point they also hooked up the pitocin to get the contractions going.

And get going they did! I managed fine for awhile, watching an NCIS marathon on TV and trying to get a last bit of rest.

As afternoon turned to evening, however, the contractions became more intense--and more frequent. I couldn't find a comfortable position on the bed, so I got up and paced the room, but the contractions were quickly too intense to walk. I bounced on a birthing ball--that helped for awhile. I could get a good position, bent over and hanging onto the bed.

The contractions got worse and worse. They were lasting about forty-five seconds with only thirty to sixty seconds between them. We asked the nurse to review my pain relief options, and she did--not pressuring me at all one way or the other, but letting me know what was available.

I held out until eight o'clock before I knew that I needed something. We opted to get a narcotic drip first. This, the nurse said, wouldn't stop the pain but would help take the edge off so that I could handle it better. Unfortunately, it did mean that I needed to stay in bed in case I had an adverse reaction to the drug.

That helped for a little while. The drug, whatever it was, kind of put me to sleep, a sort of semi-lucid dream state, where I felt the pain but was sort of sleeping through it. I remember thinking really hard about whether or not I was talking and saying anything to the DDH--I knew I wasn't all there, and I didn't want to say anything stupid, but I felt the need to convey information. It was very weird.

Speaking of the DDH--he was amazing through this whole thing. He rubbed my back, held my hand, told me I could do it, watched all the monitors for me, talked to the nurses because I couldn't focus on much other than the pain. He was great.

My contractions were now constant. One would begin, the pain would ramp up, peak, and then as the pain from one contraction subsided the next would begin. I was only ever getting halfway back down the little pain mountain, with no chance to catch my breath or regroup or steel myself for the next one. I was half sitting up, clinging to the bedrail and the DDH's hand, still not entirely lucid because of the pain meds and just screaming and crying.

Luckily, those constant contractions were finally accomplishing something! The nurse checked and I was dilated to about a seven. This was about 9:30 p.m., maybe? Five plus centimeters in six hours; I don't know if that's good, but after taking five days to get the first two, I was happy with the progress.

Still, with three centimeters to go, I knew I wouldn't last. Maybe I'm just a wuss, but the pain was incessant and terrible. So I gave in and asked for the epidural.

It took another hour or so for the anesthesiologist to come, so the nurse gave me another dose of the other drug in the meantime. It really did nothing for the pain this time, and I was very happy when the anesthesiologist arrived.

I could barely sit up and move to the other side of the bed. I kept having to stop and scream as the pain got too bad. But I managed it, the anesthesiologist did his thing, and finally the pain stopped. My legs went numb slowly, but the pain in my abdomen stopped almost right away. My right leg and a patch of my lower right torso never numbed completely, so I could still tell when I was having a contraction even though it didn't hurt very much, which was nice.

The DDH and I took advantage of this time to get some sleep. It was very nice, really, to be able to relax and sleep while my body did the work, even though it was uncomfortable to have my legs be asleep and not be able to move.

Between about 1 and 1:30 Tuesday morning, the nurse came in, checked, and bam! I was a ten. She called the doctor and came to help coach me through pushing, since she thought I could start doing a little of that until the doctor arrived.

About this time, we noticed that T-Rex's heart rate dropped with each push. The nurse had me roll onto my right side and coached me through pushing from that position, as it didn't seem to send T-Rex into distress.

I pushed maybe five or six times before the doctor and other nurses arrived. Things moved quickly now, as they set up all the equipment and got everyone into position. At some point the nurse had them bring out a mirror so that I could see. This helped me focus the pushing on the right spot, since I could only partially feel it, and it was awesome to be able to see T-Rex being born!

With the doctor there in case T-Rex went into distress again, they had me return to my back. The nurse and the DDH helped hold my feet up in the stirrups and I pushed a few more times. T-Rex's heart rate was definitely plunging each time, but he was also crowning.

Everything moved so fast. It only took about three pushes after the doctor arrived before T-Rex's head popped out. The doctor was yelling at me to hold on and not push for a moment, but I could see his head out and I just wanted to get it over with and was determined to push him out now. I learned later that the cord had been wrapped around T-Rex's neck, but luckily the doctor was able to slip it off quickly, because one more push and there he was!

He was so squished and wriggly and covered in slime and adorable and mine. They handed him to me and I held him while the DDH cut the cord. I couldn't stop saying hello, over and over. It was 2:23 a.m. Tuesday, November 20.

The DDH went with the nurses over to the baby cart and watched them wipe him down and do the Apgar tests and things while the doctor stitched me up (I had a second degree tear). He weighed 8 pounds, 2.9 ounces and was 21 inches long. The doctor checked him out and though he lost a point or two for blue lips or something, really, he was perfect.

They gave him back to me and the nurse helped me position him to breastfeed. We sat there and he ate for 117 minutes--apparently the longest they've ever had a newborn eat! The DDH's mom and stepdad came in to meet him and hold him once he finished; then he was bathed and wrapped up. He had to hang out under the heat lamp for awhile since he had gotten too cold, but eventually he warmed up. The in-laws left and finally the three of us were moved to a recovery room.

We slept and ate and fed and marveled and entertained visitors all Tuesday.

T-Rex's hemoglobin numbers were high on his 24-hour bloodwork, so he had to be under the billirubin lights. They put tiny little baby sunglasses on him and set up a hood of lights over the cart where he slept. He was also lying on a blanket of lights, and he had to remain strapped to that when we took him out to breastfeed him, which was awkward. But after twelve hours with the lights his numbers were back up and we were allowed to go home.

My parents had arrived from Albuquerque Wednesday afternoon and helped us pack everything up. We were discharged about 5:30 p.m. Wednesday, in time to go home, eat Indian food takeout, and for everyone else to get some sleep before Thanksgiving.

I had intended to try to go without the epidural, but I'm glad I got it. Being able to rest for a few hours allowed me to focus and I believe helped me push more strongly and quickly. Sometimes I still wonder if it was the best idea to go in to be induced, but I think that was the right choice, too. He did not want to come out, and though I'm sure I would have gone into labor eventually, I'm not sure how much bigger he could have gotten before I wouldn't have been able to birth him. I was able to avoid a c-section and he arrived healthy and strong. It all worked out, and now he's here, my handsome, happy little T-Rex whom I love.

I am morbid, but I come by it honestly.

One of my favorite possessions is a little book my grandma gave me this summer. A friend had given it to her, and Grandma thought I might like it to use with T-Rex, or at least find it interesting.

I do plan to use it with T-Rex (though because of the book's age and condition, it will, as Mom says, "be one you read to him, not one he gets to read"), but it is fascinating in and of itself.

Prayers for Little Ones

 

The book is called Prayers for Little Ones (Gebete fuer die Kleinen = Prayers for the small), and it was published in 1909 by the Lutheran Book Concern of Columbus, Ohio.

Little Prayer Book for Children

"Ask, and so it will be given to you all."
(Did you know that both the command "Ask"
and the you are plural in that verse?)

It categorizes prayers by time of day and topic, beginning with Morning Prayers, moving through the day to Evening Prayers, and hitting several other topics.

Morning Prayers
Upon Getting Up
The Holy Father (Lord's Prayer) and the Creed
(I guess this indicates you should say them, since they're not printed.)

Most of the topics are the sort of thing you'd expect to see in a kids' prayer book: table prayers, prayers for the end of the week, prayers for school and studies and for church.

Contents

 The table prayers section includes prayers for before and after eating:

Table Prayers
Before the Meal
Bless, Father, this food
For our nourishment and your praise. Amen.

The second of those eating prayers may be familiar to many of you: "Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest...." The second line here translates to, "And bless, what you have given us. Amen," which is the same sentiment as the usual English line "And let these gifts to us be blest."

As I paged through the book, however, one prayer caught my eye:

Upon the Pre-commitment of a Corpse
Lord, teach us to remember that we must die,
that we might become wise. (Psalm 90:12)

As you can see, the book uses an old-fashioned sort of print, and sometimes it's hard to make out the words. So at first I thought I had misread that word: Leiche.

Because I was pretty sure I knew what Leiche means.

Leiche means corpse.

But I read through the title again: Beim Voruebergeben an einer Leiche. By the...pre-over-giving?...of a corpse. Uebergeben means, literally, give over, i.e. commit. Vor- is the prefix pre-.

So. Here was a prayer to say before committing (resigning? surrendering? this isn't a term we use much these days in English) a corpse. A prayer, basically, before a funeral.

In a children's book.

Let's just pause for a moment to reflect on the fact that, a mere hundred-and-three years ago, we were routinely teaching children prayers to say for dead people. Prayers that would probably be recited while you sat up all night with the corpse in your living room, the corpse washed and clothed by family members and laid out before it would be collected in the morning, taken to the church and then the graveyard.

In some parts of the world, corpses are still a part of every child's life.

I've mentioned before that I'm something of a worrier, and there's plenty I fret about with T-Rex even now, before he's even born. But then there's this prayer, beim Voruebergeben an einer Leiche.

I need to remember that kids are tough, and resilient, and if children can survive hanging out with dead bodies, they can probably survive the occasional diet soda or Disney movie.

I look forward to reading these German prayers to T-Rex, to teaching him a bit of Deutsch. At some point, we'll probably even say the prayer beim Voruebergeben an einer Leiche. Because people are born, and people die, and though we've sanitzed and sterilized and distanced ourselves from the entire process, there's really no hiding death from anyone.

I am confusing as well as confused.

Sometimes answering someone's questions just confuses everyone more.

We're hiring at my work, and one of the applicants listed Sister So-and-So as a reference on her application.

My Chinese coworker wanted to know if Sister was the lady's name, because that was a pretty funny name. So I explained, no, at least in this case, she was a nun. Nuns are called sisters as a title.

Obviously she concluded that a male nun would be called a brother.

I explained I was pretty sure that monks, aka male nuns, were usually called father. Or friar, which, that's pretty much just brother in Latin or French or something, so she was kind of right, I guess (I left that part out of my explanation).

"I think you call monks father, but I'm not really sure, because you never see monks anymore. There are lots of nuns, but very few monks. I think if you're male and you want to be a monk, you just go be a priest instead," I explained. Which probably shows how much I know about the Catholic church, but for real. I know lots of nuns, but no monks.

Anyway. Then she wanted to confirm that nuns and monks couldn't marry each other. "No, you can't marry anybody if you're a nun or a monk." Pretty sure that's still true.

"But," said Chinese coworker (I need to give her a codename. Let's use Lucy), "if you're a priest you can marry."

"No, priests can't marry. Well, Catholic priests can't. Anglican ones can, maybe? And Protestant pastors can. But they're not priests. Mostly."

Lucy's eyes sort of glazed over. She had no idea what I meant by Protestants versus Catholics. And I really shouldn't have introduced Anglicans, because I'm not sure they're Protestant or Catholic.

Lucy switched tactics.

"At the university, there is a church," she said. "What kind of church is it?"

I explained it's a Methodist church, which is a kind of Protestant church. This took rather longer than it sounds like it ought to have taken.

"So can that priest marry?"

"Probably. Most Protestant pastors can marry. Let's look him up." I looked up the pastor's biography on the church's website. Somehow I missed the part where he talked about his wife and just saw the bit about building forts with his kids.

"He has kids," I said, "so he must be married. I'm pretty sure you can't be a pastor and have kids and not be married."

"Unless they're adopted," she pointed out.

I admitted that could be, but then found the part about his wife and told Lucy that he was in fact married.

"So that building, it's a Catholic church?" she asked, circling back to our earlier confusion.

"Methodist." I countered.

"What's that?"

"It's a Protestant church. So there's Catholics, and then there's Protestants, but Protestants include all kinds of churches, like Methodists and Presbyterians and Lutherans and Baptists and all kinds."

I clearly was not making any sense to her. She sort of smiled and nodded and quickly escaped across the hall to the bathroom.

Our other coworker chimed in, "Wait, one of the job applicants is a nun?"

I give up.

What I am Into This Month: July

I apparently never took a beginning of July/end of June
picture. This is from early June, when life was green and not
one million degrees and in an emergency drought state.

I'm having a hard time believing July is over. Where on earth did this month go? It's been ridiculous--running around frantically at work, at home, and everywhere in between.

Here's what I've been up to in July, other than working, renovating, registering for baby things, etc., etc., etc.:

On My Nightstand: I'm still working very slowly through the non-fiction books that I've been reading the past few months. Summer interferes; it's simply not non-fiction book weather.

I did read Mockingjay, concluding the Hunger Games trilogy. I'm toying with writing a full review of this, though it's probably redundant. Suffice it to say, I thought it ended exactly as it should.
I also read the first book of Jane Lindskold's Firekeeper series, Through Wolf's Eyes. It's been a long time since I've read such straight, traditional fantasy. I find that I'm a little tired of some of the tropes at this point, but Lindskold treats them well, with interesting variations. I'm working on the second one now and enjoying it.

And I don't know who recommended A Discovery of Witches; it was someone in the blogosphere. Let me just say that this book, the first in a trilogy, is what Twilight should have been. Do you know what I mean by that? The books are, in some ways, eerily similar (vampire becomes obsessed with girl, girl falls in love with vampire, vampire for some unarticulated reason refuses to have sex with girl, etc.), but this heroine--the last in a long line of witches with some pretty kick-ass powers of her own--is much more likeable, relateable, and role-modelly heroine than whiny old Bella. I have the second one on hold and think a more detailed review (and a post on urban fantasy and kick-ass heroines) might be in order.

I've also been reading books on cooking: Forgotten Skills, Ratio, and a few others (most of which I checked out of the library based on Anne's recommendations in this post, which I heartily recommend). Theoretically I'd like to do more with my little ol' food blog, but if nothing else I'm enjoying learning the science behind cooking. I also made fresh linguine the other night for the first time in a long time because Ratio wants me to make all of the doughs forever.

Want to Read: Finishing the Introverts and Luther books would be pretty good right now. I also have the sequel to A Discovery of Witches on hold.

I've been collecting other recommendations all summer, but need to organize and prioritize them. Anyone have any for me?

TV Show Worth Watching: I'm half-heartedly following Hell's Kitchen (we're many many episodes behind). Gordon Ramsey would hate my food, I think. I pop in and out for other things the DDH watches: Royal Pains, Eureka, White Collar.

Of course, for the next two weeks, I'm glued to the Olympics. Much to the DDH's chagrin.

Movies I've Seen (in or out of a theater): Yes, we saw The Dark Knight Rises. The Saturday it came out, so the day after the Aurora, Colorado shooting. The theater was only half-full, and I wonder if that can be attributed to fear, the fact that we picked the less popular, cheaper theater, or just that the movie's not as popular as it should be. Because. My word. Yes. There's a lot of there there, for an action movie, if you know what I mean.
In My Ears: Even my faithful "Like a G6" station irritates me now. Somebody toss me a musical lifeline. I can't listen to anything without getting a headache and wanting to scream.

What I'm looking forward to next month: Progress on all things baby. I don't actually have any plans for August at all. I have to hire someone at work to fill in for me. And I'm sure there's a lot of work to do, at home and at work, to prep for T-Rex's arrival. But I won't complain if the world would take it quietly for a bit. I need to soak in the last of my pre-baby days.

This is the second time ever the DDH and I have faced August without it meaning back to school for someone. I freely admit I miss my own elementary and high school days. And even college. But I'm glad he's done with law school.

Goal Progress: I posted some goals for the new year, and I figured these monthly wrap-up posts would be a good chance to check my progress throughout 2012.

The Budget: Our savings got a nice boost because we switched home insurance companies but apparently had already paid for this year's coverage or something, so the old insurance company mailed us a $3,000 rebate check. Which I guess means it's money we had already paid (and eep! that's a lot of money), but hey, bonus! So that's good. I'm still on track to pay off my car, and my boss even said that, though I shouldn't plan on or expect anything, the firm might actually pay me for part of my maternity leave. God does provide, one way or the other.

The Garden: I've even managed to kill off most of my herbs, though the sunflowers are still growing. Sigh. This year's weather required me to be way more on top of the poor garden than I was. I'm hoping to do a fall planting, though if it doesn't stop being one million degrees out every day, that's not going to happen.

Food: I'm finally back onto a routine and cooking regularly after all the vacationing and visitors. Check out Reality Chef for some of what I've been cooking. I'm experimenting with fresh pastas right now in the hopes of doing a nice comprehensive series over there. Delicious, but perhaps not as healthy it could be.

The Craft Room: I have little left to do in the craft room. Some labels, some shifting around of things. Clearing off my desk. It's beautiful. But I really do need to work in the office now. And of course I've been keeping you posted on the nursery!

How was your July? What are you looking forward to in August?

Oh! Also I got a new phone. See how much nicer the pictures
are? And also how the grounds crew can't keep the grass
green? Hot time, summer in the city....

I am reading: Spirit-Led Parenting

Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year
By Megan Tietz and Laura Oyer

I don't really know anything about child rearing.

I'm only four-and-a-half years older than my youngest sibling, not exactly old enough to remember much about her infancy.

My mom tells us stories about when we were younger, but these mostly revolve around funny things we did (like how a couple weeks after Sister was born, Misha and I went to Mom and told her that she should probably take Sister back to the hospital, because her real mommy would be missing her and she obviously didn't belong with us) rather than the day-to-day details of How To Rear A Child.

I don't have any close friends or cousins with children.

As of yet, no one has bothered to foist his or her sage advice on me, in spoken or book form. (Or if they did, I wasn't paying attention. I once tried to explain to my mother that it wasn't that I didn't listen to her, it's that I evaluated what she had to say and came to my own conclusions, and proceeded to act on those conclusions rather than her instructions. This doesn't go over well when you conclude you don't need to do your chores, but it's a great skill to have once you're out in real life making your own decisions.)

So I am not quite the target audience for this book. The real target audience is the mother who has been inundated with advice about The Way To Rear a Child, advice that doesn't resonate with what her own instincts tell her. Specifically, the mother who is surrounded by baby-training, anti-spoiling advice (such as advocated by Gary Ezzo in his book Becoming Babywise) but who feels led to practice more Attachment Parenting-style practices.

For that mother, yes. You will find comfort and reassurances in the pages of this book, in the stories of Megan and Laura and many others who have fought the guilt imposed by others and found peace with particular parenting practices.

But if your instincts don't really point you in that direction, or you're in a community that primarily practices Attachment Parenting, or one that really doesn't care what you do (or at least you don't care whether or not they care)...you may find it all a bit much.

The core message of the book--that parents should follow their instincts, common sense, and the leading of the Holy Spirit in this joyful-but-difficult time of life--is one that absolutely every mother and father needs to hear (skip the Holy Spirit bit if you're not Christian, obviously, but the instinct-and-common-sense thing holds true).

Just some of us could use some counter-examples as to how this looks, exactly, in non-AP homes.

That would be my one criticism of the book except, as I said, it is targeted at readers who need exactly this, who are already overwhelmed and guilt-ridden by far too many examples of the successful use of other parenting rule sets. So I'm not sure it's a weakness so much as--I'm just not a member of that target audience. INTJs don't have a lot of time to waste on guilt.

Still, Megan and Laura have much to say to any new or soon-to-be parent (and even old parents could stand to be reminded of some of these lessons), and I do highly recommend anyone in that broader category read this book.

Here is some of my favorite advice from Spirit-Led Parenting:

Parenting as Servanthood.

When the intangible God chose to make Himself tangible to the world, He chose the form of a servant. Think on that for a moment. He could have come in any incarnation that pleased the Father, and the incarnation that He knew would prove to be most powerful, most influential, and most extraordinary was that of servant. Surely, that must speak volumes to us as believers as to how we are to approach each relationship with each person (no matter how small) the Lord places in our lives. (p. 47).

This does not mean that parents should become slaves to l'enfant terrible, catering to their young child's every wish and whim.

Instead, it means accepting that, especially in the infant season, the child's needs come before the parent's wants (and to a certain degree, things we think are needs, like sleep). It means the parent should approach the child, not from the vantage point of a ruler determined to make her subject submit to her expectations, but as a servant, seeking how best to meet the baby's needs and thus the needs of the family, even if that way doesn't exactly look like we expected it to look.

For some, that will mean surrendering a full night's sleep for longer than we hoped; for others, it will mean helping a child to learn how to sleep longer sooner because to not do so is too detrimental to the family as a whole. It might mean breastfeeding or bottle-feeding or co-sleeping or crib-sleeping. It means being open to the way God has designed your child (and you!) to function, and serving him or her joyfully, or as joyfully as you can at three a.m.

The Idolatry of Success

If baby is thriving and mom and dad are happy, isn't that an ideal situation? Well, yes. Most of the time. As we've said before, scheduling works wonderfully for some families from early on and most little ones eventually fall into some sort of routine as they grow. This is where it is important to watch that the success of the schedule does not become another sort of idol. (p. 200).

My dad was in the Navy when we were young and would be out to sea for months at a time. Because Mom was not only sort of doing the single parent thing, but also tended to find herself in new cities with no friend or family support system in place, she developed a very strict structure for our lives.

When Dad came home from a tour, he wreaked havoc on our schedule. Having not seen his babies in months (and months is a long time for kids under five), he of course wanted to soak up all the time with us he could get. There would be a whirlwind of events to attend and people to visit and lots of staying up past bedtime just because.

Which meant that there were lots of super-cranky, out-of-sorts babies and one highly irritated Mama. Because while, once the two weeks' leave was up, Dad could go back to his regimented on-board existence, Mom was left to clean up the mess of suddenly disagreeable and off-kilter kiddos. What should have been a time of joy and togetherness often become a time of stress and disagreement.

Mom set a strict schedule for good reasons. It was what our family needed to get through its days in that season of life. Dad broke the schedule for equally good reasons. Obviously, the story has a happy ending: my parents are still happily married, and none of us kids turned out to be crazed social deviants. But it's important to remember that, when things are going well and the schedules and techniques we use are working, we must still remember to be flexible, to be open-minded, and to accept the upsets to our routines as a healthy part of life.

Relinquishing Control and Relying on God

This passage, written by Laura, could easily have been written by me:

Here is something else I know: if scheduling Maya's days had "worked better" for us, I would have missed out on an area of spiritual growth for which I am now profoundly thankful. My need for control is an aspect of life in which I fiercely resist dying to self. An organzied, steady schedule to sail tidily through the early months of parenthood would have become a grievous idol for me, allowing me to take credit for the "success" of my orderly days, stand in judgment of those who parented differently, and find seeking God's plan for our family to be almost unnecessary. 

Let me give you an example of the specific kind of control-freaks the DDH and I are. Thursday, his mom called and asked if we'd like to meet her and her husband at a free outdoor concert that evening. I thought it sounded like fun, and the DDH agreed, so we said yes, gathered up a blanket, and headed out.

As we were preparing to leave, though, I noticed the DDH seemed particularly grumpy. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Do you not want to go to the concert? We don't have to go."

"No," he said. "I want to go. I just hate having my plans changed at the last moment."

Yes. It was something he wanted to do, but because it came up at the last minute, he was discombobulated and grumpy about doing it. I am the exact same way sometimes.

I have very carefully avoided giving myself any rules for parenting. I'm not going into it with much of a plan or an expectation. Because I know when my plans get messed up, I get grumpy. And if there is one thing babies are good at, it's messing up plans. My INTJ Mastermind personality says that I must be in control, but I know that a) that's impossible in this situation and b) I need to learn to rely on God and listen to His plans rather than clinging to my own.

***

I have no idea where this parenting journey is going to take me once T-Rex gets here. Like I said, so far my only plan has been to have no plan at all. But I will likely re-read Spirit-Led Parenting in the months ahead, finding comfort and reassurance in the voices of so many parents who have been there, done that already, and to remind me where my focus should be: on the Spirit who brings us peace in the midst of life's messiest and most sleep-deprived seasons.

Be sure to check out Megan and Laura at their online homes, too, SortaCrunchy and In The Backyard--they are both wonderful and entertaining bloggesses as well as Real Book Authors.

I am introducing you to...

...little Timothy Rex!

Sorry for the terrible and awkwardly formatted pictures, but who can really see much other than blurry grey blobs in ultrasound pictures anyway?

But yes! You can perhaps see in the fourth picture down, which is him sitting cross-legged, why the doctor thinks he's a boy. (Do you think it will scar the children being born in the Internet age that pictures of their genitals were posted on the intarwebz for strangers to ogle?)

We have another ultrasound a week from tomorrow on the big machine at the hospital and maybe will be able to see more, but in the meantime, here he is.

Wiggling around, looking nice and normal, heartbeat 147, I think he said--normal, anyway. Healthy.

It's hard to see in the scanned image, but in the second picture, do you see that circle where an eye would be? Apparently that's the lens of his eye. The ultrasound whatever-it-is (soundwaves, I guess?) reflected perfectly off the actual lens inside his eye. Isn't that cool?

Also it makes him look like the Terminator.

Yay. ^_^

I am good enough.

Weekends. They're not always what you hope they'll be.

I often come off long weekends (so rare and far between, since we work a number of holidays when the stock exchange is closed) feeling disappointed. Like I've wasted it, somehow. They seem so rich and full of possibility at the beginning, and when I look back at the end, I never seem to have done as much as I wanted to.

No matter what I do, I'm nagged by that feeling of I-could've-done-it-better.

This happens in all aspects of life. It's why traffic drives me absolutely bonkers--because I have the sneaking suspiscion that if I were only good enough--smart enough, fast enough, clever enough, skilled enough, paying enough attention--I would be able to negotiate my way to smooth sailing.

If I were good enough, I'd always pick the shortest and fastest line at the grocery store.

If I were good enough, I'd pick the best route through traffic, the best lane for each segment of my drive.

If I were good enough, I would have a fresh meal on the table every night, my dogs would never run away, the DDH and I would never fight, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

But I can't be good enough to be any of those things.

Some things I can make active efforts to improve at--like meal planning and communicating kindly with the DDH--because improvement really does lie within my control. That's why I set goals and keep track of them.

But not meeting my goals doesn't mean I'm less of a good person than if I hit all my goals on schedule every time.

Some things I can try to account for--like filling in the dogs' holes with cement sand, or keeping an eye out for little old ladies writing checks at the grocery store, or checking a traffic report for construction--but are ultimately out of my control. I can't pave the entire backyard or cut off the dogs' digging paws or account for the stealth check-writers or sudden traffic accidents.

Except there is always something I could do. I could pave the backyard (or get rid of the dogs entirely, since they obviously don't want to live here anyway*). I could do all my grocery shopping online and end the tyranny of check-writers and price-checkers forever. I could refuse to leave the house (or at least refuse to drive) and thus never get stuck in traffic.

I'm stuck in frustrating situations because I choose to put myself there. Maybe that's where the feeling of not being good enough comes from, the acknowledgement that ultimately it is my choice (and thus my failure?) for being in the situation in the first place.

But when I look at the alternatives as being, not having chosen the shorter line, but having chosen to forego all grocery stores forever, I realize how ridiculous I'm being. I realize that beating yourself up over choosing the wrong lane of traffic is a silly way to live.

(The fact that if Tulsa's city planners had just done common sense things like include center turn lanes in their stupid roads, so many of my frustrations would evaporate, is another post entirely.)

I am good enough that a few extra minutes in line won't kill me.

I am good enough that I can be patient in traffic (and note to self: being impatient really could kill me).

I am good enough to set wise goals, to work on them, to fail and learn and try again and sometimes, to give up.

More importantly, I am not in any way and never will be good enough to control everything.

I'm not in control. I never was, and never will be, and figuring out the balance between personal agency (doing things) and personal subjecthood (having things happen to me) is, perhaps, the key struggle for this INTJ. They don't call us Masterminds for nothing.

I'm not in control. But I am good enough.

And for Pete's sake, it's time to stop raising my blood pressure over the dratted traffic four times a day.

The fewer cars, the better.

What makes you feel inadequate? And how do you remind yourself that frustrations are not personal failures or character flaws?

*Not really.

The seasons are turning. I am not.

I wish the seasons meant something to me anymore.

You know?

I wish summer still meant long, lazy days. Reading on the couch, collapsing under the swamp cooler, lining up my toy horses on the front porch. Running errands with my mom and siblings. A soundtrack of talk radio. Dinners on the back porch, talking into the night. Sibling sleepovers in the living room, in carefully constructed blanket tents and kitchen-chair beds.

That almost-endless span of nothing-to-do in which Everything could be accomplished.

With a super awesome birthday in there somewhere, my brother's a month earlier like the warm-up act for my own.

Dog days of summer.

Monsoons, that comforting pattern of sun and cloud and lightning and rain, cool/warm rain to quench the earth's thirst, and ours, for something to break the tyranny of the sun in the desert.

And then the thrill of school shopping, poring over schedules. Planning and dreaming and scheming to make everything about this year perfect. Notebooks and pencils and backpacks and pens. The change of pace, the comfort of routine.

Leaves in the fountain.

School begins in early August in New Mexico, so it always came before cooler weather. The crisp scent of fall didn't tickle our senses until midterms. And then, as it got colder, the excitement of Christmas: another break, another abandonment of now-stifling routine. Trees and lights and church. And presents--presents to request, presents to buy, presents to make, presents to wrap, presents to hunt for in the backs of closets.

The quiet, sated week between Christmas and New Years. The final party, welcome, new year! The return to school, docile with celebration hangover.

Lights in downtown Tulsa.

The hard slog of January, February, March to Easter break. Cold (though not wet like Tulsa, blech). Working day in and day out, routine to the extreme. Ordinary time. 

Spring Break, a much-needed respite. Warmer weather. Lilacs in bloom. The year's most pleasant walks to and from school (or are those in the fall?).

Backyard flowers.

The jittery excitement as summer approaches. A whirlwind of end-of-year activities, yearbooks and goodbyes, final concerts and awards presentations. Exams, later, and scores and grades that mean something. The frantic buildup and the sudden release, all of summer stretching before me in its hazy, fertile glory.

Now it seems like life consists of nothing but that January/February/March slog. The endless routine, always the same. Nothing changes. Nothing to anticipate. The same dreary work, the same evening routine of gym-chores-dinner-tv-bed. Weekends longed-for but wasted in more chores and commitments and an unfulfilling laziness that is only a cheap imitation of rest. The same bleary-eyed awakenings, begrudging the alarm.

Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's cold. I'll wear sweaters and boots or tanks and sandals. But it's the same stuff I'm doing. No breaks. No vacations. No completion.

And maybe that's fine. There's nothing wrong with my routine, with the tasks that fill my days and weeks and months and years.

I just wish the seasons meant something again.

You know?

I am dressed (don't ask much more of me)!

Ah yes, 'tis Wednesday. Where did I leave off? Holy Week, I think.

Because I'm secretly seven years old, I dress for holidays. I try to do it grown-up style, though. For example:

Shirt: Old Navy; skirt: older than the hills;
belt and jewelry: Target.

Maundy Thursday. The First Communion. Obviously, the thematic color is wine, and I have the perfect skirt. I have worn this skirt on Maundy Thursdays (and other days) since I was in middle school, possibly. I think I finally tossed its matching brown cousin, but I kept the wine-colored version. It's shiny and has lace details and is a wonderful color, though I need to hike it up to keep it from giving me stunted leg syndrome.

Anyway. Also still a solemn day, so black to go with. But I was proud of myself for punching it up with a silver-gray belt (it's shinier in the light) and big jewelry. I wore it to our Seder Meal celebration that evening and was happy with it.

Shirt: Old Navy; belt: Target; skirt: hand-
me-down.

On Good Friday, obviously, you have to wear all black. It's The Rules. During the day I wore the same shirt with black pants, but I skirted it up for the evening Tenebrae service. I decided the gray belt made it look nice and outfitty without destroying the solemn feel of it.

Oh, the pin I'm wearing here and in the Maundy Thursday outfit is a gold crown of thorns that I usually keep on my coat all through Lent and wear during Holy Week. But it was so warm this spring I wasn't wearing a coat and forgot all about it until Maundy Thursday.

Everything is from Old Navy, I think, except
the necklace, which was a gift.

Looking at my source captions, I think I should get Old Navy to pay me for these posts. I even went thrifting a few months ago and ended up with a cute dress...from Old Navy. Sigh.

Anyway. Holy Saturday. Spring! The middle of a three-day weekend! But you still sort of need black to be dominant. Jesus is dead and buried. So here we go. I love all the pieces of this outfit and I love them together and I should wear it again.

Shirt: when in doubt, guess Old Navy;
belt: Target; pants: thrifted?

After all that, I didn't photodocument what I wore for Easter. I don't even remember what I wore for Easter. It wasn't this. This was a failed attempt at an outfit for work. It was okay, and might get pulled out again as my belly expands, but the fact that it looks horrible in this photo is not a complete lie.

I suppose we'll stop here for now.

It's Wednesday, and that's what I wore...like a month ago.

What have you been wearing? Do you "dress up" for holidays too?

I am two.

Oh, hey there, blog. Almost forgot about you.

Life's been a little busy, and I've been a little tired.

And we're not ready to tell everyone (which means, no Facebook), but I'm trying to work through some things in my head so I'm going to tell you, my dear Internet friends (and Jessi, but please keep it quiet for now!):

Yup. Little Critter's ETA is mid-November. The same month as our anniversary. And as DDH's birthday. So that was good planning. -_-

Yay! So other than being terrified, we're very excited (even though I'm going to spend the rest of this point not sounding excited at all but worrying over related matters). But I guess my goals for the year have changed a bit now.

I need to:

1. Learn everything (or at least enough) about pregnancy, childbirth, and babies.
2. Make a nursery and otherwise babyproof the house.
3. Figure out how to babyproof the dogs (they're very loving and protective, but Jayne also sliced my toe open yesterday making a mad dash for his Kong. Soooo....).
4. Figure out how to tell my boss that I'm leaving the firm, hopefully while still being able to work up until the baby's born (the "hopefully" is not because I anticipate illness but because my boss is insane and might just fire me as soon as I tell him).
5. Figure out a way to make some money from home, and/or find a job of some sort to go back to next year.

A massive trip to the library and a judicious amount of googling are taking care of number one.

Number two will begin over the next few months. On a strict budget and with lots of gifty help from the parents...first grandchild FTW.

Number three...I'm guessing google will help me there, too. Though some people suggest using a doll and training the dog to behave around the doll, and that doesn't make sense to me. Dogs identify primarily through smell. A doll doesn't smell anything like a baby, and training a dog to be nice to a piece of plastic has nothing to do with it being nice to an actual person. Really I suspect this will just involve actually training the dumb dogs to behave better (finally! a reason for the DDH to cooperate and not sabotage all my efforts). And trimming their nails more frequently. And constant vigilance!

Numbers four and five, though...blech. For various reasons, starting with my boss is batshit crazy, going through no really, he's insane and ending with also I don't really like finance that much and I'm not that good at it, I do not plan on coming back to this job after Critter is born.

The fact that my salary would approximately equal the cost of good daycare enters into our consideration as well, and is part of the reason why I would prefer to manage to make some sort of money at home rather than by going to a part-time job somewhere. But the fact is, the DDH's ADA job will not quiiiiiitte pay all the bills. (Of course, trying to make payments on his ridiculous law school student loans is really what makes it impossible for us to get by on just his ADA salary...but anyway.)

I've worked as a tutor on the side before, and imagine I could pick up some more of those gigs--except that childcare will again be an issue (though not an insurmountable one, surely).

Here's the thing. Really, Critter just pushed up my deadline. I've been planning to quit my job for a while now, because I hate it. It's both boring and stressful and not particularly rewarding in any sense of the word--except for the sense in which it's reliable, regular income, which going out on my own with any sort of project is not.

But while what I love is writing, editing, cooking, and gardening (and I'm not particularly talented at the last two)...I have no idea how to turn that into any amount of money at all. And I'm getting depressed googling around for online editing gigs and only coming up with scams. Why don't legitimate people want a complete stranger to edit their important documents over the internet? I don't understand. ;-)

So I need some ideas. Is it too much to ask that I

1. Actually make some (not a lot! but some) money
2. Doing something that I actually enjoy
3. That lets me stay at least mostly at home with Critter and his/her eventual siblings, doing what I believe is the most important job of all?

It would be really nice if the DDH could just snag some swank private-sector lawyering gig with a private-sector lawyering income so that I wouldn't have to worry about making my writing projects profitable...but he promised the county four years and he's a man of his word. And he really, really loves his crazy insane stressful heartbreaking job, so I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to stay longer.

Sigh. It's something I need to work on regardless of whether Critter sticks it out (yes, I'm reading too many miscarriage stories on Babycenter), because as scary and uncertain and failure-ridden as doing something else is likely to be, I cannot subject myself to this place much longer.

Help, friends!

The men that God made mad.

"The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad.

For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad."
- G.K. Chesterton

I read Thomas Cahill's How the Irish Saved Civilization last month as a pre-St. Patrick's Day holiday read.

I will confess I delighted in the book, which is blatantly biased, unrepentantly pedantic, and just generally exactly the sort of book you would expect to be written by a genial old professor thoroughly immersed in and excited by his studies.

Cahill begins by outlining and theorizing about the fall of the Roman Empire, examining the parallel lives of a now-obscure but then-famous Roman courtier-poet and the great figure of Augustine of Carthage. Cahill then traces out a coherent account of the life of St. Patrick (no mean feat considering the dearth of information on this barely-historical legend), whose proselytizing he credits, essentially, with saving all the texts of Greek and Roman civilization that survive today.

Through it all, we are treated to extensive quotations from various original sources, often in the original language--Cahill speaks (or at least writes) Latin, Greek, Old English, and who knows what else, and lets you know it. This sounds pretentious, but somehow isn't. Usually. Perhaps because he freely admits he knows no Gaelic.

I would not in any way approach this book as an unbiased historical account. This is not to say that I think Cahill is lying, but he takes scant source material (I mean, we're talking about the third to eighth centuries, roughly, here, and a people who for much of that time were illiterate) and extrapolates freely to reach his (not entirely unreasonable) conclusions.

I was not expecting it to be as biased as it was; Cahill managed to be academic without being...is reputable the word I want? At first, this bothered me a little. I hate to read nonfiction books that are compromised in ways I can't exactly define--that is, I don't know enough about this time period to have any idea what Cahill might have stretched or left out--though at least I could recognize that it was biased in this case. The book was apparently extremely controversial (in academic circles anyway) at the time it was released, and I hate to accidentally embroil myself in controversy. ;-)

As we approach St. Patrick's Day, however, I've been contemplating the book and Cahill's passionate advocacy for his Irish ancestors in the light of more contemporary Irish history.

How the Irish Saved Civilization was published in 1996. This was two years before the Belfast Good Friday Agreement of 1998--perhaps not the height of The Troubles, the Irish-Anglo, well, war that lasted from the late 1960s to (officially) the Good Friday Agreement in 1998--though violence continues even today on a smaller scale.

Let's get something straight. The Irish Republican Army (as well as its unionist counterpart, the Ulster Volunteer Force) were terrorists. There is nothing romantic or glamorous about blowing up hotels and London financial districts (this and the Manchester bombing both occurred in 1996, the year Cahill's book was published).

Have you ever listened to the lyrics of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday?" "Broken bottles under children's feet/Bodies strewn across the dead-end street." They're singing about a real massacre that happened in 1972 in which thirteen people died. The Cranberries' song "Zombie" (you know the song, trust me, the lady wailing "Zo-om-BEH, zo-om-BEH") is a also protest song about The Troubles, specifically the 1993 Warrington bombing in which two children died.

Chesterton was right; the Irish sing many a sad song. 

We may forget, here in this country and on this holiday celebrating a cartoonish leprechaun-and-whiskey version of the Irish, that discrimination against the Irish, especially the Catholic Irish, has a long history both in England and America. Ireland has a long history of being a shithole plagued by disease, violence, oppression, famine, and poverty. From the Irish Potato Famine at the turn of the last century that sent my own grandparents across the Atlantic to the violence at turn of this century, back and back about as long as there's been people in England and people in Ireland.

One can hardly begrudge an Irish Catholic the writing of a book that so passionately defends the ancient Irish and the country's first Catholics.

Moreover, Cahill demands respect for these ancestors of his (and, by extension, their descendents). He describes them as great warriors and partiers, yes, but also as learned, civilized men and women who loved books as much as beer. Between the IRA, the UVF, and the benign but wild stereotype of the Irish characterized by our St. Patrick's Day celebrations (and less benign, think of movies such as Boondock Saints), the world doesn't exactly have much respect for this particular ethno-religious group.

Cahill assigns perhaps rather more importance to the achievements of the ancient Irish monks than they deserve, but they did achieve much. The Irish, as Cahill shows, are more than America's two-dimensional image of them and they are more than the depressing, desperate violence and poverty that has defined the country since the Middle Ages.

Enjoy your Guinness and Jameson today; I certainly plan to. Wear green and play Pandora's Irish Pub Rock station (which is awesome but, um, not censored). Celebrate the life of a dedicated saint and a country finally enjoying some measure of peace and prosperity for the first time since the triple-digit centuries. Remember that terrible things happen in places we don't expect--and that everyone has something to teach us.

Reality Bites at Reality Chef

I know it's an internet phenomenon, to complain about how un-real our internet personas are.

I hear people complaining about it--how they get depressed because everyone's life seems better than theirs when seen through glowing status updates. I myself am prone to shameful raging fits of envy when I see other people's beautifully decorated houses (and then those people complain about them, ugh!), their seamlessly organized and totally fulfilling lives.

Exhibit A: This used to be the view from my bedroom window.
When I lived in Freiburg, Germany.

It seems to be all the blogosphere rage to insist you and your blog will "keep it real," that you're "all real," but all the while we post a carefully edited presentation of our lives. Even our troubles can be giftwrapped and prettied up to seem artfully tragic.

I hate that.

I mean, I am the Number One Fan of the curated personality presentation. I don't mind people presenting me the Best Bits version of their lives--that's more or less what I'm presenting you. I like a juicy secret and I like to know that your lives really aren't perfect, but people go to the internet for the same reason they go to the movies or watch television or read books: for entertainment.*

And mundanity is anything but entertaining.

That's why no one loves the friend who tweets every day's tiniest event: Woke up, had coffee. Heading off to work, blah. Think I'll get Chipotle for lunch. Stuck in traffic and found some spinach in my teeth.

Yawn.

Somewhere, though, there's a balance. There's a balance between the kind of real that tells you what time I brush my teeth every day (right before bed. Yeah, just once a day, don't tell my dentist) and the kind of editing that makes you think I eat nothing but free-range meat and homegrown produce cooked in my four-star kitchen (I wish) to exacting standards for my Hollister-model husband and my 2.5 kids.

Somewhere in there is the version of life that's entertaining without making you (too terribly) jealous. A version of life that's relateable. A version of life--of self--that is a friend.

I've got a series in mind for this little blog, but I'm starting with Reality Chef, because I named the damn thing with this whole concept in mind yet lately have been only posting recipes and meals that make me look good like a skinny-bitch Paula Deen with a smitten kitchen chaser.

Every day from now until Easter (so basically for Lent), I'm going to post what I had for dinner. Sometimes, and in keeping with my New Year's goals hopefully at least three times a week, this will be a recipe that you might want to try. But maybe more often than I'd like, it's going to be leftovers or fast food or whatever reality meal Americans eat these days.

I won't be posting all of these here, because that could be totally boring. I'll just link to the recipe ones the way I've been doing. But if you're curious, keep an eye on the food blog for a taste of reality. Hopefully, it will encourage you and show you that real food lifestyles are doable, without overwhelming you with the impossibility of living them perfectly.

'Cause heaven knows that I'm not perfect, and Day 1's dinner proves it.

*Ok, so that's drastically oversimplified. REALLY mostly people go to the internet to Google stuff on Wikipedia. Also for porn. And to nurture human relationships or buy stuff on Amazon or whatever. But entertainment is certainly a primary purpose. No, I'm not linking to porn with that link, geez, but to the Avenue Q song.

I am shy.

If you've been wandering around the IntArwebz lately, you've probably noticed a quiet little hubbub going on about introversion.

Susan Cain has released a book called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking. Adam McHugh has a blog and a book on introverts in the church.

I haven't read either book, though I do read McHugh's blog. He has a lot of good things to say, and from the interviews with Cain and the reviews of her books that I've read, she does as well.

(I will admit that I think the Lutheran Church--Missouri Synod is a more introverted denomination than the traditions McHugh comes from, so sometimes his stuff confuses me. I just don't get that "extroverts are better" vibe at my own church.)

With all this publicity surrounding introversion, however, the same comment keeps cropping up. Take this statement from an interview with Cain on NPR:

"Now, shyness, on the other hand, is about a fear of negative social judgment. So you can be introverted without having that particular fear at all, and you can be shy but also be an extrovert."

Only recently have I come to realize that shyness and introversion are truly different things.

And that, moreover, I am both introverted and shy.

Apparently the heart-clenching paralysis I feel when facing human interaction--whether it's calling to make a doctor's appointment or going to a party--is not introversion.

Apparently, being around people can make you tired without you being terrified of being around people.

The problem with all of this introvert publicity--and let me say that I don't think it's a bad thing, that Cain and McHugh have important messages that they convey articulately--is that, while it normalizes introversion, it has made me acutely aware of how abnormal shyness is.

That is, so often people, as Cain does in the interview excerpt above, leap to say, "Introversion is okay; it's normal and wonderful and just different from extraversion. It's not, heaven forbid, shyness."

And while I know that's not the message they're intending to convey (I don't think)...it sure makes me feel miserable.

It just emphasizes that other people aren't like me. Other people can call up a dentist and make an appointment without agonizing over the process for weeks--and they can cancel a subsequent appointment because they don't like the dentist, instead of continuing to go because she's so afraid of having the dentist and his employees dislike her.

Other people can take clothes in to a consignment shop and get money for them instead of sheepishly dumping them in the donation bin, all the while freaking out about the people driving by who obviously are judging her.

Other people can speak in class when not called on and meet friends' eyes when speaking to them.

(Other people have Real Life friends.)

Sigh. This sounds mopey and self-pitying. To a degree, that's because it is. But to a degree, it's not.

If it's not normal, maybe it's something I can change. If it's not normal, maybe it's something I can overcome.

Probably not. Not completely, anyway. But maybe if I do some of these common tasks often enough, reminding myself that other people don't panic about them because there's no reason to panic, maybe, eventually, I'll stop panicking.

Or maybe I'll die of a heart attack before I'm thirty. Either way.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me....

My package from the parental unit arrived today.

A nativity set!

I've been looking for a nativity set for years, but haven't found one I liked. You can see the hand-me-down one from my mother-in-law in the corner of the picture; I don't care for it particularly, but I never found one that I either liked enough to justify spending money on or could afford.

But this...it's perfect. I have no idea where my parents got it or why they picked it out for me. I'm not sure how they sussed out my personal aesthetic when nothing I own really reflects it, since my entire house is hand-me-downs and other-people's-decorations. But they did. And I'm happy. I seriously cried when I saw it.

There may only be seven days of Christmas left, but I set it up anyway.

It's very simple, just plain red clay figures (a lot of Southwestern-style pottery is made with this kind of clay, though usually painted). The camels have glazed blankets, and most of the figures have one tiny gold leaf accent: the wise man's gift of gold, another wise man's crown, the cow's horns, the angel's halo. The lines are soft and simple, more clay suggestions of camel and bridle and robe than detailed carvings. The figures have no faces. It's much easier to ruin a face than to get it right, and an artist should know when not even to try.

Perfect.