Written 2 April 2009

I was sifting through my old un-published drafts and happened upon this. Written when I was dangerously pregnant with Le Bebe and none too thrilled about it. I had titled it on making out in public and other things. It's long and rambling and, being unfinished, end abruptly... but maybe it's funny anyway.

I thought it was, at least.

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I ventured out to the grocery this afternoon since we were running dangerously low on grape jelly and PB&Js are one of few things that bring me true joy these days. Fortunately for me and due to the intelligence of shopping center builders of yore, Kroger is right next door to K-Mart and I was able waddle on over there to pick up a couple of things for less than the take-out-a-loan prices I'd pay at Kroger.

I should take this opportunity to say that I am not fond of K-Mart. I hear that some towns have really nice and even Target-esque K-Marts, but our town is not so fortunate. Our K-Mart is cluttered and dirty and has hideously dim and most of the time blinking overhead fluorescent lighting. Oh, an the general population of folks who shop at our K-Mart have mullets and beer guts... and the men are worse. I really like some of their bedding and housewares and they have great deals on play clothes and baby supplies, but a trip there leaves me feeling, for lack of a better word, icky. And like I need a couple good doses of Zoloft. So, I don't go there too often.

I'm sad to say that I fit in at K-Mart today. It was going to be a quick trip for a few necessities so I opted out of makeup. I picked out one of 4 things that still fit and are reasonably comfortable but decided against the Bella Band since any additional undergarment was only going to multiply my general irritableness, so yeah, the bellybutton was very presently protruding through the t-shirt. I also donned a cap in hopes of concealing my identity to some extent and a pair of years-old brown flip flops since they matched my shorts and showed off my sexy chipping toenail polish. I was already icky, so I figured K-Mart wasn't going to bring me much lower.

So, I hauled myself out of the car and proceeded to weave my way through the other parked cars. Not an easy task when you yourself are the size of a Smart Car. Which may seem like an okay thing since those little guys are so cute, but, believe me, I left the realm of "cute" back in second-trimester land. Or maybe even first-trimester land. It's all a fog at this point...

But I digress...

I passed in front of a little pick-up truck and for whatever reason glanced up into the cab and there was a couple in there who either really liked each other or were attempting to count one another's fillings. Now, since I've unfortunately taken part in my fair share of public displays of affection, I do not feel like a little church lady shaking my head in true "kids these days" fashion when I say JUST DON'T, OK? I'm not one to tell people to 86 the making out altogether (although it probably isn't the best idea for non-married folk who wish to remain pure), but perhaps K-Mart's parking lot is not an ideal place for it to happen. I fought the urge to stop in front of their truck and draw as much attention to my pregnant belly as possible just to show them what can happen if you don't watch it.

In the end, their display made me pretty uncomfortable (yes, it was that grotesque), so I waddled all the faster on into K-Mart.

Onto other things...

I feel that I have reached that point where pregnancy is turning me into a generally unpleasant person. As I said earlier, I've completely passed the point of cuteness and have entered the realm of scary. I can't even imagine that people are looking at me because they're pondering all the magical-ness of pregnancy and new motherhood. I can only assume they're looking at me and wondering where the nearest heat source is for fear that I could pop. Meanwhile, I find myself having all measures of unpleasant thoughts toward non-pregnant women as well as unnatural urges to run up to other pregnant women, hug them, and weep with reckless abandon. Meanwhile, none of my maternity clothes fit the same as they did when I was pregnant the first time around and quite a few of them don't fit at all... leaving me with the same 4 frumpy, tent-like options each and every time I leave the house. I've also found that I feel very self-conscious in the grocery because I feel like if I even pause in front of anything doughnut or ice cream related that anyone nearby is sniggering at me.

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James 4

My heart is heavy tonight and I can't put my finger on any one reason. It's one of those all-too-common nights where I find myself questioning my own thoughts and words and feelings again and again... and feeling overall like a great big failure.

But still God calls me.

I feel that oh-so-familiar tug at my heart that is equal parts comforting and terrifying.

My immediate response is to pray.

God's calling me to my closet, I thought... but no, I found no comfort there as I often do.

God's calling me to action, I thought... but no, the time is wrong for the things I've had on my heart.

Finally, it hits me... God's calling me to His Word.

This is something that's always troubled me, Bible reading... because of the hugeness of it.

Where do I start? I should have a plan first. I should buy some kind of guided, day-by-day Bible or something...

Interestingly enough, this is the same problem that has plagued my prayer life until recently. I always felt I needed a list, an order of operations, a formula in order to pray. When I finally, at long last, allowed myself to be shown that God will (and does!) indeed teach me to pray each time I approach Him, my prayer life became much less stressful and much more productive (and beautiful and amazing and a host of other positive descriptors).

And so, as I was putting dishes into the dishwasher tonight, my last chore of the day, I contemplated what exactly I would read. My control-freak tendencies taking over as always.

Might as well read up for Wednesday night's service, I decided.

James 4.

That brings me to now.

I sat down on the bed (after scooting Le Bebe over), labeled a page in my steno pad, turned to James 4, and read the section title:

Draw Near to God

And then I proceeded to write all of this because I just had to document it.

It truly is as if the Lord is showing me every day here lately that HE WANTS ME!

I can't understand that part of it, but I'm not about to complain.

Because I want Him, too.

(Written 2 February 2010)

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"Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you."

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spring-action things are the devil

Is there some secret alliance that I'm not aware of between toy manufacturers and hair stylists?

Because when something like this...

is supposed to fit into something like this...

...it makes my hair turn gray.

And there must also be a secret alliance between toy manufacturers and defense attorneys.

Because directions like these...

...make me want to commit a violent act against humanity.

This guy in particular:

I hate you, little single-dimensional diagram man.

I really hate you.

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oh the half has never yet been toe-d

Please hold to a minimum any and all comments pertaining to the freakish nature of my toes and/or the fact that I could, if I wanted to, swing from or climb trees. It hurts my feelings.

This was the highlight of my day today.

And when I say highlight, I mean the thing that happened which most made me want to commit some illegal action requiring time served in a penal establishment.

It all started with the trash can. Or, no... wait. It all started with the amount of trash in the trash can. But my family's excessive-trash disorder is another post altogether.

So, the first problem was too much trash in one bag. The second problem was the el cheapo con economisto a la carte trash bags which create an UNREAL, I mean like space capsule to shuttle level suction, amount of suction with the sides of the trash can.

Does NASA use suction to hold those two things together? Are capsule and shuttle even the right words? I have no idea. Space lingo isn't really my thing.

Anyway, after breaking a sweat and attempting to create some amount of leverage with my knee, I went back to a very delicate strategy which I've formulated after many years of research.

I pulled it really, really hard.

Long story short, I pulled, the bag might have budged a little, the trash can came up with it, I got mad and slammed it back down.

...

...and this is what I got.

It hurts. But I'll be ok. I only considered calling ye olde hubby and telling him off for 5, maybe 10, minutes. Not that it was his fault. Verbal violence just seemed to be a better option.

It's fortunate for the UPS guy that he didn't stop by until later.

I fixed my toe, by the way.

It feels much happier now. Thanks for asking.

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not for the faint of heart

1 January 2010.

0134.

An unmarked holiday on most calendars, but which is emblazoned on mine (at least mentally) each and every year it seems.

Guiltfest.

Here I am at the jumping off place. Looking down the barrel of an intensely loaded list of resolutions that has been growing exponentially with each passing day for the past couple of weeks...

Start a running program

Eat better

Take vitamins

Organize my house

Read my Bible

Pray more

Drink more water

Plan a budget

Keep a budget

Plan meals

Go to the grocery once a week

Blah

Blah

Blah

Every day it's something new that I didn't think of yesterday. Something I want to change and better about myself. Something that I want to stop hating about myself. Something that I know I can do but I'm not sure if I can do.

I know I'm taking a blog break, and I hate to be such a Debbie Downer in this once-in-a-blue-moon post, but today has been a hard day.

A day that started like every other day has for the past couple of weeks. With the Kiddo waking up at 0830 and beginning his reign of terror. And ending with a New Year's Eve party of sorts at my in-laws' house to which I wore very little makeup and where everyone was happy but me.

At the end of this long, sad day, it's hard for me to see anything but tears and spankings and time-outs and quiet times and harsh words and loud voices and a very frazzled mama.

And the only consolation I could find as I sat, crying, at his bedside while he slept is that he won't remember that I didn't used to be like this. And what a double-edged sword that is. He won't remember that so much changed so very quickly and I became this exhausted, impatient person that I am now. No, he won't remember... but I will.

And so, really... if the running plan falls through and I keep eating garbage and not drinking water. If I forget forever to take my vitamins and I run out of money every month due to my lack of planning. If I never ever fit into that stupid blue dress in my closet again. If my house still lies in shambles at this time next year...

What I really want out of 2010 is fewer nights where I lay in my bed wondering if I'm good enough. If the punishment was too severe. If it was really so important that he stop banging on that pan. If it really mattered if he climbed up in a chair to look at the pictures on the refrigerator.

If he knows how much his mama loves him.

What I really want out of 2010 is to live joyfully and light up my children's lives with happiness. I don't want to be angry and impatient. I don't want to yell and scream. I don't want to feel like I'm going to pull my hair out. I don't want to be so wasted and worn out by the end of the day that I can't stand the sight of my kids.

I just want to be better.

I want tomorrow to be a better day than today.

And every day after that to follow suit.

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