Birthday Relfections

Today is Ethan's birthday! He's one year old. It's amazing to me how a pregnancy can drag on and on, but once the baby comes, time just flies by. Ethan is such a sweet little boy. He's happy 97% of the time, and the 3% that he's not is only when I get his schedule messed up and he loses sleep, or when he's sick. He loves Alyssa. I just moved him into her bedroom and turned the nursery into a play room, and he loves sharing a bedroom with his big sister. I can lay him down after tucking them both in, and he just pays in his crib until he falls asleep. Yesterday I let him crawl on Alyssa and give her hugs before putting him to bed, and he laughed the whole time.

I've been thinking a bit lately about how thankful I am to have Ethan in our family. We had some crazy, and some special times getting him here, and I thought I would share some of them. I didn't know if the Internet would be an appropriate place, but this is my only journal right now and I want it written down so I don't forget.

We had a miscarriage when Brian graduated from BYU, and it took about a year to get pregnant again. It was very difficult losing another baby, and there were other things that it caused (Brian missing classes during summer term that caused a grade to drop low enough to put optometry school off for another year, for example) that made it very hard. When you have a miscarriage you want to get pregnant as soon as possible. I kept thinking, "My baby was supposed to be here around Christmas, so I'm already behind schedule." But as each month passed, I would get sadder and sadder, and soon I was questioning if I would ever have any more children. It turns out that nothing serious was going on, but it was hard not to wonder.

Around Christmas, when the baby was supposed to be born, I was getting more upset and scared. It was hard to pass my due date without being pregnant again. One night as I was saying my evening prayers, I told Heavenly Father how I felt and told him of my fears. When my prayer was over, I heard a voice in my head whisper, "I can hear you." It was so simple. I didn't get an answer as to whether or not I would conceive a child soon or even if I ever would at all, but I knew that my prayer was heard. The voice was so loving. Exactly as a father would speak to his distraught daughter. I know there is a God. I know that we are His children and that he loves us so much. I will never, ever doubt the existence of our Heavenly Father.

I went to the doctor, and she said that most likely I was ovulating and there was no need to worry, and she told me to start charting my cycles to see exactly when I ovulated. I was already 'kind of' charting, but at this point I threw myself into it. It was the coolest science project I've ever done. One of my catholic friends once told me that she knew people who charted for birth control, and she said, "Wouldn't it be amazing to be so in tune with your body?" I can tell you that it is amazing, but the neatest part was having my husband there along side me, learning and working with me, not to prevent the conception of a child, but to get it.

The cycle that I charted and I "just knew" that we would get pregnant, I prayed every night that IF I WAS pregnant, that the baby would be protected. It was one of those nights that when I said the word baby, my mind said "babies" instead. While I would love to have twins, I never said this out loud, because I thought that was asking for too much. But soon I found out that, yes, I was pregnant, and during the sixth week, I started to bleed a little. "Oh, no," I thought. I called the doctor, who sent me to the hospital for an ultra sound. "Yes, " they said, " Baby's all right. See, there's the heartbeat. Go wait downstairs and someone will come talk to you." I waited for a half hour, wondering what could be wrong, when someone came out to tell me I could go home and the doctor would call me. When I walked in the door there was a message waiting, and I immediately called the doctor back. Apparently, it started out as a twin pregnancy, but one of the babies had died. I was shocked. A part of me had already knownthat there were two babies, but I was still shocked. It was a little sad, but at the same time, we still had a healthy pregnancy, so we had a lot to be thankful for.

Soon after getting pregnant, I found myself very sick. I spent all my time in bed or on the couch, and I threw up constantly. We kept calling the doctor, but every time I would go in she would say, "Well, at least you're walking," or "Some people look like holocaust victims. You should be thankful." I would nod my head, and go home to cry, but I really wanted to tell her about throwing up in the parking lot (I carried my "Yucky Bucket" everywhere I went.) and throwing up in the waiting room, and throwing up while waiting for her to come to the examination room. I wanted to tell her about throwing up when I ate, and throwing up when I didn't eat. Didn't she realize I had lost twenty five pounds in just a few weeks? I was sent to the hospital a few times for dehydration, but all they did was pump me full of water and send me home.

It wasn't until the wonderful nurses on the night shift were listening to our story and told us about a great doctor, who just happened to be on call that night. Dr. Andrews looked at the information from my blood test and determined that my body had been in starvation mode for some weeks, and I needed a complete overhaul. He pumped various things through my veins and soon I was eating and feeling better. I still threw up a lot, and I felt sick all the way up until delivery, but at least I could function as a real person and be able to take care of Alyssa.

A few weeks after finding out I was pregnant (I think it was before I got sick.), I was cleaning the house and thinking about the new baby and hoping that everything was going to be okay, when again I heard a voice whisper to me. It said, "It's a boy and his name is Ethan Daniel." How strange that I was lucky enough to be privileged with this information. Sometimes I doubted myself. Did I really hear it, or did I just make it up? No, I really did hear it. I knew he would be declared a boy when we went in for our ultra sound, but part of me thought, "Well, if it's a girl, then I'll know that I'm crazy." It was hard for Brian, because I wanted his approval of the name, but my certainty left no room for discussion of other options. Brian also doesn't like to talk about names until the baby comes, anyway, because that's when he meets them.

Brian is a good sport, though, and when the baby was born via cesarean section, Brian agreed to name him Ethan Daniel, and it seemed to fit him very well. Daniel is Brian's father's name. He is a great man. I love having Ethan named after him.

So now a whole year has passed since he was born, and it feels like all these things happened forever ago. I'm thankful for the wonderful experiences that being a mother has given me. I'm so thankful for both Alyssa and Ethan; I'm so glad to have them in our family. I feel very blessed to have such a great man as my husband and two beautiful children. They bring such happiness to my life.

Nobody's Perfect

Confession: I love "Die Hard." Rated R for extreme violence, probably extreme language, and extreme flash of a topless lady during the Christmas party scene. But I love the fact that a barefoot and bleeding Bruce Willis takes out a group of terrorists to save his wife, and I love the limo driver rockin' out in the parking garage who saves the day at the last moment, and frankly, I love all the machine guns.

Confession: I have watched Barbie's "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" more times than I have read the Book of Mormon. I guess this isn't such a bad thing, because I've watched the movie at least fifty times, which is a lot. Today, we even watched it in Spanish.

Confession: I went through the self-checkout line at Fred Meyer when I bought some clothes so I could keep the hangers. Does this count as stealing? They were nice hangers--the nice plastic ones with the turny metal curvy part. We don't have any hangers like that, and they come in handy when we use Brian's garment bag when we're traveling.

Confession: I've lost more weight since Ethan's been born due to breastfeeding and getting the flu over Christmas than exercising. Before I got pregnant with Ethan I was running five miles every morning, but ever since he came around I've been to the gym probably ten or fifteen times. And he's almost a year old! I do enjoy exercising, though, and now that he's on a more regular sleeping schedule, I've started to go more regularly. And I've decided that since he's gotten himself into the habit of waking up at 5:00 every morning, I'm going to stop complaining about it and start doing something about it. I'll try to get my Book of Mormon reading caught up to "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" by reading my scriptures while Ethan plays in the toy room during the wee hours of the morning. Then I'll hand him over to Brian at 5:45 and head to the gym.

I guess taking care of two out of four vices isn't bad. It's fifty percent. Then again, I don't watch "Die Hard" more than once every six months or so, and we don't have much money for me to do more shopping at Fred Meyer, so I won't be stealing any hangers in the near future. Okay, that's one hundred percent. Maybe I am perfect.

The Afterbath

I told Brian today that I wanted to write a new post for my blog, but I couldn't think of anything to write about. Nothing incredibly exciting has happened lately, and I haven't made any life altering discoveries about myself, either. I've just been whining about Disneyland, and we've all had horrible colds this past week. I've decided to stop whining about Disneyland, and my cold has diminished from a constant, painful headache, to a simple stuffy nose.

So I needed something to write about, and Brian decided to be the inspiration for this post. "I need something to write about," I said, "and I can't think of a single thing." With that, Brian grabbed Alyssa and headed for the bathroom. I soon heard the bath water running and Alyssa talking excitedly about their "secret." Although I do enjoy taking hot baths, this wasn't great timing, because I wasn't allowed into the bathroom, and I really had to go. (Yes, I am aware that this is my second bathroom post.) With the low water pressure in the tub, it takes about twenty minutes to fill it up. Luckily, they let me in before it was too late, and Alyssa was really cute searching for the cd player. Brian put in "Classical Music for People Who Hate Classical," and though I don't hate classical music, I thoroughly enjoyed listening to the cd.

There you have it: husbands can be romantic and thoughtful when they know it will be posted on the internet. I have to admit, though, that Brian has been romantic and thoughtful more often than I give him credit for. He made crepes for lunch when he came home early from school on Friday. And they were really good crepes. He also watched the kids so I could take a nap when my cold was at it's peak. I took some Nyquil and was out for three hours! I woke up at 4:45 and thought, "I should be making dinner," and the next thing I knew, it was 6:30.

He really is sweet, and I'm glad I've got him.

Obsession

I think I have a serious disorder. I want to go to Disneyland. I want to go to Disneyland so bad that all common sense that I might possibly have just flies out the window whenever I even hear the word mentioned. I feel a sense of melancholy when I hear the tea party music from "Alice in Wonderland"or when the Redhead slaps Captain Jacks Sparrow in "Pirates of the Caribbean." I had a dream over Christmas break that Brian and I worked at Disneyland pulling the boats in the "swamp ride" (we were literally in the water, ropes over our shoulders, pulling row boats through alligator infested swamps), and I kept telling our bosses that I didn't want to pull the swamp ride, what I really wanted to be was Cinderella. When I got up the next morning I told Brian that he either needed to pay for years of counseling and group therapy to get rid of my Disneyland obsession, or he could just take me to Disneyland. He didn't buy it.

It's so bad that when I get on MSN Messenger and say to Brian, "When are you coming home today? I have something really important to talk with you about," his very first response, with no hesitation is, "Disneyland?" Actually, yesterday he asked a few things first, but then admitted that he knew it was Disneyland, but he was hoping to avoid the conversation. I call my mother two or three times a month and say, "This and this and this and this, so we might be able to go to Disneyland this year!" Then, call her the next day, and in a very sad voice say, "We're not going to Disneyland."

When will it all end? Will taking a trip to California solve my obsession? I don't really know. It sure would be fun ,though.

The organist in our ward died a couple of nights ago. He was probably in his forties, with six kids. He had tumors that were related to chromosomal problems that he had been fighting all his life. He was very musical. He frequently played special musical numbers on the piano that he arranged himself, and he was often "spicing up" the last verse of the hymns during sacrament meeting.

Brian and I found out pretty quickly, because the bishop called to have me plan some special hymns for sacrament meeting on Sunday. I was at the zoo when he called, so Brian told him that with the boundary changes last week, we aren't in the ward anymore, but we'll do whatever is needed.

It's at times like these, when you know someone who has died, that you start thinking, "I just saw him last week. I never would have guessed." But instead, I keep thinking of his wife. I passed her on Sunday at the meeting at the Stake center, and we said hi to each other and talked a bit about the changes. I keep thinking, "I just saw her a few days ago, and she looked so happy. Now she's lost her husband." I'm sure that since he's been fighting this since he was a child, that she's had time to at least partially prepare herself emotionally, but even then, it must be so hard.

I keep wondering how I would feel if I lost Brian. I would have Alyssa and Ethan with me, but life would be so empty without him. I loved him when we got married, but of course, I've grown to love him even more throughout the years. It's interesting that we're born into families, and that family has a comforting, permanent feeling. And then when we marry we start a new family and that, somehow becomes permanent also. Even though I've only known Brian for seven years, it feels as though he's always been there. I can't imagine life without him.

My Own Cheerleader

We all need a little encouragement sometimes. Last week Alyssa announced that she had to go potty just as we were leaving the grocery store. Instead of turning back to go inside to use the store's restrooms, I opted to hurry home. It's not a long drive, and Alyssa did just fine; I just spent the whole way home saying, "Just a few more minutes. You can do it. We're almost home."

Fast forward to yesterday. I've been trying to drink the recommended eight glasses of water a day, and for some reason, the more water I drink, the more I have to go. Yesterday we dropped Brian off at school, then headed to WinCo to pick up some things to make graham cracker houses for preschool. Halfway down the grocery list, I realized I had to go to the bathroom. By the time we were done, I really had to go, but I didn't want to bother with leaving the cart and taking two children into the bathroom with me, so once again I opted to hurry home.

I paid for the food, loaded it into bags, hurried Alyssa along (she claims that she doesn't dawdle), and stuffed the bags into the car. While I was rushing out of the store, I told Alyssa that I had to go potty really, really bad, and that's why we were in such a hurry. It didn't change a thing - "Okay, Mom," twirl "I'm coming," - but she did hear me.

On the way home we hit traffic. Traffic! In Cornelius, Oregon! And I found myself wishing I had just used the restroom at the store. "Oh dear," I moaned. Then I heard from the back seat, "You can do it, Mom. You just need to hold it a little longer."

"Yeah," I said. "I can do it. I'm tough."

"Yeah. Not like those other girls. You can do it." Physically, I didn't feel any better until I unloaded the groceries after running inside. But sitting there in the car, in absolute discomfort, I realized that I have a friend who believes in me and is there to support and encourage me when times are rough. And even though she's only four years old, I'm thankful for that friendship.

The Star of Christmas

When I was in the third grade, our whole class put on a Christmas play, and I was the star. Literally. The play was about the Star of Christmas, and I was it. My mom cut out two huge stars out of posterboard and sprayed them with glitter and put gold Christmas tree garland around the edges. I wore a white shirt and white sweatpants and the stars were hooked together and hung over my shoulders. The greatest part about being the Star was that I had solo parts. I think I even sang a whole song by myself, and I loved it. I loved performing. I loved singing and acting in front of other people.

My career was short-lived, however, and I never received any leading roles after that. I had a few solos and speaking parts through elementary school, but from then on I didn't receive any solo I tried out for in choir, and I was only an extra in our high school production of "Fame." There was one day during rehearsals that one of the main characters was gone, and I filled in for her. I read her lines, and I sang her song, and once again I felt happy and energized, and I wondered, "Why doesn't anyone notice that I really enjoy this?" I can't say that I was better than the other girl, but I can say that I wasn't half bad. When I was performing, I sang well. I was confident. But when I tried out for anything, whether it was a solo for choir or a part in a play, I was nervous and shaky, no matter how hard I tried to control my voice. Which is a very good reason why I was always an extra, or just an alto, not a soloist.

Every night at our house we have singing time, which I originally started to help Alyssa learn the Primary songs. We have a Singing Can, made out of a large tin can from LDS Canning and a cool whip jar, that we draw songs out of. I started painting it blue, but never finished. This month we're leaving the Singing Can on the shelf and I'm teaching Christmas Carols to Alyssa and Ethan. As I sat in front of our Christmas tree singing "Silent Night," I realized that I was performing for my children, and there was no one else I would want to perform this concert for.

I continued with "Angels We Have Heard on High," and Alyssa joined in on the chorus. I went down the list: "Jingle Bells," "The First Noel," "O Come All Ye Faithful." Before I put the kids to bed, I pulled Alyssa onto my lap, and Ethan held onto my leg, bouncing up and down beside me. I sang "Away in A Manger" with all my heart, as pretty as I could. It didn't matter that I was on our living room floor instead of on a stage, or that the only people who could hear me was my children. I was a star once again; I had a solo concert of Christmas hymns. But the best part about it is that once Alyssa learns these songs, and Ethan soon after, we'll have a whole choir singing around the Christmas tree each night, and there won't need to be any "star" of Christmas.

I am feeling like quite the "domestic" lately. I made my first blackberry pie last Friday, which turned out both beautiful and delicious. It was made with blackberries that Alyssa and I picked in September and the pie crust recipe was given to me by my grandmother. After reading all the Harker girls' blogs, I was inspired to make butterhorn rolls for dinner on Sunday. I was in a hurry to get them done, because we were expecting company for dinner, so the first batch didn't have enough time to rise, but the second and third batches were just heavenly.

I finished our Christmas cards, and they're just sitting in my purse, waiting for me to take them to the post office on my way to Enrichment, for which I prepared four fleece blankets for tying that we'll take to the senior citizen's center tonight.

I babysat my pregnant friend's two boys today. They played in the back yard with Alyssa for a while, but we spent most of the time baking and decorating Christmas sugar cookies. I fed them a healthy lunch that had food from every food group, although Porter didn't eat his apples.

I pulled myself out of bed this morning, for the second day in a row, to go to the gym. I pulled myself out of bed, even though my legs are still burning from all the lunges I did yesterday morning. I've drank 7 out of my 8 glasses of water, and I've restrained myself from eating all of the sugar cookies that I didn't send home with the Lofgran's.

And the accomplishment that I'm most proud of today (the blackberry pie and butterhorn rolls are gone, so I can't enjoy them right now) is the fact that I made it to Blockbuster in time so we can finally see "Pirates of the Caribbean, Dead Man's Chest."

So if you gloss over the facts the there's still sprinkles all over the dining room floor, or that there's still unpacked suitcases in our bedrooms left over from Thanksgiving, or that the kids and I ate chicken divan from Saturday's dinner because Brian's still on campus studying, I'm doing pretty well. I'm having one of those weeks that I enjoy being a wife and mother. I enjoy having a clean house, and I enjoy doing those little extra things that make life special.

It hit me a while ago that Alyssa's getting older, and it's time that we start making our memories really count. I remember being four. I remember the house we lived in while we were still in Utah. I remember watching the Monkees and arguing with Gretchen. What really sticks out in my mind is the time she was being her meanest and I told her to get off my property. She said she wasn't on my property; she was on the side walk, and that was owned by the city. I can still feel the embarrassment caused by my ignorance, even though I was only four years old.

I know that Alyssa's going to remember the "little house in Forest Grove" for the rest of her life. I want her to have good memories of this place, and I want to start making good traditions to build our lives around. I don't know if you'd count "not finishing laundry" as a tradition, but hopefully she'll remember that I bought special pink frosting just for her sugar cookies, and that we sing Christmas carols by the tree every evening before bedtime, and that her mother let her help make the pie crust to the most beautiful blackberry pie that was ever baked.