Went on a book rampage the other day. Haven't had anything to read in ages and really needed to fill up the fiction tank. Got seven books from the library, and am planning on purchasing the new Jodi Picoult because she's coming here to sign it next week and I want to bring it in. So I thought I'd share some of the titles I'd strongly suggest you check out:
Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.
Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.
Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."
I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.
So what are you reading these days?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Go kids, go...
Lisa Samson wrote a great blog on the youth of today. (Sounds stodgy but it's not, trust me; go read it.) She made a great point about how parents today limit their children's freedom so much. Once upon a time, summer meant taking off after breakfast and showing up somewhere around four-thirty in the afternoon, having filled the day with bike rides all over town, hours at the park, quick lunch at a friend's house, and who knows what else. Nowadays parents keep such close surveillance on their kids that they don't get to taste those same freedoms that we did.
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
Monday, March 28, 2005
The Mother Ship is calling me home....
Oh. Oh. Oh. It's too wonderful to be true: is there really an entire restaurant dedicated to cereal? Behold Cereality. Wisely setting their first location on a college campus (how fondly I remember those evenings when I'd walk into the dorm cafeteria and discover it was yet again another Lucky Charms night), this is a venture that is virtually guaranteed to succeed. How I envy those lucky U of Arizona and Pennsylvania students (and soon some yet-unrevealed student group in Chicago) who have stores near their campuses. Come here, Cereality! Please! We have a really big junior college just up the street--well, fifteen minutes up the street, but still! Perhaps I'm barking up the wrong tree with the book thing. Maybe opening my own Cereality franchise is my true calling. My passion for cereal is unmatched, my dedication to perfecting the cereal-milk ratio bordering on obsession--who else would be better suited? Time to rework my resume....
Thursday, March 24, 2005
How cool is my husband?
This is love:
We pulled into the driveway last night, and when I got out I stepped on a snail. This is something I've managed to avoid doing since I moved here nearly 5 years ago, and the very thought of it as always grossed me out to the point of nausea. We didn't have snails in Illinois, but here, especially when it rains, they're everywhere. So I got all grossed out and whiny, and I was still fending off the involuntary shudders while cleaning the kitchen ten minutes later when Dan went outside for a minute. When he came back in I asked where he'd gone, and he said he moved the car. Puzzled, I asked why, and he said, "So you don't have to see the snail next time you go out."
How sweet is that? Those of you who are still searching for the love of your life, let me tell you, it's these little gestures that count. Anyone can plan big romantic dinners or elaborate dates, but when someone picks up on the little things you say and do, and then spontaneously does something about them to try to make you happy, you know you've found someone who's real quality. Dan is the King of Little Gestures That Speak Volumes. I'm so lucky.
We pulled into the driveway last night, and when I got out I stepped on a snail. This is something I've managed to avoid doing since I moved here nearly 5 years ago, and the very thought of it as always grossed me out to the point of nausea. We didn't have snails in Illinois, but here, especially when it rains, they're everywhere. So I got all grossed out and whiny, and I was still fending off the involuntary shudders while cleaning the kitchen ten minutes later when Dan went outside for a minute. When he came back in I asked where he'd gone, and he said he moved the car. Puzzled, I asked why, and he said, "So you don't have to see the snail next time you go out."
How sweet is that? Those of you who are still searching for the love of your life, let me tell you, it's these little gestures that count. Anyone can plan big romantic dinners or elaborate dates, but when someone picks up on the little things you say and do, and then spontaneously does something about them to try to make you happy, you know you've found someone who's real quality. Dan is the King of Little Gestures That Speak Volumes. I'm so lucky.
Deprogramming
We saw The Lion King last night. Strictly speaking, it was not the best show I've ever seen, but I have to say, the costumes were unlike anything I ever could have imagined. The audience burst into spontaneous applause when the animals were all coming in for the opening number, "Circle of Life." I would give anything to be able to go back in time and be in on the costume design meetings that yielded these ideas.
So, I'm getting ready to go to the show, and I'm putting on my makeup. I've never been super-excited about doing my makeup, but with this side business of selling jewelry, I have to remember that I'm selling an image, not just a product, and I have to dress accordingly. But I'll be honest and admit that there's a part of me that feels like I really need to wear it, so I do.
Later, Dan looks at me with this forlorn face and says, "Ali, you're so beautiful, you don't need all that stuff! Why do you do that to yourself?" And the weird thing (and one of the thousands of reasons why I ADORE my husband) is that he's being completely serious. He's not just trying to butter me up or something. He hates it when I wear makeup. He really and truly thinks I look better without it.
It makes me wonder why I don't see what he sees when I look at myself. Why do I not see the smile that lights up a room and the eyes with the depth of oceans? Why does my gaze instantly go to the light freckles above my lip that I swear make me look like I have a mustache and the pores you could sail ships in? And why, even when I'm having one of my extremely rare good skin days, do I still think I really should put on some foundation?
One of my teacher friends is not, in her words, a "girlie girl." She doesn't like dresses and skirts and flowery things and pink and makeup. She especially loathes makeup, and can only think of three times she's ever worn it. She told me once that she doesn't want to wear makeup when she teaches because she wants her girl students to see that a woman can be perfectly comfortable in her own skin without having to doll it up. Given where we live, in the liposuction and plastic surgery capital of the world, this is a lesson that these girls desperately need to be taught. And I remember being so impressed that she could do that. And she's not one some Noxema model with skin that looks airbrushed even in person. She's a normal woman with normal skin that has a mind of its own sometimes, and she's okay with that. And I find myself very jealous of her confidence.
So I started trying to figure out who it is I'm putting the makeup on for in the first place. I used to do it to get guys' attention, but obviously there's no need for that, and frankly it didn't help me get the guy I've got because he hates it all anyway. Then I thought of that line from the song, "Wild Night:" "All the girls are dressed up for each other..." And I realized that I don't care what the guys think I look like. It's the women's opinion I'm worried about. What the heck!?!?!? And I thought back to when I first started wearing makeup in high school, and how I was always more concerned with how the popular girls might perceive me than the guys of any social rank. And even though the girl is outta high school by a decade, apparently the high school is not out of the girl, because I still find myself intimidated by beautiful women and worried about what they'll think of my clothes, my hair, my skin. They could be 19 years old and more shallow than a puddle in the desert and I'd still think, "She's totally mocking my skirt in her head, I can see it." WHY ON EARTH DO I CARE?!
So I'm thinking I've been brainwashed by society, by makeup commercials, by the guy in high school who once pointed to a billboard with some Baywatch girl on it and said, "Now, if only you looked like her...,"by the clothes in Express and Limited that are supposedly my size but wouldn't fit me unless I lost three inches off my hips. And I'd really love to say I'm throwing my makeup out today and thumbing my nose at the supposed standard of beauty our culture promotes. But I'm not there yet. But I'd love to know that there are some others like me out there who would love to deprogram along with me and learn to see the beauties that we are underneath all the base and cover-up and mascara.
Anybody?
So, I'm getting ready to go to the show, and I'm putting on my makeup. I've never been super-excited about doing my makeup, but with this side business of selling jewelry, I have to remember that I'm selling an image, not just a product, and I have to dress accordingly. But I'll be honest and admit that there's a part of me that feels like I really need to wear it, so I do.
Later, Dan looks at me with this forlorn face and says, "Ali, you're so beautiful, you don't need all that stuff! Why do you do that to yourself?" And the weird thing (and one of the thousands of reasons why I ADORE my husband) is that he's being completely serious. He's not just trying to butter me up or something. He hates it when I wear makeup. He really and truly thinks I look better without it.
It makes me wonder why I don't see what he sees when I look at myself. Why do I not see the smile that lights up a room and the eyes with the depth of oceans? Why does my gaze instantly go to the light freckles above my lip that I swear make me look like I have a mustache and the pores you could sail ships in? And why, even when I'm having one of my extremely rare good skin days, do I still think I really should put on some foundation?
One of my teacher friends is not, in her words, a "girlie girl." She doesn't like dresses and skirts and flowery things and pink and makeup. She especially loathes makeup, and can only think of three times she's ever worn it. She told me once that she doesn't want to wear makeup when she teaches because she wants her girl students to see that a woman can be perfectly comfortable in her own skin without having to doll it up. Given where we live, in the liposuction and plastic surgery capital of the world, this is a lesson that these girls desperately need to be taught. And I remember being so impressed that she could do that. And she's not one some Noxema model with skin that looks airbrushed even in person. She's a normal woman with normal skin that has a mind of its own sometimes, and she's okay with that. And I find myself very jealous of her confidence.
So I started trying to figure out who it is I'm putting the makeup on for in the first place. I used to do it to get guys' attention, but obviously there's no need for that, and frankly it didn't help me get the guy I've got because he hates it all anyway. Then I thought of that line from the song, "Wild Night:" "All the girls are dressed up for each other..." And I realized that I don't care what the guys think I look like. It's the women's opinion I'm worried about. What the heck!?!?!? And I thought back to when I first started wearing makeup in high school, and how I was always more concerned with how the popular girls might perceive me than the guys of any social rank. And even though the girl is outta high school by a decade, apparently the high school is not out of the girl, because I still find myself intimidated by beautiful women and worried about what they'll think of my clothes, my hair, my skin. They could be 19 years old and more shallow than a puddle in the desert and I'd still think, "She's totally mocking my skirt in her head, I can see it." WHY ON EARTH DO I CARE?!
So I'm thinking I've been brainwashed by society, by makeup commercials, by the guy in high school who once pointed to a billboard with some Baywatch girl on it and said, "Now, if only you looked like her...,"by the clothes in Express and Limited that are supposedly my size but wouldn't fit me unless I lost three inches off my hips. And I'd really love to say I'm throwing my makeup out today and thumbing my nose at the supposed standard of beauty our culture promotes. But I'm not there yet. But I'd love to know that there are some others like me out there who would love to deprogram along with me and learn to see the beauties that we are underneath all the base and cover-up and mascara.
Anybody?
Monday, March 21, 2005
Mais, je ne parle pas francais!
Okay, so now it's 4 o'clock in the morning--4:38 by my alarm clock--and I'm still not sleeping. But as I was lying there I remembered a dream I had earlier tonight, and I figured if I didn't get up and blog it now I'd never remember it in the morning.
In my dream I was on the run, trying to hide from someone or something, and to throw people off my track I started speaking French to everyone. And I really was speaking French. There was one scene where I was in a deli ordering a sandwich, and I did the whole thing in French, and I remember actually translating from English to French in my head before speaking. (and when people asked me to speak in English, I did it with this really bad accent. In my head I was actually thinking at the time, "That's a really bad accent. I'm totally going to get found out."
Now, I took two years of high school French, and in real life I can probably create about fifteen sentences, but that's it. But is it possible that all the French I knew at one time but now can't recall is locked in my head somewhere, and I actually accessed it in my dream?? Darnit, why can't I do that when I'm awake?!
I remember reading an article a long time ago about a girl who was in some sort of accident, I think, or at least in a coma from something or other, and when she woke up she spoke Korean fluently. Her grandmother was Korean, and she'd grown up hearing the language spoken by family, but never really learned it herself. And then suddenly she could. Can you imagine? Can you imagine waking up one day and knowing something you'd never known before? Being able to speak a different language, or paint like Monet, or sing like an angel, or pitch like Randy Johnson? And then realizing that the ability to do this new thing has always been there, and you just couldn't get to it? It makes me wonder what else is stuck up there in my noggin, just waiting to be tapped into.
Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir...
In my dream I was on the run, trying to hide from someone or something, and to throw people off my track I started speaking French to everyone. And I really was speaking French. There was one scene where I was in a deli ordering a sandwich, and I did the whole thing in French, and I remember actually translating from English to French in my head before speaking. (and when people asked me to speak in English, I did it with this really bad accent. In my head I was actually thinking at the time, "That's a really bad accent. I'm totally going to get found out."
Now, I took two years of high school French, and in real life I can probably create about fifteen sentences, but that's it. But is it possible that all the French I knew at one time but now can't recall is locked in my head somewhere, and I actually accessed it in my dream?? Darnit, why can't I do that when I'm awake?!
I remember reading an article a long time ago about a girl who was in some sort of accident, I think, or at least in a coma from something or other, and when she woke up she spoke Korean fluently. Her grandmother was Korean, and she'd grown up hearing the language spoken by family, but never really learned it herself. And then suddenly she could. Can you imagine? Can you imagine waking up one day and knowing something you'd never known before? Being able to speak a different language, or paint like Monet, or sing like an angel, or pitch like Randy Johnson? And then realizing that the ability to do this new thing has always been there, and you just couldn't get to it? It makes me wonder what else is stuck up there in my noggin, just waiting to be tapped into.
Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir...
It's 3 o'clock in the morning...
...and sadly y'all don't know that song--unless you attended Axis in 1999 and 2000, anyway. "It'3 3 o'clock in the morning/another day as flown away/add it to the pile of yesterdays/with a hundred thousand more yesterdays to come/and when it's 3 o'clock in the morning/and I just wanna go to sleep/but I can't go to sleep/'cause when I'm alone in my room, this aching resumes..." SUCH a great song. Get that thing published, Doug. Sell it to someone because, honestly, the world needs to hear it.
So, it IS 3 o'clock in the morning--3:24, actually, according to my Mac, although it tends to run a bit fast so probably more like 3:18 or something--and it hasn't been the best of nights. Could have been much worse, though, so I'm grateful that I slept as much as I did. I took a three hour nap after church (VERY unlike me, I don't have a body that does the nap thing well) and had slept nine and a half hours the night before, but my miscarriage decided to choose bedtime to really kick in, so I had I've only slept on and off since about 10. But now it seems to be over. All done. Not pregnant anymore.
Weird.
So, it IS 3 o'clock in the morning--3:24, actually, according to my Mac, although it tends to run a bit fast so probably more like 3:18 or something--and it hasn't been the best of nights. Could have been much worse, though, so I'm grateful that I slept as much as I did. I took a three hour nap after church (VERY unlike me, I don't have a body that does the nap thing well) and had slept nine and a half hours the night before, but my miscarriage decided to choose bedtime to really kick in, so I had I've only slept on and off since about 10. But now it seems to be over. All done. Not pregnant anymore.
Weird.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Thanks to my Unofficial Fan Club!!
I am sooo kicking myself. I had this awesome book launch party yesterday, it was SO much fun, TONS of people came (well, 25, but for me that's tons) and did I take a single photograph? Noooooo. Did I remember my camera? Yes. Did I even comment to people at one point, "Oh my gosh! I need to get my camera out and get some pictures!" Yes. Did I actually do this? No. Blast. I'm so into the whole scrapbooking thing now, but I'm making it really hard on myself but not getting pictures!
The party, though, really was great. I'm not the best party-thrower. I never estimate correctly the amount of food, I'm not good at mingling and end up spending too much time with one group and not enough with another, and I think I lack that hostess gene that makes people think, "Oh good! Alison's throwing a party! We simply must attend!" But for once, I think I pulled it off okay. (It was really funny, though: at one point I realized everyone had totally segregated into "church friends" and "work friends" and "old church friends" and that my worlds were definitely NOT colliding. In fact, they were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other.)
If nothing else, this past week of pain and joy has shown me that I have a lot of people in my life that support me. I've no doubt that the line will be practically out the door when I do my book signing in April, because everyone wants to make an impression on the bookstore patrons, as well as make sure I am not sitting there alone like an idiot. And I can't even begin to count the emails and cards I've gotten from people showing sympathy for our miscarriage. I'm so blessed. Thanks everyone. :)
The party, though, really was great. I'm not the best party-thrower. I never estimate correctly the amount of food, I'm not good at mingling and end up spending too much time with one group and not enough with another, and I think I lack that hostess gene that makes people think, "Oh good! Alison's throwing a party! We simply must attend!" But for once, I think I pulled it off okay. (It was really funny, though: at one point I realized everyone had totally segregated into "church friends" and "work friends" and "old church friends" and that my worlds were definitely NOT colliding. In fact, they were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other.)
If nothing else, this past week of pain and joy has shown me that I have a lot of people in my life that support me. I've no doubt that the line will be practically out the door when I do my book signing in April, because everyone wants to make an impression on the bookstore patrons, as well as make sure I am not sitting there alone like an idiot. And I can't even begin to count the emails and cards I've gotten from people showing sympathy for our miscarriage. I'm so blessed. Thanks everyone. :)
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Clubs We Don't Want to Belong To
There are certain experiences which tie us together with random people all over the world, creating fragile camaraderies and initiating us into unofficial clubs. For example, I belong to the Broken Bone Club (membership first received with a broken wrist in 1979, renewed in 1986 with another broken wrist and again in 1989 with a broken thumb), the Pastor's Kid Club (initiated 1989 when Dad joined Willow Creek) and the International Traveler Club (joined 1994 with a trip to London; renewed 1996 and also gained membership into the sub-club of Those Who Have Lived in Another Country). Three Saturdays ago--although, with all that's happened these last few weeks, it seems so much longer than that--I joined a club I've always wanted to join: the Pregnant Women Club. But on Thursday my membership was revoked, and I was initiated into a club I'd rather have not joined: The Thwarted Pregnancy Club.
My particular pregnancy turned out to be hardly a pregnancy at all: all the support systems were in place, but no baby ever formed. The technical term is a Blighted Ovum, and the typical cause is abnormal chromosomes. Thankfully, this does not indicate an ongoing issue; it is apparently a very common occurrence, and according to my wonderful doctor, there's no reason why we should have any trouble getting pregnant again.
Technically I was not-really-pregnant for just over 5 weeks, and I only knew about it all for two of them, but let me tell you, it doesn't take long to get very, very excited at the possibility of having a baby. (At least, not when you've been wanting one for as long as you can remember.) So, as you might imagine, I've been a mess for a week now as blood test after blood test showed levels too low and issues aplenty. But God is so, so good. He's been telling me from the beginning that this wasn't going to work, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd only listened, but it did prepare me for Thursday's meeting with the doctor and hearing the news. And even though I sobbed--and I mean, really sobbed--when I got home, I really was okay. As the old song says, "It is well with my soul." I expected to be a lot more shaken up than I am. God has soothed my emotions and given me hope that I will be back in the Pregnant Women's Club again someday.
My particular pregnancy turned out to be hardly a pregnancy at all: all the support systems were in place, but no baby ever formed. The technical term is a Blighted Ovum, and the typical cause is abnormal chromosomes. Thankfully, this does not indicate an ongoing issue; it is apparently a very common occurrence, and according to my wonderful doctor, there's no reason why we should have any trouble getting pregnant again.
Technically I was not-really-pregnant for just over 5 weeks, and I only knew about it all for two of them, but let me tell you, it doesn't take long to get very, very excited at the possibility of having a baby. (At least, not when you've been wanting one for as long as you can remember.) So, as you might imagine, I've been a mess for a week now as blood test after blood test showed levels too low and issues aplenty. But God is so, so good. He's been telling me from the beginning that this wasn't going to work, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd only listened, but it did prepare me for Thursday's meeting with the doctor and hearing the news. And even though I sobbed--and I mean, really sobbed--when I got home, I really was okay. As the old song says, "It is well with my soul." I expected to be a lot more shaken up than I am. God has soothed my emotions and given me hope that I will be back in the Pregnant Women's Club again someday.
Friday, March 11, 2005
So now what?
I've been trying to find just the right post topic to use as the next post after Laurie's death. As you can see by the date, it's taken me awhile, and to be honest I'm not entirely sure I found the right one. But I gotta keep writing on this thing, so I figure I might as well just jump back in.
The day we found out what happened to Laurie, we also found out what happened to me: we found out I am pregnant. We'd been in limbo for about a week, getting negative test after negative test, and not knowing why since all other indicators pointed to a pregnancy. Friday I was a mess: I was stressed about not knowing what had happened to Laurie, and I was stressed about not knowing what was going on with me. Finally, that night, I sort of opened my hands to God and said, "You know what's going on everywhere; I don't have to worry about this. Good or bad, what I want or not, both these things are in your hands. Do with them what you will."
The next day I got my first positive, and a few hours later we learned Laurie's fate. It was, honestly, a little creepy to have both happen the same day, and my emotions didn't know which way to go. It didn't get any better as the week went on: some things I won't go into here started happening on Tuesday that I knew weren't supposed to, and until today I've been in limbo yet again waiting to find out if everything was okay. Praise God, all is well (except for a hormone deficiency for which I get to take supplements and give up blood every week to test), and for the first time I think it's starting to sink in that I am going to be a mom. Wow.
It's funny how much easier it is to do things you hate when you know a little life literally depends on it. I hate water. Hate it. Never understood people who walked around with a water bottle all day. But now I'm sucking down the stuff like it's candy because I know the baby needs it. Hate exercise, although not as much as water, and yet I've had no problem getting up every morning at 7 to go walking, because I know the baby needs for my body to be healthy so its body can be healthy. Hate vegetables even more than exercising, and possibly even more than water, and yet I bought a ton of them at Whole Foods the other day because I know the baby needs me to eat them. Been in a total writing slump because my current ms is driving my batty, but now I'm motivated to finish it--as well as the third book--ahead of schedule so that, when the baby arrives this November, I won't have writing hanging over my head and can instead just enjoy getting to know my child.
My Child.
Good Lord, am I ready for this?
The day we found out what happened to Laurie, we also found out what happened to me: we found out I am pregnant. We'd been in limbo for about a week, getting negative test after negative test, and not knowing why since all other indicators pointed to a pregnancy. Friday I was a mess: I was stressed about not knowing what had happened to Laurie, and I was stressed about not knowing what was going on with me. Finally, that night, I sort of opened my hands to God and said, "You know what's going on everywhere; I don't have to worry about this. Good or bad, what I want or not, both these things are in your hands. Do with them what you will."
The next day I got my first positive, and a few hours later we learned Laurie's fate. It was, honestly, a little creepy to have both happen the same day, and my emotions didn't know which way to go. It didn't get any better as the week went on: some things I won't go into here started happening on Tuesday that I knew weren't supposed to, and until today I've been in limbo yet again waiting to find out if everything was okay. Praise God, all is well (except for a hormone deficiency for which I get to take supplements and give up blood every week to test), and for the first time I think it's starting to sink in that I am going to be a mom. Wow.
It's funny how much easier it is to do things you hate when you know a little life literally depends on it. I hate water. Hate it. Never understood people who walked around with a water bottle all day. But now I'm sucking down the stuff like it's candy because I know the baby needs it. Hate exercise, although not as much as water, and yet I've had no problem getting up every morning at 7 to go walking, because I know the baby needs for my body to be healthy so its body can be healthy. Hate vegetables even more than exercising, and possibly even more than water, and yet I bought a ton of them at Whole Foods the other day because I know the baby needs me to eat them. Been in a total writing slump because my current ms is driving my batty, but now I'm motivated to finish it--as well as the third book--ahead of schedule so that, when the baby arrives this November, I won't have writing hanging over my head and can instead just enjoy getting to know my child.
My Child.
Good Lord, am I ready for this?
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Trouble me
Ever hear that song by 10,000 Maniacs?
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries. Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.
Speak to me, don't mislead me, the calm I feel means a storm is swelling; there's no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes while I'm learning.
Please don't hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a "There, there, now stop your turning and tossing."
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.
Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
I thought of this song when I found out Laurie had drown herself in Lake Michigan. A suicide letter was found in her car yesterday. I've had my brushes with suicide--not with myself, but with friends--and the one thing I've learned is that there's no way a non-suicidal person can understand what's going through a person's mind when they've gotten that deep in their despair. But even if you don't "get it," that doesn't mean you can't still help. No one knew Laurie was suicidal, no one knew she was depressed. If only she had opened up to someone, she might still be here.
To all my friends: trouble me. I'm begging you. Don't ever, ever, ever think your pain is of no interest to me. And don't wait until you're considering letting go of the knot at the end of your rope.
Laurie, you are so missed. I'm just relieved to know you're in the arms of Jesus now, and that every pain that drove you to this unfathomable depth is gone.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries. Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.
Speak to me, don't mislead me, the calm I feel means a storm is swelling; there's no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes while I'm learning.
Please don't hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a "There, there, now stop your turning and tossing."
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.
Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
I thought of this song when I found out Laurie had drown herself in Lake Michigan. A suicide letter was found in her car yesterday. I've had my brushes with suicide--not with myself, but with friends--and the one thing I've learned is that there's no way a non-suicidal person can understand what's going through a person's mind when they've gotten that deep in their despair. But even if you don't "get it," that doesn't mean you can't still help. No one knew Laurie was suicidal, no one knew she was depressed. If only she had opened up to someone, she might still be here.
To all my friends: trouble me. I'm begging you. Don't ever, ever, ever think your pain is of no interest to me. And don't wait until you're considering letting go of the knot at the end of your rope.
Laurie, you are so missed. I'm just relieved to know you're in the arms of Jesus now, and that every pain that drove you to this unfathomable depth is gone.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Where are you, Laurie?
Just received an email this morning from a friend of mine detailing the disappearance of the younger sister of a friend of ours. Laurie Boncimino was last seen leaving her job at a Chicago suburb Starbucks on Tuesday night. She's an honor student in college, recently engaged, and a strong Christian who loves the Lord and recently went to Mexico on a missions trip. She's a dear, sweet girl who is close to her family and well-liked. My heart is absolutely breaking.
If you live in Chicago or the suburbs and would like a copy of her missing person report, which describes her car, what she was last wearing, and has a recent photo, please feel free to email me and I'll send it to you. Regardless, please, please pray for Laurie's safety and return.
If you live in Chicago or the suburbs and would like a copy of her missing person report, which describes her car, what she was last wearing, and has a recent photo, please feel free to email me and I'll send it to you. Regardless, please, please pray for Laurie's safety and return.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Mmmmm....meat.
If you knew me as a kid, you know I love ice cream and any combination of peanut butter and chocolate. If you knew me in high school, you know I used to have a bagel and cream cheese and chocolate soft serve with Reeces Pieces on top for almost every lunch. If you knew me the last six years or so you know I live on cereal (Cheerios and Lucky Charms, especially). If you've known me for any length of time, you'd be surprised to find out I'm turning into a health food nut. And if you don't know me, then trust me, this is weird.
My mom turned me on to mercola.com. Dr. Mercola has a clinic outside Chicago where people go when doctors have either given up on them because they can't figure out what's wrong with them, or where people go when they're not pleased with the treatment their doctors insist is their only choice. He's done a ton of research into the foods we eat and how we are affected by them, and he has found that your metabolism runs best on certain kinds of foods. he says everyone falls into one of three metabolic groups: protein group, carb group, or mixed group.
Now, of course, I have lived my life as a carb girl. Bread was my best friend, cereal my soulmate, and sugar in any form my dearest love. And guess what! I'm a protein type! No wonder I've been hungry for the last ten years; my metabolism has had hardly any fuel.
His research is fascinating. I strong urge you to go check out his site and sign up for his newsletter. It comes twice a week and has all sorts of great stuff in it. And if you like milk, you should definitely type "milk" into his info search engine and read some of the articles that come up. Talk about insightful!
Now, what's really ironic is that my THREE boxes of tagalong Girl Scout Cookies were just delivered and, despite the fat that I just told you I'm a protein type who shouldn't be eating sugar or carbs, I'm totally pigging out. Dr. Mercola talks about how carbs in most forms (candy, potatoes, pastas, cereals) are addictive, and I am living proof. Does it matter that I lost ten pounds just by cutting out sugar and grains? Nooo, I go right back to sugar's sweet embrace the minute I am tempted. It's a process, lemme tell ya.
My mom turned me on to mercola.com. Dr. Mercola has a clinic outside Chicago where people go when doctors have either given up on them because they can't figure out what's wrong with them, or where people go when they're not pleased with the treatment their doctors insist is their only choice. He's done a ton of research into the foods we eat and how we are affected by them, and he has found that your metabolism runs best on certain kinds of foods. he says everyone falls into one of three metabolic groups: protein group, carb group, or mixed group.
Now, of course, I have lived my life as a carb girl. Bread was my best friend, cereal my soulmate, and sugar in any form my dearest love. And guess what! I'm a protein type! No wonder I've been hungry for the last ten years; my metabolism has had hardly any fuel.
His research is fascinating. I strong urge you to go check out his site and sign up for his newsletter. It comes twice a week and has all sorts of great stuff in it. And if you like milk, you should definitely type "milk" into his info search engine and read some of the articles that come up. Talk about insightful!
Now, what's really ironic is that my THREE boxes of tagalong Girl Scout Cookies were just delivered and, despite the fat that I just told you I'm a protein type who shouldn't be eating sugar or carbs, I'm totally pigging out. Dr. Mercola talks about how carbs in most forms (candy, potatoes, pastas, cereals) are addictive, and I am living proof. Does it matter that I lost ten pounds just by cutting out sugar and grains? Nooo, I go right back to sugar's sweet embrace the minute I am tempted. It's a process, lemme tell ya.
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