Oh, and by the way...

At a friend's suggestion, I've revamped my old blog into a gathering place for the random recipes I come across/come up with that are favorites in our house. I'll try to remember to post here when I add any new recipes, but please feel free to check it out whenever you feel like it by going here. Enjoy!

Grown Up

At least once or twice a year since I turned 18, I have found myself sighing with relief and saying to myself, "I'm all grown up. Phew! Thank heavens that's over." And you would think that with a husband, a home, two children, and one on the way, I'd actually have meant it the last time I said it.

So. Not. True.

I still remember the first time I realized I was "grown up." I was taking the garbage out to the dumpster in my apartment complex during my first semester at college. As I trotted along it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't have to go back to my apartment if I didn't want to. I could go out for ice cream and no one would A. Question me or B. Know the difference. Oh, I was such an adult! Then, within days, I was back on the phone with my parents, in tears, wishing Mommy would come out and hold my hand. 

I still do wish that on occasion (Hi mom!). 

Every time I think I'm "all grown up," something else happens to make me feel like a little kiddie all over again. Today, when I had to turn one of our two dogs over to the animal shelter (long story) I felt about five years old. I just didn't want to do it. It was scary. It was unpleasant. I wanted to make someone else (namely DB) do it for me. I get the same way about other things, like calling people I don't know or answering my voice mail or driving a long way alone. Why? I don't really know, except that those parts of me are just still working on that whole grown up thing. 

What this has reminded me of, however, is that in the eternal perspective of things I still am nothing more than a child. Heavenly Father is so much wiser and more mature than I am, it's almost laughable to try and call myself an adult. My body might be, but my spirit--my heart--still has a lot to learn. It's a little disheartening at first pale to think I know so little after trying so hard. On the other hand, it's absolutely wonderful to know that God will always be there to hold my hand. No matter how "old" I get in this life, He will always be the grown up I can turn to. 

Thank Heavens.

RAWR!!!

The title sums it up. When I'm pregnant, I can be a beast. Not that I can't be a beast on other occasions; I just tend to be particularly good at it when I'm being invaded by an extremely small person.

I do like to think that with each pregnancy I've gotten a little better. A little less prone to sudden bouts of irritation, tears, menace, Godzilla-like destruction, etc, and a little more able reduce the ravings I'd like to shout out to a mere, "Oh. That's annoying."

A little.

All of this, of course, goes out the window if I don't feel well.  Like today when I have an honest-to-goodness virus infesting my ever-increasing body (I can only imagine how inviting it must look to the little parasites, really), about all of my conversations with DB have gone like this:

Me: I love you!  You're wonderful!

DB: *Happily* Thanks. But I really need to tell you X, Y, and Z.

Me:  WHAT?

DB: *Warily* I know it's not what you wanted, but--

Me:  RAWR!!!  END of conversation!

Poor DB. The kids haven't gotten off easily either. While I have been completely unfazed by major spills, toys everywhere, and half-eaten meals, the lack of sharing was a major button today.  Probably directly related to the fact that StrawBee had a full-blown meltdown every time there was a sharing-related problem. And hooboy, are her meltdowns a vision to behold. Still, I'm bigger than them, and thus have a proportionally larger ability to be both rational and even-tempered.

Right.

But DB generally does get the brunt of my bad behavior. I think I must believe, deep down inside, that he can handle it better than the kids (who might be scarred for life) or any of my other general acquaintance (who might run away and never come back).  It's really amazing to me how he can just let my occasional outbursts roll off his back. Sometimes I think he's learned to find the whole thing secretly amusing. You know, as a matter of survival. And there is something funny about the whole performance. Oh, yes, because I left off the end of the earlier conversation. See, they start out like the above, then five to ten minutes later pick up again with this:

Me: *Tearful* DB, I am so sorry. I don't know what got into me.

DB: That's okay, honey.

Me: No, really!  I mean it!  I'm such a stinker!

DB: It's okay. You had a long day and you don't feel well.

Me: That's not a good excuse. I'll make it up to you, ok?

DB: If you think you need to, dear, but it's really okay.

Me: No, no. It's not!  Um... dinner? Dessert? Back rub? Time to yourself? Board game?

...This goes on until I've pestered him into letting me "make it better."

Although, come to think of it, the guy has a pretty good racket going. Yeah, let her blow up for a few minutes... wait a few minutes more... play the patient hubby, then get whatever the heck I want!  And the more hesitant he is to take up my overtures of niceness, the bigger the reward I offer. Up to and including a guy's night out with me preparing mounds of food and spiriting the children away to give him alone time.

Not that he doesn't deserve it.

But still.

I think DB and I might need to have a little chat. Rawr.

A Pregnant Pause

Now that I'm working on my third baby, I think I finally understand this phrase. "A pregnant pause"; I always thought it just meant the pause was, shall we say, rather large. I no longer believe this is the case. Rather, it seems that it's called a pregnant pause because everything comes grinding to a complete, abrupt halt.
That's what has happened in my life for the last four-and-a-half months. House cleaning has fallen by the wayside, writing simply hasn't happened, and exercising? Well, don't mention it within a couple yards of me unless you brought my puke bowl with you! It seems that despite the myriad promises I have made to myself, those months have fallen into the black hole of the past with very little to show for it beyond my ever-increasing baby bump. Not that that isn't an accomplishment in and of itself, but really. I ought to be able to clean a bathroom at least once in a 120 day period.
The pregnant pause is only prolonged by that fact that one can tell oneself over and over again, "Well, as soon as I feel better I'll be at it again." But when does that happen? It's like a pregnant conversational pause: The longer you let it go on uninterrupted, the worse it gets. Finally there comes a point when I have to take pity on my darling husband and start pulling my weight again(okay, my weight and then some...!) and, as the walrus said, "The time has come." Just like being a mommy to small kiddies can't dictate my entire life, being pregnant can't either.
Of course, it helps that I'm not running for the bathroom every hour or so. Not to puke at least, anyway. I have just a short 20 weeks until I have another small dictator in my life. I'm thrilled to be adding to the crew, but I'd best enjoy (and employ) the freedom while I can.