name change, game changer

So.  I've decided to change the blog name.  And tinker with the layout and settings a little bit.  Hopefully it can be a breath of fresh air in this hot summer.

The pastor and the bartender was a great name for where we were two years ago.  But the bartender is no longer tending bar (and that's a really good thing).  We have relocated.  We have added another family member.  And our family just plain looks and acts differently than it did.

Have any of you read Phillip Roth's excellent novel American Pastoral?  Here's a bit of the summary from Wikipedia:   [The main character's] happy and conventional upper middle class life is ruined by the domestic social and political turmoil of the 1960s during the presidency of Lyndon B. Johnson, which in the novel is described as a manifestation of the "indigenous American berserk."

Sounds familiar.

So, we are now nashvillian pastoral.  I'm still a pastor.  We live in Nashville.  Our happy and conventional middle class life has been reshaped in myriad ways by domestic and social turmoil.  We are the indigenous American berserk.

                                   

todd reeves: the birth

Caution:  things are about to get very, very real on this blog.  If any of the following disturbs you, consider navigating away:  stories of addiction and recovery, explicit descriptions of nether-regions and birth processes, honest emotions, the reality of good and evil in our world.  Alternatively, continue reading and broaden your horizons!

As I rounded the bend into week 38 of my second pregnancy, a cloud of denial and confusion lifted and it became clear that my husband was an active addict.  Multiple substances were involved.  I won’t go any further into that nightmare, except to say that I decided we needed to separate for a while, and he decided to go to inpatient rehab.  We both knew this meant he would miss the birth.  This was indescribably sad, simultaneously very freeing, and absolutely the right decision for our family. 

In my 39th week.  Little did I know how long I still had to go . . . 

 As I struggled to adjust my vision of what birth and family life would be like, my blood pressure, which had always been borderline high throughout the pregnancy, began to skyrocket due to stress.  This was no shock to either my midwives or myself.  I showed no other signs of pre-eclampsia (no swelling, no protein in my urine, no headaches, not seeing spots, no stomach pain).  They decided, after some research, to keep me as a client, provided that things didn’t get any more out of control with my pressures and I continued to show no other worrisome signs.

The main thing on my mind was that I wanted to give birth to the baby before my blood pressure got so out of control that I would be facing another hospital induction.  I started taking a tincture of motherwort and hawthorne, which was rather dramatically effective at keeping my blood pressure in check.  (Here’s to living in a neighborhood with an herbal supply store and experienced herbalists to help me!) 

I also began doing all those things that are supposed to bring about labor:  eating pineapple, eating spicy food, acupuncture three or four times a week, chiropractic adjustment, massage, walking long distances.  Week 39 passed, then my due date. 

I broke out the big guns.  I started taking evening primrose oil.  I had my membranes stripped – twice.  I took blue cohosh.  My sister came to stay with me for a long weekend as I turned over into week 41.  I continued to have strong, painless Braxton-Hicks contractions, as I had for weeks.  I had been dilated to 4 cm for at least two weeks. 

This baby just did not want to come. 

I didn’t know if it was emotional reservations I was having about the birth, if God was trying to tell me that I needed to consider another plan besides home birth, or what. 

From checking my cervix, my midwife Jennifer and I both tended to think that the baby was asynclitic – meaning his head was tilted to the side and it wasn’t putting even pressure on my cervix to open it.  Only strong contractions would bring him into proper alignment. 

At 41 weeks and 3 days (Wednesday, May 15), I reached the end of the road.  Jennifer came over to check my blood pressure and other vitals.  My BP was way too high – 185/100, twice.  We talked over our options.  At 42 weeks, licensed homebirth midwives in Tennessee are required to take their clients for a Biophysical Profile, which is a cluster of tests on the baby that measure how well he is holding up in there.  The vast majority of women do not return from this test and are induced after the BPP.  Jennifer asked if I was willing to go in for a BPP the next morning, with the knowledge that I was most likely walking into a hospital induction.  I agreed.  Since I would have to do it in a few days anyway, why not just go ahead? 

But there was one old wives’ tale that I hadn’t yet attempted.  The dreaded castor oil.  I decided that tonight was the night, as I was staring down the barrel of another pitocin-drenched birth.  I took a tablespoon at seven pm, Jennifer came over and stripped my membranes one more time, and I started cleaning the house – trying to stay upright and get some good contractions going.  The castor oil wasn’t too bad.  I chased it with apricot nectar so I didn’t taste it.  It had the consistency of what I imagine motor oil might be like?  It’s a strong stimulant laxative that is really supposed to give you kicking diarrhea.  I had one measly, normal BM.  I figured I was immune to the stuff.  I took the dog for a long walk, paid the bills, did some laundry, and thought about packing for the hospital (Vicki was already with her grandparents for the night).  I took one more tablespoon of castor oil at 11 pm and lay down to rest. 

At about 1:00 in the morning, I rushed to the bathroom for the awful diarrhea I had been promised.  But it still didn’t really feel like labor.  After finishing up, I went back to bed and slept a bit longer, even though I felt some cramping.  At 3:00 or so, I woke up and could no longer rest comfortably through the cramping and contractions I was feeling.  Now THIS was labor.

I tried to take a bath.   The pain got more and more severe, very quickly.  I tried to stand up.  I tried to sit down.  I tried to rock back and forth, I tried to drape myself over a stack of pillows.  The contractions were coming so fast, I had no idea what to do.  I must have been having them every thirty seconds, lasting about a minute?  I couldn’t get my head together to time them.  I felt like I was losing it and I surely needed to get to the hospital.  My main thought was, If this lasts for ten more hours, I will die.  Finally, I texted my friend Stephanie who was going to support me through the birth, and midwife Jennifer.  It was about 4:17, according to my text log.  I texted them both:  “Come immediately.  Want hospital want drugs.  Can’t cope with this.”  They both responded that they would come right away.  I waited for what felt like hours.  I cursed them both, wondering if they fell back asleep.  I looked at my phone.  It had been six minutes. 

Steph got here first.  She had never witnessed a birth, and I apologized that this was going to cause her to never want children.  To her great credit, she was amazing.  Although I could tell she was scared by the drama of it.  All I could do was lean against the kitchen counter and yell “No, No, No, No.”  I cried to God to help me and save me.  The pain and pressure were so intense. 

Jennifer arrived shortly.  She could tell through the door, as she waited on my front porch, by my yelling and carrying on that this wasn’t going to last much longer.  I was either having a baby or going to the hospital.  I had a few more contractions before she could get me to lie down and check my cervix.  It was totally gone.  It was time to push!  Within a couple contractions I felt an unbearable urge to bear down.  I was standing up, leaning against the side of my bed.  Four or five pushes later, and baby Todd was born!  There was a huge gush of fluid as his head unstopped my water.  It was 5:06 am.  I had been awake for two hours. 

Todd’s shoulders were broad and he didn’t want to turn them correctly.  Jennifer had me push and pulled him out quickly.  He was big!  8 pounds, 12 ounces.  He looked so huge compared to Vicki when she was born (7lb1oz).  She wasn’t that size until she was almost 8 weeks old!

He had his thumb from the very start!  

I had trouble birthing the placenta, which was very large as well.  It took me about an hour and it was very painful.  They had to push and prod at my abdomen a lot.  I was so panicked because I thought the pain was going to be over when the baby was born!  No such luck!  After two shots of pitocin in the thigh to clamp down my bleeding, I was finally able to push it out. 

Stephanie had been holding the baby while I was delivering the placenta.  He hollered and screamed from the second he came out – very healthy and pink.  He had the “look” that overdue babies sometimes have:  long fingernails, dry skin, wrinkled hands and feet, thinning hair.  He was definitely fully cooked!

I felt great.  I didn’t have any tearing or need stitches.  I felt very tired, of course, and sore in all my muscles.  The birth had been so intense that I could hardly believe it.  I had what is called a “precipitous birth.”  This is the kind of thing where ladies have their babies on the sidewalk.  I was so lucky that Jennifer lives just around the corner!  Bobbi, our other midwife, didn’t make it in time. 

I am so thankful for the level of skill and care that our midwives showed to me.  They truly became friends and confidantes as they walked with me through a very difficult time.  There are unfortunate circumstances at play, of course.  But what has been so amazing is the goodness and grace that God has shown our family through it all.  I have had friends and family at my beck and call since Todd’s birth.  Someone stays with me every night.  People take Vicki to and from her school each day.  They bring me whatever food I want. 

In the brief time of Todd’s birth, I had to face my emotions about some very real evil that has come into my life.  I believe now that that is what was keeping me from birthing for so long.  And in labor, as I screamed “No!  No!  No!” I was declaring my opposition to this evil.  God is so good, and has given me another healthy baby and birth.  I have so much for which to be thankful, even in the midst of evil and suffering.  

he did it!

One of my favorite "the time that . . ." stories I have on this blog is about Jeff losing three different wedding bands within three years of marriage.

For his birthday in September, I half-jokingly gave him an IOU for a tattoo of a wedding band.  Jeff loves tattoos and always wants to get more, so he cottoned to the idea immediately.

Well today he went to Clarksville to see his buddy Matt - who happens to be a great tattoo artist, as well.

And then he sent me this picture!!

Along with the message, "You can never leave me!"  Ha!  Now that's an "I love you forever" statement!

Well, no more wedding bands for anniversary presents now.  The traditional fourth wedding anniversary present is apparently fruit or flowers.  Fruit or flowers!?  This will be the lamest one for Jeff by a long shot.

26 weeks and sick again

Here we are, two-thirds through this pregnancy (give or take), and all I can say is:  I'm so sick of being sick! This time it's a sinus infection, which has been plaguing me for about a week.  The worst of it is not being able to sleep for sinus pain and inability to breathe.  Can't heal without sleep!  These repeated illnesses (this is probably the seventh time I've had a bug or cold this pregnancy) have really given me a glimpse into what it might be like to be chronically ill.  I have a lot of sympathy for those who struggle.  Life is hard when you constantly feel like crap!  Hard to work, hard to be a good parent, hard to keep your house neat and cook.

Aside from that major complaint - decreased immunity - I really have very little to gripe about so far.  Which is great!  I was telling my midwife a week or two ago that I think all I remember is the very last part of being pregnant before.  The very miserable part.  So, when I compare this experience to that, it seems amazing!  I feel great!  I can move and walk and get out of bed easily!  I can mop the living daylights out of the kitchen floor without struggling to breathe!  Of course, there is still plenty of time for all that discomfort . . . but for now - things are good.

I'm finally feeling a lot of movement, especially at night.  It's almost visible from the outside - that's always a fun time, when I can show Jeff and Vicki.

There is one big topic I haven't even thought about yet - and have yet to speak about with Jeff!  It just occurred to me a few days ago.  Circumcision.  Oh yeah, we're having a boy.  I'm against it (for children).  Just seems like a decision Todd should be able to make for himself.  Not being observant Jews, we have no religious reason to do it.  And it's not that common of a choice anymore.  Apparently only about half of all baby boys are circumcised in an average hospital after birth these days.  So the whole "locker room" argument is not all that convincing these days.  Better see what Papa says, huh?

Pictures!

Note that I am taking photos in our bedroom!  The addition is done!

down to one

One of my very favorite things about living in New York City during college was the public transportation.  So convenient, fast, and such a great equalizer of society.  The additional mixed-use zoning and population density that went along with it were major perks.  On one block, I could go to the drugstore, visit a friend, go to work, buy groceries, get a DVD, and more.  Plus, avoiding the headaches that go along with vehicle ownership was amazing!  No gas, no parking, no traffic, no insurance, no car payments.  Of course, there was the cost of public transit, but that was nearly nothing compared to all those other categories.

I have longed for the ability to walk or ride to work ever since then, but it has never worked out.  I have lived in areas of the country that are either too rural, too suburban, or just not friendly to public transportation on any kind of realistic basis. 

Until now.

You may recall my Christmas post on my lack of holiday spirit, capped off by the news that my husband had just run his truck into a parked car.  We have liability-only insurance on both our vehicles, meaning that the insurance will pay no benefits for damages to our vehicles, only for the ones that we damage.  Money is tight, and frankly we just don't have the funds to repair the truck without taking out a loan or applying for a credit card.  I'm not willing to do either of those things, trying as hard as we are to get out of debt.  Both of our vehicles (a 2005 Civic and a 2006 Chevy Silverado) are paid for, so we don't have to worry about car payments.

When Jeff came home after the accident, we looked at each other with the same thought.  Time to try out one car.  Coincidentally, I had brought it up a few weeks ago:  why don't we just try living with one vehicle, but not selling the other?  It would be a way to trim our budget substantially.  We would certainly save on gas, and if it works, we could just drop the non-used vehicle from insurance, but save it in case we ever need it again.  Turns out we were forced into that plan a little sooner than we expected!

Nashville's public transportation is not known for its efficiency.  There are mostly buses, with one rail line coming from the far east of the city into downtown (so it does nothing for me).  It operates on an outdated hub system, meaning that if you need to get across town, you have to stop at a bus depot downtown, wait, and switch buses.  If I had wanted to get from our house in East Nashville to Vanderbilt, for instance, which is on the mid-West side of town, it would have taken me about 1.5 hours each way - ludicrous!  When I could drive in 20?!

But we have a few things working to our advantage in our current situation.  One is that my church is directly north of our home.  That means I don't have to go through the downtown hub.  In fact, one bus gets me there pretty quickly.  Second, we don't live too far back into our neighborhood that walking to the bus stop on the main road is impractical.  It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk to either of the two nearest bus stops for the route I need.  The church is directly on the main road.  So, I just have to get off the bus and I'm right there. 

I've done it for a few days now, and it seems to be working out well.  It takes me about 45 minutes, in total - all the walking and all the riding.  It takes me about 15 in total to drive.  It's nice to get a brisk little walk in on the way to the bus and on the way home.  Once I'm not pregnant, I could ride my bike much more quickly to the bus stop. The fare is $1.70 one way.  There are some discounts for buying a multiple-fare pass, but they are negated by the cost of shipping to have your ticket sent to your home (get it together, Nashville MTA!).  For $3.40 a day, 4-5 days a week, we are saving big-time over the cost of gas, insurance, repairs, and headaches in driving.  And I get to read and relax with music instead of getting angry as I get cut off.  Can't beat it!

$552.43

Americans obviously have a lot of problems with personal finance.  We have, on average, astronomical credit card debt.  We frequently buy houses and cars we can't afford.  Even going to college or grad school is put on the tab - and I'm as guilty as the next person on this one.

One of the biggest root causes of all of this is that, in spite of being so materially focused, we are still reticent to discuss dollar amounts that we pay for things.  Somehow that is still considered impolite conversation!  Salaries are closely guarded secrets that we guess at.

I want to help break this taboo with some real talk on our family's budget.  When we moved to Nashville, I took a serious pay cut.  At the same time, we bought a house.  The mortgage and homeowners' insurance is about the same as what we were paying for rent and renters' insurance, but there are of course all the auxiliary costs that go with home ownership, plus we had decided to put on a house addition because the house we bought was quite small (~900 square feet).  Shortly after we signed on the house, my husband lost his full-time job.  The addition was already in motion - the foundation poured.

Jeff picked up some work, and we have been okay.  But things are definitely tight.  We are regularly spending every bit of what we make in a month, and not saving anything.  As a United Methodist clergyperson, I do have a pension which is automatically funded.  This is quite unusual anymore.  I have the option of adding to it out of my earnings, but haven't been doing that while we are in this position.

The figure I want to discuss today is what we pay monthly for health insurance for the three of us:  $552.43.  This is high, and let me explain why.  My husband has Crohn's disease, an autoimmune digestive disorder that needs special care, a regular gastroenterologist, frequent colonoscopies, sometimes hospitalization, medication during flareups, and very rarely, surgery.  It is expensive.  Insurance companies recognize this, and he is virtually uninsurable as an individual.  Thanks to some health care law changes, he is no longer allowed to be outright blocked by insurance carriers on account of his condition, but the price gouging is intense.  We definitely can't find anything close to the quality of insurance we need for him for less than $550 per month.

Thanks to the United Methodist organizational system, we have the opportunity to belong to a pool through the Tennessee Conference.  As a full-time elder under appointment, my insurance premiums are covered 100% by the conference.  Adding any adult + children dependents at all (whether it is your spouse, your spouse and your child, or your spouse and your ten children) is an additional $552.43.  And that is a cut rate.  Because my base salary is the minimum allowable for a full-time elder, I am eligible for a reduced rate on the monthly premium.  We could search for other, cheaper insurance for Vicki, but it wouldn't make any difference - we would still be paying the $552.43 just for Jeff.

But wait!  There's more.  The premiums are only what we pay for the privilege of paying more.  There is a $1000 deductible (total, for the whole family) for all services except well-child, and then we pay 20% for pretty much everything after that, up to $2000 per year (including deductible).  One colonoscopy pretty much wipes that out.  So we're looking at $552.43 per month plus $2000 per year.

One upside that I mentioned above is that the rate remains stable for a given year no matter how many dependents you have on your plan.  So, adding the new baby will not be very stressful, since it won't increase our premium at all.

Just the premiums represent about 18% of our pre-tax, total earnings.  In a year where we pay the maximum $2000 out of pocket, the total cost for health care would be 23% of earnings.  

Don't get me wrong.  I am so thankful we have this opportunity, because it is way better than the alternative:  paying out of pocket for all of this at full price.  That would literally break us.  Jeff would not receive the care he needs and deserves.  But when people try to pretend that health care in our nation is not messed up, it bothers me.  More than a little.  I don't know the right answer, but what we have isn't working.  At least not for people who are actually sick and need help.

So, are you brave enough to tell me what you pay for health care per month, or per year?  Is it working for you?

be careful little ears . . . *

As a woman with a brain who grew up in the late 20th century, I'm well aware that it is a scary time to be a young woman.  Advertising and marketers are acutely tuned into the fact that our developing brains and bodies are searching desperately for what makes us fit in, what makes us beautiful and desirable, and what makes us feel connected to our peer groups.  And then they exploit those vulnerabilities to the nth degree.

I wish I could say that my self-confidence and high intelligence made me immune to these overtures, but that would be a blatant lie.  I went through the "starving myself" phase (from which my metabolism has never really recovered.  Sidenote:  I think if we told all girls who were starving themselves that later on, when they ate normally again, they would gain a lot more weight, it might prevent them from doing this?), I went through the "desperately seeking attention from males" phase, and even the "stealing expensive clothes so I could fit in" phase. 

So when I found out we were having a little girl, my mind clouded over with concern.  What if she wanted to dress in a little cheerleader outfit and dance in front of crowds?  What if she wanted to look like a teenager when she was five and participate in pageants?  What if I was unable to build a secure enough foundation for her self-worth that she searched for affirmation in dangerous places?

There are a lot of articles out there right now on "how to talk to little girls."  And I totally get the point.  Don't make your primary way of affirming your daughter about her appearance.  Don't only tell her that she is beautiful or cute or gorgeous.  Balance your attention:  tell she has great manners, or that she is tries so hard to do right, or is so smart.

Way easier said than done.  Because you know what?  My daughter is freaking beautiful!  I just want to tell her all the time how pretty she is.  She is also really smart.  So I try to engage with her on that level too.

I was talking this over with the old playgroup in Lawrence (which was appropriate, since all but two of the babies in that group were girls), and my friend Tai had a very intriguing viewpoint.  She agreed that it is harmful when the only cultural message girls receive is that appearance makes you worthy.  However, she also said that she thought the secure, unwavering, nonsexual attention of a male (usually the father) was very important in establishing firm self-worth in little girls.  In essence, that it was important for little girls to hear their fathers (or male parents) say that they were beautiful. 

Confession:  I have spent most of my life feeling like my areas of primary worth were intelligence and humor.  I decided really early on that I would never be the prettiest girl at the party, so I needed to excel in some other areas.  And when I think back on my childhood, what did I hear my mother tell me most often?  Emily, you are such a smart little girl!  I also thought my role in the family was as comedian.  Not that any of this is really bad, objectively.  Just making a point.

I didn't hear very often that I was cute or pretty.  My stepdad Mark, who is made of gold and thinks that I walk on water, affirmed me in every other way.  How smart, how dedicated, how funny, how capable I was.  But never really beautiful. 

So now I don't feel so bad when I hear Jeff gushing to Vicki Jo that she is so cute.  I don't feel like he is setting her up for a lifetime of valuing appearance above all else.  Rather, I see that he is setting the foundation (in a very natural, organic, un-self-conscious way) for her to have a balanced assessment of herself and what she can offer the world.  And that is very beautiful to me. 

*Anybody else remember this great kid's church song?  Be careful little eyes what you see . . .

on choosing names

Jeff and I have our fair share of disputes and "discussions," as does any married couple.  However, we do share a similar aesthetic.  We tend to be utilitarian over trendy (or even design-oriented) in our choices of clothing, furnishings, household items, etc.  We both like solid and neutral colors.  We typically only buy items when we need them, and one of my pet peeves is having more than one of anything in the house (except things like toilet paper and paper towels). 

So I was gearing up for a little bit of a discussion when we first began discussing baby names for "Baby G," as we called Vicki Jo when we first found out about her.  We decided on names before we knew her sex. 

I took a deep breath, sat down, and said, "If it's a girl, I'd like to name her after my mother:  Vicki Jo."

Jeff nodded.  He replied, "If it's a boy, I'd like to name him after my father:  Jeffrey Todd Grammer, III (called Todd)."  Jeff's dad and his stepmom died in car wreck in 1991, with Jeff and his half-brother Steven in the backseat.  The word "trauma" doesn't really begin to encompass the feelings that are related to this incident.  It is a central event in Jeff's life, shaping his perception of himself and his relationships to all his other family members.  I completely understood Jeff's desire to honor his dad in this way, and I think the name Todd is pretty cute to boot (and it ages well - not weird to think of a one-year-old Todd, or a 45-year-old Todd). 

And that was it!  No more discussion, no revisiting it.  We just went with it.  I was really expecting a lot more negotiating.

It was a little weird to get used to calling the baby Vicki.  Not that I ever called my mom by her given name, but having a reincarnation toddling around took some adjustment.  I began to understand the Ashkenazi Jewish tradition of only naming babies after a relative who has died, rather than one who is still alive.  The legend goes that the Angel of Death may become confused when he comes to take the older person, and take the younger one instead.  I think a part of the adjustment is how Vicki Jo is inhabited by the spirit (the neshama) of my mother.  There are parts of Vicki that do seem like my mom. 

So when we found out about Baby G2, we had a similar moment.

Jeff said, "If it's a boy, I still want to name him after my dad."

I said, "If it's a girl, I want to name her Mary Rose, and call her Rosie."

The roots of this name go deep into both our families, and touch many traditions and members.  It is common in my family to name a girl Mary (my sister, my dad's sister, my granddad's sister, my other granddad's mother are all named Mary.  My grandma's middle name is Marie.  My sister is named Mary but called by her middle name, Nelle).  Rose is very common on both sides, in all its iterations.  My mother-in-law's middle name is Rose.  Her mother is named Rosemary.  My stepdad's wife is named Rosalie.  My granddad's sister is named Rosie.  My best friend's middle name is Rose.  Plus it's just so freaking cute. 

And once again, done! 

I love that these family names are not trendy.  I won't be finding them anytime soon on the "Most Popular Names of 2013" (although, to be fair, Emily was on there for a lot of years!).  They reflect our distinct heritage and the people who have made us who we are.  We hope that there are all the best parts of the namesakes in our little boy or girl.  And if he or she gets the bad parts too, at least we have some experience in dealing with them!

the time we quit drinking

This is a pretty personal post.  I feel like this kind of candor can be good though - offering an opening for someone else to think about the healthiest patterns for relationships and living that they can find for their lives.  So bear with me or quit reading!

There is a lot of alcoholism in my family.  It is clearly genetic as well as environmental.  But I thought I had safely arrived at adulthood and avoided a problem relationship with alcohol.

Now, I drank a lot.  Let's get that straight.  By a clinical definition, the one a psychologist might ask you (Do you drink five or more drinks a week?  Do you drink five or more drinks at a time?  Have you ever lost your memory of what happened while you were drinking?), I had a problem.  I was certainly never one to hold back in high school or college.  I always think what a blessing it was for me to attend college in a city where almost no one drove.  We avoided a LOT of drunk driving accidents and possible casualties by walking and riding the subway.  I thank my lucky stars that I never killed anyone driving at home while drunk.  It could have happened.

Call me irresponsible.  It would be accurate.  I was also nothing special compared to my peers.  This is no excuse, so please don't hear it that way.  I just want to emphasize that none of my friends felt I had anything to be concerned about.  This was also before I took ordination vows that I would stand as an example of moderate Christian behavior.

After Jeff and I got married, though, something more insidious started happening.  We no longer binged and partied as we had when we were young.  Instead, we had a lot of beer and wine and liquor around the house, and we drank what would be considered a moderate amount at home.  I really grew to love and feel an appreciation for fine beers, good wine, and Jeff's cocktail-making skills didn't hurt anything.  I felt like this was an adult, mature way to enjoy alcoholic beverages.

I might have had one or two pints of beer a night (I refilled my growler weekly at Free State), or perhaps two glasses of wine.  Definitely more than is strictly healthy, (if you define "moderate drinking" for a woman as one drink per day), but again, I didn't feel it was an amount to be concerned about.  I never felt drunk.  I never drove anywhere in the evenings.

I did not drink this regularly while pregnant, of course.  I probably indulged in a glass of wine four or five times during the course of pregnancy.  There was also our amazing tour of the New Belgium Brewery.  I gave away most of my samples, but I had a few.  Incidentally, I was the most pregnant person ever to go down their spiral slide!  (So they said.)

It slowly became clear to me, though, that this level of drinking was not good for me.  Jeff and I were having a lot of fights.  I felt like my moods were uncontrollable, and vacillating wildly from one day to the next.  I almost felt like I couldn't trust myself to be myself, if that makes any sense at all.  Not that I was worried about what I might do, but that I could no longer predict what my moods would be like.  I looked forward too much to the drink that was at the end of my long day.  I felt that my life would be really no fun if I didn't have a drink.  All of these signs are so clearly not good, and yet I was desperate for something else to be the problem, so that I didn't have to forfeit my nightly reward to myself.

After one horrendous night that I hope is never repeated in my life, I came to a new conclusion.  We were done drinking.  I no longer wanted any alcohol in the house.  We poured everything out into the sink.  It might be fine for other people, but it was not working for us.  I felt very firm in this decision, but I dreaded the coming evening, because what would I do to unwind?

Turns out my fear and anticipation were much worse than reality.  I fixed myself a fancy sparkling water and juice with lime.  It felt like a treat.  I watched television to distract myself and fell asleep on the couch.  Everything was okay.  And has continued to be okay since then.

We are not strict non-drinkers.  I do not attend meetings, although I think there is absolutely nothing wrong with them and many of my family members owe their lives to AA.  I felt I was able to regain the control I needed without committing to that program.  I may have a glass of wine at a wedding.  I may drink beer if we ever go on a brewery tour again.  But we do not keep drinks at the house, and I do not order drinks at a regular, run-of-the-mill dinner out, and those were the major changes.

It has been just about the healthiest thing we have ever done.  I lost some weight, my moods stabilized almost instantaneously, we stopped spending $100 a month at the liquor store, and our relationship improved a ton.

Jeff and I talked a lot about this change as it was happening.  (We like talking.)  His family also has struggles with addiction of different sorts.  In a way, we both felt so lucky for the destructive things that addiction caused to happen in our families that we had no control over, because it gave us a frame of reference and a vocabulary for understanding addiction.  I was able to pretty quickly pick up on these patterns unfolding in our lives, and knew what kind of action to take.

My mother (a non-drinker) warned me and my siblings about the potential for addiction in our futures.  Especially me.  I think she saw that I was a lot like my father in certain ways, and she knew that could be problematic.  Did I listen?  Of course not!  I was invincible!  I was able to do things differently!  I would avoid these patterns!  You can't tell a teenager anything, and I know that.  These are the things we have to learn for ourselves, through trial and (mostly) error.

If anyone out there is considering this kind of change, but just feels that life would be unbearably boring, I understand.  I was there.  You can change your mindset.  Just try it!

create your own

There were two magical dining spots during my college days.  One is the Columbia Cottage, which I still can't bring myself to blog about because it is so close to my heart.  It's like saying the name of your first love.  Suffice it to say that it's an alternate universe where peace and well-being and the deepest conversations flow as freely as the all-you-can-drink boxed wine.

The other is Milano Market.  Located just around the corner from my sorority house, this specialty market was rife with sandwiches, soups, pre-portioned entrees and sides, and many imported and fancy little products (olives, pickles, mustard, candies).  These kinds of markets are common in the City.  It's not at all where you would do your regular grocery shopping (in fact, most people don't even "go shopping," per se, but rather have their groceries delivered to their apartments), but when you want some special and frivolous little bite, it's your spot.

But the real draw - the main attraction - was the salads.  The concept was simple but genius.  Exactly like Subway, or any other restaurant where you customize your dish based on your whims.  You have a choice of three different salad greens:  romaine, spinach, baby mixed greens.  Then you just go crazy, telling the guy to put anything and everything in there.  I want to say there were about forty options.  Chicken (grilled, pesto, sundried tomato), ham, bacon, olives, broccoli, carrots, chickpeas, tomatoes, peppers, pepperoncini, avocado, kidney beans, cucumbers, boiled eggs, raisins, dried cranberries, croutons, and probably twelve choices of dressing (and so much more).  He mixed it all up for you in a big bowl, then popped it into a 20-oz container with a lid.  Dinner:  done.  I could not begin to count the nights that we stopped here for a salad before Chapter Meeting and ate it on the stoop.

The most awesome part was the price!  For a salad with chicken, I think it was about $7, with unlimited toppings.  Certain ones, like avocado, might have been an additional charge.  (Warning:  this was all 7-10 years ago.  Things may have changed!)

I find myself craving these huge, satisfying salads all the time.  And the thing is, it's really much more economical to go somewhere and pay for it because amassing all those ingredients in the proper quantities and eating all of them before they go bad would cost much more than the price of your single salad.  Or even two or three of them.

I brag on our sweet neighborhood all the time, but we are missing something like a Milano Market.  Should I open one?  Should I finally allow Jeff to satisfy his lifelong restaurant dream?  Only thing is, there wouldn't be sit-down service.  This is strictly a drop-in, take your lunch or dinner home or back to work kind of place.  I think East Nashville might love it.  Thoughts?

wee helper

Wednesday is typically my day off.  I go in for our Wednesday evening supper and program at church because I run it, but I get to spend the day with the dog and the little one.  Today's been a good one, so far.  We:

-Had an electrician out to look at the oven.  Computer busted, cost:  $500.  Kill me.  Pretty please, home warranty, cover this?
-Prepped for Godly Play sessions that happen Wednesday evenings.  Today, I'm working on the Circle of the Church Year wall hanging!  More to come on this later.
-Helped Jeff/dad celebrate his 29th birthday!  Happy birthday bartender!
-Tried unsuccessfully to take a morning nap (why, oh why, must we lose two naps and go to one!?).
-Toyed with Google Analytics. 
-Tried out Vicki's new underpants for the morning!  (Big girl.)
-Finished up some laundry:

My assistant loves to help with laundry.  She uses her walker wagon to collect her dirty clothes and bring them to the washer, then take the clean ones from the dryer back to her room for folding.  Jeff just commented this morning that he hopes Vicki continues to love chores this much for the rest of her life!  She can't get enough of washing, wiping, folding, collecting, sorting, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and feeding the dog. 

Happy Wednesday to all!  Oh, and guess what I'm getting the bartender for his birthday??  That's right - a tattoo of a wedding band!  Now he can never get rid of me!

the time my husband lost his wedding ring three times

When Jeff and I were betrothed, I knew I wanted to have our wedding bands specially made for us by a shop in my hometown called Goldmakers.  Not only is their jewelry gorgeous and original, it is operated and most of the jewelry design and craft is done by two chicks I went to junior high/high school with, and they were awesome at jewelry even then.  (Isn't it cool that my high school had jewelry and metals classes?  That's public school done right, Nashville.)

I knew exactly what I wanted for mine.  It's called a gypsy setting, and it's basically a standard-width band with lots of tiny little diamond chips dropped in in a random pattern.  Here's a good example (but with sapphires instead of diamonds, and thinner than mine):

I love my wedding band and it still brings me a lot of joy to look at it each day. 

Jeff also knew just what he wanted.  He is a fidgeter, and he loved the idea of getting one of those rings with a spinning inner channel, so he could fuss with it all day long.  It cost a fortune because it is basically two rings fused together and then specially set so that one can spin freely.

These artisan rings set us back a couple grand, but it's okay, because you only ever get one, right?

Umm.  Well, in addition to being a fidgeter, my husband is also a chronic ring-taker-offer-and-putter-back-on-er.  Working in a restaurant compounds this, and he is constantly slipping off his ring when he has to get his hands in something nasty.

We were married (first in April, then in May) about four months before he lost the original spinner ring.  It's a long story, but let's just say he believes it was in a parking garage and it was gone the next morning when he went back to look for it.  Four months, people.  That's how long this lifetime investment lasted us.

So, off I go to Australia that winter (to do little stuff like meet the Dalai Lama and understand the world's religions).  While I was in Melbourne, the Gyuto monks (which are like the Dalai Lama's special task force) were selling handcrafted Tibetan goods to raise money for their cause.  I found a gorgeous hammered steel ring with a spinner!  It was embellished with Tibetan symbols and letters.  I bought it for about ten Australian dollars, prayed over it with a monk, and arrived home with my husband's second wedding ring.

He loved that one.  Maybe even more than the first.  He showed it off and talked it up wherever we went.  I thought we had found a keeper with that ring. 

But then the baby was born.  And the chaos ensued.  Somewhere in between being up all night and shifting around all our stuff to make room for her detritus, the second ring was lost.  We were sure that when we moved it would turn up.  Nope.

In the meantime, Jeff picked up a cheap ring from the gas station.  Somehow, in spite of his total inability to keep track of a wedding band, he still wants to wear one to show the world that he's married.  I appreciate that. 

But somewhere between Vicki Jo's arrival and our move to Tennessee, that ring was lost as well.  He thinks that one got left on the sink at work or something like that.  I wasn't too sad, as I really had nothing to do with that. 

So here we are, working on our fourth year of marriage, and my dear husband has already burned through three wedding bands.  He is the illustration beside the definition of "you can't have nice things."  I'm either thinking that he gets one tattooed on (which he would love as he already has a number of tattoos), or I just plan on buying him a new one for every year of marriage.  What do you think?

the time i got married twice to the same man

I've told you all about our joyous Bailey's Irish Creme-fueled Christmas Day engagement.  Here, let me refresh your memory:

What I didn't tell you, and what I honestly forgot about until I was at the County Clerks Office yesterday waiting in line to get my new Tennessee tags and had to bring my marriage certificate to prove that my name had indeed changed from what was listed on the auto title and I was bored and looking at the marriage certificate (yes, that bored), is that we were married twice.  We are currently on our second marriage.

What!?

Yep.  I got married twice without ever getting divorced.  Life is full of paradoxes and riddles and shades of gray blah blah blah.  Have a nice day.






Okay, I will tell you the story. 

I have told you that my husband has Crohn's disease.  For this reason, it is imperative that he remain insured.  If his insurance lapses, then when he regains insurance he is likely to have to wait six months or more to have (very costly) treatment for his Crohn's covered, since it is a pre-existing condition.  I hate health care policy in America.

As our eighteen-month engagement dwindled down (please don't punish yourself in this way.  Eighteen months was far too long), Jeff was going to leave his full-time job and go back to school.  The insurance coverage at his new school was exorbitantly expensive and not very good.  I was also a full-time student during this time, and my insurance coverage at Vanderbilt was actually quite nice.  I had the option to add dependents on my policy, but there were restrictions on who could be considered a dependent.  Children, spouses, domestic partners, anyone you could list as a "dependent" on your taxes.  Jeff, my fiance, was none of these.


The wedding was set for May 23.  We had booked the spot, sent the invitations, ordered the food.  There was no going back on this date.

But we needed to be married sooner so that Jeff could join my insurance policy.  This is truly a second-millenium American love story. 

So, on April 4, we hitched a ride down to Tullahoma with Jeff's mom.  In the same room where Jeff had nervously contemplated his Christmas Day proposal a year and a half earlier, his Pawpaw sat with us in the living room and discussed the responsibilities that go along with marriage.  A dutiful United Methodist pastor, Pawpaw asked about how we would support one another in our faith and discipleship.  And then he placed his hands over our joined hands and united us in matrimony. 

We called Ed Simmons, the Executive Director of Mountain TOP, our dear friend, and a United Methodist deacon, on the way home.  We had invited him to officiate at our wedding months before, and he was understandably confused about why we were calling him to say that we had just been wed.  When we finally explained everything, he got it.

Six weeks later we stood before Ed as he blessed our union and married us.  We hadn't told anyone about the previous marriage.  The only people there who were the wiser were Jeff's granddad, his mom, Ed, and the two of us.  Pawpaw could hardly rise to stand and read the Scripture at that point.

Two years later, he was gone.  But we will always remember April 4 as our first wedding day, and May 23 as our second.  Or at least I will remember every time I have to get my marriage certificate out for something and I see a date on there that isn't my anniversary!

the salad days

Everyone always says that stupid cliche, "Marriage is hard work."  I wanted to disbelieve it because it's a stupid cliche.  Unfortunately for me, it's true.  When the work seems too hard for you, I have a piece of advice.  Look back at your wedding photos.

You'll remember why.

ordination

On June 6, the clergy session of the Kansas East Conference of the United Methodist Church voted to ordain me.  This was on the recommendation of the Board of Ordained Ministry (our accrediting and credentialing body).  On June 8, the Bishop Scott Jones, and many other clergypeople, ordained me by laying on of hands. 

I am a person of words (many, many words), and yet I struggle to put language on what I was feeling. 

Ordination was both a culmination and a commencement.  At six years, this is the single longest effort I have undertaken.  In that six years, yearly rounds of interviews, papers, conversations, being-taken-to-task.  Three years of seminary with colleagues and professors who taught me more than I thought possible.  Working with three variously fabulous and unique senior ministers.  Working with two amazing churches.  Having three mentors show me hugely different models of women in ministry.  Getting engaged, married, and having a girl child.  Moving to Tennessee, back to Kansas, and now back to Tennessee. 

The fact that this process is sealed and finished is beyond relief.  It is a confirmation that what I have felt for half my life is truth. 

But it's really just a door that opened.  I walked through, and now there is a lifetime of winding road before me. 

In our Ordination Service, Bishop Jones outlined our most basic duties.

"An elder is called to share in the ministry of Christ and of the whole church:  to preach and teach the Word of God and faithfully administer the sacraments of Holy Baptism and Holy Communion; to lead the people of God in worship and prayer; to lead persons to faith in Jesus Christ; to exercise pastoral supervision, order the life of the congregation, counsel the troubled, and declare the forgiveness of sin; to lead the people of God in obedience to Christ's mission in the world; to seek justice, peace, and freedom for all people; and to take a responsible place in the government of the church and in service in and to the community.  These are the duties of an elder."

My heart thrilled to each phrase as I recalled instances of these duties in my ministry thus far.  Preaching, teaching, blessing, pronouncing forgiveness, counseling, leading, freeing, and serving.  I have done these things and will do them for my whole life. 

When I knelt before the bishop and heard him whisper "okay," then I felt that circle of fellow clergypeople and family tighten around me, then I felt the weight of all those hands laid on my head and shoulders and back, my eyes screwed shut and the tears poured down upon the Bible that was placed under my hands.  I felt the power of all those in the congregation gathered that night who stood in support and solidarity of my journey.  Those who had known me from my birth at Lawrence Memorial Hospital, all the way up to those who walked with me through the last two years of Residency.  I felt spirits hovering in the room.  Spirits of my mother and grandmother and granddad and Jeff's Pawpaw and so many others seeing me and acknowledging me.  It could possibly have been the most powerful moment in my life.  The moment Vicki Jo was laid, tiny and peering, on my chest is the only competition. 

Many special and memorable things happened that night, but a couple of them will stand out for me as time unspools.  The fact that my daughter got to be there, standing up with me and for me in her father's arms, and that I get to tell her about it in years to come, the same as I will tell her about her baptism . . . that is amazing.  And, of all the certificates and pieces of paper I have to commemorate the day, this one is the coolest and best:

I'm saving it just in case I ever get the grand privilege of ordaining someone someday . . .

baby number two?

Fooled ya!  Don't have anything to announce.  Baby G #2 is still just a twinkle in our eyes and is nowhere near materializing in reality.  But I have noticed that several friends and acquaintances, with babies both a bit older and a bit younger than Vicki Jo, are expecting their next additions.  And while I'm so happy for each of them and I think the world will be enriched by more of their offspring, it just makes me feel so . . . unready.

While I still look back at the haze that surrounded Vicki's earliest days and wonder what exactly happened, things have gotten a lot better.  She is, of course, a baby, and so she demands near-constant attention and monitoring both for her safety and for her entertainment.  But she can play by herself for a little while.  She can eat some snacks on the floor while I get dinner ready and wash the dishes.  She can sleep on her own all night long (sometimes.  Except when we are having a bizarre sleep regression unrelated to anything except the days getting longer?).  She only nurses once or twice a day, and just to reconnect herself with her home base.

But I have yet to go a full week without some sort of major meltdown about her sleep, her growth, her development, her personality, my skills as a mother, or all of the above.  God surely sent me this baby to learn some very serious lessons about the world and about myself.  Adding another soul into that mix?  I just don't think so.  I foresee some rank Sylvia Plath-like behavior in my future if that were the case.

I still get those horrendous BabyCenter updates that say things like "How to get your child to like having his teeth brushed!" and "Is your baby still not speaking in phrases?  When to get concerned."  This last one was full of more fear-mongering, this time about child spacing.  They quoted some statistic that children born less than one year after the birth of their older sibling are at higher risk for autism, but that children born more than five years after the birth of their older sibling are also at higher risk.  What!?  


It got me thinking:  I wonder if there is some sort of optimal child spacing for the health of mother and babies?  Naturally, I found an article all about it on one of my favorite websites.  It claims that three years is the best (and most traditional) spacing for the mother to restore her health and reserves of nutrients, etc, to grow, birth, and nurse another baby. 

Is it true?  I'm not sure how it can proved, except anecdotally.  I do hear people say a lot of times that they just want to get the baby-creating done with.  Have babies, then have kids, then have adults.  Don't drag it out.  I think of my own mama, who had at least one child at home to look after for twenty-seven years.  Is it any wonder I was largely left to my own devices?  She was exhausted!

I had always pictured a little steps-and-stairs family where we had four children, two years apart.  I also thought 26 would be the perfect age to start.  I was just barely 26 when Vicki Jo was born (my birthday falls 12 days before hers).  So I bought myself a little extra time in my scheme.  If I want to be 28 when Baby #2 enters the world, we still have a whole year to even consider it.  But this kind of arithmetic is crazy-making.  There are so many factors.  Will our bodies cooperate?  Will our jobs and finances allow another life?  It is the "right" time?  (I learned the first time around that if I wait for the "right" time, we'll never have a child.)

One of the mothers from our Bradley birth class (now playgroup) visited her midwife to talk about conceiving another child.  The midwife's advice was to start "making room" in their family's life for another child.  Literally:  designate a space for the new baby in the house.  Make a mental space for the demands of another newborn.  Make a space in your heart for the baby that will need all of it for a period of time.  Make room in your career for big changes.  Make room in your marriage for another creation. 

Such poignant words.  And they make me realize that we just don't have the space right now.  (Watch - now I'll come back in two weeks and tell you we're expecting.  Ha!)

three . . . it's the magic number

Without going into any details, this has been a hard year.  Many ups, more downs.  We're still standing, facing forward together.  This year will bring new adventures, as they always do.  May 23 was our third anniversary.  We have grown in many ways since we first met in late May of 2003.  I pray that we will continue to do so for years to come.

on having it all

This photograph from the cover of TIME magazine seems to have provoked a bit of a windstorm of criticism and support.  I am not so shocked by a photo of a mother breastfeeding her child, but what did give me pause was the label of "attachment parenting" applied to that.  Extended breastfeeding is just one small aspect (and certainly not a mandatory one!) of raising your child in a certain atmosphere.  The question plastered across the front ("Are You Mom Enough?") brings to mind all sorts of hurtful comparisons women make between themselves and others. 

Additionally, I got sucked into this cycle of short opinion pieces from the New York Times the other day.  It was fascinating for me to see these different women, some of them famous, of different age groups and professions, talking about what constitutes appropriate practices for motherhood, career, and feminism. 

I thought about whether I would call myself a "feminist."  I work for a living, supplying well over half our family's income plus insurance, pension, and other benefits.  I don't just work because I have to, though.  I love my profession and feel called to it.  I recognize that women still face reduced pay simply because of their sex, and so I try as hard as I can to be a responsible, committed, ethical pastor, so that I help create a positive reputation for female professionals. 

Interestingly, I was called to ministry before I was called to motherhood.  Both calls will remain with me for a lifetime.  For me, it's not a matter of saying, "The job will only last as long as I work, but motherhood will last forever."  Both of these things I'm doing are imprinted on my heart.  It's not "just a job" for me, any more than it's "just a baby."   

I want more children, for sure.  I always dreamed of four.  Don't know how far we will get in that vein, but definitely one more!  And if I can't get pregnant again, we will begin the adoption process without a second thought.  The thought of a big, boisterous family with every seat belt occupied and a big pile of shoes at the front door has always been lurking in the back of my mind.  I do know that if we have more children, there will be a time when it makes more financial sense for me to stay at home with them than to work and pay for their care.

Not only do I love ministry and motherhood, I love homemaking.  I love cooking, cleaning (don't tell anyone!), sewing, caring for our pet, managing our family budget, baking and preserving.  I'm a real homebody at heart, and I like to stick close to the homestead and take pride in it. 

So, loving and cherishing all of these things, where does that leave me on the feminism scale?  I think where it leaves me is overwhelmed by the abundance of choices I have in my life.  And that is a huge benefit, one for which I owe an enormous "THANK YOU" to the women who went before.  I truly feel that I have the opportunity to "have it all."  I can be a mother, a professional, a wife, a fulfilled individual.

I think it's more important than we ever realize to acknowledge the circumstances from which we came (the ones we had no control over).  Whether we choose to follow the patterns our parents set for us, or diverge from them sharply, those patterns control our behavior in ways that are beyond mere choice.  My mom worked.  She was an accountant, and it fit her tiny, tight script and detail oriented personality to a tee.  She was also a stay at home mom.  My warmest, most comforting memories come from the time when she stayed home with me after my brother and sister went to school.  It was just me and Mom, all day every day.  My mom won the Betty Crocker Award (this was a serious thing) in her high school every year.  She was a phenomenal cook and I remember making huge slabs of cinnamon roll dough, sprinkling on raisins, and rolling them up together.

And yet, Mom was tired.  "Having it all" usually left her passed out on the couch before Johnny Carson.  (I also knew a different, more middle-aged Mom than my brother and sister.  She had me when she was 33, and when my brother was almost 10!)  She was notorious for "just shutting her eyes for a few seconds," and waking up in the morning in the same spot.  She was frequently stressed, usually overworked, and sometimes on a short fuse.  We all knew to tiptoe around her moods on a bad day. 

Back when I was about to graduate from college, I made a list of my lifetime aspirations.  It's still on little yellow sticky notes inside one of my journals. 

For the ripe old age of 27, I have actually accomplished quite a few of these!

I spent a year teaching.  I'd love to become a teacher again someday.  I've told you all about my mishap with the Peace Corps.  I'd love to go as a volunteer with Jeff after our children are grown.  I have graduated from Divinity School.  I write very frequently, whether it is sermons or stories or articles.  My participation in the Creative Writing Program was not wasted.  And of course I minister now, on a daily basis. 

And yet.  And yet there is so much more still to be done, to be lived.  I want to go back to school and get my doctorate.  I want to pastor all different kinds of churches.  I want to have more children, like I said.  I want to own a working farm where we can grow our own food.  To "have it all," with all the options I have been given, would take me four lifetimes or more. 

I heard from my grandma:  "You can have it all, but not all at once."  Hogwash, thought my young self.  My 27-year-old self now says Yeah you were probably right. 

I'm not sure exactly what I wanted to say in this post, except that I think that many people my age feel overwhelmed by choices and thus become paralyzed, in essence choosing inaction.  Sixty years ago, there may have been three choices of laundry soap.  Probably none of the three worked as well as what we have now, but you didn't stand in the aisle at Target for thirty minutes weighing the options. 

Sixty years ago, a woman did not have the kind of access and options that I have.  I don't want to forfeit that, and yet life demands more simplicity.  So am I a feminist?