See.

It has been ridiculously cold lately.
With our car throwing up its hands in protest and refusing to start, there were a few days there where cabin fever was starting to set in.

All I could do was take pictures of the frost gathering on the inside of my windows.




(Brrr.)


Other favourite photos this week include:






The window sill.






Baby Rae's temporary tattoo, courtesy of her dad.

(She was asleep in his arms, and he had a pen in his hand.)










And D-hubby.
Not from this week, but I can't help but love it. It's so...him, even if it's just his feet. He said once that you can tell a lot about a person by what kind of shoes they wear. It was in response to me raising an eyebrow or three about how he always notices people's shoes.
He has been smoked by his finals these past couple weeks. They're almost oooover!
Only one more tomorrow, then we're outta here for the Christmas season.



Family, here we come.

Forty Forty.

As of Monday, I've started this program called the "40-40" that I heard about when I was a teenager:

20 minutes of scripture/gospel study,
10 minutes of pondering,
10 minutes of prayer,
Every day for 40 days.

In a perfect world, I would be perfect (...), and I wouldn't need a 'program' for motivation to consistently participate in a meaningful spiritual study, or need to write a blog post about it to make myself more accountable to the invisible "you" (Hi Mom!).

But I'm not, and I do.
It'll be a good habit-starter, anyways: a good kick in the pants.

I'm already feeling the difference it's making; my days just go....better.

So here's to the kickoff!
Ya-hoooo!

His Beard, My Secret.

This is THE Beard.

For the past couple months, D-Hubby has gotten in on a beard-growing contest with some other random guys (also known as wanna-be Yetties.) They've agreed not to shave it off until Christmas.
This is the point it's gotten to, the growth D-Hubby is currently sporting; the photo was taken just today after coming in from his early morning paper routes.

Last year, he tried to grow a little one, too.
I told him that if he didn't shave, neither would I.

I told him the same thing this year, but I didn't last long. My resolve to be hairy was far weaker than his this time around, and I threw in the towel and shaved me leggers just a couple weeks in.

They were still pretty hairy, though.
(...Recognition? Congratulations?...Anyone?...)

(...crickets...)

Anyways, I still make sure to razz him about it; I crinkle my nose each time he comes in to brag about the length of the hair growing out of his face, make sure he knows that I'll be grateful when it's gone, and roll my eyes when he takes proud picture after picture of it.

But.

Truth is, I have a secret:
My resistance is a little forced.
I actually LOVE facial hair on guys. And he does grow quite a handsome beard.
Either way, I think he's adorable and attractive.

So why the fuss?

I'm pretty sure that my love of a little facial hair comes from the same place inside me that loves a little Dr. Pepper now and then...and really wants dread-locks...and kind of wants to live at a coffee shop writing furious and depressingly inspired poetry all day.
It's the part of me that loves things that are just a little...what's the word....borderline? controversial?
I don't know. You get my drift.
And it's the part of me that gets greedier when fed.

Then there's the part of me that wants us both to be the best we can be. That's the part of me that loves being a mom and wife even though I have sometimes overwhelming responsibilities, that wants to be clean and neat and conservative, but deeply passionate about things that are good and uplifting, beautiful, creative and truly inspiring.
And that's the part that tries to encourage my hubby to be a clean-shaven hunk instead of sporting the sexy-scruffy look he's got going on.

He asked me the other day what really thought of the beard, with eyes big and sincere. I had to tell him. And now he knows my secret. But he also understands where I'm coming from as far as being so...torn.

I'm still not sure how long the beard will last. Right now it keeps his face from freezing off in the -30 degrees Celsius weather he braves in the morning.

So I'll continue to protest,
and he'll continue to understand,
and soon it will just be something we both secretly miss, just a little.

Thanks-full.

My D-Hubby and I were going over finances yesterday.

Yeeee-uck.

We live very frugally. Our rent is relatively cheap. We (usually) stick to our budget. We have the cheapest cell phone plan you can get. If we ever eat out, it's off the value menu at the nearest fast food restaurant (save on gas, too, y'know) and it's not that often. We avoid unnecessary debt like the plague.
We live off student loans, babysitting, and 2 early-morning paper routes.

Oh and love; we live off love, too. (Buys a lot of groceries, that stuff...)

So...we added and added again to somehow make the numbers say something different this time around. It was looking very, very bleak...like, my-grocery-shopping-list-is-becoming-my-Christmas-wish-list bleak.....and not-going-to-be-able-to-go-home-for-Christmas bleak..... Going into debt for gas to get to family and back would not be the wisest move ever made. Not to mention Christmas presents. Our presence would have had to do, IF we were even able to come.

All this naturally made a great atmosphere in our house for a little bit.
Stress over finances + cranky baby with a cold = the perfect storm.

We were brainstorming things we could do to make enough to cover the demands from "The Man" for our money while I sat teary-eyed over not being able to visit family for Christmas.
While we were discussing what we could sell, who could work when, and how much we could get for Baby-Rae (kidding!), Darren was inspired to look over student loan stubs again; when we had calculated everything at the beginning of the semester, we had enough to cover our needs. Sure enough, as he looked through everything they said we should get and everything we had gotten, there was a discrepancy. Long story short, he called about it...and we will still be receiving thousands of dollars we hadn't counted on, due to a lost cheque.

I felt really, really grateful right then.
I felt grateful to a Heavenly Father who asks us to put Him first so He can bless us. And how he keeps His end of the deal without fail.
I felt grateful that Renae would get to see both sets of grandparents at Christmas time, one set who hasn't seen her since the summer.
And I felt grateful for moments that teach me not to lose faith, that everything will work out the way that it should if we're doing our part.

Lotsa lotsa thank-You's in order.

Toddlers as a Microscope.

I babysit a little 16-month-old bundle of toddler every now and then.
She's cute.
She's little.
She's quick.

I've worked with children for most of my working-life: I had lots of opportunities through practicums and assignments for school as I worked toward my Bachelor's in Elementary Education...and I worked part-time at daycares and after-school cares the whole way through. I thought I'd developed a fair bit of patience with kids, especially because some of those experiences were with some kids with extremely destructive behaviours. I think I was bordering on cocky.

Well, I've realized I actually have NO patience. Or at least a LOT less than I originally thought.

I've realized this gradually as I've chased this perfectly innocent, but perfectly busy toddler around my teeny not-really-baby-proofed apartment, in between tending to the needs of an increasingly loud little 4-and-a-half month old baby. It all came to a head as I turned around in the middle of unloading the dishwasher to find the little squirt licking as many clean spoons as she could before I leapt back over to the dishwasher. Then, just right exasperated, I exclaimed "What are you trying to do, kid!? Show me how imperfect I am!!??"

She cocked her head a little...and said , "hi."
Then she leaned her head against my leg and gave me a few little pats on the calf as if to say, "it's okay."

I'm pretty sure this little toddler was sent to magnify just a few of the many weaknesses I still need to keep working on, so I couldn't claim blissful ignorance any longer.

...But I guess I don't mind.

Love Piano.

My D-Hubby found this beautiful beast of a piano for free.

He and a few very helpful friends moved the thing into our apartment this morning, and I haven't been able to keep my hands off those chipped keys since.

It's missing a couple ivories. It's been around at least 50 years and a couple generations of kids have learned how to play on its surface.

It's seen a lot better days.

But it's got a story.

And I'm in love.

I think I'll name him Howie.

How Do I Love Thee? Um, Not-so-perfectly.

I had an interesting day yesterday that I'm still thinking about.

I bought an entirely hideous, almost-free lamp off Kijiji with the intention of making it my new project. I asked my hubby to go pick it up for me because I told the lady I was coming pronto and Baby Rae was going to wake up soon and she would be hungry. I happen to be her source of food. Him getting the lamp was obviously the most logical solution. Did I mention he had just gotten back from picking up some storage shelves for us?

He said no.

I even tried begging with big puppy dog eyes and a hug...

Didn't work.
Oh, and the car needs gas...will you fill it up while you're out? He says.

So I did what any normal wife would do (right...?):
I sulked.

Baby Rae woke up just then so I could feed her first...then go run out and get the lamp myself. I sulked to the car. I sulked all the way there. I was disappointed and grumpy that my hubby wouldn't do something extra-nice for me. I started fuming to myself about how unkind, how unfair that was, 'after all I do for him'...how I do this, and that, and blah, blah, blah...and on and on my list went. Before long, I had wound this small incident into a (completely untrue) representation of our relationship, with me cast as the martyr: self-sacrificing and unappreciated.

...Gag.

And all because he didn't want to go pick up a stinkin' lamp for me.

Even while it was all unraveling in my psyche, I knew at the back of my mind that this was all rather melodramatic. Which it was. Entirely. Utterly. Completely, even.

So. Once I had picked up the lamp and was on my way back home, I was able to think it through a little better.

I needed help getting out of pity-party mode...so I sent a silent plea heavenward with a request for help to think clearly, for-goodness-sake. I continued my prayer aloud as I drove alone down a busy street.
What I would have given to know what others were thinking as they saw me visibly engaged in an apparently one-sided conversation. Ha.

My prayer went something like this:

"Heavenly Father...I am being a big baby right now.
And I feel silly coming to thee, whining about someone not appreciating me this one small time...knowing how Thou experiences that times a billion ALL the time. I don't want to complain and whine about it. I just need help being a little more like thee. I really need to love D-Hubby better. It's not really about whether it's fair or not, is it? It's about how I react when it isn't. I'm not doing so hot there. I'm kind of having a temper tantrum, actually. I do love serving him and going the extra mile for him...but kind of lose my enthusiasm for it when I don't feel like I'm getting that back. But who would know what that feels like better than thee?..So..thanks for that, for loving me so perfectly even when I don't appreciate it. Or deserve it. Please help me to love D-Hubby like that...to love and serve him when it's hard to do."

And I felt heard.
I felt comforted.
I felt...loved.

I've decided that it's not easy being a wifey. And it's especially hard to be the perfect wifey that I've always wanted to be. For all my whining and wailing, I wasn't remembering how he was watching the baby right now. Or that he had just gotten back from moving a couple storage shelves for us. Or all the ba-zillion times he has done extra-nice things for me. It doesn't matter if, for some strange reason, I'm under the high-and-mighty assumption that they don't "add up"...because that's not what love is about...it's not about keeping score. It's about loving someone no matter what.
And I think that if I really want to learn to love like that, then I'd better be prepared to handle myself a little better when given the opportunity to learn how: the opportunity to love when it's hard to do.

I'm really grateful for such a great hubby, in case that message somehow got lost along the way. I'm so stinkin' lucky to have him, it's ridiculous.

And I'm especially glad he loves me.
He even loves me when I sulk about having to go pick up an ugly lamp off of Kijiji all by myself.

Now that's impressive.

Friday Night Poetry.

Little Things

I looked at you
all of the sudden
you blew your bubbles

you smiled so proud.

I laughed.
and stirred the salad with my urge
to squish you against my chest.
you're... so...

I got dinner on the table
and you found your feet

your bubbles and your feet
my salad beside the meat

we smile so proud.

Photo Evidence...

Remember this dress?

Totally made it.

And here's my proof:

Ta-daa!

And I think my Baby Rae's starting to teethe.
Drool-a-rama.
And chewing on things like crazy.
At 4 months...is that normal?

Obsession.

I think these craft blogs I've discovered are going to be the death of me.


All I can think about is what craft I want to do next.

I think about what I can sew...what I can cover with scrapbooking paper and modge podge...what junk I can turn into a masterpiece. Nothing is safe. And every spare minute I can afford, I'm bent over the kitchen table (which has become my creative lair...) acting like the next... (...um...insert name of famous sewer/crafter/scrapbooker here. Because I don't know any).

It happens to me all the time (Remember how photography consumed me but a month ago?).
Maybe I have a naturally obsessive personality.
(er...)

Scratch that.

I'm calling it passion. As in, I get passionate about new things that are exciting and creative and challenging. The sparkle of it all reaches a rolling boil inside of me until it finally settles to a comfortable, sustainable simmer...having changed me...because I've made it a part of me: a part of what I do, what I like, what I've experienced, what I've tried, what I've tackled.

Oh, yeeeeah.

So last night I went to see Julie & Julia.
It's a show about cooking.

Uh oh.

I want...

to try to make:
these shoes
and
this dress.

Wish me luck.
I'll post the results if I haven't accidentally sewn anything to my hand or modge-podged anything to my forehead.

Or maybe I will post the results if that happens. Might be worth seeing.

Baby on Bottle.

Today my Baby Rae drank from a bottle. Like, the whole thing. With no problem.

We had tried getting her on board with the whole bottle thing about a month ago after thinking how nice it would be to go out every once in a while sans the kiddo. And how nice it would be for her Daddy to be able to feed her every once in a while, y'know...so Daddy could cuddle and feed her. Etcetera, etcetera. It wasn't really that successful...although, admittedly, our attempts were fairly half-hearted.

My own Mama and Papa are planning on coming out for a visit in a week and a half...and they offered to send us out for the night while they watched the Baby. Amidst my calculations of how that would work...how we'd have to only be gone for a couple hours, or how it would have to be after I'd fed her for the night and it was just time to put her to sleep, and yaddy yaddy yadda....I found a renewed desire to try the bottle.

So I did.

Luckily, she just finished a big growth spurt so there was some milk to spare, thanks to her ferociously frequent feedings for the last week-and-a-half (ow, tender). I wasn't even patient enough to wait until her Daddy got home. But it didn't really matter. She got it like a pro.

I was so excited! But not all excited. Which surprised me.

I think I felt a little bit guilty, for one...like I was being selfish, making her take the bottle and all. I worked through that one okay...it didn't appear to be an uncomfortable thing for her to take the bottle or anything...and she still got her cuddles during meal time. It's not all for my own comfort...it's also for hers...so if I was away from her for some reason at a feeding, she would be okay. So I think I'm good there, now.

But there was an itty bitty sad part of me, too, that--I think--was mourning the realization that she's not 100% dependent on me anymore, all-of-the-sudden. Like, I just realized she could live without me if she needed to now...I mean, sustenance-wise. And I guess she always could...in all reality. But it just got real.

(whimper...)


She's four months next week.
And she's taking a bottle.
She's growing up.
And maybe I'm tearing up about that a little.

Take a Side.

So I was thinking of egg nog today. And how excited I am about the Christmas season coming up so I can drink it. And then I thought of how I've never met anyone who is wishy-washy about the stuff...like, no "it's alright, I could take it or leave it." Just plain ol' adoration or repulsion. And then I thought of a couple other  things that are like that; everyone I know either loves 'em or hates 'em.
Here's my No-Fence-Sitters list so far:


Egg Nog
Black Licorice
PT Cruisers

At least no fence-sitters that I've met yet.
I have a profound appreciation for these brave little things. They're not afraid to stand up for themselves no matter who gags at their presence. Or drools, for that matter.

So confident. So unaffected. So...inspirational.

Wow.
Don't worry, I'm done.

On Getting Dressed.

I've been thinking lately of why I get dressed in the morning.

I mean dressed, like jeans and a top that I didn't wear to bed. And why I do my hair. Or put any makeup on...even though that does often get skipped altogether. If I'm just hanging around here with a baby who doesn't care, and a hubby that kind of does but loves me anyway.....why bother?

Well....I answered myself. In my head.
(Yep, that's weird.)
But we had a good chat about it, myself and I.

When I was going to school to become an elementary school teacher, the subject of appropriate dress came up in class one day: dressing professionally. Why, someone asked, not wear something more conducive to running after kids all day? Sitting on floors, demonstrating in PE, chasing down the kid about to throw a snowball at recess? We discussed it a bit. We concluded that you should dress for those things, but in a professional way that shows that you take your job seriously. And, added my instructor, when you dress nicely, you show the kids how much they mean to you; that you care enough to dress importantly...for them...because they are important people, and important to you. I always remembered that when I would get ready for teaching during my practicums.

So, I says to myself: this has got to apply to being a homemaker, too.
And I think it does.

So I'm thinking that the way I prepare myself for my job reflects how I feel about it. If I think Home-Making is the kind of job you do in your yoga pants, pajama t-shirt, and lion-mane hair...then I'm sending the same kind of message to myself, my hubby, and my kids: you are about this important to me (hold up sweatpants) . But if I'm taking my job seriously, showing respect for myself, and showing my family that they're important enough to get dressed for...then I feel like I can do what I need to do with confidence and purpose. And love. 
Don't get me wrong, there are definitely days that are comfy days...the yoga pant, sweatshirt-wearing, slippers and weird hair days....and thank goodness that I've got a job with that kind of versatility in the dress code...

But most days, I get dressed. I just feel better. And I act better. And I love better.

I'm sure others can do it all in spandex and roomy cotton.
Myself...told me...that I, personally, do better when I face the day--and my family--with a scrubbed face and clothes that remind me that I woke up and started my day on purpose.

So bring on those slightly uncomfortable jeans (thank-you, post-baby fat) and off I go.
Hope those dishes appreciate this eyeliner...

Guess What Day it is Tomorrow....

So excited.
But only because it means I can (temporarily) reclaim my wardrobe from Baby Rae's spit-up target practice.
Daily, whatever I am wearing becomes a makeshift burp rag. I remember the days, with fondness, when I could wear an item of clothing more than once.

Oh well. I'll bask in my post-laundry full closet tomorrow evening at least, feeling like a queen.

These are the Hands...

They grasp my earrings that dangle, pull hairs from my head,

and reach up for a kiss when she's cooing contentedly through a meal.

And they're the hands that grip my finger with reassuring determination, that little squeeze that is all I need to get me through a tough day.

I love these fumbly little fingers.

So Long, Summer

It snowed today.

And it stuck.

Create.

"What do you do all day?"

The question was posed yesterday by my bored-out-of-her-tree Sister-in-Law. She'd been stuck at home for the last three days with pneumonia, forced to stay home from work to relax, recuperate, and....um....what?

It's the question I've seen in my husband's eyes on occasion when he runs through his own personal to-do list of what I should have accomplished that day and is forfeited the satisfaction of mentally checking it off. I think he even asked it out loud once....and then learned never to ask it again...at least not with that tone of voice. (Ladies, you know the one I mean).

It's the question I asked myself when I was home for the last couple months of pregnancy. And when I couldn't answer it with any kind of self-satisfying response, I began to dread being a stay-at-home mom...something I had always looked forward to.

More than a question, it was a plea: Will someone, ANYONE, tell me how this is supposed to be a fulfilling line of work???

My sister-I-L was asking with pleading. She was also worried that this meant she was doomed to hate stay-at-home motherhood FOR-EV-ER.

So, we chatted.

These were my thoughts that I shared...not verbatim, because let's face it: what you should have said is, without fail, always better than what you did. So here's the basic idea...improved by my post-convo elaborations and epiphanies:

I have a job to do. Self-employed, if you will.

What I do is my duty, my responsibility, my art. All wonderfully, stressfully, gloriously mine.

Just like any job, you can show up, breathe the air, and do only as much as you need to earn the paycheck. I used to look at maintaining a house like that: just suffer through it (ugh.) so you can hurry and get on with living, already.

And I suppose that was okay back when I was a student. I had roommates, we shared responsibilities...which got done...um...sometimes...y'know, when someone wanted a break from studying. The only thing solely our own responsibility was our room, where no one else really went and the place that could easily hide behind a closed door while we were busy chasing fits of laughter, potential Prince Charmings, and the next mid-term paper...(in that order, I might add).

And so, keeping a home came SECOND to all of those firsts, a tough spot for a home to be. In fact, come to think of it...home was usually the way we referred to the place where we went on holidays, the place that was well-maintained by a momma who made us warm meals, listened to our woes, and welcomed us with arms thrown wide.

Oh, that haven of a place!

The place we resided while at school just wasn't the same. Since being a single student, then getting married and being a married student, then becoming a stay-at-home mama, I've discovered that going from partial house-sharer to being THE Home-maker is a pretty big process in a girl's life; it's got a steep learning curve. Or, maybe it's just me: I'm constantly fighting a long-lived attraction to the philosophy that almost everything else...especially having fun.... is so much more important than cleaning a stinkin' house.

BUT...I'm also slowly discovering that making a home is much, much more than just 'cleaning a house.' I am learning to take great satisfaction in getting better at my job.

I take pride in making a meal plan that works, saves money, and is nutritious for my growing little family.

I feel good about keeping on top of the cleaning, always doing just a little at a time so it's never a gigantic and overwhelming event.

I find joy in the moments where I get to just sit and stare at my precious baby, making faces at her and reveling in her smiles.

I find satisfaction in keeping my home in order so that when my hubby comes home from a day of chaos and confusion, he can breathe and find peace.

I feel fulfilled as I learn new skills...some directly related to homemaking, and others not....that challenge me and build confidence so that I can continue to be a pillar of strength to my family and friends.

And I face the day happy when I invest a small amount of my day to being spiritually renewed so that I can lift others with love and compassion...whether they can feel that in my home, or whether I can take that with me from that same home.

Home is something I create: creativity at its finest...and in its most crucial setting, I believe.

That's pretty important, I think.

Trigger Happy.

My hubby gave me a lightning-quick lesson on how to actually use the digital camera the other day.

And now I can't stop taking pictures.

I've always loved photography, and really wanted to learn how. So, naturally, I was pumped when he gave me a 30-second overview on his reeeeally nice SLR.

Overnight, I became amazing.

(And by amazing, I mean delusional.)

The result is attempt after attempt of uber-artsy shots, making those inanimate objects look like magic personified and my baby look like a Gerber model.

Oh yeeeeeah, I'm good.

Until I quickly and sheepishly delete, delete, delete...

Because, really...the world's just not ready for my kind of artistic genius yet.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself, alright.

What is a Husband, Anyway?

Y'know, along with figuring out what-the-heck I'm supposed to be doing, I feel like I've had to figure out what he's supposed to be doing, too.

He happens to be my other half.

Gone are the days where I expected to have a man who would make meals for me frequently, who would spontaneously do the dishes without being asked, who would enjoy keeping things clean so the brunt of the spic-n-span responsibilities weren't mine, all the while laughing and joking with me, asking me about my day and listening with bated breath, and by day...cheerfully going about his bread-winning with a smile and a swagger.

In short, gone are the days where I expected a perfect husband.

....AND...gone are the days where I was supposed to be the perfect wife.

I not only intended to have the perfect spouse, I also intended to be one. Nagging? No way. I was going to be perfectly supportive and selfless, ALWAYS presenting issues in a gentle and loving way.

HA!

In his (and my) defense...I think we're both doing pretty great. Once I'd learned to let go of my unrealistic Cinderella-esque fantasies of who he was "supposed" to be (Thanks a lot, Hollywood...) I realized that I had married an even better man than I could have dreamed...because he was real. I mean, like, alive...human....and imperfect...just like me.

But trying.

As I've tried to define him and what his job is, in an effort to define my own, I've realized that it's not that easy...because it's always changing. Every day, in fact, our jobs ebb and flow into each other.

It's frustrating sometimes, especially when I'm wanting to control all this ebbing and flowing that's going on...y'know to make it go my way.

But so very cool at the same time, watching this whole teamwork thing actually work.

Pretty priceless.

Your Blog Has Been Created.

"Your blog has been created."

The words that lay across the computer screen seem to be giggling at me. I think they know what I've gotten myself into. Luckily, I still don't...although I do feel this ominous sense of responsiblilty, the same feeling I get when someone gives me an empty notebook or journal as a gift. Like it's a kid I'm responsible for feeding in a timely manner....or ELSE.

I'm shaking it off as I begin this blog. So intimidated.

I still don't know exactly why I've planned to do this. I think it's because this new life of mine has caught me by surprise, and I feel the need to explain why. All the time. Maybe a blog will satisfy this craving I have to philosophize on the subject with anyone who shows any sort of inkling of interest in my thoughts and feelings on the matter. Poor people. I just can't stop once I start.

Anyways.

My intention is to create a memoirs of sorts, detailing my adventures as a brand spanking new wife, mother, and..."homemaker."

One of my friends in high school explained once how her mom disliked being called a "housewife": 'I'm not married to the house!' said her mother. I thought it was a silly distinction then, and shrugged because it was all the same to me. I think I'm beginning to understand her ferocity in defining her role. It's something I've been mulling over for the past few months.

Before I get too carried away on this endless internal monologue I've got going on, I need to introduce myself.

My name is Casey J.
Nope, not my real name.
I figured if I intended to spill my guts on the most public forum on earth, I should give myself some sort of anonymity. I'll give the other people in my life pretend-names, too. Partly because I figure they deserve some privacy as well. But also because it's really just fun.

I've been married for almost a year. I met that sweet hubby of mine last summer when we both decided to leave our hometowns to try our hand at selling pest control door to door in a land far, far away. We fell in love over milkshakes and sales pitches and were married lightning quick. Like, I'm talking from met to married in 5 months.

Yeah, I know.

I don't regret it though. Marriage is an adventure all its own, I've discovered, and for us it's been a lot like jumping into a cold lake: when you jump in, there's the shock to deal with that you don't get with a nice, slow wade...but it's all the same water...marriage takes work no matter how fast it happens. We had the essentials...we made sure of that: common values, common goals, and dedication to eachother... and marriage as an institution. And he was a GREAT kisser.

The essentials, right?

We were married September 19th at 24 years old.
We discovered a month later...to our surprise... that we were two weeks pregnant with our first.
Apparently we do NOTHING slow in this family. Forget that wading thing.

The next nine months consisted of me waddling pregnant through the last year of my degree to the tune of my new hubby working two jobs to keep all two-and-a-half members of our family afloat. Not easy. But totally worth it. We're stronger for it, even if we've also come out with a permanent deer-in-the-headlights stare and we're-okay! grins plastered on our faces.

Whew.

The Light of our Lives, Baby girl Rae, arrived July 3rd.
Wow. Talk about a miracle. Talk about alot of miracles:
A baby, me surviving labour AND a C-section recovery, and my husband becoming even cuter than he was before as he settled into his new role as a father.

My new baby and my (relatively) new hubby seriously rock my world.

Before we wed, my husband and I decided that it was important for our future kids to have their mom around full-time. We could live a humble life for that to be a reality. So long as our financial situation allowed it, we decided that I would be home with the kids, the house, and the dog my husband is still trying to convince me to get...taking care of them and the house while he provided.

Sound kind of cliche? That's because it is.

I figured I knew what I had coming. I could describe what I thought it would be like...and I think I did it fairly accurately. Living it is a completely different story. For better AND for worse.

Just different.

I think someone did try to tell me what I'd run into with our decision.
Probably my mom. She knows these things.

I'm finding it's like working as a full-time cook, janitor, and babysitter with no evenings or weekends off, no holidays...and no pay. Therefore, without a pay stub that somehow proves that you are a "productive" member of society, you're about as respected as a bum who sits at home watching TV in your pyjamas all day. Aaaand after living an extremely structured and deadine-driven life working part-time jobs while going to school, you'll all-of-the-sudden have this wide expanse of an unstructured day to fill with things that used to be second in importance to midterms. Now, they are your whole world...so you SHOULD feel useful and productive...and fulfilled, dangit! But no one will give you feedback or mark your job well done. You've got to find that satisfaction all on your own.

Omigosh. I still can't sort it all out.

I can just see veteran-homemakers smiling through the screen with aged wisdom and a dash of patronizing experience. Yeah, yeah, I know I'll get through it. But I intend to document just exactly how I managed, and how I learned the secret that long-time homemakers hold holy:

Being a homemaker is by-far the best job around.