toast & honey

{finding solace in the manger}

2012-02-01T09:49:00.002-06:00

I have started this entry over and over again, trying to accurately describe something that happened in early December. I just can't get it right, so I'll say this.

I had a pretty awful experience leaving Avram with someone else. To be fair to them, they were overwhelmed, and unsure what to do with a non-walking-but-still-very-mobile-and-large little boy in a room full of kids of all ages.

When I came back to get him, he had been stuck in a corner in a walker (which he has never used) all by himself.

It's taken me awhile to write about it because, to be honest, it's just felt too raw. I knew they were busy, I knew it was chaotic, I knew they had too many kids and not enough people. But it still...it still ripped my heart out.

All I could think about, could ask myself, when I saw him there, sitting in the corner by himself was if this was just a preview of what is to come. What happens when I send him off to school someday, when I can't be with him all the time? Is there going to be someone to be patient with him, to take the time to work with him? Is someone going to look out for him, to understand him? Will there be someone on his side? Or will he be stuck in a corner because he's different, because it takes him longer to do what other kids do?

I dumped all this on a couple dear friends, and one of them graciously reminded me that two thousand years ago there was a young mom, with a son. A young mom stuck in a manger in a tiny corner of the world, with a baby she knew was different. She had to wonder: What will the world do to him? What happens when I can't protect him anymore? Will anyone understand him, will anyone be on his side?

In Luke it says that Mary kept all these things and buried them deep in her heart. The angels, the shepherds, the wise men. Somehow she had to know that as different as her son was, that these things were signs of comfort, signs of good things to come, signs of promise.

So instead of dwelling on all the "what if's," I am trying to keep all these things and bury them deep in my heart. The smiles, the therapy milestones, the babbles, the almost-first-steps.

These are signs of comfort,
signs of good things that will outweigh the bad,
signs of promise.

{everyday turkey}

2011-11-20T19:17:00.001-06:00

Tomorrow morning, we go pick up Avram's brand new braces.

When we went in for the fitting a few weeks ago, the orthotics people were very reassuring. He won't mind them at all, they said; he'll love the support he gets from them. They fit right over his socks, but under his shoes, and he only has to wear them during weight-bearing activities (so, his feet are free for long car rides or while swimming). And guess what? You can put whatever design you want on them!

How wonderful!

All my worries seemed to have been put to rest, except for one final question:

"How long do you think he will need to wear them?"

"Oh, probably til six or nine."

"Months? Six to nine months?"

"Oh, no, years. Until he is six to nine years old."

Years.

Months, I was prepared for. Even one year. But years.

Years.

Of course the reel instantly started turning in my head, imagining Avram on his first day of preschool, the first time another kid makes fun of him because he has weird things on his feet, learning how to strap on his braces before he knows how to tie his shoes.

As a new policy, I am trying to not to cry as much.

Not because I think it is wrong or soft to cry, but I know that Avram will soon pick up the hint that I get upset about things. Especially things concerning him. And those hints, those are the hints he will take as to how he should react to tough things, to unexpected news, to other people.

I don't want him to cry or get defensive every time someone asks him why he wears braces, or why he has a scar on his belly. I don't want him to be scared of new people or situations because he feels that he is...different. So I know that I need to start reacting to this kind of news in a way that lets him know that we can take it, that we have Peace in all situations, that just because we have extra challenges doesn't mean that he is any less capable, or smart, or loved.

As I have been watching Avram today, as I have been busy with Thanksgiving preparations and tidying up the house, I am trying my hardest to stay grateful as we head into tomorrow. I mean, we have gone four months without seizures. That's the longest we have gone since the first seizure last Christmas. And his original shunt is still going strong, revision-free for 19 months. That is miraculous. He is pulling up to standing, drinking out of cups, starting to crawl on all fours, doing all sorts of wonderful tricks with his fingers. We have so, so much to be grateful for.

But it seems like every tiny thing, every milestone, Avram has to work for. It took weeks of therapy for him to hold up his head, months for him to bear weight on his legs and arms. If you only knew how much work it took to get this child to feed himself. Every reach, every new skill, we practice and practice.

And practice.

Everything is a battle, behind each step is work, work, work.

I know it is making him tough. I know it is making us grateful: you will never see two people cheer so loudly for someone picking up their own food, or pulling up to standing for the first time, or figuring out how to throw a ball. All the work, the strain, the crossed-fingers, the patient waiting...we take nothing: no step, no "ba", no pincer grasp for granted.

You should have seen this place erupt in cheers when the buddy popped up on all fours for the first time last week. We have been working on that for months; you would have thought he had just solved a Rubix Cube.

Tomorrow morning, we start a new chapter in Avram's story. A few months from now, taking our braces on and off we just be old hat; by next Christmas we will probably think nothing of it.

Maybe someday, new skills will come easier for my little guy. Maybe one day, we won't need the extra help, the therapy. Maybe.

And maybe they won't. Maybe it will always be a battle, a long road of hard work.

And if it is, well, then we will keep on working, keep on cheering.

And if it is, then around here, every day will be Thanksgiving.

{all i want for christmas}

2011-10-18T15:00:00.002-05:00

One year ago, we were picking up Avram's fancy new helment. Many people have asked me how long he ended up wearing it and if it helped since I did a poor job of reporting on it. He ended up wearing it for a little over three months, and then his seizures started. We just didn't feel comfortable putting it back on him after that. The doctors were confident that the helmet didn't start the seizures, but it made us feel better leaving it off nevertheless. Although, looking back over pictures from October through January of last year, I can tell what a huge difference it made. His head was looking pretty funky, and it's so beautifully round now.

But like I was saying. It was October last year that we were picking up Ave's helmet. We may need to rename this month Orthotics October or something like that, because I just finished scheduling a fitting for the buddy to get some ankle supporting-booties.

Since he started cruising a couple months ago, we noticed that his ankles turned in pretty significantly, which is actually not that uncommon in little tikes standing independently for the first time (especially kids with low muscle tone, like the buddy). But, unfortunately, Ave's ankles have not corrected themselves. We head in on Halloween morning for a fitting for a fancy pair of these.

(Think they'll mind if we come in costume?)

Good news is that he only has to wear them when he is awake (three cheers for not having to sleep in uncomfortable plastic junk, like that stupid helmet--hooray!). We actually get to pick out a cool pattern for his new shoes, too, which I'm pretty excited about since we didn't get to do that with his helmet. It's not a forever thing, just a strength building thing. And, probably the best news of all, is that these cool new shoes will help his balance and coordination so much.

Bad news is...well, actually, I don't think there is any bad news. I think I've come to terms with the fact that Avram is just going to need some things that other kids won't need, and I'm just done being upset about it. I've fought God on so many things he has needed: his surgery, therapy, his helmet, and it has all done nothing but helped him. So, I surrender.

At least for now.

So, back to his balance and coordination.

A couple weeks ago, Ave had a bad case of Extreme Vomiting. I don't know what else to call it, because he didn't have a fever or loss of appetite. Not even an ear infection.

Just...vomit. Lots of it.

(aren't you glad you read my blog today?)

Fearing it was something to do with his shunt, our pediatrician sent us over to Parkview for a CT Scan (which, by the way, holy cats, that place is GIGANTIC).

In many ways, Avram getting sick that week turned out to be a blessing in disguise. For one, it got us in the system at Parkview. So now, any time we need to go, they already have all the information on the buddy that they need. Secondly, it calmed my anxiety about moving hours away from Children's Memorial. I love Children's Memorial, but I had such a positive experience at Parkview North that week. They moved quickly, were super organized, went out of their way to make sure Ave was comfortable, and kept me posted on everything. Phew.

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, it let to a possible change of Avram's diagnosis.

This is going to sound a little strange.

After the CT, I was called back in to the Radiology Department to speak with a neurologist. He asked me what we had been told concerning Avram's diagnosis, and I gave him the whole story about all the ultrasounds and and MRIs and yada yada yada and how they finally said he had Hydrocephalus and Schizencephaly.

The doctor sat there for a minute, then told me that based on the scans it didn't appear that Avram had Schizencephaly, but Dandy Walker Variant.

This was pretty bizarre to me, of course, because that's what my doctor said at our 20 week ultrasound, but then was later told after the Fetal MRI that he didn't have. No one has ever mentioned Dandy Walker again.

As he began to tell me the symptoms of Dandy Walker Variant, it just seemed to fit Avram so much more than Schizencephaly. When I read about kids with Schiz, they don't sound like our buddy at all. They have breathing problems, many can't eat solid foods, never walk or crawl (and if you know our little guy, you know that eating is definitely not a problem for him).

There are three kinds of Dandy Walker: Dandy Walker, Dandy Walker Variant, and Mega Cisterna Magna. Avram appears to have Dandy Walker Variant, which is the mildest form of the three.The biggest problems kids with DWV have are balance and coordination (sound familiar?), especially with fine motor skills (totally our little buddy). They tend to have at least average intelligence and do really well overall. It just fits so much more.

It's like everything suddenly just made sense.

Before I didn't really think that a name or diagnosis mattered that much, because whatever challenges we had we were just going to face them. But putting a name on it has, oddly enough, brought some peace to this mama's heart.

All the grandparents have suddenly jumped into Christmas mode around here, asking for lists and ideas and most-wished-for toys. I have had a hard time coming up with a list for myself, of deciding what I want, because really the only thing in the world I could want or wish for is for Avram to walk. He is so close, and working so hard.

I want him to fly, to take off, to experience his first rush of crazy independence.

I want to run him down in the grocery store and chase him around the house before bath time.

I want to be exhausted at the end of the day, to only be able to wear my gym shoes during the day just to keep up with him.

That's all I want for Christmas: so bring it on, little plastic shoes.

Bring. It. On.

{requests of my memory}

2011-10-12T07:35:00.002-05:00

Most days I am anxious for Avram to move on to the next milestone, to achieve new things. I am ready for him to be just a little bit older, to be able to do just a little bit more.

But then, there are days like today, moments like this morning, when I wish I could just freeze him in time. Moments I pray that my mind will serve me well and manage to wholly preserve.

These mornings are filled with images I pray my memory will keep close by: The moment I pick Ave up out of bed in the morning, and he wraps those little arms around my neck so tight. The serious-browed, puckered-lipped face he makes as he decides which piece of banana has the honor of being the first bite of breakfast. The tiny grunts and focused, busy hands as he tries to figure out a toy, the shriek of joy when he finds himself in the pantry (Where the Cheddar Bunnies are, of course. Who wouldn't shriek for joy?). The giddy smile on his face when he sees his dad's picture on the refrigerator, the happy "ba's" and "blllppss" I hear on the monitor when he wakes up from a nap, the loving reflex of running his chubby little fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck, his uncontrollable giggles when Dad does something funny.

My only request of my mind, my memory, is that in it's hustle to move past the pain and frustrations and anxiety, that it remembers the good, the cuddles, the after-bath smell, the big sloppy kisses. So, someday, when he is walking and talking and graduating and shaving, I can call back not only all the bad times and hard work that it took to get us there, but all of the good times and happy days, too.

{the speed of ten thousand horses}

2011-10-05T10:11:00.002-05:00

We are, finally, back in the swing of things. After mountains of paperwork and lots of phone calls and weeks of waiting around, we are back in therapy. Avram qualified for Physical, Occupational, and Speech Therapy through First Steps here in Fort Wayne, so he is back in full Baby Boot Camp mode.

The first therapy appointment always feels like a sort of blind date; this stranger comes to your house, meets your family, hears your story, asks personal questions. It's a bit awkward, not knowing what their sense of humor is, or if they will be super personable or a total drill sergeant. It's pretty anxiety-ridden: Will they do a good job? Will they be tough enough? Will they be patient? Will they think we're weird? Will Avram like her?

Every time the door bell rang last week Avram & I sort of looked at each other like, "Well, how do we look? Do we look ok? Please tell me you brushed your teeth."

So far, so good. All three of our therapists seem like incredibly gifted and compassionate professionals. I am always amazed at the suggestions they make, at how changing one tiny thing makes such a huge difference in Avram. Just one small adjustment in how he holds his leg, and all the sudden he's pulling up to standing. Just changing the placement of food on his highchair tray, and he's got the pincer grasp down like an old pro. It's blows my mind. It's freaking magic.

The funny part of it all is how much Avram has changed since our last therapy sessions in Chicago. He was still pretty dependent and generally immobile back then. It's amazing how much our new house has encouraged him to explore (Especially the carpet. Oh, wonderful, soft, fall-buffering carpet! It makes me forgive how industrial-looking you are.) and become independent. I set him down on the floor to play, and bam. He's gone. He's in a cabinet somewhere, or sliding down the hallway on his belly, or sitting at the front door looking at the window, or chatting it up with himself in a mirror somewhere. Just like that, he's all big and independent. I go check on him every few minutes and he always looks at me with surprise, like, "Oh, are you still here?"

Which is wonderful.

Except for during therapy.

Where Avram used to sit and (usually) happily comply with Baby Boot Camp, now he knows he can simply turn the other way and take off. "You want me to do that? No, no thank you. I'll see you later. Thanks for stopping by though. Nice seeing you, really."

Approximately half of our therapy time so far has consisted of me chasing him down and dragging him back to the therapist.

I tell you one thing, you have to have some solid self esteem for that job. Avram is a sweet guy, but when they say "bye bye," he claps.

"You're leaving? Oh thank God! Here, let me applaud you while you exit. I'm so happy this moment has come."

He's just started cruising, he's still army crawling. He hasn't said any words, he can't stack things or smash things together yet. He sends sippy cups soaring across the kitchen. But he's babbling, he's figuring out how to pull back a car and make it go, he's opening up cabinets. He's drinking out of cups (take that, stupid sippy cups). In reality, he's more like a 9-12 month old then a 17 month old.

To others it may seem that we are progressing at a snail's pace, that we are behind. "Delayed," as they're so fond of saying in the medical world. I see the look in people's eyes when we go out, wondering why this big guy isn't walking or doing the other things he looks old enough to be doing.

But in our little world, we are flying at the speed of ten thousand horses, stampeding through fields and woods, jumping over hurdles and roadblocks, running farther than anyone ever thought, or said, we could go.

The wind is at our back again, and the little buddy shall be victorious.

{a good place}

2011-08-15T15:01:00.001-05:00

Well, here we are. Back home.

I can't believe it's already been over a month since we moved in. It feels more like, you know, last week. We have managed to get quite a lot done: boxes are gone, pictures are hung, stuff is painted, furniture is placed. It's a little overwhelming to finally have a place to put everything; for so long we have been in compact-living mode. Having too many drawers to choose from is such a wonderful problem.

Jason started back to school today; he is teaching tenth grade English at Columbia City High School. Avram is all enrolled in Early Intervention for Indiana and we find out this week how often he will have therapy. He is feeding himself now, like a big show off, and claps for himself after every bite. Needless to say eating a meal takes a bit longer now. He is still doing his funky army crawl all over the place ( he is fast) and loves to stand up by himself. The poor guy wants to get moving so bad, if only his body would just cooperate. He also figured out how to open cabinets this week. Lucky me.

Our life has grown both quieter and noisier all at once. We still aren't quite used to there not being footsteps over our heads, or cigarette smoke wafting through the airways, or hearing music blaring at 2am. No more loud train rides, or horns honking, or flights of stairs to carry groceries up. It is so quiet, so peaceful.

But on the other hand, we are now adjusting to actually seeing people. Like, in person. Regularly. In Chicago, especially after Avram was born, many weeks the only people I saw other than J & Ave were the people at church. Now, we have grandparents in and out, friends to meet up with, brothers and sisters to go visit. I guess I can't get away with wearing my pjs around the house as much as I used to.

Truth be told, I love our increased social activity, because Avram is blossoming in it. Over the last six weeks he has become this totally different baby. Well, I can't even really say baby anymore, because he is looking more and more like a little boy. He is exploring every inch of our new home, becoming so independent and confident in his Adventure Man skills. He is smiling and babbling and interacting so much more. It's like he's been pushed out on to the stage in front of all these people, and he's so excited to show off his best song and dance. He beams.

All that is so wonderful, but it is also so hard. Like I said, we hardly spent time with very many people in Chicago, let alone babies. Now we have been thrust in to the dang Baby Capitol of the Universe. I swear there are more babies here than grown people. Every where we go, babies. And not just babies, but Mega Babies. It seems like there are suddenly hundreds of babies around, doing all of these things that Avram can't do yet; all these babies running around and saying full sentences and climbing on playgrounds and performing scientific experiments. I have always been aware of Ave's delay, but it has felt a little more...in my face.

My grandma frequently says, "What difference does it make when someone is 20 years old if they first walked when they were nine months old or eighteen months old?" I know there is a lot of wisdom there, and I know that he is going to do all of those things when he is ready to do them. Maybe because Chicago was so diverse, or because we spent so much time at Children's with other kids with big challenges, or because I was in denial, but it feels a little more like we stick out here, like other moms give us the "look" because our big buddy isn't walking yet (and he is BIG. Seriously, like bigger than some two-year olds.).

Despite my insecurities and fears being a little exposed over the last month, I have never been more excited and proud to be Jason's wife, to be Avram's mama. I've been hanging up a lot of pictures the last few weeks. Looking at some of our wedding pictures, I feel like I look so young, so naive, so blissfully unaware of the struggles and sorrows ahead. I hung some pictures from soon after Avram was born, and we look so tired, so fearful, so sad: our eyes give everything away. Then I started to hang up pictures from this summer, and I think I caught a glimpse of hope, of happiness, of peace in all our faces.

We are home,
we are together,
we are in a good place.

Photo by Betsy King

{the best of times, the worst of times}

2011-06-27T19:54:00.000-05:00

And just like that, Moving Week is upon us.

Last week we found out we were moving back to Fort Wayne, just the other day we were celebrating Avram's first birthday, yesterday we were packing for vacation. Or so it seems. Was my last blog seriously in May? Where has June gone?

Just two more days of being Chicago residents. Two more days. We tried to make a list of things we wanted to do in the city before we made the big move back home, but we ended up simply shrugging our shoulders indifferently. We really have done everything we would want to do in the city: ate at great restaurants, went sailing on the lake, toured all the museums and zoos, shopped downtown, rode the bike trails.

As excited I am about moving back to our hometown, there are definitely things I will miss about the city. The lake (I need to live by water again at some point in my life), great stores (Whole Foods, Trader Joes...just to name a few), the world-class museums, all the gorgeous parks, the diversity, being able to walk almost everywhere I need to go, the good friends we've made here.

But there are things we will not miss. In any capacity. Ever.

Like the constant linger of cigarette smoke, having traffic as life's soundtrack, psychos dropping cement blocks off our apartment rooftop onto innocent cars below (true story), cars exploding into flames outside our front window (also, true story), seeing more airplanes than stars in the sky, having my husband trapped on Lake Shore Drive, paying 10.25% sales tax, sitting next to a guy smoking pot on the train...

I could go on, but I'll spare you. Also, I have more boxes to pack.

We had some tough times here, probably our toughest times, but I think I will always remember our time here fondly. This is where J & I became our own family, where we first lived together, where we had a baby, where we paid our own bills. This is where our "mines" became "ours" and our "I's" became "us."

And for that, I will always love Chicago.

Indiana, we'll be home soon.

{the mezuzah}

2011-05-27T14:17:00.001-05:00

The boxes are really starting to pile up around here; it sort of feels like we're living in a giant refrigerator box. I can't believe it's been three years since I was packing up wedding presents in cardboard boxes, counting the days until our big move to Chicago. That seems like just yesterday.

With packing comes the task of pruning, of purging things we no longer use, or like, or want. Every last scrap of the apartment is put through the fire: "Have we ever even used this?" "Are you really ever going to read this book?" "Can we even fix that?"

There is an entire closet full of things that didn't pass the test, and will soon be on their way to new homes (which, if you're interested, I have wine glasses, lamp shades, craft stuff, etc etc etc if you'd like to buy them on the cheap. Sorry, shameless plug.). As I've been shuffling through all the stuff and carrying loads of junk in and out of doors, I happened to catch a glimpse of this:

It's been on the post of our front door ever since we moved in. I always had it in the back of my mind that I would look up exactly what it was, but that's exactly where the idea stayed...in the back of my mind. I decided today to ask my friend, Eric, if he knew what it was. And, being the good Messianic Jew that he is, he told me.

It's a mezuzah. In Jewish homes, the mezuzah is placed on the doorpost as a fulfillment of the Torah's commandment to inscribe the words of the schema "on the doorposts of your house" (Deut. 6:9). The mezuzah is a small case with a piece of parchment inside with the prayer Schima Yisrael written: "Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is one."

Pretty cool.

Then I started reading about how the mezuzah is placed at an angle, with the top pointing inside the door, signifying that the Lord's presence is entering the household. I looked up what the inscription on our case means in Hebrew: the writing, שדי, is an acronym for Shomer Daltot Yisrael, "Guardian of Israel's doors."

Sorry for the lesson in Jewish traditions, and I'm not trying to say I'm an honorary Jew or anything, but when I read that "Guardian of Israel's doors" has been posted on our door frame for the last year, well, it just...stopped me.

The Lord is guarding our door. Nothing is allowed in or out without His permission. No sickness, no hurt, no blessing, no person comes through the door of our life unless He allows it. Even when I doubt Him, when I am angry with Him, when I do not sense Him near, the Lord is guarding our door. Even though it feels like pain is rushing in like a flood, He is, still, always, guarding our door.

Our year in this apartment has been chaotic, frustrating, scary. I thought I would always remember this place as The Apartment I Called 911 In, or The Place Avram Had Seizures, but I think now I will remember it as The Place The Lord Guarded. Because even before we found this apartment, He knew we would live here, He knew what this year would hold.

He knew, and He guarded.

And He is One: He is the same today as He was yesterday, what He promised to do He will do.

He is One, He is good, and He is guarding our door.

{pieces of heaven}

2011-05-26T09:48:00.000-05:00

We are one month seizure-free. Hospital-stay free. It has been the longest stretch of peace (well, medically at least) we have had since February. Let the earth rejoice.

Avram has started this new thing where he runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck whenever I carry him. He is a lover. As soon as I pick him up, he starts to slowly run his chubby little fingers through strands of hair. Every once and awhile, he will turn, beam a big teethy smile, and wrap both of those chunky arms around my neck as tight as he can.

It is, undeniably, heaven on earth.

{ #30 }

2011-05-17T10:03:00.000-05:00

Well, it has officially been an entire month without a blog post, and what a month it has been: spring break, colds, birthday parties. I haven't posted anything mainly because I've just been exhausted from all the "excitement" the last five months have held. But I also haven't posted because there's only been one thing I've wanted to write about that I haven't been able to until today.

We are moving back home.

Back home to Fort Wayne.

On June 30th.

Yep, that's right, we're checking #30 off the list.

Jason got a job teaching tenth grade English at Columbia City, so we're packing our boxes and heading home.

I never would have imagined that I would be so relieved and excited to move back to Fort Wayne. Well, mostly relieved. I'm a little nervous not having the Children's Hospital nearby, especially after our bad experience at one of the hospitals in Fort Wayne over Christmas break. I'm also a teeny bit nervous about living close to all our family again; after all, we've had a pretty minimal social life the last year and a half, so we'll have to get used to not being hermits and, you know, seeing people. Like, in person.

Despite my small worries, I am relieved. The past year has been the hardest, most exhausting year of my life, and I am just relieved we will have so many family members around to help us carry the weight of it all. There was so much prayer put into this decision that I can't help but be anything be at peace. And relieved.

Avram has started saying "mama" this week, and is trying so hard to pull himself up to standing. He can hold on to the edge of the couch and do this little booty-dance all by himself. He's got some moves, man. When I watch him, I know that the best thing for him is to be surrounded by people who love him. As important as the right doctors are, having a family-worth of love is even more important.

Part of me is a little sad that J & I's adventure out in the world, all by ourselves, feels a little like it's over. For two years we were young newlyweds, living in the big city, packing up and heading out west if we felt like it, taking the train everywhere and riding our bikes along the lake. We were so independent, and then all of a sudden we are....grown-ups. Grown-ups moving back home, close to our parents, down the street from where we went to high school. where we learned to drive a car.

I know we have a lifetime of adventures ahead of us: a lifetime of family vacations and new jobs and more beautiful babies (although, I mean, they just don't make them any more beautiful than the buddy). I know that moving back to Fort Wayne in no means dictates that we are going to live a small life; I know that surrounded by so much love we are going to be able to do even more. I know that all the challenges and tears and frustrations of this past year have to lead up to something good, something beautiful, something better than we could ever imagine.

So, Indiana, we're coming home.

{knots}

2011-04-19T12:26:00.001-05:00

Just around the time I got pregnant, I picked up knitting. I'm not sure how and when my fascination with knitting began, but I suddenly had this incredible urge to knit stuff.

It was quite a process getting started: many afternoons J would come home to find me tangled in a ball of yarn on the couch, determined to figure out a stitch. I watched videos, read books, solicited lessons from my mother-in-law.

I was amazed to learn that knitting is, essentially, the art of tying knots. A hand-knit scarf is just hundreds and hundreds of tiny knots strung together.

A week from today, Avram will celebrate his first birthday. How is that possible? In many ways, it seems like that magical day I saw him for the first time was actually decades, centuries ago. Another lifetime. But it also feels like it was just yesterday he was trying solid food for the first time, or starting therapy, or sitting up on his own. He has magically transformed from a little slug baby into this tiny person.

This has, hands down, been the best year of my life. How could I have possibly known how much love my heart could hold for a small, stinky baby? There are millions of moments from the past year that I wish I could have bottled up and stored away to have forever.

But at the same time, this has been the hardest year of my life. I have never cried so hard, worried so uncontrollably, feared so deeply, slept so little. We have become well acquainted with doctors, hospitals, health insurance customer service representatives, medicines...emergency rooms.

I am trying to believe that the worst is behind us, that there are good things before us, that this year has only left Avram stronger and his future brighter...his story richer.

I am choosing to believe that the hundreds of tiny knots, the twists and tangles, are being woven into something beautiful; that they are not the whole story. When a blanket is hand-knit, every inch of thread has to pass through the knitter's fingertips, and I am choosing to believe that not one second of this past year has fallen from the Knitter's hands.

It may seem like chaos and pain to us now, but I am choosing to believe that He is taking all these knots, all this mess, and knitting us into something beautiful.

"If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dan, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, 'Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,' even the darkness will not be dark to You; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to You.

For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

Psalm 139:9-14

{when it rains...}

2011-04-07T13:00:00.001-05:00

...it pours. And pours.

Avram had a two and a half hour seizure yesterday.

Two and a half hours.

It finally stopped right before the doctors had to give him the medicine that makes it difficult to breathe. They had the breathing tubes and suction and oxygen right by his bed...and then it stopped.

Thank God. It stopped.

Guess we got our scheduled monthly disaster in early for April.

I'm not such a big fan of 2011 so far.

We really, really need some of those May flowers after all these endless showers.

Endless showers.

{tiny red balloon}

2011-03-29T10:59:00.000-05:00

Somewhere deep in my chest, in the center of my rib cage, in the space between my lungs, is a tiny red balloon.

Most of the time it is deflated: just hanging, empty, unnoticed.

But whenever Avram cries too hard, or is too quiet during breakfast, it puffs up just a little. When he is fussy or has a slight fever, it inflates a little more.

When I stupidly google information about his conditions, a little more air gets blown in. When he misses a milestone or doesn't want to do his exercises, the balloon gets bigger still.

When he has a seizure, the balloon sucks up all the air in my body and fills my chest.

Little by little the tiny puffs blow up the tiny red balloon, until I can't breathe, or think, or eat. It squeezes my lungs and makes my mind race and tightens up all the tiny muscles in my neck.

But then I have a good cry with God, and the balloon deflates a little. I read some Psalms, or the Book of John, and it deflates a little more.

I hug my husband and rest my head on his shoulder, and the balloon gets smaller still.

I see that baby smile, I hear him laugh, I watch him slide like a snake all over the apartment, I taste his apple juice-flavored cheeks, and I forget, once again, about the tiny balloon.

It's always there, and I doubt it ever won't be. I am learning that life is much more little-by-little than big leaps at a time. Little by little the tiny red balloon becomes tinier, and tinier.

Little by little.

{sitting, watching, waiting}

2011-03-23T12:30:00.001-05:00

Well, here we are at the hospital again.

Tuesday morning I got up, happy that the little man had slept through the night after our recent battles with the evil Night Terrors. He was still quiet when I got up, so I made a quick phone call to my dad and mentioned that Avram was sleeping in late. As soon as I hung up the phone I started to worry, so I went in to check on him.

I walked in to find him covered in vomit, staring in to space.

I called 911.

He was responsive, but limp, and at my first-very-panicky-glance it looked like there was blood in his vomit. The firetruck and ambulance came screaming down our street, and before I knew it I was standing in my foyer, still dressed in pjs, crying, handing my baby over to three giant firemen.

I must have looked like a real nut job.

The paramedics checked out his throw-up and took Avram's vitals, meanwhile telling me to put some real clothes on and pack a diaper bag. They decided that his vitals were stable, the dark junk in his vomit was not blood, and that he was responsive, and told me that they would let J & I take him to the emergency room on our own if we wanted. J came home from work and we rushed him in to the children's hospital.

We spent the next nine hours in a closet-sized room in the ER while they took just about every possible fluid from Avram's poor body: blood, urine, snot, spinal fluid. After a CT scan and series of x-rays the neurosurgeon came in to tell us that Ave's shunt was fine, which was my biggest concern. Vomiting, fever, and irritability can be signs that his shunt is either malfunctioning or infected; which, if that was the case, he would have been rushed in to surgery. So, knowing that his shunt was ok made us feel a lot better.

Sort of.

He wasn't keeping anything down: milk, pedialyte...nothing. His fever stayed at 102 for most of the morning, and nothing would console him. He cried all day, refusing to sleep.

At 7:30pm the hospital admitted us and took us upstairs to our room. Avram took a bottle, promptly brought it back to the surface, and then drifted off to sleep.

J went back home for the night, since the hospital only allows one parent to sleep over. With the buddy sleeping soundly, I tried to settle in for the night. Unfortunately, I apparently do not weigh enough to keep the fold-out chairs in the bed position: each time I stretched out & snoozed off, the bed would snap back into chair form, like that old Donald Duck cartoon.

So far the doctors think he just has a bad virus: a really swollen throat, ear infection, that sort of thing. They have him on fluids, an antibiotic, and some Tylenol for his throat. Poor guy still can't bear to eat or drink anything. Thankfully, he's sleeping now.

I love Children's Memorial. I honestly do. The doctors are patient, always answer our questions thoroughly, and never make us feel like we're just another item on their to-do list. The nurses are helpful, kind, and check on us frequently. My only frustration has been Avram's discomfort. Since 2pm yesterday he has either been sleeping or crying: much more the latter than the former. He is inconsolable.

I have had a hard time being patient with the doctors when their only answer is to run more tests, to keep an eye on him. I want him to stop crying. I don't want him to be in pain. Give him something so he's not in pain, doc! Do whatever you have to do to find out what's wrong, but let him get some rest already.

I am trying to be patient. I am trying to be Avram's best advocate while letting the doctors do their jobs. I am trying to remember that God is a builder and not a magician.

I want them to fix the symptoms, they want to find the source.

I want a temporary fix, but they want a permanent solution.

So we wait.

He is sleeping now, so we are sitting. Sitting, watching, waiting.

{waiting for morning}

2011-03-14T12:21:00.001-05:00

Last week was rough.

It wasn't like one big thing dropped, but a lot of tiny things piled up until I just couldn't see the sky anymore. It's always an adjustment coming back to Chicago after traveling, and then Avram had his tiny seizure on Wednesday morning. Then he had night terrors. Every. Single. Night.

Shooting out of bed to the sound of my ten-month-old is screaming at two in the morning probably tops the list of Least Favorite Ways to Wake Up.

As she has many times, my mom came to the rescue this weekend and took care of the little buddy so J & I could get out of the house and breathe for awhile. Having that time to ourselves this weekend has just made the start of this week so much easier.

Last night we only had one night terror episode, a vast improvement from the 4-5 he's been having each night. Going in to soothe him during one of these episodes is just down right bizarre. He's screaming at the top of his lungs, but he's still asleep. Waking him up only startles him more, so we're supposed to just make sure he doesn't hurt himself and gently rub his back. It's hard to imagine someone still sleeping while crying loud enough to probably wake up everyone in our building, but he does. And it's not like he cries for five or six minutes, it's usually 15 or 20. So weird.

Supposedly he might have them for a week or so and then stop. Fingers & toes crossed on that one.

What is possibly even more amazing that Avram's ability to sleep through his screams is that he is still his happy, charming little self during the day. His favorite "toy" right now is his box of wipes. He has figured out how to open up the top and pull out the wipes one by one.

So, this morning, he had pulled out a wipe and started to chew on it.

I said, "No." and gently pulled his hands from his mouth. He smiled, then started to eat the wipe again.

"No."

Smile, eat.

"No."

Smile, giggle, eat.

"No."

Belly laugh.

This tiny man is definitely going to give me a run for my money.

I am just amazed that he can have such a rough night and then be so happy during the day. Lately it seems that just one foul play will mess me up for days. Maybe I've gone soft, maybe I'm letting the Bad things win, maybe I just need a good kick in the pants. Whatever it is, I'm a little grateful for the Night Terrors this week. Because no matter how fear-filled or restless Avram's nights are, his days are always overflowing with joy.

No matter how dark the night, morning always comes.

No matter how dark the night, the light is always brighter.

Maybe I just needed to be reminded of that this week.

"Still, if you set your heart on God and reach out to Him, if you scrub your hands of sin & refuse to entertain evil, you'll be able to face the world unashamed and keep a firm grip on life, guiltless and fearless.

You'll forget your troubles; they'll be like old, faded photographs. Your world will be washed in sunshine, every shadow dispersed by dayspring.

Full of hope, you'll relax, confident again; you'll look around, sit back, and take it easy."

Job 11:12-18, The Message

{ jinxed }

2011-03-10T11:33:00.001-06:00

I just need to keep my big mouth shut.

Less than a week after the Sun-Times article came out, Avram had his first seizure.

Two days after I mentioned that we were officially two months seizure free, Avram had his third seizure.

Yes, Avram had his third seizure this week. It was tiny, almost unnoticeable. If he hadn't been sitting in his high chair, I may not have even noticed it. Just after breakfast his right foot started twitching, and I had to administer the emergency seizure medicine since it continued for over five minutes. Then, he was happy and continued about his business. It was really, really strange: to have part of Ave's body just spazz out, then having to stick something up his rear to have it stop.

I'm frustrated. Frustrated because the medicine was supposed to keep this from happening, because we have never missed a dose. Frustrated because we were told what to do, we did it, and it didn't work. Frustrated because this probably means he'll be on medicine longer than expected.

This is not what is supposed to happen.

Obviously, I'm not being a very good Christian about all this today. I'm just a little peeved today. A little human and a little pissed off and a little disappointed. I want God to fix this, and I want Him to fix it now. I don't like this. One bit.

We're taking Avram to the Children's Hospital in a little bit just to make sure his shunt is ok. Hopefully we'll be home later this afternoon.

**Update: shunt is good. It was probably the emergency seizure medicine that made him super fussy again last night, but we're still keeping an eye on him. He's good. And after a little time in Psalms, mom is better, too. Still peeved & anxious, but better.

{30 by 30}

2011-02-28T11:07:00.002-06:00

I turn twenty five this week. Twenty five.

A couple months ago J & I were talking about my upcoming birthday, and he warned me about the life-questioning that would soon settle in. He was very sincere, but it all just sounded a little too cliche; you know, all that "what am I doing with my life?" and "who am I?" business. C'mon.

Well folks, here I am: wondering who I am and what I'm doing with my life and where this is all going. My quarter-life crisis, if you will.

The first half of my twenties was fantastic: I lived in Atlanta, had an awesome job as a youth pastor, was in several of my closest friends' weddings. I met a guy, fell in love, had the perfect wedding, had a beautiful baby. I finished my associates degree, I sang at some pretty big worship events, I visited my first national park.

Now that I'm staring down the barrel at the last half of my twenties, I decided I wanted to make a list of things to accomplish by the big 3-0. I debated whether or not to share it, then I thought...oh, what the heck. Some of them are silly, some are a little personal, some are admittedly challenging, but this is The List. I know that checking these items off in no way assures that I will magically be transformed into the person I want to be or that my existence will somehow be more meaningful. I just know that life is getting crazier by the day, and if I don't write things down, they just might get lost in the shuffle.

So ladies and gentlemen, I present you with my list (in no particular order).

1. Read Lord of the Rings. I just need to.

2. Run a marathon. I know. So does everybody.

3. Learn how to change a tire.

4. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Mainly because I just want to drive my brother's MG.

5. Go to the Johnny Appleseed Festival. As unbelievable as this may sound, I grew up in Fort Wayne and managed to never go. It's one of the biggest things Fort Wayne has, and I have never been. Time to change that.

6. Make a quilt. A real one. I've made blankets, but I want to make a real-deal quilt. I think I'll make one for Avram's bed as he graduates to a bigger bed.

7. Plant a vegetable garden. One of my favorite childhood memories is helping my dad with the garden, and I can't wait for our little family to have one of our own.

8. Learn how to can veggies. Obviously closely related to item #7. With produce prices on the the rise, I want to help our family make as much of our own food as possible. I really want to teach our kids where food comes from and how precious of a gift it really is.

9.Get a bicycle. Ok, so I had one. How it ceased to exist is a funny story for another time. We're really looking forward to family bike rides in the next few years, so having my own bicycle is pretty essential.

10. Get paid to do something. As in, you know, a job. I've never been more clueless as to what I want to "do," but I am understanding more and more that I will never be defined by my occupation. Regardless, I want to bring home some bacon. No idea what that means yet, but I want to at least have an idea in the next five years.

11. Get my bachelor's degree. This is probably the most challenging one of all, considering Avram won't be in school all day until I'm 30. Also because I have no idea what I will major in. Regardless, it's on the list.

12. Learn how to crochet. I'm a knitting machine. Apparently crocheting is easier than knitting. I'd like to see for myself.

13. Take a photography class/learn how to use a real camera. This one also includes purchasing a nicer camera. I love our little Canon Powershot, but as Avram gets older and we have more tiny people running around, I really want to be able to capture as much as I can. I have no idea what I'm doing right now; I just push buttons and keep taking pictures until it looks, um, alright.

14. Read the Bible. A lot of people make it their goal to read the entire Bible in a year. I think that's great and all, but that's a lot of serious reading for one year. I read the whole Bible in a summer once, and I remembered zilch. If you're flying through the Bible that fast, how much are you really absorbing? Maybe it works for some people. I want to take the next five years and read the whole sucker; I want to take my time and eat up every word.

15. Go kayaking. I've been canoeing, whitewater rafting, paddle-boating...time to give kayaking a shot.

16. Go cross-country skiing. ...why not?

17. Buy my own power tools. I just need to own a drill. And a really sweet staple gun. And a saw. And a nail gun. And...

18. Finish the American Film Institute Top 100 Movies. J & I started the list about three years ago, and we're more than halfway done. It will probably take us another two years to finish. Then, we'll probably start all over again. They're that good.

19. Start assembling a real wardrobe. I need to start putting together a grown-up's closet. Preferrably one that does not include sweatpants purchased in the kids' section. Or any items that I wore in high school. Or anything from Forever 21. I honestly think this will be the second hardest item on the list, because I'm tiny. And not a whole lot of adult stores carrying clothes for tiny people. But I shall not yield.

20. Take a trip with just my husband. Our five year anniversary will be in 2013, and I'm hoping we can take a real trip together. Not just somewhere for the weekend (which we will undoubtably do), but a real trip together.

21. Use my passport. Between the ages of 10 and 20, I traveled to more foreign countries than many people do in their entire lifetime. Israel, Northern Ireland, Haiti, Scotland, Germany, France, Switzerland. Want to know how many times I've left the country since I turned 20? ZERO. This could also go with item #20, because Jason has never been out of the country, and I'm excited to take him somewhere. Even if it's Canada.

22. Record my dad telling stories. Being a good storyteller is very important in our family, and my dad is a real show off. He can tell a story like no one else. Jason has pointed out that Paul & I will let my dad tell a story we've all heard at least a dozen times just to hear him tell it. I wish we had recordings of my grandpa telling stories, because sometimes I would love to hear his voice again. I really want to start a project of recording my dad telling stories about my grandpa, his childhood, my brother & me as kids...so someday, maybe our grandkids or great-grandkids can hear what a great storyteller he was.

23. Take a trip with my mom. My mom is one of my favorite people to hang out with. And no one deserves a vacation more than she does. One of my favorite childhood vacations was when my mom and I went to Florida together, and I hope we can travel somewhere together in the next five years.

24. Have an article published in a magazine. Dreaming big here, people.

25. Have another baby (or two). Yep.

Visit:

26. Brown County

27. Sleeping Bear Dunes

28. Glacier National Park

29. Jenn in Nebraska. Jenn, one of my BFFs, moved to Lincoln, Nebraska this year. I visited her when she lived in Detroit, in New Hampshire, and in Pennsylvannia, so it just makes sense!

30. Move back to Fort Wayne. Hopefully this will be the first item checked off. If you would have asked me ten years ago if I wanted to live in Fort Wayne, I probably would have laughed. And rolled my eyes. Now, there's nowhere else we would rather live, and I'm willing to do just about anything to make sure it happens.

There are a lot of things I want to do in the next five years that are not on this list, but these are things I really want to see happen. Maybe they will, maybe they won't.

What matters the most is that I have my little family, that we're all healthy, that we're happy: and so far we've got those things, so my road to 30 is off to a pretty good start.

{mary poppins & therapy balls}

2011-02-18T13:03:00.000-06:00

We are heading back to Fort Wayne this weekend, so our morning has been filled with bag-packing, trash-emptying, refrigerator-cleaning, and don't-forget-this-reminders. I definitely do not have packing a family of three down to an art; somehow despite my best efforts to simplify we always depart with a car full of junk we probably won't need.

Amidst all the hustle and bustle around here, there have been countless tiny celebrations the last few days. Avram is back in Physical Therapy and has officially kicked off Occupational Therapy. I have to admit, I love our physical therapists, but OT is so much fun.

For one, our therapist comes with this huge duffel bag full of toys, like she's Mary Poppins or something. It's a never ending supply of bright, blinking, noisy things to bash together and chew on and throw across the room. Also, Ave gets to use a neon green therapy ball. It. Is. Awesome. He bounces on it, rolls on it, smacks it...don't even get me started on how fun it is to roll it back and forth with him. When he sees it bouncing his direction he just throws his head back with giggles, wild with abandon. The babe is in love.

Possibly the best part about Occupational Therapy is that it hardly feels like therapy. It's more like guided play time. Physical Therapy is work, man. I mean, it's Baby Boot Camp for crying out loud. He has to roll and do sit ups and all these fancy balancing exercises. Tough stuff, kids.

It has been so encouraging the last few days to see the results of just one week of the Big Guy being back in therapy. Other people might not notice, but he seems like a different baby every week. J & I can see so many changes in him: how he holds his toys, how he uses his arms, the way he reacts to things, how much confidence he has, how strong he is getting. I mean, just five months ago he was this Slug Baby, unable to even hold his head up. Now he's rolling all over the place, sitting up on his own, getting into all kinds of trouble.

I think I'm finally get God's drift in all this. I've fought and questioned Him every step of the way: from helmets to therapy to medicine...but He has yet to fail us, yet to let us down. If I am learning anything through all of this, it is definitely that I do not always know what is best. With each new path He takes us down, I am seeing His wisdom, I am learning to trust Him. There are so many of the right people in Avram's life right now, so many hands on the banks of the river. We are where we are supposed to be for this moment.

We need a good year, and it is certainly shaping up to be just that.

{shouts of joy}

2011-02-11T08:46:00.001-06:00

I may need to work on my reactions.

Two days ago, Ave used his right hand instead of his left hand. For the first time.

I yelled, "Good job!!!!"

Yesterday, the little booger took a piece of cereal in his fingers, brought it up to his mouth, and ate it. All by himself.

I shouted, "YES!" and then burst into tears.

Both times, the buddy's eyes widened like a spooked little owl, and he spent a couple seconds deciding if he was going to cry or laugh. Luckily he chose the latter, and we had quite the gigglefest afterwords. Regardless, I probably need to tone down my excitement over new accomplishments, at least as far as my volume is concerned.

Otherwise, the next time he starts to try something new he'll probably stop and think,

"Well, I really want to crawl over there and gnaw on that shoe. But if I do, that crazy lady will probably get all worked up and make a big scene about it. I should probably just stay here."

Avram, redecorating the living room for me

{we survived}

2011-02-09T10:27:00.002-06:00

What. A. Week.

I have to admit that I ate my words.

Last Monday I scoffed at the weather reports that this blizzard would be one of the worst in Chicago's history. Yeah. Psh. Right.

On Tuesday, my husband was sitting in his car for 11 hours on Lake Shore Drive, trapped by 70mph winds, 24 inches of snow, and hundreds of abandoned vehicles.

Our poor car was in there, somewhere.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Jason was one of the thousands of motorists forced to finally abandon their cars on Lake Shore. He left school at 3pm, as soon as he was allowed to leave; which was, of course, the exact same time the blizzard hit Chicago. He called me at 5pm to say it would be a couple hours. He called at 7:30pm to say two more hours. He called at 8:30pm to say he was probably spending the night in his car.

Once, J got out of his car to scrape the ice off his windshield. When he got back in the car, he discovered that he had sand in his hair and on his face. The wind was rocking the car back and forth hard enough that he actually thought it was going to tip over. The lake had 20-foot waves, threatening to flood Lake Shore Drive.The snow piled up until was level with the car windows. Scary stuff, people.

After 11 hours in his car, two and a half hours on public transit, and half an hour walking a mile in the snow to our apartment, J got home at 4:15am.

We finally got a hold of 311 on Wednesday night, and were told that our car was "either in the parking lot at Wilson or somewhere on the Fullerton ramp." Helpful. J finally found our poor little Toyota in the parking lot at Foster: covered in two inches of ice and the engine packed full of snow.

As is the case in many natural (and unnatural) disasters, mankind's best was brought out: J found himself amazed by the selflessness and compassion of strangers. Two different families let them use their cell phone, strangers walked up and down the road passing out bottled water and granola bars. He spoke highest of the firefighters who spent hour after hour outside in the wind and freezing temperatures: carrying those requiring medical attention away on snowmobiles, helping people push their cars, knocking on each car window to offer their assistance.

And, unfortunately, as is also the case in disasters, it brought out the worst in some. We couldn't believe when the city came out saying that it was the motorists' fault for getting stuck out there: especially when it was the city buses that caused the back-ups in the first place. Witnessing the corruption and inefficiency of the public school system over the last three years has been pretty disheartening, but then seeing the city so quick to place the blame on its own citizens was just very, very sad.

All that to say, I have had to set aside my frustration with the city this week and try to apply that cheesy, over-used Ghandi quote about being the change you want to see in the world and all that gushy stuff. If I'm going to criticize the way Chicago's public officials handled Snowmageddon, I need to reevaluate how I react to the bad, the negative, the tiny disasters.

I can be pretty quick to shuffle off the blame, to point fingers, to look for the easy way out. This week was a good reminder to our little family that showing grace and kindness is always, always the road to choose, that there is goodness left in mankind.

Oh, and that keeping a blanket or two in the car is a very, very good idea.

Our street, post-Snowmageddon

{state of the beers address}

2011-02-01T09:39:00.004-06:00

Well, we are all hunkered down for the Blizzard of the Century here: flashlights powered, shelves and fridge stocked, medicines refilled and blankets on the ready. The grocery store was out of shovels last night, so my ever-industrious husband made one out of a storage tub lid, duct tape, and broom. Bring it on, Snowmageddon '11.

While I'm sitting here waiting for our apartment to be transformed into an igloo, I thought I would offer a quick update to let everyone know that we are still alive up here. It's been a much-too exciting start to the new year (nothing says "Happy New Year" like meeting your out-of-pocket maximum less than two weeks in to January), so we've just sort of been lying low lately. You know, watching re-runs of The Office and eating a lot of frozen pizza.

I took Ave for a check-up with his neurologist last week. This man is nearly impossible to book an appointment with. After Ave's seizures we really needed to get in to see him, but his next available appointment in the city was in April. Seriously?

So, we had to drive an hour and a half, in the snow, to the south suburbs last Thursday to see Dr.Taco. He was sporting his usual attire: fluorescent green Hawaiian shirt, slicked back mullet, Mickey Mouse stethoscope. All in all, he had nothing but encouraging things to say. He said that Avram is more than likely to outgrow the seizures than to keep having them; at some point they should stop. We are going to stay on the Keppra (which is, ironically, the same medicine my dad takes. They're anti-seizure med buds now.) for a year and then wean him off to see what happens. I can't say I'm a big fan of trial-and-error medicine when it comes to my baby, but they're the pros. Neurology is not one of my leisurely hobbies so I guess my job here is to trust.

I also learned that I should say he has "Cortical Dysgenesis" instead of "Schizencephaly." Tomatoes, tomah-toes.

Not only does he have the Keppra, but they also gave us a prescription for an emergency rectal dose of a medicine to stop seizures. Chalk that up for another thing to freak out potential babysitters.

"Ok, here is a list of all 10 signs his shunt may be malfunctioning. If you think that's happening, call us right away. If you can't reach us, call the Neurosurgery On-Call Pager. If you can't reach them, go to the Emergency Room. If he has a seizure lasting 5 minutes or longer, put this up his rear-end. Then, call the Neurology On-Call Pager. If you can't reach them, call this number for the Children's Hospital. If you can't reach them, go to the Emergency Room. Here are the instructions for his medicine, which he needs to take between 7-7:30pm tonight. And just in case, here are the numbers for his Pediatrician, Physical Therapist, Occupational Therapist, Neurologist, Neurosurgeon, and Ophthalmologist."

So whooo wants to babysit?

I wonder what parents normally leave with the sitter. What, like the Poison Control number?

Anyways. Back to the update.

We took Avram to see Dr.Rob Bell for his nine-month check up on Saturday, and that appointment also went swimmingly well. I'm just crazy about this pediatrician. I mean, the guy had on a watch made from Legos. And he rides his bike to work everyday. And he makes the most fantastically corny jokes. So endearing.

Our little man is now 31 inches tall and weighs 22 and half pounds, putting him in the 94th% for height and 85th% for weight. Thatta boy.

The appointment went like almost exactly like all our appointments with the pediatrician have gone: the doctor comes in, sits down, and just talks with us for half an hour. Avram pulls out his Frank Sinatra routine and babbles and smiles the whole time, just charming everybody half to death; then Dr.Rob Bell makes jokes about him being malnourished.That's usually Avram's cue to spit up all over the floor, but we managed to skip that scene this month.

Then, the nurse came in to give him his shots. She took one look at him and said,

"Wow, he's got a lot of stripes on. He looks like he should be in prison."

"....what?"

People say the most bizarre things.

Probably the most exciting news I have to share is that the little man started sitting up all by himself this month. He has officially graduated from Slug Baby status. He gets so pleased with himself while he's sitting that he does these terrific little bounces and starts flapping his arms up and down, like he's about to take flight. He's becoming a professional roller as well, and when he gets stuck underneath a chair or against the couch he finds it absolutely hi-larious.

I really needed something good to happen this month, and something very, very good has happened.

Anyways. All that to say, we are doing just fine. Jason is successfully making connections to find a job back in our hometown for this fall, I'm planning on scouring our apartment of all things unnecessary in preparation for (hopefully) moving this summer. The Lord has been kind enough to put the perfect doctors along the banks of the river for us here in Chicago, but I think in the long run having family close by is a infinitely more important than having the right doctors close by. We just need to be back around our family. And I mean, let's be honest, who else is going to babysit?

The big sitter, nine months old

{two thousand and lovin'}

2011-01-21T10:46:00.000-06:00

Even though it has officially been 2011 for over a few weeks, it is just now starting to feeling like the new year for me. Celebrating the holidays back in Fort Wayne sort of delays the feeling of a fresh start: it seems to kick in once we are settled back in to things here in Chicago.

I don't know if I have ever been more ready for a year to be over. What a crazy year. This was, in some ways, the best year of my life. I mean, I had a baby. An actual baby. How crazy is that? I gave life to another human being this year. That blows my mind. We moved into an awesome apartment. I started writing again. J finished his poetry collection. Good things.

But this year has also, in many ways, been the worst year of my life. Discouraging doctors appointments. Scary hospital stays. Surgeries, seizures, hours of physical therapy. I spent a lot of time worrying this year. A lot of time afraid, uncertain.

I also had to sing a Miley Cyrus song, while eight months pregnant and unable to breathe, with Joel Houston sitting five feet in front of me. The entire time I was silently praying, "Oh Lord Jesus, if You love me, please do not let my water break in front of Joel Houston. Please don't let my water break in front of Joel Houston."

Not sure what category that experience falls under. Anyways.

This week I cleaned out all our closets, scrubbed down the whole apartment, and even went all Britney Spears on myself and chopped off eight inches of my hair. I needed last year off of my shoulders, I needed the stuff of yesterday chopped off, I needed the remains of last year cut away. And let me tell you, it feels good.

I've never been one to really make New Years resolutions. I've heard that you actually have a greater chance of fulfilling your resolutions if you don't tell people what they are. Who knows.

If I were to make resolutions, they would be very simple. Something like,

This year, I will be kinder to myself, to my body.

This year, I will choose to see the good: in every person, in every situation, in myself.

This year, I will take one. Day. At. A. Time.

This year, I will do more of the things I love, spend more time with the people I love.

This year, I will find Jesus afresh, in new ways, in new faces, in quiet moments.

This year, I will love my husband, and I will love my little guy: with homemade chocolate chip cookies and handmade scarfs and lots of snuggles.

I may not be able to quit eating Oreos or work out everyday or learn Italian this year. But these things, I can do these things. I can love. No matter what happens with J's job, or Avram's health, or where our friends move or how crazy family can be...this year, I can love. I can cut away the bad and make something beautiful with it.

2010, good-bye and good riddance.

2011, let's do it.

For your viewing pleasure, our 2010 video. Music courtesy of Mumford & Sons and Feist.

2010 from Cassie Beer on Vimeo.

{a letter}

2011-01-13T09:21:00.000-06:00

Dearest Avram,

At 12:45am on Tuesday you woke up screaming, which was very unusual for you. Your dad and I were up for two hours trying everything we knew to try to console you; we even gave you a bath. When nothing worked, we called your pediatrician and he told us to take you to the hospital. Of course, once we put you in the car seat and took off, you fell right to sleep. We tried to wake you up once we got to the hospital, but you just wanted to sleep. We thought you must be fine or maybe just had bad gas, so we turned around and drove back home.

Once we parked on our street I picked you up out of your car seat, being careful not to wake you up.

And then you started to seize.

We drove back to the hospital. Fast.

After two days and a whole lot of tests, the doctors decided that the schizencephaly is causing your seizures, and that for now you should be on daily medicine. Medicine that makes you sleepy, and grouchy. It stops the seizures, yes. But so far you just don't seem like you, and I am hoping, praying that will change.

You will never remember the last two days, but I will never forget them. I will never forget the feeling of my heart in my throat as we drove back to the hospital, or how limp your poor, tired little body felt in my arms as I ran into the emergency room with you. I will never forget how helpless you looked, lying on the hospital bed hooked up to all those monitors and IVs, or how desperately I wanted to take all your pain away.

I will never forget rocking you to sleep in your hospital room, with tears running down my face, asking God how He could let this happen, how I was supposed to not be mad at Him right now, how He was planning on fixing all of this. Asking Him to help me trust, to help us be good parents, to give the doctors wisdom. To heal you.

I will never forget the relief I felt when you opened your eyes and smiled and started babbling away.

I will never forget, but you will never remember. You will not remember this pain, this exhaustion. You will not remember the doctors, or the nurses, or the tests. You will hear us tell doctors about it when they ask about your medical history, or when we tell stories about it years and years from now, when it will all seem like a bad dream...but you will not remember. And for that, I am grateful.

You may not remember all of this, but it is shaping who you will be for the rest of your life. I believe that all of this will make you more a tune to the pains and needs of others, and teach you to be kinder, more compassionate to everyone. I believe all of this is making you tough as nails, making you strong, able to handle whatever life throws your way with grace and patience. I believe all of this is making you grateful for the life you have, grateful for every blessing God grants, grateful for the things you do have and not anxious about the things you don't. And I believe God is teaching me to be all these things through you, and you are teaching me so much: you never complain or fuss, you never worry, you are only interested in the present moment, you are unfailingly kind.

I believe the medicine is temporary. I believe you will outgrow these seizures. I believe that you will keep exceeding the doctors' expectations by leaps and bounds and miles. I don't believe that you are going to live a normal life: I believe you will live an extraordinary one. I believe that you will grow up with an amazing story of Grace, of Healing, of Hope.

I love you with every bone and fiber in my body, with all the force of the universe, and I am infinitely proud of you: of what you have been through, of who you are, and of who you are going to become.

Love,

your mama

{still}

2010-12-30T09:41:00.002-06:00

Monday morning, Avram and I woke up, ate breakfast, and drove to my friend Jenn's house.

And then he had a seizure.

The world stopped.

Getting bad news while I was pregnant was scary. Watching Ave sleep in the NICU was scary. Brain surgery was scary.

But this was no longer a baby we were just starting to get to know. This was our baby now. Our guy. The Little Buddy. The Drool Monster. Our son.

And it took "scary" to a whole new level.

We are home now, and Avram genuinely seems like his normal, charming self. Wakes up laughing and smiling, is putting away solids like it's his job, still propped-sitting and rolling over, sleeping well. We still don't know what caused the seizure, so we are a little on edge.

Thank you all for the emails, visits, messages, texts, and calls; thank you even more for your prayers. At first I felt so defeated knowing this beautiful article had just been published, and thousands of people had just heard Avram's testimony. I felt like his miraculous story had been tainted, stolen from him. But I slowly realized that Ave now has a support network numbering in the thousands, he has people praying for him all over the country. What the enemy has meant for destruction, surely the Lord is now working out for Good, for Healing, for Peace.

I could retell the story scene by scene, but to be honest I am exhausted: mentally, physically, emotionally...and all I have to say is that, in the blink of an eye, a lot of things that once seemed like a big deal were no longer important. Gift cards, new clothes, party plans, feeling plump from too many goodies, hurt feelings, blog hits, family feuds...suddenly nothing in the world mattered except one thing:

Our baby.

Heading into the New Year, we have our baby--still healthy, still happy, still here--so we have everything we need. We are still waiting, still watching, still hoping, still believing. And in the mean time, we have everything we need.

Everything.

Ave sleeping in the hospital

{read all about it}

2010-12-22T06:29:00.001-06:00

A dear family friend, Sandy Thorn Clark, came to Jason & me a couple months ago. She knew all about Avram's little journey so far and wanted to write a story about him for the Chicago Sun Times. Sandy felt that our story was worth sharing, that it might offer other people a little bit of hope this Christmas.

We agreed.

This morning, I woke up to see the Little Buddy's face in the newspaper. He's just so dreamy. Usually it's really exciting to see your name in print, to be featured in the newspaper. It feels like such a big deal, you know?

But to be honest, a big part of me wishes that Avram didn't already have a story worth being told in print, that his 8 months of life weren't extraordinary enough to be featured in a major newspaper. If I could have any say in it, I would rather he live a very normal, very quiet life as a baby.

But Someone had other plans.

And if someone can read this article today and be reminded to see a little bit of good amidst all the junk in the world, if an expecting mother can read this and find peace, if someone who was just handed a bad diagnosis can find some comfort and hope, if Avram can read this years from now and how special he is... then I'm pretty ok with it.

Click here to read the article online, or be a good Chicagoan and pick up a print edition while you're out Christmas shopping today.

Sandy, you did a beautiful job. Thank you for helping us tell our story.

{one year ago today}

2010-12-16T11:59:00.003-06:00

One year ago today, I shot out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning: by the end of the day we would know if our little peanut was a boy or girl.

One year ago today, I watched my husband's eyes fill with tears as he saw that precious baby's heartbeat for the first time.

And then, I saw the ultrasound technician's face crease with concern, and I heard the gravity in my doctor's voice.

One year ago today, I called my parents, who were expecting a phone call of joy and celebration. I had to tell them, while choking on tears, that something was wrong with our baby boy.

One year ago today, I laid on a table in a Level II Ultrasound room, clutching J's hand so hard I felt like I would fall through the floor if I let go.

One year ago today, I let God have it. I prayed the most angry, questioning, fear-filled, doubt-filled, frustrated, pleading prayer I have ever offered up.

One year ago today, they told us this baby wasn't worth keeping.

One year ago today, I didn't think I would ever see today.

But today.

Today.

Today, I woke up to the sound of a babbling baby, giggling in his crib.

Today, I watched my seven-month old bubba roll across the living room floor all by himself.

And I saw the joy in his face, the ever-growing curiosity in his eyes.

Today, I talked to Avram's physical therapist, who said that everything he is doing is age-appropriate, who said that he is her only patient who does something new every time she sees him.

Today, I laid on the floor with the Little Man while he cooed and sang and gnawed on toys with his two brand new teeth.

Today, I rocked that baby to sleep for a nap, and prayed the most grateful, humbled, faith-filled, peace-filled prayer I have ever prayed.

We still have a long journey ahead, but today...

We made it to today.

"Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. he does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of wordless sighs, our aching groans.

He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good."

Romans 8:25-28, The Message

{drool monster}

2010-12-04T15:30:00.002-06:00

Well, believe it or not, Avram is now seven months old. He is officially more than half way through the first year of his life. How did this happen? He was just born like, last week. It's like he's going to wake up from his next nap and start driving, popping zits, and telling me how uncool I am.

He is just such a big guy. He's teething right now, which has just been an absolute joy. My snuggly bubba bear has suddenly morphed into this Raging Drool Monster who gums and bites everything in sight. He refuses to be put down (or to sleep); if I try to put him in his crib or play-mat he clings on to me like a crazed Koala. J and I took turns kicking each other out of bed all night to rock and bounce and walk the Doctor of Drool-Doom.

Tylenol seems to barely make a dent in his suffering, and he turns his nose up at teething toys, like he's too mature for them. He tries his corn-on-the-cob routine up and down my arm, which seems to offer a little relief (well, for him....different story for my arm).

Oh, and I should also mention that Ave had his first cold this week. The poor bubba has been slinging snot bombs left and right. The kid can't get a break these days.

It's been a fun week.

Despite how miserable he is, he's still just so unbelievably charming. I was letting him hang out in his swing this morning, mostly because it keeps him upright (meaning, it keeps his snot running down his face instead of stuck in his nose). He was just sitting there, all full of self-loathing and misery, sort of whimpering under his breath and staring into space.

"Hey you! Why the long face?"

And I swear, he turned, looked at me, relaxed his eyes, and slowly gave me this sly, wide-mouthed, gummy grin, like he was McDreamy or something.

What a flirt.

{at peace with the scraps}

2010-11-24T12:27:00.000-06:00

On a whim, I sent out a request a couple weeks ago to see if anyone had a Christmas tree they wanted us to take off their hands. I knew it was a long shot. I didn't really expect anyone to just give us a tree, but I thought it was worth a try.

And, amazingly enough, my Aunt Tammy had a 7-foot pre-lit tree sitting in her attic, still in the box, just begging us to decorate it.

I was so excited that we were going to have our first real Christmas tree I didn't even consider the fact that we would have to, you know...decorate it. I had one week to come up with enough ornaments to decorate a 7 foot tree (or at least the front of it...). I switched in to Craft Warrior mode and raided my supplies. Go time.

Sixty hot glue sticks, four balls of yarn, three bad hot glue burns, two pillowcases, some leftover wedding ribbon, a few yards of leftover upholstery fabric, and one old book of hymns later: magic happened, people.

It looks freakin awesome.

And I spent (brace yourself): $8.

I was so pleased with myself when I finished making all the ornaments that I displayed them all on my dining room table and took a picture. It was pretty impressive, if I do say so myself.

But what the picture didn't show was the mess underneath the dining room table.

Holy. Crap.

I'm not talking about a few pieces of paper and some hot glue strings here-and-there. This was a mess of epically disastrous proportions. Bits of yarns, paper shreds, glitter everywhere, half-empty spools of thread, buttons scattered all over the floor, hot glue strings hanging on everything, piles and piles of fabric, scissors in very dangerous places...this was the definition of mess.

Thanksgiving is here once again, and I am feeling a little overwhelmed with the memories of the last two holiday seasons. Two years ago, I was just sitting down with my plate at Jason's family Thanksgiving when I got a call from my brother. My dad had had a grand mal seizure and was being taken to the Emergency Room. J & I drove to Fort Wayne as fast as we could. While we were still on our way, Dad had another seizure at the hospital.

That night we found out that Dad had two brain tumors and would need major surgery. My dad had always been in great shape; I don't think I even remember him getting the flu. It just didn't seem real.

The next couple months we spent a lot of time in hospital rooms and waiting areas . Dad went in for surgery about a week before Christmas, and everything went perfectly. They got the entire tumor out, and it was benign: he was even home for Christmas Eve. Miraculously he's 100% back now, like the whole thing never happened.

That Thanksgiving, I realized that my dad--my dad--was not immortal. He will not live forever. I came so close to losing one of the people I love the most, one of the people that is just always supposed to be around, and I realized that this whole gig is hanging together by such a thin thread. People get sick. People die. Bad things happen. And not just to other families, other people. It can happen to my people, my family.

It messed me up.

I thought we were in the clear for last year's holidays: everyone was healthy, we had a baby on the way, I was well past the morning sickness stage so I could actually enjoy food again. Thanksgiving was wonderful (besides the fact that--true story--my dad invited the Verizon guy to our Thanksgiving, and, much to everyone's surprise, he actually came. Talk about awkward.).

Then, two days before we came home for Christmas break, we went in for the 20 week ultrasound and were handed Avram's diagnosis.

And the whole world stopped.

So here we are again, the day before Thanksgiving, the start of the holidays. Despite my best efforts, I have found myself staring at all the scraps, all the mess, at all the pain from the last two years. A lot of this year really sucked. Big time. The first month of Avram's life was spent in two hospitals. He had to have brain surgery at two weeks old...two weeks old. He's going to have a big plastic helmet on his head for his first Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But at the same time, I'm sitting here staring at this beautiful Christmas tree. It would have just been a big green plastic tree without all those scraps, all those hours at the sewing machine, all those little burns on my fingers, all that glitter everywhere, all that mess.

We have a baby: a beautiful, sweet, strong little baby boy who is proving all the doctors wrong. A healthy baby.

We have great health insurance, some of the best doctors in the country, the most patient physical therapists.

We have a warm & cozy apartment, a kitchen full of food, money in the bank, more clothes than we need, a car that gets us where we need to go.

We have the most loving, selfless family, who have all gone to the ends of the earth to support us this year.

We have friends who have brought us meals, made us laugh, sent us the perfect notes of encouragement at the perfect times. Friends we can be brutally honest and transparent with, and love us all the same.

We have each other, which has made all the difference in the world.

We have a gracious, gracious God whose presence fills our little home, who has answered so many prayers, who keeps giving us strength when we are at our weakest.

If it has taken all the scraps--all the junk, all the hurt, all the bad--in order for us to have the countless beautiful blessings that fill our life, this Thanksgiving I am grateful for all the scraps,

for all the mess,

for all the pain.

"For we are God's masterpiece."

Ephesians 2:10

{a cloud of witnesses}

2010-11-15T11:30:00.001-06:00

It's pretty easy for me to feel on my own during the week. Jason leaves for school at 6:30 and usually doesn't return until 5. And since we only have one car, I'm pretty much landlocked with the little man during the day. We manage to get out for walks in the park and to the grocery store, but I'm not sure those really chalk up as "social outings."

Unless you count the fact that I am on a first name basis with the barista at the grocery Starbucks and the express lane checkout guy. Which is probably not something I should announce.

Each and every morning, I wake up, get Avram up, we eat, and then do exercises. For an hour and a half. Take nap, repeat. Then repeat again. Bath time, bed time. Do it all again tomorrow.

I know this is the Dark Side of being a stay-at-home mom. And all of Ave's medical mumbo-jumbo certainly isn't helping. Some days I wish so badly that someone was around to go, "It's not always going to be this hard. You won't do physical therapy forever. He will be able to do things on his own. Just be patient." or "Cassie, pull it together. He's a baby. Of course he hits himself in the face with his rattle. That's what babies do, for crying out loud. Relax." or "He is going to crawl. He won't do the inch-worm routine forever. Take it easy, mama. Don't get your panties in a wad."

But most days, there isn't.

So I go through the day, trying to focus on all of the good. And like I've said before, the good days are totally winning...but that isn't to say there aren't bad days. Frustrating days. Lonely days.

But as I look out over my living room now, on the desk there sits a ballpoint pen that belonged to my Pau-Pau. The rug is a hand-me-down from my mom (which will probably be returned with some carrot spit-up stains on it). The baskets filled with toys are the flower baskets from our wedding, and the play-blanket on the floor was made for my brother when he was a baby. Many of the books on our shelves are gifts from dear friends, siblings, parents, professors. The bottom book shelf is packed with photo albums from trips all over the world, with baby books and old journals.

In our bedroom, there is a hand-crocheted quilt that my Bunika made for my grandparents' wedding over 60 years ago. My wedding bouquet sits on my vanity: dried to perfection, wrapped in the same hanky my grandma wrapped around her wedding bouquet. It sits next to a framed quote, given to me by a dear friend: "Each glimpse of beauty points to eternity." In the drawers of that vanity are so many precious gifts: my mom's pearl bracelet she wore for her wedding, a bracelet from my dad on my 21st birthday, my Yoo-Hoo's earrings that Pau-Pau gave her while they were dating, my grandma's brooch.

The same rocking chair my dad was rocked in sits in Avram's room, covered with a quilt that covered my mother-in-law's bed when she was a baby. A shelf on the wall holds a picture of my mom holding me as a baby. There are frames filled with legacies: a hand-embroidered teddy bear Jason's mom made for his nursery and a shadowbox my mom filled with my first lock of hair, my hospital bracelet, my favorite toys when I was a baby.

My mother's sewing box sits on the dining room table, full of thread and buttons passed down from my grandmother. There is a cookbook on the shelf my mom made me, packed full with family recipes: Bunika's sarmale, Yoo-Hoo's colac, mom's chicken casserole, dad's zucchini pasta. A canvas portrait from our wedding hangs on the wall above a trunk my grandmother gave me when I was little girl, packed full of dress-up clothes.

In the kitchen, a picture hangs on the wall of my great-grandpa Thomas seated at a picnic table. He is surrounded by 5 of his kids, my Pau-Pau included, all barefoot and beaming with sunshine.

If I pause to look past the veil of fear, to lay down the weight of loneliness, I see that we are surrounded by a history of endurance, by a legacy of love, by a fortress of prayer...regardless of the distances measured by miles or time.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us."

Hebrews 12.1

{my relationship with parking garages}

2010-11-04T15:01:00.002-05:00

Not too many things scare me. Spiders gross me out, but don't scare me. Same with blood and guts stuff. Not scary. Just disgusting. I keep my cool on airplanes. I find large dogs endearing. I don't get creeped out when I'm home alone at night.

But parking garages?

Absolutely terrifying.

I'm not sure if phobias are genetic, but I seem to have inherited claustrophobia from my father and his father. There are three places I get sick to my stomach just imagining being in:

1. Caves/mines
2. Submarines
3. Parking Garages

As a kid, I went in 2 separate museum exhibits, one that simulated going down into a mine and one a submarine. I cried. The entire time. I all but had a complete mental melt-down at the tender age of 8.

The second I pull my car into a parking garage, I can feel my heart rate double. My hands are sweating right now just thinking about it. The low ceilings make me nervous. As do the narrow passages. And the poor lighting. And all that hideous, hideous concrete.

When I'm forced to park in these death traps I have to make a split-second decision: park on the bottom level so I can get out as quickly as I can, or drive all the way to the top level so if the inevitable earthquake strikes I will have the least amount of rubble smashing me. I am an incredibly logical individual.

My Chicago parking garage experiences have not helped me overcome this irrational fear. The first time I took Avram out on the town by myself, I had to park in a Cave of Death to go to the Children's Hospital Clinic. Between attempting to get Ave and all his gear out of the car without locking the keys inside and trying to stifle my anxieties of being buried alive by cement blocks and car pieces, I somehow managed to get inside and to the doctor on time.

Unfortunately, I walked back out to the garage to find that I had left the back door wide open, and the keys on top of the trunk. You just can't make this stuff up, people.

Today, I circled the doctor's office for twenty minutes trying to find street parking. Unsuccessfully. I had to park in a garage. Even though I was running late, I drove all the way up to 12th level to park. I have a baby's safety to think of, after all, not just my own, so it seemed a completely rational decision. The unfortunate part was that I had to drive all the way up to the top. At a snail's pace. Somehow, we made it alive.

We came back after the doctor's appointment and I was pleased with myself for having shut and locked all doors, with the keys safely stored in my purse. I clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles for the whole 12 story descent and quickly paid my ticket. Phew. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, leading me safely back out to the street.

And then, disaster struck.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one circling the block for parking spots this morning. There was a spot just in front of the parking garage. One woman had passed the spot and was attempting to back in, while another woman had pulled up and tried to dive in head-first. They each had half of their car in the spot, and were in a total sudden death match. It felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode.

Normally I would have laughed and driven on by. But, lucky me, they were blocking the exit.

I was trapped.

I thought they would quickly resolve it themselves. That's what rational people do, right? But they didn't. They just sat there, staring at each other. The ultimate show down. The parking garage security dude was on lunch break. It was just the three of us.

So, I did what any Chicagoan would do.

I honked.

They didn't blink.

I honked again.

They honked at each other.

And then I had a meltdown.

It took every ounce of self-control to not get out of my car and start screaming at these women. Ever since I had Avram it seems I have an extra shot of courage (or as J might argue, stupidity). I yelled at the kids setting off fireworks outside our apartment. I yelled at the teenage punk in the basement for cranking his music at 1am. I am Mama Bear: hear me roar. And then go all Edward Scissorhands on your face.

I think it is effective. J tells me it is stupid and dangerous. It must be hormones.

I put my head on the steering wheel and kept praying that God would just hold off the pending earthquake of doom until I got out of the parking garage. Please God don't let me die in a parking garage. If you love, don't let me die in a parking garage. Oh God. You can't give us a miracle baby and then have us buried alive in a parking garage. Anything but the parking garage. Sharks, tornado, bubonic plague. Anything but the parking garage.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Nothing.

Miraculously, just as I was about to grab Ave out of his car seat, abandon the Avalon, and run to the Panera across the street for safety, a police officer happened to drive by. Oh thank God, I thought. Some sanity. Let's get out of here.

He got out of his squad car to investigate the situation, and quickly decided that the woman backing in was farther in the spot than the woman who had tried to go in head-first. The second woman huffed and puffed and threw a fit, but eventually complied. After being trapped inside the parking garage for nearing 20 minutes, we narrowly escaped complete disaster and imminent death.

As I drove home on Lake Shore I laughed at how ridiculous I had been. I mean, seriously. What are the odds of being trapped in a parking garage during an earthquake, considering I park in one 4, maybe 5 times a year? Buck up, Cassie girl.

Today the doctor told us that we should start occupational therapy to help Avram's hand coordination. This means that for the next 2-3 months, we will have weekly physical therapy, weekly occupational therapy, and bi-weekly helmet adjustments. As soon as she told me, the fears and doubts and worries started creeping in.

What if he always has to have therapy? What if it doesn't help? What if he can't do all the things little boys are supposed to do? Is it always going to be two steps forward and one step back? Will we ever have just one month doctor free?

I know I should be happy that he is getting even more help. I know I should be assured that we are getting some of the absolute best medical care in the country. I know it's what I prayed for. I know it is a good thing.

I'm just feeling a little trapped in the parking garage, and I want so badly to get him out.

{reasons i love my husband: #792}

2010-11-01T07:43:00.001-05:00

Drill Sargent Debbie came for her weekly visit yesterday afternoon. Avram is having a little bit of a challenge doing certain things with the helmet on, so she gave us new exercises and some instruction in how to push him this week.

Just before she left, she mentioned that we might want to have Ave evaluated by an occupational therapist. She said she didn't see any problems or cause for concern, but since we are in the process of checking off a lot of doctors lately it just might be worth an evaluation.

And, of course, I immediately interpreted this as Avram never being able to tie his shoes or hold a pencil.

The rest of the evening all of these little worries and fears were bubbling just under the surface, and I kept wondering aloud to J if we should or should not look in to occupational therapy.

J put down his cider, looked me square in the eyes and said,

"Well, personally, I don't understand why he would need occupational therapy. I mean, he's unemployed. We should probably get him a job first."

I would have been committed long ago if it were not for this man.

{pros and cons}

2010-10-29T15:48:00.002-05:00

Operation Hacky Sack Head is officially two weeks underway. The first few days were rough: the little man had some heat rashes on his cheeks and a little trouble adjusting to sleeping with his fancy new hat on. But after a few days of gradually increasing helmet-on time, we are now sporting the helmet 23 hours a day, 7 days a week. The helmet is actually heavier than I expected; it has to weigh at least a pound or two. I mentioned this to Dr. Rob Bell, and he responded by picking the helmet up and then dramatically almost-dropping it on the ground. Good one, doc.

There are definitely some pros and cons to the helmet. The most obvious, most significant pro is that Ave is going to have one sweet looking noggin when this is all over. I'm already planning to make one of those old-fashioned silhouettes to celebrate the end of Operation Hacky Sack Head.

Another pro is that Ave is a little more protected from my chronic clumsiness. For instance, I am usually half-awake when he is ready to get up in the morning, and perhaps once or twice I may or may not have accidentally "tapped" his head on the door frame while exiting his bedroom. It probably isn't a bad idea that my baby wear a helmet considering how often I drop/spill/kick/break/knock over things.

And, as if I even need to say: sweet decals. Our good friends Ryan & Corin sent us an awesome sticker stash we are planning on rotating through. If you missed Ave's Halloween costume debut, do yourself a favor and scroll down to the next post. Your heart may explode from the cuteness. Seriously. It just overwhelms me sometimes.

Cons? Well, they aren't too serious. Inconvenient, yes. But problematic? Not necessarily.

First of all, it gives him a little heat rash on his cheeks. Nothing a little Aquaphor can't fix.

Secondly, the extra weight means it has been even harder for Ave to lift his already-extra-heavy head. When he wears it for Baby Boot Camp, it feels like we have regressed 3 or 4 weeks. He is just now able to again do the things with the helmet on that he was doing before we started. But this con is really a pro in disguise, as Drill Sargent Debbie pointed out: the helmet will act like a dumbbell for his neck and trunk, helping him bulk up even faster. He is going to be one hot body-building babe (with a perfectly rounded head) when this is all said and done. And with scars, too? The ladies won't be able to stay away.

It also smells faintly of a sweaty gym socks, despite me scrubbing it down with alcohol wipes every night. Oh well. I guess that's manly.

And people stare. Unashamedly. It doesn't bother me so much when little kids stare at him because, I mean, hello. They're kids. And most of the time it's a look of jealousy on their faces, like, "Man, my mom is so lame. I wish my mom would let me wear my skateboard helmet to the grocery store."

But when grown adults stare at him like he's a unicorn or a leprechaun, it takes every ounce of my internal fortitude to not lash out. I have to try so hard to not say stuff like,

"Oh, yeah, he was born without a skull, so the helmet holds his brain in place."

"I drive a motorcycle, so he wears it when he rides on the back instead of in the sidecar."

"The dog keeps gnawing on his head like a chew toy, so we got this helmet for him so he won't get any more scars on his head."

"He's on the 6-12 month day care co-ed football team. Flag, of course. We start tackle when he's 18 months."

I have to keep telling myself that Jesus would not, in fact, say these things...as much as I would like to believe He would.

It's also hard to get mad about him wearing the helmet when he looks so unbelievably adorable in it. Several times a day I half expect him to come flying around the corner on a skateboard or look at the window and see him jumping over flaming trash cans with a motorcycle, like he's Evil Kenevil or something.

In other news, we have visited the neurosurgeon, Dr.Taco (the neurologist), and Dr. Rob Bell this month. All of them say Avram is doing just perfectly, and both of the neuro guys said they don't need to see him until he is one. This is a big deal people. No brain guys until April. That's six months of only going to regular doctor's appointments.

All three doctors also said they usually do not support baby helmets, but that in Avram's case they believe the helmet is 100% necessary and said they were glad we were doing it. This was a huge relief to me; another small confirmation that we have all the right people along the banks of the river.

Dr. Rob Bell was very happy with Avram, except that I hadn't fed him any meat yet. To be honest, every time I read the words "pureed beef" in the baby cook book I threw up in my mouth a little bit. It just seemed so wrong to feed a baby meat, so caveman-like. But I relented, and we tried some chicken this week. Let me just say that if you're looking for a dramatic diet plan, just keep a bowl of pureed chicken around. It will do wonders for your appetite. And, of course, Ave loves it.

I am so ready for this guy to have some teeth.

And I am also ready for him to start walking. He is going to have to learn pretty fast, because tiny little 5'2", 110 pound me cannot keep carrying around at 19 pound, 28" baby. I am not kidding when I say this kid is going to be half my height by Christmas.

It's strange how relieved and how anxious I feel at the same time. He really is our miracle baby. With the conditions he has, he should be having seizures. He should have vision problems. He should not be accomplishing milestones as easily as he is: babbling and smiling and eating solids and propped-sitting.

It's a relief. It's a blessing.

But the dark side of me, the carnal side of me, is just waiting and anticipating for everything to suddenly take a downward spiral. It amazes me how every blessing, every bit of good news, is tainted with the fear that creeps in so conspiringly. Just another reminder that I have to choose to walk in faith, choose to live in the moment, choose to trust, choose to lean on the everlasting arms.

I have to keep putting him in the basket and sending him down the river of God's plan, despite how dark the sky may look, or how rough the river waters flow.

{his burden is light}

2010-10-25T11:07:00.003-05:00

I opened up the mail this morning, and there was a letter from our insurance company.

Ave's helmet is totally covered. All $3,800.

Every.
Single.
Penny.

I just rocked Ave to sleep for his morning nap, gazing at those beautiful little lips. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude, with the Lord's kindness, that I couldn't hold back the tears.

And the load keeps getting lighter.

{the birthday boy}

2010-10-21T10:40:00.004-05:00

Today, my baby brother turns 21 years old. It does not feel real.

In my mind, Paul should still be in elementary school, rockin his 49's sweatshirt and jamming to dcTalk. He should not be in college, living on his own, having just ridden his bicycle from South Carolina to California. It does not seem possible.

In our family, it's a bit of a tradition to tell stories about the Birthday Boy (or girl, of course). In honor of that tradition, here are a couple of my favorites.

----

When we were kids, our family went to Florida at least once a year. It was a hard life, I know.

I recently read that for each beach vacation you take as a child, you have 20 more moles than the average person. This explains so much for Paul & me. There are hundreds of moles between us (and...I just ruined your breakfast. You're welcome.).

We went to the same resort every year, so Paul & I had some freedom to roam since we knew the joint. We were even allowed to take the elevators by ourselves (if you can imagine such freedom). When we found ourselves in the elevator with strangers, Paul & I would start talking in foreign accents. We thought we did a pretty convincing job, but in retrospect we definitely mixed about 8 different accents.

"Blimey, it's hot outside."

"Spot on, chap."

"We ought to throw a shrimp on the ba-bie."

"Ya man. Slammin."

When the doors opened and our victims stepped off, we would absolutely roar. Ha! Fooled them. Suckers.

They probably walked down the hall, rolled their eyes at each other and said, "Dumb kids."

-----

Paul was a snuggly little kid. A real mama's boy. My mom could not walk past his room during the day without Paul throwing his arms up and calling to her, "I wanna hold you."

He also really liked to help. One year, when he was pretty little, he assisted my mom in the assembling of the Christmas tree. We had one of those fake trees with the branches that snap in to the trunk, and Paul was having a hard time getting them in place. As my mom worked on the top of the tree, she heard a little voice:

"Get in there, you little bastard."

"WHAT did you just say?"

"...."

"Paul Avram, where did you hear that word?"

Let's just say my dad's judgement in appropriate movies for children was no longer trusted.

----

Contrary to what some may believe, Paul is not always sweet.

He once, as a four or five year old little boy, chased my poor, screaming Yoo-Hoo through the entire Orlando airport. Why was she screaming, you ask?

Two words: Rubber. Snake.

----

A couple of years ago, I got a package in the mail. I don't remember what it was now. Paul was home when I opened it, and we were delighted to read that the hundreds of foam packing peanuts inside would dissolve in water. The directions even encourage simply flushing them down the toilet. How environmentally friendly, we thought. Absolutely wonderful.

Later that afternoon, Dad was playing golf across the street. As was and still is his routine, he makes a very necessary trip back over to the house when the course meets up with our driveway. He hustled inside, ran into the kitchen bathroom, and opened the lid, only to find the toilet packed to the rim with packing peanuts.

Let's just say he was not as impressed with their environmental awareness as we were.

Apparently, you are supposed to soak the packing peanuts in a bucket of water before flushing them down the toilet. Our bad, Dad.

----

I like to think that I am a good sister. Growing up, Paul & I went through some tough crap together. There were a couple years when we didn't trust anyone but each other, when we had to look out for each other. Even though he's the baby, there have been many times he has taken care of me.

It was New Year's Eve, 5 or 6 six years ago. Paul & I were at the New Year's Eve service, and I was sitting next to my Yoo-Hoo (my dad's mom). Worship had just ended; everyone had greeted each other, found their seats, and settled in as Pau-Pau began to teach.

Suddenly, I heard a noise from Yoo-Hoo. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, and her eyes were closed. I thought she was snoring, so I gave her a little nudge. Her eyes stayed close, and she kept making the snoring noise. Suddenly, she collapsed in my lap, and I froze. My grandmother was passed out in my lap.

My uncle was sitting across the aisle from me, and he yelled to Pau-Pau. My dad ran back to us from the stage, and took Yoo-Hoo into his arms. Pau-Pau led a prayer from the pulpit, and an elder called the ambulance.

Later that night we learned it was nothing serious, but in the moment I was so scared I couldn't look away, or stop shaking. I felt my legs give out, and I closed my eyes, but I didn't fall. I realized Paul had wrapped both his arms around me, like a cacoon, holding my head against his chest.

----

Here's a little birthday video the babe & I made for his uncle.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Paul!

Happy Birthday to Uncle Paul from Cassie Beer on Vimeo.

{toast & honey}

2010-10-19T11:42:00.004-05:00

I guess I should probably explain why I have entitled my blog "toast&honey." I'll give it my best shot.

When I was a kid, I had the worst allergies. My seasonal allergies were just terrible: Spring always has been and always will be my least favorite season. Once the frost stopped coming at night, I would cease breathing. The majority of my childhood Autumns and Springs were spent inside with kleenex stuffed up my nose, which was just the absolute pits because I loved to be outside.

When I was in elementary school, I went to an allergist. He did that horrible test where they draw this Battleship grid on your back with a Sharpie and then poke each square with a needle loaded with a different allergen. There were 50 squares on my back and 20 on each arm. The idea is that the needle pricks you are allergic to will swell up, revealing exactly what makes you sneeze and wheeze and break out in hives. I had to lie there, on my stomach, for 20 minutes to let the reaction start, and I couldn't so much as scratch myself. My mom had to hold my arms down. And it itched. Bad. It was torture. I deeply resented that bald little nasally man.

Well, needless to say, my entire back broke out. Grass, pollen, dust, mold, strawberries, weeds, mustard, apples, mildew...the list goes on and on. The worst reaction? Horses. The horse square was on the lower back right side, and it looked like someone had replaced my hip with an elephant's.

The doctor said it was the worst reaction to horses he had ever seen. Of course it was. Who is even allergic to horses, for heaven's sake? What a stupid allergy.

I was given a prescription for Claritin and some nose spray. I took them every day, and they helped a little bit. Ever so slightly. I was still a snotty, swollen mess.

My dad always fixed breakfast for us when we were kids. It was no pop-tarts-and-Cheerios kind of thing, it was a feast. Every morning. He had this fresh fruit juice concoction: strawberries, bananas, oranges, grapes...it was liquid delicious. Some days he made waffles with a side of chorizo, some mornings we had omelets with hash-browns and onions, or chocolate chip pancakes, or french toast with buckets of powdered sugar. My dad would get creative with his creations: some mornings we would have pancakes shaped like our initials, or animals, or faces drawn on them with squirt-butter. My brother refused to eat the pancake "crust," so his pancakes were always trimmed down (which I can't necessarily call him out on, because I did the same thing with hamburgers. We were strange.). I always drank chocolate milk, and Paul always drank strawberry, so some mornings dad would mix the two syrups together and make us drink it (probably my least favorite creation of his).

Even though we never knew exactly what to expect when we came down for breakfast, I had one side item that remained a constant: toast and honey. Somewhere, my dad had learned that if you eat a little bit of honey every day it will help your allergies, much more than medicine.

We're not talking about store-bought honey here. Won't cut it. It has to be the real honey. Bought-on-the side-of-the-road, locally-grown, sold-in-a-bell-jar honey. So every morning, from elementary school through high school, Dad would make me a piece of toast and honey.

Miraculously, my seasonal allergies have almost disappeared. I can actually go outside in the spring, and at the worst I may have watery eyes. I can walk barefoot in the grass and not look like someone decorated my feet with paper cuts: a far cry from breaking out in hives and not being able to breathe. My dad is very proud to have remedied my allergies. To this day, if I so much as sneeze in my Dad's presence, he says, "You're not eating your honey." Seriously. It happened last week.

I am not a patient person. I want things to go how I plan them to go, I want results right away. I always undercook rice. I try to put my jeans on right after painting my nails and always mess the paint up. I read magazines backwards because all those ads in the front make me antsy. I had terrible insomnia as a kid because I was too excited about the next day to fall asleep. Every time Avram accomplishes a new milestone, I catch myself checking it off the list and start practicing for the next one. I do not like to wait.

Mother Teresa once said something about how none of us can do great things, only small things with great love. It took months for that one small action, one piece of toast and honey, to make a difference for my allergies. But once it had taken effect, it made all the difference in the world.

I am learning that I cannot do one big thing to make the difference for Avram, I cannot do one big thing to become the person I want to be, I cannot do one big thing to strengthen my marriage, I cannot do any great thing for God. Being a "big deal" or considered "cool" or Super Mom or being on stage with my name in lights is not what will make the difference.

I can only do small things with great love.

I can speak with kindness, I can choose to show grace and mercy even when it hurts, I can remember to breathe. I can fight to see the good in people, I can choose to be selfless, I can remember to pray. I can do the little things no one will ever thank me for. I can read "One Fish Two Fish" to Avram for the 1000th time, I can fix a pot roast for J, I can drink more water and be kind to myself. Small pieces of toast with honey, small actions of love, small bits of light in the darkness.

I can do small things with love, every day, and that is what will make the difference.

Toast and honey.

{sunshine}

2010-10-13T14:50:00.001-05:00

We picked up the babe's helmet today. I could write about how I had to fight tears the whole time he was being fitted, but I'm just not up for it today. I need to write about some good things, some happy things, so this is strictly a celebration of the current parts of life I want to bottle up forever.

Avram is teething, and it is just the absolute worst. He is drooling like a mastiff, and he has this pathetic little cough that I'm convinced is only 50% real and 50% him amusing himself with his new sound effects. He always has to have something in his mouth: a rattle, his thumb, a spoon, a sock. When I hold him facing away from me, he gums my arm from wrist to elbow: slowly, meticulously, as if he is sucking every last kernel from the most delicious corn-on-the-cob. We have so many hickeys between the two of us that we look like a couple of hormone-crazed adolescents.

Ave and I have a new game. I will smother his cheeks in kisses (sometimes he turns in at the last second so I get him right on the kisser, and his dad yells, "Hey! That's my move, young man."), and then I put my cheek right next to his mouth. He face-plants right on to my cheek, mouth open, leaving my face soaked. He then throws his head back and giggles, as if he just got away with something sneaky.

When he wakes up in the morning, I can hear him talking to himself in his crib. He has mastered his "b"s this week, and he is quite pleased with himself. When I go in to get him up, he just lies there smiling up at me, beaming like morning sunshine.

{power of the pack}

2010-10-08T23:42:00.007-05:00

J & I were watching Planet Earth, and in the Fresh Water episode they showed this pack of otters. They form massive packs, like 15 or 20 strong. Otters are really pretty funny looking: like a wet, stretched out mix of a squirrel and wiener dog. They hunt together, eat together, swim together, sleep together: chatting away the entire time. They even cuddle, for heaven's sake. During a swimming party, this massive crocodile tried to pick one off for supper, and this entire clan of skinny little otters chased him away. A pack of squirrely wiener dogs ran off a huge, hungry crocodile. When he was gone, you half expected them to start high-fiving each other.

Before we had Avram, J & I had decided we wanted three kids. I mean, if a fourth came along we wouldn't kick them out on the street or anything, but three just seemed so...right. You just make plans like that. It's what people do.

My brother is my best friend and I wouldn't trade our relationship for all the world, but as a little girl I always wanted a sister to play Barbies and Mall Madness with. True story: when Paul was born, I refused to go to the hospital because he wasn't a girl. I forced my Yoo-Hoo to watch Bambi three times before we could go. Then, I called him Katie. For months.

Once I was finally resigned to the fact he was boy, I called him Pumpkin Head because he had a bad case of jaundice. I was an awesome sister. In a shoebox somewhere, there is a picture of my cousin Maggie and me holding Paul at his dedication. We both have this stone-cold look on our faces, like, "Yeah, we are so excited about another boy in this family. No, really. So happy."

Occasionally Paul would play Barbies-and-GI-Joes with me, but that usually ended up in headless Barbie dolls and a Power Ranger stuck an inch into my knee cap (Also a true story. Scar to prove it.).

J has two brothers and a sister, and it's just so much fun at their house when everyone is there. They are all so different but still so close, and when they are all together their mom positively glows. They are a village. A small, happy village.

After Avram was born, J & I did some reconsidering of that magic number. We just weren't sure--and still really aren't--about how much care he will need, or if what he has is genetic or spontaneous. And I'm still not positive about how I would handle being pregnant again, or if I would have a complete nervous breakdown from the fear that bad news looms at every check-up.

Don't read too much into this (Mom): we have quite awhile to think about adding to the pack here. I need some time to enjoy being able to tie my own shoes again. But when I think about how close Paul and I are, and how I couldn't have possibly made it through the last, oh, ten years without him, or about how much joy Jason gets from being around his siblings...I don't want Avram to be alone when J & I have both gone all senile and loony. I want him to be able to call his siblings and say, "Oh geez, they found mom walking downtown in her underwear again, what are we going to do this time?" Or if he does need extra care and something happens to me and J, I don't want him to only have one sibling with all the responsibility. I don't want him to be alone if we are long gone and he gets sick, or in trouble.

He just can't be alone when the crocodiles come.

He needs a pack.

{behind door number three}

2010-10-07T10:50:00.001-05:00

Well, it seems God has made up His mind.

Monday afternoon, the little man and I headed to the cranio-facial surgeon. He pulled out his Baby Jesus routine and was a total charmer the whole time, even though he didn't take an afternoon nap. I mean, he's just so dreamy.

In the waiting room, there were three other babies all waiting to see the same doctor for the same reason. Ave was sitting in my lap, really showing off his Baby Boot Camp skills, while the other babies sat snug in their car seats. One of the other mom's said, "Wow, he's sitting up really well. How old is he?"

I replied (very humbly, of course), "Oh, he's only 5 months."

Show off.

The panty hose scan turned out to be a breeze: it ended up being more doo-rag than ski-mask. He looked like a little Snoop Dog. I asked the tech if I could take a picture, and she just lowered her eyebrows at me. She must not be a mother.

The doctor came in and said, "Well, he definitely needs a helmet."

Alright. We're ok. I was ready for this.

" He will probably need to wear it for 23 hours a day, for four to six months, starting next week."

What the $#*%@(^#.

What's really lame about the whole thing is that usually we would get to pick out a sweet pattern for his helmet, like racing stripes or flames or spaceships. Since Ave has a shunt, his helmet has to be clear to make sure there isn't too much pressure on his shunt. The nurse tried to console me by saying, "Well, you could put some stickers on the front." Not helping here, lady.

We are still waiting on our insurance company to process all the paperwork, but so far it looks like the odds are really in our favor for his helmet being covered. For one, insurance usually requires a baby to have 8 weeks of physical therapy to try to correct the plagiocephaly before trying the helmet, and Ave has already completed that. Secondly, the measurements from the scan were all on the higher end of normal or in the extremes; meaning that the helmet is definitely medically necessary. Fingers crossed.

So, for now, it looks like God has chosen Door #3: the babe has a bad enough case of hacky sack head that insurance is probably going to cover most, if not all, of the cost. We pick up his fancy new gear next Wednesday, and then we will be going back every 2 weeks for adjustments.

99.9% of the day I'm doing just fine with it. I know it is temporary, I know it will be such a blessing in the long run, I know this is just another perfectly tailored answer to prayer. The other .1% of the day I can't believe that this beautiful baby is going to have a plastic helmet on for his first Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that he won't be able to wear the hats I knit him for this winter. Meaningless stuff in the long run, but in the moment it just seems like the weight of the world.

I find myself holding Avram a little more this week; sneaking in during his naps just to pick him up, snuggle him, and cover his head in kisses.

{our tree house}

2010-10-02T17:15:00.004-05:00

Our apartment is surrounded by trees.

There is a tree across the street that looks exactly like the trees in the backyard of my childhood home, and I catch myself staring at it often, drifting back through time and space to my Narnia, my Shire, my Glenmerle.

Outside our bedroom window, there is a tree so close that its branches are pinned up against the window panes so tightly they look like the arms of smashed spider. This means we have frequent Peeping Tom squirrels, and have been awakened on many a windy night by knocks and taps and bristles. As fearful as we may be of a violent storm sending an oak branch into bed with us, it is also comforting knowing that one of nature's giants is shielding us from the surrounding cold concrete city.

If you look out any window in our apartment, the scene is outlined in tree branches. It feels very much as if we live in a giant tree house, high above the dangers on the ground, safely hidden in the arms of the leafed gods. It is our secret clubhouse, and we are in charge of who and what is allowed passage inside, we are the King and Queen and Baby Man of the castle.

It is our haven, our bungalow, our corner of the world, our cleft in the rock.

{and god knew}

2010-09-24T01:41:00.002-05:00

Well, today was a fun day. You know it's going to be a good day when it starts with a baby formula recall.

Yep, that's right: Similac recalled all their powder-based formula because of BEETLES in it.

Oh, that's right, I almost forgot, and their LARVA, too.

Beetles and their babies.

In my baby's formula.

"SIMILAC IS BEETLES!!!!!!!!"

(Anyone get that obscure movie reference? Anyone? No takers?)

And, of course, Similac formula is the only brand that doesn't make the babe backed up. It's going to be a fun weekend.

Ave went through one serious growth spurt last week. Several times he woke up in the middle of the night to eat (which he hasn't done for over a month now), and he has been putting food away. Now, all of his pajamas are high-waters. He is one. Big. Baby. Like I may seriously need to look in to purchasing a weight lifting belt. My biceps are so hot right now.

He's just this little Hulk Hogan guy: rolling over from his tummy to his back, once rolling over from his back alllllmost all the way on to his tummy, looking all the way to the right, taking all his weight on his legs, and, get this: he is officially a "propped sitter." He sits up all by himself when his arms are on the floor in front of him. I mean, really. Show off.

Drill Sergeant Debbie came today for the first time in almost two weeks (scheduling conflicts, it happens. Whatev.). For the entire session she just sat on the floor, watching Ave and shaking her head, saying, "I wouldn't have believed it if you told me. This is phenomenal. I would not have believed he was doing this stuff already."

Like I said, show off.

Last week we scratched the ophthalmologist off our list. Glorious feeling. And hopefully, it will be even more wonderful to scratch the cranio-facial surgeon off our list after our appointment in a couple weeks.

I am not looking forward to it. At all. For one, they do a head scan. To get precise images, they put a pantyhose-like cap over Avram's head. He's going to be really excited about that.

After the cranio-facial surgeon studies the images, he will tell us if we are lucky candidates for--drumroll, please:

A baby helmet.

Yes, you read that correctly. A helmet. For babies.

I should back up for a second and explain the reason we are seeing this doctor in the first place. Since the shunt caused Ave's side preference, he in turn has a pretty serious flat spot on the left side of his head. Normally flat spots round themselves out, but in the babe's case he also has a little cone head thing going on up top, and possibly some 'bulging' in other spots. Not so normal.

Without intervention, this can cause some pretty serious problems with his vision, hearing, balances, etc. Not to mention he'll look like he has a hacky sack for a head.

This is where the helmet comes in.

If the scans show that his head shape isn't going to get better on it's own, we will have to decide if we want to put Avram in a helmet. It would be for anywhere between one and six months. The helmet is designed in a way to help the head, you know...round out.

But they stink.

As in literally stink. Like a skunk trapped in a trash can in a sewage drain.

And all of his hair will fall out.

And people will think that I must have taken some seriously bad drugs while I was pregnant.

I'm trying to psych myself up for it. I'm trying to remind myself that it would be a temporary inconvenience with long-term benefits. He won't have any memory of it, other than whatever pictures we may take of him and whenever a family member decides to bring it up to humiliate him in front of his first girlfriend. But then I remember the fact that a lot of insurance plans will not cover the helmet unless his case of plagiocephaly (fancy medical term for hacky sack head) is deemed extreme and the helmet medically necessary. And these puppies ain't cheap.

This is because some parents elect to have the helmet purely for cosmetic reasons, which kind of get and kind of don't. It would be different if Ave's head was just a little flat on one side. But it's more than that. You can actually see one side of his forehead is higher than the other. That goes a little beyond cosmetic, I think.

So, we find ourselves praying 3 prayers this week:

Lord, you either are going to

1. Round out his head all by Yourself. And You are perfectly capable of doing that.
2. Drop some cash in our pockets to pay for his fancy new hat

Or, the most awkward prayer I've probably ever prayed,

3. Make sure his head is badly misshapen and lop-sided enough to be covered by insurance.

So, we wait. Just like we have been for months now. We pray, we wait, we eat up every precious moment with our chubby little guy, we hope, and we wait. God has heard. And He knows.

"And God heard the groaning of the people of Israel, and God knew."

exodus 2:24-25

{a little bit lighter load}

2010-09-13T14:02:00.004-05:00

This morning we had an appointment with the pediatric ophthalmologist (I HATE spelling that word) at Children's Memorial. I had suspicions that Avram's vision was not-so-great, and had read that both hydrocephalus and schizencephaly can cause vision problems. Dr. Rob Bell also thought it was a good idea to have his eyes checked, just to make sure that the reason he keeps his head to the left isn't because he can't see all the way to the right.

We were up, dressed, fed, and out the door at 8am this morning. Binky for the babe and Starbucks for the mama.

I have mixed emotions about visiting the Children's Hospital. I absolutely love the valet guys. The guy who took my ticket was this smooth-talking, smiley, Rico-Suave Hispanic guy with a thick accent: "Oh, yes, good morning mam. I hope you are doing very well. It is a beautiful day, no? Enjoy the rest of your morning, we will have your vehicle waiting for you." I half expected him to kiss my hand when I handed him the keys. And then the guy who retrieved my car could have been a stand in for Hugo from Lost. I was impressed at speed and agility. I had never seen anyone fold up a stroller and pack it in the trunk that fast.

On the other hand, going to Children's gives me flashbacks of Avram's shunt surgery, and how scared I was. I can't help but expect to be handed bad news when we go there, especially since I had already convinced myself, of course, that Avram was completely blind and would probably require multiple eye surgeries. It's also so sad to see all of these kids in wheelchairs, with walkers, bald from chemotheraphy, missing arms or legs. But you know what? They're always so happy and sweet. That's another blog for another time.

We sat in the waiting room for a solid half an hour, and most of the kids were really well-behaved. Avram was fed and happy, so he was content to sit in my lap and people-watch. There was a TV with Mario 64 set up, and I was so close to kicking kids off so I could play. Paul & I used to come home from school and find my mom playing that game by herself in the living room. We also fought with her over our Gameboy on vacations.

Then, this weasely little kid, maybe 3 years old, JUMPS on to the kids' play table, and breaks it. Snaps a leg clean off. And his mother starts screaming at a nurse, "This is not safe! This table needs to be removed immediately! Don't they screen this equipment before putting it in waiting rooms?"

Seriously? Your kid jumped on a table. In public. While other kids were sitting there, coloring and minding their own dang business.

It was quite a fiasco. They brought up HR people to talk to her and offered her all kinds of free stuff. Whatever, crazy woman.

We finally were called, and Avram had to get 2 sets of eye drops in each eye. The nurse said that they would sting, but he was such a big boy. Didn't even flinch. Another nurse came in and did a preliminary screening, flashing all kinds of lights in his face, and said he looked great, and that the doctor would be in shortly.

Sure enough, the doctor came in. She also shined a bunch of lights in his face, pulled his eyelids up, and made him look in all these crazy directions. And he was glorious. He totally pulled out the charm today.

After no more than three minutes, she said, "Well, his eyes are perfect" and gave me this look like, "So...why did you bring him in again?"

I beamed. Avram burped. And he got some really slick shades to wear home.

So, Avram's eyes are perfect, and he doesn't need any follow-ups with the ophthalmologist. The Lord is good. One specialty-doctor down, 4 to go. I feel like someone took a big ol' rock out of this load I can't seem to get off my back. We're a little bit lighter today.

the little dude

{job descriptions}

2010-09-10T19:01:00.006-05:00

When Avram cries--I mean, really cries--he looks exactly like one of those Hawaiian tiki statues. The resemblance is uncanny. This makes it incredibly hard not to laugh when he's balling his eyes out, which I'm sure would automatically disqualify me from winning Mother of the Year any time soon.

During the school year, Team Beer has a pretty solid daily routine. When J comes home from work, I'm on Dinner Duty and he is in charge of Baby Bath & Bed Time. He frequently challenges my firm rule of bathing Ave everyday, basing his case on the fact that he only washes his hair every other day, so a baby couldn't possibly need bathed more frequently than that. I remind him that if he threw up green beans all over his face and pooped his pants multiple times a day, he would also require a nightly hosing off. We debate this frequently.

Feeding the little man solids has been a real treat. He is just completely surrendered to abandon when he's eating. He lets banana juice freely roll down his face and into his neck-fat creases, like how I imagine Grampa Joad planned to when he finally arrived in the land of milk and honey.

I am still learning, day by day, to let go of all these fears I keep hidden in the secret parts of me, holding me back from living in the moment and allowing me to be content. Especially when I watch Avram laugh. He just started to giggle this week: in a low, Woody the Woodpecker kind of way. He smiles when I wake him up from his naps, smiles while eating peas, smiles after filling his diaper, laughs when water splashes his face in the tub. I am reminded a thousand times a day to have not just the faith of a child, but the joy of a child. To let the juices roll freely down my face, to let the water get in my eyes. I am reminded that joy is not dependent on my circumstances. I am reminded that it is not my job to worry; it is my job to love.

So love, I will do.

{the start of september}

2010-09-08T09:26:00.003-05:00

Things are going wonderfully.

Ave has started smiling up a storm. I was getting a little anxious that he wasn't smiling in response to our actions or voices yet, and then, out of nowhere, BOOM: smiling baby. Smiling can indicate that a baby is able to socialize, is aware of their surroundings, can organize their emotions...so it's a big deal, people.

What kills me is that he has been waking up closer to 7am instead of 8:30am (which has been his normal call-time the last two weeks), when I am definitely still in my Morning Mummy Mommy state. Physical therapy has made his core a lot stronger, which in turn has strengthened his diaphragm and turned his little lamb voice into this booming, grunting, growling voice. So come 7am, I hear him start barking, "BAH. BAH. Wuhhh. BAH." I stumble in, dazed and dreamy, slightly annoyed that he's up so early, and the little stinker is just lying there, smiling up at me and waving his Bunny Buddy around. Absolutely kills me. He's so dreamy.

We have also started solid foods the last couple of weeks. Well, I'm not really sure why they call pureed food "solid," but whatevs. Ave, as always, lets us know what he likes and does not like. When he likes a certain food (i.e. BANANAS), he bounces up and down in between bites and gurgles "Ba. Ba. Ba. Ba." When he is not particularly fond of something (i.e. broccoli, potatoes) he either spits it right back out or just sits there with the food on his tongue, mouth open, like he's saying, "Lady, get this crap out of my mouth. On the double."

So, in case we aren't friends on Facebook, here's a little video I put together of some of his first food samplings.

First Bites from Cassie Beer on Vimeo.

{baby boot camp}

2010-08-29T19:11:00.004-05:00

Since Avram had to spend time in the NICU when he was born, he automatically had a follow-up appointment with the NICU physical therapist. I didn't mind at all, because Dr.Overland is wonderful. She's got this whole new age-hippy thing going on, which I can be a total sucker for. She even took her shoes off and sat down on the floor indian-style when she came in our room for the check-up. So organic, man.

Anyways. Unnecessary details.

She felt that Ave had a strong left-side preference, due to his shunt being placed on the back lower right side of his head . I felt that she was putting it a little lightly, since he would SCREAM whenever his head was turned to the right.

She also felt that Avram would benefit from having a physical therapist come to the house. Being born 2 weeks early, hospitalized for nearly 3 weeks, and having surgery had all set him back a few steps. A physical therapist, she explained, would help him catch up, even get ahead.

I had mixed feelings. Having a long list of doctors and check-ups is one thing, but having them come to the house, too? That just sounded a little too much like running an assisted living home. But I told her, "If you think this is what he needs, then let's do it."

So, we're doing it.

We were referred to this awesome physical therapist named Debby, and she has started coming over once a week for what Jason & I have lovingly entitled "Baby Boot Camp." Debbie has given us an intense exercise regimen for the little man including strict instructions of ZERO back time, with the exception sleepy time. I have now been given the role of drill sergeant, leading the buddy man in long bouts of tummy time, standing exercises, rolling practices, "active" carrying positions, and sitting positions.

This past week has easily been one of the most ex-haust-ing weeks of taking care of Avram, even though he is sleeping 12-13 hours a night. Instead of popping him down in a bouncy seat or letting him stretch out on our bed when he gets all grouchy-pants, I am now spending every waking moment running him through Baby Boot Camp. He's not too happy about it, either, and he definitely lets me know. It has been the freaking Cry Baby Capitol of the World around here. Not that I blame him. If I had somebody making me run sprints & lift weights 24/7, I wouldn't be a happy camper either.

But on the other hand, in just one week he has morphed into a Special-Agent-Green-Beret-Marine-Rambo Baby. During tummy time today, he held his head all the way up for SEVEN MINUTES. This baby, just a week ago, would just sort of pop his head up for a second or two during tummy time. And he has these terrific little gluteus maximus muscles. And he is SO close to rolling over. And if I sit him up with his hands out in front of him, the baby SITS UP all wobbly for a couple seconds. This is huge, people. Huge. Monumental.

So in the midst of Avram's amazing physical transformation this week, we also are adding two more doctors to his ever-expanding list of health providers. I think we're up to seven now. I've lost track. Dr.Rob Bell wants us to go visit the pediatric optometrist, just for peace of mind, and Drill Sergeant Debby wants us to go see a craniofacial specialist to check Ave's head shape. My immediate response (which, of course, is always sunshine and rainbows) has been, "Ter-freaking-rific."

But then the Still Soft Voice gets a chance to speak, and reminds me that I specifically prayed for the right people to be placed along the banks of the river, for the right people to be there for our little miracle boy, and this is just another answer to that prayer.

More hands on the banks of the river.

{things that make me feel like a good mama}

2010-08-25T11:34:00.002-05:00

1. J. He tells me all the time, and it is one of the most sincere compliments he gives me.

2. At any given time, I can be found holding a bottle with one hand and a singing puppy dog in the other, rocking a bouncy seat with one foot, & balancing my phone between my shoulder & ear with a health insurance agent on the line with amazing skill and prowess, all on 5 hours of sleep.

3. Bodily fluids no longer phase me: poop, pee, vomit, snot, goobers, drool...bring it on, sucka. (Well, except blood. Not a fan.)

4. When that sweet baby wraps his arms around my neck and falls asleep.

And, the reason for today's blog,

5. Our pediatrician.

He is fabulous. He really does look like a 50-year-old Rob Bell, complete with hair cut, black rim glasses, creative illustrations ("Imagine you woke up & didn't know if you would have electricity or running water. This is how Avram feels without a schedule."), randomly placed pauses, and choppy hand gestures.

But that is not why he makes me feel like a good mama.

Would you like to know what does? His "do what works best for your baby" philosophy. He doesn't have some set list of solutions or a step-by-step program to trick babies into sleeping through the night. If you get on any baby website, it seems like this huge competition between moms to see whose baby sits up first or smiles first or lifts a car straight over his head after eating a rare 52oz filet first (which reminds me, I would like to take this moment to say that Ave is in the 80th percentile for height & weight and has "excellent" vocal sounds, not that I'm bragging or comparing, of course). But at our pediatrician's office, no one is competing. He has suggestions to offer but in the end he always says things like,

"The only person in this room who knows how much Avram needs to eat is Avram"

"If he needs rocked to sleep, then you rock your baby to sleep. You will not ruin or hinder him by rocking him to sleep."

"Milestones are only guidelines, not mandates. Avram will have his own schedule and pace for accomplishing milestones because he is not every other baby, he is an individual. So we will challenge him to do more, but we will not force him. He will do what he needs to do when he needs to do it."

I love this guy. He does this mama's heart good. With our never-ending list of doctors and therapists and surgeons and clinics and check-ups, he does this mama's heart good.

{moisture is the essence of wetness}

2010-08-24T10:44:00.008-05:00

Well, I haven't updated in about a month now. This is mostly due to the fact that we were out of town for 2 weeks, and partially because I have just been having some more personal journal entries as of late. With that being said, I'm back in the saddle.

Ave loves Bath Time. I mean, loves it. Every night I take him in the bathroom and lay him on the floor mat while I put his whale tub in the big tub, and as soon as I turn the faucet on his eyes light up, he gets the biggest wide-mouthed grin, and his legs start kicking. He kicks his little thunder thighs so frantically and with so much force that it's a WWF match just to get his diaper off.

Once I put him in the tub he does several two-legged splashes, which make him look like a little mermaid ("...mer-man!"). He then kicks and splashes and coos for 15 or 20 minutes straight. He's actually started doing this little high-pitched squeal that sounds like a cross between a baby pig oink and a little girl's gasp. It is a squeal of pure Joy. His eyes even light up when he hears the shampoo bottle squirt, and he gets mad when I stop lathering up the shampoo in his hair. He's quite the little diva, channeling his inner-Norma Desmond. He doesn't even get mad when water splashes his face; in fact, he seems to enjoy it. The more water in his eyes, the better. Who knows, maybe he will be a swimmer. One thing is for sure, he certainly lets us know exactly what he likes and does not like.

Speaking of things the babe is not fond of, he does not enjoy The End of Bath Time. When J gives him his bath, this time is affectionately known as "Drips." J picks him up out of the water, holds him over the tub with the water running off, and cheers, "Drips! Drips! Drips!" until Ave announces (in a quiet, considerate manner, of course) that "drips" is over. J then wraps him up in his duck towel and tells him, "Good Drips tonight, buddy, good Drips." Avram beams with pride.

He's also not a huge fan of me swabbing out his ears with baby Q-Tips. Every time I clean his ears I have flashbacks to my own mother restraining me on the bathroom floor, trying to clean out my ears with bobby pins because they were so filled with wax that Q-Tips just weren't cutting it. Don't worry, Doc, I survived with both my ears drums fully intact. Although I do instinctively cover my ears whenever I see a bobby pin.

Avram is a fan Baby Oil Time. He just loves getting greased up and rubbed down like Rocky before a match. He stretches his arms and legs out as far as they will go and gets this look on his face like, "Ahhh, yeah, that's the spot Ma."

Bath Time is happy time. No matter how grouchy or gassy or napless of a day, Bath Time is happy time.

Avram, 2 months old

{my moses basket}

2010-07-20T15:53:00.004-05:00

I had always wondered how Baby's Breath flowers earned their name. I now know that it is not because they smell like actual baby's breath; at least not my baby's. Avram's breath usually smells like rotten broccoli.

I walked past a bundle of said flowers in the grocery store the other day, and I think I figured it out. Those little white flowers look exactly like the tiny curdled milk pieces Ave outputs whenever he spits up.

Not sure I find the flowers quite as pretty as I used to.

To be completely honest I have good days and bad days. The good days I am at peace. The good days I can laugh and play all day with Avram. The good days I am a normal, functional human being. The good days I know the Lord is good, I know He is working this all out for good, I know the future will be good.

And then...then there are the bad days.

The bad days, I get mad. I get mad that there are teenage girls, wanting anything but a baby, getting pregnant every day and having perfectly healthy babies. I get mad at the women I see on the train feeding their kids Flaming Hots and Pepsi for breakfast and then telling them to "shut the hell up" every time they try to talk. I get mad at Avram for not walking and talking and solving math problems and playing the harpsichord already, because, come on, give your mother a little assurance already. I get mad at God for giving my baby so many challenges before he even stepped out of my belly and into a world that's scary even with all your ducks in a row. I get mad at Him for not giving us any answers or any way to prepare for the future or even a solid diagnosis, because that's the least He could do if He's going to drop such a bomb in our laps like this. I get mad that I had such a scary and scarring pregnancy and labor that I'm practically terrified to go through it all again. Then I get sad because who knows what kinds of things other kids will same to him in elementary school, and don't even get me started on the dark, evil abyss that is middle school. I get sad because this shunt is something he's going to have the rest of his life, and every time he gets a headache or feels nauseous he's going to worry that it's malfunctioning.

But these are the days that I have to put Ave in the basket and float him down the river. I have to swallow my pride and let go of my death-grip on the controls, and resolve myself to the fact that I cannot save him, or heal him, or always protect him. I have to trust that the Lord is the one guiding the currents of the stream, that He will be the one to see Avram through all the way to the end, that He is the one who has placed the right people along the banks, people who will help and encourage and support and pray for Avram. I have to put him in the basket and let go.

And when I do, the bad days become good days again. And day by day, inch by inch, the good days are outnumbering the bad days. The good days are winning.

{waving the white flag}

2010-07-11T08:55:00.001-05:00

Well, I have just about had it with all this baby-schedule crap. This babe has his own schedule, thank you very much (Don't get me wrong, he is a wonderful sleeper. He's already snoozing 6- 7 hours straight at night--"Halle!", as my wonderful friend Missy would say). He definitely has his dad and Uncle Paul's stubbornness.

If you know Jason, this might be hard to believe. If you know my brother, on the other hand, it might not.

When Jason was little and his mom put him in his room for time-out, she had to stand outside & use all her weight to keep the door shut because he would try to get out. When he realized he was barricaded in, he would start chucking toys at the door Rambo-style like they were hand grenades.

When Paul was little and he was spanked, he refused to cry. He would grit his teeth, furrow his brow, and take it like a man. There was no way he was crying on anyone else's terms but his own.

When I was little, if you even looked at me like you were mad, I'd tear up and start to apologize. I am a peace-keeping, people-pleasing, everybody-get-along soul.

Not this tiny dude.

I've been trying to get Ave to be up for an hour and a half, then sleep for an hour and a half. Some days, he's totally game. Then, some days (who am I kidding, it's most days), when I put him down for his nap, he looks up at me and frowns. He doesn't cry: he makes a legitimate, upside-down-U, frown. Bottom lip totally puckered, sad-eyed like a puppy dog.

If I leave him, he enacts his fool-proof master plan of loosening his diaper so he can wet the bed and make me feel like freaking Hitler.

If I pick him up, I swear he won't look me in the face. It's like he's saying, "Well, once you apologize, we can play nice again. But not unless you mean it."

{why i love my husband}

2010-07-08T05:12:00.008-05:00

FYI, this post will probably be really confusing if you didn't read the {small bits of light} post, or if you have never heard of this incredibly awful poem. If you found this poem helpful or encouraging, I don't mean to offend. It might have just been bad timing.

Yesterday I was having the crap-hole of crap-hole days. It may or may not have had something to do with the fact that my you-know-what finally started again and I am feeling like a hormonal Attila the Hun, or that I need to have parental control settings on our internet so I don't sit around Googling horror stories about brain abnormalities all day. Or that I haven't slept more than 5 hours at a time in over 2 months. Or that I spend 99% of my day entertaining a 2 month old.

Whatever it was, I was a royal disaster yesterday. As my friend Betsy says, it was a total emotional-wedgie day. When J came home from work, I was somewhere in between irrationally angry and thoroughly depressed.

"What's the matter? Are you thinking about that stupid poem?"

"Yeah. Wait, no. I guess. Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, don't. You know why? Italy was out of the Cup in the first round. The first round. And you know who's going to the finals?"

"No. I need ice cream."

"The Dutch! The Dutch are going to the finals. Who the heck cares about Italy? They can't even get their population to increase, I mean, how hard is that to do? The Dutch are DOMINATING."

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is why I love my husband.

{wednesday morning snippets}

2010-07-07T09:07:00.005-05:00

After a much-needed trip back to Fort Wayne to celebrate the Fourth, we are back at home base. While it's nice to have the little mister back in his routine & to not be living out of our suitcase, it is a much more solitary life back in Chicago. 48 hours back and I'm already feeling a little stir crazy. I am seriously considering asking our mail-woman (Is that the PC way to say it? Mail-lady? Mail-mam? Mail-person?) to deliver our mail in small increments throughout the day. It would make life just that much more exciting.

I'm not gonna lie: I'm trying hard to mask my feelings of resentment towards the babe because he doesn't yet have his stuff together enough to go to the movie theater. I am dying to see Toy Story 3. Maybe if we top off his bedtime Bubba with a couple drops of Baby Tylenol he would stay in a euphoric state long enough (Kidding, people. Relax. But really.).

When we first came to check out this apartment for the first time, I immediately realized how much quieter it was than our old apartment. I thought, "YES, no more rap music blasting through cheap speakers at 2am."

Well, I was wrong. Sort of. Mostly only about the rap part.

I suppose I should be grateful that we live in a more culturally diverse neighborhood. Instead of solely TuPac & Beyonce, we now have Toby Keith, Coldplay, ACDC, & mariachi music for our listening pleasure. I guess that's something.

I think my cabin fever led me to terrorize a couple of pre-teen boys last night. It was 10:30pm, and the babe had been down for about an hour after a very sticky, sweaty day. The two of us had just lounged around in our underwear & took soak-breaks in his baby bath tub all day since it was so disgustingly hot. It was so nice to finally have a little break.

Then, right outside our living room window, bottle rockets go off. Mind you, we have no AC & all our windows have to be open. If I had been wearing more clothes, they would have torn into tiny pieces as I morphed into Hulk mode.

"HEY. It's TEN THIRTY and I've got a BABY sleeping.

KNOCK IT OFF."

One of them may or may not have soiled his pants as they took off running down the street.

At first, I let out a faint evil scientist laugh, but then I instantly felt like a cranky old bag. I guess it's payback for when I was 16 and thought it was super cool to drive around with my music blasting at 1am.

This morning, Ave & I took a 7am stroll to the grocery store before the heat wave rolled back in. As we were waiting in line to buy some homemade pizza ingredients, he stirred from his nap and started staring at his feet. For a solid five minutes his big baby-blue eyes just stared down those little butterball feet, as if he was saying to himself, "Holy cats, where did THOSE come from? They are marvelous!"

...maybe I don't mind staying home all day after all.

{i call back}

2010-06-28T08:57:00.005-05:00

Each spring since I learned how to walk, I helped my father plant his vegetable garden in the southwest corner of our property. The springs and summers spent in the grass and sunshine of our half-mile stretch of land hold my fondest memories, and I call them back to my thoughts during dark, cold city nights while lying awake in bed.

I can call back the soft glow of morning's first light as it snuck into my bedroom through pink linen curtains, the fragrance of freshly picked lavender resting in a vase on my nightstand, the soft, curious sniffs on my face from our yellow Labrador as she greeted me with wet morning kisses.

I can call back the warm, organic smell my father had in the first hours of the day while still unshaven and pajama-clad, the monotone voices of National Public Radio murmuring on the stereo, the sizzling of bacon and cracking of eggs on the stove, the whirling and grinding of the blender as Dad created his famous concoction of blueberry, strawberry, grape, banana, and pineapple juices.

I can feel the cool, crisp morning air on my skin and the way it made my eyes water as we stepped out onto to the back patio and the sliding screen door snapped behind us, the dampness of the dawn's dew on the grass soaking through my tennis shoes. I can feel the roughness of the wooden fence on my palms as my brother and I raced to climb over it. I can hear the buzzing of mosquitos, the chirping of the crickets, the squawking of the birds, the humming of the locusts, the croaking of the frogs, the clinking of Gracie's collar as she ran ahead of us.

I can call back the crunch of gravel under our feet as we walked back to the old barn, the way the coolness of the shadow from the trees lining the road gave my arms goosebumps, the blinding light of the morning sun reflecting off the pond, the roar of ancient wood and metal as Dad slid the barn doors open and the aromas of horse hair, hay, and dust that came floating out.

I know how the metal tools hung neatly, high on the walls waiting to be thrust into the earth, how the wood felt solid in the palm of my small, willing hands. I know the smile in my father's eyes as he looked over what was then a plot of barren land and saw the harvest of autumn, the tenderness of his direction as he showed me how to space the seeds, the hope in his voice that his new method of discouraging weeds would finally bring success, the joy in his laugh as he caught Gracie trying to carry away his gardening gloves to bury.

I know the sensation of dark, moist earth seeping between the cracks in my palms and the spaces under my nails, the salty smell of freshly tilled dirt, the cold sting of water flowing from the hose, the creaking of the lever on the well pump, the sweat beading on my forehead and the back of my neck. I know the awe of holding a tiny-yet-powerful seed in my hand and wondering how it could ever grow into a luscious tomato, the wonder of setting it deep in a hole and covering it with soil. I know the exhilarating fear and surprise of meeting a garden snake face-to-face, the excitement of pulling a big juicy earthworm or tiny roly poly bug out of the ground, the satisfaction in chasing away lettuce-eating rabbits.

I know the cracking of corn husks as Dad pulled them off the stalks, the soft pearly touch of a ready-to-pick cherry tomato, the sticky skin of a zucchini, the pop of a green bean being pulled from its vine, the agony of carrying a giant watermelon in my arms for the long trek back to the house. I know the giant, steaming caphalon pots filled with green beans and the snapping sound they would make as Mom broke off the ends, the salivating mouths of my brother and me as we awaited fresh green beans and buttery potatoes for dinner. I know the rubbery film that would stick on my hands as I shucked fresh corn and the frustration of trying to remove every single wisp and thread from its rows, the sweetness of corn cobs cooked on the grill, the way my mother would laugh when my brother and I would stick corn kernels over our teeth to look like they were rotten, yellow, and misshapen.

I can remember the peacefulness of our backyard as the hot, sticky, summer afternoons cooled into dark, quiet evenings. I can count each tall tree and see each bed of yellow, dancing sunflowers and bright, white magnolias. I can hear my father laughing as he throws at old baseball to my brother, I can see the stars shining like thousands of fireflies in the sky, I can feel the warmth of the fire pit and the smell of perfectly roasted marshmallows. I can remember the clanking of glass as my brother and I searched the kitchen cabinets for the perfect jars, the thrill of spotting a large patch of lightning bugs, the sound of our laughter as we caught what seemed like hundreds of them, the popping sound saran wrap made as we punched little air holes for our new friends.

I can remember drifting off to sleeping staring at my new nightlights, the slight warmth my skin radiated after soaking up the sun all day, wrapping my arm around Grace as she settled deep into the cotton sheets. I can remember the quietness and soft creaking of our old ranch house when the sun went down, the soft light of the moon on my bedroom floor, the smokey smell of my father's pipe, the muffled sound of my mother's laughter.

{revenge of the nerdy mom}

2010-06-25T12:20:00.009-05:00

This morning was big. I mean, monumental. I actually had the chance to get cleaned up (code for "brush my teeth"), get dressed (change out of my pjs), and go out on the town (the grocery store) for awhile. It was life changing. Jason is on a small break before starting summer school this coming Monday, so I was able to put Ave down for his nap & leave him at home. And leave the apartment. By myself.

It was exhilarating. I could hardly contain myself; I felt like a teenager sneaking out in the middle of the night to go tee-pee someone's house. I think I frightened some of the Dominicks employees with my eagerness to find Greek salad.

And...that's about as far as the teenager-analogy goes. I had to laugh at myself, because I used to NEVER leave the house unless I looked like I just stepped out of Seventeen, even if I was only running an errand. And I always had music on in the car, full blast, while talking on my cell phone. Today, I felt dressed up in a t-shirt and shorts, was excited to leave my phone at home, and wished the car ride was longer so I could finish listening to the story on NPR.

It made me wonder what kind of things Avram will consider dorky when he's a teenager. I know a lot of people my age who want their kids to grow up with land to roam, to take music lessons, to not have video games. They want their kids to be aware of the environment, of different cultures; they feel they somehow missed out on these things during their own childhoods.

I had to laugh because I often picture myself over the course of the next up-teen years as a parent, doing all the right things, molding Avram into this incredibily-interesting-and-intelligent-but-well-rounded-and-not-snobby individual: which, of course, means teaching him French & how to take pictures, identify trees, & play about 6 different instruments, going on camping trips, & not letting him watch TV. But obviously still enrolling him in public school so he doesn't become a social invalid. We just won't push sports like our parents did, you know, because athletes aren't cultured or deep-thinkers and don't grow up to be anything cool like movie producers or Peace Corps members or indie rock singers.

I know that inevitably there will be some things that he will wish I taught him, and some things I did teach him that he will consider super nerdy or irrelevant. Who knows, maybe he'll look at me thirty years from now and say, "Geez, Mom, how could you not think ice fishing would have been something I needed for my future? What were you thinking with mandolin lessons? I mean, come on."

{baby vs. naptime}

2010-06-23T10:44:00.006-05:00

I'm a terrible mother.

I've been trying to get the boy on somewhat of a schedule, which means I'm starting to let him "cry it out" a little bit when I put him down for a nap or when he wakes up before he's supposed to. The last couple days I've been letting him whimper and wail it out for a little while, in hopes that he'll soothe himself back to sleep. Hey, he's 2 months this week. Time to toughen up and take it like a man.

But it never fails: whenever I resolve to be stern & not immediately go check on him, almost every time I walk in to find him lying there in a pool of urine. He just lies there, helplessly, looking up at me with this smug look of disappointment, as if he's about to shake his head at me & say in his cross baby voice, "Now...see what you made me do?"

I swear, as soon as I leave the room, he is purposely loosening the velcro on his diaper just for a chance to rub it in.

{vine to wine}

2010-06-22T22:01:00.009-05:00

Well, the babe was constipated for 3 days. Needless to say, that made for a pretty unpleasant start to the week. Not being able to get things moving for him was one of the most helpless feelings I've ever had.

The poor guy would push and cry and push and cry, and I was trying every trick in the book: hot baths, pedialyte water, back massages, the magic thermometer "trick" (he was not impressed), hypnosis, dancing to the Beatles, looking deep in his eyes while trying to telepathically send "push push push push" message his way, scaring it out of him, performing ritualistic Indian rain dances in the living room...nothing worked.

And then, today, at 3:04pm, the clouds parted, the heavens opened, the good Lord smiled upon on our little family, and the floodgates were released. A good two diapers full of peanut-butter-poops came forth, and by the way we danced and sang and laughed and cheered, you would have thought the three of us single-handedly won the World Cup. I mean, he was so dirty, it wasn't even worth wasting all the wipes it would have taken to clean that busy bum of his: it was straight to the tub for the little man.

I have never in my life been so excited for someone to have a bowel movement.

The little man is sleeping soundly now. Things are going to be ok. He turns two months this Saturday: if I wasn't so depressed that he is getting so big so fast, I would be relieved that we have made it this far.

Jason always celebrates Christmas or his birthday by going on an Amazon shopping spree, and one of his birthday purchases arrived today: "From Vines to Wines." You can guess what new hobby he's taken interest in.

Tonight, right before he drifted off to sleep, he rolled over and said, "We need to get busy making that wine."

"Don't we need grapes first?"

"Yes. Which is why we need to plant them. It takes a few years to get them started."

"Don't we need somewhere to plant them?"

"Yes. Which is why we need land."

"But we live in Chicago. In an apartment."

"Exactly."

That conversation pretty much explains how I feel about Avram turning two months. I desperately want him to be crawling, walking, talking, smiling, laughing, learning, proving to everyone that he is a perfectly healthy baby boy, but the reality is that right now he's busy deciding if his hand is a part of his body or some kind of bizarre animal. I want the wine, but first we have to get some land.

I'm reading "Operating Instructions" right now in a small attempt to keep myself more on the joyful side of the fence, so forgive me for quoting Anne Lamott so much. In the book she tells a story about one of her mom-friends. This lady was on a business trip and had taken her two year old with her. The rental house they were staying in had those extra-thick, black-out curtains, and the mom had placed her two year old down for a nap in the bedroom, shut the door, and sat in the living room to get some work done. The two year old woke up early from his nap, and began to call for his mom. When she went to get him, he had somehow managed to lock the door. She panicked: she called the manager of the property, the booking agent...no one picked up. As she got more anxious, her little boy got even more frightened and began crying and shrieking. Just as she was about to call the fire department, she had the idea to get down on the floor and stick her fingers under the small, 1-inch opening under the door. She called to her son, telling him to find her fingers down on the floor. The two of them laid there for half an hour, with him grasping her finger tips until he had calmed down and was able to jiggle the door open.

I feel like I'm nose-to-the-carpet with God right now, with a death-grip on His fingertips under a door. I know He could smash down the door if He really thought that was the best thing to do, but I also know that He wants me to figure some things out before the lights come back on, to work and push and cry through some of the crap I've let sit around for too long. It's taking just about everything I have to not scream or hide in my closet some days, but I'm reminding myself to look for His fingertips.

{small bits of light}

2010-06-18T11:49:00.008-05:00

I can't get over how different this tiny person seems everyday. It's like every morning he has a new face, a new gesture, a new little sound. His spastic reflexes are slowly becoming graceful, coordinated moves. His arms use to flail over his head like swarming bumble bees; now, his hands float exactly like little birds. I know he would probably be so humiliated that I said this, but when he moves in his sleep he looks like a little ballerina.

I mentioned in my previous post that my pregnancy had been pretty scary and nerve-wracking, and I'd like to give a short explanation. Ok, not so short. It's practically a novella. Bless your heart if you actually read it.

When we went in to the doctor for our 20 week ultrasound, Jason & I were busting at the seams with anticipation. We couldn't wait to find out if it was a boy or girl (we both were feeling boy-vibes), and I was so excited for J to hear the heartbeat for the first time. During the ultrasound, J & I kept making stink-eye faces at each other because the technician was being so quiet and so not excited. Without telling us the gender, she turned to us with this concerned look and said she was going to get the doctor.

Not exactly how you expect your 20 week ultrasound to go.

So, 20 minutes later, my doctor comes in to the room and sits down across from us. She says that they can't tell for sure, but it looks like the baby has Dandy Walkers syndrome. Of course, we had no idea what that was, and neither did she, really, but she said that it usually means that the baby would have terrible motor skills and probably severe mental disabilities. To make sure, she wanted to send us across the street to the hospital for a Level II ultrasound.

J & I drove over to the hospital. J was in shock, I was balling my eyes out. We sat in the waiting room for an hour before we went back for the Level II ultrasound. If I hadn't been so scared out of my mind, it would be been an awesome experience. Instead of that tiny, old school tv screen that I had to practically break my neck to watch, this ultrasound had a huge flat screen tv mounted on the wall across from my bed so we could watch everything and see each detail. This ultrasound nurse was actually humane, and asked us if they had told us the gender at my doctor's office. We realized that we had totally forgotten and that they didn't tell us. When she said it was a boy, I had never seen Jason smile so big. Also unlike the first ultrasound, we actually got a whole chain of ultrasound pictures to take home.

After another long wait, another doctor came in to see us. Well, good news, she said, is that it's not Dandy Walkers. Bad news, it's agenesis of the corpus callosum. Again, we had no idea what that was. She explained that it seemed like the part of the brain that connects the left and right hemispheres was completely missing. What that meant...she couldn't say. She said that some people are missing the corpus callosum & are totally fine, others are severely impaired. And, yet again, we were told that they couldn't tell 100% from the ultrasound and that we should schedule a fetal MRI.

So, Jason & I drove home with a handbag full of emotions. We were so excited to find out it was a boy, and so excited to know that every other part of his body looked perfect (The Level II ultrasound nurse told us that his heart couldn't be more beautiful). I went home, got in bed, and prayed and cried until I fell asleep.

That Friday we went home for Christmas break, and we got to meet our 8 month old nephew for the first time. He was so beautiful, so perfect, so much fun, but it was so hard to spend time with him. Whenever I sat down to play with him, I ended up excusing myself back up to our room. I was so overwhelmed with grief & fear: What if our baby can't sit up on his own? What if he can't talk? What if he has to rely on other people to take care of him his whole life?

Peace came in small bits and pieces, and joy came in baby steps. Each night, we would read Psalm 139 & pray over the tiny person growing in my belly. That Anne Lamott quote became alive for me: Hope begins in the dark: we wait, we watch, we work, we don't give up.

The Lord gave me so many small gifts over those two weeks. For one, I ran into the dad of someone I went to high school with. Without knowing anything, he told me how with his middle son the doctors said that the baby would be severely handicapped and physically deformed. The man said that he called my grandpa because the doctors were saying they should abort the baby, and my grandpa told him to act in faith and not in fear. His son is now serving in the Peace Corps and doing amazing things: no disabilities or deformities. "Don't listen to doctors, no matter what they say, " he had told me, "They don't know what the hell they're talking about." I sat in my car afterwords and cried and thanked the Lord for a little bit of light in the darkness.

The second gift came during the Christmas Eve candlelight service. I won't go in to detail, but there are reasons that my brother and I should not be allowed to sit next to each other in church. It was a very solemn service, but I came down with the worst case of the giggles I have ever had in my life. I mean, I don't know if I ever laughed that hard. I literally had tears rolling down my face and soaking my sweater. My mom was giving us a dirty look, and J was looking at us in complete bemusement. I eventually had to exit to the bathroom to compose myself. Maybe it was my crazy hormones and roller coaster emotions or the fact that my nerves were so frayed they were ready to snap, but it was another small gift wrapped up in laughter.

The service ended with the lights being turned off and everyone holding a small candle. For the first time all week, I knew that J, the baby & I were not alone. We were surrounded by the Lord's presence, surrounded by loving family, surrounded by stories of hope, surrounded by Light.

After two weeks of being loved on at home, J & I went back to Chicago. Our first Monday home, we went in for the fetal MRI. I didn't even know they could do an MRI on a baby in the womb, but apparently only a few places have the technology to do so. When they told me that they might not even be able to tell anything from the MRI because really, they've only been doing them for a couple years and aren't exactly sure how to read them, we almost decided not to go through with it. For one, it didn't matter what the MRI showed, we were having the baby. He could have 10 arms, a dragon tail, scales instead of hair, or eye balls in the back of his head, we were having the baby. If I hadn't already been suited up in the hospital gown and so emotionally psyched-up for it, I don't think we would have done it. Looking back, J & I both wish we wouldn't have. It didn't change anything.

The small gift that day was having my mom there with us. When I'm in shock, I get really quiet and pretty much completely shut down. We met with the neurosurgeon that afternoon, and he told us that the MRI showed that the baby had hydrocephalus (pretty much, he had way too much fluid in his ventricles) and schizencephaly (parts of his brain didn't form right, leaving little folds and clefts mainly on the right side). Good news: the corpus callosum was present and fully formed. Bad news: there was still no telling if he would be perfectly fine, have slight disabilities, or be completely impaired. J & I just sat there staring at him, while my mom had the presence of mind to ask questions and write down everything he said.

My doctor called me later and told me that I had to decide by the next Monday if we were going to keep the baby or not. She made it less than discreet what she thought we should do. I thanked her for all of her advice and help, but informed her that those services would not be necessary. Now, not that I endorse abortion, but I certainly don't think that the women who get them are evil or crazy. To be honest, I think the church needs to back off a little bit with the t-shirts & protests. The news we got about our baby was the most terrifying thing I've ever received, and to experience such fear of the unknown about this tiny person growing inside of you...well, let's just say I totally understand why women make that choice. And I can't say that in the middle of the night, when the shadows are dark and my mind is (again, as Anne Lamott says) a bad neighborhood I shouldn't go into alone, I didn't consider how easy that would make things. But we knew that this baby was a gift, and you just don't turn down gifts like this.

We resolved to take it day by day, and in the advice of our dear friend Betsy, we decided to not freak out until we had to freak out. I was not going to let some uncertain news ruin the next 20 weeks. The Lord was so kind, and so faithful. Our church prayed for us, and so many people shared stories with me about receiving similar news about themselves as babies or their own children and how everything turned out to be absolutely perfect. My mom and dad would call with stories of people back home and across the country who were interceding on our little boy's behalf. It seemed like every conversation I had was a testimony to how God heals and protects and provides, and Jason and I were filled with so much hope.

Meanwhile, I dreaded every doctor's appointment. Talk about Debbie Downers. The Monday before Avram was born, I had a fetal growth ultrasound. My doctor wanted to measure his head circumference, because hydrocephalus can result in, well, big heads. His head measured in the 97th percentile. Big. Really big. She sat me down after the ultrasound and explained that the ventricles could be putting pressure on his spinal cord, and it was very realistic that he wouldn't be able to breathe on his own at birth. If that was true, he wouldn't be able to eat on his own, either, and that we would have to be prepared to make a "decision" if that was the case. She also said that she would let me try a natural birth, but because of his head size if things went too long it would have to be a c-section.

Well, nice to see you, too, doc.

So, the next Sunday afternoon, my contractions started around 3pm, and by 8:23am the next morning, Avram Daniel was born at 7lbs 3oz, 21 1/2 inches long. No c-section required. Breathing on his own, eating like a champ.

Because the doctors were still concerned about what could happen, 30 minutes after he was born he was whisked away from us and down to NICU. That night, he had a brief episode of sleep apnea, so we were told he would have to stay at least 5 consecutive nights without another episode. As soon as they got me settled into my room, I was in a wheelchair down to see him. Big mistake. By Wednesday night, I had developed a pretty scary case of preeclampsia and was forced into bed rest, so angry that I couldn't go down to see my baby.

I was discharged Friday morning, but Avram stayed in the NICU for a total of 10 days. He did terrific after that first night: again, still eating and pooping and gaining weight like a champ. Let me tell you, there is nothing more difficult in the universe than having to leave your new born baby in the hospital while you have to go home. The first night we left, we walked out the same time as a couple leaving the hospital with their new born baby: complete with balloons, stuffed animals, and video camera rolling. It was all I could do to not collapse on the floor. It felt like someone had filled my insides with cement.

Despite how heart-wrenching it was to seem him hooked up to all these monitors in a room without sunlight for so long, the Lord gave us the most wonderful, kind, sweet nurses. Several of the nurses who took care of him requested to work with him every shift they had because they just "fell in love with him." After he had an EEG one night, his head was totally covered in this goopy junk--all stuck in that beautiful head of hair. One nurse, a man named Jason, sat with him all through the night: holding him and washing every last piece of that gunk out of his hair. If there is anything that makes a mom cry with gratitude, I tell you what man, that was it. That man is a saint in my book. See if I ever make fun of a male nurse.

There was one nurse I would have rather not had. She came up to see me while I was on bed rest, and explained to me that she had a daughter with disabilities and she knew how I was feeling. She handed me this poem, that went something about how I was planning a trip to Italy, but then got on the plane and found out I was going to Denmark, and how Denmark wasn't worse than Italy only different, and I had to learn a different language than I thought I was going to and so forth. It was all I could do to not wrinkle it up, throw it in her face and tell her where to take a trip to. Not my most graceful or proudest moment.

So, 10 days after he was born, after head ultrasounds & EEGs & blood tests & physical therapy examinations, Avram was finally allowed to come home. I've never been so happy in my life. J drove about 10mph the whole way home, and I stayed awake all night staring at him in his bassinet. We went to visit the pediatrician that Friday, and after measuring his head, he recommended that we meet with the neurosurgeon sooner rather than later.

Terrific.

I took Avram to the neurosurgeon the next Monday afternoon, and he sent us over to the Children's Hospital for a head ultrasound. After the ultrasound they handed me the phone, and the neurosurgeon informed me that he wanted Avram to be admitted that afternoon so that he could have a shunt put in the next morning. Now, let me tell you, I thought being sent over for the Level II ultrasound put me in shock. But going in for what I thought was just a check-up and being told they were admitting my 2 week old baby for brain surgery? Blew the ultrasound out of the water.

Avram was taken upstairs and admitted to the hospital, and the doctor came up to explain the procedure to us. He said that he would put a small drain in, running from the back, right side of Avram's brain down into his abdominal cavity. The drain would filter out the extra fluid in the ventricles and stop his head from growing at such a fast rate. Good news: it would prevent any brain damage from occurring from the enlarged ventricles, it's 100% internal and completely unnoticeable, it's a fairly common thing to have, and an easy procedure. Also, his only restrictions are no football, hockey, or soccer.

Bad news? He has to have it for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life.

That sat like a rock in my stomach.

Again, I had a small gift in having my mom there for the procedure the next morning since J had to be at work, and the procedure was over and done in 45 minutes. My mom and I had just sat down to lunch when they called and said he was in the recovery room. There he was: sleeping like a little doll baby. He did swimmingly well. Perfect.

That night, he had to share a room with a 14 year old girl. I was mildly irritated. Then, I overheard a conversation between the girl's mom and the nurse: this girl had a shunt put in at 3 weeks old because of hydrocephalus. And guess what? She was adorable. I mean, like puppy-dog, rainbows & sunshine adorable. And she played sports. And had friends. And she wasn't even in the hospital because of anything related to her shunt. I cannot explain what I felt when I saw her: I mean, she was normal. I breathed deeply for the first time in weeks.

To wrap things up, Avram has gone back for several check-ups, including a lengthy exam with a neurologist (whom J & I lovingly call Dr.Taco. I would explain, but, I mean, it would just make us seem even weirder). He spent like half an hour doing all these crazy reflex, hearing, and vision tests without saying a word, and I was just about to explode with anxiety. When Dr.Taco was done, he handed me Avram and said, "Well, it's like he read the textbook before taking the test. He's perfect." It was all I could do to not jump up and hug the man. He said we're just waiting to see if he has any learning disabilities, but, from everything he could tell, he's a perfect 6 week old baby. No sign of any physical or mental delay. I thought my heart was going to explode.

So now, just about every doctor's exam ends with, "Well, we're just going to wait and see." And so far, he's right on track for every developmental milestone there is.

I've been reminded through all of this that, as CS Lewis says, God is a builder and not a magician: that He works in steps and brushstrokes and He is patient and He really does have a plan that only works on His time. Sometimes I still feel like God has forgotten me, or that He's playing some nasty trick on us, or that I must have done something terrible to cause this, or that if I actually did trust Him and release my death drip on the reigns of all this that everything would come crashing down in smoke and flames and it would all be my fault.

I don't know why we've had to go through all of this, and perhaps I never will. But I do know this: Avram is, after salvation and J, the most beautiful and perfect and undeserved gift that the Lord has ever given me.

With his arrival, it's like all the windows have finally been opened up, and all this joy and love and grace has just come pouring in...like sunlight.

{lessons from seven weeks}

2010-06-16T11:56:00.004-05:00

There are a lot of good stories and a book-full of observations I could share after experiencing pregnancy, delivery, and the first seven sleepless weeks of motherhood, but there are three experiences I feel pretty much sum it all up.

First of all, I believe I now fully understand why parents are so outraged, mortified, and depressed when their children pierce their tongues, get tattoos, dye their hair purple, or go sky-diving. For one thing, I find myself staring at this beautiful baby boy in awe and disbelief that such a perfect, perfect, perfect little person grew inside my belly. This baby. This beautiful baby. Inside my belly. I can imagine myself, 18 years from now, as a middle-aged mom tearfully pleading with my almost-adult son to NOT get a skull-and-cross-bones tattoo on his back because, for heaven's sake young man, do you not remember that I grew you from scratch inside my belly??!?

Secondly, I believe I also understand why moms aren't grossed out by anything. I'll share a bit of my labor/delivery experience, not out of some narcissistic belief that the world actually cares about a contraction-by-contraction retelling of Avram's birth, but more just for the sheer hilarity of it all, and I think it makes for a good story.

Before I talk about delivery, I'll say that I was surprised by how completely unladylike and humiliating pregnancy was. It was definitely not a nine months of cheeriness, glowing, rainbows, and sunshine. I was an acne-covered, bloated, exhausted, moody beachball with carpal tunnel, gas, sciatic pain, and one single pair of shoes to squeeze my fat ham feet into. On top of all that, I was more terrified and nerve-wracked than I have ever been in my life, for reasons to be disclosed in a blog yet to come. I didn't think pregnancy would be a walk in the park, but I certainly did not foresee the loss of any and all dignity I may have had pre-baby.

So, as if pregnancy wasn't disgusting and dehumanizing in and of itself, labor and delivery sure took home the cake. They don't really prepare you for the fact that every Tom, Dick, & Henry is going to have a front row seat to multiple showings of all your down-unders once you're admitted. Since my hospital was a teaching hospital, every doctor was accompanied by a troop of eager students ready to observe my every injection and inspection. Even though they always asked for my blessing in allowing the peanut gallery to be present, I had little say in the matter since I was too busy staring down the clock to see if 10 minutes had yet passed since I last pushed the button for the "happy juice" (which, I might add, was ter-rif-ic. The Dude abode).

Since I was admitted due to my contractions, my water still hadn't broken. Now, I had imagined water breaking would be like wetting my pants. Wrong. They used this giant plastic stick (which looked eerily similar to those little plastic swords for cherries in cocktail drinks), and next thing I know I feel like a beach ball-sized water balloon explodes between my legs and the entire bed is soaked. I think even the doctor was a little surprised. As if that wasn't awkward enough, when the doctor came in an hour later to check on my "progress," beach ball 2.0 exploded even bigger than the first and practically turned my bed into a floating recliner.

So there I am, floating literally and figuratively, for about 13 hours before they announce that it's time to start pushing. Now, I don't know about you, but I imagined that when this time came that there would be an entire army of doctors and nurses at my side ready to catch this little person flying out of me.

Wrong.

When the pushing began, it was me, J, and the nurse. She looked at J and said, "Alright, you grab that leg." I don't think I've ever seen J more confused or petrified. I was even a little uneasy that this was going to be his job; I mean, who's going to catch the baby? Who's going to get me water? Where the heck is everybody??

So, after three or four big pushes, I looked up at J to make some comment about the lack of personnel, and he looks at me a little funny. Next thing I know, his face goes flush, and passes out flat on his back. No joke. He was down for the count. Flat. On. His. Back. If I hadn't been so heavily drugged or incredibly annoyed, I would have started laughing. Instead, the nurse gets on her little walkie-talkie and says, "I've got a dad down in labor room 8, dad down in labor room 8." Next thing I know, three nurses come barging through the doors and I'm thinking, "Great! Finally! The army is here!" Wrong. One of them gets J an apple juice, the other one starts fanning him with my chart, and the other one gets him a chair. Now, not to be graphic, but I'm thinking, "People, what does a girl have to do to get attention around here? For heaven's sake, I just did you-know-what on the table. The TABLE." But no, as soon as J was situated with his chair & juice pack, conveniently facing the wall, the army retreated. You would think they would leave someone behind to take J's place holding my leg, but, no, we had to call my mom up from the waiting room.

As if I hadn't been fully stripped of all and any decency, I was diagnosed with post-partum preeclampsia and all but tied down in a hospital bed for 32 hours. Since they didn't want me walking around--one for fear of my blood pressure continuing to sky rocket and two because I was hooked up to all kinds of IVs--I had to have a catheter. I don't know if many things are more humiliating that having a nurse come in every hour to empty a bucket of your "output." Especially when they throw in a "Wow, I don't think I've ever seen that much urine before." Really makes you feel like a lady.

Again, all that to say, when this little person finally popped out, all soaked in blood and mucus with this nasty cord attached to his belly and goop all over him, I was in love. I had never seen anything more beautiful. No matter how disgusting he looked and smelled at that moment, I couldn't have loved him more. No matter what kinds of gross or humiliating things I had to go through to have him, I didn't mind one bit once I saw his face. I get it now. I get how crazy and bizarre and obsessive and blind and googley-eyed moms are.

The last realization I've come to in the last seven weeks is that the city is no place to raise a family, at least as far as this little family is concerned. I know that everyone's opinions may differ on this, and I certainly believe everyone is entitled to whatever opinion they hold. But, personally, the countdown until we leave the city has begun.

After growing up with a large piece of property to freely roam, complete with ponds, fields, wooden fences, barns, gardens, and trees, I already knew that I wanted my kids to grow up with their feet in the grass, their hands in the mud, and their heads in the trees. J & I didn't need much motivation to begin looking for jobs outside the city, but a conversation with our new neighbors certainly sealed the deal.

Our upstairs neighbors have lived here for 8 years, ever since their oldest was born. They have 3 daughters, all under the age of 8. A couple months ago, they drove back to their hometown in South Dakota to visit family. While they were enjoying an evening outside at a relative's house, the middle daughter asked, "Mommy, what are those?" My neighbor told me she about died when she realized that her daughter had never seen stars before. After hearing that story, J & I are looking for any and every opportunity to get out of here. I don't care what I have to do: my baby will know what stars are.

For now, it looks like we are here for one more year, which we are totally at peace with. With this crap-hole economy, if you have a good job with good insurance you're a fool to leave it. So, we are praying and waiting and believing for a job to open up somewhere where there is more grass than concrete and more trees than buildings. I'll tell you one thing, you grow up thinking your hometown is so lame, but a ring, a baby, and two years in the big city later...Fort Wayne doesn't look so bad after all.

{our new home sweet home}

2010-06-16T11:25:00.008-05:00

Finally, after two weeks of shuffling furniture, tripping over cardboard boxes, & holding passive-agressive phone conversations with Comcast's so-called customer service, we are all moved in to our new apartment.We are now officially residents of Rogers Park neighborhood and officially not residents of Edgewater's pride & glory: Winthrop Towers. Good-bye & good riddance.

I have to say that moving was a bittersweet experience, with emphasis on "sweet" and only a dash of bitter. Our Winthrop apartment was J & me's first home together. Two summers ago, we had only two days to apartment-hunt while on our honeymoon, without a clue as to what school J would be teaching at or any idea what neighborhoods were decent to live in. We also thought "garden apartment" sounded charming....little did we know that "garden" means "basement." After driving all over town to see apartments, Winthrop was the one we fell in love with.

This was where we spent our first two years as husband and wife, in a tiny-but-charming one bedroom apartment on the north side. Whenever I remember this place, it will be hard to forget the oven that wouldn't light, the infestation of bugs, the maniacs throwing cinder blocks off the roof to smash cars, the van catching on fire out front, our upstairs neighbor lifting weights (or, should I say, slamming down weights) at 2am, the complete absence of water pressure save the boot-flushing toilet...the list of less-than-charming attributes goes on and on (Did I mention our bedroom closet door ripped clean off its hinges? Or the time the water pipes exploded & put a giant hole in our kitchen wall?).

But despite all of the malfunctions our first apartment had, Winthrop will always be the place where we learned and decided how to be "us." This was where our two worlds, our two libraries, our sets of trinkets, shoeboxes of pictures, and collections of Starbucks mugs all joined forces to become "ours." This was where we first entertained our new friends, who have since become good friends after nights spent crammed into our living room perusing the Beer library. This is where we had our first laughs, meals, celebrations, trials, disagreements, and lazy days as a married couple.

Our living room window had three large bay windows looking directly into the heart of a huge, leafy tree, so in the spring and summer it seemed like our living room was actually a giant tree house. In many ways, this apartment was a fortress for us, a secret place that belonged to just the two of us, where we decided how to run our small family, where we sheltered ourselves from the cold, cruel city and the trying times we faced our the last two years.

So, it seems only fitting that now, during this brand new season of our lives, we have relocated. It's no longer just the two of us. Winthrop Towers held our days of being newly-wed, young, and carefree, now begin our days as sleep-deprived-but-love-sick young parents. Where our first apartment was loud & busy, our new apartment is calm and peaceful. Our old apartment faced the exciting big city, our new apartment faces the eastern sunrise and a serene park. Our old apartment was snug & a big chaotic, our apartment is spacious, airy, secure. Our old apartment catered to our fat cat, our new apartment cuddles our beautiful baby boy. Our old apartment was where we became "us"...our new apartment is where we, day by day, are becoming a family.

{just a thought...}

2009-04-02T14:50:00.002-05:00

before moving to chicago, i would have been hard pressed to name what my pet peeves were. but now, i have quite an extensive list. maybe it's because i'm around people more regularly, maybe it's because i'm around crazy people more regularly...who knows.

this is what gets me: these people that hock up giant lugees & spit them out on the sidewalks, train tracks, and public staircases. really? maybe i'm mistaken, but i thought our bodies were designed to be able to swallow our saliva so we wouldn't need to empty it out orally. maybe there is some mysterious reason why people have to spit every fifteen minutes that i just haven't figured out. either way, it's disgusting.

that's all i have to say.

{life as of late}

2009-03-30T11:51:00.010-05:00

holy macarol, i can't believe this week begins the month of april. where did march go? or february for that matter? what?!

anyways, life has been pretty fast paced for the beers. school weeks always feel like they are going SO slow, but then all of the sudden it's midterms and spring break.

the most random event in our little life has been that we planted some vegetables this weekend. growing up, my dad always kept a pretty decent size garden. one of my favorite annual events was going down to the barn to help him set up the rows and plant the seeds. you might be wondering how we managed to plant vegetables when we live in a second-story, one-bedroom apartment: sin-balcony. exactly.

jason has been reading all kinds of organic propaganda lately; namely Wendell Berry and Shane Claiborne . a few weeks ago he clandestinely started hiding food scraps in plastic baggies to start a compost pile, but i protested soley because of our lack of open air. he always wanted to get some worms, but i again was a party pooper. finally on saturday we went to a local thrift store and bought some pots, seeds, and soil.

we planted some lavender in the bedroom windowsill..

some basil & cilantro in the living room windowsill...

some zinnia flowers in the other living room windowsill...

and lettuce, beefsteak tomatoes, and green beans in the kitchen windowsill...

one plus is that our kitchen windows actually have little plant-holders built on the outside, so once it gets warm out we will probably be able to situate them there. although it's just a few potted plants, it's nice to feel like we're not completely surrounded by cement. second to missing family & friends is missing walking on grass and seeing large open fields.

so i'm hoping to be able to boast that we are seeing sprouts within the next couple of weeks. until then, jason vigilantly checks each pot every couple of hours to see if anything is stirring.

The Great Concrete Divide

2008-10-02T12:38:00.005-05:00

I have spent the past month and a half since my last blog trying to come up with something important to say; and today I realized that I do not, as a matter of fact, have many important things to say right now.

One of the few important things I want to say is THANK YOU to everyone who has sent books and prayers and notes. Jason's classroom library is blossoming and wonderful. We have been so humbled by the response we got! And we are excited to pick up some more boxes when we go back to Fort Wayne for a brief visit this weekend. Jason's day-to-day is surviving by little victories, baby steps in the right direction, tiny breaths and glimpses of hope. You all know as much as I do what a gifted teacher and loving person he is; the students are starting to see it as well.

When I was in high school and hopelessly devoted to blogging every single day, I was obsessed with thinking and dreaming up some really funny story to open with, a really passionate argument, a twist to tie the story and argument together, and then a witty, compassionate ending.

I'm afraid my days of such writing have come to an end, and I came to that conclusion today.

I tried to re-evaluate my motive for surging back in to the blog world, and I think that more than anything right now, I need an outlet to express myself (as cliche and lame as that is); and a reminder to myself that yes, I do, in fact, love to write. Even if no one reads it.

With that being said, here is my life, currently. Mostly questions; not so many statements. Certainly not profound, probably not very clear...but the result of my brain having a lot of time to turn over on itself lately.

The past month and a half have been very quiet days. Jason leaves at approximately 6:20am every weekday, and returns sometime between 4:15 and 6pm...which leaves quite a gaping hole in my day. In a way this isn't entirely true, because I spent from 8am-12pm in classes everyday; but, the afternoons have a very distinct quiet and isolation to them. Time that previously was filled with almost-daily meals with my family, being lazy with J, running around with my brother, planning a wedding, and hanging out with wonderful teenagers has now left me to my own devices.

I am really enjoying being back at school. My mind has missed the challenge and responsibility to learn, grow, and be stretched. I am also glad that online classes didn't work out; because I really enjoy some of the interesting people I have had the chance to meet. Many students at my school come from all over the world---Romania, Russia, Ethiopia, Venezuela, Spain, South Africa. This has provided for great conversation in the classroom, but I have been slow to make any real friends seeing as they are all a little apprehensive of a white, 20-something, married girl from some weird Indiana city in their classroom who always happens to be reading a book for 'fun'. I suppose it is a curious situation. It has slightly stifled my ache for companionship during the day and greatly satisfied my need to be productive, but I still feel like an outsider in many ways.

Something I am learning about the city is this: it is full of bodies, and full of strangers. Such a big place is the perfect location for anyone who desires to live in anonymity. There seem to be, as Sylvia Plath might say, little bell jars over every resident.

Walking down the street, riding the train, living in a building with hundreds of other people--all of these are very, very solitary actions. No one speaks, no one makes eye contact. Concrete: The Great Divide. People are apprehensive of one another, moving past each other without speaking, personal, silent. I haven't quite gathered a solid thesis on it yet; but I am working hard on some theories.

I have caught myself submitting to the proverbial 'rising of the walls' around myself . After a couple of experiences of having frightening-looking men make dirty comments to you on the street or stare at you on the train, hearing gun shots late a night, and witnessing homeless people do wild and obscene things, one starts to adapt their behavior. Don't look people in the eyes but walk with your head high and shoulders straight. Don't flinch or look when they say things. Don't be too nice or say very much.

It's unhuman.

And one starts to understand why the prophets went to the desert, the wilderness, the outskirts. Why God removed his people out of the chaos for seasons...to save them and save the world.

I'm learning a lot about the differences between life in Fort Wayne and life in Chicago. Jason can smile at people, be kind and gracious and warm, dress as nice as he wants to--without the fear of being misinterpreted. As a woman, I am learning how this plays out entirely different for me. I can't smile at people or they will think I mean something more. If I am kind or complimentary, it is, again, taken as something more. I have caught myself being weary of wearing makeup or anything more than sweatpants to school because of the looks I get. So, what do I do? Go on the defensive; making cunning replies to comments and turning stone-cold to strangers? Or try to hide and blend in to avoid the uncomfortable situations? I'm not stating this to create a platform for feminism or to claim things are unfair for women; its just something I have observed and felt. It's not right, and it's not true everywhere.

I know I run the risk that I am potentially behind melodramatic, but these have been my almost-daily experiences out and about in the city. And the biggest question of all has been how to live out my faith--being kind, being patient, being loving, giving my life away---in a place where everyone just wants to be left alone. The mother-hen in me is crying out for people to love on, and people for Jason and me to live life with.

There have been little victories. Two different girls have separately sought me out after class this week; and after just a couple minutes of small talk started to tell me all the struggles and situations in life and asking my advice without even knowing my name...two beautiful chances to share the love of God; two tiny cracks in the bell jar of private worlds.

The city is chaotic, solitary, busy,exciting rustling, enchanting and terrifying all at once. I love that we are spending our first two years of marriage here because of how much Jason and I get to depend only on each other; our trust of each other and God is strengthened in little and big ways. We get to explore and learn and get lost and find our way and find each other all over again everyday. We get to learn how to make each other laugh in new ways, to help each other remember to feel deeply and breathe and take it one day at a time. It is a new world, a new life, a new mystery. So until I unravel the secrets, until I find the answers, I am learning to follow the advice of Anne Lamott:

Be brave, be kind. Breathe.

...and wait and pray for the bell jars to break.

one man's trash is another man's treasure...

2008-08-19T20:18:00.004-05:00

Hello everyone! I have been meaning to write this week; but our week has been pretty busy. In the mean time, I wanted to share something that I probably already emailed to a lot of you. I am copying and pasting an email that Jason sent out this evening.

He explains his request much more efficiently that I could, but I would like to ask you to really go take a look at your bookshelf or magazine pile. Books have a way of hiding in our shelves after awhile and we can forget their presence. In the process of merging our book collections we had lots of duplicate copies of books, so we have started the collection of books already! I remember being consistently disappointed with many of my teacher's class libraries because they didn't trust us with their most beloved books...this is a great way that Jason can offer these students a huge variety of literature they may have never been exposed to before.

So, without futher adieu, here is Jason's email...and for visual, a picture of Bartleby with the book he was named after. :)

"Good evening to you all,

I am writing with a request. For those of you who have been reading my journal letters on my teaching experience, you will already know what I am up to this year. And if you have not been and would like to be, just send me a reply letting me know and I'll add you to the mailing list.

But this year, and for at least the next two years, I'll be teaching on the south side of Chicago for Teach For America. TFA serves low-income, mostly Title I schools (where over 75% of students are on reduced or free lunch) where the students in high school are as much as four to five years educationally behind their peers in higher income neighborhoods. Our goals for the year are for our students to improve at least two grade levels in a single year, while also showing 80% mastery on state standards for the given grade level.

I will be teaching 10th grade English Language Arts at South Shore School of Entrepreneurship, which just so happens to be American Literature. School begins the 2nd of September and I am so excited to start the school year and meet all the students I will be working with. And here comes my request.

So far I have just asked support in the form of prayers. Along with the previously mentioned goals for the year, I also have a huge personal goal of getting every one of my students to READ this year! So many of today's high school students have made up their minds that they do not like to read, despise the books they are forced to read in their high school classes, and look forward to being finished with school. I want to change that.

By forming Reading Clubs on Wednesdays in which every student in every one of my classes will spend time in class reading whatever they want, and then discussing it with their Reading Club groups, providing students with choices as to who they can research and read for their major writing projects, integrating classic and contemporary writing, magazine articles, websites, newspapers, and other current writing publications, I want to show my students that being able to read and write has real world significance - that the written and spoken word carry power and influence!

Not wanting to take up too much more of your time, I will just say that several other reading and writing activities are in the works for this year. And to really see the vision I have for my class carried out, I really want to have a quality classroom library for my students.

What I am asking is for you to see if there are any old books or current magazines lying around your houses that are not being used, and if there are, would you be willing to send them to me to help supply my classroom library?

Not only would it be greatly, greatly appreciated by me, but anything you send would go directly into my classroom for my students to use for their Wednesday reading clubs, as well as other opportunities for free reading time. Magazines like Time, Newsweek, People, National Geographic, Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, Paste, interior design, art work, drawing, video games....etc., etc., etc., would be awesome! And for books, I am not only looking for "classics." Most of my students will be on a wide-range of reading abilities, so books for young adults or middle school students are great! Just about anything will work. Judy Bloom, Nancy Drew, Jerry Spinelli, and Gary Paulsen are not at all out of the question.

Thank you all so much for even taking the time to read over this email and anytime you spend searching your houses. Again, anything you send will go directly to my students, and if you are not already on my newsletter mailing list and would like to be, just let me know!

I love you and appreciate your support (in whatever form it comes in) more than I can properly express.

May God bless and keep you all,
Love,
Jason.

6151 North Winthrop
Apartment 202
Chicago, IL 60660"

For now, Glenmerle

2008-08-15T13:36:00.008-05:00

So, after I posted last night, I broke down and took some very bad pictures of our apartment with my cell phone. They are anything but high quality, but atleast you now have sneak-peak of what our humble abode looks like.

Our kitchen table!

One end of the kitchen! We don't really have any pictures in our frames right now, so don't look at that. Another shot of our red drop-leaf kitchen table that is perfect for just the two of us, but then opens up to seat eight. Love it. Bart loves those big, thick windowsills--he watches the street all day.

Our refrigerator! For the first time in my life I'm learning how to use ice cube trays. I know, silver spoon. Those jars are filled with flour, rice, coffee, tea...I love them. Yes, Jenn, that's you and me on the fridge :) And, yes, that painting on the fridge is a watercolor that I did. In March. Don't laugh, it was my first one.

Our kitchen! Not very clean when I took this picture. Please pardon the Griddler still on top of the microwave from dinner; that's not where it belongs. And that's Bartleby wandering around. The black thing on our wall is chalkboard that we write to each other on. I wish the color came out better, because that little table on the right is so beautiful. We only have one outlet in our whole kitchen, so we had to be creative about what we plug in! No, that's not a door at the end of the kitchen. There was a huge housing shortage after WWII, and a lot of the apartments in Chicago at that time were cut in half and made in to two apartments. That's our cut-off :)

Our apartment has amazing storage; we have three big closets. This is the one in the foyer, our winter coats, scarves, hats, suitcases, tent, sleeping bags, and both of our bikes fit...almost. That's the back tire of the RoadMaster sticking out just a smidgen. And, of course, I had to be urban-chic and purchase re-usable grocery bags...conveniently located next to the front door.

The 'nook'. That chair on the right is heaven for your behind. Our kitchen table came with six chairs, so you will see them randomnly dispersed throughout the house. A lot of the things that Jason is taking to his classroom at school are piled up over here, so it looks a little cluttered right now. Don't mind the random birdcage that I haven't found a place for, either.

Our two bookshelves! Yes, over 500 books found homes in our living quarters. Hardwood floors...love them! We both agree that that clock reminds us of elementary school.

Another shot of the living room. Jason was working diligently on Teach for America. He's working so hard, I'm so proud of him. I love how the desk faces the window, so there is a really pretty view while working.

This is the view of the living room look out from the kitchen. The lamp makes it look like our ceiling is on fire.

On to the bathroom! I just wanted to show how cool the old tile is, and the old furnaces in every room. This rug is so wonderfuly squishy on freshly-showered toes.

When you sit down to do your business, John Lennon is there to wish you times of peace. Again, the only outlet in the bathroom...sort of oddly placed.

Our sink! Water pressure is an adventure in our little world of communal living.

Full bathroom shot. The light has one of those pull-down-cords, which makes going to the bathroom in a slumbered state at 3am quite an adventure. We have one of those old-school medicine cabinets behind the mirror.

This is the 'welcome piece' in the foyer. Jason and I actually bought it for 2 dollars at a rummage sale, repainted it, and put new hardware on it. You can't see the chipped-paint effect very well. This serves as an awesome storage place for keys, wallets, change jars, and our favorite pictures. The piece on the wall up above says, "hope".

Our beautiful old-school stove! I know it looks dirty in the picture, but I actually just scrubbed it down. That's just how old it is. The numbers on the temperature gauge for the oven were all worn off except for two, so I had to use a sharpie to write them back on :) And if anyone knows who gave us this adorable owl tea pot, we would love to know so we can write them a thank you card! There was no name on it! We would love to thank you, Mystery Gifter!

Edit: We discovered the identity of the Mystery Giver. Maggie Paino, we bestow our highest gratitude for the beautiful owl tea pot. Our lives will never again be the same because of your gift of well-made tea.

Random shot of the side of the refrigerator. You can see our calendar, tickets to the Coldplay concert in November, and our list of the AFI's Top 100 Movies that we are currently watching one by one. The piece of paper bottom right is the AFI's list, and then the rest of that dry erase board is our own list that we are making as we watch each film.

Our couch in the living room! Contrary to what the picture paints, our couch is dark brown and not an awkward purple. We were so happy to get our Beatles posters up! That chest is actually painted to match the vanity in the hall. It's stuffed full of blankets and pillows; and on top is a little tray with coasters and our scrapbooks.

Our front door, where guests are promptly greeted by James Dean and the old gumball machine. It used to be in my Pau-Pau's office at home; and it takes pennies! We have yet to find any gumballs at the store, but I'm on a massive hunt.

Last but not least, another shot of the living room from the foyer. That is a double-door closet on the left that has been very useful.

There you have it, our living quarters. Maybe I will take some better pictures later when it's not 10:30pm, and not on my camera phone. :)

Happy Friday!!

the next chapter

2008-08-14T13:02:00.009-05:00

Because I can't figure out how to move these pictures to the bottom of my post, here are some pictures that I borrowed from the wonderful world of the internet to show you of our neighborhood.

This is a view of the street east of ours, but it looks just like ours.
Cubbies fans, eat your heart out. We are only about a ten minute train ride to Wrigley. This is an almost-aerial view of our community, Edgewater.
One of the coffee shops just around the corner
The bike trail that runs right by our apartment
...and right by the beach!
A lot of the houses and apartments in our community are coverd in beautiful ivy.

One of the gorgeous churches on the main street.

This is the Episcopalian church we visited last Sunday. The homily was wonderful, and the church was just beautiful on the inside.
Our main street, Broadway

Ah, hello blogworld, dear old friend. It has been several years since our aquaintance has been frequent, but hopefully the old match will light again.

It has been a few years since I have graced the xanga world with my writing presence, and so much of my life has changed and grown since I was last a frequent composer of words. Once I began my job in youth ministry two and a half years ago, it seemed that sermon outlines and newsletters received all of my writing attention.

Because of this single-minded mission, I'm afraid that my writing may be a little dusty and in need of some moth balls. I remember in high school I could sit down at two in the morning and write a 12-paragraph blog packed with wit and hooks and insight with amazing ease...even though my reading is at the highest it has ever been, the typewriter in my mind needs some new keys and a little grease.

As I was saying, life has changed so drastically in the past four years. Four years ago, I was packing everything I owned in to my Jeep Wranger--the soft-top windows bloated from the excessive amount of clothing and books--and making that ceremonious drive away from home and towards Atlanta. I listened to Rascal Flatt's song "Moving On" on repeat for the first hour of my drive. Then, as the sun began to rise it warmed my melancholy, nostalgic heart and I sang Dixie Chicks at the top of my lungs for the next nine hours (you guessed it, Wide Open Spaces. It's a right-of-passage, give me a break). My heart was so anxious and nervous and excited and unsure of what the future held.

How could I have known that I would leave Atlanta with a healed heart towards my broken past, a friendship with Missy that I could not live without, two years of some of the most hilarious memories, a renewed confidence in myself and in other people, a fresh look at God? I could never have dreamed all that I would learn and see and experience.

And now, four years later, I just unpacked a bloated U-Haul (a little bit bigger than my Wrangler) as a young woman married to the most wonderful, selfless and adventurous man in the world. Four days of unloading boxes, alphabetizing and organizing over 500 books (not an exaggeration; I counted), multiple trips to the dumpster, moving furniture from room to room, hanging Beatles posters and picture frames...and just like that, a new chapter of life has begun. What lessons will be learned, friendships made, experiences treasured...well, that is yet to be revealed. I have never been so excited about a new chapter of my life, because I have never before had the love of my life by my side, hand in hand. He paints the world in so much color and love and renaissance.

On more of a basic note, we love our apartment. We live in a neighborhood called Edgewater; a very diverse community. Our street is lined with old brick apartment buildings, beautiful trees, and is generally pretty quiet (except for the occasional car driving buy blasting Spanish radio, TuPac's greatest hits, or Beyonce). The 18-mile bike trail that runs along Lake Michigan starts on our street, and it takes us approximately 10 minutes to walk from our apartment door to the beach. We have already taken our bikes for a journey along the lake several times, and we haven't required the service of our car since last Tuesday. Loyola University is two blocks north of us, and provides a wonderful resource of bookstores. Down on the corner is a meat market, and just one block west is an awesome grocery store with a delectable produce selection, our bank, a pharmacy, a branch of the local library (one of the first things we did was get our library cards), and the red-line train that runs straight downtown. There are all sorts of coffee shops, Thai food restaurants, Mexican markets, and used bookstores within a four block radius of our apartment that we are anxious to explore.

We live in a one-bedroom apartment on the second story of our 12-floor building. Our living room and kitchen windows face out on to the main street, which bring in the breeze from the lake and a beautiful blanket of natural light. We have all hardwood floors, antique fixtures, and a surprisingly limited amount of outlets. There is an old-fashioned elevator with a gate that allows you to see the walls as you ride up and down, and our landlord is a sweet older woman from (formerly) Yugoslavia. Her name is Patricia, and she starts cooking up all sorts of Slavic dishes starting approximately at 11am. Since our apartment is slightly above hers, we can faintly smell chicken and cabbage in our closests in the early afternoon. It brings a sense of homey-ness, I suppose. As soon as we have access to a camera (mine is out of commission), I will post some pictures of our apartment. Bartleby, our cat, is all settled in and finding all sorts of mischevious things to do and get in to (including dive bombing on to our bed from the windowsill at four in the morning).

Jason's first day of school is September 2nd, and I'm sure I will write more about it in the coming days (since this post is getting a little lengthy). I am in the process of starting online courses in the next couple of weeks, and I have put in my resume at the Boys & Girls Club down the street. They currently only have positions in their finance department, but I thought atleast I would start looking around for some options.

As stated before, this post is getting a little lengthy, and I have no desire to scare off any readers on my debut. There are so many things to write about, but the hours are so many and time will allow things to be told.

For now, happy Thursday! We are sipping our coffee and working on things that require being worked on before heading off to a concert in Garfield Park tonight.

Mercy and peace,

Cassie