For about two weeks, Victory has been coming to me asking to have her diaper changed, but when I change it, it becomes apparent that she has simply dribbled a tiny bit, not nearly enough to necessitate a diaper change.  This started me thinking, maybe it's time to potty train?  She's only 19 months old.  Our diaper budget would rejoice if she were trained, but I remember Liberty at 22 months obtaining that same awareness, and then not being really trained until just before her third birthday.  I remember Mercy at 20 months becoming aware and even being able to use the potty appropriately, but then the months of agony and accidents when she decided she wanted to "be a baby" and purposely not use the potty chair until her third birthday.  Vee's not even two yet.  I decided to hold off.

Then I pulled out the box of 2T clothing because she's in-between her 18 month clothes and 2T clothes, and lo and behold, it had big girl underwear in it.  Sigh.  Maybe I should?  I spoke with a couple friends of mine asking their opinions, and they also thought I should go for it.

So. 

Today, we had a lovely snow day, and the big girls stayed home from school.  I told them, "This is the BIG DAY!  We're going to start potty training Vee today!"  We went to the basement and dug out Liberty and Mercy's old potty chair, set it up, showed it to VeeVee.  She wasn't impressed.

All the talk about potties gave Liberty's bladder an idea, so we encouraged Vee to sit on her little potty while Liberty sat on the big potty.  Poor Victory was terrified of the cold seat and the strange sensation on her bare little tushy.  She refused to stay seated.

A few hours later, Mercy tried again with her.  This time she willingly sat on the seat, and I gave both Vee and Mercy an M&M for their efforts.  Liberty didn't think that was very fair, so I doled out M&M's to everyone. 

Liberty and Mercy suddenly felt a great need to empty their bladders every ten minutes, and my M&M supply is now running extremely low.  Thankfully, they'll be in school tomorrow, so the correct child might get trained.

I is for...  Imagination!

Victory Joy is my first baby that I've been able to be home with during the day.  If you've been reading this blog since it's auspicious beginning back in 2006, you'll know that I worked full-time until my middle daughter Mercy Jane was a year old.  So this staying home and raising a baby is new to me even though she's my third child.  I can't say that I've loved every minute of it, but I have definitely treasured every minute of it! 

Now that my baby has turned one, her little imagination is blowing my expectations away.  I don't remember when my other two started imaginary play, but I feel like VJ has started earlier, or at the very least is more advanced right from the start than her sisters were at imagining.  But then again, maybe I don't remember what I'm talking about.

What I do know is that living with Victory right now is so much fun!  I was reading a picture book to her the other day, and she "picked" a leaf off the page and handed it to me.  I'd never seen her do something like this before, so I played along to discover what would happen next.  She placed it in my hand and let me hold it for two seconds, then she took it back and blew on it.  Then she placed it in my hand for another two seconds before taking it back.  She hesitated, not sure how to get rid of it.  She finally dissolved it by rubbing her fingers together over the pretend leaf, and it disappeared. 

She carries her baby with her everywhere.  This is another first for me because Liberty never played with dolls.  Liberty had too many brilliant, active ideas to waste her time caring for a piece of plastic, and since Liberty always had something amazing going on, Mercy joined in her older sister's play instead of messing with dolls.  So watching VJ tenderly care for her little baby pleases me immensely.  Today she fed it a bottle before buckling it into the highchair and shoving a banana into its mouth (which I need to clean out, now).  Yesterday, she overturned an empty laundry hamper and the two of them spent the afternoon together inside its coziness.






















One of my other favorite imaginary games VJ plays happens in her crib.  From the living room, I hear squeals and growls as Victory imitates various animal sounds.  Then she begins a conversation with her baby or her stuffed dog in her crib, and it can carry on for 30 minutes or longer some days.  It's very dramatic and entertaining, and some day, when she enunciates better, I'm going to be even more amused.

For now, I'm loving this stage of my baby's life!

 

H is for... Homework, Hurting, and Healing.

I'm cheating a little by backing up and writing after the fact, but it's my blog, and I get to make the rules, so...I'm not cheating at all.  I'm just catching up!  :-)  See? 

(That's the way the rest of my world should work, too.)





        













I mentioned in my October 7th post, that Victory had climbed onto my treadmill while I was running and scraped the skin off the right side of her face.  Well, it turned out to be more serious than that.  Here's what her face looked like about an hour after the incident.  Not very significant-looking, right?  I didn't think so either.


Here's how she looked on Day 2.  My poor little baby.  Still not too bad, though.


But on Day 3, the scabs turned black and grew larger, covering most of her face from eye to chin.  Her skin bubbled up and began peeling off in chunks, then bleeding.  The places not covered by freaky-looking bubbly skin, bloody spots, or charred scabs were an angry infected red.  I panicked.  At that point, I realized she had been burned by the treadmill.  I don't have any pictures of Day 3 because I was too worried about it to take photos. 

The doctor confirmed Victory had been burned and had developed an infection.  She said treadmill burns were fairly common, and she gave us an antibiotic and some burn cream with silver in it.  Silver is a natural antibiotic, so I skipped the med dosage and kept my baby slathered with the silver cream.

Victory enjoyed licking the cream off her face, of course.

The cream began working immediately.  Overnight, the angry red disappeared and the charred chunks began softening until they finally fell off revealing raw pink skin underneath. 

Here's what she looks like today, one week after hugging the treadmill.  She's healing!

G is for...  Goodness Gracious Great Balls of Fire!



Yesterday, she took the lava rocks from the fireplace and pushed them into the hole where the key goes to turn on the gas fireplace.  Yeah.  Please imagine with me, my Joy.  Next, she sneaked onto the back of my treadmill while I was running, and the poor baby has no skin left on one side of her face anymore.  Then, she tossed several toys into the toilet and tried to fish them out by herself.

But, look at the cuteness.  (Or actually, don't.  It can be hazardous to your resolve.)

C is for...Captive Audience. 

While driving home from a party last night, I heard the girls in the backseat putting on a play.  "Which vowel are you going to be?" eight-year-old Liberty asked her sister, "I'm A."

"I'll be B," six-year-old Mercy decided.

"No, you have to be a vowel."

"Oh...  I'll be E!  'Cause E's the most powerful!"
"Yeah, and sneaky!" Liberty agreed.  "Okay, we'll be in kindergarten together.  Aaaaaaa," she cooed to her sister.

"EEEEE!" Mercy shouted back.

"No, Mercy!  You don't have any other vowels around you.  We're not close enough yet.  You have to say your short E sound."

"Oh.  Eh."  Mercy responded.

"Aaaaaa!"

"Eh!"

"Aaaaaa!"

"Eh!"

"Okay, pretend we're close enough now," Liberty instructed.

"EEEEEEEEE!!!"

"No, Mercy!  I go first because I'm the first in the word."

"Oh."

"AY!"

"EEEEEEEE!!!!"

"NO, MERCY!  You're the second vowel so you boss me around, but you stay quiet!"

"Oh.   ......"

"Good!  AY!"

"......"

"Yes, Mercy!  You're doing it!  AY!"

"......"

"AY!"

"I don't want to be second anymore, Lib.  You be the second one."

"Okay.  You go first."

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"......"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"......"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Okay, you get at the end of the word, now, Mercy."

"I don't want to be at the end.  You go to the end, Lib."

"No, Mercy, you have to be the bossy sneaky E."

"I don't want to.  I have to be quiet if I'm at the end."

"Yeah, but you're BOSSY.  And SNEAKY!"

"Oh, yeah!  LIB, YOU SAY YOUR NAME!  I SAID SO."

"Ay!"

"....."

The play continued, but since you're not as captive of an audience as I was, I'll draw the curtain there.  :-)

Looks like I missed September altogether.  Here's hoping I'll get into a routine for October and start blogging again.  I've decided to continue the monthly challenge idea, and here is October's list.

B is for...BOOYAH!!!

Because I downloaded the couch to 5k app today and completed the first workout!  Tis the dawning of a new era. 

Well, so much for consistent blogging, huh?  I ended up being out of state and away from my computer since the first of August, but I'm back now, and ready to jump in again.

August 19th's Challenge was "To-Do," and I am very, very excited about what I crossed off my to-do list yesterday! 

Jeremy's Uncle Tom and Aunt Donna gave us a container full of plants last week.  Now, I know nothing at all about plants, but my heart loves them.  So, I decided to do what I do with all plants: give them lots of sunshine and lots of water.  After all, if I were a plant, that's what I would want.  I placed the container in my front yard which gets about 12 hours of full sun every day, and I watered the container daily. 

Then I called my friend LaRene, who is The Plant Whisperer, and I described them to her hoping she would know what they were and how to care for them.  I intended to plant them after I found out what they needed.  When LaRene couldn't pinpoint them from my phone description, she offered to come over in a few days to get a visual and teach me how to care for them.

She came over yesterday, and much to my dismay, she declared them to be houseplants.  She also declared them to be dying from over-crowding, over-sunning, and over-watering.  Wet blanket.  Since there is no way on God's green earth that any type of plant will survive in my house (trust me, I've tried), I decided to treat them like an annual and plant them in a perpetually shady spot outside my back door.  LaRene and I worked together to create a triangular garden bed where grass used to grow, and I planted my five plants.  Well, actually, I planted four plants because one of them looks like it's going to be a trailing kind of plant, so I'm looking for a shepherd's hook and a hanging basket to plant it in.  Then it will hover over my garden along with a pretty garden flag that Liberty bought me.  I'm just looking for a hook and flag pole.  Did you know Walmart and Home Depot consider those two items to be seasonal?  How rude.

Here is my new little garden.  I've decided to name it my TomAndDonna Garden, and I love it.  (Be like me and ignore the pathetic-ness of the dying leaves.  They didn't like my front yard, but I'm expecting them to perk up after a few days in my back yard.)

(I hope.)

My friend, Liz, is an inspiring photographer who participates in a monthly photo challenge.  I once participated with her and had a blast finding unique ways to photograph the prompt for the day, but since I've yearned to blog again - and can't seem to figure out how to start back up on my own - I'm going to use that monthly photo challenge and turn it into a blogging challenge for the month. 

See?  Genius at work, folks.  Step back.

If you want to play along, let me know in the comments, and I'll make sure I come read your blog that day.  :-)  Here's the August List.



So.  Landscape.

We've been saving up for landscaping around our house for the past four years, now.  We thought we were going to have enough to be able to put it in this coming spring, but circumstances have conspired against us, and we had to use that cash on an emergency situation that came up this summer.  Apparently, my brain is still processing that loss because I dreamed about my landscaping last night.

I was lying in bed when Liberty and Mercy came running in with their arms full of unplanted greenery, spilling dirt all over my bright white bedspread.  "Mommy!  Mommy!  Come outside and see!" they shouted at me in my half-wakened state.  Only the threat of dirt everywhere forced me to open my eyes.  "No!  Take that outside!" I tried to command forcefully, but my voice wouldn't obey. 

I shakily, still mostly asleep, followed their dirt trail across the carpeting to the front door, and when I stepped outside, I found my neighbor and friend, Trina, just standing up from planting the last bush in front of my house.

"Hi!" she smiled.  "I brought over some clippings from my landscaping for you." 

I glanced around.  My yard was littered with odd pots and plastic buckets all filled with dirt and spindly stems cut from flowers and bushes.  I started to thank her, but then I noticed a small plow with fresh, beige, Indiana clay clinging to its blades.  That's been used recently, my brain realized.  I looked around for evidence of its disturbance and found that all of my areas set aside to become garden beds had been tilled up and mixed with rich black dirt, then covered with peat moss and, in most places, planted with flowers and bushes.  "Wow!"  Trina had done more than just bring over clippings.  She had done all the hard labor to get my landscaping put in as well!

"Thank you!" I told her.  "Would you like to come in for a drink?"

"Sure," she followed me to the kitchen sink for a glass of water, and as I looked around my house, I was suddenly embarrassed to have her there.  The rooms were devoid of furniture, I'm not sure why.  Paint was peeling in large strips off the walls.  The ceilings were made of those square tiles you see in old office buildings, but apparently, our roof leaked badly because there were terrible brown stains on every tile, and some were hanging from the ceiling by their corners.  Our carpet was old and thin, worn bare in spots, and smelled awful.  Every light bulb in our house had been burned out, so I kept flicking light switches with no results.  I looked around, horrified for Trina to see the state our family had been living in. 

Trina just hugged me.  "Looks like we need to work on the inside, next!" she said cheerfully.  "I have leftover paint from when we painted Cait's room."  She bent down, pulled a crowbar from her back pocket, and began pulling the carpet up at a seam.  "Help me out with this.  I'm sure everything will look and smell much better when this is gone." 

I bent next to her and began pulling, grateful for this wonderful friend.

When I woke up, the dream lingered with me.  My brain was having a hard time telling fantasy from reality, and I began doing math in my head, trying to figure out how much we could spare in the budget for paint and new flooring.  So I was pleasantly surprised when I entered my bedroom closet and noticed the walls and paint in good condition.  Whew!  One room that doesn't need to be included in the remodel.

I walked out to the kitchen to start breakfast for the girls, and the presence of furniture and beauty surprised me.  I took a good assessing look around.  "Wow!  My home is beautiful!" I said out loud.  The walls are in good condition.  The carpet is stain and odor free.  The ceilings are a perfect white, with no ugly squares to be found anywhere, and we have plenty of furniture.  It honestly shocked me, and I've been periodically stopping my activity all morning to look and admire what God has done for us materially.

I've been going through about a month of ungratefulness.  In fact, just yesterday I told my friend Denissa who I bumped into at Walmart, that I needed to copy her habit of updating her facebook statuses with thankfulness.  I hoped making a practice of that might encourage thankfulness in my heart and help change my attitude in general. 

Looks like God took care of that.  With one dream He changed the landscape of my heart.

(Like how I tied that in?  Landscape?)

(Uh-huh, I'm that good.)

I've been thinking lately...

(No comments from the peanut gallery, please.)

I miss blogging.  Miss it like crazy.  There's something about organizing my thoughts into an orderly
(ish) few paragraphs that makes me sleep better.  Also, I'm missing the documentation of all the hilarious and creative and thoughtful things my children do.  There is an entire nine months worth of life that has been crammed into my dusty memory banks and will most likely never again see the light of day, but if I'd only blogged them, I'd be able to re-read those memories and remember them all over again.

So what do I want to tell you all?

Well, I want to tell you that God is good.

I've been through quite a lot these past months with Him, situations I've never been in before, paths of growing that I've never traveled before, and it's become obvious how good God is in the midst of the uncertainty, in the midst of humanity, in the midst of the convolutions of life.  He's there.  He's full of peace and joy.  He's in charge.

What a lovely beginning!

Happy June everybody!  Only two days left until our baby girl is visible to the naked eye!  (I don't count today; then there's Monday and Tuesday, and I don't count Wednesday because we have to be at the hospital by 5:30 IN THE MORNING.  I won't even have the mental capability of counting that early anyway, so Wednesday is definitely out.  Therefore: only TWO days until our baby is born!!!)

WHOOP!  WHOOP!

I'm determined to finish that challenge from way back in March, so, ahem, I now present to you the JUNE CHALLENGE!  I'm on day 27, lucky you.  We're close to being finished.

Day 27 wants me to tell you about three online friends whom I have never met.  I'm not big on online friendships.  At least, I didn't think I was until I considered this question.  Last year, when I weeded out my facebook friends - who were only people I know in real life - I had a few rules.  1. The ones I kept were family.  2. Or friends whom I interacted with through facebook on a regular basis.  If there was no regular interaction, they were weeded out - not because I didn't like them, but because there was no reason for me to keep them as a name on a list.  That's when I realized something that surprised me:  I did have a few "online friends" in my facebook list whom I had never met.  Somehow, my online vs. real life lines have blurred. 

So, who have I never met but feel like I have?  Let me tell you. 

1.  Tiffany from In Pursuit.  I've told this story before on my blog, but way back in 2006 or 2007 when I was still new at blogging, I clicked the "next" button at the top of my page.  It took me to someone else's blog.  I read a few posts, and then clicked "next" again.  Several blogs later, I ran into Tiffany's and enjoyed what she had to say.  Back then her blog had a different name.  In fact, she's been through a few names and genres.  When I first "met" her, she was single and hoping to start college.  Now she is married and a model/professional photographer among other revenue enhancersThe Farmbell which hooks up local food growers and raisers to local consumers.  (Which I am totally thrilled over.  I can't wait for his site to grow big enough that it affects MY area!)  Through it all, Tiff's heart to follow God in her everyday life shone and enticed me.  I don't remember this, but at some point, I must have been brave enough to stop stalking and start commenting, and she began reading and commenting back on my posts.  One thing led to another.  We emailed each other through some difficult times.  We prayed for each other through ups and downs.  I feel like I have met her.  She even mailed me a present from her Etsy shop (back when she had an Etsy shop) just because I seemed down.  See?  That's the kind of friend she is. 
.  She and her husband, Mike, have bought and renovated their own home, and Mike has recently started a website called

2. Donette from Our Corner of the World who rarely posts anymore, but I still love her!  I'm trying to remember how we "met."  I'm pretty sure it was through the blog posts of a girl named Callie who went to the same college I did.  I then started reading Gretchen's blog, because Gretchen commented on Callie's blog, and then I read Donette's because Donette commented on Gretchen's.  Did you follow all that?  Because it might not have been like that at all.  I don't remember.  I no longer read either Callie or Gretchen, but somehow, Donette and I became friends.  We went through some similar life experiences around the same times (switching over to more natural food, baby experiences, family things, and right now a desire to garden/landscape combined with a serious lack of knowledge), and we enjoy similar thought patterns.  Just like with Tiff, Donette and I have emailed and prayed for each other quite a bit, and somehow we became facebook friends.  I really don't know how that happened because we are both very careful about letting "strangers" into our lives, but I sure am glad.  She'd be hard to stay in touch with otherwise!  :-)

3.  Beth from Beth's By Grace.  Let's see.  Beth and I "met" in quite an interesting fashion.  My parents were very good friends (in real life) of a couple named Roger and Sheryl when I was a child.  We spent quite a few evenings at each others' houses, and I played with their children.  After a few years, our families moved to different states but always kept a warm spot in our hearts for each other.  Our lovely Sheryl has since gone home to Heaven, and Roger married Beth.  Now, you all know how facebook is.  It suggested a few years ago that I become friends with someone named Roger, and when I followed the link I discovered it was our old family friend!  Hooray!  Roger and I did friend each other on facebook, and that's how I began communicating with his wife Beth.  Well.  Beth and I, our hearts beat the same, you know?  We laugh at the same things.  We cry at the same things.  We pray at the same things.  We're kindred spirits with the same extremely quirky sense of humor (which comes in mighty handy).  Someday, I am going to meet Beth for real - we only live two hours from each other - but in the meantime, I just love reading her status updates and blog posts, and laughing together over all the fun and tragic complexities of life.

I'm totally cracking up over the subject matter for today's March May Challenge post.  Favorite food?  Seriously?  My favorite food has been changing second by second during the last nine months, and sometimes my favorite food is non-existent.  Food?  Nasty stuff!

In the past, tacos have been my favorite, but they have to be homemade tacos.  I'm picky.  Any traditional breakfast food has always been a safe bet as well.  Eggs, bacon, biscuits, hashbrowns...yum! 

In fact, is it lunchtime yet?  Cause I just made myself hungry.

Hmm, upon further analysis, never mind.  I am NOT hungry.  Blech.

I've been thinking about my pregnancies, and how different they all were in food cravings.  With Liberty, I craved only raw fruits and vegetables, and the thought of meat made my stomach turn.  I never could fit an entire meal into my tummy while she was in there, so I ended up snacking every couple hours.  I lost close to fifty pounds while I was pregnant with Liberty, and I felt so energetic and full of vitality. 

With Mercy, I craved meat and potatoes and all manner of desserts, mostly chocolate (which was highly unusual because prior to Mercy's gestation I hated chocolate of all sorts).  The smell of salad or any type of vegetation sent me running for the nearest receptacle.  I paid the price for my eating habits, too.  I ended up with gestational diabetes with Mercy Jane, and I gained thirty pounds.

This little girl, on the other hand...well, I've been all over the board with her.  Most of the time, I don't want to eat ANYTHING.  And when I do, it just comes back up again anyway.  Then there are times when all I want is a plate full of deep green crunchy vegetables full of refreshing, watery goodness.  Some days I cannot get enough sugar, and I've lived on drive-thru milkshakes for every meal of the day.  Other days, potatoes in any form take control of my brain.  But I'd have to say chips and queso have been my number one craving throughout this entire pregnancy.  Chips and queso and fast food breakfast sandwiches.  Don't judge!

And I've only gained six pounds so far.

Now, why can't that happen when I'm not pregnant?




"What is queso?" you ask before thinking yourself bilingual, "Oh you mean cheese." "NO!" I shout with bitter indignation, "Queso is the golden currency of heaven above, flown down to us by nude cherubs so that we might find a small plot of happiness in our lifetime." This photo and quote are both from www.dishola.com created by Dano who is dedicated to finding the best and most wonderful queso alive in Austin, TX. He is clearly a man after my own heart.

I saw a woman the other day.  She was about my age, in her early thirties.  She hobbled slowly as she walked because she was probably close to eight and a half months pregnant.  I saw her take a step and wince, one hand putting pressure on her lower back, presumably trying to alleviate an angry sciatic nerve in her left leg.  She wore a wrinkled turquoise maternity top and stained khaki shorts - most likely because the waistband on those shorts was the only waistband left in her closet that fits around her tummy.  Her brown hair hung limply waving of its own accord in various directions.  Her bangs were pulled back with a metal barrette away from her face in an unflattering way.  I wondered if her pregnancy hormones were getting the best of her wayward bangs, too, thus prompting the desperate barrette move.  Another glance at her face confirmed this presumption on my part because I noticed a large red zit to the left of her chin.  Yep.  Score another point for the hormones.  Poor lady.  She looked miserable and downhearted.

I wondered if waiting the final weeks for her baby's arrival was causing her a slight depression the way it does for me?  I've never been good at waiting.  I wondered if she felt as unattractive and unnecessary as I do?  Eight and a half months of inability will do that to a person's psyche. 

As I watched her attempting to put on a brave front and walk without too much wincing, an older gentleman approached her from the opposite direction.  He glanced at her face as he approached, and she glanced at his.  She halfway smiled/grimaced at him while once again her left foot touched the floor.  She self-consciously took her hand from her back and held it loosely at her side, attempting to look normal.  Then her smile brightened perceptibly.  It became genuine and lost most of the grimace.  I'm not sure what caused the change, but I wonder if it stemmed from her desire not to look so pathetic to others?  A desire to spread joy rather than misery?  Or maybe even a realization that she wasn't representing her true state of mind to someone who needed to see God with her?

Whatever the cause, it had a dramatic impact on the white-haired man.  He did a double-take just as he passed her and said, "What a beautiful smile!" 

"Thank you!" she responded.  Her voice reflected appreciation and surprise.

The two of them continued on their opposite paths.  I could no longer see his face, but the pregnant woman's reflected equal parts pleasure, surprise, and pondering.  I have no idea what she was thinking, but the misery and downheartedness I had noticed earlier was erased even though her left hand returned to supporting her back at each step.  She glanced in a nearby shop window and smiled big.  At first I thought she was checking out her own "beautiful smile" reflection, but then I realized she was smiling at two people inside the store.  I watched them.  They did not seem to know her, but one hesitantly returned the smile.

The lady passed from my sight, and I was left pondering the difference a gentleman made with four words, and the difference the lady made in her own life with her choice to truly smile despite her feelings.

Day 25 of the March May Challenge asks me to describe my location for you.  Well, that's boring.  I'm sitting at my computer, typing a blog post.  I suppose I could go into great detail about my surroundings.  But really.  I'm tired. 

I could take the assignment up to a higher plane and describe my mental location, but that's way too introspective for my mood today.  And besides, don't I do that almost every day on this blog?  That gets old!

So what other kinds of locations are there to tell you about? 

Go, go, Creative Juices.

....

It didn't work.

So...uh, how about I tell you something else.  Like...

Now, see?  I had so many posts written in my head a few weeks ago, and they were all amusing.  Speaking of amusing, I got bored on my way home from dropping the girls off at school this morning, and I started scanning through the radio stations.  I landed on one where a whiney sounding guy was singing about how sad he was that "you" were gone.  He said, "Every time I think of you, it feels like this," and he proceeded to howl mournfully into the microphone.  "Ooooooooooooooooooooooh." 

I couldn't help it.  I laughed so hard I couldn't see through the slits my eyelids had created.  The song sounded like something Liberty and Mercy would make up if they were into the dating scene.  (Which will be never.)  Thankfully, for my driving skills we were close to the end of the song, but the next song that came on caused me to cry with laughter.

I'm Sexy And I Know It

Seriously, you guys!  Who wrote this song?  A thirteen-year-old?  I've heard parts of the song before while I've been out shopping or as a montage in a cheesy movie, but I've never heard the entire thing start to finish.  Here are just some of the amazing lyrics.

I'm sexy and I know it.
(I work out.)

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, Yeah!
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah!

When I go out with no shoes and no shirt, I still get service.
I'm sexy, and I know it.
(I work out.)

Oh my goodness!  I had tears dripping down my cheeks!  Forget about who wrote the song.  I want to know what major recording studio decided it was good enough to be made into a real song and then broadcast to people who might accidentally hear it on the radio? 

Has anyone ever paid cash to own that song?

Um, never mind.  Strike that last question, because I know people who have paid cash to own The Pants Song by Five Iron Frenzy.  See lyrics below.

Aieee....I love my pantalones.
They fit me oh so tight.
They make me smile with delight.
Do you.....?

(Track 10 - Easy Listening style)
I'll never forget when I saw you standin' there wearin' pants.
You were all alone, and I thought to myself "Man I wish I had those pants!"
But the problem was
Those wearn't my pants.
I dunno whose pants they are
But I want 'em.
I only know that I want 'em.
So why don't you come over here
And rock baby.
Oh hold on to me tight, and keep wearin' them pants.
Cause I love you....

(Track 11 - Country/Western style)
These are not my pants.
I don't know whose they are.
They smell a lot like Bobby's
Cause he likes to fart.
These are not my pants.
How did they get here?
And I'm fillin up with fear
Cause these are not my pants.
Thank you, I'll be at the grand ol' opry tonite.

(Track 12 - Rock style)
WWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
These are not my pants!
Whose pants are these anyways?
These are not my pants!
Whose pants are these anyways?
Are these Bobby's, or Timmy's, or Billy's pants?
No, NOOOO!!!!!
These are not my pants!

WOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!
BBBLLLLAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
GAAAAHHHHH!!!
Are you listening to what I say?

(Track 13 - Sorta Rap style)
Pants.
Don't a look at my pants.
Now I got my pants on.
An' I'm chillin, but they aren't my pants,
These are not my pants.
That's what I gotta say.
I ain't wearin' no pants.
I got Billy, Bobby, Jerry, Filly, Illy, Ooh, Chilly, mmmm pantsooh....little bit o' oooohhh
Hhmmmm ah my pants.
Whose pants are these?  They're not my pants.  They're not your pants.
They're not Billy's pants, or Bobby's, or Timmy's.  What's goin on? Whose pants? Ohhmmm (door)
That's what I'm tryin' to say, but yo don't step this way cause I got my pants on yeah.

(Track 14 - Inspirational Interlude style)
C'mon people now
This is the time to unite
A little revolution of the pants.
Right now is the time.
Now who hold the pants,
And whose are these pants?
Will we ever found the home for the pants?
C'mon now....unite a little revolution of the pants.
Yes...right now.

(Track 15 - Bert & Ernie style)
These are not my pants.
These are not my pants.
These are not my pants.
Bobby....BOBBY! Bobby's pants!
Woohoohoo!
These are not my....PANTS!

(Track 16 - Censored Rap style)
---Check one check ----
Uh, Yo! Bobby and Billy, You out ---- what's up?----
Yo me and Bobby we was walkin' down the----
And yo we didn't have nothin' to ----
But we had our pants on
But yo these ain't my pants
Uh, I get 'em off now-----
Um, tight, oh they so tight-----
------Ouch, ooie, ooie eee -----
Um, Billy, Timmy, ah, hello there.
Yeah....cause we in the street ----
Uh Talkin' bout the Bobbys and the Billys out there
And they tight pants on
Ya to loosen ------ loosen 'em up----- Know what I'm sayin'?
Wassup?
-----HUUUU HUUUUU ------WASSUUUU ------
Hey wassuuuu this is Bobby and Billy
-----uuuuuuuuuuu ------- --- --- --- --- wassuuuuu!!!
(too high-pitched to understand)


But maybe all those lyrics were too much for you?  Here is a seven minute YouTube video of The Pants Song.  (Warning: you might hate me after this, but it is appropriate for children of all ages.) 

(It was probably written by children of all ages.)


It all makes sense now.

And maybe, just maybe, this post WAS all about my mental location these days. 

Hmm.  Deep...

Remember the March Challenge?  Yeah, let's just call it the May Challenge, shall we?

I let this post sit for days months because I couldn't figure out how to narrow my embarrassing moments down and pick just one.  Then I read my friend Donette's post, and realized I don't have to limit my embarrassment to just one moment. 

Lucky me.

Prepare to have my life flash before your eyes.

Moment #1:  Youth Group Picnic
The summer after sixth grade, I started attending youth group activities.  The first one was a parent/teen picnic.  My fellow formerly-sixth-grade friends and I filled our paper plates with food from the outdoor buffet line and boldly found empty chairs in the circle under a huge tree where all the "real" teens were sitting.  Our parents also filled their plates and found spots somewhere else where all the other parents were gathering to talk about how unbelievable it was for their darling children to be old enough for youth group already.  The heat and humidity were somewhat relieved in the shade created by the spreading branches of the giant tree over us, but I still sweatily wished for a cool breeze to start up as I picked up a ruffled potato chip and brought it to my mouth regretting that I had forgotten to scoop any dip onto my plate.  My friends, Kristin and April, sat beside me quietly nibbling their food, slightly intimidated like I was by the new group of teens we had joined. 

Just then, I felt a large bug smack into my forehead, right where my hairline started.  The impact must have startled me because at the same time I felt my paper plate jump in my hand, and I looked down to see if I had spilled any food.  I hadn't.  But I did notice a tablespoon-sized glob of chip dip on my plate, and I stared at it, not remembering putting it there.  Hesitantly, I used my half-eaten chip to scoop some up.  It was white with black specks.  Was it ranch dip?  French-onion?  I racked my brain trying to remember the various dips that had been on the buffet table so I could determine which kind I must have scooped onto my plate.  I raised the dip-laden chip to my lips, but my friend's high-pitched squeak stopped me.  She pointed with wide eyes to my forehead.  I set the chip carefully down on my plate, wiped the grease and salt from my fingers with a napkin, and gingerly touched the spot where I had earlier felt the bug hit my forehead.

My fingers encountered something wet and smooshy.  Gross!  I thought, Bug guts!  I pulled my hand away and inspected my fingers.  They were covered in chip dip.  The same dip that I had just contemplated on my plate.  How had I gotten dip in my hair?  I wondered.  Then horrified, I thought about which teen boys had been near me in the buffet line.  Had any of them seen me smear dip into my hair and walk around like that?  I was so embarrassed.

I set my plate down on my chair and rushed into the church bathroom.  The mirror showed me a massive glop of dip starting in my hair and running down my forehead.  I couldn't believe my friends hadn't pointed it out to me sooner! 

Then I realized.

That was no dip.

It was bird poop.

I remembered the tree.  I remembered the impact on my head.  I remembered the plate jump.  I had been pooped on.

AND HAD ALMOST EATEN IT.

flickr photo by Ferran Pastana

Can your embarrassing moment top that? 

(Because if it can, I have more moments to tell you about.  I'm just too tired to type them out right now.)

I received a confirmation phone call this morning from the hospital where our C-section will be done.  They scheduled all the details with me, and after I got off the phone, I sent the following email to Jeremy.


Hi, Daddy!

Your daughter is scheduled to be delivered on Wednesday,
June 5th at 7:30 am.  We are required to be at the hospital at 5:30
in the morning because there are insane people in this world. 

I am not allowed to eat that morning, so I will be extremely mad at you
if you get something amazing to eat.  Plan to suffer with a bowl of
plain oatmeal.

I'm totally kidding.  A granola bar would also be acceptable.

I love you!
Missy


Then I waited in anticipation of whatever hilarious response he would send back detailing all of his scrumptious breakfast plans for that morning.


Missy,

YAY!!!!!!

I look forward to it!  HAPPY US!!!!

Love, Jeremy


Either he was afraid that assuming I was joking would do to him what assuming usually does to people, or he is so excited about the baby that my joke was secondary in his thought processes. 

Maybe both?

This is a post that has been rumbling around in my heart since the middle of February.  I started writing my February pregnancy posts with the intention of leading up to this post, then the March Challenge took over my blog, and since then I've been too sick to type.  However, if you'll bear with me, hopefully I'll come up with a few words that adequately communicate what is in my heart.  We'll see.

It all started in early September when I thought I had the flu.  I didn't.  I just had the world's worst pregnancy.  (Why yes, I do tend to exaggerate.  Why do you ask?)  After five months of vomiting (seriously, how many times can I fit that word into my blog posts lately, I wonder?) and general nausea and passing out and extreme weakness, along with all the crazy emotions I described working through in my February posts, all I wanted was to be able to enjoy being pregnant. 

One Sunday in February, I forced myself to get ready for church, knowing that it probably wasn't the smartest move on my part.  I mean, no one enjoys sitting in church wondering if the person behind them is going to upchuck into their hair.  But lying around the house wishing you were dead gets old after a while, and I needed to see the outside world.  So I stumbled around, shakily getting dressed.  Of course, the moment we were all ready to walk out, I began throwing up.  Daddy and the girls rushed to the car to avoid all the lovely noises, and I stood in the bathroom vomiting into the sink while feeling hot urine trickle down my right leg.  TMI?

While I stood there experiencing heave after heave after heave and fresh bursts of warm liquid on my leg each time, I became very angry.  Not just a little annoyed.  Not just mad.  Big Hot Anger.  You know, I had spent the last several months surrendering and making peace with all the living and dying my babies had been doing around me, and I was finally ready to fully embrace being pregnant and enjoy it to its fullest extent.  And here I was, five months into it with still nothing enjoyable about it. 

I stood there in the aftermath, shaking, wiping my mouth, legs spread wide over the damp bathroom rug and crying loud angry tears.  "God!  I'm finally happy about this pregnancy.  So why can't I just enjoy this good thing You have done for me?!"  I would have yelled if I'd had the energy.

Jeremy came in from the car while I leaned unsteadily against the shower wall, steaming water mixing with my tears and washing my skin.  "Are you okay?" he asked carefully. 

"No," I barely uttered, my throat hoarse from choking sobs.  "You guys should go to church without me."  They were already going to be late.

He silently picked up the pretty clothes that I had been wearing fifteen minutes before which were now angrily discarded all over the bathroom floor.  He took them and the now soiled rug by the bathroom sink to the laundry room and started a fresh load of laundry.  Then he returned to the muggy bathroom and said, "We'll wait for you."

I didn't have the energy to respond.  I continued crying in the shower, pouring out my frustration to my God Who already knew, Who already felt it all, Who already held me in His arms and cried with me. 

By the time I was ready again and dressed in a new outfit, my family had completely missed the first hour of church which for us is Sunday School.  We'd be there in time for the main service, though.  I still felt shaky, and Jeremy tried to get me to eat something.  I'd learned my lesson though -- I wasn't about to reenact the bathroom scene from earlier that morning!  I dully got into the car, pasted a smile on my face for Liberty and Mercy's sake, and we all headed to church.

Our pastor, Clare, asked us to open our Bibles to Exodus chapters 32 and 33 where the Israelites chose to make and worship a calf made out of gold instead of God.  God, of course, was angry, and told them that He was still going to give them the promised land with all its wonderfulness and blessings, but He was sick of them and would no longer go with them to the wonderfulness.  They could still have all the good -- just without God.

Then Clare asked us to think of the one thing we wanted most in the whole world.  Well, at that moment, that was very easy for me -- I just wanted to enjoy this pregnancy.  No more sickness, no more emotional crazy, no more weakness.  Just fun, and happiness.  After all, I'd already worked through the emotional crazy, all I needed was for God to take away the physical pathetic-ness that I had no control over.  Next Clare asked, "Would you be willing to trade God's daily presence in your life for this thing that you desire?"  He paused while we thought that question over.  At least, I think he paused.  I know I didn't hear anything more that he said after that because my heart turned that question over and over and kept coming to the same conclusion:  Yes!  I would trade God's presence for some physical strength and joyfulness in this pregnancy.  I would let go of God, if He would just give me relief from this constant nausea, vomiting, passing out, weakness.  If He would just give me the energy to enjoy the gestation of this longed-for baby, I would part ways with Him. 

I don't know how long I pondered that, but eventually I started talking to God about it.  Would You? Please, God?  I just want to enjoy this pregnancy.  I really, really do.  I'm so happy about the baby now.  Finally!  I want to enjoy being pregnant like I did with Liberty and Mercy.  I'll let go of You if You'll do this for me.

What a bargaining tool, right?  Offering God something that would break His heart in exchange for a temporary happiness that would end up breaking my heart?  I suddenly realized how sad God would be to let me go.  Especially after He'd gone to such lengths to establish a relationship with me.  He left Heaven.  Lived life on earth as a lowly human.  Suffered rejection, humiliation, and torture.  Took my sins into His own absolutely perfect body.  Separated Himself from His own trinity and holy nature to pay for my sins with His death.  Fought Satan and the grave to rise again!  And now that I've chosen to trust Him to cover my sins, He's declared me clean and forgiven without me having anything to do with it!  And since I'm clean now, He in His holiness can hang out with me all the time.  He did all that, suffered all that, just to hang out with me because He likes me!

What a slap in the face, that I would be willing to write all that off as insignificant so that I can have a nausea-free pregnancy.

Then I started thinking about my end of that bargain.  I thought about how God had surrounded me in the shower that morning while I cried and prayed.  About how He had loved me and cried with me and just been there.  I thought about the emptiness I'd feel inside without Him in my life.  I thought about who in the world would I smile and joke with when no one else was around and who would I marvel with when I felt the baby kick in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep?  Sure, I'd feel great, but I'd also be so alone.

Alone.

The barrenness of going through the rest of my life with wonderful people by my side -- Jeremy, Liberty, Mercy, my family and friends -- but without God in me and around me at all times, felt so empty and lonely.  How would that possibly be worth the trade?

Nevermind!  I told God while I sat there in the church service.  I changed my mind!  And He and I laughed together inside at my foolishness. 

But you know what?  Something amazing happened because of all that.  I never have gotten better physically -- I still vomit usually more than once a day and feel miserable the rest of the day.  I still pass out sporadically.  I still get frustrated when I have to change my clothes at the last minute because I've soiled my current outfit -- but my appreciation of God's presence has drastically increased.  A few weeks ago, I came back to consciousness on the cold tiles of my kitchen floor, and my first thought was a happy exclamation of our inside joke, But You're still with me!

On days when my energy level has dropped so low that I can barely speak above a whisper, and people ask me innocently, "How are you feeling today?"  Inside I'm laughing joyfully, God is WITH me!  Outside, I nod, try to smile, and figure out the shortest truth I can muster past my un-cooperating lips.  Which is usually a naming of the countdown day.  (Today I have 41 days left till the baby is born.)  But underneath it all, there is constant VICTORIOUS JOY! 

I've learned to enjoy this pregnancy whole-heartedly even while vomiting into the closest sink.  It's not really something I can adequately describe to you, but it is certainly concrete and amazing.  What a wonderful gift -- GOD IS WITH ME! 

And I once thought about bargaining Him away from me.  Silly me!

So.  We visited the hospital on Thursday.

That was not on my list of things to do in my spare time.

I started feeling strangely at work, and on my way home, I called my mommy and described the odd sensations in my uterus.  Cramping, contractions, a general feeling of desperately needing to have a bowel movement...and she said, "How far apart are the feelings?"

"Oh just off and on throughout the day.  More on than off recently, I guess."

"Uh-huh.  How far apart?"

So I started timing them.  "About six minutes."

"Call Jeremy and then call your doctor," she told me. 

But you know me.  I march to the beat of my own drum.  I called Jeremy and told him I may or may not be in labor.  "Don't rush home.  Just thought I'd let you know."

He told me to lie down once I got home.  Relax.  Breathe deeply.  Let the kids watch a movie or something.  He was going to finish things up at work and come home.

Two hours later, Jeremy still wasn't home.  The cramping/contractions were about three minutes apart.  And I'd been lying flat on my back the whole time.

I called Jeremy again.  He was driving home.  I called my friend Trina who told me to call my doctor.  My doctor's answering machine told me to go straight to the hospital if I thought I was in labor, and the hospital would let him know that I was there.  The trouble was, it didn't feel like labor.  At least, not like the labor I'd had with Liberty.  (Mercy was a scheduled C-section, so I never had labor with her.)  I wasn't sure what to do.  Trina called me back to see what was happening.  I filled her in, and she volunteered to watch Liberty and Mercy while I went to the hospital.  The only problem was, she was out of town for the next hour or longer.  I called my friend Michelle who lives two houses away.  She was also out of town, but would be back in about fifteen minutes which was perfect because the girls had time to pack their overnight bags, I had time to chat with them about the plan for the evening, and Jeremy had time to arrive home from work.

We told the girls that it MIGHT be time for the baby to be born, and we were going to go see the doctor so he could help.  If it was time, they would get to sleep over at Michelle's house, but if it wasn't time, the doctor would tell us to go back home, and they would come back home to sleep here.  Either way, it was a win for them because they would get to spend the evening playing with their friend Stephen who is Michelle's son.  They were so excited, and they rushed off to pack their overnight bags.

*Note to self: I need to get a special bag prepared for them in case this happens unexpectedly again.

Jeremy arrived.  Michelle arrived.  The kids left, and Jeremy, the baby and I got into the car.

It took several hours, but the nurse and doctor at the hospital determined that I was not in actual labor.  I was dehydrated to the point that my body was mimicking labor -- with real contractions and everything.  These were not Braxton Hicks.  They were the real thing.  The only difference was the labor hormone was not being secreted, so I was not dilating. 

So, my mission -- and I choose to accept it -- is not to vomit any more.  Thus ensuring that I do not dehydrate that badly again.  I'm on a strong prescription that seems to be helping.  And I'm drowning this poor baby in water. 

Seriously, if I never have to drink another glass of water again, I will be so happy.

You guys.  I have so many, many things to tell you about and posts writing themselves in my head, and I can't keep track of them all.  I've been so very sick that I haven't even been able to sit at the computer and think in a straight line.  Only seven weeks left!  And if I'm still sick after this baby girl is born...well, sometimes it feels like that might be possible.  Like the vomiting will never end.

Oh well.

On to more fun and interesting things.  What to tell you first?

Well, first, I HAVE to brag on my two girls.  Liberty and Mercy have been amazing little kids these past nine months.  I mentioned in this post about how they are on alert all the time for ways to serve me.  They've figured out that when my body suddenly goes very still and I have a certain look on my face they'd better run for a bucket.  I don't have to say a word.  One girl tells the other girl, "Hurry!  Mommy needs a bucket!"  And they both take off running.  Whoever gets to the cabinet first grabs the bucket and runs back with it.  Whoever is second grabs a cup and fills it with water and runs it back to me.  Then they both get out of the room so they can't hear the sound effects, and the whole time they're running, they're praying out loud, "God, please help Mommy not throw up!  Please help her tummy to feel better!" 

A few mornings ago we were getting ready for school and work.  We were almost late, not quite, but I decided we'd better eat in the car.  So I dropped three bread slices into the toaster, and grabbed the egg carton out of the fridge.  In a cereal bowl, I scrambled one egg, microwaved it for 50 seconds, dumped the cooked egg onto a piece of toast and called it breakfast.  I scrambled a second egg into the bowl and pulled on the microwave door.  The door swung wide, knocking the glass cereal bowl out of my hand.  The bowl bounced off my belly, ricocheted into the stove top, flipped end over end until it shattered into tiny pieces on the stone tile floor.  I stood there in my work clothes staring dumbly down at the dripping, glassy mess on me and surrounding me and couldn't figure out what to do. 

At this point, two little girls came running into the kitchen to see what all the noise was about.  Four-year-old Mercy surveyed the damage and looked up at me with great compassion.  She reached one hand out to touch my arm and comfortingly said, "It's okay, Mommy.  Sometimes, things like this happen at my school, too."

"Yes," six-year-old Liberty agreed.  "Mommy, we'll clean this up.  You're not supposed to bend down.  Okay, here's what we'll do.  Mercy, you pick up the glass, and I'll wipe up the eggs."

"I don't want to pick up the glass," Mercy calmly stated.

"Okay, I'll pick up the glass and you wipe up the eggs."

"I don't want to wipe up the eggs."

"Here's the deal, Mercy," Liberty actually used those words, and if I hadn't been about to cry at that moment I would have had trouble keeping my laughter to myself, "someone HAS to pick up the glass, and someone HAS to wipe up the eggs.  Now which one are you going to do?"

Mercy decided to pick up the glass, but she would only touch pieces that were not completely slimy with egg.  While the girls worked on the floor, I worked on cleaning myself and my clothing.  After a few minutes, I realized this huge job would not be finished for quite a while, and so I told the girls that we would have to leave the mess to get to school and work on time.  "But Mom," Liberty said incredulously, "the germs!"

"I know, honey, but there's nothing we can do right now.  We'll work on it when we get home this afternoon."

"Okay, but first let me cover it with a towel in case Daddy gets home first so he won't accidently walk on it."

I had no energy to respond, and covering it all with a towel seemed like a reasonable idea.  Liberty sped off to the linen closet and came back with about 45 tiny towels.  She then proceeded to cover the entire floor with itty bitty towels like a patchwork quilt.  I thought about stopping her, but she was being so helpful and so independent.  What's another load of laundry, anyway?  A small price to pay for the happiness serving brought to my daughter.

We drove to school with two girls discussing the pros and cons of various cleaning ideas to employ in the afternoon.

That afternoon, they picked up their conversation just where they'd left off in the morning, and when we pulled to a stop inside the garage, they both jumped out and headed to the kitchen without me.  Liberty found that the towels stuck to the floor but by pulling hard she could pry up the dried egg and the glass too.

I had them place all the towels into a large bowl for Daddy to inspect and decide on when he got home from work because I just wanted to throw them all away but didn't want to trust my own judgment at the moment.  Then we swept all the remaining dried egg and glass shards into the dust pan and emptied them into the garbage.  When Daddy got home, he made the executive decision to toss the towels into the garbage.  Thankfully, Liberty had chosen all of our "spill towels" to clean this mess -- we keep a collection of towels that have all but disintegrated into rags to be used whenever something spills.  Then Daddy mopped the floor with steaming hot soapy water, and everything was back to normal.

Everything, that is, except for my respect for my daughters which had increased considerably (as you can plainly see by the photo below).

So March is officially over, and I got to about 21 out of 31 possible posts in the month.  I am extremely proud of that record considering I only posted 13 times during the entire year of 2012.  Go me!  Besides, I decided years ago that if blogging were ever to stress me out, then I was doing it wrong.  When deciding to participate in the March Challenge, I determined ahead of time that I wouldn't stress over meeting the posting deadlines and instead enjoy the fun (and sometimes dreadful) topics listed.  I've had so much fun that now that March is over, I'm going to continue on with the topics as though it were still March.  Days 22 and 23 ask "What do you do when you're home alone?" and "Do you have a hobby?"

Well, I'm combining those topics because what I do when I'm home alone is usually also my hobby.  SLEEP!

No, not really.

Yes, really.  I do sleep frequently when I'm home alone, but that's just been these last seven and half months.  (ONLY 65 DAYS LEFT, YOU GUYS!!!)  Sleeping, however, is not my hobby.  (Although what a glorious hobby to have.  Yes?)

Cleaning is also not a hobby but still is something I usually do when I'm home alone.  How sad is that?

I used to read.  You know, back when my brain would stay awake and actually process the letters on the page into meaningful sentences.

However, (get to the point, Missy -- I can hear you saying it right now, Marcela!) my hobby is writing.  I haven't written any fiction recently (see crippled brain), but I have been blogging, and that revelation, ladies and gentlemen, is the information you wasted five minutes of your life reading this post for. 

Wasn't it worth it?

This post is totally creeping me out right now, you guys.  Day 21 of the March Challenge asks what my biggest fear is, and I have to tell you that before I started writing, I shivered a little knowing my subject matter.  Then I did a tiny itty bitty bit of research so that I could show you a picture and tell my story accurately, and I learned something tonight that has forever scarred me.

Ugh.

I don't know if I can continue.

Really.

I have to keep taking my fingers off the keyboard and fling my hands back and forth to rid my body of pent up creepiness.  This is not good.

I may as well plunge in and get it over with.  Hopefully, I'll be able to sleep tonight.

....

Oh, I can't do it!

....

Okay, I'm afraid of crickets.

There, I said it.  Had to stop and shake my hands.

You see, when I was in high school, my bedroom was in the basement.  The basement was finished, but when it rained, the carpet got damp.  The basement had crickets.  Not lots of them, but some.  Enough.  Too many!

They scared me because if I tried to step on them while wearing my school uniform, they would jump and there was always the potential that they might jump inside my skirt and be trapped closer to me.  That thought freaked me out.  Then there was the fact that crickets jump really, really high when they're scared.  Did you know that?  There is no way to predict the trajectory or height of their leap, and so there is no way to protect yourself when you don't know where they're headed next.

I used to beg my brother not to stomp at crickets when I was in the same room.

He never listened.

One Saturday

Sorry, had to stop and shake my hands.

One Saturday morning, I was sleeping peacefully on my pillow, when an unusually harsh chirping very close by nudged me out of deep sleep.  I wasn't all the way awake, but I wasn't all the way asleep anymore either.  My brain registered some strange movements on my face, and that combined with the different-than-normal chirp right at my ear drum brought me fully awake.

Oh, you guys, I can't do this!

It was terrible.  That realization that there was a cricket and possibly even TWO crickets ON MY FACE terrified me.  I couldn't even scream because they were right by my mouth.  I couldn't see them clearly, only a black blur from the slits I had allowed my eyes to open to.  I felt a strange zinging sensation in my upper lip about two centimeters to the left of center.  To this day, I cannot exactly describe it.  It was almost like a cold burning. 

I sat straight up in bed as soon as this processed in my brain.  One cricket fell or jumped away immediately, but the other stayed dangling from my lip, its four legs kicking wildly like it was stuck and couldn't get away.  Something physically snapped inside my brain.  I could feel it happen -- all that pressure building inside my head.  I started slapping crazily sideways at the cricket trying hard not to smash it into my mouth.  It just kept dangling and scrambling, swinging when I connected with it.

Cricket drawing by R.E. Snodgrass from Wikimedia in the public domain

Then along with the four distinct cold legs moving on my lips, I also felt a movement beneath the skin of my upper lip, as strange burning/numbing/tingling sensation spread in a small circle, and the cricket fell away and casually (I promise you!) casually walk-hopped off my bed.  I watched carefully as it departed, and I realized that long stick protruding from the back of its body must have been what I felt inserted into the skin on my lip.

With my mouth closed and still sitting straight up in bed, I screamed and screamed and screamed.  MMMMMM!!!!!   MMMMMMM!!!!!  MMMMMMM!!!!!!  I kicked my blankets violently off, stood on my bed and shook the pillow, the blankets, bent over and stripped the sheet off all while standing on my bed and screaming with my mouth closed.  My head pounded from the stress.  I kept checking the walls and the ceiling above and behind me for crickets trying to ambush me.  I watched the floor in case one wanted to jump back up on my bed, but my two bedmates had completely disappeared during my fit.

Finally, I jumped from the bed and ran with long leaping steps in order to minimize my contact with the floor out of the room and up the stairs to the kitchen where my family were all in the process of making or waiting for breakfast.  My lip still felt strange.  It didn't exactly sting, and it wasn't exactly numb.  It was a combination of those things plus something else I couldn't identify.  I was afraid to open my mouth, but when I finally did to tell my mom and brother what had happened, my words were all jumbled and my voice wouldn't stay in a regular pitch.

Of course, they thought I had just dreamed it all, but I had not.  I promise you every single little bit of this story is NOT a dream.  NOT made up.  NOT exaggerated.  Nothing!  It is the 100% truth, and I hate every bit of it.

I pointed to the spot on my lip that felt strange, and they examined it closely.  Nate and my mom thought maybe there might be a tiny hole, but they couldn't really tell.  My face was all red.  Well, yeah!  I checked the bathroom mirror and could not see anything unusual about my lip, but it definitely felt strange.  Unidentifiably so.

When I finally calmed down enough to tell the story completely, they still seemed unmoved.  Well, not exactly unmoved, my mom's lips kept twitching in smothered amusement and my brother started teasing me.  I was not in the mood.

And speaking of in the mood, I firmly believed that male cricket had been having sex with my lip.  Up until tonight for the past twenty years, I have believed that.  But tonight, I did a tiny bit of research like I mentioned in the beginning.  It turns out that long stick protruding from the back of that cricket is only located on a girl.  And it is called an OVIPOSITOR.

Now, I am not a student of bugs.  Nor am I a scholar of Latin or Greek or whatever language bugs' body parts are named in.  However, I recognize roots of words and prefixes and suffixes when I see them, so the designation ovipositor bothered me quite a bit.  I didn't really want to know, but I checked anyway.  I was right.

That mama cricket was inserting her baby eggs into my lip.

I'm not joking.

I wish I was.

Oh, I hate this story!

I hope Jeremy will massage all the stress out of my muscles when I go to bed tonight, or I'm going to be incredibly stiff in the morning.

And now you know my biggest fear.