I'm Thankful for Husbands of the Aaron Variety

Let me tell you about him.

He oos and ahhs over a birthday cake his wife made him.

He even poses for a picture with it!

He doesn't mind that he's only blowing out 10 candles because I ran out of time. (I racked my foggy brain for a good reason for 10 candles and came up blank!)

He goes to the trouble to learn plumbing so that he can install our beautiful, new (huge!) sink. (That's granite, people! Free upgrade. I'm super glad she got my order wrong.)

He does a great job.

Even with the kids playing on him while he works.

And he loves our children with all his heart.

From headstrong, sensitive Joseph...

to spirited, fiesty Emmaline.

I also have to mention that husbands of the Aaron variety do other, truly amazing things. He doesn't always say what's on his mind ("The house looks the same as it did this morning - messy."); he sends me to bed and he does the dishes; he forgives me when, for the third time in two weeks, I leave the door wide open when I left; he doesn't grimace or groan when, for the umpteenth time, I say "can we go out for dinner?". Now that's love.

Oh. And he's also as handsome as they come. I've got it all.

The System

Healthcare has certainly gone downhill. And I don't mean that it's a shame we don't have Socialistic Universal Healthcare.

I received the bills for our little ER trip a few weeks ago. Sheesh. You'd think I took Joseph in for surgery and went to the spa while I was at it. The hospital charged us $180.95. I will confess that I ignorantly thought this was the total for our visit. A few days later, I received the bill for Dr. Jamil Bitar, charging us $279.00!

My biggest problem with this is that I never met a Dr. Jamil Bitar.

He sent his Physician's Assistant to take care of it. I want a flippin' discount for letting the rookie treat my child. But no.

I have learned over the last few years that "no" is not such a terrible word to hear, and asking for something that seems ridiculous could pay off. So, I called the hospital to ask if I could pay less than the bill. "Sure", Lily told me. And I paid $162.86. She wouldn't go lower. Then I called Phoenix Physican Services and asked the same thing. "Sure", Stacey told me. I paid $223.20.

I saved $73.89 just by asking.

If anyone has any other tips to save money on high hospital bills, I'm all ears. And don't tell me "Get insurance". I'll laugh like a maniac if you do. We've saved thousands of dollars in 3 years by not having insurance. Puh-lease.

Oh, and don't tempt with me "don't pay". It's working way too well with American homeowners right now!

Edited to add: Let me just say that we actually do have Catastrophic health insurance, which covers incidents that will cost more than (I think) $5,000. But for meeting our health care needs, paying cash has saved us a lot. And we're free to make decisions how we want to make them.

In Defense of the Three Piece Suit

I can't imagine how often the topic of men's wear will come up, but it's making its appearance today.

Enter: The Three Piece Suit.

It's lovely, isn't it? Crisp and clean, with its perfect symmetry and class, and always smelling of starch. If you happen to be from the South, then you just might imagine what I do: my grandfather his very best three piece suits each Sunday morning to Church, the smell of his after-shave inevitably lingering on the collar and becoming one with the Suit.

I loved Sunday mornings. They were Special. The morning routine was special. We woke up a little later than normal, and went about getting ready and having breakfast a bit more slowly than usual. When we woke, my grandfather would be sitting in his chair, already dressed in his spiffy three piece suit (how did he do that?!), watching PBS; while we played Christian music down in our rooms.

The food was special, too. Breakfast might have been a free for all (cereal, anyone?), but there was always the extra bustle of my mother and grandmother preparing for Sunday Lunch. There was meat to be browned and put into the oven, or hamburger patties to be seasoned by Papa. My mom might have mixed up the baked beans before we left, and Meme might have set out the plates and made the tea.

Of course, what we wore was special, too. Mom was careful to encourage us to wear our nicest dresses and skirts, and the only person who looked better than my lovely Meme was my handsome Papa. I'm telling you - nothing beats a three piece suit.

Why is it, then, that people are knocking the Suit? It's rare to see people wearing them to church nowadays, or anywhere, for that matter. The culture has become overwhelmingly casual in their approach to life. People are casual in their relationships, finances, responsibilities and committments. One day fades into the next. Anything is appropriate. Not very many things are special.

I miss having special things.

I'm defending the notion that the Lord's Day is very special, and that you should make it so. Clothes have always, always been a vehicle for communicating our feelings about an event or occasion. If we believe the event commonplace, we wear common clothes; if we believe the event is celebratory, we wear clothes that are festive; if we believe the event is somber, we wear somber clothes. Likewise, if we believe the event is special, we wear our best clothes.

So many churches are claiming they want people to "come as they are", but I can't recall God speaking that way about His people coming to worship Him. I see it described as a wonderful, special, holy event that required wonderful, special and holy (set apart) clothes to match the spirit of the occasion.

(Please note that I think the New Testament shows how Jesus frees us to fulfill the spirit of the Law instead of only the letter; meaning that wearing one's best is important, but what that may actually look like is not. My best is not Laura Bush's best. And the homeless lady's best is not my best. In that sense, I sincerely believe in coming as you are.)

Now, if that was all I had to say, I wouldn't have gone to the trouble to write about it. After all, the Bible is complicated, and it can be difficult to understand what God means. What binds us together is trusting in Jesus. Not what we wear to church. So, I would have acknowledged my views as just my opinion (because that's just what they are) and spent my 30 minutes another way. (I'll get to folding those clothes, eventually, Aaron!)

But it continues. Not only is it said that we shouldn't have to dress up at church, but, sadly, dressing up can be condemned and discouraged. Because if you dress up you aren't coming as you are.

It's one thing to believe people have freedom to wear what they please. It's quite another to say people only have the freedom to wear what I think they should wear. That's quite inconsistent with the notion of coming as you are. It's true that Jesus sets us free, but humans enslave us.

So, I'm defending the man who wants to wear that three piece suit to church. Whether you're wearing it because you want to wear your best, or just because you know you look so darn handsome. Have at it.

Calling All Commonsense Economists

The government "rescued" Citigroup. Have you noticed how we hear about the "Government" doing it when they want to spend really big bucks, but that it's the "taxpayers' money" when they don't think it's prudent (i.e. the automakers)? It reminds of Caesar's clever use of the passive and active voice. And never mind that the government is not doing at all what the citizens want done with their money. (Pausing to catch my breath.) I suppose there's no use getting riled up over another issue, when I already intend to get riled up over another. On to the point...

What would have happened if they let Citigroup fail? I'm still confused about why their response is better than letting the company go under.

I would think that if Citigroup failed, then the company would go bankrupt, all of the employees would lose their jobs, and stock investors would lose their money. But what about all the bad assets it holds? Would the people with mortgages get away scott free? I mean, if I understand this mortgage thing right, then Citigroup already paid the home seller, and the buyer is now paying Citigroup. Is there another company Citigroup borrowed the money from? If so, would the mortgage holders begin paying them? Or would they have a free house? And if they did, would that solve some of the "problems" the government is trying to tackle with the housing industry?

I may be ignorant, but I am willing to think about these things.

Despite all the details of the situation, I still don't understand how it will help the economy to give Citigroup billions of dollars that don't actually exist, but which somehow will be taken from the taxpayer, so that some people don't lose their jobs. Doesn't that make the situation worse by taxing the person you want to spend money, and enabling the companies who enabled consumers to overextend their credit, causing this whole mess? All to save some jobs?

Ah, yes. There is the stock holder. The Common Man. The Man Who Needs Protection from Everything. I suppose they believe that it is imperative that he not lose any of the money that he willingly invested, knowing full well the risks involved?

Still.

Where's the silver lining? It'd better be good.

Choosing A Title Was My Least Favorite Part of English Class

Aaron (referring to empty garage): "I wish I could see that again."

So I click the back button and show him again.

The famous Closing Sandwich - given to us by our Vietnamese previous owner, who loves these asian sandwiches by Lee's.

One fine Sunday...

Joseph likes to sneak off to explore and discover. And brush his teeth.

Emma eats!

A tiny glimpse of fall.

Moving day. Joseph still mentions the time "Daddy and Jo-Jo ride in the Big Truck!"

What do you listen to?

Cindy, at her blog, Dominion Family, wrote yesterday about how she goes about choosing which music to listen to. It's exciting to finally stumble upon someone who says something you wish you could say, but can't. She has a great one-liner, that I think packs a lot of punch:

"It is a mess of a lot easier to ban music from the home than practice and learn discernment. "

It's important to read the whole post, so that you know the context in which she wrote that sentence. In a nutshell, though, that's why Aaron and I listen to all sorts of music. We want o be wise and learn how to discern what is Good, what is Encouraging, what is Beautiful, and what is a Stumbling Block.

YMCA - Take Two

You just know that it had to keep going, right? There had to be more to the story. Comedies are usually more than one act. I should have remembered that.

This morning, I walked into the aerobics room and was greeted with a "Back for more torture are you?" from a friendly older gentleman. I smiled sideways and mumbled something in the affirmative, then went over to say hi to Obama. I asked him if anyone has ever told him that he looked like Obama. Only once. "But you're much better looking than him!", some other woman added. We all laughed. I thought things were going well.

Mr. Obama told me that today's class is a bit different than Wednesday's (oh yeah...didn't I see something like that on the calendar?). Apparently, Friday's are more about working our "core", so we use the exercise ball a lot. The Exercise Ball. I inwardly cringed and tried to breathe normally.

We "warmed up" the first 20 minutes to Zumba, a kind of Latino-like aerobics. Ironically, it was a lot like the dancing I did in Peru almost 4 years ago, the last time I was in any kind of shape at all. I lost 30 pounds in 3 months dancing in Martha and Enrique's living room. I loved it.

But I'm feeling self-conscious Zumba-ing in front of all these strangers ("Okay! Now shake the booty! Shake the booty!"). I did it half-heartedly, which is all I could have done anyway, since I was so out of breath.

Then we got those silly exercise balls out. I was the last in line, and it was the last ball in the closet. It felt a bit flat, but what was I going to do? So I took it. She told us to sit on the ball, put bands on our feet, lay on the ball, roll across the ball, put our hands on the floor, and do push-ups. By the time I got myself on the blasted ball, they were already getting up to do something else!

It was when I was laying on the ball that I noticed how flat mine really was - it was halfway deflated when I was on top. I either weighed an extraordinary amount more than the others (something I couldn't help but consider), or I had the Lemon.

Next thing was "dips" using our ball. We were to sit on the ball, roll forward and off of the ball, hanging on from the back with our hands, and go up and down. Well, mine was so flat that everytime I tried my hands would roll off!!!

I was beginning to get a bit frustrated, but made it through to the end (it's a comedy, after all). I'm turning around, headed for my water bottle and a rest, when everyone starts running around the room! Really. Running. The instructor tells everyone to hop to it, we've got 3 minutes left. You've got to be kidding me. Is this optional? Will Grandma at least sit out so that I'm not the only one? Nope. Grandma starts running too. So I've got no choice. There I go, running laps around the big room - something I haven't done since P.E. in 9th grade.

I finally stopped when I got so hot I felt like I needed to sit down. I kept muttering "ridiculous" to myself. I'm not sure if I thought the class was ridiculous or I was, but it doesn't matter. I did it! And my shirt wasn't even inside out. Things are looking up.

White Out

Anyone remember Joseph's art work with the red Marks-a-Lot last summer? He wrote all over our chair, couch and desk. Fortunately, Rose was there and knew how to clean it in a jiffy!

I should have known, when he came into my room to let me know that he was going to "clean it", that something was fishy. But, being the thick-headed type, I finished what I was doing and moseyed into the front living room. And there he stood. With the white-out in hand. And white-out all over our big picture window and window sill. And more on a bookshelf. And on Emma's hands. And on his mouth. Who knows where else?

I promptly freaked out and put the kids to bed and swept the house looking for more damage. I haven't found anything else...so far. I'm sure Aaron will later. : /

It came off the window just fine, and the top of a bookshelf that still had a lot of finish on it, but the window sill is a goner. Sigh. We were thinking of sanding it down and refinishing anyway. I guess now that's a definite.

Lesson to learn: Watch your children. How many times have I "learned" this lesson? Countless. Maybe this time it will sink in!

The Y-M-C-A

I will uncomfortably confess that we joined the YMCA and I went to my first aerobics class this morning. (I will not let myself go so far as to gain 20 pounds after Emma's birth, so I had to make my move when it hit the 19.66 pounds mark.) I'm only posting this because I want a reminder that laughing at yourself can be a good and healthy thing.

Monday was a Bad Day. It was the kind of day that God probably wanted to be a comedy, but I turned it into a Tragedy. Most of the trouble happened in Target (a really good public place, you know?). I tripped, I spilled, my hair was sticking up, Emma had no shoes and only one sock, I went through 4 carts before I gave up and stuck them in anyway, I talked too loudly, dropped a posterboard, stepped on a posterboard, shoved the posterboard, held the posterboard, almost tore the posterboard, cursed(!) the posterboard. You get the drift, I guess.

Well, it was probably hilarious. It reminds me of the french woman who couldn't help but snicker when Tami told her it was something like 45 o'clock. I should have laughed like Tami. I should have at least smiled like Tami. But I didn't. I took myself way too seriously and I fumed all day.

God gave me a second try today. And I'll tell you about it.

The class began at 6:00. I walk in, wearing my trendiest workout pants and a t-shirt. Turns out I'm the youngest one there by at least 10 years. And my shirt's on inside out. The teacher tells me I am at a step interval class (what is that?!), and that I should just get the lightest weights and lowest step. I followed the herd and did that.

You know, it really wasn't that bad. It's just that everyone in there had wrinkles and grey hair and whooped my 25-year-old booty. I had to take breaks and watch Grandma hoppin' to the beat on her 3 riser step. I got 2 pound weights and felt the burn. Mr. I-look-like-Obama Businessman had 15 pound weights and did extras. Oh, and I couldn't keep in sync with the others, who were all on a first name basis, and I fell off my 2 inch step one time. I think I did blush that time.

The kicker was when the teacher passed out resistance bands. She had us step on them, then raise them up and behind our heads to tone our triceps. I kept trying and trying but couldn't pull mine any higher than the waist. I kept wondering if she gave me the wrong one. Was it too short? Too taut? I mean, really, I pulled with all my might and it wouldn't budge. Obama's looked so much longer than mine.

So this was all very embarrassing. But it was so much fun! I smiled to myself many times and congratulated myself for the victory in that. I couldn't even keep up with Grandma in aerobics class. That is hilarious and I recognize it for what it is. I'm going back on Friday. I hope I'm still laughing then.

OBU update

I was so depressed when I went to OBU, and missed my best friend so much, that I was prone to sending obnoxiously long e-mails. I would outline each and every detail of my day, and include lengthy commentary to boot. Chrystal says she loved them.

Now, I am still prone to writing obnoxiously long blog posts, but, alas, no one will pipe in and say they love them. The real demand is for cute kid pictures. I know their priority.

But I can't sleep tonight. A few minutes ago I was rocking Emma and decided I might as well blog. About nothing.

What I thought about today:
If I didn't discuss three things, I wouldn't gossip. 1. Who's mad. 2. Who's suffering. 3. Who's in love. That covers most of it.

What I googled today:
1. "can't lose weight while nursing"
2. "Love is Kind"
3. "target in edmond ok"
4. "cramp at night in child"
5. "real estate elkmont, al" (no, we're not moving - it's just window shopping...)

What I did today (not in order):
1. Folded two loads of laundry while watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. And I put them away.
2. Took my husband to work, drove to chiropractor, managed to unload two small children in monsoon, get back adjusted (ahh), reload two small children in monsoon, get lost looking for video place, return home.
3. Enjoyed an Egg Nog Latte while husband enjoyed a Carmel Hot Chocolate. Indulge.
4. Sold a dishwasher for $175, which was given to us for free.
5. Read "Love is Kind" 10 times to my sweet little boy who now knows several sight words: rude, brag, selfish, love, truth, hope.
6. Made a scrumptious dinner of tomato soup and grilled cheese, with pepperoni slices - just the way Aaron likes it.
7. Wiped feet numerous times on towel in laundry room, cursing my laziness in not sweeping, and making a mental note to get a rug.
8. Put up small stick LED lights in hutch - accent lighting!
9. Finished off the rest of my experimental banana pudding. Not bad for a first try, but Meme has much to teach me.
10. Dreamed of being in the country, after I saw an ad on craigslist for Rhode Island Red laying hen. Good ol' Red. I miss her.
11. Watched (for the 10th time?) Dwight smash into a pole and puke all over his car, just to save Michael from a George Foreman grill foot injury. And for the 10th time, I laughed so hard I ran out of breath, and even managed to make Aaron giggle too.

Maybe I typed enough to make my body sleepy. Repetitive actions are supposed to help, right? Awfully strange, me not being sleepy. Maybe it was that extra sugar and caffeine in the latte???

First Bad Experience with a Dog

So many firsts since we moved into our first home! I'm remembering a blog post back in spring...I think it had something to do with an "uneventful" year?

Earlier today, we were all lounging around the family room and Joseph began screaming. So, we gave what has become our standard reply: "Would you like to go outside and play, Joseph?". And to which Joseph said, "Yes!". Off he goes, tromping through our .25 acre backyard, exploring to his little hands' content.

Then he approached The Fence. We've told him about The Fence and The Unfriendly Dogs on the other side of it. But a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do. He stuck he finger into the hole in the fence.

I can only guess what actually happened, because I was inside, reclining on the couch and staving off a headache. All we heard were his pitiful screams and cries. Fortunately (thankfully!), Joseph was crying only because he was scared - there were no injuries to speak of this time. (Maybe because he's had such a wonderful experience with Tasha and Binka, he was shocked at these two dogs' behavior?) Anyhow, it took a few minutes of crying and shhing, and discussion of the "woud puppies", before he was ready to take off again, this time steering clear of The Fence.

First Trip to the ER

I am a girl. My sister is a girl. My mother is a girl. Growing up, we never needed to go to the ER. (Except for the time my grandmother tried to ride our bicycle and broke her hip.) The worst injury I can remember getting was when I ran over my own finger while I was (seated) on a skateboard. Oh, and in 5th grade a girl at softball practice hit me in the nose with a bat. That's it. No bones broken; no gashes; no mislocated nothing.

Well, my Joseph is a boy. He acts like a boy. He explores like a boy. He runs like a boy. Today he ran like a boy, tripped like a boy, and hit his head on the frame of our bed, like a boy. He had a 1" - 1 1/2" gash just above and to the right of his eyebrow. I didn't panic, really. We can call it acting quickly.

I tried to see how deep the wound was, but Joseph was holding his hand to it, and (sorry if this is too much) there was smeared blood on the side of his head so I couldn't even really see the wound. I really didn't stop to find out anyway. I scooped him up and loaded him in the van (forgetting to dress the boy, who was only in a t-shirt!). I grabbed Emma, and my shoes, took one last look at the cleaner wound (yup - we're going to urgent care), and we zipped off in the mini-van.

I called a couple of people to double-check that I wasn't being a hypochondriac, but they didn't pick up. I called Aaron and convinced him to convince me that I did indeed need to take Joseph to the urgent care clinic.

The urgent care clinic confirmed that Joseph did indeed need 1-2 stitches or Dermabond, but informed me that (alas!) they are unable to do the deed because it requires a special pediatric restraining device to keep small children very still. Off to the Mercy Hospital ER they sent me.

Of course, I called Aaron to accompany me. I know my limits. I don't need to breakdown in an ER in Oklahoma, the state that sends the most children to foster care for "abuse" and "neglect". I needed Aaron for support. And plus, he looked more reputable in his work clothes than I did in my jeans and bloodied shirt.

Even though we offended the RN by confessing that Joseph has not received any immunizations ("None?""No - none. He's never been immunized." Eyebrow raises...), it still went well. We were in and out in 2 hours and were only forgotten once. Even better, they did not give him stitches! They used "steri-strips", like butterfly bandages, and a special adhesive.

We ended the ordeal with a special trip to Braum's for his first (official) treat. He had a Junior Chocolate Shake. And he loved it.

Today he had his first big injury. And he was brave, just like a boy. :)

New Blessings

Funny how you never really know whether God is giving you a blessing or a curse; or whether God ever gives His elect curses; or whether it's even your business to scrutinize such things.

We're moved in. Please only take the most literal meaning of that word: our belongings are (just barely) on our property, but that's as far as it goes. Unpacking is reduced to a one-item-at-a-time strategy. We only found our toothbrushes 3 days after moving day.

There is so much left to do. Strangely enough, the most pressing of those things are about family matters, not the house. I have to figure this motherhood thing out - pronto. What is love? What is not? Where did sleep go? Where did my bed go? The way my day goes, I could throw out the clock, and that's not because I'm so in tune with the sun. Breakfast could be anywhere between 7:30 and 10:00, lunch from 11:00 and 2:00, and dinner 5:00 and 8:00. Naps are only as-needed. Whatever that means. I am so confused that I can't figure out what I'm all about. If you know me, that is big.

I'm perfectly willing to be brainwashed into a better perspective, I just don't have the discipline to do it. Laziness has been born out of tiredness, and I have so confused the two that I'm guilty about both. My poor children.

Emma is on the verge of walking. And Joseph is on the verge of sounding more like Mussolini than a 2yo. He's so passionate, but unrestrained. History tells me to beware. He needs Jesus. I need Jesus. I just can't seem to find Him right now. He's probably in one of those boxes I haven't unpacked. I only hope that I didn't leave Him back on Rosedale. Thanks be to God that I am His work, and He is not mine. For He who began this good work in me will be faithful to complete it.

Consider these a few before pictures. I'm praying that they'll be "after"s!