Domestic Bliss

I have my own stories to share today about domestic bliss, but you should check out this story first. If you've ever moved a shared object only to be met by the sheer terror of your partner upon not returning it, this story is for you. If you're perfect and always return things after you've moved them, you can skip it.

A few snippets into the day and life of the Pete Family....

Mr. Pete found an expired cookie mix in the pantry. I was cleaning out the pantry and rather than help me, he decided to maximize our time by making a sodium-laced-I'll-never-eat-that-crap prepackaged cookie mix instead of helping me with my insatiable desire to organize our entire house before baby bird arrives.

Mr. Pete: what's the best way to soften butter

Me: uhm, just leave it out and it will come to room temperature

Mr. Pete: uhm, isn't there a faster way to do it

Me: you can microwave it but then it melts and the cookies just aren't the same

The sound of silent baking fills our kitchen as I toss taco seasoning packages from 1998. I emerge from the pantry covered in a mysterious sticky substance to find Mr. Pete with a glass bowl ON THE STOVE TOP attempting to "soften" the cookie dough.

Me: Uhm, take that off the stove, stat!

Mr. Pete: Why? What's wrong?

Me: You are an engineer, do I have to tell you?

Mr. Pete: I guess

Me: Heating glass using a direct heat source causes the potential for the class to break.

Mr. Pete: Why?

Me: (fearing for my life remembering this kid keeps airplanes in the air) Becausesese when you heat part of the glass at a certain temperature and it contracts, the rest of th glass at the other temperature does not, and it could shatter. You can't even put Pyrex on direct heat.

Mr. Pete (obviously impressed) You should be an engineer.

Later in the day.....

Context: Mr. Pete has a wrinkly forehead. This is caused by his intensity. When he talks to you, he talks to you. His entire forehead gets in on the action. Nothing on his face is undisturbed. Seriously, watch him talk some time. In conversations where is intent on getting his point across, his eyebrows stay pressed against his hairline for long periods of time. It's kind of scary looking. I've encouraged him to moisturize citing that his skin may retain it's elasticity longer if he uses some moisturizing serum, but he doesn't really believe me. This conversation occurred while I was surfing the web and he was scrutinizing his boyish good looks.

Mr. Pete: Maybe I should get Botox for my forehead.

Me: Maybe you should try not talking with your forehead for a little while.

My brother got shot and all I got was this lousy t-shirt

I know, it's a lewd title. My school, celebrating basketball school spirit, hosted a blanket and stuffed animal day this week. The first image I saw when I arrived, was the face of a dead student embroidered onto a lap blanket and draped over the shoulders of his little brother.

Immediately my mind took me back to the day this student passed away. We received a call through the emergency phone chain the night before. A student had been shot and was in critical condition. On my way into the building the next morning, a colleague broke the news that the students did not make it through the night. The details of the crime are not horrific. It was a little of being at the wrong place at the wrong time and a little of the status quo for some of my more difficult students. The days following were tragic and relentless. Students roamed the halls moaning and crying. Classes ceased. Counselors were working overtime. Students were looking for ways to memorialize the student's life. His name was carved into desks, his locker decorated with notes, his initials were inked into any surface that would hold the ink. It was terrible. It is terrible.

Every year, I see about two dozen students wearing white t-shirts with images of young teenagers airbrushed or ironed on to the shirt. There is usually a date 1989-2007...or something like that. And then, on the back, in what seems to be spray paint are the words "RIP Big T," or "RIP Little Snazzy." There is a place at the local mall which specializes in these tees and hoodies. Apparently they sell blankets too.

Here's the point. I'm all for memorializing those we lose in life. I just think that making a t-shirt or sweatshirt for a victim of violence glorifies the violent acts through which they leave this world. I'm sure there are some solid exceptions but the t-shirts really bother me. I think some of my students have drawers filled to the top of t-shirts with young faces on them. Faces that should be in graduation gowns, in tuxedos for prom, and in line at the student union at universities. Instead, they are plastered on someone's t-shirt, hoodie, or blanket. And it makes me sick.

My Hips Don't Lie

The imminent birth of a child during pregnancy is enough to make this grown woman cry (every day on the way to work). I mean really, it's just pretty spectacular. I've really enjoyed the whole pregnancy idea that my body is working over time to help our Creator co-create this infant. I'm amazed at how quickly cells divide and multiply. It makes me faint to think of a little heart beginning to beat. It feels pretty remarkable to be a part of what seems like a miracle.

And they warn you about the bad stuff...the swollen feet, the nausea, the food aversions, the unsolicited advice, scary stories, etc. But, never in my life did anyone tell me about the hip pain, the rib pain, the heartburn, the feet burning, the arms tingling, and the stuffy nose. No one mentions these things. If I lie in bed long enough my hips begin to ache like I'm being torn apart at the legs. The heartburn creeps up and then my runny nose seeps down and they meet in my throat causing the most insatiable desire to eat ice cream and tums. I jump out of bed for the third time each night and my left foot fights a stabbing pain caused by plantar fascitis. I take a deep breath, blow my nose, hold my back, and waddle to the bathroom.

I just wonder if some men have to convince their wives to have unprotected sex ever again. I mean really.

Ok, really I'm back

The public is calling. People are saying, "are you going to write on your blog again, ever?" Flattering really. I can't ignore my adoring public.

I've been thinking a lot about how Baby Bird will fit into my writing and blogging life and I've decided to make the little bugger his/her own blog. It's a symbolic gesture of what I've been thinking about lately. I really need to make sure as this baby enters the world that I don't forget myself. While throwing oneself completely at child rearing is admirable and, at times necessary, I'm hoping to maintain some sense of balance between the life I live now and the life that will be forever shaped and changed by a new little bundle of awesomeness. More on that later. Like in another post.

PS: I'm not judging people who have a family blog. I'm just not going to have one.

PPSS: I'm sharing baby bird's blog with my family...I may not share this blog with them...duh.