Congratulations

I just wanted to take this opportunity to congratulate the husband, who is the proud new owner of a sweet second-hand Cervelo bike frame. You waited long and hard for this moment in your life to arrive and I'm so privileged to be a part of it. I really can't wait to ride beside you on my new-to-me-hand-me-down Bottechia frame. Please don't leave me in the dust.

I would also like to announce that I drove my first successful stint on a motorcycle tonight. I won't go into all of the details of my first unsuccessful moment on a motor-bike. But, it was in front of my future husband and I did break the mirror off of my dad's vintage bike. Oops. Tonight's ride was much, much better than that one. This must mean I'm becoming more controlled and balanced in my old age. Yes, I'm sure that's what it means.

Camp Out

The husband and Atrain are sleeping under the stars tonight. I guess, that is, if you count camping in the back of a pick up truck with a hard top "sleeping under the stars." I can't even imagine how much fun they're having. They left with a pile of blankets, a bumble bee lantern, a jumbo bag of monster marshmallows and the "Fox in Socks" book. It's always a riot to listen to the husband read that book. He's so judicious in his account of the tweetle beetle battles in a bottle on a poodle eating noodles.

Atrain loves his daddy so much. Tonight while I was trying to clean up I found the husband's Family Home Evening card name tag hanging next to Atrain's tag on the hooks in his room. I wonder when Atrain sneaked them in there. This has been a fun week for my boys. They spent a lot of time catching up on playing catch, going to the D.I., crashing at family members' homes and chasing me down at work events. I smile wider than the Grand Canyon when I see my boys strolling down the sidewalk to me.

Training is over, which means back to the routine. I do enjoy my routine. Maybe a bit too much. Tonight I tried and tried to talk myself into loading myself, baby J, and the port-a-crib into the back of the truck to rough it in the woods. I was really even ready--bags packed, baby food stocked, blankets gathered. But, when Jdog showed signs of resistance, I bailed. Maybe I should push myself a little more...take a few more risks. I used to be so good at that. I hope someday I'll recover my lost sense of spontaneity. But not tonight. Instead, I'll be content cuddling my pillow with the window cracked open, letting a lonely cricket lull me to sleep while I wonder what the boys are up to.

You Didn't Just Say That

The husband said something tonight that will not be repeated. It wasn't mean. It was actually supposed to be a compliment. But it wasn't. It was just a stupid, blubbering mistake. His timing was off and his delivery was thoughtless. Poor guy. He's a genius, but needs to take a few tact lessons. It may take me a few days to stop reminding him about it, but I definitely won't write it down. That way it just might slip into my memory's cracks.

All Nighter

I've been up all night tonight, watching Friday Night Lights, catching up on my writing and reading, and best of all waiting for the husband to call. He's somewhere on his bike in between home and Vegas. His five man relay team left this morning at 9:00am, ready to pedal through the night on their fancy road bikes toward the infernal heat of sin city. Sounds crazy and adventurous and extremely exciting. I wish I were there with him. Can't wait for him to be back.

Tonight while at the playground before bedtime Atrain watched a little girl catapult over a curb on her bicycle and face plant into the asphalt. It was a horrible scene--makes me cringe just thinking about it. I think Atrain feels the same way. Moments after the wreck he announced, "I'm ready to go home now." I don't think he's ever said that before. His sensitive spirit was a little shaken. Me heart ached for him. He walked his bike home and reviewed what had happened, "She needed to use her brakes...I will always use my brakes, I promise." I smiled back at him and did my best to calm his troubled mind, "You're a very good bike rider. Just always use your helmet and everything will be just fine."

Tonight at family prayer Atrain reflected on the evening's scary circumstances, "And please bless that everyone will use their brakes--that dada will be safe on his bike race--and that he will remember his brakes..." He sure loves his daddy.

All is Well

Being at church with the husband is heavenly. Having someone there to share with, to snicker at, to smile because of, and to look forward to. Just being with the husband is heavenly. Of course, all of the to-dos are a lot harder without him, but it's the emotionally empty feeling that is most difficult to bear. I never realized how heavy the burden of being 'alone' is until he came back. Perhaps that means I didn't appreciate him enough. Or maybe it means that there were many seen and unseen hands helping be along the way. Probably both. At any rate, when I head him whistling this weekend I finally felt at home in my own home again. All is well.

Nighttime Daydreams

It's 4:49 am. I'm going to bed after a few hours spent researching waterproofing methods for cochlear implants. We plan on spending a lot of our Texas time at the pool in our sublet apartment complex while we wait for the husband to finish work every day. And, I really want Atrain to hear me when he's all wet. I've decided to try out the LOKSAK option--they advertise that their sacks can protect electronic devices underwater in depths of 200 ft. Not that we're enrolling Atrain in Navy Seal school any time soon. I wonder what it would be like to hear through a plastic bag.

I just called the husband. I hate going back to an empty bed. One of my favorite parts about waking up to work on random projects in the middle of the night is hearing the husband sleepily say, "hello beautiful," when I return to bed. Now, unless Jdog starts sniffing around for a midnight snack, I have absolutely no motivation to go back to sleep. Maybe I'll stay up and keep making Texas packing lists, or keep researching tips for flying with cochlear implants, or just keep writing about my mid night day dreams about the husband. Or maybe i'll just try calling him again. I sure do miss him. Only two more days until I get to see him. Can't wait to return to his side.

Teen Talk

When the husband and I were in high school we stole many a late-night hour from the bedtime tyrants (the parents) as we talked to each other in hushed conversations on the telephone. I even lied to Wonderboy (the husband), telling him that the second phone line at our household only rang in the basement. It didn’t. But he never would have called me that late if he had known that either of my parents could have picked up the other end of the line.

So, often after my magical dates with Wonderboy he would hold my hand all the way to my doorstep, hug me—a long one if I was lucky—and then tell me he planned to call. I rushed inside, checked in with the parental units, then flew like a phoenix on fire to my bedroom where I stood vigilantly by my phone, waiting for the “incoming call” light to blink. If I knew Wonderboy planned on calling, I always caught the call long before the phone even thought of ratting out our midnight conversations.

Now I’m the bedtime tyrant. But, I’m still steeling away many a late-night hour in hushed conversations with the one I love. After a few hours, it’s not that we even have that much to say anymore. It’s just the thrill of hearing his tired voice on the other end of the line tell me how much he loves me, how much he wishes I were with him, and how much he wants to see our sleeping sons. I feel like a teenager again—except that we never said the big “L” word, we whispered so that we wouldn’t wake our parents (not our boys), and Wonderboy isn’t just a few miles away. He’s in Texas.

Even though the husband is 1,500 miles from our home, I do feel like our frequent phone conversations have improved the quality of our communication. Odd, I know, but it’s easy to become complacent and take the company of the one you love for granted. I’m not distracted by the dishes and the laundry and the many miscellaneous messes piling up around me. He’s not allowing his attention to be split by email, research and catalogues of online sports stories.

I discussed this phenomenon with the husband and he agrees, but he also thinks that being in the same room with the one you love is worth a thousand words. I say that thousands of words are worth thousands of words. Of course, our time together can never really be replaced by phones or video-chats or text messages or letters. But I love listening to his undistracted, uninhibited thoughts. I remember how it feels to soak in every sweet sentence. I adore the way he laughs at my clever, flirty attempts to catch his attention. And I love hearing him do the same.

Even though it’s hard to be apart, in some ways I feel like the distance is helping us grow a little closer together. The husband even sat down to read, “Five Love Languages” the other day. Now I want to read it too. I don’t want this to last forever, but I’m thankful for the reminder that deep down inside of me is still the smitten teenage girl who stands watchfully by her phone, waiting for the moment that Wonderboy will call.

Almost Here

Last night we google chatted with the husband for a couple of hours while getting the kids ready for bed. The husband watched Jdog roll around on the floor, listened to Atrain tell him about how he was dizzy yesterday, and followed my frenzied mind as it puddle jumped through the thoughts of the day. We even brought dada’s digital image into Atrain’s room for our bedtime routine. It was almost like he was here.

But I do miss telling the boys that it’s time to settle down every time dada’s tickle hands attack at bedtime. I miss dividing the round-up of Atrain’s nightly necessities: a “grununga” bar, a cup of water, a toothbrush and collection of toys. I miss watching him rock baby J in the plum recliner just before I carry him off to his crib. I miss resting my head on his chest as we laugh and/or cry about the events of the day when the boys are asleep. I even miss annoying the husband with my subconscious footsie playing. I miss him.

Taking my Heart to Texas

The husband is driving to Texas. He took his road bike, his best dressed work attire, the new 'Texas tie' Atrain bought for him, an assortment of canned soups, one of Atrain's toy cars, his fathers' day gift (a bike trainer), a port-a-crib for when we come to visit, his new phone charger, scriptures, audio books, caffeinated beverages, a hopeful disposition and a huge chunk of my heart.

I don't know how we'll get along without each other. He will need to learn how to feed himself and I must learn how to keep my brain from slipping out of my skull. I'm going to need a lot of duct tape. He is going to need a lot more canned soup. Even if we find ourselves at the end of the next eight weeks with empty heads and a starving stomachs, at least we'll have two hearts full of love. The husband will love that cheesy line. Eat it up, honey. It just might be the best thing you digest for the next two months.

Be Brave

The husband leaves for Texas tomorrow. I’ve had a really hard time keeping myself together all week. It’s been a really busy, rather stressful week: double bookings and schedule conflicts galore; no real time to soak into moments with our family together. On top of all that, I’ve been losing things, important things. And, even though I eventually found everything I lost, I still feel like I’m wandering around looking for something…my brain, maybe. Or my heart. Or both.

Today at lunch when the husband finished one round of tests we sat together as a family, talking about Texas. My emotions started to spill over as I watched Atrain and the husband tickle and tease as they always do. “What’s wrong, Momma?” Atrain asked. I sighed and said, “I’m just sad Dada’s going.” Then asked, “Are you sad, Atrain?” He responded matter-of-factly, “No.” The husband and I exchanged a funny look, wondering what could possibly be going through his mind right now. I pressed the question further, “Why not?” He looked up at us and said with such honesty, “I’m not sad because I’m brave.” He is brave. Once again, I’m reminded of how much I have to learn from my son.

An Anne Frank Moment

Tonight the husband and I went on a date. And neither of us broke a bone. It was a great night, made possible by super babysitters Gpatts and her sidekick Leaf. Kram and his wife Ashat sponsored our night at the Texas Roadhouse and then to the Pioneer Theater play, “The Diary of Anne Frank.” The food was ok. The play was amazing. The company was even better. I love Anne Frank. I love hearing her thoughts and listening to her feelings. Watching the dramatic reenactment of their time in hiding was profound. When the play was over it was difficult to applaud, even though the acting was superb. Anne makes me want to be a better person. She reminds me what I love so much about life, and why I enjoy writing about living. Her story also reminds me about all the things in life I don’t understand. That list is tragically long. Number 1229 on my “don’t understand” list is why I did not know who Anne Frank was until I was a senior in High School. Even though my 7th grade History Fair project on World War II won first prize, I had never read nor heard about Anne and her family’s time hiding in the annex. And, the moment that I realized that I was supposed to know all about her was rather humiliating. The husband (aka Wonderboy who stole my heart in high school) played the violin in an orchestra that toured Europe the summer before our senior year—quite sophisticated, I know. I’m still impressed that I convinced him to fall for me, the girl that spent her summers weighing trucks at her father’s feed mill. When he returned from Europe he brought me a ring and many stories. One such story was about visiting an annex in Holland where Anne Frank lived. I tried to pretend that I knew who Miss Frank was because we were with Wonderboy’s family, but inside I was really wondering who this Anne girl was, why he was exploring her attic and whether or not I should be jealous. Wonderboy’s mom read my confused expression and called my bluff, “You don’t know who Anne Frank is, do you?” I tried to mumble through an “I can’t quite remember…tell me who she is again” explanation, but I just looked even more stupid. His sweet mom just laughed, blamed my junior high years in the small town Laman, and shrugged it off as an “Anne Frank” moment. For years I worked hard to recover from that moment, but I’ll never live it down. To this day the phrase, “it was an ‘Anne Frank’ moment,” can still be used to define inexplicable lapses in my knowledge or memory. Heaven knows there are more to come.

My Hero

I tried to resume life as usual today after the weekend turned our world upside down. It was difficult to sleep without checking in on Atrain every other hour, listening to him breathe, hoping he wouldn’t wake up vomiting with his eyes spinning from right to left. When he finally arose and yelled, “mommy,” I brought Jdog into his room and curled into my boys on the bed. I savored how it felt to snuggle between them: Atrain gently played with my hair in one of his hands while squishing his brother’s cheeks with the other; Jdog flailed his arm back and forth against my clothing while he ate, pausing occasionally to smile at me, then diving back in for another helping. For a moment, I felt at peace.

As soon as we were up I rushed Atrain to school. After making some cookie dough for their Purim celebration this week I decided to run around the indoor track with Jdog and watch their class play on the playground through the one-way glass. I had nearly finished my run by the time they entered the play area. I stared at my son running to the gate, standing in line with his school-mates, listening to the teacher’s instructions, and then bounding out on the playground like any “normal” child. It was hard to believe that we were just in the ER this weekend. And it was hard to think that without any warning we could be there again tomorrow. Tears were creeping into my eyes as I replayed the weekend worries in my head. I couldn’t stop watching him. I reached for my phone to call the husband, but as soon as I picked it up, it rang. It was him.

He explained that he couldn’t start on his research until he burrowed through a few miles of bureaucratic red tape. I gave him my sympathy, but felt selfishly relieved inside. I could have him today. I needed him today. I picked him up. He came with me to the bank, picked Atrain up from school, and then we went on a family outing to McDonalds while the odor from our second round of bug spray dissipated from our apartment.

It was so good to have the husband near me, to admire our boys with him, to talk about plans with him and to wonder about life with him. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with him. Especially when life is a little off balance and I’m constantly teetering on the brink of tears. He keeps me centered. He dries my eyes before they begin crying. With Jdog in one arm and a plastic sword in the other, he saves me from scurvy pirate Atrain and any tick-tocking crocodiles lurking around these parts--especially when I am the crocodile. The husband is my hero.

Love languages

Some people say that love has many languages. When I was dating I mostly spoke in the language of butterflies; now that I’m married I’m multilingual. I understand “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” “let me kill that spider for you,” and “wow you look great after a long day and you’re still in your running clothes” in many dialects.

Tonight I communicated my love to the husband in a very significant form of speech. It’s the, “I’ll stay up after you go to bed and dig your car out of the snow during a blizzard as I wait for the cops to free the keys you locked in there weeks ago” language. Even though he probably won’t be able to back his little car out of its snowed-in parking spot tomorrow morning and the kids and I will end up driving him to work/school anyway, at least he knows that I love him.

Shaving or Writing

I haven’t shaved my legs for a week…maybe more. Gross, I know, but I can’t seem to squish the time into my shower schedule. I get in, scrub down, check the baby on the floor, wash my hair (sometimes), and get out. Five minutes, tops. If the husband and I had a race to see who could get ready for church the fastest, I would definitely win—as long as he didn’t know we were racing.

This morning he was lounging in the tub while I did the morning routine with the kiddos. We woke up, played a game, vacuumed the ants up off the carpet (again), made breakfast, instituted a new potty training method, ate breakfast, read the BOM, wondered if all the ants were going to start crawling out of my vacuum, plugged in a true video, fed the jdog, then went to the bathroom to begin getting ready for church. The husband was in the tub and in my way (OK—maybe he wasn’t wrinkling in the tub the entire morning, but almost). So, I thought I would scare him away with my leg hairs. I flashed him my sexy, hairy calf and said, “If I had as much time to spend in the tub as you do, my legs would not look like this.”

The husband considered me for a moment without even showing a speckle of fear in his expression. He smiled (knowing that what he was about to say would send me reeling) and said, “You have enough time—you just choose to use it writing.” My eyes sharpened into daggers. “Hum…so, that’s what you think?” I replied as I stormed out of the bathroom.

Obviously he hasn't noticed when I sneak out of bed at night to type on my laptop. He may not notice a lot of things because his brain works much differently than mine. Hence, I thought I would translate my time into an equation that he can understand. Solve for X:

u[E(2d+b-y)+5s-x+pp-mD/9bf(g+rw)+3C]=24

E=exercise; S=schooling; B=breakfast; y=study; Bf=breast feeding; G=Groceries; C=cooking; R=reading (kids books); W=writing; U=unknown; H=shave; pp=diapering/potty training; M=mothering; D=disciplining; P=playtime

And there you have it. Shaving every day is impossible. So is writing. But I guess the husband is right on one account--I'd much rather be writing than shaving.

Sunday Drive

Today after church ended I told the husband that I wasn’t going to get out of the car until Atrain fell asleep. He said, “ok.” So, we drove around the city for hours with both our babies sleeping soundly in back. It was amazing.

We worked on the husband’s personal statement for upcoming applications. We admired the beautiful homes in the area. We fantasized about the next few years of our lives: where we will be, what a semi-stable residency program will feel like, and how much more in debt we will be when we get there. We talked about God, the future, how funny it was when Atrain said this morning, “I told you to turn the lights off,” and how sweet it is to hear Jdog giggle—especially when Uncle Esteban had him laughing this weekend.

I think the peace of our slow, meandering Sunday drive will sustain me through the tantrums this week. When I said to the husband, “We’re probably wasting gas,” he replied, “No. We’re buying our sanity.” He was right. He always is. I sure love that man. Wherever we will land in the next few years, one thing is for sure: there will be sweet, slow Sunday drives.

The Lottery

I’ve never gambled in my life. Of course there have been those rebellious quarters that somehow slipped their way into the Vegas slots, and the oh-so-daring girls’ camp 3am poker rendezvous. But really, I’ve never gambled—unless you count medical school.

This morning when the husband left he told me that he was going to be home late. Why? He and a few of his boyz planned to “put in for the lottery” that evening. I’m not really even sure what occurred at this event. Perhaps it was a rowdy Mormon muster complete with caffeinated beverages, ESPN and chip dip. But I doubt it.

They were probably huddled on the couches of a cinder-block student apartment, commiserating about getting “pimped” for information by pompous physicians. I’m sure they were strategizing their medical game plans, sweating over which combination of away rotations, research stints and clinical experience will put their best foot forward come residency interview season (only 9 months away). I’m sure it was nothing like gambling.

“Putting in for the lottery” is merely a phrase devised to make medical school’s subjection systems seem fun and exciting. I guess there is an element of self-direction in there somewhere: the husband gets to prioritize the combination of required months we spend paying thousands of dollars we don’t have to beat his brains over impressing the un-impressables. But even then, nothing is guaranteed. Even if you work as hard as you can, achieving the best scores possible, performing perfectly for every person salivating with fangs bared to rip you apart—even if you do well, no one can promise you that you’ll be offered a position in your dream job.

No, medical school is not like the lottery. It’s more like a raffle (the lottery’s Mormon counterpart). We’re not spending thousands of dollars buying tickets to win an undisclosed sum of money. We are spending thousands of dollars buying tickets to win back the intricate, hand-stitched quilt we spent thousands of hours perfecting.

I’m really glad the husband has a good poker face. He’s under a lot of stress right now as he plots out, prepares for and prays about our future. I can see the pressure building up in his eyes (as well as the pain) as we discuss the months he will be gone during the upcoming year. I probably don’t help all that much. With every mention of his away rotations I know the words “I can’t do anything without you” flash across the lines in my forehead, even though the words that come out of my mouth make me sound like a brave, strong momma.

I’m sure a lot of jobs are like this. I know there are a lot of moments in life like this, when you can’t just fold under the pressure of the unknown. I know we’ll have to lay all of our cards out on the table for this one, and I know that it will be worth it. Everything we do together, with God is worth it—even (and especially) gambling with the future.

So, bring it on. Deal the cards. Let’s see what we have to work with. After all, betting on the husband is a pretty safe bet indeed.