A Fond Farewell

You wouldn't think that the passing of a teacher would evoke much sadness among high school students. In fact, I think that as students, we all spent a fair amount of time daydreaming the demise of certain instructors, resulting in the imagined euphoric end of homework and pop quizzes. Some teachers, however, are in another category.

The legendary Randall R. Rustad, teacher of high school history and government, master of one-liners, collector of dirt. Mr. Rustad (for I will never in all my life feel comfortable referring to him as "Randall") was so much more than just a teacher. The gymnasium at Fargo Shanley High was packed with hundreds of teary eyes, as we collectively mourned the loss of a man who touched more people that I suspect he ever realized. And although he has now been officially laid to rest, I find my thoughts continue to dwell on him. His passing has brought to light so many memories, and they seem to be floating around in my brain like the pages of an old newspaper caught in the wind, occasionally catching the light and bringing either a smile to my lips or the prick of tears to my eyes.

What was it about this man that was so special? I doubt that hundreds of people will show up to tell stories at my funeral. For Mr. Rustad, they came out in droves, both in person and on social media. Every single student came armed with a story about passing Rustad's dreaded mandatory oral exams, or participating in one of the many class pranks that were played on Rustad, year after year. He was everyone's favorite teacher, but why? He was strict, and commanded respect. (Seriously. You don't mess around in Rustad's class. I fell asleep in government once. In the front row. When I woke up and realized that Rustad's lecture was still in progress at the podium directly above me, I felt that I had narrowly escaped certain death.) Yet he was hilarious and quirky. (He drank Tab. TAB. Where does one even find a case of Tab these days? In my entire life (post-1990) I believe the only place I ever saw a can of Tab for sale was in the vending machines at Shanley. And the only reason they stocked it was for Mr. Rustad.) He was jovial, and passionate about both his students and his work. Having taught government, history, and drivers ed at Shanley for nearly thirty years, it takes a special kind of dedication to display the same intensity with every class, year after year. History doesn't change, yet Rustad was able to cover the same material again and again, never failing to convey its importance, even the one-hundredth time around. Any teacher can regurgitate material, but Rustad possessed a rare quality in that he made students want to learn. Not that we had a choice, as we WOULD be learning the material, one way or another. I remember my very first day of class with Rustad a million years ago, when he announced that, "You WILL be learning each and every state capital, and you WILL be learning the 27 constitutional amendments, because I'll be damned if any student is going to graduate this high school without knowing their rights. Not on my watch!"

Even now, days after the funeral service, I find myself preoccupied with memories and thoughts that have resurfaced since Mr. Rustad's death. I keep seeing his grandchildren, seated at the funeral. Little bodies squirming in their parents' laps, short little legs dangling over the edges of chairs. I never thought of Mr. Rustad as a grandfather before. I went to school with all three of the Rustad children, so it stands to reason that they are all now grown up with children of their own, as am I. But the Mr. Rustad in my mind is still the young man of many years ago, with the future laid out as a path at his feet, as it was for all of us back then. It seems a cruel irony that after decades spent teaching other peoples' kids how to drive, Mr. Rustad's own grandchildren will one day take the wheel without him there in the passenger seat bellowing, "Use your mirrors!" Watching those kids during the funeral service, I wondered if any of them had ever been to a funeral before. Could they comprehend the impact that their grandfather had on the hundreds of people around them? Looking around the Shanley gymnasium, I saw classmates of my own from the late 1990's, as well as younger faces from the classes of 2000's and beyond. I saw parents, some of whom were former classmates of Mr. Rustad himself. I saw faculty and coaches, both current and previous. And of course, there were several members of the clergy seated in a row underneath one of the basketball hoops, and the casket, front and center at the free throw line. It was quite the gathering.

My senior year of high school, my family traveled to the Black Hills. Knowing Mr. Rustad's fondness for gathering souvenir dirt from historical sites (Civil War battlefields were his personal favorite), I scooped up a chunk of earth from Will Bill Hickock's grave on the legendary Boot Hill. I secured it safely inside an plastic film canister and brought it to school as a gift for my favorite teacher. Not wanting to look like a brown-noser, I left the dirt in my locker until such time as was opportune to deliver it without painting myself a suck-up. It sat on my locker shelf for the remainder of the school year. On our very last day of class in the spring of 1998, as the entire senior class was a manic panic of cleaning out lockers and counting down the last few hours of our high school careers, I grabbed the dirt and tossed it to an idle classmate. "Hey, go give this to Mr. Rustad for me!" She did as instructed, and that was the last thought I had regarding that little container until recently. Reminiscing about it now, I wonder if that dirt ever made its way into Rustad's esteemed private collection, or if he even knew that it was from me? I will never know. But every time I visit a famous landmark or a historical site, I remember the man who boasted so proudly of his extensive and fabulous souvenir dirt collection.

Lastly, my most vivid personal Rustad memory. In our senior economics class, we were assigned a "stock market project". (I should mention here that I truly hate economics. I only took the class because Mr. Rustad taught it.) We were to invest a specified amount of fictional money into our choice of stocks, and over a certain period of time, we were to buy/sell them as we saw fit and record the outcome. Having much more important high schoolish-type activities to attend to, I put off my work on the assignment until the last minute. I had already mentally selected my stocks, so it was the simple matter of going back to look up what they had been worth on the date that we were to have begun our initial "investing." This gave me the distinct advantage of knowing which stocks would do well and which ones tanked. I decided to scrap my original idea, and instead to invest in a pharmaceutical company that, the week before, had announced that they had perfected a new drug for cancer patients. In other words, I cheated. Their stock went through the roof in a matter of days. Cha-ching! I believe a made just over twenty-three thousand fictional dollars. That should be good for an A, right? Unfortunately for me, Mr. Rustad decided to post a list of everyone's stock results in class. In order. Biggest earner on top, biggest losers at the bottom. And there I was, right there at the top of the list with my $23k in earnings. The classmate listed below me had earned a just few hundred bucks, so my cheating couldn't have been more obvious. Next to my name, in parentheses, were the words, "Inside Trading." Well played, Mr. Rustad! I was totally busted, but Mr. Rustad never said anything to me about it. On our last day of class, I stole that sheet of paper off the board and I know that I still have it secured somewhere among my high school keepsakes.

The mark that Mr. Rustad left on his students is rare. A fond memory shining brightly through the darkness of those angsty high school years. I wonder about my own small son. Will he be lucky enough to have a teacher like Mr. Rustad? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Either way, Mr. Rustad may be gone, but his legacy isn't lost. It lives on inside of me, and every other student who was touched in some way by this wonderful man. WE are that legacy.

Baby Steps

Eight weeks ago, I birthed a human.

He's a cute little human. He grins and squirms and makes adorable little gurgling coo sounds when he's happy, and I love him bunches. He is quite literally, the fruit of my labor.

I could go on and on in mushy detail about how incomplete my life was before I became a mother, but that doesn't really ring true to me. In my eyes and heart, I was every bit as happy before the baby as I am now. My life wasn't empty without kids, and now that I have one, it's still not empty. My days feel normal to me, just as they did before the baby, even though my days now are quite different from the ones I lived one year ago. Even as I constantly worry that things won't fall into place, somehow they continue to do so. It's like magic. It keeps me ever grateful and humble in the eyes of God, because only something as divine as He could keep me sane in the face of what could be an utterly overwhelming task: keeping our son alive and happy while managing not lose myself in the process.

As the horrific discomfort of pregnancy, and the messy indignities of childbirth fade into the past, my eyes turn once again towards the present and the future. I'm a mom now. (And saying that out loud is as foreign to my ears as if I were speaking Swahili.) How do I be Mom, and still be Me? How can I live my life for this little person who needs me, and still live my life for me? For ten months I let the little peanut camp out in my body. I gave up parties, vacations, kickball and pole dancing, as well as a number of extremely delicious foods and beverages in order to keep him safe and healthy. Now that he's breathing the free air, I am trying to reclaim some of those things. I desperately missed pole dancing. I missed laying by the pool in a bikini. And haters (you know who you are) can judge me if they want, but I missed dressing up and feeling sexy. And I missed alcohol. A lot.

Getting my groove back is proving to be a bit harder than I expected. I was so sick of being pregnant, I was really excited to have the baby and get my body back under my own control. And I'm not just talking about the weight. I'm talking about putting my internal organs back where they belong, and not having to pee every hour. I'm talking about being able to sit in the car without feeling like my pelvic bone was about to crack. For goodness sake, I just wanted to be able to bend over and put on my own f*cking SHOES again! Eating and drinking what I want, when I want, instead of what I needed to eat and drink for the health of the little womb-hijacker. I thought once I had the baby, all those long-missed niceties would be mine once again. However, it turns out a LOT of that was easier said than done. Getting over the extreme trauma of childbirth was frustratingly slow. Eight weeks later, I am still healing, both physically and emotionally. And although most of the weight has melted off (as promised, although I didn't believe it actually would), my body certainly doesn't look like it did pre-pregnancy. It's squishy and weak. Even though I'm just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, my soft, fleshy curves don't have a home in any of my old clothes. My boobs are HUGE, but they don't seem all that sexy, as they are always sore, require constant maintenance, and serve a decidedly functional purpose. *SIGH*

Two weeks ago, I was finally able to get back into the pole studio. Although I have a fitness pole at home, and had done a bit of beginner-level work on it since the baby, I knew that the sooner I was able to get back into a weekly class, the better. I need that studio time to keep me motivated and to get my strength back. I work harder when I have company, and an audience. Since it had been nearly a year since I was last able to perform to my full potential, I contacted my instructor and asked if it would be possible to get into a low-level class, just to get myself started. Last October, a month before I became pregnant, I fell while rehearsing for a performance. I suffered a separated shoulder and a torn ligament. I was hoping that pregnancy would be an ideal time for my body to heal, but it's been a bit rough and the injury is still painful. (I didn't consider it at the time, but pregnancy may have actually slowed my shoulder healing, since the body's priority would have been the baby, not my shoulder.) So not only is it pregnancy that I'm recovering from, but a fairly severe injury as well.

My first day back in class was both exhilarating and disappointing. I was SO excited to be back. I really missed my work-outs, and the amazing feeling of performing advanced tricks and pushing myself to learn more and get stronger every day. I was so proud to really be good at something, and to be able to inspire other women through my performances was good for my soul. To my disappointment, I struggled with even the most basic moves. Despite the instructor's reassurance that I "looked great", I felt heavy and awkward. Every move was a challenge. Tricks that I used to perform with ease were now difficult and painful. I fought back tears for the entire hour, and drove home feeling utterly defeated. What if I can't ever get back to where I was? Will I ever be strong enough to maneuver as gracefully as I did before? Worse than the physical pain, my pride hurt. I was always one of the best dancers in the studio, now I felt chunky and clumsy. My back ached with every move. I worked gingerly to protect my tender (enormous) breasts. My hamstrings and quads burned from trying to keep my legs straight. My feet, having schlepped and shuffled to hold up the weight of my pregnant self for all those weeks, just didn't want to point. After all that time spent waiting to have the baby so that I could finally be in control of my body once again, it still felt completely foreign to me. My eyes welled up and spilled over. Why couldn't I just be myself again?

Since then, I've attended two more classes, and am feeling much better about the situation. My subsequent attempts at performing my old tricks have been a little more successful, and I'm reminded how quickly the body responds to this type of fitness training. In addition to that, I used to hit the studio 4 days a week. With an infant to deal with, I've only been able to go once a week for class, and managed a couple of short workouts at home. My determination to regain the level of performance that I had before is very motivating. If I can get to the studio twice a week, (which is a simple matter of planning), and work out once a week at home, I should be able to speed up both the process of rebuilding strength, as well as healing my shoulder. I need to simply rediscover what my body is capable of. When I first started pole dancing, I was constantly amazed by what I could do. When I came back to the studio for the first time, I was only seeing what I couldn't do. That kind of thinking is a deterrent to my progress. Focusing on the negative doesn't encourage growth, it facilitates failure. (THAT GOES FOR ANYONE.) It would be like walking onto a baseball field after coming back from an injury, and being disappointed that you didn't hit a home run on the first swing. What would you do? Would you retire, or would you try again? (Duh.) Now that I have had three classes, I can already see progress. Small, but noticeable progress, and that is encouraging. (Which is another thing that I love about pole fitness. Progress comes quickly, and noticeably.)

Writing this down, and putting it out there for the world to see will be a lesson in accountability. One year from now, will I be back up to my old tricks (literally and figuratively), or will I have given in to the frustration and resigned myself to a life of mediocrity? Hmmm.

I think I prefer the former to the latter. :)

The Final Countdown

The batteries in the smoke detectors have been changed. The kitchen cupboards are loaded with bottles and bibs. The dresser has been stocked with tiny clothes and bizarre items like "swaddles" and "sleep sacks." The crib and swing? Assembled and waiting. Car seat? Installed and inspected. Hospital bag? Packed and ready.

I have a breast pump (I have a breast pump?) and I am prepared to use it!

As the clock ticks away the final hours of my pregnancy, I have been inspired to look back and see exactly how far I've come. Thirty-nine weeks, four days, twenty-nine pounds, hundreds of dollars, a dozen doctor appointments, half a wardrobe, and one life-altering decision from where I started. That's how far I've come. 

My organs have been unceremoniously shoved out of the way in order to make room for the squirming human inside me, just as my wine glasses have been relocated to make space for bottles and sippy cups. (Note: the wine glasses have simply been relocated. They are in no way obsolete. I feel that there is plenty of room in my life for sippy cups AND wine glasses. In fact, I feel that I will be needing the latter more than ever.) 

I think at this point I need to issue a public apology to all the other pregnant women whom I have encountered throughout my life. To be quite honest, I thought y'all were a bunch of whiners whose problems stemmed mostly from weight gain. I mean, let's be honest. Swollen ankles, sore backs, and fatigue can all easily be contributed to the fact that pregnant women are fatties. "Of course your back hurts!" I'd think. "You've gained forty pounds!" I didn't know that when pregnant, back pain can stem from the fact that the woman's spine actually develops a (temporary) unnatural curve in order to help compensate for her being so front-heavy. Did you hear that? My spine shifted. My spine AND my internal organs! Seriously, what kind of science is that?! And the fatigue is largely the result of my heart having to work twice as hard. Apparently, my increased blood volume (by 50%) really puts my ticker to the test. It doesn't even beat with the same rhythm or speed of a normal person. And all that extra blood is heavy! Turns out that of the nearly 30 lbs I've gained in 40 weeks, only about 10-12 lbs is actual fat. (Which is funny, since I swear I'm carrying at least that amount on each butt cheek.) The rest is blood, other fluids, increased breast tissue for (*gag*) milk production, placenta, and of course, the baby. I've been told I could drop as much as twenty pounds of that nasty stuff during labor. (God I hope so! When it's over, I expect I'll feel light as a feather.) In the mean time, I have also stumbled upon the realization that there is a REASON that pregnant women are constantly molesting their own bellies. I used to think that it was some kind of weird maternal instinct. Possibly they were attempting to bond with their child by petting their stomachs like a kitten? In actuality, women touch their stomachs all the time, because they hurt. When the baby kicks me in the ribs, it's uncomfortable! What might look like me "petting" my belly is actually me trying to shove the kid's foot out from under my rib cage and back where it belongs. What may appear to be a pregnant woman "carrying" their belly in their arms like a baby is actually a pregnant woman carrying her belly because that shit's fucking HEAVY. I feel like if I don't support it when I stand up, it might just tear my skin open and fall right off. My life as a pregnant woman has not exactly been magical and feminine. It's been awkward and occasionally violent. With mutations and explosions, eruptions, and medical supervision. Like a science experiment. 

That said, pregnancy hasn't been completely awful. (Just mostly.) As the child has grown, he's become more and more real to both me and my husband. After all of these months feeling him move around and grow, I'm SO ready for it to be over. Not just because being pregnant sucks, but because I'm desperately excited to meet the little creature we've created. It's like finally meeting face to face someone that you've only communicated with by phone or online. I am ready to put a face to the flailing limbs, and a name to the face. The face that I hope will be a perfect little mix of my Irish freckles and my husband's dark Italian eyes.:)

There's no turning back now. And as the theme from Jeopardy! continues to play in the back of my mind, I'm happy and scared, and ready to tackle our next adventure. Also, I can't help but wonder...will I ever be able to get my belly ring back in? Hmm. 

I think it moved.

Confession: One of my greatest fears regarding pregnancy has always been, what will the baby feel like inside of me?

Call me crazy, but I don't think that this is an unnatural fear. After all, having a small creature living inside of you is a very unnatural state of being. What does the baby do in there, anyway? I know he moves around a little, and sucks his thumb occasionally, but why? Is he trying to get away? Does he know that he's trapped inside my uterus? What if he suddenly gets claustrophobic and tries to claw his way out of my abdomen like those vampire babies in the Twilight series? (See also the "Birth of the Uruk-hai" scene from The Fellowship of the Ring. Scary stuff!)

When I was five years old, a friend of my mother's was VERY pregnant with her third (or fourth) child, and I remember she grabbed my hand and held it firmly against the side of her enormous belly. "Do you feel that?" She said, her eyes and her smile wide. I could feel through the thin fabric of her dress, very distinctly, the compete outline of a tiny little foot. Heel, toes, everything, pressed decisively into my hand. OMG WTF?! Neither of those terms existed back then, but I tell you, I have never been so disgusted. I pulled my hand away, and I don't remember what I said, but I will never forget how I felt. GROSS!!! And my mother's poor friend, I'm sure to this day, has no idea that she and The Foot scarred me for life.

At this point I'm almost 25 weeks into pregnancy (out of 40, for those who don't know). I've been able to feel the baby moving for a few weeks now, although for some time I simply dismissed it as gas. Other ladies told me that the movement would be a gentle fluttering, like butterflies in my tummy. Um, it's really nothing like that. And honestly, I'm happy to report that it's not nearly as gross as I thought it would be. There's a bit of pressure at times, but not painful or uncomfortable. It's more like bubbles moving through water, or someone playing PONG inside my stomach. What IS gross, is watching my stomach move from the outside. During a very boring meeting last week, I spaced out and started staring at my stomach. The baby was moving around a little, and with each of his gentle motions, I could see my belly pulse and shake. Like a Jell-O mold on a wobbly card table. *gag* It doesn't feel yucky, but it looks yucky. It is as weird as any sci-fi movie I've ever seen. (For all you super nerds, Season 4, Episode 23 of Star Trek TNG, "The Host" is an excellent example.)

Along with the slightly moving, ever-expanding belly comes of course, the host of people obsessed with looking at it and feeling it. The omnipresent Baby Bump. *sigh* At this point, there's no hiding it or sucking it in, it's out there for the world to see, and it seems that most of them want to touch it. Why? No idea. I just DON'T get the appeal. Due to my early-childhood trauma with The Foot, I have never again in my life had any interest in touching a pregnant woman's belly. Why anyone would want to is beyond me, but I will chock that up to being one of the many things about people that I don't understand. Right away I was being groped by people (mostly female friends that were similarly accosted during their own pregnancies). It's a little better now that The Bump is actually firm and you can tell that there is a baby inside, but early on it was basically just a giant fat roll. And I think we can all agree that having other people grab at our belly fat like it's a public squeeze toy is awkward and inappropriate. Now I don't mind as much, as long as someone asks first, or gives me the opportunity to stop their roving hands. And you can TOUCH it. Don't pet it like a puppy or rub it like a magic lamp. (For crying out loud.) Thankfully, I don't find myself in this situation often. I work with almost all men, and none of them have shown any remote interest in touching my stomach.

 Along with the parade of belly-touchers comes the flock of well-wishing advice-givers. This isn't actually as bad as I've been led to believe. Lots of people have advice to give on the best products to buy (or not to buy), and the best child-rearing techniques to use (or to avoid). I understand that all of this unsolicited advice stems from a good place- these are the things that the advice-givers wish that someone had told them back in the days when it would have been helpful to know. And advice is free, I can take it or leave it without a problem. What genuinely pisses me off is people who want to comment yet have nothing productive to say. Spiteful remarks about how "You'll never sleep again," or "Good thing you've done a lot of traveling, because you won't get another vacation for eighteen years!" These types of remarks are neither polite nor helpful. First of all, do not presume to tell me what I can and can't do with my life once I'm a parent. Travel has always been a priority for me and my husband, and we intend to pass those values along to our child. There are bigger things in this world than the cutest outfit or the fanciest toys. There are mountains and oceans, and it is important to me to show those things to my son so that he can appreciate them properly. I'm also not a fan of anyone who tells me that "I guess your pole-dancing days or over," or that I'd better get used to shopping for Mom Jeans. I beg your pardon? Where is it written that all moms are fat and schleppy? I'm not stupid. I realize that the early days of parenthood will be a struggle, but millions of women manage to get through it and somehow find a way to get their bodies back into their original shape. It's not impossible.

Speaking of fat and schleppy. Ever seen a naked pregnant lady? Ha! What a joke. Like, literally laughable. I wish I could say that I've been working out and staying fit like you're supposed to, but most days I'm too tired to consider it. The amount of additional blood in my body forces my heart to work harder to keep it all pumping properly, and the result is one very weary mama. Even a couple flights of stairs leaves me winded. The watermelon tucked under my ribcage makes breathing more difficult and putting my socks and shoes on something of a struggle. And obviously most of my regular clothes no longer fit. Maternity clothes are ridiculous. They come in two styles: Sausage Casing, and Mumu. And almost nothing is cute. I actually cried the first time I went shopping. Like it isn't hard enough to find a pair of jeans that doesn't make your ass look like a truck? And that's with ten thousand options! Try the maternity section. You can choose between this ugly pair of jeans, and that ugly pair of jeans. One pair has an itchy elastic band that sits just below your belly, and the other pair has an enormously comical Lycra-spandex panel that covers your entire belly and stops just below your boobs, like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Everything is either stretchy or flowy, yet nothing really fits properly, because all pregnant women gain weight in different areas and designers have a one-size-fits-all mentality. Now I know why pregnant ladies always wear stretch pants and enormous hoodies. Here I always assumed that they were just too lazy to put themselves together, but it turns out those may actually have been their best options.

My husband asked me last night, if pregnancy has been better or worse than I expected it to be. At this point, some things are better, and some things have been worse. It hasn't really been that bad, but it hasn't been a picnic, either. And despite the fact that I have had a relatively easy pregnancy, there really isn't anything about it that makes me want to go through it again. (Kind of like ocean kayaking. I'm really glad I did it once, but that was the first and last time.) I'm happy to be starting a family with the man who will undoubtedly be the world's greatest dad, and I hope our little boy has big brown eyes just like his. :) That seems like an acceptable sacrifice for the weight gain, the discomfort, and the crippling fatigue. I try not to think about the actual labor part...we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

And the baby JUST kicked me in the ribs. Sneaky little monkey.

And so it begins.

We'd always told my mother in law that we'd start trying for kids in 2015.

I did some quick math. Let's see...we got married in 2006. Age plus income...divided by house size...carry the two...in conjunction with upcoming events...equals...whoa. What day is it? How old am I? It's 2013. We're going to Sturgis in August of 2015, and I'm certainly not going to want to be pregnant for that. So it would have to be the year after...but if we waited until 2016, that puts me at almost 37 years old when giving birth to my first child. Thirty-seven?! Holy shit, when did I get this old? *sigh* Jeezus. I googled some info, punched up some quick numbers and ran the dates. Hmmm. Apparently after age 35 conception becomes a lot more challenging physically, and at this point, having never been pregnant before, we don't even know what kind of natural obstacles may lay in our path. Having already cancelled our tropical vacation for 2014, the only remaining events for the year were a wedding and a very important baseball game. So basically, that meant no beer at the game and no champagne at the wedding. That seems manageable. We had a Vegas trip in a few weeks, but I wasn't too worried about that. I realized that it takes a couple months of trying for most people to achieve "baby on board" status, so that shouldn't interfere with my planned Vegas activities. (AKA: Drinking my face off.) I called my husband and informed him that if we're going to start a family, it needs to be now. We have a very small window of opportunity here, right now, and if we don't knock this thing out of the park, that window's going to slam shut! Goodness, I didn't think he'd be so excited.

My mom always said, if you try to wait until you're ready to have children, you'll be waiting forever. Maybe, maybe not. Up until now, I've always known that it was the wrong time to have kids. The idea wasn't just absurd to me, at times it made me physically nauseous to think of being pregnant or giving birth. I actually suffered an anxiety attack at the hospital once, while visiting a family member who'd just had her first child. The sounds and the smells combined into this horrid, overpowering blur. My heart began to race and I started to sweat. We were able to say some quick goodbyes and get outside the building before the panic overtook me, but believe me: That day, just like every day before and after, I knew without a doubt that I was in no way ready for a baby.

And then, it happened. Out of nowhere. I woke up one morning, and as I lay in bed, I imagined a little somebody to take to gymnastics class. Would it really be that hard to schedule around? I pictured my spare bedroom stripped of its framed art and antique books, and instead I imagined it plastered with Star Wars posters and its shelves filled with little sports trophies. I could handle that, couldn't I? What if my husband and I took a trip, and instead of barging home to an empty house, we came home to little hands to fill with souvenirs? All of these thoughts rolled slowly, steadily through my head. I didn't get mushy or weepy. It was simply that all of a sudden the thought of having a child didn't frighten or disgust me. I just knew, for the first time ever, that somehow I could handle it.

This was it. This was the sign that I'd been waiting for. I knew I was ready, that everything would be ok. I knew wouldn't lose my friends or my identity. I knew that I'd still be able to see the world and check things off my bucket list. Now I'd have a little somebody to be proud of having the coolest parents ever. (Well. Until that little somebody turns thirteen and we become the lamest parents ever.) The thought made me smile instead of cringe.

I've spent a great many years trying to create my own identity, only to lose it, recreate it, decide I don't like it, and then build it all over again. That's life, right? A cycle of change and growth that never ends. Everything I've done, every choice I've made (good and bad), and every path I've taken (right and wrong) have led me to this point. Each mistake I've made, every friend, and every enemy have helped to shape me into the person that I am now. And it seems that all that action and all of those choices had eventually landed me inside a bathroom stall at the airport, staring at the door in disbelief, the plastic stick in my hand screaming the word "pregnant" while my flight was boarding a few yards away. What. Just. Happened? I'm about to spend five days in Vegas dead sober, that's what happened! Interesting.

Well. Turns out "sober Vegas" wasn't that bad after all. Although I decided against getting a souvenir tattoo (it seemed unwise to risk Hepatitis unnecessarily at this point), I still had a nice time, got plenty of sleep, and even played some decent poker. From that point on, time has continued to fly. With each passing day I'm washed-over with smiles and hugs, oddly sporadic symptoms, and a variety of emotions ranging from pure joy to sheer terror. Was this a mistake? What kind of horrible, selfish parent will I be? What if my friends don't want to hang out with me anymore? Or worse- what if I don't want to hang out with them? What if I turn into one of those crazy women obsessed with organic baby food who speaks of nothing but poop schedules and private preschools? I have no idea what pregnancy or parenthood will bring, but every time icy panic grips my heart, I remember that day I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, and those calm steady thoughts rolling through my head. That was the day I knew with certainty, that even though a million unanswered questions and an unexplored path lay at my feet- I knew that it would be ok. And after all. I haven't made a habit of shying away from adventure, and I don't intend to start now.

Won't you be my neighbor?

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...

My husband and I live in a peaceful cul-de-sac on the south side of Fargo. It's a lovely neighborhood, where the houses aren't too big or too small, and the trees are tall enough to cast shade, but not old enough for the root structures to have cracked the sidewalks and damaged the foundations. It's quiet. People water their flowers as grills sizzle, dogs bark occasionally, and children ride their bikes up and down the street. We are just far enough removed from the nearest traffic arteries that the sound of rushing cars blends gently with the rustle of the leaves in the trees.

The other day I returned home to my quiet street to find a bright yellow note taped to the front of my garage. It read, is scrawling block letters, "If you continue to drive recklessly by speeding and driving the wrong way to enter your driveway, you will be reported to the police. There are many young kids in this neighborhood. Including a visually impaired, physically handi-capped little boy. If you have any questions, feel free to talk to ANY of the parents on the block." No signature. No phone number. Just a sarcastic "thanks" scratched across the bottom of the paper.  

A beautiful day for a neighbor...

I was shocked. Thoughts tumbled through my mind, one after the other. Who wrote this? Some lady? Reckless driving? Police? Huh? Handicapped kid- how am I supposed to know there's a handicapped kid wandering around? Entering my driveway wrong- what does that even mean?

I ripped down the note, taking a huge chunk of paint off with it. I glanced up and down the deserted street before hurrying inside, where I sat steaming over the nasty note. Reckless driving, really? Admittedly, I did rather zoom out of the driveway earlier in the day, but I don't think a loud engine equates to reckless driving, and there's no way I could have even broke 30 mph before reaching the stop sign at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and I know I was in a hurry, but was I really going that fast? I smirked at the "reminder" that there are many young kids in the neighborhood. Yeah, there are. A LOT. We've lived here for six years, and have watched as houses have been bought and sold up and down the street. There's always been one or two families with younger children, but never as many as there are this summer. It's like they cropped up out of the ground and multiplied like the rabbits under my deck. These kids are everywhere. Selling lemonade, building cardboard armor in the yard, chasing dogs, zooming around on scooters and bikes. Trust me, I am well-aware of their presence. But a handicapped child? This I was NOT aware of. But how the hell am I supposed to know there's a special needs child living on the block? Does he carry a sign that says, "Watch out! I'm visually impaired!" I'm guessing not. My blood boiled as I imagined a neighbor "concerned" enough to leave this nasty note, but not so much that they would have taken the time to come over and give me a heads-up that their child is challenged and may not have the faculties to get out of the street when there is a car coming. 

I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you...

I taped the note up in the middle of my picture window, hoping that the neighbors could all see it displayed in silent defiance of their request. I imagined them all outside, pointing at it and gossiping about the crazy lady who tries to run down their kids in the street. It stayed there until my husband came home and removed it, rolling his eyes and telling me to get a grip.

Entering my driveway the "wrong way"? Wtf. Pretty sure I've pulled into and out of my driveway the same exact way every day for six years. If I've been doing it incorrectly, this is the first I've heard of such a thing. By all means, let's see the "proper way" to pull into a driveway. Is she referring to the rare occasion on which we back one of our vehicles into the driveway instead of pulling in headlights first? Because I'm pretty sure that's not against the law. And if she's under the impression that the cul-de-sac is some kind of one way...uh, there's no ONE WAY sign. I've never heard of a situation in which you would assume that a street is a ONE WAY. I would assume that a street is a regular two-way unless otherwise posted. 

In regards to the special needs child whose safety I may have put in jeopardy ..I think it's reasonable to say that I would have no way of knowing that a child is visually impaired unless someone tells me. It would have been nice to have been informed by a neighbor face-to-face instead of via anonymous threat. 

It's a neighborly day in this beautywood, a neighborly day for a beauty...

My husband and I live at the keeps-to-themselves end of the cul-de-sac. There are five or six houses in a row that contain couples and singles with no children. We don't have gatherings in the driveway, or mingle with the large families on the street. We don't have kids for their kids to play with, we don't have dogs to walk, and have never popped over with a casserole or asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I certainly don't mind. When I was growing up, we lived on a corner with no other houses across the street or behind us. In fact, we had only a single house adjacent to ours, and my mother grew the hedge six feet tall. Not because she hated the neighbors, she simply valued privacy in our yard. If my neighbors want to have yard parties and bonfires, great. It adds to the general ambiance of the neighborhood, and I enjoy giving and receiving a friendly wave as I cruise by. I've never once felt a pang at not being invited to a neighborhood gathering, but the passive-aggressive hostility displayed by whomever left that note is a different beast altogether. 

This situation has weighed heavily on my mind ever since I peeled that note off my door. I've toyed with the notion of formulating a response letter to the anonymous author, and leaving a copy in the mailbox of each and every house on my street. You throw a rock at my house, I throw one at yours, right? However. I don't want someone else coming home to a letter of questionable intent taped on their door like an eviction notice. I don't want anyone else feeling as confused and unwelcome in their own neighborhood as I did that day. Besides, I'm too smart for that. I realize that if we keep throwing rocks, something is going to get broken, and the peaceful tranquility of the street will be gone forever. Instead, I'm posting my response here, in hopes that with enough sharing, my thoughts and words will eventually reach her ears. 

Dear Neighbor,

I want to apologize for startling you the other day. I pulled out of my driveway pretty fast, and it may have appeared that it was without consideration to any children who may be playing nearby. Not having any children of my own, it's easy to forget that other peoples' may be underfoot. There are more children living on the street than ever before, and I admit that I'm not always as careful as I could be. I realize that your note was written out of fear for the safety of your children, so I can easily forgive the tone. In the future, please feel free to stop by with any concerns you my have regarding this subject. My husband and I are reasonable people, who very much enjoy living on this quiet Fargo street. We have no wish to cause harm or discord in any way. If we've done anything in the past to make ourselves seem unapproachable, I assure you that it was not intentional. If we aren't home, and you choose to leave another note, please include your name and number so we can chat. :)

Yours sincerely,
Gina & Pete Bushey

So let’s make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we’re together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine? Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Out With the Old!

I've heard the phrase "de-cluttering is good for the soul". I don't know where I heard it, but it is absolutely true. I have discovered that there is something extremely satisfying about parting with things. It's like the items were literally weighing me down, and every time another box of stuff goes out the door, I feel a little bit lighter. Over the past couple of years, I have been slowly de-cluttering, both my house and my life. It kind of kicked into high gear when I started watching Hoarders. A more terrifying show, I have never seen. In case you aren't familiar with the program, it focuses on individuals who suffer from an emotional disorder in which they are compelled to acquire and store items of little or no value. It always starts innocent enough, with a small stamp collection or something, and then (usually after some kind of traumatic life event), BOOM! It's floor-to-ceiling pillars of crap in every room, the toilet's busted, there's feces everywhere, and you're sleeping on a mountain of roach-infested garbage.

I don't want to sleep on garbage.

One day, shortly after having moved into our first home, my mother showed up at my door with a pile of boxes from my childhood and said, "Now that you have a house of your own, it's time to get all your stuff out of mine." I took all the boxes to the spare bedroom in my basement, stacked them, and shut the door. Three years later, I opened that door and found that they had multiplied into my very own personal hoard. Ack! What do I do? I don't want to be one of those people! There has GOT to be some stuff in here that I can part with! Of course the first things to go belonged to my husband. (Turns out it was much easier to give away things from his childhood than my own.) My husband is a paper hoarder. He had an entire file cabinet stuffed with pay-stubs, bank statements, and random legal documents from as far back as 1995. Hundreds of statements from accounts that no longer exist, rental agreements from old apartments,old parking tickets, and documents relating to jobs he had in high school. I purchased a shredder.

Not surprisingly, my husband freaked out. He'd spent a lifetime accumulating this bizarre paper stash, and was none too keen on my idea to simply destroy it. However, the little tiff we had over the paper hoard was nothing compared to the battle that ensued when I tried to put his old He-Man guys on Ebay, so I took a deep breath, and turned my attention to my own pile of boxes. After all, I had a lot more stuff than my husband did, so if I was going to be fair, a lot more of my own things would have to hit the curb than his. Time to quit harping on my spouse, and own up to the fact that it was mostly my things that were the problem at hand.

Over the next year, I slowly sifted through the mountain. I went through box after box of my childhood things. I found items that I didn't even recognize. That made them easy to part with. If I couldn't remember why I had saved a particular item, it went into the Give-Away pile. Things that had no sentimental value but possibly some cash value went into the Ebay pile, and of course quite a few things made their way into the Garbage pile. I'd saved newspaper clippings, sheet music, programs from sports events, and posters from all my theatrical productions in high school. I had trophies and stuffed animals, photographs and souvenirs of every size and shape. All my ceramic kitty cats went into the Give-Away pile, and a few of my childhood toys went up on Ebay. I threw out broken items that I finally admitted I would never fix, expired cosmetics, old glassware, random books I'd never again read, and I games I'd never again play. All the VHS and cassette tapes went into the Give-Away pile (save home movies and a couple of mix tapes made for me by friends), along with coats and shoes and "skinny clothes" which, even if they fit, would be out of style anyway. One day, I looked around and was surprised to see that the number of boxes in my hoard had dwindled to a manageable number. Most of what remained were photo albums, a few keepsakes, and important documents. The slow process of shredding the hundreds of ancient papers in my husband's broken file cabinet was complete, and all that remained were certification documents and tax forms. In a great show of support, he even let me throw out three years' worth of old Sports Illustrated magazines that he'd been keeping in a dresser drawer. My once terrifying Hoard Room now contained a guest bed, some actual furniture. Where there was once twenty sagging cardboard boxes, there were now just a handful of plastic storage bins, all neatly stacked and labeled. I had done it.

It's not the cleanest of rooms, by any means, but you can see the carpet, and at last it's more of a guest room than a dirty little secret. It still contains things that I could probably do away with, but I'm so proud of myself for the progress that I've made. Sometimes I go into that room and just look around and congratulate myself on coming this far. As a person who sees value in old things, it's been a bit of a challenge to part with aged items. However, I have learned that just because I've had something forever doesn't mean that I have to keep it. And it's ok to give things away, because if I saw the value in an item, someone else will, too. I've made a game of selling things on Ebay and craigslist. I'm not getting rich by any means, but it makes me happy to put something that was once important to me into the hands of a person who appreciates it, and making a couple dollars while I'm at it is icing on the cake. Truth be told, I've already started collecting new items for the house, reinvesting the dollars I've made selling my old items into new collectibles, but it's helped make my home my own. I've turned a bunch of My Little Ponys that spent twenty years in a box into an antique trunk and an old radio to decorate my bedroom. I put my old toys into the safekeeping of a person who will appreciate them. At the same time, I've added to the beauty of my home with things that make me smile, and isn't that the point? As the weight of the past slowly trickles out the door, I have room for a new and exciting future.

And just in time for garage-sale season. ;)