Big Love.

Friends, Romans lend me your eyes! I want to thank all of you who make it a point to click the ads on my blog. Just fyi, I have made $3.86 today. That means that 55 of you clicked ads today alone!

FIFTY-FIVE PEOPLE!

That's a lot for a small-town blogger like me! My ultimate goal is to make $30.00 a day. That's just barely enough for me to support my Pei Wei addiction. I mean, kids in sweatshops make more than that, don't they?

So, please stay tuned, folks. This blog is a living, breathing organism. You know, sort of. In the sense that it is a technological method of communicating with the world. You know what, just forget the thing I said about it being a living and breathing organism. It's not. But I AM! And Momma needs her Pei Wei fix.

There will be big formatting and content changes made to the blog this month, including WEEKLY give aways, photo entry contests, and more daily posts.

Here's my question for you, friends: What can I be doing better? What do you like the most and what would you like to see more of? Do me a favor and tell me what your favorite post of mine has been, so I can see what you like. Don't hold back. Punch me in the gut if you have to. Only, remember that there's a baby in there and that's frowned upon in this society. Maybe aim for the face...

Leave me a comment. I want the feedback because I want to keep writing to you people, whoever and wherever you are. It's more to me than just a way to piddle my thoughts into the giant piss-stream that is the internet. It's a way to have relationship with good people I can't chat with everyday.

So, anyway. Thanks for the love. I love you too.

Best Blog Ever

Friends, I'm throwing all dignity and discretion out the window by shamelessly plugging for myself. VOTE FOR ME IN THE INDY'S "BEST OF" Contest!

I'm funny, smart, and super, extra gorgeous. I just got word from the Man Upstairs that if you vote for me, you get extra wives in heaven! Or custard, your choice!

Vote here. Lots of love!

http://www.csindyballot.com/

Writer's Butt. I Mean Block.

Writing is the singularly most sedentary profession one can be in. Don't get me wrong; it's noble, but it's sedentary. I don't know any writers who say things like, "Yeah, I'm going to write that blog post and then run a 5k." Pretty much our lives revolve around our computers. We're never more than six feet away from an outlet. If a writer committed a crime-- which would be highly unlikely in the first place given the aforementioned assertion that writers are sedentary creatures-- you could probably find him in a Starbucks ordering a Pumpkin Spice Latte and writing a blog about it. Talk about an easy day for the cops! All in a day's work, gentlemen. Now cuff that literary fiend!

I was just thinking about this because I know my waistline has taken a bit of a blow over the years. I blame it on being just. that. committed. to my calling.

And I started to imagine how funny it would be if we could all identify our writing kin by the flatness of our rear ends. Envision this conversation, if you will.

Writer 1, scoping out Writer 2's rear end: Oh, wow, dude. That's a serious case of Writer's Butt.

Writer 2: Tell me about it. I'm working on my manifesto.

Writer 1: Well judging by that Writer's Butt, you like the downtown Starbucks, right?

Writer 2: You know it, bro! Comfy chairs! You a Pikes Perk kind of guy?

Writer 1: Toootally.

And the two would part ways with a mutual understanding that can't be found in any other profession.

*Note: I don't know why my writers talk like they're from San Diego...

Lilac (Repost.)

(This is a repost, just because I'm still thinking on these themes, and want to keep them in the fore. A new post is coming soon, I promise.)

Last night, a dear friend watched The Fay for me whilst I whittled away the hours on bed rest. That's a good friend, my friends. As I lay dying of terminal boredom, Jes, her daughter Aspen, and Fable did all manner of crafty things.

One is wont to notice all kinds of things while horizontal. (Keeeeep it clean, people. Jesus reads this blog.) First off, popcorn ceiling is the everyday Rorschach Test. I got a glimpse into my psyche last night as grinning circus clowns, old ladies with crooked spines, and stampeding horses emerged from my wall. That was a fun five minutes. Then I was back to having nothing to do.

So, I tossed and turned a little. Did some praying. Daydreamed about what my life would be like if I had longer hair (radically better, with far more fashionable montages). At about mile marker 2000, I decided to get out of bed. Who says bed rest needs to be literal BED rest? I mean, aside from my doctor and all.

I putzed around the house in my usual style, albeit more slowly. Tidying this thing and that (read: moving it from one unorganized drawer to another). I started a skein of crochet, only to undo it again. Went up the stairs for some reason, only to forget why when I reached the handle to the bathroom door. (How does a person forget what she intends to do in the bathroom? There are only so many things one can do in there; the options are easily exhaustible.)

Finally, I bunkered down in the black armchair in the living room. I sat in the quiet. I'm so shamefully bad at sitting in the quiet, either in my head or in reality. (Philosophy majors, feel free to quip that what's in your head should count as what's in reality. When you're done, call yourself a pretentious twit for me.) Truth be told, I didn't know what to do with myself without Fable around, yapping at my heels.

I've become so accustomed with multitasking, with putting on a puppet show with one hand and disinfecting the countertops with the other. At the end of a day filled with Legos and puzzles, meltdowns and "More juice, Mommy!" I am thoroughly exhausted and satisfied. I'm acquainted with that form of exhaustion. It's fulfilling, unlike the kind of exhaustion that camps in your bones when you're sick. This kind, the new and harder kind, makes me cry at the drop of a hat. Makes me need to rest in the middle of doing the dishes or having a conversation with my husband. It makes me restless and irritable, but somehow more contemplative.

I feel like a butterfly pinned down by the wings, under the giant lens of the Lord. It was C.S. Lewis, I believe, who said something to the effect of, "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." Oh, Lord. Have I been deaf? Is that the root of this pain?

Lord, I prayed, let me hear you. Still me. Wrestle me to the ground as you did Jacob. Leave me with a wound, but don't leave me here.

Over the last week several doctors have lain me down, told me to prepare for the pain of a needle or of morphine coursing through my veins. But nothing has compared to this, the pain of holding still for the Lord.

And so, I finally did some musing. In a silent house, in the space inside a whirring mind, I settled-- as much as I know how. Minutes passed, but they felt much longer, as if the Lord were stretching them to their fullest. To think of all the minutes in a day, and how few of them I spend before the presence of God... no wonder it hurt so much.

My time alone came to a close. I heard Jes and Fable approach the door. Finally, my sweet, sticky distraction was home. It's indescribable, the way her rosebud mouth and forever curly hair warms me up from the inside. The warmth was almost unbearable within the walls of my freshly scrubbed heart.

Fable trotted up to me, as she always does, in the the style that so reminds me of a baby beagle tripping over his ears. Sometimes I just want to hold her so much, I can't help but scoop her into me. When she is 16, I will still be pulling her into my arms, despite her protestations.

This time, though, the singularly most amazing thing happened. Fable held out her hand to me.

"Here go, Mommy." And just like that, the Lord came rushing in to mend the wound. Clutched in her tiny, sweaty palm was a thick shoot of lilac.

My first ever flower from Fable. It smelled so good to me.

I found a glass for it, but by the time I filled it with water, Fable had all but demolished the poor thing. No matter-- none at all.

With all the pride and thankfulness in the world, I put the dilapidated petals and naked stem into the glass. It sits now on my dining room table, proudly displayed for all to see.

Today I don't feel so raw. Not much better physically, truth be told. But no worse. And my spirit? It has rarely been better or healthier. I suppose this whole blog started when I realized that I sit here, in this dilapidated state, proudly on display for *my* Father.

There's no better place to be.

Foot. In. Mouth.

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. Among the laundry list of flaws I ashamedly boast (chronically overbooked, obsessed with diseases I'm not likely to ever contract, unable to watch Lifetime TV without crying, devoid of any remorse for returning library books late), there's one in particular that I've had to do battle with lately. The thing is, I'm Chairman of the Party Planning Committee. The *Pity* Party Planning Committee. (We have branches in all 50 states. Ask me how you, too, can have a Pity Party all your own!)

I've been fighting the urge to throw myself a Pity Party these last few months. When I feel that need cropping up, I fight it with the best of my abilities. I cling to the things I have to be thankful for, like my clearly flawless skin and impeccable social reputation, not to mention my immaculate lawn and perfectly behaved child. (My penchants for giving to charity and ministering to homeless men make my life all the more fulfilling.) You might be asking yourself, "Melanie, with your blinding beauty and enormous heart for saving dolphins born with birth defects, how could you ever find a reason to complain?" The answer to that is simply, "I just made up that entire list." Hard to believe, I know. (You are very gullible, my friend.)

The truth is, I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I want to be. If you think I'm being modest, think again. (Take a moment to reflect on the previous sentences about my stunning beauty. To my credit, false modesty is not yet a flaw on that laundry list.)

The thing is, folks, this has been a hard time for us. Thankfully, it has not been a senselessly hard time. Those seasons of life are the most difficult; when it seems that God's hand is writing in the sky, but you can't see it for the smog. God is always tender and clear with us, much in the way that a parent is tender with her toddler. "Oh, yes, I know. That ouchies. Doug and Melanie want to have a cookie? Yeah? A cookie make it all better? Here you go. Have a cookie."

(Disclaimer: I know the Lord doesn't talk like a giant, condescending grandmother in the sky. I think I just really wanted a cookie when I wrote that last little bit, so my subconscious made me go there. Moving on.)

I rarely have a doubt that God's hand is actively at work in my life. Over the last few months, as life kicked us repeatedly with her black leather boot, I have kept in mind that my God is healer; however brutal the injuries we incur, God is able to heal us for His glory. I know that truth. I cling to it.

And I thought I was doing well. I could feel myself wanting to boast about my awesome faith. "No, really, we're perfectly fine. Sure we're unemployed and I spent the last three weeks in the hospital. Sure, this pregnancy is high-risk and scary and exhausting. How do we maintain our composure you ask? Well, sit right down and I'll give you a tutorial in being a good Christian, like me."

Thank goodness the Lord smacked those words out of my mouth! It took only one more trial for my feeble house of cards to topple, and I praise God that they did. If it hadn't been for the misery that was about to ensue, who knows how much damage I might have started to bring to my most cherished cause-- the cause of Christ.

My demise came in the form of allergies. Allergies. Not global famine. Not another health crisis (though Lord knows we've had our share). Not family conflict or personal peril. Not even a long check-out line at Safeway.

Allergies. Green, gooey, itchy, disgusting allergies. That's all it took to undo this woman. Made from steel, I am not.

I woke up to one of the worst flair-ups of seasonal allergies I have ever had. In my defense, this was no normal allergy attack. This was a full-on assault on my immune system, ironically waged by my immune system itself. (Talk about mixed feelings! Me vs. Me. Who do I want to win?!) My eyelids were glued shut by extra-strength crusties. My voice sounded like it belonged to a 65-year-old smoker from Atlantic City. My nose made a perfectly charming honking sound when I attempted to inhale nasal spray. I was a papparazzi's delight. You know, if I were famous and all.

Commence the Pity Party montage! Tears! Angry, balled up fists! Tissues littering the bedspread! The stuff of movie magic!

The day dragged on and on. My attitude went downhill with each withdrawal from the tissue box. Finally my husband extracted himself and my two-year-old daughter in order to (escape the crazy person) allow me some alone time.

I was alone. Ironically, I realized, that I only feel alone when my attitude is bad. At that point, I'm such an unattractive person that I'm convinced even the Lord takes a hiatus from our relationship. He never leaves me, even when my health is going haywire and my life is on the fritz. I only feel alone when I can't see around my own ego. It was quiet in my room as I sat (with tissues shoved up my nose) making a half-hearted attempt at reading a book. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be having fun with my family.

I threw the covers around like a petulant teenager, lamenting my fate. It felt like I had been alone for hours when Heidi, our dear friend and Fable's surrogate aunt, sheepishly poked her head around the corner. Her grin was enormous. Apparently she didn't notice my horrible attitude or the tissues sticking out of my nose like two badly placed pigtails. "You've got something special in the maaaaail," she sang. "I hope it's an enormous bottle of Benadryyyyl," I sang back.

Now, not a lot could deter me from my Pity Party at that point. I was miserable, but I was doing a good job at my misery and I don't like to be interrupted when I'm on a roll.

But as much as I like misery, I like packages even more. Even packages I'm expecting from Amazon are thrilling to me. And this was no ordinary package. This package clearly contained flowers. (Ironic, no? My allergies were going nuts as I tore the tape off the box.) Not just any flowers. SUNFLOWERS. The box contained sunflowers. I adore sunflowers. They are like gold on a stem. If you're not from Colorado, you simply can't understand the glory of sunflowers. They are the halo of the city, burning golden and bright as the sun sets. They are the crowning jewel of the season.

Flowers. For me. The girl with the sour face and spoiled heart. Can you imagine how I felt when I read the card that came with them? "Sunflowers always have their faces to the sun. I've noticed that you always have your face to the Son, too." Well, isn't that nice? My ego tucked its tail between its legs and limped away. My eyes leaked, this time out of gratitude.

Can you fathom the recoiling my spirit did upon reading that? It was a perfectly timed message, for sure. It was a blow delivered straight to the knees of my pride and sense of entitlement. How I so desperately needed that.

I love, and also sort of hate, the way God lavishes on me. Even when I'm an enormous ball of snot. Literally.

I know there's a more poetic point to drive home, but I wouldn't want to cheapen the lesson by wrapping things up in a trite little package. All I know is, I'm going to go think about this theme in my life. My prayer is that I learn to be a Christian who runs the race with endurance, one who doesn't get sidetracked by something silly, like a runny nose. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully, you'll just see it for yourself.

It's good, this life.

Darling.

My friend, Tiff, snapped this photo yesterday. It's funny how some of the best pictures are the ones you take on the fly, without any preparation or pretense.

I immediately fell in love with this photo. I tend to make the most wooden faces in photos, so I love how fresh and free I look here. Also, I love that I don't look like a cross-eyed Christmas elf in this photo, which is how I tend to see myself in pictures. I was happy, and I look happy, but I don't look mentally-challenged happy.

Also and mostly, I love this photo because this is my girl. I never get tired of saying that. I catch myself staring at her, often more than once a day, awestruck that she's mine. I think this photo captured the spirit of our relationship. Fable's windblown hair is perpetually askew around her face. She always looks like she has come fresh off the back of an adventure. She's so independent that for her to even sit still and let me put my arms around her is enormously gratifying for me. You can see it on my face. That's my love face. I wear it all day long.

What a life.

Reflections On Repentance.

I don't know what it is about 11:00 PM that triggers my brain to write a blog. It must be my writing witching hour, or my body's way of processing the day's events.

The sermon today was both thought-provoking and disturbing. It was thought-provoking in that the message was particularly applicable to my life as of late; it was disturbing because I came to the alarming realization that my pastor has been spying on me. I don't know how he has been getting away with it, but clearly he has been taking notes on the subject of my sin. The joke's on him, though, because I'm a bloated pregnant lady who spends most of her free time running around in her husband's boxer shorts. I think we all know who's getting the bigger end of the trauma stick...

Anyway, the sermon was awesome, and I was ROCKED.

It was about keeping up appearances, which is not a novel idea for a sermon. I don't know why... for some reason this one hit me. The pastor was preaching on the reputation of Sardis, a city universally known for its emphasis on education, class, social standing, and overall too-cool-for-school-ery. The book of Revelation is comprised of letters to different churches, including one Paul wrote to the believers in Sardis. In it, he says,

" [...] I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. ² Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have found your deeds unfinished in the sight of my God. ³ Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; hold it fast, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you" (3: 1-3).

Let me just jump into the Insight Pool. When I read this, I had to ask myself some questions. They began cascading into my head, one on top of the other.

What do I have a reputation for?

What image do I strive to craft?

And are these two aligned?

Most importantly, are these things aligned with God's agenda for my life?

I was particularly struck by the imperative, "Wake up!" I feel like Paul could be translated as saying, "You're a zombie doing an impression of a living, breathing person. GET REAL."

I needed to hear that. I don't know what my reputation is for, but I'm sure it differs depending upon whom you ask. (Of whom you ask the question? Gah!) I bet on any given day, a sampling of people would say that my reputation is for being sassy and brash, impulsive and judgmental. On a better day, a particularly merciful/delusional friend might say I'm kindhearted and generous, silly and compassionate.

Don't you see the problem with that? There's a PROBLEM when two people could walk away with two very different impressions of you. Don't get me wrong; I understand that we're all multi-faceted, and how we express that plays out differently depending upon the audience. But I am *striving* for consistency of character, and that's where I see a gaping hole in my identity. I think it comes back to this question: Who am I trying to please? When I lose sight of my identity in Christ, the answer is, "Everyone and anyone who might just praise me." When I realign myself with God's truth about my identity -- that I was created by and for Him, with unshakeable value by virtue of that fact -- the answer suddenly becomes, "Christ and Christ alone, at any expense." How freeing, that I can be myself entirely when I'm only trying to please ONE master, instead of 1,000.

That subject alone is enough to write a blog post about, but Paul didn't really care about my need to keep my blogs succinct. I was also jarred by the statement, "[...] I have found your deeds unfinished in my sight." Translation: Melanie, you half-ass your way through life. Right you are, Lord. Right you are. (Also, watch your mouth, Lord.)

Don't you see the problem with that? When was the last time any of us gave 100% to anything? When was the last time I focused solely on Fable, instead of dividing myself between Facebook and cleaning and finally, giving her the dregs? When was the last time I went the distance in a tough friendship? Hell, when was the last time I finished a needlepoint?! (I suppose I would have to start a needlepoint in order to answer that question honestly. I also suppose I'll have to wait until I'm 65 before that question is really applicable. But when I'm 65 I'm sure I'll still be having these issues. I digress...) The point is, I have a hard time committing and following through on the little things in life. It's not hard for me to see how I have left the spiritual matters unfinished, and those are the issues that really, eternally count.

By this point in the sermon, I was so moved with conviction that I felt like lecturing myself. For all you Lutherans out there, don't worry; it was a healthy dose of conviction that I'll probably forget all about by tomorrow morning. ;)

The only thing I care about once I've been convicted of something is the practical step I can take to rectify my situation. How can I make myself right with God? How can I make my ways more like His ways? Thankfully, Paul predicted my need for practical guidance and summed it up in one word:

Repent.

And there's the punch to the gut. Let's make this personal. When was the last time you sincerely asked for forgiveness for something you did wrong? When was the last time you and your husband argued and you stopped mid-sentence to say, "You know what? You're right. You're completely right. I have no defense, no explanation worth giving. I'm just sorry." If you're anything like me, you'd sooner go down with the ship than wave the white flag. I claw tooth and nail, cling to any plausible defense, because I'm self-righteous and prideful, and I want to be in the right, even if it means professing half-truths.

And really, what place does repentance have in a postmodern faith? A light bulb went on my brain when I heard that word today, almost as if I was hearing it for the first time. Christians today are so consumed with preaching *love* that we have done away with the need for change. Don't worry, Jesus loves you just the way you are-- so much so that you needn't feel a modicum of discomfort about your sin! Just vaguely love Jesus and/or others back- in whatever way is most convenient for you-- and you're golden. I'm frustrated with myself for internalizing that deformed doctrine. It seems that this approach to faith is a response to the legalism of previous generations. People were so oppressed by the practice of trying to earn God's love by good works that they burnt out on faith. So now, in an attempt to reintroduce unbelievers to the Lord, Christian doctrine has gone to the other extreme. We don't have to *do* anything to be a Christian anymore-- whether that's physically, emotionally, or spiritually. And that leads us to believe that so long as someone seems to love others well, it doesn't even matter if he professes to know the Lord. "God judges the heart, and that person seems to have a really good heart, so she must be safe in God," is the thought.

But, don't you see what's wrong with that?! What's so sadly, scarily wrong with that? First and foremost, the notion that any of us is a "good" person is just ludicrous. When you don't have a standard for "goodness" that is external to you-- when you get to be the judge of your own character-- your esteem of yourself is bound to fluctuate with any given mood. But that's for another blog entirely (one I will most assuredly write).

Mainly what bothers me about this mindset is that when our focus is on being nice and good and kind -- or whatever other thing the world values at the moment -- we miss out on a crucial element of our salvation, our very relationship with Christ: repentance.

Repentance isn't the act of berating ourselves, nor does it require embracing shame. Repentance is simply and beautifully the act of acknowledging where we fall short of our calling. It's humbly assuming the right posture before our God. And what a fundamental part of the Christian life that is! When we don't engage in this process, we rob ourselves of the utter relief and astonished joy we feel when we receive God's forgiveness. What a startlingly gracious gift. When we don't repent, we find ourselves slathered in cheap grace instead of basking in the real thing.

I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time I truly repented of anything to the Lord, or anyone for that matter. Instead, I go about the cycle of falling short again and again because I HAVEN'T been transformed by true grace.

I'm just so dog tired, so bone weary of all of that.

It's not enough for me anymore. It's NOT enough for me to have my outward appearance put together-- to hide behind the diplomas and handshakes and pats on the back, the nods of approval and invitations to parties, or any of that. It's not enough for me to build a reputation as being a "nice" or a "good" person. More importantly, it's not okay for me to preach that false gospel to other people. The only way to know the fullness of my relationship with God is by assuming my true identity, and being willing to assume the right position in relation to that God. That means I have to check my motivations and ask myself the hard questions. Why am I doing this? Saying this? Making these friends and maintaining these relationships? Is it for the Kingdom of God, or is it give glory to myself? And it requires true self-examination, and being willing to admit that I'm not above apologies, not without needing transformation.

Maybe then I won't yearn so much for the approval of other people. Maybe then I won't be plagued by guilt, since I'll have received true pardon.

See, I told you I was rocked.

What a Man...

There are a lot of things to be thankful for right now, but there's one thing in particular I have to blog about. Doug Mauss, you are that thing!

I'm going to have a hard time not crying while I write this blog. The good thing about crying whilst hiding behind the comfort and safety of the internet is that you can't see my horrifying Cry Face. I'm so not one of those pretty criers. Like, you know when you see a movie and the actress sheds a single glorious tear, and you're like, "Dang. That was majestic"? Well, that's the *opposite* of me crying.

Pretty crying

"Oh, gosh, Marilyn. I'm so sorry to hear about your Yorkie..."

Halle Berry has a genetic condition that prevents her from frowning when she cries.

I know it's hard to believe, folks, but I am NOT always supernaturally attractive. Actually, I seem to be proportionately UNattractive when I cry. Remember that scene from 'When Harry Met Sally' when Sally gets all emotional and calls Harry up in the middle of the night, and she's sitting all slobber-faced on her bed and sobbing uncontrollably? That's EXACTLY how I look when I cry. And I would have posted a picture here but the internet is apparently so disgusted with Meg Ryan's face at that moment in the movie that no one in history has ever recorded it. So, instead, you will have to make due with this, a picture of Britney Spears bawling like a baby. That's also a pretty dead ringer.

(Note how this picture comes from a website called "fugly.com")

Any old who, I have soooo digressed in this blog. What I'm trying to get at is this: My husband has been an absolute hero over these last few weeks. He has taken the brunt of all the housework and Fable-rearing upon himself. It is truly a miracle, the way he has taken care of me. I have never, ever felt so vulnerable, or so loved. You should hear the way he reads books to Fable, with all the love in the world in his voice. He takes her on walks that last for hours. He comes home with the cutest stories about her. "You should have seen the way she climbed the slide, Mel! She made me so proud!" And she lights up when he comes in the room. "Daddy's here!" she exclaims. She is loving this time with him, and I'm loving the chance to watch them grow together.

On top of his terrific care for Fable, Doug has dropped everything to make sure I'm okay. He never bats an eye at the thought of taking me to yet one more appointment. (Though sometimes he gets peeved when he has to wait a few measly *hours* in the car while Fable takes her nap...) He listens and engages as I explain what's going on. He asks questions and researches subjects online. He rubs my back when I'm feeling nauseous, and offers to run out to buy me chicken soup any time. He buys me Gatorade and sorbet in bulk because those are two foods I keep down well. He reminds me to take medicines. He rests with me when I'm too tired to move. He calls me a trooper, even when I cry.

I could go on and on, and never really capture what it has been like to be on the receiving end of so much grace. My husband has really modeled what it's like to lead by service. He is relentlessly loving. And the most amazing thing is, I've never felt closer to the Lord than I do when I experience my husband loving me so tangibly. I could never go through this without him; I could not ask for more.

To my inspiring husband: All the love and gratitude in the whole wide world, and then some.

- Your Ugly Crying Wife.

PS: The internet gave up some gold. See, ugly Meg Ryan face!

Here I Sit, I Can Do No Other...

The title of this blog post is appropriate in so many ways. Let me just tell you a little bit about my week, to put your small, petty lives into perspective.*

1. Sitting Pretty.

As of today, I'm 12 weeks, 4 days pregnant. For those of you who have never been pregnant, that translates to, "Bloated as a beached whale." Don't believe me? You should see my stomach. Or my feet, which are already becoming increasingly difficult to spot. In all fairness, it ought to be remembered that this is my second pregnancy, and my body isn't holding up like it did with Fable. I already look like I'm smuggling a deflated basketball under my shirt. Why would I be smuggling such an object, you ask? Clearly you've never played Steal Something From Wal-Mart at 4:00 AM. Too bad. College was fun, in my experience! So, all that to say, I feel absolutely repulsive. Pregnancy acne isn't helping matters. Nor are the ever-swelling ankles and circles under my eyes. But I digress.

2. Sitting Still.

Pretty much the last few days/weeks have looked like this for me.

7:30 AM: Jolt awake from bed. Scramble in a sleepy daze to the kitchen. Pour and devour a bowl of Cheerios. Pray not to puke this morning.

7:36: Pray I reach the bathroom in time to puke aforementioned Cheerios.

8:00: Brush teeth and praise God that's over with.

9:15: Try eating something again. If it doesn't go so well, repeat steps 1-3. If it goes well, pass Go and collect $200.00.

10:00: Smile coyly at Doug, who has been awake with Fable since 6:00 AM, and ask if I can go take a nap.

12:00: Wake up from nap in time to pass my husband to the hallway on his way to take his own nap. Grunt our hellos at one another.

12:15: Eat lunch. Do more praying about the matter.

12:30: If everything goes well, I'll sit around on the couch all day, willing myself not to barf and taking naps.

Sounds pretty thrilling, huh? Bruce Willis will be portraying me in the upcoming movie, "Puke Hard: Puking Harder Again." I tried to get Natalie Portman to play me but she was already booked, so I had to go with Bruce.

By virtue of the fact that this is a list, there should be three things to mention. But since I can't think of another clever subtitle, I'll just drop it.

While we're on the subject of puking and lazing about, I'll give you a brief update on the mono and liver front: I got some results back today which were largely inconclusive. My liver enzyme levels are still rising a little, but not dramatically, which is good. Ultrasound showed that my liver looked good. The problem is, I have all but one sign of liver distress. The doctor thinks there's something causing my liver to not send fluids away from itself, so they'll be checking for a blood clot this week, as well as some other things. Basically, they kind of need to keep an eye on this stuff just in case it impacts my pregnancy later in the game. We'll know more later this week. Until then, as Andy Grammer would say, "Gotta keep your head up."

*I have to insult you because I love you and I don't want your ego to run away with you. You can thank me later when you learn some manners, you ingrate.

Venturing into art...

Hear ye, hear ye, good people of blogdom! I have an announcement to make. Today I made my first step into adulthood! Marriage, parenting, and home-ownership were all just baby steps compared to this Olympian leap.

Today I bought FIRSTHAND furniture.

No garage sale prowling, no Craigslist stalking. Nope, today Doug and I walked into some kind of American Furniture store (a warehouse, as it were) and we bought a NEVERBEFOREUSED sofa. We researched and debated and sat on so many couches my rear could detect the very color of a sofa before I laid eyes on it.

And by the end of Tuesday, we'll have our brand new sofa on display in our living room, sitting pretty. I'm pretty anal retentive about my furniture so no one will be allowed to sit on it for about a month, but you guys can feel free to LOOK at it any time you want!

So, being the good and faithful blogger that I am, I tried to find a picture of the sofa for all to see. But I searched and searched and my search turned up nothing, so I decided to do an artistic rendering of the newest addition to our family. Without further ado, I present you with my masterpiece...

Ta da! Isn't that something? I guess I have more than one talent to add to my repertoire! Now, uh, in case you were wondering, that little gray circle is my rug. And that thing with the Mr. Potato Head feet is Fable, and Fable is thinking in her little Fable head, "JUMPING! JUICE! SPILLLLING THINGS!!!!!" Because that's what her devious mind is plotting to do once I let my guard down. That's why no one will ever sit on my couch. I plan on teaching her that all furniture is for looking, not touching.

Well, anyway, not long after I breathed a sigh of accomplishment at finishing my painting, Doug leaned over and said, "Uh, hun, I found our couch online." He's annoying like that. So, I had him send me the photo so you could compare my rendition. What do you think?

I know, I'm amazing. Actually, just now I said to Doug, "I know, I'm frigging AMAAAAZING," over something totally unrelated to couches. And that's because my amazingness extends to things other than just furniture. It ALSO extends to bargain shopping (we got this couch for a screaming deal), craftiness, spawning, and as we all know, general attractiveness.

Now, before I sign off, I think it's worth saying this: I don't actually like that flowery pattern on the back cushions. But the awesome thing about this couch is that the cushions are all reversible so I can turn them around, which I will always do because, as I said I don't like that pattern. But I DO like the stripey pillows, which I realize now I forgot to add in my drawing. Ah, well. Artistic liberties and such.

Okay, anyway, talk at y'all later. Have a good night. And stay away from my sofa.

PS: Don't forget to post below for a chance at winning those AWESOME pins!

Phlower Photoz.

Alright, friends. Here are the photos of the flower pins/corsages I'll be giving away during this round of give-aways. (Upon reflection, that sentence was redundant.) Anyway, here's the scoop. My dear friend, Tiff, and I made these fabric flowers last Christmas, so what you'll receive will be quite similar to these, but not these exact models. It's like when you buy a couch at Sofa-Mart and you really like the floor model but they actually give you one in the back that hasn't been under everyone and his mother's butt.

Here's a review of the give-away rules.

1. You need to by the 20th commenter on this blog post.

2. The end.

3. Review rule #1.

Got it? Now go!

FAQs:

Yes, I will ship these to you. The end.

Stay tuned for another give away at the end of this week. Ta!

Give it away, give it away now...

Alright, friends.

Since my liver and spleen have gone on strike, I have decided to take up some less active hobbies. Apparently wrestling goats and getting into bar fights are not good for a gal in my condition.

So that brings me to the blog. I've been trying to update daily, which allows me to flex my writing muscles once more. It has been really enjoyable, and one day I hope I might just have one of those blogs people talk about. You know that group of trendsetters you work with who always wear the coolest clothes, are up-to-date on the funniest shows and best music? One day they'll be talking about my blog. It'll look something like this:

Tabbitha, the gorgeous girl with perfectly shiny, curly black hair and outstanding fashion sense (We'll call her TTGGWPSCBHOFS for short): Oh my gosh, Emmaline*, have you read that new blog, ermineandpearls?

Emmaline, the hilarious jokester who is way too cool to be called a jokester (ETHJWIWTCTBCAJ): Uh, yea-uh, Tabbitha*, I have. And I'm like, ADDICTED to it!

TTGGWPSCBHOFS: I KNOW! Isn't Melanie Mauss so hilarious?! It's like she reached into my brain and pulled out the most hysterical parts!

ETHJWIWTCTBCAJ: Yeah, she should totally be the Queen of Blogs.

TTGGWPSCBHOFS: You're so right. Now let's go have a dance party full of the funniest and coolest people on the planet.

ETHJWIWTCTBCAJ: I'm already there.

That's not just a hope, my friends. It's a dream. And what the difference is between a hope and a dream, I'll never know. But it's important not to overlook either one.

Anyway, all that to say, in a shameless ploy to attract more readers, I'm doing a give away! Of these awesome thingies!

Pretty cute, huh? If you like them, you're in for a treat. My friend, Tiffany, and I have been toying with the idea of starting a business called The Glass Umbrella, where you can buy all manner of cute things. We haven't gotten it off the ground, but if you like these photos and would like to see us go into business, leave me some positive vibes. We need some motivation!

Okay, so, here's how it works.

You comment on my blog. The 20th commenter gets two handsome fabric flower pins in an adorable box, for free.

Does that make sense? If it doesn't, stop reading my blog, you swarthy toad.

So, without further ado, I will now post photos of the give-away! Enjoy!

*Tabbitha is actually a girl I'm friends with. We hang out sometimes, so... there.

** Emmaline is actually a girl I WANT to be friends with. We also hang out sometimes, but I am not as cool as her... yet. That's where the blog factors in...***

*** We're actually friends, though.

Update. Or, downdate, as the case may be.

For friends who follow my blog, I figured the blog would be a good form of mass communication for me to fill you in on the last few days.

A couple weeks ago my neck and head started to hurt. Then they stopped hurting and started actively trying to kill me. A fever, some nausea, body aches, etc., later and I wound up in the ER. Had some tests run and they showed I had Mono and something fishy was going on with my liver.

More tests revealed a kidney/bladder infection and some form of Hepatitis. (This is when you begin to give your husband the side-eye. Dude, first Mono and *now* Hepatitis. Just who did you hang out with in college?)

MORE tests and a visit to a specialist, and here we are. What we know for sure is that my liver levels are up. Apparently the white blood cells in there all decided to drink the pink Kool-Aid together and now they're all dying off, sending the chemically thingies in my liver way up. So, that's just fancy doctor-pants speak for "Your liver is grumpy." (Well, raging at the machine is more like it.) They, meaning the nebulous cloud that is the medical community, have decided that this is NOT Mono related, but that the fact that I have Mono is probably merely coincidental. They, meaning that cloud again, sent me downstairs to have seven vials of blood drawn to be sent for more testing. They're testing for about 20 more things, and I have to have an abdominal ultrasound done tomorrow to take a look at my liver. (This whole process took about, I don't know, THREE MILLION HOURS today, and I was super grateful that my good friend Tiff came with me. She even talked me through the blood draw, which made me feel like a baby, but was also nice.)

So, that's where things stand right now. It has been a less than awesome week. But in otherwise awesome news, I got to see little Sparky on the ultrasound earlier and s/he is doing just fine. Kicking away, playing with his/her feet, even sucking his thumb! (The his/her thing was getting annoying.)

Also good news: All our friends have offered to bring us food, which is AWESOME! But it does beg the question, is making dinner something I was *supposed* to be doing before I got sick? Cuz, uh... I hate to break it to you world, but we've pretty much always lived off Cheerios and Ramen. Thanks for the generosity, though! I'll have to let my liver know to take a dive more often!

So much love to you fine folks.

-M & Co.

Lilac.

Last night, a dear friend watched the Fay for me whilst I whittled away the hours on bed rest. That's a good friend, my friends. As I lay dying of terminal boredom, Jes, her daughter Aspen, and Fable did all manner of crafty things. (Including painting with stamps made of carved potatoes! Who does that?!)

One is wont to notice all kinds of things while horizontal. (Keeeeep it clean, people. Jesus reads this blog.) First off, popcorn ceiling is the everyday Rorschach Test. I got a glimpse into my psyche last night as grinning circus clowns, old ladies with crooked spines, and stampeding horses emerged from my wall. That was a fun five minutes. Then I was back to having nothing to do.

So, I tossed and turned a little. Did some praying. Daydreamed about what my life would be like if I had longer hair (radically better, with far more fashionable montages). At about mile marker 2000, I decided to get out of bed. Who says bed rest needs to be literal BED rest? I mean, aside from my doctor and all.

I putzed around the house in my usual, albeit slower, style. Tidying this thing and that (read: moving it from one unorganized drawer to another). Starting a skein of crochet, only to undo it again. Went up the stairs for some reason, only to forget why when I reached the handle to the bathroom door. (How does a person forget what she intends to do in the bathroom? There are only so many things one can do in there; the options are easily exhaustible.)

Finally, I bunkered down in the black armchair in the living room. I sat in the quiet. I'm so shamefully bad at sitting in the quiet, either in my head or in reality. (Philosophy majors, feel free to quip that what's in your head should count as what's in reality. When you're done, call yourself a pretentious twit for me.) Truth be told, I didn't know what to do with myself without Fable around, yapping at my heels.

I've become so accustomed with multitasking, with putting on a puppet show with one hand and disinfecting the countertops with the other. At the end of a day filled with Legos and puzzles, meltdowns and "More juice, Mommy!" I am thoroughly exhausted and satisfied. I'm acquainted with that form of exhaustion. It's fulfilling, unlike the kind of exhaustion that camps in your bones when you're sick. This kind, the new and harder kind, makes me cry at the drop of a hat. Makes me need to rest in the middle of doing the dishes or having a conversation with my husband. It makes me restless and irritable, but somehow more contemplative.

I feel like a butterfly pinned down by the wings, under the giant lens of the Lord. It was C.S. Lewis, I believe, who said something to the effect of, "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." Oh, Lord. Have I been deaf? Is that the root of this pain?

Lord, I prayed, let me hear you. Still me. Wrestle me to the ground as you did Jacob. Leave me with a wound, but don't leave me here.

Over the last week several doctors have lain me down, told me to prepare for the pain of a needle or of morphine coursing through my veins. But nothing has compared to this, the pain of holding still for the Lord.

And so, I finally did some musing. In a silent house, in the space inside a whirring mind, I settled-- as much as I know how. Minutes passed, but they felt much longer, as if the Lord were stretching them to their fullest. To think of all the minutes in a day, and how few of them I spend before the presence of God... no wonder it hurt so much.

My time alone came to a close. I heard Jes and Fable approach the door. Finally, my sweet, sticky distraction was home. It's indescribable, the way her rosebud mouth and forever curly hair warms me up from the inside. The warmth was almost unbearable within the walls of my freshly scrubbed heart.

Fable trotted up to me, as she always does, in the the style that so reminds me of a baby beagle tripping over his ears. Sometimes I just want to hold her so much, I can't help but scoop her into me. When she is 16, I will still be pulling her into my arms, despite her protestations.

This time, though, the singularly most amazing thing happened. Fable held out her hand to me.

"Here go, Mommy." And just like that, the Lord came rushing in to mend the wound. Clutched in her tiny, sweaty palm was a thick shoot of lilac.

My first ever flower from Fable. It smelled so good to me.

I found a glass for it, but by the time I filled it with water, Fable had all but demolished the poor thing. No matter-- none at all.

With all the pride and thankfulness in the world, I put the dilapidated petals and naked stem into the glass. It sits now on my dining room table, proudly displayed for all to see.

Today I don't feel so raw. Not much better physically, truth be told. But no worse. And my spirit? It has rarely been better or healthier. I suppose this whole blog started when I realized that I sit here, in this dilapidated state, proudly on display for *my* Father.

There's no better place to be.

Pooh Bear Can't Touch This.

Photo blitz! Turn down the lights and turn on the disco ball. These photos are of one of my favorite family bonding outings in the history of family. Well, this family, at least. Meh, probably your family, too. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...

Fable's First Movie!

Now, if you're an astute observer, you've probably noticed by now that this is not a photo of my child with popcorn in hand, gearing up for her first movie. What this IS is a photo of my child in a diaper, throwing her head back in wild exultation as her daddy narrowly avoids getting splashed in the face. Read on, confused friends. Read on.

A few weeks ago, we hitched up the horse and buggy and went into town to see Fable's first theatre movie! We didn't really know what to expect from her, since she's as unpredictable as a toddler running on a full tank of Juicey Juice. (I s'pose that's always sort of true for her, given that she's a toddler normally touting a juice box...) We *intended* to see the new Winnie the Pooh flick. You know, the one all the teenagers are flipping out about. I say that we *intended* to see it because Fable had developed an entirely different agenda by the time we got there. About ten minutes into the movie, she decided that she was going to sit on the floor. After the allure of that wore off, she decided she was going to take that opportunity to try drinking from a can of smuggled soda, which has never gone well in the past-- let alone in a dark movie theatre. Things pretty much spiraled downhill from there. There was running up and down the stairs. There were whispered promises of candy if she would sit still. There were scowls from the family in front of us-- which, might I add, consisted of three adults and no children. Explain to me how that's normal. Anyway, there were tears. My, how there were tears! It all came to a head when Fable *demanded* that I put her in time out. I kid you not. The exchange between mother and daughter went something like this:

F: "Mommy, outside!"

M: "Fable, no, we have to stay in here and watch the movie!"

F: "OUTSIDE!"

M: "Fable, do you need to go to time out?"

F: "Mommy, Bebo need to go time out. Bebo need to go outside."

And so now you see how I set myself up for that one. With about 15 minutes to spare, Doug granted Fable's wish. He took her outside, leaving me in peace to watch the final riveting moments of Pooh Bear's great adventure. But apparently the fun to be had was waiting for me outside, where Doug had stripped Fable down to nothing but a diaper and was merrily frolicking in the fountain with her. Doug, if you're reading this, yes I outted you for frolicking.

See how much happier we all are when we keep it simple?

I was trying to convince her to run into the water, but she thought it wise to keep an eye on that thing.

See how I'm kiiind of trying to force her to go in there? I thought it would be funny if the fountain spurted up under her foot. Doug reminded me just then that she's about 20.5 pounds and the pressure of the fountain might just blow her away. I also thought that was kind of funny, but my sense of responsibility kicked in aaaaaand...

And there she goes! Off in the opposite direction! This game consisted of running up to the fountain, taunting it like a two-year-old is inclined to do, and running away gleefully.

So, that was our adventure. I can't say it compared to Pooh Bear's, though I'm sure his didn't end with him running about in a diaper. At least that's not the Pooh I grew up with, anyway. I thought it was a good way to spend the weekend. And if we didn't have a toddler, this *PROBABLY* wouldn't have happened!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's picture blog on a topic I haven't decided upon yet!