Monday, December 31, 2007

I'm Ashamed

Dear blog,
I'm sorry I have ignored you for so long. 10 days! That's a long time. But to tell the truth, I have nothing to say. Once I thought I would write about Christmas, but decided not to. Then I though I would write about the cats some more. Then I thought I should write about the baby, since the poor baby has been denied precious blog time, but there really isn't any new news.
What I'm trying to say is, I am dull. I have nothing to write about, and I really don't want to post more about poop. So until I can think of something intelligent and worth reading, I won't write. I am reading Anna Karenina, so maybe that will spark something. I am also visiting my family. Maybe I'll take pictures and write about my family.
Until further notice,

Friday, December 21, 2007

A Smorgasboard, If You Will

I don't suppose there will be alot of flow or cohesivity (yes I just made that word up) to this post, but I shall post it anyway.

I have done alot since I last posted. A. Lot. For instance, I ate two of the most delicious brownies on the face of the earth. They were choclately, they had chunks, they had frosting, and crunched up candy canes on the top. Normally I don't like mint and chocolate together, but dang if I didn't eat two of those brownies in about 2.4 seconds like some kind of crazy person.

I made a cake. And iced it. And ate none of it. Miraculous.

I made no bake cookies. Or, as Alex called them, Easy Bake No Cookies.

I made sugar cookies to decorate, then left them out like an idiot and they ended up strewn about the house with cat tooth shaped holes in them.

I then suffered a diabetic coma from the eight pounds of sugar I have eaten.

I spent all of Thursday morning with the shelter boys, and was again amazed and blown away by how precious and awesome they were. Again I was expecting to end the shift by duct taping all of them to the walls, but ended instead by loving them all dearly. Then I spent all of Thursday night with four more boys, three of them teenagers. The vast differences between teenage boys and teenage girls are incredible.

I drove to work today at 11. I had about ten minutes of my drive left when the baby shifted and found a more comfortable place in my uterus. It just happened to be right on top of my bladder. The rest of the drive was torturous, and I really thought I was going to pee my pants. Please take a moment to imagine a mango sized person sitting on top of your bladder. Not pretty. Right on cue, when I got to the shelter, the baby moved and I was fine. Bah. Babies. I spent the next few hours answering the door, organizing presents, answering the phone, moving boxes, throwing things away and breaking down boxes. Then I spent the next eight hours with the babies. The babies are awesome. They poop, cry and sleep and they are happy to eat, have their pants changed, and be sung to. All of these things I can do with exceptional grace and little brain power. Because I am awesome. And because these skills are essential in doing a job like mine.

For example, I was on my way to the bathroom, when I heard a wee voice from down the hall. "Hey...Hey", wee voice called out. I turned around and saw one of the pre-schoolers standing just inside the bathroom doorway, pants around his ankles. I asked him if he needed some help and he responded "I need you to wipe my butt." A lesser woman would have balked at his request. Not me, I calmly whipped out the diaper wipes and cleaned his little booty, and even helped him change into clean pants, all the while whistling a jolly tune. Later, when one of the baby babies was not terribly excited about having her diaper changed and would have rather run around naked (which we really aren't supposed to allow) I entertained her into submission by singing "Daa Daa Daa", the same three notes over and over.

Unfortunately, and still poop related, I happened to hear the intestinal symphony of a co-worker when I walked too closely to the bathroom door. It was mildly traumatic.

And friends, this is where my tale ends. Sorry it's not a better story. And sorry for being overly proud of my poop cleaning abilities.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Miss Sadie: Supervisor Extraordiniare

*EDIT* I gave the meds. No one died. Success!!
Also, I found a pile of bones under our Christmas tree this morning. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Last night I started training to supervise at work. While I am excited to be able to help out and fill in when a Supervisor is needed, I am also a little scared by this prospect.

The supervisors are in charge of giving medications. I would venture to say that around 80% of our kids come in with a long list of meds, so this can be a big job for the supervisor, especially when we have 30 kids at the shelter. After Karen explained the med log to me, I said "Ok Karen, I understand all that, but what happens when I mess up, which I inevitably will? I mean, what do I do when I give someone the wrong medicine, or the wrong dosage, or forget to give it out at all? What I mean is, what do I do when I act like myself??" And she said, "Well, you call the on-call worker and if needed, you will call the pharmacy or poison control center. You would obviously also document it in the med log." "Ok, so in the med log I would write something like 'Gave poison instead of medicine.' Got it."

It is safe to say, the meds freak me out. Tonight I am taking an extra trip up to the shelter to help take care of the babies, and to hand out meds under the watchful eye of Miss Karen.

Another scary thing about supervising, as I explained to Karen last night, is that generally I pawn all of my crap onto the supervisors. If a kid won't take a bath, call the supervisor. If a kid won't do their homework? Call the supervisor. If a kid refuses to go to bed? Call the supervisor. If a kid is running up and down the halls, wearing nothing but thier underwear, screaming "I WANT BIRTHDAY CAKE!" and throwing stuffed animals? Call the supervisor?

So this means, on that inevitable night when there is that one kid who will not take a bath, not do her homework, not go to bed, and is running up and down the halls in her underwear screaming "I WANT BIRTHDAY CAKE!" and throwing stuffed animals, the staff will call Miss Sadie. And I will not know what to do, so I will most likely try to distract the girl away from throwing her fit which means I'll probably do something like dance and sing a silly song while all the other kids (and staff) look on and think to themselves, "Well, this is certainly going to be an interesting night."

There is a certain power that exudes from the supervisors. The kids may be slightly afraid of some of the staff, but they instinctively know there's not alot we can do in the way of discipline. We can sit them in time out...and that's about it. But for some reason, the supervisors are scarier. Now in general, the kids are even less scared of me than they are of other staff. I don't know why this is, I can be just as stern as the next staff member. I worry that the power of the supervisor will not effectively transfer to me, so when I am called to deal with the cussing, kicking, spitting, ornery kid, I'll walk in and he will say to himself, "Pssshhhaw, it's just Miss Sadie. She's not scary. She's just weird." I'm afraid I will sense thier lack of fear, and my presumed power will be chopped from beneath me quicker than you can say flapjack. Then I will be reduced to dancing and singing again.

This extra helping of responsibility? Is overwhelming.

Monday, December 17, 2007

A Very Griswold Christmas

It all began with the house lights.
I wanted Rusty to put lights on our house because there was not an ounce of holiday cheer on the outside which made me seem very much like a Scrooge. I am not a Scrooge and I didn't want my neighbors to think I am a Scrooge. Not even the Crazy Dog Lady.
So, I asked Rusty to plese put some lights on the house, and he told me he'd have to get some light hooks first. Which meant spending money. Which meant, probably no. I asked him the simple questions, "Well, does your dad have a staple gun?"
He looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and humor in his eyes, trying to figure out if I was kidding. I looked at him with sad eyes, because I really wanted lights on the house.
"A staple gun? A staple gun? Who puts lights on a house with a staple gun?"
"Umm, my dad. And Chevy Chase, in Christmas Vacation. Remember, he staples himself to his house and then when his shirt rips he falls off the roof?"
Rusty continued to look at me with a mixture of disbelief and humor, still trying to figure if I was kidding. I continued to look at him with sad eyes. Then he told me the merits of hooks, and had to show them to me at Lowe's since I had never seen them before. We do not have lights on the outside of our house.
Now that I think about it, I'm really not sure that my dad puts lights on the house with a staple gun. I might have just absorbed the memory of Chevy Chase doing it, and assumed that it was my dad.

On Friday night at eight we decided it was time to get a Christmas tree, so we dragged Rusty's parents to Lowe's so we could use their car. After wandering around for a while we picked one out, a lovely Scotch Pine, six feet tall with only three gaping holes. As an added bonus, we got it for $10. Procrastination pays off. Rusty and his dad strapped it to the Blazer while Carol and I waited inside. It was raining, you see. Once we got it to the house and stuck it in the tree stand, we realized it was leaning pretty far to one side. Not ones to worry uneccessarily, we put the lights on and went to bed. The next morning, Rusty woke up and the tree was lying on it's side. The cats were acting more strange than usual so we assume they climbed inside it and knocked it over. Our tree is now tied with a red rope to two hooks in the wall. It has worked well as the cats have been in and out of the tree and it hasn't fallen again.

I'm just waiting for my crazy cousin Eddie to show up on the doorstep with his tin can RV.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Brain Is Dead and Devoid of All Creativity. Call Back Later.

I just finished my last final. One more semester down, 3000 more to go. I hope to graduate by the time I am 47. We'll see how that works out for me.

I just wrote half of a post about the baby, looking bloated and spaghetti squash, but honestly, it was terrible and I don't want to publish it. I would rather wait and not post about the baby than post a few crappy paragraphs that lack any zest or humor or good writing skills. So I'll wait on that.

However, I didn't want anyone to think I had died or accidentally eaten my computer in a fit of manic hunger. Not dead. Computer still here. I just want to relish in the beginning of Christmas Break for a while. Should anyone need me they will be able to find me either on the couch playing Age of Empires or in bed reading a book that has nothing to do with school.

The end.

Ok, maybe not the end. I have a few more things to say.
1. I love this post by Dooce.
2. I also love these ugly little monster dolls. I hope to get one for the baby. See the website here.
3. Today I thought to myself: Maybe being as unstylish as I am, actually makes me stylish. Or maybe I'm just Sweatpants Phil.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Reasons #9623 and #9624 Why It Is Sometimes Embarassing To Be Me

Perhaps I should explain why I found the muffin cat so funny.

Once I wrote a post about why I make my neighbors cookies. Several weeks ago we got another set of new neighbors and I made some cookies for them too. But before I was able to wrap them up and take them across the street, I accidentally ate all of them.

And speaking of winter time (even though, as Dawn pointed out no one was speaking of winter time) as the weather gets colder I find myself dressing more and more like a hobo. I layer on clothes, much more concerned with being warm than looking fashionable. With each layer of clothes I look more ridiculous and become less mobile until I resemble a clown and my arms stick out at right angles from my body. Driving becomes considerably harder. My unfortunate layering was bad enough when I wasn't pregnant, but now that I am and my wardrobe is more limited, I not only look ridiculous, but look ridiculous wearing the same clothes week after week.

My mom and Bill came to visit us on Saturday, and we went to Motherhood Maternity again. I still didn't try on a fake belly. I got another pair of sweatpants (Yay! Sweatpants!) two shirts, and an incredible wool coat that I love and plan on having altered when I am not pregnant so I can still wear it. I am very sad that my camera is broken because I want to take a picture of Madeline in the Electrc Blue Mafia because that's exactly what my coat looks like.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

The Pants! The Pants!

I had to find pregnancy jeans that fit me.

Previously I had one pair of maternity jeans that I wore about 38 times a week. They were comfortable enough, but really were too big for me and earned me the pleasant nickname "Saggy Butt". In order to keep them up I had pull the back of them up until they were crossing the middle of my back, which was pretty ridiculous. They only stayed that way if I was perfectly still, so as soon as I started to walk, or say, breathe too hard, they would slide down taking my underwear with them. I was spending entirely too much time with my hand down the back of my pants, yanking my undies back into place. I did a study and found that the number of times I put my hands in my pants to pull my underwear back up was directly related to the number of people who consciously avoid me on campus.

It was high time I found some suitable pants. I ventured into Motherhood Maternity one afternoon, on a quest to return some items my mom bought for me that did not fit and to find the elusive pair of jeans that I knew would fit perfectly. Somewhere, there had to be a pair that fit my belly but did not leave me three feet of extra fabric for my thighs and butt, three feet of extra fabric that I did not need.

Shopping at Motherhood Maternity was...interesting. First, I was the only one in the store. Just me and the clerk. Just me....and the clerk...and one else. There was no one else for the clerk to talk to, or watch. She talked to me, and watched me. And I am a very private shopper, a very annoying private shopper who has to look at every single thing in the store before deciding what to try on. Then I pick out what to try on and take it to the dressing room. Then begins the fight of wills "Do I want it? Does it look good? Will I ever wear it? Is it comfortable? I don't want it. Wait, yes I do. No I don't. Wow, thats alot of money. I can't afford it. Dang it, now its the only thing in the whole world that I could ever want. Ok, I'll buy it." Next, I have to cruise around one more time just to make sure I didn't miss that one thing, the one article of clothing that will change my life. I always kind of hope I won't find it, because then I'll have to go through the whole ordeal of deciding what I will put back in order to purchase that one article of clothing that will change my life. Shopping for me is sort of stressful.

Anyway, since I was the only one in the store, my shopping eccentricities were totally visible to the clerk, who was not shy about staring at me. Once I finally got into the dressing room, I was intrigued by these strange contraptions hanging on the walls. They were like pillows with two straps around them that velcroed together. I'm assuming they were fake pregnant bellies, which is awfully strange. Do women who are newly pregnant put them on to buy clothes that will fit them later in pregnancy? Or are they for pregnant hopefuls? I was fascinated by the fake pregnant bellies and really wanted to try one on, but I knew the velcro sound would echo in the music-less store and the clerk would be completely aware of my fake belly trying on. And that was weird to me.

In the end, I found an excellent pair of jeans that don't fall off and take my undies with them. I also found two shirts that look very nice on me. Both are sparkly. Pregnancy has turned me into a sparkly crazy person.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Not Born, But Still So Sassy

I feel slightly better. Sort of. Not really. I have to go to work in a few hours so I must feel a little better. Sister Sherri got me a McFlurry last night. I thought that was very nice of her, and even though it was probably the last thing my stomach needed, it was delicious. Delicious and the only thing I wanted. Praise the Lord for sisters. I have six sisters, I am bless-ed.

Now, about this baby. I am 21 weeks pregnant. I was confused about my weeks and thought I was only 20 weeks pregnant. Then when I got to the doctor they told me I was at 21 weeks. The halfway mark came and went and I didn't even know it! Incredible.

Last week the baby was as big as a banana from head to foot (previously we were measuring from head to booty). Here is a picture of a banana for your viewing pleasure:

(Oh dear sweet goodness. PLEASE do not look up "banana" on Google images. Trust me on that one.)
Now the baby is as big as a carrot!
This baby is growing in leaps and bounds!

According to the skilled and very tall Dr Crownover, everything looks good in the uterus. The baby and all his/her organs are in good shape. So far we have:
a head
a brain
a heart
two arms (that punched me while we were watching)
two legs
a spine
I can't remember what else we saw

And no, we still do not know the sex of the carrot baby. We don't want to know. We did not cave. In fact, the baby's legs were crossed when we looked at the legs which I found hilarious. If I was into projecting a personality onto my unborn child I would be amused at how obnoxious and smarty-pants this baby is. And if I was into posting sonogram pictures I would post the picture of Smarty-Pants' crossed legs. What are we getting ourselves into?

Saturday, December 1, 2007


I'm sick. My intestines are throwing a big old freaking fit about something and I am completely at the mercy of them and their totally unpredictable cramps. Eew, that's gross. I know, trust me I know.
I have lots of stories to tell you about the very strange day I had while searching for maternity pants that fit me correctly, the fact that I only have one week of school left, the big 20 week doctor's visit that revealed lots of things about the wee one, and Baby Registry Extravaganza 2007, but I have a 10 page paper to write. Also, I'm sick and really don't feel like telling any stories right now.
Please send comforting thoughts to my intestines.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

What? No money?

My friend Matt nominated me for an award.

I am seriously honored. I also have my own category over at Matt's blog because I am "uncategorizable". Hehehe.

Apparently some guy named Jake Bouma started this award/meme thing, and nominated Matt, who nominated me. Now I am supposed to nominate 5 more subversive bloggers. This could be interesting.

1. Spring-For honesty and sarcasm. And Rufus
2. Noah-My favorite preacher man
3. Dooce-I know she's already famous, but seriously, you don't get much more subversive
4. Tony Jones-Again, I know he's already famous, but this post cannot be dismissed
5. Ann-For making cakes that look like flouncy underpants

Thanks Matt. When I write a book I'll be sure to put you and Alicia in the 'Thank You' section. Now I want to know where the award money is.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

The Gentle Fluttering of Butterflies

I believe I first felt the movements of the baby (who is now the size of an heirloom tomato and weights almost one pound!) around a month ago. I was watching Aladdin and had just eaten a dinner of macaroni and cheese and chicken when I felt a strange movement in my abdomen. I brushed it off as mere digestion. Later that night I felt it again, a pushing sensation, not unlike the feelings common to one who has just eaten a meal.

These strange movements, feelings common to one who has just eaten a meal, have become more and more frequent in the last week or so. It makes sense, because I am nearly 20 weeks pregnant and should certainly be feeling something by now. I assume these feelings are the baby as I feel them all throughout the day, whether I have eaten or not, and all throughout my belly. Normally digestive movements are more localized. These are near my pelvis, near my ribs, under my belly button, on the left side, on the right get the picture.

When I was freshly pregnant, (not the wise and knowing veteran that I am now) I would imagine what it would feel like when the baby moved. I read the books and the websites that described the feeling and they were full of smooshy similies like, "It feels like the fluttering of butterflies", or "The baby's movements are like a gentle sensation, just enough to let you know there is life in you".

I am not quite so eloquent. First I thought it was gas. Now it feels exactly like being kicked from the inside. Which is precisely what it should feel like.

Also, my perfectly civilized and normal looking innie belly button is rapidly losing its civility. It is becoming more and more shallow and soon I will have a full outie belly button. Oh the things I suffer for this child. I can only imagine the indignities I will suffer from here on.

However, there is one distinct advantage to being pregnant. I have a perfect reason for the kids at the shelter to appropriate in what they talk about. I tell them my baby can hear what they are saying, and that they need to make sure what they're talking about is ok for a baby to hear.

Last night this worked out beautifully. I was working on the boys wing (oh the little heart stealing boys) and one of them was having a wonderful time amusing himself by making fart sounds. I know little boys do this, and I wasn't terribly offended, but after three straight hours of the incessant fart rhythm coming from his mouth I was tired of it. So I said "Rupert" (I changed his name to protect his privacy) "Rupert, I want you to know that my baby can hear all those fart sounds you are making, as well as everything else you say. So if my baby comes out making fart sounds and talking about weiners and scratching butts, then I will tell everyone it's your fault."

It was wildly successful as this statement made Rupert's brother (who was throwing himself a pity party) laugh, made Rupert stop making fart sounds, and intiated the invention of the game "Who Can Say the Funniest Thing to Miss Sadie's Baby".

The boys would stand next to my belly and say "Baby? Baby can you hear me? Baby, make sure that lots of pizza!" or "Baby? Baby! Um.....make sure you party like a rockstar!" and countless other priceless instructions for my child. Each set of instructions was followed by loud laughter, as if that person had just said the funniest thing in all the history of funny things. If they said something mean or rude like, "Baby, make sure you don't listen to your mom!" I would tell them the baby wasn't listening to them anymore and then they would apologize profusely and follow up with much better advice, like be sure to always drink your milk.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

The Possible Uses of a Cat

We have two cats.

Well, I guess we have one and a half cats. Squid is surely and truly our cat. I picked him from a box of kittens, we've had him fixed and have taken him to the vet more times than I'd care to remember for shots, UTI's, etc. Remington's ownership, on the other hand, is stuck somewhere in limbo. We were babysitting him, then foster parenting him, and now possibly keeping him. It's unclear.

Squid is the perfect cat for us. He's long and lean and refined, to the point that he can come off a bit snooty. He doesn't really like people, especially the kind of people who are small and will pull his tail. He prefers his people to be quiet, slow moving, and fond of scratching his face. He prefers a civilized side snuggle to a full on lap snuggle. He's something like a loveable British snob. Squid is also almost entirely self-sufficient. Really the only assistance he requires is pouring his brandy and lighting his cigar.

Remington is an completely different story. He is small and fluffy and only sleeps on every third full moon. He meows just to hear is own voice. He believes his cat food to be somehow less desireable than people food and will go to great lengths to eat whatever we leave out. Once he ate through a plastic bag to get to the biscuits I made for my breakfast. His fluffy hair makes him impervious to the spray bottle effect. He likes to scratch at the carpet beneath our bedroom door from 3:30-5:00am and will only stop when we put up a three foot barricade. I believe he also suffers from chronic gas. Personified, he would be an American pig, prone to overindulging in hot wings and beer, often waking up in the backyard with his underwear on his head.

Because Remington drives us bonkers, even though we love him, we have begun discussing other uses for him. Discussing the possible uses for a cat can be quite fascinating. Rusty came up with this idea on Thursday night when he thought it would be fun to try wearing Remington as a hat. He looked rather stylish. Unfortunately, he did suffer a nasty scratch on his nose. Remington and I were snuggling while watching a movie on Friday when I discovered another use. Remington is no side snuggler, he is a total in your face snuggler. I managed to push him down to my neck so I could breathe, and realized he would make an excellent scarf. This also leads me to believe that he would be useful in keeping winter hands warm. Additionally, his fluffy hair makes him an excellent candidate for being used to dust the house.

Monday, November 19, 2007

No Denying It

Yipes! Sorry for not posting in almost a week! How inconsiderate of me.

I am now 18 weeks pregnant, which is two weeks away from being halfway through. Honestly, time has seemed to slow down considerably. Nothing is happening! Its the same everyday! I feel like I've been pregnant for a very long time, which is pretty unfortunate for me because I still have a long way to go.

However, the belly is growing. I know no one believes me. I know it doesn't seem like my belly is big, but to me it really is. I look kind of ridiculous, like an overgrown child. My skinny arms and legs stick out from my strangely round Buddha belly. And it really is like a Buddha belly, people rub it all the time. Possibly in hopes of good luck? At least strangers aren't doing it yet.

Yesterday when I was at work one of the preschool girls walked up to me and said "You look like you're having a baby!" She didn't know I am pregnant, so it was funny. Kids can get away with lots of things that would get most adults in trouble.

Further evidence that the belly continues to expand, I had some painful ligament stretching going on the last few days. The ligaments that hold up my uterus went into revolt as they were forced to hold up a bell pepper sized person. It was very painful and I whined alot. Apparently my ligaments respond to stress in the same way the rest of me does: Like a big fat baby who is spoiled rotten and will probably start to cry soon.

It's almost Thanksgiving! In honor of the holiday I plan on eating until it becomes embarassing for everyone around me.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Learning my Lesson

I found out on Sunday evening that on Monday I was scheduled to work on the boys wing. I thought I had made it clear that I do not (DO NOT!) work well with teenage boys. Or really, I don't work well boys who are older than 9 or younger than 23. There is something about the teenage boy aura that sets me off and turns me into a bumbling mean person and I do not like to be a bumbling mean person.

Currently at the shelter we have several boys who are in my age range of dislike and I was not looking forward to the shift. But not wanting to whine and be annoying to the supervisor I said nothing and went to work with a lump of hard hard coal in my chest and a premonition of disaster. I was sure that they were going to be rude and disrespectful, that they would not listen to a word I had to say, that they would call me names behind my back, that they would think I was stupid, that they would kick me and then I would cry. I just knew that I would get frustrated and say something I didn't mean and that I would leave feeling a weird mixture of regret and boiling bubbling anger.

I was envisioning rude little monkeys who would further encourage me in my dislike of teenage boys. And maybe they would even throw poop.

I did get little monkeys. I did get frustrated. I did cry. No one threw poop.

Somewhere in the 8 hours I spent with them those monkeys found a hole in wall I so carefully crafted around my heart. This job requires a certain level of detachment, in order to preserve sanity. I can't get too attached to any of the kids, I can't become too involved in their lives. I have to be ok with them leaving and never saying goodbye. I have to be ok with them getting angry with me and saying hurtful things and not apolgizing. I have to be ok with having lasagna thrown on me for no good reason.

In the year and a half I have worked at the shelter I have gotten very good at detaching. But last night, as I said, the monkey boys found a hole in my heartwall, and without me even noticing, they completely destroyed my wall and I was left vulnerable. My naked heart was theirs for the taking, I had no way to defend myself. I wasn't ready for them.

When I drove home I couldn't stop thinking about those monkeys. By the time I pulled into the driveway I was crying. They got my heart, they tore it into shreds and put it back in my body. Now I'm left with a wounded heart and I remember why I put that wall there in the first place. Because I love those kids so much and I can't do anything about it and if I don't protect myself the love I have for them will eat me alive. I'm scared to go back next week.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Back to Your Regularly Scheduled Drivel

Our poor baby has simply not gotten enough airtime. By that I mean I have not gotten a chance to yap about being pregnant in like...forever.

I finally buckled and subscribed to babycenter's mailing list. Every week they email me a newsletter reminding me that I'm pregnant. As if I could forget that there is a whole other person taking up residence in my belly and making it hard for me to fully empty my bladder. Last week babycenter informed me that the baby was the size of an avocado. I can generally gauge the size of an avocado because I love avocados and have eaten my fair share. Then this week they informed me that the baby is the size of a turnip.

I'm confused. Aren't turnips small? As in smaller than an avocado? As in, my baby is shrinking? Perhaps I have only been exposed to avocados that have been genetically enhanced to the point that they are mutant sized. Or perhaps I am getting a turnip confused with a radish. (As a sidenote, I misspelled radish in the 8th grade spelling bee. I have never been the same.) So, to clear any confusion as to what size my baby is, here are some visual aids.
This is an avocado:
This is a radish:
This is a turnip:

I still think an avocado is bigger than a turnip. I've had several people ask me why people always compare the size of babies to food. I think it's because pregnant ladies are defined by food. First its "Oh my goodness get anything that resembles food or eating away from me. The only thing I could possibly put near my mouth is a pickle." Then later, "Oooo, cookies. Oooo, roast beef sandwiches. Ooooo, macaroni and cheese. Oooo, coco krispies. Give me one of everything in the grocery store." Pregnant women are constantly thinking about food.

My belly is noticeably growing. I was trying to put my socks on the other day and found it more difficult than it used to be. I leaned back on the bed, stuck my leg straight out then bent it slightly at the knee. Then I stretched my arm out as far as possible and managed to catch my sock around my big toe. I stretched just a little farther and finally got my sock on, but it took some effort, and a generous helping of grunting and huffing. When I said to Rusty "Hmm, it was hard putting my sock on." He said "Well you certainly were dramatic about it" and walked to the bathroom. He didn't even offer to help me put on my other one. My next sock was much easier to put on as Rusty wasn't in the room anymore and I didn't have anyone to be dramatic for.

But seriously, my belly is growing. I'm looking more like I'm pregnant and less like I'm severely bloated.

We heard the baby's heartbeat last week. The doctor was having a hard time finding it at first, all we could hear was the whooshing of fluids and my heartbeat. He caught it for a second, then lost it. Eventually he found it again and we got to listen for several seconds. It probably would have been easier if I had been able to stop laughing. I couldn't help it! The baby kicked the microphone thing and it made me laugh. In my mind it was a kick of prenatal attitude. Also, we might possibly have discovered the most perfect and amazing and splendidly wonderful name ever known to man.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

I can't help myself

I'm apologizing in advance, for posting this, but could I not?
Only Marko could get away with something like this.
I'll regret this later, I'm sure.

The Irony, It Burns!

I didn't post yesterday because I didn't have any time to. So I shall wrap up today, and then move onto something other than the convention. And I will certainly never bring up cheerleading again...haha! I do appreciate everyone's thoughts and input though. So, thank you inputters.

On Sunday night, Rusty went to find seats for us and I went to the bathroom because I go to the bathroom every twelve minutes. When I came back he said "You are not going to believe what's in your chair". I knew that Greg Stier was speaking that night so I assumed something about D2S was there, but what I found was amazing. A flyer for the Jesus cups. I laughed and started to read it and in my hurry misread what the flyer was really for. I thought it was marketing for the cups, with a note on the bottom that read "Bulk Pricing Available" which I thought was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen. Bulk orders of Jesus cups!?! The lunacy. I looked at what else was in my chair and realized I was holding a book called "Venti Jesus Please". Apparently the flyer was for the book, not for the cup.

So I was wrong (again) about the cups. They are marketing for the book, Venti Jesus Please. I realize that since I made such a big stinking deal about this, that now I have to read the book and understand it before I continue making a big stinking deal. I'll get back to you when I read it.

I pretty overloaded by Sunday night but honestly I found alot of what Greg Stier had to say was great. Granted, he yelled alot and even when I am in the best of moods I don't like it when people yell at me. I understand that that's just another way of communicating, and honestly its just something I have to deal with so I tried not to get too bent out of shape. I also think if I ever met Greg Stier on the street he would scare the crap out of me. I'm easily intimidated. But overall, his message was wonderful, that we often forget the centrality of the cross in our lives. In forgetting this, we forget to tell others about it, and forget to teach our students how to articulate their faith.

I'm honestly, very very tired of thinking and talking about the convention, so I am going to leave you with a few choice quotes from the weekend.

"I am an armpit hair in the body of Christ" -Duffy Robins
"Facial hair is in. We have no choice. We can't shave" -Tony Jones on his new beard
"Can you imagine Paul's application for seminary?" -Tony Campolo

Sunday, November 4, 2007

NYWC Day 3

I was called out twice today on my thoughts about the cheerleaders. First by Chap Clark's comment that systematic change does not put people down, and second by a fellow blogger asking me what I would do with the cheerleaders. I assume she meant in a youth group setting. They are both right in calling me out because it doesn't appear that I have a very Christ-like attitude about the cheerleaders. I guess I didn't really present myself very well on that one.

I don't think there is anything wrong with the girls doing the cheerleading, or the parents who allow their girls to cheerlead. I think the glorification of sexually provactive dancing is wrong. I think it is wrong for girls to grow up thinking that their worth is found in their looks, how much make-up they wear, how seductively they move, how much they weigh. I think it is wrong to reduce beautiful young girls to eye candy. I don't think this is a problem with parenting. This is a problem with sin, as overplayed as that sentence may be. I still don't want my hypothetical daughter to be a cheerleader.

I do think that the Church (and parents are included in this) has dropped the ball on honoring purity and teaching children how to remain pure.

So what would I do with the cheerleaders? Love them. As for the Jesus cups, I still don't love them.

Now today we attended the General Session and listened to Ralph Winter talk about becoming better story tellers. I think this is fantastic, for God's story, our story, has got to be the most amazing story ever written. And I think Ralph is right, we have got to embrace our job as tellers of the story. Zach Hunter, the 15 yr old author, talked for a moment too. He was asked what his generation needs from their youth pastors. It took me about an hour or so to process what he said, but it is profound. He said, Give us God, believe in me, and don't make service the next gimmick. Obviously, I am paraphrasing, but that's the crux of it.

Ironically, the Skit Guys came out right after Zach Hunter. It is ironic because literally right after a kid that could very well be in any number of youth ministries begged youth pastors to give him God, we fall back into entertaining once again. The Skit Guys were funny, I just hope the pastors in the audience didn't miss that irony.

I believe young people are aching for God. I believe they are searching for an authentic and dirty and messy faith. I believe they are thirsting for Living Water. And I believe kids are smart enough to know when they are being fed a watery Gospel. I think maybe we waste so much time learning how to effectively plan, how to dynamically preach, how deliver amazing light shows, how to play the most incredible games that we completely miss that our kids are begging us to give them God. This breaks my heart. And yes, I am being critical, I am deconstructing, but that's ok.

I would make a terrible youth pastor. I really would. I have little patience for the "entertaining them into Heaven" schemes. I don't like to play games. I hate the common practices of "outreach". I certainly don't have enough of a heart for evangelism. I suppose this is why I work at a children's shelter and not in a congregation.

Now onto what I have liked.
I loved the community of sharing a meal with our friends last night.
I loved Chap Clark's seminar on Deep Justice, and his statement: Service is an event. Justice is a lifestyle. Oh if we could teach that to our children. If we could learn that ourselves.
I being able to share this with my husband.
I love that God uses us, even when our efforts are crass and crude, even when we are arrogant.
And, I love that even though I may be critical and cranky about things, I know and others know, that we are all in the same boat. We are all here under the precious grace of God who loves his children.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

NYWC Day 2-OR-You might want to get comfortable for this one

There is a line at Startbucks that is going to take at least three days to get through. I bet those people are contemplating setting up tents and sleeping there if that's what they have to do to get their freaking coffee. Now, I may drink dirt cleverly disguised as coffee, but I will not wait in line for three days for stale, over-processed beans farmed and harvested by children in Chile. No I will not.

I must start with the cheerleaders. Apparently the scheduling people here in St Louis thought it would be funny to host the YWC on the same weekend as the child and pre-teen cheerleading contest. Everywhere we looked today there were hoards of scantily clad, heavily made-up girls. After walking into a flock in the bathroom, I made a decision. There, on the toilet, I decided that our daughter will not be a cheerleader. There are plenty of other, more acceptable and honoring forms of dance that I am all for. But as for the booty-shaking, short-skirted, flat chest shimmying eye candy business? No way. Luckily Rusty had the same thought so we're all good.

And for those thinking it, no, I did not cleverly disclose the sex of our child. I was speaking of hypothetical daughters. This baby's sex will not be known until sometime in April.

I went to a sex talk, but I don't want to talk about that. I also sat through a long talk about resting in God or something. We left early to eat lunch, and dang if that was not an awesome lunch. I ate four and a half pickles.

After the lunchtime pickles, we went to Tony Campolo's discussion of what youth ministers can learn from sociologists. People, we sat so close to him that Tony Campolo was literally spitting on us. It was awesome.

Tony talked about alot. He had some great things to say, but I can't and don't want to share everything because again, that would take longer than the line at Starbucks. Tony talked about the role of ritual in our lives. He stated that rituals have four functions. They create social solidarity, emphasize commitment, educate, and create emotional well-being.

I learned the same thing in my family science class last semester. Children need routine, they need rituals. Children need to know stability, that even if their entire life blew up in one day, they could come home and something would still remain. Some constant. I believe this is a large part of why foster children have so many issues that are exclusive to them, because they are bounced around from place to place with no stability or rituals. While I find the idea of this incredibly beautiful, I also find it very scary. It is beautiful for me to imagine teaching our child to trust, to imagine daily rituals of songs, stories, patterns, habits. But when I think about myself, I know I struggle with consistency. I know I work better under routine, but I lack the self-control to establish routine. In my laziness I may be able to fumble around and survive, but my life is no longer just about me and how well I survive. I am faced with the reality that I will be part of an intimate team responsible for another life. And a very vulnerable life at that.

The list of people that I want to hug now includes: Tony Jones, Tony Campolo, Donald Miller, Shane Claiborne, and Robbie Castleman.

Now here's the best part. Rusty and I ventured into the Exhibition Hall, or, the Hall of Junk, because Rusty was looking for the IVP table. I didn't look around too much because I trying really hard not to make eye contact. If you make eye contact, people start talking to you and trying to get to you realize that your life in incomplete without their particular product. So there I am, darting my eyes around, trying to be invisible, when something catches my attention.

Disposable coffee cups that say "Venti Jesus Please". Above them is a sign that tells people to take some free coffee for later. Next to the sign is a box of instant coffee packets.

I was pretty confused about the Jesus coffee. I thought at first that maybe you wree supposed to take the cup and the instant coffee and give it to someone out on the street. Then they would be warmed, not only by the coffee, but by the love of Christ, so eloquently proclaimed on the side of the cup. After all, it was Dare to Share that had the cups.
After discussing it with Rusty, I realized that I was wrong. You weren't supposed to hand your coffee out to other people. No no, you are supposed to take the coffee and drink it yourself. You are not supposed to buy your coffee at the week long line in Starbucks like all the other godless heathens. Rather, you should drink your coffee from the truth and life filled cup bearing the name of Jesus. Undoubtedly, some godless heathen would see you and your cup and a conversation would ensue. Something like this.
"Excuse me. I just couldn't help but notice your cup. It doesn't have the green Starbucks woman. Instead it has this 'Venti Jesus Please' that looks strangely like the Starbucks logo. What is this all about?"
"Well friend, I am glad you asked. You see, I believe in Jesus, and He saved me from a life of sin and eternal hellfire. And I just happen to have this Gospel pamphlet in my pocket that explains how all this happens in 4 short laws, 3 sharp cartoons, and a special prayer of Salvation. Why don't we sit here and read through it together?"
Soon after, the godless heathen would pray that prayer and you would get another notch on your bedpost in heaven. And all that, from a disposable coffee cup.

I wonder how much money was spent on those disposable coffee cups.

Friday, November 2, 2007

NYWC Day 1

After wandering around for a while looking for a wireless connection, I finally found it. Actually, everywhere that I wandered had a wireless connection, but I am stupid and did not realize that I have to flip a switch on Rusty's computer to access wireless. Whatever. Newfangled technology. His computer also has a fingerprint scanner. I find that very James Bond of him.

I am skipping late night session to blog. I hope you all appreciate this as I am skipping an opportunity to listen to and possibly hug Tony Jones. The Man (yes, The Man) is quite brilliant and his children are beautiful. And now I want to hug him, as I want to hug most people that I find brilliant. More on Tony in a moment.

First of all, this guy:
I believe he may be the most stylish bag piper I have ever seen.

Second of all:

I totally was close enough to see David Crowder's sweat droplets. And while he did not eat my poptarts, I could have very well been close enough to him to lick his toes had I wanted to.

There is a part of me that absolutely loves concerts, the loudness, the vibrations, the crazy people running into one another and pregnant ladies standing near them. I can only imagine what all that racket sounds like to an unborn baby.

Then we listened to Duffy Robbins, and while I liked him, and what he had to say, and while I took notes on what he had to say, nothing shattered the earth so I will leave that at that.

Onto the good stuff. The Man. Tony Jones, who we will refer to from now on as just plain Tony. I had big expectations going into Tony's session on Theoloigical Tools. I had expectations of being confused, possibly offended, maybe even angry at him. I also expected at least one person to yell at him and walk out the door. There is quite alot of hype around the guy, and some find him and the whole Emergent Movement to be very scary. Or so I've heard. Surprisingly, I was not all that confused, nor was I offended or angry. And as far as I know, no one yelled and walked out. I was kind of disappointed, as I like those little dramatic hissy fits people sometimes throw.

Now, I am not going to share everything that Tony talked about, or everything that I thought in a full 90 minutes because that could take a week to hash out. If you'd like I'll photocopy and send you my notes. But there is one thing, one earth shattering thing that I simply must write about. I cannot go to sleep until I write about it and I am very tired, so here I go.

Tony talked about the idea that our behavior betrays our theology. Essentially, every decision we make, from how we drive to where we attend worship services, to how we parent our children, all of those decisions are theological decisions. I find that beautiful.

Our every action speaks about what we believe about God.

Tony also brought up the idea that theology is a quest for beauty. That's my paraphrase, he was much more articulate, but that's what I got. He presented "The Lily Axiom" that states, "Good theology begets beautiful Christianity. Bad theology begets ugly Christianity." I do believe my heart caught in my throat as I thought about this, for if it is true, if we are searching for beauty and if our actions betray our theology, then we should be living lives that seek to find, create, cultivate, and adore beauty. And of course, what could be more beautiful than our Father?

Oh, there was so, so much more. I have so much running through my head. I can't even begin to get it all out just yet. I'll post more tomorrow. But just so you know, if Rusty or I happen to run into Tony, we are stealing him to discuss parenting over coffee and pastries. You'd better believe it Tony!

You are not going to believe this

We're here! At the convention! In St Louis! Yahoo!
I was planning on making up a story about how David Crowder ate my poptarts, but my brain is too tired to think up any lies. Especially creative and long-winded ones. Oh well, maybe I'll make up a story tomorrow.
As for right now all I will say is, I have not seen this much Jesus junk in one place in a long time. It's quite incredible really. We have wi-fi so I'll likely post more later.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

There is Dirt in Your Coffee Filter

I woke up before the sun today.

You might be thinking to yourself "Oh, Sadie must be one of those early riser types" or perhaps "Sadie must be getting into the practice of early rising for when she has a wee baby in her home". If you are thinking either of these things you are wrong. I am not an early riser type. In fact, I rarely wake up before 8 even though I usually go to bed around 10. And I am most certainly not getting in the practice of rising early for when I have a wee baby in my home. No, I am currently stocking up on precious sleep before said wee baby comes and wrecks havoc on my well-being.

I stumbled dangerously around the house at 6:50 this morning because I had to register for Spring classes. There is nothing I loathe more than registration. Except for maybe not getting enough sleep. For some reason registration begins at the unholy hour of 7am at JBU. And if you don't get up and register at precisely 7am you are doomed to not getting the right classes and having to spend yet another semester offering your soul to John Brown (Lord rest his soul).

So I stumbled dangerously to the computer, after wandering around for a minute looking for Rusty. I logged on and was greeted with the information that no, I could not register for classes because it was an invalid time to register. It was only 6:58 so I was not too worried. 2 minutes later, however, when I still was not allowed to register I began to worry. I tried logging on a few more times and when 7:10 rolled around I was in a full blown panic, frantically refreshing the page, sending emails to the registrar's office, and fighting the coming humiliation of still trying to graduate college 12 years after I began.

I began cleaning out my inbox, to keep myself from running all the way to JBU and pounding on their windows, begging to be allowed to register. It was there that I found an email from the registrar. It was opened, so presumably I read it at some point. I re-read it and discovered that registration did not start at 7am. It started at 7:30am.

Five minutes later (after sending another email to the registrar letting them know I had figured everything out) I began to add classes. I was met with three prerequisite errors, which I found to be terribly mean and inconvenient. At this point my chest started to tighten and I began to wonder why John Brown hated me. I have held some negative opinions of his school at times but I was willing to revoke all bad attitudes and rude comments if he would JUST LET ME ADD PHILOSOPHY OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH!

Eventually, I got into all my stupid classes and sent a very nice email to the very nice people in the registrar's office thanking them for their hard work and nice smiling faces and pretty hair and lovely smelling perfume.

Currently I am watching VH1 and drinking instant de-caf coffee, though I am pretty sure it was dirt I stirred into my cup and not coffee. At what point does the need for coffee reach a point where you are pretty sure you are drinking filtered dirt and you don't care? Because clearly I have passed that point.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007


In Spiritual Formation today my professor began class by toasting us with his Diet Pepsi. This ended with him discussing an old beer commercial that showed several men drinking around a campfire in some kind of picturesque setting. The tagline mentioned something like "It doesn't get any better than this." As we were in Spiritual Formation, and as I attend a Christian university that does not allow people, even people over 21 to partake in alcoholic beverages, there was a certain tension in the room regarding the topic.

Anyway, as he discussed the commercial and mentioned the tagline, we began to talk about the fact that for non-believers, drinking beer around a campfire in a beautiful forest really is as good as it gets. This got me to thinking.

I think there tends to be an attitude of pity surrounding the depiction of friends getting together and enjoying a beer. I think sometimes Christians see this as sad because it is considered a primitive, or sensual pleasure that most Christians are too holy to enjoy. Last week I saw an announcement in the bathroom that gave all sorts of reasons not to drink alcohol. At the very bottom of the announcement was the statement, "Avoid places where drinking is the focus. Christ honored relationships above all." As if there is no relational aspect to drinking? As if relationships cannot be honored when there is alcohol involved.

I wonder, would a commercial that depicted a group of women sitting in a cafe enjoying a latte and idle chatter bring the same sense of pity?

I Can Already See the Carnage

I am skipping chapel to write this. Shhh don't tell JBU.

This weekend we are going to St Louis to the National Youth Worker's Convention. I am terribly excited about this as I am looking at is as a mini-vacation right in the middle of school. For some reason I have always wanted to go to St Louis and now I get to. Oh, and also it is free.

Did you hear what I just said? Free. Yes, free. Since this is a work thing for Rusty, the church is paying for us to go, which is a good thing because otherwise we would have to walk to St Louis, eat grass and shredded tires on the way, and sneak in a window to actually attend the convention. It finally happened, I ate through Rusty's entire paycheck. (Ok maybe I am exaggerating slightly. Just a little.)

I was not excited about last year's convention namely because I didn't get to go. In fact, it was a pretty horrific weekend for me. Please refer to the spiders.

I am considering blogging from the convention, assuming we have internet access. If not, I'll take extensive notes and blog when we get home. I'm shaking in my boots a little about it though. Normally I write about things like cat wars, being pregnant, and smart tips for gardening (like wearing gloves). Occasionally I'll write about God, and dabble very shallowly in theology. Ok maybe I don't dabble in theology, maybe I just write about my opinion of Christians.

If I was to blog from the convention I would be blogging about Tony Jones, Tony Campolo, and Marko. Not to mention lots of other people that I have never heard of, but who are undoubtedly much smarter than me. It would be like Matt blogging about the complexities of maternity clothes.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Piping Hot from the Oven

This is my new blog. (Just so you know, we are still working on building the blog, so please bear with me.) I wrote for a long time over at xanga, but after alot of thinking and stalling, decided it was time to move out of xanga and into the larger world. I don't know why this blog is larger than xanga but it is. Or will be. Or something.

There was considerable angst in choosing blogger. I believe I got frustrated enough to leave Rusty doing blog research while I took a nap. I tend to do that alot.

There was also considerable angst in choosing a blog name. For a while I was planning on using sperkins, which is very amusing to say out loud. Try it. Go on, just say "sperkins."

We chose sadiemama because I am pregnant* and Rusty likes to call me bigmama. When other women hear him call me that, they look at me with a mixture of pity and shock as if to say "Did you hear what he just called you?! BIGMAMA!" I don't mind when Rusty calls me bigmama. Honestly. I think it's funny. However, I didn't really want to be known in the great internet as "bigmama." Thus, the creation of sadiemama.

Now that I have sufficiently bored everyone, I think I'm done. If you are interested in reading other, less boring posts, please click on The Blogs of Old link.

*The title of this particular post has nothing to do with me being pregnant, having a bun in the oven, or anything like that. It refers to this blog being fresh, hot, and tasty. Much like a dinner roll. On that note, it's time for lunch.