It’s been one year since my friend Megan committed suicide. What a strange and awful anniversary to have to recall mid-morning on a beautiful Saturday in July. But it was mid-morning on a Saturday—though last year it was a rainy one—when I got the text message telling me that she was gone.

“Gone” is quite the euphemism, isn’t it? Yes, she is “gone” from our sight and this world, but it is so much more than “gone.” She didn’t just “leave,” as if on permanent summer vacation, and she didn’t patiently wait out a lengthy illness, trusting in God’s timing.

I guess I am still angry.

I try not to be angry at her; you can’t blame someone for their mental illness any more than I would blame my mother for her multiple sclerosis. I do believe, however, that it is not only not wrong for me to feel frustrated, but that it is right for me to be frustrated that she chose to stop fighting what I believe is a spiritual battle. Depression itself can be hormonal, chemical, physical, situational, and spiritual. The decision to get help when you need it, I believe is a highly spiritual battle. A sufferer may not be able to simply “pray away the sadness,” but he or she can and must pray for the strength to get help, despite the desperation and darkness. In any given situation, “help” might consist of medication, counseling, being admitted to a hospital, or just being willing to admit to a friend that the day is dark and that help is needed. Why didn’t she call someone?

As I’ve said before, I am no stranger to death, depression, and suicide. One of my aunts once attempted suicide when I was a kid, and I’m fairly certain that someone else close to me nearly succeeded in an attempt just a few months ago. I understand from my own personal struggle that it is very difficult to be honest about depression, especially if you have been struggling for a long time. There is a large amount of guilt and shame for not being able to “fight it off.” You can go for weeks, months, or years without feeling the icy fingers of depression closing around your throat, and then suddenly—BAM—there it is again, creeping up like a cancer returning after a time of remission.

So, what is my point?

This is just a reminder to be proactive. Though it is certainly not your responsibility to keep your depressed friends and family members alive, pray for them always. Check in with them. Make sure that they know that you love them exactly as they are. Remind them that there are good days. And if you are the one struggling, remember that, even when your mind is telling you that no one will miss you or maybe even notice if you are gone, there is One who loves you and wants your life to be amazing. If for nothing else, stick around to see what He has in mind.

Megan, I’ll probably always be angry at you, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t proactive.

I made a joke a month or so ago that reading Facebook statuses makes me feel bipolar. Happy, sad, happy, sad… The thing is, it’s really not funny; it’s too true to be funny.

In my Facebook news feed, I watched a marriage between two confessed Christians fall apart in a gut-wrenching public display of hostility and spite. I also watched two friends falls in love and yesterday saw a video of them getting engaged. Through status updates, I have seen friends announce pregnancies and show off pictures of their healthy babies. I’ve seen friends struggle with infertility, deal with their child’s life-threatening heart condition, and face the unwelcome discovery that their baby isn’t going to survive beyond pregnancy. I’ve watched someone I love struggle with depression while others boast of their amazingly happy lives. I’ve seen line after line of birthday and anniversary congratulations, and I’ve watched a friend’s page fill with tearful goodbyes after her suicide. I’ve seen silly stories, political debates, gloves-off verbal fights, and jokes gone horribly wrong.

As much as I wish that Facebook was all lollipops and unicorns and rainbows, I know that life can be deeper and darker than that. I’m glad that my friends let me in on their thoughts and update me on their lives. That’s what I love about Facebook. But that doesn’t make me stop hating it for all the times I read horrifyingly mean-spirited things said about someone I care about. I know that I’ve been on both sides of that. I’ve said things I shouldn’t have said and have had things said about me that were so cutting that I still start sweating when I think about them.

I suppose I just wish that some days I could turn off the negative and just read the happy stuff.

It’s been 10 days since Evangeline was born, so it seems appropriate to get the story of her birthday typed up before it fades from my mind. Some of it already has, so Joel helps me to fill in the blanks. I’ll do my best to keep this from becoming NSFW, but if I do get to the graphic parts, I’ll warn you like this: **TMI ALERT**

When Joel and I went to bed on Wednesday, April 27, I turned to him and said, “I think we have about a week left until this thing happens.” He looked at me and said, “Yeah?” I nodded, very sure of myself, and said, “Yep.” Two hours later, I woke up having contractions.

To be honest, it didn’t cross my mind that what I was feeling were contractions. I just felt a little sick to my stomach, a little crampy. It wasn’t until around 3 am when I couldn’t fall back to sleep because it was beginning to hurt a bit that I considered that the pain was recurring at regular intervals. Thinking that I was probably just imagining things, I pulled up the contraction counter app on the iPad and started tracking. Within 10 minutes, I could see a pattern forming. The pain was recurring every 3 to 5 minutes and lasting about 30 seconds at a time. I remember thinking, This is so weird. I cannot believe this could be it.

I woke Joel up to let him know that I thought I was in labor at about 3:30. We chatted a bit about what it was feeling like and decided to call the hospital to speak to the midwife on call. After explaining what was happening, she agreed that it sounded like I was in labor, but, since the contractions were so short, she recommended that I keep tracking them, watch for my water breaking, and check back in after a few hours. I tried to go back to sleep, but every time I started to relax enough to fall asleep, another contraction rolled around and woke me back up. By 4 or so, I was awake for good.

To pass the time, I played games on the iPad while I sat on an exercise ball that we borrowed from Nicole & Jimmy. Birthing classes taught us that moving through the contractions helps the baby to move down into proper position, so I concentrated on the slow, deep breathing techniques and keeping my hips moving through each contraction. It wasn’t easy, but the pain wasn’t too bad yet. Looking back, it was really more like bad stomach ache… more uncomfortable and intense than “broke my leg” pain (Not that I know what that would feel like, I’ve never broken a bone).

By 7 am, labor was definitely picking up. Contractions were still short, only between 30 and 45 seconds each, but they were recurring every 2 and a half to 3 minutes apart. Every once in a while, I got a 4 or 5 minute break between, but they were mostly very regular. I was also pretty sure that my water had broken. No giant gushing like you see in movies… That doesn’t happen to most women. I called the hospital again to update the midwife on call about what was going on. She said that we should definitely come in by 11 am, but that we were welcome to come in any time between now and then. I wanted to wait as long as possible to go in because I didn’t want to sit in a tiny triage room for like 3 hours while waiting for labor to progress enough to get us into a more comfortable labor & delivery room. I also wanted to eat a good breakfast since I had no idea of when I would be allowed to eat again after I was admitted into the hospital. Once you are in, it’s ice chips and ginger ale only until after delivery.

I made myself a blueberry bagel and ate it between contractions. Joel seemed a bit antsy, so he packed up the car with our bags, washed some dishes, and picked up around the house. Contractions started getting a bit more intense for me, with the more painful ones being followed by hot flashes and nausea. Apparently, pregnancy and vomit go together very well. **Possible TMI ALERT** At least the barf tasted like my bagel, so it wasn’t that bad. I know, I am gross. But in the scope of what I was dealing with, you have to relish the small victories. And yes, I consider barf that doesn’t taste horrible to be a small victory. Deal with it.

After Joel picked me up off the bathroom floor, where I was lying in a puddle of sweat, I started feeling better. Contractions were just as intense, but the nausea didn’t come back. Joel got a few things together and headed to Murrysville to drop Roxy at Walker’s Pet Hotail, where she would remain for the duration of our hospital stay. He had a few other quick stops to make, and then returned home. I passed that time slowly, trying to distract myself from the contractions by watching the remake of The Karate Kid on Netflix. Don’t ask me why I picked The Karate Kid as my in-labor movie… It was there in the queue, and I clicked on it. After only 10 minutes or so, I could tell distraction wasn’t working, and the contractions were becoming so strong that I was having trouble keeping my breathing nice and slow. I was really glad when Joel got home, just because having someone else in the room was comforting. He sat next to me on the couch and encouraged me through each round, and reminded me to breath and relax. It’s amazing how having someone to say the obvious to you is so helpful. I threw up again. Awesome.

At 10, we decided it was time to head to Magee. I was having trouble making the decision, because I was really worried that I would get there and they would tell me that I was only like 3 cm dilated (the goal is 10 cm, for those of you who have no reason to know this kind of stuff). It seemed easier not to know how much further I had to go. The ride to the hospital seemed bumpier than usual, and I could tell that Joel was feeling the stress of everything. Contractions came really quickly during the car ride, probably because of the stress, and Joel started to get worried that we weren’t going to make it in time. Fortunately, he didn’t mention that little tidbit to me at the time.

When we got to the hospital, we debated on parking. Magee has valet service especially for times like this, but I was certain that I wasn’t as far along as Joel thought. I figured I was being a baby and that the contractions I was feeling were really not that bad. So, we parked the car in the garage, and we walked in. Registration at triage took only a few minutes, but I had to pause three times for contractions that I couldn’t talk through. Though it seems silly now, I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t just “grin and bear it” in front of the people in triage. We got all the paperwork done, and they got me into a tiny triage room. Once I got myself situated on the bed, the hot flashes and nausea returned. I had barely gotten myself into a hospital gown when I had to get myself to the attached bathroom to throw up again. Oye. It was getting exhausting to keep myself upright, but, Joel kept up his string of encouragements, and I was able to stick it out a bit longer.

After a while, one of the midwives arrived to do my first check. I was already 5 cm! That was a “holy crap” moment for me for a few reasons. First, 5 cm sounds like half-way to 10 cm, but it’s not. It’s actually more like two-thirds, average labor time wise. So, I was more than half way done with labor… Second, it meant that this was the real thing. No turning back… No “false labor” or confusion. This was IT. And third, I had made it this far without any medication. Sure, getting an epidural had crossed my mind a few times, but it hadn’t been so bad that I thought I needed the meds in order to handle it.

There wasn’t a labor & delivery room available for me since it was a very busy day, so the nurses and midwives arranged for me to use the hot tub room while we waited. The water was hotter than I expected, but it was a relief to be somewhere other than that awful triage room with the hard mattress. The contractions were very painful at this point… a mix of what seemed like the worst gas pain of my life and lower back cramping. It wasn’t what I expected labor to feel like. I had expected it to be must more physical, more athletic-feeling. Instead of muscles pain, it was much more mental… the biggest struggle was deciding that I could handle the next contraction, waiting it out, and then deciding again that I could handle the next one. Having Joel’s encouragement was a huge part of my ability to keep going.

The midwives stopped in every 15 minutes or so to check on Evie’s heart rate during contractions to make sure everything was still going smoothly and she wasn’t in distress. We stayed in the hot tub room for about 45 minutes, which started to get a bit long for me. I got a bit overheated with each contraction (fortunately without the nausea I’d had before), so Joel spent the majority of the time fanning me with a stack of papers or blowing cool air on my neck. As time passed, I started feeling what people call “the urge to push.” I wouldn’t necessarily use that phrase… It wasn’t so much of an “urge” like “oh I think I might push now” as much as an “urge” like “whether you like it or not, my body is pushing this kid out.” It was mentally and physically exhausting, to say the least, to keep myself from pushing. It was like everything in me was trying to make me doing something I wasn’t ready to do… After all, the midwives had told me not to push while I was in the hot tub. I started getting a little worried that I wasn’t going to be able to hold off. The midwives finally showed up again, and I tried to explain, during the 30 seconds or less between intense 90-second contractions, what I was feeling, but it seemed like they didn’t really believe me. Still, they got me out of the water, and we headed back to my triage room, much to my dismay, since there was still no l&d room available. They assured me I was “at the top of the list,” but, seriously, what does that mean to me at this point.

Back in triage, they checked me again, and I was fully dilated at 10 cm, which meant I was as ready to go as I had felt. Within a few minutes, we had a room in l&d, and I was in the much more comfortable bed. I, however, was not comfortable. Ha. Seriously. There is a reason they call it labor. This is where it gets awful and graphic, so I will spare you the NSFW details of pushing and delivery. 12 hours of labor and 30 minutes of pushing later, Evangeline Day was born at 3:24 pm.

7 pounds, 10 ounces
20 inches

The time immediately after delivery went in slow motion. The nurse placed her up on my chest, and I just stared at the back of this tiny head all fuzzy with unexpectedly dark hair. I remember thinking, “Holy crap. That’s her.” I looked up at Joel, and he looked at me. I think we were both thinking the same thing.

Holy. Crap.

The next stuff was a blur… like the slow motion stuff stopped and fast forward began. I barely remember anything from Thursday after getting transferred from l&d into our postpartum room. We don’t have family that lives close enough to get here the day of, so we were on our own for the rest of the day. There were a lot of blood pressure and temperature checks for both Evie and me, and a lot of texting and phone calls for Joel.

Friday was busier. We had visitors all throughout the day, plus a visit from the hospital-contracted photographer (Bella Baby), to keep us pretty busy. It was a bit overwhelming, but it was nice to be distracted from the absolute weirdness that is suddenly having a baby.

We had hoped to be discharged on Saturday by mid-morning, but at around 5 am, a doctor from the NICU came by to talk to us about Evie’s health. Her bilirubin level was higher than they like to see, which resulted in jaundice, and they were worried about it getting worse. They let us know that they wouldn’t be discharging her that day as planned. After a few hours of back and forth, they told us that they were still discharging me from the hospital, but that I could probably stay with Evie if they could get her into the NICU for treatment. I was hopeful, because the thought of going home and leaving her there was almost unbearable. I had pictured that moment of us leaving the hospital hundreds of times… I never pictured that we would leave the hospital without her.

Another hour or so passed, and we got the verdict. Evie was going to be treated in the nursery, and we couldn’t stay with her. I was really sad that we wouldn’t be able to stay; although, I was happy that she wasn’t serious enough to need the NICU. The plan to treat the jaundice was 24-36 hours of UV phototherapy, which required her to be placed in an incubator in the nursery. We weren’t permitted to sit with her in there, so we had to be content to watch her through the window in the hallway. We were also permitted to have her out of the incubator for 30 minutes every 3 hours to feed her, but we had to keep a portable “bili blanket” (a glowing plate that slips under her clothes on her back). One of the midwives was nice enough to take a camera into the nursery to snap a few photos of Evie in treatment for us.

We hung around in our room as long as possible, even though technically we had been discharged mid-morning. Having the room meant a quiet place to nurse as well as a “home base” for our parents and other family members who had made it in to see us. Still, by dinner time, we needed to vacate the room. Joel and I decided head back to our house to eat the dinner that my sister Kelley and Joel’s mom were preparing. We intended to get back to the hospital by 10 pm, which meant that Evie would only need one formula feeding. (Nothing against formula… I just wanted her to get as much breast milk as possible for all those delicious antibodies.) The plan was to get back for the 10 pm feeding and stick around for the next one at 1 am, then head back to the house for a few hours, and get back to Magee in time for the first daytime feeding at around 7 am.

Due to traffic in the tunnels, we missed the 10 pm feeding, which meant we missed our chance to spend time with her until 1 am. I was pretty sad about that, so I asked and got permission to have Evie out of the phototherapy incubator for 15 minutes. I was glad to get that time. It seems weird now, but I think because she’d never been away from me before, it felt weird not to have immediate access to her whenever I wanted. After the 1 am feeding, we headed home as planned, got a few hours of sleep, and made it back in time for breakfast. We got some good news, that her bilirubin levels had gone down a bit, and she would likely be discharged later in the day (Sunday). Since the tests came back with good results, she didn’t have to be under the UV lights anymore, which meant we got to have her with us in a patient lounge area all day. After lunch, our parents headed back east, and we packed up our daughter for her trip home.

And now you know the story! Don’t you feel so much better?

You know those boxes of mystery chocolates you can get at the grocery store—the ones that are “assorted” flavors? You bite into one, hoping for peanut butter or strawberry or chocolate truffle but instead get one that tastes like toothpaste? February is a bit like that for me. Only sometimes, it’s not toothpaste that surprises me when I bite in; sometimes it’s thick, black, toxic tar.

It wasn’t always this way. I can remember scores of February’s filled with snow forts, Valentine’s Day cards, and sparkly pink turtlenecks with hearts on them. But sometimes, life has other plans.

Every year, I can feel the middle of February creeping up on me. I know that Valentine’s Day is coming, and with the 14th of the month comes the 15th and 16th. These are the days that bother me. These have been the “chocolates filled with tar” days for the last seven years.

On Sunday, February 15, 2004, my college roommate Kada was in a car accident. The next morning, she died. I won’t go through the specifics of the horror of that 12 hour period (you can read this blog post for that), but suffice it to say that the happy-go-lucky little girl inside me died along with her. I’m not trying to be dark. I’m just telling it like it was and is.

I spent the next 10 months or more struggling with questions about the sovereignty of God, the goodness of God, the purposelessness of a life cut short at 20 years, and the grotesque irony of going to class every day when a single stop sign could mean the difference between a long, happy life and a cold, white coffin. My three-year relationship with a wonderful guy fell apart. I stopped taking communion and eventually stopped going to church altogether.

I can look back now and see, even without a degree in counseling or psychology, that I was suffering from some level of post-traumatic stress. Every time someone left to drive anywhere, I would start crying, terrified that they were going to get into a car accident and die. I can remember one time I was riding in the car with my family, when my dad almost missed his exit from the highway. He turned sharply, and the car skidded just a little. I completely freaked out, crying and screaming, heart pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it would burst through my skin. I can remember the look on my sister’s face; she thought I had gone completely crazy. I didn’t feel crazy; I thought I was going to die.

Tomorrow will mark the seventh year since Kada died. Last year, I made it all day without crying until I crawled into bed at night. Sometimes, I am not sure if I am crying for her or if I am crying for myself.

This is my February.

But, somehow, this year feels different. This year, I keep expecting to find the tar in my chocolate, and it’s not even toothpaste. Maybe tomorrow will be, but today it’s not so bad. On a day that reminds me so strongly of death and horror, I have a tiny little girl inside me that kicks and rolls around and elbows me with all her might. It’s the opposite of everything else—a strange and overwhelming reminder of the miracle and beauty of life.

Before we announced her name, someone once asked me if I was going to name my daughter after Kada, as a tribute. At the time, I wasn’t sure what to tell them about my reasoning; after all, it hadn’t seriously crossed my mind in years. I know now why that wouldn’t make sense for me or for her, as lovely a gesture as that would be. My little girl, my Evangeline, is a new life, a reminder to me that God loves me and has a purpose for everything. I don’t need a reminder for the rest of my life of the darkest hours, days, months, and years I’ve ever experienced. I have the month of February for that.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not “over” it. I don’t think I’ll ever be “over” it, any more than I will ever be “over” any of the other losses that I’ve experienced. Death is not something that was meant to happen to any of us; the tearing of spirit from body was not supposed to be part of the human experience. Despite that, I can now understand that death is something that we will experience regularly throughout our time here. I still fear loss. I worry all the time that God will take Joel from me. When the phone rings late at night or early in the morning, I panic for a moment that someone I love is dead. With every twinge of pain in my abdomen, I worry that Evie is in distress.

It’s a bit Gumpian to say it this way, but I do feel like life is like those mystery chocolates. You can avoid the whole box because some of them taste like they’re filled with toothpaste, or you can dig in, not knowing what you’re going to get, but ever hopeful for something good.

We had our second ultrasound this week (the first was a quick one at 9 weeks to confirm the heartbeat visually since the midwife couldn’t hear it on the Doppler). After 45 minutes of scanning, measuring, and checking over our little one’s whole body (everything looks normal, by the way), the tech asked us if we wanted to know our baby’s gender.

Umm, yes.

Drum roll, please… It’s a girl!

Since we already knew what our two name options were, it was really neat to be able to look back at the screen and immediately know our little girl.

Evangeline Day Kline

We chose Evangeline for many reasons, one of which is that it means “Messenger of Good News.” Another reason is the absolute cuteness of the nickname we’ll be using, “Evie” (rhymes with Chevy).

We chose Day as her middle name because it is my mom’s initials (I’m not posting my mom’s full maiden name for obvious security reasons). I’ll tell you in person if you are curious.

We’re at 19 weeks today, so next Sunday marks the half way point for the average 40-week pregnancy. It’s a bit intimidating but also really exciting when I realize that Evie will be here so soon. There’s a lot to be done to prepare for her arrival with the house, getting a new baby-safe vehicle, etc. plus preparing mentally, emotionally, and spiritually to be a mom. I would be overwhelmed if not for the great support I have from my friends, church, and family. You are all wonderful!

Cloth Diapers (Rumparooz) »

PASSWORD – “laurejoel”

Why Cloth Diapers?
In 1988, over 18 billion diapers were sold and consumed in the United States that year. An estimated 27.4 billion disposable diapers are consumed every year in the U.S. Over 92% of all single-use diapers end up in a landfill. No one knows how long it takes for a disposable diaper to decompose, but it is estimated to be about 250-500 years, long after our children, grandchildren and great, great, great grandchildren will be gone. The manufacture and use of disposable diapers amounts to 2.3 times more water wasted than cloth. Read more »

Remember, when you purchase one of these cloth diapers, you are giving us 50-200 uses, so it’s almost like buying a huge stack of disposables (only not as gross).

We’re also planning to use cloth wipes, but there’s no registry for the one’s we’re trying out first. So feel free to purchase a pack of these if you feel led. RagaBabe Organic Cotton Wipes »

Babies R Us »

You will have to search for our names using the “Find a Registry” tool on this page; there is no direct link.

Target »

You will have to search for our names using the “Find a Baby Registry” tool on this page; there is no direct link.

Amazon.com »

Our registry at Amazon.com includes items that are cheaper or are not available from our other registries, as well as a list of books that we would love to have.

We’ll be updating these registries as we get closer to the showers, so check back if there isn’t anything on the lists in your price range.

Gift cards would also be appreciated! Here are some ideas:
Home Improvement: Lowes/Home Depot
Food: Giant Eagle/McGinnis Sisters/Whole Foods/Trader Joe’s

**UPDATE**
We added a lot of items to the Babies R Us registry and added Target. Also added a link to the cloth wipes we’re trying first. (12/12/2010)

Added Kanga-Care registry password. (01/06/2011)

As 2010 comes to a close, I have been thinking about New Year’s resolutions, so I thought it might be a good time to check in with my progress on last year’s January musings…

1. Run a half marathon. CHECK. I ran the Garden Spot Village Half Marathon in April like I had wanted to and did pretty well. I ended up not running another one, but I did complete the 35-mile Bike:MS Cook Forest River Ride for the second year in a row… and this time I did it 8 weeks pregnant!

2. Eat more leafy green and less chocolatey brown. Eh… Not so much. But I’m still working. We did switch to organic and locally-grown foods as much as possible, but I still eat WAY too much of the fun stuff and not enough of the good stuff. This one might be a resolution for many years to come… Although, I’m hoping that it will make it easier to lose all the post-pregnancy weight next summer.

3. Teach Roxy to stop pooing in the house. CHECK! With a few exceptions because we were gone for 5+ hours, Roxy is completely house-trained. Yay!

4. Shut up. Umm. Not quite done with this one. Despite most of the year having been handled perfectly well with one hand firmly clapped over my mouth, a few moments lacking in patience and self-control in the past may have set me up for a lifetime of apologizing. It’s agonizing, horrifying, and humiliating, but I know that if I can keep working on it, there may be a day in the future that will allow me to relax a bit, confident that God has done His work in me. I’m eagerly awaiting that day.

5. Be a better saver. Woo! We did a great job with this… Larry Burkett would be so proud of us! Looks like we are going to be able to get the new vehicle that we’ve been saving up for with only a few months of payments afterward. But this one will be on my list for at least 10 more years, because this year I added a lot more debt to our load with grad school. But I’m confident that we can do it!

Speaking of goals… I was looking back on the goals I had for myself when I graduated from college back in 2005 and realized that I’ve accomplished just about all of them in 5 years.

1. Get a job. Check. June 2005
2. Move out of my parents’ house. Check. June 2005
3. Live by myself for at least 1 year. Check. April 2006 – June 2007
4. Get married. Check. June 22, 2007
5. Buy a house. Check. May 2007
6. Earn my Master’s degree. Check. April 2010
7. Be in charge of my own work. Check. April 2008
8. Go overseas. Check. December 2008 (India) & November 2009 (Haiti)
9. Get published. Still working on this one… Guess I need to get cracking!
10. Have a baby. To be checked off in spring 2011 (Lord willing)!

Seeing that list helps me to feel that I’ve accomplished something with my life in the last 5 years. I guess it’s time for a new list… Stay tuned!

Just realized we never posted this here! Silly us.

Call it what you will, but lately I’ve been feeling the crafting bug biting me. Instead of doing what I usually do (getting some grandiose idea, spending a ton of money, and then never finishing), I decided to pull out something from my old bag of tricks: crocheting.

Yeah, yeah. There’s a certain “old lady making an afghan” or “pregnant lady knitting booties” connotation to the whole yarn crowd, but I’m willing to accept any weird looks or incredulous comments for the sake of me not randomly going to the art store and spending $400 on Christmas decorations.

My mom has been steadily working on a Christmas stocking for my nephew Lincoln for a few months, which got me to thinking… Will I be able to find a stocking for our little one that will match the ones I got for Joel & I a few years ago? (Why do I care about matching stockings? Call it one of Laure’s little, annoying quirks.) So I hit up Target, and, sure enough, their color offerings are completely different than a few years ago.

Back to my mom crocheting a stocking to match the ones she made for my sisters and me when we were babies… and you see where I’m going with this, right, Sherlock?

I headed to Joann during a lunch break and picked up three skeins of yarn: white, dark green, and dark red. I know about 10 different crochet stitches, but they are all best used for things like scarves, hats, and blankets. For a stocking, you need something that is flat, strong, and not too stretchy… So I hopped over to Google and learned a new stitch. Some call it Tunisian Stockinette; others call it Tunisian Basic… and still others, like my mom, call it the Stocking Stitch. I’m going with Tunisian Stockinette because it sounds fanciest.

I started Joel’s stocking on Monday, and I’m almost done with the first half. Yes, I am a speedy crocheting master. It’s not perfect, but I’m pretty pleased with it anyway. I made up the pattern myself, so it’s a bit more boot-like than stocking-like… Also, it’s unusually long. But it’s a Laure Kline original, which makes it oh so valuable, of course. Truly, I think I am going to pull out the last 10 or 15 rows and redo it tomorrow. It’s not like I don’t have 30 hours of Les Mis to listen to on my iPod. I mean read. I’m reading Les Mis. Don’t tell my book club that I am a cheater.

Current stocking progress (5+ hours):

SIDE BAR: I’d make a snarky comment about the crappiness of cell phone cameras, but we live in an age of traveling the world via armchair in the sky and phones that have cameras in them… so it seems a little ridiculous to complain about something that didn’t exist 10 years ago.

Dear Baby–

I don’t know who you are yet, but that’s okay. I like you anyway. Despite the fact that your presence has made my pants stop fitting and has made leaning over the toilet a regular occurrence for 8 weeks, I think you are pretty cool. Just so you know how special you are already, I want you to know that if anyone else made me feel this way, I would not like them.

Even though I’m 28, almost a “real” grown-up, I don’t feel like I’m ready for you. Will I be a good mom? I am not always the most patient person. Sometimes I yell at the dog when she just wants some attention. I get annoyed when your dad conjugates his verbs improperly (For the record… go, going, went, have gone).

I pray for you every day, all day. That sounds silly, but it’s true. Every time I feel a cramp that tells me you are growing and stretching inside me, I pray for you. I worry about you. I guess this is what being a mom is all about… the worrying has already started, and it will continue as long as you are mine, which I hope will be a long time.

You are a blessing. No matter how long the Lord chooses to entrust you to me and your dad, we will do everything we can to love you and teach you to be the person that God has planned for you to be. Whether it is for only a few moments, 10 years, or 8 and a half decades, I will always do my best to show you love so that you can glimpse what He feels for you. As much as I already love you, He loves you infinitely more.

I will fail you. It’s inevitable. You will look back on some of the days of your life and see very clearly that I am a sinner, but I can promise you that He will never fail you. When I am gone, He will still be there. No matter who you are, He will love you. I pray with every breath that you will understand that and believe it much earlier than I did.

You will soon find out that your dad is amazing. He’s funny and smart and silly and creative and strong and loving and patient and so many other things. I know you will love him; I’m actually a little jealous sometimes, because I think you might love him more than you love me. It’s okay if you do; he’s pretty awesome. I can hardly wait to see you with him; the very thought makes me so happy that tears come to my eyes.

Like I said, I don’t know you yet, but that doesn’t matter. I love you already. I hope you get to read this someday when you are old enough not to think it’s creepy that I’m writing a letter to you when you’re the size of a lemon.

LOVE LOVE LOVE
*Mom