Unexpectedly Expecting

Today will be a good day

I truly meant to post yesterday, but I never had the chance. I went to my friend's funeral and that really consumed the entire day. Funeral, cemetery, luncheon, bar with friends. It was sad, but not as sad as Tuesday night, when friends of Erin's spoke at her visitation. I cried through the entire thing, as her best friends and brother and boyfriend and cousins and colleagues told stories and expressed their sadness. The room was packed, maybe 150 people; Erin touched so many lives. And she did so in the best way -- by being genuine, selfless, happy, fun, welcoming, and warm. I left the visitation Tuesday and was driving to a restaurant, where a large group of her friends were gathering afterward, when I got pulled over. My crime was not updating my license plate on my birthday -- last JULY. I guess I was kind of asking for it, huh? I have been pulled over before; I know the drill. I have never cried. But with all the sadness from Erin's visitation still brewing around in my heart and head, I just started weeping as I handed the cop my insurance. The I-can't-breathe-or-speak-or-think-or-control-anything weeping. I explained what I was coming from, and he left me alone for about seven or eight minutes, and I really let it all out. Just bawled. He came back and gave me my fine, and I shoved it in my purse, never really looking at him. Who cares about some fine? I'll take care of it. Erin is still dead.

Yesterday, strangely enough, was less brutal. I enjoyed so much being with friends all day. We talked about Erin constantly; stories about her, remembering things she said or did or liked. Talked about starting a memorial ski trip. Drank beer (or in my case, an entire pitcher of water) in one of her favorite bars, giving cheers to her every so often). I have a feeling that every time I see those friends, a similar moment will occur, and I'm glad. I don't think any one of us will ever forget her.

And so I didn't get home until nearly 11, when I showered and went to bed, falling asleep with the lights on and my towel still wrapped around me. I had not one ounce of energy left. Spent. No time for blogging about baby's sex.

But throughout the day, I thought on and off about today, about the news we're going to receive. People kept asking me, 'What do you think it is?' I really don't know. Does anyone? I mean, you get a 50-50 chance of being right. But I don't even have a hunch. I know this might sound awful and uncaring, but I just haven't thought much about the baby, about what it will be like or who it will be. It feels a little senseless to me to try and predict and build expectations or hopes. What's the point? What happens when it comes out totally different? If anything with this pregnancy, I am downright determined not to make too many assumptions about who my child will be. I want to get to know him or her without any agenda, without tying any personality traits on before I know they're really there. I want the baby to feel free to be who he or she is without any preconceived notions from Mom and Dad. And I want to realize that this is a person who will constantly be changing. Who she is at 6 months or six years is not exactly who she will be at 16. Perhaps I feel so strongly about that because sometimes I think my parents never allowed for me to change or grow. In their perceptions of my, I sometimes still feel like who I was at 14. I'm not that girl anymore. And I don't want to make the same mistake.

So. I don't know who this little person is. I'm excited to find out one tiny, itty-bitty piece of the puzzle today.

Saturday blues

I feel really sad today. A girl I know died yesterday.

She was young, I believe 29. She died in her sleep and as far as I know, no one yet knows why.

It's shocking. Unbelievable. So sad.

She wasn't a great friend, not someone I talked with often. She was part of a large group of people I hung out with when I went out or to a party. She was so laidback and nice, nice to everyone. Everyone loved her. She had the prettiest blue eyes. It's just so hard to imagine she's gone. And while it's sad to me, there are so many people I know who are hurting so much worse. She best friends, her family. I think about their collective sadness, and it's hard to understand why this would be a part of His will. Why?

I know we're not supposed to understand everything, that we're supposed to just accept the bad things that happen and know that His will is behind it, even if we can't understand it. But it's really hard on a day like today.

Things I will miss while zipping about the country for 10 days

The end of fall in Michigan. Maybe. I hope not, but I'm expecting most of the leaves will be gone by the time I get back.

Knowing I am being carefully watched as I shower by a little kitty who wants to make sure the evil water doesn't hurt me.

Sitting and reading in my big brown chair.

Even better, sitting there with a little kitty who wants to make sure none of the evil leaves outside dare to come near our house.

And last, the pitifully cute sounds my boy makes when I sabotage the last few moments of his sleep with the clickity-click of my camera. Actually, I miss him already.

Road warrior, once again

Time to hit the road. About 24 hours from now, my peaceful time away from Metro ends. Waa, waa, waa.

I have so enjoyed sleeping in my bed every night. I have so enjoyed seeing my husband and kitty every day. I have loved having complete control over my food options. I have loved sitting in my big brown chair by the window in my office, and I've loved running down the leaf-strewn streets here in suburbia, and I've loved having social possibilities with friends and family nearby, and I've loved knowing exactly what time zone I'm in, and I've loved not having to wait in a single line for anything. I've loved not having to take my shoes off in public places and I've loved not hearing a monotone voice say, "Detroit Michigan is in the Eastern Time Zone. Please check a clock or a flight monitor for the current local time." over and over.

I have not missed moving walkways or thin blue flight blankets or the constant worry of delays or traffic jams or wondering whether this time, please, can I just get a first-class upgrade? Please? I have not missed trying desperately to sleep against a cold window on a 6 a.m. flight nor trying not to fume when the person behind me has trouble controlling the VOLUME OF THEIR VOICE. I have not missed 4 a.m. wake-up calls, nor the odd rattling heat vents that can't be controlled and keep me up all night long. I have not missed the disorientating disappointment of being somewhere interesting yet having no time to engage those interests. Even more, I have not missed the cities that inspired no interest at all.

I have not missed Egg McMuffins or too strong Starbucks coffee in the morning. I have not missed runny hotel eggs or the assorted breakfast pastries. I have not missed rental car counters, nor the occasional shuttle ride needed to get to them. I have certainly not missed airport workers, who so often seem tired and mean.

is there anything I do look forward to?

Seeing my Grandma.

Finding time to sit by a pool in the sun.

Wandering the streets of Seattle.

Feeling the pulse of Portland.

Ditto New York.

Visiting friends in Chicago.

Seeing the ocean in L.A.

Seeing the mountains in Utah.

Seeing my brother in Denver.

Also, the unexpectedly engaging conversations with people from all different places and ways of life, the occasional discovery of delicious local lunch spots, the original coffee houses wandered upon, the feeling of anticipation when I'm about to open a door to a new hotel room knowing there could be a chocolate on my pillow. Late night beers and venting sessions in the hotel lobby with colleagues.

And most of all, I do look forward to this: the little moments of peace and calm that sporadically appear, when I'm whizzing through a city in the back of a cab and a feeling of awe and gratitude hits me and I think, "How did this become my life? How did I get here? Who am I to get to experience all of this?"

Beginning again

So today I "go back to work."

How do I feel about that?

Somewhat relieved... I was getting kind of bored with all this unending free time. Really. It will be good to be a purposeful member of society again. To not end up watching a marathon of America's Next Top Model simply because I have nothing else to eat up my time and I'm low on willpower.

Somewhat sad... all that free time was nevertheless much appreciated and much needed. I read a lot. I had time for that silly triathlon. I've had time to start my next silly athletic venture, the half-marathon on Oct. 21. I had oodles of time to spend with Jimmy. I had time to make a Pineapple Upside Down cake. I had time to peace out to Hawaii for a week, time to go Up North to a music festival, time to have an old friend over for the weekend, time to go to another friend's Whiffle Ball tournament, time to go to small group nearly every week, time to simply be still. I am not very good at being still.

But overall, I feel simply refreshed and ready. The last two months, I found the time to really sink back into myself. I feel like a computer that has been cleaned of all viruses. I'm in my default mode now. I know what I feel like without any stress or worry, without anything hanging over my head. My memory is wiped free and clear and ready to be used up once again. OK, enough with the computer metaphor; you get the picture. The point is, the last few months have taught me who I am when times are slow, when my life is free of most troubles. It will be helpful to remember that in February when I'm boarding yet another plane, tired from months and months of late night and bad food and poor sleep and early wake-up calls. When I'm at my wits end and feeling terrible, I can know that I truly am not a crappy, unhappy person, I can realize that it is all a matter of circumstance. It might sound silly, but sometimes it's so hard to figure out in the thick of things if you are reacting a certain way because that is who you are or because of something else. The last two months gave me proof that given the right amounts of free time and good sleep and quality time with people I care about, I really am not a cranky person. Good to know.

So I'm ready. I have a new outlook on things. I spent some time in those free months pondering career changes. Nothing came of it. I prayed a lot for God to help me figure things out. Two things happened that only made me sure that this truly is where I am supposed to be now. And so I'm going into the new year with more enthusiasm and positive thought that in the past. I want to throw everything I have into this for once. I want to give it everything I have. I have things in mind -- a list of goals -- that is more disciplined and ambitious than similar lists from my past. I want to make this work.

It's fall now, and the leaves are just beginning to change.. The winds is dipping into cooler temperatures. Outside my window, the sounds of kids playing echo from the middle school fields all morning. Wearing a sweater doesn't sound so bad.

It's October. And I'm cool with that.

One last note before sun, sand and surf

Just over a year ago, Jimmy and I dragged ourselves out of bed at 8 a.m., put on our best casual-but-not-too-casual, business-friendly-but-not-too-serious clothes and drove to an office building on Woodward Ave. There, we filed into a conference room, made painful conversation with two real estate agents and then promptly signed about 800 pages legally binding us to a quaint little bungalow built in 1951. After three years of living in an apartment -- an apartment that became more and more cramped, an apartment that hosted a nice-sized ant population, an apartment with plain white walls and uninspiring beige carpets, an apartment plopped near an intersection of urban sprawl -- we finally had a place to call home.

It's not that we didn't have good times in the apartment. It was our first place together. It was where we first learned how to live together, where we honed our domestic squabbling over chores and other house-keeping variables. It was Robert's first home, the place where she learned to straighten out a wobbly slow stalk and how to climb a screen and how to make her owners fall completely in love with her by making adorable squeaky noises. I liked to sit on our balcony -- even if it overlooked a parking lot and the apartment complex next door -- and watch the sun set. I appreciated having a landlord to call when things went wrong. I liked how the kitchen opened up into the family room, so you could cook but still be a part of conversations. My love of cooking bloomed in that kitchen, too. I threw my first little dinner party in that dining room, underneath a retro 1970s disco-ball style light fixture.

But after three years, I wanted desperately to be out of there. I needed it, physically. I could literally feel a pull somewhere deep inside that was directing me to get the hell out of there. We'd accumulated too much stuff, especially since our wedding. We wanted room to entertain. I wanted my own office, not corner in a spare bedroom/storage room. Perhaps it's the innate desire in some women to nest, to make a home once you've found a mate. I'd believe it, because that desire ached in me so badly I could hardly think of anything else. So last summer, I threw myself into finding a home. I have a pretty obsessive personality, and once I put my mind to something, I will fore-go things like showering, exercising and socializing if it means I will get one step closer to my goal. And so I began the process of clicking all over the Internet, looking at homes for sale, reading the real estate section, hiring an agent, collecting advice and touring homes.

Most of the homes we walked through were nice. Okay. They had good points. They were options. Of course, we looked at some real duds -- a house wallpapered from floor to ceiling in every room with flowery prints, a house with yellow ceilings that stunk of cigarette smoke, and a few that were so dirty that it was impossible to imagine them any other way. But for the first few weeks of our search, I felt only confused. There were so many houses that seemed like fine possibilities, but nothing that screamed out at me, buy me, buy me, buy me.

One Sunday morning, I scoured the open house ads in the paper. I circled eight or nine that were in our price range and in our target neighborhood. I set out, telling Jimmy that as soon as he got himself together (he's a late sleeper) he should call me and met up. He sleepily agreed. And so out I went. The first two or three homes were nice. Really nice. I mean, sure, one had a kitchen I'd want to paint, and one was a little out of our price range, but I was feeling optimistic. I went on to the next house, calling Jimmy on the way to tell him to hurry up and met me because I wanted him to see those homes. I gave him the address of the next house on my list and told him to meet me there.

And so I walked in, said hello to the bored agent and poked around. I did my usual blow through in five minutes noting what I liked and didn't like. My mind was stuck on the previous homes, and I glanced at the clock to see how much longer I had to wait until Jimmy arrived. I realized it was probably 15 minutes, at least. And so I did another circle through the house. A slower circle. I realized I loved the kitchen, with it's funky brick and stone back-splash and the window over the sink -- I have always wanted a window over my sink -- and the lovely stone tile floor. I went back upstairs and realized that for a bungalow the closets were huge and the upstairs felt roomy, not cramped. I noticed the paint schemes -- a lovely yellow back bedroom, a minty-green office, a soft-lilac in the upstairs, a comforting taupe in the hallways and a daring blue in the dining room. I noted the curved doorways and the lovely original wood floors and the funky light fixtures. Then I checked my mental map and realized we could walk to downtown. It was probably about 10 minutes away.

By the time Jimmy arrived, I was sold. Hooked. I gleefully walked him through the house, pointing out all the features I loved. He tried to calm me down. We left town without looking at any of the other houses. I didn't care anymore. I'd found home.

After doing two more walk-throughs with our agent and Jimmy's parents, we made an offer. A few negotiations later, and we had our house. One year ago today, we moved it. And I adamantly believe we made the right decision. I love this house. I feel at peace here, like I can fully stretch out my legs and let myself relax. I love walking to the grocery store that's only five minutes away and carrying home fresh ingredients to make dinner. I love having a backyard and my own flowers. I love the wood floors and the bench on my porch. I love especially having an office, a place to sit and read and write and pray.

Sometimes I dream about changes I could make in my life, new career paths that would take me to places like Chicago or New York. But as much as those paths intrigue me, there's a big problem. This house. It's not just that the market here is terrible, that selling our house would means months of stress and possible financial losses. Those are real issues. But the real problem is that my heart is here, that I love this home, and that I don't want to leave, not anytime soon.

I know a house is just a possession. I know we won't be here forever. But for now, I'm so pleased to feel I have a place that really feels like it fits. A place called home.

Happy Anniversary, house!

Call me a sandbagger.

The entire week before the triathlon, I whimpered and moaned that I was unprepared, that I felt slow and tired, that I wasn’t ready, that I might not even finish. The night before, I was in such a state of woe that I whisked myself over to hang out with my friends Jen and Michelle. I needed cheering up, bad. They did a great job, too, taking my mind off of the race and helping me organize my little negative mind into making a list of what I needed.

Still, I tossed and turned all night. I honestly thought to myself, “Maybe I shouldn’t even go. It will be so embarrassing if I don’t finish.”

I’m really silly. I’ve been too hard on myself my entire life. You think at some point I’d learn to chill.

So, yeah. I finished. And better yet, I felt really good. Fast. Like I gave it everything I had. I really didn’t care where I placed at all. I left without waiting for the results and still felt pretty ecstatic because I knew I had as good a race as I could have.

Then Sunday, I got an extra boost of excitement -- the cherry on top -- when I saw that I I got second in my age group. And eighth among all women. .

I left the house about 5:45 a.m. after a shower and a Cliff bar and banana breakfast. On the way there, I listened to the mix of songs my small group made last winter, and maybe it was the lack of sleep or the heightened emotions of getting ready to race, but I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat as I sang along. I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. I just felt grateful to God in that moment.

So I got there really early. One of the first arrivals. I picked up my race packet, number and timing chip and headed to the transition area. I found my rack, which was in a great spot, and since I was so early, I got the best spot on it.

Then I walked over to the swim area to scoop it out. It was beautiful and calm in the early morning light.

You can see in the photo the 800 meter course marked with orange buoys. Look really far out. See them way out there? Scary, huh?

This sign had a nice little map if you can't make out the actual buoys in the water. I had so much time to kill before the race. Too much time. I really had nothing to do. I wandered around, peed three times, went to my car to do this and that, and watched the cars streaming in, looking for Jimmy. Finally he arrived, and he brought my wetsuit with him. I hadn't thought I'd get to wear it, but the lake temperature dropped after a raining Friday. When I heard the news, I knew I wanted it -- it meant I didn't have to wear my uncomfortable tri top. Under it I just wore a sports bra and my tri shorts, and then put on my Save the Planet T-shirt for the bike and run. That worked out perfectly.

Finally, time drew close to 8 a.m., the official start time. I put on the wet suit, stretched out and got ready.

We made our way over to Walled Lake, and I warmed up a little bit, swimming out to the white buoy and back. I'm the girl in the back in this pic.

Finally, after what felt like forever, we started. The 35-and-over ladies when first, and then five minutes (felt more like 10), the rest of the chicks. I started in the second row of swimmers, but that was a mistake. I immediately overtook the girls in front of me, but not until one of them kicked me first in the face, digging my goggles into my eye socket. Um...ow. It still hurts. But in any case, I found my rhythm quickly, and before I knew it, I was making the turn at the end of the first row of buoys. I couldn't believe how fast it felt like I swam there. I was already passing the women who started before us, and I kept passing them the entire way in.

My time ended up being 14:44, pretty close to my goal time, especially considering the slow start and plethora of traffic dodging I had to do. I was the fastest split in my age group and the third fastest overall woman out of 82. I beat the top three female finishers, too.

I felt great after the swim as I tore off my wetsuit. Jimmy was hilarious, running alongside the tunnel to the transition area, yelling that he was going to document my every step. He really was sweet, getting up so early to cheer me on. And his silly comments really kept me smiling.

One minute and 51 seconds later, I was off on my bike. Off onto my least favorite part of the race. Notice how my helmet is askew. I can never keep that thing on straight. But hey... still smiling.

If you remember, I only wanted to survive the bike. That's pretty much what I did. I really don't know what I'm doing with cycling. I never know which gear to use. Don't know if I should have the chain on the big circle or the medium one. Don't know how to tackle hills, and there were a lot of them on the three-loop, 15-mile course. A. Lot. I don't do much practice on hills, so I was demoralized when I saw the first one rising up before me. I thought, you have got to be kidding me. But after the first loop, things started to feel easier.

Jimmy was very funny the first time I passed him by. He didn't see me. So as I passed, I said, "Hey hon!" He was totally surprised. The people all around him laughed at him and told him, "Hey man, you're supposed to spot her!" The next time I passed him, he was on his game, though, yelling, "Come on, we're counting on you!" What a goof.

I finished the bike in 57:33, pretty much hitting my goal of 56 minutes. My average speed was only 15.6, but that's fine considering all the hills. Fifty-one seconds later, I headed for the trail run.

Trail runs are fun. Beautiful scenery. Lots of hopping around logs and twigs and hanging branches. Lots of curves and turns and hills. I felt so lost the entire time. But better than that, I felt fast. I pushed myself as hard as I ever have. Pretty soon, I'd found a mantra to repeat to keep my mind off my burning legs. Over and over I thought, "Lord, Lord give me strength." It worked. I kept going and going hard. No one passed me, and I caught up to maybe 10 women, most of them from the older division. The run was about 3.5 miles long, and I finished in 31:28.

I crossed the finish line hurting. Everything burned. I was spent, totally.

Spent, but happy. Final time 1:46:48. Missed winning my age group by a minute and 28 seconds.

Sometimes I really question why I do these things. I guess there are a few reasons. The biggest is simple because I can. Growing up a swimmer and adding in running as a pastime in college gave me the foundation to attempt the sport. And while I'm still not a great cyclist, it's still basically just riding a bike. Anyone can do it. So I do triathlons because I can, because I like to compete, I like to challenge myself and I like to feeling the glow of accomplishing my goals. There are many, many, many people out there who take the sport much more seriously than I, and that's fine. I'm just happy to once in a while be an athlete for a day, to feel the wonderfully painful ache of sore muscles and to know that I did something that is kind of amazing, even at such a short distance.

And I do it for another reason. I do it because I believe God gave me the ability, and by using those gifts, I'm glorifying him. I do it because when I'm speeding through a thicket of trees on a serene wooded trail, or when I'm pulsing through waves of murky lake water amid a gaggle of other goggled swimmers, or I'm huffing and puffing along on my bike, pushing the pedals like crazy, I feel closer to Him, to his creation, to the truth and beauty of it all. It makes me feel so grateful that I know Him. I feel in awe of everything He has given me, of everything He can do.

Sappy, but true.

Placing high in my age group is nice, but that connection to something bigger -- to someone bigger, to the biggest of them all -- is a wondrous feeling.

And now, for the good stuff

Well, since yesterday's post was all wah-wah-wah, oh-poor-me, complain-complain-complain, I thought some balance was in order.

Because honestly? I'm in a pretty good place right now.

It has dawned on me recently that this time in my life, the last four weeks or so, have been immensely needed. For the first time since I was 19, I have had very little to do. I've had what's amounted to a sabbatical. A giant break. And I think I really, really needed it.

The last time I had so much time to just think and read and write and be lazy and just BE was the summer after my sophomore year of college. I lived that summer in a giant house with 14 people on a shady street in East Lansing. I worked at the college newspaper, but in the summer, it came out only three times I week. I took a class that met once or twice a week. Other than that, as they'd say on Dazed and Confused, I was just L-I-V-I-N. I hung with friends. It was the first summer I really got into running. I allowed myself to be somewhat lazy. I dated a guy I didn't even really like, just for fun. I met new friends.

After that lazy summer, life took off at a galloping pace and didn't slow down until now, seven years later. That fall, I moved into a house with my best friends, and while it was so fun, it was also more intense and higher drama. I worked full-time. My classes demanded more of my attention. By winter, I'd developed a huge crush on a boy with dimples and green eyes and a hilarious dry wit, and that took up another big chunk of my mind. By the summer time, we were falling in love, and while that's wonderful, it's all-consuming. I also had my first internship at a newspaper some 60 miles away. I commuted.

Then came another fall, a step up in responsibility at the newspaper, Sept. 11, a decision to make a commitment with the boy, harder classes, a realization that college was almost over. In the spring, I moved out of that house and went to Colorado on another internship. I spent my only summer away from home, away from him. I came home to one final semester and lots of questions. What would happen after graduation? Would me and the boy stay together? Would we find jobs? Would we be forced to live thousands of miles apart? Would I find a job I really loved? There was a lot to worry about.

In the winter, I graduated, took my first real world job, then left for an internship I never dreamed I'd actually land. The boy and I moved in together when he got an internship nearby. We learned how to live with one another.

My internship was, to say the least, demanding. Demanding of my time, my talent and my will. I was asked to do anything and everything and was expected to do it all well. I was overwhelmed. Then, to my delight and horror, I was hired on full time. I immediately began worrying that I was in over my head. And the pace of work did not die down for the next two years, until I received a big and scary promotion, a promotion that came the same month I got engaged. I tried to plan the entire wedding in the next two months, a down time with work. I worried about the busy time that was about to hit. My stress level hit an all-time high. Then began the busy time of work, and the amount of responsibility only escalated until the spring, when we got married. As soon as the pace slowed back down in the summer, we threw all of our attention into finding a home. Then moving into that home. Then worrying about our finances. And then the busy work season began again.

Now, finally, everything in life is settled. I love my house. I love being married. I am more comfortable in my job. And I've had time to take it all in, to appreciate all of that. I've had time to read for the pleasure of reading. To train for a triathlon without having to stress about it. To walk to the grocery store, come home and make dinner. To spend more time with my husband acting like complete and utter goof balls. And to let my mind clear out. Which has led me to write again.

I'm so utterly thankful for it. I didn't even really sense how much I needed this breather. I feel more like myself than I have in years. I have had a chance to just be me, without any agenda. It's quite lovely.

This is a really long post. But I want to include this quote I found the other day. I reread an Chekhov story, "The Lady with the Toy Dog," and I appreciated it so much more than I did back in college, when I would have had to break through all those layers of stress and worry to get to a place where I could really dwell in the words. Now, I have that chance. So I don't know exactly why this seems related to me, but it does. There's a feeling about this quote that seems to perfectly sum up where I am right now. Here it is.

"So the sea roared when there was neither Yalta nor Oreanda, and so it roars and will roar, dully, indifferently when we shall be no more. And in this continual indifference to the life and death of each of us lives pent up the pledge of our eternal salvation, of the uninterrupted movement of life on earth and its unceasing perfection. Sitting side by side with a young woman, who in the dawn seemed so beautiful, Gomov, appeased and enchanted by the sight of the fairy scene, the sea, the mountains, the clouds, the wide sky, thought how at bottom, if it were thoroughly explored, everything on earth was beautiful, everything, except what we ourselves think and do when we forget the higher purposes of life and our own human dignity."