“I’m free of sin and all I get is this baby?”

Okay, so I know that this is not what Mary said when she found out she was pregnant with Jesus. That would be completely too modern – perhaps it went more like this: “God, you hath created me as Thy vessel for Thy child but perhaps you might have chosen a less litigious blessing?”

All right, maybe not. But can you really imagine her saying this: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word,” (Luke 1: 38, New American Bible)? I mean, an angel (AN ANGEL!!!) had just appeared to her and, I do not know about back then, but angels are pretty scarce around these parts. Not to mention, she had never had sex with anyone (I am guessing, since she states this [Lk 1:34], that she understands the basic biology behind baby-making). Let me tell you, if someone, let alone an angel, had come up to me and said “Oh yeah, by the way, you are going to have a baby even though you are still a virgin… And it is going to be the child of God, some dude you have always heard about but never seen,” (kind of like Charlie in Charlie’s Angels), I would have flipped him the bird and checked myself into the local psychiatric hospital. That kind of thing just does not happen everyday.

And then, matters get worse. Say I can get past the whole baby thing, or at least come to accept that something is happening because I am getting fat and having some extremely odd cravings, then it is a census year and I have to travel 70 miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem on a donkey (A FREAKIN’ DONKEY!!) going about 15 miles per day (a donkey can walk up to 25 kilometers per day according to http://www.naturalhoof.co.nz/); this means the trip would last about 5 days. Add to this trial a very bumpy terrain and crazy pregnancy hormones… I would have killed Joseph long before I got to Bethlehem.

Of course, when we arrive in Bethlehem, Joseph has forgotten that Bethlehem during a census year is like Green Bay when the Packers play at Lambeau Field: absolutely swarmed. Every room is booked and I have to sleep in a barn. Then I go into labor and Joseph has to attend me – we all know he has no idea what he is doing (that is what midwives are for). The animals stink, the hay is cold, and I just want my mom.

Then this tiny squalling thing emerges and, really, would not God’s son be a little quieter? I cannot sleep. People keep talking about a bright star but all I notice is that when Jesus is actually sleeping, it is too bright outside for me to do the same. Some shepherds come and all I can think about is all the horrible creepy-crawly things those sheep must have in their fur. Then these kings come to visit from who knows where and bring me the most unusable gifts – can I just get some diapers and a few burp cloths, please? I am on my last robe and I think Jesus spit up in my hair the last time I burped him. And, by the way, why am I still in a barn? JOSEPH!!

But Mary, oh Mary, thank goodness she was not me or this world would be doomed. Even knowing things would be difficult (how do you even explain this to people?), she shouts to whoever will listen: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my savior. For he has looked upon his handmaid’s lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed” (Lk 1:46-48).

Can you imagine? So many times at Christmas we focus on fighting those holiday crowds at the mall and forget that at this same time so many hundreds of years ago, a terribly young woman was terrified and alone and pregnant with the baby that would save the world. The next time I complain about how much money Christmas costs or how I hate driving to Chicago in the winter, I am going to think about Mary: the Mary who had so little money and yet thanked God to be blessed with His child, the Mary who rode on a donkey when she was in her third trimester. The next time I complain about Christmas, I am going to remember that without Mary’s perseverance and trust in God, I would have nothing to complain about.

THE sheet packet.

To the left: Me and my beautiful mommy!

I am no longer a college freshman. In fact, it has been three very long years since I have been a college freshman. I am used to living in a dorm (now a house), I am used to living away from my family (now further than ever before), and I am used to eating college food (this has significantly improved since I have gained a kitchen). However, there is one thing about college living that I am not used to: my lack of sheet packets.

Let me explain the sheet packet to you. The sheet packet is this miraculous concoction my mother creates on laundry days. She folds the flat sheet first: in half vertically, in half vertically again, in half horizontally, in vertically again, then folded in thirds. Next, the fitted sheet: fold all four fitted corners to one corner, and then fold vertically, horizontally, then horizontally again to fit into an open third of the flat sheet. Finally, the pillow cases: folded in half vertically, then horizontally, then horizontally again – place on top of fitted sheet inside of flat sheet. And there you have it… a sheet packet. Everything you need for making a bed in one neat little folded rectangle that fits perfectly into those great plastic zipper bags the sheets first came in that sheets folded any other way would never fit into.

But, here is my problem. I cannot make a sheet packet. My directions get confused and my sheet packet ends up looking like… gasp… something I would find in my boyfriend’s laundry basket after letting him fold the clothes.

I believe all children have certain things about home life they particularly miss when away at college (or into real life, even). For some, it is not having mom’s secret stash of sweets hidden (or so she thinks but, in reality, everyone knows exactly where the stash is). For others, it is not having the “dish fairy” around to wash, dry, and put away the dishes. And still others miss the lovely camaraderie of “You’re two minutes past curfew!” “I am not, your clock is fast” “Don’t you sass me, young lady!” Okay, so maybe not that one so much. But for me, it will always be the sheet packets.

Even now, with a washer and dryer of my own that I can use whenever I please (and not have to worry about someone throwing my dry clothes on the ground if I am in the laundry room two minutes past when the clothes were finished drying), I sometimes take my sheets to Mom’s house, conveniently forget them in the dryer, and enter the laundry room to find a glorious sheet packet placed neatly on the top of my laundry basket: my very own 100% cotton folded work of art.

THE mom spit napkin.

Wanted: One Mom Spit Napkin
Last seen: Wiping dried carrots off the baby’s face.
General appearance: Gross.
Reward: Me not throwing up all over your nice white Keds.

“I think I just threw up a little in my mouth…” This movie quote perfectly coincides with my feelings after watching what I believe is one of the most revolting “Mom” mannerisms known to man: the Mom Spit Napkin wipe. Here’s how the scene plays out:

Baby eating some awful colored pureed mash (whoever created colored baby food obviously has never had a baby before in their lives…). Mom out at the mall without her never-ending supply of baby washcloths. Mom looks into bag to find the travel diaper wipe container she never leaves home without having. Mom finds that Dad did not refill the travel diaper wipe container when he used the last of the wipes yesterday. Mom looks around surreptitiously to make sure no one is watching before doing the unthinkable deed: she grabs a napkin from the table, draws all of her saliva to the front of her mouth and then… oh heaven help us… she spits it into the napkin and wipes the dried on mash from the baby’s face.

We have all seen it and, some of us have even (PLEASE FORGET I EVER SAID THIS AS SOON AS YOU READ IT)… gulp… done the deed. The Mom Spit Napkin is notorious across the world in those dreaded situations where a wipey cannot be found. And, though I find the action utterly disgusting, I do understand the necessity of such when in dire need. There is one time, however, when I draw the line: the Mom Spit Napkin on persons older than six years.

You see, at six years old, most children (minus the few unlucky kids in the genetic pool) are tall enough to see in a mirror. They can see that something foreign is sticking to their faces. Not only that, but they wipe their own faces (please disregard the stains on sleeves as evidence that articles of wiping are not always the napkins we clean freaks would hope for in these children). And, while the Mom Spit Napkin to the dried spinach stain on the baby’s top lip is barely tolerable, the Mom Spit Napkin to the dried Oreo crumbs on the cheek of the 18-year old is nauseatingly wrong.

And so, if you see a random “Have You Seen This Napkin?” poster hanging around your local dives, please forgive me the tackiness. I am only begging mothers everywhere to spare the population the revolting scene described above. Please join me in my campaign.

THE autumn reeses (you know, the ones with the fall colored wrappers).

My lack of writing over the past few months tells you one thing – I am no longer a college freshman. In fact, I am a senior this year, a nursing major with way too much to do and way too little time to do it in. I am sure this sounds familiar to many of you. However, in spite of the craziness of my life, I always try to keep noticing those little things around me that make me smile. Today’s blog is about one of those.

I am not a chocolate person. Weird, huh? Truthfully, I would much rather eat a piece of fruit than a bag of M&Ms. Still, one chocolatey delight never fails to win my favor – the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. I can’t get enough of them. There are times when I’ll buy the bag of miniature peanut butter cups just so that I can fake myself into thinking I’m eating less of them than I really am.

Now, to travel off topic a bit (although it will tie together in the end), my sisters and I have a theory about water. There are those who will say that all water tastes the same and we disagree. Water has very distinct flavors depending on where it is. Our favorite is what we like to call “sand water.” With an earthy-mineral taste, this water is like a favorite food you cannot get enough of. You have to have it: like licking damp pavement (a story for another time and something I probably should not be admitting over the worldwide web)

Other things in life are like this theory of water to me. There are many different types of the same thing but some definitely stand out as better than others. For some reason, the Reeses Peanut Butter Cups with the fall colored wrappers are an example. Sure, the peanut butter and chocolate goodness inside the wrapper is made with the same ingredients as the peanut butter and chocolate inside the spring colored wrappers. But, something about the brown, red, gold, and orange shiny foil makes the Autumn Reeses superior.

Just looking at a bag of these miniature yummies, I get chills down my spine. I know that as soon as the bag opens, I will not be able to resist the temptation of these precious jewels in front of me. I will unwrap the foil, smooth out the wrinkles and, lo and behold, there will be my true heart’s desire.

And so, each fall, I stock up on these beloved treats because, somehow, the reds and greens of the holiday season and the pastels of spring are just not the same. And so, each fall, I become absorbed in an inanimate object, the fall-colored indulgence of my dreams. And so, each fall, I inevitably gain five pounds from my “stock up” of the fall Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, of which I ate all three bags in a week… a worthy sacrifice.

THE new man in my life.

Now – nobody freak out – my boyfriend and I are still together (you were worried, weren’t you?). No, this new man is not the romantic type boy; he is not even a crush. This man cannot even get dressed on his own… sad, huh?

This man is… drumroll please… my new nephew.

With dark eyes and a set of pathetic wrinkles on his tiny forehead, my new nephew steals the show and my heart along with it. From spitting up milk on my older sister to peeing all over my brother-in-law and the cat, he is basically my hero. I mean, seriously, it takes me weeks to accomplish the chaos that he can instigate in a mere couple of hours. And the stink that little boy can make? It would make a skunk proud.

My nephew is the perfect man. He cuddles like an angel (with only a few minor touchy, feel-me-up moments when he is hungry, which is more than I can say for other people… hint, hint), he eats and sleeps when I tell him it is okay, and, best of all, he listens to everything I have to say without ever offering a word of advice that I really do not want to hear. How many times have I just wanted to rant when some guy (no specifics because all guys in my life seem to do this) comes along and either plays devil’s advocate or offers advice? Not that I do not appreciate the gesture, but please… a girl needs to get in her ranting quota for the week.

Though my nephew seems to have some oddities, such as nodding off when I am talking to him sometimes (I am deciding to take that as my voice is soothing because the alternative boring factor is too much for me to bear), he is overall utterly charming and any woman’s dreamboat. I mean, what woman could refuse a man who drools over her (or was that on her)?

Update since this blog was first started: My nephew is now a charming 10-month old genius whose first word was “kitty” and who most recently learned to say “Sissy” (what my sisters call me). I am still completely infatuated.

Update before new posts...

Hello to all! (all being my sisters and father, as they are the only people who ever read my blog)

Just a forewarning, I will be posting several outdated posts that I began over a year ago and never found a way to finish. Lucky for you, I decided to procrastinate homework on my Friday night and am finishing and posting them now.

Enjoy!

A more up-to-date post will follow soon.

One More for the “Akees-Man”

I once wrote a story about losing a sister: the pain, sadness, and torment eaking slowly onto the pages of the paper. With this story, I swore never again to allow myself to become as deeply involved with something as uncertain as love. As I wrote about my littlest sister, I also wrote about healing: healing through learning to give up my conviction not to love. I wrote about a little boy named Matthew: an angel of a brother who taught me to surrender completely to my heart and who continues to show me miracles every day. But, before Matthew, there was Alex, an often overlooked chapter in the story of my life.

I was angry with Alex before I even met him. Not only was he the re-introduction to the life I wanted so much to forget, but he came home on a night that was supposed to be all about me. That night was the night that I was to introduce my first boyfriend to my parents. And, selfish as it may seem, I felt as if Alex ruined my night: Papa John’s instead of pot roast, freezer desserts instead of homemade pie, divided attention instead of complete focus on me. To top the night off, Alex was not even that cute. Eczema covering his cheeks, dirt brown eyes too big for his face, bald as can be, Alex could be considered downright homely.

When Mattie came along, Alex was overshadowed by Matt’s tiny helpless body and complex needs. However, over the course of the next year with Matt in the hospital and Mom and Dad along with him, Alex and I were forced together. We fought it to be sure, him never sleeping when he was supposed to and me having little patience for any shenanigans he tried to pull. I can not say exactly when it happened, me falling for Alex, but it inevitably did. From that time on, I was his “Sissy” and he was my “Akees-man”. I was his hero and to me, he could do no wrong. And, though denial is a powerful force I use often, I knew all along the day would come when another hero would take my place.

This hero was someone I could never be for Alex, something he needed that I could not provide: a big brother. The day I met Alex’s soon-to-be big brother, I knew I could never compete. A scrawny eight-year old kid with endless energy and innocent boundless love, he and Alex were the perfect fit. Even at two and a half years old, Alex knew he and this new older brother were meant to be and soon every conversation was filled with talk of him. “Sissy” was quickly fading into the background.

Before I knew it, two and a half years were gone and I was saying goodbye again. Hefting my jammie-clad “Akees-man” onto my hip, tears welled in my eyes with the full understanding of what was coming. We sat upstairs in his bedroom, the same bedroom I have written about many times before, the bedroom of infinite memories. The playful bears and rabbits on the wall border seemed to mock me in my agony of another farewell. And I sobbed… and Alex rolled a toy car up and down my arms.

These last minutes with Alex are the epitome of the part he played in my life. He first came and made me angry, taking away energy I might have used mourning. Then my complete frustration with him as we fought the love growing between us distracted me from the piece of my heart that was missing. Finally, he made me laugh, forgetting that I was supposed to be not loving him. Though for some time now and in the future, I will laugh with tears of loss, I know that the laughter will be the lasting emotion. Laughter of memories of an “Akees-man” learning to make noises with his mouth, swimming in the pool for the first time, eating watermelon bare naked, and even peeing on me when I got him out of the bathtub… twice. And, while Mattie will always be the reason I still love today, Alex, his smile with puffed out cheeks and his chocolate chip eyes, will always be the reason I laugh.