My husband and I were feeling pretty smug about pulling off the vacation surprise for our children. A few moments after the reveal and as we waited in line for the gates to open for Islands of Adventure, Chase commented, “I can’t believe that I didn’t catch on to what you and dad had planned. I mean, I understand Chandler and Mary Mac not understanding– ‘cause they’re younger and all – but I should have figured it out. Why didn’t I get it?”
I looked at his eleven year old face, so mature looking yet still so innocent, remembering the astonishment I felt when I first found out about him, the day that the pregnancy test stick positively defined the line of mommyhood as before and after. From that moment, nothing would ever be the same again, a welcome change in stage that would catapult John and I both blindly into parenthood.
The pure joy of discovering I was pregnant was hard to contain. I wanted to immediately phone my husband at work to share the long awaited news but knew that he deserved the same wonder of surprise I had just experienced.
So, as a plan began to form in my mind, I called a local restaurant, explained what I was considering and asked if they would participate in it’s implementation. More than happy to oblige, a time was set for the baby revelation, and the staff prepared for our arrival.
It wasn’t difficult to convince my husband to go out to dinner. At the time, my culinary skills were somewhat inadequate, often relying on the smoke alarm as a kitchen timer. Also, since we were childless, we had more time and economics than thriftiness and good sense.
Arriving at the restaurant, the hostess led us to our table with a smile and concealed wink. My heart beat nervously as I waited for the events to unfold, praying that the waiter would deliver his lines in a convincing manner that would lead the dad-to-be down the path to all things paternal. The waiter did not disappoint.
“Good evening. My name is Matt and I will be your server tonight. May I bring you something to drink?”
John and I placed our orders and then the waiter continued, “Would you like to hear about our specials?”
“We’d love to!” I agreed all too eagerly. It is was with good reason I chose to participate in high school athletics rather than the performing arts.
“Okay,” replied Matt, the well-rehearsed waiter, “The appetizer special tonight is BABY spinach baked with brie. Our salad of the night is BABY greens, tossed together with marinated BABY corn and BABY carrots. This comes with our house vinaigrette. And, finally, our offering for the main course is BABY back ribs served with a side of BABY potatoes.”
The waiter paused a bit as I grinned widely at John, about to jump out of my newly pregnant skin with the exciting news. The silence proved to be too much for my husband who awkwardly said, “Okay, thanks. Give us a few moments to look over the menu.”
Really?
Mouth slightly agape, the waiter glanced at me incredulously before walking towards the kitchen, images of a well-deserved Oscar exploding to pieces in his head.
John perused the menu, totally oblivious to the many baby references, a stomach that rumbled taking precedence over a head that comprehended. Luckily, plan B was fortuitously in place in the event neurons weren’t firing like they were supposed to.
A few moments later, Matt returned to the table with our drinks. He placed a red herring glass of wine in front me and placed a beer in front of John. The beer had been poured into a plastic baby bottle minus the screw-on nipple, the number of ounces displayed clearly on the side, with the foam of the beverage topping out at eight.
Again, the waiter paused a bit.
Nothing.
Reluctantly, the waiter walked away with slumped shoulders, sadly believing that his performance had been subpar. Once out of earshot, my husband whispered to me, “I’m surprised that a restaurant as nice as this would serve beer in plastic rather than glass. They really need to reconsider this.”
All I could do was stare at him in response.
The words baby spinach, baby greens, baby corn , and baby back ribs reverberated in my mind as I sat in silence. Sentences would not form.
“What’s wrong?” John asked, as I looked at him with eyes as glazed as the baby carrots.
He continued,” Do you think it’s okay to serve beer in plastic? Am I being unreasonable?”
“Look.....closer,” I finally managed in a voice that sounded distant and unfamiliar.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” John said as he held up the bottle in front of him.
And that’s when the fog cleared, the light bulb went off, and the events of the last fifteen minutes crashed down on my unsuspecting spouse in all understanding and awe and disbelief.
“ARE. YOU. SERIOUS. Are you serious?!!” he exclaimed, a smile spreading across the handsome face I loved so much. “I’m going to be a dad? I’m going to be a dad,” John acknowledged more firmly. And that’s when he promptly told me to hand over the glass of wine.
While not exactly the way I had planned, the moment of surprise could not have been more idyllic or complete, a perfect beginning to our next adventure.
The memories flooded over me as I looked at Chase as he waited for me to provide the answer of how so many clues could have been missed about our vacation, how he could have overlooked the obvious.
“Three letters for you,” I finally answered. “DNA.”
And we walked through the theme park gates together to begin our next adventure.
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2011
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Domestic Division
There are certain domestic responsibilities that I do not participate in for a number of distasteful reasons. Established in our first year of marriage, without prenuptial agreements or contract negotiations, the division of labor in our home happened naturally. For instance, anything to do with the disposal of trash to the outside holds little appeal for me so I pretend that it is not a skill I possess. Likewise, emptying the dishwasher is not an interest of pursuit for my husband, so he feigns lack of proficiency.
For me, yard work brings about allergies, sore muscles and unnecessary damage to nail cuticles. For him, putting clean clothes into drawers defies all logic when it is clear leaving them in the laundry basket provides better accessibility.
I don’t understand how the noise of the vacuum cleaner presents such a deterrent for my spouse when the volume of the leaf blower he uses at every opportunity can be heard in outer space. He doesn’t get how the toilet plunger can be considered so difficult to operate by yours truly when I can defrost meat in the microwave while cleaning out the refrigerator and simultaneously engage in a three-way conversation on the cell phone.
Our systematic approach to household chores may not make sense, but somehow, fifteen years later, it continues to joyfully work. He is Manager of the Maintenance Crew, of which I am the only reluctant member. I am Head of Housekeeping, in charge of just one, whose tendency is to hide from me when given the chance.
A few days ago, I bravely, and somewhat spontaneously, decided to cross the domestic lines that have divided us for so long. Recognizing that my husband, John, had experienced a difficult week at work, I decided to lessen his load by taking out the trash to the outside bins.
Those bins were full so I changed directions and headed towards the yard art that has been sitting on our front lawn for the past ten weeks.
Unbeknownst to me, trash bags weren't necessarily designed to drag across pavement, down steps and then across a path made of sharp pebbles.
Apparently, the folks at Hefty never considered the lengths a wife will go to all for the purpose of helping her hubby.
Certainly, no concessions made by the trashbag manufacturers for someone who stepped from behind her vacuum cleaner in order to attempt the seemingly impossible.
And damaged a nail cuticle in the process.
For me, yard work brings about allergies, sore muscles and unnecessary damage to nail cuticles. For him, putting clean clothes into drawers defies all logic when it is clear leaving them in the laundry basket provides better accessibility.
I don’t understand how the noise of the vacuum cleaner presents such a deterrent for my spouse when the volume of the leaf blower he uses at every opportunity can be heard in outer space. He doesn’t get how the toilet plunger can be considered so difficult to operate by yours truly when I can defrost meat in the microwave while cleaning out the refrigerator and simultaneously engage in a three-way conversation on the cell phone.
Our systematic approach to household chores may not make sense, but somehow, fifteen years later, it continues to joyfully work. He is Manager of the Maintenance Crew, of which I am the only reluctant member. I am Head of Housekeeping, in charge of just one, whose tendency is to hide from me when given the chance.
A few days ago, I bravely, and somewhat spontaneously, decided to cross the domestic lines that have divided us for so long. Recognizing that my husband, John, had experienced a difficult week at work, I decided to lessen his load by taking out the trash to the outside bins.
Those bins were full so I changed directions and headed towards the yard art that has been sitting on our front lawn for the past ten weeks.
Unbeknownst to me, trash bags weren't necessarily designed to drag across pavement, down steps and then across a path made of sharp pebbles.
Apparently, the folks at Hefty never considered the lengths a wife will go to all for the purpose of helping her hubby.
Certainly, no concessions made by the trashbag manufacturers for someone who stepped from behind her vacuum cleaner in order to attempt the seemingly impossible.
And damaged a nail cuticle in the process.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Some Things Are Worth Repeating
Some things are worth repeating. This is one of them.
I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never succumbed to the pressure. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still so grateful that you are allowed the moment.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.
Happy Father's Day,
Joni
I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never succumbed to the pressure. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still so grateful that you are allowed the moment.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.
Happy Father's Day,
Joni
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Donkeys and Amigos
By far, it was the laziest vacation ever taken. Our trip to the Sanctuary in Cap Cana, Dominican Republic, rendered me as peaceful as I have been since the disruption that occurred when learning the stork would not actually bring my first child eleven years ago.
We intentionally chose a resort with a laidback atmosphere and non-existent party scene. Disco queens in gold lame tube tops dancing around gold-chained fellows without rhythm did not seem relaxing to me. Funny and worthy of blog material, but not the tranquility I was seeking.
(Can you tell that yours truly is forty? Just so you know – I KILLED it playing bingo. I also came close to playing shuffleboard, but left my dark socks at home, making participation impossible. It was for the best, as the bursitis in my shoulder would have produced a sub-standard performance. )
During the five-night trip, my intentions were to rest, read and eat, all while laying in a lounge chair.
My husband’s objectives were a little different. For instance, he chose to exercise in the work out room every day, while I exercised my right to lay in a beach cabana.
He sought out fishing partners, hoping to catch an exotic fish passing by, while I sought out chair cushions, hoping to catch the eye of a waiter passing by.
He deliberated over Spanish phrases to use with the Non-English speaking staff, while I deliberated over the best horizontal position that would still allow me to eat.
(As a side note, my good intentioned husband accidentally called the man below a donkey. Because the Dominican Republic are a good people, and are very forgiving of the silly Americans, Raul ended up loving my husband despite language inadequacies.They are BAF - best amigos forever.)
Regardless of our different approaches, a good time was had by all. We arrived safely home to the family who brings us so much joy.
However, it has been difficult to embrace the upright position.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Medicine and Moonshine
Patients used to bring my husband pound cakes as tokens of appreciation. Lately, they have been bringing him moonshine.
There isn’t much that surprises my spouse when behind closed doors of the exam room. But, for the first time in his fifteen years of practice, the gift offering of illegal liquor stumped him for a few moments.
“I made it myself,” the proud patient joyfully explained as he handed over the homemade booze in canning jars decorated with dainty fruit. “Go on and taste it, Doc. You’ll love it.”
Not wanting to offend the well-meaning patient, but wanting to avoid ingesting possible impurities even more, my spouse slowly undid the top of the jar to take an appreciative whiff of the man’s bootlegging talents. John inhaled both jars, one labeled “P” for peach-flavored and the other “W” for white lightening.
And after the smell taste was finished, all of the hairs in my husband’s nose dropped to the ground.
John’s grandfather was a country doctor many years ago, during a time when freshly laid eggs could be exchanged for stitching a freshly cut lip. Canned preserves offered on many visits when Georgia peaches were more abundant than the state dollar. Patients never arrived empty-handed, whether it was produce or livestock, payment or gift, acts of goodwill and kindness that kept the small town Doc in business.
The ingenuity of the patient has not wavered, even some thirty years later, as testified by the distilled liquid given in the office. While a little unconventional – and a whole lot illegal - the thoughtful gesture behind the moonshine was appreciated just the same.
And the inside of my husband’s nose looks all the better for it.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sporks, Forceps and Shovels
He is exactly the personality type that one should want for a doctor. Deliberate and systematic by nature, it is John’s attention to detail that renders him a thorough and gifted diagnostician.
(I say this with complete bias and without a hint of objectivity.)
However, these very same traits, as demonstrated in various arenas outside of my husband's profession, bring me endless joy. Whether it is his concentrated efforts when cutting the grass, or engineer-like approach when building a tree house, the methodology used in all endeavors makes me chuckle in delight. While some (my husband) might say that these anal retentive quirks cause me to laugh AT him, there are others(me) that claim I am totally laughing WITH him.
I’m just waiting for his participation.
In preparation for an upcoming fishing trip, my husband carefully prepared a type written list of those items necessary for a weekend with a few of his buddies. On Friday morning, I watched as he packed those supplies as determined by the inventory created the previous night. Consulting his list with pencil behind ear, the backpack slowly reached its capacity as John checked off the items intended for his fly-fishing excursion.
What he didn’t intend, however, was for said list to find its way into my blogging hands. A rare misstep on the part of my husband, the piece of paper evidently dropped haphazardly to the floor upon his departure, only to be discovered by yours truly.
Let it be known that for a few quick seconds, I considered throwing the list into the trash can.
Until I noticed the check boxes.
And remembered how he ignored the snake that could possibly eat me alive in his absence.
I instantly felt justified.
Perusing my husband’s weekend list, it struck me how different we are from one another. For starters, the word “tent” at the top of the list had me at goodbye. I don’t enjoy setting up camp and sleeping in the outdoors. My idea of camping includes a lounge chair by the beach, camp songs sung by a Mariachi Band, followed by slumber on a pillow-topped bed. In my humble opinion, when one is “roughing it” they are referring to resting on sheets with a thread count of less than 400.
And then, there is the issue of the bathroom. Or lack thereof. Packing a shovel for toiletry needs is barely something I can even write about, much like expounding on the hair found on my upper lip by an esthetician with bionic-like eyesight is a subject still untouched. Certain things really are best left unmentioned.
There were also items on John’s list that proved we speak different languages.I haven't the foggiest notion of the meaning of "hydros" and the words "Tippett and leaders" could only be referencing characters from the Muppet Show. And who knew that "forceps" were necessary when fishing? I know he used them during medical residency, when delivering a few babies, but can't possibly think how they could be beneficial in the streams.
(Speaking of baby deliveries, and of streams, it is very important to wear booties over brand new shoes when in the vicinity of a woman in labor.I'm not saying that this happened to my husband, or that his shoes squeaked for days from all of the fluid. I'm merely offering it as a hypothetical warning.)
Clearly, all of John's planning and orderly packing resulted in a successful fishing trip.
Good times were had with his friends, Jon and Chas, as all worries and responsibilities were temporarily left behind.
But there was still this little matter to address when he arrived back home.
Surely, the forceps will be of help. If not, I hear the spork can be quite lethal.
(I say this with complete bias and without a hint of objectivity.)
However, these very same traits, as demonstrated in various arenas outside of my husband's profession, bring me endless joy. Whether it is his concentrated efforts when cutting the grass, or engineer-like approach when building a tree house, the methodology used in all endeavors makes me chuckle in delight. While some (my husband) might say that these anal retentive quirks cause me to laugh AT him, there are others(me) that claim I am totally laughing WITH him.
I’m just waiting for his participation.
In preparation for an upcoming fishing trip, my husband carefully prepared a type written list of those items necessary for a weekend with a few of his buddies. On Friday morning, I watched as he packed those supplies as determined by the inventory created the previous night. Consulting his list with pencil behind ear, the backpack slowly reached its capacity as John checked off the items intended for his fly-fishing excursion.
What he didn’t intend, however, was for said list to find its way into my blogging hands. A rare misstep on the part of my husband, the piece of paper evidently dropped haphazardly to the floor upon his departure, only to be discovered by yours truly.
Let it be known that for a few quick seconds, I considered throwing the list into the trash can.
Until I noticed the check boxes.
And remembered how he ignored the snake that could possibly eat me alive in his absence.
I instantly felt justified.
Perusing my husband’s weekend list, it struck me how different we are from one another. For starters, the word “tent” at the top of the list had me at goodbye. I don’t enjoy setting up camp and sleeping in the outdoors. My idea of camping includes a lounge chair by the beach, camp songs sung by a Mariachi Band, followed by slumber on a pillow-topped bed. In my humble opinion, when one is “roughing it” they are referring to resting on sheets with a thread count of less than 400.
And then, there is the issue of the bathroom. Or lack thereof. Packing a shovel for toiletry needs is barely something I can even write about, much like expounding on the hair found on my upper lip by an esthetician with bionic-like eyesight is a subject still untouched. Certain things really are best left unmentioned.
There were also items on John’s list that proved we speak different languages.I haven't the foggiest notion of the meaning of "hydros" and the words "Tippett and leaders" could only be referencing characters from the Muppet Show. And who knew that "forceps" were necessary when fishing? I know he used them during medical residency, when delivering a few babies, but can't possibly think how they could be beneficial in the streams.
(Speaking of baby deliveries, and of streams, it is very important to wear booties over brand new shoes when in the vicinity of a woman in labor.I'm not saying that this happened to my husband, or that his shoes squeaked for days from all of the fluid. I'm merely offering it as a hypothetical warning.)
Clearly, all of John's planning and orderly packing resulted in a successful fishing trip.
Good times were had with his friends, Jon and Chas, as all worries and responsibilities were temporarily left behind.
But there was still this little matter to address when he arrived back home.
Surely, the forceps will be of help. If not, I hear the spork can be quite lethal.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Father Daughter Dance
And with joy he...
"... will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone..."
-Steven Curtis Chapman
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I Have Never Loved him More
It was touching, yet intrusive, all at the same time.
On one hand the act was thoughtful and beyond reasonable spousal expectation. On another, it proved a little uncomfortable that such personal, delicate information was retrieved in a manner that can only be seen as invasive. Some secrets a girl just wants to keep to herself.
It started with the opening of a gift. The satisfaction on my husband’s face was tangible, maybe even somewhat smug. He squirmed in anticipation as I slowly undid the wrapping paper adorned with homemade bow, an abstract concoction that only he could mastermind. While opening the box, I glanced at my spouse, who looked as self-assured as I can ever remember, and I held up the item that brought pure, unadulterated joy.
Jeans.
It really is quite sinful that a single article of clothing should invoke such happiness. My first venture into the world of denim delight occurred in the fifth grade when Gloria Vanderbilt released the fancy pants with the curious swan on the back pocket. Consequential years introduced Jordache and Calvin Klein, which I accessorized cleverly with various colors of high top Reeboks, exuding a misleading confidence in an outfit complete with the spiral perm that caused kinky hair to sprout all over my head.
I am nothing, if not a fashion icon.
During adolescent years, it was more about the brand name than the bottom fit. As a gravity fighting adult, it became about jeans that disguised, lifted, or transformed the God-given flaws I hope to find explanation for in Heaven. Reasonable priced outlets like Gap and Banana Republic assisted in this area, but I always found that their shape lasted about as long as the hamper basket remains empty in my laundry-ridden home.
But then.
Oh, then, I discovered a pair of jeans that melted away all the swiss cake rolls previously eaten, all the cheetos consumed by the handfuls, all the cookie dough devoured straight out of the package.
I was shopping with my friend Kara in a boutique that I only dared visit during the end of the year clearance sale. The sales lady followed me around the store, with a pair of jeans hanging off the crook of one arm and an evil tape measure in the other, imploring me to try on the item that she felt would transform my current look.
(In my defense, my children were very young and very needy, and the elastically challenged sweatpants I happened to be wearing were from the designer rack at TJ Maxx. Stained and worn out, but designer nonetheless.)
It seemed as though the lady had singled me out, and the other customers were beginning to notice my new tag along friend. She became more emphatic, her voice increasingly high pitched, and I had little choice but to take the item offered, mercifully ending the retail crescendo that was certain to attract all neighborhood dogs.
A little miracle happened in the dressing room. I pulled back the curtain, stepped onto a platform facing the way too truthful mirror, and time seemed to stop. Faintly, I could hear angels singing in the background.
Not only were the jeans a perfect fit, but also somehow, they had magically replaced the body that had birthed three children with the figure of someone who had not yet experienced the unfortunate shift of the coxal bone - a maternity dance I like to call the hipbone shuffle.
The jeans, as the devil would have it, were not a part of the clearance sale. I paid a kajillion dollars for denim, an impulsive purchase that was spurred on by the waistline wonder that had occurred before my very eyes.
I immediately called my husband to confess the impetuosity with which I had treated the credit card. He was very understanding, stating that he wanted me to have nice clothes, adding sweetly, “I mean it’s not like you spent a $100, is it?”
~chirping crickets~
“Joni, are you still there?”
The second mortgage I procured to purchase those jeans prevented me from buying an additional pair in the following years. I also knew that there needed to be some distance between my husband’s memory of the obscene price and the resulting heart palpitations. While John is a talented physician, he hasn’t quite mastered the skill of giving CPR to himself.
Those jeans have been with me now for over five years. While they show a little wear, the shape and function have held up remarkably well. I have tried other brands, but none have quite lived up to the performance of the miracle jeans I was introduced to on the platform years before.
The fact remains that these hips can only be tamed by the best of denim.
In the days leading up to Christmas this year, my husband began the search for the jeans that years ago had instigated renewed confidence in me and uncomfortable chest pains in him. Scientific by nature, John knew that the task before him would require a gathering of evidence to support the denim concept, including abstractions of observable phenomena expressed as quantifiable properties that he would then coincide with scientific laws that convey the relationship between said observations.
In layman terms, my husband looked carefully at the inside of the waistband to find the brand, style, and size of jeans I considered my soulmate and then located that exact pair using the World Wide Web. Eureka!
It has taken me a bit to get past the idea that my jean size is now swimming around in a brain that houses other important information like symptoms of Hypercholesterolemia and the latest stats of his Fantasy Football team. But the joy of being reunited with a pair of jeans that have mercy on my waistline inadequacies makes up for any feelings of discomfort experienced.
Really, I have never loved my husband more. Now, if he could only find me a pair of pink, high-top Reeboks.
On one hand the act was thoughtful and beyond reasonable spousal expectation. On another, it proved a little uncomfortable that such personal, delicate information was retrieved in a manner that can only be seen as invasive. Some secrets a girl just wants to keep to herself.
It started with the opening of a gift. The satisfaction on my husband’s face was tangible, maybe even somewhat smug. He squirmed in anticipation as I slowly undid the wrapping paper adorned with homemade bow, an abstract concoction that only he could mastermind. While opening the box, I glanced at my spouse, who looked as self-assured as I can ever remember, and I held up the item that brought pure, unadulterated joy.
Jeans.
It really is quite sinful that a single article of clothing should invoke such happiness. My first venture into the world of denim delight occurred in the fifth grade when Gloria Vanderbilt released the fancy pants with the curious swan on the back pocket. Consequential years introduced Jordache and Calvin Klein, which I accessorized cleverly with various colors of high top Reeboks, exuding a misleading confidence in an outfit complete with the spiral perm that caused kinky hair to sprout all over my head.
I am nothing, if not a fashion icon.
During adolescent years, it was more about the brand name than the bottom fit. As a gravity fighting adult, it became about jeans that disguised, lifted, or transformed the God-given flaws I hope to find explanation for in Heaven. Reasonable priced outlets like Gap and Banana Republic assisted in this area, but I always found that their shape lasted about as long as the hamper basket remains empty in my laundry-ridden home.
But then.
Oh, then, I discovered a pair of jeans that melted away all the swiss cake rolls previously eaten, all the cheetos consumed by the handfuls, all the cookie dough devoured straight out of the package.
I was shopping with my friend Kara in a boutique that I only dared visit during the end of the year clearance sale. The sales lady followed me around the store, with a pair of jeans hanging off the crook of one arm and an evil tape measure in the other, imploring me to try on the item that she felt would transform my current look.
(In my defense, my children were very young and very needy, and the elastically challenged sweatpants I happened to be wearing were from the designer rack at TJ Maxx. Stained and worn out, but designer nonetheless.)
It seemed as though the lady had singled me out, and the other customers were beginning to notice my new tag along friend. She became more emphatic, her voice increasingly high pitched, and I had little choice but to take the item offered, mercifully ending the retail crescendo that was certain to attract all neighborhood dogs.
A little miracle happened in the dressing room. I pulled back the curtain, stepped onto a platform facing the way too truthful mirror, and time seemed to stop. Faintly, I could hear angels singing in the background.
Not only were the jeans a perfect fit, but also somehow, they had magically replaced the body that had birthed three children with the figure of someone who had not yet experienced the unfortunate shift of the coxal bone - a maternity dance I like to call the hipbone shuffle.
The jeans, as the devil would have it, were not a part of the clearance sale. I paid a kajillion dollars for denim, an impulsive purchase that was spurred on by the waistline wonder that had occurred before my very eyes.
I immediately called my husband to confess the impetuosity with which I had treated the credit card. He was very understanding, stating that he wanted me to have nice clothes, adding sweetly, “I mean it’s not like you spent a $100, is it?”
~chirping crickets~
“Joni, are you still there?”
The second mortgage I procured to purchase those jeans prevented me from buying an additional pair in the following years. I also knew that there needed to be some distance between my husband’s memory of the obscene price and the resulting heart palpitations. While John is a talented physician, he hasn’t quite mastered the skill of giving CPR to himself.
Those jeans have been with me now for over five years. While they show a little wear, the shape and function have held up remarkably well. I have tried other brands, but none have quite lived up to the performance of the miracle jeans I was introduced to on the platform years before.
The fact remains that these hips can only be tamed by the best of denim.
In the days leading up to Christmas this year, my husband began the search for the jeans that years ago had instigated renewed confidence in me and uncomfortable chest pains in him. Scientific by nature, John knew that the task before him would require a gathering of evidence to support the denim concept, including abstractions of observable phenomena expressed as quantifiable properties that he would then coincide with scientific laws that convey the relationship between said observations.
In layman terms, my husband looked carefully at the inside of the waistband to find the brand, style, and size of jeans I considered my soulmate and then located that exact pair using the World Wide Web. Eureka!
It has taken me a bit to get past the idea that my jean size is now swimming around in a brain that houses other important information like symptoms of Hypercholesterolemia and the latest stats of his Fantasy Football team. But the joy of being reunited with a pair of jeans that have mercy on my waistline inadequacies makes up for any feelings of discomfort experienced.
Really, I have never loved my husband more. Now, if he could only find me a pair of pink, high-top Reeboks.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Pierced
A secular opinion would tell you
that he shouldn’t be here. Physicians relying on
science alone would scratch
their heads in puzzlement, wondering how he circumvented the circumstances that
should have produced a premature death.
It happened in a matter of seconds. One moment he was removing a central line from under the AIDS patient’s collarbone, the next moment that same line would puncture the hand of the young physician. In shock and disbelief, this first year intern watched as the infected blood mixed with that of his own. He raced to a nearby sink and began frantically scrubbing his hands under water, knowing that it was pointless, but somehow hoping that his lifelong dream of practicing medicine wasn’t swirling down the drain like that of the soiled water.
That day, there were immediate consultations with his attending physicians. Hospital administrators were summoned, a drug therapy plan put into place. Only the passing of time would reveal whether or not the stick had rendered the doctor HIV positive, short changing his life as well as providing an end to a career that took years in the making.
Lifestyle choices and drug use, the primary contributing factors to those that contract the disease, were behaviors that represented a stark contrast to that of the young physician. His life could end early through no fault of his own, despite a lifelong commitment to his faith, his church, his family and others.
It seemed unfair. One could almost expect, and certainly understand, the seed of bitterness that had potential to take root in his heart, growing steadily as conditions worsened, intertwining with and finally suffocating any remaining benevolence. It would be a justified reaction, provoking the outrage and indignation of others at the undeserved diagnosis, allowing misery to find it’s company for temporary relief.
But steadfastly, the doctor found his comfort in the only One who could relate. He held fast to the One who understood the unfairness of suffering at the hands of others, the injustice of life ending at no fault of His own, the inequity of shame manufactured by the crowd but transferred solely onto His shoulders.
Three months later, as the syringe extracted blood from his veins for the findings that would direct the next steps, the physician held onto Jesus.
Six months later, as the lab technician handed over a print out of the results that would determine his fate, the physician held onto Jesus.
And one year later, as a fellow colleague sat in the chair across from him, chart in hand, with information that would finally procure a future, still the physician held onto Jesus.
Every test came back negative. The young physician had escaped infection of the disease.
That was twenty years ago, and irrespective of the numbers of seasons that have passed us by, I still am astonished at the manner in which God used that difficult year to further the faith of the man that would someday be my spouse. His faith would directly influence that of my own, one that was inconsistent and unsteady, but one that would gradually grow to beyond what I thought capable. Our faith together would pave a path for our children, all three of who are accepting of the love of Christ, bringing us a fullness of joy unlike any other.
This ripple effect through my family began with the piercing of One's skin and a needle prick of another, both of which I pray will be felt for generations to come.
It happened in a matter of seconds. One moment he was removing a central line from under the AIDS patient’s collarbone, the next moment that same line would puncture the hand of the young physician. In shock and disbelief, this first year intern watched as the infected blood mixed with that of his own. He raced to a nearby sink and began frantically scrubbing his hands under water, knowing that it was pointless, but somehow hoping that his lifelong dream of practicing medicine wasn’t swirling down the drain like that of the soiled water.
That day, there were immediate consultations with his attending physicians. Hospital administrators were summoned, a drug therapy plan put into place. Only the passing of time would reveal whether or not the stick had rendered the doctor HIV positive, short changing his life as well as providing an end to a career that took years in the making.
Lifestyle choices and drug use, the primary contributing factors to those that contract the disease, were behaviors that represented a stark contrast to that of the young physician. His life could end early through no fault of his own, despite a lifelong commitment to his faith, his church, his family and others.
It seemed unfair. One could almost expect, and certainly understand, the seed of bitterness that had potential to take root in his heart, growing steadily as conditions worsened, intertwining with and finally suffocating any remaining benevolence. It would be a justified reaction, provoking the outrage and indignation of others at the undeserved diagnosis, allowing misery to find it’s company for temporary relief.
But steadfastly, the doctor found his comfort in the only One who could relate. He held fast to the One who understood the unfairness of suffering at the hands of others, the injustice of life ending at no fault of His own, the inequity of shame manufactured by the crowd but transferred solely onto His shoulders.
Three months later, as the syringe extracted blood from his veins for the findings that would direct the next steps, the physician held onto Jesus.
Six months later, as the lab technician handed over a print out of the results that would determine his fate, the physician held onto Jesus.
And one year later, as a fellow colleague sat in the chair across from him, chart in hand, with information that would finally procure a future, still the physician held onto Jesus.
Every test came back negative. The young physician had escaped infection of the disease.
That was twenty years ago, and irrespective of the numbers of seasons that have passed us by, I still am astonished at the manner in which God used that difficult year to further the faith of the man that would someday be my spouse. His faith would directly influence that of my own, one that was inconsistent and unsteady, but one that would gradually grow to beyond what I thought capable. Our faith together would pave a path for our children, all three of who are accepting of the love of Christ, bringing us a fullness of joy unlike any other.
This ripple effect through my family began with the piercing of One's skin and a needle prick of another, both of which I pray will be felt for generations to come.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sunday Naps
This afternoon we found ourselves in a quiet house. Chase and Chandler were playing across the street at the home of friends, and we somehow convinced Mary Mac to lay in her bed for an afternoon rest. It is a phenomenon that doesn’t occur often, but when it does, we all go looking for the elusive nap.
John was on call this weekend, which meant multiple calls in the middle of the night as well as numerous trips to the emergency room to admit sick patients. Training during his days of residency cured him of needing more than five hours of sleep at one time, but it is the repeated interruption to his sleep pattern that brings on the exhaustion at the end of his seventy-two hour responsibilities. That issue coupled with my supposed “stealing of the covers” and “commandeering of his territory” (his words) does not make for a restful night.
This morning, the alarm clock screamed especially early, as John’s duties were twofold. First he had to make rounds on twelve patients at two separate hospitals before rushing to church, with worn Bible in hand,to teach Sunday school. All in the pouring rain. And all while answering his cell phone every five minutes to answer my frantic questions about the location of my car keys. And my favorite lipstick.
So this afternoon, the house was full of quiet, our stomachs were full of carbs and our eyelids already full of the sheep we would soon be counting. John found the bed first, while I answered a few emails and checked on a few ebay items that the recession and the "stimulus package" remind me that I don’t really need. I tiptoed into Mary Mac’s bedroom to make sure she was asleep before delighting myself with the delicious slumber that would soon be mine.
She was not in her bed.
I have reluctantly learned not to immediately resort to histrionics when I cannot find my daughter. It has been a painful process, but one that has been good for my overall maturity as a parent. That is all I can say about it at this time.
Calmly, and because I am now mature, I walked into our bedroom, very reluctant to wake up John with the news that Mary Mac was not in her room.
This is what I found:
In case you were to think that Mary Mac had her arms around a headless man, let me quickly ease your fears. To block out the usual noise that vibrates through the hallways of our home, John habitually buries his head under his pillow, like a medically inclined ostrich, in a desperate attempt to gain a little peace and quiet.
Maybe you need a closer look:
Oh, the joy of Sunday naps. And the over consumption of carbs. And a little girl who prefers to nap right beside her daddy even if she can't find his head.
John was on call this weekend, which meant multiple calls in the middle of the night as well as numerous trips to the emergency room to admit sick patients. Training during his days of residency cured him of needing more than five hours of sleep at one time, but it is the repeated interruption to his sleep pattern that brings on the exhaustion at the end of his seventy-two hour responsibilities. That issue coupled with my supposed “stealing of the covers” and “commandeering of his territory” (his words) does not make for a restful night.
This morning, the alarm clock screamed especially early, as John’s duties were twofold. First he had to make rounds on twelve patients at two separate hospitals before rushing to church, with worn Bible in hand,to teach Sunday school. All in the pouring rain. And all while answering his cell phone every five minutes to answer my frantic questions about the location of my car keys. And my favorite lipstick.
So this afternoon, the house was full of quiet, our stomachs were full of carbs and our eyelids already full of the sheep we would soon be counting. John found the bed first, while I answered a few emails and checked on a few ebay items that the recession and the "stimulus package" remind me that I don’t really need. I tiptoed into Mary Mac’s bedroom to make sure she was asleep before delighting myself with the delicious slumber that would soon be mine.
She was not in her bed.
I have reluctantly learned not to immediately resort to histrionics when I cannot find my daughter. It has been a painful process, but one that has been good for my overall maturity as a parent. That is all I can say about it at this time.
Calmly, and because I am now mature, I walked into our bedroom, very reluctant to wake up John with the news that Mary Mac was not in her room.
This is what I found:
In case you were to think that Mary Mac had her arms around a headless man, let me quickly ease your fears. To block out the usual noise that vibrates through the hallways of our home, John habitually buries his head under his pillow, like a medically inclined ostrich, in a desperate attempt to gain a little peace and quiet.
Maybe you need a closer look:
Oh, the joy of Sunday naps. And the over consumption of carbs. And a little girl who prefers to nap right beside her daddy even if she can't find his head.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Crazy Hats
This week the children have been celebrating the birthday of Dr. Seuss at the school they all attend. Monday they donned the color green in honor of Green Eggs and Ham, and Tuesday, silly socks were worn to commemorate the book, Fox In Socks. I offered my fancy socks to all three but my little sock snobs emphatically refused.
Today Chandler and Mary Mac chose funny hats to wear to pay tribute to the classic, A Cat In The Hat.Typically, John wears this hat when seeing patients, but just for today, he loaned it to Chandler:
Of course, I am just kidding. This is the hat he really wears:
Chase dressed up as the main character from the Magic Treehouse for a story parade at the upper campus. John wears these glasses, with the hat above, while in the exam room:
To be fair, I am including John’s response to the creative liberties I take when referring to him on my blog:
"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."
Dr. Seuss
I may just have to joyfully agree.
Today Chandler and Mary Mac chose funny hats to wear to pay tribute to the classic, A Cat In The Hat.Typically, John wears this hat when seeing patients, but just for today, he loaned it to Chandler:
Of course, I am just kidding. This is the hat he really wears:
Chase dressed up as the main character from the Magic Treehouse for a story parade at the upper campus. John wears these glasses, with the hat above, while in the exam room:
To be fair, I am including John’s response to the creative liberties I take when referring to him on my blog:
"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."
Dr. Seuss
I may just have to joyfully agree.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I'm Baaackk.
So I’m back.
I didn’t realize that my tribute to Travis would be my last entry for 20 days, because if I had, I certainly would not have allowed the picture of me and my pesky, tag-along friend Mr. Dubble Chen, to remain front and center for such a long and unnecessary period of time.
For the three of you still reading my blog, I apologize for the disruption and making you wonder if some travesty had fallen upon my family or if we had been kidnapped and taken to Timbuktu to serve as slaves for heathens wearing bone fragments through their nostrils and wooden toothpicks through their bellybuttons.
Anyway.
In a previous post, I mentioned that big changes were in store for our family. Changes that are exciting, yet uncomfortable; energizing, yet at the same time physically exhausting.
For some time my husband has felt led to start his own medical practice. He has been practicing medicine for about fifteen years, in different settings and environments, and through provisions and details that only God could have masterminded, found himself in a position that made this long term goal possible.
We purchased a small building back in December, and thus began the task of furnishing, organizing and supplying an office in order to be able to start serving patients at the beginning of February. Because John continued to see a full load of patients through the middle of January at his previous practice, a larger amount of the “setting up” landed on the shoulders of yours truly.
(This of course, makes perfect sense seeing how I am so very qualified. Considering that this time last year I was teaching a softball course at a local college, it is strikingly clear that I am exactly the type of person one needs when opening a medical practice.)
The learning curve has been steep, both from a small business owner’s perspective and most importantly, from one that is spiritual. I have been out of my element, completely out of my comfort zone, for the past two months, which is a stomach-clenching and frightening place to be. But at the same time, experiencing God’s provision repeatedly through this process that at times can seem like a free-fall has been an extraordinary journey that has stretched and challenged my faith.
There has not been a single area of personal strength I have been able to rely on because I’m not strong in any of the tasks required of me. Complete trust in God during this process has been the only way I have survived in an arena that I never intended to enter. However, as proven again and again in my life, make a plan and watch God laugh.
For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11)
We are entering week three of John’s new practice, and things are starting to settle somewhat. A sweet girl has been hired to take my place, allowing part-time hours for me which is a blessing to my family, especially considering that our dirty laundry had begun to spill over into the streets and situations requiring diet coke as a breakfast beverage for young children is just plain wrong.
(Also, it seems that hiring someone who is actually experienced in the medical field is advantageous to the patient schedule. Apparently, a morning full of geriatric pap smears for my internist husband is not how he prefers to roll. How was one supposed to know?)
So for now, I hope that I am back on track bloggin’ about joy, with maybe a few more anecdotes from my new work environment.
Of course, only after I procure clean underwear for my family and purchase milk for breakfast. I do still try to exercise a few priorities.
I didn’t realize that my tribute to Travis would be my last entry for 20 days, because if I had, I certainly would not have allowed the picture of me and my pesky, tag-along friend Mr. Dubble Chen, to remain front and center for such a long and unnecessary period of time.
For the three of you still reading my blog, I apologize for the disruption and making you wonder if some travesty had fallen upon my family or if we had been kidnapped and taken to Timbuktu to serve as slaves for heathens wearing bone fragments through their nostrils and wooden toothpicks through their bellybuttons.
Anyway.
In a previous post, I mentioned that big changes were in store for our family. Changes that are exciting, yet uncomfortable; energizing, yet at the same time physically exhausting.
For some time my husband has felt led to start his own medical practice. He has been practicing medicine for about fifteen years, in different settings and environments, and through provisions and details that only God could have masterminded, found himself in a position that made this long term goal possible.
We purchased a small building back in December, and thus began the task of furnishing, organizing and supplying an office in order to be able to start serving patients at the beginning of February. Because John continued to see a full load of patients through the middle of January at his previous practice, a larger amount of the “setting up” landed on the shoulders of yours truly.
(This of course, makes perfect sense seeing how I am so very qualified. Considering that this time last year I was teaching a softball course at a local college, it is strikingly clear that I am exactly the type of person one needs when opening a medical practice.)
The learning curve has been steep, both from a small business owner’s perspective and most importantly, from one that is spiritual. I have been out of my element, completely out of my comfort zone, for the past two months, which is a stomach-clenching and frightening place to be. But at the same time, experiencing God’s provision repeatedly through this process that at times can seem like a free-fall has been an extraordinary journey that has stretched and challenged my faith.
There has not been a single area of personal strength I have been able to rely on because I’m not strong in any of the tasks required of me. Complete trust in God during this process has been the only way I have survived in an arena that I never intended to enter. However, as proven again and again in my life, make a plan and watch God laugh.
For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11)
We are entering week three of John’s new practice, and things are starting to settle somewhat. A sweet girl has been hired to take my place, allowing part-time hours for me which is a blessing to my family, especially considering that our dirty laundry had begun to spill over into the streets and situations requiring diet coke as a breakfast beverage for young children is just plain wrong.
(Also, it seems that hiring someone who is actually experienced in the medical field is advantageous to the patient schedule. Apparently, a morning full of geriatric pap smears for my internist husband is not how he prefers to roll. How was one supposed to know?)
So for now, I hope that I am back on track bloggin’ about joy, with maybe a few more anecdotes from my new work environment.
Of course, only after I procure clean underwear for my family and purchase milk for breakfast. I do still try to exercise a few priorities.
Monday, December 15, 2008
I Still Look at Him Like This
I still look at him like this after thirteen years of marriage. The affection in the gaze is the same, just a few more wrinkles around the eyes earned in the best way: smirks, smiles, and a whole lot of laughs.
John, you are my joy. The world is a better place because you are in it. Happy birthday.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Fancy Dance Joy
John and I attended a fancy dance Saturday night. Below is our posed, prom picture minus the coordinating corsage and cummerbund.
It was fun to give the sweatpants a rest for the evening, even if it did mean prancing around in high heels and supportive undergarments. Although, I didn’t really prance -it was more like a wobble- but I managed to stay upright and “tucked in” all the same.
Each year this event centers on a particular theme. Cirque de Soleil was the clever motif this time with colorful decorations and talented performers throughout the ballroom. There was even a “statue lady” that was eerily fascinating. This woman, dressed in all white head to toe, would pose in various places – among the crowd, in the foyer, on the buffet table- and not move a single muscle, or blink a solitary eyelash.
It was creepy and kind of cool, and I spent ENTIRELY too much time watching her to see if she would move. Place to place I would follow her- nonchalantly of course, like a giraffe in wobbly heels- to try to figure out how she could be so still.
(I mean, WHY would I do this? So what if she moved? What was I going to do – announce to the crowd: “Attention everyone! I caught the statue lady in a momentary twitch! You may now go back to your dancing.”
Interestingly enough, I was joyfully able to observe her when it appeared as though there were something stuck in her throat. My keen eye caught her clearing her throat, but it was very subtle, even under my investigative and discerning watch.)
The evening was a long one, but a lot of fun, although the next morning my feet were still in the shape of very pointy triangles. I also noticed what seemed to be permanent creases around my midsection where suspension of circulation from my BFF, Spanx, occurred the night before.
However, it’s nothing a good pair of sweatpants and comfy slippers can’t immediately fix.
It was fun to give the sweatpants a rest for the evening, even if it did mean prancing around in high heels and supportive undergarments. Although, I didn’t really prance -it was more like a wobble- but I managed to stay upright and “tucked in” all the same.
Each year this event centers on a particular theme. Cirque de Soleil was the clever motif this time with colorful decorations and talented performers throughout the ballroom. There was even a “statue lady” that was eerily fascinating. This woman, dressed in all white head to toe, would pose in various places – among the crowd, in the foyer, on the buffet table- and not move a single muscle, or blink a solitary eyelash.
It was creepy and kind of cool, and I spent ENTIRELY too much time watching her to see if she would move. Place to place I would follow her- nonchalantly of course, like a giraffe in wobbly heels- to try to figure out how she could be so still.
(I mean, WHY would I do this? So what if she moved? What was I going to do – announce to the crowd: “Attention everyone! I caught the statue lady in a momentary twitch! You may now go back to your dancing.”
Interestingly enough, I was joyfully able to observe her when it appeared as though there were something stuck in her throat. My keen eye caught her clearing her throat, but it was very subtle, even under my investigative and discerning watch.)
The evening was a long one, but a lot of fun, although the next morning my feet were still in the shape of very pointy triangles. I also noticed what seemed to be permanent creases around my midsection where suspension of circulation from my BFF, Spanx, occurred the night before.
However, it’s nothing a good pair of sweatpants and comfy slippers can’t immediately fix.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Labor Day Weekend
Labor Day weekend started somewhat invasively as I accompanied John to a doctor's office for a procedure that would examine an area that doesn't see much sunlight. The events that occurred over those few hours are worthy of a solitary post, but considering that the colonoscopy did not happen to me, and quite unfortunately, to my poor spouse, I have to refrain from and therefore censor all commentary on the subject matter just begging my brain for release.
I will say this - and with full permission from my husband – I could have never imagined in a million years a scenario that involved the two of us in a curtained off space receiving the following instruction from a nurse: “You may get dressed to leave when YOU HAVE PASSED A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF GAS.”
Just let that sink in for a few moments.
Is there ever an amount that would seem “reasonable” and how do you say that particular phrase all day long with a straight face? In addition, do you realize that this would be like telling a small child they can’t leave a candy store until consuming at least 25 pieces?
That is all I am able to comment on at this time.
(However, if you see me in real life, please allow me to tell you how John, when he was first coming out of his drugged stupor, was convinced he had been anesthetized with vodka, or how he drank from the water fountain, and then turned to face me with water dripping from his nose, mouth and chin.)
Seriously, I can’t say another word. In hindsight, I’ve already said too much.
(By the way, I did overhear a doctor tell a patient’s wife that her husband’s results confirm that his head was not, in fact, up THERE.)
Okay, now I’m done. Notice how I am now changing the subject.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This past Saturday was the joyful season opener for my beloved Bulldogs. We gathered with a group of friends before the game, setting up tents, chairs and tables of food because everybody knows that you can’t adequately watch a football game until properly fed and hydrated.
Tailgating Joy:
Chas (the fellow in the black chair) is much taller than his posture would suggest. Also notice, that his positioning is similar to the one I experienced a few days ago when driving to work:
Me and Gassy, I mean John:
Terry, Tricia, me, Doreen and Sabrina
Chas, John, Jon, Clark and Rick:
Me and my good friend, Mr. Dubble Chenn:
Season opener demands one wear new shoes and new socks. This is a picture of Jon going “old school” with the tube sock pulled up to his knees. He later accessorized with wrist sweat bands:
After the game (GO DOGS) we picked up our three children from Nana’s house (thank you!) and met Jon and Tricia for a game of laser tag at a nearby children’s entertainment center. We strapped on vests with infrared-sensitive targets on the chest, grabbed guns that came straight off the set of Star Trek and ran into the battle arena.
The laser gun given to each participant made convincing noises each time the trigger was pulled. The sounds boosted my confidence as I ambitiously darted through the maze, shooting at the targets that I found in my path regardless of age or family status.
The conclusion of the game produced printouts of each player’s score which included a detailed report of who lasered who, and the ranking of each player according to the skill and accuracy demonstrated during the game. I eagerly scanned my individualized report.
Out of 18 participants, my ranking was 18th. As in last.
(That can’t be right. Did the others not notice the agility and stealth I exhibited when pursuing others in a sneaky, covert manner?)
Also, it appeared as though I shot myself on more than one occasion.
The weekend was a lot of fun, spending quality time with family and friends and laughing until our guts hurt. But most importantly and with great relief, John's procedure resulted in positive results.
All’s well that ENDS well.
(So sorry. I couldn’t help myself.)
I will say this - and with full permission from my husband – I could have never imagined in a million years a scenario that involved the two of us in a curtained off space receiving the following instruction from a nurse: “You may get dressed to leave when YOU HAVE PASSED A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF GAS.”
Just let that sink in for a few moments.
Is there ever an amount that would seem “reasonable” and how do you say that particular phrase all day long with a straight face? In addition, do you realize that this would be like telling a small child they can’t leave a candy store until consuming at least 25 pieces?
That is all I am able to comment on at this time.
(However, if you see me in real life, please allow me to tell you how John, when he was first coming out of his drugged stupor, was convinced he had been anesthetized with vodka, or how he drank from the water fountain, and then turned to face me with water dripping from his nose, mouth and chin.)
Seriously, I can’t say another word. In hindsight, I’ve already said too much.
(By the way, I did overhear a doctor tell a patient’s wife that her husband’s results confirm that his head was not, in fact, up THERE.)
Okay, now I’m done. Notice how I am now changing the subject.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This past Saturday was the joyful season opener for my beloved Bulldogs. We gathered with a group of friends before the game, setting up tents, chairs and tables of food because everybody knows that you can’t adequately watch a football game until properly fed and hydrated.
Tailgating Joy:
Chas (the fellow in the black chair) is much taller than his posture would suggest. Also notice, that his positioning is similar to the one I experienced a few days ago when driving to work:
Me and Gassy, I mean John:
Terry, Tricia, me, Doreen and Sabrina
Chas, John, Jon, Clark and Rick:
Me and my good friend, Mr. Dubble Chenn:
Season opener demands one wear new shoes and new socks. This is a picture of Jon going “old school” with the tube sock pulled up to his knees. He later accessorized with wrist sweat bands:
After the game (GO DOGS) we picked up our three children from Nana’s house (thank you!) and met Jon and Tricia for a game of laser tag at a nearby children’s entertainment center. We strapped on vests with infrared-sensitive targets on the chest, grabbed guns that came straight off the set of Star Trek and ran into the battle arena.
The laser gun given to each participant made convincing noises each time the trigger was pulled. The sounds boosted my confidence as I ambitiously darted through the maze, shooting at the targets that I found in my path regardless of age or family status.
The conclusion of the game produced printouts of each player’s score which included a detailed report of who lasered who, and the ranking of each player according to the skill and accuracy demonstrated during the game. I eagerly scanned my individualized report.
Out of 18 participants, my ranking was 18th. As in last.
(That can’t be right. Did the others not notice the agility and stealth I exhibited when pursuing others in a sneaky, covert manner?)
Also, it appeared as though I shot myself on more than one occasion.
The weekend was a lot of fun, spending quality time with family and friends and laughing until our guts hurt. But most importantly and with great relief, John's procedure resulted in positive results.
All’s well that ENDS well.
(So sorry. I couldn’t help myself.)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Happy Anniversary
I recognize that whatever words I choose today will not be enough. I understand that any description I can offer will fall painstakingly short. I accept that my mind is too feeble, my intelligence too limited, to accurately describe the way I feel at this moment and the moments to come. I simply cannot offer the justice it deserves.
Thirteen years ago today, I married my better half (really three-quarters). We were an unlikely pair, with different backgrounds and experiences, possessing just enough sense to appreciate that we were better together than apart. Never could I have imagined how the love I felt on my wedding day would cultivate exponentially, each day exceeding the one previous. I didn’t know that I could love someone else with a selflessness and intensity that surprised me then and continues to amaze me even now.
John, I am overcome with gratitude that God blessed me with you. Your love for Him is reflected in everything you do, from your love and devotion as a husband and father, to your kindness and compassion as a physician and friend.
The world is a better place simply because you are in it. You are my joy.
Joni
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)
Thirteen years ago today, I married my better half (really three-quarters). We were an unlikely pair, with different backgrounds and experiences, possessing just enough sense to appreciate that we were better together than apart. Never could I have imagined how the love I felt on my wedding day would cultivate exponentially, each day exceeding the one previous. I didn’t know that I could love someone else with a selflessness and intensity that surprised me then and continues to amaze me even now.
John, I am overcome with gratitude that God blessed me with you. Your love for Him is reflected in everything you do, from your love and devotion as a husband and father, to your kindness and compassion as a physician and friend.
The world is a better place simply because you are in it. You are my joy.
Joni
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Preservative Alert
I can only presume that my husband knows something that I don't. He recently ventured to Target unaccompanied and returned with the purchases below.
Apparently there is imminent concern surrounding potato chip availability which is why one might purchase NINE bags of chips at Target.
So either chips are becoming obsolete, which would account for the squirreling away of Kettle Chips in my pantry, or deep fried potato slices with a gourmet twist bring my husband great gastronomic joy.
Apparently there is imminent concern surrounding potato chip availability which is why one might purchase NINE bags of chips at Target.
So either chips are becoming obsolete, which would account for the squirreling away of Kettle Chips in my pantry, or deep fried potato slices with a gourmet twist bring my husband great gastronomic joy.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Trophy
This morning I found the object below lovingly placed on the the mantle in my bedroom. (It has since been removed. But, oh, how I appreciate his home decorating ambitions.)
This is a fancy trophy received by my husband at a benefit luncheon that involved shotguns, which is considered somewhat normal in the south. It occurred at a skeet shoot followed by barbecue followed by an awards ceremony. This particular ceremony deemed John's team the first place winners which awarded him a shiny trophy for shooting the most clay targets.
A grown man.
With a spanking new, cobalt blue trophy.
Trophies received by my nine year old:
Trophy received by my 40 something husband:
(minus his coveted Mr. Commerce High School trophy that we regrettably lost in the move)
At first I was uncertain of the occasion for the trophy. Upon first glance at the fellow on the top of the trophy one might think it was for a tug of war winner or even a pole vault champion. Glancing closer at the face of said fellow,you can't help but notice the goggles. Maybe it is for the man who exterminated the most bugs?
But alas, (Yeah, I just said alas. Feel free to click the mean little red box in the corner)it is an award for most accurate shooter. Good for him. I am proud. It brings me joy.
I would like a shiny trophy. In fact, I can think of several occasions that might support the notion of a trophy:
Multi-tasking Queen of the Carpool - I can pay bills, make dentist appointments and reach any item dropped on the floor of the backseat all while waiting in the carpool line at school
Quickest towel folder in the Southeast -My hands are like a blur, I tell you.
Fastest sprinter in the grocery store- I am especially quick when I have on my running shoes. I have been known to leave skid marks on the floor because of my speed.
Unfortunately there does not seem to be a market to promote these types of endeavors with an appropriate embellishment on a small, wooden stand, but I was able to locate a few trophies that may just recognize some of my dynamic feats:
In recognition of constantly running around in circles:
An award acknowledging this perpetual state I found myself in after the first few months in a new town:
Acceptance of this lovely bobble-headed trophy as part time teacher and coach, full time parent and cheerleader: (The likeness of the unwashed pony tail for two days is UNCANNY)
And finally, a prize for a memorable visit to McDonald's which secured this highest of honor:
Is this what it means to be a trophy wife?
This is a fancy trophy received by my husband at a benefit luncheon that involved shotguns, which is considered somewhat normal in the south. It occurred at a skeet shoot followed by barbecue followed by an awards ceremony. This particular ceremony deemed John's team the first place winners which awarded him a shiny trophy for shooting the most clay targets.
A grown man.
With a spanking new, cobalt blue trophy.
Trophies received by my nine year old:
Trophy received by my 40 something husband:
(minus his coveted Mr. Commerce High School trophy that we regrettably lost in the move)
At first I was uncertain of the occasion for the trophy. Upon first glance at the fellow on the top of the trophy one might think it was for a tug of war winner or even a pole vault champion. Glancing closer at the face of said fellow,you can't help but notice the goggles. Maybe it is for the man who exterminated the most bugs?
But alas, (Yeah, I just said alas. Feel free to click the mean little red box in the corner)it is an award for most accurate shooter. Good for him. I am proud. It brings me joy.
I would like a shiny trophy. In fact, I can think of several occasions that might support the notion of a trophy:
Multi-tasking Queen of the Carpool - I can pay bills, make dentist appointments and reach any item dropped on the floor of the backseat all while waiting in the carpool line at school
Quickest towel folder in the Southeast -My hands are like a blur, I tell you.
Fastest sprinter in the grocery store- I am especially quick when I have on my running shoes. I have been known to leave skid marks on the floor because of my speed.
Unfortunately there does not seem to be a market to promote these types of endeavors with an appropriate embellishment on a small, wooden stand, but I was able to locate a few trophies that may just recognize some of my dynamic feats:
In recognition of constantly running around in circles:
An award acknowledging this perpetual state I found myself in after the first few months in a new town:
Acceptance of this lovely bobble-headed trophy as part time teacher and coach, full time parent and cheerleader: (The likeness of the unwashed pony tail for two days is UNCANNY)
And finally, a prize for a memorable visit to McDonald's which secured this highest of honor:
Is this what it means to be a trophy wife?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
John's Joy
You have to do the blog.
Huh? (the same kind of huh that my chocolate lab gives me when I’m telling her not to do any more landscaping)
When I’m gone this weekend, you can do the blog.
(Again, I see her lips moving but have no idea what’s she saying)
You see, it’s that time of year when my wife and a small collection of her girlfriends from college collect together in some obscure, out of the way (and hopefully free) rendezvous to reaffirm that indeed the college years were spectacular and that gravity is indeed evil. It really does invigorate her and I’m glad for her to go. She works hard and not only deserves these three days but the whole spring in my opinion.
However, in order for her to fully enjoy the splendor of the reunion (did you catch the free reference above?), she must entrust me with the children for the weekend lest we pay a babysitter a small fortune. I have no problem with this plan. After all, I have a partial degree in psychology and a full degree in poopie. I’ve been a parent for over eight years and will roll up my sleeves with the best Oprah fans. But this blog thing…
Really, if you get a chance, you can do the blog. I left the instructions by the computer. It’ll be fun.
Oh, I know what you said but what I heard was “if you can get the children dressed, hair combed, off to school along with the by-the-way-I-need-a-birthday-present-for-an-impromptu-class-party, fed with something besides meat sticks for over three days, on time for two basketball games, play thirty-six rounds of Uno and survive just one round of High School Musical The Game, treat Mary Mac for the croup, replace the leaking toilet, wash, dry and fold enough children’s clothing to stock Target, arrive just 15 minutes late for church instead of 10, review the pertinent, albeit silly, points of Inspector Gadget the Movie and capture the aforementioned lab who escaped no less than three times into our neighbor’s “serenity garden” then I could do the blog.
Time passes slowly but-okay. Done. It’s late Saturday night and I’ve checked off almost all those appropriate boxes- sans one:
Bloggin’. I've spent all weekend imitating my better half and now I'm supposed to take time to record my daddy bonding time while my wife is away having a good time. This is going to take some effort considering a certain mindset is necessary, and way more estrogen than I possess, so I watch a recorded episode of The View, review last month’s Southern Living and finish four Exotic Berry wine coolers in order to just fire up the computer for said task.
And here I sit.
Not a single Mary Mac story. No new medication interactions. No costumes or jingles. No underwear wearing /sparkly lip gloss smackin / potty pollutin' stories. Just me and Bartles and James.
Then I realized just like my favorite Christmas character, the Grinch, that maybe this blog doesn’t come in “packages, boxes and bags. Maybe…this blog…perhaps…means a little bit more (apologies to Dr. Seuss)." Maybe, this blog is just simply about joy. Pure love for life kind of joy. The kind of joy that is captured in the hearts of children and, if you’re especially blessed, in the heart of a wife like mine. Joy that comes from watching your son’s eyes look for you in the crowd after he makes a basketball shot. Joy that comes from your daughter’s glow after you tell her she looks at least five instead of three. That warm “let’s all fit into daddy’s lap” and just "be with us" kind of joy. And especially that kind of joy that comes from your children who tell you that this was the best weekend ever…and all you did was take some of your time…and, of course, lose Uno on purpose.
So, I confess, this bloggin' thing isn't so bad. Taking a few moments to type out what's really on your heart could, actually, do us all some good. I love you, Joni, just for being you and especially for all the joy you bring to our family.
Stupid wine coolers…they make me all sappy.
-john
PS I forgot to mention that we did some shopping.
Huh? (the same kind of huh that my chocolate lab gives me when I’m telling her not to do any more landscaping)
When I’m gone this weekend, you can do the blog.
(Again, I see her lips moving but have no idea what’s she saying)
You see, it’s that time of year when my wife and a small collection of her girlfriends from college collect together in some obscure, out of the way (and hopefully free) rendezvous to reaffirm that indeed the college years were spectacular and that gravity is indeed evil. It really does invigorate her and I’m glad for her to go. She works hard and not only deserves these three days but the whole spring in my opinion.
However, in order for her to fully enjoy the splendor of the reunion (did you catch the free reference above?), she must entrust me with the children for the weekend lest we pay a babysitter a small fortune. I have no problem with this plan. After all, I have a partial degree in psychology and a full degree in poopie. I’ve been a parent for over eight years and will roll up my sleeves with the best Oprah fans. But this blog thing…
Really, if you get a chance, you can do the blog. I left the instructions by the computer. It’ll be fun.
Oh, I know what you said but what I heard was “if you can get the children dressed, hair combed, off to school along with the by-the-way-I-need-a-birthday-present-for-an-impromptu-class-party, fed with something besides meat sticks for over three days, on time for two basketball games, play thirty-six rounds of Uno and survive just one round of High School Musical The Game, treat Mary Mac for the croup, replace the leaking toilet, wash, dry and fold enough children’s clothing to stock Target, arrive just 15 minutes late for church instead of 10, review the pertinent, albeit silly, points of Inspector Gadget the Movie and capture the aforementioned lab who escaped no less than three times into our neighbor’s “serenity garden” then I could do the blog.
Time passes slowly but-okay. Done. It’s late Saturday night and I’ve checked off almost all those appropriate boxes- sans one:
Bloggin’. I've spent all weekend imitating my better half and now I'm supposed to take time to record my daddy bonding time while my wife is away having a good time. This is going to take some effort considering a certain mindset is necessary, and way more estrogen than I possess, so I watch a recorded episode of The View, review last month’s Southern Living and finish four Exotic Berry wine coolers in order to just fire up the computer for said task.
And here I sit.
Not a single Mary Mac story. No new medication interactions. No costumes or jingles. No underwear wearing /sparkly lip gloss smackin / potty pollutin' stories. Just me and Bartles and James.
Then I realized just like my favorite Christmas character, the Grinch, that maybe this blog doesn’t come in “packages, boxes and bags. Maybe…this blog…perhaps…means a little bit more (apologies to Dr. Seuss)." Maybe, this blog is just simply about joy. Pure love for life kind of joy. The kind of joy that is captured in the hearts of children and, if you’re especially blessed, in the heart of a wife like mine. Joy that comes from watching your son’s eyes look for you in the crowd after he makes a basketball shot. Joy that comes from your daughter’s glow after you tell her she looks at least five instead of three. That warm “let’s all fit into daddy’s lap” and just "be with us" kind of joy. And especially that kind of joy that comes from your children who tell you that this was the best weekend ever…and all you did was take some of your time…and, of course, lose Uno on purpose.
So, I confess, this bloggin' thing isn't so bad. Taking a few moments to type out what's really on your heart could, actually, do us all some good. I love you, Joni, just for being you and especially for all the joy you bring to our family.
Stupid wine coolers…they make me all sappy.
-john
PS I forgot to mention that we did some shopping.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I Had A Good Thing Going
I don't always notice the details. Sometimes the little things escape me. At times I find myself in a perpetual state of distractedness, somewhat like the absent-minded professor juiced up on estrogen, midol and Hi-C punch.
A few nights ago I was reminded that I don't always approach my surroundings with eyes open wide - in fact, it's more like brain closed shut.
My husband and I were reading in bed until we were ready to succumb to the exhaustion a full day can bring. I laid my book on my side table, snuggled under the covers, and proceeded to watch John get out of bed, walk around to my bedside table, turn off my lamp, return to his side of the bed, turn off his lamp and settle beneath the duvet.
I couldn't contain my surprise and asked him, "Why did you just get out of bed to turn off my lamp on my side of the bed?"
He responded, "I have been turning your lamp off every night for as long as I can remember."
"What?! Why would you do that?" I laughed.
"Well," he replied, "I could tell you to turn off your own lamp but you would claim that I am closer, which I am not. Or you will say that I am already up, which I am not. Or that you are already asleep, which you are not. So rather than traveling down that irrational path of make-believe scenarios, I choose to simplify our nightime ritual. I turn off your light."
I just HOWLED! I laughed and I snorted until my stomach remembered it still had muscles. Knee-slapping, joyful tears streamed down my face as I thought about all the nights this sweet man turned out my light while in his head he must have been thinking, "I cannot believe I am doing this..."
Since then, and especially now that I have been enlightened (sorry), I am left to my own devices regarding my own personal lamp. Such a shame. I had a good thing going.
A few nights ago I was reminded that I don't always approach my surroundings with eyes open wide - in fact, it's more like brain closed shut.
My husband and I were reading in bed until we were ready to succumb to the exhaustion a full day can bring. I laid my book on my side table, snuggled under the covers, and proceeded to watch John get out of bed, walk around to my bedside table, turn off my lamp, return to his side of the bed, turn off his lamp and settle beneath the duvet.
I couldn't contain my surprise and asked him, "Why did you just get out of bed to turn off my lamp on my side of the bed?"
He responded, "I have been turning your lamp off every night for as long as I can remember."
"What?! Why would you do that?" I laughed.
"Well," he replied, "I could tell you to turn off your own lamp but you would claim that I am closer, which I am not. Or you will say that I am already up, which I am not. Or that you are already asleep, which you are not. So rather than traveling down that irrational path of make-believe scenarios, I choose to simplify our nightime ritual. I turn off your light."
I just HOWLED! I laughed and I snorted until my stomach remembered it still had muscles. Knee-slapping, joyful tears streamed down my face as I thought about all the nights this sweet man turned out my light while in his head he must have been thinking, "I cannot believe I am doing this..."
Since then, and especially now that I have been enlightened (sorry), I am left to my own devices regarding my own personal lamp. Such a shame. I had a good thing going.
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