Babymoon!

Jay and I took our honeymoon last July directly following the wedding and were completely lazyyyy together for a solid amount of time in a tropical paradise.  It was amazing, and we are completely spoiled for taking a trip where our greatest concern was deciding whether we’d have a margarita or a lava flow by the beach or by the pool.  Not everyone gets a honeymoon, and I feel bad when I think about this fact.  Even if it’s only a one-night trip to Oklahoma City, I think all newly married couples should try to take one. . .even if it means staying in the hotel, eating packed pbj’s and drinking tap water, and watching re-runs of Alf. (That actually sounds pretty fun.)

When we talked about starting a family “one day,” we had hoped to hop on a plane and make one more vacation stop before that happened.  Five months into our marriage, when we discovered I was several weeks pregnant, we began deliberating this trip again.  “Should we go?  Is it selfish to take an extravagant trip right now after spending time in Kawai a few months ago?” we asked each other.  To me, travel is high on the list; I’d rather live “small” most of the year if it means seeing another part of the world at some point.  I’ll skip the fancy dinner out and find a way to make a can of tuna and a banana look fancy if that means I can explore later.  Add uninterrupted time alone with my favorite person ever, and I’ll live on nothing all year to make that happen.

As we thought of taking our vacation, we talked with people who have kids, and many said the same thing, “Once you have them, you won’t want to leave them for very long.  You had better go now or plan to take them with you once you have them.”  We then learned of the babymoon phenomenon and began to feel completely justified for wanting to get away.  Couples in their second trimester—that phrasing sounds super weird like the couple is growing in a womb or something—husbands with wives in their second trimesters—couples expecting a baby in the next four months or so take a trip together to celebrate their love and the life changes that are quickly approaching.

We are doing it. Team Stevenson is taking its first trip together with three.  The baby is pretty easy at this point; she just kicks about and waits patiently for her name.  Rick Steves and his three-triangle rating system have been consulted, and the bags are almost packed.  I’m on my way to pick up a stylish *dorky* pair of flight socks to help improve blood flow and prevent blood clots since my veins are on vacation due to pregnancy.    Yep, glamour before health is what I always say.  Be back in a bit!

Cheers to the Community College Student

In a small setting, gathered around a conference table, a group of students shared one by one why they were committed to their studies and what they hoped to accomplish in the near future.  In the presence of this group of student leaders, I was entranced.  Most of the students in the room were non-traditional, first generation students and were a bit older in age and, thus, a bit wiser in life.  Their majors varied from nursing to sociology to psychology and so on, but what ultimately created cohesiveness within the group was these students’ passion for academics.

One student shared, “I was sitting there at a barbecue, and it was the first time this had ever happened to me. . .I realized as I was sharing food with the people around me that I was the only one there without a college degree.  I’d been cutting hair for years, listening to people for years talk about their problems.  I realized I wanted to keep doing something with people, helping them in some way, but I wanted to be doing it with a degree.  Now, I graduate this semester with a degree in Human Services.  It’s been hard getting here—many sacrifices along the way—but I went after my dreams.”

“I hated school when I was young.  I never saw the value in it.  Now that I’m in college after being out of school for ten or so years, I can’t get enough.  I’m always reading.  Everything.  I’m so curious about everything I missed out on when I was younger,” another student grinned.

After a few dozen stories like this, our academic tea wrapped up, and as I sat there playing the role of advisor for Phi Theta Kappa, my love for the community college student was renewed.  In my classes over the course of a semester, generally two to three students from each class will show a voracious passion for their studies.  I adore these students.

They stop me in the hallway to ask me a burning question they have about Flannery O’Connor’s meaning in “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” They stand by my office door with an essay they are working on in hand waiting to see me round the corner:  “Do you have a minute to look at my paper?  I honed the thesis, and I’m not sure if it is coherent.”  They catch me after class to ask me if I liked the way the introduction of their last essay evolved to include more discussion over gender equality, etc.

These students speak out in class by asking pertinent questions and contributing meaningful thought.  Upon studying a graded essay, they learn from their mistakes and work diligently to improve their writing for the next assignment.  Not all of these students are returning students but many are, and they are all hungry for more knowledge and greater understanding.  I especially love the student who grows as a writer, who enters the semester with poor organization and development of thought but begins to embrace the writing process and the power of written expression as the semester goes on.

“I read some of my essays now and am proud of them.  I like what I have to say, and I like how I’ve said it.”—Hearing a student say this is like hearing a really good Bob Dylan song.  I just want to play the words again and again.  I love the student who grows a deep passion for good literature.  This semester we were reading “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden, and one of my students began to wipe tears away from her eyes as they rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks.  I was touched to see how the poem became alive for her, no longer words on a page.  I adore the shy student who can’t suppress a whim-driven question and must ask out, “But why does Plath say the mirror is like a lake?” when we read Sylvia Plath’s poem “Mirror.”  Unfairly, I ask, “Well, why do you think she does this?” as I try not to erupt in a giddy dance because the shy student has asked a question.

I guess what I’m trying to say is teaching at the community college is good for the soul.  Yes, it pays the bills and buys the bread, but it’s the soul that benefits.

Another Chocolate Cake is Born.

On the menu tonight:

Some sort of cream-based soup from Whole Foods (pregnancy brain has let go of what kind)

Pine nut and currant couscous

Strawberry cucumber spinach salad

Coconut tilapia with apricot dipping sauce

Best ever chocolate cake

I didn’t realize how much stress I was inflicting upon both Jay and me until Iwhirled around for the fifth time on the Whole Foods soup aisle in agony.  “It’s gone!” I declared.  Jay nudged the cart slightly and shuffled to put his phone away when he realized I was starting to lose “it.”  “The one thing that I knew would turn out right is out of stock or something,” I pouted and roamed the aisle with a hunting gaze once more.  After twenty more minutes of deliberation, we decided upon a semi-promising cream-based soup.  When we turned the chip aisle, Jay’s favorite stop generally, we kept on pushing our cart talking about what type of beer and wine we should get, the fact that our floors had not been done in two weeks, and the haphazard state of our front left bush in our yard. (His wispy limbs are out of control.)  No time for chips.  No time for anything this past weekend but planning the perfect dinner for my boss and his wife.

While Jay is social in larger groups and is comfortable having people over often, I support the old adage through my behavior that “opposites do attract.”  For me, having close friends over for dinner is delightful; having people over I work for and feel the need to impress is more than stressful.  My boss and his wife invite us over several times throughout the year and always put forth the best spread of chilled cheeses for a pre-dinner snack, smoked meats and yummy sides for dinner, and something lovely for dessert.  We are always impressed.

A few months ago, Jay and I served dinner in our home to Jay’s parents, two people we adore and are completely comfortable around.  We are still working on our hosting skills though, and for the one of the first meals we have served together, everything went wrong.  The veggies were soggy, and the meat was. . .I don’t even know how it turned into that texture.  It smelled like a dirty, wet dog and tasted even worse.  Jay’s sweet parents indulged us by finishing the helpings on their plates—I don’t know how they did it.  So, this event was playing through the back of my mind as we planned our menu for this week, stared longingly down Whole Foods’ soup aisle, and fluffed our sofa pillows with vigor.

So, by the time Jay and I were hunched over a freshly made chocolate bundt cake late last night, trying to scrape and sculpt its non-cooperative chocolate icing, I was overtaken with laughter.  He was too.  Jay has never iced a cake in his life, and if it weren’t for me, he probably would have passed to his grave having never partaken in this pleasure.  Something became really hilarious about his commands: “Rotate that baby.  I’m coming in with a big pile of icing;” “This nice scoop is going straight for the middle in that dry area there;” “Here’s some more, baby, watch out.”  As Jay attempted to salvage my poorly made icing by reheating it on the stove and then stirring it vigorously, I was falling prey to shoulder-shaking laughter.  I have no idea why.  It was just funnyyyyy.  I saw the whole evening of entertaining our guests falling apart as we offered a ratty looking cake after a slimy fish dinner.  Jay and I would say, “Look at this beautiful cake we made for you.”

We had hoped to go for a walk last night in our neighborhood or snuggle a bit in bed before bedtime, but instead, we spent our evening icing a cake.  It was great.  It won’t be the “best ever” as the recipe promises—I have already taken a peak and small nibble from its side this morning—but it was certainly made in love.  At least, Jay’s icing job was done in love.

Hoodie Anyone?

I am not an overly ambitious person in the way of home cleanliness and organization. Ask my mom.  I’m pretty sure after I moved out to live on my own she invested in a face-covering mask, tongs, and tough rubber gloves before she said her prayers and trembled on her way to my bedroom for its cleaning.  Poor mom.

Since those days, I’ve grown up a bit.  I actually have laundry sorters in my utility room.  They’re great.  Don’t ask me about them because I will spend the next twenty minutes blabbing about the way they have revived my soul, pulling me from the dark perils of filthy piles—those  piles that just appear without warning in the bathroom and the side of the bed.  One shower and bam!  A filthy pile steaming.  So annoying.

I’m pretty proud of the organization woes I have solved around the house with shoe racks, baskets, and charming drawer sorters.  I feel like a real person when I have a plan for my house.  On the flip side, when I hop into my car or worse yet into Jay’s car, I feel traumatized.  Who knows what you will find.  I realize this is a weakness and have actually been working minimally on correcting this.  My main approach is to look at Jay and say, “Wow. This is gross.”

So, today, I met my mom and older sister for lunch, and since I knew we would be embracing the PERFECT weather of spring, I hunted in my backseat for a jacket of some sorts to throw across my bare legs.  In the back seat of my car, I found a small, hooded jacket.  “Interesting,” I thought, “This looks new.” I pulled it out and proceeded to use it during lunch, unfolding it in mid-discussion to look at it closer.  “A child’s medium? Weird.”  I asked my family if they recognized the jacket, and they did not.

A few text messages and picture sharing with Jay revealed he, too, had never seen/heard of said jacket.  I’m not troubled by this, but I also do not know many children.  I never give children rides in my car.  Any children I do know are not old enough to wear this apparel.  “Could this be my petite friend Deaty’s jacket,” I wondered for a minute  until I then found a matching pair of pants as well that are too small for any adult.

Do you ever have a self-realization that maybe it’s time to start acting like an adult in one more area of your life?  A baby car seat is on its way, and I think that, a few toys, and my baby are all I need to be carting around.  I’d feel like a negligent momma if suddenly my baby were surrounded by surprise apparel, or food, or who knows what. If, by the way, you have lost one very small hoodie and matching pants, I have something for you.  This Honda Fit is getting a lovelift.

Stupid Cleaning Cart

I was walking along the hallway headed back to my office after dropping by the division office when I heard a loud but unclear, “Hey!”  I turned around a bit frightened from the shout-out approach to garner my attention and was waved over by the frantic hand of one our cleaning staff members.  She began signing to me as she is Deaf and knows I can get by somewhat on my limited coursework in American Sign Language.

After pointing to my baby belly, she attempted to tell me in sign language that she wanted a grandbaby so badly, so badly that it consumed her in jealousy when she saw others with their grandchildren.  When she saw that all I comprehended were the words “baby” and “want,” she broke out her pen and paper in animated fashion, signing, “not me, not me!”  After reading her frazzled sentences, I made the sign for “sorry” and wrote back, “Do you have kids?”

She went on in pen to explain that her daughter is twenty-five and has a boyfriend but that she needs her man to put a “ring on it” before she will have babies with him.  At this I laughed a bit, and she looked at me very seriously, signing, “How much does a wedding cost?”  I just pointed my finger up in the air and made the sign for “buy” and then repeated the finger move adding the sign for “money.” Seriously rusty sign language. Using the space in front of her, she drew the shape of a wedding cake and asked, “how much?”  Then, “dress,  how much?” and “church, how much?” she asked.

Discouraged, she told me she was tired of waiting and that she didn’t know how she could ever afford a wedding.  I tried to console her by telling her I was thirty-one and just now having my first.  As she stood there in her blue uniform, leaning on her cleaning cart, the same cart she works from day in and day out, my heart felt as heavy as an old woman’s shoulders after carrying her groceries home. Even though my cleaning friend runs work circles around most, she likely makes enough money to barely meet her needs even when sharing a home with other working adults.  It goes without saying her life is far more challenging than mine in so many ways.

I promised her she could love on my baby when I have her, and she just frowned expressively, “no, no.”  She didn’t even try to play along with me as she wants her own little fat baby cheeks to kiss and squeeze, designed for her care and grandma love. Then, she signed, “I love you,” put her pen and paper away, and gripped her mop to begin work again.  I left her near the men’s restrooms where she will spend the next half hour cleaning urinals, sinks, and floors all the while likely scheming about the wedding she will scrape away for.  I love her, too.