One Day in July

Posted on January 9, 2013 by vanderbiltwife

Today is ranking up pretty high on the Crappy Days meter, which reminded me that I’ve been meaning to write this post for awhile. So maybe it will distract me from the screaming kids and flu-bug husband.

Did I ever tell you about the day I found out I was pregnant with this baby (Joshua)?

In case you weren’t aware, we were actively trying not to have a baby. After having two kids 26 months apart, we wanted to wait until David was 3 to have a third. I was a little more than slightly overwhelmed when David was born, juggling a needy 2-year-old and a very-needy-and-didn’t-sleep-and-nursed-32-times-a-day infant. (And God laughed. David and Joshua will be 27 months apart.)

THAT day, I took Libbie and David to the pediatrician. David was 19 months and needed a weight check, because he’d lived happily on the 2nd percentile for months. Aaand he still hadn’t gained any weight. The pediatrician told me I HAD to see a GI doctor, when I was pretty sure having a 5’5″, very small daddy is reason enough to have a petite but healthy child.

Then we went over to our friends Miss Ann and Mr. Bill‘s house. The kids were playing contentedly on their patio while I shared about our recent trip to the Outer Banks for my best friend’s wedding. Libbie picked up a watering can from their patio to pretend-water some flowers …. and a whole swam of wasps flew out. She got stung twice on her little hand and was, understandably, absolutely inconsolable. It’s been a long time since I had a sting, but those suckers hurt. Especially from wasps.

So I gathered up the crying little ones, retreated to our car, and came home. And took the test which I was about 95% would be positive. I don’t know why I waited until then – I think maybe I wasn’t sure I had one, but I did, a little lonely dollar-store thing shoved in a cabinet.

The day before this, I had slept the entire day and chalked it up to exhaustion from traveling and the emotions of the past several weeks, plus a lot of medicine for my back. But seriously. The whole day. And then that night, I had a very vivid, um, hormone-charged dream. Which only happens when I am in my first trimester. And that’s how I knew, or at least suspected.

I peed on the stick in my kids’ bathroom because my husband was in the shower. It was hot pink right away, that plus sign of mixed emotions bright as bright can be.

I barged into our bathroom and loudly proclaimed, “David has to go see the GI doctor, Libbie got stung by a wasp, and I’M PREGNANT.”

Subtlety is not my strong point.

Suffice it to say, Mr. V was much more graceful and excited about the pregnancy than I was, although I’ve gotten there. (Of course, he doesn’t have to lug a baby around in HIS stomach for 9 months.) And you would think that was the end of a day of emotional lows and surprises.

But oh, no!

That very same afternoon, I found out my debit card number had been stolen and there were 20 or more transactions I didn’t make on my account, adding up to hundreds of dollars. So in my state of pregnant shock, I got to spend the whole afternoon on the phone with Bank of America, trying to fix that issue.

At least it served as a distraction.

Today doesn’t seem so bad in comparison to that July day, actually.

So do you have any REALLY BAD DAY stories?

Addendum on the Letter to My Teenaged Self.

Posted on September 19, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

I can picture myself on the first day of high school, waiting for the bus.

I wore my treasured dark purple shirt with the gray-and-purple flannel shirt over it. I didn’t paint my nails purple because I was afraid people would think I was weird.

I didn’t know what a hindrance it would be to find myself at the school, 140 new students and me, and only know one person from my middle school – and not someone I called a friend, really. The first few days … weeks … were miserable. I begged my mom to let me go to my “regular” school. She bribed me with clothes from Express. (This was 1996, after all.)

I didn’t figure out how to let go of all my shy and awkward until I was at least 19.

Then I see another mind-snapshot. I am sitting in my high-school graduation, which still frames itself as one of the best days of my life. Because I was done with high school. We had what simply must be the best graduation ceremony of all time. Our class band sang “American Pie.” The class officers scared us all by saying they were going to draw a name out of a hat to make a speech … but it was a ploy to get the ousted co-president on the stage to speak.

Other than the oppressive pain I felt from the fact that we had filed in wrong and the pile of flowers representing our newly deceased classmate ended up right by me … it was an awesome day. I hugged nearly everyone in our class, friends or foe. All rejoicing. I’m out of here.

I knew I’d talk to very few of them ever again. Facebook didn’t exist in 2000.

But that one more thing I wanted to tell myself in my letter was: it was worth it. Going to the small, magnet school. Feeling awkward and stupid for not getting a 1590 on my SAT … it was still worth it.

Learning Chinese, that was worth it. Making sushi in class, taking “field trips” to the Chinese grocery store, picking up M&Ms with chopsticks … well worth it.

Taking second? third? place in the International Bowl, all five wearing black and pink, feeling the sassiest I’ve ever felt in my life – that was worth it. Going with these same girls to the beach, watching eyebrows being pierced, fake tattoos being applied, dancing in a club – so worth it.

Realizing it’s OK to be intelligent and embracing a college life that would push me, not be easy – so worth it. I watched many peers who didn’t know how to write an essay or read a book critically in college. And I did.

So, high school self, suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself for going to a school with almost no drama program. Relish in the 10 languages offered. Love that you eat lunch outside, sit on the senior table, and everyone else is quirky too, whether they’ll admit it or not.

Trust me. It’s all worth it. One day you’ll learn that you’re not some invisible 14-year-old who wouldn’t wear purple nail polish. It’s OK that you were dying to leave high school. You’ll learn, simply, how to be yourself.

A Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self

Posted on September 13, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

Dear 16-year-old Jessie,

I’ve been trying to write this letter for days, and I hadn’t, because I knew I would boo-hoo through the whole thing. Yes, you are still an emotional wreck – sorry! Good: in college, you will discover clinical depression and antidepressants. Bad: you are pregnant with your third child and not taking them. Don’t be too scared about that three kids thing, OK?

But I guess it’s safe to say your fear of never meeting your true love, of never getting married (or GASP it not happening until you’re like TWENTY EIGHT) was unnecessary. You have an awesome, loving husband. I’m not going to tell you where you meet him, though, because that’s half the fun.

But seriously, lay off the worrying about boys. I do realize you’re 16 and never been kissed, and you know what? Good for you. You’re going to date someone before too long, and then the rest of your life wish it had never happened. You’re going to have to learn where your morals really lie, and that’s not as easy as it sounds. Please TRY to remember in the future that just because a boy might be interested in you doesn’t mean you are interested in him.

I know you spend a lot of time feeling fat and ugly, and trust me, YOU ARE NEITHER. Exercise a little more and feel good about your body. Don’t worry one-tenth as much about what people think about you. Guess what? They aren’t thinking about you nearly as much as you think they are.

Cling to the good friends and most of all, keep holding onto Jesus with a death grip. There are some hard times ahead. You’ll feel abandoned and unloved, but Jesus is going to hold you in His hand. Choose the narrow way and you won’t regret it for a second.

I wish I could tell you that things will be easy, but they won’t be. I can tell you you’re going to have a heck of a lot of fun in college, make lifelong friends, meet your husband, and go on to have an amazing life, obstacles and all.

So stop being so shy, embrace how lovely you are to others and to God, and enjoy life a little bit more.

Love,

Your 30-year-old self

______

In honor of her new book for teens, Graceful, Emily Freeman is doing a link-up tomorrow 9/14 of letters to your teenaged self. So go get a little weepy, share some embarrassing pictures, and join in at Chatting at the Sky.

Make Love Happen

Posted on July 3, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

I’m reposting this from September 2009 to see if anyone’s met their spouse in the last almost-three years or has a new online dating story they want to divulge. I hope you’ve never been as stupid as I was at 17.

This past Saturday, Mr. V and I invited a few of his fellow teacher-friends over to our (basically unfurnished) house in Chattanooga. He had connected with some of the other new teachers at a conference they all had to go to in July, and he was eager for me to meet them.

Being old and married, I had to giggle when the conversation turned to something I am completely unfamiliar with: online dating sites. Apparently there are more than I had ever dreamed of—not only match.com and eHarmony, but also okcupid and plentyoffish and christiancafe, just for starters.

It made me very thankful to be married. Mr. V’s friends repeatedly told us that we were very lucky to not have to be dating, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Many, many moons ago, online dating was just a spark in someone’s head and meeting people from the Internet almost assured you’d be found somewhere dead, cut into pieces, and stuffed into a shoebox.

Which is why what I am account to you is one of the stupidest things I’ve probably ever done.

One of my best friends in high school, Cynthia, and I worked together in an aftercare program at the daycare at our church. One day she came in and said that she was going to get together that night with her Internet boyfriend and she wanted me to come along. Her guy would invite a friend for me.

It was a little daunting, but we would drive separately and meet them in a public place, so how bad could it be? Plus I had had a sum total of maybe two dates all of high school. So, I mean, really.

So we went to wherever we were meeting them, and they were going to follow us to the movie theater. Which is when we noticed that one of the tires on my car was nearly flat.

Oops.

So Cynthia and I let them drive and we all went together. In a car. With guys from the Internet. (My dad may kill me for this NOW, 11 years later.)

The sad part is, it was fine. And I really liked the guy they set me up with. And he never called me again.

Not even guys from the Internet liked me.

But now, I’m happily married, and I hope that guy is looking for dates on RednecksConnect or something.

I wonder if, 20 years from now, everyone’s parents will have met on the Internet. There won’t be as many cute, saw each other across the room stories. But it is interesting, people connecting (somewhat) for personality more than looks. (Maybe? Again, I’ve never done any online dating site stuff.)

I have to know: Have you ever met someone from one of these sites? Your spouse? Spill!

A Wave, A Cask, A Bubble of Insanity

Posted on June 26, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

As I prepare to move in a few weeks and attempt to parent and be a wife on top of that, I’m going to be rerunning a few older posts and cutting back to three posts a week (likely one old, one new, one new recipe). Here’s one I wrote in September during an especially trying time.

Walmart's "Action Alley" Display Signs Feature Value and Convenience on Popular Shopping Items

I remember turning into the aisle at Wal-Mart just to recall that I had forgotten the diaper bag.

It was the first time I had ever left the house alone with my tiny baby girl. I quickly found that a carseat takes up most of the space in a shopping cart.

My heart pounded just trying to get the fragile girl into the carseat, outfitted properly, in and out of the car. Would her feet be cold? Would she catch germs at Wal-Mart? Each inch of her precious body, so newly out of mine. I trembled from fear and the new bite of November.

It’s a flash in my mind: that moment when I realized I had everything — my purse, the baby, a shopping list — except that vital brown-and-pink bag with her toilette.

I’ve never scurried through a store quite so quickly, praying that nothing would be expelled from a tiny bottom.

Nothing did, and I was safe. But it didn’t take long to ride the wave of insecurity about my capability as a parent.

_________

She screams and fights and stomps one foot outside the door when I say, “… if you come out of that room.” The child who is praised as polite and sweet as sugar is nothing like the one I face alone in our home.

I hate tantrums.

I look inside, trying to squeeze out the place in my heart that is to blame for all of this. Why oh why? What did I do to make her like this, so vehemently anti-sleep? What could we change?

And why doesn’t anyone else ever talk about their kids doing this?

I feel isolated, alone, in a bubble filled with fake cries, screaming, requests for more water more food more bunnies more blankets.

And heaven help us all if we forget to put on her socks.

I wonder if someday this will all make sense. If I’ll ever be able to stand on my own parenting feet without feeling the need to beg advice from anyone who will listen. Does it improve as they age, little casks of spirit ripening to the perfect vintage dose of confidence?

I hope so.

10 Favorite Movies from My Teens

Posted on April 23, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

Are there movies you could watch again and again … even though they are more appropriate for 14-year-olds? Maybe for you it’s High School Musical … or maybe you grew up Pretty in Pink?

All it took was one passing mention of one of these films and I was instantly transported to my own teenaged years. So just for fun, here are 10 of my favorite movies from when I was a teen [I turned 13 in 1995].

1. Camp Nowhere (1994) – Cute boys, four cliques brought together, innocent kisses, and life without parents. I’m pretty sure I could still watch this 18 times in a row. And my heart might still beat a little fast for 12-year-old Jonathan Jackson. Ha.

2. Now and Then (1995) – Four girlfriends in the 60s grow up a little bit and find out about themselves and friendships. I love the flash forwards to their adult selves, and I love the 60s soundtrack! I remember going to see this with my Sunday School class and gushing over Devon Sawa. As my sister said (very, very tired, on a road trip), “Sometimes you just need to see Devon Sawa’s booty.”

3. Casper (1995) – Yeah, I’m pretty sure this one was entirely to do with the 5 minutes Devon Sawa is Casper, the human version. And my 13-year-old self fumed with jealousy that Christina Ricci got to kiss him, again.

4. 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) – I’ve declared my love for this teen flick before. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s pretty darn funny. And the whole nerdy guy from 10 Things is the head elf in The Santa Clause is the dude from Numbers? Crazy.

5. She’s All That (1999) – As I “matured,” my love for Devon Sawa gave way to an intense love for Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Which also explains my prejudice against Sarah Michelle Gellar, his now-wife.) No, this movie is not really good. It’s your typical girl-takes-off-her-glasses-and-now-she’s-hot-and-guy-loves-her. But … Freddie!

6. Grease (1978) – I’m pretty sure Grease is part of every woman’s teenaged life since 1978. My husbands claims all the words to all the songs are implanted on the second X chromosome. What sleepover is complete without an off-key and window-shattering rendition of “Summer Nights”?

7. Drive Me Crazy (1999) – A little twist on the “one of them changes and now it’s OK” relationship, in this one girl tries to change guy to make her ex jealous. But it’s OK, because she figures out that she likes him for him at the end. I like Melissa Joan Hart and thought Adrian Grenier was adorable in this movie before he got famous on Entourage.

8. Down to You (2000) – More Freddie, more Julia Stiles. I love Julia Stiles. She was in a bunch of teen movies, but she really was and is a great actress. Other than that, I really have no defense for this one.

9. Cruel Intentions (1999) – Apparently 1999 was a HUGE year for teen flicks. Yeah, the premise of this movie is just flat-out awful. But I can’t say I didn’t watch it five or ten times. Besides, I liked being able to legitimately hate Sarah Michelle Gellar.

10. Drop Dead Gorgeous (1999) – I remember going to see this with my sister and some friends in the theater and thinking it was one of the stupidest movies I’d ever seen. And then I watched it again … and again … and suddenly it was flat-out hilarious. Kirsten Dunst was perfect in this black comedy set in Minnesota.

What movies do you still love from your teen years?

added to top ten tuesday at many little blessings.

Dogwood Dream

Posted on March 22, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

source: kcolwell

On my favorite Christmas Eve, we had an ice storm.

I was in high school and woke to a world with no power, and my parents outside assessing the situation. I heard their voices through my window (signs of a house built in 1990?) and as I peered through, I nearly cried.

My beloved dogwood tree was bent to the earth, weeping with the ice crystals.

My first question to my parents was if my little dogwood would make it through the storm. I remember being criticized for caring about a tree when we had no power for the foreseeable future, no way to travel, no generator.

But at that moment all that seemed to matter was my tiny tree, which could be seen from my window and only mine. Its white blossoms felt hopeful each Spring. No matter the heat, the tree bloomed, the chinks in its petals setting it apart from all other trees.

This morning I walked across campus, breathing in the beauty of the dogwoods. We have pink, cream, and white ones, all gloriously blooming on our mini-mountain.

Have you heard the legend of the dogwood? It says that the cross of Christ was made from a dogwood tree. After the crucifixion, God cursed the trees so they would not grow as large anymore.

The interpretation I read even said that pink dogwoods are pink because they are embarrassed at their part in the crucifixion.

source: circulating

A more solid connection is that believers saw the dogwood flower as a symbol of the cross: the notches in the petals symbolized where the nails were placed, and the small rust dots on the petals were like blood.

Already this morning I was counting the precious pink petals among my thousand gifts. With the further meaning, it makes my heart swell.

I may not have a dogwood outside my window right now – merely an amazing view of the Tennessee River – but it’s a future possibility as we may move around campus. As long as we live on campus, though, I’ll always have dogwoods nearby.

I’ll let their image imprint my mind and mingle with that of the cross. A perfect Easter gift, nature crying out in praise.

Help Settle the Painting Feud, or How Trading Spaces Warped My Mind

Posted on March 13, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

My mom was obsessed with Trading Spaces.

Surely you remember the uber-famous, turn-of-the-century, decorating show on TLC? Two families would trade their homes for a week-end, each family given $1,000 and a decorator to help them re-do one room. Sprightly Paige Davis would pounce back and forth between houses, her bright smile encouraging homeowners as they glued feathers to the wall or hung a chair upside-down from the ceiling.

I imagine the homeowners prayed long in advance that they would not be given Hildi as a designer. This was one of her infamous room makeovers, where she stapled silk flowers on the bathroom wall.

Inspired, our house underwent several transformations during those early 2000s years. Our more-formal living room was the most Spaces-esque: eggplant-colored walls, a giant gilted mirror above the piano, a new couch with a dark green and purple floral pattern.

Our family room became beach-themed eventually, thanks to the large number of cruises my parents have taken.

My bedroom – at some point – was painted a golden yellow, including the ceiling, with Asian themed bedding and a Chinese lantern hanging in the corner.

It’s probably because of this history of redecoration that I cannot seem to understand my husband’s aversion to painting. It’s a simple thing, isn’t it? You move in somewhere, you paint it a color you like. When we moved into our first apartment, I insisted on painting our living room a trendy cranberry color. To this day, I still claim it’s the closest we’ve ever come to divorcing.

Mr. V seems to think my desire to paint is insane.

I think I’m normal.

I’d like to hear your two cents.

Battle Royale: Turning 30 with a Side of Gray Hair

Posted on March 7, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

I’m a little in denial about the fact that I am going to be 30 at the end of May. I don’t know why: I have two kids, will have been married nearly 8 years, my husband is already 30 and many of my friends are. For some reason, 30 just seems incomprehensible.

I was always the youngest at work, youngest in our Sunday School classes, youngest everywhere. And now … I’m not. It’s OK. It just takes some getting used to.

With the event of raising a daughter who is 3 going on 15, and that whole almost-30 thing, I have sprouted ~~quite a lot of~~ a few gray hairs.

But there’s this thing.

My husband has all but forbid me to dye my hair.

There are very few things that he is super-opionated about when it comes to my appearance or what I do. He pretty much thinks I’m awesome, to my 10-year astonishment. But when we started dating, my hair was kind of purple.

Yeah.

source: Emily Carlin

I’ve always wanted red hair, madly, deeply. I have green eyes and thought that I needed that red hair to match. I used to dye my hair a Natural Instincts shade that had the word mahogany in it, I think. (Semi-permanent color, praise be.)

I think right before we started dating I got a little too adventurous, and literally, my hair was more purple than red. To his credit, Mr. V never said anything about it until after we were married. And then he made his opinion known: he liked my hair in its unprocessed state and lived in fear that it might turn purple ever again.

So I’ve maybe had highlights in the last 7 1/2 years, but never dyed it. I like my dark brown color. It has a lot of natural highlights. But it’s also starting to gray here are there.

Want to take bets on how long it’ll be before I give in to the bottle? (Maybe I’ll even go mahogany for old times’ sake.) I’ll let you know the results of smackdown Love of My Life versus Feeling Old and Gray.

Poet

Posted on March 6, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

My earliest memories of writing are poems.

My mother claims she was so proud of me when, at a very young age, I wrote a story that was slightly nonsensical but did have a beginning, middle, and end. But my first real memory of putting words together is sitting at our computer (in the 80s! My parents were on the ball!), typing up a poem I had written for my second-grade class.

In second grade, I went to a magnet elementary school and I had the most amazing teacher ever. She didn’t believe in homework. My creative spirit thrived in her classroom.

It was an assignment, that poem, and I recall it was about the wind flowing through a house. I’m certain I remember that much from rereading it many times; a copy exists in my scrapbook at my grandparents’ house.

Mom and Dad were so proud that we printed out many of those copies on dot-matrix reams, and relatives received the same faded-gray-ink on paper as Mrs. Hilliard.

In fourth grade, I tackled limericks. My wallpaper-bound book was the only piece of nonfiction in my class. A cross librarian helped me figure out the Dewey Decimal number for it while the rest of the students unshelved every book in the school library.

The limericks are pathetically awful, but my teacher – my most-beloved teacher of all time, Mrs. Titus – poured accolades on me for taking a chance.

I wrote many volumes of fiction during my childhood, including Hanson sagas and a series of stories about little girls named after flowers that I told and retold to my little sister in the car.

But these short poems are the firsts, the beginnings, the earliest times I was called “writer.” The etches on my heart speak poetry.