Tongue Tied

For all the women out there. Men might want to go read a sports blog for awhile. *********** My life has become a PSA for abstinence. Occasionally, I'll hear of some misguided teenage girl longing to have a baby, and it just makes me want to shake somebody. Of all the things to wish for at that time in your life, pregnancy is about the craziest. More often than not, though, teenage pregnancy is probably the result of actions with little regard to consequences. Haha. I can tell you about the consequences. I feel like I should be the Statue of Pregnancy, holding up the beacon of truth and the inscription "Bring me your misguided teenage girls." Pregnancy isn't what you see on tv. It's not all gushing tears and adorable baby bellies. Women don't float through gestation with a beautiful smile on their faces daydreaming about soft blankets and fuzzy teddy bears. Pregnancy is work . Starting with morning sickness, which is a cute way of saying you'll feel like p...

I'm not normally overly gushy and romantic. I'm not a fan of public displays of affection, sappy stories, red roses or any of that sugary crap. Don't even get me started on the hideous jewelry Jane Seymour designs. But I do like love. I like that Seth and I have fifteen years of history together, some of it good, some of it bad, but all of it ours. I like that I don't have memories after the age of thirteen that don't include him. I like that we've been discovering what real love is together, and it has nothing to do with roses or sweet nothings. Love is work. It's the hardest thing we've ever done, but it's also a worthy cause. I've been writing "our story", or at least I was before I got pregnant and will continue after my creativity returns. In honor of Valentine's Day, here's an excerpt from our first February 14th together. We were not officially "going out" at this point. And we were in 8th grade. Enjoy the awkw...

I might have been six. Not really sure about the specifics. All I know is that it was the earliest embarrassing memory I have. And a lesson I have never forgotten. It was a Sunday morning in our little church. Sunday school was over and the music portion of the service had begun. In our ancient church building, the only restrooms were in the basement, and I'd hurried down to use them just before the service had begun. When I reached the first flight of stairs, I noticed that the sound from the auditorium was quieter, and I figured Dad was praying or making announcements from the pulpit, so I began to tiptoe up the stairs. A little girl passed me on the stairs. I don't remember who she was or what family she even belonged to. I only remember that she was a year or two behind me, so therefore, I was the "elder" on the stairs. As she passed me, I noticed she was staring at me. Of course she was, I thought. I'm older. And wiser. And awesome-er. She must like the way I...

Over the past few weeks, I've watched my home descend into a fog of testosterone. It seems that when I'm laid up in bed, the males I live with revert to their most basic natures. It has shown me the desperate need that boys have to be pointed in the right direction. My husband, whom I am eternally grateful for, has done his best to keep up with the housework. He has stayed on top of the dishes and laundry surprisingly well. But at the same time, he's not a woman. (Hence his appeal to me.) When he does the dishes, he doesn't think to sweep the floor and wash the table too. When putting in laundry, it doesn't occur to him to tackle the pile of clothes that's been on our floor since the first day morning sickness set in. He goes for the "obvious" problems. Meanwhile, mail, dog hair, and toys have taken over our existence. But he is by far the most civilized male in residence here. My boys have been great since I've been sick. They've morphed into...