So suddenly, as parenthood looms close on the horizon, Luke and I have been forced into examining our own mortality.  You realize that to have a child, is to risk leaving that child in the unfortunate incident of death.  In the unfortunate incident of Luke and I both dying together in some sort of freak accident, we had to choose godparents.  I feel we have chosen wisely.  We selected the luscious Brandy Gibson and her strapping doctor to be husband Vic to take care of our child in case Luke and I are both struck by lightning, or something equally sad.  They warmly accepted.  This has been a huge load off, and also shows that if you carefully and "prayerfully" make decisions, they will inevitably turn out well.  But I sort of digress...

As I said, I have lately had to realize that Luke and I will both die someday.  Very morbid.  But we have each in turn talked about what we would most likely do if the other went away before a very ripe old age.  How we would raise our child, and whether we would remarry.  You know, really healthy topics of conversation.  But none the less, these talks have made me paranoid.  The closer I get to delivery, the more dreams I keep having where something traumatic happens to Luke, and I am left alone with the baby.  And everytime, I wake up and feel around to make sure he is still there and breathing.  He swears that I am trying to push him out of bed in the night time, but secretly, I just get really clingy after a nightmare.  I end up on his side of the bed 5 out of 7 nights a week.

But my paranoia has also brought with it a startling clarity about one of the most cliche and sappy things imaginable.  I have become very careful about the last words out of my mouth when seeing anyone.  I just could not stand the idea that something could happen to me, and my last words to Luke would be "Bring home some more maalox."  or "I have to go to the bathroom"  or "Get the hell out you piece of shit"  Okay, I have never said that to Lucas.  That would make me mean and hateful.  And I am, but not to Luke.  But I tell my mom I love her a lot more often.  And I make sure people I care about know it.  It really is something that I have never thought much about before.  I take for granted that people know I love them and they are important to me.  But I am terrified of something happening, and me realizing that I was mad about miracle whip (some of you get just what I am talking about).  So, for those of you who already know I love you, It is true.  I do love you.  I love you very much.  The people I love make my little world spin.  And if any of you have doubts and are sitting there saying "I wonder if she loves me?"  Well, I probably do.  Not a lot of people read this blog, but just ask.  I'll let you know. 

The First Christian Reformed Church of IQ Prerequisite meets twice every Thursday (Sundays have become so passé). The First "Gathering of Like Minds" takes place at 6AM for those who rise pretentiously early to get a start on the day, and the second is at 2 PM for those who sleep pretentiously late because the night-life inspires them to greatness. They meet in a room bare of all "ostentation." The walls and floors gleam white, the members sit in comfortable armchairs. The walls are lined with books. There is a refreshment table. Organic muffins and decaf lattes for all. It is the Barnes and Noble of churches, but not. It is the Mom and Pop book store that Barnes and Noble put out of business. At least that is what it says above the door. Children are frowned upon, as they frequently cause distraction from long-winded discussion. They like quiet and peace and disturbing references to war and AIDS and poverty. There will be a mission issued on a solitary blackboard centered on the far wall. It took two years to write and speaks of great acts of charity and love for fellow man. The members here don’t really know anyone who is impoverished, but last session they all read a book and looked at slides from a magazine. They have been planning a march on the capital for the rights of someone, but they can’t agree for whom. There is much deliberation, and very little action, but everyone goes away feeling very big.

This week’s speaker was chosen at random from the lottery ball of members stationed not far from the door. This month they are working from a pamphlet entitled "Pontificating and God. Why knowing what you believe isn’t good enough anymore." There is a picture of Jesus shaking hands with Caesar Chavez. No one knows why, but it sure seems clever. There is no prayer, but a silent moment, for no one likes to feel called out or uncomfortable. There is no lesson, just a statement and two hours of figuring. That picture of Jesus was the first and last time he was mentioned. Let’s face it, most aren’t even sure he’s really who he claimed to be, and no one wants to alienate him or herself by admitting they think he was. Here at the FCRCIQP, no one liked to admit they actually THOUGHT anything. But the speculation was phenomenal. No one could leave without saying that they did "some real good thinking today." Today’s topic is actually how to pontificate on an empty stomach and the best used bookstores for buying books on philosophy. The speaker brought seven books. He read them all last night. He can quote you pieces of all of them, but when asked for a personal opinion fumbles and mumbles. "I believe my opinion most closely follows that of Kant," he says, but has no rhyme or reason to back it up. Many of his fellow members shake their heads in approval. They all love Kant. They will sing a song together. Not a Fannie Crosby hit, but a poem one of them once wrote on a boat put to music by another and played on a mandolin by a third. No one actually knows it, but the girl they got to sing it has a really good voice. Everyone is wearing linen pants. No one is wearing leather.

When God is finally mentioned, there is a great deal of time spent wondering why he lets them all suffer so, and why people who drive SUV’s are allowed to be happy. They bash their parents for raising them as wholesomely as they knew how and wonder at their judgment. They are glad they know more about the nature of God than any of those preachers who raised them up in faith. The next two hours they will spend questioning the nature of God. They will declare that there is no religion and there is no faith and there is no way, but then wonder why people are so without moral tenets. They will hate other Christians for being simple and strong. They will hate themselves for being wise and weak. It will go like this every week.

Each week, they will each bring a friend. They will outgrow the room with white walls. They will erect a prefab building. They will buy a projector so everyone can see the magazine article pictures of people they will never meet, and frankly don’t want to. The girl with the great voice will lead everyone is songs they don’t know, and the guy will trade in his mandolin for an electric guitar. No one knows what happened to the guy who wrote the poem. They will abhor all that is different and claim themselves above all others. They are Pharisees and prophets. They will decide the name of the church is too long. It will become Reformed Church, plain and simple. But all the same rules will apply.

So there is lots of talk about the Department of Homeland Security adding provisions to "delay" the November election in the case of an Al Queida attack, or a similar threat to US safety.  Special.

Why aren't more people talking about this, and why aren't more people ANGRY!

So, I officially have 2 stretch marks on the middle of my stomach now.  I told Lucas that he ruined me.  Now don't get me wrong, I was plenty fat before and have plenty of other stretch marks, but it seemed that they had avoided the direct center of my stomach, choosing instead to linger near the sides and closer to my ass.  But now, now there are two.  They run parallel on either side of my belly button.  And I got a varicose vein on my thigh.  These are things from which I will never recover.  And two of the reasons why I MUST say:

Being pregnant is a terrible, horrible experience.

There is no magic or wonderment at throwing up and pooping all the time.  A permanent UTI, has not made me any more pleasant to be around, and let's face it, I am kinda a scary bitch with hormones a ragin' anyway.  I sneezed the other day and peed on our bed.  My feet are horribly swolen, and it is almost impossible to shave my legs.  I sweat from hte time I get up, to, well, the time I get up again.  I am tired all the time.  I carry maalox with me every where I go because I have constant indigestion.  Yes, constant.  I get indigestion from water.  The baby is still breech (head up) and should turn soon, but in the mean time is doing what I believe to be some sort of chin ups on my ribs.  What started as this amazing baby rolling and moving feeling has now just become painful.  I haven't slept an entire night in 3 weeks because her constant need to kick and hit me from the inside is enough to keep me up at night.  I have pre-breast milk.  So I have started leaking stuff.  This is not good for morale.  We have no sex life.  And I will cry about absolutely everything. 

So, for all of you looking for a fun vacation spot we have a spare room, and I am GREAT company!

No really, I am in love with the idea of having a child.  I want this baby so badly.  I want to raise something with my husband that will be better than me.  I want to hold her.  I want to dress her in the clothes I sware I wouldn't buy, but already have.  I want her the hell out.  And not just because I am miserable, but because I want her.

I decided God is cruel.  The human gestational period is just too long.  Why can't I carry for like 6 weeks like a cat?  Everyone tells me the second one will be WAY easier.  All I can say is, "THE SECOND ONE?!"  Luke will have to caryy it.  Or I am going to need some significant time before I am looking at that bridge.

Mostly, I have just decided that women in magazines who talk about how WONDERFUL being pregnant is are just LYING.