November, Really?

It's November. I almost want to pinch myself. When did this happen? I'm cracking out the pine cone dishes. And the Bing Crosby music. And the cookies.

I gave Mabel a small piece of cookie while Matt watched. No chocolate. She was perhaps the most thankful dog in the whole wide world, even though I ended up yelling at her to be still so I could take the picture. She totally doesn't get the importance of blog pictures.

Happy Thanksgiving

My mom painted this. There are two tiny figures standing out on the pier. That's me and my dad when I was a little girl. For some reason it's always reminded me of Thanksgiving.

I've been thinking a lot about thankfulness lately. We have a lot to be thankful for this year. Our jobs were kept safe. Baby Jane is healthy. The book sold.

It made me think about the whole concept of thankfulness. I used to believe that being thankful was something that happened as a result of good things. Raise = thankful. Birth = thankful. Money = thankful. Vacation = thankful.

But then I thought back. Back to the last couple of years. I thought about 2008. I spent that year watching Angela get sicker. She died that December. I thought about 2009. I went to a grief counselor. I woke up in the middle of the night, dreaming about Ang. Some dreams were good. Some were not. They were flashbacks to hospice and beeping hospital monitors. Those dreams woke me up in the middle of the night, sweating, unable to go back to sleep.

It was hard, sometimes impossible, to be thankful during those years.

There is a lovely couple at our church, Pat & Lynn Wright. While talking to me about her husband's cancer treatment, she reached out to touch my arm.

"Liz, God is good all the time."

A huge lump formed in my throat when she said it and I swollowed furiously, trying not to cry in public. There they were, facing cancer. And yet, she smiled. She encouraged me. They had peace. Because God is good. I was humbled.

I used to believe that happy, optimistic people were just in denial. That they weren't as realistic as the rest of us. But not anymore. Optimists just make better choices. They choose to believe God is good. They choose to believe their lives are good. And maybe "optimist" is the wrong label. Maybe the right label should simply be "thankful."

I realized then, and have more and more as time goes on, that God really is good, regardless of whether we are being showered with physical fortune or not. He was good in 1984 when mom painted this painting. He was good in 2008 when I was crying. He was good in 2009 when I was recovering. He is good now. Thankfulness doesn't have to be accompanied by blessings or gifts. Thankfulness is a state of mind. It is a choice. A place where you can stand and smile and say "God is good all the time" regardless of your circumstances. The Wrights taught me that. Writing the book taught me that. Angela taught me that. God taught me that.

So Happy Thanksgiving.

May you be blessed in your soul no matter what is happening this year.

Because God truly is good all the time.

Twinkle lights, kitchen

The boxes have come out of the attic.
The twinkle lights are going up.
The tree has a broken bulb and an unlit branch.

I've gained thirteen pounds since I got pregnant.

Mabel has gained one. It's her "sympathy pound."

Matt is watching football.

All is well.

Boys vs. Girls

There's nothing like being knocked up to make a couple sit around and weigh the pros and cons of having a boy baby vs. a girl baby. I'll be honest with you. We could have cared less. We were more concerned with the fact that the ultrasound tech was REALLY looking for important things, like holes in the heart and malformations of the spine. Yikes.

But once the baby was declared healthy and we wiped the cold sweat from our foreheads, the tech smiled and said "It's a girl." Our brains began to spin.

I'd like to preface this post by saying my husband is one of those delightful males who is totally secure in his manhood. He buys makeup and tampons for me. He shrugs his shoulders and says "whatever you want" when I eat too much pie, get high on a sugar level spike and start screaming, "I'm going to paint the whole house pink! Wouldn't that be beautiful?" He doesn't bat an eye when I putter back and forth in front of his tv line of sight and decorate the man-room mantle in the frilliest, sparkliest, girliest Christmas decorations... on November 17th. But that's another story.

Matt wasn't pining away for a male prodigy to burp and fist bump with. But as we held hands and gazed into each others eyes, I saw a tiny bit of worry in his deep violet peepers.

"I think my job just got harder," he smiled, happy tears rolling down his cheeks.

Ha. Just kidding. The only time I've seen Matt remotely close to crying was when Mabel was a puppy and got stuck behind the refrigerator. Again. Another story.

I shook my head and patted his hand, "Nope honey. MY job just got a lot harder."

And that's when I told him this story.

One time Mom and Dad had an argument. Dad stomped into the living room and Mom clanked dishes loudly in the kitchen. She simmered for a while, and then noticed the house was uncharacteristically quiet. She rounded the corner into the living room and stopped short.

Dad was sitting in his chair, eyes closed. Rebecca (age 9) was standing behind the chair, lovingly combing his hair. Rachel (age 5)was perched in his lap, patting his face. They both gazed at Mom accusingly, and continued to console poor Daddy. It was clear whose side of the argument the girls favored, and Mom was clearly the loser.

People always patted Dad's back and said, "Three daughters? I'm sorry." But the person they should have been handing apologies to was Mom. She was the one we rolled our eyes at and mouthed off to. We ignored her advice. We snuck around behind her back. Daddy was sacrosanct.

So as unfamiliar as pink tutus and intricate architectural constructs of the female pony tale may be to Matt, he's not the one who really has to worry. I do. He'll be the good guy. I'll be the one who says things like, "No, you can't get your ears pierced a third time, you're ten." And Jane hold up a hand, and mumble "whatever mom" as she trots off to give Matt a foot massage.

And I can't wait.

Christmas, Early

Christmas came early.
My mind-reading mother-in-law, Saint Linda, gave me this butter dish from Anthropologie.
I'm good.
I don't need anything else.
Santa is off the hook.
Unless he just reaaaalllyyy wants to bring me a cuckoo clock.

Three Babies, Three Months

These are my sisters-in-law (and niece Elizabeth).

We're all pregnant.

That's right.

Three babies in three months.

Elizabeth is pretty stoked about the whole situation.

She's also taking her role very seriously.

I told her, "You'll have to watch over your little sister and cousins."

She responded, "Yes, and tell if they're bad."

I feel much better knowing she's on the job.

Needless to say, my mother-in-law, Saint Linda, is beyond ecstatic.

Three grand-babies in three months.
But I solemnly vow that their hair will be more combed this baby doll.

Unless Jane takes after her Aunt Rebecca.