Silas

Silas
Originally uploaded by Steve Bremer

It's been so long since I've blogged that I've had time to gestate and birth my third son!

Silas John
January 21st, 5:04 a.m.
8lb 8oz, 20"

Sleeping on my chest right now!

Look, a Blog!

It is hard to write a new blog post when my last post keeps staring accusingly at me from November. You missed Christmas, it says. You missed all of January and most of February, it says. There's hardly any point in writing now, it says.

It's not that interesting stuff hasn't happened in our lives, it's just that it was so interesting, and I was so tired because it was so interesting that I couldn't summon the energy to blog about it. Yeah, not really, but it sounds good if I put it that way.

In sad news up front, we had a miscarriage this past November and lost a sweet little baby. I didn't put an announcement on Facebook, and I didn't write about it here. I felt really reluctant to announce the pregnancy early on, or the miscarriage, but I feel a bit differently now. We did tell a few family and close friends when we found out we were expecting again, and when I was lamenting the fact that we'd have to un-tell them, Steve reminded me that those people who knew about the pregnancy were all praying for us during our time of grief. That was a very comforting thought. I've decided that if we, Lord willing, get pregnant again we'd like all the prayers we can muster and all the joy that anyone wants to send our way when we get those two lines. In a lot of ways I'm still grieving, because it is hard for me to deal with the fact that I "should" be a certain number of weeks pregnant and I'm not. I have seen God's mercy in a lot of this, though, and I'm trying to remain ever thankful for His provision.

What else has been going on? Well, as of January I stopped changing diapers. That's right, Matthew uses the potty (mostly). Kind of a momentous thing since I have been changing diapers since September of 2007. Even though using cloth diapers for most of that time has reduced the total diaper count, it is still a lot of changes. Potty training for me is very stressful. The only way we got through it was going cold turkey, meaning I just didn't buy any more diapers (truthfully, I forgot my coupons when I went to Costco and refused to pay full price for diapers). If I have them available to use, I will give up about 4 hours into the potty training process and just slap a diaper on that stubborn little bottom. But, given the coupon situation I was forced to deal with my frustration and get that kid to use underpants. We're all happier for it.

I am teaching Ethan to read using this book and we're both loving it. I read on another blog how a mom counted it one of her greatest blessings to be the one who taught all of her children to read, and I have bought into that romantic notion. It is pretty fun. Ethan is, helpfully, a very willing student. We (mostly I) am very excited to have found a half-day, classical model school here in our newest town, and so he may actually go out of the home to kindergarten next year. I am hoping that a couple of years of having him there (before we have to move again) will give us a good foundation for homeschooling if we move to a place where private school isn't an option for us.

The other big thing that we've done is taken the plunge into the world of minivans. Since the U.S. government seems intent on devaluing our savings for the future, we thought we might as well spend it now! Actually, our RAV-4 that we bought when Ethan was still cooking turned out to be not the family vehicle we thought. You can't really fit 3-across in the back row and it was proving problematic anytime we had family visiting, or thought about carpooling with anyone to any event, and especially with the idea that God might give us a third little baby we decided to upgrade. So far I love our Odyssey, even if I was a mite sad when we traded in the RAV.

So, we are just trucking along. Our days are full of home group, Bible study, teaching class, disciplining, whooping it up, laughing at toddler antics, cleaning up spills, reigning in our tempers (I like to say that one applies to the 2yo, but it's mostly me), and just generally working on loving each other. Hard work that doesn't necessarily lend itself to blogging, but this time I know I will be more disciplined about keeping up with the blog now that I've caught it up. ;)

Here's the boys, wishing you a good 2012:

Mystery

Starting the advent season, and lighting the first candle tonight (instead of last night, because I, ahem, didn't actually have a wreath until today), I watched my two-year-old gaze around the table in wonder and puzzlement as we lit the candle and sang 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel'.  He kept looking from the flame, to me, to his dad, to his brother and back to the candle.  He is normally full of noise and wiggles, but tonight he sat still in wonder at our liturgy.  Next year, he may recognize the candles, he may know some of the songs, and he might sing along.  Only 18 months older, and now Ethan sits and answers our questions -- "What does Emmanuel mean?"  "Who is the light of the world?".  Matthew sits and stares.

I love the look of discovery and awe during Christmas that little ones can't fake.  It makes me think of how confused everyone must have been when God told them that Jesus was going to be born, that His son was a baby on the earth, or when He told Mary she was going to be His mother.  Can you think of getting news like that?  I imagine they might have looked, even for just a second, a bit like my toddler sitting at the dinner table wondering what in the world we are doing.

Tonight, we light the first candle of advent, the prophesy candle.  We light a candle to remind us that Jesus is the Light of the world.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

A Decade Past

Ten years ago I was sitting in my barracks room, dreading having to go into work on my day off to study for my Career Development Course exams.  It was a gorgeous day, and I was in an otherwise great mood because I had just gotten approval to move out of the barracks into my own apartment out in town.  I flipped on the TV, then called my mom.  I remember not quite really knowing how to say good-bye to her in that phone call, because how do you say, "I'll talk to you later" while your country is being pummeled with attack after attack and not knowing when it's going to end?  But I hung up the phone and, despite everything, drove to the annex where I worked to start studying.  Once I got there (a little over an hour after we were attacked), the base was locked down and I was studying for much longer than I originally intended.  A few hours later, they escorted a few of us back to our cars, and I drove back to the base where my barracks were located.  My car was searched.  My ID was checked.  Up until this point my military career, as long as I had a base sticker on my car, the gate guard would wave me through without stopping.  In the decade since the attack I have always had a base sticker on my car, but I've never been waved through the gate again.  There is always a stop now to show my ID.  The next day it took me two hours to get into work two miles away because of the searching of each and every car.  I was late for my exam, but it hardly seemed important, even after months of studying and preparing.  It took me another two hours to get home to my barracks.  For more than a week my 5 minute commute became 120 minutes each way, and sitting in my car all that time listening to news report after news report, my inconvenience seemed trivial.

My then boyfriend was just back from shore liberty, on the USS Peleliu in Australia, watching his country get attacked from afar.  I had just visited him in July to see him off.  In the airport I had walked with him to his gate!  Imagine, walking someone to their gate!  Their ship had left from San Diego a month before 9/11, on a routine "cruise" around the world, doing what Marines do:  training, training and more training.  Steve was an Arabic linguist at the time.  I had no way of contacting him any time soon.  E-mail was locked down, and he was in transit, so letters took weeks.  As soon as I realized what this attack meant for him and his friends aboard the ship I had what I think of now as a rather embarrassing breakdown.  Luckily I lived alone, but I called my mother again, in tears, selfishly wondering how I was going to handle him being in combat.  At twenty, everything going on in the world seemed to revolve around how I felt about it and how it would affect me.  Given the navel gazing in this post, I suppose not much as changed, but then again I was planning on not writing this post for that exact reason.

I feel sort of silly, now, writing about where I was during all of what happened on 9/11/01.  Why does it matter where I was when so many were dead and suffering?  My husband came back from the war (and two years later he came home to me again after another war).  I am so blessed.  He was unscathed and we married and have two beautiful sons.  So why does it matter where I was?  When I think of that day I think of my insignificance and helplessness among all that suffering and trauma.  But it is hard to avoid the "where were you when" emotions and questions, especially among the blogosphere and on Facebook, so I came across this post in my reader just a bit ago and felt encouraged to write everything down after reading this:

I feel like I am finally able to admit, perhaps boldly, even though I did not personally suffer tragedy on 9-11, that we all suffered. I was traumatized. I never felt it fair to feel that or certainly not respectful to say so. I still feel so much grief and sadness when I think back to those raw emotions of watching the story play itself out, changing second by second, as I was transfixed for nearly 24 hours a day with a baby who barely even knew she was out of the womb let alone think it appropriate to ever sleep more than a few hours. So it was myself, Isabela, and the television all night long, so many nights. I would not let go of her. I needed her to need everything from me. And even though the contrast of what I was holding and what I was watching could not have been more opposed to one another, I am grateful that I was constantly reminded of the Good because of her precious, new innocence. Like a pill I had to take every three hours as I nursed her, to convince myself that there was still enough good, when I think so many of us questioned it. Didn't we? Thank God for good. So much of it all around us.

So I wrote down my story.  Even hearing the news and watching the memorial coverage today, so many who lost so much on 9/11 seem to have a story of redemption and courage and goodness that came in the next decade.  There is so much good here in this world, so much to be thankful for even amongst tragedy and heartbreak.  Remembering on a day like today and what happened 10 years ago, I am especially thankful that Love has conquered death.

Rest for the Weary

I wanted to blog about the most wonderful thing that happened about six weeks ago, but in order to do that, I have to go back even further.  Around two years ago, my husband was just starting his tour at the Pentagon.  He left for his first day of work, and I thought he'd be back relatively quickly.  My experience with the military is that usually the first day of any job after a move is fairly light.  They want you to get checked in with all the various offices around the unit, and give you a chance to take care of stuff at home, since usually there are boxes to be unpacked and utility companies to deal with and things like that.  Well, my husband left for his first day of work at the Pentagon and...14 hours later he came home.  I should say that I always do poorly on days when I think my husband will be home early.  Every minute that passes the deadline I've set in my head causes my frustration that he isn't home "yet" to ratchet up a notch.  It makes things very unpleasant for all of us!  This day was the day that I had to lower my expectations quite a bit.  I knew the next two years would be hunker down mode for us.

So, that first day was a sign of things to come, and that tour in DC was a very sanctifying experience for all of us.  After about six months or so in to the shift work, long hours, and stress of a demanding job, Steve and I started talking about trying to organize a getaway after the tour was over.  It was mainly just a dream at that point, but we started talking about it. 

Fast forward 18 months to July of this year and my very blessed husband and I were boarding a cruise ship!!  My mother-in-law flew all the way out to our place, stayed with the kids for 10 glorious days while Steve and I cruised up and back down the east coast.  We boarded our ship in New York, sailed up to Cape Breton, then did Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, Maine, Boston, and Newport.  We relaxed, we ate, we touristed, and then ate some more.  I look back on that vacation and just think how very blessed we were to be able to do such a thing.  The best part of the vacation is that when it came time to come back home, I was not at all sad that the trip was over, I was just plain excited to see my babies.

Peggys Cove, Nova Scotia

Me, being goofy in Halifax

 

So happy to see my boys!  (this one sat in a puddle just before I got to him!)

Great to be home

Catechism 101

We are about to get hit with a major storm here tomorrow, and we've been preparing the kids for the fact that the hurricane might be exciting and maybe a bit scary.  We were discussing hurricanes in the car tonight, and Ethan asked me why hurricanes are exciting.  I told him that with big weather like hurricanes we could see the power of God.  He very seriously informed me, "No, Mom, you canNOT see God."

If you have ever catechized your children, perhaps using this little book, you might see where Ethan found my error:

11.Q. Can you see God?
A. No; I cannot see God, but he always sees me.

 I love that the gears are turning in his little brain and starting to make connections between what he's memorized and how it fits in to his life.  Even if he doesn't quite have it down pat yet.

After that, he informed Steve and I that he likes Jesus because Jesus is not scary.

New Places

Well, I've come to the point in my life where I'm once again sitting in a sea of boxes. We've moved again and I'm trying to sort out where everything goes and honestly trying to sort out why we own some of this stuff in the first place. I walked into my bedroom last night, looked at the small area of the floor that is not covered in boxes and noted a newborn onesie, a wetsuit boot, and a name tape from my old Air Force days. Whoever came up with the principle of "everything in its place" was probably trying to help someone like me.  These moves make me feel as though the TV show Hoarders may show up to film my house at any second.  I imagine my reaction to the crew showing up would be somewhat indignant at first and then a shrug while saying, "Yeah, you've got a point."

Moving always makes me contemplative.  Aside from going through all those sentimental items that only come out when we move, there's something about leaving a place where you've lived an made memories that always makes me a little bit sad, even if I wasn't too attached to it or didn't live there very long. We only lived in D.C. for two years and it's not really my kind of city, but we had an amazing church there and some great friends. It is always hard to leave those things.

The other thing that gets me about moving is the kids. With my littles, two years makes a huge difference. When I moved to Washington state 4 years ago, all I had was this:

Then, when we moved to D.C. two years later, I had these:

But leaving D.C., our family looked like this:

The days seem long, but when I look at these pictures, I can't figure out where all the time went.

If moving away from somewhere makes me melancholy, the other side is also true. I love the idea of moving to a new house, having a clean slate (at least until the boxes show up), and looking forward to God's blessings and how he will use us in this new place.