When you're infertile, you get to be on the receiving end of a lot of incidental jerkiness. You know, the relative who tells you that you should care more about starting a family and less about your career. The coworker who loudly asks you in the middle of a crowded faculty lounge if you are pregnant, because she felt just how you look when she was pregnant with every single one of her thirty kids. The lady at church who tells you jokingly that you can't sit in THAT pew, because it's where all of the moms sit. Stuff like that.
And the thing about incidental jerkiness is that we've all been there. It's what happens when things that normally sweet people say hybridize with circumstances they don't even know about to become cosmic sucker punches. Or, sometimes, it occurs when we simply say ill-considered things. Like the time a black friend of mine was helping me move and I told him not to wimp out on the heavy stuff because I'm a real slave driver. Yeah, that was one big forehead slap. But it happens. And I guess the good thing about receiving so many heaping helpings of incidental jerkiness over the last few years is that it has made me more aware of my own mistakes. And hopefully I avoid being THAT GUY a little more often.
But here's the kicker. Ever since Eden came into our lives, I fear that my very existence has become one big tribute to incidental jerkiness. The NICU nurse who just had her first failed in-vitro. The car-seat check lady who has been trying to adopt for three years through our same agency. Every prospective adoptive mom and frustrated couple trying to conceive. I'm sorry. Really, I am. Just not sorry enough to give Eden back. And so here I stand, like the schmuck I am, all fresh cut marble graven in the likeness of incidental jerkiness.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
We are lucky enough to know TWO amazing photographers. And both of them volunteered to take pictures of Eden and of us as a family. It was quite thrilling actually. These were our first ever family photos. I mean, sure, we had engagement pictures and shots from our wedding, random candids taken on hiking trips and the like...but never have we had family pictures. Until now. It's almost like we're all grown up! Anyway, if you need a photographer for anything, you can just contact Sierra (my baby sister!) at email@example.com or Shantel at http://www.slurpee4bys1grl.blogspot.com/.
Alright, alright, I'll assume that you don't want to see any more. I can't really blame you, but then you can't blame me for being absolutely obsessed with this beautiful girl.
P.S. Mikelle, you people need to stop by sometime on your way north. Consider this your personalized, anytime invitation. And you won't hurt my feelings if you leave the green jello casserole behind...
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I hate ants. Really, really hate ants. I thought they were kind of cute when I was a kid because the only ants where we lived were little and harmless and busy. Then I served a mission in Georgia and met the state mammal: Fire Ants. Seriously those things are big, mean, and dastardly. They inject you with some venom called solenopsin and leave open sores that weep for days, which happened to me there on several occasions. Once, I attempted to toss in a dumpster a McDonald's fries basket that someone had thrown in the street: a whole hive of those hellishly red fiends ate my hands raw. I HATE ants.
Dear Ants, want another piece of this?
One thing leads to another.
SO, imagine how I felt when (at three in the morning) I came up our stairs to make a bottle for Eden and found instead the ants, not marching orderly and two by two, but swarming through our side door. I lost it, people! Some of them were the winged colonizers, you know, the scouts that decide if the new location is a great place to establish a new nest. Oh, oh, no you didn't! I may assure you that there was no Squantoesque "welcome to my land, let's have Thanksgiving" mistakes around here. Ha! I ran back downstairs, assumed some form of clothing to hide my skivvies, and bolted through the back door for our garage. Armed with a spray pump of Raid, I did what we Indians should have done when we colonial white folk first started coming 'round: Let the rest of them keep on thinking Columbus sailed straight off the edge of planet earth, that's what. It was a total massacre. And although my normally peace-loving self feels a trifle sheepish, I'm not really sorry.
Dear Ants, want another piece of this?