15 Things to Avoid saying to your Pregnant Wife; Credited to Joshua Michael Andrews

1. 1/12/12 – “If it’s a boy, we should name him Carl Winslow Andrews. That or Frodo-Samwise-Baggins Andrews.”
2. 1/16/12 – “Babe, seriously, you have NO idea how tired I am.”
3. 1/28/12 – (during first ultrasound) “Ok, is it really that uncomfortable, or just cold? We probably need to ‘up’ your pain-tolerance for what’s to come…”
4. 2/5/12 – (behind the camera lens) “I think I see a belly! Oh, wait…we did just eat lunch.”
5. 2/10/12 – “I want a baby girl. Yes, I’m saying it; a baby girl. But only if nothing bad happens to her…ever. And she becomes a nun. Ok, I want a boy.”
6. 2/16/12 – “How soon can I start tossing the baby in the air?”
7. 2/18/12 – “So, you don’t really want to just be home with a baby all day, right? I mean, there’s only so much sleep a person can get before life gets boring…”
8. 2/20/12 – (After watching me struggle into a favorite pair of jeans) “That’s ok baby. I’ll just lose all the weight you gain!”
9. 3/15/12 – “Listen, I found our stroller. Its $1500 … hear me out … the wheels convert into skis.”
10. 4/7/12 – “You ready to go, Chubbs?”
11. 4/18/12 – “I think I’d like to skip the baby-phase and just go straight to the play-with-me-all-day-dressed-like-batman-and-robin-phase.”
12. 5/28/12 – “Hey, you actually look normal from the back!”
13. 6/4/12 – (after being hospitalized for preterm-contractions) “Ok, I’m not saying you’re a woos, I’m just telling you now, you’re gonna get even fatter and hurt even more soon…just so you know.”
14. 7/2/12 – "Ok, what if we did open a bottle of anniversary wine and I just drank your portion...?"
15. 8/13/12 – (After I exclaim that "my legs are officially elephant-trunks" in utter exasperation) "Well that isn't so bad. An elephant's trunk is the smallest of their appendages..."

…I decided to start writing these down…more to come, I’m sure of it.

The Belly Button

I've recently been enlightened about the belly-button. One of many irrational fears I've held since I was young, is that if someone were to poke me slightly too hard in the center, chances are, their finger would go straight through.  I believe it was my sister who first positioned the anxiety for me.  After telling me that my “outtie” was strange, I began to push it in, working it slowly into an “innie” over the course of several weeks. After all, calling something a “button” only seems to invite the habit. I was successful in my endeavor and one day, proudly displayed my new “normal-looking” belly button to my sister.  She was a mastermind and simply replied, “Well, be careful or you’ll poke a hole right through your belly!” From then on, I formed the opinion that should this occur, my "button" would be much like the tab on a pop can, broken-off and lost in a sea of carbonation; likely to never resurface. It’s a scenario many of the leading villains in my nightmares have used against me. For this reason, I’ve steered clear of conversations on or anywhere around the belly button. 

With my newly protruding mid-section, on many nights I’ll find Josh drawing invisible pictures on my belly with his finger, talking and reading to our baby. As he was doing this a few nights ago he asked where the baby gets its nutrients. For some reason, my answer was “the belly button, obviously.”

“Oh”, he said, cocking his head to the left slightly and continuing with his canvass.

                At this point, if you are even slightly educated, you’re probably terrified by the thought of Josh and I parenting the future generation in t-minus-zero-months. In Josh’s defense, he may not have been paying attention to what I was saying, but I certainly was, and naturally began to question my logic. I suppose I assumed that my belly button had developed into a long cord (the umbilical cord) on the inside of me over the first few weeks of pregnancy and connected itself to the baby’s belly button.  He/she was drawing nutrients from a thin layer of tissue (which I deemed to be the placenta) lining my stomach around the cord. Perfectly sensible. Completely inaccurate. This idea planted fresh anxiety into my already wandering mind – How on Earth will they disconnect the cord on the inside of my belly button once the baby is born?? Does it simply tear off at the stub naturally, or will the OB need to bury an arm up to their bicep inside of me to make sure it’s a clean cut?! I’ve seen the umbilical cord of babies cut before. Wouldn’t the very same sever be necessary on the inside of me?! Again, if you’re thinking this is a practical hypothesis, we should probably be friends. If not … we should probably be friends.

Around the table at Josh’s mini-birthday party last week, a few gracious women I know opened my eyes to the obvious. I’m still confused of course…(my bloodstream providing all essentials this little one needs isn’t any more sound of an explanation in my opinion), but I am less afraid and feeling much more positive about the ordeal, not to mention, my belly-button. :)  Speaking of bellies, here is one with a 6.5lb baby inside...

Latest Song: Terebinth Seed [Isaiah 6]

Speak now
I am listening to you
Hoping you still recognize my face
Look deep
I've been known by many other things lately

Like tongues of fire lick up straw
And dry grass in the flames will sink
My roots will all decay before you
Like puddles in the Summer's heat
And it will all blow away

I cry, "I am ruined. My hands are unclean."
Then you speak
And I can't remember what it is you said
But you knew me by name

Like tongues of fire lick up straw
And dry grass in the flames will sink
My roots will all decay before you
Like puddles in the Summer's heat
And it will all blow away

Sweet Seraphim fly
Pressing coals to these lips
Then my guilt will escape me
My failings, acquit
Oh atonement is such a lovely retreat
But I fear I'll be left
With a terebinth seed

And like puddles in the Summer's heat
I will just blow away
 

Michael Anthony O'Connor

Father’s day is around the corner, so I will start with this; My Dad is amazing. It’s true -- He is faster, stronger, more handsome and entirely more capable than any other on the planet…or at least, that is my opinion on the matter.:)  He has shown me the meaning of manhood, what it is to support a woman from start to finish, in sickness and in health, and how forgiving the follies of others should be like breathing air – consistent, necessitated, and more frequent than you expect on hills. He taught me to always trust in God's ability to speak to me, over my ability to hear Him, and is the kind of man you feel the presence of God around, reminding you of His love with only the sound of his voice across the phone. Pondering my “trials” as a child (as we all have them), I can say with confidence that I never once felt betrayal from my Dad. I never felt his contempt on my face or carried it in my heart. I never thought for one moment that he would stand me up, miss a game or concert, and never wished in vain for his arms to hold me. The ferocity of his love and the gentleness with which he was able to convey that is a rare amalgamation. In high school my choices in dating were well below par, and on a particular night at the age of 17, I arrived home from a date far beyond my appointed curfew. I feared my Mom’s reaction the most as the all-too-familiar shadow of her form would be waiting for me at the top of the staircase, unable to sleep and sick with worry. Finding my Dad awake in his room at the foot of their bed however, was a new scene; entirely unanticipated. I made excuses, denied accusations of unreliability, and threw out the repeated allegation that they were indeed “simply trying to destroy my life”.  My Dad, who’s calm demeanor has always made him a comfort to be around, suddenly and firmly launched a fist into the pillow beside me. I don’t believe I had ever seen my Dad’s fist clenched until that moment. He said “Shannon, until you have children, you will never know the pain of a parent watching their child head down the same road and into the same mistakes you have made. Your Mom and I would ‘destroy' ourselves a thousand times over before watching you do it to yourself.” I can't thank you enough Dad, for being willing to say what was difficult yet honest -- for refusing to "sin in your anger", but rather, communicating righteously, with stern conviction, and out of a deep love.
I think of Proverbs 27 as I look back on this moment, “Better is open rebuke than hidden love.”

My wedding day is obviously something I’ll never forget. This is not only due to the man exceeding my dreams at the end of the isle, the tapestry, floral arrangements, loving community of friends and family, but also because of my Dad. As nerves ricocheted off of my heart, streaming through my bones and touching every part of me previously held together, my Dad’s arm at the entrance to the sanctuary kept their steady hold. I remember breathlessly whispering, “I might fall over”. Without hesitation he replied “I won’t let you fall.” And though I’ve heard a similar line in countless movies scenes – promises of un-ending love and support from men to women, I think for one to truly believe such a promise is extraordinary. I believed him then and still do today.

Though he isn’t a man of rapid and fluctuating emotion (nothing of course in comparison to my Mom and I) there is one, solitary moment in which I witnessed his tears. About two years into marriage, Josh and I encountered a slew of unanticipated trials.  Anger, addictions, and a severe distrust surfaced between us, nearly destroying not only our marriage but the relationships we had with our first love.  At its height, I spent weeks writhing in the agony of heartache and bracing myself against an army of hopelessness, beating down the door of my soul. Time away from work and school to be with family in Salem was a retreat I found necessary in order to gain my bearings and feel a sense of security once more. After taking similar time away for himself, Josh made a trip down to where I was. Head on the steering wheel and hands unsteady, I waited until he drew up the strength to pull away and walk inside my parent’s home.  My Mom was waiting on the stairs just as she had so many nights when I was a young girl; my Dad of course, in the next room as we entered together.  The grace of God in positioning His confidence and humility in Josh that morning is something I will admire deeply in my husband until the day I die. In brief and choked-back sentences he re-iterated the vows we had made years earlier, repented of those which were broken, and directed his plea for forgiveness specifically toward my Dad – the man who had “handed me over” to him on the basis of these promises-kept. But before Josh could finish the speech he had prepared, my Dad’s tears broke into the room; the same fist I had seen long ago, pressed now to his forehead, straining to contain a flood of tears. He suddenly stood from his seat across the room and ran at my still-shaking husband.  Taking him into his arms, Josh beseeched his forgiveness over and over again. My Dad's repeated cry in response has set its seal on my heart forever; “I forgive you….I forgive you….I forgive you...”. These fractured words between them were all that could be heard amidst their sobs as the very heart of Christ radiated from every corner of the room. As the weeping continued, my Mom and I (for perhaps the first time) sat in silence, stunned and unable to gather ourselves in response. A song from “Cinderella”, one I had heard a thousand times as a little girl played back in my heart, “So this is love…”.

My Dad has been a father to the fatherless, a fearless and gentle commander, and a lover of the unlovable. His unwavering commitment to the Lord and ambition to not only know the depths of that love, but communicate it to others has been an inspiration to me. He has taught patient endurance to a family with a stark inclination for the opposite. On the way home today, Josh and I  verbally wrestled with the ever-approaching titles of “Mother”/"Father" we were both to receive, and all that its meaning would demand. Josh closed our discussion by saying, “If I can be anything at all like your Dad, I will die a very successful man.”

Happy Father’s Day to my incredible Dad. 

May we raise up more men in this generation like you.

The Fourth Watch of the Night

I found myself peeling back the pages of an old journal this weekend to a darker period in time. The excerpt below entitled “Of ORU” was an entry I felt the need to include here. Ecclesiastes 3 offers a perfect example of such a valley and I am thankful I have not forgotten it, nor failed to learn from its depth. Finding Him in the mundane, anticlimactic places is crucial to developing an authentic understanding of who He is and what He desires in us. Reading Mark this past week I was struck by chapter 6 in its order of events leading up to Jesus’ infamous trek on the water's surface:

“Immediately Jesus made His disciples get into the boat and go ahead of Him to the other side to Bethsaida, while He Himself was sending the crowd away. After bidding them farewell, He left for the mountain to pray. When it was evening, the boat was in the middle of the sea, and He was alone on the land. Seeing them straining at the oars (for the wind was against them), at about the fourth watch of the night, He came to them, walking on the sea; and He intended to pass by them…”

Frustration was my initial reaction. For those of you unfamiliar with “watches of the night”, this refers to the Jewish cultural norm of dividing the night-hours in three parts. The fourth watch of the night therefore, was between the hours of 3am and 6am. Why on Earth would Jesus watch them struggle for 9 complete hours, only to waltz out to them on the water’s surface “intending to PASS them by…”?! Reading a little further and digging a little deeper into the story and surrounding text, I began to gain a little clarity. 

“…They were terrified when they saw Him, but Jesus spoke to them at once. ‘Its alright,’ he said. ‘I am here, do not be afraid.’ Then he climbed into the boat and the wind stopped. They were astonished at what they saw. They still didn’t understand the miracle of the multiplied loaves, for their hearts were hard and they did not believe.”

There was a severe lack of understanding in the disciples consistently evident in their reactions to the plan of heaven. I look again through the passage and see how much Jesus desired them to know Him as solely sufficient, all-satisfying, all-powerful and all consuming. He was watching over them – praying on their behalf – desiring their hearts to understand His purpose, and strengthening their understanding of His vision. We cannot practice true discipleship unless we have a right understanding of Who it is we follow.  

In the tarried nights in which I find myself straining at the oars, wondering why He is waiting until the fourth watch of the night to walk by, I can think of Peter, James, and John. And I look to the mountains where I know He is, interceding on my behalf and wholly provisional. The darkness will not remain.

Of ORU...

I pry my eyes away from the sectioned and wooden floor, and am greeted with the all too familiar plethora of colored flags and gleaming metal pipes that hold in a continuous stretching mode towards the ceiling. The music moves my feet but not my spirit; my emotions but not my heart. A tiny chisel taps in rhythm coloring the background of my words in song, hardly cracking the top layer of my icy soul and creating tiny bits of snowy dust. A humbling occupation for an almighty king, don't you think?

Sometimes I wish we were all blind. And sometimes I think we are. The girl beside me displays clenched eye lids, so tight aging wrinkles form across their surface and lashes disappear inside the fold. Her teeth grind as an unknown tongue seeps through them, variating in tone and volume. I study her face so struck with sorrow, anger, fear, regret perhaps, and I wonder if when opened, they will reveal anything at all. And although she of different color holds my hand and sings out strong, although the instruments play sweetly serenading my senses, and although the words of man in suit ring out in passionate song, my heart is hard and tired. My hands feel heavy and refuse to rise as I am called to do so. My eyes are dry though I try to cry, and conveniently the echoing noise of the crowd drowns my attempt. The wooden pews saw-dusty smell along with the musty aroma of age old Bible pages forces me to wonder, do I mind that typical scent of Sunday? Or have I simply submitted myself into acceptance, as it seems to not bother those around me? They open their arms as if welcoming it into the core of their being. Prayers are pealed aloud, crescendowing in volume and depth. It’s true. They did not move me. Their perfect fire annoyed me. And I could not find him anywhere. I want to trust him, but I’m losing steam. They take their lives and lay them down - sinners ransomed from the fall. I thank him like I do a gentleman holding open a door, but not like a daughter thanks a father for a precious and coveted necklace of pearls. And I cry alone, not from joy. But really, don’t we all? I see him hang there above - his face torn with grief, eyebrows dipped inward - still looking better than I. But no one is looking at him, they all see the unseen. I still have never seen him, and some days, I don’t love him at all. Forgive me this sin.

10/09/2003

Incongruency

He lingers
He calls me like a maniacal lover, waiting at the tide of his beloved
But she drowned long ago in its waves

He won't relent
in the midnight he calls to me
and when I open my eyes to silence and solitude
there I ache for him

Why do I ache at all?

could it be he never took my hand
could it be he never lead me to the grave

where the sheets were stained and my hands were chained
behind that great stone
could it be your mercy's flawed -- in need
of restoration
a poet's pen

could it be we are really bigger than him?
still, you won't relent

soaked in your casket
I, clenching fists at the bestial stares
meet eyes far too allied
They which wonder at a wondrous love
too embittered to conceive

So I burn the pulpit and strip the robes
I pull their tongues out with stones
I beat with sanity
mock with strain
to help reveal their paltry refrain

But you call my name
and you call my name
still you call my name

So could it be he never took my hand
could it be he never lead me to the grave

where the sheets were stained and my hands were chained
behind that great stone
could it be your mercy's flawed -- in need
of restoration
a poet's pen

could it be we are really bigger than him
...still, you won't relent

and i ache
i ache for you

Baby Shoes

I'm sitting here eating an entire block of cheese on my lunch at work. Such an activity is frowned upon by my healthier colleagues, so I subconsciously rationalize with the idea that since this particular flavor was purchased from the more sophisticated and expensive section of the grocery store, it must equate some level of dietary fiber. It also happens to be the only thing I feel like putting into my stomach. Lately I've developed a strong taste for corn dogs, black coffee, eggs (any style, so long as there is cheese involved), ice (weird?), meatball subway sandwiches (ok, these have always been a passion), and grapefruit. These cravings, along with a "supernatural ability to sleep all hours of the day" (as Josh puts it), eventually drew me to the isle in Fred Meyer entitled "Feminine Hygiene". There I discovered a plethora of over-priced pregnancy tests. Skimming the brands I was surprised that a "Pregnant" / "Not Pregnant" result window was $5-$10 more than a simple two-lines. Our apparent stupidity as Americans is certainly capitalized on by all streams of business. I made the profound move of taking the simple lined-result-version, believing I had somehow stuck a thorn in the side of Capital America (my arrogant perception of influence never ceases to exaggerate itself). After taking the test that afternoon, I stepped into the shower, assuming the result would be negative as it had in the past. It wasn't that we had been trying for a baby. Certainly when anyone asked when “our family” would begin I would scoff and reply with something like “Oh, life is moving a little too fast right now”…  But the truth was, about two months into our 5^th year of marriage a sort of ache had developed inside of me. And the aching was unfamiliar, like a bruise on the inside that you can’t quite situate yourself well-enough to avoid. Every time I ate or drank, a portion of what I took in seemed to go down into an empty pit inside. Each day I wondered when this “hole” was tunneled without my knowledge and why it remained so increasingly dissatisfied. Watching my friends and family raise babies (a majority of them married after Josh and I) had always been a joy. But letting go of those outrageously chubby faces and handing them back to their parents was getting more and more difficult. I couldn't help but wonder, why hadn't it accidentally occurred? Josh and I tend to do a number of extraordinary things on accident. I'm a highly forgetful person and a number of pills had been missed on sporadic occasions in the past. What was wrong with me? Was I wasting our finances on birth control all the while unaware of my inability to conceive? We could be putting that money toward adopting! Diving into Google's abyss offered minimal reassurance. Countless tales of women unable to have a child flooded the pages in front of me. I found a thousand testimonies of "inhospitable wombs" tied to my birth control, adhd-medication, sugar-intake, even the led paint plastered on the walls of our 1920's home. I even found myself googling the area of Singapore I was born in and scouring Wikipedia for insight into chemicals I may have been exposed to. All of these anxieties inevitably lead to conversations of an unpleasant nature with Josh.

"What if we can't have kids?" I say randomly as we’re driving to work together.

"Why would you say that?" He replies (with a sort of casualty I find abominable).

"Why WOULDN'T you say that?? Do you SEE a baby here??! No."

The perplexity on my husband's face is one I want to believe many men have mimicked. No woman wants to be the only outrageous, irrational, ticking-time-bomb that at times, she is.

"Shannon, we have plenty of time for that. Wait, did your Mom say something to you?"

I'm all clenched in my responses now; "So it’s that you hate my family, huh? You've been holding back all these years...do you know how hard it is for women to conceive after 30?? Do you even care??!"...

The poor man is between a rock and a hard place at this point. If he doesn't learn to fly quickly, he may as well start digging.

"Um, no. No, that isn’t it at all. Maybe we can talk about it in a year...how about a year? ..."

The "next year" proposal didn't go over well at first, but we finally agreed this past Fall that waiting a little further into my masters program was most likely the best solution. The catch was that I was going to go off of birth control in the mean time and other means of "protection" would be necessary, (since according to Google, hormone pills cause babies to be born without eyes....among other things).

The plan was set. November was our first month without birth control. Amidst the stress of the holiday season however, neither one of us were very careful or thoughtful in the moments we needed to be (when is anyone??).

So there I was, getting into the shower, leaving the test to develop on the bathroom tile. I went for the shampoo then stopped. "I should just check..." I thought to myself.  Lo and behold, two lines revealed themselves, one slightly faded. I jumped up and down. Then I cried. Then I prayed. Usually the order of things.

I needed to get my mind off of things as I brainstormed a creative way to break the news to Josh. Someone once told me exercise helps with this sort of thing. So I went for a run. And I hate to admit this (to my own generation in particular), but as the baby weighed heavy on my mind, there was a clear transition in which my arms began to swing forward, keeping their 90-degree angle and closed fists as if to weakly "put up dukes" to an invisible foe. My stride changed as well -- my hips swayed in an awkward fashion, as though I was 50lbs overweight and the rest of my body was at the mercy of their rhythm. "It’s happening" I thought to myself. I'm becoming a mom. Next thing you know I'll be purchasing pants so hiked they force my butt into the hideous, non-shape that so famously defined the term "mom jeans". My jokes will become more dignified and less funny. I will either lose the ability to use a straightener or my hair will simply become immune to its heat. Oh Lord, I think my cheeks are falling…

The days that followed were anxious and long. In an effort to continue stalling, I settled on telling the Peet’s Coffee barista, grocery attendant, gas-station attendee, New Seasons ramen noodle-guy, the crew on an advertisement I was cast in recently, and my sister. That was all sufficient enough until I could come up with a decent “revealing scheme” for Josh. With Christmas a day behind us it seemed only fitting to bring up a “belated present” to him. Though my handwriting (shaking as it was) made the card difficult for him to read, and at one point, he does set it on fire, he manages to get into the tiny box of running shoes and give me the reaction I so wanted to capture.

For my sweet husband and all the patience you give me daily…enjoy.:)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RkZ9-iQP_0&feature=youtu.be