Guest post: Oprah was right

This is the first of several guest posts to the blog in the coming weeks as I adjust to life with baby. Yes, I am aware of how pathetic taking a maternity leave from a blog sounds. Work with me here.

First up is former Chicago Tribune reporter Carolyn Starks. Carolyn and I worked in different offices at the Trib, but shared a goodbye lunch when we left — around the same time I jumped, Carolyn and dozens of other reporters, photographers and editors were pushed. But in Carolyn’s experience, a push was just what she needed. — Emily

OPRAH WAS RIGHT

By Carolyn Starks

I didn’t learn this golden rule until I was laid off from the Chicago Tribune on April 24, the day I lost a job and followed a dream.

Before then, I had always hated the pressure Oprah put on us with her “find your passion” decree. Great, I thought, now I feel guilty that I don’t scrapbook. A good friend wondered whether going to the movies qualified. What about chips?

With two young girls, a husband and a full-time job, I told myself I didn’t need that kind of pressure. Plus, I was afraid to leave the security of what I had been doing for 16 years. So I ignored Oprah’s calling to do what I love and continued working at a job that I sort of liked.

Carolyn

Have you ever noticed that if you consistently ignore your inner voice it will eventually get your attention? Sometimes it’s oh-so-polite and whispers, “This is the way.” Then there are the moments when suddenly Glenn Close is yelling, “I will not be ignored, Dan!”

The latter is the moment I had when an editor showed up in my suburban bureau to tell me they were closing my office. At once, I was stunned and grateful. After all, I had a stellar career with the Tribune and I thought layoffs were over. I was grateful because I was free, if not forced, to reinvent myself.

So here I am. For the first time in my working life, I feel consistently fulfilled with what I am doing, day in and day out. That’s a pretty profound statement. I founded a publishing company called Storybuilders, and tapped many of my extremely talented former colleagues to write children’s stories that I am publishing.

I am thrilled to reconnect with full-time motherhood, to wake up with my girls without the rush of having to get myself ready for work. My husband and I had worked opposite shifts so that we wouldn’t have to use daycare. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I was home full-time.

So how did I find my passion? The secret, for me, was the gift of an uncluttered mind. No more deadlines, editor demands, obsessing over news or fearing that I forgot the word “allegedly” in a story. The newspaper business was a great ride but now it was time to put it to bed.

About a month before I was laid off, a colleague asked me what I would do if I could do anything else. It took two seconds before I answered: I would start my own company that created something good for the world and was successful.

Finding your passion is sometimes as simple as paying attention to your daydreams. In my case, it was an entrepreneurial spirit and the desire to create something out of nothing and to make it grow.

Oprah was right. There. I said it.

Learn more about Carolyn Starks and Storybuilders by visiting Storybuilders’ Facebook Fan Page here and follow Carolyn’s blog here. Watch for www.storybuildersonline.com to launch in March.

Questions or feedback for Carolyn? Post in the comments section below.

Milestones

With Erik back at work and the big round of visitors gone, today is my first day at home alone with the baby. I feel like I’ve gone back to work after a nice long break. My new can’t-break deadlines are feedings, and I measure my success by a wet diaper count. The new boss often makes unintelligible requests, but there are no uncomfortable workplace ethical issues raised when I try to solve the problem by kissing toes, ankles and cheeks.

Exactly nine months ago last week I left the Tribune for a new adventure — a complete change to my approach to life — and wrote a column about it. I guess it’s rather obvious at this point how I celebrated my first week away from the office.

Cool guest posts lined up for next week … stay tuned.

So, here’s how it went down

I’m do-not-operate-heavy-machinery tired. Writing in my journal about the birth, and despite being five pages in, I’ve still only described the first 17 hours. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you. I’m too loopy brained to type much anyway. How loopy brained? Erik noticed my laptop was dirty yesterday and he wiped it down with a baby wipe. I found the fact he used a baby wipe hilarious. Like, laughed for 10 minutes. Uh-huh. Send coffee.

So let’s try using pictures to communicate. Here’s what happened:

At this point I am crazy big. Like, gained 4,572 pounds.

We're watching a Dexter DVD Tuesday evening when my contractions start. I'd had some 'warm-up' ones the day before, so didn't get too excited, except they seemed much stronger than the earlier ones. Incidentally, it was the episode when Dexter decides to marry his pregnant girlfriend.

The first nine hours or so were bad. The type of bad where you whimper and cry and try to wish it away, but the misery is bearable only because you hope -- believe -- the end of the ugliness has to be in sight. (Hint: This is not my team).

The next dozen hours are, in fact, not better nor bearable. They are worse, far worse, an inescapable sort of worse. Crying, screaming, fear, vomit.

We check into the hospital. CNN had programming leading up to Obama's speech where talking heads were speculating on what the speech would be about. And then CNN panned to "real people in Ohio" speculating on how they'd feel if the speculations made by the talking heads ended up correct. I realize the epidural is working because I find the energy and focus to bemoan the media. We turn CNN off.

I can still feel plenty of pressure, just not pain, and my contractions really pick up. Within two hours, I'm ready to push. Pushing takes only 12 minutes. As weird as I know this sounds, it was fun. The only way I've been able to describe feeling her come out is like driving down a dirt road. Bump bump bump bump, shoulders butt knees cord!

Then there was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. And they said she's ours! How is that possible?

Safe to say we can't get enough of looking at her

We send out a birth announcement saying she has brown hair. What can I say, the delivery room was dark and we were out of it. We bring her home. Boris is unimpressed. Ruby sniffs her constantly, and begins a 3-day hunger strike.

Crazy, crazy, crazy love.

She’s here

Our daughter, Tabitha. Born Wednesday night. 24 hours of labor. 21 unmedicated; 3 with dope. We’re all healthy, happy, tired, and safe at home. I can’t bring myself to write down how much we love her, because it would kill me to see the words.

Moments after birth

More to come. And more pictures. Once I get my f-ing* camera fixed.

*See how I’m trying to not swear in front of the baby?

Dude, where’s my baby?

Strange to cruise past my due date and watch it slip further into the rearview mirror. I know due dates are just estimates blah blah babies will be born when they’re ready blah blah, but it’s weird just the same. I get about another week, and then an induction date goes on the calendar.

Right now the ideal version of myself would not be looking at the calendar and the clock but strolling through the garden, admiring the heartiness of the rosemary and watching the grey January sky flicker and shift. Yeah, I’m not quite in that place. I’m in the place where one eats an entire box of ice cream sandwiches in a four-day period.

Hardly calling people these days, because every call causes excitement and I have to blurt out the fact I have no news really fast. And when you spend the week sitting on a couch waiting for a baby, the news you do have is very boring. Like this call last week with my sister. She picked up on the first ring, almost gasping with excitement as she answered.

“Emi?!”

“Not-in-labor-just-calling-to-say-hi.”

“Oh.”

“So, I have a cold. And I stepped in dog barf yesterday, barefoot.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, we’re going to Starbucks. I’ll call you back later, OK?”

Click.

We’ve been Tempting Fate HQ around here. For example, we redid our roof. Not just a patch job, like the one that got us through the leaking issues and collapsing ceiling this fall. I’m talking about the type of roof replacement that involves stripping everything down to the studs, building it back up again, costs $472 million, and then (cue laughter) will last 30 years.

Look, a piece of sand. Oh goody, there goes another one.

Who does such a thing when in the any-day-now stage of pregnancy? Doesn’t that sound … dicey? Days worth of whirring saws, constant hammering, flying nails, snaking cords, dust, debris, strange tattooed men in my house, dogs barking their brains out for eight hours straight – would have been a total nightmare with a newborn. Talk about asking for Murphy’s Law to kick in. Alas.

We went to Mama Fu’s, the Asian-ish restaurant chain, the night before my due date. I had the spiciest noodle dish they offer. Spicy food = labor. The restaurant has the word Mama in the name. My fortune cookie said “Your hard work will pay off today.” Erik’s said “The day only gets better from here.” I mean, come on. What more do you want, universe?

Hint hint hint

Otherwise I’ve been holed up in the house. The fridge and freezer are looking low, but I don’t want to go to the grocery store, because what if my water breaks while I’m there? What I’ve learned from thoughtful birthing classes T.V. sitcoms is that waters like to break in public, especially on laminate floors (maximum comedic splash effect). This is second only to T.V.’s all-time favorite place for sudden labor, the stalled elevator. I’m not quite ready to hear the phrase “clean-up in aisle four” applied to my body.

But some babies don’t show up on their own, and it’s not a matter of patience. I really, really hope my labor starts naturally, but what can you do. So if I end up hitting Induction Day with no baby yet, you know where you’ll be able to find me in the hours before my appointment. Standing spread-eagle in the busiest aisle of Trader Joe’s. Or sneaking into a downtown office skyscraper, jamming the elevator control panel with a screwdriver, and waiting for the magic to happen.

Blog housekeeping

In prep for the baby’s arrival, I’m opening the blog up to guest posts. I’d like to run some during the first several weeks with the kiddo. Not only because this will prevent me from posting pictures of my child every day*, but because many of you have great tales to tell and I think this could be a fun forum to share them!

Interested? Obviously, looking for posts related to simplicity/downshifting/career/identity/environmental stuff. You know the drill. Shoot me an email at esabaum (at) gmail (dot) com if you’re game. You can write under your real name or your anonymous-ish Internet handle.

Also: If you’re a regular commenter (10+ comments since the blog launched in late July … we’re going to hit post #100 this month!) and would like your website or blog in my blogroll, lemme know. I think I have most of you, but if I’m missing yours and you really want it there, it’s not because you aren’t adorable, just an oversight on my part. It’s OK if your link isn’t a simple living link, almost all the ones already there aren’t. Holler in the comments section and I’ll add you.

OK, back to sex, wine, spicy food, eggplant, hot baths and walking. Who woulda thought attempts to bring on labor would sound like a recipe for the world’s most delightful day of all things simple living?

*No promises about every other day.

Self-sufficiency stuff I find overrated

I spent all day Saturday watching public television. One show, which lasted — 45 minutes? Two hours? The beauty of these shows is you can totally lose track of time — was about learning to bake bread in Bath, England. The show reminded me of simple things that don’t work for me. The list is long but here are two.

Want some? It was fun for the first 30 minutes.

1) Baking bread. After watching the show, I felt inspired to make some. It made my house smell fantastic, and the first two slices were the perfect mix of crusty and soft, buttery and bitter. And then … yeah, life went on. Hippie-ish types claim baking bread is an experience that connects you with your ancestors, with the earth and moon cycles, and brings “realness” to your existence. I’ve tried, but this moon cycle stuff eludes me, and I’m over it. Some people feel the need to talk about bread-making with the same evangelizing fervor others use when talking about the soul-expanding effects of yoga, or breastfeeding. And my response to all three discussion topics is the same: I am so happy for you, but I need you to shut up now because I’m bored.

2) Doing all hard work myself. So, the baking school in Bath has a charming garden, about 1/3 of an acre. Smaller than what we have. And they have TWO gardeners on staff. The garden was full and lush and perfect and dreamy. My garden is not. At all. And I didn’t like tending to it all the time this summer. I don’t have the money to hire a gardening helper, but if I did? HIRED. A garden looks like tons more fun when someone else does a lot of the work.

Summary

– Baking your own bread: Overrated

– Having a gardening staff: Underrated

– I’m a bad person: Just as well you found out now.

Last of book week: Your Money or Your Life

Last of book week here. This baby is never going to come if I keep sitting on the couch reading. I need to walk. Yesterday during a routine appointment my midwife also suggested sex and wine to help trigger labor.

Photo courtesy of thedailygreen.com

Sounded to me like a recipe for getting pregnant, not unpregnant, but she assured me it can do both. The sex thing I had heard before but WINE?! Oh, sweet nectar, how I’ve missed you. I ran to the store and bought three bottles.

Your Money or Your Life: Transforming Your Relationship with Money and Achieving Financial Independence by Vicki Robin and Joe Dominguez is considered the bible in many simple living circles. If you nose around places like the Simple Living Network discussion forums, you’ll see this best-seller referred to as just “YMOYL.” And in some ways it is like the Bible — it gives you an outline on how to live, but everyone interprets the message and how to apply it to their lives in a different way. A companion book published later, Getting a Life: Strategies for Simple Living Based on the Revolutionary Program for Financial Freedom in Your Money or Your Life by Jacqueline Blix and David Heitmiller, is a nice follow-up.

A word about YMOYL: It’s really a personal finance workbook. There’s philosophy behind it all, of course, but don’t come to it expecting to find lots of literature; expect math. I didn’t learn about this book until months after I’d left my job, but I wish I had found it earlier. It put into words things I’d been feeling and had trouble verbalizing, and didn’t know anyone else was talking about. In a nutshell, that working more was costing me money, and that by working less, I might actually save more. That’s what YMOYL is all about — calculating your real hourly wage once you subtract all you have to pay to work (living in a certain area near your job, the clothes, etc).

YMOYL isn’t just about money, but fulfillment. I didn’t mind making a modest wage as a newspaper reporter because it wasn’t about the money for me; the passion was the pay-off. But once that passion and faith in the industry were gone, well, oh boy. The horse was out of the barn, and there was no going back. I started thinking very critically about journalism, money, time, consumption, the environment, and other issues that fall loosely under an umbrella I’ll call “what the fuck am I doing?” It’s not a path everyone needs to go on, that’s just how I ended up here.

Here are some great questions the two books ask:

– What does financial independence mean to you? Does it mean world travel, a Porsche, vacation homes, jewels? Is it a fantasy of inexhaustible riches?

– Who do you want to be richer than, and why?

– Do you have enough money?

– Are you spending enough time with family and friends?

– Do you come home from your job full of life?

– If you were laid off from your job, would you see it as an opportunity?

– Are you satisfied with the contribution you have made to the world?

– Does your job reflect your values?

– Do you have enough savings to see you through six months of normal living expenses?

If even two or three of those questions intrigue you, you’ll like these books.

P.S. An acquaintance who I see socially and likes the blog asked me recently, “Is it OK that I like my job?” Ha! Of course. Uh oh. (She is OK with me writing about this btw).

So I guess a disclaimer is in order: It’s not like I can only be friends with the fellow disillusioned searchers! Woulda been great if I’d always loved my job; never predicted I’d stop. I’m nothing but happy for people who love theirs. So yes we can still be friends even if you are totally geeked about your career and the word webinar is part of your life. Maybe I’ll be one of those people again someday too, I know it ain’t all bad. But if you genuinely like the word webinar and use it with a straight face, well, then we may have a problem …

More books: Affluenza

Just read Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic by John de Graaf, David Wann and Thomas Naylor. I wanted to love this book for a lot of reasons, including because the authors made up a word – affluenza – without being annoying. Those trendy hybrid words are usually irritating (next person who calls someone a xxx-ista will be forced to vacuum under my couch cushions) but they nailed it.

Affluenza: A painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting in the dogged pursuit of more.

Beautiful.

If you’re new to some of the ideas behind voluntary simplicity and the consequences (financial, emotional, environmental) of rampant consumerism, this book IS an excellent place to start and I’d recommend it as a breezy read.

I didn’t love this book because it took a pop-culture sort of tone, very cute and footnote heavy – lots of information culled from other sources rather than original reporting. It told me what I already knew and already believed, and didn’t go much deeper.

Which is not totally bad. A book where you can sort of skim along while doing an internal call and response with the author — “Yep! Preach it!” – is vaguely pleasant and reassuring. Though at times I felt like the authors bent some statistics and studies to tell me more of what they knew someone like me wanted to hear. I understand this is why some people love to watch certain cable news programs.

Some passages that made me reach for my notebook:

-  According to the authors, “when Mother Teresa came to the U.S. to receive an honorary degree, she said ‘this is the poorest place I’ve ever been in my life.’” And she wasn’t talking about our banking system. Ouch.

-  Three out of 10 people head to a store just to wander when their personal or professional life feels out of control, the authors state (I certainly used to do this; TJ Maxx was my favorite place to self-soothe with $20). Stores and advertisers sell the idea that we can bring calm and control into our lives, or stave off loneliness, with a few purchases.

-  The authors said Domino’s Pizza founder Thomas Monaghan sold off his Frank Lloyd Wright houses, his antique cars, the Detroit Tigers, etc., because he said “None of the things I’ve bought, and I mean none of them, have ever really made me happy.”

-  An excerpt from Donella Meadows’ book Beyond the Limits: Global Collapse or a Sustainable Future, offered great food for thought on why we want things: “People don’t need enormous cars, they need respect. They don’t need closets full of clothes, they need to feel attractive … To try and fill these needs with material things is to set up an unquenchable appetite for false solutions to real and never-satisfied problems.”

-  The concept of “planned obsolescence”: Manufacturers have deliberately switched from making products that would last the long haul to ones they know will break down soon – or be updated soon – meaning consumers will “have” to buy more of the item.

-  The average American teen can identify fewer than 10 types of plants, but can recognize more than 100 corporate logos, the authors said. This is the sort of thing that makes many of us shake our heads, but I know I would correctly id more logos than plants as well. How did that happen?

Books on simple living and consumerism

Posting about books this week because I am so heavy with child I don’t feel like leaving the couch, which in turn makes reading very convenient.

Some of you have asked me for good books to read on simple living, consumerism, the whole shebang.

The Two Income Trap: Why Middle Class Mothers and Fathers Are Going Broke, by Elizabeth Warren and Amelia Warren Tyagi, sounds like one, but it’s not one. Picked this up from the library. I do think that living to the max of both salaries can hamstring a couple, whereas viewing one salary as meat and the other as gravy is far less precarious. That is NOT what this book is about. The book starts off with chapters on what the authors call the “Over-Consumption Myth.”

They say the reason families in the 1950s could live comfortably on one salary (and nowadays middle class families need two) is the fault of the public school system. Ie, parents will do anything to be in the ‘best’ school district, even buying homes they can’t afford, and this could all be solved with school vouchers. They said it’s wrong to blame the shift on increased consumer appetites. Wah? I’m not going to say schools aren’t a major issue for families, but as I was reading along I was not only thinking “they are sooo off base” but “Oh geez, this book is perfect ammo for conservatives who complain liberals want government help for problems they could fix themselves.”

The book argues increased consumption can’t be stretching families thin because when you consider inflation, TVs and cars and houses cost the same if not less than they did in the 1950s. But but but … nothing is said about the fact that in the 50s, a family owned one TV, not four; one car, not two or three; a 1,300-sq-foot house, not a 3,000-sq-foot house, which comes with a higher utility bill, more furniture to buy, etc.

My house was built in 1952 and from what we can tell, hasn’t been renovated. The authors need to see the closet space in here — hardly any, at least by modern standards. People just did not buy as much crap. Shit, I have given up recreational shopping and taken a ton of stuff to Goodwill, and I’d still like another closet in here. Our two-bedroom, one bath house was designed to comfortably meet the needs of a middle class family of four or five. Today, five people sharing two bedrooms is called “poor” or “college dorm.” How can this book argue we as a society haven’t screwed ourselves a bit by raising our standards of living? (Not the same as raising quality of life).

I made it about 100 pages into the book before I gave up in frustration. So this is not a real book review, though there’s an 8th grader in me that feels pressure to write a book review for extra credit. Instead I’m going to cut class, try smoking a cigarette behind the gym and live with the B-.

Up next: Affluenza, the All-Consuming Epidemic.

Oh! Oh! Cross your fingers, paws and toes!

Itchy has a new home!

I am so excited. Though don’t want to allow myself to get too excited if it doesn’t work out. I even felt nervous about posting this in case I jinx something (magical thinking anyone?). But I really think it’s going to work out. Everything points to good. Yippee!

A very nice woman, Lynn, saw a posting for Itchy and contacted me. She was looking for an adult dog (not a puppy), has owned chows before, wanted a quiet dog (minimal barking), and a dog that’s large but lap-dog like. She wanted just one dog, doesn’t have any other pets, and planned on making the dog an “inside” dog.

Well hells bells. My posting described an adult chow mix who’s quiet (Itchy never really barked, just makes this hilarious baby bear-like grunting/grovelling noise), and is big but will climb into your lap for kisses and snuggles. She needs to be the only pet in the house. And while I was willing to compromise to find Itchy a home, I do like an indoor scenario better than an outdoor one.

Lynn said she was also taken by the story of Itchy’s rescue and the photos showing her dramatic physical changes. After a phone chat that served as an interview for both of us, she came over. In the Internet-makes-the-world-smaller dept., she lives all of five minutes from me. We hung out with Itchy, and true to form, Itchy tried climbing into Lynn’s lap, made the funny baby bear noise, and covered Lynn’s cheek with kisses. We also went on a walk.

Lynn knows that Itchy has some unresolved health issues, and the dog aggression, and she’s down with it. She’s already made a spaying appointment — score! So we said goodbye to Itchy yesterday, sending her off with a few toys and a pillow she’s been sleeping on here, so she had a familiar smelling thing as she adjusts to her new home.

This morning I checked in with Lynn, who said that Itchy did “awesome” last night, curling up on her living room rug and sleeping soundly. Lynn even surprised me with an email containing a cute picture of Itchy hanging out in her living room. I love that she did that!

I’m going to miss our little friend, but this sounds like just what we wanted for her, so I feel good letting her go. But part of me will always care about this dog, so we made the adoption an open door policy. While I think everything will work out and Lynn is awesome and dedicated, we told her if anything ever happens or there’s some kind of emergency in her life, we will take the dog back into our house as a foster animal again. Anything but the pound, no questions asked. Itchy is a loyal buddy, and I think she’s going to bring Lynn joy.

Thanks again to the many of you who gave me lots of virtual-world support and real-world suggestions and ideas. Really appreciate it. Happy today for all involved. Let’s hope this sticks.

Here are some pictures looking at how this little stray bounced back.

Itchy, the retrospective. Or, what a difference food, water and shelter makes:

Above: Dec 2, the day I found her. Skin, bones, fleas.

Dec. 9. Still awfully thin and sad looking, but already putting on weight.

Dec 16. Thin along the hips and spine, but ...

(Dec 16, cont.) But coat is looking great ... and torso is really filling out!

Jan 7. Happy girl! (The human arms and legs in these next few pictures are Lynn's. I'm not that slender these days).

Hey, anyone who uses wordpress … why can’t I get these captions to stay under the pictures instead of bunching up to the right? Grr.

Thanks to blog reader Alexis Grant for sending me a detailed how-to-caption guide! PS Alexis is working on a book about travel in Africa, can’t wait to buy it.

Jan 7. Filled out body and shiny coat!

Jan 7. Napping on a favorite pillow before heading to Lynn's.

Jan 8. Smiling like a fool after first overnight in new home!

Note to self: Stick with the peaches

This summer, in an effort to jump on the local food and self-sufficiency bandwagons, I went a little crazy with Carolina-grown peaches. Canned, made jam, pies, you name it. And I was left with a sticky, ant-attracting kitchen; a sickly sweet smell lingering in my house, a hatred for peeling those dribbling globes, and a husband who said “Oh no, not more,” when I came home from the market with another bag. By September, I was over the peaches.

Just cracked open a can of jam.

Holy cow.

It’s so damn good. I ate half the jar with a spoon. Fine, fine. The whole jar. What, the baby must have needed it.

I am writing this down so come next summer, if I feel like skipping the zoo that is preserving peaches … DON’T SKIP IT, EMILY! MAKE THE JAM! CAN ‘EM! CAN! CAN! Cold, dark, sad, fresh fruitless January Emily will thank you.

Sort of pointless because nothing can prepare you for a kid anyway

I’m full term. For those of you who don’t spend your days thinking about cervixes — smart, smart you! — this means the baby could show up today. Or in three or four weeks. All within the realm of normal. Thumb twiddle. Dum de dum.

So I’m packing my hospital bag today. My midwife suggested bringing a few photos to look at during rough parts of the labor — images that will bring an instant smile to my face. Not necessarily pictures from moments of achievement, or far-flung travel, etc., but ones that make me want to coo or giggle. For real. Some women bring photos of other people’s babies and that works, she said. I don’t think looking at someone else’s baby will cut it for me. But I’ve been a bit stumped as to what photos of my own to bring.

The first one that popped in my head is Ruby. I cannot look at photos of my sweet fluffy friend without grinning ear to ear.

I mean look at her. She is SMILING. How can I not smile back?

Erik thinks finding the inspiration to give birth by looking at a dog is a little weird. He suggested I aim higher. How about a farmhouse with horses, he suggested.

Hmm. Well, those are two things that make me really happy. But I don’t have them. I don’t know if Erik will ever want them either. I don’t want to dwell on what I don’t have. Feeling sad. Take it away! Next.

My sister and my girlfriends are the most hilarious people you will ever meet. I have lots of photos from our miscellaneous outings that reduce me to wheezing giggles. Maybe I’ll bring a few of those. I’m not going to post any here, though, in case any of them ever want to run for public office.

I have about 400 million photos from our late spring wedding that make me feel awfully happy and bring on real smiles.

Awww. Erik’s so sweet. Yep, I might be able to have a baby.

This next one is not necessarily the most beautiful photo of us from the wedding but it’s appropriate. We were off taking formal portraits and the photographer, looking to get more facial expressions from us, asked us if we had a secret to share. If we’d been miked it would have sounded something like this:

Oh!

Well, in fact we do.

(Whisper whisper whisper).

No one can hear us, right? And you won’t say a peep? We mean it, not a damn thing. OK, we’ll say it. We’ve got our fingers crossed but we don’t know what’s going to happen yet. The secret is very small, about the size of a grape.

“I’m (that big crazy word that can only mean one thing and there’s no taking it back).”

Holy shit I can’t believe I just said that out loud?!

Finally, when I feel like I can’t get through it, I want a reminder that millions of women have done this before, some many, many times.

I kinda love me some Michelle Duggar. She’s had 19 children and she is the cheeriest woman alive. Have you seen the show? She’s not faking it, either. If she can go through labor that many times, I can handle it once. Or so I will tell myself.

The Duggar family gets lots of crap, especially in environmental circles. It’s true it’s simply not sustainable for everyone to have lots of children. But what I like about this family is how little unnecessary stuff they have, and how little value they place on the material, even though the reality show has probably made them quite rich. The kids are bunked four or five to a room, share clothes, wear secondhand shoes. One average suburban American kid probably owns more stuff than seven Duggar kids put together. But that’s just a side note. I’d be bringing the picture to remind me of someone who has, again and again and again (x 19),  lived through whatever I’m experiencing.

Erik thinks if I labor to a picture of Michelle that the midwives will think I’m either a crazy reality TV fanatic (not true) or that we are part of the quiverfull movement (really really not true).

WAIT A SEC.

I’m the one pushing the watermelon through an orange. No one else gets an opinion on this.

I’m bringing the dog and Mrs. Duggar.

Photo credits: Courtesy of Tide Mill Organic Farm; Matthew Spencer Photography; Courtesy of TLC.

A quick Itchy update

Just a quick update for those of you who’ve been following the saga of Itchy (the stray dog — read about me finding her here, results from vet here, some discouraging hurdles in placing her here).

Four weeks in as of tomorrow. She’s put on so much weight and her coat is shiny and thick again. Amazing! No permanent home yet, but looks like we’ve got a lead. A couple rescue groups also agreed to post her picture. Kinda funny to open up one rescue’s website and see a picture of Erik and Itchy with a caption reading, “Emily is up to date on all her shots and is housetrained.”

Itchy’s been a microcosm of parenting lessons. She spent the first two weeks crying and whimpering at our back door and it was so hard not to go to her, but we held our ground, and sure enough, the crying stopped. She spends the nights in the studio building without disturbing us, and “gets” that building is her house. She’s doesn’t chew the furniture in there, and after jumping on us as we carried food the first two weeks, has responded to our persistent commands of “down.” Itchy is pretty smart.

We set a schedule with morning and evening feeds, and now that she’s used to it, she doesn’t come peering in our window all day long. She waits for us on her little bed in the studio and thumps her tail when we arrive, which is so adorable I melt every time.

She was very needy in the first few weeks, literally throwing herself at our feet and trying to climb into our laps, begging for pets and cuddles. I’m not trying to be one of those people who projects human emotion onto dogs, but that’s what she needed — touch, love, affection, reassurance. And now that she knows she’s got a warm, dry bed, regular meals, and that her home with us is safe and sound … she needs us less. She’ll cuddle for five minutes these days  instead of 30, and then runs off to roll in leaves, explore the yard, or take a nap. It freaked me out at first, thinking the change in behavior meant she must be feeling ill or something, until Erik pointed out she’d probably just adjusted. I wasn’t sure about that at first, but after watching her for days, decided he was right.

The heartworms and spaying are still an issue (to say nothing of the aggression toward other dogs), but the rest of her medical needs are under control and her weight is almost where it needs to be. We’ve done almost all I wanted to do — nurse her back to health and let her be a happy dog. She’s in better shape now to find her forever home somewhere else. It feels less scary now to let her go because she’s stabilized (not like we run an ER but you know what I mean).

The story of Itchy isn’t over yet — still can’t make our yard her permanent home — but one unexpected result is that it’s got me thinking more about frugality. We’ve probably spent $350 to date on her vet care, grooming, and a month’s worth of food served in double doses. That’s a lot of money in one month. That could have been $350 toward the mortgage. But I have no regrets about spending it on Itchy.

Maybe if I made more money, I’d be able to help more dogs. I’d love that. Should I do that? Or maybe because I’ve downshifted my life in so many ways, especially my spending, Itchy-related costs don’t seem so bad. Because it’s not like I’d already maxed myself out this month with a high heat bill, daily lunches out and new shoes — the $350 was there to use.

Perfect middle ground, why are you always so hard to identify?

Here she is letting me know how boring it is that I always talk about her.

Defining what home means and not sure I’ve nailed it yet*

*But that’s what blogs are for!

Is this the first holiday season in a decade that I have been home for the holidays?

The real reason I’m not traveling this year is because I’m ridiculously pregnant. But for the first time, I also have a spouse and a house. Shouldn’t necessarily make things different, but it does. I could not be more thrilled about staying here – home – for the holidays. In a little house with a stray dog out back I can’t keep, a roof that leaks, and living in a city I like enough but don’t particularly love.

For some people, voluntary simplicity, dropping out, downshifting, whatever you want to call it, is about being nomadic. Being free of virtually all material possessions, they can travel the world by bike or bus, without a physical home and belongings that need to be maintained, supervised, paid for, protected. I’ve thought a lot about this. I know what I don’t want in life is the endless aspiration for the bigger/better home, which would of course lead to buying more furniture and “better” furniture, and then I’d need even more time (and help) cleaning it all, and then since we’d have more expensive stuff we’d need to get more insurance and or extra security**, etc.

A snowball of more work, more responsibility and more bills.

I am trying to hard these days to identify such snowballs in my life — excessive belongings or unfulfilling social ties that always seem to lead to more unwanted commitment, either of my finances or my time. Voluntary simplicity 101, but damn, those snowballs can be tricky to identify. (Side note to any family or dear friends reading — these unwanted commitments do not include you!)

Home is wherever we decide to make it. Right? That’s what everyone says, and I’ve felt pressure to believe that – and tried really, really hard to believe that. Never quite worked.

The reasons why I love having a permanent, physical home could fill a book. A book that I won’t write because it’d be long and boring and scream try therapy. But it probably involves a large dash of being a child of divorce with no home to return to, and a sprinkle of unexpected repercussions of a nomadic career choice (moved to four states since 2001 alone for newspaper gigs). My job, which I loved until recently, involved delving deep into communities without putting down real long-term roots. Not only because journalism requires a certain degree of detachment but because a better job in a new city was often in the back of my mind.

A lot of people who embrace frugality or simple living, if they’re not on the citizen-of-the-world track, have the ultimate goal of owning a home free and clear. That’s not my goal, exactly, but I see what they’re getting at. Knowing I could buy, say, a wee cabin free and clear and that it would be mine, all mine, sounds totally liberating and comforting. In a way living somewhere more fashionable but that takes all of my paycheck every month simply does not.

What’s funny is as much comfort as I find in our middle ground — the Little House – it’s possible, but unlikely, this is our forever home. We only expect to be here for a few years. Uh-oh, does that sound like the dreaded 5-year plan brewing or what? Factors include my desire for more land than a ¾ acre (Erik does not necessarily share that dream) but mainly our joint desire for a local public school the state hasn’t threatened to shut down.

The big thing I did to simplify my life this year – leaving the rat race and rejecting the career-focused, nomadic life I had embraced – has allowed me to entertain the idea of building a home, and a sense of community, in a more tangible, permanent sense for myself. I don’t know where to go from here; this is new to me.

While I am happy with how I spent my 20s, I am looking forward to spending my 30s going absolutely nowhere fast … and being home for awhile.

I also might just be feeling mopey and overly contemplative because it’s the friggin’ holidays.

**This does not mean the Little House is not secure, stalkers and weirdos of the world. Among other tools at my disposal, I have multiple heavy garden shovels and three very loud dogs, two of which bite and one of which will eat anything. We also watch a lot of Dexter.