No More Berger Babies

When I got married, I wanted six kids. Then I had one, and my pregnancy seemed eternal and I was SO. SICK, and I thought, okay, how about not six. Then I had another, and I wasn't so sick, but my body aches were awful. At the end, my sciatica was so bad I couldn't even walk across my living room without leaning on something. I was 22. I thought, maybe we'll have two more. Then, when my second baby turned out to be super clingy and allergic to sleeping through the night, I tried to get Aaron to have a vasectomy. He refused; he said we were too young and we'd regret it. Wouldn't you know he was right? Don't you just hate when your husband is right? So a year passes and I want to try for another. We do, and we lose the baby. (They say you can start trying for a baby right off birth control, and maybe some women can, but both times I have, I've miscarried. But I digress.) So while Aaron was in Iraq, we both did some serious thinking. We had two wonderful children. They were both potty-trained. They were both weaned. We had a rhythm, and a pattern, and were we sure we wanted to mess around with that? But I wanted a homebirth. I wanted to cloth diaper a baby from the beginning. Neither of which is a good reason to have a baby, in my opinion. I didn't want to have another BABY just to say I'd had a HOMEBIRTH, you understand? I did a lot of thinking, a lot of soul-searching, and I just knew, knew that there was another child waiting for us to get on the ball so he or she could join our family. So then I had to talk Aaron into it. I knew that I wouldn't be able to feel peaceful with our family knowing that it wasn't complete. So we got pregnant, and from the beginning, it kicked my butt! At 5 weeks, I had a staph infection and had to be put on antibiotics that made me violently ill. I had to fight with the nurses to change my medication because they kept telling me it was just morning sickness. Trust me, I could tell the difference. But, lucky me, my morning sickness started up really soon thereafter. And it was AWFUL. So. Sick. I lay on the couch for weeks. At 13 weeks, we moved. I was useless. And the whole time, I thought THIS IS MY LAST PREGNANCY. Everyone told me I was silly and I would want more, 26 is too young to be finished with your family. Seems like they were all ignoring the fact that I'd NEVER felt done before and that 26 is plenty old enough when you've got three kids! As soon as Jack was born, my family felt perfect. He's the candles on the birthday cake that is the Bergers. Still, every so often I think how much I love having a newborn. How I feel like a goddess for about a month when I'm round and not puking but not a house yet. How his birth was so empowering and I want to do it again! And then I remember the puking, the pain, the sleeplessness, etc.
I had a scare last week. I was about 4 days late, and although I've been keeping pretty close track of my cycles and this was only my 3rd cycle since getting my period back (so it could very well be irregular still) I bought a test. I spent a couple days asking myself, "What if I am pregnant?" And the answer would come, "So you'll have a baby." But I didn't WANT a baby. I have a baby. He's only a year old. IF we had another, I'd want it to be in a year or so. But do I want another baby at all? I think the true answer to that comes in the two minutes after you've peed on the stick and before the blue lines show up. And my answer was ABSOLUTELY NOT! I truly, truly, am done making tiny people. The ones I've made are so great! And they keep me very busy. And, more importantly, I don't feel like there's anyone else missing. I've never envisioned Jack as a big brother. I've never seen myself pregnant again. I am done having babies. I realize now that there are phases to marriage and child-having. I've spent the last 9 years making babies and nursing babies and changing babies and planning the next baby. Of course, watching them grow, helping them grow, and all the blessings that come with that. But now, I look toward my family's future and I don't see anymore babies, only big kids. I'm so excited about this phase! This new phase of only big kids, and all the fun THAT entails. I can't wait.

Knitting Anxiety

I wanted to learn to knit and crochet. When I was a little girl, I remember watching my mom turn balls of yarn into comfy, cozy blankets, hats, and other yummy things. I thought she was a magician. When I was 12, she tried to teach me, and I think it took about 2 days for me to throw the needles down in disgust and walk away. Knitting was for old ladies and I was not an old lady.

This summer, I decided to give it a go. It took some doing, but I am now confident in my emerging yarnworking skills.

Somewhat confident. Well, like, 35% of the time.

Okay, I have severe knitting anxiety. I have yet to cast-on a project and finish it without frogging at least two or three times. I have balls of yarn I've started a few times, made a little progress on, and then either (A) found a mistake too far back to really fix, or (B) realize this yarn is not right for this pattern or project. I have a decent stash, especially considering the big box of yarn my friend Jamie sent me. I do small projects here and there. For about 2 months there wasn't one day I didn't at least start a project. Now I got maybe a day or two in between. I've never really had a hobby. Something I did, was good at, and kept at. This is a hobby. I love it. LOVE IT. I'm completely addicted. I love yarn. I love hooks. I love needles. I love Ravelry, and I love Knitpicks, and I love the soft, yarny things I have created for my friends and loved ones.

Why did I want to learn to knit and crochet? I have this afghan. It's a ripple design, made with a super soft cotton yarn. It's white, pink, two shades of turquoise, and a cantaloupe color. When I was 12, I asked my mom to make it for me. She finished it just before my first year of girls' camp, and it went with me every year. It's not exactly square, and one end of it is slightly dingy and always has been. I don't know why, but I also don't care. I love that afghan. I will always love it. I will keep it until it's in tatters because my Mommy made it for me. I wanted that. I wanted to make things for people. For them to use the things I made and think, "I have this because Betsy loves me." I always feel loved when I wrap up in that afghan, and I want to send my love to the people I love. Like a tangible hug. And now I can, and it makes me incredibly happy. It may be cheesy, but I absolutely love it.

And it gives me anxiety. Is it normal to frog several times before really buckling down and finishing? And as I'm knitting, I think, "Is this the right color? Does this look alright? Do you think it'll fit? Do you think she/he'll like it?" And that's the big one. Will they like it? Will they know how much I loved crafting this? Will they appreciate the work and frustration and anxiety that's gone into it? Will they wear it? Will they follow the care instructions? Will it last? My poor sweet husband is so patient with my knitting insecurity. I don't know how he does it, but he always smiles and pats me on the head and tells me how great it is and how great I am at it. It's weird; I am confident that I am a good knitter. But I'm also incredibly insecure about it.

I love it, though. Maybe I'll become less anxious as I get better and more experienced. And maybe next blog I'll showcase all the great stuff I've made.

Nine Years

It's odd to think how different life was 9 years ago. Many things change in that amount of time, but I can't help but have 9/11 on the brain today. I think about it often, which I think is normal in my situation.
I was a senior in high school. I had been married 3 months and had my whole life in front of me. We had just moved out of Aaron's parents' house. I was an office aide, and I remember thinking it was an awful accident as I watched the news, the first tower in flames. When the second plane hit, my stomach dropped and I felt this horrible sense of dread. So many people died that day. Innocent people who were minding their own business, running the rat race, providing for their families. I wonder how many of them had fought with their spouses the night before. How many of them didn't kiss their kids goodbye? How many people's lives ground to a halt that day, as they found out their loved ones had been in the building or on the plane that will never be forgotten?
I think of the fear I felt, and I didn't lose anyone in the attack. I can't imagine the feelings of those who did. Aaron had class that ngiht, and I begged him not to go. I was shaken. My faith in humanity took a hard hard hit, and I thought this was the end of the world. I saw all my plans for the future going out the window. They'd bring back the draft. My husband would be sent to war and killed. I'd never have children. (Um, I was 18, and prone to panic.) Anyway, I needed my husband that night.
A lot of people compare it to Pearl Harbor, and it is like Pearl Harbor. The worst attack on US soil, a cowardly act that killed so many people who'd never done anyone wrong. I don't know the numbers, how many people flocked to recruiting offices on December 8, 1941, but I've heard that there were lines out the doors. It took some serious talking to convince my own husband not to sign up to be a gun-totin' infantryman that very day. He was angry, and he wanted to protect his country. I begged him. I cried. I told him I couldn't handle being an infantryman's wife and that I couldn't stay married to him if he joined the Army. I am not proud of that, but it was honest.
I can't believe where life has taken us since then. Even now, I am sometimes taken aback to realize I am married to a soldier! I always said I couldn't marry a military man, and I'm sure I wouldn't have looked twice at Aaron had he been in the Army or planning to sign up when we'd met.

Tonight, tomorrow, and every single day, my heart goes out to those who lost loved ones in the attack. My heart goes to those who lose their loved ones in the war, and to those who sacrifice so much time and so many life experiences with their families to fight for something they believe in, whether it's the war, their way of life, or even just their own families.

I don't know how to end this.

Mondayish

This past Monday was one of those moderately crappy Monday that Mondays are famous for. Nothing major, just one minor inconvenience or bit of bad news after another all pile on top of each other to make, well, a Monday. The capper was when, after taking all damn morning to talk myself into going up to the school to register the girls, I was told that the office was closed for the rest of the day. Well, we had planned on visiting the post library afterward anyway, so we headed there. Next to the library is this big grassy area with a few fat conifers casting deep shadow on the green velvet grass. The high that day was in the low 60's, and the sky was blue as blue could be, with interspersed marshmallow clouds. So we took off our shoes and played.

Emily mostly read her book and rolled her eyes at our nerdiness. It was such a beautiful day. I laughed with my children, and I was struck again, as I am most days, with a sense of deep gratitude that I am blessed enough to live in a place so full of natural beauty. Does life get any better than this? So, yeah, we turned this crappy Monday on its ear.