Home Is Where the Law Is?

For the past week or so, I have had this insatiable urge to write and get back in the habit of posting here more regularly.  This is for a couple of reasons.  First, I'm a little afraid people will stop following the blog if I don't, you know, blog.  More significantly, though, I feel I should somehow weigh in on the Supreme Court cases involving DOMA and Prop 8.

And for the past week or so, I felt I had nothing to say on the subject.

Obviously, I have many reasons to care how the Court rules in both cases.  And I do care.  It's just that, regardless of the ruling, my everyday life will stay the same.  Danielle and I will continue to be a strong and happy couple.  We will keep curling up beside each other with books every night, and she will, without fail, ask me to play with her hair.  We will have breakfast out on Saturdays and wake up at the same ungodly hour on work days.  The SCOTUS rulings will neither keep us from making up ridiculous song parodies on an all-too-regular basis nor prevent us from growing veggies in raised beds over the summer.  The stuff that makes us us?  Those little moments won't change a bit.

The paradox here, of course, is that while little will change, Supreme Court rulings in favor of gay marriage could change everything.  In a mere instant, we could go from being second-class citizens to having the full spectrum of rights straight citizens enjoy.  That the fate of this emancipating instant is in the hands of only 9 people is terrifying.  Talk about feeling vulnerable!  Potentially, our fears about the big moments of our lives could dissipate.  We wouldn't have to worry about whether or not the wishes outlined in our living wills and final wills would be respected.  Child custody issues?  Gone.  Inheritance taxes?  Buh-bye.  Worries about insurance?  Nope, we're totally covered.  Granted, big moments like surgeries, the birth of children, and, well, death don't happen often.  However, these often are the moments when we are at our most fragile and exposed.  It is unconscionable that the law would step in for a swift kick in our direction at the very time we're already down.

Even with these weighty issues in mind, I couldn't think of anything substantial to add to the gay marriage debate.  Yesterday, however, I found my activist panties.

Apparently, I'd left them in the car.

One of my good friends and I were driving around and making easy conversation about the future.  Work, babies, school; the usual stuff.  I was telling her about how Danielle and I would eventually both like to enroll in PhD. programs to further our careers and increase our job opportunities.  Danielle could start school as early as next winter, at which time we could potentially have a baby.  So, Danielle could be working and going to school while I would stay at home with said bebe'.  For as far back as I can remember, I have wanted to stay at home with my children for the first few years of their lives.  Ages 0 to 3 are the most crucial years for brain and language development; moreover, they are the prime years for cuddles and general cuteness.  Plus, I am an early childhood specialist, so infants and toddlers are kind of my thing.  Add to the mix that there is little access to quality childcare in our small community, and staying home becomes a no-brainer.

And it won't be at all possible.

You see, in our state and most others nationwide, second-parent adoption is not an option.  This means that in same-sex unions only one parent has custody of the shared children.   Because I will be the biological mother of our first child, Danielle will co-parent this baby without enjoying any parental rights.  She cannot have custody, sign school permission slips, make medical decisions, nothing.  Obviously, this leaves her in an extremely precarious position.  I could, in theory, skip town and take the baby with me, leaving her with absolutely no recourse.  (This really, really won't happen.  We have already promised each other that, in the unlikely event we do break up, we will not be assholes when it comes to the kids.)  While such worst-case scenarios simply won't happen (invoking "No Assholes" rule here), Danielle's lack of parental rights puts a heavy monkey wrench in our plans for me to be a stay-at-home mom.  Because Danielle won't legally be the parent of our child, our child can't be covered under her insurance.  Since Danielle and I aren't legally married, I can't go on her insurance either.  So, if I choose to stay at home, the kiddo and I will either be uninsured or extremely underinsured through some hyper-expensive private insurance policy.  Because of some politicians' "family values," then, this mother can't stay at home with her little baby because she will have to work to stay insured.

Are you finding your activist panties right about now?  Your ticked-off boxers?  Your enough already thongs?  (Oh, who am I kidding?  Nobody wears thongs.)

Unfortunately, as the conversation in the car continued, the topics did little to assuage my need for activist panties.  My friend asked if Danielle and I had given any more thought to moving to another, more gay-friendly state.  I have.  I do.  Honestly, I think about it all the time.  Staying here makes no legal sense.  Why would I pay taxes in a state where I'm not welcome and my family is denied legal protections?  What in the world would keep us from catching the first flight north?  What keeps us tethered to this place?

The heart, apparently.  Legal considerations aside, we love where we are.  We bought our first home almost three years ago and have put much time, sweat, and creativity into making it our home.  We will shed buckets of tears when we have to leave this house.  Besides, we have the most incredible friends here, friends who have encouraged us, comforted us, and planted themselves firmly in our corner.  They've helped us paint the exterior of our house, brought us transplants from their gardens, accompanied Danielle to the doctor for one of the baby tries, offered up their trucks on countless occasions, and shared many, many, many meals with us.  (We heart food.)  While I am confident we'd make new wonderful friends in the event of a move, I can't imagine leaving the extended family we've created right where we are.  And speaking of families, Danielle and I currently have a three and a half hour drive to visit either set of our parents.  It is my family value that my children be raised an easy day trip away from their grandparents.  I don't want to see relatives once or twice a year or have to fly on an airplane with young children any more than necessary.  Also, I'm secretly afraid my mother might just move in with us if she doesn't get enough of a grandbaby "fix".  (Sure, she loves living with my dad, but he doesn't have chubby cheeks and is terrible at babbling.)

Although I'm not exactly a typical Southerner, I know that in my bones I am a Carolina girl.  I have traveled widely and lived in South Texas and Washington, D.C.  While I enjoyed navigating the D.C. metro system and still crave the breakfast tacos of the Rio Grande Valley, I always get a catch in my throat when "Carolina in my Mind" starts to play on the radio.  James Taylor's voice reminds me of my father, of standing outside looking at the stars, of breathing fresh air from wide open spaces.  The song makes me think of roots and tradition and where I come from.  I dream of rocking my baby while crooning, "Can't you see the sun shine?  Can't you just feel the moon shine?"  Truly, I feel "a holy host of others standing around me".  Although I consider myself to be a reasonably articulate person (Hey, I used "assuage" in this post.), expressions like "might could" and "fixin' to" roll out of my mouth as easily as words from my GRE study book.  This place flows through my blood, anchors my soul.  How could I possibly uproot myself?

So Danielle and I are left with impossible choice.  Do we leave the place and people we love in order to provide our family with important legal securities?  Do we stay here and leave ourselves and, more significantly, our children vulnerable to the whims of the law?  The Declaration of Independence promotes the values of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness".  Yet, in our case, these purportedly inalienable rights appear to be multiple choice.  We can move to another state and instantly be granted more liberty or we can stay where we are and pursue happiness in the midst of our family and friends.  I sometimes make a big deal over trivial choices (Where should we eat tonight?  What should I order?  Red wine or white?  Which movie should we watch?), but this decision matters.  And I genuinely do not know what to do.  And I resent that my family has to wrestle with this decision at all.  And it gets my activist panties all in a wad.

Come June, the Supreme Court can choose to nullify this dilemma, to lift a huge burden from our lives.  It is a truly thrilling, deeply exhilarating possibility.  I'm trying not to get my hopes up, and I know that if now is not the time, the time is still coming soon.  The tide is turning, and momentum is on the side of justice for all.  But if the Court could cut down on some wait time, well, I would be very grateful.

It would be heaven to stay up at night worrying about silly things.  What should I eat tomorrow?  Red wine or white wine?  (A perennially tough one!)

I'll take those choices any day.

Richness: Because I Can’t Afford a Nicer Present

      

          In the midst of some pretty expensive baby tries, Danielle and I have run into a few "Oh shit!" moments when it comes to money.  In late November, we had a plumber come to our house to make some minor repairs.  This experience ended with him informing us that our pipes are, in his words, "on borrowed time".  Oh shit.  Then there are the maintenance jobs our aging cars require.  Danielle's car was in the shop for a semi-expensive repair when they called to tell her that there is a hole in her exhaust pipe.  Since her particular car is no longer being manufactured, replacing the pipe is more expensive than the already pricey work that had brought her car to the shop in the first place.  Oh shit.

          Other issues have been so pitiful they're almost- okay, they ARE- funny.  Concerned about our vehicle situation, Danielle's well-intentioned father called to say that he had found a used Ford Taurus on sale at auction for $3,000.  $3, 000 for a car with 70, 000 miles on it is indeed a budget-friendly deal.  Many sensible people would jump at the chance to get a reliable car at such a low price.  And yet, all I could think was, "A Taurus?  Ugh."  I don't expect to be driving anything remotely new or high-end, but I'd like to sport at least a modicum of style or personality when I get behind the wheel.  Hemming and hawing about my superficial reasons for avoiding Taurus ownership was, in the end, a totally pointless task, however. Even at a rock-bottom price, we don't have $3, 000 to fork over for the car.  I'm pretty sure that's a new low: We can't afford a used Taurus.  Being auctioned.  Oh shit, shit, and shit.

          Last night, we were looking on Facebook and saw people's postings about what they were giving up for Lent.  We realized that- oh shit- we hardly have a thing left to give up.  We have already cut way back on eating out, almost eliminated wine consumption (sniff, pout, pout), and have whittled down our grocery bill considerably.  I even created my own answer to a "Get Rich Quick” scheme by making a "Get Poor Slower" list.  List items include going on free dates to the library or getting plain coffees at the coffee shop instead of fancy lattes.  When I say we are scrimping and saving, I am not just being cute.  We are kicking it so old-school frugal, it's like Dust Bowl days in our house.  So giving something up for Lent? Look.  We don't have cable, we're already eating dried beans, and my car is almost old enough to be legal.  Right now, "Lent" is called "my life".

          This hasn’t been the easiest of seasons in our house; yet, I still approach most days with such a feeling of fullness.  Sure, the threadbare stuff will get threadbarer.  Any shopping we do will be preceded by the word “window”.  But my life is rich.  Luxuriously, decadently, delightfully rich.  My Valentine makes it so.

          Here are a few reasons why:

1.      Dear Valentine,

We are rich because we both know how to cook.  In our home, even eating the staples tastes good.  Simple frozen veggies taste much more decadent when we add embellishments like toasted nuts or caramelized onions.  To stay within our budget, we also have tested many bean soup recipes.  They have made the house smell wonderful as they simmered, and they provided cozy comfort food.  Most dishes gracing our table were prepared with creativity, adventure, and love.  Absolutely delicious ingredients, if I may say so myself.

2.      We are rich because we prioritize our time together.  We treat it like our highest commodity, which- come to think of it- it probably is.  I never feel displaced by your work, even though you have taken on a great workload to support our needs.  I know that when you have free time, you will want to share it with me.  I know this because I want to scrape together every spare moment I have to spend it by your side.  Even if we’ve had a long weekend filled with nothing but hanging out together, I hate to leave you when the work week begins.  I love that we both feel this way after almost nine years together. 

3.      We are rich because we have the cutest-ever-in-the-whole-world-not-that-I’m-biased dog.  Who needs cable when we can watch her roll around on the floor until her ears are turned practically inside-out and her beard is sticking out in every possible direction?  And when she swats at her face with her paws?  I could watch that channel for hours.

4.      We are rich because we have hope.  We have faced grief after grief this past year, but we remain determined to become parents.  Not to toot our own horn or anything, but it takes a lot of strength to make oneself vulnerable to potential pain over and over again.  I love that we haven’t forgotten that this risk and vulnerability is also the only path toward the great joy we seek.  I continue to believe this journey will be worth it, and I’m grateful you have the courage to take this road with me.

5.      We are rich because we can laugh at ourselves.  I love how we both found it hysterical that we could not afford an auctioned-off Taurus and how you laughed when I wrapped up a library book to give you as part of your Christmas present.  I’m sure some wife somewhere complained to her husband that the diamond he bought her for Christmas wasn’t big enough or should have come from Tiffany’s.  I am so rich because my wife thought the borrowed book was fabulous.  

6.      We are rich because we are crafty and resourceful.  You can take napkins you find on sale and turn them into beautiful pillows for the living room, and I can dig plants out of the garden and from overgrown pots to create the terrarium I’ve been wanting.  We have painted every room in our home, stained the deck and porch, sewn curtains, and even put up backsplash.  Truly, truly, we have made this home our own and have done it on a budget to boot.  I have such pride in what we’ve accomplished, and no one can take that from us.

7.      We are rich because this struggle is just temporary.  We are not impoverished.  We find ourselves overwhelmed with several big expenses happening at once, but we have not doubted for a moment that we will get back on our feet.  Some people will never know the feeling of seeing a light at the end of the financial tunnel.  In that respect, we are so, so fortunate.    

8.      We are rich because we have one another.  We are not in this thing alone, not for a moment.  I take such comfort in knowing that you’ll be there to hold me when I cry and be proud of me when I succeed.  I hate getting out of my pajamas on work days, but it’s almost worth it to hear you tell me I look pretty.  I love how you savor my cooking.  (Well, except that time I ruined some tilapia.  That shit was gross.  And even then, you rescued the meal the next day when you made me leftovers.)  No one else could take such good care of me or make me laugh till I cry.  No one else would be romantic enough to order water instead of soda when eating out because you knew I was worrying about money.  No one else could encourage me, challenge me, and love me in so many, many little ways throughout each of my days.  Sometimes you say I love you by washing the dishes.  Other times, you say it by drawing a bath for me.  Sometimes you make love to me.  Sometimes you say I love you by graciously holding your tongue.  But you always, always say I love you.  And that, my love, makes me an exceedingly rich woman.

Thank you for this abundance.  I love you, and I love us.  Happy Valentine’s Day.
Love,
Me

Woman of the Year

Slack blogger's preface:
2012 has ended, and I come to you, dear readers, with hat in hand.  It seems that I accidentally, unintentionally, mindlessly forgot to post for two whole months.  (Oops.)  Not quite the way to build up my readership, huh?  To make reparations, I give you two posts in a 48-hour period.  (I hope this will be welcome news.)

To begin with, I should probably explain the reasons behind my silence.  These past couple of months have been challenging and saddening for Danielle and I, and I did not know how to write about them without morphing into Debbie Downer with a keyboard.  I wanted to share our story in case it could provide comfort to other couples also experiencing the monthly grief cycle that is infertility.  Yet, I wanted to avoid self-indulgent navel gazing.  No one wants to read about my forays into self-pity.  (Besides, I can't remember the last time I cleaned my navel.  I could have been headed for some pretty crusty territory.)

In a nutshell, our recent and more aggressive attempts to conceive a child were unsuccessful.  The last try was the most devastating because it seemed so promising.  Danielle was one tough cookie, mixing her hormone doses and giving herself injections each night leading up to the insemination.  She even did one round of injections in the ladies room of a Carrabba's Italian Grill.  (Personally, I think that should be the restaurant's new slogan.  Carrabba's: With bathrooms roomy enough to mix and administer your hormone injections!  It'll catch on.) This cycle, Danielle had five- count 'em- FIVE mature eggs, and the doctor was very concerned about the chance of multiples.  (As opposed to my reaction of, "Cool.  I can quit my job and stay at home with the triplets."  I am partial to any kind of work that does not necessitate my ever leaving the house.)  We made jokes about BOGO babies and how we never do anything in moderation.  When the time came for the insemination, the doctor said our timing was absolutely perfect, neither too soon nor too late.  We somewhat prepared ourselves for the possibility that the try wouldn't be successful, but come on: with odds like that, how could it not work?

While we waited the nerve-wracking two weeks between  insemination and pregnancy testing, we did all the things expectant parents might do- brainstormed how we might tell our family and friends about the pregnancy, reaffirmed our commitment never to make special, alternate dinners for our children (If we are eating broccoli gratin, then they are eating broccoli gratin.  They do not have an inalienable right to chicken nuggets and tater tots.), and discussed baby names.  We prayed, held our breath, and remained cautiously optimistic.

With the good timing and quintuplet eggs in our favor, we were understandably shocked and shaken to the core when we discovered we were not pregnant.  We have grieved over each failed attempt, but this time brought on a whole new kind of mourning.  For days after the news, it took a lot of urging just to get out of bed.  The simple act of lifting my feet from the bed to place them on the hardwood seemed unimaginable.  I have a slight frame, but suddenly my legs were heavy loads of bricks.  Numbness got me through my days, and sobbing carried me through the nights.  While I cannot speak for Danielle, I feel fairly confident her experience was the same but worse.  (See?  I wasn't kidding about the Debbie Downer thing.)

Still, they say time heals all wounds, and while I wouldn't say that we have totally healed, the pain less like an all-consuming, splitting migraine and more like a deep bruise: sore and tender each time it's touched but otherwise fairly benign. These days, that's progress.

Going through such a cripplingly sad time and moving toward the proverbial light at the end of an utterly interminable tunnel was all made easier because of my remarkable wife.  I'm no Time magazine or anything, but she is most definitely Woman of the Year in my book.

Through all of the difficulties of 2012, Danielle has been an absolute marvel to watch.  Even without having children, she has been the consummate mama lion, going straight into battle for her kids.  Her sacrifices range from the simple hardships of giving up caffeine and alcohol to the uncomfortable and inconvenient tasks of subjecting herself to bi-monthly ultrasounds and self-administering powerful hormone injections for several nights in a row.  When the first several inseminations did not produce a pregnancy, she underwent a painful procedure to check to see if her tubes were blocked.  (They were not.)  Upon finding out that eating fresh pineapple might help to promote implantation of a fertilized egg, Danielle faithfully ate the fruit for days on end following each insemination.  I doubt she will crave the taste of pineapple ever again.  She has taken prenatal vitamins for two years straight, practiced yoga and mindfulness for relaxation, and added fertility-friendly foods to her diet.  On top of all this, she has taken on part-time jobs to help offset the cost of each IUI procedure.

All of these ordeals have been an ample challenge, but the struggle has been exacerbated by the absolute baby boom that is happening in our little corner of the world.  It feels as if everyone we know is getting pregnant.  Old friends.  New friends.  Friends of friends.  Facebook friends.  Frenemies.  People who started trying after us.  People who weren't even trying.  Family members.  Friends' family members.  Church friends.  Work friends.  No area of our lives is untouched.  I'm not sure why this phenomenon is occurring at this vulnerable time in our lives.  Are the Shades of Grey books to blame?  Is it because we are in our early 30's and have friends who are also at the family planning phase of their lives?  Does God have British sense of humor that is lost on my little American brain?  Purportedly, there is a reason for everything, but I'm not getting it right now.

Of these pregnancies, Danielle will tell you, "It's all good news."  We want our friends to be happy and are genuinely excited for them.  We are also aware that someone else's pregnancy does not preclude us from being pregnant.  No one stole our baby.  Each person we know who is currently expecting will be a wonderful parent, so these parents and babies are equally lucky.  Yet, we cannot look at other people without holding up a mirror to ourselves.  Why, we wonder, are so many others able to do easily what we still have not achieved despite great effort?  I know life isn't fair, but come on.  Is a little moratorium on pregnancies too much to ask?

It is in the context of all of the aforementioned obstacles and disappointments that Danielle has decided to abandon (for now) her dream of carrying a child in order for us to achieve our greater dream of becoming parents.  This was no casually made decision.  Danielle has been obsessed with pregnancy for as long as I've known her.  I can't tell you how many times I've had to steer her away from the maternity clothes section in Target.  She has dreamed of patting her growing belly, feeling a baby kick inside her body, and nursing an infant.  And yet, selflessly and voluntarily, she chose to stop trying so that I could begin trying to get pregnant.  She put our family ahead of her personal desires, and I admire her so much for the strength and generosity of her decision.

While grieving her loss, Danielle has been a sweet and attentive nursemaid to me as we prepare my body for an insemination a few months from now.  She showed me how to use ovulation predictor kits (My first attempt was an epic FAIL!), makes sure I keep track of my waking temperature each morning, and reminds me to take my prenatal vitamins.  She set up an account for me on www.fertilityfriend.com to track my cycle and patiently answers my 10,000 questions about what to eat, when to pee on a test strip, etc.  Already, she is an involved, hands-on parent.  I cannot wait to raise a family with her.

So, Danielle, here's to you.  In 2012, you have taught me so much about strength, tenacity, and persistence as you did everything in your power to conceive a child.  You taught me about courage as you had the strength to remain hopeful after disappointment upon disappointment.  (Until this year, I didn't realize how terrifying hope can be.)  In your decision to let me try to get pregnant, you have been a model of peaceful acceptance and of a surrender that is neither weak nor yielding.  You have been the very picture of grace under pressure (or at least grace under extenuating circumstances) as you held our three-week-old nephew and spoke sweet nothings to him until he fell asleep in your arms, all this a mere two weeks after you found out you were not pregnant.  And I know you will continue to be just as marvelous in the months to come.  As you hold my hand during doctor appointments.  As you smile encouragingly during the many baby showers we will attend in the upcoming season.  As you answer my next 10,000 questions.  As you work extra hours to keep our family financially afloat.

Of difficult times, songwriter Ron Sexsmith wrote, "Though our troubles seem like moutains/ There's gold in them hills."  If that is the case, you have made of last year's sorrows an absolute treasure trove.  I love you, admire you, and remain profoundly grateful for you.

I wish everyone a happy, prosperous, and joyful 2013. 

But most of all, I wish it for you.

Facebook, You Are Not My Friend

Let me begin this post with a warning: If you are Facebook friends with Danielle and me and you are a woman between the ages of 15 and 45, you are probably pregnant.  Our news feed has been absolutely inundated with ultrasound photos and pictures of pregnant bellies.  I'm starting to suspect that we may be the Fertility Fairies,  knocking up everyone in our path.  So, if you haven't already, you'll want to leave your computer immediately to go pee on a stick.  Don't worry.  I'll wait.


(I twiddle thumbs.  You pee.)


Welcome back, and congratulations on your pregnancy!  I'm sure you'll want to share this good news with the Facebook world, as you have every right to do.  Exciting news deserves to be celebrated.  Still, whether you know it or not, you likely have Facebook friends who are dealing with infertility issues.  Therefore, I have assembled a quick primer to keep your posts from getting blocked and you from being un-friended.

1. Wait a skinny minute before announcing your pregnancy.  I like being in the loop and all, but I don't need to learn of your pregnancy 2 minutes after you do.  Sure, your excitement is bubbling over like a shaken soda can, but keep in mind that pregnancies are so fragile in those early days.  Early announcements on social media seem like you are taking a healthy pregnancy for granted.  Tell your family and close friends as soon as you want, but you might want to hold off a bit before sharing your news with the random guy who friended you after you met at a mutual friend's birthday party.  Random guy can wait to find out.  (Unless you suspect random guy might be the father of your baby.  In that, you two need to have a conversation, stat.)

2. We will just assume you are nauseated.   It's public knowledge that pregnant women are prone to experiencing morning sickness and general nausea, so if you're going to post on the subject, please make it anecdotal.  For example, maybe your kid said something funny to you while watching you puke your guts out.  That is post-worthy.  But continuous posts about how much you hate feeling queasy?  Keep in mind that some of us are crazy enough to want that queasiness more than anything in the world.  (Weirdos.)

3. Spare us the play by play.  Because I am excited for you, I want to hear about your pregnancy and celebrate the milestones with you.  Heard the baby's heartbeat?  Tell me about it.  Found out the sex of the baby?  I want to know.
But please spare us all the torment of websites like this:
http://pregnancy.baby-gaga.com/calendar/week10
A  FB feed informing me of your baby's weekly development?  Oh boy! 
This website is offensive on two levels for me.  First of all, I don't care for minutiae-laden posts of any nature.  For my family, though, the real harm lies in the fact that these posts are just weekly reminders of what we have yet to achieve.  Plus, the fetus pictures are kind of creepy, right?

4. Ration your belly shots.  In other words, please make sure you actually have a baby bump before you start photographing it.  It is interesting to document the baby's growth on a monthly or quarterly basis.  However, posting weekly shots is just annoying, and we won't be able to tell much difference anyway.  It is probably also worth noting that, in general, these shots are more flattering when you wear a shirt over your belly.  Just my two cents.

Of course, none of these rules are totally hard and fast.  I'm sure someone could follow these suggestions but behave in ways that would be horribly hurtful to infertile couples.  Likewise, another person could bend these rules a bit and be totally respectful. In the end, it really comes down to sharing vs. oversharing, celebrating your joy vs. rubbing it in everyone's face.  If you're not the type to post 5,000 self-portraits on Facebook or to constantly update the cyberworld on what you had to eat today (and yesterday, and the day before that, etc.), you probably lack the temperament to be one of "those" pregnant women.  For that, we thank you.

Oh, and there is a fifth rule.  It is perhaps the most important one, so pay close attention.

5. Take these "rules" with a grain of salt.  They were written by a person who's posted at least 30 pictures of her dog.  Sleeping.

To Tell or Not to Tell?

     There's a new girl at work I just adore.  We hit it off right from the start, and as we've gotten to know one another better we find we have more and more in common.  For instance, we are both stupid crazy about our dogs.  We each have pumpkin patches growing in our yards this fall, and both patches have produced underwhelming results.  (I'm talking puny pumpkins.)  We are grammar snobs, and we enjoy subversive activities like reading and decorating our porches with mums and scarecrows.

     She's the kind of person I could see myself spending time with outside of work, and I'd love to have her over to the house sometime for dinner.   Nosy person that I am, I'd also like to see her house.  (I heart real estate, big time.)  I'd like to share gardening ideas with her and just hang out every once in a while.  I am, in the jargon of reality tv, ready to take our relationship to the next level.

     So....how to delicately mention that, by the way, I have a wife?

     I think my new friend will be a safe person to come out to.  But think is the operative word here.  Sure, she says, "Shit!" on a regular basis and has proven herself to be unfailingly kind and helpful in the time I've known her.  However, I also know that she is a devout Christian, and coming out to Christians is sort of a mixed bag.  There are plenty of Christians who are loving, accepting, and, well, Christian to people like Danielle and me.  Others, though, smite our very existence and show us the opposite of God.  More are somewhere in between: not outright mean or critical but happy to gossip about us and eye us with suspicion.  I can't even commit to going on a treadmill once a week; Lord knows I couldn't handle time in the rumor mill.

     As a Christian, it saddens me that it is Christians I am most fearful of when outing myself.  I'll feel quite close to a person and want to share a more full friendship with them but back away when I discover that they are Christian.  I feel like a nervous gay Dorothy eying Glenda upon my arrival in Oz: "Are you a good Christian or a bad Christian?"

     I used to think I could spot a "good" Christian a mile away.  His or her attire would lean toward the progressive side.  Think Toms, Chacos, or Teevas for shoes.  There would be a high presence of flannel, but not the form-fitting, stylish kind.  Outdoorsy clothes, dangly earrings, and even dreads might accentuate the look.  However, my "good" Christian theory went out the window when I heard a girl in striped toe socks, pig tails, and many ecclectic, not-particularly-clean-looking accessories go on an absolute diatribe about the wonders of Sarah Palin.  She also claimed Obama was a Muslim.  (Goodbye, theory.)

     So, to tell or not to tell?  It's such a crapshoot sometimes.  On the one hand, I can protect myself from ridicule, gossip, and rejection by staying in the closet and under the radar.  Sometimes, this is a smart thing to do at work.  There are plenty of people with whom I can interact cordially and do not need to see outside of the workplace.  If coming out happens on a need-to-know basis, these folks really don't need to know.  There's not much to gain and plenty to risk.

     Other times, though, the risk is worth it.  I have developed strong bonds with a small  group of co-workers, and they are not only work friends but just plain old friends.  I cannot imagine what it would have been like not having them to talk to about our struggles conceiving or the celebration of our first/eighth anniversary.  How lonely work would have felt!  Life is integrated, and you need people at home with whom you can discuss your work life and people at work with whom you can share your home life.  Otherwise, it's like you're living two lives, and listen: I'm busy enough as it is.

     In the end, I will probably come out to my new friend.  She's so easy to talk to, and I'd love to give a more honest answer to her Monday morning greeting of, "How was your weekend?"  My friend loves to laugh, and I think Danielle will absolutely crack her up.  I want them to meet so badly!  Selfishly, I also want people to know I'm not a 31-year-old spinster and that, yes, I am getting some.  All that pity they are taking on me?  So unnecessary.

    But coming out is still scary.  It feels a bit like jumping out of an airplane.  You can peer over the edge all you like, but you have no way of knowing how things will turn out.  All you can do is take a deep breath and pray like hell there's something to catch you.  Because you can't un-jump.  You can't take it back.  You could crash and burn, get bruised or broken, and be dragged through God knows what hell. 

     So far, my parachute has been steady.  My friends have granted me a soft landing.  I've enjoyed a nice spell of time spent in safety and complacency.  But the sky is calling me again.  I look out the window.  It's an astonishingly long way down.  I close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

     Wish me luck as I fall.
    

Gayngst: How We (Awkwardly) Began

     I like watching couples fall in love in the movies.  The experience is always sweet, breezy, and lighthearted.  I'm sure having a musical score doesn't hurt.  However, I doubt there is a soundtrack peppy enough to counterbalance the turbulent start Danielle and I had when we first became a couple.  Sure, we had plenty of blissful moments feeling the first flush of love.  It's just that, at that time, we still thought we were just friends.  (Idiots.)

     At the height of our headiness about the wonderful "friendship" we'd found, Danielle and I moved to separate states to begin our teaching careers.  I remember the profound sense of loss I felt when I drove her to the airport and watched her embark on a new journey without me.  I was irrationally and obsessively concerned that I might become a lower priority in her life, that I would no longer be important to her. 

     I needn't have worried.  During the year we spent apart, we talked on the phone each night for at least an hour.  In addition, we wrote letters to one another and even kept journals that we mailed back and forth periodically.  (You know, totally normal friend stuff.)

     As I became more integrated into my new community, the middle-aged ladies at my new church took me under their wings and set me up on two blind dates.  For the duration of both dates, I remember wishing I could just sit across the table from Danielle instead of making polite conversation with strangers.  My connection with her was the deep bond by which I judged all other relationships.  Needless to say, my underwhelming enthusiasm and investment in these fledgling relationships led to no second dates.  The guys I met, nice though they were, did not make me laugh or make me feel as myself as Danielle did (and still does).

     For her part, Danielle recalls checking her phone frequently on these date nights.  The longer the night went on without a phone call from me, the more worried she became.  She admits to being secretly relieved each time I called to give her some ho-hum report about my brief forays into the dating world.  (Again, isn't it typical for best friends to hope their best friends have only bad dating experiences?)

     Much of our year apart is a blur to me at this point.  I remember feeling pretty down much of the time and chronically homesick for Danielle.  That spring, I decided that I would leave my job at the end of the school year and move to Washington, D.C., with Danielle.  Danielle offered to fly from D.C. to Texas, where I was living at the time, to ride with me during the move.

     Once our road trip was planned, we could talk of little else.  The promise of a fun-filled adventure together became the carrot we dangled in front of ourselves to help us survive what was, unequivocally, a difficult year.  Two best friends traveling across the country together- what could be better?

     Plenty, it turns out.  Even though we were riding in a Toyota Corolla jam-packed with my belongings, there seemed to be ample space in the car for tension and angst.  We spent long stretches of time not talking while our minds raced, worried, and questioned.  We had always felt so comfortable together, but something wasn't connecting now.  What wasn't lining up?   I began to question my decision to move in with Danielle.  Maybe our relationship wasn't going to be what it had been. Danielle feared that I would hate living in D.C. and resent her for encouraging me to move.  Of course, the move was a sensitive and potentially volatile topic, so we chose to avoid the subject- or any subject, for that matter.  It seemed the weight of even one word would break the fragile eggshells we walked upon.  When pressed about that road trip today, Danielle and I tend to laugh and exclaim in unison, "That was awful!"

     The road trip angst ended up being a harbinger for the drastic changes to come in our lives and relationship.  I won't go into the nitty-gritty details, but once I moved in with Danielle, we shared many kisses that we did not talk about.  At all.  For weeks.  I eventually wrote Danielle a letter to ask her what our relationship was and whether or not we should pursue a romantic relationship.  Conveniently, I gave her the letter before I left for vacation with my family.  You know, to keep the whole not talking thing going.

     Initially, Danielle was understandably fearful and apprehensive and expressed that she did not want us to become a couple.  I handled this news very badly.  Here is an illustrative example from that time period: when Danielle and I had lunch together at a local diner, my passive aggressive jukebox selection was Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces".  I find this is hilarious now, but I was absolutely serious about it at the time.

     Eventually, Danielle and I were forced to address our fears.  Fears of jeopardizing our friendship, of coming out, of being ostracized, of being so very vulnerable with another.  We could no longer deny that our bond ran deeper than friendship.  This time period involved more crying, hand-wringing, and drama than a telenovela marathon.  We were not at our best.  Our story would have made for a wretched romantic comedy.

     But, we got through it.  Even though our life still has its challenges, I truly believe that for us, the hardest part is over.  I don't feel particularly nostalgic for those restless nights or the pens I emptied scribbling furiously into my journal.  I do experience a certain wistfulness, however, as I marvel at how fragile we were in those early days of couplehood.  Very easily, there could have been no us.  And yet here we are, eight years later and going strong.  That realization fills me with overwhelming feelings of gratitude, abundance, and faith in the Thread that guides and connects us all.

     You know, kinda the opposite of angst.

While We Weren't Looking

     As Danielle and I approach the first anniversary of our wedding, our thing in September, I can't help but be reflective about the twists and turns and multiple awkward moments that brought us together in the first place.  Although we've been married only a year, we've been a couple for eight years, so we've got a bit of journeying behind us.  In honor of this year's milestone, I'd like to devote a few posts to the story of how we met, got together, fell in love... you know, all that sappy stuff.  Of course, the story is about us, so there is still plenty of nerdy hilarity to be recounted along the way.  This is not, after all, the Hallmark Channel.

     To begin with, I was never terribly boy-crazy as an adolescent and teen.  This makes much more sense in hindsight.  My crushes centered around long-haired boys who played acoustic guitar and talked about their feelings.  In other words,  male lesbians.  In an effort to impress them, I took up guitar and began writing my own songs.  What I lacked in boobs, I tried to make up in rhyme.  I spent hours curled up on my bed writing songs and short stories and figuring out how to move my fingers quickly from an E major chord to a B7.  I moved on to playing bar chords.  I sang in coffeehouses and joined songwriter circles.  Still, my standing Friday night date was watching rented movies at home with my parents.  I went on zero dates in high school and attended the prom stag.  While a guy friend did send me flowers one Valentine's Day, I spoiled any chance of romance by giving him a thank-you note the next day.  However, even though boobs inevitably trumped rhyme and I remained single, I was happy. 
   
     Danielle's teenage years followed a similar pattern.  Her family moved across the country in the middle of her high school career, so she ended up performing in two different high school productions of Pippin.  She was also an active member of her high school choirs and served as a peer support volunteer.  She describes her high school self as "an athletic supporter."    She and her friends "cheered for the soccer team.  But we weren't cheerleaders.  We even made signs."  This recollection was followed by a gasp, an "Oh God!", and the admonition, "Please don't make me look like a dork."  (That's why I added in the part about me sending a thank-you note for the flowers.)

     College life was no different for us.  Danielle was an Orientation Assistant and Peer Mentor and worked with the soccer team.  I wrote a little for the school newspaper, volunteered as a tutor, and worked for the campus programming board.  Both of us were very involved in the campus community and got to meet a lot of interesting, fun people.  Our cumulative date tally for college? Zero.

     Danielle was a senior my freshman year of college, and we never crossed paths that year.  However, her college advisor messed up her class schedule, resulting in an extra fall semester for Danielle.  It was this semester that Danielle joined the programming board.  During the board retreat, we discovered that we both love banana baby food and that we had never been kissed.  We became instant friends.  While we weren't inseparable initially- She had her life, and I had mine- we moved easily into deep conversation any time we were together.  When the time came for her to graduate that December, I remember feeling terribly sad that I would not likely get to see her anymore.  As a graduation/Christmas gift, I gave her a glass slipper ornament to remind her that she would one day find her happy ever after.  I did not see or hear from her for three months.

     That March, I entered the school talent show.  Guess who showed up on the judges panel?  Danielle!  I was so thrilled to see her.  At some point that evening, we must have reconnected and exchanged phone numbers or something.  All I remember is that we began to spend more time together.  We would see each other once every other week.  Every other week became once a week, and once a week turned into hanging out pretty much every night.  There were times when I would come back to my dorm after spending hours talking with Danielle at our local coffeehouse and I would feel that giddy, heady feeling of falling in love.  But I was a good Southern girl, so it did not even dawn on me that having a relationship with Danielle was a path I could take.  Yet, our non-courtship courtship continued.  We used to drive around our small town just listening to music and talking.  We exchanged cds and made each other mixed tapes.  I spent a weekend helping her move from a house to an apartment.  She introduced me to Nutella before Nutella was cool.  We started singing together, and to this day our voices blend better with each other than they do with anyone else.

     Although it was a matter of years before Danielle and I realized and acknowledged what was really happening in our relationship, we still look back fondly on those early days.  I remember so clearly how delighted I felt to be around her, how I never tired of her company, and how no one else's company compared.  I wanted desperately to impress her, yet I felt totally comfortable just being myself.  She and I also marvel at how the universe conspired to bring us together.  We'd never have met if her advisor had given her a correct class schedule.  (We are still paying off the student loans accrued that extra semester, but we concur that the debt was worth it.)  We also would have lost touch if Danielle hadn't been invited to judge the talent show or if I hadn't been performing.  How different and empty our lives would be if the universe hadn't knocked us into one another with such persistence!

     I think we also owe a great debt to our many years of being single.  In our efforts to attract an interesting, engaging partner, we had amassed some wonderful life experiences that made us interesting, engaging people.  Because I had played guitar and written songs since high school, I was the type of person who felt comfortable entering a college talent show.  Likewise, Danielle's love of music and the arts made her an ideal talent show judge.  And when our paths intersected....wow!  Our voices, conversations, jokes, and, well, lives blended together in such a joyful, meant-to-be way.

     While we weren't looking, we found exactly what we sought.