Lots of pictures and videos

Happy girl!
Megan has taken to eating breakfast with her sunglasses on, since the morning sun shines right in the dining room window. Love the bed head.
Marina's poop face.
The girls were both playing with baby dolls, and it was super cute. Well, "playing." Marina was eating hers.
Marina enjoying the spoils of Megan's Easter Basket hunt.
Megan finding Easter eggs in the yard.

Playing baseball with the vacuum attachment.


These videos are of Megan finding Easter eggs, and Marina headbanging.

So...Parenting is Hard

Yep, once again, the title says it all. Who knew? I think when I was growing up, I had a very romanticized view of having babies. They're sweet and cuddly, and lots of fun. Well, yes--my girls are sweet and cuddly and lots of fun. They also scream at night. A lot. I had one kid or another up about every two hours all last night. By 4 am, I was crying in bed. Megan is also going through a whole "testing the boundaries" thing that is making my brain leak out my ears. She is whiny and fussy and argumentative pretty much from the second her bare little feet hit the floor in the morning. I get tired of spanking her and putting her in time out. Sometimes, it seems that we never do anything fun because I just discipline her (and yell, I'll admit) all day long. It is pretty agonizing at times.

To top it off, my well-meaning friends and neighbors (and random strangers at Costco) have all started asking when we're having another kid. ACK! Not today, I can tell you that. It's not that I don't love my babies--because I do, with every fiber of my being--it's just that I don't think my psyche is up for three! Plus, Marina is not even eight months old yet. I HAVE a baby. And then, in between being up every two hours with crying kids, I had a dream (nightmare?) that I was pregnant with twins. Yikes. If God blessed with another baby (or two...), there is no doubt in my mind that I would love them unconditionally. There is also no doubt in my mind that I would probably never sleep again, and that's the part that gets me. I'm tired. Very, very tired.

In conclusion, parenting is hard. The best job in the world, but hard! I can only hope that I am up for the job of raising God-fearing children, because in the end, that's all that matters, right?

Marina the Headbanging Homebody

Well, the title pretty much says it all. Marina is a homebody. And she now likes to headbang. I discovered she was a homebody when I quit having a super frantic life and stayed home a little bit more. She stopped crying so much. She goes to sleep easily again. The screaming has ceased. She is happy again, and it is awesome. I must have just been doing too much. Go figure. And the headbanging--what can I say? She's her father's daughter.

Megan has had some great "Meganisms" recently. We visited Baby Claire at the "hosipal" a lot. (hospital) She also likes to read a book about the "catterputter." (caterpillar) She also loves it when the "ambience" goes by. (ambulance) She prays for her Godparents every night, and has been having some trouble seguing from Baby Hannah being inside to outside of Aunt Stasia's tummy. For the longest time, it was "God bless Uncle Matthew, Aunt Stasie, Luke, and the baby in Stasia's tummy." Then, it became "the baby in Stasia's tummy AND Baby Hannah." Last night, she prayed for "the baby in Baby Hannah's tummy." Tonight, she got it right. :) Much to Matthew and Anastasia's delight, I'm sure. Hopefully, Baby Hannah will give us two solid decades before we're praying for the baby in her tummy.

On a separate note, I made two of the best cheesecakes in creation this weekend. I will post the recipe sometime, because they are AWESOME.

Spring!

So Marina slept super well last night, only waking up at 2:30 to eat. Yes! Perhaps we are on the up and up. Or, perhaps it was a fluke. Either way, I am happy.

Dn. John and Roman (our Godson) are downstairs getting Roman's new baseball glove ready for Little League Season. It involves baking it in our oven, which greatly amuses me. Dn. John never cooks. :)

AND Marina just fell asleep in her crib without screaming. SCORE!

We had such a good time outside yesterday! I cleaned out two of my flower beds in preparation for planting in a few weeks. I have two more existing beds to clean out, and then I am tackling my new project for the year, which is building a flower bed at the end of my driveway. We have a little mound of dirt that is weed covered and gnarly, and I intend to reclaim it from the wilderness, line it with rocks, and plant something pretty. I haven't decided what yet, since I've got a good chunk of work ahead of me before it is even ready.

The girls loved it outside. I drug Marina's Exersaucer onto the front porch, and she played happily for almost two hours. Megan ran around and played in the mud and puddles, which amused her for about the same amount of time. I LOVE that we can be outside now. Both girls took really long naps after the fact too. I sat, had a Vitamin Water and a snack and read a book while they slept. It was glorious. I might even do it again while they nap today! I think my friend Liz is going to come over later, and I am going to teach her to make cheesecake. Dn. John and Will (her husband) will both be happy.

While I glory over getting dirty in my flower beds, Dn. John is embracing spring by getting in the baseball spirit. He is coaching Roman's Little League team again this year, as well as playing on our church softball team. They have their first practice today (for softball), and I know he's excited. So begins another summer! Yay!

p.s. Matthew, I know it's agonizing that they are practicing without you. It's okay. You'll be here soon. :)

Recent happenings

My sister Jessica informed me that I need to post more often, so she has something to read at work. That's right ladies and gentlemen, your tax dollars at work. :) It has been awhile since I've posted any family news, so I'll try and update everyone.

Marina has turned from a happy, contented little girl into a writhing ball of insanity who, at the drop of a hat, will suddenly start screaming like her limbs are being hacked off by a rusty chainsaw. It's loads of fun. Usually, these screaming episodes seem to be my fault, as I often have the audacity to set her down on the floor, or--gasp!--insist that she go to sleep in her own crib. I know, I'm a terrible mother. For the first few days of this, I really hoped she was just teething. But, she's been doing this for almost a week now, and no teeth in sight. We left her with a sitter last night to go see Spamalot (more about that in a minute). Let me give the biggest shout-out possible to Mary Truelson, who--after what Marina put her through last night--is a serious candidate for sainthood. Apparently, she screamed for about two hours, from bedtime (8-ish) until we got home at 10:45. Poor, poor Mary. I hope she still likes us after that. I figured it would be all better since we were home, but I was sadly mistaken. Marina continued to scream (SCREAM) until midnight. Then she woke up at 2:30. Nursed, screamed. Six am. Nursed, screamed, fell asleep in bed with me. Seven am. Nursed. Eight am. Was up for the day. THE DAY! Ergh. It was a long, loooong night. Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe it will last until she's sixteen. Lord have mercy.

Megan is doing great. She's still two, which lends itself to all kinds of fun moments from time to time, but she plays and sings and helps me bake and clean, and is generally quite fun. She also can be reasoned with, and sleeps through the night. Much easier than Marina these days, which is quite a switch for us.

SPAMALOT! Freaking hilarious. I laughed so hard, I swear I ruptured a couple blood vessels. The Knights who formerly said "Nii!" now say (something to the effect of): "Icki Icki Icki, bang bong, Squentna, Wasilla Hockey Mom." Funny, funny. Love Monty Python. We also discovered that the East Village Opera Company is coming to Anchorage in February! I am so buying tickets to that. They are a band who put classical opera music to rock music. It's awesome. If you've never heard them, they are worth checking out.

Well, now that I have finished my "lunch" of Dr. Pepper and white jelly beans, I am going to go outside and CLEAN OUT A FLOWER BED! That's right--the snow is gone (mostly), and I am itching to weed something. Hopefully, the sugar high that I am on will carry me through a bed or two. And Marina is crying. Again. Maybe she'll like it outside. Who knows.

Pascha

Dn. John, Michael Smith, and Joe Dunham sang this song at our Pascha feast, with Savannah Talino on the violin. Lots of fun! The video quality isn't the best, but you get the idea.

On a separate note, I heard somebody refer to the Pascha feast as "Tofu/Soy Fare" and I laughed very, very hard. Have a great soy-less week everyone!

Another UAA Creative Writing Story

I wrote this also, while taking my UAA Creative Writing Class. I thought it appropriate to post today. Christ is Risen! (Sorry about the weird formatting--Blogspot is having issues!)

Vanquished

When this all began about six months ago, it was just another day in hell.

It was my turn to stand watch over the gates, which was my favorite job. I would much rather taunt and tease, causing misery of the unknown in the minds of the masses, than stoke the fires all day long. Guard duty over those pesky prophets was also less preferred, as no matter what I did, I could never seem to break them. One old man, Abraham, particularly drove me batty. The self-proclaimed "Father of many nations" insisted on clinging to his beliefs that hell would one day be abolished. As funny as the thought was, it still got on my nerves.

I was standing by the gates, watching the endless line of souls shuffle in. Some of the braver ones would briefly glance at me, before shuttering and looking down. I am no pretty sight, and I quite enjoyed the looks of horror I received. Every now and then, I would growl at a small child and watch him flinch.

"Welcome, welcome!" I rasped with cheerfulness. "Here for eternity, are we? Now you see that it doesn't really matter what you do on earth, everybody comes here. Go find your pit, and get settled in for a long stay." People would weep when they heard my words, which just gave me the inspiration to continue. Once they were inside, I knew that the proverbial weeping and gnashing of teeth could already be heard and felt, and many of them suddenly realized what they were in for. Guarding the inside of the gates and watching their faces come alive with horror was my second favorite job.

But today, something different happened. A man walked with firm steps toward me, his head held high, with no hint of fear on his face. I hate guys like him. They always think they know something I don't. Give him a few hours inside, and he'll change. When he came to walk by me, I glanced down at the list I held in my hand. "John, eh?" I muttered. "A few days inside will wipe that proud look off your face."

He locked eyes with me, and wouldn't look away. His boldness was unnerving, and I fought to not squirm under his gaze. "I am not here for long," he replied with resolve.

I rolled my eyes. "They all say that. You're not going anywhere."

"He is coming," John replied simply, and strode through the gates. I could hear him on the inside, "He is coming! Take heart! Repent! He will soon be here to relieve your pain."

Snalartphen, the other demon on guard with me, walked over from his post. "Another prophet," he scoffed.

I nodded curtly. "He'll soon learn that no one is coming to save them, and tire of his speeches." I did not want him to know that John had bothered me. For some reason, this prophet's words shook me to my core. I couldn't get his words out of my head, and it ruined the rest of my day.

I made a special point to seek John out whenever I could from then on. He was always talking to somebody, encouraging them, and trying to give them hope. It usually didn"t work, since there was no hope to be had in hell. We had painstakingly obliterated it all, but John refused to believe this. When I would come upon him, I made a point to kick him, and buffet him around, taunting and belittling him. But John never stopped. He would look me in the eye with an even gaze until I was quaking from the inside out. Nothing I did caused him fear. It was the other way around.

I finally gathered my courage to request an audience in the chambers of the prince. It was granted, and I made my way to the base of his throne of fire. "Sire," I said, my head bowed to the ground, one knee touching the freezing earth.

"Speak," came his odious voice, echoing in the emptiness. I trembled.

"A man, John, cannot be turned. I seek advice, Master."

He thought. "John," he muttered. "The one they call the Baptist?"

I nodded. "He is the one, Sire."

"I will deal with this brigand myself. Bring him to me."

"He is a servant of the enemy, my prince."

The Prince nodded curtly. "This I know. But remember, I was also once the enemy's servant. I know how break them."

A small smile played around my twisted lips as I went to find John. I discovered him talking with Abraham. Great, I thought to myself. All I need is the two of them bolstering each other. "John," I said with relish. "My master calls for you."

John rose, his full height dwarfing me. This time, I was not afraid. The Master would deal with him.

"I call only one man Master," John replied, but followed me into the inner chambers of the king.

I was not permitted to stay and see the prince deal with John, but I heard for days and weeks how nothing he did made John falter. For the first time since creation, even Satan was unnerved.

Weeks passed, and the uneasiness of the demons grew. Why did John=s words cause such trepidation among us? We, whose sole purpose was to inflict pain and doubt on humanity, suddenly found the tables turned.

I drew guard duty over the gates again, and I was relieved to have a day off from the angst that John was causing inside. His unwavering presence had begun to inspire shreds of hope among the damned, and I was tired of it. Hope was exhausting, as was the job of quelling it.

The souls filed into hell in an endless line. I kicked and bullied them all, from the oldest to the youngest. I drew strength from the hatefulness, and taunted each man, woman, and child until they trembled. It was good to feel like I was doing something right for once.

Suddenly, the ground beneath me began to shake, as if the very earth itself was quaking in fear. I looked around quizzically. Snalartphen, again my guard partner, leaned in to whisper in my ear. "What was that?"

I shook my head. I didn't know. Never before had the movements of the Earth affected us here, for we were in a place that wasn't Earth. It was as if all of creation had been suddenly jolted.

"The Prince will know what it is," I replied with confidence I did not feel, bolstering Snalartphen's courage. "If we needed to worry, he would have let us know by now."

He nodded, and took up his post again. And for the last time in eternity, all was as it should be.

I noticed the man from afar off. He had a cloak covering his body and head, and he looked down to the ground so I couldn"t see his face either. I don"t know why he stood out to me. "That better not be another charlatan like John," I muttered to myself. I kept an eye on him as he grew closer and closer.

From inside, a commotion began. I could hear John over the top of the clamor. "He is coming! He is near! The King of Glory comes!"

The King of Glory? Who is that? John was just in another of his moods.

But John continued to shout. "Lift up your gates, you princes, and be ye lifted up you eternal doors, and the King of Glory shall enter in!"

One of my comrades yelled at John, mocking him, "Who is this King of Glory?"

"The Lord, mighty and powerful!" John cried in response.

Something was not right. All the prophets here were servants of the enemy, and I knew that John could only be talking about one person. But he couldn't come here. It was impossible. How could the enemy die? Didn't these prophets, themselves, teach that he was the creator? I brushed the conversation aside as one more of John's lunatic theories.

The man in the cloak drew closer and closer, and with each step he took towards me, a sense of doom grew in my empty heart. I tried to brush it aside, figuring that, like everyone else, once he got inside, all would be well. But I could not conquer my fear.

My friends inside were still taunting John, asking him again, "Who is this King of Glory?"

With each response, John's voice grew louder and louder. "The Lord, strong in battle! Lift up your gates, you princes, and be lifted up you eternal doors, and the King of Glory shall enter in!"

Still taunting, the demons shrieked back, "Who is this King of Glory?"

He was two steps away from me when I heard a roar from the Master's chamber. He was one step away from me when the roar grew deafening. I lifted my hand to shove him in the gates when he looked up. I did not see his face, for I was distracted by the hoard of my comrades dashing toward me. The chief of the demonic host screamed, "Do not let him in!"

But it was too late.

The man had one foot inside hell when I finally saw his face. John was right. He had come. He looked at me and said calmly, with a voice like thunder, "The Lord of Hosts: He is the King of Glory."

When He had both feet inside, He lifted his arms toward the sky. The roar of my master had begun to shake the walls, and it drowned out the screams of the demon army as they began to quake in terror.

He threw off his cloak, and a light brighter than a thousand suns illuminated the darkness. I felt my eyes burning, but I could not tear them away from Him. Though I had spent my existence in flames, nothing compared to the light I now witnessed. My flesh began to crawl of its own accord, every molecule trying to run from the brightness.

He walked through the pits, gathering all the souls that had lain in anguish and terror through the ages. When He met John, John bowed his head, and spoke a single word: "Jesus." The word stung like poison in my ears. Jesus embraced John as a brother. I could not hear the words they spoke, but I do not think that I wanted to.

He came to the center of Hades, where our monument to the fall of His Father's creation stood. Adam and Eve, locked in their caskets, viewing the destruction that they had caused. With strong arms, Jesus reached in, grasped their hands, and pulled the withering old man and woman up from their graves.

I watched in fear as the uprising continued. None of the demons fought back as Jesus strode to the palace of the prince. He struck down the doors with a mighty blow, and bodily removed Satan from his thrown. The prince flailed and screamed, and the walls of Hades itself trembled at the fury of its ruler. Picking up the chains that until now had bound the prophets and holy ones-- Abraham, Daniel, Isaiah, Job, David, Nathan, Moses, Joshua, and all the rest--Jesus bound Satan hand and foot, and left him writhing on the cold ground, cursing and trembling.

I realized in horror that Jesus was headed back my way. I tried to shut the gates, at least keeping Him in, where He could do no more harm than He already had. For if He were unleashed upon the world above, all would be lost.

I failed.

Jesus thrust His arm through the gates before I had them shut, and He yanked them out of my grip. With His own hands, He tore the gates off their hinges, raised them on high, and shattered them with a mighty blow. Without a backward glance, He left hell, emptying us of all of our dead. When the last soul had fled, He turned and cried out in a powerful voice, "O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?"

I trembled in fear. In my foolishness, I had taken in Earth, but discovered Heaven. I took in a body, and encountered God. I took what I saw, and was overthrown by that which I had not seen. As this realization sunk in, I suddenly saw the hosts of heaven, the Angels and Archangels, Cherubim, Seraphim, Principalities and Powers surrounding Jesus and His people. They were singing in triumphant and thunderous voices.

"The company of the Angels was amazed when they beheld You, numbered among the dead. But You O Savior destroyed the power of death! And with Yourself, raising up Adam, and releasing all men from hell. Blessed are You O Lord!"

Echoing in my mind were the words of one of the prophets, Isaiah, whom until now, we had kept for so long in chains. He had said, "You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below." Isaiah was only partially right, for not only were we troubled, but we have been annihilated.

The angels, still singing, began taking hold of the souls, and departing with them across the great divide. When the last soul had departed, Jesus was left alone. He lifted his arms on high, and all of hell shuttered. What was left of the gates fell to the ground. When the earthquake had stopped, I looked up from my hiding place to see that He was gone. And the fallen gates, to my dismay, were lying in the shape of a cross.

Pictures of Claire Coleman

Just a couple pictures from our brief hospital visit today (or "hopsital" as Megan likes to say). Claire is beautiful and in great health. Helen remains very ill from her blood pressure issues, so please keep her in your fervent prayers, for a speedy and full recovery. No word right now on when they will be home; Helen's health is such that it may be a few more days. Breandan is a proud Daddy, doting on his new baby girl (she totally has him wrapped around those tiny fingers already, and he's the first to admit it). They are a beautiful little family.

Welcome!

Welcome to the world, Claire Alistrina Coleman! We are so glad that you are here, and that you and your Mom are safe. We can't wait to meet you tomorrow!

Bedtime

I was putting the kids to bed tonight, like any other night. I had laid Marina down in her crib, and she was crying. I ran downstairs to grab a blanket out of the dryer for Megan, and as I came back upstairs, I saw Megan standing by Marina's crib. She was singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her, and gently stroking her head. Marina fell asleep.

I swear, it was the sweetest thing I had ever seen. It's moments like these that make m love being a Mom, and totally redeem the giant fall down fits (yes, that's plural) that Megan had at my folks' bakery today.

Something Fun

I wrote this piece a couple of years ago while taking a creative writing class at UAA. I happened upon it earlier today, and thought that my friends--those in South Carolina especially--would enjoy it. It's a little long, so hopefully it will post okay.

I Have A Port-A-Potty, And I Know How To Use It

Every year, hordes of tourists flock to the Last Frontier. They spend millions of dollars on souvenirs, t-shirts, cruises, tours, sightseeing packages, and moose poop jewelry. They go to the BrewHouse, Alaska Wildberry Products, and walk the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail. They scan the parks and roadsides looking for the elusive moose, black bear, and caribou. In rare moments of brilliancy, they climb the fences at the zoo and are mauled by polar bears. In essence, these people are searching for one simple thing: the Alaskan experience.

What the Department of Tourism isn't telling them is that the two pampered weeks they spend in Anchorage, in the middle of June, is as close to the Alaskan experience as being bitten by a giraffe.

To truly know and appreciate this great land, one must possess a pioneering attitude of courage, adventure, and an appreciation of the simple virtues in life: hard work, dedication, perseverance, and patience. Or, one can simply be dumb, broke, and a little crazy. I chose the latter of these two options.

To anyone who knows me but at all, the idea of me roughing it is generally enough to induce hysterical laughter. I hate to camp. In fact, I hate it so much that instead of tenting it on the banks of the Kasilof River while dip netting, I decided instead to spend the night in the hospital having my appendix removed. Even my internal, removable organs hate to camp. I once went on a three-day canoe trip through the Swanson Lake system near Soldotna. I will admit to having fun, but not when I woke up covered in frozen dew, spiders, and hearing a moose chewing grass less than five feet from my tent. I complained a lot that trip. I'm sometimes surprised that my husband, who was there, still married me after that fiasco. That being said, imagine the surprise (shock is more like it) of everybody I know when my husband and I casually announced that we were moving out of our three bedroom duplex into a 16x20 foot cabin in the woods.

Were we crazy? Probably, but for the most part, we were poor. Dn. John was only working part-time, and my full-time job in the accounting office of a local Ford dealership hardly fit the bill as a big moneymaker. Moving was the simplest way to cut costs. Since the cabin was owned by some of our closest friends, we knew we would be in good hands.

As if the size of the cabin wasn't enough, the fact that it had no running water and was heated by a wood stove compounded matters a bit. My parents, who have lived in Alaska for the last 25 years, shrugged their shoulders and wished us luck in paying our bills. My South Carolina in-laws, however, thought we had lost our minds. My closest friends, some Alaskans, some not, figured Dn. John was twisting my arm. They were in even greater shock when I informed them that I was a willing participant in the insanity.

So in September of 2003, we gritted our teeth, packed our beautiful home, put 70% of our belongings into storage, and moved into the cabin. The first time I walked in, I cried.

Ten of our buddies had turned out to help us move, and they sat around in the front yard for a while, drinking beer and making fun of the Port-A-Potty that was to be my bathroom for the next year.
"That son-of-a-bitch is going to be cold this winter," was Dan's only comment.

Since it was Saturday morning and Monday was Labor Day, I had three days to unpack. Considering the few belongings we now had, one would think that this would be an easy task. However this, like my mental state of relative sanity, was not to be.

Jesse, our close friend and new landlord, had spend a day the previous week painting the plywood floor a beautiful shade of green, covering the rather dingy yellow it had been before. Unfortunately, he had used an exterior paint, thinking that it would be more durable to heavy traffic. It hadn't had time to dry completely, and as a result, the cardboard boxes stuck to the floor with alarming strength. Green paint had also been drug up the stairs onto the brand new white carpet remnant a contractor friend had given us. I cried again, but this time, for a shorter amount of time.

Labor Day found Dn. John, his friend Josh, Jesse and Dan doing labor: on their hands and knees scraping cardboard and goopy paint off the floor with putty knives. I stayed upstairs, drowning my sorrows in a loud CD, two liters of Dr. Pepper, and a bag of mini Milky Ways. I also endeavored to stay extremely busy. In less than eight hours, despite tripping over the boys every time I turned around, I converted our hole-in-the-wall cabin into a cozy, though condensed, home of which I was extremely proud.

Our first month in the cabin passed without any substantial mental breakdowns. We were saving money and paying bills, which was our goal to begin with. Of course it was hard. Cooking turned out to be a real adventure. We had a miniature propane stove (when I say miniature, I mean we were hard pressed to fit a full-sized cookie sheet in the oven), and the propane tank was located behind the house. Since we both worked, we had no desire to keep the tank on all day and waste propane. So every time I wanted to cook, one of us would run behind the cabin to turn on the propane, and then bang on the outside wall. This was the signal for the person inside to light the pilot lights before the gas asphyxiated us. As ideal as this sounds, it didn't always work in real life. The pilot lights were notoriously picky, and sometimes wouldn't light for three to five minutes. By then, we were growing woozy from the gas, and afraid of the cloud of flame that would burst from the stove when it finally lit.

Hauling water from the local fire station was no picnic either. In fact, the whole kitchen water setup was a bit of a headache. Our sink looked like a normal sink, as the builders had attached a faucet. Of course, this faucet was purely for aesthetic purposes, but on more than one occasion (about once a week) we would forget that we didn't have running water and turn the faucet on. Usually, we would remember after a few seconds that it didn't work, especially when no water came out, but I always felt pretty dumb afterward. Our real water ran from a five-gallon blue camping container turned on its side. It drained into a large red bucket we kept under the sink. We had to remember to empty the bucket of its dirty water at least once a week, as it had a terrible tendency to smell like road kill.

We took a video of our little house down to my in-laws in South Carolina. They watched in disbelief (and a little bit of awe, I like to think), but what really put my father-in-law in stitches were the Christmas lights that Dn. John strung from our front door to the port-a-potty, so we could see where we were going in the winter. It seemed like simple practicality to us, but in retrospect, the Christmas lights almost add insult to injury to the slight absurdity of having a port-a-potty in my front yard to begin with. But despite all of this, the cabin was livable, workable, and on some occasions, downright fun.

Then winter hit.

Regardless of anything anybody ever tells you, you haven't really lived until you've used a Port-A-Potty in -20 degree cold, while wearing pajamas and a headlamp. Ah, Alaska. About halfway through the winter, my husband took pity on my chilled behind and cut a piece of blue insulated foam into the shape of a toilet seat to help keep my backside from freezing to the inside of the outhouse. I love that little piece of foam. It's amazing the joy one can find in the simplest things.

We discovered a lot of things that winter. He learned to light fires with precision, despite an accident early on that left him with partial eyelashes, singed eyebrows, and burned the hair off his knuckles. Even after the eyelash incident, and looking funny for a couple weeks, Dn. John loved the woodstove. We developed a little "fire-lighting" tradition: he would do a Beavis and Butt-Head imitation ("Fire! Fire! Heh heh heh, Snort Snort. Fire! Fire!"), and I would inevitable start singing any song that had the word "fire" in it (Come On Baby, Light My Fire, Great Balls Of Fire...you get the idea).

I, however, learned to cook while wearing gloves, a coat, and a scarf wrapped around my head like a Russian Babushka. Every now and then the scarf would fall off, and then dinner would really taste interesting. We also learned that, in extreme cold, our freezer will thaw and everything in the fridge will freeze. We learned to wash our hair by heating four cups of water in the microwave for exactly two minutes, then pouring it over our heads into the sink, and that one can successfully entertain a dinner party of ten people with paper plates and plastic silverware in a space the size of a hospital elevator.

That winter had more snow than in recent years, and shoveling was more complicated than usual. Instead of the normal path from the car to the front door, we also required a path around the back of the house to the propane tank, one to the woodpile, and one to the outhouse. I managed to only have to shovel once that winter, and that was as a surprise for my husband (he thought I had had guests who'd done it for me). We also had to shovel off the woodpile on more than one occasion, and discovered with some dismay that our tarps, which we used to cover the wood, had holes in them, causing our wood to get wet. Let me tell you how much fun it is to light a fire with wet wood, when it's only 19 degrees in your house and you're shivering so hard that you can hardly strike matches. Then again, maybe I'll just let you guess.

We never did learn how to keep the heat even. The temperature would go from frigid, to perfect, to sweltering, all in the space of two hours. More often than not, we would run around the house wearing summer clothes and opening all the windows, regardless of the external cold nearing 0 (or lower).

That fire turned out to be the bane of my existence. The extreme cold outside, combined with the uneven heat inside, a mild case of asthma and a stubborn woman who refuses to go to a doctor, caused a rather severe case of pneumonia to develop in both of my lungs. I finally went to the doctor with a body-spasming cough, a fever, and lung x-rays that caused my doctor to say, "Wow." That's never good. He sent me home with horse-pill antibiotics, and instructions to lie in bed for three days and do nothing. His eyes grew wider and wider as I described how this was, in fact, impossible, due to the fact that if I didn't move to haul wood, feed the fire, etc., I would freeze to death. Thus, I ended up spending the next two days on my friend Melissa's couch, watching cable and mooching off of her well-stocked cupboard. I couldn't go home until eight in the evening, after Dn. John had been home for two hours and there was some semblance of warmth in the house.

Despite all the hardships, adventure flourished in places where I least expected it. One morning in early summer, we awoke to hearing bizarre scratching noises inside our stove. Dn. John assumed a squirrel had fallen down the stovepipe. We headed off to work, and I made a quick call to Animal Control, hoping to have the squirrel out of my stove by the time we got home. Animal Control casually informed me that most of the time, it's not squirrels that fall down stovepipes, but ducks.
"Ducks?" I exclaimed in disbelief.
"Oh yeah," the lady calmly replied. "I don't know how they fit in there, but it happens all the time."

I hung up the phone after learning of the $100 fee they would charge me to remove the duck/squirrel from my stove, figuring that with a fishing net, thick gloves, and somebody else doing the hard stuff, I'd be able to handle the problem on my own. I returned home, ready to face the worst, only to find an empty stove. Whatever was in there apparently clawed (or flew) its way up 15 straight feet and out the stovepipe cap. Since that time, I have learned a little more about the insulation in our cabin (in particular, around the stovepipe), so if a Park Ranger ever discovers a small animal with asbestos-induced cancer, chances are that animal was in my stove.

It so happened that, when we'd been living in the cabin for about 10 months, my husband got a new job, and my new job (which was partially commission based) started to boost our income a little as well. We made the choice to leave behind our "Love Shack" and put both feet back into civilization. I was happy to have running water again, but I will readily admit to missing the cabin at times. Not the cold, and most certainly not the port-a-potty (what a blessing it is to wake up and pee inside), but the simplicity of life. It"s amazing what you can live without when you put your mind to it (or when you"re desperate, either one). My husband was sad though. After helping us move out, one of his friends made a comment that Dn. John looked like he wanted to hug the woodstove goodbye. I, however, did not.

The ramifications of living in the cabin have reached into places that I had never expected. For example, I find myself having to buy Dn. John new pants, as his jeans are all stained with soot from the fire. We both have developed an annoying habit, involving turning the faucet on, or flushing the toilet, looking at each other, and laughing in amazement. We also eat a lot less Taco Bell, corn dogs, and Hot Pockets now that doing the dishes doesn't require hauling a box of pots and pans to my sister's house down the road. One of the best things of not living there anymore is not having to open the front door, look slowly from right to left, and around the corner of the house, to ensure that our not-so-friendly neighborhood black bear hasn't taken up abode right in front of my car.

One would think that this year of roughing it and building character in the woods would have a lasting impact on my dislike of camping. One would be wrong. I camped for an entire year. I have fulfilled my quota, and I need never do it again. Unfortunately, my husband doesn't agree with me, and as I have no more organs that may spontaneously rupture (I hope), my excuses fall on deaf ears. So look out world:I've had the Alaskan experience, and I survived it. There's nothing I can=t do now.

Home again, home again

Well, we made it home. Thank God! The girls were really good on the plane. They are good little travelers! We got home and to bed around 11 pm, and Marina, still on East Coast time, was up at 6. Ergh. She is snoozing peacefully right now. Megan is in her room talking to herself, and occasionally yelling for me. Dn. John is downstairs bemoaning the fact that we don't get CBS so he can't watch the Masters. I am avoiding unpacking our suitcases by posting on my blog and playing on Facebook. So, all told, we're doing just fine.

We are heading over to the Coleman's in a couple hours to watch the Cubs game, and have some halibut for dinner. I'm looking forward to that--it's always fun to hang out with them.

And, here's a shout out to all the other parents out there who spent Liturgy this morning yelling at their kids for sticking their palms in other peoples' faces. Palm Sunday was more fun when I was a kid, and doing the palm sticking myself.

The life and times of an Alaskan in the South

Ah...sunshine. I love it, love it, love it. Even though it torched my back and right shoulder yesterday at the beach. I am nursing a pretty gnarly sunburn from the spot where I apparently missed putting on sunscreen. Gotta love it. It doesn't bother me though, because I figure I'm only burned because I was out in the glorious sun. And that in itself is enough for me. The girls were SPF 50'd from head to toe, so their Alaskan skin is still white as snow. Megan had a blast at Isle of Palms...she played in the water, dug holes in the sand, collected shells, and ran around like a looney with a swimsuit wedgie. It was pretty cute. Both girls ended up falling asleep in our arms, so the grownups just relaxed and enjoyed the waves for awhile while the girls snoozed. Then, the tide came in and threatened our spot on the shore, so we headed out.

We walked down Main Street to do some shopping, which was fun, until I discovered that I'd lost my debit card somewhere. After having a slight heart attack and tearing apart my purse to be sure, I canceled it. We later called the shop where we'd been, and some one had turned it in. Since we were already a ways away, they cut it up for me. Thank God--THANK GOD--it wasn't my drivers license, since I wouldn't have been able to get on the plane tomorrow without it.

Grammy and Megan have big plans to plant some flowers today, and I'm going to hit the Dollar Store down the street. Anastasia's been raving about hers for months, and there is one only half a mile away from here, so I'm going to check it out.

Redoubt seems to be quiet for the time being, so I think we should be okay getting home tomorrow. Please keep us in your prayers as we travel back across the country. While this vacation has been awesome-oh man, it's been awesome!-it will be good to get home and get the girls back on some kind of sleep schedule again. Of course, we're getting home just in time for Holy Week, so it will be madness of a different kind.

Well, it's time for some aloe vera on my crab-red shoulder!

A Post for Martha

We have been in South Carolina since early morning on Tuesday. How early in the morning, you ask? VERY EARLY. We left the Howells at 8:15 am on Monday, after a fantastic visit. It was hard to leave. I was making every possible attempt to hold it together until we got in the car, but I wasn't entirely successful. I barely made it out the front door before starting to cry. We spent two nights and one day with Matthew, Anastasia and the kids. Luke and Megan were pretty much best friends from the moment we walked in the door. They played and played and played. It was so much fun to see that. Marina and Luke weigh almost the same amount--there's a 4 pound difference (and 16 months or so). Matthew, Anastasia, Dn. John and I had a blast hanging out and chatting. We also played two games of one of our favorite card games, Hand and Foot. I had an EPIC hand in the second game. Seriously, it was legendary. The guys were only grudgingly impressed, since Anastasia and I were partners. If you're a Hand and Foot player, just know that on my first turn, I went through my entire hand, played into my foot, played all of it, and discarded a solitary black three. Like I said, epic!

So, we left early Monday morning. We were on the road for 17 hours or so, pulling into Aiken at 1 am. We made a stop in Asheville, NC to see our friend Barb and her husband Craig. That was fun. We ate at Cracker Barrel, which was a first for me.

The funniest part about our drive was driving through Bat Cave, North Carolina. I had to call my sister and tell her about that. I wish we could've gotten a post card or something. Overall, the drive was fantastic. The girls were nothing short of angelic. Never in my wildest dreams did I think they would do that well. We were (and are!) so thankful. Megan had lots of fun in Virginia, since there were cows everywhere. Plus, Dn. John and I just got to chat and spend time together, which is always nice. I also read a book on the way down, called The Centurian's Wife, by Janette Oke and T. Davis Bunn. If you get a chance, it was AWESOME. I loved it.

We've been chilling with Dn. John's folks for a couple of days now, and having a great time. The girls are loving their grandparents, and I'm quite sure that the feeling is mutual. We went to the zoo today, where a random stranger walked up, and shyly asked if she could take a picture of Marina because she was just so cute. She said she was going to show it to her husband so she could talk him into having kids. That was funny.

If you've been wondering about the post title, here's that story. We went to PreSanctified at St. Barnabas this evening. We have lots of friends there, and always enjoy catching up with everybody. Well, it came out that Kent and Martha are huge fans of my blog. They were just raving about it, which was a huge compliment for me. Martha even commented that she checks the blog a couple times a day! Well, after hearing that I felt like a slacker since I've barely posted anything this week. So, this is dedicated to the Rowells, for making me feel so cool and popular. Kent even told me I should write a book. You guys rock.

Tomorrow, we are heading to the beach in Charleston, to take advantage of the 75-80 degree forecast. Eat your heart out Alaskans!! I'll put on an extra layer of sunscreen for all of you.

This post is also so long because I decided it would be a good idea to have a Dr. Pepper at 9 o'clock at night, and I am WIDE AWAKE. Oh well. Sports Center is on, so my husband won't be ready for bed for awhile anyway. Facebook, here I come!

The Happy Howells

We're here chilling with Matthew and Anastasia and the kids! It's awesome. We missed them so much, and it's fabulous to be here spending time with everybody. Baby Hannah Christine is adorable! With a name like that, how could she not be? :)

Traveling

Well, Redoubt cooperated, and we made it out of Alaska safely. We are currently chilling with Fr. Stephen, Nancy, Bobby and Mary Lourie in Pennsylvania. Our traveling went well, although Megan threw up on one of the flights. I think she just had too much juice. So we survived. We had a nice long drive from Pittsburgh to Altoona last night, and got a hair turned around, which caused us to be on the road an extra hour or so. Stupid Pennsylvania Turnpike. But, in any case, we are here now.

We will spend the rest of the afternoon in Altoona, then go to Vespers with Fr. Stephen. After that, it's back into the car to drive to the Howells!

Apparently Redoubt just erupted again, so here's hoping we make it home next week!

Overheard

Last night, Dn. John was doing the dishes, but Megan really wanted him to read her a story. Here is a transcript of that conversation:

"Daddy, read me a story!"
"I can't; I'm doing the dishes."
"Don't do the dishes Daddy! Mommy will do them."

What the heck? Says who??