Mission: Porch Time

Apparently it's difficult getting a job as a pregnant woman, especially if you're smart enough to put it on your resume or job application.  Wait, was 'smart' the word I meant to use there?
I'm spending the summer going to school twice a week and getting more round the rest of the time.  Nick and I have obviously been stressing about this, since it cuts into our income pretty seriously.  And then a few days ago I realized something.
I've completely lost my connection with God.  I worked a few summers and a fall at a church camp in southern Indiana, where I felt closer to my Savior than ever before.  I was surrounded by other college students, and together we were all completely open about our faith.  Every day held a specific time just for prayer and time with God.  I personally spent most of that time journaling, which is the best way for me to concentrate and organize my thoughts.
I've been attending church pretty regularly, but I realized that that did not really mean anything.  I can go to a restaurant every day, but if I don't actually eat anything I'm not going to be full.  I needed to make my faith and my religion my life again, especially with a baby on the way!
This revelation started with a book I happened to pick up from Walmart a few days ago titled, "My So-Called Life as a Proverbs 31 Wife" by Sara Horn.  I finished it in three days. (And highly recommend it for every wife out there!)  For those three mornings I sat on the porch, ate my breakfast, and took my time reading and thinking.  Those three days were not only the most productive days I've had in weeks, but the happiest and most peaceful.  So I drove to Barnes and Noble, bought a new journal and a devotional for mothers.  It's incredible how the 45 minutes I spend on the porch every morning has changed my attitude and my day.
So this post is a Mission Statement.  I believe that the reason I'm unemployed this summer is so that I can spend my time focusing on reconnecting with God.  I want my daughter to be raised in the same environment that I was.  I want her to understand that 'religious' is not something we do, it is something we are.  I will never accomplish these things if I cannot first get myself in the right place and second lead by example.
Here goes everything.

The Beagle and the Dane (Part 2)

Having Wilbur is like having a baby.  His entire day basically consists of sleeping, eating, and pooping.  He gets into things that make you call poison control. (75 menthol cough drops, four feet of saran wrap to get to the chocolate cake underneath, a tablecloth.) All he wants sometimes is a big hug.  Taking him on a walk is perfect.  He's big and scary, so I don't have to worry about all those thugs running around LaPorte.  He's content walking right next to me instead of six feet in any other direction.  Everyone stops to compliment us and baby talk to him.  He does not insist on chasing every animal and leaf that moves.  

But the advantages don't stop there.  The following is a list of times when Wilbur makes noise:

1. Snoring.  Which is cute until I can't hear Nick talk because it gets so loud.

2. When he's protecting us from all those aforementioned thugs walking around the house.  He occasionally barks at people he can see outside the windows, which I don't mind because it's a big scary man-eating bark.  It makes me feel safer.  Apparently the pastor across the street has something sketchy going on, because Wilbur never lets him walk around without a good warning.

3. When he's getting off the couch and farts...like an old man.  I've known a lot of dogs with a lot of bad gas before, but with Wilbur you go unconscious for a few minutes and wake up to the insides of your mouth peeling.  There's no way to escape.  It's useless trying to tuck your nose into your shirt, or the book your reading, or a nearby blanket. His gas permeates everything.

I know I can't make Wilbur sound perfect, because that just wouldn't be the truth.  He had something of a rough puppyhood.  The biggest difference between him and Rudy here is that when Wilbur looks back to when he got into the trashcan, he remembers the punishment that came with it.  Rudy, however, only remembers how tasty all of the goodies inside where.  Wilbur learns from his mistakes.  He knows now that toads do not taste good and bumblebees are not for eating.  He knows that if he tries to fit under the bed he will get stuck, and I cannot help him out.  He has learned to keep track of all four legs on the way down the stairs or he will end up on his face.  

The most distracting and somewhat disturbing part about Wilbur happens when he wants his belly rubbed or he's itching behind his ears.  He hasn't been fixed yet (purely because of expenses, not because we aren't going to) which has left his golfball sized manhood bouncing around in the back.  It's indecent.  I feel like I should put a pair of underwear on him.  That will have to change before our daughter is old enough to start asking questions.

The truth is Wilbur is my favorite for a lot of reasons, some that make more sense than others.  It's the closest thing I can have to a horse in the house, which is certainly appealing.  Maybe my own personality is more similar to Wilbur's.  We both don't mind naps in the middle of the day, we agree that being lazy on occasion is healthy, and there is something weird about the pastor across the street...

The Beagle and the Dane (Part 1)

I love beagles like I love Justin Bieber. They're cute as long as they keep their mouths shut.  I love Great Danes like I love Brad Pitt.  All I want to do is cuddle with them all day, and it's not really an issue if they lick my face.

While I'm sure I could end this right here and most of you out there would completely understand, I'm going to expand upon these ideas a little further.

Just in case you're new to my life, I'll start my introducing you to my children. (The two that aren't currently swimming around in my uterus, that is.)  Wilbur is our 9 months old Great Dane.  He weighs right around 100 pounds and his back is about as tall as our kitchen table.  He'll grow for another 5 months.  Rudy is our 2 year old Beagle.  While he looks like the size of a chipmunk next to Wilbur, he's the bully in the house.

We'll start with the ways they are similar.  They both like rawhide bones, sleeping on our bed, and watching people walk into the church across the street on Sunday mornings.  I think it ends there.

Rudy is extremely smart, but more stubborn than anything. Wilbur is a little on the slow side, but will do whatever you ask of him.  Rudy destroys things because he thinks it's fun, such as my underwear, all of the tissues in the trash can, and electrical cords. (BTW- how is it he hasn't been shocked yet?)  Wilbur destroys things on accident.  He can't stop on the tile floor and puts a dent in the wall, he gets too excited and his tail breaks all the glasses on the coffee table, and he really didn't know the screen was supposed to stay in the window.

Having Rudy is like having a fire alarm that goes off at everything.  We're leaving without him?  He howls.  We're not paying enough attention to him?  He howls.  The TV channel is too boring for him?  He howls.  This only gets worse when we take him on walks.  Is that a dog?  He howls.  Is that a lawnmower?  He howls.  Is that a big body of water?  He howls.  What exactly is his saying?
"HHEEEEEEYYYYYYTHHEEEERRRREEEEEPREEETTTYYYLLLAAAAADDYYY!"
"IIIWWAAAANNNTTTTOOOOOOEEEEAAAATTTTIIIITTTTSSSFFAAACCCEEE!"

He can walk the first 15 minutes with his front feet never touching the ground.  For a smart dog you would think he'd realize the flow of oxygen would be much more efficient if he just gave up a little bit of slack. If we try to take him to a park, like the walking trail at Kesling, the biggest problem is that he can see and howl at every single person, dog, and squirrel within a half-mile radius.  If we try to take him around the neighborhood, people come out on their porches too see who is abusing that poor animal making all that noise.  (Not an exaggeration, it actually happens.)  No matter where we take him, we have to bring at least four plastic bags.  It doesn't matter that he's been out in a backyard for the last six hours, he will find three or more places to dump.

Rudy is my husband's favorite.  I think it's just to make me angry because it means I can't get rid of him.  (The beagle, not my husband.)  Wilbur, however is my favorite, which may become obvious in the next post...