The second most important thing to a Fire Station

Biceps has begun his “real life” as a firefighter, right here in our hometown. Before the Academy, he was employed as a firefighter by another city, driving back and forth for almost two hours. But, now he’s here and just a few miles down the road. Boo yeah.

It may be a bit of a boys’ club, but they don’t ever turn away cookies, cakes or ice cream.

Trust me.

I’ve learned something by visiting these men a few times. Sure, they have to fight fires, kick in doors, and chainsaw through roofs in order to save homes and lives. Yes, they arrive on scene to DOA’s, horrible car accidents, child abuse situations and people stuck in cherry pickers.

Because of this, they look like superheroes to me-taking care of business when I would be crumpled to the ground in an emotional heap-wreck. (Yes, that’s a word.)

But underneath all the bunker gear, the breathing apparatus and the helmet, they’re still just men.

Men who love their families, their hobbies and their food.

The first time I was invited to the station, I was full-blown nervous. I wore a tank top so that my sweaty pits could breathe. I wore heels so that I would look like I took this invitation seriously. And, I made a mustache cake. I knew if I totally bombed, at least I would have a dessert to make up for it.

I arrived on scene to six firefighting men hovering over a commercial grade stove, taking their jobs of cooking very seriously. A ham was being carved, a skillet full of green beans was being stirred, stuffing was warming in the oven and the mashed potatoes were still steaming.

Whatever I was worried about was for nought. Dinner with five strangers and Biceps couldn’t haven’t been more perfect-the food was amazing and the conversation happened easily. And bonus-I didn’t say one stupid thing. However, my pits did sweat-it was stinkin’ hot in that kitchen. It’s like these guys are around fire all day long, or something.

During the meal, I soon realized how seriously these men took their cooking. “There would be no taco salad or sloppy joe’s made here,” they said. Besides saving lives, cooking was the most important thing they did on shift.

And then, Biceps was asked to make dinner. You must understand that although helpful in the kitchen, Biceps doesn’t really cook.

He was full-blown nervous. We went over a proposed menu numerous times, what times to start each item, how to tell when it’s done and all the little things us cooks forget we do.

“Oh yeah, of course you add olive oil. That kind of goes without saying.” Mr. Details (Biceps) disagreed.

He settled on mesquite chicken, broccoli and mashed potatoes. Total success, of course. And then, he was asked to make dinner again-this time sushi. Another total success.

He’s becoming a regular Julia Child-who happens to wear a helmet from time to time and run into burning buildings to pull out kitty cats and babies. How hot is that?

I guess a girl can have it all.

12 Years of Marriage, 12 Things I’ve learned

Dearest Readers:
Biceps and I have been married for 12 beautiful years-as of yesterday. The number “12” isn’t a fancy one-it’s not rounded out like 10 or 15. It’s that awkward number along the way to lucky 13 and just past the boring “boy-you’ve-still-got-a-lot-to-learn” single digits.

In and of itself, the number 12 is just there, being 12.

However, I’ve learned a lot about how to do this marriage thing in 12 years: how to tour with stinky guys, how to remodel and build more than I ever dreamed possible for me-and, of course, why cats are awesome.

I thought I’d share my vast knowledge of life with all of you. The first one is kind of a no brainer.

1. Even in Europe, while in the majestic Swiss Alps, cats are cute and are a necessity for me.

2. When your husband insists on you touring with his band, have a little class and don’t try to take over everything. All the time. Every spare minute. The other band members really don’t appreciate you mothering them.

3. Remodeling will either: (A) tear your marriage apart because you’re both insistent on doing it “your way” or (B) it will bring you and your black boogers, sawdust filled lungs, scraped knuckles, aching backs-closer together. Shoot for the latter.

4. No matter if you spend your time together in far off romantic places, farting will always kill the mood.

5. And even if you spend your special time together camping in your old home town as you roast hot dogs over a “romantic fire” and you must shower in a spider-infested, concrete block structure that smells like an ape house, farting will kill the mood.

So will poison ivy. But that’s another lesson for another day.

6. Telling your husband every day how handsome he is never gets old.

7. Sometimes, life will take you to fancy places. Never let it change why you fell in love with your spouse and who you are as a couple. I will always remember the times we took the night off from remodeling and drove our vintage Honda motorcyle to “splurge” on a Quik Trip soda. That was an awesome date night. I loved every minute of wrapping my arms around my husband on the back of that motorcycle, sitting on the curb as we watched the cars racing in and out of the gas station and laughing and chatting until the sun went down.

8. Sometimes life will present the bizarre. It’s good to have someone to share that with.

9. Yelling never solves anything. Besides-look at this face. How could you yell at that? The quickest and the healthiest way to a resolution is to pray together. It may sound trite, but trust me. You can’t demand to “win” if you are focusing on the one who gave His life for you. What you want seems pretty silly after remembering that.

10. Farting will always kill the mood.

11. Everyone looks sexier on stage-don’t compare your spouse to them and wish they were that sexy. Unless of course it is your spouse and your wish has already been granted. Hello! Then, I guess, comparing is kind of a moot point.

12. Holding out for that one man God has picked for you and staying faithful to aforementioned man, is the most exciting, most satisfying thing you can do in the entire world.

Happy Anniversary, Biceps. I love you more than cats and coffee.

A letter from a childless wife.

We weren’t waiting to have children because of an insatiable desire to pursue our careers or because we don’t like kids–as we’ve been accused of. I’ve heard the conversations behind our backs (and sometimes to our faces) surmising that we must be selfish and too rigid. I’ve heard the philosophy that we should have children in order to become “better people”.

I’ve also been given the insightful information that childbearing is not only what makes me a “real woman”, but more importantly, that it’s my Godly duty. And, my favorite is the “concerned” person who warned me that having children after 35 greatly increases the chances of the child being mentally or physically handicapped. As if this would be a horrible consequence to us waiting.

The simple fact is–we wanted to wait until we couldn’t wait any more. This was how we approached our marriage. And since this would be another life long decision–not just something cute to hold for a moment–we waited. We thought we might be ready by our fourth or fifth year into marriage. But soon, our sixth, seventh and then tenth anniversary passed us by and we were still childless. And we were fine with it.

However, about the eleventh year, I observed that we started noticing kids. It began in small ways. One of us would comment on how tiny baby shoes were-something that never mattered before. Or, my husband would point out the cute fuzzy hair on our nephew. The emotions began to creep in and the desire was planted.

We wanted and we were ready to have our family.

But, along with our desire came our hesitation. We loved our spontaneous weekend get-aways without worrying about a sitter. We loved biking through the city with no real plan or a diaper bag. As a compromise to a specific plan, we went without charting or taking temperatures, and decided to try–without trying. Every month that rolled around was a game of roulette. And we lost every time.

I took solace as I watched frazzled mothers yelling at their children at church, in the mall, and at the gas station. I skipped on by, coffee in hand, with no spit-up on my shirt and no poop smell in my car. The war stories from parents were abundant and gladly told over and over. They wore them on their sleeves like badges of honor. The same parents–chastising me for being childless–were the ones with marriages in a state of arrested development, the ones where the children were controlling everything and with absolute, total chaos in their lives.

Even so, I wanted a baby with my husband. I wanted to see a boy that looked like him, that acted like him, that admired his father. I wanted a little girl that would paint her nails, that would bake cookies with me, that would become my best friend–like I am with my mother.

And when this realization hit that I sincerely wanted a baby, the scarring in my life began. The awkward questions that I used to let roll off my back, no longer rolled. They stuck. And they hurt.

“Well, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to have kids?”. Without knowing what is wrong–if there is anything really wrong–my answer is simply, “God hasn’t blessed us with a baby–yet.”

I watch as they shift their child from one hip to the other, looking me over, trying to figure out if it’s my lack of faith, lack of body fat or something somewhere in between that’s causing me to not become pregnant, and I beg my tears to recede to their proper holding cell. Because, after all–I’m broken and I need to be fixed. By them.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have waited so long,” they say. This stings more than all the others, because it’s the one that percolates in the back of my mind. “You can always adopt,” is their next statement.

I thank them for their helpful comments and walk away, knowing I’m going home to a house that’s empty and void of onesies, toys and stuffed animals. My house is clean and everything is just where I left it. And, if I want to have a cup of coffee on the back porch while it’s raining, I can. But the rain only amplifies what I already know.

I feel broken and the questions continue to pound away at my resolve to be positive and to be at peace. Those questions mutilate me. My tears are at the ready, my emotions are at the breaking point. And this is where I am today.

I am writing this to all women that have felt this pain. And for the ones that seem to get pregnant “if their husband’s just look at them”, please, understand why I can only offer you my half smile. I am so thrilled for you, truthfully. But, it’s so hard to muster up joy for your new season when the joy seems to be gone in my season–and when I’m left in this holding pattern.

I know that God has a plan for me–I am not distraught–I have hope. I am just wounded and hurting. The questions, the helpful suggestions and opinions you have of me bruise me more than you know.

Signed-
A Childless Wife

Did you know? Facts about the writer.

Dear Readers:

The internet is a scary place. If you don’t believe me, just use google earth and check out your home-from a satellite in space. That said, I try to reveal the inner me, without revealing too much in order to avoid the freaks and (bad) weirdos.

I wouldn’t want photos like this to get into the wrong hands.

Wait. Oops.

Anywho-due to my partial privacy, I wonder if there is a bit of disconnect between you and I. I’ve read blogs before and the although the content was great, the writer had no voice and I never ended up connecting with them.

So, here goes nothing. Time to connect, ladies and gentlemen, via weird facts about yours truly.

Did you know Biceps forced me to take this picture with Rupert at Hello Deli in New York (Dave Letterman Show)? I was so embarrassed.

Did you know that I met this man (Bicep’s father) for the first time, while he was in the shower? The bathroom seems to be the hub in that household, and I was invited to shake his hand over the top of the very non-revealing shower curtain.

It was weird.

Did you know that I was born in Germany?

Did you know that I basically look just like my mom (on the left)?

Did you know that I have a thing for robots and for my 30th Birthday had a “Robot Party”?

Did you know that we had a house that exploded?

Did you know Biceps and I were married  here at the Daniel Boone Chapel in Defiance, Mo and that Dad called him “Kyle” during the ceremony?

That’s enough Rebelation (Rebekah + revelation) for now. I hope this wasn’t too much, but just enough….