HERE IT IS.

So freaking proud.

(Disclaimer. This is NOT the issue the above article is in. This is the January issue and my article is in the February issue, which is not on newstands yet, nor is there an online image available. I may or may not have come by this information by running to Borders 5 minutes before closing and scooping up 4 copies of a magazine that, while highly enjoyable, I was not in. Heh.)

Comments are closed, peeps. Not only is this my 2nd post in a DAY but  I have had so much love via email, Twitter and Facebook already it would be overkill. Plus, I am nearing the self-promotion point of icky about this and it would feel like you had to keep congratulating me. I just wanted to share because it’s a really proud moment for me. I know you wish me well.  As I do you. :)

I came this close to Jonathan catching me twirling and leaping around to cheesy Christian Jesus rock while cleaning my kitchen.

And really, the world is a MUCH better place with that sight never being witnessed.

It would have been horrifying for us both.

It would have been WAY worse than that time I got caught doing the “Thriller” dance in my underwear at 1 am.

For reals.

P.S. I suddenly get the feeling this post could lead me to a world of trouble with some. Especially with my mother. I’m not sure how she is going to take the term “Jesus rock”.  I already stress her out too much with how often I use the word “vagina” on this blog.

P.P.S. So, to clarify for those who ardently love both Jesus and cheesy Christian Jesus rock…I’m not bashing either.

P.P.P.S. Most of my shame was about the cheesy music part. Don’t get me wrong, I was raised a Mormon and Mormons can do religious musical cheese with the BEST of them (trust me). But I was a music major. A classical vocalist. An opera singer.  I’m supposed to be immune to cheese.

P.P.P.P.S. Which is kind of odd as I want to marry Air Supply and have little  cheesy music babies with them.  (And let’s face it, if you know anything about it opera can be freaking CHEESY. It’s like taking plot lines from Days of Our Lives and sticking some very talented vocalists with oft-over inflated egos in corsets and setting it to classical music.)

P.P.P.P.P.S. So, really…my shame is way more about my musical selection than anything religious.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I mean, I have my very well documented issues that you have read on here from time to time, but I am not an utter hater. AND there are a lot of things that I think the big guy has been quite kindly towards me about lately, so my rock out was sincere. You know…”Make a joyful noise all ye lands n’ stuff!” Only it was more like “Make a joyful, yet klutzy, twirly spaz-out in your pajamas while spraying Windex, all ye lands!” type of thing.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Dude, I love Windex.  I also want to make out and have babies with it. Only I don’t love it as much as Air Supply, so I don’t want to marry it. So maybe I will just make out with the Windex. I would hate to be responsible for having little blue illegitimate Windex babies.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I mean, the poor kids would already be blue and isn’t that enough of an obstacle for a kid without the whole “bastard” label following them around the school yard at recess? Life is hard enough, you know?

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And besides, I consider Windex one of those little miracles from heaven, so no hating on the Lord here.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Or Jesus.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Or opera.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Or vaginas, for that matter.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And for the record, this entire post is probably a sufficient illustration of the very real possibility of my eternal peril.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Oh, well. If I DO go to hell, I have the beginnings of a really great song repetoire to piss off Satan with through the eternities, right?

:)

Raising surviving children after losing one to death is hard.

I have to deliberately fight my instinct to smother them with blankets and blankets of overprotectedness. I know if I go there I would never let them step foot outside, go anywhere, do anything. I try very hard to not let fear of my other children dying rule my life and I think that I have done an excellent job.

Most of the time.

Even though he is 7-months-old, our little butterlump still wakes up twice a night for a bottle without fail. Usually we feed him around 1-3 am and then again at 5-7 am.

We gave him a bottle at 12:30 last night.

This morning, Jonathan rolled over and said, “Wow! I didn’t even hear the baby when you got up with him for his morning feeding.”

“Jon..I DIDN’T get up with the baby this morning, I thought you did.”

“NO.  What time is it?”

“9:15.”

We both looked at each other and I  emitted a half-strangled, “NO!!” in a whisper before we frantically lept out of bed in a tangle of sheets and blankets and RAN into the nursery.

Images of Matthew dying in my arms filled every single corner of my mind.

I don’t think that the English language has adequate words to describe the sheer terror of those seconds. Nor am I able to adequately describe the massive relief seeing Aaron sleeping and munching on his wee thumb brought me.

More than anything I am just so very grateful that I did not have to re-live my worst nightmare all over again.

He’s fine.

I will be too.

I just have to get my heart to stop pounding first.