Dreaming with Eyes Wide Open

I have been dreaming about certain life milestones since forever ago, since before I can remember, and since before I found out that my dreams were dreams and not certain in the future and not what everyone else dreamt about.

Lately I've been disciplining myself to give up on certain dreams because I like to think worst case scenario so that I will not be disappointed. But God is Giver of dreams. And when I align my heart with His, my dreams suddenly find themselves molding to the contours of His desires for me. So far, at least as far as I can tell, none of my dreams are entirely off-base.

Right now, the one that is killing me to keep to myself is how badly I want a baby. This isn't the first blog on the topic so I'll keep it brief. I guess the only thing that's changed since before is that I don't want one just for me; that is utterly selfish, and how can I expect a child to ever carry the burden of a parent's happiness? No, not for my own happiness. I want to be part of creating with God, to make something that is so much myself and someone else, yet so unique and so unspeakably beautiful just for being made in the image of the Almighty. By no strength of my own, He weaves something beautiful together and then entrusts that little life to foolish people with dark pasts and secrets and hurts and fears....

I want to do it right. To say the wrong things at the wrong times and embarrass them no matter how hard I try to be hip and do all the things I swore I'd do just because my parents didn't which will of course only continue the cycle and take them for ice cream when they've had a bad day and take them for ice cream when I've had a bad day and let my husband build them a ridiculously dangerous treehouse which I will protest but secretly love just because he thought to do it and have breakfast for dinner and help them make Valentine's Day cards with glitter and dress them up as bumble bees and marshmallows and spaceships for Hallowe'en and fail epically while still doing everything I can to raise them to love God and live their lives for Him.

I guess despite all the heartache I'm having to maneuver through right now, all I really want is to be a mommy.

T Minus Nine Days, One Hour and Eleven Minutes

A wise young person told me the other day that turning 19 is exciting because of the drinking, 20 because of finally out-living the teens (that's where he's at in three days), and 21 because of the legal drinking and gambling in the States. And then there's me.

In nine days, I will officially be old. Don't ask me what that means for everyone already beyond me because you probably don't want to know what I think.

It's not so much that 22 is old. It's not. At all. It's more that I haven't done anything I wanted to have done by now.

I was supposed to be married at 20, have my first child at 21, and have graduated University with an accredited degree by 22. At the rate I'm going, I won't have any of those until I'm at least 25. All of them? 26 is the earliest.

I'd like to think that I'll be the type to age gracefully...but who am I kidding?! I'm terrified of almost entering my mid-twenties.

I'm in Whistler taking a much needed vacation right now. I haven't gotten away for me time in a very very very long time...and I can't even enjoy it.

I'm broken.

Okay, so maybe 22 isn't even that bad.

Maybe 22 is actually really good.

Aaaaand considering I look like I'm 15, I won't actually look like I'm 22 until I'm in my thirties.

Score.

But.

One day I will wake up, and I will be 32. I won't take 32 as well as 22.

The less credence I give to 22, the easier the bigger numbers will be able to catch me without my noticing.

I think I'm going to need a vacation to recover from this one.

I Eat Things

Today I got a new couch. The way I always seem to have fancy furniture handed to me on a fancy French platter that is magically free astounds me. This is couch number four. Five will be delivered tomorrow. We already have The Make-out Couch, The Smoking Couch, The Uncomfy Brown One, and now we add The Shizzz to our collection. I have a strange feeling that we'll have no choice to call the fifth "The Shizzz the Second." I'm assuming he or she will be just as heavenly.

Tomorrow we also get another TV, a new shoe rack and some drawers. I'm like a magnet for free awesome stuff.

I also get free food. Tuesday I got free chocolate milk and cheese. Today it was cheesecake and salad. I'm a machine.

I also eat things like Crispers and Life brand Pringles and peanuts and pickles and crackers and chocolate and anything else that can come in salt-and-vinegar flavoured. Oh! And beef jerky. What is life without beef jerky?

I saw lots of cows in Alberta. Before we saw the cows, the hundreds and hundreds of cows, we saw bison on the side of the road. Three bison. To which Irvin says: "Wow, look at the bison! They're like the cows of Alberta!"

Seriously.

Once I saw an emu in Abbottsford. Emus must be the crows of BC.

Wildlife is dangerous. The deer were crazy on the highway. We kept seeing deer EVERYWHERE, and then suddenly I see it: the deer sign. The warning that tells me that sometime in the near future I might see one of the crazy bambis and possibly collide with it. After kilometers and kilometers of deer but no deer signs. At the sight of it, I yelled in jubilation: "Well thank goodness! Someone could have been hurt!" Dude. I had already been driving about thirteen hours, so please cut me some slack.

I also kept yelling out to my deer. "My Dear!" My deer's name is My Dear, please try to keep up.

As we went along, the deer on the signs got bigger and bigger. Apparently Albertan deer are massive to the extreme in comparison to our wimpish pansy deer here. When you compare the sizes on the signs, we're suddenly dealing with deer that can leap the entire highway at a prance. They don't even need to pick up the pace to clear my car. These deer are freaks of nature, and suddenly they're out to get my car; I'm still expected to go 110km/h while avoiding these GIANT FREAKING DEER.

I think I'd rather hit a moose.

Speaking of which, I have a feeling they'd be better eats anyways.

I eat pickles and Crispers and mooses and chocolate milk and emus and salad and French onion soup with a delightful layer of baked swiss on top. And George Bush eats babies.

Friends?