The Best Possible Mugging

February 26, 2014February 26, 2014 / Julie / 7 Comments

After my post yesterday on Crime and Punishment and Moving On, I thought the time was right to share with you one of my most (bizarrely) favorite party stories: The Best Possible Mugging. It’s my own tale of being a crime victim. And I have to preface it by saying that yes, I realize how fortunate I am that my only real experience of crime is as the victim of The Best Possible Mugging. I can’t presume to know how a victim of a more serious crime would feel. I can only relate my own experience and the impact it has had on my life.

So.

Around ten years ago when I was living in Washington, DC (or rather, right at its border: I could see DC from my apartment complex), I lived a ten-minute walk from the nearest Metro station. My route to and from the station every day was a straight-shot, mostly along one very busy road with well-traveled sidewalks. I made that walk countless times. And there was precisely one time in my three years of living there when I was entirely alone. That evening, as I walked home from the metro after a church choir practice (oh, the irony), I saw no cars along the road and no pedestrians along the sidewalk.

Until a young man in a big, baggy, hooded sweatshirt walked towards me.

I saw him coming, but I’d been chatting on my cell phone with a friend, so I didn’t pay too much attention to the guy until he was right in front of me. “Give me your purse,” he said, showing me something tucked into his waistband, which he clearly intended for me to believe was a gun. (I have no idea whether it really was; I only saw part of it.)

My first two, nearly simultaneous, reactions were: (1) Annoyance. I thought to myself – in a very whiny, exasperated voice – “Oh, man, I don’t want to deal with this!” (Yes, even my interior dialogue is clean.) And (2) Sadness for the man who was robbing me. “You’re so young! Don’t do this to yourself!” I thought. “Don’t mess up your life like this!”

Then my practical, confident, stubborn side (maybe it’s called “adrenaline”?) kicked in. I tend to be very good in emergency situations.

Here’s how my thought process went:

First, “He didn’t ask for my phone, so I’m not going to give it to him.” I placed the phone in my pocket, leaving it on so my friend could hear what was going on.

Second, “He didn’t ask for my backpack, so I’m not giving it to him either.” Instead I told the guy, “My purse is in my backpack; I’ll get it out for you.” I took it off, set it on the ground, and knelt down to retrieve my purse.

Third, “I don’t want to give him my purse! My glasses and make-up are in there! He doesn’t want all that stuff anyway – he’d just ditch it. I’ll see if he’ll just take my wallet.” I reached into my backpack, into the purse, for my wallet.

Fourth, “I don’t want to give him my wallet! My drivers’ license and credit cards are in there! He probably doesn’t want them anyway. I’ll see if he’ll just take my cash.” So I reached into my wallet, grabbed the cash (fortunately, about fifty bucks), took it out, and handed it to him.

“This is all the money I have; you can have all my money,” I told him. He took it and walked away.

He just walked away.

That’s why I’ve always called it “The Best Possible Mugging.” It was an armed robbery and the only thing I lost was 50 bucks in cash. (Ever since, I always carry at least $20. I know some folks don’t like to carry cash in case they’re mugged, but that’s exactly why I want to do so. I’d much rather somebody get a little money from me than my credit or bank card – or worse, not believing me and getting mad.)

Like I said, all I lost was a little money (and some peace of mind). I didn’t have to replace any items or official documents or credit cards, and the guy was none the wiser as to my name or address. More importantly, I wasn’t hurt. I doubt it gets much better than that.

(By the way, I later heard from friends that the friend-with-whom-I’d-been-on-the phone during the mugging reported to everybody that, “This guy walks up to Julie with a gun, demands her purse, and she negotiates with him!” He said that I told the robber “I won’t give you my purse, but I’ll give you my money.” I’m dubious. I stand by my interior-monologue version of the story.)

I’d been strangely calm through the whole mugging, but once the guy walked away, I started to panic a little. I wondered whether he’d come back. I worried that he’d see where I was heading and know where I lived.

“Julie! Julie!” my friend was screaming on the phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and rushed toward the gate of my apartment complex. “Get inside!” he was telling me.

As I walked through the gate, I spotted a bunch of soldiers milling around outside a bus. (This is Washington, remember. You find a military presence in lots of unexpected places. These guys were housed in my complex and were gathering by their bus to report to work at some military installation around town.) As my friend shouted, “Get inside!” over and over, I thought, “Hmm… men with big guns. I think I’ll go stand with them.”

“I was just robbed,” I told them. “Like, just now – he went that way.” The kind souls called 911 and waited with me until the police arrived.

Once the police got there, I answered questions. I watched as they brought out dogs to track the man’s scent. I went with an officer to identify someone they’d caught (not the right guy). Later I met with a police sketch artist. It was all very interesting. And surreal.

And yes, it shook me up.

I took a friend’s advice to stay home from work the next day and eat ice cream. I kept the blinds closed. I looked over my shoulder a lot. Outside, I walked quickly. I walked with others whenever I could. I was careful to be home before it got too late. And I never again traveled that metro route without wondering if I’d be mugged.

Over time, though I remained cautious in that city and my next, I began to feel safe again. Or as safe as one can feel who’s had such an experience. I’ve had others, too, that stuck with me in that awful, haunting, PTSD-esque way: September 11, the Washington sniper attacks, a hit-and-run car accident (hmm… I guess that one makes me a crime victim two times over). All of them, incidentally, occurred while I lived in the Washington area. Blasted place.

I’m still very (overly?) careful while out-and-about in public places, but fortunately I don’t carry with me any more bothersome relic of my mugging. Even more fortunately, I still find humor in the fact that I was able to dig within my matryoshka doll of a bag/purse/wallet situation to grab a wad of cash. That humor has gone a long way in getting me through what, at its heart, was a scary and unsettling event. Thank you, humor! And of course, thank you, Lord, for getting me safely through the experience. I remain so. grateful.

Yet another incongruous photo. It's not even Washington, it's Germany. But it was taken around the same time as the events in this post.

Yet another incongruous photo. It’s not even Washington, it’s Germany. But it was taken around the same time as the infamous mugging.

This is post three of the 7 Posts in 7 Days challenge at Conversion Diary. Stop there to check out the hundreds of other bloggers who are also participating.

Crime and Punishment and Moving On

February 25, 2014October 7, 2014 / Julie / 5 Comments

A This American Life episode from a couple of weeks ago tells the story of Mike Anderson, a married, suburban St. Louis father of four. Mr. Anderson owned a contracting business and built his family’s home from the ground up. He volunteered at church and coached his son’s football team. In short, he was a responsible, productive member of society.

But he had a secret. And one morning last summer, while Mr. Anderson was home alone with his two-year-old daughter, with his wife away on a business trip, a hard knock on the door brought his secret to light.

In 1999, when Mr. Anderson was 22 years old, he and a friend held up a Burger King manager while the man was making a night deposit at a bank. Mr. Anderson says he got “caught up with the wrong crowd that night.” He had no prior convictions and a full-time job. He said the robbery wasn’t his idea and that his friend’s weapon was just a BB gun. (It was never recovered.)

Nonetheless, Mr. Anderson was convicted of armed robbery and sentenced to 13 years in prison. He was out on bond filing appeals when the court ultimately determined that he did indeed have to serve his sentence. Mr. Anderson waited for a warrant to be issued so the police would come take him to prison. But it never happened. They didn’t come.

Due to a clerical error, the court had been informed that Mr. Anderson was already in prison. It wasn’t until 13 years later, when the system was preparing for his release, that they discovered he’d never been there at all. So they finally came for him.

In the meantime, Mr. Anderson had gone from expecting to be picked up at any moment, to thinking maybe it would never happen, to deciding to turn his life around. He went back to school and became a master carpenter. He married and became a family man. He never had another run-in with the law.

In the words of the segment’s narrator, “Thirteen years without going to prison did exactly what you’d hope 13 years in prison will do for a person: Mike reformed, became a model citizen. Which raises the question, do we want to send him to prison? It’ll cost the state of Missouri about $20,000 a year to house and feed him. And if Mike’s no longer a danger to society, what’s the point of having him sit in a cell when he could be out working, paying taxes, and raising his kids?”

As Mr. Anderson’s story has become known in the St. Louis area, many people have come to the opinion that if he’s been rehabilitated, he shouldn’t have to serve his prison sentence. Surprisingly, perhaps, one such person is the victim of Mr. Anderson’s crime. The victim, who was deeply impacted by the crime, was initially angry when he learned that Mr. Anderson didn’t serve his sentence. But thinking more on the situation, he has come to believe that what the State is doing to Mr. Anderson isn’t right. He says, “Yeah, he screwed up when he was little, but the law dropped the ball; the law ought to drop it completely. They need to leave the man alone.”

Sorry — I know this photo isn’t exactly pertinent to the post’s subject matter. But it’s the only behind-bars shot I’ve got. And These Walls IS about 90% mommy blog.

Mike Anderson’s story reminded me of a subject I’ve thought on for years – one on which my thoughts have most definitely evolved: What purpose do criminal sentences (namely prison terms) serve? Are they meant to be punishments, pure and simple? Are they meant to protect the public from dangerous individuals? Are they meant to rehabilitate criminals so they can be successfully returned to society?

It is my nature to view crime and punishment in very simple terms: If you commit a crime, you deserve to be punished. Period. (I’m a strong “J” on the Myers Briggs scale.) I remember thinking as a teenager, “If you do something wrong, you deserve whatever you get. Whatever you get.” I was in favor of capital punishment, three-strikes laws, building more prisons – you name it.

Over time, however, my thinking has changed… grown… become more nuanced. It’s become at once more compassionate and more practical.

The changes started with capital punishment. On that particular topic, my Catholic faith had a strong influence in changing my mind: statements from Pope John Paul II and lunch table conversations with seminarian friends ultimately convinced me to be more humble in my considerations. I went from thinking, “If you murder, you deserve to be killed,” to “It’s not so much about what murderers deserve as it is about what we choose to do with them.”

I later came to apply that thinking to the subject of crime and punishment in general. I figure that it’s never up to me to determine what someone deserves – that task is for God alone.

It is, of course, up to society to determine the best ways to keep its population safe and to prevent crimes from occurring in the future. And I think that is where our focus should be when considering crime and punishment. It’s not up to me (or people in general, and therefore the State) to dole out punishments simply for the sake of punishing. It’s up to us to be intelligent and deliberate about dealing with the fallout from crime and figuring out the best ways to prevent it from perpetuating.

Tragically, our criminal justice system does a terrible job of this. Small-time offenders leave prison with (1) fewer prospects for gainful employment than they had before establishing their criminal record and (2) experiences and contacts that better equip them for a life of crime than for anything else. No wonder recidivism rates are so high.

I think we need to be more practical about what we do with those found guilty of crimes. It’s one thing if someone has committed a crime that will earn him or her a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. (Which is, I think, what we should choose over capital punishment. For one, because taking a life is a grave, grave matter that should be avoided whenever possible. For another, because people should be given every possible opportunity to repent of their sins.) It’s quite another thing if a person’s crime will earn him or her a temporary prison sentence.

If a criminal is to be returned to society someday, then society should do everything possible to ensure that he or she re-enters it prepared to function legally. Crime should not be ex-offenders’ only real prospect for survival. They should be able to work, to earn, to contribute, to thrive. Everyone will be better off when a criminal can complete his or her sentence and then move on.

I’m not naïve; I know such a situation would be terribly hard to achieve. (And it will never be perfectly achieved.) Employers are (understandably) unwilling to hire people with criminal records. Solid communities are largely unwilling to take them in; subversive communities are all too willing. And people are imperfect. Some will continue to do wrong no matter how much assistance they are given.

But I think it’s worth trying.

Sentencing guidelines, prison conditions, hiring policies, resources for ex-offenders: they’re all areas where improvements can be made. And indeed the status quo on sentencing and prisons, at least, is in many cases currently doing more harm than good.

Just think of Mike Anderson. His business, his home, his children would not be here if he had reported to prison 13 years ago. He would not have paid taxes and contributed to the economy. He would not have been able to volunteer at that church or coach that team.

How many more empty spaces do we have today — ghosts, you might say, of those sitting in prison – spaces in our economy, our neighborhoods, our families, our communities, where people could be contributing rather than serving prison terms that harden and debilitate them?

As far as Mike Anderson is concerned, his attorney has filed a brief arguing that when the State forgot about Mr. Anderson for 13 years, it violated his right to due process or speedy punishment. If the effort fails, his only recourse is to petition Missouri’s governor for clemency. The governor has only granted clemency once. I pray that Mr. Anderson’s case prompts him to do so again.

This is post two of the 7 Posts in 7 Days challenge at Conversion Diary. Stop there to check out the hundreds of other bloggers who are also participating.

The Little Things

February 24, 2014 / Julie / 3 Comments

Today was just the kind of day my boys like: We left the house. And visited people. And ate in a “westawant” (er… it was really a cafeteria in a senior living facility, but close enough.) They got to run laps around a friend’s house. And stick their hands in dirt. And clean up crumbs with a broom. And carry around big sticks. They got to run in long hallways. (While I winced and prayed that they didn’t knock over any elderly people.) They got to pet a cute little dog. They got to take a bath. (We… um… don’t do baths nearly often enough, so they’re still a big deal: “Do you want to take a bath, boys?”)

For two- and three-year-olds, it really is the little things that bring joy.

By the end of the day, the most vivid image in our two-year-old’s mind must have been petting Toby the dog, a cute little guy belonging to one of the elderly gentlemen at my great-aunt’s retirement home. My boy spent a puzzling few minutes insisting that he was “Dopey” before I recalled the pup and realized he was trying to say “Toby.” Thereafter, he refused to answer to anything else and crawled around on the floor, yipping.

Meanwhile, our three-year-old came out with a series of funnies today that I thought I’d share with you in lieu of my more thoughtful post on prison sentences. (Not kidding. Hmm… which should I post at 11:00 pm when I’m more than a little foggy-brained? Prison sentences: punishment vs rehabilitation or… cute kid quotes? I’ve got to go with the latter.) Stay tuned for prison talk tomorrow.

This morning as we drove toward our first destination, my boy said: “Wook, Mommy! A ammal shelter! A ammal shelter house! Dats where ammals wiv.” Then, predictably: “I want a dog.”

After I explained to him (not for the first time) that dogs are a lot of work, like babies, and we’re about to have a baby, so it’s not a good time to get a dog… he gasped and said: “I know! We can get a dog after da baby’s born!”

As I was describing to the boys whose house we were driving to and I told them that it was Miss Mary’s house, but not his little friend E.G.’s mommy Miss Mary’s house, he asked: “Is it da Mary dat has a baby Jesus?”

As we were leaving Mary’s house, which he had earlier been told was a “magic house” (for a reason that made sense at the time, though I can’t currently remember what it was), he said: “I had fun at da magic house, Mommy. I haffa tell Gwanma an Gwampa dat I went to a magic house yesserday!”

Walking away (really, floating on air) from Toby the dog, whom the boys had just been permitted to pet for a couple of minutes: “Toby wiked me, Mommy! He’s da best dog in da whole world. Toby is so cute! I want a dog.”

Telling his father about his day: “We got to see Miss Mary’s gardens! Where she has vetchtables! Did you know you can eat vetchtables?”

And… I can no longer keep my eyes open. So I’d better sign off now. See you tomorrow for Day 2 of Jen’s 7 Posts in 7 Days challenge!

Blogging Challenge (Ready Or Not), Here I Come

February 23, 2014February 23, 2014 / Julie / Leave a comment

Oh, how tired I am. As much as I’d love to snuggle up with the boys and “watch” (that is, fall asleep as soon as my body hits the sofa) Cars with them for the umpteen millionth time, I don’t think going to sleep for the night at 5:30 pm is the most responsible thing for a mother to do. Especially when Daddy’s elbow-deep in a painting project and she’s set to stick dinner in the oven at 7:00.

So I thought I’d try to keep myself awake by doing some writing – you know, to occupy the mind while still letting the tired old bones rest for a bit.

And I thought I’d hop on here to (re)announce that I’ll be participating in Conversion Diary’s 7 Posts in 7 Days challenge. I know, I know – I honestly don’t know how I’m going to manage it when I can hardly keep my eyes open past 1pm. But I’m going to give it a shot.

I’ve got my week’s posts planned out in my head with a few already started. Hopefully the topics will cooperate, letting me wrestle the right words into place.

I hope you’ll stop by each day this week (Monday the 24^th through Sunday the 2^nd) to see what I’ve got to share. Also, be sure to hop on over to Jen’s to check out the 154 (so far!) other bloggers taking part in the challenge. I’ve already found a few gems clicking through the links. I look forward to seeing what people come up with this week!

“See” you tomorrow!

Big Babies, A Child’s Innocence, Race, War, and Spring: 7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 25)

February 21, 2014February 23, 2014 / Julie / 5 Comments

—1—

Giganto Baby #3

Because my due date is one whole day after my 35^th birthday, I get to be classified with that lovely “Advanced Maternal Age” label for the whole of this pregnancy. (Seriously! One day!) The burdens/bonuses (depending how you look at it) of the AMA label include a handful of extra sonograms. I had one yesterday.

As I knew they would, the technician and doctor found that my baby is ginormous. At 32 weeks gestation, the kiddo is already estimated to weigh 5 pounds, 8 ounces. Now, I know that sonos can be well off when it comes to weight, but I’m inclined to believe this one: (1) because the estimate jives with the weights of my other two giganto babies, (2) because – just like my previous two pregnancies – my uterus has been consistently measuring ahead, and (3) because the sono estimates for my other two boys were both spot-on.

So, surprise, surprise, it looks like I’m in for another big one. Which is unlikely, of course, to be surprising at all to anyone who has had the honor/burden of lifting my 30-pound two-year-old or my 40-pound three-year-old.

Just… please, Lord, let me be able to deliver this kid safely! My second son, who came ten days early and weighed in at 8 pounds, 15 ounces, got stuck on his way out. We had a scary few minutes there when his heart rate was dropping and everyone was scrambling to get him out as soon! as! possible! If he had been any larger, I’m not sure we would have had such a good outcome.

So, Baby Boy, how about if, when you get to 8 and a half pounds or so, you decide that you’re ready to just come on out to play? I promise it’s nice out here. And I know a couple of other big boys who will be eager to meet you!

Giganto Baby #2 (Can’t find one of #1 at the moment!)

—2—

Corresponding Giganto Belly

Just shy of 33 weeks. Excuse the blurriness — really old mirror and really inadequate camera on my Android.

—3—

Open Mind of a Child

My friend Krista, whom I’ve mentioned before, wrote a lovely blog post yesterday on her recent visit to the pool with her five-year-old daughter. Her daughter had brought a doll with her, which she proceeded to baptize in the baby pool. Krista writes:

Most of us recognize the story from the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus urges his disciples to bring the children to him, because “the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” It is a story that tends to be linked to the idea that what is most valuable in children is their innocence and unworldliness. It seems to imply that children, in their dearth of experience, are better able to absorb the teachings of faith, and indeed of the world around them. I don’t believe that this is a strictly religious way of thinking. There is a common tendency to think of children as blank slates waiting to be written upon.

Children are certainly unworldly. There is necessarily an innocence to the way they approach their world. They have no basis of comparison. They have no prejudice. Their minds are open. They are open, but I don’t think they are waiting, passively, for us to shape them.

If I have learned anything about children and the way they approach life, it is that they do so through constant questioning and experimenting. They are endlessly pushing the boundaries of their universe. And these attributes apply equally to the way they understand faith and the way they process new facts.

When I think of my daughter, who is at that perfectly ripe age when the concepts of faith and fact are just coming within her intellectual grasp, I see nothing passive about her approach to the world. All I see is activity – a dynamic, unrestrained pursuit for more knowledge, a constant pushing and stretching of the limits of her understanding.

I hear her asking why, and no matter how thorough an answer I give, I hear her asking why again. I see her acting out, and re-enacting, what she is learning so that, through interpretation and experience, it becomes a part of who she is.

When I think of the idea that “the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these,” I don’t see it as a calling to submissiveness or innocence. I see it as a calling for us to approach faith — and reason — like children do – with flexibility, enthusiasm, ceaseless questioning, and a mind with ever-expanding boundaries. Those are the best things that children have to offer the world, and we adults should not forget that.

It’s a beautiful post, which somehow also includes a totally appropriate reference to… farts. I kid you not. I hope you’ll stop on over to Krista’s to read the rest of it.

—4—

Discovering Race

Reading Krista’s post, especially the following words: “Children are certainly unworldly. There is necessarily an innocence to the way they approach their world. They have no basis of comparison. They have no prejudice. Their minds are open.” I was reminded of one of the many half-written posts I’ve got sitting on my computer.

This particular one is on race. That oh-so-touchy, oh-so-important issue that I feel I have to get just right. Despite multiple re-writes and lots of hours, it’s not, yet, just right.

But its beginning, the only part of the piece to stay constant through all my re-writes, is illuminated, I think, by Krista’s words. (To clarify, her words are above. The following are my own.)

Not long ago, my three-year-old son pointed out to me that he and his brother, and me, and his father, all have “the same kind of skin.” We have light skin, he said. The implication being that there are people with skin that is other than ours.

His observation unsettled me a little. Is he so old, already, to be noticing such things?

A moment later, I was pacified by the recollection of reading recently (where did I read it?) that children start noticing race at the age of three. And I gave what I believe to be the appropriate response to his question: “Yes, in our family we all have light skin. Other people have different colors of skin, don’t they? It doesn’t matter, though. People are people. Sometimes our skin just looks a little different.”

Now, I don’t begrudge my son his curiosity or his interest in making observations. I wasn’t unsettled because his brain has registered a range of pigmentation. I was unsettled because with his observation, he’s on the cusp of inheriting the persistent, uncomfortable, even insidious burden of race.

The thought gives me a sinking feeling.

From my perspective – my white, middle-class, somewhat-southern, raised-in-a-diverse-community, now-living-in-a-decidedly-not-diverse-community perspective – I think race continues to divide and define our society more than we’d like to admit.

And I hate that. I hate the division. I hate the definition. I hate the not admitting. I hate that my boys’ background and skin color will place them in a camp that they bear no responsibility for constructing. I hate that the issue continues to hurt so many who likewise bear no responsibility for the camps they find themselves in. I hate that there’s no end in sight.

I know this is a gloomy little excerpt to be throwing in here, but at this point I don’t know when (if ever) I’ll take up the post again. Yet I thought this part of it was worth airing, especially if we’re already taking a moment to consider the world through the innocent, unworldly, unprejudiced, open mind of a child.

—5—

Neglect in Sarajevo

This is a fascinating series of photos of the abandoned sites of the 1984 Olympic Games in Sarajevo. It’s at once beautiful and sad and it gives me so much to reflect on.

Stripping away the historical context and the emotion that the context evokes, it’s just plain interesting to see how quickly nature takes back what was once its own. I live in the verdant Mid-Atlantic, where every patch of ground left untended for a short period of time will quickly turn to forest. The tiny backyard at our last, very suburban home, was evidence of that. Too many summers, occupied with graduate school (him), wedding planning (me), or new babies (both of us), we let (first his, then) our little patch of ground revert to its true jungle self. (Our poor neighbors!) Brennan always commented on how surprised his Minnesota family would be to see just how thickly and quickly our little forest grew. I always took secret comfort in it.

As I’ve mentioned before, my family has lived in this part of the country since the early 1600’s. In that span of time, of course, the changes made to the land have been nearly incalculable. Just in my own life, they’ve been obvious. In my grandparents’, they’ve been stunning. As I also mentioned in that post, I’ve mostly made peace with the fact that change happens and one can only control how one reacts to it. It’s better for me to see the good in the changes that have occurred, rather than resent them. But there remains a part of me that is grateful for the speed with which nature takes back its own. I am comforted by the fact that the land my family once worked is still there, hiding behind all the fancy new houses. If we humans were to step aside from it for a while, nature would quietly reassert itself.

Of course, there’s also a very human context to the Sarajevo photos, and that’s much more sobering to ponder. Less than ten years after the 1984 Olympic Games, the city that had been the center of the world’s attention for reasons of sporting excellence and international cooperation went on to capture the world’s attention for reasons far, far worse. From 1992 to 1996, Sarajevo suffered the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare. Some 9,500-14,000 people were killed.

I can’t help but look at those pictures of encroaching trees, crumbling concrete, draping vines, and quiet little nooks of moss and think of the human cost that enabled them.

—6—

Unrest Today

Today, of course, there are other Sarajevos – cities and towns and countryside in places like Syria, the Central African Republic, Ukraine, Venezuela – where conflict is destroying lives and damaging families and communities. Let us keep the people of such places in prayer.

—7—

Spring Comes

I can’t go out on those sad notes. Right now the sun is emerging from the clouds (literally – I’m not trying to be poetic or anything) and the ice is melting. This morning a strange, haunting mist rose off the snow, filling the area with a fog that looked like smoke rising from fields and hollows. Yesterday morning everything was white; this afternoon we see grass and ivy and dirt. Soon, I know (I hope?) we’ll see green shoots making their way up. I am so ready for spring this year. (As I imagine most people in the eastern half of the country are!) We might not be there just yet, but Spring is coming. It is.

Thanks, as always, to Jen for hosting 7 Quick Takes Friday. Stop on over to see the rest!

Big Boy Room in Progress: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 10

February 20, 2014 / Julie / 4 Comments

Before I was married, whenever I moved into a new place I felt like I needed to get settled right away. No sooner had the moving truck pulled away, than I’d be unpacking boxes and figuring out where to hang things on the walls. But now that I have a husband and two (soon-to-be-three) small children, I no longer have the freedom to do what I want in that respect. I’ve got to, you know, make sure my household actually functions before I can decorate it. And even once we’re functioning normally, the decorating and unpacking of pretty stuff has to take a back seat to the care of little ones and the availability of my built-in handyman (a.k.a. husband).

So, a year-and-a-half after moving into this house, we still have a long way to go before it’s arranged the way I want it. We (and by “we” I really mean “Brennan”) have painted three rooms, re-finished the floor in another room, rolled out two new rugs (no carpeting in this house! zilch!), and hung precisely one art print. (We do have a few other things on the walls, but only where nails already were. Eventually, we’ll likely move those things around.)

With every step forward, I experience a little thrill of delight.

So this week? Thrilling. Work on converting the boys’ haphazard nursery into a Big Boy Room has commenced! Here are some “before” pics. Note the sickly green walls with nothing hung on them, the still-packed boxes and bins, and the bare floor.

This past weekend I took the boys up to my parents’ house to give Brennan a little space while he worked on the room. He completed the drywall in the closet, he moved things, he cleaned, he painted, and now…

{pretty}

Isn’t it pretty? Okay, maybe it’s not actually {pretty} to anybody but me, but I just about swoon every time I walk into that room now, even though it is still full of messy tarps and other painting gear. And even though all the furniture (which will be moved to the new nursery before long) is still shoved to the middle of the room. The new color (Valspar Oat Bran) just seems so much fresher and calmer and more dignified to me. I can’t wait to see how it looks with the boys’ new beds and bedding and rug and art prints and reading chair and toys. I! Can’t! Wait!

{happy}

Besides the paint color (which, in case you didn’t pick up on it, makes me so happy), there are all the other elements of the room that are so close to coming together. There are the beds. (Update: Brennan’s now acquired the stuff he needs to build the sideboards. Hopefully he’ll get them together soon.) There is the rug (fluffy! soft! wonderful to play on!) and the bedding (bright but not babyish!) There are a couple of fun art prints (though there’s a good bit more to do in that department.) There’s the big, comfy reading chair that my parents sent home with us this weekend. {Happy, happy!}

{funny}

The boys and I (especially the boys) had some good fun at my parents’ house this weekend. My dad, who is exceptionally good with kids (we used to joke that he’s like the pied piper in grocery stores: all the little kids would ditch their parents and follow him around if they could), was a great sport as usual. He wrestled and tickled and played ball and allowed himself to be buried under pillows, jumped on, and half-smothered by his excitable little grandsons. That last part was so {funny} that I could barely bring myself to stop the boys, I was laughing so hard. (I was doing that whole silent laugh thing, where you can barely catch your breath, let alone speak.) It was good for all of us, that fun time with the grandparents. (And cousins! My nieces came over too, leading my older son to proclaim them “Da BEST!”)

Grandpa triumphs!

{real}

Just in case the glimpses of spattered paint tarps and jumbled furniture weren’t {real} enough for you, here are some more photos of the fallout from the big painting project. I don’t care, though! It could be five times worse (don’t tell Brennan) and I wouldn’t care. Because the boys’ room is being worked on! And progress is being made! And soon the boys will have a completed room, designed just for them, with plenty of comfortable space to play.

I’m so excited.

Be sure to stop by Like Mother, Like Daughter to get a look at other’s contentment this week. Though I’m sure none of it is nearly as exciting as tarps and paint cans and a new color on little boys’ walls. Consider yourself warned.

Greetings From the Land of Nod… Nod… Nodding Off

February 18, 2014 / Julie / 8 Comments

Hello, friends – I’ve been meaning to write. Actually, I have been writing. Every day. For, like, a solid five minutes at a time before my vision blurs and my eyelids droop. For weeks now, my evening writing sessions have looked something like this:

Julie, sitting at the kitchen table: Ugh. My hips hurt. My old, pregnant body can’t sit on this hard chair much longer. I’d better go sit on the sofa.

Julie, sitting on the sofa: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Kind of like this.

Other than my evening sleepiness, I was doing rather well with this third-trimester-of-my-third-pregnancy, until a week ago. Monday the 10^th, I was feeling decently energetic and healthy. I was beginning to feel that I’d gotten really lucky this time around, because I was far more perky than I remembered being in either of my two previous pregnancies.

Needless to say, that feeling came to an abrupt end on Tuesday the 11^th. Come midday, I was pretty much useless. I think I spent most of the afternoon on the sofa with the boys, watching Cars and Planes and dozing off and on until the boys finally pestered me enough to get me into the kitchen to make them dinner.

Thus has the pattern been ever since: Julie has a modest amount of energy in the mornings. Julie crashes hard after lunch. Julie just about blacks out come 6pm.

I’m really very lucky that my boys don’t yet know how to operate a camera.

But, my dear blog, how I’ve missed you. Through the haze of third-trimester fatigue, I’ve sincerely tried to write something comprehensible. Unfortunately, my scattered thoughts and weak attempts at writing have felt much like trying to put together a 500-piece puzzle by pouring the pieces into a pile on the floor.

So, photos. I think I can manage some photos. And updates: I’ve got two blogging-related updates to share. Two is do-able, right?

If you can stay awake for it, Julie.

First, I’m going to The Edel Gathering! It’s a weekend conference/get-away aimed at Catholic mothers. Edel, which is being organized by Jen Fulwiler and Hallie Lord (the bloggers at Conversion Diary and Moxie Wife, respectively) will be held in Austin, Texas in late July. (Yes, I realize that the weather will be HOT.) It looks like most of my favorite bloggers will be there, along with lots of other terrific ladies. I am very, very much looking forward to it. (!!!) Are you going? If so, please let me know!

By late July, of course, I will have a bouncing three-month-old baby boy needing my constant attention, so he’ll be coming along for the ride. (Thank goodness for event organizers who take nursing babies’ needs into account.) I think having baby in tow at Edel itself will be fine, but I admit to some nerves regarding getting there and back. Do you have any tips for flying solo with an infant? Really, the things I’m thinking about most are (1) whether to bring a stroller through the airport (con: wrangling a large piece of equipment onto and off of the plane; pro: having somewhere to put the baby when I need to use the restroom) and (2) the restroom thing. Seriously, if you don’t bring a stroller with you, what are you supposed to do with baby while you use the restroom? I might feel comfortable enough to leave my baby with a fellow passenger while we’re in the air, but almost certainly would not in an airport.

The last time I flew with a little one.

I’ve never had to do it alone, though.

Second, just as she did last summer, Jen Fulwiler is hosting another Epic Blogging Challenge. It’s scheduled to run from next Monday the 24^th through Sunday, March the 2^nd. Despite nearly every word in this post, I’m going to give it a try. I certainly have lots of ideas running through my tired brain – now to figure out which are simple enough to pound out before I pass out.

You know, like this.

I think it’s time for the obligatory snow photos. We did, after all, get a whopping 18 inches last Thursday.

And now for our decadent Valentine’s Day breakfast, courtesy of a care package from Grandma: red velvet pancakes with vanilla/cream cheese icing. I added the sprinkles for extra festivity, even if I only had blue to offer.

Magnifique!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to lounge on the sofa for another viewing of Cars.

Sorry — I have hundreds of these.

{phfr} In One Snowy Shot: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 9

February 13, 2014 / Julie / Leave a comment

We’re in the thick of it here. We woke to about a foot of fresh snow, with expectations that the storm will keep it up through the rest of the day. Every window we look out of, we see one breath-taking view after another.

I declare the following snowy scene to be {pretty, happy, funny, real}, all in one shot.

{pretty}

This one hardly needs an explanation, does it? It’s just… pretty.

{happy}

We have two small boys who are going to be beyond happy to play in all this fluffy whiteness today — if they can lift their little legs high enough to walk through it.

Also, there’s just something happy about being hunkered down during a big snowstorm, isn’t there? The outside world expects nothing from you, so you can just tend to your own home, your family, perhaps some delicious baking or a project you’ve set aside… And everyone’s home! (Because they hardly have another option, do they?)

{funny}

You can barely discern it in this picture, but we have a six-foot drop off the patio in front of this porch. From our upstairs windows, I couldn’t see it at all. I find it so funny that this feature, which is normally so glaringly obvious, is almost totally obscured by something as simple as snow.

There’s also a yellow bucket obscured by the snow somewhere out there (with another in the back yard). They’re remnants of the boys’ play last time it snowed. Perhaps we’ll find them sometime this spring!

Also, yes, that’s our Moravian star still up. All of our Christmas decorations (including our crispy, crunchy, saggy tree!) are still up. Perhaps I should make THAT task my project for today…

{real}

As happy as I am (and really, as thrilled as the boys will be) to have my husband home with us today, his presence is increasingly ‘real’ with every snow day that passes. We’re to have a baby in just under two months and paid leave doesn’t just grow on trees, you know? So, winter, could you please get it all out of your system with today’s fabulous snow storm? Drop feet of the white stuff, kick up the wind… I don’t care. Just let this one be the last one. I’d kind of like my hubby home with us when baby boy #3 makes his appearance. Thanks. — Me

Stop on over to Like Mother, Like Daughter to take a look at more {pretty, happy, funny, real} this week. And enjoy the snow!

Taking A Weekend For Us: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 8

February 6, 2014February 11, 2014 / Julie / 6 Comments

I’m taking a gamble here. Though we do have power (thank you, Lord!), the ice storm has left us without cable, phone, and internet, leaving me rather more removed from my daily doses of communication than I’m used to. So, I’m going to take the risk of drafting a blog post on my phone, spotty cell coverage and all. (I am a CRAZY risk-taker, what can I say?) I may well be found shrieking in frustration every few minutes, but we’ll give it a shot.

Anyway, I have some unusually fun stuff to share for pretty, happy, funny, real this week, so I thought I should do what I could to cobble it together. You see, my husband and I went away this weekend – as in, without our boys. (What a revelation!) For Christmas, my oh-so-generous parents gifted us with a weekend at a B&B, while they watched the boys. It was lovely. Beyond lovely.

{pretty}

Our visit was to Pennsylvania’s Brandywine Valley, so of course we had to visit Longwood Gardens while we were there. We spent a couple of hours in its greenhouse on Saturday morning, and oh, my, was it ever pretty.

{happy}

It was so nice for Brennan and I to have this time away together. We don’t go on regular dates (I know, shame on us), nor do we take purely recreational family vacations, so between all the child-free time on our hands and the license to do whatever-the-heck we wanted with it, we were just about giddy. Or, I was. Brennan doesn’t really do giddy.

We stayed at the Fairville Inn, where we had a lovely room with a fireplace (perfect for this winter weather!) and a balcony (umm… currently very snowy). We’d definitely recommend it to any of you considering such a trip: our room was attractive, comfortable, and clean; the breakfasts were delicious; and the innkeepers couldn’t have been more friendly or helpful. And they had great suggestions for activities and restaurants. We ate very well this weekend, let me tell you.

{funny}

After our visit to Longwood, this pregnant lady was ready for a little break. (I always get contractions when I’ve been walking for any length of time. My babies like me to take it easy, I guess.) So with a few items in mind, we decided to make one quick stop at an antique store before heading to lunch. In particular, we were looking for twin beds for our boys’ new big boy room. (They’re both still in cribs. I’d been planning to get stackable twins for them so we could do the bunk bed thing in the future, but when the price made me nervous, I figured we should check out antique stores first.)

And, whadd’ya know? We found them! Up in the attic, in a corner, behind other furniture: matching antique twins, just the style I had in mind, listed for – get this – FORTY dollars, altogether. Plus we ended up getting 10% off, bringing the grand total to $36 – just $18 PER BED. I think we were both giddy at that deal. (To be fair, I have to disclose that the beds have no side rails – they’re just headboards and footboards – but my handy hubby already has it all figured out. He’ll build them, no problem. Hopefully.)

Anyway, what’s so funny about our little antiquing venture? Brennan’s ingenuity in packing our purchases for the trip home. We had the two beds, a dresser (another great deal!), and a child’s chair to fit in the back of our minivan. And we hadn’t really expected to buy anything at all, so we didn’t come prepared with packing materials. So B had to get creative about padding the goods.

{real}

Our boys also had a great weekend. In fact, when we went to my parents’ house to pick them up on Sunday, we asked them if they missed us. The younger one nodded but the older one said, “No, I didn’t miss you. I had fun!” Of course. Well, it was good to know that they were fine with Grandma and Grandpa.

Don’t forget to stop on over to Like Mother, Like Daughter to get a glimpse at others’ contentment this week.

And of course, I have to issue a huge, heartfelt THANK YOU to my parents, for their wonderfully generous and thoughtful gift. We appreciate it more than we can express.

An Honest Little Vignette of Home

January 29, 2014 / Julie / 5 Comments

I had a good but exhausting day today. We seem to have spent most of it running in and out of the car in frigid temperatures. (The boys actually, literally cried this morning when we left the house, they were so cold.)

We went to preschool, to home, to preschool, to pick up lunch, to drop the boys off at my grandparents’, to the hospital for a doctor’s appointment, to my old workplace, to my board meeting, back to my grandparents’ to pick up the boys (who were melting down for reasons like “I can’t believe you drained the water off my mandarin oranges!” and “I know I lost my mittens but you must make them materialize immediately! I am absolutely bereft without them!”), and then back to home.

By the time we came home at 9pm and I had lugged the 40-pound three-year-old inside, upstairs and into bed, I was DONE. I laid down on the sofa with the annoyingly-still-awake two-year-old and waited for Daddy to come home to put him to bed. My husband then woke me up at 10pm from my sofa-slumber for leftovers that he had lovingly heated up for us. Ah, this is the life…

Just now as I walked through the kitchen to put the leftovers back into the fridge, my eyes scanned my counters, completely covered with dirty dishes, empty cans, and boxes of food; my sink, full-to-the-brim with disgusting, days-dirty dishes; my floor, bearing piles of vomit-clothing, pee-clothing, toys, and stuff. And I thought of my family room, which is coated with a layer of toys and dust and dusty toys. And the rest of my house, which contains yet more piles of vomity laundry, not to mention a still-half-decorated, supremely crispy Christmas tree.

Why in the world am I telling you this?

Probably, in part, because I’m suffering some sort of exhaustion-induced delirium. Also because I thought tonight’s scene provided an honest little vignette of life in our home. I offer it up for any time I seem too preachy on self-help or something similarly nauseating.

Also – and this is probably the most sincere answer – because I want your opinion: A kitchen so covered in dishes that you can’t function in it means just one thing, right? One simply must take one’s children out for breakfast in the morning. The poor little dears shouldn’t suffer such a sight, should they? Rather, they should be strapped into their car seats as soon as they wake and whisked off to some fast-food establishment, where they can be stuffed with breakfast-appropriate fats and sugars. Right? RIGHT?

Please leave your answers in the comment section. But only if they’re in the affirmative.

P.S. Don’t worry, aunts and other worriers – I promise I’m nowhere near a breaking point. I’ve actually had some lovely little breaks lately, including the several child-less hours this afternoon. I’m just tired. Normal tired. Now, off to bed with me!

These Walls

Sharing stories from within the walls of my home; encouraging discourse on the wider world outside them.

Author: Julie

The Best Possible Mugging

Crime and Punishment and Moving On

The Little Things

Blogging Challenge (Ready Or Not), Here I Come

Big Babies, A Child’s Innocence, Race, War, and Spring: 7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 25)

Big Boy Room in Progress: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 10

Greetings From the Land of Nod… Nod… Nodding Off

{phfr} In One Snowy Shot: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 9

Taking A Weekend For Us: {pretty, happy, funny, real} Vol. 8

An Honest Little Vignette of Home