The Child of God, Lucy

Step 2

Our offer on a house we both really like has (finally!) been accepted.

We move on November 21.

Step 1

We've just accepted an offer on our house.

Waiting Game

So we've discussed it a couple of times over the weekend (to say the least), and Bob and I are on the same page now with regard to the house we looked at on Friday.

We made a list of the questions we'd want to answer about that house, and once they're answered satisfactorily, we'll make an offer... assuming: it's not sold yet (we know that there have already been two offers, though from the same buyer), and we've accepted an offer on our house. The offer arrives on Tuesday. We met with the buyer's agent on Thursday night, and the buyer gets back into town tomorrow, so the paperwork should all be ready for the "presentation" on Tuesday (per a message from the realtor tonight).

I'm trying hard not to be anxious, but I know that the timing might not work. But we know that the bank would not accept a contingent offer (the house we're looking at is a foreclosure, so we'd be negotiating with the bank), so we can't make an offer until we have one on our house. Argh. I'm not a very patient person.

I'm a glutton for punishment.

Seriously. I mean, I ran a marathon last weekend.

And now? Now, I've fallen in love with a house. Another big old house that needs work. I previewed it two days ago, and Bob went through with me today. Am I seeing it through rose-colored glasses? Probably. Is he seeing worst-case scenarios? Probably.

Here's what I know: it's my favorite house EVER. And I've been in a lot of houses. It needs work. I am sure I don't know everything that needs to be done, but I could probably make some good guesses. As we went through the house, though, Bob looked like I'd betrayed him or something. Not good.

I've told him two things: 1. I love that house. (I'll avoid superlatives, but I could pack them in there.) 2. I do not have to have it.

Anyway, it looks like we'll have some fun conversations ahead of us.

I feel totally drained, because, of course, I wanted him to walk in and be bowled over, swept away, wowed, as I was. I think it's a good thing he wasn't. We usually balance each other pretty well, and I think this is a great example of that. But still...

I ran a marathon on Sunday.

Ever since I was in high school, I've wanted to run a marathon, but for some reason, I've never actually done it.

Now I have.

Sunday, I started (and finished!) the Bank of America Chicago Marathon. It was nothing like I'd hoped for or imagined. I felt pretty crappy most of the time. I didn't come anywhere near maintaining the pace I'd trained for. I had to walk some, starting after mile 18. I was really disappointed after the race. When most people are feeling exhilarated (after they cross the finish line), I started crying. It was just miserable, start to finish. I saw nothing good in it and did not EVER want to run another.

I've had a couple days now to process things (it usually takes me a while), and I'm feeling a lot better. I'm starting to get the "SuperWoman" feeling I expected -- I mean, hey, not everyone can run a marathon! And I'm really excited that the Team in Training raised 1.6 million dollars during the Chicago Marathon (of that, I raised just over $3,800) for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. And I'm really, really thankful that Lucy was relatively not hungry while I was running, and that I didn't spend the race worrying about her. And I'm very thankful that Gerri wasn't hurt any more than she was. And that they actually did get to see me run by, right before the finish.

It's really surprising to me that I'm already looking up races online, thinking, hmm, how soon could I run a half-marathon? So at this point, I'm really pleased with the race. It was NOTHING like what I'd expected, and that's ok.

Some true confessions:

I despise bananas. As in the smell of them makes me gag a bit. It is a true act of motherly devotion that I'm willing to even touch them so I can feed them to my girls. But I felt so bad during the race that I ate half a banana. Ok, so it was part of a half-banana, but I have not eaten raw banana since I was a baby and my mom used to hide stuff (foods I didn't like) in bananas.

At the pasta dinner the night before the race, our speaker John Bingham talked about how exciting it is when you know you're going to finish. Of course, at that point I knew I was going to finish, so I didn't really get it. (I can be so cocky!) But at some point past the halfway mark on Sunday, I realized that I didn't care about whether or not I could finish; I just knew I didn't want to. Whoa. I didn't see that one coming. There were a couple things that kept me going:

• the 49 (or so) people/couples/families who supported me financially (well, supported the LLS)
• the woman I ran with/behind/in front of for 5 miles or so, with the sign on her back "Chemo to Chicago in 149 days"
• my previous total assurance that I would finish
• the fact that I had a hungry baby waiting for me, and the longer I took, the hungrier she'd be
• my fear of failure

Anyway, I survived. I'm glad.

And we're off...

We leave for Chicago today. The Bank of America Chicago Marathon is tomorrow morning, starting at 8 CST. (I keep wondering how long it will take for me to actually cross the starting line, since there are something like 45,000 runners.)

I'm nervous about the race, but I'm honestly more nervous about little L. She won't take a bottle (I nurse her, so she never has to), and I've been worrying about this for months. I usually feed her about every three hours during the day, so I know she's going to be ravenously hungry by the time I finish the race. She will eat Cheerios, or bananas, and Bob will maybe be able to force one ounce down her from the bottle, but she's not going to be happy.

How did this happen? Cecil wouldn't take a bottle either, though I know why. L. used to, and then just stopped. It freaks me out a little sometimes; sometimes, it just frustrates me. I love her to pieces, and I'm not itching to "break free" from her, but every once in a while, I'd like to be childless for a couple hours and not worry about being home for the next feeding.

Anyway, I have to be in the starting area at 7 CST, which means I can maybe nurse her around 6:30. Then nothing until I finish. And that will be after noon. I think I had better just stop thinking about this, or I'll go crazy.

After Cecil stopped taking a bottle, I vowed that I would make sure that our next child would take a bottle. And then I forgot how important it was...

Our Kitchen

This was what our kitchen looked like when we bought the house. I loved the sink.

This was the wallpaper.

On New Year's Eve, we stayed up and pulled down wallpaper in the kitchen. Honestly, we had a blast. It was one of our most memorable New Year's's (?)... (with the exception of the year Ross proposed to Kerrie. Hard to top that.)

Here I am, seven months pregnant, pulling one of the millions of nails that were hammered into the walls, doors, trim, etc.

Oh, and here's what it looks like now.

The stainless steel pieces are (mostly) salvaged from the house my parents bought last year. Go figure: we both bought houses with no cabinets or countertops. Weird.

Here's the Learning Tower that Gerri bought for the girls to help me cook. C. loves it.


She likes to help me cook and help her daddy with the dishes. In this shot, I think she'd splashed so much that it wasn't worth keeping the shirt on.


Hey! That's a doorbell! And it's hooked up!



And, one of my favorite things in the kitchen: my compost pail, a Christmas gift from Ellen. We compost religiously, to the point that I have to talk Bob out of bringing food scraps from other people's homes so we can compost them.