Five Minute Bread

Going organic isn’t just about finding labels marked “USDA certified organic.”  It’s a lifestyle change.  It’s about making sure our food is something we actually want to feed our families.  And without getting too political, it’s about making sure our food is coming from a local, sustainable source.  For us, that means setting a goal to grow and make as much as we can at home, with no additives, no preservatives, and no health inspector standing over our food to reassure us it was handled with care.  If we’ve grown it, made it, canned it, preserved it, raised it, there is no doubt it was. 

Recently, a friend of mine sent a book called “Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day: The Discovery That Revolutionizes Home Baking” by Jeff Hertzberg, M.D. and Zoe Francois.  I was kind of skeptical at first since I’ve baked bread before and it just isn’t that simple.  The bread machine made baking accessible for me so when I want fresh bread, that’s how I make it.  The problem with bread machines is they take up a lot of space and they leave a weird hole in the bottom of the bread, making sandwiches crumble.  When we went organic, I found organic bread often cost $5 or more per loaf.  In addition, it was difficult to find specialty breads such as hamburger or hot dog buns, English muffins, bagels, pitas, and other sweet breads.  I could go to Pike Place Market, but wow is that a trek for a loaf of French bread.  Even then, it was impossible to find a good organic bagel.

These books, however, revolutionized the way we make bread and we haven’t bought a loaf since we got the books.  My actual time spent in the kitchen is about five to ten minutes, including clean up.  I can have a hot loaf of fresh bread on the dinner table every night with little effort.  All I have to do is pull out some dough when I first get home, and 40 minutes later, shove it in the oven.  Honestly, there is no reason to buy bread when you see how easy it is using this method.  I’m not trying to sound like a commercial, just encourage you to let you know that learning how to cut expenses out of your budget and to switch to organic foods isn’t that hard if you slowly change your habits one at a time.  This is a good one to begin with since it’s easy, cheap, and nothing is more satisfying than a crusty, hot loaf of bread you baked yourself. 

I’ll give you the recipes for the basic dough and an example of what you can make with that basic dough to get your started, but I highly recommend you buy the books.  I’ve adapted the recipes slightly for our use, and you may do the same as you get more comfortable with how the recipes work in your kitchen and to your family’s liking.  Good luck!

Master Recipe

makes 4 1-pound loaves which can be doubled or halved

3 cups lukewarm water

1 1/2 tbsp granulated yeast (2 packets)

1 ½ tbsp. kosher salt

6 ½ cups unsifted, unbleached, all-purpose white flour, measured with the scoop-and-sweep method

cornmeal

Gently stir the yeast into the water

Mixing and storing the dough

Warm the water slightly: it should feel just a little warmer than body temperature—about 100 degrees F.  Add yeast and salt to water in a resealable, lidded 5-quart (not airtight) plastic bucket.  Don’t worry about getting it to dissolve.

Scoop the flour from the container and use the flat end of a knife to level off the cup

Mix in the flour to incorporate it, but do not knead.  Add all of the flour at once, measuring it in with dry-ingredient cups by gently scooping up the flour into the cup and then sweeping the top of the cup with the flat end of a butter knife to level it off.  Do not press the flour down into the cup.  Mixing with a wooden spoon right into the bucket is easiest, but you can use a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook or a high capacity food processor with the dough attachment.  You will have more dishes to clean, however if you use the stand mixer or food processor and they aren’t necessary.  When everything is uniformly moist without dry patches, you are done.  Use your hands if necessary, but do not knead.  The dough should be wet enough to conform to the shape of the container.

Just leave the dough to do its thing for a few hours, then put it in the fridge for up to two weeks.  It's really that easy.

Allow the dough to rise.  Cover with the lid and allow to rise at room temperature until it begins to collapse, about 2 hours.  Letting it rise longer will not harm the results.  After this period, you can use the dough at any time, though fully refrigerated dough is less sticky and easier to work with.  For best results, refrigerate overnight before trying to shape a loaf.

On baking day: do not knead the dough, just shape it into a loaf.  Prepare a pizza peel or you could use a large, flat cutting board with a piece of parchment paper on top of it sprinkled with cornmeal to slide the loaf onto a pizza stone in the oven.  We use a large, domed clay oven, which eliminates the need for a pizza peel and a steam bath, which I will talk about later.  Sprinkle the surface of the dough with flour and pinch off a piece the size of a grapefruit.  Add just enough flour to your hands to keep it from sticking.  Gently shape it into a ball by turning the dough a quarter turn in your hand as you fold the dough under to form a ball.  The bottom of the dough might look ugly, but it will flatten as it bakes.  This process should take less than a minute.  
  
Rest the loaf and let rise uncovered on the pizza peel, the parchment paper, or on the clay oven bottom for 40 minutes.  It may not look like it has risen much after 40 minutes—don’t worry.

Twenty minutes before baking, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F with a baking stone in the oven to preheat as well.  Place an empty broiler tray or a metal pan on the lowest shelf.  You can omit this step if you are using a dome-covered clay oven as it will trap the steam from the bread as it bakes.

Dust the bread liberally with flour and slash a ¼ inch deep cross over the top of the bread with a serrated knife.

After 20 minutes, slide the loaf off the pizza peel or parchment, or put the lid on the clay oven and put it into the preheated oven.   Add a cup of hot tap water to the broiler tray or the metal pan.  Omit this step if using the clay oven or your clay oven will crack.  Bake for 30 minutes, or until the crust is nicely browned and firm to the touch.  Allow to cool on a wire rack before slicing.

Store remaining dough in the refrigerator in a lidded container (it doesn’t have to be the 5-quart bucket) for up to two weeks.  Just cut off dough, shape and bake as you need it.  The dough can also be frozen in 1-pound portions in an airtight container and defrosted overnight in the refrigerator prior to baking day.  You can also bake off the bread and freeze the loaf for croutons, bruschetta, bread crumbs, or bread pudding later.

Variation 1: mix in 2 tsp of dried thyme and ½ tsp chopped rosemary into the water mixture for an herbed bread.

Variation 2: for sourdough, don’t wash the bucket once you’ve used all the dough; immediately mix a new batch of dough in the dirty bucket and scrape down the dough left sticking to the sides.  It will ferment and incorporate into the new dough.  

These are the dishes I had to clean after making one of the more complicated recipes: Pumpkin Oatmeal Bread

Cinnamon rolls

Makes 6-8 cinnamon rolls

For cinnamon rolls, about two hours before you want to eat them, begin this recipe provided you already have some dough in the refrigerator:

Choose a topping for the cinnamon rolls:

Caramel Topping/Sticky Buns:

6 tbsp salted butter, softened

½ cup brown sugar

1 cup pecan pieces or halves

Cream together the butter and sugar and spread in the bottom of a 9-inch cake pan.  Scatter the pecans on top of the butter and sugar mixture.  Set aside.

Cream Cheese Icing:

8 oz cream cheese, 2 tbsp corn syrup

2 tbsp heavy cream (you can use half and half or milk)

1 cup powdered sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

Combine all ingredients in a bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment or use a hand mixer.  Beat on low speed until combined about a minute, and increase speed to high.  Beat until free of lumps.  Refrigerate until ready to use.

Powdered Sugar Glaze:

1 ¼ cup powdered sugar

2 tbsp milk

½ tsp vanilla extract

Mix ingredients until it’s free of lumps.  Set aside.

For the cinnamon roll filling:

4 tbsp salted butter, softened

¼ cup sugar

1 tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg

½ cup chopped and toasted pecans (optional)

Cream all ingredients except nuts together and set aside.

For the cinnamon rolls:

Dust the refrigerated dough with flour and cut off a grapefruit sized portion.  Carefully stretch the dough by tugging slightly while rotating the dough in your hands a quarter turn.  On a large surface lightly dusted with flour, roll the dough out into a long 1/8 inch thick rectangle.  You could lay down wax or parchment paper or cover the surface with plastic wrap for easy clean up and to aid in rolling up the dough if you don’t have a bench scraper.  

Spread the filling evenly over the top of the dough and sprinkle with nuts if using.  Starting with the long side, roll the dough into a log.  With unflavored dental floss or a very sharp knife, slice the log into eight pieces, or if you want smaller or larger ones, how many pieces suit your needs.  

If you are not using the caramel sticky bun recipe, then butter the pan liberally.  Place the rolls into the prepared pan of choice, either swirled edge facing up.  Cover loosely with a kitchen towel or plastic wrap and allow to rise for an hour, or 40 minutes if you are using fresh, unrefrigerated dough.

Twenty minutes before baking, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.  If you aren’t using a pizza stone to keep the temperature beneath the pan, 5 minutes is adequate.  Bake for 40 minutes, rotating once halfway through, or until they are brown and firm in the center.  While they are still hot, run a knife around the edge to loosen them and invert onto a large serving tray.  Ice them while warm if necessary.

Just another sorority girl

The Seattle Yacht Club

Last night was a pretty rare occasion for us.  We don’t usually go out, and we certainly never splurge.  Last night we did both.  It wasn’t a normal date night; it was the Puget Sound Association Phi Beta Kappa Chapter’s 60^th Anniversary dinner.  Dr. John Churchill, secretary of the national Phi Beta Kappa Society was the guest speaker and the event was at the Seattle Yacht Club.  This might not seem like a big deal, but it kind of was.

Dr. John Churchill inspired both Duane and me with his speech about higher education.

Most people when I tell them I am a Phi Bete, which I rarely do for this reason alone, think I am just another sorority girl.  Nothing against sororities, but Phi Beta Kappa isn’t one—it’s the nation’s oldest academic honor society.  It’s kind of a big deal.

Requirements for nomination are tough.  Less than 10 percent of the nation’s universities have a chapter and less than 10 percent of students at those universities are nominated for membership.  I was inducted in 2002, my senior year at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville.  I’m fairly certain if you knew anything about my past, you would know this was probably one of the proudest moments of my life.

Duane and I at an Airman Leadership School graduation

At any rate, when the opportunity to attend this dinner came up, I asked Duane if we could go.  I say “asked” because I know it isn’t in our budget, and I knew I’d have to buy a dress since we haven’t been to an event like this in ages.  Spend almost ten years in the military and see what happens to your wardrobe.  The nice thing about being in the military is any time there is a function, you can wear your service dress. 

I made a pretty good Flapper at a Decades party

We weren’t quite sure what to expect since Seattle is fairly laid back.  People wear leather and cargo pants to the opera.  No joke.  And no one stares.  It’s Seattle.  That said, I didn’t want anyone to stare at me for being over- or under-dressed.  Call me paranoid.  I wasn’t all that excited about shopping.  I hate shopping.  Last time I had to calculate on this level what I was going to wear was for a decades farewell party.  Everyone chose the 70s or 80s because it was easy; we chose the 20s.  It goes without saying if there was a costume contest, we would have won.  We looked awesome.  It isn’t that easy anymore to just slip into something comfortable.  Shoe shopping is a special kind of torture—not only are they extremely expensive, but I will only wear them once and I immediately regret my decision to be wearing any shoes about 14 steps into the evening.  In Mississippi, I just wore capri pants and flip-flops and looked fabulous.  Four pregnancies, 11 rounds of hormone-laden fertility treatments and two surgeries later, things don’t fit me like they did then.

Jessica Simpson can kiss my ass if she thinks I am going to wear these shoes for longer than five seconds.

Duane and I both managed to get through the formalities of trying very hard to look like we hadn’t tried hard at all to fit in at this event.  We had no idea what to expect or who would show up with their A-game for networking.  Turns out, we shared a table with the University of Washington’s provost, a World War II veteran, and a brand spanking new member of Phi Beta Kappa.  The best part about it all, is as I tried to practice my conversation skills, I played the “Who is the Phi Bete” game and learned every single man at the table was the spouse, not the Phi Bete.  Even the woman married to the WWII veteran—she was the scholar.  Girl power!

Our tablemates.  He is a WWII veteran, she is a Puget Sound Association Phi Beta Kappa Chapter past president.

At the end of the night, I felt like a piece of me had returned.  It was a piece that has been missing for a long time, and that piece is the fighter in me who worked full-time while going to college full-time.  It’s the woman who became a woman, not by wearing pretty clothes or learning how to do my own makeup, but by reading books, studying and learning how to argue and defend my beliefs.  Last night reminded me how I got here: by spending five years of my life working my ass off, nose in the books, learning, determined to make a better life for myself and my future family.  When we first moved to Seattle, people assumed we moved for Duane’s job.  I watched their faces turn to embarrassment when they would learn it was my job we moved for.  Last night I realized just how far I’ve come and how much farther I can go.  The American Dream is still alive and well and I am proof of that.

The D-Word

Debt is the only four-letter word no one talks about unless we are griping about the current state of political affairs.  But we all feel the sinking in our hearts, that punch in the gut, the hopelessness when we hear that word.  Debt.  The calculator starts running in my head subconsciously when I hear the word debt, when I swipe my ATM card at the gas station or the store.  I am human living in a consumerist society.  Everywhere I go, I am not encouraged to save and pay off debt but to spend and consume more.  I am enticed by sales, promotions, BOGOs, Groupons, and in some weird way, I feel like by spending more on these items, I am actually saving.

It all began when we moved to Seattle and Duane's only income for four months was unemployment.  I make a modest living, but my paycheck covers the bills and that is it: water, gas, rent, food, mortgage, electricity, student loans, retirement fund (I will address this in a separate blog and why it goes in this category, but think about it for now), and daycare.  It doesn't even begin to pay the health or car insurance, Pocky's annual vet visit, medical bills, haircuts, dog food and medicine, clothing and diapers for August, cell phone payments, and it certainly doesn't put a dent in the credit card bills or any kind of entertainment fees.  Duane and I were sitting in the apartment hot tub a few weeks ago adding up our bills.  We try to talk about our situation as much as we can; we talk about our struggles, successes, ideas, and we give each other positive and negative feedback about what worked and what didn't.  As I talked about in my blog last night, this was the first step for us, to remove the taboo and the nature of talking about debt as if it's a dirty word.  You aren't going to make it go away if you don't even acknowledge it.

I check the Craigslist "free" column regularly and saw a free photo shoot if only August would model very expensive christening dresses.  Not only did we not have to buy the dress, but we didn't pay for a professional photo shoot as well.

The first thing we had to do to start paying down debt, was identify our priorities as I mentioned in the "Are You Ready" blog.  Once we could identify what was a necessity--and this is an important distinction to make since we once thought TV was a necessity--we could begin removing payments from our monthly outflow.  TV used to be a big part of our life but when we moved here, if it didn't directly contribute to our ability to eat, sleep, or get to work, it wasn't a necessity.  The problem with moderation when you've been living in excess for so long is that if you don't scale back a lot, it will be easy to return to the previous spending volumes once you are debt free.  It doesn't work like that, just like a lot of people who lose a bunch of weight by dieting regain the weight because they don't make a lifestyle change.  That's what this is about.  This is your new reality.

What did this mean for us?  What did we cut out?

I began making baby food for August because the jars were expensive and they weren't organic.  It only took me a few hours and I made enough for all three months she was eating purees.

Are You Ready?

Duane gives me a $50 ring we got at a pawn shop hours earlier.  The only thing he promised me that day is he would never leave me.  I have no idea where that ring is, but I know where my husband is at any give moment!

Duane and I don't pretend to know everything about marriage.  In fact we have both been divorced, this alone tells you we have both failed once at the great institution.  And I am sure there are days we both would appreciate a divorce from the other, but it's temporary.  It doesn't feel like it in the moment; learning from my parents who will celebrate 40 years of marriage June 2 has taught me love conquers all, which is a pretty tough order to fill.  They have also taught us that if love conquers all, money is very helpful in paying for it, but it isn't necessary.  When you are young and in love, it seems like love conquers all--my parents were teenagers when they married.   The money thing came later for them.  In my world, the ring is a monetary symbol of the future, which is usually a much bigger promise they can live up to.  And so it begins.

Since we eloped and didn't have rings, I married him with his grandfather's ring.  The important thing about this is we didn't promise ourselves for money.  The rings were a symbol.  Sometimes in marriage we feel like we need to have things.  But those things can't replace what is in our hearts.  I was in my uniform this day.  Neither of us wears the ring we gave the other that day.  But one thing remains: the promise we made to each other when we vowed forever to each other.  No one in that moment we made our promise said it would be easy.

There are so many things a couple can argue about that relationship doom seems inevitable from the beginning.  No one tells you this at the place where you go to get your rings!  In our buy-now, pay-later society, how is anyone to survive at all?  Why don't they just tell you before you start out life on the wrong foot by financing your diamond and gold rings this is a bad idea?  And our litigious, fault-finding society doesn't help matters either.  The Number One Thing married couples fight about is....take a guess.  Not sex, though that is up there (I will address this in a future blog).  Not communication, though I'm pretty sure we all suck at it (and I'm a professional communicator).  Not children, though lord knows, it's a daily struggle.  It isn't in-laws, or vacations, or putting the toilet seat down.  I'm sure by now you've guessed, it's money.

I took a painting class because I recognize I have a need to do something fun.  My understanding husband doesn't request the same treatment; he always praises my amateur paintings and even though we might be broke, he never mentions it when he talks about how beautiful the painting is.

I won't lie.  When Duane and I talk about money, I feel physically ill.  I want to throw up.  I feel defensive and under attack.  This isn't because he makes me feel this way.  It's just my reaction.  Every time we count down the dollars and look at why we aren't where we need to be, I take on my shoulders what I've spent.  I don't try to defend every time I stopped at Starbucks or took a painting class.  I just feel guilty for not having done more.  And I suspect that's how a lot of us feel and so the conversation ends before it begins.

Duane and I taking our marriage oath April 20, 2009 in front of the Justice of the Peace in Biloxi, MS.  We weren't kidding.

Duane and I have had our share of money arguments and issues dealing with finances.  We are after all homeowners.  That in and of itself can make people want to lose their minds.  We aren't poor, but when we look at our finances at the end of the month we are amazed at how expensive everything is (diapers, food, rent, electricity, water, gas, cars, incidentals, insurance, medical bills, phones, internet, supplies, it goes on and on).  Our number one goal in doing what we are doing and living like we are is to move our financial situation from a reactive one where we are paying bills that come in because we owe money to a proactive one where we know there are things we have to pay and the rest is optional.  Once we made that paradigm shift in our minds, it made all the difference.

We had to decide, as painful as it was, that our expenses were red: we have zero choice in paying them; yellow, we have little choice in moving the date they are paid but they have to be paid; and green for those things we would only pay if we could such as TV, phone, internet, eating out, and impulse purchases or things we wanted but didn't need.  Color coding everything into green, yellow and red was easy; the hard part has been enforcing it.  That is to say, after we made the commitment to even talk about it.  We all have something to gain by leaving things the way they are and I will address this later.  Change is hard.

Stroller Envy



Duane gives me my nightly injection of fertility drugs



I have to preface this post with the fact that I began this yesterday in a lighthearted attempt to talk about how my life has shifted from deciding which beers are on tap to whether I can afford the $1,000 stroller at Babies R Us to keep up with the moms toting tots at all the places I take August on the weekends.  I had to stop.  Something wouldn't let me keep it lighthearted, but I'm used to that, so I let it sit for a day.  Something silly hit me mid-post, much like it does in my real life: I can't just get pregnant and I've lost three babies to miscarriage.  Some people who haven't lived this life I lead might wonder why I can't just get over it or if I will ever move beyond this, and the short answer is, I don't think so.  And as much as I want to move on, life happens and I am reminded of who I am, where I came from, and how far I've come.

Beautiful August Cameron

I never wanted to be the poster child for infertility or miscarriage.  I never wanted to be the person holding an acquaintance's hand, letting her cry to someone, anyone, after she just lost her baby (they call me sometimes because they can't bear to hear what well-intentioned friends and family say to them such as it was God's will).  I never wanted to have to explain to my own family day after day what to say and what not to say to help me heal, knowing Duane and I will likely always have this tender scar that will never heal and it can burst open on certain days or in certain moments (June 6th, November 14th, Christmas time).  I never wanted to be the woman who has to constantly answer the questions, "So do you want to have kids," or "Is she your first," or "Do you want more," with answers like, "We are working on it," or "Someday," or "Yes, she is our first," (feeling like our son Connor is looking down on us from heaven saying what about me?  I didn't choose this life, but it's the life I've got and I can't be bitter about it, lest it eat me alive and I forgo all the beauty surrounding me).

My written observations about being a mom began here yesterday:

Duane and I taking August for a walk in the jogging stroller on the Green River Trail behind our apartments

Every time I go to the zoo, I get stroller envy.  Parents with toddlers know what I am talking about.  Stroller envy makes you seriously rethink your priorities so you can buy that $1,000 stroller you registered for during your baby shower but no rich benefactor bought.  I always dread this about going to the zoo since our strollers (yes, we have a few), though adequate, would never propel us among the stroller elite circle.  In fact, I keep two strollers in my trunk at all times, which pisses off Duane because it keeps me from being able to go to Sam's Club to buy large things like diapers and toilet paper since I have no room; I have two strollers in my trunk for crying out loud!  We also have a wagon, a jogging stroller, and a hiking backpack, all of which are perfectly suited for certain occasions.  I no longer buy cocktail dresses, shoes, or makeup anymore, by the way, because my efforts are focused on Smoosh.

August looking at the gorilla from her adequate stroller

I didn't know about "mom culture" until I started taking my precious cargo to places like the zoo, the aquarium, the Children's Museum on the weekend.  And I don't think anyone is competing to be the best mom, but c'mon, we kind of all are.  Rest assured, my baby will be in the cutest outfit on the planet, lest anyone try to upstage AugDog.  My goal is to collect as many comments like, "Oh my gosh, she is just the most adorable baby I've ever seen," or "Wow, her cheeks are just so...."  Yeah, I know, she's my daughter.  And I try not to judge, but I do when I think no one is looking in how we handle our children's behavior or what they eat.  In my head, I am always telling myself, "my kid is far superior to yours."  And I don't mean anything by it.  I am super cordial around other parents.  Until they are more concerned with their iPhone than they are with the snot running down their kid's nose and how they let their kid shove my kid and totally didn't correct the behavior.  Let me just tell you.

August playing in the water at the Children's Museum

And then I deteriorated.  I got in my head.  I began to process the day, not by how lucky I am or how much fun we were having, but by the observation that every. single. woman. was nine freaking months pregnant.  No joke.  It was like a shampoo commercial of long-haired perfect women waving with streaks of sun showing through their glee flying by my face with a perfect smile and infectious laugh.  The pregnant women were everywhere in many colors and sizes, representing diversity and life itself--be fruitful and multiply said God.  They represented every woman but me and I felt my thoughts turn bitter, angry and confused again.  This feeling isn't new.  I battle it often and my demons are mostly other peoples':  Why can't she get over it?  Isn't she grateful for August?  She just needs to relax.  Why can't they just adopt?

Here's what went on in my mind:

I always feel inferior when I see bulging pregnant women in these places, despite the fact that my kid is one breakfast away from winning the Nobel Prize for whatever.  It feels like God is mocking me.  Not many people were at the zoo today since it was cold and raining.  Despite the dismal weather, it seemed like every woman in Seattle who was more than six months pregnant decided to go to the zoo.  And they weren't just pregnant.  They were glowing with rays of golden light illuminating them as they rubbed their fertile bellies dressed in perfectly tailored L.L. Bean outfits that probably weren't even made for pregnant women.  Their kids laughed in slow motion and made eyes at the pregnant bellies and the moms acknowledged me as our kids intermingled.

Dad on a rare family day off work helping August paint

At one point, August made eye contact with one of the lucky pregnant women and she shyly walked up to her.  August stared at her belly since she's been obsessed with them lately and I could tell she was trying to find the courage to touch the pregnant belly.  The lucky mom laughed and made some casual comment about how August wanted the maraca she had and gave it to her.  August continued to stare and inched closer.   All I could think about is how August loves babies--she signs baby, says baby and walks up to babies and won't leave them alone.  August would really love having a baby here.  And I want to give her one.  But I can't and one day she is going to ask me why.

I resent these women and then feel guilty about it.  I don't know how to fix it.  I try to avert my eyes and then there is another bulging woman showing off her "I didn't eat any ice cream or cupcakes or french fries" body in the pants she wore in high school with nothing more than a hair tie attached to her button fly and she wouldn't even need the hair tie if her hair hadn't become so long and luscious due to the prenatal vitamins and the pregnancy hormones.  Oh and bluebirds will fly out of her vagina when she gives birth, by the way.

August's first time working with clay

Today we went to the Children's Museum and things were a little better, even though every woman I encountered either had a narcoleptic newborn in some fashionable front carrier on her chest or was also bulging with a future tax credit in her biological oven.  It was easier today.  I don't know why.  I never know why.  And I never know when it is going to hit me either.

I know this makes me seem like a raging lunatic who is unapproachable or overly emotional.  But I'm not.  I'm just a mom who has lost three babies and has a really hard time bringing life to the ones I know God wants me to have.  I struggle daily, but I struggle because I know the reward is greater than my fight.  What I want people who want to support me to know is that the best way to support me is to just listen.  Call me and ask questions.  But ask questions about my struggle.  Ask questions about my son.  Ask questions about how I am feeling and when I answer honestly, just listen.

If you know someone who is experiencing infertility and just don't know what to do or say, please click here.  My guess is that you aren't alone.  None of us who experience infertility want you to have to be a part of this, but the honest truth is, we are glad you are because we can't do this alone.  We might try to do this alone, but we need you.

Leaving breadcrumbs

It's been three months since we arrived in Seattle.  When I started this blog a year and a half ago I had every intention of writing about being an insta-mom when we got our foreign exchange student Muro.  Now that I am a mom, I have no idea where the time went and there is this big abyss between this blog post and the last.  I suppose life is like that.  We spend our lives looking ahead, fixating on that end goal, where we want to be and at some point, we stop and have to connect the dots to figure out how we ended up where we are. Some of our living is deliberate while other times life just takes its course and Duane and I let it.  I wanted to start this blog up again for two reasons.  One is to give myself a roadmap to talk about the goals we set for ourselves as a family, as parents, as spouses, as friends, as workers, as Airmen, as humans.  The other reason is to give us a place to reflect on where we find ourselves when life takes its course and there is no trail of breadcrumbs to get us back to where things are comfortable and familiar.  In the end, it's all about the journey, the trail of breadcrumbs we leave along the way and the things we see and experience while leaving them, not the destination.  This blog is my trail of breadcrumbs.

I recently created a book for our families that took them back to our beginning.  It got me thinking about all the places we've been and how far we've come in just a short time.  

All those images and memories dance in my head and they emerge when something triggers them.  Big fluffy snowflakes make me think of Duane's smiling face when he was in Iraq.  I was living day to day then, each day waking up hoping it wouldn't be the day I had to leave him, yet wanting to leave Iraq and get home to Japan.  Then I spent the next nine months wishing time away so we could be together again.

Last night Duane and I watched the movie Click where the character in the movie, played by Adam Sandler, spends his days with a magical remote fast forwarding through life, hoping he will hurry and get to the good part only to find that the little moments in between where he finds himself is the good part.  It isn't until he is on his deathbed that he realizes he's inadvertently wished away all the good stuff.  Looking back over the whirlwind of the past five years, I want to make sure those moments in our lives find a home that will always be there.  I was able to capture some of that when I made that book, but I realized I've been a terrible keeper of our memories.  This fueled my decision to blog again.

Five years later, here we are.  How did we get here?

I'm not really sure, but it sure was nice to go back and connect the dots.  I realized in the process I hadn't left myself any breadcrumbs and trying to make sense of our journey was harder than I'd thought--we'd done a lot!  All of those memories in between might one day fade away.  At the same time, here we are in Seattle, making new memories, and we are here alone.  Our friends have to live vicariously through our facebook posts and our families cling tight to their email inboxes, hoping for another photo of August.  Whatever we do, whoever we tell, one things for sure: wherever we go, there we are.  Time will continue to pass and I don't want to forget what happens in the middle.  So come along with us on this journey and we'll get lost together.  At least we know there's a trail of breadcrumbs to get us back to the comfortable and familiar.