And a baby came out! {Landon's Birth Story}

The subject of this story is currently in his little hospital bassinet/pod/thing, making adorable sounds and waving his arms around like he did so much in utero. He's always happiest in someone's arms, so he's sacrificing for a cause right now. However, after being fed every hour this morning, changed, and then worshiped by two adoring parents, little Landon is in no danger of feeling unloved.

Yes, Landon. Landon Edward Maurer, according to all documentation and #landonedward if you happen to be following my instagram obsession.

Landon's due date was February 3rd, and despite every bit of knowledge that assured me a due date is simply a guesstimate in a 4-5 week span, we felt sad and disappointed that he had not made his appearance.  It was more than just typical 9 month exhaustion  and aches (for me) and eagerness to meet his firstborn (for Stephen) that had us staring wistfully at the calendar. Uncle Sam had called and Stephen was needed elsewhere and soon, so soon that it cut into the timeline that medical professionals and mothers usually use while waiting for baby to appear au natural. I didn't write a birth plan, but if I had, I would've written two main points: I wanted us all alive and us all to be there. With that second crucial point in jeopardy, my body dilated to a 1, and Landon sitting surprisingly high, my doctor and I talked induction.

We made tentative plans for a charming notion called cervical ripening via a small pill called Cytotek. This procedure would first occur late Wednesday night (February 5th), then again early Thursday morning (February 6th), and then I would begin Pitocin Thursday morning around the start of business hours. Those plans being made, I told everyone that my induction was scheduled for Thursday morning--provided Labor and Delivery wasn't too busy--and that we should meet Landon by the weekend.

Stephen was gone for his usual fourteen hour work day on Wednesday, and arrived home at 5 PM tired, sleepy, and with a head full of work. We decided that he would drive me the 45 minute to the hospital, help me get settled in, then go home for a full night's sleep, since the actual induction wouldn't be until the morning. Plus, someone had just handed him some last minute things to do.  But as Google and most women will tell you, inductions take a while...

We got to Labor and Delivery just before 8:30 PM on Wednesday, February 5th. The nurses were relaxed, and it took them forever to even find a vein to start an IV. The delivery room looked more like a darling hotel room, complete with a couch and shutters on the window, and golden, relaxed lighting. Stephen decided to stay the night with me, then run back to the apartment and base in the morning.

At 10:30 PM, I was given the first dose of Cytotek, showed the difference between baby's heart rate graph and my contraction graph, and learned that the annoying back cramps I'd had occasionally for around a week, and all day that day,  were actually mild contractions. Mild, unhelpful contractions.

We settled in, Stephen's frame crunched up on a supremely narrow couch, and my aching, nine month pregnant body on a hospital bed that couldn't be comfortable. Still, we were together, and the menstrual cramp-like ache in my back now had a name.

At 1:45 AM, my attention was rudely jerked away from browsing Reddit, as a sharp, intense pain filled my back and uterus, and I felt decidedly unromantic pop out liquid burst from me spontaneously.

Um,  ow. That hurt. Was that a real contraction? And did my water just break?

I waddled to the bathroom, confirmed that the liquid was not the contents of my bladder, and decided that I wanted my dull cramps back. A nurse came in, officially confirmed what I suspected, reminded me that things would get more intense, and asked if I wanted to wake Stephen. I didn't. It was not even 2 AM, he'd been asleep for an hour and awake for 22 hours before that. We had a long day (and night, at least) ahead of anyways, or so I thought.

15 minutes later, Stephen was woken up to the sound of my moaning, as sharp, angry contractions grabbed my back at a seemingly rapid pace. I felt simultaneously uncomfortable and annoyed that I was already in so much discomfort at barely a 2 dilation and the start of labor.

The next hour was a hellish one. The frontal contraction I'd experienced when my water broken is still the only experience I've had with non-back labor. Lying down, sitting, squatting, standing and swaying--every position still brought forth acute agony as my body sprinted into labor and my lower back became a living nightmare. My contractions were a minute apart and thirty seconds long, giving me exactly thirty seconds to recover before my body was plunged into the abyss again. It was the type of raw, brutal labor only Pitocin is supposed to bring, and I found myself dying mentally as my brain mocked me for being in such pain, and still dilated at a 2.

I went through all the painful cliches that are supposed to happen at transition--swearing, vomiting, nearly blacking out, freaking out, begging for it to stop--all the while assuming that this pain was only the beginning of a day-long marathon. It'd always been my plan to have an epidural, so the nurse called for that doctor once my 30 second recovery periods were taken up by vomiting. It took longer than necessary to start the epidural, mostly because I was afraid of sitting down during a contraction. Thankfully, the L&D nurse used her strictest voice, told me to sit, grabbed my hands, and forcing me to look into her safe, brown eyes, breathed with me. Once my brain accepted that sitting would actually bring relief--and not countless more hours of untold pain--I managed to be a decent breather. The relief from the epidural felt almost instant, and as my body slowly became able to tolerate the constant contractions, the nurses told me what I'd experienced wasn't normal.

• It wasn't normal to have constant contractions a minute apart, focused in the back, and only be dilated at 2
• It wasn't normal for labor to start that intensely and get to that level of worse in a matter of minutes
• And it was certainly not normal for labor that intense to start from one dose of the cervix ripening pill Cytotek. 

I had been no where near Pitocin, yet I'd been in Pitocin  misery and was well into labor. 

The next 3.5 hours were blissful, as my body felt more comfortable than it had in months. I gazed dreamily at Stephen, and wished he could experience the wonder of an epidural, too. My body started progressing, now that I could do fun things such as breathe, and my blood pressure rushed down the 50 points it had earlier climbed. The nurses came in every half an hour to change my position in bed, which seemed odd to me, but I was too comfortable to care. They gave me a shot to slow my contractions down, since they were still slamming my body every minute, but my uterus had other plans. Whenever a new person would come in the room, he/she would invariably ask "Pitocin?" and be greeted with an incredulous "no, just cervix ripening."

Just before 7 AM, the nurse checked me and told me that I was almost at a 5 and complimented me on my ability to still lift myself with my legs.

Then my OB came in...

While the epidural had blessedly taken away my body's ability to feel the minute-by-minute contractions, and had relaxed my body enough for it to progress, the rate of the contractions hadn't slowed. Landon was getting slammed by too strong-contractions, while my cervix progressed at a slower (and more reasonable) rate. He also wasn't dropping to where he needed to be, although no one was sure why. My doctor explained that, if I had actually gotten to the induction stage with Pitocin, it would be a simple matter of easing up on the amount of Pit. But I hadn't. My body had taken the warm up medicine and proceeded to try and run a marathon with it.

And of course, there was oxygen deprivation. While Landon was still healthy, his heart rate kept dipping lower than it should and he kept getting bursts of time without oxygen. My OB was very gentle, and not wanting a precipitous C-section, checked me twice more within 45 minutes, hoping that my dilation would move up to an 8. However, it didn't.

I quickly texted my mom and mother in law, who were on their way, that I might be in surgery by the time they actually arrived at the hospital. My mom, like any mother, was instantly worried about a her daughter getting a surprise C-section, but after hearing how oddly my labor was going, was assured that no one was forcing an necessary procedure. 

By the start of 8:00 AM, I was prepped and in the OR. 12 hours before, I'd assumed that would be when I'd begin Pitocin and the labor process--NOT when I'd be neatly cut open so that my baby could enter the world. The medical team was fantastic, as the OBs were gentle, kind folks, the anesthesiologist was a hilarious kindred spirit, and the nurses happy to be assisting in an urgent C-section, rather than an emergency. Plus, everyone wanted to see how my odd labor would end, and if the baby who wouldn't drop was actually huge or just stubborn.

I had the requisite operating room chills and shivers--much preferable to intense back labor in my opinion. The anesthesiologist chatted the entire time, and I drifted comfortably from listening to her stories to paying attention to the random tugging going around in my abdomen. Stephen was just pulling the camera out to prep it for Landon's birth when...he saw his son emerge. We'd been warned that he might not cry right away, so I was surprised when I heard his sweet grunts, informing the world that it really was too cold for his pink skin.

The OR was filled with...

"He's so pink!"

"Finally, a cute one!"

"Aww, look at that hair!"

"His head is huge! No wonder he didn't fit!"

And other accolades, as Landon began his first moments on earth. His official birth time was charted at 8:20 AM in the morning, ten hours after I had been given one, tiny pill. He arrived delightfully pink, surprisingly alert, a short, round 8lbs, 2 oz, and 19.5 inches, and dark hair crowned his massive 37 centimeter head, that he had been dutifully been trying to descend through my pelvis, only at a slight angle. I was delighted that I hadn't inadvertently grown a 10 pound baby, and that it really was a matter of the predicted large Maurer head and a bad angle.  Landon scored an impressive 9.9 on his APGAR, the missing .10 "because C-sections never get 10s" or something. 

He was bundled up and placed in a delighted Stephen's arms, and then brought over to my head and shoulders--while my torso was being masterfully stitched up. While I was gazing in awe at my newborn son, I was complimented on my "young, tight muscles", and Stephen actually got to record the event, something that I had forbidden with a vaginal birth. 

Happy--because I had my husband beside me, my baby in my arms, and muscles in my belly

"I'm in love."

It's been 48 hours since Landon's birth, and they have been beautiful hours. I've been recovering faster than even my lovely, optimistic doctors , and was just cleared to leave tomorrow morning since they're playing it safe. 

Landon has had none of the problems people often associate with inductions/epidurals/ and c-sections. He is absurdly healthy, alert, has a ridiculously strong latch (owie), and we are working hard to welcome my milk in!

Stephen has taken the role of daddy seamlessly, balancing work, baby worship, and wife doting beautifully.

Our little family now numbers three and we are so, so, so happy.

This morning we indulged in drooling over our baby, and he is already a spoiled prince, ready to receive homage.

I don't know why God chose to bless us with this darling. We certainly don't deserve him, but how we do adore him. 

Today I know this: I have been extraordinarily blessed by God. I have an amazing husband that got to be with me at the birth of our darling son, despite crazy extenuating circumstances. I had a short, accelerated, partially unexplained labor that lead to a fantastic c-section and recovery. I am blessed. 

Note: at the eleventh hour, Uncle Sam changed his mind, causing father, mother, and child to not be separated for months and months only a few days post birth. So I ended up with a baby, an awesome c-section scar, and a husband at home. 

My baby shower: life affirmed

My baby shower was....

Smiling faces.

Gentle hugs.

Genuine laughter.

Delicious, adorable cupcakes.

Yummy candy. 

An elated grandma to be (actually, two).

A not-too-swollen-pregnant lady.

A beautiful refurbished schoolhouse on a dairy.

And so much love. 

My baby shower was wonderful, joyous, perfection found on earth. It was hosted by my mom, who rose to the occasion of party planner, and banded together with my sister and some friends for a stellar occasion.

Baby's name is not to be released on the interwebz until his birth, so "baby boy" labels abounded.

I gave the (absurd--sorry) stipulation of a teal, gray, and yellow color scheme. Evidently there's dozens of shades of teal. Still, everything melded together beautifully.

My mom took some awesome shots with camera. Of food, of decor, of my sweet childhood friends, of women who have watched me grow up. Unfortunately, those amazing pictures will probably stay on her camera for a while, due to dial up internet, and the literal journey it takes to upload them.

So my three iphone--then instagrammed--pics must suffice..

(Sorry for the double of me: note the awesome colors)

It was cute, without being cutesie. Creative, without screaming I'M FROM PINTEREST

Perfection

When baby man is a few months old, and truly thinks the world revolves around him: you can blame his aunties (and not pictured: uncles and grandparents). 

One of my favorite parts was 

The cupcakes--they have bowties!!

Made and designed by the fabulous lady who did the groom's cake at our wedding, the cupcakes satisfied my pregnant palette and all other palettes there. 

I didn't catch a picture of my darling mother--I stopped at the cupcakes--but she was such an amazing part of the event. Her devotional was simple, sweet, and poignant, and I felt absolutely overwhelmed with love.

I was so blessed by each person attending, and since I didn't write a guest list, it was a fun surprise watching people walk in. As an extrovert, my love language has so much to do with people's time and attention, and so obviously, I was in my element. 

There's something about being enmeshed with love, in a room filled with people validating a baby, life, and the reality of motherhood that turned my baby shower into a lifelong memory. 

From my "second mothers" who told me I looked adorable--not almost 37 weeks, to one who affirmed my birth location, to the young mother who shared with me the trials and joys of first motherhood, to the friends my age who are rejoicing with me--and staying my friend through it all--to my sweet sisters, mom, and mother in law...thank you all. (Run on sentence? Try marathon.)

Thank you all. Our little family was so blessed by you all today, and by your presence and love (and emotional presence for those who wanted to come but couldn't) you affirmed the tiny life growing in me. And while every child deserves that, not every child gets such a celebration. So thank you. 

Pregnancy Confessions--Finals Week

32 weeks is FINALS WEEK.

In honor of being roundly pregnant during finals, I took time off work. For the first time ever.  It's amazing how working only 20 ish hours in one week gives you so much time for projects, tests, papers--and my all time favorite: sleep.

But in other news...
This baby jumps a lot, and every time he does I think of Elizabeth carrying John the Baptist in the Bible. I wonder what this child will grow up and do.

Being pregnant during the Christmas season is...rewarding. I was worrying about something the other day, only to realize that Mary had baby Jesus in a stable...as in on hay. She also traveled how many miles on a donkey whilst pregnant. I'm proud of myself for sitting in a comfy car with a heater. Christmas story: perspective given.

In lieu of this season of thankfulness (because, Thanksgiving may be in November but Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ!!!!! What better reason to be thankful)
I'm thankful that...

• I'm still working, looking like a stuffed penguin with a green cape, of course.

•  That I work at the place that I do with its awesome treatment of pregnant ladies. Not only do I not have to fear discrimination because I'm pregnant, but everyone is so understanding, helpful, and supportive. Starbucks, I love you. Forever. 

• A baby bump carries with it a command to be kinder to its bearer. All it takes is a little rub, and maybe a comment, and all but the grouchiest of folks soften up. It's really hard to be mean to a pregnant woman who's smiling back at you. Truly. 

• My multi-talented husband. I adore real Christmas trees for their scent, nostalgia, looks, everything--but I am totally inept at putting them up. And obviously, incapable of hauling them around. My husband prefers the fake ones for their practicality and simplicity. But of course, we have a real, live Christmas tree in our living room, that my long-suffering husband put up by himself. There's also a slew of Christmas presents under that tree (since we have a lot of immediate family between us) that he [expertly] wrapped, while I laid on the couch and complained that my back hurt. 

• There's a thing as short shifts, where I can work a decent pace and not come home and feel incapacitated.

• Long shifts which teach me perseverance and faith. 

• There's such a thing as ribs. Because mine are this baby's favorite things to kick and poke. 

• That while pregnant, you're in glorious stage where the more you eat at dinner, the cuter your belly looks. (I might have a problem, admittedly.)

• For sweet friends who don't mind (and even proclaim to like) my addiction to Instagramming bump pictures. 
• Pregnancy apps exist. Otherwise I'd never know what week I was.
• My doctor appointments are short and boring, because that means baby and I are healthy. He's growing. I'm growing. He's getting gaining weight at an excellent rate, and I'm gaining it at a slow rate. 

Yeah...I should probably stop with the copious eating now. 

And for little miracles, like the crib fitting so beautifully in our room. (Thanks again, husband. You are fantastic and then some.)

The Winnie the Pooh motif is awesomely ironic because I'm the last person in the world to actively choose a theme like that. And yes, I know there needs to be more sheets and less stuff in there. 

He'll Soon Be Gone

This is my grown up thanksgiving prayer.
I'm thankful that today my husband is with me, that (Lord willing) he'll be with me on Thanksgiving.
I'm thankful for the little home we share, the laughter, the love, and the bond that grows deeper every day.
I'm thankful for the days I wake up and he's besides me--or realistically--poking me to turn off my alarm and get ready for work.

The days we spend together are growing shorter, and soon it will be time for him to go.
I want to be selfish and demand a world where he doesn't leave, but that's ridiculous.
It's his job. It's what he signed up for. It's what I knew would be my reality.

I know what the pain of separation feels like. It's a knife, jagged, ill-formed, and cruel. It slashes as the heart, re-opening fresh wounds continuously. It's a dull ache in the back of throat. It's a reality that grows more painful with time, even as it becomes more manageable.

It's falling asleep alone, waking up alone, tending a baby alone, crying alone--alone but not really alone. Just separated.

It's one half of a heart, a unit, a life on one side of the world and the second half on the other side of the world.

It's seeing things the other would love and aching to share in those. It's remembering when we took one another for granted and mourning that. It's growing a relationship stronger every day, forging a bond through pain, denial, love, and trust.

It's dying to self and putting the one you love before your own feelings. It's being strong when you crave weakness, smiling when  tears brim, and loving fully and truly when it's hard.

It's the sound of an airplane's engine breaking your heart and the slow pace of a calendar bringing you hope.

It's love, marriage, and family tested and tried to come out stronger than ever.

It's being the one he comes home to, and waiting every day with the knowledge that an embrace long awaited is the sweetest.

It's sending your heart where he goes, while your physical being stays home.

It's a love that's hard, a love that's tried, a love that's true.

So today I'm thankful that my husband is with me, for many women do not have theirs tonight. I'm thankful for the challenges we will face, the growing process, the pain, and the love of our little family. I don't relish what's to come. I loathe the expected pain and fear the loneliness, but I am thankful for the trial just the same.

Marrying Young: We Got the Debate Wrong

When I was five, I wanted to get married at fifteen. At fifteen, I wanted to get married at twenty five. At twenty five, I'll have been married for three years.

The when to get married debate is an ideological one that divides people sharply, and in truth, it's a stupid one. The age a person gets married shouldn't be determined by a formula, or a life plan, or by anything aside from God's prompting of two people. 

In the secular world today, singleness is promoted as a way to assure people's advancements in careers and to provide a healthy bedrock foundation for a marriage...down the road.

"Early marriage"--anything younger than twenty five--is seen as a choice made by the religious right, or for those who do it because they have to, like for military members. 

Living a healthy, God-serving, vibrant, single life is not an idea promoted by either the religious or the secular. (Granted, in the secular it would be others-serving.) Singleness is seen by the some as a bog to escape, and by others as the promoter of a successful career. 

However, recently, women have been encouraged not to "hold off" on marriage for too long, for fear of the dreaded plague of infertility. Ergo, women are told to hurry up, marry, and have a baby or two before time is too late. Marriage is just a path to babies. 

Sadly, none of these worldviews attest to the awesomeness and truth of what marriage is. It's a partnership. It's having someone else to run into battle with, to live with, to love, and serve God. Mark Regenerus of the Washington Post wrote an elucidating article on the strengths, rewards, and joys of early marriage. He writes of many of the ideas that I have come to believe, and I love this article. 

However, unlike Regenerus, the idea of my friends and peers holding off marriage until later does not bother me. Many people do not find their soul mate until later in life, and the constant pressure to find someone by a certain date adds to the misconception of what marriage is. I know that marrying at twenty one was the best decision for me and Stephen, and I will delve into that further. But, I also know that it would be a horrible decision for many other people. I do not believe two people who are ready for marriage should wait for years just to attain an age, financial status, or to fulfill their parents' goals. However, neither do I believe that people who are not mentally and emotionally prepared for marriage should be guilted into it, or rush into it for fear of not meeting a certain deadline. 

It's not your parents' decision when you get married.

 It's not society's decision.

 It's not the economy's decision.

 It's God's decision; one that you verbalize. 

I like to say that we split our parents' preferences in the middle.

My mom thought it would have been fine (and wonderful) if we had gotten married earlier.

Stephen's parents thought we shouldn't get married for several more years. 

We listened to their thoughts, and then gently told them it was our decision. 

And I am so thankful to be married now! Regenerus claims that "Marriage actually works best as a formative institution, not an institution you enter once you're fully formed. We learn marriage, just as we learn language, and to the teachable some lessons come easier in life. 'Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth' Tennyson added in his poems of springtime and love" (1). For Stephen and I, this has been the case and the results have been beautiful.

Being married to Stephen has been the most wonderful of growing experiences. It has taught me to be more selfless and taught to be more dependent on Christ. We have grown together as a young couple as we develop mutual goals and plans. Our personalities are being shaped so that we better understand and communicate with one another. Our characters are being formed, but because we are married they are being formed to complement one another.

On a practical level, being married has been incredibly advantageous for us. We share a small apartment, utility bills, cars, grocery bills, and save a great deal of time, gas, and money not traveling to see one another. We are able to better focus on the tasks at hand because we are not constantly pining to be with each other because being married has added stability to our relationship. 

Stephen is in the Air Force, so the bulk of our living expenses come from his job. I can go to school full time and pay my tuition from my wages, and not worry about having to pay for housing. Eventually, we'll switch roles so that Stephen can complete his education. Gazing into the abyss of the 21st century future is far less terrifying when there's a person holding your hand, promising to work alongside you as you strive to provide for yourselves and your future family. 

I am so thankful I was given the opportunity to marry "too young" and begin my adult life linked by love and law to my best friend. Marriage has been the most rewarding experience spiritually, mentally, emotionally, financially  and physically. Our marriage has not kept either of us from pursuing our dreams, rather, it has encouraged us and made those possible. 

But I am not happy and growing because I married at twenty one. I am happy and growing because I married the right man on God's timing. And that, is the true solution to the when to get married debate. 

~Susie

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1. Mark Regenerus. Washington Post. "Freedom to Marry Young". April 2009.

Found here

Our 14 Year Love Story

We have been married for six months, and this so delights me that I've elected to tell an awesome story. 

Every time I see this picture I die from happiness..just a little.

I LOVE how excited my baby brother is here.

I know, I know. I'm proving my status as a newlywed just by announcing this, but I really am excited about it. We were engaged for one day short of six months, so a year ago, we weren't even engaged. Stephen was planning on driving 500 miles to propose to me, but I had no idea what was coming.

And I mean no make up, bad hair and ugly sweats no idea.

I thought I'd commemorate our 'six months' by sharing our love story. Not our proposal story but our l.o.v.e. story.

This epic tale of romance and laughter started many, many years ago. Fourteen, nearly fifteen years ago. It was our mothers' faults. They met at a homeschool co/op and being the outgoing, vivacious ladies they are, they immediately bonded.

Stephen's mom, an awesome hostess and people-lover did the "drop on over any time" invite that people say but don't mean. She actually did mean it, but she didn't expect that invite to come to fruition,

My mom, being the people-lover and fan of visiting that she is, did drop by one fateful day, and leading the quintet of ducklings behind her was seven year old me.

My earliest memories of Stephen are this:

He had really dark hair.

He liked to hit people.

He pretended to speak Spanish, even though he couldn't. I found that clever.

His earliest memories of me:
Um....one of the many (who really knows the number) Manthei kids.

I know, I know, so much promise.

For the next ten years, Stephen and I pretty much ignored each other. Aside from that one day he proposed, and I agreed for fear of being an old maid. (We were nine.)

We grew into teenagers, and Stephen was a shy, geeky boy with teenager skin, who was dealing with father's illness, and I was a homeschool girl with freckles and curly hair, who didn't want to be homeschooled and was obsessed with having crushes on guys who didn't know my name.

Again, so much promise.

The year we turned sixteen my dad died (suddenly) and his dad recovered (wonderfully).

The second semester of our junior year of high school I transferred to Stephen's high school. Our grade had five students in it. We spoke once at school during the semester. Our first teenage conversation was actually on the phone, as Stephen's mom had called him to ask what supplies I'd need for math class and handed the phone to me.

Note cards and three ring binders.

Promising.

The end of that semester we were assigned to work together for one class period on a quasi-project. One of our classmates, J.,  remarked that we sounded like an old married couple.

She was one of my bridesmaids.

Senior year. We started talking due to Physics class and the two minute walk from a classroom to our pseudo-lockers. One day Stephen missed our daily walk and I realized I missed his company.

I then decided he had a crush on me. 

Because that makes sense. ;)

A few weeks into the school year, our school to a camping trip called Spiritual Emphasis Week. On the drive up, I decided to switch my crush from some random guy to Stephen.

However, despite because my deep thought on whom to *crush on*, I'd forgotten to pack warm clothes, and my borrowed sleeping bag was quite thin. Stephen overheard me complaining to my brother that I had been absolutely freezing the first night, so he loaned me one of the extra sleeping bags he had brought. Yep, he was a boy scout.

(Literally, my husband was a boy scout as a kid, and now he's in the military. He is always so prepared, and I am never even remotely ready.)

Crush confirmed!

However, despite the obvious progress in our relationship and all the healthy guideposts *so much sarcasm present*, my Stephen crush would have been quickly replaced were it not for an unfortunate (actually, super awesome) incident on the ride home.

A car broke down in a smoking fury.

In order to cram stinky high schoolers and stressed chaperons into fewer seats than planned, our principal assigned us seats and firmly ordered us not to leave them. Stephen, myself, one of my future bridesmaids, and one of Stephen's future ushers [in the wedding] were packed into a "four seater" row in the back of a twelve passenger van...in that order. I was delighted to have a chance to actually talk to my crush, and M., my awesome friend, knowing my pathetic crushing status, kept the guy next to her from talking too much to Stephen. (M., I adore you for that.)

After three hours of chatting and bonding, I had decided that Stephen was my most successful crush ever, and to continue crushing on him for a while. Plus, I kinda liked him at that point. (Yep, to the 17 year old female, crushes and likes are two different entities.)

As for Stephen, he had decided that I was more than just a total cutie, that I was bright, interesting, and I liked to listen to him. That was the day he started *liking* me.

That was also the day I discovered that the Air Force was comprised of more than just pilots.


Six weeks later he asked me to dance with him at a "hoedown"--and I knew something was up.

Square dancing means things are serious in our community.

A month later, we had an awkward, "hypothetical" but wonderful conversation where we revealed our mutual "liking" of each other.

Fast forward through a year of high school drama--Christian school style--we officially started dating five days after high school graduation. Stephen wanted to ask me in person, but being impossibly impatient, nosy, and bossy person that I am, I made him tell me on Facebook IM.  The next day he came over to my house and hung out with my family. My six year old sister sat in his lap, my three year old brother sat on his head, and my mom started a sentence with "when you get married".

He didn't run away.


We got married a month short of four years after that initial conversation in the van, and fourteen years after we met. Ours is a small town love, small church, small school love story. But it is also a story with God's master hand directing it. He brought us together, orchestrating cataclysmic and minor events to arrange our paths crossing.

When God writes your love story, the beginning, journey, and ending isn't boring. God doesn't write in cliches.

This turned to....

The dude we cut out of this pic, yeah, he was in the wedding, too.

This :)

All because two people fell in love 


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Where you go I'll go

One of my all time favorite series is the classic Little House on the Prairie (I also adore the television version of it, even if it completely digresses from the books.) I've read all the books multiple times, and one of the most pivotal moments in the series for me as a young girl, was when Laura and Almanzo are talking about their wedding--prairie fashion.  It's a rather unromantic and practical conversation, but during it Almanzo assures Laura that he asked the minster to not include "obey" in Laura's vows. Just a little strike for equality right there.
That line started my obsession with wedding vows (I think I was born with an obsession with weddings) and I've always been fascinated with the vows couples choose.

Stephen and I chose to use the standard "church vows" because I've always loved the rhythm and tradition in those vows. It was fun learning that there are two sets of vows: the "I dos" and "I wills" and it was absolutely exhilarating to repeat them after the pastor, while gazing into each other's eyes.  There's something so reassuring about saying the vows that thousands of couples have said before you. Not to mention, I love the rigidity and honesty found in those vows. "In sickness and in health...'til death do us part." It leaves no room for vapid romanticism fizzling into annoyance and then an angry divorce five years later. There's no "I love you so much and you are my world", just "I am your life partner, and you're stuck with me" but in a nice way. ;)  It's romance in the purest sense of the world.

You should laugh a lot during your wedding ceremony to make up for the fact that you bawled on the way down the aisle. Plus, getting married is fun, and you can't have fun without laughing. 

I love the cross over us. So symbolic. So right. So perfect.

If I could get married again (to Stephen, of course)I would add on to the vows. It would not be feathery sentiments from my love-addled brain, but words crafted in loyalty, love, honor and written in that book that is the greatest of all.

Where you go, I'll go,

and

where you stay, I"ll stay. 

Your people will be my people

and

Your God will be my God

Ruth actually says this to Naomi in Ruth 1:16, when Naomi is planning on leaving Moab and going home. This passage is always trumpeted as a tribute to Ruth's faith, and as it is the words of a daughter (in law) to a mother (in law) it's not in the Christian canon of wedding verses. 

I'd forgotten about this verse, until I caught myself telling my husband this whenever we discussed the future. Uprooting one's self from family, friends, a hometown is hard, painful work. Following one's spouse to the ends of the earth can be exhausting and trying and requires the greatest love and loyalty. So does staying with one's spouse in a uncomfortable location. My parents moved around the country several times every year for the first four years of their marriage. By the time they finally settled, they had three kids. My maternal grandmother held down the home front, in whatever country or state the Army sent them, while my Grandpa served as an Army Chaplain, all while raising five children. As an airman's wife, I have to be prepared to move, settle, or be content to stay anywhere the Air Force wills.

Where you go, I'll go. Where you stay, I'll stay. 

The second promise, the one where Ruth claims Naomi's people is also one that young brides (and grooms) should take to heart. Like I've mentioned many, many times, I have a huge family. Not just siblings, but cousins, aunts, and uncles and a litany of assorted relatives. I really don't need more.
But when I married Stephen, I took on his family, too. It became my family. And he took on mine.  It can be challenging, and sometimes we've both felt like a visitor in a foreign land. Seriously, why is everyone laughing? It's worth it, though.

Someone recently asked my seven year old brother how many brothers he had, and he instantly replied four--which is the number he has including Stephen.

Your people will be my people.

The third promise, I believe, can give direction and union to a marriage and to a family.

Your God will be my God.

There are some in the Christian world who write and speak great tomes on the importance of male headship in everything. Unfortunately, this has lead to the idea that the husband is in charge of the wife's spiritual well being. Or, if a woman is unmarried, it is her father. I believe that this idea goes against the Bible and everything that Christianity is: The worship of the one Triune God by a personal, vibrant relationship with one's Heavenly Father, a soul saved by the sacrifice of the Son, and a person walking in the light and listening to the prompting of the Holy Spirit. My soul isn't less of a soul because it is female in desperate need of male headship. 
However, while I believe explicitly and passionately in the independence and personal aspect of our faith, I also believe just as passionately that it is important for man and wife to be unified in this manner. In faith, in denomination, in theological viewpoints. If Stephen and I are unified in our religious beliefs, then our children have a better chance of growing in a healthy Christian environment,  of learning to love Jesus and not the law, of wanting to go to church every Sunday.

"Your God will be my God."

When my sisters, cousins, and friends get married,  I will definitely be waving this verse under their noses. ;)

On an unrelated, super vain, yet very newlywed note...our thank you cards came in! I'm too much a non-conformist and generally far too stubborn to write thank you notes to a guest list of nearly five hundred people.

So this was my adorable, trendy solution. Huge thank you to my amazing, talented husband for designing this whole thing.

Of course I'm going to give you the Instagram version

You can't see it here, but there's an "SM" watermark, just like on our invitation

(follow me on instagram! i'm susa_mau)

This way I don't have to write hundreds upon hundreds of thank yous, which I admit, I would give up on before I finished. And people get a cute Susie+Stephen picture with a thank you note that's styled after the theme of our wedding invitations. 

Oh, and it's crooked because it's propped against my legs because our kitchen table is now the gaming desk.

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Mold, Mormons, and Marriage

My favorite Mormon newlywed blog has died the death of a busy blogger. Love the Grows was a fun, newsy, well-written bit by a young Mormon wifey and I loved it. (She's the trendy, hard-working, motivated kind--not the polgymist kind.)It satisfied my nosiness curiosity about Mormon religion that I developed after reading a book too many, and more importantly, gave insight and anecdotes about being a young (really young--like me) married lady,  and balancing housecleaning with homework, and newlywed adventures.
After reading LtG and the litany of sweet newlywed blogs that accompanied her site, I felt the copycat urge welling inside me. But Love the Grows was such a too beautiful of a blog for me to even attempt to re-format, solidify my own bloggy thoughts, and commit to creating one of those adorable newlywed blogs.

Until now.
Since my life revolves around Starbucks, schoolwork, and living and loving life with my husband, I'm dreamin' and plannin' on doing a life as a newlywed post once a week, or fortnight, or whenever...I'm not that organized. ;) I changed the name and I LOVE it, and I'm working on changing the design beyond my feeble nothing-beyond-the-template abilities. Thankfully, I have my own graphic designer/brainy airman--that I'm pretty sure is in love with me--to do all that fun stuff for me.

Why should the Mormon girls have all the fun?!

In loving memory of my favorite newlywed blog...

How I got in a fight with mold and accidently killed a colony of ants

I'm blessed to be the oldest of eight kids, and as big sister I've had a lifetime of experience in housekeeping, baby catching, and playing laundrywoman. So, as my wedding neared, I felt no qualms about my new role as woman of the house. Aside from cooking of course, but I love my George Forman grill and my sweet husband is a master at culinary concoction.

And then I got married and realized...

I didn't have my sisters anymore.

No longer could I join forces with my sisters (and often times brothers) and spend a solid 45 minutes transforming a lived in home to a neat, tidy nest. Many hands make light work is never truer when there's ten hands to do the working. The first few weeks after we moved into our wee apartment, I had my husband home on leave, so he would help me tackle dishes, boxes of wedding presents, and we would make our bed together with our glorious married people comforter. Why ARE married comforters so pretty?

But then hubby went off to work and I was left alone in an empty apartment that was well-equipped with Netflix. I missed my siblings so fiercely those first few weeks. Where were my youngest siblings to go scrub the bathrooms, on my orders! My just-younger sister and brothers to do the other chores I didn't relish? And where oh where was my mother's (comparatively) spacious kitchen to dance in as I tossed dishes in the dishwasher and the stove to scrub oatmeal off of? While I love our apartment, I'm fond of calling our kitchen a closet-kitchen, for if the dishwasher is open, there's only room for once person...and I definitely cannot dance in it.  I reluctantly did minimal cleaning and housekeeping and wondered what it would be like to have sister wives--kidding ;)

Thankfully, our poorly ventilated windows pushed me towards drastic action.
Our bathroom decided to play the greenhouse and grow that fungus that offends mothers and housekeepers everywhere: mildew. Ewwww.

I ignored it for a while, hoping it would just go away. (Or that my military-trained husband would clean it. (Hehe.) Of course, as my husband said, the law of entropy was applied and it just worsened. Double ewwww.

Finally, I took my mom and mom-in-law's advice and applied a bleach cleaner, an old toothbrush, and a scrubby with a handle and showed that offensive fungus who truly was the lady of the house.

After nearly fainting.... because I closed the door..

And ruining hubby's old t-shirt that I had requisitioned...

And killing an ant colony that I didn't know existed...

My beautiful soft blue, sage green, and chocolate bathroom was clean. Spic and span. Mary Poppins' white glove clean!

How I relished my  beautiful bathroom! And the resulting text from my hubby when he saw the bathroom? I found such pride in my gleaming bathroom.

A few days later, I saw some nefarious dark spots around a fixture in our bathroom. Annoyance, and more than a bit of anger made me fixate on that spot.

In that moment, I felt what  generations of mothers, housewives, career women, and every woman in between has felt--no matter what her philosophical suppositions about gender roles: a well-scrubbed bathroom is a thing of beauty, joy, and pride. Mildew is my new enemy.

Why yes, I'm an obsessive Instagram-er.

(Follow me at susa_mau)

 No, my bathroom curtain isn't that wrinkled still. 

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What's In a Name: Maiden, Middle, Married

Becoming Susie Maurer

This blog post was inspired by another story via blog of a woman who struggled with changing her last name. She tells a fascinating story of her journey and acceptance in the name change game, and why she is satisfied with her choice. It's thought-provoking


As a little girl, I thought women  who kept their last names were shrews. Don't they love their husbands, I would wonder. Who wouldn't want to change her last name. That was part of the excitement, the mystery, the dream of being a little girl, waiting anxiously for prince charming, who would ride up in his white diesel pick up and pull away in a cloud of diesel smoke and dust. White horse, pshh. 

Women who hypenated their names were even worse to my little girl mind. Why would you want two last names!?!!? And who would your children belong to? Which family?

Oh the musings of my sweet, young mind.

As I grew older, I learned that women changed their names, added to their names, kept their names for a variety of reasons--some of them quite practical.  One of my professors hyphenated her last name because  she and her husband had the same first name. Plug for NOT crushing your children with an androgynous name! She took his last name at first, but then when the hospital claimed he  was the one who had delivered their first child...she realized a change needed to be made. Obviously. Other women don't take their husbands names because they're well-established in their jobs and careers by the time they're married, and a name change would cause unnecessary confusion. Still other retain some form of their maiden name because they believe that's who they are; their identity. To change would mean to give up a part of themselves. I can understand that now.

I was twenty one when I got married with no career nor standing to preserve, so I readily, freely, and joyfully changed my last name to my husband's. I'd always known that my maiden last name was a temporary one. My sisters and I had always lorded over our brothers, telling them we got to change our last names, while they had to keep theirs. Childish squabbles. 

Changing my last name from Manthei to Maurer was one of those post-wedding day blessings I exalted in. Holding the same last name as my husbands means we are forever linked, a partnership, a unit. It also means that my very name screams "This one is, MINE, ladies" and I like that. A lot. It means that I'm connected to my husband's family, and it's fun holding the same title as my new sister in laws and mother in law. Although, no one aside from my insurance company calls me "Mrs." except as a joke right now. That'll come with my teaching days and mommy times.

 Hyphening my maiden last name with his last name  would have been ridiculous: Manthei-Maurer. That's impossible to say. It would've most likely been pronounced along the lines of "Maaaanthaaymurrrr". I'm thankful that I had no need to consider consider hyphening my name. 'Twould have been a nightmare.  Aside from my personal prejudices  keeping mine Manthei while his was Maurer would have been too confusing. They're both strong, un-phonetic Germanic names that people love to mispronounce and misspell, so people would have probably assumed I was a "Murr" anyways. Or they might have combined them and I could have been a "Murrman"! Yay!

However, when it came to the question of what my middle name would be, I encountered a quagmire. [I'm ashamed to say that word makes me think of a Family Guy character. Thanks, husband.] My parents (rather my father) insisted on giving all eight of children Biblical first and middle names. My dad came from a family eight and seven, yes, seven, sisters. Ergo, he had good reason to believe that he would need to be efficient with girl Bible names. There's not a great amount of female Bible names that sound natural to the American tongue to begin with. Then, one must subtract the ones that just don't sound pretty. To cut from the the dwindling numbers even more,was  my mother's insistence that the meaning of each name being a noble, beautiful one--she used to pray for us using the meaning of our names. The stock of sound, female Biblical names was whittled down to a  precious few. My parents' solution was to re-use our middle names as first names for other sisters and vice versa. When we were little we thought it was fun and special. Once we got older, we realized it just added to the whole "big family weirdness".

Weird or not, I still love that my middle name is my sister's first name. It makes me one of Steve Manthei's daughters. Drop  your maiden name, then. Given my excitement about changing my last name, it would seem as if I don't care about my maiden name. Au contrare! My maiden name is part of the heritage bequeathed to me by my late father. It connects me to my mother, to my seven siblings. I come from a line of  entrepreneurs, iron-willed men and women, who start businesses, have large families, and work with that legendary German spirit. It tells the tragic, yet inspiring story of my great, great, great grandmother, as well as my great great grandfather. It's more than a name to me--it's a lineage. It's not an ordinary name, one that many people have. It's a rare, difficult name. Most the Mantheis in the United States are related to me not too distantly. How many Smiths can claim that?

I have the short, stocky, curvy frame of my Manthei line. That inner drive that propels me toward unreachable goals. I cherish the memory of the 15 years and 360 days I spent with my father, a Manthei. I am Steve Manthei's daughter and that will never change.

How could I give up that part of my heritage, of myself, my identity. In the months leading up to my wedding, I deliberated. I thought. I cried. I asked. I prayed. I practiced writing both names. Eventually, I came up with  an unlikely, and frankly, unattractive name.

Susanna Rachel-Manthei Maurer. What a moniker. A Germanic mouthful. The program at the DMV doesn't even allow for hyphens in the middle name so my driver's license is just two lines and four names. It's ugly. And I love it. By keeping all four names, I have retained my whole identity. My identify as a wife. My identify  as a daughter. My identity as a sister. The hyphen, ugly as it is, enables me to have only one middle initial  R, which makes paperwork a tad easier. It is a hassle to have to write that whole name, and it doesn't look graceful and pretty when I see it printed. But it's me, and it elucidates every spectrum of my name and history. For that same reason, I insist on calling myself Susie, leaving my Christian name for legal documents. I'm Susie because my father thought it was adorable and wanted a Susie. Susanna was just for the Biblical aspect of it. Yes, it's in the Bible. New Testament. Disciple of Christ. :) I'm a Susie Q. Not O, Susanna. Yet another colorful piece in the mosaic of my name identity.

I've wondered if I would have been so attached to my maiden name or birth middle name, had my father not died. Maybe. I can't answer that now. I was five days short of my sixteenth birthday when my dad died, and it was nearly six years ago. I'm a radically different person now. For the woman I have now, a hyphenated middle name perfectly represents me. Each name was chosen with care and love, and each one has a story, a meaning and is part of the fabric that is my life.

I'm going to give my own daughters beautiful first and middle names and they'll inherit their father's (and mine now!!!) last name. What they choose to do with those three names given to them at birth when they marry is their choice. I hope they see each of their names as a gift, a heritage, a piece of family history. I would have been afraid to hyphen my birth middle and maiden last name were it not for the constant support of my amazing mom, and that  another lady I greatly I most admire assured me that she'd done the same thing. I would not turn into a man-eater if I had two middle names. Whew. (Thanks, Mita and  Mrs. B.)

That's what I hope to show my daughters, nieces, sisters and cousins. That you can be a good wife while retaining a piece from your past. Truly, we girls are the lucky ones. 

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The Day I Failed Pinterest (And Husband Loved It)

The Day I Failed Pinterest
Or Pinterest failed me
&
The Day I Failed Healthful Cookery
Or Husband loved it

Like any self-respecting woman[young woman-new bride-internet addicted-person], I have been perusing (ie, staring at my laptop or iphone clicking, pinning, and captioning "must try!!!") Pinterest anywhere between several times a week to several times an hour for the past [insert time period].

It depends how crafty I'm feeling. Or bored. I went through the wedding phase--weirdly after my wedding. I drew inspiration from weddings I'd actually attended--easier to visualize. I'm currently in the "food & funnies" stage. I don't go near the work out section. Getting workout tips WHILE cuddled on my couch is too hypocritical, even for me. I know where my running shoes and Jillian Michaels dvds are...hidden.

In an effort to make more than chicken salad, burritos, and spaghetti, I've been actively looking for "healthy-ish" recipes. (Healthy probably to make up for the hidden workout dvds...)
The other day I came across a yummy/interesting recipe for zucchini lasagna. Ie, LOW CARB LASAGNA!!!!!

I should have realized/remembered/accepted the reality
 that
a). low-carb lasagna is an oxymoron.
b). zucchini belongs in desserts or a frying pan
c). my husband belongs to the "I only eat vegetables if they really aren't vegetables" club
d). If I had to go my entire life without lasagna, I wouldn't care

But of course I didn't realize any of this--rather accept it. No, no, no. I, SRMM, decided to strain my--already feeble--culinary skills and attempt lasagna sans noodles, a la zucchini.

Yes, I kept my middle and maiden name. No, I'm not a hyphened last name feminist. And normally I just write SRM, assuming the second "m" is implied.

I began it with all the vim, vigor, and idealism of Anne Blythe in "House of Dreams." I made my ground beef simmer beautifully, even the onions, which I forgot at first. I made my version of ricotta cheese (which isn't ricotta at all and barely cheese, but still tasted remarkably tasty). I sliced, salted, and grilled zucchini on my George Foreman (whilst listening to/kinda watching Frasier on Netflix). And I seasoned the originally bland tomato sauce--all by my lonesome self.

Granted, I had Fraisier and my thoughts to occupy me.

My thoughts of beautiful domesticity. So short lived.

The problems began to arise when the dratted zucchini plastered itself all over my George Foreman grill.
Annoying, but slight mishap as I have a lot of practice cleaning it.  Next, I used too small of a pyrex dish. Very bad. I did the ol' squish and cram. Lesson learned: while that works with children, it does not work with tomato sauce.

Almost an hour after I had gingerly set my precious burden down in the oven, I noticed my kitchen was smoking suspiciously. I add suspicious because it smokes quite often. (My husband actually said that we shouldn't fix the smoke alarm because I would set it off too often. I heartily agree.)

It was smoking, and more than usual. Not delicate wafts of campfire, but billowing wildfire smoke (well, the kitchen version). I might be exaggerating. I quickly turned on the kitchen fan--thank you, microwave! I peered into the oven to see whatever might be the matter and I saw the problem. My tomato sauce had overflowed into the oven and my oven was doing the smoking act that us klutzy cooks hate.

I've dealt with billowing smoke before (ha.yeah...) so I used my--handmade by an adorable old lady in our old church--oven mitts and and placed my lasagna on the stove.

I spotted green. Zuchini is green. I gulped. As aforementioned, husband only eats vegetables if believes they aren't in vegetable state (ie, drowned in bacon or oil and vinegar) and vegetables visibly substituted for noodles was not going to go over well.

I am going to state here that I ate it and it was *reasonably* tasty. As in, "this tastes good but I can definitely tell it's healthier than it should be" tasty.

When husband appeared from whence he came, I excitedly asked him if he wanted to try my food.

Husband: "Is it healthy?"
Suze: "It's lasagna.."
H.:"Oh good!"
S.: "With zucchini..."
H.:"Why did you do that...?"
S.: "It's good for you!"

He assured me that he would eat some when he was hungry. He went the whole day not being hungry, until I made something edible that is. To his credit, he didn't complain. He just ignored the kitchen entirely.

He has the most fascinating thin person tendencies. I'm in constant awe.

To add salt to my wound or insult to injury (would you prefer the Biblical phrase or the American slang?) the meal husband requested was in NO POSSIBLE WAY healthy.

Three of the ingredients are: cream of mushroom soup, cream of chicken soup, and sour cream. Since I'm already going healthful cooking jail, I'll share the other two ingredients: angel hair pasta (oh yes, it was white) and chicken, which I grilled. One small victory. Super small.

I should have added a warning to any healthful/non-canned food/processed food readers to stop reading before the deadly list of ingredients. Don't judge. I've been married less than two months. I'm still working on vegetables...

Husband, of course, loved the carby, processed,  canned cream of something soup, very-little-chicken pasta bake that I made. Loved, as in, "this is worth the longest honey-do list ever" love.

I actually got both recipes off Pinterest, but who really needs more carby casserole recipes?
Obviously I do..
Pinterest failed me in the healthy food department. Never ever try to substitute zuchini for noodles. It just doesn't work. It tasted diet-y. 

But husband's stomach and taste buds were very happy in the end,