Having a tough time keeping on the happy face this week.  Yesterday was Matthew's birthday and a few days before that was Caleb's.  Been having trouble falling asleep lately because I keep thinking of them. 

I wonder a lot if this is the same thing that parents of children that have died go through.  I can't go anywhere without having flashbacks of the boys and remembering time spent with them.  Same thing with certain objects or words....I catch myself saying their phrases sometimes, or laughing like them, or using their intonation. 

I also miss Nate a lot.  A LOT.  I dream of him.  Saw Star Trek the other night with Eric and cried because Nate would have loved seeing it.  I can hear his laughter and the things he would have said.  His phone was finally shut off a few months ago and now I can't call his voicemail to hear his voice.  I can remember it perfectly though.  I wish things could have turned out differently.  Hindsight sucks. 

I miss him.  I miss my boys.  Life trudges on.

I first met Nate when I was 11 years old, trying out the internet for the first time.  It was on CompuServe, in a chat room called the Holodeck.  I thought it was a cool name because I had seen Star Trek a few times on TV and maybe one or two of the old movies when I was younger.  Since everyone else in there had Star Trek names, I went with Deanna.  She was pretty, and well..female, at least.  Nate's handle was David Troi.  I remember arguing with him about his name choice because there was no David Troi, dammit. 

Nate and a few of my other good friends from those chat days introduced me to the Star Trek bug, and a Trekker was born.  While I never really loved the Original Series like some of them did, I jumped into TNG with both feet.  This was during the time that you had to pay for hourly internet service, by the way.  I ran up $400-500 phone bills, snuck out of my room in the middle of the night, tried to get rides home from school so I wouldn't have to stay at the library late, all to get on the computer when my mom wasn't around.  She thought that I was a delinquent, hanging out with bad people that could hurt me.  It was the early days of internet chat and the relationships that would form because of it, so for all we knew, she could have been right.

What was really happening though was the blossoming of a family.  Nate became my big brother in all things but proximity and blood.  "Baby sister," he would greet me each time we spoke, "how was school?" Or how is life, how are you feeling, are you still hurting today?  He understood how lonely I was at school and in my own skin.  He took me under his wing and despite our age difference (he was around 19 when we met) didn't mind spending time with me, listening to me prattle about whatever was going on in my world.  He introduced me to Erica, my "sister" to whom I still try to keep in contact with, and Jaime, another sister who has long fallen off the face of the world.  We were quite the little family.

As time passed, we migrated to AOL, mostly because it was cheaper and tried to continue our relationship there.  Things changed a bit because there was no Holodeck for us and he spent much of his time in more adult persuits--we were all a bit older at this point.  But he still made the time to talk to me, make me laugh, and make me feel loved.  "I'll always be your big brother," he promised.  I sent him pictures and candy for Christmas.  I think the pictures are still there, somewhere.

We kept getting older. I transitioned to highschool, talked about boys and relationships, worried about life, and he was always there, although less often.  And when I moved to Missouri for college, we grew both more distant and closer at the same time.  We spoke much less frequently, but understood each other so much more and had so much to discuss when we did manage to find the time to text or call one another. 

Nate had an uncanny way of calling me everytime I walked into Target.  My phone would ring and I would say, "It's Nate," before I even answered and it would indeed be my big brother.  We talked while I pumped gas, at the grocery store, and while I drove.  It was a reflex to pick up the phone and dial his number anytime I had a free second.  We wouldn't even talk about anything important most of the time--we would joke, give little snippets of each others lives, roll our eyes, and laugh.  There is so much laughter when Nate is around.

We talked about family a lot.  Nate and I had similar experiences with our fathers growing up.  He understood my feelings of abandonment, and anger, and sadness.  As I grew older and wiser, I was able to counsel him on his own relationship with his father.  He cared about his family quite a bit and I feel as though I watched Nick, his younger brother, grow up through Nate's eyes even though he is only a year younger than me.  I know about his dogs and cats, about how he moved into his older brother Christian's house with Nick as his roommate, about his relationships with women (or lack thereof as I'd tease sometimes), and his hope of going back to massage therapy school or broadcasting school someday.  He fulfilled one of his goals recently and started school this past semester.  I felt a little selfish at the time and wondered if this would take some of the little time I spent with Nate away from me. 

I thought about Nate a lot this past week, just little things that would bring him to mind.  I tried to text him Saturday night and got no response, which wasn't unusual.  Sometimes it took time for us to reconnect after a few weeks of being apart.   Yesterday someone online said something that reminded me of a quote we used to toss back and forward and laugh.  When I went to the grocery store, something made me stop and buy a bottle of wine.  I got home and drank half of it while chatting online, then logged out for awhile and checked my voicemail.

Nick had left me a message asking me to call him, and I knew right then he was gone.  It took me 4 times of listening to Nick's message to write the phone number down correctly, and when I called, he asked if I was sitting down.  Nate had died. 

My big brother, who stuck by me through everything, who told me we would always be family and he would always look out for me, is gone. 

I feel such a loss in my life right now, such an empty place in my heart.  Tears aren't enough; screaming and yelling isn't enough to equal the pain that I feel.  He was my go-to man; if something terrible happened in life, you called Nate.  If something great occured, you called Nate.  He called every holiday, knowing how hard it was for me to be without family on the special days, and told me HE was my family.  And now he's gone and I miss him. 

I don't know what I'm going to do on Christmas without his voice to cheer me up.  I can't imagine life without hearing "baby sister," or his laugh, or any of our hundred code phrases.  He's not there anymore.  He's not there.  He won't ever be there again.  It is such a loss.

I am so grateful that Nick thought to contact me; that I wasn't left in the dark wondering why Nate wasn't calling or texting me anymore.  I am so thankful that he knew enough of our relationship to know that Nate would want me to know.  I am so very grateful that Nick was able to let me cry along with him, and that he was able to tell me the entire story of what happened.  I am so thankful and blessed that Nick was willing to tell me that they burried my Nate with two ties: one with Winnie the Pooh, and one with the Enterprise on it.  That they pumped him full of Mountain Dew through his feeding tube before they unhooked him because they knew it would make him laugh, wherever he was.  That he had his Broncos hat on. 

I wish with all my heart I could have been there to say goodbye.  That I could have given him something of myself, other than the piece of my heart that's missing, to go with him.  That I could have something of his to keep with me.  Nick promises to stay in touch, to send me some pictures of my brother.  I envy him the family that surrounds him during this time; how they are taking care of each other. 

I've lost my soulmate.  Nate and I were two sides of one coin and connected in a way that is so rare these days.  My big brother, my oldest and dearest friend, is gone and with him a very large piece of my heart and my security.

I miss you, Nate.  I love you, big brother. 

Yesterday I was in my car getting ready to leave for work.  I wanted to find my Zune so I could plug it in and get my fix of Breaking Dawn (Twilight Saga book 4, for those of you not in the know) so I grabbed my bag off of the passenger seat and started rummaging around blindly within it.  And by bag, I mean purse.  It really, truly is a purse and it makes me cringe to say it.  The blasphemous thing is supposed to look like a Coach handbag, kind of oblong with short, strappy handles, only instead of the weird little Coach symbol all over it---it has pawprints.  I bought it at the Humane Society for $40, so sue me. 

For the longest time I refused to carry a purse.  A satchel, yes.  A wallet in my pocket, sure.  During my highschool and early college years I used the same Dickies satchel that went over my shoulder, flipped closed, was just big enough to fit a book inside, and had a cool pocket to shove lipstick (because back then I wore makeup) and my cell phone in.  Alas, it died several years ago and so the transition began.  I went through a few other bags that continued to break until I found my nifty green corduroy bag.  It had a few pockets for gadgets and had a long enough strap for me to sling the entire thing over my shoulder and across my body, the way I liked it.  The strap eventually broke at one of the ends, so I tied it back in place. This lasted for a few months, and then the entire thing fell apart. 

I had nothing to put my wallet in. Or my prescription sunglasses. Or tampons.  Or any of the other few necessities I had to have with me at all times.  My friend Caroline had just (as in 10 minutes earlier) purchased a new bag from Hustler and offered me her little black hand-purse. I stared at it dubiously and figured it would be better than toting my poor broken bag around under my arm like a football, at least until I could find something new.  Then I got home and realized my mom had sent me yet another bag in the mail just a few weeks earlier--a black leather thing, very professional looking, with a long strap.  It was the strap that did it--at least I could carry this one over my shoulder.  That one lasted about a month and the zipper broke.  So.  I was at the Humane Society about two months ago and found the pawprint bag and liked it, but was dismayed that it had little handles.  I actually have to carry it like the purse it is, no faking it.  I cringe sometimes when I'm walking around.

Which brings me back to the story at hand.  I was pulling out of the driveway blindly digging through my (whimper) purse trying to find my Zune.  The bag really isn't that big--about 12 inches long, shaped like a tootsie roll--it can't hold THAT MUCH.  That's what I told myself as I continued to dig, driving down the street.  Here's what I ended up unearthing:

~ My Palm Centro, whose case is also currently housing my license, debit card, and key card to the gym.
~ Homer's bark collar
~ The check book
~ About a year's worth of check stubs
~ Approximately $14 in loose change
~ 2 tampons
~ The dog's target stick (dog training device)
~ Rusty's service dog bandana
~ My digital camera
~ An extra memory card for said camera
~ 3 pens
~ a set of size large doggy non-slip socks (uh..for work?)
~ two twenty dollar bills and a ten
~ an entire unopened bag of cough drops
~ two coupon books from work that we were giving out on Black Friday
~ My Zune.

The Zune isn't really horribly small so I ended up finding it about halfway through the search, but after digging out half of that crap I couldn't stop. I ended up unearthing the entire contents of my purse on the passenger seat and realized that a woman's purse really is a black hole.  How the hell did ALL of that fit into one little bag, with room to spare?  It's not like it's exactly jam-packed in there--I could probably fit even more, like my sunglasses if I could find them.  Maybe my laptop, or a coat rock. 

The moral of the story is that you can't escape aging.  I'm carrying around a black hole and emptying things out in the car. 

I'm becoming my mother.  Fear me.

I taught my frogs to croak on command.

Nuff said.

I hate the holidays with a passion.  Absolutely abhore them.  This is all, naturally, thanks to my mother for also hating the holidays and letting me know every year how much she disliked them.  Her reasons (and now my reasons as well) are due to our lack of family.  It was just always my mother and myself at home and while I was growing up we would alternate which holiday every year I would go to my dad's place.  As a young child I only thought of how much I disliked having to stay overnight at dad's but as I grew older I started to realize that my mother was home alone on a family holiday and felt guilty.

Now that I'm an adult I can relish some of the old holiday memories.  I remember going to my dad's and being surrounded by the step family.  My step-mother at the time (don't ask) Sandy had 3 siblings, two of which were married and had three kids a piece.  My step-grandparents literally lived next door to my dad, secluded in the woods, and would be there as well.  9 adults, 7 kids, occasionally a visitor, and we were a full house.  My cousin Christopher was a year older than me, my cousin Frankie a year younger. Chris and I would play video games, run in the woods, go down to the river, mess around with the dog, ride the lawnmower, and basically have a good time being kids.  I never did that with other kids my age--I didn't really have friends like that.  We would always have the whole holiday meal with turkey or ham, all of the sides, homemade desserts, and there would be the giant adults table and the smaller kids table in the kitchen. 

What I remember is how busy the house felt with everyone moving around; the smells of the kitchen mixing with the scent of my dad's cologne; the overwhelming shyness and insecurity; and above all, knowing that I was loved, even if I didn't quite feel like one of them.  It was like having a "real" family. 

My step-grandmother developed lung cancer and died when I was around 10 or 11.   The last memory I have of her is of me hugging her goodbye after one of our holiday visits, her head bound in a bandana because of her chemo.  "We love you, you hear?" she told me.  I can hear her voice perfectly still.  When my dad called me to let me know she had passed away, I was shocked, stunned, and hurt.  He asked if I wanted to go to the funeral and I said no.  In retrospect I can see why a choice made in pain and fear could have been interpretted as rudeness.  But nevertheless, I was a child and was afraid to say goodbye and face the pain in front of so many others.  Even then it was better to hide the pain, bury it, and continue on with life.  I never heard from or saw that family again.  My dad divorced Sandy a year or so later.

I have mourned that loss of family for the last 15 years.  Subconsciously, I have blamed my father for creating yet another abandonment in my life.  He left my mother and left me without a full-time father; he left Sandy and took away my only "family."  He almost moved to Alabama (wtf?) several years later to be with a woman he had met online, but ended up staying "because of [Rachel]" I overheard him telling my aunt sometime later.  Was it guilt that made him stay? Did he ever feel regret that he had stayed behind because of me? He had left so many times before, what difference did it make, I asked myself.

Anyway, there's one of the reasons I hate the holidays in the first place.  November through January is always the hardest time of the year for me, regardless of whatever else is going on in my life.  This year it feels a hundred times worse. 

I managed to think about our only Thanksgiving with the boys just a few times Thursday.  I managed to not think of them celebrating a holiday of thanks at another woman's table, calling her mom, eating her food.  I managed to not imagine them writing out their Christmas lists, preparing for the next holiday.  Forgetting me.  I managed to not break down and cry and have hysterics for the whole day.  However, this meant that I was a nice blank slate and sat in front of the computer for the entire two days I was off.  I was grinding levels like my life depended on it. I wonder if it really did.

Unfortunately, holding all of that emotion in for the holiday meant that it had to escape at some other point.  This happened Friday when two things came at me out of the blue.  I think I could have managed each of them individually and been okay or even both of them as long as it wasn't the day after Thanksgiving.  First, I saw the cat that could be Vinni's twin at work.  I saw him and turned stark white and burst into tears.  It was such a shock seeing him there that my heart clawed itself into a million pieces trying to free itself.  I scared the poor cat half to death while I sobbed into his fur, relishing in the lushness and enjoying the feel of it against my face.

The second thing that happened was I found one of my best friends from back home in Washington while randomly searching through Facebook.  And he contacted me.  I started reminiscing about what it was like back then, about how different I was.  And that thought brought me up short.  How ironic is it that I fought with my mother for weeks about moving to Missouri for school.  My argument was that I wanted to take a year off before starting college--I wanted to get a job and experience life first.  She wanted me to get my degree and become a "professional," not a blue collar worker like most of my Dennys friends.  "But they're HAPPY with their lives!" I wailed at my mother, to no avail.  How truly ironic that 6 years later I have no degree, work in a retail setting, and am alone halfway across the US.   I could have done this from the comfort of Washington surrounded by friends.  Sigh.

I'm still afraid of what is going to happen now.  I'm slipping back into that state of mind I don't want to be in; helpless, hopeless.  But it's so hard to feel anything good.  I think I've found something good, something to hold onto, but it scares me.  I find myself pushing it away, protecting it and myself from the future hurt.  It can't end well, I want to say, look at my track record.  I'm catching myself saying things I shouldn't, of trying to sabotage this new relationship.  I'm torn, wanting it to continue, desperate for it to move onto the next stage, but still so terrified. 

How can one broken mind handle so many thoughts and emotions?  One thing I'm sure of--I really hate the holidays.

Fortunately it has been a much better past few days.  Life has seemed to calm down a bit, and although there is still plenty of confusion and chaos in my own little world, the gods seem to be giving me an emotional break for a time. 

Unfortunately they're giving me a run for my money in the physical department.  Years of theater, sports, and singing have taken their toll on my voice.  I have a few nodules on my vocal cords that seem to come and go depending on what I'm involved with.  I could get by with telling people that I talk for a living--it fits the bill.  My job is to be pleasant, to chat, to sell classes, to teach classes, rinse, and repeat.  Lately I've had to be very, very loud in class because of all of the surrounding noise.  This past Saturday was particularly loud and obnoxious which meant I had to all but yell through 6 hours of class to be heard.  Naturally, I came home and did not take care of myself--I jumped on vent and laughed and had a good time chatting til the wee hours in order to get my social fix (because I obviously don't see enough people at work :P  ).   I should have been resting my voice knowing that Sunday would be just as hard. 

I came home Sunday with a raging fire in my throat and practically no voice.  I sound like one of my frogs--hoarse, croaking--there's a funny catching feeling in my throat when I try to project with any volume.  One of the nodules is inflamed or expanding.  Mother fucker.  The last time it was this bad was when I had the lead in a show in highschool.  Grrrr. 

If I had any vacation or sick time available to me at work, and if I were smart, I'd take a few days off and stay home, off ventrilo, and would simply drink hot tea, gargle salt water, and give my voice a chance to heal.  Since I have neither vacation time nor any common sense, I will simply continue to go to work and yell to my heart's content.  When I want to, I can sound quite normal.  I was able to shout my way through another 6 hours of class yesterday and will do the same this evening, although only for 3 hours today.  Does it hurt?  Yessim.  I allow myself to sound croaky only when I'm not getting paid.  Besides....if I stayed home, I'd be on vent chatting anyway, or singing to my music. May as well go make money.

When I got home from driving Eric to work a few minutes ago I had to stop on our backyard path to breathe in the early morning air.  It had rained lastnight and the temperature had risen because of it.  The past few days I've run fullspeed from the house to the car and vice versa, hiding from the cold.  I've sat shivering on my leather seats, tying my hoodie as tight as I can around my face, doing anything to keep the heat in for the 5 minutes before the car warmed up.  This morning was very pleasant.   It smells like rain, and wood, and grass.  I closed my eyes and for a moment it seemed like I was back in the northwest, the dew squealching under my shoes.  Then I remembered where I was and quickly ran inside and locked the doors before someone could sneak up and mug me.  Ahhh, lovely St. Louis.

As I said, I'm a bit calmer now than I was a few days ago.  He has a way of calming me, his presence a balm.  I look forward to coming home to hear his voice; I can hear him when I'm away, that same voice oh so soothing.  He is quickly becoming my dearest friend and touch stone, so to speak.  The world is a little clearer, more in focus, more enjoyable when he's around to share it with.  It's a bit strange to me that this is so, particularly with my trust issues, but I think it's most likely because he suffered with me through that last unbearable week and never once blinked or turned away.  He's my rock.  It's very comforting to have a friend like that. 

So what started all of this recent insanity on my part? 

We already know that I'm delicate, prone to allowing my insecurities and sensitivity get the better of me.  It's a weapon a all but hand my enemies; they know exactly how and when to strike.  Unfortunately, it seems like my enemies are the gods themselves most days, and they would know where to hit it to make it hurt without my help. 

Once the boys left, I desperately sought something to help keep my mind occupied.  Driving over two hours a day left too much unoccupied time for my mind to linger on painful topics, and that combined with my ability to self-inflict pain AND the fact I would be controling a very large vehicle at the same time meant I would need to do something fast.  I started listening to all of the Harry Potter books on tape.  Oh, sweet irony.  It was the same month that I had started listening to them last year; the same weather, the same time of day.  It was like traveling to visit the boys all over again in the car, but I allowed the voice of the narrator to wash all thought away as I drove.

Two months to the day, I completed the Deathly Hallows and started panicking.  I quickly purchased Laurell K Hamiton's latest novel and listened to that over a course of three days and then gave into my stubborn "anti-conforming" quirk and bought the Twilight saga.  I had heard people talk about it and had brushed it off as a silly Young Adult book series.  To make matters worse, I read several reviews detailing how lousy the characterization was, the way the protagonist needed a man in her life all the time, blah blah blah.  How crappy, I thought.  But bought them anyway.

A day into the first book and I was hooked.  It's been almost two weeks now and I'm finishing book 4.  And it was these damn books that set off this latest bout of insanity on my part. 

An interview with a 15 year old girl (yes, I'm comparing myself to a 15 year old. I hate life.) revealed that everyone thinks Edward is perfect. "He puts Bella's safety and happiness before his own," she said.  And I thought about that and realized I want that. 

I spoke of hope before.  Of what I want being so little.  Maybe it's not so little.  Maybe those guys are few and far between.  But I want a soulmate.  I want someone to love me unconditionally, to want me to be happy, to cherish everything about me.  I want to feel someone's fingers on my cheek; their lips in my hair; their hand wrapped around mine.   As much as I hate it, I want someone to feel the need to protect me; to take the steps to do so.  To challenge and hurt anyone that would try to hurt me.  To save me from myself. 

All because of a stupid young adult book series. 

Damn you, Stephanie Meyer.  Thanks for showing me everything I can't have. 

I think the gods take pleasure in seeing how far I can go before I crack into a million pieces.  My entire life has been spent taking care of the tiny fissures spreading across my body; repairing them, mending them, all while trying to catch new ones before they can be added.

I'm at a point where my entire person is crumbling.  I can't sleep.  I don't want to eat.  My body is hurting for reasons unknown.

"It's depression," I'm able to tell myself in that horribly analytical way that I'm sometimes able to view myself with.  Depression hurts, after all, or so the commercials, advertisements, and lo, my mother says. 

But there's more.  I'm so bone weary with this life.  With it's struggles.  I have difficulty finding reason to keep trudging forward; is this the pattern all my days are to take?  Wake up, go to work, come home, sit here, go to bed.  There is no excitement, nothing to look forward to. No love. 

I feel my husband drifting away further and further.  It's akin to living with a friend that is preoccupied with something else all the time.  His condescending nature that I was able to brush off as just being "part of him" so many times in the past has finally made it past my inner defenses and every word eats away at my foundation, aiding in the crumbling.  Little pieces of me tear away and litter the floor around my feet, broken, with the words he speaks.  I fight back to no avail.  It doesn't change.  We're both screaming. We're both hurting. 

My boys are gone.  My joy is gone.  I go to work and smile and laugh and inside I'm screaming and raging and even scarier: I'm empty.  My body goes through the motions of teaching class, of chatting with clients and customers, and yet my mind wanders away on its own.  It wanders with no true destination, just floating, numb.  I'm detatched from reality so that it won't hurt. 

When I'm home, I can escape sometimes.  I can sit in front of my computer, put on my headset and pretend that everything is okay.  Most of the time I can forget everything around me, become absorbed with the joy and laughter in the voices I hear.  I feel a part of something bigger, better.  I let that joy act as the mortar to fill the cracks; attempt to keep me together.  I lose myself for the short time that I feel whole again.  Then I stumble and everything crumbles again. 

For a few days I felt some small remnant of hope.  Someone cared.  Someone would rescue me, fill the holes, heal the wounds.  They would be my salvation and I would belong to them.  No more cruel words, no more lonely nights, no more struggling endlessly to feel attached and a sense of belonging.  I felt safe in their presense; he helped keep my whole, even with the darkness chiseling at my resolve. 

And now that's over.  My stupid empty, bleeding, aching heart can't force myself on anyone else.  When did I become so noble and self sacrificing?  Or maybe it's more than that.  Maybe it's that I'm really quite selfish and scared.  Better to not get too attached now or risk losing it all later and winding up in this same place, but completely broken apart.  Better to avoid that joy and laughter so that I don't realize what's truly missing in my life.  Safer to be alone with my own pain.

But there's so much of it.  My life's ambition for so long was to have a family around me, to suround myself with the love that is automatically linked with such physical presence.  I could do something worthwhile, give myself a purpose and reason.  And it's gone.  They stole my identity, who I was supposed to be.  Stole my reason to keep moving, keep trying.  And it was all my fault.  I could have prevented it from happening, should have forseen what was coming.  I let it happen through my own inaction.  I allowed the painful tearing of my soul, put myself in the situation that resulted in me screaming in pain on my kitchen floor.  It was my fault.  It's still my fault. 

But the gods do try.  They put me through my paces.  They take bets, come at me at all sides, hoping that someday I'll cave and come crashing down.  They've taken everything from me.  My childhood security, my innocence, my sense of belonging are gone.  My love, my children, my passion, my beauty--all bereft.  If only they would take the ability to feel from me as well; let me stay an empty, brittle shell.  If only the emptiness and pain would leak from the fissures and be gone.  If only there was reason behind the torment. 

I'm not a good person.  I know this.  I understand this.  There is something inherently wrong with the way my mind works; the way I act and react.  But does that condemn me to a life of misery forever?  When what I want is so simple and pure, why am I damned to live and feel this way?  And why am I such a coward that I can't just end it?  Why torment me with such a thing as hope? 

 My fish are dying.  I'm sad.  I can never seem to keep fish alive for more than a few weeks before they kick the bucket. And yes, I work in a petstore and know all about what I SHOULD be doing to keep them alive...it's just that it never works.   I have a really nice looking 5 gallon hexagon tank that I put a few tetras in and splat, they're dead.  My pleco is still alive, but then they can live through a nuclear apocalypse.  I think I'll get a betta and toss him in with the pleco.

I have to leave the house in an hour to pick up my mom from the airport.  I'm taking the boys with me because they've never been to an airport before.  It should be interesting.  I'm a bit anxious to see how my mother reacts to meeting the boys for the first time and vice versa.   I'll update later.

Well, after a year of attempted adoptions, submitted homestudies, staff meetings, phone calls, and denials (ie: failed adoptions), my husband Eric and I are now going to be parents! Hurray!

Meet Caleb, Matthew, and Braeden, ages 8, 7, and 4 (Or Braeden, Caleb, and Matthew in the order in the user pic).   They are absolutely wonderful little boys that we had the pleasure of meeting for the first time this past Friday.  We will be continuing to visit every Friday for the next few weeks until we graduate to the point of doing over night stays here at the house.

So much to do and to get ready for!  

More info later.

Rae