life lessons from the tech guy

Little known fact about country life: The Internet does eventually run out. 

Well, sort of. 

We're at the end of the Internet line, the spot where the kind folks at the telephone company say, "Yeeeeeeeeah. You're pretty far out there. Not so sure we can't really do anything about that . . ."

They sent a repairman out earlier this winter -- in the rain -- to fix our Internet. And today a different helpful gentleman came out to fix another problem. 

In the course of the conversation, he asked how old Georgia was and commented on how cute her little round face is. After I told him, and as he repacked his bag of tech goodies, he told a little story: 

I dated every girl out there, and a lot of them I shouldn't have. I didn't think there was much hope for me until I met my wife. We got married in 1993 and almost immediately got pregnant. We were just kids. We didn't know what we were doing. But halfway through the pregnancy, we found out that our baby wasn't developing the way she was supposed to. Her organs were forming outside her body. There was fluid on her brains and lungs. 

He stopped for a second and looked at us from his position behind the furniture where he was fiddling with the modem. 

I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. I just think about it every time I see a precious little baby like yours. Anyway, the doctor sat us down and told us to abort the baby. He said there was no chance she'd survive. I remember him looking across the table and saying, "Why are you putting your wife through this? Don't you love her? Abort this child!" 

He shook his head.

We just couldn't. We figured God could work a miracle if He wanted to and that He would see us through. And He did, even though our daughter was born stillborn at 8 months. It was awful. We buried her ourselves near my grandmothers grave, basically at the end of my grandma's feet.  

Then a pause.

No one should have to bury their child. No one should have to take a shovel and dig a hole for their baby. But you know? The Lord gave us two boys: 13 and 17. And they mean the world to us. They're such a blessing. I mean, some days they drive me nuts, but I love those boys.

By now he was heading toward the door. 

And honestly, people today use the Internet too much anyway. I know I shouldn't say that. I'm in the Internet business. But just look outside, would you? The sun is shining. You're in the country! Why doesn't everyone just put their phones down and talk to each other on the front porch like they used to?

He opened the door and shook our hands and got in his truck and drove away. 

Chris and I watched him go. He was like a breath of fresh air, a spokesman for life and family and values, and he didn't know us from the guy down the gravel road. He just told it like it he saw it and blessed us as he did so.

And just like we told him while he was in our house, through some tears of my own, well . . . we couldn't agree more. 

dads

I'm a firm believer that children need a mom and a dad. 

Certainly there are cases where the mom is left on her own, or where the dad shirks his duty and takes off, or where the dad has passed away. 

But I'm not talking the exceptions. 

I'm talking the rule. 

I know how much I need my dad . . . and I'm 31. 

And I know that Georgia already recognizes her dad and responds to him with smiles and toots and big eyes.

She knows her dad because he's here.  

Because he sings to her. 

He reads to her. 

He prays over and for her. 

He tickles her. 

He smooches her. 

He takes her to church. 

He keeps her safe. 

He comforts her. 

He snuggles her. 

He explains things to her. 

He tells her about her future. 

He describes the puppies and the cows and the chickens to her. 

He works long, hard hours so that her mom can stay home with her. 

He tells her about Jesus and politics and land prices and farm markets and how to build fence and dig tile and why Lent matters. 

And he always has a smile and a kiss for her when he comes in, even after working a 21-hour day. 

I can feed her and change her diaper. 

But she needs her dad. 

And I'm glad the Lord blessed her with this one. 


PHOTO COURTESY KATIE LOCKHART PHOTOGRAPHY 

she's here

Georgia 

We are thankful, tired, enamored, high on the smell of baby, and too busy smooching her cheeks to do much else. And we wouldn't have it any other way. 

pioneer woman's chicken pot pie

I can't function in chaos. I can't leave dirty dishes in the sink at night. I can't leave laundry unfolded before going to bed. The counter has to be cleaned off. The coffee maker has to be set to go on the next morning at 5:30 a.m. I have to clean my desk off at the end of the day, even if it's just to stack papers in a pile. I just reeeeeeally can't handle chaos . . . or disorder . . . at all. 

So when it was getting close for Baby Heins to arrive, I decided to do myself a favor and eliminate the chaos before it started by putting some meals in the freezer. Double a meal. Freeze one in a disposable pan. Voila. Disorder averted. Or at least reduced.

Pioneer Woman's Chicken Pot Pie was just the ticket. 

Upside: I cooked one of our chickens for this recipe and got to feel all Ma Ingalls-ish.

Downside: We actually ate one of the pot pies before it made it to the freezer. 

Oops. 

Thus the part where you have to double the meal in order to have some to eat later. 

Chris grilled hamburgers to freeze. I made soup and some fettucini and a couple of casseroles and taco meat, some bread, even a pound cake because who doesn't need some dessert now and then after they've just spent all day smooching baby cheeks?

The pot pie, however, has been the big hit. A half a stick of butter. White wine. Heavy cream. I think you understand. Heck, you can even buy yourself a pie crust from the grocery store if you don't want to make your own. 

{Don't worry. Making pie crusts terrifies me too.}

So if you're like me and can't stand chaos, or if you're just hungry for chicken and veggies, or if you like cream and wine, or if you just want to whip up a meal and freeze that thing like nobody's business, this is your recipe. 

No disorder necessary!   

disposable diapers and third eyes

It happens in a second: One minute you're a married couple, the next minute the Lord blesses you with a child and the next, women are trying to freak you out with horror stories about motherhood.

You'll spend every moment of every day of the first trimester bent over a toilet, praying for Jesus to return. 

You're better off running yourself over with a silage chopper than sitting through the blood glucose test. 

Your birth plan should include but is not limited to sacred circles, birth mementos and . . . what do you mean you haven't written out a 6,000-word birth plan?!

You're not finding out if it's a boy or girl? What a Neanderthal!

Labor will last for roughly the same amount of time as the entire season of Lent. 

If you use disposable diapers, your child will sprout a third eye.

The serpent didn't tempt Eve with fruit in the Garden of Eden; he actually used formula . . . in a plastic bottle. 

You won't sleep again until you're roughly 65 years old, at which point you . . . still won't sleep. 

While at church, if your children aren't tripping the usher and Army crawling under the pews during prayers, you're doing motherhood wrong. 

Ho-lee smokes. Can we all agree to take a deep breath?

Just observing some of these conversations on Facebook makes me want to cancel our Internet service. They're why I refuse to look at any website that doesn't involve the address www.mayoclinic.org when it comes to pregnancy-related questions.

I also simply won't go on Internet forums about moms and babies and birth. My doctor gave me, among 50 other pamphlets, information on why it's important not to do meth while pregnant. If there are moms out there who are (a) doing meth and (b) doing it while pregnant, they're probably not the women I want to be getting baby advice from online or ANYWHERE. 

Or to quote my dad, "Where'd you get your medical degree? Google University?"

Instead, here's how we roll.

Pregnancy: I eat a donut when I feel like it. Which is pretty routinely. 

Ultrasounds: Good news. It is, in fact, a baby. 

Birth plan: I'm hoping to go into the hospital pregnant and to leave  with my husband who will be holding a baby.

Sleep: We're strong proponents of it. In fact, we'd like to get back to a normal amount of it in due time.  

Life in general: My farmer and I want to be parents, not besties, to our children, and we plan to, by God's grace, raise them to know robust, disciplined, fun lives in conjunction with an ability to work hard.

Feeding: I'm a big fan of it, especially when it comes to children. 

I realize I don't have any children at home yet and it's easy for me to say this now. But I don't think that means I'm necessarily wrong. 

I have a really good mom, and two really good moms who are my sisters and a really good mother-in-law who also happens to be a mom, and frankly, I just don't see why everybody has to get so dramatic. 

So when it comes right down to it, I don't mean to sound like a Staples commercial, but I kind of feel like . . . that was easy.