Or in my case, sit down at the computer and attempt to write a blog that I’ve been putting off writing for months now.

I don’t know why exactly I’ve been so daunted by writing about this topic, it’s a joy-filled one and something that makes me incredibly happy.  Maybe it’s that its such a huge thing and I would hardly know where to begin such a blog post.  Maybe I’m sort of feeling that my thoughts on the matter are hardly original or profound, so I’ve been waiting until I do have something unique to say, some big point to make.  In any case, that hasn’t happened, I still don’t know where to begin exactly, but nonetheless I’ve decided it’s time to write.

Those of you who know real-life Jenae or have glanced at my Facebook page – or for that matter, have read the title of this post (which I will come up with later and which will probably give the nature of this little essay away) will know that I am now six months pregnant – 26 weeks exactly today, actually.  In this past six months, I’m sure I worked through every emotion possible related to pregnancy and becoming a parent (sometimes lightning-fast too, much to Nathan’s bewilderment and chagrin).  Mostly excitement and anticipation, but alongside that there was (and still is sometimes) those feelings of unpreparedness, inadequacy, and just sheer terror.

I remember the day I took “the test”.  It was one of those “not trying, but not not trying”,  ”in God’s timing it’ll happen” scenarios, and I think a big part of me didn’t really think that it would happen yet, not us for awhile yet I’d sort of thought in the back of my head.  Nonetheless, after waiting the appropriate amount of time, I peeked at the stick, and almost didn’t believe that I was seeing that faint blue plus sign in the little window!  I think I must’ve double checked the instructions three or four times before showing Nathan.

“Well, turns out I’m pregnant,” I said to him.  And then I began to cry.  No, “bawl” is probably a more accurate description of what I did.  I cried because I was so happy that I was going to be a mom, that Nathan and I were going to be parents!  I cried because this meant that it would never again be just Nathan & I, that in nine months every freedom we’d had as young, relatively independent people was going to suddenly and rudely be taken away.  I cried because I knew my life was about to change so radically, and though I knew this, I had no idea what that would really mean until it actually happened.  I cried because the idea that Nathan and I – me! - had created a new life and this was so cool and so overwhelming, and I cried because – well, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you find out you’re going to be a parent?

*         *          *

In those first months, I never got violently ill (thankfully!), but I was dreadfully tired all the time.  I had mono in college, and that is what I would liken my first three months of being pregnant to – mono, but for three months instead of just one, and it’s kind of supposed to be a secret so not only do all you feel like doing is sleeping and eating whatever foods don’t gross you out, but you have to hide it from everyone else!  I’d go through the school day and come home and crash, but I actually thought I’d done a pretty good job of being normal, until when I finally made the announcement, all (and I do mean each and every) of the older ladies I worked with said “we thought so!  You were always yawning and eating and so pale!!”  And I thought pregnancy was supposed to give you some sort of magical glow.  Oh well.  I guess “so pale” isn’t the least complimentary thing somebody could say (since then, I’ve had “you’re getting so huge!!!” and “look how you’re waddling already!”, which make me laugh a little because at any other time in life, in any other situation, those things would be so not appropriate to say to anybody.  But I dont mind hearing them at all).

*          *          *

This past spring, our Bible study went through Rob Bell’s somewhat controversial new book Love Wins.  It talks a lot about Heaven and hell, how we read about them in that Bible and how we usually interpret and teach these topics.  It was interesting, if not always particularly scholarly or en pointe (now Rob, is this something you just read into the text and thought sounded nice?  Or is there an actual study somewhere where I could read more about this?), and in any case made me think about and evaluate what exactly it is I believe about what happens after death.  We talked about how, in many of our growing up years, we felt like if we didn’t talk about Jesus to our friends right now, they could die and go to hell and it would be my fault.  Now I don’t believe it was the intention of any of our parents to put this huge burden and potential guilt on our little shoulders, just a “side effect”, if you will, of the way evangelism was taught to us.

As we read our way through the book, I was struck time and time again with the thought “and I have to somehow figure out how to teach this to a child?  Not only will I (and Nathan, of course) be responsible for this child’s physical health, but also (and just as importantly) the moral and spiritual health.  I mean, Heaven and hell alone are huge, controversial, complicated subjects, but they’re not even the most poignant things!  What if we do a bad job?  What if we stress the wrong things?  It would break my heart to have my child become bitter and disillusioned with Christianity because of misguided teaching, because we introduced her to a fraudulent version of Jesus.  It’s an astronomically huge responsibility, and makes me feel very, very small, but I guess we’ve got a few years yet to figure that one out yet.

*          *          *

Bonding with my baby has been a bit of a process for me.  I can’t say that “maternal” has ever been a real accurate personal descriptor.  I like kids, but it’s only after they can walk and form complete sentences that I’ve ever really felt comfortable around them.  Attempting to handle a newborn, I’ve always sort of felt like a gorilla attempting to play the violin – no real clue about how to hold it comfortably or keep it from screeching.  I was actually sort of worried about this at first.  When my belly began to swell, it did not fill me with any sort of sense of wonder or tender anticipation.  No, instead, I had thoughts like “this looks more like a beer gut than a baby belly!”, “people are going to think I’m fat!”, and “I don’t wanna get huge!!!”.  The idea, honestly, of feeling the first movements freaked me out a little; I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about something moving around in there that wasn’t just digestion or really, a part of my own body (this may be partly to blame on too many sci-fi movies).  Hearing the heartbeat for the first time was neat, but at the time I didn’t have anything really tangible to connect it to, and it was the same with a pregnancy book somebody lent me that had pictures of the development for every day.

And then one day, as I was driving with some friends, I felt it.  A little nudge, right under my belly button, that was unmistakable.  It was not gas, it was not digestion, it was definitely, beautifully, my baby.  My baby.  And it made me smile a genuine, joyful smile.  This was the little person who, when upset, even when squalling as a newborn, will want me for comfort above any other person in the world.  The little person I would get to watch learn first to make eye contact, then smile, then roll over, and crawl, and explore the world.  My baby!  As these realizations grew from that moment, as I began to feel more and more flutterings and pokes and kicks, so too began to grow a love for this little person, not just an intellectual yes of course I will love my child, but a real from the heart love for the little person inside my belly right here, right now.  It was (and is) an emerging love, a love that is being learned day by day.  And through it I am learning bit by bit what it means, and will mean, to be a mother.

*          *          *

Just over a month ago, Nathan and I went to our second trimester ultrasound.  This was very exciting for a variety of reasons: our first ultrasound was very early, so the baby then was literally a tiny blip on the screen.  This was going to be the first time we’d get an idea of what our baby actually looked like!  Not only that, but I’d been dying to find out if we were having a boy or girl since the day I took the pregnancy test, and here was finally the chance! It was an awesome experience, getting to see the little hands and feet and body, to see the heart pumping and see the baby move as I felt it happen!  Then the ultrasound tech said to me, “here is where the legs are, can you guess what you might be having?”  I hesitated, and she went on, “let me put it this way.  It might be hard to see, because there is really nothing there to see.”  Understanding what she was saying, I exclaimed “A girl!  We’re having a baby girl!”  It truly was a surprise, as my maternal instincts really had given me no intuitive feeling one way or the other as to what we were having.

We have decided to name our little girl Alice, no middle name yet.  I like being able to call her by her name, Alice, rather than just “the baby” or something generic.

*          *          *

Yesterday I went to the Labour and Delivery section of the hospital.  In the past few days, I’d been feeling less pronounced movement from Alice, and instead of sitting here worrying, I decided to go for a fetal movement monitoring test.  I don’t like being able to physically see whether or not everything is okay with Alice.  Anyway, it turned out everything was just fine, and actually the nurse said that the results were surprisingly good for how far along I am.  This made me very happy to hear.  As I was laying there, pressing a button every time I felt movement and chatting with my mother who’d come along, we suddenly heard this low, almost primal scream echo from down the hall.  It was long, it was loud, and it was unmistakably the sound of a woman in the middle of giving birth.

It was terrifying.  And I couldn’t help realizing that yup, that was going to be me in t-minus three months from now.

I can’t wait.

*          *          *

As I’ve been sitting here writing these past couple of hours, I’ve noticed that the rain has stopped, it’s slightly less gray out there and the clouds are beginning to break.  My coffee is finished (not to worry, I am allowed a certain amount of caffeine per day!), and I have no inkling to refill it.  I guess it’s time to get out of these pyjamas, and get ready for whatever happens next!

Mama bird sat anxiously by while I snapped this photo.  Aren’t they cute??

It never storms here, and when I say never, I mean ne-verrrrr.  There has been one time, hiking in the middle of nowhere in Strathcona last summer, that I was certain I heard upon the wind thunder’s low grumble on the other side of a mountain.  I even saw peaky white clouds in the distance, but alas, to the occasion no storm did rise.

I miss thunder storms.

To me, the ideas of thunder and lightning and summer are all intermingled – summer-season in Southern Alberta means storm-season, and there is no storm like the gales the prairies can whip up.  If you have never spent a hot night in July sitting on your back deck, no tree or hill obscuring your vision, watching a storm – a churning-clouded, green-tinged tempest, hurling out bolts of full cloud-to-ground lightning; howling out window-shaking peals of thunder – roll in, and you finally are forced inside by whipping winds and pelting rain – if you haven’t watched a storm like this, then my friend, you haven’t seen a storm.

one type of scenery the Island's got nothing on. source:http://faculty.deanza.fhda.edu/gawrychjeff/

The thing about a storm is, with it, change is brought.  It shakes things up, keep us from getting too comfortable.  Sometimes the earth is left refreshed, rejuvenated, awakened.  Dry earth welcomes the rain and closes up cracks.  Plants perk up; sagging stems and leaves are green once more.  The air is an invigorating cool, and that smell!  On the other hand, storms can leave a path of devastation in their wake.  Winds can litter the ground with whole limbs from trees.  Hail can batter crops, wreak havoc on homes, and shatter windows.  And I remember more than one tense evening as a child, hunkering down in the basement, for fear of a tornado destroying our home.

The change is inevitable.  You can feel it in the air before the first flash of lightning appears on the horizon.

A leaf may stir after a day of stifling stillness.

The birds’ songs, so a part of a summer day we seldom pay them mind, are suddenly,conspicuously silent.

The sky darkens, the wind picks up, the heat of the day is gone, and ready or not, there you are in the middle of it: the storm; change.

I do love storms.  I love the intenseness, the power, and the way they make me feel so small and awed, but it can be disconcerting not knowing if I’m going to be left refreshed or ravaged.

source: Wallcoo.net

In a few short weeks, I’m moving home to Alberta after almost two years of living on the Island.  This is sort of the foremost of several big changes taking place in my life in the next little while.  And I am excited – to be near family, to be a part of our church there again, to reconnect with dear friends.  But a healthy does of trepidation goes along with that excitement.  What about friends we’ve made here?  I’m leaving an awesome job at a great school.  And let’s be honest, isn’t going from the bountifulness of Vancouver Island back to the…well…relative barrenness of Southeastern Alberta kind of a trade down?  What if the whole “grass is greener on the other side” thing happens?

I guess change is good.  It’s inevitable.  It shakes us up, keeps us from getting too comfortable.  And I’m more or less prepared for the upheaval.

I’m just a little disconcerted, is all, not fully knowing if, in the end, I’m going to be left refreshed or ravaged.

This past weekend Nathan & I ventured out to Ucluelet for a romantic weekend getaway extravaganza, graciously awarded to us by the good people who’s timeshare presentation we had to sit through last fall in the form of a two-nights-for-one dealio.  Between the kayaking and pretend surfing (I figured body boarding was the more baby-safe option, especially since I am particularly wretched at surfing), I had time to snap a few photos of the gloriousness that is our west coast.  Enjoy, and all you interior-dwellers (of which I am soon to become one of again, I know), try not to become too jealous that this isn’t what’s outside of your front door!

waves crashing at the Wild Pacific Trail in Ucluelet

wave aftermath

our view of the inlet from our room

sunset

my own special "ocean eye candy"!

I sort of wondered how long ago it was that I’d actually written said blog post, and today I scrolled through my blog to find it.  It was a little further back than I’d thought, approximately 15 entries in, somewhere near the top of page two.  And it was dated June 27, 2010.

Wow, I thought to myself, I really need to update this thing more often.

Which more or less brings us to the present.

So I decided to blog more often, starting right now.  Great!  Now I only had to decide what to write about!  Okay!

I haven’t quite decided if there are too many thoughts jammed inside my head right now, and once I start pulling them out and putting them into type, they’ll all kind of come spilling out, like when you try and grab just one Kleenex from an over-full box and they kind of stick together and spill everywhere; or, if my blogging problem has more to do with (lets keep going with that Kleenex analogy) the box being too empty, and you have to stab your fingers through that plasticy top and dig around in there awkwardly in order to get ahold of even one.  Either or, writer’s block has me all stuffed up, buuut I decided to go with the latter theory first: my proverbial Kleenex box is too empty!  After Googling “random blog idea generator”, I ended up over at creativity-portal.com, prepared to be inspired by their wonderful, marvelous “Imagination Prompt Generator”!

Well, after clicking through a few of the “prompts”, I became sorely disappointed.  The Imagination Prompts were L-A-M-E!  I could never write an entire, serious blog based on:

-Are you afraid of death? (no, and here’s a great segue for witnessing to my unwitting blog followers!) 

-On the way to work, I noticed… (the usual drivers blocking traffic in the fast lane – but nobody wants to read me ranting about the horrid Island drivers)

-This year, you are going to… (more appropriate around January 1st for that bravely hopeful goals blog I always sort of half-write but never publish)

-10 unfinished projects hanging over my head (thanks for reminding me, Inspiration Generator.  I don’t find your nagging tone very inspiring at all!)

-Self-control is… (knowing when to stop writing quippy little responses to the Inspiration Generator’s “inspirations” because the readers are probably getting bored)

After awhile, I decided to stop clicking through the prompts (which were beginning to seem suspiciously like 7th grade creative writing achievement test topics), and switch back to writer’s block theory #1 – too many Kleenexes stuffed in my box.

I sat for a minute.

I thought.

And then I came up with:

WELL,FIRSTOFALLI’MGONNAHAVEABABYANDWHILEI’MSUPEREXCITEDI’MALSOTERRIFIEDANDLATELYI’VE

EVENSORTOFBEENFORGETTINGI’MTHERE’SABABYCOMINGANDWE’REMOVINGINLIKETWOMONTHSWHICHIN

SOMEWAYSICANTWAITFORBUTALSOHAVEREALLYMIXEDFEELINGSABOUTLEAVINGTHEISLANDANDFRIEN

DSANDWILLITEVENFEELLIKEHOMEINMEDICINEHATANDMAYBEI’LLTOTALLYREGRETMOVINGBACKANDIT’

SGONNABESUPERWEIRDNOTWORKINGFORAWHOLEYEARIHOPEIDONTGOSTIRCRAZYANDREGRETHAVINGT

HEBABYANDI’MVERYEXCITEDTORENOVATEOURNEWHOUSEANDHAVEOUROWNPLACEFORTHEFIRSTTIMEE

VERANDWE’REREADINGTHISCRAZYBOOKINBIBLESTUDYTHATTALKSALLABOUTHEAVENANDHELLANDWHI

LEICANFAIRLYEASILYSAYWHICHPARTSIAGREEWITHANDWHICHPARTSIDONTI’MSTILLREELINGALITTLEB

ITTHINKINGTHATINTHREEORFOURYEARSITWILLBEMYRESPONSIBLIBLTYTOTEACHANEWLITTLEPERSONW

HATTOBELIEVEABOUTALLTHATSTUFFANDITSDAUNTINGTOTHINKABOUTANDTHEREWASTHISREALLYINT

ERESTINGTALKIHADWITHMYBROTHERTHEOTHERDAYABOUTMARRIAGETHATWOULDPROBABLYGOODBLO

GMATERIALBUTIHAVEN’TFIGUREDOUTEXACTLYWHATI’DWRITEABOUTITYETETCETCETCETCETC………

Wow, did that ever come spilling out!   …oookay.  Too many “Kleenexes” it is.  I guess I just have to spend some time packing all that neatly back in, and carefully pulling them out one at a time (that is, blogging about them, in case my Kleenex analogy is becoming too ragged and soggy to keep being coherent).

Alright, no problem.

It might just take me some time, is all.

The church was St. Ann’s, and was surrounded on three sides by a large, rambling graveyard.  As we meandered around the graves, taking great care not to step on any (which was more challenging than it sounds; the rows were tight and not altogether straight), I began to notice how unusually colourful our surroundings were.  Each grave was marked not only with its typical stone or wooden marker at the head, but covering it from head to foot was a jumble of fabric flowers, lanterns, statues, dolls, teddy bears, toy cars, and personal belongings of every variety.  The family and friends of the deceased, it seemed, had created, and maintained, beautiful memorials on the graves of lost loved ones buried here.

I’ve never seen another graveyard like this, and I found it  beautiful and quietly joyful and tragic all at the same time.  On one hand, the memories clearly live on, but on the other, are the bereft ever truly able to say goodbye?

Now, I have a few awkwardly-sized 8x12s that I would like to frame and hang, so after work, I headed down to my local Sally-Ann.  As I was double-checking the door handle to make sure my car was locked, a man stopped me to ask about my car.*  As I explained to him that it was indeed a 2000 with only 58 000 kms on it (amazing, I know!), a woman who, having completed her own thrift store shopping and was presumably on her way to her own car, suddenly interrupted us.

“Who’s car is this?” she asked in a tone that made me suspect I had accidentally parked in a handicapped spot (I checked.  I hadn’t).

“Mine,” I replied.

“Well,” she huffed, peering at my licence plate, “your sticker is out of date.  It says 2010.  This is 2011.”  She stared me down through her large square bifocals, daring me to contradict her.

Ah yes, the sticker.  I will freely admit that I can tend to be a little…..absent-minded.  Things slip my mind; they just do.  I am eterally grateful that I have a husband who is usually around to say things like “that element is still on,” or “It’s dark.  You should probably turn on your headlights.”  I renewed my vehicle insurance last November, I really did….but remembering to actually put the 2011 sticker over the 2010 sticker kind of…..got forgotten.  I’d think of it while at work, or while in the shower or something, and vow to put it on as soon as I had a chance, but….I’d forget again.

I explained all of this rather apologetically to the lady, who seemed awkwardly incensed about it.  She kept on staring at me, so I finished with a feeble “…Thanks for telling me?”

I was ready to commence my frame-shopping at that point, but as I began to turn away, the woman called out, “Well, I don’t believe you even have your new sticker.”  (Okay.  The other day, I was defining for my students what “snort of derision” meant.  This, this was the most classic example of snort of derision I’ve ever encountered.)

I was sort of shocked that I was seriously having this conversation with a strange lady in the middle of the Salvation Army parking lot, and wasn’t really enjoying it, so I sort of thinly replied “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter if you do or not.”

Seriously.  What kind of random lady cares so much to turn this situation into such a big deal?  I realized that my Friday afternoon tiredness was quickly progressing into the teeth-bearing, nasty sort of grumpiness, and I was not interesting in having any sort of catty exchange with this old woman in the parking lot.

Apparently though, she did not share my sentiments.  ”Well, if I were the police, I’d ticket you right now!” She huffed and made a lot of exasperated sounds as she said this.

“Good thing for me you’re not the police,” I replied wearily.  Thankfully the man who had originally asked about my car (and who sat patiently through this awkward exchange) interjected about this time, and a couple of minutes later I was shopping for my frames.

But I was still kind of mad.

I mean, who does that?  Who stops to tirade in a sketchy parking lot about something that affects you none whatsoever? It was silly.  It was ridiculous, and it made me feel grumpy.  As much as I knew that it was silly to let it get to me, I couldn’t help but sulk.

I didn’t spend much time in the Sally-Ann.  Admittedly, I was partly worried that the Parking Lot Crusader was going to call in and let the real police know about a red 2000 Mazda Protege5 parked in the Salvation Army parking lot with an outdated insurance sticker.

As I pulled onto Bruce Ave, I realized something.

Because of the peevishness I felt at the lady, I was going to go straight home.  I was going to find that envelope with the insurance sticker inside, smudge away a clear spot on the plate with my thumb, and finally update the sticker.

And that made me even grumpier.

*The man stopped me to ask about my car because he was a car dealer, and asked if I was interested in selling it.  Apparently he has a client who is looking for my exact car!  I gave no definitive answer, and took his card.

I was seven or eight, living with my mom, dad, and two brothers in a tiny town in central Alberta.  Winter lasts a long time on the prairies, and we kids were enjoying the freedom of scarf-less faces and spring jackets.  The snow had finally disappeared, new grass was springing up and the tiniest dots of green adorned the tips of each tree branch.

But it was wet.

The just-melted snow, combined with the rain that had been fallen through the night had left our world a slick, brown, muddy mess, and the muck drew us kids like moths to a porch light – we were powerless to stay away.  The rain had gathered in every road and ally, making pothole puddles we liked to connect by carving canals from puddle to puddle with the heels of our boots.  Ditches had become veritable moats, tempting us to wade in as far as possible without flooding the tops of our gum boots.  Pools had formed in the ruts under the swing set at school, and we slowed our swings by shoving our feet into them, creating mini tidal waves that tended to “accidentally” soak our friends.

And then there was the mud.  Teachers sent us to recess with dire warnings that anyone caught throwing, stomping in, rolling in, shoving others in, or generally manipulating the mud in any way would immediately be given lines or some other unpleasant task.  Of course, this meant that as soon as we were turned loose on the playground, we all sidled around the mud, inching as close as we could, “accidentally” dropping a ball in or near it, seeing how close we could get without actually ending up in it.

To our simultaneous pity and delight, this behaviour often ended badly for at least one individual, and we got our vicarious mud fill for that recess.

from jenbekman.com

On this particular rainy day in the middle of April, my kid brother, Brady, and I were on our way home from school.  Living only a couple of blocks from Holden Elementary, my mother had deemed it safe, not to mention economically beneficial for us to walk to and from the school.  In winter, this was pure drudgery, but with frozen cheeks and damp-from-recess mittens a thing of the past,  it was now pure ecstasy.

We stomped heartily in every puddle along the way.  We kicked the water at each other, protected by our splash pants.  And then we reached the lot.

Ah, the lot.  The vacant lot across the ally and down a few houses from where we lived.  The lot, which had until late last fall, had contained a beat up old house, whose foundation had been filled in with dirt when it was removed.  This dirt, thanks to the thawed ground, melted snow, and recent rain had softened and saturated, transformed  into the biggest, most wondrous field of pure mud I had ever seen! It was glorious!  A kid’s mud-filled dream come true!

Brady and I stared at this vision before us.  I was suddenly convinced that cutting through this vacant lot would most certainly be the best way for us to get home that day.

“C’mon,” I said, and moved toward the lot.  Brady needed no convincing.  I lifted my boot and took the first step into the muck.

Squish……thhlllllluk! My gum boots sank in and out of the sumptuous mire.  It was rapturous!  That sound, the squashy feel of each step!  Squish……thhlllllluk! We savoured each glorious step, not hurrying to reach the other side.

Squish……thhlllllluk!  Squish……thhlllllluk!  Squish……

But suddenly, there was no thhlllllluk of boot squeezing from its muddy cushion.  Thhlllll…… come on!  I strained my toes against the top of my boot.  Thhlllll….. But my foot would not budge.  I stared at Brady in dawning horror.  He stared back, with the same terror-filled expression.

We were stuck!

Okay, don’t panic! I heaved upward on my boot with all my might, but the mud held it fast.  I looked down.  The muck was creeping higher and higher up my boots – I was sinking!  In desperation, I grasped the top of my boot and began yanking on it with all my might.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brady begin to do the same thing.  The field of mud was losing its luster - fast.

Pull!  Puuuulllll!!  PULLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!  At that moment, Brady gave a great tug on his boot.  His boot stayed rooted in the ooze, but as he pulled, his fingers slipped from the rim of his boot, and he hurtled backwards……

At least it was a soft landing.

from flickr.com

I stared at my brother, lying in the mud, tears and rage gathering on his face.  The mud had claimed him!  The injustice!  The horror!

I also barely managed to suppress an uncontrollable urge to laugh.

Well, there was nothing for it now.  I pulled one warm, dry foot from its gum boot and slowly, gingerly set it in the mud.  It eagerly oozed around it….my ankle….my pant leg.  It was oddly thrilling, as I watched my white sock disappear into the grime, realizing that I was now doing something I would never, ever, not in a million years have been allowed to do, because now I simply had no other visible option.  I lifted my other foot out of the boot and slogged toward Brady, who was still trying, unsuccessfully, to rouse himself from the mud.  I held out my hand and hauled up my spectacularly filthy brother.

We left our boots behind; they were stuck fast in that mud, though we had tried, after Brady had joined me sock-footed in the mud, to loose them.  As we left that muddy lot and drew closer and closer to home, a small feeling of dread began to well up inside me.  The thrill of the adventure behind us, the sickening feeling that we were indeed headed home to a serious spanking hung heavier and heavier upon us.  It may even be – dared I think it – belt-inducing!

We climbed the back stairs with trepidation.  Brady and I shared an apprehensive glance, knowing that this may be the last time we were able to sit down comfortably for a very long time.  I opened the door, and we crowded into the back porch.

“…..Mom?”  I called nervously.

It was like waiting for the gallows to drop.

She appeared around the corner, took one look at our muddy frames….and went to get our father.

from sunset.com

I don’t know by what miraculous force it occurred, but Brady and I were spared a beating that day.  Perhaps they took one look at Brady’s tear-stained face and decided that what we had been through was punishment enough.  I don’t know.  My dad went to retrieve our boots, and Brady and I were shipped off to the showers immediately.  We and the boots were hosed off, and before long, we were both clean and dry, ready for another day of mud and rain tomorrow.

And that was the day we lost our boots to the mud.

Six?  Only six?  Being completely above a silly Facebook meme, obviously, I still had the urge to show the world what a well-rounded, enlightened, high-brow, and talented reader I am. So, I copied, pasted, and began bolding all of the books I’d read.

I didn’t do too badly – 27 was my total; I was at least satisfied to have kicked the masses – uh – butts in the reading realm.  As I checked over the list to make sure I’d gotten them all (because….27?  Huh…okay, but maybe there’s one or two I missed in my excitement…), I became a little skeptical.

First of all, why were “The Complete Works of Shakespeare” and “Hamlet” listed as separate items?  Are the Works of Shakespeare somehow complete without Hamlet?  Or is Hamlet that much more of a masterpiece than the rest of Ol’ Bill’s plays that it deserves to be listed on its own?  Same with C.S. Lewis’ “Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe” and “The Chronicles of Narnia” – I realize that this one is probably the best known of the Narnia series, but if you’ve marked down that you’ve read the series, then theoretially….?

So really, this was only a list of 98 books.  But wait – as I read through my list again – where were numbers 23 or 26?  So 27 out of 96; at least my percentage was going up, even if the integrity of the list was going down.

I also began questioning the reasons for which these books had been chosen for this list – was there any?  I mean, we’ve got Dante’s Inferno alongside The Davinci Code and Charlotte’s Web – all decent books in their own right, but related how? And what qualified some these books to be on the list over things like Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” or Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar”, books that are generally considered classic and fantastically written?  I began to suspect the officialness of this so-called BBC Booklist, and a quick Google search did not turn up any official BBC results.

Well, I figure that if I’m going to measure my book-knowledge against a flawed and subjective ruler, it might as well be my own.  Furthermore, I shall qualify for you why each book is on the list, so there will be no mystery about it!  As such, I present to you:

Jenae’s Completely Subjective List of Books She Thinks You Should Read

1. The Harry Potter Series – JK Rowling (no list about awesome books would be complete without it!  And it’s first on my list because it’s sitting eye-level on the bookshelf next to me)

2. Blue Like Jazz – Donald Miller (one of the best and few non-cheesy books on Christianity I have read)

3. Ishmael – Daniel Quinn (if you have ever questioned the fallibility of Western culture; if saving the world and talking gorillas are your thing, this book is for you)

4. The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien (i think I read this book about seven times throughout jr. high and high school)

5. Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll (I recommend the annotated version, because it makes the book’s analogies and logic stand out, and it becomes so much less opium-trip)

6. A Complicated Kindness – Miriam Toews (a somewhat grey book about growing up in a tight-knit Mennonite community)

7. Pillars of the Earth – Ken Follett (great characters, great story)

(this is kind of hard to do off the top of my head)

8. Island of the Blue Dolphins – Scott O’Dell (okay, so maybe I havent actually read this one since grade 3 or something, but I really liked it!  It’s all about a young girl surviving on her own, finding food, fending off wolves…)

9. The Importance of Being Earnest – Oscar Wilde (wittily hilarious)

10. The Bible (cliche, perhaps, but I gained a newfound appreciation for the Bible, specifically Old Testament, in college.  Those writers weren’t just blandly recording events, they were story telling.  So much of the brilliance is lost in translation; for example, Jacob makes Esau a “red” stew, and that word “red” in the original text could also be used to mean something like “betrayal”.)

Well, that might be where I leave it for now.  Perhaps I shall make amendments at a later time; I know there are lots I am missing.

But what about you?  What books would you include on your subjective must-read list?

…you were too short.

Our new house! Well, the house we will buy from my parents at an unspecified future date, that is. Still, we are very excited.

Dog. My dog. Yawning in the sun.

Got to spend some good time with my new Sterkenburg family - well, not that new, but considering I've had my other family for 25 years already...

Oh yes, Timmy's and a morning on the beach. A very good way to spend the summer in Nanaimo

Starfish!

Bees busy in the blooms.

A lovely view.

Summer afternoon sun through a cottage window

Followed by sunset and wine a little later. Summer bliss.

Shoes optional. Bare feet recommended.

I am so not ready for fall.