Monday, June 25, 2012

seven years and counting

Seven years ago today, Ray and I said “I do” at my hometown church in the Twin Cities.

This is us today.

 Seven years ago. We used to play poker three nights a week (or more) in a friend’s garage, packing up every Thursday night so we could hopefully sneak out of work a bit early on Friday, drive up the Superior National Hiking Trail and go backpacking. My Focus had permanent indentations on its roof from tying the canoe on top. And, many times, no matter how tightly it was strapped on, it was never good enough; coming home from the BWCA portion of our honeymoon, we had to pull over about a dozen times to tie it back into place.

Now, we’re homebodies. We don’t travel to get into the woods because we live right next door to them. We occasionally visit “home” in the Cities to visit family but we’re always itching to get back to Bemidji after about three days.

We unpacked the backpacking gear the other day to clean it out, go through it. Ray wondered aloud if we should try backyard camping with the girls one of these days. I shrugged, What’s the point? We can just sleep at home and take a day trip to Itasca the next.

Ray and I raised more than a few eyebrows in our first year of marriage. For some, apparently, the first year is an extended honeymoon. Ours was hell. We joked to people, when they asked out married life was going, that our goal was to be happy with one another 51 percent of the time, so, then, at least, we were happier than we were miserable.  The second year, we said, our goal would be 55 percent, then 60 our third, 65 the fourth, etc., etc. That would mean we’re now, in our eighth year of marriage, supposed to be happy with one another 85 percent of the time.

I’d say we meet that now and then some.

So, all in all, it’s been a great seven years.


OK, apparently, I have an overly active imagination. Either that or I’m just overly dramatic, which, quite honestly, is also quite likely.

I got off a helicopter (!!!) this afternoon, said my goodbyes, and walked to the car, where I had a voice mail.

“Hi, this is (nurse) with (pediatrician’s) office. Please call me back at XXX-XXXX about Amelia's test results."

It sounded so matter-of-fact. And we know this nurse fairly well. I don’t know, it just didn’t sound good.

Anyhow, I had to wait until I got back to the office to call her back (a co-worker was with me at the time).

So I called the hospital; got transferred to the pediatrician’s office; got the “we’re too busy to take your call” recording; waited on the phone’ got the receptionist, gave her Amelia’s date of birth, name, reason for calling; got transferred to the nurse station.

Another nurse answered, "Were you calling about Amelia?"


"She just wanted to say that her hemoglobin and lead tests were normal. Have a nice day."

Awesome, so happy. But I was still more than a wee bit surprised. I thought they always left the “everything’s normal” results on the voice mail.

In the 17 minutes it took to back and get the “all’s clear,” I swear I had convinced myself she had cancer.

Seriously, I need to get a grip.
- Bethany :)

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