Christmas Yumminess

It is my most favorite, favorite time of year: Christmastime!

With Thanksgiving behind us (which, by the way, was just as relaxing and fun as I had hoped), I finally feel free to really delve into all things Christmas-y.

One of the biggest and oldest staples of this time of year in my family is the baking of the Christmas cookies. My mom and I are sweets junkies and we are especially fond of all the baked goods Christmas tends to produce. While Mom and I are by no means professionals, we make a mean cookie and always have a blast getting together on a weekend to get the baking underway. Usually we spend a weekend trying to get everything baked. It makes for a rather stressful time, and by the end of the weekend we feel exhausted. This year, because I'm living way closer to home (twenty minutes versus an hour and a half!), we've decided to stretch the cookie baking out.

This past weekend we threw together some dough (lemon sugar cookies, regular sugar cookies, chocolate sugar cookies, peanut butter blossoms, and cinnamon reindeer cookies). Next weekend we'll make more cookies and dough and freeze them until the time comes when we distribute cookies to friends and coworkers as gifts of good cheer during this wonderful time of year.

Lizzie with her new apron (and snow boots!), ready to  help bake some cookies!

Lizzie and me!

Lizzie and my mom!

Perhaps next week I'll add some pictures of cookies...don't come back too hungry!

Picture Perfect

Last weekend our friend/amazing daycare provider/photog expert, Megan, took some great pictures of the family. We hadn't ever had our pictures taken as a family by a professional (and Megan certainly is that--she did so awesome) and it had been about three years since we had last had any sort of family shots (at our wedding!). With Christmas fast approaching, I decided this year we would do something different and rather than take some pictures myself (which always end up a bit shoddy) or torturing Lizzie with a trip to the sub-par Wal-Mart picture people, so I asked Megan if she would do our pics.

Well, they came out amazing. I am NOT photogenic (unless I'm doing weird webcam pictures where I can fuss for twenty minutes over how I'm holding my head), but despite my general sort of whale-ish-ness, I felt the pictures came out wonderfully. They were all taken outside of our house, which, I think, makes them that much more special, and I really feel Megan snagged some wicked sweet shots.

I gotta say, we're a pretty cute family :-)

A Traditional Thanksgiving

It's been a while since I've done a prompt from Mama Kat. In honor of the big day tomorrow and my desire to actually write something that isn't about books that I haven't read or the life I wish I had (i.e. the life of a glamorous stay-at-home-mom), here's what I've got:

2.) What traditions do you carry on with your family each year?

This is a year of breaking traditions and starting new ones. A year of finally, finally feeling like we're doing the holiday for our family and not someone else's (though, I suppose our extended family is our family, but you know, it's not quite the same thing--they don't have to deal with the cranky toddler and man after a long and crazy day).

Over the last five years, since DOH and I were first together, we've been battling how to arrange this frenetic time of year. Who's house do we go to? If we go this place at this time, will we be able to go to the other place? Should we eat there and not at the other? Who are we more comfortable offending by not eating their food/not staying quite as long? (Somehow my family seemed to always get the short end of the stick on that one, mostly because they wouldn't get offended, I'd just hear, "I wish you could have stayed a bit longer, Kirsten," fifty-billion times.) And after having Lizzie, it only got that much worse, because, of course, both sides of the family wanted the only grandchild/great-grandchild at their table for her first (and second, and third, and fourth...) Thanksgiving.

The Thanksgiving Day traditions of olde (and I use the "e" to emphasize how old I really mean, like six or seven years ago old, when I still had braces and stuff) were much more Norman Rockwell-esque. I'd force my brother to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade with me. We'd stay in our P.J.'s until noon. Mom would be busy in the kitchen. My dad would be off picking up last minute supplies. Later on, everyone, my parents, brother, grandparents, and a smattering of my aunts and uncles (depending on who was around or what state we were in, Maine or Massachusetts), would gather around the dining room table with every sort of food you could ask for, we would gorge ourselves, then laze about the house, football game on, maybe play a game of Skip-Bo or Phase 10, then around 7 or 8 o'clock the adults would break out the wine and leftovers, gorge once more, and pass out in recliners and on sofas. It may seem small, but it was perfect. I was a weird sort of teenager in that I enjoyed being around my family, even my parents, and I cherish the memories and, even more than that, the feeling of safety, comfort, and happiness that I felt when I was around them on these special days. Plus, it paid off having all those adults loosened up, because I ended up having plenty of spending money when I would hit the stores with my friend in Newburyport, MA the following Saturdays (per tradition) to do some personal Christmas shopping and enjoy Starbucks (which, I swear, we did not have in Maine at the time).

But, as I said from the start, this year is different. It's not going to be like Ye Olde T-Day, where it's one house, one day of relaxation, one awesome freaking parade (which I will MISS for the first time EVER this year). But it's also not going to be the Thanksgiving Marathon and stress-fest it's been in years past. We still go to the two sides of the family, but we've coordinated it in such a way, that we've allotted at least a couple hours at each house and we end the night a mere twenty minutes away from home (as opposed to an hour or more). While those wonderful feelings of safety, comfort, and happiness have been a bit fleeting over the last few years, I can already sense (in an almost a Zen like way), that tomorrow will be different. It will begin a new era of Thanksgiving traditions and Thanksgiving days that Lizzie can look back upon and have the same feelings stir inside her own heart I felt growing up, where she feels the love and comfort of her families and is lucky enough to have the day with both sides.

But could someone please record the parade for me?

A Writing Prompt: My Grandmothers' Stories

A Mama Kat writing prompt.
Your Grandma's story.

*NOTE* This post got really long. Feel free to skim. Some of the highlights are illegal 12-year-old immigrants, real, live atheist-commies, and 6-foot-tall grandmas.

I'm one of those people who loves genealogy. Like, paying money to use Ancestry.com and going to Ellis Island to just "have the experience."

I am lucky enough to have had adults in my life who could tell me the stories of what it is like to be an immigrant or a child of an immigrant, to not have your first language be English, to be discriminated against because of your ethnicity. I say "lucky" (even though what happened was awful), because it gives me some sense of perspective and compassion for those are dealing with discrimination and injustice now.

My paternal grandmother, Henrietta, was one of those adults and it's her story and the stories of her mother and mother-in-law, that I want to share now.

I'll start with my great-grandmother, Rosalie Pietraszka (don't ask me to spell her maiden name...it's filled with w's and z's and whatnot). She grew up in Lithuania, and when I say grew up, I mean she lived there until she was about 12, and then she left, stealing another girl's passport and sneaking aboard a ship, leaving for America, because her life, for lack of a better word, sucked, in Lithuania. Both of her parents were dead. She was dirt poor. There was nothing there for her. So, like many immigrants before and after her, she left for the States.

She came here illegally, by the way. Very, very illegally.

Once in the U.S., she made her way to Haverhill, Massachusetts and lived at a boarding house and babysat for a living. She also worked in a textile mill (either in Lowell or Haverhill). She married my great-grandfather when she was fifteen (but lied about her age, saying she was 18). And my great-grandfather, by the way, was another interesting case--he fled Russia because he didn't want to join the Russian army. Hmm. Wonder why...(It was basically a death sentence.)

Rosalie settled in Groveland, MA in the house I grew up in (until I was 10 and moved to Maine) with my great-grandfather and raised several children. Only a few made it to adulthood. One child died of a fever. Another literally burned to death.

When I think of Rosalie, part of me is amazed by her strength. She...I can't even put words to it. The gall and bravery it must have took to do what she did for herself astounds me. Another part of me, however, is so sad for her. She left Lithuania hoping for a better life and sometimes I wonder if her life really was any better here. Of course, if she hadn't come to America, my grandfather would never have been born (tragedy), nor would my father or aunt be here (another sad thing to contemplate), and neither would I (THE HORROR!). I am so thankful for everything Rosalie did, everything she put on the line, and I am proud that a small part of her is within me.

My other great-grandmother, my grandma's mom, is someone I know very little about, but I sense her within me.

I don't even remember her name, but I do remember her, or at least a picture of her that hung in my grandparents' upstairs hallway. She had dark hair and eyes and a pretty face. I had looked at this picture every time I had gone to my grandparents' house and if I close my eyes now I can see her looking at me. There is something of grace and composure and intelligence about her. I might be superimposing all this on her, due to what little I know, but maybe it really is there.

My great-grandma was a Bolshevik. At the turn of the 20th century, she and my great-grandfather (a musician) came to the U.S. I know only a little bit about their first time here and that's that they had two kids, my great-uncle Henry and my great-aunt Vera. Just as the revolution in Russia began, they went back to Russia to "help."

By all accounts, the trip back home was not good. While ideologically in line with what the Communists wanted to do, things weren't going quite the way my great-grandparents had planned (read Animal Farm, it was nuts over there). For one, they had been seperated from their two children (who had been shipped off to school, were forebidden from speaking English--and remember, they were American citizens--and had to have their heads shaved, due to lice), and for two, they were basically spending their time sleeping in barns, just trying to survive.

Eventually, they were able to get back to the States, but only because my aunt and uncle were citizens (anchor babies!).

My great-grandmother's experience, while very different from her counter-part, has me equally fascinated. To hear my grandma speak of her mother, you often heard a tone of admiration. She was well-read and seemed intelligent. She was very clear about her atheism, but made my grandmother go to the congregational church in their town, calling it "one of the lesser of the evils." That part always made me laugh.

I guess I have a very specific idea of her in my head, and though I have no idea if it actually fits her truly, but from the bits and pieces I know, I feel like she's very much like me--political, thoughtful, a bibliophile. Of all the relatives I've never had a chance to meet, I'd say she's tops on my list of "Dead People I'd Have Lunch With." She just seems so cool.

Lastly, there is my grandmother. I lost her about two years ago, and the loss still feels raw. She was such an amazing and interesting person, and such an incredibly strong prescence in our lives that it still feels strange to not have her here.

She led such an interesting life. She played basketball in college (Boston University), travelled the country and the world, could grow anything, sew anything, told the best stories, and, as she got older, was so open to anything. More than all that, she pushed me very hard to be good at what I did, to be a good student, writer, mother, person. She expected me to be the best, and I wanted to be that for her as well as for myself. Though she could be incredibly critical, I never doubted that she knew how high my worth was.

One of the defining moments of our relationship came at the very end of her life. I was in the midst of practicum, an intense 12 credit course that all education majors go through. It's like boot camp. A major portion of that class is the completion of our portfolios (yeah, we do a lot of portfolios). I had just finished mine and was so proud. I hadn't turned it yet, by my professor allowed me the chance to hang on to it for a few days to show to my grandma.

She had uterine cancer. And while she'd faced other cancers before and won (in addition to other ailments), this one was defeating her...though I hadn't realized how much.

She could barely move, hardly speak, barely a shadow of the strong, towering woman I so admired. I knew I wasn't going to be able to show her my portfolio, nevermind even have a conversation about it. But I did have it out...just in case.

And then, one day, mere days before she would pass, she asked me, barely audible, "Kirsten, what's that?" She was looking at the massive binder on one of the end tables in the living room, where she'd been sleeping. I told her it was my portfolio for practicum. "Let me see it," she said.

I gently held it in her lap, turned the pages, talked about the process, the lessons I'd planned, what was hard, what was easy. We went through all of it. At the end she told me she was proud of me and I said thanks.

My getting through college was a huge deal for my grandma. It was something she had really, really wanted for me, probably even more than I had wanted it. It kills me to think that she wasn't here for that moment last May (like, this is something that keeps me awake at night), but I am so, so glad she got to see my practicum portfolio and say those words to me.

Wow, this has turned into a hugely long post, far longer than it should have been, but it has been cathartic. I hope that those who read this have been equally blessed with amazing women in their families and cherish them with all their hearts.

My grandma in the middle, my dad to the left (as if you couldn't tell he's her son) and my mom's dad to the right (now there's a blog post--he's led a wicked amazing life).

P.S. This is not to say my maternal grandma is not the most incredible person in the world, but I don't know as many great stories about her as I do my paternal grandma. This is something I'll have to remedy.

A Busy Saturday

DOH and Dad replacing the ginormous bay window upstairs (all of which involved a crazy huge lift, lots of indescriminate sawing, and heavy lifting--which I got to watch).

I baked three dozen muffins, each dozen a different kind (above are chocolate banana muffins, then there were corn blueberry and apple cinnamon).

And guess who slept through the whole thing?

Husband Appreciation

An oldie, but a goody...My husband is so cool, isn't he?

I can give DOH a hard time...a lot. And while I don't feel like I ask much of him in terms of housekeeping (basically, "Just pick your crap up," is my request), when I do ask...it's not really asking, it's a demand.

Which, in a marriage, isn't necessarily okay. It's a partnership, not a dictatorship. I'm not his overlord (as much as I might try).

However, when I wake up in the morning, long after he's left for work, and I find his clothes at the bottom of the stairs the go up from the basement, I can't help but smile (which might surprise you, since, technically, that's not picking up AND it's a hazard, since, in my morning fog, I could trip and break my neck--just sayin').

You see, DOH is a habitual clothes-dumper. Meaning, he basically walks in the door from work and strips down. Whatever he's worn that day sort of lands in a clump by the coat rack and shoes. The same deal in the morning when changes in the living room (he doesn't do it in our room, since it wakes me up...he is very considerate). He'll simply leave whatever he wore to bed in the middle of the living room.

This has always driven me nuts, since we've always lived in small spaces (small apartments, small house, etc.) and therefore the laundry facility (or pile) was literally about three feet away. When we moved into this house, I explained, "Dude, just throw your crap down the basement stairs, AT LEAST." (Yes, I do frequently refer to my husband as "dude.")

Well, he listened. Actually, he's been listening and doing this since I asked him to make the change. So, this morning, in my morning haze, I decided to recognize his efforts. As I stumbled upstairs I pulled out my cell phone and sent him a text, telling him how much I appreciate what he did. We can't call each other while he's at work, but the text message will be the first thing he sees when he gets back to his phone after work. And, of course, I'll let him know in real life how much I appreciate what he did, but I don't think we can tell our spouses too much how much we appreciate what they do, and my husband, my Dear Old Hubby (DOH), does so much that I am thankful for.

Our Family Trip to Old Orchard Beach

Ah! OOB...the mecca for any good French-Canadian (as my husband is). We took our first trip out of the summer this past weekend and enjoyed the sun, surf, and poutine!

I love the buildings in the center of Old Orchard. Very sea-sidey.



The Old Orchard Beach town hall. Such a pretty building.



The beach! And, probably the only place in America where you'll hear more French than English being spoken :-)

Poutine. For the uninitiated, poutine is French fries, gravy, and cheese (not sure what kind of cheese, but it's good), all melted together. It's crazy good.

DOH strapping Liz's boogie board on her wrist.

Liz and her daddy about to hit the surf.

Really enjoying the sand (and this requires deep concentration, apparently).

Me and DOH! Aren't we adorable!



This is the closest we actually got Liz to the water. She took one quick dip in the ocean, it freaked her out, and that was it after that.

 So, I would have loved to have shown you some great pictures of Lizzie and DOH playing in the surf, but both chickened out (Liz, because she was overwhelmed by the waves, though she assures me that next time she'll "jump through the waves" so she doesn't get splashed so much; DOH, because it was tooooooo cold, waaaaah!). Maybe next time?

Things Slow Down...And I Don't Mind

Door to our sauna.

So...We're still all sleeping on our mattress in the basement.

(I failed to mention this before, because I didn't think we'd still be down there after nearly a month in the house.)

We're relying a lot on our own manpower, and my dad's. He's renovated two homes, plus does home inspections--he's our expert, but is a busy, busy dude, so his help comes in spurts. So, while a lot of work has gotten accomplished (like, turning a large, open room into two, functional bedrooms), we've sort stalled. My dad's business has picked up more lately (yay!), DOH is working his butt off before he starts his new job in about a week and a half, and I have a three year old who makes it just a bit difficult to get much done.

So, we're left to the basement, all crammed in with the few boxes left to be unpacked (of course, it is a finished basement, and we have use of the rest of the house, but after nearly two years of our own bedrooms with Lizzie very rarely coming into bed with us, it's an adjustment, for sure). And while, had I foreseen this situation prior to moving in, I would have dreaded it, in reality, I'm really okay with it. Really.

There is something cozy about all of us snuggled in bed, waking up together on the days DOH is home, and sharing that extra time together that we ordinarily wouldn't get. What's more, after five years of dorm/apartment living, I cannot be anything but thankful for our home, no matter how...uncomfortable...the conditions currently are. I spent nearly half my life living in a house that was perpetually being renovated, so, this sort of semi-nomadic feeling (DOH and I have decided it feels like we're camping, which makes it a little bit more fun) is something I'm totally used to, if not entirely fond of.

The construction project that is our bedrooms (then will be our stairway, and part of the living area, and the upstairs bathroom, though those are all minor), will eventually come to an end, and we'll move our things up there, go back to having our seperate bedrooms, and things will resume a more normal, less camp-y feel, but I know I will look back on this very brief period in our first family home and feel a strong sense of our family, how much we love one another, and how very lucky we are to have what we have.

Summer Lovin'

As a lot of us know, the past couple of months have been filled with wacky weather. Maybe it was tons (and tons and tons) of snow in early spring, ridiculous amonts of rain, tornadoes, or unseasonably cold temps (or unseasonably warm), either way, things just haven't felt right. Until now.

After weeks (or, at least, what felt like weeks) of lousy, rainy, cloudy, grim weather, we had a full week of almost entirely perfect weather. Warm (even gloriously hot) air, cloudless skies, and beaming sunshine have graced us here in Maine. I spent my afternoons while Lizzie napped lounging in the new house's hammock, inhaling the perfect scent of liliacs (I need to find a perfume that's scented with liliacs), reading a book and eventually falling asleep. I've realized that this is the way I'll likely be able to spend many of my afternoons this summer and I can't say I've much to complain about.

This latest bout of sunshiney weather has infused a new skip in my step. I'm feeling invigerated for the months to come and am looking forward to spending lots of time outdoors. I snapped a few pictures of our outdoor adventures this past week, so I'm goin to share them now.

Cold water! Lizzie playing in the little turtle pool her great-grandparents brought her.

Ah... The good life :-) It'll be nice we get real furniture instead of bright orange folding chairs.

Just one of the many beautiful flowers that have cropped up in our garden.

The pathway down to the saaaaaauna (trust me, not as fancy as it seems) and our firepit.



Lizzie at the park, swinging.



Top Ten Reasons I Can't WAIT for Summer

1. NO SNOW (yes, we still have some snow on the ground, and, occasionally, just to torture me, the sky still spits out little white flakes)
2. Swimming in the lakes, ocean, rivers, pools that we live near
3. Reading as many books as I can possibly manage while having NO other remotely academic distractions
4. Going to Old Orchard Beach and Popham Beach
5. Hot, sweltering weather
6. Gardening
7. Going out on my parent's boat
8. Camping, camping, and more camping
9. Naps
10. Having more time to do things like cook good food, watch crap T.V., sew, paint, and decorate, and do and make things with Lizzie

When You Want What Everyone Else Has

Another friend of mine announced via Facebook that she's pregnant. I'm so happy for her. She and I are a rare species--dedicated moms who are balancing being wives and mothers with being full-time education students. She has a little girl who's about a year younger than Lizzie and from all appearances, is doing a great job. I am totally thrilled for her.

And almost nauseatingly jealous.

I have wanted to have another baby since Lizzie was about six months old. She was just so...perfect. Who wouldn't want to try for perfection again. And I always knew that I didn't want my kids to be as far apart as my brother and I are (six years). While there was never a problem in the age difference between my brother and I (we're actually pretty good buds), I always wished I had a brother or sister closer in age to me and therefore wanted that for Lizzie. At this point that doesn't look like it's going to happen and it makes me sad.

And almost completely nauseatingly jealous of my friend who is already having her second. It makes me feel even more like there is no reason why we shouldn't have another. Her husband is in the same line of work as mine. They have bought a home, too. She's not even graduating this semester, but has more school ahead of her, yet she is having a baby. And while that might seem to be a lot for a young couple to take on, she's not the type to go into anything lightly. I have no doubt that she and her husband will go through this life change admirably.

And I honestly think we, DOH and I, could do the same. But DOH wants me to get a job and then he says he'd consider having a second baby. Well, isn't that a bit counter-intuitive? Education is not a career field where you can waltz in for a year then leave to have a baby and then expect to get your job back. When you are starting out in education, you are literally under probation and a school district can choose to not renew your contract if you sneeze the wrong way. As a new teacher, I don't want to give my employers any reason to not renew my contract, especially in such a competitive job market. DOH just doesn't seem to get that!

So, it leaves me in this position. If I get a teaching job next semester, or even a job in a school district working as an Ed. Tech. or something of the like, then that means I will go through the '11-'12 school year not pregnant, likely watching several of my friends get pregnant, feeling painfully jealous and unhappy. Hopefully I will feel comfortable enough in my district to get pregnant over next summer (2012) and have our next baby in the spring of 2013. That's two years away.

That's two years of watching people get pregnant and have babies. I don't know if I can do it. In addition to all that, Lizzie will be five, which is just as big a distance as six would be, in my book. And there goes the fulfillment of having two kids close together. Of course, we could have a third kiddo, but we don't if that's something we want yet.

I'm feeling a little bit desolate at the moment. I know, in my head, that having a baby right now isn't right for us. But in my heart, and I tend to listen to my heart quite a bit more than my head, for good or bad, I really want this. Of course, though, there is a big difference between right and want, and part of being an adult is acknowledging that difference and following through in the correct way.

But it's so hard.

Our Easter

 Miss Liz dying eggs. She kept asking when they were going to hatch!

 The Easter Bunny came! Lizzie was, however, a bit disappointed she didn't get to see him.

 Taking a walk and enjoying the beautiful sunny weather. I don't think there is a better way to celebrate Easter and rebirth than going out and enjoying the wonderful changes nature is making this time of year.

 The mountains of Western Maine. Love 'em.

 Liz pretending to be a horse.

 The river.

 Liz with a rock (this is turning into an Easter tradition, it seems, as I have a similar picture form last year).

 Liz releasing the rock back into the river. "Be free, rock!"

Another picture of the river. I'm looking forward to coming down again as the weather gets warmer and things brighten up. This is definitely a place I'll miss going when we move.

Calling Uncle

I'm not sure where this whole rough streak has come from, but my sweet little girl seems to be practicing for the UFC.

If I am still (or even moving at a vaguely slow pace) for even a moment, there seems to be a swirling tornado of limbs flying in my face, a set of tiny teeth, or teeny weeny fingers pinching me. And I'm constantly being climbed on or being begged for a cuddle (which is never really a cuddle, but an all out tackle or dance party on my stomach). After a near full week of being home (we're on spring break), I am just about tapped out. I want to go sit in the middle of an empty room, on the floor, all alone, where no one can find me, touch me, talk to me, or say my name.

I love my daughter very, very much, and there isn't anything better than just snuggling with her, but after days of feeling like I have a very large leech stuck to me, I feel like I'm ready to call, "Uncle!!"

Does anyone else ever feel like this?

Adorableness

Gettin' Me Some Religion

I can be a bit irreverent when it comes to religion. I think I came out of the womb a spiritual person--I've always enjoyed thinking about God (in whatever manifestation I was comfortable with at the time) and taking time to think about the wider world and universe I inhabit and why I'm here. Very deep stuff. And while I've had my periods of total disdain for church or even Christianity in general (I spent a couple of years as a Wiccan), I'm finding a strong desire to rejoin a religious community.

DOH is Catholic. I was raised as a Protestant. And while we aren't reenacting scenes from Northern Ireland, we definitely have different views on certain things. I'm also pretty freaking liberal (I was also a self-proclaimed Communist around the same time I was a Wiccan--I'm sure you can imagine how excited my parents were). I don't do well around people who are so absorbed by their religious views that they can't function in the wider, non-denominational world or get past the fact that there are, in fact, other people who believe differently, and, guess what, they probably aren't going to burn in that fiery, bad place for believing differently.

But the point of this post isn't to get too religious. It's to talk about the fact that I, for the first time in a long time, really want to go back to church. I've been hankering for a place where we can go to worship and be a part of a community as a family,  and with this move coming up in June, I figured it's a good opportunity to find a place to go.

For a short period of time this fall, we were attending church at the Congregational church in our current town. I loved it, but services started really early for us (9:30 AM) and Lizzie had a hard time going down to the nursery (she was the only little one there). I also didn't really want to send her there, I liked being together, but I felt a bit of pressure to have her go down, which annoyed me a bit. Overall, though, I really enjoyed the church, but it just wasn't working out. I also figured I didn't want to get involved in a church that we likely wouldn't stay at since we planned on moving after I graduated from college.

The town we're moving to has a few different options for where we can go just within the town. There is a Universalists church which is kind of right up my alley. They have a variety of services that cater to lots of different belief systems, which I love. It's also very liberal and openly supports the GLBT community, which I very openly support. I also feel as though my and DOH's different belief systems (as similar as they are) will both be respected and neither one of us will feel left out.

There is also a Congregationalists church, which I have heard wonderful things about, having had friends who attended it growing up. I think it's a more traditional church, but like most Congregational churches that are associated with the UCC (United Church of Christ), they're pretty open-minded (at least that is what I've found here in Maine). I would have no problem attending this church, and I don't think my husband would be against it either, but then again, it's different from what he's used to (granted, the Universalists church would be, too), and he sometimes has a hard time with "different."

Then there is the Catholic church, which I've actually attended (I was an honorary Catholic there for a bit, as I went to youth group with one of my good friends). I like it a lot. It has a big, active congregation, the kids do an awful lot, and a good chunk of the Catholics in the area go there (and there are a lot of Catholics in Western Maine). My husband would LOVE to go to a Catholic church. I'm pretty certain he'd be really happy if I said I was converting to Catholicism (but that's probably never going to happen). And I would actually be okay going to a Catholic church. Would it be my first choice? No, but only because I don't plan on converting and that status of non-Catholic would probably start to make me feel uncomfortable after a while. But, I would be willing to try if DOH didn't feel comfortable at any other church.

There are lots of other churches in other towns, including the ones our families go to. I don't know that there is anything on this planet, even the salvation of my soul, that could convince me to join the church that my mother-in-law attends (there are LOTS for reasons for this), but I will never say that I wouldn't attend just to visit. My parents go to a Congregational church in the town they live in (and it's the church where I went through confirmation and all that, though the reverend has long since left). I wouldn't mind attending with them, but I think my husband feels the same as I do about attending church with his mom when it comes to going to church with my parents (but for different reasons).

This turned out to be considerably longer than I had intended (and probably way boring), but it's nice to get these thoughts out and organized. It gives you better perspective on where you want to be, and choosing a place of worship, in my opinion, is a decision that needs to be made carefully (I actually think what religion you are or how you feel spiritually is the decision you need to make very carefully).

Sorry if you trudged through this and expected some sort of epiphany at the end--this most was mostly for me, :-) However, if you were curious, I think I'm leaning more towards the Universalists church, though we'll have to actually attend some services before we make a decision.