One. Month. Old.

Yes. You read that headline correctly. My son? He's a month old today.

HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!

It really doesn't seem like four weeks have gone by since T and I headed for the hospital for the induction, and yet...it seems like he's always been here.

I really can't remember getting a full night of sleep.

I can't remember not smelling at least a LITTLE bit like spit-up all the time.

I can't remember NOT singing songs to help make diaper changes go faster.

And speaking of diapers, I can't remember when A) neither T nor I were slightly fazed by mass quantities of poo, and B) when we didn't have multiple conversations ABOUT poo every day.

And I can't remember when I couldn't wake up in the morning to see this face looking back at me:

In short: Our lives have become both unrecognizable and really incredibly awesome.

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It's no secret that, when my life gets busy, one of the first things to go is this blog. For most of last year, it was my job and my pregnancy. Now we have a newborn. It's just the way of things, and I know everyone reading this understands that. I don't have the dedication to forgo precious sleep in favor of posting here, and while I mourn the fact that I'm not doing a better job of documenting his first weeks...eh. I'm getting sleep, which is helping me function better for him, and people, I'm almost 35. Mama is old, and she needs her sleep. :)

So now that I've absolved myself for not posting here more often, let me get to the point: There are some milestones that just can't go by without proper documentation. I couldn't let my baby pass his one-month mark without a little recap-slash-State of the Union.

Here we go:

How much has he grown in the last month?
Um. A TON. He was 6 lbs, 12 oz at birth, and down to 6 lbs, 3 oz when we left the hospital. Less than a week later, at his one-week doctor's appointment, he was already almost back to his birth weight. As of his two-week appointment (March 12), he was 7 lbs, 8 oz. We did an unofficial weigh-in at home last week (I weighed myself, then again holding him), and our unofficial results showed that the boy is now about 8.5 lbs. The boy LOVES TO EAT.

So, how is he eating?
Did you not just hear what I said? THE BOY LOVES TO EAT. We were incredibly lucky with breastfeeding; he took to it immediately in the hospital. (I was really thankful for this, since I wasn't able to even try feeding him until almost 10 hours after he was born. More on this when I post his birth story, which I swear I'm actually working on.)

He's been a champion nurser ever since, and eats CONSTANTLY. Do I always appreciate this when he wants to eat at 2, 3:30 and 4 in the morning? Uh, no. :) But then I see the awesome baby chub he's gaining and it's really all worth it. I mean:



And how is he sleeping?
Pretty much like a newborn. And what I mean by that is: He's sleeping a LOT, just not in very long intervals. The boy eats constantly, have I mentioned this? At this point, the longest naps he'll take are about 3 or 3.5 hours in length; every once in awhile he'll sleep for more than 4 hours, but that's happened MAYBE twice. Most often he'll sleep for 1.5 to 2 hours, and then he's ready to eat again.

His awake periods are getting longer (and thankfully most of them AREN'T between 3-6 a.m., although we've had our days), which is really fun, because we get to see these eyes:



(We were having a moment.)

So far our biggest conundrum has been figuring out HOW he wants to sleep. We decided we weren't going to have him in our room (and definitely not in our bed), and from very early on he was cool with sleeping in his crib. He was always swaddled in the hospital (and loved it), so we started using a Halo Swaddle, which kept him warm and swaddled him tight AND was easy for us to figure out. (The Miracle Blanket, I'm sad to say, rather stumped me and T.)

Then, about two weeks in, the boy switched things up on us (babies -- honestly) and started struggling mightily against his swaddle. Rather than sleeping peacefully the whole time he was down, he'd squeak and squawk and kick and grunt and REALLY try to escape the swaddle. So, we thought, maybe the swaddle has run its course; let's put him down with his arms free. That lasted about 30 seconds before he flailed, smacked himself in the face and FREAKED OUT. :)

So we're still trying the swaddle thing and experimenting with lighter materials and different configurations (the Swaddle Pod, for one). We'll see how it goes. At this point, Jackson's absolute favorite way to sleep is on one of our chests, on his stomach. Oh, would that I could duplicate that arrangement in his crib, so we could all sleep better! Sigh.





So...what is Jackson like?
He is such a cool baby. I don't know how else to say it. He's pretty laid back, fusses when he's hungry or tired or bored, but...most of the time he just likes hanging out, checking out the light coming through the curtains and the designs in the ceiling, listening to music and...oh yes...raising his head up and trying to stand and jump when we're holding him. I think we're going to be in trouble later on with this one -- something tells me that, once he's mobile, it's all over but the trips to the emergency room. :)

Likes: Eating (um, duh), the living room curtains, his mobile, staring at his mama and daddy, riding in the car and, well, eating. Again. Some more.

Dislikes: Tummy time (does ANY baby like this?), having to wait EVEN A SECOND before eating, socks (he thinks they're stupid; I kind of can't blame him) and gas. I mean, who likes gas?

How are YOU feeling?
I'm doing great! I ended up having a rather complicated C-section, so it took a while until I could do simple things like go up and down stairs, get on and off the floor, etc. And while I can't run around just yet, I'm feeling much more like my old self this week.

And!! I'm not one to toot my own horn, but I am rather proud that I've been able to lose all my baby weight (which, granted, was only about 17 pounds) plus almost 12 more in the last month. Since I'm a big girl to start with, I'm exceptionally proud of this, and I'm excited to keep going. T and I both want to be healthier and more active so we can keep up with our little man!

Now if we could just get a little more sleep...

How are things going with the dogs?
He's still sort of indifferent about them (he's carrying on an ongoing flirtation with our curtains -- weirdo -- so there isn't much room for doggie love just yet), but the dogs absolutely adore him. Ozzie in particular always wants to sniff his head, give him tiny, gentle kisses and make sure he's OK. He continues to bring Jackson his gross dog toys whenever he cries, which is simultaneously sweet and, well, gross. But we appreciate the sentiment.

He also yearns to be Jackson's permanent nap buddy:



What's your favorite thing so far?
It has been SO MUCH FUN watching how he's changed just over the course of the last four weeks. I would never have thought it possible. His facial expressions alone have been worth the price of admission:







By far my favorite thing, though? We have become total besties.



Happy one-month, baby. Mama loves you.

Baby Photo Party!

OK. So. It has been brought to my attention that, although I am sleep-deprived as are all newly-minted mamas, the very LEAST I can do is post some pictures of the wee bonny babe while I'm still desperately trying to find time to write out his birth story (and/or ANYTHING AT ALL).

(If you follow me on Instagram, you've seen these already, but be honest: Does it really matter? Hopefully not.)

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Sleeping on mama

Look at the baby chub! Sigh. Love.

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"MAMA. A HORSE IS KISSING ME."

Lots of folks have asked me how the dogs have been with Jackson since we brought him home. This pretty much sums it up. They adore him. They LOVE to sniff him and give him tiny, gentle baby kisses, and they're very curious every time he makes a noise. (The baby monitor is of endless fascination.) Once, when Jackson was crying, Ozzie brought him his favorite toy: a battered old duck slipper. Shockingly this was not what Jackson was crying for, so it didn't stop the fussing, but we all agreed it was the thought that counted.

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"Tummy time is hard-ass work, peoples."

I'd be lying if I said Jackson was super-jazzed about tummy time. But he's a trooper. And he is WAY into raising his head if he thinks it might get him fed faster.

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"Mama's post-breakfast banter is B-O-R-I-N-G."

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We call this "milk drunk."

He does this EVERY time he finishes eating. It makes me laugh EVERY time.

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Our very own monkey man.

Probably the best picture we have of him with his eyes open. Do you not just want to eat him?

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Favorite.

I mean. Is it any wonder I don't get anything done?

Sigh.

World, I would like for you to finally meet...

Jackson Bradley Goad

Born Feb. 28, 2012 at 7:06 PM

6 pounds, 12 ounces

21.25 inches long

Making his debut via surprise C-section:



And instantly making us fall completely head-over-heels in love with him:


Because, um, how could we not?

(He pulled his hat down like this himself. The kid is obviously cooler than most.)

I'm working on his birth story -- and, of course, a lot more photos -- but please cut me a little slack as I'm...oh, just a little sleep-deprived. :) More to come!

So, here's the thing about plans...

That's me up there. Well, it's my belly. With my son in it.

(Whoa. There's a baby in my belly. Even at 38 weeks, it still feels a little surreal.)

Anyway: If you go by the floating-baby-countdown-thingie over there to the right, you'll see we have 14 days left. Two full weeks to go! Yay!

Except that floating baby is a big old liar head.

***

If you're one of the 12 people who read this blog "regularly," then you'll have noticed I haven't blogged much during this pregnancy. This is primarily because my day job, while thoroughly enjoyable, has been especially demanding during the entire run of the pregnancy. In fact, while in utero, this child has been on more trips than he likely will ever take again in the course of a year. (Seattle twice, Delaware twice, zip zap zip, plus he attended an NKOTB concert in there, too; don't ever say I don't expose my children to high culture).

And, I'll confess: Part of why these baby update blogs have been so few and far between is that there...hasn't been that much to report. I have been blessed with an extremely easy and uneventful pregnancy, and I've been reluctant to jinx it by giving voice to it. "Why, no, I'm not feeling nauseated, my feet aren't swollen, I haven't gained 60 pounds, I don't have gestational diabetes or high blood pressure and the baby is flourishing. Please, STRIKE ME, LIGHTNING!"

In fact, the only wrinkle came in the form of an ultrasound that one of my OBs scheduled as an afterthought. I'd asked if she thought it was strange that I'd only gained about 10 pounds in the first eight months of pregnancy, and while they only wanted me to gain 15 to begin with (I'm a curvy girl), she thought it best we just check on the baby's weight.

Thankfully, the baby's weight came in exactly at the 50th percentile, meaning he was exactly average for eight months in utero, and all seemed well. The doctors were a little concerned, however, that my amniotic fluid was a bit on the low side. "It's not so low that we're panicking," the doctor told us hastily, since I'm sure our faces read, "WE! ARE! PANICKING! OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR BABY?!" "But it's low enough that we just want to keep an eye on it."

Which is how we've found ourselves in the doctor's office twice a week for the last three weeks, having non-stress tests (where a fetal heart monitor does its monitor-y best to determine that our baby's heart is strong and responding appropriately when he moves) and ultrasounds (where, depending on the ultrasound tech, the levels are either low or high and we either freak out or feel reassured).

(Note to ultrasound techs everywhere: TELL THE PARENTS WHAT YOU'RE DOING AS YOU'RE DOING IT. And if you see something that concerns you, either tell them flat out or don't let the concern show on your face. I was about ready to drop-kick the tech one week who flew through the measurements but said nothing except, "When are you going over the results with the doctor? Because...you know...the sooner the better." WHAT IS THAT ABOUT?)

Anyway.

The upshot of three weeks of testing is this: Everything looks normal. The non-stress tests were all fine. The fluid level results from the ultrasounds are mixed -- they go up and down -- but never so low that the doctors were freaking out. Cervical exams showed I'm not dilated or effaced. We were well on our way to reaching our March 5 due date, and we were relieved that no one was talking induction anymore (we really wanted to let this baby come in his own time, unless there was a real medical reason to induce).

Then, on Friday, the doctor marched in and nonchalantly shot all that to hell.

"I've scheduled you for induction on Feb. 28th!" she said, with a smile, in lieu of "hello" or any other kind of normal greeting. "Your fluid levels are OK, but if they go down any more we might start to worry, so I decided that 39 weeks is far enough. Let's get this baby out of you!"

And then she left the room, leaving us holding an appointment card that said, "Induction: 2/28" and, hilariously, "If you're unable to keep this appointment, please cancel within 48 hours."

Yes, thank you, I'd like to cancel this induction and just keep my baby nice and toasty in my womb for another month or so. Laters!

So we gaped at each other and tried to come to terms with the fact that A) our baby was going to have a February birthday, B) anything we'd been planning to get accomplished in that last week before my due date was going to happen NOW or not at all, and, oh yes, C) OUR SON WAS GOING TO COME OUT OF ME IN ELEVEN DAYS.

(Well, now it's eight days. Oh my God.)

***

Things that are bumming me out about this turn of events:

1. First and foremost: I really wanted this baby to be born in his own time. I hate the idea of "forcing" nature's hand. If he's meant to be "overdue," then so be it. Let him pick his own birthday.



2. I'm sad that we'll miss the excitement of "Contractions! Is it time? Let's time them out. MY WATER BROKE! Where's the bag?! Where's the camera? Aahhhhhhhh!" and all those other things that movies have assured me are part of all births.



3. We have one less week to finish a few minor home improvement projects, and I have one less week to train my maternity leave coverage at work. I'm someone who needs to know things are done and done right before I relinquish control. (This never annoys my husband or co-workers, EVER.)

Things that, to my surprise, I'm actually liking about this whole scheduled induction thing:

1. It greatly appeals to the planner in me. Instead of telling family and friends to expect a call "sometime" that the time has come, everyone is well-informed and knows just where to be and when.



2. My husband's parents, who are coming in from out of town, won't have to camp out potentially for weeks, waiting for the baby's impending arrival.



3. T has gotten the necessary kick in the pants to finish the last touches to our humble little nursery so I can finally share some pictures with you all this week.



4. More than anything else, I know precisely when I'm going to get to hold my son for the first time, and watch his daddy stare at him in awe, and finally share his name with everyone who already loves him.

Eight days from now, our lives will change, ready or not, floating-baby-countdown-thingie be damned.

Don't ask me if we're ready. It's a silly question, the answer to which is "no" and "yes" and "maybe" and "DUH."

The nursery is done, the clothes are washed and put away, the bag is packed, the childbirth classes have been had (more on those later), the house is ready, the grandparents are alerted and the dogs...well, they're oblivious, but they've been informed of their new little brother's arrival, too.

Our lives are ready, by all outward appearances.

Let's do this thing.

***

One last plea from a first-time about-to-give-birther: If you were induced, how was your experience? I'd love to hear about it. How long did it take, how did you react to the Pitocin, etc. Lay it on me.

T speaks: "I thought 'gestate' was what a Southern boy said after a meal."

“Lawdy, Lawdy, Miss Bunny. I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies.”

Seriously, no stork?

So Shannon’s pregnant, you got that much, and it’s all magical, blah, blah, blah. But there’s a not so magical side to it as well. It’s the actual childbirth. You know how they say people don’t want to see how sausage is made? I’ve watched those videos and Jimmy Dean can be found on my breakfast plate every weekend. I’ve now been privy to birthing videos, thank you Science Channel. The Exorcist is no longer my scariest movie to watch; I laugh at it now.

I thought I had dutifully prepared myself for this by watching Mr. Mom 17 times and thought parenthood would be a comically satisfying experience, much like Michael Keaton’s performance. But they skipped the whole horrifying genesis of their wonderful family romps, the actual passage of a slimy, bluish, reddish, let’s say creature, through an obviously pained woman’s birth canal. And that’s NOT all. Seemingly needed body parts and other liquids also follow acting as the parsley and au jus sauce in our freshly made, Frankensteinian main course.

Apparently being a baby is akin to being a stuntman because the freshly squeezed child has a safety line to keep from actually falling. At least this is my understanding of gestation. Presumably after the safety line has failed in its attempt to keep the child entombed in the mother’s womb one of the educated throng of degreed persons will ask the father to cut said safety line. What good is the line at this point anyway and why would you keep faulty equipment? It’s a newborn for Pete’s sake.

Now, at this point, the video skips ahead and here is the newly proud mother and father and baby in tow. All laughing and smiling, happy. I can only assume they skip ahead to conceal the real horror show. The clean-up. Don’t think we can handle that Sci Channel? Thank you, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure the preceding horror show has prepared us. I just want to see the poor guy cursing and muttering that gets stuck with that job.

Oddly enough, none of these “pictures” are censored or blurred, but yet the bleeps come fast and furious. Momma’s got a potty mouth. This rite of passage might be fun for me because Shannon has such a large vocabulary and can unite words that would never seem to fit together. Ooh and she knows some German, I’m sure cursing at me in German will bring the nightmare altogether. My plan is to only reply in Spanish, Italian or French just for my own amusement.

The point I am trying to make here is that the Mrs. wants me in the delivery room to share in the aforementioned miracle of birth. My plan of handing out cigars to complete strangers has been thwarted. Smoking and newborn babies are sadly only in my dreams now. Being with her in spirit won’t be enough. I’m the designated hand holder and have been told that a small curtain will shield my eyes from the “miracle” that is occurring. C’mon, the curtain didn’t stop Dorothy. Well, a better analogy would be the curtain not stopping Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Dorothy got to meet a nice guy to help her get home; Vivian Leigh did a performance art version of woman giving birth while taking a shower.

There are also rules for my being there:

1. Take any and all abuse that is hurled my way with a smile on my face. No problem, I’m a Mets fan.
   


2. Don’t be funny. As this post shows, also not a problem. Honestly, let’s face facts: Childbirth has to be funny. Who hasn’t wanted to give a “Push em out, push em out, wwaaaayyy out?” “C’mon, it can’t feel THAT bad.” “What about me? My feet hurt, you at least get to lie down.” “Wow, you really need to do something with your hair.” “I bet my mom didn’t whine this much.” “Are these stirrups regulation size?” “I think you’re PULLING.” “Honey, I lost my ruler. How else I am supposed to measure how far apart the contractions are?” “Episioto-ME? No, episioto-YOU.” “No, I thought you said you DIDN’T want the epidural.” “C- section? Can’t we upgrade to a B?” And so on and so forth.


3. Don’t pass out. That’s a rule. Do my best, honey. Just have to make sure I don’t peek in the baby theatre.
   


4. Have her mom on deck in case I cannot fulfill the above duties. Not a big request, but I put it here because there’s a caveat. Part two of this rule is to explain to her mother that she will hear all sorts of new and exciting words that she has never heard her daughter utter. So I get to walk out and forewarn her mother that Shannon has been replaced by Joe Pesci. Ironically, they’re both Italian and 5’3”.

**Mushy part warning**

Obviously, I’m joking about all of this. I’m beyond excited for what’s next and can’t wait for the experience. I joke about all the preceding because it will lead to my favorite part. Of course, I cannot wait to see my child for the first time—well, more so second time, after they’ve cleaned him up.

The moment I cannot wait for, though, is after the whole “ordeal” is over and it’s just Shannon and myself. I lean forward and place my forehead to hers and say “You done good, kiddo."

Spontaneous life-changing decisions

(I'm going to ignore the fact that I haven't posted anything for more than a month. I'm already thoroughly disappointed in myself that I haven't used this blog as a way to document my pregnancy. But work is crazy, the holidays are nuts -- you all get it, right? Sigh. OK, moving on.)

When we found out we were expecting, after we did the whole "OMG!" tearful hug, dance-around-the-room, "I can't believe we're going to be mama and daddy!" thing, T and I had a serious talk.

Decisions needed to be made.

Where would the baby's room go?

Breast milk or formula?

Which college football team will this baby be forced to root for?

You know. The really important stuff.

And somewhere in and around deciding that, although we're not planning to force our child to love the University of Virginia like Daddy, we are NOT raising an Ohio State fan, we decided we were not going to find out the gender.

"There are so few true surprises in life," T said convincingly, as I was kind of wavering back and forth. "You know: We're in the delivery room. You're screaming. I'm telling you to suck it up. And the doctor says -- OW."

(At this point I hit him. Obviously.)

His point, among the sarcasm: That moment, when the doctor says "It's a girl!" or "It's a boy!" is one of the only real surprises left in life. Why would we want to deprive ourselves of that?

It made sense.

So. It was settled. We informed everyone of this decision shortly after announcing Baby G's impending birth, and were met with mixed reactions. Most folks were excited about our more traditional approach; our parents were annoyed they had to wait to buy gender-appropriate toys and booties.

But really, it didn't change much from our perspective. I'm not a fan of pink, so the nursery was always going to be blue, anyway. Our son would have stuffed animals; our daughter would learn to play catch. This was not the end of the world.

During our 20-week ultrasound, everything went as planned. We confidently answered "No!" when the ultrasound tech asked if we wanted to know the gender, and we got to see Squirmy doing his happy, squirmy thing on screen all the same. All was well. When the tech informed us that our child was stubborn (SHOCKER) and didn't want to show his/her face, meaning we'd need a follow-up ultrasound in a few weeks to get those measurements, we didn't bat an eye. Easy peasy.

When that 22-week ultrasound rolled around, the plan was on track. Goop on the belly, Squirmy squirming, ready to roll.

Except this time, when the (new) tech asked us if we wanted to know the gender, something weird happened.

I looked at T, we made eye contact and said, in unison, "Yes!"

Um, what?

We hadn't discussed this change of plan. Our minds were made up. No one was wavering on the way into the doctor's office.

Apparently 9+ years of marriage means your brains are melded to the point where you make spontaneous, life-changing decisions AT THE SAME TIME.

While we were still reeling from this apparent simultanously 180-degree turn, the ultrasound tech said, casually, "Oh. OK. It's a boy."

...

Just like that.

No big deal.

A boy.

A BOY.

BOY!!

We stared at her in disbelief. (For some reason, we'd both become convinced we were going to have a girl.)

Our shock must have been evident, because she felt she needed to drive the point home by creating this picture, with an arrow conveniently pointing to the evidence at hand (click to enlarge):


(She also wrote it in block letters at the top left, with three exclamation points, in case we STILL hadn't wrapped our brains around it after leaving the office. Smartass.)

I looked at T. He looked at me. We stared at the tech. She snorted. We cried. And grinned. And laughed. And asked, "Are you sure?" about five million times.

(We would have reacted this way if it'd been a girl, too, you know. We are emotional schmoes, regardless of gender.)

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So today, as I arrive at 31 weeks (!!) please allow me to scream from the rooftops: WE ARE HAVING A SON!!

We are so incredibly thrilled.

I've been feeling great, aside from some low back pain (this boy -- BOY! -- loves to lay looooow in my belly, and apparently stand on my spine) and massive heartburn (duh) and occasional weepiness-interspersed-with-yelling-for-no-reason (triple duh). The child is moving around all over the place and has perfected the one-two punch maneuver, in addition to the somersault.

Life is good.

I have many other things to share, but this post is long enough. For now, let me leave you with a few more pictures of our boy.

First, a profile shot:



Are you as bad at deciphering ultrasound photos as I am? Here's a labeled version; he's facing left (click to enlarge):



And yes, that's his leg extending straight out over his head in the shot above. He is in this position for every.single.ultrasound. I tell T this means he's going to be a ballet dancer. He prefers to think "kicker for the NFL." :)

Profile shot number two, in which T swears there's a pretzel floating around with the child:



And finally...the bottoms of both of his feet. I mean... COME ON.

The tiniest ballerina

As is often the case these days, my niece was at my parents' house when I called last week. At some point during our conversation, my mother or father will inevitably ask her if she wants to talk to "Auntie Shan."

(She calls me Auntie Shan. Not "Shannon" or "Aunt Shannon." "Auntie Shan." HOW CUTE IS THAT?)

And because she is three and has a very short attention span, she will grab the phone and we'll have a very short and mostly one-sided conversation wherein she tells me what she's eating and other three-year-old conversation topics until she's tired of me and she says, "OK, thanks for calling Auntie Shan, bye bye!" and hangs up on me, usually in mid-sentence.

I adore her. :)

The news du jour during our most recent call? "I start dancing, Auntie Shan!" And this time she didn't mean in my parents' kitchen.



Seems our little ball of energy is channeling her inner fire into a ballet class for tiny wee ones at the local health club.

Since she is three and going through the normal orneriness that goes along with that age, it was a toss-up: She'd either be super into it, or she'd be that kid in the corner jumping off a pile of mats while the teacher is leading the rest of the class in a round of plies.

Fortunately, she chose the former.




(They have to wear special outfits and shoes, and wear their hair in buns. Can you even stand the cute?)

No word yet on whether or not my brother is becoming a "Dance Mom." I'm betting it's only a matter of time.

Miss Understanding

Our internet service was down all day Saturday.

Because we have internet-based phone service, that was out all day Saturday, too. But since we both have cell phones that worked perfectly well, we weren't really that concerned about it. Plus, we knew we could check our voicemail once the service came back on, AND our phone service offers a voicemail transcript email service as well. We were totally covered.

When the service was restored, we checked our voicemail and listened to this message from Tommy's dad, who was calling from the Virginia Tech football game:

"Hi Tommy, this is your daddy. I'm just giving you a call.

How 'bout those Cavaliers? How 'bout those Hokies?

Talk to you later. Bye, I love you. ...how do I close this thing?"

(That last bit was him figuring out how to hang up the cell phone. Hee.)

And when we received the email transcript of this missed message? Here is what THAT said:

"Hi Tommy, this is your daddy. I'm just giving you a call.

Will you go hear little ears for the oldies?

Talk to you later. Bye, I love you. Supposedly."

Bahahahaaaaaa.

Wisdom

I think maybe it comes from being an only child for so long before my brother was born.

I've always been bossy, and I've always known what I wanted.

In first grade, Ms. Yoder asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Every other girl said either "nurse" or "teacher." I said "actress."

When I was 10, my best friend Pam and I wrote out our life plans. (We were extremely ambitious -- or deluded -- for 10 year olds.) They went something like this:

1. Graduate from college.


2. Become zoologists or veterinarians. (I'm not convinced we understood that numbers 1 and 2 were related. We just knew we were supposed to go to college for some reason.)


3. Meet and marry handsome men (professions optional) in a double wedding ceremony (obviously).


4. Move to Africa, so we could study jungle animals. (We had no idea what this entailed, but I'm pretty sure I was envisioning living in a zoo that someone else would maintain for us while we got to pet the tigers whenever we wanted. That sounds awesome, doesn't it?)


5. Have kids on the same day (obviously).

And...that's where it ended. Not surprisingly, our life plan closely resembled a fairy tale -- there were no actual details. Our husbands had no discernable qualities other than being handsome and being willing to put up with our propensity for living with elephants, and there was zero concern for what everyday life would be like. Would any of us know how to cook? Who would pay us to do this ridiculous job? Who cares? Wheee!! Let's go play Barbies now.

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My life today? It's not a fairy tale.

We live in Ohio.

There are no tigers.

I write for a living instead of gracing the stage on Broadway or living a constant African safari.

My husband is handsome, but that's where his resemblance to my 10-year-old fantasy husband ends.

Our life is so much better than I was ever even able to dream it.

About 10 years and two months ago, my now-husband took my hand and led me into the bedroom of the house we'd just purchased together.

With a tell-tale small white box in his hand, he got down on one knee and said, "Baby, I just want to ask you one question." As I gasped and started getting teary, he looked up at me and continued, "Would accept these earrings for your birthday, and then help me up off the floor? My knee hurts."

Sneaky and mean. I forgot to put that on my list of husband pre-requisites.

10 years ago today, he got down on one knee again, with another white box in his hand, and he asked me for real. He claims I took forever to answer. I was just making sure there was actually a ring in there this time.

And then, exactly one year later, we did this:




And although we of course had plans for our life together, I don't think I ever really thought about what day-to-day life would be like.

How much football there would be.

How little cooking I would do.

How many times we'd argue.

How much hard stuff we'd have to endure and work through and somehow come out on the other side of.

And how not once, not even once, would I consider my life with anyone else.

**********************************************************

When I think about the last nine years, I cannot believe we're the same two people in those pictures up there.

Together, we have grown calmer. We have gotten saner. We have weathered anger and sorrow and boredom and hilarity.

We have grown up. We have grown together. We have become SO MUCH BETTER.

This husband of mine...I wish I could adequately explain how special he is. Not many people know him the way I do; he's quiet and keeps to himself quite a bit, and he saves the best parts of himself for those who know him best.

I could write paragraphs and pages about the times he's built me up when I felt completely worthless, and the times he's held me as I cried and felt utterly hopeless. About how his faith has saved me (and us) more times than I can count. About his amazing, unfaltering belief in me that leaves me staggered and awed.

All those things are true.

But I'd rather tell you about this morning, when he woke me up at 5 a.m. to watch me read a note he'd written for our anniversary, watching me, eyes smiling as I got to the parts that made me laugh uncontrollably. (It takes a lot to make me belly laugh when I can barely see out of both eyes.)

This man wrote me three pages explaining how much he loves the "mundanity" of our lives. The way I never let him finish singing a song. The way I constantly drop food on my boobs. The way I spend days in my pajama pants that say "Big Money" all over them.

The fact that, in just five and a half months, we'll be calling ourselves Mama and Daddy. (Oh...I cannot tell you how just the thought of that makes me just shiver. And cry. Both in a good way.)

This man, this man I married. Our marriage. It's imperfect and weird and often smelly and mostly loud and occasionally rocky and sometimes so calm it might look completely boring.

I love it and him so much I feel my heart is exploding. (Probably all over my boobs.)

**********************************************************

There's no way to adequately say how much, but baby: I love you. This year is going to be epic and scary and insane and sleep-deprived. I cannot wait to do it all with you.

Happy anniversary.

Weeks 15-17: STAY OUT OF MY PREGNANT WAY. (And good stuff, too.)

Want the whole baby scoop? See all previous posts here.

******************

First things first: It's been a few weeks since I last posted, let alone gave some kind of baby update. You know. Life. Work. Lots and lots of work. My day job is rewarding but demanding, and it's been especially demanding of late. Something has to give, and unfortunately, this blog is usually the first thing to go. It cannot be helped. I'm sorry. (And also sorry that, as a result, this post will be kind of long.)

And that's about all the apologizing you'll get out of me because the theme for the last few weeks has been Laugh Cry About Nothing Yell About Something Stupid PREGNANT SHANNON SMASH Cry More Laugh Hysterically Rinse Lather Repeat.

In other words: Moody.

OK, let's just say it: BITCHY.

My husband looooooooooves this part of pregnancy.

:)

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of it; I am. But to some extent it feels like I just can't...control it? To me, it feels like PMS turned up to 11. In any case, I am on the verge of tears and/or yelling all.the.time and it is super fun for all of us.

However, physically? I'm feeling really, really...good! So good, in fact, that it's been a little unnerving. I commented to my mother a week or so ago that I kind of miss the nausea and constant exhaustion because at least that let me know stuff was happening. Then that mostly went away, and I felt mostly normal (well, except for the aforementioned Exorcist Bitchfacedness), and I kind of missed it.

(Only I could find a way to complain about NOT feeling like I'm going to puke. Therapy, I need it.)

Only physical complaint: I've now hit the inevitable point where I need to pee every 5.3 seconds. As Two Pretzels will tell you, I find this INCREDIBLY annoying. (I hate stopping what I'm doing to pee; I don't like to be interrupted.)

All right. Enough about the (very inconsequential) negative. On to the positive!

I AM FEELING THE BABY MOVE.

This actually started around the end of Week 14. It felt like something was tickling me from the inside. My thoughts:

• There is absolutely no way I'm feeling the baby move this early.


• I'm a big girl; big girls don't feel movement this early.


• I just have really weird gas.

When I had that really weird gas around the same times every day for a week and a half, I finally gave in and accepted that either A) I am the gassiest human being on the planet (still debatable) or B) OMG I AM FEELING THE BABY MOVE.

Allow me to state the obvious and say this is The Coolest Thing Ever, and knowing that it will only get stronger and cooler is, well, really really cool.
(The baby has stolen my vocabulary, apparently. And my thesaurus. Sticky in-utero fingers.)

For me, this is making the pregnancy seem really, truly real. There is a person in there, and he or she is tickling me. Well, more likely punching me, but his or her fists are teeny-weeny, so it's more like fist smashes, but from a tiny soft angel. Angel Smashes. Yes.

And speaking of teeny-weeny, since we last spoke, Angel Smash has breezed right past the navel orange and avocado and is now the size of...an onion! Although you must picture an onion that's about five or so inches long, which, to me, seems like an awfully big onion. But whatever.

Allow me a moment for reflection: I cannot believe we're almost halfway there. It seems like a dream. On one hand, it feels like we've known about this pregnancy FOREVER (T asks me daily, "Is it time for the baby to be born YET?" We're excited). On the other hand, there's still SO much to do, that I'm actually happy we still have 5.5 months to go.

Thankfully (happily, gratefully), I'm now on vacation, so we'll be doing a lot of things over the next two weeks:

• Clearing out the eventual nursery (which is now, as my mother puts it, our "Employees Only" room


• Checking out childcare options in our area


• Finding out what kind of classes are available at the hospital we're using


• Figuring out what furniture and other big items we need


• Registering for baby stuff


• Talking about names (but still not sharing any, so don't get excited)


• NOT finding out the gender

We do have our 20-week ultrasound next Friday (not quite 20 weeks, but close, and I'll be across the country during week 20), and I can't wait to see Kicky Magoo again. I don't even care that I'll have to turn away at some point: I just love seeing him or her thriving in there. It will never get old.

Next week, I'll give you my lament about finding maternity clothes for the, um, more voluptuous expectant mother. Hint: You should really like looking as if you're on safari. At least that's what clothes manufacturers seem to think.

Entertain me.

I don't have an iPad.

But my generous little brother is lending me his for a few upcoming business trips, so I can see how I dig it.

So, here's what I need from you experienced 'padders:

• Which (preferably free) apps will keep me entertained on a six-hour flight to Seattle?



• Which are your favorites?



• Which ones are waaaaay over-hyped and not worth the time/money?

I like doodley-type apps, puzzle-type games, simple games like Angry Birds (which I do already have), word games, etc. But, I'm willing to give pretty much anything a look if you think it's a must-have.

Clue me in!

Baby Q&A: Week 14

Want the whole baby scoop? See all previous posts here.

******************

So, this week's theme is thus:

No, our child is not forming a People's Justice League from within the womb (although that would be kind of awesome). He or she (according to "What to Expect When You're Expecting," that is) is now, in Week 14, about the size of a clenched fist.

I shared this factoid with T the other day, and we both were rather freaked out that our baby is still so tiny. Even though I'm not really showing yet, we still forget often how teeny-weeny he or she really still is. For whatever reason, we just envision our bambino as a full-term newborn and it kind of flips us out to remember we're still dealing with someone who's just a few inches long.

So, how are you feeling about pregnancy in this, the 14th week?
Honestly? It's still a little weird. Since I'm not showing, really, and I can't feel movement yet, it often feels a little like, "Helloooooo, baby...anyone in there?" I told T it almost feels like the baby lives in the ultrasound machine, and we have to go to the doctor's office to visit him or her. :)

Does this mean your nausea and extreme exhaustion is waning?
Why, yes -- yes it does. I still have my moments with both -- vegetables still kind of gross me out -- but for the most part, my appetite has returned to normal, and I can go most days without a nap.

The biggest difference I'm noticing as I head into the second trimester is that I'm no longer just eating because I know I have to; I'm actually eating because things sound and taste good again. This is both good and bad: I'm finding it harder to eat what I should because I'm craving starchy snacky food. I think this'll be my biggest challenge in the foreseeable future.

Um, are you at least taking a multi-vitamin so your baby has things like feet and brain cells?
YES, smarty-pants. I'm not completely ignorant to the ways of nutrition. And I am trying really hard to get a balanced diet full of fruits and veggies and Omega-3s and whatnot. I just have a day here and there where all I want is Captain Crunch cereal. BACK OFF.

O...kay. This may be a good time to ask if you're experiencing any of the famed pregnancy moodiness of late?
What? I'm sorry, I was over here crying and couldn't hear your question.

So...yeah. I am finding myself rather moody (or, as T so lovingly says, "moodier than usual"). About twice a week (and sometimes more), I'll find myself totally bummed out about something, real or imagined (often the latter), and will be utterly inconsolable for an hour or so. T, bless him, is learning how to navigate these mood swings -- namely, to hug me, pat me on the back and say, "I know, baby. But it'll be OK."

(He is less good at navigating my sudden outbursts of groundless anger that I, naturally, direct right at him. Well, why DID he load the dishwasher THAT WAY, anyway?! I mean, really.)

How are the dogs handling all of this? Do they know you're pregnant?
Mmm...not really. As I've told a few people, our dogs are far too self-involved to notice. We're not seeing any overprotectiveness or gentleness that I've heard others talk about. Essentially they just want to make sure they get fed, and occasionally they will deign to snuggle with me, but no more than usual. It'll be interesting to see if this changes in the next six months.

Have you told folks at work yet?
Yes -- unfortunately I had to clue them in quite early, as I had to travel for work in my 8th week and I knew it would affect things somewhat. I have two more out-of-town trips planned for my fifth month (with my doctors' full OK, of course), so I'm glad my co-workers can be in the loop and understand when I want to crash at the hotel after work vs. whooping it up at happy hour. (And they do; I have awesome co-workers.)

OK, last question: What's the best piece of advice you've received so far?
Hands down: Just relax. Relax and enjoy pregnancy for what it is, whatever it is for you. Don't worry too much about everyone else's advice, listen to your doctor, do what feels right for you. I am trying to take all of this to heart and not stress out, although it's hard (I am a fretter by nature).

More to come!

Exaggerated crises

Our air conditioning is out.

I don't really understand the particulars, but essentially it just keeps running and running and running but no cold air (or any air, period) is coming through the vents.

It needs some serious repair, that much is evident. But we'd decided to "ride it out" since it's basically fall, and we need a host of other more immediate expensive things in preparation for a March baby (including, but not limited to, a new washer, new windows and propane for, y'know, heat for the winter).

The Weather Channel says it is 87 degrees at my house, and it feels like 92. I don't really understand heat indexes (indices?) but my own pregnant ass is telling me that 92 is a joke and it is HOT AS BALLS in my house.

(Note: This is a technical term used by meterologists. Don't look it up. Just trust me.)

So: Windows are open, fan is on, conference calls are being had while I'm sweatin' (although, sadly, not to the oldies). But I FEEL LIKE I'M DYING.

(Am I dying? Most decidedly not. Am I incredibly spoiled because many people who aren't even in third-world countries only get to experience A/C when they go to the supermarket? Most definitely. But I'm hot RIGHT NOW and therefore need a solution.)

Things I am considering to cool off after work:

• Breaking into the (now closed for the winter -- WHY?!) county pool and having a one-woman pool party until the cops arrest me for trespassing


• Taking a cold shower and then lying on the bed, spread-eagled and whimpering


• Whining until someone buys me ice cream and then feeds it to me


• Constructing a suit out of ice cube-filled Ziploc bags and parading through my neighborhood wearing nothing else


• Crying, allowing my tears to lower my body temperature


• Getting the dogs to fan me with palm fronds (will need to invent prosthetic thumbs)

If anyone has less humiliating suggestions (that don't involve telling me to just get over myself, because I know, OK?), please lay 'em on me.

We don't forget or leave behind; we grow.

I’ve spent a lot of my adult life defending our relationship with our dogs.

“They aren’t kids, you know.”

"They’re JUST ANIMALS.”

Mmhmm. Thank you, well-meaning friends and relatives.

Listen, I get it. Dogs ≠ children. They can’t take care of us when we’re old, they can’t tell us what they’re thinking, we’ll never watch them grow up and leave the nest and become doctors and lawyers and whatever else.

But, do you know how they are EXACTLY like children?

They’re mischievous, they love to play and they can make a toy out of ANYthing.

They do the craziest things that make us laugh until we pee our pants (sometimes literally).

They poop and puke in the most inconvenient places, at the most inconvenient times.

They put EVERYTHING in their mouths.

They love to snuggle.

They’re completely dependent on us for food, water, shelter, discipline, structure, care and love.

And they somehow know the exact moment we need a quiet, warm presence next to us, comforting us.

****************

This morning (Tuesday), I took Ozzie to the vet – the time has come in our young dog’s life to have his, ah, equipment adjusted, shall we say.

And although I didn’t strap him into a car seat, and he was wearing a leash instead of a uniform, and he was, well, going to get the boys chopped off instead of learning about sharing and cooperation, I couldn’t help but compare the experience to my friends who’ve been dropping off their little ones at school this week.

He was a trooper in the car, although he hasn’t had many car rides in his young life. He sat quietly, looking all around, as I told him what a good boy he was being and chattered on about how everything would be fine, and we’d pick him up tomorrow, and everything would be as good as new.

When we got to the vet’s office, he sprang from the car and skipped up the sidewalk and through the front door with his usual joyful lightness, greeting everyone enthusiastically in the lobby, nubbin tail (and entire backside) wiggling at top speed.

It wasn’t until the vet tech took the leash from me, and he turned back and looked at me, confused, that he realized something was up. Up to now, he’d been on an adventure with his mama, in a car with his mama, meeting strangers with his mama. His dark brown eyes looked concerned.

"…Mama?"

I told him he was a good boy, and it was OK, and then he disappeared into the examination room while I confirmed his pick-up time with the front desk.

And then I walked outside, a lump in my throat, and got in my car, feeling kind of oddly empty and more than a little guilty. (Seriously, how do parents of human babies DO this?? You have my eternal kudos.)

I called the vet just after noon, and was told he was in recovery, doing just fine, we can pick him up tomorrow as scheduled. After all, it’s an incredibly low-risk and routine surgery for a male dog.

But tonight, as it’s just T and Murray and me sitting here on the couch… Our family has a little hole in it. Until tomorrow, when it can be the four of us again.

(These are the moments when I feel the losses of our other beloved pets the most.)

****************

Now that we’re expecting our own little HUMAN baby, we’ve started talking a bit about how our relationship to our dogs will inevitably change. They won’t be the center of our world anymore. They’ll have to share us, bigtime, with someone who’s even more dependent on us, who will get most of our snuggles and pats and coos, who will always get to eat before they do.

But today was a good reminder that they are just as much a part of our family as they always were, and always will be. They won’t be squeezed out or shoved to the side as our family grows. They’ll be right in there with us, growing too.

Baby Q&A: Week 13

So, it seems it’s now my turn to continue our bloggy tradition of pregnancy-related Q&As, and I am more than happy to oblige. Although my day job makes it hard to blog regularly (clearly), I’m going to do my best to A) make these updates weekly, and B) not let my blog become ALL about the bambino.

This I solemnly vow to you. Or, you know, let’s see how things go.

****

So, you’re pregnant!
Um, yeah – I think we’ve covered that.

Oh, sorry. So…how far along are you?
I am 13 weeks today! Just at the very end of the first trimester. According to a variety of sources, our baby is about the size of a peach this week.

(I'd love to be the one assigning visual imagery to fetus size. "This week your baby is the size of a football, if it was deflated and rolled into a tiny coil!" Clearly I missed my calling.)

How have you been feeling?
I’ve been very lucky so far – although I’ve had kind of a mild, pervasive queasiness throughout the first trimester, it HAS been very mild, and I only threw up once. Otherwise, I’ve just been incredibly exhausted – I’ve been taking lots and lots of naps. (Often on the weekends I’d only wake up to eat.)

But, overall, I’ve been feeling pretty good! As my grandma said, "Pregnancy agrees with me." :)

Any cravings or aversions?
No cravings to speak of – certainly not the pickles-and-ice-cream combo that everyone seems to think is SO HILARIOUS. I don’t really like the smell of meat, although I haven’t had any problems eating it.

Actually, vegetables have been the only thing that have turned my stomach while I’m eating them. Obviously I can’t get away with not eating veggies, so there’s been many a time when I’ve forced myself to chew, chew, swallow, grimace my way through a plate of spinach or pile of green beans. Blech.

And…when are you due again? You started out saying March 5 and now your header just says “March.” What gives?
Yeah, apparently my due date depends on who you ask. My doctors have told us both March 1 and March 5, and they keep changing their minds. Pretty much every due date calculator we’ve tried says March 5, because my cycle tends to be 32 days instead of 28. We try to tell the doctors this, and some of them hear us and some don’t (they also say we’re measuring a little ahead of the March 5 date). So the “official” due date is March 1, but we think it’s a little later.

Do we really care this much? Um, no. (Although March 5 is T’s birthday—and my grandpa’s birthday—so that makes it kind of cool.) And the likelihood of the baby being born on its due date is slim anyway. It’s just annoying that the doctors can’t get on the same page and listen to us.

Anyway. This is why we’re just going with “March” at this point.

How does T feel about everything?
He would probably roll his eyes at my choice of words, but I would describe him as “over-the-moon excited.” I’ll go on and on about this more in a future post, but: For a man who’s never been around many little kids, he is just made to be a daddy. (Watching him play with my niece is just the best thing ever.)

As far as the actual pregnancy goes, he is incredibly doting and attentive to me, slightly overprotective (although he claims this is because I’m incredibly clumsy; there may be some truth to this) and completely involved. I think he knows more about pregnancy and childbirth than I do at this point (he’s a researcher). I could not ask for a better partner in all of this.

OK, let’s hit the top three questions everyone is asking you right now:

1. Are you going to find out the gender? We’re still debating this, but we’ve pretty much decided we are NOT going to find out the gender until the baby’s born. As T says, “There are so few true surprises in life, and one of the big ones is being in the delivery room, and hearing the doctor say, ‘It’s a ____!’ Why would we deprive ourselves of that?” Well said, husband. I love the idea of finding out the same day we meet him or her. So far people are either really annoyed by this (as our neighbor said, “I need to know whether to buy regular camo or pink camo!” Oh, dear Lord…) or totally supportive.
   



2. What names are you thinking about? So…that’s the other thing. Regardless of whether or not we find out the gender ahead of time, we will not be sharing our potential names. This is partly because we don’t want any negative comments from the peanut gallery (however well-meaning), and partly because we like the idea of keeping that as something that’s just ours until the day. I’m sure this will be another controversial decision, but it’s ours to make – so there.
   



3. Why did you wait so long to have kids? Hoo boy. We are hearing this a lot right now. I will probably write more about this at a later time, but for right now I’ll just say two things: A) We are 34 and 36, not 50, and B) this baby is coming along at the exact right time for US. And we are incredibly happy, excited, thrilled and grateful for this blessing.
   

So…this is getting kind of long. How ‘bout you end this week by telling us a random fact about your pregnancy?
All righty then. Random fact: I found my first gray hair EVER during my 9th week of pregnancy. True story. You’d better believe I will lord that over our future child when he or she is old enough to tease about those things.

Just a final note: Thank you all for all your wonderful comments and for sharing our excitement the way you have been. I could not ask for a more supportive network, and I can’t wait to pick your mommy brains, both during this pregnancy and once the little (appropriately camouflaged) bundle arrives!

Conversations with T

We're finishing our basement.

The other day, I returned home from work and T greeted me in the driveway.

T: Hi. So, you're a writer: Which sounds worse, "I hate something" or "I loathe something"?

Me: Um...I guess hate is probably overused, so "loathe" would probably get your point across more strongly.

T: OK, cool. I LOATHE the paint color you picked out for the spare bedroom.

:)

I love him.

(And yes, the color is staying, despite his LOATHING. Lucky for me, he'd already finished painting by the time he figured out how much he hated it. I win!)

P.S.: Thank you all so much for sharing in our baby excitement! I swear this weekend I will write more. This week has been insane. Love y'all.

We're getting a new roommate.

A tiny, squishy-faced roommate.

Whose breath smells like rainbows.

And who's guaranteed to completely turn our lives upside-down...

(Waving hello.)

...in the very, very best kind of way.

ETA: March 5, 2012

Our hearts are full to bursting.

More to come. Much, much more to come.

:)

There are friends, and then there are friends. (Alternate title: Happy birthday)

(Before I start I want to say: I don't think it's an actual birthday cake, but how great is this cupcake caterpillar?? I wuv him. Anyway. Pretend he's a birthday cake. 'Kay?)

Friendship is funny.

When I met Kylee (of Two Pretzels) fame, she was a college freshman with a mass of reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, adorable clothes and a giant smile. I was going through a massive transition in my life, and she was one of the first friendly faces I'd seen in a loooong time. I'm sure we weren't friends instantaneously, but it felt like it.

What I remember most about the early days of our friendship is that we laughed.a.LOT. We co-edited our college newspaper, and every week we were up until 3 a.m., trying to meet our deadline, editing hopelessly unreadable articles from our columnists and singing Sting songs in ridiculous accents while our friends brought us Taco Bell.

Our office was at the very tippity-top of the oldest building on campus, and the only bathroom in the entire building was in the basement, only accessible by traversing three flights of stairs through a pitch-black building. We only braved the trip as a pair, taking turns clutching one another and clutching a gigantic umbrella that we wielded against potential predators. (I still have that umbrella. It's a formidable weapon.) Those are still my favorite memories of college, bar none.

And then I graduated. She transferred. We emailed all the time, but we rarely saw one another. We moved in with our respective boyfriends. Then we married them. Then she moved to Mexico.

Through all of life's changes, this was a constant: Kylee was as close as an email or an instant message (we did a lot of the latter in pre-texting days). And she was really THERE. She is not a friend who always leads in with "GUESS what HAPPENED to ME, OMG, my drama my drama my drama." She wants to know what's happening with you. Not only that, she actually CARES, AND she remembers the details of what you told her last time.

She thinks about you when you're not in constant contact.

She prays for you.

When you get sick, she will recite a poem to you about germs in tiny bowling shoes.

She will be outraged with you. She will also tell you when you are being unreasonable. :)

She has an amazing, full, wonderful life. She's a wife and mother and daughter and sister and, I swear, probably has more friends than me and every other friend of mine combined...but you'd never know it to talk to her. That doesn't sound right; what I mean is: Kylee makes you feel IMPORTANT. As though she has all the time in the world to listen to YOU and think about how to help with whatever you're going through. I'm here to say that I truly have no idea how she does that. It is truly a gift.

Today is her birthday. She is, like me, a Leo, so I know she loves her birthday and being the center of attention. :) (That's something else that's amazing about her: She loves to be the focus of the room, but she makes sure you're the focus, too. How does she do that? I have no idea.)

This has been an especially challenging year for me, both professionally and personally. And while I have an amazing husband, supportive family and wonderful friends, I'd be lying if I didn't attribute a big part of the fact that I'm still standing here to my friend, this birthday girl.

Kylee, I want to tell you: I CHERISH you as my friend. You inspire me for many reasons, in many different parts of my life, but I especially want you to know that you inspire me to be a better friend. There is really just no one -- in my life, in LIFE -- quite like you. You deserve every little bit of happiness that can be squeezed out of one life, and I hope that today, you get as much as you can of that. With your C and your girls and your Ferg, I know you will. :)

Thank you for being my friend -- for the past 14 years and until we're old and can't remember who we are anymore. I absolutely love you to pieces!

Just because...

Just because you've never seen an acorn finger hat...

...doesn't mean you won't want to hug this one.

(Cozy Memories)

Just because I rave about sauteed vegetables...

...doesn't mean I wouldn't throw them in the river if you handed me these nachos.

Just because Dolly Parton is pretty much a caricature...

...doesn't mean she isn't also freaking adorable.

Just because you don't use spell check...

...doesn't mean you shouldn't just know how to spell "didn't" off the top of your head (for the love).

Just because things are on the internet...

...doesn't mean they should be. (Click at your own risk. No, really.)

Just because it's cheesy...

...doesn't mean it isn't also capital-A Awesome.

Just because Goodfellas came out more than 20 years ago...

...doesn't mean it's still not the best movie of all time. (After Clue, of course.)

(GapingVoid.com)

(Sorry, Mom.)

"Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn't mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar." -Edward R. Murrow


Just because I have no one to give these cards to...

...doesn't mean I'm not still buying 50 of them and wallpapering my house with them.

Just because I haven't written here in almost a month, and I still haven't posted about 45,000 pictures of things like food I've grown, crafts I've made and me seeing NKOTB live in concert (oh, yes I did)...

...doesn't mean you should give up hope.

Please don't leave me.

At least not until we eat some nachos.