Happy New Year!

Huzzah! Can you believe a new year is beginning tomorrow? Here, in no particular order, is a picture essay of all the things we did in 2009 that we neglected to blog about entirely. Just to ensure we meet our cute requirements, we'll make it a Bug Sandwich:

We went to the Superbowl party with this treat.

It's no Ace of Cakes, but I'm pretty proud of it.

We went sledding. (Pre-Floyd, of course.)

Remember Survivors at the Summit? We made it!

(Which wasn't hard for me, since I took the tram. Go Paddy!)

Paddy scouted.

I grew to an enormous size.

(I got even bigger, believe it or not. This is 37 weeks, and we went to 41.)

Paddy taught Lupe to do her chores.

Paddy helped me choose my eyebrow shape from these stylish guides.

On his birthday, Paddy thought.

 Bug enjoyed her first ever bottle.

Our families came to see Bug be blessed.

She got tired of having her picture taken.

She liked 2009. So did we.

I heard the sense of smell is most tied to memory

Last Valentine's Day, Schmoopsie thoughtfully gave me some Mary Kay products as a gift. I used them for several weeks, and then decided that if pregnancy hormones were going to mess up my skin anyway, I may as well save the Mary Kay stuff for later.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I was doing a lot of puking in the weeks after Valentine's Day.

I broke out the Mary Kay stuff the other day. It's still wonderful. But the scent of it makes me feel instantly nauseated. It seems the size of my hips is not the only present left from pregnancy.

The year my mother hated Christmas

Most people I know really like Christmas. All important spiritual implications aside, the decorations are sparkly and the food smells good. I really like Christmas, too, and I like decorating my house. Like most newlyweds, Sweetie Pie and I inherited a few used decorations made out of felt at old Relief Society activities. Beyond that, we have a hodge-podge of cheap decorations placed with love and the hope that it feels like Christmas.


For as long as he can remember, Paddy's family has purchased their Christmas trees from the same people. We call them the Christmas Tree People, which I think is fitting if not overly creative, and we take them hot chocolate every time we go. The first year we were married, we took our tiny tree back to our tiny apartment strapped to our Honda Civic. The tree trunk was too skinny to stand upright in the stand, so Schmoopsie propped it up with cardboard and duct tape. We called it the Charlie Brown tree, and it's my favorite tree ever.

There are a million ways to decorate a Christmas tree, of course. We are not themey-type tree people, not that there's anything wrong with that. I've seen some lovely trees with color-coded lights and ornaments.

(Ok, I have to admit something here. Go ahead and call me a Scrooge, but can I just get it off my chest that I hate the Festival of Trees? It's a great cause and all and I've been paid by Primary Children's Hospital so maybe I have Festival money in my bank account right now--though it's unlikely given the amount of end of the year bills we've just paid, not that that's the point-- but I just don't like it. I think it has to do with a trip to the Festival in the 3rd grade that sort of scarred me. So bah hum bug.)

Anyway, it's just that we're not theme people. We have patriotic glass balls from Grandma Nancy and an ornament for every year of my life from my Bandie. We have ornaments from every year of our married life, too. Our honeymoon to Park City, Utah, for example.


By the next year, the furriest member of the family had joined us.

Last year, we bought a house.

And this year, of course, the Bug joined us. (She's not as hairy as Lupe.) (Also, she did not come by stork, but we've been over that.)

So clearly, our ornaments don't match.

I also have lots of nativity scenes around. Some are white, some are colorful, some are small, some are big. They don't match, either. So the point is that our Christmas style is a general lack of style. It's a hodge- podge style. My mom's house is the same way, and I love it.

So this one Christmas a couple of years back my mom's house was decorated just the way it always is. The hideous caroler ornament with the gaping mouth was hung on the tree with pride. (It's the only material thing my siblings and I have agreed to fight over once my parents die.) The hand painted nativity scene was set up on the mantel. (Have I ever told you about how there is an unidentified figurine in her nativity? It's a black man baring one breast draped in striped clothing. We call him Balthezar. I don't know why. Every year I let him watch while I set up the scene and then put him back in the box. Because bare chests are not allowed at the holy birth.) (Have I also ever told you that I over use parentheses?) The whole house was sparkly. Halls decked, you might say.

Until the 26th of December. You know, the DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS? Like when you wake up the next day? THAT DAY. I came home from work (don't ever work for Toys R Us over Christmas break) on the 26th of December, a.k.a the day after Christmas, and there is my mother working furiously with all the ornaments put away and half the pre-lit artificial tree in a heap on the floor.

There was simply no explaining it. She still can't really give a good explanation for what she was thinking, beyond that maybe her happy pills weren't quite up to snuff. We now refer to it as the year my mom hated Christmas.

And the reason I am thinking of all of this is because the neighbors across the street from my parents have decorated their home for Christmas. They might be theme people, I don't know. If they are, the name of their theme is Giant Inflatable Things Staked Into The Frozen Ground. With a touch of High Pitched Carols Blasting From Their Crappy Yard Decorations 24 Hours A Day thrown in for fun.

And I'm telling you what, it makes me hope they take it down on the 26th of December. Otherwise, between that terrible music and the Festival of trees and FM 100 playing that %$#^! Christmas Shoes song, a tiny part of me might start hating Christmas, too.

Merry Christmas!

Baby Daddy

From the moment she came out, my baby has looked just like her daddy.

I'm sure some of you are interested in imagining what a tiny version of Paddy would look like with a bow and a diaper. I am happy to oblige.

For example, engrossed in SportsCenter, Baby Girl Husband would look like this:

The resemblence is particularly startling when she is unhappy.

Grouchy Baby Girl Husband looks like this:

Feeling a bit shy, Timid Baby Girl Husband is a doll:

And, deciding this diaper business isn't all that bad,

Cheerful Baby Girl Husband:

Dear Bug,

Hello, my angel! Can you believe it's been 6 whole weeks since you got here? The time has alternately flown by and slowed to a crawl, but somehow here we are.

I think you should know that, to me at least, you are a giant. You are growing so fast! I'm so excited to see the soft little roll under your chin getting bigger each day. (It's not so cute on your mother, in case you were wondering.) You have the most scrumptious little ears, and I probably kiss your cheeks about a million times a day. You're growing some more hair, too, which helps you look less like a little old man and more like the little princess that you are.

Speaking of princesses, Daddy gave you a blessing in church the other day and you should SEE the dress you got to wear. Grandma D bought it for Mama to wear 26 years ago, and you looked stunning in it. Look, I'll prove it to you:

Whoa, right?

Don't tell your Nana, but I let you go to church barefoot because you don't fit into shoes yet. Plus, cutest feet ever.

You are beautiful and I love you. My heart nearly explodes when I see you smile, which you're getting better at every day. Daddy and I cannot believe how blessed we are to have you. There are no words.

Here's the deal, though, darling. Someday I hope you will be a mom, too, and I want to be honest with you. Being your mother is wonderful, and it's hard.

For example, having you sort of hurt. The day after you were born, I made Daddy accompany me to a breastfeeding class that ended up starting 45 minutes late, and they made me sit on a metal folding chair. For an hour and a half. Without you. And here's this nurse groping her own breast and going on and on talking in a way that would've been fabulous if we were three years old. (We're not.) And then, when I was nearly in tears because it hurt (remember? Only 27 hours since I pushed you out) that nurse looks at me and she says in her sickeningly sweet little voice, "oh honey, does your bottom hurt?" with a little smile. And Bug, I'm telling you right now, if I hadn't had an exam glove filled with entirely melted ice sloshing aroung in my mesh underwear, I would've killed her right on the spot.

See what I mean? Hard.

Also, babies poop a lot. There's a lot of diaper changing going on around here, and let me let you in on a little secret. You are a pro at waiting until the exact instant I am switching from dirty diaper to clean and WHAM! You pee. And It. Goes. Everywhere. This necessitates a bath and a change of clothes. You're not big on having your clothes changed. (Consider refraining from peeing all over them, maybe?) A little funny when you're reading about it, I guess, but in real life? Hard.

And nursing? I'm happy to do it for you because it's healthy and all. And really, we're getting pretty good at it now. But you're six weeks old, and honey, that means Mama's nipples have been sore for a long time. Just saying.

(Side note: the word nipples has now appeared in two of the last 3 blog posts. I'm not sure how I feel about that, and I'm sorry.)

You have a gassy tummy in the evenings, and it gives you a tummy ache until you fart about a million times. It breaks my heart to hear you cry when your belly hurts. Your daddy is so patient, and he rocks you for hours without ever getting mad. It's only fair, really, since I think you get it from him, but still. It's hard, Bug. I haven't eaten Mexican food or enjoyed a Dr. Pepper since you were born, all for the sake of your little tummy. That's hard, too.

Please do not misunderstand me. There is nothing in the world that compares to having you. I am exactly where I want to be. I just wanted you to know that someday when you are a new mom and you are tired and you haven't showered in a couple of days and brushing your teeth is an accomplishment and your laundry is full of poop and you are frustrated, you are not alone. Every mom and dad feel this way sometimes, including yours. Because it's hard.

And somehow I think I love you more not in spite of it, but because of it. I put you into your bed at night and pull the door shut and climb into bed with Daddy, and I'm so tired. I hurt and I think I can't possibly wake up to feed you one more time. Daddy holds me in his arms while I fall asleep and then, hours later when you cry out, I am somehow ready and happy to do it again. It's not because I'm strong or brave. It's because in the dark your eyes are black pools against your pale skin and your tiny hands are waiting for me and I can barely imagine that Heavenly Father loves me enough to let me feel this way.

I love you, Bug. I love you to the moon and back again.

Laundry

For me, becoming a mother is a journey that began rather than ended that morning I pushed a human out of me.

Today, I found myself sorting laundry into the following groups:

Colors

Whites

Delicates

Towels

Items That Might Have Poop on Them

I'm on my way.

Please pass the pasties

Every time I shop at WalMart, I feel like I am contributing to the economic decay of society. I also feel like I need to shower. I doubt many reading this blog would disagree with me, but just in case, allow me to remind you that my darling friend Roger found human poop on the stock room floor during his employment there. That's right. Poop.

Sadly, this does not completely stop me from shopping there from time to time. When a girl finds herself in want of milk, bread, table cloths, and Christmas lights at 9:00 at night, she is left without many options.

And so it was that Darling Face and I found ourselves at the local WalMart last night hunting the store for nursing pads.

Allow me to first announce that two departments I considered to be the most likely suspects, Infant/Baby and Pharmacy/Feminine Hygeine, are exceedingly far apart in a large store. Schmoopsie and I had combed both departments more than once before I finally broke down and approached a strawberry blonde employee who was straightening the shampoo.

Me: "Excuse me, could you tell me where to find nursing pads, please?"

I received in response that blank stare only acheived by those for whom English is not a primary language.

Employee: "Eh... for, um, ah-dults?"
Me: (thinking of all the lactating juveniles I know) "Yeah."
E: (confidently) "Obah deah." (Points to wall of Depends.)
Me: "Uh, no. Not that. Nursing pads. You know, like for breastfeeding mothers."
E: (stares) "Perhaps dah pharmacy?"

Sighing, Pookie Bear and I turned to search the shelves by ourselves. Several seconds later, however, our helpful friend joyfully bounded around the corner and shouted to get my attention.

E: "Oh, like dis?" And that is when, with great animation, she began circling her own nipples with her index fingers.

Me: "Uh... yeah."

And, still wildly gesturing at her own breasts, she excitedly explained that we could find them "by the di-pahs." I thanked her and started back across the store toward the Infant section. She, still eager to be helpful, strode purposefully parallel to our path, shouting "di-pahs" each time she caught a glimpse of us between the aisles.

In her defense, the pads were supposed to be right by the diapers. As it turns out, the box I was looking for was simply out of stock. We did locate a box of more expensive name-brand nursing pads. They are individually wrapped, which I consider a little wasteful.

Also, by individually wrapped, I mean INDIVIDUALLY. You know, for all those one-breasted nursing mothers.

Who may or may not be ah-dults.

Blessing Day

We'd love to have all of our friends and family join us at the blessing of The Bug next Sunday afternoon. (For those not familiar with LDS-lingo, a blessing is a bit like a christening. A christening mixed with open mic night, which can be interesting.) It'll be held at the LDS church building near our home on Sunday, December 6 beginning at 12:45. We'll also enjoy some food at our place afterwards.

Shoot me an email or comment if you'd like to come and need the address of our home or the church building.

A warning: you're only invited if you can stand being in close proximity to this without consuming her whole:

Trust me, it's tough.

P.S.- It was a tough call, but we will not be naming her The Bug. Or Floyd.

Happy Thanksgiving!

First things first- There. If I read my blog, that's what I'd be here for. Moving on-

Theory: Thanksgiving is the best holiday of the year.

Proofs:

1- Family

2- Mashed potatoes

3- Naps

I have lots of things to be thankful for this year.

A sampling:

Employment (including a new, fabulously wonderful job for Schmoopsie)

Disposable diapers

Clorox 2 (for when those diapers are not quite enough)

Cocomotion

4-wheel drive
Health insurance

My Sweetheart

Toe nail polish

LoveSacs

Epidurals

My testimony (of the Gospel and of epidurals)

Mascara
Refrigeration

FMLA leave

Safety

A housetrained dog

Johnson's Bedtime Moisture Wash (smells like heaven on earth. The Bug is lucky I haven't eaten her whole.)

Vacuums

Family- the ones I was born to, the ones I married into, and the ones I choose.

Especially her.

Accomplishments

In the past, I have accomplished things I am proud of. I am strong. I can do hard things.

These days, I take great pride in simply getting The Bug and myself up, fed, bathed, and dressed each morning.

It's harder than you might think. In order to accomplish all that, I have to somehow limit the amount of time I spend smothering this in kisses and nibbling her ears:

Honestly. Double dog dare you to try.

Thanks, Alice, for the pictures! More to come soon.

Birth day! Birth day! Coming to earth day!

Alright, so the details.

As I'm sure we all remember, little Floyd was quite content to rest happily in my uterus, seemingly until the end of time. I was scheduled to head into the hospital late on Sunday, October 25. The plan was to receive several doses of medication through the night to soften my amazing Super Cervix. We'd start Pitocin on Monday morning to get the contractions moving, and out she'd come several hours later.

So Friday (10/23) I woke up at 3:00 a.m. with contractions. They weren't like the most fun thing I've ever experienced, but they were manageable. We timed them for several hours at about 8 minutes apart, and called the doctor's office when they opened just to check in. The nurse suggested I give it several hours and call back, which we did. She decided to have me come into the office to see if anything interesting was happening before the weekend.

It wasn't.

(Remember? Super Cervix.)

Anyway, the contractions sort of died down and we went about our business. Now here's the part where you get to see how I have the coolest doctor in the world. Five o'clock p.m. Friday, generally heralded as the end of the work week, I got a call on my cell phone. From my doctor. Just to check on me. I know. (That's Lucinda Robinson, MD, Avenues Womens Clinic. Seriously.) Anyway, she suggested that we bump up the action 24 hours and head to the hospital Saturday night instead. She couldn't give me the meds for Super Cervix until I was technically 41 weeks along, but since that happened at midnight Saturday, we decided that was the route to go. Hooray!

I waddled all around town Saturday with a spring in my step (or would have if I'd been in any position to spring) and a smile on my face. After an abysmal BYU game experience at the Orton's, we headed to my parents' house to wait out our last hours without a child.

And wham, contrations started.

In case you were wondering, they hurt. A lot.

So anyway, we headed up to the hospital around 10:00 p.m. as planned, and got all settled into our labor and delivery room.

The nurse, Karalee, got me all set up with an IV and a sexy hospital gown, and at midnight she came to give me my first dose. Even though I hurt a lot, we still didn't see any action (Thanks again, Super Cervix.) In went the dose and the waiting began.

Don't be fooled by my smile. It still hurt. The weirdest thing about labor is that between contractions, I still felt 100% fine. Then it was miserable for like 90 seconds, and then back to being fine. It's a very odd roller coaster, really.

So anyway, just before 2:00 a.m., Karalee asked if I want my epidural. And I sajd yes. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Johnson, was very nice, and the epidural didn't really hurt. On the other hand, the contractions that came while I was all hunched over on the edge of the bed while getting the epidural did hurt.

A note about pain management: I am happy to make use of science and medicine to help me feel better. Not everyone goes this route when having a kiddo, but I did, and it was nice. I had to lie on my side for a while to get the epidural to take on both sides of my body evenly, but that was no big deal. For the next several hours, I could still make use of my legs to roll over and readjust myself, so it wasn't inconvenient at all. At no point during the experience did I hate my husband or regret having a baby. Two thumbs up to that plan.

Alright, back to the story. 3:00 a.m. rolled around and it was time for my next sucker punch to ol' Super Cervix. The nurse came in to administer it, and vwalah. Super Cervix had given up the ghost entirely and I was already 4 centimeters dilated. Hip hip hooray. No need for doses number 2 or 3, and we just settled in to wait.

From there, things went faster than I imagined. At 6:30 ish, Karalee said I was a little more than a 7 and warned it would go fast from there. Certainly no need for the Pitocin. We called the parents and told them to start mosying to the hospital. I assumed there would be several hours of pushing to go.

By 7:00 I was fully dilated. I pretty much assumed I was close to that because the contractions started hurting a lot higher up than before, and I had to puke into the kidney basin several times. Sounded like the transition portion of labor to me. I'd heard that's a really adorable part of labor, and it's true. Like a last hoorah to 9 months of nausea, I guess. We pushed through several contractions with Karalee to practice, and then decided to wait for Dr. Robinson since little Floyd-Bug wasn't thrilled about the whole idea and her heart rate showed it.

The doc arrived in fine fashion and we started again with the pushing. Things were A-OK the first few contractions, but then the monitor lost track of her heartbeat. The nurse started moving the monitor all around to search for it. Silence. Dr. Robinson was cool as cucumber, Paddy sported a total poker face, and the nurse kept moving the monitor.

There is no worse sound than silence, I swear.

"Try down by her pubic bone", whispered Dr. Robinson. Silence. Ugh. Awful.

I was panicking inside, but I just kept thinking that if something were really wrong there'd be some sort of hubbub or bustling around. I'm no expert, but I've been in a few hospital emergencies, and there's always a lot of action. Since no one was really moving, I just started praying in my head and hoped for the best.

And of course, everything was fine. A few more contractions and our came our beautiful Bug. I simply don't have words to describe it, so I won't try. Just have a baby, and then you'll know.

The rest of our hospital stay was great. The staff was wonderful (with one notable exception in the lactation specialist, but that's a story for a different day.) Even the food was pretty decent.

Somehow, two days later, we were allowed to take The Bug right out the front doors and home to our very own house.

And we lived happily ever after.

Be still, my soul

Hello, darling family. I love you.

New snowflakes

Nearly 26 years ago, my mother carefully made her way up the stairs and into Utah Valley hospital to have her very first baby. It was the first snow of the season.

On Tuesday, Paddy and I carefully made our way down the stairs of the hospital to take our very first baby home. It was the first snow of this year, too.

Our little bug joined our family on Sunday, October 25, 2009 at 7:38 a.m. She fills our arms at 8 pounds and 20.5 inches long.

She is perfect and healthy. Oh, and absolutely beautiful.

We are happy.

Not such a stellar start...

First task in motherhood: Birth Child.

I'm oh-for-one.

Oh-for-two if you count the pre-season game, which is Go Into Labor.

That's it, Cervix. You win round one in a shutout.

Dearest baby-

Hello, babychild. First of all, thank you so much for easing up on the whole vomitting business. Things are certainly more fun this way. Also, I appreciate that you appreciate Cactus Cooler as much as I do. What fun we have together after a tasty sip on ice! It's like Whack-A-Mole, only I wouldn't ever whack you, and I bet (hope) you're cuter than a mole. So, basically, bad analogy all around. It's just that you get so excited and bounce all around in your own private little inflatable playhouse, and I love it.

Had your 40 week appointment yesterday. You may remember that 40 weeks is theoretically the total length of your gestation, and not just a fun little rest stop on the way to becoming the first fetus to graduate from preschool in utero. Turns out I am a champ at providing perfectly comfortable living quarters for you complete with plenty of fluid and a nice, healthy, designer-grade placenta. You're welcome, Floyd.

The appointment involved several helpings of that cold, slimy gel slathered all over my tummy so we could hear and see you flopping around in there. It was worth it, though. You're cute, and we like your heartbeat.

We got to spend some time hooked up to a non-stress test monitor, which was actually pretty interesting. The paper rolls out of an ancient looking box with little jaggety lines all over it, and it's like you are a tiny earthquake or something! You got tasered, Floyd! (And let that be the last time.) The nurse brought in a gadget that sounded exactly like that buzzer in the game Taboo (just to keep things interesting, I guess, since your little heart rate was just too steady and rhythmical) and freaked you right the heck out. Daddy laughed for like 2 whole minutes and says he wants one for home.

Speaking of Daddy, your father said a swear word yesterday. Don’t worry; it wasn't your fault. It's just that after the ultrasound to make sure your swimming pool was adequately filled (check!) we headed to Su Casa for some spicy food because we really want you to come out. Daddy picked a fight with some melted cheese, and ended up with red enchilada sauce splashed all over his favorite white dress shirt. So he swore, which I felt was justified, really, because it is a nice shirt and enchilada sauce is hard to coax out.

I know you can't see much outside of your watery little pouch, but you should probably know that Daddy and I created perfectly adorable living quarters for you outside of my tummy, too. Daddy painted stripes, and I (gulp) put up butterfly decals on the wall. (Decals, sweet child! Decals in my house! It's like I'm finally a real Mormon!) Plus, I made you a quilt. There's even a little mobile over your portable crib in our room with small stuffed creatures that are either bears or dogs (can't decide) ready to dance you to sleep. BearDogs, Floyd! Quick, come see!

Anyway, little lovey, the point is that I understand that you are comfortable in there, and I suppose I can be patient. Please come see us and snuggle us and love us soon. Not to give you a deadline or anything, but the doctor said she's going to break your door down Sunday night and make you come out on Monday if you don't come out on your own. Maybe we could do it together before then, instead. Just a thought. I love you either way.

Love always,
Your Mama

P.S. BearDogs, Floyd!

Fashionably late. Just like her mother.

I betcha she's looking everywhere for her car keys.

Or cell phone.

Or purse.

Must be especially difficult without voluntary control of her limbs. Plus, dark in there.

To readers with love

Nothing exciting in this part of the woods [stop]
Am still pregnant [stop]
All is well [stop]
Am told pregnancy usually ends sometime [stop]

Will update when child emerges [stop]

(Please bless before Thanksgiving)

[stop]

Want to know the status of my cervix?

Don't worry, Floyd is still safely floating in my uterus. She seems pretty content there, actually. I'm just running low on blog inspiration for some reason.

Since Floyd doesn't seem interested in spicing up the blog with her debut just yet, we're going to play a game! Hooray! Quick, count yourselves off into 3 groups.

Just kidding.

To guess the date and time of Floyd's arrival and her all important stats, go here. (I'll have a better looking gadget on the side bar later when I'm on a computer that will let me do that.)

Winner gets... I don't know. Something cool. Perhaps visitation to see Floyd at the hospital, which is a pretty big deal since the new H1N1 precautions at the hospital are pretty strict. No coughing on my brand new child.

Smarty Pants

What seems like many moons ago, my Schmoopsie nervously headed to one of those terrible testing centers to sit for his Life, Health, and Disability Insurance License exam for the state of Utah.

"No one ever passes these things on the first try," said his almost coworkers.
"Please hand over your cell phone, watch, jacket, underwear, and first born child," said the testing center proctor lady.

And guess what? He passed. First try! Hooray!

A couple of weeks ago, he went to a different horrible testing center to sit for his Series 6 securities license exam.

"At least you'll know what to study for when you have to re-take it," said his now-official coworkers.
"Excuse me, have you been strip searched yet, sir? It's mandatory," said the testing center proctor lady.

And guess what? He passed. First try! Hip hip hooray!

Last week, he went back to that second horrible testing center to sit for his Series 63 securities license exam.

"Already?" asked his coworkers.
"Good luck," said the testing center proctor lady.

And guess what?

I'm married to such a smarty pants.

First try!

My skills have been compromised.

There are certain basic skills which, once mastered, a girl likes to assume she'll get to enjoy for years to come. Bladder control, for example, even when faced with the unexpected sneeze. Ability to put on pants from a standing position, or to roll over in bed without the physical equivalent of an act of Congress. Reaching her toenails. That type of thing. I'm sure you understand.

Without subjecting you to grimace-inducing details, allow me to mention that none of the above are accomplished with any amount of grace these days. Just sayin'.

There is one slightly more complex skill of which I've always been rather proud. I am a champion, A-1, 5-star professional barfer. If you have to have someone puking their brains out in your car/home/close proximity, I’m not an altogether bad pick. (The opposite of my status on potential dodgeball teams, just for reference.) For one, I rarely do it. When the unpleasant opportunity presents itself (read: first 20 weeks of pregnancy) my abilities really shine. I never give false alarms, and never miss the vomit container of choice. I'm pretty quiet about the whole event, and relatively clean about it, too. I'll even hold my own hair back and prep my own toothbrush afterwards. As I mentioned to my little brother in his weekly email, I'm like the vomiting Bizarro-Tommy. In his entire 20 years of existence he's never made it to the Verbal Warning Of Other People Who Might Be In the Splash Zone/Identify The Target stage, let alone the more advanced Contain and Dispose stages. Amateur.

Now I plan on subjecting you to grimace-inducing details. Proceed with caution. (Side note: Dane Campbell, when you read this in 3-6 months, you should probably skip the next part.)

On our way home from a riveting Childbirth Education class last week, I was suddenly struck with the unfortunate and untimely urge to rapidly empty the entire contents of my stomach. Knowing we were not in possession of suitable containment apparatus (deduct 1 point) I immediately closed my eyes, tipped my seat back, and slipped into Plan B, aka Breathe Slowly And Swallow Frequently While Trying To Convince Yourself It's Just Heartburn.

Plan B failed in a big way.

I managed to recoup a tiny part of Plan C (Heave Into Partially Empty Paper KFC Bag, of course) for rounds 2-5 only. In extraordinarily uncharacteristic fashion, round 1 left me splattered, baffled, and emotional. And, according to Sweetie Pie, fragrant.

P executed the Nearest Gas Station Exit Strategy to perfection, and hustled inside to badger the attendant for some paper towels and a plastic bag. I attempted to initiate the aforementioned Contain and Dispose stages.

Operative word: attempted.

My award winning, multi-layered Puke Plan sadly did not contain a contingency plan of action for what happens when the soaked bottom of a paper KFC bag falls out and dumps rounds 2-5 all over my feet.

A brilliant plan

The tag on one of my recently acquired items of baby clothing:

Thanks. We new moms need all the help we can get.

One reason my unborn child is going to ROCK.

(Pun intended.)

I love Queen. Nah. I ADORE Queen. If I had to choose one outrageously theatrical and musically fabulous flamboyant group to listen to for the rest of my life, I'd choose Queen.

Let's face it. I'd likely choose Queen even without all those descriptive limitations.

I mean, seriously. Queen's Greatest Hits isn't just a permanent staple in my house cleaning sound track. It pretty much compromises my house cleaning sound track. Bless that Freddie Mercury, may he rest in spandex-clad peace.

Mary. Dude. What a freakin' rad baby shower gift. Thank you. A girl who gifts me the xylophone version of Killer Queen is a friend indeed.

The lullaby covers on this cd don't have words. Perhaps it's for the best. Maybe
"just killed a man.
Put a gun against his head- pulled the trigger-
now he's dead"
is best saved for later instruction.

And maybe it makes me a bad mom, but the day Floyd sings along to Bohemian Rhapsody in the car with me is a day my eyes fill with tender maternal tears of joy.

Weekend happy things

Happy things that happened this long weekend:

My Aggies did a stand up job in their 2009 football debut. Well played, gentlemen!
My husband's Cougars played a magical game in their 2009 football debut. What fun!
Tomato Extravaganza 2009 resulted in some beautiful jars of tasty things. Updated post to come.
I'm setting up a baby crib today. And not just any baby crib, but the baby crib for my very own baby. Wow.

Best of all?
I'm still not back at work! Hip hip hooray!

Utah State! Hey! Aggies all the way!

(First of all, let's establish something. As Grease states so eloquently, just because I can't be an athlete doesn't mean I can't be an athletic supporter. Being a crazed fan is justified since I can barely walk and chew gum simultaneously in my real life.)

As a graduate of Utah State University and the University of Utah who is married to a rabid BYU fan, there may be some question about my in-state collegiate loyalties. I spent 4 years living in Logan, but racked up more debt in one stinking year at the U (thank you, whoever decided graduate students didn't need grants.) I do, of course, value marital harmony with my Cougar-gear clad spouse pretty highly, and 75% of my parental figures attended the Y. It gets confusing.

During basketball season, certainly, there should be no debate. My Aggies have won at least 23 games every season for the past decade, and are particularly dominant at home, where I spent lots of hours screaming myself hoarse. My sophomore year, I was outraged along with Aggie fans everywhere when USU became the first top 25 team to be excluded from the NCAA tournament. I followed my fabulous Aggies to Boise in 2005 for their NCAA performance, and look forward to both November 18 and December 2 with eager anticipation of crushing both in-state rivals on the hardwood.

Did I make myself clear?

On the football field, I am (understandably, I hope) less opinionated. The Aggies have been, shall we say, less than dominant on the field for, well, a while. And football games in Logan are cold.

Nevertheless, I'll face tonight's meeting of my two alma maters with a new coach on the field and new hope in my heart.

GO AGGIES!

Wherein I count one of my many blessings

Last night, Paddy and I went for a walk.

Mostly it was because I had an extraordinarily sucky day.

I claim 100% responsibility for the suckiness, and I will only blame a tiny part of it on the hormones. It was day for wallowing. Wallowing in unreasonable, inaccurate, unproductive streams of thought that I don’t actually subscribe to but which seem to be unfairly validated over and over again in real life. (Is that cryptic enough?) I knew that wallowing would only make me feel worse, but I did it anyway. So I wallowed all day, and then went home and cried into the shell pasta my good husband had made for me. It's amazing the man loves me, really, while I'm busy wallowing and crying into my shell pasta in the dark because I don’t want anyone to peer through my bamboo blinds and see that I am wallowing and crying into my shell pasta wearing only an extra large t-shirt and my underwear because I'm bound to dribble marinara and tears onto myself and let's face it, extra large t-shirts are pretty much the only thing I fit into these days. But he insists that he does, and I believe him.

So anyway, I put on some of his basketball shorts and we went for a walk to clear my head and to get Paddy a Diet Dr. Pepper.

But first we had a 25 minute conversation on our front lawn with our elderly neighbors. One by one, they listed every doctor they knew and asked if I knew them, too, because, of course, "you work over there at that big hospital." I didn't have the heart to explain how many doctors actually have privileges at that big hospital, so I just smiled and said "golly, no, I don't know that particular doctor but I'm sure he/she is great!" and was grateful that it was dark so they couldn't tell I had been crying into my shell pasta.

And in the end, the sweet German escorted the lovely lady with the walker and the fake flowers on her porch back to her house on the other side of my house, and I actually did feel better.

And Paddy held my hand and we finally started our walk. We wandered and passed the place where Paddy got a sunburn last week helping put on a new roof. We passed our neighbor who promised to share with him her authentic Italian recipes, and the neighbor who feeds him chocolate chip cookies and stories of her former life as a real estate agent. As we wandered, I admired the lawn he mowed yesterday for our neighbor who can't walk, even though our own grass was longer and he had studying to do instead.

And the point of this entire story is that as we walked back down the busy road past the apartments with the cigarette smell--me with my Zingers and he with his Diet Dr. Pepper--he switched places with me on the sidewalk. Because there are cars on the other side, of course.

And I thought of all the people in the world who don't have a Paddy to switch places with them on the sidewalk. And instead of crying (again) into my Zingers, I just gave him the last bite.

33 weeks

Floyd is squirmy these days. Sometimes I think she's determined to push her way directly out of my skin.

She's also a giant. (See diagram 1 below.)

Diagram 1

Cutie Patootie says she's "lumpy".

We love our squirmy, lumpy giant.