The Unexpected

So I've got that pregnancy ticker on the side of the blog. I don't know... it just seemed like the good Mommy-blogger thing to do. Today, I pushed that little play button for the first time and saw the cartoon representation of the entire gestational process.

I've got to admit, I was getting a little nervous toward the 40 week mark.

Thank you for not graphically depicting Floyd's exit from her watery cave. Whoa.

I won! I won!

Now, don't be jealous. I bet you don't know this about me, but I have an e-bff. Her name is TAMN, and she's funny. We've never hung out or anything, but I still think we qualify as e-bffs because I'm pretty much in her inner circle of confidants for her deepest, darkest secrets. And also, she sent me some free stuff from one of her giveaways.

Awesome.

Cultures Day Spa and Salon was kind enough to offer a free pedi kit for me and one for a friend. Here's the thing, and you might not know this about me, either. (Although my e-bff obviously did. Probably because off all the times we e-hang out and also I think our spirits knew each other from, you know, before.)

Anyway. I LOVE PEDICURES. Even though I can't breathe anymore when I fold in half to reach my sausage toes. I figure Floyd understands. Beauty is pain, my friend. Learn early.

So anyway, one day I came home to this fabulous thing in my mailbox:

And inside were some treats!

I had to wait a couple of weeks to get the flavor I wanted, but the Pineapple Citrus was totally worth it. It was so super delicious, I almost wanted to eat the lotions, salts, and scrubs. My feet are silky smooth and (presumably) tasty, and if you have to ask if I saved the adorable bright green disposable flip-flops, then we are definitely not any sort of bffs.

(I did.)

A huge thanks to TAMN and to Cultures Salon for the wonderful surprise. Fabulous.

Happy day

As we say around our casa from time to time:

I'm having a hard day.

In the spirit of this adorable blog, I'm trying to think of happier things.

Make a cool list for yourself here.

Best wishes for a better day. Things always turn around.

Items of business

#1- Methinks enemies of Achilles could have avoided that whole unpleasant arrow-through-the-heel business. They could have acheived the same level of incapacitation/agony simply by requiring him to walk around in the shoes I was wearing today.

#2- Series of text messages between the LoveBear and me tonight:
Him: Wife?
Me: Yeah?
Him: Love you.
Me: Love you, too. When are you coming home?
Him: Soon.
Me: Ok. Are you bringing pizza and/or philly cheese steak sandwiches?

#3- Survivors at the Summit is coming up! Please come join us, or consider donating through our team. It's going to be awesome!

#4- Treat in the mail today + Pookieface out on appointments/golfing = party for my toes. Check back later for the results.

#5- That part about pizza and/or philly cheese steaks? Not kidding.

Why capris are such a good look on me

This morning, I found myself sitting at my desk with an itchy spot on my ankle. Further inspection noted several raised, itchy red bumps on one calf and shin. Since every little unexpected change while pregnant results in thoughts of "oh my gosh it probably means something horrible is wrong with the baby and also it's clearly my fault", I found myself alternately bent in half under my desk and (gracefully) wrangling my foot up on top of my desk, staring obsessively at my unattractive legs. And possibly trying to take a picture with my cell phone. None of which are really very comfortable these days, what with the child pushing on my internal organs and all.

The cell phone camera really didn't capture the important visual details, so I unabashedly marched out of my office and over to Jessica's desk and made her stare at my unattractive legs. The verdict? Not mosquito bites.

Which any other rational 25 year old in the world would have recognized immediately, of course, and not wasted time making coworkers stare at his/her unattractive legs. But, see, in the 25 years I've been alive, I've never had a mosquito bite before--a fact which I have reveled in, to the great irritation of my mosquito-prone friends and family. That's not to say I've never been bitten before (as I imagine that's impossible), just that I apparently don’t have "an immune response from the binding of IgG and IgE antibodies to antigens in the mosquito's saliva" (thanks, Wikipedia.) Neither does my sister.

I whipped out the offending leg again at lunch (appetizing, no?) for another set of coworkers to review. The verdict? Better not be 9 spider bites on one leg or I'm moving out of my house.

Also ruled out:
New soap/lotion
Shaving (aforementioned child inhabiting my abdomen makes this uncomfortable and infrequent, as well)
Poison ivy/oak (doubt you can get that from laying around in my basement like a slug watching Deadliest Catch, which is what I did last night)

Verdict: If laziness caused itchy bumps, we'd have a winner.

Too bad he's a south paw.

For family night, Papanwa decided to smash his finger between a truck bed and a large log. (Note: Contrary to natural assumptions, he was not actually working at my house at the time. Like the dutiful parent he is, he completed our yard work on Saturday. Which was his birthday.)


He's a tough guy. In the past, he's been known to drill through his own toenail at the job site, replace his work boot, and then finish out the work day in blood-drenched socks. Let me reiterate that for emphasis. While I have been known to apply Neosporin liberally to a papercut and delicately bandage for an entire week, he once drilled through his own toenail and then finished the work day.


(Note numero dos: Graphic pictures below.)

Right. So a few layers of skin sheared off the top of the finger probably isn't that big of a deal?

Right. But a literal skin explosion on the underside, filleting open his finger like a fine cut of beef? Slightly bigger deal.

Don't worry. He drove himself home, (repeat: drove himself home without squealing the entire way like a piglet/me) picked up Mom, and then wandered over to the ER. There, over the course of nearly 4 hours, they cut off his wedding ring with a handy tool,

cleaned him up a bit, and then stitched, splinted and bandaged his now mignon-like appendage. Took it like a champ, too.

Afterwards, Pookiebear, Floyd and I met them at IHOP for a midnight snack. Because what goes with mangled flesh like an omelet and a short stack?

Turns out that he also learned how to eat with his right hand for family night.

Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin into the future

Look how pretty our Grandma Nancy was! Do you think she can manage to send Floyd with some pretty brown curls and green eyes like hers? I hope so. I'd guess that kickin' retro dress is probably a no-go though.

Remember, Survivors at the Summit 2009 is only a few weeks away!

There is still time to register to join us for the hike, or to order a tribute flag for a loved one. Check out the Cancer Wellness House website for details.

If you'd like to contribute to this wonderful cause through our team in honor of Grandma Nancy, you can do so here. Search for the hubby's name to see our page. (If you don't know Schmoopsie's first and last name, leave a message in the comments with your email address and we'll chat. And don't be a crazy nutcase out to stalk my family.)

Thanks for your support!

With love,

The fam

Paddy, Kris, Floyd, Ry, De, Jordan, Carter, Heather, and P-man

Said the thirsty husband to his diligent wife:

"I love you. I wouldn't trade you for the world. I would, however, trade you for a Diet Dr. Pepper right now."

Thoughts I think

Back when I still wandered the urine-scented walls of a nursing home as my primary means of employment, I took a part-time job working with the Crisis Team in the Emergency Room one night a week. It wasn't such a bad gig, really. Not unlike an IHOP or Village Inn, the ER has a kind of relaxed, groovy sort of vibe in the middle of the night. There's some sort of camaraderie between a bunch of people up in the middle of the night, particularly when you're never sure what crazy thing could be rolling through the ambulance bay doors any minute. (And trust me. No amount of imagination or experience can accurately predict that sort of crazy.) It gave me the opportunity to see things I had only learned about in graduate school: hallucinations, overdoses, depression, and self-mutilation. Oh yeah, and anxiety.

In my patients, sure. There was plenty of anxiety there. But also, for the first time in my life, in me. Not I'm-taking-a-test-I-haven't-studied-enough-for anxiety or even I'm-so-scared-I-have-nervous-neck-rash anxiety. Waiting at home for that pager to start screeching turned me into someone I didn't recognize. I was nauseated and mean and tearful and restless. I paced and tossed and turned and made my husband dread Wednesdays as much as I did (almost).

And then the voices in my head started. (Luckily, not the kind that land you in the ER in the middle of the night talking to an over-eager crisis worker.)

You're a social worker, for heaven's sake! they said. You can fix this. This is what you do.

So I exercised. And went for a walk. And watched television and read and took a bath and did yoga and cried and held in my tears and prayed. Over and over I prayed. And remained nauseated and mean and tearful and restless.

Luckily, thankfully, wonderfully, and oh-so-blessedly, I had a solution. A way to make it stop. I quit. It was the right decision for me and for my family. And for me, luckily, thankfully, wonderfully, and oh-so-blessedly, the gripping anxiety has not returned. I am left healthy and whole and as "normal" as I can hope to be. The only lasting effect is a greater measure of compassion for people who are not able to amputate their anxiety as easily as I was.

It is with these thoughts bouncing around in my head like popcorn in a microwave that I enter the 26th week of Floyd's gestational life. And I hate popcorn.

I did not understand that "pray always" could be a literal mandate. Because I take my vitamins and go to my appointments and eat my vegetables and wear my seatbelt and then the voices in my heart start.

Please bless the baby is ok. Please bless her to grow. Please bless her to move like that again and always. Please bless. Please?

And then- and THEN! (Isn't this post over, you beg? No. Sorry.)

And then I remember that someday she will come out. And that's good and beautiful and terrifying. And then there's SIDS and kidnappers and earthquakes and fires and bears and sharks and mean children and sharp things to poke and small things to swallow and swine flu to catch.

Floyd, Mama has a flicker of that anxiety left. Just so she can remember.

Please bless.


How do you cope? With babies or work or unemployment or illness or life? What works for you?

Adventures with the self-timer when already late for work.

Give me a break about the super sucky quality of the picture below. Pretend Floyd and I landed our picture in the newspaper. And also pretend its approximately 1908.

25 weeks

River Trip

About three weeks ago, Hubster, Floyd, and I along with a bunch of the extended fam-damily packed up and headed to the Arkansas River. Confusingly, it's not actually in Arkansas, at least where we were. It's in Colorado. But it's not the Colorado River. Which also exists.

Anyway...

On the way, we stopped in Moab-- a delightfully hot place I'd never been to before. We dug into some fantastically cheesy Italian food, and used Floyd's aerobic dance class held nightly on my bladder as an excuse to spring for hotel potties instead of the KOA variety.

The next day, we decided to burn off the pasta and cheese by hiking to Delicate Arch, which I'd only seen on license plates.

It's better in person, and bigger, too. Don't believe we made it? Here it is again... zoomed waaaaay in:

In a rather unfair arrangment, Floyd had an easy ride all the way to the top. I don't know who took this picture (I wasn't aware it was being taken at the time) but it was obviously by someone who doesn't love me enough to warn me to hide my puffy post-altitude-gain-in-hot-weather sausage fingers. I swear they returned to normal human size after the descent and a strawberry-lime Powerade.

Several hours later, we pulled into our destination just outside of Vail, Colorado. Colorado, by the way, looks exactly like I imagined it would, only with fewer Denver Nuggets fans. (Thankfully.)

The next day, most of the fam headed out to the aforementioned river in order to attempt to float down it on an oversized water weenie without getting thrown onto any rocks or hijacked by Kevin Bacon.

Not invited.

Pookiebear looked dashing in his splash jacket and helmet. His wet suit smelled a bit of mold, but I love him anyway.

Floyd and I were anti-potential abdominal trauma this go-round, so we opted to hang out here instead.

See? Looks like Colorado, doesn't it? And blessedly, blessedly Carmello Anthony free.

Not invited.

Musings

Why doesn't water taste more like A&W rootbeer? I wouldn't have any trouble getting in my 64 ounces if it did.

And why didn't I like rootbeer before Floyd inhabited my uterus?

And why didn't I know that the fresh-brewed kind (the only way to go, obviously) comes at the perfect temperature and degree-of-fizziness to be swallowed right from the unmarked jug?

And why didn't Hubby and I notice earlier that you can buy an entire half gallon of A&W rootbeer in that delicious jug for less than two small, crappier drinks from Taco Bell?

And why do we ever eat at Taco Bell?