Friday, July 31, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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.
A huge thanks to TAMN and to Cultures Salon for the wonderful surprise. Fabulous.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
#2- Series of text messages between the LoveBear and me tonight:
Him: Love you.
Me: Love you, too. When are you coming home?
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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:
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.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Remember, Survivors at the Summit 2009 is only a few weeks away!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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.
How do you cope? With babies or work or unemployment or illness or life? What works for you?
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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.
Floyd and I were anti-potential abdominal trauma this go-round, so we opted to hang out here instead.
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?