There's really only one way to go from here, and it's down.

That's it. Everyone freeze. Don't move.

No one may walk anywhere; the floors have been vacuumed/swept/mopped.
The Bug may not wake up from her nap having pooped her pants; every dirty diaper has been taken to the trash.
No one may eat; the dishes are done and counters are wiped.
No one may use the toilet; they have been scrubbed.
Also, no one may wipe; the rolls of toilet paper have been restocked.
Do not plop down on the LoveSac; it has been freshly fluffed.
Unfortunately for the world, I will not brush my teeth; I polished the sinks.
You'll have to remain in your current clothing; the laundry is done. (It's not folded. Shh. Don't tell.)
Dare not stink; the Candle Breeze has been running, filling the air with Citrus Burst.

Do not try me; I am a postpartum woman just minutes away from the worst month of the year (I hate you, February) and my house is, for one shining instant, clean.

Verdict

Stacey couldn't do anything about the disparity in dress size, but she did the best she could to give me Mandy Moore's hair. I give her two thumbs way up.

In case you were wondering, all the hairs that my head held on to while I was pregnant are springing from my head like a bunch of lemmings. My bathroom is covered in them. Cowards. At least now they are shorter, more stylish hair-lemmings.

Can you take 30 pounds off the rear, please?

If I were a cosmetologist, I bet it would bug me when people brought in pictures of celebrities and demanded a haircut that would transform them into a supermodel.

Nevertheless, I'm charging Stacey (who really does look like a supermodel in real life) with the task of transforming this ridiculous polygamist-length mop of flat, lifeless shag.

By noon tomorrow, I fully expect to look exactly like Mandy Moore looked on this red carpet:

Ready..... go.

Tomato Extravaganza finale

While I was preparing my lunch today, it occured to me that I had never resolved for all to see the results of Tomato Extravaganza 2009. Probably no one else cares about Tomato Extravaganza 2009, but it was such a resounding success that I simply can't leave it completely
un-blogged.

From this: To this:
To this:

To this:(Betcha you didn't know my storage room was seafoam green, huh?)

To my lunch today, Tomato Soup with Rice.

So that you can truly appreciate what these tomatoes mean to me, a story:

One lovely morning in July, I decided that my precious tomato plants needed watering. I pranced lightly out to turn on the hose sporting only my underwear and an oversized t-shirt to cover my unborn child. Lupe greeted me with her usual vigor, and the plants were successfully on their way to soaking when a horrible thought came to me.

The back door just shut. And IT'S LOCKED.

I ran (tummy a-bouncin') to the back door, and discovered to my horror that I was correct. But wait! Surely Husband has not yet left for work! My pregnant belly and I ran in our underwear to the side gate, and got there just as Schmoopsie climbed into his Honda and shut the door. This is the part where I began yelling like a banshee and jumping up and down in my bare (pregnant) feet, hoping he might see snippets of my head poking up over the 6 foot fence.

Nevertheless, it was not to be. He drove away, and I may never forgive him for that error.

So there I am, stuck in my back yard with my underwear, my fetus, and my yellow lab. The basement windows have bars on them to ensure we die someday in a fire. The baby's room window is not only 6 feet off the ground, but also covered with a metal canopy (stylish, no?) that prevents the original mid-century crank window from opening wide enough to accomodate my growing girth. The fences are, conveniently, all 6 feet high, and oh yeah. I'm pregnant. AND IN MY PANTIES. Which, due to certain circumstances, could not be covered with my oversized t-shirt no matter how hard I tug.

I checked the garage, hoping against hope that I might find some fishing waders or a towel to cover myself so I could walk the several blocks to my mother's house. Because, you see, I wanted to spend my morning as a barefoot pregnant lady in a giant t-shirt and rubber fishing waders waddling down the block. Unfortunately, the only fishing gear to be found was a couple of tangled poles and a tackle box. Hardly helpful. Doubt the neighbors want to see me scuttling about with a tackle box covering my unmentionables.

Speaking of neighbors, mine are old. Which means that even if I scream until they hear me, what are they going to do? Use a ladder to heft themselves over the fence? Where I am, of course, IN MY UNDERWEAR? And then what? We just chat?

I can't even call my boss to explain why I'm not at work, though I'm betting this qualifies as an excused absence. Within seconds, I have envisioned the rest of the day spent in the back yard with my underwear and my yellow lab, drinking hose water and eating green tomatoes. For an instant, I wish it was fall when at least my tomatoes would be ripe, until I remember that in the fall, I will also be ripe and then what if I went into labor in my backyard with my dog and no fishing waders? I count my blessings.

Anyway, the story is already too long, but just know that I did not have to spend the day out in the elements. I opened the garage door (in my underwear) and lumbered to the front door (in my underwear) and miraculously, for the first and only time in our marriage, Paddy had not locked the front door as he left. Whew. Crisis averted.

And that's what my Tomato Soup with Rice meant to me today.

Tadpole

Somehow I doubt an amphibian inspired robe would look as cute in adult sizes...

The truth revealed

Katie seems to think I was called as the primary pianist. Surely she jests. Why would I be in a state of near panic over playing Give Said A Little Stream in front of our ward's tiny smattering of pre-teens? What's the worst that could happen there? A four year old could complain that I only played the right hand to Book of Mormon Stories, therefore compromising the cool American Indian vibe it has? Puh-lease.

The truth is ever so much more horrifying.

WARD ORGANIST.

I know, right? I was nearly smothered after Sacrament meeting yesterday with ward members exclaiming, "I didn't know you played the piano!" It's not like I've been hiding my talent under a bushel or whatever. Turns out it's because I don't play the piano.

Anyway, miracles were wrought and here we are the next day after a not so terrible experience. Praises be.

In other news, Bug laughed the other day. I now spend every one of her waking hours playing an endless game of patty-cake with her feet in an attempt to repeat the experience. I can't stop myself for fear my heart might shrivel up and starve to death. She still makes us work for the giggles quite a bit, so at any given moment I am likely to be found contorting my face and voice like a complete fool just to entertain her. Let's be honest, though. How can I resist?

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

This was the statement presented to the Bishop of our ward as fact:

"Kristie plays the piano."

I suppose this is technically not a lie, which is good because lying to the Bishop is never a good idea. I am physically capable of placing my frame in front of a piano and touching the keys with some semblence of order. I read music, and I took piano lessons for approximately 6 months when I was 16 from someone who was not nearly mean enough to me. I enjoy plunking around the keys from time to time at my parents house. Let me be clear about this, though: I. Am. Not. Good.

Another statement was directed at the Bishop by the same person who uttered the first, seemingly to reinforce the concept:

"Kristie attended college on a music scholarship."

Again, technically not a lie. I did receive a small music scholarship to Utah State. BECAUSE I PLAYED THE CLARINET. Which, you'll note, has nothing to do with the piano. Also, I declined to accept the scholarship for a second year because the emotional price to keep the money was far too high. I can't believe I'm admitting this on the internet, but the emotional price was the horror known as marching band. (Hangs head in humiliation.) Please don't make me think about it again.

The culprit of these non-lies was my mother.

My mother has a lot of talents, but music is not one of them. Therefore, my musical skills must appear magnificent in her eyes.

Or something.

The result of these non-lies?

I'll tell you later. For now, let me just say something to you that is absolutely not a joke. I am so scared. Also, I believe in miracles. Real, actual miracles from a loving Father in Heaven who cares about and is intimately involved in the details of my life. I have faith, weak though it is sometimes. I believe in miracles.

And it's a good thing I do. Because I'm going to need one.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear;

but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."

2 Timothy 1:7

It's to help you learn to roll. You'll LIKE rolling. I swear.

Dear Bug-

It's not that I'm judging you for being grouchy from time to time. Really, you are a very content child except when you're sitting in a steamy pile of your own poop, which I can't really blame you for. You also occasionally find it necessary to loudly alert the world that you are moments away from withering away entirely since, thigh rolls aside, clearly no one has fed you in days. To be fair, I get sort of irrational when I'm hungry, too, so you probably inherited that. Otherwise, you're pretty pleasant.

I've been thinking a lot about this, and I bet it's tougher to be a baby than we adults give you credit for. I would hate to find someone wrangling my arms into layers of clothing without my permission or always assuming I wanted to be spoken to in high pitched voices. Also, I've noticed that people always have their faces right up in your face with their tongues sticking out, and I bet that's irritating.

So really, I have compassion. I do. It's just that I sort of wish that mandated tummy time was the absolute worst thing on my agenda.

Just saying.

Love you to the moon and back,

Mama

The game's afoot!

My entire family fits neatly on our LoveSac. I know this because after church today I fell asleep with the Bug in my arms, and Paddy climbed down to snuggle with us. We all fit under the music blanket, too.

Lupe didn't get to participate because she has dirt under her toenails and her breath smells like rotten apples from the yard. She could fit, though, and maybe we'll let her after she goes to Petsmart for a bath and toothbrush.

She hates getting a bath, and maybe it's because last summer they shaved her down to her pink piggy flesh which is embarrassing whether you are a dog or a person.

Last night, Paddy and I went on our first post-baby date. We saw Sherlock Holmes with the Ortons. It wasn't as far off from my beloved Conan Doyle stories as I had anticipated, and I really enjoyed it. We got a big Sprite to share and snacked on Sour Patch Kids from the bulk bins at WinCo. I even wore actual pants, which is a bit of an accomplishment these days. (Stacey London, where are you? Why haven't you filmed me in my slouchy pink sweats and given me free money yet?) It was so fun.

And the perfect way to follow up a wonderful date night is to find your entire family, minus one smelly dog, curled up under a single music blanket.

Life is good.

Notes

The Bug's painful gassy spells seem to be disappearing. She is happy.

On a seemingly contradictory note, I have been existing almost entirely on low-fat black bean burritos for the last 2 days.

On a hopefully related note, I last based my diet solely on bean burritos my freshman year in college for budgetary reasons. I lost several pounds.

On a note that helped my pocketbook but hurt my waistline, I got a job after my sophomore year in college, and could afford better food. I gained several pounds.

On a related note, I set several New Year's Resolutions, most of which I will not tell you about.

A note about my New Year's Resolutions: one I will tell you about is to do yoga one time per week. Partially because of the aforementioned waistline, and partially because my mat is hot pink.

A colorful note: does hot pink detract from the spirituality of yoga?

On an inquiring note, can yoga be spiritual anyway if I'm watching it on television surrounded by my laundry?

A second New Year's Resolution note: another is to fold all my clean laundry within 48 hours of it being washed. I hate folding laundry. Especially when I could be nuzzling a baby instead.

On a baby-time distracting related note, I have to return to work in the next couple of weeks.

On an inspiring, overwhelming, testimony building note, it will not be to the same job. (Sniff, sniff.) Instead, it will be to a new job. A new, flexible, let-me-stay-home-with-Bug-far-more-and-pays-more-anyway job. My heart is full. She is happy.

On a circular note, it seems we are back where we started.

Unfair

How come it takes babies 8+ weeks to learn how to giggle, but they come out programmed to cry from the get-go?