Something I didn't really anticipate.

I got a new friend request on facebook.

It was from my grandmother.

Kindly ignore the laundry in the background.

Hello, everyone!  Bug here.

I am five months old today.  FIVE ENTIRE MONTHS.  Can you even believe it? 

I know, right?  It's a little shocking.

Besides having the most edible cheeks in all the land, there isn't a lot new going on. I am completely uninterested in learning to roll over.  If it requires spending any significant amount of time on my tummy at all, it can't possibly be worth it.  Plus, I figure I'm clearly ahead of the game in core muscle tone.  Check me out in my exersaucer:

I try to put on a happy face, but life as a five month old isn't all peaches and cream, you know.  I am in near constant danger of losing my fingers and ears to my mother's incessant nibbling.  My belly is  assaulted daily by the tickling fingers of basically everyone who sees me, which is funny for a while but also irritating.  Oh, and I drool like a crazy person.  Plus, I can't seem to grow any new hair.  All my efforts seem to be effective only on the 3 individual hairs on the top of my head that exceed 2 inches in length while the rest remains a stubborn fuzz.  Perplexing.

Anyway, I'm hungry.  Adios.

Bug out.

But Enough About Me, or, Caden Makes The Blog: The Sequel

Tired of reading the rants of a hormonal crazy person?  Well, good.  So am I.  I'm feeling decidedly less frah-gee-lay recently and I'd like to think my daffodils sprouting in the front yard have something to do with it.  Hear that, Old Man Winter?  I said DAFFODILS.  And do you want to know what else I have to say to you?  LAKE.  Not for any real reason other than today on the way to work I thought of the word 'lake' and how deliciously like summer it sounds.  Lake, lake, lake. 

Anyway, now that we can all agree that summer is on it's way, hip hip hooray, hoo boy, have I got a story for you!

'Member Bug's Uncle Big?  He's a studly looking fellow, and I'm sure the girls are eager for another look. Well, here's what he looks like when he's playing soccer in a snazzy gold jersey (#24).  He's pretty much the best defender on the best defensive team in the state, but don't tell him I said that or he'll get all cocky and Paddy will have to pin him to the carpet (again) in Round 2 of their epic family room wrestling match.  And the television almost didn't survive the first round.

Here's what he looks like right after he has headed the ball neatly out of the danger zone.  Careful study of the picture, however, will note his teammate's face about 1 millisecond away from smashing into Caden's skull, thanks, in no small part, to the double handed shove by the opposing player.

While his teammate writhes on the ground nursing a shattered nose, the opposing player receives his yellow card for the shove.  Caden, supported by best friend and regular partner in crime, Dillan, is on his feet, but not for long.

This is what Caden looks like a few seconds later lying face down on the field.  Not exciting.

And this is what Caden looks like headed to the hospital in an ambulance.

Our family was lucky that Uncle Big's initial CT scan at the hospital was promising, noting only a serious concussion.  We were happy to take Caden home from the hospital that night, but frightened when we found only an empty shell of Uncle Big staring blankly at the world.  The new, suckier Caden didn't know any of his family members.  He couldn't remember any of his friends.  He couldn't say the ABCs or count, and didn't recognize his own house.  He didn't recognize his precious Bug-niece, and had to be told what a baby was.  For 3 days, he didn't know whether he liked the taste of Skittles or who his grandparents were. 

We cried.

Nevertheless, miracles happen.  A second blessing was given, and we cried. 

He came out of an MRI scan on the fourth day, and said the noises were as irritating as Brenn. 

"I am not irritating!" thought Brenn.

 "He said BRENN!" thought Dad and Lalli. 

 

And we all cried.  Uncle Big is back, and well, and happy.  Hip hip hooray.

("Quite a lot to go through just to make it on the blog again!" I thought.)

(Also, lake, lake, LAKE!)

Frah-gee-lay. It must be Italian.

My morning sort of resembled a depressing country song, minus the part where my ex-wife runs off with my truck.  (I don't have either.)  Sometime after the speeding ticket and before I was 20 minutes late for a training meeting, I had a vague recollection of something I learned about in graduate school. 
Naturally, I came home and consulted the all-knowing Wikipedia to refresh my memory.

In 1967, psychiatrists Holmes and Rahe developed a scale of 43 stressful life events that can contribute to illness.  Based on the last 4 1/2 months, I calculated my scores.

Pregnancy- 40
Gain a new family member- 39
Change in financial state- 38
Change in responsibilities at work- 29
Spouse starts or stops work- 29
Revision of personal habits- 24
Trouble with boss- 23
Change in working hours or conditions- 20
Change in church activities- 19 (not to argue with the good doctors or anything, but I propose becoming both ward organist and choir director at the same time should be way more than 19 points.  Just listening to the ward choir is worth 19 points.)
Change in sleeping habits- 16
Vacation- 13
Christmas- 12

It's no wonder I've been a bit emotionally fragile lately. 

Oh yeah, I almost forgot.  As of this morning:
Minor violation of the law- 11

Kiss me, I'm Irish

I love St. Patrick's Day.  Wearing green makes my eyes look nice, mostly.

We're not really sure if my Paddy is Irish, what with his mama being adopted and all.  I'm not generally big on stereotyping based on appearance (books and covers, you know), but I'd say he makes a pretty good case for it:

I mean, honestly.  Have you ever seen such an adorable little leprechan?

Anyway, the point is that I try to make a big deal out of the day whether he's technically Irish or not because I figure I'd want the same courtesy if a St. Kristie's Day existed.  Get ready to have your mind blown, here:  this is the NINTH St. Paddy's Day wherein I have enjoyed having my own personal Paddy. Nine whole years. Such is young love.

Dear Mo-

Did you know I love you?  I love you.  Thank you for loving me back even though I have been a complete and certifiable crazy person for the last month.  I'm sorry about all the hysterics and carrying on (I'm Scottish, after all) and I promise to be better.

Thank you for doing the laundry and I promise to fold it.  Thank you for working so hard and I will, too.  Thank you for looking so handsome in your cuff links, and I'll iron every day for you if you want.  Thank you for giving me Bug, and there's nothing else to say about that because she's perfect.   I knew she would be because she's partly you, only her burps don't smell like salami.  (Gross.) 

I smother her in kisses and it's like smothering you, not just because she looks just like you, but also because she IS you, and she IS me, too, and I can't think of a more beautiful reason to believe.

I love you, love you, love you to the moon and back.  Someday we'll be old together and have lots of grown up babies and maybe just one will look a little like me and we'll hold hands and I will love you then, too.  Burps and all.


Yours, always and always,
Mo

Multiply and replenish

The adjustment to the new job has been, shall we say, a challenge.  Today, a shining ray of light burst through the clouds in the form of an elderly, pleasantly confused woman, who, upon learning I had merely one child to my name, calmly stated the following:

"Well, you should take your pants off and get busy, then."

Perhaps a purse? A dorky belt clip, even?

When I was in college, I had a friend who went jogging with her phone wedged into her sports bra. You know, in case she got attacked or something. I guess I can understand her reasoning since, for some ridiculous reason, many pairs of running shorts lack the pockets needed for keys, a phone, or an arm-band-less iPod.

Her phone got ruined by water damage. (Sweat damage, really.) Let that be a lesson.

So here's what I don't get. Professional women who store the cell phone in their bra during the course of a normal work day. I mean, really? Because you love blindly grasping for items in your underwear in front of other people? And then putting that item up against your face?

How to be beautiful with almost no hair

Thanks to the big, bad baby virus known as RSV, the staff and residents here at Bug's House have developed an intimate relationship with phlegm. Bug has decided she doesn't like the way phlegm tastes, the way phlegm feels in her lungs, or the way phlegm makes her voice rattle. She also doesn't like the way phlegm makes her cough.

In addition, I've decided I don't like the way phlegm is spelled. So, irritating all around.

This is not how I actually feel.

Dear Rosie,

I am blaming my dirty bathrooms, unfolded laundry, and microwaveable dinner on you, just so you know. My visiting teaching got done yesterday. Remember how that was the last day of the month? Your fault. And when summer comes, I will blame my weed-filled garden on you, too. In case you were wondering, the Lupster hasn't been to the dog park in ages and my car needs to be vacuumed. But, you see, I don't have time to do it because I'm out breaking glass ceilings and liberating housewives and whatnot. I just thought you should know that I did not choose the outfit that my baby wore today. Did you hear that? Someone else did. I hope you're happy.

But still, way to go on those biceps.

Love,

A (gratefully) well-educated, (grudgingly) working mother.