So long, farewell...

Schmoopsie and I had been married less than a year when my craptacular Kia Rio gave up the ghost.  It was no shocker, really, and I didn't blame the lil' thing.  It served me well for a couple of years in college, and we had some good times together cruising the rural roads of Cache Valley en route to various jobs I had serving people with disabilities in their homes.

After the Kia's engine stopped working entirely, the Hubster and I proudly purchased a Honda Accord, which his coworker recently nicknamed Goldenrod.  Reliable, dependable, and super low-maintenance, Goldenrod lived up to her (his?) Honda heritage in every way. 

Today, this happened:

And it really, really hurt:

Don't worry, I don't have to sport that cute accessory around anymore.  I do, however, walk like a mannequin (do mannequins walk?  This isn't making sense. I blame the pain killers.) without turning my head at all.  I'm told tomorrow will be worse.

Most importantly, I didn't have the Bug with me.  I'm so grateful for that that I have a hard time even being upset about the rest of it.  No one was more seriously injured, which is a blessing, and I was close to home.  Though I was solidly rear-ended, I wasn't pushed into on-coming traffic or even the stopped car in front of me.  Tender mercies, all. 

And now I'm beginning to sway back and forth from the narcotics.  To bed I go.  Goodbye, Goldenrod.

The opposite of road rage.

Dear Driver In Front Of Me-

Thanks so much for the wave.  Just so you know, I really only let you in front of me because you were two full-grown, professional men in shirts and ties all scrunched into a bright yellow Chevy Aveo, and I felt bad for you.  Plus, you were using your blinker, which is the polite thing to do.

Have a nice day,

The Girl Behind You Singing Along To The Radio

Hymns. With a side of nuts and berries, please.

Today, one of my neighbors spoke in church.

"I'm lucky!" she said.  "I've been asked to speak about my passion."

She proceeded to give a wonderful talk on the importance of music in delivering the message of the Spirit in to our lives.  She is a talented vocalist who studied opera abroad and plays the piano and organ perfectly.  (And here is where we can all chant the following question together:  Why is Kristie assigned to play the organ instead?  I don't get it either.)

Afterwards, Schmoopsie and I wrangled our wiggly child in to her car seat and home to her beloved bed.  We both stood in the kichen with the refrigerator door open, contemplating lunch options.

"I'm having peanut butter and jelly," I said.  "I love PB & Js.  In fact, I feel passionate about PB & Js."

"Wow, " said Schmoopsie, without looking up from building his chicken salad sandwich.  "Good thing YOU weren't asked to speak about your passion."

Wear sunscreen.

Over the last few days, I've become reasonably sure that my birth control is making me insane.  I can't be 100% sure of this, of course, what with all the extenuating circumstances and the lack of control group to compare to, but it has occurred to me that right about the time I stopped nursing Bug and began taking normal birth control again, I lost my mind.   Schmoopsie concurs.  (Gently.  He's learned to tread lightly around Wife: The Insane Version.)

Anyway, that's the excuse I'm going for right now for all the meltdowns I've had over the last 5 months.  Including, for example, getting all emotional on my car ride home today when I heard 100 Years by Five for Fighting.  You know, because I haven't safely heard that song like 26,000 times before. 

My younger sister will be 15 in a couple of months.  I was way older than her when I was 15. 

If I thought she'd hear me, I'd give her some advice.  I know she won't, though, not because she isn't awesome (she is) but because, after all, she's 15.  So instead, here is what I wish I would have heard at 15.  You know, because I'm old and wise and brimming with wisdom now.   It's like my version of that Baz Luhrmann song, which, coincidentally, came out just before I turned 15. 


You will regret those earrings later.
Guess what? All those other kids are just as insecure as you are.
Wear your retainer.
Listen.
Don't believe those teachers who make high school sound like it's the most important thing in the world.  They're only saying that to make you turn your work in on time.
Turn your work in on time.
Never, under any circumstances, wear a scrunchie.  EVER.
Things that are a big deal now are very rarely a big deal later.
Cheer for the Aggies.
Your freckles are not flaws.
Someday, you'll wish you were this pant size again.
Always use blue ink. 
Keep your toenails freshly painted and your heels moisturized.
Pet your dog.  She won't be there forever.
Hug your grandma.  She won't, either.
I see those socks with sandals.  Stop that.
Try peanuts in your pasta.
Take more walks.
Wear tanktops in the summer.  Someday it'll be decidedly less appropriate.
Your most important bit of make-up is mascara.  Unless you really are on a desereted island with only one thing, in which case it's clearly chapstick.
Plant some flowers.
You will never regret being overly kind.
In another year or two, you'll meet a cute boy with curly hair.  Bat your eyes.  He's a keeper. 

Pretty princess

Dearest Bug,

So here's the story.  I counted today, and you're a little more than 41 weeks old.  That means you really have been out in the world as long as you were flipping around in my belly.  I don't know really what to think or say about that, so we'll just move on. 

I suppose you are very much like most babies at 9 and a half months old.  We spread out colorful, shiny toys in every direction, and your response is always the same.  You glance around for the briefest instant, immediately dismiss each toy one at a time as far beneath your standards, and then squint your eyes just slightly as you stare all the way across the room.  With the wooden Noah block hanging out of your mouth, you crawl at lightening speed toward the tiniest piece of dark fuzz or old Cheerio in the carpet that you somehow spied from yards away.  Your chubby little fingers very carefully pinch the offending fluff, lift it for examination, and immediately ram it deep into your mouth.  I'm not sure if you realize this, but that's not a particularly safe habit. 

You pull yourself up on furniture and scoot along the couch to earn yogurt snacks from Kimmi and me.  You sing yourself to sleep, and you say both "ma ma ma ma" and "da da da da" with equal finesse, though you don't really assign them to any specific person.  I leave you in the living room to grab a bottle for you, and in the next second, I turn around to see you crawling around the corner after me with a sly, toothy grin on your face.  (And a fuzz ball in your mouth, probably.)

Speaking of teeth.... dude.  Six.  You have six.  Can we take a break for a bit?  And also, those chompers are sharp!  You probably noted that today when you sat down a little too hard in bed and bit your tongue.  Hate to break it to you, but that happens from time to time even as a grown up, and it's equally as excruciating.

Bug, maybe you're bored of hearing it, but I'll never tire of saying it.  I. Love. You.  Tonight, I picked your sleepy body out of your carseat to carry you inside.  You buried your face into my neck, and since you so rarely sleep in my arms, I drank in the moment.  We sat in the chair in your room with your heavy body long across my lap.  Your warm breath smelled like milk and sleep, and the curls on the back of your head were damp with sweat. 

Someday, I'll help you slip your arms into a backpack to send you to your first day of school.  Someday, we'll pack your pillowcase with treats and pajamas for your first sleep over.  I'll help you curl the back of your hair for your first date (while Daddy breathes through a full-blown anxiety attack in the back room, of course.)  Someday, we'll buy you a long white dress and put flowers in your hair. And someday, if you are very, very lucky, I will watch you rock your own baby to sleep.

But not yet.

Today you are still my baby. 

I love you to the moon and back, princess child.

-Mama

Things that make you go "ugh".

There are lots of awful tasks in the world.  Sticking your hand into a sink full of cold, cloudy water to find out why it's not draining has got to be high on the list. 

Discovering that your mid-century kitchen sink no longer has any sort of straining device protecting the plumbing is awful, too.

So we borrowed a wrench and took apart the p-trap under the sink, and here is where it really gets awesome.  (Sense my sarcasm.)  Here is a list of the things that came out of the kitchen drain pipe:

A grape
The little scrubby brush designed to clean out nipples.  (I re-worded that fragment like 4 times and it sounds filthy every way you shake it.)
2 (TWO!) baby spoons
A popsicle stick
A wipie

Don't judge me.

Oh yeah.  Also, when we tried to clean out the trap before re-installing it, the bottom of the U-shaped part split open.  And the one we blindly bought at Lowe's doesn't fit.  We now have a plastic garbage can wedged in under the sink to catch the water when I (inevitably) forget that it's broken and turn on the faucet.

Please, someone, buy my house.

An apple a day

The Bug had a visit with her pediatrician last week because, get this, SHE IS NINE MONTHS OLD.  That's right; she's been out as long as she was in.  Let's stop talking about it before I get all hysterical.  The little nugget is in the 81st percentile for her height and the 65th for her weight. (Tall and skinny Bug = example of the unpredictability of genetics.) There's no chart for percentile of adorable.

Bug's doc is fan-tabulous.  Seriously.  We adore him, and not just because he told us to feed Bug all the Mexican food she can stomach.  I'm not kidding-- he actually gave us specific instructions to take her to Cafe Rio.

We are nothing if not obedient to doctor's orders, so we planned a family outing.  (Forgive the cell phone quality pictures.)

Mmmm. Beans.

Bug, Schmoopsie, and I had the pleasure of snaggng the family seats at the ReAL Salt Lake game after dinner.  It was a wonderful night and a great game.  3-0, baby.

If you haven't ventured out to a game recently, give it a shot.  Maybe you can snag a baby with cheeks like these.

(This one is taken.)