A Bug's Life

A girl and her dog

2012-02-15T10:27:00.001-07:00

Alternately titled, "Will you be my Valentine?"

It's been a while since Lupe made a good solid appearance on the blog. Don't worry, we haven't forgotten her. In fact, while I was busy straightening my bedroom, Bug hand-delivered a Wubby (a treasure of infinite value) to her "Yuppy" for Valentine's Day.

Lu couldn't be more thrilled.

"I'm so thrilled you decided to have another kid. Really. I can barely contain my glee."

"Juuuussst. Holllllld. Stiiilllll..."

This is basically why we own a dog.
That, and because it was a life long dream of mine to house a creature who eats her own crap.

Who can spy Bug's papa toe poking out of the jammies?

"Mmmmmmmmwah."

37 Weeks

2012-02-15T10:04:00.001-07:00

Based on the daily experience of my life, let's see if I can preempt all the very clever comments and questions everyone is thinking at this point:

Yes, I'm still pregnant!

Yep, I'm positive there's just one in there.

You're right, it is nice that I work in a hospital. (Too bad it's not the one I deliver in. Unless, you know, accidentally.)

I feel like I'm about to pop, too!

Yes, I am being induced in 9 days. No, that is not "almost here!"

Pudding cups

2012-02-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy pudding? I do, and Sherm must like it, too, because I have wanted a lot of it since I started growing him.

Somehow our doctor's appointment this week stretched to a three-hour long adventure including a trial run up to Labor and Delivery, you know, just for fun.

I don't really know what to say about all the details except that in the end, everything was fine and Sherman is still (painfully) wedged between my pelvis and my rib cage, right where he belongs. As a parting gift, we were granted an official end date for this whole adventure. (Dear Sherm, don't feel you have to wait for your court-ordered eviction notice. The early bird gets the worm, you know.)

Two more weeks. Two weeks two weeks twoweekstwoweeks.

But here's the part I'm thinking about today.

The boy I married prefers vanilla to chocolate. He loves basketball and football and despises hockey and adores Diet Coke. He like government-action movies and little red-headed daughters. He hates those Labor Dispute signs with the Shame On ________ (insert company name) banners. He is funny and good and kind. People he knows only a little probably recognize him first by his warm smile, as he is rarely found without it. People who know him well know that he is, at baseline and without trying very hard, a generally cheerful and good natured man infused head to toe with sunshine. And the girl he is married to knows that he is also genetically wired to be a bit of a worrier. Three hour doctor's appointments do not generally suit his personality well.

That's why I found myself a little surprised to be sitting in the tiny closet-like room of my doctor's office with the non-stress test monitors strapped to my round belly, laughing until tears streamed down my cheeks. The little red line measuring my contractions was bouncing crazily all over the monitor in time with my hysterical giggles, and across the room between his own peals of laughter, Paddy was playfully scolding me for messing up the test.

The joke was one of those 'had to be there' sort of moments, but I don't want to forget it. In the stress of that tiny little room, we pointedly talked about anything besides the strange heartbeat readings we were seeing on the tiny screen. We wondered how Bug was behaving at home and planned the rest of the evening (before we knew we'd spend half of it strapped to versions of that same machine). My brilliant, hard-working Schmoopsie-face had just that morning passed the final exam for one of his professional designations, a feat nearly two solid years in the making, and I was (am!) oh-so-proud of him. What I meant to say in that moment was that celebration was in order. I smiled up at him from my large lounge chair.

"I'll have to make something tasty for dinner to celebrate your passing!" I said.

Surely envisioning his own death and the elaborate party foods I was apparently planning on serving to fellow mourners, he pulled a face. We both exploded into laughter.

It probably would've been over in a few seconds if I didn't have to keep seeing the proof of my giggles on that darn printout. Seeing those jaggedy lines all over the place would get me laughing all over again, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. And THEN I started imagining the nurse popping her head in to check on us and finding me smack in the middle of what she would assume to be a pregnancy-induced crying jag, and that made me laugh even harder. Ultimately, that's exactly what happened, and that was funny, too.

Paddy shows he loves me by buying me pudding cups. He shows it in a lot of other ways, too, but I especially love the pudding cups. Sometimes he orders Dr. Pepper instead of Diet Coke so he can share it with me. He often does kind little things quietly and without a lot of fluff. Sometimes, for example, he pushes his own worries aside to make me laugh, and I know he loves me.

I share the vanilla layer of my pudding cups with him, and count my many blessings.

Superbowl lovies

2012-02-07T11:00:00.001-07:00

Meet my two favorite people in the whole world.

Aren't they precious? Many thanks to Allie for snapping this most adorable shot at the yearly Superbowl party. I'm not posting the one that includes me because I am nine months pregnant and that is my right.

The post wherein I whine.

2012-02-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

Quick! Anyone want to hear the topic of my emotional breakdown yesterday?

So basically, it all boils down to one point. I want to have a baby (good thing, huh?) and it turns out that at this point I don't get one of those without HAVING A BABY.

Right?

Here are my options: stay pregnant. This option sucks. I dream about what it used to be like to walk without thinking about walking. What wonderful ignorance! I used to race around the Emergency Room at work thinking about easy things like what needed to be done next, or possibly what would make someone want to sport a scrub top while wearing khakis and a belt (seems like an strange fashion choice to me, but oddly popular among the male physician sort) without any consideration for my ability to stride along. These days, I don't race anywhere. I sort of-- lumber, I guess. I lumber around the ER, and this is the new commentary in my head: "ow. ow. ow. ow." Oh, and the occasional "make another pregnancy joke at my expense and--pelvic pain or not--I swear I'll manage to balance long enough to kick you solidly in the shins."

For example, sometime last week I slowly and painfully made my way from one end of our 70+ bed ER to the other to provide a patient with some substance abuse resources. Right about the time I'm asking about the patient's withdrawal history, his friend glances up and notices, apparently for the first time, that the girl standing across the bed from him with the list of methadone clinics is visibly pregnant. I presume he felt his next comment was brimming with such incredible genius, so hilarious in its originality, that he simply could not possibly be bothered to wait until the end of my conversation, or, for that matter, the end of the sentence I was in the middle of before interjecting.

"Wow," he said, flatly. "It's a good thing you already work, you know, in a hospital or whatever. Just in case, you know, something, uh, accidentally falls out of there." Gestures helpfully at my swollen abdomen as if waiting for response.

Blink. Blink blink.

So that's option one, and it includes a million trips to the bathroom and lack of bladder control and exhaustion and pain.

Option two is have a baby.

Don't get me wrong. There's clearly a major upside here. Also, I presume it does become the only physically possible option at some point in the future, but let's ignore that for a minute the way I did during my emotional breakdown yesterday.

Having a baby requires pushing that baby out. And then dealing with the physical aftermath of pushing that baby out. And then there's no sleep for what seems like the foreseeable future and discomfort of innumerable types and bodily locations. Plus I have a two year old this go-round who I fear is quite smart enough to get in all kinds of trouble while I am caring for the wee one.

So at this point I'm faced with the following two scenarios.

1: Pain and exhaustion.
2: Pain and exhaustion.

This is the part where you remind me of the delicious way a new baby smells, with a little bald head nestled under my chin. (Or hairy head. I'm open to that, too.) Little tiny feet and fingers and round soft little cheeks all connected to those warm little bodies. Can someone just remind me of that part? Because right now I'm caught between the horrors of maternity waist bands and postpartum mesh underwear, and I can't decide which is worse.

Date night

2012-01-30T08:52:00.001-07:00

After spending two long days at a professional conference this past Friday and Saturday, I was in the mood for a relaxing date night. Luckily for me, we already had one planned! Stacey and I had scored the boys some Jazz tickets for the Kings game on Saturday night so they could see Jimmer play. They had so much fun watching him play well in college that we thought seeing him in person in the NBA would be a blast. We were right!

When we eat out with the Ortons, chances are decent we'll end up at Joe Morley's BBQ, and it definitely didn't disappoint. We stuffed our faces with delicious smoked meat, and then headed downtown for the game.

Pretty much the most impressive accomplishment for the night, at least as far as I'm concerned, is that I survived the trek in from the car and up to the very. top. row. of the nosebleeds without going in to labor. It was close, but don't worry. Sherm is still right where he belongs.

(Now that it's two days later and I'm remembering how it feels to still be pregnant, I'm wondering if that's a good thing.)

Watching Jimmer was lots of fun, but the best part of the night was seeing the Jazz squeak out a victory. It was a little scary to end up with such a close game when the Kings are such a terrible team, but we got the W, so I guess all's well that ends well.

To Sherman

2012-01-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

Dearest Sherman-child,

Hello, son! Mama here, just checking in to see how things are going. You're 34 weeks into your hot tub time, and I sure hope you're enjoying yourself in there. (Because, let's be honest. That would sort of make one of us.) You seem to enjoy flopping around, stretching out, and even the occasional swan dive on to what probably looks like a fun bouncy pool toy but is, in fact, my bladder. Don't worry your pretty little head, though, it's ok. Mama doesn't mind. Just keep squirming around all you want; it eases her worries.

Here's the thing. Carrying you around has turned out to be much harder than growing your older sister was. To make a long story short, it hurts. Like, mostly all the time. My pelvis and hips feel stiff and sore, the way I imagine old people feel as they shuffle along. (Maybe a walker with tennis balls on the bottom would help?) The effort of rearranging both of us in bed is the most painful thing I do all day long, and the fact that it takes like ten minutes to accomplish makes for a lot of unflattering grunting and groaning for your father to endure.

Also, and let's not go in to too much detail here, but sometimes I still throw up, and the problem with that is that my bladder is growing ever less competent to safely withstand the stress of all that yuking. Just saying.

Mama is trying very hard not to complain, though, and to be fair, there are all kinds of things I have to be grateful for this time around. Prilosec, for one. I cannot describe the fantastic, amazing joy it is to have relief from the horrible heartburn I experienced with your sister. Look at me, reclining in bed without a care in the world!

And speaking of bed, we have a new addition to our family (besides you, I mean.) Meet Allister, the black body pillow I scored from Target for under 10 bucks. He's basically a permanent resident on our bed these days, so Daddy thought we might as well go ahead and name him so he felt less like a stranger, and, you know, more a part of the family. I thought it might help Daddy feel a little less jealous, but somehow when Daddy curls up with me in his arms at night and discovers I'm already spooning with Allister, I get the sense there's still some burning resentment there. I tried telling Daddy that if he would like to hold my leg all night long in a way that relieves the pressure on my pelvis, I'd toss Allister down to the dog.

Amazingly, Allister has stayed.

I'm grateful for all kinds of other things, too. I'm grateful for the lack of snow since normally I slip on the ice at least once per year. I thought for sure my relaxed joints plus crazy center of gravity changes plus not being able to see my feet would make for a terrible equation ending in a pregnant girl splayed out all over the drive way, but so far, so good. And yes, I'm knocking on wood right now.

I am also grateful for nine o'clock church services. Since I normally work all night Saturdays, it's about a billion times easier to just stay up and go to church than when we met at 11:00. (The teenager in me is completely shocked at this moment.) Let's not get started on the horror of the 1:00 (read: naptime!) block we endured most of the year. And yes, we have tried out all three of those options in the last 13 months. Our chapel remodel is finally complete, though, and that means I am also grateful that we no longer have to borrow a church that is, gasp!, a couple of miles away.

I am grateful for the little copper-haired ball of energy and happiness that is your big sister. One little "I yuv'a too, Mommy!" and I can't imagine a better thing in the world than filling a whole house with babies, lack of bladder control or not.

And oh, how thankful I am for your father. I'm sure there is something about him that isn't absolutely perfect in every way, but basically the only thing I can come up with at this point is that he doesn't like scrubbing the George Foreman grill any more than I do. While I feel like I've been a lot less crazy than I was with Bug (it's a girl thing, maybe) he has still dealt with a pregnant lady for 8 months with nary a complaint.

I am grateful for you. If all the waddling and hurting means you make it safely from being a Sherman wiggling around inside and happily flashing your man parts for all the world to see every time we take your picture to a soft, (probably) bald, delicious-smelling ball of actual baby with an actual name, then I will do it. I'd do it for 9 years rather than 9 months if I had to.

For the record, I'm still really glad I don't have to.

Love you to the moon,

Mama

P.S. We're still taking suggestions on what in the world to name you. If you have a preference, you'd better fill your mother with inspiration lickety-split. Otherwise, you might end up with Harold or something.

Firsts

2012-01-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

The Schmoops had a rare day off this last Monday (because the company he works for, unlike mine, actually celebrates Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. In what strikes me as totally confusing, after totally ignoring the civil rights hero's birthday altogether, my employer will pay me time and a half for Pioneer Day. Strange.) We celebrated by using a gift card we had to take Bug to her first movie. We saw The Muppets, mostly because Mama couldn't even imagine the horror of sitting through a couple of minutes of Alvin and the Chipmunks, let alone a few hours.

Even though Mama wouldn't let her have any popcorn (dangerous, and also, gross) she had a great time. We arrived in plenty of time to take a few pictures with Daddy's cell phone and its overly enthusiastic flash before the movie started, but even the pre-preview commercials were fascinating to a 2 year old.

Focused. Obviously.

The next night, Paddy scored some Jazz tickets from the radio, and had the pleasure of watching the Jazz march all over the Clippers in person. He took his second favorite lady in the world since the #1 gal was working.

First Jazz game date!

Their seats were not fantastic, but they had a great time anyway. Bug charmed the pants off of all of Grammy Lu's coworkers at half time and got a huge kick out of the Jazz Bear's antics.

Daddy even got some smooches at the end of the date night. Lucky guy.

Come to think of it, it seems our family has the Larry H. Miller group to thank for basically all of our fun this week. Minus the cute toddler and her smooches. We have ourselves to thank for that one, and also my uterus. It did all the work.

And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

2012-01-12T10:48:00.002-07:00

Here's the thing. In real life, I am 28 years old. I have a husband and a dog and a mortgage and a big girl job. I'm knocking on a door labeled Two Kids, for heaven's sake, but I still have a hard time thinking of myself as a real adult. Wasn't it yesterday that my 17 year old self was flirting with the Schmoops over MSN Messenger from my parent's basement when I should have been writing an essay for Mr. Wood's American History class?

Paddy recently brought home an adorable little kid sized potty for Bug to familiarize herself with. We're not quite ready to start potty training yet, but we figured it couldn't hurt to introduce the concept, at least in conversation. (Subliminal indoctrination, maybe?)

So there was this moment last night where time sort of screeched to a halt. I looked around. Schmoopsie was seated on the edge of the bathtub directly across from my spot on the toilet, his knees nearly bumping into mine. Bug was tucked into the corner in between us, excitedly perched on her new little potty with her elephant jammies bunched around her ankles. I held one of her hands, and Paddy held the other. She was smiling from ear to ear, her already poopy diaper discarded in her rush to try out her new appliance. I looked around at us: daddy, mommy, toddler, almost-baby.

And I asked myself, how did I get here?

Paddy read the look on my face, and smiled wryly.

"This is a long way from all that kissing we did in high school, isn't it?"

Right? And even though that naive 17 year old might have thought she was dreaming of this moment all those years ago, it is SO MUCH BETTER in person.

Sunny California

2012-01-10T13:47:00.001-07:00

On Saturday, the girls in the fam took our yearly day trip to California for some shopping. (Remember last year when we inexplicably took the only picture of the day in front of Frederick's of Hollywood?) This time Lalli, Ashley, Brenn, and I had a great time bouncing all around the outdoor mall in nearly 70 degree weather.

Let me just mention that again for emphasis:

Seventy. Degree. Weather.

It was fantastic. We all agreed that the only thing keeping us in Utah is, well, each other. So basically, that's it. Hey there! Friends and family, I'm talking to YOU! We're all channeling our pioneer heritage and moving out in one big mass exodus.

I was pleasantly surprised by my ability to find a few cute things for my wardrobe despite the current size of my uterus. I'm at that rough pregnant lady stage where I hate every single thing that I own that still fits me, but I refuse to purchase one more item with the word 'maternity' on the label. Luckily, I scored a lovely detailed cardigan and a blouse-y top, both of which work now AND after Sherm makes his debut, along with a pretty sparkley sash for belting the sweater around my belly.

After hours and hours of hauling Sherman around, we were definitely ready for some sustenance. With the unfaltering assistance of Ashley's phone GPS, we found ourselves safely on Olvera Street, wolfing down tacitos and teasing the boys back home for missing out on all the fun.

A few minutes after this picture was taken, I scraped the last bite of beans off my plate, and placed my folded napkin on top. During the telling of what was surely a super interesting story, my hand hit the edge of that (luckily empty) plate and launched my napkin into outer space. When it re-entered the atmosphere, it was on a direct trajectory for the woman at the next table. There was simply nothing I could do to stop it. As if in slow motion, I watched that white paper napkin fall from the heavens and land squarely in her lap.

The outside of the napkin was dry, and I apologized profusely through my bouts of embarrassed laughter, but that woman was not the least bit amused. The way I see it, she should count her many blessings because we only narrowly averted true disaster. Those plates come from the counter COVERED in sauce and refried beans. A mere 7 minutes earlier, and we would both be showered in famous avocado sauce from head to toe.

We missed Kimmi this year on our trip. Rather than dancing around in the sunshine, she was busy floundering in feet of snow in the good ol' Alaska.

The biggest victory of the day, at least in my book, was landing safely back on the snowy tarmac in SLC with Sherm and all his amniotic fluid safely tucked away where it should be. I like California and all, but I sure didn't want to pop out a baby unexpectedly there.

100 months pregnant

2012-01-03T12:15:00.002-07:00

Not really. It sometimes feels that way, though. Here are the first belly shots of this pregnancy, and yes, that means I'm a bad mom. Oops. It's just that I'm rarely ready for work (when I look presentable) early enough for a photo shoot and T-R-U-S-T me, you do not want a shot from after I've spent late night hours in the ER. Have I ever told you about the oily mist that exists at the door to the ER, instantly ruining any attempt at fantastic hair and eliminating all makeup? No? Well, I swear it happens. Ask anyone who's worked there, and also it's the only way to explain the way I find myself looking halfway through my shift.

Anyway, here we are at 31 weeks, 4 days. Forgive the quality; I was using the self-timer and corralling a 2-year-old at the same time.

Here's a comparison of what I looked like at about the same time with Floyd, just for comparison.

I feel rounder this time, and lower, too. I am ridiculously short-waisted, so it's probably not noticeable to anyone but me and the Schmoopse, but this kiddo leaves me with more room to breathe and less ability to walk. Pregnancy is all about trade offs.

The room to breathe, by the way, is nice, but does not make it any easier to sing in church. I'm so emotional that any darn hymn in the world brings me immediately to tears, so I've given up trying altogether. Just TRY walking into church services, stomach swollen and heavy with first boy-child, and then give Away In A Manger a whirl. It's impossible.

Doctor's orders indicate this baby will not remain in my belly a zillion years like his sister, so it's looking like his birthday will be in February. That's NEXT MONTH, folks.

Wow.

Welcome, Twenty-Twelve!

2012-01-01T18:07:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I predicted that 2011 was going to be super fantastic.

I'm such a smarty pants.

This past year was excellent to our family. In January, I got to quit a job I detested (thus leaving you, my faithful blog readers, severely lacking in the poop-analogy department.) In February, our sanity and Bug's eternal happiness preserved with the discovery and purchase of spare wubbies. In March, we discussed Bug's food pyramid, and finally got my closet under control, which has happily stuck around! April brought the Schmoopsie's birthday and that one time Bug lost my wedding ring. We attended the wedding of the century (hint: not Will and Kate's) in May, necessitating Bug's first trip on a real live whee-yah. Plus, I found the ring! June was packed with crazy adventures, like the time Schmoops got the shingles.

Two days after the official word on the shingles, I found out that we were expecting a second little peanut face to join our family. Days after that, we found that Patrick would be serving in a time-consuming church calling. It's amazing those shingles ever went away with the poor boy's stress level. Thank goodness for a wonderful quick weekend getaway celebrating our first 5 years of marriage.

July was a bit quieter, with only the unexpected loss of a neck mole to spice up our lives. In August, we said goodbye to MJ when she decided she could up and move to Alaska. We also went to Denver on a work trip for the Schmoopse, and I forgot to blog about all the fun things we did there, including the Denver Zoo, a Rockies game (first trip to the MLB for all three of us!) and the way we had to pay $3 for a cup of milk every night when it was time for Bug to go to sleep since our room didn't have a mini-fridge and the Starbucks in the lobby was the only place with la leche for my little child.

September brought the beginning pregnancy pukes, and a fantastic Labor Day weekend getaway to St. George with my family. October brought big events, including the discovery of Sherman's man parts and Bug's second birthday party (which, it turns out, I have yet to blog about. This sort of horrifies me.) In addition, Paddy was offered a fantastic new opportunity at work, one that made us cry tears of joy and gratitude and also increased our level of busy from Hopping to It's Crazy Time, Folks! (That's an orange alert, for you busy-scale rookies.)

November means I'm twenty-eight, and the discovery of frightening pregnancy girdle options. December was jam packed with holiday parties, a very merry Christmas (which still deserves a real blog post) and a big girl bed.

It's hard to believe that 2011 is all sealed up for the record books. Here's to a fantastic brand new year.

The drama o' the sauce.

2011-12-22T13:11:00.000-07:00

From time to time, I find myself overestimating the brilliance of my daughter, or, more accurately, the brilliance of my own parenting. She's so adaptable, I think to myself. After all, she transitioned to a big girl bed with no significant hiccups. She'll sleep at Nana's house or on vacation. She mostly eats what we put in front of her, and she's always been pretty great with unexpected alterations to her schedule without much more than access to a wubby.

I forget that she is, in fact, a two year old, and imagine her instead to be a very small version of an adult, capable of quickly conforming to any unexpected stimuli with her usual cheerful demeanor.

And then we have an incident like we did at lunch today. An incident where Bug was provided with barbecue sauce to be used for the dipping of chicken nuggets. It was sauce that had been specifically requested by the toddler in question with the rather complex verbiage of "Mommy, ah wan' a sauce a dippa muh titten, feeeeeesss!" which, being translated, clearly means "Mommy, I want sauce to dip my chicken, please." The sauce was provided, and instantly it was determined that she DID NOT WANT THE SAUCE HOW DARE YOU GIVE ME THE SAUCE NO NO NO SAUCE THANKS. And even though the sauce was not touching any part of her food, and even though no one was forcing her to dip anything in any sauce, the very presence of the sauce, the very fact that it existed within the small realm of her control was simply unacceptable. We could not possibly emotionally move past the existence of that sauce, yea, even our entire focus must concentrate solely on the existence of the sauce and the need for its immediate removal forever and ever amen.

And that's when I remember that pride cometh before the fall, and great is the fall thereof when a mother dareth to assume she has the perfect child.

Then again...

Maybe I was right all along.

Growing tall, tall, tall.

2011-12-16T12:27:00.002-07:00

Ever since we found out Sherman would be joining our family, Paddy and I have been tossing around ideas about what to do with the bed situation. We were fortunate enough to borrow a crib for Bug when she was born. When we brought her home from the hospital, we put her in a pack n' play that had a higher bassinet level for infants and was situated conveniently right next to my side of the bed.

That arrangement lasted about 2 nights. As a brand new mommy with plenty of fears, I found myself lying awake all night long, listening to her heavy newborn breathing and jumping up to check on her with every squirm in her blankets. I think it was the third night home when we moved her into the crib in her little purple nursery, and she's slept in that same spot ever since.

Like most do now-a-days, Bug's borrowed crib can convert to a toddler bed. We had never found the need to make the change, though, since she liked the crib and (with one exception before the mattress had been lowered for the final time) she'd never tried to climb out of it. With Sherman's birthday drawing nearer, we debated about the best course of action to take to make room for the little guy. Change Bug's bed into the toddler bed and buy our own crib? Buy Bug a twin mattress and put it on the floor until she's a bit bigger? Keep Sherm in the pack n' play until Bug was ready for a big girl bed?

Basically the only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to make the change sooner than later so Bug didn't feel like Sherman was stealing "her" crib. We had basically decided on buying a twin bed and box spring along with some soft guard rails for her, and had begun pricing out the best place to make the purchase, when Jess mentioned she was selling an adorable toddler bed that her daughter, BG, had outgrown. We jumped at the chance to take advantage of a great deal from someone I know and trust. (Buying beds from ksl.com--which I normally love!--seems a little creepy. Hello? Bed bugs? Luckily, I know for a fact that Jessica's house is about a billion times cleaner than mine, so we're in great shape!) It was quite a bit less expensive than the twin bed option, especially when we factored in new sheets and bedding and the bed rails we would have needed. Plus, Bug could keep using the quilt I slaved over that matches her nursery perfectly!

As an aside, we also debated on whether to switch Bug to the other bedroom a bit further down the hall to make room for the new baby. Ultimately, it was the presence of his man-parts that made the decision easy. I didn't want to repaint Bug's purple and lavender wall in boy colors. Laziness takes the day!

So anyway, this story is growing much too long. We bought the bed and set it up a couple of weeks ago, but hadn't moved it into her room yet. Schmoops didn't want to attempt the maiden toddler bed voyage on a night I'd be at work, and we knew we had to take apart the crib to fit it out the door. Last night, we finally got up the energy--courage?-- to make the switch.

We shouldn't have been worried. Bug was thrilled with her new big girl bed, and went down like a champ. She was fast asleep each time we peeked in on her. We heard one cry this morning as Paddy was getting ready for work. When we went in, she was all curled up on the floor. I was about to feel like a terrible mother, until she gave us both hugs and then, get this, asked to get back in her bed. We said our morning family prayers, and then she drifted off to sleep for another hour or so. Success!

I'll admit it; tears were shed. They were not Bug's.

I miss my copper-haired baby princess Bug. I miss her soft little body and clenched little hands. The missing is so strong and real it's nearly solid, and it lives at the back of my throat where it swells and makes it hard to swallow.

There are three things in all the world that help that missing, and I have all three. I have my copper-haired big girl princess Bug filled with smiles and words and her very own personality bursting right out of her.

I have new little tiny clothes hanging in an empty closet. They are blue and orange and red and brown with nary a pink top in sight.

And most of all, I have a sweetheart. He's the only person in the whole world who knows and misses that baby princess the way I do, and the only other person in the whole world who feels the wiggles of this unborn baby who will fill those clothes.

Tender and all, but he still won't help me come up with a reasonable name for this kid.

My Merry Christmas

2011-12-09T14:14:00.001-07:00

I'm nothing if not a classy broad.

2011-12-06T09:30:00.001-07:00

During our church services on Sunday, I found myself scooting out of Sacrament meeting to use the ladies room. It's a practice that is becoming more and more common what with this wonderfully large baby dancing on my bladder. Task completed successfully, I made the long walk back down the hallway, past the room with the open door where members of the Young Single Adult ward energetically participated in a Sunday School lesson. I smiled quietly at the few members of my own ward seated outside the chapel, and silently glided back into the large meeting and into our row not far from the back of the chapel. My belly and I scooted past the Schmoops, who was doing a terrific job corralling our two-year-old, and made myself comfortable on the pew to wait out the remainder of the meeting.

The organist began the postlude music, and that's when it happened. I was scooping up crayons and errant pretzel pieces when I felt a tapping on my shoulder.

Tap. Tap tap.

"Kristie?" a tentative voice called softly. "Your skirt is tucked in to your underwear in the back."

Oooh yeeaaaaahhhhh.

I am so hot right now.

Praises be that I had decided to wear a simple brown cotton skirt that, when not hitching a ride in my underwear, reaches past my ankles. I'm told (NOT by the husband who failed to notice any problem at all as I pushed my way past him in the pew--my derriere practically touching his face--I'd like to point out and thankyouverymuch) the long skirt still reached nearly to my knees in the back even with my delightful wardrobe malfunction.

After my thoughtful informant had moved away, pushed by the crowd of people eager to get home after three hours of worship services, Paddy looked at me with a bright smile on his face and arm raised cheerfully.

"You walked all the way back here with your skirt in your underpants? Right on! High five!"

And since there wasn't much else to do at that point, I wryly returned his grin and clapped my outstretched hand on his. Right on.

My tasty holiday treat

2011-11-30T10:48:00.000-07:00

I know I didn't do the traditional I'm Thankful For post this year. Just know that I am standing in a blizzard of the most amazing blessings, with bits of undeserved happiness and joy swirling all around me until I can't see myself for the whiteout. I am happy and healthy and loved and safe and overwhelmed with gratitude.

Life is good.

I have my Schmoopsie, my Bug Princess dancing in her jammies, my Sherman kicking my kidney and bladder and whatever else he can target in his little space, my silly, lazy dog who gets fatter every single day, and a Cocomotion supplied with Steven's Peppermint Hot Chocolate.

Life is SO good.

Bet you wish you had enjoyed this slice of pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving the way I did.

Thank heavens I made it with low-fat milk.

2011-11-22T16:17:00.000-07:00

Does being pregnant justify the amount of chocolate pudding I want to eat today?

My fragile sense of vanity

2011-11-14T14:04:00.003-07:00

I am six months pregnant. I have precious little personal vanity left to cling to at this point. I can wear only tops designed to expand to accommodate a belly the size of a Michelin all-weather tire, and my skin looks like the average junior high student before they discover the wonders of facial cleanser. I am far from the most stylish dresser around even on my best day, so while experiencing all the quirks of growing a human--including the pleasure of regularly weighing myself in front of a stranger--I claim the right to fiercely take advantage of any shred of wardrobe dignity available to me.

I had a doctor's appointment today to check Sherm's progress. I finally broke down and admitted to my doctor that, unlike when I was pregnant with Floyd, I have been experiencing a reasonably significant amount of lower abdominal pain with this pregnancy.

(This happened right after I finally broke down and admitted to myself that apparently I have issues with appearing to be anthing less than a pregnancy rockstar. Don't mind me. I'm fine! Just GROWING A BABY over here with absolutely no discomfort or unusual complaints. Carry on.)(In my defense, in my line of work I come across a lot of award winning whiners, so maybe I'm a little sensitive about becoming one.)

My doctor, who is fantastic and did not appear to immediately shun me for being less of a rockstar, suggested that perhaps a maternity support belt worn under my tummy to help heft the weight of this growing boy would help.

Long story short: a quick google search of 'maternity girdle' revealed some truly frightening options.

And that's why despite the pelvic and hip pain that has been plaguing me for the last several weeks (particularly when I have the pleasure of working all the way through the middle of the night) I have decided to eschew any product with a design structure that includes any of the following:

An attached panty
An attached bra
Over the shoulder straps
Between the leg groin/crotch support (Unfortunately for someone, this exists. I am ever so grateful that I have no idea what type of ailment might necessitate this as a solution.)

Let's pray that the simple, small band I managed to find at an extremely reasonable price is helpful. Otherwise, I might just be suffering in silence. It's like Wesley said to Princess Buttercup:

Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.

Like maybe a maternity groin supporter.

Tomorrow I turn twenty-eight.

2011-11-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

Turning twenty-eight feels a lot like growing a baby.
I know, I know, it seems like a really obvious analogy given my current physical state, but the more I think about it, the more apt the comparison feels. Let me explain.

It doesn't seem as strange to turn twenty-eight as I thought it might. I think at least part of the reason is because my twenty-seventh birthday feels so long ago.

There are no tears the day before my twenty-eighth birthday. Happiness and contentment fill my heart the way this growing boy fills my belly--heavy and swollen and slow. Our circumstances on the eve of my twenty-eight are not perfect. Maybe it's obvious, but the older I get, the more I think that no one is exactly where they'd like to be and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the whole point.

I spent a lot of my rough twenty-six searching for the whys and how comes and hurry-up-and-let-me-learn-this-lesson-so-it-can-be-OVER-alreadys and, oh yeah, crying. Don't get me wrong, the search was good. I am stronger because of twenty-six. Twenty-six gave my personal belief system a lining of steel to protect the soft, warm feelings I'd been nurturing over the first quarter century of my faith building. Twenty-six was a good start. I'd do twenty-six over again.

Here is what the twenty-seven year old me thinks, though, at least on the eve of twenty-eight. (I reserve the right to re-evaluate this position whenever I want, of course. I hardly think I have it all figured out before I even hit three decades old.) I think that maybe the whys don't matter all that much. The point is in the process, tthe walking, the hurting, the growing, (even the crying, which makes me feel only slightly less silly for all the carrying on) and the end result. Everyone is going to have some sort of rock in their hiking boot and it doesn't much matter the size or shape of it or how different their trail is from mine, the point is that everyone makes it to the top.

This time around, this year, the challenges and frustrations feel necessary, even purposeful. There are bumps in our family's road, but the road is headed somewhere, and that feels great.

This baby is lower and heavier than I remember feeling with Floyd. By the end of the day, my pelvis and hips are sore and stiff from the effort of hefting the weight of my growing body. Twenty-eight feels like these sore hips--a bit awkward and cumbersome, but worth the effort for the end result. There is heartburn, but not the sort of agonizing fire as last year. This year, I can feel the flickerings of the child in my belly and it helps me push through a bit of burning in my chest. (Plus, let's be honest. Prilosec = fantastic.)

Baby growing is a series of contradictions. It is nausaea and it is also hunger, for one thing. It takes for-ev-er; I cannot believe how fast it has gone. It is painful and joyful. It is hard and worth it and happiness and tears and worry and faith all rolled into one giant growing belly.

And that's a little like turning twenty-eight tomorrow.
I don't have big plans for my first day of twenty-eight. I don't have to work this year, and the Schmoopsie and I have a date night planned for the next evening. I think I'll spend the morning watching a pair of two-year-olds toddle around my living room, and then maybe I'll take a nap in the afternoon.

There is one thing I know for sure: on my first day of twenty-eight, I'll be wearing my pearls.

I'd say 95% of our Time Outs are screaming infractions.

2011-11-04T11:29:00.000-06:00

The ruling on the field was End of Bubble Time.
After the play, unnecessary screaming-- on the two-year-old.
Defense will be charged one Time Out.
Penalty will be enforced on the end of the play.
Please reset the game clock to Nap Time. (Please.)

4th Down.

Good thing we got that one taken care of.

2011-11-03T16:57:00.001-06:00

It all happened while I was changing Bug's diaper. The process of filling said diaper with its stinky contents had already delayed nap time significantly, and Bug was lying on the floor of her bedroom, patiently playing with a finger puppet while I took care of the business end of things.

I chatted away softly to her, telling her all about our new Sherman-baby and running name ideas by her to see if she showed any particular interest. To be honest, she was looking a little bored with the whole concept until a brilliant idea emerged from her little mind. I could almost see that cartoon lightbulb above her head flashing on as her little eyes lit up. Excitedly, she shouted out her name preference for her littleyounger brother, her tiny eyebrows lifted in anticipation of my response.

It still has to go before the board for final approval, of course, but if Bug's suggestion wins out, Sherman's official name will be SantaSanta Hoho.

A pirate, a pirate, a pirate says-- ARRG!

2011-10-31T10:28:00.000-06:00

Happy Halloween!

Pretty intimidating, huh?

Muscles.

From our little swashbuckler to yours (or whatever yours are), have a happy and safe one!

You are what you eat.

2011-10-28T13:46:00.000-06:00

If gestating babies were made up only of what their pregnant mothers ate, Sherman would be almost exclusively cold cheese sandwiches and Crystal Light.

Judging a pumpkin by the rind.

2011-10-27T08:24:00.000-06:00

Last week, while Daddy and I were busy looking at pictures of Sherman and his man-parts, Bug went to play at Grammy Lu's house. After I wiped all the ultrasound gel off my belly and drove back to Centerville, Grammy, Bunk, and I took Bug to lunch and out to a pumpkin patch to really kick off the season.

Isn't it funny how kids seem to remember very specifc incidents and recall them in perfect detail? We ate lunch at In N Out Burger that day, and as far as I can recall it's maybe the second time Bug has eaten there in her entire short life. Somehow, though, she locked the signature look of that bright arrow sign into her little mind, and now every time we drive by one, she hollers "fries! fries!" at the top of her lungs. Nothing like that to make a mom feel great about the nutritional values she's teaching her toddler. She's sure never flapped her arms with that much joy while shouting "broccoli! broccoli!" from the shopping cart in the grocery store.

Anyway, it was great to see how excited Bug was at the pumpkin patch. They had a kid-sized little hay maze that she ran through with all the joyful abandon her little heart could muster. It took all my mommy-powers to get her to hold still long enough for a picture.

Bug had a hard time wrapping her brain around all of the possible pun-tin options available to her in that whole patch, and at first she just ran to the first one she saw, content to take home any ol' lopsided, half-rotten, or worm-chewed gourd she could lay her hands on. We quickly taught her the importance of judging every pumpkin on it's most superficial features, though, and she seemed to get the hang of it.

We found two acceptable pun-tin specimens and let her choose between them.

As a side note, this is the way I intend for her to choose her spouse, as well. No half-greenish son-in-laws for us.

Bug was sure glad that Mommy let her wear her special Halloween outfit that Grammy Lu had given her a week or so before so she'd be sure to radiate holiday spirit. It was a close call, since she was hard pressed to remove that owl shirt (whooo! whooo! she says) from her frame AT ALL, let alone long enough for a whole wash cycle. The girl's got preferences, I tell you. I had to hide the Halloween costume because she wanted to wear it all. the. time.

Grammy misplaced the $20 bill she brought with her, and our trip nearly turned into the most expensive pumpkin purchase in the history of the world. Amazingly, the staff there found the bill the next day and called her to return it! It's a Halloween miracle!

To my princess who is 2. Two. TEE-YEW.

2011-10-26T09:59:00.002-06:00

Dearest Bug-let,

You turned two yesterday. This milestone horrifies your mother just as much as the others have, but I'll let you in on a secret. Somehow this one seems less surprising, somehow more believable or something. It's just that recently you seem so BIG. Every single day the child I lift out of the crib is less a baby and more a kid.

You've developed ever so many funny little quirks that have me rolling my eyes and chuckling at you nearly all day long. One of my favorites is that absolute shock and disappointment you exhibit every day at some of the basic parts of our schedule. Every day for, like, a million days in a row, even multiple TIMES every day, I have lifted you out of your high chair after every single meal and carried you directly to the sink for the mandatory sticky-fingers-sticky-cheeks rinse session. And yet you always act horribly surprised to find out that--SHOCK OF ALL SHOCKS!--Mommy is going to wash your hands right this very second. The phony tantrum is blessedly short lived, generally a wail of protest and a dropping of those expressive little eyebrows (makes you look like your daddy, sort of, which is strange since he doesn't scowl much) and the whole event is basically over before we've even dried your fingers.

I am blown away by your new-found language skills. You weren't particularly early developmentally in the words arena, and for a long time you basically stuck with a few favorites like mommy, daddy, milk, wubby- the basics, really. Now there is just no way I could list all the words you can say. I am surprised constantly by words you know that I swear I didn't teach you. (Scary, really, but so far we've avoided anything too naughty.) I am blown away by your ability to string the words together to make sense of your surroundings, too. A week or so ago, you were prancing around in some of my high heels when Daddy called from work to check on us. He asked what we were up to, and before I knew it, you were describing your fun with "mommy's church shoes" which sounds just a little like "mommy's cheech shoooes" in your little toddler accent.

The one possible exception to your otherwise squeaky clean verbal skills (and I hope this is embarrassing to you later) is your somewhat unconventional pronunciation of the word truck. You are a champ at making the T-sound in words like tubby, tummy, two, and Tommy, but for some reason, you prefer to start the word truck with an F-sound. Luckily for us, you have yet to perfect the hard consonant sound at the end of the word, but it's close enough that your excited shouts of "FIRETRUCK" while we're in the car still leave mommy and daddy shaking in the front seat in silent laughter, touched with perhaps just a hint of panic.

Don't worry, though. My next door neighbor when I was a kid did the same thing, only he nailed the hard K-sound at the end, resulting in a terrible version of "truck" ringing out loudly, clear as a bell.

And his grandpa was a trucker. Which he was quite proud of.

Really. And he turned out ok, as far as I know.

A very few things have stayed the same with you, it seems, but there are a few. When you are tired or a little nervous about something new, that little thumb still goes directly into your mouth. I do hope you grow out of it one of these days so you're not one of those weird kindergarteners that doesn't have any friends, but it's pretty cute in the mean time.

You still love to dance and shake that little tushy every chance you get. In the car, you invent new dance moves with your arms and demand that Daddy and I participate, too. We find ourselves sitting in the front seat, obediently mimicking our two year old and wondering where all our parental authority went.

Near as I can tell, it ended up in the laundry with all those poop-covered sheets.

Now I'm watching you bubble around the front room in the oversized Aggie game day shirt and enormous Aggie sweats Aunt B got you for your birthday, and it feels like maybe the next time I look up you'll be in a t-shirt that fits you, painting black marks under your eyes and excitedly exploding out the door of your first apartment for the Homecoming game.

And here is something you can't possibly understand until you are a mommy, too. That thought, that vision and the crystal clear images of you at every stage in between now and that day, make me equal parts devastated and elated. It's like my heart is torn exactly in half- part mourning the squishy, soft little baby that you aren't anymore, and part bursting with the anticipation of seeing the absolutely lovely girl you're becoming.

And those are big thoughts for someone who is just two.

I love you, Sugar Pie. Right up to the moon and back,
Mama

It's her party.

2011-10-21T13:13:00.000-06:00

We're celebrating someone's second birthday tonight. TWO. ENTIRE. YEARS.

Jammies, floofy hair, teal colored doggy "pack pack" (as she would say), and upside down shades.

That's my girl.

The A part of Q&A.

2011-10-17T17:35:00.001-06:00

Back when we first found out we were expecting another baby, we spent a few days coming up with a silly name to use until the kiddo comes out, like we did with Floyd. It seems a little funny to spend time on a joke name when it took us about 9 months to come up with Bug's real one, but it's just nice to call the thing something other than 'baby' all the time.

I've mentioned befre that Schmoopsie is a big BYU fan. While I was throwing around Bernards and Herberts, Paddy suggested we call this fetus Jimmer.

You know, the Jimmer. Jimmer'd. That guy.

And don't get me wrong, I enjoyed watching the guy play ball. Stacey and I took the boys to the last BYU basketball game of the year and had a great time watching the circus. But really-- Jimmer? I explained over and over again that the reason Jimmer wasn't funny was because people would think we were serious. Between the ridiculous Jimmer-mania that occurred around these parts and the fact that Paddy's father's name was James, I was nervous that people would think that we were really, seriously considering naming the kiddo Jimmer.

Which, to be very clear, we're not. There will be no Jimmer in our family.

So we compromised, and Paddy calls the kiddo Jimmer in private, while we call him Sherman everywhere else.

Oh, that's right. HIM. We call him Sherman. Based on facebook and the blog poll, 56% of you were wrong.

It's a boy.

We're still not naming him Jimmer.

Considering dog versus baby? Read on.

2011-10-13T17:02:00.000-06:00

I have been a happy dog owner for almost 3 and a half years. We love our puppy, but let's be honest. Any one familiar with dogs, particularly large breeds, who tells you that dogs are not completely disgusting creatures is a liar. Or they're selling something. (Probably a dog.) Our dog is wonderful, happy, pleasant, loyal, lazy, and... gross. She eats her own poop and drinks out of the toilet, ok? Freakin' sicko.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure for any of you weighing your options, let me fill you in on a little secret. I have been a happy mother for just short of 2 years. I have come in direct, personal contact with EXPONENTIALLY more poop because of my daughter than I ever dreamed of touching with the dog.

Besides the new baby blowouts, my daughter has now removed her diaper in her crib and smeared poop all over the bed. And bedding. And herself. As of today, this wonderful event has happened TWICE.

So essentially what this amounts to is the somewhat disconcerting knowledge that, to one degree or another, everyone smaller than me in this house is totally in to touching their own crap.

This picture is several months old. It's from back when I still liked Bug.

KIDDING.

Conference Fort

2011-10-11T09:56:00.000-06:00

Somewhere in the Bloggernacle (I wish I could remember where) I stumbled across a fun idea for watching General Conference with little children, and we were excited to try it out with Bug this time.

Remember that good King Benjamin from The Book of Mormon? He's a personal favorite of mine, actually. Remember the tower he built? The people came from all around and set up their tents facing the tower so they could hear his words.

We had a quick family home evening lesson with the Buggy girl about this story, (I wish I would have seen the cool pictures and summary for children on the link above before I decided to just sort of wing it) and then built our own tents in the living room out of blankets. Turns out that blanket fort building skills decline with age and lack of practice, and Schmoopsie and I quickly found that the average 10 year old could probably whip up a decent blanket fort in half the time it took us. After a few failures and careful consideration of our architectural plans, we employed the use of a vaccuum as center pole. It all came together fairly well after that.

Once it was done, there was plenty of room in there for Daddy, Bug, the computer streaming the session online, and yes, even pregnant Mommy to sprawl out uncomfortably on the floor.

Bug held still like that for, oh, about 4 seconds. At nearly two years old, it's not surprising that the concept of relaxing and listening quietly was completely lost on her. In fact, I'm sure the entire adventure was simply a messy change from the norm for her rather than the cool scriptural object lesson it was intended to be, but we still thought it was a fun tradition to start early.

We decided that during the next General Conference in April, we'll have to hide Sherman underneath the safety of one of the wooden kitchen chairs to protect him/her from the hopping feet of the toddler and inevitable blanket collapse that quickly follows.

What are other fun traditions for General Conference? Our family also loves to stuff our faces with a breakfast of ridiculous proportions in between the morning and afternoon sessions on Saturday, and the girls enjoy a shopping trip while the boys check out the priesthood session Saturday night. What do you do?

Your civic duty.

2011-10-10T23:56:00.001-06:00

I feel a little like a bad pregnant blogger what with being halfway done with this pregancy (what the WHAT?! Round two goes by ridiculously fast!) and no pictures of my rounding belly.

The easy answer for this: I haven't taken any.

The easy reason for this: I spend the entire non-working portion of my day as a crazy person-- cleaning, cooking, and trying to keep at least half an eye on my rambunctious two year old. This equals a great deal of pajama wearing and almost no makeup wearing/hair washing/leg shaving. By the time I am presentable, I am running out the door to work. I get home from work in the middle of the night, you'll remember, or in the early morning after an all-night shift. Neither of those are times that I want visual documentation of.

So anyway, excuses, excuses. I have a belly. Let your imagination wander. I'll take a picture soon.

Anyway, just so I'm not a total motherly failure to my little Sherman-fetus, I put up the obligatory gender poll. (It's off to the right underneath the BlogHer ads.) Give us a vote! For what it's worth, I'm sort of thinking boy. But I was sort of thinking boy last time, too, and you can see how accurate that was. Two of my coworkers know already, actually, thanks to a spur of the moment ultrasound play-date in the middle of the night, but I asked that they not tell me since Schmoopsie was snoozing away at home. The two of us will know a week from today!

Bonus Mommy Points.

2011-10-03T11:56:00.000-06:00

It happened while I was folding up the blankets from our weekend fort. Bug came trotting down the hall, hair askew, with a mildly disgusted look on her face, attempting to spit out very small chunks of an unknown white residue.

Afraid to even consider the possibilities, I wiped the crud off her lips and tentatively took a sniff.

It smelled... clean.

"Is that SOAP?!" I asked, incredulously.

"Suhp," she repeated, nodding.

I demanded to be led to the scene of the crime. Tiny fingers wrapped around my hand and dragged me down the hall and into my bedroom.

I can imagine what you're wondering at this point, so I'll just go ahead and confirm it for you. Yes, that is my deodorant. Yes, those are very small teeth scrapes. No, they were not there yesterday.

I CANNOT WAIT for her to bring a boyfriend home.

Thoughts on daytime television

2011-09-28T15:49:00.000-06:00

That guy from Cake Boss is always making a fancy cake to surprise his family members for milestones or special occasions.

You know what I think would really surprise them?

A pie.

You knew this was coming: barf talk.

2011-09-23T13:48:00.001-06:00

I don't believe in most of those pregnancy related old wives' tales, and I'll tell you why. Time may have softened the pain of contractions in my memory. And maybe in retrospect the incredible, unbelievable, indescribable level of tired in those first few post-partum days has faded a bit, but I will never, ever forget the heartburn I suffered through while pregnant with the Floyd/Bug. The raging fire in my throat seared itself directly into my long-term memory. Nearly 2 years later I still can't drink orange juice because of one unfortunate empty-stomach sippage that occurred at work one day and resulted in actual tears. And do you know what I got out of all that firey nausea? Certainly not a baby sporting the full head of lush, thick locks those old ladies promised, that's for sure.

Remember this bald beauty, anyone?

So that's why I haven't paid much attention to the differences I've noticed between my experiences with Sherman versus Floyd. The speed with which my tummy swelled right up and out of my normal wardobe is, I'm told, quite normal for Baby Numero Dos.

There are other differences, too. I've noticed that the round ligament pain--sharp, brief little zingers of pain that shoot across my lower abdomen just above the groin when I stand up quickly or sneeze--are far more noticeable this time. I attribute this at least in part to the fact that, at least to this observer, this baby seems to be sitting lower in my pelvis than Floyd did. I'm ridiculously short waisted, so maybe it's all in my imagination anyway.

In terms of the barfing (oh, the barfing)- I seem to be dealing with less this time around, both in terms of intensity and frequency. I know, I know, I should be counting my lucky stars. Let's be real, though- it's tough to be grateful about much of anything puke related when you are, in fact, puking. And trust me, I'm puking. After somehow avoiding it successfully for an entire pregnancy and a half, I tossed my cookies at work the other night. It was not fun. I made it into the receptacle of choice, (because I'm basically a rockstar barfer) but... hmmm. How to say this? There was, ahem, nasal involvement which meant that even after the necessary clean up had been completed, I was still acutely aware that the deed had been done, if you know what I mean.

So there are differences. I'm not superstitious, though, so I'm not insisting that those differences mean Sherman is a man-child rather than a second little princess-face. I'm not insisting either way, actually. I guess we'll just see next month.

Differences aside, I've been quite lucky in both my pregnancies. I haven't experienced any back pain or significant difficulty sleeping, and I'm hopeful that I'm inching my way closer to the wonderous joys of life in the second half of the second trimester-- that magical world where baby is visible but not intrusive, where movement is noticeable but does not elicit yelps of surprise when a tiny heel rams itself into the unfortunately placed kidney. My work situation is a zillion times more conducive to pregnant/new baby life, so I'm quite hopeful that the insanity of my crazy 26 will be avoided this go 'round.

So we plug onward, bravely staring down week 18 in just a few days.

Biggest difference between these two pregnancies? Round two goes by SO FAST.

Fall Clean Up

2011-09-22T13:20:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning, and found myself watching my ceiling fan spin around and around.

Today is the day, I thought to myself, and officially declared the day Fall Clean Up.

Luckily, after a tasty breakfast of Cream of Wheat and peaches, Bug agreed with me. I might be the mommy and therefore think I'm the boss, but completing Fall Clean Up with an uncooperative almost 2-year-old is basically impossible. With the toddler on board, the two-and-a-half of us spent the morning stripping bed sheets, vacuuming floors, scrubbing toilets, and pulling all the tops that I won't be fitting in to for the next several months out of my drawers and folding them into tupperware bins.

And a measly 3 and a half hours later, I found myself flopping down on the couch, for once in my entire life looking forward to folding laundry because it meant I could sit down. At seventeen weeks pregnant, growing this Sherman baby takes some real energy.

Thank heavens for a good episode of What Not To Wear to keep me company while the Bug (lucky girl) gets a nap. Once she's awake, it's back to the grind, pulling out the clothes Bug has grown out of over the summer from her drawers and replacing them with the long sleeves I found for her--on sale PLUS a coupon!--yesterday at Carter's. Tired or not, it will be time to mop the kitchen floor and polish the countertops.

After all, the Fall Clean Up waits for no woman. Or fetus.

Because the first time was, well, pretty great.

2011-09-16T10:56:00.001-06:00

Bug's been feeling under the weather this week. A few days after our very first trip to InstaCare on Sunday evening for what turned out to be not a UTI (but did result in a very traumatic experience involving a catheter), I noticed that Bug sounded just a tiny bit hoarse when I left for work. Halfway through my shift, I began getting updates from Schmoopsie.

"Bug's voice is totally gone," he sent in a text message. And then, "she's coughing a lot. She can't seem to catch her breath." Finally, near midnight, "she can't breathe when she's laying down. I'm snuggling with her downstairs."

I snuck out of work early and dashed home. I ran down the stairs, peeling off my blouse (because who knows what kind of germs float around in an ER) and pulling on a clean oversized t shirt before snatching up my miserable baby and planting a kiss on my exhausted husband's forehead.

Here is something I have learned over the past 22 and a half months. Motherhood suits me.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I fail quite often. There are many days where Bug eats too many fruit snacks and goldfish and not enough vegetables. Sometimes we stay in our jammies all day with nary a comb to touch her orphan hair, and occasionally we find ourselves watching too much children's television (which is brutal on the Mommy half of the equation, but hey. Laundry has got to get folded somehow. I'm looking at you, Handy Manny.)

Shortcomings not withstanding, I think motherhood suits me. I struggle to find words to describe the bond with my copper haired daughter that aren't cliche, that haven't been echoed by mothers for generations. You know the kind-- the sort of hokey "heart walking around outside your body" sentiments that are probably overused but nonetheless frighteningly accurate.

The best I can come up with is this: there is a part of me, a part which I suspect is located somewhere just below my throat, underneath my sternum and between my lungs, that was empty and lacking and somehow I didn't even know it. I can feel it there, lighting on fire when I see her soft, chubby cheeks smiling in the morning or her naked little bottom trotting away from me after the tubby. It's a part of me that swells until I think it may explode, and a place that is, coincidentally, directly linked to my tear ducts.

It's the part of me that hurts when I swoop up my feverish little girl and tuck her warm forehead into my neck underneath my chin. I feel her weight melt into me in the rocking chair, and run my fingers along her narrow little back. It's a place that is filled by her, but somehow has room for more.

One day and one croupy diagnosis later, Schmoops and I stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing into her crib and watching her chest rise and fall in time with the wet sort of wheezing sound she made. I saw the way her tall body fills up her crib these days, and the way her long hair splays out across the top of her shoulders while she sleeps.

She's just so BIG. We've been noticing the signs a lot recently. New words pop unexpectedly from her lips every day. She softly "counts" the items in her number book, two, five, two, five, which sounds in her little girl voice more like "tee-yew, fih, tee-yew, fih..." She climbs and runs and jabbers constantly. She is less a baby and more a child every day.

Like all mothers, I am proud and I grieve. I pridefully grieve. I prieve.

Turns out there's no stopping this incessant growing up. And so several months ago, the Schmoops and I decided there was only one thing to do.

Grow another one.

So we are.

Chocolate milk and Santo Jorge

2011-09-09T10:49:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I sent an absolutely unfathomable text out to my family members. Lunch time had arrived, and, being out of regular milk (minus one point for Mother of the Year) I filled Bug's sippy with chocolate milk instead.

And she lost her mind. Like in a bad way. Like in a throw-herself-on-the-floor-because-of-the-INJUSTICE-of-it-all kind of a way. I am the meanest mom in the world for making her try that chocolate milk.

Clearly.

This behavior shocked me. What child of mine doesn't like chocolate milk?

My dad said it best.

She's obviously not an ______ (insert his mother's maiden name here), he said. She'd be dipping her cheese in chocolate milk.

He's so right. We're food sort of people in my family. And that whole story is my way of explaining the huge quantity of treats I ingested during our family outting to St. George over Labor Day weekend.

We had an amazingly lazy, relaxing, hilarious time as a family swimming, sleeping, watching college football, and eating.

(As an aside, I am oh-so-proud of my Aggies for the strong showing against Auburn. Yes, I did sing the entire fight song a number of times. Let's all agree to pretend that the final four minutes, which I watched standing in my swim suit, dripping on the tile floor, was all a terrible dream. Go Aggies, go Aggies, hey hey HEY.)

It was the perfect getaway from the insane schedule we've been keeping around our house recently. We've been exhausted, in fact.

Months ago, after news of new demanding church responsibilities, several lonely months of working opposite schedules during the week, increasing time demands at P's work, and other new stress-increasing changes that naturally come with life, the Schmoopsie just rolled his eyes and sighed.

And just think: he got the shingles before all of that.

So anyway, we spent the weekend celebrating Uncle Big's mission call to Fiji by eating copious amounts of chocolate and cheese (not together) and enjoying each other's company.

It was FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC.

Oh yeah. Also, Bug totally DUG the chocolate milk once she put on her big girl panties (not really, just an expression) and tried it. Maybe she's mine after all.

Stuff I don't get.

2011-09-01T12:13:00.000-06:00

Young men who insist on wearing their pants so large they have to permanenty dedicate one hand to holding them up.
Women over a certain age wearing mini-skirts and/or tank tops in public.
Toddler beauty pagaents. (Spray tanning a 5 year old? I just... I can't... ugh.)
Comedies where a black actor dresses up as an older fat woman.
Handle bar mustaches.
(Let's be fair.) Any kind of mustache.
People with that foamy saliva built up in the corners of their mouth as they speak.
Unnecessary product upgrades, e.g., the scented handles on the package of disposable razors Kim bought not long ago.
People who are neither playing beach volley ball nor water skiing, but still insist on securing their sunglasses with those chum things.

What things stump you?

Worth a thousand words

2011-08-30T12:03:00.001-06:00

A few weeks before my little sister packed up and moved to rural Alaska to teach school, my parentals decided to get a few family pictures snapped.

You know, because the island she lives on is packed with brown bears, and, well, you never know, right?

On extremely short notice, my mom booked Linsey from EllieBean photography, and she did a fabulous job!

Bug with Nana and PopPop

The ladies. Ari is finally back from the mish in Panama, and now MJ lives in AK.
P.S. When did my litle sisters turn into supermodels?
P.P.S When did I get so short?

The boys. Aren't they handsome?
I can't believe none of them share any actual genes. (Or jeans.)

The whole fam-damily. You're luck that you can't see the electric nail polish Maddi wore on her toes.
Basically, my corneas are still on fire from seeing her toes glow radioactively in the sunlight.

Sigh. I'd kidnap her if she wasn't already mine.

What do you think?

Also, my little sister moved to rural Alaska. Did I make that clear? I mean, what?!

Kiss Me Dirty

2011-08-25T15:19:00.000-06:00

Remember how I still haven't blogged the details of our trip to Denver? Well, it turns out there are all kinds of things I haven't gotten around to blogging about recently. Sometimes it doesn't feel like it, but it seems there are exciting things going on in our lives besides watching the turtle episode of Handy Manny 850 million times.

Don't judge me. Double dog dare you to withstand the eager cries of "tuh-tul! tuh-tul!" from my little copper-haired orphan, especially when battling the aforementioned cold which was awful enough to make me misspell the word "throat" in my last post. I mean, really.

So anyway, one of the things I never got around to blogging about was the Dirty Dash I ran with my inlaws in June. It was sludgey, muddy, and fabulous, so I convinced the ladies on the other side of my family to run the Kiss Me Dirty 5k last weekend for a similar experience.

We dressed as nerds, which was essentially an excuse to wear the most ridiculous outfits we could find. Case in point: Brenn's neon green denim capris featured front a center. Neon. Green. Denim.

What would a nerd party be without a human pyramid? We were making some good progress:

until we weren't anymore. Plastic rimmed glasses were everywhere.

We might have had time to try round 2, except that after spending the days before the race sending out messages to everyone participating about how to be there early and remember their picture IDs, guess who forgot theirs? Despite the Schmoops reminding me minutes before we walked out the door? And didn't remember until we were in Woods Cross, when we turned around adding, oh, 40 MINUTES to our trip? I'm pretty sure the adrenaline from the anxiety I was experiencing from our frantic dash to Ogden carried me straight through the first mile.

While the fam-damily and I had a fantastic time making our own fun, I have to admit that the race was not nearly as dirty as the Dirty Dash. It was really more of a trail run with a giant mud puddle at the end and the occasional hay bale in the middle of the trail. The 4 dollar canvas shoes I scored at RiteAid the night before (since I donated my old running shoes at the Dirty Dash) were certainly not designed for what basically amounted to a bumpier-than-usual 5k.

I was certainly the slowest in my super athletic family, but we all finished in fine fashion. I must admit, after a sort of sub-par racing track, the bubbles at the end were a super cool idea.

I wish you could see the deer and the American flag on my t-shirt, paired with the most unflattering pair of basketball shorts in the history of the world. I pity the Taylorsville High student that I presume owned these before happily shoving them in a bag bound for the DI.

We rinsed off with the hoses provided, and headed to Maddox in Brigham City to gorge ourselves on warm rolls and raspberry butter along with all the other senior citizens who were ready for lunch at 11:00 am.

I'm not kidding about that. One of the (few) patrons to beat us in line when the restaurant opened had a powered wheelchair sporting a bright orange flag on the back.

It was pretty startling to head into the bathroom and see that the electric blue eye shadow that had been caked on nerd-style in the morning had now faded to the point where your average person might have assumed I wore it on purpose. Shudder.

After lunch, we started the long trek home with a tired baby and a dirty mommy. All in all, a delightful way to spend a Saturday morning.

Making lemonade

2011-08-23T10:08:00.001-06:00

Ever notice how many quaint little sayings there are about making lemonade or finding joy in trials? From now on, whenever the Schmoops opens Bug's door after a nap and immediately calls out for me, I am going to sneak out the back door. Since I didn't know that this time, I'm just trying to count my blessings.

I am grateful for this little peanut, for example.

Doesn't she just look so innocent? So perfectly incapable of causing havoc?

I am grateful for diapers.

I am grateful that Bug has strong, healthy legs. I am grateful she can jump and bounce and stand in her bed, the better to splatter with.

I am grateful for her nimble little fingers, skilled enough to undo onesie snaps and diaper tabs. I am grateful for her artistic sensibilities, with careful, deliberate poo placement ensuing that no crib bar was left out of Poo Party 2011.

Mostly, I am grateful for washing machines and hot showers. And oh, how grateful I am for Clorox wipes.

Note from Ill-Ville.

2011-08-18T09:16:00.001-06:00

I am wallowing in the misery that is a summertime cold. The stuffy nose, dry throat, hacking cough, nagging, persistant headache--I'm basically a disgusting ball of my own germs. I gross myself out.

I am also a terrible mother. For the last two days, we've done basically nothing but watch episodes of Backyardigans and completely ignore the growing pile of laundry. It's all I can do to fix meals and complete the occasional diaper change.

Thanks, Schmoopsie, for passing along the love.

Getting well quickly is imperative as the sloshy filthy muddy Kiss Me 5K run is coming up in a mere 3 days, and I still haven't made it to the DI to compile a kick-a outfit.

Wish me luck.

The first post about how we went to Denver.

2011-08-10T10:24:00.000-06:00

Let's talk about why my last post was so horridly written. No, really, it was and we both know it, what with that abrupt ending and lack of concrete examples and all. But the thing is that I have an excuse and it's a good one.

See, the Schmoops and the Bug and I were in Denver last week and the lovely hotel we were staying in did not have free wifi (what year is this, anyway? I know of McDonald's locations with free wifi, and I don't pay to stay there for days on end) (also, we didn't pay to stay in out hotel in Denver, either, so maybe I should just stop complaining) so anyway we found ourselves one night munching on frozen custard at a fast food place in the middle of a long pedestrian mall and that place did have free wifi (my point, right?) and so I snagged the iPod touch from Schmoops and threw together a blog post.

And then two things happened: Bug was struck with the sudden and intense urge to spend lots of time with her hands on the floor of that fast food place, and also she pooped. Schmoops looked at me with that frantic look on his face and because we were stroller-free that evening I volunteered to sacrifice my arm to potential poop-leakage and hefted up the Bug and off we went. Right after I published that sucky post.

So anyway, Denver. Even though 2010 was his very first full year with the agency, (remember how he marched himself right out of his old job and into this better one a mere 2 days after I pushed the Bug out? Stressful. Also, a brilliant move) the Schmoopsie-face qualified for the Leader's Conference his company holds yearly because he is very, very good at what he does and works very, very hard at it. I am proud of him all the way up to the moon. Plus, free trip to Denver.

I'm sure I'll post details and some pictures when I find my camera. I bet it's somewhere underneath the 16 loads of laundry that need to be done. Here's the quick version:

Highlight: Bug pooped through every single pair of pants, shorts, or leggings we packed.
Lowlight: No self serve laundry at the hotel.

Highlight: Bug on the way to Denver. A gem, really.
Lowlight: The 9 hour trip home. I nearly lost my marbles, and I'm not 21 months old.

Highlight: Bug's super strange fear of the free t-shirt we got at the conference. Should have seen her lose her mind when I put it on her for bedtime.
Lowlight: Putting on a damp swimsuit. You know you know what I'm talking about.

Moment to remember: Bug had honestly said "mommy mommy mommymommymommy" so many times in a row on the way home I thought maybe I would die. A response from me, any response from me, was met with a blank stare from her, and quick return to the rapid fire mommy-ing. Schmoops and I discussed possible uses of an audio recording of this, including torture. (Oh, wait. The PC term is "interrogation techniques", right?) Pretty soon we found ourselves with two options- laugh, or leave me alone on the side of the road to celebrate the silence.

We decided to time how long it would take Bug to hit 100 mommys. In her defense, she didn't hit 100 before giving up. In my defense, she did hit 64. In one minute and 24 seconds. Thankfully, we were laughing so hard by then that I was pretty sure my brain wouldn't explode after all.

How both Bug and I felt somewhere along I-70

Between fits of laughter, the Schmoops and I talked about the funny parts of parenthood, and about how some things make me nuts ("mommymommymommymommy") and not so much him (betcha "daddydaddydaddy" would've put him over the edge) and vise versa.

"We all have our El Guapos," he said. I laughed again, and thought about how smart he is.

And I guess that's what I was trying to say in my last post, too, when I was so rudely interrupted by poo.

Parenthood is full of El Guapos. And sometimes all perspective means is remembering that at least our El Guapo isn't the actual El Guapo, a big dangerous man who wants to kill us.

Things that are great about having a 21 month old

2011-08-04T21:40:00.000-06:00

I imagine that every mom finds different stages of kid development that seem to be a better fit for their personality than others. For example, I love the itty bitty baby stage, and I am already dreaming of when Bug can read her books out loud to me at night. The toddler stage we're in now is full of laughs and learning, but it's also a little frustrating for me. She wants so badly to communicate, but doesn't quite know how best to do it. She also has quite strong feelings about the television shows allowed to invade her viewing experience. Right now we're in an almost exclusively Backyardigans phase. Daddy can occasionally finagle a Wipeout in the evenings, but forget about Project Runway.

There are lots of great things, though, too. Retrieving, for example. I haven't had to fetch a diaper in ages! Best of all, Bug can finally say Mommy.

How to make my perfect chocolate chip cookies.

2011-07-27T13:30:00.000-06:00

Not to brag or anything, but I make really delicious cookies. Want to learn how?

Step one: locate ingredients. In my case, this necessitated a quick trip to the store for flour.

Luckily, on my way to the store, I stumbled across this very helpful orphan child, and bribed her into coming to my house with chocolate chips. Quick tip: when looking for your own helpful orphan, keep an eye out for floofy, uncontrolled hair. Clearly, there's a child without parental oversight.

The ratio of cookie to chocolate chips is a very personal choice. In my own life, for example, I find myself sandwiched between two extremes. Paddy would be quite content to avoid any and all chocolate chips for the rest of his life (I know. I can't figure it out, either.) My mother, on the other hand, uses only the tiniest amount of dough humanly conceivable, and even then only because it is absolutely necessary in order to hold the copious amounts of chocolate together in the oven. I find myself somewhere in the middle.

My least favorite part of cookie making is the seemingly endless process of scooping the dough onto the pan.

The perfect cookie texture is soft, but firm when cooled. Under no circumstances should a chocolate chip cookie be overcooked.

Hair safely corralled, the next step is to share with the orphan child.

Done correctly, she'll enjoy the snack with a sippy of cold milk.

And finally, store in an air-tight container with a piece of bread. It's an easy trick that keeps them soft and fresh that my mother, She-With-The-Chip-Obsession, taught me. Trust me, it works.

Mmm.

Take THAT, February.

2011-07-21T12:41:00.000-06:00

I put Addy into her pack 'n' play in the cool, quiet basement with a sippy cup of fresh water and waved goodbye. I walked back up the stairs, leaving the sounds of my running laundry behind me, and sauntered up to the kitchen to enjoy my lunch. I peaked through the curtains to my overrun backyard, where my lazy dog was sprawled out on the grass, soaking up the sunshine.

I found myself bent in half over the sink, fresh peach juice dripping down my chin and from between my fingers. Moments later, the pulpy pit and a few pieces of soft, furry peach skin were all that remained of my perfectly ripe meal.

Sunshine, a sleeping baby, and fresh peaches on sale at the grocery store: this is why I love summer.

One down.

2011-07-18T09:37:00.000-06:00

I've been contemplating this post for a couple of days. Ultimately, I decided my hesitation was related to some sort of internal filter that prevents me from typing the word 'mole', so let's go ahead and get that out of the way first off.

Mole mole mole mole MOLE.

Ugh. What a horrific word.

So anyway, moles. I have a few, ok? I come by them naturally from every identifiable side of my family, so what was I supposed to do about it? It's genetics. I can't fight that crap. Mostly I don't notice them anymore since I've had them since basically forever.

And now I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to lead into this story, and let's just jump right in because there's no easy way to say this:

Bug noticed a small mole on my neck while we were at the eye doctor with MJ last week, and she used her tiny fingernail to rip it off.

RIP. IT. OFF.

Just to recap, this is the text I sent Patrick that day:

On top of your list of texts you did not anticipate today: Bug just scratched my neck mole off at the eye doctor and now I'm bleeding.

Any questions?

Put the washing machine on standby.

2011-07-07T17:31:00.000-06:00

We interrupt your regularly scheduled cute Bug picture posts for this important announcement:

Some of the very cool ladies in my family and I are running a sludgey, slimey, all-around mud-fest of a race on August 20. It's going to be such a party!

http://www.kissmedirty.com/

Want to come along? Post a comment (or just do that anyway because comments boost my self esteem) and I'll give you the info to register with our group so you can hang out with us on race day. Or, get your own group together, but remember-- this one is ladies only!

And that's what I call a good point.

2011-07-02T12:19:00.000-06:00

P: But, I just want it to be exactly like it was before.

Me: You know that phrase "can't have your cake and eat it, too"? You can't have cake, eat all of that cake, and then still have cake.

P: I know. But you CAN start baking another cake exactly like the first one as soon as you're done eating.

Next up: second grade.

2011-07-01T11:01:00.000-06:00

We have this beautiful book at our house called "If I Could Keep You Little" by Marianne Richmond. Paddy wandered in while I was reading it to Bug the other day.

"She's not even little NOW," he said. "We should just start calling it, 'If I could keep you medium.'"

Maybe those of you who don't birth baldy mcbaldo babies will be less impressed by this.

I absolutely cannot get over my girl with a pony tail. When did this HAPPEN?

Mama, as seen in "The Wiggles".

2011-06-24T16:17:00.000-06:00

This afternoon, I put Bug down for her nap and wandered downstairs to dutifully begin my very favorite chore--folding laundry. (You should sense the sarcasm in the "favorite chore" part. I hate folding laundry. You should also sense the sarcasm in the rest of the sentence where I said I was going to fold laundry. Let's face it; we all know I was hoping for a nap and a few episodes of Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss.)

The TV had been left on some sort of children's channel. I found myself rooted to the ground, watching a grown man in a pirate suit lunge and flail his way across the screen, presumably in an attempt to entertain the 4 and under crowd.

I found myself wondering what my own price would be. How much cash would it take for me to make a complete idiot of myself for a few young laughs?

And then a series of surprisingly vivid flashbacks slammed into my brain like one of those Acme anvils in the roadrunner cartoons.

Me, straighfaced, with Bug's wooby balanced neatly on the tip top of my head.
Me, crawling around on the floor in my pajamas growling like a dinosaur.
Me, hiding under the level of the bumper on Bug's crib, popping up and down unexpectedly with a new ridiculous look on my face each time.

So, basically, I make a complete idiot of myseself every. single. day.

And here's the worst part: I do it for free.

The Mr. Gets the Shings.

2011-06-21T12:38:00.001-06:00

Let’s talk about how not to wrap up a romantic weekend, shall we?
In our experience, it’s really fairly simple. Just do your best to steer clear of SHINGLES.

Oh yeah. I just said that.

A little back story for you:

Several months ago, we got a coupon in the mail for a gift card that essentially amounted to 50% off of a stay at the beautiful Hotel Park City. We decided this would be a wonderful and affordable way to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. Between my running in the Dirty Dash and Paddy’s busy work schedule (even on the weekends), our June weekends filled up fast, and this last one was the first time we had a chance to sneak away.

With the Bug safely bundled away to Nana’s house, we first headed up to Currant Creek on Friday afternoon to do a little fishing. The hubster and I used to do a lot of fishing on the weekends before I pushed Bug into the world, but since that time, he’s had to enjoy his fishing trips alone. Daughty’s little legs are just too short to hike around a river bank, and visions of her flinging herself into a lake or gulping down a couple of treble hooks have kept me safely at home with her since she was born. For Father’s day Paddy requested a joint excursion, and since we were headed up the canyon anyway, the timing worked out perfectly.

The drive was gorgeous, although we did miss our Jeep when we hit the unpaved section of the road. We caught a few pretty little trout—in this instance, ‘we’ refers almost exclusively to ‘Paddy’—and then headed back to Park City. The gift card was also good at the Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse located in the hotel, so we stuffed ourselves full of yummy steak until they basically had to roll us out of there and up to our bee-you-tee-ful room.

In the morning, we ran over to the outlets to do some shopping for the dads in our lives, and raced home to see that one little Bug we had been missing so much. After her nap, we hopped on Trax with our best buds the Ortons to check out the chalk festival that benefits the Utah Foster Care Foundation. Paddy and I stumbled on the show 3 years ago, and we’ve loved checking it out every year since. This year, luck was on our side, and the show was Harry Potter themed—perfect for Stacey’s deep love of the magical series.

I dumped an entire cup of ice water into Bug’s lap at dinner. Other than that, the visit was fantastic.

Did I mention that this story was going to end up with SHINGLES? Yes? Well, I'm getting there.

Schmoopsie had been complaining of a strange skin pain on his back and around one side to his abdomen for a week or two. We didn’t know what to think about it since there was no sign of a rash or bruise anywhere.

Until there was.

Sunday morning, Paddy had a small patch of blisters on his stomach. A quick visit to WebMD and I was confident I had the right diagnosis, because, you know, who needs medical school when you have WebMD? That's how I diagnose myself with spinal meningitis everytime I sleep poorly and wake up with a stiff neck. Anyway, in this case it was hard to know for sure, though. After all, Paddy was experiencing symptoms a full TWENTY THREE YEARS before the average person gets shingles.

Did I mention that part? The part where my 27 year old husband has shingles?

Don’t worry, I’m picking up his walker and a package of Depends at the store later today.

Instacare confirmed it. Paddy’s got the shings.

Let’s all count our many blessings that Bug got her chicken pox vaccine in October. (Vaccine haters, go ahead and bring it. Frankly, I think you’re freakin’ crazy anyway.) Let’s also count our many blessings that Stacey, whose immune system is busy helping to growing a baby, had no reason to touch Paddy’s bare stomach over the course of our outing. That’s all we need—to give our pregnant best friend the shings, too.

Really, he's not contagious, especially now that he's been gobbling antibiotics FIVE TIMES A DAY for the last 2 and a half days. Basically, someone who has never had the chicken pox or who has a weak immune system would need to rub his naked blistered stomach like a magic genie-lamp and then lick their fingers, and then they might get the pox. Let's hope he keeps his shirt on when he hits Chuck A Rama at lunch today.

And that’s the way we rock Father’s day around here, herpes zoster style. Recreate, relax, and can I have a side of SHINGLES, please?

Californication, Part 3

2011-06-14T10:29:00.001-06:00

Day 3: Just another good vibration.

The day began slowly, with the entire family shaking off the Mormon version of a hangover from the late-night party the night before. We spent a few hours in the morning crashing each other's hotel rooms and discovering which cousins can rap the entire first verse to Eminem's Lose Yourself. Eventually we all brushed our teeth and headed down to the pier to rent some beach crusiers. My extended family turned into the biggest bicycle gang in Southern California!

Here's Bug in the bike shop trying to tell us how much she dislikes wearing a helmet. She was unsuccessful in convincing us; after all, Mama is a trauma social worker and Daddy is a certified worrier. The helmet stayed.

This needs to be said: the dirty jeans behind Bug do not belong to my family.

We rode all the way to the Wedge to set Bug free and check out the big waves from all the wind.

This is the whole fam-dam trying to figure out how to lock up all of our bikes with the two bike locks they gave us.

They are so tasty.

On the way back, I risked life, limb, and lens cap to pull the camera out mid-pedal and snap a few shots of our own little bike parade. The boardwalk was populated by my family as far as they eye could see in front of and behind me. How lucky I am.

Once we pedalled back through all the wind-blown sand (can anyone say microderm abrasion?) we were starving. We stopped for some delicious burgers and fries just off the beach. I won't bother to bore you with the story of how I knocked an entire Diet Coke out of Paddy's hand, splashing ice and soda all over a 5 foot radius. Instead, I'll tell you all about how then we wandered down to Seaside Donuts for a treat.

We did a bit of shopping--sticky fingers and all-- and then headed back to the hotel for a desperately needed nap. Once Bug woke up, we decided a trip to the hotel pool to show off her tankini was in order.

The rest of that evening was spent standing around in the hotel lobby debating over where to snag some dinner. After hearing opinions from all 19 of us at least twice, we evenutally landed on a Mexican place just down the road which turned out to be delicious.

A good night's rest and it was time to pack up and head back to the ol' SLC. Bug and Uncle Big watched the whee-yas while we waited, dreaming of the day when he is a pilot and he can take her up in plane himself.

Thanks to the thunderstorms waiting for us at home, the flight was the bumpiest I've experienced. Miraculously, the Peanut snoozed through the entire thing.

We made it home safe and sound. Bug seemed disappointed to wake up the next morning in her own bed, unable to toddle down the hall to Grammy Lu's room. I think it was her first time with the post-vacation blues.

To that I say, welcome to the real world, girl.

Californication, Part 2

2011-06-07T14:20:00.000-06:00

Alternately titled: Dude, Allie! Post some pictures of your wedding already so I can steal them for my blog, you slacker!

Day 2: Marry me, girl, be my ferry to the world.

Saturday was the big WEDDING DAY and the real reason for the trip. We took off early from the hotel for the Los Angeles LDS temple, where both the bride's and groom's parents had also been married. Here is the part where I am a bad mom. After slathering Bug faithfully in sunscreen the day before for the beach, I completely neglected to consider that she might need some while hanging out on the temple grounds. She waited outside in the sunshine, and those fair little cheeks pinked up in no time. She wasn't in any pain with her minor little burn, but her Mama was from the shattering of my heart every time I looked at her for the next 3 days.

We were lucky enough to go into the temple with the gorgeous couple and witness their lovely ceremony. Sitting in the temple together is always a wonderful reminder of the promises we made when we were married, and we treasured the experience, especially so close to the anniversary of our own wedding day. And yes, that is a long way of saying that I cried my eye makeup off, thanks for asking.

For some reason, I didn't get any shots of the whole family waiting patiently for the end of time-- oh wait. No. We were just waiting for Allie and Chad. In their defense, they were waiting too, in a LINE OF BRIDES trying to exit the temple to great fanfare and photo ops. All of the time spent chasing Bug around the flower beds was worth it, though, when we saw the beaming couple, which I totally don't have a picture of because I am lame.

Ahem. So, we took a few of the obligatory family-on-the-stairs-of-the-temple shots, and then jumped back in the cars to head to Olvera Street for some to. DIE. FOR. tacitos. Olvera Street is a vendor-filled block in historic Los Angeles. It was hilariously fun. Here's most of the group (we're all related, but it's confusing to detail how, now that I think about it):

Bug got to sample pan dulce, the tasty sweet bread her Daahie ate nearly every day for breakfast on his mission. She was kind enough to share with Grammy Lu.

(Please, ignore her sun-kissed little face. It still makes me sad.)

Anyway, after we stuffed ourselves on Mexican food and meandered through the countless tiny shops selling sandals and woven bags, we hopped back in our cars to head to the reception.

Ok, so seriously, this wedding was the most rockin' awesome party I have ever been to, and I'm not just saying that because Allie reads my blog. Let's just lay out a few of the details for you.

The bride. I unashamedly stole this from her facebook since I somehow managed to not get a picture of her all blessed day. Basically, she made it entirely unfair to any bride that comes after her, ever, for the remainder of the world, because she was so freakin' stunning. Don't take my word for it.

I mean, what the what? Chad, you're a lucky man, my friend. (She's pretty lucky, too. We like him.)

Secondly, the reception was catered by In N' Out. Oh yeah. I said that. Cheese burgers and soda. It was so awesome. I wish I could do the whole thing justice, really. There were milkshakes and pie and fruit and Martinelli's in tiny bottles... the whole thing was just shamefully kick-A.

The bride and groom had choreographed a hilarious first dance to kick off the dance party of the year, and we kept the party going for hours.

Now, have I mentioned that my daughty loves to dance? She needs to dance like she needs oxygen. She shook her cute little bootie for honestly hours on the dance floor. I have never laughed so hard in my life. Here is the proof: my girl, owning 3 groomsmen all by herself.

I have a feeling we are in SO much trouble.
We all shook our tailfeathers until we were exhausted.

These are nearly all of my lady cousins, with the exception of Colette, who had a baby instead, Jessica, who lives in Washington these days, Ashley, who had to work, Maddy, who had soccer tryouts, and the bride, who was probably off being awesome somewhere else at the time. Also in the background- a crazed looking Tommy dancing with the most eligible bachelorette at the party.

Bug was so tuckered out by the end of the night, but was unwilling to leave the party. We had change her into her jammies on a chair in the dark and then drag her out while the rest of the family stayed for the pool party.

Did the wedding party dance their way out of the reception, you ask? Um, I'm pretty sure you can answer that one yourself.

It. Was. That. Fabulous.

5 years. Do I have to find him a gift made of wood?

2011-06-06T10:50:00.000-06:00

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

-Pablo Neruda, Sonnet xvii

Happy Anniversary, Mo. Love you.

It's Californication, Part 1

2011-06-03T12:16:00.002-06:00

Did I mention that we went to California over Memorial Day weekend? Oh yeah. We did. It's the edge of the world and all of western civilization, of course, and also the location of Bug's second out-of-state jaunt. Basically the party rocked so hard that I'll be detailing the trip in separate posts.

Day 1, Part A: The sun may rise in the east, at least it settles in a final location.

We woke up at the crack of dawn to load up and get to the airport via a pay-to-park lot and the shuttle. The Bugster wasn't thrilled to be awake 4 hours earlier than usual, but she took it all in stride, particularly because she was going to get to see AIRPLANES!

I've mentioned before that our little daughty adores any hint of talk about airplanes. She spots the tiniest airborne fleck in the sky, and immediately shows us the sign for 'airplane' while squealing "whee-ya!" with a look of pure bliss on her face. While I'm not sure she really comprehended that we were actually inside one of her beloved whee-yas, she definitely enjoyed peeking out the windows of the airport while we waited.

Thanks to our super supportive family, she was fabulous on the plane ride. She definitely bounced from lap to lap, but we avoided any hollering, and thankfully did not experience any air sickness.

I've mentioned before how much I love the Long Beach airport. It's small, casual, and has a mid-century sort of vibe. Bug nearly popped with excitement when we got out of the plane right on the tarmac.

We drove directly from the airport to Norms, our favorite delicious greasy-spoon diner. After stuffing ourselves with brunch, we quickly checked into the hotel and ran straight for the beach.

Day 1, Part B: Tidal waves couldn't save the world from Californication.

I'll let the pictures do the talking. In case you were wondering, this is what happiness looks like:

Our little Bug-a-loo could not get enough of the sand and the water. She could have spent the rest of her life happily searching for shells and eating sand coated fruit snacks. We are so lucky to have this little peanut. As you can see by her complexion, we are also very lucky to have packed SPF 50 spray baby sunscreen. It worked like a charm.

After the beach, we headed back to the hotel for a quick change of clothes, and ran back to another stretch of sand for a weenie roast with the rest of the extended fam before the big wedding day (more on that later.) We did not take pictures because it was fuh-reezing and Bug was long past her last bit of patience for our blatant disregard for her schedule. Needless to say, we didn't stay long.

Does that require a 4 year degree?

2011-06-01T12:58:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor of my parents' new house with a rag, a razor blade, and this:

In a well-intentioned but poorly considered move, the former owners of the house had placed a large quantity of extraordinarily sticky double-sided tape on the polished stone fireplace hearth. We successfully removed most of the spongey tape, but the goopy residue seemed content to remain on the stone for the rest of time. Not exactly thrilled with the smudgey asthetic in the brand new family room, I volunteered for the painstaking and somewhat aromatic job of removing the gunk.

It was in about the 43rd minute of my soaking-blotting-rubbing-scraping-soaking routine that I noticed something on the container that gave me pause. Admittedly, three-quarters of an hour of inhaling the fumes may have had something to do with my observation, but I suppose you can be the judge of that. Any guesses as to what may have caught my eye?

Professional strength? Really? Are there professional goo-off-ers somewhere? Is this a career path that I somehow missed? (Because it turns out I'm really good at it.) Would a professional goo-off-er really purchase the self-proclaimed miracle remover in a 4.5oz sized container? And, more importantly, where can I buy the strength designed for mere lay-people? I don't have a goo-off license.

Bonus random thought of the day:
As long as we're on the topic, here's another thought for you. What is the deal with products that use those stickers that leave the paper-y sticky residue behind when the sticker is removed? It absolutely burns me when I buy a new set of tupperware, as I recently did, only to find that the largest container will forever have the furry white fuzz in the outline of the large descriptive sticker placed on the front.

When I purchase a discounted book, that 20% off sticker had better peel off with perfect ease, not a hint of gunk remaining, because if I have to live with one more cover marred by a price sticker bunched in one corner from my fingernail and pressed back into place due to poor sticker-removal, I'm going to have to find and forever employ one of those professionals they speak of.

Animal instinct

2011-05-26T11:02:00.000-06:00

Anyone want to know what all the racket is at my house? Besides the screeching 19 month old, I mean?

Could it possibly be these two hooligans?

Hmm. What could they be so interested in?

Now here's the part where I am surprised. Lupe usually spends her time barking at the roast beef garbage truck, or the mail man, or, most frequently, the clear blue sky for no discernable reason at all. She certainly doesn't waste time engaging in regular canine-type behaviors. I mean, she'll just flop down on the grass and sun herself like a princess while an entire flock of swallows pecks around the yard. She's supposed to be a labrador RETREIVER, for crap's sake. This silly puppy can be hot on the tracks of a tennis ball, and she'll veer wildly off course to smell a flower or spot a butterfly.

ARE YOU EVEN A REAL DOG?

And that's why I was mostly proud when I saw that all the comotion this morning was due to her pride at treeing her first lion.

Oh yeah. We've got a dog at our house.

I let the pups in the house to give that mangy feline a chance to escape. That's when Lupe showed her true killer survival instinct by wandering slyly over to the dining room table and delicately nibbling a piece of toast directly off of Kim's plate, leaving the fried egg untouched.

That's my girl.

The early bug gets the worm

2011-05-25T12:19:00.000-06:00

I was pulling weeds the other day (spend half of my life pulling weeds, I swear) and I came across a worm. It was Bug's first encounter with a slimy thing.

Maybe she'll be a fisherman like her daddy.

By any other name?

2011-05-24T10:08:00.000-06:00

This is the conversation we have daily at our house:

Me: Bug! Say... dog.
Bug: Dah! Dah! (while signing 'dog'.)

Me: Say.... baby!
Bug: BABY! BABY!

Me: Say... Kim.
Bug: Miiiiiiim!

Me: Say.... Mama!
Bug: Daahiee!

Me: No, honey. Say MAH-MAH.
Bug: Daahiee! DAAHIEE! (gleeful smile) DAAHHHIE!

Me: Bug. Please. Say Mommy! Mother! Madre!
Bug: _______________ (by now she has run off to play.)

For the life of me, I can't imagine why she is so smitten with him.

You'd think he lets her stay up past her bedtime playing with her coloring stuff or something.

Sometimes, he even lets her color on his page, too.

I mean, in real life, they barely even like each other. Obviously.

Daddy and his daughter. This is my good life.

Am I bright enough to shine in your space?

2011-05-13T11:38:00.001-06:00

We need to talk. No, no, I'm not breaking up with you. Just a little chit chat. You know, girl time. I just need a little validation, and not about how my butt looks in these jeans.

Let’s talk for a minute about what it must be like to be retired. You see, every single one of my neighbors in every direction from my home is retired. In fact, most of these folks are the original owners of the homes, and our house was built in 1955. While we love our senior buddies, this is a major contributing factor in why we would love to move out, oh, basically yesterday. When I dropped Bug off in nursery last week, there were 2 children there. And you know me, so you know I was not early.

But anyway, that’s not the point. One of the downsides to living next to retirees is that they have the funds and the considerable time it takes to manicure absolutely perfect yards. I’m not kidding you, I have honestly never seen one leaf out of place in the yard of our next door neighbors or the delightful lady across the street. I pity the dandelion who considers for even the briefest second venturing over our fence and into that manicured oasis. It’s fields of green velvet as far as the eye can see, until you get to the patchy island that is our yard. We could basically be running a crab grass and clover farm in our front yard, and let’s not even discuss the back.

Our neighbors put up with our not-up-to-snuff yard number one: because they are cute, number two: because they like us, and number three: because every year we work very hard to make it just a bit better than the year before. We’ve had some crazy adventures in this front yard, and I’d like to think we’re close to trumping at least the neighbors with the potted silk plants on their porch.

With that effort in mind, MJ, Bug and I spent the day in the front yard raking and pulling weeds and planting petunias and thoroughly enjoying the STUNNING weather. The Germans next door were also out, puttering around in their already brilliant yard doing who-knows-what to their already perfectly symmetrical bushes. I chose to ignore the sight of the 86 year old wife on a ladder wiping down her window screens with a sponge, and smiled to myself about how low on my priority list the cleanliness of my screens would be, assuming I actually had time to generate a priority list.

But a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere. There must be a point where, free time or not, meticulousness borders on obsessive, right?

For me, that line falls far before I find myself scrubbing my brick windowsills on the exterior of my house with AJAX and a brush. Oh yeah. This happened.

So I just picked up my daughter with her crazy orphan hair and walked my filthy bare feet inside to eat a banana, because there was simply nothing else to do.

Mother's Day 2011

2011-05-08T20:19:00.000-06:00

Happy Mother's Day to the little peanut who made me a mama. It's impossible to believe that today I got a little paper flower in a paper pot with scribbles on it from my own baby.

Paddy and I burst into laughter every single time we look at this picture. It's just so... HER.

What once was lost

2011-05-02T10:59:00.000-06:00

It's BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCKKKKK!

And there was much rejoicing.

You are what you eat.

2011-04-28T12:30:00.000-06:00

Bug loves eating berries for lunch.

Apparently, she doesn't like to be covered in berries for lunch.

This from the girl who poos in the tub like every other time she's in there.

Here comes Peter Cottontail

2011-04-27T13:55:00.001-06:00

Dear Bug-

Happy Easter, sweetheart! I can't believe how much you've grown and changed since last Easter. For one thing, you grew some hair! Do you remember your little bald self from last year? Remember the goldfish buttons, Bug? They were pretty awesome.

Nana came through for you again this year, though, Bug, and you put up a stiff competition to beat out yourself for World's Cutest Easter Outfit. Here's this year's entry:

You're 18 months old now, Princess. A whole year and a half. I can't even begin to believe it. At your doctor's appointment this week, we got all of your statistics and it's not just my imagination that you growing right into a big kid. You're in the 96th percentile for height and the 69th for weight. Basically, you are as tall as the average 2 year old. You ARE the scale for beautiful, in case you were wondering.

You're learning so much about your own little body, too! You can point to your hair, eyes, nose, teeth, ears, cheeks, tummy, toes, and bottom. We all get a kick out of that one. You should see the mouth full of chompers you've grown, too. You have your 2 year molars already, and you basically look like a little girl-sized t rex.

Raise your hand if you can think of the most fabulous thing about being 18 months old.

Yes, Bug? Eighteen months old means NURSERY, you say? Ding ding ding!! You're right! NURSERY, honey. NURSERY. No more chasing your maddeningly adorable self all around the Relief Society room. No more Mama getting all gussied up just to spend all three hours of church following you up and down hall. No more unexpected banshee screams during the closing prayer. NURSERY, my love. It's the best word in the world.

And speaking of words, you know a few. You can say ball, baby, dog, and milk. My favorite word, though, is for your best pal in the whole world. From the moment you see his car pull into the driveway after work, you begin to holler and flap your arms in excitement.

Daahie! you squeal. Daaaaaahhhieeee!

And if he doesn't answer immediately-- and I mean immediately as in within .00000002 seconds with a cheerful, "what, sweetie?"-- you assume he must not be able to hear you, and you know how to solve that problem. Volume.

DAAAAHHHIEEEEEE!

And that's about the time my heart melts into a puddle of goo, even if you don't know how to say Mama yet.

You are very, very good at signing for things you want. You can sign milk, food, more, dog, please, thank you, all done, ball, music (MJ taught you the wrong sign, but it gets the job done), stinky (for your dirty diapers), and airplane. Oh, and how you love airplanes! Your little ears are tuned into the sound of them flying high above the sky, and each time you hear one, your whole face lights up into an enormous smile and your little hand flies through the sky. I can't wait until it's warm enough to drive out by the airport and watch them take off and land. You will be in Bug heaven.

Except for one part, I guess, and that is that I imagine that we won't take Lupe out to the airport, and there couldn't be a heaven for you without your puppy there. We always let her in when you're done eating to clean up your mess, and you giggle and laugh the entire time. You love to follow her around chasing her tail and laughing hysterically when it sweeps across your cheeks. You love to cover her up with your favorite purple blanket. You two are like little soul mates.

I can't wait for summer time, my sweet. I bought you shorts, and your stumpy little legs sticking out the bottom are just to die for. Oh, and guess what. Do you see the sandals you're wearing for Easter? They're Saltwater sandals. Mama had a pair EVERY SINGLE SUMMER, and now you do, too. I used to be so mad that my mom wouldn't let me have jelly shoes. Ahh, how we grow and learn. Little did I know that a.) jelly shoes make your feet all sweaty. Gross. and b.) Saltwater sandals are the most ADORABLE things.

Anyway, that's enough for now. I love you, my darling baby girl, and I can't imagine my world without you in it.

Love you all the way to the moon and back,

Mama

It's all fun and games until someone craps in the bathtub.

2011-04-20T11:55:00.002-06:00

Bug did not really eat her breakfast.

This is the way my day began, and it's becoming more and more typical. You see, Bug has decided that it is much more fun to ignore her own delicious food (today, an egg and ham omelet Aunt MJ prepared) and beg--BEG! Complete with sign language for 'please'!-- to be let down from her high chair. Then she wanders around the house for the next couple of hours digging for crackers in her diaper bag and asking for snacks.

I'm just going to revel in the 'please' part and call it good.

Want to know what happened next?

I stripped Bug's jammies off and began filling the bathtub. Bug peed all over the floor and the bathroom rug.

Great, I thought. Now at least she won't pee in the tub.

Instead, she pooped in the tub.

Right on, I thought, while hosing her off with the shower head.

We headed downstairs. Bug barely made it through the horror of being slathered in baby lotion with the help of an episode of Kipper. I diapered her, dressed her, and combed her crazy orphan hair into a cute little braid on the top of her head. We ran back upstairs to find her sippy cup of milk, and I peeked in on my earlier internet search for the elusive Gerber sleeveless onesie, white, size 24 months. (Why does this not exist? The 6-9 month size was awesome last year for wearing under rompers. Help, Universe.)

Bug wandered into my room, which was messy as usual, and promptly found, opened, and shook the contents out of... wait for it... wait for it... my wedding ring box.

I was wearing the sparkley wedding band that Schmoopsie gave me for our second anniversary. Thankfully, I quickly spotted my diamond engagement ring nestled on the floor. The simple wedding band that I was given in the temple, however, is missing.

I am sick over it.

I scoured the floor looking for it for several minutes. Frustrated, I sat back on my haunches to think, and that's about the time I remembered the poop in the tub and small puddle of pee on the bathroom floor.

So I'll wrap it up by saying the floor now smells of Clorox, the tub and all associated toys have been disinfected and rinsed in scalding water, and the ring is still missing in action.

How is it not even noon?

Finding my groove

2011-04-13T15:41:00.000-06:00

Forgive me for the lack of blog energy recently. I am settling in to my new routine, and learning to find a time for cleaning the house, folding the laundry, and wiping jam off of sticky fingers while squeezing in some sleep from time to time has been an adjustment. Just keeping my house from looking like a disaster zone is practically a full-time job all by itself.

Did I ever tell you about how we have absorbed two additional house guests over the last couple of weeks? Plus an additional dog? (I bet the German neighbors are over the moon about that one.) It's true. We finally convinced my parents that they needed a different house for their older, bigger family. Their home sold muy rapido (which is a good thing!) but it left most of my family essentially homeless until the short sale they are purchasing is approved. We've enjoyed the extra help that my two sisters provide. We've also been surprised at how many more dishes and laundry and just stuff that two more people generate.

So anyway, what I'm trying to say is that it's been a learning curve around here.

Have I mentioned how much I am LOVING the chance to wipe the sticky jam fingers? I am with my little Bug-face from the moment she wakes up every day until about an hour before she goes to bed for the night, and it is WONDERFUL.

The new gig is pretty great, too. I am finding my own rhythm and starting to put names and faces together, which is always half the battle. (Never thought I'd be so grateful for mandatory name badges!) The best part of my job is the variety-- the absolute unpredictability of what each night will bring. I know I've said it before, but there's simply no other accurate way to phrase it: you just can't make this stuff up.

On any given evening, I may find myself with my face buried in the DSM IV trying to remember how to accurately score a person's functioning. I am just as likely to find myself gowned and gloved digging through cut clothing to identify a new trauma patient, or, most likely, dashing back and forth between the two. Twenty-seven-olution or not, heels are not an option at this job.

And here's the thing about being a working mother: yesterday, I was very literally running from the physician workroom to my office and in and out of patient rooms when I found myself humming a cheerful little tune to myself.

It was the "Thank You" song from Bug's Little People Happy Birthday dvd.

I was right. 2011 is awesome.

Bells are ringing

2011-04-07T22:12:00.000-06:00

We are finalizing our plans to head to sunny California in a few weeks to celebrate this wonderful lady's wedding. (Tell me her fiance doesn't look like Gordon Hayward a little.)

CAN.

NOT.

WAIT.

If I know my family, and trust me, I know my family, the wedding festivities are sure to be a party. Can you say post-reception family pool bash? I mean, shut the heck up. Plus, we'll be staying in a great hotel with the whole crew.

Aaaaaaannnnddd, I'm taking my little Peanut Bug to the BEACH!

Speaking of Bug, here's the newest word on her: she's huge. If I were you, basically the only reason I'd check this blog these days is for a little daily dose of this:

So what? I am a rockstar.

2011-03-30T11:56:00.001-06:00

Bug's Uncle Tommy sent her a sassy black t-shirt in the mail, and gave us the perfect excuse to play rockstar for the day.

Check OUT the leg warmers Bug's Grammy Lu got her for Christmas. Grammy is so much cooler than Bug's mom. I suppose it's just as well she learn that while she's young. I could no more wear leg warmers successfully than fly to the moon on a purple sparkley unicorn.

Channeling her inner Madonna

Can we talk for a minute about those chunky little knees poking out the bottom of her skirt? On second thought, let's not. Let's all just imagine what type of delicious snack she'd be if she were a dessert.

And I would be lying

2011-03-25T22:27:00.001-06:00

If you asked me if Schmoopsie and I played Rock, Paper, Scissors in an extremely questionable-looking Mexican restaurant to determine who had to take Bug out to change her diaper in the Jeep, I'd probably say no.

If you further asked me if I lost the traditional round of best of three, and then naturally demanded a single winner-takes-all round and lost that, too, I'd also probably say no.

I'd probably admit to eating about a billion of the very authentic tacos, though, because they were DELISH. That part is not a lie.

P.S. Also, I washed my hands. Again, not a lie.

Oh what do you do on St. Paddy's day when all the world is green?

2011-03-25T22:17:00.000-06:00

Nothing much at our house since I had to scoot off to work about the same time my Paddy got home. I did make some delicious green pancakes for dinner

which my little leprechan seemed to enjoy.

It always sort of weirds me out when colored pancakes still brown when I cook them. In this case, I somehow figured they would cook to a darker green instead for, you know, asthetic reasons.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Lifestyle overhaul

2011-03-24T10:01:00.000-06:00

It all began on the girls trip to California. That's when my life changed. Well, the organizational part of my life, at least.

Here's a little something about me: I don't like clutter. For the most part, I like my house full of clean, open spaces and straight vaccuum lines. While I certainly fall short often as a busy mom, I prefer things neat and organized. Bug is even learning to help; she puts the shoes in the shoe basket, her toys in her bucket, and her books in a great white plastic drawer that sits on the floor in her bedroom for easy access.

For some reason, this cleaning philosophy has not carried over into my own bedroom.

It's not that I don't want it to look nice, it's just that when I start cleaning the house, our bedroom tends to be low priority. By the time I make it around to the bedroom, I'm out of steam or time, or often both. Clothes end up scattered on the floor and (gasp) piles of accessories and just plain garbage accumulate on the dresser.

Anyway, on the plane ride to CA back in January, I sat next to my (possibly obsessive compulsive) sister-in-law, Ashley. Her house is perfect all. the. time. She told me about her rainbow-inspired clothing arrangment, with everything neatly hung by item type and then in color order. She hangs most everything, using drawers for only the basics.

I was floored.

I teased her at the time, and then I thought about the often-disaster that is my dresser/closet. And that's when I changed my life.

Behold:

Guess I don't wear yellow, like, ever.

Looks pretty smashing, huh? I'm thrilled with the new arrangement. I imagine this organization would get a little more complex with prints; luckily, my personal 'style' basically consists of a solid cardigan in every color. I learned things about myself-- I wear a lot of black, brown, and white, and apparently I don't like orange. It is much easier to get ready this way, too. I can see everything easily, and hopefully don't fall into the rut of simply wearing what is at the top of the drawer over and over again.

All in all, I'm pretty pleased with my new life. I considered doing the same thing to the closet where Paddy's work clothes live, but then I decided arranging all of his white, blue, and white-and-blue dress shirts would lack the pizzazz at the end that is my reward. Besides, his tie section gives me heartburn just thinking about it.

Perhaps a tie rack for Father's Day?

I think I lost a Bug.

2011-03-23T10:56:00.001-06:00

I'm pretty sure someone accidentally took my baby and left me with this big kid, instead. Somewhere out there must be a big kid family looking for their adorable child in a green pea coat, and wondering where the chubby, bald baby crawling around their house came from. That has to be what happened, right?

Listening (softly) to her beloved Taylor Swift.

Kindly ignore the growing purple goose egg on her forehead (those cracks in the sidewalk can be a real hazard) and instead focus on the french braid she's rockin'.

It's a BIG salad. Tomatoes like volleyballs.

2011-03-16T12:09:00.003-06:00

Bug is not a picky eater. She mostly eats whatever is put in front of her, including green beans and spinach. What we have reached is the independent stage, where she wants to feed everything to herself by herself. What we have not reached is the stage where she can do this well with a utensil. Yesterday, she put her bowl of macaroni and cheese right on the top of her head. Which she has never done before. And she had just had a bath.

Still, she has her favorites. (Do not show her the pink and white Grandma's cookies if you want her to eat anything else, ever.) If Bug had free reign of her mealtimes--and also long enough arms to reach the pantry-- this is what her diet would consist of. Pretty sure the American Academy of Pediatrics would dig this:

I should've left a spot for elecrical cords. A spot near the bottom.

Rock-a-bye Mommy

2011-03-11T11:43:00.001-07:00

I'll admit it-- maybe the reason I can't generate a fabulous blog post today has something to do with the fact that I keep staring at those pictures of Bug from her daddy-daughter date night to see Disney On Ice (for free!) I mean, really. It's a paralyzing level of cute.

So here's the deal. I know, I know. I have the sad, stringy end of the Chia Shrek to show you. It's just that first I'd like to talk about my junior year of college.

That's when I didn't sleep. My junior year of college was awesome. I worked two jobs, and went to school full time and, oh yeah, had a semester long group project. (Why do professors DO that? Luckily, I was assigned great group of talented people, but STILL.) Plus Aggie basketball. Plus my best friend (minus the roomie, of course) regularly worked until midnight, which means that's when I wandered over to his house, quite often with dinner.

Basically, my body stopped expecting sleep or food on any sort of schedule, and just did what I told it to do. For the most part, I managed to feel great.

That summer was more of the same. I stayed up all day caring for my grandfather who had just had surgery, and stayed up all night messing around with friends. I can't believe I'm about to admit this on a space Bug might someday read, but more than once I left Utah County for Logan (oh yeah, 2 hour drive) after 10 pm and returned home the same night. Morning, I guess.

I was not the best version of myself that summer. In my defense, I was reasonably sure that the returning missionary I had been head over heels with for years was no longer in love with me, and it left me spinning. (Imagine how happily surprised I was to find myself marrying him a year later!) For our purposes, though, that's neither here nor there. The point is that I didn't sleep, and I was still a rockstar.

And the reason that I'm bringing all of this up is to point out how old this makes me feel now that I can no longer do this. My new job-- which I love!-- requires that I work until 1am 4 nights per week. Twice this week, it ended up being an hour or so later because we were just so swamped. And boy oh boy do I feel different. My body now requires food and sleep on a more regular basis. Imagine that!

All of that being said, Bug is down for her nap. And I'm headed for mine. Happy Friday!

Date Night

2011-03-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

Out

the

town

with

Daddy!

Any opposed?

2011-03-06T21:39:00.000-07:00

In church today, several members of our ward were released from or called to new callings. As is customary, we all take the opportunity to show our thanks and support by raising our hands in unison. Schmoopsie and I were also busy doling out fruit snacks and pieces of string cheese in order to keep the Bug quiet during the meeting, which, for some horrible reason, is at the end of our three hour block (read: nap time.)

After a series of these releasing and sustainings, the second counselor in the Bishopric reached the end of his script.

"Any opposed?" he asked.

On the bench next to me, a chubby little hand shot neatly into the air, tiny cheeks full of teddy grahams and face as serious as a heart attack.

Something that bugs me.

2011-02-26T22:26:00.000-07:00

Preface: This is not a big deal. I mean, on the scale of the world's problems, it's like maybe right below stoplights that aren't synchronized (do you hear me, Main Street, Logan, UT?) and above bushes that grow too large and encroach on sidewalk space.

But it bugs me.

It bugs me when I order something at the drive thru, and specifically request "no onions, please". And then the worker from the fast food joint says, all irritated-like, "um, that doesn't come with onions, so....?" Which, you'll note, is not even a question. But it means I have to reiterate my desire for the chicken burrito, leaving out my special request so as to not confuse everyone, but leaving me with the nagging worry that there may, in fact, be onions in my chicken burrito.

And that's my point. If it doesn't normally come with onions, then great. We're agreed. No onions. I'm not sure why that necessitated a response from you. I don't actually memorize the ingredients of the crap food I'm about to ingest; I just know I don't like onions, so that's how I ordered it. No need to educate me further on the subject.

Because the one time I forget to say it? I'll find myself biting into chunks of onions. You can bet your beans on that.

The Miracle of the New Corner

2011-02-23T17:32:00.001-07:00

Bug was just a tiny baby when we received a small, soft, square sort of mini-blanket with a teddy bear head on it as a gift. Somehow, the snuggly was immediately dubbed Wubby. (I'm not sure how to explain the pronunciation for that. Wubby sort of rhymes with whoopsie, not nubby. Is that helpful? Does it matter?) Anyway, I kept Wubby in Bug's crib pretty much right from the beginning. At first, she didn't seem to show much of an interest, although I suppose it's rather difficult to demonstrate interest without voluntary control of your limbs.

When she was very small, Paddy and I smiled when we saw an identical Wubby at Ross for $4.99.

Oh cute, we thought. There's a brand new Wubby just like Bug's!

We were oblivious to it at the time, but that was the moment we made a crucial first-time parent mistake. We left without the new Wubby.

As Bug grew, she fell madly, deeply in love for the first time. You guessed it; Wubby was the sole target of her heart's desire. She loves Wubby. Here's the thing, though, toddler love equals item in mouth equals slobbery mess equals dirty.

This terrible formula of germs is especially true in Wubby's case, because, for whatever reason, Bug has chosen only one of the four corners as the particular point of her affection. One corner. The same corner every. single. time. It's disgusting. Want proof?

If that hair doesn't crack you up, you aren't human. But the point is The Corner. I'm not sure what the inital selection process entailed, exactly, and it doesn't much matter. The Corner has been established. Bug grabs her Wubby, even when she is nearly completely asleep, and deftly spins Wubby around until she identifies The Corner. Corner goes up, thumb goes in, and we have one happy Bug.

We soak it in Clorox 2 and follow it up with a heavy wash on the hot cycle at least once a week, but the darn thing is permanently an embarrassing shade of gross. Trust me, the smell of The Corner is pretty awful, too, like a sour dish rag. I'm telling you what, this motherhood business is humbling.

So anyway, we were getting desperate. We scoured every T.J. Maxx in the valley, and I even looked in California when I was there in January. No luck. We checked Babies R Us. We managed to find Wubby online, but were unwilling to pay $27 for a one foot by one foot snuggly. We cursed ourselves for the missed golden opportunity. I was even starting to consider cutting off the dirty corner on an angle and re-hemming it, just for health concerns. You know, mold.

Two days ago, we were out and about with the Bug doing a little shopping when I spotted a similar, though not identical, Wubby on a display rack. We snatched it, and then rushed to the back of the store toward the baby section, not daring to believe our luck. There, hanging on a rack where we had surely looked before, was not one, but TWO identical new Wubbys. For $4.99, plus, get this, BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. I nearly did a cartwheel, and I can't do a cartwheel.

Here is Old Wubby introducing New Wubby to the good life:

This comparison horrifies me.

I need to tell you that this picture was taken mere hours after Wubby had been freshly washed. So gross.

Anyway, you should have seen the look on our little Bug's face at the prospect of NEW WUBBYS! Can you even imagine that there could be MORE THAN ONE WUBBY!? She was dizzy with joy.

A pile of Wubbys

And that is the story the best day of Bug's life. Now we're just waiting to see if she chooses the same corner this go 'round. Also, we're keeping the old one because, you know, blackmail.

One step enough.

2011-02-16T08:00:00.002-07:00

Quick poll:
Who has had enough of my Boat in Poo Lake analogy? Raise your hands, please. Anyone? Everyone?

I figured as much. I'm pretty sure I rode that train through the city and right on out of town.

I just wanted to take a brief moment and brag about how right I was when I said that 2011 was going to be awesome. We're only, what, 47 days in? It's already awesomer (oh yeah, I said it) than basically the whole of 2010.

I'm thrilled to be done blogging about the trauma that was my employment experience last year. To be fair, a large chunk of the emotional upheaval of the job was likely inevitable; returning from maternity leave to full-time work was exponentially more difficult than I had anticipated, and I'm not sure a different job would have changed those feelings much. When I think about the subsequent events that culminated in the figurative explosion of everything work-related that summer, though, I'm still in awe that it all really happened. It's nearly a PTSD response; I hear the word 'hospice' and immediately break out in hives. (Not really. More like emotional hives.)

This week it was made official. After a couple of weeks of training, I will begin working at a new job with an optimal shift for our family. Being home exclusively is the ultimate goal, of course, but this will be a solid stepping stone with the best possible scenario in the mean time. I feel so lucky.

I have learned from this experience. I'm still processing the best way to describe or discuss it. For now, just this:

Keep thou my feet.

The many faces

2011-02-15T11:59:00.003-07:00

"I happen to dress based on mood."

"But you essentially wear the same thing all the time."

"Seemingly, seemingly. But within that basic framework there are many subtle variations only discernible to an acute observer that reflect the many moods, the many shades, the many sides of George Costanza."

"And what mood is this?"

"This is morning mist."

Love and life, as it happened to me.

2011-02-14T19:06:00.001-07:00

I fell in love in a high school cafeteria.

Just ponder on that a moment. Sounds romantic, doesn't it?

The entire story probably seems ridiculously cliche. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Girl waits for boy to serve mission. Boy proposes. Marriage, house, dog, baby... everything happens pretty much in order. Happily ever after.

And it's true, mostly. We are happy and blessed and still head over heels in love.

Like every real fairy tale, though, there have been bumps along the way. Our road of love and life has taken us into places we did not expect. We survived in South Salt Lake for an entire year, for one. We remodeled a house. (Try it sometime.) I survived a looooong 24 months while he was in Mexico, including several unfortunate dating experiences, including the gentleman who bragged about his ACT score (mine was higher) and ruthlessly mocked his little sister behind her back. And then I met her. And she was mentally disabled.

More significantly, we ached for a baby, and while we were blessed to get her much more quickly than many, it was not immediately. We've been poor. A car smashed in to our favorite car, and I was in it. My work life exploded, and we survived a hellish 2010. I cried. We had to put both of Paddy's childhood dogs to sleep, and one of mine, too.

Most significantly, Paddy's mother died.

And then his father died.

In fact, after a quick count, we've attended 6 funerals of immediate family and one close friend together. We have hurt together.

And, although this sounds cliche as well, we are stronger for every moment of it. I love my husband, and he loves me. We are in this together.

My faith in the Gospel is based on many things. That my family is mine forever is at the very root of it, the truth of it lodged immovably in my spirit. It is worth every minute of time in church meetings, every dollar in tithing donations, every second of time spent serving or reading or just plain tolerating the day to day requirements of a demanding religion. Every single last detail of it is worth it, because I cannot be forceful enough in this:

There is no heaven without him.

On the mish

California

CAMPING!

Bug's first date

The way she was

2011-02-10T21:22:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, Schmoopsie inundated my inbox with every single picture of Bug from his cell phone. He did this so that when his ridiculously craptacular BlackBerry (you heard me) explodes, as it inevitably will, we won't lose all the pictures he's snapped over the last several months like we did with those taken in the first 5 months of her life.

I don't know why this particular one is cracking me up so much, but it is. This picture was taken in early May last year when we took some of our tulips to the cemetary to decorate Grandma Nancy's grave because the snow had finally melted. I love that Bug is at the peak of chubby- the moment where baby rolls are layered one on top of another like an 80s wedding cake, before the crawling and toddling and running and getting tall (92nd percentile in height at last count. What?!) slimmed her down into the (gasp!) child she is now.

Maybe it's the ladybug shoes. Maybe it's the way her cheeks are so big they actually inhibit her ability to smile. Maybe it's the sassy little scowl, or the way her head is so BALD. Whatever it is, I couldn't help but share.

You're welcome.

That'll do, Donkey.

2011-02-03T23:12:00.001-07:00

I'm sure you're desperate to know what in all the land we've been up to, since I clearly haven't been busy keeping you updated on the Chia Shrek.

Working two jobs, first of all, as one ends (hooray!) and another begins. Making two different pans of homemade macaroni and cheese in one night, secondly, and making my neighbors rate them so that I will be prepared with something fabulously delicious for our family's Superbowl Extravaganza. It's a non-stop party around these parts, which is the excuse I'm giving for the reason my house looks like a bomb exploded.

We attended a fancy-pants dinner with the rockstars of Paddy's office. (Don't judge him for being an overachiever. We were basically the youngest ones there by, oh, a decade or so.)

Bug's been busy, too. Busy getting into Mama's eyeliner and drawing herself a beard.

Chia Shrek is plugging along! Here are some shots of his progress over the last week:

For your patience with me, I'll grant you another of my oh-so-accurate inanimate object-human comparisons. (see the others here and here)

Isn't my Chia Shrek very

Terry Bradshaw?

I bring you...

2011-01-27T08:00:00.001-07:00

A pumpkin garden? Beans in a garbage disposal? Good guesses, all, really.

I may have mentioned in the past that I have a truly rad family. It's true! For example, at our yearly Christmas party on my dad's side we hold a white elephant gift exchange that always has us roaring with laughter. This year's highlights included a man meat bag, a shake weight, and several bottles of a well-known multi-level marketing drink. I stole the blog surprise package fair and square from my Uncle Mark.

And thus I bring you...

The Chia Shrek!

Oh yeah, baby. Who hasn't been tempted to buy one of these off the late night infomericals? (Did you know I adore infomercials?) When Uncle Mark sees how rad this experiment is, he's going to be super bummed that he missed out. I know that both my glasses and I are thrilled about the prospects!

So anyway, the reason this surprise took so long and therefore was so anti-climatic was that the Chia took a bit longer to sprout and become interesting than I thought. I mixed up the seeds from my mystery pictures with water, and they sort of turn to a sticky paste. I dutifully spread the mixture all over my Chia planter, thusly:

Note the baby in the background. I suppose this is as good a time as any to detail one of her more annoying traits. You'll note the rather large wet spot all the way down her torso in the picture above. Bug loves her sippy cup of milk, but occasionally, when she decides she's had her fill, she opts to ignore the baby sign for 'all done' (which she knows) or even the simple act of just setting the sippy aside, and instead chooses to slurp up an entire mouthful of milk and then open her mouth and allow the whole thing to dribble right down the front of her. Sigh.

Anyway, back to the Chia. Obediently, I covered the planter to keep it moist for a few days, and spritzed it regularly with water. (P.S. My child has also learned to suck water out of a spray bottle nozzle. I know.)

And then it basically looked exactly the same for several days. I did not bother boring you with that. Over the last night or two, however, things have really taken off.

It seems somehow appropriate that my Chia Shrek has decided on the mullet as the ultimate hair style.

I told you this would be rad!

I promise to have regular plant updates from now until the planter grows its promised thick, lush coat. Bonus: there are enough seeds for three more plantings!

One more old lady shot, only slightly different from the first? Ok, sure. Why not?

It's not so much that I need my glasses to see, per se. My eyes do that fine on my own. (Am I defending my optical abilities?) The glasses just help out if I'm going to be doing a lot of reading or computer work and don't feel like suffering through a raging headache afterwards. Plus, I'm old.

Stay tuned!

37.037- A love story.

2011-01-26T11:14:00.001-07:00

As of today, Schmoopsie and I have been smooching for a decade. (Without being too graphic, allow me the liberty to say that, um, we're getting pretty great at it.) Ten years. I'm not subtracting the two (or was it twenty?) years he was off spreading the gospel in Mexico, because I didn't get any smooches from anyone else during that time, and (I presume) neither did he. And oh, I missed those smooches. Ten years. That comes out to roughly 37.037 percent of my life.

I don't want to make you gag with sappy stories of how fabulously wonderful he is, even though they'd all be true. I remind him of our sappy stories between kisses (reminder: they're great), and that's good enough for us.

He's my best friend.

He's a great kisser.

What else does a girl need?

PS- Five years ago tonight, he asked me to marry him. Anyone want to hear that story?

Ice cream, YIP! Ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!

2011-01-25T21:50:00.001-07:00

Took a trip to Happy Valley to enjoy some yummy barbeque from one of our favorite out-of-state haunts that has finally made it here! If you haven't tried Dickie's, give it a whirl. Best of all, they have free ice cream cones when you're finished eating.

After snacking on Mama's baked beans and macaroni and cheese, Bug took full advantage!

Yummy!

My first cone!

When Bug is older and frustrated at her super straight, fine, wispy hair that will not (repeat: WILL NOT!) hold curl for even a minute, she can blame the man sitting there on her right. His genes, baby, passed along through tu mama. Then again, half of her hair is curly-ish, so I guess anything could happen.

Dancing Queen

2011-01-25T08:31:00.002-07:00

Darling Bug,

Hello, my love! I don't want to talk about how you are 15 entire months old already, or how I'm afraid to blink because I know if I do you'll magically be headed to kindergarten or packing up for college or whatever. Your daddy and I spend half our lives shaking our heads in disbelief, and mumbling to each other, "Dude. We have a KID now." It's too freaky, and it makes me get all sorts of nostalgic and emotional. Instead, I'll do what I do best these days. Brag.

You have four dance moves. It's a lot for such a small girl, especially one made by two people as uncoordinated on the dance floor as your father and me. Here's the basic run down.
1- The Knee Bend. This move has two variations.
a. The rapid knee bounce. Appropriate for fast-paced Taylor Swift songs (I blame your Aunt Megan for this obsession) and hip-hop.
b. The slower, deep knee bend. Appropriate for your slow jams. Also excellent for developing fabulous quads.

2- The Waist Lean. This move involves cocking your head to the side, and leaning over from the waist on a slight angle. Must be accompanied by goofy grin.

3- The Classic Spin. Simply put, this involves spinning around in place, generally in a clockwise fashion. (So far, you do not appear to be an ambi-turner.) Can be performed in the aisle during Sunday School should the video clip have musical accompaniment.

4- The Arm Twist. Your rarest move, wherein the arms are held out at rib level, fists lightly clenched, feet planted. Twist from side to side at the waist. The benefit to this move is that you can maintain eye contact with your audience, and manage to look quite pleased with yourself without compromising your rhythm.

I have never seen a baby who loves to dance as much as you do. The very hint of music immediately ellicits a wide grin and the light bouncing of your little head. You dance in your car seat, in your high chair, and even in your crib.

Here is an image I carry in my head: As I sit on the couch, the large window behind the table lets in the sunshine, backlighting your little body as you toddle across the room. Your fine, wispy hair stands on end after your nap, swaying with your steps like corn stalks in the wind, lighting up around your head like a halo in the sunshine. Your little nose wrinkles into a sassy grin when the music begins, and you spin awkwardly, bobbing your head nearly in time with the music. You are my little music box.

Do you want to know something that makes me laugh? When I am the Tickle Monster and you are my prey, you often run towards my playful growling and outstretched fingers, giggling before you even reach me. It's the funniest thing. Quite often, you growl back between fits of laughter, a low, throaty noise that sounds silly sandwiched between your happy squeals.

You give kisses now, darling! Your Daddy is so excited to get smooches from his little girl before he leaves for work. We purse our lips like a fish and lean into you expectantly, and you open your lips wide and plant them right on the mouth. Each time, we cheer and clap and squeal with joy, and you join in, giggling quietly and clapping your chubby little hands together in your silly spastic way. I'd walk through fire to get those kisses.

I am so proud of you, Bug. Don't stop. Find joy in moving. Get lost in the song. Run toward whatever makes you happy. Kiss the people you love.

You already know so much of what you need. Just don't forget it, princess.

Love you all the way to the moon,
Mama

PS- You also like to feed your string cheese to the dog. Go ahead and forget that part.

Where I am now

2011-01-21T22:43:00.001-07:00

Do you remember where I was before? Hip hip! I'm not there anymore. And because I love annoyingly vague references to my life, particularly those involving poo--and who doesn't?--I'm bestowing upon you an update.

My Coast Guard friends, long supportive via long distance radio communications (or something?) finally arrived. I strapped on that harness, and the chopper lifted me from the smelly ship high, high into the clear blue sky. (Admittedly, there was a moment of nervous neck rash somewhere in there, but I'm used to that by now.)

So here I am, swinging from a cable above Poop Sea and below the helicopter piloted by the Coast Guard. Sailing through the sky is frightening, but let me tell you something: the air is clear up here, and there are no flies. There is a chance I will have to stay in my airborne harness for a while, spinning and twisting in the wind, and occasionally losing circulation in my legs from the harness straps. It's a risk I am willing to take. The choice was easy; I was drowning.

And, if I am very, very lucky, I may just get to land softly on that wide, wooden bridge I see on the horizon.

As promised

2011-01-18T15:40:00.003-07:00

Now that I've put it off so long, this whole 'surprise with pictures' business is sure to be a giant let down, particularly since my sister-in-law thought I'd be announcing that I was pregnant. Wouldn't that be fun! Guess what! Nope. I told her she was crazy; there's no way I could have hidden the amount of puke that accompanies that condition from her on our marathon shopping day. Besides, does this look like a child who is ready for the responsibility of sibling-hood?

(As an aside, doesn't this little native dress that Bunk and Grammy Lu picked up on their cruise just kill you? With her exotic, cocoa-colored complexion and shiny black hair, she looks darn near authentic.)

Anyway, back to the let down. Here at A Bug's Life, we are pleased to announce a little project for the next, oh, month or so. Below are the promised snapshots, intended to serve as clues for our game. Any guesses on what we are up to?

Good luck!

Oh yeah. One teeny tiny itsy bitsy little detail provided as a partial penance for the disappointment from before.

QUIT.

MY.

JOB.

TODAY.

Chew on that.

This has shifted my entire world view.

2011-01-17T08:58:00.001-07:00

I'm not kidding. My life has totally been rocked.

This whole time it's been incorrect to put two spaces after the end of a sentence? What? Who am I?

Curse you, Misters Miller, Wood, and Drake, for never correcting this atrocious behavior. I passed two (TWO!) AP English tests and never knew this. Two college degrees! Am I dreaming?

Goin' to California

2011-01-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

Took my chances on a big jet plane
Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same...

Me and the gals on our wild shopping trip:

Not sure why we chose to stand in front of Frederick's for our one shopping picture...

I dig this airport, notwithstanding the fact that it sort of feels like a strong breeze could take out the whole thing. Also, despite all visible evidence to the contrary, my pants are not velour.

As mentioned, we had a wonderful time on our day-long ladies trip. Do I hear tradition calling?

Things that suck.

2011-01-11T09:50:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: These are also not the promised surprise pictures. They are coming, however. After I take them.

A story: A couple of years ago, when we moved into our condo and immediately bought a dog that was too large for the regulations, we also made another important, related purchase. After squeezing the last drops of life out of the very used vacuum I had purchased for $20 off of a roommate in college, it was time for our very own sucking machine. We sidled in to the Walmart down the street and dropped some hard earned cash on one of their in stock models. Off we went, proud to clean up our brand new dog's hair with our brand new vacuum.

Fast forward to a new house with the same dog plus a Cheerio dropping toddler, and our not-so-nice-to-begin-with Walmart vacuum was decidedly missing the mark. An online visit to overstock.com was needed, and an order was placed for a Shark-- a brand we had heard was comparable to the legendary Dyson without the large price tag.

It came in the mail yesterday. While Schmoopsie and Bug worked on assembling the machine, (I don't do Styrofoam. shudder.) I decided to conduct an experiment. I carefully vacummed the floors with our old machine, and then excitedly made the rounds with the new one.

Cue gross-out mode. Here is the cannister after one pass of the living room and half of the hall.

In case that visual doesn't get the point across, here is the first load of filth in the garbage on top of a bread bag.

So far, we are over the moon with our purchase. Besides the all-important sucking power, which the Shark appears to have plenty of, I am also thrilled to pieces with the perfect vacuum lines it leaves when I am finished. It's the small things in life, really.

P.S. The title of the post. Aren't I punny?

Flower child

2011-01-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

This is not the promised surprise or accompanying pictures, but I can't stop giggling at this. Behold the fruits of my California shopping trip:

I did not buy her in CA. She was a previous purchase.

Attention world: New maximum value on the cute scale.

Let's be honest, I bought this ridiculous ensemble at the TJ Maxx in Costa Mesa, so it's not like it's exotic or anything, but STILL. Betcha you wish she lived at your house.

Gobbledeegook.

2011-01-07T12:56:00.000-07:00

After a whiz-bang start to the new year, I'm all out of blog juice. Already.

Here are some things I am thinking about:

Tomorrow I'm going to California (you heard me right) for what is sure to be a hilarious day of shopping and laughing with a bunch of my sisters and Bug's Grammy Lu. Sorry, Bug. You're staying home with Daddy this time.

If I didn't feel old when I turned 27, I did when I had to get my very first pair of prescription reading glasses. Next up: a walker with tennis balls on the legs.

101.9 The End: see, I was right. I told you your new programming was embarrassingly awful. You should've listened to me 9 months ago. But, we'll let bygones be bygones. I forgive you. Thank you for the Californication on my way to work yesterday. It nourishes my heart.

I have had a four letter word (no, not that kind of four letter word. One of my twenty-seven-olutions was to stop with those, anyway. Remember? A kid who will be talking soon? Can't have her imitating her sailor mama now, can we?) spinning and rolling around in my head, begging for more study and perhaps a blog post or two. Your thoughts on hope would be greatly appreciated.

Will you all promise to come back and check out the blog next week if I promise you a very special surprise? Hint: it will involve pictures. Maybe I'll even throw in some sporting my newest senior citizen accessory.

2011 is going to be great, and I'm not just saying that.

2011-01-01T09:36:00.000-07:00

Birds flying high- you know how I feel

Sun in the sky- you know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by- you know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life

For me

And I'm feeling good!

Fish in the sea- you know how I feel
River running free- you know how I feel
Blossom in the tree- you know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life

for me

And I'm feeling good!

Dragonfly out in the sun- you know what I mean, don't you know
Butterflies all havin' fun- you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when the day is done
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world

For me

Stars when you shine- you know how I feel
Scent of the pine- you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine!
And I know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life

for me!

And I'm feeling good.

-Anthony Newley & Leslie Bricusse

Things that make me smile

2010-12-28T22:48:00.001-07:00

2010 was a whole lot of eh. You know what I mean. It wasn't a horrid year or anything, but it wasn't super fantabulous, either. It was a shoulder-shrugger, brush off sort of year. I will not feel sad to see it slip away into the frozen night this weekend.

Still, I know that my family and I have really, truly been blessed, and I have been terribly negligent in my failing to acknowledge it. For so many in our country, and even more around the world, 2010 was a painful, difficult, awful year. I should treasure my apathy for the year; at least it wasn't sorrow, pain, fear, or hunger.

There are so many things in my life that make me smile.

College football, for one:

(Was anyone out there wondering if Bug still looked like her daddy?)

Our autumn Saturdays were full of good food, good friends, and Cougar football. (Except, of course, for that one glorious day in October when our house stood divided and my Aggies reigned triumphant!) Since they got married several years ago, we have watched nearly every BYU game in the company of our good friends, the Ortons. In fact, last year we watched a game at their home and then practically headed right to Labor and Delivery afterward to have our little ladyBug. Three weeks later, Buggy made one her first trips out of the house to watch another game with our friends. (She peed on their hardwood floors, and they still invited us the next week.) We are so lucky to have good friends. The hurt and struggles of my crazy twenty-six plus the scheduling challenges of a very small but needy third wheel have naturally affected our social life over the last year. Without the Ortons, we'd practically be hermits. Also, I wouldn't have such nice hair. (Thanks, Stace!)

Want to see a memory that makes me smile? Over Labor Day, we took the baby and headed to Silver Lake to relax and take in the beautiful weather.

Now, prepare yourselves for this. Waaaaay back in October 2002, we headed to the same lake shortly after Grandma Nancy passed away to relax and take in the beautiful weather. Have we changed much?

Weird, huh? And speaking of young love, Bug went on her very first dates in 2010-- first with an older man:

with Daddy at the aquarium

and then with a younger man. (She's a cougar.)

Bug and her ward boyfriend. They flirt and exchange birthday presents and Christmas cards.
Basically the only downside is that his parents are funnier and more clever than we are.

2011 is going to be a fantastic year. I just know it. I sense it. I feel it in my heart. I will cheer and clap and, perhaps most impressively, stay up all the way until midnight to welcome it with open arms.

I'm not sure what to say about this.

2010-12-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

Not to ruin the festive tone of the last post, but raise your hand if you vote for this dude as suckiest Santa ever:

Me, too.

Got himself a cute kid on his lap, though.

Merry Christmas to all!

2010-12-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone! Bug and family had a very Merry Christmas this year! We got all spruced up for the annual Christmas Eve fondue party at Bunk and Grammy Lu's place.

After hanging out with some of her favorite people, including Grandpa D,

she changed into her Rudolph jammies,

and snuggled into bed, presumably dreaming of sugar plum fairies or other such Christmasy thoughts.

When she woke up, Santa had been to our house! Hooray!

Nana remembered her yearly Christmas ornament,

and we all ate delicious food all day long. What a wonderful Christmas!

I hope we are blessed enough that each Christmas is as full of joy and happiness as this one was.

Very happy holiday wishes to you and yours!

The beginning of the story is not important.

2010-12-18T12:34:00.001-07:00

I handed my heavy, drowsy daughter off to my husband, gratefully trading the sleeper-clad weight of her for the carton of eggs and the cellophane Santa bags I wanted to fill with cookies for the neighbors. The buzz of hundreds of shoppers waiting in huddled masses for the sale on PlayStations faded into background noise as I noted that the fly on my denim jeans was completely down, and that, due to the way I stand with my hip awkwardly jutting out when I hold the baby, the crotch-region of my pants was bursting open for the world to see in a brass zipper-framed slice of wonder.

The end.