Sewing Room Floor- Christmas Eve 3:56 AM

Breakfast is at 9:00AM.

This is a spoiled little bug.

Uncertain

Santa's Helpers Keep Very Late Hours

I am not at liberty to discuss what we've been doing, making, or buying. And I will never confess all that I've been eating. Until we are cleared from the holiday silence, I'll just post pictures. One (at least) per day starting tomorrow.

Lazerbeam

My grandma called me that once after watching me call someone out on their total BS. I used fighting words and won. The woman wanted to beat me with a broom but I beat her to the punch without lifting a finger.

Somehow, fighting with your siblings came up at my knitting night this week and I had nothing to relate because my three sisters and I never fought.

Bwahaha!

In reality, I learned to fight really, really well. They were bigger than me and so if I was going to stand a fighting chance, I needed to win from across the room. I learned to use my words to make them cry before they could knock the air out of me. It is a skill that I have since improved. I can zero in on a person's weakness or insecurity in a matter of minutes and with my words strike a nerve. Like any skill it can be and has been used for good and for not so good purposes. I'm pretty sure I will be working on what comes out my mouth for the rest of my existence.

When nerves are raw and frayed it is easier to hit them without missing a mark. It is easier still when you just tell the truth. Lots of times, complete strangers open up to you because they feel like they can trust you even if they know they won't always like what you're going to say. For example- the many patients who ask me if there will be pain, or what dying looks like, what DNR really means, or confess their actual drug use.

Yes, it's gonna hurt.
Breathing is going to be hard.
If chest compressions are used, there will be broken ribs.
You don't have to tell me, but I'm going to do a physical assessment and the body doesn't lie.

And however unprofessional it may be, I have on occasion simply said, "This sucks. I'm sorry."

Sometimes I think I scare people. And other times I make them cry. Especially when it comes to infertility. Somehow I find myself around these women or they find me. In any case we meet, and even though virtually complete strangers I open my mouth and hit a nerve.

More examples.

I know it hasn't been very long and I try and tell myself that, but to me it feels like I've waited my whole life to be a mom. That sounds dumb, doesn't it?
Me- Hold up. That's not dumb. You have and it sucks that you're not yet.
Enter the tearing up here.

Me- I'm so sorry.
It's okay.
Me- No it's not. It totally sucks.
Enter the tearing up here again.

Me- Honey, I don't say I'm sorry because I feel sorry for you, or I pity you. I'm truly sorry you have to go through this because I remember what it feels like and it totally sucks. And I know that there is nothing I or anyone else can say that will make it go away.
Enter the tearing up for the third time in two months here.

I say sucks, okay!?! And I'm not going to sugar coat it. I am rarely a sugarcoater. I will not be the person that tells you to have faith about it, or that it will get better, or anything else except that it sucks and I'm sorry. I should probably refine my approach, and use a little more discrepancy before letting my trap fly open. Like I said, I'm working on it. But I haven't been fired yet and I've found a new friend. That's got to count for something.

Tuesday Thoughts

As a mother seeking a last minute sitter, it is so awesomely convenient that she has a cell phone. But as a mother, what the hail is she doing answering it during school?

The back of the Tums bottle says "Do not consume more than 15 in a 24 hour period." Who eats 15 Tums? That was last week. So what exactly would happen if I did eat 15 Tums?

Culprit? Chocolate. I have developed a puking, burning, I'm-having-a-heart-attack-and-going-to-die-allergic-type response to chocolate two weeks before Christmas. Nice.

I was not drunk on the road this morning. I dropped my pear. It might have been safer to let it just roll around the gas pedal than the approach I took to retrieve it.

The squirrel like hoarding of baby shoes has begun. I know they are completely, totally, and wholly unnecessary, but I love baby shoes.

I know babies are not dolls, but what else do you do with them for the first 8 weeks except dress them up?

My kid does better in heels than I do.

I have to wear both heels and nylons this week for my husband's work party where I get to flash my pearly whites, make small talk, and be nice to people I don't know. An occasion that makes me wish I drank even a little bit. Except I don't and I can't. Picture me walking in heels, with an altered center of gravity, and a little bit tipsy. A fabulous Christmas card.

Christmas card? What Christmas card?

All I Want for Christmas

I don't want to seem like I'm not excited, because trust me I am. But to me when I look down, I don't see a baby. I see a bulging uterus. When I feel a little something I don't think baby, I think ligaments. And in case you may be thinking maybe I'm not the overly maternal type, I am. Really, I am. I love babies. Maybe that's the problem. A self imposed protective mechanism I've developed over the last few years. Don't look at someone else's baby. Don't think about babies. Then I wont want one. I wont think about wanting one. The overwhelming and heart wrenching desire to hold and cuddle hasn't been there and I've been thinking, "What's wrong with me?"

As is customary in Mormon culture, we take meals when you have a baby. I stood on the front porch in the rain waiting for a woman who had a baby a week ago to answer. She answered the door with her new little girl wrapped in a blanket. She was all wriggly and pink with chunky cheeks. And all of a sudden it hit me standing there in my scrubs and yellow rain boots. I almost melted into a puddle on her porch. A baby!

I came in the door and announced to my husband, "I want one of those!" And over his laptop screen he distractedly said, "Well, that's good because you're getting one."

I'm getting one of those!

Amen Sista!

CJane is not really my sister (we each have enough of those on our own), and I don't have a habit of shouting that phrase out on a regular basis. Though I still kind of wish I went to a church where it was. How fabulously entertaining would an "Amen Sista!" and "Hallelujah!" be throughout Fast and Testimony meeting?

Still, I totally loved CJane's post tonight. Considering that for two days in a row as soon as Scrunch was in bed, I was beyond ready for two Haagen-Dazs vanilla almond bars to smooth away the stress of the day. She's almost two you know. That's why I had two. And that is how you spell it. I have an old wrapper laying in front of me.

But tonight I fell asleep before she did and only groggily remember hearing her emphatic Aaaamen! to our nighttime prayer. My kid would be awesome in a lively Amen Sista! kind of testimony meeting. I woke up long after she's been in bed for several hours and kind of miss the kid. Although not so much 'Pary Poppins' for the thousandth time. Just watching her clog like a chimney sweep in shoes several sizes too big.

Because we can.

Why do we drive for an hour to find a tree when we could just as easily go to the Home Depot lot?

Why do we have to cut it down ourselves?

Why do we each consume an entire strudel and cider (or hot juice as Scrunch calls it)?

Why do we buy the biggest tree we think will fit in the family room only to discover once we're home that it will actually need to be trimmed by a foot and a half?

Why do we tolerate mom's stupid reindeer antlers?

Because we can. And because mom makes us.

Bulleted Blogging

It is not for lazy bloggers. It is for bloggers who have lots of thoughts, none of them interesting, but not enough to say on any one thing to come up with entire coherent sentences- much less paragraphs.

• Good golfer does not equate to good person, husband, and father. Why do we still glorify sports persona as heroes? They play a sport really, really well. Unless you know them, look up to them for that and nothing more. Same goes for any other celebrity. And if even half of it is true, look up to his wife as a money making genius. I feel bad for the kids, but hope she takes him for every cent she can get!

• My life has changed A LOT. I noticed this while caravaning to the thrift store with a friend. We took separate cars because there wasn't enough room for the car seats and anything else we might bring home. Costco for lunch as an outing and car seats. Weird.

• It's been a long, long time but I totally got checked out by two normal looking and not obviously creepy looking buddies at Costco while shopping alone Friday night. I was feeling pretty good about myself until I came around the aisle and they got a glimpse of me in profile and then from the front. Eyes practically bugged out of their heads! Costco on a Friday night and my bulging uterus. Totally weird. Told you life has changed.

• But you don't play the piano! Not yet. F. R.E.E. That spells free. Free piano for me, baby.

It is distressed and it is green. It is fate.

And yes, those are the pictures of three totally check-out line check out worthy mamas from what was previously formally known as the IFC.

• For three days I have woken up at 3:58am, 4:02am, and 4:28am. That is how you find the good stuff on Craigslist. That is also how you spend hours reading reviews and doing Santa's research on things like play kitchens. Give me a model, I'll give you the specs.

• I hate, hate, hate, hate to pee in public restrooms. I would rather squat on the side of the road or behind a rock any day. Probably the loudest and scariest I have ever yelled at Scrunch (so far) was at the gas station in Baker when she insisted on going potty with me. Do NOT touch ANYTHING! Risking being arrested for indecent exposure might give me enough to write a complete and coherent post one of these days.

Can you feel me now?

Not five minutes from the time I had last talked to him, I called my husband back.

"I think I just felt the baby."

"What does it feel like?"

"It feels like sort of a tickle on the inside."

The conversation then takes a bizarre and confusing turn.

I was totally confused, and then..."Um, babe...I said 'tickle' not 'pickle'."

Thanksgiving

Before

After

And proof that I actually made something this month.

The rest of the pictures from our trip will be found on Facebook, otherwise it would take me three weeks to catch up.

We have made our yearly trek to Zion. California has about twelve more hours to drop off into the ocean or it will have to wait until next year.

I will never understand.

The frozen waterfall would have been my first clue to get the hell out of dodge. I'm just glad he's found someone (not me) to do this stuff with so I don't even have to try to come up with excuses.

Mount Whitney in November, um no. Belize, New Zealand, or Paris- now we'll talk.

Art Appreciation

Would it surprise you to know that one of my most favorite courses ever was Art History? And I did really, really well in it. Mostly because I do really, really well at BSing my way through essays. I wrote many an essay on plenty of paintings of naked broads. (I didn't post a picture as an example because you can imagine what would happen should I Google "naked painting." But you know the ones.)

For centuries artistic scholars have debated the subject of their nakedness at great length.

Is it based on culture and a greater appreciation for a hefty broad? Something our Western skinny obsessed culture can't quite wrap it's head around.

The 'fat is fertile' scenario?

Is the experimentation with pigment and light?

And on and on. If you've got a good story you can BS your way through just about anything in art history. I tended to go with the 'experimentation with pigment and light' argument most often. I was wrong, and I hate to admit it. We are back to the 'fat is fertile' scenario and an overwhelming case of coincidence. My thesis- The models all happened to be 15 weeks pregnant. Their old clothes didn't fit, yet they hadn't popped out enough for maternity wear.

*********
My baby bump popped out yesterday. I felt like I should document it somehow, but I'm not about posting baby bump pictures. One of these days I'll tell you why. It's nothing personal, I don't like ultrasound pictures either.

Call this whatever you want, just not lazy.

I need to blog in the morning. Before the mail gets here. And before my Netflicks arrive.

My Favorite Picture of the Year

It might need a little motherly interpretation, but this is so my kid right now that it makes me laugh.

"Make roni eeease!!!"

"I gots puppy shoes!!" Did you know she has puppy shoes? Well, then I guess you haven't talked to her in the last 96 hours because that has got to be the most repeated phrase at our house right now. "I gots puppy shoes!!"

"No ponies, thank you." Which is why her hair looks like Little Orphan Annie. I am picking my battles. This morning when I told her she could not watch Elmo until after her shower she told me, "Go wash dishes mama. I watch Elmo." Excuuuuse me? That's your first complete sentence?? Go washes dishes mama!!??? When I told John he said, "Well, she didn't hear that from me." Just to be sure he knew it too, I had him make roni eeeease for dinner.

How to Pick a Fantasy Football QB

A conversation between my husband and I. Starting with my husband.

Do you think Tom Brady is hot?

I don't know. I don't know what he looks like.

Well, lots of women think he's hot.

Google an image for me and I'll tell you.

Here.

Um, not really.

What about Peyton Manning?

Is that who he's playing?

Uh huh.

Lemme see. Um, no. The pictures make him look like a dweebus, but he's cuter than Tom Brady.

What about Drew Brees? That's who my QB is.

Oh. Good job, hon. He's the cutest one.

A Day Out

"Please take lots of pictures," I told him as I left this morning. And being the literal guy that he is, he did.

140 of them. I've got pictures for just about every step of their way.

I narrowed them down for you.

Cell phones make you dumber.

I had to call my sister, who lives IN TEXAS, to find out what my home phone number is.

Why wasn't it already programmed into my phone?

I'm not in the habit of talking to myself (on the phone).

If the days were twice as long, and I had four times the energy

I would have all this cute Christmas stuff done.

Heather Bailey's Yo-Yo how to for my garland.

Embroidered Felt Ornaments

May own take on this modern Advent Calendar.

And an oilcloth tree skirt like this one on Etsy, but from Anna Maria Horner's new line.


Don't forget the stockings.

Instead, we will be going with a theme. You know how I love themes.

We will be fully decked out as the house from whence the Grinch stole Christmas.

And poof, I've beaten you to the Holiday decorating.

A Not So Gentle Reminder

When I want to complain, when I want to just whine about being sick of being sick, I am flooded with the reminders about how much I wanted this. How much we wanted this. How long we worked towards this. I'm so sick of the reminders of how much worse it could be, or how it could not be. And I'm sick of reminding myself. So. sick. of. being. sick. No one will let me forget it. And I won't let myself.

Every single day I am more and more amazed at just how much better God knows me than I know myself.

I cried when I saw the positive pregnancy test. And not in an over-joyed momentous let's frame this moment in our minds kind of way. In a please, please, please, please don't let me mis-carry this baby sort of way.

I called as soon as I could to get an order for labs to confirm, and then waited a few extra days to let the hormones build up. The results came back Friday that they were definitely positive. I called John at work as he was leaving from there to go hiking. At this point, I felt nothing. No symptoms. Absolutely nothing. Saturday Scrunch and I spent the day at home cleaning and hanging out. Sometime that afternoon I felt something. Cramping and spotting. My heart sank. I couldn't reach my husband. There was nothing I could do.

I sat on the couch reminding myself repeatedly not to stress. Stress could exacerbate the situation. Just relax. John will be home soon, though I'm not sure what he was going to be able to do about it. Thankfully, Scrunch went to bed early and I remained on the couch willing this baby to stay.

I finally got a hold of my husband on their drive back and told him to tell Aaron they'd need to give me a blessing when he dropped him off. Close to midnight and still in their grubby clothes, I received a blessing. I went to bed and the next morning was the first time I threw up. I have thrown up every day since.

Morning sickness is some women's physiological response to a rise in hormones. A biological consequence. For me, it has been a not so gentle reminder that I'm not the one in charge, that God has a sense of humor, and that yes, he's listening.

The Corny Stage

I was told I am now in the "Corny Stage" of pregnancy. I didn't know there was a corny stage or what the corny stage even means.

If it means wanting to hug people without a whole lot of reason, then I guess I'm there. And I am not usually a hugger.

If it means singing Disney tunes in my head ALL THE BLOODY TIME then I guess I'm there too. Lately, it's been Strange Things Are Happenin' to Me from Toy Story. I would post a YouTube video of the song as a reminder, but my husband upgraded our computer when I was gone a few weeks ago and I need the most recent Flash player. No prob, I'll just download it. But then I get "Adobe Flash Player is not supported for playback in a 64-bit browser. However, you can run Flash Player in a 32-bit browser running on a 64-bit operating system." I totally don't know what that means. Not corny enough, I guess. Only super annoying.

On another non-corny note, my boobs are growing- practically busting into an A cup. And that makes me really, really happy. Maybe that's why I want to hug people.

Freely Giving

When you're a famous blogger, people give you free stuff. Have you noticed that? Almost all the 'famous' blogs I read post regularly about this and that fancy shmancy cute thing that someone sent them out of the blue. I'm sure it is completely out of the generosity of their humongous heart and not the free advertising that prompts such giving. The same spirit of giving that overwhelms my sister from time to time, and not her desire to purchase her status as favorite aunt. But you know what? It totally works.

At six AM Friday morning I received a frantic phone call from my sister in Tejas. My husband was not overly impressed, and from the other room he's yelling the following questions.

Is she engaged?

No.

Was she in an accident?

No.

Did she win the lottery?

No.

Did aliens land in Texas?

No.

Then why is she calling?

She wants to know Scrunch's shoe size.

ETA four to five days depending on the reliability of their ground shipping. I'm sure I'll post a rave review about both the shoes and my sister when they arrive.

If you'd like a rave review posted about you, I've had my eyes on these beauties.

Pet pet peeves

If you go to bed at 7:30 you can wake up at 4:30 and still have had nine hours of sleep, leaving you with ample time to contemplate (and blog) about the mysteries of life, and still have time to take a nap before anyone wakes up. Try it some time. It will give me something to read. Instead I shall pontificate my personal pet pet peeves. And alliterate. And in three days when again in my right mind read this and wonder if I was high on Scrunch's eucalyptus oil fumes, or just awake before five am.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Cat people and dog people. Further subdivided in the dog group you will find BIG dog people and little dog people. We happen to be BIG dog people. I don't hate cat people and I don't hate little dog people. But for a week the little dog people have fallen far below hamster and mice people. And I HATE hamsters and mice (their people might be okay.)

If you walk a St. Bernard into the grocery store, someone is bound to notice. I'll notice if you carry a chihuahua into a grocery store. Dogs, unless wearing an orange vest, DO NOT BELONG IN GROCERY STORES. I realize it's your baby, and they're cleaner than most people, but there is just something wrong, WRONG with it. I'm still not over the rude Costco employee poking my baby sling and harassing me about the puppy I was carrying, only the puppy wasn't a puppy. I had an actual sleeping child in the sling.

You might think it's cute that your bichon frise has a Cujo complex and runs across the lawn, snapping, and yapping at the heels of every passerby. It's not cute. If my dog did that I would likely have several claims against my home owner's insurance and be in litigation. It's not okay if they are 90 lb. Dobbie, and it's still not okay if they are a five pound powder puff.

Dog crap. A little crap vs. big crap. Well, I guess a little crap on the sidewalk is better than a load of crap, but how about no crap? As I watched someone this week let Muffin crap in front of Micheal's while someone walked by talking about how cute the little guy was. Seriously?

Weight restrictions. I have no problem, NONE WHAT SO EVER (actually that's a lie. I think it's dumb, but whatever) if an apartment or landlord wants to restrict dogs, but it needs to be all dogs. While I understand their intent, restricting certain sized breeds is a misinformed decision. Big dogs might have a bigger bark and might cause more destruction, but I've seen what an out of control rat terrier can do. Great Danes can be awesome apartment dogs and Greyhounds are 45 mph couch potatoes. Let me tell you how ticked (and obviously not over) the fact that BYU housing will allow a couple to cram way too many kids into their 500 sq. foot rabbit hutch, and I couldn't have a dog? Thus forever cementing in my mind BYU as the most anti-infertile place on the planet. Screw that. So we took our money elsewhere and lived in Extended Stay America for almost three months. Maybe not one of my most financially savvy stands, but I got my dog. And have you met Jedi? I'd still let him babysit over most c0-eds.

You thought doggie clothes were next, didn't you? Well, they're not. Even I can find the humor in dressing the little dudes up. I still want the t-shirt for Jedi that reads, "I forgot my pants." Why that is so funny escapes me. It just is.

So there. Now you know. If you're in the market for a pooch I'd prefer you get a real dog, like a German Shepherd or a Boxer, but a teacup is fine too. Mom, I totally think you should go for the German Shepherd.

S.O.S.

dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot

If you are reading this message, I have succeeded. Please send Jamba Juice. New clothes. And a maid.

It is the only source of nourishment my captive is allowing me to enjoy. Scratch that. I did get to eat an entire mashed potato bowl from KFC without regurgitating last week. A few more of those bad boys and I will gain back the nine pounds I have lost. I have been stripped of all my proper fitting clothing. It's too saggy in the butt and thighs, but I can't keep it buttoned the entire day. By mid afternoon they are hanging somewhere around my knees so I change back into my pajama bottoms. My will is weakened. There is crayon on my wall and I didn't even freak. One of these days I'll just watch my husband paint over it. I bought frozen corn dogs. I woke up bright and early Monday morning thinking I'd earned some release with the passing of the first trimester, only to find myself again captive by the bathroom floors and laundry room. I take comfort in knowing that I was right. As I've gotten to know my captive a little better, I realize just how right I was.

My body has been invaded by an alien.

But don't feel too sorry for me. I hold out hope that there's a chance Will Smith will deliver my baby.

Sunday

I'm teaching Relief Society today.

The lesson is on Hope.

I hope the lesson doesn't bite. No really, that was the advice I was given. Granted, it was three o'clock in the morning. If I'm up, why shouldn't He be up? So, I start telling him about my lesson and ask if he has any thoughts. After a long period of silence I shove him a little, "ANY THOUGHTS?"

"I hope it doesn't suck", he mumbles back.

Thanks Dear.

The Infinite Power of Hope

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf

Booyah!

I have good days. And I have bad days.

On my good days, I do other things than blog.

On my bad days, I definitely don't blog.

Today, come hell or high water, I was going to have a good day. Make costumes AND blog about it.

There was a reputation to uphold.

And we did it.

She tied for first for Cutest Costume.

For Real

It's not you. It's me. Your nasty, infected, and draining butt wound has nothing to do with my dry heaving, I swear. I'd be doing this if I was at home watching Gilmore Girls and eating chocolate chip cookies.

"Hi, this is the on-call nurse. Did you call the answering service?"
"Um, yes. My incision is open. Lots more open than yesterday. My sister thinks she can see my guts."
After a series of questions from myself, "You need to go to the emergency room."
"Do I have to?"
Oy.

My day was awesome. How was yours?

Clearing things up.

Do me a favor, would ya?

The next time you hear of a couple that is in the process/or has adopted a baby (or any child) please do not use my family as an example of "this couple I knew that adopted and then she found out she was pregnant." It is a horribly insensitive comment to make and I as well as every other mom I know that has adopted has been on the receiving end of it. Not to mention- with all due respect, you are wrong. Statistically, less than ten percent of adoptive couples ever have bioligical or natural children. Not only that, but think of the connotation that it puts on adoption....

Oh how nice! That will do in the mean time. Till what you really want comes along.

That's just stupid.

Now, you may be a little puzzled as to why I am so flippin irritated by this this morning. I've heard it from waaaay too many people who have found out that I am pregnant. And you wanna know why it pisses me off? Because I have a daughter and she was adopted. She is becoming increasingly aware of what is said around her. I have had to learn to watch my mouth. You should too. You say something that makes her feel like less or not quite enough, and I will rip your arms off and beat you with them.

I did not get pregnant because we finally relaxed. I did not get pregnant because we adopted. We did not adopt until something else came along. You adopt to build a family. There is no doubt in my mind that Scrunch is meant to be part of this family. She, with all her traits (including curls) and special personality, could not have come through any other way but through adoption.

Someone near and dear to me gave the best response to finding out I was pregnant I've had when she said, "I've got so many goosebumps they're fighting for a place to land. Both your babies are miracles."

Thank you. That's exactly what we think.

And for the record, women (who themselves have never adopted) have often commented that adoption is "the easy way". Another not very nice thing to say. Got to tell ya. You're wrong there too. For as sick as I've been, I'd take puking any day of the week over a homestudy.

Oh, how far I have fallen!

Down the blog reader, I mean.

It's been a week since I post last.

I have cut my hair. I spoke in church. I had the flu. I spread the flu around to everyone who had immediate contact with me the preceding 48 hours. I drove to and from Southern California so I could be sufficiently spoiled. I watched my dad bake me bread. I listened to two books.

I haven't blogged about any of it.

And my favorite moment all week?

Sitting on my parent's kitchen floor sipping apple juice when Scrunch climbed in my lap, grabbed my face in both hands, kissed my cheek and then asked, "you happy now?"

Pumpkin Patch

You might have seen a bajillion pictures of all of your friend's, neighbor's, aunt's, hairdresser's, dog groomer's kids at the pumpkin patch- but did they include this awesome poem?

When all the cows were sleeping
And the sun had gone to bed,
Up jumped the pumpkin,
And this is what he said:

I'm a dingle dangle pumpkin
With a flippy floppy hat.
I can shake my stem like this,
And shake my vine like that.
-Author Unknown

We go to the pumpkin patch not for pumpkins, but for the petting zoo. The best part was that she was talking to it like that was his head.

But she caught on quick.

No, really. We go to the pumpkin patch because Mom loves petting zoos.

Well, maybe for a few pumpkins. Who knew two year-olds had such opinions on pumpkin picking?

And to make straw bales. Trust me. It's straw. There was a great debate over straw vs. hay.

They drag each other around like this all the time.

But we all know who she's really smitten with.

Joyce made us do it. That's our story and we're sticking to it.

Remember kids. Joyce made you do it.

I'm not really that tall. And I'm chopping my hair off.

The classic arms-length family photo.

How can I work in a joke about pumpkins as related to melons?...you get the idea.

We'll be back next year. And the year after that. and after that. and after that. Until Scrunch outgrows the goat measuring stick. She can't wait, just look at her.