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.