the day that went off the rails

Joey was scheduled for an appointment at the allergist at 8:45 this morning. He's allergic to eggs and milk, and the only meat he eats is Tyson dino nuggets, and are they really even meat at all? Basically we are raising a tiny vegan. 

Anyway the plan for this appointment was to feed him pudding and see if he reacted, or if he is growing out of his milk allergy. I made the pudding last night, and actually made a second batch for myself because I'm eight months pregnant and it looked delicious. I took the morning off work, and decided that if he passed the test we'd head to Trader Joe's on the way home and buy all kinds of dairy products to celebrate. 

Unfortunately, we never made it to the allergist, because the poor guy woke up with the stomach virus. Matt and I told him he could lay on the couch and watch TV all day, which delighted him. We got him settled on the couch and I turned on his favorite show, Stinky and Dirty. It's a cute show about a trash truck (Stinky) and a digger (Dirty) but here's a word to the wise, if you're going to say "Stinky and Dirty" to your Comcast voice remote, make sure to really enunciate "stinky." Because if the remote hears "Kinky and Dirty" you will get more than you bargained for on the results screen.

Anyway we were about three minutes into the episode when an error message showed up on the screen. Turns out there was a nationwide Comcast internet and tv outage. Now, Matt works for Comcast and I know better than to bite the hand that feeds you and pays the mortgage, but that was not the best timing. 

Joey and I went for a walk to get some fresh air and Matt took advantage of the internet outage and the inability to do his actual work, and he went to go to a plumbing store to try to find a part to fix our dishwasher, which broke last night because of course it did. Luckily by the time we got home from our walk the internet was back on. However, the tv was tuned to the Hallmark channel, which was showing a black and white movie. I told Joey "Look! The tv is fixed!" and he took one look at that black and white movie and said, "No Mommy, TB still broken."

The next few hours are kind of a blur but I'm pretty sure they involved doling out small morsels of club crackers and doing laundry. Joey took a good nap and when he woke up I naively thought we might have been lucky enough to get away with a mild case of the stomach bug. And then between the hours of 3:00 and 6:00 pm I found myself making deals with the Lord. 

Joey's had the standard childhood sicknesses - RSV, croup, lots of colds, a case of hand, foot, and mouth disease unlike anything you've ever seen, and even a surgery.  However, I have met my match with the stomach bug. Yikes. 

He was pretty sad that he couldn't eat any dinner, and I tried to sneak mine discreetly so that he wouldn't feel bad that I was eating and he wasn't. But he totally called me out, and said "You have chicken in your mouth." I admitted that I did, and prepared for him to ask for something to eat too, but all he said was "Don't talk with ya dinna in ya mouth."

I know every parent thinks their kid is the smartest, and I'm not saying he is a genius or anything, but I do wonder at least once a day where he learns this stuff. I've never told him not to talk with his mouth full, and clearly I do not lead by example when it comes to that particular area of etiquette. 

Sometimes I have to blink several times and make sure it's really a tiny two year old in dinosaur pants standing in front of me, and not a middle aged boss man. That little boss was exhausted by bedtime, and after one round of I've Been Working on the Railroad, he practically ushered me out of his room. 

Between the ongoing bathroom renovation project (have I mentioned we are renovating our bathrooms?), the broken dishwasher, and the stomach bug, our house is a complete wreck from top to bottom.

Instead of cleaning it up, I pulled a Scarlett O'Hara and decided "I'll think about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day."

And also like Scarlett, I decided "As God is my witness, I swear I'll never go hungry again" and made myself a bowl of chocolate pudding, since we have 47 servings in the fridge. 

Maybe I can convince Joey to watch Gone With the Wind tomorrow. The broken black and white version, of course. 

our wedding vows should have said "in good times and bathroom renovations"

Well, we are currently in the midst of renovating our bathrooms. File this under, it would have been easier to move.

(Both bathrooms. There used to be a wall in between.)

 

I needed a little reassurance that this too shall pass and that I won't be showering at my mom and dad's house forever, so I dusted off the old blog to read through some posts about previous home renovation projects that we have survived. 

It seems like the general theme surrounding renovations is that they take much longer than originally expected, and are accompanied with a trip to Urgent Care for a tetanus shot, as evidenced by the two passages I wrote below about our kitchen reno.  

----------------------------------------------------

Here I am again to talk about my kitchen.  I apologize in advance if you're as sorry about reading kitchen posts as I am writing them.  When we started the kitchen renovation it was Labor Day, and we said we'd probably be finished by Thanksgiving, but FOR SURE by Christmas.

Well those same fools are now well past Easter and just hoping things wrap up by Memorial Day.  

Matt and I were discussing the ideal vs the actual timeline the other day, and he said, "Well, there were just a few aspects that I didn't expect."

"Like what?" I asked.

"For starters, I didn't expect Christmas to come so quickly."

And this one...

Well, the kitchen is finished. After 8 months. 35 weekends. Hundreds of trips to Lowe's. And 1 trip to Urgent Care for a tetanus shot.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We have two full bathrooms and one half bathroom in our house. We renovated the half bath during the Covid lockdown last year, but have totally ignored the other two bathrooms since we moved in six years ago because they've been holding strong since Eisenhower was president. They've seen 13 total presidential administrations and if it's not broke, don't fix it.  

Although some (namely Matt) would argue they were broke. For instance, the master shower door stopped closing two presidents ago and since then I just fashion a makeshift clamp with a wet washcloth to keep it mostly shut while I shower. 

Matt's been talking about renovating the bathrooms for a while now, but I was reluctant to give my stamp of approval because all I saw was dollar signs and a big headache. Turns out I was pretty spot on. But what sealed the deal for us to do them now was the fact that Oh Baby Darling #2 is coming in January, and we figured it was better to go through a major bathroom renovation project with one child still in diapers, as opposed to a potty-training/ed toddler and a new baby. 

All that to say, Matt promised me that one of the bathrooms would be fully operational at all times, and that he'd take a week of PTO and could easily knock out the hall bathroom in that time. 

I'm here to tell you that we are two weeks into this saga and I just repacked my shower bag to schlep to my parents' house for the 14th time. Reminds me of the old days of 2006 in Mifflin Hall when I'd squeak down the hall in my shower shoes with my caddy stocked with more Garnier Fructis products than you can imagine. But instead of getting dressed in my finest outfit from Forever 21 to go drink jungle juice from a questionable Rubbermaid container afterwards, I now come home in my stretchiest maternity pajamas for a wild evening of trying to heat up a dino nugget without setting off the smoke detector and convincing Joey to eat half a molecule of a vegetable.

Also, the promise of maintaining one fully operational bathroom went out the window sometime between 9:00 a.m. last Monday and noon, which is when I looked out the window to see the master bathroom toilet in the dumpster. 

I got home with Joey and he saw the old bathtub in the driveway. "HEY!" he yelled, "Daddy moved my tub!"

Last Friday evening, I'd just gotten out of the shower (have I mentioned yet I've been showering at my parents house?) and I had a text from Matt that said "drill through the finger," accompanied by a photo of said finger. I rushed downstairs and my mom said Joey could stay at their house while I went home to assess the injury. 

What I saw when I got home was a finger that, well, looked like a drill went into it. I said to Matt, "Well, obviously you need to go to Urgent Care." He didn't even try to fight it and say he'd be fine. He just said, "I guess I'll go get my wallet."

I drove us over there and waited in the car while he ran in, because did you read the part about me wearing my stretchiest maternity pajama pants? It ended up taking TWO HOURS and he got a tetanus shot, a prescription for an antibiotic, and a bandage. 

As we drove home he said "It seems like every time I attempt a major project, I get an injury. Changing the brakes in my truck? Sliced my wrist (that particular injury required surgery).  Kitchen? Nail gun to the leg. Bathroom? Drill to the finger."

He's had more tetanus shots than anyone I know. 

Our neighbor stopped over this morning while Matt was starting day four of tile that he originally thought would take one day. Our neighbor said, "So what's exactly been the slow part? All of it?"

That would be a yes.

And don't get me wrong, Matt is working so hard. He did all the demo by himself and the trash weighed 4220 pounds, and I can't even take credit for one ounce of it. Although I will think twice the next time I complain about taking the trash from the kitchen to the outside trashcan because SMALL POTATOES. And he's been working from 7:30 in the morning until 6:00 at night, barely stopping for lunch. But it's just really easy to watch a few episodes of This Old House and say "Oh I'll be able to knock the tile out in one day, two days tops" and not as easy when you're actually doing it.   

I'm trying not to think about the fact that the master bathroom is still completely gutted, the house is filthy and dusty from construction, Christmas is in less than two months, and I'm eight months pregnant and this is what the nursery looks like. 

Instead I'm trying to focus on the fact that these are the last two rooms in our house that had yet to be remodeled since we moved in. So, assuming we survive this, we have no more major projects ahead of us. 

Today Matt finished tiling the shower, and grouted most of it. I was so excited that I went to the store and bought a shower curtain rod and a shower curtain, and was just about to unearth my shampoo when I googled how long it takes grout to cure. 

At this rate, we might be on to our next president before this is finished. 

more words than i ever thought i'd write about fish

Hello. It's Monday, and my hip hurts. I wish I could say it's from all the workouts I've been doing, but the truth is, I think it's because I hopped a little too enthusiastically when Joey and I were listening to the party freeze dance song for the 478th time this past week. 

I did get one workout in last week. Well, it wasn't so much a workout as it was a leisurely walk around the neighborhood because the temp hit 48 degrees for one glorious day, and it felt positively tropical. I wore leggings and my snow boots, since the sidewalks were slushy, and while we were walking Matt said to me, "Well, you are just the epitome of fashion."

Except he pronounced epitome as if it rhymed with metronome. But still, I appreciated the sentiment. 

Aside from our walk, the other big excitement from last week was that we got new fish, and by some miracle of nature and a bottle of Tetra Safe Start, they're still alive five days later. This was our third attempt at buying fish, from the same store, and the same employee helped us who had helped us a few days before. Matt asked her a question, and she said, "Remind me what kind of fish you already have?"

And Matt said, "Oh, we don't have any fish."

MAYDAY, MAYDAY. SHE REMEMBERED US.

She looked at him with the most quizzical look, but thank goodness she didn't look us and our terrible track record up in the system. We ended up with three tetras and three guppies. Did you know that guppies can give birth every thirty days, and have TWENTY TO FIFTY baby guppies each time?  We sure didn't.

Once the fish lived for a few days and we were pretty confident that the water conditions were finally optimal, we headed back to Petsmart to get just a few more because we are gluttons for punishment. Also because that twenty gallon fish tank Matt bought when he was overly optimistic about fishkeeping was looking pretty empty with six tiny fish. 

While Matt waited at the fish bowl, Joey and I walked around to see the animals. We have worn out the tile in Petsmart this pandemic, making at least two or three trips a month since about May. It's the perfect place to go, because it's never very crowded, Joey basically thinks he is at the zoo, and I'm not tempted to spend any money. 

So the two of us made our usual route from the cats, to the doggy daycare, wound around to the birds, and finished up with the hamsters. By the time we got back to the fish tanks, Matt was watching as tiger barbs were put into a bag for us, "because Joe likes tigers."  I know a thing or two about fish, and one of the things I know is that tiger barbs fall into the semi-aggressive category. The employee told us they'd for sure go after our prolific guppies, so she dumped them back in their tank and suggested another variety of tiny little fish. 

We got six of the kind she suggested, and as of this writing, we can only find three. We know that one got sucked into the filter, but the other two have disappeared. We can't find them anywhere. We are hoping the tetras ate them, which is a weird thing to say, but better than the alternative, which is that they are lost somewhere on my brand new carpets.

Matt told me the news of the lost fish this morning over breakfast, and we both agreed that we are DONE getting fish. This aquarium is closed, which the exception of the incalculable number of baby guppies headed our way. 

And speaking of our new carpets, after breakfast Matt and Joey went downstairs to play, and I followed a few minutes later. When I got into the family room, I noticed what looked like vacuum lines on the carpet. "Wow, did you vacuum?" I asked Matt. "Thanks!"

"No," he said, "I just dragged my feet back and forth on the whole carpet so that it looked like I vacuumed."

He was not kidding. He even demonstrated his method for me. 

"What on earth would make you think to do that?" I asked him.

"Well I was sitting here with Joe and realized the carpet is still new enough that it works. It's like our couch. Don't you remember when we first got it, and the material (it's a suede type material) was so new and I wrote 'boob' on the side with my finger?"

I know this will shock you, but I don't have any recollection of Matt writing boob on the side of our couch. I just hope my in-laws didn't see it. 

That is really the height of class and sophistication. 

Or should I say, the epitome.

animal house

Well, the last post around here was about Joey being born. We just sent him off to college this weekend, so time sure flies.

Just kidding. But he does turn 18 months old in a few days which means he's no longer my sweet little tiny baby, but instead a toddler who never stops moving and is obsessed with baked beans, his train set, and his grandparents.

My mom says Matt and I have a crush on him, and we totally do. She also says that one of these days the crush will end, but it hasn't so far. Although tonight he told me to "SHH" when I started to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, so that day might be coming sooner rather than later.

Anyway, since my last post was about Joey's arrival, I thought it was only fitting for my return post to be about the newest addition to our little family.

Or, should I say additions.

Let me explain. 

A few weeks ago, Joey spent the day at my parents' house because we were getting new carpeting, and he  took quite a liking to my dad's beta fish. I mentioned this to Matt, and we talked about the fish for a day or two, and then that was the end of it. 

Or so I thought. Until the Fed Ex truck stopped last week and dropped a twenty gallon fish tank on our doorstep. 

I didn't know the theme of our week was about to be, go big or go to Petsmart. 

Repeatedly.

Matt excitedly brought the tank inside and told me had the perfect spot for it, on the low console table underneath our television.  It was almost like for a moment he forgot that we live with a very curious and determined toddler, who would only need about 3 seconds to throw a toy into the tank and/or splash fish water all over our aforementioned brand new carpet. 

So Matt carried the tank up to the upstairs bedroom that he is using as a makeshift pandemic office. He filled the tank with water, and after we picked Joey up from daycare, we took a trip to Petsmart to buy our new family members. We chose eight fish and some fancy tank decor, including bright blue stone, some plants, and a very realistic sunken ship to make the fish feel right at home. 

Now, I don't necessarily have a background in marine biology. In fact, I have degree in what my dad calls the very lucrative field of English. But I told Matt he needed to float the fish bag on top of the tank and let them acclimate slowly to the water. Matt doesn't have a background in marine biology either, but he used his computer forensics degree to determine my advice was fake news, and dumped the fish right on in. 

We went downstairs and then checked on them before bed. Joey excitedly ran right over to the tank to watch them swim around. Just kidding. He gave the tank half a glance, and then handed Matt the laser level so Matt could shine the laser pointer on the rug and Joey could crawl around chasing it and roar like a dinosaur. Listen. When you have a toddler during a long winter and a global pandemic, you get pretty creative with your pastimes. And that happens to be one of our favorites.

But I looked at the tank while the boys played with the laser and growled, and everything appeared to be going swimmingly. Sadly things changed overnight, because Matt took Joey upstairs to feed the fish the next morning, and walked back downstairs and said, "Well, they're all dead."

HATE TO SAY I TOLD YOU SO. 

That afternoon, we made the drive of shame back to Petsmart. We decided that if the same employee was working at the fish tanks, we would just breeze right back out the door and try again another day. But as luck would (or wouldn't) have it, it was a different employee. We got four fish, and when we paid, the cashier asked me if I would like a bag.  "No thanks," I told her, "this one will be fine."

Spoiler alert. It was not fine.

Hindsight is a plastic shopping bag. 

We headed back home and I held the fish on my lap.  I even took their photo as we drove, those little fish were safe with me!

We pulled into the driveway, and Matt got Joey out of his car seat. I stood on the driveway with my fish bag, looking at the snow that had fallen the day before and thinking about how I heard someone say that it was so cold outside the snow was actually squeaky. I thought about other words I would use to describe freezing cold snow, and it was at that moment my English major heart betrayed my marine biology one, because I heard a splash at my feet. I HAD DROPPED THE BAG OF FISH. 

Matt immediately jumped into action, which was good because I was kind of shocked and thinking about words I would use to describe cold snow. We managed to scrape three of the poor fish off of the driveway with my Giant keychain bonus card and get them back into the bag, which had popped but had a little water left in it. We couldn't find the fourth fish, and at the moment Matt said, "If he fell into the snow, we are losing time to save him," we saw him under the bottom of my boot.

Well, we saw half of him. 

I ran inside (kicked my fish boots off at the door) and dumped the three survivors into a Ziploc bag. Matt took my advice that time, and floated the bag in the tank. We gradually added fish tank water to their bag. We checked the temperature. We sang them lullabies, said a prayer to St. Francis, and went to bed.

Matt headed back up first thing in the morning to check on them. And then came back down with the news, "All three, dead."

Matt immediately ordered a water testing kit from Amazon, because surely the fact that we are amateur fish owners who DROPPED THE FISH ON A FREEZING COLD DRIVEWAY had nothing to do with their demise. When it arrived this weekend he headed up to the tank to test our water. He came back downstairs and said matter of factly, "Well, we have extremely hard water. The fish need it to be 60, and ours measured 180. I think we need to get a whole house water softener. And it just makes sense to replace the water heater at the same time."

That $8.00 water testing kit just cost us just north of two grand. 

We should have just gotten a dog, it would have been a fraction of the cost. 

My brother, who has had several successful aquariums in his day, suggested that we get a bacteria starter to put in the tank for several days before we add any more fish. So back to Petsmart we went, yet again, to get the bottle of bacteria. I don't know why we had to pay ten dollars for bacteria when I'm pretty sure I could have opened the fridge and found some moldy produce that I bought weeks ago with the best of intentions. But instead we shelled over our cold hard cash and came home and dumped some in. 

We figured that had to do the trick. Sadly, when Matt headed upstairs to his office to work this morning, I heard him say, "Oh man, what happened to my fish tank?"

It was so cloudy, it looked like someone had poured a gallon of milk in it. I decided to just hope things worked themselves out, and walked into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, where I saw this on the counter. "What's on the blue plate?" I asked Matt. 

"Oh that?" he said, "it's just a sugar cake that I'm making for my bees. I think they're about to run out of honey and this will give them the carbs they need to make it through the winter. I have to keep adding layers every few hours so don't touch it."

Did I mention we have also gotten a bee hive?

And people say kids are high maintenance. 

oh baby darling

Well, I'm back and I have a baby.

Joseph Matthew was born on August 21st at 11:23 pm.  He was 6 pounds, 14 ounces, 19 1/2 inches long, and absolutely perfect.

Having a baby is funny because the moment the baby is born and they put him in your arms, the nurses start asking you all kinds of questions about him as if you should know the answers.    At one point I actually thought to myself, "it really seems like they should be asking his mom these questions" and then it dawned on me that I AM THE MOM.

It was a strange feeling because part of me felt like I had no idea what I was doing, and part of me felt like I had known him forever. 

Speaking of strange, babies have a strange life.  Joey had a doctor's appointment last Monday, and he was asleep when we left our house.  He didn't wake up until we got to the office, and when he did, he screamed his head off.  Could you even imagine going to sleep in your house, fully clothed, and waking up completely naked on the scale in your doctor's office? I would cry too.

Joey's birth was fairly uneventful by textbook standards, but as far as my standards, it was arguably the biggest event of my life.

I was due on Saturday, August 17th. 

Saturday came and went.  No baby. 

Sunday came and went.  No baby. 

You know how people say there are things they want to ask God when they die?  The first question on my list would be why did you make pregnancy 40 weeks instead of 38?  The very beginning was tough for me, but weeks 14 to 38 were a total breeze (and for that I am SO thankful).  However.  Weeks 38 to 40 were the absolute longest of my life.

(In case you're curious, the second question I would ask is can you please point me towards the scientist who invented the epidural? I would like to thank them.)

Anyway, Monday came around and I had a doctor's appointment at 4 pm.  The doctor basically said take your time packing that bag and scheduled an induction for 8 DAYS LATER.

But, when I was getting ready for bed that night, I noticed my back hurt worse than normal.  I didn't think much of it until I noticed that the pain was coming and going, and it was pretty bad.  I expected labor pain to be in my stomach area since that's where the baby was located.  Up until that moment I was blissfully unaware of the torture that is back labor.

I tried to sleep Monday night but wasn't very successful.  After tossing and turning all night, I finally got up at 4 am and laid on the couch.  Matt also got up, put on his new shirt that he had been saving for delivery day, called out of work, packed his bag, and made a big batch of french toast.  All before the sun rose.

I called the on call doctor, but since the contractions weren't yet 4 minutes apart, the doctor said  I couldn't come to the hospital.  Monday was brutal.  Monday night was even worse and Tuesday was worse yet.  I felt like I was going out of my mind.  I couldn't sleep.  I couldn't stay still.  I could hardly eat.  Tuesday night I was in absolute agony, so I called my doctor's office when they opened at 9 am Wednesday morning.  I asked to speak to a nurse and I think she heard the tears and desperation in my voice because she said in a calming, soothing voice, "Why don't you head on over to triage?"

We were on our way within ten minutes.  All along my plan had been to vacuum the house right before we left for the hospital, because everyone knows newborns care deeply about clean carpets, but my beloved Dyson didn't even enter my mind at that point.

We got to triage and it just so happened my favorite doctor was on call.  He examined me and made me walk the halls for an hour and when he finally said he was going to admit me, I shed a few tears of sheer relief.

We got all set up in the delivery room and I got an epidural toot suite because I was not trying to be a hero.  Our nurse was named Octavia and I LOVED her.  She asked me if I was hungry and I said yes, because all I'd had to eat in the last 24 hours was a piece of toast and a turkey corn dog, and oh yeah, about one hour of sleep. 

Well, according to Octavia those aren't prime conditions under which to deliver a baby, so she brought me a tray filled to the brim with jello, water ice, and chicken broth and told me to EAT UP AND TAKE A NAP.

Once I got the epidural, I felt exactly NOTHING.  It was glorious.  Matt went to the pizza place down the road and brought back dinner for himself, and I sipped my broth and we watched the Phillies game and took some cat naps.  It was actually kind of fun and relaxing.  Until I remembered "Oh yea, I actually have to deliver a baby at some point."

I won't get into the nitty gritty details, but once they broke my water, things started moving quickly. 

I had given Matt strict instructions before we arrived at the hospital that I wanted him to stay well north of the border, if you know what I mean.  Well, Octavia really threw a wrench into my plans when she said, "Okay Dad, come on down here and hold Mom's leg." 

Octavia! Couldn't you station him well north of that area and have him focus on something totally nondescript like my ear or my elbow?

I will never forget the look on Matt's face as his eyes darted between me and Octavia.  Who was he supposed to listen to?!  In the end he followed Octavia's directions, and that was probably good because, as he said, "Octavia and I basically delivered that baby ourselves."

He's not kidding.  Despite running on just a corn dog and some jello, I only pushed for twelve minutes and my doctor didn't even make it to the room for the delivery.  An OB resident whose name I don't even know technically delivered Joseph.  At least that's what they told me.  Part of me thinks they just said on the intercom "Anyone with an M.D. please come to labor and delivery STAT."  It could have been a podiatrist for all I knew and I'll tell you what, at that point, I did not care.

The resident was also about 25 years old which felt slightly weird to me.  There are two professions where I want the people to be well into their 40s, and preferably in their 50s.  And those professions are my OB/GYN and airline pilots.

Anyway after twelve minutes, thanks to a young podiatrist, a corn dog, and an oxygen mask, Joseph was born.

One minute he wasn't there, and the next moment, there he was.  The little baby that I dreamed about for the last nine months and in many ways my entire life, and suddenly he was laying on my chest,  looking up at me with his big, dark eyes.

It probably sounds cheesy but I loved him the minute I saw him and I love him more every day.  I am so excited to get up every morning and take care of him.

Matt was home for two weeks after Joseph was born, and I don't know what I would have done without him.  He made sure I ate three meals a day for two weeks.  He would take my breakfast order every night and when I woke up in the morning, he would have cooked whatever I asked for.  He changed more diapers than I did.  We spent hours just staring at Joey and talking about him nonstop.  I didn't know you could spend your entire day talking about a baby who pretty much sleeps, but we did. At night we would sit on the couch and watch The Office and pass Joey back and forth, back and forth.  It was like a little dream world. 

And then Matt had to go back to work.

We had a few rocky days to start as we figured things out.  One day I sat on the couch and pretty much one or both of us cried.  I had to call my mom with an SOS and she came to save the day and hold a crying baby so I could shower.  

But now, almost two months in, we have totally gotten into our groove.  I know what Joey likes and doesn't like and he has started smiling and engaging and I just talk to him all day long.  It's a great setup because I love to hear myself talk and he is a captive audience.

The three of us have lots of adventures ahead.  And if the future is anything like the last 8 weeks, it's going to be pretty great.

if you come over for dinner, i promise not to serve broccoli normandy

When I was in seventh grade, my class went on a field trip.  On the ride back to school, the boys in the back of the bus got a hold of the first aid kit and blew up the rubber gloves like balloons.

When our teacher discovered the glove balloons, she taped them to the chalkboard and told us we all had to stay at school until the offenders came clean.  My classmates didn't seem concerned about the prospect of staying past dismissal, but I was not happy because I was lieutenant of the safety patrol, and the rest of the school relied on me and my neon orange safety belt and official lieutenant badge to make it through dismissal.

Fun fact, lieutenant of the safety patrol was the one and only position I've ever run for in my whole life.  

That's right.  I ran and was elected to be lieutenant of the St. David School safety patrol.  Make no mistake, I didn't run for captain.  Too much responsibility.  Put me second in command and I'm a happy girl.

Anyway, it didn't take long until the culprits came clean and admitted to their role in blowing up the rubber gloves.

I tell that story because I got home from work today, sat down, and could not believe my eyes when I saw the situation south of my knees.

Yikes.

My feet looked just like those rubber glove balloons.  Round and puffy with my poor vienna sausage toes sticking off the end.  I've never had well defined calves, but everything from my knee to my toes had the same circumference, and the spot where my ankles used to be was replaced with rolls.  My feet even jiggled when I walked. 

There are a lot of perks to having a best friend experience pregnancy at the same time as you, so I texted Michelle to tell her about my feet because I knew she could empathize.  "Send me a pic!" she said.  Michelle is a nurse so I figured she would tell me if the situation appeared medically alarming, so I put my pride aside and sent her a photo.  She texted back that Jessica Simpson had the worst swollen pregnant feet ever.  

I went about my lounging and my phone rang about an hour later.  It was Michelle. "No seriously, how bad are your feet really?" she said. 

"You saw the pic!" I told her.  "

WAIT, THOSE WERE YOUR FEET?" she said.

She thought I had googled a photo of Jessica Simpson's feet and sent that.

Oh no.  Nope.  Sad to say I'm the proud owner of those giant Flintstone feet.

And that's why for the last three hours I've been sitting in the recliner with two bags of frozen broccoli normandy on my feet.

Well, that's not completely true.  I did get up once to go upstairs and when I got there, I launched into a diatribe for poor, unsuspecting Matt about how unfair it is that the electrical outlet on my side of the bed has all of the community items, like the lamp and the sleep number bed and the fan and IT IS SO UNFAIR THAT I HAVE TO UNPLUG SOMETHING IF I WANT TO CHARGE MY PHONE AND WHY AM I IN CHARGE OF ALL THE COMMUNITY ITEMS ON MY SIDE WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING ON YOUR SIDE BUT YOUR PHONE CHARGER?

I'm going to blame the state of my feet and the electrical outlet outburst on the 90 degree weather and the end of a very long week.  I'm so glad that tomorrow is Friday.  We don't have any big plans for the weekend, but I think I may go buy an extension cord.  

And ice packs.

And some new frozen vegetables.

so sunday wasn't our best day

People have asked me if I've had any pregnancy cravings yet, and I don't really think I have, but I have been an exceptionally big fan of fruit.  Grapes, cherries, apples, and strawberries have been my staples, but I got a watermelon at the store on Sunday afternoon and by last night I had eaten THE ENTIRE WATERMELON. 

All by myself. 

In three days.

In addition to the watermelon, I also got green bell peppers and white nectarines at the store.  When I got to the register, the cashier was a teenage boy, probably about 16 or so.  He picked up the nectarines and punched in the number on the sticker.  Then he did a double take at the bag filled with red fruit.  "Are these really white nectarines?" he asked.  "Yep, they are," I said.

"Weird," he shrugged, "they sure don't look white to me."

I explained that the fruit inside is white, hence the name, and  I thought about how proud Matt would be because he comes from a long line of men in the produce business.  I am not joking. His grandfather made a career of owning his very own produce business, and when he retired Matt's dad ran the business for many years. 

While Matt doesn't work in the produce world himself, he carries on the family tradition by intensely analyzing every fruit and vegetable we buy.  When we go food shopping together I immediately hightail it straight to dairy so I am not seen with him as he heartily slaps and smacks the melons and sniffs all of the pineapples until he is on the verge of passing out.

Anyway, back to the cashier.  He said, "Okay, I trust you."  (As if I would try to commit some sort of tricky nectarine switcharoo).   "You know, I don't really know much about produce.  I don't eat many fruits and vegetables, and my mom does our food shopping."

And then he keyed in the green bell peppers, and looked at me and said with all the seriousness in the world, "What do you think would happen if you got a job naming produce, but you were color blind?"

Listen, I did my very best to keep a straight, serious face, but I'm not sure how successful I was.  I managed to tell him I didn't know if that would be a very good job for someone who is colorblind, and he agreed.

It reminded me of the time I was in high school, and I asked my family what would happen if an all  boys school decided to perform Annie as their annual musical.   That was at LEAST 16 years ago and I have yet to live it down. 

Later Sunday evening Matt and I were sitting on the patio.  A big storm passed through, but as the skies cleared, I heard the owls hooting with enthusiasm.

"Wow," I said to Matt, "that storm really brought out the owls."

"What?" he said.

"The owls! Don't you hear them all woo woo-ing?"

"Well I hear that sound," he said, "but those are mourning doves."

Well.  I have been living an ornithological lie for 30 years.  I pulled up a YouTube video hanging onto a sliver of hope that a video of a mourning dove would prove Matt wrong, but it didn't.

After my world was turned upside down, we went inside for some ice cream. 

"Wait until you see what kind of concoction I make tonight," Matt said, and then proudly announced  "I'm making a neopolitan!"

"But we don't have strawberry ice cream," I said.

"So? My neopolitan is going to be chocolate chip cookie dough, peanut butter cup, and vanilla."

And it was then that Matt learned he too had been living a lie for 30 years, except his was in the dairy department. He thought neopolitan just meant three flavors of ice cream in one bowl.  Any three.

I wished we could have invited the grocery store cashier over for a neopolitan and some nectarines.  I guarantee the three of us could have solved some major world problems. 

Or maybe not.

But I do guarantee Matt would have picked the three best nectarines in the produce section.

anyone want a free chicken?

Well it's the second time in two weeks that I'm writing a post that centers around the bathroom habits of animals.  Rest assured that no one is more disturbed by this turn of events than I am.  First it was Pearl, and now, chickens.

Let me back up.  A few weeks ago, we got four new baby chicks.  They were a day old when we got them and as adorable and tiny and cuddly as anything can possibly be.  We played with them for a while, and then got them all settled into their luxury living quarters, aka a big Rubbermaid container in our garage.  We plugged in their heat lamp to keep them at a balmy 95 degrees, and shut the door.  

 I had off the next day so I stayed up a little bit later than usual, and before I headed up to bed at about 11:30, I peeked into the garage to check on the chicks, only to see that their heat lamp had burned out and they were all piled on top of one another, shivering their little tail feathers off.  

Naturally, I did what any farmer does in this situation.  I went upstairs and woke Matt up, and he drove his F-150 to the 24 hour Walmart just like our forefathers.

In the meantime, I brought the Rubbermaid into the family room.  I parked it next to a space heater and filled a container with hot water so they could gather around it.  

While the chicks and I had our midnight bonding time, I decided to name them Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy after the Little Women, four of my other favorite chicks.

Eventually Matt came home with a new heat lamp and we turned their Rubbermaid into a sauna once again, but we did decide to leave them in the family room because it's still cold at night here and the garage gets very chilly.  

And now two weeks later, the chickens still live in our family room.  They are entertaining to watch, and are living up to their names.  Meg is firm but calm.  Jo is wild and slightly aggressive.  Beth hangs back and observes.  Amy likes to be the center of attention and I even caught her the other night sleeping with a clothespin on her beak to make it extra pointy.

Just kidding about that last part.

Anyway, I left the house around 8:30 yesterday for some meetings.  I got home at about 2:30, and went straight upstairs to my office to finish a few things.  I shut 'er down around 4:30, and headed outside to bring in the trashcans since it was trash day.  I went downstairs so I could go out through the garage door, and it was the first time I'd gone downstairs, and therefore the first time I'd seen the chicks, all day.

And do you know what greeted me when I walked down the steps?

A sight I won't soon forget.

Jo was sitting OUTSIDE OF THE CONTAINER.  And there was chicken poop ALL OVER THE RUG.

That's a guilty looking chicken if I ever saw one.

You can see that we did have chicken wire over the top of the container, but Jo had managed to make her great escape and left of her day of adventure all over our family room rug.  

TYPICAL JO.

Do you know how many times baby chicks poop every day?  I can tell you, it's A LOT.  

I wanted to cry.  And I'll be honest, for a few seconds I actually thought about turning around and going upstairs and pretending like I didn't see a thing, and let Farmer Matt discover the situation for himself when he got home. 

But I ended up putting Jo back in the box, and then I sprayed the whole carpet with a liberal dose of carpet cleaner, donned some gloves, and scrubbed my heart and my frustrations out.

I got it cleaned up, but I have the day off tomorrow so I am going to do another round of scrubbing just for peace of mind.  

I'm trying to find the silver lining here, and I will say that after a long winter of mud and snow and a house renovation, the rug needed a deep cleaning anyway.  

And I need chocolate.

obviously matt's going to be the parent who helps with the science homework

Well here I am to write about something that happened two weeks ago.  But if feels like a big deal and in 15 years I might want to look back and remember that day.  This blog has come in handy for historical documentation so many times.  Just this week Matt pondered how old our chickens were when we put them outside in the coop a few years ago and in just an instant I was able to pull up the blog post I wrote about it and tell him the date.

So anyway, way back on March 29th, we had my anatomy ultrasound.  

The ultrasound wasn't until 3:15, but Matt and I both took the entire day off work, and were still up at the crack of dawn because BIG DAY.  Matt spread lawn food on the grass, I cleaned the bathrooms, we went to the courthouse so Matt could pick up a permit, we went to the furniture store to pick up our new dining table set, and we went to Ollie's to buy a rug.  All before lunchtime.  After lunch we just aimlessly wandered around the house and the yard and killed time until the clock fiiiiiiiinally struck 2:40 and we headed for the hospital.  

The ultrasound took about 45 minutes and the baby looked perfect, coming in at about 10 ounces and 10 inches.  

A perfect 10.  

During the ultrasound, the tech asked if we had any questions and here is where Matt and  I differ.  He asked if the scientific purpose of the gel was to assist with the transmission of the ultrasound waves.

I asked if the umbilical cord connected the baby's belly button to my belly button.  

Actually I waited until the tech left the room for a minute to show the doctor the ultrasound results, and I just floated that question out to Matt and THANK GOODNESS I WAITED UNTIL WE WERE ALONE.  He said, "Well that is an absolutely ridiculous question."

Also, the answer to it is NO.

The tech came back in, told us the doctor said the baby looks perfect, and we asked her if she could tell us the gender.  Based on my question above, it should come as no surprise to you that I have always assumed that I will have a baby girl, because I am a girl.  I understand that biologically if that were true, the human race wouldn't be long for this world.  But in my head, I always figured, I'm a girl, I'll have a girl.

So imagine my surprise when the tech moved the wand around a little bit, studied the screen, and said, "It looks like you're having a boy!"  

A baby boy.  

We are thrilled.  We told our families and then went out to dinner to celebrate.  We also took our first family selfie.

While we were at dinner we talked all about HIM and what our life will look like with a son.  We really have zero idea what we're in for but Matt has three brothers and proclaimed confidently that he knows EVERY SINGLE THING there is to know about raising boys.  I'm writing that statement down to memorialize it so that I can pull up this blog post when that boy is inconsolable at 4 a.m. or drives the car into the side of the garage or fails music listening class in college, not that either of his parents have ever done those things.

We finished up the baby registry this week, so that was fun.  I gave it a final once over this morning and look what I found.  

Looks like Matt had been adding some things of his own.

I know he already knows everything about raising boys, but I hope he knows that he won't be able to use that for about 17 years.

show us your books: april edition

Well just like that it's time again for Show Us Your Books with Steph and Jana.  I have four to share this month!

First up is Go Ask Ali by Ali Wentworth.  

At once endearing and hilarious, thoughtful and far-fetched, this third collection offers Ali at her wisest and wittiest as she delivers tips, pointers, and quips on a host of life’s conundrums and sticky situations, including the funny, sometimes embarrassing yet unforgettable situations that have shaped her inimitable world view as a wife, mother, actress, comedian, and all around bon vivant. Thoroughly entertaining, Go Ask Ali is packed with thoughts and musings from "the girlfriend you want to have a glass of wine with, the one who makes you laugh because she sees the funny and the absurd in everything"

I read Ali Wentorth's book Happily Ali After last year, and I HOWLED with laughter.  This one was fine, but wasn't nearly as laugh out loud funny.  She does have a funny take on things, which I love.  Ali Wentworth is married to George Stephanopoulos and whether or not you agree with his political opinions, he sounds like a great husband.  A lot of comedians use their marriage and their spouse as the butt of mean-spirited jokes which I think is a real bummer. Even when Ali is writing funny stories about her husband or her marriage, it's good-natured and respectful, and I really enjoyed that.  And that's not fake news.

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Next up, One Day In December.

Laurie is pretty sure love at first sight doesn't exist anywhere but the movies. But then, through a misted-up bus window one snowy December day, she sees a man who she knows instantly is the one. Their eyes meet, there's a moment of pure magic...and then her bus drives away.

Certain they're fated to find each other again, Laurie spends a year scanning every bus stop and cafe in London for him. But she doesn't find him, not when it matters anyway. Instead they "reunite" at a Christmas party, when her best friend Sarah giddily introduces her new boyfriend to Laurie. It's Jack, the man from the bus. It would be.

What follows for Laurie, Sarah and Jack is ten years of friendship, heartbreak, missed opportunities, roads not taken, and destinies reconsidered. One Day in December is a joyous, heartwarming and immensely moving love story to escape into and a reminder that fate takes inexplicable turns along the route to happiness.

I have been on the library waiting list for so long that I'd forgotten I even requested this book until I got the text message that it was ready for pick-up.  I started one night after dinner and before I knew it I was up way past my bedtime weighing the pros and cons of staying up until I finished the entire thing.  I ended up reading it over the course of a few days, but I was constantly looking for ten minutes here or there where I could get a chapter or two in.  I got totally sucked into the story from the very beginning, and I really liked the characters.  I didn't always agree with the decisions that they made, and it sure made me glad my love life was never even close to being this complicated, but I'd recommend it for sure.

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The third book of the month was Upstairs at the White House: My Life with the First Ladies.

J. B. West, chief usher of the White House, directed the operations and maintenance of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—and coordinated its daily life—at the request of the president and his family. He directed state functions; planned parties, weddings and funerals, gardens and playgrounds, and extensive renovations; and, with a large staff, supervised every activity in the presidential home. For twenty-eight years, first as assistant to the chief usher, then as chief usher, he witnessed national crises and triumphs, and interacted daily with six consecutive presidents and first ladies, as well as their parents, children and grandchildren, and houseguests—including friends, relatives, and heads of state.

 

This was my favorite book this month.  Sarah recommended it years ago and I've been waiting and waiting for my library system to get it and they finally did.  It's written by the man who was chief usher at the White House from 1941 to 1969. I LOVED it. He writes about the first ladies, and shares little stories about them, their quirks, personalities, and their interactions with staff and the presidents.  He goes into detail about preparing for state dinners, and changing the White House over when administrations changed, about hosting guests in the residence and the first ladies' favorite hobbies and foods, and their involvement in the daily workings of the White House and the presidency. It was fascinating. It wasn't at all political, as the author said, he didn't respect one person or party more than another, he respected the office of the President of the United States. I feel like an insider now on the inner workings of the White House. Highly recommend this one!

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The final book I read was The Elephant in the Room,

The government definition of obesity is a body mass index of 30 or more. My BMI is 60.7. My shirts are size XXXXXXL, which the big-and-tall stores shorten to 6X. I’m 6-foot-1, or 73 inches tall. My waist is 60 inches around. I’m nearly a sphere.

Those are the numbers. This is how it feels…

So begins The Elephant in the Room, Tommy Tomlinson’s remarkably intimate and insightful memoir of his life as a fat man. When he was almost fifty years old, Tomlinson weighed an astonishing—and dangerous—460 pounds, at risk for heart disease, diabetes, and stroke, unable to climb a flight of stairs without having to catch his breath, or travel on an airplane without buying two seats. Raised in a family that loved food, he had been aware of the problem for years, seeing doctors and trying diets from the time he was a preteen. But nothing worked, and every time he tried to make a change, it didn’t go the way he planned—in fact, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to change.

In The Elephant in the Room, Tomlinson chronicles his lifelong battle with weight in a voice that combines the urgency of Roxane Gay’s Hunger with the intimacy of Rick Bragg’s All Over but the Shoutin’. He also hits the road to meet other members of the plus-sized tribe in an attempt to understand how, as a nation, we got to this point. From buying a FitBit and setting exercise goals to contemplating the Heart Attack Grill in Las Vegas, America’s “capital of food porn,” and modifying his own diet, Tomlinson brings us along on a candid and sometimes brutal look at the everyday experience of being constantly aware of your size. Over the course of the book, he confronts these issues head-on and chronicles the practical steps he has to take—big and small—to lose weight by the end.

I picked this up after I read about it on Michelle's blog.  It's written by a columnist who has struggled with obesity his entire life.  While his isn't a struggle I've had personal experience with, I found his story compelling. I LOVED his writing style. It was easy to read but he wrote with a lot of emotion and his writing was so genuine, honest, and vulnerable. He loves his family so much and wrote about them all so kindly. Michelle said she felt a lot of compassion when she read this and wanted to hug him, and I concur. 

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That's it for me this month! I love to read everyone's book posts with my library website open in another tab so I can make my requests! What do you recommend?