Monthly Archives: May 2012

MOOBS & CHUB.

 

I am cracking up over Elliot’s moob hanging over the table in this photograph. It kills me.

What also kills me:

How chubba-dub-dub Elliot used to be. Yum.

In other news, I hate being pregnant but I know it ends in babies and I love babies so I’d rather talk about babies than being pregnant. And I plan on being pregnant for the next ten years so let’s just keep talking about babies to keep my mind off being pregnant.

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Dream big.

I need to dream bigger.

I’m so afraid of wanting stuff. Of wanting more than I’ve already been (graciously) given. Because then I’m asking too much. Then I’m not content. But that’s the thing — I am content.

But I’m allowed to dream. I’m allowed to want stuff. And I don’t just mean stuff stuff, I mean real life stuff. Like a house on two acres. Room for my boys to run and ride their trikes that will eventually become bikes. Space at a table on a a deck outside for the friends that we have yet to make, that I want to make. A van swagger wagon to safely transport the ten boys I dream of having. A revolving door of ministry coming in and out of my home and my family. I know I’m young yet — it will come.

And that’s pretty much it.

So I’ve started praying for those things. I pray for two acres and a van. Because God does crazy stuff. One time, we didn’t have a car, literally didn’t have a car, and I prayed that God would give us one. I told Him that I didn’t want to pay for one and HE GAVE US A CAR. So why wouldn’t He give us two acres?

And since we’re doing this asking-for-what-we-want thing, I’d also like a peanut butter yogurt with oreos RIGHT NOW.

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Important days of importance.

We celebrated Husband’s birthday yesterday. We are really glad he was born, but mostly we are glad that we had a reason to eat cake.

Today is our anniversary. Three solid years of marriage, folks. Here’s to everyone who told us we wouldn’t make it. Suckers!

I was going to be super cute and get three helium balloons and tie these photos onto the ends for Husband to wake up to, but who has time to buy helium balloons when you’re busy playing Settlers of Catan and drinking non-alcoholic beer and eating buckets of cookies with your best friends at midnight the night before? Not me, sir, not me. Planning in advance has never been, like, my thing.

I wasn’t going to let a shortage of gaseous chemicals impede my cuteness, though. After Elliot jumped on Husband’s face — “Good morning!” — I presented him with the photos, each representing my favorite memory from every year since we said “I do.”

The first is from our honeymoon, which is just a fancy word for road trip. We stuffed our van with everything we owned and drove 1,100 miles to our new home in Washington. We took our time, just two kids in love, 200 cigarettes, and not an inkling of thought toward time or its boundaries. It was glorious.

Thanks for the adventure, Husband.

The second is from the day our son was born. Duh. If ever there was a reason for living, man, this kid is it.

Thanks for creating life with me, Husband, and sticking around to be the most admirable father a kid could ask for.

The third is from last August when we spent three weeks in northern California, all expenses paid, for Husband’s job training after he got the promotion we had been praying for for one hundred years. He would work 8 to 5 Monday through Friday while E and I would walk around the nearby parks and shopping centers or watch old movies in our hotel room, and after 5 we’d go out to dinner (for free!) and on weekends we’d drive up to San Francisco (for free!). An extended vacation could not have come at a better time for our little family.

Thanks for being a genius, Husband. I can’t wait to collect more years and more babies with you.

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I really like being alone.

I really like hanging out, too. But mostly I like being alone. I eat more vegetables when I’m alone. Obviously I am in the constant company of a toddler, but when said toddler came from inside of you and can’t put together more than two syllables, it’s pretty much like being alone.

I do have close friends. Three, to be exact, and I am surrounded by a super church community. I see my parents regularly and they see me regularly. But at the end of it all, if I had to check a “yes” box or a “no” box, I’d check “no” to all of them. Why?

Because our life is finally our own.

Because we finally have a home.

Because that is where these moments happen. Not the staged “oh my gosh this is happening right now let me get my camera where is my camera oh no i missed it!” moments that we’re supposed to take pictures of. I mean the mundane mornings spent coloring with coffee cups in hand, when I come out of the bathroom to find E sitting in a pile of books, turning page after page, content with our little rented space and all the things that will happen here. Here in our home.

So, I’m not eager to get out of the house. I don’t get stir crazy. Not yet. I could sit on this carpet and play with these plastic dinosaurs from breakfast to dinner, just my little monster and me. And I think that’s okay.

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When your only becomes your first.

“Smile, E.” Own it.

I told Brandon that I feel like Oscar’s getting jipped. When I was pregnant with E, he was all I thought about. Now he’s still all I think about (other than milkshakes). Sometimes I forget that I’m pregnant, until I collapse horizontally onto the couch and remember why I’m so exhausted. I want to dream more about him. About what he’ll be like, if he’ll be a participator like his papa or an observer like his mama. If he’ll run circles around the coffee table whenever football is on the TV, or if he’ll keep stacking blocks on the carpet, one on top of the other. If he’ll go with the flow like his brother, or if he’ll be spirited and stubborn all his own.

I guess I’m less enchanted with the whole growing-a-human thing this time. I’m not supposed to say that, but that’s how I feel. Maybe it’s because I just want to meet him already.

Two kids by 23.

Rest assured, Oscar Maxwell — you are so loved and much anticipated.

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The tooth fairy’s a bitch.

It’s not even like he was jumping on the bed.

He was getting down off of it, like he does one million times a day after we’ve played Igloo for four hours, when gravity sucked him into its vortex and that side table bashed his front tooth clear out of his head.

Blood was everywhere.

Brandon swore and ran to the closet to put pants on (my husband, the go getter). I scooped up my hysterical boy.

Swallow, swallow, swallow. Don’t choke on the blood. Swallow.

Brandon was half way out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the emergency room!”

“Wait. Wait.”

What little inspection that can be made on a toddler who has just had a piece of skull ripped from him proved that there were no cuts, gashes, or broken bones. Just a gaping hole where his precious little tooth used to be.

“Call my mom.”

Having a registered nurse for a mom is possibly the most helpful thing ever. She said that if there was any piece of tooth remaining, we should call a pediatric dentist. If the tooth was completely gone, there was nothing to worry about, and it was definitely gone. We made an appointment for Monday anyway.

I held and rocked E forever. We put on Monsters Inc. and I held and rocked him some more until he fell asleep. Trauma’s exhausting.

He hasn’t been the same since. Brandon thinks he is broken. He’s not broken. Just swollen, recovering. Sleeping more and eating less than usual. Like a break up, only with a tooth. The good news is that it was a baby tooth. The bad news is that he’ll be that gap-toothed kid until the adult one grows in. I guess it’ll be his trademark.

We never did find the tooth. Stupid tooth fairy tried to take matters into her own hands with nothing to show for it. Bitch.

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Why I can’t write stuff.

When I was sixteen, my mom found and read my diary. I wrote everything in that sucker, especially about my make out sessions with my first boyfriend. There was nothing dirty or shocking about what I wrote. I just really liked kissing, and this boy, who always was the perfect gentleman, but my dear mother was convinced that I was on a sinful path to the streets. She made me call him over to our house that very day to break up with him.

I was humiliated. We had done nothing wrong.

And I’ve never been able to write, honestly write, since that day.

I didn’t learn a damn thing from that situation. I take that back – I learned to stuff whatever normal, healthy feelings or emotions I had, especially toward boys, stuffstuffstuff it away because it was bad. Wanting to kiss a boy was bad. Feeling attraction was bad. Not knowing whether or not I was going to marry the boy before I kissed him was bad.

How was I supposed to know if I wanted to marry him before I kissed him, before I dated him?

Thus ended my writing career. I’ve tried, over and over again, to start over and write what I really think. To not give a damn, to not constantly look over my shoulder, expecting the worst of consequences. I’m an adult now. No one can force me to break up with anyone.

Funny how milestones like first boyfriends and first breakups, especially involving your parents, turn into something deeper and uglier and creep into your soul and whisper at the back of your brain for the rest of your life.

Much later in my life, I publicly wrote about what I really thought of someone I knew. I never used this person’s name, never demeaned their character, simply relayed an event from my perspective with a lot of humor thrown in. It was an awesome piece of brain. It was what I felt. My father read it and, because he knew this person, demanded that I delete what I had written so as not to bring repercussions upon himself. I understood where he was coming from, heard his case and complied. But there it was again.

Your true feelings are bad. Your opinion is bad.

I was sixteen all over again.

But you know what? I’m over it. My thoughts do matter. And I’m going to write them down. If you know me, then you know I’m not a gossip. I’m not a basher. I just write funny stuff. Real stuff. If I offend you, don’t read what I write anymore. Or write something about me that I can read and make it funny and make it real.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to write more stuff.

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I want to be a guest blogger when I grow up.

The latest installment of my Belly Diaries series is up on Scottsdale Moms Blog. If you missed it, here’s the second post and the first post.

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