Because I feel like I have to say something even if I don't know what.

I don’t want to blog again without talking about what happened in the world but I don’t know what to say. Of course there aren’t any words that are big enough to convey sorrow to these families. So much was lost that day. I have deleted nearly every sentence I have typed. Over and over. What can we say?

You stare at your babies and feel grateful and guilty and wonder how you ever let life’s stupid, petty issues bug you. Then you feel even more guilt because why are you bringing this back to yourself? If I were one of the parents I’m sure I would be the crazy person screaming that I didn't want memorials or stupid blog posts about kindness or stupid poems about heaven. That my child didn't live and die so someone else could be a better person. That my child was a whole person that had a whole life and I would much prefer if they were here, being unnoticed and uninspiring and just living.

I don’t know. None of it makes any sense. Evil, illness or even random, awful accidents. It just doesn't make any sense.

Big Cup.

When I was an incredibly emotional teenager, I would lie in my room with my angsty music playing and imagine the perfect life I’d have when I officially grew up. I pictured big cities, low paying yet emotionally gratifying jobs and clinking glasses. Also stylish friends who shared their amazing closets with me because you know, low paying but emotionally gratifying job.  I felt like I would have to find the magic combination that would make my cup feel full.

What I didn’t picture was finding it here. On the cusp of Thanksgiving I’m feeling it. Exhausted, stressed and even scared about some looming things,  but full.

I write about my Jared annually when I should be composing sonnets weekly, not that he would want that. I’m sure he’d be fine with a bi-weekly or even a semiannual arrangement. He’s flexible.  He is so much more than a husband or a best friend. He is a force in this world and all mine.

When we were at store the other night we took Phin down to the toy section. They had one of those mini basketball things where you see how many baskets you can make. Obvoiusly we got into a serious competition. Like, this one’s for the gold, seriousness. Like, this one’s for dish duty for a week, seriousness.  Just a little thing that reminded me that we still got it. It being the ability to have fun anywhere. Even walmart on a weeknight with two kids. Halle-freaking-lujah. I love the life we led before we had children. I love this life we have with them. I can’t wait to see what life we will have when they’re grown.

And those kids? Those kids are better than I could have hoped for. It’s like they were custom made for me. Oh wait, they were. I did that. My parents have one of those little closets under their stair case. My Mom threw a whole bunch of pillows and blankets in there and told her grandkids it was a super hero cave. Sunday night Phin decided that everyone need to get in the super hero cave. Everyone. All his aunties, his uncle and cousins, his parents and grandparents. He gave us each a pat on the butt as we crawled in. When were all piled in, Phin chucked a Pocahontas book at my Mom’s head, I shined my phone at the pictures and we had ourselves a little story time with a side of oxygen deprivation. We were all laughing and trying to avoid getting an elbow or baby foot to the face, but my Phin made that happen. He is his own self.

And my miracle baby. My Gray. My little one that had us holding our breath every few weeks to see if there was still a heartbeat. Who made it into this world over five pounds when we all worried he might not clear two. So much to be thankful for with my sweet baby Gray.

So my cup. That sucker is filled. It’s full of music and books and coworkers who share my love of holiday music and nurture my new found love of professional sports. It’s full of developing new hobbies and returning to old ones. It’s full of nights where I cuddle in bed with my newborn and laptop and Netflix while my husband studies and my toddler sleeps in his big boy room. It’s full of Tuesday afternoons with my Mom, Sundays evenings joking with my day, Monday night football with my brother and Saturday donuts or shopping with my sisters.  It’s full of friends I can go months without seeing but pick up right where we left off. It’s so full and there is room for more. How? Who knows. I just know I am so very grateful for the cup I've been given.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

 

Hiding places.

photo credit

This month has been a fail for hiding places.

I've always been a fan of them. I want to either a)buy a really old and creepy, but not haunted, mansion full of secret staircases and trap doors or b)build one. I’m leaning toward the first option because I like the idea of the original builders/owners being long gone. I don’t want a contractor out there knowing where all my house secrets are. What if he turns out to be a killer? What if he sneaks into my house to attack my family and he’s wearing a mask so I don’t recognize him. Logically I usher my family into one of our secret rooms. Dude built the secret room. Bigger problem? He also built a kill the inhabitants of secret room mechanism that I'm not aware of. Game over.

I thought my current house had a pretty good hiding spot. So good that I put all of the Phin Santa stash back there. We learned the spot was not that great when Phin brought out a gift and asked his Dad “Who is this game for?” Darn it. DARN IT! I’ve had to re allocate the goods to other toddlers in our family I haven’t shopped for and start over. Really not happy about this turn of events.  Needless to say, I won’t be hiding there when zombies invade. Time to dig out a bomb shelter.

My Mom also had a hiding space fail. Of course my Mom had a hiding space. She‘s my mother. It was a good one too. Unfortunately, she had to give it up this week. Not fair. If you can’t hide from your husband and grown children in your own house, what have you got?

So I’m feeling bummed. Over Santa and my Mom and the lack of old mansions in the greater Reno area that are in my nonexistent price range. All of it.

First world problems yo.

I have lots to be grateful for around these parts. Starting with my house full of boys. Do enjoy your Thanksgiving week. Kiss your people. Cuddle your animals. Stay cozy. Or whatever it is that makes you happy.

Batman

You should know that I cried and cursed five minutes into costume making. That’s when Jared took over and I supervised. Either way, we ended up with the coolest little batman.

 Proof?

Gray's costume is, uh, currently under construction. Yeah.  

Wait, Apple Hill isn't a giant apple?

Because Phin thinks it would be so much cooler if it was. After two plus hours in the car with Mom and Dad trying to hype it up,

"Phin, we're here! This is Apple Hill!"

"Mommy, what'd you say?"

"We're at Apple Hill!"

"No! No, this isn't Apple Hill. No!"

"Uh, yeah, this is it." Crap. "This is Apple Hill!"

"No Mama! This, this, we not at Apple Hill!"

Poor kid was expecting a giant Apple Hill. James and the Giant Peach style, but bigger. And you know, an apple.

Vovo pacified him with a giant, but not hill sized, chocolate and caramel covered marshmallow on a stick. Yeah, we let him have that for less than a minute. And he rode a horse, a pony, which fufilled a Momma dream for me. Fun was had by all!

Gray slept most of the day but he ate when he was hungry and was cuddled by many loved ones. So I'm sure he had a pretty sweet day himself.

The whole weekend was pretty fabulous. Living the dream.

 

Costumes or what I'm really scared of this Halloween.

I have Halloween costumes to make this week and I’m feeling incredibly intimidated. I’m sitting here thinking, “Mel, you fool! Why are you typing when you should be drafting intricate plans for your children’s debut on the super hero circuit? Why blog when you could be sewing shiny pleather pants or making a paper mache muscle chest ?!”

Yeah. I should get on that. I had awesome costumes as a kid but it’s just reason number 987 that I will never be as cool as my mom.

Example you ask? When I was in fifth grade I wanted to be Cleopatra. My Mom helped me dye my hair black and we found the perfect snake jewelry at a thrift store. I would love to have it now. The draping we did with a bed sheet would have made Michael Kors and Nina Garcia cry happy tears. I practiced my most royal saunter until my eyes turned purple. The only snafu popped up when we realized we bought semi-permanent dye by  mistake. I sported that jet black hair until my mom was sick of it. Eventually she made me sit in the tub and shampoo my head fifteen times in a row. A little hair loss and scalp bleeding never hurt anyone.

On the other end of the Halloween costume spectrum my biggest fail happened when I was fifteen. I borrowed an orange jumpsuit from the correctional center my dad worked at. It was the opposite of attractive and despite a good washing, it smelled like pee and bleach. Not a good move for a socially awkward teenage girl. I told everyone who asked that I got it from my Dad and yes, it was real. They misinterpreted that. Sorry Dad.

Despite costume fear, I am so down with the Halloween train this year. Yesterday my two year told his Vovo that he was not Phinny but in fact, Batman. How cool is that? We are at that stage! He’s been practicing trick or treating for weeks. Although usually he only gets a string cheese or a cracker or a cable bill, you know, whatever’s handy at the moment. Imagine how cool he’ll think the real thing is. You have no idea how many times a day my two little boys make me smile. I have never, ever been more excited about a holiday season. I’m squealing inside at the thought.   

Alright. Wish me luck, I have flour and water to mix and form and paint.  Yippee.

This is how Phin feels about Monday.

I feel ya kid. If Gray had better control of his facial muscles, I'm sure he'd be right there with you.

It's going to be a busy, BUSY week. I take it back. It will be busy until Christmas. Hold on to your cardigans.

What. the. F. aka, things said my first day back.

First day of school today. Well, first day back after maternity leave and I w.ork for a school, so....

I bought pants for the occasion, in my normal size, which made me feel pretty good about myself. No shame in admitting I strutted around my kitchen this morning and gave myself a little pat on the back. 

Then I went in to my office. I was getting all the news I've missed in the last three months. They repaved the street, a couple of colleagues were married, oh and she had a baby.

Wait, what? She was pregnant? The same time I waddled though the halls and moaned to the masses she was rocking skinny jeans and not saying a word? We were due weeks apart? And she was back to work the next week? Well done much younger, fitter co-worker. And by well done I mean, can we trade genetics?

My pants no longer seem all that special. I did not strut post work. 

But hey, they repaved the street!  

And look at these feet! I get to come home to these feet!

Going out in style.

My maternity leave is over soon. So soon. Four days, ten hours and six minutes if you want to get technical. I have incredibly mixed emotions. On one hand, I'm a little excited to see my colleagues, get back into a routine and talk in adult each day. Although, they should be warned that I counted to three on Jared the other day when he didn't move fast enough. He was all, uhhhhh? And I was all, crap that was out loud.

On the other, NOOOOOOOOO! That second part is currently winning. I feel a little cheated since I had to use up half of my leave for bed rest and Gray's hospital stay. What a sad waste of baby time.

We decided the best way to say goodbye to the land of no schedule was to head up to the lake for the week. Family came to our rescue and is at our house with the farm. I have it on good authority that a certain family member (mysisterNabutyoudidn'thearitfromme) demanded to know what the intruder slash shoe rack wanted from her the other night. Hahhahahaha. Ha.

We are staying at my grandparent's time share with my brother and his family. It's been awesome. I can't remember a year that I've been able to swim in Tahoe from May until October. It's chilly enough at nights to light a fire and eat entire plates of brownies and warm enough during the day to swim and get ice cream. At least it was. I swear by Tahoe Tessie herself that we left the beach the last good swim weather second. The wind picked up as we walked back to our car and temperatures dropped the very next day.

Today we went on a little hike at Mt. Rose. So much yellow and gold up in the hills. Not the really good kind of gold. You know, the kind that would extend my leave and increase my ability to pull off an eccentric eye twitch. Just the standard leaf variety. Still nice. We  hiked up to a little waterfall and by the time we were ready to turn around Phin refused to walk. Jared had Gray strapped on so I thought I would carry Phin for a little bit, just until he was distracted by a hole or rock or the need to pee. A little bit turned into two and a half miles down the mountain. I feel it's appropriate to mention that Phin had a nice growth spurt this summer and is about the same size as his four year old cousins. I also think it's appropriate to mention that Jared bought me two york peppermint patties in gratitude. I could barely lift my arms to feed myself.

So in summary, I can't believe my baby is two months old. I kiss his very fat and kissable cheeks every chance I get. It's going to be tough to leave next week. Scary.

Doing my duty.

There are approximately ten post ideas I've been bouncing around in my brain. Like one that divulges my deep obsession with Pretty Little Liars. The one that makes me want to dress like a teenage girl. Or more accurately, a twenty something aged woman playing a teenage girl who is dressed by a stylist with a big budget. Same, right?

Or how much I love raising boys so far. One all about my new found love for sports and superheros and dinosaurs. And barbies named Mia. 

I really want to tell you about how we put the hardware for the bathroom door on backwards after painting it. How someone can lock you in the bathroom from the hall by pushing a little button. How I'm pretty sure I should be figuring out how this is a metaphor for my life.

I want to talk about the election, insurance woes, the end of my maternity leave and why I stood on a corner and yelled at church goers the other night. 

I plan on writing about all of these things, but today I can't. 

Today is the first day of October. Well, it is on the east coast. So by blogger law I must post my fall decor. I'm already on formal warning for going all of September without blogs about fall, pumpkins or soup. 

Then I got tired of decorating.

Really, really tired.

And one from instagram because Gray woke up before I could finish taking pictures.

Holy crap.

Life with two kids is not twice as difficult as life with one. It's like some weird math equation where two plus one equals three, but three plus one equals seven. No seventeen. Trillion.

This is primarily because when you bring number two home, child number one is all "What the...?" They start questioning everything. Crazy thoughts run through their little toddler brains. Thoughts like, "Maybe I wasn't loud enough. Maybe I didn't throw enough things in the toilet. Maybe they didn't like my art. Perhaps I should do a more prominent piece. Something right here on this cupboard my great great grandpa made. I'm thinking...permanent marker. Yes. Yes! This will be canvas! This will be my masterpiece!"

True story.

At the same time child number two is all, "Why? Why did you bring me here? I was in the hospital with thirty lovely nurses who all dressed and showered every day, cough lookingatyoumom cough. A place where Momma would come and hold me for hours on end, no distractions. Just loving gazes into my baby blues. And now this? Now I have to share her with that Tasmanian devil who doesn't know a Jackson Pollock from a van Gogh? I mean, gah, the horror! All I can do is cry. No, this calls for something more. A scream, and a sleep strike! Yes, that feels more appropriate. Damn, I'm brilliant."

Still, I love it. I love these crazy, beautiful babies. I'm a nut. At my six week checkup I told my OB that despite the fact that being pregnant again makes me want to put my own head in an oven I want to have another. Her eye's glazed over and I'm pretty sure she had to take a second and picture her happy place before responding.

So kids, whoa! Yay! Holy crap! Save me.

My least favorite part of parenting. So far.

You might not have any kids. You might not even like kids. So you might think you have zero desire to read a post  entirely devoted to potty training.

Fair enough.

You'd be missing out. Why? Because the correct title of this post should probably be More examples of Mel being an idiot, or Mel thinks the day her ten year old comes clean about his online gambling addiction has to be better than this. Or even, Do you think my sixteen year old could still get a date to prom if he's rocking a disposable Mickey Mouse under his cargo shorts?

I've learned a few things so far. Please, take these incredibly obvious failures of mine and laugh. 

First, potty treats. We went the bribery route. Did anyone doubt I'd take another path? I would advise you don't buy your absolute favorite candy to do the job. Phin is pretty much a mini Mel in some ways. We run into walls, we think the fastest way to make friends at a party is to get down on all fours and start meowing like a cat and we love all things gummy. So when he picked out a giant bag of gummy candy and M&Ms for his potty treat jar I was all, "Yeeeahhhh!" Or it might have been one of those moments I wanted to channel my inner Ryan Lochte broness and let a Jeah escape. Maybe.

Five days later his jar was empty, he had only used the restroom four times and that postpartum cellulite on my butt started taking on a life of it's own. I swear I heard my husband softly singing "Gummi Bears! Bouncing here and there and everywhere. High adventure that's beyond compare. She's a Gummi Bear", while I crawled into bed last night. He swears all the food dye got to my brain. We're going to try again with those crappy black and orange taffies that the kid hating houses give out on Halloween. 

You want another gem we learned the hard way? Don't start potty training on a day you'll be out of the house. I knew this one. My husband, however, thinks trial by fire is the best way to do anything. You would think firemen have the same approach to life, right? Not when a two year old pees all over the inside of the fire engine they're giving tours of. Suddenly they are the most cautious and judgmental group out there. That sucked. I hid in a bathroom with Phin while Jared took over. A bathroom Phin had just used ten minutes before the tour. JUST USED! Well played Phin. 

Don't compare. Really, just don't. There was a nice little humble brag from someone on facebook about potty training the other day and my hormonal, sleep deprived self was all "Suck it!" to the screen. Then I wanted to post about how my child never comes out of his room without knocking, takes four hour naps and has half of the Oxford English Dictionary memorized. That sucker is two volumes and requires a magnifying glass.

Instead I ate another handful of gummy candy and cried while watching The Voice. Some of those people are just so damn good.

Anyway. Comparing = unhappy. Unhappy= more candy consumption. More candy consumption = more cellulite. More cellulite = more eighties cartoon theme songs running through your head. Who knows what body issues my subconscious is dealing with if I start hearing music from Fraggle Rock or even worse, The Snorks. 

So go forth toddler rearing humans! Master the art of the child intestine! Tame the toilet hater! Win the respect of fire engine tour givers everywhere!

And make sure you have enough potty treats to console yourself with after the little one gets in bed.

And because Gray got no name time in this post, a picture. Because it's easier to take those when the subject isn't trying to steal gum out of your mouth.

He's here, he's here! He's...been here.

And he's perfect.

My little boy Gray will be one month tomorrow. A month! It feels like it was two lifetimes ago. I'm sure even longer for my Phinny Phin. Boyfriend had his world rocked and his head is still spinning.

I've been wrapping my head around writing this post for a while, but crap, I'm just too effing tired. Let's do this Mel style (aka the lazy way) and throw up some bullet points.

-blood pressure never could be put in its place. A couple million pills didn't help. Just made me incredibly useless as a human being.
-fibroids couldn't be tamed resulting in nighttime er visits with me begging for drugs. And lotsa percocet.
-bedrest. I suck at bedrest. It was a good thing though. I was getting to the point that when Jared dropped me off at work I would make him circle the blocks around my office for five or ten minutes while I cried and worked up the energy to go in.
-Ob decided to induce me at 34 weeks because my body couldn't be pregnant anymore. I cried when she told me I was so happy. I then apologized, which I do a lot around doctors, and she made me feel better by telling me I dealt well with a terrible pregnancy. I don't know if she says that to all her wimpy patients the size of commercial airliners, but it made me feel oh so good. I tried hard not to be the patient that complained. I chose to get pregnant knowing that it would be painful. But gd, it sucked.
-Baby was born and baby was a boy! A big boy! 5 lbs 6 oz big!
-I fell in love. The rest of the world did too. Even Phin. He loves his Gray, it's me he's pissed at. Sweet thing.

Then things got tough. Gray couldn't come home with us. What was supposed to be an extra day turned into three weeks. Three very long weeks where the magic onion rings of the hospital cafeteria lost all their power. By the end of his stay they were just crappy, fried food. Even nacho day lost it's appeal the third time around. Feeding your baby at 2:30 in the morning is sucky enough when you aren't required to wear pants. I just couldn't get away with an oversized t-shirt and granny panties in the hospital nursery. Don't judge, I just had a baby.

More on this later.

He's home. I am so happy. We are so happy. We have two perfect for us children. The very, very best little boys.

If all dogs go to heaven, where do song birds, turtles and chickens go?

My family has a horrible history with pets. Horrible. In fact, if you are a sensitive and good human being, you might want to click off of this post. Growing up we had so many animals and I can't think of a single one that died of natural causes. Let's journey through a few of the particularly traumatizing, shall we?

The Bird. There was only ever one bird, for good reason, so it gets to be The Bird. Say it out loud. The tone required is one of solemnity. The Bird incident occurred when I was too little to really understand, but I think it still haunts my poor Mom. The Bird had a cage but was occasionally allowed to fly around our little apartment. Try not to think of it as unhygienic. Think Snow White. There is my drop dead gorgeous Mom with a few kids in a sunny little apartment whistling some pretty tune, actually probably REO Speedwagon, with a cute little bird tweeting along. Except one day she gets to the chorus, "Heard it from a friend who, heard it from a friend who..." And suddenly she realizes she's singing solo. Maybe the bird got out? Maybe it flew off to be with bird friends in this great big world? Maybe.. 


AHHHHHH! That's right when my Mom, who was doing dishes, stuck her hand in the disposal to find out what was plugging up the water from draining. Little free bird got it's foot caught when it flew down to check out what that black hole in the sink was. Along came Cindy White to do dishes..need I say more?

Turtle. My brother came home with more than one abandoned animal from the park near our house. The turtle was one of these rescued creatures. It was dinner plate sized and pretty exotic to us children. You can't really love on a turtle, at least in any natural way I'm aware of, so the turtle lived a nice solitary life in the backyard. Apparently the turtle didn't share our view of nice and solitary. It tried to make a break for it. We were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast when my brother's cereal spoon stopped mid route from bowl to mouth. 


"Hey, is that the turtle?" We all look out the window and yup, it was the turtle. Halfway up the fence. Yeah, our turtle from the park could apparently climb fences. We pulled her/him/it down but it had a wild heart. The next time we found the turtle after a few days absence, it had made it all the way down the side driveway and out into the street. That was the last time we were able to rescue turtle. We never saw it again. I like to think it made it all the way to turtle paradise. We all like to think that. 


Cluck aka Rover. Cluck was our chicken, at least in body. Another park rescue, Cluck thought she was a dog. She would tap on the back door when she wanted out and tap to get back in. She loved to sit on your lap and be cuddled. Cluck had a little doggy brain. Cluck even liked to chase our cat around the backyard. Thing is, we already had a dog to do that. With the cat chasing duties stolen out from under his nose, the dog decided the only right thing to do would be to chase the chicken. 


One fine day when the stars were aligned just right, a few select members of our family were able to witness the dog chasing the chicken who was chasing the cat. The parade ran to the fence where the cat leaped to the top in perfect form. The chicken flapped it's wings and was able to get about a foot off the ground which was the perfect height for the dog, who was coming at it full speed, to slam into it, nose stuck in bum. Paper, or rather screen, doesn't do the scene justice. The family members just stood in silence as the poor dog freaked out. Then they probably turned to each other to make sure it was real. It was that good. No animal was physically damaged from this event. Psychologically, that dog was never the same.


Cluck's demise was discovered New Year's Eve when we were setting up the trampoline Santa had brought. My sister went to kick a patch of snow but it wasn't a patch of snow. The neighbor's dog had finally made it into the back yard. That was one of the few times I saw tears in my Dad's eyes. He carried it, stiff as a board through the house by it's feet while all of his little kids trailed behind him. We walked through the living room past my Mom who called out "What is that?" "It's Cluck," we all whispered, "Cluck is dead." Straight out to the dumpster. Straight in. 


I think there was revenge talk of poisoning the neighbor dog but we were just trying to make our Dad feel better. 


Thing is, I don't want to repeat that history. So when Jared came home with three of these the other day, I panicked. 

Our new neighbor's dog was trained in duck hunting. My two year old doesn't get that they aren't just noisy toys. I have a freaking cat. Lord bless these sweet ducks until I can get Jared to list the suckers on Craigslist. 

Linky, linky Dear World.

It's Friday yo. What better day to jump on the ole bandwagon? And if you have some sort of history degree (Ha, I have one of those! Useless!) or wikipedia article that states one of the six remaining week days is actually better suited to the task, keep it to yourself. Show off.

So linking up to Friday letters because it's an excuse to dump a whole bunch of cell pics without having to think of a clever title where I tell you I'm going to dump a whole bunch of cell pics. Bam.

Dear Summer,

Finally. So you decided to official grace us with your presence this week. Don't be a diva about it. We've been faking you were here for weeks now. Still, stay a while and provide us with all your beach and watermelon and slip and slide goodness. Throw in some drive in nights and we can go exclusive. Until September when I plan on dumping your sunny butt for a scarf and pumpkin frap. But forget I said that. Me, you and Tahoe this weekend?

Dear Whole Foods,

Keeping doing what you do. Your pizza keeps my baby full when I don’t want to cook and your endless supply of birds out the window feasting on organic hummus and quinoa salad crumbs keep him entertained while I shovel a piece down my own throat. I’m down for a weekly date.

Dear Target,

Your cheap goods give me a temporary shopping thrill and the perfect disguise for my plan to rob an ice cream truck. Wait, did I just publicize that? Crap. Now I need to go back and get new stuff. Yes. Wait, I mean double crap. Yeah, the second one bank account, the second one.

Dear Belly,

For real? I know I have hobbit toes but just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there. I learned that when I was five. Or maybe it was fifteen? Somewhere in that decade. Either way. That’s why a hedge behind me just won’t work in the office. Then again…

Who wants a pregnancy update?

Yup. That's what I looks like. Sunglasses indoors? You don't want to see what's under those suckers. So for fun I thought I'd fill out one of those little surveys that all the Mom bloggers do. Warning. I hate these things. 


How far along - 28 weeks. Measure 41ish. Forty freaking one. With twelve weeks to go. 123456789101112. 


Weight Gain - HAHAHAHAHAHA. HA! It helps that my stomach has been shoved up near my throat for months. If you aren't disgusted, you aren't getting it.


Maternity clothes - I out grew my Phinny pregnancy clothes at thirty seconds into this gig.  

Stretch marks - Millions. And millions. I use five creams, drink 140 oz of water a day and have a mother who didn't get a single one in five pregnancies. Suck it genetics.  

Sleep - There is a reason for those sunglasses humans. 

There is still a hundred or so questions to this thing and I can't do it. Let's summarize. I'm miserable but try to picture meeting this babe. Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait! Boy? Girl? Whatever? I can't wait!

I'm human so while I am so incredibly grateful I'm pregnant, I am capable of recognizing that the daily 'broid pain in addition to having third trimester symptoms for this entire ride would take a toll on anyone. I haven't been able to take a full breath since January. I've peed so much that my hands got a rash from washing them so frequently (bet you haven't heard that one), and I have episodes at work where I literally can not understand what people are saying to me. English words. That language I'm supposed to be pretty fluent in.

Plus my butt is starting to get flat. On the bright side, no third nipple has appeared. What, what! Mel -1, Pregnancy - 399. Better that 400 yo. 

Can't wait!

Summa time!

I don't know why pregnant ladies complain about being knocked up in the summer. It's the best. Let's compare.

Winter - Dark, dark world. Ever expanding derriere on the couch. It's dark. Too cold to eat ice cream. Too freaking big to get a proper hug while you shiver, like I said, in the dark.

Summer - The sun shines on you while you eat watermelon. Did I mention you're eating on the beach? The one you just hiked down to because you are so extremely healthy and fit? Your butt has never looked better.

That's me! I'm summer. Except I almost threw up after the hike down. I didn't have any watermelon and the only reason my butt didn't black out the sun was because my belly had that covered. Someone can alert Scientific America to the real reason behind that recent eclipse.

Astronomy aside, I stand by my statement. Summer is one thousand percent better. Phin agrees. Despite the fact that Grandpa had to save his life today (maybe a slight exaggeration), he keeps saying "Do again. Want to go to beach again. I went underwater." That last part is where Grandpa had to step in. Phin swears it was unnecessary.

I owe you more but some drunk guy in Save Mart convinced Lesco to buy Marie Calendar's mac and cheese with uncured ham and I'm debating whether or not that is an appropriate 10 pm snack. Plus we just started Merlin on Netflix and it's not too shabby.

When you remember something tender.

Sometimes the thing that triggers a memory is odd. You might have seen something hundreds of times and nothing. Then one day, in the right light with the right conversation preceding it, you look and remember.

This happened to me a few days ago. Lesco and I were out with Phin on a walk. Since my doctor has forbidden me to run, walking is happening a lot around these parts. We passed by the same houses we’ve passed by so many evenings over the last ten years. We talked about things we’ve talked about before and nitpicked things we’ve nitpicked before but maybe because of where I am right now in life and where we are as a family I felt a little more vulnerable. So when we came to a house that normally strikes me as garish with fake flowers stuck in every fence crack and a bright pink paint job highlighting a collection of cupid and creepy child sculptures holding more, yes more, fake flowers, it looked different. There were real pink roses blooming everywhere. Thousands of blooming pink roses. It looked beautiful, truly.

In the half moon driveway were two older men chatting over something on a parked boat they were piddling around on. I assumed one must be the owner of the house and I thought of how proud he must be of all those flowers. A picture of him tending those roses starting forming but it so quickly triggered a memory that I never saw the whole picture.

The street I grew up on had a house with a large front yard at the entrance, a corner house. An older man lived there with his wife and they had quite the beautiful yard with fruit trees and flowers in abundance. A well-tended little oasis. I don’t remember the garden very well, my mind might be duplicating other people’s recollections rather than seeing a memory but I know it was there. What I remember is after.

The man’s wife passed away while we lived on that street. I don’t know how, I was so young, but I semi recall someone saying later that she was sick, maybe cancer. The older man was so heartbroken he chopped down all of the trees. He let every flower die. Every loved corner fell to neglect. And that is how I remember the yard. Just a giant dirt lot at the end of our road with a man that us neighborhood kids, in typical, cruel kid fashion called Frenchie due to his thick accent. Never to his face, mind you, we were too frightened. He was not friendly or warm. He was mysterious and reclusive and he was sad.

I don’t think as children we understood how alone he must have felt but there was an incident. One ordinary day we were driving down the street and there he was. Not on our quiet, play kickball in the middle of the road until someone yells car, street. In the middle of a busy road. He was dressed sparsely and  making gestures to his chest. We stopped. I asked whichever parent that was driving at the time what he was doing.

“I think he wants a car to hit him. I think he’s asking someone to hit him.”

Of course nobody honored his request, but that’s the picture that flashed into my mind in front of that pink house. A lonely, heartbroken man standing in the middle of the street begging someone else to end his life.

We are the type of family that sits around the Sunday table and tells whatever unfortunate guest that happened to join us that week stories from that street. We tell about all the odd or different people we’ve encountered. We tattle on each other. We laugh about the time there were snipers in our front yard climbing tree or  the time our drunk neighbor tried to yank my brother out of our parent's bathroom because he thought he was a burglar. We tell these stories over and over.

I don’t recall us talking about this man much. He comes up, but it seems too thick to recall as innocent dinner chatter. Jared, who must have heard every story, hadn’t heard of this man. So the rest of the walk home I thought of him. I thought what it must have been like for him, all alone. I thought about all the others in this world with even larger heartbreak. I thought about how small we all are. I though how I have a responsibility to teach my child to be kind and think larger than things. I thought that maybe I could plant some pink roses, maybe that would help me remember. 

Pic found here

The time I almost broke all of Jared's ribs.

Have I told you about the many times I’ve almost killed Jared? Like about the time he was renovating our basement and left fifty million sheets of drywall blocking my cereal cupboard?

You can’t keep a girl from getting her honey nut on before work. That’s considered straight up torture in some very privileged countries, including the one I currently reside in. So I asked him to move them.

Our kitchen is a bit narrow. The layout has my beloved cereal cupboard on one side with the fridge and washing machine facing it on the other. Jared stood on the fridge/washer side and started standing the drywall up one piece at a time so I could grab the goods. Unfortunately a sheet of that stuff is mighty heavy. 15 sheets? Even heavier. Just as we stood the last sheet up I knocked it with my elbow or butt or giant brain and the whole stack fell like dominoes pinning Jared to the washer under four hundred pounds of drywall. He screamed. That is a straight up lie. He just gasped for breath and whimpered.

This next part I blame on shock.

I stared at Jared, then the cupboard and then at Jared again and then the cupboard.  I reached for the cupboard.

Jared found his voice and yelled, “MEL!”

Ok, ok! I stood the sheets up and he kind of crumpled. I worried he might be dying until he looked up at me in total disgust.

“You went for the cereal?”

“I, uh, I didn’t know..”

“You WENT for the cereal?”

“I’m sorry! It was instinct! It wasn’t by choice!”

And that’s the morning Jared decided we shouldn’t have kids for at least a couple of more years. You know, until he could get that food before family thing rewired in brain with therapy or something.

Thing is, he forgave me. It probably helped that he didn’t suffer any internal bleeding. Our marriage and his organs survived.

That is why I’m obligated to forgive him every night when he falls asleep as he’s giving me the back massage that he insisted on giving when the pain, THE PAIN, got to be a little too much. (pleasenoteIamincrediblymelodramatic )

 Every, freaking night.

So there you go Lesco. We’re even.

PS, you can tip the scales in your favor if more of these show up in my life. Just saying.

My husband digs me, my belly is big and so is my baby.

We were lying in bed this morning watching the sun rise when my dashing husband said the most romantic thing to me.

“ Hey Mel.”

“Hmm?”

“If we got divorced and I married someone new, I’d cheat on her to be with you.”

Awesome. Ten years in and the love hasn’t stopped flowing from those handsome lips of his.

Not the only demonstration of his unyielding devotion from the last twenty four hours. When I was too lazy to move my butt off the couch last night after expressing lofty dinner ambitions that involved me, a couple of knives and the food network, he made me a spicy meatloaf. Perfect fuel for the massive twenty mile run I went on with my running club later that night. Except replace twenty with two, run with walk and running club with Phin in a stroller.

And if we’re going to get technical replace two with one point eight nine. I hate my conscience for making me admit that.

In my defense, it took a really, really long time. First off, the stroller has an injury suffered when Phin shoved it under the treadmill while I was running on it. For real running. Swear. Ok, maybe gripping my stomach, begging for mercy and half jogging while Jared held a blow dryer to my face on the cool setting. I’m guessing Phin was just trying to stop the beast that appeared to be killing his mother. Either way that front tire is now wack.

Second, we had to stop and admire every green garbage can. Doesn’t help that today is garbage day. They were lining the streets.  

Last, I’m ginormous. That too puts a damper on my athletic prowess.  I have a ‘broid all up in my lungs. Nothing like giant, harmless tumors to slow a girl down. I currently measure fifteen weeks ahead. That’s an improvement. My belly has the shelf thing going on. 

See?

I won’t lie. I am so grateful to be pregnant, but dang, it’s hard this time. I hadn’t properly prepared myself for how different this go around would be. I want to be honest on this, but it’s tough when you have people jumping out of the bushes to tell you how much you suck for feeling the way you do. I know others have it much worse. I’m aware.

Really though, life is so good. I am trying to soak up every last minute as a family of three. I doubt Phin will ever remember the time he was the center of our world, but I will. I don’t want parenthood to come off as roses when it’s just not for so many, but my kid is such a crazy joy. There were plenty of tough moments that had me locking myself in the bathroom, can’t deny it when there’s pictorial evidence on this very blog, but crap. He is just so perfect for me. He still clings to me like a little spider monkey. He still pulls my face in for kisses when I get out of the car at work. He still wants his Momma when he feels his young little life has dealt him an injustice.

Now he talks to me. He tells me what he wants. He apologizes enthusiastically if his wild ways end up in a Mom/Phinny collision. He knocks on the door at five am so he can join us in bed for a few minutes before the day starts. He’ll sometimes wrap one arm around my neck and one around Jared’s. Even the thought of it makes me melt. Our life is so fun and happy. And dang that boy is beautiful. Inside and out. Old Mel is already jealous of younger Mel. I can just see myself thirty years from now yearning to relive just five of the minutes where Phin curled up in my lap and stroked my hair with tiny Phinny hands while he dozed off.

Someday I’ll have to watch him give his whole heart to someone else. And while it’s natural and there is no way I’d rather have it, the idea of someone else being the center of his life makes me ache. Clearly it’s because I picture my baby and not some grown human, but he’s my baby! Mine. I protect him. I try to make his world as safe and good as I can. It’s hard to watch the clock in the corner tick away.

My bad. A little emotional tangent snuck it’s way in. Really, I’m amazed to watch him learn so much every day. I can’t believe we’ll be starting the process over with another. Wow.

By the way, I dreamed I had a girl last night. She weighed 8lbs 2oz at twenty weeks premature. Because I had gestational diabetes (which I’m pretty sure I do but I haven’t had to take the test yet).  And she was covered in red veins and scales with a cute nose.

So if that comes true in the next day or so, I called it.

Easter.

It happened and I didn't have a single piece of chocolate all day. Pick yourselves up off the floor. We do our Easter egg hunt on Saturday. Get what I'm saying? My one day moratorium ended this morning when I had a Cadbury egg for breakfast.

Jared's ham turned people's taste buds into cheering crowds that could not be tamed. Sadly my sweet onion pudding did not do the same. I feel inclined to argue that if more than three people at the table had tried it....but I digress.

We live down the street from a couple of churches and normally by nine in the morning we have cars parked up and down the street with people rushing down the sidewalk to make it to Easter services. I look forward to it for 364 days. I don't know if attendance is suffering or they added a later service but it didn't happen this year. Bummer. Phin and Liza tried to console me by pointing out every jogger, dog walker and ambulance. Not the same. I'm planning on sending a letter to a whole lot of someones as soon as I get my hands on a membership list and can perfect my forgery of the Pope's signature. Just kidding. That's not believable. I'll pick some mid ranking cardinal.

Moving on to pictures before I get blacklisted from entering those pearly gates.