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So here’s the thing: Avalon and I are in Florida! And here’s the other thing: I had a few anxiety attacks prior to make the trek down here. See, I always get a little anxious when I fly, not because of the FLYING part, but because of the security. I HATE GOING THROUGH SECURITY. Those people are so mean, and so demanding, and do I really need to practically strip down naked to assure those people I’m not hiding a bomb in my bra? So obviously my anxiety was multiplied knowing I was taking my seven week-old through security and on a plane with me. Would she scream the entire way? Would her schedule that I have worked so hard to establish get totally thrown off? How was I going to change her diaper on a plane?
Needless to say, I prayed for safe and seamless travel for the past two weeks. And as always, Jesus provided. Avalon did awesome! She slept the entire car ride to Chicago and all through the airport, security was a breeze, and we even had time to grab a bite to eat at a restaurant before boarding our plane.
Then after we boarded the plane she nursed through take-off and believe it or not, WAS AWAKE THE ENTIRE PLANE RIDE. And didn’t even cry! She just relaxed, sat back, and enjoyed the ride, just as every commercial pilot has instructed his passengers to do. There was one time when she had a bit of an explosion in her diaper, which was bound to happen…so we changed her diaper right there in our row, across the legs of my mom and sister. We instantly became one of those families.
Avalon’s had a lot of fun since we’ve been on vacation and is getting loads of attention from her Mamie and Aunt Courtney. She’s been such a good girl, and we’re going to have so much fun Girl Time with her. We’re starting by having a pillow fight in our panties tonight!
Even though Avalon is only a six week-old little shrimp, I was determined to take her to the pumpkin patch this weekend for some fall fun. Gotta start traditions early, I say. We took my parents with us, not only because I like them but also because we needed some official photographers. Heh.
My little punkin needed her own little punkin. Just her size.
She’s there, under all those blankets, I swear.
I took this picture so that down the road when Avalon asks me for a pony (it’s bound to happen. She’s a girl.), I can tell her that Mamie and Grandpa already got her a pony, she was just really, really little at the time and doesn’t remember it. Motherhood has already taught me a valuable lesson, that is ALWAYS THINK AHEAD.
Me and my favorite little person.
Apparently Rob snapped this photo when I wasn’t really ready, although now I kind of like it because of the expression I have on my face while looking down at my belly. Something about it says, whoa, what the heck is goin on here? Exactly how many DQ blizzards have I eaten? Oh right! It’s not the ice cream, it’s a baby! A BABY THAT IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE HER WAY OUT OF MY CROTCH IN TWO WEEKS!
Of course now that I’m **this close** to being a mama, all I’ve been thinking about lately is labor. Not how much it’s going to hurt or how I’m going to deal with the pain, but other minute, ridiculous details that just won’t stop swirling around the inside of my head.
Like, what earrings do I want to wear? My hoops? My silver medallions? My diamond studs from Rob?
Or, since there’s a CD playing in the birthing suite, what kind of music do I want to listen to? Just yesterday while I was at work my iTunes was playing on shuffle and when “Canned Heat” by Jamiroquai, “Elevation” by U2, and “Freedom” by George Michael all came through the speakers I couldn’t help myself from breaking out some sweet dance moves. Which made me think, hmm, could these be good labor tunes? Would it be fun to turn my labor into a dance party? Has anyone ever done that before? SHALL I START A NEW MOVEMENT? I just don’t know. Moms, would U2 lighten up the mood in a birthing suite, or does it make you start writhing in pain again just thinking about it?
And by the way, I’m totally kidding about the music. Kind of.
At this week’s OB appointment my doctor checked me for any dialation and told me that Avalon must be quite comfortable because my cervix is completely closed, to which I responded, well I’m glad that one of us is comfortable! Ha! Ha! Because with each passing day I can literally feel that she is getting bigger and quickly outgrowing her living quarters. Sometimes my belly feels so stretched and rock hard that I’m afraid that BOING! a little foot with five wiggly toes is going to pop out the side of my abdomen and that we’d have to start a new freakshow career down at Key West’s Mallory Square. However, I’m finding peace knowing that she’s going to come out whenever she’s ready, whether that be tonight or three weeks from now. Besides, I have a mani/pedi to take advantage of before then anyway and, you know, priorities.
In other news, today was my last full day working at the office. From here on out I’ll be working from home, and only stopping in the office on an as-needed basis. Rob likes to joke about how I’m ‘retiring,’ then I go ahead and remind him that not only will I still be actually WORKING from home, I’m also taking on a new job, one that requires 24-hour a day attention and on-demand boobs but doesn’t even pay minimum wage. If that’s retirement, then there are millions of sixty-five year old men who have some explaining to do.
It’s a little bittersweet leaving the office, the place where I have spent the past two years, and next Monday when Dad helps me pack up all my stuff I am already imagining it to be similar to when I moved out of the house and went away to college, only I’m thirty pounds heavier and have finally given up the Sun-In. It’s been really fun working with Dad everyday, though, and I have to admit, I’m going to miss being there and seeing him day in and day out. Well, most days. That is, the days when he’s not out of the office and in Florida or Cedar Point or the Bahamas.
But the point is, I’m going to miss him.
Rob is taking me to get a pedicure tonight. I asked him yesterday if he would since my toes are in total disrepair and 1) it’s physically impossible for me to contort my body enough to reach down and paint my own toes and 2) I don’t exactly trust Rob to do it. However, I’ve realized that me saying that Rob is “taking me to get a pedicure” sounds a lot more glamorous and romantic than it really is, considering all he is doing is dropping me off at the salon while he goes and runs some of his own errands. It’s not like he’s going to sit with me throughout the whole thing or whip out cash to pay for the pedicure when I’m done. So really, scratch that first sentence, Rob has nothing to do with it.
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Etsy has been a dear friend of mine ever since I found out that we were expecting a girl. Are you aware of the endless treasures that etsy offers for babies? So far I have bought lots of headbands, bows, and baby leg warmers for Avalon and everything is so adorable. It was all moderately priced, too, and I really like buying straight from the artists themselves. Something about it makes me feel like a good samaritan.
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I’ve turned into a peach fanatic lately. In the past three days I’d estimate that I’ve eaten at least seven peaches. They’re so juicy and good this time of year, it makes me wish that summer lasted all year long so we could enjoy the fresh produce. I thought about whipping up some peach cobbler or peach pie or peachy something-or-other, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think I must unconsciously love the unadulterated peaches too much to let them mingle with flour and sugar. And if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
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Yesterday I got to meet the Head Honcho of labor nurses at the hospital where I will be delivering Avalon (she is a client of my mom’s). She was really, really nice and made me feel very comfortable and at ease about labor and delivery. Her biggest piece of advice for me was to STAY OUT OF BED when in labor. Stay on my feet, move around, use the tub, do the hokey-pokey, whatever it takes. Which is all good, but you know what all those things mean? No epidural. Epidurals essentially glue your butt to the bed and you forfeit the opportunity of getting out of it until after the whole thing is done and over with. So! I think I’m going to try and remain mobile and epidural-free for as long as my body can handle it. This could be six minutes or six hours. What a fun gamble. Anybody want to place any bets?
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You know when your split ends are screaming at you to get a haircut but you ignore all the commotion and let it just keep on growing, dry, split ends and all? That’s where I am right now, as I’m on a quest to grow my hair long again. My hair has been every length and color in the past twelve years, from pixie cut to way down my back, and here is some more recent evidence:
This was right before our wedding, and was the longest my hair had ever been. I had grown my hair out for a couple of years knowing that I wanted it really long for my wedding. Then I got married and this happened:
I hacked it off, a la Posh Spice, and donated the remains to Locks of Love figuring that, hey, my wedding was over, I didn’t need all that hair anymore.
Now I’m in the BLAHHHH middle/boring length trying to get it back to where it was pre-wedding. I don’t know why, I guess I just liked it. And also (THIS IS GOING TO SOUND SO SHALLOW, CAN’T BELIEVE I AM EVEN SAYING THIS), I want to be a ‘cute mom’. And I picture myself as a ‘cute mom’ with long hair. Also: I love throwing my hair up into a quick ponytail.
Ugh, I am ridiculous. Somebody slug me.
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Last Saturday Rob completed his first half Ironman, the Steelhead 70.3 Ironman. It was only the second triathlon he had ever done, his first being last summer’s sprint triathlon.
The first leg of the race was the swim in Lake Michigan. The athletes swam 1.2 miles along the shore, and Rob made it in only 34 minutes. Here he is in his fancy new wet suit, which helps him stay buoyant and warm in the water. If I wasn’t so kind and sensitive to his feelings, I would love to post a video of him putting it on. LORDY, is that a good show. He makes fun of me when I put on leggings or tights for doing several deep squats and knee raises to get them on, but watching him putting on a wetsuit totally trumps me in the tights. It’s a full-body workout, leaving him with sweat on his brow when he’s finally in it. Then I call him Scuba Steve.
After getting out of the water he transitioned into the bike portion of the race, and cycled a total of 56 miles in just under three hours.
Finally, he got off the bike (still smiling, no less… whaaaaat?) and all he had to do to complete the race was run 13.1 miles, which he finished in 2:07. I’m trying not to be offended that he beat my (one and only) half marathon time by a minute after already exerting himself for four hours.
Overall, he finished the race in 5:52:40. His goal was to finish in six hours, so he did it! I was so proud of him, and gave him lots of TLC the next day. Funny enough, when he got out of bed the following morning all he complained about was his neck hurting. Not his quads, not his feet…HIS NECK.
This sounded like a pretty good plan to me, so my postpartum goal is to have only a sore neck, too.
I never thought that when I stepped onto the scale I would see the numbers that I saw yesterday. As every day passes the numbers creep higher and higher, as does my blood pressure upon seeing how far away from my pre-pregnancy weight I am straying.
What kills me the most is knowing that I have little to no control over the weight gain. Before getting pregnant I liked and took advantage of the control I had over my weight. I was somewhat careful with what I ate, and I enjoyed working out on a fairly consistent basis. If I did splurge on crappy food I knew that all I had to do to make up for it was take an extra kickboxing class or cycle a few extra miles. This happened all the time, truth be told, because my willpower when it comes to food is horrible. I’d rather exercise like a gerbil on a wheel for hours on end than deprive myself of some delicious grub.
All that being said, I was still far from having the perfect physique or weight, yet I was in a place where I was comfortable and happy.
Also: CONTROL.
At almost nine months pregnant, the control thing is obviously on hiatus. If I eat like crap, I’m physically unable to just ‘work it off’ like I used to. And even if I don’t eat like crap, the numbers on the scale are still going to keep getting higher.
It’s challenging to break through my old mindset and accept the fact that, at this point, my weight is (mostly) out of my control. It’s not something I dwell on all the time, and luckily I haven’t really had to up until my third trimester when I quit kickboxing and all of a sudden the pounds just begin piling on.
I’m looking forward to the days where I can exercise again and achieve some new physical goals. I’m thinking of maybe even running another half marathon, which means something serious because did you know? I HATE RUNNING. I even told my kettlebell trainer that she has full permission to kick my butt like she never has before, which is something I will probably regret ever saying as soon as I step back into the gym.
All I know is that I am more motivated than I ever have been before.
I just got back from a two-day buying trip for Orange Tree in Chicago with my mom and sister. Going on these trips is always exhausting for everyone involved and kind of resembles a science fair experiment wherein the subjects are timed to see how long it takes before everybody gets knocked out and falls flat on the floor from being hypnotized by All The Pretty Stuff To See. Stationary, in particular, is one of the hardest things to pick out when we’re on these trips because there is more stationary in the world than there are flies, but I’ve about gotten used to the blurry vision and fog in my head when looking through piles and piles of stationary and eventually resolve to just wait to pick anything out until after my eyeballs can’t take it anymore and burst into a thousand pieces. Then wherever those little slime balls land on top of the glossy catalog pages I’m all, THAT’S IT, THAT BIRTHDAY CARD LOOKS AWESOME, IT’S TOTALLY THE ONE WE HAVE TO HAVE, IT’LL BE A BEST SELLER. It’s a system that we’ve found really works.
Seriously though, you would not believe the brain power it takes to stay focused at these trade shows when standing in a vendor’s booth and trying to decide whether Apple Pear or Vanilla Berry lip gloss would sell better in the store. Or what about Chocolate Mint? WHICH FLAVOR WILL MAKE US MILLIONS? It’s so comforting to know that other people have taken the initiative to worry about all those important issues in the world like health care and taxes because, clearly, we at the Orange Tree have other things to worry about.
Going on a buying trip at thirty-five weeks pregnant was another bit of a challenge, in more ways than just one. Yeah, there’s the physical fatigue that comes along with the territory of a beluga whale walking around on two feet for an entire day, but being very visibly pregnant at one of these shows also made me a moving target for all the vendors selling baby-related items. After being verbally attacked several times by those peddling baby bags, pacifier holders, and ridiculous onesies (“that have a velcro flap across the tummy so that you never have to put that cute little tummy away!”), I finally became savvy. As I would mosey up and down aisle after aisle I’d try to locate THEM before they would see ME, which really took quite a bit of concentration because, dude, they could see my midsection coming towards them three minutes before the rest of my body. However, I had to alert myself that one of them was right up the aisle waiting to snatch me up so that I could mentally prepare myself and resist bursting into an emotional mess with tears streaming down my face for feeling so manipulated, so targeted, SO FAT! LEAVE THE FAT PEOPLE ALONE!
By the end of the two days we pulled ourselves together enough to write some orders for a lot of new, really fun merchandise, stuff that I would love to show you right now but just can’t because my brain can barely even remember what specifically we bought. But I promise, if my memory of those two days at the market didn’t resemble a beautiful pen and ink drawing that got splashed with a bucket full of water I would totally give you the scoop, so here’s to hoping that it’s not too long before I’m thinking straight again! Cheers!
Rob is going to be out of town next weekend over my birthday, so for the past couple of days he has been bugging me to open my present. He was so anxious for me to open my gift that you would have thought there was bomb in there ready to explode if I didn’t HURRY UP AND OPEN IT, OMG. So Wednesday night, a whole week and a half before my actual birthday, I finally gave in and opened it.
And he totally surprised me…
… with a new MacBook Pro! I had no clue this was coming at all. I had been using his old laptop, which worked fine, but apparently I deserved a sweet upgrade. Since then, my live-in computer nerd has transferred everything from my old Mac to the new one. He has probably spent more time playing with it than I have, which makes me wonder if this gift was partly for him…but it doesn’t matter. He’s too good to me.
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My mom started a blog! She’s funny and sentimental and cute all at the same time. Make sure to go over and check her out HERE.
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This morning while Rob and I were eating breakfast we saw the national weather forecast and Rob commented, “Wow, look it’s like 115 degrees in Las Vegas.” For some reason, maybe because I was still asleep, I chose to respond with, “Yeah. Hey, isn’t Vegas in New Mexico?” And everyone, it’s not. It’s in Nevada. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Rob had rolled his eyes at me when I said that, or busted out laughing so hard that his granola went flying out of his mouth and across the kitchen. But instead he just looked at me straight-faced and told me it’s in Nevada.
The point of this story? I am dumb. And I have recently determined that I am especially dumb when it comes to anything geography, math, history, and/or science-related. Seriously, sometimes when we’re bored my sister and her fiance will fire off trivia questions for me to answer. The only reason this is fun is because my answers are so off the wall and downright wrong that it’s hilarious.
Also, embarrassing.
I think when my children are in fourth grade learning state capitals I will try to dodge their geography homework by instead educating them on more practical things, like some accounting debit and credit lessons. Or the difference between there, their, and they’re. After that, I’m pretty much done and they better scoot along to their Daddy.
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The third trimester is totally starting to finally kick in and make me feel all wonky and tired and zombie-like. It’s like I regressed back into the First Trimester Lazy Haze.
Also, sleeping sucks lately as it’s impossible to get comfortable without my back, my ribs, or my stomach aching. Next thing you know, my eyebrows will be uncomfortable and keeping me up all night.
However, last night I was so tired that my body finally allowed me to sleep soundly all night long. These are the nights I am cherishing, as I know they’ll be long gone after August 25th(ish).
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Tomorrow we are going to our day-long birthing class at the hospital. I have some deeply mixed emotions about this.
Part of me is really excited to go and learn about what exactly is going to happen when I finally go into labor. The other part of me is absolutely TERRIFIED to know all the details (ie: episiotomy).
(Note to self: never again google the word “episiotomy” to find the correct spelling.)
I mentioned on my Facebook status the other day that I was banning myself from watching TLC’s A Baby Story until after I had given birth, though honestly? I think that show is more addicting than cocaine. The harder I try to keep from stopping on that show while flipping through channels, THE MORE I NEED IT. I can barely help myself.
Anyway, I am pretty sure I can blame that show for all the terror I’m feeling.
Well, that, and now also googling the word “episiotomy.”
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The fourth of July is always a bittersweet holiday for me.
Not for a deeply emotional reason, like because I have a family member in the armed forces (though I do greatly appreciate all that they do for us and am proud of my country), but because every summer it always feels as though the fourth of July represents the beginning of the end. Here we are in the throes of my favorite season, enjoying all of the delightful sun and warmth and watermelon juice dripping down our chins, then along comes July fourth and BAM! summer is all downhill from there. Before I can determine how much SPF to wear on any given day, fall is already here. School is back in session. Cookouts and pool days and suntans are over. Winter depression is right on the horizon.
Also on the negative side: fireworks.
To be honest, I am a bit of a hater when it comes to fireworks. The only fireworks displays that I find worthwhile are those at Disney World, particularly the ones at Epcot each night that are choreographed to music and fancy mood-lighting around all of the countries and which probably cost more than twenty times my monthly mortgage payment per night just to make people oooh and ahhh for less than thirty minutes.
I am a fireworks gold digger.
So each summer beginning about a week before the fourth of July when people decide to start shooting off their own hillbilly, jankety fireworks in their backyards I begin to get fiercely irritated. Really, what is the point of them?
Are these fireworks cool to look at? No. Let’s be honest, they’re from the temporary retail place that used to be a used car lot which has an an obnoxious hand-painted sign on an old piece of plywood that reads CHEAP FIREWURKS! and they’re really loud and not even pretty when they burst up a soaring twelve feet into the sky and they’re LAME.
Are they loud and obnoxious and horribly annoying to my ears? Yes, yes, and yes.
Are they really worth all of the money that people spend on them? Can you eat them or wear them? Then the answer is obviously NO.
Do they make my dog turn into a raging lunatic? He has totally made himself an appointment at the loony bin.
Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when we came home from spending the fourth at my parents’ house around ten o’ clock that night to see our neighbors parked in the empty lot across the street from our house lighting firework after firework, one right after another. The proximity of the explosives to our house, coupled with the fact that Oliver was so hyped up and nervous that his eyeballs shot out of his head and were dragging along the floor next to him, put my eight-months-pregnant, tired, cranky self a tad bit on edge.
All I wanted to do was drag myself into bed and call it night, but of course first priority was to let Oliver outside to go pee one last time before bedtime. Somehow I managed to lure him out into the backyard in between BOOMS! and WHEEEES!, but unfortunately he was only able to sniff around and hold his shit together for three seconds before another firework exploded and he came unglued and ran back to the house, scratching like a fool on the sliding door to be let inside like a little pansy.
That was the point when I was all, okay dog, if you enjoy the feeling of your bladder brimming with urine and on the verge of exploding, similar to THOSE FIREWORKS THAT WE ALL KNOW AND LOVE, and would like to endure that kind of torture until 8:00 tomorrow morning, BE MY GUEST.
And with that, he went into his (own) bed in the laundry room for the night, and I went to bed 60% agitated, 40% feeling like a bad mother knowing that he’d have to hold it for what would surely feel like a sweet forever, and 10% high on residual firework fumes.
Now repeat this scenario until approximately next Sunday when people decide that the fourth of July is actually over and quit with the stupid fireworks, and that is the current story of my life. In fact, right now? At 8:28 in the evening, when it’s not even dark out? FIREWORKS BEING LOUD AND OLIVER BARKING AND FLIPPING OUT AND MAMA IS GOING TO LOOOOOSE ITTTTT!!!
They’ve been engaged for – what? A month or so? – and I still can’t believe that my little sister is getting married. MARRIED. TO A BOY. The good news is that we really like the guy, and think he’s going to be a-okay. In fact, I know it.
Last Friday evening we celebrated their engagement with a small, elegant dinner with our family and his. It was a nice chance for the families to come together and toast to Courtney and Stockton’s future as husband and wife. And, lordy, there were a lot of toasts that night. If I had to count, I’d say there were approximately five or thirty-seven toasts given by the end of the night. It’s a good thing I had to drink water because if I toasted with champagne every time you would surely find me under the table when it was all said and done.
After a divine meal and some cake, the newlyweds-to-be dove into some gifts.
And because it was the day before the fourth of July, there were fireworks outside that we were able to watch before the night was over. Good planning on their part, eh?
It was a fun night, and just a snippet of all the celebrating, toasting, gift-opening, and reminiscing that they will do before the big day next August. I’m so happy for them!
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(Oh, and remember the dress I was stressing about wearing to this party?
It all worked out fine, just fine. I got the dress in the mail, it fit, and, SHOCK!, it was actually semi-attractive! Mad props to Isabella Oliver for blessing the world with some decent maternity garb.)
