Oh Crap, the Three's

As Ella's third birthday approached, I actually started to feel myself breathe easier.  We're still not potty trained (not even close) but we seemed to weather the two's with only minor battle wounds to show for it.   On the one hand, a part of me was nostalgic because really, there's just no way to justify a three year old as a toddler anymore (she really hasn't been for awhile).  Now, she's right smack in the middle of her preschool years, precocious as ever, and losing more of her baby chub every day.  Ack!  How did this happen?  WHEN did this happen??  (I think I want another baby).



On the other hand, I started congratulating myself on making it through her two's.  Jake and I high-fived each other with looks of satisfaction.  "We did it!  Yaaaaaay!"


And then I started getting comments on facebook about her impending birthday:


"Good luck with that!"
"Ugh, the THREE'S."
"My children were way worse at 3 then they were at 2." 
"Just when we thought the worst was over, he turned 3." 


 Someone even skipped a year ahead to give me advanced warning of the "F*** You Fours."


I died a little inside with every comment.


It's not that I thought Jake and I could dust our hands off and be officially DONE with the hardest part of child-rearing (um, I'm terrified of her teenage years), but I was hoping for at least a little reprieve.  Besides, all I had ever been warned about were the "Terrible Two's."  What is this with the three's now?   Lord knows you don't really get anything for making it out of the two's alive- no medal, no long weekend getaway sans kids, not even a shout-out.   In the very least, we had hoped to graduate with at least a partially potty-trained kid who "slept in" past seven.  No such luck.  


I scoffed and thought, "well, maybe that happens to OTHER kids.  Her two's were pretty tumultuous though, so I'm gonna say we've been through the worst..."


And here we are.  Three years and two weeks old, and as much as I wanted to say otherwise, it's like someone flipped a switch permanently to sassy mode.  Heaven help me.  There seems to be a new level of resistance to the things I ask her to do, marked simply by the fact that she's that much more articulate and conniving.  As if that isn't enough, she's started waking up multiple times a night for reasons like, "my curtain rod is scary," or "there's a penguin in my closet" or my most recent personal favorite, "I'm afraid I'm going to grow a peanut like Mi-yo."


Really, kid?


And so I find myself battling newborn-like sleep deprivation, only this time, having to maintain a conversation with my NOT newborn--at 2:20 in the morning-- about why it's just physically not possible for her to grow a penis.  (That's my girl.  If ever there was a good reason to lose sleep, she'll come up with it).  I stumble back into the room and wonder how it is that my one year old is sleeping better than my three year old.

 Jake: "What was it this time?"  
Me: "Apparently, she's scared of penises."  
Jake: "GOOD."


If I don't laugh, I'll cry.  But sometimes even laughing just takes too much darn energy.  In the meantime, I tell myself not to be scared about the three's (not much I can do about it now anyway). That maybe, just like everything else, it's a day by day thing.  Some days will need to be conquered with extra strong coffee, or chocolate, or wine, or maybe screaming into a pillow (me, not her).  And other days will find me in stitches over her spunky attitude, or simply marveling at the fun little girl she's becoming.  


I think there will be more of the latter.

Lessons In Chocolate

Jake and I have never been big Valentine's Day people. We avoid going out to eat- opting to stay home, cook a nice dinner, and open up a good bottle of wine. We usually exchange cards, and occasionally there are flowers for me, and that's usually it. Very low key. Now, if you know me, you know I like big. I like overdone. I like surprises. I can take an idea that I'm on fire about and run like the wind. I love planning and organizing. My heart can usually be found in the teensiest details of holidays and celebrations. In the end, I want to make a fuss over you, so just sit back, dammit, and let me have my way.

My husband on the other hand, doesn't like a fuss. Wants to fly under the radar. Less is more. Thinks a birthday is just another excuse to spend money for more stuff. He will tell you he already has enough stuff and he truly means it. This is a man who would be content with a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and maybe his iPhone or laptop.

Let me break it down for you even further. This is a typical conversation we have a couple of times a year:


Me: What would you like for Christmas/your birthday/Easter/Chinese New Year?

Jake: Nothing. I don't need a thing. (translation: I don't need anything at all).

Me: Okay, cool. But seriously, what do you want?

Jake: Really, nothing. I don't want anything. (translation: your love is all I'll ever need in this world).

Me: Oh. {fidgets and looks away}

Jake: Why? What do you want??

Me: Oh. You don't have to get me anything. (translation: there's a strategically placed magazine lying on my side of the bed up in our room, turned to p16 and you BETTER take a hint).


Flame me if you will, but after five years of marriage, no man in his right mind should show up on a major recognized holiday empty-handed, especially if he was instructed not to buy anything. I'm so sure of this that I plan to prepare Milo well in advance. I will tell him that when his future girlfriend/wife says she doesn't want anything, she's LYING. As a matter of fact, she wants that pair of shoes that she was eyeing five months earlier when you met her at the mall to grab dinner. It was probably when she said, "ooh, I wonder if they have those in my size." Or, if she fawns all over her girlfriend's new ring/bracelet/bag in front of you, you better PAY ATTENTION. She's only saying it out loud like that because she wants you to hear it and be able to conjure it up eleven months later when she says, "oh, you don't need to get me anything."

Does this make me sound shallow? Probably. But that's a limb I'm willing to put myself out on for a while, and here's why.


Because it actually isn't about the gift.


I know it sounds like I just contradicted myself, but let me explain. The night before Valentine's Day, I had to make a quick run to a nearby Walgreens to pick up some more Motrin for my little teething monster. While I was there, I walked past two well-dressed men standing in the card section and happened to overhear one of them joke to the other, "I'm not reading all of these. As long as I show up with something..." There were actually quite a few men in the card section that night. Some of them well-dressed. Some were in sweats with 5 o-clock (make that more like 8 o'clock) shadows. Young guys. Middle-aged men. The whole gamut.

I understand that Valentine's Day is really nothing more than a ploy to get consumers to spend more money and put unnecessary pressure on husbands, wives, parents, kids, and teachers to have something to hand their Valentines. And still, something in me cringed when I heard that exchange. I didn't think about it much more though, until Jake came home on Valentine's night with a dozen red roses and a card. The roses were beautiful, don't get me wrong. And the card was one that really spoke to what we shared as a couple- beautifully written and thoughtfully picked, I'm sure.

But there was a perceived problem: there were no chocolates. Yes, I'm aware that some women didn't get anything at all for Valentine's Day. I'm also aware that pointing out the absence of a heart-shaped box of truffles in light of the fact that I was given roses AND a card might make me sound incredibly spoiled. Furthermore, I'm aware that my husband is the bees knees and that he would prefer we didn't celebrate Valentine's Day at all for the reasons mentioned in the previous paragraph. I know all of this in my very core. But the thing is, I just really wanted some chocolates. I had even gone as far as to tell him this a couple of weeks ago. I was sure of it. It wasn't something I had simply hinted or given subliminal messages about. So I was disappointed, as much as I tried not to be. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I struggled against feeling entitled because, in typical me-fashion, I had gone all out (even though I had done it because I wanted to, not because I had ulterior motives).

Still, it bugged me, and he could tell. So I told him. Then I felt like crap. Then he felt like crap. Then I felt even more like crap for making him feel crappy. At first, even I couldn't figure out why it felt like such a big deal to me. Then, about halfway through an awkwardly-silent dinner (which also didn't taste nearly as good after my "where's the chocolate" conversation) I realized that it actually wasn't about the chocolate. I realized it had more to do with the crazy long hours we've both been working lately- him at his job, me at home with the kids. It's the almost constant-state of fatigue we find ourselves in, how we often go to bed at different times because there's always some project keeping one of us up, and how we can be in the same room with each other but sometimes not really see each other. And all of that lent itself to a small paranoia that saw my husband standing in that group of men at Walgreens the other night, randomly plucking out a cheesy card written in iambic pentameter because "anything would do." Yes, I wanted chocolate. But, I think what I really wanted was to know that, even after almost 6 years of marriage and 2 kids, we're still in sync with each other. That we can still tune out all of the ambient noise- the deadlines, appointments, kids, finances, artistic endeavors and everything in between- and dial into each other.


Of course, we don't need a holiday to reaffirm the bond we have with each other. I'm often guilty of putting a lot of pressure on a single day instead of realizing that I can take full advantage of the other 364 days a year to do the same thing. So I guess we both learned a valuable lesson the other night. Jake learned that there is no such thing as overrated chocolate (really, there's not. All chocolate is all good, all of the time).

And I learned that sometimes, it's not really about the chocolate at all...

"Go Shorty, It's Your Birfday"

My godparents walked in the door around 3:35 at the peak of Milo's birthday party. Popcorn was scattered on the floor, clusters of kids galloped through with cups of hot chocolate, and a duet of wails pierced through the ambient noise downstairs. Motorized toys whizzed between people's heels and a group of older elementary-aged kids had apparently created a secret society in our downstairs bathroom. No one was gained entrance because no one knew the correct password. As I hugged my godfather, he just shook his head, laughing and said matter of factly, "you've lost your ever-lovin' mind."

It was then that I noticed a few adults huddled close together in our dining room. At first, I thought they looked somewhat amused, but upon further inspection, I actually decided they looked scared. Milo clung fiercely to my leg and I gratefully took the opportunity to whisk him upstairs and nurse him. I knew, however, that it would take him all of four minutes to eat, and I wondered momentarily if I could get away with offering to feed anyone else's baby while I was at it. You know, just to buy myself some more time.

But all of the chaos was to be expected. We invited close to 70 people and 60 showed up. When it comes to birthdays, my motto has always been Go big or go home. No apologies. I wanted a special day for my boy, and that's exactly what we had. The mere fact that we had so many of our loved ones under one roof was, in and of itself, enough of a gift- both sets of grandparents, great-grandparents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, friends from close by, friends from a few hours away. With the exception of a handful that didn't get to be here, these were the people that made this birthday so poignant. Strip away everything else, and we still had more than sixty reasons to be thankful. That's just beautiful.


(Instead of a guestbook, I asked people to write a message to the birthday boy on a picture that we'll hang in his room).



And that would have been enough. But there was a little bit of extra sparkle to the day- some "icing on the cake" (and I later discovered, quite a bit on the wall- literally). Richmond has had an unusually warm winter this year, much to my dismay. With average temperatures in the mid 50's since November, I had all but given up hope that we would even see so much as a single snowflake this year. I forged ahead in planning Milo's "Winter ONEderland" party, despite visions of people drinking hot cocoa in short-sleeved shirts and flip-flops. But then my mom told me the day before his party that they were forecasting the temperature to drop sharply the next day, so I was relieved to think it would at least be cold outside, for once.

Then, around 3:30 yesterday, as our guests mingled and tried to dodge loud, hyper children, I looked outside and literally shrieked like a kindergartner as white, chunky snowflakes started swirling outside. Richmond's first official "snow" of the season (those of you in the north and midwest- go ahead and have a good laugh here).











There was an almost palpable excitement in our house. Kids pressed their noses against window panes and watched. A few more guests trickled in and shook the wintry wetness off their coats. Some weren't even wearing coats, as it was 50 degrees only a couple of hours before the party started. In a matter of minutes, the ground was covered in a thin blanket of snow. Once Milo was situated in his high chair, I rounded everyone up and a chorus of 60 voices sang happy birthday to him as it continued to come down.


He clearly wasn't as caught up in the moment as I was.






(Really, were we that off-key??)


But, for all of the tears, it was still as close to perfect as I could have imagined it being.


And, as if on cue, the snow stopped a few minutes before the party ended as guests began to bundle up to head home. The kids each got a pair of mittens and some of the homemade hot chocolate mix we served at the party. Hopefully, Richmond still has a day or two more of wintry weather up it's sleeve so they can actually enjoy them in the right setting. ;-)








Milo may not remember anything at all about his first birthday, but it's one that I certainly won't forget. :-)

Come One, Come All

In about 4 hours, there will be approximately 65 people coming over to celebrate my little guy's first birthday. So why am I sitting here writing a blog? Um, that's a good question. I don't know. It could be that I'm in denial of all that I still have left to do. Or it might be that I've just decided not to give a rip about some of the smaller stuff and let today be what it is.

For example. should I really bother cleaning the floors before 25 kids come busting through our door? I think not. But the Susie Homemaker in me wants things to be spotless. Then the voice of reason (for the purpose of this blog, I will refer to him as "Jake") reminds me that our house is never going to be spotless. Ever again. This makes my skin crawl a little but I try to ignore it.

I love that so many people are coming to help us celebrate- to have some of our most favorite people all under one roof is something I refuse to be too busy to recognize today. We are incredibly blessed. And I say that from a place of humility and gratitude.


Nevertheless, I'm pumping 35 adults full of coffee, and 25 kids full of hot chocolate and cupcakes. (I apologize in advance to all the parents for the potential meltdowns at bedtime. You are coming at your own risk). :)


And something tells me there will be a very large glass of wine- and perhaps a few tylenol in my near future this evening...





(Pictures to come). :)

Snapshots from 2011: A Year In Review

2011 was a year of change for our family (I say this like I think that some years should be completely static). But there were some very major life-changes this past year. So let me start with the obvious (and most awesome).



Our precious Milo was born on February 9, 2011.





(P.S. the transition from 1 to 2 is as hard as everyone said it would be. I'm not sure why I didn't believe them). :)




In May, my parents and grandmother (a.k.a. "Memama" and "P-pop") moved back to Virginia after living in Michigan for three years. To say that we're glad to have them living close to us again is an understatement. My dad and his birthday buddy share a special little bond.










In June, our Ella-bug turned two.








Right on the heels of her second birthday, we packed up our little house and moved back to the city. (Disclaimer: I do not recommend moving with young children).



(And I finally got to do a nursery for Milo) :)






Let's see....there was an earthquake in August. (Took us a long time to pick up the pieces).






Followed by a hurricane. How we never lost our power is still a mystery.






And a beach trip that was cut short when we realized that vacations with two little kid aren't really vacations. (But hey, we tried).






In October, we took Ella to see Yo Gabba Gabba Live. It's true that we had way more fun than she did.




Then, we discovered that the more kids you have, the quicker the holidays go by. Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas seem like a blur now. But I can't believe how much more fun it is to celebrate times like those with your kids. And all this time, I thought my parents were the ones missing out...




I can't help but be grateful when I look back on this past year and how our family has grown- in all senses of the word. We have much to celebrate today as we say goodbye to a truly pivotal and poignant year in our lives. :)

The Difference 365 Days Can Make (Part II)

I was just telling a friend tonight how it hasn't totally sunk in yet that I'm the mother of a pre-schooler. She's certainly not a baby anymore (in the literal sense of the word, because let's face it, she'll always be my baby) but sometime in the last 6 months- when I basically blinked- she crossed that threshold from toddler to a precocious pre-schooler. She is starting to speak in complete sentences on a fairly regular basis now, holding conversations with me that actually make sense (!) and stepping gracefully into the role of proud big sister (most days, at least). She laughs at jokes, knows her ABC's and will sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star if you ask her to, but when we're in the car, she prefers Adele's "Rollin' In the Deep," "Hey Soul Sister" or anything by the British rock band Athlete. Her favorite colors are green and pink. I refer to her as my little social butterfly, preferring to be right in the middle of what's happening when it's happening. She loves to love, and this is probably one of my most favorite of her qualities. Last week, I left to go to the store and when I started to walk out the door, she turned around and said, "Wuv you Mommy."

And there's that heartbreak again. How could I ever love anything more? How is it that a ball of 6 lbs 15 oz could show me the capacity with which I'm able to love and yet expose the worst of my weaknesses? Come to find out, parenthood exists within these dichotomies. The reality is that it took her a relatively short journey to become my daughter- 41 weeks, to be exact. But it will take me the rest of my life to become her mother, to grow into this role. It's constantly changing and evolving, often requiring "just a little more" when I feel I have nothing left to give.

But talk about a return on the investment.

Hundreds upon hundreds of memories turn those long days of "nothing left" into moments of realizing I have more than I could have ever asked for. And to add to those memories tomorrow morning will be chocolate chip pancakes and a rousing version of "Happy Birthday" to my sleepy 2 year old- my lucky #13 baby girl. :)

The Difference 365 Days Can Make

This picture was taken June 7th 2010. (Yes, I just posted a picture of my pee stick- deal with it). :) I called Jake- who happened to be overseas in London at the time- but when I couldn't reach him, I texted him a picture of the test, to which he eventually said " I don't really see a line..". {insert Debbie Downer them song here}. But I couldn't fault him. Most guys don't have "line eyes" like we women do. So then I texted him this picture:

Of course, then he believed me. :) I guess something about seeing the word spelled out across the test strip made it more real, even for me. And so we learned that our family of three was going to become a family of four. Life changes and evolves. It's a continual rollercoaster that begs the question: do we clench our teeth and white-knuckle the safety bar? Or do we let go, throw our hands up in the air and enjoy the ride?

June 7th 2011: my baby boy who is 2 days shy of 4 months, and my big baby girl, who is 6 days shy of turning 2.

Life is good. :)

Milo's Birth Story {or something close to it}

I'm about half-way into my humongo cup of coffee and feeling somewhat coherent, so I figure now might be a good time to conjure up Milo's birth story before the sleep deprivation and postpartum memory-suppressing hormones rob me of the remaining details. {I love my french press. Just need to give it a shout-out. Moving on....}

I never wrote Ella's birth story out. It was such an incredible and life-changing experience that I *swore* I couldn't ever forget it. Then, reality hit like a ton of bricks (or should I say, "like a spinal tap") when I was lying on the cold O.R. table, feeling my whole body slipping away from my own control and I quickly began to realize there were, in fact, quite a few things I didn't remember {read: chose to repress} from when she was born. As I was feeling the warm numbness take over my legs and the heavy weight on my chest from being flat on my back, the room started to spin and I broke out into a sweat and started to feel very sick. I muttered something to the effect of, "Why is this happening...? I don't remember any of this with my daughter..." And my sweet anesthesiologist gently stroked my hair and said, "Of course you don't remember any of this, honey. That's why you're back here again." She laughed to herself like she had just delivered the best punch line and I decided I might one day be able to laugh at it when I finally got the feeling back in my diaphragm or maybe by Milo's first day of Kindergarten.

This story will be somewhat shorter than Ella's, and probably not nearly as exciting, since I didn't have the 20 hour labor prior to the c-section like I did almost 2 years ago. But here are the bare bones, as well as my very NON-medical interpretation of them.

1). "Your c-section is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Please be here at 5:30 a.m."

Interpretation: "Because we want to pump you full of enough fluid to make your ankles look like sausages and make your chin disappear into your neck. And while we're doing this, we'll be asking you questions about every known virus and infection you've had since you were two and poking you repeatedly in the hand in an attempt to get a blood sample. This will actually only take about 45 minutes, but we thought it would be fun for you to get up at 4:30 and get here extra early because our beds are just THAT comfortable.




2). "Okay, we're ready to take you to the O.R."

Interpretation: But we won't be wheeling your bed in like last time or even taking you by wheelchair. No, no. That's too boring. Instead, we'll make you walk down the hall and flash your crack to everyone you pass and maybe even trip over your own IV bag. {We'll all laugh behind your back and tell you it happens to everyone else, too}. And if you weren't already shaking from nerves, you'll be shaking from the meat locker-like temperature of the operating room. Then, we'll strip you of even more security by asking your husband to wait outside while we insert a long needle into your back, BUT we'll give you a squishy pillow to hold onto in his place.

3). "You're gonna feel a tiny sting."

Interpretation: Really? Was *that* a bee that just stung me?? Because I stepped on a bee with my bare feet when I was three and I barely noticed it. So, dear nurse, although I realize it wouldn't be too prudent to tell your patients, "hey- you're about to feel like a snake is sinking it's teeth into your spinal column," I'd still like to say: Tiny sting, my @$$.

4). "Just lay back and relax."

Interpretation: Mmkay, sure, I'll do that. You go ahead and strap down my arms while I lie flat on my back and feel like I'm suffocating. And I'll have you know, when you just poked me with that sharp object to make sure I couldn't feel anything, I FELT IT. {Enter panic mode here}. But go ahead and cut me open and I'll just "lay back and relax." Oh, and did I mention that I have this insane fear of vomiting? I did? Okay, well, I'm about to tell you again, because the room is starting to spin and I'm feeling a little too warm and I think I might be sick. I NEED MORE ZOFRAN. Where is my husband? Why do I feel like I can't breathe? Don't hand me that basin to puke in. (And for God's sake, why do you give your patients a tiny pinto-bean sized plastic dish to throw up in? Who has that kind of aim??) GIVE ME MORE ZOFRAN. I realize that it's just another day, just another section for you all as you stand over my entrails and talk about the recent Superbowl, but seriously, can we get to the part with the screaming baby? K, thanks.




5). "Lots of pressure now..."

Interpretation: "You thought you couldn't breathe earlier, but just wait. Now we're actually going to push and pull and stretch things and your lungs are going to momentarily come up into your throat." {But oddly enough, I still found myself grateful l wasn't having to use those over-stretched muscles to actually push him out}.

6). 8:06 a.m. February 9th 2011.

Interpretation: What would normally be an average minute on an average day now becomes a defining moment that I'll remember the rest of my life- just the way I remember 7:49 p.m on June 13, 2009 as my Ella-bug's voice pierced the air and I finally crossed the threshold into motherhood. One minute earlier and my world was violently spinning and I couldn't catch my breath and then suddenly, everything around me stopped. He was on the outside. He was real. He was okay. Pink and mad and screaming his little lungs out for his perfect apgars. (Such a little over-achiever already). I felt myself breathe deep and relax- for the first time in a long 10 months. My son, my little My-Ry, born on my dad's birthday- arrived right on time. Not a second too early, not a second too late.






8:06 a.m. and I became a mommy again, crossing a new kind of threshold- one that promised I would be enough, have enough and love more than enough- two times over. My heart has never been so full.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six HUndred Minutes...

How do you measure a year?

The past 525,600 minutes (I refuse to type that out again) have, indeed, been the most precious of my life so far. At 7:49 pm on a warm Saturday evening in June, all at once, I fell in love, had my biggest dream fulfilled and felt my heart break in a completely new way. I remember a very real feeling of panic as they placed this tiny peanut-person in my very shaky, unsteady, new-Mom arms. "Can't these nurses see that I don't know what I'm doing? Are they really going to leave her with me? What now??"

Looking back, I wish I could say that I remember more of our first few days and weeks together as a new family. Unfortunately, for about the first 3 months, I walked around my house half-robed in a zombie-like state, searching for either a paci, the coffee maker, or a burpcloth. So perhaps, the last year could be measured solely in the amount of time I spent awake when I should have been sleeping. I'm gonna guess it was about 495,000 minutes of the 525, 600.

But I have a confession. I didn't write in her baby book this year. *Bad Mommy.* I had every intention to. I even went out and bought a scrapbook, stickers, paper and special markers to do her very own scrapbook. And every time I open my hall closet and see all the materials still neatly tucked away in their original packaging, I laugh at my own naivety. Sure, after the baby goes down, the house is picked up, dinner is made and errands are run, why wouldn't I want to sit down and spend a couple of hours with a glue stick, scissors and stickers? I have a sneaky suspicion the book and all of it's components will be hanging out in our hall closet- quite possibly- until she's in college. So unfortunately, I wish I could tell you the exact date she said her first word, rolled over from tummy to back and vice versa, ate her first food and took her first steps, but I can't. But maybe knowing the dates isn't so important after all. I lived those moments with her, regardless of whether I made note of them elsewhere. And while my Mommy brain may not be functioning on all cylinders all of the time, I have come to realize that those moments are etched in my memory just as clear as if they happened yesterday: the way it felt to hold her for the first time, the way I melted when she smiled her first real smile (and I knew it wasn't gas), the first time she said "mama" to me and held her arms out to be picked up, the panic and helplessness I felt the first time we made a trip to the ER at 5:30 in the morning when she spiked a fever, the first time she walked to me....

These moments make up just a small fraction of the grand-total, but they are the ones that have helped define me as a mommy this year.

"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee" (and there were a lot of those)

"In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife

"In five-hundred twenty-five-thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?"

How about love? There's been an abundance of it this past year and for that, I'm so grateful. :)

The "B" Word...

Jake and I returned home yesterday from a relaxing weekend trip to Virginia beach.  We left Friday morning, stopped for lunch at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg and made it to our hotel in time to still enjoy some good daylight on the beach.  The weather hovered in the mid-70's for the entire time we were there- absolutely beautiful.  We knew we would splurge on a couple of nice meals, but packed some snacks, wine, chocolates and other indulgences "just in case."  There was no agenda except total relaxation.  This was our last trip as the two of us- to celebrate just that: the two of us will very soon be the three of us.  It will never be *just* the two of us again, so why not take full advantage.  If the term "babymoon" has popped into your head, bravo!  That's what most people these days would call it.  Jake, however, thinks the term sounds pretentious and almost refused to go if that's what I insisted on calling it.  Whatever.  You want a long weekend getaway to celebrate the impending birth of our child and the closing chapter of our life as a two-some?  You got it.  Just don't call it what it really is.  Therefore, the only "B" word you will hear me refer to in this post is the beach. *wink wink*

And not only is the beach fun, but I also found it to be very educational.  There were a few things I took away from it, besides unwanted sand in my bra and a little sunburn.  Here are a couple of little nuggets:

1.  Sand hurts.

Bad.  Especially when it gets into crevices that, as an 8 month pregnant person, I can no longer see or reach.  Despite the 70 degree weather and sun, the wind gusts were pretty strong down on the beach.  Which meant sand in my mouth, sand in my shirt and bra (my boobs are going through enough as it is, thank you very much), sand in other fun and surprising places.  Some of this might have been avoided had I actually packed beach towels.  (See #2).

2.  Beach towels and sunscreen are *kinda* important.

Why this wasn't on my radar, I have no idea, other than to blame my stupid preggo brain.  I'm the only person I know who packs for the beach and leaves behind sunscreen and something on which to actually sit at the beach.  *Picture me and Jake toting our small, inadequate bath towels from the hotel down to the dunes.*  Obviously, I'm not one for keeping up with appearances when it comes to "necessities."  Sure, I packed 2 cute maternity sundresses, 5 tops, 3 pairs of pants. 4 pairs of shoes (we were there for 2 days total) and 3 different hair styling products, but no beach towel.  I still hold my head up high.

3.   Once you sit down on the sand, you should plan to stay there for a while.

This was only complicated by the missing beach towel problem from #2.  Obviously, if towels weren't on my packing radar, then any kind of foldable beach chair certainly wasn't either.  (We're gluttons for punishment, what can I say?)  So I plopped down on the sand and then proceeded to flop around like a fish out of water (or more like the kid brother Randy from the movie A Christmas Story) until I found a somewhat comfortable position.  Jake continued to read and write in his journal, clearly deep in thought and completely tuned out to my grunts and groans.  I kept my mind off of my aching hips and pelvic region by feeding the local seagulls, much to his annoyance.  Had Jake not been there to ultimately help me to my feet, I would probably still be lying there on the beach, doing what I consider to be a great impersonation of a beached whale.

4.  It's good to slow down (and not just because of my lower back).

It's finally begun to sink in that the days of just being the two of us are numbered, which brings about some mixed feelings on my part.  Although I'm anxiously counting down the days until we meet our Junebug, I sometimes want to be able to freeze moments of our lives together right now, so that we can always remember them for what they are right now: lazy mornings in bed, going to dinner at the drop of a hat, a leisurely weekend trip to the beach before packing up the stroller and diaper bag...

I'm more aware than ever of how quickly the time is moving now, and although I'm at the point where I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore, I don't want to wish away this time either.  We will never get it back and we will never be expecting our first again either.  Truly a time to slow down and cherish all that's good...

"Me" Day

I am a birthday freak.  I like to make a fuss over people on their birthdays because I think that's how it should be.  Everyone gets their own special day, so it stands to reason they ought to be made to feel special on that day. This isn't like Christmas (don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing Jesus' birthday by any means), when everyone tends to feel special on Christmas morning- perhaps even a bit entitled-  (flashback: 10 years old sitting by the Christmas tree and counting gifts to make sure I wasn't getting "gypped."  Sad, I know).  Jesus had a birthday, and we all run out to the malls spending hundreds of dollars on gifts to give each other.  Some gifts are thoughtful and others are "pressure" gifts- you know, the ones you have to have on standby because inevitably someone that wasn't on your shopping list will give you a gift (*dang-it!*) and you will feel guilty for not giving them one, so you either scrap something together last second (re-gift, maybe?) or have the "standby stash" ready....absolute absurdity.  

Alas, I digress.   Birthdays are different.  In my opinion, it's the one day out of the year a person should feel a bit of entitlement- it is, after all, the day your fabulous self made an entrance into the world.   It calls for a bit of celebration: cake (and let's not leave out candles!), perhaps a lunch or dinner at a favorite restaurant, a little guilt-free shopping spree (if you're the shopping type), a last minute decision to stop for that favorite latte,  maybe a manicure or pedicure or some other form of pampering...(can you tell that I'm the indulgent type?)  A few years ago, I started joking that my birthday should be called "Me Day" (much to my husband's chagrin), and it just kinda stuck.  I still call it "Me Day"- more because I like to watch Jake roll his eyes in disgust.  Jake is at the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to birthdays.  He wants no special attention whatsoever, could probably care less if there's a cake waiting for him and heaven forbid you put candles on it and actually sing to him (his face becomes a deep shade of burgundy).  He always tells me he doesn't need or want anything for his birthday, but I'll have none of that.  Meanwhile, if I tell him I don't really want anything for my birthday, he knows that I'm lying through my teeth and that there's actually this pair of shoes/handbag/spa day I've been thinking about.  But I will not let him get away with the "my-birthday-is just-like-any other-day" attitude.  I will make a fuss over people- even more so for my husband.  He just has to deal with it.  (A little birthday embarrassment never hurt anyone).

That being said, my birthday was a bit anti-climactic this year- but not because I didn't feel loved or celebrated.  I had so many birthday wishes from family and friends, an afternoon without teaching lessons and going wherever the wind blew me, lunch with a good friend, a special visit to the hospital to meet our good friends' baby boy who decided he wanted to share "Me Day," a birthday dinner with Jake and his family....it really was a fabulous day.  I'm even going to have a spa day this Friday with a good friend of mine for a little third trimester pampering (my birthday gift from Jake).  But even all of that seems to pale in comparison to the *other* birthday I'm counting down to.  Heck, screw my birthday- I'm ready to celebrate this little bug's arrival!  Yeah, you think I make a big fuss over people now...just wait 'til it's my own baby's turn.  It would probably surprise no one if I even insisted on having some celebratory cake in the room after the baby is born (this Momma's got to eat too)!   So the countdown is on...my birthday, Jake's birthday....Junebug's birthday.  

I am very aware of the fact that I will soon be holding the purpose for which I was born and I can't wait...