Size FAWM

What do clowns and I have in common? NO, not the frizzy hair. Jerks. No, not the nose. Just stop guessing. This isn't healthy for our relationship. I'll just tell you: It's our feet. Clowns have huge feet, and so do I. I'm not going to tell you what size I am, because I maintain precious little dignity on social media and I'll be darned if you all start checking out my shoes every time you see me. Let's just say my feet are fearfully and wonderfully made, or FAWM for short.

I come by it honestly - there is a not a dainty-footed person in my family. My brother has to special-order his shoes because stores don't sell them. You'd think we'd be taller, but...no. Just my brother is tall. My sister and I have to endure both large feet and not being able to reach the top shelf of our kitchen cabinets. Life is unfair sometimes.

The thing about having size FAWM feet is that you're sort of limited in the kinds of shoes you can wear. And if your feet are also wide, like mine (thanks, gene pool), that makes your choices even slimmer. It's not that shoes don't come in size FAWM - many of them do. But when shoe designers make shoes, they are thinking of average people who have average feet, not average people who walk around with their legs attached to canoes. So they make all these cute designs and add the stripes and make everything reflective and shiny, which is all really cute in, like, a size 7. But when you add a few more inches to that shiny little stripe on the side, suddenly it turns into a giant flashing sign that says, "HEY. HEY, YOU GUYS. LOOK OVER HERE. MY FEET ARE BIG. COME OVER HERE SO YOU CAN BE PROPERLY HORRIFIED." Not a sexy look.

But the worst part of wearing size FAWM is that I almost never find my size out on the floor. Like I said, companies make my size. But I don't know a ton of people who wear size FAWM, and those sizes are understandably kept in the back so that people who don't have freak-of-nature feet can enjoy shopping without having to witness the horror of the giant box that contains the size FAWMs.

My usual MO is to find a few pairs that I like, bring a box of each to the store clerk, and ask him to bring me the shoes in my size. I do it that way so I don't have to ask for my gigantor shoes more than once. Because, inevitably, asking for my shoe size involves a much lengthier conversation than I would like. Well, I would like no conversation, but I would settle for a two-sentence maximum.

Instead, I usually have some variation of the following conversation:

Me: Hi, can you see if you have these in a FAWM? (Don't worry; I give the real size to them)
Store Clerk: A size what?
Me: *shuffling feet, clearing throat* A size FAWM.
SC: Oh. *raises eyebrows* Really? But you're so short!
Me: Yeah, I know.
SC: Are you sure that's your size? We could measure you.
Me: I'm sure. I've been wearing the same size for a while.
SC: Not many women wear that size.
Me: I'm special.
SC: Okay, well, if you're sure, I'll go get these for you. *pauses expectantly*
Me: Yes, please.

It's exhausting. I only buy new shoes once every million years so I don't have to have the conversation a lot, but I think we can all agree that once is enough.

Don't even get me started on the shoes I've worn as a bridesmaid. I have zero complaints about the fashion choices my friends and family have made for their bridesmaids. Cute dresses, cute theme, cute shoes. But nothing looks quite as dainty on a size FAWM foot. During my sister's wedding, you can see me walking down the aisle, a smile frozen on my face, and you start to wonder why I haven't changed my expression at all. But if you listen closely, you can hear a clop, clop, clop, clop in the background. Those would be my super-sized tootsies, stomping their way through an otherwise very quiet church. I was trying to concentrate on walking more quietly while also continuing to smile while also using my Panic Eyes to convey to someone, anyone, that I was aware of the noise and would hopefully be down the aisle in a timely fashion.

The struggle is real. Two kids later, the struggle has become even realer. But I did get new shoes recently, and, wonder of wonders, they had size FAWM on the shelf! I found my people. And my new shoes are black - it's so slimming!

These are not the shoes I bought recently. I ordered these from clownfeet.org. I think they bring out the sturdiness of my ankles!

The Mommy Wars

Before I became a mother, I had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. It was one of those subjects that I was woefully but blissfully ignorant of - I really didn't have much use for information like which brand of diapers was best or how you need to move like a frickin ninja to escape infant projectile vomit.

I am still far from an expert, but after I had kids, I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys (seriously, do they even work in the plastic cars? Then WHAT IS THE POINT) and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory.

The parent side has lots of surprises. You learn words like "Wubanub" and "cluster feeding" and, in our case, "hyerbilirubenimia." But one of the most unexpected surprises I encountered was the Mommy Wars. If you're not familiar, the Mommy Wars is an ongoing battle between mothers (and occasionally fathers) over various methods of parenting. For example: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, strollers vs. babywearing, cloth diapers vs. disposables, velociraptor vs. t-rex, etc etc. I tend to bop through life in a cloud of glitter and Skittles and assume everyone does the same, so I was really surprised to see how often these issues popped up, not to mention the intensity of the arguments they caused. Articles are flung left and right; everyone from psychologists to school teachers to children's birthday clowns seems to have a scientific opinion on whether letting your baby sleep in your bed will scar him for life. Sometimes people start snapping their fingers and singing and that's when you know that it just got real.

As much as I love a good argument, I found myself avoiding these particular fights as I delved into research of my own (fine, as I copied every single thing my sister did). Not because I was offended. Not because I wanted to interview those birthday clowns for myself to see if their science was accurate. No, my avoidance was due to something much simpler. Something that I think has the potential to end these Mommy Wars forever. Are you ready for this incredible secret? Here you go:

Apathy.

Yes. Apathy. I do. not. care. I do not care if you feed your child formula. I do not care if you breastfeed your child. I do not care if your child only eats hot sauce. Not because I am a serene, peace-loving person who can rise above such petty conflicts as I practice yoga in my meditation garden. I am just too lazy to care. I am tired. I am busy. I am constantly losing one of my children. So at the end of the day, whether you strap your baby to your back in a pretty wrap or with several socks tied together, I'm cool with it. Just don't drop the kid because that's not cool. I mean, I probably wouldn't turn you in or anything. Actually, just writing about it has pretty much sapped my energy so go ahead and drop little Timmy; I won't tell.

This isn't a humble brag where I toot my own lazy horn and show you how I win all the Mommy Wars due to my lack of judging others and indifference to others' judgment of me. Despite the awkward, chaotic mess that is my daily interaction with people, I do care what other people think of me. I'm only human. But I am a lazy human, and while I have tried hard to get worked up over the fact that Sally Smith doesn't believe in disposable diapers...eh. What do I care? Is Sally at my house, throwing away my diapers and forcing me to use cloth ones? Has she hired Tonya Harding to bash me in the knee so I can say a lot of embarrassing things on national television that will follow me forever? No? Then...eh. Sally can have her cloth diapers and I can have my disposable ones and somehow I think the world will keep turning.

So, parents and people everywhere - join me on the Other Other Side. The side where you always feel accomplished because your kids are alive at the end of the day and that's really all you were going for. The side where all your decisions are right because no one was paying attention to them anyway. You don't even have to put on real pants. Take the plunge. Cross over. Drop your cares and worries at the gate - your toddler or dog will probably eat them and then you won't even have to step over them.

Apathy: The real future of parenting. I'd put that on a t-shirt, but...eh.

Clearly my parenting is superior to yours.

It's Totally Different

I recently acquired a second child. I know. I also questioned the wisdom of letting me raise a second child but it's too late now. Plus she is really cute and smells like strawberries so I want to keep her. And sniff her. All the time.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Children.

In a true representation of my attitude about parenting, I was not that excited to find out I was having a second child. I wasn't sad or mad. Mostly surprised. And panicked. So, so panicked. The kind of panic you feel when you realize you have to make a sacrifice to the porcelain throne while you're in the middle of the check-out lane at the grocery store with a week's worth of food and a child who is trying to eat the handle of the buggy.

But I had a good reason. Most people who read my posts know that my first child (the afore-mentioned buggy-eater) was born very early at 26 weeks and spent a long time in the hospital fighting for his life. My husband and I had decided to wait for several years to even discuss a second child. Except then God was all "LOL you guys are totes hilarious" and we found out we were going to be parents for the second time in as many years. Cue the panic.

Everyone said the same thing: "It will be totally different." The odds of the same thing happening with this pregnancy that had happened the first time were probably pretty low. The doctors, friends, family members - they all repeated that to me over and over. It will be totally different. And as things progressed and continued to go well, I believed it. This time would be totally different. None of the fear, no NICU stay, no wondering when my baby would be home, no driving back and forth to the hospital every day. This time, I promised myself, would be great.

And then I realized that I didn't like that attitude very much. Not that I wanted this baby to stay in the NICU or have any problems, but I was starting to look at my experience with Josh as a bad thing. Slowly but surely I had separated the birth experiences of my children into Things You Never Ever Want To Happen and The Super Best Thing Ever Yay For My Baby. You can guess which one goes in which category. And I really started to hate that distinction.

I get asked all the time if I would change Josh's circumstances at the time of his birth and during his hospital stay. I always answer no, and that is the honest truth. But over the last few months I began to realize that not only would I not change it; I want to celebrate it. I want to shout from the rooftops that while it didn't go the way I had planned, I still got to meet my beautiful baby boy and fell in love with him from the get-go. I want to be just as thrilled over his birthday as I am with Jenna's. When people ask me his age, I want to give his real one, the one that goes with the birthday we will celebrate for years to come as we remember what a blessing he is. I want him to know that even though it was hard, the day he was born was one of the best of my life, right up there with my wedding day and the day Gilmore Girls premiered.

It doesn't bother me that people remind me how different the experience with each of my children was. It was my own attitude about the situation that bothered me the most. Was it different this time? Yes, so incredibly different. Was it better this time? Not even a little. It was just as exciting, just as amazing, and just as incredible the second time around. Because the thing about having kids is that there are ups and downs and everything in between, and you never really know what lies ahead of you. And at the end of the day none of that matters anyway. All that matters is that on your child's birthday, whether he celebrates it in the NICU or asleep in your arms, you have something so fantastic that the rest just kind of fades away. That's is what I want to remember about both of my children. I never want to forget the rest because it's important, too. But the most important thing I can ever take away from both of my experiences is how amazing it was to see them with my own eyes for the first time and feel a love so deep and immeasurable that I knew I was a goner from the very first seconds of their lives.

So, yes. This time around it has been totally different. I wouldn't have it any other way...except for how it was the first time.

The Five Types of Facebookers

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. Like, a lot. I imagine my kids' first sentences will be something like, "Are you going to update your status soon, Empress of the Universe?" Also I will be teaching my kids to address me as Empress of the Universe. And since I not only spend a lot of time on Facebook but also have a degree in public relations, which means I am basically a Facebook expert, I have noticed a trend. The majority of Facebookers I see fall into at least one category, sometimes two. Sometimes three. I fear those people the most. And, lucky you, I have decided to share these categories for your benefit and enjoyment. Which one are you? Are you more than one? Tell me all.

The Liker:

This person may or may not comment, but as soon as your status goes up, you can count on them to click the "like" button to show their approval of your latest update. This person moves like a silent ninja, liking things all over the place, even if what they like makes no sense. Sometimes this person likes other peoples' comments - people they don't even know. The most terrifying power this person wields is the notifications. Oh, the notifications. There is nothing like opening up Facebook, clicking on your notifications, and seeing the same profile picture eighteen times in a row because The Liker has struck once again to express their approval for everything you have written in the last three hours. Well played, Liker. Well played.

The InstaCommenter:

I don't know how this person moves so quickly, but within five seconds of you pressing "post," this person has already commented on your status/picture/link. This truly baffles me. I am not judging how much time The InstaCommenter spends on Facebook, because people in social media houses shouldn't throw virtual stones. But how does this person react so fast? HOW? What's even more impressive/confusing is that this person, much like The Liker, moves swiftly and silently. They may not have had any activity on Facebook for six hours. But the moment you respond to their comment, there they are, ready with an InstaFollowUp. I can only imagine they have some kind of pager attached to their wrist at all times that alerts them to the exciting news that they can once again comment on a Facebook status. Or maybe they're psychic.


The Drama Llama:

My goodness, this person has a rough life. Or so they would lead you to believe. I am not the Facebook police. You can write what you want on your Facebook page. But there are some days where I see a Drama Llama and have to resist the urge to find a way to cut off their Internet access. You will recognize the Drama Llama because while their crisis will seem urgent and/or terrible, further inspection will show you that what they are experiencing is not, in fact, that big of a freakin' deal. The Drama Llama is crafty, and toys with your emotions using lots... of.... ellipses... to build up... ... ... suspense... before doing... a... big reveal IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. An experienced Drama Llama could make buying new shampoo a nail-biter of an event. It's hard to tell whether the Drama Llama is really this upset about a non-issue, or if they just really like typing sad faces. This is one of the mysteries of life that may never fully be solved.

The Nostalgic Stalker:

Have you ever gotten a notification that someone has liked or commented on a post, clicked to see the post, and been really confused for about thirty seconds before realizing said post is from 2009 and you barely remember writing it? That confusion is brought to you courtesy of the Nostalgic Stalker. Part of the blame has to lie with the silly Facebook newsfeed that shows you posts from two days ago and pretends they are new. But most of the blame lies with the Nostalgic Stalker as they scroll through your profile and acknowledge every post you have made in the last six months. Unlike The Liker and InstaCommenter, subtlety is not this person's strength. Oftentimes they refuse to acknowledge that any other events have passed since you posted whatever they are commenting on, resulting in gems like, "Hope your wedding is full of blessings!" three years after you get married. Have they not been on Facebook for several months? Do they think you might like to be reminded of the day you graduated college? It's hard to say why the Nostalgic Stalker does what they do. But one thing is certain - they will do it to you.

The Killjoy:

Oh, man. This person. This person bums me out just to write about, so you can imagine what running into one of them on Facebook is like. The Killjoy's main goal is to suck the life and fun out of every hilarious or uplifting thing you post. Writing out your favorite Bible verse and posting it as your status? The Killjoy will comment with a fun fact on how that verse is actually severely mistranslated and really does not mean anything close to what you thought. Want to post some lyrics of your favorite inspirational song? The Killjoy will link an article that explains the artist is now on meth and hates kittens. And heaven forbid you post something a little tongue-in-cheek as your status. The Killjoy does not do sarcasm. Any statuses about how you want to sell your baby online will result in lectures on how children are a precious gift, why DFACS does not want you to sell your children, and articles from parenting magazines about loving the moment. Don't be that person. No one likes that person. At all.

And there you go - the Five Types of Facebookers. They are real. They are out there. I have been all of these at one point or another, and - admit it - so have you. It's okay. We're here for you. But seriously, don't link parenting articles to my status. I will not have that nonsense. I will. not. have it.

Babies are like dogs (but dogs aren't like babies)

I have now been a parent for almost 10 months (10 MONTHS WHY GOD WHYYYY), and while I am still relatively new to the child-raising game, I have garnered a lot of wisdom in my short tenure. For example, don't get attached to your baby's socks. The cuter they are, the faster they disappear in the Great Sock Void, where socks are drawn in by a guy selling candy and are never seen again. Another fun fact is that toots are deceptive. What you are smelling is probably just a toot, but since you have to make sure and unbutton those stupid PJs, look in the diaper, and stop your baby from wriggling out of his pajamas so he can finally be free like he's always wanted, it winds up being just as much work as if the smell was actually poop.

But the most startling discovery, the most shocking, wild, unexpected bit of information I have learned this year is this: Babies and dogs have a lot in common. 

Let me clarify: Owning a dog does not equal raising a baby. I know that your precious Fifi is a lot of work and the other night you had to stay up with her because she was sick and it was very sad and that you might think it's the same as having a baby. Stop that. Dogs are a lot of work, but at least they take their poop outside (most of the time). And dogs become self-entertaining - that tail is easy to chase pretty early on. But, in spite of the many difference, there are also a lot of similarities. Maybe the better way to say it is that I approach raising my child much like the way I approach owning a dog. Wait. That doesn't sound right. Just keep reading. 

This is my dog: 

Ignore the terrifying eyes. He isn't a robot. 

This is my baby:

Cute, right?? I know. 

At first glance, you might wonder what these two have in common, besides the fact that in each picture they are drooling on something. But while you're looking for the drool in both of these pictures, consider the following list of things I say to my dog and my child on a daily basis:

- "What is in your mouth??"

- "Don't lick that."

- "There is no need to make that noise."

- "Tell me what you want... you're looking toward the kitchen... food? Is it food? It's food!!!"

- "Is this dirt or poop?" (It's poop. It's always poop.)

- "This <insert gross thing> sounds like a job for Daddy... Oh, Daniel!!"

So you can see that the similarities are already building. Both my dog and child would like to chew on every electrical cord available. They enjoy rolling things into small, hard to reach places and then they enjoy crying until I find a way to reach it. They both want something that is totally, completely unreasonable all of the time: The dog would like to be a lap dog and curl up on us in spite of the fact that he is fifty pounds. The baby would like to both turn his head away from his bottle and drink from his bottle at the same time. They both have a knack for ignoring the safe, happy toys right in front of them and instead presenting me with random pieces of trash, in spite of the fact that I just vacuumed and picked up all trash in sight. 

And my baby can't even crawl yet. I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. 

So, other moms - tell me, am I right? Do my infant and my pooch bear a resemblance to each other? Or am I just a really terrible person who compares her sweet baby to her dog?

Mother's Day

When I first heard that Joshua's due date was May 30th, I immediately ran through how old he would be for major holidays - seven months old at Christmas, six at Thanksgiving. He would probably even be in time for Father's Day if he wasn't very late. I had a gift for Daniel all planned. A small one, one that wouldn't take a lot of time, because we'd be so busy with the new baby.

Funny how things change.

When I starting seeing the commercials for Mother's Day gift ideas and saw all the special cards start to appear at the grocery store, I didn't think twice about it. I knew my siblings and I would get together to figure out a gift for our mom (and by "siblings" and "get together," I mean that my brother and I both assume our sister will take care of it and we'll pay her back. Don't worry; she likes it.) and we would have dinner together and probably play a game or something. It never occurred to me that I would be celebrating my first Mother's Day, too.

One of the NICU nurses asked what our plans were to celebrate. It took me a second to figure out what she meant and when I did, I just kind of shrugged and said we didn't have any plans for me. The nurse seemed surprised, but I was equally surprised that she would think we were celebrating. Technically, yes, I am a mother, but it's not like I really take care of my child. The nurses do that and always have.

But as went through the week, it seemed that God was sending me sign after to sign to show me that I am, in fact, a mother, even if my baby isn't at home with me. When Josh screams as loud as he can, he usually wants his pacifier. I know that by the sound of the cry. I also know that I can only let him have the pacifier until he falls asleep, because he'll forget to breathe if he falls asleep with it in his mouth. I know that in a few more minutes he'll wake up again, search for the pacifier, and cry again until I give it to him and he falls asleep. Every afternoon from 4:00 to 5:00, that's what happens. He's really cute so I don't mind.

When he doesn't want his pacifier, he probably needs a diaper change. Or sometimes his little hands get stuck inside his sleeves and he can't get them out. Sometimes he hears Daniel's voice and wants desperately to see his daddy, but he's facing the wrong way and can't turn over. Sometimes he just wants attention, like a finger to hold or a little kiss on the cheek. But I always figure it out.

I know that he wants to lay flat on his back when I hold him but he isn't supposed to because of his acid reflux, so until he falls asleep I move him around every couple of minutes so he won't get upset. I know that once he falls asleep, I cannot. move. a muscle. or he will immediately open his eyes and we'll have to start all over again. I know that he doesn't like his hands to be under his blanket, and if someone does cover his hands with his blanket, he will wiggle them free in about two seconds. I know that he doesn't want you to touch his feet or ears under any circumstances whatsoever. Seriously. He'll cut you.

I know all of these things because I am his mother. I have always been his mother. No one knows him like I do. Even if he lives at the hospital. Even if I'm not the one changing his diapers. Even if I don't get to see him for a whole day. I am his mother and he is my baby.

So for the mothers who have big, healthy kids,

For the mothers who are waiting to meet their little one,

For the mothers whose children have moved away,

For the mothers who wish their kids would move away,

For the mothers whose babies are growing faster and faster each year,

For the mothers who have never lost hope for their child,

For the mothers who have seven kids and for the mothers who have one,

For the mothers who know what it is to fear for your baby,

For the mothers who don't understand what to do next,

For the mothers whose greatest joy comes from watching your baby accomplish a goal,

For the mothers who only want the best lives for their children,

For the mothers who pray for their children each day,

For the mothers who are celebrating their first Mother's Day and for the mothers who are celebrating their fortieth,

This is for you.

And to my fellow NICU moms - Julia, Mari, Dawn, Erica, Erica, Rosalie, Malika, Meredith, and Tanya - this is especially for you:

Happy Mother's Day.

Life in the NICU

Have you ever watched your baby stop breathing and seen him turn purple? I have. But, oddly, it wasn't scary. It wasn't anything. At first I wanted to run from the room and never come back but after a few minutes I calmed down. And then I wasn't scared. I wasn't sad. I wasn't mad or glad or plaid. I was just numb.

Ever since Josh stopped breathing - twice - and they had to work to bring him back - twice - I have felt nothing. Seriously. Nothing. I have gone through the motions of some stuff - being excited when something goes well; looking concerned when they tell us he might have a new issue. But I really just don't feel anything. 

At first I thought it was a defense mechanism. I thought Cowboy Debbie was riding strong. But I don't think that's it. Honestly, my first reaction yesterday was to cry. But my eyes are tired of crying. I think I heard one of my tear ducts sigh when I started to well up. So I stopped. And went to feeling numb. It was just easier. 

A family member messaged me on FB and told me of his experience in the NICU when his daughter was born and had to stay in the NICU for a few months. He said a lot of really helpful things, but one thing really struck a chord with me: He was afraid to get attached to his little girl because it felt like at any moment she could be taken away. 

As I read that, I realized that is the only thing I do feel these days: Fear. I am afraid to get attached to Joshua. I love him with all of my heart. But I am afraid to lose him and so I am numb. It seems like all it would take is one alarm, one infection, one bad x-ray and he'd be gone forever. I hate that. I hate it so much but I don't know what to do about it. Yesterday I noticed that his little upper lip has a very unique shape to it. It was so cute. But I hate that I noticed it because if the worst does happen, it would be just one more thing I would miss. 

We have no reason to believe that Josh won't make it through all of this and come home with us at the end of May. He's had a lot of setbacks this week but he is still doing pretty well overall. He's just so fragile. And I am fragile. And it's too hard to be attached to him. 

I don't know what that says about me. I'm sure the local PTA is on its way to my house to present my Mother of the Year award. I don't feel gloomy or down or sad or stressed. I can't. It's kind of a relief, even though I know that isn't the best thing for me or for Josh. But that's where I am. That's life in the NICU. 

Sorry, Mom. This one was a bummer. Have a picture of Josh to make up for it. 

Everything I never knew about babies

Daniel has a general knowledge of just about everything. The Bible, history, mechanics, television - he knows a lot.

I, on the other hand, live my life in a land where unicorns and Pop Tarts reign supreme. Sure, I don't know who my Senator is (I totally do), but I can find you pictures of six cute cats in thirty seconds or less.

So it didn't surprise me to find out that I didn't know a ton about babies, either. When my nephew was born, I discovered all sorts of things. I would share them with you, but I don't want to be on DFACS' radar before my baby is even born. Let's just say I didn't know much about babies. Daniel knows a lot about them, so our kid still has a good chance of eating every day and going to school and whatever else children do.

I am still learning about babies. I have, however, learned some interesting things about pregnancy. These revelations aren't "scientific" or "medical" or "useful" but if I had realized just how true they were, I would have prepared myself more for them. You want to know what they are, don't you. Come onnnn. Say yes. Say it. Say it say it say it say it say it.

Okay, I'm just going to pretend you said it. Here we go!

1) Pregnancy makes you stupid.  You may not know this, but I totally have a super power: I can remember anything. Birthdays? Check. Anniversaries? Done. Random facts about guns and the history of guns? I'm on FIRE.

But not anymore. Now I'm stupid. Stupid is a harsh word. But I cannot think of another way to describe my brain when I am at the post office, trying my hardest to remember my address and telling the nice USPS lady that I could just drive down the street and look at my mailbox really quick. My mom gave me a notebook to write things down so I would remember them. I have no idea where it is. Sorry, Mom. I teach children's church at my church and called at least 3 kids by the wrong name last week. They kind of just went with it. They also wear name tags, by the way.

So be ye warned, potentially pregnant ladies. It is serious business. Get a notebook. And Velcro it to your shirt.

2) Lettuce is the enemy. McDonald's is my friend. I can no longer eat lettuce. Not sure why lettuce specifically has given me that lovely feeling that I am about to barf at any moment. But it does. I avoided Taco Bell for a while because of all the lettuce. I avoided Taco Bell. Then Daniel pointed out that I should just get my taco without lettuce. I told you he was smart.

McDonald's, on the other hand, is my new best friend. I do not go to McDonald's. Ever. Before these last few months I had gone to McDonald's maybe 5 times in the last ten years. I don't like it. But now I love it. I kind of want to marry it. Except I'm already married. But I think Daniel would let me bring McDonald's into our marriage. He likes it, too. We could all be so happy together.

Ahem. Anyway. McDonald's is awesome.

3) Everyone and their mother has a medical degree. Apparently. I had heard that people were incredibly rude and nosy to pregnant women. Not on purpose, of course (I hope), but it was still an issue. And maybe I didn't believe it was that bad. I'm here to tell you - it is that bad.

Random strangers have told me which veggies to eat, to lose weight, to make sure I take a swimming class so my baby will know how to swim. Yeah. That last one really confused me, too. The Quizno's lady keeps telling me horror stories about parents dropping babies or forgetting to feed them. And once a child at Babies R Us asked if I was pregnant. I mean, yes, I am. But we all know you don't ask. Never too early to learn, right, Johnny? Oh, stop crying; I didn't pinch you that hard.

Believe it or not, strangers are the easiest ones to deal with. I can get all Southern on them and say something polite that on the surface makes me sound so gracious but that really means they have .2 seconds to back. the heck. up. before I go crazy ninja on them. It's the people that I see on a regular basis that really drive me nuts. I have had people email me about how much I am hurting my baby by drinking Diet Coke. One person told me that my highlights have likely damaged my baby forever.

If you are one of those people... sorry. It's better you know this now. We're still friends. It's cool. But how about we all abide by this one rule, m'kay? If you don't have some kind of medical training or degree, I don't want to hear it. 

**There is obviously the exception of other pregnant women and/or mothers that I am friends with. Please give me all of your advice and I will make you a cake. HELP ME.**

The rest of you, go use that eager, helping spirit to build a house for the poor or donate some toys for Christmas. Learn to weave baskets, take up knitting, apply to clown school and buy a red nose - just no. more. advice. My own mother-in-law is actually a real live nurse and I have yet to hear from her about all the terrible things I am doing during my pregnancy. So rest assured that I have medical staff on hand who are measuring my Diet Coke intake by the ounce.

This post seems mean now. Maybe I shouldn't post it. Eh, who I am kidding. But here - have six cute kittens to make you happy again.

Thanksgiving

Turkey Day was yesterday. Did you enjoy it? Did you have fun? Did you wave your hands in the air like you just didn't care?

BFF Jen gets so excited about Thanksgiving that I always sniff her drink to make sure that is the only reason she's excited. I, on the other hand, have never been one to get excited about Thanksgiving. Not that I don't look forward to it - I love getting together with everyone. It's just not something I get YAY YAY YAY IS IT THANKSGIVING YET excited about.

Except for this year. This year, I was so excited about Thanksgiving that I was literally counting down until the end of the day on Wednesday. I couldn't decide why I was so excited. Maybe it was because I didn't get to see my side of the family as much for Thanksgiving last year. Maybe it was because I hadn't been to my grandparents' in a while. Maybe it was because I knew my aunt would make brownies again - and that woman knows how to bake a brownie, let me tell you. 

But otherwise, Thanksgiving was the same as it had been every year. And then it hit me - maybe that was why I was so excited. Maybe I was just looking forward to relaxing and laughing with my family in the same way I have done since I was a baby. And because my family is awesome and I have never fully appreciated them before. 

I've said before (and stand by it) that my grandparents are better than yours.  It's still true. My grandparents open their home to us every year. They are so excited about their two great-grandchildren and that is so fun to see. Just picture my Papaw leaning over 3-month-old Peyton and making kissy noises. Best visual ever and even better to see in real life.

And I love seeing my aunt and uncle and cousins. My cousin Allen wasn't able to come this year, so we poured some cider out in his honor. But I did get to see my other two cousins, who I hadn't seen in ages, and get to know my newest two cousins, Ashleigh and Tenley! Ashleigh is a grown-up; Tenley is a baby. That will assist in future confusion in this post. It was wonderful to catch up and see them and ask about their lives. And, of course, to totally abuse my friendship with Ashleigh to ask her pregnancy and baby tips.

Seeing my aunt Shonda is an experience in itself :) since she always brings the fun and crazy to the party. But it's a good crazy, the kind your children can witness, so don't be alarmed. She's funny and goes with the flow. And I already told you about the brownies. You want to be her friend. My uncle Stan, who is the quietest one (or used to be; we broke him in), always wholeheartedly participates in our crazy, and doesn't even complain when we change our plans 16 times in a row. He needs a medal.

I get to see my immediate family a lot, but it's still fun when we get to see each other at Thanksgiving. It's like when you see a movie you love on TV and you have to watch it, even though you own it and can watch it whenever you want. I am eternally grateful for my parents and siblings. They are weird and funny and ridiculous and I know I am blessed to have my whole family around all the time. When my sister got married, I worried it would be hard to adapt to a new member of the family. But Andy jumped right in and became one of us so fast it was like he was always there. That is partly due to the fact that my entire extended family has the attitude that after we meet you once, you are now related to us and may come to all events. Please bring a dessert to share.

Then, of course, my great-grandmother and great-aunt made the trip to come see everyone like they do every year. They live a little ways away but they came anyway. And it was so fun to see them meet Peyton and Tenley. That made 5 generations of us in one room! Can you imagine that? My great-grandmother was born in 1918 (I think. If that's wrong, someone tell me, quick!!). Peyton and Tenley were born in 2012. Almost 100 years of family, together for Thanksgiving. 100 years of Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and being together as often as possible.

And then there's Daniel. Oh, Daniel. Who sits quietly while my family complains about Yankees and people from "up there." Who not only engages himself in conversation with everyone from my great-grandmother to the babies, but spends his time fixing people's guns and showing them how to make all sorts of dangerous things. He got to know everyone and is genuinely glad to be part of my family. I am so grateful that my family welcomed him right away.

Even though I didn't see them at Thanksgiving this year, I have to give a shout-out to my in-laws. They have welcomed me into their family and have made a sincere and loving effort to get to know me and be my friend. I now have more parents, more sisters, more brothers, more aunts, more uncles, and more cousins to call family. Not to mention all of my cute nieces and nephews.

So this year, I am thankful for my family. I never realized how blessed I was until this year. I grew up with grandparents and great-grandparents and this year it really hit me that a lot of people do not have that opportunity. I get to not only meet but have a relationship with so many people in my family. And while so many people do not get along with their in-laws, I can't wait until Christmas so I can see all of mine again. I am blessed beyond anything I have ever deserved.

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving and have a Merry Christmas. And if you don't have any family to see this year, or just want to borrow a grandparent, give me a call. You can join us any time. 

But stay away from the brownies. I call dibs.

5 generations of awesome. 

Lock Lock Chain Chain

When Daniel and I were dating, I was on this quest to make his nieces and nephews like me. They tend to like everyone so this wasn't hard but I was determined to be the best aunt ever. So when Christmas came around and we wanted to give his nieces and nephews a gift, I was trying to think of something that would be good for a variety of ages.

"What about stop blocks?!" I said. "Kids love stop blocks!" And before Daniel could even raise both of his eyebrows, I realized my mistake.

In my family, Legos are called stop blocks. I don't know why. All I know is that my sister Mandy started calling them stop blocks when she was little and it stuck. My parents just let us live in a world where the actual names of toys meant nothing. Since my sister also had a doll named Nobody, maybe they figured it was best to just let her figure things out on her own and subsequently misinform her siblings. I don't know.

What I do know is that I had just called Legos, an item so popular that there are entire stores and theme parks centered around it, a name that made absolutely no sense to anyone but my family. And Daniel's eyebrows were getting higher and higher.

I tried to explain. But it was too late. The damage was done. Our relationship was a little rockier after that. And we wound up getting the kids something non-Lego related.

You think I would have learned my lesson about revealing weird childhood secrets. But no. Just a few weeks ago, when Daniel and I were on vacation with my family, it happened again.

We were all sitting in the pool, including my nephew, Peyton, who was just over 8 weeks old at the time. My sister (yes, the stop block creator) was trying to dip Peyton's toes in the pool but he was having none of it and was getting fussy. Can't blame the kid. So then I spoke up:

"Maybe when he's older he'll like playing Lock Lock Chain Chain."

I had done it again. Daniel turned to look at me. "What in the world is Lock Lock Chain Chain?"

Here's the deal with this game: When I was little, I loved for my dad to chase me around the pool pretending to be a bad guy. He would catch me and say he was going to eat me for dinner. (Hang in there; it gets weirder.) When he caught me, he would take me over to a ladder and pretend to secure me to it with a lock and chain. In order to do this, he had to say, "Lock lock chain chain..." as he pretended to make me his prisoner.

But it didn't stop there. Locks and chains were not enough to hold me so I would always escape. Honestly, it was like my dad wasn't even trying. So when my dad would catch me again, he would add things to the security process to keep me there. It would turn into "Lock lock, chain chain, nail nail, hammer hammer, glue glue..." And, yes, everything was said twice, like some kind of very specific obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Trying to explain this to Daniel went a little something like this: "My dad used to chase me and tie me up. Well, not really. I mean, I wanted him to. Wait, back up. We would go swimming. Not like just to play this game but if we were already in the pool we would usually play it. He would chase me and pretend he was going to boil me in a pot and eat me with ketchup. It sounds worse than it is."

Daniel's face now had the expression of someone who had just seen a naked clown juggling babies on an ice rink.

"Did you just say ketchup??"

Apparently, other children did not play this game. Apparently, it was "creepy." Apparently, pretending to be a serial killer with your children is not something every parent promotes.

But look at us! We turned out great!

Okay, so... maybe don't play Lock Lock Chain Chain with your kids.

Welcome to the Elevelds'

Daniel and I are going on vacation for <UNDISCLOSED AMOUNT OF TIME> at <UNDISCLOSED LOCATION>. Yay! In order to allow our cats to live while we do this, we are asking some friends to come over and make sure there is enough food, water, people to glare at, etc.

When we watched the house/cats for one of these friends, she thoughtfully put together a very helpful information sheet with details about the cats, her house, contact information, and more! I've decided to return the favor:

WELCOME TO THE ELEVELDS'.

Hello, Monica and LeeAnn. Thank you for watching our cats. We've spoken to them about it and they're all sorts of excited about seeing you. They might look angry but that is just their love language. Below are a few ground rules and expectations regarding your time with our feline friends. Please let me know if you have any questions.

~ As Monica's house is clean enough to perform surgery in at any given time, and LeeAnn could organize the home of a group of wild blind orphan monkeys, I expect my house will not be quite as "clean" or "mold-free" as you're used to. We think it adds personality. If, however, this is a serious issue for you, please feel free to clean at any time. We have some Tide-to-Go sticks in the pantry. They might be old.

~ You might notice loose change on the floor, dryer, counter, etc. Please do not remove this change from the surface on which you find it. We are firm believers in being prepared for an emergency and at any given time can access at least $1.17 just by walking down the hallway.

~ We have two cats. One is large enough to pull a covered wagon while the other one is so small we often have to play "Marco! Polo!" in order to ascertain her whereabouts. Feel free to play with with her. Or just let her stay lost. She seems to like it.

~ To feed them, we put food into a big bowl. The little cat, Robin, is absolutely not kidding around when it comes to getting her meals so we find a larger bowl keeps the bloodshed down to a minimum. The big bowl lives on top of the washer. The food also lives there. We don't do a ton of laundry.

~ We give them water in an even BIGGER bowl. This is usually because the dog shares it with them. Also because we forget to give them water every day so we find it best to give them a few days' worth at a time, just in case. Feel free to report us to the animal agency of your choice.

~ As Daniel works with lots of small metal pieces, you will likely find these everywhere in the house. I vacuumed as far as the cord would stretch, which is the living room and about half the hallway, so you should be safe until then. If being barefoot is very important to you, you will find paper towels in the kitchen and can make a path throughout the house that is free of small metal dangers.

~ Strewn throughout the house you will find many weapons and accessories, including but not limited to: two swords, a machete, various guns, a bow and arrow, possibly another machete, a few Japanese scary sticks, several airsoft guns, and enough bullets to supply a military bunker. If any of these make you uncomfortable, I recommend playing with them for a while to get used to them. The broadsword is especially fun.

~ We can't find the remote. Let us know if you see it.

~ We only have two cats. A third one hangs out on our porch sometimes. It looks like Batman, the fat cat. It is NOT Batman. Do not attempt any cuddling. It doesn't like cuddling. Only our porch.

~ Please note my talent at carefully arranging our pictures to be "eclectically organized." You can tell me in person how much you loved it, or leave a note/gift that conveys your level of envy at my mad decorating skillz.

I think that's it for now. Please review this list carefully and see me with any questions. We have nothing but peanut butter and I think some Pringles but it's all yours for the taking! Thank you for your service to your friends, your country, and your local domestic pets.

~Kristen and Daniel

Please note the trash in both the left and right corners of the picture. 

Life Lessons from Disney

I love Disney movies. I really do. I love them so much I have a whole playlist on my iPod that is dedicated to Disney and BFF Jen and I jam out to it on every road trip we take.  

But the last time I listened to my Disney playlist, I started thinking of how all of these Disney characters are, in theory, role models for children. Follow your dreams. Believe in yourself. Talk to animals and see if they talk back. And after some thought I realized that most of these Disney characters are complete morons. 

Just look at Pocahontas, for instance. She wants more in her life instead of the hum-drum marriage to Kocuom. Fair enough. And to show us just how excited she is, she sings to us about going around the river bend. Beautiful. Be free, Pocahontas. 

Then she literally gets to a river bend where she has to make a choice: Go the smooth route (aka, marry the dull guy) or fly like a bird in the wind. Except this is no longer a metaphor - she is literally deciding between taking the smooth route around the river or the terrifying, rock-filled, Native American-killing death route. Go the smooth route, you idiot. Is this really a consideration for you? You're so caught up in your desire for a super-cool life that you want to brave the rapids in your little cardboard canoe? Negative. You make bad choices. 

Totally worth the thrill. 

So let's move on to one of my favorite characters: Mulan. Oh, Mulan, you ignorant fool.  You are clearly intelligent. You are clearly clever. So why, WHY did you think that cross-dressing was your best option? Let's reason this out for a moment: You become a man. This is the first warning sign. It was way too easy for you to make that transition. To each his or her own. But seriously, girl, go talk to your school counselor. 

ANYway, you become a man, and then you join the army. I'm sorry; how is this supposed to work out? Do you think that cutting your hair and not showering also gives you the ability to fight a battle? Pumpkin, you're going to get killed. And then your dad is going to have to fight anyway. So maybe next time work on a new plan that involves accepting that life can be hard and talking dragons rarely have pure motives. 

And, yes, I know she did succeed. But only barely. And she had a lot of help. A lot. 

I rest my case. 

And last, but not least, Belle. Girl, you have got to stop going into strangers' houses. Who taught you that that was a good a idea? I know your mama didn't. It must be that fool of a father you have because he did the exact. same. thing. Seriously, don't go into strangers' houses. Definitely don't go into strangers' castles. And, for the love of Nancy, don't go into strangers' castles when it's dark and stormy outside.

And don't go into the West Wing, either! You clearly have some boundary issues. Yes, you're a prisoner due to a selfless sacrifice you made for your father. Cry me a river, build me a bridge, and get over it. IN YOUR OWN SPACE. Just because you get rewarded for your shenanigans by getting to marry a sexy prince does not make it okay. 

Seriously, why would you want to go here anyway? You also have some thrill issues that concern me. 


Crazy broads, all of them. 

That's my dad

I was going through old pictures the other day to make some room on my phone so I could take more pictures of my cutie wutie schmoopie face nephew, Peyton.

LOOK AT HIS CUTENESS AND COMMENT ON IT:

Aaaaanyway, while going through my old photos I found a screen shot of a conversation I had with my dad over text messaging after I called him, not knowing he was at a work lunch. It was too good not to share:

So, in a nutshell, that's my dad. Was he really a stripper? I'll leave it to you to decide.

Sorry, Dad :)

We Remember

Did you know that when God forgives our sins, He not only forgives them, but erases them forever? Isaiah 43:25 says, "I, I am he, who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I will not remember your sins." So not only are we forgiven, but God's grace stretches far enough to completely eradicate our sin, as though it never happened.

I want to be able to forgive this way. I want to truly forgive and forget and move on.

But I can't.

I can forgive, and even move on for the most part. But I can't always forget. I am only human. That doesn't mean I sit at home dwelling on the wrong things people have done to me, or that every time I do think of it that it even affects me. But because I can remember, because this occurrence in my life made such a lasting impression, I can never truly erase that wrong. Not like God can.

When I was a junior in college, I was taking anti-depressants and seeing a therapist. It was a really difficult year. One of my roommates went through my make-up bag to borrow something one day. My medicine was in there, and when she found it she stole it from me, looked it up on her computer to see what it was, and proceeded to tell every single person on our hallway that I was crazy and I would probably try to kill myself one day, so they better watch out for me. After that, no one would look at me. No one would be friends with me. This girl had ruined my entire year at college in a matter of hours.

It took me a long time to forgive her. Eventually I did. But what she did affected me for years. I lived in fear that someone else would find out and react the same way. When I met Daniel, it took me months to even tell him about that experience, and even then I told him while preparing myself for him to break up with me, because I knew he would think I was crazy, too. And writing this now worries me just as much that the parents of a child I teach at church will see this and want their child pulled from my class as a result. Ridiculous. And yet I have managed to forgive this girl (through God's grace alone) and live my life normally for the most part. It's only when I hear certain words, see people that remind me of her, pass through the GSU campus when I'm downtown that those memories come back to me.

I think tragedy works the same way. On this day, September 11th, many people wish they could forget. Not even to forgive, but just to move on. To get on with their lives as they know they could if they could only stop remembering. If a song on the radio commemorating those who died in the towers didn't bring them to tears. If every time they see a picture of the New York skyline it didn't evoke an emotion that is inexplicable, even to themselves. If they could just erase all of these memories from their heads, they could go on with their lives and not look back.

But they can't.

So what does that mean for these people? Are they stuck forever in this never-ending cycle of trying so hard to move on and almost succeeding, only to be stopped at the last second by something seemingly trivial, like a picture or a Facebook status?

No.

I think the key here is not the ability to move on from a tragedy, but to accept it as something that will always affect you. That sounds ominous but it doesn't have to be. If the effect is that you now look at time spent with your family with a greater appreciation because you know life is short, that's a good thing. If you strive to perform your very best at work because you have seen that the ability to complete a job in a time of crisis is critical, that's a good thing. If you wake up extra-early to do your quiet time because you realized that these times of crisis would pale in comparison to a world without Jesus, that's a good thing.

The bad things are there, too. They will always be there. You can't forget them because it's impossible. But maybe you can learn to accept them, to understand that while you will eventually get to the point where you don't even know that September 11th has come and gone, you will always remember those moments on that day because they have changed you.

Remembering the events of one of the most terrible days in history and struggling with those memories doesn't mean you haven't moved on or that you never will. It means that though it may be hard, you're a different person now. Someone who has seen the worst kind of history in the making. Someone who will never forget and who maybe doesn't want to because of the lessons you learned.

In my case, though my experience was nowhere near the scale of September 11th, it can still be a struggle when I think of that roommate. But every day I am freer from the binds of my fears and memories as I learn to accept them and give them to God. Only He can give me the ability to stop giving that experience power over me. That was a little thing and it has taken me several years. For a bigger thing, it could take even longer. But that doesn't mean you are weak or don't trust God. It means that you are human, that adjustments take time, and that every year it will get a little easier to accept what happened as you approach this day and these memories.

So on this day, September 11th, we do not forget. We can't. But along with remembering the horror, we can remember the lessons we learned, the life changes we have made, and the blessings that have come in spite of the sorrow. We can remember that grieving isn't a science and that it can take time, and that it isn't a failure when we struggle. We can remember that we serve a holy God who does not judge us for our struggles, but asks to take them on Himself to help us through the difficult times. We remember 9/11, and we move on, carrying our memories with us.

Curiouser and curiouser

"Honey?" my loving husband called to me from the kitchen the other day. "Did you put a box of Band-Aids in the fridge?"

I thought about it for a minute. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Because I found a box of Band-Aids in the fridge," he answered as he shut the fridge door.

"Oh."

And that was that. A few hours later I opened the fridge for some water Diet Coke and saw the box of Band-Aids still sitting on the shelf. I thought about moving them, but my Diet Coke was waiting. So I shut the door and told myself I would get them later.

They're still in there. That conversation happened about 5 days ago. Why mess with a good thing?

"We're getting cold in here."

Two girls and a Native American walk into a cabin...

I have written before about the many virtues of Berry College.  Tonight, as BFF Jen and I were making plans for yet another Mountain Day adventure, a story popped into my head that I realized I had been remiss in sharing with all eight of my fans. So enjoy:

A few years ago, BFF Jen and I decided to go visit Berry - but not for Mountain Day. No, this time we went off the cuff, if you will - and I think you will - and decided to visit in March. Besides going on a non-Mountain Day day, it was also SNOWING as we left for our beloved alma mater. This should have been a sign that our visit was going to be a little nontraditional. But we ignored the warnings.

Say it with me: Dun. Dun. Dunnnnnnnnnn. 

When we arrived at Berry, we found the cabin we were going to stay in. Liz, the super-de-duper check-in gal, said we were the only ones staying in the cabin, even though it could easily hold seven or eight people. We dropped off our stuff in our room and then left for the day, catching up with friends and praying to Martha at her grave. 

When we returned that night, we saw a truck parked outside of the cabin. The porch light was on as well. Then BFF Jen and I had what is possibly the dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: Do you think someone is in there?

Me: I don't know. We could ask the check-in gal.

Her: The check-in office is closed. 

Me: Oh.

Her: So should we go in?

Me: Sure. 

And off we went, wandering into a pitch-black cabin on the most remote part of campus with the distinct possibility of running into a serial killer occupying our cabin. Just a day in the life for us. 

BFF Jen had a plan, though. And if Mrs. BFF Jen's Mom is reading this, I am really, really sorry. Jen decided she would hold open the door while I called out in the hallway to see if someone answered. If a serial killer or even just a regular killer answered, we wouldn't have to waste time opening the door to get out. Brilliant. 

After a couple of "HELLOOOOOOS?" we heard a scraping sound - coming from the room next to ours. Before we could put our award-winning plan into motion, there appeared before us a man that I can only describe as Cloud Dancing from Dr. Quinn meets Chief Powhatan from Pocahontas. 

"'Sup."

He had long, flowing silver hair down to his waist, was half-naked, and looked completely surprised to see us.

"Hello, there," the man said. "Are you staying here, too?" 

I think we managed to nod.

"Okay, great. Well, goodnight." And with that, he turned around, went back up the stairs, and after a few seconds we heard his door shut. Alrighty, then.

Then BFF Jen and I had possibly the second dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: What should we do?

Me: ...ask the check-in gal?

Her: THE OFFICE IS CLOSED, KRISTEN. 

Me: Right, got it. 

Her: So, should we stay here?

Me: Sure.

Ah, but this time we had an even better plan: teamwork. BFF Jen isn't my BFF for nothing - between the two of us there is an understanding that when one of us makes a dumb decision, the other one stands by her come hell or high water. Or strange Native American men. So we put our new and improved plan into place. 

First, we each stood guard while the other one brushed her teeth and used the only restroom, located in the hallway. To get the visual, you have to picture BFF Jen - she is by far the tiniest fully-grown human being I have ever known. And then you have me, the very picture of strength and speed. Together, we made the worst superhero team the world would ever see. But we are nothing if not dedicated and eachstood outside the bathroom door with my tiny can of hot pink (breast cancer awareness, baby!) mace, ready to spray and then run at the slightest provocation.

Eventually we made it into our room. Now that we were inside, how did we keep the man out? He probably had a chainsaw and/or a sword that could cut through the lock. But that didn't matter, because the door didn't lock. Are. You. Kidding me. 

This might be a problem for some people, but not for us - we just adapted to the situation. BFF Jen and I proceeded to stack every single piece of furniture in that room against the door. Nightstands, chairs, wobbly table-thing that had no clear purpose; you name it, we stacked it. 

But we didn't stop there - we set our suitcases against the pile of 1980s furniture to ensure that, in the event the evil murderer made it through the furniture barrier, we would hear our suitcases fall to the floor and would wake up in time to escape. How we thought we could get past a grown man and a 4-foot stack of furniture, I don't know. Clearly event planning is not in either of our futures. 

And, just in case we had to resort to force, we carefully selected some weapons to keep by us on the only nightstand that was bolted to the wall: the pink mace, Jen's curling iron, and my hair straightener. I remember telling BFF Jen, "It heats up in just sixty seconds." Because a good plan is all about how quickly your weapons will heat up. 

Finally, after a long couple of hours listening for noises, we went to sleep. And lo and behold, the next morning we were completely alive! Victory! As we began to dismantle our barrier, I heard footsteps on the floor and froze. 

"Good morning!" the man called through the door. I wanted to open it to be polite, but the furniture was a lot harder to move without the adrenaline rush. "Sorry if I scared you!" he added.

"Oh... that's okay!" I shouted back. "Sorry... we got scared!"

"No problem... I work here," he continued, as if silently pleading me not to call the police and ruin his day. "I know the college president."

"Hey, cool. Me, too." That was really all I could think of at the time.

"Well... anyway, I'm going now. Enjoy your stay." And he was gone, probably glad to be rid of us. Who could blame him?

So, kids, here's the moral of the story: Don't be a moron. And don't go into dark places with strangers. But if you absolutely, positively have to, look for furniture and break out the hair accessories. Works every time.

The Lawn Mower

If you passed by my house yesterday between 8:30 and 9:30 pm, you might have seen some very strange things.

You might have seen a woman negotiating with her dog and pleading with him not to get out of the fence.

You might have seen her successfully distract the dog with a stick, not knowing that she still had 3 more cycles of this to go. Stupid fence.

You might have seen the woman drag the lawn mower out of the fence, carefully follow the instruction her father gave her, and pull on the cord with all her might.

You then would have seen her stomp her foot because IT ISN'T WORKING AND SHE WAS FOLLOWING ALL OF THE DIRECTIONS AND

Then you would have seen her remember the last step. Victory!

You might have noticed that she has no idea how to cut a pattern in the grass with the lawn mower and that she takes the approach of "God's will be done with the yard" as she begins to push the mower up and down.

Then you could have seen her get to the driveway, and decide if the mower could cross it without damaging the... mowery parts. She decided she needed to turn it off.

She was wrong.

You might have then seen her attempt to restart the mower over and over and over and over and over and over and over until she looked like Billy Blanks from Tae Bo, except with less muscles and way more sweat.

You then would have noticed her drag the lawn mower up to the house, negotiate with the dog to get back inside the fence, and change clothes because if she was going to make a fool of herself in front of a busy street, she was going to be comfortable.

You might have seen that her tank top was completely and utterly see-through. She, however, did not see this until she got back inside. You're welcome, people of Lawrenceville.

You would have wondered about her sanity when she kicked the lawn mower and sat in the grass.

It would have made a little more sense when you saw her husband come home and help her figure out the problem, and saw her glee at having her power over the lawn restored.

You then could have sat back for the next 3 million hours as the woman slowly but surely made her way around the yard, going in a pattern that only she could see. Kind of. It was dark.

You might have stopped to wonder why a grown woman was running with a lawn mower, alternately laughing and trying not to throw up. If you had just ASKED you would have known that she decided walking was too boring and running would be more fun. She was right, by the way.

And if you drove by this morning, you would see a shorter, albeit uneven, yard, mowed with the determination of one who has learned her lesson about asking her husband if he will let her mow the lawn just this once. 

She should have used this instead

TSA

I recently got promoted at work. I was a semi-grown up and now I am a REAL grown up. Neat, huh? I agree. Part of being a real grown up is that I will need to travel some for work. To ease me into this slowly, they sent me on the first trip with another real grown up, whom I shall call C-Dizzle.

C-Dizzle is a master at the travel game, so I just did what she did and followed her around. Literally, I followed her around the airport like a puppy. She kept trying to say things to me and I would try to catch up really fast to be next to her instead of behind her. ANYway, we got to the security check point and got separated. I tried to stick with her, I really did. But when the burly security man says "YOU GO THERE" and points to the opposite line of your travel buddy, you do not argue.

So I go to the other line and put my bag, shoes, kidneys, etc. on the belt. Then I am directed to the Temple of Doom. Yes - I got sent, for the very first time, to the body scanner.

This is the part of the blog where you should click here and press the blue button (make sure your sound is up) to understand the full horror I was experiencing.

I do not like the body scanners. Even after they fixed them so they can't see you in your underwear, I have had an unnatural fear of these for years. If Daniel and I fly somewhere, he volunteers for the body scanner so he won't have to talk me down from the proverbial ledge for the entire flight.

But I was very good and went through it. And I got stopped. Dang it all.

"What do you have in your back left pocket?" the very tall TSA lady asked me. I do have to say I was impressed with the accuracy. I wanted to tell her so but I felt like that wasn't the time. I might write a letter, though.

HOWEVER, I would have to include in my letter the rest of the incident...

"Oh, it's my license. I just had to show it for the first checkpoint and there was no time to put it in my bag," I said, cheerfully but not too cheerfully just in case this lady didn't care for pep. Then I took it out of my pocket and the lady jumped a little. Maybe I was supposed to let her do it?

She then told me she was going to have to pat me down. Erghhhhh, no. But she was already doing it, lightly brushing my left cheek with the back of her hand. My butt proved satisfactory (it always does) and I thought I was done. Oh, how naive I was. She made me raise my left hand above my head and she brushed her fingers down my arm and side. It tickled. I giggled. Apparently giggling is unacceptable to the TSA because she glared at me.

Then came the strangest part of all: She started poking her fingers through my ponytail. I know my hair is thick but is it really bad enough that I could hide a weapon in there? Because if so, she just gave me a great idea. She tugged on my ponytail and was finally satisfied that my CVS-brand ponytail holder was, in fact, docile.

She yelled "I NEED HANDS" in no particular direction and told me to go stand in front of another lady. This one at least smiled as she wiped my hands down with something. I realized she was checking for gun-powder residue and other explosive stuff. And this is where I truly started to panic.

See, my husband Daniel is a gunsmith. A gunsmith who likes to (safely) experiment with how to make things blow up. This means that any given day of the week I am putting away guns, chemicals of unknown origin, pointy objects covered in black stuff, and tubes of something science-y. And so my thought process went like this: Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Should I tell her before she even runs the test? No, no, that would look too suspicious. But what if it turns up something? What if I can't remember what Daniel was playing with the other day? Was it magnesium? Marbles? Mangos? Something. Something with explosives. And he had me practice shooting the pistol... would there still be GPR on my hands? Is that even a possibility? Do people still use gun powder? It seems kind of old-fashioned. Maybe it's just a phrase. Maybe they just call it that beca - 


"Uh, ma'am?"

I tuned back in to the TSA lady to see her staring at me.

"You can go."

Oh. Well, good.

Stupid body scanners.

Family Reunion

I’ve got three eyes; my mom has nine.
People tease her all the time.
Although I guess that’s not as bad
As the awkward five arms on my dad.

Uncle Jim has one eye straight,
The other’s looking at the lake.
Aunt Marie was his nice wife,
Before she became Uncle Mike.

Then we have my cousin Paul,
Who somehow is his own grandpa.
That’s not as bad as cousin Joe—
He’s still counting all his toes.

Grandma Cat is worse off, too.
She has a hard time finding shoes.
It might be hard for me as well
If I had to wear a men’s size twelve.

Mick and Rick get no respect
Since they’re joined up at the neck.
One leg each, it seems unfair
When each one wants to go somewhere.

And of course let’s not forget
My favorite cousin Margaret.
Her hair glows bright, it is so nice
Since the treatment for the lice.

It is so convenient, too
To be related six ways to Great-Aunt Ruth.
It doesn’t bother me too much;
I think it adds a special touch.

So now you know; it’s not a trick.
For a joke, it’d be quite sick.
But, see, it doesn’t bother me;
This is just my family.

People think that it’s too bad
That our family looks so sad.
But if you haven’t heard by word of mouth
That’s how we do it in the South.

A Modest Proposal

Daniel and I went to Kroger last Friday night. We had decided to buy groceries and to stop eating out so much. No, seriously. So we were making our way down the cereal aisle when a lady walked up and asked if she could give me her card. Since I am the world's biggest chicken a person of culture and acceptance, I said yes. She then handed me this:

Yes. That happened. 

I said thank you, and she moved on. Little did she know that I could never EVER move on from this. 

Aside from the initial question of whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat, I did have a few more key questions:

1) Why Kroger? Is her business nearby? Do statistics show that grocery shoppers are more willing to accept business cards from strangers? Maybe it has to do with the cereal aisle specifically. Or was it a random hand-out, like she knew she would feel ridiculous if she didn't hand out ANY cards at Kroger when she had set herself a goal to hand out at least five. Which leads me to my next question...

2) Why me? Did I give off some kind of air that I was interested in her services? Was it my Dr. Pepper t-shirt or Target jeans that sealed the deal? Is the cereal aisle the new sexy aisle? Or was it my hair - did she think I could  use a weave? So many questions. So few answers.

3) What. the. heck. Is this a viable business? Is business so good that she can hand out her cards in Kroger and walk away like a boss? Or did she just start the business last week and is trying to drum up some sales? Is she writing her own blog somewhere about the moron in Kroger who actually took a card like this from a total stranger? WILL ANY OF THESE QUESTIONS EVER BE ANSWERED?

All in all, I guess I will have to live with the mysteries. If any of you are interested in her services, I still have the card. And you can probably find her at the Russell-Ridge Kroger - I hear she works the cereal aisle on Friday nights.

Now, have another picture so I don't have to use the sexy card as the picture for Facebook when I post this:

My brother-in-law, Reverandy. Sorry, Andy.