The Long Haul

This week has been a good one overall. I'm getting used to life in the NICU, which is both weird and good at the same time. One of the rocking chairs now has my buttprint on it permanently and that's nice because now no one else will use that chair. I don't like sharing.

We had our awesome nurse Jennifer back this week! We love her. She works so hard to go the extra mile to help us. She is the one who started dressing Joshua up in little outfits - and she color-coordinates them with his bedding. And she helped Josh make a nice card for Daniel's birthday and got Daniel some Mountain Dew! She's been really great and I can't wait to have her back next week. Don't get me wrong - all of the Northside nurses have been phenomenal. We just like Jennifer a lot. We might be in love with her a little.

Daniel got a card from Josh!

We still haven't been able to hold him. We might get to soon. I'm not as sad as I thought I would be. It's only been two weeks but I'm already getting used to not riding the ups and downs. It's hard not to get so excited at every success or really disappointed at every setback but we're learning. Josh did go back to the regular ventilator and that was awesome! He is doing pretty well, all things considered. He is getting milk and he is off his bp meds. And his brain bleed is no longer a cause for concern because he has hit the two week mark. He has been here for two weeks!!! Well, the nurses count today as two weeks. Technically I guess it's tomorrow. Whatever. I'm just pretending it's today AND tomorrow. Anything to get more celebration cake.

The next few weeks are, oddly, what I have been dreading the most: the long haul. The part where Josh isn't so sick anymore, praise the Lord, but where he isn't better enough to leave the hospital. So we wait. And make more buttprints in more rocking chairs. Soon I will own them ALL. But this part is where I think we'll be the most weary. That sounds weird but I think it's started to hit me just how long the next 12 weeks will be. We're blessed to have so much family and so many friends around to support us and that has helped a lot. It's just one of those things that requires a lot of patience. I am not known for my patience. Daniel is so patient that I'm concerned he might have inhaled marijuana by mistake sometimes. Maybe I am supposed to learn patience... meh. Why start now, right? At any rate, the time will pass. Eventually. I'll just buy a lot of books to read between now and then.

This blog used to be fun and hilarious (if I do say so myself). Now it's kind of lame and medical. I blame Josh. That rassa-frassin' baby just isn't funny. But BFF Jen and I were discussing another awesome adventure of ours recently so I'll write about that next. Maybe. I might take a nap instead.

"I enjoy the darkness."

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.

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 :)

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.

The Hydrangea

My mother's birthday was last week. We celebrated today. We're kind of slackers. But we're not total slackers because we did get her what she wanted: A blue flowering hydrangea. Seems simple enough, right? Wrong. So wrong. The wrongest. 

My sister took the first turn - she went to Lowe's. No luck. She went to Pike's. No luck. She then passed the baton to me as I was leaving work and had a little more time. I went to a different Lowe's. No luck. I went to Wal-Mart. When I asked for a hydrangea the plant lady wandered around in a circle for a minute, looked at me, and shrugged. No luck. 

Then I went to another Pike's. My sister had called ahead so we knew there was potential here. But we'd been burned before, so I was cautious. I walked in and found myself surrounded by plants, trees, flowers, and various other unidentifiable foliage. Surely the hydrangea I sought must be nearby. 

The only problem was that for all the items filling the room, people were not one of them. I am not what you would call a botanist. I'm more what you would call a plant killer. I know a hydrangea when I see one but I had no idea where to look. This place was like the Taj Mahal of plants. And there were categories: 

"Outdoor Plants." ...as opposed to what?

"Flowering Plants." Yes, there. That was the one I wanted.

"Flowering Hedge Bushes." ...or was THAT the one I wanted.

"Hanging Plants." I did not want my plant to be suicidal. 

"Trees." DOES NO ONE WORK HERE.

It wasn't going well. I was getting scared. Navigating that place was like running a 10k while blindfolded and being chased by drunken chihuahuas with cattle prods. But finally I saw the light - a man walking down the aisle, wearing - wait for it - a PIKE'S EMPLOYEE SHIRT. HALLELUJAH. 

"Can you tell me where the hydrangeas are?"

The man just stared back at me. I started to worry. Was I saying it wrong? Had I actually asked about some sort of child cult by accident? He stared some more. I stared back. After a long time, he turned, looked over the whole plant room (nursery?), and said very quickly, "It's down over there to the left," pointed, and walked away.

Oh. 

I eventually did find the hydrangea. It was pretty and seemed small enough to carry. So I picked it up. Stay tuned for my next post: How To Walk To Your Car While Carrying Deceptively Heavy Plants. 

"Won't anyone ever find me?"

I don't really "know" what to "think" of "this."

I keep noticing an odd pattern. These guys: "" are everywhere. It makes sense in some situations. But then I was leaving O'Charleys the other day, and I noticed a sign that said, in quotes, "It was a pleasure to serve you."

Maybe this is just me, but when I see the quotation marks, I always associate it with something not being real. Like if you say you're going to the store, but you really mean you're going to the local crack house in an attempt to get funds for groceries, you could say you're going to the "store," and everyone would laugh as your air quotes conveyed your sarcasm. Good times.

So when I see stuff like "It was a pleasure to serve you," I feel like it should actually say "Our boss said we had to tell you that it was a pleasure to serve you." Or at the gas station when the screen says "cold drinks," I immediately think of two guys snickering as they pour gasoline into a cup and stick in in the fridge, just waiting for you to buy it.

Maybe I just don't get it. Maybe I'm like Joey, forever destined to misunderstand the power of quotation marks.

But am I alone? Do any of you fully understand? Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. 

Pa-wum pum pum pum

You may have noticed the color changes to my blog. This is a result of too much free time combined with a spark of creativity one afternoon. I don't know if I like it... expect to see it change a lot. If you don't like change... I can't help you. Now back to your regularly scheduled content:

My little brother was adorable when he was a little boy. He had little chubby legs and little chubby arms and did everything I told him to - who couldn't love that?

Please, no more pictures. You're embarrassing me.

He also couldn't say his Rs until he was about 8 years old. It was the cutest thing you ever heard. He called me Kwisten for years. This was made even cuter by the fact that his last name is Flerl - or, in Steven's words, Fwuh. When he was in kindergarten, he was given a solo in our church's Christmas play - The Little Drummer Boy. I promise you have never seen anything as cute as my baby brother, walking down the aisle with a plastic drum and singing "Shawuh I pway fuh you, pa-wum-pum-pum-pum, me and my dwum." I still think of him when I hear that song on the radio. Usually I text him. He usually ignores me, but I know he's just embarrassed at his talent.

Seriously, stop texting me every time you hear that song.

So the other day when I heard the song come on, I thought, "YAY - I can text Steven I can sing along!" I was enjoying listening to the drummer boy's tale when suddenly, out of nowhere - it became a rock song. Whaaaaaaa? What is the electric guitar doing in the middle of the drummer boy's song? Did I switch stations by accident? WHO AUTHORIZED THIS? But 104.7 either didn't hear my cries or didn't care, so I was forced to listen to the fake little drummer boy sing his song. Woe.

I have since heard three different versions of The Little Drummer Boy. None of them are as good as the original. I've also heard Silent Night, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and Joy to the World - none of them close to the original. I'm no musician, but I'm just going to put something out there: You can't. improve. a Christmas carol. You can't. It is a Christmas carol. It is by definition already awesome. There is no need for the electric guitar, the crazy drum beat, the sudden key changes (I am talking to YOU, Mac Powell) - it's already good.

I probably sound like an old lady right now, but seeing as I am almost 25 I've decided to take my old-lady stand. Leave the Christmas carols alone. 

If you want to improve something, how about figuring out how to get rid of that girl who announces each and every song after it's played. You're bopping along, thinking about the great song you just heard, when suddenly you hear "Casting Crowns - While You Were Sleeping." Thanks, Voice on 104.7. Is this really what you wanted to be when you grew up? The Voice on the Fish who states the obvious? If that was indeed your goal, then congratulations. If not, stop interrupting Christmas music to inform me that I am listening to Christmas music.

Ahem. So. My brother couldn't say his Rs. The next time you hear The Little Drummer Boy (the REAL version), be sure to sing it the right way: Pa-wum-pum-pum-pum.