Things They Should Have Told You

You are in fifth grade and spending an evening at your elementary school's "multi-purpose room" with your mother.  You are both dressed in your "Sunday Best" and are sitting next to each other, rather stiffly, amongst about 50 other mother-daughter sets, who are just as tense.  The lights are out and you are viewing a most disturbing filmstrip, one in which a girl, about the age of a fifth grader, skips downstairs to find her parents making breakfast.  The Dad, with a full head of hair and teeth like a horse is smiling and stirring pancake batter and The Mom, hair perfectly coiffed and wearing pearl earrings, is getting orange juice out of the fridge.   The girl plops down on a stool as her parents say "Good morning, Jenny!" in unison.  Cocking her head exaggeratedly to one side, Jenny inquires "Mom, Dad?  What's sex?"  The parents turn to each other with eye brows raised.  The Mom sighs and sits down next to an empty stool besides Jenny and pats her shoulder tenderly.  The Mom looks at The Dad expectantly.  "Well," The Dad begins, (enter deep intake of breath from audience here) "it's like this."  He pours the pancake batter on the skillet and points to the shape he has created.  "This is a woman's uterus."  Jenny interrupts him with the obvious. "No it's not!  It's a pancake."  The Dad chuckles oh so good naturedly.  "Let's just pretend it's a uterus." (Yes, lets.)  He points to a glob of sizzling batter.  "Here are the ovaries.  These are where a woman keeps her eggs." Jenny cocks her head to the other side and points to the crate of eggs laying open on the counter. "Like those?"  The Mom looks at Jenny with a smile, one that says "Wow, my child is dumb.  But I love her anyway."  The Dad cracks an egg onto the skillet beside the Pancake Uterus.  "Yes, kind of like a chicken's eggs, but much smaller."  Jenny says "Ohhhh..." like this explains everything.  With a smack, The Dad flips the Uterus Pancake over.  He points to another glob of pancake, now golden brown.  "And here are the fallopian tubes.  The eggs travel down these tubes and once fertilized, embeds itself into the wall of the uterus."  In classic Jenny-fashion, she re-cocks her head to the other side "Fertilized?"  The Mom, who is apparently incapable of speech, smiles on affectionately at Jenny, then looks towards her husband.  Gesturing with his spatula, The Dad says "A woman's egg is fertilized with a man's sperm." Jenny says loudly "How does that happen?"  The Mom, apparently cured of speechlessness blurts "Who wants pancakes?"  The scene ends with the family eating the Uterus Pancake, now smothered in maple syrup, for breakfast. (Whispered "Ew!" and "Oh, gross" from shocked audience.)

After the filmstrip, you walk around the large room to different tables, each covered with lace tablecloths that display different brands tampons, maxi-pads, face wash and deodorant.  After which, you sit down with other sets of mother and daughters, eat shortbread cookies and talk about how uncomfortable you are.  You receive a bag of "goodies" containing all the things featured on the lace-covered tables and a booklet, telling you what exciting things you have to expect from going through puberty.

What they really should have told you was:

Instead of "Someday soon, your face will become oily and you might get occasional blemishes, or pimples, which will continue until you have reached adulthood and are completed with puberty", they should have said "Someday soon, your face will become oily and you will most definitely get blemishes or pimples, usually right before an important event, like prom or your senior picture.  Your face is not the only place you can get pimples.  You will get pimples until you are an old woman.  Unless you end up being one of those girls that never have pimples, in which case everyone will pretend they like you, when they really hate you deep down inside."

Instead of "Someday soon, your breasts may become tender and they will start to grow bigger.  This might all ready be happening to you" they should have said "Someday soon, your breast will hurt like crazy and they will start to grow bigger.  In some cases, they won't grow much.  You'll be wearing that same training bra with the blue flower in the middle until you graduate high school.  In other cases, if your breasts are all ready starting to grow, you will be ridiculed by the boys in your class.  They may sing songs with lyrics containing these words: "Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder."  But don't let it bother you.  They really just have crushes on you and yes, it's because of the new growth in your breasts, not your sparkling personality.  This will not ever change.  For those of you who will still be wearing your AA bra in high school, you will have to try doubly as hard to be liked by the opposite sex.  Learn some knock-knock jokes."

Instead of "Someday soon, you will start to find hair where you did not have any before," they should have said "Someday soon, you will start to find hair where you did not have any before.  Get your hair follicles lasered as soon as you can afford it.  Shaving is tedious and you'll get sick of it and in college, will give into a "No Shave November" contest and you will be pegged as Bohemian and only the lice-ridden stinky wanna-be Rastafarians will ask you out."

Instead of "Someday soon, your menstrual cycle will begin.  This means you have become a woman" they should have said "Someday soon, your menstrual cycle will begin.  This means you have become a woman because true woman experience lots pain, embarrassment and discomfort."

Instead of "Someday soon, you will begin to gain weight in your thigh and hip area.  This can be controlled by diet and exercise" they should have said "Someday soon, you will begin to gain weight in your thigh and hip area.  This can be controlled by diet and exercise but it will be really hard and most likely weight gain will become the bane of your existence due to our skinny-obsessed society.  For some of you, you will never have to worry about this.  You will always be skinny, no matter how many bags of barbecued flavored pork rinds you ingest.  Other girls will pretend they like you, when in actuality, they will be talking behind your back and saying that you have an eating disorder. "

Pancakes, anyone?

Structure is good.

Sometimes the way we perceive ourselves isn't entirely correct.  Like the time my room mates in college told me I was boy crazy, to which I denied profusely.  I felt like I was no more boy crazy than the next girl, which now after re-reading some of my journal entries from back then, couldn't be more untrue as every single one of these pages are filled with past, current and future love interests.  My little brothers, who have recently confessed to reading my diaries, can confirm this.  Grrr.  I remember the look of shock and amazement on my friends' faces after scoffing and denying that I was in no way boy crazy.  The look said: "How can you be so completely oblivious to this cold, hard fact?"  Yup, they were were spot on.  

I also never thought of myself as a structured person.  "I'm an artist.  I'm not supposed to be structured.  I am a free spirit."  And maybe I wasn't until recently or until Ruby was diagnosed with D.  I don't know, but the other day, I realized that I am indeed structured, almost anal-retentively so.  I have a daily planner: a Moleskine notebook which I religiously keep my schedule, lists, etc. in, and it is the best creation ever.  

A hard cover notebook with a pocket in the back with an elastic closure; lined, blank or graphed paper; small, medium or large; all sorts of color selections, though only the classic black is show here:

  

I love them.  

This could possibly be what heaven looks like:

Not only do I have my Moleskine, I also keep a calendar on my computer, my iCal, which is color coded and like all things Apple, aesthetically pleasing and user friendly.  In addition to those calendars, I also have a big one I keep in my art room on a large white board, which I also update.  Yes, I realize I am writing everything down multiple times.  And, to top it off, in my journals, I have found myself making mini-calendars.  (Right, John?  Right, Joe?)  Sometimes these calendars are made to count down events I am looking forward to, but also I have made daily calendars in which I have scheduled every single minute of my day...Yah.  I know.

So, I just wrote this big paragraph in defense of my crazy calendaring, listing all the benefits of being this bizarre, but then I deleted it after just deciding to go with this:  Ok, fine.  I'm crazy. But I like it and it works for me.

Ok, I've gone past my allotted Blog Time.  I'm late to Blow My Nose.

Too hot to handle

Upon reluctantly entering my second home yesterday, otherwise known as the Wal-Mart SuperCenter, smack dab in the middle of the entrance, just a couple feet behind where the elderly and/or physically disabled blue-vested men mumble greetings, was a rounder of books containing a genre that I was not aware of before: religious romance.  Sure, as a teen I owned and read a couple of the LDS "romance" books, I guess you could call them, written by (shudder) Jack Weyland and the like.  Since then, these novels have been ground into a fine pulp and then reconstituted to be spread on crackers.  So as I whipped by this rounder, a book cover caught my eye.  I stopped to take a look.  It featured the bust an Amish woman looking quite forlorn in the foreground, clad in the usual Amish garb.  In the background, was a barn (no kidding!) and a dark, shadowy figure of man, leaning on a pitchfork.  The title was something like How I Love Thee.  Excuse me?  Amish romance?  Isn't that sort of an oxymoron?  Of course not.  They're human, too.  Shame on me for being surprised that the Amish have libidos.  Also on the rounder, was Christian romance.  A large woman wearing a W.W.J.D. bracelet, humming "He's Got the Whole Word in His Hands" was thumbing through a novel titled something like Inspired to Love, with a man and woman sitting on a park bench wholesomely holding hands with white doves flying overhead.  

Now at least I know what I'm getting my brothers for Christmas.

Tagged: My Husband

What's his name?  Go.  Or Brandon Quayle Reynolds.

How long have you been together?  We've been married for 6.5 years.

How long did you date? About 10 months before we were married.

How old is he? 29.

Who eats more? Hard to say.

Who said "I love you" first?  He informed me of this first.  I say "informed me" because that's just what he did: he informed me.  It was really funny, actually.  I guess you had to be there. But I'm glad you weren't because that would have been a tad awkward.

Who is taller? He is.

Who sings better?  That'd be me.  And I'm not that good, so...

Who is smarter?  Even though he went to med school, is a doctor, etc., I still consider myself his intellectual equal.  Hey!  Stop laughing.

Whose temper is worse?  Even.  

Who does the laundry? Me.

Who does the dishes? Me, but he helps out once in awhile when he's actually home and able to...which is once in awhile.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Go.

Who pays the bills? Me.

Who mows the lawn? The association lawn care service, thank goodness.

Who cooks dinner? Me.

Who drives when you are together?  He usually does, unless he's post-call and I can talk him into letting me drive.  He is scary to drive with post-call because he gets mentally dumb.  Ooo, I should have factored that to the "Who's smarter?" question.  I would have had that one by a long shot.

Who is more stubborn? He started out more stubborn but I think it might be me now.  I don't know.  We're probably equal.

Who is the first to admit when they're wrong?  He is.  But maybe it just seems that way because he's wrong more often than I am.  Bwa-ha-ha.  But seriously - he's really good about admitting he's wrong once he realizes it.  I, on the other hand, have room to grow in that area. Now if I could just give myself more opportunities to be wrong...

Whose parents do you see the most? We always hit both houses, so they're pretty equal, though Go didn't get to go to Irvine this summer, which he is still pouting about.

Who kissed who first?  He kissed me. 

Who asked who out?  He did.  

Who proposed? Go

Who is more sensitive? Even.

Who has more friends?  I do.

Who wears the pants in the family?  Depends.  Are they surgical scrubs or spandex bike shorts with a padded crotch?

May Bone

Last night Go and I were on a date (thankyouthankyouthankyou to Uncle Paul for babysitting) and we were talking about our kids, something we try not to do when we're out alone, but my children have a way of pushing themselves into my brain, even when they're not there.  They are big hassles and huge  inconveniences, really.  

Oh come now, I'm only joking.  Kind of.

We were talking about Ruby, about how Diabetes has aged her, which is especially unfortunate

because we've always thought of her as an "Old Soul" even before she was diagnosed--wise beyond her years, always worrying about everything, constantly observing everyone, analyzing

 all situations, etc.  

And then we decided that May was a "Labrador Retriever Soul:" especially, goofy, playful,

 loyal, sensitive, cuddley and mischievous.  She is also quite fuzzy.

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Four

So now that I've had Ruby, not only am I fat but I am also crazy.  I don't feel the need to explain this part, as most of the people who read this blog have children and know that when you become a mother, you also become insane.  Case in point: only an insane person would put this picture of themselves up on the internet.  But there I am: a new, tired, fat, crazy mother.  And I do mean "mother," not "motha."

As the months wear on, the fat only compounds the craziness, so I try dieting.  It helps get rid of some of the bulk but makes me even more of a raving lunatic, so I decide to do the only thing there is left to do:  I am going to head back into the gym with the actual intention of sweating.  The night before turning over this new leaf, I take a look at an online class schedule and see what fits in between Ruby's nap times.  Spinning, which is indoor cycling.  Ok, spinning it is.

The next morning, I arrive 10 minutes early because I don't want to be that girl: the one who comes in late, acting sheepish and tip-toeing exaggeratedly.  But instead, I'm that other girl: the one that shows up 10 minutes early, which is almost worse.  The spin teacher that day, who is lean and muscular and is wearing 18 less

 layers of clothes than I am, teaches me how to set up my bike.  She informs me that I have abnormally short legs and short arms, which means we put all the bike's settings as if Webster was going to ride.  People start to trickle in, all types, which I like.  But I quickly calculate that I am the second fattest person in the room, something that when I find myself doing, I hate myself for.  The instructor turns on the music, which is mediocre.  The class is an hour.  I last 20 minutes.  I go home, sit on an ice pack and take a full course of Aleve.  But I go back the next week, readjust my bike to fit at least Rudy Huxtable and I last 10 minutes longer.  And then I come again the next week after that and I last 20 minutes longer until, before I know it, I have made it all the way through the class to be there for the cool down.  I continue to go and start losing the weight, which encourages me to keep going. I start spinning three times a week and what do you know?  I'm good at it.  To make a long story short, I get certified to teach it, which come to find out, I'm even better at.

What spin, especially teaching spin, did for me was way more valuable than just getting pesky baby-weight off, it gave me the confidence to use the body I was given and to push myself.   Working out has become one of my favorite things to do, not only spinning but yoga, kickboxing, hiphop, step - whatever it is, I just enjoy the challenge and have learned to block out the negative voices in my head that tell me to fear failing, to fear looking dumb, to fear being the second fattest person in the room.  There is something special about the confidence that comes with becoming good at something you didn't originally think you could do; it has a domino effect in all other aspects of your life, I've found.  You start to think "Hm.  Maybe I'm not the person I thought I was.  Maybe I'm much more than that." And that has made all the difference.

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Three

So a year after the Ballet Incident, I find someone who will actually marry me and he happens to be a work-out-aholic. While we are dating, he invites me on several occasions to come work out with him at the RB/Fieldhouse, to which I decline and make up excuses like "You know what?  I think I'm allergic to foot powder.  You wouldn't believe the amount of foot powder that is floating through the air ducts of those buildings. I don't want to risk another breakout like last time," and "Yah, I have this thing with tiled hallways.  I get vertigo."  I guess I always could have gone with "Well, you see, there was this one time I had to run all the way home from the RB in the snow without any pants on, so I'm kinda turned off to the place," and it would have sounded just as good.  

So somehow I trick the Work-Out-aholic into marrying me.  Isn't he pretty?  One of the first things we do after we move to downtown SLC, in typical Work-Out-aholic fashion, is join a gym.  For the next 9 months we live there, he pleads and begs everyday to come to the gym with him, to which I always give in into because we are newlyweds and at this tender, early stage in our marriage, I am still a nice wife. But to my surprise, as the weeks tick by, I start looking forward to kickboxing, yoga and aerobics.  This is a win-win situation.  He doesn't have to beg me anymore and I'm not getting fat.  

But of course, we have a one step forward, two steps back situation when we move to Iowa and a couple of months later, I am pregnant.  The Work-Out-aholic, now a busy med student, starts to plead and beg for me to come to the gym with him after school/work.  On most occasions I decline.  Why?  Because we've made it past the year mark and every day after that, I get potentially meaner.  That and I'm usually still digesting the cheesecake my co-workers have fed The Pregnant Girl at work. When I do actually give in and go, my time is usually spent sitting in the women's locker room reading trashy magazines.

Work-out-aholic: So how was your work out?

Pregnant Girl: Very educational.

Surprise!  I gain 50 pounds while pregnant with Ruby.  I can recall a conversation I have with my very sensitive, caring and warm OB.  

Pregnant, Fat Girl: I've gained so much weight!  What should I do?

Very Sensitive, Caring and Warm OB: Stop eating so much!  My gosh, stop putting food in your mouth, woman!  Wire your jaw shut!

Two days later I have Ruby.  This is her first picture.  See these cheeks?  They are made of cheesecake.  

I have 35 pounds to lose.

To be continued...  

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Two

I think it was because of the following two experiences that swore me off of going to the RB during my days at BYU, which resulted in my Freshman 15 that lingered and lingered:

RB Experience No.1

It is my freshman year at BYU on a wintery afternoon.  My roommate Elizabeth and I decide to go work out.  We go to the RB and change into our BYU issue, which is a horrible outfit BYU students are required to wear when using the school's gym facility at the Fieldhouse to undoubtedly thwart any unclean thoughts one might have about any fellow gym goer: a huge, baggy grey t-shirt and ill fitting navy blue drawstring sweat-shorts.  Their plight is undeniably successful.  Nary a date is ever made at the RB.  Clad in our most unflattering garb, we head to the Fieldhouse to work out but find the gym is being used by a grunting weight-lifting class and we are told to come back later.  We go back to the RB, retrieve our stuff from our lockers, and wear the icky issue back to our dorm with plans to return in an hour.  An

 hour turns into several hours.  I meet Elizabeth back at the Fieldhouse with about 40 minutes before it and the RB closes.  We work out and return to the RB to turn in our BYU issue with about 2 minutes to spare.  To my horror, I realize, unlike Elizabeth, I did not bring clothes to change back into.  If I do not give back the potato sack shirt and flub exposing shorts in 2 minutes, I will not get my ASB card back (which buys my food and gets me into my dorm building) and I will be slapped with a fatty fine, which at this point in the year, I cannot afford to pay.  We hear the RB worker jingle her keys.  Elizabeth hands me her sweatshirt.  It is not a big sweatshirt, but it is something.  I do the only thing I can do: I take off my BYU issue and put on the sweatshirt.  I pull it down as far is it will go, which barely covers my bottom and shuffle to the desk where I, red-faced, return the issue and receive my precious ASB card.  And then I book it all the way from the RB to Helaman Halls in the snow, wearing nothing but a sweatshirt and a smile, with a hysterical Elizabeth trailing behind.  I am too embarrassed to return to the RB after this.  Thus ends my days of working out my freshman year.

RB Experience No. 2

My sophomore year I decide to brave the RB and due to an identity crisis of sorts, I sign up for a ballet class, much to my friends and roommates' glee.  If you know me, and actually, you don't even have to know me well, really, to see where the humor in this lies.  I am not graceful.  I am not dainty.  I am not tall and skinny.  I am of average height and lean towards the "big-boned" side of the population.  I am boyish.  But this is something I want to do, as I believe it will help me become less of a tom-boy and more feminine, which means more dates, which as you might be able to tell, is my big focus at this point in my life.  So I buy my leotards, my tights and ballet shoes: requirements for this beginning ballet class.  I don't remember if I modeled them or just held them up their packages, but whatever happened, it brings several of my friends to their knees, clutching their stomachs, with giggle-induced tears streaming down their faces.  Merely the thought of me at a ballet bar gives them just enough juice to get them going.  Luckily for both them and me, I'm pretty thick-skinned.  I walk into the RB for my first class with my head held high, wearing my leotards and tights on underneath a pair of overalls.  I walk into the studio and find I am surrounded by stretching, slick haired x-ballerinas that just want "a refresher" and two fat guys who are taking the class as a joke, but wearing the leotards nonetheless, which definitely isn't worth it in their case.  The class begins and of course, I am horrible, but I stick with it.  I go to the second and the third and maybe the fourth class and it is when I realize that the two fat boys are better than me that I finally turn in my withdraw slip to the instructor, who doesn't look surprised at all.  I am shocked that a "What took you so long?" does not escape her pretty little ballerina lips.  But it is too late to simply withdraw.  If I drop out now, I risk having an "I" for incomplete on my transcript.  I don't care.  I take the "I", I walk out of the RB and never look back. 

To be continued...

Athleticism Later in Life: Part One

As I child I was not what you'd call "athletic."  This was something I developed much later, an arduous and embarrassing journey of sweat and tears.  Join me for a trot down memory lane.

I tried soccer for a season in fifth grade, a miserable several months in which I was to endure humiliation every Saturday, followed by a baggie of sliced oranges, a Kudos bar and a Squeeze-It.

Welcome to Phase 1 of  3 of My Awkward Stage.  Comfy?

Then there was swimming, which I was better at but still not fantastic, which I did the summers after the 6th and 7th grades.

Summer after 6th: Phase 2 of My Awkward Stage. 

 Summer after 7th: And now tapering off into Phase 3, the final stage. (That is, until I over-plucked my eyebrows my sophomore year and My Awkward Stage started over again.  But that's a whole different post.)

During high school, I took a big hiatus from all things athletic.  I was too busy being a hippy and kissing my boyfriend.

College rolled around the Freshman 15 hit.  I went to the RB (the workout room at BYU) a couple of times, but all I really did was half-heartedly do the StairMaster and pretend to read a magazine while I stared at boys. 

To be continued...

Art is not a crime.

This is a picture Ruby drew the other day.  On the left side of the page is a monkey swinging on a vine above a tree.  A very tall flower is in the middle.  On the right side of the page is a road, drawn with perspective in mind, though I've never taught her about this particular art element, she came up with that all on her own.  She wanted her picture to have "texture", another element I've never gone over with her, so she cut fringe all around the sides.  Art just seems to come to her naturally.  By the way, her upcoming show is this Saturday night.  I'll be the one wearing a tux, passing around salmon puffs and brie.

I do what I can to encourage this particular talent, so I keep out all kinds of art supplies, everything stuck in glasses and kept on a serving tray as the centerpiece on the kitchen table, an idea I stole from Jessie.  It's been a lifesaver for the both of us.  It lets me have a few moments of peace without her literal non-stop talking, resulting in me not duct taping her mouth shut and keeping her out of the custody of child protective services.  Thanks again, Jess!

Really? With cleats on?

Last night, a minivan in the Blockbuster parking lot caught my eye.  It had two bumper stickers in the rear window, one down on each bottom corner.  On the right it said "Middletown High Football Mom.  Go Raiders!" and on the left it said "Football players do it with cleats on."  Hm, you learn something new every day.  So you're saying that your son plays football?  Great!  Good for him.  And he "does it" with cleats on?  Wow, did he tell you that?  Gee, thanks for sharing.  And thanks for encouraging your young son to be spreading his seed around.  While wearing cleats, no less. 

I'll have some beef with a side order of beef

I'm in a horrible mood.  

-Do not call me "Ma-am."

-Do call me "Sugar Plum", "Dumplin" or "Puddin' Pop."

-Do not, immediately after finding out Ruby has Diabetes, launch into your uncle's many Diabetic horror stories, about how he just got his leg amputated and on the leg that's left, he only has three toes, he's on a waiting list to get a kidney transplant and he's almost blind.

-Do feel free to treat my kid nicer than you would have.  She deserves it.

-Do not call me "artsy-fartsy."

-Do call me "fartsy."

-Do not act like I just set you on fire when I tell you I only nursed my first-born for 7 weeks.

-Do ponder upon the wise lyrics of Sly and the Family Stone: "Different strokes for different folks...and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo on."

-Don't "tsk-tsk" me at the grocery store when you catch me in my work out clothes.

-Do feel free to wear yours as well.  I won't judge.

-Do not stare at my breasts when I tell you my husband's chosen profession.  They are painfully and obviously real.  

-Do not ask for a discount.  We are a kajillion dollars in debt.

-Do not ask me if I'm going to get liposuction someday.  Because if you do, I'll tell you that yes, yes I will.  On my cankles.  And then you'll lie because you feel bad and say "Oh my gosh, you do not have cankles." And then I'll tell you that your pants are on fire.

-Do ask if I'm going to get liposuction someday and then awkwardly add "Not that you need it or anything."  Ok, don't do that either, because you're pants would be on fire again. 

-Do not ask me why I'm not pregnant again yet.

-Do let me hold your baby.

-Do not use the phrase "We'll do."

-Do use the phrase "Well, why don't you marry it?"

We want to (clap) PUMP...(point) you up.

Ruby got connected to her insulin pump today, a day we've been waiting for basically for the past year she's been diagnosed with the Big D.  We started the whole process a couple of months ago, after I was inspired by Josie and her son Ethan (one of Ruby's betrothed) who were also starting the process and we're finally here.  

Shown here on the left is what the first insulin pump looked like.  We've come a long way. That's basically what Ruby's pump looks like now, on the right.  Apparently the person not only has Diabetes but also has Jaundice.

This picture was taken this morning right before we left for the doctor's office sans pump.  

And look Mom, I did her hair.  

The appointment went well, though she cried when I put her infusion set in, which is a catheter inserted with a big, long needle, but that poke happens once every couple of days, opposed to before the pump: getting 4 shots a day.  I like our Diabetes Nurse, though I wish she had more of a sense of humor:

Nurse: (holding the pump, showing me the bells and whistles) And here is where you would go in and program your pump to show its name.

Me: Its name?

Nurse: Yes, some people like to name their pumps.

Me: Oh, ok.  We'll name him Roy, then.

Nurse: Roy?

Me: Sure.

Nurse: um...ok...

The second picture was taken right after we got home from the doctor's. 

These pants look familiar?  We're picking and choosing our battles these days.  And yes, she took her hair out Mother, she has a milk moustache and soup drips all over her, but she's pumping and she's happy.  And so am I.  It will be a rough couple of weeks while we figure out her exact dosing: no snacks between meals for her, me having to wake up and take her blood sugar level at midnight, 3 and 6 am, etc. but it will be worth it.  We're pretty excited.

Round Two

Preschool and gymnastics are here again. Even though it was a year ago, it seems like yesterday I was posting this very same post. Coincidentally, Ruby picked out the exact same pair of pants as last year's first day. She digs pink.

First day of preschool:


Firsty day of gymnastics:

Cute dresses, not so cute pictures

Time to break out the shoulder pads

Today I was called as the Relief Society secretary. Now all I have to do is find some pearls, some flowered dresses, and get myself some supportive pantyhose to seal the deal. And don't be surprised if you see me sporting the following three sweaters:



I was turned onto this website by an IA friend. This sweater lady kills me. I especially love the titles she gives each one.
"Butterfly Tears", "Mesquakie Keno", and "Breath of a Criminal" are shown above.

You can find more gems like these here:
http://www.lesliehall.com/gemsweater/gallery/gallery1.htm