Friday, December 11, 2009
Made in the USA
We've decided to try to avoid Chinese made products in our house. At first, I thought it would be fairly easy - right? There would be products everywhere, just maybe more expensive? Probably better quality? Um... no. And not only that, but shopping online at places like Amazon has become a HUGE task - I can't just type in "baby spoons" I have to search for baby spoons through google to find ones made outside of China (and preferably India, too), then find them on Amazon. I've searched both Wal-Mart and Target's baby aisles and found ONLY products made in China (seriously, the entire aisle of baby teethers and toys, all made in China). And then it makes me wonder, once Gray is a big boy and sees toys in the store, am I really going to tell him no because it's made in China? Maybe that will make a good excuse to keep his toy haul to a minimum, but seriously, the kid will never be able to get a surprise toy while we're out shopping. Anyhow, if anyone is looking or wondering, we ended up getting Baby Bjorn spoons, bowls, etc. They are made in Sweden. And we got Fresh Baby so easy food trays (for freezing his homemade baby food) which are BPA free and actually made in the USA - holy cow. They also have a nice little snap on cover for the trays so that the food won't get freezer burned.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Growing up
Gray is growing up so fast. It feels like he's already a little man and not my tiny helpless baby anymore at all. He babbles and talks and blows bubbles in my face. He holds his head high all the time. He tries to sit up all the time, he doesn't want to be cradled, he wants to see the world and experience life. He even tries to sit up straight in his carseat! He tries to sit up in his whale of a tub (bathtub) and scares the daylights outta me - I know if he manages to sit up he'll flop right forward, so I watch him like a hawk. He stands with my hands under his armpits and sometimes he'll do a little dance for us. If I let him grab my fingers with both hands, he can pull himself into sitting from laying down and to standing from sitting. I can carry him on my hip. He loves the alphabet song and Goodnight Moon already. He laughs when I blow on his belly and squeels when I hold him high in the air and then bring him down to my face and kiss him all over. He likes to pee in the sink and will fuss at me if I leave him in a diaper when he needs to pee. He's starting to recognize what boobies are and when he's hungry or in need of comfort he will grab and pull and put his face to my chest in search of his ultimate snugglie. He will sometimes hold his bottle while at the sitter's. He's not interested in laying down or learning to crawl, I think he'll be walking early and maybe even totally skip crawling. I feel like he'll be walking tomorrow. He hates being swaddled "that's for babies" he says though it might sound a lot like "gooooggrrrh" to you. When I say "I love you" he says "Aboo!" and I pretend that he means he loves me, too. When I'm holding him and he sobs it sounds like "huuunnnnnnnn-greeeeeee" like he's telling me he's ready to eat. When Dale holds him and he cries it sounds like "Maaaaaaaa-maaaaaaaa" like he's saying he wants me. Last night he babbled with this fussy talk for probably an hour, like he was learning that his voice sometimes sounds different and maybe that mama responds to the fussy talk in a different way than regular talk. He loves the bathtub. He splashes and squeels and kicks all the water out. He knows if he gets his feet on the bottom he can scoot his butt up over the hump that holds him upright. He doesn't know what will happen when he jumps the hump because mama is always messing up his plan and sitting him back up on the hump where he should be. He likes to watch the little whale sprinkler "shower" him. He stares at it and if he had been starting to fuss a bit he will calm right down. He's figuring things out. When he's in the swing he watches the arms of the swing the whole time, like he's figuring it out in his head and it makes me think he'll be an engineer like his Daddy. If he's fussy you can step outside for a second and he calms right down, like he's going to be a wildlife biologist like his mama. He's never once startled or cried about the dogs and their antics, barking or licking him or anything else. If he's asleep and I sneeze he'll cry like I purposely smashed his favorite toy, his whole face scrunches up and his little bottom lip quivers and big ole alligator tears roll down his face while he says "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH".
He likes to cuddle at night. His favorite place is on his side right up against me where the milkers are easy access. He'll put one arm and hand up on my chest like he's claiming and cuddling me. When he falls asleep while nursing his little head will bob up and down because he's still "nibbling". I call him pacman because of his little chin bob and head bob when he nurses. I call him bobcat because sometimes he cries and it sounds like a MEOW of a little tiny baby kitten (myowp!) I call him Love because no one has ever had my whole heart like he does. He turns 4 months old on Sunday, he has his whole life before him and I don't know how I'll ever handle him going to school or riding a bike or kissing a girl or driving a car.
He likes to cuddle at night. His favorite place is on his side right up against me where the milkers are easy access. He'll put one arm and hand up on my chest like he's claiming and cuddling me. When he falls asleep while nursing his little head will bob up and down because he's still "nibbling". I call him pacman because of his little chin bob and head bob when he nurses. I call him bobcat because sometimes he cries and it sounds like a MEOW of a little tiny baby kitten (myowp!) I call him Love because no one has ever had my whole heart like he does. He turns 4 months old on Sunday, he has his whole life before him and I don't know how I'll ever handle him going to school or riding a bike or kissing a girl or driving a car.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
4 weeks
Yesterday my baby turned 4 weeks old. He's growing into a little man already, and somehow I'm already missing newborn Gray, the tiny little 5 pound 7 ounce man that we brought home from the hospital, who was still so sleepy and had so much to learn.
4 weeks ago yesterday was both the best and worst day of my life. The best for obvious reasons, I have the cutest most wonderful son in the world and I finally got to meet him on July 22nd. The worst because he did not come into this world on our terms, he came on the doctor's terms, on the hospital's terms, and I'm still beating myself up over the way things went, the decisions that had to be made and the failure of my body.
He is the love of my life. I can't imagine if he would've been hurt or died in labor. I can't imagine if we'd tried to wait him out - I probably wouldn't be here to see him, and I don't know if he'd be here, either. I hate that I look back at his birthday and all I want to do is cry. I wish I could have a do-over. I wish I could fight that doctor and tell her how dumb she is. I wish I would've been stronger. I wish I would've been more knowledgeable.
He is gaining weight steadily now. He's my strong little man and he doesn't know that his birthday makes his mommy cry. Luckily he makes me smile. His round little tummy and his big blue/gray/brown/hazel eyes that look like a strange colored version of his daddy's. Seeing my little nose on his face and watching him curl his big toes like I always did when I was a baby. The sound of his cry that I knew instinctively even when we were in the hospital. The way he cries a little before he poo's and smiles when he farts. The way he looks so determined when he starts to nurse, and furrows his brow a little. His sweet little dimples in his cheeks. There was more good than bad on July 22nd, more good than I could ever imagine from one tiny person.
I'm already starting to forgive myself, a little at a time. I'll never be OK with what happened, never feel completely happy about those events, but I think I can come to a point eventually where I don't need to think about it very often. And that would be good.
4 weeks ago yesterday was both the best and worst day of my life. The best for obvious reasons, I have the cutest most wonderful son in the world and I finally got to meet him on July 22nd. The worst because he did not come into this world on our terms, he came on the doctor's terms, on the hospital's terms, and I'm still beating myself up over the way things went, the decisions that had to be made and the failure of my body.
He is the love of my life. I can't imagine if he would've been hurt or died in labor. I can't imagine if we'd tried to wait him out - I probably wouldn't be here to see him, and I don't know if he'd be here, either. I hate that I look back at his birthday and all I want to do is cry. I wish I could have a do-over. I wish I could fight that doctor and tell her how dumb she is. I wish I would've been stronger. I wish I would've been more knowledgeable.
He is gaining weight steadily now. He's my strong little man and he doesn't know that his birthday makes his mommy cry. Luckily he makes me smile. His round little tummy and his big blue/gray/brown/hazel eyes that look like a strange colored version of his daddy's. Seeing my little nose on his face and watching him curl his big toes like I always did when I was a baby. The sound of his cry that I knew instinctively even when we were in the hospital. The way he cries a little before he poo's and smiles when he farts. The way he looks so determined when he starts to nurse, and furrows his brow a little. His sweet little dimples in his cheeks. There was more good than bad on July 22nd, more good than I could ever imagine from one tiny person.
I'm already starting to forgive myself, a little at a time. I'll never be OK with what happened, never feel completely happy about those events, but I think I can come to a point eventually where I don't need to think about it very often. And that would be good.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Condolences
"I'm sorry for your loss" I think they said.
"It was his time to go, he's in a better place."
"He's happier now, no more pain."
"I'm sorry" they said.
"I'm sorry."
I don't really remember what they said, all those well-wishers, at his funeral. I don't remember who they were. I remember loads of people, and hugs. I remember faces I hadn't seen in years mixing with those I saw everyday, all one big blur of sadness, hugging me, wishing me well. I remember tears and laughter as people shared stories of his life, but I don't remember the words or the people. I remember feeling like the room was so small and stuffy, but at the same time like my father's closed casket was miles away, though I could see it in the next room. I remember a sister asking me if I wanted to see him, to lift the lid on the casket, to do a small family-only viewing. I remember not wanting to out of his interests, not mine, because I still to this day have a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't him in that casket, that he's slipped away to Mexico or the Bahamas and he has a sweet little Senorita and a casita on the beach. I remember the smell of carnations in the air, which until then were one of my favorite flowers but ever after have reminded me of death.
I remember following the hearse to the cemetery. I remember sitting under the tent in the front row of chairs next to my mother. I remember one specific flower arrangement. I don't remember the words that were said or who said them. I remember the shock at each gunshot during his salute. I remember the wind picking up and blowing flower arrangements over, blowing the flag off his casket. I remember the strange men in uniform folding his flag into a perfect, neat little triangle and handing it to my mother. I remember sobbing as he was lowered into the ground and feeling hysterical at the thought of him locked in a casket that would be sealed into a cement tomb that would be buried 6 feet underground.
But I don't remember the faces, I don't remember the words.
"I'm sorry for your loss" I think they might have said.
"My condolences."
"I'm sorry."
I'M sorry.
"It was his time to go, he's in a better place."
"He's happier now, no more pain."
"I'm sorry" they said.
"I'm sorry."
I don't really remember what they said, all those well-wishers, at his funeral. I don't remember who they were. I remember loads of people, and hugs. I remember faces I hadn't seen in years mixing with those I saw everyday, all one big blur of sadness, hugging me, wishing me well. I remember tears and laughter as people shared stories of his life, but I don't remember the words or the people. I remember feeling like the room was so small and stuffy, but at the same time like my father's closed casket was miles away, though I could see it in the next room. I remember a sister asking me if I wanted to see him, to lift the lid on the casket, to do a small family-only viewing. I remember not wanting to out of his interests, not mine, because I still to this day have a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't him in that casket, that he's slipped away to Mexico or the Bahamas and he has a sweet little Senorita and a casita on the beach. I remember the smell of carnations in the air, which until then were one of my favorite flowers but ever after have reminded me of death.
I remember following the hearse to the cemetery. I remember sitting under the tent in the front row of chairs next to my mother. I remember one specific flower arrangement. I don't remember the words that were said or who said them. I remember the shock at each gunshot during his salute. I remember the wind picking up and blowing flower arrangements over, blowing the flag off his casket. I remember the strange men in uniform folding his flag into a perfect, neat little triangle and handing it to my mother. I remember sobbing as he was lowered into the ground and feeling hysterical at the thought of him locked in a casket that would be sealed into a cement tomb that would be buried 6 feet underground.
But I don't remember the faces, I don't remember the words.
"I'm sorry for your loss" I think they might have said.
"My condolences."
"I'm sorry."
I'M sorry.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Reality of Loss
I feel like I can't remember anything about that day, and yet when I think about it, I remember everything in stunning detail, as if it was a video I've watched a thousand times.
It was a Wednesday, 11 years ago and I had gone to classes at the University that morning, followed by work at the daycare in the nursery that afternoon. I worked every afternoon, from 2:30 until closing. One of my parents had asked me to babysit for them that weekend, they had some big soiree and they needed someone who knew their two children and was trustworthy. I was excited at the prospect of some extra money and I liked these parents and their children.
At home I was making spaghetti when the phone rang. Spaghetti that would never be eaten. Spaghetti was my favorite food up until that day. I didn't consciously decide not to love it anymore, I actually just realized yesterday that I haven't eaten it in years. It was a meal he had taught me to make when I was younger and something I cooked probably once a week because it was cheap, convenient and tasty.
It was my mom on the phone.
"Rachael?" she said, and I could tell she'd been crying.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Your dad - he died today."
And with that, my heart hit the floor.
Dad had been sick for a while, he had cancer that was invasive and he'd chosen not to have chemo. The doctors gave him a few months to live without chemo, a few years at most with chemo. So far, he'd been alive and in pretty good shape for a year. He was actually feeling better than ever lately.
"Your dad was driving down the cut-across road when he had a heart attack and drove off the road into someone's yard. There was an EMT in the car behind him on the road, who stopped and started CPR within minutes. He was already gone before the ambulance arrived not 10 minutes later."
Heart attacks run in my dad's side of the family. Oddly enough, he's the 3rd son to die of a heart attack while driving. He was 67 years old.
"I'm coming home right now" I told my mom.
It was a long, dark 4 hour drive to the house I'd called home for the last 4 years of my life. We'd moved there when I was 15 and I couldn't leave fast enough for college. I wanted my independence, my freedom, my own life.
When I got home my mom immediately asked me to start making a list of all the preparations that needed to be made. Top priority for me the next morning was calling the insurance company to check on coverage and get paperwork rolling. It struck me hard to have to think about the monetary value of my dad's life, especially so soon after having lost him. It stung me in a way that I haven't forgotten.
I'd just visited two weeks before, when I'd helped Dad replace the front porch railing, do some planting in his massive garden and we'd made time for a bit of fishing in the small pond at the edge of the pasture. If I'd have known it was my last chance to see him, I never would've left. I remember being irritated with him for losing his hearing and not getting hearing aids. I was annoyed at having to repeat myself and speak up all the time. Upset that he couldn't just admit his hearing was going. I wish now that I could take that back. Hug him once more. Get just one more kiss.
But really that's not enough, because what I want more than anything is for my dad to meet my husband, to know the man I love and to hold the son who grows in my belly. I want to be able to tell him I became a Biologist, not an Engineer. I want to tell him about the work I do, how important it is for Conservation, because I know he'd be the only (blood) family member I have who would understand my job, my passion, and also be supportive and excited about my career. I want to show him the 40,000 acre ranch I worked on for my Master's degree, the place that solidified my happiness and shaped my dreams. I want him to see my home, the Hill Country, with his eyes that are so much like mine. I want him to smile at the cool clear green waters of the rivers that run here. I want him to have walked me down the aisle.
Those things all happened, just not the way I wanted.
My dad did walk me down the aisle, but no one knew it was him - there was a storm cloud with a giant rainbow just as we were married. I would've loved to feel his strong hand with it's papery skin in my hand. Loved to have him kiss me on the cheek and tell me I looked beautiful before passing me on to my husband. Loved to have his blessing. Loved to see him love the man I love.
My dad did visit me on the ranch, many times. Always in my dreams, but I know he was there, watching over me and beaming his pride down on me. Whenever I'd get truly frustrated, he'd visit me, reassure me, calm me.
I see my dad frequently in the Hill Country. The storms here are the storms he loved, and they carry his whispers and wrap me in his hugs. The booming thunder is his loud laugh, the bright lightening his quick smile, the raindrops his love.
Dad's most recent visit to my dreams was when I was 4 days pregnant. I'm sure that my father has already held my son. Wrapped him in his arms and kissed his sweet face. I expect he'll be here when my son is born, looking down on his newest grandchild and gifting him with love and patience.
It was a Wednesday, 11 years ago and I had gone to classes at the University that morning, followed by work at the daycare in the nursery that afternoon. I worked every afternoon, from 2:30 until closing. One of my parents had asked me to babysit for them that weekend, they had some big soiree and they needed someone who knew their two children and was trustworthy. I was excited at the prospect of some extra money and I liked these parents and their children.
At home I was making spaghetti when the phone rang. Spaghetti that would never be eaten. Spaghetti was my favorite food up until that day. I didn't consciously decide not to love it anymore, I actually just realized yesterday that I haven't eaten it in years. It was a meal he had taught me to make when I was younger and something I cooked probably once a week because it was cheap, convenient and tasty.
It was my mom on the phone.
"Rachael?" she said, and I could tell she'd been crying.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Your dad - he died today."
And with that, my heart hit the floor.
Dad had been sick for a while, he had cancer that was invasive and he'd chosen not to have chemo. The doctors gave him a few months to live without chemo, a few years at most with chemo. So far, he'd been alive and in pretty good shape for a year. He was actually feeling better than ever lately.
"Your dad was driving down the cut-across road when he had a heart attack and drove off the road into someone's yard. There was an EMT in the car behind him on the road, who stopped and started CPR within minutes. He was already gone before the ambulance arrived not 10 minutes later."
Heart attacks run in my dad's side of the family. Oddly enough, he's the 3rd son to die of a heart attack while driving. He was 67 years old.
"I'm coming home right now" I told my mom.
It was a long, dark 4 hour drive to the house I'd called home for the last 4 years of my life. We'd moved there when I was 15 and I couldn't leave fast enough for college. I wanted my independence, my freedom, my own life.
When I got home my mom immediately asked me to start making a list of all the preparations that needed to be made. Top priority for me the next morning was calling the insurance company to check on coverage and get paperwork rolling. It struck me hard to have to think about the monetary value of my dad's life, especially so soon after having lost him. It stung me in a way that I haven't forgotten.
I'd just visited two weeks before, when I'd helped Dad replace the front porch railing, do some planting in his massive garden and we'd made time for a bit of fishing in the small pond at the edge of the pasture. If I'd have known it was my last chance to see him, I never would've left. I remember being irritated with him for losing his hearing and not getting hearing aids. I was annoyed at having to repeat myself and speak up all the time. Upset that he couldn't just admit his hearing was going. I wish now that I could take that back. Hug him once more. Get just one more kiss.
But really that's not enough, because what I want more than anything is for my dad to meet my husband, to know the man I love and to hold the son who grows in my belly. I want to be able to tell him I became a Biologist, not an Engineer. I want to tell him about the work I do, how important it is for Conservation, because I know he'd be the only (blood) family member I have who would understand my job, my passion, and also be supportive and excited about my career. I want to show him the 40,000 acre ranch I worked on for my Master's degree, the place that solidified my happiness and shaped my dreams. I want him to see my home, the Hill Country, with his eyes that are so much like mine. I want him to smile at the cool clear green waters of the rivers that run here. I want him to have walked me down the aisle.
Those things all happened, just not the way I wanted.
My dad did walk me down the aisle, but no one knew it was him - there was a storm cloud with a giant rainbow just as we were married. I would've loved to feel his strong hand with it's papery skin in my hand. Loved to have him kiss me on the cheek and tell me I looked beautiful before passing me on to my husband. Loved to have his blessing. Loved to see him love the man I love.
My dad did visit me on the ranch, many times. Always in my dreams, but I know he was there, watching over me and beaming his pride down on me. Whenever I'd get truly frustrated, he'd visit me, reassure me, calm me.
I see my dad frequently in the Hill Country. The storms here are the storms he loved, and they carry his whispers and wrap me in his hugs. The booming thunder is his loud laugh, the bright lightening his quick smile, the raindrops his love.
Dad's most recent visit to my dreams was when I was 4 days pregnant. I'm sure that my father has already held my son. Wrapped him in his arms and kissed his sweet face. I expect he'll be here when my son is born, looking down on his newest grandchild and gifting him with love and patience.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Story of We
Last week I planned to blog everyday. Eh, I made it one day. C'est la vie. I'm just so important and busy, ya'll!
I get asked pretty often how Dale and I met. It's always weird because technically we met in a bar, which is what I say, but really he was a friend of my bff and she introduced me to him when we randomly saw him while we were out one night and 2 years later he and I started dating, so you can see it was a real whirlwind of love there at the beginning.
We met at The Ice House, in Lubbock. One of the coolest bars in the world, I loved that place, not that there was anything that made it spectacular but it was very laid back and there were always loads of cool people there and I just loved it. It's closed now so you can't go and try to prove me wrong so you'll just have to take my word on it.
Angie introduced me to Dale and Dale looked me straight in the boobs and said hello. Dale is a boobs man. I've never met a man who was so openly and honestly a boobs man and for some reason (beer) he felt very comfortable sharing this with me from hello. "Hello," he says, "You have big boobs, can I touch them?" Just like that. No nice to meet you's or pretending he had any other intent, the man knows what he likes and he liked my boobs. "Sure" I said through my own beer-haze. He was verified as OK because Angie introduced me to him, right?
We danced the two-step, which is more like the 3-step with Dale because he has his own version of the two-step. We danced and it was hard for me to dance in my 4 inch clogs so I took them off and danced on that disgusting floor barefoot. I'm surprised I didn't cut my foot off on a beer bottle or something. Later my feet were black. Gross. Knowing Dale now I'm sort of shocked he didn't puke all over me at the thought of my black disgusting feet. He always has shoes on, up until he gets into bed. Freak.
I don't remember the rest of that night but I wasn't planning to meet guys in Lubbock at the time and I had a couple of men on the back-burner and Dale was barely 21 to my aged 24. So, goodnight, boob-squeezer.
I saw him again a month later at the same bar. I couldn't remember how to dance because I hadn't drank that night and I'd been to visit Tennessee and did some dancing there in the mean-time, which is like the anti-two-step. He re-taught me to dance.
We saw each other every couple of months or so over the next two years. I was busy with my Master's and didn't want to date boys in Lubbock and really didn't want to date BOYS at all. He was young and had grabbed my boob on the first date and why did I let him do that anyway? Normally I would've punched a guy in the nose for that.
He always hit on me when we saw each other out. Always. He's a gentleman like that :)
In August 2004 I bought my jeep. My jeep needs it's own post, so I'll leave that for later. I saw Dale again in early September and we were talking about random stuff and I mentioned I had just bought a jeep. As if my big boobs weren't enough, I was also the owner of the sexy jeep rubicon he'd noticed in the parking lot. That did him in, I think. He was no longer hitting on me for the sake of just boobs, the man had a mission and the mission was me. I drove him home that night after a detour through the mud with the top off the jeep. I stalled him for a few weeks and then he temporarily stalled himself over a preppy hottie that was friends with his friends and always hung out at his house.
In late October me and Angie went to a tailgater at Texas Tech. I had one of those GAIT phones that was flat faced and butt-dialed everyone on the planet. Dale was the first number that came up when you pressed "down" and "3" and for some reaosn that phone could unlock itself when it so desired. We drove past Dale's group of friends and I waved hello and he gave me this shrug and a look like "WTF???" and held up his phone. Angie and I laughed at him and thought he was weird. We parked. We walked to our friends and Dale calls me. "What did you want?" he says. "You called me" I says. "No, you called me right before you drove by" he says. Much laughter insues from me and Angie. "yeah right, I was with Angie, she can verify, I didn't call you." "Check your phone" he says and sure enough, I'd called him. He met up with us and followed us around while we got drunk and checked out this hottie who was pretending to be a referee and still cracks me up when I think about him. He'd stand by the bathroom and blow his whistle at people who were in there too long and make calls at them like "Foul! Failure to wash your hands!" and he was wearing the full referee stripes and everything. I've got a picture of all of us girls with him. He was fabulous.
All of us girls went to the game and Dale borrowed my jeep, took it home and washed it. Isn't that sweet? He's not a big football fan. So that was it. We started dating and didn't quit. We fall more in love everyday (it took us 5 months to decide we were in love) and I wish it were that way for everyone. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I get asked pretty often how Dale and I met. It's always weird because technically we met in a bar, which is what I say, but really he was a friend of my bff and she introduced me to him when we randomly saw him while we were out one night and 2 years later he and I started dating, so you can see it was a real whirlwind of love there at the beginning.
We met at The Ice House, in Lubbock. One of the coolest bars in the world, I loved that place, not that there was anything that made it spectacular but it was very laid back and there were always loads of cool people there and I just loved it. It's closed now so you can't go and try to prove me wrong so you'll just have to take my word on it.
Angie introduced me to Dale and Dale looked me straight in the boobs and said hello. Dale is a boobs man. I've never met a man who was so openly and honestly a boobs man and for some reason (beer) he felt very comfortable sharing this with me from hello. "Hello," he says, "You have big boobs, can I touch them?" Just like that. No nice to meet you's or pretending he had any other intent, the man knows what he likes and he liked my boobs. "Sure" I said through my own beer-haze. He was verified as OK because Angie introduced me to him, right?
We danced the two-step, which is more like the 3-step with Dale because he has his own version of the two-step. We danced and it was hard for me to dance in my 4 inch clogs so I took them off and danced on that disgusting floor barefoot. I'm surprised I didn't cut my foot off on a beer bottle or something. Later my feet were black. Gross. Knowing Dale now I'm sort of shocked he didn't puke all over me at the thought of my black disgusting feet. He always has shoes on, up until he gets into bed. Freak.
I don't remember the rest of that night but I wasn't planning to meet guys in Lubbock at the time and I had a couple of men on the back-burner and Dale was barely 21 to my aged 24. So, goodnight, boob-squeezer.
I saw him again a month later at the same bar. I couldn't remember how to dance because I hadn't drank that night and I'd been to visit Tennessee and did some dancing there in the mean-time, which is like the anti-two-step. He re-taught me to dance.
We saw each other every couple of months or so over the next two years. I was busy with my Master's and didn't want to date boys in Lubbock and really didn't want to date BOYS at all. He was young and had grabbed my boob on the first date and why did I let him do that anyway? Normally I would've punched a guy in the nose for that.
He always hit on me when we saw each other out. Always. He's a gentleman like that :)
In August 2004 I bought my jeep. My jeep needs it's own post, so I'll leave that for later. I saw Dale again in early September and we were talking about random stuff and I mentioned I had just bought a jeep. As if my big boobs weren't enough, I was also the owner of the sexy jeep rubicon he'd noticed in the parking lot. That did him in, I think. He was no longer hitting on me for the sake of just boobs, the man had a mission and the mission was me. I drove him home that night after a detour through the mud with the top off the jeep. I stalled him for a few weeks and then he temporarily stalled himself over a preppy hottie that was friends with his friends and always hung out at his house.
In late October me and Angie went to a tailgater at Texas Tech. I had one of those GAIT phones that was flat faced and butt-dialed everyone on the planet. Dale was the first number that came up when you pressed "down" and "3" and for some reaosn that phone could unlock itself when it so desired. We drove past Dale's group of friends and I waved hello and he gave me this shrug and a look like "WTF???" and held up his phone. Angie and I laughed at him and thought he was weird. We parked. We walked to our friends and Dale calls me. "What did you want?" he says. "You called me" I says. "No, you called me right before you drove by" he says. Much laughter insues from me and Angie. "yeah right, I was with Angie, she can verify, I didn't call you." "Check your phone" he says and sure enough, I'd called him. He met up with us and followed us around while we got drunk and checked out this hottie who was pretending to be a referee and still cracks me up when I think about him. He'd stand by the bathroom and blow his whistle at people who were in there too long and make calls at them like "Foul! Failure to wash your hands!" and he was wearing the full referee stripes and everything. I've got a picture of all of us girls with him. He was fabulous.
All of us girls went to the game and Dale borrowed my jeep, took it home and washed it. Isn't that sweet? He's not a big football fan. So that was it. We started dating and didn't quit. We fall more in love everyday (it took us 5 months to decide we were in love) and I wish it were that way for everyone. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Feeling Douchey
Yesterday Dale noticed there were a couple of charges on my credit card that he wasn't aware of me making. One was to Dell Computers for $146 and the other was to St. Jude's for $5.
I wasn't aware of myself making those charges either!
I called the credit card and got the charges cancelled. This morning I called Dell and got their fraud department involved, also called St. Jude's and felt like the biggest douchebag ever, recalling a $5 donation to St. Jude's. They totally could've guilted me into giving them WAY more.
I wasn't aware of myself making those charges either!
I called the credit card and got the charges cancelled. This morning I called Dell and got their fraud department involved, also called St. Jude's and felt like the biggest douchebag ever, recalling a $5 donation to St. Jude's. They totally could've guilted me into giving them WAY more.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thanksgiving in April
April has been a rough month for me for a very long time. My dad died in April and every year I have the hardest time making it through April happily.
I'm a little bit obsessed with reading all the sad baby stories I can find, even though every single one makes me sob and worry. This week (my 25th week) I've finally come to realize how lucky I am - at least so far. I've been thankful, for the first time in April, during the week that my dad died, the week that one of my best friends was blessed with a beautiful angel baby who only lived one month - I've been thankful this week that my baby boy kicks strongly in my belly and answers my worried mama voice with a hefty little hand on my bladder. I've been thankful for my only problems being nausea, occasional heartburn, not being able to find a comfortable position anymore at night. I've been thankful for a single ultrasound during which my son looked perfect.
2 weeks ago a friend of my best friend lost her baby on the day of her scheduled C-section. I haven't really talked to anyone about it because I don't know what to say. Baby tragedy seems to surround my life, like a cloud of mosquitos, yet I remain bite free, my own baby kicks steadily and my body remains completely healthy. It is so unfair, for me to have this healthy pregnancy, to have a healthy son, without any work at all. It scares me that something will go unthinkably wrong because I don't think I can cope like these strong women around me. How do you go on living without your baby?
If you would've asked me last year, I'm sure I would've said 9 months flies by in a flash, too quickly to notice. But now - living every second with this baby on my mind, I know that 9 months is the time it takes for me to love someone who isn't even here yet, someone I've never seen with my eyes, more than anything on Earth. 9 months is the time it takes for me to wish my life in exchange for another, should anything ever happen to him. 9 months is an unbearably long period of time during which I wait for this little one to grow and be healthy and strong.
For all the mothers who have shared their stories, thank you for helping me realize how thankful I should be. Thank you for reminding me of the precious life I have growing in me and the gift I've been given. My heart is with you.
I'm a little bit obsessed with reading all the sad baby stories I can find, even though every single one makes me sob and worry. This week (my 25th week) I've finally come to realize how lucky I am - at least so far. I've been thankful, for the first time in April, during the week that my dad died, the week that one of my best friends was blessed with a beautiful angel baby who only lived one month - I've been thankful this week that my baby boy kicks strongly in my belly and answers my worried mama voice with a hefty little hand on my bladder. I've been thankful for my only problems being nausea, occasional heartburn, not being able to find a comfortable position anymore at night. I've been thankful for a single ultrasound during which my son looked perfect.
2 weeks ago a friend of my best friend lost her baby on the day of her scheduled C-section. I haven't really talked to anyone about it because I don't know what to say. Baby tragedy seems to surround my life, like a cloud of mosquitos, yet I remain bite free, my own baby kicks steadily and my body remains completely healthy. It is so unfair, for me to have this healthy pregnancy, to have a healthy son, without any work at all. It scares me that something will go unthinkably wrong because I don't think I can cope like these strong women around me. How do you go on living without your baby?
If you would've asked me last year, I'm sure I would've said 9 months flies by in a flash, too quickly to notice. But now - living every second with this baby on my mind, I know that 9 months is the time it takes for me to love someone who isn't even here yet, someone I've never seen with my eyes, more than anything on Earth. 9 months is the time it takes for me to wish my life in exchange for another, should anything ever happen to him. 9 months is an unbearably long period of time during which I wait for this little one to grow and be healthy and strong.
For all the mothers who have shared their stories, thank you for helping me realize how thankful I should be. Thank you for reminding me of the precious life I have growing in me and the gift I've been given. My heart is with you.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Squiggly Worm Fart
A couple of nights ago I figured we'd try to see if Daddy could feel the baby moving in my belly. I've really wondered how long it would take because I'm overweight and it's our first so we had no idea, but the baby has been getting a few good kicks in everyday so I figured it was worth a try.
So we laid down in bed, I was on my back and had Dale's hand on my belly. I could feel the baby lightly moving around in my belly but Dale wasn't saying anything, so I figured he couldn't feel anything yet. We waited about 5 or 10 minutes and suddenly the baby popped a good hard one right on Dale's ring and pinky fingers! I was so excited! Did you feel that? "Oh yeah, that's cool" he says. Then he says "Before the baby kicked, I could feel those farts moving around in there!" I said "Dale, those weren't farts" and he says "Yeah, I know the last one was the baby kicking, but before that, I could feel farts moving around in your stomach up by my thumb and index finger."
Hehe
His thumb was even with my belly button, a good two inches below my displaced tummy!
I let him know it was the baby moving the entire time -- then he said "Yeah - Yeah, that's exactly what I said, I could feel that little fart moving around in there!"
So we laid down in bed, I was on my back and had Dale's hand on my belly. I could feel the baby lightly moving around in my belly but Dale wasn't saying anything, so I figured he couldn't feel anything yet. We waited about 5 or 10 minutes and suddenly the baby popped a good hard one right on Dale's ring and pinky fingers! I was so excited! Did you feel that? "Oh yeah, that's cool" he says. Then he says "Before the baby kicked, I could feel those farts moving around in there!" I said "Dale, those weren't farts" and he says "Yeah, I know the last one was the baby kicking, but before that, I could feel farts moving around in your stomach up by my thumb and index finger."
Hehe
His thumb was even with my belly button, a good two inches below my displaced tummy!
I let him know it was the baby moving the entire time -- then he said "Yeah - Yeah, that's exactly what I said, I could feel that little fart moving around in there!"
Friday, March 13, 2009
Rainy Days
We are in the midst of a serious drought here in Central Texas. 18 months with very little rain, I've read that it's the dryest 18 month period in recorded weather history. In fact, we'd been so long without rain that when it finally started raining two nights ago, both me and my hubby were tossing and turning all night because of the strange noise outside. This is especially funny for me - I grew up in Tennessee where it rained frequently and I like to think that rain lulls me to sleep. Apparently not anymore. But I'll get my groove back.
I love the rain. When I was a little girl, my dad and I would stand on the back porch and hold hands, watching the rain and the lightening together. I always felt like rainy days were our special place. When I was a teenager, sometimes I would crawl through my bedroom window and sit on the roof of the porch to watch the storms. Other times I'd stay hand-in-hand with my Dad on the porch downstairs.
My Dad died one month after my nineteenth birthday. I know that all people lose their parents at some point in their life, but losing my dad has been the most tragic part of my 30 years of life. I should be grateful for that, I guess. I never had grandparents though (my longest living grandparent, Grandma Dove, died when I was barely 3), and my Dad was especially important to me. He was much older, 47 when I was born, and was much like a grandparent most of my life (except for spankings with the belt!) He was retired for most of my life, retired from multiple jobs and working odd jobs to make a few more dollars on the side. He was my basketball coach, he attended every one of my softball games, he took me and all my friends to all of our volleyball games. I "home-schooled" my 8th grade year. I put that in quotes because actually, I spent the year with my Dad, doing whatever we did. Gardening, travelling, having fun. We were very close. We hiked the woods, told jokes, played cards and generally just enjoyed each others' company. It didn't effect my grades any, I came to high school as a freshman in all advanced classes and I graduated with distinguished honors.
The day we buried my dad, the wind blew strong and knocked over all the flowers at his graveside. Clouds rolled in and darkened during the graveside service, and gentle rain fell from above. My mom told me it upset her, to get rain at Daddy's funeral. I told her it was perfect, it was my Dad saying hello, wrapping us in a hug, letting us know we'd be OK and he wasn't gone.
The same thing happened the day I married my husband. We got married on the banks of the Guadalupe River, and as we turned around, together, to walk back down the aisle, I noticed huge dark rainclouds over the top of us. We'd had some decent rain earlier in the day, and we only got a few drops after the ceremony, thankfully, but I felt like it was my Dad telling me he was there and walking me down the aisle to my husband. There was a huge rainbow in the sky that evening.
We're expecting our first child in early August. I keep telling Dale that I expect there to be the most amazing thunderstorm when we deliver. He wouldn't miss it for the world.
I love the rain. When I was a little girl, my dad and I would stand on the back porch and hold hands, watching the rain and the lightening together. I always felt like rainy days were our special place. When I was a teenager, sometimes I would crawl through my bedroom window and sit on the roof of the porch to watch the storms. Other times I'd stay hand-in-hand with my Dad on the porch downstairs.
My Dad died one month after my nineteenth birthday. I know that all people lose their parents at some point in their life, but losing my dad has been the most tragic part of my 30 years of life. I should be grateful for that, I guess. I never had grandparents though (my longest living grandparent, Grandma Dove, died when I was barely 3), and my Dad was especially important to me. He was much older, 47 when I was born, and was much like a grandparent most of my life (except for spankings with the belt!) He was retired for most of my life, retired from multiple jobs and working odd jobs to make a few more dollars on the side. He was my basketball coach, he attended every one of my softball games, he took me and all my friends to all of our volleyball games. I "home-schooled" my 8th grade year. I put that in quotes because actually, I spent the year with my Dad, doing whatever we did. Gardening, travelling, having fun. We were very close. We hiked the woods, told jokes, played cards and generally just enjoyed each others' company. It didn't effect my grades any, I came to high school as a freshman in all advanced classes and I graduated with distinguished honors.
The day we buried my dad, the wind blew strong and knocked over all the flowers at his graveside. Clouds rolled in and darkened during the graveside service, and gentle rain fell from above. My mom told me it upset her, to get rain at Daddy's funeral. I told her it was perfect, it was my Dad saying hello, wrapping us in a hug, letting us know we'd be OK and he wasn't gone.
The same thing happened the day I married my husband. We got married on the banks of the Guadalupe River, and as we turned around, together, to walk back down the aisle, I noticed huge dark rainclouds over the top of us. We'd had some decent rain earlier in the day, and we only got a few drops after the ceremony, thankfully, but I felt like it was my Dad telling me he was there and walking me down the aisle to my husband. There was a huge rainbow in the sky that evening.
We're expecting our first child in early August. I keep telling Dale that I expect there to be the most amazing thunderstorm when we deliver. He wouldn't miss it for the world.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Losing myself
Yesterday evening I walked into my temporarily empty former guest room. I took the new paint and poured it into the tray. I took my paint roller and sopped it up good and full of paint. I began to roll the new calm, sage green color onto the walls. A nice neutral color that I'm sure guests (in the next few months before the baby is born) will appreciate. A very good color for a guest room or a nursery. A color that matches the rest of our house and I'm sure will be easier to pawn off on buyers at resell time. A color that I love and that I surely could have picked for this room in the first place. This room that had been a guest room only out of need. The room that was my creative center for quilting projects and inspiration. The room that I had painted an in-your-face bright ass green because it made me feel alive and awake whenever I walked in. A color that made guests give me strange looks like maybe I was a little crazy and hadn't realized my walls could easily be featured in Crayola. A color that struck me as standing proud even when people wondered why it was wearing that shirt, or dancing that dance or singing that song. A color that respected others but knew it was the best it could possibly be. A color that had worked hard for her achievements and had been successful. A color that knew it was well loved by some and that was more important than being liked by all. A color that was me. A color that was the me that not everyone sees.
I'm so in love with the thought of this amazing little child of mine, growing in my belly to be this unknown amazing person. But painting those walls was the first time I realized that parts of me will be lost in this little one. I'm happy to bring this life into the world, but I am sad to be losing a part of me - me that I have worked so hard to become.
So I covered up my bright-ass in-your-face green walls. I smothered them in mother, in love, in nature.
I'm so in love with the thought of this amazing little child of mine, growing in my belly to be this unknown amazing person. But painting those walls was the first time I realized that parts of me will be lost in this little one. I'm happy to bring this life into the world, but I am sad to be losing a part of me - me that I have worked so hard to become.
So I covered up my bright-ass in-your-face green walls. I smothered them in mother, in love, in nature.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Burglars
I used to work for a bank, back when I lived in Tennessee and before I became a wildlife whore. I worked in the Teller Pool, which is like substitute tellers who go around to all the different banks when the regular tellers are on vacation, or the bank is short on people, or whatever. So I got to work at all of the 5/3's banks in Knoxville (the name of the bank was fifth thirds, not that I'm retarded and trying to say I worked at five thirds of the banks in Knoxville, I don't even know what that would mean).
There was a particular bank location that was known for two things: being incredibly busy and being robbed on multiple occasions. Needless to say, I was a bit tepid about working at this particular locale. I ended up being at this bank for a couple of months, because they were short on tellers. There would be lines snaking through the lobby and out the door into the parking lot on most afternoons, and we'd get so busy that I would have hundreds of thousands of dollars in my drawer, which is against policy, but was unavoidable. (I can't remember what the limit was on a drawer of a regular teller, I want to say like $10,000 or something, and I remember one day I had $360,000 and the head teller told me to just keep going, there was no time to sell cash to the vault). Turns out the head teller was a bit shady, but that's a story for another time.
One day I'm working my ass off and look around the lobby to notice 3 strange-looking (foreign? like Russian maybe)men huddled together over the table where deposit slips and pens and such things are located. I saw them take a deposit slip, turn it over (our slips were blank on the back side) and begin writing on it, still talking in hushed whispers. I watched them out of the corner of my eye with one finger on the alarm button, praying to myself that they wouldn't end up at my slot. All three men wore jackets and were, aside from the slightly foreign side, normal looking dudes.
They finish writing, the guy with the paper comes forward and the other two stay back, at the table, casually looking around the bank, eyes resting on tellers and our officer a bit long for my taste. Of course, the man with the paper comes to me. By now, he has folded and refolded the paper many times, and it is, as he pushes it towards me, about a 2 inch by 2 inch square. I look into his eyes and notice how nervous he is, sweat beading on his brow, eyes barely making contact with mine before changing focus to his shoes, his hands, the floor.
I unfold the paper, heart thudding in my chest, wondering how I will make it through this experience. On the paper is written
"I do not speak good English, I need $100 from account XXXXXX"
There was a particular bank location that was known for two things: being incredibly busy and being robbed on multiple occasions. Needless to say, I was a bit tepid about working at this particular locale. I ended up being at this bank for a couple of months, because they were short on tellers. There would be lines snaking through the lobby and out the door into the parking lot on most afternoons, and we'd get so busy that I would have hundreds of thousands of dollars in my drawer, which is against policy, but was unavoidable. (I can't remember what the limit was on a drawer of a regular teller, I want to say like $10,000 or something, and I remember one day I had $360,000 and the head teller told me to just keep going, there was no time to sell cash to the vault). Turns out the head teller was a bit shady, but that's a story for another time.
One day I'm working my ass off and look around the lobby to notice 3 strange-looking (foreign? like Russian maybe)men huddled together over the table where deposit slips and pens and such things are located. I saw them take a deposit slip, turn it over (our slips were blank on the back side) and begin writing on it, still talking in hushed whispers. I watched them out of the corner of my eye with one finger on the alarm button, praying to myself that they wouldn't end up at my slot. All three men wore jackets and were, aside from the slightly foreign side, normal looking dudes.
They finish writing, the guy with the paper comes forward and the other two stay back, at the table, casually looking around the bank, eyes resting on tellers and our officer a bit long for my taste. Of course, the man with the paper comes to me. By now, he has folded and refolded the paper many times, and it is, as he pushes it towards me, about a 2 inch by 2 inch square. I look into his eyes and notice how nervous he is, sweat beading on his brow, eyes barely making contact with mine before changing focus to his shoes, his hands, the floor.
I unfold the paper, heart thudding in my chest, wondering how I will make it through this experience. On the paper is written
"I do not speak good English, I need $100 from account XXXXXX"
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Don't watch while Preggo!
Today I decided it would be a fun idea to watch "Premonition" (with Sandra Bullock). Not only are the pregnancy hormones in full swing, but this morning I woke up grumpy and in a fit, for no good reason. Well, maybe because I had to pee 3 times last night when I'd rather be sleeping soundly, and then my dogs want to get up promptly at 7 to go poddy themselves, and when I'd like for them to come back into the house, they ignore me, so I go back to bed only to be kept awake by them scratching at the back door, then let them in, get snuggled in bed and am kept awake by Sierra licking her vadge...
So I decide to watch "Premonition" thinking it is probably a cheesy movie since I haven't really heard of it before and it's got Sandra Bullock in it, which since Miss Congeniality, usually means cheese.
I haven't been bery weepy in the last few days, so I was confident in my abilities to watch this movie without sobbing.
Turns out, if you are a pregnant woman who loves her husband, you should NOT watch this movie. The entire movie was making me leak tears, and by the end, spoiler alert, I was WAILING. Not just crying, or sobbing, or leaking a few insignificant tears, I was a howling, bawling, snotty nose, tears in my ears, Mess.
So I decide to watch "Premonition" thinking it is probably a cheesy movie since I haven't really heard of it before and it's got Sandra Bullock in it, which since Miss Congeniality, usually means cheese.
I haven't been bery weepy in the last few days, so I was confident in my abilities to watch this movie without sobbing.
Turns out, if you are a pregnant woman who loves her husband, you should NOT watch this movie. The entire movie was making me leak tears, and by the end, spoiler alert, I was WAILING. Not just crying, or sobbing, or leaking a few insignificant tears, I was a howling, bawling, snotty nose, tears in my ears, Mess.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Fortune Cookies Really Work!
When I was visiting my mother over Thanksgiving, we went to eat at a Chinese restaurant. This was Sunday night (I was expecting Aunt Flo on Tuesday).
I actually got a double fortune, which is extra fortunate - but reading them together is what really kind of creeps me out!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Apparently we're scumbags
Night before last, Dale and I headed over to the storage unit to get a few things I needed for work. (The unit is for my work and I keep files and stuff in there, as well as my 4-wheeler). This is what I found:
The silver circular lock is mine. The black lock is... management's. I have never in my life felt more like a scumbag! Apparently the main office never got the storage place's bill, so it never got paid. The funny thing is, I got this storage place in JUNE. I have been able to get into my storage unit for 7 months with no problems without paying, and I was none the wiser. What really pisses me off is that these people never thought to give me a phone call and say "Hey, do you know you've never paid your bill, in ... uh... 7 months?" Instead, they wait until the day before New Year's Eve and throw a damn lock on it! I'm betting these people aren't very business savvy!
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