She Likes Purple

Why he's going to be your favorite

1. Stress doesn't phase him, especially not when it comes to you. Child, you screamed so often those first few weeks/months, Molly used to go outside for a little peace and quiet. Your dad would make jokes, would roll his eyes, but he never got really bothered by it. Your mother? Sliiiiightly more bothered by it.

2. He gets giddy when he sees you in a way I've never seen him get giddy about anything before. Including when he found out there was going to be a Futurama movie. For a man who has never worn his heart on his sleeve, it's pinned right out there for the whole world to see when it comes to you.

3. He has a motorcycle. And a Mustang. And something tells me he'll let you drive both one day, if you ask nicely enough.

4. He doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. He doesn't care what anyone thinks of his parenting. He's always going to do what he thinks is best for you, status quo be damned.

5. He will never say no if you ask him to play outside with you. I'm pretty sure you won't be able to make a liar out of me on this one.

6. He's just plain FUN. He's just plain FUNNY. He's going to have you laughing even when think you should be embarrassed by him. He's going to make you laugh whether you want to or not. I have personal experience with this one.

7. He thinks we actually need more than one flat-screen TV. I bet you and your friends will just love that one day.

8. He thinks farts are funny.

9. He can wakeboard and snowboard and play soccer and hockey and do all those bang-you-up physical things I hear boys like to do. I, on the other hand, can cross stitch. And blog. And whine about how tired I am.

10. He doesn't yell. He doesn't throw things. He doesn't let his negative emotions get the better of him unless those negative emotions are directed at non-family members like John McCain or the Reliant Energy customer service reps. Bottom line, he's got his priorities totally, 100% sorted out, and you top the list.

11. He can already make you laugh and smile more than I can. BUT I DRESS YOU BETTER, KEEP IN MIND.

12. He doesn't hold his breath at any chance of you hurting yourself. He doesn't flap his hands and screech, "BE CAREFUL BE CAREFUL BE CAREFUL" like someone else in our family does.

Why you'll still love me a lot:

1. I picked him for us.

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Happy Dad's Day, Mike, from the two people and one dog who will never stop thanking their lucky stars for knowing you, loving you and for being loved right back by you.

Babe, I hope you get to put your feet up this Sunday, at some point, and relax with a cold beer and total control of the DVR.

***************

Happy Dad's Day to the other dads out there, too, including my own.

His life

I'm up most nights at 3 a.m. and not because Kyle is too but because at any given point, on any given day, I am thinking about eight million different things and it's very, very hard to turn all eight million off when I want to sleep. I've never in my life dealt with serious anxiety before but I suppose just like those pregnancy hemorrhoids, there really is a first time for everything.

My posting has been noticeably lighter lately, and it's honestly not because I'm short on time (although I'm short on the kind of time I was spilling over with before Kyle), but because I don't know how to give justice to the experience of motherhood, especially new motherhood. I felt this way -- to a much lesser extent -- about pregnancy: I have this one shot to write honestly and emotionally and well about my personal experience and the pressure causes me to use my computer to update my Facebook status and not my blog.

But, tonight I was reading an archived post of Backpacking Dad's (a blog I just recently discovered) and he wrote about sending e-mails to his daughter while he stayed home with her. I fell in love with this idea, especially since Kyle already has an email account -- has had one for months now because his geeky dad set it up for him when I was still pregnant and sent me emails on my son's behalf. ("Sorry about all the puking, Mom. I promise I'll be cute!") I liked BPD's idea so much, I think, because I know I'm not going to remember these days the way they really are. These days of abnormal sleeping, lounging in yoga pants with my son draped across my chest, and many, many diet sodas getting me through it all. I'll remember it rosier than it has been or fuzzier or better, as we always remember things, but I'll also lose all the little things that make these precious first weeks unlike any I'll ever live again. If I don't write them down somewhere -- through a strange email chain or even a badly-written blog post -- it will be as if they didn't happen at all, in a way. And I just can't stand that. I just can't knowingly let these tiny things slip away.

So here's a start, and it's not all good but it's his life and dammit I should be proud to speak it out loud:

The other day Kyle screamed pretty much non-stop from the time we woke up to the time he collapsed for his afternoon nap, around 4 p.m. He screamed when I held him and when I rocked him and when I danced with him and when I cried tears onto his still-dark hair. We went to the pediatrician today and got a reflux diagnosis, and I'm praying our plan-of-action takes care of his discomfort. Not because the sound of the screaming bothers me or frustrates me but because it kills me. He's in pain and, MY GOD, nothing sucks more than hearing that sound and knowing there's not a damn thing I can really do to make the pain go away.

We don't get out much and that's because of a flu that was going around the area and also because his carrier is a real bitch to carry around. I watched "The View" for the first time in my life the other day and I'll always associate Jason from "The Bachelor" with this time at home because it was, no kidding, one of the biggest news stories of Kyle's young life. I asked my son never to propose to a girl on television especially if he's still carrying a torch for a different girl. I believe he rolled his eyes, so I took it one step further and asked him never to marry a girl who shares a name with our dog, even if she has very pretty eyes.

I have a glass of wine every now and then and it makes all the difference.

Molly has been really great with Kyle. There's constant interest never jealousy, but her barks are the only sounds that really wake him up from a deep sleep, so I find myself yelling and snapping at her far more often than I used to. I hiss in loud whispers, "Don't! Bark!" and she cowers in the corner wondering, no doubt, where her mama went and who is this mean woman always sending her to bed. And the guilt piles on top of the guilt. (See: I'm drinking wine again.)

I still cry, especially when he cries and I can't seem to comfort him. I still feel like I'm doing this all wrong. Give me a do-over, please! I'll have another kid just to prove I've learned some things these first weeks! But that's not the only reason I think of doing this again, something I really didn't think I'd consider after those long, hard months of being pregnant. I would do it all over -- would do it over and over a thousand times -- because I'm in love. And you've been there, haven't you? You've been exhausted and drained of energy and scared and unsure and weak in the knees when you lock eyes and a mess when you think of them hurt and hopeful and proud and humbled, too. You can't imagine feeling better or feeling worse. You can't imagine how you ever managed to wake up before, without the possibility of spending even a minute with them motivating you. You grieve for a life you've given up but your only truth is that you would gladly give it up again and again and again because it's only with that sacrifice that you have all you'll ever need.

Earlier tonight I thought I saw him begin to smile at me. Absolutely fucking worth it.

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My first e-mail:

Hey buddy,

Today was cold! I think Texas pissed off everyone else in mid-March just so I could put you in this hip sweater we bought for you way back in October, when we first found out you had (have!) a penis. Texas is trying to redeem itself for being kind of an asshole in many other areas. We went to the pediatrician today, just you and me, and then we swung through Chick-Fil-A so Mama could get lunch. I promised I'd bring you back one day soon when you have teeth and a better appreciation for fried meat. You're fussy, can't lie kid, but we think we know why now and we hope to fix it quick. That's what I'm here for -- among other things -- to do everything I possibly can to fix things when they're not right for you. And, remember buddy, you can always tell me when they're wrong.

Love,

Mama

The problem child

Lately Molly's been acting ... interesting. She's still as sweet as can be and prefers to cuddle with either her dad or me over any other activity on this planet, but she's also been doing a few strange things. Such as digging through our laundry pile and walking onto the coffee table. Documentation of the latter (I think you can form a mental image of a disorganized laundry pile):

She's not going anywhere, that's for sure. Unless she morphs into some aggressive, biting dog in the next few weeks, we can definitely deal with her weirdness. We pride ourselves on dealing with weirdness, actually, but I sure wasn't expecting to say to either of my children (four-legged or two), "Get off the table" for at least a year or two.

When I told Mike the story, I said, "YOUR daughter got onto the coffee table for no good reason tonight." Because obviously that kind of behavior didn't come from me.

36.5 weeks

 

My BlackBerry comes with a camera, which makes it easy to document day-to-day things and, yet, makes it easy to document day-to-day things very poorly and fuzzy. We have other cameras, rest assured, they're just always on the other side of the house or not charged or did I mention all the way in the LIVING ROOM? So ... these are the belly pictures I'm offering: embarrassingly fuzzy, blurry belly pictures. 

My expression here seems to scream "I hate pregnancy" but really I hate early mornings and my long commute. And, fine, I'm kind of over pregnancy too, but I'm not looking longingly towards any bottles of Castor oil (yet). I'm actually nostalgic for it all, even though it's not over yet, if that makes any sense. See, it's a very real possibility that this boy of ours will be an only child. We're not willing to make any declarations or so-help-me promises, but we're both kind of OK with just one. (And, in case you were wondering, no, I don't need to hear your opinion on only children; big thanks anyway.) We're of the opinion that we're not going to make that decision -- one way or the other -- any time soon, but where some people are absolutely adamant about providing a sibling for their child, we sort of like the idea of a smaller family unit. With that idea comes these last few weeks potentially being the last few weeks period. 

I'm ready to meet him -- we're all so ready to meet him -- and I'm ready to begin my journey towards a thinner, less bison-esque me and I'm insanely ready to see what color hair our collective gene pool has granted him and I'm ready to sleep on my stomach and indulge in a glass OR TWO of something adult and I'm ready for some grilled shrimp and a Diet Coke and I don't think I could ever be more ready to say goodbye to acid reflux ONCE AND FOR ALL, YOU STUPID ACID-Y BASTARD. But, all those things means the kicks and rolls and movements will be gone, too. I know what's to come is a million times cooler. I know I'm going to love having him beside me so much more than inside me, but those kicks, man, they never got old. I heard they would, I prepared for them to. I even joked a time or two that he was playing soccer with my bladder and it was just so annoying. But, you know, it wasn't. There is not much of pregnancy I'd readily endorse. There was so much that put me through the wringer. There were actual times I didn't know I'd make it this far. There were times Mike was fairly certain he wouldn't make it this far. But last night we were laying on the couch together -- with Molly at our feet -- and watching a surprisingly interesting "Million 2 One" and our boy was going nuts, kicking and punching and I had my hand on the belly, feeling it all from both inside and out and Mike had his hand on top of mine, feeling it all too, and we were laughing at the thought of what he was doing in there (working on his "jazz hands," trying to get comfortable before going to sleep, dancing to his iPod). It was one of those perfect, beautiful moments. My boy, my guy, my girl, our DVR. All the most important things in life.

If you've never been pregnant and you ask me one day what to expect, I'm going to go ahead and bypass all the other stuff, I'm just going to let that stuff all slide. I'm instead going to tell you there will be moments of sheer perfection you didn't know could exist in life. I'm going to tell you I miss it. And, believe me, won't you, because I won't be lying, not even a little bit.

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Housekeeping note: Comments seem to be a bit off today. I'm receiving notifications when you comment, but they're not showing up. I assume Typepad is pissed off at something this afternoon, but who knows what. Go ahead and comment anyway and let's just assume they'll show up eventually!

Lessons

One great thing about the Internet is that if you try hard enough, you never really have to come up with your own ideas. You can politely steal brilliance from other people and pawn it off as your own.

I'm doing this today.

Heather B. at No Pasa Nadawrote a post the other day titled "A Lesson Before 25."My favorite lesson from her list:

"Though you may be full of envy and jealousy, just be happy on the outside. It will make you feel better to let your friends know that their happiness is far better than your own stupidity."

So, without further ado, here's some of my own wisdom, garnered from my 25 (plus) years:

• Never underestimate the importance of correct grammar and punctuation
• As often as you can, choose to be kinder than a situation warrants
• Sending a random card/gift to someone in your life absolutely has the power to change their day, their month, their year (and yours, too)
• Give advice only (no, really, only) when you're asked for it
• Every truth can be given with tact
• Tequila in moderation, kids. Push the envelope with a lot of things but less is absolutely more when it comes to tequila.
• Paper trails can potentially kick your ass, so leave them with caution
• Make eye contact. If you're going to take the time to communicate with someone—even if it's simply with the mailman—have the civility to look them in the eye.
• I'm not one to give makeup advice, but a good mascara is not a shabby investment, my friends
• Write. Read. Travel. Explore. Learn. Teach. Laugh.
• Add a pinch of salt to all your baking recipes
• Don't do anything—drink a certain beer, listen to a certain band, wear a certain brand—because you think it'll make you look cool
• Take notes. You'll never remember all you think you will without a little help.
• Keep plans more than you cancel them
• Screw his degree or his pedigree or his choice in clothes or how he folds a towel—choose a partner who makes you laugh, who listens to you when you speak and who introduces you with a smile on his face
• Eat more vegetables and drink more water ...
• ... but don't always pass on dessert or carbs or that second glass of wine, either
• And, finally, don't gossip about your friends

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In other news, thanks for all the lovely comments on this post and this one. I sometimes want to have you all over for dinner and drinks and conversation. Maybe one day I will, but it's going to have to wait until I can drink again, too. I like you a lot, but there are few people I like enough to cook for AND serve from my champagne stash. Until then, know I'm going to keep your lovely words in my head. I won't let them be knocked out anymore.

The Very Best

This isn't the post some of you may be expecting. That post will hopefully come much later today (after we find out and then make a quick trip to BabyGap).

This post, actually, was inspired by Holly's—at Nothing But Bonfires—latest post.

Every night after a very long commute, part of which was spent stopped at various red lights in various parts of seedy Dallas and another part spent sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I walk in to find Molly going just insane to see me. She jumps, she wags her tail, she just saw me less than 12 hours before, but you'd think she hadn't seen me in months. I'm not sure how anyone couldn't be a dog person, but if you aren't, I imagine you've never been met at the door after a really long day by a living creature that is thrilled to see only you. Yes, that's a pretty great feeling.

Then there's that moment, usually in November, when I step outside and smell the first chimney smoke of the season. The smell that reminds me of baking and hot chocolate and college football and dusting off stockings and Christmas tree ornaments and even crowded Target stores and, really, an entire season devoted to mashed potatoes and family (two of my absolute favorite things).

Obviously I've never had a child (other than the above-mentioned dog of mine), but I have been an aunt for some time now, and it's safe to say that one of the very best feelings in the world is when a kid reaches up to you because they recognize you as a safe point, as a person who will comfort them. I hear it gets cumbersome when it's your own and you're constantly expected to pick them "up, up, up," but as an aunt it has never gotten old, having a kid reach for me.

A few others: warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and new scarves and finding an unexpected $20 in a pocket or last-season handbag. Also when you randomly run into someone from high school or college, someone who wasn't always nice to you, someone you never really cared for, no, but when you run into them you look fantastic because you've recently lost weight or gotten an adorable new hair cut or are wearing a pair of the expensive jeans that make everyone's ass look great, and even though you know you shouldn't care, you also know this is how they'll remember you from now on, and you secretly love it. Or rainy days when you don't have to be at work. Chocolate croissants or getting an unexpected "just because" card or birthday parties or popping open a bottle of champagne to celebrate nothing other than making it through another day.

And, finally, not my wedding day or the day Mike told me he loved me for the first time atop the Empire State Building or the early morning beach proposal or the day we found out we were going to have baby—although all of those days were incredible, of course—but the random Wednesday night when we're together on the couch, Mike watching some ridiculous show on the Discovery channel and me reading or writing a blog post or browsing some online sale, and because our couch is the size it is, Mike's legs are draped across mine or his knee is touching me and Molly is jammed in between us somehow, and I realize that all those other huge, monumental days were for this kind of night: the quiet, peaceful, easy kind of night. I look at him, and he doesn't even know I'm looking, and I exhale because this is my life. It's ordinary looking in. We have dirty dishes in the sink, and we live in a boring, quiet suburb, and we have water bills and electricity bills and student loan bills, and our grass doesn't look greener to anyone, I'm certain of it, but on that random Wednesday night, I can't stop thinking, How did I get so damn lucky?

So, what are the best things in your life?

For The Internet And My Mother

Bathroom shots are impossibly uncute, can we all agree on that? Or can we all appease the pregnant lady and lie? Also, OUR bathroom has yet to really be decorated. Isn't that quirky and not at all batshit lazy?

Also, I didn't INTEND to shield my face from you lovely people, but the very expensive camera we invested a very large sum of money in wouldn't focus unless I was looking through the view finder.

Another also because I clearly feel the need to offer you belly shots with a side of defensive: those are gauchos I'm sporting. And, no, you aren't looking at a picture from 2005, you are just looking at a woman who is growing BY THE DAY and needs something that fits and is comfortable.

So, BELLY SHOTS, there you have them.

And here's my other baby, who doesn't really understand why Mama talks about the miracle of life when HELLO MOTHER, I AM A MIRACLE TOO, AM I NOT?

Yes, love, total miracle. Just a miracle who can't fetch Mama a bowl of cereal. Your dad and I need a miracle with OPPOSABLE THUMBS.

Murder And Mayhem

There was a death in the family last night (or early this morning; the autopsy hasn't been completed yet for an exact time of death). We lost one of our beautiful black clown fish. Now, that's sad enough, that one of our pretty (and not cheap, oh no) fish died, but it gets even sadder because he was brutally attacked by another fish in the tank. Also, I was the only witness that didn't have gills or paws (Molly was not even slightly disturbed by the incident, which worries me some, I can't lie), so I had to bear witness, alone, to that asshole ripping the fins off the other.

Here, let me show you the tank back when everything was sunshine and roses and before all the bloodshed:

The culprit, in case you can't tell, is ALSO a clown fish. Dabbling in cannibalism? Drugs? Fighting over a female fish? Or, better yet, Roid Rage? See, the culprit is huge for a clown fish. He is three times the size of all the other clowns in the tank. (Don't let the above picture deceive you. He's monstrous.) And, he, obviously, has some aggression issues since he randomly cornered the other fish and PLUCKED HIS FINS FROM HIS BODY. I think all the signs point to performance enhancement drugs.

I was on the phone with my sister when it all went down, and I started yelling and freaking out and then I started getting very angry. (Like a good hormonal pregnant woman.) I may have mentioned filleting the bastard or at least taking him out of the water for a solid minute to show him I wasn't someone to mess with. Rachel, understandably, had to let me go.

I e-mailed Mike and said, "AHHH, THE BIG FISH IS ATTACKING ANOTHER FISH. WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO? Also, can you bring home Chick-Fil-A?"

The little de-finned fish hung in there for a while. He tried to swim haphazardly and hide in corners, and Mike even tried to put him in his own container, but, sadly, we both woke up to a fish corpse this morning.

I think we should take that stupid big bastard fish and rip off his fins until he cries uncle, but Mike thinks we should donate him to a pet store. Someone is going to be a rational, together parent and someone else is going to need a well-stocked liquor cabinet to get through the day.

Honestly, I'd Rather Prefer to Register at Anthropologie

Well, some of my readers have very strong opinions against diaper genies and very little to say about adorable giraffe costumes. I'm frankly scared of that diaper contraption now, and I've almost convinced myself my child will come out of the womb potty trained. (COULD HAPPEN. YES HUH.)

Don't get me wrong, your advice was much appreciated and incredibly helpful. I've made some serious mental notes about avoiding this, buying that in bulk, drinking a lot of alcohol in between, etc. But, I always know it's inching into OVERWHELMING (!) territory when my sister e-mails me to make sure I'm OK after she reads a particular comment. My sister loves me, and is good to me, and she analyzes every word that's posted in order to make sure she's not needed to step in with some sisterly protection.

Your advice was the kind of stuff I wanted to know, though, so thank you. Although I'll never tell you if I actually buy a diaper genie.

I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately because something happens when you get pregnant, and I can't quite explain it. I think some kind of sign lights up on one's forehead that says something along the lines of, "IMPART YOUR WISDOM. I KNOW NOTHING." It's tough because on the one hand, it's true, at least to some degree. I know very little about being pregnant and raising a child. On the other hand, I am an educated adult with instincts and with the ability to both ask questions and Google and being bombarded by advice (even asked-for advice!) can make me feel, for lack of a better word, stupid.

I dealt with this a little (to some extent) when we were trying to get pregnant. I heard a lot of well-intentioned advice that drove me to drink. Advice like: Have more sex! or Maybe you should think about talking to your doctor (insert back pat). No one was trying to make me feel stupid, I rationally knew this, but I did have to fight the urge to scream, SEX IS NOT THE PROBLEM HERE, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO TRUST ME OR FORCE ME TO GIVE YOU DETAILS YOU DO NOT WANT. AND THAT TRAUMA WILL BE YOUR OWN FAULT.

The good in life and on this site far (FAR) outweighs the bad, so I don't limit what I talk about. I ask for advice or bring up a subject that could stir opinions because the comments are worth it. When we were trying to get pregnant, someone suggested something that actually helped me identify a problem I needed to identify. That's the kind of invaluable help that keeps me coming back here. With this woman's help we are now going to have a baby. That's cool, right?

But opinions about babies (and parenting and families and, yes, even baby products) are more intense than the average set of opinions, I've come to find. I'm adjusting, and I now will never walk into an innocent conversation about baby blankets without armoring myself a little bit.

The surprises about pregnancy/impending parenthood are non-stop. There is nothing that could have prepared me for the last 16 weeks, no words offered in the form of advice or suggestions or tips or just friendly conversation that could have captured exactly what it would be like for me on this journey. (Although the words SWEET TOOTH would have been at least slightly on par.) Regardless of anything, I'm so glad I'm not going through it alone, and that I have all of you. Even if you scare me sometimes. There, I said it.

I just hope you'll overlook the fact that I'm totally registering for cute clothes whether or not I should. Lots of them, even. I'm sorry but you try holding that registry gun in front of a tiny pair of overalls and see what happens. I TOTALLY DARE YOU. (Fine, fine. I'll register for all sizes.)

And since Molly didn't get nearly as many comments on that last post as diaper genies did, I think I should end this by saying she is (officially) going to be a Dalmatian for Halloween.

Molly, what do you think about that?:

She's thrilled. Obviously.

Important Decisions

I was browsing through a Pottery Barn Kids catalog this weekend, and I could not stop laughing and oohing and ahhing at this Halloween costume:

A giraffe! Oh lord, having children is totally worth it if you are allowed to dress them up like this. I'll wait until the post-Halloween sale to see if any of the $59 price tag is knocked off, but it comes in all sizes, so next Halloween our kid is totally giraffing it up.

Since we don't have a kid this Halloween, we'll just have to do what we usually do: torture the dog. We're going to Barktoberfest for the second year in a row, and we have to decide how to dress Molly. Last year she was a lobster:

She was also a total asshole, which is why this is the best picture I have of her in her costume. You can bet we'll bring a tighter leash and also perhaps a Taser with us this year.

I'd like to choose something adorable-slash-traditional and dress her as a pumpkin:

Mike would like to dress her as a Dalmatian (as in, put her in a white T-shirt covered in DRAWN-ON black spots). He thinks this would be hilarious. (His words: "a dog dressed as another dog! GET IT!") I think this will embarrass the poor thing even more than the pumpkin. HANDMADE? I'm just not sure our little girl has it in her to be so ... granola.

What do YOU think? Pumpkin? Dalmatian?

We also started our baby registry this weekend. When we registered for our wedding, we knocked it out all in one day, and this prompted roughly 65 separate fights. Since I am far more mature and patient these days, I decided baby registering was going to need to be a project with phases. Phase One: Register for Seven Items in Twenty Minutes Then Once the Novelty Has Worn Off Go Eat Chicken Express. Phases Two Through Four: To Come. We registered for one pack of bottles, a toy, some plain white onesies and a video monitor. We'll go back in another month or so once we find out what we're having.

But—and I'm asking for this advice so let it rip—what baby products did you love/hate/need/waste money on/etc? What do you wish someone would have told you about registering? I'll print out your comments and take them with me next time. This will give me something to do after Mike pries the registry gun from my hands and shouts OUT LOUD in the baby aisle, "I NOW HAVE ALL THE POWER!"

(Your suggestions will all be much appreciated, I promise, but we may blatantly ignore some of them and buy the changing table/bassinet/etc anyway, even if you swear we won't use it. We're sort of annoying like that.)

Finally, I, well, finally, uploaded pictures from my semi-recent trip to San Francisco. You'll notice I have four total pictures from BlogHer. I wasn't drinking, obviously, but I was apparently not documenting either. What was I doing? I'm not entirely sure. You can view all (FOUR!) of those pictures here, along with pictures from the rest of my visit. You can see much better BlogHer pictures on just about any other Flickr stream out there.

Now, off to work. It may be early Tuesday morning, but it sure feels like Monday. Three-day weekends: lovely except that just like two-day weekends, they end.

Everything Changes

I've been thinking a lot about Mike and me lately, and come February how so much will change for us. Mike's not worried, he never is, but long before I ever thought of being a mother, my own mother's ability to worry constantly coursed through me. I worry about burglars and credit scores and traffic and change among nine million other things.

Mike and I fell in love late in college, and I would have had it no other way. I was single for a long time before him, and I had finally reached the point where I could envision a life beyond the cheap beer and 8am English seminars. I began independently planning my future. I wasn't looking for him when I walked into a small college bar and found him.

There's no way to give justice to the year and a half we spent together in that tiny Texas town, where we were content and young and our biggest concern was where to eat a cheap and greasy dinner at. I wouldn't go back if given the choice between then and now, no. As beautiful as that life was, it was sprinkled with uncertainties and insecurities and fights over things we'd never consider fighting over now. We went back and forth between resisting merging our lives together and rushing to give each other keys and drawers and our free time. It was perfect, in hindsight, but living through it was scary and new and terrifying and confusing. There were a lot of late-night talks (good, bad, messy) fueled by Budweiser and jealousy. But as we drove out of town together in August of 2005, in a jam-packed U-Haul on our way to the real world and full-time jobs, I couldn't stop sobbing. I loved our life. I loved every minute of every day with Mike in College Station, and I was scared that the future wouldn't hold any fun or love or happiness.

We'll never get that life back, not even when we visit for football games or weddings or reunions. It will never be the same. The town has changed, updated itself, and so have we. That life lives in our memories (and fuzzy pictures) alone. Sometimes we'll sit around and talk about those early days, and we'll both smile and laugh and remember Thursday poker nights and football games and eating lunch together on campus, sharing a sandwich at the underground cafeteria we both loved. We would walk around that campus hand-in-hand, and I would incessantly worry about our future together and he would incessantly worry that the DVR wouldn't record Family Guy, but there we'd be, beside each other, together.

When we moved to Dallas-Fort Worth, we moved in with Mike's parents and although we were crippled by unemployment and rising gas prices (if we only fucking knew then) and looming student loan payments, we managed to carve out a life together, crammed into the bedroom Mike grew up in. We'd watch The Office on his computer, and we had so much stuff in that little space, my shoes would routinely fall on Molly's head. When we moved out seven months later, into an apartment with two roommates, I sobbed because his mother would never again be just down the hall from me in the mornings, to hug me goodbye and remind me not to work so hard. I was afraid our own place would separate us, as odd as that sounds, because we'd never be forced to share a 10x10 room again. We spent so much time together, some of it by default, that I wasn't ready for the change even though the new apartment came with a walk-in closet and a huge garden tub.

You see where this is all going, don't you? I get paralyzed by change and then the change comes and it's never, never like I feared. It's hard, sure, and it's different, always, but it ends up being my life, and I love it in all its million different forms.

We'll never get the past back. Come February we'll look back on the lazy Sundays of today, how we argue about who should get up first and let the dog out and how we play odds-evens for the DVR remote. One day we'll reminisce on all we do so naturally today. We'll miss these days, of course, and we'll have so much to add from this time to our long list of sweet yesterdays. Many times a day I'm gripped with panic at all that's changing, even though we worked so damn hard to get to the point where the changes would be just a short six months away and even though these changes are answered prayers of two people who don't pray very often.

No matter how excited we are (and we are), change is what it is: scary, impossible to really prepare for, new, unknown. We can try as hard as we can to imagine what it'll be like, but as we're told 5,000 times a day: you'll never know until you know.

I do know, though, that no matter how much does indeed change, how much we change, there we'll be, beside one another, together. Just with an extra set of hands to hold.

It's not that simple, of course. But in so many ways, it is. It's exactly why we've allowed all the change that has come before, to get us to the point where we're together, forever. All four of us.

(I'm not yet ready to stop counting Molly.)

Early Lessons In Parenting A Teenager

The other night Mike and I were on the couch, watching a World Series of Poker tournament, when Molly decided to go outside. She does this a lot these days, especially at night when the sun has gone down and going outside doesn't hold the same risks as it does when the sun is up, mainly the risk of killing oneself because it is so insufferably hot outside that all quality of life has left for Alaska. Since we taught her how to go in and out without our help, aiding in our goal of never having to actually get off the couch while we're home, Molly utilizes this skill and goes in and out roughly 56 times a night. She goes out, comes in panting and tired, takes a gulp of water and goes back out. Over and over and over.

It's hot out, have I mentioned that?, so even before you add the pregnancy exhaustion to our house, we're slow and sluggish these days and Molly is no exception. Yes she gets her skinny ass off the couch to play outside but "playing" consists of slowly walking around the yard, hoping a squirrel will die of heat exhaustion, fall out of the tree above her and into her open, panting mouth.

You can imagine our surprise, then, when after 46 times of going in and out like a normal, exhausted dog the other night, Molly came HAULING ASS into the house, ran around every piece of furniture we own (granted, not a lot of pieces) and then went batshit insane, pulling leaves off household plants and making odd, wild noises.

Mike turned to me, after we both watched her with mouths wide open, and said, "Babe, I think she's high."

Now, I don't know if we have mushrooms in our yard or if we have some other type of mood-altering plant growing, and I'll even admit I don't know much about being high, but I do know something about handling crises poorly and that's this: WHEN IN DOUBT, FREAK THE HELL OUT.

Instead of giving her a big bowl of food and water (like Mike did) and locking the back door to keep her inside the rest of the night (like Mike did) and watching her carefully while not seeming too concerned (again, Mike), I gathered her into my lap and forced her to snuggle with me for much longer than the high-as-a-kite vizsla would have liked. But I'll be damed if I was going to allow that dog to die without knowing how much I adore her. Oh, and then I got up every hour that night to make sure she was still alive.

Scene:

Molly, laying very still and peaceful on her bed, covered with a blanket.

Me: MOLLY! MOLLY! GET UP!

Molly, raising her head to look at me with deep annoyance.

Me: Oh good, you're alive. Go back to sleep.

Repeat twenty times.

Something tells me we'll get to recreate this night the first time our kid comes home from a party thrown by some kid whose parents left town and trusted him with the house and the liquor cabinet. Can't wait.

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In other news, Mike and I had come fairly close to choosing a boy's name: Parker. Mike loved it, I was definitely coming around. Then I saw this. There is no way in hell I am naming my child the same name CLAY AIKEN decided on for his cover-up baby. Back to the drawing board.

The Only Talented One Of The Bunch

A few things before you grab your popcorn:

1) As soon as I started recording, Mike's phone rang. So for the entire minute-long video, you get to hear his conversation with his sister which I'm sorry about, but it's a nice conversation! They're not yelling or bickering! They actually get along quite well!

2) Excuse the dirty house. I still haven't cleaned up from the baby shower I threw for Crystal this past weekend. Ignore all the balloons and trash bags, see, I've been busy sleeping and debating with myself if I really need this sweater for BlogHer. I THINK I DO.

3) Molly usually goes in and out on her own, but when her parents are forcing her to perform, she responds to the "go outside" command. Honestly, if there's anyone you should feel sorry for in our home, it's her. Not me for putting up with all of Mike's horrible DVR decisions and not Mike for having to turn off the lights after me EVERY DAMN DAY but the dog.

Now, with all that said, here you are:

Untitled from shelikespurple on Vimeo.

I'm Back. Don't Mind The Germs.

Natalie e-mailed me the other day to see if everything was okay because I hadn't posted in a while. And although she may be the only one who's concerned, I thought I'd let all of you know I'm still around, just laying on the couch pretty damn sick. And when you've been sick for a few days, very little happens in your life that seems blog worthy. I did have some great soup for dinner yesterday and---oh!---we have a new, baby nephew. Mike's cousin had a little boy on Tuesday who is named Beckham Cane, and isn't that the best movie-star name you've heard in ages? We went to visit him (don't worry, I kept a safe distance) and he's adorable. He has this dark, full head of hair but with actual blond highlights streaked through as if he stopped by the salon on his way out. And as if that isn't enough good boy news for one week, my dear friend Cherie---who is having twins this December---found out they are identical boys. She's still a bit early so there will be official confirmation soon, but we're pretty sure, and I couldn't be happier for her. TWIN! BOYS!

But other than that, I really have got nothing to offer you. My house is dirty, but my husband has been wonderful while I've been laid up on the couch, and so things aren't all that bad even though I feel like ass.

Actually, there is the little matter of Molly officially learning how to open the back door on her own---video to come! camera is dead and I cannot muster the energy to find the battery charger!---but it's turned her into a giant, irritating asshole. See, when Molly goes outside and then comes back in, we usually give her a treat. Not always, but definitely when I come home from work and first let her out, and also when I'm just sort of feeling generous or she's being especially adorable. Now, she realizes that she doesn't always get a treat but that doesn't stop her from always hoping for one. Since she's learned to go in and out on her own, she goes in and out EVERY FIVE DAMN SECONDS I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. She opens the door and lets herself out. And then, look! She's back in again! She walks around the couch, eyeing me to see if I have a treat in hand for her and then goes back outside. Yesterday, while home sick, I swear the dog went outside 976 times. She was even outside when a freak thunderstorm blew threw---knocking out power while I was watching Baby Borrowers---and she refused to come in. I got up, opened the door and yelled for her to come in but she just stared at me while getting pelted with insanely heavy rain. The look on her face said, "I WILL STAY OUT HERE AS LONG AS IT TAKES FOR YOU TO THINK I DESERVE A TREAT." That dog totally takes after her father.

So, moving along, BlogHer? That's, like, right around the corner. Heather wrote a really great piece on what to expect, what to bring, what to know before you go. And if you're going, it's definitely worth the read. And if you're not---JONNA, I AM GLARING AT YOU---then you really should be going only because how I will hug you awkwardly and compliment your shoes if YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE THERE? But if you are, will you let me know? I'd like to know who I should keep my eyes peeled for. I'd hate to be constantly swiveling my head and craning my neck trying to seek you out and you're instead tucked safely in North Carolina or wherever else you may call home.

There's been a lot of talk of clothes (um, by me) and shoes and losing five pounds before showing up in the Bay Area for this bloggity conference, and I'm really trying to take a step back from all that. First, it gets ass cold in San Francisco, even in the middle of July, so those extra five pounds could serve you better than you think and, also, that's just SO MUCH PRESSURE. Trying to impress the pants off a hotel-full of people is effing daunting, isn't it? I'd like to think that the friends I've made here already like and respect me and wearing something from last season from (gasp) Old Navy won't change your mind. And if so, well, then that drink I promised you? REVOKED. I don't want to get too kumbaya on you, but it's so damn cool that the hotel is going to be packed full of really talented and cool women and we shouldn't lessen that by worrying about who will be judging us or calling us fat behind our backs. It's bigger and better than all that.

I'm leaving my husband for a week for this trip. I'm spending a LOT of our savings. I'm sucking up the last of my vacation days. I'm going to make the time worth it. I won't spend it hating on or obsessing about being hated from afar.

I am planning to wear these shoes, though, for at least a solid hour of the conference, so if you happen to see them, swing by and say hello. (Only if you'd like!) I promise the awkward hugs aren't quite so awkward after the first ten seconds. Or after you've run away screaming. Either or.

Summer In Texas And The Laziness Is Palpable

You know what's not fun when the weather turns warm and the patio umbrellas are dusted off? HAVING TO WORK. No, that's definitely not fun. Granted the paycheck to make patio drinks at least financially possible isn't so bad, but couldn't I have both? The money and the steady flow of free time? Could one of you very smart and talented women figure that out for me? I'll be over here, lounging on the couch, ignoring the dishes and the dust bunnies and the many laundry piles. Obviously I'll be fairly preoccupied while you're thinking things through for me.

But, in all seriousness, it's officially summer in Texas what with the scattered thunderstorms and the sweltering, miserable heat and the sweating when you check the mail and the sweating when you walk to your car and the sweating when you STAND STILL. Oh and there's also the insane---and often random---tornadic weather to break up the suffocating heat. I went to lunch yesterday with a co-worker and while we stood in line to order our tasty Baker Brothers' sandwiches the sky darkened and the lights began flickering and a few customers started FREAKING THE EFF OUT. I kept mumbling, "Power, please don't go out before I've ordered my Sonoma Chicken sandwich." We ate our lunch with trees bent at right angles just outside the window and rain pounding down. (Oh, and a metal newspaper stand blowing through the parking lot.) When we finally left, nearly an hour later, the skies had cleared and it was barely drizzling. Oh, Texas. You certainly keep us on our toes, don't you?

Moving on to BlogHer clothes because where else would we move on to, really? I stopped at GAP before dinner tonight and tried on this dress and immediately fell in love with it. What do you think?

In this color, of course.

So, awkwardly moving on from that pretty dress, do you know what I watched last night? Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Also---and this is going to shock you even more than me sitting through an hour of a show centered around Donna Martin---I kind of enjoyed it. I think that has something to do with the lack of other television options this summer or how far away the remote was at the time but I may have even laughed at a point or two. She's a silly wreck, obviously, but kind of endearing too.

Finally---and I really can't imagine not sharing this with you all---Mike has wrapped a rope around our back doorknob and has constructed this sort of haphazard pulley-type-thing to try and teach Molly how to open the back door on her own to let herself out back. And, people, SHE HAS ALMOST FIGURED IT OUT. I'm not gonna lie, I'm rather ridiculously proud of her right now. I'll try and take a video when she masters the trick---right after I remind Mike to add "teach her how to fetch us beer" to his list of to-dos.

Tuckered

Apparently it's exhausting being adored, spoiled, loved on and photographed. What's more, the cord you see draped down the couch, is attached to a heating pad. That is on. Underneath our dog.

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I've added a few more things to my sidebar. I realize it's getting a bit cluttered. One day, when I redesign the hell out of this site, I'll attempt to make it more tidy and streamlined. But for now I just hope it's not distracting or obnoxious.

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Another note to say I made this dessert for Christmas Day and it was delicious. I should have let it bake for another minute or two, to melt the chips on top more, but the toothpick slid right out and I was afraid of serving Mike's entire family crispy cake. I highly recommend you stop eating for a week, make this and then immediately eat it all. It'll be worth it—I promise.

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I hope you received every gift on your Christmas wish list or the necessary gift cards to snatch up the items at half price. I hope you laughed the day away and are gearing up for the New Year in whatever way you most desire. Mike and I are heading to Florida for a couple of days, to visit family and remind ourselves that not everywhere on earth is cold right now. We haven't been since we got engaged there a year and a half ago. Perhaps tomorrow will be a good day to tell that story. Something to look forward to.

Just the biggest hugs, to you and you and you.

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Thank you a million times over for your comments yesterday. For now, it was best if the post came down, but that doesn't mean you didn't say just what I needed to hear. So, again, thanks.

Santa, I Can Explain

You may not be able to tell, but the T-shirt says "naughty." You may not be able to tell that she's thinking, "I'm going to pee on your pillows if you post this on the Internet. THIS IS NOT MY GOOD SIDE." You may also not be able to tell that this picture was taken just mere days ago. (Notice the kitchen. See how it shines.)

(Sad, pathetic, depressing drumroll, please.)

When I came home to this tonight, I remembered how just Sunday I was lamenting that my husband totally deserves better than me; that amazing, adorable redhead that he is. Having to deal with someone like me. Oh, it was even guilt-inducing. Back then. BEFORE.

See, although my husband can make this kind of mess—and, seriously, the mess is nothing if not impressive, am I right?—his injury prevents him from cleaning it all up.

And this, dear friends, is why tonight I'm of the opinion that my husband? My adorable, affectionate, sweet, brilliant (I apparently used the word brilliant the other day?) husband?

TOTALLY MARRIED UP.

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For a break down of the clutter ('cause I know you're curious and 'cause I obviously had some chores to put off), hop on over here.

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Disclaimer: This was supposed to be funny. I love my husband and I don't want to hurt him or injure him and I actually don't mind cleaning up after him because he's going stir crazy and I know this and his ideas (a new filter!) are always very cute and—let's cut the bullshit—I can get at LEAST two pairs of shoes out of that dirty kitchen. And although I don't like soapy dishwater hands, I am not aboving PLAYING THE GAME in order to get some fancy new footwear. But, if you don't find me joking about my husband funny or if you think we're maritally doomed, well, first GET IN LINE and also wander elsewhere. I can say with much certainty, that the post quality is a lateral sort of thing around here.

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Disclaimer #2: The first disclaimer was necessary. Necessary because I'm still not drunk enough to tackle that kitchen and all this typing is killing me some time.

Because It's Been Far Too Long Since I've Shared A Picture Of Molly

And because with a whiny, needy bed-ridden husband, there's little more to do around our house than watch Everyday Italian and torture our dog.

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It was, quite possibly, the world's most uneventful weekend around the Canzo house. Unless hearing these sentences are eventful for you:

Feed me a carrot. No, no. Put more ranch on it.
Watching Oprah makes my shoulder hurt. Will you change it?
BAAAAAABY. COME QUICCCCCK. I CAN'T REACH MY CHEEZ-ITS.

(Oh, and when I actually put more ranch on the carrot instead of going with my initial response of chunking it across the room along with the remote and HIS SIPPY CUP, I realized my maturity was absolutely AT CAPACITY.)

I go back to work tomorrow and Mike's cousin is stopping in to make sure he can reach all of his necessities. And although the thought of leaving him does worry me, it also means I won't be allowed to injure his other shoulder which may have crossed my mind 544,342 times over the course of the last 48 hours.

Happy Thanksgiving week to you. The "what I'm thankful for" post will have to wait. Something tells me you don't want to hear I'm thankful for painkillers that also induce drowsiness.

All in all, the patient is doing okay. He's uncomfortable and in pain but he's able to insist on having four ice cubes (NOT THREE) in his white-grape/peach juice and I think that's absolutely indicative that this injury won't be the end of him.

I'll keep you posted on whether I will be the end of him, as, truly, time will tell.   

Fooling The Neighbors

Our next-door neighbors moved out today. A lovely middle-aged couple who would always wave and hold our packages when we were out of town. Also, the wife acted genuinely interested when I forced her to look at our wedding album. We'll miss them.

This morning, as I was leaving for work, the husband stopped me in our joined driveway to say goodbye and to see if we wanted a few things that weren't going to fit in their U-Haul, a porch swing and an old fireplace set. I said yes to both because Mike and I were very poor once and during that time we learned that the answer to anything free is yes. Can I treat you to dinner? Yes! Would you like this old dresser? Absolutely! What about this stuffed owl that may or may not be covered in asbestos from our attic? Sure! We'll hawk that on eBay!

They also mentioned, as they were wishing Mike and me luck in the future, that we were the quietest neighbors they had ever been so fortunate to live next to. I thanked them politely and swallowed the urge to LAUGH DIRECTLY IN THEIR FACES. As I waved goodbye and drove off to work, I thought about what had happened just the night before and wondered how Mike and I got so sneaky, fooling everyone into thinking we're normal and quiet and responsible when really our life centers on who can yell loudly enough to make the dog pace.

Scenes from a duplex, circa last night:

Mike: BABY!

Jennie: YEAH?

Mike: COME IN HERE PLEASE!

Jennie: ARE YOU GOING TO YELL AT ME ABOUT MY SHOE PURCHASES?

Mike: YES.

Jennie: I THINK I'LL STAY IN HERE THEN. THANKS THOUGH.

Mike: JUST TO LET YOU KNOW, $47 IS NOT "A FEW DOLLARS."

Jennie: NOTED!

The Season

So, Halloween? How was yours?

We had exactly TWO trick-or-treaters and although I'm generous, our eight bags of candy were not dented, by any means. I brought about a third into the office this morning and the rest has hopefully gone to work with Mike. Basically, I'm doing all I can to avoid having candy anywhere near me and, what's more, of the 24 Halloween cupcakes I made on Tuesday night, I ate not a one. Not even a sneaky lick of the batter-covered bowl.

Forget balance, kids. For my will power, I want presents.

Last night we had Natalie and Micah over for dinner and I made Crusted Honey Mustard Chicken—a recipe I pulled from the Weight Watchers site. We* also made steamed broccoli and dinner rolls. (*I say we, because Natalie was forced to assist me in the kitchen. Note to all: if I invite you over for dinner, be prepared to pitch in.) Oh, and there was fat-free pudding for dessert. Total meal around 13 points. And it was delicious. Natalie, concur won't you?

Although I talked all night about forcing Molly back into her lobster costume because, come on, it was Halloween, sort of why we dropped a whole Hamilton on it. (Am I cool enough to pull that off? You know, like "all about the Benjamins"? Dropping a Hamilton? You're groaning, aren't you?) But whenever I'd say to her, "Where's your lobster costume? Get your lobster costume, Mollyhead!" she'd tilt her head and then fetch her squirrel. And, well, I wasn't going to search for it on my own.

After Natalie and Micah headed out, leaving behind an empty wine bottle, Mike and I watched The Colbert Report and a bit of poker before passing out.

I love this time of year. Especially in Texas, where this time of year doesn't mean having to stay indoors for the next four months. I love stepping outside to smell the first chimney smoke of the season. I love the seasonal brews from World Market and planning out the family gatherings of the next few months. I love that Mike starts cracking a window around this time, to let the cold air seep in, leading to more snuggling than usual. I love the lights and decorations that start popping up on houses and the grocery stores that stock all their pumpkin pie ingredients near the front of the store. The movies get better this time of year, with award season right around the corner. And sweaters and boots get dusted off. There's more baking. And more parties. And more laughter, too, it seems.

And—making this time of year near perfect— there are the day-after-holiday sales at Target.

Oh, and there's also this:

My nephew, the world's most adorable and smushable kangaroo.

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I hope you, lovely reader, had a wonderful Halloween—perfect parts sugary and spooky and delightful.