You know how they say to not have a kid if you can't foster growth and sustainability in both plants and animals?
I got a dog two years ago, and although it's still alive, I will say that I think comparing dog raising to child rearing is just dumb.
However, lately I feel like everywhere I look examples of this inadequacy are just shouting at me, waving the inadequacy flag.
For example, two summers ago, while walking up the steps to my our condo, my Mom was all, "Look! You're got a little baby bleeding heart sprouting up over here! I bet that will get bigger and bigger every year! Just water it!"
Well, maybe you haven't heard, but Montana has been FLOODED (literally) by rain this spring.
Exhibit A: My neighbor's bleeding heart -
Exhibit B: My bleeding heart -
"All it needs is water..." she says.
Right.
That's like saying all a baby needs is a blanket.
But I can totally raise a kid. No problemo. Don't you worry.
I'm a total Oprah junkie. So is my husband. Don't tell anyone.
Anyway, when my husband was emptying shop vacs for my parents as they dealt with their flooding basement, I got all caught up on Oprah shows that I made my mom record for me (since I no longer have cable OR DVR). It was such a great weekend for me, personally!
Anyway, I'm hopping on board with Mighty Girl, so what follows are my biggest Oprah lessons:
and:
and of course this one:
And finally, this one...which is especially helpful to our male readers:
How bout you guys? Any Oprahisms that you'd care to share?
This weekend, Paul and I went down to Glendive to help my parents deal with the water coming into their basement from the inordinate amount of rain and rising river problems that the people of Montana are presently facing. By that I mean Paul helped my parents empty 18 gallon shop vacs every hour, on the hour, while I read, ate a banana cupcake with cream cheese frosting, napped, read again, ate another cupcake, and continued to play the "I'm pregnant, I shouldn't lift heavy objects" card, which surprisingly, my parents and everyone else conceded to.
I was reading this:
It was awesome, indeed.
I actually never used to like Tina Fey. I thought she ruined weekend update by laughing at her own writing while delivering it, and that just bugged the shit out of me. I mean come on, nobody likes a somebody who likes their own jokes too much, right?
Buuutttt, slowly my opinion began to change.*
Too many hilarious parts of this book to pinpoint, but I was especially smitten with her chapter entitled "Amazing, Gorgeous, Not Like That" which relays the details of, and offers advice regarding, the experience of going through a professional magazine photo shoot. (Something I'm bound to be asked to participate in just as soon as I can put down the cupcakes long enough to deliver what will no doubt be a 15 lb. child and promptly get myself to a a size half that of which I maintained before getting pregnant.)
I shall share two sections from that chapter with you now:
"Some photographers are compulsively effusive. 'Beautiful. Amaazing. Gorgeous! Ugh, so gorgeous!' they yell at shutter speed. If you are anything less than insane, you will realize this is not sincere. It's hard to take because it's more positive feedback than you've received in your entire life thrown at you in fifteen seconds. It would be like going jogging while someone rode next to you in a slow-moving car, yelling, 'Yes! You are Carl Lewis! You're breaking a world record right now. Amazing! You are Fast! You're going very fast, yes!'
"With the wind blowing on your long extensions, you feel like Beyonce. The moment the wind machine stops, you catch a glimples of yourself in the mirror an wonder, "Why is the mother from Coal Miner's Daughter here?"
And the other part of this section, which is something that has totally happened to me, just not at a professional photo shoot for a magazine:
"The photographer will ask you what kind of music you want to play during the photo shoot. [Everyone will hear this music, so] just murmur 'hip-hop' or make up the name of a hipster-sounding band and then act superior when they've never heard of it. 'Do you guys have any Asphalt of Pinking? [disappointed] Really? [shrug] Whatever you want then."
"Sometimes they ask if you want to hook up your iPod for background music. Do not do this. It's a trap. They'll put it on shuffle, and no matter how much Beastie boys or Velvet Underground you have on there, the following four tracks will play in a row: 'We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover' from Annie, 'Hold On' by Wilson Phillips, 'That's What Friends Are For,' Various Artists, and "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover' from Annie."
I don't know about you guys, but every time I offer up my iPod, it's like EVERY LAME SONG I HAVE ON THERE PLAYS. Over and over and over again. Of particular occurance would be "Isn't She Lovely" by Stevie Wonder...THE LONG VERSION. The one that has the baby crying at the beginning. It'll really get a party started. Or ignite leaky boobs among any nursing mothers in the vacinity. (I MUST REMOVE THIS SONG, STAT.)
That's just a preview of the many parts that made me LMFAO many times in between my naps. I hope you will all go purchase this soon to be classic autobiography and tell me about it so we can talk at nausium about all of the parts that made us snort.
*That's a lie. I can pinpoint the moment I began to like her...you betcha.
So, it was a crazy month in April. I turned 30, which maybe I’ll talk about later. One other thing I did though? I got my masters degree. So I guess I’m a master at something now. Officially, I have a Masters of Science in Public Relations (MSPR). Unofficially, I’ve made bullshitting my way through school a science. I’m equally proud of both.
I will say that I felt a slightly larger sense of personal accomplishment getting this degree simply because I did it all on my own. I was fortunate enough to be raised in a household where getting one's bachelors wasn't a choice. Period. It was never up for debate. However, with my masters degree? That was something that I personally decided to do. Then I took the GRE (which was so nerve racking for me that I actually sweat through a HUGE hooded sweatshirt while taking the test. It was disgusting). Then I applied. Then I got accepted (despite having done so poorly on the GRE that I thought they’d have to send me a “special” note of rejection). Then I…well, I went. One little class at a time. And then I finished. And I paid for it as I went along. And now it’s over.
So now I have time to do things I like. Like this.
What was most touching about the whole thing though was how many people came out to support me. You guys! I felt so loved. Paul’s family flew out for the event, and they showered me with so many leis that I’m sure the spectators watching the “lei-ing” scene go down after the ceremony were a little shocked. If we were in any other state other than MT, I’m sure people would be all, “Why is that haole getting all of those leis?” However, because we were in MT, I think they were more like, “wtf?”
Here is a photo for your viewing pleasure. That's Paul's cute little Dad that I'm standing with. Doesn't he look sweet? He is.
But can you SEE ME IN THERE? No? Me either. All I see are flowers. And teeth. I do have big teeth.
My mom told me that the best part of the day though, was when Paul's aunt, who doesn't really speak English, suddenly pulled out a big fat whistle right as I was accepting my diploma. This picture made my day:
And my bff from way back in Junior High days, Angie, even surprised me by flying in from Seattle (thanks, Paul, for helping arrange that and actually knowing the joy that can come from keeping a surprise.) She’s now seen me graduate three times (highschool, undergrad and now grad school), which she really liked telling people throughout the course of the day…even strangers. (I know, Ang. I’m getting sick of going to school too. Consider this the last one. I promise.) And then there were a million other friends who also helped me celebrate.
See?
I will admit that I am a master at convincing great people to be my friends…so maybe I’m using that MSPR degree after all.
Either way, I can put a big chizzzeck! next to life list item #16! Holler.
p.s. Thanks Mom, for 1) knowing I could do this even before I knew I could and 2) taking all these pictures. You're the best.
For me, not so much in the “read everything I possibly can about what’s happening to my body and what to expect” kind of way, though. (Paul does that.) More in the “shock and excitement and fear” of it all kind of way, which I’m sure is typical for everyone.
For the most part, Paul and I did that thing where we wait to tell people that we’re expecting until it’s “in the bag”…but secretly it was easy for me to keep to myself because I was busy trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. As odd as it sounds, the idea of telling someone and having them exhibit over the moon excitement for the two of us (though a sweet and totally appropriate reaction!) was a nauseating thought for me. That sounds completely twisted, I realize.
It’s just that, although I’m excited to start a family (because family is really, REALLY important to me), I’m terrified to be a mother. I don’t have “that maternal thing.” I know, I know, it’ll come – people have told me that it’s “instinctual”, but initially (and even now, at times) I can’t say that I was really excited to be a mother. And, honestly, I didn’t want those feelings placated or pushed aside by positivity and excitement.
Finances I can figure out…it’s the little things that worry me the most. What I get obsessed with is how I’m supposed get a kid ready and to a day care in the morning when I can barely get myself to work by 9:00 a.m. every morning. When will I go to the gym? Will we really have to take the baby with us WHEREVER we go? If it’s sleeping, can we just, like, sneak out for a quick cocktail down at the neighborhood bar? (I can feel the readers of this post slowly pulling their children away from me.)
I’m not a kid person. I’m just not. Sometimes I try to pretend like I am but kids are typically on to me. They run to the huge, stoic, intimidating looking man next to me because Paul has that “kid thing” that I just don’t possess. He’s like the baby whisperer. Kids are f#$*ing intuitive, I’ll tell you that much.
Soooo, where does that leave me? Well, many of those pressing questions that I’ve been unable to answer I’ve decided to address with this response: “Paul will do it.” He’s pleased, as I’m sure you can imagine.
But it’s getting better. I’m starting to be okay with this. I’m starting to know that I’m not in this alone…that I’ll figure it out…WE’LL figure it out. And at the end of the day, week, year…hell, at the end of MY LIFE, I’ll never regret having been courageous to do that which terrifies me the most. Because I’m confident it will be worth it…no matter what. Right, Mom?
Positivity, you’re welcome to enter in to the equation now. Thanks for your patience.
So. Well. First item of big news, thus substantiating the excuse of "Crazy ASS month" referenced in previous post…can you guess what it might be? Let me help with this analogy:
No? Okay. How bout this:
This little baby cakes is due on Halloween. (Of course I would have a child on the one day of the year where people dress up and prance around the neighborhood asking strangers for candy. Of COURSE I would.)
We’re happy. In between terrified. More happy than terrified, mostly.
Holy crap, y’all, to say it's been a crazy ASS month is totally understating it. I’m really excited to tell you all about it over the course of a couple of posts. So, STAY TUNED FOR THAT (you three readers, you).
But first (first!), I must take a moment to say that on this day, 6 years ago, I went on my very first date with this stud muffin:
Because it was Cinco de Mayo, we took in some Mexican at a restaurant that no longer exists in Anchorage (*sad trombone sound*) and then hit up some reggae (if you know Paul, no big surprise there).
I was totes nervous about this date because when I first met Paul I thought he was a prude. By that I mean I not only thought he wouldn't put out, but I thought he was just, you know, too cool for school.
You see, it was springtime in Alaska, and that’s when everyone comes out of the woodwork. It might only be 40 degrees outside, but by golly, those Alaskans are sitting on the damn patio and LOVING it. WHY? Because over the winter all Alaskans begin to look like a Twilight character, minus the sparkle and marbled body. Well, everyone except Paul, that is. He’s brown all year round.
AND, while everyone else was hugging a tree and pointing their head to the sun, Paul was huddled in a corner, beanie on his head, arms crossed in front of him in a jacket that said “Coach Kongaika” and I was all, “Ohhh, he’s one of those.” By “one of those” I mean a cocky football coach who is just too studly for English teachers.
Turns out he was just freezing his ass off because he’d just shaved his head for the first time (from a head of beautiful hair that went half way down his back). That, and apparently he's just quiet by nature. WHO KNEW!?!
Anyway, I thought for sure we’d have nothing to talk about, so I’m confident that I talked nervously throughout the whole date. But either way, he still continued to like me, so GAME ON!
And I discovered he could dance! Bonus!
And then he discovered that I could NOT dance! Fail.
That might have almost been deal breaker for him. He's even tried to help me:
But there's no helping that. One time he was even all, "Maybe if you just move a little bit LESS while we're dancing."
Whaaaa?
But what do you know, he married me anyway.
Deep down inside I had this planned all along. This bad dancer thing was just to make him think he could "fix" me.
