tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13302360081538656952024-02-18T22:18:17.736-07:00MeganithappenMeganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-55331507890670327432014-12-24T15:25:00.001-07:002014-12-24T15:36:14.616-07:00Dear Kid: Three Years (and Merry Christmas)<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s two months after your birthday, but I can't procrastinate into the next year, so I find myself delivering this message to
you the day before Christmas Eve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
seems fitting and appropriate, however, because you are just beginning to catch
on to just how rad this particular holiday can be. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today you are 1,183 days old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means that even in our darkest hours
together, you have brought us 1,183 days of joy. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And this year has no doubt been filled with dark hours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the first part of 2014, you lost both of
your grandparents on your dad’s side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Your capacity to process that experience at 2.5 years old was
incredible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your whole demeanor changed
that month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You knew something had gone
terribly wrong; you understood the permanent void that would indelibly exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This loss once again reminded me of the
incredible impact we as parents have on our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This Christmas, I am thankful for the smiles you bring to your
dad’s face on a nearly minute by minute basis, and that we are able to use your
presence in our lives to create our own holiday traditions and memories with
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps the biggest change we have seen in you this year is
your increased capacity to communicate – both with us and with strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time this leaves me coyly smiling
to strangers, beaming with pride and sharing a knowing nod that says, “Yes, I
know my child is gifted - a genius, basically.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Other times, what you contribute verbally to strangers makes
me – and certainly your father - want to self-combust, disappear in to space,
or, in dire circumstances, offer your hand to said stranger and say, “I found
this young child wandering around with no supervision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you see him with an adult earlier?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Costco seems to be your verbal bomb location of choice,
where you often kick your volume level up to that of a Five Finger Death Punch
concert, and vehemently express your desire for things like chocolate
asscream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Frozen</i> has also taken over our lives, and so perhaps one of your
more memorable Costco performances included your rendition of “Let it Go,”
where, despite constant attempts on our part to set you straight, you (still) insist that the lyrics sung at
the song’s peak emotional crescendo are “The bastard’s in the past!” (Please note: the correct lyrics are "The <em>past</em> is in the past."). You sing this line with extra gusto, and the understandable response you
receive from innocent passersby only seems to fuel your desire to provide an encore that we're all begging you not to provide. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But truly, your vocabulary is extraordinary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You regularly use 3 and 4 syllable words with
us and in the right context.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Concentrate</i> on me
Daddy.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mom, you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frustrating</i>
me right now.” (This is actually a 3 syllable word but you change it to four.)</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, as if I really need a verbal reflection on everything I
say, you often whip out these little gems:</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While leaving the house:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Alrighty then, let’s hit it.”</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While picking up toys:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Ummm, a little help here?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we do anything you don’t really want us to do: “Shame
on you, Mommy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m disappointed in
you, Daddy.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we ask you to finish your dinner plate before dessert:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re killin’ me guys.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And my personal favorite, when I am trying to reprimand
you: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(*Slowly puts index finger up to my
mouth*) </i>“Shhhhhhh, Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Listen.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(*Raises one eyebrow*)</i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your ability to communicate has also brought to light just
how unreasonable you are being when you throw fits, because we finally know WHY
you are throwing fits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are no longer afforded
the luxury of giving you the benefit of the doubt. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s
tired, </i>we’d say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His stomach must be upset</i>, we’d
rationalize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He is NO DOUBT HAVING GROWING PAINS </i>we would shout over the screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You also take pleasure in losing your mother loving shit
over the fact that I stirred your yogurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or that Gus the Dog jumped off of the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that we ran out of lotion. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And to think, I thought we’d just have a little dry skin that evening.
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yes, you’ve used your share of expletives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll have to talk to your…eh’em…father…about that
foul language of his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moving on. </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You cuddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You think Spiderman and Jake the Pirate are cool but you
love princesses – specifically Rapunzel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can play the game <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Memory</i>
better than I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You love to visit
with MorMor and tease Papa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are
literally witty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Witty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At three years old.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You laugh often and unabashedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are a gracious gift giver and receiver
and almost always say thank you without being prompted. You know when someone
is sad, because I can visibly see you are hurting for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know what it means to miss people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know the importance of telling people you
miss them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have made it a habit to name all of the people you love before
I tuck you in at night.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In so many ways, each and every day, you show me what
Christmas is really all about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And to think, I thought I would be the one showing you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank
you for that.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love, </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Momma<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
<tr><td><a href="http://www.smilebox.com/play/4e4445344e6a4d304e44633d0d0a&blogview=true&campaign=blog_playback_link&partner=smileboxee" target="_blank"><img alt="Click to play this Smilebox slideshow" height="330" src="http://www.smilebox.com/snap/4e4445344e6a4d304e44633d0d0a.jpg" style="border: medium none;" width="420" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td align="center">Free picture slideshow created with Smilebox</td></tr>
</table>
</span></div>
Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-2046989726913360652014-08-25T18:27:00.001-06:002014-08-26T20:55:16.517-06:00The one percent.<br>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m about to have a 3 year old on my hands, and lately I’ve
been thinking about all the ways that motherhood has changed me…mostly because five of my closest friends have all had kids this spring/summer, including <a href="http://meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/12/fairy-godmothers.html" target="_blank">both of my child’s Godmothers</a>.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Jj0KhgYL2gQ1cphpcUEKJKr9nrPDHVf1Ke0Do-0xDs7_uFdc-aGDzJqg77bvL_Sc9R_zOsZJM0AsymlhbqSkhKx5V2TgiXajYYfJX9BwYTEIeqnn8vouXyPbFJo3MpwXwggfewGO9Jvr/s1600/IMG_2216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Jj0KhgYL2gQ1cphpcUEKJKr9nrPDHVf1Ke0Do-0xDs7_uFdc-aGDzJqg77bvL_Sc9R_zOsZJM0AsymlhbqSkhKx5V2TgiXajYYfJX9BwYTEIeqnn8vouXyPbFJo3MpwXwggfewGO9Jvr/s1600/IMG_2216.jpg" height="400" width="297"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GM #1's munchie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvuDRn39Cq_O2mzJ_T_o6ORNzk-hBX4lwATHFDZuOzt2pwE9Ar6eOtWHw_ZizbrYFVpT1pRSZahLRL9aeMyeYu1xxxo00kx3WGoCnAgQTmNmDWIrFJh_uJVjAJHcYRsbRXtSqAdeHn93l0/s1600/20140822_185244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvuDRn39Cq_O2mzJ_T_o6ORNzk-hBX4lwATHFDZuOzt2pwE9Ar6eOtWHw_ZizbrYFVpT1pRSZahLRL9aeMyeYu1xxxo00kx3WGoCnAgQTmNmDWIrFJh_uJVjAJHcYRsbRXtSqAdeHn93l0/s1600/20140822_185244.jpg" height="400" width="225"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GM #2's munchie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When someone shares the news of a pregnancy with those
around them, responses are typically always joyful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We offer huge smiles and hugs and tell the person
or couple just how happy we are for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We do this universally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve
had a child of your own, and the person sharing the news with you has ever
judged your parenting style in any way, your elation is equally as genuine…just
for different reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know what they’re about to face – both good
and bad - and if you’re human, you’re damned happy about both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxxAoWPCgtHcGCy_D3Don2cl02HJ5QrzML_93vAOkUEn6afBkAuaV7YEcC8imUopM8JfiznhzPw-IqBXYUlnmCe1zjG1x1IAEt3mwT4LS4UK1cDY2aDyoK3KjH0P4nSl9UdAqjOphCPMw/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxxAoWPCgtHcGCy_D3Don2cl02HJ5QrzML_93vAOkUEn6afBkAuaV7YEcC8imUopM8JfiznhzPw-IqBXYUlnmCe1zjG1x1IAEt3mwT4LS4UK1cDY2aDyoK3KjH0P4nSl9UdAqjOphCPMw/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="300" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the five new momma friends!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A good friend of mine once told me that the first few years
of raising a child is 49% misery and 51% joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Very rarely do we recognize anything in between those two feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like playing golf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The good shots keep you playing through the
back nine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, a good day followed by
a couple of martinis and before you know it, you’ve got yourself a decent
foursome. This is why I don’t drink and parent.</span></div>
<br>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay fine, I drink all the time. This is why I have an IUD.</span></div>
<br>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I digress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I’m
trying to say is that the 1% of parenthood “joy” tips the scale in an
extraordinary way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I told my mom I
was pregnant, she told me I would become a better person because it would build
my character in a manner that wouldn’t be achievable any other way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, I was actually pretty offended
by that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly I thought it was a
pretty asshole-ish thing to say– not just for me personally – but for everyone
who hasn’t had a kid, either by choice or by chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mostly I was offended because I hadn’t had 3 years of
character building in that 49% yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that
I’m on the other side of it, I get what she was trying to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t get me wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recognize that people can build character and
strive for betterment in countless ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, I know people who've built character by working in an orphanage in the Congo, or by saving someone’s life because they put themselves though 8 miserable
years of med school and fellowship training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cripes, I know people who've built character by running an iron man. Some would argue I took the easy route! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>All I did was have some sex and now look! Here I am! Building
character for the rest of my life!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And dammit, I hate to admit it, but my mom was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever since my kid came along, I can’t seem to
get through anything that elicits any sort of emotion without becoming one big,
blubbery ball of tears – especially when it comes to other people’s kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I feel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">empathy</i> for people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm confident that if </span>you
could measure my niceness pre and post kid, you’d find that having a kid has definitely made me less of an asshole.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One thing about having kids “later on in life” (30+, rather
than 20+) is that you’ve had more time to enjoy your freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve had time to make a little money, to
travel, to do nothing but watch America’s Next Top model on a Sunday afternoon,
only leaving the couch to nurse your hangover with a Taco Johns run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not having kids is a frickin' blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when you’ve had a few extra years to not have
them, the transition to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">having them</i> is
a bitch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the effects of that 49% can be a bit
exacerbated the longer you wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
when you finally do have a night out with your friends…especially friends who ALSO happen to have kids…it looks something like this:</span><br>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiekXye6MJ6TRs0YAPlpu9VgeGmoNEmtUmTAVQ9LAHfw4za3wvxrtyejKbjkqXyGbYnBOgpMoLpgwuUw9UxCawJH1Jmgy_B1M7zAa0ArJhE9lr58dpjJbTln5vPi4S-GKU9Eyvt-YpxuP/s1600/Night+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiekXye6MJ6TRs0YAPlpu9VgeGmoNEmtUmTAVQ9LAHfw4za3wvxrtyejKbjkqXyGbYnBOgpMoLpgwuUw9UxCawJH1Jmgy_B1M7zAa0ArJhE9lr58dpjJbTln5vPi4S-GKU9Eyvt-YpxuP/s1600/Night+out.jpg" height="480" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A recent baby baring momma to my left. Her 3rd, which makes her the smartest and nicest of all of us. When we took this photo, all we'd had at this point was an uninterrupted dinner without kids.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you know what? That 1% makes it worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that 49% makes you better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when your kid is running away from you,
naked, clenching his butt cheeks, screaming at the top of his lungs, all
because you simply want to PUT HIM ON THE TOILET SO YOU CAN SHOW HIM HOW HIS POOP
CAN GO HANG OUT WITH ALL THE OTHER POOP FRIENDS IN THE TOILET…well, what else can I say? It builds character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br>
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<br>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-34120222317102255722013-12-06T18:36:00.001-07:002013-12-06T18:36:06.479-07:00Dear Kid: 2 Years<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Kid, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Quick update: you’re two now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You turned two on October 27.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, almost two months ago and BIG
SURPRISE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- I’m late getting this note
to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry. I’ve been busy limiting
your iPad time and trying to convince you that what’s in mommy’s cup is the
same thing that’s in YOUR cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someday
it will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless you start drinking
white zinfandel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let’s get back to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today I have loved you for 770 days, not counting the days you spent
occupying my torso.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s proof we gave
you a party:</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVIjCiFAQKsKH-mbmy_G-oFw4szKBqcwu1RPoxeK_0H7iSFjnv2cUf3GDRnGdotBGqgnSxy3jKt_Qw3MPVvmMknNUCzW2MfwQGSG9xfFhBucdRQsbFVyZxfeFd_iqmSN0KEy8lE9EFv11/s1600/Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVIjCiFAQKsKH-mbmy_G-oFw4szKBqcwu1RPoxeK_0H7iSFjnv2cUf3GDRnGdotBGqgnSxy3jKt_Qw3MPVvmMknNUCzW2MfwQGSG9xfFhBucdRQsbFVyZxfeFd_iqmSN0KEy8lE9EFv11/s320/Party.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You with Auntie Kat. Thank God someone<br />
normal joined our family. Thank Uncle Eric.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These last two years have brought many changes your way, including
the addition of two cousins, - both boys - who will, in a moment’s time, be
crawling around their parents’ house, causing them the same kind of general
mayhem and destruction you do for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
will watch from the sidelines, laughing, as many of my other friends (with
children) likely did with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My
friends who don’t have kids are understandably questioning my parenting skills.)
It’s all fun and games until my brother catches your cousin creating an
impressionistic piece of art on the living room window curtain using Chobani
yogurt as his medium, enthusiastically exclaiming, “Look what Semisi taught me
to do!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5Hir-qIr1hO2PH0u8BiowrW9VgN4rzxFZkBxg-SH55faKdngt60EjBXsSkk0JjuPfBxiJJXo83AHEiDSEd_QDnDhBSXouMIn9YF2lCtONZAcrULZlCdbBiglRv4bW4KVvIF_dOkOkj0N/s1600/Geekin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5Hir-qIr1hO2PH0u8BiowrW9VgN4rzxFZkBxg-SH55faKdngt60EjBXsSkk0JjuPfBxiJJXo83AHEiDSEd_QDnDhBSXouMIn9YF2lCtONZAcrULZlCdbBiglRv4bW4KVvIF_dOkOkj0N/s320/Geekin.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mastermind of trouble.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-nJ-8AAVVMb6JWBWTKQeRr_SisVvK_X7uc6VtiX7ndAcZJY9hPCIIT0YZ_a0DpBcc3Bv_NOaGI5NgRL_3KxR2DY-0Or3XyZu-Wn4r4tPeCLKYmIgrIH8xLkLfO81MT4FezalHmttnSyt/s1600/Crying1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-nJ-8AAVVMb6JWBWTKQeRr_SisVvK_X7uc6VtiX7ndAcZJY9hPCIIT0YZ_a0DpBcc3Bv_NOaGI5NgRL_3KxR2DY-0Or3XyZu-Wn4r4tPeCLKYmIgrIH8xLkLfO81MT4FezalHmttnSyt/s320/Crying1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Master of not getting your way. <br />
(No baby, no cry.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sometimes wonder how you interpret our presence in your
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, do you think we are just
total buzz kills because we don’t let you swim around in the utensil drawer,
pull all the clothes out of your closet, stick my finger nail polish brush
inside the light socket, and wipe your nose with my hair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I think if we’re doing things right, we’ll continue to cause you
this kind of disappointment on a daily basis, with what I hope will be spurts
of awesomeness in between. </span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzI8pvRRAiJwAeExGqXJClFUpomfnh-SUEOfbtvA-Iq01ukJNwKFeQfnYzWCFi4TWcRNOYy1hw_nE_3WE02CB0wjCtsmsGdd9hqC_nf-AWf4CQCALpHf4bRQvr4WJYqC4WKTEqjkj4wCa/s1600/Halloween.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzI8pvRRAiJwAeExGqXJClFUpomfnh-SUEOfbtvA-Iq01ukJNwKFeQfnYzWCFi4TWcRNOYy1hw_nE_3WE02CB0wjCtsmsGdd9hqC_nf-AWf4CQCALpHf4bRQvr4WJYqC4WKTEqjkj4wCa/s320/Halloween.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Einstein.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdT9KmMahPrmNLlDgaoeWV1oE7H5NjwZ9hYZIhvQNXErtI10pGqXsWlcOJhtDjT89enjltCJ9i8J9TgcOFHof0-M-wRsBJ-9u6h2e5A9kTkgQnE2aotvhVQsO6s1nx6XX98MpdJPejNvh/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdT9KmMahPrmNLlDgaoeWV1oE7H5NjwZ9hYZIhvQNXErtI10pGqXsWlcOJhtDjT89enjltCJ9i8J9TgcOFHof0-M-wRsBJ-9u6h2e5A9kTkgQnE2aotvhVQsO6s1nx6XX98MpdJPejNvh/s320/photo+5.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What? You've never seen anyone <br />
dressed up like Einstein before?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyp5eIlnQWHeAYiZahxxFO2InJ1YJf0XYgOiBYs8LEwFbr2nRnZl9EOS9kY4ldfnYhPXPHnfNoXLlJDQKfGfj5pFrC_wEexqYSItqau1oCRK18Ab0BX3DqgEPAyMifWnq2vtk1Ca7lBlmw/s1600/Carousel1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyp5eIlnQWHeAYiZahxxFO2InJ1YJf0XYgOiBYs8LEwFbr2nRnZl9EOS9kY4ldfnYhPXPHnfNoXLlJDQKfGfj5pFrC_wEexqYSItqau1oCRK18Ab0BX3DqgEPAyMifWnq2vtk1Ca7lBlmw/s320/Carousel1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome. Until we had to get off of the ride.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are some things you enjoy doing that don’t involve our
intervention on a second by second basis, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are as follows: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hauling around all of my old purses and putting
random things in them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Playing with the iPad.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ3Af83sel0L3q_hHwiKkOh4_63uMrBi8Dt2lox1N2op2UNOI7QfBhWUFX7t7OOTTckCegCDT9_CAaukPeCoUCIuM4GUB65MNl70nYakopKOOGQM_-mZUICZV0zDvmWkowB8mTwMSrENS/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ3Af83sel0L3q_hHwiKkOh4_63uMrBi8Dt2lox1N2op2UNOI7QfBhWUFX7t7OOTTckCegCDT9_CAaukPeCoUCIuM4GUB65MNl70nYakopKOOGQM_-mZUICZV0zDvmWkowB8mTwMSrENS/s320/photo+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trying on my shoes – the sparkly silver ones are
your fave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad is pleased.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2m1Q14Hrjgjiwp3WBVhCDm9fJvHJmRpsDfYxeWRdmaj0RP3dMPqHsFpBRCgHdXPrEtjUSkJ1JMaQiPntoM8WxxCpS4qGdkMNmvV4CPlDN6nX1pMydcwKU4D7v6PPhVx8E2CaxUB1uaxj/s1600/Shoes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2m1Q14Hrjgjiwp3WBVhCDm9fJvHJmRpsDfYxeWRdmaj0RP3dMPqHsFpBRCgHdXPrEtjUSkJ1JMaQiPntoM8WxxCpS4qGdkMNmvV4CPlDN6nX1pMydcwKU4D7v6PPhVx8E2CaxUB1uaxj/s320/Shoes2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Playing with the iPad.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJqpnBRdGvdE4uLGb5IIBPhesU4nYX80jOCkGcI2QNlhXJElhh5fM7ebJ90C8fD8bheFvlbBMxF9eUXx14xkNYeY9OfIYMR33Hiq0KcjEMRYMBoLZDq2uRCIutBVtRUQ5Q5P_qPe3kdpA/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJqpnBRdGvdE4uLGb5IIBPhesU4nYX80jOCkGcI2QNlhXJElhh5fM7ebJ90C8fD8bheFvlbBMxF9eUXx14xkNYeY9OfIYMR33Hiq0KcjEMRYMBoLZDq2uRCIutBVtRUQ5Q5P_qPe3kdpA/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iPad selfie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Helping dad shovel and rake leaves.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taking a bath and farting in the tub and then
side eyeing me with a coy smile to see if I notice.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kitchen utensil mayhem.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ordering Chinese with the iPad.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have an iPad
addiction. We now only let the iPad “surface” after bedtime, but you haven’t
forgotten about its existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other
night you woke in absolute hysterics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While lying in our bed with a pillow over my head (hoping to God you
could “work it out” and fall back asleep) I began listening to your wails only
to realize you were desperately shouting “iPaaaaaaaad…..”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 2:00 a.m. Looks like I can toss out
that “How not to get a girl pregnant” outline and replace it with a “How not to
act like Rainman on your first date” outline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because, you know, kids and technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>NO SOCIAL SKILLS. Unless of course you are helping someone with technology:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4nhh8_5MDFznTM-cFtKS_sTmkLP1MjOTlomFBa0wcJ6bn_Ispew7gTQz_yE-25NbtglqvmbicTEz01AUi0LLfk7Y4_7Sg0WGChc8NIkBl7DCwPyBaSvoAKcGJxBopijLBRby0PVabS7G/s1600/Showing+Jan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4nhh8_5MDFznTM-cFtKS_sTmkLP1MjOTlomFBa0wcJ6bn_Ispew7gTQz_yE-25NbtglqvmbicTEz01AUi0LLfk7Y4_7Sg0WGChc8NIkBl7DCwPyBaSvoAKcGJxBopijLBRby0PVabS7G/s320/Showing+Jan.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your GM 2's mom (honorary gramma.)<br />
She's pretending to let you show her something <br />
because she is actually quite tech savvy.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Actually I shouldn’t say that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have great people skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recently you’ve lovingly begun to refer to point
at and openly refer to strangers as “bodies.” This is hilarious for me but
really, really creepy for the strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You do have a girlfriend and her name is Julia, though you have another girl on the side up in Alaska too (I won't tell Julia).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily you call Julia by name rather than referring to her as "body" too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would be inappropriate for a whole
different reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a bit younger
than you but she could take you in a fight which I can only assume is part of
the reason you love her so much. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Other than that, you have great verbal skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You pick up on things we don’t even
realize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other day your dad sneezed
and you said, “Bless you, Daddy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, your Dad and I really aren’t that polite, so GOD ONLY KNOWS who is
teaching you those kinds of niceties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You still eat pretty much everything in front of you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sushi?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Don’t mind if you do!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bowl of
salad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, please!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lucked out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our most recent frustration with you comes at bedtime,
where, for a time, we required the assistance of a young priest and an old
priest (as your Uncle Eric describes it.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your most recent trick, however, is one of silent protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You bathe, have a nice bedtime story, and
then you calmly let me lie you down and tuck you in, where you sweetly offer me
kisses and a “Love you, Mom. Night Night.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then proceed to walk out of your room and
down the hallway, fist pumping the air while silently mouthing “WINNING!!!!!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can only imagine our surprise when, hours later, your
father and I quietly tip toe into our bedroom to turn on the bedside lamp,
praying we won’t wake you only to find you passed out in the middle of our king
sized Temperpedic mattress, feather duvet up to your chin, blanket and bear in
hand, and a pink satin ruffled eye mask perched atop your sweet little nose. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once we put you back in to your own bed, I sneak in a few
episodes of The Walking Dead, which I continue to find parallels our life with
you perfectly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You walk like the dead,
we tip toe around the house to avoid waking you in a fit of rage, and your
father and I often scream HAVE YOU BEEN BITTEN?” to one another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That, combined with our continuous battle for
control of the household, leaves us all exhausted and wondering WHY LORI HAD TO
DIE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet, I LOVE having you around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I walk through the door at night, you
typically act like you’ve just won the grand prize on Minute to Win It. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A river dance and a few hugs later, you’re
back to destroying everything around you (but you’re smart to lead with that
welcome).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You give great kisses and hugs
and the joy for life you exude makes my heart swell and my soul happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s December now, and you’re just now starting to get an
idea about how awesome it all is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You shout
“Santa” when we drive by our festive neighbor’s blow up lawn decorations at
night (which also doubles as a Christmas massacre scene during the day.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What you don’t yet realize is that Santa
brings you TOYS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, you’re already
a fan of the guy and you don’t even know the BEST PART yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you view everything in life that way…for
the rest of your life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So Merry Christmas, kiddo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And don’t worry; you don’t have to get me anything.<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span>The best gift I ever received was closer to Halloween,
anyway. You'll never be able to top it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Momma</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">P.S. Stay little.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAY_7YpWbdJonoaG2w_0WjE7K3il3tfCqcNZhBr0Jl7kOjLhouftp5PpNs7lrPSAAsZ8Nk1iRdryMLLYyv3P0qLUdiC8UW3Nt3fw47XV9XIm7gjChZ2PHfVJOeMgtY9jFUyVOeIvgy_K-/s1600/Bathtime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAY_7YpWbdJonoaG2w_0WjE7K3il3tfCqcNZhBr0Jl7kOjLhouftp5PpNs7lrPSAAsZ8Nk1iRdryMLLYyv3P0qLUdiC8UW3Nt3fw47XV9XIm7gjChZ2PHfVJOeMgtY9jFUyVOeIvgy_K-/s320/Bathtime.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Whfza9yQHZdjOxdHXvymGkkl_tyssZyu2EZh3NteYMvSiVcKrAZH0x1jhV5exUkvUDoQsDu0agT-zc3UTsbvbaVJ8UCP3I6yheTSFWQm6o0Z8Oca4tsUJiZ71MtMmBKTEOIbLT8Eb86N/s1600/Stay+Little3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Whfza9yQHZdjOxdHXvymGkkl_tyssZyu2EZh3NteYMvSiVcKrAZH0x1jhV5exUkvUDoQsDu0agT-zc3UTsbvbaVJ8UCP3I6yheTSFWQm6o0Z8Oca4tsUJiZ71MtMmBKTEOIbLT8Eb86N/s320/Stay+Little3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span><br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-54741940521156640202012-11-24T15:34:00.000-07:002012-11-24T15:34:17.021-07:00Winner, winner turkey dinner!Hey y'all! Sorry about not posting yesterday! I was still in a turkey coma. <br />
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Buttttttt...as promised, I did pick a winner to my <a href="http://www.meganithappen.blogspot.com/2012/11/cinderella-story-and-my-very-first-give.html#comment-form" target="_blank">Bella Bag give-a-way</a> using random.org: <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjH0DVEDZGQi0yf2Ehh2Pbgumfl5SI1Xps_44HzhXkcl_P3_2rS6o6e-vaqjTssLKKSkItHha6J6O4mlUlmXB8-8vOQgGU6Xa1JpBe5dIuWdoYIOG3TbYMD-joSTya_XEDMJVWVhKQvYS/s1600/untitled1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjH0DVEDZGQi0yf2Ehh2Pbgumfl5SI1Xps_44HzhXkcl_P3_2rS6o6e-vaqjTssLKKSkItHha6J6O4mlUlmXB8-8vOQgGU6Xa1JpBe5dIuWdoYIOG3TbYMD-joSTya_XEDMJVWVhKQvYS/s1600/untitled1.jpg" /></a><br />
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As you can see, I included all 55 comments in the generator, but then took out the "removed" comments <em>and</em> the comments that were added to *original* comments when I counted down to see who left comment number 35. <br />
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Then I counted twice with my mother present to make sure it was accurate. <br />
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Then I had my step dad count to make sure. <br />
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And it pleases me to announce that the person who happened to submit comment #35 is someone I've known since birth! So congratulations <strong><u>Lisa Fabian</u></strong>! Wooo hooo!<br />
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Lisa, shoot me your addy via facebook or at meganithappen@gmail.com and we'll get you this bag!!!<br />
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Didn't win? Don't forget to check out all the other AMAZING bags over at <a href="http://www.stitchandswash.com/" target="_blank">Stitch and Swash</a>. A HUGE thanks to Angie for donating this bag. You da best. <br />
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Enjoy the rest of your weekend, everybody - and thanks to everyone who entered my "bribe to subscribe" (I'm looking at you, Katie!).<br />
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Megan<br />
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Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-53268659628928032302012-11-19T16:58:00.001-07:002012-11-19T16:58:30.257-07:00You say Oprah, I say Opera...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmVxqmkN8-FB5GcJQ72fKj5ffkiWjGPKHsozjsvIIifo5z6lNF5RWKK3vlyJoKGLhIi7epCU_mr0mFIt4caxgWkW0_GBk7VbQcPF0_ne6cgJbHBqspcE0FmeUmBDkGTUdb2rJh_w_MB1H/s1600/January-27-2012-03-03-50-tumblrlyd4m43CNT1qewacoo1500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmVxqmkN8-FB5GcJQ72fKj5ffkiWjGPKHsozjsvIIifo5z6lNF5RWKK3vlyJoKGLhIi7epCU_mr0mFIt4caxgWkW0_GBk7VbQcPF0_ne6cgJbHBqspcE0FmeUmBDkGTUdb2rJh_w_MB1H/s400/January-27-2012-03-03-50-tumblrlyd4m43CNT1qewacoo1500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here's the deal: I used to teach English, so when I notice a snafu typo in a blog post - specifically MY blog posts - I dwell on it for a good month and a half before I finally feel like I can move on. The problem is this: I know no one cares as much as I do (except maybe my mother) - but if I have someone PROOF read my blog posts, I suddenly find myself TRYING TOO HARD. And when I TRY TOO HARD I start not to like blogging. I also start to not sound like myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Don't start sentences with AND. SEE!!! It never ands. ENDS. It never ends.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Therefore, every time I post, you're likely to see sentences like this: </span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And even though I try to convince her that we need to contact Opera, she simply shakes her head and tells me that sewing and touching every bag that leaves her doorstep is just too important to her to ever go that big. </span></em><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">See, yet another sentence starting with AND. But also (SWEET JESUS NOW I'M STARTING THEM WITH BUT!), you'll notice that I said we need to contact Opera.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I meant Oprah. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the record though, I DO think someone should make a rock opera out of Angie's story. It shall be called, <em>Angie and her Twilight Smothered Dream Bag</em>. It would be glorious. (Please note that titles call for italicized font rather than "quotation marks" unless we're referring to the title of a song or a poem or a chapter.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Another time, I said that my son <em>turrets</em>, </span><a href="http://vimeo.com/8383465" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">when I meant this kind of tourretes</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">). Now this one actually worked out, because as times my son really does act like a small tower that projects vertically from the wall of a building. Still though, I meant the other kind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In other words, blogging - which requires, in my opinion, a deliberately impromptu, raw, unedited word vomit - can be hard on a former English teacher. Please ignore these types of dumb mistakes and know that I am smarter than my blog posts make me look. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Also,</span><a href="http://www.meganithappen.blogspot.com/2012/11/cinderella-story-and-my-very-first-give.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> if you have not entered in to win this awesome bag</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">...you best get on that right now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Kisses and sunshine,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Megan </span><br />
<br />
<br /></span>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-23101695538261514622012-11-16T15:30:00.000-07:002012-11-16T15:30:08.711-07:00Cinderella story. And my very first give-a-way. So, you know, happy Friday. <br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, the moment has finally come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Internets, we’re having a give-a-way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, because I
like to feel popular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I've kept my son alive and thriving for 1
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Christmas is coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my best friend and son’s General Manager
happens to one of the most generous and talented individuals I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No really, she is – and multifaceted, if I may say so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, let’s list a few things that make
her the president of club awesome before we get right down to the give-a-way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
will be fun because I like lists and she dislikes people bragging about
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hoping this incites a series of
awkward twinges that I’ll feel all the way from Washington.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now I’m guessing she has her hands on
her cheeks as she peeks through her fingers, squinting more and more with each
sentence of this post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(SMOOCH!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In any given day, you might find my best friend doing any
number of the following things:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span>Cooking ridiculously good meals:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1gGJYuJjcaPrQuG_S4ITUst0CeyX1iTdGyz-pzGH6GYqnrlLT0YTU_uVkg6OKBiqwZXjTnGUsA_bMWduMwRyKUgTTiDj3diS3b8FSgNSXwXXwGSTigifW81vTZb6FEhWypKWcwLGorpH/s1600/546373_10151140077504279_137856264_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1gGJYuJjcaPrQuG_S4ITUst0CeyX1iTdGyz-pzGH6GYqnrlLT0YTU_uVkg6OKBiqwZXjTnGUsA_bMWduMwRyKUgTTiDj3diS3b8FSgNSXwXXwGSTigifW81vTZb6FEhWypKWcwLGorpH/s320/546373_10151140077504279_137856264_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span>Winning arm wrestling competitions:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7DRdUD_oVb3f_EBg1UmviVCIiuYRoSr90g3pAo1V_U5ZFov4BEsA9cHUGTraUU1k8VwBkJctBTs5gcL6Uq5Bp5jtUMqalh2cye7p1FTu3mUo9BxBloA8f-bi4MvX2r8lT802hXMe3uA_/s1600/safe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7DRdUD_oVb3f_EBg1UmviVCIiuYRoSr90g3pAo1V_U5ZFov4BEsA9cHUGTraUU1k8VwBkJctBTs5gcL6Uq5Bp5jtUMqalh2cye7p1FTu3mUo9BxBloA8f-bi4MvX2r8lT802hXMe3uA_/s320/safe_image.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span>Adopting abused animals:</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGvttaM5ldgK0EMJu1xZqifPptg0jo8UcY4T0_-X9YWdUqcyWKnOF2rVeRoTZSThhqdZIknKIg3qRvZHsqEhePKjBsOhOW6PW69idVcjKP54BO8OxGENiB2G8x0rUxnv15KmW700NKu_S/s1600/308713_2520797661700_198228644_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGvttaM5ldgK0EMJu1xZqifPptg0jo8UcY4T0_-X9YWdUqcyWKnOF2rVeRoTZSThhqdZIknKIg3qRvZHsqEhePKjBsOhOW6PW69idVcjKP54BO8OxGENiB2G8x0rUxnv15KmW700NKu_S/s320/308713_2520797661700_198228644_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Love the shirt, Nic.</span></td></tr>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span>Taking incredibly cute pictures with her husband</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLK24KgO47doaye8OX4mMJhb7gP7QIhhyphenhyphenFFb7AFd9Fms74XnOZ5_EmkYdcG17Rhl_ND7BlfFkEhJpRIVxC1iqEFsdSyR8P4yn3cO19rRJ0muuqC5Z-y2en3YVPrrnxqkLTvHN6v13GvRcf/s1600/422672_10150557031539279_1782597625_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLK24KgO47doaye8OX4mMJhb7gP7QIhhyphenhyphenFFb7AFd9Fms74XnOZ5_EmkYdcG17Rhl_ND7BlfFkEhJpRIVxC1iqEFsdSyR8P4yn3cO19rRJ0muuqC5Z-y2en3YVPrrnxqkLTvHN6v13GvRcf/s320/422672_10150557031539279_1782597625_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span>Or designing handbags used by famous people in
famous movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whew!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a
multitalented bitch, right there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could go in to detail about each one of the items listed
above, but for the purpose of today, let’s focus on #5. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s the deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
I spent my summers by Ft. Peck Lake, listening to mixed CD’s of No Doubt and
Oasis and doing everything within my power to drive my mother bat-shit crazy,
my best friend was elbows deep in fabric and thread, learning to craft her
talent in domesticity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(In comparison,
my mother was understandably disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I would argue however, that if it weren’t for those summers, my mother
would not OWN a mixed CD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think about
it, mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your car rides would be filled
with a full hour of songs from THE SAME ARTIST.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Can you even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">imagine</i>?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But alas, under the fine direction of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> mother, who to this DAY sews the best hair scrunchy this side
of the Mississippi, Angie learned to craft a talent that now makes her a
living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And also makes her kind of
famous. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And also makes me feel popular. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And will, in a week’s time, make you cooler. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll get down
to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Drumroll!.....)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Friends, I’d like to introduce you to THE BELLA BAG:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GPTqGprRIGM6p4UAygkaujogbIEC8Gh_RQHJnC39Csh-QVyiKCHfD7ncM9bTkgmnmH6kA-fRzhpZUyvndSXXIcqo8jrid5TNoeliZoThKoblcW3SkB07XGCYEdvUTe8vjyArT65TpTRF/s1600/120606201452_twilighttote2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GPTqGprRIGM6p4UAygkaujogbIEC8Gh_RQHJnC39Csh-QVyiKCHfD7ncM9bTkgmnmH6kA-fRzhpZUyvndSXXIcqo8jrid5TNoeliZoThKoblcW3SkB07XGCYEdvUTe8vjyArT65TpTRF/s400/120606201452_twilighttote2.jpg" width="288" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why is it called the Bella bag? Maybe these pics will help clarify: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOCfBVfjJYRYWBbK0y5a2-ZQOPGFUkPdfH19t8w14G_glxAkYCPApWCLlzTY34xri2tEj39DtBOFC0SK5zKMSHUusMcPlbpNrqHnGLf0onY5vRSSpHAT9fKEJXFTqxZurzd0RUDwvQEo9/s1600/4102760790_c9d300fb45_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOCfBVfjJYRYWBbK0y5a2-ZQOPGFUkPdfH19t8w14G_glxAkYCPApWCLlzTY34xri2tEj39DtBOFC0SK5zKMSHUusMcPlbpNrqHnGLf0onY5vRSSpHAT9fKEJXFTqxZurzd0RUDwvQEo9/s400/4102760790_c9d300fb45_o.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLbp0RdvkLxDuQQ6rcDpZelRPv_UFjgQLVu0txbt-YsCIwJz6NSqgAn6P-Yvh2NtFcATANx67qh9RJlixZOU7PlnoWgAo1qoTylt5E-SWdWzOAFMZXmIZ4baqVPcEBjuICifQpo3bAsAR/s1600/stitch.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLbp0RdvkLxDuQQ6rcDpZelRPv_UFjgQLVu0txbt-YsCIwJz6NSqgAn6P-Yvh2NtFcATANx67qh9RJlixZOU7PlnoWgAo1qoTylt5E-SWdWzOAFMZXmIZ4baqVPcEBjuICifQpo3bAsAR/s400/stitch.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s that you
say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You recognize the person holding
that purse?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You recognize the
movie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twilight, </i>you say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The final
movie of which opens <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">today</i>, you
say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Huh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How timely. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This bag, hand made by my bff, Angie, was picked up by a
prop designer for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twilight</i> series
in a boutique in Seattle, where Angie’s rent payment was, at the time, dictated
by whether or not she would sell a bag that week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prop designer bought it for herself, but
then decided to use it to round out Bella’s wardrobe for the movie – so she
called Angie and asked her to make a replica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Angie complied, and a few months later <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twilight </i>came out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Angie
was all, “You don’t suppose???” and then she watched the movie and I suppose
you could say she supposed right:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb2m1t8X2xyJbv_oIjozsBa81WOm00SlhQzQq9LGmVXhu4HLC5tS04J6m8yeJHu1OprvVkQ1D1fPFqRHawLoOZkA9cv_tWKvUNy7TMana2cH1a6nlh3h7bNw9m9ky_RXGtGAmONk4J4q-/s1600/4102757320_b458ffb136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb2m1t8X2xyJbv_oIjozsBa81WOm00SlhQzQq9LGmVXhu4HLC5tS04J6m8yeJHu1OprvVkQ1D1fPFqRHawLoOZkA9cv_tWKvUNy7TMana2cH1a6nlh3h7bNw9m9ky_RXGtGAmONk4J4q-/s320/4102757320_b458ffb136.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXzyP46tiie8uMAPKKowyDp7qGGKh4b6D9QGrzMSNyqPBAycLOaFOnkXFE3BJIeK7_EEBGMRYKAYJ3LeaFMioqXGwzgpvBwAKoloX-iVeKbvo_-mXqm_ilQbvqKuUnbCIANtoD188y-G5/s1600/4102000679_d1d2c43f8c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXzyP46tiie8uMAPKKowyDp7qGGKh4b6D9QGrzMSNyqPBAycLOaFOnkXFE3BJIeK7_EEBGMRYKAYJ3LeaFMioqXGwzgpvBwAKoloX-iVeKbvo_-mXqm_ilQbvqKuUnbCIANtoD188y-G5/s400/4102000679_d1d2c43f8c.jpg" width="197" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rob Pattinson is holding Angie’s bag, you guys. Do you see
that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The year that the movie was released resulted in so many orders that Angie worked hand
over fist, day after day, rarely taking even one day off - pumping out bag
after bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And from there, she’s managed to make a good living doing
what she loves to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though I try
to convince her that we need to contact Opera, she simply shakes her head and tells
me that sewing and touching every bag that leaves her doorstep is just too
important to her to ever go that big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there
is just something so. damn. admirable about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have this bag, and many of my friends have a version of
the bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we all love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not just saying that because she’s my
best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can honestly say that I
have NEVER owned anything that has received more compliments than this thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>EVER. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s even cooler is that when she’s out
and about, sporting one of her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own</i>
bags, she’ll get compliments, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
do you know what she does when she gets compliments?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">SHE JUST SAYS THANK YOU.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That’s it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
doesn’t even tell them that SHE MADE THE BAG.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unbelievable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I guess that’s what modesty looks like, but what she lacks
in boastfulness I make up for in casual conversations with people I’ve never
met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When anyone compliments me on my
bag, I take up half of their afternoon telling them how I have a famous best
friend and that she makes these amazing bags and that famous people have used
them in famous movies and they should go to her website RIGHT NOW and buy one
because she customizes the screen print and the fabrics and uses refurbished
leather and you can also pick whatever style of bag you want in whatever color leather
you want.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And it isn’t until I gently rub my bag against their cheek
so that they may feel the softness of the leather that I sense them pulling
away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And because she is my best friend and she knows how much I like to feel popular, she is donating one of these bad boys to one of you! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, what do you have to do? Well listen, I know there are a number of you out there who silently follow, so I'm just going to ask that you speak up today. Just this once. And it only takes two easy steps:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Follow me. I really like looking popular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yes, you'll have to have a google (gmail), yahoo, twitter, AIM, Netlog, or Open ID account to follow me. That's lame and I'm sorry but I don't know how to get around it. But really, for a bag this good? Make up and account and then never look at it again. I'd say it's worth it. :) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> C</span>omment on this post after you follow me, and poof!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’re in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Don't know what to say? Tell me which bag you like best from her website. Or ask me a question. Or tell me the middle name of your cat. I don't care. Say something! </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Want to
get entered twice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Share this post on
Facebook or your blog (or both!) and tell me you did it by commenting
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ll pick a winner using random.org on Black Friday and post the number that
corresponds with the comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will
all be fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And if you don't win - no biggie! </span><a href="http://www.stitchandswash.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You can still buy the bag - or any bag for that matter - at her website</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. Currently I have my eye on </span><a href="http://www.stitchandswash.com/catalog.php?cat=1&pid=191" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">this little number</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, but they're all great. Seriously. </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Good luck!</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-63296685482544485092012-11-09T15:15:00.003-07:002012-11-09T16:34:06.329-07:00Dear Kid: One YearDear Kid:<br />
<br />
Just over a week ago you turned 365 days old. That means we’ve kept you alive for a year. A whole year. 52 weeks. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. <br />
<br />
That’s a butt load of time, fyi.<br />
<br />
Well, not really. In the great grand timeline of your life, 365 days will seem fairly inconsequential. Especially those first 365 days of your life, because you won’t remember one damn minute of it. I’m not trying to be negative or anything, but it’s true. If you’re reading this, you’re probably at LEAST in your 20’s, because dudes don’t really care about sentimental stuff any time before that. At least, I don’t think they do. (But either way, when your first girlfriend calls I won’t hesitate to say, “Let me go get him. I think he’s in his room reading the love letters I wrote to him that first year.”) <br />
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But just so I can put this into a context that’s familiar to you, let’s just assume that if you’re reading this, you’re in your early twenties. Remember a few weeks ago when you drank too many Captain Morgan cokes and woke up not knowing where you were, how you got there or why in God’s name you were wearing a cheerleader’s sweater from 1971? And all you know is that there was a lot of laughing, a little crying (crazy ex-girlfriend alert), a crap ton of stumbling around and you never want to hit the bottle ever again? <br />
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Well, that’s how you should view your first year. Except I didn’t feed you alcohol, and I never put you in a cheerleading costume. (That was your father back in 2006.) The similarity here is that there’s been a lot laughs, a few tears, no one else wants you to ever hit the bottle again either, and we all have headaches and are craving the Baconater.<br />
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But seriously, it’s hard for me to fathom that you won’t even remember a year of your life, because this year will be so engrained in the minds of your father and I that there is no amount of alcohol that could erase it. Trust me. We just got back from an all-inclusive resort in Mexico, and if there were, we would know. <br />
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Yes. We were in Mexico for your 1st birthday. <strike>And it was AWESOME</strike>. Your Godmother made me go. She was like, “Semisi is turning one. Let’s party.” Just kidding. You can’t party yet. But I will say that your first year’s celebration is really more about your father and I anyway, if I’m being honest. I mean, good job to you, sure. But good job to us for, you know, learning how to be parents. When you’re 18 you can start taking credit for being born, even though I will secretly still credit myself. <br />
<br />
But listen, the real reason we were in Mexico was because your Godmother was getting married. Don’t worry though, she’ll make it up to you some day. TRUST. When you turn 21, we’ll send her out for Gatorade and a Taco John’s run the morning after, and I can say from experience SHE WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN. She did that for us after a New Year’s Eve extravaganza one year and 40 dollars and a dream later, she came back with enough potato ole’s to feed the Irish during the famine. <br />
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Since we’re talking about her – here’s a picture of her. Now you have proof that we had good reason to be gone:<br />
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It was important work. That’s me in the coral dress because I happen to be the one who married them. So now you have a Godfather-in-law. He loves the Godfather movies so he is totally prepped and ready for this job. He is rad. His name is Albert. You're welcome.<br />
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Don’t feel bad though. We still threw you a party before we left:<br />
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And you ate cake:<br />
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Then we threw you another party after we got back. And you ate cake again:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCrL11V7igpacw25LBSOSz7cr4D3O8iZssOi7bDbEzoCbZ29osxK1KoRNKKrfrFi9ZC2NEPUD72am3UyoMbgGPTC9xfIn3ins9VepDAnECo42R5VBMy9WJVjjgK4UDbZ358rSYziiU71J/s1600/Megan_and_Semesi_w_Cake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCrL11V7igpacw25LBSOSz7cr4D3O8iZssOi7bDbEzoCbZ29osxK1KoRNKKrfrFi9ZC2NEPUD72am3UyoMbgGPTC9xfIn3ins9VepDAnECo42R5VBMy9WJVjjgK4UDbZ358rSYziiU71J/s400/Megan_and_Semesi_w_Cake.JPG" width="373" /></a></div>
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So see? We really did make it about you. <br />
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Moving on. <br />
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Here is a progress report on your, umm…progress? <br />
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You walk.<br />
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Run, kind of. Like you’re drunk, actually. Why do we keep talking about drinking? Quit.<br />
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You eat. Everything. Anything. We cannot put food in front of you fast enough. This morning you ate a whole banana in about 2.5 seconds. I had not yet had one sip of my coffee and that banana had disappeared. Then, after taking a long swig of milk from your sippy cup and giving us a good grunt of satisfaction as you slammed it down on the table, you carried your father to daycare. <br />
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Speaking of carrying things, you’re very strong. You carry around things that you should not be able to carry. This would be helpful if we could channel it to bags of groceries or the laundry basket, but currently you’d rather pull full gallons of milk out of the fridge and move Gus the Dog’s house around the floor. As if that dog doesn’t have enough anxiety, now he has to re-live Nam. <br />
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And you talk. You say dadda, momma (more than dadda, now. Good work.), Papa, and the other day you whipped out a little “ba” after I said “bath.” <br />
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But you know what? None of that matters. You could be doing none of those things and I’d still like you just as much, because you’re just, well, damned likable. That hasn’t changed since day one. Yes, sometimes you throw temper tantrums when I remove you from crawling in to the vegetable crisper drawer of the refrigerator, but we promptly ignore this unseemly behavior and you get over it, and then we all move on. <br />
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And like I said, even if you don’t remember this year, son, I can assure you that your father and I will hold on to, cherish and remember every moment day of it. On October 26th, just as our plane landed in Mexico, I turned to your father and told him that it was hard to believe that at that moment, one year prior, I was having contractions. Your father, stop watch in hand, would look down at my belly and up at me, waiting as labor progressed throughout the night. We were two people who had no idea what to expect. All we knew is that we were unbelievably excited to meet you. And <strike>32 RIDICULOUSLY LONG, PAINFUL, MISERABLE</strike> hours later, there you were. More than fashionably late, but much anticipated. And, as it turns out, worth every 1,920 minutes of labor. <br />
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You still owe me for 9 months with no booze though. <br />
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But seriously, son, in an instant our lives changed for the better – all thanks to your arrival. Last night, as I was swaying you in your room, lights off, just before bedtime, I caught a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror. Your head was on my shoulder and your body was stretched along the entire length of mine, and suddenly I realized that in the blink of an eye, you’d changed from a small, 7 pound, squishy little baby:<br />
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…to a boy:<br />
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And let me just say that your dad and I will be forever grateful for the little guy you are today, the kid I’m sure we’re bound to delight in, and the man we’ll be proud to call Semisi Michael Kongaika.<br />
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All my love to you, son, one year later, and for every year to come,<br />
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Momma <br />
<br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-57095559761342312692012-10-16T16:23:00.001-06:002012-10-17T13:02:36.011-06:00Dear Kid: Month 11Dear Kid,<br />
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A few weeks ago you turned 11 months old. This means that, to date, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 355 days. Wow. We’re in the home stretch, little buddy. <br />
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I remember when we first brought you home, and you were so miniature and squishy and eye googly and alienish I thought 11 months seemed like a million years away. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You with mor mor right out of the vag.<br />
Miniature. Squishy.</td></tr>
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I thought GOOD GOD how will we ever make it that long, you and I? But here you are, making me laugh and cry and smile and exercise my cat like reflexes as you happily work your way through our living room – a space you’ve decided to adopt as a battleground for destruction and mayhem. <br />
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The good news? Though you typically exist in world where chairs should not be in their upright position, fistfuls of dog hair are the norm, and plastic clothes hangers are man’s greatest invention, you’re still my favorite thing I’ve ever made. Unfortunately I’m not too crafty so it could only go uphill, but I’m still super proud. And I hesitate to say this because I know there are parents out there who are facing horrifically challenging situations with their children and babies – none of which I have had to face with you – but keeping you alive and healthy and happy for nearly one year is the greatest accomplishment of my life to date. <br />
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You've had a busy month. For example, you're already getting visitors from out of state. Your general manager from Seattle came to visit:<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jKgVjxv5J1Phdb74gSnVd6MuOb5HlHngbkQBoLYHKgFOUm724aEqDBcvlEwZn93TSo1GQVsaA3ajOVJIjy55aVq09_0r7jCu4lHpRF9IlBdhJguBZuEC261FPbXE4FsE6tE78C64R9JU/s1600/4.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jKgVjxv5J1Phdb74gSnVd6MuOb5HlHngbkQBoLYHKgFOUm724aEqDBcvlEwZn93TSo1GQVsaA3ajOVJIjy55aVq09_0r7jCu4lHpRF9IlBdhJguBZuEC261FPbXE4FsE6tE78C64R9JU/s320/4.5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ermargerd. you love her so much.</td></tr>
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You've cut a bunch of teeth, you dance, you're saying momma and dadda and nigh-nigh. You're basically a genius. You know, the yoush.<br />
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In fact, since we’ll be a month late getting you to your one year appointment because <strike>your father and I will be in Mexico</strike> your doctor is on maternity leave, let us share some basic stats about your growth progress with the internet:<br />
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Height: Just tall enough to now reach the top drawer of your changing table to take out all of the things.<br />
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Weight: 3 tons, though you do not physically look as heavy as you are. You’re like a walking ball of mercury. Someone might see you and be like, “Well hey there little buddy! How’s about I pick you up?” and then they throw out their back. <br />
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Head: Huge. Wide. It has sanctioned its own weather system. <br />
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Smile: huge-er.<br />
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Hair: <a href="mailto:OUTOF#@CKINGCONTROL">OUTOF#@CKINGCONTROL</a>. I actually think your hair mass makes up 2/3 of your weight.<br />
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Vocal skills: LOUD. Loud loud. This is you being LOUD. I don’t know what you’re saying all the time but in my head and I think you’re thinking that you’re saying “THIS IS ME BEING LOUD! I'M THE LOUDEST! LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD!!!!”<br />
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To date, your favorite toys are as follows:<br />
1.) old tupperware<br />
2.) my keys<br />
3.) clothes hangers<br />
4.) a milk carton - extra fancy because we filled it with rice.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFnnNAZSWkFSNJvKit0WFGuN6uj8Wh8fOlz9sAv9sXc02Mu_SiYXiG8QYwfM5IOYjFMXH_hcwk9Jjw_FdZjKbbQPJjt93OfyxDCeJT0I8R6Z0ShTpsa13e88tb3zUEHwfyhb6zq9lKtelH/s1600/2.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFnnNAZSWkFSNJvKit0WFGuN6uj8Wh8fOlz9sAv9sXc02Mu_SiYXiG8QYwfM5IOYjFMXH_hcwk9Jjw_FdZjKbbQPJjt93OfyxDCeJT0I8R6Z0ShTpsa13e88tb3zUEHwfyhb6zq9lKtelH/s320/2.5.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">no time to pose mom. must. clank. tupperware.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">don't say we never gave you nice things.</td></tr>
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The main thing we’re now seeing is that when we try to take anything away from you, you do not hesitate to express your disappointment. This is annoying. <br />
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Even when you sense the threat of something being taken away, you’ll openly express this intuition. For example, when you are holding my keys as we walk from the car to the front door, you’ve begun to remember that I need said keys in order to open the door. This scenario typically results in a six second temper tantrum that has now made our weird neighbor believe you have <span style="background-color: white;">tourettes.</span><br />
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But it’s really the only sensible excuse I could give him.<br />
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Your favorite activity is taking all of the diapers out of the decorative basket that I hold the diapers in your room. You engage in this activity with such abandon that you actually breathe heavily while aggressively grabbing the diapers from their proper receptacle and tossing them over your shoulders without any regard to where they land. When I put them back in the basket where they belong you look at me like I’ve just told you that I’m the athletic one in the family. Confusion. Disbelief. Terror of what’s to come by the fate you’ve been handed as you look at my missing knuckle, my two left feet, and the theater award that I keep next to your father’s all conference football recognition. <br />
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NOW JUST WHAT IS WRONG WITH BEING IN THE CHOIR.<br />
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You now have five teeth and another on the way. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the total surface area of those five teeth rivals the total surface area of Delaware. I have huge teeth. Your father has huge teeth. You will not be for lack of teeth. <br />
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You will be walking very soon. You take steps from the coffee table to the couch without any consideration for safety. Once you slam in to the couch, come to, and begin your recovery process from whiplash, you realize what you’ve done and turn to us with a nervous laugh. A laugh I am confident your father and I will give one another at various milestones throughout the course of your life. Like when you ask how you came to be (delivered in the night by a magical fairy dressed in a miami vice costume, obvs). Or if we ever had a fake ID (I'll let your father take that one. According to the only photos I can find of his college years, he spent the majority of his formative years combing a tongan mullet, playing football, rollerblading and attending mormon dances.) <br />
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Because listen kid, to be straight with you, we still don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But we’re thanking the good Lord that we’ve made it this far and we’ll have you know that we intend to keep you alive for the rest of your life. <br />
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And as we near this final stretch to the anniversary of your birthday, as we near this final countdown, I can’t help but look back at pictures of you and think how lucky I am that you were a healthy, happy baby; how fortunate your father and I are to have you in our lives; how much joy you’ve brought to so many around you. And already I’m unabashedly proud of the self-destructive, smiling little human you’ve become. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hair. out. of. con.trol!</td></tr>
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Thanks for that, kid. <br />
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Love,<br />
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Momma<br />
<br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-53842335664003758072012-09-24T15:00:00.000-06:002012-09-24T15:00:00.133-06:00Hello, my name is Megan, and I formula fed my baby.I will write about this one time and then I’ll be done with it. I promise. <br />
<br />
So. Breastfeeding. Let’s go there.<br />
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One week shy of his ten month birthday, my son took his last swallow of breast milk. <br />
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If you read <a href="http://www.meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/11/parenthood-101-keeping-your-baby-alive.html" target="_blank">a post I wrote wayyyyyy back when Semisi was fresh out of the ole’ uterus</a>, you know that I had a difficult time with breast feeding from the get go. First, there was that time I unknowingly starved my son for the first 3 days of his life, then that other time when I suffered from little to no milk production, then I brought it all home by battling case after case of mastitis. Finally, I tried exclusively pumping because my docs thought that my son was passing bacteria to me via the boob/mouth connection. Unfortunately, even after I gave up attempting to breast feeding to solely pump, I continued to get mastitis. I wish I was exaggerating when I say that over the course of the 8+ months I pumped, I battled 11 cases of mastitis. <br />
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If you’re not familiar with mastitis, pray you never will be. For me, it made its presence known via nights filled with 103 degree fever(s) and body aches, mornings of soaked sheets, followed by a day or two of painful razor-blade like pumping sessions that would result in tears of pain and frustration streaking down my face. Fun times.<br />
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I’m not asking anyone to feel bad for me. I’m not secretly hoping you’ll all tell me how amazing I am for keeping at it. I certainly don’t expect my son to sign his mother’s day cards with “love, Semisi; p.s. thanks for the breast milk.” (Though for the record, it’d be nice.) <br />
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What I can say with confidence – and I think we can all agree on this one - is that I’m not the poster child for breast feeding. Why? Let’s review: A) I suck at it (see “starved child attempting to breast feed” description above) and B) I suck at it (see <em>Guiness Book of World Records</em> for “number of times any one person has actually gotten mastitis while attempting to breast feed.”) Sure, I’m happy to have been able to give my son nearly 10 months of breast milk. But am I proud of it? Not in the slightest.<br />
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If fact, on the contrary, I’m a little regretful. I’m a little disappointed. If we’re being really open about this whole thing, I’m actually ashamed of myself. <br />
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The fact of the matter is, despite the benefits of breastfeeding (p.s. Did you guys know that breastfeeding is better for your baby than formula?), I can’t say with 100% certainty that the only reason I continued to breast feed was for the nutritional benefits my baby was receiving. That was part of it, sure, but that wasn’t the driving force.<br />
So why did I do it? Why did I keep at it when I could have had a perfectly wonderful and healthy formula fed baby? After all, my sister was the only one of three children who was formula fed and IMMA GONNA LET YOU GUESS which one of us got our master’s degree before the age of 30. FROM AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL. <br />
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It’s taken me awhile to settle in on why I kept at it as long as I did. The fact of the matter is that anyone who knows me might be surprised to have learned that I tried to breast feed at all. I’m pretty selfish, for starters. Plus I like vodka. A LOT. Plus I’m really not all that motherly. It doesn’t come naturally. You know how you meet people and you’re like OMG now <u>THAT’S</u> a person who’s meant to be a MOM. Well, I’m not that person. I’m more like, OMG now <u>THAT’S</u> someone we want to take to Mexico with us. <br />
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So if it wasn’t the health benefits, what was it? Well, the answer is simple and kind of embarrassing, if you want to know the truth. But, if I’m really be honest, here it is: <br />
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I felt bullied by the internet. There, I said it.<br />
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That’s right. I spent hours and hours and hours sitting by myself connected to a breast pump that sounded like a dying cow – a machine that stretched my nipples to six times their intended length - all because I felt peer pressure from the internet. <br />
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When I was a baby, my mom told me that people were aware of the nutritional benefits of breast milk, but the pressure to breast feed was nothing like it is today. If anything, there was more pressure to formula feed. Workplaces weren’t (at all) accommodating, and it was pretty unacceptable to breast feed in public. I’m happy that there’s been a significant effort to diminish the “breast feeding in public” shame thing. Some would argue that we’ve still got a ways to go in that effort. But somewhere along the way, we’ve managed to do a complete 180 and now it’s formula feeding moms who are feeling this shame. <br />
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And because of the internet, we voice our discontent on both sides of this topic openly, anonymously, and without a whole lot of caution regarding the possible consequences of it all. <br />
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So WHAT? We can’t even TALK about it now? <br />
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Of course we can. And I could have just, like, gotten over myself and all of my insecurities regarding this issue, too. I could have closed my laptop, said ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, and given the internet the finger. After all, my circumstance was unique. Breast feeding was making me very ill, my husband miserable, and robbing my child of some serious one-on-one time (see “seriously ill”). I could have listened to my closest friends (many of whom breast fed their kids), my family members, my husband, my doctor – I could have listened to them all when the offered amazingly reasonable encouragement for me to let it go and GIVE YOUR SON FORMULA, FOR GOD SAKES. <br />
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So why didn’t I listen to them? <br />
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Beats the hell out of me. I sure wish I had. Instead, I would stay up late at night reading through forums on the Le Leche website, on blogs, and various other “googled” articles trying to find answers as to why this breast feeding thing– this thing that’s just supposed to come naturally – just wasn’t working. And I found a lot of helpful advice on how to continue to “keep at it” and I found a ton of folks tell me that it gets easier and I found even more folks who said after going through hell and back trying to make it work, they quit, but not without feeling huge surges of shame and guilt. <br />
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And then I KEPT reading more and more about GUILT and SHAME and SHAME and GUILT – all surrounding formula feeding or QUITTING breast feeding and switching to formula. And it was like to formula feed your child was to set them up for a lifetime of mediocrity and playlists filled with Nickelback. <br />
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And what I never did find was anyone who said, “I didn’t breast feed because I like vodka too much.”<br />
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And I certainly didn’t find anyone who said “I didn’t breast feed because I like vodka too much. And I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about it.”<br />
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And really, that’s what I was looking for. <br />
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I’m no longer in the throes of this debate. My son is out of breast milk and I haven’t pumped in months. What’s done is literally done and dried up. But this lack of support on the side of moms who formula feed still bugs me. <a href="http://www.modgblog.com/2011/11/02/what-my-holes-have-taught-me-about-being-a-mom/" target="_blank">Even posts that attempt to empathize with moms who formula feed</a> just end up validating and reinforcing the guilt. And it’s almost like we can’t even talk about it because HELL, no matter what we say, we're just making it worse! <br />
So what’s the answer? Like my mother, and my grandmother, and every mother before her, we all (understandably) obsess out whether or not we’re doing what’s best for our kids. The difference between my mother and grandmother’s experience is that the internet provided me with access to huge amounts of information to *help* me in that effort. For the most part, that’s a good thing. However, it also introduced me to an open forum that allowed moms to openly <em>criticize</em> one another, hindering what I would argue is the most essential ingredient one needs to be a good mom: instinct. <br />
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Oh, and self-preservation. That too. <br />
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And I can’t speak for the author of the blog post I referenced above (whom I LOVE, by the way), but for me – that guilt thing - well, I didn’t feel it all on my own. I wasn’t just making up guilt for the sake of feeling shitty. And, it pains me to say this, but I think blog posts like the one she wrote really did unitentionally make it harder for me to quit. And that’s a bummer, because she was trying to tell me NOT to feel guilty, but it was only MAKING ME FEEL GUILTIER, and then before I knew it was sucked in to this VORTEX OF GUILT and it was like IF I DON’T GIVE MY KID BREAST MILK EVERYONE WILL DIE and ALL THE BLOGGERS OF THE INTERNET WILL JUDGE ME!!!!<br />
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Whew.<br />
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Now, don’t misunderstand me – it’s not JUST the internet that’s hard on formula feeding moms. This bullshit doesn’t help either:<br />
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Wow. There’s so much wrong with the cover of that magazine that I don’t know where to start. Somehow we’ve determined that unless motherhood is completely self-sacrificing – specifically, in this case, in regard to breastfeeding - we’re doing it all wrong. <br />
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But that’s an argument for another day. <br />
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But that gal? That gal on the cover? Guess what she does for a living? <br />
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She’s a blogger.<br />
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And listen, I get that she didn’t write that bullshit headline on the cover. But I think my experience with the internet – specifically in regard to its influence over my decision to breastfeed – can highlight a somewhat important message to moms who blog about stuff like this. Bloggers with a huge following who have a strong opinion one way or another on the whole “breast is best” debate have a responsibility to recognize how their vast influence might negatively affect their readers. Because when I follow a blog, I come to trust that blogger as if I know them personally (which, is kind of creepy, I know, but true, none the less). And so like it or not, their opinion matters. <br />
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And in my case, it mattered a little too much. And that’s why I feel a little ashamed. Because I kept breastfeeding because other bloggers and other strangers on the internet thought I should – not because I thought I should. <br />
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Now I don’t happen to have a huge following, but maybe some poor mom out there will find this someday and maybe it will help. So, here goes – breast feeding moms? Formula feeding moms? This one REALLY IS FOR YOU:<br />
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LET’S BE DONE WITH THE GUILT. <br />
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If you don’t want to mess with breast feeding because you don’t want to give up your double vodka sodas, GOOD FOR YOU. God knows if I had to do it over, I would have quit much sooner than I did. Hell maybe I wouldn’t have started at all. And that should be okay. On the other hand, if you want to breast feed your baby until they go off to college, I say good for you as well. But either way, let’s just quit talking about it and let each other do her thing. Without guilt. Without judgment. Without shame. <br />
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And WITHOUT mother-effing mastitis. <br />
Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-92174827497514042822012-08-24T13:12:00.002-06:002012-08-24T13:13:34.595-06:00Dear Kid: Month 10Dear Kid,<br />
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On Monday you turn 10 months old. This means that, to date, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 306 days. If you’re wondering why I haven’t written you a letter for the last four months, it’s because…<br />
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<em>Semisi, no.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Semisi. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Semisi.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Don’t grab that cord. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>No, don’t grab that either.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>No, dog food is not for you.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>…you’ve kept us pretty busy as of…<br />
<em><br /></em><em>Semisi. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Semisi.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>No, don’t chew on that closet door. Yucky.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Maybe not that iron banister either. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>OMFG, where did you find that nail? I didn’t even think we owned “a” nail.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Fine. Fine. Play with this milk carton. Fun fun fun fun fun.</em><br />
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As I was saying, it’s been crazy around these parts since you’ve been on the…<br />
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<em>GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!!!!!!</em><br />
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Ehem. Sorry about that. I’m back. Don’t worry. I’ve locked you in the closet with a ribeye steak bone and a copy of <em>Men’s Health</em>, so I should be good for the next 30 seconds until you Houdini yourself in to the sleeve of your father’s winter jacket, unlock the door with your tongue, roll over to the stairwell and proceed to set yourself on fire. The good news is that you’ll be smiling the whole time.<br />
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So we’ve got THAT going for us, which is nice. <br />
<br />
To say that you’ve made physical progress in the past few months is understating it just a tad. At nine months you were a million inches long and 22 pounds. God only knows how big you’ve gotten since then. You’ve also got a giant noggin. We’re hoping this means you have a huge brain, but given the fact that currently your two favorite toys are your plastic clothes hangers and a milk carton, we’re not so sure. <br />
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Not that you’re not smart – you are, I think. For example, you say Dadda a lot.<br />
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<em>Can you say momma?</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>No, not dadda, MOM-MA. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Momma.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Say momma.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Go ahead son. Say it. MAAAAAA MAAAAAA.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Nope, that’s the other one again. Nice try, son.</em> [SIDE EYE PAUL.]<br />
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You say it so often, in fact, that I’m fairly confident this is THE ONLY WORD YOUR FATHER MUST EVER SAY WHILE HE’S ALONE WITH YOU.<br />
<br />
Back to what I was saying, though - physically you are one solid kid. You’re a tank, actually. We call you bam bam, because your morning typically consists of bench pressing a laundry basket full of clothing, doing one arm pull-ups off of our dining room table, and wrestling this god awful obnoxious thing:<br />
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(SIDE EYE ANGIE)<br />
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Your saving grace in all the mayhem and general destruction that you carry with you is that you're darn cheerful about everything. Already you’re able to charm your way out of most situations, and your non-verbal communication is top notch. For example, when you don’t like a new food we’re feeding you, you do this: <br />
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Yes, it’s annoying that you don’t like kiwi, but your ability to eject every single bite I fed you into a tidy pile on your bib in order to communicate that message is greatly appreciated. <br />
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I’m sure your day care provider will be pleased.<br />
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Speaking of your daycare provider, whom we shall from this point on refer to as “The Saint of Wonder and Enlightenment for All Things Small and Destructive,” you’ve gone back to stay with her during the day again. You had the pleasure of spending your summer with your Dad, thanks to his work schedule. As a result, Gus the dog takes a cocktail of anti-anxiety medication and has basically become the Emily Dickinson of the dog world. He prefers to watch the children from afar while writing poetry with random stanzas and dashes. He even wears white. <br />
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Your father enjoyed this time with you, though he made negative progress on the Honey Do list entitled SUMMER PROJECTS. I had a hard time understanding this initially, until I had the long overdue pleasure of spending an afternoon alone with you once you’d become mobile. After that afternoon, I called Gus’ vet and said I’LL HAVE WHAT HE’S HAVING, TIMES 10.<br />
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Just kidding. You’re really not that bad when you’re not destroying everything within a one mile radius. <br />
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In fact, you’re better than not that bad. Recently you’ve really developed a larger than life personality, and it’s damn fun to watch, kid. You clap when we clap, you shriek, and just last night we got you to bust out a little “So big!” When other people had kids and they’d be like, “Watch my kid do SOOOO BIG” I’d watch and act like it was cool while inside secretly think “Yeah, great, when he makes you a dirty martini, call me.” But when you do it, I’m convinced you break the world record of all things cute and smart. God knows WHAT my reaction will be when, on that sacred day, you turn to me and say – “Gimlet or Gibson, mother? Shaken or stirred?” <br />
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"I'll take a bloody mary son - it's only 10:00 a.m. When you can tell time, this will be easier."<br />
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Speaking of things that happen before noon, my favorite time of the day has now become the morning. I KNOW! I can’t believe it either. Truth is, I’ve stumbled upon the cure for those suffering from acute asshole-ish-ness, which is to allow them the distinct pleasure of being the first person to walk in to your room in the morning. <br />
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Turns out 12 hours of slumber does you good, little man. For starters, you don’t wake up screaming. You talk to yourself for a good 10 minutes until you feel like standing up. Then you begin to give a few shout outs to us, as if to say, “Duuuuuuuudes! I’m in here! Are you lazy asses up yet????” <br />
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That’s when I walk into your room and you explode into a spastic arm flailing cacophony of happiness, accompanied by shrieks of sheer joy, sunshine, angels, glitter and manly unicorns. At that moment your room morphs into a land where Cheetos are calorie free and workouts feel like full body massages. <br />
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All because I walked into the room.<br />
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Rush Limbaugh would likely get the same reaction, but for the moment let’s pretend it’s just me. <br />
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I actually try to beat your father into your room in the morning so I get the reaction instead of him. He’s already on to me. We may have to start busting out some serious ROCKPAPERSCISSORS shit soon. <br />
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And that right there is worth every destroyed piece of anything that you’ve come across to date. <br />
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What I’m trying to say is that mornings don’t suck for me anymore. To be clear, you’re a GD joy to be around, and so far you’ve evaded any real chronic asshole-ish tendencies. <br />
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Rush Limbaugh’s another story. <br />
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Thank you for that, kid, and keep it coming.<br />
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Love,<br />
<br />
Momma<br />
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Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-17632110025927930752012-05-05T11:36:00.000-06:002012-05-05T17:04:10.946-06:00Dear Kid: Month 6Dear Kid,<br />
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A week ago you turned six months old. That means you're a half year old. That means you've been roaming this earth for 190 days. <br />
<br />
Holy shit, kid. We're making it. We're doing this kid/parent thing, you and I.<br />
<br />
I skipped your five month post entirely because for the past month I've been trying to tear you away from your reflection in the mirror. Dude. You love looking at yourself in the mirror. You even do this thing where you act like you're flirting with yourself a little. Like you're all "Haaaaaaay" to the mirrored you. And the mirrored you is all "Haaaaaaaaay" and then you both nuzzle your head into my shoulder because it's all just too much. <br />
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Here's a shitty picture of you admiring yourself:<br />
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So many things to say, where can I even begin? It's like somewhere along the lines of this last month I turned around and there was this little miniature man sitting there smiling at me, almost as if to say, "Well hello, mother. I've thoroughly enjoyed my time here thus far, and wish you nothing but well wishes and rainbows as you continue on this journey of wiping my ass." But you would have said that with a British accent, obvs.<br />
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As we speak you are passed out on the bed next to me, with your arms spread as far as they can possibly go, and you're snoring like a mo fo.<br />
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Yes, you snore just like your dad. But you also do other things. You role over constantly, you can stand with support, you're on the brink of crawling and you smile ALL. THE. TIME. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAcS5uP1euUnFzYU1fz_sC-t5vcjaCtViAe-OEFwlUSbYWoz2fdAYPybZB0lcKDA9EhogZzlTBJ-xvJnddbmpL5Wh4cZrNLAnK2EQKOTt0o_FBGZBJc-HBzI6CI-NRf2_YJzV00Ihr0vp/s1600/ebay+2216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAcS5uP1euUnFzYU1fz_sC-t5vcjaCtViAe-OEFwlUSbYWoz2fdAYPybZB0lcKDA9EhogZzlTBJ-xvJnddbmpL5Wh4cZrNLAnK2EQKOTt0o_FBGZBJc-HBzI6CI-NRf2_YJzV00Ihr0vp/s400/ebay+2216.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dude that hat is miniature on your huge head.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You really smile with your eyes. I dig it. </td></tr>
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And you laugh. And it's basically the best sound EVER:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You also do this weird thing where you try to eat my chin sometimes, but we won't go there. <br />
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You're such a happy baby, Si. I really can't get over it. They say the "powers that be" only give you what you can handle, and obviously THOSE POWERS have absolutely no faith in me whatsoever, because as far as babies go, I truly think you've been a total cake walk. I don't think I'm just saying that because you're MY kid, either. I've tried to strip my rose colored GAGA glasses off and look at this objectively and I've come to the conclusion that you really just kick a lot of "awesome happy baby kid" ass. Thanks for going easy on me.<br />
<br />
Last week your general managers were in town for your baptism. They love you so much, it's weird. Your GM1 says you make her uterus hurt just looking at you. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qa6UhJI9mVJ19oWme9d2QqlhordHbkq9OMjKwmLf0_Wmapjv-6VgRWYIuzb1uO1nrKnzKpjjcE1LrzQ5G0u2HMamloqvUQfNrdmDdUdvE3wCUUt0EmMWkDy0WTJsG6Ehlnq2OAmdEfi0/s1600/ebay+2243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qa6UhJI9mVJ19oWme9d2QqlhordHbkq9OMjKwmLf0_Wmapjv-6VgRWYIuzb1uO1nrKnzKpjjcE1LrzQ5G0u2HMamloqvUQfNrdmDdUdvE3wCUUt0EmMWkDy0WTJsG6Ehlnq2OAmdEfi0/s400/ebay+2243.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dude OMG your GM's are so freaking hot. </td></tr>
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One GM makes you laugh and the other makes you cuddle. <br />
This, of course, is the exact reason that I picked them for you:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpComRpayqP5Sm6DVn9kEqiKIDs9Qm98dkf7QYHxdd5gCvgurS5kRlYOimD0NtHeSSAnMK-7hzJxRiGDR0JxO_powCPSCYLdpxfbC1TP7F7JGbwO6dfwGo_pdwUvaN5IYGRycB3qpxMaO/s1600/photo(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpComRpayqP5Sm6DVn9kEqiKIDs9Qm98dkf7QYHxdd5gCvgurS5kRlYOimD0NtHeSSAnMK-7hzJxRiGDR0JxO_powCPSCYLdpxfbC1TP7F7JGbwO6dfwGo_pdwUvaN5IYGRycB3qpxMaO/s400/photo(5).JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She bought this for you just to annoy me. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She said you can cuddle with it when she's not around.</td></tr>
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The fanfare that was your baptism could have actually rivaled the second coming of Christ. All your aunts, uncles and grandparents on my side showed up, and your grampa and grandma from Alaska came too! This was the first time they'd ever met you and it was so fun to introduce you to them. Your Gramma K. says you look just like your daddy when he was little. <br />
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I just don't see it. (That's what we call SARCASM. More on that later.)<br />
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What else can I say, kid? I'm glad you're here. You put joy in my life when previously all I really think I had was a whole lot of fun. Shit is different with you around, and sometimes it's harder, and there have definitely been sacrifices, but even with all that taken in to consideration the one thing I can confidently say about my life since you've come along is this:<br />
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It's better.<br />
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Thank you for that. <br />
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Ofa atu,<br />
Momma<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwnXdDarN6Gbx4rV8KQX1-0W3WxTTfMyh9BEiRCWZcVDiunifPZFwq4_Ph2Zky61qLyJtJ0o6quTP7LLpT1_1vPJDY0ps6SNhHFkwR492tLl2OaCUqRu8GF_AKwAh_G8kV3LJtZ__PkHB/s1600/photo(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwnXdDarN6Gbx4rV8KQX1-0W3WxTTfMyh9BEiRCWZcVDiunifPZFwq4_Ph2Zky61qLyJtJ0o6quTP7LLpT1_1vPJDY0ps6SNhHFkwR492tLl2OaCUqRu8GF_AKwAh_G8kV3LJtZ__PkHB/s640/photo(3).JPG" width="476" /></a></div>
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<br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-66602478266541646212012-03-16T18:02:00.001-06:002012-03-16T18:02:41.207-06:00Dear Kid: Month 4Dear Kid – <br />
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Two and a half weeks ago you turned four months old. This means that as of today, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 141 days. To say that time has flown by is an understatement, but SON, it was like I took a long blink….you know, that kind of blink you convince yourself is okay to take during English class and then you have what feels like a grand mal seizure when you open your eyes back up again…and it was like when I opened up my eyes instead of learning about dangling modifiers I was holding a giant baby in my lap and his name was Semisi and he was smiling his ass off at me and then your dad walked in and was all, “that huge kid is ours” then WHOA here we are staring at a 4 month old. <br />
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Well, okay, four and a half months now, Mr. Countie McCount. I’m late getting this letter to you late because for the past two and a half weeks I’ve been catching up on <em>Downton Abbey</em> and <a href="http://pinterest.com/meganithappen/" target="_blank">Pinning things</a>. Beyond that, we spend any additional free time we have attempting to smoosh your head into a more perfectly spherical shape.<br />
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Kidding. <br />
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Actually, I’m not kidding about my obsession with <em>Downton Abbey</em>. For some reason I’ve become obsessed with ensuring that Mary Crawley marries her cousin Mathew. DON’T ASK. <br />
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And actually I’m not kidding about your head either. We really are trying to re-smoosh your head. It seems weird now but you’ll thank us later when you <strike>end up having to shave your head because you’re going bald like your dad</strike> want to wear a football helmet. More on that later. And by later I mean when you’re sixteen and you bring your first girlfriend over for a nice meal at our house. I’ll be all, “Paul, go on and dig out those pictures of Semisi when his head was really flat in the back!” And then I’ll turn to your girlfriend and say, “Strap a swiffer to the back of that kid’s head when he was 4 months old and nothing – I mean NOTHING – cleaned the Pergo better.”<br />
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Aside from your totally malleable head, you continue to amaze us on a daily basis. You smile constantly. We’ll be like, “Semisi did you poop?” <br />
SMILE. <br />
“Semisi, would you like to eat?” <br />
SMILE. <br />
“Sleep?” SMILE. “Go for a walk?” <br />
SMILE. <br />
“Semisi, would you please smile for this stranger?” <br />
DOUBLE TRIPLE QUADRUPLE FROWNY FACE.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64puYC0Glmn9kwokQ2UCZhVjPVYKZYcZ1DKLdoo2XWvK6MaMHPnxsWcI5KTM8lRP9BZw3Dj9yPoD4Yy8AVSIs8_kNe7DdjVpPkTRXdIiFZyM2ELlgOTsH8t9EsrEM4_9neo0kd7aG_Fue/s1600/Frowny.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64puYC0Glmn9kwokQ2UCZhVjPVYKZYcZ1DKLdoo2XWvK6MaMHPnxsWcI5KTM8lRP9BZw3Dj9yPoD4Yy8AVSIs8_kNe7DdjVpPkTRXdIiFZyM2ELlgOTsH8t9EsrEM4_9neo0kd7aG_Fue/s320/Frowny.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is your frown. </td></tr>
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All kidding aside, you’ll typically smile at anyone, which has resulted in your father carrying you anytime we’re out in public. He likes that type of attention – attention that isn’t on him but is accredited to him. Of course if I carried you I would complain about how heavy you are after 37 seconds and besides no one would think you’re my kid anyway. LOSE LOSE. He really likes carrying you when you're wearing what I like to refer to as your TONGAN PRIDE gear:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2y-BuqGZjhzvA4Uq2cJj4Zmo9Cmec0I7WJMvuSC2iCec3TkEtb6lnqqGihQAx1rZ94uuDgFbBh10Ns16WzmGxF5jmslUxHGWNWl9D7QAAxQ1GvB8NDF3HHSooz_j4AIaVnuPXeAN2z3JT/s1600/Tonga.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2y-BuqGZjhzvA4Uq2cJj4Zmo9Cmec0I7WJMvuSC2iCec3TkEtb6lnqqGihQAx1rZ94uuDgFbBh10Ns16WzmGxF5jmslUxHGWNWl9D7QAAxQ1GvB8NDF3HHSooz_j4AIaVnuPXeAN2z3JT/s320/Tonga.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Tonga for life.<br />
(Thanks for the hat, GM1!)</td></tr>
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Just the other day, as a matter of fact, we ran in to the doctor who was on call and was tasked with the pleasure of delivering you on the night you were born. Your father, in an unusual lapse of forgetfulness, couldn’t remember her name and just decided - quite uncharacteristically, might I add – to turn all extrovert on me and awkwardly shout “You delivered our baby!” just as she was reaching for frozen broccoli in aisle 9. The next 20 second resulted in an equally awkward exchange as we tried to talk, and not talk, about the only experience we’d had with one another. Casual conversation is actually quite difficult when the only thing you have in common with someone is an unfaltering appreciation of the capabilities of one’s vagina.<br />
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You do other normal baby things with extra super duper skill. You can turn over both ways and actually totally tolerate tummy time for extended periods of time now. You can sit up with some help, and you regularly pound about 35 ounces a day. That’s a shit-ton of food, FYI. I would know because I spend half my day locked up in my office with the shades closed, answering email while extracting it from my body. (Yet ANOTHER thing I’ll enjoy telling you about for the first time. IN THE PRESENCE OF YOUR GIRLFRIEND.)<br />
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Another thing you do is look really effing cute in orange:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJx602Bddp5gSN0N0bYzY6HpqPFioLqm_ONSW3wL0vRAk52LDgx1omo168uYa4hwe-ygCom9HXoLmjKAk9DDzY0eKr5QZkQvj_1nXEh0_Itp2wpagVvzySXWVSVKET13hCN2oSK0BPcce/s1600/OSU.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJx602Bddp5gSN0N0bYzY6HpqPFioLqm_ONSW3wL0vRAk52LDgx1omo168uYa4hwe-ygCom9HXoLmjKAk9DDzY0eKr5QZkQvj_1nXEh0_Itp2wpagVvzySXWVSVKET13hCN2oSK0BPcce/s320/OSU.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You, looking effing cute in orange. <br />
(Thanks for the hat, GM2!)</td></tr>
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We, on the other hand, are not extraordinary parents. We’re still figuring this shit out, and we appreciate your patience with us as we continue to stumble through. But trust me when I say that we’re really gonna shine when you’re old enough to have beers with us. <br />
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What has been extraordinary is what you continue to teach us each day. (And I thought kids were kinda dumb!) Like that time you were like, “Mom, this is what happens when you take my diaper off before I’m done pooping.” And other things too. Mostly you’ve given me a great sense of appreciation for life in general. It’s like I get to start from scratch with you. I’m excited to be all, “Semisi, this thing is called the third season of <em>Tru Blood</em> a book, and that thing is a”…and OMG I GET TO TELL YOU WHAT A FART IS. Paul, I got dibs on that one! <br />
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Anyway, what I’m trying to say is life looks pretty cool the second time around. Thank you for that. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDtG7SSCpzupzUKA2FvQLTe8P-TWaVBMQVfdAYBx8EucM_0EijpuoGmACiE9YriINjeQyVT_AVN4Q4Fl0Hg7aktVIpEn7EuYR3E6n79JRnTvmRhzry-YhegaHmU_RLEC7bY7qAZRNpKbR/s1600/Watching+mom+get+ready.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDtG7SSCpzupzUKA2FvQLTe8P-TWaVBMQVfdAYBx8EucM_0EijpuoGmACiE9YriINjeQyVT_AVN4Q4Fl0Hg7aktVIpEn7EuYR3E6n79JRnTvmRhzry-YhegaHmU_RLEC7bY7qAZRNpKbR/s320/Watching+mom+get+ready.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqviLCDuj0UpoQAw987atO0Xxq0hieBmBeCOskIOvT5K3kTT0gFILgylZhQDaVzyxmdURkKCQZ8s7HQkelyO_1MyN44bUU5HQCNR4C1GD0nYLpXuTOgFNstgPME-JUag-9hWQsYGyVK-e/s1600/Mom+and+Si.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqviLCDuj0UpoQAw987atO0Xxq0hieBmBeCOskIOvT5K3kTT0gFILgylZhQDaVzyxmdURkKCQZ8s7HQkelyO_1MyN44bUU5HQCNR4C1GD0nYLpXuTOgFNstgPME-JUag-9hWQsYGyVK-e/s320/Mom+and+Si.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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Love, <br />
Momma<br />
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<br />Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-34090800783298724782012-02-03T17:13:00.001-07:002012-02-03T17:13:55.076-07:00Dear Kid: Month 3Dear Kid,<br />
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Last Friday you turned three months old, which means that, as of today, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 99 days. Tomorrow you will be 100 days old. Hopefully some day you will be 100 years old. <br />
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I would have gotten this letter to you last week, but for the past seven days we’ve been preparing to take you on a road trip to go to the grocery store. Just kidding. Getting you ready doesn’t take seven days. Actually, people become doctors in less time than it takes to get you ready to leave the house. </div>
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We know this, because you started day care this week. Your father and I had visions of grandeur about how our supremely organized mornings would be in order to expedite this process. The only thing we forgot about is your ability to have a complete blowout just as we’re preparing to place you in the car seat. A blow out so huge that it required an entire wardrobe change. Then there was that bottle of milk that exploded all over your diaper bag. Expressed breast milk. That one wasn’t your fault, but that was understandably the event that brought tears to my eyes. </div>
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So. Day care. Your day care provider loves you so far (well done, son, well done). We’re glad because we sure like her. Your father drops you off at day care and then I <strike>get to be the hero and</strike> pick you up, and so far you’ve dazzled each arrival and exit with smiles, and that makes us feel good. Though after your father dropped you off that first day I’m fairly confident he cried. (He might not have ACTUALLY shed tears but I know he probably wanted to, because when he called me after dropping you off he sounded like maybe the world had decided to take away college football. And All Blacks rugby. And Doritos. ON THE SAME DAY.)</div>
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He was sad to drop you off because basically you’re the nicest baby we’ve ever been around. No kidding. I mean, I get it, you’re OUR kid. But you also happen to be freaking awesome in all the other “technical” awesome baby ways too. You hardly cry, you sleep 8 hours a night now (and when you don’t, your dad feeds you…HOLLER!), and you even let us eat hot meals because you like laying on this thing that has other things hanging from it. You grab those things and squeal quite loudly. Shit, if that type of stuff continues to entertain you we’ll just give you our unused key chains for Christmas. Funsies!<br />
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The other thing that entertains you is your Gramma. She watched you the first week I went back to work. You guys are like BFF’s now. No kidding. I know when you get to junior high it might not seem that cool to be BFF’s with your Gramma, but we can keep it on the down low publicly as long as you can keep it real when she comes around. </div>
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We continue to learn new things about how we’re supposed to be taking care of you. Everyday when your father comes out of the bathroom, as a matter of fact, he shares a new tidbit that he’s learned from what we now refer to as “The Book.” It’s this big book that is supposed to tell us everything about how we’re supposed to care for you during the first year of your life. So far, we’ve discovered that we’ve only almost killed you 4 times. One of them had to do with lead poisoning. No big deal.</div>
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Anyway, we’ve learned other stuff from you too, which is weird because you’re only 99 days old. Like, wtf could you possibly teach us, right? A lot actually. Like, for example, I don’t actually miss going out on the town and drinking and singing Pat Benatar at karaoke as much as I thought I would because I’d actually rather stay home and clean up you stinky poo. Explain that one to me. <br />
<br />Maybe when you start having man poops that will change. <br />
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Listen, the point I’m trying to make here is that I’ve discovered that before you came along I was basically a selfish person, and I was totally comfortable staying that way. You make me a little less so. <br />
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So...thank you for that. And thank you for sleeping 8 hours again last night. That too.<br />
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Love,<br />
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Your Momma.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09-OJkMlC_d9qGCM6hTp59vKB3_6zC8B3kzKg2Lvnll0fR9dfZLdbO5SasHtq_Yo5AVfjQk5ShigL41soDa7RblF7xuG38kyJ_MExDf9G2OpANvp7_wZGPhVQOs6erM31C3y262uISVt7/s1600/Dear+Kid+Month+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09-OJkMlC_d9qGCM6hTp59vKB3_6zC8B3kzKg2Lvnll0fR9dfZLdbO5SasHtq_Yo5AVfjQk5ShigL41soDa7RblF7xuG38kyJ_MExDf9G2OpANvp7_wZGPhVQOs6erM31C3y262uISVt7/s400/Dear+Kid+Month+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-19542611328453638892012-01-05T18:38:00.000-07:002012-01-06T10:17:58.225-07:00Just another Saturday night as a 30 something...<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Remember when I used to party like a rock star? Me either. What's crazy is that it's not like I've abandoned the group of friends who used to participate in said rock star partying. We still hang out. It's just now we've begun to multiply like flies, we drink wine (we've moved on from Arbor Mist) instead of <strike>Bacardi 151</strike> Busch light, and we <strike>no longer puke in the drive through of fast food restaurants at 3 in the morning</strike> are typically home well before midnight. </div>
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Don't get me wrong, I still know every word of "Back dat ass up" and will, on an occasion (and with a certain enthusiasm I would only display in front of my husband), bust that shit out when it's "clean the bathroom day", but it's been a long time since my ass has backed up into anything...unless you count last Sunday, when I was literally forced to rub my ass up against the car next to me while attempting to navigate the car seat into the back of my jeep because Mr. IownahummerbecauseIthinkitwillhelpmegetlaid decided to give me 3 whole inches to get into my vehicle in the Target parking lot. But other than that, I like to keep my ass as closely parallel to the rest of my body as possible these days. </div>
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In fact, when we find ourselves rockpaperscissoring our significant others at a party because we're attempting to pawn off the next diaper change on one another, we often ask ourselves, "What happened to us? We used to be cool!" Well, life, I guess. Now we chair community events and educate children and talk shop and teach yoga on Saturday mornings. <br />
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Yoga, whaaaaa? COME ON NOW MR. A, YOU KNEW THIS POST WAS COMING. <br />
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Funny you bring up yoga. One of the long standing members of our "we used to be cool in college" group - we'll call him "Mr. A" - does happen to teach yoga on an occasion. Recently, after a few glasses of Cabernet, he decided it was important to show us a new yoga move he's considering incorporating into the "partner" portion of his class. He asked for volunteers and his best friend since they were negative years old enthusiastically stepped forward. </div>
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It wasn't working out with Mr. A on the bottom, so they made a switch.<br />
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This is where it gets weird (in case you were wondering):<br />
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Let's take another look at that angle:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. A (over laughter, but totally serious): <br />
It's imperative to keep your toes pointed for balance.</td></tr>
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And THAT'S when Paul walked in to room and said, "Me next!"</div>
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The end.</div>
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Note: No humans were harmed in the making of this post. It should also be noted that no one pictured in this post actually threw up in the drive through of a fast food restaurant after being introduced to Bacardi 151. That was...a different friend. For truesies.</div>
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</div>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-65386898107576162832011-12-28T21:00:00.000-07:002011-12-28T21:45:00.387-07:00Dear Kid: Month 2<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkS4amsvX17og4qGhQjoSteAi1wAWr6nceFYxnw-IeKX4jas_4ZgTG2IY3YsPhhAk8R3PluGzWFXKq4gCM7a4g-aBdyYXg-PvtgJvNRh0-vcOYK669vVuAZOi1_rdcF1v4ZrQBR2_PCjR/s1600/ebay+3400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkS4amsvX17og4qGhQjoSteAi1wAWr6nceFYxnw-IeKX4jas_4ZgTG2IY3YsPhhAk8R3PluGzWFXKq4gCM7a4g-aBdyYXg-PvtgJvNRh0-vcOYK669vVuAZOi1_rdcF1v4ZrQBR2_PCjR/s320/ebay+3400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dear Kid, <br />
<br />
As I write this you’re fast asleep on the couch wrapped up like a burrito…a wrap I’ve become quite adept at creating because basically <strike>IT SAVES OUR LIVES</strike> you really like it. Your dad is leaned up against the couch watching you sleep because as of late, the two of us find that everything else is uninteresting compared to you. <br />
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You’re TWO MONTHS TODAY! That means that we’ve managed to keep you alive for 62 days, but who’s counting, really? You’ve gotten so BIG! Like, even your lineman of a father was all “my shoulder’s all jacked up from holding him” big. THAT big. 12.5 lbs big. <br />
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Speaking of him, can I just say that you’ve given me the best gift by being able to give HIM the best gift? Honestly, Semisi, these past two months I’ve never seen your father exude such happiness, and I can confidently attribute all of it directly to you. He’s not much of a gift exchanger…hates receiving gifts as a matter of fact (I KNOW...Christmas time at our house is TORTURE for him)…but giving him you? I know this year I NAILED it. I’ll never be able to top this. <br />
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Your dad changes more diapers than I do, as a matter of fact. You continually thank him for taking on this duty by giving him a run for his money every third change or so. I can always tell when you’ve been able to “get him good” by waiting to finish the job when the cold air hits you, because I can hear your dad say, “Ohhhhh, you little bugger…” because he CANNOT call you a little shit. He just can’t. Because he likes you that much. I would challenge any other person on the planet to shit on your father and have him respond in that way. (That one night when you got him THREE times? That was epic. Well done, Son, WELL. DONE.)<br />
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I think I could even go as far as to say that your presence in our lives has brought the two of us even closer together. We rarely bicker anymore because you’ve given us a perspective that basically reminds us that little shit that we used to worry about really doesn’t matter a whole lot anymore. The only thing we fight about is the proper way to give you a bath. (For the record, I do it right.) (Please remember to tell him that when you can speak.) (Don’t tell him I told you to say that, obvs.) (This will not be the last time I put you up to something like this.)<br />
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These past few months with you have been the most challenging and most memorably happy months of my life. Very difficult to describe that dichotomy, but I can say that it’s been 100% worth it. You’re such a sweet little guy. Today you got your first shots and it absolutely killed me that they interrupted your cooing and smiles with shots in your chunky thigh that made you scream bloody murder. But then…THEN!...after it was all done and I picked you up you immediately quit crying and gave me the biggest open mouthed grin I’ve seen as of late (and you smile A LOT). That was about all I could take, because that’s when my heart melted to the point that it actually seeped out of my skin, leaped down to squeeze your cheeks, and buried itself in between your chin and neck, WHERE IT WILL LIVE FOREVER AND EVER AMEN. <br />
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Because really, you’re the best gift I’ve ever given myself…and all you do right now is smile and poop and sleep and eat (and occasionally throw out a drama bomb…but hey, you are MY KID after all). We know what you look like…what your smile looks like…your hair (you already have enough hair to give yourself a good case of bed head). But other than that, your life is a blank canvas waiting for your touch...and frankly, I can’t wait to see how you’ll paint the world around you. <br />
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I had a friend once who told me that the day her son was born, she felt more loved than she’d ever felt in her life. I didn’t understand that before I had you. Now I do. Thank you for that. <br />
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Love, <br />
<br />
Momma <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBCWkB99O6G8qY4NE8moL1X1-bs7ZPfCojt-UGuV7Rs0_UHyvnkKeIHSzKiryK86qlQPW8MePuOOcFEqoO5ZoVB8IGqUuTnWCLGUJKzynwTINS5YvyJJow-seVwVQGTusfWMn8lgvzY7r/s1600/Mom+and+Semisi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBCWkB99O6G8qY4NE8moL1X1-bs7ZPfCojt-UGuV7Rs0_UHyvnkKeIHSzKiryK86qlQPW8MePuOOcFEqoO5ZoVB8IGqUuTnWCLGUJKzynwTINS5YvyJJow-seVwVQGTusfWMn8lgvzY7r/s320/Mom+and+Semisi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-32196746268840724792011-12-28T07:35:00.000-07:002011-12-28T07:35:53.012-07:00Basically I'm famous again.Happy Holidays! I've got quite a few posts in the works (two men simulating birthing techniques, Semisi turns two months, and much more!), but in the meantime, I've got big news up in here, y'all! Well, big to me. <br />
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Remember <a href="http://apracticalwedding.com/2010/12/wedding-graduates-megan-pauls-wedding-that-paul-planned/comment-page-2/#comments">that one time when I was famous</a> for like, 20 minutes? Well, the lady who runs that website decided to publish a book called <span id="btAsinTitle"><em>A Practical Wedding: Creative Ideas for Planning a Beautiful, Affordable, and Meaningful Celebration.</em> Here it is for real proof:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO740mhWfhyphenhyphenYj-w72YMa6o5gF6icFxKRrucr5YmcrlmEOFwYLD0AZFWeCOSjnzzxdX-DJtAFpkPqnXwyXclvV3llNHTdjpdFIDANnLgSQjAHaMsPp30xCyEGnKwHo05HmpXPcTGd8Nq3Zp/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO740mhWfhyphenhyphenYj-w72YMa6o5gF6icFxKRrucr5YmcrlmEOFwYLD0AZFWeCOSjnzzxdX-DJtAFpkPqnXwyXclvV3llNHTdjpdFIDANnLgSQjAHaMsPp30xCyEGnKwHo05HmpXPcTGd8Nq3Zp/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<span><em> </em></span><br />
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<span>THEN...drum roll please....she contacted me a short time after to see if she could feature the piece I wrote in her book! And guess what? She did! I'm on page 19-20 (that's MULTIPLE pages, but who needs specifics?) and I even have a mini bio in the book. Meg Keene (the author) just sent me a signed copy today! Squeeeee! So basically I'm famous again. No big deal.</span><br />
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<span>To celebrate this, we'll (I say "we'll" like there is more than one person running this blog. There isn't, but it makes it sounds more big time) be doing something REALLY exciting on January 1st, which is a significant date for two reasons: 1) it's anniversary of the time I decided to really start blogging and 2) it's my ACTUAL anniversary to my husband. (Double win!) What will we be doing, you ask? It rhymes with Biv-a-day...and this isn't your mother's biv-a-day, y'all...this is a nearly $200 value something or other... </span><br />
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<span>Stay tuned! </span>Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-75171972136582819782011-12-12T20:06:00.000-07:002011-12-13T19:51:29.839-07:00Welcome to the 2011 Nursery Reveal Extravaganza!!!Okay, I had to give the post quite the name because A) people usually "reveal" their nurseries BEFORE they have their baby and B) I took the nursery pictures with my iphone, so I need to really build it up or else you might look at the crappy pictures and be like, "Wow. I clicked the link on facebook for THIS?"<br /><br />Well, you might still be let down, but at least the post has a hell of a name.<br /><br />ANYWAY, I'm not too domestic, but I got down and dirty with this nursery people. Obvs I didn't know what I was having prior to birth, and the trouble with gender neutral nurseries is that unless you like pale green and yellow, you're shit out of luck. <br /><br />Then I discovered pinterest. So between that and etsy, I was able to scrounge up enough <STRIKE>plagiarized ideas</STRIKE> inspiration to put something together. <br /><br />A while back I did a post about my ailments (BIG surprise!) but <a href="http://meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/08/bumps-in-road.html">at the end I put pictures up of a nursery that I wanted to try to somewhat replicate for about $15 dollars.</a> <br /><br />So, maybe I didn't do it in $15 bucks, but I will say I had a lot of help and I'm definitely pleased with how it came together. So, without further ado...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuH-pViavKi_cXs95QBoKXIgHfnpshy4dzrN1OOWHONWgerQjd2VhmMgbXhUbunqAiUChCsAWu3JZ2zExZ7QP1xQKydPKtSrmfWuwUjbtYK3KWiCLmhvTYl49Z-RgDFD0UZIeFahpTPzx2/s1600/10.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuH-pViavKi_cXs95QBoKXIgHfnpshy4dzrN1OOWHONWgerQjd2VhmMgbXhUbunqAiUChCsAWu3JZ2zExZ7QP1xQKydPKtSrmfWuwUjbtYK3KWiCLmhvTYl49Z-RgDFD0UZIeFahpTPzx2/s400/10.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685456415746259698" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVpKtxC_xGGO11ByLpEyV3Ssw5QGoNAnA8N-EdGnfUtEd2MiOel0X6lkPzigGD4n1KcEBLLPP5Nj7V3utOukJi52DBmKbfa0nW8-NXD4I8V9_pCbvJ8Z1bEbeUmUc1P0SfAk29-6xMtPy/s1600/1.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVpKtxC_xGGO11ByLpEyV3Ssw5QGoNAnA8N-EdGnfUtEd2MiOel0X6lkPzigGD4n1KcEBLLPP5Nj7V3utOukJi52DBmKbfa0nW8-NXD4I8V9_pCbvJ8Z1bEbeUmUc1P0SfAk29-6xMtPy/s400/1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685456604279558322" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzbOtHDSUqJxW9m70A20SNPV9FD5rZjf74Un0VVZrVK0CTW_vBRm59xAHQxHyQctZXl97INInw-tFwPV17TU3xtfJFG7LTmmhE6WhFkA5Nuq_Odj0FJ_ZuYG6A_sjW6vKZsKBfi4dUBA9/s1600/4.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; 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cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PepHCRqU_Lirfo5qCbgmTW_8ohvnTVJqMslxtzrf3N-8FFGhbStS5qsd_UO0GCHV_7tKoIFulIngPECJTW3l2NcwI7hyphenhyphen5NBXG_kg5EfsruRoxOKr_zMKA2QHq3av0GAtsaTKF8n8sV_I/s400/3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685457243025837330" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcD8BbjSrTqh3M-oP9HbJU2OIkDtPVFfNGM7PblLkT0hwUSoDIv00T55-oByLywPQbJ7JZvzT7SOZ9nO2offRCUwhv2kwpsOouyBcsv-IHVE1nOqv71Wc2KrzkRN7PJQhdAOC7JsuHOnAW/s1600/5.5.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcD8BbjSrTqh3M-oP9HbJU2OIkDtPVFfNGM7PblLkT0hwUSoDIv00T55-oByLywPQbJ7JZvzT7SOZ9nO2offRCUwhv2kwpsOouyBcsv-IHVE1nOqv71Wc2KrzkRN7PJQhdAOC7JsuHOnAW/s400/5.5.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685457411261691810" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoaV56-POEc1vSccRgff0x6eNsp2quYaHbFt83A9XjDmKWQ1T1VtT-fcPVzhc0XIx0x0MbA2fR2arcbh_rT-L1YEQLK_NB9T00GR0lRb2JHQwxJ_t8nWhrsXQuhr9iHOOb25BF1Da5ESY/s1600/8.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoaV56-POEc1vSccRgff0x6eNsp2quYaHbFt83A9XjDmKWQ1T1VtT-fcPVzhc0XIx0x0MbA2fR2arcbh_rT-L1YEQLK_NB9T00GR0lRb2JHQwxJ_t8nWhrsXQuhr9iHOOb25BF1Da5ESY/s400/8.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685457636788336066" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38UPEhrsasIQHc3JkXCbKW_z2GkmChKDqw_q3QYbM5KtxarWcRgrrl7SAugKOVVys_HHS-zuozkFJRwudlND3hz77lGWyrgkj5iqdE0GKKVKDj-u2mPruzmbB5boxo9uvY6sFwAG8GUOq/s1600/6.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38UPEhrsasIQHc3JkXCbKW_z2GkmChKDqw_q3QYbM5KtxarWcRgrrl7SAugKOVVys_HHS-zuozkFJRwudlND3hz77lGWyrgkj5iqdE0GKKVKDj-u2mPruzmbB5boxo9uvY6sFwAG8GUOq/s400/6.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685457816201646130" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrutunrOcIFkxpSoPFlGDh5g4NjIkvuQuk4TFO4FLI2zu8M21KoCkX1-ZceICOtIOa67WWDVosddctUCfANLwzbQ0otIwtTQbjs-fx9gKw4u_6cN8uDUlJD1Ij0upz_UHBwQwTpbkerYn/s1600/7.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrutunrOcIFkxpSoPFlGDh5g4NjIkvuQuk4TFO4FLI2zu8M21KoCkX1-ZceICOtIOa67WWDVosddctUCfANLwzbQ0otIwtTQbjs-fx9gKw4u_6cN8uDUlJD1Ij0upz_UHBwQwTpbkerYn/s400/7.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685458032483239762" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVv2s77eNQYUCo5lbEa6rVR7QmBupKYOckqty3wGUojIrHhGdywFg-sAXUcBywjRbs0_qFD7nwZtN1cLvo8uDk86MeLT3hJq4J1cbMidNBytEqPIviLRg1BjEVLo3p6bqvu8rZyW2jTyM/s1600/frame1.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVv2s77eNQYUCo5lbEa6rVR7QmBupKYOckqty3wGUojIrHhGdywFg-sAXUcBywjRbs0_qFD7nwZtN1cLvo8uDk86MeLT3hJq4J1cbMidNBytEqPIviLRg1BjEVLo3p6bqvu8rZyW2jTyM/s400/frame1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685459038270676466" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1FTR7OKOis72Se_m1Fgl_J4H74hzSyyFpCdvw3n-D8YMgCweF5cFNazXlS2P18sAd5fBmhO2-aofSk67n2DBIn73XjG81dybcOUCoX50ONQSxkQyCifejEsoCrZYchpA8jF8Ao7QvXRt/s1600/frame+2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1FTR7OKOis72Se_m1Fgl_J4H74hzSyyFpCdvw3n-D8YMgCweF5cFNazXlS2P18sAd5fBmhO2-aofSk67n2DBIn73XjG81dybcOUCoX50ONQSxkQyCifejEsoCrZYchpA8jF8Ao7QvXRt/s400/frame+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685459295114998098" /></a><br /><br />A few things:<br /><br />I made the AK, MT, and Hawaii framed art. (The words in between the big text are names of towns within each state.) I found the Alaska one on etsy, loved it, decided to take that idea and role with it. I made one for HI and MT, as Paul and I met in AK, married in HI, and live in MT. Get it??? Since we don't really know much about our son yet (other than that he's the coolest kid EVER) we decided to make a nursery about US. I mean WHY NOT. The cool Alaska state wood carving was an anniversary gift from my friend Lauren. Love it! <br /><br />My bff <a href="http://www.stitchandswash.com">Angie </a> screen printed the "Very Sleepy" art. Thanks again, Ang!<br /><br />My MOM bought the awesome rug for me on Ebay, and the curtains at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Jackie, my step-mom, got the the cute chenille chair...from...get this...WALMART online. I may or may not have led her DIRECTLY to the chair that I wanted. I was bummed that it came from Wally world but it was the one I like best out of ALL OF THE CHAIRS ON THE INTERNETS and I felt a little bit better when it arrived with a huge MADE IN AMERICA sticker on it. So there you go. <br /><br />I bought the crib linens on etsy, with the exception of the cute monogrammed pillow cover that Godmother #1's mom made for me (thanks Cathy!). I need to get a better pic of that to show it off more. <br /><br />The decal of the birch trees came from etsy too...and since I was an English teacher, and I hale from English majors (my Dad was even an English Prof.), I went with the Robert Frost quote. My Dad would be all having a fit because it's actually "So was I once" rather than "So I was once"...yes, I screwed that up when ordering it, but hey, I could have kept in the "IT IS" at the beginning of the quote that the vendor so kindly included in the decal (as I said in the email, "Can we change the quote? I'd like a quote from Robert Frost. It is: 'So I was once...'"...yeah, thanks vendor...that was fun to cut out of the quote because they aren't hard enough to put AS IT IS.) A HUGE thanks to Amy for helping me put up that bad boy.<br /><br />The quilt on the chair was a gift to Paul from one of the parents of his wrestling kids when he coached wrestling up in AK. Paul wanted to hang it on our living room wall when we first moved in. Dodged a HUGE bullet there, and it looks perfect draped over the chair. (What IS IT with dudes and wanting to hang blankets on walls???)<br /><br />Other details in the room were pretty much all gifted (like the Semisi sign on the children's wardrobe...thanks Erin!). Ohhhh, and the crib I bought second hand (thanks for the awesome deal Shane!), the children's wardrobe was my late Grandmother's, and the changing table I bought at a garage sale for $12...it was an ugly blond wood and my mom and I stripped it and painted it one afternoon this last summer. <br /><br />We're so blessed. What I actually spent probably came to around $350. What do y'all think? <br /><br />Actually, if you don't like it, don't tell me. Just shower it with compliments please. My ego cannot take it. <br /><br />And please quit proofreading my posts (SHELLEY E., I know you're doing this without even meaning to). My ego can't take that either.Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-32025888761603888812011-12-11T19:13:00.000-07:002011-12-11T19:27:36.860-07:00Fairy GodmothersIn telling Godmother #1:<br /><br /><strong>Soon to be GM1:</strong> So, how's the nursing going? How's my little sweety!?!<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Well, you're never going to believe this, but I have mastitis...AGAIN.<br /><strong>Soon to be GM1:</strong> You're kidding me! How do you keep getting that?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Well, they say I get it from Semisi.<br /><strong>Soon to be GM1:</strong> That. little. bastard.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> I know! I don't think he means to though. <br /><strong>Soon to be GM1:</strong> Sure. Sure.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> In other news, we're wondering if you'd do us the honor of being one of the little bastard's Godmothers?<br />(Obvs she said YES.)<br /><br />In telling Godmother #2:<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Paul and I were wondering if you'd do us the honor of being one of Semisi's Godmothers!<br /><strong>Soon to be GM2:</strong> Really! That's AWESOME! OF COURSE I WOULD! Who's the Godfather?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> There is no Godfather. He's just having two Godmothers. You and GM1.<br /><strong>Soon to be GM2:</strong> Awesome! I'm going to call her. We'll be like the ambiguously gay Godmothers! <br /><strong>Me:</strong> Perfect!<br /><strong>Soon to be GM2:</strong> I'm so HONORED! Wait. What do I have to do? Do I need to like, read the bible or something? <br /><strong>Me:</strong> Nah. Just be like, nice and stuff.<br /><strong>Soon to be GM2:</strong> Well I have good morals. After all, I'll be like, 48 by the time I even offer him a beer.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> He'll only be 18 then.<br /><strong>Soon to be GM2:</strong> Correct.Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-64712265215524137532011-12-01T18:31:00.000-07:002011-12-01T19:15:28.472-07:00MRSA, Mastitis and Motherhood...Oh my!Someday I'll quit writing about my ailments. I promise. Today is not that day.<br /><br />So I've been MIA for a while. Sorry about that. It was getting hard. <br /><br />Where do I begin? Well remember that time I was all, "Tomorrow is my first day alone with Semisi!" Well, that didn't happy for another week and a half because I ALMOST DIED. <br /><br />Okay, maybe not. But ALMOST. I'll spare you many (not all, of course) of the details, but to make a long story not quite as long, I got this thing called mastitis, and my nipple turned to something so disgusting (what? You didn't want to hear about my nipple?) that I am actually going to SPARE you by NOT posting the picture that I took of my nipple with my cell phone. The same picture that I may or may not have sent via text message to my doctor. OH YES I DID. <br /><br />Yeah, that was an awkward text message. It was like, "Hi, Dr. It's Megan. This is awkward, but I'm going to send you a picture of my messed up nipple because my husband actually starts to gag every time I go to use the breast pump. We're concerned. Please send help."<br /><br />My doctor called me and was all OH MY GOD GET TO THE ER RIGHT NOW. Yeah, that's how nasty it was. <br /><br />So off I went. But the cute ER doctor (awkward moment number 874 of becoming a mother) simply confirmed I had mastitis and told me to keep taking the (second)antibiotic that I'd been prescribed. He also gave me pain meds, because I could tell even HE was a little...well, "put off" by the state of the nipple. Also I told him that pumping and/or breastfeeding elicited a pain comparable, if not worse, than giving birth. Wheeeee!<br /><br />Three days later, mastitis is not gone, fever is back with a vengence, and I'm back in the doctor's office. And then I'm being told I have <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004520/">MRSA</a>! Do you know what that is? Me either, but I think it stands for Must Really Suck Ass, because it did. And then I had to get a different antibiotic that cost a million gazillion dollars. So many dollars that I can't even say it out loud on the internets because I work in healthcare and part of my job is minimizing health care dollar expenditures and OH MY GOD the price of this prescription made me blush and cuss in front of the little pharmacy assistant. Oops. <br /><br />And remember all my <a href="http://www.meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/11/parenthood-101-keeping-your-baby-alive.html">breast feeding drama</a>? Well, this antibiotic that cost me a gazillion dollars hasn't been proven to be safe for my baby while breastfeeding, so to keep up my supply I had to pump and dump. To be honest, I was ready to throw in the towel at this point. But the Internet told me that only devil worshippers feed their children baby formula, and the crazy Le Leche people were like, MUST BREASTFEED EVEN IF YOU ARE ON YOUR DEATH BED and so I found myself succumbing to this peer pressure and sticking with it. So for the past the past 10 days I have been pumping and dumping what little I am producing. For those of you who have ever pumped breast milk, you know that dumping it out is like dumping LIQUID GOLD down the drain. LIQUID GOLD I tell you.<br /><br />But now I'm back! And I'm better! And I'm alive! And thanks to my husband, our son is still here too! <br /><br />And these past four days that I've (finally!) been alone with him have not been quite as terrifying as I thought they would be. <br /><br />So onward an upward! For now, my days consist of smooching my baby, watching reruns of Mad Men, and pumping liquid gold from my body. Now that the babes and I are getting into the swing of things, I hope to blog more than every few years or so. <br /><br />Maybe someday I'll even blog about something other than my crazy nipple. Stay tuned!<br /><br />In the meantime, here is proof that my baby boy has, in fact, continued to thrive despite my attempting to poison him with formula. Happy 1 month b-day son! You're seriously worth it. I promise you that. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBKD4gRgXWXYWWwAjVodtfOCfHCqXvQcEH1CC4rg6nryMLpHuSEd__eqOtOkwcybu-AO25owywpV0U0zNqVNATduk9-qErS2iuTsnTnpEGYzi4Er8-FVSvfB3t4LNe_d1gSXovGyBz7w9/s1600/Randoms+for+2010+025.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBKD4gRgXWXYWWwAjVodtfOCfHCqXvQcEH1CC4rg6nryMLpHuSEd__eqOtOkwcybu-AO25owywpV0U0zNqVNATduk9-qErS2iuTsnTnpEGYzi4Er8-FVSvfB3t4LNe_d1gSXovGyBz7w9/s400/Randoms+for+2010+025.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681344563884079858" /></a><br /><br />P.S. Shout out to my fab hubs, my Mom and Ang for taking care of me and my sweet little baby cakes while I was down and out.Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-20025939439515368242011-11-13T19:07:00.000-07:002011-11-13T20:29:01.142-07:00What's in a name? Everything.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJE-YLVyqvivVUJ98wfIBLf9fxb9CiDRxUYzaQSasJdMJlsYLM-rL6yTvmuJCtuPkYtQGg2h8RmtUk-bw2i-QxCY3UC6w8zjCMxcXNs6508qqpFNksWPSLUBmTBtoroNp0xz7Jdi6S0XH8/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJE-YLVyqvivVUJ98wfIBLf9fxb9CiDRxUYzaQSasJdMJlsYLM-rL6yTvmuJCtuPkYtQGg2h8RmtUk-bw2i-QxCY3UC6w8zjCMxcXNs6508qqpFNksWPSLUBmTBtoroNp0xz7Jdi6S0XH8/s400/photo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674672555696286530" /></a><br />[My mom, with Semisi, the day we took him home from the hospital.]<br /><br />Tonight my mom went home after having been here since Semisi's birth, and it's difficult for me even now to think of the words I could use to thank her for her presense during the transition of bringing out little man home. Tonight, for the first time, it's just Paul, Semisi, and Me, and tomorrow, it will just be my son and I. <br /><br />Wow. My son.<br /><br />My mom told me once that having a kid is like losing a parent in terms of the depth with which it impacts your life...only in reverse, because it's a joyous occasion and obviously you're bringing someone in to the world rather than saying good-bye. I could relate to this, because when I lost my father over two and a half years ago (good God...it's been that long?), I remember feeling like my friends who hadn't lost a parent - though AMAZINGLY supportive in every way possible, simply couldn't understand the way it changes your life. Someday they will, but after my Dad passed away, I had a deep connection with those friends of mine who'd lost parents. It was a sort of "knowing"...an unspoken understanding...particularly with the friends of mine who'd lost a parent to cancer, as that's a cruel disease and a terrifying way to watch someone pass from this life to the next. <br /><br />Now that I'm a parent, I feel as though I have an understanding among my friends who are also parents. Let me be clear: many are probably like, "FINALLY! She GETS it." Certainly I'm no WISER than I was before, but I am already beginning to see the world they way they've seen it since their children entered their lives. I'll continue to learn, they'll continue to suppress their "I told you so's", but from here on out I understand that nothing will be the same. <br /><br />There will now always be three where there was once two. <br /><br />At least until he's 18.<br /><br />Right Semisi? You will be 18, and not 32...RIGHT?<br /><br />Because of what my mom said to me that day, when my husband suggested, were we to have a son, we name him SEMISI, Tongan for James, after my father, I couldn't think of anything more fitting. His middle name, Michael, is my step-father's first name.<br /><br />So welcome little man. You've got a lot to live up to. Either way, we still love you...because after all, that's what parenthood is about. I've already learned this much. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GxOKDj7eJ0qzvhThhxOHb88-KxjJxbFDVzoHi7CurivwP08t7wiam7aMlR4ngOS3kItg9H8dNsjCzstOIBnk6VWdBv_Vi0zqvOEtBBBuSZbI8-NzXdEun_bYZU34OhS57spJwuBmR3V_/s1600/Jim+w+baby+Megan_1024x768.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GxOKDj7eJ0qzvhThhxOHb88-KxjJxbFDVzoHi7CurivwP08t7wiam7aMlR4ngOS3kItg9H8dNsjCzstOIBnk6VWdBv_Vi0zqvOEtBBBuSZbI8-NzXdEun_bYZU34OhS57spJwuBmR3V_/s400/Jim+w+baby+Megan_1024x768.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674672135580755570" /></a><br />[Me, with my Dad...30 years ago.]Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-70463956483063968262011-11-07T20:33:00.000-07:002011-11-07T21:20:12.005-07:00Parenthood 101: Keeping Your Baby Alive Without Having a Nervous BreakdownWarning: I'm too tired to proof read this. Don't judge me for typos. <br /><br />Dudes. This shit is hard. And I have it easy, because Semisi? The kid never cries. I shit you not. He sleeps, eats, poops, and lets out an occasional grunt, and that's. about. it. So you're all probably like, "Cry me a river!" and "Where's my violin?!?!" and "I suppose your diamond shoes don't fit either, you lucky bastard!??!" You would be right to say all of those things on the baby front. He's rad. But it's not him. It's ME! <br /><br />This sounds like a bad break up story. NO I AM NOT BREAKING UP WITH MY BABY. Come ON. It hasn't even been two weeks yet. I have to at least let him take me out for Thai food first. DUH.<br /><br />Okay, but in all seriousness, trying to keep this kid alive is tough work. I almost had a mental breakdown the first week. There are a few reasons for this.<br /><br />After having the little man home for a few days (two...TWO days) we were scheduled to go in for a quick follow up appointment with our doc to get him weighed...and we did not get good news at this appointment. We discovered that he's lost almost a whole pound since his birth, and that he was getting little to no nourishment from the boob. Basically the little guy was just a sucking away and was getting NADA from me...much to my surprise. <br /><br />Of course, because he'd only been born a few days earlier, I was a damn basket case, so this, along with the tumbleweed blowing across the doctor's parking lot, made me break in to tears. We were sent home and forced to feed him formula, which we've been doing right along side some serious attempts on my part to pump some milk out of these gigantic boobs of mine. <br /><br />For a few days, I got nothing...NOTH.ING. Then I'd get an ounce a pumping session, which is basically enough to keep a knat alive for an hour. However, slowly but surely, I'm getting a little more at a time and we're able to give him what little I can pump while supplementing with formula. <br /><br />Why am I telling you all this? Well I don't know!??! Why are you reading? I guess I expected breast feeding to be some damned hippie ass experience where I would casually lift of my shirt and my son would nuzzle in and drink to his heart's content, giving me a slight hand signal when he'd have enough...upon which he would roll away and begin hiccuping and rubbing his belly in satisfaction...maybe saying something like, "That's some good shit." <br /><br />But instead, I was basically starving my kid. NOT exactly how I pictured all of that playing out. <br /><br />Partner this with my uncontrollable urge to cry every five seconds and my constant fear that every thing ELSE I was doing was putting my baby's life in GRAVE danger too, and well, the "experts say breast milk is best" warning on the side of the formula can label can just go F*@& itself. <br /><br />My psychotic fit of hormone induced wailing has been a damn joy ride for Paul, let me tell you.<br /><br />Because everything I do feels like it's putting my kid in danger. It's like, if I hold him this way, or burp him that way, HE COULD DIE. AND OTHER BABIES MIGHT DIE JUST BECAUSE I DID IT WRONG. JUST BECAUSE. <br /><br />But it's getting better. I wake up each morning with a huge sense of relief that we've managed to keep our child alive for yet another day - this brings me a great feeling of accomplishment. And our kid seems happy. <br /><br />Yet, I'm still a total basket case, and I'm looking forward to the day when I can just enjoy motherhood without being scared to death of it. But the good news is Paul is leading me through this adventure - and he stays as calm and collected as always, which is precisely why I married him. And my mom, who just retired after 35 years of doing day care, is here helping. So really, I have nothing to worry about, right? RIGHT???<br /><br />Right. <br /><br />So...tell me something good! Tell me you thought you were going to accidentally kill your baby every five minutes too! Tell me it gets better! Tell me it will all be okay! Tell me that not breastfeeding my kid every ounce he takes in will not result in a major arrested development! <br /><br />Or tell me to shut the hell up and go eat the cheeks off of my sweet baby boy.<br /><br />Yeah, that sounds like a plan.<br /><br />Ohhh...and here's our week, in photos. As you can see, Paul is doing everything...likely because I'm off crying in a corner shouting "I'm killing him!" <br /><br />In between those fits of hysteria, I managed to get these pictures:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uE93TPR7lq3tlgOP9BKSDvMFrauGw3vkWsvDnV6TLaVM3Kh2EED7oX2a2gFZnmJld0J_Nu0iEz3RcAxOlIcJxJMhgwlHWqHs2LQKjki-SComzJrSnSXy0Ju30CkF_6dCJuIOuZrdEYDx/s1600/Semisi+with+Pad.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uE93TPR7lq3tlgOP9BKSDvMFrauGw3vkWsvDnV6TLaVM3Kh2EED7oX2a2gFZnmJld0J_Nu0iEz3RcAxOlIcJxJMhgwlHWqHs2LQKjki-SComzJrSnSXy0Ju30CkF_6dCJuIOuZrdEYDx/s400/Semisi+with+Pad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672472674008645250" /></a><br /><br />Yes. That's a maxi pad. That's the shit they give you at the hospital. Scared yet, mom-to-be-who-have-never-been? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7cKiaF2Pgb0YUgmnEhneOepYA13gPL70n250Yi8hEYBs9Iok-TTpby1EqGmfFd92ujaZHz8v2F9Z6qGpXK6nZ2rePv4JI1rz1m1xOf2vI2myBlJBSHvGHnkcrTWVelb2TJkee3sVRsY1/s1600/Dad+giving+a+bath.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7cKiaF2Pgb0YUgmnEhneOepYA13gPL70n250Yi8hEYBs9Iok-TTpby1EqGmfFd92ujaZHz8v2F9Z6qGpXK6nZ2rePv4JI1rz1m1xOf2vI2myBlJBSHvGHnkcrTWVelb2TJkee3sVRsY1/s400/Dad+giving+a+bath.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672473096172356114" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYDKUDGCZfxdEFC24uiLsqf4XHigH8D82STc6Aqf6dcijR7-lpja-9RT1bdU9vNU0U7JOss3-YeXciYw-MU3xPpDym11V7Ci0oQJhWw4evEgYQwiVPc4aYJl_JGVRxc9EiFS2W3JmT25n/s1600/Day+three.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYDKUDGCZfxdEFC24uiLsqf4XHigH8D82STc6Aqf6dcijR7-lpja-9RT1bdU9vNU0U7JOss3-YeXciYw-MU3xPpDym11V7Ci0oQJhWw4evEgYQwiVPc4aYJl_JGVRxc9EiFS2W3JmT25n/s400/Day+three.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672473458687190034" /></a><br /><br />It's not the baby that's exhausting him. Trust me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAphJobI4gkqOPrl5AelNB9WSaU6fJJTebJiJFenUSxyDYvU1CR_eUBoFPcsN07mRkd512qwseG9YPcLR_WHNC4wK96zC-cQOlXVlnDAF9wr6hMWhMfsOmD7UVHQu0r-p0MHtVCoczxIAw/s1600/Misi+on+Dad%2527s+Chest.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAphJobI4gkqOPrl5AelNB9WSaU6fJJTebJiJFenUSxyDYvU1CR_eUBoFPcsN07mRkd512qwseG9YPcLR_WHNC4wK96zC-cQOlXVlnDAF9wr6hMWhMfsOmD7UVHQu0r-p0MHtVCoczxIAw/s400/Misi+on+Dad%2527s+Chest.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672473800498444178" /></a><br /><br />Pure bliss. OH YEAH. THIS is why I had a kid with this man.Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-61554412097275422002011-11-03T19:28:00.000-06:002011-11-03T20:55:53.473-06:00The...ehem...birth story.WARNING: NOT for the faint of heart. <br /><br />Dear Kid,<br /><br />Welcome! We're so glad you're here. Mostly, my troll feet thank you for finally evicting yourself so that my ankle bone might once again make an appearance. Seriously, I think my colleagues at work were sick of me saying, "GET A LOAD OF THIS!" every time they walked into my office as I lifted up my pant leg to show off my club foot of an ankle. Apparently the side effects of pregnancy just aren't that interesting to everyone. <br /><br />So, you're a dude. BIG SURPRISE there. I'm not even being sarcastic there. That was a big. effing. surprise...to everyone except your grandmother, and she'll be the first to tell you that because no one loves being right more than she does. Except for me. So, although I'm just tickled pink (sorry, bad choice of words) that you're a HE, I hated saying I was wrong about something. <br /><br />Here's how we found out you were a boy:<br /><br />About 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday, the 26th of October, I was getting some serious signals from you that you might be making your grand appearance. (Actually, that's kind of a lie. One of my colleagues was like, "Girl! You're in LABOR! GO HOME!" (Hi Shelley!)<br /><br />So I headed home from work, called your Dad, and then called the hospital. Of course, at that point, the hospital was all, "Dude, quit calling. Your contractions are like, 10 minutes apart, fool! Call back when they're two to five minutes apart."<br /><br />WTF. SERIOUSLY?<br /><br />That seemed like a damn eternity. But WHATEVER. I was determined not to be that girl that gets sent home mostly because I couldn't handle that type of discouragement. <br /><br />But then around 2:00 a.m. it was clear that you weren't messing around, so I stuck it out for a few more hours then I made this dramatic phone call to nurse and really hammed it up so she would believe me, and so she was like, "FINE, you can come in." And off your dad and I went to the hospital.<br /><br />When we got to the hospital, the nurse checked me, and I was dilated to a 4. You don't get what that means. Some day I'll explain it to you, but anyway, it basically meant I could stay. But THEN the nurse was all, "You need to go walk the hall for 15 minutes" and I was all, "Bitch PLEASE!"...because walking at that point seemed like, SUPER hard. But I did it, and had contractions the whole time, and you made it very clear that you were ready to GO!<br /><br />Then I was dilated to a 6, and the nurses were all, "Epidural?" and I was all, "Yes, please!" and HOLY SHIT SWEET NECTAR OF THE GODS OF ALL THINGS THAT ARE FUZZY AND WARM THAT'S SOME GOOD SHIT. <br /><br />Except you like, can't feel the bottom half of your body with one of those things. Did you know that? Could you feel the bottom half of YOUR body? Because I could not. <br /><br />Checking on the dilation progress after that point was interesting, because remember when I said I couldn't feel the bottom half of my body? Well your 300 lb lineman of a father had to help move my legs so they could check out the progress DOWN THERE, and I swear to you that my legs felt so heavy I was all, "HONEY YOUR ASS IS GONNA NEED SOME HELP LIFTING THESE THINGS." <br /><br />But he was able, apparently, and low and behold! I was dilated to a seven and shit was getting SERIOUS! Your grams and gramps drove on over (from three hours away) and were there by our sides by 7:30 a.m. and I was encouraged that you and I were going to meet one another REAL soon.<br /><br />Then, ummm, things just stopped. <br /><br />Fast forward to 6:00 pm THAT NIGHT and I was STILL at a seven. Dude. WORK WITH ME. You were not. By this point I had conceded to a bit of pitocin, but you were annoyed with that so we had to stop. Then I was annoyed enough to go ahead and give myself a 102 degree fever, then you were annoyed and raised your heart rate, and things were getting out of control. Then the physician (bless her sweet lil' heart!) was all, "We're not messing around anymore. We're-a-gonna-go-ahead and get shit moving." And she, well, "checked" me again and did some handy work up there and we finally got things going. <br /><br />Then just before 10:00 p.m., I started to push (for those of you who aren't keeping track, this means I have been in labor for 30 hours...but nbd. Whatevs). At this point, I'd lost ALL sense of modesty, and although I had originally wanted it to just be Paul and I in the room, I was totally fine with two of your grandmas setting up shop, too. Then your dad had to hold up my 300 lb leg and a way we went! <br /><br />For another 2 hours.<br /><br />And then finally (FINALLY) the nurses and doc were all, "I CAN SEE HAIR!" And between you and me I knew they were talking about YOUR hair, so I really gave it the good ole' college try. And I'm sorry, but when they offered to use the vacuum, even though I knew it would give you a cone head, I was all, "HELL YEAH I WANT YOU TO USE THE VACUUM!"<br /><br />(Your father would want me to mention that he was trying to encourage me NOT to use the vacuum. There are a variety of reasons why his opinion, at this point, did not matter. When you have a wife and kid of your own, I'll be sure to remind you that your opinion won't matter either.)<br /><br />And then BOOM! Out you came! Of my vagina, I mean. And you were screaming your ass off. And aside from the epidural, that's the best thing I felt all day. And people were all, "It's a BOY!" and I was all, "Nu-uh it ISN'T!" But you were. You were a boy. You are a boy. <br /><br />And I am so, so, so, so, so OKAY with that. <br /><br />Because I didn't think I could love another boy like I love your Dad, but here you go proving me wrong already. <br /><br />So welcome, little man. Thanks for being cute, and thanks for...you know...changing my life...and stuff.<br /><br />Momma<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN8cgzoQTB_23DuHN32RGpH4pydjTT5xwsQzeveUd6FuaK44iEIZ6uB4-28BFYwPIIU0JH3KCemdE3BB3-03JcO6ULNjpnnUDINlA-dd6OndMRUNLMn5YBy29TU0s6ofGHCScl5lgURal/s1600/381025_2140818008661_1492526609_31763976_2091042329_n.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN8cgzoQTB_23DuHN32RGpH4pydjTT5xwsQzeveUd6FuaK44iEIZ6uB4-28BFYwPIIU0JH3KCemdE3BB3-03JcO6ULNjpnnUDINlA-dd6OndMRUNLMn5YBy29TU0s6ofGHCScl5lgURal/s400/381025_2140818008661_1492526609_31763976_2091042329_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670965683164817826" /></a><br /><br />P.S. <a href="http://theshannonjig.blogspot.com/2011/10/poop-revisited.html">Shannon</a> - this one's for you. I totally pooped. Cheers!Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-26299025426266795402011-10-30T15:24:00.000-06:002011-10-30T15:49:34.260-06:00Meet Semisi MichaelSemisi (James, in Tongan...phonetically pronounced Say-me-see) Michael was born just shy of midnight on October 27th. <br /><br />Believe it or not, he was born exactly 7 lbs. (not 15), 20.5 inches, with a full head of hair (that part is probably NOT surprising...)<br /><br />We really, really like him. <br /><br />We, like, LOVE him.<br /><br />A lot.<br /><br />Here are some quick photos to tide y'all over:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzAf6ABRD5TruKXRpJpUOZxwx_Peg3TCV9VpshdSrkROrlx04Zrj2No8Y-Tl24CgUJcpW7qA7Hw3JT3tUvtqyYZpq0hx1Ee15YRY1uZI_MXIzhMg0C942J6CqzkRA3GkzGLiBq6Yk1BQ1/s1600/Paul+and+Semisi.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzAf6ABRD5TruKXRpJpUOZxwx_Peg3TCV9VpshdSrkROrlx04Zrj2No8Y-Tl24CgUJcpW7qA7Hw3JT3tUvtqyYZpq0hx1Ee15YRY1uZI_MXIzhMg0C942J6CqzkRA3GkzGLiBq6Yk1BQ1/s400/Paul+and+Semisi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669404356304222098" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0fXzRVMaIdZuDJHyeM1E4AVeZFeMnlJQrx66gAM1ii-M63ZPUQBA5Auee3WzV7zLjscWO3_9GFc_6W6P5KSbnOLGB3nzcumqlayUsEXjXhX2oMs7gOCk8fBv_jCn3dEHnZ5Hs0wRkph3/s1600/Semisi+Smile.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0fXzRVMaIdZuDJHyeM1E4AVeZFeMnlJQrx66gAM1ii-M63ZPUQBA5Auee3WzV7zLjscWO3_9GFc_6W6P5KSbnOLGB3nzcumqlayUsEXjXhX2oMs7gOCk8fBv_jCn3dEHnZ5Hs0wRkph3/s400/Semisi+Smile.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669404348797150834" /></a><br /><br />More to come (i.e. gory birth story details), but for now you'll have to excuse me while I go eat some baby cheeks.<br /><br />Much love to you all.<br /><br />MeganMeganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-88079643906325109292011-10-17T17:24:00.000-06:002011-10-17T18:07:33.872-06:00Gus and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.So my dog. <br /><br />Yes. He’s a 12 pound Pomeranian. We think. Or something. Here is a picture of him:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4da1Mn4fjDIDuW7uug_ik15MEqf-SE8B2kdlDyjtWXcMJbt3_UC_Jz_wyntMEyxKUuzUXC3yyQWZbz5uE6jNVaN309gsBmDOdLw96rt7jvqpSqqqW_o3AEBboPuyukHTRwtHGTMWPvOQ/s1600/family_%2526_friends_2005-2006_2131.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4da1Mn4fjDIDuW7uug_ik15MEqf-SE8B2kdlDyjtWXcMJbt3_UC_Jz_wyntMEyxKUuzUXC3yyQWZbz5uE6jNVaN309gsBmDOdLw96rt7jvqpSqqqW_o3AEBboPuyukHTRwtHGTMWPvOQ/s400/family_%2526_friends_2005-2006_2131.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664606456806386482" /></a><br /><br />He enjoys sitting (like that) in the sun room. <br /><br />He also enjoys driving in the car with the window rolled down:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6aQn8lJ0HX0tpFO8N0LqrWI8XdQHTPZfQaJ2YfgHHctIbcM5jxcolfdpuFvuwPFNPCGDDvcM8gS1EEXpLSOGQEnWPT2fU2tpXKViBUlukvmspl0kQ3vlYb27tnlMW3eme0t2LjZQRWOg/s1600/Picture+125.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6aQn8lJ0HX0tpFO8N0LqrWI8XdQHTPZfQaJ2YfgHHctIbcM5jxcolfdpuFvuwPFNPCGDDvcM8gS1EEXpLSOGQEnWPT2fU2tpXKViBUlukvmspl0kQ3vlYb27tnlMW3eme0t2LjZQRWOg/s400/Picture+125.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664606782973775218" /></a><br /><br />And rolling in dead things in the grass:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfBlQYPKZoT-q9IPsfVX2CaO_o7gpIYVrPhnFmx_nKiyADZpMUzUHwIcP87KW2sbssRk2FYhTFsG7TLGArZOcaGZdlDUOsZgqzZzEgRgdA2cxzb7ox44i1o6WXA-6uTYNotq9VKNFdNcc/s1600/family_%2526_friends_2005-2006_1137%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfBlQYPKZoT-q9IPsfVX2CaO_o7gpIYVrPhnFmx_nKiyADZpMUzUHwIcP87KW2sbssRk2FYhTFsG7TLGArZOcaGZdlDUOsZgqzZzEgRgdA2cxzb7ox44i1o6WXA-6uTYNotq9VKNFdNcc/s400/family_%2526_friends_2005-2006_1137%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664606990769179282" /></a><br /><br />I think if my dog could be compared to any one in real life, it would be David Sedaris. Or maybe Frasier’s brother. You know, this guy:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKka0YW1HHGv6TG6CsesBoBmNT9TtLAzstwftZR56D3aOwkUBzTXA8cmmeGj7Xo_v99mm0xlun8B-erU8ZhOVWqO4FF7e_Aly0kQqspqfZjSnqw6RR1u4AUjqj_9rzjIB2IhE3qfLTj_d2/s1600/297046-dr_niles_crane_from_frasier_super.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKka0YW1HHGv6TG6CsesBoBmNT9TtLAzstwftZR56D3aOwkUBzTXA8cmmeGj7Xo_v99mm0xlun8B-erU8ZhOVWqO4FF7e_Aly0kQqspqfZjSnqw6RR1u4AUjqj_9rzjIB2IhE3qfLTj_d2/s400/297046-dr_niles_crane_from_frasier_super.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664607366315527634" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, he’s a bit eccentric. He only likes food that is the color red. He prefers to hang out in his little house during the day, even though we don’t put him in there. He will lick my ankles for hours at a time. He’s a weirdo, but we love him. <br /><br />We adopted Gus a few years ago. I caught Paul off guard and in a weak moment he agreed to let me adopt him. When we got him, his hair/fur/whatever it is was pretty shaved down, and we didn’t know what he was or what he was going to look like. He was neither cute, nor uncute. At the time, he looked like this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjritR2vDn19w4DH0lQ127Hr0CRQ8LTS2lm9x-1EMQajrAjUxA7MtCqa7BuP9DXDfZ-KEOnTLdFDgGK6_mESgy95og4yhWwnTcg1PopLIzEpYDQJHDE3w-dtp2-EmY3UKD-B4xpHWslvheG/s1600/Dog2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjritR2vDn19w4DH0lQ127Hr0CRQ8LTS2lm9x-1EMQajrAjUxA7MtCqa7BuP9DXDfZ-KEOnTLdFDgGK6_mESgy95og4yhWwnTcg1PopLIzEpYDQJHDE3w-dtp2-EmY3UKD-B4xpHWslvheG/s400/Dog2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664607700395060866" /></a><br /><br />You see, because Paul didn't grow up with dogs, he didn't like dogs. I, myself? I’m a BIG dog person, but I grew up with labs, and if I had my druthers, we would have a big dog. Sometimes I treat Gus like a big dog and not a little furball. But our condo association won’t let us have a big dog, so I had to compromise and just get what was available and under 30 pounds. <br /><br />As time passed, Paul began to love him even more than I did. He even considered entering the two of them into a contest called <a href="http://www.mightydog.com/bigguysmalldog/">Big Guy, Small Dog</a>. We never did, and I think Paul still regrets having not done this, as he’s fairly convinced they would have won. Basically, Paul has become the equivalent of a stage mom. If there were a show called “Tiaras and Pomeranians,” I think Paul and Gus would be on it. <br /><br />Because Paul is a much more responsible human being than I am, he has typically always come home at lunch to let Gus out to take a whiz. Paul did that every day for two years, even though I worked closer to our home than Paul did. However, Paul’s job location has recently changed, and now he works so far from our house that it would be impossible for him to drive all the way home to let Gus out at lunch. But of course, Gus is now USED to being let out every four hours or so. So now I have to do it. Ugggh. Fine. <br /><br />Bear with me…I getting to the good part.<br /><br />Anyway, Paul leaves the house at 6:30 a.m., I leave the house at 8:45ish, so I usually let Gus out ONE MORE TIME before I head to work so I can push coming back to let him out until later in the day. Last Friday, I did just that, because I knew my parents were coming to stay with us for the weekend and that they would be in around 1:30 p.m. and head straight to my house. So, I asked my mom if she would let out Gus out when she got to my house so that I wouldn't have to go home for lunch that day. <br /><br />Only, when she got to my house, she didn't have to let him out. <br /><br />Because he was already outside. <br /><br />Where I left him earlier that morning. <br /><br />Chained to his little tether. <br /><br />Oops! Pregnancy brain! <br /><br />Thank GOD it wasn’t like, negative 20 degrees outside! <br /><br />I confessed that I’d done this to Paul. He was not pleased. He was tempted to turn me in to dog protective services.<br /><br />Later that day (TO MAKE UP FOR MY NEGLIGENCE) Paul made an appointment for Gus to get his hair cut the next morning at 8:00 a.m. (MY DOG LOVES GETTING GROOMED. SEE ABOVE COMPARISON.) Obvs I was NOT about to get up that early on a Saturday morning to take my dog to the beauty parlor, but Paul, being the stage mom that he is, was happy to do it. <br /><br />When they came home, THIS is what walked through my door:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t9WbQdh0lEVBZRFPNw4v9y5y2RrpzvIyeW1PeBCwk7fW0GJVu80Yg2OvRRj1hHLpMjpeCfPxHD487Lu1j_O5l7NntQpkIaoCCYfdhOqRWNQvr7nm4LHQuyR8KlhlTcBOrC0Em2Lj-4An/s1600/photo.tif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t9WbQdh0lEVBZRFPNw4v9y5y2RrpzvIyeW1PeBCwk7fW0GJVu80Yg2OvRRj1hHLpMjpeCfPxHD487Lu1j_O5l7NntQpkIaoCCYfdhOqRWNQvr7nm4LHQuyR8KlhlTcBOrC0Em2Lj-4An/s400/photo.tif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664610829753950418" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyPq0kpOJBDLAf85ANm8AYanjXk4-qdz8_kOKgxzjQc6w50biz_cXjZ_P1bBNZ8R7D2rt3seWjUSYGAaBCXz6eH2s1Iws6KDQmBdNmS3eXdMjS3gJ_v4o4vezAJsBI9P6mgfhpst3X-d-/s1600/Gus+2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 359px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyPq0kpOJBDLAf85ANm8AYanjXk4-qdz8_kOKgxzjQc6w50biz_cXjZ_P1bBNZ8R7D2rt3seWjUSYGAaBCXz6eH2s1Iws6KDQmBdNmS3eXdMjS3gJ_v4o4vezAJsBI9P6mgfhpst3X-d-/s400/Gus+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664614213844057042" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIryEYj3q0-xyNnnEaq85wKd7WqF9u6MNXLXEB7B8f5Vz2d8aPcsuVkXXo7vY9sbJ1e32chRLUT_SVcTcyHFX8TYSA71IE4qHG73Ad17isGLQXMeU37EKp9rANvPgpjrXPaf-HSTrjb4N/s1600/Gus+3.tif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 378px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIryEYj3q0-xyNnnEaq85wKd7WqF9u6MNXLXEB7B8f5Vz2d8aPcsuVkXXo7vY9sbJ1e32chRLUT_SVcTcyHFX8TYSA71IE4qHG73Ad17isGLQXMeU37EKp9rANvPgpjrXPaf-HSTrjb4N/s400/Gus+3.tif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664614409430832434" /></a><br /><br />Holy. Shit.<br /><br />The Pomeranian Stage Mom has De-RAILED.<br /><br />That's Paul's hands in the first two pics, holding him into submission so that I can take a photo. I'm sure you're surprised. Paul said he ASKED the dog groomer to give him this cut for Halloween. But he also said that with a flashy hair cut like that, maybe I wouldn't forget to let him back in the house in the morning. <br /><br />Well play, Paul. Well. Played.Meganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1330236008153865695.post-11314124912345706692011-10-03T18:16:00.000-06:002011-10-04T18:57:44.318-06:00Meet the ParentsDear kid,<br /><br />Because we’re about three and a half weeks away from your arrival, I thought I’d take the time over the next few weeks to give you the low-down of what you can expect when you get here, since you are unable to prepare me at all for what I might expect upon your arrival. If you’re anything like your dad, you won’t need to be prepared. If you’re like me, you’ll want to know the name of the nurse in the delivery room well before you’ve met her. I’ve requested an Ethel. No promises.<br /><br />I thought I’d begin with how I met your father. His name is Paul. His actual name is Paula – pronounced Pah-ooo-la…three syllables. When he moved to the United States from Tonga, his teachers pronounced his name “Paula” (as in a female customer service lady who might work at a Herberger’s). Because of that likely traumatic experience, he now goes by Paul to everyone except a select few – including both your grandmothers and a handful of his buddies who have taken the time to understand how to say it the right way. You can just call him Dad if you want, though. <br /><br />Here is a picture of him. He will be embarrassed that I picked this picture because it’s from the olden days, but I can’t help it. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wIp1s5mMk3N0xQMnx4nK1hfxigo6G00pqUZknRdzWE2Wzg0dhi98sFbI2NFy24RXhDejSJDqTvqoGp3cs0DOS1eL9zk481IiqPLCD-L4Kidd56ngd7W-MY9SWdsKkkv14GSWe-PNheyf/s1600/Picture5.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wIp1s5mMk3N0xQMnx4nK1hfxigo6G00pqUZknRdzWE2Wzg0dhi98sFbI2NFy24RXhDejSJDqTvqoGp3cs0DOS1eL9zk481IiqPLCD-L4Kidd56ngd7W-MY9SWdsKkkv14GSWe-PNheyf/s400/Picture5.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659801962884520290" /></a><br /><br />You’ll come to discover that Tonga is an island in the South Pacific. Not many people from Montana know this. I was one of them. Despite having hailed from a tropical island, I managed to meet him in the Alaskan tundra. <br /><br />Explain that to me. <br /><br />Anyway, the best way to describe your dad is to say that he is the exact opposite of me in every way possible. Needless to say, we’re curious as to how you might come to blend the two of us into one little package. When we met, I was a lowly second year Drama and English teacher who was getting her emotional ass kicked by her students. Your father was a wrestling and football coach for the high school, and he had total control in every way I did not – especially with students who acted like assholes. At that time, this was about the hottest and most attractive quality anyone could possess. <br /><br />Despite that – and despite the fact that your father is probably the nicest man I’ve ever met - I actually didn’t like him all that much in the beginning. He’d be the first to tell you this. He was just SOOOO NICE. If you're a girl, you'll understand that someday.<br /><br />So one day, I broke up with him and told him to quit calling me because I “just wasn’t feeling it.” He took these instructions literally, because he's a boy...and because he was very, very smart. <br /><br />Of course, not calling me like I'd asked him to was just unacceptable. So I called him...because I had to see him THAT DAY...and he said that if I wanted to see him I had to come to a WRESTLING MEET. <br /><br />UGGGGGH. He was pushing it. But I did it. I went. <br /><br />The only thing I understood about what was happening on the mats was that your father had a personalized handshake with each one of his wrestlers, which he promptly administered upon the completion of each of their matches – win or lose. Because of another man you’ll soon meet, you’ll learn that individualized handshakes are very important to me. Your dad doesn’t know this, but that was the day I decided to fall in love with him, marry him and reproduce with him. <br /><br />Luckily your dad has always been quick to forgive utter stupidity (this will come in handy when you’re in Junior High), so he took me back. <br /><br />THEN I made him move back home to Montana with me, which he did because he really likes me. When we got here, shit got crazy, and we survived two of the most difficult years we’ve ever had (more on that another day). At <a href="http://apracticalwedding.com/2010/12/wedding-graduates-megan-pauls-wedding-that-paul-planned/">the end of all that, we came out alive and married</a>. Things started to look up. <br /><br />Enter: you. <br /><br /><a href="http://meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/05/on-beingwell-you-knowpregnant.html">Little people actually terrify me</a>, but your dad is much braver than I am, and so he convinced me to give the kid thing the good ole’ college try shortly after we got hitched. When I wasn’t pregnant that first month I was convinced it wouldn’t happen. Then, just a day or two after returning from a little getaway weekend of hot-tubbing and drinking a lot of booze, I discovered that I was 8 weeks pregnant with you. Oops. Sorry about that. <a href="http://meganithappen.blogspot.com/2011/08/passing-on-evolutionary-step-in-human.html">If you end up with nine knuckles</a>, you can blame that weekend. <br /><br />When I showed your dad those two little pink lines on that thing I had to pee on, the first words out of his mouth were, “It’s going to be okay.” <br /><br />And, other than having made 7 (seven!) trips to the bathroom between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 7 a.m. last night; other than my new face, which now looks like a soccer mom version of Chucky; other than my troll feet and sausage fingers; other than the nausea, and the panic attacks in the diaper aisle at Target, and the frozen yogurt cravings, and the lack of vodka, things have, indeed, been okay. <br /><br />Because yesterday, when I was reading a book that I had propped up on my belly, you kicked so hard that the book actually rolled off of my stomach and dropped to the floor. I understood this to be your first attempt at establishing a hand shake with me. <br /><br />As a result of this nice gesture, I’ve made the decision to fall in love with you, too. And I didn't even have to tell you not to call first. So already, you're one step ahead of your father. <br /><br />We’re all excited to meet you, so please don’t overstay your welcome in my <strike>cervix</strike>, <strike>stomach</strike>, <strike>ovary</strike>, <strike>belly</strike>, uterus? Whatever. You know where you are. See you soon. <br /><br />Love,<br />MommaMeganithappenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10066014497542383107noreply@blogger.com6