Greasy Butter

I didn't think that I could make fudge by myself. From what I can imagine it only takes 10 extra seconds of a pot on the burner without being stirred to burn a whole batch of melted chocolate and sugar. And maybe I was kind of exaggerating to get Handsome Husband to help me. But really. Melting chocolate and I have had our disagreements and I have come to the conclusion that the best way to melt some chocolate chips is in some pyrex placed in the oven. Fail proof.

While I added the ingredients to our cannon of awesomeness Steven buttered the pan for when our decadent treat would be done. Not just buttered. Slathered. We could have made some rice krispie treats with how much butter was in that pan by the time he was done. I didn't worry about it much since our fudge was going to be hot and therefore melt the chunks of butter still remaining and maybe absorb some of it.

Fudge doesn't absorb butter. It dispenses it. When we went to open up our creation later today there was butter film all along the top sides of our fudge making it look more like it had been dipped in bacon grease than anything else. I wouldn't let Steven take something that looked disgusting and tasted questionable so we sliced off the sides so that it looked gorgeous. Really. The texture on the inside looked good. It wasn't until you got it into your mouth and compared it to the peanut butter fudge I made later by myself that you could definitely tell a difference.

Call me Fudge

And by calling me fudge, you will need to address me by Mistress Fudge. That's right. I have conquered that massive amount of stirring that makes fudge melt in your mouth without the sugar crystals. Took a couple of tries, but what's awesomeness without some failure?

The first batch, you know, the infamous oreo and white chocolate. That stuff never set up. Not on the table, not in the fridge, not in the freezer. Not in a box, nor with a fox. Not in a house nor with a mouse. That fudge was not going to set. You've read my cure.

The second batch was a tad grainy on top. I thought the whole thing was ruined when Handsome Husband was stirring and it was 13 seconds before the timer went off and the bottom was starting to scorch a little, no matter the amount of stirring done. I thought it was ruined again when we were pouring it into the pan and it was falling out kind of thick and when we started getting the last bit out it was definitely sandy looking. Chocolate covered sand. Ewwww. I let Steven cut into it the next day so that he could take our small disaster to work. And what do you know? Miraculously there was not a grain of sand in that whole block of fudge except what we had scraped on top. And after you cut a few squares out of that block and don't see all the sand together in one spot, it actually doesn't look too shabby. It was a wonderful miracle and I insisted on taking back my consent of taking the whole 3 lbs to work and only let him take 2 1/2.

Today I have been baking A LOT. I tried a peanut butter recipe this morning and after much research on fudge making tips and a few insider tips from 'real' people (by real people, I mean people you talk on the phone with rather than a web search) I was ready to conquer the fudge making world. It worked. I am now the mistress of fudge and by forcing my hand I can create complex sugars to break down to smooth, melt in your mouth creme. Not too moist, not too dry. Just right.

I've found a pretty awesome peppermint cookie recipe that will now join the tradition of making Christmas sugar cookies and gingerbread houses. Yes, it's that good. The lady I got it from had a story about how she invented it to use up the extra candy canes laying around the house after Santa put a dozen or more on the tree. I think it's good enough to use for a New Years cookie to use up the candy canes and to go buy candy canes all for the sake of the recipe for before Christmas.

Sleep While You Can

I didn't even know it was possible for someone to sleep so much and not be in a Sleeping Beauty or Snow White comma. I've got this super power right now that let's me sleep for any amount of time in whichever part of the day I happen to be. Pretty neat-o, hu? I know.

Everyone says to sleep while you can 'cause there's no way to get it back after the baby comes. Good advice, but I know from pure experience at college that you can't 'save up sleep' which is really too bad. So I guess what they mean is enjoy sleeping while you can. Enjoyment is something that can be saved up and looked back on with fond memories.

I can't believe that she's going to be here in one month. Her baking is over and it's time to start testing. Kind of like poking a toothpick in a cake. Yes, you know what I am talking about. Checking for dilation. The part I have been dreading the most out of this whole experience. And you know what? It wasn't even really that bad. It's been worse thinking about it than when it was happening. Thank goodness for good doctors.

It seems that no matter how much sleep I get during the day, I have the hardest time ever making it past 9:00 before my body is shut down to go to sleep. Working closing shifts these past couple of weeks has been a killer, especially since we don't even close until 10:30. Late. But, on the bright side, only two more weeks and then I get to spend some time on myself, for myself. Which will probably translate into cleaning and decorating. Which I am fine with. I just wish I didn't have to sleep so much!

Epic fail to Epic win

Last week I had friends. We're still friends, but last week I got to hang out with them. And it was really a lot of fun. Ok. That sounds like something a first grader would say. Perhaps because, like a first grader, for the past year and a half I haven't really hung out with any friends and I am just starting to get back in the groove. Just starting out on an adventure of having my first play dates all over again.

We had a mini baking party where there were some amazing gingerbread cupcakes made, what was supposed to be some amazing fudge and topped off with dipping pretzels into chocolate which I never thought could be so relaxing.

I've never made fudge before and was excited to try it. I've been having a craving for something overwhelmingly sweet and there's nothing like a couple squares of fudge to cure all sugar cravings. I got my ingredients written down and headed on my way to the local grocer where half my total came because of the high-quality baking ingredients I desperately needed. There was no way I was going to let some cheap chocolate chips ruin my what-was-going-to-be-awesome fudge. I had heard this was key.

We got everything into the pan and started cooking and I was advised that it's best to stir only one way when making fudge instead of my usual back and forth, side to side and figure eight stirring that I use to make awesome scotcheroos. I panicked. Instead of going in and stirring to the right, which would make total sense, I started in from the left. I didn't know I was so partial to one way of stirring over another but I knew after the third stroke that I was going the wrong way. Luckily, Morgan is left-handed and she quickly took over and did an awesome job of stirring for the required amount of time of which I thought was 3 minutes after it started to boil. Not so much we learned later, but I was bound to follow that recipe to the second. Dumb recipe. It's not always good to trust what you find on pinterest.

By the time we were ready to pour our amazingness into the casserole dish we found an interesting development. A mountain of marshmallow cream was carefully designed in the bottom middle of our pot. All that stirring in one direction had formed a perfectly sized Mt. Rainier. We didn't bother about it but had a good laugh about our abundant surprise.

When the fudge was still wobbling in the dish after 2 hours I was a little concerned but there wasn't much I could do about it but take it home. We ladled some in to a ziplock baggie for Morgan to take with her and Shelli let me take her pan home for the fudge to finish settling. Because it would settle. Because we had used the finest ingredients and because we had followed the recipe to the second.

The next morning I was too nervous to check in on our creation so it sat in the fridge, undisturbed. When I got home and tried cutting it into squares and it just ran together again as soon as I took the knife out I knew I needed another plan of action. So I froze it. Only, I guess fudge doesn't freeze. That stuff still couldn't be cut into squares after being in the freezer for a couple of hours. I put it back in the fridge and awaited a miracle. This is where the epic fail turns into an epic win.

I had my little brother in the kitchen the next morning digging through my fridge for some breakfast when he found the fudge and naturally wanted to taste it. He pulled it out and looked at it. "How come all the cookies are just on one side?" I had to explain to him that when we ladled Morgan's portion out that everything had slid to fill the empty space, leaving the crumbled cookies that I had put on top on only one half. The whole thing looked like a piece out of the land before time movies. The part in the first one about the great divide.

He pulled out a piece and rolled it in a ball before popping it in his mouth and declared that the concoction would taste better on ice cream. Him rolling the stuff into a ball though gave me a brilliant idea. I had been seeing a lot of truffles and cake pops around lately and so balls dipped in chocolate was currently on my mind. It was the most pliable way I could think of how to get that stuff into a mouth without a spoon. We spent the morning rolling balls and dipping them in melted chocolate. John rolled and I dipped and by the end we didn't have such a disastrous project. In fact, it could have passed as planned.

I put the best looking ones into a baggie for Shelli and her husband and the rest I piled into a tupperware to take to work. The break room table is common ground for kitchen experiments and epic fails. Sugar is sugar and after working 2 hours serving the public between breaks, anything is welcome.

Well. They were a win. No one could tell that it was a fudge fail. The texture was great due to Morgan's excellent stirring and the hard chocolate kept the runny gooiness in check. I did learn some basic fudge making tips that I am going to try the next time I get the courage up to cook something on the stove other than dinner and overall, things could have been much worse. I would call this one a win.

Pregnancy Brain

That pregnancy brain they talk about? It's no joke. Seriously. I can promise you, sometimes I think that a few minutes here and there of my day are missing because there are some things that I can honestly not remember. For instance, remember in the last post I made where I was freaking out about that framing order? Well, I must have become delusional in the few moments I was putting together her one order that had nothing wrong with it because of the fact of getting the messages that her chosen mat was out of stock and then a few days later that her chosen frame out of stock. Turns out I wasn't missing artwork at all. I had totally forgotten putting together her first frame. Not that I forgot that I did it, But the math didn't add up in my head that she originally had three posters and after I did one she would have two left and bam... I was freaking out because there weren't three posters in the folder. Weird? Yes, definitely.

And that isn't the only thing I totally spaced out on. Sometimes I put my keys or an important paper down and then I can't find them. Which doesn't surprise me until I find them in an unexpected place, because, let's be honest, I didn't even know that I had misplaced them to begin with. Some weird things can happen when you're about to have a baby.

Which is the other reason why I am up so early again. Seems like being woken up by a bladder that needs to be emptied opens up a whole lot of other problems and I am sitting here with the worst stomach ache ever. Contractions you say? No. I say food poisoning. Buffets have never been my favorite and that will stand true until I turn 60 and get senior discounts and don't have to pay so much for bad food. Too bad that by that time I won't want to risk paying discounts for what could make me sick.

I thought I had it all out of my system by 12 yesterday afternoon and gorged on some jo-jos and chicken strips. Apparently I need to drink more sprite to kill the bug that is resting in the bottom of my stomach, waiting to turn anything I put in my mouth into yucky gas and some runny poo. Gross. What a terrible life that would be, to make people so uncomfortable.

Christmas?

The tiredness has hit me again. One month left until our little girl is here and I am exhausted just thinking about getting our little home ready for some green and red joy. We've had our tree up for three weeks now and it's only got half the lights it needs... still. And it doesn't even seem that long, which is the scariest part. When your poor tree can be up for almost a month without being fully decorated there is a problem. The situation is that our tree last year was quite a bit smaller than this one and therefore there are not enough lights to go around. And guess who hasn't had the funds nor the energy to go get some more? Yup. This girl right here. The one sitting on the couch in her sweats and sweatpants who got up two hours ago and is already ready for a nap.

Handsome Husband turns the lights on every night and every morning because, let's face it, even with the tree only half lit, it's still gorgeous. I can't get myself to add the decorations, though, without it being fully lit. So it's just a bit of green in our living room sprinkled with some bulbs but it still lightens up a dark room.

I've got our Christmas box of decorations up out of the basement and there's only one box, but it's enough to fill our little home, if we had the room for it. I tell you... decorations take up a lot of shelf room that we don't really have. Handsome Husband says that he likes having all of our 'books' out for people to see 'cause they say something about us. Well, our books consist of old text books and a lot of missionary material packed into unattractive binders. Not exactly the statement I would like to make. So what if those college years were good and the mission days were the best of Steven's life, no need to broadcast the past all over the place. We need to pick up the pace with some children's books.

Now the decorations sit in the middle of the living room floor, waiting for me to get some adrenaline to find homes for them. The tree remains undecorated and I haven't found the energy to bake up some holiday goodies. This could remain to be an uneventful Christmas season. Only time will tell.

'Cause I'm Awesome

Really. I seriously am. It's 4 a.m. and I've already been up for two hours. One bathroom trip combined with downing some tums and enough water to sustain an ancient civilization.

I couldn't get work off my mind. Sounds pathetic. Sounds like I am a workaholic. Sounds like I have no life but to go over every measurement I have made within the past 24 hours, creating lovely designs for people's artwork. Designs that they want by Christmas and there is no room for error in case needs be a re-order. But seriously. It's a big deal. I can't believe over the past 10 months that I have found something that I love so much.

When my student-teaching ended in November I was more than a little relieved. The students were awesome and there were only two classes out of six that I dreaded because they tended to have the most social 8th graders in them. Being so social, they were also the poorest in their academic success making it hard to keep them focused on anything more than who was crushing on who. These two classes also had the lowest reading levels in them. Which I found interesting. Reading is so important to an education that it shows up as missing in all kinds of subjects. You can be crappy at math and no one knows it except in math class. Can't sound out a word correctly and you've got problems in more than just English.

Mostly I was relieved to not have to make lesson plans anymore. Which I found fairly interesting as I started subbing that middle school is definitely it's own lesson criteria. Elementary lessons are from a number of books, pages photo copied and handed out to the class. By the time high school rolls around handouts aren't as popular 'cause it costs two trees and a couple of branches to print papers for 150 students a day. Books are used alongside notebook paper that had better have the annoying spiral bits peeled off before being handed in. But in middle school you've gotta come up with your own criteria. No book tells you how to teach a 8th grader. No book says, "This is what they ought to know and this how to make sure they know it." Nope. A lot of it you have to come up with on your own. I used a handout from a book twice in the four months that I taught. The rest was dreamed up in Microsoft Word, including grammar sheets, questions about the current novel and health activities that were supposed to make kids aware of what was going on around them.

If there is anything I believe, I believe that there is an amount of time allotted to everything and if that time is too short than you're taking too long. I could have spent hours making lesson plans. To keep things under control I did my health lesson plans at night after getting home from school and I did my English lesson plans in my prep hour. Therefore nothing could take more than a hour to get together because I had to make dinner in the evening and in the morning, class started at 9:10 whether I had my copies made or not. I admit, it was a little stressful, but I don't look back and regret spending too much time making things just perfect, which easily could have become a problem.

After playing the subbing game for a couple of months I needed something a little more substantial. Believe me, there's nothing better for a little ego-pat than teaching a group of third graders. They love you to death and make pictures for you to hang on your fridge during their free time. Sometimes a girl just needs something a little more steady in her life than constantly checking the sub website for openings or waiting for a call that may not come until 8 a.m. the next morning and you are needed in the school at 8:40.

I spent a whole day filling out job applications online. It's certainly tedious and there has never been a time when I have filled out more online resumes and questionaires except when applying for college. I applied to all the places that I loved to shop and I definitely could not be more happy than where I am right now. If I had gotten what I had thought I had wanted I could be picking up dressing rooms day after day and folding and re-folding clothes on display. It would not be something that I would especially love, but how could I have really known? I'd never worked in retail before.

Instead I get to work with people and colors and see all kinds of artwork. It's the best thing ever and I am going to have a really hard time leaving when this baby comes. Like every job there are good days and there are better days, but unlike every job, there aren't too many horrible, no good days where I want to toss it to the wind and go home early. It's too much fun. If I am not designing a frame combination with a customer than I am assembling an order. It's like crafting all day. Which isn't so good 'cause when I get home the last thing I want to do is pull out some paper or a glue gun, but it really is fun. And when you spend 8 hours away from home you may as well love what you are doing.

And because I am awesome at what I do, I have a hard time accepting that I may have messed up. Even when it's not my fault. Which makes it even worse 'cause there's no way that I can fix it. Like an order that gets a notice that the mat is out of stock. Or a frame is out of stock. It's messy business having a customer come in and have to choose something different because usually the first choice is never as good as the second. And the reason I can't get this one order out of my head is because this nice lady placed three orders and two out of the three have come back with notices that the above has happened. At different times. And then I may have deleted the wrong order when I went to re-order her second best choice. And I also may have not have ordered the right size for the piece that I thought it was and the worst part, I may have misplaced a piece of artwork while we were shuffling things around, trying to match the blue in the flowers to a second blue mat 'cause the first became out of stock. And now I am worried that it got tossed whilst in a cardboard sleeve where it was supposed to be protected. And that is why, after a bathroom trip and all my water and a couple of tums I am still awake, raking my brain for any kind of consolation that everything is just fine.

The Nativity

There's a family in our ward that has an ancient barn snuggled up beside their equally ancient brick house. All three stories and balcony of it. Life was different then. And this barn is no joke. It's got the room for the animals who may need some extra shelter and hay besides. Every year since people have ridden around in horse-drawn carriages they've had a family home evening based on the true Christmas story. The one where there's a virgin mother who gives birth to a baby who will save the world under the watch of a carpenter. It almost sounds too spectacular to be true, but I know with all my heart that it is. A jolly fella with rosy red cheeks and a pile of white beard that visits all the homes in the world in one night has nothing on the Christ Child. Although, that itself is a pretty amazing story.

I took rent money over to our little landlady and she was telling me how back in the day when people had animals as more than pretty pets that Mary would ride in on a horse and the shepherds would have real sheep with them as they made their way from the fields to the baby's side. Her nativity watching days were long over she said as she told me to dress warmly but that it had been quite the event.

Handsome Husband and I piled on the sweatshirts and jackets, complete with scarves, gloves and hats. It was a cold night but when we entered the barn and found a spot in the hay loft that wasn't too high up we got cozy together under the quilt we had brought. Next year we'll have a little girl with us and we'll bring thermoses of warm apple cider and some candy canes to share with those around us. This year was our 'pre-run' I told Steven.

The story started out as it always does, in a city called Nazareth where a beautiful maiden was betrothed to a handsome carpenter. However, it wasn't your usual story rehearsed straight out of the scriptures. This story was set up for little ones to understand the graveness of Mary being with child without having been married and the journey ahead of them to be counted and taxed and the amazingness that was Christ, the child come to save the world from sin and how it was that he was born in a stable.

Perhaps even if I never get the full Christmas spirit complete with the red and green decorations I can at least know the true reason for this blessed season and make it a memorable one for someone else.

High Winds

The wind tearing at the swamp cooler cover and knocking the screen doors around woke me up three times in the night. When the cell alarm went off I took 10 minutes to get ready. There's not much you can ready when the power is out. Lucky for me we had a date the night before so I was still looking glamorous and could scramble out of bed and throw some clothes on. And by glamorous I mean I didn't have greasy hair and it wasn't kinked in any funny way. My face was another factor that sometimes I just don't care too much about so long as the smudges are wiped up.

I left a hour early for work. It normally takes a good, solid thirty minutes to get there, but I knew there were going to be some traffic problems with the wind and that I would probably have to go 60 instead of my normal 80.

The traffic lights were out, which means there were a dozen or so vehicles stopped at the four-way intersection treating it like a stop sign. This also meant that there was no power for breakfast and with no milk in the fridge I was starving for some breakfast. Handsome Husband agreed to drive ahead of me to his work and then we would stop by for some standard American breakfast loaded with grease. En route to the freeway we had to turn around once due to fallen trees.

Legacy, the resident highway that semi trucks are not allowed on except on special occasions was packed with cars going 30 mph. It runs along 1-15 for a little bit right where we enter the freeway and it was a little mind blowing to see that many people on it since it is regularly avoided because of the slower speed limit. And then to see all the semis on the freeway lined up, combined with a few tipped looking like huge caterpillars upside down, their wheels sticking up in the air like numerous legs. If that's not intimidating, I don't know what is.

I couldn't get myself to push harder than 40 mph and found myself in the slow lane not even being passed. The fastest anyone was going was maybe 50. 8:00 on a workday morning, this is completely unheard of. I was shaking and trembling and didn't even know how truly terrified I was until I pulled off at the Centerville exit, only 5 miles from home. We found a desolate town. No one had power and there was no way we were finding any breakfast, anywhere. The restaurants had the manager's car parked in the drive-thru to keep people from entering. I was crying by this point and was having a hard time staying focused on anything but the wind beating on my little car, causing it to weave here and there.

We drove to Les Schwab where the power was also out and traded places. I couldn't talk on the phone at this point so Handsome Husband called up my work and told them there was no way I was coming in today and we turned around and he took me back home. The only daunting thing about this was that he would come home for lunch and then I would have to drive the car back so that he could bring the jeep back home later that night. I was almost tempted to just hang out with the guys the whole day to avoid any more driving.

Not being in the driver's seat put me at ease. As much ease as can be found when you look out and see destruction all around you. We took the frontage road and there were branches on houses, trees that had lifted up and fallen, taking chunks of grass with them. One yard was completely torn up and hanging by the tree's roots. A ravine had collected 15 or more garbage cans that had been blown away from their homes and there was a warning on the radio to avoid 400 in Centerville due to all of the trampolines out on the road.

Steven dropped me off at home to a cold house where there was nothing but crackers to eat that didn't take some re-heating or baking of some kind. I pulled on some sweats and two sweatshirts and a blanket and curled up on the couch where there was the most light and read for a couple of hours before falling back asleep, despite the wind tearing at everything in sight of the window. I definitely would have preferred to be at work but later when I heard about 1-15 northbound closures due to the overturned semis I was grateful that Steven had taken things into his own hands and called me in as not available.

And thus Handsome Husband found me curled up on the couch when he got home for lunch. The power had come on sometime while I was sleeping but he reported that it was still out at Les Schwab but they were all hanging out there waiting for it to come back on. We headed out into the elements again and he remarked at how weird it was that it still so windy in Farmington because the wind was basically done in Centerville. Weird or not, it was nice not to be thrown all over the road once we got on the freeway.

There was no one on the freeway. Everything was shut down in town. It was all kind of creepy. I guess power zaps everything. On my way home I took yet another route seeing another semi tipped on the frontage road. It was a more residential street but one that happens to go from one city to the other, the old highway. There were construction workers out all over the place cutting up fallen trees and brushing limbs out of the street. I didn't see any trees on cars or houses, but there were plenty that came within feet. I was glad to get home and wait out the rest of the wind that was still banging our doors and pushing on the windows. It was a lonely day at home accompanied only by the outside forces but I was safe, besides the wind blowing our fence in.

Bacon Wrapped Turkey

Who doesn't love a big Thanksgiving dinner? Right. Nobody. I remember when I was little I was a picky eater. Ok, who am I kidding, I am still a picky eater. Back then Thanksgiving was more like a buffet of foreign food than anything else and I would pick my way through my plate, trying one bite of something green and moving to something red and always finishing by eating three or more rolls because they were the only thing I could get my taste buds to accept. Warm from the oven and sooooo soft.

Even the turkey wasn't complete without some ranch on it. I am pretty sure I am the only person who does that and I was so self-conscious about it that I would always dip my ranch sauce next to my turkey on my plate and pretend that they were just touching each other the way most people's food does on thanksgiving, or any other day. Not on my plate though. Everything was always at least an inch apart. Everything except my vegetable dip and turkey. I know. I am sneaky.

It wasn't until I was in college that I decided that stuffing was ok and another year later until it was ok to mix the stuffing with the mashed potatoes and maybe a bite of turkey. Thanksgiving and I have had a hard time getting along from the beginning but we are slowly becoming friends over the course of many years, though I am pretty sure I will never be able to get through more than a taste of yams and I don't know if I will ever touch gravy.

This year we added bacon to our Thanksgiving selection. A friend of ours had cooked their college turkey wrapped in bacon and sang its praises before heading off to California for a real family meal. It's definitely something I would give a second chance, although it took longer to cook than any of us had planned on. And then it still wasn't done. We cut into it enough to grab a handful of pieces from the breast and everyone had one or two pieces with dinner, hoping that there would be some leftovers for later when the bird was completely cooked. Not so lucky. That thing was still juicing when we took it out to put the pies in for dessert a hour or so later. Needless to say, who wants to babysit a turkey. A little more was salvaged but no one had any dark meat from that bird. The bacon was definitely amazing and it was a great memory to have us all gathered around the bird, peeling the bacon off and eating it right there instead of waiting to put it on a plate and pass it around the table. Definitely a tradition I wouldn't mind keeping. I've got to figure out a better way to cook that bird with bacon, though.

Baby Belly

My fascination with photos started when I was looking for a wedding photographer. There were so many things to look at and notice about each photographer that it easily got overwhelming. Eventually we found someone within our price range and with work good enough to qualify to make me look like a model the day of my wedding.

When we found out we were pregnant I started looking at pictures again, this time concentrating on pregnant bellies and babies. I have found so many cute ideas on photographing a basketball belly that I worry I would use them all up on one pregnancy and then have nothing new for the next pregnancy. Although, I have got to admit. There have been some pretty scandalous maternity pictures show up on our computer screen. But we won't go there. I was looking for something a little more... less revealing. Who wants to see a belly button hole stretched to its max? My point exactly.

I found one local photographer who I thought would do a decent job. Her pictures were modest and cute, the props were just adorable! But, alas, her downfall was that you had to buy the prints you wanted... from her. Bummer deal when I plan on using a few photos on our baby shower announcement so that people in the ward can put a name with a face and a couple more for Christmas gifts. Shhhh, it's a secret. So I won't tell what I am doing with those photos, just that they will be gifted.

But then! A light at the end of the tunnel. Right when I had to be making my choice, a former roommate posted some pictures. And they were stunning. I am pretty sure the man in her portraits is a former FHE brother who went out on his mission looking a little like a mouse and ruffled his hair all the time and he came back a stud! Well, at least she made him look like a stud. So I used the amazing power of facebook and summoned her help for some maternity pictures. I am super excited because she does an awesome job at capturing light and emotions and angles. She's really great. And her prices are really great, and you get your own picture CD! Double really greatness.

And then, as if it couldn't get any better than her saying yes to my suggestion of a date to do these photos, a friend of hers is doing a giveaway of a photo shoot with her! Ummm.... yes please! I mean, I realize nothing comes for free. I would still have the deep knot in my heart to mix her up some of her favorite heaven globs (no bake peanut butter cookies). Seriously, I made them once and they were gone in 15 minutes. That girl can put down some sugar and oatmeal. Anyways, if you would like to enter the giveaway, check out this website....

http://imsimplymomma.blogspot.com/2011/11/photography-giveaway.html?showComment=1321589545560#c6526238208541886580

And also check out Bethany's website...

http://throughthewindowphotography.tumblr.com/contactme isn't that the cutest name for a photo blog ever?!

Who's Counting?

Whenever people ask how far I am, I can never tell them. I can only tell them how much time I have left. Does that say something about my personality? I've only got two months left to decorate her room. Two months left to work full time. Two months left before I don't need help putting my shoes and socks on when Steven is around. Only two more months before I have a little girl in my arms to dress up in ribbons and bows. It's really not that long.

It feels like it's only beginning. I've only been 'showing' for a month and it seems that's when 'pregnancy' begins. Everything before that was just miserable. Sickness and tiredness that I often think I would not be able to handle if I already had a child. And no one understood why I was so tired or had a constant stomach ache because there was no outer-showing other than the occasional flushed cheeks. Now it would be ok to be sick, because people would understand why, but I am over that. Now I am just blooming and ready to show off this little girl, even if she's just in my round stomach. I've got more energy than I have had since I graduated school and it feels so good! It's like this little girl has re-started my energy level and it's no longer bogged down by late nights and early mornings. Now, I know many of you are wanting to say, 'just wait. she's going to make you more tired than you've ever been.' But you know what? No. I don't think so. And if she does, it will be a different kind of tired. It's not going to be the tired that keeps you in bed until the last minute because you don't want to go to class or to work. It will be an exhausted tired. See the difference? No? Well, there is one. And I am excited to embrace it.

I am not going to lie, I could stay this way forever. With a round tummy and a little girl safe inside of me. As long as she's in me, nothing can hurt her. When she's born she will be transported to a different life where everything around her has the potential to hurt her. Germs, viruses, obstacles, boys... the list could go on. But inside floating in fluid, there is nothing. And I like it that way. That's what has kept me from being super anxious to have her out of me because I know the longer she's in there the safer she will be. Sure, she could be born tomorrow and be in the hospital for a few weeks and live, but I would much rather have her with me. Two more months and then I will have to worry all of the time. But for right now, I don't have to.

Whale Watching

I've decided that having a baby move inside of you is a lot like whale watching. I've never been, but I can imagine it goes something like this: Look, there's one! No, now it's gone. Ok, well keep watching that spot over there. 10 minutes later: Did you see that?! Was that a wave or a whale? 20 minutes later: Over there, look over there!

I feel her move all the time. Her soft bubble kicks have turned into rolls of movement. At one point I could directly relate to when people say their stomach is turning somersaults. It's the weirdest feeling ever to feel something rub against the inside of you in a circle and have no control over it.

For all the moving she does, Steven has only been able to feel her a couple of times because, just like in whale watching, she's still as soon as his hand gets on my belly where she was moving seconds ago and then she's moving somewhere else with a few minutes in between, making it hard to capture.

When people ask how much time I have left and the answer is two months their next exclamation is how small I am. I know it's meant as a compliment, but it just makes me think sometimes, what if something is wrong? You know, like all parents do. What if she's not growing enough, what if I am not retaining enough water and so on. I try not to let it get to me because I am sure everything is just fine. I've been feeling fine and I would rather not worry about size so much. Seems like America is obsessed with the size of things, anyways. Size of thighs, stomachs, bodies in general... it's nice to not have to think too much about it and just eat healthy for the sake of eating healthy and not worry about what it's doing to my body.

Although, I must admit, when your clothes are meant to expand with your growing body it's hard to control how much that body is growing. The doctor commented at my last appointment that I had jumped more than expected in my weight... again. Well, when you don't have clothes that shrink if your stomach becomes anything less than flat and jeans that allow love handles to form to remind you it's time to hop into some running shoes and hit the trails, it's hard to keep track of how much weight you're gaining. Just sayin'. Once this baby is out of me, believe you me, I will be jogging to my heart's content. I am going to need some way to get out of the house. My other exercise plan is to take her in the car seat during her nap time and use the gym. It's a pretty relaxed place and I am pretty sure no one would mind her napping next to the front desk.

That Magic Feeling

I've got a feeling, that magic feeling. The one that penetrates your soul when you realize that you threw your work pants in the washer and dryer without checking the pockets and your awesome blog-writing ideas were scribbled on a now non-existent scrap of paper. My best ideas come while I am eating lunch in the break room so I write a few choice lines on a notebook I keep in my pocket for writing down important information, like how many sizes of canvases we have over 24x36 and all their prices for the customer on the phone who can't find the time to come in. Annoying. But useful to have something more than my hand to write on.

We've been kinda busy this fall season, making memories and enjoying our time together as a couple with no children while anticipating the arrival of a little someone. Finally our house decor will be able to be complete as I print picture after picture of our little miracle to cover our white walls. I've already got combinations stewing in my brain and they're fabulous. The one thing about baby pictures is that they never get old. They're a living room classic. At least until the next baby comes along, then you can't be playin' favorites so you gotta take a few down and re-do the family photo above the mantle. Simple things, really.

I've become obsessed with looking at baby pictures. The snugglier they look the better. Babies curled up in baskets, mini carriages, and propped just so on a pile of fresh linens have won my heart. SO adorable!

So beyond that magic feeling of despair as you realize now you have to go back and think up those great one-liners that are now caught up in the lint catcher of the dryer I am experiencing the magic feeling that reminds me that we've only got two months left until we get to welcome a beautiful girl into our life. 'Cause we all know that if she looks anything like me, she's going to be adorable.

To-Go-Cup?

I haven't really enjoyed pizza ever since I was puking everything I ate, especially things like pepperoni. Which is weird. Because this girl LOVES pizza. A LOT. There was a point in time that I wouldn't even smell a hamburger without gagging, but thank goodness to McDonalds and their classic, plain hamburgers with little more on them than a squirt of ketchup. I am chewing on those things again and enjoy the meatiness of them. Red meat. If I were a dinosaur I am pretty sure I would be a red meat eating monster. Chicken can only last for so long.

Handsome Husband has a tradition of feeding his empty heart the day of the week that I have to work late and without fail there is a Papa Johns sitting on the counter when I get home at 10 pm. He's learned to also get some bread sticks and to ask for the marinara sauce to dip them in, otherwise there is someone who is kind of unhappy. 'Cause that's all I'll eat. Bread and cheese with dipping sauce. Anything else on there and it is deemed unworthy of consumption.

I had a little bit of a craving for some Alfredo sauce and chicken the other night and couldn't stand the idea of eating it on noodles. So the next best carb? Potatoes. Potatoes are the next best carb to noodles, but no, I didn't eat potato wedges masked in Alfredo and chicken. It had to be the bread. The pizza bread. So off we went to this pizza joint that actually doesn't make all that awesome of pizza, but they do make killer bread twists. Seriously, killer. You could sword fight with these things and come away with a flesh wound. They serve them to you on a long skewer, dripping in butter and Parmesan cheese. Not only a flesh wound could you come away with, but a cholesterol attack all at the same time.

We usually get waters when we go out. 'Cause you know how spendy those sodas with ice in them are. That's where they get their money. A little carbonation and some syrup and you've added 5% onto your tip. Not worth it. But this time, this time we were given the option of red creme soda. Ummm... can't exactly pass that up. Especially when I have been haunting gas stations for the fountain stuff. We had to get it. It said nothing on the bottom about free re-fills, which makes a person think that re-fills are not free. So I savored that stuff. One goldfish sip here, another ostrich gulp there, it was good. And I made it last. All the way to the end. And then the waitress brings out another. Apparently there is one free re-fill. Well! We were actually putting the last bites of pizza and pasta into our mouths and were just about ready to go, so you know what she asks us?! If we want a 'to-go-cup'.

Say that again. A to-what-cup? We were both caught off guard. What was this nonsense, anyways? Who takes a to-go-cup from a sit-down restaurant? Arctic Circle and Taco Bell don't count. Side note for anyone interested, the root beer at Arctic Circle is to die for. It's your run of the mill Mug root beer, but that stuff is good there. We said yes, 'cause it seemed kinda rude to turn down something that was obviously offered there frequently. She brought us out two soda cups and lids and we poured our sodas into these fantabulous to-go-cups.

I've learned a lot from my parents, but probably one of the things that I learned that I use the most often, besides treat people the way you would want to be treated, which I may have learned in church anyways, is this little diddy. Whenever getting a soft drink, ask for no ice. Number one, you get more soda 'cause there's no ice taking up 3/4 of your cup and number two, you don't have watery soda when you'r sucking on that straw for the last time. I mean, they keep the stuff cold anyways, why bother with ice and watery soda?

Moral of the story, I don't like ice bumping around in my soda. So, bless his dear heart, Handsome Husband poured everything into one cup, popped the lid on it and opened up the straw hole real wide and strained the soda into the other cup, leaving all the ice behind. It was such a sweet thing to do. Simple pleasures of life. I definitely married him for his brains. And his sense of humor. And his personality. And the fact that he would never take me for granted.

I drank my red creme soda on the car ride home and enjoyed the red licorice taste of it and was so glad that now I know all about to-go-cups. And now that I know, perhaps I can go in there and just order up some red creme soda instead of scouring every gas station I pass.

Fact of Life: Kool-Aid Can Never Have Enough Sugar

Kool-Aid will forever stain your upper-lip. It knows no age limit and will pierce your skin with its red dye any day of the week for the cost of a sip. I needed some kool-aid this week. Seriously. Kool-aid. Who even thinks of that stuff? I got some. All red flavors. What was I thinking? We all remember the one kid in elementary school with the kool-aid mustache every morning. What their parents were thinking, who knows, but they would always show up to school with a bright red smile, a little turned up at the edges with the imprint of cup lines. For some reason the red is extra potent. I've never seen a kid with a blue or green mustache, it's always red. Weird things. Anyways, I was that kid this week. I had a red ring around my mouth one night and couldn't get it to dull to a light orange until after a shower. Gotta be careful with that stuff.

Fact of life, kool-aid can never have enough sugar. I was all trying to be healthy, just needed some flavored water. Nothing too sweet. Well... I started with 1/2 a cup of sugar and that stuff was sour!?! So I added what I thought was another half a cup. I couldn't be sure since all of our measure cups were dirty in the sink. There was no way I was reaching my hand in there to grab something when my eyes are pretty good at guesstimating. Perk of baking a lot. Though I've gotten a little rusty. Obviously. 'Cause that 'cup' was definitely no 'cup.' It was definitely more like a tablespoon. There was no way a cup of sugar mixed with the red food dye could taste so bad! Only way to fix that was to keep adding sugar. And so I did. A lot. And it's still not awesome... but it's drinkable. Is there an age that you outgrow kool-aid? The age where no amount of sugar can make that stuff taste good?

I remember in 5th grade it was the cool thing to mix your dry kool-aid packet with the sugar and put it in a plastic bag to eat later on the bus. I was cool. I was part of the clique that looked like we were doing some kind of dangerous drug 'cause our index finger would always be dyed a deep color from licking it wet to dip into our joints over and over again. Who thought of that, anyways? But it was soooo good!

I don't know if kool-aid has an age limit for whether it tastes good or not, but it definitely has no age limit as to dying an unsuspecting person's lip red and it has no limit to how much sugar should be added to make it good.

Busting a Load a Day

Who's got laundry? This girl with food spots all over the bellies of her shirts. Embarrassing? A little. I can't do a thing without having to directly throw an article of clothing into the laundry basket.

This belly of mine wants to get in and do everything. This includes making peanut-butter rice krispie squares. I was ALMOST done, seriously, I had the spoon two inches from my mouth, and what do you know? A little morsel of krispie sticks to my shirt. No warning. All of sudden it's there.

My belly has even become a target for any squirting foods. Peach juice, on my shirt. Ketchup, on my shirt. And let me tell you, that stuff stains if you don't get it off soon. Learned that one the hard way. I was even husking corn a few days ago and got corn spit on myself. Ummmm... someone needs to learn the direction for spitting and not use my belly as target practice. Because, number one, it's too big to be called an accurate target. It's like hitting an elephant with grape. Easy peasy. Now, if it were more like hitting a moving cheetah with a bowling ball, now that would be an accomplishment. See the difference?

I've found that it's easier to "fold" and put away laundry when you're doing a load a day. Leaves you with only like 3 things to stuff in the drawers that I thought I had emptied out a few weeks ago. Turns out they're full, again. Weird how clothes accumulate when you shop at DI and find some awesome steals.

But all the water! I am sorry in advance to all of the water-dwelling animals. Our old washing machine only has one setting. Full. And only one temperature. Burn-your-fingers-off-hot. It's a sad thing watching my couple of t-shirts swimming around in more water than I use when I shower. Hey, there's an idea. Just throw my shirts in the tub while I am shampooing my luscious hair. Step on them a few times and squish them against our feet pokers. Out feet pokers are actually supposed to keep you from slipping in the tub, but they're so old they poke. And they're so old they won't come up. So they are feet pokers. Gotta try this.

I Cooked It and I Ate It

I specifically remember the last time I cooked. It was a week after we found out we were having a little girl. I was craving some Cafe Rio taco salad and didn't want to fork out the 20$ to take both Steven and I there so I made my own with a recipe that I have.

I ate and ate that salad, drowning in salad dressing. It was exactly what I needed and wanted and everything I could imagine good food being. And then I threw it up. And that is the last time I cooked anything.

Number one, I was too tired. If I cooked dinner, I was too tired to eat it. It was either one or the other. Number two, smells. Opening the fridge and smelling apples and broccoli and the accent smell of cold plastic (betcha didn't know cold plastic had a smell, hu? Well you find out the secrets of life when you get pregnant and have a super power nose) was too much. I couldn't put anything into my mouth that I had smelled before it got to my nom-noming teeth. Number three, nothing ever sounded good long enough for me to make it. Handsome Husband went to the market to get cheese and butter for grilled cheese sandwiches and by the time he got back I just wanted some ramen noodles. He even went back to the store to get the ramen for me. He really is such a sweet heart.

These three things have kept me from cooking for the past three or four months. They have also kept me from doing the dishes. Just the thought of cleaning something that had been dirtied by food was more than my stomach could handle. Need I mention that I was already visiting the porcelain throne twice a day on a regular basis and more often if my supernatural sense of smell sent me hurdling my way to the bathroom. I won't be forgetting that too soon.

But. I wanted some stir-fry last week. So I got myself a package of vegetables and some rice and even some pre-cut meat and cooked it up and then I ate it. Since then I have also made a couple of BLTs and a taco salad (without the cafe rio dressing). And who knows, next week I might just do the dishes. Maybe.

We've all got a little Emily Dickinson in us

Let's admit it. Love brings out the emotions in us and in search of how to put our feelings on paper we end up with something called 'poetry.' Rhyme or no rhyme, the short lines and vague ideas are very convenient for those of us with so much inside and only so many ways to describe it.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Even in highschool there was something about Dickinson that entranced me. Her words, never quite making sense, and those hyphens... never used before in poetry as means of punctuation. Her famous peculiarities are something I could never get enough of. I wrote high school papers on her life, I wrote college papers on her life and I made a pretty awesome collage as a representation of one of her poems for extra credit. The way that her poetry could be read at one time and make sense to my mind and then I would read it a few months later and it was all baffling. Such a mind teaser. The words and their meanings just at the tip of your mind.

I remember dissecting one of her poems on such a occasion that we were doing a poetry section in my lit class and none of the other poems really meant much to me so I took each word, each hyphen, and figured it out like a complicated math problem. Only, the true miracle of this math problem was there was no right answer. English is like that. Forgiving, so long as you can explain yourself. And with a five page requirement, there was plenty of room to do some explaining. Looking back, I can't even explain how I did it. There's no way I could do it again.

I never thought poetry as a means of communication for normal people. I always thought it was the walking dictionaries and the early century literature lovers who appreciated such frail things such as poems. Words that can have so many meanings and are like a complicated puzzle to figure out. The tool of patience needed to figure them out, which seems to be in short supply these days, especially among the young people who want answers now and don't want to work for their answers but want them given to them.

A confession, I have books upon books of poetry. Poetry that I have written when pining for that one boy to notice me in the hall. Poetry written when loneliness could have split me apart. Poetry written when I thought of others, especially memories. Poetry written when I couldn't get enough of a certain someone's smile. Poetry written when I just needed a good brain exercise and my fingers itched to flip through a thesaurus. Books of it. Notebooks full of sappy and emotional messages. A three-inch binder full of poetry formed from loose-leaf pieces of paper borrowed from the back of my social studies and health dividers back in the day of high school. It's disgusting. Most of it not really that good. All of it holding memories of my life. But I won't lie, there's some good stuff in there, too. I mean, I didn't win a newspaper poetry contest for nothing. But like I said, a lot of it is just trash with too much sentimental value to dump.

Imagine my surprise when I popped on facebook last week and found that my bulldozing people down with helmets and pads over a leather bound ball brother, the same one that can get 2 tickets and total a car in the same week brother, had a little bit of a heart and had written a poem. And had posted it as his status. And that it actually wasn't lame. It was actually kind of peculiar, and it made you wonder just what was going on to make him write it. Who knew he could write more than his name? Not that he can't write more and be more and is more than a beast... the kid just doesn't use his potential in the way that some people I know would like him to. Football is life, and if life is not football than it is wrestling. The kid lives to beat people up. But under all of that, what do you know? He's got some feelings that can only be expressed in poetry and he did his best to get them out. I was so proud of him! Guess I wasn't the only one who scribbled my thoughts down in dozens of notebooks, searching for just the right word to describe what was going on instead of using three.

Who's a Bedwetter?

Handsome Husband and I are constantly having wars over who's towel is who's. My philosophy is, if it's there and it's dry, use it. His is a little more humane and he thinks that your towel should be your towel to get wet and dirty. Little does he know that when you step out of the shower you are the cleanest you will ever be.

I mean, let's face it. I am a girl, and I have hair that needs to be wrapped up in a towel outside of the bathroom. A towel that stays on my head until I am putting a shirt on and I have to unravel it from my head, only to pile it back on before I go make lunch or whatever is next on the agenda. My towels have a hard time staying in the bathroom, let alone finding their way back to the bathroom to dry and be ready for the next use.

Steven's, on the other hand, is always handy on the towel rack. More often than not it is dry and more often than not mine is nowhere to be found so I conveniently use his. Which, of course, would be no big deal if I could do it so that he would never find out. But he does. He's a great detective that way.

He's so responsible, he always checks for towel before he gets in the shower. He never has the problem of opening the shower curtain, dripping wet, and there being no towel except mine to be had anywhere. We have a hard time relating.

My towels never make it back to the bathroom because they are usually busy being dropped and forgotten in various places. Most often the bed and the chairs in the kitchen. And there are many times when there is a towel in both places because mine was forgotten and I couldn't very well traipse around the house dripping wet to look for it so I use Steven's and then forget that it's not mine to abuse and drop it someplace. It drives him crazy.

But, I always tell him that when I am gone, if I am the one to get to leave first, that he will miss having to re-live an easter-egg hunt every time before he gets in the shower. And then we get all solemn and he says that I am right, that he will miss it and that he loves me and I get a big hug and a kiss for leaving the towels out rather than a mad husband.

"Jessica, you have got to stop wetting the bed." And that is how I became our resident bed-wetter 'cause my towel would be on the bed, and instead of drying, it would be soaking into the covers and sheets. So, yes, I am a bed-wetter and it probably won't stop for years to come.

Ants in our Pants

Maybe I did a super cleaning job and then had a whole bunch of people over for dinner and then the cleaning kind of got pushed to the back of the to-do list. Maybe I forgot to sweep the floor for a coupla weeks. And maybe I have always been intrigued by ants and it was no big deal when the first few filed into our kitchen. But 20 ants is too many ants.

When I was little I LOVED LOVED LOVED bugs. I had a bug book and a bug container that had breathing holes manufactured in the top. And since there was always a bug already in there, I was forever begging my mom to cut holes into peanut butter jar lids. I will never forget the smell of day-old caterpillar and wilted grass and it still brings back good memories, even if the smell send chills down my spine.

My grandma and grandpa would dig up an anthill every summer and put some of the ants with some dirt into a canning jar for me to watch. Those ants would go to work right away making canals and tunnels and I loved watching them dig away, piece by piece. I've always been intrigued, too, how if you disturb an ant hill it's always the hurt ants and the babies that are rescued first. I could watch an ant forever move an egg to a safer location. It looks so hard, but they do it. And they do it quickly. If only people could have the same work ethic.

My interest in ants and love for bugs hasn't diminished much in the past 23 years. I mean, I don't go around putting them in jars anymore, but I appreciate them for their tininess. I wasn't really grossed out when a few ants appeared on our kitchen floor. Poor things were looking for some food for the winter and there was plenty to be had on our dirty floor. Well, that sort of changed when there were tons of them scampering along the wall, branching out to under the table. They weren't so cute, but I thought that if I just swept real good they would tire of their search and be gone. Which was kind of true. For a few days until we left some food on the table after dinner and the next morning it was teaming with ants. There are personal boundaries in the kitchen. And ants do not belong on the table. Nope. No way.

I swept, wiped and mopped that kitchen to spotlessness and then found my way to the store for some ant bait. Nothing was going to get in the way of the killer. I set out the traps and we left for the weekend to Rexburg. No one was going to be dropping crumbs on the ground for a good 36 hours and I was ready and waiting. When we got home there were a few ants who were slowly making their way around, but no real threat. They looked a little sick if I do say so myself. After that, no more ants. The traps had promised to kill a whole colony, but even if it had just made the scouts super sick I would have been happy. It kind of grosses me out more to think of a whole colony of ants, dead somewhere under the ground. But we've got no more ants in our pants and I am keeping our kitchen floor clean so that our next friendly visitors are not mice.

No Longer a Fatty

It's happened. I am no longer a fatty. My baby bump has emerged and yesterday was the first day that someone asked if I were having a boy or a girl! Finally! I have noticed people staring at me longer than usual, but I wasn't sure if it was because my pregnancy jeans were slipping down and not matching with my shirt or if it truly was because there's a belly where a flat stomach used to be.

In honor of such a momentous occasion I cleaned out my dresser and put all of my used-to-fit clothes in a basket in the closet and filed in the few prego things that I have randomly collected so far. They take up a whole half a drawer. My dresser is empty enough to close all drawers at once. This is highly unacceptable and there will be shopping in the near future. Thank goodness my mommy gave me a gift card to Ross specifically for this reason.

It was kind of sad putting away all of my collected clothes. 'Cause you know what I have decided? I don't look half bad with some extra poundage and could probably get away with being un-noticeably pregnant. So who knows if I will ever have the urge again to fit into the clothes that I could once call mine? Now I understand why my mom always wears shirts that don't hug her body that I always found disgusting. And you know what? I am ok with that. Which is even more disgusting. This is the weirdest thing ever, this pregnancy thing. But at least, for right now, I am no longer a fatty.

Bands on my pants?

Fact of life. You get pregnant and you are all of a sudden going through puberty, once again.

I hate bra shopping. Hate hate hate. It's a little humiliating 'cause you gotta have someone measure you, you gotta try on different styles and then within those different styles you sometimes need to try on different sizes. It's like jean shopping but more difficult 'cause instead of just slipping on a pair of jeans and doing a few twirls in front of the mirror to make sure everything looks alright and you don't have a big waffle bum there are more straps involved and those little hangers that they put bras on for display are not user-friendly. Not at all. Once you get the thing on, if you like the feel of it, you gotta slip on a shirt to make sure that there are not unsightly bulges, either from your own body or from some wiring in the bra. True story. I had to learn this trick on my own 'cause my first bra shopping experience left me with a bra that you could totally see outlined under any and every shirt, no matter how many layers were put on it to try to soften the ridges. Talk about embarrassing for an 11 year-old.

All of this takes some time. So the little sales lady is always knocking on the door, asking if everything is ok. Which kind of panics me and makes me fumble with trying to get those bra straps back on their little hanger that looks so tiny and cute but is really frustration with a cute face. Not so much fun.

I have come to the decision that when my little girl becomes of age we will march into Victoria's Secret, having a talk in the car beforehand about how the seductive models are not to be mimicked and how this is strictly a bra-buying experience, not that I am trying to expose her to pornography, and how if you're gonna buy a bra, you may as well do it right and in a cute dressing room all decked out in frills and pink. Very ladylike and it makes bra buying feel like a special occasion rather than a fact of life, not more unlike than how you gotta slaughter the cow 'cause that's where hamburger comes from, in a very bland JC Penny dressing room where the helper lady could be your grandma rather than a young, cute girl that is much more hip and has bras in every style you could want in almost every color. That is the way to do it. And even though they give customers a bright pink bag that screams 'I have a bra in here' at least it's cute. Oh, and another plus for Victoria is that they don't have any of those little bra hangers. Nope, they keep their bras in easy access drawers which deletes the need for hangers. Nothing could be more amazing.

Well, as I said, I am going through puberty again and needed a bra. We started at Pennys, bad idea, I knew that from the start, but they had a lot of designs online and they're supposed to be cheaper. That was a fail. So we went to Victoria's, even though they don't sell nursing bras in the store, they have them online and I thought it would be good to get my size. I was a little surprised when they had the math figured out, but you know, whatever.

I was shopping with Kimberly, my bestest best friend. She is the only one who can get me to do some pretty crazy things, like going into Victoria's in the first place a few years ago. Well, we were passing by a store called Motherhood Maternity and she begged for me to go try there for a bra. Turns out, we found a winner. And while we were there it was pretty obvious that I was a new 'mother' 'cause they were so super nice and so super helpful. They not only brought me bras, but some jeans to try with the belly band part, which I swore I would never wear, and even some shirts. Not just shirts though, they were t-shirts. T-shirts that would grow with me. Definitely worth the investment. And if I ever do decide to do this again (this, as in, get pregnant) they won't be out of style.

The pants were sooooo comfortable I just could barely stand taking them off to pay for them. The belly part was more like stretch fabric rather than elastic that I remember my mom wearing and so comfortable. And it sucked up my love handles! So slimming! They were a must, even at the high price, they were so adorable. Even cuter than the ones that I had gotten at AE the week before. Amazing. I never would have gone in there if it weren't for Kimberly. So off we went, back to her house so that I could change into my super cute outfit, complete with puberty busting bra, t-shirt and jeans.

I picked Steven up from work and he was so happy that I had finally gotten jeans with a band that he picked me up and swung me around. He was afraid as to how many jeans this pregnancy was going to need, but now the total will just be two. And one of them I no longer have to worry about what shirt I am wearing with them 'cause they suck up my love handles like they weren't even there. It feels so good to feel good again! Oh, and the other best part is that I ordered some extra large undershirts from Aeropostale so now I can have cute undershirts that actually cover my belly without me having to tug on them so often. Everything is going to be alright. All because I have a band on my pants now.

Bragging

I cannot get enough sleep. It's not even 'that time of pregnancy' where I should be needing this much sleep... but believe me. I can sure do it well. Sunday I fell asleep in Steven's arms around 7, woke up vaguely for a hour or so to change into pajamas and get a drink and was asleep again until he rubbed my feet to wake me up 12 hours later to take him to work. Two hours later I was in bed again and slept until 12, when I had to get up to get ready for work. That, my friends, is a lot of sleeping.

In between all of this, I was able to get 4 batches of laundry done, although none of them made it anywhere but a pile on a bed, ruffled through as I found my work clothes and was on my way. The kitchen was a disaster, the bedroom was a disaster and the living room wasn't so livable.

Lest I forget to mention, I don't do dishes anymore, and I don't cook anymore. Anything that has to do with food anymore than sticking a spoon or fork in my mouth makes me gag. Hence, all of that gets left to Steven and sometimes it doesn't get done.

But yesterday. Yesterday was miraculous. The garbage had all been taken out. All of it. And our garbage was like a college apartment garbage. We've all seen them. The kind where the garbage can is full. So full that there is garbage piled up higher than should be possible on top and there are piles lingering around the sides. The kind of garbage that causes the bag that was originally in the garbage can to sink to the bottom. The kind of garbage that forces you to grab another sack, just to lift pieces off the mound to make it manageable. Causing one to not only grab one garbage sack, but perhaps two or three. Big job. Something I was definitely not about to do.

The dishes were all done. All done. You know how dishes find their way, creeping along the sink counter as they explode out of the sink. How they get left on the table 'cause there's no room on the counters. Well... we all know of it. Don't lie. All of those were cleaned. Even the dishes that are so often forgotten because they're on the stove. Leftover pots and pans from dinners and lunches that were too hot at the time to be put anywhere but the next burner over and then just stay there. Those were done. AND the utensils were washed. This may not seem like a big deal to anyone else, but Steven's way of washing utensils usually includes a lot of soaking. Even when the dishes have been done, there's always a cold bowl of water (used to be hot) soaking all of our forks and spoons and knives which causes me to reach my hand in to the unknown soup to grab out my cereal spoon. EVEN that was all clean.

The bedroom that I had left a total wreck had a made bed in the middle of it without any of the clothes on it that I had left twisted in the middle. They were all put away. Well, as put away as could be. Steven's were in his coffin of a laundry basket and mine were on the floor 'cause he had gotten frustrated trying to fit more clothes into the already bulging dresser. I need to go through that thing and pull out the shirts that I can't wear anymore. Like, literally cannot wear anymore. They are now belly shirts and it's kind of sickening. And they are still mixed up with all of my other clothes. I need to have a sorting and boxing day.

I didn't even make it to the living room until this morning and what do you know? The blankets on the couch were all folded up nicely on the back of it. I don't even do that when I clean up. It just feels so good to have a clean house.

Now, I know I post about our dirty house a lot. But I think I post about it that way because it's a novelty. You know? Our house is usually not that messy. Ok, the dishes are more often than not, not done. But the rest of it is decent. And there are ALWAYS clothes spilling from somewhere. But let's be serious. I am never embarrassed about the bathroom or the living room when we have guests. Which are the parts that they would ever need to use if they were just swinging by for a visit.

There was even a time, when I was using that porcelain throne three times a day to empty my stomach contents that I was cleaning that toilet every other day. If I am going to have my face that close to something it had better be clean. I've got a basket to keep all of my 'girl things' in that is easily moved up into a cupboard so that the counter isn't cluttered with a blow dryer and a straightener that I always forget to turn off with miscellaneous makeup pieces here and there. I'll admit, the bobby pins get away from me sometimes and I can find them in every room of the house, but for the most part, everything that I need to get ready in the morning stays in that basket.

I keep the floors vacuumed and clean of stuff 'cause I love my open, clean space. So life isn't that bad. Don't fear for our baby choking on something unless it's a clean sock. And I love going through clutter, so our mail is never more than a little pile of bills that need to be payed, the due dates written in large on the statements as I open them when they come and then collect them until they're all ready to be sent out at once. Makes my life complete to lick those envelopes and stick them in the mail.

I love that husband of mine. He always knows just when I need him the most and never lets me down.

Interesting Fact

Let's face it. When a girl needs to go jean shopping it takes quite a few tries to find the perfect pair. And usually then it's not even perfect, it's a bearable pair. It's a long, strenuous process of trying on jean after jean. Trying on the same jean in two different sizes getting a feel for which one fits better, lots of rotating in the mirror and trying on EVERY SINGLE jean style in the store trying to find the one that makes your bumski look decent instead of like a flat pancake taking up your rear-side.

And then, if you're a picky-picky like me you have to not only take into consideration what it looks like, but what it feels like. Not just on you, but the material itself. I like my jeans thick and tough. Not the bedazzled cloth that they call denim but I am pretty sure that it is only 'mostly' denim. So it's kinda hard 'cause you gotta step up your search. Which means AE and Hollister and the Buckle. Those are the only places I have gotten jeans in the past three years and it has been worth every single hard earned penny to get jeans that you feel awesome in.

I don't spend too much money on clothes. In relativity, lol. My wardrobe is made up of dozens of t-shirts from various second-hand stores in multiple colors left-over from when I went through a phase of having a shirt in every color. And then for dressy occasions I have a sweater in almost every color as well. But for jeans I will drop cold, hard cash. There's nothing that competes with feeling good in your own pants.

Yesterday I had a hour to kill before my hair appointment and so I wandered the mall in my utah state t-shirt and warm-up pants with my hair in a side braid with curls spilling out all over the place. Put a cowboy hat on me and I coulda been a jock rodeo girl. Otherwise, I looked just a little sloppy, lol. I was a little too self-conscious to go to the buckle by myself without a boy in tow so I headed to AE. I find it so interesting that people that tend to shop at expensive places always seem to be dressed so casually. flip-flops, jeans and some kind of sloppy shirt thrown on. Most of the times the jeans are skipped for sweats or something else equally unflattering. It puzzles me, but it's one of those things that you honor. You make yourself believe that they don't look like that every day because of the clothes that are being folded into a neat little bag with a big label on it. That they are so awesome that they don't care what people think and can shop in grungies 'cause they are going out to a hott date later that night. It's sick how we idolize people.

After checking out the denim selection there I passed onto a few other stores, finding jeans that were more glamorous but didn't have the same fabric quality. So back I went to AE and grabbed up four pairs of jeans, one in each size for two styles. I tried them all on, and you know what the interesting fact is that I found out? I was really nervous about slipping my booty into a size 12 'cause 10s always fit the best but they're often just a little long on me and make me feel unproportional... well... when you get into a size 12 the manufacturers figure out that size 12 doesn't mean taller, it means squatter, and the pant length fit perfect! Or will fit perfect after a washing. I couldn't believe it! It's like a magical transformation.

So, now with some bigger pants I think my love handles that appeared last week will fall back into some chubby back fat that will help me support this little girl in my tummy. I have already decided that I cannot get myself to get prego pants 'cause anything on my stomach besides a shirt makes me feel like peeling off all of my clothes. Which wouldn't be pretty for anyone. So I am going through this pregnancy with regular pants and regular shirts with extra large undershirts under to cover up any kind of unsightly skin. All the prego stuff is just so... big for people with womanly curves, ya know? I still have to shop in the junior section! There's no way I am swimming my way through some flowy, loose material made for a woman twice my size with boobs. No way.

The doctor yesterday said that I had a weight increase a little more than most, but that I still looked skinny and healthy. Which is a loud and huge underestimate. My first appointment at 16 weeks I was 140 lbs and an appointment 4 weeks later and I am 152 lbs. It's a huge shock when you have been the same weight for so long with nothing more than 5 lbs variance up and down, depending on the season. I guess that happens when your main liquid is chocolate milk and you aren't exercising the same as you used to 'cause when you do feel well enough to do 'stuff' there's a house that needs to be cleaned rather than a gym that needs to be gotten to. And when you're working full time you go to work and come home exhausted. It's not the best schedule to use. I love my days off, even though it seems like I usually use them as time to re cooperate and end up sleeping a lot.

High School Drama

I don't care who you are. Everyone enjoys a little high school drama once in awhile. That being said, as long as high school is far away in the past and you can laugh at the dumb things that were SUCH a BIG DEAL back in the day.

After seeing the movie trailer 'Prom' once I was hooked. I had to see that movie. As much as I hated high school and am glad it's far behind me, I still like the idea of high school. It's kind a fairy tale place that is in real life where I can imagine amazing things happening. Things like going to tail gate parties and watching every football game, even the away ones, dressed in school colors with glitter cascading on to by-standers as you bounce with your besties from one side of the bleachers to the other. Things that obviously I never did, hence I hated high school with a passion and came home crying at least once a week one year hating it so much. My parents patiently listened to me and my dad wiped my tears as I spilled drama after drama into their caring ears. Oh what a confusing time.

But this, this prom movie... it was a must-see. Especially since I have a self-interest in dances, and most importantly, the primping that goes into dances even before they start. That is always the best part, no matter what hott date is going to show up at your door later that night and wait for you for 30 minutes while you gaze and re-gaze at yourself, making sure everything is just right, but never really changing anything. Just reassuring yourself that yes, this is a picture-worthy momentous occasion, and yes, you do look strikingly gorgeous.

I had this wild idea when the movie first came out around prom season that Steven and I would hook ourselves up as a high school couple and maybe take a stroll through DI while picking up some ridiculous prom cast-offs and then go to the theaters in our 80's prom get-up and out to dinner, taking some awesome pictures along the way. We would take so many awesome pictures that we would frame some of them and hang them in our bedroom, just for kicks.

Well, DIs seemed to be fresh out of 80's dresses with the big poofy sleeves and obnoxious bows either in the front or on the back or all over, ruffling with taffeta. So that dream never came to pass, which meant that I never got to see this movie until last night we were scrolling through the redbox movies and came across it.

After much complaining we came home with it and popped it in the computer. And OH MY GOODNESS. High school drama drama drama. Each couple had a different story and it was kind of crazy how I could relate to each of them different as they were, they were definitely all a stereotype and it was just too funny. And the funniest part, Steven couldn't get enough of it! Every time I adjusted and made a little too much noise the movie was paused, waiting for the rustling to not be so loud so that we could get in on the drama going on at the time.

I cannot wait until we have kids in high school. It is going to be so much fun! I remember when we were dating and my roommates would come in with boy problems and because Steven was always over at our apartment he was more like a brother to a few of them and he would give advice and remind them, 'no playing games. games are not for dating.' He was my favorite from the start. He's always so patient with problems and even though he doesn't always know exactly what to say, he always made everyone feel better.

Where's Your Baby?

Remember when I said being pregnant is embarrassing 'cause it means that all these weird-o, unnatural things are happening to your body? I mean, seriously, what kind of healthy person throws up 2x a day? Well, I told the essential people. Facebook, my family and the people I worked with. But then I just kind of let the rumor spread and counted on people telling people and didn't bother telling every person I saw that week that we found out.

This means that an important group of people got skipped on the good news. Church. Which wasn't a big deal for awhile 'cause looking at me, there was no sign. But then I got asked to go full time at Michaels and my Sundays at church became limited and next thing I know I am only with my little nursery class once a month. So I fixed that to where I can get to them at least twice, sometimes three times a month. But I still didn't bother telling anyone that there was a baby inside of me. And now I haven't been for another three weeks and what do you know? Ummm... the secrets gotta come out 'cause I am quite noticeably large.

But only large enough that you can say, "Hey, she used to be thinner... didn't she?" So then it puts you in another awkward situation because obviously we didn't tell anyone and so now everyone's gonna wonder why we didn't tell anyone and may be too shy to come out and ask at this point even with the noticeable changes. So then I will just get some looks. Looks that last a little too long as they turn in their mind if there is something going on. Second looks as they try to decide if I really do look pregnant or it's just the way I am standing. Third looks as they really try to figure it out and maybe watch for my belly to kick out or something. It's humiliating. So I am thinking we may need to make a trip by the ward gossip's house and tell them so that it can be around the ward by Sunday and I can stop sweating about an announcements.

We went to the ward picnic for the last little bit of its endurance to help clean up, or something? I didn't really want to go. I looked kind of grungy from work (I don't always bother to shower and put make-up on those days) and didn't really feel like socializing and pretending like I belonged. It's strenuous sometimes. But after a quick change and a pep-talk from Handsome Husband we were off and got there just in time to help clean-up. Which I did happily 'cause it gave me something to focus on and most usually something to carry in-front of my growing tummy.

When we had first moved into the ward we had tried really hard to be involved with everything and I had gone to numerous Relief Society functions, desperately trying to make friends and be accepted by the little old ladies. I was a young whipper-snapper with a soft smile and a quiet voice and a newly-wed that would probably move out of the ward in a few months. I wasn't given much attention. Our need to be included and meet people forced us to join the ward Christmas choir, which actually wasn't all that bad. Except, think of the ward choirs you have been. They're all nice people, but more often than not you get the weirdy reclusive that just loves music with all their heart but don't have much as far as social skills go. That activity kind of exploded in our face if it weren't for the pianist and the fact that the practices were always held at her home. She was always so sweet to us and was genuinely happy to see us there and made sure that we at least got introduced to everyone even if no one ever talked about much more than music and who should be singing which parts.

She is so so so nice and friendly and she was there at the picnic, of course, trying to get rid of the last dozen ears of corn that she had brought from her garden. While I was packing things to her husband's truck she caught up with me and all seriousness asked, "And where's your baby?" Now her seriousness had a little smile behind it, because she is such a happy, personal person and I thought that maybe she was joking. You know, that maybe, somewhere, someone had heard that I was pregnant and she was asking me this question to get around the topic and find out if I were really pregnant. I grinned, playing along, and pointed down to my stomach. "Right here!" BAHAHAHA wrong answer. Remember when I told you how we were getting baby shower announcements on our door every week? She had been getting the same ones and didn't know the girls very well and had just been tossing them aside. She had mixed me up with them! She looked extremely shocked, to say the least, and kept apologizing. Which makes me feel even worse. Is it that bad? Is it that bad to find out someone is pregnant? So now I am nervous beyond anything and am trembling about going to church on Sunday. I can only hope that maybe she will tell some of the older ladies in their quilt group or whatever, it's pretty well known that we don't have any immediate family near us and that we're doing this adventure on our own. I just don't want to be the one to tell anyone. I really don't. I wish my dad were here to announce it in church the way he announced that Steven and I were getting married back in the day. It would make life so much easier!

I am a slob

Watch out. This is a body post. You've been warned.

Pregnancy has made me realize how much easier it is to be clean when you're thin. No one would ever have been able to call me 'skinny.' Thin. Yes. But skinny. No. I am no string bean. Maybe a cucumber. They're kinda straight up and down but with a little beafiness to them, ya know? See, I've always had this paranoia. It's a secret I don't share much, but what the heck, right? I have this paranoia of my stomach being larger than my boobs. I've always had it, ever since 5th grade when I began to notice that everyone was growing boobs and I definitely was not. So in order to feel proportionate I had to make sure that my stomach never got bigger than my non-existing boobs. I did this quite successfully and everyone was envious of my flat stomach. And then when I started running cross country in highschool not only did my stomach stay flat, but it got toned as well. All that huffing and puffing up the hills really got my abs to work their magic and all of a sudden I was awesome looking, minus the fact that I had little boobies. A girl can only have so much I guess.

Well, when you get pregnant, your boobs grow. I know. It's the best thing that has ever been given to me. There's a minor problem though. They grow and all of a sudden you have them and all of a sudden you notice food splatters appearing on all of your t-shirts right on your now-voluptuousness chest that otherwise never would have happened 'cause there was no shelf (per-say) a week and a half ago. It kind of reminds me of when I first started growing hips my junior year of highschool and I kept running into stuff. The desks at school could never be far enough apart and it seemed like doors that I used to be able slide through, barely missing the frame, were bumping me all over the place. And then when I had to move up a pant size, well that was a not so awesome day. Not necessarily the fact that I had to move up a size, but that now when I went to a dressing room to try on jeans I had to not only take a bajillion different styles, but I had to take one of each size and try on both and decide which one fit better. It slowed down my clothes buying and decision making a lot. It was torturous.

And now my stomach is growing. So instead of food splotches showing up on my chest, I usually get a nice swipe of sauce or whatever down the side of my belly on any shirt I am wearing at the time as food escapes bounce twice before hitting the floor. And for some reason, I can't seem to get food from the plate to my mouth without spilling something, sometime in a meal. It's really embarrassing. Being pregnant is messy business.

Where were we...

It's hard, I always have so many things to write about, and then I finally get to a computer and kapow, it's all done and gone left my brain. Usually I think of spunky title names and one-liners on my way to work and back. 30 minutes in the car can do that to a person. And then I pick Handsome Husband up from work and we get home and scrounge something up for dinner, which this week will be tuna sandwiches and carrots. (Going back to the college days since I gotta pay for a stinkin' ticket! That's right. A ticket. Me. Master of avoiding police cars. A ticket. Dumbest thing I have EVER done. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Enough on that. That's another post.) And then it's all I can do to get my dishes in the sink and fall into bed. Seriously. I am that tired. Usually Steven will have a movie picked out for us to watch. And I fall asleep during that. Doesn't leave much time for blogging my brilliance into cyberspace. Bummer for the world.

But really. Our little baby kicked me. (I am still afraid that if I call her 'our little girl' I am going to jinx it and we will be picking out blue accessories rather than pink.) At first I thought it was just my food settling. It really feels just like that. Little bubbles popping in your stomach. But then I noticed them coming at kind of weird times and not at all predictably. Unless I am in the car with a seat belt on. Then I can count on feeling her push against where the belt is. Is that a sign? Something about pushing boundaries or something? Let's hope not. So I've got a bubble blower in my stomach and it's kind of a weird sensation. And that's where we are on this road called 'creating life.' Mind you, it's been a rough, gravel road with A LOT of pot holes. But I think it's starting to move toward a decent highway right now and if I could just get my belly to grow a little bigger life would be much more smooth. Right now I still look like I've got 10 lbs added to my belly and little love handles stick out from my jeans. Not what any pregnant lady wants to look like but I am sure it will give way to a beastly stomach and some awesome looking hips in the end.