Now that I Know, I'm Happier.

We're having another boy and I am so relieved!
Aside from having gads of little boy clothes, stacks of blue blankets, tons of trucks and dinosaurs... I just feel more confident knowing another boy is on the way.
Like, I already had a boy.  I already know what to do with a boy.

Hear me out.
If a baby boy is crying, from my experience, he needs something.  Diaper change, food, sleep, snuggle, maybe he can't reach an itchy spot on his back... I mean it'll be something.  And, this whole time, I couldn't help but think... if a baby girl is crying... does she really need something or is she just having a bad day.  Is the little lady just feeling emotional?  How would you ever know?
Then there's the hair issue.  You've all seen Koley's wild and woolly mane.  It's untameable.  And, lucky for me, the tussled look looks adorable on a toddler boy.  But put those same nappy locks on a girl and you instantly think "negligent mother."  I don't know how to fix hair.  Not my own- and certainly not a baby's!  I know there are YouTube tutorials and books.  I've tried with my own hair.  I've watched the videos and I can successfully do a ponytail, some hair up and some hair down, and just plain down.  Although I can part on either side.  Or down the middle. 
Then, THEN!  There is when a girl would grow up and... you know... develop.  And start her period and all that.  I am not wanting to talk about that or teach that to anyone. 
I admire the mothers of girls.  They are far braver than I.
More confident.
More in control.
More motherly.

I'm sticking to what I know.  And happy to be doing so.
I'm happy It's A Boy.

He's measuring big.  Again.  99.5 percentile.  Weird they have those markers for even unborn babies.  The tech said they'd probably take the critter a couple weeks early so we don't have another giant baby.
Even though I really like giant babies, they are quite difficult to deliver.
And we've already picked out the name.
I'm not telling what it is- but I'll let you guess.
His initials will be:
JBP

I'm A Survivor

Yesterday, in church, we had a lesson on overcoming trials.  It was entitled, "Songs They Could Not Sing."  Touching.  And a touch dramatic.
I am not one to scoff at trials.  I've been dealt a few.
I mean, we all have, right?
In one way or another we have all faced the burden heartache.
Whether it's in the form of sickness, loss of faith, the death of a child or spouse or friend.  Trials can be financial.  Trials come in the form of emotional death... where you're depressed or anxious... or maybe you're OCD and really wish you weren't.  You may have gone through a horrible divorce or lost the trust of someone you love.
And then there are times when you can't pinpoint what's bugging you- you're just not happy.
We all are faced with trials in some way.

I was sitting there listening to white-haired women go on about trials they had years ago and were still upset and crying over.  Events that took place 50 and 60 years ago!  And from listening to them you'd think it was last week.  They were still carrying the grief with them. 

I was shocked by how many women in this class were crying.  Bawling.  Trying (unsuccessfully) to hold it all in.  One was stricken with an illness.  Another went through a divorce.  Another lost a child "to the world."  One suffered infertility when she was younger but later bore children.  And they all seemed to have the same plea.  "Why do bad things happen to good people?" 

I raised my hand.
"Bad things happen to everybody.  Good people.  And bad people.  No one is singled out."

Uhhh....I wasn't met with applause.
In fact the teacher couldn't even think of anything to say to me and my comment.  (Not even a thank you or a polite nod or an eyebrow raise.)

I felt really uncomfortable.  I didn't want to belittle the heartaches and feelings of these women- but I couldn't believe that one bad thing defined their entire life and they still weren't over it.

And as I sat there I couldn't help but wonder.... What made me a survivor?
(How very Carrie Bradshaw-esque.)

You know what?  Let's walk down Trial Alley with me for a sec.

Trial #1
About 10 doctors told me I couldn't have kids.
Did I quit having sex with my husband?  No.  I did quit using protection... and look where THAT got me.

Trial #2
I had to put off my education so Ken could finish his.
Was that easy?  Might sound that way to you... but it wasn't.  I cried and pouted and built up all this resentment.
But you know what?  I'm registering to start back up in the Fall.  Couple semesters still have my name on them.

Trial #3
I've got a brain tumor.
Can't really tell you what it does to me- besides make my body produce milk... and empty my bank account.

These three aren't much and they don't (as they say) start to scratch the surface... but... when I think of these three phases of my life- I can remember being sad.  I remember crying.  A lot.  Asking Andi for sad songs to listen to.  I remember putting the ear buds in and checking out.  Not talking to people.  Not answering my phone.  Not showering or leaving the house.  I remember being mad. At everyone! Feeling like my life was over.  I remember being jealous that other people had it better.  Feeling like I was given the short end of the stick.

I can't imagine still feeling that way.  Still harboring those feelings.  Feelings of hate and hurt. 

It's not that the trials went away.  I mean, okay, I've got Koley and one on the way- so doctors have kinda lost their shiny good rep with me.  But, when one trial leaves another one always shows up.  Always.  I'm not every going to be trial-less.  It's not possible.

What IS possible is making the choice to GET OVER IT.  Quit sulking.  Stand up for yourself.  Quit waiting for someone else to make you happy.  Start living your own life.  This is your big (and only) shot.  Why waste it being upset.  Whatever it is, Let It Go.  Become a survivor.

Trust me.
It feels good to live.

5 for 5

5 Things I Really Dislike About Renting

1. The noise.  It's the parking lot.  The tow-truck driver.  The highway.  The airport.  The Air Products factory.  (<--- which is releasing clouds or steam or something under really high pressure this morning to the tune of a shrill whistle.  Imagine a tea kettle at full steam.  Right by your ear.  For 3 hours.)  Then there's the kids.  All the screaming.  All the knocking on my door wondering if I have snack.  Wondering if I can play.  Yeah.  They want me to play.  Not Koley.  Me!  I mean I'm fun.  But I'm 27.  And pregnant.  I'm laying off the monkey bars for awhile.  Then there's the dag gum scooters that sometimes run into my door.  Ride in traffic!
   There was an article in my Oprah magazine this month about noise and how damaging it can be to your physical and mental health.  I may have taken it quite seriously.  Earplugs please.
2. Hard water.  Not only is my hair straw-like, brittle, and unable to style... my shower curtain is turning orange and all my cups are so foggy you can't see through them.  Sorta gross.
3. The upstairs faucet on my side of the bathroom... if you turn it on cold- it'll run cold for about the space of time it takes you to reach the faucet.  Then, it's luke warm. And every night (EVERY NIGHT) I forget.  I bend over to rinse after brushing my teeth and get a balmy luke warm mouthful of water.  Blecckh.  I can just imagine those weird white floaty things that are always in warm water gushing into my mouth. 
4. The faucet in the guest bathroom downstairs... if you turn it to warm (like half a millimeter to the warm side) to wash your hands...  It will scald your skin off.  I've heard many a guest scream in surprise.  And horror.  I should put a warning post-it on the mirror.
5. Wind blows through the cracks around the front door.
6. I really miss getting the mail in my pajamas without a bra on.

5 Things I Really Like About Renting

1. Ken comes home every night.  You just can't beat that.  Kole gets so excited.  He watches from the window starting at five to 6 and waits.  Waits for Dad to come home.  And boy is it mayhem when Ken gets here!  Giggling.  Chasing.  Growling.  Wrestling.  Boy stuff.  Mom takes a break.
2. I do like having a box to walk to in order to get the mail.  It feels very "Housewives." 
3. When something is broken (kitchen cabinet, toilet, closet door, blinds) it cost absolutely nothing to fix.  Just call the manager and they send Manuel over at 5:15.  Love it.
4. My neighbor and I tape messages up to each other on our kitchen windows during the day.  It makes me feel like I'm 7 and I like it. (Maybe that's why those kids always want to play with me.)
5. I'm getting to know people.  They know me.  I'm making friends.  After 6 long months.  I feel comfortable here.

Truth Is Thursday

1. Juli posted her Truth Is yesterday and I feel like an additional day was dumped in the middle of the week.  Like a double Wednesday.  How is it not Friday?
2.  I think my butt is growing at the same pace as my baby belly.  I guess that goes to "for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."
3. I just tried to take a nap... but between the Air Products across the field rearranging their fleet of trucks (Beep!  Beep!  Beep!), the stinking highway traffic, and my proximity to the airport... I just wound up taking a pill for a headache.
4.  I started reading The Studs Terkel Reader and feel very adult about it.
5.  Yesterday, for the first time in years, I thought- "Yeah... I could have more than 2 kids.  Maybe 4.  Maybe 5."  I think I was a little drunk on sunshine and warm weather.  
6. I dyed my own hair last night and it turned out the exact color on the box.  Perfectly even.  10 points Patty!
7. I like awarding myself points throughout the day.   It's something I've always done. You know, for good behavior, a smart move, a clever line.  I wonder how many points I have now?  And what I can cash them in for.
8. We got our tax refund today and that can only mean one thing.  We're going to The Outback!  YAY!  Ken makes us save all of it.  But I can always coax one dinner date out of him.  Awesome Blossom, Come to MAMA!
9. Kole is getting really good at talking.  Eh... he's getting really good at repeating things.  Yeah.  Better stated.

Zoo-rriffic

I'd like to start this post by welcoming Megan, our newest follower, aboard.
Hello, Megan.  Glad you could make it.  Refreshments will be served after the closing prayer.

When we woke up on Saturday it was so warm and sunny out.  It smelled like wet dirt.  Which equates to Spring in my mind. After Ken whipped up some apple pancakes (I'm spoiled.  Spoiled.  I know.  Spoiled.  Spoiled.  Spoiled.) I talked him into going to the zoo after Koley-Doo's nap.  I just wanted to be out in the fresh air.  Sometimes I feel like my lungs and whole body need an internal spring cleaning.  And I'm not into those colon cleanses... so I'll take breathing in a day with temps in the 50s. 
We headed to the zoo as the sky clouded up.  "It'll stay warm.  Don't worry."  I tried assuring Kenner and Koley.... I mean Ken was in shorts.  My only option of warmth was the fleece zip-up I tossed in the back seat. 
By the time we got to the zoo... the wind had kicked up a little.  And, let me tell ya, it wasn't blowing in from the Caribbean either.  It was chilly.  On the upside- the zoo was not crowded.  At all.  We got primo parking and great views of every animal. 
We even let Kole ride the train.  It was my first time on the train too and I loved it!  I got a thrill out of being on a ride and not having to wear a seat belt.  There is absolutely no danger in this train.  I mean you could pretty much step off while it's moving and walk along beside it... but that lack of seat belt really gave me an adrenaline high!
The train was our last stop of the day.  Seeing as the temperatures had dropped significantly.
It started snowing on our drive home.
So we stopped at Maverick for some Kettle-Cooked Jalapeno Chippies!
That'll warm you up!



Giraffes always remind me of Aunt Betsy and Julie.




I really wish Ken would have told me my t-shirt was all rolled up in my fleece.
I hate that wide-crotch look.



Ditto wide-crotch statement.



Koley was very excited waiting for the train.




He really only liked the animals that were smaller than him.



When Dreams are Reality

I have to stop reading Harry Potter before bed.
I started the first one for the third time at Christmas time. 
I'm on Order of the Phoenix now.
That's book 5 for those of you who don't know or who think you're above it.  Face it:  You're not. 
For people who have read the series, do you have the same problem as me? 
Problem Being: After Harry finds himself back at Hogwarts- I feel the urge to read until I finish the book.  I mean, every free minute.  I've been knocking these out in 3 days or less.  I finish one so fast... and then take a week or two off because I want it "to last."
Anyway, my key reading time is when the Koley-mun goes to bed.  So from 7:30 to 11:30 I've been reading my Harry Potters....
and then my dreams are all effed up.

Last week I woke up (but obviously not entirely) and I was out of my covers.  I panicked because I thought, "Oh no!  Now, I'm a wizard!  I'm out of my covers!  They're coming to get me!"  I suppose I thought the Ministry of Magic was after me?  I lulled back to sleep... woke up again... this time in my covers.  "Good.  Still human."  I woke up like 8 times that night and evaluated my existence as human or wizard based on whether or not I was on top of my covers or under them.

Then, last night.  I had this dream that me and my two sisters, Julie and Andi, were searching for Giants, in order to convince them to join Dumbledore.  And the giants were also looking for us.  To eat us.  My sisters and I were trying to get down this cliff covered in really thick vines and branches.  The cliff went straight into a river.  I don't know what our plan was when we hit water....  Julie was in the front and she froze and pleaded, "Go back!  Go back!"  I was all stuck in these branches (must of been Devil's Snare) and couldn't move.  Julie was climbing over me saying she saw one and we were in trouble.  We couldn't find our wands.  I looked to where she could have seen a giant and saw Santana (from Glee) in a wheelchair sitting by the river with a pair of binoculars.  She was scoping us out.  I told Julie that was Santana and she was singer and not a giant.  Julie just said "Polyjuice!"  Her and Andi were already so far up and I was stuck there.  No wand.  In Devil's Snare.  Facing a giant disguised as Santana...

I sat up in bed and my heart was really hurting.  I was breathing hard.  Basically, freaking out in real life.  Well... "real life" in the sense that I was technically awake but my brain wasn't actually functioning yet.  My first thought was, "Where's Hermione?"  Then I shook my head and said out loud, "That was a dream.  You don't need Hermione."  To which my inner brain responded, "Stupid Muggle.  You're just like the Dursley's."

So, yeah.  Might be time to lay off the HP before bed.
Harry Potter just seemed the happier alternative to Breaking Bad. 
Which put my dream-related-stress off the charts.

My New Motto

... and it's pretty nice.  Let me tell ya.
I wouldn't be the least bit offended if you adopted this motto into your own life.
You'll thank me.
Preferably with a large muffin basket.

Love Stew

A couple weeks ago I said to Ken:
"I'd really like my own recipe box."
This is a bizarre request considering Ken is the chef around here.  The man cooks every night.  He never uses a recipe.  He reads some books on technique from time to time.  But I can think of one time he used a recipe.  To make 3-Layer Coconut Cake.  Yummmmm.
We've been married 7 years and I don't think I've made dinner even 10 times.
Eh... no one wants to eat what I cook.  Except for me.  I could have frozen pizzas or hot dogs every night.
So, when I told Ken I wanted a recipe box he raised an eyebrow.  And scoffed.
I explained that even though I didn't make a lot there were some things I did make that I always had to call my mom to get the recipe.  And I wanted my own little collection locked nicely in a secure hand held vault.  You know, to feel like I belonged in the kitchen.  Even though I don't.

So- wouldn't you know it... this morning I went downstairs and there for my Valentine's pleasure was my very own recipe box, complete with index cards, and one recipe from Kenmo.

Isn't he perfect for me?

Now, Where's my chef's hat and apron?  Looks like I'm in charge of dinner tonight.

I'm Snobby and Mad

When I found out I was pregnant, I sought out the best medical professional to assist me through the pregnancy.  I got referrals, I researched doctor's background and credentials.  I called and spoke with their staff secretaries to get "a feel" for the office.  In the end, I chose the head of Obstetrics and Gynecology at the University of Utah.  Pretty, pretty, pretty prestigious.
I put my snob badge on and attended my first appointment.
And, boy.  I knew I arrived.
Spa music played in a dimly lit room.  Water features lined the walls to help each pregnant woman reach tranquility.  They had oodles of magazines.  And not just lame old Parenting and WebMD magazines.  They had People, Rolling Stones, Glamour, Oprah,Cosmo.  All the best smut.  A woman brought around a cart with your choice of 5 different juices, and any snack you could think of.  Oreos, graham crackers, Goldfish, Pretzels, Fruit snacks, Chippies.  I was in heaven.  I thought to myself, "I wonder where they hide the personal masseuse?"  And as if my thoughts had been read, out walked a strong (but kind) looking Swedish woman.  Obviously, their masseuse.

Okay.

It wasn't that nice.  Not even close.  They do have a fish tank... which is sorta like a water feature.  And their receptionists are way above par.  And they do offer snacks and juice if you wait more than 10 minutes.  That's really what sold me.  That and all the excellent references I got on my doctor.

Now.

I live in Utah.  You know, Land of the Pioneers, Polygamy, and Midwives.

I, personally, have no ill feelings in my heart towards midwives.  I find them to be caring, helpful, and sensitive women.  Although, most seem to lean a little towards the hippie side.  You know, flowy skirts.  Tie dye scrunchies at the end of their braids.  Station wagons.  Knock-off Birkenstocks.  Using a midwife to deliver a baby is not my thing.  A round of applause to the women who do use midwives- it's your personal call.

... so... at my first appointment with my medically trained doctor, I am introduced to her staff.  A few Nurse Practitioners.  A swarm of nurses (to do the weighing and pee-pee sample).  And 2 midwives.  Rita and Laurel.  I think they probably changed their names to that after they decided to become midwives.  I have to admit I was shocked.  Midwives?  Here?  In the hospital?  In a really fancy schmancy hospital?  Don't they go to your house and apply rice packs to your back or something?
It gave me an unsettled feeling.
My first appointment I met with the doctor.  Whom I instantly bonded with and knew this would be a good pregnancy.
2nd appointment... the midwife came in. 
Cringe.
I know I started out with a bad attitude.  I KNOW!  But that doesn't make me change it now does it?
She asked all the normal questions.  How I was feeling... if I had any concerns... blah blah blah.  I answered her questions but couldn't help thinking "Even if something WAS wrong... what would YOU do about it?  You're not even a real doctor."

Yeah... the bad attitude just gets worse and worse.

When I was scheduling my next appointment I told the receptionist I'd rather not see the midwife again.
She asked if something had happened.
"No."
"Did she meet your needs?"
"Yeah."
"Did she offend you?"
"No."
The receptionist honestly seemed puzzled.  So I filled her in.
"I would just prefer a real medical professional."
"I can assure you our entire staff is medically trained..."

Here I cut her off.

"It's a personal preference."
No one can argue with that one.  The receptionist kindly obliged me.
I left feeling better.  At least I would get the treatment I was paying for from now on.

Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I went.  I had to wait forever.  Forever being 55 minutes.  Which is a long time to do nothing.  And I could tell they were swamped.  So even though I wanted to let out long, airy, irritated sighs... I contented myself by crossing my legs and keeping one eyebrow up really really high while I stared at the TV refusing to make eye contact with anyone.  That'll show 'em.
I went back did the usual him-haw and my nurse said, "It'll be just 3 minutes and the doctor will be in."
3 minutes later the nurse poked her head in.  "The doctor is running behind.  You can wait and see her in half  hour?  Or one of our midwives can assist you."

Cringe.

I had Koley at a sitter (for the first time.. like ever.)  I didn't want to be late picking him up.  "I'll see the midwife."

And in walks Rita.  Hippie hair a blowing in the wind.  Wearing combat boots and a skirt that didn't even go to her veiny knees.  Not professional.  At all.
I admit I was unfriendly.  I was a big whiney pants baby about it and gave one word answers.
(I cheered up when I heard the heartbeat- it's hard to stay mad after that.)
I didn't even schedule my next appointment on the way out.  I was so angry.
And about what?
I told Ken the whole story and he told me I have issues.  And that I'm a doctor snob.  And my doctor wouldn't have midwives on her staff if she didn't think they were qualified.
Yeah.  I get it.  They are qualified.  And they probably draw in a whole different crowd.  The home-birthers.  The people who want to have their babies in tubs or swimming pools or suspended from the ceiling.  And I say, more power to those people!  They found what works for them.  God bless 'em!

But you know what works for me?  Being cared for by someone with M.D. after their name.  Someone with 25 years of experience and all kinds of plaques and certificates on her office wall.  Having my baby surgically removed from my stomach.  THAT works for me. 


And as a "P.S."  I love hippies.  I love the free-wheelin', loose-spirit bunch of them.  When I am going to go camping or go on vacation.  Or I want to have a sing-a-long with a ukulele.

And I know I stereotype.  A lot.  You don't need to tell me that in my comments.

The Unclean Vessel

We've beat the "Ken-Calling-Me-An-Unclean-Vessel" horse to death in my opinion... but he seems to think there is still a little life left in there.

ACT I

Scene:  It's 10:30 PM.  Patty and Ken are laying in bed reading their books.  Ken is reading At Home by Bill Bryson.  Patty is reading Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire.  Although he doesn't mention it *cough* for once *cough* Ken feels quite superior that he is reading a book that you can't buy in the Teen Fantasy section.  Go Ken!  You're officially a grown up now. 

Patty:  I've decided I'm not going to drink pop the rest of this pregnancy.
Ken:  Smiling.  Nay, BEAMING with delight. That's great, Patty!  I'm really proud of you!  I'll quit drinking it to.  Then it will be easier on you.
Patty:  Moving in for a snuggle.  Awwww.... you don't have to do that.  I just really don't want to drink caffeine and if I drink pop I'll want a Coke.  So I'm not going to drink it anymore.  Until the baby comes.
[Ken puts his arm around Patty.  Snuggles ensue.]
Patty:  I am still going to drink lemonade and fruit punch though.
Ken:  Arm flies clear of Patty.  What?!
Patty:  What?  I still like stuff besides water.  I'm just not going to drink pop.  But if we ever go out somewhere I might get a Fruit Punch.  That's all.  What?
Ken:  That's just as bad as pop.
Patty:  Nuh uh.
Ken:  Yeah.  It is.  It's loaded with sugar.
Patty:  But there's not as much sugar as in pop and there's no caffeine.
Ken:  There is JUST as much sugar.  It's so bad for you!  You really shouldn't drink it either.
Patty: Feeling severely deflated.  You know?  Every time I get a great idea and I try to improve on something and I share it with you... I end up feeling stupid about it.  I wish you could go back to where you said "I'm proud of you" and you put my arm around me and we can think about nice things.
Ken:  Well, you're arguing with no facts.  Or just bad facts.  Or your feelings.
Patty:  I'm not arguing at all!  I said I'm not going to drink pop anymore.  That's a fact.  I said I'm still going to drink lemonade and fruit punch.  Also a fact.  I see no argument.
[Ken stares at Patty in amazement.  Ken starts laughing]
Ken:  I think I'm going to take my shower now.
Patty:  Okay, deary.  I love you.
[Ken begins to cross the bedroom.]
Ken:  What you said to me is like saying "I'm not going to eat Ding Dongs anymore,  I'm just going to eat Snickers."
Patty: Laughs.  Not true.  But clever.
Ken:  It's like saying I'm not going to eat cookies anymore... I'm just going to eat ice cream sundaes.
Patty:  Take your shower.

End Scene.

ACT II

Ken emerges from his shower.

Ken:  That's like saying I'm not going to eat Big Macs anymore... I'm just going to eat Whoppers.
Patty:  I like Whoppers better anyway.
Ken:  You're not getting the point.
Patty:  Smiling.  I guess I'm not.  But you're being very funny.

End Scene.

We read for a little while longer.  Turned off our lights.  Said our goodnights.  And Ken said "You're just an unclean vessel.  And I think it's hopeless."  To which I replied, "It's not hopeless.  I have given up pop, right?"

Parlez vous Koley?

Kole talks all the time now... and I have NO idea what he is saying.  I used to just make it up.  Kole would say, "Abba neeno bui bui bui?"
And I would say, "Oh you want some milk and a book and a blanket?"
And then round up those items.
Or Koley-doo would say, "Shma Shma ooble."
And I'd say, "Yeah!  If you go get your shoes on we can go outside."
But over the weekend Ken said something that brought me back down to earth.
Kole was looking at Ken and said something like, "Oy! Dagg winka bee bee."
I was already to chime in with a, "It's not time for lunch yet."  (Where I get this... I really don't know.)
And Ken says, "Kole, I don't think you're speaking English."

And then it dawned on me.  Yeah.  I don't think so either.
I get the whole talk to your kids and that's how they learn to speak and be the excellent mother.
But... really I think I was taking it too far.

Sure, he's saying something.  But it's not English.

  

"MY" Day

Did you know that Wednesday is my day to sit up front and say the prayer?

There are 7 people in my natal Bradley family.  We were each assigned a day to say the prayer at dinner.  And to eliminate the fighting over which girl got to sit up front- the day you prayed was also the day you sat up front.

I've always liked Wednesdays for that reason.  It's "My Day."

When my two older sisters moved out of the house, it would be dinner time on a Monday and Dad would ask, "Whose day is it?"  We'd respond, "Krissy."

That would make him so frustrated.  "Well, Krissy's not here!  So somebody else say it!" 

Nice and reverent for prayer time.

Even now, when Ken and I are sitting down to eat, and he asks "Whose day is it?" (meaning his or mine) I always think of which Bradley's day it is first.  It's still so automatic.

Sunday:  Dad

Monday:  Krissy

Tuesday: Andi

Wednesday:  Patty

Thursday:  Vicky

Friday:  Julie

Saturday:  Mom

From Left to Right:  Andi-Candy-Girl, Jules a Bug Stinkweeder, Patsmo (on bottom),
Vicks-matoria (back up top there), and Teener Weiner.