This too...

I must make a confession. For quite some time after giving birth to the little man, I actually felt sorry for all my still-pregnant friends who were bursting at the seems with excitement to have their babies. I was flat-out dumbfounded by women who had done it before and signed up for a second round. I just kept thinking, this is the single most exhausting thing I have ever done...the work and lack of sleep far outweigh the fun.

I also made the mistake of reading websites that said things like, "some babies don't sleep through the night until they are a year old." I can't tell you the flood of tears that provoked.

The waking in the night was one thing, but the colic was thisclose to making me hop a plane to anywhere but here.

I said all that to say this: it's temporary. He's three months old, and the bulk of the time he sleeps 6-7 hours at night. Even when he does wake in the middle of the night, I actually know him well enough to get him back to sleep within 15 minutes.

The colic went away. When he cries now, there's a reason, and as soon as I fix it, he's happy again.

So, now he's cool. He's starting to learn things, which makes the fun far outweigh the work and exhaustion.

I still don't want to sign up for round two, but I do feel the need to spread hope to people who are still in or have just ahead of them the not-so-fun stages of a new baby.

This too shall pass.

Give thanks

My best friend did this on her blog, and I loved it, so I'm stealing it. Things I'm thankful for besides family, friends, house, car, etc.

1. When I leave the house late but the traffic gods are smiling on me, and I make it to work on time anyway

2. When I don't have time to eat breakfast and someone brings in food to work

3. Dresses. Dresses are so good for my body type

4. When there is a sale and there is actually stuff in my size

5. Cable at 3 am

6. Close parking spaces at Wal-Mart and the mall. Bonus thanks if it's a holiday or I am pregnant.

7. When it's girls' night and there's great music playing at the bar

8. When people buy me diapers or formula

9. Supernanny

10. Internet on my phone

11. Funny people. They make life so much better

12. On that note, every joke Katt Williams has ever written

13. Everytime I make it to work and back to my side of town with my low fuel light on (gas is cheaper over here, and I almost always am running late)

14. When people tell me my writing is good

15. When I get in the habit of going to the gym

16. When I get a pedicure and remembered to shave my legs that day

17. When my mom and I go to lunch and she orders dessert for us to split

18. When I have no idea what to do and Michael calls his mom and she knows exactly what to do

19. When people invite me for dinner on nights when I don't want to cook

20. All the superstitious people who show up and do superstitious things every Sunday for the Cowboys games!

Shenanigans

Last night I drank a beer out of a plastic skull mug and danced to Randi singing karaoke and threw up on my dog. It's been a very long time since I acted like a 21 year old kid because I fully believe in sucking it up and staying home once you have kids of your own (and I was pregnant for a million months before that). However, my husband fully believes that if you completely give up who you were before you had kids you'll go nuts. So, he encouraged me to let loose, and he took care of our son all night long so that I could stain the patio red with vomit. I have no regrets.

Blimps abound

While I was trying to coax Silas to sleep at two this morning, I was watching Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders 4. It's a show about the selection process (boot camp) of the Cowboys cheerleaders.

All the women are beautiful and not just thin but truly physically fit.

After one of the practices, the coaches (are they coaches? Judgmental demon women?) called back one of the girls for a bit of criticism. Most of the criticism is in reference to the girls' dance technique. However, this particular girl (blond hair and six pack abs with no cellulite in sight) was informed that if she wasn't careful, she might look "chunky" because she weighs 123, and the other girls weigh 112.

It put my friend's comment in perspective. I guess if the 123 lb girl who has given up pizza and chocolate didn't leave and slit her wrists after being called chunky, I should suck it up and get on a treadmill.

The Goodyear Blimp

Remember a few weeks ago when I was all full of confidence and self esteem? I believe I described myself as feeling "gorgeous."

This afternoon, a friend was trying to convey how fat this girl she had encountered was, and described her thusly: "She was big. I mean, she was bigger than YOU."

My God, I thought, call Goodyear. One of their blimps MUST be missing if there is a body out there floating around that's bigger than me.

Apparently my "you just had a baby" pass is up, and I better keep driving the next time I pass a Chick-fil-a.

You ARE the Father

I have tried to refrain from watching a bunch of junk TV while I have been off. Frankly, it's impossible. The temptation is just too strong.

What blows my mind is that people still go on shows like Maury. Who gets the news that their significant other wants to go on Maury and actually thinks it's a good idea to get on the plane? Boarding a plane is an involved process. Plenty of time to come to your senses and run screaming home.

You have to know that you have either been cuckolded (thank you Dr. Knudson for that vocabulary word) or you are going to have to take a parternity test. Shouldn't you just call your lawyer immediately and skip the public embarrassment?

It's not just the people being blindsided who confuse me. It's the people who pick up the phone and call to book the appearance.

What self-help book have these people failed to read that they think it's a good idea to drag someone on TV and say, "I cheated on you and little Henry may not be yours"? Talk about salt in the wound.

I guess I should stop being confused and remember that it sure does help pass the time between bottles and diapers.

My Silver Lining

My son is gorgeous, and I love him beyond words. However, he almost never sleeps between the hours of 11 pm and 4 am. So, sometimes my love does not translate to like (sometimes it's oh my God, what have I done, and why does Jesus hate me?!)

BUT today I found my silver lining when a lady with an enormous double stroller rolled into the pediatrician's office (i.e. she has twins). It then dawned on me that my life could be twice as exhausting, and that at least Jesus loves me more than he loves her. So, there's my silver lining.

So, this is being a grown up?

I have never felt like an adult. I still watch cartoons and play video games. Sometimes (read: ten minutes ago) I ruin my dinner with cupcakes. It took a substantial weight gain to stop me shopping in the juniors section. So, you see my point.

However, I have a baby now, and I figure one of us has to be a grown up. So, I've been taking steps (um, well step).

Step 1. Watch the news.

Growing up, I remember my grandmother watching the news at every broadcast. At the time I found it to be the most boring, grown up thing in the world. Therefore, that has been step one in making Michelle an adult.

Other people seem very impressed. When I contributed to a conversation about something going on in the news instead of saying, "you know I don't watch the news," Emma nearly fell off her chair, and my chest puffed all up with pride.

I'll let you know when I figure out step two.

I make people

Since this was not my first pregnancy, I know that I am supposed to hate my body now. The stretch marks and c-section scar and loose skin and extra pounds are supposed to make me cry (don't worry, I'm watching enough Oprah to meet my tear quota).

Trouble is, I don't feel disgusting, I feel gorgeous. I feel like I can do anything. I made a PERSON. Yes, he cries and makes me get out of bed when I would rather be asleep, and yes he pees on me (and in his own eye), and yes he costs a lot of money. But he is a whole person, and my body helped make that happen.

That is reason in itself to feel beautiful every day for the rest of my life. Stretch marks and cellulite be damned. I make people.

Sent from my iPhone

New rule

I'm back. Tomorrow marks the two week anniversary of me becoming a mother. Thus far I've learned that the key to success is figuring out how to function (don't drop the baby) on a series of naps ranging from 30 minutes (yes, sometimes he sleeps for 30 minutes between screaming fits) and four hours (only once, and I kissed him so much when I woke up that he seemed a little put out).

Also, I have a new pet peeve (as if I needed any more). Let me preface this by saying that Michael is every bit as awesome as I knew he would be. He jumps up to make bottles, he runs my errands, and he finds all the little things about Silas as amusing as I do (because really if it's not your kid, you don't care to hear my anecdotes, so Michael is my only outlet). When he wakes up to me (and Silas) bawling at 3 in the morning and me lamenting that I really suck at this, he assures me that I'm doing fine. So, over all, he gets an A.

However, he has begun going to work for an hour or so and then coming home to rest before going back to finish (beauty of being self-employed). What's the problem with that you ask? I'll tell you: if I have managed in that hour he is gone to get the baby to settle down and am catching one of my naps, he wakes me up to let me know he's home. WTF? Don't care. Will figure it out when Silas starts hollering again. No need for a play by play.

New rule: if I'm alseep and Silas is fine, leave me alone. If you call/text/email, and I don't respond, I'm asleep or elbow deep in poop/vomit and will get back to you at Silas' convenience.

State of the preggo

I stopped showing up to blog because all I can think about is that I might have a baby in ___ days (today it's 2). I'm sure you're bored with it because I am, but I may be in the hospital for a few days, so I thought I'd drop by and ramble on about the state of the preggo for a while to tide you over.

This morning I dropped a bag full of make-up brushes, eyeliner and mascara on my bathroom floor. I had to take a long, hard look at myself with one eye lined and no mascara to decide whether it was really worth bending over for. A similar situation happened with a pen cap last week, and it's still under the chair where it fell.

Sunday, I had to walk across the room to get some antacids at my friend Brooke's house. Apparently, on my way back to my seat, I didn't even bend my knees, I just kind of rocked back and forth from leg to leg like a paper doll. I didn't even realize I was doing it, but she found it hilarious. She is five months pregnant, so I'm not too concerned because I will be getting my seven chuckles in at her expense soon enough (please see Katt Williams if you do not understand the reference).

I've also started playing a game where I can turn anything into a sign that I will have the baby Friday (instead of next Thursday). One of my signs has to do with a game of Madden my husband played. See, I really did mean anything.

If the next post you see from me isn't me gushing over how perfect and adorable my son is, you may want to skip it because it will probably be some epic tale of woe about how I have to wait a few more days to have him. I'll likely continue to bitch about being fat and uncomfortable. You've been warned.

When does the "happily ever after" part start?

Perhaps you are sitting there thinking to yourself, "What could possibly infuriate this woman more than made-up traffic, double parkers and baby mamas?" Well, I'll tell you. My husband's best friend.

Today is the DB's birthday. So, he chose last night (a work night) to drag his friends out and find crap for them to do until 5 a.m. My husband climbs ladders for a living, so it's best for him to be a little sharper than three hours of sleep, but it was his best friend's birthday, (and he wasn't driving) so he allowed himself to be dragged around until the wee hours.

There are mornings when I wake up with three hours sleep under my belt after having sat up half the night worrying that my husband was either dead or in jail (but really his phone was just dead and he was being held against his will by his friends....so he says) that I feel like I live in one of those bro-mance movies. I'm just waiting for the part when my husband's BFF shows his lovable side and endears himself to me. So far, I just wish I had the power to transfer him to Malaysia.

Meltdown and Vomit update

Total emotional basket case. That is how I would describe myself today. I've cried approximately 40 times since arriving at work. I'll get the snot mopped up from one breakdown just to check my email and see one of those forwards with the animals doing cute things and start sniffling and sobbing all over again.

My Ob's office called Friday to schedule my c-section, and I've been fairly nuts ever since. I just keep thinking, "This is not a drill. You will be having a baby in __ days" (today it's 10 days). I'll get really panicked and think, "No, I've changed my mind. I don't want to be a parent." Then, fifteen minutes later I'll get all weepy and grateful that I am going to be a parent.

I make mental list after mental list of what I still need to buy/do/clean. It's seriously wearing me out, which makes me constantly in need of a nap (and on days when I can't nap....like today....that just makes me cranky on top of being an emotional wreck).

Also (in case you were wondering) I'm still spending my mornings with my head hung over a toilet. This morning it was the four or five bites of Fruit Loops that sent me into a fast-paced waddle with my hand over my mouth to the bathroom. At least Michael fixed the toilet in our bathroom last night so I had less ground to cover.

Mission: Photograph crazies at Wal-Mart

My new mission in life is to take a picture worthy of posting on

http://peopleofwalmart.com/. As you are well aware, there is a baby sitting on my bladder. So, I almost peed on myself yesterday while I laughed at these poor, unfortunate souls (and two goats....yes, goats.) It was all I could do not to go to Wal-Mart on my way home and just see what candidates were there on display.

I am certain I will run into some fascinating individual who will make the grade in the very near future. My only concern is that I will not be quick enough with the iPhone to capture the moment before it passes me by on the way to the check out line.

How to avoid a broken windshield

Yesterday morning I was reminded of something that rivals my hatred for Dallas' traffic: people who take up two parking spaces.

If you've had a long day, or you're dragging around a kid, or you're on crutches, or you're huge and pregnant (all experiences I've had), and you see a parking space near an entrance, it changes your whole demeanor. The clouds part and the sun starts shining and the birds start singing.......and then you see it. Some asshole (usually in luxury car, but sometimes in a ghetto-mobile with candy paint and spinnin' rims) has parked over the line making it impossible for you to squeeze your little Kia Spectra (God forbid you drive a Tahoe) into the magical space.

Now, I am fully aware that these people who have spent an exorbitant amount of money on their vehicles (or their candy paint and spinnin' rims) are trying to protect their investments. However, I must explain to them that all they make me want to do by parking their car in two spaces is key said car. I have to have a serious chat with myself about the legal ramifications of vandalizing someone else's property before I exit my own vehicle in order to avoid smashing one of their taillights.

Some are skeptical, but I assure you that there are people in the world who are crazier than me. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to warn those who find it necessary to park like they own the lot that it is altogether possible that those people who are crazier than me may brandish baseball bats and may not have chats with themselves before exiting their vehicles and may decide that the next Lexus they see taking up two prime spaces (especially since the Christmas shopping season is fast approaching) is in for shattered glass.

The rest of us will continue to mutter under our breath and curse your name and pray some random act of karma befall you. Either way, I believe it is in your best interest to stop being an asshole.

Just grrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I had this whole rant about people who take up two parking spaces prepared (which you may still see tomorrow because it is still annoying), but then some waste of space broke into Michael's truck and really pissed me off, so the double parkers live to screw people over another day while I handle more pressing matters.

To all thieving douchebags in the world: you are the very essence of pond scum. To the particular bastard who broke into Michael's truck: you stole money from a man with a pregnant wife and a three year old daughter. You literally stole from TWO babies. I hope you have a grandmother who hears about what you did and shames you. I hope she brings Jesus into it and quotes scripture to you and makes you feel about an inch tall. I hope you feel so bad after you leave her house that you give all the money you stole to a church or a homeless person or anybody but your drug dealer because I'm certain you have one.......these are the sort of opinions people form of you when you steal from them.

P.S. Don't you dare spend a dime of that money at Chick-fil-a because you will spontaneously combust. Jesus is my homeboy, and I've put in a request.

Life's little delays

Sorry I left you hanging with a story about vomit. It's definitely been a Chick-fil-a kind of week. Thank God Emma and Tina talked me into picking it up on the way back from the doctor.

I'm not sure why moving has to be such a nightmare. I clearly do not come from nomadic people because I am the least organized mover on the planet. God forbid outside forces conspire to throw a wrench in the works. I'm not sure this move will ever actually happen. Between my utter lack of moving skills and my landlord's utter lack of communication skills, records have been set in the number of delays experienced.

Therefore, do not be surprised if I go M.I.A. for a few while we get this ironed out.

Today's update

Today's update is......I just puked in my trash can at work.

Perhaps I have a sympathy hangover for all my friends who got drunk last night to welcome home our buddy from Iraq, or perhaps Silas doesn't like breakfast burritos.

Michael came (loudly) home at about 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning and made breakfast burritos. He tried mightily to drag me out of bed to feed me, but I'm in a sleeping-wins-out-over-food stage of pregnancy. Therefore, I waved him away. I decided this morning to stop and get a breakfast burrito because they really did smell good. Three bites in and it all came back up into my trash can. So, now I have to deal with vomit at work.

Shaping up to be a beautiful day.

This beholder's eye

My best friend came to town this weekend. She and I are both moving next weekend, so we did some furniture shopping. She was looking for a chair, so I dragged her to the store where Michael and I have picked out our living room furniture.

Upon pointing out the furniture that Michael and I have agreed to purchase and put in our living room, she announced that she hated it. No skin off my nose, really. I pretty much expected that she (and the majority of the rest of the population that are actually good at decorating and dressing themselves) would.

My requirements for furniture and clothing are very, very similar to all the people selected to be on reality shows on TLC. "It's comfortable." When Michael and I were shopping, I rejected every couch (regardless of how cute it was) that would not allow me to "stretch out and take a nap without needing a pillow." That was literally my only criteria. Once I had found that couch, determining whether it was kid-friendly and dog-friendly (how easy does puke/marker/play-doh come out and how easy does it rip) also occurred to me to be important. After learning that the store will scotch guard it within an inch of its life, I was sold.

I also suck at dressing myself. A co-worker and I were discussing clothing, and I casually stated that someone should turn me into What Not to Wear. She immediately and whole-heartedly agreed to be that person. I'm so sadly in need of help that she didn't give a moment of pause or even throw me the "you don't dress that bad" bone. I own cute clothing (most of it is packed in garbage bags and waiting to be taken to the new house). I definitely own cute shoes (half in boxes, half in the closet floor, none on my feet). However, being comfortable has become far more important to me than looking cute. Therefore, I mostly dress like a slob.

So, I have to remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that beautiful to me is being able to throw on a pair of sweat pants, curl up on my overstuffed couch and watch all those losers on What Not to Wear get ambushed.

Bad boys, bad boys

Last night, I was reminded of that part of me that desperately desires to become the character in whatever movie I've just watched or book I've just read. However, this time, the "characters" were real women who really go out and kick ass and take names just like the boys.

When I was in junior high, my best friend, Sarah, and I watched Independence Day and decided we were going to join the air force and be fighter pilots. A few years later, I was dating a boy who planned to join the Marines, and his recruiter got his clutches on my ASVAB scores and pestered me to join the Marines every time he saw me. However, by that time, I was old enough to have been programmed into believing that girly-girls do not join the military/become police officers/fly to the moon.

Now, I know that we have progressed light years in a few short decades when it comes to the way women are treated in the workplace, but it's still rare to see a woman manage to straddle both sides of the fence between looking like a girl and kicking ass like a boy.

The four women featured in the show Police Women of Broward County somehow manage to be girly (as in they haven't decided that wearing a little lip gloss makes them less capable of taking down drug dealers) and be great cops. It is as if it never crossed their mind that they should shed all semblance of femininity in order to fit in and do a good job.

That is why I watched three episodes in a row and then pretended to myself that I was in good enough shape to become a cop. I have even been inspired to clean out space in my DVR to devote to these mascara wearing, gun carrying, real-life super heroes.

Kinda want to toss my Cookies...

So, I get magazine subscriptions out of nowhere quite frequently. So far, I've gotten Women's Health (ha. ha, ha, ha), Elle, Glamour, and as of this last weekend, Cookie.

Cookie magazine is a parenting magazine, so I was kind of excited about it. I could see that there was an article about Jenny McCarthy's campaign regarding vaccines and autism. So, I thought this Cookie was going to have some meat on its bones. Michael fell asleep (sitting straight up on the couch with his mouth wide open) Sunday afternoon, so I decided to peruse my new magazine.

My concern started approximately three pages in...the ads resembled the ads in my Elle magazine. There was one for Tiffany & Co. very near the front. However, I pressed on. Ads generate income and Tiffany & Co. probably has more income than Osh Kosh. There were several other moments of pause, but then I reached the deal breaker page. It was an "article" about essential wardrobe pieces for moms. There was a page in the article covered with gorgeous trench coats (love trench coats, think they are adorable). The page contained at least six that were $650 plus. There was not a single "affordable" option (even fashion magazines have become aware of the economic crisis we are in and offer up cheaper, cute alternatives to the crap that their average reader cannot afford). I'm not sure why Cookie's priorities are so jacked up and out of whack, but I'm not even planning to spend $650 on my son's crib, much less on a coat he is going to puke on.

So, I don't know how I got on the random magazine subscription mailing list, but I know I am not Cookie's target demographic. I'm not sure Cookie's target demographic lives within 5 zip codes of me.

Check, check, check it out

There is a blog I read and follow that I feel more people should know about. So, I'm doing a shout out: http://champagnefridays.blogspot.com/

Seriously, this girl is hilarious. I am having one of those crying-into-a-pint-of-mint-chocolate-chip kind of days, and she whips out some rant about Affliction t-shirts and makes me feel so much better about my life and the fact that my husband does not own a single Ed Hardy or Affliction piece of apparel. I don't know her. She is a friend of a friend, so don't let the fact that she is a stranger to you put you off. She feels like one of those "voice of the people" kind of people. Also, if you're a Gossip Girl kind of person (never seen it), she does a whole thing about them.

So, cheers to Champagne Fridays!

Brain Surgery Intern Needed...and other jaw-dropping posts

Allow me to assist you in losing a couple of hours of your life to the internet today:

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/all/

Because I am always getting emails with links to entertaining websites and such from my co-worker/friend, Emma, my time-wasting abilities have increased exponentially over the last year (good for the soul, bad for the billing). Perhaps all of you knew about all of these magnificent cyber-meccas of entertainment, but I am always flabbergasted by the fact that so many people have created so many websites that a) I know nothing about and b) once I am introduced, I visit obsessively and stay on them until it feels like my eyes may bleed.

Today's site-I-knew-nothing-about-and-now-love is Craig's List's "best of". I made myself stop after the first three because it is Friday and there is no way to make up lost billable time for the week, but the first three left me in stitches. Here is a sample:

"Need a Brain Surgery Intern ASAP! I have just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the doctor says that I only have 3 months to live unless I have brain surgery. This is an unpaid operation, but you will receive credit and snacks while you are operating. This is a good way to build up your resume by networking with others who need free surgery. If you do a good job, and I live, this may lead to future PAID surgeries!
If you have your own surgery tools and anesthesia, that is a plus and you move to the front of the line.
Please respond with a link to all of the operations that you have performed, transcripts from the universities that you attended, and a copy of your MCAT scores.
Please only respond if you are SERIOUS. You must be a team player and have your own car.

• Location: Atlanta
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
• Compensation: no pay"

Told you........enjoy!

Please pray the crazy off of me

I have become completely neurotic (or maybe I was already neurotic, and it's just getting worse). Last night I had a twenty minute conversation with my friend Brooke wherein I fretted over whether or not I would have things like shampoo for my son. (Really? Shampoo? Really.)

While in dream land, I managed to dream that I was still breast feeding Silas at the age of two (um, and he had a mouth full of teeth). While I appreciate my sub-conscious' faith in my having the dedication to breastfeed that long (I'm still debating whether or not to continue when I go back to work at 8 weeks), all I did during the entire ordeal was worry that he would bite me, and be completely disgusted that I was breastfeeding a toddler.

Today I saw an Atmos (gas company) bill on a co-worker's desk, and that triggered in my mind that I have to set up and switch over all utilities to my new house. That reminded me that I still have to pack and buy furniture and unpack, and I started breathing funny and almost passed out.

I'm not sure why I thought moving and having a baby all in the same month was a good idea, but I was adamant that it be done this way. So, if I end up in the loony bin, I suppose I'll have no one to blame but myself.

I was entertained, and I thought you should be too

There is a weekly conference call that I am forced to listen to every Wednesday. On the call, there is a certain attorney who annoys me because he talks a lot. He sounds very much like he has a retainer full of saliva in his mouth, and his questions go mostly ignored.

Well, today, he was particularly annoying, and so he became the topic of my e-mail chat with my co-worker Emma. She decided to e-stalk him (we e-stalk other firms' attorneys a lot). When she pulled up his profile picture on his firm's website, she declared him to have a "pig-like quality" and said she envisioned him snorting a lot. That sent me into fits of laughter. Then she said it several more times to other co-workers while I was on speaker phone with her. Every time she said it, I would double over (well, I would have if I could still bend at the waist) in laughter and stay that way until she would say it again and start me laughing all over again.

Now, I realize that this story is not nearly as funny without the picture. However, I refuse to put the poor man's pic up on my blog after spending 30 minutes of my morning laughing at him (really, how do I bill for that?). So, if you really want to see it, send me an email, and I will let you in on the joke!

Are you ready for some football????

Sadly, my love affair with football did not start as early as the adorable toddler above (that's Jailyn, my step-daughter.....in the Romo jersey her daddy bought her.......this was last season prior to all hope being extinguished, but I digress).

My parents apparently were not aware of the joys of the Sunday tradition of drinking beer and yelling at the television. Both born in the south, but somehow no one indoctrinated them. So, I discovered football in high school. My two best friends (Christen and Candice) and I would sneak into the field house (well, not really sneak so much as just walk into the foul-smelling, run down, concrete building) to decorate the players' lockers prior to the first game of the season.

We'd spend Wednesday afternoon cheer practices (or was it Thursdays? I don't really remember) decorating the run-through. Friday nights rolled around and we'd pile onto a bus and drive to whatever town had been randomly selected and cheer our hearts out while watching our beloved McClellan Lions get the daylights beat out of them. Our football teams always sucked (I can use one hand to count the number of games we won during my entire high school tenure), but who cares? It was football! The majority of my life from preseason to play-offs revolved around cheerleading and football.

Now that I am a little older (and my cheerleading uniform looks like it's better suited to fit Jailyn than me), I have discovered the only way I know to keep that standing-on-the-sidelines-yelling-at-the-top-of-your-lungs-for-the-running-back-to-get-in-the-end-zone feeling alive every fall.........NFL football. The first pre-season Cowboys game is in two days, and I still feel the same butterflies I did when I stood on the red clay track in my red and white mini-skirt and implored the crowed to get loud for those Lions.

The fact that my little boy is arriving just in time for me to put a jersey on him and teach him all about the joy of victory and the agony of defeat (oh and allow me to participate in the beer drinking part of the Sunday tradition) just confirms for me that being a parent is going to be serious fun.

Adios apartment living!

Today I waddle with my head held high. As of this morning, the search for a house has ceased, and I will (please, dear God) never have to live in an apartment again (well, except for the next two weeks while I pack all of our things). Michael, myself, Heidi, Penny, and (very soon!) Silas (and of course Ms. Jailyn on the weekends) will be living in the house depicted above.

Now, all I need is several volunteers to pack me, buy my furniture, move me, arrange my furniture and unpack me. Any takers? Can I guilt you by telling you how huge and pregnant I am? No? Okay, fine. Just buy me a round of shots to celebrate the house and the baby (yes, yes after the baby gets here).

Could you people please channel your inner Jeff Gordon?

I know that every person in every city on the planet thinks the traffic in their city is the worst, and we all whine and moan about how awful it is to drive to work. So, I don't mean to be dramatic about this, but I must put a serious bid in for Dallas' traffic to at least be in the top five. My chief complaint is that the traffic here makes no sense.

It is rare that I am stuck stock still on the freeway for an hour and a half because there is a wreck or a stalled car or a thousand jars of mayo smashed to pieces on the freeway. As a matter of fact, when there is an actual reason for the traffic here, I am completely relieved. Because once I get past the wreck/stalled car/mayo disaster, traffic flows freely once more, and my blood pressure begins to return to normal. However, that is almost never the case.

This morning, I came to a complete stop on the freeway no less than 15 times. When I was moving, I was traveling approximately 10 mph. It was like this for 3/4's of my commute. There was no wreck, there was no stalled car, there was no spilled mayo. There was just traffic for no reason.

Dallas has some of the most rude, aggressive drivers I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a road with. (Side note: I was back home driving a friend around after I had lived in TX for a while, and the friend stated, "You drive like a Texan now." I didn't know whether to be ashamed or proud.) So, why all this made up traffic? You bunch of angry southerners have no problem cutting me off doing 110 when I have nowhere to be. How about a little bit of that NASCAR spirit on a Monday morning?

Let's talk about my husband for a minute.....

The photo above is of the diaper bag I have coveted since I learned I was having a boy. It is gorgeous. It makes me drool. That particular diaper bag is now sitting in it's pretty pink and brown Juicy Couture bag on top of a box containing all of my son's bedding smack in the middle of my living room (it's a one bedroom apartment, and we are trying desperately to move, so don't judge!). What I'm trying to say is, I now own that bag. The picture of the bag was taken with the new iPhone that was tucked into a pocket of the bag. It's not my birthday. It's not Christmas. It's not even president's day. It was just a Tuesday, and my husband just wanted to make me smile.

He enjoys spoiling people. He loves to do something extravagant just for the sheer pleasure of watching my (or any number of other people's) face light up. While this is reason enough to love him (and I love him beyond words), I have many other reasons.

Every morning while he's getting dressed for work, I lay in bed and wrestle with the dogs, and it never fails that we find something to laugh about. We are only together for a few moments in the morning, but it is one of my favorite times.

Some evenings, I'll be laying on the couch (yep, I do a lot of laying) with my legs draped over his. I'll be watching TV, and he'll look over and with all the sincerity in the world say something like, "You're so beautiful. I mean, super model beautiful." He did that not more than two weeks ago (please note, I was 7 months pregnant and weighed more than 200 pounds when the statement was made, which is why it is such a big deal to me).

He tucks me in every night (without fail....even if he comes home after I'm already asleep) and kisses me and then kisses my belly. He gets down in the floor and plays barbies with his daughter. He puts gas in my car to keep me from having to stop (even though it annoys him no end when I let myself run out). He hears songs he knows I like and puts them on my iPod for me. He says "everything will be ok" and then does everything in his power to make sure it is.

He has his faults, and we've had our rocky (full-on gravel pit) moments, but he is my Mr. Right. He makes me want to be a better person. I love him more every time I see him smile or hear his voice or think about some silly thing he's said. If there is such a thing as a soul mate, he is mine.

Dream a little dream

Sleep has become difficult, to say the least. When my head hits the pillow, my mind kicks into overdrive thinking about how little time I have left until Silas is born and how much I have to do. Once I manage to drift off, my bladder wakes me no less than 3 times. In those few, short snatches of sleep I do manage to get, I dream the most ridiculous things.

Last night I dreamed that I took Silas out of my womb to change his diaper. He was still attached to his umbilical cord, and he was all floaty (like he was in water). Once I finished diapering him, I put him back. (I can tell you he was very cute.) Can someone please psycho-analyze that for me?

Just say NO! to the quarter life crisis

Dear potential victim of the quarter life crisis,

Do you feel like you are about to lose your mind if you do not walk away from your life and start over? Do you day dream about quitting your job/dropping out of school and running away to join the circus/bartend/captain a ship?

Stop right there! I have already learned this lesson for you. In a year, you will be broke, your credit will be ruined, and you will be looking for a steady, boring desk job with a steady, dependable paycheck. I promise.

In five years, you will want to settle down, have kids, buy a house. You will find Mr./Ms. Right. The two of you will get married. A few months down the road, someone will pee on a stick and get that plus sign. You will find your dream house, and you will try to buy it.

That is when the reality of your quarter life crisis blunder will settle comfortably around you and begin choking the life from you. Your panic and run approach to life will almost certainly have ruined your credit (unless you have a trust fund or a sugar daddy/momma, then by all means, ignore me and live it up).

So, I implore you: keep the steady, boring desk job you have so that you can keep paying the bills that show up like clockwork (regardless of whether you spent all your tips on Jager shots) and keep that magic number (your credit score) in the right range until your Uncle Harry leaves you gobs of cash or you convince some old man to pay your way.

Sincerely,
The perpetual renter

The dreaded scale

Frankly, I dread every visit to my obgyn because she weighs me every time I go. It is not that I am unaware that pregnant women gain weight. I fully expected to gain weight.

The problem is that in every, single pregnancy guide, magazine, forum, poster, etc. it is printed somewhere that pregnant women only need 300 extra calories a day and should gain between 25 and 30 pounds for the entire pregnancy. I sailed right on past 30 pounds weeks ago, and I have at least 6 weeks to go.

If you have ever been pregnant, you can vouch for the fact that you would trample kittens to get to whatever food you are craving regardless of how many calories it may contain. I have had food cravings during this pregnancy that I am absolutely certain must rival a heroin addict's craving for heroin. Some random food will sound appealing and a few moments will go by and appealing turns into "I must have it, and I must have it right now." It becomes an obsession. (Like right now, you may think I am focused on writing this blog, but all I'm really thinking about is guacamole.)

I have not craved a particularly balanced diet, and I have gained an astounding amount of weight. So, I have gotten into the habit of going to the doctor's office, being weighed, picking my jaw up off the floor, leaving and crying all the way to work. At my last appointment, my doc informed me that I officially weighed more than 200 pounds. I could not function for the rest of the day. Last October (right before I broke my ankle), I weighed 140 pounds. I had been prancing around in size 8 jeans. I felt so fabulous that I went blond. Well, I gained some weight before I learned I was pregnant, and then I just kept on gaining, and now my size 8 jeans look like Barbie clothes.

Anyway, today was one of my dreaded appointments. More dreaded even than usual because I was supposed to get back the results of my 3 hour gestational diabetes test, and I was certain I had gestational diabetes because I am enormous (and doc said the more enormous you get, the higher your chances of getting GD). Well, not only do I not have gestational diabetes, but I stepped on that scale, and I had lost 2 pounds.

Oh the difference 2 little 'ole pounds can make! I still weigh more than 200 pounds, and my size 8 jeans still look like Barbie clothes, but damn that was a boost for my self-esteem! So, (because I reward myself with food), to celebrate my 2 pound loss, I intend to waddle next door to Chipotle and devour guacamole!

OMG- Shoes!

I have been wearing these shoes almost every day since I was released to walk after breaking my ankle (that was in December!!!). Before I got huge pregnant, I would try to throw in a low heel every once in a while to break up the monotony. However, I am fairly certain that if I put on a pair of cute heels today one of two things would happen. Either I would a) have "loaves of bread baking" syndrome-where the fat spills over the tops of the shoes and looks like loaves of bread baking, or b) succumb to my new and precarious shift in gravity and topple over sending myself into early labor or cracking open my skull or some other nightmare. So, I wear the ugly shoes.

This morning I noticed that I had buried all my cute shoes under flip flops and flats in my closet (I must have done it subconsciously to keep from having a melt down). One gorgeous shoe peeked out at me through the piles of plain, boring shoes, and it occurred to me that there are so many things I am looking forward to doing after my son is born! I think I'll list some of them for you:

• Obviously, wearing cute shoes
• Seeing the feet the cute shoes are encasing
• Sitting on my patio (or anyone's patio) and drinking a beer
• Shopping at more than one store without wanting to take a nap
• Eating things without having to read the label first or google it later and panic
  
• Taking anything besides Tylenol for a headache (Brooke and I have strong opinions regarding the effectiveness of Tylenol)
• Not timing whether or not I can have something to drink based on my proximity to a bathroom
• Setting fire to every ugly, stretchy, ill-fitting maternity garment I own
• And of course- Seeing my gorgeous, perfect son and dressing him in all the little outfits I tear up over every morning when I go to my closet to retrieve my ugly shoes.
  

Reasons I love my BFF

Christen is my "BFF." There have been times since we have known one another that we have gone years (literally, years) without speaking. Then someone will run into someone or we'll wind up living in the same dorm when we didn't even realize we were attending the same college, and bam! we're right back in the thick of things.

I have not seen Christen since Halloween-ish of last year. She came to Dallas and defiled a Whataburger, and I almost fainted in a haunted house (I made it through one room), so she walked my dry-heaving ass out to my car (even though we had stood in line for approx 2 hours and spent $17 a ticket to get in) and sat with me while everyone else finished what was apparently the greatest haunted house in history.

No matter how long Christen and I go without speaking, we can pick right up where we left off. I walk into her house (regardless of whether she is in the process of tearing up the floors or painting the ceiling), and I feel immediately at home.

Christen knows the ugly, ugly, ugly side of Michelle. She was there with me through some of the most agonizing times of my life. Some of those things were my fault and some of them weren't, but through it all, she didn't judge. She just poured up a margarita (or ordered chicken nachos with the black olives on the side....and I said, "put it on my tab") and listened.

Christen is beautiful, loyal, intelligent, hilarious, creative and the most amazing friend I have ever had. I love you, chick! Wish I could "see you next Tuesday." Maybe some day.....

Operation Beautiful

So, there is a post-it in one of our stalls at work. It says something like "You are beautiful just the way you are" and directs you to go to www.operationbeautiful.com. It has been there for a couple of weeks, and I just got around to going to the website.

The whole site is dedicated to ending "fat talk" and letting women know they are beautiful just as they are. The idea is for women to write anonymous post-its and leave them in public places for other women to find.

Being pregnant and weighing more than I ever have in my life, I find this idea to be one of the best I have ever heard. Sometimes we make ourselves the punchline of our own fat jokes so that no one will beat us to it. We beat ourselves down so much that we begin to believe it.

So, to all my girls, you are beautiful just the way you are. I don't know a single person who I cannot say that to and mean it!

Kickball=Fail. Also, cheeseburgers

As of 3:30 p.m., it is looking very unlikely that Michael and I will be chosen for our favorite kickball team. We failed to jump high enough to clear one of the hoops. Apparently, it is a deal breaker hoop. Michael is still trying to talk at the team captain enough to annoy him into letting us on the team, but I've kinda ambled away to the other side of the playground.

So, the house hunting process continues. I cried on my way back to work (the hoop through which I was attempting to jump required me to leave in the middle of the work day and waste approximately 2 hours of my time). Also, I sent pitiful text messages to a handful of friends to garner some sympathy/empathetic rage.

Then, I decided to drown my sorrows in a cheeseburger, which reminded me that I am also an emotional eater. I don't just reward myself with food, I also console myself with it. That little piece of self-realization went on to make me realize that writing this blog has highlighted my need for therapy.

I think I'll eat a cookie to make myself feel better about that.............

A story about kickball

I am a renter. Not because I enjoy setting fire to my money but because I had an irresponsible youth and am now reaping the rewards of said youth.

So, Michael and I are in the process of trying to locate a house to rent so our son can have a room and our dogs can have a yard (and stop chasing other dogs and small children until they have officially made it impossible for me to make it to work on time).

The "process" is basically like putting in your bid to be picked first for kickball on the playground at recess. You're asking the team captain to review all your past kickball games and overlook the time you went to kick the ball and instead landed on your ass. "I picked myself up and dusted myself off, and I tried again! I made it all the way to first base the next time!" Eventually, you will find a team captain who will tell you that you are in the running, but you must first jump through these 5 hoops.

The agonizing part is the waiting. You put in your application (complete with all the information these strangers need to review everything you've ever done.......including fail) and then you wait endlessly TO BE JUDGED.

Unlike going through a similar process to purchase a home, your reward for all this hoop jumping and being judged is: being granted the keys to the front door that someone else owns so that you may mail them a check every month....until you grow weary of some facet of that person's property and start the process all over again.

So, here's to being picked first for the kickball team the Fox family really wants to play on this year!

Chick-Fil-A = Heaven On Earth

I'm one of those people who rewards herself with food. For instance, today, I had to take a three-hour torture test to determine whether I have gestational diabetes. A requirement of the test was that I had to "fast" for eight hours before the test. (Side note: I hear the word "fast" and picture Jesus wandering in the desert. Eight hours has nothing on 40 days, but I was still hungry.)

When I left the hospital, I drove directly to Chick-Fil-A to reward Silas and myself for enduring the torture. I ordered with complete disregard for my new resolution to eat healthier. Waffle fries? Yes. Coke? Yes. Brownie for dessert? Yes. As I sit here at my desk (avoiding doing any actual work), I find that I am both full and happy. (Additional side note: I think Chick-Fil-A is where Jesus would have gone after his fast if He had had the option of fast food. I mean, they're closed on Sundays and everything.)

Chick-Fil-A has that effect on me. Sometimes when I'm having a crappy day, I'll drive out of my way to indulge in a delightful Chick-Fil-A chicken sandwich. Always perks me right up. I will never be uber-thin living like this, and I've heard that "nothing tastes as good as thin feels." However, I must wholeheartedly disagree because being thin (and therefore irresistable) just got me knocked up, and now I'm hungrier than ever.

Horoscope

"Perhaps there is a feeling of uncertainty that is creeping into your mind and suggesting that you are not mentally or physically prepared for the job that you need to be doing at this time. Do not doubt yourself or your abilities."

That is part of my horoscope for the day, and I must admit that it's true. The closer I get to having Silas, the more terrified I become of breaking him. People keep telling me that my instincts will take over when I get Si home, but what if my instincts don't work or I am missing that part of me? Let's face it, some people are just not good parents. I know some of those people personally. They think they are good parents, but they are wrong. What if I become one of those people?!

These are the things I think about when I should be working so that I can afford to buy diapers when my son gets here. See? Already looking a little sketchy...

Where to start?

I don't know where to start. I'm in the middle, so the middle seems like as good a place as any.

Before I got all knocked up, I loved to write. I would blog about this, that and nothing. Now I find myself bored about 3 sentences into everything I try to write. Perhaps my life has become that boring?

This weekend, Michael and I discussed ways to save money and debated (well, really he said it is a good idea, and I just sat there thinking he was crazy) about whether or not we need another car. The mountain of new bills on my horizon is beginning to make me panicky, and he thinks we need an SUV (read: additional car payment) just in case I take the only vehicle that will hold all four of us and leave him alone (gasp!) with the toddler and the infant.

I do not see myself wandering away for hours at a time leaving him to figure out how to play barbies while changing a poopy diaper at the same time. He might drop my son, and then I might punch him in the face. So, I find the SUV an unnecessary expense.

That has happened to me. I have become one of those women who actually thinks before she purchases. Five years ago, I would lay down my debit card to purchase a pair of $100 shoes that hurt my feet and would see the light of day once a year without batting an eyelash. Now, I make myself wait a day and think about if I really need it before I spend $7 on a shirt at Ross.

I have not yet decided if getting pregnant has brought about this sudden desire to actually have money in the bank or if it's the fact that I'm nearing 30 and have nothing to show for my life. Perhaps both.