Lucky is talking our heads off. It's all very interesting and informative. Also, it doesn't make much sense to us. But it's cute as can be.
gah-likuh-lah daaaaah gah-likuh-likuh-lah
dat dat duhh luh luh
deee luh luh
daaah! gah-likuh-likuh-lah. daaah! gah-likuh-likuh-lah.
aah-daaaaah! (calling Stinkerbell by her name, one of the very few things that we have figured out.)
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Lucky is talking our heads off. It's all very interesting and informative. Also, it doesn't make much sense to us. But it's cute as can be.
Monday, January 28, 2008
1. Click this link. The first title on this page is the name of your band.
2. Now click this link. The last four words of the very last quote is the name of your album. If it doesn’t work at all, click the “New Random Quotations” button for more.
3. And finally, click this link. The third picture on this page will be your album cover. Add your band name and album title, and you’re done! (Please remember to give credit for the original picture.)
Thursday, January 24, 2008
I have been feeling not myself lately.
I feel anger, rage, fury. I want to swear, break things, hit things. I want to lash out. I want those around me to experience my frustrations and irritations with me.
As I was getting Stinkerbell ready for school this morning, I nearly lost it. We were running late. She was dressed and ready except for her coat and picking up her book bag. I had Lucky in my arms. I told her, calmly but with emphasis, to get her coat and bag and get to the garage.
She is standing stone still, staring at something on the kitchen counter.
I shouted. I slammed the door to the stairs behind me. I fussed. I complained. I chewed her out.
I don't know what's up with me. I'm not naturally an angry person. I don't have problems with my temper unless I'm pregnant.
I'm not pregnant. Trust me. I used 5 super PLUS tamp0ns yesterday. NOT PREGNANT.
Yes, 5 SUPER PLUS.
I feel like I'm losing control. I can't seem to be able to handle things without feeling strung out like a high C piano string. I hate feeling this way. I'm overwhelmed.
I'm going back on the pill Sunday.
cue the heavenly host, praising God and saying "Glory to God in the highest and on earth, pills good sleep to Auburn Gal."
I have a lot of hope hanging on those little pills. They have a long list of things to fix:
I need to figure out a way to vent my anger and frustrations without it affecting my relationship with Stinkerbell. She doesn't deserve to be my target. I'm embarrassed and ashamed and filled with guilt and regret.
I should have been Catholic.
note: I first began this post on Jan 24. I couldn't decide whether to publish it or not. Since I'm visiting the desert of inspiration for a few days, I thought I should do SOMETHING so you don't forget me...
ps. I don't know how all these extra spaces get inserted into a post. I left it in drafts with NORMAL spacing between paragraphs (if you can call them "paragraphs") and when I returned to finish - like stupid little grammatical dust bunnies, they've multiplied. If I delete them, then I lose all spacing. If I delete them and try to put them back, they're still wrong. So, sorry. the layout sucks. It's not the first time it has sucked.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
I'm worried. Surprised? Then you're new here.
I'm worried that 2 of the 4 girls Stinkerbell has invited to her Rock Star/Spa/Sleepover/Makeover party will not be able to attend. Now, while this is not in itself a tragedy, it will make for the quantity that kills parties - THREE.
Three girls = one girl left out = hurt feelings.
new math, don't you love it?
Here's where I don't know what to do... Should I call the parents of those little girls and beg for their permission to let their beloved princess to sleep over at our house. A house which they've never visited. They don't know us well.
To tell the truth, I don't think I'd let Stinkerbell sleep over at their house. I'm pretty particular about where I let my baby sleep. Sure, she has stayed overnight with friends before - but only with the 2 girls I KNOW will be attending.
I can't blame them. Yet, I think they should trust us and let their little twerp come to her party.
She's special, dangit!
So, do I call them and put them on the spot and/or offer alternatives like them staying during the party and taking their child home for the night?
If I get the "I'm sorry" response, do I invite another girl in their place(s)?
Or do I take my chances with there just being THREE at the party?
I'm waiting...... You're so much wiser than I.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Today I was accused of screwing around. I wish!
I had to have some things checked on the Pimped Out Mamamobile. There was a rattle in the middle of my windshield that sounded like a fart. A long, never-ending fart. I had taken all I could of it too. So, I made the trek to the dealership and begged for a loaner so that I could find some goodies for Stinkerbell's room.
Also screw around some. But the good kind, without worrying about ruining my resolutions (particularly the one about a baby), the kind that involved eating cheddar biscuits at Red Lobster and shopping the sale racks at Baby Gap and Hobby Lobby.
The other kind of screwing around will have to wait until the cramp-o-rama and flood ends. (I'll leave this for another post. It will begin with a disclaimer and the words "READ WITH EXTREME CAUTION. ALSO A BARF BAG".)
It's too late for me to share your birthday comments with Stinkerbell. She's already in bed. And if the lack of the annoying, dry, hacking, asthmatic cough indicates anything, she's already asleep. But, tomorrow afternoon, I may let her guest post and say thank you for herself. For now, let my own "THANK YOU" suffice. Y'all will make her day.
Tonight, I decided that simply using her inhaler would not quiet Stinkerbell's annoying,dry, hacking, asthmatic cough. I opened a new bottle of
whiskey Mucinex and entered her room.
sit up and drink your medicine.
what kind is it?
what kind is it?
but what kind is it?
(don't laugh. don't smile. don't look at her. just be the mommy.) what did you say?
no, you didn't. what did you really say?
I thought I said "oh shoot".
what did you really say?
oh shit. I'msorrymommyIwon'tsayitagainI'msorryreallyreallysorry.
don't say it again. (don't laugh yet. walk out of the room and then you can laugh.)
I guess now that she's SEVEN and all, she can say
what her parents say whatever she wants.
at 7:22 PM
Sunday, January 20, 2008
This is a letter to my daughter. You're welcome to read it and cry with me or roll your eyes. You're also welcome to jump down and look at the slide show. Whatever you choose, please leave a comment wishing her a happy birthday. You should know that if you do read it, you'll see that my vocabulary of superlatives is limited to "amazing" and "wonderful"
A year ago, I braced myself to help you become a big sister. I never doubted that you would be a good one. I am amazed at what a wonderful one you are. You have grown and matured in ways I never dreamed would happen over these few months.
You have transformed from a little girl, an only child, into a big kid with an even bigger heart and a bottomless supply of love for your family and friends and animals. You love your little brother, and he is convinced your the coolest, funniest, greatest thing ever. You have become very responsible and mature, allowing me to trust you to care for him more and more each day.
Your desire to care for animals and other children of all kinds motivated you to sell lemonade during our very hot summer. You gave all that money to the local animal shelter and the foster kids. Your generosity amazes, thrills and humbles me.
This summer, you did the most important thing you'll ever do. You gave your heart to Jesus and was baptized. This still brings me to tears. To listen to my little girl pray and ask for salvation is one of the sweetest, most precious memories I'll ever know. It is imprinted on my heart and in my mind.
You conquered your fears of swimming and the deep end of the pool. You no longer need floaties or a swim vest in the pool. You squealed with delight as your daddy jumped waves on the Sea-Doo. You found the prettiest sea shells. And you learned that jellyfish are not nice animals and can ruin a beautiful day at the beach. You realized that sometimes there is such a thing as too much sand, especially when it is in the seat of your swimsuit.
You showed me that an intense desire to do something can help you to do it in front of hundreds of strangers. Your beautiful voice sang out and excited me beyond belief.
You juggled teeball and voice lessons and recital practice and homework with finesse that I covet.
You expressed love for Beboo's mother, days before her death, that touched everyone's heart.
You proved your athletic ability by playing soccer and being one of the best on the team. Your coach was amazed that you had never played before.
Finishing kindergarten and starting first grade, you grew and learned more than I expected. Your reading abilities are exceptional. You memorized entire books. Over the Christmas break, you learned to add two columns of numbers and carrying digits in your head.
You can do anything. You can be anything. The world is yours. Go get it.
I can't wait to see what you do this year.
I love you - just a little bit.
|Make a slideshow - it's easy!|
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I have managed to go to the mall lately. I even got to go into one store completely alone.
I'm still a little giddy and drunk off it all.
And, did you know that some of the stores have hyuuuuge sales this month? My brother is a seriously skilled sales sniffer-outer and has been tempting me to join him at the mall for some bargain-hunting.
Now, before you go thinking he's a cheap, off-the-rack version of Carson Kressley, don't. He's just cheap. Straight and cheap. Straight, cheap and bald. Also, short. Crap, he's got 4 kids to feed and clothe and pay private school tuition.
What? He doesn't have to pay for private school? He lives in a town with some great public schools? You must have him confused with someone who makes decisions using something like "facts" and "rational thinking" and "information." I'll have you know that they are learning LATIN in their schmancy little school that chooses to pay their teachers a volunteer's salary instead of providing staff to prepare lunch or snacks or turn on the air conditioning. These students will actually be able to converse with the Latin-American immigrants. duh
ahem. stepping off my soap-box, now. thankyouverymuch.
I want to record my Serious Bargain Purchases for a time in the future when I need encouragement and wonder what I used to do with all my "free time" when Lucky was a baby and Stinkerbell was between sports and not competing in American Idol and I wasn't running my own IT empire. (Other bloggers would say they're posting the following pics for their "readers" and so they can alert their "readers" to the deals that waiting to be had. Not me, I'm lucky to get a single comment.)
I am fully aware how ridiculously sad it is that I had a serious adrenaline rush over what I'm about to describe. I'm talking "amped up" and blabbing 90mph.
So, here I go...
a cute Elmo shirt for Lucky
several shirts for Lucky (from Wal-Mart and JC Penney - shirts that will be decorated with drool, snot and puke must be as cheap as possible.)
The biggest steal of all... For us in the South, we don't really need to "plan ahead" and purchase big winter coats in October. It doesn't even really get cold enough for more than a heavy jacket until late December. So, I timed it just right for Stinkerbell's coat. It is roomy enough for her to wear again next year (unless she develops a pituitary tumor). It has a zip-out liner that is reversible and has zip-off sleeves. The hood is removeable (removable?) and is trimmed with honest-to-goodness, authentic, real, live purple unicorn fur.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Saturday night, GNO, was great. We had mojitos and appletinis and fuzzy navels and strawberry daiquiris and laughed our butts off.
We ate creme puffs and chocolate covered creme puffs and ooey-gooey chocolate cake (Paula Deen is the woman!) and sandwiches and cheese dip.
We played with Bobbie's new Bob. Well, we didn't play with it. We more or less looked at it and giggled and wondered what it must be like to work in a factory that makes Bobs and what do you tell people you do for a living and do you get employee discounts and what do they do with the ones that don't pass inspection and how are they actually inspected. And then we talked about other s3x toys and who has them and I admitted that I have none and that this Bob was the first Bob I've ever seen and no, thank you, I don't need to touch him.
Then we watched Chicago! I was the only one who had seen it before and they all loved it. As they should.
Then we watched Shattered. Pierce Brosnan is the bad guy and it's complex. But it's soooo good. Go rent it.
We laughed at our husbands (or ex-husbands). We laughed at Bobbie and her paranoid antics. She lost her old Bob and woke up one morning with a sore spot on her hip. She convinced herself that someone had slipped into her apartment, gave her a shot of some drugs to make her forget they were there and stole Bob. But they didn't take her money, her tv, her jewelry or anything else. She also wondered what they did to her after they drugged her.
Yes, we know she's more than slightly nuts. But she's fun and sweet.
We stayed till 3 so that we could watch shopero+ic on Oxygen. And there was new Bob!
We also took Bob and ran around and danced in front of Carl's game camera.
It was lots of fun.
The Mighty Hunter kept both kids all night. He didn't call me for help. He didn't whine about it. He made it. Lucky made it. Stinkerbell made it. They all lived, and he was able to feed himself without my presence.
Life is good.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
This is part two in a (duh) two-part series about how I found out I was pregnant. Need to catch up?
Again, I'm merely following orders from Jennifer and Swistle. Because I have no original ideas. That should be abundantly clear if you've been here before...
And, if you've been here before and have - due to some mysterious mystery of the universe - returned to laugh at me and with me, thank you very much for the small boost to my ego. I love you. Will you marry me?
Very much like part one, The Mighty Hunter decided it was time to add to our little clan. I'm not sure exactly why we thought it prudent to subject another child to our little crazy world. Nevertheless, we did.
A little background info that may or may not be necessary for this story. You can skip down a little for the real "story"...
July 2005, we began our window and door sales business. It began with The Mighty Hunter, The Annoying Partner, one lone employee and myself. The Annoying Partner's wife was supposed to pitch in, but it never materialized. surprise. The birth of a business was hard work. I was working at the time as business manager/government sales manager for a agricultural and industrial engine parts business. I had very weak skills at bookkeeping and knew sufficient information about sales tax and invoicing and the like to help us limp along until we hired a full-time bookkeeper. The parts business for which I worked was owned by my dad, who is now sainted in the Auburn household because of his generosity in allowing me to work there and at the window company, all while paying my full salary.
While working both jobs, we had a very hectic life. Stinkerbell was in daycare and came to the office at nights with us. As for housework, let me say that we had clean clothes and milk and orange juice and loaf bread. That was about it.
Then in October 2005, we hired Beverly as our full-time bookkeeper, office manager, man-babysitter. She is married to The Mighty Hunter's uncle and is quite capable of handling The Mighty Hunter in the way in which he is accustomed. Let's call it "gentle abuse" or "generous tolerance" or "PMS (Putting up with Men's Shit)".
Needless to say, she has what I call "JOB SECURITY". We all love Bev. Bev is queen. All hail Bev.
Up to hiring her and while training her, I was having chest pains. I was working my patooty off, and it was taking its toll on me via an almost daily "oh dear Jesus, I'm having a heart attack. should I call 911? My left arm doesn't hurt. Or should I be checking my right arm? Where are my tums? Can I overdose on tums? These taste like fruity chalk. blech. double blech. All right, close my eyes, relax, think peaceful thoughts.... Did I fall asleep? Chest pains? Still there, but less intense. I wonder if anyone noticed I fell asleep..."
While we were training Bev, we were also discussing having a second baby. I explained that I should probably have a physical with someone like a cardiologist and also plan for the inevitable migraines that I would experience after going off the pill. Echocardiogram, prescriptions for pain meds and an all clear (with the repeated "quit working so much") from the doctors and I was ready to TTC.
Much like our attempts to conceive Stinkerbell, I went off the pill in January. At this same time, a dear friend of mine in Minnesota (hi, Rach!) was also trying to get pregnant. We emailed and im'ed about the deal. She asked me if I was "charting".
charting? I don't put in any confidence in the almanac and astrology. We're just having sex. A lot.
Then she explained about how you're "supposed to TRY TO GET PREGNANT" with the charting, the temperature taking and the mucus checking and the peeing on a stick daily to determine if you're about to ovulate so you'll know whether you need to pee on a stick again later. She shared websites and forums and recommendations about thermometers and pee sticks and best time to pee and... Well, you get the idea. She educated me.
So, I began The Charting and all it entailed. I never, in a million years, thought I would wake myself up early on weekends to TAKE MY TEMPERATURE and try to find my notepad and pencil with my eyes closed and write down a number that was exactly the same as the day before or maybe .2 cooler or warmer. I also never DREAMED I would wake each morning and stick my fingers up there to check for mucus.
Mucus is not a favorite term of mine. In general, mucus is something I avoid at all costs.
Mucus has cooties. Even if it is MY mucus.
cooties, I say!
So, I trucked along doing The Charting and checking and temping and peeing and didn't get pregnant. Was I doing it wrong? Wasn't the Charting supposed to help me get pregnant?
It turned out that The Charting didn't help me get pregnant. It just made me a little obsessive about the difference between egg-white consistency and sticky mucus.
I did learn that I was ovulating regularly. So, something should happen soon. And it did.
The end of May, I peed on a pg test stick first thing in a morning. First thing in the morning because that's what the box said was the "best time" to test and I definitely wanted to use my best pee.
Anything to stop having to check my mucus!
Well, that time I got the two lines. I was pregnant.
And, unlike my pregnancy with Stinkerbell which was - in retrospect - very pleasant and healthy and "fun", I was entering a whole new level of hell in my life.
We told Stinkerbell first. Well, I told Rachel and then WE told Stinkerbell. She ran around the house screaming and shouting and generally overjoyed. She had the pleasure of telling my parents and The Mighty Grand-dad. It was all exciting and good.
Then the morning sickness hit. Which was not HORRIBLE, but manageable. Then the MIGRAINES hit. Which were hell and unmanageable and sent me to the ER twice for medications to stop the pain and the puking. We met with my OBs several times trying to find the right pain meds to stop the pain and not induce more puking.
Did you know that some medications that stop your pain will actually make you puke? Oh yeah. The joys of modern medicine.
Did you know that there are some medicine combinations that include pain killers and puke stoppers? Oh YEAH. The wonders of modern medicine.
After my 2nd visit to the ER, where they suspected I was seeking a hit to my pain med addiction - which I wasn't, I met with my OB and we scheduled an appointment with a neurologist. The first appointment was 2 weeks away. The pregnant receptionist took pity on my drugged, crying, scared pregnant self and called me the next morning when there was a cancellation for that afternoon.
I called my mother, because I didn't feel confident to drive to Birmingham to the appointment. On my way to meet my mother, I was praying. I was talking to God. I was telling him how I needed help and was scared and didn't know what to do. Then...
this is one of those FEW times that I believe God directed my thoughts/spoke to me...
Then... I thought about my dear friend Tim who survived a "fatal" case of sepsis after being on life support and having his heart "shocked" multiple times and being told that IF he survived, he would be totally disabled and possibly paralyzed and in a vegetative state. (He returned to work 2 weeks after leaving the hospital and is FINE today.) (you can say wow now.) I thought about how hard hundreds of people and I had prayed for him. I thought about how a mere acquaintance had asked her church prayer group to pray for me. I thought about how my own church and family were praying for me. And then I thought, why haven't I prayed for myself? Why haven't I asked God to heal me? Am I not worthy of my own prayers for healing?
So, I did. I prayed that God would relieve me of the headaches and heal me of them and restore my health and protect my baby and forgive me for lacking faith in Him to care for me.
That afternoon, after the MRI and a good meal at the Cheesecake Factory, the headache that had been with me almost non-stop for 5 weeks faded.
The next day, it was even better.
By the end of that week, I was pain-free.
I had holes in my memory. There were things that I was sure I had done or should know or could almost remember but they were just out of reach in my mind. But my memory recovered fully. (not saying much)
Another interesting thing about my pregnancies...
During the month of October while I was pregnant with Stinkerbell, after losing The Mighty Grand-mother in June, The Mighty Grand-dad had quintuple bypass surgery. While pregnant with Lucky, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer and had successful surgery. He's cancer free now.
I told him he was through with his medical dramas, because I was through having babies.*
*Except I might want another one someday. God help me.
Tonight, Beverly and I will be celebrating our birthdays with a few friends. We are having a girl's night at her house.
Complete with strawberry daiquiris (how the heck do you spell that word?) and possibly appletinis and girl movies and chocolate chip cookies and creme puffs and chocolate covered creme puffs and other foods that require little to no cooking and minimal cleaning and chic flicks and laughs at our men and no kids and no men!
Did I mention the no kids?
Also, no men?
Can you say a lot of giggles and goofiness? Especially from the mom of an almost-one-year-old who never gets out and hasn't been away from kids longer than the 3-4 hours while she had a d&c back in FEBRUARY (yes, 2007).
Stinkerbell, upon finding out I was going without her, expressed that I should want to be with her all the time if I love her.
I did mumble something about loving to be with her more AFTER I've been alone.
It's ridiculous how excited I am. also, nervous. Have I mentioned that I have a mild degree of social anxiety?
Hey! Guess what I'm not a mom tonight!
I'm Baptist. So, nevermind the obvious reference...
However, I have sinned.
Horrible. Horrible. Unforgiveable sin.
I cooked last night. That wasn't it, though.
It was hamburger hobos. That wasn't it, either.
It wasn't done early enough for us to eat it for supper though. Nope.
We ate Pizza Hut. Stay with me.
There was plenty of pizza left over also.....
It all went in the fridge for the night.......
I had a hobo for lunch today......
The Mighty Hunter dipped himself a plate-full for lunch also......
thanks. mine was good. I put jalapenos in yours. Maybe it'll be good.
One bite into his mouth and he freezes. Not chewing.
what is it?
His plate goes into the garbage. So much for that.
So, here's what I want to know. What do you do when you find a hair in your food? At a restaurant, it's an easy thing to answer. But at home, when it's your own hair?
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
You may recall yesterday was my birthday. For my birthday, I always request a dinner out at a restaurant of my choice. The only restriction this year (because it was a school night) was that I had to choose a place here in our town.
Oh, the selection overwhelmed me.
My current favorite places are Wingstop and Santa Fe. I know. You're impressed with my up-classiness. I'm used to that reaction.
I chose Wingstop for its garlic parmesan boneless wings and BEST IN THE WORLD french fries.
It was its normal deliciousness. My parents, Carl and Bev joined us. We ate till we were too full to walk to the car. So we rolled.
Stinkerbell requested ice cream for my "cake." So, McD's got a drive-thru visit, but they had their machine disassembled for cleaning. So, Sonic won our money.
After arriving home, Lucky wanted a popsicle. My mother had the pleasure of turning his mouth purple. A lovely sight, by the way.
We were almost ready for bed, I was ironing a shirt for The Mighty Hunter.
"MOMMY, I need some help."
I grabbed the hand-towel and ran to find Lucky had just vomited a little bit. I arrived just in time to put a bigger towel (from the clean clothes basket at the foot of the bed) in front of him to try to catch the fountain of puke. He recovered quickly and went to sleep for the night without much fuss or struggle or whining for a bottle.
About 3 am, I am aware of Stinkerbell walking quickly into our room to our bedroom. The cat-like mommy reflexes that sense a sick child bolted me out of the bed. It was her turn to be the puke fountain.
She was pitiful but so brave.
They are both better today. But The Mighty Hunter and I and my mother are waiting our turn to puke our guts up.
Happy Barf-day to me too.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Because Jennifer said Swistle said to share how we found out we were pregnant, I'm going to do just that...
We had been trying for a few months. I think we started trying in January of 2000. I remember this because I began having KILLER KNOCK-ME-OUT-WITH-NARCOTICS MIGRAINE HEADACHES. By April, I was accustomed to the swing of headaches, when I should expect them, their intensity and duration.
The Mighty Hunter's mother was in the final phases of her terminal leukemia. She was at home, not going many places. Accepting visitors as she was capable of tolerating. We were spending every possible minute with her. We were that she would live long enough to see her first grandchild. (spoiler: she saw the first ultrasound, but that was all.)
My brother's wife was expecting their third child, due early in May.
In our part of Alabama, churches that have cemetaries have a Sunday (or Saturday sometimes) set aside for special services. Here in North Alabama, we call it Decoration. Further south, it is called Homecoming. Decoration at our church is always on Mother's Day.
Yes, Mother's Day. (Which is great for those whose mothers are in attendance - living or otherwise. But for those like myself, whose mother's are elsewhere, it's not so lovely.)
A few days prior to Mother's Day, I had my annual gynecologist exam. It was scheduled on the day I expected to start my period. They did a pregnancy test - negative. I didn't start that day.
I didn't start the next day.
By Mother's Day, I still had not started. The Mighty Hunter had already begun teasing me that I was pregnant.
I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I could not be pregnant because I had not ovulated. I was late because of stress. My cycle was irregular in length. yak yak yak. blah blah blah. bilthering of the crazy already pregnant Gal. But to prove him wrong - WRONG, I say - I bought a test on Saturday.
You are probably thinking that I had been doing something to determine my cycle length, ovulation day, etc. You know, basal temperature, mucus check, etc. Nope. I did none of that. I just KNEW.
Mother's Day morning, I woke up early because I had to pee like a racehorse. I remembered the test and peed on my stick. As I sat there - ahem - finishing my business. I might have fallen back to sleep. (I am known to sleep-pee from time to time. Thankfully, I usually sleep-walk to the toilet before I begin sleep-peeing.)
I have no idea how long I waited, since I may have been asleep during some of that time. But before I returned to bed, I looked at the stick.
Two lines. Two very clear lines.
You're probably wondering how quickly I ran to the bedroom, awakened The Sleeping Hunter to tell him of the exciting, thrilling, wonderful news.
I didn't exactly run. You could probably describe what I did as sitting, with my pjs around my ankles, stunned and almost silent. I muttered an incredulous "oh crap" and slipped back in bed without waking The Sleeping Hunter.
I lay there, awake, mourning my existence as a mostly carefree adult until he woke and made his trip to the bathroom. I had left the
double-barreled weapon test stick on the counter, close to the toilet. When he returned to bed, he snuggled up to me.
Did you see the thing on the counter?
The pregnancy test. (preparing myself to eat my serving of crow)
no.... You're pregnant, aren't you? I told you. I told you. I told you. Nanee-nanee-booboo.
Yes, dangit. I'm pregnant. You were right. I was wrong. Shut up. Scoot up close and snuggle while you still can before I explode into a pregnant whale.
We got up and dressed and went to his parent's house to share the news and be with the family.
Mom, Dad, we have something to tell you....
his mom: She's pregnant.
I wish I could say that his mother's answer held enthusiasm and excitement and joy and sunshine and butterflies and unicorns and rainbows. It didn't. It was the answer of the grandmother who knew she would never see her grandchild. It was sad. It was... resigned.
When we went to see my mother later that day, we played charades. Her reaction was everything I dreamed.
(My mother-in-law passed away June 30, 2000 - my mother's birthday. She never met either of my children. But I make myself feel better about it all by thinking that she watched over them, from her seat in the choir in Heaven, until they came out kicking and screaming.)
Without having ever seen her grandmother, Stinkerbell has some behaviors that are clear reminders of her. It's uncanny. It's wonderful.
Oh, and that ovulation date that I "didn't have" - it was tax day. The same day that a friend of mine went into rehab for pain medication addiction. It's easy to remember at least!
My story about finding out about my second pregnancy with Lucky is fodder for another post.
you can disregard the beginning 40 seconds or so (unless a litle silliness and goofiness appeals to you. and it does appeal to me. which could explain my attraction to The Mighty Hunter.)
And here is the man that I would have married, had he only asked. Alas
A girl can dream.
Sweet, sweet, yummy dreams.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
****Low WW Point Chicken Quesadillas
(2) 8" Whole wheat tortillas (98% fat free) (substitute fat free tortillas for 0! points)
1-2 Tbs all white meat chicken
1 Tbs Rotel, drained
1 tsp diced chiles
Chopped onions, raw or sautéed in olive or canola oil, your choice
(1 Tbs or as preferred)Cubed hot pepper cheese – substitute milder variety pepper jack if preferred
Sliced jalapenos (to taste)
Pre-heat non-stick pan over medium heat. Drain all water off chicken. Transfer chicken to a bowl, sprinkle with chili powder and cumin. Using a fork, "shred" chicken into thin "slivers", mixing chili powder and cumin into meat. Lightly spread approximately 1-2 Tbs of chicken onto one tortilla. Spread Rotel, chiles, onions and jalapenos evenly on top of chicken. Distribute approximately 8-10 cubes of cheese on top. (If using shredded cheese, use 1-2 Tbs). Carefully slide into pre-heated pan and cover with 2nd tortilla. Allow to cook until bottom tortilla is golden brown, 4-5 minutes. Using wide spatula, carefully flip tortilla and allow to cook an additional 4-5 minutes, until golden brown.Remove from heat. Slice with your favorite pizza cutter and serve with fat free sour cream.I also substitute cooked onions from time to time. Depending on what you use to cook them and how many you use, they probably add a point.
One quesadilla = 3 points*, approximately. The points were determined by using points calculator and calorie, fat, etc of ingredients. Rotel, chiles, jalapenos and raw onions are 0 points. 2 tortillas are less than 1 pt. Chicken is approx 1 pt. Cheese and cooked onions are approx 1 pt. All this WW point stuff is by MY estimation, which I readily admit is flawed and not scientifical at all.
Hobos? aka Boy Scout Dinners, Camp Fire Dinners, Pouch Meals
Cut chicken into bite size pieces, season to taste.
Cut vegetables of choice.
Fold large heavy-duty foil double and make a "bowl." Place chicken on bottom, then put veggies on top. Spoon 1/4 to 1/2 cup sauce of choice on top. Seal foil at top very securely. Bake in oven at 350 for 45 minutes or until chicken is done.Ground beef/turkey is also yummy. Tender roast meat works. I like corn, onion, potato, okra, tomato, squash/zucchini, diced chiles. The Mighty Hunter likes jalapenos too!
Sauce? I do my rotelly chicken sauce. 1 can Rotel. 1 equal sized can tomato sauce. 2 T brown sugar. The Mighty Hunter wants Worcestershire in his - lots of it. Stinkerbell likes Worcestershire and brown sugar
***Rotelly baked chicken
Boneless, skinless chicken breasts (as many as you want/need)
My Famous Spice Rub**
1 can Rotel-type diced tomatoes and chilis
1 can tomato sauce (same size can as Rotel)
2 Tbs brown sugar
**My Famous Spice Rub
4 parts Chili powder
1 part Cumin
1 part Cinnamon
1 part Ginger
1 part Thyme
Preheat oven to 300. Lightly sprinkle both sides of chicken with My Famous Spice Rub and place in an oven-safe dish. In a mixing bowl, combine Rotel, tomato sauce and brown sugar. Spread Rotel mixture over chicken. Bake, uncovered, approximately 45 minutes or until chicken reaches internal 170 degrees or you can slice into a piece of chicken and it is completely cooked throughout. Add fat free sour cream and low fat cheddar cheese for extra yumminess.
Has anyone else noticed that every single football game that is broadcast (regardless of network) lasts longer than the time allotted? Tonight's game of WVU and OU was scheduled to end by 11pm, but there was still more than 2 minutes on the game clock at 11?
This has been happening for a few years.
Monday night, my Auburn Tigers played Clemson. It was broadcast by ESPN (DirecTV channel 206). At least it was scheduled to be on 206. Because the game that was already playing on 206 was unfinished, the AU game played on ESPN2. Then, suddenly, without notice (if they said something about switching channels, we weren't listening) we were suddenly watching GOLF on 209.
I looked at The Mighty Hunter, who is notorious for flipping channels in the middle of shows even if HE is watching it, "why are we watching GOLF?"
I don't know.
Turn it back to the game.
I didn't turn it. I PROMISE.
Look at the guide. (thinking he's a dope and had really turned the channel without realizing it.)
It's on 206 now! What's the matter with these people? They changed channels without telling us! How dare they?
The WVU and OU game is over and lemmetellya. The big guy with the Mohawk on WVU's team crying over the victory? Adorable.
And I don't even like Mohawks.
I love that the victory was so solid after Rodriguez left them before the game. Good job boys.
Don't judge the camera by the crappy photographer.