They said they’d never really practiced this before with Gertrude and though they had to assist her, were very proud of what she was doing. Sticking her booty in the air is a key part in learning to stand up by herself.
I was telling Ryan about her booty and Ruthie asked if she did that. Yes! But you were very very little. Watching the breakdown of all the little movements needed to get around is actually very humbling. Our bodies are amazing and we don’t even realize it.
I said, You guys. It’s just me and three of you. Please just listen to what I say and don’t go nuts.
So we went to the Splash Pad, which on the scale of venturing out solo is like a 2, but you just never know. And honestly, I always expect the worst, especially hauling Gertie around. I should’ve known there’d be no issue though since she and water are best buds.
Right off, they found “Camille” in the plants. She’s the lady bug that I somehow convinced is the same one they’ve been seeing since last year when they had to send her back into the garden. They were so worried about her, but ended up reuniting this spring. How amazing that she remembered where they lived and even visited them at the splash pad. What a great gal.
Ryan and I have a few fun things coming up this summer. One of which is leading a new small group through our church. I really never thought we would, but the stars have aligned with another couple to get one going. And, after taking a year off to rest on Sunday evenings (which I absolutely needed and was thankful for), we’re ready to jump back in. You can get kind of eyes-glazed-over when you hear them say over and over while urging people to join one: We’re not a church with community groups, we’re a church made up of them. But now I fully understand the need to have a constant small circle around you.
I’ve only shared with a few people, and not even with my family, but about a month ago I had what I think was a nervous breakdown. Ryan had to come home early every day for almost a week. I was incapable of doing much beyond a simple meal: (think pb&js for dinner). I spent most of the week crying: in bed, in Gertie’s therapy waiting room, with her therapists, in the shower, at dinner. During nap/movie times, I would walk around the backyard sobbing and praying for help. From my core praying. It was probably the scariest it’s ever gotten. I guess in the midst of the news recently, I should add that it never got to a point where I was worried of what I’d do, but I wonder what it would’ve looked like if I didn’t have that single thread of communication directly to God, the frailest of threads that was somehow strong enough to keep me upright.
Afterwards I casually shared that experience with a friend and she asked me why didn’t I reach out to her. She would’ve been the first person called too. I can share the deepest of my neuroses with her and there’s no judgement. We’ve done online bible studies together. She is a children’s pastor for goodness sakes. So why when I hit bottom did I not call? But I do know why. For someone, and maybe you’re the same way, it’s hard to ask for help. I want someone to just know without me having to explain everything. I want them to proactively send me a text. I want them to show up with a dinner (because everyone knows that’s a mom’s holy grail, a pre-made meal). Even Ryan said that he does me a disservice because whenever anyone asks about us (alluding to life with Gertie), it’s always positive. It’s always, “Great! She’s continuously improving! Hooray Tada!” And while I can see his point of only sharing the good news, it also isolates us from help when we need it. On the flip side, it’s helped me learn what I need to look for and do for others.
This is why we’re excited to start back in with a group. To have people who keep up with us (and us them) weekly, where no one will be expected to cold call a friend from ground zero. Where we can see the progression of a snowball going down hill and either all stand in front of it mid-descent or rebuild it after it shatters at the bottom. I so understand now why these face-to-face relationships are important.
And just to update, I feel really good right now. Another friend mentioned that trauma and the brain go through cycles, showing its recurring face like clockwork. Is it related to when Gertie was born and all that followed? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had a little to do with it. But in the aftermath of everything a month ago, I feel different. I’m starting to be intentional. I am repeating to her the same things I say to the others: I am proud of you. You are a good girl. You make me happy. And she does. She really does, if I’ll just let her. But I do feel it happening. Her personality is coming out and I find myself laughing a lot at her.
Here she is stringing two “words” together (don’t mind her stained shirt). Two words/sounds in a row are a critical step in speech. Yesterday, when Ryan came home, I carried her out to meet him and he said “Hi Gertie!” and she responded without me cueing her a clear “Hi Dada”. Today, at the splash pad a girl came up to her little fountain and said Hi and Gertie said Hi back. To understand conversation, the back and forth. We are so hopeful.
Ryan has been amazing at giving me the evenings to run. And while I can’t do anything but gain weight, it has been very therapeutic mentally for me. Those evenings have been, along with my monthly meeting with a mentor, and then our book club that’s been meeting for the past six months. It has shoved me back into reading, where now I want to do nothing else at night except read. A friend’s therapist told her that reading activates the same part of the brain as hypnosis so is a great way to “self-medicate.” But the book clubs! We’ve been choosing restaurants/flavors relating to the books and it’s so fun. I love the different personalities and we’re at the point now where no opinion goes unsaid (I kicked that off with my book choice that no one liked, ha!)
Our first night. When I made everyone wear name tags and answer an ice breaker question. That lasted one time.
And Ruthie has already asked when we can do a book club together. The other night she wanted to lay in bed with me while Ryan worked in the living room. So she got her reader books, I got mine and it was so comfortable and exactly what I’d hoped to do with my child. I told her once she gets into 2nd or 3rd grade we’ll start it up.
This week has been one for the record book, my friends. For one, I took a shower every day. Amen. Secondly, I’ve never seen Ruth as sick as she has been. On one hand, you like the cuddles. On the other, you just want to go play outside while yelling to Stay on the sidewalk! like the good ole days.
We’ve been bed mates, this girl and me, and usually we’d just tuck in at her normal time around 7:30. But one night we stayed in the living room to watch Survivor with Ryan. Don’t judge. You watch Downton Abbey and from the sounds of it, it’s become just as cut throat on the surviving side of things.
So while we watched, Ruth let me cradle her. Don’t forget to check out the bleached out towel look displayed in the drafty window. It’s so in this season, and I’m ahead of the curve.
And it reminded me of a memory stuck in my head of being cradled by my mom. I must have been in 2nd or 3rd grade because I was big on her lap. I remember being rocked with a glass of Sprite offered every now and then. I don’t think we had a rocking chair in the living room, maybe it was a rocking arm chair? Or maybe it was just mom rocking her body? Anyway, it was dark with the only light in the room coming from the TV. It was quiet too, so everyone must have been in bed.
This is probably what it looked like:
Me on mom’s belly. Remote in mom’s hand.
And I could almost guarantee that we were watching David Letterman. I’ve no idea why I’m so confident in the matter. Maybe because another memory I have is not being able to sleep and walking into the living room to find my mom eating crackers with cream cheese and salsa. She didn’t tell me to go to bed, she let me sit with her and shared her plate. And David was on.
So there.
I told Ryan about my memory and he also shared one, from about the same age.
He remembers laying on his mom and listening to her talk on the phone, and was comforted by the sound of her voice.
Okay, she probably wasn’t that crazy-looking. But just so everyone knows, this is how I look whenever I laugh at what you say. That’s if we talk on the phone, because I’m not a phone-talker. I know I’ve shared this before, but it’s because people actually listen to what I say while on the phone. I can’t distract them with facial expressions or hand movements. And that intimidates me, so no, I’d rather not thankyouverymuch. It’s no offense to you.
I remember my mom saying, There’s no one like mama when you’re sick. Ruth will run to the door when her daddy gets home and basically ignore my existence. But once that sickness comes on, she’s all mine. And that’s just fine by me.
See who this is?
It’s the spokesperson of FWA (Future Weirdos of America). The pink flannel, the wind jacket, the shoes. Oh, the shoes. Black patent leather lace-up boots. It really should be called Future Loners of America, but then I remembered that even Jared Leto had friends while wearing those shoes in My So Called Life.
So at least there’s that. But all I see is Ruth with raccoon eyes smoking cigarettes behind the school.
And probably still using sidewalk chalk as her drawing medium.
I’m not taking all the blame either, because she’s the one that pulled those boots out of the basket and asked to wear them.
Dang, she does make me smile, though, that weirdo of mine. I like weird. And I hope she is.
But at this moment, she’s not weird. She’s sick. Really sick. Like, she lays on the couch while Ryan and I watch back to back episodes of old Arrested Development sick. But she’s not laughing.
See? Weirdo.
It seems like only yesterday that she was reading her books, always stopping on the Bookmobile page.
And it only seems like yesterday that we rolled her up burrito-style after a long bath. 
She laid there for at least three minutes without moving. I can never roll burritos right. Stuff from the middle always blow out the bottom and her legs are no exception. We only kissed that burrito stuffing though. We didn’t wipe it off our sweater and plop it into our mouth like we do at the dinner table.
Yes, that was just a few days ago. But now she’s in day three of an all-day napping marathon. It’s been hard work for me. I’ve had to sit next to her on the couch and read,
or lay next to her on the bed reading or sleeping. Someone’s gotta do it.
But she has woken up occasionally to moan and call out for us.
Or to puke.
If there were a Mom-olypmics, I’m pretty sure I’d medal in the “Catch The Puke In Your Hand” event. You should see how fast my hand shoots out to catch it. I’d probably only get third place, because the silverist would catch the puke while changing a poopy diaper with her other hand. The gold medalist would catch it, reduce it in a skillet, and turn it into some disease-fighting tonic.
So yeah, just third, but at least I’d make the stand.
I do miss my busy little girl, but I can’t deny that spooning her for 20 hours a day has been a highlight of the season. I sure do love her.
I love me a full day. Granted, ‘full’ could be also construed as watching a Survivor marathon 8 hours straight, so please feel free to define it any way you’d like.
But today I felt productive: both in chores and quality time.
Everyday we officially wake up to this little lady staring at us. I say officially because it’s only the last couple of hours that she’s in bed with us. Yes, I’m still breastfeeding. And yes, I have moments where I want to chop off my breast Amazon woman-style just to be done with it, but most other times I enjoy holding this growing girl in my arms.
So when she wakes up at 5:30 for her early morning feeding, I stumble back into bed with her and we sleep for a couple more hours, if we’re lucky. She wakes up, yells at both of us mamamamamadadadadada, then Boo (minus the K), and I reach down for a couple books for her to read as we close our eyes a little while longer.
Some days we have energy, others we don’t.
This day we did, so Ryan fixed us his homemade sausage, cheese, and egg mcmuffins. Protein points for this pregnant lady.
I literally could eat those all day long, but controlled myself and managed to squeeze a day’s worth into a morning meal. I took over breakfast duty to let Ryan and Ruth watch Saturday morning cartoons, which consisted of (what else?) He-Man & She-Ra the movie.
Ruth just wanted to read. That’s all she wants to do now. She’ll pick a book from the shelf, hand it to you, then scoot backwards into your lap. No matter what I’m doing, I stop to read to her because if there’s one activity I want her to enjoy, it’s reading. No batteries, no electricity, no controllers needed. Just you, the printed page, and preferably something to eat. My mom remembers holing up eating buttered popcorn with a book in hand when she was younger. It will take me less than a nano second to continue that tradition. Because, really, the only qualification needed for a family tradition is buttered popcorn.
So while Ruthie read by the sunshine, I hung out laundry in the sunshine.
To be able to still hang out clothes in mid-November is wonderful.
I had vintage laundry cart that I’d wheel up and down the line. It looked like this:
(source)
But the cloth was coming apart and it was hard to transfer clothes easily from the dryer, across the living room, to the vintage hamper. So I’d have to use a regular platic hamper to make the transition. One thing I hate is having several different things that do the same job. So after searching online, I found this guy:
(Source)
I want it if only to have an excuse to wear a jean on jean ensemble. Whomever has me as a secret santa, this is available for just $40 more than our max budget of ten bucks. Go ahead, splurge.
After I got a little sun on my face, I plopped chicken into the crockpot to cook for the day.
After it’s done, I use the bones and fat along with left over vegetables to make broth overnight. After straining it Sunday morning, I was able to get 10 cups out of the deal. Two birds, one stone. Lovely.
After a morning nap, the family drove to The Dollar Store because we were on a mission. I wanted to start a family tradition each Thanksgiving of volunteering, but Ruth is not old enough to scoop soup out without a baby spoon. And I can’t imagine the agony of being hungry only to have your food ladled 1 teaspoon at a time.
I thought we could do something else in the meantime. We chose to participate in Operation Christmas Child. You fill up a “shoebox” with toys, sanitary items, etc, attach a label with the age and sex of who you are buying for, and drop it off at various locations. The label also has a bar code that the company scans so you can track where your package is going.
Since there were three of us, we had three shoeboxes, one for each of our sexes and for the age range closest to us. 1 male: 10-14 years, 1 female: 10-14 years, and 1 female: 2-4 years.
Ruthie was a blur of excitement as we shopped for her girl.
I had absolutely no idea what to buy the boy. Ryan said, “Don’t worry, I got this.” And promptly came back with an armful of boy games. I nixed the snot rockets, but everything else was solid. Even though Ryan would be a perfect dad for girls, I still hope he gets a little boy someday. He would be so excited to build and destroy with a mini-him.
Ruthie, in the meantime, really only wants a green apple and she’s happy. Not quite into destruction… unless it involves spaghetti.
I’ll give you three seconds to spot my belly button. Go.
We arrived home after buying a ton of items only to have it total to much less than expected. Gotta love the dollar store. And gotta not love walking in and seeing that you never plugged in the crock pot. Ah, the trials of a homemaker.
It almost ruined my day. Almost.
But luckily we headed to the park and that always perks me up.
Ruthie thinks she’s a big girl playing on the slide by herself. Don’t you dare try to help her either. And Lord help us if another kid shows up, because then Little Miss Show Off comes out to play. A boy joined her in the playhouse and she at first stood there, repeating ‘Hi’ a thousand times. He didn’t notice. So as he hesitated at the slide entrance, she got a determined look on her face, basically pushed him out of the way, and slid down. 
Do you like how we never take her out of her pj’s? I mean, if we’re all in pj’s then we’re just a really cute mitchy-matchy family, right?
Besides, after our park jaunt, we went home and immediately all took a nap. So basically we’re just super prepared.
When we woke up, dinner was made and kombucha was drunk. By Ryan, at least. It’s not advised to start drinking kombucha regularly if you’re pregnant. It’s really good for your digestive system, but it detoxes your body, so you don’t want the detox to think the foreign entity trying to grow in your uterus is not supposed to be there. If you’d already been drinking it regularly, I guess I’ve read it’s safe.
And since Ryan’s stomach was troubling him the past couple weeks, what better timing to force him to start!
I mean, look at this!! Doesn’t it look yummy???
Mmmmmmmm, pulling out the mother. Tasty!
You don’t eat the mother. Save it for your next batch. With each batch a new mother is grown. You can see in the first picture there are several mothers floating at the bottom. Pretty appetizing. 
But for how much they’re going for in health food stores, it’s nice to see I can get a good batch out of only 4 bags of tea, water, and sugar. Amazing.
So after Ryan choked it down (although he did say it tasted like apple juice), we played with Ruthie, hiding Cookie Monster in various places for her to find. 
Thankfully she’s a serious child. And finding cookie monster and pulling off his head was serious business indeed.
The day felt long, like mid-summer-it’ll-never-go-dark day. And we needed that, big time.
Hunkering down before the holiday storm. And I couldn’t ask for a better pair to spend it with.
It was mid-50s and sunny. And we were itching to get out. Well, I was, at least. Ruthie was content bouncing on my knee, flying in my arms above my head, and timing her spit-up to land as soon as I open my mouth.
So I bundled her into a carrier and hit the pavement gravel road.
She insisted on wearing her snazzy leopard outfit for the outing. Should I be concerned that she cared more about what to wear than me? So what if I wore that white zip-up for three days straight. Dingy, make-up stained fuzzy outerwear are in now, right?
We discussed many things while on our walk. One spot was of particular interest.
See that grouping of bushes behind Ruth’s cat ears?
They’re raspberry bushes. Wild ones. Most are along the road on the barbed wire, but there’s a semi-circle just steps within the fence. Come springtime, Ruth and I are going to make friends with whomever owns that land to ask if we can scavenger.
It’s like dumpster diving for fruit.
I showed her my imaginary petrified forest. If these trees could talk, Ruth, they’d describe how it felt to have cows rub hairy bodies against their trunks or the tight grip of a hawk perched on their branches before diving down for food. They’d stiffen up as those bitter cold winters were remembered, and gently sway from side to side when talking about the blow of a breeze.
Maybe one day they’ll say we saw the cutest little girl walk down the street with her mom. And they pointed at us and smiled.
And then they would smile.
As we grow old and petrified in our own bodies, remember, Ruthie, that it feels good to be acknowledged.
On our way back home, I pointed out the shimmering reflection on a pond.
And watched as she furrowed her eyebrows against the sunlight.
We spotted some dogs running across the field.
And let the wind brush a dried reed on her head.
The mailman drove by and waved. We discussed the importance of writing letters and how wonderful it feels to receive one.
And then she looked up with inquiring eyes at the electrical pole.
We’ll let your father explain electricity, dear.
Now back to that blue sea of a sky…
We had a whirlwind weekend, with family visiting, reunions to attend, and alma maters losing. I was worn out come Sunday night. But it really doesn’t take much to wear me out anymore. Just getting the mail is cause for a 2 hour nap. And don’t get me started about using the letter opener. Whew!
I did manage to squeeze in a game of scrabble with the parents, though. The weather was beautiful, so we opened up the windows and sipped on coffee. It felt like springtime and after years of denying it, I’ve finally admitted to myself that I am a Spring lover. More energy, more spunk, more liveliness. Can’t get enough.
I think they rigged the letters so that I’d come out with S N O B. Maybe I should quit teasing them about seeing my life flash before my eyes when they forget this or can’t remember that. Naw, I’ve convinced myself it keeps them young. They probably didn’t slip in O B O E, though, because they knew I’d subject them to a rendition of one of my favorite movie lines in Amadeus: And then high above, an oboe… or something like that, I can’t remember. Go rent it, now.
But don’t watch it with me, I’m warning ya.
I’m the mob boss of movies-that-i’ve-already-seen watching. If you so much as glance at the popcorn bowl and not look at the screen, you best be ready for the array of verbal bullets shot at you. Are you watching? Why aren’t you watching? You’re not watching. You need to see this part for the next part! Fine, hurry and take a sip of your coke, but your eyes better be glued to the screen, so help me.
I’m not proud of it, but can literally not stop myself. My mom likes to remind me of the time when we all watched Inception over Christmas last year. No one understood what was going on, but were afraid to turn to look at me and ask any questions for fear of my wrath. Then, when the movie was over, they did turn around to say something to me and saw I had left the room at some point during the film to go to bed. So the whole movie was them spending inordinate amounts of energy sitting still, facing the screen, and not uttering a sound.
Sorry.
Let’s see… what else did we do. Oh, I know.
We stared at Ruthie’s Chubby McChubberson’s legs.
She knew I was putting her on display for this photo. Lucky for her a circus performer hasn’t travelled through asking for her to join, because I think I could make some big bucks off of those rolls.
Come right up and see the newest attraction ~ The Thigh-Baby! This baby is literally turning into a thigh, folks… Watch the rolls take over her body in front of your very eyes!
Dolla Dolla Bills, yo.
Alrighty, what else. We did a two-stop extravaganza to watch KSU lose to UofA in the Cotton Bowl. Sigh. We do love our Wildcats. First, we popped into R’s brother’s place “Uncle Favorite”, as he calls himself, and listened to Ruth scream bloody murder for 45 minutes. She must have already seen this football game and was mad that I had gone to the bathroom in the middle of it. Just like her mama, I’m so proud.
We quickly bundled her up, stuck a pacifier in her mouth, and drove to my brother’s house. Remember the weather? Yeah, it was taken advantage of as we sat around a fire watching the game outside. I ran into the backyard and stopped short because, I don’t know if M noticed or not, but there was a homeless person that sat down to warm himself. That guy on the right, see him? I guess he wasn’t hungry, just needed a place to watch the game, so I went back inside.
But he followed me! I was about to run to the car for one of the Blessing Bags when I realized it was just my dad… in about every random piece of winter clothing he could find. I must get my style sense from him. Thanks, man.
All in all, a good solid weekend.
We did one more thing over the weekend that excited to talk about… a reunion of blossoming friendships. And blossoming babies. Too fun.
Dear Nyquil,
You had me at my goodni–, because I never got to the end of that word before succumbing to the lovely coma you provided. You know that I don’t typically go for tall, dark shotglasses of liquid dreams. In most cases, I go down fighting just even to take tylenol for a headache. But you Nyquil, you wormed your foggy-head-inducing way into my heart.
But I…
…I met someone. He was introduced to me by Frugally Sustainable. Don’t blame her, she didn’t know I was seeing you. I was fully aware of what I was doing, but couldn’t stop it. You know that I’m breast feeding and understood that we would be apart for awhile. That was gracious of you, yes.
I just didn’t expect… this. I think it’s love.
If it’s not too painful, a few other people are reading this over your shoulder and kinda want to know how this other syrup and I met.
Try to avert your eyes, Nyquil.
Click here to read about our first date in a nutshell and the recipe. It was kinda awkward because I didn’t say much. In fact, I said nothing at all…. because we met over the internet, which is no big deal except he had no clue I was hunting him down in person.
Eventually, I did find him and laid out all the ingredients on the counter. Then smiled that the bottles bought for me last Christmas from my in-laws were finally getting used. And they’re almost exactly like Frugally Sustainable’s bottles. Who’s trying their darndest to imitate Frugally? This girl. It’s embarrassing.
Picture me with Ruth’s scary “I’m gonna stalk you” grin when she stared down her new friend. I have no idea where she gets that weird social ineptness. I mean, I only hounded my future college roommate and super good friend, K, for months before agreeing to be my roommate. So what if she swears that whenever she got new eyeglasses, I showed up the next day with similar ones. And it’s not that big of a deal that we both married guys of the same name, and those guys have fathers with the same name.
Pure coincidence.
It’s not like I researched his family line on ancestry.com before settling on a husband to make sure mine was in sync. I mean, everyone knows that his family came from Prussia on the 1886 transatlantic ship to America. Right?
Back to my current victim author. She has an entire section dedicated to making your own medicine. And since I’m new to this world of herbs, I thought we would get up close and personal with them as they are introduced.
Meet Licorice Root. Licorice Root, meet… well, meet whomever’s the current person I’ve bribed to read my blog.
From http://www.herbwisdom.com, here are just some of the benefits of Licorice Root:
Next up: Echinacea Root.
Ech-uh-NAY-sha.
Guess who called up the local health food store and asked for Ech-ee-nuh-SAY-uh? You’re right. Me, again. No one knew what I was talking about so I naturally just kept repeating it the same way over and over again. Pretty sure they weren’t annoyed.
From http://www.herbwisdom.com, here are just some of the benefits of Echinacea Root:
…and Ginger Root:
After steeping and then filtering out the herbs once, I decided to do it again for the last few bits and pieces.
Ruth played with her friends, while I poured in the syrup.
I interrupted the play date and asked her to model the finished product. She was suspicious.
And had a right to be. I used her because I felt guilty throwing an arm around my new man. Nyquil, I hate to admit this, but I already forgot you were reading. Now that I’ve remembered that you are, maybe I shouldn’t mention that this concoction helped my sore throat at night like you did but it also tasted much better.
I’m sorry it had to end this way. Keep reading my blog, please.
Carolyn
Ruthie got sick of me talking about my breakup and asked me to read her a book. So we did, and I purposely read the cupcake page about 20 times. She understands at 4 months that that’s the perfect cure after a long relationship ends.
I do feel the need to mention that while nursing you still want to watch your intake. I did a tablespoon every 3-4 hours. There are also some herbs that you shouldn’t take at all while nursing. Just a heads up and do your research.
Ruthie was gracious enough to invite us on a picnic outing over the weekend. The weather was absolutely gorgeous. We packed up a lunch and then about 15 other bags full of random things that were never needed. It’s trial and error right now, trying to figure out the least we can get away with while towing a 5 week old.
I was intent to stay on that blanket for as long as possible. Could you blame me? Check out the color of that sky. Perfect.
I was in charge of getting lunch together while R played with Ruthie. Egg salad sandwiches, cheese and crackers, apples, celery with peanut butter… oh and a jumbo sized bag of Tootsie Roll pops. I fear I have an addiction.
At some point in my teenage years, I must have run into a dealer on the street who opened up his trench coat and revealed hanging tootsie roll pops. “The first one’s free, girlie.” And the rest is history. I’ve been waking up at odd hours of the night to eat them and then disposing of the evidence so R doesn’t know. Not like he’d care. In fact, the only person who is going to care is my dentist. I have my first appointment since having Ruth in a few weeks, and I think there’s about 300 cavities living in my teeth. Two of them found love and have since started a family.
So with a pop in my mouth, I started to spread the egg salad.
And then something flutter by me and landed nearby. Oh, just a leaf… Yay Fall, I thought.
And then I looked closer.
And then I looked at R.
No.
Please, God, no.
The dreaded booger sucker and R was knuckle deep with it.
“Sorry, it’s just not working,” he said. “It won’t suck them all the way in. So I have to find some way to dispose of them.”
And by disposing of them, he means attaching them onto leaves and then throwing them into the beautiful gentle breeze.
So that it can drift its way right next to my lunch-making station.
I looked at the leaf again and dry heaved. They say that, as a mother, you don’t get grossed out by your kid’s excretions. Well, whoever they are, are wrong.
Fricken disgusting, Ruth. Use a kleenex.
That booger sucker must have also sucked out Ruth’s energy because she immediately zonked out.
So what did we do on a wonderful day outside? Watch a dvd of course. We’re crazy about Mad Men and had a few episodes left to watch. Ruth didn’t mind. Next time, we’ll fly a kite we swear.
You see? She really didn’t care. Look at her mouth. When it’s all pushed out like that, she is happily dreaming away.
Probably dreaming of better skin, from the looks of it. We’re in week 3 of baby acne and it took zero seconds before R brought up the classic pizza face commercial below.
We still love you, Ruth. You’re a beautiful before photo of a Clearasil model.
After our romp in the hay with Mad Men, R pulled out our financials to work on for next month. As soon as he said, “finan…” he heard snoring and looked around.
What.
It was Ruth’s fault.
…and I never thought I’d say it.
You know, the satisfaction of a good workout… complete with sweaty back and hair. I’m starting to daydream about it.
I’ve enjoyed exploring our piece of outdoors near The Shack. It can simultaneously calm and reinvigorate me.
Like the semi-canopied dirt roads.
Or the various moths and butterflies that circle me as I walk. (There is one house on the way that I swear keeps a coyote chained up in the front yard. Every time I pass, it groans out of agony for not being able to eat me alive. It would be my absolute last resort, but I’m not taking chances.)
Our small little graveyard.
Which is right next to a tree cemetery. This little grove has confirmed my belief that dead trees are just as beautiful as full, luscious ones. They’re like old, wrinkled faces… I wonder what they’ve seen.
And then scattered throughout are horses of varying colors. The white ones are my favorite.
But most importantly, and probably most simply, open space. I never tire of these views.
Hello.
We had an interesting 4th anniversary. First Ryan sent flowers for the second time in all of our relationship. It made me feel shy, I don’t know why.
He knows me well, though, because I’ve been whispering into his ear at night that I’d rather he put money towards a plane ticket to Prague instead of on flowers. Besides, one day we’ll have enough rose bushes to have flowers all the time.
But I really enjoyed these. I’m reading a diary of a 15th century woman in Japan of her life as a concubine and then as a nun. Well, isn’t that the plight of every woman.
The Confessions of Lady Nijo. Only one copy of it remained until someone found in the 1800s and kept it way until the 1940s.
So R knew of my current obsession and bought accordingly. Loved it, R, thank you.
Later we went out to eat a neat restaurant in Fayetteville. They buy locally, organically, and have their own gardens in front of the restaurant. The inside was simple, making the food the main star. Mushroom fries – Hello! You made my day. We were in heaven.
And then hell.
I’d had a stomach ache since Tuesday and just kind of dealt with it. I don’t like taking medicine, even tylenol, so I think it has built up my tolerance to pain. And I really prefer not going to the doctor, because I have a fear of being given too many (unnecessary) medicines. I’m turning into a paranoid freak, I know. But you already knew that.
Long story short, my appendix is now bye-bye. It was in the beginning stages, so I was hoping there might be alternatives.
But I’m glad we went through with the surgery. My great grandpa died of a burst appendix and I thought of him a lot, leaving my grandma in a sad situation growing up.
Fine. Just take the darn thing out, then!
Plus, it meant that R would dote on me. That part has been my favorite.
By the way, how much does an appendix weigh? Maybe I’ll win the weigh-in this week with my roommates.
cuethebanjo.com 