She's Almost One and...

...I am in such denial that I keep putting off the 14 million things I have to do to celebrate it. It's not even a fancy party, especially since we just moved here, so there aren't a lot of people coming, but frankly, it could just be the hubs, me, and Ella, and I'd still need to get a move on. It's her first birthday, after all.

...I'm realizing how much she's still a baby. In my head, pre-Ella, I always imagined age 1 more along the lines of age 2. But now, I realize how little age 1 really is. It's still so young.

...I can't imagine weaning her any time soon. I know of babies who self-wean at this age, and Ella will not be one of them. Frankly, because she really is still a baby, I can't even fathom it happening. Regardless of the fact that I don't believe in "weaning" a little one to begin with, I'm very glad she's not ready to be done with that aspect of our relationship. But I can see it's changing. For instance, she rarely wants to nurse in public, and she can go much longer spurts without it if she gets busy. She also can be placated with food if she's hungry. That being said, she still relies on nursing as part of her nap and bedtime routine, plus a few other times throughout the day. I wouldn't be surprised if she's self-weaned before 2, but not 1. Thank God, not 1.

...I realize I'm going to have a walker soon. She stands unassisted and uses pushes things about all the time. I secretly hope she takes her first steps right on or near her first birthday. But that may just be a mommy's wishful drinking.

...I have no idea what to get her. We've already bought her a water table, but I'd like to snag a few more things for her birthday. Except 1 is such a hard age. I find tons of toys perfect for a 2 year old, and there are lots of cute baby toys, but there is nothing in the middle, or so it seems for this mama.

...I am having a lot of anxiety about her first cake. Of course, it will be a "healthy" birthday cake. (I even figured out how to make icing that's gluten, dairy, soy, and mostly sugar free.) But even if I succeed on that front, I can already hear the harassment I'm going to get from the half of my friends who are more mainstream.

..She's learned to throw tantrums. She is the epitome of sassy, and honestly, I am at a loss. How do you discipline a 1 year old? Stand your ground; don't give in; get on their level and explain why they can't have the crystal vase full of expensive flowers? Fat chance. She digs her heels in about the weirdest things, too. It's so hard to predict. Luckily, it's rare.

...We've lost complete control of her wardrobe. She is wearing mostly 12-18 and 18-month clothing. But some 2T stuff actually works, and a lot of 12-month stuff still works. Even a few 6-12 month things are still fitting. We are all over the map, and it's not even funny. Luckily, she seems to have slowed down. I shouldn't need to refurbish and sort through her drawers, etc., until the next season. But it's a little sad, too. Because gone are the days of packing away one size and whipping out a whole new size. It's all so intermixed at this age.

...We're praying really hard that her daddy is going to be here on her birthday. Every day closer we get, it looks better and better. But we all know that can change faster than a New-York minute. So it's a huge guessing game, and frankly, I'm hoping my "hunches" are right, and that he'll be here to wake her up on her first birthday morning and watch her take her first steps.

...She's still not sleeping through the night. I feel like, when that comes up, I'm met with huge shock and awe. But it's true. She's up once a night most nights - occasionally twice. It's not a huge deal, and we make it work. I can see that she's going to grow out of it, albeit slowly. And I'm OK with that. Does it stink? Sure. Is it forever? No. She only needs me like this once.

...I can't stop thinking of my wonderful midwives who delivered her. It's a huge celebration, her birth, and it's kind of like my motherhood anniversary, too. It's the day our lives and family changed; it's a joyous occasion. But it also makes me miss the women who helped me bring her into this world.

...She has started talking a lot more - not just the standard mama, dada, all done, and dog anymore. She says Ella, baby, bye-bye, poopy, more, and other funny words I can't believe she remembers. She said "apple" clear as day while eating one a few days ago. She also goes, "Ehh?" like an old Yiddish woman, and it sends me into a fit of giggles every time.

...I can't believe it's been a year. It has hands down been the fastest year of my life. I swear, she was 7 pounds and curled up on my chest just yesterday. And now she's talking and almost walking and 23 pounds of fun.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone.

Another Year Forgotten

Last week, my dad called me.

Knowing I'd be arriving into town today - a Thursday - we asked, "So, we were thinking of having Grandma and Grandpa over on the Friday or Saturday after you get here for some birthday cake."

There was a long pause.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what he was talking about.

I think I even said, "But why, Dad? Grandma's birthday's in November and Grandpa's isn't until after Christmas."

The long pause continued. I mean, we're talking easily 60 to 75 seconds of me going, "What the heck is my Dad thinking?"

Until, finally, the poor guy managed to utter, "Uh, Brittany, 27 years ago..."

And then I remembered.

It's my birthday. Thursday - today - Dec. 15? It's my stinkin' birthday.

And I, honest to goodness, forgot.

I have been so wrapped up in all other aspects of my life, plus caring for this handful of a baby I've got, that, truthfully, I can't believe a year has passed, and I'm another year older. It seems largely insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.

It's so not important in my own mind that, if my father hadn't spoken up, I'd likely have let the day pass with no more than a "Hmm. There's something I'm forgetting about today..."

My mother says this is simply because I have a child now. Or, in her words, "You've ceased to be important."

I'm pretty sure she's referring to my importance in my own mind, though make no mistake about it, when I hop off that plane today, she's going straight for her grand-daughter.

Any birthday wishes I get will only be an afterthought.

Still, I suppose she's right.

Heck, I joked last month that I'd like cloth diapers and some wooden toys for Christmas.

Talk about a major priority shift.

The skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be would be so ashamed.

But then again, when your every worry and concern is wrapped up in everything your baby needs - not to mention bills and laundry and the current flu making the rounds among our neighborhood - the fancy gifts and a fabulous cake aren't ranking that high on the totem pole for me this year.

Who knows? Maybe they never will again.

So, here's to 27; the year I realized I'm no longer important and that birthdays are no longer a big deal.

If you even remember them, that is.

***

Yep. Today's my birthday. I'm a year older.

I don't feel any older or wiser, though I suppose I am. Older, anyway. Wiser is largely up for debate these days.

I am, in fact, celebrating by braving the airports with an infant today. (Thanks for your tips yesterday, by the way!)

And, maybe, my grandparents will share some cake with me this weekend.

Which I'm sure it will be accompanied by a huffy, unsatisfied sigh.

It'll be the sound of the skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be rolling her eyes in exasperation and defeat.

Poor girl. These days, she never gets to come out and play.

Not even on her birthday.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

For a First-Time Father

My husband never knew his biological father.

The man, from what we know, up and left his mother some time right after she got pregnant with my husband.

He was raised by his mother for the first 11 years of his life. And then, when she passed away from cancer, he was raised by his aunt and uncle.

So, technically, my in-laws are his aunt, uncle, and cousins.

Not that it matters, as he's as much a part of their family as if he'd been born into it.

He was very blessed to be dealt the hand he was, despite how hard it seems to lose your only parent that young. He was still cared for and loved, even in her absence.

Far worse things happen to most boys who grow up in single-parent homes.

Still, the fact remains that, my husband never knew his father. And the tiny bits of information we've gleaned about the man make it seem as if he's probably better off never having known him, anyways.

By and large, men who leave women pregnant and alone are not exactly high up on our list of "People We'd Like to Have Over For Dinner." My husband came to peace with that long before meeting me.

It also helps that, thanks to his uncles, he didn't lack for sound male role models in his life. Plus, he always had his mother's family encouraging him, telling him that just because his father had made bad decisions, didn't mean he was destined to do the same.

He could be a good husband. He could be a good father. His father's legacy was not his own.

And, by and large, I'd wholeheartedly agree with them.

After all, he married me. And not once since the day I met him have I ever even considered he'd run away.

It's just not his style.

Granted, he's not perfect. He's known to leave laundry everywhere and hide candy-bar wrappers under the car's driver seat.

But when it counts, he's unfailingly loyal and hard-working and dedicated. He's sacrificing and loving and attentive. And he'd move heaven and Earth to help me, if that's what it took.

Honestly, I'm the luckiest woman, when I think about it, because I go to bed every single night knowing and trusting my husband.

Which is why I didn't hesitate, not even a little, at the thought of having children with them. I've never even given a passing worry to the fact that he might leave me. That he might do what his father did.

Again, it's simply not his style. And the last 30 weeks have been proof of that.

He's cleaned up after me when I couldn't "contain" my morning sickness. He's talked to my belly almost every night. He's assembled the world's most stubborn, antique crib, and he's sanded down and painted our changing table. He spent two hours swapping nursery furniture around till we got it "just so," and he waded through a baby store three times with me while we registered.

He was more excited than I was, at 20 weeks, when we found out we were having a baby girl. And he's the one who giggled like a school girl when he felt her kick for the first time.

I couldn't ask for more support, but then again, I'm not at all surprised.

You see, a few weeks after we found out we were pregnant, the hubs came home from work one night.

We were still in that "Can you believe we're really going to have a baby?" phase, and we spent a great amount of time together asking each other that very question.

We'd started to tell a select few family and friends, and he'd gone to work that very day to tell his commanding officer that we were expecting.

He'd told a few shipmates, too. In fact, they'd had a pretty thought-provoking conversation about it, he told me.

"You know what I realized today, babe, when I was talking to my friends about us having a baby?" he said to me.

"What?" I inquired, stirring the soup on the stove.

"That I never had a father. I mean, I never had a man who helped me come into this world. I never knew what it was like, as a little kid, to play with him or turn to him for help or see him as a part of my household. I never even got to call anyone "Daddy," he continued.

I nodded.

"And you know what?" he continued. "Today, I realized that now, I get to be something I never had. I get to be a father. Someone gets to call me 'Daddy.' Cool, huh?"

I stood there, speechless. Frankly, I was trying not to cry.

For I realized long ago how amazing it was that my husband had moved past bitterness when it came to his past and his own deadbeat dad.

But I wasn't expecting how amazing it would be for him to realize a dream that set him so far apart from that man he carried around in his own DNA.

He was going to get to be a Daddy. He wasn't scared. He wasn't worried. He was just happy about it.

That, right there, is why I never worried about him. That, right there, is how I knew he'd broken the cycle. That, right there, is how, when push comes to shove, I know he'll run to the side of his wife and child and not away from them.

He's already an amazing father, simply by virtue of being him; simply through the fact that he's stood up, as a man, and refuted a past that holds no bearing on what kind of husband and father he'll be in the future.

My Baby Girl is a lucky one. I am, too.

***

Twenty-six years ago today, my husband's own biological father wasn't there to meet the man he'd helped bring into this world. Today is my husband's birthday.

Blessedly, my husband is a better man for his past. He's not marked by it at all. At least not for the worst.

So, today, Baby Girl and I celebrate that. We celebrate the birth of the man that changed my life and the one who helped start hers!

Happy Birthday, Baby Love! We are so lucky to have you! We love you!

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Um, Today?

This week has been a bit nuts.

Holiday and Get-Our-Behinds-Out-of-Town preparations have reached an all-time high.

I have about 18 rotating to-do lists, all of which tell me what I should be doing every second of every day.

I've got myself on a very tight leash.

Luckily, so far, things seem to be going smoothly.

Granted, I arose at 4 a.m. yesterday to prepare a ladies Christmas luncheon. And I didn't sit down for almost 14 hours.

But hey, everything got done that was supposed to get done. I couldn't have been happier.

And, so, I'm here. At today. Facing today's to-do list.

Which includes lots of gift wrapping and pound-cake baking and envelope addressing and phone-call making .

This all has to be done today, so that tomorrow I can pack us up for two weeks away, cook dinner for a bunch of single sailors, and get - God willing - six hours of sleep.

Because Friday we leave.

It's a hullabaloo, that's for sure.

Hence the reason why I totally forgot today has another something special attached to it.

Something that is not on one of my many to-do lists.

Turns out, today's my birthday.

And, honestly, I totally forgot.

A friend of mine gave me an obtuse facebook shout-out about my birthday last week, and it took me 30 minutes to figure out who she was talking about.

Another person sent me an early birthday message, and I was genuinely puzzled.

A package came in the mail, bearing my new running shoes from my husband, and I totally forgot why he'd bought them for me.

I honest-to-goodness forgot my own birthday.

I even forgot to pencil it into my weekly regimen.

"Clean oven burners" I remember.

"Tell yourself 'Happy Birthday!'" totally slipped my mind.

Blame pregnancy brain. Blame my stress level. Blame whatever you want, but the truth is, I forgot my own birthday.

Worse yet, this means I've committed the Cardinal Sin of December Birthdays. And I did it to myself.

I let Christmas overshadow the day I was born.

I'm just as bad as the aunts and uncles who gave me birthday gifts wrapped in red and green, and the relatives who passed off one gift as a "birthday-Christmas duo."

I'm still the kid at school who didn't get to hear "Happy Birthday to You" and pass out cupcakes because it interfered with the class Christmas party.

Heck, I'm the teenage girl with no one at her sleepover because, with a birthday so close to Christmas, her friends all had "family obligations."

Except this time, it's all my own fault.

I'm too busy baking and wrapping and packing to even consider the fact that I'm a year older.

In fact, I might just have to wait till next year to celebrate. (When we have a 6 month old, who, I'm sure, won't get in the way at all! Ha!)

So, yes, today's my birthday. I'm a little bit older and not at all wiser, apparently.

Wise people don't forget their own birthdays.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bake some cakes for my in-laws. But don't mind me if you catch me sticking a candle in one and humming, "Happy Birthday to Me!"

Don't worry. I penciled it in. Just for today.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

To My Dog

Oh, sweet Marvin.

Today, you are 4 years old.

I can't believe it, but you, my sweet puppy dog, are almost middle-aged.

Three-and-a-half years ago, I had no idea we'd get to this point: The point where you no longer need to be crate trained, the point where you stay off all our furniture, the point where you don't chew every book on my bookshelf up to smithereens.

You've come so far, Sweet Moo*.

Baby Marvy*

You and I have survived marrying your father, your obsessive need to sleep directly on top of me, and your incessant amounts of drool.

I remember when we didn't even know what you were and how big you'd get.

He was actually that small once!

And now, Momita*, now that we know your full, huge, Great-Dane-lab-mix potential, I'm so glad your genetic origins remained a mystery to me for the first year of your life.

Marvin used to be smaller than a Boston terrier!

Because I'd have been too afraid of your size to adopt you, and then I'd never have experienced all the other great things about having a big galumph of a dog like you in my home.

The sweet jowls you smile with, the pretty brindle coat that strangers marvel at, the fact that you are such a gentle giant but won't quit until you've licked any baby within a five-mile radius - it makes up everything I love about you and almost missed out on.
And though we had our bad spells - the chewing-up-a-couch phase of 2007, the tick infestation of 2008, and the doggie-stomach-virus plague of 2009 - you've managed to come out on top, in my heart and in our home.

You still shed a ton, but we just vacuum more. You drool everywhere, but we just wipe it up. And, still, no matter what command we give, you exuberantly attempt to shake hands with one or both of your paws, hoping and praying for a treat, and, better yet, our undying love and affection - which, you know, you already have.

Turns out, we adore you, Momo-sahn*, more than we ever knew we could.

Your sweet temperament and your strong desire to be right in the middle of all the love and action has given us quite laugh a time or two. And we count ourselves simply lucky that we got a dog who would sooner become a cat than bite a human being, even little human beings who hug you hard, yank on your tale, attempt to ride you, and blatantly stick their little hands in your mouth for all the world to see.
Granted, you're a little odd - heck, you're downright weird at times. For a dog, anyways.

After all, you think you can drive.
And you're inordinately obsessed with chew toys.
And, hey, sometimes, even we wonder if you have some kind of supernatural doggie powers.
But then you manage to scare yourself by passing gas, and we once again realize that you're just a plain, old, dumb mutt, Momie*.

But a plain, old, dumb mutt that we love to pieces.

So Happy Birthday to my Marvala*.

May your day be filled with many treats and walks and sloppy kisses - all your favorite things.

And may you always remember that, no matter what or who comes along in in this next year, you'll always be my first-born, my Momala*, my one and only Shmoopie.*

I love you, Marv.*

Love, Momma

***

*These are all nicknames I actually call Marvin on any given day. It's no wonder he has a bit of an identity crisis.

Happy Weekend, everybody!

Underwear Aren't for Sleeping and Other Things Our Parents Taught Us

Life is but a series of lessons learned, wouldn't you say?

We proceed on through our years here on Earth and learn that fire burns, high-school popularity fades, and marriage renders the most logical of couples sentimental.

Courtesy of those around us, we also eventually learn to heed red lights, Constitutional amendments, and social mores that, if left unguided, might otherwise allude us.

Thank heavens, as children and adults, we learn by example. And a severe tongue-lashing should role-modeling behaviors not cut it.

Parents themselves are our biggest role models. And, in most cases, the most likely people to give us a tongue-lashing should we stray too far from the norm.

From the time we're born, parents teach us the most important lessons in life. About loyalty and love and faith and family and trust and honor and respect.

But, in almost the same breath, they also teach us some of the biggest quackery you'll ever find - the kind of stuff you won't see in the pages of an encyclopedia, Bible, or farmer's almanac.

Seriously, parents influence not only our very core, but also the silliest of our daily practices.

There are things all of us do simply because our parents told us to do them, regardless of their rationale.

For instance, I have several friends who won't drink water from plastic cups, all because their parents considered it in poor taste.

Or take my husband, who won't eat dessert without coffee, all because, to his parents, coffee was an after-dinner drink.

And I even know a girl who spreads ketchup on her burgers, but only with a knife, all because her father preferred she not to squirt the condiment directly onto the beef patty or bun.

Crazy, right? But, to them, these are tried-and-true practices. All because it was what their parents taught them.

And, trust me, I am no exception.

For instance, I have guilt when I reach for underwear before bed.

When putting on pajamas, I rarely wear a pair of drawers, if you know what I mean. The bed is strictly a no-panties zone.

All thanks to my mom.

You see, as long as I can remember, my mother has preached from her figurative pulpit that people should not wear underpants to bad, simply because everything "down there" needs that time to breathe.

Seriously, she says this. She still says this. All the time.

My mother's not-so-secret secret to healthy nether regions? Skip underwear before going to bed.

She's downright religious in her of practice bare-bummed sleeping. And she feels everyone else should prescribe to her nightly air-out time, too.

But, as if that's not embarrassing enough on it's own, she's not in the least bit apologetic about it, either.

She often sent my brothers and I out and about in the house as babies without diapers on, letting us aerate our normally swaddled hineys.

And she simply expected us to keep this practice up throughout our adult years.

While other little girls were learning how to French braid and bake bread from their mums, my mother was teaching me to actively shirk panties.

Talk about a legacy.

Still, my father wasn't about to be out-down.

While not quite as brash as my mother, my also father instilled in us some real gems of completely useless information, for which, I'm sure, we'll pay for for the rest of our lives.

Take, for instance, my father's pre-occupation with feet.

Women's feet, in particular.

The world's most beautiful woman could walk by him, but if she had rather large and/or odd feet, he wouldn't even notice her.

At least not the rest of her.

In fact, the only reaction he'd have would be to comment, "Oh, man, did you get a look at her feet? What boats!"

This has happened on multiple occasions, people. Multiple occasions. He has openly voiced concern over the size of people's feet.

He's even gone so far as to make comments about the hideous nature of a certain woman's feet while the rest of the red-blooded men in the room ogle her various other, far more attractive features.

And, thus, he's so freaked out about ugly feet that he's made the rest of us paranoid about ugly feet, too.

Once, I actually apologized to the hubs about chipping my toe-nail polish and neglecting to fix it post haste.

The man looked at me like I'd lost my ever-loving mind.

And it was all my foot-loving father's fault, as I was raised believing that I was supposed to have clean, well-kept, dainty feet at any and all times.

I'm a lady, and according to my father, ladies have nice-looking feet.

Even if they don't wear underwear to bed.

***

Oh, my parents. They are a hoot, really. Which is why I really felt the need to air their dirty laundry today. Who doesn't want to know more about foot-loving, underwear-hating people on a Friday?

Plus, today is my father's birthday!

Which is why I've gifted him with a wonderful expose about his foot fetish. You're welcome, Dad!

I threw my mother under the bus, as well, because back in June I missed her wishing her a happy birthday on the old blog, what with all the chaos of moving to a new state and getting adjusted to military life.

So, seriously, Happy Birthday, Mom and Dad! I love you both so much!

You really were the best parents a girl could ask for.

Not only have you taught me to keep my tootsies well-groomed and my bum well-aired, you've also taught me many valuable, eternal life lessons - ones much important than those explained above.

And, rest assured, those valuable life lessons seemed to have worked.

I haven't divorced the hubs, run off to join a nudist circus, and started to peddle narcotics on the side.

Yet.

I'd say you can count that as a parenting success. Happy Birthday!

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

The Missing Birthday Boy

I made ginger-spice cookies today.

I felt I needed to bake.

Because today is somebody's birthday.

My husband's, to be exact.

And he's not here.

I actually almost baked him a cake; I figured it might be sweet and sentimental to make a birthday cake for him, light some candles, and snap a picture of it to send him at boot camp.

But then I realized I'd be left alone with a flaming birthday cake after it was all said and done.

And I'm not exactly known for being good with fire.

Or frosting.

Plus, when I see my husband in three weeks, I don't want him to pinch my waist and wonder where the spare tire came from, only to learn it was because I ate his entire birthday cake.

Alone.

So ginger-spice cookies it is.

Because the man I married deserves some celebration; some one needs to pop a cookie in their mouth in honor of him today.

I figure it might was well be his wife - the woman who, in all honesty, thinks he's downright awesome.

After all, he's selfless, especially when it comes to something I desire. He's bought Vera Bradley for me, my friends. All on his own.

He's tender-hearted, too. In fact, he cried while reading Marley and Me and always tells our dogs he loves them.

He's unintentionally hysterical, as well. When he gets really excited about a joke or story he's telling, he skips over phrases and slurs words together, making the ending or the punch line completely incomprehensible, but funny, nonetheless.

He's also faithful and loyal and hard-working and has an adorable rear end - all things a woman needs in a man, let me tell you.

Still, today's birthday boy isn't all-together perfect. He's known for being quite gaseous, and he has a serious problem finding the hamper when trying to discard his clothes (which is pretty much a constant with him, as he finds all clothing "totally uncomfortable." Consider this your warning never to come over to my house unannounced. You're likely to find a naked man sitting on the floor and a pile of dirty laundry strewn about the house as if the dryer exploded.)

But, with the birthday boy gone this year, I have to admit, I even miss those explosion-like messes. (But not his gas. I will never miss his gas.)

I'd gladly pick up his laundry if it meant he'd be here with me, today, on his birthday. I wouldn't even mention the dirty socks stuffed in between the couch cushions or the collared shirt hanging precariously from the living room lamp, as long as he was next to me. Heck, I might even let him eat his birthday cake naked, amid his own mess, if I could kiss him just once on his big day.

But I can't. Something tells me the U.S. Navy isn't willing to consider my bargaining chips. They don't normally bend when some wife calls, proffering cookies, cakes, or severely precise copy-editing skills.

They probably don't much care that it's his birthday at all, in fact. The U.S. military isn't exactly doling out pony rides and Funfetti cupcakes to its respective soldiers, sailors, and airmen on their "special" day, I bet.

But still, I do. I do care. I care a lot that it's his birthday.

I've already mailed him two cards. I sang him "Happy Birthday" in the shower this morning.

I made ginger-spice cookies, for crying out loud.

I did what I could. Here. With him so very far away.

Now, I just hope he knows it.

I hope my husband knows I'm thinking of him today, on his birthday. I hope he knows that I'd do almost anything to be near him, to celebrate his turning another year older - in person. I hope he knows how wonderful I think he his, how inspired I am by his sacrifices, and how I admire the passion he carries around for me and our future family.

Most of all, I hope he knows I love him.

Because it's his birthday, but I can't tell him that.

He's not here.

Cookie, anyone?

***

Just a quick note: I do print and send some blog posts to my husband, so I plan on sending this one, along with any birthday greetings you may want to leave him below. I know how much he loves reading the comments you all leave on the posts about him. When he was home, and I blogged about funny stuff he did, he'd always say, "The bloggers are going to love this!" before obsessively reading the comments people left on posts about how whackadoodle he can be.

So if you feel so inclined, wish that cute-hiney-holding honey of mine a "Happy Birthday!" I'll make sure he gets the message.

And thank you for all your sweet, supportive comments and prayers on yesterday's post. You all really lifted me up when I needed it most! What wonderful friends I have!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

You're not going to believe who won my giveaway

I can't even tell you how shocked I was when the Random Number Generator spit out the winner to my Bloggy Birthday Giveaway.

And why?

Because there were 223 entries total.

And one of them - ONLY ONE OF THEM - was this post.

That's right: The winner wrote this post, logically arguing with me - and the blog world at-large - that this lawyer-to-be downright deserved to win this giveaway. (Seriously, go read the winner's entry post. It will blow your mind, too!)

And apparently, the Random Number Generator - and God - agreed.

Because Samantha - at The RubyTurtleHippie Times - won my Bloggy Birthday giveaway!

You should have seen my jaw hit the floor when the results came to light.

I couldn't have been more shocked.

And happy.

Because this lady totally deserves it.

She is a real Southern sweetheart and a true friend. I am blessed to know her, and I am thrilled that our blogs brought us together.

So, Sam, e-mail me, call me, Tweet me, whatever. You know how to get a hold of me. Let me know how to send this package your way.

And as for the rest of you, whether you won or not, thank you for entering! Your outpouring of love and support over this past year has been awe-inspiring!

I consider you all true friends, and I am so blessed to know you all.

***

Hope everyone has a good weekend!

P.S. Happy Birthday to my good friend Lauren - another important lawyer-to-be in my life! I love you and miss you, my sweet friend!

She's my bestie

I remember moving away from my last college roommate, Blair.

It was, and really is, the only time we truly had a fight.

We were walking through the grocery store, trying to buy dinner, when she started to get weepy about accepting a job with Teach for America in the Northeast. She explained that she was overwhelmed, nervous, and uncertain about how she'd do without the comfort of our three-bedroom townhouse, where we'd lived - with another best friend of ours - for close to three years.

And me, being me, and attempting to do what I always wish I could - i.e., problem-solve - uttered the least-sensitive words you can to a friend in need: "Well, what do you want me to do about that?"

Blair just looked at me like I'd slapped her.

I stared back and then said, "What, Blair, what? What can I do for you?" (Again, me. With the sensitivity.)

Blair and I didn't talk for the entire 20-minutes it took for us to check out and get home.

It was the longest silence of my life.

About an hour later, back at our half-packed apartment, Blair came storming into my bed-room, proffering two blouses.

"Here. OK. Do you really think you'd wear these? Because you can just have them. I don't want them anymore," she said, accusingly, throwing the tops on my bed.

And with that, she'd also thrown down the best-friend gauntlet.

Despite her "I'm still not totally thrilled with you" tone, she'd offered me clothes off her own back.

And we were back in the game.

We both collapsed in tears, explaining what we were feeling, apologizing, uttering phrases only women understand, like, "I know you're scared, and I'm scared, too, and I just wish I could help you feel better, but I can't, and why did we all have to go and grow up already? How are we going to survive without each other?"

But we did.

She did move away. She also moved back, and then moved away again. This time to New York City.

And we've managed to weather all that it takes to have one friend live in the Big City while you slowly move around in the Deep South.

She flew down to be the maid of honor in my wedding. I road-tripped up to see her in her new Big-Apple digs.

I've woken her up with tearful phone calls.

She's called me and left me worried messages, like last week, when she expressed, "I'm not sure what your blog is doing for our friendship. One the one hand, I always know what's going on in your life. On the other, I get worried sick. Because right now, your blog says you're sick. I hope you're not dying down there. Love you. Call me back, lady."

With both of us working as teachers, we lament the natural ills that befall the education system together. Both being in relationships, we discuss men. Both being a little stressed out, we discuss that, too.

I laugh every time I get an e-mail from a women's community-service organization Blair and I started together as college undergraduates. I'm amazed we created something that lasted. I'm also amazed that we've grown so far away from our old college selves that the women who run the organization now don't even know who we are.

I occasionally find photos of us from our younger days. We look like babies.

Me, with the crazy-long hair, which on the first night I met Blair, I got stuck in an oscillating fan in my non-air-conditioned dorm room. Blair, with her teeny tiny legs, which she was infamous for sticking in her impressive collection of teeny tiny shorts.

We were never identical, but we were pretty hard to separate at times.

Still are, even though we live on different ends of the East Coast.

And yesterday, Blair grew a year older. It was her birthday. My Blair-y had a birthday!

Yes, I gracelessly plundered Facebook for this photo. Because this, my friends, is the Blair I know and love.

So happy birthday, my dear friend! Welcome to our "scary" age. I love you so much! You're the "bestie" that every girl deserves. I was just lucky enough to get you!

Happy Birthday, Blair!

***

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend! Happy Monday everyone!

They say it's your birthday

On Dec. 15, many, many years ago, America's first Bill of Rights went into affect after being ratified by Virginia.

The Sioux chief Sitting Bull was killed in a battle with U.S. soldiers

Adolf Eichmann was convicted for war crimes he committed as a Nazi in World War II.

And on a more upbeat note, Canada adopted the maple-leaf flag.

Oh, and I was born.

Yes, oh yes.

Put on the party hats, wrap up the presents, and light the candles, people. Because I am one year older and (kinda, sorta, maybe on a good day) one year wiser.

And I'm celebrating by....

Grading mid-term exams, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and teaching a boot camp class!

Celebrate good times, come on!

I'll be honest; I miss those days where you counted down the days until your birthday party. Where you really and truly wondered, deep in your heart of hearts, what was wrapped up in all that sparkly paper and ribbon. Where you lived for that moment where you could blow out the candles on that gorgeous, fluffy, high-calorie cake. Where you were excited, pumped even, to grow a year older; to be a "big girl."

Too bad nobody told me being a "big girl" meant all those fun parties and presents and cake were replaced with over-time and housework and take-out (which, at least, is infinitely better than making me cook myself my own birthday dinner.)

But apparently, you can't fight aging. (Well, there's always Botox, but my needle phobia is going to make it a bit hard for me to stiffen up and do it, if you know what I mean.)

So, happy birthday to myself!

Here's to another year under my belt, another year where I've been blessed beyond measure.

Another year where I've laughed and cried and ate and drank and sang and danced and pondered the meaning of life more often than I'd like to admit.

But hey, that's living.

So celebrate good times, come on!

***

A big thank you goes to Gwen, over at Confessions of a Control Freak, who mailed me a birthday card! It was such a surprise and really got me in the celebrating spirit!

Also, kudos to Katie, another dear blog friend at Loves of Life, who was my first official birthday greeting yesterday! I love birthday text messages!

Thanks for reminding me how fun it is to celebrate a birthday, girls!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Not Me! Monday: The "Mutually Beneficial Birthday Gift" Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

On Saturday morning, Fed-Ex did NOT arrive bright and early, delivering three covert little packages for my birthday, which is NOT in a couple of weeks.

Within 15 minutes, I had NOT whined, begged and pleaded my way into my husband's good graces, so much so that he did NOT allow me to open said packages, but only after NOT warning me, "If you open them now, they aren't going to be wrapped, ya know."

No duh.

So, I did NOT tear into them, revealing a bottle of perfume, body lotion, and....

The Pioneer Woman's Cookbook!

Image courtesy of Books a Million

I did NOT then shriek and exclaim to my husband, "How did you KNOW? Seriously, how did you KNOW I wanted this? I haven't told anyone!"

He did NOT hem and haw for a while, going on about the fact that the Pioneer Woman is NOT a blogger, and that he did NOT know how I loved blogging and all, and that his amazing deductive reasoning skills did NOT tell him that this would be the perfect gift for me.

I was NOT impressed.

Until, finally, while I was dancing around the living room with my new treasure, his guilt did NOT get the best of him, causing him to mutter - under his breath, of course - the real secret behind his "amazing deductive reasoning skills."

"Actually, I saw something in there that I really want you to make for me," he said. "So I bought it. And that's why I let you open it now."

Oh, brother.

And just like that, the truth did NOT come out.

He and his friends, over Saturday's college football games, did NOT actually page through the book themselves, ooh-ing and aah-ing over stuff they wanted to eat.

Amid cheers for touchdowns and screams for fumbles, they did NOT exclaim, "Dude, look! Bacon-wrapped jalapenos stuffed with cheese! Hello! They have to make these for us! We need these!" and "Chicken-fried steak! Seriously, she has chicken-fried steak in here! I gotta have some of this! It looks amazing!"

The Pioneer Woman's Cookbook, apparently, has NOT joined the likes of flat-screen TVs, power drills, ShotVacs, and nail guns, purchased by husbands around the world, under the guise of gifts "for their wives" for the holidays.

Except now, we do NOT know who the book is really for: Hungry men everywhere who do NOT want to give their wives an excuse to try out a recipe for real, rancher-style fried chicken.

Still, I was NOT still surprised and thankful for my gift.

Because, hey, at least it wasn't a power drill.

***

If you have a free moment, could you offer up a pray for us today? I hate to be so vague and melodramatic in my prayer request, but it's about something I'm just not ready to blog about yet.

I hope I will be able to soon.

Until then, I appreciate any prayers you can spare for us.

Thank you for your blessing.

Have a wonderful (Not Me!) Monday!

The people who never age

I remember the first time I watched my little brother drive.

Weird.

Despite the fact that he's only a few years younger than me, I distinctly remember thinking, "Kid, get out of the driver's seat, go get your baseball cards and start pulling my hair. Because for the love of Pete, you're not old enough to drive."

The reality is, I'll always think of my baby brother as, well, a baby.

He'll always be the kid that let me "play Mom," humoring me even when I insisted he wear neon-rainbow-leopard-print-spandex pants, a tutu, a boa, and hair barrettes, because heaven knows, being a "mom" meant you only wanted to have daughters. Boys weren't any fun to get dressed for "school" in the morning.

He'll always be the kid who learned to talk by rehearsing his words by himself, in the closet, because the Big Bad Older Sister over here wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise.

He'll always be the kid who looked like this. (Note the child with the bowl-cut on the right. Also...note my purple slip-ons and white socks. Seriously, Mom?)

I just don't think of him like this:

The All-American-ranked captain of the Naval Academy's champion water polo team. Less than a year away from graduating from USNA as an officer in the U.S. Navy.

He's supposed to be my annoying little brother, and then we went ahead and decided to grow up, without my permission or anything.

And apparently, he's not stopping.

While I still see him as the fat cheeks I used to pinch, in that love-hate way older siblings are known to, he's lost all his baby fat and just keeps getting older.

A year older, to be exact.

Because today is his birthday, moving him one year even further out of my scope, my range, my allotted schema I've placed "lovable little brother" in.

You just had to go and grow up, Bub, didn't you? Were you practicing this in the closet, too? Growing? I love you, kid. I really do. Happy Birthday, Brother!

***

But wait. He's not the only one.

There is another birthday in the house.

My God-mother shares my brother's birthday.

I've mentioned her before. I call her Del Del, because when I was a little girl, I couldn't say her full name, Adele.

And it stuck. I still call her Del Del. My friends who met her at my wedding call her Del Del. My mom calls her Del Del. (Jury is still out on whether or not any of us can actually pronounce her God-given name. You'd think we'd have tried. At least once. But I can't remember ever doing so. Hmmm...)

(Here we are at her daughter, Katie's, christening. My mom is holding Katie - my mother is Katie's God-mother, as well. Del Del and I are on the right. I'm the awkward one with the polka dots and the gargantuan sailor collar. And the ever-present socks and slip-ons.)

Del Del lives in Tennessee. And even though we now bond over finding Vera Bradley at bargain-basement prices, I'll always think of her as the woman I was convinced could brandish a magic wand, say bippity-boppity-boo! and make all of my dreams come true. She'll always be the first bride I ever saw get married. (Granted, I was 4, but I remember it. I very distinctly remember dancing with her, in fact.) She'll always be the woman who taught me how to quilt. She'll always be my fairy God-mother.

Happy Birthday, Del Del! I love you very, very much!

***

I'm still not sure when I woke up, and everyone had grown up on me. I'm not sure when I suddenly became someone children didn't even think of addressing by my first name.

I'm not sure why life is no longer about fighting with your little brother and visiting your fairy God-mother, but paying bills, educating children, and cleaning the tile grout in the bathroom.

And really, I don't think about it. At least not often. At least not until there are birthdays for the ones I love. The ones I'm so grateful to have made memories with for another year.

Yet, I get nostalgic. Because birthdays are the inevitable anniversary; the inevitable reminder.

We all grow up.

And sometimes, I still want to be the little girl who believed in bippity-boppity-boo! (And wore socks and slip-ons.) Sometimes, I want to quilt with my God-mother instead of go to work. Sometimes, I want to pinch my little brother's chubby cheeks just one more time.

But that's useless. We can't go back, as much as we want to.

So instead, we celebrate birthdays! Because with each inevitable anniversary, we are reminded that we are blessed with one more year to make memories with these special people, the people we love so dearly.

So Happy Birthday, Del Del and Brett! I can't wait to see what this next year brings! I love you both so very much!

***

And don't forget to enter my Workout Wednesday giveaway! Happy Thursday everyone!

Something happens to my brain every Aug. 27? Aug. 28? The 24th? Oh, crud!

I have a mental block for two specific dates in the 365-day calendar. I have this same, exact block every, stinkin' year.

It just so happens that those dates happen to be the birthdays of the two most important men in my life.

Yeah, the girl with a photographic memory, who never forgets what week, day, time, and weather condition she eats popcorn in, can't remember her own father's birthday.

Since the age of 4, I've had some version of the same conversation with my mother on the last week of August.

Me: Mom, when in the heck is Dad's birthday? I know it's around this week, but when, exactly? Is it the 24th or the 27th? Wait, is it the 28th? No, it's definitely the 24th or the 27th. But, wait, Mom, which one???
Mom: Um, it's your father's birthday. It's the 27th. It's always been the 27th.
Me: Thanks, Ma. Phew! That was close! (As if she doesn't get off the phone and promptly tell him his eldest child forgot his birthday. Again. Like every year.)

I don't know why this happens. I remember my friends' birthdays, my brothers birthdays, my mother's birthday, even my dogs' birthdays.

But my Dad's birthday? It alludes me.

Every. Stinkin'. YEAR.

It's getting so bad that I'm at the point of trying to spin it into a family tradition.

"Now, kids, let's not call Grandpa today. It's his birthday, but remember, it's a special tradition we have to 'forget' his birthday and make Nonnie call us the day after and remind us that we didn't call him on his birthday, so we'll have to Express Overnight Ship our Plaster-of-Paris "World's Best Grandpa" hand-print plaques this afternoon. And dress you all in Green Bay Packers gear on the family Christmas card. Don't tell your father."

So, yep, you guessed it. Yesterday was my father's birthday. (The 27th, Brittany, duh! Was your panicked Monday-night phone call to your mother good for nothing this year?)

I forgot my father's birthday. Again.

So, happy belated birthday, Dad! You were, and still are, the best dad a girl could ask for! And I'm sorry I've got some sort of unspoken mental block against your birthday!

But don't feel terribly bad, Dad.

You know why?

You know the other date I can never remember? The other birthday on my calendar that eludes me every stinkin' year?

My husband's.

Figures, doesn't it?

Happy Birthday Dad! I love you very much!

(Practicing our walk during our wedding rehearsal. Side note: I need more pictures with my dad. This is literally the last one I have that I haven't already posted on the blog.)

P.S. While technically I remembered his birthday with enough time to call him last night, I didn't remember with enough time to give him the good old blog shout out he deserves. What makes this all the worse is that my dad reads my blog every day. And he was probably looking for his birthday post yesterday! Crap! Crap, crap, crap! OK. Let's just say it. Worst. Daughter. Ever.

Not Me! Monday: The Back-to-School Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

* I did NOT receive a phone call from my school's assistant principal on Friday, and getting a call from him did NOT give me that heart-beat-in-your-throat, nauseous feeling, as if I was an actual high-school student who'd skipped class, been caught and was being sent down to see the principal for my due punishment.

I did NOT feel even worse when we told me that due to an "unfortunate schedule mistake," two of my classes would NOT be moved from my room this year and would NOT be taught in two different classrooms. Meaning, I would NOT be teaching out of a total of three different classrooms every day. This is NOT a teacher's worst nightmare.

He did NOT then say, "This is why I love you, Brittany. Your positive attitude and flexibility." I did NOT then say, "No problem. I'll get right to setting up the three rooms on Monday," when I really did NOT want to scream and yell and stomp my feet and throw a temper tantrum and tell him that I felt like he'd just stabbed me repeatedly in the back with a blunt knife. I did NOT wait till I hung up the phone to do all this, which was NOT a disturbing sight for the poor hubs. I also did NOT manage to scream "Thanks for nothing!" to which the hubs did NOT reply, "Um, you're welcome?"

*I did NOT pop a bowl of popcorn on Sunday afternoon and eat my way through it while I finished my last leisure book of the summer. About four hours later, I did NOT put myself in the shower for a good, thorough, back-to-school scrubbing. While washing, I did NOT feel a hard, small, round object in my belly button. Upon further digging, I did NOT find a popcorn kernel, which had been residing there all afternoon, oblivious to me. I did NOT take this as a sign that I need to be a neater eater, seeing as how that kernel did NOT make it's way down my shirt and into my belly button without me even noticing.

*I did NOT stress out over the perfect back-to-school outfit yesterday evening. I'm an adult, and I'm NOT shallow enough to worry about what my first-day-of-the-year outfit will be projecting. It did NOT turn out to be hard to find an outfit in my closet that would say "professional, but ready to move three classrooms worth of stuff around in the 120-degree, humidity-driven, Florida heat." I did NOT settle on something, which I'm NOT sure I'll have sweat through by 10 a.m. today. I was NOT sure you all would want to see it, so I did NOT make my first forays into Polyvore, which I did NOT love!

* As has happened to me since the tender age of 5, I did NOT sleep at all last night, in anticipation of the first day back at school. This is NOT going to cause me problems later in the week; I'm sure of it. However, seeing as how I've NOT done this since I was a kindergarten student, without fail, I did NOT prepare for it this time, stacking books, DVDs, magazines, and mugs of tea next to my bed, so my sleepless night wasn't a restless, sleepless night. I'm just so prepared like that.

* I did NOT forget this girl's birthday while I was on vacation:

Happy Birthday, Christine! (Some of you may know her as Packing Angel:)

Christine and I met as counselors at a camp for chronically ill children three years ago. We were each others "Sugar and Spice." In other words, she was my other half, my little soul-mate in a place where we laughed and played and sang and danced and loved children who were dealing with hospital habitation, illness, and all too often, death. She moved to Florida a year ago for work, and now, I get to see her all the time, instead of once or twice a year. Love this girl! Happy Birthday, dear friend! (Sorry this blog acknowledgment is a few weeks late!)

And to all the rest of you, Happy (Not Me!) Monday!

Oh, mama!

Today's my mom's birthday! Happy Birthday, Mom! I love you tons!

Now, I could get all sappy on you all about my Mom, because I do love her so much. But she is currently in Colorado, dropping off her youngest child (that curly-haired brother of mine in the picture above) at the Air Force Academy. She and my father will be returning to an empty nest tomorrow. So I think enough tears will be shed. No need to make her cry anymore.

Plus, my mother has an amazing laugh and a great sense of humor. We tease her a lot, because she is truly a woman who believes that you can't take yourself too seriously.

So, instead, let's get to know my Mom, a woman with many sides, none of which are at all, well, normal. (Don't worry, though. She's proud of that.)

My mother is a woman who used to beat the pants off us in board games. It didn't matter that we were barely 5 years old. She showed no mercy. She'd win, then prance around the room singing Queen's "We are the Champions." She told us she was trying to teach us to be gracious losers. I just think she liked winning too much.

My mother is a woman who never had film in her camera. When I was 2, she bought me a toy camera, and I used to play with it by walking around, holding it up to my face as if to take a picture, then yell the words, "Oopps! I'm out of film!"

My mother is a woman who, when she hit the "E" on her gas tank, used to tell us to lean forward in our car seats so we'd get there faster.

My mother is a woman who would take us on field trips, get lost, and then maintain that she'd planned it the whole time, as an "adventure."

My mother is a woman who home-schooled her children through algebra lessons, but would get so frustrated when she couldn't figure out the correct answers that we'd move on to history, spelling, or lunch, while she sat at the table, using 80 sheets of scrap paper and two hours on one math problem and muttering at the answer book, "I just don't know how they got that answer."

My mother is a woman who had to institute which bed sheets were "appropriate" for fashioning into tree-top hammocks, but only after she lost several good sets of bedding to my brothers and I, plus our oak tree and one particularly cruel rainstorm.

My mother is a woman who used to wake us up by throwing open the blinds and singing, "Rise and shine, and give God you're glory, glory..." I found myself doing this to my friend's litle boy last week. Scary! I'm becoming her!

My mother is a woman who insisted her kids kept a whole foods diet, but then stashed chocolate in her purse.

My mother is a woman who cries in church every Sunday.

My mother is a woman who also cries at every baptism, wedding, funeral, graduation, and baby shower. Even if she doesn't know the person who is being baptized, married, dead, honored, or birthed.

My mother is a woman who finds a baby with an 1,000-foot radius, then proceeds to gently offer to hold it, only to walk away with it and never return it. Seriously. She steals babies, people.

My mother is a woman who swore up, down and around that when we got our first dog, it was going to be an OUTSIDE DOG, AND I MEAN IT! Yeah, we'd had the dog a total of 1.2 hours, and we found her with the 8-week-old puppy inside the house in my dad's recliner, rocking it in her arms like a baby.

My mother is a woman who calls everyone "Sweet boy," because that's what she calls her favorite child: her current dog, Ned, who like his predecessor is clearly an INDOOR dog.

My mother is a woman who watched all three of her children play water polo for 10 years, but still doesn't understand the game. Yet, she has decided that if she just instinctively yells, loudly, anytime the ball flies anywhere near one of her children that this will somehow help them score or block the ball.

My mother is a woman who taught her children to eat lean protein, but has been known to talk about "chicken breasts" and do a shimmy dance.

My mother is a woman who never tells you she doesn't like something but always says, "Yes, that's nice," and gives you a look, and you. know. what. that. means.

My mother is a woman who walks into the kitchen in the morning when all her children are at home and smacks everyone on the butt, regardless of whether or not you're her actual child or husband. (My poor husband.)

My mother is a woman who, when any situation arose, recommended praying, "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference."

My mother is a woman who cooks three times too much food for any gathering or holiday party, but the entire time she's doing so, she keeps worrying that she won't have enough.

My mother is the only other woman I know, besides myself, that celebrates any achievement - a good grade, a job offer, clear skin, folding laundry - with a huge bowl of homemade popcorn.

My mother is a woman who tries to cajole her three grown kids into sitting on her lap, so she can rock us, when we come home. Like I said, the woman likes her babies.

My mother is a woman who has given of herself for her husband and three children (and two dogs) for as long as I can remember. We are blessed beyond measure to have her.

Happy Birthday, Mom! We love you!

In lieu of Not Me! Monday....

....I had to post about...

The love of my life, whose birthday is today!

Happy Birthday, Patrick! I love you, baby!
I am so blessed and beyond-the-moon lucky to have such a wonderful husband.

And so, in honor of his birthday, I'll give you a letter-for-letter break-down on the ins, outs and wonders of my hubs.

Patience. I am not a patient woman. At all. In fact, I can push even myself over the edge with the pace I tend to move at. However, my sweet hubs just lets me buzz all about, and he has infinite patience for my craziness. Where any normal human being would yell, "Snap out it! Can't you just sit down for one second, please!" he handles me with care and kindness.

Adaptability. This man can go from a black-tie affair (when I can bribe him into wearing a tie) to swinging on a hammock in the woods. He's comfortable anywhere, with anybody. International travelers wish they had the flexibility and ability to change paces as quickly as this man does. I've seen him hang out with a group of tough guys, burping and whooping it up at a basketball game, and then turn around and have a four-hour-long conversation with my girlfriends and me. It's pretty incredible.

Trickery. True story. I have never accurately remembered my husband's birthday, and we've been dated/engaged/married now for almost three years. I don't know why April 13 eludes me, but it does (I'm the kind of girl who forgets anniversaries, too.) However, the hubs finds this fact hilarious. While some men would be offended, Patrick just laughs, and has spent the last two weeks trying to trick me with lines like: "Come on, babe! How many times do I have to tell you? My birthday is not the 13th; it's the 15th. April 15! Can't you even remember your own husband's birthday?" The sad part is, I fell for it almost every time.

Riches (love riches, of course.) No. He's not rich. I definitely did not marry for money! But he blesses my life with so many riches of love. While he's not exactly gushy, I do have a very comfortable, safe relationship, where I always know I am loved and respected and trusted. I don't ever feel in danger; I don't ever feel like I'm losing him. He communicates his unconditional love for me perfectly, and I appreciate that so much. The safety it provides me is a welcome respite from the rest of the world, where we so often only receive conditional love from others.

Innovative energy. My husband is very creative. He comes up with concepts and ideas that no one I know could even begin to fathom. For instance, his favorite saying is: "I love my new computer like a fat kid loves carrots." I take this to mean that he doesn't like his new computer at all, because obviously, if a kid is chunky, he or she's not eating healthy foods, like carrots. My husband takes this to mean that if a kid can get fat while eating carrots, he must really, really, REALLY love carrots, just like he really, really, REALLY loves his new computer. I know. This isn't logical to me, either. Like I said. He's innovative.

Charisma. People love him. Seriously. We'll go to the grocery store, and he'll start chatting up the people in line with us, the cashier, the retired senior citizen bag lady. Before I know it, we have an entourage following us out to the parking lot, fawning over my sweet husband. He can talk up anybody, and thanks to his charisma, he very often ends up charming the pants off them. He currently manages a restaurant, and his regular customers just love him. We can no longer go to church, Target, the park, or anywhere really, without him waving to his loyal public and stopping by to exchange a good word.

Kiddie attractant. It's not just adults that love my husband. He's a child's dream come true. Literally, when we walk into parties where there are children, any baby/toddler/kid over the age of two months seems to just gravitate toward him. The mobile little ones love to climb on him (his size makes him the perfect jungle gym), and infants fall asleep in his arms immediately. As I've said before, I met him at a job where we both worked with terminally and chronically ill children, and while I fell in love with him after we'd both left that job, this initial jumping-off point did wonders for our relationship. I've always wanted to have children, so my spouse had to want the same thing. I know he's going to be a great father one day.

So there you have it: my husband; a patient, adaptable, tricky, love-rich, innovative, charismatic, child-attracting man. He's a keeper!

I've bought him a plane ticket to go visit some of his old friends in the Northeast next month for his birthday, and I'm baking him a cake and taking him out to dinner tomorrow to celebrate (Poor guy doesn't get to celebrate on his actual b-day because I'm working too late tonight.)

Thanks for listening to my husband-loving rant!

Have a wonderful Monday night, and I'll be back to my regularly scheduled blogging tomorrow!

Oh, what a weekend

We've had one of those weekends that terrifies me, simply because I'm leaving it more tired than I came into it.

I spent most of yesterday running errands, then taking a brief afternoon break to attend some friends of ours son's 1-year-old birthday party! Happy Birthday Israel Greene! (He was actually born on St. Patrick's day, so that, along with his middle name, inspired a lot of us to wear green to his party!)

It was super fun to get to wear shorts and sandals, spend a sunny, yet breezy afternoon at the park, play with all the adorable toddlers, sing and dance, and eat cupcakes, PB&J sandwiches and Goldfish crackers (did you know they make whole-grain versions of these? After discovering this, I promptly bought myself some on this afternoon's grocery run! "Some" is a relative term here, considering I bought the big container of them. You know, the one that looks like a gallon-cardboard carton of milk? Except it's got a giddy goldfish smiling on the front.)

Needless to say, this portion of the weekend gave me a good dose of baby fever....

Then, I had to get up at 5 a.m. on a Sunday to teach yoga to a bunch of eighth grade girls in an area workshop called GOLD (Girls' Overnight Leadership Development.) Yep. I was teaching yoga and stretching to pre-teens who had been up all night eating junk food, jumping around, and playing games. It was the giggliest yoga class ever.

This turned out to be a sure-fire way to kill my baby fever....
(OK, I'm mostly just kidding. Despite the early-morning hours, it was surprisingly fun, albeit not at all relaxing. Watching awkward teen girls try to figure out pigeon pose was too good. Makes me so glad I'm a grown woman.)

The rest of the day was spent at breakfast with friends, grocery shopping, church, cleaning, and now...reading! I've got some serious catching up to do for my book club read (seven chapters by tomorrow! Ah!), plus the always-daunting collection of books stacked ever-higher next to my bed.

While I didn't get any photos of the yoga-ing pre-teens (I'm sorry. I was too busy trying to make sure they protected all their tendons and ligaments and kept their hands to themselves,) I did get some birthday party shots I can leave you with. Enjoy!

I hope everyone had a wonderful weekend!

Happy Birthday Krystle!

It's time to say Happy Birthday to my dear friend Krystle, Katie, K-sters, Kasola...she has a lot of nicknames.

Anywho, Happy Birthday, Krystle!

Krystle was one of my randomly assigned dorm roommates my freshmen year of college. Although there was definitely more at work than a random selecter here, because she quickly became one of best friends.

We lived together throughout our entire undergraduate years, eventually moving into a townhouse off campus, spending too many hours hanging out in our home, laughing, eating popcorn, surviving several Florida hurricanes, and putting off the journalism work we had to do (we also shared the same major.)

I have never understood how people survived bad roomie experiences in college. I ended up living with my best friends, and it was a huge blessing in my life!

Krystle now works in the Midwest for a student ministry, and I miss her every day. (I'm secretly hoping that my husband and I can move back to his hometown one day so we can be closer to K-sters:)

I love you very much, dear friend. Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday Melissa!

It's one of my best friend's birthdays again! What a special week!

Happy Birthday to my dear friend Melissa!

Melissa and I met when we were barely pre-teens. We were both in the same homeschool group in Central Florida, and we played flute together in the Central Florida Homeschool Band.

Check this out:

Fairly certain we're playing a rousing round of "Ode to Joy," "Canon in D," or "Simple Gifts." (You know the one....Tis a gift to be simple, tis a gift to free...)

Melissa is wearing the sunflower dress, and I'm wearing the icky blue sweater set on the right. (Our third partner in crime, Sherri, is in the red skirt to the far left.)

Melissa and I have had many lovely sleepovers, birthday parties, crazy games of partner Bop-It (we are still the only three-girl team to beat that thing, I bet!), Valentine's Days (after all, it was her birthday, too!), high school and college graduations, band competitions, and new baby's births (she has the most beautiful babies!). You name it, we've done it.

We've been bridesmaids in each other's weddings (doesn't she look radiant in the photo above from my wedding? And people, she's 6.5-months pregnant in that shot!)

She's now the proud momma of two boys and a wonderful wife to her husband. She's also working on getting her family into the mission field, and she was my inspiration to start blogging!

I have so many special memories of us, and I truly treasure Melissa. She is always so close to my heart!

I love her very much, and I can't wait to see her next week! I'll have to show you all the cute presents Sherri and I got her.... once we give them to her, of course (sorry to tease you, Liss!)

Happy Birthday, Lissa!

Happy Birthday Lauren!

It's my dear friend Lauren's birthday! She's 24, and hopefully, she's not freezing up there in Cambridge, Mass., because she deserves to celebrate!

I met Lauren in high school, where we were enrolled in the same magnet program and swam for our high school swim team. We were distance swimmers (i.e., we swam what the rest of the team swam as punishment for skipping practices. Except we did it every day, some times twice a day, all the time. It wasn't supposed to be punishment for us, apparently. Ha!)

We also had many a sleepover, drove around singing at the top of our longs to ridiculous songs, and wore velvet leopard pants to school during big-time swim meets. Now, if that doesn't bond girls together, I don't know what does!

Lauren is currently at Harvard Law (hopefully not still wearing the leopard pants), and I miss her so much. We never talk enough, ever. Our schedules are so crazy. But I love her dearly and know she'll always be one of my dearest friends.

Happy Birthday LMerr!