A New Kind of Thankful

A couple times this week - after nursing Ella, or putting her to sleep, or laughing at the fact that she's learned to stick out her tongue - I've found myself getting all misty-eyed.

In fact, last night, I positively welled up while changing her diaper as she babbled away at me.

It was, honestly, a little bit surprising.

I can't blame post-partum hormones anymore; she's too old. And I can't even blame exhaustion, as I've acclimated to little sleep by now.

There was no real reason I was crying; I just was.

And, as I started brining my turkey yesterday, it hit me what was going on.

This year, I am just so very thankful for my newest family member.

***

Almost half a year ago, my world changed forever. I got the immense honor of giving birth to my first child - my daughter.

She is, without a doubt, the most amazing little experience, person, and dream-come-true all rolled into one.

Just because of her, I am incredibly, a thousand-times over, blessed.

This year, I have a whole new reason to be thankful.

***

I am a sap.

I cry over a lot of things.

But I cry even more these days when watching my daughter.

I pray she knows how happy she makes me. I pray she knows how much I love her. I pray she knows how wanted she was.

And, more so, I pray that I don't disappoint her as a mother; I pray I'm worthy of this precious little being God placed in our lives.

I am feeling tremendously thankful and tremendously ill-equipped all in one fell swoop to be given this little girl.

***

I thought, by now, I'd have gotten used to these feelings.

I thought I'd be used to being a mom.

But sometimes, I'm still shocked she's here; I'm still shocked I was pregnant, gave birth, met her, and jumped feet first into raising a human being who rocks my world every second of the day.

And, more importantly, I'm still shocked at the love and emotion that overwhelm me every day we're together - every day, as we grow closer and closer as mother and daughter.

I can't believe she's mine. I can't believe I've been entrusted with her. I can't believe someone as inconsequential as me will get to raise this amazing little person.

So, yeah, this Thanksgiving? Thanks to Ella, it's very different for me.

Because this year, Ella has made me a whole new kind of thankful.

***

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your families and friends. I am thankful to know you all and count you as friends myself.

Thank you for reading my little piece of the Internet.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! See you all back around here Monday!

Thank God, He's Home

Like my husband, my brother is in the military. But he has a very different kind of job.

I'd tell you about it, but to be honest, I don't have any idea where to start.

He works in intelligence and has one of those jobs where no one really knows what, exactly, he does.

He works somewhere, doing something I'm not sure about, when he's stateside.

And when he's not stateside? When he's gone? When he's deployed and in "the black," to use a military phrase?

I have no clue what the boy does.

He leaves, and we're given little to no warning. He heads someplace he can't tell us about. And, most of the time, we have no idea when he's coming back.

The upside? He loves what he does. He believes in it. Whatever "it" is.

But the downside?

It's absolutely, 100-percent terrifying. For us, anyway.

After all, it's not like the international scene is peachy-keen and particularly pleasant these days. And, when left to my own devices and imagination, the situations my brother is dealing with seem a thousand times worse than even the news lets on.

To be honest, I particularly don't like not knowin, though I can handle the element of surprise when it comes in the form of birthday parties, free desserts, and frequent-buyer discounts.

But when it involves my brother's life?

I want to stay firmly away from the edge.

However, for the last six weeks, I have been forced to stand freakishly close to the precipice I want to avoid.

You see, he's been gone. God knows where he is or what he's doing. He's just been gone.

And that's scary for me.

I'll be frank here; I let my imagination run wild while he's been away.

I wonder what could happen to him. I wonder how we'll get word if something does. I think about what I'll have to tell Ella. I worry he won't really get a chance to be my daughter's uncle or his fiance's husband.

It's scary, my mind while he's been away.

Which is why, every night, while saying Ella's prayers with her, I made sure to include, "Lord, please protect Uncle B, wherever he is. Send him home to us safely."

It was my only way of surviving. It was the only thing that I knew how to do.

And, thank the good Lord, our prayers were answered.

Last week, out of nowhere, my mother got a call.

My brother was headed home.

***

This past weekend, my brother landed safely in the states.

So this Veteran's Day? I got my wish.

My brother, one of the many service-members in my family, came home.

Thank you, God.

I could care less about the free meals or the hand-shakes my relatively safe, fellow-Navy-man husband will receive tomorrow.

I'm not all that interested in the pomp and circumstance that will proceed the 5K Ella and I are planning on running tomorrow.

I just care that my brother is safe. That, for now, my whole family can step back and breath a sigh of relief.

Again, thank you, God.

After all, not everyone can say that. Not everyone can praise the good Lord that their veteran has returned home. It brings tears to my eyes because the few times I've let myself imagine that happening to my brother, I can't even picture going on without him.

The world we live in isn't fair, that's for sure. I wish no one had to die serving their country or doing what they believe is right.

But it is a part of our reality, as much as I don't like to even consider the possibility.

Which is why today, I am so incredibly grateful for the people like my brother, who love their job and respect their duties as servicemen and women. Because they truly know the sacrifice they are potentially making.

And that is also why I will continue to pray daily for every single one of them.

So that, like me, everyone will be so lucky as to have their veteran come home one day.

***

I'm running a 5K with Ella in honor of a fallen airmen on Veteran's Day tomorrow. What's everyone else's plans?

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Rent-a-Chick

I was looking through my calendar Monday and realized that Easter is just around the corner.

And, like every holiday that's occurred while I've been gestating this baby of mine, I had the over-excited thought, "Next year, at this time, we'll be celebrating Easter with our own baby!"

I was so excited.

I was even more excited when I realized that, in a little less than two weeks, this year's Easter would be over. Which can only mean one very important thing.

All Easter merchandise will be marked way, way, way down.

In other words, it's my idea of shopping heaven.

I figured this was a prime chance to pick up a cute Easter basket, on the cheap, for Baby Girl's first Easter.

I know. I'm lame. But these are the things I get excited about these days.

Anyways, I was so beset with the idea of scoring an affordable, formerly over-priced Easter basket for my daughter's first Easter that I began to dream about the whole entire Easter experience.

I imagined us next year, Baby Girl wearing a pastel, ruffly dress and tights, complete with an Easter bonnet. I imagined her stockinged little legs crawling through the bright green spring grass, taking part in her very first Easter egg hunt. I imagined me handing her a precious stuffed bunny and her hugging it to her sweet baby chest.

Oh, it was a greeting card moment, that's for sure.

Until I went to the farmer's market Tuesday.

I was walking around, scouting out the lowest priced organic strawberries, when some man handed me a slip of pastel yellow paper.

I took it, barely giving it a first glance. After all, local produce was on the line.

It was only when I'd finished my shopping and was standing in line waiting to pay for a bag of kettle corn that I read what I thought had been a tract:
I was so shocked, I had to read it again.

Seriously? People do this kind of thing?

I mean, there's actually a market for live baby chicks out there? For children's parties?

Parents actually rent small chickens for their children's Easter egg hunts, Sunday school picnics, and the like?

And just like that, my greeting card, first-Easter-with-a-baby went crumbling down around me.

I mean, I thought I had it covered, what with the basket and the dress and the bonnet.

But no. Not these days.

Apparently, babies these days require live chicks to handle at their Easters. Babies these days are way into experiencing the real, live animal-husbandry experience.

Which means, unfortunately, my child is going to be sorely deprived in about a year's time.

Because, for the record, she will not open her eyes to find a chirping chick awaiting her on Easter morning.

I mean, are you surprised? I'm hoping to buy her Easter basket on clearance, for heaven's sake. I'm not about to shell out $20 bucks for a chick-related experience.

Call me a bad mother. Call me a cheap-skate. Call me what you will. But I think we've taken the greeting-card, picturesque nature of even our most meaningful holidays a bit too far.

I can handle the Easter bonnet and the basket full of jelly beans.

But I am drawing the line at renting live farm animals.

***

Seriously, have you all ever been to a children's party that boasted this kind of entertainment? I mean, people can't actually make money off of this kind of thing, can they?

And am I being melodramatic? Or do you agree that festivity themes are going a bit too far these days?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

My (Free) Valentine

There a lot of things about me that make me lame.

The fact that I'd take coffee and cake over alcohol any day.

The fact that I'd rather watch a movie than go dancing.

The fact that I love my dog so much that sometimes I hoist his upper body into my lap and rock him like a baby and kiss his doggy brow till he grunts and feigns sleep.

But the sheer fact that I'm not terribly romantic is probably one of my lamest qualities of all.

Sure, I adore my husband. I tell him that all the time.

And we like to go out to dinner with each other and buy each other the occasional present.

He even brings me home flowers once in a blue moon for no reason whatsoever.

But honestly, we're not the lovey-doviest twosome you'll ever meet.

We're also infinitely practical.

And, so, because money has been particularly tight around these parts recently - and because we have the world's biggest expense, a baby, arriving in just four months - we decided to forgo Valentine's Day all together this year.

Plus, the holiday falls on a Monday - today, in fact. And there's nothing romantic about shelling out for a late-night, romantic date only to get up the next day - a perfectly ordinary Feb. 15 - at 4:30 a.m. to go to work.

So, to put it bluntly, Valentine's Day was just not happening. Not for us, anyways.

Until the health food store I frequent sent me a romantic coupon. A little gift in light of the holidays.

Which is why, yesterday afternoon, you could find me dragging my husband to the health-food store, two coupons in hand, waiting in line for our boxes of free organic chocolate truffles - my husband ducking his head in embarrassment.

Then we came home, ate a chicken dinner I cooked myself, and cuddled up on the couch in our pajamas with our chocolates, thumb-wrestling for the last one, before heading to bed at 9:45 p.m. on Feb. 13.

And that was Valentine's Day.

Hot, isn't it?

***

Now, I know what you're thinking.

Lame, Brittany.

But, you see, I warned you.

So, tell me, how did you celebrate? Any romantic plans for the evening? Am I the only lame-o out there who opted out of the holiday? Or instead chose the budget-conscience, coupon-cutting, free route? Are the rest of you true romantics who are currently scoffing at the lack of romance in my marriage? Tell me, what are you doing for your Valentine today?

***

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Be back tomorrow with the first of my birth-plan posts.

Since I've Been Gone...

Well, it's safe to say I checked out for two weeks.

I didn't blog. I didn't answer e-mails. I barely Tweeted.

Heck, I'm not sure I thought much while we were gone.

Suffice it to say that the week before we left for vacation, I was so stressed, so burned-out, so over it all, that I needed a few weeks to recuperate. Even more than I knew.

But, now, I'm back. We had a great trip, and I'm so glad we got to spend the holidays with both of our families.

Not to mention that we finally purchased a new laptop, and I can once again move about the house, blogging at will. That is, once I wrenched "my" new toy out of my husband's hands. Luckily, pregnancy hormones make me a force to be reckoned with. Otherwise, I may never get possession of "my" new laptop again.

Boys and their toys, eh?

The only downside to the last two weeks was the fact that I spent the first few days of the New Year afflicted with a cough-cold-flu that, quite honestly, made me want to cry, after combining with my pregnancy symptoms and rendering me pained, congested, and literally unable to sit up for three days.

So, now, I'm more thrilled than you can believe that life has returned to normal around here and that I can focus once again on growing this baby in my belly, blogging, and living and working as usual.

Nothing like a fun holiday to make regular life seem enticing, don't you think?

So, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year! I'm playing catch-up with all of you other bloggers today. Thanks for your patience!

I'll be back with more vacation details tomorrow. Happy Monday, everyone!

A Turkey Baby

I've been peering at my stomach for weeks now.

Watching.

Waiting.

Poking and prodding and pinching.

Wondering when it would come.

When I would notice it.

When that illusive moment would finally occur.

I was waiting, for what seemed like forever, for my baby belly.

Logically, I know I'm a long ways off yet. This is my first baby. I'm not quite 12 weeks along. And I work out every day thanks to my job.

Plus, my new-found hobby of vomiting has kept me busy shedding calories like it's my job.

Frankly, I'm not even sure what my teeny-tiny embryo is even living on, so little of it makes it into my digestive system, what with all the morning sickness and the food aversions.

Still, I stare.

Lifting my shirt and checking day after day.

Peering at my normally flat belly.

Until, finally, without even noting it, something must have changed.

Because, while wearing a regular baggy sweater and walking the dog, my husband proclaimed yesterday, "You look pregnant."

Immediately, I glanced down.

And? What do you know? There, poking out ever so slightly beneath my sweater, was a slight bump.

So, I did what any logical woman would when faced with the realization that she may, in fact, actually be carrying around a baby,which all those tests and doctors maintained her womb was growing, even though all the proof she had was the incessant amounts of vomiting and night sweats that are the supposed perks of being a mother-to-be.

I spent the rest of Sunday studying it.

Lifting up my shirt and feeling my almost-invisible bump. Peering down at my torso.

Incessantly.

(Well, that, and puking. But a girl's gotta have variety.)

I was so proud. Me and my teeny tiny baby belly.

Soon enough, I was going to be a real, authentic pregnant woman, belly and all.

And then, scrounging through my fridge that night and looking for something to scrap together for dinner, I found the leftovers.

The turkey. The casseroles. The open containers of butter and mayo.

And pile after pile of carbohydrates.

Because, after all, Thanksgiving was last Thursday.

And, blessedly, it was a good day for me. I managed to keep dinner down.

Dinner, with all its potatoes and bread and stuffing and turkey and sugar.

And the 14 sticks of butter it took to put it all together.

Which can only mean one of two things:

I've already started to put my holiday weight on.

Or I'm going to give birth to a turkey plied with melted butter.

Because something tells me it's not my baby that's to blame for my new little belly.

***

So, because I know you'll ask, here's a belly pic, as silly as they seem. I'm a few days shy of 12 weeks, according to the midwives.

Pardon the sweat pants. Sunday was a sick-as-a-dog day. Hence the reason Marvin the Dog is hovering. All the vomiting makes him nervous.

So, what do you think? Is it turkey? Or Baby? Perhaps a combination of both? You be the judge!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Thankfully

Even though he works long, unforgiving hours, I have a faithful, loving husband, who holds down a steady job and provides for us.

Thankfully.

Even though there have been issues with persnickety clientele, I have a job that gives me a flexible schedule and allows me to work out and get paid to do it.

Thankfully.

Even though I'm sick to my stomach almost every day of the week, I have a healthy baby in my womb who will change my life forever.

Thankfully.

Even though we all live states away, I have a family who's willing to drive from all over to come celebrate the holiday with us.

Thankfully.

Even though we only met months ago, I have new friends here who support me and love me unconditionally.

Thankfully.

Even though I miss them all every day, I have lifelong friends who have stuck - and will stick - with us through thick and thin.

Thankfully.

Even though he tries to lick my feet and climb in my lap at the most inopportune of times, I have a puppy dog who loves me the most and is as gentle as they come.

Thankfully.

Even though it's never quite "put together" enough for my liking, I'm have a home that is relatively clean, relatively safe, and definitely warm and cozy.

Thankfully.

Even though it can be hard to come by, I have enough money to feed us, clothe us, and, occasionally, indulge in the once-in-a-while date night.

Thankfully.

Even though I sometimes worry that I'm a bit too outspoken and brutally honest, I have a blog that allows me to connect with wonderful friends and put my thoughts out there, when others don't even have the right to speak their mind.

Thankfully.

And even though I get tired, anxious, and cranky about what lies ahead, I have a life that I wouldn't trade for anything. A life that is blessed and beautiful. A life that, even in its day-to-day rhythm, allows me to grow and change and serve and love like I was called to do. A life that is infinitely better than anything of my own making.

Thankfully.

***

My family starts arriving today for Thanksgiving weekend, so I'm signing off for the week around here.

I hope all of you have a wonderful and blessed Thanksgiving!

Be back next Monday!

In Awe

My husband does not like to be thanked for his service.

Neither do my brothers.

Granted, as active duty military, it's often unavoidable.

People go out of their way, especially here in the South, to recognize what they do for a living.

And, graciously, they try to shrug it off. They're honored but embarrassed, they say.

Still, the main reason the men in my family avoid it - wearing uniforms in public, talking about their jobs to strangers, and sticking Navy and Air Force paraphernalia on their cars - is that they don't really see what they've done as a sacrifice.

Yet.

They think of men who went overseas for years at a time, fighting in very dangerous situations. They think of those who give up children's birthday parties and Christmases because their tour of duty wasn't through. And they think of others in our family - my grandfather, my cousin - who have been in harm's way for their entire careers, sometimes, simply because they understood "duty."

Not that that isn't a part of our reality. In two years, my husband will be gone. I know that. He knows that.

Next year, my brother could be gone, serving elsewhere.

But for now, for this year, we're simply complaining about the fact that we don't get a lot of days off around Christmas. Or that we have to eat dinner after 10 p.m. at night because my husband works late.

It's a minor inconvenience.

It's nothing in comparison to the sacrifices made by veterans in war's past or the sacrifices the men in my family will be asked to make in years to come.

So, on this Veteran's Day, I'm lucky. I get to be with my future veteran.

And I'm eternally grateful for all the rest of our military servicemen and woman - veterans and active duty - who my husband and brothers would rather honor today.

Thank you to those who serve and those who have served.

You sacrifice is always impressive, and I am in awe that we get to stand today and applaud all of you've done.

Happy Veteran's Day, everyone.

This Means War

We're not huge fans of one set of our neighbors.

They don't wave back when we wave hello. They refuse to so much as exchange a kind word with us. And I know it sounds weird, but if I should so much as walk outside my house to get my mail, I feel the glaring eyes of at least one of them boring into me through their window or from their favorite smoking spot on the front porch.

It's weird, honestly.

But because we're social people, and they don't seem to know how to talk, for the most part, we've just kept our distance.

We have plenty of wonderful friends and neighbors to talk to already, so we weren't terribly offended or anything.

Until they won Yard of the Month.

I've mentioned before that the Navy base here holds a monthly contest, in which service members and spouses can deck out their yards in hopes of winning a $25 gift card.

And, within one week of moving in, our grumpy neighbors had taken on the challenge.

Three hundred dollars or so later, their yard looked like a well-maintained floral minefield. And they won September's Yard of the Month no questions asked.

I was flummoxed. And slightly irritated.

Oh, OK, let's just face it: I was jealous.

How could people so un-friendly have such green thumbs? And what was wrong with me?

Still, I tried to write it off: They were new to the neighborhood. They just got lucky.

And I went on my merry way.

When autumn hit, I did my part to beautify our street. I made a wreath. I potted a few fall plants. And I hung a "Welcome" sign near my door.

It was tasteful. It was subtle. And it was keeping within my strict October standards of banning all things "Halloween" from my home.

I was pleased as punch.

Until last week, when The Crazy started.

All Halloween You-Know-What broke loose. And right next door, to boot.

Our neighbor is no longer parking in her car port because she's strung intense amounts of cobwebs clear across the opening.

The tree we share in our yard has branches weighed down by larger-than-life spiders.*

Her windows and door frames are plastered with huge posters of ghoulish faces and scary countenances.

And her entire yard - the entire thing! - is stuck full of fake gravestones and a skeleton rowing an inflatable boat.*

It's Tacky Central around there. And it totally figures that the girl that hates Halloween would have to live next door to the world's biggest fan of it.

Whatever. I'm over it. Really.

But only after joking with friends that, sure, they may have September's Yard of the Month. And, yeah, they may be running their own haunted house come Sunday, but the next holiday?

The next holiday is all ours.

You see, we're big fans of Christmas.

And thus, the husband and I have been big ole talkers about how we plan to bedeck our house like none other come December.

Our cranky old neighbors, we said, have met their match.

We joked with one group of friends, who have a baby boy, that we were considering hiring them out to play Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus in our live Nativity scene, complete with Marvin the Dog dressed up as a sheep.

We laughed about the fact that no one on our street would be able to sleep 25 days before Christmas due to the bright glow coming from our home.

And we swore up down and around that our neighbors wouldn't be able to take us when it came to the number of Christmas lights we'd use per square inch of yard space.

But, underneath all our braggadocio, I was laughing at myself.

I really thought we were all talk. I assumed we were exaggerating our claims.

I knew we'd string some lights up and celebrate the holiday, but I honestly didn't think we'd take it that far.

And then I came home yesterday and found these on the coffee table:
No, your eyes do not deceive you. Here, take a closer look:
Contrary to popular opinion, those are not a child's sketches, but are, instead, schematics.

Christmas light schematics.^

Apparently, my husband really does mean business. He's drawn up plans, in fact.

And, lest we forget, he's drawn up plans in October.

So far, it seems, he's planned on stringing together a life-sized Christmas tree made entirely of lights.

He wants to write out "Merry Christmas" in twinkly bulbs.

And he hopes to fashion a sailor snowman out of strings of tree lights and Navy-grade camouflage.

Oh, sweet heavens.

I've created a monster.

A Christmas-crazed monster.

Consider this your formal warning that there may be unplanned power outtages throughout the Carolinas from Nov. 26 onward.

My sincerest apologies.

But, honestly, I still blame it all on my neighbors.

After all, they started it.

***

*Due to inclement weather yesterday, my neighbor seems to have removed several non-waterproof items from her yard. Please pray that the rain lasts through Sunday.

^My husband would like to specify that these are "rough sketches." And that they are, indeed, copyrighted (in his own mind.) And that he will find any Christmas copycats and hunt them down and well, you get the picture...

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

On Anniversaries

The truth is, once you make it past your first year of marriage, and your status as newlyweds fades into the past filled with burnt dinners and laundry fights, the second anniversary doesn't seem like such a big deal.

There's far less change to adjust to; far less attention to suffer, and far less firsts to celebrate - as a couple, your first married Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine's Day are all behind you.

It almost seems depressing. The second year of marriage is business-as-usual.

Except for the fact that I loved my second year of marriage even more.

In fact, both the hubs and I agreed that this year was far better than the last.

We loved our first year of marriage, but we adored our second year.

It's been harder, sure. We lived apart for more than four months. We joined the Navy. We moved to a state where we knew no one. We learned, in essence, a whole new way of life.

We both cried more tears than I ever thought possible.

But, frankly, it was awesome.

And refining.

Gone are the thrills of the first year and in is the closeness of living and breathing and loving your best friend - the person that finally knows the very core of you more than any other human being.

It's startling how much difference a year makes.

But I've never felt more comfortable with a person than I do my husband. And I've never felt more deeply in love with a person than I do my husband.

It seems that when all the trappings are gone - when the white dress no longer holds its magic, when the cake top has long since been eaten, and when you've become one of those couples who's been married for "a few years now" - you learn how perfectly matched and mated you and your spouse are.

And you find - in the mundane Tuesday night, Crock pot dinner and the routine folding of your husband's black church socks - that love exists and manifests a whole lot more than you ever thought possible.

Because, as we stand on the edge of a whole new sea of beginnings for the little family we formed two years ago this Sunday, I know that time takes the edge off the rough spots and smooths us both into softer, more settled spouses, content and tickled pink at the kiss good-bye in the morning and the reassuring arms of your soul mate holding you night after blessed night.

So bring on year after boring year of anniversaries and another "few years now" of marriage. I'll take them. Something tells me they'll be good to me. To us.

After all, just look at the last two. We've been totally blessed.

Happy Second Anniversary, baby.

***

For those of you that are new around here, you can find the story of how I met my husband here.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Hello, Food Network

October, it seems, is upon us.

All and all, I'm a big fan. Of all things pumpkin-y, fall-y and cozy-comfy-breezy, that is. After all, our anniversary is this month; the weather is finally bearable again, and my two favorite holidays are just two short months away.

The problem, instead, lies with fall's not-so-pretty step-sister.

You see, in less than 30 days, the most dreaded day of my year is upon us.

Halloween is almost here.

I know it sounds crazy. Heck, it sounds like I don't have an ounce of child-like spirit left.

But the thing is, I don't like Halloween.

I don't like things that are scary or gruesome or creep-crawly. I'm not a huge fan of the color orange. And I'm almost 100-percent sure that I'm afraid of the dark.

Granted, Halloween doesn't have to be about things that go bump in the night.

I'm on board with the pumpkin-carving and the cute kids dressed in sweet costumes and the endless supplies of chocolate that neighbors seem to be so willing to give away on one night of the year.

But I don't do scary. In fact, I hate it.

I dread the month of October because every billboard I drive by seems to be dripping with blood while advertising an upcoming attraction; every radio broadcast is peppered with blood-curdling screams, no matter what time of day I'm listening.

And don't even get me started on all the television commercials that make me want to run, jump under the covers, and shut out all the scary, scary boogie men who are coming to a theater near you this fall.

My husband laughs at me, because, as an alternative to hiding away from any and all television for an entire month, I proceed - upon sensing a terrifying, Halloween-themed commercial - to close my eyes, clamp my hands over my ears, and sing ever-so loudly a happy song, so as to shut out any trace of evil and terror that may seep through that commercial into my very soul. It's either that or I won't sleep for a week.

Seriously, people, those commercials are that scary.

And, as a further buffer against all things horror-and gore-related, I insist on watching Food Network - and only Food Network - when it gets dark outside and nears bed-time.

Being all cooking, all the time, the Food Network is always guaranteed to be broadcasting a plethora of non-threatening programming, interspersed with commercials no scarier than the phlegm guys on the Mucinex ad.

There's nothing to be shakin' in your boots about, unless you're talking about the fat content in Paula Deen's casseroles.

And while I may fall asleep worrying about a clogged artery or two, I'm not wracked with cold sweats and night terrors about axe murderers and machete-wielding devil-children.

It's just my M.O. for October. It's worked for me for years, and I'm sticking to it.

Well, that and my plan to ignore any and all scary-esque activities that people seem to plan around this s0-called family holiday.

I won't do haunted houses; I won't do ghost stories, and you're sooner to find me singing Christmas carols in October than watching a Scream movie marathon.

So, if you need me, I'll be the girl wearing pink on Oct. 31, wandering through the corn mazes and pumpkin patches with the toddlers, without a drop of fake blood in sight.

***

Happy October (but not Halloween) everybody!

Break before a breakdown

One of my senior students came into my classroom, crying, yesterday.

Sobbing onto my shoulder, stressed out, she finally let on to what was really bothering her.

"I just want it to be Spring Break already!" she cried.

Two days out, and the kid was having a certified breakdown.

And the sad thing is, instead of being the mature adult, who told her to buck up and hang in there for another two days already, I began to feel a knot in the back of my throat, too.

It took all the strength I had not to push her away and cry openly that "I want Spring Break, too!"

In some amazingly stupid train of thought, the school district decided to put Spring Break a whole two weeks later than it's normally been.

And the kids and I have been feeling it.

I don't want to be here; they don't want to be here.

Frankly, I'd rather chew glass than sit through another full day of telling kids to hand in their homework, which most of them have stopped doing anyway, due to what I can safely say is just sheer brain fatigue.

We're tired.

We need a break.

Which is precisely why I told my classes that we were going to have a "spring break party" today and watch a movie and eat snacks - the classic example of a total teacher cop-out, I'll admit.

But I know better. I know that if I try to have my kids so much as write their own name on the top left-hand corner of a sheet of loose-leaf, I'll have a mutiny on my hands.

Plus, I know that I can't do it.

I can't talk about pronouns, and I can't talk about exposition, and I can't talk about oral tradition today.

I can't.

I won't.

I refuse.

So we're watching a movie. And eating pizza and cupcakes. And keeping my classroom just below the level of chaos until 2:45, when the bell will ring, and we will all be set free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty we are free at last!

***

As of this evening, I will officially be on Spring Break!

I'm heading to my parents tomorrow to celebrate Easter, and then I'm off to my friends for the week to help take care of my new little nephew Samuel!

I will still be blogging next week, but a bit more haphazardly and sporadically.

So until then, I hope you all have a wonderful, wonderful weekend! Have a blessed and joyous Easter!

April's fools

Call me a stick-in-the-mud.

Call me a party pooper.

Call me a Springtime Scrooge.

But I hate April Fool's Day.

Hate it with the passion of a thousand-million jokesters laughing at a whoopy cushion.

I don't know what it is about this ad-hoc, unofficial holiday, but it bugs me.

I don't find it funny when people tell you your shoe's untied. And it's not. April Fools!

I don't find it funny when people pretend like they're mad at you. And they're not. April Fools!

And I don't find it funny when your students tell you they lost the school's most expensive video camera while out on a class assignment. When they didn't. April Fools!

When I was single, I used to give my then-boyfriend plenty of advanced warning not to pull the old, "Baby, I love you. Will you marry me?"... Just kidding! April Fools!" trick.

He was the kind of jerk that did stuff like that. And I was of the emotional bent to get wrecked by it.

So come March 1, I basically threatened his life if he so much as mentioned "love," "marriage," "April," and "fool" anywhere near each other throughout the next 30 days.

Because I'd be crushed. And furious - lit with the fire of a woman snubbed. I figured he deserved fair warning about my disorder - a distinct aversion and severe reaction to the celebration of cruel practical jokes.

But with that part of my life behind me, I still don't know what it is about the holiday that bothers me.

After all, I like a good surprise, and I take great joy in a funny joke. But being blatantly tricked by somebody you ostensibly know and likely care about for no good reason just gets under my skin in a way that even I can't control.

It seems insensitive; it seems mean. It seems like, underneath it all, you want me to run to my bedroom crying because I fell for it. Again.

And I worry.

Is there something wrong with me? Am I missing some key component of the human psyche? Did God skip me when he handed out the humor gene? Does this make me a stuffy, cruel, conservative fuddy-duddy? Are you all judging me right now because I'm openly admitting that I hate a fun-loving, silly, harmless, national holiday?

Because I am gullible. I do fall for silly jokes. Again and again.

And I don't find them funny. Again and again.

Last year, I fell for every blogger around who posted a whole "I feel it's time to end this blog for my own safety...JUST KIDDING!" post on April 1.

I actually got worked up about a few, worried about my friends and concerned for their well-being.

But when I saw the big, old, tell-tale "April Fool's!" at the end of each post, I almost screamed. And blushed a profuse shade of red all by myself, sitting behind my computer screen.

I'd fallen for it.

Again.

I try again, every year, to embrace the holiday.

I force a fake laugh when I find the proverbial "Kick Me" sign taped to my back. (Thank you, ninth-grade classmates!)

But I'm a poor actress. And my guffaw is obviously staged.

Because I just don't like April Fool's Day. It makes me want to kick all the jokesters of the world right in the back.

No sign required.

***

P.S. Happy Thursday everyone! And Happy April 1 - a perfectly normal day that deserves no observation or celebration in the slightest.

P.P.S. I know I'm being cranky, but I'm still sleep-deprived. I'll be back tomorrow with more cheer!

Why don't you just stick a knife in my (Valentine's Day) heart?

God was trying to tell me something when, on Feb. 11, I didn't have a plan for Valentine's Day.

It was his way of saying, "Brittany, let's call the whole thing off. No V-Day for you this year."

But, as usual, I'm not one to take a direct message from God at face value.

So I persevered. (Stupid, stupid.)

And by persevered, I mean I totally marched myself in front of my husband on Friday afternoon and said, "Uh, what do you want to do for Valentine's Day this year?"

He replied with his obligatory, "Uh, I don't know. What do you want to do? Oh, and, um, do you want some kind of present?"

Sigh. Who says romance is dead?

I rolled my eyes, as usual, and walked away.

An hour later, we reconvened and decided on three things:

1. We were going nowhere on Feb. 14. We'd have to celebrate early. Because we are old and hate crowds. We'd hold our Valentine's Day on that very night: Friday, Feb. 12. Like any true romantic would.

2. We really didn't need anything. We decided we'd just go shop for ourselves. I'd hit Old Navy; he'd hit whatever store you go to to buy Xbox games. We both bought ourselves what we wanted. Like any true romantic would.

3. We were low on creativity. We decided that if dinner and a movie was good enough for the average American, it was good enough for us. We'd go out to eat at a nice restaurant and then see the film Valentine's Day. Like any true romantic would.

Now, all this seems harmless enough.

Until I made the dire mistake of leaving my husband with some sort of date-planning responsibility.

While I ventured out to the store in the freakish Florida icy rain we were currently experiencing that afternoon, my husband was supposed to order our movie tickets online.

Which he did.

For the oh-so-inappropriate show time of 6:20 p.m.

Besides the fact that this sounds like we're in line for a seating at the early-bird special, it also directly conflicts with the Body Pump class I teach on Friday nights from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Or, rather, the Body Pump class I HAVE TAUGHT FOR MORE THAN A YEAR EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT FROM 6 p.m. to 7 p.m.

It took me five minutes to explain to the man why this a) wouldn't work, as I cannot be in two places at once, and b) ticked me off, because seriously, what exactly did he think I was doing every Friday night - without fail - for more than a year?

His response?

"I stopped listening to you three minutes ago."

Still, we laughed it off; he talked the Fandango people into a refund and re-ordered tickets that would allow us to exercise and eat dinner before hitting the theater.

Later on, I did my job, hit the gym, and taught my class while my husband got dressed for the night with his lady.

He picks me up at the gym - actually wearing, miracle of miracles, a shirt sans holes or stains - and speeds over to our restaurant of choice.

Where I thought he'd made a reservation.

Because it's that kind of restaurant. And it's a Friday night. And it's the Friday night before Valentine's Day.

And he's a human being with a fully functioning brain.

And when it's that kind of a restaurant on a Friday night before Valentine's Day, that's what you do.

Unless you're my husband.

Who didn't.

Just greeted with this news as we struggle to find parking in the parking lot, I start to panic, convinced the plethora of cars we've encountered can only mean one thing: This place is already busy. With people who obviously made reservations.

Getting desperate, my husband drops me off at the curb to "get us a table," which, frankly, irks me, because I hate this. (Random pet peeve, I know, but humor me.)

Turns out, without a reservation, our wait would have been more than an hour long, which would have made us late for our pre-paid, already-exchanged movie.

I looked at the hostess, pleading with my eyes: What to do, what to do? My husband didn't make a reservation! What to do?

She suggested we grab seats at the bar, where, she said, we could eat.

So, driven by a rapidly crashing blood sugar and blind panic, I bum-rushed the last two empty bar stools I could find.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I waited about 15 minutes.

My husband never showed.

The bar-tender kept refilling my unsweetened iced tea and giving me that sad, pitiful look, as if to say, "Aww, honey, you're all alone on a Friday night and holding that stool for your imaginary boyfriend, aren't you?"

Five more minutes later, my husband called me, only to tell me he "just couldn't find parking. Seriously, where did all these people come from?"

But at this point my patience was gone.

I tersely commented under my breath, "It's the Friday night before Valentine's Day, so they probably thought they'd MAKE RESERVATIONS and go out."

I hung up the phone and took a big drag of my tea.

Which apparently gave off the signal to some drunk on the other side of the bar to come and hit on me.

The inebriated man popped a squat in my reserved-for-husband stool and started to fall almost face-first into my lap, slurring his words and, from what I can tell, mocking me for waiting for my "fake" husband. And hitting on me. I think. At least I had to keep removing his hand from my thigh.

I survived for about another 15 minutes before my husband called again.

He still couldn't find parking. He ordered me to vacate the premises immediately because he was not "waiting for parking in the rain. This is crap."

He was mad.

I was madder.

I hurriedly got up from the bar, only to have the sweet bartender tell me she was not accepting payment for my two iced teas.

Or, rather, "No honey, you don't have to pay for that, you poor thing."

I'm going to choose to believe that this was her way of re-paying me for babysitting that drunk, instead of her just taking pity on me because I was quite literally the girl dressed up with no where to go (and no husband to take her there.)

I hopped back in the car with the fuming, parking-impaired hubs, and we rode in silence to a sushi dive we normally love - but this time, it was more out of necessity, as it was the only place without a wait time.

Between low blood sugar, my abject fear of being stranded in a bar while my husband fought the wild and woolly world of Friday-night parking, and his anger at having to deal with more than two people in one evening, the conversation was nothing short of romantic, let me tell you.

Basically, we inhaled a few hand-rolls and sprinted to our movie. Which we made with seconds to spare.

Unfortunately, though, we didn't make it with enough time to get good seats.

You wanna know the only two spots left in the theater when we walked in to see Valentine's Day?

Two seats smack dab in the middle of the Very. Front. Row.

Otherwise known as "The Neck-Breakers."

It was the final straw.

The last hurrah.

The knife twisted into my Valentine's Day heart.

My exact words to my husband at that moment?

Somebody kill me now.

***

Even though my pre-Feb. 14 Valentine's Day was a bit of a wash, I still had a big reason to smile on this holiday of love.

Because I participated in Katie's Simply Loves Swap!

And my new friend, the Southern Belle Mama, sent me one of the sweetest Valentine's Day packages ever! I was thrilled beyond belief to open it up and find a stash of goodies, personalized specifically for me!

I apologize for the poor-quality photo (and the plethora of them I've posted recently.) My Blackberry is my sole photo tool as of late, as my camera has taken up residence in my classroom, where my students are using it to finish the school yearbook.

She sent me a sweet wooden picture frame, adorable notecards, a mini notebook and a fabulous flower pen, mascara, and a box of my favorite candy, SweeTarts! What a wonderful gift!

She also sent me a box of my favorite snack of all-time: Popcorn.

But I'm ashamed to say that the popcorn has already found its way into my Super-Secret Snack Stash at school; it's the desk drawer every teacher has for those days when only a good bit of her favorite food will make her smile.

So thank you, Southern Belle Mama! You are so generous and kind! Also, thank you, Katie, for hosting such a fun swap!

And I hope the rest of you all found something to smile about this past Valentine's Day!

Until tomorrow, Happy Monday!

Something tells me I forgot something...

I do realize Valentine's Day is three days away.

I do.

After all, I work in a high school.

And no one couples up faster than a high-school student afraid of the single life on Feb. 14.

Seriously, this week, you can't walk in the school's halls without hearing, "Will you be my Valentine?"

Or, rather, "Hey, uh, you wanna go out?"

Kids are holding hands, kissing, and semi-groping each other to and from class.

Frankly, I'm afraid for my life.

Yesterday alone, I had to endure a question from some 12th-grade boy, who wanted to know, "If flowers and chocolates were too cliche to send my girlfriend, since I won't be able to be with her on Valentine's Day?"

I had to hold back the urge to tell him that flowers and chocolates, welcome though they are by the female kind, are always, always cliche.

Then, I had to discourage another boy from buying his girlfriend a book. Because I know his 11th-grade girlfriend, and she's definitely not going to be thrilled when she has to come to school next week and show her friends THE BOOK her boyfriend gave her as a token of his affection.

I even had to stifle laughter after a female student showed me her boyfriend's cleverly coded text message, which ever so subtly revealed their Valentine's Day date location.

"i knOw you Love Italian, so i thought it would be suaVe and dEbonair if I took you some place that serves up Great cuisine And a Really Dandy atmosphEre. yes or No?

Get it?

Yes, that's right. One lucky 17-year-old girl has a reservation for the Olive Garden this Sunday evening.

Snazzy.

It's enough to make me start threatening the adolescent lovebirds right and left with a video-tape I have of Real. Live. Natural. Childbirth.

Which, so help me God, I will show them all today if this general lovin' feelin' doesn't stop already.

You know, as a fair warning. Of what can happen when Valentine's Day goes too far.

Not that I have to worry about all of them.

Let's not forget all those militant girl-teens who all of sudden fly their feminist flag high come Feb. 14, because now, they're fighting The Man, or, rather, men in general.

Because as a teenager, the next best thing to actually having a Valentine is lamenting how horrible and miserable you'd be if you actually had to deal with a Valentine. Plus, nothing makes a statement like walking around singing "All My Single Ladies" and throwin' your hands up.

Bless their little hearts.

So, with all the adolescent love - and angst - swirling around me, yes indeed, I know V-Day is a mere three days away.

But I haven't thought even once about my Valentine.

Or our Valentine's Day.

Now, we're not one of those couples who shuns the whole holiday as commercialized bunk. I mean, I like a good Hallmark-created celebration just as much as the next girl.

But I just don't know what happened to this year in particular.

Perhaps we're too busy. Perhaps we're too tired. Perhaps the teenagers have scared me off red and pink hearts once and for all.

Or perhaps we just forgot that my husband is leaving in less than two weeks for military training, and we're too busy filling out paperwork and packing up his junk, or, as he refers to it, his "excess computer supplies."

For some reason, roses and chocolates and champagne just slipped our minds.

Now, granted, my husband did ask me last night what I'd like as a Valentine's present.

He suggested a pair of T-shirts he'd found that had six LED hearts built into them, so that when you "get within hugging distance" of your hubby in his matching T-shirt, more of your LED hearts light up. The further away you get, the less hearts you have aglowin' across your bosom.

Classy.

Nothing screams "I Love You" like a lit-from-within, sensor-rigged T-shirt that may or may not cause some sort of breast cancer.

As you can see, we need help.

Seriously, I'm begging you, what do you think we should do for Valentine's Day?

Keep in mind that we're on a reasonable budget and aren't the type of people to wait four hours for a table at a restaurant (which, sadly, is the norm around here on Feb. 14.)

I'm open to any and all suggestions.

And hurry. Before I start crafting my own text message inviting the hubs out for a fun night on the town.

Wearing our LED T-shirts at the Olive Garden, of course.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

P.S. Make sure you enter my Bloggy Birthday Giveaway before 8 p.m. tonight. The winner will be announced tomorrow morning! I don't know about you all, but I can't wait!

P.P.S. Happy Birthday to my "nephew" Elijah! He turns 4 today! I love you, sweet boy!

Conquering the Mouse House

I grew up in Orlando, Fla.

And yes, I've seen alligators and Mickey Mouse.

A whole bunch.

In fact, since the tender age of 3, I've been to Walt Disney World at least once a year.

Because when you grow up in the greater Orlando area, you always know some Disney employee who can get you into the Great Mouse House for free, and since it's right in your own backyard - or 40 minutes down the interstate, but who's counting? - you go.

A lot.

For me, that person was Sherri, my best friend. Or more specifically, Sherri's father, a long-time Disney employee who got us into Disney all the time. Once, he even got us - then lowly teenagers seeking a thrill - into Walt Disney World's Epcot at 3 a.m. to test-drive a new ride.

Frankly, it was a pretty awesome.

Needless to say, Sherri and I, along with our Third Musketeer - or Mousketeer, if you will - Melissa, often ventured to Disney World to celebrate birthdays, Christmases, or free summer evenings. It was a great way to grow up.

And now, as married ladies, it's a great way to re-unite and spend time with our families.

But being that we're such seasoned Disney veterans, we don't just "visit" the most magical place on Earth anymore.

No way. That would be entirely too easy.

These Three Mousketeers? These Three Mousketeers like a challenge.

So, this year, while in Orlando for Christmas vacation, we stepped Disney up a notch.
We invented our own mini-obstacles - small little road-blocks on the way to Disney magic - just to see how well we could overcome them.

To test, if you will, our Disney prowess.

You know, for fun.

So, without further ado, allow me to introduce...

You Know You're a Disney Veteran If...

...You Have Very Pregnant Women Join in on the Fun
Not that pregnant women aren't any fun. No, definitely not that. It's just that tottering around Disney with swollen ankles and an aching back does not for a good time make.

But that doesn't stop a true, seasoned Disney veteran.

Not when there are handy wheelchairs available and plenty of able-bodied friends to push Prego along the way.
In fact, we've gotten so good at dragging pregnant women through Disney that this isn't even the first year we've done it.

Last year, the now-pregnant Sherri and I dragged poor Melissa - who was less than a month away from delivering her second baby (Ethan, shown below in Sherri's lap) - through three different Walt Disney theme parks.

So this year, Sherri got a taste of her own medicine.
And I am planning on never being pregnant in December, just in case they both decided to gang up on me next year.

...You Also Bring a Baby with You
Sure, babies are cute and cuddly. And babies are tons of fun to ogle at during the average backyard barbeque. But toss one into the arms of your resident Disney character for that perfect photo op, and you're asking for a wailing.

Still, we Disney veterans know how to train our babies.
We start them in utero (See: Pregnant Sherri.)

And this year, we brought along Ethan, who was in Melissa's belly for last year's trip.

He was a real champ for the most part.

When things got a little harry, we plied him with food and live fish. Because honestly, what baby doesn't love a little marine life action?
You gotta start 'em young.

...You Bring a Toddler on Rides that Involve Mechanical Bears, Dark Places, and Loud Voices
While some rides are a thrill a minute around Disney World, children should stay far away from certain others.

Or at the very least, any decent adult should remember that little children most likely won't like anima-tronic beasts that seem to pop up in the darkest of places around every corner of every Disney ride.

Furthermore, any decent adult should not bring an almost-4 year old on a ride that plunges into darkness at every other turn.

Unless you're this girl. This girl, who is apparently applying for the World's Worst Aunt Award.
Because I, in fact, brought my much-beloved nephew, Elijah, on one such ride.

Not that he didn't try to warn me.

As we were waiting our turn to board our little boat, he turned to me and said, "Brittany, I might be a wee bit scared."

I told him I'd hold him tight and that it was all just pretend and that it would be OK.

But when his little face got all sad and scared in the dark parts of the ride - and when a mechanical polar bear popped out of the darkness - I wanted to cry right along with him.

"What am I? Some kind of animal?" I thought. "This poor child is going to have nightmares about stupid bears, and only 20 years down the line is he finally going to trace all those issues back to me and this stupid, stupid ride I thought he'd like!"

But then I remembered that I'm Disney veteran, and that, by golly, we were supposed to be having fun.

So I reminded him that those silly bears were just pretend, before fake-laughing hysterically - as if that scary bear was just the funniest, silliest thing I've ever seen.

Elijah looked at me like I'd gone crazy.

Which - most likely - I had.

But once we exited the ride, he informed my husband and the rest of the group of 10 we were with that that those "silly bears were just pretend."
Although, his death grip on the hub's neck here tells a slightly different story.

...You Bring a Newbie with You.
Any Disney veteran worth her salt wants to share the joy that a good theme park can bring.

She wants to show her friends and family the sights, the attractions, the hidden Mickey Mouses hiding on every cobblestone and every pagoda you cross.

And yet, most Disney veterans forget that amateurs can't keep up the pace; very often, they can't handle the crowds; sometimes, they can't even handle the sheer amount of options that the Disney parks offer.
And do you know what else some Disney veterans forget?

They also forget that they're married to the very Disney newbie they so often point and laugh at.
Look at him: Doesn't he just look like a real novice?

At the beginning of the day, my very own husband actually shied away from waiting in a 20-minute queue.

It was at this point that my dear friend Sherri had to tell him that 20 minutes was as good as it got around these parks: If you weren't waiting more than an hour, you weren't really waiting, in Disney terms.

Poor guy didn't even know what he signed up for.

...You Charm the Disney Characters into Spending Inordinate Amounts of Time at Your Dinner Table
It doesn't matter if you're so old that your only Mickey-Mouse reference is a comic-strip cartoon.

In black and white.

You still love having your picture taken with that venerable mouse.

And any other members of his charming, plush posse, for that matter.
But if you're true Disney vet, you know how to bribe Disney characters into giving you and yours a little more TLC Time (that's "Touching Live Character Time," for all of you who are unfamiliar with Disney-veteran speak.)
So, you pack along some cute kids.
And you make sure one of those cute kids has an acorn stashed in his pocket that he can offer to that poor teenage girl getting minimum wage to dress up as Chip and/or Dale. (For real: Elijah actually had an acorn in his pocket, and he pulled it out to give Chip. Or Dale. Well, one of them, anyways.)

You also play along with all those other silly characters' silent mime games; throwing them air high-fives, allowing them to sneak up behind you and feigning surprise, even letting Pluto fake-lick your face with his worn, felt tongue.

As a Disney veteran, you do what you have to keep those characters around.

For the kids, of course.
...You Run Like You're Usain Bolt to Cover the Distance Between You and the Disney Fireworks Show
It doesn't matter that you just ate a four-course meal.

It doesn't matter that you had seconds.

It doesn't matter that all you want to do is prop up your tired, Disney-vet feet because after all, you've seen these fireworks a million times.

No, not when the 4 year old you're with has been asking for fireworks since 9 a.m.

You run like a bat out of you-know-where - full stomach and all - to get that 4 year old to the already-exploding fireworks show.

And then you try to keep down your just-ingested, four-course dinner, which is none too happy about your hasty trot across the park, while that beautiful little boy dances around gleefully among the bright plumes of color.

Because honestly, it's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

***

Thanks, Melissa, who blogs over at The Missionary Mama, for letting me use her photos! What a good friend!
And thanks to the dear friends of mine pictured here (and to Sherri's parents and our non-pictured husbands.) We had such a fun time with all of them.

We joke around, but these Three Mousketeers really have visited Disney during the holidays together since we were kids; it is just one of our special little traditions.

And we don't let age - gestational or otherwise - or newbie husbands stand in the way of tradition.

I just can't wait to see who will join the trip in 2010.

We'll be casting for the part of Pregnant Disney Veteran come April.

Stay tuned.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's a Christmas miracle

Just when I thought he was beyond hope...

Just when I imagined he'd never get there...

Just when I'd all but given up on my dream...

The husband purchased me Vera Bradley all on his very own.

Because, believe it or not, I unwrapped this little beauty on Christmas morning, courtesy of my dearly beloved!
The man bought me his very first Vera Bradley.

And it only took me two years of dropping hints to get him to do it.

Apparently, weeks before Christmas, he had the bravery to walk into one of those amazingly chicky stores - aptly and honestly named Simply Gorgeous, if you can believe it - and bought me a brand-new, calypso blue, Vera Bradley Laptop Portfolio bag.

He didn't even know that I had had a Facebook conversation with a dear bloggy friend of mine, Sam, which basically went something like this (and by "basically," I totally mean I've taken creative liberties to summarize our 30-minute Vera Bradley love-fest, which culminated with us sharing our mutual excitement over the fact that we heard rumors that Vera's making dog collars):

Sam: You mean, he's never bought you even a single piece of Vera? That's my husband's safe bet! His go-to gift! Does he know what he's missing out on?
Me: No, not ever. Not even so much as a key chain. I don't think he even knows where to get it. To be fair, I'm not even sure he knows it exists. I think he thinks it's a word I throw around, much like "pretty." You know, like, 'Look at this pretty bag,' but instead, I'm all, 'Look at this Vera bag,' and on the inside, he's all, 'Is Vera Spanish for pretty?'"

Sam, you'll be glad to hear that I was, in fact, wrong.

Apparently, he does know Vera exists (and that the Spanish word for "pretty" is, in fact, "bonita.")

And, oh, my laptop and I are so, so glad.

Still, the man couldn't stop there.

He did not want to be out done.

He just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Because the second gift I unwrapped on Christmas morning?

Muy bonita, no?

***

I hope you all and your families had a wonderful Christmas! We're still celebrating the season around here, as my entire family has the week off. So my blog presence will still be sporadic until next week. Hopefully I can post a few more funny family photos, etc., as we make our last memories of 2009 this week!

Happy Monday, everyone!

There's not much left to say but...

Merry Christmas!

As you read this, I am riding down the highway on my version of a one-horse open sleigh, my little Nissan Rogue.

My husband is in tow (actually he's driving - because he's the man, and I don't know why, but that seems a good enough reason as any at the moment,) and we're sipping our road-trip, non-fat, no-whip peppermint mocha lattes.

I'm pretty sure he's pulled the "I'm the driver, so I get to call what we're listening to, and I call All Sports Talk Radio, All the Time!" card, which means no Christmas carols for us, but hey, I pick my battles.

Our bags are packed, and our gifts are half-wrapped. The rest are sneakily stuffed in Target bags and swaddled in tissue paper, ready to be wrapped right before Christmas Eve.

The dogs are in the hands of capable care-takers; my cell-phone is fully charged, and I've packed enough clothes for a month, as Florida winters are temperamental, plus I'm not sure what all we're doing while we're away.

Because besides Christmas, we've heard mutterings of a reunion with my friends from college, a family camping trip, some post-Christmas sales shopping, a trip to Disney World, and even a movie or two.

And just like every Christmas, I will also need a good store of church-going clothes because with my father, just because we go to church on Christmas doesn't mean we don't turn around and go again in 48 hours, because, after all, it's a Sunday, and nothing keeps that man out of the pew on Sunday, even if that Sunday falls less than two days away from Christmas.

Yes, believe it or not, we're off for our own little version of a Christmas vacation.

Not even to return until after the New Year is upon us.

This, my friends, is going to be interesting.

So, as I'm sure once we reach my parents' door, I won't have a spare second to say it while it counts....

Merry Christmas!

I wish you and yours a wonderful holiday, filled with joy, celebration, memories, and a father-figure who drags you to some much-needed quiet moments of prayer two times in one weekend.

Please know how much you all mean to me during this Christmas season. You all are a blessing and true, real friends and factors in my life. I wish I could send each one of you a big, gift-wrapped package this year!

But instead, all I've got is this lil' ole Christmas blessing.

But I still want to give it to you.

To all of you.

So without further ado...

I wish you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

***

P.S. I will do my best to post sporadically next week once Christmas is passed. I will still be with my family, and I don't expect to have too much time, but I hope I'll be able to check in! I will make sure I'm at least reading your blogs; I just can't promise regular posting on this front until after we return home. In 2010! Wow! I'll miss you all! "See" when we get back!

Happy Holidays!

Where only a thank-you will do

Being a high school teacher is often a thank-less job.

Not always, but often.

Because unlike my fellow teachers who work with children under the age of 12, my students rarely think I'm cool.

They really, truly only associate with me when forced.

I'm not exactly who they'd like to spend their free time with.

In my job, I get more eye rolls than hugs, more rude laughs then cheers.

It's just all part of the calling.

It's in teenagers' genetic make-up to fight "The Man," so to speak.

And woman though I am, I am "The Man," in their lives.

I am "The Establishment."

And they can't think I'm cool - heck, they can't even think I'm kinda-sorta OK-ish - without selling out to "The Establishment."

It goes against their Adolescent Code.

Around Christmas time, this becomes all the more apparent.

Because while the elementary teachers leave the school days before Winter Break often laden down with presents, we high school teachers are lucky if we get a wave good-bye before the kids head out the door for the holiday.

Sure, a few of my students - mostly females - will bring me Christmas cards; the occasional child brings me baked goods, and I have one mother of a student who buys me a gift card before every winter and summer break.

But last Friday, when I left for this year's winter break, my arms were definitely not laden with gifts.

Still, I wasn't upset at all.

Because earlier that day...

I positioned myself at my desk just as the bell rang to cue our morning rush to the first class.

Students filtered in, grabbed an exam, dropped their bags and began to write.

The room was peaceful for close to 90 minutes, until the last student handed in their mid-term essay with 15 minutes in the period left to spare.

The talk began; friendly conversation about where they were going for break, what they wanted to get for Christmas, and who they hoped to see over the two-week hiatus from school.

A few kids - again, mostly girls - handed me Christmas cards.

The others did what they do best: Ignored me and tried to keep their swearing down below my hearing level.

Until one boy slouched over to me, dug around in his backpack, and slammed a crumpled card and small box of Christmas cookies down on my desk, muttering the following:

"Look, my Mom makes me do this every year, OK? So here. This is for you. Merry Christmas."

Aww. What a heart-warming sentiment, don't you think?

I kind of laughed and told the student, "You know, I wouldn't think any less of you if you actually wanted to give your teachers a Christmas card. It doesn't make a bad person, you know?"

The boy, who obviously felt this Christmas-card charade had catapulted him straight into the ninth-layer of high-school hell - immediate and total peer ridicule - slumped back to his desk with a grunt and a shrug.

I put the card on top of the stack of exams I had to grade and went about my day.

It wasn't until I was packing up to leave that evening when I opened the card haphazardly, realizing I'd forgotten to open it earlier.

Inside, a generic Nativity scene opened up to an otherwise blank card, except for one simple little phrase, scribbled in pencil, in the inevitably bad hand-writing any high-school English teacher can easily identify belongs to a boy between the ages of 14 and 17.

The message read:

"Thank you for being a teacher. Love, A(students' name.)"

That was it.

"Thank you for being a teacher."

No "Merry Christmas."

No "Happy New Year."

Not even a "Hope you enjoy the break!"

Just "Thank you for being a teacher."

Written not by the child's mother, but by the child himself.

I burst into tears.

Because this child - this sullen, semi-cranky, too-cool-for-school boy - put aside all the pleasantries that we normally associate with the holidays and called it like he saw it.

He just thanked me for being who I was.

He didn't wrap it in tinsel and sprinkle it with candy-cane dust.

He just expressed gratitude where he saw it necessary.

It was better than any expensive present I've ever gotten.

It was my little reminder that finding the perfect gift for your loved ones, swaddling it in parchment and tissue paper and ribbon, and watching them unwrap it hungrily is really just a metaphor for what we want them to get out of the presents we give them in the name of Christmas.

It's just a simile for our love and appreciation of them and all that they do for us.

We buy gifts to show our love, to show our care, to show our hearts for one another.

We send Christmas cards to express our passion and our admiration for those we love.

We leave voice mails in the name of the almighty holidays to let others know we're thinking of them, that we wish we could be with them.

But underneath that Vera Bradley purse, that iPod docking station, or that sparkly set of diamond earrings, all we're really trying to say is "Thank you."

Thank you for being who you are and what you are to me.

So, in light of these hard economic times, and because, in fact, Christmas is right around the corner, let's all step away from the crowded malls and picked-over Targets and Wal-Marts.

Let's just take a second to tell our loved ones what my sullen student said better than any big box with a bow could:

Thank you. Thank for being you.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! Be back tomorrow with one final post before we leave to visit family for Christmas!

Not Me! Monday: The "Why Not Throw One More Log on the Fire?" 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.

***

Due to what can only be exhaustion-induced semi-craziness, I decided NOT to hand-make all my own Christmas cards because I have NOT neglected putting together an actual photo holiday card like all the other big girls did NOT do well before the week prior to Christmas.

I also did NOT discard the fact that I had NOT averaged about three hours of sleep a night for the last week; that I did NOT break my toe; that I did NOT curse Al Gore himself when our home's Internet crashed on Wednesday.

No, I am NOT so senile that I would add one more burden to my already overflowing plate and decide to NOT cut, paste, glue, and bedazzle my own holiday cards less than a week before Christmas.

So, on Saturday, after NOT finishing all that work I complained about last week - Hallejuah! - I did NOT hit the craftstore and stock up on Christmas parchment, ribbon, buttons and felt.

Then, on Sunday, I did NOT wake up running a slight fever, so I did NOT decide to make the most logical choice when trying to nurse and heal from a cold:

I was NOT going to craft the heck out of it.

And so, I did NOT brew a pot of tea, boil myself some eggs, turn on a girly movie (the hubs was NOT at work,) and begin.

I did NOT cut ribbon.
I did NOT paste paper.
I did NOT tie string.
I did NOT glue buttons, and sew together felt like any sane, normal, pressed-for-time woman would.
And six hours late, I was NOT sitting amid a stack of red and green, silver and gold cards, all of them NOT different, all of them NOT unique.

And all of them NOT, distinctly, blank.
Not a one of them had been addressed.

Not a one of them had a poignant little Christmas message NOT inscribed inside from the hubs and I.

Not a one of them was actually close to being, well, done.

But my head was NOT pounding, my body was NOT aching, and my Christmas-card spirit had NOT run plum dry.

So I did NOT promptly put the calligraphy pen down and retreat back to my bed.

No way. No how.

I am NOT the kind of woman that would spend six hours crafting her own holiday cards through a fever, only to NOT inscribe and address a single one in time to make the mail for Christmas.
I'd NEVER leave such a big project like that unfinished. No way, no how.

Not me!

***

Thank you all for your good wishes last week!

My toe is healing nicely; my husband got the Internet in our home restored, and I finished the crazy workload I'd been stressing and losing sleep over all last week.

And - thank the Lord - I am finally on Winter Break! It feels so good - despite the head cold - that I'm in shock.

We're officially in Christmas mode around here, preparing to visit family, and loving it!

Hope everyone is having a wonderful (Not Me!) Monday! "See" you tomorrow!