Finishing Something

I do finish things. When I bake, I finish the recipe. I've finished a few scrapbooks. I almost alway finish reading books I start. And I've actually finished writing quite a few stories/books. However, no matter how many times I finish something, I still get SUPER excited when I finish something major. And today, I finished something major.

Don't Ever Change.

It's done.

I wrote the last bit today.

I hate writing endings. Mostly because I suck at them.

However, it is DONE.

Granted, I did not exactly write the ending I wrote many moons ago while sitting in a bathroom that had a toilet in it that wouldn't stop flushing. And I ended up doing something I hadn't planned on doing, but in the end, I'm happy with how it ended.

BUT I AM DONE...with Don't Ever Change. (Other than editing the hell out of it, but the rough draft is the hardest thing to get done.)

It's 110 and I Want Fro-Yo

Awhile ago, I was cruising the aisle of the commissary and came across this Chobani Key Lime Pie Crumble Greek Yogurt. I ate quite a few of them and really wanted to try to make Key Lime Pie. Then I read recipes and I was like, "Yikes. Raw eggs."

Then, a few weeks down the line, I was eating some plain Greek yogurt and dark chocolate sauce and I thought, "This would be great frozen."

So, at first I tried to make it in the blender, like a smoothy. That wasn't what I wanted. So, I broke down and got out the ice cream maker.

My mom got Pilot Boy an ice cream maker when he graduated pilot training many moons ago. Pilot Boy loves ice cream. Well, mostly Dairy Queen ice cream, but he'll eat other ice cream as well. Anyways, we used it I think twice before we left the Dirt Hole. Shortly after I discovered Pinterest and desperately wanted Cake Batter ice cream because there were no Cold Stones in Alaska, I took it back out and used it a few times. The Cake Batter ice cream went horribly. I also wanted to try something more healthy, so I tried Cake Batter frozen yogurt.

It worked! And it was good! And healthier than ice cream!

Since arriving the land of Okies where most days (even in the winter) it's way too hot to function, I did not unearth the ice cream maker till recently. Why? Because we had a crummy batch of strawberries that I thought I could turn into frozen yogurt. 

The berries went bad before the container was frozen, so that idea died. 

BUT...

Since the bowl was already in the freezer, I mixed up some yogurt and chocolate and made some frozen greek yogurt. 

The chocolate batch wasn't that great. It was a little too tangy, likely due to the plain greek yogurt I used. Also, everything I use baking chocolate in never tastes right. 

I washed the bowl, put it back in the freezer and decided to try again. While picking up things to make more, I found Key Lime Greek Yogurt. Without the crumble stuff. I stared, mouth open and grabbed up six of them. (I also picked up some watermelon. I ate that one yesterday just to taste it and think it'll be good as frozen yogurt too.)

Today, I looked up recipes on Pinterest, found a simple one, and got down to work. 

Key Lime (Or whatever flavor) Greek Frozen Yogurt: The Recipe.

6 containers of Chobani Key Lime (or whatever) Greek Yogurt 

(Next time I think I'll use seven. I didn't have exactly a whole quart, so I added three tablespoons because I thought it was a bit watery.) 

1/2 can low fat (or high fat if you really want) condensed milk 

(I might have used more, as the can claimed to be 14 fl oz, so I measured out 7 fl oz, but there seemed to be less than half left over in the can when I was done.) 

1 tablespoon vanilla

1/4 teaspoon salt

Add all ingredients together, mix, and dump into an ice cream maker. Follow the ice cream maker's directions. 

Once done, scoop into a freezer safe container and put it in the freezer. It'll harden up, so just let it sit on the counter a wee bit before eating.

The Tale of Finding Diapers and Wipes

Before Wiggles was born, I researched diapers. Any mom to be would do this, right?

Yeah.

Was there really a point?

No.

What type of diaper you choose is up to you. While Pampers might claim to be the best, you might discover you cannot stand Pampers because they never contain the exploding poop. Someone might tell you that Huggies are the greatest diapers known to man, but when you put them on your kid, her leg isn't fat enough to prevent any leaking. People might love those environmentally friendly diapers, but you live in the middle of nowhere and they aren't sold at Walmart.

Wiggles wears Luvs. (You live and learn, and then you get Luvs.) Why does Wiggles wear Luvs?

1. They fit her tiny butt.
2. They hold in the exploding poop because they fit her skinny, little legs.

When Wiggles was born, she was a skinny little thing and the newborn diapers didn't fit. Seriously, they were too big. We had to overlap the little straps just to get them to stay up. Since all hospitals love Pampers, we had a free package of Pampers. So, we used them. I didn't like them because they were too big.

Then she began exploding poops. And I liked them even less.

Now, because I had done my research and learned there was no diaper that was the best, I had bought all three brands available in newborn size in town. (Pampers, Huggies, and Luvs.) Finding newborn sized diapers was a trial. But, I'll get to that later.

We used up the first bag of Pampers from the hospital and moved onto the Luvs.

I liked those the best.

Next up, Huggies.

I am not sure who Huggies newborns are made for, but they weren't made for long, skinny babies. Huggies period aren't made for skinny legged babies. (We have size 2 Huggies that we got as a gift from Pilot Boy's work.) I cannot get those stupid things tight enough to prevent side leakage.

So, those were out.

Pampers were okay, but I didn't feel they held a lot of anything, but I used them in a pinch because...Walmart only got in a shipment of newborn sized Luvs like every other month. And then they'd only have like two packages. Wiggles  was also in newborns till she was almost two months. She likely would still be wearing them, only they are meant for tiny loads, not two month sized loads.

So, we moved to size one in Luvs.

And then no one every had those either.

No one every has the size I want. Wiggles is now in the size 2 and no one every has size two Luvs. They'll have every size I do not need, but never the size I do.

Bah.

Now, I didn't do any research for wipes. A wipe is a wipe, right?

No.

Once again, whilst at the hospital, we were given a travel package of Pampers Sensitive wipes. I had bought smaller packages of various unscented wipes to use in my wipe warmer. I had Pampers and Huggies, as those were the only wipes they had at Walmart. (Well, other than the Walmart brand, but I'm a snob.) I used the Pampers for awhile, even bought a huge bag of them to restock the wipe warmer. Then, I discovered a HUGE thing of Huggies All Natural Wipes. I'm pretty sure those weren't there when I first was trying out wipes, but I got them anyways because they were cheaper than the huge package of Pampers.

Whoa. When they say you only need one wipe to clean up, they really weren't lying. I also love how thick the Huggies wipes are.

So, I use Luvs diapers because they fit my kid's skinny little legs and Huggies wipes because they are thick and wonderful to wipe her butt.

Birth, Poop, Wiggles Worm, and Cankles

Giving birth was as horrible as I thought it'd be. It sucked. It was uncomfortable, long, and painful. Even with an epidural--which only totally numbed one side of my lower regions. Oh, and I threw up. (Mostly due to the pain and contractions during the time epidural ran out, though no one told me till after Wiggle Worm appeared.)

And of course the hip where Wiggle Worm got stuck on the way down was on the side where the epidural wasn't working.

So, after twenty seven hours of labor (fifteen which were spent at home, three which were spent walking around the hospital without pain killers waiting to dilate to three centimeters, as they wouldn't admit me till I was fully three centimeters (I was tragically only one when I arrived after fifteen hours of suffering), and at least one was spent in heavy labor without an epidural because the bag ran out), I spent two hours trying to push my kid out and not getting anywhere because she was stuck in my right hip. (She'd come down a little and go right back.)

I honestly have no clue why anyone would not want an epidural. Because even if it didn't fully work, how the hell does anyone deal with the pain without at least some of the edge taken off. (Granted, I am a huge wimp, so maybe I'm not the best person to ask?)

After twenty seven hours of pain and suffering (and cursing even thought Pilot Boy kept chiding me when I did), I was presented with a wiggly baby with a full head of hair and a skin tone at least three times darker than my own. Pilot Boy commented, "That baby's darker than you and she'd never seen the sun."

She clearly has her father's skin and not mine. (I'd make a vampire look tan.)

Anyways, after channeling a scene out of Kill Bill that freaked out the whole room, grossed out my husband, and went unnoticed by me as I was staring at the tiny being on my chest, the room cleared out and I was left behind with a baby and a tired husband. (I slept after they'd put the epidural in, but Pilot Boy didn't.) We spent two hours alone with our new baby, marveling at her and trying not to fall asleep.

I was exhausted. I don't even want to think about how I'd felt if I'd failed to sleep a bit.

So, two hours after I'd popped out a baby with a thirteen inch round head, Pilot Boy and the baby left to go to the nursery and I had to go to the bathroom.

They make you try to go like a normal person, even though I told them I wasn't going to be able to. After my appendix was removed, I couldn't go, so why would I be able now? No matter how many times I told them this, they refused to believe me and made me try. I might have been able to, as guess what? I really had to go. But, there was this stupid thing that was supposed to measure the amount that kind of was in the way. Add on the uncomfortable toilet, and there was no way I was going to go.

And upon seeing how swollen I was down there, I can't think why they'd thought I'd be able to go on my own in the first place.

Seriously, after not seeing anything down there for four months, I was rather shocked to see it again and it looking so alien. (Even if I knew this was going to happen. I read all about it.)

After having an argument with the nurse in charge of me with whether I ought to take a percocet without eating anything for over twelve hours (I do not have a good relationship with heavy duty pain killers that you take orally. Inject it into my butt and I'm fine, but give me a pill and it is all down hill), I was left alone for about a half hour till lunch showed up.

Lunch made me want to throw up, but the ibuprofen they'd given me shortly before they kicked me out of the birthing room (because the day Wiggle Worm was born was busy, so I went to a better room) wasn't doing anything for the pain, so I forced myself to eat some of it. (Seriously, do not give greasy lasagna or anything tomato based to someone who hasn't eaten for an extended period.) The nurse returned and made me take the percocet.

I took it, only because unlike vicodin, I can take one percocet without it making me sick. She seemed to think I was making a big deal out of nothing, but I know me. I know my reactions and I had told the nurse at the doctor's office, but clearly they didn't put that in my chart or anything as they were sitting there trying to shove the very drug I said didn't agree with me down my throat.

I only took one percocet and it knocked me out for four hours. Which was fine. We were all tired. But I didn't take it again. I just asked for ibuprofen when the pain got annoying.

The rest of the hospital stay was fine. I finally peed on my own the required three times (they won't release you till you pee three times) and my swelling finally began to go down enough they weren't freaking out. (It hadn't gone down any in the time between they tried to make me pee the first time and four hours later when I demanded they aid me in emptying my full bladder.) The baby was fine, so they released us the next day.

By five in the afternoon, forty eight hours after we'd left to go to the hospital, we were home.

While I was happy to be home, that night as I held a screaming child who refused to sleep, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I was exhausted, in tears, sore, and my ears hurt. (She can really wail.)

And I had to constantly pee.

I had read that a lot of women can't feel they have to pee after giving birth.

I felt like I had to constantly pee. For awhile, it was worst than my third trimester as I had to go every half hour. At least with the whole not sleeping thing (she seriously didn't sleep for almost twenty four hours unless one of us was holding her), it wasn't so bad. But, I did get tired of peeing as there is a huge production to going potty after giving birth.

And don't get me started on leaving the house...it was a huge ordeal and not due to the kid. It was simply me and all the crap I needed to go to the bathroom. Luckily I never had to go when we ventured out in those early days...

The other thing that was surprising was the fact I lost my ankles.

I hadn't noticed till we were home, but my feet were swollen. Like seriously swollen to the point I looked disfigured. I'd never read you get swelling AFTER giving birth. Well, in your feet. Other things I knew swelled.

I didn't fit into any of my shoes except my flip flops and even thought were too tight, as they left marks on my bloated feet.

Luckily, I didn't have to go anywhere other than the pediatrician and Wiggle Worm brought a cold spell, so I was able to wear pants that hid my feet and (lack of) ankles. It was seriously gross.

The other surprising thing?

I think I peed out most of my baby weight, as about a week after she was born I was back to only weighing eight pounds more than I did before I got pregnant. I had my waist back three days after giving birth (well, I had a waist. It is still two inches bigger than it was, but that's mostly due to the baby weight hanging out over my abs. And the fact my abs aren't back together yet). I was wearing my pre-baby jeans two weeks later and most of my shorts also fit for the most part. While most of my jeans are low rise, I clearly don't have a lot of low rise shorts. Anything that has to go up over my belly doesn't fit too well. And due to my boobs being larger than ever, none of my tops really fit still. (Stupid boobs.)

However, now that I can exercise again (it being six weeks), hopefully my shorts that are higher rise will fit in the next few months. And after I stop breastfeeding, my boobs will shrink. (I know, who wants their boobs to shrink? I do. I hate them. I've hated them since they began growing when I got pregnant.)

So, six weeks into this mother thing, what do I think?

At times I think: What the hell was I thinking?

At other times I think: OMG. She's adorable, but why won't she stop crying so I can eat/sleep/shower/potty?

Most of the time I think: I can do this. I can do this.

And evidently being a mother has calmed me down. My therapist was shocked to see how well I was put together and how clam I was there sitting in front of her. I've done a few things that I wouldn't have done before (went to OKC for the day...to an air show. Only someone forgot to put the stroller in the car, thus we wound up going to Panera. OMG, I miss civilization).

Thing surprising about my baby girl?

1. She's a super pooper. What does that mean? Well, you know how boys spray pee everywhere so they tell you to cover them whilst changing them? Yeah, so my kid does that with poop. I'm not sure how such a little body can put out so much force, but she's sprayed poop all over the walls of her room, the curtains and anything with in reach. The first time she did it my parents were here and they heard me shout, "SERIOUSLY!?"

My mom came to see what had me screaming and shouting.

She was pretty shocked to find the room near the changing table covered in orange goop.

And then my baby girl peed all over the wall.

Yeah, she sprayed pee as well. On the wall. She'd peed all over herself and the changing pad before, but never did I think she'd hit the wall. She wasn't even pointed in the direction of the wall, but she peed on the wall.

(She also projectile spit ups. I think her favorite past time is to get Mom wet.)

2. She is utterly determined to move. (Hence Wiggle Worm.) While in the womb, she did a lot of wiggling, not a lot of kicking. Hence, the Baby Earthquakes. Anyways, so she came out and she wiggled.

All the time.

She always has to have her hands free, so when we wrapped her up, she'd unwrap herself. (Then wail because she was no longer snug as a bug.) Also, when we began to put her on her back on her play mat, she would always be kicking and waving her arms. When we began putting her on her tummy she'd move her legs like she wanted to crawl, but was prevented because she failed to use her arms and her head didn't come up. She pivots around her head in a circle, powered by her super long legs.

3. My kid is all limbs.

Seriously.

She has long arms, long legs, long toes, long feet, long fingers, and a somewhat long torso. She is just freaking long.

I had no legs upon birth. I was just a torso with some feet.

Sweet and Salty Cookies

Carmel Sea Salt & Chocolate Chip Cookies

I've been rather keyed into sea salt carmel lately. I can't remember when the cravings for it began, but I'll blame Starbucks for lack of people to blame. Anyways, I found these nifty carmel bits at Jumbo Foods (local grocer) awhile  back and was like, "Dude, these could be used for cookies."

So, of course I bought them.

And they sat in my cabinet for over a month. How do I know it was more than a month? Well, my daughter is four weeks old and I bought them before she was born. Thus, I've had them for over a month.

So, since I feel like a normal person (kind of) once more, I thought I'd bake some cookies. Whilst my parental units were in town for two weeks, I made cookies, but I didn't use the carmel bits. Since I'm venturing out to be social with people my own age on Friday (and giving Basil Bea a much needed dog play date), I figured I'd try my all time fav cookie recipe and throw the carmel bits in instead of the dark chocolate chips.

Now, for YEARS I've tried every single chocolate chip cookie recipe I've run across. And they all pretty much taste the same to me and usually are kind of a let down after they are no longer fresh from the oven. Well, after we moved into the house and I had a kitchen once more (well, mostly I had all my baking stuff back, as I had a kitchen whilst living in San Antonio, but I digress...), I pulled out the newest recipe I wished to try: Brown Butter & Sea Salt Chocolate Chip Cookies.

I was a little leery of the recipe for two reasons: brown butter and the whole two hours in the fridge.

I mean, what the heck is brown butter?

It's melted butter that's brown and kind of nutty. Does it make a difference in recipes?

Yeah. Trust me.

I think the first time I made them I threw them in the fridge for two hours like the recipe called for, but I didn't really brown the butter properly, but they were still good. (I did not successfully brown butter till I made those doughnuts.) Out of the two recipes I tried out that week, Pilot Boy like the Brown Butter and Sea Salt cookies best.

One would think because we both liked them, this recipe would be my to go. Nope. Why?

The whole putting it in the fridge and brown butter. (Also, it calls for a tablespoon of greek yogurt, which I don't usually have on hand since I made myself sick of it by eating it for a year straight for a meal during my Greek Yogurt Diet phase.)

HOWEVER, in looking for a recipe to make cookies with my carmel bits, I decided to go with this one since it called for sea salt.

And let me tell you, THEY ROCK.


So, here's my adapted recipe if you care:

Sweet Stuffs

Throughout my pregnancy, I've not had "cravings" in the typical sense. Yeah, I'll randomly want something, usually Arby's, but that happened to me before I got knocked up. Usually around that time of the months...and it was usually chocolate.


I am a sugar addict. I'm completely and utterly addicted to sugary items. Most of the things I've "craved" have sugar. Are are made mostly out of sugar. So, I've actually done quite a bit of baking. Recently, I've wanted doughnuts.

I always get random cravings for doughnuts. Usually when there's no doughnut place in sight. (Except that one time when I was in Boston when I was 13 and I desperately wanted a doughnut and no one would let me have one.) Anyways, I usually want a doughnut after three pm and all the doughnut shops in town (there are several) are closed. The first time I craved doughnuts, I went to local food store and got some of their Krispie Cream doughnuts. They fulfilled my craving and I was happy.

However, I thought: there must be a healthier way to eat a doughnut, right?

Then I remembered: Baked doughnuts.

I'd need a doughnut pan. I didn't have one, hence why I'd never tried it before. So, I logged onto Amazon, used the last of my credit card reward points and happily bought two doughnut pans and a doughnut cutter for when I decided I'd like to tackle yeast doughnuts myself.

I also got a cookbook all about doughnuts: Doughnuts: Simple and Delicious Recipes to Make at Home. 

So, I was amped up to make doughnuts.

Then I read the cookbook.

It called for things I'd a) never find in the tiny town I live in (I can't even find white whole wheat flour, people) and b) whole milk (that I can find easily now that I know it's not called whole milk, but vitamin D milk).

Also, the recipes all made way too many doughnuts for me to eat alone, so I took to my old fall back: Pinterest.

That's where I found the recipe I decided to use. Reasons I decided to use it: a) it didn't call for any special flour; b) it didn't call for any special type of sugar; c) it claimed to make only 10 doughnuts; and d) it didn't call for whole milk except in the glaze, which I figured I could fudge with skim.

So, I made these doughnuts.

They were good.

They were actually really easy to make.

Pilot Boy came home and announced, "Wow, these are good!"

I did learn a few things the first time I made them.

1. Use actual buttermilk. I've never actually bought buttermilk before, but since I was going to the store to get real butter for these babies (the fake stuff doesn't brown as nice, tragically) I decided I'd get some buttermilk. And man, they taste better with the real thing as opposed to when you milk the milk you have with vinegar. (or maybe I'm just mental, I'm not sure)

2. Don't make the glaze in a pie plate. Also, cut the glaze recipe in half.

The second time I made doughnuts, I wanted to make non-chocolate cake ones. I went with the other recipe on posted on Joy the Baker: Brown Butter Doughnuts.

They were not as good as the chocolate and I doubt I'll make them again. I'm not sure what went wrong, as once more I followed the directions and didn't do my own thing, but they were chewy and tasted horrid. I also made a batch of chocolate ones and froze the dough I didn't use (will I ever use it? I don't know. More than likely not, but I was tried and didn't feel like making more doughnuts.) The Brown Butter Doughnuts recipes claims to make six, but I got almost eight, thus why I began the chocolate ones when I wasn't going to, but then I did.

Anyways, I can vouch the chocolate baked doughnuts are awesome.

The other thing I've recently been making often is cookie dough balls. Frozen cookie dough balls. I like these because they are sugar, chocolate, and cold. And they are small so you don't feel like you're eating a whole bunch when you chow down on four or five of the tiny balls. I cut the recipe in half, as I don't have room in my freezer for a full batch. They are really good on a hot day.

The Homestretch

One week till my due date.

My bag is packed and I'm ready to go.

And I'm showing now signs of labor. I'm still, as the doctor put it, closed up tight.

Bah.

I'm ready for this baby. Well, as much as I can be. I've got everything ready to go for her, I just need the actual baby. As I said recently, I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready to meet the kid who keeps kicking me from the inside even though I know it's hard for her as there's not much room for her. (Pilot Boy keeps looking at my belly and wondering how a 18 inch long baby is supposed to fit in there. She is a contortionist. Duh.)

Other than the constant peeing, the inability to get comfortable, the constant being overly hot, the swollen feet, and the curious happenings of my digestive track, I'm just peachy.

Okay, I lie. I'm so ready to not be pregnant. I've been warned it'll be at least three months till I feel like my old self again, but hell, I'm just looking forward to not randomly falling over, being able to stand at the counter, and not peeing constantly. (I'd also like to be able to sleep for more than 45 minutes, but I'm not totally mental. I know babies don't allow for much sleep. At least they get you ready for it by pressing on your bladder with their heads for the final four weeks of pregnancy!)


When I first found out I was pregnant, I kept thinking, "Oh god. I'm not ready for this. Oh god."

I kept repeating that over and over and over till about a month ago when I was like, "Okay. I'm ready. Now, come out!"

She's not listening. (I never thought she would. My own dog won't listen to me, why would my own kid.)

It's also the strangest thing to be sitting around waiting for something to happen that you know has to happen, yet you have no clue when it'll happen. It's hard to plan anything, as you NEVER know when you MIGHT just RANDOMLY go into labor. (Also, relatives want to make plans to visit, yet I don't want to be overwhelmed as I know myself well enough to know I won't be able to handle anyone other than Pilot Boy and my mother for the first few weeks. I think I've finally managed to convince people of this, so they've given me a month.)

I've made a birth announcement as well. All I have to do is add a photo and the unknown information (weight, length (or wing span as Pilot Boy insists), and the date and time of birth).

Well, my hips hurt from sitting here for too long, so I'm going to end this post and move to another location.

A Quest for Salsa

You'd think it wouldn't be hard to find salsa, but it is. Trust me.

Before I met Pilot Boy, I had no desire to eat salsa. I hated hot foods and thus never ventured near the salsa bowl or a Mexican restaurant. This all changed when Pilot Boy waltzed into my life because the boy lives to fry his tongue and Mexican food is his all time fav.

Whilst dating, there was this Mexican restaurant in West Lafayette, Indiana he liked and we went to quite often. The joint always brought two different salsas, one mild, one hot. This worked well for the pair of us, as Pilot Boy likes to burn his tongue and I'd rather keep my taste buds.

During our time in Fairview Heights, IL, there was this perfect Mexican restaurant right near our apartment complex and we spent almost every Friday night (or when we failed to want to make dinner) eating at this place. They also had good salsa.

Then, we moved to the Dirt Hole.

You'd think that living on the Texas boarder, you'd find GREAT Mexican food and salsa would be easy to get.

LIES. ALL LIES.

To date, the best Mexican food I've consumed has been within the state of Indiana. And the best salsa I've eaten came out of my kitchen.

Yeah, you read that right: I make my own salsa.

While we were living in Texas, there were store bought salsas that were okay. In Texas, there were so many available I don't think we ever got the same one twice. Then we moved to Alaska where they had no idea about salsa, let alone chips.

Oklahoma isn't much better. The lone okay Mexican restaurant in town doesn't actually give you chips and salsa with your order, as they don't have a table. They are a drive through restaurant. (Their food is really good, though. Likely the best in town.)

I'd been tooling around Pinterst for awhile, looking at salsa recipes. I'd gotten a new blender as a house warming present from my parents. It claimed it worked as a food processor as well (hence why I got it). Finally, after going through every, single salsa our tiny town shops had to offer, I decided I'd just make my own. So, I bought all the stuff and made it.

It was 1,000 times better than any of the jars we had in our fridge rotting away because they sucked.

(I was also over zealous the first time I made salsa and also made my own chips, which were really good, but labor intensive.)

Anyways, I've made the recipe a few times. (Oh, find it here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa.)

The first time I made it, I had no ground cumin, so I put in chipotle powder. I also had gotten the Rotel diced tomatoes with green chiles in them, not the plain ones.

The second time I made it, I only used half a can of diced tomatoes and it came out looking brown. (It tasted fine, it just wasn't very red.)

The third time, Pilot Boy made it by just dumping in what I could remember. I forgot the honey and he failed to listen to me when I told him he was over blending. We also didn't have any fresh cilantro, as the cilantro we had had gone all slimy.

We threw that one out.

The last batch I made, I pretty much followed the recipe, only I used paprika. I also failed to put enough salt in and didn't have a fresh lime.

HOWEVER, since I made the batch, I've been adding a little more salt and some Bold Taco Seasoning by Penzey. And a bit more lime juice, as I don't think Pilot Boy put enough in. (He didn't seem to think we needed a full tablespoon to compensate for lack of fresh lime.)

It is heavenly.

So, here is the recipe tweaked from the original one: (Once more found here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa)

What you need:

1 can of 14-oz canned diced tomatoes
(drain a bit of the water out unless you like watery salsa)
1 can of 10-oz Rotel Mild (with green chilies)
Some roughy chopped onion.
(Roughly chopped is the key, as you're putting it in the blender. I'd say add as much onion as you like. I hate onions, so I put maybe 1/4 of a red onion in.) 
1 clove of garlic.
(PEEL IT. DO NOT CHOP IT UP EITHER. If you do not have an actual clove, put the equivalent of the powder stuff or whatever you've got in the garlic department. First time I used minced garlic, a heaping 1/2 tablespoon.) 
1 teaspoon of honey
1/2 teaspoon of salt, plus extra if you feel you need it.
1/4 teaspoon ground chipotle or 1/2 Penzey Bold Taco Seasoning plus 1/4 paprika
Juice of one lime
(Or put a tablespoon or two of lime concentrate.) 

Directions:
1. Gather all ingredients.
2. Chop your onion. Roughly.
3. Peel your garlic clove. (If you have one.) 
4. Open your cans of tomatoes.
5. Dump everything into the blender.
6. Plug the blender in. (Very important.) Turn blender on. (Also muy importante.) Blend on high for 10 seconds, or low for 30. Do not over blend or you'll liquify it.
7. Put it in a jar or whatever you wish to store your freshly made salsa within.
8. Enjoy. (I figure it keeps for maybe a week. Only one jar we've made, the first, made it passed a week and looked kind of funky after a week in a half of living in the fridge.) 

Now, I know these food/recipe posts usually have photos to go along with them, but I don't have photos of me making salsa at the moment. However, I wanted to write this down before I forgot. Or had a baby and thus was busy bonding with said baby.

Counting Down to Zero

I'm about four weeks away from my due date. I'm somewhat torn about this. There is one part of me that is like: I AM NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, IRELAND. YOU CAN'T TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, YOU EXPECT YOU'RE GOING TO TAKE CARE OF A TINY, SQUALLING HUMAN BEING?

Then, there's this other part of me that's like: GET HER OUT NOW.

I can't sleep for more than a few hours because there is this head squashing my bladder making it the size of a peanut. (I swear it's that big.) I'm pretty sure I don't have hemorrhoids, but it's all...eck from all the peeing. I'm so over peeing. And I'm sick of my skin feeling too tight. I don't know how to describe it other than my skin is just too tight.

So, am I ready?

Emotionally? Hell no.
Physically? Hell no. (I'm still totally freaking out about the whole birth thing. Who thought THAT was a good idea?)

But, do I want the whole being pregnant thing to be over?

Yeah. I do. I'm over being pregnant.

I am exhausted. I'm finally looking pregnant, so my belly is awkward and my boobs almost always ache. AND YET, a few of my maternity shirts (mostly from Target and Old Navy) are still too big. Two I got during my first round of ordering maternity clothes, I put on this past weekend and my husband asked, "Are those maternity shirts?"

"Yes."
"Why are they still so big? Do they think you're having a whale? What size are those?"
"Small."
"Do they size them differently so bigger people think they are suddenly smaller during pregnancy?"
"They must. I feel tiny in this shirt," I replied, as I took it off and put on a non-maternity tank top I hardly ever wore while living in Alaska because it was never really warm enough to walk around in only a tank top.

It covered the bump and the fact my shorts were maternity. (At least THOSE fit.)

I believe I've got all the baby stuff (except a nursing chair). I've ordered a second base for the car seat, I picked up a variety of diapers this afternoon (and wipes). I picked up some nipple cream to take the hospital with me as well as granny panties to wear after I deliver. (They looked HUGE when I unwrapped them, which is odd, as they are the same size I got when I first found out I was pregnant and none of these look big. Whatever. They are 100% cotton, unlike the other ones I got.) I need to pack my bag to go to the hospital, which I'll do either later this afternoon or tomorrow. I'm packing up the diaper bag for the baby. (I know I don't need to, but I just decided to throw her stuff into her own bag just to keep things separate.)

The only thing not ready in the kid's room is all the art work I've made. I've got no frames. Pilot Boy was supposed to get a miter board from his dad, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, so the pieces of artwork won't likely have frames till I break down and shell out big bucks to get some.

Today, besides getting some diapers and wipes, I picked up a little lamp to use at night in the room, as the only light in there is the overhead light on the fan. It's not the owl lamp I wanted, but the owl lamp was 69 dollars and the one I picked up at Lowes was 15.

The baby is still turned and facing downward (I could have told the doctor that, but it was nice to confirm her fat head was still doing headstands on my bladder and I wasn't crazy). I was also told today, that he'd induce me if I was at three centimeters a week before my due date if I wanted.

I said yes. I want her out.

He chuckled. Then went on to say, or we could just wait till you're 41 weeks. I kind of wanted to hit him, only I like him, so I didn't.

"I want her out. I'm over being pregnant."
"Well, some women like being pregnant and want to remain pregnant for as long as they can," he said, laughing at me.

I was glaring at him at this point.

I am not one of those woman.

I am over ramming into things.
I am over peeing every hour.
I am over being kept up most of the night because I can't get comfortable and someone likes to do headstands on my peanut sized bladder. (Her beating me with her feet and trying to break out of my uterus using her feet and hands don't bother me, it's the pressure on my bladder I could do without.)
I am over maternity clothes.
But mostly, I'm over this whole peeing every hour thing.

An Overview Before I Forget

Well, I'm in week 33 of my trek to become a mother. And I've learned a lot and haven't been surprised by much--other than the lack of stretch marks and the fact I STILL DO NOT FIT INTO MATERNITY CLOTHES.

But, I digress.

I went to the doc this AM and found out that all the kid's squirming over the past 48 hours wasn't for naught. She's head down. Let's just hope she doesn't twist herself around so she's going the wrong way. I'd like her to at least try to come out the right way.

So, I've been reflective lately. My father told me I ought to keep a journal of my journey through pregnancy. I did. It's mostly filled with I HATE MY LIFE! THIS SUCKS! WHY AM I DOING THIS!

And while I still think these things sometimes, there are times I think WHOO HOOO!

Those are few in far between, as I still dislike being pregnant. I just cannot get on board with the whole "this is wonderful" thing that some pregnant women feel. My mother told me, whilst I was trying to not throw up while sitting on the couch in the reading nook, she loved being pregnant.

I glared at her.

So, here's my take:

1. First Trimester just sucks. It is not fun. You will never convince me that first trimester is fun. You're hot, exhausted, sick, and you are usually in pain. What? Pain? What are you talking about? I'm talking about ligaments. They stretch out as your uterus grows and it freaking hurts. And it happens quite often first trimester. A few times it was worst than period cramps. Add on the fact you're throwing up randomly, it's just plum horrid. I hated first trimester and vowed, loudly and often, I was NEVER doing this again.

2. Second Trimester. This is supposed to be the honeymoon period where you're all glowing, pretty, and you get some of your energy back and you stop throwing up.

I didn't stop throwing up till I was midway through and I was still  nauseous quite often till the final weeks. Also, you're growing larger. Well, you're supposed to be, but some of us don't grow like those models who sell maternity clothes. What I've discovered: no one sells stuff meant for second and first trimester no matter what they claim. By the time I hit second trimester, I had a very small bump thing that sat just above where most of my low ride jeans hung out. While I was perfectly find standing, once I sat down I wanted to rip my pants off and scream. Maternity tops were all very baggy in several areas: read the belly and chest. While I had shot up from a 34C to a 34DD, my boobs were still too small for my tops. (The story of my life. No matter how LARGE they get (I was a 34A till I was 21, then a 34B till I got married then grew to a 34C. Then, I got knocked up and shot up to a DD. And I STILL didn't fill out the top half of a shirt. Go figure?)

I began, though, to pee more like a normal person and less like a pregnant one. That was a positive thing, as going every freaking hour was getting to the point of annoyance at this point.

So, with a pants extender thing (which I'm still using BTW and I'm still on the smallest one they offer...which means I can't use the panels they suppled to hide your underwear when you can't get the zip up), I muddled my way through second trimester wearing mostly my pre-pregnancy clothing that was a bit looser cut to hide my belly.

Why was I hiding my bell?

I mostly looked like I was just fat, not pregnant. I lost my waist rather quickly, yet didn't really gain a bump till I was almost into my third trimester and I bloomed outwards. So, onward to Third Trimester.

3. They say after second trimester's wonderfulness, third is a bit harder.

Bit harder my butt.

I hit week 30 and everything went pear shaped.

First, when the kid decides she's going to grow, I feel like I'm going to die or something. It's like having a period without the blood. I get moody, want chocolate, and have this constant paint where my ligaments are expanding some more. Add on the baby earthquakes and sometimes I lay on my back (propped up on almost every single pillow we own, as being on your back as a pregnant woman is a bad thing due to blood pooling or something in your feet) and just wonder why I am doing this to myself. Don't let anyone tell you it's 'fun' to be pregnant. Yeah, I've gotten to buy new clothes, but I've also had to buy a butt load of bras, half of which no longer fit. (They NEVER stop growing.)

Granted, I knew this process was going to suck. I knew it going in, so I didn't go in blind. I learned all I could about pregnancy, birth, and all that jazz before Pilot Boy and I began trying. I quickly lost all delusions I'd ever had about pregnancy and embraced all the bad stuff, as I knew it'd all happen to me.

And for the most part it has.

Only, I never read anywhere, anyone having issues finding maternity clothes that fit them. Luckily, I know how to kind of sew, so I was able to save a few of the pairs of jeans I had bought thinking they'd fit by now. They don't. While the belly did expand (as I look pregnant now, though not as pregnant as I am, as no one believes me when I say I'm due on the 25th of April. I've lost track of the times I've heard I'm tiny), my hips didn't move. Are they just going to magically open up more in the next few weeks? God, I hope so, or else this kid might have issues trying to get out.

Third trimester you also start those birthing and prenatal classes. I've only done the prenatal classes, but it was the first time I was actually exposed to other pregnant women since I got myself knocked up. I've had nothing to judge myself against since I got pregnant, which of course made it hard to believe I was tiny.

I am tiny.

The women in my class are not HUGE women to begin with. They are average--just as I am. However, their bellies are HUGE compared to mine. The girl I spoke to last week before class began is due a little under two weeks before me, but looks to me like she could drop that kid any moment by her size. The other woman, whose due date I don't know passed some time in April, is also larger than me, yet likely smaller than me before she got pregnant. And sitting with these women, I feel tiny and not a huge boat I usually feel like. It's unnerving. Because I look at my belly now and think, "How the hell is there a 17 inch long baby weighing 4.5 lbs in there? How do you fit?"

I've got no idea how she fits, but clearly she does. And clearly she's getting ready to head on out, as I found out today she's facing downwards, facing the right direction to head on down out. (Though, nothing else in my body is saying she's going to show up anytime soon. Thank god.)

Oh, and the other thing that has gotten REALLY bad during third trimester: my brain.

I'm turning into my dad. I'm putting things in the pantry that belong in the fridge, things in the fridge that belong in the pantry, forgetting to do things like go to the bathroom (which sucks because when I finally go, I really have to go). Sometimes I forget to eat till my stomach roars at me. And I can't remember words for the life of me. I'll be talking and suddenly the word will just vanish. And forget about paying bills on time. I never know what day it is. Now, this wouldn't be too much of an issue if Pilot Boy had any room on his ice burg for mundane things like paying bills or remembering to do things around the house. However, those kind of things slip his mind like water through a colander. So, currently, it's amazing we get anything done as I'm the one who remembers things.

Well, I've once again forgot to eat lunch. And do a variety of other things I meant to do upon coming into my new study to work. (I was going to write the next installment of Don't Ever Change and maybe work on the Thor story I've been working on for the past four months since I've finally seen Thor: The Dark World. (And glad I didn't see in it the theater. I took five bathroom breaks.)

So, laters.

Back in the Day...

Recently, a childhood friend of mine posted an old school photo on Facebook.

I was utterly mortified. I looked like a complete idiot.

I was an adorable child. My parents will tell you this, other people might agree, and I will tell you this. However, around the age of about ten or eleven, I turned into a complete, awkward mess. I'm not sure if it had to do with getting glasses or what, but something happened between fourth and fifth grade. And it only got worst till I was a junior in high school. I still tended to take horrible photos, but I stopped looking so awkward and geeky. (Sometimes.) I also finally stopped hacking off my hair to channel a mushroom.

But I digress.

The photo posted on Facebook (or The Facebook as some people call it) was from fifth grade. Oddly, I was actually wearing my glasses (I tended to forget them till I was in about seventh grade when I finally became blind enough to be unable to function without them). I also, for some unknown reason, tucked my shirt into my high waisted jeans. I know, back in 1995, those were like the ONLY type of jeans out there, but still. WHY DID I TUCK MY SHIRT IN? Out of the seven or six girls in the photo, only two of us were sporting tucked in shirts. And since I was the short one with the tucked in shirt, tapered jeans, and granny boots, I looked like an awkward mess. Even for 1995.

With the exception of the girl who posted the photo and one other, each person (besides myself) commented on the photo how, well, horrible she looked. Each one thought she looked the worst, completely passing over myself. (Who did look the worst. My brother agreed.) The photo had been up for quite a few days before I realized that likely all of us were totally embarrassed (in a ha ha ha kind of way) of how we appeared as kids. For the most part, when I see photos of myself as a kid, I don't cringe at the clothes. Yeah, I look dated, but for the most part I think I look fine. It's not till I hit that awkward stage (around the time of the photo), where I want to crawl into a hole and hide.

Though, out of all the years, I think my junior high years were the worst. I remember thinking during those years I looked GREAT. My mom let me have more control over my wardrobe (in eighth grade she took me to Old Navy to buy clothes and I almost passed out, as she never took me to "cool" places to shop. I had to take my dad) and I had wire rimmed glasses (which at the time I thought were great and cool).

My hair kept getting shorter, the glasses kept getting geekier, and I had braces. And I am just awkward. I am still awkward. I just can dress and do my hair now. In high school, when I finally stopped trying to channel a mushroom, I finally stopped looking like a complete train wreck. By the time I went to college, I had "style."

Seriously.

I never thought I had my own style. I wanted to look like everyone else. I shopped at the "in" stores (especially after I got a license and a credit card). My hair was finally somewhat under my control and not always in a scrunchie. (Oh god, the scrunchies...) My basic goal in life was not to look like an award mess.

But style? That was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, for some reason, all my friends seemed to think I was the fashionable one, the one with style, and the one to come to when they had clothes questions.

I spent a lot of time blinking my first year of college when this would happen.

As I went through college, it kind of went to my head. Especially when this one well dressed girl told me she liked my style. I was totally flattered. And blinked a lot.

When I look back at photos from my college years (or late high school), I do not cringe at my hair, clothing choices, or glasses. Even when I still sported the braces, I looked okay. I do cringe at photos of me from after I got married, but not due to what I'm wearing. I usually cringe because I think my face looks fat or something else along those lines. Or why or why did I cut my hair off before we went to Del Rio? I look like a moron with short hair. I don't know why, but I think I look like a loser. And it always makes my face look fuller, so then I look fatter. (I know I am not fat. Even at the moment, I know I am not fat. If I were fat, I'd fit into my maternity jeans and I would have to take them in on the sides to avoid them a) falling down and b) having mom butt.)

That is another thing I began to contemplate while staring at this photo from 1995: will my daughter be an award mess like myself? She will be blind (I'm blind and Pilot Boy was blind till he let some doctor cut his eye up with lasers) and she will likely have some crazy hair. (When Pilot Boy has hair, it's curly and I've got a wavy/curly/straight mess on my head.) Will she likely listen to me when I try to tell her to do something because she will later want to hide her face in her hands when looking at a photo some twenty years later?

No. Just like I didn't listen to my own mother. I doubt she'll listen to me. Such is life.

So, it snowed....

It snowed.

The world ended because it snowed.

"What?????" you're asking, "The world ended?"

If you live in Oklahoma, yeah, the world had ended several times since winter began. I say the world ended, because they cease running normal programming and run constant....weather reporting. Oh, and random People driving around and telling you not to drive around. Stay home. Don't get into your car, mount a camera, and drive around aimlessly.

The first "snow storm" the state got (because if it snows anywhere in the state, it's the main news story, as there are only two TV markets in the state and we happen to live in the bigger one), the entire Sunday morning was spent watching some dude drive from Altus to OKC. (Instead of showing us the program Sunday Morning.)

Was it snowing where I was?

No.

Did it snow?

No.

This week, it was indeed snowing where I was located. But not on Sunday when they refused once again to show me Sunday Morning. And then when it was snowing here, I wasn't allowed to see any national news.

(You can watch regular programming on CBS if you either don't have cable or have Cox Cable, one one of the digital channels, but I've got a dish to watch football, so I'm trapped with no news when ever it snows here.)

It is annoying. Not EVERYONE NEEDS to see CONSTANT UPDATES FOR THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. You know that ticker thing you run at the bottom of the screen? That's FINE. You know that little graphic with the radar on it? Yeah, use that instead of showing me it's snowing on some highway where I AM NOT LOCATED, nor will I be located. (Nor will a large portion of the people watching your freaking channel.) You know what? You can interrupt to tell me something pressing, but doing the SAME FREAKING FORECAST FOR THREE HOURS IS NOT NEEDED. You see, in the THREE HOURS you are broadcasting random people driving around and some poor woman standing outside in the freezing cold, NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. It is still cold. Roads should still NOT be traveled and it is STILL snowing. I do not need to be told this for three straight hours instead of seeing whatever national news has for me in the mornings. You can tell me EVERYTHING you have been going on about for THREE HOURS in the thirty second forecasts you're given by the national channels. DID YOU KNOW THAT?

One day, when it was "supposed" to snow, they ran the "forecast" all freaking day. It hadn't even started snowing yet (anywhere really) and they were already showing people driving around the state highways and showing the radar. Seriously. It was on ALL DAY LONG.

We got less than an inch. You could still see the grass, but you weren't allowed to see regular programming.

I've lost track of the times this winter I woke up and wasn't able to see any news (I don't like news channels on cable as they make me mad). Though, what makes me REALLY mad is when they refuse to allow me to see Sunday Morning. It's on ONCE a week.

The only good thing about this last snow: it was enough to cover the grass and has hung around so Basil has snow to play in. It's been a year exactly since her last romp in the snow. She was so THRILLED to have snow to run around in. It was like the BEST DAY EVER as far as Basil was concerned.

Buying for Baby

I'm feeling greatly accomplished. Since officially entering into my third trimester (not semester, no matter how many times I say 'semester' it's not a semester), I've been in a blind panic because of one simple question posed to me by one of the preggo apps I've got.

The wall color for the nursery.
Shermin-Williams, Grey Screen

What was this question?

It was: What was the first item you bought for baby?

So, what was the first item I bought for my kid?

Paint.

Seriously. When I read the inquiry, I hadn't actually bought anything for the kid. Yeah, I had some clothes, a few pacifiers, and some other random things, but I had not bought any of those items. They'd been given to me. I personally had not bought a thing for the baby. And when I did finally buy something for the baby, it was paint for her room.

So, I began to buy stuff. I got some snappy t-shirts my mom suggested, I bought an adorable Peter pan collared shirt on sale from The Gap that won't fit her till she's six months or so, I went out and bought canvas and paint to make artwork for her room, and...I...bought...a....crib (and a mattress, as cribs don't actually come with the mattress. I had to explain this to Pilot Boy, as he couldn't figure out why the crib failed to come with the mattress).

The crib. 

In my life, I've bought very few "expensive" items. I think the most expensive thing I personally have ever bought was the eight hundred dollar area rug. I had a mini heart attack after I hit the ORDER button.
The crib I bought wasn't ANYWHERE near eight hundred bucks. No, I'm not that mental. I also didn't pay for most of it. (Gift vouchers are amazing, as are grandparents.) However, after the area rug, this crib is the second most expensive thing I've hit the ORDER button for. Granted, out of pocket, I wasn't paying much, but still.

Yet, I did not wake up for the first time this week in a blind panic about the lack of baby items for the baby. I mean, besides ordering a crib, I've also signed up for those pesky birthing classes. And I announced later this month I was ordering the car seat and stroller. (It was pointed out to me the car seat is a must need, as you can't take the baby home without one. Pilot Boy seemed to think we could just store her in the trunk with Basil. Kind of like how he didn't think we needed a crib because she could just sleep in the crate. Without Basil, as Basil would sleep on the floor. Clearly, Pilot Boy is confused. The Baby is not a dog. You cannot put the Baby in the crate. Will she crawl in there someday and try to sleep in there? Likely. Will Basil like this? No. Will it happen? Yeah.)

Dream light

Next month, I plan to order the furniture for the room. I'm getting a dresser and a nightstand.

Pilot Boy said I don't need a nightstand. Clearly, he wants to be woken up fully when I feed the baby in the middle of the night when I turn on the overhead lights in order to see what I am doing instead of turning on an adorable little table lamp. Also, he's never read anything about pregnancy or afterwards, as he ought to know that breastfeeding requires things. I've seen it in books. You need a 'breastfeeding' station. Thus, a nightstand.

(Also, I know if I do not order the nightstand now, the kid will never get one. Just like I don't actually have one. Nor does the guest bedroom. We don't actually have any side tables either. We use stools. Yeah. We've been married for six years and have no side tables or bedside tables and use stools. Okay, we've got one table that Pilot Boy claims is a bedside table, but until this house we never used it as a bedside table. It also doesn't have a drawer, it's just a higher than normal side table which is huge. It's tall because the bed Pilot Boy had in college was lofted and it's huge because, well, I don't know why it's so big. He did build it for me as after I showed up in his life he realized I had no where to put my glasses at night and I think he got tired of me trying to find them in the morning.)

I plan to get new knobs.
I hate those knobs, but it has everything else I want. 

Now, I plan to use the dresser as a changing table. Kill two birds with one stone, you know? So, I also ordered a changing pad thing to mount on top of the dresser. The only other major item needed for the nursery: a glider.

The ones I've found that I like are either way too pricey or now sold out. Everything else is ugly as sin and I don't want it in the room. Will I actually get a glider before the baby shows up? I not likely. So, where will I sit at three am to feed a squalling newborn?

No idea. I'll likely wind up on the couch.

Baby Earthquakes

The first time I was kicked from within, I was lying on my back (when it was still safe to) and had my hand just resting down near where many moons ago my appendix was ripped out of me...ever so lovingly. (And for 7,000!) I was trying to convince myself I ought to get out of bed when I felt a sharp thump against my hand.

I froze.

Had she just kicked me?

I waited a moment for it to happen again, but I didn't feel anything. But, I knew it was a kick. My baby had kicked me for the first time.

Later that day, I put my hand back down in the area and waited for her to do a repeat performance. It took hours, but I finally felt little jabs of her tiny foot. (Or fist, but I think it was a foot.)

Pilot Boy couldn't feel anything. He thought I was making up.

As the weeks went on, the movements got stronger and more pronounced. There were also clear kicks, head-butts, and just random movements (like rolls or something). Basically, I spent a lot of time with my hand down my pants just to feel my kid move around.

Finally, shortly before the winter holidays, Pilot Boy felt his daughter move. It was a bit movement. It felt like an earthquake going on in my uterus and I said, "You've had to have felt that one."

"Yep."

And that is when the kicks stopped and the earthquakes really began. Seriously. Sometimes they are concentrated earthquakes-- like in the area where my former appendix lived till it decided it hated me and moved out. It moved on to green pastures seven years ago, yet when my daughter decides to beat up on it, it hurts. Her other favorite thing to do is stomp on my bladder. Or one night, she decided to do headstands or something on my poor bladder. I spent the entire night thinking I had to pee, but I really didn't. I just had a baby on my bladder.

Rumblings tend to happen at night, like when I'm trying to go to bed. Since I hit week 25, the little quakes have been happening more often. I'll be sitting around during the day and suddenly the book, laptop, phone, Kindle will just go tumbling over from where I had it perched because my kid decided she didn't like it there. Or my arm jerks.

"What the hell was that for?" Pilot Boy asked when I accidentally elbowed him this weekend in the side whilst we sat on the couch reading.

"Your daughter wishes you to know my pain," was my reply.

He didn't buy it.

Sometimes all this movement (which is a good thing, as she's old enough now she ought to be moving and shaking and channeling a soccer player) is fine with me, while other times I just wish she'd kick me in the stomach. Or the spleen. Or somewhere other than my bladder or my former appendix. I've no clue what it is about the scar tissue hanging out there, but man...each time she hits that spot it feels almost as bad as when I made the mistake of going bowling two weeks after I had it removed. Or when I went bowling three months after it left me for some jar. (Or whatever they do with infected appendixes.) Or when I went bowling almost two years after it was cut out of me.

I shouldn't go bowling. I tend to hurt myself in the area where the appendix used to live.

I also shouldn't be pregnant as my kid loves to kick me there and it's freaking annoying. It's either a sharp paint or a dull pain, depending on how much oomph she puts into her movement.

I've yet to see anything, like a foot or hand poking out. I've yet to see anything really as when I'm paying attention and staring at my bare belly, she decides to do all her moving towards my spin or something. I do know it moves, though, the belly. My shirts sometimes ripple during earthquakes.

She is kicking me down. Just little jabs right behind my belly button.

I like it best when I do catch her out and get to feel her little foot as it rams itself into my innards. There is just something completely mind blowing about the whole thing--you know feeling it inside and on your hand and knowing it's a little foot and some day there will be a little human outside who will kick you in the face with the same foot. (And not on purpose. It'll just likely happen. Most likely whilst changing a nappy.)

I Heart Water

We went away for two weeks.

Now, since we've owned this house, we've not left it alone for more than hours at a time. I did not honestly think we had to sit around looking after the house, as it's a house. We've lived in a house before and left it for extended periods. It was always perfectly fine when we returned home.

Of course, this one wasn't okay.

Yeah, it looked fine. Everything was where we'd left it and from the outside it appeared to be perfectly normal.

It felt good to be back, out of the car, and not going anywhere anytime soon. The whole upheaval of the holidays was over. Brilliant!

I went to get the dog some water, as she hadn't had any in quite awhile.

I turned the tap and nothing happened.

"Did you turn the water off?" I called out to Pilot Boy.
"No. Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. It doesn't work," I replied, moving the tap up and down some more.

Nothing happened.

Seriously. Nothing.

It is winter. Since it got "cold" we've seen signs telling people to leave their taps dripping, which to us former residents of Alaska sounded idiotic. It doesn't get that cold here.

And it DID NOT get THAT cold here while we were gone. Sure, they had some winter weather, but it wasn't THAT cold. And our house is NEW(ish).

Pilot Boy didn't think the pipes were frozen (it was 60 degrees), so he called the water company. I  payed the bill (and the new bill I had in my hand claimed I did as well). But, he called them and asked if they'd turned it off.

Nope. Our pipes must be frozen.

It was sixty freaking degrees out. And the day before it'd been forty. Why are our pipes frozen?

Pilot Boy went about calling plumbers and "thawing" the pipes.

Nothing happened. At least unlike the a/c guys, the plumbers all ANSWERED their phones. They couldn't show up that day but they ANSWERED.

Pilot Boy at some point talked to this guy he knows down the street who'd been around and he told him it'd been warm throughout the entire time we'd been gone. (Except the day we left, of course.) Basically, our pipes shouldn't have been frozen.

(I lived in Alaska for three years. It actually GETS cold there. Our pipes never froze. And we left in the dead of winter quite a few times during those three years and never came home to frozen pipes.)

Let me tell you something: it sucks not having water. You do not realize how much you use water until you don't have any. Yeah, our toilets flushed and you could get two flushes out of them before they needed to be reloaded and yeah, we went out and bought drinking water, but you can't do dishes, you have to carry around water to wash your hands, and you cannot bathe. (Well, we could if we went to the gym or the neighbor's house, but still. I'm pregnant. I don't want to shower in a stranger's home or a gym.)

Luckily, the plumber showed up the next afternoon. He was confused when he was told we have frozen pipes and no water pressure.

"It's been warm," he informed me.
"I know," I said.

He went to investigate at the water thingy in the front yard and discovered it was turned off.

"Did you call the city?"
"Yes. They said they didn't turn our water off."
"Someone turned your water off."

I could only shrug.

He turned the water on, then turned it off.

During his quest to find the water thingy (you know, the thing that turns water to the house on and off), Pilot Boy had done something to cause the sprinkler system thing (I've no idea what it is but it's for the sprinkler system) to spout water off straight into the air next to the house. The plumber had no clue how to fix it, as he'd never seen anything like it before. He suggested in the spring we call the company that installed it and have them look at it. Or they (the plumbing company he worked for) could look at it. He did shut it off, cutting off the water supply to the sprinkler system.

Then he turned our water back on and oh, how it was lovely to have water again. (After I spent an hour running water through the pipes and getting all the stale water out or whatever my dad said I ought to do. I had no clue, but it made sense at the time.)

Moral of the story?

Someone turned our water off. Our pipes were not frozen, our water was off. Thanks city. You're really on top of things.

This Is Mostly About Clothes

So, I'm pregnant. You know, knocked up, preggers, with child, blooming, glowing, kind of round...that thing women of a certain age tend to do.

I don't know why anyone gets pregnant.

Okay, I do know why people do. They want the baby you get at the end. At least that is why I got pregnant. I've heard some people ENJOY being pregnant.

I hate being pregnant. It's like having a never ending period, only no bleeding. You get the cramps, the headaches, the upset tummy, and on top of all that you loose your waist. And there is this tiny being inside who decides it'd be a great idea to do headstands on your bladder all night long. (I swear to god that was what she was doing last night as I had to pee all night long.)

I spent the past six months feeling completely rotten, throwing up, and not looking pregnant.

Yeah, that sucked.

I only began to look pregnant about two weeks ago. And I'm six months pregnant. I didn't even really start gaining wait till about three weeks ago. Yeah, you think I'm lucky. I might not have been gaining weight, but I was loosing my hips and waist. One doesn't realize how vital hips and waists are for holding up pants until you don't have them. I couldn't wear my maternity bottoms because it was all too big (I had no bump), nor could I wear my old stuff because it didn't stay up. Yeah, I could button my jeans, I could wear my skirts without an extender (till about last week), but they didn't stay up. Just like all the new maternity pants I'd gotten.

I still only have ONE pair of maternity jeans that kind of fit. They are still uncomfortable. I do, though, like the whole pull up concept going on with maternity jeans, but I do not like the whole...panel up over my stomach thing as I am always hot and it itches. I don't know why it itches, but it does. And it never stays up. It is dumb. I've got pairs that are "under belly" and I like those, only two pairs are way too big and don't even stay up, while the other one claimed to have a 32 inch inseam, but they don't. I took them down, but they still are too short. And I'm not tall.

It's been hit or miss with shirts. The maternity tops I got from The Gap...they are all made for third trimester bellies. Or something. They are HUGE in the belly area. They still look baggy on me. The tops I've picked up from Ross...not sure other than the ruching on the sides how they are maternity tops. But hey, they're only five bucks. I've gotten tops from lots of places and they all claim to be wearable through all stages, yet quite a few of them I can't really wear yet because my belly isn't large enough and I look like I'm swimming in the top...on the bottom. While I don't think my boobs are huge, they are (hence why I can't really wear my pre-pregnancy tops. My stupid boobs don't fit).

The most success I've had with anything maternity is in dresses. They fit me like dresses from before I got knocked up. And I've gotten them from ASOS. The best tops I got were from there as well.

So, besides being unable to clothe myself, the never ending nausea, the random throwing up, having no energy, loosing my waist and hips, and having a tiny being inside of me who likes to kick and do headstands on my bladder-- it's been great.