Friday, June 9, 2017

How 'Bout Some Positivity?

I've been a bit of an Eeyore lately, which isn't to say that's a bad thing, just a fact. So I'd like to make a little Pooh Bear post in honor of my rumbly-tumbly.

Ander's second birthday is coming up at the end of this month (June 25th) and as such basically ALL of my Facebook memory posts are of my not diminutive baby bump from, obviously, two years ago. I cringe a little at my face for how apparently miserable I am and I wish that I would have enjoyed it more.
(To be fair, what exactly was there to enjoy at that point?? #canklesfordayz)
What I do NOT cringe at is the immense size of my belly. I mean, it's fairly obvious to the naked eye that I'm stretched tighter than the membrane over a conga drum, I was lucky to still be breathing on my own.


Looking at this picture, I am so incredibly grateful for modern medicine. At the time I posted this side-by-side, the vast majority of the comments were on how "low" baby was, that he'd be coming out before I knew it! To be sure, it definitely appears that way.
My doctor had a differing opinion as to baby's progression. Lol.
After this photo I had another two weeks to go before they would tell me that Ander was hanging high and dry, happy as a clam to stay put. No dilation. No effacing. He liked his coccoon and there was nothing to be done about it--except forcible removal of course.
Which we did, and it was a-okay, and you can read more about that here :)

My point however, and there is one, is that I've since formed the opinion that were I to have been born before hospitals and competent surgeons, my story would have ended as one of those women who dies in childbirth.
I have no way of knowing for sure, and I'd rather not find out, of course, but it follows common sense to assume that a 10+ pound baby, in breach position, with no dilation whatsoever would have easily resulted in mine and my baby's death.
All of this to say, modern medicine is great. I'm glad we went the way we did, and I wouldn't change a thing.

My second silver-lining-realization came from the reminder of this lovely capture of a wild pregnant Bigfoot tromping through the Arizona forests...



(this particular photo was meant to be a likening
of my belly to a great watermelon)

I just can't stop staring at that belly.
Our bodies are so incredible!
And not only that, but seeing these photos again has given me instant grace and mercy towards my current mom-bod. Like, DUH I have this weird pouch and a saggy belly button, have you SEEN what my tummy had to do??
It is inconceivable to imagine that rotund belly just snapping back into place like a rubber band. I'm surprised I'm not in worse shape!

That's about all I had to say on the matter. I didn't have accurate or eloquent enough hashtags to make it a simple Facebook share, haha. Maybe it's weird that I'm bringing this up again for seemingly no reason, but people keep asking me what I'm going to do for Ander's birthday and I'm THIS close to just throwing myself a party.

He won't know the difference anyway.




Thursday, June 1, 2017

I Should Probably Just Get a Therapist

I had an inkling that there would be waterworks before I even got in the car. I literally stared at a package of kleenex and thought, "I should be bringing that to keep in my dress pocket," but I shrugged it off.
The Spirit must be so fed up with me.
But ever since miscarrying, I've found myself stubbornly numb to what "the Spirit" wants. Or God. Or Jesus. Or whomever you prefer. I can rationally recognize that I've, as the saying goes, hardened my heart, but I didn't feel much in regards to that fact other than recognition.
"Interesting. My heart is very hard. Well, I suppose that's to be expected."
I expected shame. I expected penitence. I didn't expect indifference. I didn't expect complete and clear and apathetic coherence.
I knew I was angry.
I knew I was being indifferent to spite God.
If He was indifferent to my pain, two could play at that game. It was a war with myself, and I knew it, but I so desperately wanted to fight that I didn't care.

Now obviously, as a relatively active participant in the LDS church, I am aware that God is not likely to be "indifferent" to my suffering. Jesus literally bled for me, so I think he's probably a bit more invested than I give/was giving him credit for.
But who has the time to let these things go when you're feeling so blindingly hurt and betrayed?

I don't like to publicly cry. Some of my most humiliating moments in life are hinged upon crying in front of people. In fact, it's probably more accurate to just say I don't cry in front of people.
Scratch that.
I'll cry--if it's a reaction to a dead dog in a movie. Or a particularly affecting piece of music. Socially acceptable and permissible moments to have eyes welled with tears, or a poetic single tear running down my cheek.
So when I left those kleenex sitting on the kitchen counter, I was telling myself I could just keep it in like I usually, always, do. Save it for my closet, for my car, for the dark under my bed.

Then we walked in, Mark squeezed my hand, we separated ways and I sat at the end of the row. The lights dimmed, the creation played before my eyes, and I'm still trying to process what I felt.
Who I felt.

Back in EFY, Youth church camps, Sunday meetings, I would squeeze out some tears during the testimony meetings because everyone else was doing it and they seemed to enjoy the attention. I experienced that "warm and fuzzy" everyone swore the Spirit manifested as. I knew what they were talking about and I believed that was it.
It's been awhile.
So when I was watching the temple video in that hazy dim, I distinctly felt a moment sharpen. It wasn't a hug, it wasn't a smiling down upon me, it wasn't even peace. It was more like an authoritative figure stepping up next to me and placing their hand on my shoulder.
Solidarity.
Presence, as in to be present.

It didn't wash everything away. I still had ugly and ripping thoughts flash through my mind. I watched as Eve received her name, as I renewed covenants to multiply and replenish the earth, and my mind cried, "this is the whole point! This is why I'm supposed to be here! This is all I've ever wanted to be, to do, to become."
After getting married I always thought I was being cautious by bringing my "desired" number of kids down from six to four.
What if all I get is one?
What if all I get is one and I can't even just be grateful for that?
That's not even to get into my self-surprising reservations about adopting.

The whole while I wrestled inwardly, the presence didn't change. It didn't overwhelm me with love or peace or sympathy. But it never retreated.
I suppose it felt something like a guard at my side. I knew it wasn't going anywhere, and I felt validated for it. Not comforted, not fixed, not released from my agony, but perhaps protected.

They were different tears. My core shook, my vision fractured and melted and swam, but every blink sent the floods out, following in streams. It didn't take my breath away, and I was able to quietly leak out the pressure like a sponge pooling under the force of it's own weight.
That is, until I saw my husband waiting for me across the room and I quickly made my way over to the chair next to him.
And blessedly, there was a neat and tidy box of tissues directly along my path.

I didn't bother leaving my glasses on, whipping them into my lap and just pressing the fragile paper to the drowning edge of my eyes. I could hardly breathe. I definitely couldn't see, so I just stopped trying. I wasn't even thinking. I can't pinpoint the reason I was so affected. There wasn't a solid, definable reason. I was vaguely aware of the majority of the group we had come with filing out, but Mark, having a tight grip of my hand, never so much as twitched so we just stayed put.
My Guard had followed me in, like a shadow, but had ballooned into this vast aura that blew out the walls and expanded within me.
I began crying again at the thought of having to leave.
I wanted to always feel as safe, as protected, as brave as I did then.

I would have stayed all day long....if I didn't desperately need some breakfast.

I felt fairly stable and like I had come up to breathe from the depths of whatever it was I had been avoiding for so long.
But as I folded and carefully placed my temple clothes in my bag, one of the dearest women in my life saw me as she was leaving and came to let me know how glad she was that Mark and I had been able to come.
She drew me into a long and weighted hug, and I felt that same strong, protecting presence, as I could barely whisper, "thank you," through the tightness in my throat.

It's hard for me to need people.
It's hard for me to show the raw bits.
It's hard to shut out the paranoia.

"No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than these broken parts,
Pretend I'm something other than this mess that I am.
'Cause then I don't have to look at it
And no one gets to look at it
No, no one can really see.

Cause what if everyone saw?
What if everyone knew?
Would they like what they saw?
Or would they hate it, too?"*

I know that I'm not alone. I may not feel it, but I know it.
I know that there are so many people that care and are there and will continue to be there.
It's hard to remember, but I do know it.

If you've hugged me, if you've asked how I'm doing, if you've liked my posts or tagged me or texted me, just know it means more than you realize. Thank you, and really thank you.

*Dear Evan Hansen excerpt

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Baby Douchecanoe Summer Photoshoot

Guys, all I mean by that title is that this outfit makes my kid look like the kind of guy that's named Sammy, likes to skateboard on the boardwalk, says "dude" unnecessarily as well as unironically, and might not be the most respectful boyfriend you've ever had.
It's cute though because at least in this instance I have a chance to raise him to be the best boyfriend you've ever had. And just ask Haley, Ander's a great boyfriend already. He's not afraid to absolutely scream goodbye to you in a public place, he's all about that innocent PDA, and he likes it best when you're having fun.

Shoes are from Walmart, Tank and Booty Shorts courtesy of ye olde Goodwill.









I was honestly stunned to open up my blog dashboard and see that the last time I even opened blogger was back in January. It's been three solid months since I even thought about blogging. While the majority of that hiatus can be attributed to our moving, [still ongoing] renovating of three separate housing "units", and just being busy in general, the last almost month I've really struggled with how to talk about and deal with a very unexpected personal tragedy.
I literally just sat here for a good minute debating whether it constitutes using the word "tragedy" or if it will come across as facetious to give the event that much credit. And that's been my inner battle. Treating it seriously enough to deal with the emotions, but rationally accepting that it's not the worst thing that could have happened.
To avoid beating around the bush any longer, we'll just get straight into it.
Around the first week of March I took a pregnancy test and finally got the positive result I'd been coveting since late Summer of last year. It was a cheap test from Walmart so Mark was hesitant to believe it. So I bought digital ones, and they concurred with the first positive. We were pregnant! Finally!
I was barely 5 weeks along but keeping secrets is not my strong suit and I had always said that, "if anything were to happen I'd rather people knew so that I could have a support system," because that's what you say even when you don't believe that that supposed "anything" will ever actually happen to you.
So we told family, I bought Ander a couple of "Big Brother" outfits to wear to choir, our close friends knew, everything was great.
Right before bed about a week after our announcing, I got a little blood when I wiped after going to the bathroom. My heart skipped a beat, but I knew spotting was a thing, so I just slipped in a small tampon and went to sleep.
I woke up in the wee, dark hours of the morning significantly aware that I had bled through the tampon, through the period underwear I had put on "just in case", and through all of my pajamas.

Having read a lot now I know that my behavior following this instance was probably the first phase of grief: Denial. I talked myself down from the ledge of panic constantly until my OB's office opened so I could call and ask. Even after I heard back from the on-call nurse (as I had just left a message about the bleeding) and she flat out said, "well it does sound like you are having a miscarriage," I still told myself I would go in, get the vaginal ultrasound, and I would be one of those rare cases where the yolk sac is still nestled snugly in my uterus and all would be fine, my baby would continue to carry, and I'd have my Thanksgiving Baby.
All was not fine, my uterus was glaringly empty, in a most hurtful betrayal of my trust, and I left the office only to drive to a gas station and sob as I filled my car and avoided looking in the eyes of the strangers who blatantly stared at the crazy crying lady.

I think I managed to remain fairly dignified and rational as I rescinded our announcement to those that knew. And I was glad that I at least had people I could tell without having to start the conversation as, "so I was pregnant."
But again, having read through many an article, that was during my Numb period. I had cried, mostly in private, for a few days and now I was able to remind myself that there hadn't even been a heartbeat, I'd barely been pregnant or even known for hardly a week, and that it wasn't a big deal. And I truly believed it at the time. I think.
But then time kept moving, and the buzzing black cloud surrounding my head hummed with the constant reminder, "I should be pregnant right now." Yesterday my calendar chimed in that it was supposed to be my 8 week ultrasound appointment and here I was still putting in tampons and waiting to feel just normal again.
I think the most difficult aspect is being unable to bring myself to let other people know about all this without feeling guilty that I seem unable to simply "get over it" like I think I should, or like I think other people think I should. There's this automatic assumption that people will roll their eyes and judge me for being so affected and sad that I lost an embryo. I want to be perceived as strong, and sensible, and right now I feel so far from strong or sensible.
I feel weak, I feel emotional, I feel foolish.
I feel isolated, lonely, and vulnerable.

I don't know what phase of grief I'm in now, which makes it difficult to know what would be the best course of action. But I woke up this morning, got my kid dressed in a funky, cute outfit and took him outside with the dog to take some fun pictures. And that made me feel great.
Even in the midst of all my confusion and general despair, I can name one shining silver lining from this trial which is that it has brought me so much closer to my dear, sweet son. I appreciate him so much more, I am usually more patient with him, and I take more time out of my day to just sit and spend time with him. His spunk and humor and his squishy, happy face heals me.
So I'm sure someday that will translate to gratitude. I look forward to that day.







Wednesday, January 4, 2017

The heck are the Douglass' even doing right now?

Are you as lost on what is even going on in our lives as we are? Not to fret, I will now quickly and concisely lay it all out for you in a beautifully organized and prompt manner.
I'm also a huge liar.

No, but seriously. There may have been leaks and drips, but we haven't really taken a moment out to "announce" our current life decision the way you would normally expect a life decision such as this to go. Mostly because it's such a long-run based endeavor that it's kinda hard to figure out when exactly that "announcement" phase has arrived.
After we moved out of Rialto, our first obscenely large home, Mark began concocting a plan to increase, er, *ahem* create a stream of passive income. The idea is to, loan contracts permitting, accumulate rental properties and be landlord moguls. As best as I can understand it, that is.
It basically means we'll be moving once a year (ish) for the foreseeable future.

We hit our year mark in our current house around November, and we're hoping to move into our new place come the end of January.
But first we've had to put in some work to spruce the place up a bit. Without getting into great detail (of which there is plenty), we'll just say some renovations needed to be re-renovated due to questionable quality of work, as well as ridding the smell of cigarette smoke.
Thus far we have...

  • Removed commercial carpet tiling [much wailing and gnashing of teeth]
  • Removed kitchen cabinetry
  • Pulled up kitchen tile
  • Trashed pony wall
  • Knocked down kitchen soffits and superfluous walls
  • Carted the toilets (ew) and bathroom vanities/sinks outside
  • Purchased new kitchen cabinetry second-hand (and subsequently moved the entire set like, a billion times) (literally)
  • Sponge-mopped every wall with a vinegar solution
  • Scrapped the vertical blinds, ceiling fans, and baseboards
  • Rerouted kitchen wiring and plumbing
Honorable Mentions: Mark found a perfectly laid out rat skeleton in the attic and tried to preserve it to show me, but it crumbled into a pile of bones when he moved it. Alas.
And I shaved 20 years off my vitality by pruning the jungled forest of California Palms in our front yard. There's technically three of them with trunks wider than my waist (which is notably girthy) but they've gone so long undeterred that there are two mini offshoots that are practically their own shrubs now. 
Pro-tip: trim them while they're green. All the fronds at the bottom of the trunks that had died out since they were shaded so thoroughly by their sibling fronds (frondlings?) were basically like sawing through concrete. And we don't have a chainsaw, nor would I use one if we did, so I was left with my own sheer muscle power. Which isn't saying much. And it was nighttime. And snowing! Uphill both ways! Nope, too far.

We are, however, hiring out quite a bit for this project. We did our own painting in Rialto and I swore it would never again be a thing I told myself I could do. Mark was still complaining of patchy spots when we moved out of that place. #peskymemories
Turns out, efficiently and confidently managing a contractor schedule is sup totes tricksy. Still...
  • Repair garage roof
  • Remove popcorn ceiling
  • Retexture and install drywall
  • TILE ALL THE FLOOR[s]
  • PAINT ALL THE WALL[s]
  • Carpet
And then we can move in!
At some point in there we will be installing the cabinetry in the kitchen, but we're doing that ourselves. And a great many other things that we're doing ourselves. 

The drywall guys come in the next day or two, tile is scheduled for next week, I'm thoroughly panicking about all these invoices and receipts that are piling up, so really, everything's going exactly as planned.
This endeavor would be completely impossible and nonexistent without Mark. I am continuously in awe of how much knowledge he has in such a vast array of subjects, and I'm so grateful he can impart such wisdom onto our own children. I only hope they soak it up better than I do. I'm lucky enough to recall the difference between a reciprocating saw and a jigsaw, let alone operate one and skillfully build a base for a railing. Cuz that's a thing Mark can do. 
Not to mention the leaps and bounds in our growth as partners as we learn and struggle together. I mean, who needs marriage counseling and therapy workshops, just gut and rebuild a house with each other. Team-building exercise on steroids.
But also like, therapy is irreplaceable. Don't take me or these blogs seriously. 100% do not recommend. 

So basically that's where we are right now. I've been struggling with the line between including people in our lives and not making a big deal about it since it's kind of an unconventional situation. It's not your typical facebook announcement from the newlywed couple that are finally getting out of their one bedroom apartment and into their first house. Like, I don't need to make an instagram post of us holding the keys by the front door, but also maybe I should tell people what we're doing? So this here's my compromise. 
We did/are doing a thing, it's a cool thing, and I'll share pictures when we're done. TBD.

Friday, December 2, 2016

Daily Debacle

Scenario 1:

     I bought Ander some new, fuzzy, long onesie pajamas because all we've got for him right now is thin cotton and his room gets mighty chilly by sunrise. I was in a rush since I was making the quickest Wal-Mart pit stop between Fiddler rehearsals and choir rehearsals (which I was still late to anyway, doh!) and I just scanned the racks for the sizes on the hangers.
Whaddya know, the 18-month pajamas I grabbed were actually 6-9 month. But not even the biggest crisis, considering the other pair I got him that were indeed 18 month could barely squeeze on him anyway. If he hadn't peed through his diaper that night I would've been exchanging both pair.
But today, when I went to go exchange them, I noticed that he price tag on the 6-9 month pair had already been torn off and were stuffed in the bottom of one of the footies.
I thought,
"Hm, interesting, I didn't even notice last night."
At the customer service counter, she scanned the tag, scanned my receipt and then her eyebrows furrowed and she said,
"I don't see these on this receipt."

[blink, blink]

My best guess is that the cashier last night at the other Wal-Mart out in phoenix just had zero bothers to give about finding the tag or figuring out the price and, kind-heartedly, let me just walk out of the store with them for free?? I fully believed I had paid for them, fair and square, yet here I was looking like some cheater trying to scam my way into some free NINE DOLLAR BABY PAJAMAS.
I guess I don't pass off a "scammer" vibe because she just treated it like a "non-receipt" and let me pay the difference for the new 24 month pajamas and I dunno, I guess I'm going to baby pajama hell.


Scenario 2:

     I'm fighting tears because after I deposited a crap ton of checks into our checking account (holla), had my bout with scenario 1 at our local Wal-Mart, darted over to Ross to sponsor Mark's birthday gift to me, and then ended up at Fry's I bought over $200 worth of gift cards for amazon plus a bunch of people's Christmas gifts.

And now I'm home and I don't know where they are.

Somewhere in the midst of paying, making sure my kid didn't climb out of the cart, and trying to stuff the long fluttering tail of gift card receipts into my wallet I cannot for the life of me remember if they got put into a bag or whether I left them at the register, in the cart, or perhaps Ander ate them.
In any case, I had one Ross bag, and four Wal-Mart bags in my car after I got home and put Ander down for an obscenely belated nap, but not a single Fry's bag of gift cards.
I called the store immediately and went through about 5 loops of being put on hold (when will somebody tell every store that music never transfers over the line well and it honestly would be better to just wait in silence?) and here's how THAT went--

They went to check with my cashier, because for some reason unbeknownst to me, my receipt didn't actually have my register number on it.

They brought back my cashier.

He looked in the bags and checked with the bagger.

She remembers putting them into a bag and placing them "next to [my] child".

He checked the store security footage and I did indeed leave the store with them in my cart.

He went out to the parking lot to check the carts.

They were nowhere to be found.

They then told me there was nothing else they could do and gave me the number for the Kroger Credit department and so far all I've gotten was "we currently have a high volume of calls. Please email."
So scratch that, no longer fighting tears. Full on meltdown sobbing attack. Can you handle how real we're getting on this blog lately? We don't call it a "lifestyle" blog for nuthin'.
Lifestyle level CHERNOBYL. Also #dramatic


Scenario 3:

     An amazon package got stolen off our front porch and I haven't even called yet about that. Cuz I'm still calling about the MISSING TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS IN GIFT CARDS.
My husband is being unbelievably sweet about the whole thing, "it's not the end of the world," and I think I wouldn't be so torn up about it if I hadn't just spent the last couple months in a near-constant state of panic trying to earn that money in the first place.
Hi, yes, hello I need therapy.



Scenario 4:

     We're supposed to close on our new "house" (single home turned duplex) today and find time to sign for it. That's not necessarily a debacle, I just CAN'T EVEN DEAL WITH HOW MUCH IS GOING DOWN.


Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Nine to Noon

Things that came up at my physician's appointment this morning;
1) "Your cholesterol is high, have you heard that before?" Mm, nope. But also this is my first regular primary care physician experience in my entire adult memory. Like. It's been awhile. So, literally the only people who get updated on my cholesterol are the Vampires (United Blood Services) and I'm assuming they don't care how fat and unhealthy I am, as long as I let them bleed me dry.
Disclaimer: I am completely joking. I love donating blood and try to do it fairly regularly. Having a baby screwed that up pretty hardcore, but it's all good. Me and the Vamps are tight.
My doctor also made it clear that this cholesterol is not affected by my diet, seeing as I am in a healthy weight range for my body type, and my blood pressure and pulse are A-okay. She asked what I knew of my family history and I reminded her that I'm adopted so I wouldn't know. That basically confirmed for her that I've got a genetic issue, so I'm on a daily cholesterol pill now?
That was unexpected, to say the least.

2) "We'll get your steroid knee injection done today, carpe diem." Oh, cool, no biggie, I totally planned on getting stabbed in the knee with my 18-month old whirlwind on the loose in this cramped doctors office full of buttons, doo-dads, and hazardous material trash cans.
And yet it went great.
Granted, she gave Ander a total of three dum-dums and he literally chomped each one with his teeth. Because he has no chill.
Speaking of which, I was wearing white capris and they were using that orangey-yellow sanitizing stuff so they had me use the crepe paper covers like they give you at the gynecologist and Ander really had a hayday tearing it to absolute shreds. He knows how much I love showing off my tighty-whitey g's.

2a) "Wow, you've really got some arthritis there, how is that possible for a 25 year old??" In the middle of stabbing my actual knee bones after having "numbed" me with what I can only assume was canned nitrogen.
5 minutes earlier:
"How much pain can I expect?"
"None."
By which she meant "maybe bite down on something."

3) "How about we do a flu shot as well." Yes. More stabbing. This Wednesday needs more stabbing. After the knee injection though it was less than a pinch.
Ander kept pointing at the needle and signing that he wanted it. Blessed child.

4) "Did he just say 'thank you'?!" I mean, probably? Maybe? There's one specific saying that means like a billion things depending on which context he uses it in. It sounds like 'thank you', or 'let's go', or 'cool', or blanket which is technically 'ket ket'.
So Ander's definitely trying to talk, but even I have difficulty piecing together what he's trying to say most of the time. Our dog's name is Mor'du and it took my Mother-in-Law pointing out that he was saying "doo" everytime he heard barking and here I was thinking he was just baby-talking "dog".
I'm too dumb for this motherhood business.
But anyway, I let the doctor believe that my 18-month old said "thank you" in response to being handed a lollipop. Because I'm not dumb enough to refute that my kid is polite and adorable.
I'll take it where I can get it.

5) "Eliminate stress, have fun in the trying." We've been trying to get pregnant basically since June of this year, and I want to start this by saying I understand completely that that is well within the norms of the average couples conception period. I am well below the experience of women who suffer from syndromes and infertility and being so out of control of their own bodies. If I could just put across how aware I am that I have no right to complain.
It doesn't suck any less despite that knowledge. Mostly I feel like I'm not allowed to be disappointed every time I'm convinced I'm feeling morning sickness, or feel that lightning quickening in my breasts, or find myself four days late for my period, or any other myriad of "obvious" symptoms and then end up with another pile of negative tests each month.
It's disappointing. And discouraging. And incredibly emotional and it hurts each month it doesn't happen because Ander is one month older, because the waiting starts over again, because I want it so badly. So badly.
But my hormones look fine, she told me to just religiously take my prenatal vitamin, and to, as previously mentioned, reduce stress....and just basically NOT do what I have been doing? Obsessing, charting, planning and scheduling.
I don't know how I'm supposed to forget that we're trying to get pregnant, it doesn't feel possible. Lately, my "happy place" has been imagining being pregnant, having another tiny one in the house, being better than I was with Ander because I'm more experienced now and can draw off our experience with him to convince myself to try longer, do more more often, ask for more help, create more of a safe, clean space. When I can't fall asleep, or things are going wrong, or I have a bad day, I let myself imagine that joy of creating another life and it's been getting me through.
Obviously I need to replace that with something else. Currently taking suggestions.

I wasn't expecting to go that deep, but all the jokes and light-hearted lines I typed came out flat or slightly more than vaguely bitter, which is not how I want to come across.
I'm still hopeful, I am rationally aware of how lucky and blessed I am, it could very well be next month that I make an announcement and I'll feel a real dunce for even sending this out into the open.

Monday, June 27, 2016

Ander's Twelfth Month

If I were an educated, classy person, I would try to make some sort of reference to Twelfth Night. Merely for puns sake. But I am neither educated, nor classy, and I literally only thought of it because of the word "Twelfth". Which isn't even clever.
I digress.




Ander is one year old. I have a one year old. Living in my home. That I birthed--one year ago. I feel like the newborn stage just draaaaagged on and on, but once January and the new year hit, all of a sudden it's June, the year is half over, and my kid can climb up on the table and get into the candy bowl and start munching on foil wrapped chocolate mints (which he will, naturally, throw up later on the carpet that I'm vacuuming).





My kid does lots of things. And usually definitely not on command.
He waves hi and bye, and he blows kisses, and he asks for "More Please" in his adorable baby sign language, as well as "All Done" and "Hungry". He likes to bring books over and sit in our laps just to turn the pages. He wants nothing to do with the actual words or stories. He gives excellent high fives and is pretty much doing kisses now, too.
He loves to point at things so Mom or Dad will name them.
It started with a multi-colored polka dot blanket I had laying on his bedroom floor and while we were playing on it he started resting his pointer finger on the dots and I just happened to start naming off the colors. He'd switch to another and I'd name that color. And then he started repeatedly jabbing his finger on the same color, so I'd say the color with increasing intensity until I was shouting it and he'd laugh, and laugh.




He loves to be involved, and I mean directly involved, with whatever anyone is doing. After our thrilling lunch date with Daddy at his work, I took him to get the blood draw our doctor asked for at his 9 month appointment. Oops. That whole ordeal, getting to the lab, is a story in and of itself, perhaps I'll get to it another time.
The nurse gave me some little instructions as to how to hold Ander down for when he got stuck with the needle because surely there would be some comeuppance. Of course he would balk and scream and cry, right?
I cannot stress how unphased Ander was as the nurse stuck the needle into his vein. He watched calmly. He sat completely still, only bending his hand back trying to grab for the tiny tube curving down his arm. Not a single peep. I hadn't expected a full-scale tantrum or anything, for how well he does with vaccinations, but I figured it would hurt a little and he'd whine. I was so grateful for my strong, brave Bubba (and also that much more sure he's a Hulk baby), and the nurse was in absolute awe. "This never happens," he kept saying.





He's wearing shoes now.
Which is such a blessing of good timing since it backed up right to the usual time of year Mark's family plans the yearly Apache Lake trip. Eases this poor momma's heart that I wouldn't be trying to contain a very mobile and stubborn and headstrong (and just plain strong) kiddo that isn't wearing shoes in the harsh desert. Not that he even cares, he goes willy-nilly over rock and dirt and weeds like he's actually a Tank, as I like to call him. But at least with shoes on I'm not thinking about all the stickers and broken glass.



Oh, he's also a fish. Merman. Nbd.
We took him swimming at Grandpa Tom and Mary's and we could not keep him from diving headlong into the water. Grandpa ended up wrapping a floaty noodle around him so he could flail all his limbs as he wanted and feign swimming.
We were at my parents' near the beginning of the month and he kept popping onto his back in his floaty and all of a sudden he started giggling when that happened, so I just stood over him so his face was shaded but I didn't touch him and let him float around happily on his back.
He must think he has gills for how much he wants to constantly keep his mouth under water. Really though I think he's just trying to drink the whole pool.




He loves animals and thinks all of them are his own personal pet. It's the greatest thing in the world but I've seen him wobble up to Mor'du or Odin and he signs "please" before trying to pet them.
Everyone loves meal time because...
a) Ander can't get enough of food and all of it's varieties
b) Ander gets a kick out of feeding the dogs his own food
c) The dogs are thrilled with this new development
In fact, it may even be turning Mor'du's inexplicably cold attitude towards Ander around a little bit.





Sadly, but also pretty much expectedly, I cannot squeeze his 11 and 12 month onesies onto his roly-poly self, so we'll just have to do with these yummy photos of him in the suit-jacket and vest combo that Grandma Miriam brought over. It was worn by Mark and each of his brothers, so I'm pretty thrilled that he fit into it for a photoshoot. We think he looks like a mini-Bilbo cosplay in it and whoops, my heart is exploded. I love my little Hobbit babe.





 



Ander's Favorite Things
aka things he smiles extra wide for and does consistently enough
to make me think he extra likes it

Snuggling into mom's shoulder after sleeping
and singing little made up songs or chittering to himself

The color yellow

Cold green beans straight from the can, gogurt,
mashed potatoes, mac 'n cheese, saltines

Any and all electronic devices

Empty soda cans
(I mean, he'd take full ones too)

His Teddies:
Pooh Bear (Thanks Allie and Izzy!!), the vintage bear that
used to belong to Mark's oldest brother,
his Lamb, and Mr. Monkey