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So my mom threw her back out. Like call the doctor, beg for muscle relaxers, hide at home threw her back out. Which is problematic for me because my mom watches Baby T during the day so I can work.
Of course yesterday we had friends offer to watch T for us but that’s when we still thought my mom would be okay for this morning so I turned them down and then woke up to the realization that it might be too late to call and ask for help. Because they have a little girl who does not sleep through the night with the same level of skill as T and they were probably exhausted.
So we went to the office because I had two or three things that I just had to get done. And then we went to the supermarket. Mainly because I have this idea that Stay at Home Mommy has the time/energy/sanity to bake and I refuse to pay $45 to order lactation cookies online. We get home. We have a nurse and a cuddle. I put T down for a nap.
And nothing. The boy won’t sleep. He’ll cry. He’ll wrestle sleep sheep (who is playing whale noises at the moment). He’ll make desperate sounds I refer to as “Raptor Noises”. But he won’t sleep. Apparently, my baby boy will take epic naps at his grandmother’s house for three hours every morning but if I just want him to sleep for an hour and a half so I can make lactation cookies, that is way too much to ask.
He prefers to sleep on his boppy with my nipple in his mouth. I call it sleep nursing. He’ll sleep as long as he can drool out breast milk but the second that nipple is put away, he’s awake and he’s angry and I have failed as a parent (in his perception, fortunately, not mine).
I read somewhere that babies save their worst behaviors for their mothers and I wonder if T is testing that already. I suppose if he truly knows my love is unconditional, he can unleash the crazy that he might not want to share with the rest of the world.
Its a good thing I love his face.
On October 20th, Brian and I welcomed Tristan Thomas Morgan into the world after 31.5 hours of labor. He was 8 pounds, 10 ounces and 22 inches of awesome. He looks just like B but with my proportions (seriously, this boy has ridiculously long fingers for someone who can’t even use fingers yet).
Needless to say, I am completely in love with this beautiful creature.
Your days are numbered. I don’t mean this as a threat but as a reality check. You are quickly disappearing and I wonder how much longer I’ll be seeing you.
I didn’t think you would disappear so quickly. After all, you have always seemed oddly cavernous. At times, impossibly deep. As a teenager, I thought you severely impaired my ability to look as awesome as I could in a bikini. But still, you are disappearing and I thought we had a little more time.
I have to remind myself that behind your quickly disappearing space is a tiny human that is one part Dorie, one part Brian and all parts love. And that tiny human also does not have a belly button which makes me feel slightly better about my own lack.
So Bellybutton, I look forward to seeing you again soon. But not too soon. Try to be missing until October
Remember in elementary school, probably somewhere around the 4th grade, when girls started getting pulled aside for “The Talk”? Puberty was rapidly approaching so there was this urgent need to prepare girls for the changes that were about to happen to their bodies. Of course we don’t tell these girls the reality of those changes. Instead we tell them that some wonderful changes are about to happen to their bodies and they might feel dramatic but its how they will become women, blah, blah, blah…
Please note we leave out the reality of bleeding from your vagina once a month until The Change happens (tampons are expensive). We also leave out the judgment that women will pass on other women based on the changes that happen to their bodies but that’s another story for another time.
This story is about how everyone lied to me about puberty. Four and a half years after I got The Talk, I finally got my period. Six years after that, I finally had enough breasts that I could buy a bra that fit but it was really just for show since I didn’t need it. The only thing that came in when it was supposed to: Hips. Like those are useful on a young woman with no other curves what so ever.
So after the disappointment that was puberty, I didn’t really believe the hype about pregnancy. Yes, I know, there is nothing more dramatic than a baby growing inside of a person but I was told in puberty changes were coming any day and none of the changes showed up until years had passed.
I had to buy maternity pants at 6 weeks. And by week 10, I went up two full cup sizes. I haven’t been able to see both feet at the same time while standing for about a month now. And I haven’t managed shoe laces in three weeks. FYI, I’m 22 weeks pregnant.
I keep hearing its going to get worse. I finally believe them.
B and I are really excited to share the news that we are expecting our first child in October. We’re super excited. I can’t wait to meet our Baby and see what Baby will be like. This baby is very wanted and very planned.
It’s a crazy experience so far. I’m 22 weeks and amazed at all of the changes to my body. Its like puberty, but hyper speed changes.
Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you
My career and my blogging/writing have no intersection whatsoever. I work in
Pharmaceuticals where there seems to be this sometimes spoken but usually unspoken
rule: social media is a dangerous beast you should avoid. As a result, I spend a lot of time
wondering how hazardous it is to my career for me to tweet, facebook or blog.
For a long time, I avoided all of it. I took something I loved, blogging, and put it on the
shelf in my mind where I did not touch it. I stop journaling. I stopped tweeting. I stopped
responding to comments. All I did was lurk.
The biggest problem with lurking is that it made my ideas smaller. I started to doubt my
opinions and I started to doubt my ability to convey my ideas and insights effectively.
I would read a post and think “wow, this guy is an uneducated jack ass” or “that’s
interesting but I wonder what happens when X, Y and Z also apply” but I would never say a
After a while, I started to notice this trickle down into other areas of my life. My ideas
became smaller. Instead of writing 1000 words a day, I started struggling to write Haiku on
post-it notes or I would think about how I wanted to blog but I didn’t know what I wanted to
say anymore. I changed how I interacted with my friends and family. It was until recently
when my mother made some comment about how much “sweeter” I’ve become over
the last two years that I realized that something was wrong with the direction that I was
growing. (Side note: I can’t think of a single person who knows me well who could refer
to me as “sweet”. I don’t even think my husband could. “Feisty” is usually the descriptive
term assigned to me which is good because “feisty” is interesting and “sweet” stays
home to do the dishes while her husband has an affair. “Aggressive” or “dominant” tend
to be the terms assigned to me when the person describing me isn’t feeling very nice.)
In some arguments, I could eliminate my career. I could find another career or change
industries but I could also face the same challenges with any of those changes. And then
there is the whole aspect that I like what I do for a living and I’m excited to see where it
The question I should really be addressing is how to find the place where my career and
writing do not negatively impact each other. I’ve long believed that there is room for both
in my life but I’ve been challenged to find the place where these two pieces can meet. And
really, the question I’m faced with yet again is how do I find balance between all of the
pieces of my life?
My friend Evan Curry does these periodic updates about what is happening in his life. And for awhile I laughed at these updates. I vowed I would never do an update like one of his. Because in my mind I was a “serious” blogger. And then after further reflection, I remembered that Evan is also a serious blogger (and he blogs about things I barely understand).
So here’s an update on life in Bristol.
Have a good weekend.
I spend a lot of time thinking the phrase “I should blog about this”.
I should blog about my extended family’s Thanksgiving and how I’m not sure where I fit into everything. Or rather, how I’m not sure how I fit into the extended Bio-Fam or the extended Adopted-Fam, but at least I know where I fit in with my in-laws.
I should blog about church planting and how it is much harder than I thought it would be and much easier than I thought it would be (but for different reasons).
I should blog about the attempts to make Christmas at our house, now that Brian and I are finally on our own. I should blog about the important lessons I learned by not giving scathing commentary on Brian’s Christmas preferences during our Black Friday shopping excursion.
Oh, and I should blog about why I decided to venture out on Black Friday (for the first time ever as a consumer).
I should do a lot of blogging.
But I’m out of the habit. Moving into our home through off my routines. Getting sick obliterated what was left of those routines. Usually it is insanely difficult for me to break any habit but in this case, it slipped away very quickly.
So maybe I’m changing directions with where I’m taking this blog. Maybe it will be permanent, maybe just a passing transition. Because I do miss it, but I’m overwhelmed and scattered and I feel like I can make no promises at the moment of what my content will be in the future. I don’t want to create expectations that I cannot meet.
Sitting in my cube last week, I started thinking about workplace bullies. Who are these people? What are they trying to compensate for in their own lives? Do they enjoy their attitudes or do they just not realize they are miserable? Who told them this was appropriate behavior? How do they justify treating their colleagues in such a toxic way? Did anyone ever tell them that you get more bees with honey?
I also started wondering: are the workplace bullies we encounter as adults the same bullies we encountered on the playground? Is it once a bully, always a bully? Or does something snap? Does a nerdy kid have a moment of “I’m not going to take this anymore” and just swing too far in the opposite direction?
Does the workplace bully just think they are practicing tough love?
Over lunch at Panera a few weeks ago, my husband started questioning my ideal cat names. Usually, this is a topic he avoids like the plague because it ultimately ends with my relentless questioning of his ideal baby names but somehow, we plod through it without mocking each other too much.
I like names with character, names that are quirky. I think a name shapes a creature’s identity – a generic name would therefore lead to a life with a generic creature. I lean towards names like Roark (from Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead) or Mercutio or Puck. I like names that make my well read friends smile and my other friends say “what an unusual name!” One of my suggestions with Pierpont, as in J. Pierpont Finch from How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (one of my favorite musicals ever) but that was met with an embarrassing snort bursting out of my husband’s face so clearly, Pierpont was off the list.
Naming a pet is a bizarre process. I guess it might be a little easier if you buy a kitty from a pet store or a breeder but Brian and I love the animal rescue route. Which means the newest addition to your family was recently the newest temporary addition to someone else’s family and that foster family has given your precious kitty a name.
My parents recently adopted a kitten from the SPCA who had named the kitten “Fang”. Fang. As in “I’m a vampire and I have a Fang”. Weird. “Fang” was quickly changed to “Alex” but then there were questions about “Alex” so it became “Sir Alex Meowsalot”. Ultimately, it was decided that the whole naming process was just too hasty and after much thought and deliberation Fang/Alex/Sir Alex Meowsalot became Pippin and then normally patient vet realized that my parents were nuts as they kept calling to change the name for the appointment.
The name you chose for your kitten says a lot about you as a person. Are you a crazy cat lady who names her kitten names like “Whiskers” or “Paws” or “Tiger”? Are you the person who is trying to meet your human needs with a cat so you name the cat something like “Pete” or “Sally” or “Ralph”? Maybe you are the sarcastic teenager who thinks it is very funny to name the cat “Cat” but in another language (FYI: Kissa is Finnish for cat). Ultimately, our cat name would reveal more about our hidden quirks and tendencies than the contents of our medicine cabinet.
After our lunch, we made our way over to pet store to see who was up for adoption on a Sunday afternoon. In the car, my husband started telling me a secret trip he made the day before to the pet store where he saw a black behemoth of a kitten. The kind of kitten that you look at and realize that you’ll need to feed it a small dog each morning for breakfast because kitten food is just not going to cut it. The kind of kitten that is one part adorable and one part panther escaped from the wild. Of course, my husband instantly loved this cat until he saw the name on the cage. “Twilight”. Like “I’m in love with a sparkly vampire”.
This was not the small dog eating kitty my husband dreamt of owning. Somewhere out there, a teenage girl desperately wanted a black cat named Twilight.
As always, we kept our expectations low. Or my husband did. I was too busy falling in love with a black four month old kitten named Oliver.