To my husband, on our daughter’s first birthday –
As I am writing this, our daughter – our first child – is days from turning one. At this time last year, we were a family of two, who had lavish amounts of time to waste binging on Netflix and going out to eat without worrying about nap times. We spent these last days dreaming – and worrying – about what turned out to be the easy part: the birth of our daughter.
I’ve thanked you before, and I want to thank you again. Sure, I did all the heavy lifting, but you were a CHAMP during labor and delivery. You were the perfect amount of attentive without hovering. You were sympathetic without pretending that you were the one about to deliver a baby. You updated family and friends when I didn’t want to speak to anyone and were the perfect bouncer, giving them the once over before allowing anyone to pass into our room.
You went nearly 36 hours without sleep, and only DID sleep because your body forced you to. You welcomed our daughter into this world with strong, loving arms and delicately stroked her head as you confirmed her name with me.
And then we were three.
People warned us that it would be hard, but in our typical fashion, we looked down on them and assumed that we knew better than they did. We’d be fine, really.
And we WERE fine. We ARE fine. But, damn, what it took to get there.
Thank you for spending long hours sitting in the room with us as we tried to figure out that whole nursing thing. The support and the company were very much appreciated. Thank you for spending dark evenings in her bedroom with me, on WebMD and BabyCenter, as we frantically Googled every little thing she did, in order to confirm her health.
Thank you for bearing with me as I became a hormonal beast of a woman. A year later and I am just now starting to feel like myself. Thank you for seeing past the tears and the screams and remembering the girl you fell in love with; the woman you created this beautiful child with.
As we approach toddlerhood, thank you for being a safe place for our daughter. Thank you for allowing her to feel brave as she learns to navigate this world (hopefully without her mother’s coordination). She’s fearless, and that is because she knows you will not allow her to fall. She squeals when you throw her in the air and her eyes are bright as she learns how to manipulate those long legs of hers to get from Point A to Point B (then to Points CDEFGHIJ and Z.) One of the happiest parts of my day, every day, is watching her watch you walk in the door after work.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see how much another girl loves you, and to see that same adoration reflecting back at her in your eyes.
Our daughter is surrounded by love. But there is only one person in this world who understands EXACTLY how much I love her and there’s only one person in this world who can love her that same way, and that is you.
We love you.
A good portion of our revenue comes from business to business. Because of that, we have plenty of affiliate training material that we work with.
I have been working on a storyboard for a whiteboard animation that would be used in both our affiliate training and our social media marketing (lots of buzz words. Stay with me.)
Today, I finalized a deal with a vendor to create the whiteboard animation. We have been discussing the details via email for the last week or so. Today, I sent him our final proposal and submitted payment through his site. I then sent an email confirming payment and that he understood what I was expecting from him.
This was the response I got. From a professional. That I do not know. That I’ve never worked with before:
““Gotcha covered girlie! I’ll be in touch””
Um, excuse me?
To say that I’m irritated doesn’t reflect my anger. I apologize to The Husband, because I know I’ll fixate on this for days. If I wasn’t on a deadline, and out of the office tomorrow, I would have stopped payment then and there.
You can scream “gender equality in the workplace” all you want, but this is what it’s like for professional women in 2014. A Bachelor’s degree and seven years of experience and I’m still referred to as “girlie.”
If this first project turns out well, I have a substantial budget to go ahead and create more. Needless to say, I will not be working with this “boi” in the future.
I’ve been a slacker. I know. I DO plan on writing about and posting pictures of our amazing baby shower, which was on Saturday. Until then, help yourself to this post, which I shared on HerDaily.com
Well, that headline is misleading. I did read Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy in one day. And, although that was more “anecdotes” than “helpful information,” it was still about a woman being pregnant and it still counts.
A few days after finding out I was pregnant, I promptly ordered What To Expect When You’re Expecting off of Amazon. It’s like a law that you need to read that when you’re pregnant, right? It explains all the triumphs and tribulations of pregnancy. It’ll tell you what is happening to your body and why. It will help you explain to your husband that science is the reason you’re crying all the time.
When we got it in the mail, The Husband and I both started reading it. It stayed on the coffee table in the living room, ready to teach me about ovaries and fallopian tubes at my beck and call. My husband ended up a couple of chapters ahead of me. He pointed out a section which was Q&As between mothers-to-be and the author.
This is when we stopped reading the book.
I’m paraphrasing here, but this is a pretty accurate account of most of the questions:
“I just found out I’m four weeks pregnant and I did ecstasy last weekend. Is the baby ok?”
“I’m only three weeks pregnant and I’m going out this weekend. Last weekend I did cocaine. Can I do that again this weekend?”
“How long into pregnancy can I keep drinking?”
Since that chapter, the book has been collecting dust.
Our thoughts are that:
A: A woman who needs to ask those questions is probably not taking the time to read up on pregnancy.
B: Women have babies every day. For all of time, every day – babies. Far less qualified women than me. Far less fortunate women than me. And they survive. We should be ok.
C: Why do people push the pregnancy books? Shouldn’t we be reading about parenting? It’s like spending all your time consumed with the wedding when it’s the marriage you should be worried about. I have a general jist of what’s happening to my body — it’s getting bigger. Not much I can do there. Take my prenatals. Limit caffeine. Got it. But what do I do if the baby doesn’t want to breastfeed or if she’s colicky or when we are really very tired but she wants to party? I need tricks for these things.
And, until I have to worry about that, I’ll continue following the sage advice I’ve learned from three chapters of What To Expect …
Try to lay off the recreational drugs.
Guys, great news. I’m going to win the $400 million Powerball jackpot tonight, so that’s pretty lucky. I told our exciting news to Jason. Luckily, he’s just as pumped as I am. We discussed our plan for our winnings.
Me: Well, obviously we’ll have to give the baby up for adoption, because we did not plan on being BOTH Powerball winners AND parents to a newborn. We don’t really want to be tied down, do we? Someone will love her, probably.
Jay: No, no, no. We don’t have to do that. We’ll be able to afford a nanny.
Me: I’m listening.
Jay: Yeah, we’ll get a nanny …
Me: And build her small, yet refined, living quarters. She’ll have a modest studio apartment, complete with a dinette…
Jay: … we’ll get a foreigner and chain her in the basement.
Me: I feel as though, and I may be wrong here, that if we’re rich, we don’t really need to FORCE anyone to care for our child. We could just compensate them.
Jay: No, no, no. We’ll do the thing that’s like slavery, but not slavery.
Me: Indentured servitude?
Jay: Exactly that.
Me: Hmmm I feel like if we’re going to go this nanny route, we should really NOT imprison her. Also, I don’t want a foreigner caring for my child. I want a nice American gal. And she’ll come on our travels with us …
Jay: Yeah, so you can still lay on the beach and drink and stuff.
Me: Exactly. But even if we were rich, I’d still want to watch my programs at night. So, when I’m done jet-setting for the day, I can take her from the nanny and cuddle her for thirty minutes while I watch a show! You’re RIGHT! We DON’T have to sell her. That’s good.
….. an hour later, while we’re in bed, both of us on our phones …
Me: You know, even if you’re very rich, I bet that most celebrity couples do this at bedtime. Like, right now I bet Jay-Z and Bey are just in their beds, checking their phones. Also, if you’re very very rich, but you’re thirsty in the middle of the night, you still have to get your own drink.
Me: But I bet Jay-Z and Beyonce’s bed was made by virgins, in Tawain.
Jay: What does that even mean?
Me: I’m not sure. And actually, I’m not positive that I know where Taiwan is. Like, if someone were to give me three guesses and a million dollars if I guessed right, I’m not positive I could do that. That’s a bummer.
Then, Jason claimed that he knew where ALL the countries were. I promptly googled a map of the world and named off countries. Guys, he was pretty spot on in locating them. I’m married to a genius.
UPDATE: Congratulations to winner Amanda Sakovitz!
A couple weeks ago, I traded in my beloved iPhone4 (That’s right, I was still rockin’ a 4. That never would send text messages. Or open apps. Ooooor retrieve emails) for an iPhone5. Now, the 4 and I had been through a lot together – it was there when we got engaged, it captured photos on our honeymoon and it shared pictures of our first sonogram. But alas, I had to move on (to something that worked).
As I sat at Best Buy, waiting for them to transfer over all of my stuffs, I took a look at the phone cases. As previously mentioned, I drop my phone approximately 3 – 9 bajllion times a day, so going without a case isn’t an option. But spending $30 – $40 on a generic, boring case isn’t an option, either.
Through Etsy, I came across Embellish Cases. These cases are personalized – everything from your monogram or name down to the colors – and run in at around $15.99 a case. Um, yes please! The cases come in plastic (which I chose) or silicone, in white or in black.
All cases are handmade to order by Misty, the owner and founder.
Misty was awesome enough to let me pick out one to review. I’m been super into chevron patterns lately, so after MUCH debate, I decided to go with the Pink Chevron Bird Style. Misty customized the colors for me.
I loooooove this case. It’s super cute. And, in true Heather nature, I’ve already dropped it a few times and not a scratch anywhere to be found! For the price you’d pay in a box store to buy one generic case, you can buy two customized cases from Embellish Cases.
Not only was I lucky enough to get a case, but one of my awesome readers can win one, too!
(**Rafflecoptor is a much easier way to do things but alas WordPress doesn’t wan’t to be friends with it, so I apologize for all the steps!)
You can earn up to five entries into this giveaway. Yay! You’re very lucky, I know.
(For every entry you complete, please leave a SEPARATE comment letting me know you did it. That way, you’ll get all of your entries!) The winner will be chosen by random.org on Friday August 16th. I’ll be contacting the winner via email, so make sure to leave a valid one!
“Heart” Embellish Cases on Etsy
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In the customer waiting area of my office, there is a fabulous coffee machine. Fresh donuts make their appearance next to it every morning. For the last week or two, I’ve been craving donuts but haven’t wanted to waste the calories or money on them.
Just now, I went downstairs to get a cup of coffee (and yes, I am well versed on the amount of caffeine a pregnant woman can have but thanks anyways). I began eyeing the donuts and, in particular, the last Boston cream. Employees are not particularly encouraged to eat these donuts, but who would yell at a pregnant lady for sneaking one? So, as my cup of coffee is brewing, I’m waiting for this elderly woman (probably in her late 70s-early 80s) to pick a donut and then move on with her life. She’s eyeing the jellies and all old ladies love jelly donuts (fact), so it never crossed my mind that she would pick up the Boston cream. SHE PICKED UP THE BOSTON CREAM. “Curses!” I thought. I then watched her unfold a napkin, put the donut in the napkin and began wrapping it up to put in her purse. “Well, that’s pretty precious of her. I’ll let go of the hatred I would typically incur from such an encounter, move on from the Boston Cream and snag that last apple cinnamon cider donut,” I thought to myself. The old lady placed the Boston cream in her bag — wrapped up tight to ensure protection from purse lint and starlite peppermints — AND THEN SHE PICKED UP THE APPLE CIDER DONUT AND BEGAN WRAPPING IT. “What the f, lady?! Stop taking all my donuts. MY BABY WANTS A DONUT!” I wanted to yell but I didn’t because 1) old lady 2) This is all occurring at my place of employment. Now, there is only a bunch of powered jelly donuts left (obviously because nobody wants those) and ONE twisted, glazey guy. The woman begins to walk away, then turns around and BREAKS THE TWISTED GLAZED DONUT IN HALF. She begins munching on her half as she goes to sit down. Man, I was so mad.
This is quite literally the worst morning of my life!*** *** That line is funny because I hate when someone says something was “literally” a thing, but it wasn’t LITERALLY that thing. Guys, I’ve had worse mornings. But this whole encounter did make me sad. And now I’ll have to buy donuts on the way home and The Husband will grouch at me because I’m always bringing treats into the house and he’s trying to eat healthy and he has no will power and then we’ll get into a tiff about how he shouldn’t deny HIS CHILD a donut just because he wants only healthy snacks in this house and I’ll probably cry because I’m pregnant and then he will feel guilty and obligated to console me and its all THE OLD LADY’S FAULT.
A year-ish ago, I tried to get The Husband to watch The Walking Dead with me on Netflix. He refused. There was always some lame excuse (“Some of us work weird hours, HEATHER.” “Some people are tired after work, HEATHER.” “I can’t pay attention to this AND play a video game at the same time, HEATHER!”) Eventually, I let it go and decided that when I had time (Because, after all, my life is just full of free time hoping to be filled with three seasons of a show. Just kidding. That’s a lie.), I’d just watch it on my own. HE DIDN’T WANT TO WATCH IT, he said.
Approximately six months after that, my sister was over for dinner, and the Husband so casually began to discuss The Walking Dead with her. Whoa whoa whoa. Say WHAT?! How did he know ANYTHING about a show he WOULDN’T MAKE TIME TO WATCH?! Well, turns out that in between his weirdish work hours, he was able to pump out a season and a half of the show.
Well, I’m not one to hold grudges (That’s another joke, guys. I love me a good grudge. Or a bad one. Doesn’t matter. I won’t let anything go.) but I was pretty pissed he did this. So much so that I resolved never to watch the show myself. Sure, he apologized, but that wasn’t good enough. He betrayed me. So now, in turn, I would have to take that betrayal out on Rick and his gang of misfits.
I kept that grudge going (and reminding The Husband of said grudge often) for another six months or so. Longer, probably. It felt like a very long time period where I was denied the opportunity to jump into a hot pop culture news item because MY HUSBAND WATCHED SEASON ONE AND SOME OF SEASON TWO WITHOUT ME.
Fast forward to my second month of pregnancy. I was so sick, guys. So, so sick. One day, I could barely get out of bed without having to run to the bathroom. I decided there was no way any work was going to get done. Or that I’d even be able to drive to work. So I called in. Jason was adamant that I spent the day resting, but we were both pretty confident that I wouldn’t.
“Why don’t you just let it go and try to watch The Walking Dead? You have all day. You can catch up!” he offered.
“NEVER!” was pretty much my reply.
I watched him pull out of the driveway and promptly turned on Netflix and queued up Episode 1. Followed 42 minutes later by episode 2. Followed by ALL THE EPISODES. At one point that day – I think I was 5 or 6 deep at this point – Jason came home to check on me. (Fine. He wins points for being a sweetheart thus far in my pregnancy.) I paused it only long enough to let him know that he’s lucky the show is so good and that I was willing to put my grudge aside so that I could get to the point in the series where he left off, so that we could watch together.
I think his plan all along was to get me pregnant so that I’d get sick so that I’d have to stay home so that I’d HAVE to put on Netflix because daytime tv is horrible so that I’d HAVE to start watching The Walking Dead so that I’d HAVE to realize that it’s an awesome show so that I’d have to let go of my grudge so we could watch the rest of season 2 and then season 3 together.
I finished three seasons in three weeks. It’s been about a month since we finished, and I feel empty inside. We’ve tried to fill our nightly void with Season 7 of Psych (If you don’t watch it, you should. It’s hilarious. The banter and references remind me of Gilmore Girls. The first episode is not great. Power through and get to episode 2. And then watch ALL THE EPISODES. So good.) and season 7 of Dexter (It’s normal to have a crush on a serial killer, right?) But guys, it’s not the same.
I miss Rick. And Daryl. And the constant zombie survival plan that Jason and I update while watching it.
(What I don’t miss is Carl. Ugh. Carl!)
How do people wait a whole damn week for a new episode?! Guess I’ll find out in October.
I know how much you love to read about the pillow talk between me and my husband, you little voyeur. What? Is that not the right word? Oh wells. Sticking with it. Last night, we had a good one. Pillow talk, that is. So funny that I was in tears, actually. Because I think it was so hilarious, I’m assuming you’ll think it’s dumb or you won’t get it. That’s fine. I’d just like to have it for my records, to someday remind my husband that he told his imaginary therapist (whom I invented) that he thought I was smart. It’s on record.
The scene: We were just getting settled in bed. Jay was playing a game on his phone. I was bored.
Me: Do you think I’m smart?
Me: But, do you just think I’m average or would you say I’m above average intelligence?
Jay: (mostly ignoring me) Above.
Me: So, say you sit down with a therapist for the first time and he says, “Tell me about your wife.” What would you say?
Jay: I’d say that you’re very smart. Above average smart.
Me: Aw, that’s so nice of you. Thanks for thinking I’m smart.
::Fast forward five minutes. Jay sits up on the edge of the bed, and I began snapping the top of his boxers::
Me: Look! I’m pretending to play that instrument that you pluck with your fingers!
Jay: ::pushing me away from him:: Uuuuum, a guitar?
Me: No! Not a guitar. Gosh. I know what a guitar is. A mini guitar. You know. A mini banjo.
Jay: Nope. I don’t know.
Me: You know mini banjos? Like the kind they play around a campfire at the beach, with no shoes on?
Me: Jay! You know! Like in Hawaii?
Jay: Soooo you don’t mean a campfire with your friends? You mean a campfire in Hawaii? … You mean a ukulele?
Me: Yeah! I think so! Wait. Is that the mini banjo or is that the wooden flute they play?
Jay: Are you being serious right now? The wooden flute that WHO plays? You’re not being serious. There is no “mini banjo”.
Me: Yes! Like, in order of size, it goes guitar, banjo, mini-banjo aka ukulele. Right? So a ukulele is a mini banjo, not the wooden flute?
Jay: No. I just … no. Are you pretending to be dumb or is this serious? Why do you keep saying wooden flute?
Me: I’m serious! Also, you can only play the mini banjo –
Jay: – ukulele.
Me: .. the mini banjo in Hawaii, correct? Regular sized people can’t play that. Their fingers are too big.
Jay: Still nope. That is also incorrect. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m beginning to rethink what I’d tell my therapist.
The Husband likes pretzels, and bought some to bring in his lunch to work. Like a
good loving thoughtful little wifey, I took the entire bag of pretzels and divided them up (based on serving size) into little sandwich bags and stashed them in our snack drawer, so it’s no fuss for him to grab in the morning and throw into his lunch bag. The problem is that I only do helpful things for him, and like to create as much chaos for myself as possible. Which means that I haven’t pre-bagged any of MY chips or popcorn.
Whhiiiiiiiich means that this morning, when I wanted chips or popcorn, but didn’t want to put the effort into putting chips or popcorn into a baggie, I grabbed a bag of pretzels. And said to myself, “No. It’s fine. You like pretzels just fine.”
But now I’m sitting here, munching on pretzels, telling myself that when I get home today little missy I will most certainly bag up MY snacks. Because I don’t even really LIKE pretzels.
Yet, I continue to eat them.
And I probably won’t bag up my snacks. I can just do it in the morning.
What an informative post this has been.