Thursday, February 27, 2014

A short patron saint story

Scott and I started dating in April of 2008. We started trying to figure out how to get engaged in about May of 2009. (I know, you're thinking, "What's so hard to figure out? He asks, you say yes." I won't go into the details, though, because they would make this post very long and boring.)

Fast forward to Christmas of 2010. Scott spends Christmas without me and abruptly decides that he's going to move heaven and earth to make sure that never happens again. He informs me of this intention and I am skeptical, since at that point he didn't have a job or a degree or any one of a number of things.

On January 15, I randomly generated a patron saint using Conversion Diary Jen's page. I got St. John Berchmans, noted that he was the son of a shoemaker (recall that Scott's blog pseudonym is Shakespeare's Cobbler) and thought nothing more of it.

At some point during our conversations about how Scott needed to marry me by Christmas, we decided that we'd rather not marry in Advent, so the latest possible day we could get married was November 26, the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Also, somewhat unrelatedly, Scott ended up getting a job offer on January 28 after I prayed a novena to St. Thomas Aquinas for that intention. (He's not one of the usual employment saints, but he's Scott's Confirmation patron, so I figure he's not a bad bet for Scott-related intentions.)

In March, I prayed a novena to St. Joseph for various intentions relating to the Married By Christmas project. Nothing particularly spectacular happened during the novena, but a couple of days after it ended I was making my weekly holy hour and got this strong compulsion to go look up my patron saint for the year--I hadn't thought of him or done much of anything to acknowledge him since he'd been generated for me. I figured it couldn't hurt and found the link I had emailed myself back in January.

This time I noticed something I hadn't before: St. John Berchman's feast day is November 26.

And, as you know, Scott and I actually did get married that day.

"Random" saint generator, huh?

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

He makes all things new. Even me.

Another vintage post, from late 2010/early 2011

I don't know how to start this post.

I want to say, right off, "I have an anxiety disorder, and that's okay." So that if you're reading this and you do too, you know that, right off.

I want to start at the beginning, except where is the beginning? When I was 9 or 10 years old and read the part of Sarah, Plain and Tall where Anna says that the thing she remembers about her mother's death is that she forgot to say goodnight to her the night she died? And how to this day I'm still afraid of going to bed without saying goodnight to the people I love, so that they don't die?

I could tell you a thousand stories like that, but I won't. I'll just say that in hindsight I realize that I had very anxious tendencies from early elementary school on, and I probably could have been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at any point from 13 on, but I wasn't, and I did okay anyway.

Then I got to college, and a thousand things good and bad happened, and I started dating Scott, which was unquestionably good.

Then last spring (of 2009), I began to be less and less happy, and to need more and more reassurance that he loved me and he wasn't going anywhere and on and on and on, the same words over and over again, because no matter how many times he said it I didn't believe him.

In July he gently and compassionately suggested that I read Brain Lock. (He is the only person I know who can suggest that sort of thing without it coming across as an insult.) The first thing I did was take the University of Hamburg Obsessive-Compulsive Inventory which is conveniently located in the back of Brain Lock. I can't remember now exactly what I got, but I know I was "definitely clinically significant" on obsessions and "probably clinically significant" on compulsions.

The last question in particular, about checking addresses on letters before you mail them, gave me this "Oh, shoooot" feeling, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I'd get that feeling many more times while reading Brain Lock, because here was this guy writing about all the weird, bizarre, to-odd-to-even-mention things that went through my head on a given day.

Yet for all that, I wasn't terribly impressed by the book at first. It wasn't until a day or two later that I was sitting in the backseat of my parents' van and suddenly thought, You mean I don't always have to feel this way? It was what Stephen Covey would call a paradigm shift--the first moment at which I realized that being anxious most of the time was not just a normal part of human life.

They say that admitting you have a problem is half the job of solving it, but...well, it's only half. I stayed moderately anxious (in the clinical sense, and more on that checklist later) well into the semester. Then the stress of midterms and term papers and such hit, and I spent October through December camping out in Severe Anxiety Land. (Also known as The Land of Not-Okay.)

By January I was sick of it, and determined to get rid of my anxiety by whatever means necessary. I realize in hindsight that my problem was that I tried to control my anxiety triggers rather than the anxiety itself. Now, getting plenty of sleep and eating decently and keeping one's schedule in line are good things, but...well, there will always be times in life when it's going to get crazy and you're going to live off sugar and caffeine for a week or two. (Unless you're me, in which case caffeine doesn't work for you and you just eat twice as much sugar to compensate.)

For me, that was midterms. Unsurprisingly. On March 1 I had two midterms back-to-back, and since it was a Monday I also had work. I swallowed my pride and explained the situation to my editor, asking her for an extension. (I believe only from 1 p.m. to 6 p.m., but I don't remember clearly now and it's not relevant enough for me to go looking for the email.) She was very understanding, but no doubt the niggling feeling of failure in the back of my mind contributed to my anxiety. A better copy editor would be able to study for midterms AND get her work done by deadline...

I took my first midterm and felt like I did well. I took my second midterm and felt like I did well. (At some point I did the copy editing and finished well before my revised deadline, but I honestly don't remember when that happened.) Then I sat outside the hallway for Honors and a girl who was in both Sacraments and Honors with me mentioned the answer she'd given to one of the long essay questions (worth, if memory serves, 25 points each). It was completely different from what I'd put, and I was convinced that she was right and I was wrong.

I wrote those last several paragraphs all in a day, and then I stopped for almost a week, because it is getting to the hard part, the part where my life fragments into contradictory pieces with the splintered edges rubbing hard against each other...and I do not know how to write it.

On the one side, there was the panic attack. It was, to my knowledge, the only one I've ever had; I certainly haven't had one since and I am deeply happy for that. A day or two later I described it simply: I was nervous about the Sacraments midterm mentioned above, and I went to the chapel to pray and then started crying and shaking and feeling like I couldn't breathe, so I went up to my room and paced desperately back and forth, crying and shaking and praying, until finally it stopped.

The physical part was bad, but the part I don't even know how to describe is the part that makes me surer, in hindsight, that it was a panic attack and not just garden-variety freaking out. Because it felt so many orders of magnitude worse than I can't stop crying. It felt like the whole world was going to end. It felt like being in the middle of an ocean in a storm and you can't find even a board to hang onto to keep you from drowning.

I mark that day, March 1, as the beginning of the really bad stuff. In a way it was. Things had been bad before that, but never ever that bad.

I won't go into too many details of the next two months. This post sums things up pretty well. I said then, at least by allusion, that I was anxious in the clinical sense. I was also depressed and despairing (in the spiritual sense), but I hadn't admitted that to myself yet. I barely admitted to the anxiety, in fact. I read the DSM definitions of different disorders and I got to the last line that always says whatever problem you have has to be bad enough that it interferes with your ability to function--and I pointed to the fact that I was pulling straight A's and only occasionally weeping openly at Mass and only crying myself to sleep when I was sure nobody was listening--and there was only that one time that I went to Grace (she who has always lived up to her name and who is now my long-suffering roommate) and cried onto her shoulder for literally at least an hour without stopping, and then talked in an incoherent jumble for at least another hour until the pressure on my soul let up enough that I could go on breathing. I called that functioning. I called it functioning when I got so afraid of my own brain that I, the ultimate introvert, didn't want to be alone. I gathered up my laptop and my hot cocoa mix and went down to Grace's room and bribed her with hot chocolate so she'd let me study for finals sitting on a chair next to her bed and talking to her so I didn't have to listen to what my brain was whispering to me.

(For the record, I am not schizophrenic. I just find it easier to talk about the anxiety-thoughts as if they came from a separate person, because it is true in a sense that they are not me. They are like stray cats that come scratching at the backdoor of my mind and I used to feel bad for them and let them in but now I realize that they just claw the furniture and pee on everything. So I have been learning how to put in earplugs and ignore the scratching.)

Meanwhile, on the other side of the splinters, there was unfathomable grace. I distinctly remember there being a time, somewhere in the midst of this, when I lay facedown on the rough carpet of the chapel in my dorm, probably crying, thinking about how I had absolutely nothing left. And I got at once the sense of Christ coming down off the cross and lying down next to me on that rough carpet and just holding my hand. Because he does that, comes to us when we can't come to him.

And meanwhile I was being stalked by Isaiah 43. I know, that sounds funny. The two times I've said it aloud I've gotten laughed at. But it's the only way I have to describe the way that chapter showed up everywhere in my life. In the readings at Mass. In a friends' stati on Facebook. Once, I went to Confession and a priest handed me a little slip of paper and told me to reflect on it. So I went to a back pew and looked down and saw, Behold, I am doing a new thing.

Yet I was still the girl who wrote that post, at the end of April. I had gotten sort of...numb, spiritually. I stopped asking God to help me. I stopped believing he would help me. I convinced myself that it was somehow his will for me to be in the state I was in.

I do not pretend even now to be the mouthpiece of God's will, but I will say one thing for the record and stand by it.

Despair is NEVER God's will.

I hope somebody who needed to read that got far enough into this monster of a post to read it. I hope you start believing it sooner than I did.

I won't go into this summer, because I don't have enough distance from it yet to sort out all the thoughts and feelings and everything that went on. Suffice it to say that I did not get better. If anything, I got worse. The Rage became my friend over the summer. I thought it was a good idea to be friends, because I thought that the Rage was my only weapon against Despair.

Public service announcement: Rage is a double agent, and until you shove him clawing out the backdoor and slam it shut behind him, you'll never actually get better.

So I went to counseling. It was a big huge production getting myself there, and I almost gave up. Scott is the one who really got me there--partly in the plain sense of being the one who talked me through the intake form and partly in a deeper sense--I knew I was hurting him, and I didn't know how to stop, and I knew I had to stop for us to survive this. So I did what was possibly the most selfless thing I've ever done, and went to counseling.

The first session was nice, because I got to talk about myself for an hour with the deep and abiding assurance that this nice older lady was getting paid to listen to me babble self-centeredly.

The second session was not so nice, because the counselor talked more than I did and at one point she quoted poetry or something from a stock of poetry and stuff she keeps around for angsty college students, and I thought bitterly that if I'd wanted that sort of stuff I could have sat in the waiting room and read the Guideposts for free.

But I went back for a third session anyway, because I didn't have any other ideas. And that was when I scored a 34 on the Burns Anxiety Inventory, and scored pretty high on a depression self-evaluation that isn't on the internet. When I walked out of that session I was probably the happiest a person's ever been to have official verification that she's not normal. Severe anxiety and moderate depression. Not, "She worries too much and is gloomy and needs to just get over herself already." The counselor didn't tell me to get over myself; she offered me meds instead. I declined, for various reasons I won't go into here. I'm not anti-meds, they just weren't something I'm willing to try at this point in my life.

Around the time of my first counseling appointment, I went to a FoP. At some point somebody got up and read from the Bible. The passage was, of course, Isaiah 43.

I thought something very pious like Holy shit. (I apologize for anyone who's scandalized by that, but I'm keeping it real here.) And then I prayed, God, I don't believe that yet, but I do want to believe it.

A month later I went to another FoP, and it was good, and I was expecting nothing when suddenly somebody got up and read from the Bible.

Isaiah 43 again.

And this time I laughed, because there was a tiny corner of my soul that had started to believe it.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Beef noodle soup

Scott and I invented this, basing it heavily on our chicken noodle soup recipe.

1.5 lbs ground beef
3 carrots
3 stalks celery
8 cubes (tsp) beef bouillon
2 tbsp minced dried onion
Garlic powder
Salt and pepper
8 cups water
12 oz egg noodles

Put beef in a soup pot on the stove to brown. While it is browning, peel and chop carrots, chop celery, unwrap bouillon cubes, etc. (I usually put everything in my 4-cup measuring cup.) Once beef is browned, add everything from carrots to salt and pepper (garlic, salt, and pepper are to taste). Add 8 cups of water using that measuring cup you already got dirty. Cook at medium heat for about 30 minutes or until carrots and celery are tender. Add egg noodles and cook according to package directions. The end.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Vintage Teresa

From March of 2010:


"Megan, will you sweep wif me for a widdle bit?" She pinches her thumb and forefinger together and looks up at me with her big brown eyes. I relent.

So began our little adventure with a queen-sized bed and a flashlight.

*****

"Megan, you have bwue eyes!"


"And you have brown eyes. They're very pretty."


(Knowingly:) "I have dark eyes."

*****

"One, two, fwee, foe, five, sick, seben, eight, nine, ten, ten, ten, ten..."

*****

"Megan, you have bwue eyes!"

*****

"Dere's monsters in my room."


"No, there aren't."


(Reassured:) "Dere's onyee monsters in da movie."

*****

"Megan, you have bwue eyes!"


"Yes."


"And I have bwue eyes!"


"No, you have brown eyes."


"I have brown eyes and dark eyes. You have dark eyes. Little dark eyes."


"N...Ohh, you mean I have little dark circles in my blue eyes?"


"Yeah."

And a more serious one, from August of 2010:

One thing being indirectly involved in foster care has done for me is eliminate a lot of the "Will I be a good mother?" angst. I might not be the best out there, but trust me when I say there's a long way down before you hit bottom.

It's really easy to feel superior to the Princess' bio family, and a lot of that is justified. Maybe all of it. I won't go into details, so you'll just have to trust me again when I say her old situation was just about as bad as it gets.

Yet sometimes, like today, I sit and watch her sleeping and just start to cry because I realize that we don't deserve her either.

We're good people (she says modestly), and she's happy and healthy and thriving, and so so wanted. But there is no law in the universe that says people who have decent parenting skills and desperately want a child will get one. No rule that says they deserve one.

And we'd have to be just a little shy of Mary and Joseph to ever deserve this one--this bright, strong-willed, creative, loving, beautiful little girl. That we ever met her was mercy, not justice. That we've been allowed to know her for two years and counting is beyond what you can even ask of God's mercy.

Friday, February 21, 2014

Seven Quick Takes with flashes of brilliance






Jen was stricken by a fit of madness and decided to do this again. Apparently madness is catching, because I've decided to do it too. I have no less than 55 posts in my drafts folder (some from as far back as 2009), so I might be able to handle it.



Tad was three months old yesterday and had a pediatrician appointment. (Apparently three-month appointments are unusual, but that's what this office does.) He weighed 11 pounds and 14 ounces and was 23.5 inches long. His 2-month had gotten pushed back to January 31, so he's tracking pretty well with his 6-ounce-a-week gain (17 ounces in 20 days) and managed to grow a whopping 1.25 inches in those same 20 days. Maybe the constant eating is doing something.

(N.B. His first appointment at this office, he only measured 19.5 inches. I have no idea how he shrunk an inch and a half in his first five days of life, but there you go.)

One of the fun things that happened at the appointment: The med student who was evaluating him (in addition to, not in place of, the pediatrician's evaluation) took hold of his hands while he was lying down and gradually pulled him into a sitting position. Not only did Tad keep his head in line with his body, but he also looked around curiously on the way up. The med student was impressed. I was too; I'd never tried that so I didn't know he could control his head so well.


Tad's eyes have been dark gray for most of the last three months. In recent days Scott and I have noticed that he has this ring of golden brown around his pupils. We are undecided whether this means his eyes are going brown from the inside out or whether he's developing my eye color.

(Scott has plain but very pretty brown eyes. I have eyes that are gray-blue around the outer edge and a sort of green-gold around the pupil.)


I had a brainwave while out shopping yesterday. See, I have struggled the past couple of months with the fact that sticking the baby in his carseat in the cart leaves little room for groceries. Normally I make do by putting big things in the bottom and small things in the spaces around the carseat, but it's a pain to collect all the things at the checkout.

Anyway, my brainwave involved getting one of those handbaskets and putting it on the bottom rack of the cart. Then I could stuff small things in there and when it came time to check out, unloading was a breeze.

Of course, my brilliant self forgot to check the meat stash in the freezer and realized only afterwards that we were out of chicken. So Tad and I had to go back to Kroger this morning.


Scott had Monday off for President's Day, and the three of us celebrated the three-day weekend by going to Dairy Queen (Tad sat in his carseat and looked around curiously the whole time) and watching Season Three of Sherlock. (Tad looked at that curiously too. Should I feel guilty that my 3-month-old likes to watch TV?)

Both the ice cream and Sherlock were suitably awesome. I need some of my friends to watch it so we can geek out together. There's only so much time Scott and I can spend swapping Sherlock quotes.


I updated the About Me and About My People pages recently. I hadn't really overhauled them since shortly after I got married, so it was definitely time for a change.


The other day, Scott and I were talking about vending machines and he reminded me that the college from which he graduated used to have this vending machine that said it accepted fives but never did, and he used to say that it must be a Confederate.

Me: "Because it disliked Abraham Lincoln?"

Scott: "Yeah."

Me: "I remember you telling me that and I didn't get it, but three years later I'm like, 'OHHHH.'"

It's never too late to appreciate a joke. :)

For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Spiceburgers

I got this from my mother and added an egg because mine are always falling apart.

1.5 lb ground beef
1 egg
2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp onion powder
2 tsp garlic powder

Mix and form into patties (6-8 depending on how hungry you are). They can apparently be grilled, broiled, or pan-fried, but we just do the last.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Chicken Pot Pie

Another classic from my childhood, origins unknown

Filling

2 lbs diced chicken
2 lbs frozen mixed veggies
2 cans cream of chicken soup

• Preheat oven to 375.
• Cook chicken in a dutch oven or something similar.
• Add veggies and soup. Heat.
• Top with crust batter (see below).
• Bake at 375 for 45 minutes or until golden brown.

Crust

1 ½ cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 ½ cups milk
6 tbsp melted butter
¾ tsp salt

¼ tsp pepper

Combine and spread over filling (see above).

Friday, February 14, 2014

Seven Quick Takes: NFP and hooded towels





When the baby was first born, one of the things that made the whole PPD mess even harder was that I was sure I would never ever feel ready to have another baby and that meant I wasn't open to life and I'm a terrible person and everything is terrible.

For a long time, I prayed that God would start by making me open to this life, make me into the mother Tad needed me to be. I figured that I could worry about being open to other children later.

I'm not sure when things changed, but the other day, Scott was playing with the baby and said, "We should get him a little sister sometime." And I found myself agreeing with him.

Fortunately for my poor uterus, we really really can't afford another baby right now. (Otherwise I'd be sorely tempted to revise my opinions on ideal child spacing, because postpartum NFP is hard and I don't like it.)


I still have plenty of things to pray over, though. Just because I want another baby doesn't mean I want to be pregnant again. It hasn't been long enough for me to forget how crippling my anxiety was during the first several months of my pregnancy with Tad. I have a physical anxiety reaction just thinking about being pregnant; I'd probably have outright panic attacks if we were seriously considering trying again.

I'm not sure what the answer to that is, except to keep taking my anxiety in general and turning it over to God. Maybe in another year or two I'll actually be good at that.


I'm also anxious about repeating my initial breastfeeding experience. (Short version: I didn't know how to help the baby latch and instead of actually helping the hospital people gave us nipple shields and then said, "Oh, he's not getting enough milk, here are some formula samples and a pump and you have to follow this strict feeding schedule or he'll starve." He dropped down the percentiles until we got rid of all that stuff and has been growing steadily since.) (Disclaimer: I'm sure there are situations in which all of those things can help, but ours was not it.)

I'm less traumatized by it than I was a month ago, and I have been trying hard to reframe it as a victory. I had an awful awful start, but I got second opinions and third opinions and went to a million appointments (okay, more like five, but five in a month is a lot) and now he's happy and thriving and I did a good job making sure he got what he needed. (Do I need to add a disclaimer here about how I would be a good mom if I chose to formula feed? You do what you need to do; I'm too busy feeding my baby to judge you.)

But it hasn't worked yet, telling myself that. I still feel like I failed him for not educating myself better, for not advocating for us better (I had just hemorrhaged, I was not exactly at the top of my game...), for not giving him the very best from the first moment of his life. Even telling myself that I'll know better next time doesn't help, because Tad isn't a guinea pig, he's my baby, and his babyhood matters just as much as his hypothetical younger siblings'.


Now I'm crying, so let's change topics abruptly.

Remind me never to say things on here like, "Cloth diapers contain poop-splosions much better." They do overall, but I think I must have tempted the poop fates a little too much because on Tuesday Tad had his worst blowout yet. I decided that the best solution to having poop all over myself and the baby was to strip us both down and hop in the bathtub. So we did. Tad sat on my lap and kicked his legs curiously for a few minutes, and then I drained and refilled the tub and stuck him in his baby tub for some photo ops.





We did make it to the LLL couples' meeting last week. It was fun even though we didn't know anybody (the person who invited me didn't show) and there was lots of candy. Did you know Dove dark chocolates come in a mint variety? I need to figure out where to buy myself some of those. Om nom nom.

Then on Thursday, Tad and I went to a regular meeting. I actually knew/recognized three of the women there--two had been at the couples' meeting and the third was my chiropractor. (That might be awkward at some point.) Chiro's two-year-old daughter is adorable. She kept offering her organic dye-free fruit loops to Tad and we had to explain to her that he's too little for anything but milk. ("But thank you for SHARING," her mother emphasized.) That meeting was fun too, though there was no chocolate.


Scott actually went to the office three times this week, which I think is more than he's done since before Tad was born. He telecommuted on Wednesday because his allergies were acting up, and again today because we had a winter storm warning. (By midafternoon the storm had started in earnest and Scott's company sent out an email saying everybody should go home. So it's a good thing he was already home.)

Anyway, I feel very accomplished because I did not get overwhelmed and call my mother in tears even once. My kitchen is very messy, but maybe we'll catch up on that over the weekend.


A couple of weeks ago I managed to figure out cradle hold in the ring sling and therefore how to nurse Tad on the left while wearing him. I am pretty much unstoppable now. On Sunday evening I used my newfound skill to make mint chocolate chip cookies. (They would have been just regular chocolate chip, but I remembered I had peppermint extract lying around.) Scott did most of the getting pans in and out of the oven, granted, but I still felt accomplished.

Now the baby is fussy, so I should get us both to sleep.

For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!

Friday, February 7, 2014

Seven Quick Takes 2/7



Here's another video of my brilliant and adorable baby for your viewing pleasure:


Update: Okay, it wasn't working and trying to fix it just made it worse. :( I'll have to try again in the morning.

It's a good thing he's cute, since he seems to think lately that bedtime is for screaming, not sleeping. On Sunday and Monday nights he refused to fall asleep until I walked him in the sling for a good long while, and then the only way to keep him asleep was to lay down in bed with him, sling and all. (I made sure he didn't have fabric over his face.)

Then last night even the sling only calmed him down somewhat. He finally exhausted himself a little before midnight and we both slept fitfully until 6 a.m. I am tired now.

Adjusting to life with a new baby has been very much a two steps forward, one step back thing thus far. For some reason I always forget this and whenever we take a forward step I start making grand plans of Doing All The Things. Then the baby does things like scream at bedtime to remind me that he's still really little and needy and I'd better slow down a bit.

And then other times he's asleep and I think, "I should set him down and go do the dishes", but I don't, because already I miss when he was a tiny squishy newborn and all we did was sit around all day.

Scowly baby disapproves of extrauterine life.


I started cloth diapering him last week (since he only just got big enough for my one-size pocket diapers), and it's not actually that much work compared to disposables. Yes, I have to wash and hang-dry and stuff the diapers, but it's actually easier than emptying the trash every day and wading through slush to the dumpsters to get rid of disposables. And rinsing off the poop* doesn't take any extra time since the cloth diapers are much better at holding in poop-splosions, so I'm not changing and stain-treating his clothes constantly.

*Yeah, you're not supposed to have to rinse off the poop for an exclusively breastfed baby, but this kid has skillz in the pooping department. Plus it doesn't hurt me to get into the habit now.


Our food + grocery > other spending for January was something like $450. Yikes. That does include food and stuff for the baptism party, but I'm still glad that our diapering expenses should be considerably less this month.

Speaking of food, I now have a menu planning/recipes page. Check it out!


My siblings haven't gotten a lot of airtime here lately, so I present some funny Facebook stories. First, a status from my mom about Teresa:

Oh and my big girl yesterday at Kroger insisted on unloading the grocery cart into the van and closing the hatch and returning the cart all by herself. I was told to go sit in the van and take a break she was handling it.

And then two statuses (stati?) from my dad:

I tried to put Matthew in his bed with a cup of milk so we could eat, but he howled so badly that I went and got him.
"Cry," he said; "door."
"You were crying because I shut the door?"
"Yeah."
I don't remember having conversations with my other children like this; I mean, the boy is still only two.

Matthew, just now, pointing out the window: "Pretty."
Me: "Pretty? What's pretty?"
Matthew: "Sun."
Me: "The sunset's pretty?"
Matthew: "Yeah."
Me: "Awww."



It's amazing how much my introversion has abandoned me now that I'm a mom. Maybe it's because I find it more difficult to get lost in my mental world with a baby who cries for no apparent reason sometimes. Anyway, tomorrow Scott and I are planning to go to a LLL "couple's meeting." I have no idea what it is and I probably will only know one person there, but I will seriously cry if the weather turns south and we have to miss it. Talking to grownups who won't care if I breastfeed in front of them? YES PLEASE.


In conclusion, here's a picture of my baby in a penguin hat:


For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!