Roadshow to the Roadhouse

Last week was mostly uneventful.  Paul and I planned a romantic Valentine dinner at Texas Roadhouse using a gift card Paul got for his birthday.  That place is busy.  I'm talking traffic-after-fireworks, Walmart-on-a-Saturday-night, temple-square-during-General-Conference kind of busy.  We left at 4:30 hoping to get there before the dinner rush, but the wait was already an hour and a half when we arrived.  Andrea was home with her aunt, but we didn't want to be away for too long.  We decided to drive to the American Fork location.  After becoming sufficiently lost, and battling my carsick issues, we pulled around to the back of the building to park.  We walked around, past the dumpsters and a woman calming a baby, only to find another tremendous wait.  I looked at Paul.  He looked at me.  We turned around and got back into the car and ate candlelit dinner at the Arby's up the street.  Paul was so positive about the trip and turned everything into a joke so we still had a good time.  We concocted ways we thought they'd let us in to the Texas Roadhouse.  Paul suggested shotguns; I suggested impressive Roadhouse tattoos. But mostly we just drove and laughed.

The next day we decided to try using that gift card again.  My mom said it was much easier to get a table if you go early.  So shortly after 2:00 we packed up the baby and headed out with empty bellies.  I sat in the backseat with Andrea to keep her from fussing, but I was overheating in the sunshine.  I rolled down my window.  We pulled up into the Texas Roadhouse parking lot next to a car with doors ajar and smoking men lounging in the seats.  I made a comment to Paul about having to pull my infant out into the second-hand smoke before realizing my window was still rolled down.  I got out of the car feeling embarrassed and guilty but secretly hoping they didn't hear my rudeness.  We walked up to the front doors and heard one of the smoking men yell after us that they didn't open 'til four.  That basically motivated me to return to the car as fast as possible.  I smiled at the informative smoking man and thanked him for letting us know.  Then I threw myself in the car ungracefully and told my get-away driver to speed off quickly as if speeding off doesn't imply enough haste.

Perhaps we'll try again this week.

Last Friday, Andrea had her two month check-up.  She now weighs 9.2 lbs (14.7 percentile) and is 22 inches long (34.7 percentile).  She's getting a lot better at having tummy time and will occasionally roll over.  The rolling over, however, startles her and sometimes makes her cry.  It's exciting to watch the new things she can do.

Warning: sap ahead!

Dear Paul,
Will you be my valentine?  I know I don't shower as much as I use to and my hair is rarely fixed these days, but I promise to get all gussied up for you if you'll be mine.  I'll make you some homemade fudge and cook yummy food for your belly.  I might even get a babysitter and let you take me to Texas Roadhouse for supper.  I know, I'm too good to be true. ;)

I awoke at about three this morning just thinking about you.  As I nursed the child you gave me I made a mental list of all the things I love about being married to you.

1. I love our long drives to the airport listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire.  I love that you sing along when you don't know the lyrics and the pretend words you insert every-so-often.
2. I love when you roll over to my side of the bed and elbow me in the eye.  No, this is not sarcasm. The fact the you are asleep beside me is wonderful and I'd give up an eye for it any day.
3. When I come back to the bed from feeding Andrea, your arm reaching for my side of the bed makes me smile.
4. The concoctions you've cooked up have at times frightened me (peanut butter and jelly with Tabasco?), but I'm grateful for your ability to feed yourself when Andrea, fatigue, American Idol, other obligations keep me from the kitchen.  You've been incredibly flexible and understanding.
5. I love that you aren't afraid to ask me to edit your papers for school.  I really enjoy editing and being helpful.  It fulfills something deep inside me.
6. I love when you match your tie to whatever I'm wearing.
7. There is an indescribable joy that fills my soul watching you play with and take care of our daughter.  She smiled at you all through Sacrament Meeting whilst I melted in the pew.  What a cutie!
8. In your first waking moments early in the morning you mumble in Spanish.  I don't know what your saying but it hasn't ceased to entertain me.
9. I love this ring on my finger that you picked out yourself.  It's simple, beautiful, and means that I belong with you for eternity.
10. I use to believe I'd never get married.  I didn't think I was thin enough, talented enough, or interesting enough to ever be attractive.  But you saw past my well-endowed rump and old-lady arms and decided that I was the woman you wanted marry.  You have loved me for better or worse.  From morning breath to morning sickness.  Your faith in me is priceless.  You are everything I hoped I'd find plus three cubed.

 I love you lots and hope to be your Valentine everyday!  No roses or chocolate required. . . although I do like chocolate.

The wedding cake from you-know-where

When my friend asked me to make his wedding cake I was wondering what he'd been really drinking out of his water bottle.  I consider myself very amateur when it comes to baking and decorating.  It's just a hobby and a way of expressing a certain amount of my creativity.  He explained that he wanted just a single tier for them to cut in to.  Beneath it would be cupcakes for their guests.  I nervously agreed.  Yesterday I gathered all of my things and drove to my mom's house to bake.  Andrea needed a nap and was already fussy when I arrived.

Aunt Jelly took the cranky little darling and rocked her nearly to sleep and then laid her in the wooden chest in the living room.  I began baking and Janell went downstairs to take a nap of her own.  Before long the cakes were cooling, the frosting was mixed and the filling was waiting to be sandwiched between the chocolate sponge.  But Andrea was hungry and beginning to fuss.  With Janell still asleep and no one else to assist me I started to panic.  If I fed her then the cooling cake might dry out, but if I covered it the condensation would make it soggy.  I could not send my friend a dry or soggy wedding cake.  Although the cake was still a little warm and had a few minutes of resting time to go, my mommy instincts to feed my child kicked in and I decided not to wait.  That cake needed put together before Andrea was hysterical so it would be moist for the wedding.

This was the result of my haste. . . the cake split in two and collapsed.  I nearly fainted.  Thankfully, my younger sister arrived home from junior high and distracted Andrea while I attempted to fix the disaster I'd created.

But the cake just kept falling and bulging and melting and driving me nuts!  After much bloodshed and almost tears, I came to the conclusion that I would have to start over which required a trip to the store.  Defeated, I fed the baby and headed to Macey's to replenish my supplies.

I was frustrated, embarrassed, and expending all my energy trying not to cry.  Literally covered from head to toe with powdered sugar I remixed a cake, filling, and frosting with the aid of my angel sister who took turns babysitting and chef-ing so I'd finish cake number two before midnight.

The evening wore on, Andrea wanted to go to bed and was nearly inconsolable.  I arranged all the flowers I'd made the week before atop the white fondant.

The wedding colors were black, white, and red, and the theme was paisley.  I attempted to recreate a flowered paisley but was a little short on flowers.  Had it not been so late and if Andrea were a little more cooperative and if I hadn't already made and ruined cake number one, I may have made some more flowers.  But I was out of strength and willpower, and my back hurt.  So I called it good, scooped my poop in a group, and sluggishly drove home.

This morning my friends brother picked the cake up and I walked down into my apartment feeling such foreboding.  This was a wedding cake that would be immortalized in reception photos.  And I think I could have done better.

I just hope he and his gorgeous fiance like it.

It'll taste good at least.

Chex mix

It's February and month two of my virtuous woman resolution.  The verses of focus for this month are 13-14.

She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.  She is like the merchants’ ships; she bringeth her food from afar.

So, I've been working on a little circle skirt for Andrea.  I'm thinking it's time to finish it.  The outside layer is made from some old curtains and the inside layer is made from a white shirt that Paul retired for being too shear.  The tool is leftover from my wedding.  But making little shirts is probably not the only thing I can do to work on this goal.  I have a pile of mending that followed me when I moved in September.  Perhaps it's time to tackle it.

Bringing my food from afar. . . that one has me a little puzzled.  I guess I could drive down to Provo to buy groceries, but I doubt that's what this verse refers to.  I'll have to do a little pondering and reading and get back to you.

This morning Andrea and I were playing on my bed and she was making the cutest little noise that I decided to record it with my camera.  Afterward, I laid down beside her and turned the camera around to show her the video.  She watched herself and made noises at herself.  How I wish I had another camera to take a video of her watching the video.  It was just the cutest thing so I made her watch it four or five times for my own personal amusement.

On Sunday Paul gave Andrea her baby blessing.  I was a little worried because it took place in the evening she's at her peak of crankiness.  I timed her feedings and play time so she'd be ready to nap by the time everyone came at my parents house.  However, she has trouble falling asleep when there's noise and people so when the bishop arrived she was crying like, well, a baby.  Just before the Rowberry's arrived she finally drifted off.  As an answer to my prayers she was quiet for the entire event.  It was sweet experience.

Andrea in her blessing dress with her Aunt Juju.

It was also his birthday so I made him a cake!  I decided to just use buttercream to decorate it.  But I broke my mom's mixer and had to mix the frosting by hand so it was a little lumpy which made piping difficult.

But he seemed to like it just fine. :)

On Saturday a friend of mine is getting married and asked me to make his wedding cake.  It's a single tier cake with cupcakes beneath it.  When I asked what their flower was my heart sank.  White roses.  I cannot do buttercream roses.  I've tried and failed and I don't want to ruin this cake.  So I'm making gumpaste roses which is much easier.  The one drawback, gumpaste dries really fast and becomes brittle while you are working with it.

Other noise: I think our houseplant has seen better days.  Paul was worried about me taking care of a baby because I can't seem to keep one if the most hard-to-kill houseplants alive for very long.  But in my defense, the plant doesn't cry when it's thirsty, smile at me when it's happy, or incubate inside me for nine months.  Still, I have feelings of guilt when look at my sad little plant stick.

And this picture is just cute.  Andrea's little foot is the size of Paul's big toe.  Awww!

No longer newlyweds

While Paul and I have vowed to stay newlyweds forever, the part of newlywedom that we most want to hold on to is the holding hands at the grocery store, Paul getting my door for me, playing in the snow, acting young, being in love.  And we have continued to do these things even with our new addition.  But there are some newlywed habits that we have dropped.  It's the sign we've been married for over a year.

We no longer count how long we've been married and announce to it who ever is close enough to hear.  Sure, in 2009 every month after May on the eighth day I had to re-proclaim my love for Paul by telling my boss and coworkers that it had be exactly one, two, three, four months since I'd been married.  I see this on facebook all the time.  New brides post on their status something to the effect of:

• We've been married for exactly two weeks!  Love ya babe!
• One month and twelve minutes ago I married the man of my dreams.
• I'm making pizza for our six week anniversary!
• Next Tuesday I'll be celebrating three months of marriage!  I hope he buys me a gift.

And when asked how long they've been married they are all to eager to answer:

• 128 hours!
• 10 days!
• 57 days!
• 4 months, 3 days, 6 hours, and 17 minutes!

But Paul and I are old now and when asked how long I've been married I say, "a while" or "coming up on two years."  It's all a game of rounding now and on the eighth of this month you can be sure I won't be updating my facebook to let everyone know we're having our 21 month anniversary or that there's 138949 minutes until our two year.  I grew out of that like all newlyweds do.

Last night I realized there was something else we've grown out of.  Full-time listening.  As a newlywed every word your partner speaks is the single most important thing they've ever said, at least since your twelve day anniversary.  I remember how closely I listened to Paul talk about food or his favorite color because they were all clues on how I could make his life most wonderful.  He'd mention in passing how he likes a good sharp cheese or the color green and two days later he'd have a plate full of forest green macaroni and cheese, made from scratch with the sharpest of cheddar.

Well. . . times have changed.  Paul no longer accidentally drops hints.  He drops them on purpose.  For weeks he's been mentioning sweet potato oven fries and I finally put them on the menu only because he was with me as I wrote the shopping list.  Otherwise, I'm sure I would have forgotten again.  I suppose I'm not as attentive as I use to be.  I was feeling a little guilty about that.

But last night as I ranted about my disdain for wasabi I ended my monologue with, "You know what I mean?"  I listened to the silence as Paul, who had been half-listening, missed the question completely and continued his evening routine with out a reply.

It reminded me of a trip to IKEA that Paul and I took when we were dating.  We sat in some rocking chairs placed side by side and dreamed of life as an old married couple.

"Ethel!"  Paul shouted in a crusty old man voice.  "Have you seen the dog?"

"What did you call me?"  I shouted back.

"What?  Speak up I can't hear ya!"  He hollared.

"There's no need to shout.  I'm not deaf!"

We both laughed at how cliche our little scenario seemed.  And then he took my hand and we sat and rocked in those two parallel IKEA chairs until a small group of shoppers crashed through our dream world.  We vacated the area so they, too, could have the opportunity to sit and dream of retirement.

See?  We are getting ever closer to that day and working our way right on the newlywed-oldywed spectrum, hitting our "still young and in love but we're getting lazier" milestone.  And while it's refreshing not to have to keep track of so many numbers, perhaps I should pay a little more attention to Paul's hints.  Who knows, I could shock him with some sweet potato fries!  It'll be another gift for him as I work on becoming virtuous.



P.S.  Paul's birthday is on Sunday and I have no idea how I want to decorate his cake.  Ideas?


P.P.S.  Happy 2nd Anniversary to Alissa and Chad! (Also on Sunday.  Makes it easy for me to remember, no?  Silence.  You were only half-reading this weren't you?  Silence.  I rest my case.) 

Confessing

Today is a pretty good day-- one of a few I could count on my fingers this month.  I have a doctors appointment tomorrow and I suspect that I might have a little postpartum depression.  I prefer to call it baby blues.  My days are roller-coaster rides of ecstatic joy as my little girl smiles at me in the morning and deep frustration and guilt as she cries all afternoon and evening until midnight when she's too exhausted to protest a nap and finally falls asleep.  We're trying to establish a routine, but I can't seem to stay home long enough to give her the predictability she needs to learn how to fall asleep on her own.  Today things went well and when I put her down for her naps I only had to return to her room a couple times before she quit fussing and fell asleep.  But tomorrow there's that darn doctors appointment that is going to throw off her routine.  She's what The Baby Whisperer author, Tracy Hogg, calls a touchy baby.  She gets overstimulated and overtired very easily  When that takes place getting her to sleep is nearly impossible, and because she's so exhausted she just cries and cries.

I been afraid to admit my baby blues because I thought if I denied it long enough it wouldn't be so.  I've also resisted telling anyone about this touchy baby.  I suppose I have some fears that people won't love her if they knew how difficult she can be.  When people at church see me they smile really big and say, "Oh! She's beautiful!  Is she a good baby?  I bet she's a sweetheart."  And she is. . . sometimes.  And I love her like crazy.  Her forehead is pealing and I've been wondering why until yesterday when I kissed her and ended up with snowy skin flakes stuck to my chapsticked lips.  Perhaps I've kissed the skin off her forehead.  I just can't help it though.  I'm crazy about her, and she drives me crazy, and I worry if people knew her fiery little nature they wouldn't want us around.  Especially in the evenings when she cries the most.  It's all very irrational.  But finally admitting this has been very cathartic and liberating.

It's okay that I'm not perfect right now.  It's okay that I'm a little broken because I can heal.  It's okay that my daughter is who she is because even though I see a lot of this:

I see a lot of this too:

And this:

 

And this:

And this:

 

And this:

 And this:

 

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And other people really don't care so much about her sleeping habits because they don't have to put her to bed.  I'm going to stop worrying now and make myself a sandwich before she wakes up.

People say the darnedest things

I've been amazed at some of the things I've heard people say since becoming pregnant and having a baby.  Mind you, the most shocking phrases have not come from uninhibited children or old ladies, but from average middle-aged women.  I began noticing this early in my pregnancy when store clerks who asked about my peculiar purchase of a case of ramen noodles for morning sickness would also ask me about my puking habits. I brushed it off as polite concern, but soon it became a regurgitation of their puking stories.  A few weeks of morning sickness and I was very familiar with all the different foods that the strange women around me had been vomiting.  But aside from the "TMI" factor, what I couldn't understand was why these women were telling an obviously green, nauseous pregnant woman stories about their more disgusting bodily functions.

After fourteen weeks or so the morning sickness subsided and I was able to eat normal foods again.  Naturally, the puke stories subsided too.  By then, my baby was growing and, slowly but surely, a small baby bump began to form in my lower abdomen.  Now, complete strangers felt they had they had exclusive rights to information about my uterus.  Thankfully, after monthly doctors appointments, talking about my uterus seemed so natural.

Next came questions about my weight.  People I hardly knew thought they were privy to such information asking about how much I gained and what my pre-pregnancy weight was.  One would never ask the a woman about her current weight but when she's pregnant she's suddenly suppose to reveal that secret number.  Go figure.

The last couple weeks of my pregnancy as women found out I was almost due a new question cropped up.  Strangers at JoAnn's fabrics and cashiers at Wal-Mart were asking about my cervix, which is yet another organ one wouldn't dream of asking about under any other circumstance.  I had daily inquiries.  Had I not been so proud of my 3 centimeters dilated and soft cervix this, too, could have been awkward.  However, by this point I was practically volunteering this information to anyone who seemed interested.  Apparently, I say the darnedest things too.

After talking so much about my body for eightish months I've lost a lot of my censors.  Saturday night I sat in my parents living room visiting with my dad and I caught myself telling him my rough estimate of how much milk my breasts make. . . information I'm sure he could have lived his whole life without.  I now have a marginal understanding of grocery store women, so these days it's very rare I hear them say something that shocks me.  But last week at Target. . .

I pulled up to the register with my little tag-a-long all bundled in her car seat.

[Exhibit A.]

The woman behind me peaked at my baby and became concerned.  "Does she have a shrunken head?" She asked in a worried tone.  I turned around to get a good look at her serious face.  I was speechless.  (It takes a lot to render me speechless.)  I pulled the blanket off Andrea and said the rest of her was small too.  Looking mortified and embarrassed, the woman apologized.  While my loved ones and friends have given me many phrases I could have used in this awkward moment, I still am in shock that someone actually seriously asked me this question and think if faced with this scenario again I would react the same.  Like a deer in the headlights.  Who honestly says things like that and thinks it's okay?  I like the point my cousin, April, made.  What if her head really was shrunken.  Thank you for pointing out my child's deformity.

Still, I wasn't really offended, just incredibly shocked.  I just. . . I don't. . . wow.