Weekend Visitors

Ya'll (anytime I am around Wynnes, talking to Wynnes, or talking about Wynnes my Southern accent comes out like hillbillies at a Stone Mountain laser show); ya'll, this past weekend one of my Dad's sisters and her Daughter, Haley (my Cousin, for those of you with no sense of deductive reasoning) came to visit us.

I have been going to Pickens, Mississippi (I bet ya'll didnt know that I was from a place called PICKENS. There is an actual story about how it got it's name: something about a man with no shirt on, picking his nose and falling off a bridge to his death. No lie. I am not making this up. This is what they told us as children. Right before handing us the keys to the riding lawnmowers so that we could pretend they were cars and the backyard was the grocery store -- in hindsight maybe not the safest practice ever -- but so much fun) anyways... I've been going to Pickens at least once a year since I was little, but since my life has gotten a little move-across-the-country-then-back-to-the-northern-most-tip-of-the-other-side-of-said-country-have-an-unexpected-baby-in-the-middle-of-a-research-heavy-graduate-program-support-husband-beginning-new-career busy, we have not been able to visit Pickens in a couple of years.

Ya'll, (see how I did that?) no trip that has ever been made by any human being in the history of the world has ever meant so much to me. It was Haley's first time on an airplane ever, and while I was a little bit sad that her premier trip on a big steel bird took her from one podunk town RIGHT to another, I had so much fun with her. I am in the process of staging a hostage-negotiation-scenario so that her parents will let her come back up in February for her birthday.

Here are some pictures of them loving on Miss Evie. Watching Angie with her was really emotional for me because it was exactly what I imagine it would have been like to watch my Grandma with her... Angie has every single one of her good qualities: her selflessness, tender heart, and steadfast values. And I just love her so much. And I love her daughter. And I loved watching her daughter with my daughter.

Please come back soon! (as if you have a choice... hostage. negotiation. remember?)

Consequences

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton must not have ever cared for a newborn because, according to his law, a little thing like giving a child formula should never result in the ABOMINATION that finds its way into Evie's diaper once every two days. The smell is enough to fry your brains and make your eyeballs bleed.

Seriously, formula is super convenient and all, but I'm not sure it is worth the entire second floor of our house smelling like the public restroom at a refried bean factory. We had an...err...episode...today, and here was the precaution that had to be taken in order to make sure that neither myself nor Graham threw up all over Evie's cute, polka-dotted rug.

Parenting makes you quite resourceful.

For reals: I have the best husband in the world.

Stinky McNasty Face

This look is specifically reserved for her parents.

And yes, I know that this is the "gonna-be-crawling-in-less-than-a-month" stance.

I don't want to talk about it.

CIO

We have been slowly Ferberizing Evie over the past week. Or trying to, anyways. That said, I haven't actually studied his method, but rather have taken bits and pieces of what I know about Cry It Out and used it with the little one.

I know that this method isn't always looked kindly upon by Moms, but I had to. HAD TO.

Lately, I have been getting no sleep. Like, you know those National Geographic shows with the mangy, flea infested Lion who is knawing on the once-whole leg of a one-whole Zebra?

That Lion? That's Evie. And that dead Zebra with no hope for a future or happiness? That's my sleep.

See? HAD. TO.

We have run into a few glitches along the way. Like finding out that Evie is as addicted to her swaddle as some people are to Heroin. Yes, my daughter is a swaddle junkie. She is currently looking for a sponsor if anyone is interested. I can't do it because, frankly, after about 15 minutes of her screaming I am all "just do it. just USE already."

*As I am writing this Evie is log-rolling across the basement floor. Completely. Mobile. I am terrified.*

Cough, Cough

Ugh... this was the worst Halloween ever.

Graham and I have both been feeling really crappy and, well, it seems as though we have been struck with a case of

THE SWINE FLU

(insert canned laughter here)

I am a big fan of the trendy-social-phenomena costume.

Plus I DESPISE sexy halloween. And what is less sexy than an infectious pig?

On Using the F-Word

Things have been busy around here. And I dont like busy. I like lazy. If my entire life consisted of getting out of bed solely to shower and use the toilet I would be quite pleased. But things have been busy around here...and I can honestly say it has been the most blissful kind of busy.

It's a dizzying dance of kisses, cuddles, and coos...and suddenly I am in love with busy.

But with work and school and graham and studying and evie and my hoppin' social life, pumping 5 times a day has really begun to cramp my style.

Solution: Formula. Cover your ears, sensitive readers, because I'm gonna say it again.

FORMULA!

Before you go dropping an anonymous tip to www.reportaterrorist.com let me tell you - I am still pumping twice a day. Evie's diet is still about 80/20 breast milk to formula...so just go ahead and unwad those panties. I'll give you a moment.

So we are not the worst parents in the world. Maybe somewhere down there with Courtney Love, but still not quite as bad as John Phillips or Charles Manson. She is still getting breast milk... so we are not the worst.

But it does mean that we are officially slaves to the soul-sucking-price-gouging-Similac-Empire. Oh, hello there, poverty line, how did you get above me?
It also means that Evie's little baby poops are going to start smelling. This is according to the "experts" (read: people who spend their time giving moms all around the globe unnessecary anxiety and guilt. Those who preach and don't do. The crappiest people ever.) But that's a risk I'm willing to take. Plus, her poops smell pretty bad already. Like father like daughter.


Seriously: like father, exactly-identically-completely-totally-utterly like daughter. IN EVERY WAY. I don't even think she is mine. I know that I have not always had the most positive things to say about parenting...but everyone should go out right now and make babies. Because you will never know a love like it. It's totally worth it. Totally. Sore boobs, saggy belly and all.

Things That Go Bump

It doesn't take much to scare me. Scratch that; it takes absolutely nothing to scare me. Chances are, you could be telling me a funny story and I would start shaking uncontrollably in my Michael Kors boots just because it's dark out.

And my mind wanders.

Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that my mind can go to such dark places. But it does. So who am I to dwell?

And you may think it could be explained away. Like: girl watches too many scary movies. Except that I don't. Not even scary commercials. When those come on I cover my ears, close my eyes, and LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALAAAAAA until Graham smacks me; signifying the commercials' end. So no, there is no explanation except that I am a weenie. A big oscar-meyer-scardy-mcweiner-face.

So imagine my sheer horror when, the first time I made my way up to my advisor's lab, I was faced with THIS:

An elevator so scary... soooo old... so absolutely terrifying that every time I am in it my internal dialogue goes something like this:

Dear God, Please don't let a face pop up in that window. Please, please, please don't be a face. Pleasedontbeaface! Pleasedontbeaface! Pleasedontbeaface! PLEASE DON'T BE A FACE!!!

If I fail out of grad school I am blaming it, solely and completely, on that elevator. And then I'll go to the Dean and complain because HOW CAN THEY EXPECT PEOPLE TO FEEL SAFE IN A SCHOOL WITH ELEVATORS LIKE THAT?!?