amendment a

Friday I was awakened by the cowboy's alarm clock at 4:15 a.m. (because he has four new calves to feed), so yesterday doesn't count. Today I am in Indy with the kids, sleeping on the futon. I woke up, checked my ipod (which was still on, because I fell asleep while watching "Arrested Development" on Netflix), and . . . 5:38.

We are, of course, on Eastern Time.

does it mean anything to you?

This is not really a blog, so much as it is making note of something.

5:38 a.m.

I have been waking every morning for a couple of weeks now at 5:38 a.m. No alarms, no reason, just waking and glancing at my cell phone to see the time. Sometimes I go back to sleep, sometimes not.

I don't always look to see the time, but when I do, for the last few weeks, it's always 5:38. I haven't checked since last week, but today, as soon as I woke, I glanced at my phone - 4:38.

FOUR-thirty-eight? Oh yeah, time change.

When I wake early, I always assume God is waking me so we can talk. So I pray, and listen. But why THAT specific time? Any ideas?

oreo speedwagon

I love my new little minivan. Mostly. See, I've had this Honda Odyssey for ten weeks now, two-and-a-half months, seventy days, and I CANNOT GET USED TO THE STUPID BUTTONS!!! Everything is backwards. Granted, I've been driving Ford products for the last two decades, but sheesh! The gear shift is on the dashboard, not on the right side of the steering column, so every time I try to put it in reverse, I wash the back window. The back wipers twist to turn on, the front wipers click up to turn on, though if you click up three times, the back wipers still come on. If you click down, the back wipers will squirt fluid and start to swish. The headlights are on the left of the steering column, where the wipers SHOULD be, so every time I try to turn on the headlights, you guessed it, I wash the back window. And who KNOWS where the blinkers are, as I have to search for them each and every time. The door buttons pull back to unlock the car, but push up to unroll the windows, so when I attempt to lock the doors, I roll down the windows instead. And the handle to pop the hood??? Let's just hope I don't have engine trouble any time soon. Though if I do, you can rest assured I will have the cleanest back window in the Honda service department.

a little nap moo-sic

If you're over the age of 24, you probably remember the "cow toy" or maybe even the "pig toy". Back in the late 80's you could see these toys displayed on tables in front of certain mall stores like Kirklands or KB Toys. These animals would waddle a couple of steps, make their appropriate animal noise and wag their tail or wiggle their nose or some such cuteness.

We were lucky enough to own both such farm critters.

When Kacey was a baby, we did the whole nursery thing: crib, rocking chair, changing table, toy chest, etc. After investing several hundred dollars in this set-up, I discovered I didn't like the changing table AND that we were "family bed" people, meaning the only time we got crib use was when I wanted to clean house during her nap time . . . like, say, once a month or so.

On one such day when Kacey was about 7 months old, she fell asleep and, feeling an inexplicable need to vacuum, I took her upstairs, put her in the crib with some of her "babies", covered her with a blanket, and pulled the nursery door closed, leaving her to snooze peacefully for a couple of hours. I would check on her from time to time, as Kacey was such a good-natured baby that she almost never cried. When she woke, she would just wait quietly, staring at her toes or making mouth bubbles or whatever else 7-month-old babies do. On this day, however, she woke SCREAMING. Not the "I'm hungry" cry, or the "Where are you, I'm all alone" whimper, not even the "I HAVE DIAPER RASH AND MY TUSHY BURNS!!!!" wail. This was a full-blown scream of terror.

I flew up the stairs (as all super-moms do), rushed into her room to find her flailing in one corner of her crib, blanket entagled around her feet as she frantically attempted to escape it. Poor kid. I picked her up, checked her out, and soothed her mini-freak-out. She was fine. Once I had her quieted down, I heard a tiny little recurring "mooooo" from under the blanket that had been twisted around her feet. I turned off the little cow she must have inadvertantly kicked on in her sleep, and we went off to play.

A few days later we were sitting in the floor of her room reading books and playing with blocks, when I set the cow between us and flipped him on. He started to waddle and before he could "moo", Kacey was in full-blown screaming freak-out mode.

Seems when she kicked on our little bovine friend, his electronic noises woke her, and not being able to escape from under the blanket that imprisoned them both, she experienced her first panic attack.

She never could play with the cow again.

Though, every now and again, for my own sadistic entertainment, I would flip it on in front of her and laugh. Seems Super-Mom has a dark side.

the winter of our discount tent . . . my own Shakespearean tragedy in six acts

We used to have this little, gray two-and-a-half person tent. We might still have it. Somewhere. The point is, we used to sleep in it. No, the point is, we used to lie down in it and wish we could sleep. The other point is, it reminded me of the following:

To pee or not to pee
That is the question. Many, many moons ago I tagged along on an overnight retreat to this island in the middle of the lake, armed with nothing but a few coolers, fewer tents, and a fishing boat. I knew what the sleeping arrangements were, but it never occurred to me to ask what the facilities arrangements were. Turns out, the facilities arrangements were not. We were completely sans potty, not even a respectable wooden outhouse. So, "to pee or not to pee?" The answer is no. Not to pee. Not once. I managed to "hold it" for 36 hours. Yes, I did. Might be my greatest accomplishment to date.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks
I needed sleep. I was 7 months pregnant with my firstborn and this was critical stretch-mark timing. I did not want to be tossing and turning and straining . . . and stretch-marking. We camped on the beach with our sweet friends, Shawn and Pam on our way to The End of the Road in Homer, Alaska. Pam and I got the tent. I don't know where the boys slept, but, in retrospect, I suspect they shared a king-sized air mattress under the stars, while Pam and I were left to sleep on rocks. Not sand. Not dirt. Rocks. And while there were no resulting stretch marks, the pitting from 7 hours on the rocks lasted a good week. I'm just sayin'.

To sleep, perchance to dream
Two years after "tent on the rocks", I spent a couple of weeks at summer camp as the activities director. Kacey was two and tagged along easily, as 50% of this camp was comprised of teenage girls who refused to let her walk. One night, at 7, Kacey fell sound asleep during the hour-long devotional time. When we got to the tent around 9, mommy was sleepy, as I had been awake since 4:30 a.m., but Kacey was WIDE awake. Anyway, being the good mommy that I am, I couldn't just go to sleep until she did. So I rocked her and scratched her little back and sang her songs. Lots of songs. Repetitive songs. Annoying songs. Old MacDonald's Farm turned into a zoo, Found a Peanut took me from "It was rotten" all the way to playing a harp in hell, dear Liza nagged on and on about The Hole in her Bucket, and The Wheels on the Bus went round and round and round and round and . . .

Sweets to the Sweet
I want to preface the rest of this story by saying we opted NOT to give our children sugar, in any form, for as long as we could manage it. And we had managed it to this point. No soft drinks, no cookies, no M&M's, just a healthy little girl who was very happy to eat fruit and veggies. So, the Wheels on the Bus went round and round and round and mommy fell asleep . . . and woke the next morning to find my daughter face down on the floor of the tent, deep in a self-induced sugar coma, her little body encircled by a rainbow of wrappers from eating an entire BAG of Starburst she found in the suitcase. An ENTIRE bag. She liked sugar.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears and your washer
In 1993, we went to Gatlinburg on the absolute cheapest vacation we could plan. Well, maybe not THE cheapest, because we could have gone to visit my parents, who would have fed us and babied us and entertained the kids, but we wanted an adventure. We planned to tent-camp, fish, cook our own meals and sleep in the two-and-a-half-person tent . . . all four of us. It was the cheapest vacation we could plan . . . because we had no money. I mean, we had NO money. If we had, you KNOW I would have been tracking down the nearest Hyatt Place, but there was NO wiggle room in the travel budget.

The cowboy didn't want to make reservations. After all, we were just tent-camping, we would just "wing it" and camp when we found a place that suited us. The internal organizer in me tried to protest. She screamed inside my head, "NO!!! We have children and I'm a bit neurotic about spontaneity if it's not scheduled in advance! But I decided to play along. We went in June. I mentioned Gatlinburg, right? In June? And the fact that we had no reservations? Well, I had reservations alright, but not the kind that held a place for us to pitch our tent. So at 5 p.m. we started looking for a place to camp . . . and finally found ONE open site just after 11 p.m.

Out, Out Danged Spot!
The spot we got was on the trail to the bathhouse, so every person who walked by us woke Kevin up and Kevin, being only WEEKS old, only knew how to do one thing when he woke up: scream. Which he did. Continuously. All night. And Kacey, age 6, was forced to sleep at a 90-degree angle with her head above ours and her feet in my kidneys. Did I mention Kacey is a kicker? The next night, our car broke down, and I was left on the side of the road for 2 hours with two hungry kids, Kevin being the only one able to use me as a vending machine, while Gregory dealt with mechanics and tow-trucks. Paying to get the car fixed meant the travel budget was now seriously overdrawn. We caught no fish. Kacey got a tick the size of Luxembourg embedded in her skull. By the time we left our spot and headed home, we didn't even have enough money to do our laundry. So when we hit Nashville, instead of taking I-40 home to Jackson, we took I-24 straight to Mom & Dad's house. When we arrived, I put my son, still in his carseat, on the front porch with a note that said, "My family is destitute. Will you please take us in, feed us, and let us wash our dirty laundry?" I did a "Ding Dong Ditch" and ran back to the car.

By the time we went home the next day, we were frustrated, broke, and Kacey had a lymphatic infection. But our clothes were spotless.

horsegirls

As I sat in the Tennessee Miller Coliseum this weekend, about as interested in the Saddle Boy Competition as a toddler is in church, I learned that I was the only person in the 3,000-seat arena playing Sudoku on an iPod instead of watching the events. I also learned THIS . . .

Fifteen Reasons I Can Never Be a Cowgirl:
1. I do not have a cowboy, or in my case, a cowgirl hat.
2. I do not wear boots, well not cowboy boots. (Pretty sure those thigh-high red leather boots in the back of my closet don't count.)
3. The only cow I care to ever rope better be served medium rare with a baked potato.
4. My jeans are flared, not boot cut, and with these hips I don't need a belt, making it impossible to display a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island.
5. I have never seen National Velvet, My Friend Flicka, The Black Stallion, or even Disney's Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
6. I do not wear flannel . . . except for my footie pajamas.
7. I was disappointed to discover that burros are not deep-fried, chocolate-dipped burrito/churro combinations.
8. I do not walk outside, breathe deeply and say, "I love the smell of horse manure in the morning!"
9. I do not have visible studs or rhinestones on any of my clothing. Visible.
10. I don't smoke. That's not to say, however, that I'm not smokin'.
11. I never wanted a pony as a child, not even for my Barbies. All I wanted was a blond, tan Ken doll (the one in the Hawaiian shirt) and the Barbie Winnebago.
12. Salad dressing is the only ranch I am interested in. And even then I prefer a nice raspberry vinagrette.
13. I'm deathly allergic to country-western music. Seriously. I hear it and my ears start to bleed.
14. I have no idea what cantering is. However, if it has anything to do with people bringing me hors d'oeuvres, I like it . . . oh wait, that's not cantering, that's catering. Never mind.
15. Based on the fact that my vehicle was the ONLY mini-van in the Coliseum's four enormous parking lots here at the Saddle Boy Competition, I have to assume it is illegal to pull a stock trailer with a Honda Odyssey.

I also learned that cowgirls get a bit testy when you ask them why they aren't more appropriately called horsegirls. And I learned when wishing a cowperson "Good Luck", you should never, ever say, "Break a Leg!"

i'll be right back . . . not

I do NOT love horror movies. I do not care to watch throats slit or axes through the chest or decapitated heads rolling around or bowels spilling out onto the ground. But, when I was in high school, well, let's just say that Freddie and Jason and Michael Myers (the one who chased Jamie Lee Curtis, not the one that says "Groovy, baby" with a British accent) were must-see-horror-viewing. Poltergeist, The Shining, When a Stranger Calls, The Amityville Horror, Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and my personal favorite, Friday the 13th.

It could be my favorite because it starred a very young Kevin Bacon at the beginning of his career. Or it could be because it takes place at a summer camp in 1980 - and who doesn't have amazing memories of summer camp 1980? Or it could be because the scary Crystal Lake forest noises sound a bit like Lamaze breathing.

Whatever the reason, this little slash-and-stalk flick has a kitschy quality for me. It has great heckling properties. The acting is atrocious. The dozen not-too-bright camp counselors spend their pre-death scenes running around in their underwear, alone in a midnight thunderstorm just begging to be killed. The dialogue consists of each character, in turn, saying, "I'll be right back", which of course, turns out to never be true. And, as is the case with most horror movies, the dumber and sluttier you are, the sooner you come to a quick and violent and bloody demise. Much too much for me to stomach nowadays.

Tonight, while flipping channels during the Yankees/Rangers game because the score had been 2-0 since the first inning, I ran across "Friday the 13th" on AMC. AMC? You know what that means? That means the boobies and blood have been edited out. YES! Score! I can watch this little gem without averting my eyes or losing my turkey sandwich! So, that's what I do. I watch.

But watch what? Turns out, there is no story line in this 90-minute screamer. "Friday the 13th", when you edit out all the nudity and violence and sex and gore, is just 12 minutes of a bunch of dumb people walking around in the dark.

big blog trouble

I keep running out of blog ideas. Yesterday I googled "Fun Things to Blog" and got page after page about how to do product reviews and interviews and political rants and household tips and all I could think was "WHO WANTS TO READ ABOUT THAT???" Actually, I guess a lot of people do, but they aren't the people reading my blog. Of course, if I blogged about those things, maybe they WOULD be the people reading my blog.

I could write about my current life's excitement, but last night I watched "Assault of the Sasquatch" on Chiller, and it was so bad I couldn't even heckle it, so I spent 2 hours stalking people on Facebook instead. This morning, I am sitting on the couch watching another movie and using a pile of unfolded laundry as a blanket because my hair is wet and I'm freezing and I don't want to get up and get dressed because I might miss the part where Stanley Tucci sucks his housekeeper's toes. It's quite disturbing. Using the laundry as a blanket, I mean. Stanley Tucci sucking on toes is a riot. (If you share my sense of humor, the movie "Big Trouble" is a must-see. Mike, this does not apply you.)

What I really should do, according to my mother, is write a book. At least 3 of you keep telling me I'm Erma Bombeck-ie, who was quite the best-seller back in the 70's. The rest of you, of course, have no idea who Erma Bombeck is, but she was hysterical, and wrote newspaper columns and multiple books ("If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits?" and "I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression") She shared the difficulties of being a stay-at-home mother and housewife. I, however, haven't been a stay-at-home mom in nearly 7 years, and my only difficulty as a housewife is figuring out how I'm going to afford a maid to clean my house once my son goes to college next year and I can't use him as free slave labor.

I'm now to the part of the movie where the guy who plays Kronk is running naked through the airport, Tim the Tool-Man Taylor is attempting to throw a nuclear bomb off a charter plane to the Bahamas, and the spirit of Martha Stewart is barking "Arugula!". In the meantime, though my toes are warm under the pile of towels, my wet hair has turned into icy dreadlocks.

Seriously, I have nothing to blog about.

a love letter

I am completely in love with you

you have stolen this heart of mine

with your cute little dent and your sweet face

with your precious toes

with the noises you make when I kiss you

with the way you smell

I want to bury my face in your neck and breathe you in

and I would be perfectly happy

if I could just hold you forever

Not THAT kind of action movie

I have always been a moderately-picky mom when it comes to movie "appropriateness" (LOOK IT UP. It's Scrabble-acceptable.) Just because a movie is rated "PG" does NOT mean I would allow it, nor does an "R" rating mean it is automatically banned. I am much more apt to allow violence than I am sex, more apt to allow language if it is in context and not superfluous. Anyway . . .

I was telling my husband the other day about an "action/adventure" movie my mom suggested for us to watch when Kacey was about 12. We rented this movie based on her recommendation, and it turned out to be on the verge of pornographic . . . seems my mom only managed to see the "adventure" part of this movie and had slept through the 20 minutes of "action". Anyway . . .

As I was telling him about it, I was describing how this was back when we were first beginning to branch out into "adult-themed" movies. Then, feeling the need to clarify what could be misconstrued, I said, "Not as in 'ADULT, adult-themed, just that she was 12 and we were coming right out of watching movies like 'Free Willy'."

"Well," he replied, "Isn't THAT adult-themed???"

better living through blogging

not to mention the $13.24 I made from advertising
The best part of blogging? Having a journal of my life. Oh, that's so not true. The best part of blogging is when you people tell me I'm funny. It's good for my ego. But the journal thing comes in at a not-too-distant second.

Why does she always push me to be a better person?
Last month, when the girls made the 5-hour drive to Indy with me, we did a lot of talking to pass the time. When the conversation lagged, we would look to Sara D. for new topics. She suggested we each come up with a list of 30 things to accomplish in the next 12 months. Jessica served as our secretary and wrote them all down, but in the excitement that was "becoming a grandmother", I forgot about the list. Jess gave it to me this week. I won't post the list, but I will say, that in the 30 days since making it, the only thing I have been successful at is "Choose a Grandmother Name". Call me an overachiever.

Long-distance cooking
My son just texted to say he has arrived in Indianapolis safe and sound (he made the drive all by his big-boy self). His sister just texted to say she is feeding him the Baked Ziti I made and froze while I was there. Hahaha. Gotta love the irony that Kevin had to drive 5 hours to get a homecooked meal from his mother.

not exactly wonder woman

I have two superpowers: the ability to almost always know, without looking at a clock, what time it is, and the ability to remember trivia, specifically from the 60's, 70's and 80's.

The first superpower can be quite useful, at least personally. For other people, not so much . . . mostly because of a lack of trust. "Do you know what time it is?" they ask. "Yep. About 4:20!" is my response. They will inevitably dismiss my answer when they realize I don't have a clock and go in search of someone with a cell phone or watch or other timepiece, only to find the actual time is 4:21. So, the superpower remains useful only to me. I mean, if nobody else is willing to hold onto my cape when I take off, then it's not my fault they don't get to fly.

The second superpower is more a skill than an innate gift. I can tell, almost always, the exact year of a song, movie, political event, fashion trend, or pop culture fad. Even skill is the wrong word. It's more a by-product of a mobile life and a brain for details.

This morning in church, Wayne asked about the song, "Celebrate" and I responded with "Kool and the Gang, 1980". I know, because the first time I heard that song, it was a fall morning, and I was listening to WKYX as I was getting ready for school. I liked the song instantly, ("it had a good beat and you could dance to it). I remember thinking it was going to be a big hit . . . it became our prom theme that next spring.

St. Elmo's Fire? 1985. I know, because I had a suit almost identical to the one Ally Sheedy wore, but I couldn't wear it the next year, because I had been pregnant and it no longer fit.

Los Angeles Riots? 1992. It happened just days before I found out I was expecting Kevin.

9 to 5? Christmas 1980. I know, because I saw it with my best friend on New Year's Day and it was the first thing I recorded in the 1981 "Miss Piggy" Calendar he gave me for Christmas. Oh, yeah.

Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"? 1987. I know, because MTV was about the only channel worth watching in Anchorage, Alaska in the middle of the night when I was awake with my firstborn for 2 a.m. feedings. It was a very different MTV then.

Jessi Colter's "I'm Not Lisa, My Name is Julie"? 1975. Barry Manilow's "I Write the Songs"? 1975. "Rock and Roll All Night" by Kiss? 1975. I know, because for my 12th birthday, my parents let me have their stereo (complete with a totally awesome turntable) and, because they didn't have a clue what kind of music I would like, they bought me the #1 record in all three genres: country, rock, and pop. (This was in the pre-8-track and really pre-rap days.)

Ronald Reagan's shooting? Spring 1981. I was in Mr. Wilson's English class.

Toe Socks? (Originally) 1975. I gave them as Christmas gifts to all my best friends in the 7th grade. They were so cool, and so ridiculously uncomfortable.

The last time the Chicago Bears won the Super Bowl? 1986. I know, because I recorded it as a major event in Kacey's baby book.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? 1969. Easy. That one was released on my 6th birthday. I watched it from the back of our station wagon at the drive-in while wearing footie pajamas.

Nixon defeats McGovern. 1972. It was the only thing on tv the night my sister and I had a boy for a babysitter at our apartment in Texas. He was boring. So was the election. At least to a 4th grader.

Okay, I've probably made my point. Yeah, my memory is pretty good. At least with the long-term stuff. But mostly, because I moved 24 times in the first 24 years of my life, I have a frame of reference for everything. If I can remember WHERE I was, then I automatically know WHEN it was. It's not exactly rocket science, but sometimes it makes me look smart. And I can use all the help I can get.

my side of the story

She was completely in denial from the beginning. Contractions had been 8 minutes apart for a good four hours, she had cleaned the bedroom, taken a shower, asked Nathan to vacuum, had me lay out the birth supplies and still she kept saying she wasn't in labor. I finally convinced her, mid-afternoon, to let me give the midwife a "warning call". She reluctantly agreed, still fearing this was a false alarm. Contractions continued, the time between decreasing to 5 minutes, the discomfort increasing until she could no longer walk and talk through them. She had been in labor for over seven hours when we finally called the dogsitters and the midwife.

Only a couple of short years ago, my daughter informed me of two things: 1) she would not be having children this side of 2013, (if she had them AT ALL) and 2) she was NOT like me when it came to the whole "crazy natural childbirth" stuff.

Now I found myself massaging my daughter's lower back, watching her handle early labor like a pro, with her very supportive husband labor-coaching like a producer for "The Business of Being Born", and awaiting the midwife's arrival for my granddaughter's grand entrance via a non-invasive, non-medicated homebirth.

The midwife arrived at 8:30 and asked if we wanted to know how far she was dilated. We debated for a minute, preparing for the distinct possibility of only being at 2 centimeters. When the midwife announced "7 centimeters!", Kacey was forced to admit, for the first time all day, that she was, in fact, in labor.

She compliantly continued to breathe and squat and kneel and rock and walk and do all the right things to keep labor progressing. Even at the height of transition, after one of her most difficult contractions, she stated, "I can do this. This is not so hard." Then her water broke and the pushing phase began.

Because the names in my blog have not been changed to protect the innocent, we shall suffice it to say that my beautiful grandchild was trying to exit eyebrows first, but with a conehead Jane Curtin would have envied. Needless to say, pushing was NOT a relief. It was nothing short of excruciating . . . for Kacey and for me. Nathan and I held her and encouraged her, and when she cried and said she couldn't do it anymore, Nathan whispered sweet things into her ear . . . and Mom left the room and sobbed. As I said in a previous blog, parents are not wired to watch their children in pain.

I pulled myself together and went back into the bedroom in time to see the baby crown, in time to see Kacey's relief at the realization that her daughter's birth was close, in time to photograph things I can never share with you, or anybody else, without fear of serious retribution . . .

and in time to witness two parents fall instantly in love with their child.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty . . . " or why you should insert your tongue into your cheek before reading this post

Last week I had the combined privilege of going through 14 hours of labor with my daughter, experiencing my third homebirth as a doula, and witnessing my grandchild take her first breath.

Only a few minutes after my granddaughter made her amphibious move from water to land, we had our picture taken together. I immediately uploaded it and posted it on my blog and on facebook, even before the midwife left. Once posted, I received shocked comments like:

"I want to know how you got all dolled up with lipstick and earrings for this picture at 1:51am?!"
"You don't look like the grannies I remember!"

"You are both beautiful"
"She is lovely to look at, just like you!"

"You are one HOT granny!"
"Two beautiful dolls."
"Stephanie, you look so beautiful!"
"She is GORGEOUS, and so is granny."
and
"Yeah, I am joining others in asking how you look so BEAUTIFUL at 2 am after helping birth someone?!?!? It's just wrong, you know?!?!?!!?"

In response to these comments, I have developed my:

Top Ten Reasons I Looked Gorgeous at 2 a.m.

10. I went to Indy under the guise of helping my daughter "get some work done", when in reality I was the one "getting some work done".

9. I just had my eyebrows waxed. Everybody knows arched eyebrows make you look amazing.

8. I wasn't the one squeezing an oversized eggplant out of my, well, you know. I was merely a sideline coach. Besides, Kacey pushed with her eyes closed, so I had 48 opportunities to sneak out of the room and touch up my lipstick.

7. I have on black clothing, which is slimming . . . and has the added benefit of not showing the blood and amniotic fluid I was covered with.

6. I'm wearing Revlon's Photo-Ready Foundation, in Porcelain Ivory. Clearly, it works.

5. This is my clone. I'm actually downtown sleeping at the Hyatt.

4. My nail polish and earrings were coordinated with the polka-dots on the receiving blanket. It's the "matchy-matchy" thing that tricks you into thinking I look great.

3. I'm like a fine wine . . . I get better as the day wears on, be thankful you don't have to see me first thing in the morning.

2. I'm COMPLETELY in love, which, as you know, makes you glow.

And the Number One Reason I Looked Gorgeous at 2 a.m.
1. Do you KNOW me??? Why WOULDN'T I look gorgeous at 2 a.m.???

I'm busy, busy, shockingly busy . . . much much too busy for you!

Yes, I will blog about the birth once Kacey has had a chance to tell the story herself. After all, it is her story to tell. Besides, I am WAY too busy being the mother of the mother and enjoying my daughter's new daughter to have time to write this week.

I spent 10 days here in Indianapolis before the baby was born. We cleaned house, we stocked up on groceries, we cooked several meals and froze them for later, we did laundry, we organized the nursery, we made a trip to visit the midwife, we went to an Indians baseball game, we went to the Children's Museum, we went to the Art Theater, we ate at Buca di Beppo's (Italian) and On the Border (Mexican) and Machu Picchu (Peruvian) and Abyssinia (Ethiopian) and Hirosaki (Japanese) and we all three still managed to get work done as well.

But that was NOTHING compared to the grind of the last four days. Since the baby has been born we have:

Stared at the Baby.

I am SO not kidding.

It's amazing how much time you can spend just looking at the baby. See the baby. Oh, the baby is lifting her head! Oh, the baby is sucking her thumb! Oh, the baby smiled! Did you see her smile? The baby is hungry. Oh, wouldn't the baby look cute in the polka-dot outfit? Oh, the baby opened her eyes! Doesn't she have pretty eyes? The baby needs her diaper changed. Oh, the baby is squeaking . . . listen! Oh, isn't that just the most precious noise you have ever heard? Oh, I think she must be the MOST beautiful baby EVER (next to her mom, of course, who actually WAS the Most Beautiful Baby Ever). Okay, maybe it's a tie.

Anyway, you can see why I haven't gotten any blogging done. It's been quite strenuous.

Next blog post: I will address the shock and awe over my incredible beauty that is plaguing so many after assisting with a 14-hour labor and delivery. . . stay tuned. Oh, I think I may have dangled a participle in that previous sentence, but I don't have time to deal with it now . . . the baby needs me to look at her.

Yes, she knew

It has been a long day. My daughter is one amazing chick. My son-in-law is precious. And my, uh, daughter's beautiful daughter was born at 1:51 a.m. (Eastern time) on September 7. She weighs 8#12 ounces (so did her mom) and was 20" long (so was her mom) and has a head full of hair (so did her mom). She also has an adorable little dimple in her chin (so does her dad).

Her name is Mayah Taylor. Mayah is Hebrew for "Close to God". Taylor was a last-minute surprise. It is her uncle Kevin's middle name.

As you know, I have stressed and wrestled with a name for myself. I'm not in favor of the name change. I just want to be me. ME. So, I'm just going to be M.E. (Pronounce the initials, like "Emmy"). I think it suits me.

Midwives are getting ready to leave, Mayah and her parents are bonding, and being a doula for my daughter was 100x more difficult than I anticipated. Parents are not wired to watch their children in pain, as some of my dearest friends know all too well.

It has been a very memorable LABOR Day.

The best part is . . . Kevin was WRONG, and I was (what?) RIGHT!

Well, okay, maybe that was the second best part.

does she KNOW what tomorrow IS?

Why is it when we name a couple together, we usually say his name first then hers ? Paul and Nancy, Philip and Sara, Glen and Vicki . . . BUT when we name them as parents or grandparents, HER name always comes first? Mom and Dad, Nana and Papa, Aunt and Uncle, Grandma and Grandpa? This perplexes me.

Nathan & Kacey's puppies lay in the floor and lick each other's tongues. For a long time. Not gonna lie, kinda grosses me out. It's like a doggie make-out session.

The last time my son came up here to Indy to visit, he talked about how many burgundy vans he saw. We have church friends who drive a full-size burgundy van, and one of them is from Indianapolis. Kevin thought somehow there must be a connection. I laughed at him. I shouldn't have laughed. In the 9 days I have been here, I have seen about 75 full-size burgundy vans. Not mini-vans. Not white vans. Full-size burgundy vans. It's like the birthplace of "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'." Makes me laugh. Then again, I'm easily entertained.

Nathan did a fantasy football draft with the guys tonight, so while he is debating between the "Underhanded Assassins" and the "Baby Daddies" for his fantasy team name, Kacey and I went to dinner, bought some doggie treats (not in the same location), made a pre-breakfast stop for Cinnamon Crunch bagels (THIS WILL BE MY FIRST ONE SINCE I GOT HERE, DON'T JUDGE ME!!!), then went by a friend's house to water plants and feed her cat. Her power was out, so we did this chore in the dark. When we got back, the power was out here too. Apparently 23,000 homes on the west side of Indy are without power. Plus, my phone is dead. Kacey and I lit a couple of candles and discussed giving birth in the dark. Turns out, power or no, with a home birth nothing really changes . . . well, except that the view of the Holy of Holies will be more obscure. (When Kacey reads this later, she will roll her eyes and give me a, "Thanks for THAT, Mom!" So, daughter-face, there is no need to say it now. Though, if you DON'T say it, it won't be true, so go ahead and say it. You know you want to.)

Now, I came prepared to stay here until the baby is born or until New Year's (whichever comes first), but it's already been 9 days plus the week I plan to stay following the birth, and she's not even here yet. So, if somebody will kindly notify my granddaughter that tomorrow is LABOR DAY, her mother and I will be happy campers.

But until then, the countdown continues . . .

move over, Alexander

I went to sleep at 3 a.m. and woke up at 7 a.m. and when I got out of bed this morning, I tripped over my laptop cord, and by mistake, I dropped my cell phone in the sink, and I could tell it was going to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

At breakfast, nobody else was out of bed, so I ate a frosted blueberry muffin pop-tart all by myself. And, I'm not in my own house, so I have to wear my pajamas, and I HATE my pajamas, and the dogs keep licking my toes.

I think I'll move to Australia.

At noon, Kacey and I took the car with no air-conditioning across town to the zoo. When we got there, the zoo was full, and they had closed the entrance gate, so not only was I glistening, I also didn't get to see the dolphins.

At Target, they were out of my St. Ives apricot scrub, and we tried to get command strips, but for the longest time, all we could find were sticky strips. I don't want plain 'ol sticky strips. They can put them on sale, but they can't make me buy them.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell because nobody texted me, and nobody sent me an inbox, and nobody commented on my blog. I don't even know where my boy is today. I hope he's not in Australia.

There was a piece of Chocolate Cheesecake leftover in the fridge last night. It wasn't there this morning.

Kacey won at Slug Bug 12 to 1. I said the sun was in my eyes. I said the sun in my eyes was making me sneeze. I said, "If you slug me one more time, I'm going to punch you dead in the face!" She just laughed at me.

I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

My debit card expired. I spilled queso on my shirt. I found a new patch of gray hairs, and I had to ride the "down" escalator and I HATE riding the "down" escalator.

Nathan and Kacey left me all alone for the night, and I was going to relax for awhile in the giant bathtub. But the bath wasn't hot, I got soap in my eyes, and I cut myself shaving.

My computer froze up. I couldn't check email, the hairdryer overheated and I broke my favorite fingernail.

It WAS a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day.

The dogs kept treating me like the Indy 500 finish line, I couldn't find Rocco's collar to let him outside, and he peed in the floor.

The tv wouldn't turn on because there are 3 separate remotes and even with my glasses on, I couldn't read the tiny letters, so I stared at a 46" black screen and felt sorry for myself.

The baby doesn't seem to want to come out, not even to see her M.E. ("Emmy"), so the countdown continues . . .

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Some days are like that . . . even in Australia.

someday I'm going home . . . but not yet

Got a haircut. Fixed beef stroganoff. Worked. Some. Not enough. Folded towels. Nathan worked tonight, so Kacey and I shared a piece of chocolate cake cheesecake and went to see a great little Independent movie called "Flipped". Came back to the house and played Scene It. Back at the homeplace, the boy went to hang with his grandparents, and the Cowboy is bringing back two (2) quarterhorses, because, you know, we don't have three.

Not really in a blogging mood, so I'm going to pray and go to bed. Goodnight.

The countdown continues . . .

SuperGator and last year's cow

I could get used to the schedule I'm keeping here. Staying up late, working from bed in the mornings, chatting and texting, then heading out in the afternoon to do fun things, all while waiting for the baby to decide she's ready to make her entrance. Or, exit. Whatever.

The original plan was to go to the zoo this morning, but it was still nearly 90 today, and tomorrow it's supposed to cool down considerably, so we just decided to do nothing . . . until I looked at my "Indy To Do" list and realized that tonight was Family Free Night at the Children's Museum. SOOOO off we went!

Seriously, isn't she the cutest pregnant girl?

My son-in-law is goofy, and a LOT of fun!

This is the blown-glass ceiling in the lower level.

Nathan & Kacey crocodile rocking.
Yep. That says B. B. King. Lucille is pretty.
I drew this to show you there is a big difference between CREATIVE and ARTISTIC. I am creative. Sometimes.

We had a wee bit o' trouble getting the camera to behave in the
Jurassic thunderstorm, but you get the idea.

And I have to admit, I was a bit starstruck to see the star of my favorite Saturday morning SyFy movie, SuperGator.
We had a GREAT time. Even more so, since it cost us NOTHING, as opposed to the $45 it would have cost us on any other day. Yea! After we finished the museum, we took in a planetarium show, then grabbed JalApeno Burgers and seasoned Fries. Amazing.


Meanwhile, back at the homeplace, my son got a "tardy" for being late to class because a teacher stopped him in the hallway to talk, made him miss the bell, then wrote him up. HAHAHA.

The cowboy has gone to Missouri. As you may recall, he went last year to get a quarterhorse because, you know, we didn't have one, and while he was gone the cow got out. Well, he has gone back to get ANOTHER quarterhorse, because, you know, we don't have two. Hope the cow stays put.

Hope your day was as wonderful as mine.