Home Alone 2 and Scary Noises

#scarylife strikes again.

Seriously, Will Tate cannot leave the house for more than 30 minutes before something terrible and horrible happens. It’s like the Lost Monster is just waiting outside to swoop in and terrorize us the minute he turns on to the access road of 1604.

Last night, he was traveling for work and I thought – “Ahhh…. so comfy I get the whole bed to myself  Oh, I’m going to miss him so much, but surely with Halla and Baby here, there’s strength in numbers and Girl Power and all that.”

Well, in Baby-expression-language, you’d be:

seriouslywrong

Also known as “seriously wrong, fool.”

Because at just about 4 a.m., up from the first floor, there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Or, in actuality, I laid in bed and got really scared of burgling. And monsters.

Obvi, I couldn’t investigate this situation on my own. So instead, I went across the hall, sleepy-eyed and crazy-haired and exhausted, and said, “Abby, there was a scary noise. Come downstairs with me.”

To her credit, she got up and retrieved a weapon. Ignore the fact that it was a pretty delicate-looking glass lamp. She valiantly unplugged it and carried it like it was a club or a bat or something. I got a tiny can of paint, because when there’s a burgling menace in your house, you obviously think, “Maybe, in the process of fighting for my life and defending my home, I’ll do some touch-up work on the baseboards .” (Actually, I was thinking I should open the paint and prepare to throw it in the face of our intruder. Enterprising of me, I know.)

So, we crept down the stairs and trepidatiously turned on a light, ready to spring and attack with our Weapons of Mass Destruction.

It was a whiteboard and magngets that fell off the cabinet.

Don’t worry – Halla still bludgeoned it with the lamp. Baby slept through the whole incident. 

My First Mother’s Day, or Why Didn’t I Celebrate this Earlier?!

Thanks to having the best husband and most perfect tiny person in my life, Mother’s Day was great. To sum it up – a lunch visit to my office on Friday, lots of snuggles and mommy/baby selfies (apparently getting her started early) and a Sunday date with the best card and fab present. Please note that she’s not all that excited to realize that she has to give presents instead of just continuing to receive (thanks everyone for the unending stream of gifts we’ve enjoyed over the past year’s span). 

 
I really don’t know why I wasn’t celebrating this holiday any sooner. All I had to do to get these gifts, after all, was go through 19 hours of unmedicated natural labor, lose my ability to sleep in, change approximately 17 million diapers and spend the rest of my time basking in smiles and cuddles. Motherhood is a lot less wine-drinking playdates and pop-the-baby-in-a-bag-and-let’s-go-to-Europe-during-maternity-leave than I expected, but it’s so amazingly wonderful. Happy Mother’s Day to everyone, and the happiest mother of all is me. :)

PS Also, shout out to the utterly helpful Halla, who makes being parents so much more enjoyable for me and Will. 

It’s all Greek to Me

Listening to Percy Jackson on audiobook just confirmed for me that I have never ever announced a single Greek name correctly. 

Except maybe for SPAAAAAAARTA! And Nike. 
But seriously, ancient Greeks, you have probs. Ogygia? Ephialtes? Really? It’s no wonder your language went extinct. 

A Regal Announcement

 


There’s only one REAL royal baby, peeps. 
(PS Kate, if you’re reading this, I’m totally kidding. Please let Noelle be best friends with the new baby and/or marry George. Okay – thanks!) 

There are Those Who Can’t Be Trusted

You know, there are some things, and some people, that cannot be trusted.

There are the kind of people who hear a secret, then can’t wait to run and tell that.

Run and Tell That Homeboy.

Homeboy.

There are the kind of people who go around stealing other people’s significant others or who go do horrible, bad, unspeakable things to #bilc member Ed Sheeran… when they’re on the SAME. FREAKING. HOTEL. FLOOR. Yep, getting all indignant on his behalf.

So, what am I getting at here? There are people who you cannot trust. These people, even though you think of the best of them, will let you know, will fall beneath your expectations, will do the unspeakable.

I am that person.

I am that person who cannot be trusted.

I am that person who cannot be trusted to be left alone with a jar of Cookie Butter.

For anyone who lives in South Texas, but under a rock or something, you should know that H-E-B now has their own brand of cookie butter. And it is too delightful.

(Photo cred: HEB Twitter account)

So, as you might expect, I bought some. And, as the intro to this post should have spoiler-ed you… I fell prey to its tastiness and showed zero restraint. And by showed zero restraint, I mean that I dug into the container with a spoon and with the kind of enthusiasm typically shown by fence-escaping beagles, archaeologists and anyone who has ever encountered a fresh tub of Nutella.

It was a blood bath, peeps. Or, to be more exact and picturesquely disgusting and grotesque, a butter bath.

Abby AKA Halla, who is living here now (more on this later) asked about the cookie butter, because I foolishly mentioned its deliciousness to her (note to self: if you like something, tell NO ONE) and she couldn’t find it in the pantry.

“Oh, it’s in there,” I said, before going back to playing with the baby.

Several hours pass. She asks about it again. I have to go to the pantry and point out its clearly visible location (behind several rolls of Saran Wrap, a loaf of bread, a bag of super-healthy and therefore of course unconsumed flax seeds, and some Kettle Chips) and explain, shamefacedly, why there’s about half a jar already gone (note to self: hide snacks better).

At this point, peeps, I should mention that, even for a breastfeeding mom, eating half a jar of a buttery spread is frowned upon. And should be stopped. Keyword – should.

So, what am I to do? Obviously, exerting self-control and eating it in moderation – perhaps with an apple or some other healthy nonsense – is out of the question. Don’t be ridiculous. I have determined the only way to deal with it is full-on shunning: The cookie butter shall be buried under a mantle of oblivion (read: trash) in the deepest darkest depths of obscurity (read: the recycle bin in the garage). And then, maybe, we will be safe and can begin to rebuild that circle of tastiness-related trust.

Or, maybe, like Miranda, someone might have to take matters into their own hands and check me in to the Betty Crocker clinic.

When she turned the conversation into a story about how she ate garbage cake:

(Image: Buzzfeed)

We Have Reached a Pivotal Point Here

As of today, it is officially a discouraging and multi-step process to put on socks and boots.

I feel for the people who are nine months pregnant in a Texas summer heat wave, but can’t help thinking that just slipping on flip flops sounds pretty good right now

However, counting blessings –
Just a couple of weeks to go and it’s not arctic-level cold outside. Slip-on flats could well be a possibility this weekend again!

Getting Carded

I know that getting carded is, apparently, one of the great ironies of life. You get carded when you’re young and don’t want to be. Old ladies simple and giggle when young waiters card them (aka flatter them with lies to get a bigger tip).

But seriously, wouldn’t you think the grocery store checker could maybe – you know – not check ID for a person who is eight months pregnant? It’s pretty obvious, I hope, at this point that I’m not buying a six-pack of beer for myself. Apparently not at HEB though…. And apparently the HEB checkers would be fine with me downing a few bottles of ale and giving my fetus fins and gills, just as long as I make sure I’m over 21 while doing it. Sheesh.