Hard Hitting Journalism

So.... I've been tired lately. Really, really tired. My body is starting to feel the wear and tear that comes with pregnancy and I've probably been pushing myself a little too hard. I go and go and go during the day, and I don't sit down to take a break. It hit me hard last night, and Jason made me promise that I would start relaxing a little bit during Chloe's afternoon nap. 

And now, I'm sitting on the couch, relaxing. I turned on the TV, which I rarely do, and started watching "Tyra". Oh dear Lord, help me. The show is about people who eat strange things. 

May I introduce, Toilet Paper Girl. And strangely enough, Toilet Paper Girl...the girl who eats a roll of toilet paper a day...comes off way more normal than the host of the show.

This is a serious condition, I'm sure, but that's not what's keeping me watching. It's Tyra's hard-hitting questions. Let me just rattle off a short list. 

Is the toilet paper scented?

Does it taste like marshmallows?

How full are you afterward?

What brand do you like?

Do you eat toilet paper while you go number one and number two?

So you mean that you sit on the toilet and eat TOILET PAPER WHILE YOU GO NUMBER ONE AND NUMBER TWO? (Can you just imagine Tyra's facial expression?) 

This is precisely why I don't turn on the TV during the day. Nothing but trash. But I'm still sitting here watching. Maybe this is why is she still has a TV show. You can't help but watch the crazy. 

A Letter to My Thighs

Dear Thighs;

Yes, I'm talking to you down there. I don't know if we've ever formally met, but I think you know who I am. I'm writing you this letter because I feel there are a few things we need to discuss. 

First of all, let me tell you how much I appreciate you. You've allowed me to do things in my life that I love. Mainly, running. I haven't always liked you because I'm a silly girl, but now I've come to appreciate your athleticism, your shapeliness, and your strength. I accept you for how you are. 

Let me get down to it. We need to talk about this whole pregnancy thing. You really enjoyed the first one, and now you are REALLY enjoying this one. I need to make something clear. Just because I'm pregnant, does not mean that you can become pregnant too. I'm not meaning to hurt your feelings, but you've expanded. Like really expanded. I think that someone's been feeding you doughnuts and ice cream on the sly. 

I feel like I need to give you a little pep talk. So here it goes. We're going to continue running. I know you hate it. I can tell you hate it by the soreness, the chafing, and the way my running shorts ride up ever so uncomfortably on our runs. Your subtle, yet painful protests have been heard. But your requests to stop will not be met. 

Here's the way I look at it. We have 9 more weeks until this baby should be here. Let's keep it up. Let's not allow this pregnancy cause us to explode more than we already have (except for in the belly region, of course). We can do it! 

Thanks for all of your hard work,

Morgandi

P.S. Not to scare you, but remember when we ran that little half-marathon in 2007? 

(Arriving home after the Chicago Half-Marathon in 2007. I wore that disgustingly sweaty outfit, along with the medal all day. I was too proud to take it off. That's just plain gross.)

Well, we're gonna run another one at the end of May. Yes, this May. As in May 2010. And training is scheduled to start one week after my due date. Sorry. It might be in your best interest to stay mildly in shape during this pregnancy so that the training doesn't kill us both. Enjoy your pregnant days while you can, but tell whoever is feeding you doughnuts and ice cream to stop it. I really can't afford to buy a new pair of larger maternity jeans. Thanks!

If Only

My firstborn. 

The happiness and joy she brings into my life. When I look at her I feel so much. How can I not? She's a little miracle. 

Lately, there have been times when I look at her and feel a little tinge of guilt. I thought we'd have a little more time it just being the two of us. It's not that I feel guilty about having another baby. There's plenty of love to go around. I think I just wish that I could somehow explain things to her.

I want to get inside her little brain and speak to her in a language that she can perfectly understand. If I could, I would explain how much I love her. Explain to her how she's changed me in every way possible. Explain to her that I will feel the same about her regardless of how our family grows. Explain to her that a sister is a great thing. That I have one, and they're not so bad. As a matter of fact, they usually become your best friend. At least mine did. Explain to her that no matter how busy things become or how my full attention for her may become compromised in her eyes, that I know her. 

That I know her every breath, every sigh, every tear, every laugh, every smile.

Perfectly attuned. 

If only.

I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go my dear. -E.E. Cummings

A Blog is not a Baby Book.

9 Months:

Chloe turned 9 months old yesterday. She had her well-visit this morning and is doing great. Her doctor said that she is right on target and then called her a feisty little thing. I couldn't agree with her more.

I'm posting her stats merely due to the fact that I need to remember these things for when I fill out her baby book, which is currently collecting dust in a drawer somewhere. I have to keep reminding myself that a blog does not count for a baby book. A blog does not count for a baby book. A blog does not count for a baby book. One of these days it will sink in.

Height: 27 inches

Weight: 20 pounds, 1 ounce

Here are a few things she likes to do: 

-Crawl. 

-Pull herself up to standing.

-Cruise. 

-Walk, with help.

-Clap. 

-Sing.

-Listen to music.

-Look at my Vogue magazines. I'm proud.

-Say ma-ma, da-da, and ba-ba directly.

-Babble. 

-Growl. I never said she was completely normal.

-Read books. 

-Eat anything and everything. Especially things that I don't get vacuumed--paper, dirt, dust,      hairballs. But she mainly eats veggies, fruit, meat, cheese.

-Feed herself.

-Swim.

-Laugh.

-Smile.

-Give kisses.

-Sleep.

-Play independently. But loves playing with mom and dad. Especially dad.

-Be tickled.

-Play with other babies and kids.

Someday, when she asks to see her baby book, I predict this will happen. I will hand her her baby book, and it will be completely blank, except for this note.

Dear Chloe,

I am sorry. For the story of your life, please visit http://myblogmlashley.blogspot.com/. 

Love,

Your Mom

I Finally Got It

The point of buying a nice camera was to take great pictures of our family. Important pictures. Like Halloween pictures, and birthday pictures, and Christmas pictures. 

Oh, Christmas pictures. They have become the bane of my existence. I wake up at 3:30 every morning panicking about Christmas pictures. It has taken three photo shoot attempts, three different weekends, three different outfits, three different locations and multiple threats of taking her to a photography studio. I'm mainly to blame. I've had quite the learning curve with the camera. Amateur doesn't even begin to describe it. But I can also blame my little stinker. She loves the camera at home. I pull that thing out and she starts posing. No joke. But when it's important-like an actual photo shoot, she wants nothing to do with it.

She spends the time licking her jacket:

Biting her bottom lip:

And her favorite pose of all time. Bawling, uncontrollably:

But this weekend, I finally got it. Beautiful pictures. She was actually (somewhat) looking at the camera, and she was smiling. Relief. Maybe I can finally stop waking up with panic attacks.

I can't show you the pictures yet. We're saving them for Christmas. But I can tell you that they all include a tutu that looks like it puked up my daughter. And it couldn't be any cuter. 

Is there anything cuter than chunky, baby thighs? 

I'm beginning to think not. 

Opening Mail

First of all, is it really December? DECEMBER? I'm still stuck in October somewhere.

I got a letter in the mail from my delivering hospital the other day. I had a near panic attack.

At first, I thought it was a bill for 5 million dollars worth of blood work. 

Then what was actually inside made feel light headed, wobbly, sweaty, and made my face turn red. 

Pre-registration forms. For Labor and Delivery. To have a baby. A real baby. A baby they expect me to birth.

But I still have 11 more weeks until my due date. That's still like 5 months away, right? And don't they know that my babies like to gestate for at least 48 weeks?

Oh well. I'll fill it out and send it in. And I'll feel light headed, wobbly, sweaty, and my face will be red the entire time. 

So I guess I'm having a baby, ya'll. 

And in conclusion to Sunday's overly dramatic post...

I chose sanity.

Thank you for all of your comments. You were all so encouraging and gave me the confidence to make the choice that was best for us. Sometimes my perfectionistic and headstrong attitude blows things out of proportion. I have a new paci deadline. Age 12. That way I won't be disappointed, right?