Category:

Living Well is the Best Revenge

8/16/2011

This entry is dedicated to my mom and my sister.

Because I'm a fall birthday, I started high school at the tender age of 12. While this is an awkward time for most, I was no exception. Braces, glasses, weird hair, and hand-me-downs from my sister did nothing for me. My hot-mess geek status was magnified by the fact I tested out of most of the freshman-year courses offered and was subsequently sent to live among the sophomores. And these sophomores, who hailed from nicer, more affluent suburbs than my own, were smooth, polished, and well-spoken.

It was a disaster, to say the least. And a total nightmare for 12-year old me.

The worst was study hall. Two sophomores by the names of Tim* and Ken* took great pleasure in torturing me for 42 minutes a day. I saw them during 3rd period Geometry and both sat behind me during 4th period study hall. Maybe it was my appearance or maybe it was my age, but they believed I somehow held all the right answers in math class and therefore they had the right to want/need/demand my homework. Constantly. When I refused, the teasing started.

Like any good bully, they lived for my reaction. It went from mild teasing in study hall to actually seeking me out between classes. They liked to yell my name, watch me blush, and use all kinds of play-on-words with my last name. My heart sunk every time I saw these two. It was like the Gruesome Twosome and I hated their very existence.

Something clicked in my brain, however, when freshman year ended. Relieved to be away from them for summer break, I spent my time earning money by transplanting plants and flowers out of my grandma's garden and mowing lawns in my neighborhood. I earned enough money to purchase contacts. A week late, I got my braces off. My mom paid for me to have a nice haircut, and I started paying attention to the way I dressed.

Now, it's not exactly the stuff that romantic comedies are made of. There was no montage set to music and I certainly was no glamour-puss at the end. My appearance made me simply more accepted in general society and no longer a fashion pariah. But the best was returning to school in the fall and seeing Ken and Tim's faces the first time they saw me. Oh, they still teased - but the teasing took on a much more gentle, almost flirtatious tone. They weren't jumping out at me from dark corners and cackling my last name for all to hear. And by my junior year, there was no more teasing at all. Just nice smiles and sheepish grins. There was loose talk that both wanted to ask me to prom, and though it never materialized, it was delicious and satisfying and still makes me smile to this day.

Boo-ya.

I learned an important lesson at an early age:

Living well is the best revenge.

After the disaster that was our wedding in 2006, similar feelings of despair flooded me. I was simply in shock that everything I had worked so hard to do - 22 months worth of planning and tens of thousands of dollars of our own money - was destroyed at the hands of one person in the span of several moments. What was worse was that person took no responsibility for their actions, offered no apology, and actually had the nerve to attack us - again and again. What happened next can only be called the Greatest War Fought Over Email ever, and it tore me apart. I started having panic attacks, I had trouble sleeping, and began to fear for my physical safety. I lived in my head most of the time, wondering when the next howler would arrive in my inbox, and it was torture. Pure torture.

After about seven months of this, again, something clicked in my head. I just got fed up with feeling afraid. I told myself I can't let this person ruin my life or my marriage, and while I can't control their actions, I can control mine. So I quit my government job, repainted our entire house, and opened a private practice. I started working less, cooking more, and enjoying life again. And as I reminded myself during the entire year that was 2007...

Living well is the best revenge.

Now, I'm in a similar place. I thought I was doing okay after my father's passing, but I happened to notice at the gym the other day that I was going twice as fast - at a higher resistance - on my elliptical than anyone else around me. Where was this frantic, frenetic pace coming from? Why was I pushing myself? What am I running from?

It made me think about the last two months. I've had this insatiable urge to purge everything from our house. I want to clean every single closet, organize the garage, and ensure there is not a single weed in our lawn (a futile effort, I'm discovering.) No fork is out of place, no hanger is turned the wrong way, and by god, every label will be facing forward in my fridge. (which is cleaned and polished, thank you very much.)

Ditto for Junior League work. Every day during nap time, I throw myself at the computer and work for a solid two to three hours. I don't want to stop. I want to create a fantastic newsletter. I want to increase community awareness for our projects. I want to make others proud, and in doing it, I'm logging about 15-20 hours a week. I'm exhausted, cranky, but something inside of me is pushing me to go further.

(I'm sure my committee members are just delighted to read they are part of my latent grief reaction. Sorry, ladies.)

When it comes down to it, I'm pushing and pushing and pushing myself because of one reason: I'm pissed off. I'm mad at the Universe. I'm mad that my dad was only 60 when he passed away. I'm angry that forces beyond my control saw it fit to take a kind, loving, generous man from his family while other douche-bags walk around, totally healthy. I'm pissed that my mom is suffering. I'm angry that there are no easy answers to any of this.

In short, I'm just plain old pissed off.

Hell, I painted my toes blue. A tribute to my dad, but also a proverbial middle finger to the Universe. You want to take my dad? Fine; I'll rebel. I'm not going to conform and be appropriate; I'm going to paint my damn toes blue.

(Yes, I recognize this is a very quiet, very geeky way to rebel. Next, I will likely get a tattoo or something. Except I hate tattoos, so that will never happen.)

Most mental health professionals would tell you that anger is the processed carb of emotions - it's quick and easy, but in end, you are left still hungry and vaguely unsettled. I get it. I know there is a short shelf life for this behavior. But at the same time, as I looked around the gym that day, I started tallying up what I've done in two months. I've lost eight pounds. The newsletter is on par to be a great publication that may hopefully increase community awareness of our projects. My house is a testament to organization.

So really, it's not all bad.

Because if the Universe wants to take my dad, I'll fight back.

Living well is the best revenge.

*real names; I will not protect the guilty

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Because I Can

7/14/2011

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Yesterday I painted my toes blue.

Happy feet

Because I can.

Because I wanted to.

Because blue is my dad's favorite color.

And because every time I look at my feet now, I smile.

(Ironically, my dad was never one for painted toe nails. If he were here now, he would pronounce my toes the ugliest things ever, and why do I do these things to myself? Knowing this part makes me just chuckle more.)

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Days of Our Lives

6/27/2011

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Twenty days ago, my plane touched down in Chicago.

Fifteen days ago, I hugged my dad good-bye, told him I loved him, and told him to "fight the good fight."

Fourteen days ago, he entered the ICU due to high blood sugar and vomiting.

Eleven days ago, he passed away peacefully at the age of 60.

Seven days ago, my mom, sister and I attended my dad's wake and met with all of the people who's lives had been touched by my dad. It was beyond humbling, to say the least. I don't know when a child gets a chance to see their parent in a different light, except in this type of situation, and it was so wonderful to meet the people he worked with, hear stories about my dad as a supervisor, or a friend, or a cousin. The man I called "Dad" wore many hats and he wore them all well.

And six days ago, I eulogized my dad at his funeral. Below is the transcript of what I wrote. I'm publishing it for two reasons: 1.) My heart is not in writing right now, and I think this sums up what I feel right now, and 2.) because of the ending. If you'd like to do what I suggest, please let me know. I know my family would appreciate it.

***********************

On behalf of my family, I’d like to thank all of you for being here today.

Last week, I started to get really sad. Knowing how sick my dad was, I realized it was unlikely he was ever going to see the Cubs win a World’s Series in his lifetime.

And then, I realized that is probably true for all of us.

(note: okay, so this was supposed to be a joke. However, essentially no one laughed. I personally still think this is funny - mainly since the Cubs are going to be terrible for a long, long time - but according to Brian, my official eulogy commentator, he felt no one really laughed because they weren't expecting something humorous. So either, in my first attempt at stand-up, I bombed. In a Catholic Church. Good times.)

My dad was many things – an avid Cubs fan. Mostly a Bears fan. An occasional Colts fan. Before he retired he was a supervisor, a co-worker, a mentor, and an occasional pain in the butt. After he retired, he was a golfer, a napper, a world traveler, and still, the occasional pain in the butt. He was a husband, a father, and most recently, a grandfather. He was a perfectionist, a fair man, a humble man, a proud man and loyal to the core. You always knew where you stood with my dad.

My dad was a proud, quiet man. He was a perfectionist to the end, and if you had the honor of calling him a co-worker, you know what I mean. He knew how to get things done, and they had to be right. He instilled this belief in my sister and I at a young age, and to do this day, I can still his hear voice in my head: “Measure twice, cut once.” But what he was really saying was, “Use caution. Be thoughtful. Do it right.”

My dad didn’t like to make a big deal out of his accomplishments. He was probably the handiest guy I’ve ever known. He literally hand-crafted softball trophies from the machine shop he worked at, with precision and skill. He built desks for my sister and myself growing up to make sure we had the necessary tools to succeed in school. He whittled pens for us and even built our kitchen table. Most recently, he took great pride in building beautiful wooden toys for his grandsons. He was amazing, gifted, and incredibly talented. We used to joke with him that his mustache always had a constant dusting of sawdust in it. But I can tell you, I can’t smell sawdust without thinking of my father.

One of my favorite stories about my dad’s abilities came when my parents were building their current home. He had grown accustomed to going to the lot after work to check out that day’s work. One night, as he was repairing some dry wall in a closet, another workman stumbled upon him. He looked at my dad and smiled and said, “You still here? Yeah, I know – from what I hear, the owner is a real task master. You better do that right.” My dad just smiled and nodded. His expectations of others were well known.

My dad was the hardest working man I know, and he provided for his family. He often worked double shifts, and yet remained one of the most generous people I know. I remember when I was in 6th grade and still riding on my pink Huffy bike. I had just been to the park and was mercilessly teased by the other kids for my bike, just as kids are prone to do. When I came home crying, my mom shrugged and said to let it roll off my back. Not my dad, though. He didn’t want me to feel badly, and so on his suggestion, we went out that night and bought a sleek black ten-speed. Those kids in the park never said a word to me again, and I know my dad was pleased. While he was gruff on the outside, it pained him to know one of his girls was hurting. He wanted the best for us and was so proud to be able to provide.

But probably most of all, my dad was a loyal man. He was loyal to those he loved. I don’t know many things for sure, but I know this: he loved my mom. A lot. And without fail. Their 37-plus year marriage is a testament to loyalty. It’s a marriage many aspire to but few meet. Christmases at our house always ended the same way: a special gift for my mom, usually hidden, and often times, jewelry. I’m not sure who was happier – my mom receiving the beautiful gifts, or my dad, for having selected something he knew she would love. It was sweet and touching.

Over the last few days, many people have asked me what they can do to help. I thought about this and came up with an answer. So listen closely. First, I’d like you to go home today and turn on the Cubs game. Open a beverage of your choice, preferably an MGD, because it’s cold-filtered and everything else would give him a head-ache. And then I want you think about the man that was my dad. Think really hard. And come up with a favorite or memorable story about him. And when you’re ready – whether it be in a few hours or a few months, I’d like you to share that memory with my mom, and perhaps my sister and I. Because if you believe like I do, that the best way to honor a person is to remember them, than share that memory. And that way, my dad lives forever, both in our minds and in our hearts.

Thank you.

***********************

It's been eleven days since my dad passed, and I still can't believe it.

I don't get it. I can't get it. My mind will not process this. It just won't. I feel like I've unwillingly and unhappily joined a club I don't want to be a member of - the "I've Lost a Parent" Club.

I want to resign my membership.

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Update and Some Unexpected Humor

6/16/2011

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My dad continues to rest comfortably. My mom hasn't left his side.

Thank you to everyone who left a comment or said a silent prayer for us. I can't tell you how much it means to know other people are thinking warm thoughts for our family during this situation. It really is grace to watch others offer support, kind words, or a happy memory of my dad. I had to laugh when I read Liz and Sherri's comments. I had totally forgotten about the scrunchie tree he made all of my roommates in college (which is essentially a long, tapered piece of wood with a base, so we could keep our scrunchies nice and organized. I told you he was handy). Smiling is hard at times like these, and I truly believe people live on when memories are shared, so thank you.

Speaking of smiling, I'm starting to realize that this subject elicits a different reaction from different people. I'd say for about 99% of the population, the reaction is appropriate: condolences, empathy, a squeeze on the shoulder or a big hug. But for some other people, I just look at them like, "Really? Did that seriously just come out of your mouth?"

Best example so far is Ray the Trainer. He's the guy that does the boot camp class at the gym. About a month ago, I caught up with him after class and asked if he does private training. He does. I only wanted to see him for three sessions, just to get some new ideas and workout tips, and while the man is clearly a genius at fitness (7 Iron-men and counting), he has about three brain cells when it comes to the rest of life. And possesses the empathy of ceramic tile.

So yesterday, I wasn't even sure I should go to the gym. I was crying in the car - which turned into yelling at myself in the car - which I'm sure spooked the drivers next to me. (You know how it is: "Stop crying! Pull it together! You are acting like a crazy person! ::sniff, sniff, wail.:: Baw-haaa!" [that was me crying. I am like, the ugliest of ugly criers.]) So I walked on the treadmill for 20 minutes and felt like crap, all the time wondering how I was going to make it through a full workout. When I saw Ray, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Chicago! How did you do on your diet?" I looked at him strangely and said, "Fine...in fact, I've lost weight. I just have no appetite right now." He nodded. "How's your dad?" he asked, remembering the reason I cancelled last week.

I teared up for the 300th time that day. "Terminal," I told him mournfully. "He's in hospice." He looked at me with confusion and was silent for several moments. He finally said, "So, wow. Yeah. He's like, gonna die, huh?"

I'm sure I gave him the weirdest look. I managed to spit out, "Yes. He's dying. That's what hospice is," before we started step-ups. He then proceeded to ask me "What in the world is wrong with him?" ("Colon/liver cancer"I replied tersely), was he just not on top of his health (actually, he was very cognizant of his health), and why was there grass falling out of my sneakers? I told him about mowing the lawn, and he then asked me why my dad didn't mow the lawn. Between push-ups, he informed me about his dislike of funerals ("too sad") and the creepy factor of open caskets ("I've seen too many zombie movies.")

I just about exploded. It was like someone had handed this guy a book called, "How to Say Exactly the Wrong Thing When Losing a Loved One" and he was following it to the letter. But then I realized the stupidity of this whole conversation - he just didn't know. My anger simmered and I realized that it was kind of refreshing to not be getting "that look" or told I was going to be okay. Being pitied feels like crap. And thankfully, Ray probably doesn't know how to spell 'pity,' let alone its definition, so there was no worry of that here. He didn't even alter the amount of weight he had me lifting. After awhile, I found myself concentrating more on getting through the mountain climbers and up-downs than on my family situation, which was 1700 miles away and completely out of my control.

I left the gym feeling like a new person. I had smiled - sincerely - for the first time in a long time. I had been successfully able to take my mind off of everything for a solid 45 minutes, and had some nice endorphins coursing through the blood stream. Overall, it was a great relief. So thank you, three-brain-cell Ray. Your ignorance was not only refreshing, but surprisingly therapeutic. And it made for a little dose of unexpected humor.

**********************

We leave on Sunday morning for Indiana. Blog will be dark for awhile.

Peace out.

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My Dad

6/15/2011

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So...my dad is sick.

Like, really sick.

Sick as in...not going to get better.

Other working titles for this entry included "Shaking My Fists at the Universe," "Unfair," and "In Shock." Because that's what I'm in - shock. He was diagnosed with colon cancer on May 3rd. My sister and I found out about it on May 18th. They did additional testing and found that the cancer had spread to his liver. He started chemo a few weeks ago but the disease was already too advanced.

And now, as I type this, he is in hospice care. No further treatment, no further intervention. It may be a few hours, a few days, or a few weeks.

And then...that's it.

I could expound on the fact that I am royally pissed off at the higher powers. I could talk about last week, and the endless hours spend in the hospital, the amount of tears shed, or the feeling of your heart breaking into two. But instead, I'm not going to talk about the end. That's just one part of the story. I'm going to talk about my dad - my dad before May 3rd - and what I want the world to know about him.

This is him:

My dad

Isn't he cute? This was taken at his surprise retirement party at my sister's house in 2008.

What do you want to know about my dad? Well, here are a few things:

My dad was my softball coach. I can't tell you how many hours I spent fielding ground balls with my father behind the plate. Or hearing, "You throw like a girl!" (to which I always whined back, "But I am a girl!") He used to come home from work, eat a quick dinner, and then load up the car with equipment to spend the next two hours dealing with 15 10-year old girls. I mean, who would sign up for that? But he did. Summer after summer, cold spring after cold, chilly, rainy spring. I never knew where my cleats were and couldn't find matching socks if it killed me, but there was my dad: dressed in his coach's outfit, hat rim appropriately bent, with his aviator sunglasses on, waiting for me.

My dad is the handiest guy I know. He has entire workshop in the basement and I always thought he could literally fix or create anything. He built our kitchen table. He built beautiful toys for Ben and Scotty, including a ride-on car (with a sticker on the side that reads "Bear's Trucking, Las Vegas, NV." License plate: 818-2009) and a fully-detailed wooden train with 5 separate train cars. He and I built the deck to our second house, when we still lived in Illinois, during one spring break in high school. In the pouring rain (why does it seem always be raining in the Midwest?), we dragged the lumber, cut the boards (okay, he cut them, I measured. I am a wimp with power tools) and nailed it together. It was a pretty awesome deck, if I do say.

Despite his tough exterior, he is a big softie. I'm sure he hoped for a boy, but instead, got two very girly-girls. (As evidenced by the two stories above, our gender clearly did not deter him from putting us to work.) Whenever my parents would come to visit when I was in college, my dad was notorious for giving me a quick hug and then slipping me $20, just when my mom wouldn't be able to see. "Get yourself something to eat," he'd say gruffly, although I think we both knew the money was going to pay for more fun things, like beer. The coolness factor of this move cannot go unnoticed. But that was him - he was a cool guy.

My dad loved his grandsons. (okay, now I'm crying.) He loved them like only a grandpa could. He held Scotty when he was just weeks old.

Grandpa with the wee Bear

He was there to celebrate Scotty's first birthday a few weeks early. (They were in Minnesota on the boys' actual birthday.)

His shirt says, "Grandpa 09"

On our trip back to Indiana for Christmas when the boys were about four months old, my dad draped Scotty in a Bear's jersey the moment Brian walked out the door. (I'm sure Brian's Green Bay radar went off in his head like a siren.) As we sat watching the game on Monday night, my dad frequently lifted Scotty up and waved his little arm. When I asked him what he was doing, my dad looked at me like I was dumb, and replied, "Teaching him how to say, 'Beer here!'"

Oh. I would have never guessed.

Beer Bear

I don't know what's going to happen next. I do, however, that my dad is loved. A lot. By me, by his grandsons, by my sister and my mom and all of our family and friends, and that's what counts. I also know he's the best guy I know.

Pride.

Love you, Dad.

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Indiana Adventures

6/13/2011

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Well hello there.

Wondering where I was?

Yeah, me too.

So last week was a somewhat unexpected jaunt to the Midwest. I flew out Tuesday night for the Hoosier state and returned back in Vegas last night (after what can only be described as The Longest Day of Traveling Ever. You know you are in an airport too long when you start to make friends. Which I did.)

Anyways, while I'm not going to disclose the reasons for the trip, I will share with you some of the more colorful details:

-- I left a gloriously sunny 85-degree day in Vegas to find myself in 103 heat index weather. What? After sweltering for two days and watching my normally-straight hair curl into weird peaks and valleys of frizz, the temp then plummeted fifty degrees. It was 60 and chilly for the rest of the trip. My verdict: the weather in the Midwest is weeeee-ird.

-- Speaking of weather, the world's loudest thunder storm hit on Wednesday night. I'm talking boom, crash, the-house-is-going-to-fall down-thunder. I felt like I was eight again and seriously considered sleeping in my closet. (it just felt safer). Instead, I tucked my blanket around my chin and burrowed in. Scary stuff.

-- All of that water flooded most of the rural roads my parents live by. On my way out of their subdivision, I encountered a giant lake in the middle of the street. I'm happy to say all of Southern Nevada's Flood Control commercials popped into my brain at that moment ("Turn Around - Don't Drown!") and I promptly took another way out. Sadly, this added about 35 minutes to my trip, but hey, at least I didn't stall the car.

-- I saw a deer. Scared the life out of me.

-- In a matter of 90 minutes while mowing my parents' gigantic lawn, I managed to spray myself with dog mace (thought it was bug spray), see a snake, and be a delicious host for mosquitoes. I feel lucky on that last one - while I walked away with only a few bites, my very-Irish sister (read: pale skin + red hair + sweet blood = the Joel Robuchon of bug dining) suffered more bites than we could count. And in her typical ultra-sensitive skin manner, her bites immediately flared up to the size of half dollars.

-- When I told my mom I saw a snake, her first comment was, "You didn't hurt it, did you?" (I knew she was going to come back with some variation of "Did you bring him over so I could see?" "Was he cute?" or "Is he okay?" This is just my mother.) I was just trying to get my heart rate down to its normal level and my mother is concerned I'm not being a gracious host to the slithering creature.

And finally, I just have to share this last story, since I think it describes my mom to a T...(sorry, Mom, but it's too cute not to share.)

About two weeks ago, a terribly storm ripped through their area. My mom was at church when it hit, and it was so bad the priest let everyone leave early. She was anxious to get home to my dad, but found tree branches and roads washed out with each new direction she turned down. She finally was able to cut through several different roads, but as she was driving in the rain, winds, and thunder, she noticed a giant snapping turtle stranded in the middle of the road. Instead of just gunning the car home and getting out of the storm (like 99% of us would have done), she stops the car, gets out, and grabs the turtle by the back of his shell. He's craning around to bite her and she's yelling, "I'm trying to save your life!" She managed to drag him back into the swamp safely, get back in the car, and then went on her way.

Honestly? How can you not love a person who would do that? As she said with a shrug as she retold the tale, "You know...they are all of God's creatures."

Aw.

Love you, Mom and Dad.

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Stuff I Did Not Believe In Until I Had a Child

1/21/2011

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Parenthood changes you. It changes your mindset, your beliefs, and your attitude. Here are a few opinions of mine that have been altered since pushing a baby into this world.

1.) Polygamy.

Great idea! Why can we not have sister wives? Think about it: there are multiple women in the home. One cares for the kids, another handles food prep, and the third does the cleaning. And we can all chit-chat and gossip while we go about our daily routine. This sounds like a little slice of utopia to me. Sign me up. The only caveat is that they will also sleep with my husband? Um...I can handle that. Go ahead and head upstairs; I'm going to have a glass of wine and catch up on past episodes of Top Chef. Catch ya later, sister wives.

Which leads me to...

2.) Adultery.

There is a person is my life who expects nothing from me other than, well, that? Okay. I don't have to find special hair gel at Target, make dinner. or keep you in clean socks? AND there is a distinct possibility that you might look like Luke McCafferty (Matt Lauria) from Friday Night Lights? Uh, yeah. I could handle this. Please.

3.) Nannies

I once foolishly believed that all my child ever needed was me. Ha! By the end of the day, Scotty's giving me the stink eye and thinking, "Your jokes are so lame, I don't wanna read another book, and please, please, lady, stop feeding me yet another NutriGrain bar." I really think Camille Grammar has the right idea: two nannies per kid. Additional help in the form of Mary Poppins or Jo Frost would be much appreciated. And besides, that would leave more time for Top Chef or #2 on this list.

4.) Leashes for Children

Have you ever attempted to hold the hand of someone who is approximately 33 inches tall? If you are over 5 foot yourself, there's a good chance there will be a lot of stooping going on. Combine this with a 30 pound diaper bag weighing on the opposite shoulder, and you are a chiropractor's dream. Not mention, most 33 inch people do not want to hold your hand, regardless of the amount of begging/pleading/threatening that happens. I usually opt to guide Scotty by the head while yelling at him. This is a popular solution, let me tell you. Add another child to the mix and it's harder than herding cats; you are officially herding turtles. Snap a leash on that kid and everybody wins. Done.

5.) Over-scheduling Your 17-Month Old

Again, I was once of the very naive opinion that my witty and charming personality was enough to get my child through the day. Not so. By 8:15am, pancakes are being thrown, milk is on the floor, and Scotty isn't even up yet. I find myself clawing the walls and frantically trying to figure out if another trip to Target is in the family budget because we need something to do. But with paid, scheduled activities outside of the home, it makes the week feel very succinct. Mondays are library days. Tuesdays are music lessons. On Wednesdays, we go to algebra class and Thursdays are reserved for time with our Mandarin Chinese tutor. We go a little lighter on Fridays with a basic tumbling class, but Saturday and Sundays are all about ballet, tap, and jazz. See? Seven days, one over-stimulated child, and a happy, tired mom. Everyone wins.

(Editor's note: I'm obviously joking about all five of these. Please do not send me nasty emails. Thanks.)

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BHE

9/3/2010

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I will admit - I bag on Brian a little in this blog.

Okay, a lot. But I mean in a loving manner. Really.

Brian was more than a little sad about my gate entry. And I feel like I've been pretty harsh on him - I mean, he's a great guy, good provider, great husband, blah, blah. But the good stuff isn't all that interesting; wouldn't you rather hear about the Gates of Hell? (Which, by the way, look like they have built to withstand a hurricane AND managed to escape a serious beating by the Bear today. He looks like Godzilla trying to sack Tokoyo when he shakes it.)

Okay, but I need give credit where credit is due and say that Brian is both an amazing father and husband. He highlighted those qualities today by coming home at (::gasp!::) 2:30pm. The office closed early and he left even earlier. He then allowed me to escape the throes of Motherhood and run to Baby Gap, Banana Republic, and Ann Taylor for a quick shopping trip. (Family pics are tomorrow...I am freaking out. Fall sweaters? Summer dresses? I have nothing to wear! Last year I literally threw a brown shirt over my 13 day post-partum body and was pleased I had showered. This year, it feels like the stakes have been raised.) Anyways, not only did I love my shopping trip, but it was so fun to come home to an out-of-breath Brian (I was like, "Um...what have you been doing?" as he opened the door) followed shortly by a giggling-maniacally Scotty-Bear who trailed a short distance behind. In short? They were playing a game Brian had invented called "Choo-choo Train."

I'll just leave it at that.

And then, when I was quietly eating my yogurt in the kitchen, enjoying not having to manage the Bear, I heard more giggling from the dining room. I walked in to find Brian holding the wooden bar that we keep in the window (you know, to make sure no one on the outside can open it) in one hand while pretending to smack Scotty with it. And Scotty was howling with laughter. Howling. Mind you, I can get the kid to giggle when he's with me, but he rarely erupts in all-out, full-belly laughter. And the two of them together were laughing up a storm. When I walked in, both looked over at (rather sheepishly, I noted) and smiled. When I asked what they were doing, Brian admitted that it was yet another game he had invented called (and I grimace as I write this), "Club a baby seal."

(it's a long-standing joke between us. Please know we don't condone the clubbing of any seals, regardless of age.)

After ((ahem)) that was over, he plopped the Bear in his high chair and Scotty actually ate 8 full raspberries, a whole handful of turkey, and a 1/2 of banana. And an entire sippy cup of whole milk. Without any coaxing, cajoling, pleading, bribing, begging, and/or whimpering. A true miracle and had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.

Brian bathed and put the Bear to bed. I was left to sit on the couch, sip a glass of Chardonnay, and flip through USWeekly. Oh, and I called in the sushi order.

It was a tough evening. :-)

I told Brian later how much it meant to me that he took over parenting duties 100% for the remainder of the day and gave me a much-needed respite. So yeah...he's a BHE.

Best Husband Ever.

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By the Numbers

8/29/2010

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Brian is currently installing a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs. I want to recap this for you by the numbers:

Number of days the gate installation has been going on: 3

Number of gates to be installed: 1

Amount of time it says on the box it will take to install the gate: 30 minutes

Number of trips to Lowe's: 3

Score he received on his ACTs: 33

Number of screws he has stripped: 4

Age he became a shareholder at his firm: 33

Number of times he's accidentally drilled into his own hand: 2

Number of Ivy League schools he's attended: 2

Number of times he's threatened to stop the installation if I don't quit blogging about him: 2

Number of times I've thought about installing the gate myself: 15

Number of years of higher education he's had: 7

Number of times he's read the directions: 6

Number of holes in my banister: 4

Amount of sawdust laying on my new tile: approximately 2 oz.

Number of dirty looks I've received from him: too many to count.

::sigh::

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The WEDDING!! (aka Part II)

8/2/2010

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(author's note: okay, April, I read your comment on the last entry out loud to my husband because I was laughing so hard. I am SO happy to know that it's not just my husband who is so crazy for Chick-Fil-A. Oh, and sadly (though not surprisingly), Brian knew about the location that had Nick so excited; he somehow knew that the Chicagoland area was going to get three new CFAs in the coming months. Which means we'll be home a lot more often now.)

Okay, the big conclusion to our trip...

Friday found us driving up the 405 to Santa Monica, but not before one last CFA stop. Brian got the chicken biscuit breakfast while I opted for an egg sandwich (what can I say? I'm a traditionalist). So our final sandwich count brings us to Brian: 5, Kim:1 (although I had a variety of other delicious goodies over those three days, like nuggets. And yes, we tried every single dipping sauce. The people at the Temecula CFA probably thought we were food critics or with the health department.)

I ended up getting a spray tan with the bride on Friday morning while Brian went in search of the tux shop. I will say at this point: always wear sunscreen. Not during your spray tan, but even on hazy days, you will get burnt. (We don't have hazy days in NV so this concept is foreign to me). I was already a little red when the lady busted out the air-brushing container as a result of my poolside activities on Thursday, and by the time the DHA in the tanning potion had set, I was a serious color of orange. Like, Snooki orange. Lindsay Lohan orange. Yikes. But I kept telling myself, "Whatever. It's cool." (I was trying on my 'laid-back California attitude' which didn't last very long.) Everyone kept complimenting me on my color, which just added to my paranoia. At the rehearsal dinner later that night, even the wait staff approached me and commented on the color of my arms. Um...okay. Thankfully, some of the bronzer washed off in the shower, but with my big hair (due to the humidity), my orange limbs, and my Ann Taylor (subtle) leopard print dress for the rehearsal, I looked like a cross between Malibu Barbie and a drag queen.

We all got ready together in the bridal suite on Saturday afternoon, and if Tiffany was nervous, she certainly didn't let on. She was stunning in her dress. Absolutely stunning. (and I'm just not saying that b/c she reads the blog!) Blond, tanned, toned, with perfect posture and gleaming smile...she was seriously a picture of bridal beauty. I kept thinking back to my own wedding day (before all of the unfortunate-ness) and I don't think I possessed one drop of the poise she carried with her that day. Even when the limo was super late getting us all to the church (and I almost passed out in route - I have no idea what happened, but all of sudden, I got super nauseous, my face went numb, the edges of my vision started to blur. Thankfully, the limo was stocked with sodas, so I cracked open a 7-Up while everyone else sipped champagne. Nothing like being a liability at someone else's wedding). We all piled out of the limo and the priest, irritated at our lateness, expected everyone to start marching down the aisle right away. Literally. I have no idea how I looked, but considering my hair was in my face, I was sweating from my brief hypoglycemia incident, and my left false eyelash was sticking to my bottom eyelid, I'm guessing: not good. And yet, by the time I got to the front of the church, gasping for breath and with one eye permanently closed, Tiffany was literally gliding down the aisle, bright smile on her face, glowing radiantly as though the last hectic 30 minutes had never happened. I don't know how she does it.

The ceremony was Greek-orthodox, which meant the bridal party had to stand for the duration of it. No biggie, except earlier in the day, I had traded my shoes (size 10) to another bridesmaid who had size 9 shoes. She had just given birth FOUR WEEKS EARLIER (can you imagine??) and her feet were still swollen from birth. And they didn't fit in her shoes. I was so in awe of the fact that she was speaking in full sentences, let alone traveled to a friend's wedding and put a dress on that I instantly traded shoes with her. Seriously, anything to make her life easier. I kept my mind off of my too-small shoes (and they were really only a tiny bit too small) by blowing raspberries at Brian during the ceremony, who was standing up on the groom's side. Brian responded by covering his face with his hands and playing peek-a-boo with me.

Ah, we got some adult time, but clearly it wasn't enough.

Can't wait to see the wedding video.

(just kidding, Adam and Tiff - I did blow a raspberry at Brian, but he did not play peek-a-boo with me. He gave me a very stern look that said, "Quit it.")

Anyways, the reception was literally right at the beach and it went off without a hitch. Everyone danced, ate, and drank the night away. I've never seen Adam, who tends to wear his 'serious lawyer face' a lot, look happier or more in love. And like I said, Tiff was just glowing. I can't wait to see the pictures.

We had brunch the next morning with the newlyweds and the rest of the bridal party, and it was the kind of wedding that everyone was hugging each other when it came time to say our good-byes. Everyone was becoming Facebook friends, exchanging numbers with each other, etc. I think that's the true sign of great friends, which is when you easily make friends with your friend's friends. Everyone got along fabulously, the groomsmen were cut-ups, and the bridesmaids couldn't have been nicer. And the whole crew from Scottsdale, when we met up on Friday night, it was like reuniting with old friends.

The best part, of course, was getting home to find our little Bear healthy and happy. My parents did a fantastic job (more on that later) and even had a little surprise party ready for him that night, since they won't be able to make it to his actual birthday party. (they will be in Minnesota with cousin Ben!)

On a final note, it's so interesting to me to see what a difference a year makes. Last July, I was holed-up in our old house, feverishly waiting on this baby to make his entrance into the world. The fibroid was still in play, the too-much-amniotic fluid was a big worry, and of course, we still had no idea of the dangers of jaundice. This year, at the end of July, Brian and I got a chance to have a lavish (and it was lavish) weekend away, complete with wine-tasting, great food, great friends, and Scotty had the opportunity to play with his grandparents in our new house. If you had told me this a year ago, I wouldn't have believed you. I feel truly blessed.

And congrats, Adam and Tiff!!! They are frolicking in Fiji as I type. Lucky ducks! :-)

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Living Well is the Best Revenge

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Update and Some Unexpected Humor

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Stuff I Did Not Believe In Until I Had a Child

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The WEDDING!! (aka Part II)

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