Ladies and gentleman...I bring you...
Scotty and Cara. Henceforth to be known as...Scara.
Life moves quickly when your age is still measured in months.
And Sam, I'm sorry you had to find out this way.
Breaking news: a new power couple has emerged in the playgroup. Ladies and gentleman...I bring you... Scotty and Cara. Henceforth to be known as...Scara. It started out innocently enough, as these things tend to do. A longing look from the blue swing. Playful babbling that only makes sense to them. These loving gestures soon grew and by the time we went to leave, there was some serious canoodling in the parking lot. This new couple does not come without its share of drama. Cara just got out of a long-term relationship with Henry, one of Scott's BFFs and fellow August '09 kid. Scotty and Sam had been on-again, off-again over the holidays, and while things seemed to be moving in a positive manner, these photos may be the final nail in the coffin: Scotty + Sam = dunzo.
Life moves quickly when your age is still measured in months. And Sam, I'm sorry you had to find out this way.
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Dear Log,
Today is Day 6 of the Sickness. I fear there is no end in sight. The boy appears to be getting better, but we certainly take one step forward and two steps back. He managed to go all of Wednesday without a fever but without a nap. This does not bode well for my mental health. When your toddler wakes up screaming after fifteen minutes of nap time and you haven't even had a chance to plug the baby monitor in, you know you're headed for a long afternoon. But not as long of an afternoon as Tuesday. Nap schedule was the same - 15 minutes down, woke up screaming (due to coughing) and since the cleaners were over, we literally found ourselves man (and Mom) without a country. While I'm really happy the ladies did a solid job scrubbing every surface of my home with bleach (including cleaning my coffee pot...?), it's very difficult to entertain a sick toddler when you cannot go to a.) friends' houses b.) indoor play places and c.) the playground out of fear of becoming a social pariah. So we completed the trifecta of errands (Costco, grocery store, Target) and then had a late dinner out. Imagine my surprise when we returned and the cleaners were still there! I'm not sure if I should be pleased with their effort or offended at how dirty they found my home. Regardless, it's lovely to be able to see your reflection in the bathroom mirror again. The Sickness has turned the boy into a Level 5 Clinger. While I'm enjoying all of the snuggling, I've also been rendered useless on the home front. This includes cooking meals, washing dishes, bathing. I know the boy doesn't feel good and nothing feels better than sitting squarely on Momma's hip while watching Super Why! for the 12,000 time that day, but I need to be able to complete certain activities. Like brushing my teeth. Short of strapping the child to my body via duct tape, I plan to research "Toddler Bjorns"...just as soon as I'm able to sit at the computer...alone. And after the past five days, I'm certain that while healthy toddlers regularly mimic drunk people (incoherent speech, stumbling, excessive displays of emotion), sick toddlers most resemble crackheads coming down from a bad trip. At one point yesterday, Scotty vacillated between throwing books at my face to suddenly being mesmerized with my nose, gently touching it and attempting to lick it while murmuring, "Looooove Moooooom." He is a wild card when ill, and this lack of predictability is starting to wear on me. Speaking of drug use, watching your child use a nebulizer feels like you are watching them use a hookah. It's very Lost-esque flash forward-y, like I'm being given a glance of my toddler in college one day. I'm not sure if I'm proud or horrified with how easily Scotty puts the nebulizer hose in his mouth and inhales deeply. Once again, I find myself asking, "Am I just a really good mom or is my kid going to smoke a lot of um, things one day?" Needless to say, I've tried to weave in an anti-drug message to the little tyke many times in recent days, in the form of, "Who's ready for dinner? Don't use drugs!" and "Time for bubble tub...don't do drugs!" Let's hope it sinks in. Likewise, I fear I may have lost my husband to the dark recesses of the legal world. Despite the many important-sounding phone calls he takes at night and mountains of paperwork he schelps back and forth to his car every morning, I secretly believe he is actually working on nothing at all. I believe that the stress of the Sickness has driven him to escape to the quiet, clean solitude that is his office. If I find out "arbitration" is Latin for "afternoon tee time," I will likely kill him this weekend. And so, here I sit. Praying the Sickness goes away soon and the boy returns to his normal Bear self. Wishing the 4am breathing treatment ends on Friday or I may likely lose my mind. And hoping that the horrible antibiotic shot the Bear was forced to endure today - the one where he screamed for 30 minutes straight and caused a medical assistant to panic and run out of the room - works quickly. Because I'm not sure how much longer my household can stand this. Until next time, Log. Kim Editor's note: I wrote this entry last night around 9pm. I'm happy to report Scotty slept the whole night with only one waking (around 12:30). We fed him some crackers, nebulized him, and today, he woke up a new boy. I'm hoping we've turned a corner. ...and on Day 4 of my crock-pot challenge, I invented this strange dish.
You'll have to tune in tomorrow to find out if it was any good, since I have no idea if it's delicious or a disaster. It came to me this morning, as I stood in the kitchen, sipping coffee and trying to ignore my bossy, screaming child. (He was devastated there were no hot air balloons in the sky, a common sight on our side of town. We've been spoiled with lots of 'hot balloons!' all week, but there were none today. It crushed him, and in typical toddler form, he took it out on me. Angry, angry Bear, indeed.) Anyways...back to the food. The chicken smells good...I just hope it tastes good, too. Here's hoping. Chicken Tomato Crapshoot 2 breasts of chicken 2 cups (or a jar) of marinara sauce (I used my own) 1 can of diced tomatoes 8 oz of cream cheese (I used the whipped kind, since it was in our fridge and about to expire at the end of this month) 1 Tbl. Italian seasoning 1 tsp dried oregano 1 tsp garlic salt Once again...dump everything in the crock-pot. Set on high, and cook for 6 hours. On a different note, yet another dishwasher repair man was over this afternoon. He was the same guy from this past Monday, and Scotty really took a shine to him. He arrived the same time we did, as we came home from music lessons, and Scotty put on quite the show for him during lunch. Aside from going all Romanian orphan on him and thrashing about as I attempted to put food in front of him (while wailing "nooooo!" of course), Scotty also let loose these choice phrases: "Loooove dishwasher man! Hi dishwasher man!" (okay, more endearing than annoying, I'll give him that. There was lots of waving and shy glances, too. Cute.) "Mmm....tasty! Boogies are tasty!" (the consistency of his oatmeal was questionable, but at least he liked that portion of the meal). and my personal favorite... "Dishwasher man...making poo-poos! Dishwasher man making poo-poos!? Ewwww!" (complete with finger pointed and hand waving.) Good time. I just hope our dishwasher is finally, finally, fixed. So my child can stop harassed the repair men that have to come to our house. Toddlers say the darnedest things.
On Saturday night, as Brian enjoyed the cool breezes of Santa Monica, Scotty and I stole out for a little shopping. Nordstrom's was having their semi-annual clearance for women and children, and Scotty and I (mostly me) felt the urge to fight the crowds for a good boot special (or two). As we wandered through the racks of clothing, several people stopped and commented on Scotty. They all said similar things - "What a cute boy!" "What a big kid!" and "Oh, hey there, handsome!" They all ended their statements the same way, too: "What's your name?" And without missing a beat or even blinking, Scotty told each person solemnly, "Simba." I smiled meekly and muttered, "We're in a Lion King phase right now." Editor's note: Brian is back to work, Scotty has been puke-free for 3.5 days now, and I am showing no signs of illness. Our entire house has been wiped down to within an inch of its life and the smell of vomit is slowly starting to dissipate. I'm not going to call it yet, but we certainly seem to be headed for calmer waters.
Want to know what the hottest ticket in Las Vegas is right now? No, it's not Marquee at the Cosmo. Or XS at the Wynn. It's not Pure or Tao or any other mono-syllabic night club with a celebrity DJ or outdoor pool area. Nope, it's not even a night club. It's not a show or a restaurant or some silly rave in the desert with a weird sounding name like "the Electric Daisy Carnival." The hottest ticket in town, folks, is... ...10:30 Storytime at the Windmill Library. I'm not joking. And today, Scotty and I were denied at the door. Ouch. It still stings a bit. This is seriously the hot spot for the 3 and under (jet) set. The doors to the library open promptly at 10am, and Storytime begins at 10:30. There is usually a snaking line of toddlers and their parents wrapped around the building by 9:55am. I've seen it; the first time we went, under serious advice to get there early, I was shocked to see the throngs of people lined up. Was Elmo making a special appearance? Was Thomas the Train DJ-ing? Nope, it was just your average Thursday morning Storytime. And for whatever reason, it was a big deal. We've attended - and gotten in - the last few weeks. But today we were running late. I didn't pack up the Bear until ten, and we parked in the lot at 10:16am. Then the "slow burn" commenced. (i.e. Scotty walking to the door by himself.) Why is it that everyone else's toddler runs away from them, yet mine takes the long way, every time? The kid picks up rocks, touches the flowers, pats the sidewalk. He kicks at stuff, points to things, and expects me to offer a running commentary on everything we see. It's exhausting and frustrating, particularly when we are running late. And then when he does take a step, it's a quarter of mine. I was trying hard not to push him, but at one point, I think I yelled, "Pick it up already!" Scotty just looked at me and blinked. Slowly. By the time we reached the librarian's desk after the very long walk through the atrium, I knew it was too late. The clock was approaching 10:22. The librarian, whom we shall call Ms. L, looks nice but there is a steel glint of cold unforgiveness in her eyes. As I approached the desk and feigned stupidity, holding my hand out to collect our two precious admission tickets, she didn't even smile. "Sorry. We're all out of tickets." I smiled again, this time trying to disarm her. I mean, she's a librarian. This whole drunk-with-power thing was really getting old. She runs Storytime like we're prepping the kids for the bar exam; she has even gone so far to ask parents keep their children sitting for the duration of the hour. Did I mention the entire program is geared for kids 18 to 36 months? Sitting? Really? I don't think Ms. L has children of her own. Anyways, I smiled again, shrugged, and asked, "Really? We can't squeeze in? There's only..." quick estimate "one point five of us. We won't take up much space." Again, no smile. She actually stood up and started to walk away from me. "It's fire code. We can only have so many people in the room at once." She was now engaging another librarian in a conversation, clearly letting me know she was not budging. Hmph. I'm not going to argue with fire code. I managed to get in a passive aggressive "Wow, you guys are hard core" before I huffed away. And while Scotty sat and played with the other kids, I tried not to pout. When the doors opened and all the ticketed children were ushered in, I shot Ms. L one last nasty look before we headed to the back. Scotty and I ended having a great time, despite the fact our entrance was denied. I don't know what games were played or what stories were read. I don't really care. I do know, however, that several board books were not put back on the shelf, which may or may not have been intentional. Hmph. Since I haven't watched 'The Bachelorette' yet (tonight!) and there's not a lot of new stuff to report, enjoy some vintage Scotty pics. He's growing like a weed! Personally, I think the boy looks a lot like he did when he was born. Just add some teeth and hair and viola! It's a toddler.
Hope everyone had a great weekend! Bachelorette Review coming tomorrow! The Rise of No: The Tragic Tale of a Little Bear, a Stroller, and a Time-out at Shark Reef5/26/2011 I'm going to call this "Curse of the Annual Pass."
It seems like whenever we decide to fork over the money for an annual pass to an event or attraction, things crash and burn. Exhibit A: the Springs Preserve. Perhaps things would have been different on that ill-fated spring day and Scotty wouldn't have smeared sand on me and I wouldn't have fallen on my naked bum had I not bought the annual pass, but we'll never know, will we? Because just as soon as I've paid for a year membership, it seems as though things go terribly wrong with the Bear and I have zero desire to return to the scene of the crime. Exhibit B: Shark Reef. As you may recall, we loved Shark Reef the first time. I was all, "Jacques Cousteau Bear" and stuff. I also paid $18 for a one-time visit whereas an annual pass costs only $40. So with the chance we might visit again even two more times, it makes sense to buy the pass. I'm being cost-effective, right? Well, I was until Tuesday afternoon. Because that's when it all crashed and burned. Trying to make a nice day, we left directly after Scotty's long nap (three hours! boom!) He was in a great mood, I was in a great mood and we even called Brian and convinced him to join us at Burger Bar for dinner. They have a Nutella milkshake on the menu I'm dying to try and maybe this would be my chance to meet Chef Keller. A girl can dream, right? I should have known it was a bad sign when we arrived and the lizard was sleeping. The giant Komodo dragon was a hit the first time, with Scotty and the lizard speaking Parseltongue to each other for a solid fifteen minutes. This time, however, that lizard was done. "Night night," Scotty said, pointing to the giant lizard. "Yes," I told him, looking at my watch, wondering how we were going to kill 90 minutes before dinner while the lizard slept. "He's night night. Maybe we can wake him up?" Nothing. That lizard was not about to be roused. Scotty, bored, trotted off to the next window. I tried to stall at each exhibit to buy time. I mean, the last time we were there, I had to drag Scotty from window to window. Now, he was practically jogging. He also insisted on pushing the stroller, which I was fine with, as it kept him occupied. We reached the underground part of the Reef just as my watch read 4:32pm. Okay, only 58 minutes before Brian would be joining us. (god help the man if he's late.) "Look, Scotty!" I said excitedly. "Lion fish!" Scotty glanced at me, but was having too much fun with the stroller. He was careening all over the place, mainly because he couldn't see over the top. This resulted in a lot of crashing into the walls and the sting ray pool. I was trying to keep my voice even as I directed him to come by me, but he could have cared less about the fish. This stroller game was fun. I finally walked over just as he was about to hit this nice couple who were clearly tourists. They were wearing visors on, fanny packs, and questionable shorts. And were directly in the path of Destructo-Stroller-Bear. My hand shot out and grabbed the stroller before it hit them and I sighed heavily. 4:35pm. Scotty immediately reacted. His little hand shot out in response and smacked mine. "No!" he shouted. "No no no!" I raised my eyebrows. Did he just say..no? See, we've managed to get through 21 months of life without the inclusion of the word no. I am fairly proud of this accomplishment, as every mother I've spoken to has mentioned the use of the word "no" is almost immediately followed by a raging case of the Terrible Two's (regardless of age.) So to me, it wasn't just him being obstinate; it was the recognition that the Golden Days were about to end. Quickly. And then, as my head was spinning with such thoughts, he smacked me again. "Mine," he declared. Oh noooooooooo. "Where did you learn that word?" I demanded, getting to his level. "Who taught you that? How did you learn that?" "No!" he screamed. "Mine!" He flailed his arms in an attempt to get away. And with that, he broke free, with the stroller, for the jellyfish tank. There were about ten people in the way and they all managed to jump out of his path of destruction. He did hit an older gentleman, who promptly shot me a dirty look while everyone else simply avoided eye contact. I was irate at this point. "DONE!" I roared. "DONE! YOU ARE DONE!" Scotty glared at me. "Mine! Mine! Mine!" He sounded like the seagulls from Finding Nemo. He hit my hand again. "NOOOOOOOO!" I scooped him up, screaming and all, and buckled him in the stroller. Chubby toddler legs shot out at my face but I ducked. He was throwing himself around so much the stroller was swaying. Speaking softly, I got his eye level and said, "You. Are. Done. No Burger Bar for you, no more Shark Reef. We. Are. Done." He howled. As we walked out of the Reef, everyone gave me "the Look." Again. Part of me was dying of embarassment, and the other part was like, "Wanna switch places? I dare you to do this any better." And the kid howled all the way through the Convention Center, past the restaurants, and into the parking garage. He was still shrieking by the time we got into the elevator. The three other people in the elevator with us refused to make eye contact with me. It might have been because of my child, but it's probably because I was absolutely simmering. I think waves of anger were literally vibrating off of me. He was finally quiet by the time we reached the car. As I buckled the now-silent Bear in his car seat, I pulled out the big guns. "I am very disappointed in you," I told Scotty, making eye contact. "Your behavior was unacceptable. Now we have to go home. Mommy is very disappointed in you." I have no idea if he got it, but it made me feel better. Ah, Mother guilt. So we called Brian on the way home and told him the Nutella milkshakes were off the table. Scotty was 100% compliant for the rest of the night, but there was also no stroller to push into stuff. Or people to run over, or mothers to smack. I stayed a safe distance away. That was our afternoon at Shark Reef. I guess if you were are a "glass-half-full" kind of person, you'd say we now have an annual pass to go back and redo the afternoon and make it better. But if you're a "glass-half-empty" kind of person, like me, you now get to experience more afternoons of misery in the company of jellyfish. At least for the next year. Yay. Remember when I used to bemoan the constant struggle between Scotty and I to take a nap? Namely, my desire for him to sleep, which in turn, allowed me to sleep? (or blog, or clean the house, or -- the greatest luxury of all -- shower?)
I'm happy to say we have reached a truce. Naptime has become a glorious time of day. I'm not sure when it happened or how it happened, but I want to let all new mothers know this: it gets better. Really. The nap striking, the crying, the cursing of the baby monitor -- it seemingly ends with a whimper. And before you know it, you actually find yourself enjoying the afternoon bedtime routine. Scotty and I have it down pat. We eat lunch around 11:30. He finishes up about 11:50 and wanders over to the bop-bops in the living room after I wash his hands and face. As I clean up the kitchen, he makes a nice post-lunch poopie (in the privacy of the living room, naturally.) Once I've got the kitchen in working order, I head to the stairs calling his name. He usually grabs his stuffed dog ("Doggie," as he affectionately calls him) and begins the long climb up the stairs. At some point, he will turn to me and hand over the dog to allow both hands free to climb. I am usually shouting "Go!" and "Up!" as this happens, while turning my head in the other direction to avoid the ungodly stench that is wafting up from his bum. After what feels like two hours but is actually closer to two minutes, we've hit the top of the stairs. He takes his dog back and charges into our bedroom. I continue to his room, and by the time I am closing the blinds, he's entered the room and is closing the door. When I ask what time is it, he replies, "Night night!" (oh, blessed language skills!) There is a quick diaper change while I gag and he giggles, more cuddles with the stuffed puppy, and some books. With those fabulous words just rolling off his tongue, he asks for books and I actually know what he is talking about. ("Moo, baa, ya ya ya" is a daily favorite.) We sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" 2-3 times, play a quick game of "Where's Scotty?" (hint: still there!) and it's crib time. I put him face down on the lion blanket, he waves, blows a kiss, and shouts, "Night night!" and I am free to be me again. For approximately 45 - 90 minutes. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing. I'm sure now that I have typed this out and put it into the universe, the nap strikes will attack again. But for now, I acknowledge that while we haven't won the war, we've won a battle. And what a great victory it is. While I have logged countless hours sitting at the computer as of late, I have not spent much of that time with this blog. My apologies. But I am slowly learning about all kinds of other things...Twitter...email blasts...Excel...and a ferocious beast called Closerware. I won't bore you with the details, so let me give you some other pieces of info that are far more exciting: -- Scotty has developed an absolute fascination with washing his hands. Once a chore we both hated, it is now a highlight. All I did was buy a small stool (still trying to find a Kinder-perch, Michelle!) and put it in the bathroom. The kid thinks he's mayor or something when he stands on his stool. He waves to himself in the mirror, waves to me, and acts like the additional three inches has given him a new perspective on life. It's amusing, to say the least. -- It's slowly heating up in Vegas. It's making me grumpy. -- We baked cookies last week and Scotty was very keen to be my taste-tester. I didn't have enough chocolate chips, so I substituted in M&Ms. Needless to say, the Bear approved. -- We had fun at Borders last week playing with the toys in the kids section. I fear Scotty may be showing signs of OCD. What do you think? -- It is time for me to get off this computer chair and actually do something! I must log out before my little brain explodes from social media overload.
How in the world is it only 1:30pm? (PST) I fee like it should be 8pm. Or Wednesday, at the very earliest. Since waking up this morning, I feel like I've lived three lifetimes.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but it's been a crazy seven hours. It started with the financial guy ('m just going to blame him for everything.) He scheduled our medical exams for this morning at 7am - you know, the one where some pseudo-medical professional takes some bodily fluids and ask you a million questions, all to make sure you are not going to expire within a month of opening a multi-million dollar life insurance policy? (That would be Brian. My policy is for exactly $14.32. Monthly premium? Three cents.) Some very nice woman showed up on our doorstep at 7:15, marched into our house, and weighed both of us. Right there in the kitchen. Now, this would put me in a bad mood any number of ways, but it was especially offense since we weren't allowed to drink coffee, as it would "raise our blood pressure." Let me tell you, my blood pressure did not remain stable when I saw that number. Nor did it when the woman, some matronly grandmother-type, launched into an attack on our parenting skills and informed us sippy cups are dangerous and unnecessary. Her twin 2-year old grandsons do not use sippy cups, and they are amazing, smart, and courteous two-year olds. I love it when other people into your home and tell you how to raise your children. 'Cause after all, nothing has changed in the 30 years she raised her daughter, and she obviously knows best. ::cough, cough:: Scott sat there, blissfully ignorant, sipping his strawberry milk and eating his pancakes and strawberries. He wasn't looking his finest, since his little nose has been a faucet of boogers since Thursday night, and everything (mostly dirt and food particles) was sticking to his face as a result. He looked like a Wal-mart baby at best, but it was a.) not even 8am yet, b.) he was still clad in his jammies, and c.) who cares? All kids get sick. She just happened to catch us at a bad time. I just hoped it didn't go in her insurance report. I, however, attempted to manage my irritation by eying the coffee pot with longing and making faces at Brian. So the woman finally left (after poking me exceptionally hard, I believe, during the blood draw since I did not take to her advice kindly) and Brian tootled off to work. I continued wiping Scotty's increasingly yellow, sticky snot from his face (day 4) and checked Facebook. It appeared that some kind of bug managed to dismantle our entire play group. At least six kids were sick. It was like the Seal Team Six of Germs came and attacked our little village of toddlers. Yuck, yuck, yuck. As I played nursemaid to the Bear, I glanced outside and noticed a large piece of broken off piping in our backyard. Upon closer inspection (read: me gingerly stepping over the rocks while still in my own jammies), I realized an entire chuck of our underground sprinkler system had been broken off. There was a giant, gaping hole in our backyard where it used to be. Like any good wife, I immediately called Brian and yelled at him. While he swore he had nothing to do with it, we weren't sure how to fix it, either. This situation had happened last summer during Scotty's fraternity-boy-I-mean-bears-and-balloons-themed birthday party, when one of Brian's friends began tinkering with the system and broke a head off. Gushing water resulted. As well as a giant bill from the sprinkler people, and four days of me hand-watering our lawn in August. In Las Vegas. The whole thing left a very bad taste in my mouth. So looking at this chuck of black plastic only made me really, really frustrated. Brian swore he hadn't touched the sprinkler (and I believe him...he's not one to tinker), but that only leaves an unknown assailant, breaking into our yard, not stealing anything, yet damaging our sprinkler system? It didn't make sense. So we yelled at each other for about twenty minutes (with Brian declaring, "Well, if you want me to fix it, I'm going to have to dig up the whole backyard!" while I seethed, "That is NOT an acceptable solution!") until I finally just hung up. I grabbed some needle-nosed pliers and attempted to dislodge the remaining plastic pieces until my hands were dirty, cut, and practically bleeding. Then I threw in the towel and called a new sprinkler company. You all know how I feel about workmen. I don't like men I don't know coming into my home, carrying large weapons, er, tools. It creeps me out. And then, imagine my surprise when 20 minutes after calling this company, two of the largest men I've ever seen in my life show up at the door, carrying a giant wrench. I'm fairly certain I worked with one of them when I was on the mountain, although I couldn't get close enough to read his neck tattoos. Yay. Turns out it only took them about 15 minutes to fix the whole thing, which is approximately 5 minutes less than Brian and I spent discussing it. (hooray for college educations.) And it only cost $10. I was so excited I tipped them another ten, and promised to call if our unknown assailant returns to create more damage. Then finally, after all of this, I notice Scotty is pulling at his ear as the snot flowed freely. We jumped in the car immediately to hit Dr. Awesome's office (breaking the streak! Ugh, it kills me. Eight months, three weeks, and one day without a sick visit), only to sit there for a full 60 minutes as they processed our new insurance. After dropping off his prescription (ear infection, 10 days on antibiotics) we didn't get home until well after 12. The Bear went down at 12:30 (two dill pickles, some watermelon, and milk for lunch) and here I am, freshly showered and very tired. We have two errands to run this afternoon before I head to a Junior League meeting, and quite honestly, the meeting can't come fast enough. Because all I am supposed to do is sit there and think, right? Offer my opinions, take notes, and not fall asleep. I don't have to wipe boogers, use needle-nosed pliers, or attempt to keep a toddler from licking toys in a waiting room. And there might even be wine involved. Sign me up, folks. Happy Monday to all of you, too. |
About Me
Think of this as the epilogue to Bridget Jones' story. Well, mostly. Bridget marries the handsome lawyer, starts a blog while on bedrest, and decides marathon running sounds like fun. Bridget goes through a divorce but keeps running. Hilarity ensues. Archives
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