cjmcgrey

A Dangerous Rumbling. Also, I'm not that girl anymore.

So (apparently my new place of employment has caused me to start 67% of all my sentences with "so", making me sound like a 7th grade girl) I have mentioned at least 1,000 times that I am sort of shy. I don't like to draw attention to myself in large groups of people, I don't like to be singled out to come up on stage at events, and speaking into a microphone prompts me to have to psyche myself up the night before so I don't pass out.  When I am embarrassed, my face gets noticeably red, I stammer, and I start looking for a hole to crawl into.  But the older I get, the more I have noticed that although I still possess the ability to embarrass myself, I don't take it as personally as I used to.  This was played out perfectly during this past summer.  It was the summer of pregnancy.  The summer of nausea.  And the summer wherein I sort of humiliated myself and laughed about it.

I went to visit my parents at their home in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas, in late July.  Larry had football things going on and wasn't going to be home much.  So I packed up the kids and drove through the hills to Arkansas.  I was too far along in my pregnancy to be driving comfortably.  My back was killing me.  I had to stop to powder my nose every five seconds (that is code for something else.  I am feeling proper today and just don't want to say "GO TO THE BATHROOM". Except I guess I just did.) But I got to Arkansas, and my mom took care of me.  She had pitchers of Crystal light waiting for me, a comfortable bed, and a deck for me to lounge on while the kids played happily.  It really was nice.  We cooked in, went swimming, and, all in all, it was so relaxing.

And then one night, we went to dinner.  There is a hamburger joint down the road that is popular with the locals.  It was sort of a dive, the kind of place that serves a greasy burger and a great milkshake.  When we drove up, there was a large crowd of people waiting outside to get a table. So we stood around for about 15 minutes before we were seated inside.  I was trying to be healthy, so I ordered a grilled chicken salad and an ice tea.  (and I also knew that neither of my kids would finish their burgers, so if i really needed a bite I would steal one.)  I was super thirsty, so as soon as the drinks came I guzzled the tea.  And then our food was delivered to the table.  Mine looked delicious.  I put the dressing on, had a pre-salad bite of Cale's burger, and started to dig in.  Except something felt weird in the back of my throat.  And in a matter of 2 seconds, I went from getting ready to take a bite of my salad to knowing for sure that I was going to get sick all over the place.  Barely any warning.  The room went blurry, I forgot about everything else except getting out of the restaurant.  As luck would have it, the powder room was outside.  And between me and that destination was a crowded restaurant, a glass door (that at the time, I couldn't figure whether it opened out or in) and a passel of people waiting on the lawn outside.  In slow motion, as I went towards the door, I didn't make it. Most of the contents of my stomach went all over the glass door.  I stumbled outside and the rest of it went all over the grass.  Right in front of about 15 people waiting to eat.  I put my head down, rushed to the bathroom, and locked the door.  I was mortified.  For about 10 seconds.  And then I thought about it.  High school Caryn would have cried.  College/young adult Caryn would have a red face.  But 34 year old, two kids and 6 months pregnant Caryn couldn't stop laughing.  It was just so ridiculous.  Who does that?  Barfs right and left all over a restaurant?  Pretty soon, I heard a knock on the door.  As I stood in bathroom, noticing that I felt pretty good by then, I heard someone say, "GET a MOP!". Shortly after,  my mom knocked on the door.  She was pretty sure I was on my deathbed or something.  I felt fine.  Now don’t  get me wrong, there was no way I was going to parade back through that restaurant.  I asked for the keys to the car and sat in the back seat of my dad's Cadillac while I waited for the rest of the family to eat.  They brought me ice cream. I ate it slowly but with success. But by then, the whole thing didn't seem like a big deal.  I felt bad for making a mess for the employees.  I felt bad for spewing my guts in front of the nice people waiting outside.  But I would never see them again.  So no big deal.  

After the fact, as we drove home, my dad mentioned that as I ran for the exit, he shouted out, "She's not with us!" Which makes the entire experience absolutely perfect.

Embarrassing moments happen in life.  They sometimes seem like the end of the world in your youth.  But by the time you reach the ripe old age of 34, they might not seem so bad. Plus, when your daughter falls into a pond on a field trip, you have stories to remind her of.  Or you can at least say, as she stands there with mud up to her armpits, "At least you didn't ralph all over Arkansas!"

Do over. Again.

This past month, I joined weight watchers.  Again.  On the day before Thanksgiving.  Larry was less than thrilled, and offered to take my money in exchange for standing next to our bathroom scale and yelling at me.  I declined.  See, I don't have lots to lose.  My clothes mostly fit.  But I had a goal, and I want to attain it. 

This time last year, i was so close to hitting my goal weight.  Little by little, the pounds were falling off and I was almost there.  And then a baby was on the way, and WW made me drop out.   Not forcibly, of course.  But pregnant people are not allowed to be members, and I didn't want to eventually be escorted out. So I quit, just a little shy of my goal.  And all during the pregnancy, sugar made me want to die, so by the time i was home from the hospital, i weighed less than i started out.  I was a freak of nature.  But it only lasted a short time.  Because Halloween came, I remembered that the real me loves sugar, and the next thing you know, I was shoving graham crackers down my throat at breakneck speed. So I decided to give myself a do over. I have a goal.  And by golly, in the season of sugar cookies and nuts and popcorn dipped in chocolate, I am planning for success.

A few weeks ago , while I was rummaging around in the hall closet, I found a Bible study book that I never finished.  Really, I barely started.  It was a terrific study. But at that time in my life, I wasn't in any mood to actually look at myself in the mirror for real.  It was easier to pretend that I had it all together and ignore the giant problems that were hanging around.  So after a few weeks of sitting through an incredibly uncomfortable session where I was sure Beth Moore was addressing only me, I dropped out.  And shoved the book in the closet. So after unearthing the booklet again, I decided I wanted a do over.  I want to finish this time.  So i texted a friend who had the same book, and asked her if she would do it with me.  We are both going through the lessons.  And although I am in a much different place in my life, it is still hard.  Harder than I thought.  Because I am having to be honest with myself.  About why I act the way I do, with my husband, my kids, and even complete strangers.  It is much easier to pretend like everything is everyone else's fault.  It can get sort of exhausting to keep looking at myself, keep identifying areas that need work.  A do over, again.

So this time of year, as I think back over 2011, there are many things that I wasn't expecting that I am incredibly thankful for.  And while I thank God for all of my family, including the bossy oldest child, the weepy toddler, and the baby who doesn't have any identifiable annoying traits yet, Iam mostly thankful for do-overs.  Do overs with friends. Do overs with my kids. Do overs with Larry. And do overs with God. 

Tequila Lime Chicken and the Wonderpets. A dateiversary.

It was in a corner booth at Applebees, 13 years ago on November 18, that I first met my husband. My expectations for the date were pretty low. I planned to meet him, a stranger, at a restaurant, have some awkward conversation, and then return home without getting murdered.

It was a blind date.  I had never been on one before.  I don't really know why I agreed to go.  But I did.  And despite the people who set us up showing up and joining us on the date and sitting in between us, my date(a former bartender) trying to order me(a teetotaler) a drink, and a car breaking down before the evening was over, we kind of hit it off.  After the third date, despite holidays, final exams, and jobs, we saw each other every day and it was love. 

Remember that feeling you get when you first start dating someone?  Your stomach kind of gets nervous to see them, you can't wait to talk on the phone(what was texting?) and you spend all of your spare time trying to figure out ways to spend more time together.  The months leading up to our engagement and wedding were constantly up and down, but mostly fun. We officially broke up twice, and an engagement ring may have been hurled across the room at one point.  I blame the Ripped Fuel I was all hopped up on.  But even with all the aches and pains and jitters that come with meeting future in laws, learning the weird habits of the other person, and being completely freaked out by how many options there are when picking out a tuxedo, we pressed on.  A new life loomed ahead of us, filled with the prospect of wedding cake, new towels, and an all inclusive trip to Jamaica.

Fast forward to now.  We have been married 11 1/2 years.  We have 3 kids.  And there are very few times where it is just us. Between work and rugrats and grocery shopping and all the things that take up a day, things can fall into a pattern.  We had a date night a few weeks ago.  All three kids spend the night at places other than our home.  We ate dinner at a fancy steakhouse.  And then, we were both asleep by 9:30.  Right now, sleep is a hot commodity. And honestly, I miss the first date jitters.  I think all girls do.  The unknown possibility of a guy being your dream guy(or maybe a complete jerk) is kind of exciting.  Various sources say the initial "butterflies" of a relationship only last about 18 months.  After that, it's gone.  But last night, I started thinking about our relationship.  It has survived moves, babies, job changes, and a horrible haircut(I accidentally got a mullet.  And he called Valerie, my favorite hairstress ever in another state and got me an appointment ASAP, to get it fixed).  Last night, as I was washing bottles, I could hear Larry in the other room, putting the kids to bed.  And although we were not spending the evening at a fancy restaurant eating carbs by candlelight, there is something very deep and touching about working side by side with a partner.  Teamwork.  I can't run a house by myself.  Neither can he.  But we agreed, on our wedding day, to be a team.  And I can't imagine wanting to work side by side with anyone else. 

Summertime DJ

Every summer for as long as I can remember(or at least every summer since I have been driving), I have associated a particular song as the anthem of the summer.  I'm sure lots of people do this.  Millions. Sometimes, it's because it's been chosen for me, by radio conglomerates and savvy marketing executives and played ad nauseam on the radio.  Other times, it has been picked out by me, because of a particular event that stuck in my head.  I can hear one of these songs in the middle of December, and all of the sudden I smell sunscreen. As I started thinking about how I came to get these tunes lodged in my brain, I started remembering experiences I had with them.  I'm going to go ahead and scrapbook these memories in written form right now.  Follow along, if you wish.  Or go jump into the pool. Or into a pile of leaves.  The choice is yours.

Waterfalls, TLC. Summer 1995

There used to be a time when I sat around and watched MTV in between pool sessions and part time jobs.  This was a song that I absolutely adored, from the summer of 1995.  I had just graduated from high school and I was working on perfecting my tan and getting skinny at the local YMCA.  I would wake up, work out, tan, go to work, and come home and do who knows what else with my free time.  And when I stop and think about the lyrics and the video, it's a totally depressing song.  But it signified my entrance into adulthood(oh brother) and a summer before my life would transition from high school girl to college adult.

Scream, Michael and Janet Jackson. Summer 1995. It turns out I had two anthems that summer.

I might have tuned in for the premiere of this video.  I probably did.  While i wasn't working at my dad's church scrubbing bathrooms during the summer of 1995 and again, working on my tan, I watched a lot of music television.  I am a Jackson fan, and I couldn't wait to see this video.  I could watch it over and over again.  Will you think it is so super ridiculous that I think it's like a piece of art? The cinematography, costumes, dance moves, everything.  Perfection. And I really wished that I could work an eye liner like Janet's(and Michael's, for that matter) make-up artist.  For some reason I remember spending a lot of time driving around Branson with my friend Celeste in her mustang that summer.  I realize it might seem kind of weird to go to Branson to hang out for the summer.  But we did.  And I knew this song backwards and forwards.

Summertime, Will Smith. Summer 1991 and beyond....

I will go out on a the very unstable limb of a bradford pear tree and say that this is probably the anthem of any child of the 90s, whether you like hip hop or not.  Will Smith told it like it was, and even though my neighborhood was nothing like the one he was describing in the song, I felt like he was talking to me.  And I wanted to drive around in my Grand Am with the windows rolled down, looking gansta.  I would have loved to have a drop-top, but the silver car with the persnickety transmission was my ride(I just cringed typing that. And maybe I made one of you gag.  sorry).  Even though the song came out when I was in junior high, Hot 106.1 played it during my formative high school and college years.  Drums, please.

Men in Black, Will Smith. Summer 1997

The movie was kind of okay.  The song was the highlight for me.  More pool time, more lake trips, and a very memorable choreography performance at a rest stop in Arkansas. 

No Such Thing, John Mayer, re-release 2002

Ah yes.  The summer that I had lost my job, lost a contract on a house I absolutely adored, and sulked at the pool.  I commiserated with John Mayer and his earth shattering lyrics as I watched the lifeguards at the pool, wishing I could be young and fresh-faced again. I was 25.  Perspective has never been my strong point.

Cologne, Piano Instrumental Version, Ben Folds.  Summer 2010

Last summer I played this song over and over and over again.  It is heartbreaking, haunting, and depressing.  And I love the piano in it.  The lyrics give a shout out to the crazy astronaut who drove with diapers.  Which is just weird enough to make it a fun summer song.  It reminds me of New York.  Ben Folds always makes me cry. Yes, sometimes it is fun to cry. 

And now we come to this  past summer.  As the years pass, it's harder and harder to pick an anthem, because my days are not always carefree and poolside.  There are sandwiches to make, toys to step on, and wasps to avoid.  I waited for the perfect one to hit me on the head. And while I didn't get to choose it this time, the grand champion was Price Tag.  Oh my word I hate that song.  But my kids love it.  And we currently have 8 different versions on iTunes(which i had NOTHING to do with.)  So this next year, when i hear that horrible song with its cha ching cha ching and ba bling ba bling, I will not curl up in a ball and die, but instead think of two kiddos jumping on the couch, singing.  While I reminded everyone in the house I was pregnant.

 

House of Tears

Let me just start out by saying Poor Larry.  Poor, poor Larry.  Because right now, the football coach who likes to watch people crash into each other is living in a house where every single person except him is excited to boo hoo at the drop of the hat, no holds barred.  And I'm not sure he is completely sure what to do. Let me paint you a picture of what it is like right now for him:

Toddler-super sensitive, so if you talk in a loud voice he gets his feelings hurt, his little lip quivers, and he sobs in such a pathetic way that i'm pretty sure we are all going to keep feeling sorry for him and he will end up getting away with murder. 

2nd grader-She has a way with putting everything in one sad, mopey basket, and after the tears and heartache have bubbled high enough, the dam breaks, so watch out. Phrases like "my bed is flooded with tears at night" are not uncommon. 

Baby-cries when she is wet, dirty, bored, hungry, or when I play Michael Jackson.

Me-oh my word.  Who knows. Besides dealing with the  after pregnancy "broken body thermostat" of sweating one minute and shivering the next, the irrational tears are around as well.  If the groceries are not unloaded, i might take it as a personal insult that you think i am a servant and you will never help me and oh  my word no one loves me or appreciates me and here come the tears.  If there are dirty socks on the floor, same thing. And then I might imagine the kids going off to college and never calling and all of the sudden it's the end of the Notebook and I'm crying AGAIN.

So my advice to my husband, and all the other men out there who get the deer in the headlights look when the females in their life start crying:

1. Most of us are not trying to manipulate you.  Maybe in our younger days, yes.  But at this stage in my life, i have too much going on to orchestrate a giant emotional manipulation. 

2. Much of the time, we really can't help it.  Whether it be hormones or sensitive feelings, some things just make us cry.  Even if they are not rational.  Even if they don't make sense.  Even if we have completely taking a tiny little tidbit of our lives, blown it completely out of proportion, and predicted that this event will end up making us penniless and lonely in 50 years.  Some of us(me) have extremely good imaginations and that fuels our crying jags.

3. It is usually a lose lose situation for us.  We end up looking silly and emotional, first of all.  After it's all said and done, we usually feel dumb.  And also, who likes puffy eyes and not being able to breath out of their nose?  These are the signs of a truly wicked crying jag.  And if faced with the option of crying or not, we would pick non-puffy eyes.

4. You don't have to fix it.  You don't have to beat anyone up, sell plasma to buy us the prom dress we think we need, or threaten the weatherman until he starts forecasting temps in the 60s instead of the 100s.  Most of the time, we just want someone to listen.  That's why we love talking to our girlfriends.  Because they will listen to our crazy without rolling their eyes.  They will make understanding noises and nod at all the right times.  And if we happen to cry in front of them, its no big deal.  But in the unfortunate situation where we are sobbing in your presence 9 times out of 10, patting us on the head and telling us it's going to be okay will do the trick. Even if there is an asteroid heading straight toward the house.

So if you see my husband out and about, you have my permission to secretly feel sorry for him.  Because he is now surrounded by irrational females and has years of tears to come.  And if the prospect of this makes him cry, we will pat him on the head and tell him everything is going to be okay. 

The new normal.

This time last week(this time last week, month, year, etc, is probably my most favorite game to play, by the way) I was dying a slow, painful, high blood pressure death in the hospital while Larry and my parents were eating lunch at B.J.s.  Some of that last sentence was hyperbole, though.  After Amasa made her entrance into the world at about 8 am, and I came down from the anesthesia, I came back to the recovery room and ate ice chips while everyone sat around discussing who this new little person looked like.  Not me, maybe Cale, with a splash of Sheridan thrown in. The nurses had my family move my suitcases to my room, and assured them that I would be headed there soon, and why didn't they go get something to eat.  Except after they left, I didn't go anywhere.  My blood pressure spiked, and while I was too loopy to remember what the numbers were, I recognized the tense edge that my nurse's voice had.  No one was letting me go anywhere.  My newly remodeled room in the wing that had snacks and popsicles and ice chips flowing like milk and honey was now just a pipe dream, because of my stupid blood pressure.  I willed it to go down, which didn't work at all.  Every time I heard the machine turn on to take it again, i laid perfectly still and imagined my blood pumping at just the right speed.  Not because I was worried about my health.  But I wanted my fancy room.

Those of you familiar with medicine might already be aware that willing blood pressure to lower itself rarely works, and may sometimes result in you accidentally holding your breath, which leads to a whole other passel of "complications".  So there I was, alone, in a recovery room, while my family ate salads at B.Js in complete ignorance and bliss.  Now, i don't fault them, really.  The nurse told them to eat.  I didn't think they would go OFF CAMPUS to get something, but they maybe thought the cafeteria food was gross? The good news is, they gave me a high powered muscle relaxer that relaxed every muscle on my body including my eyelid muscles.  Which meant that if you got a text from me between 9/20 and 9/21, it is extra special, because i was seeing double and texting with drunk thumbs.  I must really love you.

So the drugs did their job, i returned to normal, and now i have a fun little guilt trip i'll try to completely run into the ground with my parents and Larry.  And according to the nurses, I was very good at walking, at reflexes, at getting my own ice chips, and maybe the worlds best recoverer they have ever seen.  Because of that, i got to go home on Friday, and this time(as opposed to the last two babies) I was actually looking forward to it.

And I was reminded(and still am) that I cannot compare these next few weeks to anything.  To my old routine, to my new work routine, to normal sleeping habits.  The  scary thing about bringing a baby home is how they completely turn your schedule upside down.  Nothing feels familiar, because for the first few weeks you are just mapping sleep times.  Just because you used to leisurely get ready for bed about 9:45 and retire at 10:15 does not mean that's what will happen now.  You have to be ready to sleep at a moment's notice.  Nothing feels the same. Your friends and neighbors go on with their lives like normal, but that is exactly not what your life is.

So I am trying to embrace this new normal.  This is our last baby, according to modern medicine.  And I am making a conscious effort to enjoy this time, instead of wishing it away.  Sitting outside, playing with baby toes, and watching Rockford Files on the couch instead of trying to be supermom.  Reminding myself that babies usually learn how to sleep through the night eventually, and the fact that mine hasn't done it yet does not mean: a. she hates us b. she is a low achiever c. I am being punished for playing the lotto that time at the bank when we all won lottery tickets and I scratched mine off.

So right now, the new normal is lazy days, and hoping and praying for lots of Friends reruns at night.  And spending 30 minutes searching online for the kind of pacifier that the hospital gives out.  The ugly green kind that my other two kids hated.  And this one loves. 

 

I'm not even that fond of horses

I have never been that adventurous.  No skydiving, no bungee jumping, and no tattoos.  The idea of any of those things sounded scary.  Very edgy, and if you do them, I'm probably be impressed. But not me, the giant chicken of the west.  So maybe it would make sense to you that when we visited Larry's uncle's horse ranch, right after we got married, I wasn't super anxious to hop right on a horse.  I liked the kind called "Old Paint" that were fat and mostly lazy.  The horse I got on that day(as I was trying to be brave and fit into the family) was neither.  And since everyone knows that horses can smell fear, and he had already eyeballed me and sized me up, I ran the risk of embarassing myself in front of family I didn't really know and wimped out, dismounted the horse, and went home. 

The next time I tried to ride a real live horse(as opposed to the fat ones that shuffle along the trail), we were in Costa Rica.  There was a RAIN FOREST.  And a VOLCANO.  Surely that would make up for the fact that a giant beast who could smell my terror would be jostling me around.  And although I didn't wimp out, it was a fear-filled hour and a half ride around a rain forest, wherein one of the horses from our group tried to make a break for it, and the guide had to chase him(and his rider) down.  I whispered to mine that he better not get any ideas.  And then I went back to cowering and bumping along. 

This summer, I got reaquianted with one of my favorite songs from high school.  It was a song that we used to listen to on the way to camp, make videos to, and it would make me, a weird and insecure high schooler, excited about the future.  And it can be related to the previous equine theme.  Yep, SCC's Great Adventure.  And while I used to love listening to that song and thinking about all the great adventures that life has, it's a lot easier to plan for them when you are 16, instead of 34.  And I know it's a God song, about being a Christian, but right now, as I time wimpy contractions and wait to go to the hospital to meet our 3rd child, I can't help but think that the 16 year old me had no idea what kind of adventure she was getting into.  From marrying a coach and being completely submerged in all things sports(yikes) to a totally different career than I ever imagined for myself(but guess what? I love it) to 3(yes, three) kids.  Who i'm pretty sure can smell fear, too.

I guess what I am trying to clumsily say is that even though horses freak me out, and I will not ever be able to canter and post and all that other jazz, and Larry and I are getting ready to be outnumbered by children(on homecoming week, no less)it's probabably just fine that I'm not the one picking my adventures.  Because I might still be at home, reading a book. Not terrified.  But bored, with bad eyesight.

Wide Open Spaces. Or, the First Day of Fall

No, today is not the first day of fall.  To this Texan*, though, it might as well be.  Birds are chirping, trees are no longer wilting, and my face doesn't melt right off when I get into the car after work.  The temperature drop of about 20 degrees in the last week or so has changed my outlook on life.  And by golly, before the week is up I'm bound and determined to make something out of pumpkin. 

But the first day of fall is rapidly approaching.  September 23 is the official start.  And since I will probably be in the hospital with a new squirmy baby, I'll pay my homage to fall now.  In advance.  While I still have a few remaining brain cells.

Growing up in Missouri, we experienced fall.  For more than a day.  Leaves would turn, apples would be picked, pumpkin pies would spontaneously be baked, and all was right in the world.  Although, I'm not sure if I'm recalling all the details exactly as they happened.  For instance, I never looked at leaves on my own free will.  Usually, my parents would force me into the car, drive around the local cemetary, while I sat in the back seat rolling my eyes at the thought of being made to look at some dumb leaves.  Yeah, orange.  I get it. Ooh, there's a yellow one.  Marvelous.  And the weather.  Usually by the time Halloween rolled around, it was cold enough that our parents would insist that we wear our coats over our costumes, which was the ultimate curse.  It ruined everything.  But age dims the memory, and I now have fond memories of the autumns of my youth.

But in the not so far away past, a particular fall stands out in my memory.  The fall of 1998.  It was a time of new beginnings.  That spring, I had gone through major changes prompted by an angsty relationship with an old boyfriend. Hurtful things were said, and my poor 19 year old heart was crushed.  From that came a long period of depression, moving out of the dorms at the college I attended, cutting off contact with most of my friends, and a retreat into hermithood.  By the fall, though, I had gotten back on the right track.  I mended friendships as best I could, enrolled myself into a new college with a new major, and had come to terms with the fact that maybe the best idea would be for me to focus on my education and quit obsessing about getting married.  So I went into the fall with the Dixie Chicks anthem about exploring new horizons as my theme song.  My plans were to finish college, move to a big city, and make it on my own.  No guy for a crutch.  No coddling from family members. Just me, the Atlantic ocean, and plenty of space to make a big mistake. Or something like that. 

The school year started off fabulously.  I loved my classes.  I'm sure i saw a leaf or two change. I'm almost certain I ate something containing pumpkin.  And then a girl I worked with mentioned that her husband had a friend who was a nice guy, and would I like to meet him?  Actually, I really didn't.  I thought blind dates were creepy.  And I was not looking for a boy.  But.....the bank that I worked at was hosting a party soon, and it might be nice to have a date to take with me.  So I told her she could make arrangements if she wanted to.  But in the meantime, i'd be focusing on my schoolwork and making plans to relocate in a year or so.

I got the call on a Wednesday night.  Did I want to meet this guy and some friends at Harpos in downtown Springfield?  No, I did not. I was not a bar hanger-outer, and it sounded like I would be out of my element.  Maybe another time. 

The next time, it was another weeknight.  The guy and his buddies were watching the Mizzou game at a sports bar.  Did I want to meet him there?  No, I did not.  But this time, when I declined the opportunity to be paraded in front of his buddies at a sports bar where they could silently judge me, he offered to change the location and meet me next door at Applebees.  So I said yes.  I made plans to drive and meet him there, just in case he was a crazy lunatic and tried to murder me after he discovered where I lived.  We met at Applebees, and were joined by the girl who set us up and her husband, which was totally unexpected and mostly awkward.  We sat in one of those big corner booths and probably said two words to each other the entire date.  As far as first dates went, it was not too great.  He offered to order me a drink, I declined, and had iced tea instead.  He seemed nice enough, but we were not even sitting next to each other.  We made plans afterwards to get together, and although the other couple planned on joining us, it ended up being just me and the guy.  Before we left the restaurant, he paid with $100 bill.  Which impressed me more than it should have.  I found out later that was his last bit of money. In the world.  Let that be a lesson to you, gold diggers.

So we went to have coffee afterwards.  I rode with him in his car, and crossed my fingers that he wasn't going to use this time to murder me.  He didn't, and we made it to the coffee shop.  I found out he didn't drink coffee.  Oops.  We sat there and made small talk for a while, and at one point he looked me directly in the eye and said "What's wrong with you?  You're cute, you're smart, but you're single.  Why?"  That question did two things.  One, it caught me off guard.  that's really not a first date question.  Second, it was sort of rude. It immediately put me on the defensive.  I don't remember how I responded, but it changed the date totally.  Now, it was my goal to show him that there was nothing wrong with me. NOTHING.

On the way back to Applebees to get to my car, his car died and he ended up pushing it to the mall parking lot while I steered. From there,  his buddy picked us up and took me back to my car.  Overall, it was a first date disaster. But for some reason, I agreed to go out with him again.

He didn't fit into my plan. I was not looking for a boy to get tied down with. It was going to be a lot more difficult to graduate and break up with someone before moving to the coast.  But after that second date, we saw each other every single day for the month of November, all the way up to the week before Christmas, when he went to Georgia to sell fireworks(which is a bizarre story for another time). While he was away, I mooned around and checked the mailbox every day for letters from him.  He called me every night from the Pizza Hut next to the fireworks tent. I missed him, and couldn't wait till he got back. 

A new year, and it was no longer fall anymore.  But by this time, I was considering the idea that maybe my great plan was just that, a plan.  And plans could change.  And by the next fall, instead of making plans to move away and start a new life by myself, I was in New York, saying yes to a proposal.  That first date with Larry had been a comedy of errors.  The first year that we got to know each other was a crash course into the world of coaching and sports and all that comes with it.  Our engagement was a whirlwind of wedding planning, college attending, and breakups. With each other.  And our first few years of marriage were not easy street for sure.  Take a first born son and pair him up with the spoiled brat of the family, and feathers will fly.

But as we start this fall, 13 years later, it will again be the time for new beginnings and new experiences.  We both have experienced career moves that have shaped our lives over the past few years.  We have learned how to be parents of two, and this fall we will hopefully figure out how to be parents of 3.  He hates the Dixie Chicks, and I still love them.  Because they remind me of the new beginnings that fall brings.  And of my silly little plan to make mistakes, all by myself, in a town where everyone doesn't know your name.  It's much more rewarding to go through life with someone you love.  Who loves you, despite your 3rd born, baby of the family tendencies. 

Fall will always have a special place in my heart.  Because of pumpkin pie, of course.  And also, because of Larry.

*it's official.  I've signed paperwork and will now be yelling the loudest at large group gatherings when they ask you what state you are from.

Here comes the rain. And I am getting an umbrella ready.

So the countdown clock is set to 5 weeks.  Five weeks until the sweet relief of a lovely epidural.  Five weeks until there is 24/7 room service.  Five weeks until I see if the NEW! REMODELED! labor and delivery suites that my hospital's website touts are for real, or just photoshop trickery. 

I am praying for an easy birth: a time surrounded by family and friends, the graham cracker pudding room provided for the mothers, and happy memories of the birth of our last child.  My lovely husband is quick to point out that I have not "given birth" to anyone, ever, so I cannot list that on my resume.  But the surgery, perfomed by my lovely obgyn, will be on September 20 or 21, and I am looking forward to that.

What I am not looking forward to is the going home part.  The part when you leave the hospital, with fanfare(in a wheelchair!), car loaded with flowers, baby blankets, and items from the little drawer under the baby bed(as one nurse put it, "you paid for it all, you'd better take it").  And then you arrive home.  Maybe someone brings a meal.  Maybe you have family in town to help.  And maybe your baby decides that she has been keptawake in the nursery playing 21 and blackjack with the nurses, and let's just continue that tradition at home.  No one tells new moms that the first night home might possibly the worst night ever.  With Sheridan, it was like they switched our mild-mannered baby with an tiny irate cell-phone customer stuck in a 2 year contract.   She wanted nothing to do with her basinett, her new home, her parents, and how dare we change her surroundings.  I begged Larry to take me back to the hospital.  And although he is nice and friendly and accomodating, he wouldn't.  With Cale, the same thing.  We thought bedtime should be about 10.  We put him down, swaddling him like pros.  And he made noises.  He tricked us into thinking that he had fallen asleep.  we would close our eyes.  and them a noise.  another noise.  a night full of noises.  Not loud enough to call in the pros.  Just noisy enough to let us know that OH MY WORD THERE IS A BABY IN OUR ROOM WHO WILL NOT BE QUIET. Again, Larry refused to take me back to the hospital.

It went on like that for me for several days.  The faint sound of the Haverty's commercial reminded me that the rest of the world was going on with their lives, while I was stuck at home in my sweatpants, getting barfed on.  My life would never be the same.  Everyone else got to get up, go about their days with no expectations, and I was stuck at home, trying to figure out what to do with a newborn.  The only thing that really made me feel normal was the 2 am feedings, when watched the tivoed Late Night with Jimmy Fallon episodes. Because of that, Jimmy Fallon has a special place in my heart. And really?  Yacht rock is pure genius.

The feeling of darkness and desperation and hopelessness didn't go away after the first few weeks.  My world closed in on me, and nothing made me feel better.  I begged God to make it stop.  To make me feel like normal.  To make me feel like not clawing everyone's eyes out.  There is a lovely picture, taken of me on my 33rd birthday, just weeks after delivery.  I am sitting on the couch, holding a baby, with tear stained eyes and a puffy face.  Not my finest moment. 

Finally, I swallowed my pride and made a phone call to my doctor.  A phonecall wherein I told the nurse that things just weren't right.  I wanted to lay down under my bed and never talk to anyone again.  They told me to come in right away, which translated to me that I was indeed a freak, a menace to society, and they needed me off the streets. On the drive to the doctors office, I cried the whole way.  I was a failure as a person.  Why couldn't I get my act together? Why was the way the wind was blowing on the car completely freaking me out?  Why had God let me be a parent, if i was such a disappointment to my family?

And then my doctor talked to me.  She gave me advice.  She gave me hope.  And she gave me relief in a form of a prescription.  On the way home, I cried some more.  Because it felt like giving up.  I took the easy way out. Maybe I should have tried to suck it up a few more weeks. And then things started getting better.  I felt like more like myself than I had in a long time.  The baby didn't stop crying.  Spit up was still an hourly occurance.  But the urge to run away subsided.  The inclination to be kind to others came back.  And two months later, Larry looked at me and said "You're the Caryn I married."  And that was the reassurance I needed.  A pill didn't change my personality.  It didn't turn me into a zombie.  It didn't transform me into little Suzy Sunshine(really, just ask LBoogie.)  But it helped me cope with all of the hormonal, situational, and emotional changes flying around my head.

I'll be honest, with all the joy that comes with a new sweet baby and her cute little fingers and toes and sweet smiles that will be coming, i'm scared.  Because I have been through this twice.  The first time, I didn't fully recover for almost a year.  For the second, it was a few months.  And I can only pray that this time, having taken precautions and having gotten rid of my pride a long time ago, things will be different. The umbrella is by the door.  And it's pink:)

 

Let's call this the home stretch*

So in case you have been hiding under a rock, you may not have heard that Texas is bound and determined to break all the heat records in history and get a giant gold star for being the hottest place ever in the summer.  Because why just have a month of 100 degree temps in a row when we can hold the record for the most ever and ever amen?  Maybe the next record we can go for is "Most Dairy Queens in a 10 mile radius."  That would be a lot more useful right about now.  Buster Bars, banana pudding blizzards, star kiss........

Anyways, the crippling heat, combined with a large dose of laziness and uninspiredness has caused a drought in postings as well.  That means the summer has been a blurry haze of trips, change, and heartburn.  So in the interest of getting back to a routine, getting back to the basics, and getting back to waking up before the Today show is over, I present to you the cliffnotes of my summer. Read at your own risk.  Or go watch Little House on the Prairie.

News of Note Part 1: New Orleans Girls Trip-I perhaps am a spoiled brat.  I do not deserve a trip away to just do fun girly stuff, but I got one anyways.  Because Larry is super nice and friendly and likes our kids as much as I do.  So my girlfriend and I have been frequenting the south for a few summers in a row.  We are not super duper fancy, and we do not hobknob with the old money people, but we have been getting in a car, leaving our children in the capable hands of our spouses(spice?) and touring old creepy houses, eating food, and waiting in long lines for things while commenting "isn't it nice to be waiting in this line without having to entertain anyone?"  So this year, because of the impending birth of Dooters Julianne Merryweather Thexton, we had decided to make it a short trip. Mostly because I drove to Arkansas a few weeks ago and my back told me that was a terribly stupid idea.  So we had settled on someplace close.  One of the fine towns that Texas had to offer.  But it just wasn't the deep south.  So after some searching, we found a cheap flight to New Orleans that lasted approximately an hour and ten minutes, booked it, and planned our excursion.  You might ask, "Caryn, why are you such a brat that you leave your poor defenseless kids and husband all alone in the Texas heat?  Do you hate them?"  The answer is a firm and loud and resounding(and maybe even echoing) "NO!!"  However, when football season fires up in the fall(actually, the match has been lit and it has fired up already), most of the parenting duties fall to me.  Larry is super busy coaching and footballing it up, and as much as he tries to pitch in when he is not working, he is super exhausted and busy.  So although I may feel a little bit guilty for taking off for a girls weekend, I sort of think of it as a little advance reward for being a football widow. 

So off we went to NOLA, arriving at 8:30 in the morning, just in time for beignets. Delicious, nutritious  beignets.  After licking all the remaining powdered sugar off the plate, we made our way through the French Quarter. After a long morning of sightseeing, a bizarre interaction with a homeless man, a torrential downpour, and a scrumptious lunch served to us by a member of the New Orleans restaurant dynasty, we headed to our home away from home, Nottoway Plantation.

Amanda and I sort of feel like Nottoway is part of our family. We knew it when it was a rickety old plantation.  The first time we ever visited, we arrived after dark. We were given the key by Gus the night watchman, we pulled our suitcases to our room, our path lighted by creepy gas lights. We were sure a ghost was going to torment us in the night.  But since those days, about 14 million dollars in renovations has been dumped into the place, and it is positively absolutely fabulous.  And I'm thinking we are sort of taking credit for it.  By our attendance and all. 

The next few days were filled with pool time, naps, workouts, and an accidental breaking of a coffee maker.  And food. Oh the food.  Between salads with magical toppings, fresh fruit, and all manner of bread pudding, we were nourished.  Also, there may have been a creepy person inside the plantation at night peering at us from a window.  Amanda saw it.  I refused to look.  Because I am a chicken. And in two days, our good time was over, we were herded back onto a southwest flight(which, next time I fly southwest i'm going to sharpen my elbows.  On account of all the line jumping.) and we were back in the big D(and I do mean Dallas) and life returned to normal. 

News of Note Part 2: New Job-So, after crashing from a carb overload in the Big Easy(i'm so very sorry, i had to call it that), i started a new job.  At a new school.  With new people.  I am quiet until I learn the culture.  So I will refrain from my Michael Jackson impressions until i've been there for a while.  And I'm excited to have this new opportunity to show off my moonwalk to a whole new set of colleagues.

News of Note Part 3-The Home Stretch-In six weeks or so, there will be a new baby in our house.  Are we ready?  Probably not. Is anyone really ready for a brand new, un potty-trained person who has her own likes, dislikes, pacifier preferences, and visions about how the sleep schedule is going to shake down? So while the date is scheduled, the drugs are prepared(by an anestesiologist, not me) and the room is semi-cleared out, I'm sure we will not be fully ready. But I take comfort in the fact that the hospital serves a fabulous potato soup. I'm not kidding. 

It has been a busy summer full of lots of changes.  This time last summer, if you would have let me see into the crystal ball, i would have called you a big fat liar.  There is no way I would have been ready-mentally, physically, or emotionally, for all these changes.  But God protected me, sent out a code Adam when I needed one most, and brought people into my life to encourage me and be my true friends. And although I am slightly terrified at the upheaval headed my way, I am again thankful. Because when you boil it all down, I don't deserve one lick of it.  Yes, lick.  I am a Texan now.

*except, if i ever run in a race that has a 6 week home stretch, i will quit.