Apparently my house has been invaded by the crying monsters.

Normally, we’re more of a “tear here, tear there” kinda family.

Sure, I cry at almost every single episode of Grey’s Anatomy and OMGoodness, last week’s Private Practice had me wailing uncontrollably. But that’s a whole other Oprah.

While I’m not sick with this little person growing like a weed inside of me (thank you Jesus), I am, how you say, an emotional basket case. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the Country Music Awards had me bawling my eyes out through the entire performance.

With every award given came a fresh wave of tears. Even in non-pregnancy when people achieve their dreams I just lose it. The Olympics for example: read it here. I just lose my mind with the weight of someone desiring something so much and working hard for it and then they are recognized…it’s making me tear up now. I can’t handle it.

So as you can imagine, when the person receiving the award cries, I’m a serious goner (queue Brad Paisley, I needed a ventilator).

Then, there’s my beautiful girl who for the past 3 days has taken a one hour afternoon nap in her crib, by herself! Then, this morning she slept for an hour by herself, in her crib, and I was so excited that were taking so many strides forward, how amazing she is, how adaptable she is…did I mention she was sleeping in her crib, by herself? Cause she totally was.

But now, rather than sleeping, she’s screaming, crying, gnashing teeth,…basically freaking out. Why, you ask?

How am I supposed to know???

For the past hour she has walking around her crib (yes, she’s walking, it’s the cutest thing ever), babbling, screaming Mama, rubbing her lovies together. Occasionally she’ll let our a loud cry just to let me know that she’s still in there.

She’s been doing this routine for 51 minutes so far (not that I’m counting of course).

Is it possible that my crazy preggo hormones have transferred to her perfect little lungs?

I’m no expert, put I’m pretty sure that that isn’t possible.

And let’s face it, in 9 minutes I’m going to get her out of her personal hell of the crib and take her in my arms and cuddle and nurse  as she drifts off to dreamland as I venture there myself.

That’s right.  Don’t judge me.

Thank goodness Zach isn’t crying about anything…yet.

If I keep up my crazy crying he’s bound to shed a few tears himself as he begs me to get it together…

I’ll keep you posted.

When I was a little bitty kid, like 3 or 4, I was obsessed with the movie version of “Annie.”

Coincidentally, my Zach was too.

We were totally made for each other, this my friends is proof.

Anyway, I would sing all the songs to the top of my lungs and I would recite all the lines that Molly had. Clearly she was my favorite.

I figured that we were the only 2 people in the world named Molly, so we were destined to be best friends.

It was lost on me that she was a fictional character.

Turns out, I may still have a little issue with fiction vs. reality: Ahem Grey’s Anatomy.

What? Me? Never.

Anyway, I loved the movie, loved the songs, love my Molly and Annie. LOVED them.

So, when my mama had a little sister for me at the tender of 8 years old (I was 8, not my mama), I was thrilled. Albeit, a little confused about how it would work with a tiny little human in the house, but still excited.

And then, they named her Annie.

WhWhWhWhAT?

It was perfect, just like the movie. Annie and Molly, together forever.

Let the record show that she was named after our Nana, not the movie.  But still, the movie had to have had a tiny bit to do with it, right Mama?

So, we played dolls, beauty shop, and games, with a healthy amount of torture to be sure, but still sprinkled with lots-o-fun.

Over the years I just assumed she would be a kid forever, I mean, I am 8 years older than her after all. If she gets older then, (gasp) so do I, so clearly, she’ll stay a little kid in pig tails riding her bike endlessly. Here are a few “through the years with Annie” pictures.

Annie, 2 days old.

Annie, 2 months old.

Annie, 5 Months Old.

Annie, 1 Year.

Annie and Me. 1 year.

Luke, Me and Annie. She looks real thrilled doesn't she? 2 Years Old.

Annie, 3 Years Old. (BTW: She was OBSESSED with Minnie Mouse).

Annie and Me. 4 Years Old.

Notice no pictures of awkward adolescence.

You’re welcome, Annie.

Annie and Katie, 12 years old.

Annie, 18 Years Old. High School Graduation.

From Left, Annie, Luke, Me, Katie. My Sibs:). 2008.

Annie, Mama and Katie at UNC in 2009. PS: Annie was kind of a big deal there.

Annie, 2010, UNC Graduate!

After your year book view of her growing up, you guessed it. She did get older.

She even went to college.

And today, my little sister started law school.

Did that register?

Law School.

Like, school for smart people to understand the Constitution better.

I can’t even spell Constitution (thank goodness for spell check) and my little sissy is now a student.

Unbelievable.

So, I would like to shout out a big “I’m proud of you” over the World Wide Web.

I’m so proud of you Annie Bananny.

And remember…even on rough days, “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow…”

Isn't she lovely?

As we have well determined, I’m not a scientist.  I barely passed all of my science classes (remember the Birds debacle: if not, read it here and here), I’m not really sure what a beaker is, and I surely don’t know anything about the periodic table, but I do know that we inherit traits from our parents, grandparents and so on.

So maybe rather than a scientist I’m a geneticist.

My Grey’s Anatomy degree has failed me yet again.

That said, this whole circle of life is a beautiful thing.  I wonder if my Great, Great Grandmother, Molly, ever thought there would be a younger version of herself in a different time? I hope so.

More importantly, I wonder if she had beautiful kinky curly hair?  Porcelain skin? A keen memory?

If she did, she certainly didn’t pass them on to me.  Instead, I wonder if she passed her most horrendous traits.

For example, did she have the loudest most annoying laugh ever?  Or, enormous size 11 ugly feet? Or, like me, could sweat more than any other human alive- ever?

Probably.

I got some good genes I tell ya.

It’s true that my laugh could be heard from miles away.  I try to hold it in, to not scream laugh, but I just can’t help it.  Life is so funny that I just can’t help it!  And it’s true that my monster feet are not only huge but are in terrible disarray from months of neglect: AKA- having a baby.  Having that little Bitzy has lessened my intense desire for manicured feet.  And lastly, the sweat. The buckets, piles and trash bags full of my sweaty sweat.

It’s disgusting.

I don’t perspire people.

I cannot dab the sweat.

It pours and pours.

It’s ugly, violent, disgusting sweat.

In fact, once in a basketball game my hands were so sweaty that the ball went right through my hands. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to catch a basketball with slippery wet hands, but it ain’t pretty.

Or the endless walks that I’ve taken with friends (Ahem, Julie) and I look like I’ve jumped in the swimming pool with my soaking wet sweaty clothes and they look like they’re ready for prom when we’re done.

No fair!

Or my personal favorite, at a spinning class the instructor told the whole class that they should all be drinking as much water as me. When I said, oh really, why? She replied, “You are sweating so much that you bound to be drinking tons of water.  Good for you.”

Yay. Freaking good for me.

I wanted to say, “Honey, this ain’t my first rodeo with sweat and I’m embarrassed enough as it is. Can we please not point it out to the ENTIRE class lady?”

Mortifying.

Even with my most unattractive features, I’m still proud of my heritage.

Although I do wish that in the history books they would list these little details just so their offspring generations down the road would have a heads up.

So, for my great, great granddaughter, I’m sorry for your screeching laugh, large and disgusting feet and sweaty sweatiness.  Be assured that if I could endure it, so can you.  Promise. Love you!  Granny.

Ta-Ta my darlings!  Happy Monday!

I would rather eat yellow cake batter than almost anything.  Yes, I am aware that raw eggs could make me very sick. It’s totally worth the risk.

Gracie is the single most fantastic thing that I’ve ever done and I want about 30 more children.  I figure if I get pregnant every year for the next ten years and have triplets every time then it’s possible!  Then, I’ll have all of my 31 babies before my eggs dry up and just in time for a TLC prime time show.

I hate going to the mall.  I’ll take Target any day.

I have amazing girlfriends.  They truly are a blessing straight from the hand of God (wait, that’s not a confession. Sorry).

When I’m at home I hardly ever cover my mouth to sneeze.  I’m gross that way.

I loved my husband long before he loved me.  It’s true.  I was totally bananas over him in college and he broke my heart.  But don’t worry, I won him over eventually.  The lesson here is, girls never give up.  Stalk ‘em long enough and they’ll come around.

I love breastfeeding so much that I wonder if I’ll be the mom who is breastfeeding the kid ’til she’s 7.

I am kind of a hypochondriac.  The weird thing about this isn’t the “fear” of dying, it’s more that I want to know what’s happening with my body at all times.  This also correlates with my obsession with all medical shows.  I’m sort of a doctor.  Who need Medical school when Grey’s Anatomy is on?

Speaking of, every single time I have my blood pressure taken I get really nervous and I’m afraid that it will skyrocket and then the doctor will make me take medicine unnecessarily.  I know that this probably will never happen, but it still makes me nervous.

I used to love to clean and now I just can’t be bothered with it.  My house is dusty and dirty but I just can’t find the motivation or the time/energy to clean it.  So, I suppose I’ll continue to waste money paying someone to.  (Don’t judge me.).

I find it funny/odd that so many people take pride in being “sarcastic.”  I think that having the “gift of sarcasm” is just an excuse to be rude.

I used to love Duke basketball, but these days, I have no interest in it. Sorry Duke, it was a fun ride.

When I see things that remind me of something I often have to really think about whether I remember it from my own life, a dream or a movie.  It all gets muddled in my mind…. how old am I anyway?  Am I losing it already?

My favorite color is yellow (wait, is that a confession?  I don’t think so.  There I go again).

I accidentally borrowed (not stole) my parent’s car when I was at the ripe old age of 13.  And…I wrecked it.  And…then lied about it.  Not my finest moment, but a learning experience to be sure.

I think Snuggies are weird and scratchy…and they are made out of felt. I hate felt (unless it’s on a board and you’re putting up little Bible characters like Miss Jean did when I was in Sunday School).  Shouldn’t something called a “snuggie” be soft and cuddly and not feel like cardboard?

My mama and my husband are my two best friends.  They have to love me, they have no choice.

I have been told that I’m “so photogenic.”  I confess that I have spent an embarrassingly absurb amount of time practicing in the mirror. Sure, most of this happened when I was 13, but let’s face it, I have an occasional practice session. BTW:   If it’s true that I am, in fact, photogenic, does this mean that in real life I’m not nearly as attractive as I am in pictures?

There are many more confessions…stay tuned.