Introducing my sweet blogger friend, Keely. She not only is a fantastic writer, she is also a fellow mama to 2 beautiful girls. She has been so kind to write a guest blog for me…I hope you enjoy!!!!

I try so hard to be a good mother.

Or at least the kind of mother that the media depicts as being “good.”

And by Media, I mean Other Parenting Blogs.

But the deck is stacked these days. Not only does one have to feed, clothe, and generally keep one’s kiddos healthy (all the time, too, not just for like a day or a week!), but we’re also in charge of entertaining, teaching, having a good amount of [supervised] “down time,” and Creating Moments…in a spotless home. And you’d better believe that the super-clean abode needs to be kept that way without chemicals or any other substance you wouldn’t want directly up the nostril of anyone residing with you. A Good Mother- as everybody on the internet knows- uses only eco-friendly products to sanitize her sustainably built home, the one that was created with with [naturally replenishing] bamboo flooring and/or solar panels. She also fashions homemade air fresheners out of whittled lemon peels.

(I may have made up that last part. Or, I’ve just unwittingly created a new thing and am already failing to do it often enough.)

Chemical-free cleaning is the hardest part. (Mostly because I cannot afford that whole bamboo thing.) I’m a pretty good Mom on the other fronts; I love rolling around on the floor with my two daughters. I adore singing made-up songs in made-up French. And, for the most part, our major health maladies can be fixed with a pirate Band-Aid and a cool mist humidifier.  But the green living thing? For the uninitiated, let’s just say that kids can make some truly horrific things happen in, on, or around their bodies in impressively short amounts of time. And gentle spritzes of vinegar and lemon can only sanitize so much. (Although it does make an exceptional salad dressing.) So sometimes industrial-strength cleansers are the only way to ensure germ-freeitude, short of burning play clothes, kitchen surfaces, and maybe even the kitchen itself.

And there you go. Filthy children and thoughts of burning down the kitchen. Not a Good Mother.

When I try to be a greener cleaner in the bathroom, I end up using way too many of those compostable wipes. It then occurs to me that, since we generally don’t compost, I’ve just shoved the entirety of my supplies right into the regular trash can. Strike One for saving the Earth.

And then, after I realize that I’ve just had my hands directly in the toilet bowl (with or without biodegradable wipes), I generally use industrial- strength bleach and way too much boiling hot water to wash my hands. (Strike Two. And a half.)

I try not to beat myself up about it. After all, no mother (even a Good one) is perfect all the time. This thought comforts me for roughly ten minutes. That’s when I find my infant (ignoring her BPA-free and stimulating wooden rattles) with a hairy cat toy in her mouth. So I throw the whole shebang away with nary a thought of recycling. (The cat toy, that is. I keep the baby and the cat hair.) Strike…let’s just go ahead and call it Strike Nine, because it’s already been a long day.

I haven’t given up hope, however, that Nora and Susannah will grow up to be responsible and environmentally friendly citizens of the world.

After all, they have exceptional table manners, despite seeing their mother eat cereal over the sink with a spatula.

There’s hope.

Wanna connect with Keely? Check out her blog here! Be sure to “like” Lolly Gag Blog on Facebook too!

Have a great day friends!

Dear Brother Bear,

In the big scheme of life you’ll come to realize that time is tricky. Sometimes time flies (mainly when you’re having fun- like when you’re on vacation) and others it drags on like molasses (like in Geometry class). I can tell you honestly that the past six months have been a mixture of the most challenging moments of my life, mixed with the sweetest, most amazing moments as well. And for you, my love, six months marks the entirety of your life. For it was only six short months ago that you entered this great big world.

And guess what?

The world got a whole lot brighter the moment you made your entrance.

I’m not just saying that because I’m your Mama, ya know. You truly are a light. A beautiful shining light.

You have always been mostly happy. Sure, you have your fussy days, but overall, you’re extremely happy and compliant. You smile at me, your sissy, your daddy, strangers, Christmas trees, the TV, basically any old thing is your best buddy.

Today I took you to your 6 month well check up and when they gave you those nasty shots you didn’t even cry.  I’m sure it’s because of your yummy delicious chubby legs! Not one tear, I tell ya!  You continue to amaze me with your resilience, laid back nature and outgoing personality.

The other day as I held you and snuggled with you God gave me a very beautiful insight…He reminded me that even though I wanted you, and loved you long before you were born, I could never have imagined how amazing you would truly be. Every prayer, desire, and hope I had for you has been answered more beautifully than anything I could have hoped or imagined (Ephesians 3:20).

You are absolutely my dream come true, love. I never want you to doubt how loved you are.

Not now, not ever.

I am so proud of you baby boy, already.

I love you to the moon and back,

Mama

In all of my dreams of being a mama, never one time did I imagine not breastfeeding my babies. Breastfeeding, for me, was a top priority. A, “I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work” priority. A, “I’ll take the bleeding, cracking, aching, overflowing, pumping” kind of priority. A “I’ll be up 2,3,4,5 times a night for months and months to feed my baby” kind of priority.

That probably sounds dramatic (shocker), but honestly, one of my great desires of being a mother was to nurse my babies for as long as possible.

Granted, I was never interested in my 7 year old unbuttoning my shirt and asking for milk from my “ta-ta” but then again, I never thought about the weaning process of nursing, just the nursing itself.

Truth be told, I’m not exactly what you’d call a “long term planner.” I’m more of a live in the moment kinda gal.

So, when we got the BFP (big fat positive) and I had to give Zach CPR, my first fear was that I would have to stop breastfeeding.  Not, “wow, I’m going to have 2 children under 2″ or ” how are we going to fit another tiny human into this house” or “no more sushi or me” or “how did this happen again?” Nope, my one and only obsessive thought was that I didn’t want to stop nursing my Bitzy.

So I began looking for loopholes/solutions/way to nurse my sweetheart as long as possible.

Dr. Google and I spent a whole lotta time together that night and there was many differing opinions.

Some doctors say to stop nursing immediately, some say, 8 weeks, some 12 weeks, some 15, some 20 and some say that continuing through pregnancy and then tandem nursing is just fine (tandem nursing is means that both the toddler and the newborn are literally sucking the life out of you at once) is fine too.

As you see, there are varied opinions.

So, after getting the BFP on Friday night, the following Monday morning I called my OB and asked his opinion, and he said 20 weeks was the maximum due to concerns about calcium deficiencies (in me, not the baby).  Then, I called my lactation consultant and she told me the same thing.

Not what I wanted to hear.

I wanted something more like, “No worries! Your sweetheart will just naturally wean herself around 39.9999 weeks right before your baby boy comes and she will sit on your lap and watch as your nurse your brand new bundle of love.”

Nope. They so didn’t say that.

Thing is, when I was 4 weeks pregnant, 20 weeks seemed so far away that it didn’t matter. Then, 15 weeks came and went and I started down the barrel of 20 weeks and I began getting a little nervous.

Um, make that a lot nervous.

And now, we’re at 24 weeks and I’m still nursing and am absolutely nowhere near ready to stop and even if I were I have no clue how to.

Turns out, that a “side effect” of pregnancy when nursing is that your milk supply lessens significantly. In my case, I went from feeding 6 ounces every 3 hours (7am, 10am, 1pm, 4 pm and 7pm) to now I’m lucky if I get 1 ounce every 4 hours.

One would think that my Bitzy would realize the difference and want to nurse less, right? But oh no. Apparently the milk was only a bonus for her. She just wants to be close to me, and let’s face it, I want to be close to her right back.

That’s why stopping is so tricky. It’s not like I can drop a feeding. I mean, there is no milk involved here people. None.

She wants to nurse and snuggle in the morning when she wakes up, when she goes down for naps (twice a day), at bedtime and then anytime that she falls down, feels sad, insecure, happy, hyper, full of joy…I mean you get it. The child wants to nurse 24/7.

And…I let her.

It’s true.

I love it. I cannot lie.

I realize that in a few short months I’ll have an extremely tiny human attached to my breast and who will actually be drinking milk rather than just using me as a human pacifier and that I should probably have some sort of action plan for stopping…but I just want to enjoy our last few months together.

Is that wrong?

Do I have a problem?

Wait, don’t answer that.

Anyone have any brilliant advice?

Be gentle.

My darling love,

I’ve been dragging my feet on writing this…not sure why.

I’m 2 weeks late on professing my amazement at watching you, my sweetheart, grow and change every day.

I’m not sure if it’s because you’re 1st birthday is looming ever so closely and I’m in some kind of mourning of your babyhood, or that I’m so enthralled by your blooming toddlerhood that I don’t want to look backwards, but forward.

At any rate, forever and always I love you more today than yesterday.

It’s true.

The tragedy of being a child is that you’ll never understand how much I love you until you have a baby of your own. Because baby girl, your mama loves you more than words could ever express. I hope and pray that when you become a mother I will be holding your hand just as your Gammy was holding mine as you entered the world.

But, back to the magic of your 11th month.

You are talking more and more. You are still reluctant to walk, although you have taken a few steps here and there. I must confess to you that I’m in no hurry for you to conquer the world of walking. We’ve all become quite comfortable with you crawling, walking seems like a whole different ballgame.  But when you do, I’m sure it would be the most beautiful thing and you’ll be filled with joy as you are each and every day.

It’s true. You are a delight. When you were in my tummy Daddy and I prayed each night that God would fill you with joy and a lighthearted spirit. That you would find excitement in the small things in life and that you wouldn’t be bogged down by the worries of the world, but that you would first and foremost find your joy in Christ alone.

And honey, each time that you clap your little hands and laugh I am reminded of God’s unbelievable faithfulness. He has truly answered all of our prayers for you.

In only a few short weeks we’ll usher in a new year with you and I gotta say, I’m not sad. I’m thrilled that you’re mine and I can’t wait to spend another year with you by my side.

I love you sweet baby,

Mama

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…”

Ya know those annoying mommy’s that can only talk about their children, they swoon over their every move and cry, they are obsessed with how cute they are and they are constantly worried about them falling, getting sick, etc.?

I am one of those super annoying people.

Yup, I admit it.

I will also admit that I’m sure that I have the most beautiful child in the whole wide world.

Don’t hate people.

At least I know I’m a lunatic.

Anyway, I used to hate those crazy women.  I would think, “STOP talking about your kid. Read the news, watch TV, put on some lipstick and get over yourself and your offspring!”

But I figured, if ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

So I did. I became one of them. I’m a card carrying member of the crazy mommy club.

In honor of my obsession with my sweet baby, here are some recent pictures.

Be warned: these pictures are going to make you want to get pregnant in order to produce the worlds cutest baby. But rest assured, the worlds cutest baby award has already been granted to my Bitzy. Sorry Charlie.

Told ya I’m annoying.

So, check out my sweetheart.

Let's Party People!

Please Mama! Can my puppies come in?

Bitzy and Mama.

Who's ready to P.A.R.T.Y?

And she's off!

My adorable family. So blessed.

"Whaddya mean I can't have dog food? No fair!

I warned you. She’s the cutest kid ever.  Go ahead and get preggers…it’s worth a shot to compete.

<a href=”http://littlestorieseverywhere.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/signature.jpg”><img title=”Stories Everywhere Siggy2″ src=”http://littlestorieseverywhere.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/signature.jpg” alt=”" width=”160″ height=”105″ /></a>

Although I’ve lived away from my hometown for almost 8 years (which doesn’t seem possible), I still refer to my “home” as my sleepy itty bitty town in the mountains of North Carolina.  I suppose that I always will.

My father-in-law always says that the shortest way to a woman’s heart is through her Mama’s house, and I can’t really argue.  My heart is safe and happy at my Mama’s house.  It’s the house where I have a zillion memories of learning to fix my hair with a purple curling iron and burning myself countless times (I’ve still got the scars to prove it).  Nights that I spent talking on the phone to my random “boyfriends” about absolutely nothing for hours on end. Times when my brother and me would play Nintendo and he would treat me like his minion and I would hit, kick and holler at him but I secretly loved just being near him. All the days that my little sisters and me played with make-up and beauty shop.  So many memories and growing up has happened in my home sweet home.

It’s funny though, you know on commercials and movies when kids come home for the holidays or for visits and Folgers in brewing in the coffee pot and banana bread is baking in the oven?  The Mother is wearing an apron and vacuuming when her children pull up in a fancy SUV wearing North Face jackets and toboggans while snowing is pouring down.  She beams as her family trudges through the snow to meet her on the steps of their million dollar colonial mansion.  You know those commercials, right?

Well, that’s not how it is at my Mama’s house.  Nope, not at all.

For one thing, who drinks coffee in the middle of the day?  And more importantly, do some women just wear aprons around the house all day and night?  Is this 1953?  Also, in commercial land, do families ever get together when it’s not Christmas time?  And lastly, where is the Daddy and where does he work in order to pay for the mansion? I bet he’s a workaholic.

At my Mama’s house you have to fight 2 very hyper dogs to make it into the house.  When you finally make it in, you don’t see a museum filled with priceless antiques and oil paintings on every wall, and it’s surely not a mansion.  Bedrooms are traded and people are stashed in different bedrooms with old baby dolls and toys of the past, it’s certainly not like the movies or commercials.

It’s better.  Way better.

It’s a Mama who is your biggest fan who greets you with arms open wide and a smile that lights up her whole face.

It’s a house that holds secrets that will never be told.

It’s the smell of childhood and memories and love.

It’s the joy of family.

It’s home.

After 3 long days of  letting my girly cry it out and even longer nights of putting a pillow over my head while my precious child screamed her ever loving brains out, I am tired.

No, exhausted.

No, drained.

No, depressed.

No…THIRSTY.

All I want is a big huge mega size 44 ounce iced cold glass of chocolate milk.

Not the homemade stuff either.

I want Nesquik Chocolate Milk.

Ya know, the one with the little bunny.

When I was a kid I had a Nestle Quick bunny cup.  I’m assuming I had this rare treasure because my mama saved UPC codes or something…she’s that kind of mama.

In fact, I’m sorry that she’s not your mama.

Too bad, she’s mine all mine (well, and my brother and sisters too, but we all know that I’m her favorite).

Anyway, I digress, back to chocolate milk.

I just did a quick search to find out how many Weight Watcher points a 44 oz. glass of Nesquik Chocolate Milk would be, just for fun.

Holy freaking cow.

NOTE: The above nutrition facts are for one 8 ounce cup.  I want 5.5 cups to equal my 44 ouncer. That means that I would consume 1,100 calories, 27.5 grams of fat,  and only 5 grams of fiber.  In Nesquik’s defense, after drinking 44 ounces of milk I would be totally cool on my calcium consumption for the day.

That means that in the land of WW, I would drink 23 points in chocolate milk.

Ahem.  That’s more points than I would normally get in a day (except now that I’m breastfeeding I get 10 more than usual. Breastfeeding is da bomb).

Has anyone said “da bomb” since 1997?

Clearly I’m not going to drink 44 ounces of Nesquik. Let’s face it, I’m not going to drink 3 ounces of Nesquik.

Why?

1. Way, way, way too many points for a beverage.  I want my points to be actual food.

2. We don’t have any and it’s too late to go anywhere.  Nothing good happens after midnight after all….especially at the affectionately named “Ghetto Kroger” down the street from our house.  It’s not exactly fancy. It frequents a weird mix of hippies, rappers and rich women who may have killed their husbands for the money.  Needless to say, I’d rather not make an appearance after midnight.

3. I would rather drink my chocolate milk in my Nesquik bunny cup and it’s not here, it’s at my mama’s house…so I’ll wait and simply obsess about how much I want Nesquik ’til I can drink it ice cold from my bunny cup.

Yes, I just said, “My bunny cup.”

Yes, I’m 30 years old.

And yes, in case you’re wondering, I will probably sleep with my girl tonight when she wakes up hollering because I cannot take one more night of letting her cry, and I’m fine with that. My heart needs a break from the endless screaming like she is being flogged publicly.

To be honest, I wouldn’t mind cuddling up with my mama after the trauma of the past few days.

Some things never change.

Here’s to sweet Mama’s and bunny cups!!!

I think that I might be allergic to math and science.  Is that possible?  If it is, then I am totally 100% a sufferer.  Is there medicine for my aliment? There is medication for everything else, so why not!

I remember very clearly being in 1st grade and having a complete hissy fit because I couldn’t “get” subtraction. Luckily my mama was a teacher a few doors down and she came to talk me off the ledge. If only we all would’ve know that that was my first of many math meltdowns.

And then there was me as a wee tot in elementary school being completely dumbfounded at the science experiments. But don’t worry, I perfected the “gazing into space” looking like I was thinking when really I was daydreaming about marrying Kirk Cameron, so I don’t even remember any the experiments.  But in my defence, how cool can a science experiment be in the 2nd grade?  Not that cool, right?

Moving on to 6th grade when we had to do a science experience with one of those triangle thingys.  What’s it called?  A beaker maybe?  I have no idea.  I broke mine into a billion pieces.  I didn’t mean to.  I’m sorry.

By the way, while I don’t remember anything academically about the 6th grade, I do remember getting a brand new outfit that I practically wore every day.  In fact, my arch enemy “meanie” (remember him?  You’ll be better acquainted with him soon enough), made fun of me for wearing it so much. I loved that outfit. Another mean boy in the class said, “Well don’t you look fancy in your new clothes.  Fancy Pants Fairy.” I didn’t even care.  I freaking loved my Ham Wear!  (After calling my dear friends and searching the world wide web for a picture, we are 99% sure that my awesome clothes were “Ham Wear,” with the little pigs on them.  Remember?  I could totally rock some Ham Wear back in the day). But I digress…

All this to say, my issues with math and science go way back. We’ve been enemies from the beginning.

Fast forward to high school.  I faked my way though all the math and science honors classes.  I had a method: become “buddies” with all the teachers by calling them “Coach” and after they loved me, confess that I should be back in 1st grade doing subtraction rather than doing Calculus.
After weeks of my incessant whining about how “I just don’t get it” they had mercy on me.

The bad news is that I couldn’t solve a math problem with an “X” if my life depended on it. Oh well. Somethings gotta give.

Onward to college. For my degree, I had to have 2 science credits in order to graduate.  It may as well been a hundred. I dreaded those classes from Day 1 of my Freshman year to Day 1 of the second semester of my Senior year when I finally had to take them.

Did I mention that I was also taking Statistics, otherwise known as my arch enemy?

Taking two science credits and one math credit the last semester of my Senior year is possibly one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done.

The good news is that someone told me to take “Ornithology”, otherwise known as Birdwatching. They said that it would be easy and that I would sail through it.  Someone else suggested “Earth and Space”, or Astronomy or is it Astrology?

I can’t remember.

I wasn’t exactly engaged in the class.

Shocking I know.

Cleo wasn’t there with her crystal ball though…it was pretty tame.  So whichever class is the opposite of Cleo and her shenanigans, that’s the one I took.

Back to the little story.

I should have know that Birdwatching wasn’t for me when it was on Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 8am-11am.  I should have bailed right then and there when I saw the schedule.  But no, I was so terrified of taking a “real” science class that I declared that I could do it.

So, on the first day of class when the professor goes on and on about his intense love for all things birds, and then proceeds to lecturing for the full 3 hours about the skeletal structure of the bird and then hands us our “travel schedule” of all the weirdo places that we were going to go and visit the birds of the forest.

In my heart, I was envisioning the little birdies that help Cinderella get ready and how they made her dress for the ball.  I assumed that all the little forest creatures and me would bond and they all would follow me back to my on campus apartment for some songs and hot tea.

But alas, that didn’t happen.

Instead at 8:00am on our first day of travelling around the area to learn about the little birds, one promptly pooped on my head.

That’s right.  In my hair.

Again, I should’ve taken it has a sign, but instead, I stupidly pressed on…and on…and on.

Tune in tomorrow for Birds Part Two.  It’s not pretty people.  Not one bit.

In my storytelling pursuits, at times I struggle.

It could go one of two ways.

I tell the story, but I leave out major details that leaves my audience completely perplexed, or, I tell the story and you fall asleep because I’ve gone through whose daddy is whose and where they live and how many babies their Granny had.

That said, I’m not the greatest storyteller.  My friends are acutely aware of my story telling shortcomings.

A few years ago several of my girlfriends and me were sitting around talking, as per usual, and something came up about blood, or was it newborns, or hospitals…I don’t remember.  Whatever the subject, it stirred something in me to interject and say,

“When I was a newborn they drained out all my blood and gave me new blood.”

Of course all my friends stared at me in disbelief…and then laughed at me.  Notice that I say they laughed AT me, not with me.

Let me take a moment to say that the reason that my friends always doubt my stories so is that I may have over-exaggerated some answers in Scattergories once or twice by swearing that when my brother and I were kids we had a Luke Skywalker Award and we would have a daily fight to win it.

Total lie.

Don’t worry, I confessed later.

There could totally be a Luke Skywalker Award.

Anyway, we proceeded in arguing for a while about how ridiculous it be would to drain a newborn baby’s blood. They wanted more details from me…clearly I was only 1 day old, what did I know?

I don’t remember a whole lot.

So finally as the dialogue of “I SWEAR!” “You’re lying! This is just like apple sandwiches (yet another one of my Scattergories incidents.  But seriously, who eats apple sandwiches?  I should have been given a point for creativity)!” to “Seriously!  Ask my mama!”  to “Ok, what’s her number. “Fine, ask my daddy too!”  ”Great, what’s his number!”

Uh-Oh.

Gratefully, I was telling the truth, so I said, “FINE!” and dialed my mama’s number first.

When mama came on, I told her the situation and put the phone on speaker.  She then proceeded to list every single detail of the event…down to the time of day, sweater she was wearing and nurses names.

And they wonder why I like to mention too many details in some stories.

On the other hand, when we called my daddy, he said, “Um, yeah.  I think I remember something about that. Jaundice maybe?  I’m not sure.”

And they wonder why I don’t remember any details in some stories.

Mystery solved.

After both accounts of my parents, my friends sat back in awe that such an outrageous story was, in fact, true.

I know you’re dying to know the story, so here it goes…

I was born on a Tuesday and my parents brought me home on Friday. When they left the hospital my Bilirubin was a little high at 11, (around 7 or 8 is normal). The doctor said to set me in the sun and come back on Monday.  No worries, right?  Just typical jaundice.

Of course I had to shoot the moon with my Jaundice. Shocking, right?

Wrong.

Let me also add, that if you’re wondering what Bilirubin is, I have no idea.  Something about blood I think.  Grey’s Anatomy has left me high and dry on that one too.

Anyway, on Monday they took me back to the doctor and my Bilirubin was then 23- clearly through the roof.

There I was, all brand spanking new and looking like a big orange crayon.

The doctor declared that the only answer was a complete blood transfusion.  Mama said, “No way.” and the doctor said that if they didn’t do it I could have brain damage, so obviously they just went out and grabbed any ole soul they could to help me.

No really.

That’s what they did.

A nurse had the blood type I needed and she was selected.  No screening, no questionnaire, no handshake…nada.

It’s a thousand wonders that I’m here today.

Granted this was before the days of AIDS, but still.  Really hospital?

The good news is that when I was given Miss Randompants blood I was instantly better.

Also, the good news is that I’m not dead from Jaundice or the blood transfusion or AIDS.

The bad news is that my friends still doubt my stories.  That darn Luke Skywalker Award has ruined me forever.

It all started in 1992 when I watched a commercial detailing the competition between Kristi Yamaguchi, Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan.  it was a regular soap opera.  At only 12 years old, figure skating + girl drama = complete obsession.

Being as that my big brother was a basketball star and had games every other minute, my mama taped all of the figure skating events for me.  That turned out to be great since over the course of a few months I watched all the figure skating competitions approximately 567,000 times. I would watch it over and over again, critiquing their moves and adding commentary to their routines.

In fact, I spent a great deal of time adding different scenarios to my commentary. For example, “Folks, tonight is Kristi’s big night. Will she make the triple axle?  It’s gonna be big.”  Or, “Is Nancy ready for the Short Program, her Free Program is so much stronger, but with the addition of a double salchow she may pull it out.”  And so on and so on.

I had a lot of free time, OK.

Have I ever figure skated before you ask?  Surely I have experience in the sport to have such a random addiction, right? Ha. Very funny. Not a chance. The  last time I went ice-skating I had bruises the size of Texas and looked like a toddler who was learning to walk and kept falling down.

Turns out that you have to be coordinated to ice skate.

In addition to being smitten with the bedazzled leotards, dark eyeliner and teased hair, I am forever amazed by the dedication it takes to make it to the Olympics.

Families move, kids are home schooled, and practices steal away childhoods. It’s amazing to me that the hopes and dreams of these elite athletes are either realized or crushed at this one event, and frankly it makes me cry.  I cry when people win and I cry when they lose. Needless to say, the Olympics make me very emotional.

At 12 years old to hear the old familiar tune of The Star Spangled Banner, the American flag waving and to see my BFF Kristy holding her gold medal, was just about more than I could handle.  It is a spectacular thing to witness someone achieving his or her dreams before your very eyes.

Kristi and me were really bonded in that moment.

In midst of my uncontrollable sobbing, something clicked inside of me. My love   for America moved up a notch and I became unashamedly patriotic.

Thanks figure skating, I freaking love America.

No, I am not nursing her in this picture. Get your head right.

When I was a teenager, my mama always said to me “Nothing good happens after midnight,” and ya know, she was probably right.  I now see that those were wise words, although way back when, I was convinced that she was ruining my life…and don’t worry, I told her so in ultra bratty style.  A lot.

I still wonder why she didn’t put me up for adoption when I was 13.

Thanks for hanging in there Mama.

Now that I’m a mama with a little one, I have a whole new respect for the wee hours.  In fact, I am experiencing nothing less than magic after midnight.

It’s a time when my baby is crying for me.  Okay, fine.  It’s for my milk, but whatever.  She still wants me.  She loves her daddy, don’t get me wrong, but in those wee hours, she wants her mama and I want her right back.

So, I haul myself out of bed and pick up my Bitsy and not only feed her, but love her as well.  Sometimes I wonder if she just misses me in the middle of the night and that why she cries, I know that after being with her all day long, being without her at nightime makes me long for her too.

Even when she wakes up several times a night or when I’m exhausted,  I can’t help but try to savor every single second.

It’s magical.

I know that times slips by without a glance from us, but I don’t want that to be our story.  I want to count the moments with her and memorize them.  I want to always gaze at her, pray for her and feel as lucky to be her mama as I do during the magic hours.

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.