For all those that think Schafer only looks like her daddy...

My mom on the left, me in the middle and Schaf on the right.

You see it, right?  RIGHT?

Someone lie to me.  ;P

True story...

Me around three.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here, but I suffered from night terrors as a child and - for whatever reason - never outgrew them like I was supposed to.  So, basically, I still talk, shout and - occasionally - scream in my sleep.  The night terrors are so scary because I'm somewhere between asleep and awake when I have them.  Or, rather, I'm awake and something from the dream world still lingers.  So, I know I'm in my bed.  I know I am waking up.  And everything is as it really is (i.e. I see my clock, hear usual house-at-night noises, feel Trevor beside me, etc.), except that, say, there is a giant spider jumping towards my head or my duvet is covered in ants or there is a scorpion on the ceiling.  You know, that sort of thing.  The WORST one I've ever had was when I was in graduate school and woke up to find a man with a knife standing at the foot of my bed.

Good times, right?

(Sarcasm)

So I scream bloody murder, occasionally throw things (like a pillow or blanket) or jump out of bed because SPIDERS! ANTS! SCORPIONS! HOMOCIDAL MANIAC! and more or less freak everyone in the vicinity out. 

Or did.

Nowadays, Trev just rolls over and says in annoyed voice, "You are dreaming.  There really isn't [fill in the blank] on us/over there.  Just go back to sleep...no, no don't turn on the light...wait...okay, now that the light is on, do you believe me?  Please turn off the light now."

The last time I shared a hotel with my father (this was YEARS ago), I had one, and his response was very similar to Trevor's:  "OMG, You still have these things?  You are fine.  Go back to sleep!"

Even the dogs don't care anymore.  There was a time Gypsy would run over and lick me in an effort to comfort/wake me.  Now she just sighs and groans as she rolls over.

Clearly, no sympathy for me.

Anyway, they really aren't that big of a deal.  Yes, they are freaky, but I can't remember ever NOT having dreams like these.  Plus, they aren't nearly as frequent as they were when I was a kid, and seem to be triggered by things like stress and travel.  They are just one of those things you get with the whole ME package.  And the good news is that I'm totally fine once I turn on the light and reassure myself that whatever I thought I saw isn't really there.

(Except for the guy with the knife.  Just try going back to sleep after that.  I dare you.)

The thing is, Banner has started having night terrors.  Which, in itself isn't that big of a deal because they are very common in childhood.  But - just to be safe - I asked Banner's pediatrician about them at his three year old wellness, and he said there is a very good probability that Banner will never outgrow them either. The good doctor’s advice? “Don’t tell Banner’s significant other about the night terrors until they’ve already exchanged vows at the alter”. Trevor’s response? “Aint that the truth”.

Sigh.

Poor kid.  Looks just like his daddy and gets all his weirdness from me.

Or, better yet, maybe we BOTH get our weirdness from MY father?  Because:

(Don't ask.  I was there and I still don't understand.)

Too Hot To Handle and why I write about running...

So, Trevor and I ran the Too Hot To Handle on Sunday, and lived to tell about it.  He did the 5k, and I did the 15k because the 5k finishers didn't get a medal.  The Too Hot medals complete the Too Cold To Hold medals we got back in February, which is a stupid reason to run a nine mile race in July in Texas.  But then again, I've never claimed to be smart and have always been a little superstitious about finishing things I've started.

Plus, since I'm already missing a toenail (thanks to that half back in May), it isn't like like my feet can look much worse than they already do.

See?  It is like a giant BFF necklace.  Except I'm keeping both halves.
Because I earned them!

Anyway, I finished.  It was a lot easier than the Too Cold To Hold, which surprised me because yesterday was toasty.  I was hoping to finish in ninety minutes, but it took me closer to an hour and forty-five minutes.  At first this really disappointed me, but then I remembered that I forced myself to stop at every single water stop along the way.  Because even though the race started at 7:30 AM, it wasn't like it was getting any cooler.  In fact, yesterday ended up being our first triple digit day of the season.  Not that it was 100 degrees when I was running, mind you.  But it was in the 80s, and stopping to hydrate seemed like a necessary evil because OMG, THE SUN.

In other news, I always kind of feel weird about blogging about the races I run, because it feels very boastful.  Like, look at me!  I ran all the miles!  But that's not really my point at all.  I write about running because I like to document things.  Especially, things that challenge me, or things that I said I would never do (like running a race in the middle of summer).  But I also do so as a reminder that my body almost always does what I ask.  

See, I'm a big girl.  I've always been a big girl.  Part of it is because I'm 5'10.  Part of it involves my bones and genetics.  And part of it is because I have the metabolism of a turtle.  I don't lose weight.  I'm lucky if I can maintain my current weight, and well...since the miscarriage I've actually gained weight.  Which sucks because I've been eating well (as in "healthy" not "a lot"), running and circuit training in addition to every thing else (like chasing a two year old, gardening and three dogs).  I'm also very competitive and have a tendency to overdo the training, which - on occasion - has lead to weird injuries (my foot) and even illness.

Granted, there is probably a hormonal component to the weight gain.  I retain water like a sponge, especially in recent months.  But I can't tell you how emotionally devastating it is to run a race and actually GAIN WEIGHT.  Especially when your calorie burn is this:

  

And the thing is, I know that the number on the scale is just a number.  People keep telling me that it looks like I've lost weight, and I can't help but beat myself up because I know it isn't true.  

 

I'm healthy.  My blood work (except for a Vitamin D deficiency), blood pressure and cholesterol is perfect.  I take no medication except vitamins, and Nasonex (if I remember) for seasonal allergies. That should be enough.

I can run for hours, and leg and bench press more than most women (and even some men).  That should be enough.

My body has given me a healthy son.  That should be enough.

Trevor loves me the way I am, and that should be enough.

And, yet, I look at the image below and all I see is FAT.

Lining up moments before the race began. Trevor loves this photo.  I hate it.
Because arm flab and tan lines! And OMG, is that a fat roll under my boobs?!

Trevor also took a video of me finishing the race yesterday.  I finished strong; picked up the pace for the last mile and even sprinted the last stretch.  But all I could see was my wide hips, big a$$ and thunder thighs jiggling in overworked spandex as I ran past the camera.

Why?  Why do I do this?  Why do I think these things about myself?

I know it has something to do with the media, and wishing I weighed 125 (or even 150.  Hell, I'd take 175).  I'm guessing it also has something to do with losing 80 pounds in high school and being ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of being that big again.  It may even have something to do with the miscarriage and wanting my body to be in good shape if/when we attempt to have another baby.

Whatever it is, no matter what I do, I cannot seem to muster a positive self image.  Which probably explains why we don't have a single full length mirror in our house.

Anyway, these blog posts about the races I've run?  They are the only place I give my body the credit it deserves.  Because it is far from perfect, but it gets the job done.  I'm not running marathons by any means, but I'm getting across my own finish lines with energy to spare.  Regardless of what the (effing) scale says.

That's something, right?

And while I'm confessing the true meaning behind some of my posts.  THIS ONE?  I wasn't really ready to donate my hair, but I started to shed about a month after the D&C and simply couldn't take it any more.  Like I hadn't already lost enough and now my hair was falling out.  For reasons I don't understand, I've felt guilty about not explaining that since April.  Maybe because my reasons for donating my hair weren't as simple as not getting a hair cut for eighteen months?  Maybe because I was forcing the smile in those stupid selfies?  I don't know, but there you go.  

But running with shorter hair?  Much better.

My powers of observation (or general lack there of)...

I walked past this wall of Girl Scout cookies for two days before I realized they were there.

And by "realize" I don't mean I suddenly saw them.  No, no.  My coworker asked if I had taken any to day care yet, and I was all like, "What are you talking about?  What cookies?"

The worst part?  See that door in the right hand picture?  Yeah, that is the door I walk in and out of EVERY SINGLE time I come or go from the building.

(Siiiiiigh)

Worst superpower ev-ver.

Mountain man no more...

So, Trevor went from this last Wednesday:

 

To this on Saturday afternoon:

 

 

And then I saw this on Facebook on Sunday, which totally made me giggle because omg, perfect timing:

 

As does Trevor's insistence that his lack of beard makes him "look years younger", and his nightly recap of all the women that have fawned over his hairless mug and stroked his clean shaven face in the last twenty-four hours. 

 

(Which?  Weird, right?)

 

I'm pretty sure he would have shaved months ago if he had known he'd get this much attention.

 

In fact, his only source of disappointment seems to stem from the fact that Banner was completely unfazed by the sudden lack of facial hair on "Dad-dee".  This is probably the fault of my genetics because the people in my family are nothing but unobservant.  Trevor once had his front tooth fixed, and I didn't notice...FOR DAYS.  He finally had to tell me, and I was all, "Oh, yeah! You did!" 

 

And then I felt bad for not cluing in sooner because it was sort of a big deal.

 

So, it should come as no surprise that my sister had to be prompted to notice the whole beard thing (or lack thereof) last night.  Nor is it shocking that she initially thought he was talking about a recent haircut (which, might I add, she still thought was "too poofy"), until Trevor exclaimed, "Not that kind of haircut, Amy!". 

 

(Related:  Trevor has a haircut scheduled for Saturday morning.)

 

To be completely honest, I'm not 100% sure I would have noticed if Trevor hadn't announced that he was going into the backyard to shave beforehand.  I mean, I'd like to think I would have, but I failed to notice six Buddhist monks in brightly colored orange robes at our regular sushi joint a couple of months ago.  They were apparently seated right in front of me.  Or were until Trevor asked me about them after they had left, and I was all, "Monks?  Where?" 

 

Seriously, being this kind of clueless is like a completely useless superpower.

In case you needed more proof that I am an idiot...

We went to see GRAVITY last night.

I won't spoil anything, but there is a point that George Clooney's character tells Sandra Bullock's to set her watch for 90 minutes.

After the 90 minutes comes and goes, Sandra's character sets another clock for an hour and a half.

Confused, I asked Trevor if things slow down in space with every orbit of the Earth.

Trevor:  "Why?"

Me:  "Because the first time around, it took 90 minutes.  Now it is going to take an hour and a half."

Trevor:  "You know 90 minutes is an hour and a half, right?"

Me:  "Sh*t."

Some mornings there just isn't enough coffee. Or under eye concealer...

Me:  "Good Morning!"

Volunteer:  "Are you okay?  How did you get that black eye?  Were you in an accident?"

Me:  "What?"

Volunteer:  "Your eye!  It is all black, swollen and puffy!"

Me:  "Oh, that is just because I am exhausted.  My toddler was up half the night screaming."

Dear Trevor,

 

                                                                     Love,

Your Favorite Catastrophist

Mother's Day recap...

I don't understand why we are quite so...ahem..."wide"
in the picture, but I love it anyway.

Please take a moment to appreciate how much my bambino has grown in the last year:

Mother's Day 2012

Mother's Day 2013 with Gran
(He NEVER stops moving unless he is asleep)

My second Mother's Day was pretty fabulous.  Trevor made me coffee and an egg sandwich and Banner got me a beautiful heart-shaped, silver locket from James Avery (the kid has taste!) and a singing Mother's Day card (which he is still fascinated with by the way).  Then, after a quick trip to the gym and Whole Foods, the family relocated to Gran's house for an afternoon of baseball, grilling and backyard shenanigans.  It was wonderful and relaxing...even if Banner decided that Mother's Day was the perfect time to forgo his usual two hour nap.  Fortunately for us there was a silver lining:  the little dude was completely passed out by 6:45 that night.  It felt like vacation.

In other news, Mother's Day 2013 also marks the first (and possibly last) time I ever by meat.  I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but raw meat completely and utterly disgusts me.  I can't look at it without feeling ill, and I usually avoid grocery store butcher's like the plague.  Seriously.  If it wasn't for Trevor, I'd probably still be a vegetarian. 

But Trevor wasn't able to go to Whole Foods because he was at home trying (unsuccessfully) to convince Banner that taking a nap was a good idea.  So, it fell to me to buy turkey and beef patties for grilling out at Gran's.  To my credit, I only gagged once.  Unfortunately, I also got light-headed and I'm pretty sure the butcher wanted to kill me.  Since I've never bought it before, I had no idea that there are ground meat options.  In fact, I thought the option WAS "ground".  But since I also cannot cook (or answer any questions related to cooking, for that matter), I was unable to tell the butcher what I was going to do to said meat other than "grill it like a burger".  I finally pleaded with him to choose "something that would taste good cooked between to pieces of bun" for me.  He rolled his eyes, chose the middle of the three ground beef and ground turkey options, molded them into patties and I was on my way. 

OMG, never again. 

(Even if it was the best turkey burger I've ever sank my teeth into. )

(Which it totally was.)

I am totally my own worst enemy sometimes.

Ten random things for absolutely no reason whatsoever...

1. I didn't understand why the potato fueled the clock on THIS recent episode of Big Bang Theory with Bob Newhart.  Thanks to Google and a coworker that used to work at a science museum, I do now, but I can't help but wonder if I missed some sort of critical class back in elementary school where they explained all the basics of science and math.  Because, if so, that explains a lot.  Although, it is still very possible that I'm just an idiot. 


2. Somehow I made it 32 3/4 years without knowing who Richard Pryor was.  Trevor was horrified.  My coworker, Pam, just shook her head and later called to ask if I had ever heard of Bob Hope.


3. I started to listen to 1310 The Ticket in order to better understand my husband.  I keep listening even though I prefer the stories that aren't about sports, which on a radio show called The Ticket isn't all that often.  I'm pretty sure this is similar to buying p0rn for the articles, except I also find most of the hosts insulting to women and...well, crude.  Basically, I have no idea why I keep tuning in. 


4. In related news:  pigs might be gearing up to fly because I know things like who the Ranger's are going to play this week, who the starting pitchers will be and even found myself Googling "Mitch Mooreland" to better understand why people feel the way they do about him.  I also had a ten minute voluntary conversation with Trevor last night about the Ranger's bull pen.  WTF is wrong with me?


5. I continue to feel very strongly about my local meteorologists.  I will watch (or not watch) a news broadcast based on how I feel about the weather person.  I've given almost all of them nicknames (based on how I perceive them, not on their actual competency or weather predicting accuracy).  Trevor doesn't understand this at all, not that I blame him.  Sometimes I dream about visiting Syracuse, New York just so I can watch Wayne Mahar give the forecast in his red jacket again.  As far as I know, he doesn't even have his red jacket anymore, but there was just something about it (and Doppler the weather cat) back in 1998-2002 that made me trust his weather predictions more than anyone else's to date .  He is the weatherperson that I compare all other weather people to.  David Finfrock is a close second because he is an allergy sufferer.  I am not handling his upcoming retirement in 2018 well.  We might have to move.


6. I've been trying very hard to boycott the TODAY SHOW, but I'm finding it difficult to do so because I prefer the local weather people on NBC.  Granted, the weather is only on for about two whole minutes AN HOUR during the show.  You would think I could deal with new weather people just to escape Matt Lauer and the distinct lack of anything resembling actual news, but OMG IT IS SO HARD. 


7. The weather makes me crazy (see #6 and #7).  Or maybe I'm just crazy to start with.  I'm going to go with the latter.


8. I love spicy, dark chocolate.  It is my kryptonite.  Luckily, Trevor finds it revolting, so I can store a bar in our fridge without worrying that he will eat it (my sister, however, is another story).  Sometimes a single bar can last me for MONTHS. 


9. I think onions are disgusting.  I told my dad when I was four that I'd eat onions when I was five.  I lied.  I thought about giving them another chance recently, and decided against it.  Because, ew.


10. I just realized that I graduated from college ELEVEN YEARS AGO last Sunday.  When did I get so old?  Good thing Trevor is older.  It gives me an outlet.  Compared to him, I'm still young(er).  I love that man and his advanced age.

Banner obviously looks like Trevor, BUT....

Me circa 1981

I didn't count down to 2013, but the fireworks woke me up so I was aware it happened...

Y'all.

I'm sick.

Which should definitely be taken into account when reading the following.  Because I'm on some serious drugs, and I have a feeling this post will take four times longer to write than normal, ramble on and on, have more than my fair share of grammatical errors and - quite possibly - not make one lick of sense.

In my defense, it is hard to have a coherent thought when you keep nodding off.

I've actually spent a lot of my holiday under the weather, but it has been especially bad the last several days.  And, just incase you were wondering, being sick in bed for days really wasn't exactly how I intended on ringing in the New Year.

I'm guessing I'm not alone in that sentiment.  Because, you know, being sick sucks.  Especially considering that the alternative included a small gathering at my house with friends, delicious home cooked food and champagne.

But first, a quick recap:

(Which:  HAHA.  Like I could ever "recap" anything quickly.)

My last day of work in 2012 was December 19th.  That afternoon, though, day care called. Banner had a fever.  I called the pediatrician, made an after hours appointment for after 6 PM and picked up my baby from school.  I am so grateful my sister and brother-in-law were able to babysit that afternoon.  I had so many little things to finish up before the end of the year.

Turns out, the cold that I took Banner to the pediatrician's office back on November 28th, had finally turned into a double ear infection.  Antibiotics were prescribed, and Banner was able to return to school  after lunch the very next day.  It was bittersweet, because the 20th was the last day he was an official member of the room two.  As of the 21st, my baby became a full fledged member of the toddler room.  We had been advised to try to keep Banner in school as much as possible during the transition to help ease him into his new classroom.  To this end, my mom and I did a whole host of girly things (mani/pedis, a savory lunch at Rise with family friends, etc.) to keep me from being tempted to pick him up early on Friday afternoon.

Anyway, I only mention all this because it was sometime that afternoon that I first started to notice my voice getting hoarse.

I had been been recovering from a mild something that I had gotten the week before.  There had been a front that had brought unseasonably warm temperatures to north Texas, and with it a whole lot of allergy-related misery for yours truly.  I actually thought I was coming down with a sinus infection until a strong cold front blew through town and took whatever it was that I was reacting to out of the air.  But it took a week for my sinuses to drain - even if I was feeling a million times better.

So, when I started going hoarse on the 21st, I really wasn't all that worried.  I just figured all the drainage had finally caught up with my larynx.  Except I was a bonafide mute 24 hours later.  By Monday, however,  I had a kind of sexy drawl thing going on and seemed to - once again - be on my way to recovery.  And, really, who has time to be sick on Christmas Eve?  The hoarseness (more raspy than anything) - along with the ever present drainage - continued all of last week.  It made me cough when I was horizontal, but I really wasn't worried because I honestly didn't feel that bad. Laryngitis, on its own, doesn't seem like much of a symptom to complain about.  Especially when you almost (but not really) sound like a young Demi Moore in GHOST.

On Saturday (December 29 if you are having a hard time with the timeline...again, no idea if this is making sense), I woke up feeling fine.  I even made it to the gym for the first time in a week and a half.  I lifted and put in a hour and fifteen minutes on the elliptical machine before heading home to have "man cakes" (Trevor's name for his yummy whole wheat, quinoa pancakes) with my boys.

That afternoon my chest started to feel a little tight.  Sort of like it does after I've gone for a long run in the cold.  But, otherwise, I felt fine.  Plus, Trevor and I had evening plans.  Since I sucked at Christmas this year (another story altogether), I took Trevor out on a date night.  We hadn't been to a movie in theaters since JULY, and not to a movie TOGETHER in theaters since May (we saw THE DARK KNIGHT separately; Trevor with his brother and me with a friend for her birthday).  We were long overdue for a date night. A date night, might I add, where it was completely acceptable for us both to wear sweatshirts and sneakers.  Normally, we only splurge on a sitter when we have somewhere we need to be - like a party, wedding or couples shower.  But it is rare that we get out - just the two of us - without any real concrete plans except "dinner somewhere" and "yeah, a movie would be nice".  I haven't looked forward to something so much in months.  Even if dinner + movie + babysitter = $$$.  Sometimes you just need to splurge.

And, just in case you were wondering, we ate Tex-Mex (Kona Grill had an hour wait) and saw Les Mis.

(I warned you that this post would ramble.)

By the time the movie was over, I felt off health-wise in the uh-oh-I-think-I'm-really-getting-sick-this-time kind of way, and climbed into bed almost the second we got home.  I had envisioned the evening concluding with a glass of wine with my hubby on the couch.  Instead, it ended with a pair of decongestants, a dose of Mucinex and a very liberal application of Vicks VapoRub on both my chest and my feet (with socks because someone told me this works).  I'm bringing sexy back, people.  Just ask my husband.

Sunday I didn't get out of bed all day and ran a low grade fever (99.5 - 100.4).

Yesterday, that fever spiked to over 102.  That, along with the fact that I was a million times worse than I was the day before and it felt like my ribs were breaking with every, single cough, made me decide to call the doctor.  Which, let me tell you, is something easier said than done on New Year's Eve.  My regular doctor was on vacation, and their only suggestion was to try to get an appointment at the local PrimaCare.  Except everyone in Dallas is also sick, so the wait time to see a doctor was being measured in HOURS.

On a whim (hey, I was desperate), I called my GYN's office at 9:30 AM.  I figured her office would be closed on NYE, but was surprised to find them open and seeing patients.  They were able to work me in in under an hour, and got me into an exam room immediately.  Granted I didn't see my doctor immediately.  I think they just got me in the room as fast as possible to quarantine me from their other patients.  I totally didn't mind.  Plus, the exam room had a table that I could lie down on.  Who cares that it also had stirrups.  I felt like I was winning!  When my doctor was finally able to see me (and I really didn't have to wait long.  Maybe 30-45 minutes), I don't think I've ever been so happy to see my lady parts doctor before in my life.  I actually started to cry.  No joke.  Being sick makes me very emotional.  Again, just ask Trevor.  Or my Gynecologist.

Anyway, I learned from my doctor that both of ears are badly infected, and she was surprised I could hear out of my left one "with all the pus" (ew).  Throat was raw, and lots of drainage (could have told her that), and she couldn't get clear breath sounds (not the technical term, but I hope it suffices) from my left lung.  I thought it was only because I couldn't inhale deeply without hacking, but she ordered a chest x-ray to be safe.  Then she took a swab of my nose (not fun), and had me wait in the exam room while she had her nurse scheduled the chest x-ray over at Presby.

She told me that I probably either had severe bronchitis or walking pneumonia.  The chest x-ray would tell us which one.  I wasn't pleased with either option.

When they finally let me out of the exam room, several of the nurses had masks on.  And the receptionist wouldn't even let me pay for my visit.  Said she bill me later.  By mail.  Guess I looked worse than I thought.  Then Liz, the nurse, walked me out of the office so I wouldn't touch any of their door handles.

Liz also expressed concern when she learned that Trevor wasn't waiting downstairs to drive me to Presby for my chest x-ray.  I don't know if it bothered me more that she thought I looked too bad to drive or if she thought my husband would simply wait in the car for an hour while I went inside for a doctor appointment.

But, as always, I digress...I had barely set foot inside the diagnostic imaging center for the chest x-ray when I was ordered to put on a mask myself, and told to wait in a private waiting room "away from all the healthy patients".  I felt like Typhoid Mary.  The plus side, however, was that they got me in and out of there quickly.  Even if they had a really hard to getting a good picture of my lungs because I couldn't do something as simple as "take a deep breath and hold" without dissolving into yet another a coughing fit.

X-ray done, I had nothing to do except to go home and await the test results.  Bed never looked so good.  All the more so since it was pouring down rain outside and chilly.

My doctor called back around 2:30 PM.  Test results were in:  Type A Influenza.  The virus very nearly gave me full fledged pneumonia in less than 36 hours.  I now understand why the flu kills even perfectly healthy adults every year.  My doctor told me that if I hadn't come in when I did, I probably would have ended up in the hospital.  It was progressing very, very quickly.

...!

I'm sorry, what?

My first thought was, "BUT I HAD MY FLU SHOT BACK IN OCTOBER!"

But then panic set in, as Banner's face flashed before my eyes.  He had napped with me twice on Sunday.  Before my fever had broken 100.  Back before I realized how really sick I was, and I was trying to help give Trevor a break.  I am always so worried about my baby being exposed to germs and this time it was all my fault!

My doctor told me to tell everyone I had been in contact with in the last 24-36 hours about my diagnosis, and advise them to call their doctor and get a prescription for Tamiflu.  Trevor was able to obtain one from his doctor, as were Amy and Adam (who came over to help Trev with Banner on Sunday evening).  Our pediatrician, however, refused to give Banner a prescription until he started to show signs of being ill.  Which completely terrified me yesterday considering how rapidly my health deteriorated, and today being a national holiday and all (and, again, being sick makes me emotional).  Plus, Google will be the first to tell you that Type A Influenza is especially risky for babies under two.  But - knock on wood - so far Trevor and Banner are both doing okay.

I just hope that maybe their flu shots had something in them that mine did not.  I know that sounds ridiculous, but I cannot bear the thought of getting either of them sick.  I'm hoping for a miracle.  My doctor said the incubation period for the flu is usually two days, but can be up to four.  We are halfway there, but not out of the woods yet.

In the meantime, I haven't held my baby since Sunday.  I tried Facetiming with him today from bed, but I don't think he understood why mommy was stuck in a box and he kept hitting the mute button on Trevor's phone.  The couple of times he has seen me today (washing the sheets after my fever broke, grabbing something from the fridge to take my many, many pills with, letting my "nurse maid", Gypsy, out for a potty break, etc.), he has cried for me to hold him and crawled after me like I was abandoning him.  Talk about ripping my heart out!  I miss him so much, and he is only in the other room!

Trevor has been amazing.  Not only has he brought me soup and made me dinner, he has also been full time dad for the baby.  Banner has been going through a fussy phase in the last couple of weeks, and can be a lot to deal with (Trev calls him "ornery").  We normally alternate, but I'm not supposed to touch Banner until Thursday.  Assuming Banner is still feeling okay in the morning, he can go to day care.  I'm sure Trevor will welcome the break - even if just back to the regular work day grind.  I don't know how single parents do it.

I hope Banner sleeps better than he did last night.  Poor baby is teething on top of everything else (stupid molars) and woke up three or four times overnight.  I was up, too, but completely unable to assist.  It is an awful feeling not being able to take care of your own child.  Especially when that child is sobbing in a room that is less than ten feet from yours.

I keep apologizing to Trevor like I got the flu on purpose.

On the bright side, the drugs the doctor gave me seem to be working.  I'm on a bunch of pills:  an antibiotic, some sort of super prescription strength decongestant, Prednisone (to help my lungs), and a cough syrup with codeine in it.  I was also told to take Motrin every four hours to control my fever, but I haven't had any since this morning and my fever has been in the 97.5 - 98 degree range all afternoon.  I just hope this continues to be the case.  Fever is miserable.  And yesterday, every time I took another dose of Motrin, my fever would break again and I'd wake up in a puddle.  Thank goodness Trevor has relocated to the couch temporarily, because it allowed me to gradually move over to his side of the bed.  I'm not kidding you when I say I had to change clothes five times last night because I woke up completely saturated in sweat.  Stripping and remaking the bed this morning felt like running a marathon.  Less than three days ago, I was easily did over an hour of cardio.  And today I got winded tucking in the top sheet.  Again, I am fascinated by how quickly this thing kicked my a$$.

I'm no doctor (obviously) but I can't help but wonder if the other little illnesses I've had over the course of the last several weeks laid the ground work for some sort of "perfect storm" when the flu virus hit.  I already had a bunch of lingering drainage.  Maybe even a mild sinus-related infection that would have cleared up on its own.  And then:  BAM.

I just hope that after spending another doctor-ordered day in bed tomorrow, I'll be back at work as scheduled on Thursday morning.  Four days in bed is enough to make anyone want to get back to normal.

Here's to hoping that my immune system gets a clue in the New Year.  2012 was a bit of a doozy from my scary delivery to the antibiotic resistant sinus infection that took over three months to resolve (and eventually led to me falling short of my goal of breastfeeding for a year) to being steamrolled by the flu on New Year's Eve.  I could use a little dose of healthy for awhile.

Banner, too.

Actually, my whole family.  We've had everything from mom losing part of her bowel due to an intestinal kink on Easter, to dad having a severe allergic reaction that landed him in the ER, to blood poisoning (my brother), to a concussion (my sister), to cancer scares, to actual cancer - all in my immediate family.  I said it back in October, but literally every single one of us have been in the hospital this year with some kind of medical emergency.  I guess when you look at it that way, the flu isn't that bad.  Especially since I didn't wind up in the ER.  Because that would have really been a way to start AND end a year.

I'm pretty sure Trevor made me an entire can of black-eyed peas for dinner.  I ate them all.  Figured I could use the extra luck in 2013.

For no particular reason, today was the day...

Actually, that is a lie.  There IS a reason.  My college roomie had a baby girl yesterday.  She named her Dorothy.  This made me think of The Wizard of Oz.  And, well, this will all make sense by the end of this post.

Maybe.

(Seriously.  There are no guarantees.)

It has been 7 years, 5 months and 27 days since I started this blog. And for 7 years, 5 months and 27 days I have been irritated that my little corner of the internet is called BLINKY MOMENTS.

Yes, I know: #firstworldproblems. It is amazing I can sleep at night.

The original name for this blog is now (FINALLY) the name of this blog. BLINKY MOMENTS was only supposed to be temporary. Except I am notoriously lazy and have never been motivated enough to simply sit down and figure out how to change the header. Which, as it turns out, is ridiculously easy and took less than two minutes.

Awesome.

For those of you who are curious, LOSING THE UP-TO-UP-TO-SIDE-TO-SIDE ROPES is a reference to an inside joke from college. And by “inside joke” I really mean “I said something incredibly stupid and everyone is still laughing at my expense twelve years later”.

Stuff like this actually happens to me all the time.

For instance, for years and years and years I thought cows were traded on Wall Street. When I heard that so-and-so bought whatever stock, I envisioned a cow wearing a blanket with a company logo on the side. I always felt bad for the cows that were bought and sold constantly and never had a nice, consistently loving home. I even once vowed as a child that I would be a good stock owner one day, and provide my cows with some emotional stability.

Because cows need stability.  Especially those living in New York City on Wall Street.  Because NYC is all concrete and skyscrapers.  Not green pastures and acres of farm land like those "happy cows" have out in California.  New York cows need to know they are loved.  Because life is hard for the city cow.  They need a reason to carry on.

(THIS MAKES SENSE TO ME!)

Of course, it helps if I mention the fact that my dad, grandfather and great grandfather were all cattle ranchers. At least there was a context for my confusion. Granted, you would have thought I would have figured it out before, say, high school (let’s not talk about that). And yet, to this day, I always picture a bunch of cows when discussing or reviewing my portfolio.

Case in point: Yesterday I debated whether or not to sell a stock because my grandfather gave it to me DECADES ago. Rationally, I know that there is no such thing as a sentimental share of a publicly traded company.  It is just business. But that didn’t keep me from imagining an elderly herd of cows that once knew my grandfather.  They were counting on me.  If I sold them, they would be back out THERE.  In the chaos of the trading room floor.  That's a young cow's game.  Sending old cows back out there is just...well, cruel.

(You can’t make this kind of crazy up, people.)

(And, yes. I still own this stock.  All of it.)

(Moo.)

Similarly, I was well into my double digits before I finally figured out that pharmacists weren't drug dealers. After all, they worked in a DRUG STORE with DRUGS.  I just couldn't figure out why the cops weren't on to them.  If they simply raided all the pharmacies, they would find all the drugs and they could confiscate them.  National drug epidemic SOLVED.

It didn’t help that I once saw a movie where a drug deal went down in an alley behind a drug store.

And then there is the Dolphin Show I coordinated in my mind to the theme song from Top Gun.  But that is an entirely different post all together.  But suffice it to say, I thought Sea World was going to be knocking down my door to hire me to train all their dolphins and whales once they got a hold of it.  Mainly because it was a multi species event, and who doesn't love it when nature collaborates on something fabulous set to music?

'Nuf said.

(Stop laughing, Trevor.)

But back to the Wizard of Oz. There is a scene in the movie, after the house gets picked up by the tornado, when Dorothy turns to Toto and says:

“We must be up inside the cyclone.”

Except I always heard:

“We lost the up-to-up-to-side-to-side ropes.”

Because for over TWO DECADES I thought houses were literally tied to their foundations.  Especially in Kansas, the midwest and other tornado-prone areas.

And, even though I now know that houses aren’t tied to the ground (thanks to the hysterical laughter of all my college besties), my mind always flashes to imaginary ropes underneath our home during particularly bad thunderstorms. Which, since I live in tornado alley, is pretty often.  I know these foundation ropes don't exist, and yet I always find myself crossing my fingers and saying a little prayer that they hold strong anyway.  Because, you know, I'd hate for my house to be blown away like Dorothy's,

If any of this is making you blink at your computer screen, then you know how I coined BLINKY MOMENTS.

So, there you go.  A new name for an old blog.  Except it is the original name.  So it is really an old name for an old blog.

Welcome to the world, baby Dorothy.  You are loved.

Caption worthy...

A series of pictures taken moments before Amy's wedding ceremony was about to begin last month:

Makes me laugh every time I see it.

On logic and the lack thereof...

The bridesmaid dress I am wearing in my sister's wedding next month arrived at the Alfred Angelo in Frisco, Texas some time a week or two ago.

Now, Frisco isn't far from Dallas, but it isn't all that close, either. Especially in traffic. Or if you have a newborn. Or if you loathe driving outside of I-635 and think north of the George Bush Tollway is essentially Oklahoma.

(Which I do.)

But I had a bridesmaid dress to pick up, so I was mentally committed to making the trek north.

Except I didn't. Something always came up and I kept putting it off until tomorrow. And then the next day. And, well, you get the picture.

So, Alfred Angelo called me after a week and more or less asked what the deal was. My response? "Well, I have this newborn..."

Alfred Angelo (AA): "Oh! Congratulations! We can ship your dress to you free of charge if you'd like."

Me: "That's very nice, but I should be able to make it out there this weekend."

AA: "Seriously. It is no issue. We don't mind."

Me: "No, it is fine. Thank you, though."

AA: "Well, okay. But if you change your mind, just give us a call and we will get it in the mail."

Me: "Will do. Thanks."

Because, you know, I go out of my way to make things more difficult for myself.

When I told my sister this story, I was mocked. A lot. And rightly so. Because who volunteers to drive 30 miles out of their way with a baby in tow if they don't have to? Oh, wait. That would be ME.

And, yet, it took me DAYS to call back and ask them to oh-ha-ha, please ship the dress to me. Because I was still mentally committed to driving to Frisco FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON other than at one point or another I had told myself that I should.

Obviously motherhood has done nothing for my powers of reasoning. Poor Banner. He is doomed.

I don't know why I thought any of this was worth writing down...

I left work an hour early today because I couldn't breathe properly, and was starting to have irrational thoughts (brought on by oxygen deprivation, no doubt). Except when I finally got behind the wheel, I was instantly reminded that I needed to have my flipping car inspected because it expired at the end of November.

Granted, this was sort of on purpose. I've had 6-6, 7-7, 8-8, 9-9, 10-10 and 11-11. It seemed only natural that I'd also go for 12-12. Except I was going to get my inspection done over this last weekend, but then I got sick I didn't get out of bed. And on my way to work this morning I saw no less than five cops. Which - combined with the six I saw on my way home - made it seem like going more than five days with an inspection sticker that read 11-11 might be pushing my luck a little bit. So, regardless of the fact I still couldn't breathe, I made a brief detour and had my car inspected instead of making a beeline for home and the comforts (and relief) of laying horizontal on my own couch.

Of course, had I been pulled over I was planning on using the whole I-am-sick-and-nine-months-pregnant-don't-you-feel-sorry-for-me-officer card, except my coworker said it wouldn't work because no cop would ever believe I was due to pop out a kid sometime this month.

(Sigh)

All things considered, though, I probably couldn't have picked a better time to go because there were FOUR GUYS that swarmed my car when I pulled up. And those four guys had my car inspected my car TOGETHER and had it ready to go in less than ten minutes. Apparently, I always need to get my car inspected on a cold, dreary Monday afternoon when the guys that work there have nothing to watch on TV except old Judge Judy reruns (I know because they told me and because I got to watch Judge Judy while I waited). I think it took me longer to find my proof of insurance. And, well, that is somehow Trevor's fault, because for some inexplicable reason I have the proof of insurance for The Lexus in my glove compartment. Which I am assuming Trevor stuck in there on purpose to remind me that he drives a Lexus, and I don't.

Because I drive the OLD car that has the car seat set up in it, and can be "leaked on" by THIS pregnant woman in labor who refuses to wear a black trash bag on her way to deliver Trevor's first born.

Speaking of which, I have learned that pregnant women should avoid blowing their nose in public because, well, gas happens and I am at a stage where I am not always able to control it.

Trevor just said I should also add laughing, sleeping and sneezing to this oops-I-just-accidentally-farted list.

I would smack him, but he is currently sitting clear on the other end of the couch and that would require a whole lot of effort on the part of someone who still can't breathe.

(I married an a$$hat.)

In other news, I learned last night that I can no longer sit in the same position for more than an hour without standing up, walking around or otherwise dramatically shifting position. So much for seeing any more movies in the theater until Thor makes his debut. Which is sort of too bad because I really want to see Hugo, The Descendants and the new Muppet movie.

Have I mentioned that late stage pregnancy really sucks? And it isn't just physically, either.

Case in point: I also should avoid answering the front door since I have lost the ability to turn away solicitors and/or potential conartists. A couple of weeks ago I even had to stop payment on a check because the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had just contributed to a scam. Worse still, I had willingly opened my front door after dark to two large men with a small dog while I was alone in the house. And I only mention the small dog, because THAT IS THE REASON I OPENED THE DOOR. Which is irrational considering both of the large men standing there were still - in hindsight - incredibly sketchy and had "don't open the door" written all over them. Especially after dark. With or WITHOUT the little, cute dog.

Lord. I am such an idiot.

So, I've instituted a policy of Deals-doesn't-answer-the door-after-dark-because-she-is-a-moron. And I was SO proud of myself when I managed to ignore a knock at the door earlier this evening. I even gloated to Trevor about it when he got home. And then he opened the front door and discovered that the knock had only actually been a delivery. A delivery that, according to Trevor, we are lucky was still there considering that the number of sketchy solicitors in the neighborhood has greatly increased thanks to the stupid pregnant lady that can't help but answer the door and write checks to strangers with highly questionable stories. And then hugs them.

Did I forget to mention that I hugged them? Yeah, I HUGGED THEM. Seriously. I am the easiest con in Dallas. I will open my door for you after dark, write you a check and then hug you for your trouble. I even took the time to coo and pet their tiny, little dog.

(Although, to be fair, I don't think you can hold the dog liable for associating with those two. He was on a leash after all.)

OMG! When did I turn into THAT PERSON?! I know better! There is probably a really good reason why pregnant women are at greater risk of becoming victims of violence and murder. The baby has turned my brain into a gullible pile of mush. I am a walking, talking (and farting) disaster.

The baby better come soon. I'm not sure how much longer I can survive take all this!

On blood and muumuus...

Since Trevor left for his boys weekend at the ranch this evening at 7 PM, I've managed to write ZERO thank you notes. However I HAVE managed to cut my finger while flossing and somehow make my left nipple bleed.

No, not at the same time. And, no, not on purpose.

And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea what was going on with my nipple.

While you contemplate my amazing ability to inadvertently injure myself in Trevor's absence, here is a picture of my sister wearing the pink muumuu my college friends gave me as a gag gift over the summer:

Obviously, I didn't appreciate it enough in all of its pink and puppy dog glory.

(Or, maybe I just didn't have matching pink slippers and
a poodle in a pink sweater to complete the outfit.)

Skillz (or the general lack thereof)...

This would be one of those evenings where I desperately wish I had some semblance of talent or skill in the kitchen. My cook Trevor isn't feeling well and went to bed at 7:30 - leaving me hungry and left to fend for myself.

On another note, we don't seem to have any food. Which can't be right because I've been to the store at least twice since we've been home. Maybe I am just seeing ingredients? I'd attempt some sort of combination (with the intent of creating a meal), but I worry about poisoning my already ill husband. And then there is Thor to think about.

When did I become such an epic failure in the kitchen? Oh, wait. That's right: The day I was born. I have other skills. That aptitude test a decade or so ago discovered that my true talent lies in the field of pitch. To be fully happy, I should be learning and studying some long dead Chinese dialect where a single word, depending on pitch, means a multitude of different things.

I love that my true calling in life is completely irrelevant and...well, useless. I've tried to self soothe over the years by telling myself that practical skills are completely overrated. That is until I am faced with evenings like this one where I am left to my own devices (a.k.a. starving on the couch with a box of Wheat Thins and a few hunks of dried papaya) without the basic knowledge needed to feed myself properly.

Seriously. It is kind of amazing I've survived this long. Thor is totally screwed.

Update: Trevor just woke up and made me a salad. I totally didn't know we had salad fixings! That man is a genius. What ever would I do without that man I love? Oh, that's right. Shrivel up and die of starvation. Note to self: Do not outlive husband...

Update II: Trevor just pointed out that I was (apparently) SO hungry earlier, that I opened the box of Wheat Thins upside down. I also missed the bag of carrots in the fridge, which were located next to invisible salad fixings. Maybe my brain IS shrinking?

Not a good reason to be late for work (but it totally should be)…

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Journey is one of my favorite bands EV-VER (RR’s, too), and they were on the Today Show this morning. It was fantastic, but I had to leave halfway through Don’t Stop Believin’ for work.

I know what you are thinking: Un-freakin-believable, right?!

Now, had Steve Perry been there, I totally would have taken my chances at the office (consequences be d@mned!). Because I clearly have priorities. As it was, Arnel Pineda was singing lead vocals, and – while he does a sufficient job to warrant being approximately four minutes late to the museum today – the end didn’t justify the means as far as the wrath of my boss was concerned.

Sigh. Sometimes I hate being an adult. Responsibilities can be so tedious.

I blog because I can, and for no other reason...

It recently came to my attention that some people do not like that I am chronicling my pregnancy on my blog.

Well, to be fair, only one person has complained that I know of. It was my brother, and technically I am getting his complaint second hand. He actually called my sister last night and told her to tell me that he would stop reading regularly if I didn’t cease with the pregnancy chatter.

My first thought: My brother READS my blog?!

My second thought: My brother reads my blog REGULARLY?

And, well, I didn’t have a third thought because I was so hung up on the first two.

Granted, there have been several posts dedicated to my boobs, and I’m sure those make him feel *ahem* a mite uncomfortable. But it honestly never occurred to me NOT to post about my pregnancy because I always post about what is happening to me, and well…PREGNANT.

(Oh, and by the way, HI WILLIAM!!!)

All this got me thinking about blogs I’ve read over the last six plus years since I started this little corner of the internet. For some reason, a lot of blogs seem to be ended or started because of spawning babies. I can’t tell you how many bloggers out there seem to get hung up with worry over going from a whatever-they-consider-themselves kind of writer to a pregnancy or mommy blogger.

I obviously can’t speak for them, but to blog or not to blog about my pregnancy never even crossed my mind. I have no idea why I started a blog in the first place. There never was defining moment or event that made me think, “You know what? I think I need an online journal.” This is clearly evident by my very first post way, way back in June of 2005. There is no direction there. I think I was only doing it because everyone else I knew had a blog, and I wanted to play with the cool kids.

There are always about a million things I *intend* to post about, and only a small amount of any of it ever actually makes it on here. I used to back post all the time, but now I am so behind with the current stuff it seems silly to worry about whatever I forgot about. As a result, time passes and I just never get around to posting those pictures from whatever vacation or typing up that story that was SO funny that happened last week. AND ALL THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY, because the only point this blog has ever had is to help me remember stories that I would otherwise forget (and even that was accidental).

Which leads me back to being all knocked up. Why wouldn’t I write about it? If I don’t I’ll just forget about all the little things that happened over the course of nine months. Time makes everything blend together, and I think it is fantastic that I will be able to look back in a year or two or ten and remember that my intern during the summer of 2011 told me I was finally beginning to show because my a$$ was getting bigger. Because, you know, why not?

Time gives you perspective. And the ability to laugh at minor personal disasters.

And once The Fetus goes all Alien on me makes its debut into the world, I’m sure I’ll post about that, too. Because it isn’t like I’ve ever raised or parented anything before and I’m sure I’ll need an outlet to vent. Plus, there could be some good stories in there that might be worth remembering. Or maybe just a lot of dirty diapers. Either way, I’m sure I’ll enjoy having the experience documented in some way or another at a later date.

And because I have no idea how to end this post, I am going to just tell you something randomly:

The original name of this blog was SUPPOSED to be Losing The Up-To-Up-To-Side-To-Side Ropes. But, for reasons I still don’t completely comprehend, it wouldn’t publish correctly. So, I scrapped it after much frustration and a whole lot of blinking at the computer screen, and – in a rush – started a second blog under the header Blinky Moments. I’ve wanted to change the title ever since, but that would take effort. And considering that I’ve never gotten around to doing one of those “about me” posts in over six years, things like changing the title or doing anything remotely creative with the blog template would fall under the category: Don’t Hold Your Breath.