Disclaimer: I never thought I'd do another pregnancy journal with this pregnancy because I NEVER CONSIDERED BEING OVERDUE. Shame on me. Here I sit, 3 days overdue with no end in sight. I'll admit, I'm being a bit melodramatic (figures, right?), but I truly never imagined that I would be going on an anniversary date with a basketball-sized belly. When will I ever learn? Ha, hot mess. All the time.
Here are some of the recent capers of baby C, #daddyDan, and giant mother:
Stranger Observations: We ate at Chipotle Saturday night to celebrate one last evening without a tiny friend (hahahahahahahahaha, "one last night," hahahahahahahaha). I went through the line and ordered my fave (flour tacos, chicken, a little white rice, corn salsa, pico, cheese, sour cream, guac on the side - now you know). When I moved from where the high counter meets the low counter, one of the workers saw me and literally gasped, "Ahhhh! I did NOT see that coming!" As in, "Whoa, giant belly, did not expect that!!" I about died. Yet another reason baby C must exit the premises immediately. It's striking fear into the hearts of strangers!
Exercise: Weeeeelllllll, I try to do something active each day. Sometimes that means running errands and attempting not to grunt too loudly when I enter and exit the car. Other times that means convincing daddyDan to take me walking (last night our venue of choice was Lowe's). Other times that means swimming at our local fitness club. But let's be honest, I don't swim. I stand. Occasionally I bounce. And sometimes I even walk laps. Oh to be a fly on the wall in the office: "There's that pregnant lady again. I guess when a few days pass and we haven't seen her, we'll know she's not a giant anymore." During one of my latest swimming sessions, I was pausing at one end of the lap lane before taking off on my sprint once more and one of the lifeguards came over to me and asked me to move from the lap lane if I wasn't going to use it. I have no words. But so many, MANY emotions including, but not limited to, anger, rage, and any emotion that a sailor with an excessive potty-mouth would experience. Not pretty.
Contractions: I swear I was in labor Friday night. And then again Saturday night. And then again Sunday night. And then I gave up.
Friends: We feel so engulfed by love. Every day for the past week I've heard from someone out of the blue "just checking on me." And it's so sweet. My girlfriends have seriously rallied behind me, from taking me on walks to bringing me Sonic happy hour drinks (diet watermelon limeade, easy ice...now you know...I also wouldn't say no to mozzarella sticks) to sending me boxes of "get to the finish line" supplies to last-minute dinner invites to pool party invitations to quick phone-call check-ins to daily "here's what I'm doing today, feel free to join any of the aforementioned activities" to so many other loving things. You gals are the best. Seriously. I believe I have all 5 love languages as my top love language (Danz thinks this makes me high-maintenance...I think it makes me easy to please, anywho), but my number one is definitely "words of affirmation," and let me tell you, I am feeling might affirmed. So a huge heartfelt thanks to all of you who have reached out. Your words have meant the world and have legitimately kept me from going insane.
Grateful: You all know I'm sarcastic and snarky and full of ridiculous things. But I really am so thankful for this journey of carrying a wee one. I'm thankful my body has proven to be a decent home for a tiny human to grow and flourish. And the fact that I can absolutely not wait until babe arrives is truly a testament to God's grace and provision and timing. You see, up until about a month ago, I was so full of fear that I couldn't even think about my due date or what would happen once babe actually arrived. You may or may not know that I'm a teacher. And I am a processor and love to spend lots of time reflecting on life (I'm a bit of an extroverted introvert). Historically, summer has meant house projects, visiting people I love, and resting. This summer, so far, I've completed zero house projects (with exception to finishing the nursery, of course) and I have spent minimal time traveling to visit people (because, as I mentioned in a previous post, car rides are of the devil....oh, and because baby was supposed to come early). But oh have I rested. And processed. And reflected. And what a gift it has been. I can't count the numbers of hours I've spent sitting on our porch swing or in our nursery just thinking. I know, I know, "enjoy it now because it will never be the same." I get it. And I'm ready. I'm ready for a new normal and a new routine. I'm ready for sleepless nights. I'm ready to watch daddyDan be daddyDan. I'm ready for endless loads of laundry and for losing tiny socks in the wash. I'm ready for a messy house due to a human the size of my thigh. I'm ready for spontaneity to be a bit more challenging. I'm ready for playdates with other tiny humans and their mommas. And I'm ready for my heart to explode with love for someone I've never met. It's time, baby C. We're ready for you.
Showing posts with label Hilarity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hilarity. Show all posts
June 25, 2014
June 10, 2014
Pregnancy Journal #4
Officially two weeks from due date! And baby C is making me very aware of that. Constant kicks, constant punching of my bladder, and constant giant kankles. Babe is bored and ready to make a dramatic appearance, I'm sure. It's been a pretty dreamy 38 weeks, but daddyDan and I are getting anxious to meet the little one who requires so much ice cream, fruit, and sour candy.
Best stranger or student quotes:
Sleeping: These days I wake up at least 3 times a night. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I've been waking up at least 3 times a night ever since December. What has changed is now when I wake up, my body feels like I've just run a marathon. I literally have to tell myself: "Self, you have been SLEEPING. You did not just do P90X nor did you participate in bikram yoga. You literally make no sense right now." I'm also excessively sweaty at night. I've had two fans pointed directly at me and no covers while #daddyDan freezes beside me.
Getting "checked": You all know I like to keep these posts G-rated, but I must give you the following information. At 35 or 36 weeks, pregoz have the option to get "checked" by the doctor/midwife to see if dilation has occurred. I dodged that bullet at 35 weeks but was not given the option at 36 weeks. I won't name any names, but someone (whose name rhymes with Hammy) told me not to worry and that getting "checked" is less invasive than a yearly physical. LIES. ALL LIES. Let's just say I wanted to die and was seeing stars afterward. Sooooo at my 37 week appointment when the midwife asked if I'd like to be checked, I kindly declined. Um, I'd rather you not jam your arm inside me up to your elbow. No thanks, walking on lava sounds much better right now. Mmkay, see you next week WHEN I WON'T HAVE A CHOICE (Lord, grant me the serenity...).
Food: Danz works with a gal who is about 6 weeks behind me in her pregnancy. About two weeks ago, she mentioned to him that she can no longer eat full meals because the baby is taking up too much room. Quoth daddyDan: "Hmm, interesting. Heidi hasn't hit that point in her pregnancy." TRUTH. Baby has, in no way, diminished my ability to shovel any amount of food into my stomach. Not sure if I should be concerned or just really proud of this fact. I aim to impress, people.
Car rides: ARE OF THE DEVIL. There is nothing I loathe more than sitting in a car at this stage of my pregnancy. Except maybe getting "checked" (see above). End of story.
Water breakage precaution: daddyDan is seriously concerned about my water breaking anywhere that would require clean-up. He's so concerned, in fact, that I must sit on a towel while driving and I'm probably about a week from being required to sit on a towel on our couch. We do have an awesome couch, so I'll humor him.
Birthing class: I had Braxton Hicks contractions throughout the whole class. I think baby C was just warming up. So bizarre. Daniel and I also laughed 56% more than everyone else combined. Not because we think labor and delivery is hilarious, but because there were so many words and images that we could either choose to cry about in anticipation of or laugh because, one way or another, this baby is coming out of me.
Prayers for baby C: During the first two trimesters, I prayed for EVERYTHING: a good (and easy!) birth, a healthy baby, a baby that isn't collicky, ease in the transition, ease of nursing, yada, yada, yada. Then about 2 months ago I realized that I couldn't pray away all the challenging aspects of labor, delivery, and post-partum. So now I pray for peace in the transition. That Daniel and I will work as a team to meet baby's needs and that we will take every challenge and immediately turn it over to the Lord. Parenting will be difficult, of this I am certain. BUT I have the best baby daddy of all time and a God who is bigger than my fear of all the things baby-entering-the-family. Amen.
Best stranger or student quotes:
- Over-enthusiastic student: "Mrs. Carlson, awwwwwww, you look so lovely. You gonna go all-natural when you give birth?"
- Sonic car-hop (said when I was only 32 weeks pregz): "Oooooooooo girl, that baby coming any day now, right?!" "Nope. Still have 2 months." "NOOOOOO! That is one BIG baby!"
Sleeping: These days I wake up at least 3 times a night. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I've been waking up at least 3 times a night ever since December. What has changed is now when I wake up, my body feels like I've just run a marathon. I literally have to tell myself: "Self, you have been SLEEPING. You did not just do P90X nor did you participate in bikram yoga. You literally make no sense right now." I'm also excessively sweaty at night. I've had two fans pointed directly at me and no covers while #daddyDan freezes beside me.
Getting "checked": You all know I like to keep these posts G-rated, but I must give you the following information. At 35 or 36 weeks, pregoz have the option to get "checked" by the doctor/midwife to see if dilation has occurred. I dodged that bullet at 35 weeks but was not given the option at 36 weeks. I won't name any names, but someone (whose name rhymes with Hammy) told me not to worry and that getting "checked" is less invasive than a yearly physical. LIES. ALL LIES. Let's just say I wanted to die and was seeing stars afterward. Sooooo at my 37 week appointment when the midwife asked if I'd like to be checked, I kindly declined. Um, I'd rather you not jam your arm inside me up to your elbow. No thanks, walking on lava sounds much better right now. Mmkay, see you next week WHEN I WON'T HAVE A CHOICE (Lord, grant me the serenity...).
Food: Danz works with a gal who is about 6 weeks behind me in her pregnancy. About two weeks ago, she mentioned to him that she can no longer eat full meals because the baby is taking up too much room. Quoth daddyDan: "Hmm, interesting. Heidi hasn't hit that point in her pregnancy." TRUTH. Baby has, in no way, diminished my ability to shovel any amount of food into my stomach. Not sure if I should be concerned or just really proud of this fact. I aim to impress, people.
Car rides: ARE OF THE DEVIL. There is nothing I loathe more than sitting in a car at this stage of my pregnancy. Except maybe getting "checked" (see above). End of story.
Water breakage precaution: daddyDan is seriously concerned about my water breaking anywhere that would require clean-up. He's so concerned, in fact, that I must sit on a towel while driving and I'm probably about a week from being required to sit on a towel on our couch. We do have an awesome couch, so I'll humor him.
Birthing class: I had Braxton Hicks contractions throughout the whole class. I think baby C was just warming up. So bizarre. Daniel and I also laughed 56% more than everyone else combined. Not because we think labor and delivery is hilarious, but because there were so many words and images that we could either choose to cry about in anticipation of or laugh because, one way or another, this baby is coming out of me.
Prayers for baby C: During the first two trimesters, I prayed for EVERYTHING: a good (and easy!) birth, a healthy baby, a baby that isn't collicky, ease in the transition, ease of nursing, yada, yada, yada. Then about 2 months ago I realized that I couldn't pray away all the challenging aspects of labor, delivery, and post-partum. So now I pray for peace in the transition. That Daniel and I will work as a team to meet baby's needs and that we will take every challenge and immediately turn it over to the Lord. Parenting will be difficult, of this I am certain. BUT I have the best baby daddy of all time and a God who is bigger than my fear of all the things baby-entering-the-family. Amen.
April 22, 2014
Pregnancy Journal #3
Let's dive right in, shall we?
Emotions: Holy hot pickle on a scorching Sunday afternoon. These emotions. They are my nemesis. A few short days ago, hysterical laughter turned into hysterical tears without any warning. By nature, I'm a bit of a procrastinator. So I'm 31 weeks into this whole "being pregnant for the first time" thing and I hadn't spent one second looking for child-birthing classes. Shame. Finally when I remembered to look, ALL classes in Topeka, Lawrence, Olathe, and Overland Park were either booked or at times when we're out of town or have a major event. Not even kidding. At first, when when I shared this conundrum with #daddydan, I about died laughing. Then reality struck and the tears started to fall. Poor daddy Dan. His response? Unprompted by yours truly, he picks up the phone and starts calling hospitals in a 60 mile radius to ask about birthing classes. Meanwhile, I'm sniffling and wiping snot on his t-shirt (because his t-shirts are the only ones that fit me anymore...cue more tears). #besthusbandever
Itchy Everything: I'm just itchy. Always. Apparently my skin is stretching (??) and a side-effect is itchiness. Not a big deal. Except when you get paid to stand in front of teenagers for 8 hours a day. Let's just say I think I've perfected the art of nonchalant itching. Just don't verify with my co-teachers.
Kankles: I've never been one to have chubby ankles, but now it seems as though they are part of my daily wardrobe. Said ankles are so chubby that some of my socks don't fit. Truth.
Nesting: If baby coconut came tomorrow, he/she would be sharing a room with bags of clothes waiting to be donated/sold, painting supplies, suitcases galore, and enough furniture to fill a small flea market. Dear friends, daddy Dan and I talked through our "must happen before baby coconut arrives" list and we were so overwhelmed that our only reaction was to continue swinging on our newly installed porch swing. About every day I remind myself that nothing that "needs to happen" truly needs to happen. It's going to be okay.
Gender: I have my suspicions about what baby C is, but apparently since my suspicions aren't based in science (aka: sonogram), people don't believe me. Whatever. I will laugh my "told you so" laugh when baby arrives...or I will laugh my "I'm always wrong" chortle. Whichever color baby C comes home in will become my new favorite color, of this I am certain.
Shakira: Just call me Shak because my hips don't lie. Pajama pants that used to be baggy on me are now excessively taut. Supposedly this is because I'm about to push out a head that is in the 99th percentile (quoth the doctor: "you know, the head is the most difficult part to get out." NBD.)(and daddy Dan is still reigning champion of the widest shoulders in McPherson county...you think I kid, but I assure you I could not be more serious). Bring it, baby C. My hips were made for birthing, and that's just what they'll do.
Prayer: My most recent prayer comes from the book that is currently rocking my world - Restless by Jennie Allen (do yourself a favor and read it). I pray that baby C's "soul is steadied and secure because his/her eyes are laser-focused on the one who built and rescued his/her soul." Amen and amen.
31 weeks down. 9 to go. We press on!
Emotions: Holy hot pickle on a scorching Sunday afternoon. These emotions. They are my nemesis. A few short days ago, hysterical laughter turned into hysterical tears without any warning. By nature, I'm a bit of a procrastinator. So I'm 31 weeks into this whole "being pregnant for the first time" thing and I hadn't spent one second looking for child-birthing classes. Shame. Finally when I remembered to look, ALL classes in Topeka, Lawrence, Olathe, and Overland Park were either booked or at times when we're out of town or have a major event. Not even kidding. At first, when when I shared this conundrum with #daddydan, I about died laughing. Then reality struck and the tears started to fall. Poor daddy Dan. His response? Unprompted by yours truly, he picks up the phone and starts calling hospitals in a 60 mile radius to ask about birthing classes. Meanwhile, I'm sniffling and wiping snot on his t-shirt (because his t-shirts are the only ones that fit me anymore...cue more tears). #besthusbandever
Itchy Everything: I'm just itchy. Always. Apparently my skin is stretching (??) and a side-effect is itchiness. Not a big deal. Except when you get paid to stand in front of teenagers for 8 hours a day. Let's just say I think I've perfected the art of nonchalant itching. Just don't verify with my co-teachers.
Kankles: I've never been one to have chubby ankles, but now it seems as though they are part of my daily wardrobe. Said ankles are so chubby that some of my socks don't fit. Truth.
Nesting: If baby coconut came tomorrow, he/she would be sharing a room with bags of clothes waiting to be donated/sold, painting supplies, suitcases galore, and enough furniture to fill a small flea market. Dear friends, daddy Dan and I talked through our "must happen before baby coconut arrives" list and we were so overwhelmed that our only reaction was to continue swinging on our newly installed porch swing. About every day I remind myself that nothing that "needs to happen" truly needs to happen. It's going to be okay.
Gender: I have my suspicions about what baby C is, but apparently since my suspicions aren't based in science (aka: sonogram), people don't believe me. Whatever. I will laugh my "told you so" laugh when baby arrives...or I will laugh my "I'm always wrong" chortle. Whichever color baby C comes home in will become my new favorite color, of this I am certain.
Shakira: Just call me Shak because my hips don't lie. Pajama pants that used to be baggy on me are now excessively taut. Supposedly this is because I'm about to push out a head that is in the 99th percentile (quoth the doctor: "you know, the head is the most difficult part to get out." NBD.)(and daddy Dan is still reigning champion of the widest shoulders in McPherson county...you think I kid, but I assure you I could not be more serious). Bring it, baby C. My hips were made for birthing, and that's just what they'll do.
Prayer: My most recent prayer comes from the book that is currently rocking my world - Restless by Jennie Allen (do yourself a favor and read it). I pray that baby C's "soul is steadied and secure because his/her eyes are laser-focused on the one who built and rescued his/her soul." Amen and amen.
31 weeks down. 9 to go. We press on!
February 14, 2014
Marital Quirks
The longer I'm married (3 1/2 years, holla!), the more I realize how bizarre marriage makes you. And I think it's absolutely fabulous. Danz and I have developed about a billionty common quirks throughout our tenure together. Now, it's important to note that I'm not telling you these just for kicks. Instead, I'm telling you these so you can feel some solidarity in the fact that there are people in the world quirkier than you. Without further adieu, here are two reasons why the Carlsons are quirktastic (not to be confused with twerktastic...as that would not be appropriate blog material...mom, don't look that up).
Quirk 1: I have a handful of shirts that have small, entirely useless, pockets on them. Ladies, you've got to know what I'm talking about. The pockets are merely a stylistic addendum that serve no practical purpose. Even before Daniel and I were dating, whenever I would wear a shirt with a tiny pocket, he would try to put things in it...like pieces of gum or keys or chapstick. All of this put-pocketing has led us to creating a song that must be sung whenever a small-pocketed-shirt is worn. And it goes like this: "I put small things in my pockets. I put small things in my pockets!" Yes. You'll notice the second sentence ends with an exclamation mark because, if I were singing it to you, the inflection of my voice would go up and my eyebrows would raise. It's okay if you want to call us genius song-writers. We'll gladly dust our shoulders off and write another song someday.
Quirk 2: One of my nicknames for Daniel is "Flurff and turf and flurff and turf and surf, woo." I'm not even kidding. And here's how that lolific name came to be: we used to call each other fluffy - maybe because we like fluffy pillows or because we would fight over the same fluffy blanket?? Who knows. Naturally, I couldn't continue calling him such a simple name. Simplicity is for the birds. Must. Make. Life. Complicated. So one of us added an "r" which made the nickname "Flurffy." And then in a further attempt to rhyme the nickname with every possible word under the sun, I added several more nouns ("surf" and "turf" on an average day, "smurff" when I'm feeling really spunky). The "woo" at the end just adds the pizazz that sends the nickname over the top.
So happy Valentine's day to you all. May your day be filled with quirktastic things that remind you how unbelievably hilarious this life really is.
 |
| This was taken on our honeymoon segway tour of Savannah, Georgia. Little did we know, months and years of marriage makes one totes cray. |
Quirk 1: I have a handful of shirts that have small, entirely useless, pockets on them. Ladies, you've got to know what I'm talking about. The pockets are merely a stylistic addendum that serve no practical purpose. Even before Daniel and I were dating, whenever I would wear a shirt with a tiny pocket, he would try to put things in it...like pieces of gum or keys or chapstick. All of this put-pocketing has led us to creating a song that must be sung whenever a small-pocketed-shirt is worn. And it goes like this: "I put small things in my pockets. I put small things in my pockets!" Yes. You'll notice the second sentence ends with an exclamation mark because, if I were singing it to you, the inflection of my voice would go up and my eyebrows would raise. It's okay if you want to call us genius song-writers. We'll gladly dust our shoulders off and write another song someday.
Quirk 2: One of my nicknames for Daniel is "Flurff and turf and flurff and turf and surf, woo." I'm not even kidding. And here's how that lolific name came to be: we used to call each other fluffy - maybe because we like fluffy pillows or because we would fight over the same fluffy blanket?? Who knows. Naturally, I couldn't continue calling him such a simple name. Simplicity is for the birds. Must. Make. Life. Complicated. So one of us added an "r" which made the nickname "Flurffy." And then in a further attempt to rhyme the nickname with every possible word under the sun, I added several more nouns ("surf" and "turf" on an average day, "smurff" when I'm feeling really spunky). The "woo" at the end just adds the pizazz that sends the nickname over the top.
So happy Valentine's day to you all. May your day be filled with quirktastic things that remind you how unbelievably hilarious this life really is.
September 18, 2013
First Year Teacher Stories: Part I
As of the last few weeks, something has been heavy on my heart. Not in a "I feel convicted about this and must confess" sort of way. More like "I have hilarious stories from 3 years ago that MUST be made public" sort of way. You see, sweet readers, while I may be in my fourth year of teaching (my goodness, that makes me feel of the elder persuasion), I was once a bumbling mess of a first year teacher. And yes, I mean BUMBLING - like, trip over bookbags (oh wait, that still happens), misspeak while saying "get out your sheets of paper" (gotta keep it G-rated on this here blog), and literally pull on my hair while yelling, "Just PLEASE LISTEN!" (sadly, yes, that happened).
The point is: I got stories. And these stories - they must be told. And while this is titled "part I," if I find that telling these stories actually brings up all sorts of terrible memories, there may not be a part II. However, if, as I suspect, I find that these stories continue to humor men, women, and children of all ages, there will be parts II-XIV. So pull up your bootstraps pal, for this could be a long ride.
I'll begin with my first "in front of the class meltdown." It's a doozy, I tell ya. You should know that this story takes place during my 6th hour. And if you have been a faithful reader for the past 3 years, you know that my 6th hour that first semester was horrid. HORRID. And that's not an exaggeration.
The day of the meltdown I had created a stupid lesson. I had the kids read all sorts of nonsense about F. Scott Fitzgerald and then write a paragraph about his life. Sounds all good and fun, right? Apparently not. My 6th hour moaned and groaned as I gave the assignment, but I thought, "Silly kids. They'll soon find out that this is the bee's knees." Oh friends, I was so wrong (about so many things that first year).
During the independent work time for this particular lesson, I remember zooming from kid to kid attempting to answer questions but failing miserably (you see, I hadn't learned yet that you should really attempt the assignment before asking the kids to do so...rookie mistake). The kiddos were so confused and I clearly didn't have an answer for them. And they kept talking! Can you believe it? Teenagers were talking after I asked them not to!? Oh the humanity!!! So I warned them that they better stop....or else..... I seriously had no plan B. So kept warning them thinking they'll get the hint. Sadly, they didn't.
Finally I said, "If you don't stop talking and do your work, I'm going to take the assignment from you and you're going to have to come in on your own time to finish it!!!" I didn't even think I meant it. But 20 seconds later, I had this strange out-of-body experience and I heard myself say, no, yell, "THAT'S IT! EVERYONE HAND FORWARD YOUR PAPERS. WE'RE MOVING ON!!!!" And internally, I was all, "Heidi (curse word, curse word, curse word), what are you doing!?!? You have nothing to move on to!!! You better think fast, you crazy woman, or this is going to get even more out of hand."
And the best part about the moment? I really thought I was teaching the kids a lesson. You know, you don't do you work, you're going to pay, suckers. You better call home and let mom and pops know you'll be staying after (insert evil laugh). Oh how wrong I was. Their response as they handed forward their papers? Cheers. Laughter. High-fives. I kid you not. Which, of course, only made me angrier.
By this point, I was literally shaking and sweat was pouring out of every pore on my body. But I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and did the only thing I could think of: "Kids, get out your books. We're just going to start reading." I honestly don't think I had even previewed the next story (first year, friends, first year). But my toolbox of teaching strategies was already empty, so that's where I went.
I'm sure the bell rang 10 minutes later, and I'm sure I'm the only individual in the class who even remembers that tragic day. Even so, it remains forever burned into my mind - the day I lost my cool and gave the kids exactly what they wanted - an excuse to stop working. Lesson learned: always have a plan B, for you never know when your alter-ego is going to take over the class and demand that we move on. Scary stuff, folks.
And that's just the beginning of tales of my first year. Stay tuned for part II, that is, if you want to read a part II...........
The point is: I got stories. And these stories - they must be told. And while this is titled "part I," if I find that telling these stories actually brings up all sorts of terrible memories, there may not be a part II. However, if, as I suspect, I find that these stories continue to humor men, women, and children of all ages, there will be parts II-XIV. So pull up your bootstraps pal, for this could be a long ride.
I'll begin with my first "in front of the class meltdown." It's a doozy, I tell ya. You should know that this story takes place during my 6th hour. And if you have been a faithful reader for the past 3 years, you know that my 6th hour that first semester was horrid. HORRID. And that's not an exaggeration.
The day of the meltdown I had created a stupid lesson. I had the kids read all sorts of nonsense about F. Scott Fitzgerald and then write a paragraph about his life. Sounds all good and fun, right? Apparently not. My 6th hour moaned and groaned as I gave the assignment, but I thought, "Silly kids. They'll soon find out that this is the bee's knees." Oh friends, I was so wrong (about so many things that first year).
During the independent work time for this particular lesson, I remember zooming from kid to kid attempting to answer questions but failing miserably (you see, I hadn't learned yet that you should really attempt the assignment before asking the kids to do so...rookie mistake). The kiddos were so confused and I clearly didn't have an answer for them. And they kept talking! Can you believe it? Teenagers were talking after I asked them not to!? Oh the humanity!!! So I warned them that they better stop....or else..... I seriously had no plan B. So kept warning them thinking they'll get the hint. Sadly, they didn't.
Finally I said, "If you don't stop talking and do your work, I'm going to take the assignment from you and you're going to have to come in on your own time to finish it!!!" I didn't even think I meant it. But 20 seconds later, I had this strange out-of-body experience and I heard myself say, no, yell, "THAT'S IT! EVERYONE HAND FORWARD YOUR PAPERS. WE'RE MOVING ON!!!!" And internally, I was all, "Heidi (curse word, curse word, curse word), what are you doing!?!? You have nothing to move on to!!! You better think fast, you crazy woman, or this is going to get even more out of hand."
And the best part about the moment? I really thought I was teaching the kids a lesson. You know, you don't do you work, you're going to pay, suckers. You better call home and let mom and pops know you'll be staying after (insert evil laugh). Oh how wrong I was. Their response as they handed forward their papers? Cheers. Laughter. High-fives. I kid you not. Which, of course, only made me angrier.
By this point, I was literally shaking and sweat was pouring out of every pore on my body. But I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and did the only thing I could think of: "Kids, get out your books. We're just going to start reading." I honestly don't think I had even previewed the next story (first year, friends, first year). But my toolbox of teaching strategies was already empty, so that's where I went.
I'm sure the bell rang 10 minutes later, and I'm sure I'm the only individual in the class who even remembers that tragic day. Even so, it remains forever burned into my mind - the day I lost my cool and gave the kids exactly what they wanted - an excuse to stop working. Lesson learned: always have a plan B, for you never know when your alter-ego is going to take over the class and demand that we move on. Scary stuff, folks.
And that's just the beginning of tales of my first year. Stay tuned for part II, that is, if you want to read a part II...........
June 12, 2013
Moms. Holla.
This post is dedicated to any and all mommas. (Side-note - I think dads are da bomb as well, but since I'll never be able to relate to dads quite like I can to mommas, hence the dedication. Love to all dads.)
I've never been one to label any specific job as "hardest job in the world" because I truly believe there are many jobs that are taxing in every way. That being said, I have to say mommying definitely ranks in the top 5 best and hardest jobs in the world. In the short 18 hours I have nannied for the crazies (my affectionate name for these sweets), I have been completely exhausted, sweat through every layer of clothing, laughed until I cried, internally freaked because both littles were melting down in a parking lot, and had a combination of bananas and snot wiped in my hair. Ya'll, this mothering thing is not for the faint of heart.
Mommas, read: major props to you. You rock out at this mothering thing all day every day. You love with all you are even on the hard days. You put yourself aside for people less than half your size. And you cry tears of joy when your babes hand you weeds to put in a pretty vase. You are my heros. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.
This summer I have the glorious job of watching three of the most beautiful, animated, hilarious, adorably sweet, and undeniably awesome little boys (there are 4 other little boys I'm quite partial to) on Tuesdays. I often refer to them as the crazies because while they are 95% sweet, they are also 5% crazy (aka: full of little boy orneriness).
In my brief time with them so far this summer, I have learned an abundant amount of lessons I will undoubtedly take to motherhood whenever that time should come. The following are some snippets of our days together, and it should be noted that nothing, literally nothing, is exaggerated. People, weird stuff happens wherever I am, so my nannying gig is no different.
I took the twins (22 months old) to a local kids place where nothing is off-limits and the phrase "no, no, don't touch that" is never uttered (blissful). While in the toddler area and while attempting to create a colossal padded fort for the boys, I stepped on a rainbow-shaped pad, twisted my ankle, awkwardly flailed (you guys, I'm gangly, so anytime I lose my balance, it's ain't pretty), and promptly crashed to the ground. In the process, I skinned my knee pretty bad. Remember how bad it hurts when you skin your knee? Oh right, you probably don't because you probably haven't skinned your knee for a good two decades. Yeah.... And the best part is that the toddlers just kept playing unbeknownst to my pain while the other moms in the fenced-off area looked at me with such pity. Apparently my face told the story of how my knee was feeling. Cheers to you, moms, for making it look graceful when painful things happen.
On our way to the van from the play place, the twins took turns being sad about leaving. I lack a tremendous amount of upper body strength, so carrying them both was just not an option. Since they were kind enough to take turns being sad, I figured I would return the favor and take turns carrying each of them. While not fool-proof, my plan worked as we safely arrived to the van a mere 15 minutes after we left. And the best part is, by this point, I had only sweat through one layer of clothes. Props to moms with multiple littles. How you manage to make it in and out of stores without breaking a sweat (or joining your littles in their melt-down!) astounds me.
I picked up the older brother and one of his buddies just after lunch, and by the time everyone was safely buckled, one of the toddlers pointed to his shoeless right foot. Awesome. With sweat literally dripping off my face at this point, I looked around the van to no avail. Minor freak-out ensued. I finally found the shoe in the front seat (don't ask) and felt much relieved. Well done, moms, for you do extremely complicated things (like transport multiple children of various ages) with ease. And you rarely sweat. Seriously, how do you do it!?
Bathtime happened right after naps this week. One of my buddies was so sad about it, so I let him play with the cup that they use to dump water on their heads pre- and post-shampooing (awful explanation - I assume you understand the concept of a cup in the bathtub). Rookie mistake. One minute later, I was drenched after he thought he would return the favor and dump an entire cup of water on me. Love to you, moms, for you have learned to laugh when your babes make you look like a hot mess. You continue to amaze me.
Mommas - your job is exhausting in every way. (Literally, every muscle in my body ached after yesterday. No joke. But my heart was also ridiculously full.) You have the power to shape moldable little minds and hearts - what a privilege! The maddest of props to you, mommys. And while I can't say it yet, whenever I see you in public with a little, I just want to take your hand and say, "Solidarity, sister. I get it. Keep going." Utmost respect to you for doing what you do all day every day. The world is truly a better place because of you.
I've never been one to label any specific job as "hardest job in the world" because I truly believe there are many jobs that are taxing in every way. That being said, I have to say mommying definitely ranks in the top 5 best and hardest jobs in the world. In the short 18 hours I have nannied for the crazies (my affectionate name for these sweets), I have been completely exhausted, sweat through every layer of clothing, laughed until I cried, internally freaked because both littles were melting down in a parking lot, and had a combination of bananas and snot wiped in my hair. Ya'll, this mothering thing is not for the faint of heart.
Mommas, read: major props to you. You rock out at this mothering thing all day every day. You love with all you are even on the hard days. You put yourself aside for people less than half your size. And you cry tears of joy when your babes hand you weeds to put in a pretty vase. You are my heros. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.
This summer I have the glorious job of watching three of the most beautiful, animated, hilarious, adorably sweet, and undeniably awesome little boys (there are 4 other little boys I'm quite partial to) on Tuesdays. I often refer to them as the crazies because while they are 95% sweet, they are also 5% crazy (aka: full of little boy orneriness).
Mommas - your job is exhausting in every way. (Literally, every muscle in my body ached after yesterday. No joke. But my heart was also ridiculously full.) You have the power to shape moldable little minds and hearts - what a privilege! The maddest of props to you, mommys. And while I can't say it yet, whenever I see you in public with a little, I just want to take your hand and say, "Solidarity, sister. I get it. Keep going." Utmost respect to you for doing what you do all day every day. The world is truly a better place because of you.
December 10, 2012
Kitchen Casualtiees + A Recipe
I dubbed yesterday a "cook as many things as possible for this week" day. While I was successful, it must be said that there were some casualties along the way. Among the victims are my right index finger, my nasal passages, and my right groin muscle (my apologies if that is tmi).
We're hosting a portion of our small group Christmas party on Tuesday night, and for my part, I'm baking a bunch of fingery desserty foods. Yesterday's tasks were primarily candy-related. I purchased all my ridiculous candy-making ingredients (including a $10 vial of cinnamon oil...and the recipe called for 2-4 drops...this is dedication, people) and set to work.
My first recipe was cinnamon hard candy. After reading about 4 candy recipes, I felt prepared enough to begin the endeavor. It is important to note that one recipe said to refrain from directly sniffing the mixture once the cinnamon oil is added as it can permanently alter your nasal passages. Noted. So I continued. Tralalalala. After carefully adding the cinnamon oil, and being especially careful not to get any on my fingers (that would be a travesty!!!), I began to stir away (per one recipe's detailed instructions). Being the conscientious cook that I am, I wanted to make sure the bright crimson mixture was cinnamony enough, so I decided that I would take a quick sniff. I leaned my face over the steaming hot pan and inhaled a gust of the most spicy smelling fragrance this side of Mars. I immediately began screaming, (seriously, not an exaggeration...hubz can attest to this) coughing, and generally throwing a fit due to the intense burning sensation that was streaming through my nose, mouth, and throat. I honestly thought death was imminent. Hubz, being the kind soux chef that he is, yelled from the other room, "Run cold water over your fingers and stick them up your nose!" So I did. People, I was desperate. And it helped. Hubz to the rescue! My smelling is, I think, back to normal. Unfortunately, the cinnamon hardy candy paid the price. Some pieces are quite mild and taste more like a Pizza Hut mint while other pieces will make you want to pull your hair out. So you win some and you lose some. Lesson learned: avoid sniffing substances with cinnamon oil (or just follow the directions.......).
My right index finger was burned whilst making fudge. Much less exciting story. It just happened. Womp womp.
And as far as my right groin muscle goes...I have no idea. All I know is that after making all my goodies, I felt like a small child was stabbing my upper thigh with an ice pick. Alas, today it only feels like said small child is using a blunt screw driver, so it could be worse.
Allow me to end this post with a recipe that reaches back generations (actually, I have no idea how old it is....I just got it from my mom and adapted it).
Bierrocks!!!!
Filling:
2 pounds hamburger
1/2 cup chopped onion (use a food processor!!)
Salt and pepper to taste
2 cups shredded cabbage (I loathe cabbage, so I use a food processor to shred that sucker up)
2 Tbsp. mustard (I also loathe mustard, but it truly adds good flavor)
Sharp cheddar cheese - 2 cupsish
Brown hamburger. Add onions, salt and pepper, and cabbage (after using a food processor to chop/mince them first). Add mustard and 1/2 cup water. Simmer 20 minutes or until cabbage is done. Add cheese and mix well. Cool.
Dough:
2 packages yeast
2 cups milk (2 cups warm/hot water (150 degrees) plus 1/2 cup powdered milk)
1 stick margarine
6 1/2-7 cups white whole wheat flour (this gives it a nice grainy consistency)
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/4 tsp. salt
Dissolve yeast in 1/2 cup warm water with 1 Tbsp. sugar. To milk mixture add remaining milk, margarine, salt, and remaining sugar. Cool to lukewarm. Add eggs. Stir in flour to form soft dough. Let rise. Roll out and cut into 4 inch squares. Fill with hamburger/cabbage mixture. Bring corners together and pinch together. Place on greased cookie sheets with folded sides to bottom. Let rise about 40 minutes. Bake at 374 degrees for 20 minutes.
Happy cooking and may you successfully avoid any kitchen casualties this holiday season.
We're hosting a portion of our small group Christmas party on Tuesday night, and for my part, I'm baking a bunch of fingery desserty foods. Yesterday's tasks were primarily candy-related. I purchased all my ridiculous candy-making ingredients (including a $10 vial of cinnamon oil...and the recipe called for 2-4 drops...this is dedication, people) and set to work.
My first recipe was cinnamon hard candy. After reading about 4 candy recipes, I felt prepared enough to begin the endeavor. It is important to note that one recipe said to refrain from directly sniffing the mixture once the cinnamon oil is added as it can permanently alter your nasal passages. Noted. So I continued. Tralalalala. After carefully adding the cinnamon oil, and being especially careful not to get any on my fingers (that would be a travesty!!!), I began to stir away (per one recipe's detailed instructions). Being the conscientious cook that I am, I wanted to make sure the bright crimson mixture was cinnamony enough, so I decided that I would take a quick sniff. I leaned my face over the steaming hot pan and inhaled a gust of the most spicy smelling fragrance this side of Mars. I immediately began screaming, (seriously, not an exaggeration...hubz can attest to this) coughing, and generally throwing a fit due to the intense burning sensation that was streaming through my nose, mouth, and throat. I honestly thought death was imminent. Hubz, being the kind soux chef that he is, yelled from the other room, "Run cold water over your fingers and stick them up your nose!" So I did. People, I was desperate. And it helped. Hubz to the rescue! My smelling is, I think, back to normal. Unfortunately, the cinnamon hardy candy paid the price. Some pieces are quite mild and taste more like a Pizza Hut mint while other pieces will make you want to pull your hair out. So you win some and you lose some. Lesson learned: avoid sniffing substances with cinnamon oil (or just follow the directions.......).
My right index finger was burned whilst making fudge. Much less exciting story. It just happened. Womp womp.
And as far as my right groin muscle goes...I have no idea. All I know is that after making all my goodies, I felt like a small child was stabbing my upper thigh with an ice pick. Alas, today it only feels like said small child is using a blunt screw driver, so it could be worse.
Allow me to end this post with a recipe that reaches back generations (actually, I have no idea how old it is....I just got it from my mom and adapted it).
Bierrocks!!!!
Filling:
2 pounds hamburger
1/2 cup chopped onion (use a food processor!!)
Salt and pepper to taste
2 cups shredded cabbage (I loathe cabbage, so I use a food processor to shred that sucker up)
2 Tbsp. mustard (I also loathe mustard, but it truly adds good flavor)
Sharp cheddar cheese - 2 cupsish
Brown hamburger. Add onions, salt and pepper, and cabbage (after using a food processor to chop/mince them first). Add mustard and 1/2 cup water. Simmer 20 minutes or until cabbage is done. Add cheese and mix well. Cool.
Dough:
2 packages yeast
2 cups milk (2 cups warm/hot water (150 degrees) plus 1/2 cup powdered milk)
1 stick margarine
6 1/2-7 cups white whole wheat flour (this gives it a nice grainy consistency)
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/4 tsp. salt
Dissolve yeast in 1/2 cup warm water with 1 Tbsp. sugar. To milk mixture add remaining milk, margarine, salt, and remaining sugar. Cool to lukewarm. Add eggs. Stir in flour to form soft dough. Let rise. Roll out and cut into 4 inch squares. Fill with hamburger/cabbage mixture. Bring corners together and pinch together. Place on greased cookie sheets with folded sides to bottom. Let rise about 40 minutes. Bake at 374 degrees for 20 minutes.
Happy cooking and may you successfully avoid any kitchen casualties this holiday season.
August 24, 2012
Friday Funnies: Year 3
Friends. I only have a few school-related funnies, but let's go ahead and get started.
1:
Let me set up the scenario. Two days ago, I wore skinny black pants to school. It's important to know that I wear these at least once week and I've had them since last fall. They're dang comfortable and they're black, so they go with everything. I've never, in my dozens and dozens of times of wearing them, had a student make a comment in regards to their style/fit. I suppose there's a first thing for everything. What follows is the dialogue between a female student and I:
Female Student: Mrs. Carlson, are those skinny jeans?
MC: Yes.
FS: I bet you feel like you're in high school again when you wear those.
MC: Well, skinny jeans weren't around when I was in high school.
FS: It's only a matter of time before you're walking in the hall and a boy comes up behind you and is all, "Hey girl, how you doin?"
MC: Thankfully that hasn't happened yet.
End of conversation.
2:
I walked into school this morning at approximately 6:50 am (I'm a morning person, just let me be). And what should my wandering eyes see?
A hostile mob of parents? No.
The marching band? No.
A stray cat? No.
A million construction workers? Yes, but that's not the point.
A suspicious bookbag? No.
A snake? Yes.
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!
People, I do not lie to you. One of satan's own was on the freshly scrubbed tile. Thankfully a student was only a few feet ahead of me. I literally froze in my tracks when I saw it. Enter dialogue:
MC: Is that a snake?
Male Student: Yes.
MC: Are you afraid of snakes?
MS: No.
MC: Will you please remove it from the premises?
MS: Yes.
I stuck around long enough to see said male student pick up said spawn of satan. Then I bolted to my classroom, keeping watch over every crevice where another spawn might live. Nasty.
That's all I have for now. Come back later...there's sure to be more.
1:
Let me set up the scenario. Two days ago, I wore skinny black pants to school. It's important to know that I wear these at least once week and I've had them since last fall. They're dang comfortable and they're black, so they go with everything. I've never, in my dozens and dozens of times of wearing them, had a student make a comment in regards to their style/fit. I suppose there's a first thing for everything. What follows is the dialogue between a female student and I:
Female Student: Mrs. Carlson, are those skinny jeans?
MC: Yes.
FS: I bet you feel like you're in high school again when you wear those.
MC: Well, skinny jeans weren't around when I was in high school.
FS: It's only a matter of time before you're walking in the hall and a boy comes up behind you and is all, "Hey girl, how you doin?"
MC: Thankfully that hasn't happened yet.
End of conversation.
2:
I walked into school this morning at approximately 6:50 am (I'm a morning person, just let me be). And what should my wandering eyes see?
A hostile mob of parents? No.
The marching band? No.
A stray cat? No.
A million construction workers? Yes, but that's not the point.
A suspicious bookbag? No.
A snake? Yes.
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!
People, I do not lie to you. One of satan's own was on the freshly scrubbed tile. Thankfully a student was only a few feet ahead of me. I literally froze in my tracks when I saw it. Enter dialogue:
MC: Is that a snake?
Male Student: Yes.
MC: Are you afraid of snakes?
MS: No.
MC: Will you please remove it from the premises?
MS: Yes.
I stuck around long enough to see said male student pick up said spawn of satan. Then I bolted to my classroom, keeping watch over every crevice where another spawn might live. Nasty.
That's all I have for now. Come back later...there's sure to be more.
July 13, 2011
A Changed Life
Caution: if you, like me, have a great fear of creepy-crawlies, do not read any further.
Yesterday my life was altered in such a way that I will never be able to return to my pre-incident life. I hesitate even telling you for fear you will never visit my small space. Here's what happened...
We returned home from small group around 10:30 (we're a chatty little group). I walked in with the leftover pulled pork (quite delish, if I do say so myself). Hubs followed me with our go-green bag full of paper plates (ironic?), napkins, and other picnic-related items. Shortly after walking in, Dans noticed something "out of place" in the corner of our dining room.
On a good day, here's what our dining room looks like:
Anything out of place? Not really. Actually, it hasn't looked this good since a year ago, exactly. You see, this table is set for big brother's birthday last July. But I digress.
Hubs walked over to the "out of place" object and made a very poor decision. One that compromised his life. He said, "Heidi, come here. You've got to see this." And that, my friends, was the set of sentences that will alter the next 60 years of my life.
You are probably wondering the following:
1. Hubs knew what he was looking at, yet he still requested Heidi's presence.
2. Look away if you dare, but I am able to tell you what hubs asked "Heidi to come and see." I cannot lie on this blog. So I am telling the truth when I tell you this. (Ignore the awkward wordedness/repetition of the last 2 sentences.) Friends, colleagues, family, countrymen, children, lend me your ears.
+Teachable moment pause+ This is what we call a "climax" - the most intense, emotional part of the story. Everything leading up to this point is called the rising action. Following what I'm about to tell you is the falling action and then the resolution. +End teachable moment pause. Thank you for your time+
Stuck in a small trap meant to catch pesky little arachnids (my 2nd most hated thing on this earth) was my 1st most hated thing on this earth. Mustard? No, that is number 3. A mouse? Hardly, mice are cute. A small bird? No way, I love me some birds. A pretty flower? Crazy, I love flowers. Okay, so that was a dumb guess.
My number one most hated thing on this planet...........snakes. Yes. There was a snake dead in an arachnid trap in our apartment. It makes me cringe to even admit this travesty.
I had been cleaning up the kitchen, but I promptly walked into our bedroom and...cried. Yes, I cried. That's what people do when they feel that death is imminent. Hubs took care of the evil creature and found me awkwardly weepy in our bedroom. And he laughed! Okay, so I wasn't sobbing. But my hands were shaking and there was a lump in my throat. I requested that we stay in a hotel overnight. He was not convinced that death was encroaching. I told him he was crazy. I then requested that we stay with our in-laws. Again, he laughed. After much coaxing, I tiptoed around and got ready for bed. Naturally, like any human being afraid that an anaconda is about to strangle them to death, I dramatically flipped the sheets (you can't say you're surprised) to make sure no other blood-sucking creature lay close. I was safe. So I crawled into bed and made hubs talk to me until I forgot about the time I saw my life flash before my eyes.
Before he drifted off into a deep slumber, I made sure to tell him that, on penalty of death, he must never antagonize me about snakes or the incident that nearly thrusted me into cardiac arrest. He agreed.
All was right in the world until.........
+Stay tuned for the next edition of "Heidi-is-so-dramatic-it-hurts."+
***Disclaimer: the creature was a mere gardener snake. But a snake is a snake, and they should all be burned. We think it slipped in by way of our front screen door that only latches if you pull it closed. Note to self: always pull screen door closed. When I requested that we move out in 24 hours, Daniel reminded me that weird things happen no matter where you live. And it's true.***
And thank you for humoring me. Now I'm going to don my work boots and clean every square inch of this apartment in an attempt to ward off any other unsuspecting creatures.
Happy Wednesday. May today bring you enough drama (the good kind, of course) to bring you a chuckle or a chortle.
Lovesies and cupcakes.
Yesterday my life was altered in such a way that I will never be able to return to my pre-incident life. I hesitate even telling you for fear you will never visit my small space. Here's what happened...
We returned home from small group around 10:30 (we're a chatty little group). I walked in with the leftover pulled pork (quite delish, if I do say so myself). Hubs followed me with our go-green bag full of paper plates (ironic?), napkins, and other picnic-related items. Shortly after walking in, Dans noticed something "out of place" in the corner of our dining room.
On a good day, here's what our dining room looks like:
Hubs walked over to the "out of place" object and made a very poor decision. One that compromised his life. He said, "Heidi, come here. You've got to see this." And that, my friends, was the set of sentences that will alter the next 60 years of my life.
You are probably wondering the following:
- What did hubs do that was so bad?
- What did hubs ask Heidi to come and see?
- Why is Heidi's life dramatically altered?
- Why is Heidi so dramatic?
1. Hubs knew what he was looking at, yet he still requested Heidi's presence.
2. Look away if you dare, but I am able to tell you what hubs asked "Heidi to come and see." I cannot lie on this blog. So I am telling the truth when I tell you this. (Ignore the awkward wordedness/repetition of the last 2 sentences.) Friends, colleagues, family, countrymen, children, lend me your ears.
+Teachable moment pause+ This is what we call a "climax" - the most intense, emotional part of the story. Everything leading up to this point is called the rising action. Following what I'm about to tell you is the falling action and then the resolution. +End teachable moment pause. Thank you for your time+
Stuck in a small trap meant to catch pesky little arachnids (my 2nd most hated thing on this earth) was my 1st most hated thing on this earth. Mustard? No, that is number 3. A mouse? Hardly, mice are cute. A small bird? No way, I love me some birds. A pretty flower? Crazy, I love flowers. Okay, so that was a dumb guess.
My number one most hated thing on this planet...........snakes. Yes. There was a snake dead in an arachnid trap in our apartment. It makes me cringe to even admit this travesty.
I had been cleaning up the kitchen, but I promptly walked into our bedroom and...cried. Yes, I cried. That's what people do when they feel that death is imminent. Hubs took care of the evil creature and found me awkwardly weepy in our bedroom. And he laughed! Okay, so I wasn't sobbing. But my hands were shaking and there was a lump in my throat. I requested that we stay in a hotel overnight. He was not convinced that death was encroaching. I told him he was crazy. I then requested that we stay with our in-laws. Again, he laughed. After much coaxing, I tiptoed around and got ready for bed. Naturally, like any human being afraid that an anaconda is about to strangle them to death, I dramatically flipped the sheets (you can't say you're surprised) to make sure no other blood-sucking creature lay close. I was safe. So I crawled into bed and made hubs talk to me until I forgot about the time I saw my life flash before my eyes.
Before he drifted off into a deep slumber, I made sure to tell him that, on penalty of death, he must never antagonize me about snakes or the incident that nearly thrusted me into cardiac arrest. He agreed.
All was right in the world until.........
+Stay tuned for the next edition of "Heidi-is-so-dramatic-it-hurts."+
***Disclaimer: the creature was a mere gardener snake. But a snake is a snake, and they should all be burned. We think it slipped in by way of our front screen door that only latches if you pull it closed. Note to self: always pull screen door closed. When I requested that we move out in 24 hours, Daniel reminded me that weird things happen no matter where you live. And it's true.***
And thank you for humoring me. Now I'm going to don my work boots and clean every square inch of this apartment in an attempt to ward off any other unsuspecting creatures.
Happy Wednesday. May today bring you enough drama (the good kind, of course) to bring you a chuckle or a chortle.
Lovesies and cupcakes.
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