Perfection in 8lbs. 4oz.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Let's face it, giving birth is a scary wonderful thing. It's also super gross and [seemingly] physiologically impossible. God's gotta be super quirky to come up with this crazy reproduction system.

If I had created the world [I probably wouldn't be blogging to you people] but I would have said humans can grow humans via eggs... as in the kind you hatch. As in chicks, ducks, and geese. [Did anyone catch my musical reference? If so, gold star for you.] We could plunk our warm fannies on top of our little babies until they're nice and warm and ready to enter the land of the living.  Even better, I would have all of us be like penguins! That's it, penguins. Then the males would also have to sit on the egg and wait for new life to crack.

Now that's a labor system I can get on board with.

Instead, we blow up. We get fat, tired, cranky, uncomfortable, and did I mention, fat?  And when I say we, I'm including myself in the universal group of robust females who have had or one day will have life coming shooting out of them.

So why? Why do we do this to our bodies? Why do we give up our date nights, our REM cycles, and our life savings?

This little guys say it all.  [At least one of us looks cute in this picture.]

My wonderfully strong friend, Laura, gave birth to her first son, William Neil, this weekend. And they did an excellent job, I must say... especially for first timers! You know you're getting old when your friend starts to intentionally have children. Grahm and I frantically drove down to Tulsa on Saturday to be there for our friends and to see this bundle of joy. It was so exciting to be in the waiting room, anticipating the birth of Planet Earth's newest member. I didn't think he could get any cuter and then my husband held him...


So even though our bodies change in drastic, grizzzzzwaldo ways [don't get me started on breast feeding] and even if we're gonna have to stay up long nights, spend out the buns for the next twenty-two years, and generally give up a lot of ourselves.... This little guys, of course, is worth ALL of that. All of that and so so so much more.

I may not entirely understand why God made it this way, but it's a beautiful thing... except maybe the getting-fat part.  I plan to be the only woman in the world to skip that part of pregnancy. But don't worry, that won't be happening for a loooong time.

Can I take some of your give?

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Marriage is about give and take.
Grahm gives me money, and I take it.... or at least, that's the way it should be, right?
I'm kidding, of course. (Kind of)

We're learning every day what compromise is really about.  Sometimes it's hilarious and fun, sometimes it's not so much... like having to go to the laundromat every week because Grahm literally owns three pairs of jeans. Bet you can guess what I'm getting that kid for Christmas.

Our motto, or my motto that I'm trying to establish, is "I cook, you clean." I'm currently learning to be more efficient in the kitchen and not dirty every single pan, dish, and fork that we own so it doesn't take Grahm forty-five minutes to clean up after dinner. He's learning how much I love it when he does the dishes. Seriously, it's better than ice cream and my birthday. (Okay, that part isn't really true but it's what I tell him; ice cream is seriously my thigh's best or worst friend depending on how you view it.)

I've always heard women say "There's nothing sexier than a man in the kitchen."  I still don't really know if that's true, because when he's soaping up our grody plates I'm lounging on our bed watching television or pinning on Pinterest. I would go help him by drying or something... but our kitchen is so tiny that it's really chaotic and annoying to have us both in there at the same time.  Really, I don't help him because I'm worried about his comfort level. I'm such a good wife.

It's really fun to learn how we mesh together; it's what you can only learn in marriage. I'm so thankful for my gem of a husband who has the best go-with-the-flow personality to counter my freak-out-at-everything charm. Like yesterday, our closet was falling over.  You may be asking yourself how that's possible, so I guess I should tell you that we don't actually have a closet.  (If that's not the biggest oversight in construction history!) We have this bar shindiggy contraption that we purchased at Wal-Mart.  Apparently, it can't handle all of my clothes (which is bad because I haven't even started putting on my fall/winter wardrobe).

We woke up to it leaning almost at a ninety-degree angle -- aka not good.  If I wasn't half asleep, I would have taken a picture.  But of course I did have enough energy to complain about this jankville apartment. Seriously, who thought any woman in their right mind would live in a place where she had to produce a make-shift closet, especially one that literally shifts? Grahm, my super wonderful husband, fixed it with some kind of wall mounter and a bungee cord.  We're a step above white trash over here, people.

To sum it up (although I'm sure you've already arrived at this conclusion yourselves), Grahm is amazing at compromise and helping me out around our "room." You should pray for him; he has a difficult wife who really needs to learn more about the giving part of give/take.


Monday, October 17, 2011

I decided that the politically correct thing to do is to give my blog a makeover.

It was a teensy bit girly and even though Grahm never said a word about "our" blog, I wouldn't want to run the risk of being too feminine or not caring about my husband's needs as a man. I could tell all the purple pained him each time he came to read his wife's words... which was maybe two times, but who's counting? I'm certainly not. But if I was, is there anything sadder than having a "I'm married now" blog that your husband doesn't read? There is not, my friends. [It's funny because I'm hinting to Grahm to take interest in my blog via my blog... aka not helpful.]

Back to me.
Marriage is about compromise, so I wanted to manly up our site for him. That and I finally got my wedding pictures and needed a handy excuse to blast them all over here without judgment. You might have noticed the 400 pictures I cluttered on Facebook this weekend [which took nine years] but now, I'm giving you the chance to enjoy them over and over again. Alright maybe we're the only ones who actually want to do that. Oh wait, Grahm doesn't get on here.  Guess it's just me then.
See? I knew you'd judge.
I figure if I'm going to get permission to decorate our home in frilly, frou-frou, and [heaven forbid!] floral things, I better have a ready rebuttal to his protests.  "But honey I de-purpled the blog for you, remember? It's soooo manly now!" Ignore the fact that custard yellow is neutral at best.

Now I have a handy argument in case displaying a few of the crafty things I've made doesn't go over so well...
I'm off to add more earrings to my fancy new jewelry holder. Maybe Grahm won't notice it.

Chucking the Chuck Roast

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

You've heard the saying "Don't cry over spilt milk." Well last night I was crying over burnt-to-the-crisp pot roast, which is much much scarier. It was bound to happen at some point or another... dinner gone terribly awry. I'm not surprised that my cooking suddenly turned an ugly corner on me; I am, however,  amazed at the intensity to which this dinner got out of control. Anyone can mess up a recipe. Anyone can cook a bland meal. But it takes real talent, my friends, to completely murder your food.

I still don't know what happened. 
But somewhere in the middle of the Sing Off, I went to check on the pot roast. When I peered into the pot, the carrots and onions were turning this charcoal brown color and the meat seemed to be screaming, "Get me out of here!" I don't know a lot (obviously), but I do know that unless you're making chocolate cake, brown is usually not a good sign. 

The three cups of beef stock I poured in earlier had disappeared into this blackened crumbly mess. I couldn't tell if this was pot roast or the remains of a fireplace from last winter.

That darn stove stabbed me in the back, and it stabbed hard. Just when I thought we were getting along... (I was able to light TWO burners at the same time, miracle of miracles.) it pulls this shenanigans. 

A few tears were shed. Mostly because I was so mortified and embarrassed. There goes my "wife of the year" award. Drats. 

I frantically reread the recipe in my Pioneer Woman cookbook and found that I had done it all right... so why did it look like an abandoned rubber tire?  (Later I discovered that roast is supposed to cook for 3-5 hours in the OVEN, not on the stove. In my defense, Pioneer Woman never actually says that. You do a lot of prep work on the stove, so I assumed the rest was on there as well. PW must've missed the memo that you should write for ALL people, even the blondes.)

Grahm was a trooper though. He laughed really hard at the blackened mess, and then hugged me when he realized I wasn't thinking this was even remotely humorous. 

Thankfully, there is a Domino's pizza right outside of our neighborhood... which I'm beginning to realize is just another sign of God's sovereignty and His graciousness in feeding his children their daily bread. 

Because let's face it, it's hit or miss with me.

One month down, a lifetime to go

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Today is our one month anniversary of wedded bliss. We're pretty much experts.
Go ahead, ask me anything.

It's weird to know that this time one month ago, I was sitting anxiously in my little dressing room at Post Oak Lodge surrounded by my closest friends. We were all unusually quiet as we waited for my dad to come pick me up.

I wasn't nervous, really.
I knew Grahm would show up and that I wasn't about to pull a "Runaway Bride" on anyone... my dress pretty much eliminated the possibility of any fast movements.

It was more the little things I was having minor anxiety attacks about...
I wanted everything to run smoothly, to have the groomsmen know exactly what they're supposed to do and where they needed to go, for no one to trip on their excruciatingly long walk across the bridge and down to the aisle runner. I wanted the wind to calm its annoying self so our wonderful lanterns wouldn't go airborne in the middle of the ceremony. I wanted the whole shibang to be stunning. I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to have great pictures that tricked people into believing that last thing was true. I wanted people to have a fabulous time.

As soon as I started walking with my dad all those busy thoughts in my head quickly evaporated, and my heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and disbelief.

The walk down the aisle was probably a grand total of thirty seconds, but to me... it felt much longer. I took in everything: the beautiful decor my mom had worked so hard on, the orange rose petals, the lanterns hanging in the trees, the arch my aunt had made. The weather was perfect with no wind and no sweat... a miracle in Oklahoma if there ever was one. I saw my best friends in their pretty dresses, the looks on their faces as they watched me.

And I saw him. I will never forget that moment or those steps.

Humble Beginnings

Saturday, October 1, 2011

When we moved into our quaint 440 sqft. apartment, we weren't disillusioned to our new place. We were fully aware that we were no longer going to be on the 17th floor of the Hyatt Regency on Waikiki Beach. But we also knew it was our new home. Our very first place as husband and wife, and we were excited. For documentation's sake, I need to enlighten you all to the quirkiness of our little home. You can't make this stuff up, people.

We have a dryer/washer unit from the 70s when hippies roamed the earth. It's currently serving as our pantry because we don't have any extra cupboard space to store our oh-so-healthy food. If you're lucky, this bad mammajamma will finish one load in 24 hours. And by that I literally mean 24 stinkin' hours. You can't wash and dry your clothes at the same time... so you'll only have time for one tiny load each day. And that's only if you can somehow convince yourself that your clothes are actually getting clean while they soak in a little pool of water for a few hours, because oh did I mention?, there's no spin cycle.

You can put your maybe-they-might-be-kinda-clean clothes in the dryer, but remember, they're sopping wet. You gotta ring them out as bet you can, pioneer woman style. (Note: This is not a reference to the famous blogger/chef, I'm talking about an actual pioneer woman from the 1800's. Put your wrists into it, ladies.) While your little dryer is working its darnedest, it makes the most pleasant noise. That is if you like sitting in terror for fear that a wild herd of elephants is about to trample your apartment to the ground. Eventually (hours and hours and hours) later, the clothes will finally be dry...Or at least dry enough. Damp jeans can just air dry on the hanger, right? Right. Needless to say, I go to a laundromat now.

So then I turn to try to making dinner for my sweet husband. We have this janky gas stove that's real temperamental and only works when it feels like it. You can only use one burner at a time, so if you're trying to make a complicated (which is basically any recipe to me) meal from your Pioneer Woman cookbook, it's basically going to end up with you doing this awkward trying-to-hold-a-million-pans dance in which you're trying (impossibly so) to keep everything warm. Lighting this thing is terrifying. Every time I think I'll explode. Thankfully it hasn't happened yet, but when it does I want "She was trying to be a good wife and make her husband dinner" written on my grave, okay? I've learned to embrace the brilliant invention of the Crockpot, a Godsend if there ever was one.

This week the plumbing plummeted to its absolute worst. I've already whined about it to you fine folks in a previous post, but I feel like I need to reiterate our situation so that you, sweet friends, can increase your gratitude for your properly draining sinks and effectively flushing toilets. Go without water for a few days and you and your spouse will not only learn to love each other despite your constant stench, but also your thankfulness for showers and the ability to pee in your own home will undoubtedly increase. I'm pretty sure the people at the McDonald's down the street think we're homeless people with really tiny bladders. Our sweet landlords fixed it yesterday, and I was finally able to clean the millions of dishes that were piled into our sink since we didn't have any water and we don't have a dishwasher. Sigh. A girl can dream.

There are like five million other things I could write about the quirkiness of this studio apartment, but I won't because a) you're probably thinking this post is way too long as it is and b) I'll probably write them in future blog posts and c) I don't want you to think that all I do is complain.

That last part is only half false.

Everyone is right when they tell us "These are the days you will always remember!" And we're finding that out to be very true.

We laugh a lot. We're frustrated a lot. But it's a super fun adventure we're having together. And you know what? We wouldn't trade it for the world....Okay, you could probably convince me if you throw in a dishwasher and a closet and freshly painted walls. :)