finally friday

Friday, August 30, 2013

Baby Roach: We got to see you yesterday. You're perfect and wonderful and I'm not biased at all. I couldn't sleep last night because I'm so happy. You already have filled your mama's heart so full, my tiny little bundle of love. Keep growing, sweet angel, we can't wait to meet you and tell everyone what we're having!

Ladies at the imaging place: Thank you for being so kind to this waddling, have-to-pee-like-a-racehorse gal. They wanted me to have 35 ounces of water on my bladder when we came in for my appointment. Uh, what? I walked in and immediately announced that I "wasn't going to make it" complete with my own little "my bladder hates me right now" dance. The kind lady just smiled and told me I could go "a little bit." That's like asking me to walk into a 50%-off sale and only spend $20 (aka not possible). When a little bit turned into emptying the entire grand canyon, she very sweetly gave me some ice water to "refuel."
Packing: I used to think packing was hard. Then I turned into the pregosaurus, and everything just took a nosedive. Never have I had to try on clothes prior to packing to make sure they still fit. Also, what does one pack for a cruise besides the obvious "I'm going to be lounging in the sun and eating all day" stuff? I don't know how many text messages my friend Molly and I have sent to each other to fully dissect our wardrobe choices...

Grahm Cracker Crusty Crusts: Happy almost two-year anniversary, Baby Daddy! I love that I get to do life with you. Year number three is going to bring a third little person to our family, and I can't wait to figure out this whole parenting thing with you. You truly are the jam to my peanut butter, the wart to my big toe, the cream to my cheese, the wind to my breaker.

September 4th, our actual big day, we will be sailing in the middle of the ocean with our fun friends so I won't get to do a romantic post like last year. (It involved how we fart too much, but that's okay because we're real with each other.)

beer bread

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Because I'm up to my elbow fat in an upholstery project and packing for our cruise next week, this week's DIY is pretty simple... but incredibly delicious. I'm a fan of anything that's yummy without a lot of work (I'm cooking impaired), so this is kind of the perfect recipe. My mom and her twin make this all the time, so I can't take credit for this tasty concoction.

Beer Bread

You'll Need:
3 cups of self-rising flour
3 tbsp of sugar
1 12 oz. can of beer (any kind)
1/2 a stick of butter (optional but highly recommended)
Gather your ingredients. Swipe one of your husband's beers from the fridge, and pray that he's too busy nomming on some delicious bread to notice or care. You can use a cheapo-depot Budlight, I just didn't want to go the store...(Plus a pregnant lady buying beer just doesn't look right.)
Stir in the flour and sugar. Slowly add the beer. Be careful to avoid overpouring because you don't want it to be completely carbonation. Make sure everything is thoroughly mixed.
Pam up your bread pan and evenly spread your lumpy dough. Place it in the oven, and bake for 45 minutes at 350 degrees.
After 45 minutes of baking, briefly take out your bread and pour half a stick of melted butter on the top. This is optional, but I highly recommend it. (You're not eating beer bread for the health factor anyway!) Put back in the oven, and bake for another 15 minutes.
Allow your beer bread to cool for ten minutes. Then cut 'er up, slap some butter on it, and enjoy! 

passing down

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

If you follow me on Instagram, you already know all two of my life updates. Like tomorrow we find out if I'm carrying a Baby Boy Roach or a Baby Girl Roach. (No matter how many times I read that sentence, it still sounds like I'm going to pop an antennae-wearing, crunchy insect out of my hot pocket. Ew. Ouch.)
This week Grahm and I have been having a lot of discussions about all the different characteristics we'll be passing down to our little one.

 "I hope he has my ridiculously good-looking physique," Grahm says.
"Not to mention your glowing humility," I'll add.

There are tons of things about myself I really hope our child doesn't inherit (my anal retentiveness, my need to control everything, my midget size) but who wants to read that list? Oops, you kinda just did. Grahm thinks I focus too much on the negative parts of myself, so to prove him wrong (something I thoroughly enjoy doing), I've made a list of things I desperately hope our kid inherits from me ... everything else can come from my baby daddy.

1. Eating. No, I'm not talking about wanting to eat broccoli for breakfast or anything else as sickenly healthy. (I wouldn't wish that upon any child of mine.) I mean that I can wharf down anything and everything like it's my last meal. (I'm a Roach, dontcha know.) There are only a few meals I won't eat, and it's more of "I'd rather not" than won't. Think about how amazing it would be if this crossed over to Baby Roach. If I never had to have the "Jimmy, eat your dinner!" conversation, I may have a 500-pound toddler but he'd be a happy chunk.

2. Sleeping. I'm not good at many things, but I can out-slumber a bear in the middle of winter. Take last night for example. 10 o'clock. (We're a swell time.) Exhausted. (24 going on Grandma Betty.) Do I go about my normal bedtime routine? Nope. Forget the makeup wipes, the moisturizer, the eye cream. My bed was drawing me near like a moth to its bundle of cozy love. I abandoned my toothbrush, dry and unused on the counter. I even left my contacts in my eyewinkers... All for the sake of getting asleep as fast as possible. Who cares that I aged 7 days, had especially kick-you-in-the-crotch fantastic breath this morning (lucky Grahm), and couldn't see anything because my contacts had crumpled and dried faster than a wart under Biofreeze (not that I would know or anything...). I slept over 8 glorious hours. Future kids, take note.

3. Cleaning. Say whatever you want about my house, but it's as clean as my future baby's rumposaurus. I know where everything is. I put everything away after I use it, ya know, where it actually belongs. (Grahm was really confused when we first got married because his stuff wouldn't be where he last left it. "Babe! Where's my belt? It was right here on the floor...") My kids don't necessarily have to stick to my rigid cleaning schedule every week, but wouldn't it be wonderful if they thought cleaning was fun? "Mommy, let me clean for you" or "Mom, I already made my bed and did the dishes. You don't have to ask me, remember?" (Is it pathetically sad that these are the things I dream about?)

Baby Roach, we will love you no matter how much you eat or sleep or clean. But it'd be great if you took after your mommy on this one. We all know your daddy is picky, messy, and a hogger of the blankets. (But it's okay, we love him anyway.)


Thursday, August 22, 2013

I've tried writing this post for five weeks now. Obviously I haven't been able to finish it. Let me preface by saying that there's really no gauge for the tears lately. I bawled putting a fitted sheet on the bed last week. Like legitimately cried over a piece of cotton with impossible elastic. I believe I even yelled at my plush King-size bed ("Which corner? Which CORNER?!") like it had anything to do with the crazy woman who couldn't figure out how to make it. 

This roller coaster ride makes it very hard for me to discern whether or not these are real emotions coming from a true place within me, or if they're just an unfortunate result of Mother Nature making up for my lack of morning sickness in the first trimester by kicking my hormonal crotch biscuits extra hard. But after so many weeks and so many tears, I can only submit that this is a very real, however unfounded the feelings may be.

When I first found out we were pregnant, it was hard for me to be as excited as I wanted to be. Please don't misunderstand. We were and are thrilled. Over the moon. Blessed out of our little minds. Really and truly, we are. From the moment I peed on that stick, though, a quiet voice inside my heart was whispering--very softly at first but getting louder with each passing week--that something wasn't quite right.

As thrilling and wonderful and terrifying as it is to be carrying life within me, I know why I was struggling to be as happy as I truly wanted to be. I knew what that tricky voice was trying to get me to believe with its thousands of destructive lines. Your family is so far away. How can you possibly go through this without them? Will your baby even know them? Its deceptive musings were fogging my mind like an afternoon cloud, and I couldn't shake them no matter how much I tried.

I've gone through many emotions, wrestling with it all. I've been angry with God for putting us here in Texas. I've resented Grahm and the job he loves. I've been completely dissatisfied with my own career. I've hated San Antonio: the traffic, the heat, the distance from everywhere and everything. I've wanted to pack up and leave. I've longed for Nashville, where my parents are. I've longed for home.

Home is a funny word, isn't it?

For 22 years of my life, I associated home with my parents. My little sister. My sweet brother. Oklahoma. Red dirt and blue skies. Now nearly two years into marriage, I'm realizing that my definition of home needs a major overhaul.

In some ways, that little voice in my head is right. My family is far away and that is incredibly hard during this life-changing time. I wish with all of my heart my mom was a short ten minutes away instead of an unbearable 16 hours. I know I'll have so many questions ("Is it okay if her poop looks like that? How do I get the crying to stop? When will his belly button thing fall off?"). I know I'll want to show her everything ("He rolled over! He stood up! She pooped... again!"). And there's nothing wrong in those desires.

The problem arises when I allow that discontentment to seep into my mind, robbing me of the joy of this moment. The wonder of life within me. The beauty of growing a family with my best friend.

Maybe one day, my parents and I won't be thousands of miles apart. Maybe one day we can drop by their house unannounced and beg them for some free babysitting. Maybe one day my baby will know his/her Lolli and Pops beyond a picture or a computer screen.

But I have a new home now. A family of my own here in San Antonio. And for right now, God is really teaching me to silence the voice in my head that keeps telling me This isn't going to be okay without your mom and dad and to rest in Him. In Grahm. In our life together--our wonderful, wonderful life. It really is enough. And it really will be okay.

Nailed It

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

I bought a craft pin, a plate, and a pile of glue and nailed them. To the wall. Well, Grahm did. But I pointed and said, "a little to the left." (This intro just took a very weird turn...)

You'll need:
E6000 Craft Glue 
Paper Clips or Crafting Pins
A sweet (and very patient) man to hang them
Some people pay out the butt (yes, that's the official amount) for fancy schmancy plate holders like these. But when you're hanging over 20 dishes and none of them are grandma's old china plates (the most expensive one was two bucks), you decide to MacGuyver it. Grab some craft clue and some paper clips/craft pins. 
Dab a little bit onto the back of the plate. Be sure to position the pin where you'll want the plate to actually hang. This glue is like under-eye concealer, less is more. Admire your redneck plate holder and praise yourself for the dollars you saved. 
Let your dishes dry overnight. Enjoy the fine smell of rubber in the morning. Your craft pin will now be harder to remove than that zit I had on my chin for high school prom, so let's hope you positioned it correctly.
Arrange your dishes on the floor. Pretend like you know what you're doing so your husband won't say things like, "How long is this going to take?" I think I changed the arrangement 5 more times after I took this picture. (Huge life decisions, people.)
Recruit said (very sweet) husband to begin hanging your dishes. Never mind that it's 11 o'clock at night. (Make sure he has his beer at the ready to battle against his potentially crotchety "Can't this wait till tomorrow" self.)
If you're more thoughtful about your decisions than we are, you may want to make paper templates and tape those to your wall. You can play around with the design until you're happy with it. We're more "let's just see how this looks now" kind of people, so we eyeballed everything and proceeded to nail holes in the wall. Wham bam, thank you ma'am. Nailed it (literally).
Most of these dishes I found at Goodwill (I only got 20 dollars in my pocket). I went to four different stores. I was digging around so much (looking for a come-up) in one of the locations that I got asked if I worked there.... So next time I WILL be wearing makeup to the thrift shop (and hopefully this song won't be on repeat in my head).
Last week we made the pallet art. We stripped that sucker of all its boards on both sides and then I had Grahm cut the bottom off where the pallet came together. It made for the perfect flower box. We literally didn't do anything else to it.
I'm kind of obsessed with our dining room. It's really starting to come together, and it's easily becoming my favorite room in the house. Now to get Grahm to finish our farmhouse table, so we can actually, uh, dine.

Total Cost:
Repurposed Buffet Table --- $50 (Craigslist find)
Pallet Art --- DIY/Free ("Stolen" from Home Depot)
"Vintage" Dishes --- $15 for 30 (Estate sales and Goodwill)
Flower box --- DIY/Free (part of the "stolen" pallet)
Dry Hydrangeas --- $20 Hobby Lobby (Look for the 50% sale)
= $85

Why Husbands Shouldn't Travel

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Let's face it. I think Grahm is pretty adorable.

But when he first told me he would be in California for the week, I was a little excited. Two words: shopping stinkin' frenzy (okay, that's three). He was gone for a whoppin' ten hours before I grabbed my friend Tiffany and headed to the mall. I needed (yes, needed) clothes for our upcoming cruise. (Side note: I bought a C-cup bikini for the first time in this 32 A-er's life. Pregnancy win?)

Besides the ill-advised shopping trip, there really isn't anything I like about Grahm being out of town. I mean there are certain things girls (as fabulous as we are) just NEED boys to do...

1. Kills Bugs
Nothing makes me more jump out of my panties faster than bugs (oh and bubble baths). I hate them. I hate them all. They're sneaky and crunchy, and I'm convinced are going to kill me at any given moment. Normally, I yell and point and tell Grahm "Eww! Kill it, kill it!" But when he's away, I'm left to my own timid devices.
I walk toward it pretending like I have ovaries of steel. I've made up my mind to kill...
...until I find out it can fly. 
Then, of course, I run away and barricade myself in my room.

2. Check Out the Noises
When I'm alone in a big house, every noise makes me want to pee my pants (a very easy thing for this pregnant gal).
Normally, I poke Grahm with my big toe and tell him to go check it out. (Obviously, if it's a murderer he stands a better chance of survival.)
When he's gone, I just pray the intruder can't see me inconspicuously hidden under my bulletproof blankets. (Darn you, baby bump, you're totally gonna blow my cover.)
3. Use all the Tools
Without Grahm, I'm about as handy as a foot. I have an upholstering project I could be working on in his absence, but I can't figure out how to work our screwdriver. (That sounds a lot more pathetic than it is... I think. It's one of those fancy twisty ones.)
At first I was gonna concur that idiotic tool...
But then...

And after ten minutes of listening to Grahm explain his rocket science screwdriver...

4. Snuggle Panda
When I first think about having the bed to myself, I'm thrilled. Blankets to myself. Room to stretch my legs. No one to dutch oven me.
But then I remember...
So there you have it. We gals need our men. So hurry home, Grahmsterdoodle. I'm apparently incompetent without you.

A Husband And A Hammer

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

One fine night, I took Grahm to a shady corner behind a Home Depot and convinced him to steal something for me. We committed the ultimate DIYer's crime and snatched some pallets before you could say "Pinterest." (Okay, technically we asked the snaggled-toothed lady in the store if we could take them, but she didn't really give us a definite answer. So "steal" we did!)

For DIY pallet art, you'll need:
An old pallet or two
A sawzall 
Hammer and nails
A meaningful lyric or quotation
And a strong man to do 99% of the work for you (Thanks, baby!)

We lined up our old pallet against the wall. Poor guy. He had no idea what was coming!
Grahm took the sawzall (thanks to my fun father-in-law, who I'm convinced, owns every tool imaginable) and cut the nails directly behind each board. This makes for a speedy demolition process. After all, who wants to agonize over those rough-n-tough nails? (Ain't nobody got time for that!)
After a few minutes, we had several boards just begging to be made into something beautiful. I purposefully selected the imperfect ones. They had cracks (don't we all), rough spots, and uneven surfaces. I loved that though. I felt like they had some history to them, a story to tell (even if it was only "and then the Home Depot guy used me to lift a really heavy thing off of another really heavy thing").
I arranged the boards how I wanted them, and then the hubs nailed two support boards to the back.
Grahm then designed the layout of the words we had chosen from one of my favorite hymns. (Such an uplifting message that I am ever-wandering, but Christ is ever-fixed, steadfast, and true!) He sized the paper to perfectly fit our pallet art (roughly 33 by 40). Those engineering programs actually DO come in handy!
We took it to Kinkos, printed off a mirror image (very important), and came home. I was all set to do my printer ink transfer, when... much to my chagrin, I realized that I we needed an INK printer for this to actually work. Kinkos only uses laser jet printers. (That's 8 bucks we'll never get back. Learn from our mistake, friends!) We tried ironing on the letters from our giant sheet, but that didn't work either. Our boards were too uneven, coarse, and and dare I say rustic to take any of the ink as easy breezy as some tutorials had promised.
Plan B was tracing the letters which required hands of steel (should've worked at Braum's) and a buttload of patience.

A few hours later, I finally had the faint markings of an outline. I went over my slight pen marks with a paint pen and then filled in the letters with some trusty Annie Sloane paint.
I decided to hang it above the buffet table that I refinished in our dining room. I'm way in love with this piece and the way it looks against our gray walls. I've got big plans for the rest of this room.
There's nothing much I love more than project Saturday with my sweet husband who very willingly caters to my DIY insanity. He did such a wonderful job on this pallet, and I couldn't be more thrilled with how it turned out. Oh, and the best part? It was free!

Now to finish the rest of this room...

Not Gonna Happen

Monday, August 12, 2013

Grahm and I Googled it.
Turns out Roach isn't exactly the worst name out there. (Sorry, Mr. Harry Buns, Merl Lester, and Katie Titsworth. Looks like the jokes on you.)

I knew when I said yes to G-money, I was also saying yes to having a heinous surname. ("Jena Roach, Roach like the bug.") What I didn't realize, however, was the enormous impact this critter-y last name would have on naming our future children.

There's already enough pressure when it comes to naming your kid. It has to be original. Not too weird, but not too plain. Not overdone, but not never done. Essentially, you're trying to find the happy medium between "HashTag" and "Jane." (Good luck with that.)

There aren't any rules (there should be) when it comes to naming your children (aka how they're going to be made fun of for the rest of their lives). Some people take that creative license and run a marathon with it (Apple, Cricket Pearl, Audio Science, North West). No,  I didn't make any of those up. Other people are about as inventive as the wart on my big toe (Bill, Bob, Tom, Tim).
So slap the last name "Roach" onto your baby naming problems, and the limitations are endless.

We find out the gender in two weeks (!!!!), so names aren't really on our radar quite yet. However, there are definitely some names that can never happen due to our name.

So here it is, our ever-growing "Absolutely Never Gonna Happen because Our Last Name is Roach" list:

Cock Roach 
(Even if your last name isn't Roach, for the love of humanity don't name your kid Cock.)
Precious Roach
Roman Roach
Mia Roach
Ima Roach
Ada Roach
Katie Ada Roach (Full sentences are just off the table.)
Harry Roach
Violet Roach (or any other color)
Paisley Roach (or any other pattern/texture)

Most of these names (okay, all of these names) were never real options anyway. But you get the gist. We have one tough task ahead of us.

Moral of the story: Feel sorry for our kids.

Husband Takeover

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Grahmsterdoodle here.

Jena made the classic blunder of leaving her computer open, so I took this opportunity to do the meanest thing I could... write on it. Mwhahaha. You may not be aware that I'm aware that I'm the subject of many of these blog posts, and I thought it'd be nice to turn the tables on her and give you some perspective on the ol' ball and chain.

1. Jena has a ridiculously good lookin' husband. I mean this picture kinda says it all.
2. Jena farts way more than her body weight indicates. Let's just say if it was an Olympic sport, my wife would take the gold. Move over, Michael Phelps.

3. Jena has ridiculous nicknames for just about everything, including me. If you don't take the nicknames Booger Buns, Pumpkin Butt, or Snuggle Panda as terms of endearment, then you probably should steer clear of my crazy wife.

4. She has the coldest toes of anyone I've ever met, not that I'm in the habit of touching people's toes... but this is serious. It's 105 degrees in San Antonio and somehow her toes are still icicles. This may not be significant to anyone but me, but when you share a bed with her every night it's kind of a big deal.

5. She's insanely good at Boggle. If you ever want to feel bad about yourself, play Jena in this game. Seriously. My ego is still in therapy. 
6. But seriously guys, Jena's the prettiest woman I've ever met, and I've met a lot of women. She's definitely the most beautiful pregnant woman I've ever met, and she is going to be the world's best mother.

Thanks for reading my wife's blog!!

A Desk Named Potter

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Much to Grahm's chagrin, I'm on Craigslist way more than any sane person should be. I've had some hilarious encounterskiller finds, and every once in a while, I strike crazy-craft-lady gold.

Last weekend, I found the perfect desk. Stunning handles. Beautiful legs. More character than the first few pages of War & Peace. (Seriously, Tolstoy. Our tiny attention spans can only handle so many people in two pages.) Since I had been searching for a desk to renovate for several months now (I'm picky), I was all over this like rat on a Cheeto.

Oh, did I mention it was only $25? I was drooling.

I grabbed Grahm, and we scurried across town to meet this lady who was all too anxious to get rid of it.
The desk was well loved to say the least. Time had certainly taken its toll on its fragile frame. It even had a pretty awesome Harry Potter scar. (Grahm wanted to climb into the drawer to see what magical world it would take us to. I then had to remind him that he was thinking of Narnia.) Obviously, we had to name the desk Potter.
Baby and I set to work in our garage with my Annie Sloane paint, wood fill, wax, and sandpaper. I did the top in Coco and the body in Old White. I absolutely love the contrast.
After some distressing, I put clear wax over the entire piece. Aren't those handles divine?
I'm thrilled with how Potter turned out. She makes for a cozy working place next to our beautiful bay window. Hard to beat for $25 bucks and one sweaty afternoon in the ol' garage!

Now to find the perfect chair and artwork for my new favorite spot in the house... Etsy, anyone?

(Thanks to my sweet Booger Buns who took all the fabulous pictures.)