My Belly Button Looks Weird And Other Pregnancy Confessions

What Is Happening?

Today, I looked at my nearly 37 week pregnant self and noticed that I don’t have an innie or outie belly button. It’s completely level now, and I find it weirdly fascinating. My friend Sallie says that the baby is done when it pops out, like the timer on a Thanksgiving turkey, so I guess we’re nearly there, you guys! (Don’t ruin this fantasy by reminding me that first time moms are often late. Let me dream, okay?) 

My misshapen belly button is one of several bizarre things that I did not expect to encounter in this pregnancy. Some are too TMI to share here when my great aunt or pastor might read it and be scandalized so I’ll stick with the less traumatizing parts of being heavily pregnant. 

The Floor Is Dead To Me

One thing that I desperately miss about my pre-pregnancy body – or even my first trimester body – is how easy it was to pick up things off the floor. I used to take picking up a stray macaroni noodle or putting away a pair of shoes for granted. Now, when something falls to the floor, I look at it with the utmost disappointment for several long seconds before evaluating if it’s worth trying to pick it up. Most of the time, I decide that it’s just not worth it, and I pretend my belly obstructed my view. (This is becoming truer every day anyway.) 

But occasionally, I decide to try and pick it up on my own because I want to set a good example to my daughter that we are strong, independent women who can pick an errant leaf off the floor without assistance. I always try to reach for it as though my arms are 5 feet long and can touch the floor without me bending over, and this has a 100% fail rate. So then I try to squat and reach around my belly to grab at the thing as my whole body reminds me that I’m carrying a 6 pound human and things don’t work like they used to. My back protests, my lungs get crushed, my baby kicks me in the hip, and my center of gravity threatens to topple me face first. 

But, I ain’t no 28 week newbie to the third trimester anymore, and most of the time, I don’t end up on the floor asking for Ryan to help me up. I clutch the offensive whatchamacallit in my fist, wheezing as my lungs get enough room to breathe again. My husband, unaware of my antics, hears my huffing and puffing and asks if I’m okay. He reminds me that he can pick up items for me if I ask, and I resolve to let him do so as I plop down on the couch to recover from my exercise. 

Until tomorrow. Because pregnancy brain makes me forgetful. 

None of My Clothes Fit Anymore 

Quarantine life blinded me to the fact that I don’t have many clothes that fit me anymore. My leggings are forgiving, and I have stolen old shirts of Ryan’s and the couple maternity T-shirts I did purchase have kept me dressed while I work from home these days. 

But today, I put on my maternity jeans for the first time in 2 and a half weeks, and it was horrific. I managed, but my bump is apparently too big for the belly panel now and it took lots of finagling and breaks to rest from my struggles before everything was in its proper place. I looked in the mirror and was satisfied with my appearance, but I felt like I needed a nap to recover. 

I do have some maternity tops and dresses that still fit, but as spring creeps in, I realize my spring wardrobe is not prepared for 9 months pregnant me. My short sleeve tops look like crop tops, and I 100% would get stuck trying to get them off and would run around the house, seemingly headless and completely trapped, until Ryan rescues me. 

So if we have some unusually cold days in April, that’s probably my fault because I’m definitely going to pray that I can get away with wearing my long sleeve fall/winter maternity clothes every time I have to leave the house. Sorry, you guys. 

Heartburn All Day, Every Day

As I write this, I’m contemplating if I’m too tired to get up and rummage through the medicine cabinet for the Mylanta. It’s become a nightly tradition to take a shot of the milky mint-colored liquid to help me sleep without my esophagus being on fire. For some reason, the idea of Tums, let alone the taste of them, makes me feel ill so I stick with my knock-off brand version of Mylanta to tame the burning stomach. 

Earlier in my pregnancy, there were heartburn triggers. Coffee was the first casualty, followed by salsa, and then really any food that contemplated being spicy. Citrus fruits decided to turn against me next, and then basically any meal that was bigger than 7.8 bites because then I’d get too full. These days, I’ve given up. I eat; I get heartburn. I don’t eat; I get nauseated and feel lightheaded and become meaner than the Grinch. For Ryan’s sake, I eat and deal with the fiery results because I’m easier to deal with that way. 

Would I Do It All Again?

Absolutely. 

As much as I have whined about some of the less fun parts of pregnancy today, I adore E already, and she’s still the tiny human stealing all my nutrients and head butting my bladder. Last night, she kicked Ryan in the face when he was resting his head on my stomach talking to her, and it was freaking hilarious. She is my best little buddy already, my pint-sized sidekick, and my miracle baby. She’s had my heart since the moment I cried sitting in our tiny bathroom, shocked that she was really real. 

When I started writing this, I was pretty cranky. My back has been especially troublesome, and I just want this whole pandemic to be over so I can worry a little less. But, writing this made me laugh at some of the less glamorous parts of pregnancy, and I feel better. Hopefully, you all enjoyed it too. 

Pregnancy has been a wild ride so far, but it’s a journey I wouldn’t trade for the world as I get my sweet baby girl at the end of it all. 

Any time now would be great, E. No need to be late. 😘

My Belly Button Looks Weird And Other Pregnancy Confessions

What Is Happening?

Today, I looked at my nearly 37 week pregnant self and noticed that I don’t have an innie or outie belly button. It’s completely level now, and I find it weirdly fascinating. My friend Sallie says that the baby is done when it pops out, like the timer on a Thanksgiving turkey, so I guess we’re nearly there, you guys! (Don’t ruin this fantasy by reminding me that first time moms are often late. Let me dream, okay?) 

My misshapen belly button is one of several bizarre things that I did not expect to encounter in this pregnancy. Some are too TMI to share here when my great aunt or pastor might read it and be scandalized so I’ll stick with the less traumatizing parts of being heavily pregnant. 

The Floor Is Dead To Me

One thing that I desperately miss about my pre-pregnancy body – or even my first trimester body – is how easy it was to pick up things off the floor. I used to take picking up a stray macaroni noodle or putting away a pair of shoes for granted. Now, when something falls to the floor, I look at it with the utmost disappointment for several long seconds before evaluating if it’s worth trying to pick it up. Most of the time, I decide that it’s just not worth it, and I pretend my belly obstructed my view. (This is becoming truer every day anyway.) 

But occasionally, I decide to try and pick it up on my own because I want to set a good example to my daughter that we are strong, independent women who can pick an errant leaf off the floor without assistance. I always try to reach for it as though my arms are 5 feet long and can touch the floor without me bending over, and this has a 100% fail rate. So then I try to squat and reach around my belly to grab at the thing as my whole body reminds me that I’m carrying a 6 pound human and things don’t work like they used to. My back protests, my lungs get crushed, my baby kicks me in the hip, and my center of gravity threatens to topple me face first. 

But, I ain’t no 28 week newbie to the third trimester anymore, and most of the time, I don’t end up on the floor asking for Ryan to help me up. I clutch the offensive whatchamacallit in my fist, wheezing as my lungs get enough room to breathe again. My husband, unaware of my antics, hears my huffing and puffing and asks if I’m okay. He reminds me that he can pick up items for me if I ask, and I resolve to let him do so as I plop down on the couch to recover from my exercise. 

Until tomorrow. Because pregnancy brain makes me forgetful. 

None of My Clothes Fit Anymore 

Quarantine life blinded me to the fact that I don’t have many clothes that fit me anymore. My leggings are forgiving, and I have stolen old shirts of Ryan’s and the couple maternity T-shirts I did purchase have kept me dressed while I work from home these days. 

But today, I put on my maternity jeans for the first time in 2 and a half weeks, and it was horrific. I managed, but my bump is apparently too big for the belly panel now and it took lots of finagling and breaks to rest from my struggles before everything was in its proper place. I looked in the mirror and was satisfied with my appearance, but I felt like I needed a nap to recover. 

I do have some maternity tops and dresses that still fit, but as spring creeps in, I realize my spring wardrobe is not prepared for 9 months pregnant me. My short sleeve tops look like crop tops, and I 100% would get stuck trying to get them off and would run around the house, seemingly headless and completely trapped, until Ryan rescues me. 

So if we have some unusually cold days in April, that’s probably my fault because I’m definitely going to pray that I can get away with wearing my long sleeve fall/winter maternity clothes every time I have to leave the house. Sorry, you guys. 

Heartburn All Day, Every Day

As I write this, I’m contemplating if I’m too tired to get up and rummage through the medicine cabinet for the Mylanta. It’s become a nightly tradition to take a shot of the milky mint-colored liquid to help me sleep without my esophagus being on fire. For some reason, the idea of Tums, let alone the taste of them, makes me feel ill so I stick with my knock-off brand version of Mylanta to tame the burning stomach. 

Earlier in my pregnancy, there were heartburn triggers. Coffee was the first casualty, followed by salsa, and then really any food that contemplated being spicy. Citrus fruits decided to turn against me next, and then basically any meal that was bigger than 7.8 bites because then I’d get too full. These days, I’ve given up. I eat; I get heartburn. I don’t eat; I get nauseated and feel lightheaded and become meaner than the Grinch. For Ryan’s sake, I eat and deal with the fiery results because I’m easier to deal with that way. 

Would I Do It All Again?

Absolutely. 

As much as I have whined about some of the less fun parts of pregnancy today, I adore E already, and she’s still the tiny human stealing all my nutrients and head butting my bladder. Last night, she kicked Ryan in the face when he was resting his head on my stomach talking to her, and it was freaking hilarious. She is my best little buddy already, my pint-sized sidekick, and my miracle baby. She’s had my heart since the moment I cried sitting in our tiny bathroom, shocked that she was really real. 

When I started writing this, I was pretty cranky. My back has been especially troublesome, and I just want this whole pandemic to be over so I can worry a little less. But, writing this made me laugh at some of the less glamorous parts of pregnancy, and I feel better. Hopefully, you all enjoyed it too. 

Pregnancy has been a wild ride so far, but it’s a journey I wouldn’t trade for the world as I get my sweet baby girl at the end of it all. 

Any time now would be great, E. No need to be late. 😘

Oh Amazon, My Amazon!

Today, the only person I saw in real life (besides Ryan) was the USPS guy delivering my Amazon package. It was a fleeting moment as I creepily watched him walk up the sidewalk. I peered through the living room blinds, my hair stuck out in 3 directions and my eyes still crusty from my 10:30 AM nap, as he quickly sandwiched the package between the inside and outside doors before heading back to his truck. 

There’s been (and will continue to be) a steady stream of packages showing up to our house these days. While I wish my nesting instincts involved deep cleaning my kitchen, it actually has manifested itself in online shopping for the remaining baby things I’m certain E needs and last minute necessities for my hospital bag that I should have had ready weeks ago. And because of this virus, Amazon prioritizes what gets sent when so my orders have gotten split up into multiple shipments, sometimes with one item in a box that looks much bigger than is necessary for its occupant.

I’d love to go out and buy some of these things in person, mostly to confirm that there’s actually still human life out there and not algorithms pretending to be my Facebook friends, but my pregnant butt is quarantined as Ryan prefers to pick up groceries and prescriptions for us rather than risk me getting sick when I’m due this month. And to be honest, my body freaks out at the idea of any type of exercise beyond the yoga poses I do to keep my back from hurting as much. For example, I walked around the neighborhood the other day and was rewarded with a few Braxton Hicks and a few swift kicks in the ribs from my sweet little E.

Rude. 😂 

And so I find myself on Amazon, reminding myself I don’t have extra money in the budget to buy all the cutesy decorations that would make E’s room look like a Pinterest photo or Mommy and me outfits, as I try to check off those last-minute purchases so that I can feel a tiny bit more prepared for my upcoming newborn. I might feel wildly out of my depth about actually keeping said newborn alive, but at least she will have a tiny baby grooming set and itty bitty baby socks. People keep telling me that I’ll figure it out as I go, so I’m clinging on to that hope as I get my money’s worth from free Prime shipping.

The Dreaded Pregnancy Insomnia

(Written around 1 AM last night…😜)

Favorite blanket that I’ll kick off in 30 minutes. ✅ 

Multiple pillows to keep me propped up (because heartburn) and perfectly arranged so that I’m on my left side but not too much because then my hip hurts. ✅ 

Eye mask that keeps the room in complete darkness but that also freaks me out a little when I wake up to go to the bathroom. ✅ 

Water bottle within arm’s reach because I mouth breathe when I sleep now so my mouth is like the Sahara in about 45 minutes. ✅ 

Ok, I’m ready to sleep now. I’m so tired. Surely, I’ll be out like a light in just a few minutes. I snuggle down into my pillow fortress and try to think of pleasant thoughts and relaxing things to send me off into dreamland. 

But I lay here, wide awake behind my eye mask, completely unable to fall asleep. E also picks that moment to assault my belly button that is dangerously close to becoming an outie, and she continues her routine by seeing what happens when she puts all her weight on particular vital organs. 

Pregnancy insomnia – it’s found me. And I’m not happy about it. 

I didn’t brag about it, but I was getting okay sleep recently. Not every night – sometimes I’d wake up 17 times because I stupidly ate delicious chili for dinner or because no matter how I contorted my body, some part of me complained that I was hurting them. But for the most part, I was getting a solid 4-5 hours in a stretch before a quick elbow to the bladder woke me from my weird dream about taking care of some stranger’s grandma. I counted my lucky stars as other moms complained about barely sleeping, and while I still felt like I needed 3 naps to get me through a day at work, I knew I was getting off easy.

That seems to be ending. It was fun while it lasted, Sleep, but it looks like our relationship is going to get strained for the foreseeable future. I know we’ll have our afternoon slump together, where I start to fall asleep sitting up while watching yet another webinar on my couch, but those fleeting moments only last until I wake myself up from my own snoring. But after the uncomfortable, “I’m SO pregnant I can’t see my feet” stage comes the newborn stage, and as people have repeatedly told me, I’ll probably never sleep again.

Oh to be able to sleep like these two cuties right now. 😉

I’m trying to decide what I should try to do to pass the time as the clock reminds me how late it is. I briefly consider rearranging the entirety of my kitchen cabinets, but I figure if dropping my phone woke Ryan earlier, then a full overhaul of our kitchen might make him stir from his slumber. And besides, my nesting motivation lasts 3.75 seconds before I’m too exhausted to do anything but cry into baby clothes because I don’t feel ready for E to be here yet. (36 DAYS till her due date – holy cannoli!) Netflix seems like a good plan, but then again, I might end up binge watching some crime show until 5 AM and then really regret that decision tomorrow when I can’t stay awake to work from home. Perhaps, I can have a dance party in the living room, but that also might throw my back out as it’s already permanently irritated with me because of the large but inevitably adorable baby growing inside of me. 

The rain shower outside sounds comforting, and I think that it, coupled with writing, might help me fall asleep after all. E seems to think that this is a good idea as she settles down next to my left hip bone and hiccups gently. Perhaps, I’ll sneak in a few winks before morning and responsibilities beckon again.

Pregnant in A Pandemic

How many days has it been since the quarantining started? I’m starting to lose track now. It feels like it’s been forever since I stopped hugging people and started showing affection via foot taps and elbow bumps. Now, I’m excited to see milk and meat at the grocery store, and I’ve added phrases like “social distancing” to my vocabulary. I’m starting to feel like I’m one of the extras in some dystopian movie, and I’m the one sitting on the couch eating ice cream and watching Netflix while the world seems to be in chaos all around me. You never see that extra in the final cut of the movie, but I play the part well, complete with my pajamas I’ve worn all day long. 

Living our best quarantine lives. 😂

I’d like to say I’m remaining totally calm, cool, and collected during this COVID 19 pandemic. I’ve not hoarded toilet paper or tried to buy out all the hand sanitizer from my local Food Lion. I might have considered hoarding cheese, but I was late to that party and now I’ll be spending part of my Monday morning looking for some cheddar. I’ve washed my hands while singing my ABCs but did not spray my co-workers with Lysol if they dared get within 6 feet of me.

 But, I’ve freaked out a little – because how can you not when you watch everything close down and everyone retreat into their homes while the numbers of cases continue to rise? Especially when I’m responsible for keeping two humans alive as I finish this last month of incubating my favorite kid on the planet. I’m already low-key stressed about actually birthing said child and keeping her safe and sound without a pandemic sending shivers of fear down my spine. I think I’m managing ok for the most part, but I have those moments where I cry a little (ok, sometimes a lot) and pray with all my heart that this will turn a corner by the time Baby E decides to be born. I alternate between reading the CDC website about the outbreak and scrolling through Facebook until I toss the phone aside to take a nap because I’m tired of the fake posts and sad stories. 

(Though the naps are totally a part of the whole “I’m in my 35th week of pregnancy and your girl is TIRED” deal.) 

But I’m trying to take this quarantine one day at a time and not let my anxiety run rampant too. My introvert self thought I’d thrive working from home and not having to make small talk, but I’m already over this. I want to go to a restaurant and eat unlimited breadsticks. I want to hug my friends and not worry about getting sick. I want to raise my hands and sing worship songs with my church family, because Facebook Live is just not the same. I even want to help a library customer attach a document to an email for the 1000th time that day. I miss the normal. I know the quarantines and shutdowns are helpful in keeping people from getting sick; I’ve seen the flattened curve graphs and I’m taking it seriously. I absolutely am complying with all their suggestions for the safety of my own little family, my friends, and for all those I care about in my church, work, and neighborhood.

But I’m totally ready to trade this suspense thriller movie that is our real life right now in exchange for some uneventful, people-filled days back in my life. I definitely hope that I’ve learned to treasure what I used to take for granted as a result of this novel virus and the resulting pandemic. 

Hope you all stay healthy and hold on to your sanity through this crazy time! ❤️

Another Brand New Chapter

51 Days.

I stare at the countdown on my computer – both wishing for the last month and a half of my pregnancy to fly by because my daughter insists on living in my left hip bone, and I can’t sleep for more than an hour and a half at a time without changing positions or heading to the bathroom for the 780^th time today and yet also slightly terrified at the prospect of mothering a perfect, sweet, helpless human being and screwing her up permanently.

31 weeks pregnant because I have forgotten to take a picture for 32 weeks.

I’m not sure why I’m posting in this blog again. Perhaps, it has something to do with the fact that this old blog got me through some pretty big adventures before. I moved 900+ miles from the cold but familiar Wisconsin to Virginia, where I knew almost no one. I married the love of my life and had to navigate the wonderful, the weird, and weightier parts of wedlock, which is surprising much harder than my sweet, naïve 23-year-old self thought. This blog and I have navigated cooking mishaps, infertility struggles, and weight loss woes – and so, it seemed right to come back here and try my hand at writing again, even if no one else but me reads this during those infamous nights of little sleep that everyone has to remind me I’ll be going through soon enough.

This brand new chapter truly began in August 2019 after a rough beginning to 2019. March 2019 marked the beginning of the 6^th year I had been hoping, praying, begging God for a baby – and my faith of ever getting pregnant on my own was at an all time low. After wrestling with God in my prayers and the finalization of the adoption of my dear friend’s twin girls, I decided to start exploring the path of growing our family through adoption. I began to accept rather than fight the realization that I’d probably never be able to carry my own child, and as I read more about adoption, my heart stopped resisting the idea and started to dream of a baby who did not share my biology but who I would love just as fiercely. We talked to friends, we attended adoption information meetings, and we talked SO MUCH about it.

But the finances didn’t come together. The doors didn’t open. And I couldn’t understand why.

While we explored adoption, we also had made an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist. The appointment seemed ages away when I called them in April and their first opening was August 14^th. I almost canceled the appointment about 15 times, but Ryan and I walked into that office that dreary Wednesday morning and sat down to discuss our options with our new doctor. I knew my health insurance wouldn’t cover infertility treatment, and I stared at the numbers with my heart beating in my throat because I didn’t know how we’d afford this either. But, Ryan and I talked over those next few days and decided we’d proceed. I still remember holding on to the prescription bottle for the Letrozole with both hands, hoping and praying that we’d get pregnant on the first try because we’d have to save up more money before we could try again. The doctor told me we’d talk soon as I was supposed to call on the first day of my next menstrual cycle to set up my first appointment to look at my stubborn, non-ovulating-on-their-own ovaries to see if the medicine had done its job.

And then nothing happened. After months of being consistent, my period was late. I was so annoyed that my body was making me wait again, and to add insult to injury, I randomly started having heartburn.

Apparently, all kinds of fun, new things happen when you are in your thirties, I remember thinking to myself.

But after a few days of impatience, I decided to take the last pregnancy test I had lying around the house. I figured I’d take the test, cry, eat some chocolate while watching a sad Netflix movie, and then be able to move on. So I got up that Monday morning in August and tried to take the test without waking my husband in the process. I remember praying as I waited the requisite three minutes asking  God to give me contentment in the face of yet another negative test.

And then I saw it: a very light pink line next to the darker pink control line, stubbornly breaking through the stark white test strip. I think I just stared at it for a minute or two, my breathing becoming fast and my heart beginning to race. Surely, this was just the hallucinations of a desperate thirty year old wanting a baby – and so I screamed for my husband to come. He dashed in a few moments, bleary-eyed from sleep, glasses forgotten as he imagined he was saving me from a two-inch long cockroach. (There is precedence for this.) I shoved the test in his face and demanded,

“DOYOUSEEASECONDLINE?!?”

He squinted at the test and then went to retrieve his glasses while I sat on the toilet seat, my hands shaking and tears streaming down my face. He came back into the light and looked at it closely once more.

“It’s faint, but I see a second line.”

I responded by throwing my arms around him and crying. Luckily, he has been married to me for long enough to not freak out at my confusing emotions, and he wrapped me in a hug.

“Two lines means I’m pregnant, Ryan,” I sobbed. “We’re gonna have a baby!”

And so our brand new chapter began: parenthood.

Holy. Crap.

I had HCG and progesterone blood tests, and I harassed the nurses if they didn’t call me when they said to find out the next set of numbers. I joined Facebook groups for new moms and regretted that decision quickly as I found new things to worry about. I prayed that my tiny, orange-seed-sized baby would survive the first trimester miscarriage statistics as PCOS puts me at higher risk for that, among other things. I remember digging my nails into the chair as we had our first ultrasound, desperate to see the tiny life Ryan and I had created. I couldn’t see anything, but the RE assured me everything looked great for just over 5 weeks and scheduled me for another appointment a week and a half later to make sure our orange seed had grown to a sweet pea.

My favorite little weirdo at just over 6 weeks along.

I remember seeing her tiny, alien-like self appear on the screen and the little flutter of a heartbeat as she grew inside of me. I saw the OB and watched my sweet pea turn into a tiny, sassy human who gave the ultrasound tech a heck of a time getting good pictures and then began to feel her tiny fluttering movements inside of me as she grew bigger and stronger. We worried about placenta previa and rejoiced when the placenta had moved away from my cervix after 8 weeks of waiting. I experienced the joys of surprising family and friends with our miraculous news and bit my tongue when I got less than stellar advice. I cried at my baby shower I never thought I’d have as friends and family prayed over my baby and showered us with gifts like pizza blankets and baby baths and everything in between.

Baby shower picture! Can I eat those sweets now, please?

And now, we’re here – on the precipice of another chapter that no amount of plans, books, solicited and unsolicited advice, and hospital classes can fully prepare us for. And I’m so excited to meet this little girl who has captured my heart from the moment I saw her tiny heart inside her strangely dinosaur-looking body and who I love with a ferocity I didn’t know was possible for someone I’ve never actually met, even though I feel her beating my ribs and my bladder on a daily basis. But I’m also pee-my-pants scared too – and that’s not just because I’m pregnant and bladder control is becoming increasingly difficult, particularly when I sneeze, cough, or laugh too hard. I’ve never been a mom before, and I sometimes worry I’ll be exceptionally bad at it.

And so I’m turning to my writing to help me get through this and to my trusty blog to help me navigate what I’m learning in hopes that my addled, sleep-deprived brain can read through these things and make some sense of them later and find hope and maybe some laughter when the going gets tough and the baby won’t sleep.

And if someone else reads this and feels camaraderie or gives me some much-needed advice, then all the better. ❤

I’m Gonna Be (Driving 444 Miles)

If you’re an awesome person or someone who has watched at least a couple episodes of How I Met Your Mother, you should immediately start singing, “And I will walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more. Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles to fall down out your door” with all the gusto that would make Ted Mosby and Marshall Erickson proud. And then you might notice that this title does not exactly match the song and be intrigued to read on.

Why that particular number, you ask? Well, because between Friday, August 17^th and Tuesday, August 21^st, Ryan and I traveled 444 miles, spent way too much in filling up my car’s gas tank, and crossed a very expensive 17 mile bridge 4 times in that many days because of love, comedy, and accidental thievery.

The plan started out wonderfully. Ryan got off work early and finished packing and cleaning up the house because he knows my deep desire to have a clean house before I leave on a road trip. Because the worst feeling ever after a long drive is to come home to a messy house and immediately feel like you need to clean it AND unpack. So when I got off work and came home at 5:30 PM, he was nearly ready to go and had dinner ready because he’s basically the best human being to ever exist. I, of course, was grumpy and tired from a long day of work and did not appreciate this like I should, so I’m leaving this here in case he reads it now and knows that I think he’s amazing.

I washed the dishes and helped him load up the car, and we were on our way to visit my family for a very quick weekend up north and back by Sunday evening. We arrived late Friday night, and my parents got us all settled in their guest room that used to be my sister Emily’s bedroom. We spent Saturday eating delicious bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, visiting my Pop-Pop, and eating delicious peanut butter and chocolate cupcakes before heading to see our favorite comedian Tim Hawkins at the civic center. We laughed until we cried and will never be able to say the phrase “church plant” without snickering ever again. Sunday morning dawned bright and early, and Ryan and I decided to check out my sister’s church before heading home to help my parents prepare for my baby sister Bethany’s 18^th birthday party. My dad made all sorts of delicious food, and the cake they purchased on Saturday was absolutely delicious. I ate things that I haven’t eaten in ages, and while my tongue enjoyed the cacophony of flavors, my stomach was less than enthused and I definitely was in the throes of a terrible food coma on our drive home.

Still totally worth it though.

I was still lethargic from Sunday’s indulgences when I woke up Monday morning. I stumbled around the house, completing exactly 0% of my normal cleaning and cooking routine that I try to do on my late mornings going into work. As I was going through my bag to make sure I at least was bringing everything I needed to the library that day, I discovered something terrible.

I had two wallets.

No, this was not cause for celebration that I suddenly had come into a large fortune because I did not have the wallet of some celebrity or famous YouTuber in my wallet with lots of crisp $100 bills and a winning lottery ticket inside. Perhaps, she will be famous and have lots of money someday, but right now, my just barely 18 year old sister’s wallet with almost no money in it was it inside. Just her driver’s license and all her important gift cards and loyalty cards inside. I supposed I could go on a shopping spree and see how much I could buy at the Dollar Store but decided to be a mature adult and send her a selfie with the wallet and tell her about my accidental thievery.

“Oh no,” she texted back.

We debated mailing it back, but like most women, my sister has an ungodly amount of stuff crammed into a little wallet and that sucker weighed as much as one of my small dumbbells and would cost way too much money to send by priority mail, plus I feared that it might not make it there safely as you never know if nefarious porch thieves or more likely, the bureaucracy would lose it and cause much pain and inconvenience for my sister.

So the plan was made. I would take off work early on Tuesday and would drive to a predetermined halfway point between our house and theirs and would make the exchange so that my sister could drive, get a tattoo, and purchase a lottery ticket legally sooner rather than later. We chose a random restaurant with 152 reviews averaging about 4.5 stars as our food stop/wallet swap rendezvous point, which turned out to be an amazing decision on my part. Sometimes, I get things right, you guys.

Ryan decided to join me on this journey, and we queued up a free downloadable audio book from Hoopla (totally plugging the free resources at the library right there) and began our journey south to the “kountry kitchen.” An hour and half later, we pulled up into a parking lot and hugged my mom and sister tightly after our nearly 48 hour separation from each other and went inside.

The restaurant was nearly empty, save two couples that were finishing up their meals. But it was 3:30 PM on a Tuesday afternoon so it wouldn’t exactly be their busiest time. A very nervous-looking but very helpful waiter collected our orders, and we sat chatting while waiting for our food to arrive. It didn’t take long for our young waiter to return with our meals, and the smell was intoxicating. My mom decided she wanted the cornbread after all and asked the waiter to bring us out some as we began devouring our plates of food. Everything was absolutely delicious. I got a burger and French fries, and I raved about how juicy it was. My mom and husband had both gotten fried catfish, which was also very yummy as I begged some off of Ryan’s plate. Bethany, who hadn’t been very hungry, was enjoying her appetizer of perfectly cooked fries happily when the star of the show arrived. 4 little muffin-sized pieces of cornbread were placed on our table, and my mom eagerly took the first bite.

Have you ever tasted something so good that your face gets extra serious because life as you know has changed and you are grasping the gravity of the life-changing bite you just took? My mom made that face, and we all stopped what we were eating to grab our own pieces of cornbread and everyone started gushing over how this tiny restaurant sandwiched between a Peebles and a Roses could have such amazing cornbread. It was so good that my mom sought out the waiter and asked him to get her 4 more pieces to-go. We finished up our meals, and I was so full I thought for sure that I would have to roll out of the building, but I made it out on my own two feet and headed back to the car, bidding my sister and mom goodbye from now until our vacation to Myrtle Beach at the end of September and made our final journey across the massive bridge-tunnel.

444 miles, one rain storm, and seventeen complaints about my stomach later, we were home. Luna now has a whole 1200 miles on her, and we now have decided to try to steal things from each other on a more regular basis. Because that’s how our family is.

Love,

Sarah

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This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday writing prompt where we share a photo and the story behind it. Finish the Sentence Friday is a link-up where writers and bloggers come together to share their themselves with a particular prompt (different formats each week of the month). If you’d like to participate, join our Facebook group.

Grown-Ups Eat Weird Stuff Sometimes

If five year old Sarah had been able to choose her own meals, I’m pretty sure I would have subsisted on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, mashed potatoes, and chicken nuggets. I ate Pringles like it was nobody’s business in college, and I absolutely ate a spoonful (or three) of peanut butter right from the jar as a grown married woman not that long ago.

But when you stare down the path that leads to type 2 diabetes and cholesterol medicine and you haven’t even hit 30 yet, you start seeing the virtues of things like the fiber cereal your mom always bought that resembled (and tasted like) finely chopped mulch and start reaching for foods with labels that say organic, reduced sodium, or no added sugar.

In the past 2+ years, Ryan and I have significantly changed our eating habits, and I don’t regret that for a moment. But sometimes, you realize just how far you’ve come when you look down at your plate and you’ve removed all the croutons from your salad and have hidden the Olive Garden breadsticks behind a menu.

So I decided to list 8 things I never would have eaten as a kid – and what I think of them now:

1. Cauliflower rice

I only recently jumped on this bandwagon. I was intrigued by a Skillet Taco Cauliflower Rice recipe I found that was low on carbs and allowed me to liberally ladle cheese onto this dish without regret. So I nervously had Ryan purchase 2 bags of the frozen variety and began to cook. I experienced flashbacks to my first cauliflower foray where I attempted to make mashed cauliflower as a potato substitute, immediately dumping it into the trash because it was so nasty that even copious amounts of butter, salt, and pepper could not salvage it. However, this recipe redeemed cauliflower for me, though I probably couldn’t actually taste the vegetable. If you don’t like a vegetable, slathering it in tomato sauce, cheese, and ground turkey seasoned with six different spices usually does the trick.

2. Fruit or vegetables instead of French fries

I remember the first time I asked for a fruit cup instead of French fries at Chick-fil-a. I could literally smell the salty, fried, delectable, waffle-shaped conveyors of potatoey goodness, but I said, “Medium fruit cup” before I started screaming, “Give me all your fries and Chick-fil-a sauce and nobody gets hurt!” My heart felt a little sadder, but the rest of my body felt less sluggish and much lighter as a result of my good food choices. Have I hiked 5 miles partially to justify a French fry purchase? Absolutely. But overall, I try to avoid these addictive little guys and find ways to get my daily dose of fruits and vegetables without dropping them into a vat of oil. I have even went to Red Robin and ordered a salad or coleslaw as my side, which seemed like a sin, but I did it anyway. I’ve definitely come a long way from my days where I’d purchase a large fry and a large Coke to go with my burger. Sometimes these days, I will go really crazy and eat the burger naked. No, I’m not naked, the burger is. You know, without the bun? Now, that I’ve made things awkward, let’s move on.

3. Multigrain bread

My mother has a video of me eating whole slices of Wonder bread because why would I give perfectly good bread to nasty, smelly ducks when I can eat it instead? No butter, nothing but plain, unadulterated, stick-to-your-insides-like-glue white bread because I was 2 and I liked it. While my tastes have certainly changed since then, I still am a huge advocate for the amazingness that is bread. But there’s this whole thing with having PCOS and eating less carbohydrates because of the risk of insulin resistance, so I have to be careful how much bread I eat. Gone are the days where I could consume a French baguette or a decadent ciabatta in peace; when I do eat bread, it has to have things in it like omega 3s and contain lots of grains with weird names like quinoa, teff, or chia actually in the bread. I was resistant at first to these changes, but I actually found a brand of  multigrain bread called Alpine Valley that tastes good and is not that expensive because I found it at my favorite store Lidl. I’ve tried 3 different kinds, and I like them all. I wish I could say that I’m including this because I’m totally sponsored by them, and they give me free bread. But alas, that is not the case. I have totally been given free cheese before for mentioning Cabot, but that was a few years ago and no one else has paid me in cheese since. But one can dream, right?

4. Hummus 

Last week, Ryan texted me a picture of some dark chocolate hummus, and I was ridiculously excited about it and told him he was my favorite person ever. Granted, he already had that title sans hummus, but it really cemented his place at the top of the list. It made me laugh to think that I could get so excited about something that, at its core, is basically mashed up chickpeas, but when the sorcerers at Boar’s Head make legumes taste like chocolate pudding, you really cannot help but be excited to dunk your strawberries into it. After all, most dips aren’t what you consider healthy. I have to actively avoid Pinterest these days because despite my attempts to pin healthy food on there, it still insists on recommending ten different ways to make macaroni and cheese as well as all of the delicious dips one could ever want to eat at a Super Bowl party. I am pretty sure there were times where I permanently planted myself next to the Utz Ripple Potato chips and french onion dip and ate my weight in that while watching the big game or ringing in the new year, perfecting the surprised look of “where did all the dip go? I certainly didn’t eat all of that by myself.” But now, if I must dunk my baby carrots or slice cucumbers in something, I have discovered the deliciousness that is hummus. I know I can probably make my own, but I just can’t seem to make it right from scratch so I march right into Wal-Mart or Harris Teeter and find some lovely concoction of chickpeas and roasted garlic for a savory treat and now my delectable chocolate hummus for when I am desperate for chocolate but don’t want to gain five pounds by looking at cookies. Is it as addictive as some cream cheese based dip? Perhaps not, but I also don’t feel the need to take a five hour nap after eating it so there’s that.

5. Grilled or blackened chicken 

I am convinced that fried chicken will be in heaven. Whoever was the genius that discovered that dunking chicken into a boiling vat of hot oil made it scrumptious is my hero, but surprisingly, this makes it wildly unhealthy as well. I credit the fried chicken at the Popeyes a mile from my house as part of the reason I swelled up to 110 pounds overweight because I have never been able to turn down their Louisana fresh goodness.

Until now.

One night, when I was tired and the idea of standing in front of my oven slaving over food was unbearable, I ran over to Popeyes to have them rescue me. I told myself that there’s got to be something that is not going to actively clog my arteries on their menu. And that’s when I discovered their blackened chicken tenders. They are only about 57 calories each, and they actually have a good amount of flavor to them. I managed to convince my extremely skeptical husband to try them, and he’s a fan of them now too. We don’t make the trip to Popeyes very often, but when we do, we order these suckers so we don’t feel as bad for eating out.

And as for grilled chicken, yes, it is easy to get bland, flavorless chicken, but when I make it at home and marinate it in all sorts of yummy goodness, it is some of the best chicken I’ve ever tasted. It really helps to learn how to properly cook chicken instead of nearly burning the poor defenseless poultry into oblivion in hopes to avoid salmonella poisoning. 😉

6. Avocados 

Yes, berate me, Internet, for my stereotypical, millennial love of avocados. In my defense, I could not pass up the ridiculously cheap deal my Lidl was having on them one day, and before you know it, we were buying them every single week during our grocery shopping trips. Ryan is a bit weird and eats them plain with just some multi-grain tortilla chips on the regular, but we both have an obsession with making guacamole and it does taste great on some toast or added to a sandwich for some healthy fat.

I didn’t even know that avocados existed until only a few years ago when they exploded in popularity among the people that I follow on Instagram. I had never eaten them growing up and didn’t know how to pick out a perfectly ripe avocado and had several disastrous attempts in using them and nearly always had ones that weren’t ripe enough and had a weird texture as a result. But I’m learning how to pick them out and use them, though admittedly Ryan is better at this than I am. And now I’m super on board with all the creamy, green goodness, though if you put cilantro in my guacamole, I’m going to have to hurt you.

7. Greek yogurt 

Whenever I used to think of yogurt as a kid, I usually thought of those Activia commercials with Jamie Lee Curtis eating it and talking about being regular. Teenagers really don’t care about and especially don’t want to discuss their regularity, so the only yogurt I consumed in my young life was frozen yogurt. I didn’t even know that there was something called Greek yogurt until a few years ago when it became one of the health food staples that everyone wanted to eat.

I avoided yogurt for years because of my sensitivity to dairy products, trying soy and almond alternatives with little success and was convinced that my body hated all yogurt. Finally, I decided to try plain Greek yogurt with fruit mixed in, and my world changed. I still have to be careful how much I eat, but this low-sugar, high protein alternative filled me up without giving me a stomach ache and now I eat it every day for my afternoon snack.

8. Veggie noodles

I will freely admit that veggie noodles will never replace pasta. And my child self would be appalled by the idea of replacing spaghetti noodles, which are totally fun to eat because you can pretend you are a baby bird eating worms, with a squash or even something as fun to say as zoodles. I was adept as a kid at finding the bits of veggies my parents snuck into meatloaf so I would not have been on board with eating it in noodle form.

But now and then, my adult self gets a craving for pasta, but I don’t want to eat all my calories in linguine so I substitute some lentil pasta or use my spiralizer to turn nearly any veggie into some sort of noodlesque form. It quells the pasta monster in my heart, and I don’t get that food coma feeling that happens when I eat too many carbohydrates in one sitting.

Is there some foods you eat as an adult that you never touched as a child? Is there anything you think that I should try?

Love,

Sarah

Memories of My Grandma

It’s been 2 years since I lost my Grandma White, to the awfulness that is dementia and Parkinson’s disease. It was hard watching her go through that, but when I close my eyes, the years roll back and I’m suddenly a carefree kid again. I’m sitting on one of the two chairs Grandma had at the counter. Em and I were playing Crazy Eights or Go Fish with some poker cards while my grandma bustled around the kitchen, fixing us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread. I was more of a Sunbeam white bread girl at the time, but my grandma had mostly healthy food on hand, strange things like whole grain wheat bread, salt-free potato chips, and sugar-free candy. However, there were almost always cookies in the cookie jar and vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and we’d usually ask for those within fifteen minutes of visiting. My mom would chide, but my grandma still plopped two heaping helpings of delicious ice cream that my sister and I would devour before heading out to the closed-in porch while our parents and grandparents talked. One of us would pedal as fast as we could on Grandma’s stationary bike, propelling the fan that served as the front wheel as fast as we could while the other one sat and let the warm air blow through her hair. Or we’d jump on the elliptical and swing back and forth, doing “tricks” and giggling before sneaking back inside for another cookie.

She was always there, on Christmas morning watching us open presents or supporting us at every event from piano recitals to plays. She always sent a card or bought a t-shirt for us from their travels.

My Mom-Mom Hall died when I was 6 so I only have the faintest memories of her, so when I think of a grandmother, I think of my Grandma White, with her bright red hair and her beautiful smile. I think of how she never had to say much, but we always knew she’d move mountains for us if we asked. My heart hurts even now, missing those times and wishing I hadn’t taken them for granted.

Love,

Sarah

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This was for Finish the Sentence Friday – writing a five-minute stream-of-consciousness with the prompt “Grandparents.”

Finish the Sentence Friday is a link-up where writers and bloggers come together to share their themselves with a particular prompt (different formats each week of the month). If you’d like to participate, join our Facebook group.

Romance in Root Beer Form

You know how people talk about how they know someone is THE ONE – your soulmate, your other half, your life partner, your bae or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days. They say something like,

“Our eyes met, and it was love at first sight.”

“I saw him at this party, and I heard him laugh and I knew we’d be together someday.”

“She rescued a turtle from the side of the road, and I knew I had to marry her.”

Ryan and I are a little different when it comes to all that. We knew each other for several years as just friends before we ever started dating. In fact, the last semester before we started dating, I was giving him dating advice for several months before he broke up with his now ex-girlfriend. I guess my first sign that maybe we’d end up together someday was this weird sense of relief and happiness when he told me they were no longer together. I couldn’t make sense of it; Ryan was my friend and nearly ten years older than me. I remember brushing off those confusing feelings as a small crush that I needed to let go of. After all, I was graduating from college soon and we’d drift apart and simply reminisce on Facebook of the fun and weird times we had together in Mr. Komis’ class. I was more like his little sister than a possible love interest right? 

Then, I remember seeing him again at the beginning of my first year of graduate school. He hadn’t started classes yet, so he was sporting a very handsome beard (Maranatha didn’t allow students to have beards) and I remember thinking that I needed to make sure that this friendship didn’t die. What can I say? I find bearded men attractive. 😉 

But I think the closest I came to an “aha” moment when I knew that Ryan Balding and I would have a future together happened pretty early on in our relationship. Ryan was a regular visitor to my office in the Bible Department, raiding the candy jar we had as part of his excuse to see and talk to me before we were dating. One day, he was visiting and was talking to my boss/his advisor, Mr. Trainer, as they were both seeking the ever-elusive, fun-size chocolate bars Michelle would keep in there. But, of course, the majority of pieces that were in there at the moment were butterscotch candies, which Mr. Trainer told us all he absolutely hated. Ryan said nothing and filed this knowledge away for later. On another visit, Ryan stopped by to give me half of the cheese he had purchased on our second date, a scrumptious 6 year cheddar that we both had been enraptured by because we were made for each other. Michelle and Christine thought that this was adorable, and I was smitten of course. However, Mr. Trainer joked with Ryan that if he was going to bring food to the office, he needed to bring enough for everyone. We all laughed, but a plan was hatching in Ryan’s head.

“Sarah, look what I found out at the store!” Ryan texted me before class one morning and sent me a picture of his discovery of butterscotch root beer.

“Oh, gross!” I shot back at him.

“I should buy some for Mr. Trainer, shouldn’t I? He’d LOVE that,” Ryan responded mischievously.

“LOL! Oh, I’d love to see the look on his face when he got that!” I chuckled at my desk as I responded, but I put my phone away to focus on the teacher who was getting ready to start our first period Revelation class, and I didn’t think anything of our conversation until I went into work that afternoon and was greeted by two grinning co-workers and a very stern-looking boss.

“Look what your boyfriend brought in to share with the entire department,” Mr. Trainer said, plopping my bottle of Dang! That’s Good Butterscotch Root Beer on my desk. I couldn’t keep a straight face.

“I can’t believe he did that!” I immediately burst out laughing, imagining the look on Mr. Trainer’s, Christina, and Michelle’s faces when he presented them with butterscotch root beers.

Mr. Trainer had ceased his attempts to pretend to be angry with me, his lips curling up in a tiny smile as he continued trying to be stern with me. He tried to lecture me further about the evils of butterscotch and that I needed to give that boyfriend of mine a good talking-to about bringing in something so vile and with a “curse word” on the side to boot. But, all I could think about was that this was completely weird and yet brilliantly hilarious, and I could definitely see myself being with him in the long run because I’d never be bored.

And while it’s been over 7 and half years since this little prank, I can definitely say that life with my husband is always weird and never dull. He continues to make me laugh every single day, and I know that he’ll be my best friend forever and my partner for life.

And you know what? We still have my bottle of butterscotch root beer at my parent’s house sitting in the fridge. Because that drink is nasty, y’all. 

Love,

Sarah