Kitten Bouquet for the Littlest Bee!

Also? Today I'm over at The Lil Bee wishing her and the newest bundle the randomest of congratulations. Stop by and give her a Happy New Mama Smooch--her newest Blake is freaking adorable.

xo,

S

Technicolor Sunrise on Saturday Morning

Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailor's take warning.Must have been a low pressure system this weekend because Bryan went sailing all day, came home, said he would play with Zoey to give me a break and then fell fast asleep on the living room floor.

This is what happens when you fall fast asleep on the floor after promising your wife (who just so happens to work at a cosmetics company) some time to herself.

Foxy tummy, if a little hirsute.

Happy Monday.

xo,

S

(dolorem = pain, grief, misery, suffering; ipsum = itself)

Sometimes I imagine you sitting at your computer there, right leg crossed over your left like mine. Hi. How are you doing? Fine, you say, okay, good, because you’re polite like that, and then you ask me back and I tell you that lately? (Because I am not polite like that.) Lately? I’ve had the pain of a dull knife inserted under my ribs on the right side, and you crinkle your eyes in concern. Oh no, I say too fast, don’t worry. Apparently it’s just my muscle separating from my rib to make room for my shifting organs because of Lorem Ipsum, which is what I call the baby even though I think we have a name. Maybe you shift in your chair not knowing quite what to say. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. I let the sentence sit there as a placeholder for something that has not yet happened, and you smile, I smile, and we watch this video because it’s Friday.

Hearts and Kittens! XOXO

Honestly what I like most about Valentine's Day is that it marks the official start of Cadbury Cream Egg season. Although watching Zoey sign 32 class Valentine's cards with a backwards Z is kinda' rad, too.

Kittens and Hearts on a Monday, no less.
Love,
S

To Spite My Face

Nose watch 2011 has begun. That is: I’m sick. And last time I was sick and pregnant my nose never quite unstuffed; I became addicted to Afrin,* snorting it covertly in bathrooms both public and private, watching as my nose grew red with spider veins and spread slowly across my face. So last night I did what any self-respecting and highly hormonal woman would do and fashioned MacGyver style nose calipers out of a rusty wrench and a ruler to measure the width of my nose: 3.4cm. I made Bryan take a photo of me doing this but later realized that it’s honest enough I’m telling you of such a thing and really, I don’t need to lose all sense of privacy or pride. Which is also why I’m not going to tell you what is happening to my nether-region, i.e. that it’s made up of the same type of tissue as the nasal passage.

Yeah.

Instead! Let’s look at pictures of models falling. Because I think I’m getting a varicose vein in my right calf and the straps on my bra are now thicker than, well—my nose. So let’s look at pictures of models falling because I said so.

*Yes, I now know not to use Afrin while pregnant. Or ever, really. That stuff is nose crack for anybody whose heart races with the gripping claustrophobia of a stuffed up nose, i.e. me.

**I wish I had taken a base measurement when I first found out I was pg, but will have to make do with this one at 23 weeks. 3.4cm. I swear I can feel it growing.

Candy & Iron

Six years ago today was also super sunny, the air thin, the first cherry blossoms on branches. We took a cab down to city hall where beneath the 5^th largest Beaux-Arts dome in the world a judge told us that nothing he said would marry us, that it was what we said to each other that truly sealed the deal.

Then there was the other night as I leaned forward to eat my dinner you reached your hand out to talk to the baby and there was an awkward moment, wasn’t there? As you rubbed my ginormous boob thinking it was my tummy. Six years later and I want to keep on talking to you, laughing with you, saying the right things and doing the wrong things, the other way around and then some until the day you rub my breast thinking that you are patting me on the knee.

Happy anniversary love.

February 1

I have this memory of February. I am 12 and at a friend’s house. She has a pool and we are in one-piece bathing suits standing with our toes over the edge of the deep end. Remember this, I told myself, remember this forever because this is when Spring starts, and we laughed, screamed, jumped in.

I thought of that this morning on the bus to work and I wanted to hug my 12 year old self, I love her so. (12 and long straight up and down, my body growing into a vertical axis these days.) It was foggy this morning, and on the bridge you could barely make out the blinking yellow lights of a bridge patrol car stopped mid-span. As the bus drove slowly past it I noticed that all of our heads turned heavy and knew that we were all thinking the same thing though no one said a word simply because the morning bus is supposed to be silent. And then the heads turned back to their laps and their phones, necks wrapped in wool, the market watch section of the paper lengthwise in the proper commuter fold.

I love February, I tell people, because February is when Spring starts, and people laugh at me. Are you kidding? They say, but I’m not and I know. I wanted to tell those people on the bus this morning that it’s true, it’s possible—sometimes you can jump into a pool in February. I remember. Do you?
Apropos of not much but a 7th grade memory of those impossibly scratchy Mexican hoodies that I loved so much back then, I want this ridiculously overpriced Tory Burch hoodie to wear with cutoffs and flip flops. This is when it starts.

Happy Spring,
S