You should already know this…

Dear Random-Father-Grocery-Shopping-At-Safeway-Tonight,

Please do not encourage your daughter to wash her hands off using the mister that’s spraying directly over the broccoli I’m planning on getting. Just because it’s water, doesn’t mean it’s meant for washing hands.

As for the rest of you…please tell me this was an isolated incident. My faith  in mankind is having serious issues in the area of public hygiene right now, and I need some assurance that I’m not the only one that thinks its gross to wash your hands off and shake them dry using the mister that turns on in the produce area.

It’s a cruel, dark world when I begin to question ever eating a sample again.

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Supreme or Pepperoni?

“But I thought you liked all the sausage and peppers and stuff?”

My dad shrugged nonchalantly as I scrutinized his face in search of some hidden clue that would tell me which piece of pizza he really wanted. ]

It was such a simple gesture, but I remember so clearly the way it impacted my hope to one day be as good a parent as he was. I was out running errands with my dad one weekend when I was in highschool, and we’d swung by Costco for lunch where he grabbed a piece of supreme and a piece of pepperoni pizza. I think he thought I would prefer the pepperoni,  but as soon as we were out to the car he asked me to pick which one I wanted, and I picked the supreme, but only after I was sure he actually prefered the pepperoni.

It wasn’t until the pizza was all eaten and we were almost home that it occurred to me that my dad had pulled a fast one on me. Of course he preferred supreme to pepperoni. Besides the obvious fact that the pepperoni used on pizzas may or may not actually be a meat product, no self-respecting Borthwick is going to take a pizza with thin rounds of meat for topping when you can choose from one that has thin rounds of meat, plus peppers, sausage, olives, and onions, etc.

I remember thinking to myself that someday I wanted to be just like that. It definately takes help from the Man upstairs to perfect the art of selflessness.

I didn’t really have anything else meaning full to say. I was sitting at a stoplight this afternoon when I remembered that story and the way I felt the day my father beat me at my own selfless game.

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birth day

Violet was born with her eyes open.

“Okay, this is it, no more waiting!

My breath was coming in ragged gasps now that the oxygen mask had fallen off. The room was suddenly full of people waiting and watching.

The cord must be getting mashed; the baby’s heart rate keeps dropping.”

“Are you ready to move to the ICU as soon as it’s born?

“Get that oxygen over here, now!”

The dull buzz of conversation was secondary to the hammering of my heartbeat as I fought to control the waves of pain, fear, and fear of pain. Only moments ago, there had just been the three of us in this room, but now that my baby’s heart rate was fluttering erratically, the nurse had hit the alarm button and every specialist on staff had raced to our room.

Listen to me now, you can’t push just with the contractions any longer–don’t stop pushing.”

The urgency in my nurse’s voice fueled my determination as I willed my body to do everything necessary to keep my baby safe. Never mind that I had just re-realized that what goes up must come down, or in this case–what grows to be 6 pounds, 6 ounces, must now physically traumatize my body.

I had always wanted to be a mother, growing up with seven younger siblings. Not that I always liked my siblings, but I just figured that it’d definitely be something I’d like to do someday. That someday became a someday soon after AJ and I had been married for a couple of years, and realized that we wanted to look into the eyes of someone that was a perfect mix of the two of us. There’s probably an instance in every new parents’ life where they look at their baby and then each other, and exclaim, “Look what we made!”

I could feel the blood vessels in my eyes straining with my efforts. I knew my face must have been completely purple because they told me to hold my breath when I was pushing, in order to make it more effective.

“Push harder!”

I turned my head to look at the male pediatrician who was waiting in case there was a problem as he spoke. Oh really? you wanna come over here and show me how it’s done? I thought to myself as I glared back at him. It’s funny to me (now) that I could have actually been mad at that moment, because every cell of my body was convinced that this was the moment of my death, and (newsflash!) death hurts–real bad.

In the next second, I realized three things. One, the worst was over and I was not dead. Two, everyone was silent. And three, Violet’s eyes were open and looking around in curiosity. I gave a final heave of effort, and was greeted with a flurry of activity as Violet started crying and the pediatrician and other NNICU specialists hurried to make sure all her vital signs were present and accounted for.

5:47 pm

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mental pictures

Here’s a couple snapshots into my day.

5:06 pm: setting Violet down on the floor with an entire muffin to devour just to distract her long enough to make potato salad. Turns out, I can’t make salad in 2 minutes.

5:09 pm: chopping celery for potato salad while Violet fully crawls into the back of the tupperware cupboard. This is only made possible by first throwing tupperware and dishtowels all over the kitchen.

5:12 pm: Singing made-up songs to Violet about what a nice, patient baby she is. Someday my propaganda will pay off.

5:17 pm: mixing the sour cream and mayo into my potato salad while holding Violet in the other hand.

5:18 pm: saying “No! No! No!” and blowing in Violet’s face to stop her from fully digging her hand into the jar of mayo as I attempt to spoon some onto the salad. All I want for Christmas is another arm.

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Baby’s First Roly-Poly

or rolli-polli, or rolie-polie, or…whatever. I figure its a pretty non-technical name, so you don’t have to worry about getting it exact. It’s part of the fun of the english language really.

We were playing in the grass when I found one and then I held it for her and let it crawl up her arm. All she wanted to do was pinch it in her two fat little fingers, so finally we threw it across the yard.

Fun Fact: Violet has figured out how to open and close the CD drive on our desktop. Not cool. Initially she played with it because of the little green light, but now she knows that if she hits that button the tray opens. How very exciting. Also, sometimes I’ll be in the middle of something on my computer and she’ll turn off the power by hitting the power button one too many times.

Anyway, she’s upstairs sleeping right now..which is my cue to follow suit.

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random

Violet has a booster seat/highchair now, so she sits at the table with us during dinner. I made her some spinach/banana/rice cereal stuff.  Tonight we all held hands and prayed before the meal; AJ’s big hands, Violet’s tiny chubby hands, and my medium-sized hands. The first of many.

I bought paint today. So excited. The guest bathroom is going to be blueishy, Violets room is going to be winnie-the-poo-y, the hallways are going to be creamy goldish, and the master bath is going to be a lighter green version of our bedroom walls. Now I am looking for some glass tile pieces to glue to the mirrors for a faux frame.

Violet stayed in the nursery the whole time we were at MOPS today (Yay). Thats because I told them not to try changing her diaper and also there were new toys. When I came to get her, several of the babies were crying but she was just sitting there…playing with her new toy and watching them.

side note: is it wrong that it totally makes my day to see people I know driving crappy cars too?

FYI: be on the lookout–we are trying to think up an outrageous story to email Dave Ramsey so he’ll read it on the air. any ideas? (am 630, 4-7pm)

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this reminds me…

my bedroom is a mess. M-E-S-S. This reminds me of a goat named Pammy.

Goats are smart…forget dolphins or monkeys, goats are the possibly the smartest creatures in the animal kingdom.  When I was little, we lived on an old farm, with an older house. Everything about that house was like a mini-time capsule to the days when my great-grandfather was a farmer.  The walls were insulated with sheep’s wool, the floors were made of brick, and the only doors with wobbly knobs were outside doors.  Having goats, this meant that anything inside the house was not only a huge source of curiosity, but also available to any goat with enough determination and concentration. Usually, they would work on the door knob till it wobbled open and then it was a mad dash to the open bag of dog food inside the door till they were caught. Of course, if the door was open, the whole house was declared “open season” by all other nearby animals…and chickens.

The worst attack ever occured on a Sunday. We were gone to church all morning and afternoon, which meant there had been plenty of time for a determined, concentrated goat. As we pulled up the hill and the house came into view, we knew immediately something was up when the front door was open and a chicken was standing in the open loft window. Running into the house, we found 5 or 6 goats and a dozen or so chickens running out the other door and leaving a ransacked house in their wake. There were still a few chickens we caught in the kitchen, a goat that had wandered up to the loft and was taste-testing a pillow, but at the end of the house we found the instigator…the oldest…the smartest; Pammy. She looked up at us, placidly chewing her cud as if to say, “It’s Sunday! Why else would I be lying stretched out on the biggest bed in the house with an open bible in front of me?”

Pammy was a milk goat, so we didn’t eat her.

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