March 28, 2012

Our Precious Little You

I remember July 29, 2009 as if it were yesterday. 

After four months of marriage I had a feeling

I didn't even tell your daddy that I bought the test. I waited until he was in the shower to take it. I remember waiting those three very long minutes, and in that time I got down on my knees right there on the kitchen floor and I prayed. I've never told anyone that before.

I asked God for a baby - for you. In that moment, with a racing heart, I begged him to bless us with the missing piece. You.

And three minutes later... it was positive.

The moment I found I was going to be a mother - your mother - was one of the happiest moments of my life. I always knew I wanted children - wanted you - and there I stood at 23 years old, newly married, and all my dreams were coming true.

To say your daddy was surprised is an understatement. I bombarded him a few minutes later and screamed, "I'm pregnant!" In that very moment our "two year plan" flew right out the window, and we haven't look back since.

I will never forget that day. We sat in the empty living room waiting for our new furniture to arrive. We bought new furniture to fill up our new house, and coincidentally it was scheduled for delivery the same day I found out about you. Honestly, I panicked. I thought, "We can't afford new furniture! We're having a baby! Do you think they will take it back?!"

Your daddy promised me we could afford the furniture and you.

This is how we broke the news...

You see, my sweet boy, you were loved by so many people before they even met you.

Do you want to know a secret? I thought you were a girl. I kept having dreams about a baby girl, and when the sonogram technician said, "It's a boy!" my response was, "Wait. What? I think you should check again." I'm glad I was wrong. It gave me you.

(As it turns out, my pregnancy dreams were not to be trusted. A few weeks before you were born I dreamed that you popped out of my belly with a mouth full of teeth and a giant afro. You looked right at me and said, "Hi, Mommy!" Yes, you were black. Yes, that was an actual dream.)

We spent nine months waiting for you. I felt you kick for the first time on Halloween. I loved feeling you kick inside my tummy. Anytime you would start kicking I would grab daddy's hand so he could feel, but you stopped kicking every time! It wasn't until you had the hiccups that he felt you move, too. And for awhile it was all hiccups and cramped ribs and heartburn... but none of that compared to the anticipation of meeting our precious little you.

Did you know you were born on your due date? March 29, 2010 was a Monday. After 40 long weeks it was time for us to meet you.

When you were in my tummy you had extra fluid in your kidneys. The doctor wanted to make sure everything was okay, so he decided to induce me early that Monday morning. Daddy and I checked into the hospital the night before, and I remember thinking that it was the last night we would ever spend without you.

Your entrance into this world was different than what I expected. Once labor started things happened so fast... so fast that some of the details are still a blur to me. I remember the doctor saying you were in distress and we couldn't wait. You needed to come out immediately. 

At 10:19 am, you were born.

I remember lying on the operating table during the cesarean section and I found myself praying to God again. I prayed for your health, for a safe delivery, for you.

I will never forget the first time I heard you cry. It was the sweetest sound I ever heard. You were perfect. All 7 pounds, 6 ounces of you. All 19 and a half inches of you. Our precious little you.

Was that really two years ago? Are you really going to be two years old tomorrow? I don't know where the time went.

Let me tell you what I do know. The last two years have been full of love. Everyday I look at you and I think that I must have done something right in my life to deserve you as my child.

At two years old you already have such a big personality! You are incredibly funny and you love to make people laugh. And you're so smart! You know your letters and your colors and you count to 13. You are so curious and you love to learn new things. 

You love all things Toy Story, especially Buzz Lightyear. You love to read books and color and play outside. Most of all, you want to be just like your daddy. 

You love to chase the dogs around the house and making your baby sister smile. You love Elmo and goldfish and snuggling with mommy.

You have your daddy's bright blue eyes and your mommy's temper.

I could write about you all day and all night and still not scratch the surface of how much I love you. You are more than I ever could have hoped for, and I feel incredibly blessed to watch you learn and grow every day. You are my heart.

All I want in life is for you to be happy. Whatever that means, whatever you do, be happy. And as you grow, don't ever forget that your daddy and I will always be here when you need us. Always.

Happy 2nd birthday, my precious little you. 


March 26, 2012


It has taken me 3 days to recover from what I consider to be the worst tantrum Little Ricky has thrown to date. I'm talking Linda-Blair-as-Reagan-in-The-Exorcist tantrum. When I think about it, I literally cringe.

Let's back up.

I woke up early Friday morning with a text from Fred-in-law... It's GO TIME!! Sister Ethel - remember, she's the cutest pregnant woman in the history of mankind - was in labor! I spent the next 10 minutes jumping on the bed yelling, "IT'S BABY DAY!!" Ricky did not appreciate my enthusiasm; he was still asleep.

Now Sister Ethel has been there for the birth of both of my children, so obviously I had to be there for her. The thought briefly crossed my mind that taking two small children to wait at the hospital might be a challenge, but that's what grandparents are for, right? To entertain my children! Thank you for your help, Father Fred, Mother Ethel, and Step Fred. Couldn't have done it without you.

All in all, we were at the hospital for about nine hours and Little Ricky was perfect. PERFECT! I could not have asked for a better-behaved, sweeter child. And that, my friends, is when I made my first mistake (okay, second mistake... letting him skip his nap may have been the first). My mistake was to loudly declare for all to hear how great Little Ricky was all day long! When Ricky joined us at the hospital I gushed (gushed!) about how funny and charming and entertaining and yes, even well-mannered, our firstborn child was all day long!

As I basked in the glow of the the birth of the newest Ethel (and let me just say, she is precious) and the great day we had, Ricky and I decided to have a celebratory dinner. I ignored the fact that it was already past Little Ricky's bedtime (my third mistake) and we took the kidlets to Chick-Fil-A. I know... we fancy.

So there we went on our merry way, with a napless Little Ricky who was awake on borrowed time alone. He even managed to fall asleep on the short ride from the hospital to Chick-Fil-A, which as any parent knows is a dead giveaway that it's probably time for bed. I ignored this sign. Fourth mistake.

As we walked into the restaurant (is Chick-Fila-A a restaurant? Oh, we so fancy) Little Ricky's eyes grew wide. There it was in all of it's glory... the indoor playground. And I thought, what's the harm in a few minutes of playtime while Ricky orders our dinner? Fifth mistake.

In hindsight, at least I can say that Little Ricky had fun playing for a few minutes before the tantrum ensued. He was fearless. Climbing, running, sliding... all with a big smile on his cherubic little face. Another parent even mentioned how adventurous my little guy is! Oh, I was proud. A little too proud, and a little too soon.

You see, the problem with all day long great behavior in an almost-two-year-old is eventually the other shoe will drop. The shit will hit the fan. And it did... shoes and shit and all.

Because then it was time to eat. Play was finished. That's right. Finished.

Guess what word Little Ricky did not want to hear at that moment? Finished.

All of the chicken nuggets and waffle fries in the entire world would not have convinced him that eating his dinner was more important than crawling through the giant plastic tubes (clean ones, too, I'm sure) of the playground.

And I found myself in the ultimate mama dilemma... let him cry or let him play? I'm a glutton for punishment, so I chose to let him cry. My inner school teacher reminded me that once I make a decision, I need to stick to it. Don't forget who the adult is, here! He's only (almost) two years old and what mom says goes. And God forbid that other parents in the restaurant think that I am a terrible mother for giving in and letting him play to stop the crying! So I chose to let them think how terrible of a mother I actually was by forcing my child to stop playing and eat his dinner. See how that works? You can't win.

Honestly, tantrums do not bother me. I can ignore screaming, crying, and flopping on the floor for an indefinite amount of time. My years of teaching special education and very young children has taught me to ignore bad behavior (or sad choices; thank you Love & Logic) and praise the positive behavior. Unfortunately, the practice of ignoring tantruming behavior is infinitely more difficult in public.

So there I sat, holding a writhing Little Ricky in my lap. He's wasn't just crying or screaming. He was cry-screaming. You know what I'm talking about. Cry-screaming is when a child gets so distraught that the crying and screaming turns into warbled noises that sound like a tortured, dying cat. A very loud dying cat.

And in the already limited vocabulary of your typical (almost) two-year-old, there is only one word Little Ricky can find amidst his pain and suffering:


It took all of my strength to keep him in my lap without looking like I was using all of my strength to keep him in my lap. I tried to stay calm and ignore the behavior. Ricky looked on in horror at our own mini Linda Blair. Throughout the entire episode he said only three words: "I. Am. Mortified."

I naively thought that after a few minutes the cry-screaming would die down. Sixth mistake.

At this point, Little Ricky turns tomato red, crocodile tears are streaming down his not-so-cherubic cheeks, he is sweating profusely, and to top it all off he's barefoot. Does he care that the entire restaurant is starting at us? Of course not. He just keeps cry-screaming the dreaded four letter word. PLAAAAYYY!!!

And the people just kept staring. And judging. Oh, how they judged.

In my attempt to try and ignore the behavior (right) and simultaneously find the humor in the situation, I sat there in the booth with a goofy grin on my face and absolutely no idea what to do next. Thank God for Ricky. By this point, he had had enough.

Ricky grabbed Linda Blair and threw him over his shoulder. Seconds later, out the door they went. I decided to stay and enjoy the rest of my dinner.

And two bites later, the Bulldog started to cry. Okay, I'm done.

Hastily I grabbed our food, retrieved Linda B's shoes, and the Bulldog and I hightailed it out of there without so much as a backwards glance. Lucy, OUT.

Both Little Ricky and the Bulldog fell asleep in the car on the way home. The silence was glorious.

Please, parents, learn from my mistake(s). And when it does happen to you - and I promise it will - know that you are not alone. And as my sweet Aunt Ethel pointed out to me... any parent who says it has never happened to them is a LIAR.

March 18, 2012

Everyday I'm Shufflin'

Disregard any previous posts about how hilarious foot surgery is. 2 days later? Not so hilarious.

When I woke up Friday morning I was actually excited it was surgery day! I have been waiting what seems like forever to have this surgery, and I dreamed about hopping off the operating table and running barefoot through the forest. Or something like that.

Since I wasn't able to drive myself, Mother Ethel kindly agreed to chauffer me to and from surgery while Ricky stayed home with the kidlets. About 20 minutes after we left the house, Ricky texted me to let me know that The Bulldog wouldn't drink her  morning bottle. Now, I've heard of babies going on strike before, but I couldn't believe my little chunker was refusing to eat! That never happens. I was a little nervous considering that I can't nurse her while taking prescription pain medication, but eventually she got hungry enough and give in to the bottle. Let's just hope she goes back to nursing without any problems when the time comes!

My surgery was scheduled first thing in the morning which worked out well because I didn't have to wait too long once we got there. It was at an outpatient surgery center, as opposed to a hospital, and there was only one other patient there when we arrived. After changing into the gown and getting my IV going, Mother Ethel joined me in my "room" (it was a sliding curtain) to wait with me. She took this picture of me while we waited...

I was told not to wear any make up or jewelry, so this is me
au naturale.

And yes, I know I look really pretty. You don't have to tell me.

I think it took me getting to this point to realize that I was actually having a real surgery. I have been joking about it for a few weeks, but the hospital gown, cap, and IV kind of put things into perspective. I did find it amusing however when the nurse asked me to initial the surgery site. Huh? I asked for clarification, and she literally wanted me to initial each of my toes being operated on to make sure the doctor operated on the right body part. I can only imagine what kind of lawsuit went down that made initialing the surgery site a mandatory part of surgery. Yikes.

Once Medallion arrived he also initialed each toe. Glad we were in agreement. I guess you can't be too careful.

After all of the preparations were made, the anesthesiologist came to give me the IV sedation. He assured me it would only take a few seconds for the drug to kick in. Here is what I remember of the conversation we had during those few seconds:

Anesthesiologist: "So you went to TCU? I saw the big scandal in the news recently."
Me: "Yep. I was one of the drug dealers. Police didn't catch me, though."

And then I was out.

Why did I say that?! 

A simple yes would have sufficed. The sad part is I am almost positive I would have made that very same comment even if I wasn't on my way to la la land.

Coming out of surgery I felt two things - woozy and numb. When Medallion came to check on me he said that my bone spurs turned out to be the worst case he has seen in 12 years of practicing podiatry. In a strange way this made me proud. Not only did it give me validation that yes, I did need to have the surgery, but if there had been a bone spur competition I would have won! Winning.

Mother Ethel drove me home and thus, the recovery began.

The best part of Friday was definitely lunch. We went to III Forks on Thursday night for our anniversary dinner, so I had leftover filet mignon, leftover chocolate cake, strawberries, pretzels, and a Diet Coke. This may have been the most delicious lunch I have ever eaten. Don't think I didn't eat every bite.

Late Friday afternoon the pain started to kick in. I started feeling a deep, throbbing pain in my right toe only. After convincing myself something was seriously wrong - I had taken the maximum pain killers allowed and still had intense pain but only in one foot - I called Medallion. He reassured me that the nerve block given during surgery can wear off at different times in each foot and it was just a matter of time before my left toe began to throb deeply as well. Perfect.

When I said, "But I took the pain killers and it still hurts so bad!" he asked me to imagine what it would be like without any pain killers at all. Apparently pain killers can't always block all of the pain depending how intense the pain really is. All I could think was how that would have been good to know yesterday!

It was around this time that I seriously started doubting my decision to have the surgery. Yes, it was considered medically necessary, but bone spurs aren't exactly life threatening so maybe I should've waited because this hurts.

I make these look good.

So now I will paint a picture of what things have been like since I got home. Basically, I have spent the last two-and-a-half days camped out in our bedroom with my feet propped up in the air. I ice my toes intermittently, and I only get out of bed if absolutely necessary. Little Ricky likes when I shuffle around the house. He thinks it's funny that I hobble so slowly, and he walks directly behind me while we have our own little parade.

On Saturday Ricky headed out to the St. Patrick's Day parade, so I was on my own with the littles. Even though I was in some pain, we actually had a really fun day playing and watching movies in bed all day! I think we watched Toy Story 4 times. Seriously. Every couple hours I would load up a cookie sheet with necessary supplies...

Only the essentials: Gatorade, peanut butter, a bottle for the Bulldog, a banana, not one but two Buzz Lightyear action figures, etc.

We also ate our meals in bed so I could keep my feet up.

Little Ricky's breakfast picnic

Little Ricky's lunch picnic

The Bulldog did this almost the entire day.
She loves sleep just like her mama!

Ricky picked up dinner for us and guess where we ate? Yep. In the bed. Unfortunately, I forgot to take pictures of the biggest, best picnic of the day. Booooo.

All in all, Saturday wasn't too bad. Yes there was pain, but I was relieved that it was less pain than Friday.

And then I woke up today.

Oh. Dear. Lord. The pain was 10 times worse. WHY did my toes hurt so badly?! I thought the pain would only get better as time went on but I was obviously wrong. So I did what I always do when I need legit medical advice... I hit up Google. Bad idea.

After thoroughly freaking myself out about all of the possible things that could be wrong, I decided to pop a few pain killers, suck it up, and deal with it. Luckily the pain subsided as the day went on, and I even felt up to taking a shower. Here was my solution for keeping my feet dry...

Masking tape and trash bags. I'm cool.

So here I sit... in bed... feet propped up...

And hopefully tomorrow I will be able to move around a little more. More importantly, I am ready to switch from the prescription pain medication to Tylenol so I can get back to nursing. I am having to pump 5 times a day to maintain my milk supply for the Bulldog, and sadly I have to dump it all out because of the pain meds. 

So am I glad I had the surgery done? I think so. Do I want to do it again? Hell to the no.

On a side note, I was really looking forward to our anniversary this year because it was the first anniversary we've had that I wasn't pregnant! I think that's funny considering we said we didn't want kids right away. HA! So anyway, I was looking forward to having an adult beverage with dinner to celebrate... and then I remembered I wasn't supposed to drink any alcohol for 24 hours prior to surgery. That's right, folks. Three anniversaries later and I still haven't had a real drink to celebrate. Go figure.

Dinner at III Forks

So with a non-alcoholic drink in hand, I say cheers to a speedy recovery!

March 12, 2012

Who Will Ben Choose? LIVE!

NOOOOOOOO!!!!! I deleted the whole post!!! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?! Two hours wasted. And he picked Courtney?! LAME.

To anyone who was with me live, I hope you enjoyed my one and only attempt at live blogging.

Peace out, Grobes!

Tuesday, 3/13 - 7:45 pm

So it turns out live blogging was a terrible idea. I spent two hours typing furiously and somehow, some way I deleted the ENTIRE post. Really? Ugh. It has taken me almost 24 hours to get over it, but I am now ready to address my feelings about what I believe was the worst finale in Bachelor history.

You know how they say hindsight is 20/20? Well, in hindsight I believe I wasted 3 hours of my life. Now, usually I am psyched during the entire finale and especially during After The Final Rose, but for some reason last night seemed so boring. That may or may not have to do with the fact that Ben (Josh Groban) is quite possibly the most mediocre bachelor ever chosen for this show. The two adjectives that come to my mind first when I think of the Grobes? Vanilla and Magoo. 'Nuff said.

I promise after this post I will return to my normal blogging topics from this point forward. I have no doubt you all would probably rather read about anything else other than dumbface Magoo. With that being said, here are my observations and conclusions from last night's show.

1. Switzerland is beautiful. So is the Matterhorn. What about the Matterhorn? I saw the Matterhorn. We're flying over the Matterhorn! Why did Groban mention the stupid mountain 651 times?! Ricky suggested a drinking game - take a shot every time they say Matterhorn.

2. I wish I had been drinking during the show. Heavily. We should have actually played Matterhorn. There's that hindsight again.

4. I felt a strong urge to chant, "We want Kacie B! We want Nicki!" the entire 3 hours.

5. The overnight dates were completely lacking in skankiness. This was the girls' final chance to woo Groban, if you know what I mean. (Wink!) Where was skinny dippin' Courtney when we needed her?! All they did was talk about feelings which was excruciating to listen to since the Grobes has terrible conversational skills. What I really needed was for someone to get naked and make poor decisions so I could do what I do best while watching the show... judge! Ugh.

6. How many helicopter rides can we squeeze into one season? I get that they were in Switzerland but enough is enough!

7. Little Red Riding Hood called. I think she wants her cape back.

8. Cruella De'Ville also called. Yep. It was about the gloves.

9. Neil Lane can throw down $50,000 for a FREE engagement ring, but ABC couldn't get a hair styling handout from Pantene to tame Groban's hair? Help a brotha out and get that man some pomade!

10. After The Final Rose was just awkward. It's not even worth talking about. Except maybe Chris Harrison. He's so wise.

11. We already knew the Grobes was an ugly kisser. Turns out he's an even uglier crier.

 But maybe not as ugly as Courtney's BFF.

12. So Groban really picked Courtney? Really? Way to go, Grobes. Way. To. Go.

13. There has without a doubt been a large number of ass hats on the Bachelor over the years, however I have decided that Groban is by far the ass hattiest of them all. No contest.

Thank God this season is over.

Now there's just one more question...

What has two thumbs and can't wait for Bachelor Pad 3? This girl!

I Got The Rooooose...

Tonight! Tonight! Tonight is the night!

The Bachelor season finale. And, more importantly, After The Final Rose.

Our Monday nights are devoted to watching Ben (or is it Josh Groban? I can't tell the difference) make poor life decisions at the emotional expense of women who are in actuality way too good looking for him. I honestly doubt any of them would date him in real life sans fantasy suite dates and trips around the world. Groban might be the most mediocre Bachelor yet; he has perfected what can only be described as dumb face.

I say "our" Monday nights because the only person who loves this train wreck more than myself is Ricky. Seriously. Believe me when I say that Bachelor Mondays are the most fun we have on a weeknight, hands down. And in honor of Spring Break, we might even open a bottle of wine while watching tonight. We're wild, I know.

In anticipation of tonight's dramatic meltdowns and Chris Harrison insights - isn't he wise? - I have decided to meld my love for The Groban with my new love of blogging. That's right, my friends. I will be blogging in real time tonight during the show. This little experiment could turn out to be my best or my worst idea yet. Either way, I hope you will join me for the tears, the censored nudity, the drunken overnight dates (ew) and what's sure to be the most dramatic proposal yet!

Will he choose Courtney or Lindzi?

Can we all agree that we love everything about Lindzi except for the ridiculous spelling of her name?

Join me at 7 pm tonight to get all of the Bachelor goodness, Lucy style. Know someone who shares my love of uncomfortable pauses and Neil Lane jewelry? Send them a link to my blog! Because let's face it - we're all in this together.

In preparation of tonight's festivities, I encourage you to take a few minutes to watch my favorite Bachelor videos of the season...

T. Pain ain't got nothin' on Courtney's flow.

Ellen. Is. Brilliant.

Seriously. Brilliant.

See you at 7!

March 9, 2012

Pumped Up Kicks

Yesterday I went to see Medallion for a pre-op appointment to discuss my upcoming foot surgery. You know how it goes... they check your bloodwork, talk about possible risks of surgery and anesthesia, and discuss what to expect during the recovery. How could such a standard appointment turn out to be both informational and amusing?

Let's start with the bloodwork. I went to a lab last week to have my blood drawn, no big deal. Although otherwise uneventful, I did manage to make an inappropriate joke about using needles to the blood technician. Note to self: jokes insinuating drug use are not well received in a bloodwork lab. (And no, I don't do drugs, nor have I ever, which is why I thought my joke might be funny. She did not laugh. Didn't even crack a smile.)

So Medallion reviewed my bloodwork results and assured me that no, I am not pregnant. Well that's reassuring! I didn't know that was part of the check, but hey, good to know. When I jokingly said (okay, not joking at all) that such news would have ruined my day, he gave me a shocked look and mentioned how magical babies are. Magical. As in unicorns... and leprechauns... and Oz? Okay, he's right, they're magical! I went on and tried to explain that since I already have two very young children a third might be a little less than magical right now... and then my words trailed off as I tried to look guilty for what he obviously took as my non-pregnancy relief.

(Little does Medallion know, it seems like all Ricky has to do is look at me and I find myself in the family way, so we best go ahead and do this surgery while I'm not preggers. Who knows when numero tres will arrive?)

The next part of my appointment was a discussion about surgery risks including, but of course not limited to (notice that loophole), pain, swelling, infection, and death. I am telling you right now that if I die because of bone spur surgery it is clearly my time to go. Honestly though, I'm not concerned about this because I already know I'm going to die in a tornado. How do I know that, you may ask? Well I think years of recurring tornado dreams speak for themselves.

Luckily, the anesthesia Medallion will be using is not general anesthesia but rather IV sedation. I really hope it's the same stuff my dentist used when he pulled my wisdom teeth. That was a blast!

Medallion went on to explain what to expect during recovery. Basically, expect pain. Duh. Unfortunately the pain killers he is prescribing are not compatible with breastfeeding, as my pediatrician says, therefore I will have to resort to the ol' pump-and-dump. Don't worry, crunchy granola mothers - I have plenty of liquid gold (yep, I said it) stored to feed the Bulldog while I kick it on pain meds for a couple days. After the pain subsides somewhat, I plan to switch to Tylenol and jump back on the breastfeeding bandwagon.

The next part of our recovery discussion brings me to the focus of the title of this post. Check out my fancy new kicks...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I will be wearing these fabulous surgical shoes for 2-3 weeks following my surgery. I stupidly assumed that I only had to wear them anytime I left the house and needed shoes. Medallion kindly explained that I will need to wear them any time I bear any weight on my feet and to only take them off at night.

Take note of the easy-to-use velcro straps and chic peep toe.

I think they are hilarious. Ricky does not think they are hilarious. He actually told me he doesn't want to be seen in public with me during my recovery. HA!

It gets better! I can't get my dressing wet until I go back for my post-op appointment, so the nurse suggested I cover my feet with trash bags in the shower. Like I said - hilarious.

When the nurse was fitting my feet for these little gems she nonchalantly said,  "Don't you just wish these came in hot pink?!"

Why yes. Yes I do. That would make them all the more bearable and stylish, I'm sure.

After I actually have the surgery I probably will not find this whole situation as humorous as I do right now, so I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

One last thing before I go. I took a picture of this piece of equipment at the podiatrist's office while I waited to see Medallion...

I have no idea what it could possibly be, and although it was slightly frightening, I think I like it.

March 8, 2012

I Shall Call Her... Mini Me.

One of the greatest parts of pregnancy for me was the anticipation of who my babies would look like. In those final weeks I would wonder what color their hair would be, whose face would they have, and would they get my squinty eyes (and subsequently spend their elementary school careers telling the camera man, "But my eyes are open!" every year on picture day).

After spending nine long months waiting for Little Ricky's arrival, the first words out of everyone's mouths were, "He is Ricky's Mini-Me!"

Wait. What?! 

I carried the child for 9 months, enduring excruciating heartburn, weight gain, and various other pregnancy maladies (okay, my pregnancy was actually pretty easy... but whatever) and he comes out looking like someone else?! Not fair.

Now two years later, I love that Little Ricky looks just like his daddy. I mean, at least he doesn't look like another man. HA! That would've been bad.

Somewhat-related side story number 1:
When I was about six months pregnant, I made what turned out to be a terrible paternity joke to an old high school acquaintance that I ran into at the mall. She didn't know I was pregnant, so when she congratulated me I laughed and said, "Yeah, and I'm 95% sure Ricky is the father!" I don't know why that seemed funny at the time (that's a lie; it still seems funny to me) but she clearly did not understand the joke. She was obviously uncomfortable. I was obviously awkward.

Somewhat-related side story number 2:
Here is an actual conversation I had with a 2nd grader when I was about 8 months pregnant:

Student: "So has your baby come yet?" (he said this while staring at my giant belly)

Me: "Nope, not yet. You will know he's here when I'm not at school to teach you. I am going to stay home for a few weeks to take care of him."

Student: "Oh. So... are you having a black baby or a white baby?" (said with a very serious look on his face)

Me: "Well, it turns out I'm having a white baby."

Student: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

For the record, the only reason I think paternity jokes are so funny is because they are so ridiculous. Of course Ricky is the father of my children! But I still love the onesie given to Little Ricky by a friend that says I met my Daddy on Maury.

Anyway, Little Ricky obviously looks just like Ricky and here's the proof:

So when I found out I was pregnant again and it was a girl, I was thrilled! Will this one look like me?! By the way, I think it's fascinating that after spending years questioning my own looks I was excited to pass on my (questionable) looks to my offspring. Must be biological.

Now, whenever someone sees the Bulldog for the first time, their first question is almost always, "Where did she get all of the dark hair?!" And I'm always excited to say, "ME! She got it from ME!" So without further ado, I give you my very own mini-me!

(I was exceptionally squinty in that last picture. My new goal is to get a picture of the Bulldog looking equally as squinty... I know she has it in her.)

Almost two years later, I can happily say that Little Ricky has taken exactly one picture in which he was my  mini-me....

So there you have it, folks. Our very own Minis. And they're way better than the Cooper.


P.S. If you have a few minutes I think you should watch the inspiration for my post. This never gets old...