Mac or Harry: A Love Story

Mac came into my life during the summer of 2007.

After spending four years committed to another, I needed a change. Something that made me feel young and excited again. That something was Mac.

Together we did it all. Our courtship began with watching movies late into the night. Then Mac introduced me to some of his favorite music. We even traveled around Europe together. I fondly recall riding the train together through Denmark, The Netherlands, Germany, and yes, even France! What a magical time that was.

But a few months ago, something happened. I can't quite put my finger on where things went wrong, but Mac suddenly stopped responding to me. After turning Mac on hundreds (hell, thousands) of times over the course of almost five years, I suddenly couldn't do it anymore.

I tried to give Mac time and space. I would give Mac hours, sometimes days, to recover from this new state of unreliability. I tried to connect. I tried to be patient. But Mac simply wasn't having it.

To say I was crushed was an understatement. How can you rely so heavily on another for so long, only to wake up one day to find that everything you know to be true has changed? The old adage is true... you really don't know what you have until it's gone.

Mac acted as though our past together was nothing. Those pictures of happier times? Mac refused to even look at them anymore.

One sad, lonely day I finally gave up. I had truly had enough. Don't toy with my emotions, Mac! Are you in or are you out? Apparently, Mac was out.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Mac.

So slender and smooth, seemingly perfect in every way.

And here is the unfortunate screen Mac greeted me with every time I tried to turn my old buddy on...

You only need to know that this is bad. Very bad.

When it comes to personal relationships, I'm no fool. I've been burned in the past, so yes... I backed up.

Thank God I backed up.

The last time this happened to me I had not backed up, and as a result I lost two years worth of pictures from college. Although I was upset at the time, hindsight tells me it was probably for the best as many of those pictures would undoubtedly be incriminating today. Ohhh college, you were fun. I love you.

Now as luck would have it, Mac had a twin.

Around the time that Mac came into my life, Mother Ethel also found companionship in a Mac.

In an exciting turn of events, she recently upgraded to Mac's faster, shinier cousin - Mac Pro. So when my dear Mac betrayed me, she offered to share his twin (let's call him Mac 2 for clarity) with me until my heart fully healed and I was ready to commit again.

So Mac 2 entered my life, and for a brief time things were beautiful. Mac 2 was just like Mac! Unfortunately, it wasn't long before Mac 2 also decided I wasn't worth the time, just like Mac. And lo and behold, one day last week my unsuspecting, ever trusting self tried to turn on Mac 2 and here's what I got...

Yes, again.

It was time to move on... start anew... find a new love...

But there was a problem. As you can imagine, cash flow for a stay-at-home mama is limited, and the entire Apple family is a pretentious member of the nouveau riche. So I went to work on Ricky.

I begged. I pleaded. After an incredibly large tax return from 2011 (thank you, U.S. government, for that if nothing else) I tried to convince Ricky that I needed Mac's cousin in my life and financially we could handle it! No dice.

Ricky, along with the Brother Freds three, insisted I could find a PC with the same capabilities as Mac for significantly less dinero. Blasphemy! Or was it?

I was hesitant. You know what they say... once you go Mac, you never go back. That might be a slight variation of what they say.

Could it happen? Would I find compatibility with a PC?

Not wanting to make any rash decisions, I tried one last ditch effort. I resurrected my original computer boyfriend and desperately tried to rekindle the flame.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Dell.

It was Dell that I left when I met Mac in 2007. Could it be that Dell would be the answer to my problems? After spending 30 minutes looking for an ethernet cord (remember those?) I decided no, Dell was definitely not the answer. Dell's inability to connect to our network wirelessly in conjunction with that bulky, unattractive body reminded me why I left Dell in the first place.

Furthermore, Dell is slow. I lack a kinder word.

For the record, I did eventually find the damn ethernet cord. It had been haphazardly thrown into a box labeled CORDS. I think I threw that puppy together one day in a fit of organization. I was probably watching Hoarders - that show always makes me want to clean.

So back to the drawing board went I. And then it happened. After throwing my hands in the air, proclaiming I would never love again... Ricky found it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Harry Potter.

Not only does Harry do everything I could possibly want, Harry was on sale. If you know Ricky and I, you know how we feel about sales. It felt like Christmas in April!

Harry Potter and I spent the weekend getting acquainted. We shared pictures and music, and I even transferred all of my beloved memories to Harry (followed by a back up, of course).

I can't deny it. I love Harry. That's right, I said it!

Have I done the unthinkable and converted back to PC? Yes, folks, I think I have.

And for the record, Harry Potter is kicking Mac's ass. Well played, Harry. Well played.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

"Lucy Ricardo... Come on doooowwwn!"

On weigh-in days I like to imagine myself running down the aisle towards Bob Barker. Can't you just see it? Everyone is clapping as I reach The Price is Right podium wearing my giant yellow name tag and homemade family reunion shirt (because let's be honest, I'm not going on that show without a homemade t-shirt).

After last week's public declaration of my weight loss goals, I really felt the pressure as I walked to the scale this morning. Pressure is good, pressure is good, pressure is good...

And then I remembered how I celebrated this week. Sure, let's call it a celebration.

We went to a wedding in San Antonio over the weekend, so I decided to celebrate basically the entire weekend. Our celebration started on Friday with snacks at the gas station (God forbid we starve during the 4 hour car ride). We continued to celebrate with fast food for dinner... and a giant hotel breakfast on Saturday morning... you get the idea.

I will say, however, that our lunch celebration on Saturday at Mi Tierra in the San Antonio marketplace was well worth it. I enjoyed each and every calorie in that jumbo margarita.... I think it had at least a million of 'em and I don't even care.

Ever been to Joe T's? Because Mi Tierra margaritas taste exactly like the Joe T's margaritas that I may or may not have drank by the pitcher when I was in college. Stop judging.

Don't worry, the celebration continued at the wedding. How could it not? It was the actual celebration. And truly, is there anything I love more than an open bar and wedding cake? No. The answer is no.

Ricky and I are typically a blast at weddings. Now that we have children we have toned down our act quite a bit, much to my chagrin. I recall one wedding where I insisted on swing dancing the entire reception after celebrating the open bar first. When Ricky told me he needed a break, I ignored the sweat pouring down his face and vehemently insisted, "The people want to see us dance!"

Really? Do they?

Like I said - we're a blast. 

You know who was not a blast at the wedding on Saturday? Little Ricky. Suffice to say, he made an early exit after having a public meltdown over glow-in-the-dark necklaces.

Can you blame him? I mean, who doesn't love those necklaces?!

So I made a deal with Ricky. I would put the kidlets to bed and he could stay at the reception as long as he had a giant slice of wedding cake in hand upon his return. Yes, the celebration continued...

A quick note on wedding cake: part of the reason I married Ricky is because he doesn't eat wedding cake. As a result, I always get two pieces and pretend one is for him. And then I eat them both.

This behavior seemed a little more acceptable when I was pregnant - I was at a wedding two days before Little Ricky was born - but now that I am sans pregnant belly, you may find it questionable. Whatever. I told you stop judging.

 The celebration continued on Sunday....

And then I remembered that I was supposed to be tracking my Weight Watchers points and actually losing weight. Oops.


But then we had girls' night on Monday and I think I ate half a bag of Market Street seasoned tortilla chips. They are like crack; I dare you not to eat them. It's impossible.

You can think all day long that I lack will power and motivation, but the truth of the matter is I just love to celebrate. I'm a blast, and don't ever forget it. And stop judging.

 So considering my overabundance of celebratory opportunities this past week, I was a little nervous (or maybe a lot nervous) about jumping on the scale this morning.

So are you ready for it?

 I lost 0.7 pounds! HOORAY!!  

A loss is a loss is a loss... even if it's less than a pound. And logic tells me that I probably should have gained weight this week. I'm attributing the loss solely to breastfeeding and the craptillion calories it burns every day.

 So now I only have 14.3 pounds to go... let's hope my celebratory attitude subsides a little this week. But really, what can I say? I'm a blast.

 And for the record, if I ever go on The Price Is Right I will totally bid only $1 in the hopes that everyone else over bid. It's the only proven strategy.

 This could be me.

The Challenge. Ugh.

 I'm going to start out by saying that I  am not excited about this post. Not even a little bit.

Up to this point I have looked forward to writing new posts and I find myself thinking about the next one periodically throughout the day. In fact, I even have an ongoing note in my iPhone committed solely to potential blog ideas. You don't have to tell me that is really cool. I already know.

This is actually a post that I've thought about many times, and the only reason I'm writing it now is because I need a little outside motivation, i.e. pressure. I actually work really well under pressure. Por exemplo, when I was college I got into the habit of waiting until the very last minute to start working on assignments and papers.

Here's how it usually went down. At about 8 pm the night before something important was due, my roommate and I would head to Frog Bytes (if you went to TCU you know where this is going) to stock up on study snacks. More importantly than the study snacks, however, was the Red Bull. Lots and lots of Red Bull. Later on in my college career, study snacks may or may not have included Eskimo Hut. No judgement, please.

On a side note, I would like to give a shout out to the TCU athletic department for equipping my talented athletic friends with the most expensive meal plan available, which included purchases at Frog Bytes. My best friend and college roommate played soccer, therefore I became somewhat of a soccer groupie and benefited from the fabulous school-sponsored athletic meal plan quite often.

By the way, I don't think I've given a shout out since probably the 8th grade. And let me just say, it feels good.

Random thought: I used to pretend I was a soccer player at parties in college. Alternatively, I would tell people I hadn't met before that my official job was Soccer Stats and Video. Funny at the time, but now it sounds kind of sad. Furthermore, I would refuse to go to class when the soccer team was traveling. If they didn't have to go to class, why should I? Maybe because I wasn't on the team... but I digress.

(Don't worry, Dad. I only skipped class sometimes during the first semester of my freshman year. After the banner GPA I got as a result of that semester, I decided to take advantage of my incredibly reasonably priced private school education from that point forward and always go to class.)

So after loading up on snacks and energy drinks, we would head to the library. After spending time socializing (because that's why we really went to the library) I would crack the books and get started on my assignment. I would stay up all night, convincing myself I would never finish, and then somehow, miraculously, I would finish about 15 minutes before class started. I may have shown up to class all strung out on Red Bull and Corn Nuts, but I was always there, finished assignment in hand.

And herein lies the problem: After waiting until the very last minute, my professors would give me A's and tell me how great my work was! Thus, reinforcing my pressure-driven, procrastinating ways.

And for the record, I am not necessarily condoning procrastination. It is not necessarily a good idea... Unless you are really good at it like me. And if you are  like me, well, I salute you.

Once I even made up my own final exam. I studied all night for a History Before 1877 final comprised of three essays. That's right... no scantron, just that damn blue book that I could never remember to buy before the test. So I sat down to write my essays and I dominated the first two. And then I came to the third and I had absolutely no idea what the question was asking. I did not study that one! The pressure was on - what should I do?! I decided that instead of half assing a terrible response I would write my own essay question about something I did know about. At the end of the essay I wrote this note to my professor:

"I did not study this particular subject, so I have decided to write my own essay question instead. I hope you will take my revised question into consideration. And please... have mercy on me."

Guess what that professor gave me on that particular final exam? 100. Again, the reinforcement. Boo. Freaking. Yah.

So here's the deal. My creativity and ability to work under pressure has served me well in the past, so now I am hoping to apply these skills to my current endeavor.

I need to lose a few pounds. And I need some pressure, your pressure, to do it.

Ugh. I know. Losing weight sucks.

The only thing that sucks more than losing weight is listening to someone else talk about losing weight and then watching that person never actually lose it. As a result, you have to listen to this person talk about the same 15 pounds for years. And the weight never budges. That person is me.

I'm not going to lie and tell you I've tried everything. My problem is I have tried a lot of different things, and although I get off to a great start I usually get bored about two-and-a-half weeks in and quit. Sound familiar?

So on January 1st I set out to lose 30 pounds. Now I know what you're thinking: "But she is so tiny! Someone as waif-like as she couldn't possibly have 30 pounds to lose! She can't weigh more than 110 pounds soaking wet!" Right.

I settled on Weight Watchers, and somehow managed to lose the first 15 pounds in about 6 weeks. Jenny Hudson would be so proud. But then I got comfortable. I haven't gained it back (hooray!) but I've been stuck for the last few weeks.

I would not consider this a plateau, because that would imply that I was actually working out and tracking my points. Let's be clear - I have not been doing those things. I will say that foot surgery threw a wrench into my workout plans, but three weeks later I'm ready to get back on the horse. Or elliptical.

So why Weight Watchers? Because it's easy.

Not to mention I get 14 extra points a day while I'm nursing the Bulldog. 14! That's a lot of food. So much, in fact, that I'm considering breastfeeding until she's 12. Okay, not really, but it really does burn a lot of extra calories! Just saying.

Plus, creeping on the Weight Watchers message boards on a Wednesday night is nothing if not pure entertainment.

So here's the challenge. I want to finish losing the weight before the end of the school semester. And yes, as a 26-year-old woman I still measure time by the local school district calendar. I will forever be a product of public school.


That's 15 pounds in about 7 weeks. Definitely achievable, but only if I feel the pressure. I will be reporting here, on this blog, weekly to let you know about my progress. I hope that if I do well you will write nice comments complete with smiley emoticons and maybe even a heartfelt "Way to go!"

If I'm not successful, I invite you to put the pressure on. Perhaps the fear of a heckling blog audience (all three of you) will force me to get off my ass and go to the gym. Perhaps.

Yes, I want to lose weight to be healthier, have more energy, blah blah blah. I'm also honest enough to say that my vanity has taken over and I want to look good in a bathing suit this summer, damn it.

If only I was big enough to go on The Biggest Loser. That would be ideal. I love you, Bob Harper.

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. 

Love, 

Mommy

Chick-Fil-PLAAAAYYYY!!

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:

"PLAAAAAYYY!!!"

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.