Daddy's Little Girl

Michael is one of those people who remembers everything.

Ever.

Sometimes it's wildly interesting and entertaining since he can tell stories on most any topic with vivid details that are peppered with poignant quotes and include relevent anecdotes.

Many times it's wildly irritating because he will not let you forget he is ALWAYS right.

Always.

Always.

Cadence will learn this trait about her Daddy. But it will really hit home when she is sixteen years old.

We did a handful of trips recently. Baby Tour 2011 where we introduced The Bean to her relatives. Mama and Daddy love to travel. Cadie isn't as excited by it:

Living it up Texas-style

Rocking it out in New York

Getting dirty down south in Savannah

That last photo is a bit deceptive.

You see, two weeks ago, The Bean, Michael and I went to Savannah. On it's own, a nice-sounding excursion to celebrate the end of summer and a trip where we weren't visiting with anyone. However, combine this with the prior two weeks of traveling we did and you have the exact recipe for infant meltdown.

The photo above was taken as we pulled into Savannah and rolled The Bean into the hotel lobby. Approximately 4 minutes and 36 seconds later, The Bean looked like this:

Apparently, she had enough with the travel, the hotels, the scenery, the world. And she was going to make herself very clear on that fact.

It was looking like a meltdown might be imminent as we rolled into the hotel room in Savannah, but being the naive, stupid parents we are we thought if we simply laid down in the bed together (all quiet-like) that the meltdown would evaporate.

The eyes bulging out of her head was not reassuring.

But then I made an error of enormous proportions.

In an effort to remove the haze of flies circling me from having not showered in days (a hectic travel schedule and an infant doesn't leave a lot of room for other things), I jumped into the shower to peel the grime off of me.

This was not the correct thing to do.

As the first drop of water hit my body, I heard the screams begin.

But Michael is well-equipped to deal with The Bean's meltdowns. He's done it before with great success. So I squirted shampoo into my hair. Quickly, mind you, because I knew the situation outside the shower curtain could turn at any moment.

I managed to reach my hand up to my hair to lather the shampoo when the bathroom door flung open and an ogre holding a screaming banshee barged in yelling, "DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE A SHOWER RIGHT NOW??? YOUR CHILD NEEDS YOU!"

"That is not my child. I don't have children. What screaming?"

I didn't say that.

Instead, I leapt out of the running shower to don my SuperMom cape...except, of course, there was no cape handy.

I grabbed the child (not my child, so she doesn't get a name) from Michael's arms.

Um...infants' whose heads have fallen off from the intensity of screaming they are doing, do not like to be grabbed by soaking wet people. You're welcome for that handy tip.

I will not draw a cartoon of the following, use your imagination to picture: me naked and soaking wet barely holding onto a child who is trying to wriggle out of my arms and screaming her head off as I am attempting to shove a boob in her mouth and being chased around the room by Michael who is attempting to throw a towel around me.

The image in your head right now is probably what scarred our child and set off the following series of events.

I managed to get dry and get The Bean to calm down.

I give The Bean to Michael so I can get dressed.

The Bean's head explodes.

I put on whatever clothes are closest and get The Bean to calm down.

Later that night I give The Bean to Michael so I can tinkle.

The Bean's head explodes.

This goes on and on and on and on. The Bean can be held by no one but Mama or else her head falls off. We (hysterically) think the issue will be resolved by the next morning. Oh no.

By day five my own head was ready to fall off. Michael was shoving pencils into his eyeballs. The dogs all ran away from home. And the cat committed suicide.

Kidding aside, it was a tough time and poor Michael simply wanted to play with his daughter who used to love him and was unknowingly replaced with the demon spawn of Satan. All because of Savannah.

Suffice it to say, we will not be visiting there again.

On day six I needed adult interaction and decided to host a party at our house. Because what's better for a child who can't stop screaming when someone else holds them than to have a dozen people over the house who want nothing more than to hold the cuteness?

Guess what happened?

You're never going to guess.

Actually, it cured her. She went to people willingly without fuss. She was happy as a clam being held by her Daddy. It was as if the past week didn't happen at all.

Later that night, I was listening in as Michael was getting The Bean ready for bed.

Michael: (in a sweet sing-song voice) I know baby, you had a big day today. You were a sweet baby again. Yes, you were. You loved on your Daddy and everything was good. Thank goodness because you hurt Daddy's feelings. Luckily you're not the devil child anymore. But don't worry, Bean. One day, when you're sixteen years old, you're going to ask me if you can borrow the car and I'm going to tell you 'to go ask your mother about Savannah.' I won't forget what a little butthole you were.

Oh Bean...I wish I could save you.

Adventures in Parenting

In a moment of enormous bravery or stupidity, we decided to take a road trip to Texas over the last few days. Hence my prolonged absence.

The Bean did fabulously until the moment she didn't.

But 4 different places in 4 days and being bombarded with the weirdos we like to call family (I promise I mean that in the best way) is enough to make anyone have a major meltdown.

Luckily I come equipped with built in meltdown diffusers (read: boobs) and crisis was averted.

I promise to get some more posts up shortly. Right after we disrupt The Bean with her first flight to New York to meet the weirdos from my side of the family.

I Find My True Love...and Other Trip Highlights

We survived our excursion to JazzFest 2011.

It was tough with all the awesome food, inspiring music and laid-back atmosphere. But somehow we managed to make it through.

I had fully intended to take a slew of photographs to chronicle our trip, but I found it hard to tear myself away from whatever I was shoving in my face at the moment to snap pictures. When I did think about taking a picture it was inevitably after I had mawed my way through half of the dish. Those photos are less than appetizing.

I did, however, capture this shot of my future husband. I plan on divorcing Michael to spend the rest of my life with him.

Meet Mr. Cochon de Lait Po'Boy.

Y'all just aren't going to believe how good this sucker was. I implore you to not be distracted by his humble looks. He is the real deal.

So much so, that Michael and I had three...each...during our 4-day trip. (I'm trying, for the life of me, to remember why we missed a day. I think it was a lame excuse about eating some of our other local favorites while in town--it was not worth missing a day of this porky goodness.)

Slow-smoked pork butt, cold cabbage slaw and homemade horseradish sauce all layered on French bread and then doused in hot sauce.

I died, came back to life, and died again. It's that good.

Yes, I'm still talking about this sandwich. Deal with it.

Fine, I'll move on since I've run out of things to say except if you can get your hands on a Love at First Bite Cochon de Lait Po-Boy, then you best knock over everyone around you including the pregnant ladies and old people to get your sandwich.

Whenever we told people we were heading to JazzFest as a sort of babymoon, their eyebrows would raise, they looked at me as if I was a mad woman and then would inevitably ask "You know you're pregnant, right?"

However, I wasn't too concerned heading into the weekend. This is Michael's fifth or sixth Fest and my third. And we both know two very important facts: New Orleans in May typically means 90 degrees each day and the closing weekend of JazzFest brings on a crush of people (daily attendance can exceed 100 THOUSAND people).

Guess what? It was hot and crowded.

I know, pretty surprising.

Since I make a habit of putting forth my best efforts to not be a complete moron, I prepared for these two facts and we had no issues tackling this trip at 32-weeks pregnant.

Backpack chairs, cowboy hat, sunscreen, breathable clothes, an endless supply of delectable rose-mint iced tea, close proximity to restrooms and air conditioned rest stations and we were jamming with (and in better shape than most of) the other festival goers.

The trip itself was fabulous, but a few of our favorite highlights included:

• Overhearing the following line from a conversation between two 70-something year old women: "Well, I've seen Better than Ezra about 7 times, so I really don't need to see their set here."


• Which was in sharp contrast to the less hip 50-year old couple sitting in front of us at the Willie Nelson set, "Ugh. Why does it smell like dead skunk here?" Clearly, she was not used to festivals, Willie Nelson or other things that might smell funny at such events.


• A stunning African American woman sporting a shirt with the text "Shakespeare hates your emo poems."


• The slew (as in many multitudes of) middle aged women singing along to and rocking out at the Kid Rock show AND breaking out their pop-and-lock moves.


• Did I mention the Cochon de Lait Po-Boys?

Since we have nothing better to do on the weekends these days (I mean, a nursery doesn't need to be painted and set up or anything. And why would anyone spend time taking silly labor classes?), we will be spending next weekend in the far more relaxing setting of Asheville, NC.

But don't worry, more funny to come before we leave. I mean, Michael and I did manage to spend more than 3 consecutive hours together, so the funny was flowing.

Prepare.

And We're Back

After a lovely escape to Lake Tahoe, we are glad to be back home in Atlanta. Sweeping up a never-ending supply of dog hair. Cleaning dirty dishes. Working absurd hours. Doing laundry. Did I say I was glad to be back?

I had a lot of time to think on this trip. Mainly because I was unable to participate in many of the activities Lake Tahoe in the winter is famous for: skiing, hot tubbing, drinking and more skiing. But fresh air and good friends are always welcome, and I had plenty of both.

I'm in the second trimester and so far, you can have it: I'm bloated and fat and only those closest to me know I'm pregnant. Everyone else gives me dirty looks implying I should've not had that extra piece of pie over the holidays.

I'm mostly not sick, except those times when I am. The best part about those times: I never know when they may arise...like mid-sentence on the phone with a client. Ah, the dry heaves are truly the way to express client service.

Nothing fits quite right. Not regular clothes. Not my fat girl clothes. Not maternity clothes. All sweat pants, all the time.

The second trimester is all about the sexy.