Getting Ready for Keanna

Doug is going to be the best big brother!

He calls my belly Ki-na-na

He made a smooth transition to a "big boy bed" so that Keanna can use the crib. He kneels down beside it and says his prayers every night. So sweet!

Happy Birthday, Babe!!!

This is my blog. It is all about me, Bethany. That is why, even though it is my husband’s birthday, I absolutely refuse to write anything about him. It would just be wrong.

I will most definitely not write about the billion things I love about him. I won't mention his amazing work ethic (did you know that he is ARAMARK’S Director of the year!), his subtle—yet confident—demeanor, his movie-star good looks, his extremely generous muscles, his Moroni-like testimony. Nor will I tell you that he is the sole reason I shave my legs during the winter.

I won’t tell you that he will make a midnight run to Sonic, even after a long hard day at work, just because I feel like a chocolate malt. He pauses the movie each time I get up for a bathroom break or a sip of water. He pushes me to be the best me possible, even when I stubbornly push back. He is so kind to his wife that sometimes I want to shake him and tell him to knock it off. But, I won't write about any of that.

I won’t tell you that I am madly in love with him and can’t believe he let me trick him into marrying me. I wont tell you that sometimes, while he’s away, I find his tee-shirt from the previous day and snuggle with it (it smells so good). I won’t tell you that I never dreamed that a man could be such a great provider, a super sexy gladiator, and a nurturing father at the same time.

No, I will not write about any of those things. This is my blog and hardly the right place to brag about someone other than myself… even on his birthday.

Speaking of myself, I made him a birthday cake that I am kind of proud of. It is a Dr. Pepper Cake! The main ingredients are chocolate and DP—his favorite stuff!

Ponytail... ish

Call it a nubbin. Call it a stub. Call it whatever you like. I call it hope.

Normally I can shrug off a bad haircut. Not this past haircut. I called it the “Hillary Clinton She-mullet.” I hated it. I grieved the loss of my long hair. I went through all the steps: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. I bought out Target’s headband section, I’ve used every hair-product known to man, I’ve pinned, I’ve pulled… all to no avail.

But, I’ve finally accepted the haircut. No more hate-letters to my ex-hairdresser, no more tears, no more whining. It is what it is.

And maybe more. Yesterday was the first time I pulled it back. I felt pretty for the first time in months. I was overjoyed. So was Ryan. He liked to flick the nubbin. He is like that.

Trunk or Treat

How on earth did I win the Best Costume prize?

I am opposed to adults in Halloween costumes. I am aware that this is not a popular view--or even the correct view--so I guess I'm a Halloween Grinch. Ba-hum-bug... er.. something.

Men should be manly and Halloween costumes (9 times out of 10) are emasculating. Acceptable costumes for grown men: a firefighter, soldier, police officer, cowboy… yeah, that’s about it. Anything else turns me off—especially anything that includes face paint, fake blood or ruffles of any sort.

One of me and Ryan’s first dates was on Halloween. He asked if I thought we should wear costumes. I asked him about his costume. The Incredible Hulk (any excuse to show off his muscles). My answer was no…definitely no costumes. I was fickle girl and a costume like that could end our relationship before it even started.

Adult women are slightly more acceptable in costumes, but just barely. Pregnant woman… no way! It is not cute for a woman with child to dress her belly like a jack-o-lantern. It is weird.

With these stringent, and maybe irrational feelings, I thought that I was being more than festive by wearing a black shirt to the ward Halloween party. Imagine my shock when I won first place in the adult costume category! Well, it was a four way tie—me and my three pregnant friends at the party. What did the judges think we were dressed as, virgins?

Kids in Halloween costumes, on the other hand, are the cutest things in the world! I may be biased, but my son was soooooooo stinking adorable! We dressed him up like a dork! He looked amazing! (note the toilet paper tail)

And Doug LOVED to trick-or-treat! And I loved to help him trick-or-treat! I felt excited and giddy—just as a little kid would—just by watching him go from trunk to trunk. Maybe I was just excited to indulge in the fruits of his labor.

Texas Raisins

You know it’s cold when the Texas Raisins are not at the pool.

Our apartment complex has the Porsche of all swimming pools. The leasing consultant first showed us the apartment—which was pretty nice—but then took us to the pool…SOLD. The pool area includes a lap pool, a sunbathing pool, a water volleyball area, a giant spa, and several resort-style water fountains. Very luxurious.

While signing the lease we didn’t realize that the pool also included an official set of Texas Raisins. The Raisins are the people who are ALWAYS at the pool. They are a group of twenty-somethings who sunbathe around the clock—drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and tanning without their bikini tops. They are the cool kids of the Mustang Ridge apartment complex. They lay out next to the volleyball area. It’s their turf. Other applicants need not apply.

In high school, the cool kids hung out around the stairs leading down to the commons. I did not hang out there. I was not a cool kid. I wondered, however, what it would feel like to be cool enough to belong in that coveted location. I will not lie, I wanted to be there desperately.

Even BYU had a “cool kids” hang out spot—outside the library, along the benchline, next to the garden. The beautiful and well-dressed crowd congregated there. I spent some time there myself, but never felt like I truly belonged. Perhaps, four years of high school social-mediocrity had left its mark on my sense of “coolness.” I was a duckling trying to be a swan. I felt more at ease with the other ducklings inside the library.

But once again, my whereabouts have been dictated by my level of coolness. I lay out my towel on the south side of the pool next to the hot tub and other social lepers: anyone with children, anyone without a controlled-substance in their system, and anyone who wears sun block.

The Texas Raisins have all turned a buttery shade of leathery brown. I hope their full-time job of sunbathing also includes good healthcare benefits—skin cancer is expensive. I worry for the Raisins, but more importantly, I make fun of them. One guy, who is completely bald, looks like an unwrapped Werther’s Original Toffee piece. But I bet he looks in the mirror and thinks he looks like a tan Rico Suave—and not like an after-dinner caramel.

The Raisins always come to the pool armed with a cooler full of Bud Lights. They pop up periodically for their quarter-hour bathroom breaks… yeah, they consume that much alcohol. They stumble to the bathroom, do their thing, and return faithfully to the pool—with a fresh can of beer open before they even sit back down on their pool chair.

The Raisins, as part of their coolness, seem to understand that some things in life are important and other’s are not. Swimsuits for example. I had a bunch of my friends and their kids over for weekday swim. The die-hards were there too, of course, but the female Raisins felt it necessary to tan without their tops—it would look uneven to have skin cancer everywhere but your bra-strap area. There were about ten kids in the pool at the time. I was so embarrassed.

But now the Raisins must go into hibernation. I admit that I stopped visiting the pool myself weeks ago—not because of the weather but because I grew out of my maternity swimsuit. It still fits around the belly, but when purchasing it, I forgot that I also tend to get very pregnant in... ehem… other areas of my upper body. If I were a Raisin I could just forego the top portion of my Tankini altogether… but I have no desire to be a “cool kid” anymore.

Autumn Time

Woe is me. Dallas only has two seasons: the inferno and fallish/winterish. I love autumn time and feel completely gypped that I don’t get to enjoy it in its true and colorful condition.

My enthusiasm for the fall is so intense that I am naming my daughter Kianna Autumn. Well, the “Kianna” is still in question, but “Autumn” is non-negotiable. To me, autumn means beauty, gratitude and celebration. So will be my daughter.

My favorite part about fall is the smells. The air is crisp and delicious. Pumpkin carving, turkey roasting, birthday cake, rotting leaves… they all have the aroma of orange, rust, and chocolate-brown swirling around in a steamy mug of hallelujah.

Even Trick-or-Treat candy smells better than regular candy. All of the candies’ odors stew together in the pillowcase so that the Snickers smell like the Skittles, which smell like the Tootsie Rolls, which smell like the Nerds, which smell like the Bit-O-Honeys, which all smell like the people’s houses from which they came—which, strangely, isn’t a bad thing.

And how I love Halloween. So does Ryan. At his house Halloween was a BIG deal. After trick-or-treating, the family would stay up all night and watch horror movies, while inhaling thousands of calories of candy. The next day, the parents would call the kids in sick from school so they could sleep off their sugar-hangovers.

Ryan and I plan on carrying out the Halloween Extravaganza tradition in our family. We have already started our horror movie marathon. This is the first year I have been up for scary movies since “The Grudge incident” of 2005. I recall having Ryan follow me around the apartment for a week because I was too afraid to be in a room all by myself (bathroom included).

I purchased Doug’s costume today; a lion. He’d better stay awake for trick-or-treating this year because I HAVE TO HAVE Halloween candy. Last year, Doug was a BYU football player and had rubbed all of his makeup off before kick-off. So tired.

Actually, last Halloween was a failure as a whole. We had our first house—which meant our first trick-or-treaters—so I bought out the whole candy isle at Walmart. Sadly, our door bell only rang twice that night and all of the trick-or-treaters were over the age of sixteen and dressed as pimps and hookers (or princesses and pirates. So hard to tell the difference nowadays).

To add injury to insult, two of the trick-or-treaters were women well over forty, who, when offered their choice of candy, took literally handfuls out of the bowl. While I had plenty of candy to spare, the whole concept left me totally miffed. They had desecrated Halloween.

Colorado!

The proudest Birthday Boy in the world!
A super happy family and a good example to me of how to love and support one another!
My angel!
My sister!
Food Art! Thank you Mommy for the yummiest prettiest food of the year!

The Zoo and the Park

As part of our Colorado fun we visited the Denver Zoo and the Tech Center park. It was so cute to see the boys lovin' on their Grandma and Grandpa (or Grandpa and Grandpa as Doug liked to call them). The tots also became best best buddies with each other. They held hands, taught each other new tricks and indulged in such games as "synchronized sipping" and "who can teach each other the naughtiest behavior."

26

I'm twenty six today, which means I’m practically thirty, which means I’m practically going through menopause, which means I’m practically dead. I should be very depressed today. But I’m not. In my elderly years I have finally figured out the secret to an incredibly happy birthday.

As a teen, I had this philosophy that birthdays were really a celebration of the people who celebrated you. So, when a friend accidentally forgot my birthday or gave me balloons when I obviously wanted flowers (duh), my birthday was a disaster. If my loved one’s failed to celebrate my birthday properly then they apparently didn’t love me and my birthday and my life was a waste.

Under such a ridiculous philosophy it was no wonder that I hated birthdays. My expectations were so high, and because I kept my expectations to myself, I was setting everyone up for failure.

Thank heavens that I am now so wise and all-knowing. I have learned that:

a) I am loved (even if a few people fail to roll out the red carpet on October 1st ).
b) Who the heck cares if other people celebrate me? I am fabulous and can celebrate myself, thank you.

Before I continue, I'd like to note that I do feel extremely loved today! I have already received phone calls, cards, and happy thoughts from people who love me. My husband spent the whole weekend taking me to dinner, The Lion King, giving me massages, cleaning the house, and setting the table (even with napkins! Hooray!). My family is flying me and Doug out to Colorado this week. I already mentioned the wonderful camera my in-laws gave to me!

That being said, even if all of these wonderful things hadn’t happened, I would still have a very happy birthday. I am thrilled that I was born! I like… no love… Bethany!

And I can fulfill my own birthday expectations. Today, I celebrated myself by buying a pizza. Doug and I have been running around the house shouting “Happy Birthday Bunster!” all day. I am blogging. I went to Target today. I am going to eat birthday cake tonight while watching The Bachelor and I don’t have to share the cake with anyone (Doug can have a few bites… I guess).

And this has been a great year! Plenty to celebrate: being pregnant, Grapevine Texas , my plethora of friends, and my husband (of whom I am madly in love). I celebrate my naughty little boy, all of my family, and my Savior! I celebrate the new fall television show line-up, the book I am writing, and Pepcid Complete.

I do not celebrate my haircut.

And even if you don’t call me or remember that it is my birthday today, it’s okay because I probably forgot yours, too. But I still love you.