Happy Birthday To Me ...

Well, it was unavoidable, so I guess I'm officially 26. So far the day has gotten off to a pretty good start; we'll see how it ends. I have two HUGE presents on the dining room table that Super-Hubby wrapped last night. The gleam in his eye tells me he's up to something, but I'll have to wait until tonight to find out.

I was lucky to have received many well-wishes over email this morning from friends and relatives. I am a blessed girl.

I am, however, having A LOT of trouble with aging past 25. This is a feeling I never expected. I wrote an essay about it here. Check it out if you have a minute.

A comment or two would make a lovely birthday gift. I'm shameless, but it's allowed. It's my birthday after all.

A Rose by Any Other Name ...

Would still smell like a flippin' flower.

Ok, I know it's Tuesday, but I just wasn't on the ball yesterday. Here's this weeks:



My parents named me ..... because ....

My name is Stacey Morgan, and I'm told my sister - 10 years my elder - picked out my name. Which I think is cool. I have no idea why she picked that name, except that Stacey (or Stacy or Staci) was a fairly popular name when I was born.

My mom likes to say that I was named for Stacey Keech (the actor) but I'm not sure why that is a good thing. Not that he's not a great actor, he may be, but WHY would you name your daughter for a man?

Anyhow, now I am pretty ambivalent about my name. It suits me, but I do not think it is some paragon of amazing name-i-tude. It used to drive me crazy that nobody spelled it right, but now I really don't care.

What really gets me is that my driver's license is wrong. When I married, I decided to drop my middle name, so that my official name would be Stacey (maiden name)(married name). Which is how it appeared on my Maryland license. When we moved to Pennsylvania, the clerk at the DMV refused to honor that and instead hyphenated my name. So now my license lists me as Stacey (maiden name-married name). Drives me batty. My name is not hyphenated!!!

Anyhow, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The Rest of the Story

So last Monday, you read about how I met my spouse, stalked him like prey, and finally got him to date me, right?

Wanna read his side of the story about why it took him three days to call me after he had my phone number?

Check out his piece here.

Be sure to scroll to the bottom of the page, because the article is loading incorrectly. It's there, but at the bottom.

Nine Months and Counting

My amazing friend Roxi took these great nine-month shots of the Tominator yesterday. Isn't she the best?

My Life Monday: How I Met My Husband

I was 16 when I met my husband, and from the first time I saw him, I knew there was something very special about him.

I had recently been through a painful break-up with my very first serious boyfriend. There are people who don't believe that a teenage relationship can be serious, but mine was. We dated for two years, and I loved that boy with all my heart. When he dumped me for a cute redhead, I stopped eating. I couldn't sleep. My mother, who thankfully understood, likened it to going through a divorce.

I threw myself into my studies, working harder than I ever had at school. I joined almost every club offered, but nothing could lift the melancholy that had settled over me.

Until I went to my friend J-Tron's 17th birthday party in January.

I walked down the stairs to his basement, and immediately a feeling of peace washed over me. There was this guy with a ponytail sitting in the corner of the room, talking to some other people. The sense of peace was radiating from him. I don't mean to sound sacrilegious, but it was like walking into the presence of Christ. Just instantaneous, complete peace.

I came home and told my mom about this guy I'd met, who played the guitar and was full of such incredible peace. I showed her a picture, and she said Guitar Guy looked like he had a big nose. (He doesn't, but it wasn't a very good picture.)

I knew that I really wanted to get to know Guitar Guy better, but it was another eight months before I even saw him again. We went to different high schools, different churches, and lived in different towns, so I didn't have a chance to get to know him at all. But he was never far from my mind. When I saw him at an outdoor concert in August, I hastened over to say hello. He had no idea who I was.

I decided that I needed to get serious about getting to know Guitar Guy, so I enlisted J-Tron's help. By the time J-Tron's 18th birthday rolled around, I had a battle plan to get Guitar Guy's attention.

I spent the evening hanging on his every word. I listened to tales of his childhood obsession with He-Man. I heard stories about his battles with his high school principal over freedom of the presses for the school newspaper.

At the end of the evening, J-Tron gave Guitar Guy my phone number, because he clearly was not picking up on the idea that I was interested in dating him.

So home I went, and I waited.

He didn't call. Three days later I had just about given up when the phone rang. We set up our first date, and the rest is history.

From Soap to Nuts

I was enjoying a nice, hot shower this morning, while Tommy played with the shower curtain and tried to climb in the tub. This is our usual morning routine, so I wasn't too concerned, until I heard him coughing like he had something stuck in his throat. "Ack, ack" he hacked, "Ack ack ack."

I stuck my head out of the shower to find my son foaming at the mouth, mad-dog style. His breath held the clean promise of an Irish Spring.

"You didn't eat the soap!" I cried, as I did a quick finger-sweep to make sure there were no lingering pieces. He just grinned through the bubbles.

Having recently read Heth's expose on cooking with dish soap, I wasn't too worried about Tom's health. Until I put in my contacts and examined the bar of soap he'd been munching on.

A large hunk had been gnawed off the end, maybe an inch long by half-an-inch thick. There were clear bite marks on the soap where his little teeth had done their work.

And so I made my first call to poison control, where a lovely lady with (ironically) an Irish accent told me that soap is not poisonous, but might irritate his digestive tract. A little diaper cream would be all the first aid required.

Phew. Now if I could just get him to bathe with the stuff instead of eating it ...

Now, the finale. Tom just found a chocolate-covered nut on the floor and devoured it. (Horrors, nuts and chocolate eaten by a nine-month-old!) I think I win the bad mommy award today.

Just in time for Mother's Day

The ceiling of my guest room is falling in. My in-laws are arriving in approximately four hours, and the plaster over their bed has 12-inch cracks radiating out from around the ceiling fan. Some are hairline cracks, but one is so deep that the latex ceiling paint is stretched over it as though the paint is trying with all its might to hold the plaster up, despite the the overwhelming odds in favor of gravity.

On further inspection, I found that the fan is indeed falling and trying to take the ceiling with it, thanks to the brilliant former owners who decided to mount the fan to the 90-year-old plaster instead of properly installing it with box attached to the joists to support the fan.

When Super-Hubby and I were using the room as the master bedroom, I said to him, "Super-Hubby, I think the fan is going to fall out of the ceiling." But he disagreed, telling me that there had always been a two-inch gap between the base of the fan and the ceiling. It would be fine. That was two years ago.

I think the poor plaster has had all it can take.

Of course, I didn't notice the huge cracks in the ceiling until after I had gotten the room all cleaned up - the bed changed, the furniture dusted, the windows open to let in the fresh breeze, a vase of fresh flowers from the garden on the dresser.

This strikes me as especially serious because my aunt and uncle once had the plaster ceiling of thier bedroom fall in. They were lucky not to be in bed at the time - a huge chunk of plaster landed on the bed and broke the frame. Had they been asleep, it probably would have killed them. I am rather afraid of that happening to my in-laws.
Because I really don't want my inlaws to die in my guest bedroom (heck, I don't want them to die at all!) I decided it would be wise to take down the fan before they arrived.

I shut off the power the the fan. I dragged the ladder to the room, and started to take apart the fan... only to realize that this is definitely not a one-person job. Unfortunately Super-Hubby is at work, and while the Tominator is good at destruction, he is no help in this situation. So I will have to wait for my Father-in-law to arrive, then beg his assistance to take the blasted thing down.

Arrgh.

I don't know if I'm more frustrated that I wasn't able to complete the project on my own, or that now the guest room is a mess with ladders and tools and pieces of ceiling fan scattered every which way.

Hair today ...

Gone tomorrow. Well, in my case, gone two days ago. I really wish I had pictures for this post, but truth be told, I've just been too busy to get to them.

But the short (and long) of it is - I donated 10 inches of my hair to Locks of Love on Tuesday. Heth did this a while back, and I've been turning the idea over in my head ever since.

Monday night, I was tossing and turning in bed. My hair was making my back itch. It was getting caught up on my pillow, and I had to actually braid it to keep it out of my way just to get some shut-eye. I was tired of the Tominator ripping out big fistfuls of hair from the nape of my neck. I knew it was time. I just couldn't stand it any longer.

On Tuesdays, my mother's helper comes to watch Tommy so I can ostensibly have some time to myself (which I usually use to clean the house or mow the lawn, but still.) As soon as she arrived I said "I'm getting a haircut!" And off I went.

I was a bit nervous, because I went to an unfamiliar salon. They offered free haircuts and styles to anyone donating at least 10 inches of hair. I figured I'd save a buck. And miracle of miracles, it worked out. I got a GREAT cut. It is almost wash-and-wear - takes me about 3 minutes to blow dry it. I look stylish.

It looks sort of like this.

I look fashionable! This is new and unfamiliar territory for me. I have always been what you might call "classic" or "traditional" - never "trendy" or "cute."

And Super-Hubby says it makes me look younger, which is always a good thing.

Coming Soon to a Store Near You

It's Troll-Doll Tommy!

This was just too good to pass up.





And yes, that is the ugliest bathroom tile on the planet. And it's mine, all mine. I know you're jealous.

Cadbury Creme Egg Breakfast

It has been one of those weeks where I find myself eating chocolate for breakfast just to get through. Does a Cadbury Creme Egg count as an egg? Surely there's some protein somewhere in all that gooey goodness.

The Tominator has finally kicked his fever, I think. He was mostly fever free all afternoon yesterday, but it spiked back up a little in the middle of the night. He seems to be ok now, though. This is good.

What will be better is eventually getting more than two hours of sleep at a stretch. Ha ha.

Unfortunately, I think the antibiotics that the doctor gave the Tominator for his mild ear infection have given him the di-rah-REEEE-rah (pronunciation thanks to Mopsy). It was my first exposure to this problem in a diaper, and while the nasty poo oozing down the front of the Tominator's pajama bottoms didn't seem to bother him, it sure bothered me. Yucky, yucky, yucky.

I looked in the What to Expect the First Year bible, and it suggested that the antibiotics might be to blame, and giving yogurt to the Tominator might fix the problem. "Great!" I thought to myself. "The Tominator LOVES yogurt. You can get him to eat anything by coating it in yogurt. Perfect."

So this morning, I cleaned him up and plopped him in his high chair. I broke out the super-yummy organic,live-active-culture yogurt and hoisted a spoonful to his lips. He took it, looked at me, went "Blah blah" and promptly spit it back at me.

So I added some blueberries. Surely he would like that. He loves him some blueberries. Nope. I just got blueberry yogurt spit at me.

Which brings me to the most depressing happening of my morning. My most prized t-shirt, sent to me by Daring Young Mom, is clearly a stain magnet. It calls like a siren to all kinds of staining foods: blueberries, tomato sauce, chocolate. This morning, it was my iced tea. A few drops splashed onto the shirt just before I headed out the door to work. I took a few minutes and tried to spot them out, which worked pretty well. Unfortunately, on the way to work, my cup leaked all over my right breast, leaving a giant brown spot on my lovely pink shirt.

I need another piece of chocolate.

May Day!

Happy May Day, everyone? Does everybody have their flower crowns? We are gathering by the maypole ...

Every May Day, I think of my mother's story about how she got to be the May Queen of her kindergarten class. Apparently, my sweet, tiny mother threatened to beat up all the other kids in class unless they voted her May Queen. She won the election by a landslide, but was dethroned when the teacher found out about Mom's political strategy.

What are you doing this fine May 1st?

On another note, we are back! The wedding was gorgeous, Texas was lovely and warm, and one of these days I'll have some fantastic pictures to show off. I did take Jessica's recommendation and check out San Antonio's Riverwalk, and as promised, it was absolutely lovely.

Lots of fun stories, but so little time.

The Tominator has a fever and is feeling super fussy, so I must go play mommy.