Oooh, my zit it has a first name…

It’s L-A-W-Y-E-R.

Meet the Zits

Yep. I name my zits.

Find out all about it at Blissfully Domestic.

Best gifts ever.

So, about my birthday. The weather was complete crap, my kid was Mach 10 grouchy and my sister was all kinds of sick with a side of hive-y rash covering her arms (I’m pretty sure she caught what I like to call “the midwest”). Cody was at school all day except for the hour he brought us pizza and then ran back to school. No wrapped presents, no balloons. I didn’t even get a single donut.

Sounds crappy huh?

WRONG!

My sister was here with me, she let me sleep in, the moosh took a nap allowing me and my sick sissy to take naps of our own (swoon!), my husband brought me my favorite kind of pizza, I got an early present in the form of my camera (OH MY CAMERA!) and I got over 180 comments from YOU reminding me that the best bits of life are rarely wrapped in paper and pretty ribbons.

Seven of you announced your pregnancies yesterday (Some of you so secret that you didn’t even leave your name! Squee!) Six of you got surprise refunds for various things in the mail. Two of you had your mortgages drop. Three of you had your babies sleep through the night. Two of you got to go on real live grown up dates with your husbands. A bunch of you got to hang out with friends you hadn’t seen in ages. Two of you made your tiny little babies laugh for the first time. Two of you gave birth. Three of you watched your kids play well on their sports teams. For fifteen of you, spring finally arriving was your highlight. Two of you got glowing report cards from your kids. Two of you got new jobs, three of you got pedicures (one from your husband!), one of you bought a new house, one of you found your dream house. Seven of you said that BOSSY’s stop at your place was the best, five of you said that the March for Babies was the best (A handful of you raised over $25K alone!). Twenty of you either had birthday party to go to or a birthday of your own. Three of you lost weight. Over a dozen of you offered to make me a cake and truck it across the country and four of you are feeling better after long nasty illnesses.

There’s so many more, I can’t thank you enough for every single one.

They were by far the best part of my week.

Seriously, the best gift ever. No, wait, my camera is the best gift ever (sorry) but you totally come in second.

Hi. It’s my 26th birthday.

(Okay, so technically now it’s my 26th birthday, the 28th. But since I was born at 12:21 am I didn’t want to miss a moment of my own party, even while I slept. As you were.)

Birthdays are a really big deal to me.

Anybody want to make me my birthday cake?

Anyone?

No?

Really?

Didn’t think so.

For some reason nobody really wants to attempt making my birthday cake. It’s cool. I was planning on having a huge pile of donuts anyway. I may even stick candles in them.

But you know what I really want for my birthday? A comment cake. Layers and layers of comments from you. I want you to tell me the best thing that happened to you in the last week. Anything, everything. The best. I love it when you guys do that. It makes me happy. And I want to be happy on my birthday. So you know what to do.

Delurk you lurkers, save yourself a phone call IRL friends, let’s party. (Oh, and wish her a Happy Birthday too.)

Make this the best comment cake ever so that I don’t have to eat all those donuts, because you know I will.

Dear Hunka Hunka,

Right now people are reading this hoping for scandalous pictures of me shaking my money maker completely sober out on a dance floor that were taken last night. But alas they are going to be stuck reading this (I’m not sure yet what adjective to use here) note to you.

Just now when you left to go back to school to continue your adverse possession of the law library I squeaked out a “Please don’t go.” through snot and puffy teary eyes. I wanted to say it to you, but I know school is where you need to be and I know if I would have said it to you, you would have stayed. But I’m so grateful for the hour you came home to be with me tonight that I can’t go getting selfish.

Now don’t worry, this isn’t me getting sad. This is me missing you. This is also me so damn tired from shaking my money maker last night that my ears are buzzing, by eyes are burning and I’m beginning to hear voices. Unfortunately I don’t think there’s a single person (including you) that wants to hear my voice and my constant nose blowing right now. But the blog never cares what hour it is or what I’m wearing or how many tissues pile up next to it.

I love you so much I feel like half of my heart is missing, locked up in a law library at the corner of West and New York for 18 hours a day. I know it’s only a couple more weeks. And I know as soon as I get a good nights sleep I’ll sound and act a whole lot less crazy. But for now you’re all I can think about. How I’m even more in love with you now that that moment on your couch I knew I was going to be with you forever over seven years ago is beyond me. But I am.

Keep on doing what you’re doing.

Only one more year of school.

I’m so proud to call you my husband. And honored that you ever chose me to be your wife and the ruler mother of your child.

And even though you’ll be at school for 55 of the next 72 hours please don’t forget that my birthday is on Monday. Law school’s important, but not that important. Duh.

Loce,

Redbeth

(Oh, and by the way, those scandalous pictures? Right here baby, right here. Promise I’ll get to that after I recover from all this love I have for Cody.)

Shack de la Bossy Moosh.

So maybe you’ve heard of BOSSY.

Maybe you’re aware that she’s on a month long road trip around the country and is relying on the goodness of her fellow bloggers to put her up and make sure she makes it back home in one sane piece.

If you weren’t aware, there is a blogger named BOSSY who is on a month long road trip around the country and is relying on the goodness of her fellow bloggers to put her up and make sure she makes it back home in one sane piece.

The good blogger who will be putting her up tonight in Indianapolis is named Casey. Oh wait. That’s me.

Hi!

So here’s the thing. I’ve been following the road trip and am sorry to report that BOSSY may have a hard time here. Of course she’d never say it on her own blog because she’s a classy broad. But she’ll be spending the night on my couch, my small couch with a substantial bar that is probably about seven inches too short to accommodate her height. If she’s really lucky she’ll get an air mattress that will lose air gradually overnight until she’s smothered in a hammock of plastic, flat on the ground. It’s not going to get any better in the morning. I don’t drink coffee. There’s no coffee joints around my house for many a mile (unless you count the seedy convenience store down the street). And when I say house. I mean apartment, graduate student apartment with exercise equipment hanging from the walls.

About the only thing I have to offer BOSSY is running water and my cooking ability. But even my finest of baked good won’t help the situation as she claims she is so full from Pringles and swallowed air from all the gum she chews to keep her awake on the road that she has no desire for any food what so ever. Strike three.

Technically strike three would land me out of the game. But alas, there is a strike four.

BOSSY can’t drink when she drives, and she has written in length about the late night wine she has enjoyed with friends on her road trip. This is strike four, for there is nary a drop of liquor in my house unless you count the tablespoon left over from the whole pecan pie debacle of 2007.

Sissy Four Leg Lover.

My sissy is 22 months older than me, 22 pounds lighter than me and one of my favorite people in the whole world. Some of my sissy’s favorite people in the whole world have four legs. In fact most of my sissy’s favorite people have four legs. Mainly Delaney (dog), Eve (dog), Audrey (cat) and Milla (fluffy cat, fluffy shy cat, so shy in fact that she is unphotographable.)

My sister's first and oldest dog, Delaney.

My sister's second dog, Eve.

My sister's third cat, Audrey.

Delaney is old, Eve licks a lot and Audrey isn’t the moosh’s biggest fan.

Delaney's feet.

My sissy’s entire life is devoted to the care and love of animals, both at work and at home. So much so in fact that there are symbols of her fur loves all over her house.

My sister's bookshelf.

My sister's motto.

My sister's fridge

My sister's version of indulgence.

My sister's first Cat, Lily

This is her first cat Lilly. Lilly is the first cat she ever had and the first pet she ever had to pass away.

I’ve never seen her more sad.

So needless to say the best picture I’ve ever seen of her, the one that most encompasses everything I know, love and adore about my sissy was taken by me (hi!).

The most accurate photo of my sister, ever.

Her little silver ring, her scarf made by her best friend, a cozy sweater and a leash in her tiny hands.

I can’t lie, my sister is one of the biggest reasons I feel guilty for not giving the moosh a sibling close to her own age.

However, I did manage to get her a really awesome Aunt.

Curly vs. Straight-More of a struggle than I though.

Over at Blissfully Domestic today I’ve posted about the moosh’s curls, and the fact that she watches me get rid of mine every morning. Am I setting her up for self esteem issues? Or am I reading too much into it?

Gah.

Head on over and get the full story.

A Mother’s Lurve.

I never wanted kids. Even in the delivery room with my ankles by my ears I was seriously rethinking the decision to bring a needy, dirty, messy, loud, life encompassing being into my life.

It didn’t come easy to me, the whole mothering gig. I still don’t feel like it does. A while ago I admitted to not loving her right at first. And there’s still days that I count down the minutes to bedtime. Parenting is, well, amazing. Watching them “get” things you’ve taught them. Having “I love you mommy” whispered into your ear. the moosh is so much a part of my life after four years that we’ve become a team. We are left alone so much we have a relationship that she may never have with anyone else. That I may never have with anyone else. It baffles my mind how well I know her, how well she knows me. This doesn’t mean that parenting is easy by any means, it sucks sweaty dog balls sometimes. And yet I am so grateful that I get to be the one to be her mom, that I get to be with her, through good times and big hairy tantrums. And through it all, for the most part, the job of a mother stays thankless. But I’m okay with that.

What I’m trying to say, is that when the beast is asleep and I’m left looking at pictures of her something happens in my chest that I have yet to find a way to describe. Maybe you other moms know what I’m talking about. It’s a tingle. A swelling of your heart, a quickening of your pulse. An intense desire to go in the other room and kiss that little chubby sleeping hand that smells of cookies and bananas. To pick her up and rock her because these days are so numbered. To feel her wispy little hairs tickle my nose, to hear her slow soft breathing. To nuzzle my nose into that warm spot right on the back of her neck that always smells of sunscreen.

Sleepy.

I love her so much it hurts.

How I think of her.

She’s growing up so fast.

First day of Ballet

I hope one day she can realize that her mom loves her so much that she can’t even find words to describe it.

Curls.

And I hope one day she will have a little person of her own to care for and that she will be knocked flat with an overwhelming indescribable love for the warm little body in her arms.

Hands.

While I want everything in the world for her, I want nothing more than for her to be happy.

You will always be my baby, moosh.