I should have known something was up when my husband started asking me questions about times zones, Greenwich Mean Time and Day Light Savings.  I could't properly answer his questions, but I did wonder what in the world he was up to.  Then, I saw him feverishly working away at his desk:

  I can't decided if it imploded or exploded.  What was this all about?  Why the pages upon pages of data?  Highlighted data at that.  Why on Earth does my adorable husband all the sudden have the urge to collect sun rise and set dates from the Astronomical Applications Dept. c/o U.S. Naval Observatory?

  It's simple.  My husband has declared war...on hogs.  It's true.  Wild hogs are running rampant, killing livestock and destroying fences and ranch and range lands.  My husband has made our home a command post for Operation Shock and Yeehaw.  God, I love him.  

So does this little girl

Wow.

  To say you make me proud is an understatement.  You are the man God made for me, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  I know I drive you absolutely crazy, but I am a constant work in progress.  You are so patient with me.  I don't know why on Earth you took me as your wife, but I am so thankful you did.  You are my before, now, and forever and always, Amen.

IWALYAYWABM

Seester

  See the girl in the leather motorcycle vest?  She's my sister.  Today is her birthday.  I thought I'd compile a photo essay of the items I found in her truck Sunday.  The below is totally true.  I wish I could have made this stuff up.

The Seester

The Truck

The Duck

The dirty, giant, obviously worn aTm belt buckle

van Gogh shot glass 

Photo of some sexy people circa 2000

I'm not even kidding

The boots

Before the boots?

Found in the glovebox? MY HUSBANDS' TIE.  What the hell, sister?

The Tunes

Louis Vuitton wallet and some ugly, cheap sunglasses.  (By the way, the van Gogh shot glass and the LV wallet were gifts from me from my travels abroad.  I try to keep it classy...even if it's only a shot glass.  I can only help my sister so much.)

Num Chucks

Spent bullet shot gun shells

  This concludes the photo tour of my sister's truck.  Can you believe they let this lady teach at the local elementary school?

  I love you, Seester.  Happy 26th Birthday.

  *Shalayne

Asphalt Flowers

...Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

"Where the Sidewalk Ends"

-Shel Silverstein

NINE!!!!

  Holy Cow.  The photo below sums up what it is like to live with my nine month old:

Um, yeah.

  I will not describe Sweet P to you myself at this point in her life.  I will use the words of others:

  "My, that baby is busy!"

  "She's going to be a talker."  (Heard that twice today.)

   "What a beautiful baby!"  OK, OK, shameless bragging right there.  

  My days are spent attempting to wrangle this baby and prevent her from causing self harm.  She is in to absolutely everything.  She can turn on the bathtub faucets, throw Cheerios into the bathtub, beat on the toilet like she's playing the drums for Ricky Ricardo, crawl quickly, climb small chairs, and attempts to stand all on her own.  Some call it determination, I say hellbent is more like it.  

  She touches everything.  This is wear my parenting might differ from others.  I grew up touching everything and still do, therefore, I let her explore her world by touching almost everything she comes in contact with.  This is why when I put her on my hip, she immediately points to the nearest light switches since they are now eye level.  We spend many minutes increasing our electrical energy consumption, and bill,  playing, "On, off, on, off."

  Of course, she has a few new pet tricks.  If you ask her where her nose is, she will point to the tip of her little nose.  She refuses to say "Mama", but is more than happy to say "Dada".  She will mimic words like hot, or bye, but I know she is not really saying them, just repeating the sounds we made.

  I'm afraid she will begin walking very shortly.  This is much too soon for me.  I tell her to knock it off, or I'll push her down.  (Very lovingly, might I add.)  I'm truly, truly in love.  Thanks be to God!

Yes, I cut her bangs.  No, I will not do that again.

The greatest feeling in the world:

Green Beans & AR15s

Just your average evening of cleaning your plate...and gun.

A photo essay of today's lunch.
Aptly named:

Notice the knocked down bouquet and tiny pea baby food spot.

Little happy feet punted lunch across the table.

On the rug and onto the wall.

Look closely at her shirt.  

A little too pleased with herself, I say.

Dairy Queen & Diaper Cream

  Finally.  Finally, finally, am I to the point in which I think I've got it together as an organized, on-the-ball new mom.  I can pack a diaper bag, suitcase, and load the Mom Mobile for a 5 hour road trip and make it to my destination with a happily napping baby.

  Dairy Queen screwed everything up.

  2.5 hours in to our return trip home, the P and I stop at Chick-Fil-A for chicken nuggets and a giant lemonade for me, and sweet corn casserole baby food for her.  I was proud of myself for ordering food, unwrapping a straw, and setting up a table, complete with high chair, all with one hand, as I carried an eighteen pound extension of me on my hip.

  Now, I'm not going to deny I didn't swell with pride when my fellow chicken lovin' restaurant patrons gushed over "little blue eyes".  (Their words, not mine).  I carefully dressed her in a soft pink, green, and white lace dress, matching bloomers with pink ruffles, and huge pink monogrammed bow.  Oh, and I just might have been wearing a pink dress myself.  Pathetic, I know.  But, this is what you do with baby girls.

  After lunch, we continued southbound.  I thought I'd treat myself to an iced coffee from none other than Texas' very own stop sign, Dairy Queen.  As I pulled into the parking lot, it became a reality that my 64oz lemonade had quickly and efficiently hydrated my body.

  "OK, I either potty dance uncomfortably the remainder of the two hours home, or I find a way to use the girls' room with an eight month old."  I thought to myself.  I chose the latter.  "Alright, I can do this!"  Why not?  The Chick-Fil-A lunch hour went so smoothly, surely, this too, would be a breeze.

  Baby on my hip, I hurried into DQ and pushed the door to the bathrooms open with my shoulder.  I try not to touch anything with my hands in a public bathroom for fear of catching an incurable disease.  I quickly realize this is going to be anything but easy and pleasant.

  Strike #1:  NO PURSE HOOK.  What the hell am I supposed to do with my beloved purple leopard print Betsey Johnson purse?  I run my hands under the bottom of my purse and feel four metal peg legs attached for such occasions.  I'd rather not, but I have no choice.  I silently apologize to my purse and reluctantly place it on the ground.  A disgusted shiver literally runs up my spine.

  Strike #2: UNNECESSARILY GIANT DOOR THAT OPENS TOO DAMN WIDE.  Why might this be a problem?  Let me tell you.  In order to shut the door properly, I had to back up, up, up until my leg TOUCHED the toilet bowl!  Another shiver.  Could have worn jeans, but nooooo, somebody wanted to be pretty princess mommy and wear in a pink dress like her baby.

  I will not go into detail how I maneuvered and contorted myself and a baby for the whole reason of visiting this bathroom, but I will tell you this.  As soon as I did...the baby did.  It was like our bodies were in perfect sync.  I made a mental note that I would have to change her in parking lot after I purchased a Mocha Moolatte.

  Strike #3:  NO PAPER TOWELS.  I hate hand dryers.  Anyways, I turned it into an exploratory opportunity for the baby and let her go to town under the heated wind.

  Strike # flippin' 4:  Every germ fearing public bathroom visitor knows why a lack of paper towels is nearly catastrophic, DOOR HANDLES.  This is were I'm sure P heard me say her first explicit.  Enter shiver number three.  There is not a skinny handle I can quickly grab, swing open, and then wipe my hand on my clothes like it is on fire.  It is a DOOR KNOB.  A sticky, grimy, trick door knob that does not open on the first time, thus ensuring ones' hand must grasp firmly for 2.5 seconds, or germ transmitting eternity, in order to open.

  Oh, and there were two doors.

  The only thing at this point that could possibly heal me of this experience is the original reason for my visit.  I grabbed my iced coffee and headed to the car.  Of course, it's an egg frying kind of hot day, so I am sweating and quickly losing my got-it-together-mom look.  I open the trunk which doubles as a traveling diaper changing table.  I am greeted with the most terrible looking diaper rash.

  It's 103 degrees and I am slapping extra strength diaper cream on my baby's hiney in a fast food parking lot.  I realize this is what my life has come to, Dairy Queen & Diaper Cream.  Soon, it will be Burgers & Boogers, or the inevitable finger point and loud declaration of some one who is large, elderly, bald, or missing a limb.

 Welcome to Motherhood.