How to Turn A Sweet, Gentle Mother Into a A Shakespearean Curse Hurling Demon: Sleep Training

Have you ever wondered what a text conversation between Andrew and I looks like?  Well, here's one from last week:

 I can't do sleep training. I'm going to find whoever came up with it and punch them  

  brutally in the face. With a feather duster filled with pepper. Cayenne pepper. 

 2:35 PM  

Satan is the father of all lies, misery, and sleep training.

2:39 PM

Hahaha
2:40 PM

What is the purpose in abandoning your child to cry himself to sleep? 

Are we trying to teach him that no one hears him or cares?

2:41 PM

And leaving your child to sleep in a puddle of their own snot and tears seems cruel.

2:41 PM

 I bet flies and mosquitoes were in on the sleep training plotting committee. Few other creatures could be so vile and heartless.

2:43 PM

There is no joy or beauty any more. Only sadness, tears, self-loathing, and a lot of snot.

2:46 PM

I'm going to take one of those giant nerf guns with the big rotating rounds, and instead of darts, I'll use eclairs. Only instead of delicious eclairs, I'll make them of salt pastry cream flavored with anti-plague, and use playdough instead of profiterole. That way, when the hard-hearted stone creature who thought sleep training was a great invention gets hit with eclairs, he'll get excited and eat a bunch- and then he will be ingesting agony of the acutest sort, agony second only to sleep training. The agony of disappointed taste buds. 

2:51 PM

The church is true. That means that somehow Charlie knows that I don't hate him and the Evil One will get his just rewards. Rap, tofu, hangnails, overly scratched DVDs that won't play, and eternal spinach between the front teeth are just a few of those rewards. 

2:55 PM

 The Princeling is asleep now, but I'm too emotionally drained to shower. I'm going to go undo my morning workout by drowning my sorrows in the leftover brownies. And maybe some apples and peanut butter.

2:57 PM

Wow... Such vitriol... Those are some harsh curses. 
2:58 PM

If you and Hermione ever dueled, you would crush her. She wouldn't even know what hit her. She'd never stand a chance against you. 
3:02 PM

Such anger has been stirred in this mother's breast! Anger fueled by sorrow great, and woe unbounded. Anger seethed with lust of vengeance, vruel and swift. Anger shall bring this mother forth with haste, anger shall make her hunt brief in its rapidity, and anger shall make her heart deaf to the pleading of her prey. Anger shall deny her quarry of any refuge, anger shall defy her quarry's every attempt of respite, anger shall decry her quarry's infamy and disrepute. Anger shall be her release, and his captivity.

3:04 PM

And thus we see that hell hath no insanity in pursuit of vengeance like a mother of child scorned.

3:05 PM

 All done now.

3:06 PM

*Shakespearean-like applause*
3:07 PM

Charlie woke up again, so I ran in there, seized him to me, and now we're cuddling and eating. :)

3:20 PM

...can I quote you on any of this?
3:23 PM

 I like cuddles.

3:23 PM 

Not too soon to ask, I hope.
3:24 PM

Quote me? Like in a paper, or everyday conversation? Because if in a paper, we need to work out in-text citations.

3:25 PM

Sigh. 
3:27 PM

So... um... how is your day going? Anything interesting happening?

3:30 PM

Nope. Next to that Shakespearean tragedy, my day doesn't even merit a cheap paperback.
3:32 PM

Has the lad recovered from the traumatic episode? Have you?
3:35 PM

This day will go down in history as the day we all died on the inside. In other news, yes, we are doing a little better. How are you? :)

3:39 PM

Now for a bit of commentary:

Tashya: "I said what I said and I'll stand by it until death."

Andrew:  I would like to make a few points.  

First of all:

Voldemort is lucky that Tashya is not in HarryPotterLand (and as it turns out, Sauron and Middle-Earth too, respectively).  

Second:

I think I now more fully understand the language of the Old Testament.  It's very possible that Isaiah, Jeremiah, and others simply had children who would not sleep well.

Third:

 I think the little chap is doing even better than normal after the last couple of nights of this.  His mother, however, is at wit's end.

And now for a bit of art inspired by the above:

And one final note from Tashya:

Charlie really is a grand and wonderful baby.  None of this is a reflection on him, of course - just the evil souls who thought up the idea of putting a baby through something like this.

I would like to give thanks to people who were willing to lend me some great books, and share some personal experience with me. Rachelle, that book you recommended was pivotal in giving some insights. It makes a big difference if you understand what you baby might be trying to tell you about his sleep needs. So thanks.

Also, Charlie did really well when we tried this at bedtime rather than nap time. There was some crying, but not nearly as much as some other babies. The only good part about this whole thing (other than finding out that I have a penchant for horrendous hexes) was waking up the next morning and seeing the Princeling's happy smile and seeing that he still loved me. Relief and happiness! Charlie is the dream first baby, and always has been. I'm so glad he puts up so well with my parental blunderings. Together, the three of us make up a happy little family, and we feel so blessed. There is more to life than sadness, tears, self-loathing, and lots of snot. Life is actually quite wonderful.

Taking Your Child To Church Makes Him Naked

The first time Charlie went to church was the day of his baby blessing. He wore a smart little white romper made for him by his Grandmother Heim. Very dapper. His Grandparents Chelson and Uncle Spud were there all the way from Tennessee. All adored, fawned over, and cooed at the scrumptious little baby boy. After sacrament meeting and the blessing, we went outside to take some pictures to remember the auspicious occasion. Cameras were pulled from pockets, flashes were going off, successes being achieved, when there came upon us THUNDER BELOW.

I knew I needed to change his outfit before his bright yellow poop became a beacon of incorrigible childhood shining for all to see on the back of his stark white romper. That blessing outfit was intended for the use of all grandsons. I was supposed to give it back. I was supposed to not ruin it. And thus, I dashed off with great haste.

I rapidly tore (in a gentle, non-tearing sort of way) the romper off just in time to see yellow seeping through Charlie's white onesie, the way that ink starts pooling out and spreading when you hold a marker or a fountain pen to paper for too long. I had saved the romper! With my mother's help, I then changed Charlie into a fresh diaper and onesie, and we all set off home. I took with me the lesson that it is imperative to have a spare outfit, as well as diapers, in your bag at all times.

The next time the young Princeling went to church, we were out visiting my family. He wore a smart little sailor romper bought for him by his mother. Very dashing. He was finally big enough to wear it without swimming in it. (Strange how swimming in his sailor suit is undesirable. Ah well, fashion at its finest, I suppose.) We made it through sacrament meeting without incident. Sunday School was forgone in favor of feeding the young Prince and chatting with Mum in the mother's lounge.

But then he needed a diaper change.

Mother set Charlie on the changing table while I gathered the necessary equipment from my bag. Everything was going smoothly until Charlie felt the need to shower us with his blessings.

Mother and I managed to save ourselves. but Charlie's debonair little suit was quite wet, even his as yet unfastened and formerly fresh diaper. I victoriously pulled the extra onesie out of my bag, and we set about changing the lad for a second time. Once cleaned and clad only in onesie, socks, and blanket, we deemed Charlie decent and adjourned to Relief Society.

Where I stayed for only about ten minutes. Talk about some thunderings down below!

After begging pardon for my savage son's comportment, I excused myself from the room, taking with me the pack of wipes, a diaper, and my sister Megan. Megan actually came because she wanted to, not because I picked her up with other diaper changing accouterments. We got Charlie on the changing table again, and got his little bottom all cleaned up, and as the diaper was going on, Charlie struck us once again with his benevolence.

After the Prince had finished, we took stock of the damage. Charlie was wet. His clothes were wet. His socks were wet. His diaper was wet. And he was upset. I quickly set to work stripping him of his wet things, and took a fresh diaper (a size too large) from the emergency stash in the mother's lounge. Fortunately, his blanket had been set down on a chair away from the scene of the incident, and was therefore dry. Instead of being able to victoriously reach into my bag for some more clothes for my son, I was reduced to wrapping my naked-save-for-a-diaper child up in his blanket. Good thing that he likes being swaddled.  He remained naked until we returned home and I was able to get more clothes.

The next time Little Man went to church was this recent Sunday. He wore a onesie and some sweatpants. Very comfy. We were running late to get to our 8:30 meeting time, and efficiency and speed were the names of the game. Actually, the predominate name of the game was try not to wake the baby as we get him ready for church now. And we played that game pretty well until we actually got to church, at which point Charlie required my attention in the mother's lounge. I missed just about all of sacrament meeting.

By the time I had calmed Charlie to sleep, Andrew had already reported to his duty of nursery helper, so I went to Sunday School. On the way, I was stopped by my friend Aleece. She presented me with a pair of pants that went with an outfit she had given me for my baby shower months ago.

During Relief Society, the young Prince required feeding. I once again retired to the mother's lounge. I was burping him afterwards, when rather than a burp from his mouth, he presented me with what Andrew affectionately calls an Australian burp, due to the fact that this form of belch resounds from down under. I made my way to the changing table. I pulled off his sweats and noticed that they were soiled. SOILED. As was his onesie. I changed his diaper and stripped him down of his dirtied things.

I rummaged about in my bag, and found a spare onesie. And then, thanks to Aleece, a small pair of pants came out of my bag.

Thanks to Aleece, the cycle of Bring Your Baby To Church Dressed, Bring Him Home Naked would perhaps be broken. Aleece, to you, I give my sincerest gratitude. Thank you for saving me from looking like a horrid mother who doesn't dress her child before taking him out but really had spare clothes all along but not enough. You're a real pal.

And thus we see that taking a little boy to church can be a perilous adventure, full of much clothes changing, diving for cover, and memory making. I will from here on out be keeping more than one spare item of clothing in my bag when I go out with our little boy in tow. otherwise, he just might end up naked. Lesson now learnt.

PS. I found the camera!

Fits of Pregnancy Madness Vs. Phantom of the Horridly Horrible Haircut

A month or two ago, I was thinking about my personal appearance, and I decided that I needed to have my bangs trimmed a bit. They were constantly falling into my eyes, and I felt like I looked a bit too emo for the sheer amount of pink that I consistently insist on wearing. And then, it happened. In a fit of pregnancy madness, I seized some scissors, and attempted to trim and style my bangs on my own.

A big mistake.

I lived with my mistake instead of going to get it fixed in an attempt to impress upon me this valuable lesson learned: Don't. Just don't. I also lived with it because I have some awesomely wide headbands that don't give me headaches and cover up most of my bangs. That meant I didn't have to see my bangs, or let anyone else see them, while they were growing back out.

Fast forward to last Saturday. Andrew has been pining for a haircut for some time, but he's afraid to go in anywhere to actually accomplish the job. Why? Because haircut people down here are insane, and don't really know how to cut his hair without making him feel like a foolish child. They always cut it too short in the back, so that it sticks up all over the place, instead of listening to him and giving him a haircut like Han Solo's. Maybe haircut people down here just don't watch Star Wars by rule.

But it had gotten to the point where it was either look like a foolish child with rebellious hair, or look like a slob. I don't like when he gets his hair cut because I like the curls that form on the nape of his neck. Andrew prefers looking like a gentleman with tidy hair. I support gentlemanliness, so I allow him to get his hair cut.

We went to a hair salon- actually, lest you gather from the word "salon" that this was a fine or spendy establishment, I shall be frank. It wasn't. It was Great Clips. But it is possible to get a good haircut there. We were ushered to our stylish stylists' chairs at the same time. And thus began the horror.

I will take a moment to say that the girl cutting my hair did an excellent, albeit incredibly slow, job with the back of my hair. Some stylists have a hard time with long layers, but she was wonderful with that task. I was very pleased with how my layers came out. That being accomplished, I will now inform you of what happened to the front of my head. I asked her to start the bang at my right eyebrow, and swoop it down to my left cheek bone. A side bang. A swoop bang. Here is a picture of what I could see since the stylist was standing directly in front of me and was blocking the mirror.

That large mass of pasty whiteness is my skin, yes. And that horrible claw-like appendage is meant to represent the stylist's hand. But pay more attention to the hair flying everywhere. She didn't put any water on my bangs, so with every snip of her sheers, hairs shot out explosively like so many bits of shrapnel. That especially large brown blob was a hair that tried to take up residence in my eye. I kept my peepers firmly shut after that, but I could still feel the little rain of hairs sticking to my nose, cheeks, and lips. At one point, the lady actually dabbed at my face with a cloth to try to alleviate this surfeit of unattached hairs.

But the worst part of it all was this: Look at how she's cutting my bangs. In a straightish line. Does that look like a swoop to you? Nope. It doesn't. And if you tried to say yes, you're wrong, because it doesn't look anything like a swoop. Go get an education.

When she stopped to ask me how I liked it, I just stared in the mirror for a moment. They were very short bangs. Very short. I saw that she had added a bit of a slant to my bangs. Unfortunately, instead of being a sweeping swoop from one side to the other, it started and ended within half an inch. Right at the end. It looked something like I had tried to do it. Since I had asked her to feather it a bit (I have very thick hair), she grabbed her thinning sheers, and snipped at my bangs. That meant that half of my bang hairs were short than the other half. Right next to that cowlick on  my forehead. Yup.

Basically, if you spread and curve your fingers into a claw formation, as if you're pretending to be a monster or something, and then stick that up by your hairline, that's what my bangs looked like.

Since she was waiting for an answer, I turned to ask Andrew what he thought.

He wasn't at all reassuring. I looked back in the mirror, then smiled at the lady, and said, "All done now."

We paid, then left. However, instead of being able to rush home and fully assess the damage done, we had to go grocery shopping. As we walked into the store, a breeze rushed past us, lifting my hair as if I were in some commercial. Only, I don't know what I was advertising. Maybe something like this: "Get your hair cut, and you too can walk slow-mo through a door with bits of hair shrapnel flying off behind you and your bangs sticking all about like a hideous loon!" Not very persuasive. Too bad I was the poster child.

When we were home, I decided that I would just have to wear my faithful old gray headband until my bangs grew back. It was too short to be able to fix with more cutting. I seized the headband and donned it. I dropped my head on the counter. My bangs were too short to stay up in the headband. Too short and sticking out all over the place. I wailed in frustration and went to bed.

The next morning was church. I managed to get my bangs to stay back with a double headband approach to styling. When I got home, I switched to my gray (more comfortable) headband, but kept the band just barely on the hairline. I looked pretty clever.

I started becoming worried that someone would bump into me and knock my headband off. Then I wouldn't be covered in its protective concealment. I knew that if that were to ever happen, dramatically loud chords from The Phantom of the Opera would instantly start playing, and that there would be screaming and general horror all about.

Then I would have to give up the one person that I loved, and go live by myself in a cave somewhere with a little toy wind-up monkey that played "Masquerade." And people might even try to kill me. Not good on either account.

So now I'm trying to decide which is better: Being seized by a fit of pregnancy madness and mangling your own bangs, or paying someone else to make you into the hair version of the Phantom. Only without that sheer musical genius, which at least would be an upside. But also without the homicidal tendencies, which is at least one bright point in all of this.

I think it's the fit of pregnancy madness - because at least that's free ugliness.

Small Sand Toddlers and Slithering Sisterly Tricks

I have multiple sisters. Several sisters. In fact, I have five sisters. Right now, two of them are out in Utah, one doing some student teaching (Megan), and one attending BYU (Bug, commonly referenced as Bugheera by myself). You may recognize Megan from some previous posts, including the story about how we both publicly humiliated ourselves and the speech I gave as her maid of honor. Bugheera is featured in some special Pictorials herself regarding stinky vans and her lousy inability to give directions. Sometimes these two girls manage to get together, and when they do, chaos is the third and permanent member of their trio.

Every Sunday night, my family gets online to video chat via Google Plus. I love hearing stories and seeing faces. It's a great way to stay in touch. But if Megan and Buggy happen to be at the same place while we're trying to talk, then it's more like the rest of us watch them giggle and do lots of this.

That makes it hard to understand anyone at all. But I did manage to hear two stories that I felt deserved some pictures.

One weekend, Buggy and Megan decided to hang out together. On Sunday, they attended church. Bug was hungry during Sunday School, and went for a snack. Apparently, it was the wrong snack to bring into a meeting, because it just so happened to be the most difficult to manage victual in the world.

Megan insisted that she knew the best way to open this treacherous granola bar without making crumbs explode everywhere like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Bug pointed out that the package was already opened, and that Megan's benevolence may in fact just make things worse. Bug lost the fiercely whispered argument, and was promptly proved right when Megan managed to make a mess of it all. The entire granola bar disintegrated in the wrapper. Megan stuffed it under her seat.

If Megan and Bug had been the only attendees at this Sunday School, that trick may have worked. However, a little toddler was also present. He saw the wrapper under the seat and went straight for it. He seized it. He waved his prize about, bellowing like that savage Sand Person from Star Wars, the one that hits Luke upside the head and then raises his stick aloft.

And in case you have no idea what that picture is supposed to be or why it's funny, here. Educate yourself.

The actions of this miniature Tusken Raider gave his surroundings a gentle rain of granola bar crumbs, exactly what Megan and Bug had been desperately hoping to avoid. Whoops.

Later, Megan and Buggy were at home, and decided to try out some fun balancing games. Megan thought it would be a good idea to see if she could balance sitting atop Bug's feet. Megan could feel herself beginning to wobble, but she was determined to give Bug the benefit of the doubt, seeing as Buggy's so strong and all.

It turns out that Megan should have gone with the self-preservation instincts.

Because Megan just wound up square on her noggin, scrunched up like an accordion, and probably sounding like one, too. Bug was most likely laughing uproariously.

They shared these two stories with me, and I laughed at them. I was inspired to make some art out of it. This is a little post to tell my sisters that I love them, and to thank them for the laughs.

Sisters, I love you. Thank you for the laughs.

That is all.

NOTE: Thank you to all who are enjoying The Story and saying nice things about its entertainment value. Andrew and I rather enjoyed reminiscing, even if we didn't enjoy living it at times (the awkward bits). If you missed the last installment, it's The Zero-eth Date. Cheers to reading!

The Maintenance Man: A Thriller

We live in an apartment complex. That means that sometimes management sends around people for maintenance checks, appearance upkeep checks, and the suchlike. On occasion they send out notices to say that the maintenance people will be coming into your apartment, and they give you a two-week period of when that will happen.

I don't always handle these situations very well. Especially after an experience I had when we first moved here, and a guy came over while Andrew was gone, and he was here for several hours, and I was uncomfortable and couldn't really get him to leave. I didn't open my blinds or make a noise (seriously, I didn't even play any music) for weeks after that because I was afraid that he or someone like that would come back. I was a bit like the Grinch when he was sliding about, slithering on the floor to get places.

And I don't know if you know this, but some pregnant women have incredibly active, horrid, graphic, and horrifying nightmares. Suffice it to say that with my already overactive imagination, I've had enough nightmares of a certain nature to be afraid of anyone being in my apartment ever.

A while ago, there was an apartment wide pretty-fication going on, and that included people coming over and switching out the window blinds. Now this was a very good thing seeing as one of my blinds had fallen off and broken, and I was using a scroungy looking towel in its place. Very attractive. But I'd lately had a string of nasty nightmares regarding ruffians of the worst sort breaking in and becoming violent.

Andrew was at work, and I was feeling jittery, so I called Mama up for our not-regularly-spaced-out-but-frequently-occurring chat. I was lounging on my bed, gabbing away with Mama, telling her about the dreams in all of their horrifying and disgusting detail, when I heard something faint and eerie. I stopped talking. It was the sound of a deadbolt sliding. Someone was trying to get into my home while I was telling Mama about my nightmares about people trying to get into my home! I have two deadbolts, one of which can only be operated from inside, so the intruder couldn't come in. But someone was trying to get into my house. And I was absolutely terrified.

"I think someone's trying to break in," I whispered to my mother. I peeked my head around the bedroom door frame, and the deadbolt actually was moved. It wasn't my imagination. I could hear someone pushing against the door to open it.

But of course, that quickly became this.

And I backed into my room, closed and locked the door, and looked around, trying to figure out what to do. I decided that if someone actually made it in, my best option was to run screaming through the bedroom window.

Never mind the fact that I live on the ground floor. That, along with most other facts, is irrelevant in my zoom out scenes of dramatic intensity.

My heart was beating so frantically that I almost couldn't hear my mother on the phone. I was seconds away from bursting through the window panes when I heard:

THUMP! THUMP! "MAINTENANCE!"

Maintenance? MAINTENANCE? I completely collapsed on the bed. Why hadn't they STARTED with that approach, instead of just trying to let themselves in?  Andrew:  Though, with the way that Tashya and her mother talk, and all the way in the back room, who KNOWS how long they were there knocking first! My heart started slowing from its pittering hysteria to beats so hard that they actually hurt my chest.

The knock and bellow came again. I didn't move. After nearly killing me with fright, they deserved to be inconvenienced by having to come back again later.

Mama spoke soothingly to me between spurts of spouts against that kind of behavior. And when Mama had to end the phone call, I just stayed on my bed, quivering under/in/around/on top of/through/tangled in my fuzzy pink blanket.

I didn't go out for lunch. I didn't get up for the afternoon. For hours, I hid, not willing to make sounds lest those people (who were portrayed in my imagination as the baddies from nightmares) come back and demand entrance to my home. Andrew had a real lump of joy to work with when he got home that evening. Good thing he's so wonderful.

But that was a few months ago. This time was different. I received a notice of entry for a routine maintenance check they do once a year. It was scheduled for one day, not a two week time period. I planned an outing to the library to avoid any scary encounters, find a book or two, and work on one of my writing projects (which, according to my sisters, is a very desirable read- I want to read it, too, and I'm mad that someone else hasn't written it so that I could just READ it already!). After a nice morning tidy, I was trying to decide between having a post-lunch nap, doing the dishes, and going to the library when I heard a voice outside my open window. He sounded older. I heard him say, "I've got to go now, honey. I have a lot of work to do. I love you." I thought he was adorable, and continued on trying to decide what to do.

It turns out that the adorable conversation maker was going to make my decision for me. There was a gentle knock on the door, which I opened to find a cheerfully smiling older man. He was standing there calmly, and politely asked if he could come in and do some maintenance.

I was so pleasantly surprised that I actually let him in. I did dishes while he did maintenance. He saw my open scriptures on the table, and gave me an approving smile. He asked if I went to church, and we talked about where we worshiped. I apologized for the baskets and boxes in his way- we're trying to make room for our baby. He gave hearty congratulations, and told me about his family.

So I, Natashya, did something brave today, and I didn't even almost die as a result. Rather, I met a kind maintenance man who loves his wife, and whose cheerful smile made me smile in return. I liked today much better than that time I didn't answer the door and was almost murdered in my bed by someone not even in my apartment. Which, you have to admit, would actually be pretty impressive.

Pregnancy: What Happened During the Second Trimester (Because We're Already Done With That)

So the last post overlaps with this one, but they seemed separate enough in my mind to make this one its own feature presentation. This is about what I did during my second trimester. There were some ups and downs, and this is a very brief overview of it all.

1. I waged a fierce war against those creatures who came in swarms during the Year of the Ant. The year that we moved into our apartment, it was the Year of the Cricket. I panicked a lot that year, though Andrew just kept repeating "DON'T PANIC" to me, as if that would help. During the last several months of 2013, we had different waves of invasions from about a plethora of ants. Maybe a myriad, I'm not sure. But they were all over in our closet (THEY GOT INTO MY LINEN CHEST!), and the kitchen was almost drowning in ants. Drowning! In a non-liquid substance!

This is a picture of me trying to clean out the pantry. Many of the cabinets are taller than I, which made it difficult to reach the whole depth of the cabinet without momentarily floating midair. More like kicking frantically while trying to keep my footing on the chair that I was standing on. Real safe, real attractive. I took everything out of all the cabinets and wiped them down. We got little ant food poison traps and placed them all over. Andrew had to keep me from going all Rambo on the ants with Raid, since he was concerned about the logistics of a pregnant lady inhaling a whole can of the stuff. He had a good point.

2. I continued seeing my chiropractor, because he helps make things better. Especially since my lower back felt the need to throw itself out of place all the stinking time.

That's not actually a dinosaur trying to form on my back. That's just a representation of my lower back hurting, and what it's like. It makes me feel like an old lady sometimes, because I can't stand up straight or walk elegantly at all. But the chiropractor is wonderful, and he snaps that back in place, and I'm good again for a while.

3. We found out we're having a boy. If you missed that post, well then, here. Read it. At about 18 weeks along, we found out that Baby Heim is a wee lad. Here's a picture celebrating that. Little Boy Blue, fondly called Little Britches due to his love of Andrew's singing "The Bare Necessities of Life," already has his blog color picked out for him. That's him there, on my tummy. He's not in all of the pictures, since you can't really see him in real life yet. We're still waiting for that.

4. We traveled a lot. Basically, from the second half of November to the beginning of 2014, we were busy being little travel bugs. Andrew hadn't used hardly any of his vacation days last year, so we had a sizable chunk come holiday season.

For Thanksgiving, we went out to visit my family in Tennessee for a whole week, and I reveled in being surrounded by the people that I love most in the world. Megan and Ray were able to be there too, so the only people missing were the boys serving missions, and they were where they should have been: out serving the Lord by sharing the gospel. Aunt Debbie was visiting there as well, and it was great to see her again. During our time there, we ate quite a bit of food, I helped make one of the two turkeys (the menfolk barbecued and deep fried parts of the other turkey), I went shopping for maternity clothes with Mama, Bugheera, Aunt Debbie, and Andrew, we all made lots of music together, and Andrew finally got to hear some of Daddy's best stories. Whenever I reference one of Daddy's stories, Andrew looks at me all confused like. That confused look gets even more baffled when I try to tell the story myself. So it was good that Daddy could tell him the stories while we were there. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve sitting around and listening to Daddy tell his stories.

Christmas was a two week extravaganza over with Andrew's family in California. The weather was balmy just about the whole time, but I wore my snowman Christmas sweater vest anyway. Again, there was much food, family, and happiness. We were able to see brother Jacob and Shauna and their new (and adorable) baby girl Alana. We hadn't seen Jacob and Shauna since our wedding before that. There were holiday parties for both sides of the family, many gifts exchanged, some exciting moments with model rocket launches, and glorious memories made. And one awful gingerbread house that didn't really work out. But we're not going to talk about that right now, Jenna. Or about how smoky a thoroughly baked gingerbread can make a room. We'll not talk about that either, Jenna.

But you should ask Andrew what I got him for Christmas, because it puts me on top of the Year's Best Wife list. True story.

4.5.I got harassed. This is a half point, since I don't know where to put it. It started during vacations, and now I've become very paranoid. I don't know why people think that it's alright to touch a pregnant lady's belly without her consent, but some people think it is. Maybe it is for some women. I am NOT one of those women. During our vacations, some people felt it necessary to come over and touch my belly as confidently as if it were their own. I was not amused. I forgave them, since they were family, but I also started retreating further into my clothes, the couch, Andrew's shadow, or anything else that might afford me some protection and/or diplomatic immunity. It basically got to the point where I was prepared to stockpile a supply of necessary defense mechanisms and go into the Tashya-Rambo mode I managed to avoid in the Ant Situation (see #1).

There is a saying: "It takes a village to raise a child." Whether or not that saying is true, it does NOT take a village to make a child. Whether or not that saying is true, it does NOT make a child in utero the public property of all persons passing by. If you feel the need to rub something round, and your stomach isn't large enough to fit the bill, blow up a balloon or something. Leave the woman alone unless she gives you the indication that she'd welcome otherwise. You don't touch my tummy when I'm thin and normal, you don't touch my tummy when it's fat with child. We'll just be happy in mutual non-tummy touching. Rant over.

5. I got maternity clothes, and rejoiced in the stretchy pants.

6. I still opted for Andrew's clothes a majority of my lounge time (and still do). His wardrobe options became smaller as certain of his items were annexed for my own personal use. But some of the items, like his sweater, were better after he'd worn them once so that they would smell like him. He couldn't seem to find them where he'd left them, though.

7. I started cleaning things up and trying to make room for baby. I went through closets, cabinets, and corners. I was cheerful like a princess. After I failed at the Snow White song since I am completely and totally incapable of whistling, I decided to move on to Cinderella. I always fancied the idea of singing in harmony with myself via the power of bubbles. And yes. I do have a pink broom.

8. I kept cleaning and organizing and rearranging. I had to move furniture around to make things fit better. Don't let anyone tell you that I lost the muscle I gained moving dry wall for Daddy all those years ago. I can still pick up and move a good bit of weight. But I had a hard time when I realized that we would have to get rid of one of our couches to make room for a rocking chair. But it was the first piece of furniture we got as a married couple! I was very attached to it, much to Andrew's bemusement. I didn't let it go very easily. I really clung onto it.

9. I broke down and cried because of all the cleaning and organizing. I went through boxes that hadn't been organized since we'd been married. That got to be overwhelming. Piles grew everywhere. Everywhere. No room was clean for two days in a row, because space cleared was then used to clean another space out. That had the tendency to make me frustrated, tired, and ready to be done. This didn't help with the next item, either.

10. I dealt with severe emotional instability that baffled and irritated me more than even Andrew. And that was not a happy thing. As a girl who's never had much issue with mood swings, this got rather old quickly. I annoyed myself with my hormones. But you know. I guess that's just part of pregnancy. Being irrational about being irrational hardly makes anything better. I started focusing on how I could improve my attitude about what I couldn't always control, and learn not to get mad at myself for bizarre reasons. And with those efforts, I became much happier.

And that's a bit of a synopsis of what happened during the second trimester.

Pregnancy: What I Did the First Few Months (An Answer for My Beehives)

A few weeks ago, I was in charge of the Beehive activity on a Wednesday night. We were having a lesson on budgeting and then decorating and gluing and flowering and taping and bejeweling little budget folders. All sorts of fun, right? And then one of the girls commented on my being gone from church for so long. As in, several months long. I told them that I had been ill during the beginning of my pregnancy. And then one of them asked, "So what were you doing for all those months? Just lying around all the time?"

And I stopped to think about it. I raised my eyebrow. I smiled. I considered the happy state of the those women who do not fall desperately ill during their pregnancies, and may even be able to carry on with normal lives and activities. In answer to that young woman's question of what I did for the first few months of pregnancy, here. I made this myself. A documentation of what it's like to make another person within your own person.

First of all, I didn't eat much.

Why? Because I couldn't. I had no choice in the matter. "Morning" sickness is the biggest misnomer in the book. It's actually breathing sickness, because you're sick every time you breathe, not just in the morning.

Andrew did his best to help me to eat healthily. He offered me some of my favorites.

Nope. No vegetables of any kind.

Definitely not. The very thought of chicken or turkey was enough to trigger my gag reflexes. And that went for just about any kind of meat. Just seeing raw meat had the potential to slaughter me. So no meat protein.

I love fruit. I always have. But I couldn't. Nope. No. Don't. No fruits. Andrew was pretty worried about the fact that I wasn't getting good healthy food in my diet. His parents and common sense were encouraging him to help me to eat like a healthy minded person. It wasn't working out for him.

As if the smells of warming pans (and therefore any cooking) didn't make me ill enough, the smell of cooking eggs could have me running for the toilet or any other receptacle. So none of that protein either.

Ever since I was little, I've loved pickles. I eat whole pickles straight from the jar. I eat whole jars. But not now. I couldn't even manage a healthy cereal like Raisin Bran. It's not like I don't like eating healthy food. I like eating. I could never be anorexic because I like food too much.

Andrew was desperate by this point. I mean, I was practically perishing for want of food.

Well, I had an idea at that point. It turns out that my stomach could handle tomato soup (which I downed by the can), and Marshmallow Mateys. This had the tendency to distress Andrew, seeing as neither of these are full of the variety of nutrients required by a normal person, let alone a pregnant woman. It didn't help that I couldn't even take my prenatal vitamins because they made me even sicker. Sicker than a dog. Sicker than a dog who sneaks into my room and eats all of my miniature peanut butter cups AND the goodies in the package from my aunt (which is an entirely different story, one that very much still has the power to rankle my goat's beard and cause me to wobble my fist violently towards all evil dogs).

Andrew broke down eventually because he realized that I needed to eat. Some husbands have to encourage their wives to eat veggies because they don't like them. Any time Andrew came at me with veggies, it turned, churned, burned, and genuinely destroyed my stomach and any chance of happiness for the day. It's not his fault. He's wonderful. So no one blame him for not helping me to get all of the nutrition that a pregnant lady needs, or they'll be answering to ME!

May I just add a thought here? I will, because this is my blog, and I can say and add what I please. Whoever writes those books and such about pregnant women eating all that healthy produce, low-fat dairy, and good protein MUST be: A) entirely too optimistic, B) a man, C) a woman who's never had a child or a lousy pregnancy, or D) just plain nuts. ESPECIALLY the ones who tell you to ignore your cravings if they're unhealthy.

Moving on. So eating is what I didn't do. What did I do? This.

I am really happy for those people who have good pregnancies, and who enjoy being pregnant. I know that they exist. I've heard of them, and I'm even friends with one of them. But I'm even more grateful for my mother, who was so disgustingly ill with her first pregnancy she couldn't eat hardly anything, and then went on to have another nine children after that. My mother is a true hero. She is wonderful. I call her a lot when I don't think that I can handle this any more. It's not fun being sick and being far away from your family.

And there are really nice people in the ward. My visiting teachers not only kept my secret (we didn't tell anyone outside the family for several months), but they also brought over dinner twice a week so Andrew didn't starve. Wasn't that so wonderfully nice of them? Shannon and Joy are the two best visiting teachers in the world. I don't think we would have survived without them.

When I was about 18 or 19 weeks along, I stopped being deathly ill all the time. That was good. Functioning is good. Being able to walk about/eat/bathe/act like a human and not a zombie is good. And at that point, Andrew and I started travelling for the holidays, so no one saw us for another few weeks. I think at one point people probably thought we'd moved out of the ward or something. But we didn't.

And now we're back. I'm 29 weeks along as of yesterday, and I've moved on to an entirely different set of pregnancy joys. Sore legs, for example. But that's an entirely different story, and one that isn't as entertaining as what I did during my second trimester.

But you'll get that next Pictorial.

Challenge of the Book Question Accepted!

Some of you may remember the fact that I am special. I talked about it a lot when I received the Liebster Award nomination from my friend Tanney on her blog Our Fairy Tale a week or so ago. Well, I nominated her in return because I like her and her blog. One of the questions that I posed for my nominees to answer is a genre of question that no book lover/English major/avid reader person enjoys answering. The questions that require them to pick AN book. Because you want to know a secret?

We can't. Picking just one is not an option.

I asked Tanney the following question: If you could be in any book, which would it be?

Well, Tanney answered, but not before issuing a challenge. She said, "Natashya!!! That's such a hard question! I expect you to answer it as well, either on the comments or make your own post about it! See how it feels to be put on the spot like that and go through the miles-long list of books you have read to see what book you would like to be in....(love you though)."

I'm glad that she reassured me of her love at the end of that rant. I was slightly worried. But I do accept her challenge. And I will see her challenge with some answers, and raise her some pictures. So there.

If Tashya could be in any book, which would it be? 

1. Pride and Prejudice, or First Impressions, by Jane Austen

Don't I look positively stunning in my Regency era garb? I think I look rather fetching. Much more handsome than barely tolerable or well enough or passable! Other than the fact that I love the story, there are several reasons that I wouldn't mind being in this story.

Elizabeth is the second of five sisters. I'm the second oldest, and the second of six sisters. Of course, I also have four brothers, so my count does go up a little bit, but that's alright. I still feel a connection with Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is first fascinated with Elizabeth's fine eyes, beautiful and expressive. Now, call me a proud soul, but I have always fancied myself to have rather fine eyes. Andrew likes my eyes, you can ask him. He thinks they're beautiful. And of course, there is the very strong reason that this book became even closer to my heart. The original title of Pride and Prejudice was First Impressions. Our love story is a story of first impressions and what happens when you can overcome them. For more information, please read The Story. 

2. Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

I love Shakespeare a lot. I really love this one. It's all about two people who are excellent verbal sparring partners, but hate the snot out of each other. And actually, that might be a useful side effect if you had a nasty cold. But they didn't have colds. They are also nosy, and fall for a trap set for them by their friends because of it. If you haven't read or seen this one, you should. The witty banter and quick dialogue make for much laughter. 

3. Star Wars by good ole Lucas

No, this isn't actually a book. Yes, this is Andrew's pick when I asked him what we would be in. Wouldn't we make a great Han Solo and Princess Leia? I will say that we're good with sass and words. I think that Andrew is better at fixing things than Han Solo, and all of our vehicles get us where we need to go. And we do have a mini itty-bitty key chain gun that makes tiny laser gun noises when you shoot it. If I did my hair right, sewed some yellow stripes on Andrew's pants, and hired some goons to chase us, it would be like we actually were living in Star Wars.

You know what? The truth is that I have many books that I like. I could have included The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, but after the horse, I didn't think anyone could stomach another animal drawing (just keep reading- you'll see soon enough). You want to know another truth? I don't want to be in many of the books that I like. They're great books, but they definitely aren't great fun to be in. For example, we have:

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

This is one of my favorite books. In it is one of the greatest lessons on redemption and charity that I have ever read outside of the Scriptures. A man is condemned, judged, for a transgression committed to save his sister's children from starvation. That man, Valjean, is changed when a Bishop buys his soul for God. Javert is the police man who chases Valjean throughout the years, and ultimately meets his demise because he cannot understand or accept that people can change, they can improve, they can be redeemed. And that's not even me going into all of the details and examples of how beautiful this lesson really is, and why it's important for us in our lives today. Maybe I'll go into that in another post sometime. However, for now, you have to admit that the book is just about the last place you'd like to be. Think about it. The very title means the MISERABLE PEOPLE. No. I think I'll learn from here.

Ben Hur by Lew Wallace.

In the same lines of favorite book-ness due to profound truths of the story, we have Ben Hur. Really, it's a wonderful story. Please don't let that horridly frightening horse turn you off of the book. You should read it. Don't let hatred and vengeance eat you from the inside out! And if you don't like reading books just for the lessons to be learned, then don't worry. I don't either. I don't like boring books. That's why I don't like Virginia Woolf. At all. But this book is filled with adventures and Romans and princesses and heroes who need to make very critical and pivotal decisions. It's a great read. And it's also filled with death, leprosy, and sorrow, which is the reason that I wouldn't want to be in this book either.

I have a lot of other books that I am fond of as well, and I would love to tell you all about them. In fact, my friend Michele and I are reading Oliver Twist and will be holding a discussion about it. If you'd like to read it as well, then great! Reading is great for your person and your mind. 

And, out of mild curiosity, I'd like to know. Which book would you like to live in?

Almost Murdered and Almost Murderer

*WRITTEN SATURDAY!*

Today was an interesting day in the life of Tashya. And by interesting, I definitely mean harrowing and life-threatening to the extreme! Or maybe there were two incidents that made today slightly less average than usual. But the manner of said incidents is what made them stand out. Both involved near death or maiming. Sorta. Or maybe you just had to be there. I'll see if I can recreate the scenes for you.

1. Almost Murdered

Have I ever told you that I love driving? If I did, I'm sorry. That was a lie. A downright dirty stinkin' lie. I'm generally a very honest person. I even announce when I'm about to cheat in a board game so that everyone knows in advance, so I doubt that I'd tell you as blatant a lie as me actually liking driving. I'm not a bad driver, I'm a safe driver. But loads of other people on the road tend to make nervous, especially if I'm the only one in the car.

Well, today I was out doing good in the world, and I was taught that Elphaba's song really is true: No good deed goes unpunished! I made some of my good brownies (and I mean, really good brownies. I really enjoy my brownies!) for a friend's Eagle Scout project thing, and took them over to his place to drop them off. I made it there alright, but on the way home, I really botched the job. I was trying to turn left onto a busy street from a side street, and it was kind of on a turn in the road. I waited a while, and then saw my chance. There was a small gap between loads of cars. I decided to take it!

I crept forward since no one was in the lanes going to the right, and prepared to gun it. The space came and opened before me exactly as planned! I gunned it exactly as planned! Only, I didn't. I missed the gas and hit the brake. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But by the time I got out into the lane and was going, the car was upon me, right on my bumper. And even though I was speeding up rather quickly, they did not slow down! I even went over the speed limit a little to try to get away from them, but that didn't work either! I was so glad to turn off that road into my apartment complex and leave the creepy tailer behind!

2. Almost Murderer

Andrew and I live in a gated apartment complex. We have little clicker remotes that open the three gates around the community. You don't need to click the button in order to get out, but if you don't click it, then you have to nose your car right up to the gate and then wait for it to open. It's faster if you use the clicker as you're approaching. Today my impatience with the gate almost maimed an innocent young woman.

Andrew, Teannka, and I were leaving to run some errands. Huzzah for the library! Hooray for mailing packages! Haloo for getting groceries! We got into the car, and started off towards the gate closest to us, which is around a sharp corner. I pulled my keys out in preparation for the clicking ceremony so I would be ready to speed our exodus from the apartment complex. When we turned the corner, we saw two people climbing over the fence to get out of the community. The guy had jumped down, but the girl was still crossing over the top. That fact registered about .5 seconds after I had clicked the button.

What had started as a button clicking ceremony to bring us out of the gate almost turned into a sacrificial ceremony offering up the girl's foot. Since her weight had been balanced on top of the gate, when it started to move, she fell forward. She didn't face plant because she caught herself on her hands, but her feet were still up in the air. It looked like an extremely showy push up that a guy could use to try to impress the ladies. Her foot got caught between the bars of the moving gate, and became lodged in the sliding gate as it continued to open. Fortunately, the good engineers who had designed the gate somehow incorporated magic into the machine so that it knew something was there, and it automatically closed again, releasing her foot.

Thank goodness that was over without anyone actually losing life and limb.

PS. I wrote this last Saturday. I'm not sure why it didn't go up. I am now busy with other posts, so I'm going to stop bothering with wondering if this post is quality or not, and just put it up. Have a nice day!