The Evolution of Snickerdoodle

M: Iris, are you two years old?

I: Yeah Mommy, I two (holds up seven or so fingers). I cookie!

M: Iris, how old are you?

I: Mommy, does Elmocize? Eat pepper? Elmocize? I cute.

M: Iris, how old are you?

I: How old are you?

M: I'm 29. How old is Iris?

I: Mommy nine. Iris cookie.

M: How old is Iris?

I: Iris cookie.

M: Iris, is your birthday so soon? How old will you be on your birthday?

I: I cookie.

M: You're cute, ya little weirdo.

M: Iris, how old are you?

I: Iris cookie, Mommy. Mommy! Iris cookie!

M: Iris, are you two?

I: Yeah Mommy, I two.

M: Iris, are you a cookie?

I: Noooooooooo. Silly Mommy.

M: Iris, how old are you?

I: Iris two.

FBK!

Francis Bacon Kelley

Fezziwig Bartholomew Kelley

Ferris Bueller Kelley

Fable Birch Kelley

Flotsam Backseat Kelley

Fairywings Blitzkrieg Kelley

Feta Bluebeard Kelley

Future Baby Kelley. Do not doubt my ability to maintain these initials after the baby is born.

Morning Glory

Well, I have morning something, but I doubt you'd be inclined to call it glory, unless you consider hugging the toilet to be a glorious endeavor. It's a nice image on which to focus (the flower, not the throne hugging) however, when one is attempting to hold onto their cookies in line at the grocery store.

Flowers are pretttyyyyyy

It actually happens at night. Typically I get the first wave around 6pm, and it hums in and out of focus till I go to sleep. There are also the errant sneak attacks that seem to happen for no reason. This morning around 9:30 was particularly bad, but I was also really stressed out, and kind of hungry. What's extra neat about this whole thing (I'm not even sure if I'm being sarcastic here), is that I have yet to actually vomit. I sure would like to. It seems like I might feel better if I could, but no. Just bone tired, achy joints and muscles, and the severe urge to lose my lunch. Don't you worry though, I will be SURE to update everyone the moment I cross that bridge!

I was supposed to have my first ultrasound today. The doctor I see does an early ultrasound, then the regular one at 20 weeks. It had to be rescheduled because the nurse who originally figured out my dates figured them incorrectly. My due date is correct (according to her chart, 10/03/11), but she told me last week that I was almost 6 weeks pregnant. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't hear it, so she scheduled the ultrasound for today. I was pleased with that result, since it got me look at the kiddo sooner than I thought I should get one. Turns out that today would have been too early to see anything. Like, ANYthing. A different nurse (I like to think of her as the one with the brain) called me to explain today that, while I was perfectly within my rights to keep my appointment today, it was unlikely that I'd see anything at all; certainly not a heartbeat, and perhaps not even a mushy sac-shaped thing.

So my first ultrasound will, really for real this time, take place on Friday, February 11th at 9:30AM. I'll pop in here afterward to share the first photos of the kiddo. Perhaps by then we can decide on a fun in-utero name. The Whiz is just such a difficult act to follow! Kyle and I had been referring to the baby as FBK (Future Baby Kelley) before it was conceived, and of course there's Iris' idea (Dido/Lola). I guess I've been calling it the kiddo, but that's a little generic, don't you think? I suppose if all of this awesome yakking-esque fun time continues, I might start calling it Captain Gut Muncher or something equally savory.

It's Stuffing

I had this teacher... let's call her Mrs. S. She was my sixth grade math teacher. Awful woman. She was like 4'3", ex-nun, used guilt and humiliation as her main guidance tools, and had an Irish brogue so thick you were sure to misunderstand her, thus garnering her ire at all points throughout the day. She had one saving grace though, and that is that all of these points of data added up to be one seriously funny individual, as long as her attention was not pointed at you.

Mrs. S hated the snow. I seriously don't know if I have the vocabulary to adequately explain her complete disgust with all things snow and snow related. Perhaps because she was such a tiny pocket pal of a lady she was just that much closer to the ground, and on much more intimate terms with the snow. I imagine intimate terms with snow would be right uncomfortable. I don't really know. This extreme contempt was so thorough that she refused to even speak the word snow. Mrs. S called it stuff. "It's stuffing outside," Mrs. S would scornfully announce. Of course, one might only discern that those were her words after having been in her presence for at least a year. That accent was seriously challenging to decipher. And of course, when she's the sixth grade math teacher, that indicates she's only likely to be one's teacher for a grand total of one year. It was a blessing and a curse, knowing she'd only be around for that one year, but also that her language was not likely to be translated by her wards until that year was nearly up. She was a tiny, scary, hateful woman, and she still cracks me up to this day. Crazy lady.

Anyway, on to the point: It's stuffing outside.

Fig. 1: The road in front of my house

Fig. 2: My driveway

We are about six inches into what promises to be at least two feet of snow, interspersed with layers of ice and such, just for funsies. We will not be leaving our house for at least three days and while we thought we were fully prepared for the onslaught, we failed mightily in one very important area. We just ran out of coffee. Pray for us.