Category Archives: Rants

Running from the Geese

There is a bit of an avian drama unfolding just outside my workplace, and it is nothing short of a Hitchcockian spectacle. A Canadian goose—a bird whose reputation for belligerence precedes it—has decided that the ideal spot to lay her egg is mere inches from one of our entrance doors. This, as you might imagine, has turned the simple act of entering the building into something akin to running a gauntlet.

The father goose, a creature of singular determination and misplaced aggression, has taken it upon himself to defend their makeshift nursery with the fervor of a medieval knight guarding a castle. To him, every passerby is an existential threat, and he greets them with all the subtlety of a dive-bombing fighter jet. Colleagues have been subjected to aerial assaults, honking tirades, and the occasional goose-to-head collision. It’s less “welcome to work” and more “welcome to Thunderdome.”

I, however, have managed to avoid being attacked. Perhaps it’s my aura of invincibility. Or perhaps I’ve simply been lucky enough to avoid crossing paths with this feathered vigilante on a bad day. Either way, I’ve had time to reflect on this goose’s antics and come to one undeniable conclusion: that bird is an exceptional parent. He would do absolutely anything for his unborn offspring—even if it means terrorizing an entire office building.

It’s humbling, really. There are days when I can’t even muster the energy to fetch my child a cold hot dog from the fridge. And here’s this goose, risking life and limb (well, mostly limb) to protect an egg. What kind of mom am I? Sure, I made my kids by eating food—a fact I like to remind them of regularly by declaring that their arms are made of barbecue chips—but they never believe me. It’s true though!

When I was pregnant with Cub, for instance, I subsisted almost entirely on Raisin Bran. Why? I have no idea. But I went through boxes of the stuff like it was going out of style. On one particularly memorable trip to California during that pregnancy, I ate nothing but Raisin Bran for four days straight. It was probably the cheapest vacation diet in history.

With Ozzie, my cravings pivoted dramatically to all things orange—orange Jell-O, oranges themselves, anything vaguely citrus-hued. Perhaps my body was crying out for Vitamin C? Who knows?

And then there was Wynn. For reasons I cannot explain (nor do I want to), all I craved during that pregnancy was concession stand nacho cheese—the kind that comes in plastic tubs and tastes like regret but somehow hits all the right notes when you’re expecting. Unsurprisingly, Wynn turned out to be my heavyweight.

Despite these peculiar dietary choices, all three kids turned out perfectly fine—living proof that you can build a human on cereal, citrus, and questionable cheese products.

But back to our goose friend: as much as her dedication impresses me, I can’t help but feel grateful that human parenting doesn’t require sitting on your children all day long like she does with her egg. That said, if anyone needs me later today, I’ll be sneaking into work through the back door while silently saluting Mr. Goose for his unyielding commitment to fatherhood—and hoping he doesn’t notice me on the way in!

Running from April Fools

I am, it seems, eternally surrounded by boys. Not just metaphorically, mind you—literally. They’re everywhere. I have three sons of my own, a husband who occasionally behaves like a fourth, and now, as if the universe thought I needed more chaos in my life, I’m coaching a boys’ volleyball team this spring. It’s as though some cosmic force has decided that my life’s soundtrack should be an endless loop of the word poop. Truly, the frequency with which I hear that word on any given day is enough to make even the most patient saint consider early retirement.

But here’s the thing about boys: they’re surprisingly easy to manage once you crack the code. Sure, they’re loud, messy, and occasionally baffling creatures, but they’re also refreshingly straightforward. Over the years, I’ve made a few observations about living in this testosterone-fueled circus. Consider this your guide to boy-wrangling:

1. They’re Predictable (Mostly)

Boys don’t tend to be particularly devious. They’re not plotting elaborate schemes or engaging in Machiavellian mind games. If you know where the dangers lie—sharp corners, precariously stacked objects, or that one kid who thinks he’s invincible—you can usually keep them in one piece. It’s less about strategy and more about constant vigilance, like living with a pack of hyperactive puppies.

2. The Five-Second Rule is Irrelevant

If it’s edible (or even vaguely resembles food), they’ll eat it. Dropped it on the floor? No problem. Found it under the couch? Even better! Boys have stomachs of steel and appetites that defy logic. I once saw one of mine eat half a sandwich he’d forgotten in his backpack for two days without so much as a second thought—or a stomachache.

3. They Speak First, Think Later

If there’s a filter between their brains and their mouths, it’s either malfunctioning or nonexistent. This habit is particularly grating to any girl within earshot, who will inevitably roll her eyes and mutter something about how boys are hopeless. And honestly? She’s not wrong.

4. Rocks Are Their Currency

I don’t know how or why this happens, but boys collect rocks as though they’re precious gemstones. You’ll find them everywhere—backpacks, pockets, jars, under couch cushions. Sometimes they’re special because they’re “shiny” or “cool,” but more often than not, they’re just regular old rocks that somehow hold immense sentimental value.

5. Practical Jokes Are Their Love Language

In my house, pranks are as essential as oxygen. As I sit here writing this from work, there is packing tape stretched across every doorway in my home—a delightful surprise left by my little April Fools enthusiasts. My mom has already reported that one of them walked straight into it (the irony is not lost on me). By the time I get home at 5:30 p.m., I fully expect to find at least one child tangled in tape like a fly caught in a spiderweb. This is my life.

And yet, despite the chaos—the noise, the messes, the endless supply of rocks—I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Life with boys is unpredictable and exhausting but also wildly entertaining. They keep me on my toes and remind me daily that laughter really is the best medicine… even if it’s occasionally at my own expense.

So here’s to boys: messy, lovable tornadoes of energy who will forever keep me guessing—and forever keep me laughing (even if it’s through gritted teeth).

This, folks, is why we run. I realize that April Fools’ Day is a metaphor for life itself—full of unexpected twists and turns, some humorous, others not so much. But running gives me the clarity to navigate these challenges with a bit more grace and a lot more humor. So, on this April Fools’ Day, I’ll keep running—both from the pranks and towards a clearer mind. After all, this is why we run: to find our footing in a world that’s always trying to trip us up.

Running from Reality: A Midlife Meander Through the Absurd

Let’s talk about expectations. When you’re knee-high to a grasshopper, do you envision yourself, decades later, as a 42-year-old survivor of both a stroke and the relentless existential dread that comes with being a modern human? Do you foresee a domestic landscape populated by a nine-year-old space expert (who knows more about black holes than I do about, well, anything), a six-year-old bottomless pit of a child (whose digestive system operates with the efficiency of a garbage disposal), a three-year-old dictator (who probably runs a tighter ship than most Fortune 500 CEOs), and a husband whose devotion to wrestling occasionally surpasses even his fondness for his long-suffering wife?

No? Me neither.

Life, as they say, has a way of rearranging the furniture. It presents you with a neatly packed suitcase of dreams and aspirations, then promptly throws it off a speeding train. You’re left standing on the platform, blinking in confusion, surrounded by scattered socks and a crumpled map of the world as you thought it would be.

And so, one finds oneself at an… interesting juncture. Not ungrateful, mind you. Gratitude is a very important thing and I practice it daily. But also not… entirely thrilled. Frankly, some days, the sheer weight of it all—the demands, the responsibilities, the unrelenting cacophony of tiny voices—can feel like trying to swallow a particularly dense and thorny cactus.

This, dear reader, is where the running comes in.

Because when life serves up a generous helping of the unexpected, you have two choices: you either roll over and play dead, or you lace up your sneakers and attempt to outrun the encroaching sense of… something. What that something is, I’m still trying to figure out. Midlife crisis? Existential angst? The lingering effects of neurological trauma? Probably a delightful cocktail of all three, shaken, not stirred.

Now, about that cactus. You could try to stomach it whole and learn to appreciate its unique flavor profile (a flavor that, I suspect, closely resembles despair). Or, you could opt for a slightly more palatable solution. Which is, in my case, a small, round, Lexapro-shaped lifesaver. Remember that thorny cactus? Well, this little pill helps to smooth down the spikes. Not a cure, mind you. More of a… temporary truce.

The reality, as I’m slowly coming to accept, is that some days the chatter in my head resembles a flock of startled parrots engaged in a heated debate about the merits of various brands of birdseed. Other days, it’s more like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing furiously around a nest of anxieties. Saturdays, in particular, can be perilous. With the structure of the workweek stripped away, and the schedule blissfully (or terrifyingly) sparse, there’s simply too much time to think. Too much time to ruminate. Too much time to engage in the delightful pastime of self-loathing.

The medication has quieted the noise, and the relief is palpable. But it’s also… unsettling. I’m calmer. Less anxious. Something I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like wearing someone else’s skin.

Here’s the kicker: I’m still trying to figure out who “I” am now. The stroke, the medication, the relentless march of time—they’ve all conspired to create a somewhat… unfamiliar version of myself. I don’t quite recognize myself. I haven’t been myself in about three years now, and I’m still trying to figure out where the trail leads. Am I back to myself? Am I a new version? Am I just out here, aimlessly running?

But this, surprisingly, is a happy post. Because in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a glimmer of something resembling hope. A sense of relief. The freedom to breathe, even if the air feels a little… different.

And, dear reader, you’re getting to witness it all unfold. As I stumble and fumble my way through this new normal, as I tentatively piece together the fragments of my former self, I’m sharing it all with you. You’re getting the real-time, uncensored, occasionally-slightly-medicated revelation of me. Aren’t you just thrilled? I know I am. Mostly. Well, sometimes. Okay, maybe only on Tuesdays. But still… progress!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a three-year-old dictator to appease. And a five-mile run to “escape” into. Wish me luck. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

But are you bleeding?

Let’s be honest: How many times have you yelled this up the stairs to your kids? If you immediately said daily, you can be my friend. Unfortunately, about 40% of the time the answer at my house is, “YES!” That doesn’t mean they are actually bleeding. I think they just know that that will actually get me to put down what I am doing and go upstairs to find out what is going on.

After yelling this ump-teen million times over the past few quarantined months (and my boys are only 5 and 2, so we have YEARS of this left), I started thinking about this exclamation in a difference light.

I tend to overthink, overanalyze, worry myself sick over things that will probably never happen. And through all my anxiety I end up wasting time and energy that isn’t necessary. Recently I decided to start using “But are you bleeding?” to my classify my worries. It is a good barometer for how bad things actually are. I will give you an example:

Yesterday, my husband (who is now a grade school physical education teacher, a story for a different day) text me to tell me that my son’s teacher is in quarantine because her husband tested positive for COVID-19. My initial thought was this:

Then the questions start up in my head-

-How much time has Cub spent with her since she has been exposed?
-Her son is also in Cub’s class, so how much time has Cub been around him since he was exposed?
-Cub sits next to her son in class, so how many things have they both touched that could potentially expose us?
-Has Chas been in contact with either of them?
-What if we have to quarantine?
-I don’t have enough groceries to feed these kids for 2 weeks!
-Does this mean I could sleep in?

The questions go on and on… You can get consumed in them. So here is where you apply my logic: But are you bleeding? In this situation, is it a matter of life or death? Well, it is COVID, so that leaves a few more questions. Fortuantely, none of us have pre-existing conditions that would warrant complete panic. Assuming we act responsibly, it probably is not a matter of death.

So, I don’t think we are bleeding. And even if we are, maybe just a trickle.

I can order online and pick up groceries at Wal-Mart, or my mother-in-law could pick them up for me and drop them off on our front porch. Another way to stop any bleeding.

Yes, everyone has probably been exposed. Fortunately everyone was wearing masks. We have not been contacted by the health department to quarantine. Winning!

Everyone is feeling fine. No symptoms to report. Winning again!

And if you did have to quarantine, yes, you might be able to sleep in. Well that would be major winning if we had to quarantine, but we don’t so its losing.

Anyway, that is how you stop the bleeding in about 27 steps. Any questions? Wait, what was I saying? Is confusion a symptom of COVID? And here we are, back to the beginning. No one died! Yay! But Lord, am I tired!

The harsh realities of parenthood

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.52.54I think one of my biggest fears in life is being the person that people dread walking in a room. And that’s not to say I want to be liked by everyone. That is impossible. Plus I hate most people, so I don’t expect them all to like me. But in this sense I mean walking into a room with my kid and someone whispering to the person next to them, “Oh no. Not them.”

Now, to clarify, when my boys start wrestling, and they walk into the gym I want everyone and their dog to say, “Oh No. Not the Thompson boys!” I just don’t want people saying that when we walk into pre-school, which happens to be the exact situation I currently find myself in. We are starting week 3 of pre-school with Cub. Let me just throw a few items out there so people know the situation:

  1. Cub turned 3 on June 28th.
  2. We don’t necessarily expect to send him to kindergarten when he is 5. We think 6 is probably going to be better for him maturity wise (and athletically).
  3. He has been potty trained for 4 weeks, but took to it like a champ and has only had 2 accidents in his 8 days. One of those accidents was during nap time, and the other was because the teacher didn’t get his pants off of him quick enough in the bathroom (yes, he still needs some help with the clothing stuff). I am not blaming the teacher…
  4. Last Sunday he had what I would consider a significant head injury. He was ankle tackled by a friend at a birthday party and smacked his head on a chair, I mean HARD, right across the bridge of his nose and left eye.
  5. He had just started talking around the first of May. He is hard to understand, but he is repeating everything you say and has a pretty good vocabulary if you listen to him. His annunciation is not great yet, but the difference from 6 months ago to now is REMARKABLE.
  6. Cub does have tantrums. He likes to get his way, but I in no way think that these are any different from most kids.

The first week of pre-school was challenging for Cub. It was the first time he went anywhere all day, all week. He was still sort of potty training so the whole situation was new for him. I got multiple calls from the teacher, checking in, talking about a tantrum or two he had thrown, but everything was pretty normal from my perspective.

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.53.00Week two started out terrible. I was having a very rough day at work, went to pick Cub up at 5 and was bombarded with a swift, “We think Cub should go home from 11-2 for lunch and nap. He can be here from 8-11 and 2-5, but let’s have him go home for lunch and nap.” By the end of the week the conversation turned to sending him to a special ed. pre-school from 12-3 everyday. I mean, can someone help me connect the dots? Cub doesn’t nap easily, but he had been in the new environment for just over a week, they have already jumped to the conclusion that they don’t want him in a traditional pre-school classroom. The reports I have gotten have been nothing but good in terms of his cooperation, his involvement in activities, and interacting with his peers. But apparently because he won’t nap and can’t enunciate the same way other kids do he is now special ed.

I mean honestly. How is that fair?!? The kid has barely had a chance in the class. It makes me very upset. If you don’t want my son in your class, if you are the person who in your head is saying, “Oh no. Cub is here,” then just let me know, and I will take my dollars elsewhere.

Just a little rant on a Sunday night, but man am I stressed at the moment. If these people had met Cub in March, they would never believe the amount of progress he has made in 6 months. I tell you, this kid is going to be something. He is a special kid. He is smart, physically gifted, and doesn’t miss a beat. Someday these teachers are going to say, “Hey! That’s the kid that I kicked out of my pre-school class.” I can’t wait for that day.

A new season is upon us

And that’s it.

Just like that, wrestling season is over.

I have a love/hate relationship with wrestling season. My husband loves it, and I love him. He is gone all the time, and I am at home taking care of a stubborn almost two year old by myself, so I hate it. I love the team, going to watch them in the room in the afternoon, watching them interact with Cub and of course seeing them wrestle when I can make it. I hate the hours upon hours of wrestling watched at my house, the countless recruiting calls made/taken, and the disappointment on my husband’s face when he has to deal with a situation that he doesn’t want to handle, like disciplining an athlete for violating the rules.

Tonight I got to watch my husband coach in the national finals, the pinnacle for any wrestler. I cried, and not because we lost the match. I cried because I was so proud. I am proud of my husband for all the hard work he puts in, and so proud of Jon, his 197 lb wrestler, who has worked his tail off for years to get to this point. I cried because I wasn’t there. I cried because I wanted Cub to know what was going on and get as excited as I was, but instead he wanted to watch The Incredibles (Ok, fine.)

Wrestling season is over. That doesn’t mean I will get to see my husband a ton more, but any few minutes in the day it spares makes me a happy wife.

Charles Henley, I am so proud of you and the lessons and knowledge you instill in the minds of your athletes. No one works harder than you to make these young men great wrestlers and great people. And you still make time for Cub, Lucy, Milton, Rock and me. We love you and are so excited for you to come home tomorrow.

The Unsexy Side

home-with-picket-fence
When I look back on my life prior to marriage, kids and mortgages, it is amazing to me how different actual life is compared to what I thought life would be back then. I used to see the white picket fence, kids running in the yard, and the perfect dinner waiting on the table for the family. I never thought about the Kansas wind blowing the fence over, or the stretch marks from carrying multiple kids for way to many months, or the millions of grocery trips needed just to get frozen chicken nuggets and a salad on the table by the time my husband gets home.

The day-to-day struggles that make moms pull their hair out exist much more than the happy, calm, relaxing moments you dream of as a youngin. That’s not to say I am not happy or don’t love my life. I love it very much. You just don’t expect to be peed on or step on a Hot Wheels car in the middle of the night, or have your husband suddenly exclaim that he has friends stopping by and they need a feast brought before them.

I have been struggling with my fitness since well before Cub was born, and it is still a struggle today. I am trying to get better about planning it out to make sure it happens, but its hard to wake up at 5:30 am when you have had a kid kicking you all night long. With wrestling season just a week away, I know that it is going to be harder than ever to get back to where I want to be, but I have 3 months until I have the honor of getting inducted into the Milton-Union High School Athletic Hall of Fame, and I’ll be damned if I don’t look right for that. The blood, sweat and tears are the unsexy side, but they are the side that makes it all worth your while. I would have the opportunity to even be in the hall of fame if it wasn’t for them.

Life isn’t as sexy as it seems. Kids make a mess. Dogs make a mess. Husbands make a mess. Fences need painted and real food needs to be cooked, with love of course..

Day 96/366- Driving Ms. Emotional

For about 2, if not 3 years now, I feel like I have been a woman posing as a runner. My stats have been atrocious, my runs few and far between. Becoming a wife and a mother, moving halfway across the country from beautiful, sunny Northern California to windy western Kansas and dealing with sleepless nights and so much time without Chas during wrestling season has put a damper on my athletic spirit. In my mind and heart, I am a runner, but in actuality, I am a fraud.

Last week I ran twice. It was so refreshing to wake up before anyone else and know that while everyone in Hays, KS, was still fast asleep, I was working hard and showing the world my perseverance. Morning runs are really about putting one foot in front of the other. I generally have just nursed the baby, and instead of crawling back in next to my husband, I opt for the cold, windy tundra that is Main Street at 5:30 am. I run an out and back usually, trying to complete one leg faster than the other. Pounding the pavement that earlier makes a person ponder big things, future goals, the meaning of life, etc. In a way, it makes me feel superior, the fact that I can do this, that I have the will power to do it, even if just for my usual 2 mile stretch. When I walk back in the door, I am no longer free or powerful. I am mom, Marketing Director and chef, but I feel more empowered in my daily activities, and more patient in my handling of crying babies, dog messes, and dumb emails. A run can certainly mellow a Type A personality like myself, but at the same time makes me feel more secure in who I am and what I am doing.

Besides my running lately, I have been playing in a rec volleyball league and working on some Nike Training Club workouts. On Monday, we played a team that had 3 former collegiate players on it. By former, I mean just graduated. Being 11 years out from my playing days, I am confident in my ability and skills, but am most certainly a step behind where I was when training was my life. We lost the game on Monday, and I left the facility feeling embarrassed and angry. They other team was cocky, stuck up, and not fun and light to play like most of our “Rec” league opponents. I hate that feeling. But then I started thinking about my NOW self as opposed to my 11 years ago self. When I was in the same position as the cocky girls we played Monday night, I am sure I was similar, and enjoyed beating up on older people. But I will tell you why they should be bowing down to me:

I am 11 years out of my volleyball career and I still was blocking the crap out of them.
I have the guts and moxy to put myself in that situation knowing that I am not the same 100% I used to be.
Those girls don’t know what it is like to be up all hours of the night nourishing a human being.
I created a human being with my own body!
I can work a 50+ hour week, cook, clean, and nurture my family while still looking to maintain my health and the health of my boys.
I am setting an example for my son, showing him that anything is possible and fitness is forever.
Those girls aren’t up at 5:30 to make themselves better.
Oh, and they certainly don’t know that people may not remember what you did, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

I am a mom, a fit mom. A mom that is continuously trying to make herself a better person, wife, employee, and human. I know everyone is fighting some kind of battle, as I am. I know that there were probably days when I acted like them, but now I see the world in a different light. Someday they will too.

Pregnancy is a marathon

IMG_3592We made it to week 40! The big 4-0. It is a comforting feeling, because I know that the growth of Baby T is complete. On the other hand, I have been pregnant for forty week people. And not with just any baby: Chas Thompson’s baby. Those of you that know my husband know him as a noise maker, a wiggler, a wrestler (obviously), but a very sweet guy. Well I may not have met him yet, but I can tell you my son is just like his father, besides the fact that I am fairly certain he will wrestle at 197 or heavyweight based on his and my size at this point! At 34 weeks he was almost 7 lbs already… Yeah.

I am so in love with my husband, but he paces around the house when he is thinking hard or talking on the phone. He is constantly making noise like water dripping, or randomly singing out of nowhere and scaring the living daylights out of me (he has even made the baby jump before). Like his father, my unborn son does not stop moving. I have actually asked the nurse at my prenatal appointments if there is a point when you worry about your baby moving too much. I swear he will come out and be like Dash from The Incredibles, his little legs never slowing down. It’s like hyperactivity disorder in the womb! But in the end, I think he is just a happy boy that likes hanging out with him mom everyday.

When you first get pregnant, you know that week 40 is your goal. If you can cook that baby to week 40, you can relax a little bit, because growth should be done by that point. But for all women who have ever had a baby, you realize how much a marathon this process is. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?

At the beginning of the race, you are excited! You have you number on and are waiting in your corral, and if you are at Disney, you get to see fireworks as you cross the start line. Pregnancy… well I will just leave it at that.

The first few weeks, like the first few miles, you are getting your groove, getting used to the idea that you will be running for hours on end or carrying this baby for months. You feel fairly good as you get your stride, and are excited that you have something to look forward to: the finish line.

After about mile 4-5 (week 6-7 of pregnancy), you start wondering why you are doing this. You have so far to go. At Disney, you aren’t even to the Magic Kingdom yet! You need food and fuel, but you sort of feel like you might spew at any minute, but you force down that gel anyway. Really you just kinda wanna lay down. This is called the first trimester, and it lasts until about mile 8 or so.

From mile 8 to mile 18 (week 13-27), things start to go numb. Things hurt occasionally, but you are sort of in your groove, and the crowd of excited fans has finally thinned out a little bit. You realize that there is no turning back now, so you are basically just going through the motions attempting to make it to the next mile (or milestone). With every gel, your energy level increases for a bit, and you feel like you can actually accomplish something here.

Once you hit mile 20 (week 30ish), you know that you have only a few more to go before you get to see that finish line. You are once again excited and rejuvenated, but at the same time, your body hurts so bad that it is hard to concentrate on finishing. You know you will and can, but sometimes you just want to stop and cry, asking yourself why in God’s name did you sign up to do this in the first place!

The last month of pregnancy is pretty much identical to the last .2 miles of a marathon. It takes forever to get there, and you are sure that you were probably in such a daze you ran right past the finish, just continued to keep running and missed it, because there is no way in hell that .2 miles takes this long to run. Yep, that is pregnancy after week 36. You know what is coming. You are constantly in pain with a foot in your rib, nerve pain that cripples you at the drop of a hat, and peeing 14 times a night. You know this is what you have been working for these past nine months, but the ending is so unpredictable that you are still nervous. 

I know at some point I will make it to the finish line. We aren’t there quite yet. And like getting that nice shiny medal, my little baby will be the prize at the end of a long race. And oddly enough, I will probably be walking the same as if I had finished a marathon when he finally gets here. I am also fairly certain that when I see him, as when you finish a race, I will forget about how horrible the full experience really was and probably sign up for another. However, I am telling my husband that we are never doing this again…

How a boa constrictor ruined my Saturday

The harsh realities of pregnancy got the best of me yesterday. I have been out in California for the past few days for work, which has been going very well so far. Yesterday morning, I woke up and prepared to drive to Sacramento to live stream a basketball tournament. While getting ready, I saw a piece on the Today Show about how a family’s 12 ft. pet boa constrictor got out and slithered into the baby’s crib, suffocating it.

Now, we don’t have any pet snakes, or plan to get one for that matter, but for some reason this got to me. I continued on and when I sat down to eat breakfast, I started crying thinking about all the potential things that I could unknowingly be doing that could harm the 18 week old fetus in my belly. I got myself settled down, and set off to Sacramento thinking of things that I could easily change to help make myself and my pregnancy just a little bit better.

I made it up there nice and early and decided to head to a store called Buy Buy Baby to start some baby shopping. As I walked around looking at pacifiers, booties, crib sheets and humidifiers, I immediately felt overwhelmed. Again, what if I pick the wrong thing and it hurts or harms this small human I am growing? Suddenly I came upon the stroller/car seat section. Near one corner, with a salesman, a very well dressed woman in a fedora, with her fancy husband and adorable pregnant belly. She was asking a million and one questions: What colors does this come in? Will they deliver to our house? What sort of attachments are available for the handle? Does the car seat snap into the stroller the same way it does the car?

Literally they have 400 strollers

OMG! Why don’t I have any questions to ask? Do these things have safety ratings? Can I sit in the stroller and hyperventilate while you go get me a paper bag? I managed to escape the store holding back tears and retreated to my car only to spend the next 3o minutes blubbering like an idiot. In hind sight, it is dumb, and certainly something to laugh about. But it still proves the point that I am unprepared, and being almost half way through this pregnancy, I/we have some major catching up to do.

Obviously lack of sleep, being away from my husband and hormones got the best of me yesterday, but that doesn’t make up for the fact that I still have to pick out a stroller!?! How in the world am I supposed to do that?!? I don’t know what I need in a stroller, because I have never really used one before. Do I take my dog to the store so I can try it out? Oh lord there is a lot to think about.

One day at a time Jen. One day at a time.