99.9% Of all people have asked me the same question about having a baby..."are you excited?" The minus .01% is my Mom who said, "0hhhhhhh Stacey that is wonderful!" I have been asked over a hundred times now and my answer is always the same, but my tones are different with the people who ask me.
Some ladies have asked me, like at the bank, they ask me just so I can say yes and then they can share me their stories of the first time they were expecting a child. My experience in the last few months is that these are long stories, really long stories. Others ask and then look me into the eyes to see if i mean what i am about to say, to see if i am REALLY excited. These I like the most because I can whip out my sarcasm...
"so are you excited?" they ask.
I respond, "nahhhhh, I have many children all over the world!"
Our friends have all asked me the question and the truth comes out. My words are void but it is my smile where they find the answer. The truth is I am overjoyed, ecstatic, nervous yet confident, and most completely in love with Jackie.
My Love, you had this one coming. I am touched by your constant thoughtfulness. That is the only reason I hacked your blog.
Love your Man Meat,
(by that I mean real tough man meat)
Stacey
Friday, March 19, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Settling For Butterflies
There’s this somewhat cheesy quote from my old favorite show that I’ve always loved:
Some people are settling down.
Some people are just settling…
And some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.
Everyone settles at some point. I’ve settled for countless bad hairstyles, several infested apartments, and a couple of not-so-nice guys. One day I woke up, called a new stylist, wrote the big first-last-security check, and cried my eyes out at the end of yet another failed relationship. And I thank God everyday that I chose this path, the one less traveled, the one I was always supposed to be on, the one that led me to The One.
Our memories differ a bit on where and when, but meeting Stacey Harper Rachdorf is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll leave out the gory details my Dad doesn’t want to read about, but I will say one time – he is so hot! I pray our child gets his looks!
He walked into my bar in the summer of 2007, and caught my eye for several gawking moments. How could such a good looking local have escaped my man meat radar for so long? He ordered a couple drinks – Stoli Blueberry, soda water, pineapple juice - chatted briefly, and left. A few days later, Jack on the rocks, chat, goodbye. My coworker and I dubbed him “Eye Candy” with lack of an actual name.
Later that month, after a morning of mimosas at Bailiwicks, my girlfriend Emma and I showed up at the bar I worked at to collect our tips from the previous night. Eye Candy was having lunch, and my mimosa-induced confidence approached him with smile, “Hey, do you want to go to a party?”
“Yeah!” Like, no hesitation. Gave me butterflies like I can’t describe to this day.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Stacey.”
“Casey?”
“ST-acey.”
A few friends gathered around a pool – lounge, drink, swim, repeat. I squeezed my chubby bunny butt into a cute bikini and prayed Stacey wouldn’t judge. We BBQ’d all day, and after just the right amount of cocktails, I happily accepted Stacey’s request for a one-on-one dip later into the evening. We both agree – electricity and water can be a good thing.
We drove down the coast together just a few weeks later – my 22 year old mind convinced that Florida was the place for me – and even though our new friendship had me feeling a comfort I hadn’t felt in a very long time, there was a constant stream of butterflies in my tummy, an excitement I won’t ever forget or debase. We talked about everything, even the boring stuff had me catching my breath, and the fluttering in my stomach turned into something more important than a crush.
Needless to say, Florida didn’t work out. I came home, tail between legs, but not empty handed. Stacey had come to visit me several times during my 8-week stint in the Southeast, and lucky for me, he held my hand during another drive along the coast in late October. Despite everything else going on in my life at that time, I felt like I’d done something very right to win this man’s interest.
Eventually, after two years of the single life, I opened my eyes and my heart to the man of my life.
We’ve kept each other on our toes, for sure. Regardless - three years, an apartment, a puppy, some big ups-and-downs, lots of laughter, love, support, and a bun in my oven later, Stacey still gives me butterflies. If he pops into the restaurant I work at unexpectedly, my stomach flips. His smile, his laugh, his massages! – he knows how to make me tick, yet he can’t help the way he makes me feel.
As mushy as this all sounds, it gets better: Our doctor tells us that in a few short weeks, our little Kangaroo will be giving me butterflies – the swish-swish-swish of her little limbs will be felt in my lower abdomen. When I think of our baby – part me, part him – fluttering around in my belly, it all makes perfect sense. It’s no surprise the first belly-tug I will feel will remind me of Stacey – he has given me butterflies since the day we met, and that’s not soon to change. It’s the couple we are, the parents we will become – in love, best friends, and ready to conquer the next beautiful challenge.
Some people are settling down.
Some people are just settling…
And some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.
Everyone settles at some point. I’ve settled for countless bad hairstyles, several infested apartments, and a couple of not-so-nice guys. One day I woke up, called a new stylist, wrote the big first-last-security check, and cried my eyes out at the end of yet another failed relationship. And I thank God everyday that I chose this path, the one less traveled, the one I was always supposed to be on, the one that led me to The One.
Our memories differ a bit on where and when, but meeting Stacey Harper Rachdorf is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll leave out the gory details my Dad doesn’t want to read about, but I will say one time – he is so hot! I pray our child gets his looks!
He walked into my bar in the summer of 2007, and caught my eye for several gawking moments. How could such a good looking local have escaped my man meat radar for so long? He ordered a couple drinks – Stoli Blueberry, soda water, pineapple juice - chatted briefly, and left. A few days later, Jack on the rocks, chat, goodbye. My coworker and I dubbed him “Eye Candy” with lack of an actual name.
Later that month, after a morning of mimosas at Bailiwicks, my girlfriend Emma and I showed up at the bar I worked at to collect our tips from the previous night. Eye Candy was having lunch, and my mimosa-induced confidence approached him with smile, “Hey, do you want to go to a party?”
“Yeah!” Like, no hesitation. Gave me butterflies like I can’t describe to this day.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Stacey.”
“Casey?”
“ST-acey.”
A few friends gathered around a pool – lounge, drink, swim, repeat. I squeezed my chubby bunny butt into a cute bikini and prayed Stacey wouldn’t judge. We BBQ’d all day, and after just the right amount of cocktails, I happily accepted Stacey’s request for a one-on-one dip later into the evening. We both agree – electricity and water can be a good thing.
We drove down the coast together just a few weeks later – my 22 year old mind convinced that Florida was the place for me – and even though our new friendship had me feeling a comfort I hadn’t felt in a very long time, there was a constant stream of butterflies in my tummy, an excitement I won’t ever forget or debase. We talked about everything, even the boring stuff had me catching my breath, and the fluttering in my stomach turned into something more important than a crush.
Needless to say, Florida didn’t work out. I came home, tail between legs, but not empty handed. Stacey had come to visit me several times during my 8-week stint in the Southeast, and lucky for me, he held my hand during another drive along the coast in late October. Despite everything else going on in my life at that time, I felt like I’d done something very right to win this man’s interest.
Eventually, after two years of the single life, I opened my eyes and my heart to the man of my life.
We’ve kept each other on our toes, for sure. Regardless - three years, an apartment, a puppy, some big ups-and-downs, lots of laughter, love, support, and a bun in my oven later, Stacey still gives me butterflies. If he pops into the restaurant I work at unexpectedly, my stomach flips. His smile, his laugh, his massages! – he knows how to make me tick, yet he can’t help the way he makes me feel.
As mushy as this all sounds, it gets better: Our doctor tells us that in a few short weeks, our little Kangaroo will be giving me butterflies – the swish-swish-swish of her little limbs will be felt in my lower abdomen. When I think of our baby – part me, part him – fluttering around in my belly, it all makes perfect sense. It’s no surprise the first belly-tug I will feel will remind me of Stacey – he has given me butterflies since the day we met, and that’s not soon to change. It’s the couple we are, the parents we will become – in love, best friends, and ready to conquer the next beautiful challenge.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Rock & a Soft, Plush, Pillowtop Place
Here’s something you don’t read about so often: gross neglect of family and friends during pregnancy.
Now, I’m not tooting a horn of any kind here, but I’d like to preface this entry by stating that I am a decent friend. I won’t call it what its not – for instance, I’m mediocre, at best, with keeping in touch. I sometimes forget to send Thank You cards, Christmas cards, Birthday cards, but usually I remember within 7-10 business days. I’m a master of answering text messages/facebook messages that both come directly to my phone, voicemails are somewhat of a different story.
HOWEVER, I, as a pregnant woman, SUCK at any and all regards of communication with ANYONE. (Small interjection – a few of my closest friends jumped ship [hopefully temporarily] and moved to the West Coast, and yes, I could be calling you back right now, but its 6 am your time.) I received 4 – count ‘em, 4! – belly belts from my Mom on Monday, have I called her yet to thank her? Did I call Hilary on her birthday? The answer to these questions is no, certainly not. Instead, I slept. Blissfully and without guilt, I slept and slept and ohhhhhhh I slept. It didn’t matter which hopelessly mundane show was on the History Channel, I let the monotone narrator lull me in and out of sleep for close to two months. Straight.
I’ve turned into a cruddy friend as of late, and I’m wicked, wicked sorry.
It’s not just loved ones I’ve lost touch with. You should see me. I blow dried my hair for the first time in weeks just yesterday – plastered some make-up to my cheeks, and felt like a girl, finally, after nearly 60 days had passed. I beg my boyfriend to remind me I am pretty 40-50 times a day, mostly because I don’t believe it anymore. It’s hard to convince yourself you might be even remotely attractive when the length of your leg hair is catching up to that of your Labrador Retriever’s. For almost 2 months, I’ve slept, and that’s it.
Pathetic sympathies aside, this is a feeble attempt at explaining my somewhat odd disappearance from society in general. I’ve all but vanished from my own home - Thank God for caring, understanding boyfriends or the dishes would never get done, my laundry would be hard as a rock lying in the hamper, and my dogs wickedly undernourished. I keep asking the universe, “When will I feel like myself again?”
I haven’t heard an answer yet, but my bed is calling my name.
Now, I’m not tooting a horn of any kind here, but I’d like to preface this entry by stating that I am a decent friend. I won’t call it what its not – for instance, I’m mediocre, at best, with keeping in touch. I sometimes forget to send Thank You cards, Christmas cards, Birthday cards, but usually I remember within 7-10 business days. I’m a master of answering text messages/facebook messages that both come directly to my phone, voicemails are somewhat of a different story.
HOWEVER, I, as a pregnant woman, SUCK at any and all regards of communication with ANYONE. (Small interjection – a few of my closest friends jumped ship [hopefully temporarily] and moved to the West Coast, and yes, I could be calling you back right now, but its 6 am your time.) I received 4 – count ‘em, 4! – belly belts from my Mom on Monday, have I called her yet to thank her? Did I call Hilary on her birthday? The answer to these questions is no, certainly not. Instead, I slept. Blissfully and without guilt, I slept and slept and ohhhhhhh I slept. It didn’t matter which hopelessly mundane show was on the History Channel, I let the monotone narrator lull me in and out of sleep for close to two months. Straight.
I’ve turned into a cruddy friend as of late, and I’m wicked, wicked sorry.
It’s not just loved ones I’ve lost touch with. You should see me. I blow dried my hair for the first time in weeks just yesterday – plastered some make-up to my cheeks, and felt like a girl, finally, after nearly 60 days had passed. I beg my boyfriend to remind me I am pretty 40-50 times a day, mostly because I don’t believe it anymore. It’s hard to convince yourself you might be even remotely attractive when the length of your leg hair is catching up to that of your Labrador Retriever’s. For almost 2 months, I’ve slept, and that’s it.
Pathetic sympathies aside, this is a feeble attempt at explaining my somewhat odd disappearance from society in general. I’ve all but vanished from my own home - Thank God for caring, understanding boyfriends or the dishes would never get done, my laundry would be hard as a rock lying in the hamper, and my dogs wickedly undernourished. I keep asking the universe, “When will I feel like myself again?”
I haven’t heard an answer yet, but my bed is calling my name.
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