We've been really busy out in the yard. James has been hard at work improving and painting and clearing brush, and I? Well, I have been trying my hand at "gardening", though I don't know how to completely justify calling it a "garden" when I'm growing everything in pots on my deck. Still, I've been pretty successful, for the most part.



My, um, these things are flourishing. I don't know what kind of flowers they are; I just buy the pretty ones.


I have more pretties over here, which also seem to be doing quite well. I was a little afraid that smashing six different kinds of plant life together in one pot would result in some sort of photosynthetic mortal combat, but thankfully, everything seems to be living in harmony.



I'm even growing tomatoes, which to my utter astonishment, appear to be bulbous and green, just on the verge of ripening. (Please don't mind the hose snaking through the grass. Josh was filling up his pool while I was photographing the results of my foray into botany. Rest assured I never leave my hose laying about on my lawn.)








But then we come to this, which defies understanding. I don't know what went wrong. It looks like fetal alcohol syndrome, but I swear to you I never watered the seed with any of the wine I drink on the deck, and James never spilled his beer in there. Nobody smokes in this house, so it's growth couldn't have been stunted by second hand exposure. I guess we're really not sure what caused this poor jalapeno's deformity, perhaps the only explanation is a missing (or extra?) chromosome or six. Whatever the case, we're determined to love it anyway and face down anyone who thinks to look down on us for it. I've named him Sir Lumpliss. He's a sweet, special boy.


Speaking of sweet, special boys. I asked James for one favor this weekend. Well, one favor if you don't count painting the garage, mowing the lawn, rebuilding the decorative brick wall next to the garage, cleaning out the gutters, and helping the guy install the air conditioner. [Smiles sheepishly]

See, we have this bear in the backyard. The previous owners cut down a tree, left like six feet of stump, and paid what I can only assume was thousands of dollars to have the stump carved into a bear. I. Hate. It. It is the ugliest damn thing I believe I've ever had the misfortune to see. So I asked James to take care of it. He knew, damn him, that I meant "rip it down, burn it, chop it into pieces, I don't care how, just get it the hell out of my yard now", um pretty pretty please, but instead?

Sigh.

He painted it with leftover trim color from the garage and put a drill sergeant's hat on it. Now Smokey the Bear is plunked in my back yard and I'm not sure my husband will ever get rid of him now that he's discovered he can put hats on the damn thing.

Scene: Me, in Herberger's, with an armful of clothes and a frantic look on my face.

Sales Gal: Are you all set then?

Me: I can't find my sunglasses! Have you seen them? Did I leave them in the fitting room? They're really expensive. I can't...I don't...shit!

Sales Gal: What do they look like? What brand are they?

Me: They're Fendi. Brown, well kind of black too. And big. Does that help? Do you know what I mean? My husband is not going to be pleased if I have to tell him I've lost another several hundred dollars worth of plastic that goes on my face.

Sales Gal: Um, Ma'am? Speaking of your face? Do you think the sunglasses you're wearing might be the ones you're looking for?

Shit.

Not to sound all, I'm so tired of hearing about Micheal Jackson when will this nightmare end? or anything, but good Lord, I'm so tired of hearing about Micheal Jackson. When will this nightmare end?

I get it. He was a talented guy. A musical genius. He could dance. He was black. And then he was white. Now he's dead. So can we move on please?

I wish the documentaries, the flashbacks, the headlines, the on and on and on Micheal Jackson hoopla would go ahead and die out now, because at the end of the day, he was just a man. A man that died. I just don't think it should still be front page news for three weeks after the fact. People have had the chance to break out their black arm bands and pay their respects. Now the citizens of LA are expected to foot the bill for a multimillion dollar funeral and every time I open up my Yahoo! email, there's a headline about Micheal's dog, favorite flower, or his pet name for macaroni and cheese. We're really grasping at straws here people, to keep this thing alive. Pardon the nearly unpardonable pun there.

I say everybody picks their collective jaw up off the floor, because I will admit his death was a shock and I'm not trying to lessen the tragedy, and move on with life now. The thing is, if we're being completely honest with ourselves, this doesn't exactly alter our every day lives. There are people who are truly grieving, whose world has been totally rocked. They would be his family and especially his children. I know they've suffered a horrible loss. But it is time to let them mourn and eventually heal in private. The man made enough of a spectacle of himself when he was alive. Let's respect his family and his legacy enough to let him rest in peace now and get back to the good Yahoo! headlines, like "Ten Ways to Ruin a First Date".

Dear Joshua,

Thank you for watering my plants today. I appreciate the effort and the fact that you did it without even being asked. I commend your drive and initiative. But in the future? Please don't water them with milk. It took me forever to figure out what that smell was. And why my plants were dying.

Love you,
Mom

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Dear Enter Key on My Laptop,

Quit falling off. You're driving me insane.

Best,
The One Who Keeps Threatening to Throw You Out the Effing Window

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Dear Mother,

Thank you for bringing your colleague over today without calling first. I'm sure he really appreciated meeting me while I was watering my tomatoes in my tee-pays and Prada sandals and swearing at the hose. Maybe next time you could whip someone over before I get the breakfast dishes done or just as I'm hefting my fat ass out of the shower.

Best,
Your Loving Daughter

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Dear Joshua (II),

Please don't ever stop calling your PJs "tee-pays". It is the cutest. thing. ever.

Kisses,
Mommy

Twelve weeks ago today...

I was still in the hospital.

I had my daily biophysical profile ultrasound to make sure things were still progressing smoothly with the pregnancy that had landed me in the hospital for the previous four weeks.

Twelve weeks ago today...

This were not still going smoothly with the pregnancy.

So my daughter was born by c-section just a few hours after she fell short of passing the tests put forth in the biophysical.

Twelve weeks ago today...

Ella was born six weeks early after spending 34 perilous weeks in the womb fighting to grow, fighting to develop, fighting to even survive.

She weighed just 3 pounds, eleven ounces and was a fragile 16 inches long. This put her in the 3 1/2 percentile for size at gestational age.

Twelve weeks ago today...

I watched the doctor pull my tiny baby from my body, the place that was supposed to be her sanctuary for six more weeks, but was instead something akin to a ticking time bomb.

I watched them rush her over to an incubator where several doctors and nurses worked to get her to breathe while they stitched up my broken body.

Twelve weeks ago today...

I caught a glimpse of the strong, independent, fighting lady my daughter will grow into.

I saw her begin to breathe on her own after only five minutes of medical assistance. She burst out with her little cry, no louder than the mewl of a tiny kitten, just as they were beginning to prepare to intubate her.

Twelve weeks ago today...

Ella amazed us all when she first breathed on her own, then was able to regulate her own temperature, and finally was able to feed without the assistance of a feeding tube.

She was the smallest baby ever born at St. Mary's Medical Center in Duluth that spent no time at all in Neonatal Intensive Care.

Twelve weeks ago today...

This is what my daughter looked like when we tried to put a Preemie size diaper on her...


Or a Preemie size outfit...


Twelve weeks ago today...

She confounded all of her doctors, nurses, and family by being teeny tiny, but perfectly healthy.

After just four days in the hospital with me while we recovered from the C-section and endless weeks of bed rest, she came home to her family.

Today, at twelve weeks old...

She is approaching the size of an average newborn at seven pounds, three ounces and eighteen inches long.

Every time we're out in public people say, "Oh! A brand new baby! She's so tiny! Must only be a few days old!" Boy, are they astounded to learn she was born three whole months ago.

Today, at twelve weeks old...

She still wears Preemie size diapers, but we can buy them in the store now instead of online, which is the only place I could find to get diapers for a zero to three pound infant.

Now her diapers look like this...


And that little pink Preemie size outfit? Fits!



Dear Ella B. -

We call you Ella B. now, because your brother went from calling you "Ella Bella" to shortening it to "Ella B.", and isn't that just too cute for words? So, I hope it doesn't embarrass you too much when your Daddy calls you Ella B. in front of your friends when you're fourteen.

You have brought immeasurable joy into our lives, little girl, and we are so blessed and proud to be your parents! We spent so many weeks worrying over you, praying for you, and living in a general state of hand wringing over your health. I'm surprised you didn't wink at us when you were born, Little Princess Pea, because all of our worries and stomach knots and fears amounted to naught.

You are a fighter. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. We are amazed by you. You will do incredible things in your life; I know you will fly high and reach all of your dreams.

Happy 1/4 birthday, our beautiful girl, our miracle baby.

We love you,
Mommy and Daddy
And big brother too!