At Least Shopping Carts Don’t Require Electricity

Summer has turned me into a hermit. The heat is just too much for my poor, weak soul to bear. I rarely leave my house anymore, and I rarely see daylight.

Nicky isn’t happy with this arrangement. Being cooped up in the house is completely miserable for him. He has a really hard time entertaining himself. Toys? Pshaw! TV? Pshaw! They are useless. The only way he’s happy is if I’m crawling around on the floor pushing trucks with him. Like most toddlers, he wants constant interaction, and my full attention only satisfies him a small portion of the time. He’s been increasingly naughty lately, and I think it’s because he’s so bored.

To solve this problem, I’ve been trying to think of ways to get out of the house during the day without having to suffer the near-hundred degree weather. The library gets old fast so I’ve resorted to visiting the grocery store where I push Nicky around for hours in one of these:

Very entertaining for Nicky, not so much for mama who is too easily tempted by the Double Stuf Oreos.

Today I racked my brain trying to think of somewhere to take Nicky, and I started wondering whether I’d be able to handle him alone in a movie theater. Nicky has no attention span for television or movies, but Scotty and I took him to see Kung Fu Panda last month, and he did reasonable well, so I decided to take a chance and head over to the theater to see Wall-E.

After a well thought-out entrance with my stroller and strategically-packed diaper bag, I made a commitment and purchased our tickets (I ended up having to pay admission for Nicky - my own fault for having a conscience - can you believe that it costs money for a one-year-old to see a movie? What a joke!) I’m a sucker for theater food, so upon having our perforated tickets taken, I bought Nicky a Kid’s Pack (it’s the cutest thing in the world watching Nick sip Sprite and stuff his face with popcorn) and retrieved a booster seat for him.

We entered theater #15 on our right where I folded up the stroller and placed it out of everyone’s way, and we took our seats. Nicky was so sweet and cuddly as he sat on my lap eating popcorn. I’m so glad we came! I thought to myself.

The previews started. There were dancing dogs. It was great…. until the power went out in the entire theater and surrounding shopping complex, and we had to go home with nothing more than a glimpse of Beverly Hills Chihuahua and a rain check to come back another day.

Yeah. I hauled a toddler into a theater and bought popcorn for that.

 

The Real Reason

Over the weekend, we hung out with some friends and played some board games for geeks. Our friends, Chuck & Candy, have a little girl that is Nicky’s age, and they recently found out there’s another one on the way. Their announcement, of course, brought on the Big Question of when we’re going to have a second baby. Our answer is the usual, “Not right now.”

(Do I talk about this too much?)

Anyway, after hearing Chuck & Candy’s news, Scotty’s mom confronted him on the issue because she’s worried that we’re never going to have another baby. Scotty had to tell her that yes, we will have another baby, but not right now.

A while ago, we decided that June 2008 would be the perfect time to try for another baby. By May 2008, we’d moved the date to September 2008. Last week I decided {maybe} December but probably not really until 2009… or 2010. So really, I can’t mark the event on a calendar, and I think that’s a good indication that it’s just not time yet.

During a fit of boredom on Friday, I opened the file on my computer where I keep all of the posts from my old blog. Weekday Wisdom was where I documented my pregnancy, Nicky’s birth, and my first several months as a mother. Reading through those archives reminded me of the real reason I’m so hesitant to have another child, the reason I’ve been hiding from everyone.

“I’m having a bit of the baby blues.”

“He won’t sleep. He stays awake for hours at a time and never dozes for more than 15 minutes at a time.”

“Having a baby has made me lonely.”

“I have no one to talk to.”

“While I was pregnant, I felt like I had bonded well with my unborn child, but as soon as he was born, I realized that I didn’t know him at all. The baby in my arms doesn’t feel like the spirit I bonded with in the womb.”

“I’m so tired, and I feel useless as a mother.”

“All Nicky does is scream at me all day. How can I raise a baby who can’t be soothed by his own mother?”

The deep, dark truth was hidden in paragraphs all throughout my old blog: post-partum depression.

I don’t want another baby because I’m afraid of it happening again. The emotions I had are still so vivid in my memory, and they terrify me. I’ve never openly discussed this with anyone, but there was a time when I hated my baby. I can’t describe it any further than that because it’s too horrible, but I couldn’t bond with him, and I felt like I’d truly made a mistake by having him. I don’t care how many doctors say that’s normal, I think it’s wrong, and I hate myself for ever feeling that way. It took us two years to conceive Nicky, and then I hated him. I feel like I can never take it back, and no matter how much I love him now, it doesn’t change the fact that I felt the way I did. Babies are blessings, and I hate that the bodily response to giving birth prevented me from experiencing that joy.

Post-partum depression is awful, and I never want to go through that again. I will always be troubled by what I went through when I had Nicky, and that’s why the topic of having a second child is such a big deal to me and why I won’t stop writing about it. The fear of going through it again hovers over me all the time because deep, down, I really do want to have another baby, and if I thought I could handle it, I’d have started working on it months ago. But for now I just go on pretending that I have no desire for more children. That’s how I protected myself when I couldn’t get pregnant four years ago, and that’s how I protect myself now. And hiding behind it all is the real reason, the one I can hardly bring myself to admit because I’m so ashamed.

 

I Didn’t Get Invited To Any BBQs

Happy Independence Day!

Allow me to make an official Declaration of Lameness:

We, the people at my house, in order to form a more boring weekend, do ordain and establish this Constitution of the United Britts of Lame-erica.*

Would you like to know the first Amendment?

Britts shall have the right to do nothing for the holiday weekend.

OK, I lied about all that. I’m just trying to make myself feel better about the zero BBQ invites we received.

Actually, it’s fine that we’re attending zero BBQs because we went to a wonderful 4th of July breakfast this morning with our family, and we’re going to a baseball game tonight (Salt Lake Bees. What? You’ve never heard of them??).

We were going to have friends over tomorrow for a BBQ of our own, but we got too lazy and didn’t invite anyone so it’s my own fault I’m lame (but being lame is so much cooler if you have a Declaration to back you up).

And if you weren’t invited to any BBQs, that’s my fault because I was totally planning on inviting you to the one I’m not having tomorrow.

Random fact: Did you know that the Bill of Rights was based on some of the political theories of John Locke? I tell you no lie. John Locke was a real dude.

*Ok, so that’s a play on the U.S. Constitution, and not the Declaration of Independence. I love my country even when I use slightly incorrect parodies, so back off!

 

A Photogenic Flop

Nicky was a beautiful baby from the moment he was born. He had dark, soft hair and cute, round features. Everyone told me he looked like the Gerber baby.

I had high hopes for the photographs that would document Nicky’s life. Such a beautiful baby should produce amazing pictures, but instead, I was given a series of Photos I Can’t Hang On The Wall.

There were the I Hate Being Born photos:

The Durrrrrr! photos:

The I Can’t Control My Eyes photos:

The Mom, You Make Me Sick photos:

The Leave Me Alone, I’m Finally Sleeping photos:

The Help me, Mom, I’m Wedged In The Couch photos:

The Take A Picture, It Will Last Longer photos:

And the No, Not The Grass photos:

Needless to say, I’ve been a little disappointed in Nicky’s efforts as a photographic subject. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to capture that Beautiful Baby Photo that would do Nicky justice, and now that he’s a toddler, he’s become even harder to catch on camera. I have cute pictures of him, but none look the way Nicky really looks.

My stats for good pictures of my kid: 1 in 300.

In the future, I’d like to see a little more of this:

And a little less of this:

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If you haven’t had enough of me yet, check out my guest post at Hola, Isabel, and don’t forget to stop by Thrifty & Nifty to see my latest projects and enter my first giveaway.

 

Twenty-Seven

Happy Birthday, to the

man who makes me laugh!

Scotty: How do you spell Tokyo?

Britt: It doesn’t matter because Tokyo is a proper noun. You can’t use it in Scrabble!

Scotty: But you used ‘Prudential!’

Britt: ‘Prudential’ isn’t a proper noun.

Scotty: Yes, it is. It’s on the ‘for sale’ sign in front of the Halladay’s house.

Britt: ‘Prudential’ is also an adjective.

Scotty: Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that! Like, “What are your prudentials?”

 

Did You Hear The Big News?

(Just remember, it’s not as exciting as Tiger Woods’ knee injury).

Last week I was called in to see a member of the Bishopric of my church, and I was given a new fourth calling. FOURTH!! I’m not complaining, I’m just amazed. When the Executive Secretary called to make my appointment, I was stunned. What could they possibly want with me?

In case you’re new here: I’m a member of the LDS (Mormon) church. Our church has a lay ministry, meaning all members are given opportunities to take on church responsibilities without compensation. Think of it as “volunteering” without the “pick me, pick me” aspect. We are asked to serve as teachers, leaders, etc when our leaders feel inspired. These jobs are called “callings“

What they wanted with me was to have me serve on the Emergency Preparedness Committee. Anything with the word “committee” attached to it doesn’t sound like a big deal. Sometimes it’s not. In this case, it is. Emergency Preparedness!!

The purpose of the committee (which has only three members) is to keep track of everyone in our neighborhood and maintain an emergency plan for use during any sort of disaster. We have to find out who lives in our neighborhood, what special accommodations they would need in the event of a catastrophe, get people trained in triage and search & rescue, and most importantly, get everyone in our neighborhood to care that we’re doing this.

What good is an Emergency Plan if no one knows what it is?

With that said, my biggest fear is that no one will be interested in preparing for an emergency, and I will be like a less-important, female version of Noah, building an ark in the middle of dry land while people point and laugh at me.

I’ve kind of felt this one coming for a while because I’ve been actively pushing our ward to incorporate some sort of emergency plan. I’ve been trained in Community Emergency Response, and my mom is the Emergency Preparedness Coordinator in her neighborhood, so I’ve been actively involved in the creation of her neighborhood’s plan. It was sort of inevitable that I would end up in this calling.

A genetic defect, if you will.

The night I was asked to fill this position, I had a hard time sleeping because I was stunned by the reality of this calling. Salt Lake City is overdue for a major earthquake, and for years we’ve been told that The Big One is coming. Now I have the heavy burden of making sure everyone in my neighborhood is prepared as best as possible for that or anything else that may come our way.

It terrifies me.

Last fall Scotty and I acted as victims in a disaster simulation for a neighborhood. Even though it was all fake, there was such an overwhelming hint of reality to it that I’ve been deeply worried about my own neighborhood ever since.

Let’s hope that God is truly on my side throughout all of this because I care so greatly for the well-being of my family and neighbors. I want them to be safe and well-taken care of, and now that’s my responsibility.

 

Taking It Back

Almost two weeks ago, I got online and professed my love for Zac Efron.

Am I allowed to take that back?

You see, I don’t love Zac Efron. He doesn’t fit into the Celebrities Britt Loves category. I can’t explain what happened to me on June 18th, but I apparently had a lapse in judgment. I think it all dates back to three weeks ago when Zac made a brief appearance in a steamy dream of mine.

Dreams will ruin you! That’s how the whole John Cusack fiasco began!

After further evaluation, I realized that I don’t love Zac Efron. Or Jesse McCartney. But I do love John Cusack.

And him:

And him:

And then there’s him:

And definitely this guy:

And I mustn’t forget him:

And I’m desperately in love with this guy:

And even more so with this guy:

I’m glad I’ve got that all cleared up now.

 

Question

You’ve all seen this perception puzzle before right?

Some see the old lady first. Other see the young maiden. When I first saw this puzzle, I saw the young maiden first. A friend had to work really hard to show me the old lady. I’m pretty sure that means I’m a genius or something, but I don’t want to brag.

So now I’m wondering, has anyone else glanced at this movie poster an thought this was Angelina’s boob??

When I first looked at it, I thought Angelina’s back was toward us with her right hand holding the gun, and she was wearing a black tube top with a gigantic boob jutted out there. I was like, “What the?!? Why’d they enhance her chest so low? That looks horrible!”

I totally thought they gave the poster design job to the wrong guy.

Then I realized that the space under her arm was sky.

So what was the round, black thing? The bow of a boat, of course!

Uh, no. Apparently it’s her knee.

So, what did you see first? The boob, the boat, or the knee?

(please don’t say knee, please don’t say knee, please don’t say knee)

 

The Religious Power of My Hair

On Thursday I went in for a hair cut.

What? You demand photos? Okay, okay. I’ll make you a deal. If you sit patiently through this post, I’ll let you look at my hair at the end.

Don’t cheat!

(I’m talking to you)

I love my stylist. She’s the mother of a guy I went to high school with, and she lives conveniently around the corner from me, so I can leave my house at 11:58 to make it to my noon appointment with no problem.

If I weren’t a lazy pig, I could even walk to have my hair done.

Luxuries. Ahhhhh!

Anyway, my stylist is very wise, and I love talking to her. She communicates with me like an adult, and it makes me feel good to know that she doesn’t discredit my thoughts and opinions because I’m twenty-some-odd years younger than her. Surely, she could be thinking I’m an idiot, but she doesn’t send out The Vibes, so at least I’ll never have to know that she thinks I’m dumb.

That’s good customer service.

While I was getting my hair done the other day, Lucy and I were talking a little about our religious backgrounds. Even though we are several years apart in age, we’ve both gone through times in our lives when we were not particularly religious. The difference between Lucy and I is that Lucy stopped attending church at age 14, and I started attending church at age 14.*

As I shared my religious history with Lucy, I expressed to her that when I was a young teen, I felt very strongly that I should attend church, but since my family wasn’t attending at the time, I had to go alone. It was hard to walk into that building by myself each week, but I needed to be there, and I eventually gained the courage to do it.**

A quick aside: Throughout my whole life, I’ve wondered where I stand in the religious perspective of others. Religion is a deeply, personal thing, but for me and my faith, it’s also a community thing. I’ve always wondered how other members of my faith see me:

Am I regarded as one of the faithful? Willing to serve? A good example? A trusted saint?

Do I stand out among the members of my church?

Or am I viewed as a hypocrite? One who doesn’t live the gospel as I should?

Do my weaknesses obviously outnumber my strengths? Am I lax in my efforts to obey?***

Lucy shared something with me on Thursday. She already knew my religious history, she heard about it from someone else. Someone once told her that I went to church alone for a few years. Lucy told me that I was admirable as a youth and that a lot of people look up to me now because of my strength as a teenager.

It made me feel really good inside. Someone out there knows my heart and found something good in me to share with other people.

But who??

It didn’t even occur to me to ask Lucy where she heard that.

Who told her about me? Who was observant enough to notice a fourteen-year-old girl at church alone each week?

And who else have they told?

I learned a valuable lesson on Thursday. People watch you. It doesn’t matter what religion you belong to, or if you belong to any faith at all, someone out there is watching you and possibly learning from you. It’s a scary thought because influence can be responsible for a lot of good or a lot of bad.

When I got home from Lucy’s house, I thought a lot about what she said. Somehow, my thoughts were able to conjure up an old memory. I recalled receiving a letter in the mail from a church member when I was a teenager. The letter was from a lady I didn’t know very well. In it, she expressed her feelings about seeing me in church alone each week. This stranger was proud of me for having the courage to attend church. She said I was a good example. She thanked me.

Someone I hardly knew cared that I was at church each week.

It’s nice to know that at some point in my life, I triumphed. I don’t know if anything I do or say now will be as powerful as my decision to attend church alone as a youth, but I can rest easily knowing that at some point in my life, I did what was right for me even though I was scared to death to do it. I had forgotten this about myself, and I’m thankful to Lucy for reminding me.

I still have the letter I mentioned, so I pulled it out and read it yesterday, and then I re-committed myself to doing good because somewhere out there, someone is watching.

——————

Thank you for your patience. You may now look at my hair. I had it cut about an inch and a half shorter this time because I felt like my shoulders were in the way. I’ve never had my hair this short, so I feel like I’m sporting a look that doesn’t belong to me. I think I have too much face now, and my hump shows, but maybe I’ll get used to it.

*Lucy attends church now, if you wanted to know.

**My family also attends church now.

***You don’t need to answer any of these questions.

 

And Then He Swindled The Butcher

When it comes to committing our finances to groceries, I’m a basket-case. I’m very leery of giving my money to a rotten company like Wal-Mart, so I try to find as many good deals as I can elsewhere. I’m happy to pay a few cents more to get my goods somewhere else, but when it comes to dollars, I have to save a little here and there, so Wal-Mart it is.

You know what I mean, right?

Because of this strange obsession, my weekly grocery store trip is usually spread among three stores.

Last week Scotty and I made a run to “Store A” for a gallon of milk. When we go to Store A as a family, we have a routine path through the aisles because Scotty likes to check the discount bakery rack for pastries and delicious donuts. Our path takes us past the meat counter, and, until our trip last week, this routine occurred peacefully.

Sometime in the past month, Store A acquired an new, obnoxious butcher.

During our trip to Store A last week, we were chased down by said butcher, let’s call him Smiley, as if he were trying to sell us a new car.

“Hey, are you folks interested in some salmon? I have fresh salmon for $3.99 a pound. It’s a great deal.”

We kindly declined and approached the discount bakery rack.

“I see you like a good deal. I have chicken for $1.69 a pound.”

Scotty started talking to the butcher jokingly, saying things like, “If you throw in a free crab leg, I’ll buy a pound of salmon.”

(I hate when Scotty does this)

We ended up buying a pound of bacon because it was on sale for a great deal, and Store A happens to provide our favorite sliced bacon (reg. $2.99/lb, on sale for $1.88/lb).

We let the butcher sucker us, and I swore never to let it happen again.

Fast-forward to last night when we journeyed to Store A again. This time, we were nowhere near the discount bakery rack because our needs diverted us elsewhere. To our surprise, we looked up and Smiley was marching toward us in the privacy of the refreshing beverage aisle.

Dude! This guy roams the store harassing people about meat.

Vegetarians beware!

(and when did butchers start making commission? Is there any other reason that this guy would be stalking customers like a Time Share consultant??)

“Bla bla bla… Come buy some meat… Bla bla bla…” he said.

“Bla bla bla… Throw in a free rib eye steak… Bla bla bla…” said Scotty.

And that is how Scotty managed to get us a free steak. Do I like rib eye steak? Well, I guess for free, I do, but sometimes “free” has a price.

I can no longer shop at Store A as long as Smiley works at the meat counter because now we owe him. He will stalk us up and down the aisles reminding us that he once gave us a free steak. We are now obligated to buy pork ribs every time we go to Store A unless we can somehow sneak a vial of chloroform in the diaper bag to knock Smiley out while we shop.

I’m up to the challenge because butchers are now my worst nightmare.