Made in Richmond

Earlier today, JR helped his Mamaw bake cookies. I did not help bake them, but I will help eat them.

My incredibly generous in-laws are heading up a renovation of our kitchen. It’s been a bit crazy for the last couple weeks, but things are coming along quickly. It’s so nice to have cabinets that don’t squawk when you open them.

Last week, JR and I ran into some friends at Maymont, a local park that has farm animals and lots of great gardens. During a quick break from our stroll, he and his friend decided to climb this big hill. They both got nervous walking back down by themselves, so I scurried up there to retrieve them. As we made our way back down, I reminded them to help each other. JR took his friend’s hand, and they held on to each other the rest of the way down, laughing the entire time.

I wasn’t there for this (Ross was) so I didn’t take this picture (Ross did), but the entire city of Richmond is completely consumed by the fact that VCU made it to the Final Four. This includes me. I didn’t go to VCU and I have never cared about basketball, but I actually couldn’t sleep last night. It’s just awesome to see all of Richmond so stoked about something so positive. I can’t get enough.

***

So tell me, what’s up with you these days?

JR and I have been spending a lot of time at our local library for three reasons…

1. It’s two blocks from our house.
2. They host a most excellent toddler storytime.
3. Their movie selection makes me gasp “THEY HAVE THIS?!?!?!” at fairly regular intervals.

Recent perusing has revealed such “Valerie’s Childhood Highlights” as A Child’s Christmas in Wales (a film that, perhaps, only myself and my siblings have seen), Pollyanna, and…

The Trouble with Angels.

For those of you not familiar with this film, here’s the synopsis, courtesy of wikipedia (includes SPOILERS!!!!!!!)

The movie is set at St. Francis Academy, a fictional all-girls Catholic boarding school in Pennslyvania, operated by an order of nuns. Russell plays the Mother Superior, who spends the movie at odds with Mary Clancy (Hayley Mills), a rebellious teenager, and her misery-loves-company friend Rachel Devery (June Harding). The episodic storyline follows the young women through their sophomore, junior and senior high-school years. After spending much of the film resenting the authority of the Mother Superior, Mary receives the “call” senior year and, after graduation, remains at the school as a novitiate of the order.

I had a…thing…with this movie when I was a tween/pre-teen/the most awkward version of myself. It had me convinced that not only did I want to *be* Hayley Mills, but that I also wanted to live in the 1960s, attend a Catholic boarding school, and possibly become a nun. All I had to do was somehow convert to Catholicism…and go back in time, I guess?

I don’t claim to have a grasp of the psychological conditions that created my obsession, but, lo! they were there for a good, long while. I’m better now. If “better” could be described as “ushering my child off to a early naptime so I could start watching the movie as soon as possible.”

(Side note: This movie has a character named Valerie. I couldn’t stand her — she was such a little snot. She made me hate my name for a good, long while. See? I had a PROBLEM.)

JR was born after 22 hours of intense back labor caused by him being in the posterior position. Over 14 of those hours involved absolutely no pain medication, paired with the occasional dosage of Pitocin (for those of you who have ever experience Pitocin on its own…well, to say it’s “of the devil” is not too much of an exaggeration). After all that work, and all that pain, and all those episodes of his heart rate dropping dramatically with each strong contraction, my doctor and I decided to do a C-section. A few minutes later I was rolled into the OR, shifted over to the operating table, and was awake (though thankfully numb) as I was cut open to have my 10-pound child safely removed from my body.

I think that’s pretty badass.

That’s not to say that women who push their children into this world aren’t badass. Obviously they are. I mean, have you seen the size of a newborn baby (more specifically, the HEAD of a newborn baby)? How that physically happens is beyond me. But I still (STILL) get comments every now and then from people who seem to imply that I somehow wussed out by having a C-section. That I didn’t work hard enough or educate myself enough on my options about labor and delivery. Because getting cut in half and having your insides shifted all over the place and not being able to be the first person to hold your child after carrying him for almost 10 months and laboring for him for almost an entire day is CLEARLY the goal here (I hope you can sense my sarcasm). Like all mothers, I did what I had to do to make sure my kid was safe. And he is. He’s here, I’m here, all is well. THAT is the goal, at least in my approach to this whole mothering thing.

(Sorry for the rantish talk. When people who are essentially strangers imply that they have more knowledge of the state of my uterus, my vagina (hi, Dad!), and my relationship with my doctor than I do, it gets a bit tiresome after a while.)

Back in January, Mama Vee over at There Are No Ordinary Moments wrote a post that is such important reading for mothers who brought their babies into this world via C-section…or for anyone really.

Read it here: Cesarean Courage

All births require bravery — whether they happen at home, in the hospital, naturally with minimal intervention, with an epidural, via C-section, what have you. We need to remember that.

JR,

This is the first time since you were itty bitty that I almost missed your monthly letter. I’m so glad I remembered because missing this one would’ve put quite an impressive streak to a very shameful end.

You and I had a very special date this month: we saw your Aunt Robin perform in Theatre IV‘s production of The BFG. I’ve been wanting to take you to a play, but I was nervous about forking over lots and lots of dollars and risk you flipping out five minutes into the show. Aunt Robin was sweet enough to get us some free tickets, so I decided to give it a try. Kid, you were FANTASTIC. You sat on my lap the entire time (something that is very rare these days), you didn’t make a peep (other than to laugh), and the first words out of your mouth after the play was over were, “I wanna watch that movie AGAIN!” The fact that you did so well pleases me to no end. Your Dada and I love to go out to see movies and plays and those sorts of things, and we wanted to get you used to those settings early. So far so good!

The “Whys?” started this month. Overall it isn’t *too* infuriating yet; it reminds me of how you were from about eight months to a year old — always asking “This?” I’m sure my frustration levels with rise over this with time, but right now I’m just enjoying the conversations we have. And I mean, why *is* Mama a girl and why *do* birds have beaks? These are important things to consider.

The biggest development this month was my decision to leave my job at RVANews to stay home with you. It’s definitely been an adjustment, but I am so, so glad I decided to do this for our family. We’ve been very lucky to be able to keep you in school two days a week, so you still have socializing time with kids your age, but I think the time we’ve had together has improved things at our house. I’m less stressed, we’re seeing fewer temper tantrums from you, and those rough evenings that were so frequent before are few and far between these days. While I like to think it’s because my magical mother’s love has caused the change, the more likely reason is that you nap better at home than at school. Either way, I’ll take it.

Seriously though, I’m treasuring this time with you and I feel very blessed that we were able to work it out. We’re still finding our rhythm, and I sometimes feel a bit lost as far as where I “fit” into the world right now (so to speak), but I’m so glad that this is where I am right now. With you. My sweet little guy.

You’re totally, totally worth it.

Love,
Mama

This blonde-haired, blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked, humbling bundle of love and life. I’m so, so glad he’s mine.

Ross and I usually opt for waiting until a show is finished before watching it. That way, once it’s on Netflix, we can plow through it over the course of a few weeks, rather than dealing with season premiers, hiatuses, finales, and all that nonsense.

This leads to us watching A LOT of a particular show at once, which typically leads me to becoming obsessed with that show — partly because I’m spending all of my free time watching and mostly because I have a mild case of the crazies. And then when the show is over, I get very, very…sad. Not just bummed. Like actually sad. I’ll spend way too much time reading about the show on Wikipedia, reading about the actors, fighting the temptation to rewatch the whole thing immediately.

(I also sometimes say to Ross, “What do you think they’re doing now?” I’m kidding when I say it. Mostly. And that comment is usually saved for references to Gilmore Girls.)

My latest source of TV distress is our recent completion of Slings & Arrows — a Canadian dramedy (that word makes me want to vom, but it is what it is) recommended to us by my friend Susan. It’s about a well, Canadian, theater company that focuses on Shakespeare. And it is…FANTASTIC. Plus, the main guy (played by Paul Gross who is apparently The Guy to our friends up north) is absolutely dashing in a “I’m certifiably crazy and somewhat unwashed BUT SO ADORABLE” kind of way.

Here’s a little snippet of the goodness of this show. Watch it. Immediately. YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT:

(AUGH. I love it when he gets all director-y.)

Part of my job at church is to put together the bulletin for our weekly service. So by the time Sunday rolls around, the songs that we’ll be singing have already been in my head for three days.

I love most of the songs we sing at church, but when this week’s music leader sent over the list of songs for this Sunday, I started beaming when I saw this one on the list. I just love it — mostly because we actually clap when we sing it. And who doesn’t love a good clapping song?

Anyway, I hope you like it.

I don’t think I’ve shared this little tidbit with you, but I made a promise to myself a long time ago that somehow, someday, I would convince someone to name a sandwich after me.

(I just really, really love sandwiches ok? I’m much like Joey Tribbiani.)

Turns out, all it took was me saying so on Twitter.

(And knowing someone who actually *owns* a restaurant that specializes in sandwiches. Why it never occurred to me, during the numerous years I’ve known this person, to actually share my goal with her, I’ll never know. I’m not so good at connecting the dots.)

Anyway, on Wednesday night, I posted this tweet:

A few minutes later, this restaurant owner (who has her tweets protected, so I won’t link, etc.) said “I can totally do that. What’s the key ingredient?”

I then spent the remainder of the evening tweeting at her to stop teasing me and not thinking that this — this MAGNIFICENT DREAM — was going to happen.

The next morning, she tweeted this to me: “Done. The Valerie. Available while supplies last.” She even posted a picture on the restaurant’s Facebook page, so it was totally legit.

I then had this conversation with Ross on gchat:

Me: THAT IS MY SANDWICH
IT IS ON THE GARNETT’S FACEBOOK
I HAVE A SANDWICCCCCHHHH

Ross: that is incredible!
let’s go eat it for dinner!
i like that your sandwich is a bologna sandwich
ITS PERFECT

Me: I KNOWWWWWWWWWW

Ross: babe
i am in love with you
is that ok?

Me: YESSSS AND I HAVE A SANDWICH!!!!!!!!

(My priorities, they are clear.)

So, later that evening, Ross and took JR to meet my in-laws for dinner so we could all try The Valerie — we had to act quickly because it was just their special for the day. And here’s a crappy picture!

Lebanon Sweet Bologna and Swiss cheese on a Ciabatta roll (which happens to be my most FAVORITE kind of roll). It also involved some kind of mustard that gave the whole sandwich quite a “zing.” Fitting, no? I have zing. Or I’m zingish, at least.

(Also, that Cane Cola pictured in the background is fantastic. I don’t remember the brand. It’s “Boy-something” as you can see in the picture. I am no help to you. But know that you should be drinking it.)

So anyway, the moral of this story? If you want to achieve a life goal, all you have to do is whine about it on Twitter until a local business owner you know by happenstance notices and decides to humor you.

(Thanks, Kendra. You’re a peach.)

I started Jillian Micheals: 30 Day Shred this week. Because I hate myself, I guess?

No, really, it’s high time that I get myself back into shape. I was lucky enough to lose the majority of my baby weight (oh how I HATE that term for some reason) pretty quickly — save the 10 extra pounds that I always carry around when I’m on the pill. But if I were to go off the pill, it’s highly likely that I’d put that baby weight right back on (in the form of a baby), so you know.

Anyway, despite my blessed lack of post-baby weight problems, things have just been…soft for quite some time. So when I happened upon Ms. Jillian in Target last week, I decided to use the last 10 bucks on my gift card on something other than a T-shirt that will fall apart next month or a package of diapers. (My life! It is GLAMOROUS!)

The shredding (whatever the hell that means) started on Tuesday morning. Yes, MORNING. I got up at 6:30 to get shredded. For those of you not familiar with Ms. Jillian’s technique, it’s basically three circuits: three minutes of strength, two minutes of cardio, and one minute of abs. And you do those sets over and over again for about 20 minutes on either Level 1, Level 2, or Level 3. Easy peasy.

Ish.

I was proud of myself for getting through it without stopping once.My prime motivator when doing anything strenuous is to chant, “22 hours of labor, 22 hours of labor.” That typically makes any physical task seem pretty attainable.

However, that’s not to suggest that there wasn’t a lot of yelling. Here are some of the gems that I gasped and sputtered ferociously roared and Jillian during our first meeting:

No, YOU do two more JILLIAN*.

I hate you.

This is why no one wants to be on your team, JILLIAN. This, THIS RIGHT HERE, is why people like Bob more.

WHAT? No.

Yes, I KNOW those abs don’t come for free.

STILL HATE YOU.

Jillian, I’m sorry. It was the pain talking. I really do appreciate your enthusiasm for my efforts to get “shredded”. Even though I still don’t know what that means. And even though it’s two days later and I still can’t raise my arms over my head.

*I say “JILLIAN” just like Phil said “LILLIAN” on Rugrats. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, well, I just don’t know what to do with you.