Whoa BABY!

It’s pretty amazing how life works: in less than a month, I lost my mother, and found out I was going to be one.

The day my mom’s soul departed the Earth on April 30, she was surrounded by her two daughters, her two sisters and her cat. And one extra soul that no one – not even me – knew was there. A grandchild.

I really didn’t think I could be pregnant. But sure enough... there came a point when I thought, “Hmmm. Just for kicks, why don’t I take a pregnancy test? I’ve never taken one before; it’ll be good to see how it works.”

I got home, groceries in hand, along with a relatively generic-looking test. At that point I figured, “Why spend the money for a brand name?” -- but the second the plus sign showed up with unmistakable clarity, I found myself in a state of blissful disbelief and wishing I had splurged a little bit on the test. Me, pregnant? Really?

One trip to Rite Aid and $21 later, I sped home only to pee on a stick for the second time in three hours.  This time the test literally said, “YES” (no plus or minus signs to analyze) within the flash of an eye.  As in, “YES, YOU ARE PREGNANT. “

Yes, yes, yes.

We decided to wait until at least 3 months to share our news with family and close friends. We are 20 weeks now and find out whether Baby Lanier is a boy or girl next week! But now you know why this mom's been mum for a while...

FIRST PICTURE! He/she looks like a little dancing gummy bear. 

 SECOND SHOT at around 16 weeks! Don't you get "girl" vibes from this picture?

We are so excited! Stay tuned.... 

Prisoner

Okay, okay, Wiley, we see you, staring forlornly out of the basement window which, at ground level, looks out directly onto our driveway, offering you a perfect view of the chipmunks who like to run and hide behind our neighbor's air-conditioning condensing unit. Despite the embarrassing shroud of dirt on the window -- we can plainly see that YOU WANT TO GO OUTSIDE...as if your incessant meowing and pawing at the door wasn't enough.

I realize that the hardest challenge of parenting our cats (and likely any human children we have) I will face is allowing them age-appropriate independence despite my catastrophic worrying.  Lesson #1: opening the door for Wiley to explore.

Once we moved the cats to Atlanta, I decided that Wiley, previously King of the Wild Outdoors, would revert to being an indoor cat. It simply would not be safe to let him outside in the city. So many things are different here than they were at my mom's house -- primarily, the amount of grass between the house and the road. Chapin = a couple of football fields worth. Atlanta = a couple of footballs.

My biggest fear? That Wiley would be mangled by a car (worse-case, the Hummer that lives next door), right after eating our neighbor's new kitten alive, rendering me blind with grief AND blackballed by all of the neighbors from future Bingo nights.

(Honestly, I didn't figure I would be able to stop the kitten massacre; with that haircut, this young cat definitely has a beating coming to him.)

It took a lot of soul-searching, urging from my husband and a vet's opinion that "sorry, he may continue to spray outside of the litter box so long as you keep him inside" to finally let Wiley out, but we're doing it. Kitten steps, mind you... he's only allowed out during the day, with lots of supervision. So far, he's limited his exploring to the back yard, which is a relief to me, since it's basically fenced-in on three sides. It seems he is scared of the noise made by the neighbor's air-conditioning condensing unit, the same machine he loves to watch from his indoor prison, so that stops him from heading up the driveway towards the treacherous road.

Furthermore, he is scared of the neighbor's kitten, who is known to walk the neighborhood and even cross the street, egad! We always know when she saunters into our yard, because there goes Wiley's meowing and pawing again... only this time, it's to be let inside.

Country Cats Head to the Big City

Wiley and Miss Kitty never dreamed of bright lights and the big city.  Miss Kitty, in fact, was walking the streets of Kline, SC, (pop. 238) sometime in the mid-90s when she was rescued by my grandmother's friend, Miss Marguerite, who told Grandmama, "I have just the cat for you!" She is a beautiful, graceful little thing - weighing in at only about 6 L.B.s, but when she opens her mouth and says "raaaaawh" she reveals the truth that she is, indeed, a redneck. After my grandmother's move to a nursing home eight years ago, she moved to the slightly bigger town of Chapin, SC, where she became a recluse, choosing to live exclusively on the second floor of my mother's home for the majority of those eight years (until, that is, we brought my mom home on hospice in Feb. 2010). Because my mom could not go upstairs, Miss Kitty was forced to explore the wilds of the main floor in order to curl up with her. Although roaming the main floor of my mom's house sparked off Miss Kitty's adventurous streak, I'm sure she never dreamed she would then live out her senior years in Atlanta -- in the middle of the city, no less.


Wiley, our 17-lbs., 11-year old orange tabby, was originally my indoor, apartment cat. I like to refer to him as my teenage 'whoops' who then had to be raised by his grandparents. I got him in college after Amy, my first cat (also male; don't ask!) passed on. I really didn't want a new kitten but thought, "How hard could it be?" Wiley was a nutcase right from the start -- I remember calling my mom, crying hysterically, "I can't deal with this!" He loved to sink his needle sharp kitten teeth into my leg as I walked across the room. He loved to throw his entire body against my bedroom door as soon as the sun started to come up and subsequently stick his paw under as far as it would go, batting at the air as a way of threatening, "LET ME IN OR ELSE!" He loved racing into my room, jumping up on the bed, sticking his head under the blinds to look at the birds, which would cause him to start twitching and panting like a dog. He'd then zoom off to the living room and rush back in, only to repeat the routine over and over. He loved chewing up anything he could, including my roommate's computer cords and the drawstrings to my favorite Gap pants. He was the devil.

Since my first job after college was driving the Hershey's Kissmobile, Wiley went to live with my parents while I was on the road. He thrived, having his freedom on 3 acres of land, and I thrived, having him out of my hair! I never felt one iota of guilt that I'd schlepped him off on my parents...maybe I should have.

The day we left Chapin to move the cats to Atlanta was a hard day for me. It was like wrapping up Part I in the book that is my life and starting Part II -- with two unhappy cats in the backseat.

We were only nine minutes into the trip when Wiley, who was already panting and howling for his life, turned around and took a monster dump. I was on the phone with the vet at the time saying, "I'm not sure that tranquilizer you gave me is working... he's panting like a dog with a real crazy look in his eye and oh GOD! oh GOD! HE's ....NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! WILEY NO!!!! (pause.) YEP. He just pooped all over his carrier."

Luckily we were able to pull over to a dear friend's house right off the highway, clean him up, and start on our trip again after attempting to soothe him. Miss Kitty was as high as a kite, thanks to the vet's pills, so she barely said a word during this part of the trip. Sometimes she'd let out a single meow as if to say, "Wiley, dude, you must chill."

Just when we thought Wiley was going to be fine, somewhere around hour 2 of what should have been a 3 1/2 hour trip, he began a circling again. Poop #2 was disposed of at a gas station somewhere in Thompson, Georgia. Thompson was also the location of a desperate phone call placed to a friend, reminding her of her repeated offer to help with "anything, anything at all."

"What I need is for you to be at my house by 7 p.m. sharp with a cat-friendly shampoo in hand. This cat has pooped himself twice now, and we're about to pass out from the fumes." I knew early on that we would not be able to escape the inevitable: giving Wiley a bath.

But the grand finale came when we finally got within spitting distance of home. We'd just merged onto I-75 North, and my husband was so excited to be close to home that he started bantering with the cats, who, on cue, would answer him with a meow.

"Who's ready to be home?!" he shouted, enthusiastically.

"MEOW!" they both cried.

"Who wants to be an Atlanta cat?"

"MEOW!"

"Who wants to get a bath when we arrive?"

"MEOW!"

(You get the picture.) However, instead of getting them pumped about being almost home, I think the back and forth only served to upset Wiley more, who turned three circles and peed all over his box.

Just as we exited the highway, he turned a few more circles and dropped poop #3.

And as we turned onto Woodward Way, he gave us the finale: he heaved and heaved for about a quarter mile, while we shouted "NO, WILEY, HOLD IT!" before puking all over himself.

I think the banter upset Miss Kitty, too, judging from her cat carrier.

Our first hours home, after many a week in Chapin, were spent like this:

It may not have been the warmest and fuzziest homecoming I've ever experienced, but it certainly was the wettest and furriest.

Chapter Two

It's June 1, which means my break from blogging is over and it's time to say hello. So, hello.

When my mom passed away a month ago, it meant major changes in our lives. Besides the obvious sad implications, it also meant I would no longer be driving back and forth to South Carolina each and every week. In other words, I would be able to spend more time with my husband, resuming what some would call a "normal" life but what we know is far from (or so we hope!).

The second major change: we said goodbye to a lifetime of sleeping in, of taking off on trips whenever we want to with absolutely no forethought whatsoever, of thinking about the two of us and JUST the two of us.  In other words, we became parents.

Not literally, of course, but these two are far from self-sufficient.

And while I love these cats we inherited more than anything, they are true pains in the butts, as I assure you future posts will prove.

Tide & Prejudice

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a married woman in possession of a new frontloader, must be in want of a laundry pile.

***

Oh Samsung Frontloader! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my laundry abilities. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to wash a laundry load worthy of being washed.

Call me prejudiced towards my ancient (and now dead) Maytag washing machine, but my life improved by leaps and loads with today's Sears delivery. 

A (Bed) Room with a View

She knows which birds are singin'

And the names of the trees where they're performin' in the morning

--January Wedding ~ AVETT BROTHERS

I'm newly obsessed with knowing the name of every tree and plant in my yard, as well as the names of the birds singing outside. Partly because of this song lyric, partly because our yard is suddenly becoming beautiful and lyrical. 

So yes, I will admit to making my husband buy THIS for me for my birthday.

Try to understand; he's a magic man

At our rehearsal dinner, Whit's sister outed him for his many weird traits as a kid...i.e. creating and wearing stilt shoes to school, owning daytime and nighttime ninja constumes... collecting switchblades...proclaiming that he would be a magician when he grew up...

I did not fully --- 100% fully --- grasp just how serious this magician ambition was until yesterday morning at about 7 a.m. We'd gotten home from the gym to discover our next-door neighbor calling Whit's name. His wife and children were still out of town on Spring Break, and he'd somehow locked himself out of his house. "Do you happen to have one of our spare keys?" he asked hopefully.

We did not, but I'll tell you what we did have! (and which I had no knowledge of until that moment). Whit's lock picking set, known officially as the "Magestic Pix-Quix" (model A, mind you). He was able to locate said kit in our unorganized house in under one minute. Imagine the scene: my husband in ruddy gym clothes, slouching over the neighbor's front door, armed with a set of lock picks. He used words like "torque" and "pins" and "shaft" to try to describe what he was doing, but despite it being in the name of magic, I still cringed every time a jogger ran by the scene. I'm surprised our neighborhood alliance hasn't already sent out a mass e-mail alerting us to be on the lookout for sweaty men breaking and entering in the area. "When asked what he was doing at ### Woodward Way, the perpetrator said he was a magician!"

Most neighbors trade keys for emergencies like these; we simply wait to pick their locks.

Compost Gross

One of our neighbors drives a Hummer. Every time I see that thing barrel through the neighborhood, I feel a flower wilt and a baby sea turtle gasp its last breath. So, we try to do right by Mother Earth and actually registered for a compost bin when we got married. 

We received it.

We use it. All the time.

I didn't realize it before today, but if you don't empty it before you go out of town, it gets pretty sick. Right now in our bin it appears that an alien encased in white webbing is about to hatch out of a banana peel. I hope my husband feels grateful enough that I cooked him dinner to go dump this sh*& out!

In-spiration

In-laws -- a HUGE topic for newlyweds. Before Whit and I got married, I can't tell you how many people asked with a tone of simpering uncertainty, "Do you like your mother-in-law?," hoping for a horror story. The less-than-dramatic truth is that my mother-in-law is to die for, and judging from some delicious MIL stories I get to hear from some of my girlfriends, I know I'm lucky. Bubbles (as I'll call her here) is warm to everyone; she's generous; she's thoughtful, cheerful and cute. (And no, I'm not sucking up - one thing she's not is particularly tech-savvy, so I'm pretty sure she doesn't know this blog exists.) She's fun and creative and always has an interesting story to tell. Even though she and her current husband (Whit's father, like mine, passed away a few years ago) are building a house exactly 1/2 mile away from ours, she'll never be the pop-by, intrusive type. In fact, I'll be the first to admit -- WE followed THEM to Woodward Way.

One of my absolute favorite things about Bubbles -- and it's a trait I hope to emulate as a mother and grandmother -- is her ability to always get in the spirit of things. Since I've been in the family, I can't think of one holiday big or small that has passed by without her doing something special. She even buys her loved ones lottery tickets when there's a Mega Millions drawing!

The best -- her themed toast with sprinkles, on any special occassion! Here is her Halloween pumpkin and bat, and a St. Patrick's Day clover.

This is the Valentine's Day toast in action, complete with matching strawberries, raspberries and place mats, during breakfast at her house.

 
Last Easter she gave Whit (at that time, still a bachelor) these bunnies/flower holders. Adorable! He just couldn't get enough of them. ;)

The first time I met Bubbles was Fourth of July.  I wish I had pictures of the decorations at her lake house!

She's definitely given me license to step it up a notch. So, here's my attempt to follow in her footsteps for Easter 2010. Some may say cheesy; I say festive, fun and INspired.

What keeps us laughing

Even on a day like today, this clip can make me laugh. We first saw this segment on The Soup, which we watch religiously each week. I don't know what we'll do when we have kids because, as wrong as it is, I'm never giving up The Soup.

Don't waste your time with the first two minutes -- jump to 3 minutes 30 seconds.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

May the force be with you!

There's something behind the attic door Mommy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It is very true that I have an overdeveloped imagination about many things; my imagination is a blessing for many endeavors, but it is a total curse at night when the house is dark. (Not just our house on Woodward Way; I can be pretty much anywhere and work myself into a sheer panic about what may or may not be on my tail when the lights are off.) I believe this hysteria can be attributed in part to older siblings who didn't make me leave the room when I was oh, SIX, and they were watching Poltergeist or Jaws. I watched that kind of stuff all the time back then, but now I can't even keep my eyes open during the Oscars "horror" montage. Seriously - I caught a glimpse of those two freaky looking twins from The Shining right when the montage started, and as a result I had night sweats at about 2 a.m. on Sunday. (Well, I also had a stomach bug, but I'm telling you -- I have ZERO ability to handle horror.) After an old roommate suckered me into watching The Ring (and then moved out a week later), I SOLD my TV until my new roommate arrived the next month.

My husband never believed just how wimpy I am about horror movies until

a) he was jolted out of a deep slumber the night after we saw a movie preview for "Orphan" by me screaming at the top of my lungs in my sleep (I swear, subjecting a captive audience to a horror preview ought to be illegal) and

b) he was again woken up, this time while on vacation, after I dreamed a group of sinister teenage girls was trying to kill me. I was so scared, so terrified.... that I had to wake him up, too, so he would go to the bathroom with me. Seriously. I was SO scared that he had to get up, walk me to the toilet (which was about 5 feet away), stand right outside the door talking to me until I was done, and walk me back to bed. He never had a choice - I was truly THAT terrified. (And yes, I know he's a saint.)

All that being said... is it even remotely possible that I will some day produce a child who sleeps in a bed that has THIS for a view? (And I'm talking about the attic door, though I realize that my husband's BUFFALO HEAD is equally scary).

NO WAY. You couldn't even convince me to sleep there.

In sickness and in health

Having a husband (and a very sweet, patient one at that) came in handy big-time this weekend. Of course, I had planned a million things to do since it was my official week "off" from driving to SC. But to-do's be damned; I was struck down in my path by some sort of heinous stomach bug on Friday. Just when I thought I was feeling better on Saturday - we even briefly went to an engagement party for some friends of ours - the bug returned with a vengeance on Sunday (and I type this post tentatively, hoping it really is gone NOW and not lurking, waiting to strike).

Apparently I have learned nothing about grace from my dear mom who handles her illness without wailing or complaining. I whined and gnashed my teeth all weekend. (Don't judge too harshly - the bug really was bad.) On top of being a total baby about it, though, I also reeked from not showering and being completely inactive on the couch, so Whit had to deal with a much, much less-than-glamorous side of me. Hence, one of the lesser-understood perks of marriage (until you need it): the whole in sickness and in health vow.  Instead of finding something a LOT more fun to do on the first gorgeous day we've had in a while (which I actually encouraged), my husband stayed with me, very kindly didn't kill my fantasy that perhaps an unanticipated plus of this bug may be losing a few lbs. (didn't happen), watched a couple of movies with me, and even though I paid dearly for it, bought me several varieties of chicken noodle soup.

Laughing as I cuss him

(I've decided my attempt at anonymity on here is not worth NOT posting this.)

Today my darling husband P.S.'ed one of my painstakingly-penned wedding thank you notes with this line:

"Carrie picks up that vase and snuggles it!" 


Seriously, honey? I am torn between fits of outrage and fits of giggles.

Maybe I did snuggle that vase Sunday while we were cleaning up, but maybe I didn't. Either way, I can't say for sure that ole Dr. & Mrs. Prim'n'Proper are going to appreciate the sentiment. (They went off registry, so what do you think?) What I can say for sure is that this kind of absurdity is absolutely why I married him.

And yes, I did mail it!

My first run in with a plumber, or should I say my first "plumb-in?"

I cannot believe that FIXING THIS

cost $287 from our neighborhood plumber. Seriously? He might as well have asked me to give him my first-born, Rumpelstiltskin-style. I guess this is a case of everything and the kitchen sink.

Getting real on my blog.

As if being a newlywed wasn't enough, I am also a road warrior, a dual resident, and an insomniac who can't seem to get motivated today. Some of my trusted elders tell me that my life is pretty complicated right now and to give myself a break. I'm not sure I really get what they're telling me, but I do know I've got a frying pan of bacon grease left over from breakfast sitting in the kitchen, and it is just the first of 100 or more things that need cleaning up here on Woodward Way. But I'm hardly ever here, in this house, to clean all that needs cleaning. And never being here makes it hard to be anything on Woodward, must less the kind of new wife I want to be -- the one who sweetly and quickly upholds her promise to clean up when cooked for! Never being here also hurts my chances of being a star decorator, a reliable friend or even a consistent blogger. This is my deal, though, and I'm trying to be somewhat graceful about it, which perhaps just adds to the {black} comedy of it all.

See, I commute every week to go help my mother, who lives by herself one state over and, after being treated for cancer and a staph infection, recently went on hospice -- meaning I spend more of my time being a caretaker than a newlywed these days. Driving back and forth nearly 500 miles to her house each week is what I do in lieu of my real job in marketing and PR. Instead of sitting in a gorgeous office in the city with creative and fun work friends, I sit at my mom's kitchen table and play-scold the dog and cats about what lovable nuisances they are. Instead of brainstorming ideas for clients during the work week, I'm brainstorming what food my mom might be able to keep down and lamenting the fact that she, a master chef of all Southern cuisine, barely {though not maliciously} taught me how to boil water! Instead of trying to coax my husband to our bed, I'm doing everything in my power to drag my mother out of hers. Instead of mixing us up a couple of vanilla mojitos in the evening, I'm measuring out morphine and doling out Ativan. And most pertinently, instead of humoring all three of you readers on THIS blog, I'm updating my mom's small army on her widely-read Caring Bridge site. 

Lest you ever doubt it for a second -- despite the stress-induced acid reflux, despite the fact that my 2007 tailbone fracture has come back to haunt me in ways you don't even want to know from so much time in the car, despite the sadness of what this transition will mean, despite missing my husband and my DIRTY home and wishing our first few months of marriage were "NORMAL" like everyone else's, despite these and so many, many, many other things -- I'm happy I can do this for my mom. She has forever been so AWESOME to me, and I know I will have countless days to spend with my own family when she is no longer here. I'm so grateful for this chance to pay homage to my wonderful mom, a woman who always loves me no matter what --- but who would never have allowed good bacon grease like this go to waste.

Communication is key

"Eyemohmissewe."  

Translation: "I'm going to miss you"

Spoken to: My husband, this morning, before heading to my home town (Podunk, South Carolina; population 628), where, due to circumstances outside of my control, I've been spending several days of each week since August 2009.

Reaction from my articulate, city boy, privately-schooled husband: "Huh?"

Beginning of a trend?: Aforementioned sweet, darling husband also corrected me at the gym this morning when I told a fellow member, "My hands are tore up from yesterday's pullups."  And Friday night he outed me to our friends for how red I sound when addressing these (and other) folks by the names I was taught to call them growing up: "Mama," "Grandmama," "Cuddin' Myrtle" and "Uncle Baby."

Verdict: You can take the new bride out of the country (even for a few years, and put her in high heels and business suits in a major city), but you can't take the country out of the new bride -- especially if she's always having to spend half of her time back in the sticks.

Which means our future children will likely greet my husband in the driveway when he gets home from work, hop into his future swank-yet-super-environmentally-friendly-SUV with muddy bare feet, a Dr. Thunder in hand, squealing "haaaaaaaaaaaaay Deaddddddddddy!!!!!"

Out with the old? Not with my husband's "troughed" cutting board.

The entire city is feverishly bracing for icy roads and snow, but we're cool and collected here on Woodward Way.  We've got all the supplies we need....

....for chopping up stuff or tossing a salad.  

It's a new year, and among other resolutions, our goal as a couple is to get our home feeling like home.  So far we're killing it: we've opened and broken down about 600 cardboard boxes for recycling (including the Robot... farewell, fine sir), hung a chandelier and a TV, and cleared some space in our kitchen cabinets for new dishes and a few really grown-up appliances like a mixer and a crock pot.  It's domestic bliss at its finest, even IF my loving husband -- in the heat of rescuing something from the Goodwill pile -- did call me a zitface.  We finally agreed that nothing says "newlywed" like having seven (and counting) cutting boards, so we're keeping 'em all!!!!