Since It's Sunday

"I stand in holy places
Protected from the storm
Anchored safe in harbor
Though my sails are ripped and worn
I stand in holy places
And I will not move
Until the Lord has come and says, "Well done,"
He is the hope I hold onto
In holy places"

-  "Stand In Holy Places" by Jenny Jordan Frogley 

Friday's Letters

Dear Lovekins: You're so awesomepants for taking care of me last week while I was puking up my guts. Honestly, how many stomachs can I possibly have for all of that to be produced? Regardless, I love you a whole bunch. However, I'm mad at you because when I "got you sick", all you got was a neckache. Boo. I mean, how do you do that? How do I spend four days in the fetal position clutching a bucket, when you get a neckache and are "a little chilly"?

Dear Christmas: I hate you and I love you. I hate you because: You're expensive. You're cold. You're messy. You come bearing fruitcake from everyone I have ever met. You are no longer politially correct. I love you because: You're Christmas.

Dear Grumpkins: You're a silly kid. I love that your personality is showing a lot more now. You're playing games and cracking jokes that only you get, apparently. Heaven forbid we interrupt you. Carry on playing by yourself in your crib. Mommy's gonna go have a nap.

Dear Judgemental Jerkholes: Yes, I'm married. No, I'm not sixteen. Yes, she's mine. Yes, I know who the father is and NO, I was not drunk during conception. Does that answer everything? I mean, really. I know I'm small, but so? I don't pass judgement on you just because your entire shopping cart is full of boxed wine and you smell like feet. We are all God's children. (Said with the utmost Sassy Pantsness.)

Dear Bloggy Friends: I've come to the realization recently that I'm loads funnier while I'm pregnant. That being said, no, I'm not going to run out and get pregnant again any time soon. Not on purpose, anyway. So, for now, you'll just have to put up with some occasional lackluster posts about The Grumpster and my dying social life. Cheers.
 

Instagram Update

 

 

 

Babies are the coolest.

She's babbling now.

Saying

da da da da da da da da da da daaaaa

over and over again.

Nick thinks that counts as a win.

It's not a win, is it?

 

She also likes singing.

Not only does she like my singing,

but she likes to sing

all by herself.

She sounds a bit like

a dog whistle

on steroids.

But it's okay

because

it makes her so happy.

Especially when we clap

and say, "YAY!"

 

 

Like I said,

babies are the coolest.

Why Texting is Satan's Plaything

Anyone who has ever texted on a smartphone, or used predictive text, knows what a dangerous situation they are putting themselves in. Namely, what is this message actually going to say when the other person receives it?

We've all been there.

Now, I love using autocorrect. Really, I do. It capitalizes words for me and adds the necessary apostrophe to any contraction. As a former English major, I'm a little embarrassed of how much I rely on it, honestly. However, there are those fabulous occasions when autocorrect turns into an extremely interesting fiasco. For example, this:

When I sent this to my charming husband, we were still dating. He was actually planning on proposing on the aforementioned Monday. He never did take me pooping...

Or this:

Nick: Do you want me to pick up something for dinner?
Me: Nah. I've got some chicken thawing. Butthat you.
Nick: Did you just call me a butthat?
Me: Yes. Yes I did. I did, however, mean "but thank you."

Or this:

Me: Can I borrow your crackpot?
Mom: Sorry. I just can't part with it. But I can lend you my crock pot.
Me: That works. Really is a shame about that crackpot, though. Maybe another time.
Mom: I don't like to share.

Or there's the time when I sent a text meant for the hubs to my mother:

Me: I miss you, lovekins!
Mom: Are you on drugs this morning?
Me: Apparently.

And that's why I shouldn't text anymore...

Whoops

It has come to my attention that I apparently the name of my blog
[Run Faster Mommy]
is attached to another web page. 

My bad.

So, in light of this new knowledge

I will be taking the next little bit  to redesign my blog.

Again.

So, pardon the mess.

I'll see you soon!

Child Posession: The More You Know

I'd like to preface this post by saying that my daughter is wonderful and I love her.

However, lately her "moments" have become more and more frequent. She's screaming like a banshee, cries when she's put down, and is biting me when I try to breastfeed her. Granted, she can't technically bite since she has no teeth. But, still, it hurts. What's more, she thinks it's funny. 

After asking her during one of Alexa's checkups, the nurse told me that if she begins to bite me whilst breastfeeding, I am to pull her away and firmly say, "NO." 

When I do that, she laughs.

I am not joking.

So what do I do about it?

Well, first, I got annoyed. But, honestly, how can you stay annoyed at something this adorable?

So, then I tried threats of withdrawal. "If you keep biting me, you'll never eat again."

Not so effective. 

So, I've folded like a napkin and simply given her a bottle if she does it. I just don't care anymore. I'm too tired and my boobs hurt. Sue me.

Daddy is still on the East Coast. Perhaps she's acting out because she'd rather look at him for twenty days in a row. If the doctor told me that was the reason, I'd believe it. 

Anyway, I have an appointment tomorrow to have her skin checked out because it's all bumpy and dry and I think it's eczema. Poor thing. In the meantime I bought some super special lotion and have been slathering that all over her every chance I get. She'll either become very soft, or very sticky. I don't care either way as long as her skin clears up.