Charting New Territory.

In the world of baby-having, things have changed a lot since I partook – largely due to social media. And, much like all that’s changed in the world of wedding-having, I am not sad that I missed it. Any of it.

I’m not sad that Pinterest Pressure was an unknown substance 16 years ago, and I’m not sad that Gender Reveal Parties were as yet uninvented 7 and 11 years ago.

Back in my wedding day, you had a three-ring binder where you tore out pictures from actual paper Wedding Magazines to get ideas to show your florist and baker – in real life.

(I still have mine somewhere if any youngsters want to see a relic of the olden days.)

Back in my baby-having days, you bought a book to tell you What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

But now…they have charts and comparisons and infographics and everyone including your 7th grade gym teacher gets to know exactly when your baby is the size of an avocado.

And that’s what we’re here to talk about today. The whole “Size of My Baby” chart.

It’s always fruit.

Why is it always fruit?

We need something new in our size comparisons to en utero humans. Mainly because fruit comes in a variety of sizes. I’ve seen a grape the size of a plum and an apple the size of a clementine. I’ve seen a watermelon the size of a canteloupe and I so rarely see an actual butternut squash that how exactly is that supposed to help me know the size of your baby?

And also. When you get to the 36 week mark, it seems like there’s a better comparison to “size of my baby” than keeping on the whole fruit track.

So I made a more…creative chart.

Perhaps this is influenced by my rampant binge watching of Parks and Rec and identifying way too much with April Ludgate.

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And perhaps I’m a bit….non-traditional when it comes to life.

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After all, my children know just what to look for in order to determine whether roadkill is photogenic or not.

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And perhaps, just perhaps, there are a lot of pregnant ladies out there right now that are not feeling nearly perky enough to tell you excitedly that their baby is currently the size of a starfruit.

So I created a new chart.

Feel free to use this to help your pregnant friends along. And if you need me to make stickers for their weekly photographs, you just let me know. Because I am here to serve.

What's The Size of My Baby

 

 

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Love Me With Your Whole Emoji.

Of my 1,171 Facebook friends, approximately 1,500 of them currently sell something that involves a product, a downline, and a requirement of a plethora of Facebook posts.

My Facebook feed covers them all. Multiple times over. I will never be without the ability to buy Matilda Jane or Advocare or Avon or Young Living or It Works or Premier Jewelry or Jamberry or Pampered Chef or Plexus or Rodan & Fields or Scentsy or Thirty One Gifts or Tupperware or Usborne or Younique or BeachBody or doTerra or Isagenix or Juice Plus or Mary Kay.

Ah, what a world we live in.

Of those 1,500 retail shops in the strip mall that is my Facebook feed, approximately 1,800 have, in the past year, posted a status asking people to let them know, via emoji, how they feel about their business. The options given to describe said business include some variation of the following:

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But, oddly, they never ever offer the heartbreak emoji. Or the new and fantastic black heart emoji. I’m sure it’s just a simple oversight, but I feel like there needs to be an option out there for everyone and every opinion (because if 2017 isn’t about EVERY OPINION, what IS it about??), so I decided to write my own.

I don’t have my own business that involves a downline, sales levels named after precious stones (But if I did, I would be Double Purple Sapphire Diamond Titanium Level, y’all!!), or wildly fantastic motivational trips to Fiji, but I do occasionally mention my side project, Picture Birmingham, so that’s what I shall write my status for.

So. Let’s try this.

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I CANNOT WAIT to see what emoji you choose in response!!

A Valentine To Remember.

I have strong personal convictions about Valentine’s Day.

I think it is inanely stupid.

It’s contrived, it’s expected, and it’s downright annoying.

It forces single people to feel sad, it obligates non-single people to feel pressured to write something disgustingly mushy on Facebook, AND it’s the single worst night in the year to attempt to eat out, making one choose to either a) wait 4 hours to be packed in like sardines at a prix fixe meal out, or b) COOK AND WASH DISHES AT HOME.

WHY would we allow something so ugly into our culture*?

I mean sure, Chris and I celebrated it for a number of years at the beginning of our relationship – until that beautiful day that we got comfortable enough in our love to have that most romantic conversation.

“I think this is stupid.”

“Really? I do too!!”

We would much rather celebrate romance on our anniversary. It’s ours and we don’t have to share it with every other couple on the globe.

Welcome to the romance of the cynical.

* Feel free to disagree with me. You may find Valentine’s to be the most romantic, loveliest of holidays and that is 100% fine. Continue to enjoy the pinkest and reddest of days and by all means don’t let me sour you toward it.

Anyway. My lack of disregard for this holiday is why, when my Dad texted me Tuesday morning and asked if he could stop by, I didn’t even think for a second that it had to do with Valentine’s. I wondered for the next 30 minutes to what exactly we owed his visit. Although it’s not unusual for Dad to stop by, his text implied more than the usual “I’m dropping by.”

He walked in with a big red envelope in hand.

“I brought you a Valentine.”

Now. I derive 105% of my cynical genes from my Father.

This was clearly a confusing turn of events.

I opened my Valentine to find a handmade card, in my Mom’s writing. So this was a joint card….still feeling a bit odd.

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And then I opened it. And I remembered why my parents are THE best parents in the world.

FullSizeRender 63“Twisted” is the word that is obstructed by Herman’s Grade A Packaging, just in case you couldn’t figure that out via context.

Have you ever seen such a perfect way to celebrate this holiday?

No. You haven’t. Because my parents just created it.

After I opened the card and gushed at my Dad’s thoughtfulness, he pulled out another baggie.

“It’s a two-for-one day!”

That’s right. I was gifted not one, but TWO dead mice for Valentine’s Day. No $200 bouquet could top such a thoughtful, personalized gift.

I squealed with happiness.

“I even had a Valentine’s balloon in my roadkill kit that would have expired today if I hadn’t found something!!”

Dad beamed, obviously proud of his perfect timing.

After he left, Noah and I headed out to the driveway in bare feet, and I put the rubber gloves in my kit to use for the first time – after all, Herman and Marge would have to be posed.

I got them how I wanted them, but the plastic stem of my balloon kept popping off the ground, sending Herman rolling over.

Carcass Models are such divas to work with.

I finally had to employ my toes to hold the stem down, then had to crop out the tippy top of my big toe to finally capture the essence of the moment.

Yes, I had gotten what I wanted. Now it was time to write A Valentine Tale worthy of the image.

Herman and Marge the Valentine Mice s

Marge tried to feign excitement about Herman’s proud cheesy gift of an oversized balloon – she knew he loved her to death, after all – but all she really wanted was for him to have not been such an idiot when he decided to make their home near that tempting, deadly, beautiful, terrible Mouse Trap Subdivision.

And that’s how I received the best Valentine’s Day gift ever.