This is not a post baby hormonal breakdown

I bawled my eyes out today. You would too.

Roughly fifty years ago, my grandpa gave my grandma a small, plain gold band; she was pregnant and her wedding ring didn't fit her swollen hands. Over the years, it became my mother's. Over more years, it became mine. I wore it to work at Pizza Factory so that I wouldn't get my diamond dirty once Adam and I got engaged.

Roughly five years ago, my sweet husband gave me a beautiful, emerald cut diamond set in a thin gold band and asked me to marry him. Before I got that ring, I cared nothing about "the ring." I just knew I wanted the man. But when he got down on one knee on the top of a cornice at the Park City ski resort and opened that little red box, my heart almost burst. I had no idea what that ring would mean to me in and of itself.

Roughly five weeks ago, my husband bestowed me with another ring-this time exhibiting the amazing side talent of working in a dental lab and learning how to cast gold crowns. For my 26th birthday/5th anniversary, Adam MADE a planished gold band. I was amazed at how beautiful and how NOT amateur a piece of jewelry it was. And it meant so much that he made it with his own two hands.

Last night I had all three of these important rings on. In one swift move, Tate peed and pooped all over me, him, the curtains and the rug while I was in the middle of changing him. In a panicked moment of trying to control the damage, I took off all three rings and put them in my left pocket. I cleaned Tate up and forgot all about them until I got out of the shower today and went to put my rings on. They were not in my jewelry box. My stomach dropped as I remembered what I did last night. I ran to the washer where the pants I had been wearing were spinning around. Not there. Adam spent the entire day taking apart our washer. I searched every piece of laundry, every square inch of our carpet, checked and rechecked each of our hampers and broke down in between each unsuccessful attempt to locate my wedding rings. I am devastated beyond belief.

I don't usually fall prey to the "why?" question or second guess the things I do. I know stuff happens. But hell. WHY couldn't I have just walked ten steps away and put them in my box where they belong? WHY couldn't I have just kept them ON and washed my hands after? And how the hell did they get out of my pants, up through the slit in the washer, and down through at least two separate drain traps? It's maddening and I know I need to stop that circular thought process and somehow make peace with it but I feel like a part of me has died. And all the while I am supposed to be just basking in this new little life I have created. That's what I want to be doing; he is such a sweetheart. But my heart is utterly and completely broken.

some more pictures

We're home, we're good and we're all glad to have a healthy baby. It was such a wonderfully contrasting experience to immediately have your baby handed to you, have him cry, stare at him and try to decide who he looks like rather than worry about whether or not he is breathing or when you might be able to take him home.

At this point, Eli probably needs more recovery from his big weekend than I do: Our awesome friends took him down to San Diego for a day at Legoland and other miscellaneous fun...don't worry, they have six month old triplets and a three year old too; for the record, I told her she was crazy but I consented to let him go because 1-I was about to give birth to a baby and I hadn't had an epidural yet and 2- when someone offers to do something that nice, you become the crazy one if you turn them down. So two days of no naps and extreme fun has left Eli a little out of sorts. He likes Tate, but only on his terms. Any suggestions from us that Eli hold or kiss him have been flatly rejected. Frankly, the fact that Eli hasn't deliberately hurt the baby or burned our house down yet is encouraging.

Tate Steven Burr

Tate (wahoo-he shant remain nameless!) was born this morning at 10:19 am. He is as healthy as a newborn can be; it is far more fun, not to mention less stressful, to hold your baby after he is born rather than to have him whisked away to the NICU.

This is how we do (well, did) it

A few weeks ago, I made Adam go down to Disneyland for one last time. He wasn't thrilled. Naturally, it was raining. But I insisted because we have been a hundred times this year and never taken any pictures. So I wanted my photographer to come (I am not allowed to handle the nice camera anymore since I have both left it in Huntington Beach and dropped it on the tile floor) to document the fact that we ACTUALLY DID take our kid to Disneyland.

Well, as you can see, the pictures don't really do much to verify that...No character shots, no princess sightings, no giant smiles in front of the castle. You can run away from your parents, scowl, and suck on a railing pretty much anywhere. But they tell the truth: This is what Disney is like for us. And Adam couldn't be more thrilled; he now has the picture of Eli licking the railing on his screensaver, which I am going to go ahead and assert means that he thinks having to go to Disneyland was worth it.

PS Clearly a big anorak on a big pregnant stomach is a bad idea; lesson learned.

Eviction notice

Dear baby-

Get out. You have two weeks; however, it would be greatly appreciated if you would vacate the premises much sooner.

Love you.

Mom

Eli's big weekend and my new favorite show

Eli freakin traveled like a rock star this weekend: He got to ride to Utah in the plush bus house-eating chips, roaming around, watching movies, napping on the king size bed and generally driving everyone crazy for 9 hours; and then he got to ride home in his Grandpa's homebuilt airplane, which is also not too shabby...please notice the big bold word printed on the doorway of the aircraft; I was only racked by tormenting thoughts of being a widow and single parent to one child for like an hour.






Also, has anyone else fallen in love with this show? It's called Pawn Stars and I am obsessed. It's about these guys who own a pawn shop in Las Vegas and any lover of history will get sucked right in; people stumble upon these treasures and bring them in and it is so fascinating--AND there is a guy named CHUMLEE-that's right, Chumlee! Trust me, he is as much of a character as his name would indicate. So I don't care if you think I am a loser, I love this show.