...Yule Log...
Oh, what a year it's been! On November 24th, 2011, it happened to be Thanksgiving, and I took my second positive pregnancy test way too early in the morning because I was too anxious to sleep. On November 24th, 2012, I am sitting on my sofa typing away as my almost four month old daughter snoozes in her swing. It's amazing how drastically (for the better) God can change a life in fifty-two short weeks.
These past few months have held many firsts for us as parents: Lucy's first Halloween, Lucy's first stomach virus, Lucy's first Thanksgiving, and, yesterday, Lucy's first trip to get a Christmas tree. For the past several years, my family has trekked to Snowy Ridge Christmas Tree Farm in Boone the day after Thanksgiving to cut down our Christmas trees, like proper North Carolinians. Figuratively speaking, yesterday was no different; literally speaking, it was completely dissimilar to last year. So, for your entertainment, here is the chronicling of our last two Christmas Tree excursions because they're just too good to be allowed to slip quietly through the cracks of time.
November 2011:
Every year we have to borrow my grandfather's red Ford truck to drive to Boone. Could we tie the trees to the top of our cars like normal people? Of course we could. But no. Dad must be spared the hassle of wrestling with uncooperative bungee cords and wind drag and borrow the truck. Okay, fine. My grandfather's truck is a great road trip truck...if you happen to be sitting in one of the comfy captains chairs up front. If you (i.e. me), however, are forced to sit on the hard upright bench seat in the back, the two hour ride to Boone is somewhat less than enjoyable.
Since I had taken my pregnancy test(s) only days before we went on the tree trip, I did not want to spill the beans until my pregnancy had been confirmed by a doctor, and I'd had my first ultrasound to make sure that everything was okay. But on November 24, 2011, I wanted to blurt it out so badly...but not for the reasons you might think. I vowed to keep quiet, though, because I am inordinately stubborn. My mother has told me on many occasions that I cannot keep a secret. So, naturally, I was going to keep my pregnancy a secret come hell or high water because I am cautious but also because I am spiteful. Accuse me of being a blabbermouth? Well, you don't get to know about your first grandchild until the second trimester. HA.
As tradition dictates, we piled into the truck - Dad and Patrick in the front, and Mom, me, and Mom's twenty seven pillows, everyone's coat, and two pocketbooks in the very tiny, hard bench seat in the back. Oh good. The first half hour of the trip wasn't bad, but I had to pee about every twenty miles. I just knew my frequent bathroom visits would blow my cover, but Mom and Dad remained oblivious. After we hit Hickory, I got nauseated. Actually, nauseated isn't even the word for it. If there's some word in the English language that coveys the feeling of, "Dear Charity, If I don't get to a bathroom soon, I am going to blow chunks all over the interior of this hot, crowded, uncomfortable truck," then please insert that word into the previous sentence. On top of this, Mom was cold, so the heat was blasting which made me feel worse. THEN Mom decided she was really tired, so she wanted to lie across the bench seat with her head on my lap...directly atop my bladder. My mom is a thin person, but I swear to you that her head must weigh twenty pounds. I'm sure the last time I urinated and vomited on my mother was when I was in diapers, but she has no idea how close we came to having history repeat itself on that day.
After two torturous hours, I practically fell out of the truck when we reached the Christmas Tree Farm. Naturally, it was freezing, but I wanted to stay out there forever "finding the perfect Christmas Tree." Riiiiight. All the while I was thinking, "Don't make me get back in that truck. DEAR LORD, DON'T MAKE ME GET BACK IN THAT TRUCK." Well, I had to get back in the truck. Clearly. The ride down the mountain was just as enjoyable as the ride up, only made bearable by the fact that it would be over after I got out of the truck the second time. Puhraise.
November 2012:
We once again employed the services of Grandaddy's red truck this year, but I got to ride in Mom's van because you can't put a carseat in the truck! I had a little ace up my sleeve named Lucy this time, Truck. HA. Speaking of my little ace, I dressed her in a Christmas onesie and the most adorable red fleece pants to match because I wanted her to be extra warm since it would be cold in Boone. I gave Lucy a bottle right before we left, and she did phenomenally well for the first half of the trip. Somewhere between Lincolnton and Hickory, she got red in the face and did her little squirmy poop grunts, so when we stopped for gas and food in Hickory, I knew a diaper change would be imperative. I spread her little diaper pad out on the passenger seat, thinking to myself how smoothly our first road trip was going. Then I pulled off Lucy's adorable red fleece Christmas pants. Poop everywhere. Poop on the pants. Poop on the onesie. Poop on her legs. Just poop. That's all I can say. Poop.
When I yelled, "ERMUHGERD," at the top of my lungs, Patrick immediately stopped halfway between the van and Wendy's front door and came running over to help me manage Turdmageddon. Needless to say, the pants were through, but we were able to get the onesie cleaned off enough for her to keep wearing it. We put the offending diaper and wipes in a Wendy's bag, to which Uncle Keith aptly responded, "I hope nobody goes dumpster diving for some leftover burgers tonight!" The backup pants I keep in the diaper bag are light brown with pink ballet slippers at the feet, which CLEARLY does not match a red and green Christmas onesie. Great. While the other members of my family were enjoying their hot, delicious Wendy's food, I sheepishly wandered into Wendy's, poopie red pants in hand. Thank GOODNESS I didn't meet anyone at the door because they would've probably lost their Frosties. There is just no good way to describe baby poop to people who've never seen it, but let me tell you, it's breathtaking...and not in the good way. I tried to shield the diners and people waiting in line from the crap pants, but I'm pretty sure a few people got a nice glimpse. You're welcome.
Thankfully, no one was in the bathroom when I burst in because I immediately started cussing and fussing because this was a "green" bathroom with no paper towels. Guh-reat. So here's me with poop pants in my left hand, unrolling about twenty feet of thin, cheap, restaurant toilet paper with my right hand, praying no one would come into the bathroom at that moment. After I procured half a roll of toilet paper, I went back to the sink and went about my business. The pants came clean, but, of course, with no paper towels, there was also no trash can in this bathroom. Yay eco-consciousness. I then crammed all that toilet paper in one of the toilets, flushed it, and ran out of the bathroom before I could watch it inevitably overflow or clog. Sorry I desecrated that which you love, Dave Thomas.
The rest of the trip up was, thankfully, uneventful. It was freezing when we got to Boone, so Lucy got to don her Polar Bear bunting. I strapped her in the Baby Bjorn, and we were off in search of the perfect tree. She loved it! I mean, honestly! She was staring in awe as we tromped through the fields of trees and didn't utter so much as a whimper, even when we pried her beloved paci out of her mouth for a few photo ops. Of course my adorable child garnered insane amounts of attention in her polar bear getup - way more "awwws" than that stupid dog in a coat that someone brought. The owner of the farm even offered to give me a free wreath in exchange for Lucy, but I said she'd have to sweeten the deal with at least five wreaths and one of those sweet 4-wheelers they drive around on.
Even though my sweet bebe had been in the car for over two hours on the way up, she happily rode the rest of the way home with little fussiness and no more poopsplosions. Although, I'm not sure what would've happened if we'd picked out an unsatisfactory tree. As we drove home yesterday, I thought about how much has changed in a year. I loved every minute of our trip this year, even the ones filled with fussing, repeated paci-spitting-out, and, yes, poop. I'm eagerly anticipating the comedic gold Lucy will produce next year on our trip since she's set the bar so high for herself already. :)
These past few months have held many firsts for us as parents: Lucy's first Halloween, Lucy's first stomach virus, Lucy's first Thanksgiving, and, yesterday, Lucy's first trip to get a Christmas tree. For the past several years, my family has trekked to Snowy Ridge Christmas Tree Farm in Boone the day after Thanksgiving to cut down our Christmas trees, like proper North Carolinians. Figuratively speaking, yesterday was no different; literally speaking, it was completely dissimilar to last year. So, for your entertainment, here is the chronicling of our last two Christmas Tree excursions because they're just too good to be allowed to slip quietly through the cracks of time.
November 2011:
Every year we have to borrow my grandfather's red Ford truck to drive to Boone. Could we tie the trees to the top of our cars like normal people? Of course we could. But no. Dad must be spared the hassle of wrestling with uncooperative bungee cords and wind drag and borrow the truck. Okay, fine. My grandfather's truck is a great road trip truck...if you happen to be sitting in one of the comfy captains chairs up front. If you (i.e. me), however, are forced to sit on the hard upright bench seat in the back, the two hour ride to Boone is somewhat less than enjoyable.
Since I had taken my pregnancy test(s) only days before we went on the tree trip, I did not want to spill the beans until my pregnancy had been confirmed by a doctor, and I'd had my first ultrasound to make sure that everything was okay. But on November 24, 2011, I wanted to blurt it out so badly...but not for the reasons you might think. I vowed to keep quiet, though, because I am inordinately stubborn. My mother has told me on many occasions that I cannot keep a secret. So, naturally, I was going to keep my pregnancy a secret come hell or high water because I am cautious but also because I am spiteful. Accuse me of being a blabbermouth? Well, you don't get to know about your first grandchild until the second trimester. HA.
As tradition dictates, we piled into the truck - Dad and Patrick in the front, and Mom, me, and Mom's twenty seven pillows, everyone's coat, and two pocketbooks in the very tiny, hard bench seat in the back. Oh good. The first half hour of the trip wasn't bad, but I had to pee about every twenty miles. I just knew my frequent bathroom visits would blow my cover, but Mom and Dad remained oblivious. After we hit Hickory, I got nauseated. Actually, nauseated isn't even the word for it. If there's some word in the English language that coveys the feeling of, "Dear Charity, If I don't get to a bathroom soon, I am going to blow chunks all over the interior of this hot, crowded, uncomfortable truck," then please insert that word into the previous sentence. On top of this, Mom was cold, so the heat was blasting which made me feel worse. THEN Mom decided she was really tired, so she wanted to lie across the bench seat with her head on my lap...directly atop my bladder. My mom is a thin person, but I swear to you that her head must weigh twenty pounds. I'm sure the last time I urinated and vomited on my mother was when I was in diapers, but she has no idea how close we came to having history repeat itself on that day.
After two torturous hours, I practically fell out of the truck when we reached the Christmas Tree Farm. Naturally, it was freezing, but I wanted to stay out there forever "finding the perfect Christmas Tree." Riiiiight. All the while I was thinking, "Don't make me get back in that truck. DEAR LORD, DON'T MAKE ME GET BACK IN THAT TRUCK." Well, I had to get back in the truck. Clearly. The ride down the mountain was just as enjoyable as the ride up, only made bearable by the fact that it would be over after I got out of the truck the second time. Puhraise.
November 2012:
We once again employed the services of Grandaddy's red truck this year, but I got to ride in Mom's van because you can't put a carseat in the truck! I had a little ace up my sleeve named Lucy this time, Truck. HA. Speaking of my little ace, I dressed her in a Christmas onesie and the most adorable red fleece pants to match because I wanted her to be extra warm since it would be cold in Boone. I gave Lucy a bottle right before we left, and she did phenomenally well for the first half of the trip. Somewhere between Lincolnton and Hickory, she got red in the face and did her little squirmy poop grunts, so when we stopped for gas and food in Hickory, I knew a diaper change would be imperative. I spread her little diaper pad out on the passenger seat, thinking to myself how smoothly our first road trip was going. Then I pulled off Lucy's adorable red fleece Christmas pants. Poop everywhere. Poop on the pants. Poop on the onesie. Poop on her legs. Just poop. That's all I can say. Poop.
When I yelled, "ERMUHGERD," at the top of my lungs, Patrick immediately stopped halfway between the van and Wendy's front door and came running over to help me manage Turdmageddon. Needless to say, the pants were through, but we were able to get the onesie cleaned off enough for her to keep wearing it. We put the offending diaper and wipes in a Wendy's bag, to which Uncle Keith aptly responded, "I hope nobody goes dumpster diving for some leftover burgers tonight!" The backup pants I keep in the diaper bag are light brown with pink ballet slippers at the feet, which CLEARLY does not match a red and green Christmas onesie. Great. While the other members of my family were enjoying their hot, delicious Wendy's food, I sheepishly wandered into Wendy's, poopie red pants in hand. Thank GOODNESS I didn't meet anyone at the door because they would've probably lost their Frosties. There is just no good way to describe baby poop to people who've never seen it, but let me tell you, it's breathtaking...and not in the good way. I tried to shield the diners and people waiting in line from the crap pants, but I'm pretty sure a few people got a nice glimpse. You're welcome.
Thankfully, no one was in the bathroom when I burst in because I immediately started cussing and fussing because this was a "green" bathroom with no paper towels. Guh-reat. So here's me with poop pants in my left hand, unrolling about twenty feet of thin, cheap, restaurant toilet paper with my right hand, praying no one would come into the bathroom at that moment. After I procured half a roll of toilet paper, I went back to the sink and went about my business. The pants came clean, but, of course, with no paper towels, there was also no trash can in this bathroom. Yay eco-consciousness. I then crammed all that toilet paper in one of the toilets, flushed it, and ran out of the bathroom before I could watch it inevitably overflow or clog. Sorry I desecrated that which you love, Dave Thomas.
The rest of the trip up was, thankfully, uneventful. It was freezing when we got to Boone, so Lucy got to don her Polar Bear bunting. I strapped her in the Baby Bjorn, and we were off in search of the perfect tree. She loved it! I mean, honestly! She was staring in awe as we tromped through the fields of trees and didn't utter so much as a whimper, even when we pried her beloved paci out of her mouth for a few photo ops. Of course my adorable child garnered insane amounts of attention in her polar bear getup - way more "awwws" than that stupid dog in a coat that someone brought. The owner of the farm even offered to give me a free wreath in exchange for Lucy, but I said she'd have to sweeten the deal with at least five wreaths and one of those sweet 4-wheelers they drive around on.
Even though my sweet bebe had been in the car for over two hours on the way up, she happily rode the rest of the way home with little fussiness and no more poopsplosions. Although, I'm not sure what would've happened if we'd picked out an unsatisfactory tree. As we drove home yesterday, I thought about how much has changed in a year. I loved every minute of our trip this year, even the ones filled with fussing, repeated paci-spitting-out, and, yes, poop. I'm eagerly anticipating the comedic gold Lucy will produce next year on our trip since she's set the bar so high for herself already. :)
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