Keith's battling ancient monsters of doom on the Xbox, and Cosette's swinging away blissfully in her awesome Little Lamb swing. As for me, well, I'm still struggling to become a competent member of the 21st century by being able to change my blog background and by figuring out how to type in the little box where my post goes. A very true conversation that just happened:
Me: I can't find where to post the thingy I copied for this new background!
Keith: Hold on. [shuffles over from living room.] There, try clicking Design.
Me: No, I tried that earlier and it blew up the computer.
Keith: Okay, well try Settings.
Me: No, I just seriously searched in there for like ever and I can't find it! It must be broken.
Keith: Okay. [shuffles back to living room.]
Me: Ah-ha! I found it!
--a little later--
Me: I can't find where to change the color and font settings. My blog looks so dumb! This is so dumb!
Keith: Hold on. [shuffles back over.] Did you try Design?
Allison: I told you it blew up the computer last time. It's just some new dumb thing to confuse me. It's not there. I remember it being some thingy you click on and it shows you stuff.
Keith: Okay. [walks through various links and doesn't find it.] I'm going to go play my game.
Allison: Fine, my blog's going to look so dumb, like a dummy made it. [searches hopelessly. finally clicks on Design and finds the magical place to edit colors and fonts.] Ah-ha! I found it! It was under Design...er...
--a little later--
Allison: It won't let me post in the box thing were you write your posts! It's crazy! It's so dumb!
Keith: [shuffles over without speaking. looks at my situation. suggests a few HTML changes to no avail. shuffles back.]
Allison: I can't believe this! [feels utterly hopeless about her technology incompetence. clicks randomly and haphazardly. magically gets a cursor. begins typing this post, feeling triumphant.]
It only took 90 minutes! I've got this now...
I'd like to talk about something that's been on our hearts for a while. We are in need of a job change, or, rather, a little extra mo-jo (translation: money) in the bank-o. Through a strange series of events, I decided to apply for a job in publishing. I know, I know! I was gonna be a stay-at-home-momma. Keith was gonna bring home the bacon at two jobs, while continuing seminary classes and being a wonderful husband & dad all without passing out. But things change. Er, I changed. What is it that could make me change my mind, you ask? It's a writing job in the marketing department. Do I have experience in publishing or marketing? No, but I want this job! Do I have experience writing? Yes. Now, I have a very hard time admitting to wanting anything. Pessimism up front really helps me handle rejection. This is why I'm posting it into cyberspace. I want desperately to be able to handle both reality and hope in one healthy dose, all mixed together. Rather, I usually hope for a brief moment, then turn to reality, which (according to me) always doles up a rather unhealthy dose of pessimism, despair, and low self-esteem. Anyone else feel like that? Well, I'm just writing here, for the world and myself to know, that I would really love to earn this job and to work at it well. I want to be a part of something great, a contributing part. And if they don't want me, it'll be okay. There, I said it. Now I'm going to move on, because there's no sense dwelling on the future unknown.
Sometimes it takes quite a while to generate ideas that are blog-while (translation: worthy of being posted on a blog). Here's one: Yesterday Keith & I took Cosette to the doctor for her 2-month check up. We have been blessed beyond measure that we both get to participate in her appointments and in her daily life so far. So anyways, we took her to the doctor, yes. At this doctor's office, together with quality services comes a very hearty wait period. We waited. We waited. We shared the well-check room (a mysterious room that parents earn the privilege to enter upon their having children) with a rowdy crowd of Spanish-speaking children. Keith held Cosette while shielding her head from ICBMs and various magazine bits that were being chucked about the room, while I pretended to be at peace with the chaos by calmly reading the newest edition of Padres (yes, it was in Spanish. no, I wasn't reading it).
Zachary was called, and the chaos died down. Elijah was called. Some kid named Sam or something-er-other. Then Davenport was called. Yes, Davenport. The nurses have given up trying to say Cosette, and it makes me sad. Now, Cosetta and Hosette are not acceptable variations on her name, but I had hoped they would have given it one more try. Nope. Davenport. We enter the room, strip the poor baby to her diaper, and get weighed and measured. 9 lbs 10 oz, 21.5 inches. Not bad. The statistics prove that if she were in a room with 99 other babies, she'd be able to beat up 24 of them. We're really proud. Okay, anyways: The nurse asks the normal questions and then leaves. We wait 30 minutes and our jovial Dr. Jay walks in. Dr. Jay is actually Marandapalli R. Jayaram, MD, of India. Translation: I can't ever seem to understand him. He greets us, hands us an adorable book to keep for Cosette, asks us how she's sleeping and eating and does the routine physical checks. I smile and nod, missing most of the pertinent information and relying on my very savvy husband to give me the low-down once we reach the US borders of our Chevy Cavalier. A problem, arose, however, when it came time for her immunizations. He read us a list of the recommended ones quite quickly while showing us the words so that we were sure to understand him (this doc's no fool). We smiled and nodded, understanding. We agreed to the shots. I got myself mentally prepared for my tiny child to be stabbed 3 times with needles. Then Dr. Jay gave Keith instructions. Keith gave Dr. Jay a blank stare and I faltered, not sure what to do if my interpretation services fail. Dr. Jay repeated himself. Keith looked to me for interpretation and I gave him the "Err..??" face. He repeated himself AGAIN. We both smiled and nodded, and then the next thing we knew Dr. Jay had shaken Keith's hand and was out of the room. Now, rest assured, a nurse came in to do the shots, which went as well as expected, and we left quite content. In retrospect, we figure the doctor had been telling us to clothe and hold our poor naked child until the nurse arrived to do the shots. He must have thought us quite the parents though, smiling and nodding at his advice and then leaving our infant striped for the world to see, crying on a exam table. We are quite the parents, that's for sure.
Well, shoot.
I've been creating a mental bucket list of things "I've Just Gotta Do." We'll call it the IJGD Bucket List. (I know, I reek of creativity.) Here it is so far:
- Run another Half Marathon. (around mile 8 of the first one I ran, I swore to every limb in my body that I would never make it go through such agony again if it just wouldn't quit on me, but I'm going to break that promise. Mwahahahaha.)
- Climb a 14er.
- Do some serious traveling, locals style. Maybe visit mnya Amanda in Kazakhstan. Relive my Central Asian glory days.
- Learn piano.
- Learn guitar. (This would be simple if I didn't have a vendetta against Keith's correcting me all the time.)
- Become a Pilates instructor. Okay, maybe not. I'll modify it: Take a Pilates class. There, much better. (Now, it is noteworthy to mention that I do Pilates at home quite often and usually find myself with a very sore core, which is the case today. However, I wonder when I will realize that doing Pilates at home while still indulging in cinnamon rolls, ice cream, and soda at 11:00 at night will never = the body of my dreams, abs of steel, a toned physique, or anything else Lara, Suzanne, and Lisbeth --my personal trainers. right -- promise me? Ignorance is bliss.)
In closing statements, mark this day in history! Keith was pooped upon for the first time. It was quite the show. Ettie doesn't mess around. Three shirts wound up in the bathtub, together with one baby and a baby tub. There was also much shouting, something like, "What do I do!," "Take the baby!," "Hurry up!," etc. I hurried right up: I finished the dishes from making dinner, tasted the chili to make sure it was perfect, and then headed to the living room armed with paper towels. Priorities, priorities.
