Mazal Tov! It's a Boy!

For those of you that have been living under a rock, Joshua and I found out last Friday that we are expecting a baby boy. As expected, no child of mine could possibly be shy, and as soon as the doctor pointed the little ultrasound camera at him, he virtually did a handstand and spread his tiny little legs. We have been chuckling at the picture for days, but I have no intention of posting same on this blog. We both surmised that we have the rest of his life to embarrass him, and we do not intend to start by posting a picture of his you-know-what on the World Wide Web. With that, I suppose we must bid adieu to the beloved moniker “Pistachio.” He is now officially Jackson James Allison.

Within hours of the “boy” news, my mother, sister, and I went crazy buying boy clothes, and he is officially going to be the best dressed child in Creek County. He already has a jean jacket, a tiny Chaps sweater vest, camouflage high-top tennis shoes, and a litany of other goodies to make sure he looks like a little man. I noticed that baby clothes, like babies, come in all shapes, colors, designs, and sizes. I do not subscribe to the belief that “all babies are cute,” because for some babies, that is genetically impossible. I take comfort in knowing that even if Jackson is not the cutest baby ever conceived, Joshua and I will be so blinded that we won’t know that. Like babies, not all baby clothes are automatically cute: I have officially decided that I hate overalls, most onesies that look like “typically baby” styles (i.e. a blue onesie covered with graphic pacifiers and rattles), and almost all “character” onesies (i.e. a blue onesie covered with Bugs Bunny and Tweetie Bird). I understand that there are some exceptions to these basic rules, and I realize that I may get some call from some mother who has an adorable picture of her child in corduroy overalls straight out of 1985. Still, I contend that the “blinded by love” factor compromises your ability to see that that dated outfit was and is just plain disgusting. Before I become “blinded by love” and think Jackson looks cute in everything, I am going to preemptively say no to such risky wardrobe selections.

Yesterday, we purchased what Mom has affectionately been referring to as the “Jack-Mobile.” I traded by Nissan Maxima in for a 2008 Ford Escape. Joshua and I decided that we have officially become parents: We traded our nicely-equipped Nissan for a practical, American-made Ford big enough to haul all of the junk that will accompany this tiny person. We really do like the new vehicle, but I was admittedly a little sad to drive away and leave my Maxima behind. I have a feeling this is only the beginning of the process of leaving behind what we want for what is best for Jackson James Allison. I think, however, Joshua and I are both fairly convinced he will be worth all the trouble.

Life Lessons for Pistachio: Don't be a Phone Stalker

On Sunday afternoon, Joshua and I were in the car talking about a certain creep totally lacking in any social graces. This particular creep happens to be the subject of many of our conversations and often said conversations end with one of us saying, “What an [INSERT UGLY AND/OR PROFANE NAME].” During the latest conversation, we wondered out loud: How do tiny little babies evolve into such cretins? Do their parents wholly fail to instruct them about common courtesy? Do they just “come by it honestly” as we say in Creek County? In short, is social retardation nature or nurture?

Although I will not begin to speculate about whether Pistachio comes by his or her future jerkiness honestly (after all, his mother is a lawyer), I believe I can say with confidence that we will do everything possible to instill in Pistachio a few manners in the fleeting hopes that one day he or she will behave with some level of decorum and/or social grace. Today is a Monday at my office, and I am already prepared to offer Pistachio his or her first life lesson in manners: Don’t be a phone stalker.

During my life, I have had my fair share of phone stalkers. I remember one quite vividly: I was in the 6th grade. He went to a local charismatic mega-church. His name sounded like a sneeze. His name was supposedly biblical-You know, one of those names that appears one (1) time in some long list in Judges in the Holy Reformed King Charles Spaniel Unified Revised Canadian Charismatic Version of the text? Although his mother may have believed his name was rooted in the Holy Word, I maintain its origin rested soundly in a sinus infection. I used to imagine the nurse standing over his mother in the delivery room. “What name will be given to this child?” she asked. His mother sneezed, and it stuck like…..well, I digress. This particular phone stalker decided he liked me, and he called my parents’ home telephone number at least twenty-five (25) times in two (2) hours. Each time, he had nothing new to report. He just wanted to see “what was going on.” I loathed him after about two (2) hours and one (1) minute. My feelings were so strong that even as I started writing this column, I shuddered and then laughed at his expense…fourteen (14) years later. The sad thing, however, is that he really was a genuinely nice young man, but after all those phone calls, the recipient thinks you are either a total stalker or moderately retarded. I suspect he was a little of both. Regardless, neither seems conducive to making a good impression on girl.

On my way to adulthood, I encountered several phone stalkers. Many seized upon modern technology (i.e. text messages, instant messages, e-mail) to compound the level of contact with me. I even had one creeper that saved all my e-mails and instant message conversations with him, particularly the last ones when I was telling him rather emphatically never to call me again. When I became a professional, I discovered that physical maturity does not necessarily weed out the teenage phone stalkers. In a professional setting, however, they up their game. First, whenever they call, it is ALWAYS an emergency, and they must speak with me directly. They are distrustful of my assistant, because after all, I admittedly do not return each and every one (1) of the thirteen (13) calls they placed to my office yesterday. It must be that she is failing to give me the message. It certainly could not be that I am absolutely not interested in hearing about how your former spouse sent you a “mean” text message about your dog after you told her that her cat looked overweight. A phone stalker never truly needs a lawyer. They need a baby-sitter.

During a moment of total stupidity on my part, I once gave a potential phone stalker (not a client, mind you) my mobile telephone number. He called me seven (7) times on Sunday afternoon to tell me that his child was throwing up at a local amusement park, and he wanted to know if I was going to hold the child’s mother accountable for his physical condition. The child ate two (2) baskets of chili cheese nachos and an entire package of cotton candy before jumping on a roller coaster in 100 degree temperatures, but phone stalker thought mom was to blame for a little upset stomach. Frankly, if the child eats all that garbage before hopping on an amusement ride, he sounds just like a chip off the old block, as we say in Creek County. Give him a few years….he’ll be calling me every fifteen (15) minutes after his baby mama gets a protective order against him for stalking. He will become one of those folks that appear on the Caller ID, and I literally cringe.

I was watching The Office last night on my laptop, and in this particular episode, Michael Scott gives his assistant, Pam, a list of excuses to give people if they call him. For example, “I’m sorry Michael can’t come to the phone. He’s at a Civil Rights Rally” or “Michael isn’t available. He’s having a colonoscopy.” I am thinking about starting my own list for phone stalkers, a list of items that might make the phone stalker feel as uncomfortable and/or astonished as I feel while on the line with them: “I’m sorry Lauren isn’t available. Her goldfish died last night, and she is taking a bereavement day.” Perhaps, “I’m sorry, Lauren is out of the office today for her annual pap smear” or “I’m sorry, Lauren had a nervous breakdown and lost her ability to hear last night because of all the stupid people that called yesterday. If you have a message for her, submit same in Braille.”

So, Pistachio, one (1) call per day is acceptable. If the call is romantic in nature and you end up being a girl, never, ever call him first. If you call, you need not text, e-mail, and IM as well, and if I catch you, I’m taking your phone away. It’s for your own good. Your mother does not want you to be a social moron.

Ok, life lesson over…..My phone is ringing. And I just got a text. Creeper.

Pistachio's Campaign Slogan.....

Ever since we learned about the impending arrival of little Pistachio Almond Allison, we have done a little bit of baby shopping. Our main purchases thus far have been the little infant one-piece body suits affectionately called "onesies." I recently found one that I knew Joshua would love: It has Darth Vader on it and says, "My Dad Rules the Galaxy." We have another that has a little pink pig on it and says, "Little Ham," and I have already told the Blog world about my green onesie with the bumble bee on the front. It says, "I'm What the Buzz is All About." Joshua found a camo onesie at Kemp's Drug in Bristow that says, "Shhhh....I'm Hiding." We even discovered a UFC onesie that says, "My Dad Can Make Your Dad Tap Out." Needless to say, Joshua feels we cannot have a child without that priceless and um, classy garment. Last week, Joshua and I started laughing about what catch phrases or slogans would be great for a onesie for Pistachio, and I thought I would ask the Blog world to submit a few suggestions. So, post your ideas! We may have to see if we can have a few of these made! I'll start......here is my slogan for Pistachio's onesie:

I am the Next American Idol!

Heifer in the Hay Ring

This is Sophie. She is an adventurous punk with a propensity for getting herself into trouble. Needless to say, she is my favorite. She is also an enthusiastic eater, trying to munch on Joshua’s pants occasionally when he goes out to feed the girls in the evening after work. She escaped one day only to make a beeline for the hay bales we had stacked just outside the fence. Joshua walked the fence multiple times, but he could not find any place where she might have escaped. I believe she saw the hay bales, thought “Jackpot!”, and decided she was going to exit her fenced enclosure. Joshua lured her safely back inside the fence...with food. Today, however, her curiosity and love of food got the better of her once again: I looked out our living room window when I woke up this morning, and I swear, I saw Sophie eating out of the hay ring. A little bit later, I looked outside and she was literally inside the hay ring. We have no idea how she managed to trap herself in the hay ring. I suspect she started leaning farther and farther in the hay ring until she squeezed herself right inside. Farmer Joshua had to go rescue our little free spirit! He received slobbery lick with her huge tongue in gratitude.....

After the rescue!

Pre-Rescue Imprisonment. Doesn't she look like trouble? Her inner monologue: "What? I meant to do this."

One Last Hurrah...

Joshua and I are slowly coming to the realization that our life is about to change, and as excited as we are about Pistachio Almond Allison, we admittedly have had a pretty sweet six and a half years of childfree spontaneity. We invite our friends and family over and act like morons playing Mario Cart and Guitar Hero on the Wii. (Emily did a lovely rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer” just last night). We stay up late on Saturday nights to watch grown men pound one another to a bloody pulp on Pay-Per-View and then sleep late without remorse. We watch the Dallas Cowboys, eat queso, and drink….soda on Sundays during the fall. During these games, I pace and occasionally use harsh language at full volume, and one time, I was so geared up, I rode the exercise bike in front of the TV for the entire game. We sneak fast food into movie theaters to watch obnoxious actors that used to appear on Saturday Night Live and laugh hysterically without ever wondering, “Is this movie appropriate for children?” We eat exotic things like spicy stir fry with bean sprouts and never dream of baking frozen fish sticks and canned peaches to serve with it. We take off for Tulsa on a Saturday on a whim without loading our vehicle to capacity with car seats and baby gear. We run the vacuum at any time during the day, the dogs growl at every bird in the backyard, and I listen to Sirius Satellite Radio at full volume without consequence. Best of all, every living thing in our residence currently is potty-trained. In short, our early married life has been pretty sweet, and even though I know it is bound to get sweeter, it certainly has been fun while it lasted!

Joshua and I decided a few months ago that we need a vacation. After all, we haven’t been on a real vacation since well, our honeymoon. Since Joshua and I have the same birthday only five years apart, we always do something special around our big day in April, so April seemed like the perfect time for our last rendezvous before Pistachio’s world premiere, especially since my doctor is going to officially ground me around June. We knew we wanted to go some place grown-up, because frankly, the next eighteen (18) years will provide ample opportunities for our family to visit Disneyland and Seaworld. We also knew we had to go somewhere relatively cheap since we have a few major purchases to make before September. It would have to be some place fairly memorable because we know we aren’t going to be doing much vacationing for potentially a few years till Pistachio is old enough to cry with his or her face covered in blue cotton candy while we are sweating bullets in an incredibly long line to ride the Merry-Go-Round at Six Flags Over Texas in August. So, we needed someplace memorable, cheap and grown-up for the soon-to-be parents to relax and play….I mean, did we really have a choice? That’s right….Viva Las Vegas!

I teased Joshua that Las Vegas may not be quite as fun if he has to tote around the pregnant lady with a pooch belly in her Ked’s tennis shoes. He said something charming and sweet about it not being any fun without the pregnant lady, so he is continuing the trend of winning lots of brownie points with his baby mama. We are going to take things very easy: Go casual, visit the spa for a massage, sleep late, order room service, and see a few shows. Most importantly, we will be together and not at work! We made our final plans today and officially booked our hotel and flights. So, how many days until April?

The Concept Looks More Like A Reality....

Since I only have a few minutes, I thought I would relay a quick update on Pistachio Almond Allison who, as you can see, is starting to look less like a blurry blob and more like a tiny baby. We went to the doctor on Friday, and Pistachio is doing just fine. He or She is apparently quite the little wiggle worm! We think he or she is exactly 12 weeks, 3 days today. The heartrate was 157 beats per minute. In all of the pictures, Pistachio has his or her fist up by the face, so we've decided that he or she is either throwing a punch (highly likely with my child) or doing a little fist pump-Both are equally awesome explanations. For the past few weeks, if a peppy song comes on the radio like "Don't Stop Believin,'" I tell Joshua that the baby is fist pumping to the song. Well, I think I have confirmation. This child likes Journey, but really, who doesn't?

Things an Awkward Pregnant Lady Does

Notice the gray cardigan.

First thought that came to mind: Lop-sided.

Last night, I planned on going to see Friday the 13th, and I teased Joshua, who absolutely hates horror movies, that he was going to have to take me. After he sent me a beautiful bouquet of roses yesterday, I started feeling a little guilty about forcing him to see a movie he clearly had no interest in seeing. I’ve been trying to think more like a parent recently, so I decided to get on this website called Kids-In-Mind Movie Reviews to find out how awful this Friday the 13th movie might be. For those that have not visited this website, it provides literally everything that is in any movie, down to the number of swear words, sex scenes, and in terms of Friday the 13th, the number of graphic beheadings. It includes almost every major movie released in the past ten (10) years or so with new releases added each week. So, I looked up Friday the 13th. I won’t tell you everything that was in the movie review itself, but I will tell you that the words “thrust” and “bare-breasted” appeared numerous times….and that was before I even got to the “Violence & Gore” section. This fine film also features fifty-nine (59) F-words! Fifty-Nine! That is just disgusting! Even though my unborn child probably has yet to develop ears, his or her mother decided that we would not be worth risking the possibility that he or she would hear that level of profanity. So, the overbearing and overprotective parenting begins while Pistachio is still in the womb.

Instead of watching the vulgar and potentially pornographic blood bath, we elected to see Confessions of a Shopaholic, a peppy and delightful PG-rated chick flick that I absolutely loved. Joshua was equally unenthused and preferred to remain at the Farm to feed his cows and play computer games. After the beautiful flowers, he effectively earned a pass. Emily, Lindsay, and I headed off for an early movie, and after a quick dinner at Quizno’s, we went the Sapulpa Cinema 8. We loaded up on Hot Tamales and Twizzlers, and then we went to the arcade at the movie theater and played air hockey until, to be honest, we got a little sweaty. During our sweaty air hockey tournament, I started reflecting on our little outing: Three twenty-something girls seeing a 6:45 PM PG movie at a tiny theater in Sapulpa and playing air hockey with reckless abandon on a dirty table covered in greasy fingerprints in an arcade where half of the games are out-of order. I have to admit I loved our awkward and completely random Friday night, and it got me thinking about all of the fabulously awkward and ridiculously uncool things I’ve done since I learned of my oh-so-delicate condition.

• First, I literally have not worn my jeans since I discovered my pregnancy. Instead, I’ve elected to wear some variation of yoga or work pants. I have this complex that the button on my jeans is putting undue pressure on my unborn child’s head. I don’t want our child to come out of womb with “Gap Jeans” emblazoned on its forehead. I feel the same way when I see little babies wearing headbands. That headband could literally be squeezing that child’s brain cells, but its mother thinks (wrongly) that it looks cute so she is willing to take a risk. Well, not me. Pistachio Almond Allison will not be squished by a metal button, and if Pistachio happens to be a girl, she can wear a little pink bow rather than a gaudy polka-dot headband. She will thank me later. My pants, however, are not the trendiest items in my wardrobe. Last weekend, I went to the movie with my buddy, Lisa, in black velour pants, Coach tennis shoes, and my Celine Dion t-shirt. She did not say a word about it, but frankly, I was a little embarrassed for her to be seen with me.


• I wear an oversized, neutral-colored cardigan sweater with almost everything. T-Shirts, dress blouses, tank tops…all are equally complimented by the infamous pregnant lady, gray cardigan. Occasionally, I dress the cardigan up with some oversized matching gray pearls. Other times, I simply embrace the fact that I look like a chubby school marm.


• I eat some variation of a turkey sandwich almost every day. It is a healthy option that does not seem to inspire Pistachio Almond to do water aerobics in my stomach. The people at Subway in the Bristow know me. They practically begin to make the Turkey on Wheat when I walk through the door.


• I eat an inordinate amount of green beans, my very favorite vegetable since I was a little girl. In fact, I have a pot of fresh green beans cooking on my stove as I write this little blog entry. Our unborn child must also be a fan of Hormel and Green Giant.


• I also shuffle to the bathroom several times a night and fight the urge to sleep in my desk chair around 2 PM every day.


• I took a foot stool to my office so I could secretly prop my feet up under my desk while I meet with clients. A friend told me that a little old lady she used to work with had a foot stool like mine under her desk. She probably had orthopedic shoes and a chain for her glasses too. I don’t judge.

This morning, I went to Wal-Mart in Bristow sans make-up in my oversized sweat shirt and yoga pants. I pulled my disheveled bed-head hair into a pony tail without even brushing it. I may or may not have worn a bra. Joshua and I went to grab some groceries for our stay-at-home Valentine’s Day dinner tonight, but I was distracted by the music department. I found a new two disc Celine Dion greatest hits CD, and I was truly overwhelmed. The clerk at Wal-Mart even overcharged me for the CD, but I didn’t care because Celine is worth an extra four dollars. We drove home listening to Celine and Andrea Bocelli at almost full volume, and I may have squeezed out a tiny tear. My feeling is that these little incidents represent only the beginning of what will hopefully be a long road of silly and awkward behavior as a new parent. I take comfort in knowing that it will probably be at least twelve or thirteen more years before Pistachio (with eyes rolling) truly realizes what a weirdo I am.

Superbowl? Yeah, Whatever, Go Cowboys...

I love my Dad. He sent me this picture right before the Superbowl started. I just wanted the blog world to know that I was raised right! I don't care about the Steelers. I hope they lose. I don't care about the Cardinals. I hope they lose less. I don't care if Hines Ward has a killer smile or if Kurt Warner is as charitable as Mother Teresa. If they could both lose in embarrassing fashion, I would be genuinely delighted. I come from a family of true blue Dallas Cowboys fans. I don't care about their drama. We rooted for them when they were 1-15 in 1989 which means we earned the right to talk badly about Tony Romo and T.O. in private (I miss Troy and Michael). We have five Superbowl Rings....so do the Steelers and the 49ers. So, I am begrudingly rooting for the Cardinals tonight. See you next year, Cards and Steelers, when you are both 6 and 10. Go Cowboys!

Blogging Up Baby

This past Friday, we had our follow-up appointment to check on the progress of Pistachio Almond Allison. Before the appointment, I started fretting that I might have to do another urine test, so I drank about a gallon of water en route to the doctor’s appointment. When I finally arrived, I was in a bad way, but my doctor was “in surgery” (which I think is code for “She slept through her alarm clock” or “She’s playing Solitaire in the back”). We ended up sitting around for about an hour and half during which time I could have successfully deposited about fifteen samples.

The nurse finally called my name, and Mom, Joshua, and I went back to have our ultrasound. I think that my reaction to the entire process was this: Oh, the indignity of it all and it is only just beginning. Before they took me back, the nurse forced me to take a urine test, weighed me, took my blood pressure, took my temperature, and then handed me a sheet of paper about testing my unborn child for literally every possible horrible disorder that might cause any first time mother to fly into a panic. Just as I am beginning to come to terms with the fact that I am with child, I suddenly have to decide immediately whether my child should be tested to see if its organs are growing outside its body. I mean, is it too much to ask for just a simple “Congratulations?” Afterwards, they cram us all in a tiny exam room and hand me a gown I could have camped underneath. Since this is a family blog, I am going to fast forward through the next part of my exam, but keep in mind, I have no dignity left.

My doctor worked really hard to get a nice picture of Pistachio, but I must confess that they all just looked like a blurry blob to me. Mom took one of the pictures to work to show off her grandblob. Here is what we do know: The doctor thinks little Pistachio is not as far along as first expected. Apparently, I am only about 7-8 weeks along which makes Pistachio’s new due date September 17, 2009. Pistachio had a heart rate of about 157 and is currently about 8 centimeters long.

After the ultrasound, the doctor sent me downstairs to do “some blood work,” (Translation: Suck 9 viles of blood sucked from my already starving body). I pretty much passed out in the chair. A cold rag and two apple juices later, I was good as new but still not quite sure I am cut out for all this!

We are headed back in four weeks to check the progress of Pistachio, but I think it is safe to say I have never seen my family so enthralled with such a tiny little thing. After our appointment, Emily and I went and did a little baby shopping. Mom and Joshua joined us later (for the second trip to Babies R Us), and we finished our day at our family’s favorite Mexican restaurant in Broken Arrow, El Tequila, for dinner. Enjoy some silly pictures from our day!

Mom and Dad want to carry on the Lester family tradition of buying a crib for the grandbaby. Joshua and I liked this set. The bed can transitition to a todller bed and then to a full size bed. The color is fairly close to the molding in the nursery. Yes, I called the room a nursery. Joshua called that room the nursery since we moved in. I have called it the guest room. Until now, I guess.

I bought this onesie because I thought Joshua's mom would really like it since she loves bumble bees. It has a bee on the front of it and says, "I'm what the buzz is all about." Pretty darn cute. Emily bought one too (after an exceedingly awkward encounter with a flamboyant employee of Baby Gap), but for some reason, I couldn't get the picture to load. It is white and has an apple on the front of it with a green worm poking out. It says, "Hello World."

Emily and I decided to test the durability of this stroller in Babies R Us. Notice how Emily is pretending to sleep while being pushed around the store. It really is a wonder we didn't get asked to leave the premises.

Again, notice the expression on my mother's face. She is such a happy and cute future G-Ma!

Yep, I'm knocked up...

I don’t know why I bother with the formality of making this announcement to the blog world, because I am confident that my family has already contacted every single person on the planet regarding my condition. In case, however, you’ve been on Mars for the past few weeks, the Bristow Allisons are officially expecting. I discovered my blessed condition about a week and a half ago while I was in Oklahoma City for a meeting. On that Wednesday, I had some Cheerios and started down the Turnpike to Oklahoma City when it hit. My arms were suddenly covered in goose pimples, and frankly, something was moving inside of me and I was fairly certain it was the Cheerios. I immediately faced a few dilemmas: First, I wasn’t too certain from which end my Cheerios might emerge. I merely suspected they would be exiting my body and soon. Second, I wasn’t sure whether I should stop in Stroud or try to make it to the City. I mean, these waves pass, right? Sometimes, the urge just goes away, right? Actually, that never happens. I stopped in Stroud, dealt with my problem rather uneventfully, and settled in my car with a cold drink. Confident in my evacuation, I hit the road for Oklahoma City.

I arrived in the City and settled in at Nonna’s for my business lunch. Now, I was beginning to think I really had the flu. I was having wicked hot flashes, and I felt an overwhelming urge to strip all of my clothes off in the restaurant. Since I was sort of covered in a cold sweat, perhaps “peel” my clothes off is more accurate. With my clothes slowly beginning to strangle me, I suddenly felt like I was going to pass out. Literally, I was going to face-plant in my chicken salad. My friend, Megan, ordered a lovely wine to accompany lunch, and the moment the wine touched my lips, I thought I was going to gag. It was the worst thing I’d ever tasted, but I knew I had had this particular type of wine before and enjoyed it. I told my friend, Megan, that I might have to miss the meeting as I was feeling sick. She took one look at me and said, “Are you pregnant?” (Well, that might not have been the direct quote, but this is a family blog.) I immediately responded, “I don’t think so.” We finished our lunch and by the time the afternoon rolled around, I felt just fine.

Despite all of these little events, I just never put it together. That night, on the way home, I started trying to remember when I had last had my monthly blessing of womanhood, and I flat out couldn’t remember. When I got home, I took a cheap pregnancy test to you know, rule out the baby flu. It was a plus-minus test, and the horizontal line was a little blurry but the vertical line was black as night. Even then, I was suspicious: I mean, it was a little blurry, right? The following morning, I took three more digital tests. You know, the tests that say “Pregnant” and “Not Pregnant?” Well, I bombed all three: It was like a scene out of Juno and my eggo was definitely preggo.

The following Tuesday, Joshua and I went to the doctor to confirm my condition. They again asked me to do my business in a cup to confirm. Frankly, I had a little performance anxiety: I mean, this child already forced me to do something unpleasant in a Turnpike bathroom, and now, they expected me to tinkle in a pink cup while the nurse who looks like she could play linebacker for the Raiders waited outside the door. My result: A little more than a raindrop. I opened the little door to deposit my sample after writing my name on the cup only to discover another patient’s sample waiting for testing. At first, I was totally grossed out, but then I was amazed: I mean, her pink cup was practically brimming over. I shrugged and put my raindrop right next to it. I have a feeling this may be only the beginnings of confronting my inadequacies as a parent.

Luckily, I was so pregnant, the doctor could confirm our child’s existence from my raindrop. We went to Barnes and Noble and bought our first round of pregnancy books: What to Expect When You’re Expecting and The Expectant Father. Apparently, our child, affectionately deemed Pistachio Almond Allison until birth, is currently the size of an olive, and my uterus is the size of an orange. I know, it is shocking. You know, I’ve learned lots of shocking things from my pregnancy reading. The book has almost an entire chapter on spider veins and multiple birth mid-wife delivery (with pictures). Apparently, some babies are born with a full set of teeth or with their entire bodies covered in a thin layer of hair. Let me say that for a first time mother, it is so reassuring to read about how your body will soon look like the purple road map from hell while you prepare to give birth to a monkey baby complete with canines and fur.

In all seriousness, Joshua and the family seem to be over the moon with excitement. Joshua has been an absolutely angel, taking care of his little family after working hard all day. Baby Mama is pleased but apprehensive. I appreciate that Pistachio hasn’t made me too sick. I mean, this child already knows how to bond with his or her mother, in that, I have quite the complex about yacking. I went cold turkey off caffeine after I discovered my condition when Joshua told me our child was going to have ADHD because of Starbucks. I’m not certain how scientific that is, but frankly, after all I put my parents through, I figure I probably have some payback coming. I don’t want to push my luck by throwing possible hyperactivity into that mix. Pistachio apparently likes snacks every 3 hours or so, particularly edamame, almonds, and kiwis, and likes to make his or her mother crash about 2:00 PM. Pistachio also finds it amusing to make his or her mother get up to go potty several times a night. So hilarious!

Well, my mom suggested I blog my pregnancy, so I suppose this is the first in my series. We head back to the doctor on Friday, so hopefully, I will have a picture to share with the blog world, even if the kid will probably look something like a blurry squirrel. The baby is set to make his or her world premiere on August 24 which makes me about ten weeks pregnant. Please leave your comments about the baby’s gender. My best pal, Lisa, has already decided it is a boy. So, cast your vote by commenting on the blog!

Mom was ready to head to Babies R Us the same day she learned about my condition, but she held out for a week or so. Dad took some pictures of her first trip, so enjoy!

Seriously, look at that smile. I think she's ready to be a grandmother.

I appreciate that Dad documented this first trip of many.Although I cannot say for certain what is in these bags, I can make out some diapers (Dad's purchase), and Emily told me that Mom bought a bib that says, "If Mom says no, Ask Grandma." This child is already spoiled, ten weeks into its existence.

Iced-In and Playing Catch-Up!

Since the majority of Northeastern Oklahoma is covered in a sheet of ice, I am homebound for the day and going a little stir-crazy. In a fit of unexpected free time, I thought I would upload some of my fun pictures from the holiday season. Enjoy!

Took this picture of Alvin exploring the ice in the front yard about five minutes ago....

The moo cows are unhappy...and covered in ice.

The view from my front porch (I mean, pointing the opposite way of the ice covered trailer....you know, the one with the yellow toilet/grill seat on the front porch?)

Mom, Meme, and Papa on Christmas Eve

The family on Christmas EveMeme and Papa with the Lester girls on Christmas Eve

Brad shows off his UFC gloves he got for Christmas at Fight Night on the 27th!

The Allison crew watching the UFC fight. We had a full house for the Allison Night of Violence.

KJ, Ethan, Leah, and Hannah hang out on our couch at Fight Night.

Jordan and Mom looking, well, a little strange.

I promised my aunt that this picture would make the blog. She probably thinks I forgot. Well, I didn't. This picture needs no caption. It simply speaks for itself.

When Emily was a little girl, she was terrified of the movie, E.T., specifically the part where toddler Emily would say "E.T. turned into white." Well, her mean-spirited brother-in-law gave her a Christmas surprise so she could revisit that childhood trauma.

The boys eyeball the beef tenderloin for Christmas dinner.

Hotness

Nerds

My cousin, Morganne, and Emily show off Morganne's Christmas gifts

Joshua models his gift from Mom and Dad

Pretty smiles :-)

The Kent Grandkids

Meme and her girls

Papa and his girls

The Kent family

All the ladies on Christmas Day....

Reason for the Season

I started reflecting about the past month in my life and practice today, trying to decide whether I am beginning to emerge from my professional funk. It would be easy for me to tell you about how I represent the best of people and the worst of people. The former group is often composed of those seemingly unworthy of my misplaced mercy, a cast of unlikely gems that, on the surface of things, probably should be automatically cast the latter category. It would be easy for me to tell you about how no matter how much I work or how positive the outcome, the perception remains that the wheels of justice turn too slowly and the cost of my services, even if the client spends $1500 to recover $60000, is always too high. It would be easy for me to tell you how my integrity is automatically in question in almost every interaction thanks to the existing stereotypes about my profession. It would be easy for me to compose a bitter diatribe about how the practice of law is a jealous mistress, a curious hobby, particularly when I know in less than twenty-four hours, I will hopefully have my final and assuredly painful encounter with one of the leading contenders in the latter category.

Yet, this week is Christmas, the perfect time of year to remind myself that regardless of how poetic my problems may be, the reality remains: The story isn’t about me. I have the privilege of choosing my attitude, and at least this week, I choose thankfulness. I may not always like what I do for a living, but I am living my personal life surrounded by the very best of people. Enjoy some new photos of a only a few of my Christmas blessings…

Joshua, his brother, Ethan, and our friend, Brad, play a little Guitar Hero World Tour. I like how interested Ethan's wife, K.J., seems in the background. Notice the littany of dog toys on the floor. Lisa and Brad brought Christmas presents for the dachshunds. Alvin spent the entire evening tearing the rubber toys into tiny pieces. We did not think he was actually eating the pieces....until very, very early this morning. I can confirm, however, he did eat much of the rubber toy.

Another angle of our little rock band....My best pal, Lisa, and I enjoy some very watered down margaritas at the Tulsa State Fair

Mom and my cousin's wife, Stacey

My cousin, John Robert, and Dad

Aunt June and Mom

This picture epitomizes the relationship between my husband and my little sister. Classic.

My cousin, Jordan, gives Mom a hug...

Joshua and Jordan out on my parent's deck. Notice Joshua's Tapout T-Shirt....Meme called it a Satan shirt, and we've referred to it as such ever since. It is a little scary...

Mom always says that her arms are happiest when they are around both of her girls....

My Aunt Sissy and Uncle Preston...

Grillmasters. Probably a small black dachshund named Gus is nosing around underneath the grill, eager for drippings....

Mom and her sister, my Aunt Sissy (a.k.a. Julie)

Meme and my cousin, Morganne

Jordan and Emily.....Can you tell they are related? Seriously?!? Look at those noses....