The USS Fourth Toe

The baby toe on my right foot is weird.  It sort of cuddles with the fourth toe but it isn’t stuck like webbed feet (reeealllly sorry for the Black Swan flashback.)  It’s more like up and ONTO the fourth toe, slightly angled.

I aptly named it “The Barnacle on the USS Fourth Toe.” 

My boyfriend in college hoped it would get stuck in the fan at the foot of my bed and fly off.  He was seriously one of the nicest guys that anyone knew and he yet this toe made him say mean things.

When it’s time for the squishy toe-separators to go on before the painting phase of a pedicure, I sort of raise one eye up from my gossip mag to watch them wrangle the little guy off of his buddy.  “Oh, you bwake toe?”  I just smile and shake my head.

I take no issue with wearing flip-flops in the summer or any other cute, toe-revealing shoe.  The only shoes I do steer away from are the ones with a long strap that goes over the bridge of the foot and connects to the sole between the first and second toe.  Those just remind me of a g-string, which, isn’t cute anywhere it’s worn.

It’s been that way my entire life.  And it’s funny because people will ask me what happened and I simply let them know nothing happened, per se.  It was just born that way. Or so I thought.

I was talking to my mom about said toe the other day and she told me she has a sneaky suspicion as to what caused it.  I was like “What?  You know how it got this way?”  “The only thing I can think of,”  she said “was that I made you wear these cute little Huaraches (Mexican sandals) when you were a baby.  They were just adorable.  They might have squished your little toes together.  So cute.”

It was like an episode of “Who Do You Think You Are.”  This great mystery that defines such a big part of my life finally unveiled.  Not really.

But my mind immediately races to the night in February where I put the sweetest little pair of froggy shoes on Tanner while on vacation.  “I only did it once,” I thought.  “And they went so well with his seer sucker mini-man pants that I just had to.” 

Needless to say his toes are just fine.  Perfect in fact.  But, sorry mom, he won’t wear cute little Huaraches any time soon.

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Oooops, I Want it Again

…another baby that is.  To those people in my “inner circle” it is no surprise that we are (okay, I am) very interested in getting pregnant NOW.  I struggle between the idea that I should go see some fertility specialist to turning it all over to God and just letting things happen.  I have no idea what that conversation with the doctor would look like considering I don’t have challenges in this department (knock on wood)- and it’s worth mentioning the last time around I went to fertility acupuncture to “get things going” (what does that mean exactly?) only to find out I was already pregnant for all four visits.  TYPICAL.

I have been taking pregnancy tests as often as some people floss.  I am driving myself crazy with the whole thing.   Today, one of my friends and I were talking about it and she reminded me that with a seven month old, things are easy.   He just sits and drools and giggles and poops and says “dada” while I can still manage to get things done.  When they are on the go, I guess it’s an entirely different story.  Wire cords become their new favorite thing, electrical outlets seem like something that might be worth exploring and stairs?  Forget it.  That is just a full-blown playground.  Not so fun when you are trying to breastfeed a week old baby and the older brother just decided to attempt stair diving.

When, in the course of this conversation, she sensed that my relentless pursuit of the next little bundle was not going to waiver, she advised me to look at Britney Spears.  That poor girl lost it on the heels of having two babies close together.  I have no interest in getting to the point where my mom or husband enters the master bedroom quietly (thinking I am getting some much-needed rest – undoubtedly needing something as basic as locating the clean nipples) only to find me shaving my head. 

I have zero interest in being pregnant forever.  Line ’em up and knock ’em down is my motto when it comes to matters of the changing table. 

Simply put, I have the patience of a gnat.  Pray that I win the fertility monitor on eBay.

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The Stick

For a while now I have been searching for a creative outlet.  Not just a crossword puzzle or an iPhone app that allows you to play games with complete strangers but something that truly resonates with me.  I dabble in graphic design.  I cook.  I rearrange furniture and hang pictures and then rearrange furniture.  But that’s sort of the extent.  I don’t scrapbook in a manic state for days on end and I don’t knit (in fact, I don’t even sew.  Like, not even a button.)  I am not a particularly good photographer nor am I interested in learning to paint or crochet or garden (I might entertain that idea when I have more than a postage stamp of partial grass to work with).  After a lot of thinking about options that don’t require classes, or purchasing expensive equipment or being away from my family, I return to the immense enjoyment I find in the written word.  It’s time for a free flow of my expression.  Sometimes, the pen can’t write fast enough nor can my fingers type at the speed of thought.  Perhaps that is the very essence of passion.  Whatever it is, I welcome you to my little slice of creativity.  I have no idea what’s in store.  But I can guarantee a couple of laughs, or at the very least a smile, as I navigate the short amount of time I have dabbled in my most amazing adventure, motherhood. 

My name is Lainey.  I was born in Santa Barbara and made the move to Indianapolis at the age of 3.  (Apparently I was napping during that family meeting.)  I grew up on the north side, attended a private Catholic High School, then headed out west to attend college at Northern Arizona University.  I skied there.  Literally.  That is almost all I did.  Certainly I managed to squeeze in some academia between amazing trips to the mountains – it was one of the best public relations curriculum of its time (rivaled closely by its forestry program…forestry?) When I attended, I enjoyed those classes immensely.  But I enjoyed skiing more.  Upon a strong recommendation from the people paying my tuition, I came home to Indianapolis to finish a few dangling credits and get a “real job.”  It was a good decision as I have had a colorful career in marketing and public relations for the better part of 13 years. 

I am happily married to my best friend, Clay.  We have a 6.5 month old baby boy, Tanner Boyd.  I work part-time as the head of marketing for a global real estate investment trust which allows me lots of Tanner time.  My husband is in commercial real estate finance.  With the economic downturn experienced in the last two years (THAT IS THE ONLY REFERENCE TO FINANCE OR ANYTHING RELATED TO FINANCE I WILL MAKE ON HERE. Unless, at some point, I tell the story about how I talked my way out of college math),  the last couple of years have been a wonderful test of our relationship.  We pulled off an amazing wedding that ended with a sea of people dancing to Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” and welcomed our greatest gift, Tanner, into this world.  It’s been a whirlwind.  But certainly nothing that two high-energy, adventurous people couldn’t handle. 

I am going to skip over our courtship, the breakup (for which I still haven’t quite forgiven him), the engagement, the wedding, the honeymoon and get right down to it. 

The stick had a plus sign.  After two and a half months of being married, this plastic and some weird fiber’d stick relayed the most important message I have ever received.  “CUH-LAAAAAAY!?” He’s thrilled, I’m thrilled.  We had a moment.  Literally one.  That was all the time I had before I felt compelled to jump on some website sponsored by Pampers, Gerber and Parenting Magazine to research what the little tadpole inside of me was doing.  Or really, whether or not it could even be classified as a tadpole.  I am pretty sure you have to pass zygote to get to tadpole.

I was just about 5.5 weeks pregnant when we found out on an overcast Saturday in January.  (It’s worth mentioning that Clay knew I was pregnant before the stick did.  We were at our nephew’s basketball game that morning when I caught him staring at my boobs.  “Honey?…HONEY? What’s up?” I asked.  “They look kind of big.”  “Oh” I replied, slightly embarrassed because my sister-in-law was now privy to this exchange happening in the middle of a basketball game filled with 7-year olds.)

Clay wanted to wait just a little while before telling people.  I completely understand this rationale.  We should wait until we know things are progressing – maybe get a few more weeks under our belt.  Yes.  Makes perfect sense….if you’re not female.  And especially if you’re not me.  The stick was still, er, let’s just say the stick was not yet in the trash can when I texted my best friend and told her what the stick told me but that I didn’t believe it.  She told me it was true, that sticks don’t lie.  I called my mom and told her not to get excited yet but the stick had a plus sign.  Which, in retrospect, is the same thing as telling a kid “hey kid, we are going to the candy store, but don’t get excited.”  Kind of mean, really.  Needless to say, she’s excited and on board for the journey. 

The following Monday I called my doctor.  I thought for sure he would tell me to drop everything I was doing and get there as fast as I could to draw blood, have an ultrasound, make sure everything was going right along schedule, confirm my due date the way the website did and schedule all my other appointments and….not the case.  In fact, after congratulating me, the friendly receptionist on the other end of the line told me they don’t see patients before six weeks and asked how next week looked for me.  Next week?  What?  “Are you sure he doesn’t want to see me sooner?  I mean, I AM 5.5 WEEKS PREGNANT.”  It’s not like I was calling for a pap smear people.   Riiiight.  “See you next week, Mrs. Scheetz.”

Hold please…

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