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.”