Having a Baby AND A Life

Clark is a big 3 week old now! It is utterly amazing how much time goes into keeping one tiny person alive, fed, bathed, and dressed on a daily basis. He's actually pretty easy to take care of, just time consuming. The challenge is getting anything else accomplished - like, say, getting ourselves dressed or fed.

 

In those three weeks, we have managed to have a teeny tiny bit of normalcy in the form of two dates. Like, we left the house together and didn't take Clark and actually got to be 'Ryan and Heidi' for a few hours instead of 'Mom and Dad'. It. Was. Splendid! It was also, apparently, nearly cause for having CPS called on us.

 

We posted a picture of us on our date on social media, and people freaked the freak out on us. It didn't help that I had also gone back to work for 4 hours that day and the mommy police were already on a stakeout in front of my Facebook page, just waiting to judge my next move. Here's the thing - I work a mile away from home, at a desk job, and he was in the care of  his FATHER, not a stranger I met at the mall. Despite the 1950s belief that is still floating around out there, Ryan is not a babysitter - he is an equally capable PARENT, who is more than qualified to care for our son by himself. And he's pretty freaking awesome at it, too.

 

Despite my Mother of the Year award apparently being in jeopardy due to the fact that I left the house without my child within the first 3 months of his life, we risked it and went out to dinner. Contrary to the reaction on Facebook, we did not leave him in the kennel with Mia and go gallivanting around town for six hours. Clark was snuggled with a responsible CPR certified adult who is a seasoned childcare professional. He was fine.

 

Was it hard to leave him? A little. Honestly, I fully expected to cry when we dropped him off, even though I completely trust the good friend who offered to watch him for a few hours. But as we got in the car and headed off to a real dinner, with real conversation, and not having to wipe anyone else's butt, I was giddy. It felt like all of the fun things of a first date, with the security and comfort that comes with being married.

 

Clark is awesome. He's cute and snuggly and sweet and funny and we are so over the moon in love with him that I can't even find sufficient words to describe how much our hearts burst for him. But he's also needy, and smelly, and only sleeps for 3 hours at a time, and he doesn't contribute at all to the upkeep of our house. That makes for 2 exhausted parents who still have to take care of ourselves, our jobs, our dog, and our house...on top of all of the new responsibilities we find ourselves elbow deep in (literally).

 

We made a promise to our pastor and to each other before we were ever married that we would make a weekly date night a priority before we had kids specifically so that we would be in the habit of going once we had kids. It has been such a positive part of our marriage for 3.5 years - we each look forward to Monday night every week because we know that no matter what else is going on in life (like being invaded by a 7.5 pound adorable tiny human who requires almost all of our daily attention), we will have a few hours of focused attention on one another. No work, no phones, and now, no kids.

 

Those 2.5 hours of getting to be Ryan and Heidi are important not only for us, but we believe they are just as important for Clark. One of our overarching goals for his life is to teach him to not be afraid. We believe that exposing him early to new people, experiences, and a sense of independence from us will serve him well in the long run. And us going on a date each week without him not only fosters those principles in him, but it also allows us to keep our relationship as a priority. I may not win any friends with this ideal, but our goal as parents, from the very first moment of Clark's life is to prepare him to leave us and to be successful when he does so. It is also our goal to still be happily married in 18 years when this baby bird gets a shove gentle nudge out of our nest.

In case you are questioning our cold, made of stone hearts, here's some photographic evidence that we love our child and spend 99% of our time bonding with him, and also that he's the cutest baby ever:

 

Introducing Clark Scott

Clark Scott, you made your debut in this world on 12/29/2015 at 9:22am, weighing 7 pounds and measuring 20 inches. Thanks to your amazing dad, an angel on earth of a nurse, and your speediness (thank you!), it was a relatively easy 13 hour labor and delivery.

You look exactly like your dad - lucky for you, he's the best looking guy around! Your lips have perfectly defined peaks like his, your cheeks take up half of your face like his, you both have unfairly naturally long beautiful eyelashes (I pay good money to make my lashes look half that length!), and when I catch a glimpse of your eyes, they take my breath away the same way his do. I can only hope that you'll also inherit his sense of humor, his quiet strength, his passion for fun, and his love for Jesus. I would add that I hope you're even a smidgen as gifted of a musician as he is, but with half of your genes coming from me, the deck is stacked against you...sorry about that one!

We first learned that you would become a part of our family on Monday, May 4th, 2015 - Star Wars Day. Please don't grow up to love Star Wars - your mom doesn't understand any of it, or how it is different from Star Trek. We were thrilled, terrified, and in a little bit of disbelief that you were real...similar to how we feel right now.

Your name is very special to us, and it comes from both sides of your family tree. Long before I met your dad, I had started a list of future names that I would like for my children. My top two names were Ryann (for a girl), and Sloane (for a boy or a girl). Then I fell in love with a tall, handsome, wonderful man that you will know as "dad", but to the rest of the world, he is Ryan Sloan. And because he is the biggest party pooper of all time, he wouldn't let me name you Sloane Sloan.

Your name comes from your Great Uncle --- Larry Clark. You won't get to meet him in this lifetime, but I assure you, that you will hear stories about him for all of your days. He was your mom's uncle - Grandpa Higdon's only sibling - and he was one of my very favorite people in all of the world. He passed away when I was just a teenager, but he made a lasting impact on my life.

As you may have gathered by now, Clark is an homage to him. Also, Will Clark was your dad's favorite baseball player when he was growing up. He became a St. Louis Cardinal at the end of his career, and Clark Street is the street where Busch Stadium is found (you'll learn that we take our Cardinals baseball very seriously in this family!).

That brings us to Scott. Your Great Grandma Kay's maiden name was Scott, which she gave your Pop as a middle name. He passed it onto your dad, and we are passing it onto you. Knowing our rebellious personalities, you'll probably be the one in the family who refuses to carry on the tradition, but that's a story for another day.

We found out that you were a boy on Friday, August 14th, 2015...your Great Uncle Larry's birthday. In a further point of significance, it is also your Great Aunt Donna's birthday - Grandpa Higdon's brother and Grandma Higdon's sister had the same birthday! The irony was not lost on me, as we already knew what your name would be whether you were a boy or a girl, and I couldn't help but feel like it was a wink from my Uncle Larry that day.

He didn't have any kids of his own, but he always treated me like the most important person in the room. I was a picky eater as a kid (your dad will tell you that I still am...don't listen to him!), but I loved Goldfish crackers and chicken strips with French fries. Every time we visited his house, the minute I walked through the door, he would take my hand and walk me to the kitchen where he would open the lazy Susan and point out the industrial sized box of Goldfish crackers, and give me a wink like it was our secret. Because he didn't have children of his own, he wasn't great with respecting a kid's undying wish to be "bigger" (it's overrated - stay little for as long as you can!), and he always referred to me as "The Baby". When I was 16 years old and driving a car, he still only called me "The Baby". I hated it at the time, but as I look back on it, I love that he did that. Every single time the adults would be discussing where to go to dinner, Uncle Larry would chime in with "It needs to have chicken strips and French fries - the baby likes that." Again, he had no kids of his own, so he didn't realize that literally every restaurant in the world serves that meal. Long after my food preferences had grown to accommodate many other meals, Uncle Larry made sure that wherever we ate had the great delicacy known as "chicken strips and fries".

He was a very, very funny man. Just like your dad and grandfathers, there was always laughter when he was in the room. Big, booming, deep laughter that filled your soul with joy. I hope that you'll laugh as often as he did - it really is medicine for your soul. Most of the funny stories I know about Uncle Larry aren't terribly appropriate for someone your age, but ask me someday what "Just patting the dog" and "Two pats and a push" means...I promise you, I will remember.

As an extra little tidbit, after we had your name decided, we realized that when mom lived in Las Vegas, I lived in Clark County. Since moving to our current town, we live in (and you were born in) Scott County. You'll learn that your dad is a geography nerd, so I find it pretty fitting that your name also has a nod to that.

Tonight is your first night home. You and I are snuggled on the couch as I write this while the rest of the house gets some much needed sleep. I keep stopping just to look at you, kiss your head, and thank God for the millionth time for picking us to be your parents. We prayed for you before you were conceived, we prayed for you while I was pregnant, we prayed for you while you were being born, and we'll pray for you every day for the rest of our lives.

We love you, Clark Scott. Welcome to this crazy ride!

Thanks, But No Thanks

I have heard a lot of bad advice over the years, but never more consistently than since I have been incubating a baby in my body. I'm sure most of the people mean well, but the more bad (like, really bad) advice I hear, the more I support removing warning labels from products and letting the epidemic of idiots just sort itself out.

 

Among the worst of the worst (so far) have been the following gems of infinite wisdom:

 

1. Sleep Now So You'll Be Well Rested Before Baby Is Born

Let me tell you something. Life as a pregnant woman can be broken down into two overarching categories: peeing, and thinking about needing to pee. I literally realize how much I have to pee while I am washing my hands in the restroom...after peeing 30 seconds earlier. This happens all day and all night. You know why? Because I have a PERSON sitting on top of my bladder. Which makes what little sleep I do get incredibly uncomfortable, which makes me toss and turn the whole time, which makes Ryan toss and turn.

 

This week, I have woken up for the day at 3am, 3:30am, 5am, and 2am. I'll be both impressed and depressed if we truly get less sleep once baby is here.

 

2. Baby Needs To Be Exposed To Germs IMMEDIATELY

I made the mistake of telling a few people that Cletus won't be making any big trips out of the house to crowded places until he has served between 8 and 12 weeks this side of my uterus, per my highly trained physicians and their separate, but uniform recommendations. When people hear of our plan to let our baby build an immune system before exposing him to the dirty hands and runny noses of strangers during cold and flu season, it's like I can see the expression 'helicopter parents' flash across their pupils.

 

What always happens next is a dissertation about how newborns need to be subjected to viruses and bacteria from the zero hour or they'll end up the next real life bubble boy. If that's your parenting style and your pediatrician signs off on that protocol, cool. If you haven't had a baby since before the surgeon general cautioned the general public about lighting tobacco on fire and breathing it into our lungs multiple times a day, then we're probably going to trust our doctors and our instincts on this one.

 

3. You Won't Bond With Your Baby Unless You Nurse

This one both makes me laugh and makes my blood boil at the same time. Mention one word about pumping, or God forbid FORMULA, and there will be a petition for state custody of your child. Like there's Bottle Fed Anonymous groups meeting in church basements with people swapping weekly stories about how the void in their life from not being breastfed has led them straight to shooting heroin. Dads don't feed their babies straight from the tap, regardless of whether it is Similac or Mom's milk in that bottle they are using, and they seem to generally like their kids so I'd say bonding is probably happening.

 

4. Don't Take The Medicine Your Doctors Prescribed 

Oh, you saw a commercial saying that the medicine I take to keep myself and our baby alive has a 1% chance of causing a superficial birth defect? Well, I see commercials every day about a little blue pill for sexual efficiency that runs the risk of causing 'sudden loss of vision and hearing', but apparently 40 million Americans are cool with taking that chance. At least our priorities are straight.

5. If You Don't Provide a Pacifier, You'll Never Break Him Of Sucking His Thumb

Listen, I am all for different parenting styles and I am also open to the idea that our baby might not do what we have planned for him. For the record, we have pacifiers lined up and ready to go during hour #4 of a screaming marathon. When people have asked us about our plans to use a pacifier, we tell them 'We are going to try not to use one, but we'll see what happens.' The reaction we receive is as if we have just announced that we will only be feeding him twice a week - once on Monday, and again on Thursday, the same schedule we use for watering the plants.

 

The argument for pacifiers (which, AGAIN, we are cool with using if our baby needs one for a while) is always 'well you can take a pacifier away, but not a thumb!' Yes, this is true, but unless our kid is an idiot, we're pretty sure he'll find his thumbs anyway. I assure you, while we may screw him up in other ways, you have our undying pledge that we will not send him to college sucking on his thumb, completely crippled by the fact that it can't be taken away from him so he never learned to self soothe. Pinky promise.  

We're (Almost) Ready!

As the clock ticks closer and closer to D Day, we decided that we better get some of our crap in order. I have the tendency to over prepare, so I have made a conscious effort in this pregnancy to educate myself just enough to feel confident, without researching every possible scenario at painstaking length. We have clothes hung up by size, the diaper genie is assembled and lying in wait, and last week, we took the next step in making this whole process real in our minds: a hospital tour.

 

We arrived early to scope out the parking/ER drop off lane, knowing that there is a pretty major construction project currently going on at our hospital that has hindered the parking lot. When I worked at a hospital, I always loved checking out the cars next to the Labor & Delivery building, because dads were instructed to 'pull right up to the door and get mom inside - you can officially park later'. I could always tell which vehicles belonged to new parents and which belonged to the old pros, because some cars would parallel very nicely in a calm manner, and others would come to a screeching halt with 2 tires on the curb as dad jumped out, barely getting the car in park in time to run around and usher the mom to be through the doors. At the hospital we will be using, everything is housed in one building, which makes for a much less comical viewing of the parking situation.

 

Once we found a parking spot, we followed the maze of signs into the hospital and toward the elevators. I find it a little cruel that they make a pregnant woman who is about to give birth trek to the very top floor, but hopefully on that day people will have mercy and get out of my way. Our plan is to labor at home until the absolute last minute that we have to go to the hospital; a strategy that was reinforced by the nurse who gave us the tour.

 

Upon the elevator doors opening on our floor, we had two options; walk straight into the waiting room, or stay on the elevator. As we would soon learn, accessing anything on that floor other than the waiting room is harder than strolling into the Oval Office uninvited. In fact, each baby is fitted with a house arrest device of sorts and even if it is just bumped the wrong way, the entire floor goes on lockdown - an alarm sounds, stairwell doors lock shut, elevators are stopped in their tracks, and nobody can enter or leave until the cause of the alarm is pinpointed. Our sweet nurse assured us that the devices are incredibly sensitive, so if we hear the alarm sound during our stay, it does not mean that a newborn has been stolen. Either way, it gave us a huge sense of security that something as small as Cletus (how I refer to Baby Sloan - Cletus the Fetus) brushing his leg up against a blanket can send the baby Secret Service into action.

 

We learned everything about the process - where each stop along the way will be, what will happen, what our options are, and the hospital policies that are enforced. Most of their mandatory policies are centered around visitors.  Our nurse even said multiple times, 'I strongly encourage you to think very hard about who you want here with you. Pick people who will be calming. And remember that you can only have 2 people, no exceptions.'  I get the impression that they have seen their fair share of bat$#*! crazy guests on that floor...my plan is to try to convince them to tell me some of the worst ones, because that's the kind of person I am. If I succeed, I promise I will share.

 

One policy that they employ is a 'Golden Hour' where we can get to know our baby without tons of people filing in and out, then after that, I get to eat and shower before they ever move us into the room where we can have visitors. Not that I will be looking glamorous like Princess Kate a few hours after having a human extracted from my body, but it's still nice to know I that won't have to entertain while starving and looking like Nick Nolte's mug shot. After hearing so many horror stories about hospital births, it was refreshing to hear how 'pro mom and dad' this one is.

 

Oh, and their birth plans --- music to this planner's ears! Everything you can think of (and so much more that you would have never thought to specify!) - from whether they can or can't offer our baby a pacifier, to what I want to wear, to what role my baby daddy wants to play are all covered in that sucker...plus more! Our OB's office had us fill one out and the hospital will receive and review it before we ever arrive so that our medical team is on the same page and doesn't have to burden us with a thousand questions. That alone was enough to put me at ease about the whole process. As someone who doesn't do well with surprises, I appreciate that they covered every single 'what if' scenario so that we know what to expect even if things don't go exactly according to plan.

 

Now, all that's left to do is have a baby! Oh, and install the car seat. And assemble the bassinet. And pack our bags. Okay, now we're freaking out again.  

Let Them Drink Coffee!

I'm learning that you have to give up a lot of things in pregnancy; your body, any medication that actually helps whatever ailment you may have, and sleep to name a few. Easily the worst sacrifice for me has been the drinking. Staying away from tequila has been easy, because you know, fetal alcohol syndrome. I'm talking about the sweet nectar of the gods, the magic serum that makes me a nice person. I'm talking about caffeine.

 

I have loved Starbucks since I started pulling all nighters in college. I could stay up until 6am, studying of course, grab a venti no whip caramel Frappuccino, and be at the top of my game for whatever the day threw at me. It's literally a magic potion that makes my brain work, keeps my eyes alert, and forces kind words out of my mouth even at ungodly hours.

 

As a strictly regimented soul, I started every day of the work week the same way - at the Starbucks drive through at 7:15am. This carried on for so long, and across multiple cities, that one day when I was running uncharacteristically late, it was cause for alarm. I remember pulling up to the order board at 7:40am and before I could say one word, I heard 'There you are! We were getting worried!!' Maybe that should have been my first clue that I have a teeny tiny caffeine addiction problem.

 

Fast forward several years and a few more cities, I still frequent my local double tailed mermaid. Like a military trained bomb sniffing dog, I can smell espresso, caramel, and a green straw from any 5 mile radius. Only now, 85% of my joy in life, ahem, 85% of my joy in coffee has been stolen from me. Now, I have to order broken coffee. Just saying the word 'decaf' makes me cringe. It's the equivalent of ordering a coffee flavored milkshake, which don't get me wrong, is still delicious. Worthless yet delicious...decaf is the coffee world's version of Magic Mike. But it is all I have left for approximately 10 more weeks.
 

Being that it is currently my only shot at a fix, a few days ago Ryan took me on a Starbucks date. We went through the drive through, he was driving and ordered for us, and when we received our total, I said 'Ooh..ask her about her ring when we get to the window!' Slightly baffled, Ryan said, 'Excuse me?' to which I flatly replied 'When we get to the window, ask her about her wedding ring. She's getting married on Halloween and she and her fiancé are getting their wedding rings made by a friend who is a woodworker. I want to know if the rings are done yet.'

 

By now, he was less baffled and more appalled. Halfway turned out of the driver's seat so he could face me and fully take in my answer, the rest of our conversation went like this:

 

Ryan: 'Just hearing her voice and you know which barista she is? And you know her wedding date? And weirdly specific details about her and her fiancé's rings??'

Me: 'Yeah.'

Ryan: 'How do you know all of this?!'

Me: 'She told me.'

Ryan: 'You have a SERIOUS problem. And I'm not asking her about her ring.'

 

For the record, her rings are done and she and her fiancé love them, and she will show them to me when she returns from her honeymoon late next week. Also for the record, the first person to see our baby after he is born is whoever shows up at the hospital with a venti, no whip, extra caramel, REAL Frappuccino. On your marks, people...

Nylons No More

Pregnancy has thrown me for a few loops in the last six and a half months. Sleepless nights, confusion/forgetting simple things, and lately, a few embarrassing incidents.

 

The scale has  been mercifully very slow to creep upward, so I have enjoyed being able to wear my normal clothing for much longer than expected. I have purchased a few maternity pieces, but they have been very roomy on me so far. In the wardrobe department, this pregnancy has pretty well been business as usual.

 

So imagine my surprise when yesterday, I noticed that the waist of my nylons was starting to roll throughout the day. I realize that, at 14 weeks from giving birth, my body is going to start to change, so I tried not to panic. I discreetly unrolled them and tugged them back into place around my growing frame, and made a mental note to retire this particular pair from the rotation until it no longer looks like I have a basketball under my dress.

 

I had all but forgotten about the inconvenience of rolling nylons, when I was cruelly reminded of their impending strike against holding themselves up around the increasing circumference of my body. Because life isn't fair, this final notice of resignation from the panty hose that I employ came at the very worst possible time and place - in the produce aisle of the grocery store, with a cart full of groceries.

 

There I was, almost done with my shopping trip and checking over the strawberries I was about to add to my cart when I felt the slow tug of nylon folding over onto itself. Since this had already been the theme of my day, I glanced around the fruit section to see how many witnesses I would have to navigate, grabbed the side of the waistband through my dress, and shimmied them back into place. As I took my next step toward the checkout line, it happened. The slow, agonizing moment where you realize that you are about to be in a full blown public situation, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

 

Unlike the previous rolls earlier in the day, this wasn't just a slightly uncomfortable bending of a waistband onto itself. This, my friends, was a bona fide avalanche of nylon. One, two, three, four rolls went flying over each other faster than I could count. Then five. Then six. Until, in nothing longer than half a minute, I had panty hose rolled halfway down my legs. Like sticking-out-from-under-my-dress halfway down my legs. In the PRODUCE aisle.

 

Because I am the most unfortunate individual on the face of the earth in terms of these situations, I was wearing one of the pairs where the legs are connected all in one piece of fabric. So in case you aren't fully getting the visualization, let me paint you a little picture: six and a half months pregnant, rolled nylons halfway down my legs, in a crowded grocery store, 100 feet from the nearest restroom, and no way to gracefully pull them on or off, because they are attached to one another.

 

After waddling (literally) across the vegetable section with my legs stepping as closely together as I could get them, I did finally make it to the sanctuary of a restroom where I could peel them the rest of the way off and stuff them into the bottom of my purse for the remainder of my errands. The epitome of class.

 

Pregnancy Brain is REAL

In the interest of full disclosure, I did quite a few dumb things before I was pregnant, so I can't blame all of my airheaded moves on our fetus. There have been a few instances lately, however, that I am certain were caused by the budding human we made.

 

Since our baby is a jerk who still makes me very sick 23.5 weeks into this ride, I see a lot of doctors. I was recently asked when my next appointment is, and I gave two different days because I honestly cannot remember who I see each week, when, or even at which location. I collect those little appointment reminder cards like Ryan collects guitar picks - we find them everywhere! A couple of weeks ago, I had an appointment with a specialist first thing in the morning, at his office across the river. So I dragged myself out of bed at an ungodly hour in order to be showered, dressed, and to his office by 7am. After weaving through the maze of an unfamiliar hospital, I finally found his office, and learned that I was there a day early. And I did what any sick, tired, pregnant lady would; I cried. I stood in front of the reception window bawling and apologizing, then apologizing for bawling, and tearfully asked if I had to come back that early the next day. Luckily for me, the nicest doctor in the entire world came out of his office, greeted me with a huge smile, and said it was no problem and he would be happy to see me right then. Obviously, he is a kind man who took pity on the pathetic grown woman who was sobbing at the front desk because she can't read a calendar.

 

A few days later, I was making a late night grocery store run for a healthy pregnancy snack of m&m's and cheddar & sour cream baked Lay's. I took the dog out, got her kenneled, collected my purse, keys, what I thought was my phone, and headed out the door. By the time I got to the store, I realized that Ryan would be home any minute, and I hadn't told him that I was leaving, so he would be expecting me to be there. Not wanting him to panic, I pulled out my phone to text him. For what had to be a full minute, I stood in the middle of the aisle staring in bewilderment at the device I had just retrieved from my purse. It was one of those moments like when you first wake up from a really deep slumber and find yourself asking seemingly easy questions, that for several seconds you simply cannot will your brain to be able to answer - things like what day is it? Is it AM or PM? Why do I only have one sock on? - until you are shaken back into reality and the explanations start to flood in. I did know what day and time it was, but the questions I found myself rapidly asking right there in aisle 11 were; Where is my phone? Why did I bring the tv remote to the grocery store? How am I going to text Ryan and tell him I left my phone at home? Luckily, the two items I was in search of are located very close to one another, and I managed to get myself home right before he pulled in, sparing myself from having to recount the whole embarrassing ordeal.

 

The figurative nail in this 'pregnancy brain' coffin happened just a couple of days ago. Sunday mornings are very busy at our house, and I have found that most weeks, it is my worst sickness day. Which generally leaves me with a growling stomach so loud that I know it can be heard from the pulpit, with 15 minutes left in the sermon. This past Sunday was no different, and the moment we were dismissed, I ran to Ryan and begged him to quickly pick a place for lunch. Another couple was joining us and we all decided Applebee's sounded good.

 

Ryan kept saying 'It's close, so it will be quick' and I kept thinking to myself 'It's at least 5 miles away, and the only good way there from here is on a congested road with 10 traffic lights between here and there', but I know that during this pregnancy I have had a tendency to be hangry, so I told myself that I was just being a diva. I offered to leave and go get us a table and meet them whenever they could get there. 15 minutes had passed and I still wasn't to the restaurant, because the other drivers of the world are idiots and wouldn't drive faster than 25mph. At literally my 10th red light of the morning, I grabbed my phone (my actual phone and not the tv remote - thank Heaven for the little miracles) and texted to Ryan: 'Still not there. Traffic is terrible. Just now turning onto the right road.' Seconds later, he was calling me to tell me that he meant the other Applebee's, and that everyone else was already seated and waiting for me, and they would order appetizers. He didn't say this, but it occurred to me that by 'other Applebee's', he meant the one right down the street from church; the one that you can seriously walk to faster than the one I drove to - which makes much more sense now that I think about it.

I am hoping that my brain, and my waistline, will be quick to return sometime around the first of the year. If you see me walking around in a fog before then, offer me some m&m's, a map of the city I live in, and a spare phone to tell my husband what random location you have found me wandering around.