Mary Clare

Mary Clare Thole Lindh graced us with her presence on Christmas day. After lounging around at St. John's for 20 or so hours, she made her grand entrance at 1:18 AM on December 25, weighing in at 7 lbs., 8 oz., and measuring 20 inches.

Everyone at Team Botanical is happy and healthy. We are, without a doubt, enchanted by our little girl. The past week has flown by, and while I have lost track of time (I couldn't believe it this morning when Chip told me that today is New Year's Eve), I will tell you that each day gets better and better. We're so stinking lucky, I can't even stand it.

I will stop now before it gets any more boastful around here. Or I cry. Whichever comes first.

Our thanks to everyone who has sent well wishes. We can't wait for you to meet our little bird.

Because they care enough to be brutally honest

Maybe it's me, but I tend to expect that someone in the the sales field will usually say the right thing at the right time. I would also expect an established, married OB-GYN to be fairly well versed in what and what not to say to a woman who is one week shy of her due date.

Well, let's just say that Chip and Dr. Simckes both took my expectations and tossed them out the window today.

This morning I was getting ready for work (denim day!) and after successfully pulling those damn elastic-waist jeans over my bum, I heaved a sigh of relief and then, basically, made a poor decision and spoke.

Me: Good heavens, I am fat. I'm exhausted just from squeezing myself into those jeans.
Chip: Babe, you're not fat. You're nine months pregnant. Just look at your belly.
Me: The problem's not my belly, it's my butt.
Chip: Well, what do you expect? Your stomach is huge. If your butt didn't balance you out in back, you would tip forward.

The fun continued at this afternoon's weekly check-up. Dr. Simckes breezed into the room, gave me a hug, shook Chip's hand and sat down.

Me: Don't forget, we don't want to know the sex.
Dr. S: Well, I do. You're 39 weeks pregnant. When in the hell are you going to have this kid? I'm tired of keeping this a secret.

To be fair to both of these wonderful men, I really did set Chip up for failure. There is no good response when a woman -- especially a pregnant woman -- says "I'm fat." And as far as Dr. Simckes goes, I love the fact that he is so incredibly blunt. I mean, any doctor who responds to the question of "what can I do to get things moving?" with the oft-repeated phrase of "what brought you here shall set you free," is okay in my book.

King of the road

The Jones family will soon be heading east to celebrate Christmas with both families, so they had their own family Christmas last night. Lo and behold, would you take a look at what Brennan received? A motorized four-wheeler. I wonder who's behind that?

I'm quite certain there were many, many a discussions surrounding this particular purchase. I think Sherri knew at some point Brian would come home with it anyway, so why fight the inevitable? Brennan, of course, was thrilled with his gift. The battery wasn't charged so he couldn't scoot around, but he had a pretty good time climbing off and on the toy and waving at Brian, Sherri and the dogs. The four-wheeler is making the trip to Illinois, so it looks like we may have to hold a parade for the little show-off.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Crazy Aunt Debbie is off to buy a helmet so her nephew's perfect little head stays just the way it is. Click here for a few more shots of B on his bad motor scooter.

It's a jolly holiday with Brennan

I don't know how she did it, but Sherri managed to snap a picture of Brennan with both dogs for their Christmas card. If you're one of the lucky few on the Jones Christmas card list, you'll get to see the finished, polished product. But if you just want to laugh at the chaos that ensues when you put two 90+ pound dogs and a squawking one-year-old together for a photo shoot, well, then click here and enjoy.

One content baby

Clearly, I am an excellent hostess, because Baby Lindh is showing zero interest in leaving the cozy little womb he/she has called home for the past nine months.

Before going to yesterday's weekly appointment, I was convinced that Dr. Simckes would take one look and me and say, "Get over to St. John's, stat." I was so certain this would happen, I asked Chip to bring our hospital bags with him to the appointment. I think we both knew that doing so would jinx us, but good sport that he is, Chip hauled all of the bags out to the car (and even made a last-minute outfit switch for me), and then quietly hauled them all back inside when we returned home.

While I appreciate that he didn't say "I told you so," it really was the least he could do after fist-bumping Dr. Simckes when the good doctor asked me, "Do you always complain this much?"

To Chip's credit, he did stop short of blowing it up.

Christmas in the city

We're ready. Ready for Christmas, ready for some snow, ready for a baby, ready for SOMETHING. Come on, throw us a bone already. Chip and I can't possibly spend another weekend staring at each other. And if I take one more picture of our Christmas decorations, Chip will likely have me committed.

Santa's not sneaking up on this guy

Holding out for filets

As you may recall, we are big fans of the Hehmeyer family. Rob is hilarious, Amanda is a straight-talking version of Martha Stewart, and their girls Anna Lee and Charlotte are too cute for words.

You also may recall that for the past nine months I have seriously slacked off in the cooking department. I blame a lack of appetite, lack of energy or lack of interest in any sort of protein source that doesn't come in the shape of a nut. Sometime this fall, I mentioned to Amanda that Chip thought my lack of cooking was both a blessing and a curse. The upside was that I no longer used him as a guinea pig for wacky new recipes. The downside, of course, was that my aversion to most meats meant that he couldn't even get the basics like meatloaf and grilled steaks.

A few days later, Amanda appeared at our house with a baking dish full of stuffed shells. One half of the shells were covered in meat sauce and labeled "Chip." The other half of the dish was covered in tomato sauce and labeled "Debbie." Our delivered dinner came complete with these insanely decadent jam-filled cookies that I tried to hide from Chip because I didn't want to share them.

Fast forward to this week. I am sitting at work, willing myself to go into labor, when I receive an email from Amanda that says, "Taco soup and all the fixings delivered to your house at 1:30 p.m." I immediately forwarded the email to Chip, as he usually arrives home before me. While he's not one to pass up bags of homemade food, he typically likes to know the source of said food. Needless to say, he was delighted by Amanda's delivery. Especially when she confirmed that the soup was particularly meaty.

Last night, as Chip and I were driving to the Galleria, the song "Amanda" came on the radio. After singing a few verses about Amanda's taco soup, corn bread and gooey butter cake, Chip asked the following:

Chip: Hey, what do you think Amanda is going to bring over when the baby's born?
Me: Are you serious? She's already brought us dinner twice and we haven't even had the child. She shouldn't bring us anything.
Chip: Yeah, but you know Amanda. She will. I bet Rob will come over and grill filets. And she'll make a souffle.
Me: I can't believe how greedy you are.
Chip: Whatever. I can't wait for the baby to get here. I bet they'll be bacon-wrapped filets.

It's not a competition

Chip and I paid a visit to the doctor on Monday, and after the ultrasound Dr. Simckes told us that Tro is currently weighing in at seven pounds, nine ounces. I know you can usually give or take a pound, but I will admit it is nice to at least have an estimated weight. I am, of course, alarmed that the doctor didn't respond when I asked if the baby's head was big, but I guess there's not much I can do about that now. It's not like I haven't noticed that Chip and I both have huge melons.

On the way home, I called Chip so we could recap the doctor's visit.

Me: So, we're at seven pounds, nine ounces. That certainly sounds manageable.
Chip: Yeah, not bad. Wait. How big was Brennan?
Me: Um, I'm not sure. Just under nine pounds, I think.
Chip: Well, I'm sure we can do better than nine pounds.

A bum on the bump

I was fortunate enough to see Brennan not once, but twice, over the Thanksgiving holiday. The little monkey gives hugs and the biggest, gooiest open-mouth kisses known to man. And I love every bit of it. Brennan also enjoys making himself comfortable on the bump. If I'm sitting down with Brennan on my lap, he will plop himself right down on top of his cousin. If I'm holding Brennan on my hip, he likes to swing his leg up so it stretches across the top of the bump. Because that's comfortable, I'm sure.

I've never received as much attention from either Buddy or Brennan as I have in the past week. I'm guessing that both Bs are feeling a little threatened by Baby Lindh's impending arrival. Rest easy, boys. You're still my number ones.

Click here for more photos of the little turkey in action.

One thugtastic tree

Chip and I spent Friday afternoon hanging our outdoor Christmas wreaths and assembling our two Christmas trees. The nine-foot skinny number in the front room went up without a hitch. The seven-foot pre-lit tree in the middle room -- the one I brought to the marriage -- was another matter. Let's just say it has a few character flaws.

Three years ago a lower strand of lights went out, so I wrapped new lights over the existing ones. Two years ago the entire middle section of lights went out, so I added even more new lights to the existing ones, resulting in a lovely tangle of cords and whatnot. Shockingly, last year all of the lights went out, so we cut off everything and wrapped new strands around every branch. Let me tell you, nothing says holiday spirit like cramped hands covered in plastic pine needle cuts. This year we were hard pressed to remember how the revamped model went together, and well, that was not fun, either. It was a marked improvement over last year's experience, for sure, but apparently Chip was not ready to let bygones be bygones.

"Silver Bells," was playing on the stereo, and Chip, ever the clever one, started singing along, only with his own lyrics. The refrain went a little something like this: "Broke-ass tree, broke-ass tree ... it's because we live in the city." I chuckled. Big mistake. He went on to work favorite words like thugtastic, Targetto and Homie Depot into the verses, as well as the names of our more annoying neighbors. I thought the song would never end. I also thought he could have left well enough alone with just the refrain, but hey, it distracted him during the last stages of assembly, and before I knew it, the tree was up.

Whatever it takes.