Nesting

Apparently, this pregnant mama ain't the only one doing a bit of nesting... Look what's on the top of the wreath on my front door! FOUR BABY BIRDS! Ignore the poop -- aren't they gorgeous?

Twenty-Three Months

Dear Greta,

Today you are 23 months old. This month marks the last month of defining your age in months; I think that after you hit two years old, I'm supposed to say you're two -- not that you're 27 months or 32 months or whatever. And saying you're two just makes you seem so grown-up, that you're no longer a baby.

In many ways, you are still such a baby. You still wear diapers, and although we've adorned the bathroom with a hot pink potty chair, you haven't show much interest yet in potty training. You still eat while sitting in a high chair, and you constantly throw your sippy cup and your food on the floor (and on the dog). You're obsessed with my water bottles, fast food cups with straws and drinking glasses but you have yet to drink out of an open cup without sticking your dirty fingers in it or dumping its contents all over yourself.

You still like to put miscellaneous things in your mouth and can't be trusted with things that are small enough to be choking-hazards or things that can be destroyed (like books with paper pages). You often forget that you've yet to master walking the stairs, only to be reminded of this by tumbling down a few of them. You're still quite attached to your baby blanket, your "kee," which you sleep with every night. You still sleep in your baby crib -- so far you haven't attempted to crawl out of it-- and we haven't yet dared to think about converting your crib into a todldler bed.

In many ways, it's so obvious that you're not a baby. You've outgrown the infant section of most clothing stores, and some of your clothes are size 3T. You idolize the 5 year-old neighbor kids and try your best to keep up with them and their Power Wheels jeeps. You're obsessed with books, and your favorites include Llama Llama Mad At Mama, Olivia and Hello, Truman! You can't count or say the alphabet, but you sure can rock it out to Beyonce's Single Ladies.

You like to identify objects by their names, and you love seeing photographs of babies and of dogs, cats and fish, and of me and daddy just so you can tell us what you see. You could eat cheese and popsicles at every meal, and you could chug whole milk ALL DAY LONG, but otherwise, your eating habits are unpredictable, to say the least. You demand to have a bow in your hair only to rip it out at any given time. You'll tap your head and repeat, "bow, bow, bow" until we put a one in your hair. And, for the first time, I painted your toe nails last week, and you couldn't stop telling me how pretty they were.

We've recently introduced a naughty corner for time-outs. The idea is to get you to stop doing "bad" things that you particularly know you're not supposed to do, like rattling the window blinds or pulling the dog's tail. You definitely have a mind of your own, and you insist on expressing it. If you know the word for what you want, you will repeat it over and over in valiant hopes to get your way. However, there are many unfortunate circumstances where you DON'T know the words to express your desires, and you instead cry or whine or throw a tantrum. Those times are increasing in frequency, and I have to say that parenthood has never been so trying for us.

According to multiple child-rearing articles and countless Google searches, your behavior is completely normal in this stage of development. Which is great in the sense that it indicates you're developing normally. But it's not great in the sense that you're really giving me and Daddy a crash-course in parenting a toddler. These times are the most challenging we've yet experienced as parents. We're not flunking the course, but I wouldn't say we're acing it either. We're trying our best to roll with the punches, I promise.

And I just hope you'll do the same in the next few months. We've got lots of changes in the works. You've got a baby brother on the way! And I know that means nothing to you right now: you see a mom who can no longer take you to do fun things like going to the zoo, the park and out for walks. You see a mom who lays on the couch a lot, and you don't see that that growing bump of a belly as a baby, but instead you see it as the perfect bench for your little bottom.

For the past two years, our whole world has mainly revolved around you. I'd like to think that we've made you feel loved, secure and well-cared for. I get nervous that the changes in our family will be trying for you. I know they will be.

You're growing up so fast, and each day I'm reminded that you're no longer a baby. But please know this -- in my heart, no matter how many little brothers or sisters you have, some things will never change. YOU made me a mother, and you will always always always be my first baby. I love you.

Love,

Mama

Me @ 26 Weeks & 2 Days

Yesterday's blood pressure was 114/78.
No protein in urine.
Up just one pound since start of pregnancy.
Glucose screening showed no signs of gestational diabetes.
I feel bad for not showing more gratitude
and relief
when I heard the news.
At the time, I was running on less than two hours of sleep.

Pregnancy-induced insomnia plagues me often.
And I suck at being nice when I'm sleep-deprived.
I'm trying to be better.
And to ween off the Ambien.

I met with the head of anesthesiology at the hospital.
I talked about my panic attack with Greta's birth,
something that I don't talk to often or with many people.
Talking to him made me feel better.
Like I can do this.
I can.
I will.

Baby boy kicks A LOT. It's neat.
We've narrowed down names but have yet to decide on one.
We don't like trendy or popular.
We tend to lean towards traditional
but back away from the over-used.

I've been resting a lot.
And trying to watch TV. (I hate TV).
Except for Glee, Dancing with the Stars.
And maybe, sometimes, 16 & Pregnant.
And I rented Big Love, Season 3.

Hubby has been working INSANE hours.
Greta hates me. Or at least that's how I feel.
I'm emotional and pregnant, so I know it's not personal,
but lately, she is a daddy's girl,
and she thoroughly enjoys testing her boundaries with me.
She won't give me kisses, and she doesn't listen much.

I love her. So much.
But this stage/age?
Not so much.

32 & Pregnant

Wondering... Why is it that the five-and-a-half month prego chick on 16 & Pregnant can go to dance practice and be a high school cheerleader, and I, six months pregnant, can barely get my ass off the couch without a struggle?

Cheese

I know. Total over-exposure but I'll be the first to admit that I'm no master photographer. I can't help, though, but love love love this photo of Greta. I love how happy she is here, and her squinty eyes and sweet grin show it. God love her.

How to Piss Off a Pregnant Woman

How to Piss Off a Pregnant Woman:

• say to her, "Well, I can definitely tell that those pregnancy hormones are kicking in," in response to her expressing any sort of emotion;
• continuously inqure as to the location of your boxer shorts even though you've been informed that said pregnant woman is no longer on full-time laundry duty;
• whine about how your feet are sooooo cold from having to walk the house barefoot because all your socks are in the dirty laundry;
• sigh dramatically (again and again) about having to baby-proof the large television that could possibly fall on resident toddler;
• refuse to sleep on the new bedding because the duvet consists of flowery fabric;
• say, "I diagree with what you're saying," and then, seconds later ask, "What are we disagreeing about?";
• not deeming it a priority or acknowledging the significance of putting up the glass bottles of liquor out of reach from curious, cabinet-latch-breaking baby girl;
• ask pregnant wife if she's going to clean YOUR bathroom before company comes over;
• forget that pregnant wife is supposed to be resting and taking it easy even after having situation explained to you repeatedly on multiple occasions;
• open your mouth (if you are above-described person);
• breathe her air (if you are above-described person); or
• look at her wrong (if you are above-described person).

This is just today's list. I'm sure I can come up with another tomorrow.

24 Weeks: 122/80

Today's trip to the doctor's office went well!

No weight gain.
Blood pressure was 122/80.
Only trace amounts of protein in urine.
And no additional 24-hour urine collection.
For now.

I plan to continue to take it easy and rest.
I've got another appointment next week.
Here's hoping my numbers stay the same.

Not A Martyr, Just Intolerant While Pregnant

Since being hypervigilant about getting enough rest and watching my blood pressure situation, I've been limiting any non-essential errands like going to Target, playdates and so forth. I've deleted my calendar of extra-curricular activities. (For THREE MONTHS.) I had previously scheduled a Friday evening and day-long Saturday scrapbooking gathering but cancelled it because I didn't think it was best for my health right now. I was really looking forward to getting out of the house, doing what I enjoy and having some "me" time.

Generally, when I do these all-day scrapbook events, I'm grateful to my husband for taking care of Greta -- for doing what I do, day-in, day-out. I think it's good for him to have a 24-hour marathon of playing diaper-changer, short order cook, maid, milk-fetcher, mess cleaner, entertainer, play friend, boo boo kisser, story teller, stroller pusher, errand-runner, disciplinarian and parent.

Did you see me boasting to anyone that I had cancelled MY plans? No. And I didn't feel all proud of myself for being an adult and doing the RIGHT thing.

So imagine my frustration when hubby comes home this evening and proudly declares, "I got invited to poker tonight and didn't go." So I quickly pointed out that after going to the doctor earlier today and taking care of Greta all day, I was supposed to be off my feet and resting this evening. And so, thus, realistically, there was no way he could have gone and played poker. I could tell he was disappointed that I didn't express to him in that moment that I was proud of him for coming home, for opting to NOT play poker with his buddies. I think he wanted me to commend him for turning down a fun time. But I think, instead, he needs to be reminded, that while we're both in need of some fun me-time, we've got to make baby boy's health the number one priority right now. Not resting enough, not having controlled blood pressure, and consequently developing pre-eclampsia and risking delivering a premature baby? I will lay on the couch for eternity for this little boy.

I'm sure to many, spending hours on the sofa sounds delightful. Not to me. I hate TV. I hate laying around. I hate doing nothing. I don't do it well. I am that person who needs to constantly do something -- laundry, dusting, cooking, organizing, going going going.

So, dear husband -- who is so wonderful in so many other ways -- after I cancelled my fun plans to stay at home to rest for medical reasons... I'm sorry that I can't pat you on the back for being a big boy and not playing poker on my night off. I'm donating my ENTIRE SUMMER to play human incubator.

** Disclaimer: Pregnant women are, in my opinion, fully entitled to bitch about things that, in some people's opinion, may or may not be trivial. I don't think I'm a martyr for being a stay-at-home mom. I think my husband is awesome for working his ass off the way he does. But... every once in a while, I can't write all flowerly things about my daughter or motherhood or whatever. And instead, I'm inclined to bitch and moan just to remind myself -- and my friends and family -- that most of the time, I do a pretty good job at keeping the pregnant bitch at bay. Sometimes, if you look at me the wrong way, it comes out. Whoops.

No Angel

Don't let the wording on the shirt fool you.
Yes, she is sweet.
Yes, she is showing personality.
But, wowza.
She is just a week or so short of 23 months,
and all of a sudden, my goodnight prayers are much longer.
Praying I can survive the tantrums,
the want for independence,
the defiance.
My little lovely lady is a spitfire.

THE TERRIBLE TWOS ARE KICKING MY ASS.

.

Chairs, Minivans (and Maybe a Man Slave?)

Laying around so much is driving me nuts. I just glanced down and thought my bra was my cat, Emmylou. For the record, I haven't had my cat for about three years. My brief hallucination made me miss her. I'm not a cat fan, but that sweet kitty sure was good for cozying up on the couch.

Note to self -- and to husband -- let's not purchase leather furniture ever.again. This leather couch, albeit lovely in appearance, is cold and uncomfortable. It's hard to sleep on, and I get a crick in my neck regardless of my position. It was nice when Greta was at the age where she spit-up exorcist-style multiple times a day, but I'd almost rather have a nasty, stained couch that is warm, comfortable and inviting. And, those big puffy recliners that I've always sworn off because they just didn't mesh well with my other decor? Well, shit. I need one. Or two. Have you ever sat in one of those? I sat in my neighbor's this evening, and I decided that I would never leave the T.V. room again if I had one of those puppies. Sure, they're about the size of an extended station wagon -- and about as stylish -- but I'm to the point in my life where sometimes you must opt for function and comfort over pretty and perfect.

Kind of like minivans. No one chooses to drive those things because they scream I'M SO COOL. No. A person drives a minivan for the accomodations: the ease of getting in and out, the spaciousness of the interior, the ability to park your kids' seats in the VERY BACK of the car FURTHEST from you. (Just kidding. Not really.) I'm not dogging on anyone with a minivan. Because if I were up for getting a new car, that is what I'd get. I'd be sure to get T.V. screens in the thing so I could go sit in it while its parked in the garage and enjoy its multitude of luxuries, in particular for the times when my hubs is monopolizing the one household television. And I'm not dogging on reclining puffy chairs either. I'm in the market for one right now. Actually, I'm in the market for anything that would make me and my life a bit comfier these days.

Selfless Husband

I've been having more restful nights lately. Thank God. Otherwise, I was about to curl up in a ball under the kitchen table and vigorously rock myself into deeper oblivion. Instead, I began taking Ambien before bedtime, and I'm no longer a complete hateful butthole during the daytime. Thank you, too, to my husband who has donated our complete king-size bed to me and my enormous pregnancy pillow while he selflessly retires on the queen-size hard mattress in our spare bedroom.

God love him. So, earlier today, we're in the car driving, and I start complaining that I feel sick amd must eat something soon. Usually I carry almonds or a Nutrigrain bar in my console, but I'd recently depleted that stash. We ran through Taco Bell, and well, I am not a big fan of Taco Bell. Or Mexican food in general. But anyhoo. I ordered a bean burrito for me and cheese roll-ups for Greta, and Eric ordered a five-layer burrito and some other fine Mexican delicacy that I don't know the name. We got our order, and I started eating in the car because I was starving and feeling yucky -- and because it's just more of a treat to eat in the car than at home with a whining toddler-crawling up your leg. I asked Eric if he wanted a bite of my bean burrito, and he insisted I eat it and enjoy it on my own. And here's what's funny -- I, girl who doesn't like Taco Bell, kept commenting on how tasty my burrito was. Three bites remaining, I'm looking at the thing, thinking that there sure was a lot of cheese on it for a plain bean burrito. And then, I saw the beef. And I said to Eric, this thing has meat on it. And it dawned on him. He replied, "That's because you're eating MY FIVE-LAYER BURRITO."

Um, oops.

Update: Nothing

I don't have a bladder infection.
My bloodwork shows no abnormalities with my platelets, liver enzymes, etc.
I'm still waiting to hear if my 24-hour pee collection showed anything.
My at-home blood pressure monitor has shown mildly elevated blood pressure,  but I personally think the thing is a piece-of-shit and isn't the same as a nurse or doctor reading it with their tried-and-true good ol' stethoscope.

I know, not very exciting, but this little update is easier than e-mailing back a gazillion people. (Who am I kidding -- I shouldn't flatter myself and even begin to think I have a gazillion friends who read this, but to the 18.3 that do - here's the scoop.)

Thinking Positive

I went to the doctor yesterday. My blood pressure was high and results from my urine test showed protein -- two signs of pre-eclampsia. However, there is a chance this is something such as a bladder infection, which is what I'm hoping for. I'm 23 weeks pregnant, and it's too early for baby to come. I'm trying to rest a lot but I'm bummed -- nervous, anxious, crying, wishing, hoping, praying ... and trying my best to focus on things that make me happy...

Mother's Day Wishes

I wish...

to sleep more than two consecutive hours;

to wake up feeling well-rested;

to shower in a room by myself, with enough time to
shampoo, condition, wash AND shave my legs;

to go poop without having to scream at a little runchkin to

STOP UNROLLING THE TOLIET PAPER!;

to eat a meal while sitting down

and to remain seated for the entire duration of the meal.

I will...

most likely not shave my legs;

will grin & bare the tiredness of pregnancy and running after a toddler;

ignore the two peeping eyes watching me potty;

remind myself that one day she'll have no desire

to be held or to crawl on my lap or smother me with smooches

so for now, I'll set aside hopes of an uninterrupted meal.

Today, I will celebrate with this little pumpkin,

the girl who made me a mother.

Greta: 22 Months

And just like that. She was no longer a baby.

 

I shouldn't be so surprised. I should have seen it coming. I mean, she asks to brush her teeth each morning. She dances to Lady Gaga songs and sings along to Beyonce. She still lets me choose her outfits but insists that she have a bow in her hair at most times. And while she still drinks out of a sippy cup because that's what we provide her, she'd much prefer an adult cup with a straw. Sure, these are just little things, but each individually and moreso collectively indicate that she's NO LONGER A BABY.

I think I realize this more lately now that the weather has gotten warmer, and especially when our street is filled with neighborhood children riding their motorized mini-vehicles, running through lawn sprinklers and hunting down the ice cream truck. The little girls come and ring our doorbell, asking "Can Greta come out and play?" and my heart just melts because it's so purely sweet. In addition to developing a quick fascination with child-sized Escalades driven by five year-olds, Greta has learned the simple joys of running through the lawn sprinkler on a warm sunny afternoon. She's come to recognize the sound of the ding-ding of the ice cream truck. (Oh shit; I'm going to go broke. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ICE CREAM COSTS THESE DAYS?!) Most momentous in my mind, is that she has started to learn to make friends. And for this I am glad and sad and nervous and -- as flashbacks of grade school cattiness flood my memory -- I realize how the older she gets, the less I can protect her.

I suppose I shouldn't get ahead of myself, but that's my nature... Instead of worrying about her learning to hold her own with her little peers, my worries are more focused on other ways of protecting her -- like keeping her out of the street and that not all dogs are friendly and that when Mama says something is "hot" it's because it will hurt you very badly if you touch it. The girl has not a clue that if she runs into the street, she can get ran over by a car. In public places, she has no reluctance to run from us because she assumes we'll be right there for her, just like we always are. She doesn't know there are bad people in the world. She thinks that all people and dogs and cats are nice; in her mind, it's HER world, and we're all just living in it.

She sure keeps her mama busy. Oh me oh my. Lately, she's really been testing her boundaries, and just today I came to the realization that I need to be firmer and stricter. I feel that this is the point in parenting where it would be way easier to cave in and let her have her way. When she doesn't want to get dressed, it's much easier for me to go and do something I would like to do for myself instead. When she wants something she isn't supposed to have, it's much easier to give in than to resist. But with these conclusions, I've also decided that as easy as those paths might seem at the moment, in the long run, it will be easier to be stern and stick to my guns. And so it goes. Raising a well-behaved child is not going to be an easy venture. Eck.

Just this afternoon, Greta was playing with her little friends down the street. It had been a long day, as we spent the morning and early afternoon at the zoo, and I knew Greta was tired and growing hungry. As I attempted to bring her home to eat dinner, she kicked and screamed and flailed her little arms and legs. I kept my cool and hauled her little 25 pound-self home. She shook and turned bright red and threw her body onto our living floor like I'd just informed her there was no more milk in the whole entire world. (The girl is ADDICTED to milk.) She cried and cried, and I sat there and waited for her to calm down. I did my best to hold it together but could not. As she sat there and cried, I started crying, too. Not because I felt overwhelmed. No. I cried because at that moment, it dawned on me that on this day, she's just two months shy of turning two years old. And I cried because this whole motherhood thing has been a bit challenging at times, and each time I think I've conquered learned to manage one stage, another one begins, and I'm humbled all over again. I cried because this little girl has taught me more in two years than I've learned in a lifetime, and I cried because this little girl will always be my baby.

Life Lately

Greta is 21 months-old. She continues to light up my life countless times a day. She's got a sense of humor, and loves to love, and she loves telling us that the dog goes, "woof," and showing us where her nose and other body parts are located. She's obsessed with reading books. And she enjoys being outside, and she's infatuated with the older neighborhood children. She thinks she's one of the big girls, and maybe she IS almost two years old, but in my heart, and in my mind, she is still my baby. I'm slowly working on accepting the reality that she's becoming a little girl.

I'm 20 weeks pregnant with a little boy. I've recently started to feel him move, making the pregnancy a little more real although still not completely. I'm still in shock, and I'm not kidding you -- I still have the first pregnancy test sitting on the shelf above my toliet. Don't worry -- I WILL NOT scrapbook it. I just can't bring myself to throw it away right now, because I still am shocked that I'm pregnant. This baby is so very wanted but the pregnancy was a surprise, and I don't think it will be completely real until I'm holding a little baby boy in my arms. Wow.


This pregnancy is much like my pregnancy with Greta. In fact, they're just a few weeks apart from the other, so all my maternity clothes are the same season and I'm able to compare my stats (weight gain, etc.) easily to those from a couple years ago. So far, I've gained two pounds, and my blood pressure has remained controlled. This does not calm me, however, from the reality that it could still go bad. At this point in my pregnancy with Greta, my blood pressure was still fine.


I'm nervous about another premature baby but not to the point that I obsess about it. I religiously take my medicine, and I'm trying to eat well, rest often and exercise a bit, too. I'm doing  what I can. I think I'm more anxious about having two children, just two years apart from one another, than I am about the imminent birth little baby boy. Holy shit.

I'm nesting a lot, I guess. Organizing closets, purging clothes and anything not used in the past two years. I've been spending a lot of time and energy emptying my scrapbook room to make way for the nursery. I've been a little over-focused on this nesting deal, I think -- I've got friends calling me to see if I'm okay, if I'm still alive, and yes, I am. I'm just a little hard-core with things right now. It's driven by my fear of another forced bedrest and not being able to complete things. I wasn't ready preparing Greta's room, clothing, car seat, etc., and while I know she and we survived just fine, I just feel better getting my ducks in a row.

In addition to nesting, I sleep a lot. Or I try to. I sleep like crap at night, often waking at random hours (2:30 a.m. or so) wide awake. I get up every two hours to pee, and then I can't help but focus on my husband snoring loudly next to me. Since my sleep is so uninterrupted, I usually wake up feeling cranky and unrested and often spend my days counting down the hours until naptime. When Greta naps, I nap, too. It's my favorite time of the day.

I'm Over It

It's official. I quit. I'm talking about the Project 365 dealio that I've been dreading for the past 100+ days. I don't like it. The idea was to capture our life in photos for a year, but instead, it leaves me feeling stressed, in a constant state of un-caught-up. I don't like that feeling.

I just got off the phone with Cara, and while she was complaining about legitimate issues (a crying baby up at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and another baby up for reasons unknown), I instead whined about this project. And maybe she just wanted to me to shut the heck up already and quit whining, so maybe this was why her response was so quick... AND SO BRILLIANT. But as I was telling her I wasn't having fun with it, she answered, "So don't do it."

There.
That simple. Freakin' God love her. And her simple advice.

So, here's my thing. Even though my photos are date-stamped, it's still a pain in the butt to go back and organize all the photos chronologically. Now, if I kept up with the project and downloaded a photo each day, perhaps I wouldn't have this problem, but that just isn't happening. I'm lucky to get online to check e-mails these days. Hooking up my camera to download photos seems so often daunting.

The other thing that I do not like about this project is that I've stopped writing much. My forte has never been photography, and although one of my reasons for challenging myself to take on the picture-a-day project was to better my photography skills, I don't want that to be at the expense of my writing. I like to write. It's always been a passion of mine, and I'd rather have my words to tell our story than photos. My new motto is that it's about quality and not quantity.

My 99th Photo of 2010!

04.10.2010

This is my sisterwife, Cara.

We're not gay lovers, but we joke

that if our husbands ever died,

we'd move in together and get along just perfectly.

Cara is one of those friends who I love with all my heart.

I'd never tell her that though.

I don't want her to think she's that cool.

But, dude. She IS.

She's that friend I wish I'd had all my life

-- the friend I needed all my life --

but I didn't meet her until

we were planning our weddings six years ago.

I was her makeup artist for her wedding.

And it just goes to show you

that friendships happen so randomly

when and where you'd least expect it.

This is the woman who walked me through

the first few months of motherhood.

EVERY DAY.

I'd call her and tell her that my milk was drying up,

that my boobs were broken and I was starving my baby. 

And this Milk Mama Pro would assure me that it wasn't

and that I needed to CHILL THE EFF OUT.

(Those weren't her words. She rarely cusses).

Her advice on

motherhood

babies

and dealing with life

has been priceless.

Seriously, my advice to new moms?

FIND A FRIEND LIKE CARA.

One who will listen to you bitch and understands you

and knows you're quirky and somewhat odd

but celebrates,relishes it and is fine with it.

(Or at least does an amazing job pretending to.)

Find a friend you can call at any time and ask

why your boobs are doing this,

and why your bum feels like that,

and is it normal to smell funny when you're....

She lays it on the line

talks me back from the ledge

puts me in my place.

She's like a tall cup of cold ice water, served in a funky glass

with a side dose of Xanax.

One word for Cara is

CALM.

And I don't know how she does it.

I've got one chlid.

CARA HAS THREE.

(3, 2 and 3 months. I'm not kidding.)

She always seems to have her shit together.

Without fail.

She recently brought home her newest addition, Violet.

I got to hold Violet for the first time today.

She's lucky I did not steal her and take her home with me.

I could have touched her sweet cheeks ALL DAY LONG.

At the end of the year, when I'm looking back

at this project of "365 Photos"

Violet will be a year old, and along with her sisters

getting into everything.

And I'll have a baby boy

and we'll come full circle once again

to me calling Cara with all my annoying new-mom questions.

Cara, I'm just warning you now...

93/365

04.03.2010

Daddy was out for the night

playing poker.

Mama was too exhausted

to follow the rules.

Hence, the little naked rugrat

running around the house

with a huge ripe strawberry in her hand.

84/365

03.25.2010

@ Purina Farms, watching the dog show.

And this is how she rolls.

Sucker in her mouth.

Jean dress.

Chuck Taylors.

Foot in the air.

Such a lady.