I just love a good “you won’t believe how disgustingly sick I was” story. There was commiserating aplenty on Facebook after my last post. It makes me feel like I’m in fabulous company and less of a horrible sarcastic mother-to-be.
Since I’ve been feeling pretty good lately and we’re still shacking up with my ‘rents, we decided on a fancy night out for Valentine’s Day. I don’t think it’s a fake holiday and I am an unashamed advocate for getting gifts for any reason under the sun. So tearing through tissue paper on a random Tuesday night in the middle of a parking lot was just fine with me.
For our “no gift” Valentine’s, Clayton understood that chocolate no longer falls under the “gift” category and has instead taken up residence in the “necessity” category. Good boy. Apparently, a bickering Edward and Jacob and vampire/human honeymoon appear in the same category because I also came home with Breaking Dawn: Part 1.
I got a little crafty and stole this idea from Peanut Butter Fingers. I tailored it a bit for our pending situation and embroidered what Clayton affectionately called “a snowman baby.”
Yes, the “I do” and “we grew” portions are basically the exact same section of the map, but I did not have this gift in mind when we planned our marriage or decided to procreate. Also, I hope you never need to buy an old school map because they do not exist anymore. I went to five different stores looking for those bad boys and wound up being ogled as I waited in line at a truck stop off the interstate a few exits past my safety zone. Lesson learned. Store bought presents from here on out.
Dinner was a-mah-zing (one of my fave Pennyisms). We ate at Bon Appétit, where we had our wedding reception almost four years ago. Clayton may or may not have said it was five years ago to get seated sooner. And what do you know? Everyone was right – they have delicious food. I wasn’t sure because my nerves were still so wacked out during my reception I couldn’t eat. Definitely did not have that problem on V Day.
Yep, my bottom four shirt buttons are open on purpose. Ain’t no shame.