it's his birthday

Hey, it was Sean's birthday yesterday.

I told him to pose for a birthday picture. He did this. I told him I was posting it. I think he didn't think I meant it.

The big 2-8. Sean was being all drama about it too, how he feels so old and he doesn't like getting old and his life is over...I told you, drama. Then my uncle the mathematician (actually) told him 28 is a perfect number because the sum of its factors add up to it. I think it made him feel better? Sean is mathematically-minded. I'm literary-minded. Opposites [attract].

On Saturday evening we had a bit of a party for the old man. Sandwiches, mac & cheese, beer - a few of his favorite things.

Sean opened the fridge and he allllmost cried. (See: this commercial.)

It was super fun and pretty chill, much like the subject of the party himself. We dipped into the hot tub, talked on the patio, and busted out some beer pong. I know, I know, we're getting too old for that right? If there's one thing about Sean though, his interests don't expire with age. The guy has seen Top Gun upwards of 30 times.

Okay and I am honestly the worst documenter of anything ever of all time. I took zero pictures with the exception of the first one in this post (a winner though it may be) and stole the rest from Kimmy and Sean.

 friends

 sisters

brothers [-in-law]

PS we're all hunched over kinda weird in that first one because Kimmy (on the left) is taking a picture from her real, actual, big-girl camera that was set on the countertop...with her phone. In her hand. My mind was blown. 

Yesterday - the actual birthdate - was slow and easy and beachified. Like a dutiful wife, I let Sean take a Coveted Beach Nap (theeee best kind that there is) while I took the kids shoreside. And because I left my phone plugged in at home (please refer to worst documenter of anything ever of all time) I have no pictures of the pleasant day and pleasant(ish) dinner in which Weston decided to put on his difficult pants. (Jordan was the most angelic she's been since...almost ever, so it was a wash.)

In the craziness of party prep and beach day, I did not wrap Sean's presents at all. I handed them to him unceremoniously. But I really loved one of the presents I gave to him, and it wasn't the Corona boardshorts from Target. Personal Creations was so kind as to send along the cutest little engraved cutting board:

which is actually quite perfect since Sean - resident BBQ-er - is constantly stealing the cutting board I use for veggie & side prep to season uncooked meat. Cross contamination!! Inconvenient sterilization!! And so now he has own ("you has ya own" as Jordan is wont to say when I snack off her plate) and it's cuter than mine. Maybe I'll switch him.

(You should head on over there and check them out because they have some super great ideas for gifts. Their grilling section is just the picture of an awesome summer and I was halfway tempted to order this but to be honest, we don't host that many parties. The cutting board will get more use by leaps.)

A very very very happy birthday to my main man of almost 9 years. You're pretty old now, but like a fine wine (or maybe a Coors Light?) you better with age. I love you, boyfriend.

three days

From one end to the other, Memorial Day Weekend was a pretty righteous one. We did family things, we did friend things, we did some normal things, we did some unusual things.

the normal things

// We started the weekend with an earlyish lunch at our fave Mexican spot, where Sean, Jordan, Weston and I scored some steak burrito/plethora of chips and little else/tureen of refrieds/chicken soft taco, respectively.

// Sean consumed many beers while building from scratch and installing a computer at my parents' place, to replace the one he previously made that lasted seven years (quite the life span). And the new computer works fabulously! How he can booze and build like that is pretty beyond my capacity to comprehend. I have a margarita and I start veering off pathways and into bushes.

// We went to the beach Sunday AND Monday. (Well, Monday's not the norm, but beach as much as possible is the norm.) Jordan played alternately with cousins and all by her lonesome. Sometimes we just look down to the shoreline and she's doing weird karate-esque moves on the waves and clearly sing/shouting some fabricated tune or another. Plays well with others (mostly), but decidedly an introvert, that one. Weston, he just ate sand and squinted into the sun a lot and was mainly content to study Mum Mum crackers before ingesting them whole.

the unusual things

// Saturday night, Sean and I went on this epic date.

It was crazy, really. We left the kids with my parents around 4:30 and met a couple friends for drinks at this pub type place in the "old" part of town. Great vibes, friendly service (the bartender bought us a round!!) Our friends could only stay for a bit and took off to go pick up their babe. Sean and I headed in from the patio area and decided to play a game of pool.

the Paul Newman to my Minnesota Fats

I haven't played in, oh, ten years. Since I first met Sean, actually. Totes held my own though. The second game, there were only three of my balls left on the table, so basically I won.

Around 8, the bar started Karaoke Night. We are so not those people. But we got a round and grabbed a chair to watch people who were those people. A guy named Lester sang Jethro Tull and Margaritaville while his wife cheered him on, and eventually Sean got curious enough (...liquored enough...) to check out the song list. He rattled off an Eric Church song while I played supporting vocals from the sidelines, and we sat down to enjoy our drinks and applaud the string of valiant vocalists.

I couldn't help it though. On my way back from the bathroom, I detoured over to the DJ and asked if he had Idina Menzel's Let It Go. He did and I was feeling diabolical I guess because I signed him up.

Sean dedicated the song "For my daughter Jordan," and off he went. IT WAS TERRIBLE. I thought Sean knew the song's cadence from hearing it so many times but he was like a stanza behind and there I was dying laughing. The crowd was completely cheering him on, much like Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding. Eventually I did step in to get him on track, but I refused to sing into the mic. I think the moral of the story is I'm the meanest wife. But the other moral is we had an awesome time.

PS Sean signed me up for Boston's More Than a Feeling and I made him duck out with me before they called me. See: meanest wife. (But also - that is the HARDEST song to sing in all of history. My singing voice? Like the goat in that Taylor Swift vid.)

// The beach was strikingly glorious TWO days in a row. And there was zero - talking, zilch - traffic on either days, when Sean and I suspected Memorial Hell. Instead we enjoyed this

 stop

it

 now

cuteness

with no money spent (except gas because it's pretty much ouch these days) and no aggravation felt. Essentially the most celestial sequence of days one could ever ask for. And we all pretty much felt like

and

on Monday evening.

The End.

Oh you know what, Sean made an excellent point over the weekend. I had never fully appreciated the gravity of Memorial Day, really, until this year. I said something off-the-cuff about the Day as juxtaposed to the 4th of July. How it's always more celebrated, or something. And Sean said, "Yeah, but it shouldn't be. Memorial Day is a day to honor all veterans in all wars in American history." That's a lot of wars and a lot of lives. So, I'm three days late in saying this here, and it's supremely inadequate besides, but Thank You, American Soldiers. To those who have fought and to those still fighting for this country.

restaurants & babies & gambles & probabilities

Sean and I really like going on dates.

Sean and I have a two and half year old and a four month old.

Those statements seem fairly unrelated, and indeed, they certainly work against each other. It's usually pretty difficult for us to get a sitter because my eligible siblings are either working multiple jobs or have fled the state (AUDREY). An unsolvable conundrum, you say. Well. Sean and I are risk-takers. We're participators in parent roulette. We live on the edge and kill for the thrill. Ok, false again, but we realllly like our pale ales and buffalo wings and plush booths and dimly lit locales. Therefore, we take the kids.

We kind of stumbled into a weekly tradition over the last couple of months. There is an indoor/outdoor mall down the street from us that has a favorite restaurant of ours. The food is tip top, the price is right, and they microbrew an excellent blond. After a drink and an appetizer to split, we hit up the indoor mall park. This part serves the double purpose of fulfilling the bribe for Jordan's good(tolerable) behavior during our date, and also satisfies the quotient of crazy for the week.

So this whole routine either works out swimmingly or fails epically. This can be chalked up, I believe, to the mystifying nature of the still-developing brain. In Jordan's case, for example: one date is smiles and kids' menu artwork and sugar packet assembly line across the table while Sean and I sip leisurely and snack heartily.



The following week is straight out of one of those ubiquitous Pinterest posts "Reasons my kids are crying." She's crying because we gave her a straw. She's crying because there isn't a yellow crayon. She's crying because Sean tried to play tic-tac-toe with her. She's crying because I blew on her food to cool it off. She's crying because cheek tear tracks are the new black. I don't know.

And the other fool

 

One week Weston's happy to play with the distinctly feminine mobile that hangs from his carseat handle. (It was originally Jordan's, and dangles carved pink hearts and little wooden dolls with flower-print dresses. Whatever, he's entertained.) Or I'll give him some gift card out of my wallet to hold and he'll like zone in and concentrate in such a manner that pulls his eyebrows together and narrows his lips into a tiny "o." But then! The next week I'm marathon nursing under my sweatshirt to prevent the agonized cries that can only be cause by parents trying to enjoy themselves. (Does any other nursing mother construct their day's outfit based on how easily their child can be concealed under their shirt? Oh good.) Or he'll require unbroken eye contact and saccharine, obnoxious smiles as I speak out of the side of my mouth to my husband.

 

Some dates, it's just Jordan acting out. Others, Weston is the date diva. Sometimes we hit gold and both are fantastic. Then there's that time where the house wins all: flailing toddler, whimpering infant, shamed parents with heads hung low, all slinking as inconspicuously as possible from the place. (Impossible to do with Jordan's signature back-arch, by the way. But we've perfected an exit strategy inasmuch as possible.)

 

I know, I know. We should "date" at home. Lots of people do it. Probably most people who have young kids. Sean and I are of the opinion, however, that kids shouldn't hinder the spousal relationship, they should enhance it. Ideally yes, we would be sneaking away for uninterrupted conversations in which we could give our full concentration to each other while the kids terrorized the paid help. On occasion, we do! But hey, you can't let life stop you from watering your marriage. If bringing the kids means fragmented sentences and carrot sticks dropped under the table and little hands grabbing bearded cheeks so that Dad can look ONLY AT JORDAN - but we still get a little piece of each other? so be it.

 

There's an inevitable eye-lock between Sean and I at some point during every one of these "dates" that translates clearly to "why do we do this?" We do it because it is, ultimately, a good time. It's something that takes us away from routine and it's something to look forward to in a humdrum week. It's little, but it's important. To me anyway. I did tell Sean that we are making a 2014 pact to get out for solo dates at least every other week, come hell or dual diaper bombs. Something of a new year's resolution, if you will. 

 

That doesn't necessarily mean that we'll stop our little tradition - we probably won't. We don't learn our lesson very easily.



on the count of three

Three big ones today. Three years ago at this very moment, Sean and I were exiting the most gorgeous chapel as man and wife. And almost eight years today, we had our very first date. Dang! Almost a decade, boyfriend. I'm impressed. Continue to impress me, why don't you, and I'll try my best to do the same. 

This boy,

Starsky and Hutch called...

turned into this guy,

wine tasting...I'm lit

Camarillo Air Show...he's lit

turned into this man

and I couldn't be prouder. 

Anyway, that's my shout-out to my bff and the astounding father to my babes. I try to keep the sap at bay around here, but I gotta say I love this guy and the family we have. A happy anniversary to you, Sean Michael.

1 + 1 = 4

day of the dads

Alright, I'm late, I know. Having read just the sweetest blog posts yesterday the blogging world over about dads and husbands, I feel totally guilty that I didn't prepare one in advance. But isn't it also kind of a good thing that we were having too fun-filled a day for me to get around to blogging?

 

I'm so glad I was able to waddle down to the shoreline with my camera in time to catch these when I spotted this happening from my sandy perch. Here we have: slighlty-mulleted Sean-Father (who tried to get a nice Father's Day haircut yesterday but "the only woman who knows how to cut my hair" had a line of four people before the shop even opened) and well-tanned Greg-Grandfather (that'd be my dad) doting on this very fortunate daughter/granddaughter.

Jordan and I indeed are very lucky ladies to have these guys. So very lucky. We live in a world where much, much too often fathers are absent and/or disengaged. My dad has only ever been the most present and the most engaged with each and every one of his eight kids. All eight! What a feat. I wish I had had the presence of mind to snap some pics out of our old albums when I was at my parents' house last. There are pages upon pages of bike rides, backpacking trips, surf lessons, evening hide-and-go-seek sessions with the neighborhood kids, the more recent, raging Vegas trips, and countless other activities all hosted by my pop. And all with an enthusiasm and energy that was contagious. I hold my dad in awe; he seems nearly tireless.

Then there's that newer, mulleted father. I remember the very first night we spent with Jordan. She had to be taken to the ICU because of an alarmingly low white blood platelet count. We were up allll night long, tired and worried and anxious, and Sean, with heavy blackish circles under each eye, said something like "I've never experienced this type of worry. How can you love someone that you just met a few hours ago so intensely? I feel like all my happiness is tied to her." To me, sounds like a father's love. And this completely inexperienced, slightly awkward first-time father grew into the most natural, most dedicated, most enamored dad I've ever seen.

Yikes, sorry for the slew of sappy, I got a little carried away. What I mean to say is, I hope you all had a wonderful day celebrating the most important men in your life. As I look down at my belly, currently bouncing with a serious case of in utero hiccups, I know that this kiddo will be blessed with excellent examples of manhood that he may aspire to.

This was Jordan's present to her dad. She was a little upset that her handprint didn't quite fit in the shadow box that she bought, but she's over it now.

Happy Father's Day, friends.

simple saturday, simple birthday

I received an email invitation from Iris to join her Simple Saturday link-up, and thought, why not do a short and sweet and simple post for my always too short, oftentimes sweet, and generally simple Saturday? Further, guess why this is just the perfect Saturday to link with her? Because this boy

is 27 today. It is the husband's birthday today, and he is still every bit as hick as portrayed in this photo. (Current favorite beer: Pabst Blue Ribbon. Current favorite music artist: Eric Church.)

Sean and I have been together eight years and married for nearly three. While I have seen him make significant, formative changes from the college-partying good-time-charlie that I first knew as just a friend, he is still in many (important) ways still this boy

oh he is going to kill me for this one. isn't it delicious? SIDEBURNS

He is still my bestie. He still (sometimes infuriatingly) maintains his cool when I want to freak! out! about! stuff!... that may or may not be particularly related to my pregnant hormones. He is still my most valuable confidante. He still makes me crack up with his ridiculously unique and totally quirked out sense of humor. And I still love holding hands with him as much as that time on our first date when he leaned over in the theater and shakily asked me, "Hey, is it cool if we hold hands?" (That was such a moment for me, you guys.)

And he has overwhelmed me with how great a dad he is. I knew he would be a good one (heck, I wouldn't have married him if I didn't think so) but I guess, with his utter lack of any experience with children whatsoever, I didn't expect the excellence that he exhibits every single day. Man he loves this girl

and man, she loves him back.

So, I guess I simply want to say, Happy Birthday Sean. I love you, and may we always be 19 together (minus perhaps the beer-chugging capacity...)

(oh hey, eyebrows.)

Now go and link up with Iris!

accomplishments and notcomplishments

Perhaps Sean and I are the only parents that diverge in the most extreme of ways when it comes to name-giving of offspring? Perhaps I'm the only wife that is appalled at the suggestions that fall out of her husband's mouth? Perhaps he's the only husband that chuckles at one of his wife's offerings until he realizes she's serious? At any rate, there's a reason we start the name gaming in the first trimester. Dreams of future children's monikers have to be crushed, eyes have to be rolled, et cetera, et al.

It takes a little longer around here anyway because I have to field the utterly ridiculous. I'll give you a taste:

"Jess, how 'bout Budweiser Chance Pope? We can call him Buddy!"
"I got one: Camaro Chevy Pope"
"Oooo! Jon bon Jovi Pope!!"

Sure, sure, I'll grant you that a driving factor behind even speaking these not-names is to see my brows furrow to the point of connection and my mouth gape aghast for the briefest before I wave Sean off to go screw with someone else's mind. But I'm not lying when I say that I'm not entirely positive, if left to his own devices, that he wouldn't actually name an innocent child one of the above. I'll show you why:

Three of his favorite shirts. Didn't even have to dig through his drawers for these, they were all in the just worn/gonna wear it again tomorrow pile next to the bed.

In the meantime, I'm putting genuinely thought-out options, which I'll give you examples of because I've been assured that they are OFF THE TABLE FOR-E-VER:

"Sean, what do you think of Sienna Katherine?" (I liked this one because it can be shortened to a cute Sienna Kate and her patron could be Catherine of Siena.)
"No. I don't want to name my daughter after your parents' minivan." (Toyota Sienna)

"Ok, what about Piper Isabelle?" (Pip Pope. I'm in love with it.)
"....."
"....."
"....Oh. You're serious."

So the grand accomplishment of 2013 thus far is that we've arrived at boy's name for this bean, should we have a boy. The one thing about name-deciding between Sean and I is, when we've hit the right one, we both know right away. That's how it happened with Jordan. I said "Jordan Elizabeth?" and Sean said "Absolutely."

I'm not telling you the name though, sorry. Cackle, cackle. But I suggested it via text to Sean a couple of weeks ago, and I got an immediate "Yes. yes. Lock it in." quickly followed by "No one would mess with a kid named ---- ----." Well that's exactly what I was going for...an intimidating name for my son. Should we have a girl, however, I'm not quite sure what we're going to do other than maybe call her "Girl." or "Child." I have an arsenal of lovely girls names that I can't even get out of my mouth before I hear "ew" or "NO" or "seriously?" or *eyebrow raise*

My notcomplishments are piling up around me and threatening to end my very life. I'm clearly resting on my laurels from last week's Spring Cleanfest (alternate titles: Clean or Be Killed: A Husband's Guide to Surviving Nesting or Run, the Hormones are Coming) as evidenced by the following hot messes

 Current living room situation

 Current kitchen situation - kitchuation, if you will

Yesterday's daughter situation

Although I am a little partial to the post-nap faux hawk and am considering baby gel to replicate it whenever I please. But perhaps not the most fem?

I'm also resting on my "I haven't gained any preg weight" laurels, and haven't gone on one of my walks in three weeks - a situation to be remedied today. And while I haven't gained any weight over the five pounds I lost in my first trimester, I've gained three pounds in the last week, undoubtedly due to those stupid cookies that both Ana and Grace maliciously recommended. So...three pounds a week. That rate will put me at +69 by August? Perfect. 

To recap, what I have accomplished in the last week: naming my child in the event I'm having a boy (mental effort only). 

And nothing else.

sympathy for the pregnant

A strange phenomenon has descended upon the Popepartment these last few days. It's a serious mystery that I'm going to put to you, Scoob & the Gang.

I have always always been a lady of the sweet teeth. In a perfect Jessie world where empty calories burn fat and exercise is but pish posh, I would live my life eating cinnamon rolls for breakfast, Thin Mints for lunch, and I would sup upon key lime pie with graham cracker crust. This is the Jessie I have always been.

In a perfect Sean world where eating as much red meat as you want in fact goes straight to the biceps and does not affect your cholesterol in the slightest, Sean would break his fast with 3 cheeseburgers, have elevensies consisting of cheeseburgers, lunch upon a 16 ounce rib eye, sneak an afternoon snack of cheeseburgers, and come home to a supper of filet mignon with a side of porterhouse and cheeseburgers. This is the Sean he's always been.

have you seen this Veggie Tales skit? Great. You've met Sean.

Lo, the last few weeks have seen a change-up. A veritable switcheroo. This baby I'm housing does not hanker for the sweets but rather the spicy, savory or salty. Also, he/she would just about kill for a classic margarita, rocks, easy salt. Aside from chocolate milk, I have nearly no cravings for the sugar. It's great! It's like kicking a drug habit - no dependency. There were times when Old Jessie literally felt addicted to chocolate and its companions, and ripped our pantry top to bottom looking for a Nestle chip that may have slipped out before that last bag was tidily devoured by yours truly.

And then there's New Sean. There we were Sunday, having an innocent Trader Joe's date, trolling the frozen aisle for peaches and blueberries for Jordan's and my morning smoothies, when Sean appears silently by my side holding a blue cardboard box labeled NEW YORK STYLE CHEESECAKE.
"We're getting this."
"Why?"
"I need it."
"Why?"
"I just need it don't ask questions."
"Fattie."

cheesecake: the new red meat.

Here's what going on: Sean is pregnant. Sean is sympathy pregnant. I've heard this happens to guys sometimes. Then I reflected further, and remembered Sean was raging sick for like two weeks after we first found out I was with child. In the meantime, I feel great and am eating really healthily. Sean is taking the brunt of this pregnancy. Which I think is moderately considerate of him, when you take into account I'm going to be doing the hard part in less than six months.

Let's not forget Jordan. She's also eating for two. Hold on, she's been doing that since pretty much birth.

 Chocolate Birthday Cupcake? Oui s'il vous plait.

Banana? Don't mind if I do.

Pea-Green Bean mashup with a side of swollen blocked tear duct? Perfect.

Does my belly make my rash guard look fat?

I think I ate all of Houston, Texas. That last armadillo is not settling too well.

Anyway, if you're wondering how it's going over here, I'm great. Apologies to any Insta-followers but I'm just gonna #regram our progress real quick:

Here we are at 13 weeks, but now I'm 14.

The baby was flailing his/her arms and legs all about during my ultrasound and the doctor proclaimed I had a "dancer" in there. Ah, so it's Jordan round 2. They'll be best of buds, and I really can't wait.