All Buttoned Up

On last Saturday morning, when I was the only human awake in the house, I plunked myself down in front of my computer with my coffee.  I was eating marshmallows for breakfast -- hey, they were leftovers from the "bomb fire" we threw last week.  Isn't it in the Mommy Contract that all mommies must eat leftovers?

I check facebook.  I check my parenting message boards.  I check my blog (no comments, rats!).  Then I think to check my blog's email -- you know, the one I created after I bought my domain name and gave an impossibly hard to remember password to?  Yeah that one.

What was waiting for me?  A notification that I was a finalist for a contest that I was pretty sure I hadn't entered.  Oh, sure, I have heard of Parent and Child Magazine.  And I order from Scholastic every book order.  But what was this?  A scam?  A practical joke?  I had no idea.  None.

My first instinct is to find out what "the girls" say (not my boobs, they usually remain silent), so I drop by the eerily quiet parenting forums I frequent.  But wait, it's 7:00 o'clock on a Saturday and the regular crowd isn't shuffling in.  No one can tell me if the Scholastic contest is a scam because they are either sleeping or out and about for weekend activities, clearly ignoring my all-consuming dilemma.

Maybe it's one of those awards that everyone wins?  Will I look like an absolute doof posting the button to my blog?  Will the seasoned mommy bloggers point and giggle behind their screens?  Well, OK, there aren't that many seasoned mommy bloggers that read my blog.  Maybe two?  I'd better not say numbers lest I alienate a follower.

I Google the author of the email and she comes up listed in seventy-bazillion places with the job she says she has in her email, so I decide that if someone were trying to scam me, they surely wouldn't have gone to the trouble of setting up THAT many secondary links.  Especially for an email which wasn't asking me for money, a blood donation, or my used socks.  That makes me far less paranoid -- I'm not gonna hole up in my cabin with a shotgun, wearing a tinfoil hat over this.

I ramble over to facebook where a friend cops to nominating me for this award, so thank you dear far-away friend for cheering me up -- you have no idea how much I needed this!

So I decide to post the button.  And see what comes of it.  Maybe someone will stop by and laugh at me for posting it, but there's a greater chance that someone will stop by and laugh with me because I posted it.  So as long as no one laughs milk through their nose and onto my keyboard, we'll be good to go!

 

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

We hoed some rows last night!  Eight rows, if you're counting (I was).  Six rows of corn -- two each of Kandy Korn, Silver Lady, and Japanese Hull-less popcorn; and two rows of green bean bushes.  Wa-hoo! 

It was an interesting evening, to say the least.  Scott and I marked off the rows, he hoed a trench, I dropped the seeds, then we both covered them up.  Repeat that seven times and that's all of the seeds planted so far.

Except we had two little water babies dancing around the yard, skipping under the feathered fan of the sprinkler, too.  Until they flipped the sprinkler and daddy had to fix it so it no longer sprayed straight underneath itself.  Until Violet decided she wanted to swing, begging us in her best howl to "Push me, pleeeeeease?????"  Until Milo wanted to help cover the seeds, wielding his hoe like an axe and nearly scalping his father.

That's about the time Scott found the toad.  Poor little guy was doing his best to blend into the dirt, and actually succeeding pretty well because Scott barely missed him.  He yelped, "Oops!  Sorry Mr. Toad!" and continued on, hoeing the row.  When I caught up with my bean seeds, the toad was still there, trying to breathe imperceptibly so that I didn't nearly squish him as well.  I could have passed him by, but thought better of it and gently scooped him into my hands, carried him to the wheelbarrow and set him softly into its dusty cavern.

The kids were instantly transfixed.  They watched him hop in there.  They touched him.  We had to convince Milo that emptying his bug house and giving it to the toad as a new apartment was a bad idea.  They held him as they went down the slide because, "He's never been on a slide before -- he'll LOVE it!"

Poor toad.  Thankfully, he seemed like a relaxed fella as he went up and down the swingeset, inside and outside and under.  Finally, as we were finishing the last few feet of the last row we were planting, the kids talked about where to release him.  I suggested that they place him in the nice wet grass where they had just been a-sprinkling so that he could get a drink after all of that playing.  Although my suggestion was ultimately accepted, it was nearly overridden by "Let's put him in the tall tower of the swingset because it's neat up there!" Yeah, and in two days it will be even neater when you have a stinky dead toad up there, too.

So Mr. Toad was released into the marsh created by the sprinkler.  As soon as his little feet hit the grass, he hopped under one of the big blue spruce trees and away from my children who had nearly killed them with their love.

And then my kids went inside while Scott and I finished cleaning up.  They came back outside, both of them buck naked.  Because that's apparently what you do when mom tells you to go inside and get a towel.

Oh, hey, don't forget to vote for me in the Scholastic contest!

Uncle Furry

Little brother has a first name,
It's U-N-C-L-E.
Little brother has a second name,
It's F-U-R-R-Y.


We love to see him any time,
And if you ask me why, I'll saaaaay...
'cuz Uncle Furry has a way
With Lego blocks and princess dolls!

I have written this little ode to my youngest sibling, Uncle Furry, nicknamed thus because he's part man, part wookiee.  You see, he's held his vote for my blog in the Scholastic contest hostage until I post about him.

Normally, mama don't negotiate with the terrorists, but I just couldn't find any muscle to rough him up and get him to behave on such short notice.  And he works with a bunch o' people who sit at computers each day and who might be willing to take 22 seconds to click through an vote for me.

My kids adore Uncle Furry.  He's big and cuddly and like to play with them and their toys.  He's also their only uncle or aunt who doesn't have any kids yet, which means he's not so tired from chasing after his own rugrats to play with mine.  Which means that when he comes to visit, the kid are so occupied that I can actually use the bathroom all.by.myself.  It's just so novel and wonderful!

Uncle Furry is getting married next summer and both kids have been invited to be in the wedding.  Naturally, as soon as Violet heard that she would get to wear a princess dress, she enlisted without hesitation.  Milo was a little bit more reluctant, but finally agreed once the signing bonus of getting to swim at the hotel pool was waved in front of his nose, the chlorine calling to him from afar.

So, Uncle Furry...  Thank you for pineapples, the bottle of Mad Dog that you gave Scott (we're letting it age until your wedding), and for enabling solitary trips to the bathroom.  And all of the other kind and generous stuff you do.  And for bringing Aunt Furry into our lives, because she's neat-o!

Magical Thinking

Business first:  If you haven't voted for my blog yet, click here and vote for Soup!  Whew, now that's done, let's have some more fun!

My son reset the dial on my bathroom scale.  This morning, I woke up weighing five pounds less than I did two days ago.  I was startled, happy and confused all in about 4.3 seconds, then I stepped off the scale and saw the needle pointing sarcastically to 295 instead of 0.  I think it was laughing at me, asking me, "Did you really think that all of the comfort eating you've been doing since Wednesday was going to help you drop five pounds?  Really?"

Who can blame me for indulging in some magical thinking his morning?  Kids do it all the time -- their imaginations run wilds with adventures and schemes.  Even Violet has started embellishing her tales with juicy adverbs and exaggerated facial and vocal expressions.  It's pretty funny to see her conducting a story with her little hands, flinging them wide with excitement and pulling her fists under her chin and shivering when relaying that she was 'cared.

In my little magic world, my laundry is always done, my house is free from dog-fur dust wolves (they are nowhere near tame enough to be called bunnies), and the sewing machine isn't my enemy.  I never imagine anything too extravagant, though sometimes I pretend that there is a brand new minivan parked in my driveway and that it is mine, free and clear with no payments.  I don't daydream that I've married a famous movie actor or musician.  I don't imagine myself wearing a size two.  OK... yes, sometimes I dream of wearing a size 10 again, but that might actually be attainable if I'd get up off my bum and give it a shot.

So what do you think about magically?

Plantin' in the Dark

So this is how my blog is described over at Scholastic: A dose of Midwestern scarcasm from a mom trying to get healthy while raising two children

Didja notice the typo?  Or maybe it's not a typo...  Maybe I am super-scary.  My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes.  And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me.   Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons.  And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.

It's OK, though.  I won't let the notoriety go to my head.  You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!

I am admitting to checking out the competition.  And following them.  Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge.  And male.  And it might be hairier than I am.  Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin.  Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.

To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale.  You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets.  Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen.  We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings. 

"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..."  Hey!  I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK?  But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation.  Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us. 

This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick:  one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence.  Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining.  I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper.  No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that. 

Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop.  It's not even in fine print...

Vote for Me!!

I was never very good at the whole popularity thing, I readily acknowledge this.  Middle school was painful, probably no more painful than it was for any other students, but it sure felt that way at the time.

But age has made me brave and more confident.  Did you believe that?  Maybe I am a better actress than I thought.

To make a long story short, someone, somewhere has found my blog and decided to enter it into a blog competition.  Who?  Scholastic Parent and Child Magazine.  To say that my inclusion in this contest was a surprise is a huge understatement.  Like a "the Titanic hit an ice cube" understatement.

My 63-follower blog is tiny when compared to so many well-polished, beautifully coiffed mommy blogs with thousands of followers out there.  I only bought my own domain a couple of weeks go.  I made my banner in PowerPoint, there is no one to credit for blog design (or anti-design, if I look too shabby).  I am sincerely small-town, which suits me just fine.  Many people live in the city and visit small towns, others choose to live in small towns and visit the big city.  I think both are needed, that variety should be encouraged.

Anyway, if you feel like voting for this gawky, clumsy, thirteen-year-old in braces and a training bra, please do!

Facebook

Hey, everyone!  I've created a facebook page for my blog... 

Love is in the Air

On Wednesday afternoon, Milo got a package in the mail from a classmate.  Yeah, she and her family live in town and she sees him three times a week, but the novelty of mailing something to your friend is, well, pretty novel to an almost-five-year-old. 

Oh, did you catch that I typed "she" and "her"? 

That's right, Milo's current BFF is a girl -- she's a cutie, for sure.  The package she sent contained a foam visor, a photo of herself, and a sweet little note, which concluded "I love you Milo."

Aww, my baby got his first love note!  Her mother assured me that she told her daddy that "we're just friends" -- which is good because, as much as I adore her parents, we're not planning to arrange a marriage between our preschoolers.

I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that he's really warmed up to his classmates in the last couple of months.  One of the statements his preschool teacher made at our parent/teacher conference was that he had a tendency to join an activity and relate to the kids doing the activity, rather than seeking out a favorite friend and joining an activity together.  She also said that he plays well with other kids, takes turns and shares easily.

Does that sound strange to you?  I asked Milo about it and he said "I play with everyone, Mom.  They're all my friends."  Instead of taking this as a sign of anxiety, like his teacher did, I took it to mean that he is open to all kids and not a clique-y mean boy.  I'm not so sure that playing with everyone is a bad thing. 

Back to the topic on hand -- after receiving the package, Milo said, "We need to have her over to play and have a sleep-over!"

I told him, "Let's take this slowly, but.  How about a playdate -- you don't want all the pressure of committing to a sleep-over to soon, you know.  That's a pretty long-term commitment."

Not Again

I didn't want to do this again.  I didn't want to be the mother who dreads going to the OB, who jealously hides from pregnant women, who crumbles at the question, "When are you going to have another?"

I didn't want to have another miscarriage.  I just didn't.

And yet, here I am again, losing our surprise anniversary baby.  The baby we weren't supposed to conceive last month, the one who wasn't supposed to be made by husband and wife.  Our third child was going to be conceived at the doctor's office using a "sample" and a thin catheter.  And yet, somehow during the month where I detected no ovulation surge, I ovulated and one of Scott's sleepy swimmers managed to pass swim class, meeting my egg like two fingertips touching.

I tested on the morning of our anniversary, figuring that the fastest way to end a cycle is to pee on a stick.  It came up positive, and so did the test I took after I got to work and the two I took the next morning after I realized I'd started spotting.  I went in for a blood draw after pretty much giving the nurse my medical orders -- "I have a history of ectopic pregnancy, you'll want to order a quantitative hCG."  Nurse says, "Oh, yeah.  That sounds good.  When can you come in?"

At the blood draw, just as I was complementing the phlebotomist, she rolled my vein.  I've been wearing a huge bruise in my inner left elbow since then.   My kids kiss it because it is so hideous they are convinved it is quite painful.  It really isn't.  That was a week ago.

Two days ago, I went back for a repeat blood draw.  A different phlebotomist rolled a vein in my right arm, again apologizing profusely.  Great, matching tattoo bruises.  This isn't the worst pain, either.  No, that pain is reserved for the stubborn red blood I'm wiping angrily as if by wiping it would just go away, just leave me and my baby alone.

This morning I called in to get the official word that I am, indeed, miscarrying.  It appears that the score is now tied: two kids and two miscarriages.

I just didn't want to do this again.

Smiley Times!

So, I'm having a bit of a rough time right now, but here are some pictures that have brightened my last week!

This was the one of the last days the chickens were in the basement.

The strawberry pyramid and the rabbit Violet picked for the garden.

The coop before it was enclosed.

The view the chickens have.  Not bad, eh?

Peek-a-boo!

A bunch of bird brains on top of a chicken coop.

A caterpillar with girl and grandma.

She's just following the instructions on her shirt!

Every princess needs a crown.

Doesn't everyone wake up this happy?

The Birds and the Bees and the Flowers and the Trees...

Last night, during our after bath snuggle on my bed, Milo looked at me, his clean face starting to look sleepy-sweet.

"Mom, I want another girl baby, another baby sister."  (Me, too, little buddy -- or a boy baby, either would be fine.  And soon would be great!)

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?  You'd like having two little sisters?"  (So you don't have to share your Star Wars guys.)

"When I was a baby, I grew in here, your tummy, right?"  His hand gently rested on my abdomen.  "Do you have a baby in here right now?"

"Uh, no sweetie.  Not right now."  (That's the bacon cheeseburger I had for supper you're feeling, Ace.)

"How did I get into your tummy?"  (Dun, dun, dun....)

I so was not expecting to have that conversation last night.  Not at all.  Not for a while -- maybe when I am pregnant and he can see evidence of a new sibling, but not a random conversation, sparked by genuine curiosity.  Nope, didn't expect that.

"Well, Daddy has a seed and Mommy has a seed and they meet," I said, pressing the tips of my index fingers together lightly.  "The seed goes in Mommy's tummy and the baby grows."  (I hope he doesn't ask more, this seems appropriate, right?)"

"It goes on your tummy and makes a baby?"  (Only if Daddy misses.)

"No, honey, IN my tummy."

"How does it get IN your tummy?" 

At this point, I notice that Scott has appeared in the doorway, looking at me quizzically and starting to chuckle.  He knows that I'm unsure of how to answer this question, but he's going to leave me high and dry and choose to smirk, rather than to help me out, I just know it.

"Umm...  Mommy and Daddy have a special hug that puts the seeds in my tummy."  (Please, please, please buy it.  Please?  I'm begging more than you do when you want a new toy...  Please?)

"Is it a hug no one sees?"  (I sure hope so...)

"Yep."  Scott is shaking with silent laughter now. 

Milo recaps, "You have a special seed and Daddy has a special seed that go like this (he does the finger thing)  in your tummy when you do a special hug that no one sees?"

"Yep, that's it!"  (Please be OK with this explanation, pretty please with a Ben Ten figure on top?)

"OK.  Do I have school tomorrow?"  (Whew!  Saved by the bell...)

And, so, mothers of the other preschoolers, please forgive my son if he's talking about special seeds and special hugs tomorrow.  That was the first time I had to explain the birds and the bees and I think I did OK, don't you?

Imagine

All four of us were in the car the other night, returning from a trip to the grocery store.  The kids had chosen to listen to The Beatles on the way home and were bopping and grooving in their carseats in the backseat of our crowded Jetta. 

"My like that song!  My like it!" Violet crowed as I Wanna Hold Your Hand started.  She grinned from ear to ear and chimed in with the occasional end of phrase as the song played.

Ever the thinker, Milo started asking questions.

"Dad, where do The Beatles live?"

"Hmm...  I don't know.  They probably have several homes, maybe in London, LA, and New York."

"Do they all live together?"

"No."

"Can we go visit them?  If they live in California, we can take an airplane like we did when we went to California.  We could go to their house and say, 'Hi!' and I could tell them that I love the song Dear Prudence.  Could we do that?"

His little face shone with expectation.  Scott and I glanced sideways at each other, unsure of how to answer this request. 

"Umm... sure, buddy..."

It is highly unlikely that either Ringo or Paul would welcome our darling son for a two minute conversation, particularly because his shyness would kick in and the remaining Beatles would be talking to a small child hiding behind my large bum.  Yes, the mental picture of knighted rock superstars talking to my bum IS pretty funny, unless you are said legends.

Although, I guess I shouldn't be surprised -- the soundtrack of my childhood was a mixture of The Beatles, the Beach Boys, Neil Diamond, and Three Dog Night.  There was one particular house in my hometown that stood out to me, perhaps every time we passed it Sweet Caroline was playing, but I was convinced that this modest (and now dilapidated) two-story was Neil Diamond's home.  Because it just was.  Never mind that it was highly unlikely that he would choose a 1400 square foot home in a smallish city in Eastern Iowa.  He DID live there, and I challenge any of you to a duel if you try to dispute it.

So, of course it seems completely appropriate that my son thinks it is entirely possible to hop on a plane and visit his musical idols.  Isn't that what their music is supposed to do -- spark imagination?  Cuckoo-ca-choo!

Help a Mother Out!

With the recent celebration of Mother's Day, motherhood has been on my mind a lot lately and in so very many different ways.  But one way that I wanted to share with you is the way of a close friend, Becky.  She has opened her heart to a beautiful young girl in the Ukraine and is starting the process of adopting her into her home.  Here is her story. 

The process of international adoption seems mind-boggling and is very expensive.  Becky and her family have scrimped and saved to make this possible, but as we all know, there is never enough money.

If you have a moment and are looking for some sweet handmade items, check out her Etsy site -- all proceeds from her Etsy sales are being used to fund the adoption.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

In the time shortly before my alarm went off, I took a most unusual journey in the land of nod.

I dreamt that I was out shopping with the kids, who were mostly behaving.  Our final stop was a certain chain store known for selling bedroom and bathroom accessories and beyond, too -- just how does a store sell beyond?

In my dream, the kids were trailing behind my me as I pushed a cart through the aisles, craning my neck to see the merchandise waaaay up there -- I guess I didn't have binoculars handy. The store seemed endless, but as we approached the corner where the bedding was on display, I was completely overcome by sleepiness.

My feet were dragging and I was leaning on the cart.  I stumbled to the nearest display, one of those with a partial bed set up so you can see how the sheets, comforters and ridiculously expensive pillows coordinate.  Of course, you can't really tell exactly how that stuff is going to look in your home, unless your home is a big box store with fluorescent lighting and a gleaming white floor. 

I zombied right up to the display, lifted the coverlet, and crawled in.  Yes, in my dream I took a nap in a busy store with my children skipping all around me.  My dream nap lasted about an hour, at which point I startled myself awake (in the dream) and gasped, "Where are my children?"

I started calling and each child appeared from a different aisle completely unharmed.  They looked happy to see me and were ready to go home.  I slid out of the bed (display) and took them each by a hand, asking Milo, "Did mommy fall asleep?"

"Yes.  But we stayed close by.  The other kids played tag with us and the man-ja-jer (manager) said not to wake you."

I looked around to discover that I wasn't the only mommy to snooze in a display -- the other three beds were occupied by slumbering mothers whose children were left to fend for themselves in the store, apparently playing tag with my babes.  I sheepishly herded the kids out the door, slinking by the smiling manager, a grandmotherly woman who wished me, "I hope you had a great nap!"

When I woke this morning (for real, no pinching necessary), I was so shocked by my dream behavior.  Am I seriously so tired that I dream about sleeping?  Who dreams that they abandon their children in a store, neglecting their very safety for a nap?  Did I eat bad pizza last night?  How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

The world will never know...

Pop Quiz!

You're coming home from work, pounding headache, your ears ringing, your temples throbbing  What is the best way to chase the stress away?

A.  Put on opera gloves and dress up like a princess with your daughter.
B.  Chase chickens around your basement with your hubby and kids.
C.  Discover the Retro Disco music station on DirectTV and stage an impromptu dance party.
D.  Teach your kids how to be talkin' like a pirate, matey.
E.  All of the above.

(Hint: there are no wrong answers.)

Pregnant Pause

My strawberries appear to like their new home!  Last week, we put up a strawberry pyramid and filled it with organic dirt and compost/manure.  On Sunday, Milo and I put in the bare-root dormant strawberry plants and, as of last night, all 50 plants have awakened!  Inside, I have 72 tomato plants started, 72 cabbage, 36 broccoli and 36 cauliflower.  Plus 144 peppers (mixed variety -- red, yellow, and green).

Scott is working hard on the chicken coop.  The walls are framed, the roof is sheeted, and he'll likely put the siding up today so that he can insulate and sheet the interior walls.  This is a good thing, because our curious chickens have started flying up out of the box/pool to check us out whenever we tromp down the basement steps, whether or not we're headed down to feed them.  Every time I put a load of laundry in, I have to capture a bird and return her to her home.  This means chicken poop on the basement floor.  Ick.  Wonder how Scott's gonna clean that up?

As I was detailing this to a colleague, she remarked, "My goodness you are fertile with all of those things growing under your touch!"

If only... 

I sit here on CD 26 and am not sure that I ovulated on this cycle of Clomid.  Or maybe I have and my hormone surge wasn't as readily detectable as it has been in previous months.  After all, the Clear Blue Easy ovulation predictor strips have shown me a smiley face every morning -- that's the "positive" indicator.  The Answer test strips, which have been accurate for me for the last 5 months, have been almost-positive since CD 15ish.  So I have no clue what is going on, just that we decided not to waste the time, effort, or money on an intra-uterine insemination this month.  I'm not sure what to do from here, either.  My current game plan is to wait until CD 35 and if my period doesn't start, I'll call for a script to start it and ask for some more advice.

I'm trying to stay positive, really I am.  But then I see the sweetest little red-haired babe, probably about 4 months old, snuggling into her mama as she drops big sis off at preschool and my heart just lurches in my chest.  She looks like she could be mine, except that it's not my pulse she hears as she is rocked to sleep.  It's not my lips that whisper kisses on her downy head.  It's not my heart in which she'll live forever.

Nope, I'm still waiting.  Waiting to see Milo rocking his new baby sibling.  Waiting to see Violet hovering protectively over "her" baby.  Waiting to see Scott's shining happy face as he touches for the first time the infant that I have known in my body, mind, and soul. 

This is my pregnant pause.

New Home!

It's Saturday night and I'm dead on my feet, but I just had to poke around and figure out why on earth my blog wasn't publishing to the new address. I did get the issue solved and I'm thrilled!  Yee-haw!  My own domnain name...

Oh, didn't I tell you?  I decided to splurge and buy my own domain name.  Like the swanky new digs?  Eh...  many bloggers do that from the get-go, but not me.  Nope, as it is with all trends, I have to buck against the system for a bit before giving it a go.  That is my own little rebellion.

Anyway, welcome to www.iasoupmama.com  I hope you like it here and stop by for another helping when you have the time!

Maybe one of these days I'll switch to Wordpress, too...  We'll see...  I just want some cute graphics that incorporate a cornfield, a soup can, and a red-haired mama of two (desperately wanting to be three) beautiful babes...  Is that too much for a girl to ask?