When that sun is high in that Texas sky

What feels like forever but was really two weekends ago, we packed up The Monsters and drove south to San Antonio for Fiesta. “Fiesta?” you say? “As in a party?” Not quite. “As in an entire month of pageants and fundraisers culminating in a week of parades and parties and festivals? When parking restrictions and open container laws mean absolutely nothing? When asking to see a pretty girl’s shoes isn’t creepy?” Yup.

There is a historical side to Fiesta, however. It all began in 1890 as a singular parade put on by the Daughters of the Republic of Texas to honor the heroes of the battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto. Fiesta now stretches over 11 days with over 100 events, has a huge economic impact on the city of San Antonio and raises money for many charities and causes in and around the city as well. The Battle of Flowers Parade (where I took the above photo of The Joey) is second in size only to the Tournament of Roses Parade, and continues to be the only parade in the country organized and produced by women. Plus, it’s just awesome! 

When we (finally) made it to San Antonio there was just enough time to sleep until early the next morning, when we got up early to go to The Battle of Flowers Parade.

If you think I should look a little happier to be at the most awesome place in April, you’re right. I was miserable. As it turns out I am allergic to absolutely everything outdoors, most especially oak and pecan pollens, and grass. So springtime in San Antonio when it’s dry and windy and everything is coated in pollen and grass seed is not my friend. I took Benadryl and kept falling asleep behind my sunglasses sitting and waiting for the parade to start. Which is funny now because I’ve since learned that The Husband and my cousin Bucky kept talking to me only to find out I was asleep behind my sunglasses. Ha!

When was the last time you saw McGruff the dog?! I got a little excited, all those flashbacks to D.A.R.E. and all.

 

 

 

 

This is the army band. And what was so awesome was that they are playing tejano music! I will make a confession here: I still have no idea what they’re saying or anything, but something about San Antonio makes me love tejano music.

 

 

 

 

 

This is pretty much what San Antonio is like during Fiesta. Beautiful, tradtional and draped in flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m still trying to figure out why only Miss San Antonio was driven in a low-rider.

 

 

This is one of the more traditional floats I saw in the parade. I wish the photo could translate the fresh, earthy sweet smell of the flowers as they passed by. It was just beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

So then we got out the cascarones. Confetti eggs. And if you’ve never had the joy of cracking a dyed eggshell filled with paper confetti on the skull of your beloved cousins (shout out, R’s!), you’ve obviously never lived. The downside is that when you have insanely thick curly hair and you get that confetti in there because your aforementioned beloved cousins not only crack the shell on your skull but then rub it in you have to brush out your hair, immediately resulting in a Mexi-fro.

I didn’t take a picture of that.

Did I forget to mention that I had my wisdom tooth out the day before we left for San Antonio? I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to eat all the yummies awaiting me down south, but it all worked out.

Except for the cerveza-ritas.

My cousins Bucky and Rae kept telling me and The Husband about some wonderful drink called a cerveza-rita. So since our grandmother was out of town* and we were staying there with The Monsters and Izzy the Wonder Dog alone, The Cousins brought over some liquor and beer and made Trey a cerveza-rita. Since I could neither drink through a straw nor ingest alcohol due to the wisdom tooth healing process, I just took the pictures of the cerveza-rita. I hope to have one soon. Very very soon. It wasn’t fair, and I may have pouted.

 

And that was just the end of day one.

 

*Who am I kidding? My grandmother would have probably pulled up a schooner with the rest of them. She’s kinda cool like that.

With a rebel yell

I can graciously accept the fact that I am this close to buttoning my jeans. I know in a few weeks I'll be able to button them, and in a few weeks more I'll be in the gym getting ready for The Elder's wedding and those jeans will be bigger on me.

I can calmly deal with a traffic accident. The Husband lost control in his car yesterday morning and was T-boned on the passenger side. He is totally and completely fine save a scrape and a bruise on his leg. The car, however, is dead. We had to pay the second wrecker to arrive to the accident $140 bucks (nearly cleaning out our bank account) to pry apart the two vehicles. But since he spent the day at home he received an email on his personal account notifying him that his recent job application was denied on the due date and he was able to fix it and verify the application was received and approved for review. I can totally see the good side in that.

But I try throwing a boob and a baby together - arguably the most "natural" thing in the world - and my entire universe becomes unglued. Case in point, this afternoon. I'm alone in the house and trying to feed The Elliot (birth story/pictures/oohing and aahing post to follow when I'm a little less insane) with apparently the flattest nipple to ever exist and he's screaming. I suddenly decide it's not fair that he gets to be the only one to voice some frustration over the situation and I let out this primal, evil, possibly throat-damaging yell and hold it until I'm concerned I'll pop some blood vessels in my eyes. Funny - it worked. He stopped screaming long enough to latch on and finally eat.

But this is not an isolated incident or frustration. I totally want to give in. I'm tired of this - the bad days definitely outweigh the good and I just want my kid to eat well. And don't give me any of the horseshit about pumping; I tried it to relieve engorgement and it's totally not the same thing. I want to do this and am stubborn about getting it right and not giving in to formula. But some days it really feels like all roads lead to Similac.

At this point I'm evil. Yesterday morning after 40 minutes of trying to get him to eat I simply put him back in the bassinet and went downstairs. I cried and refused to feed him for probably another 45 minutes, during which time The Husband thought he was helping by trying to get me talk (to him and really just in general because I was just sitting there crying and looking at the tv that was off) but really just led me to express my dire hatred for him. Luckily he knew I wasn't in my right mind. Last night The Elliot wanted to eat every hour for a period of about 5-6 hours from 8 pm to 1 or 2 in the morning and I was having trouble sleeping anyway due to pure exhaustion and the fact that The Husband was snoring. So I had finally gotten to sleep and The Elliot started. The Husband started snoring louder. And I exploded inside. I don't even remember the things I said, but he left to sleep downstairs. And I was glad. The Elliot finished eating and finally went to sleep and so did I, only to be awoken at 5:30 to take The Husband to work. And the thing is, I wasn't upset about taking him to work that early, waking up the kids to do so. But I bet that if I had already been up and attempting to feed or feeding The Elliot when The Husband needed to go, one of us would have lost a testicle.