First off, my apologies to our "fan," Caroline, who lives not in Grays but in Colchester, a good 40 miles away. All was not bad, however, as I was able to cancel my Grays Athletic t-shirt and replace it with a Colchester United -- The U's -- order.
I'm hoping that Caroline can start our first satellite fan club in Essex in the near future, and I'll be keeping everyone posted on her progress.
So, last night we packed Kristen's bags for the hospital. We have been putting it off for a while, instead doing other important chores such as eating ice cream and giving and receiving foot rubs, but at around 9 last night, Kristen felt some... rumbling.
Well, rumbling isn't really the proper word. More of odd feelings in her lower abdomen -- like a cramp -- and tinglings in her legs. I don't think I have to tell you that I was ready to drive to the hospital! Instead, we looked on the Internet and poured through all 142 baby books to see what was happening.
Fortunately (or unfortunately), they were just some Braxton-Hicks contractions (or false labor), and although they were uncomfortable and made falling asleep a chore, and Kristen's still pregnant. But we decided that the next strange feeling may not be a warning, and we got to packing.
We had everything on our list except for two things. The first was a pacifier (or two or three), and we'll be heading off to buy some tonight. The second was phone numbers.
Here's the thing. I'm sure some of you want to know when Kristen gives birth. And while the national news will likely take a few hours to pick it up and break into your prime time television programs, you want to know right away. Right?
So, here it goes. E-mail me or Kristen (or Caroline is Colchester if you're one of our European fans), and give us your cell phone or home phone number or whatever means you want to hear about this. I'll probably post something here (with a picture or two), but it won't be right away (or, really, any time soon).
If it's by cell phone, you'll get a text. It will likely say how big he is, what time he was born, what skin tone he has (I'm thinking he'll be an Autumn, but Kristen's sure he'll be a Spring), and the Swiss bank account number we've opened in his name (Legos aren't cheap).
If it's a regular phone, you'll get a 20 second call, but no bank numbers (the nurses might overhear).
Got it? Send me or Kristen your information, even if you're pretty sure we already have it. Doesn't matter. We just want all of it available in the same place so if I have to use my cell and not hers, there won't be any confusion.
And no 900 numbers. Perverts.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Gravelmen
A couple of weeks ago, I added a counter to the blog. Along with telling me how many hits we get a day, it also says where the people are that are visiting.
I'm not sure why I did it, but it's interesting to see how many people read this every day. For the most part, there are about 20 hits a day from about 10 different people. They cluster around Chicago (for obvious reasons) and the East Coast (for other obvious reasons). If I see someone from Deerfield, Illinois, I assume that it's one of my former co-workers at a pharmaceutical company. If I see a hit from Brighton, Massachusetts, I assume it's our friend Jodi. If it's Austin, it's our friend Ryan.
Boring, I know. But whatever. Here, however, is where it gets interesting.
Look up at the top of the page. See what's right next to "Flag Blog" and "Search Blog"? It's a "Next Blog" icon. What Blogger (the service I use) does is they randomly choose a recently updated blog to be that "Next Blog". I assume it only lasts for about an hour or so -- until it randomly chooses something else -- but it's sort of an interesting look at what people are talking about throughout the world.
When you click on it, it can send you to blogs created all over the world. When I just clicked on it now, I got something from a writer in Argentina. I clicked again, and it was Wisconsin. I clicked one more time, and it was the Netherlands.
Well, on Saturday morning, I checked to see how many visitors we had on Friday, and I was astounded to see 50. Fifty! I felt like people actually started to like me! That all those friends and family members who had shunned us had let bygones be bygones. When I looked to see where they were coming from, though, it was strange. Brazil. Florida. Singapore. California. Places where we don't know many people -- if any. But then I realized, for an hour or so, Barnabas Monkeypants was chosed to be the "Next Blog"!
My excitement quickly abated, however. Most of the people clicked on the blog, read a sentence or two, and quickly went on their fine way. Two people read a couple of posts, but most realized that they really didn't care about me and my baby-related neuroses.
But then there was that one person, a visitor from Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom. (Where is that, you ask? I didn't know either, but I looked it up and found out it's a small town about 25 miles east of London, right on the Thames.) This person clicked 9 times.
Nine times!
How exciting was that! They were interested enough to spend a good half hour reading up on someone they didn't know from Adam. They went back and read from the start of the blog, I'm sure pausing occasionally to compare my prose style to that of classic writers such as Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, and Stan Lee. It was nice, in that small way, to be appreciated by a complete stranger.
Here's the thing: on Saturday, they returned. They checked in to see if I had written anything new.
And Sunday, they were back.
Monday? You guessed it.
So, I'm now proud to say, Barnabas Monkeypants has its first fan. I'm thinking about starting a club, maybe printing t-shirts. Sure, it'll be slow at first, but by next year, I bet we can double our fan base to 2. The year following, I'm confident that there will be another growth spurt to 3, 4, or, possibly, 5. (Yes, yes, dear. I know. I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.)
You know what 5 fans means? A convention!
I guess what I'm trying to say is this changes everything. Pretty soon we'll be splashing the site with advertising, charging a subscription to read, and maybe even branching off into books, television, and film.
And, years from now, when you complain about all this and say "I read it when", you only have one person to blame.
Our fan in Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom.
To you, fan, I hope you're proud of yourself.
(Note: The Gravelmen is the nickname of the local football club, Grays Athletic. I'm planning on ordering a t-shirt.)
I'm not sure why I did it, but it's interesting to see how many people read this every day. For the most part, there are about 20 hits a day from about 10 different people. They cluster around Chicago (for obvious reasons) and the East Coast (for other obvious reasons). If I see someone from Deerfield, Illinois, I assume that it's one of my former co-workers at a pharmaceutical company. If I see a hit from Brighton, Massachusetts, I assume it's our friend Jodi. If it's Austin, it's our friend Ryan.
Boring, I know. But whatever. Here, however, is where it gets interesting.
Look up at the top of the page. See what's right next to "Flag Blog" and "Search Blog"? It's a "Next Blog" icon. What Blogger (the service I use) does is they randomly choose a recently updated blog to be that "Next Blog". I assume it only lasts for about an hour or so -- until it randomly chooses something else -- but it's sort of an interesting look at what people are talking about throughout the world.
When you click on it, it can send you to blogs created all over the world. When I just clicked on it now, I got something from a writer in Argentina. I clicked again, and it was Wisconsin. I clicked one more time, and it was the Netherlands.
Well, on Saturday morning, I checked to see how many visitors we had on Friday, and I was astounded to see 50. Fifty! I felt like people actually started to like me! That all those friends and family members who had shunned us had let bygones be bygones. When I looked to see where they were coming from, though, it was strange. Brazil. Florida. Singapore. California. Places where we don't know many people -- if any. But then I realized, for an hour or so, Barnabas Monkeypants was chosed to be the "Next Blog"!
My excitement quickly abated, however. Most of the people clicked on the blog, read a sentence or two, and quickly went on their fine way. Two people read a couple of posts, but most realized that they really didn't care about me and my baby-related neuroses.
But then there was that one person, a visitor from Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom. (Where is that, you ask? I didn't know either, but I looked it up and found out it's a small town about 25 miles east of London, right on the Thames.) This person clicked 9 times.
Nine times!
How exciting was that! They were interested enough to spend a good half hour reading up on someone they didn't know from Adam. They went back and read from the start of the blog, I'm sure pausing occasionally to compare my prose style to that of classic writers such as Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, and Stan Lee. It was nice, in that small way, to be appreciated by a complete stranger.
Here's the thing: on Saturday, they returned. They checked in to see if I had written anything new.
And Sunday, they were back.
Monday? You guessed it.
So, I'm now proud to say, Barnabas Monkeypants has its first fan. I'm thinking about starting a club, maybe printing t-shirts. Sure, it'll be slow at first, but by next year, I bet we can double our fan base to 2. The year following, I'm confident that there will be another growth spurt to 3, 4, or, possibly, 5. (Yes, yes, dear. I know. I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.)
You know what 5 fans means? A convention!
I guess what I'm trying to say is this changes everything. Pretty soon we'll be splashing the site with advertising, charging a subscription to read, and maybe even branching off into books, television, and film.
And, years from now, when you complain about all this and say "I read it when", you only have one person to blame.
Our fan in Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom.
To you, fan, I hope you're proud of yourself.
(Note: The Gravelmen is the nickname of the local football club, Grays Athletic. I'm planning on ordering a t-shirt.)
Monday, July 28, 2008
Guerilla Marketing
Okay. Another pithy, "Wow-I've-never-heard-that-before!" statement:
Having a baby is expensive.
It's almost like opening up a store. (Ah, retail as a simile for parenting.) The start-up costs are huge. You have to buy fixtures (crib, dresser), gussy the place up (painting), stock up your merchandise before the first customer comes in the store (onesies, bedding, toys), and advertise (this blog [which doesn't cost anything, per se, but it does take up some of my time]).
And then, when you finally have your grand opening, people flock to the store and buy stuff.
Okay, the metaphor ends there, but after all the things that we've bought (and have been bought for us), we don't really have to buy anything else for a while -- except for diapers and other poop-related products. It's more of a wait and see so that maybe we'll need this or we definitely don't need that or I can't believe we ever lived without the other.
Either way, our bank account will be happy once we stop having to buy everything in preparation and start raking in the bucks (remember, we're selling photo rights).
Having a baby is expensive.
It's almost like opening up a store. (Ah, retail as a simile for parenting.) The start-up costs are huge. You have to buy fixtures (crib, dresser), gussy the place up (painting), stock up your merchandise before the first customer comes in the store (onesies, bedding, toys), and advertise (this blog [which doesn't cost anything, per se, but it does take up some of my time]).
And then, when you finally have your grand opening, people flock to the store and buy stuff.
Okay, the metaphor ends there, but after all the things that we've bought (and have been bought for us), we don't really have to buy anything else for a while -- except for diapers and other poop-related products. It's more of a wait and see so that maybe we'll need this or we definitely don't need that or I can't believe we ever lived without the other.
Either way, our bank account will be happy once we stop having to buy everything in preparation and start raking in the bucks (remember, we're selling photo rights).
Friday, July 25, 2008
When Weeks Go by Like Days
Just over a month ago, we had our baby shower (you can read about it here if you haven't already), and because we're so on the ball, I'm finally posting a few pictures for you who weren't there to see (and for you who were there to say "Look at that stain on my pants!").
We held the party in the back patio of our building, and we had just enough chairs (with me and our friend J.-P. standing about most of the day) for everyone to sit down. For the most part, this summer has been great weather-wise (with only a few really hot days), and this was no exception. (I don't know if you can see it, but the deviled eggs are on the table there. I ate 2.)
Our friend Katia really did a bang-up job of organizing the shower, and here she is with her really cute daughter, Zoe. (Katia informed me that Barnabas will likely have to take Zoe to her senior prom 17 years from now, so I'm having Kristen start the designs on the corsage this weekend.)
Of course, there were two other little girls there, Lily and Eva, who will also have their eye on the monkey in the years to come. There will be some tears, I'm sure, but in the end, they'll all be great friends. At least on Facebook.
We got a lot of really nice gifts from everyone, and our friend Rob (whose wife, Jenny, just had a baby 10 days ago, sure to be Barnabas' best pal), took some pictures of them. Actually, he took all of the pictures (and well, too), but because he's an Art Director, he felt compelled to better compose all of the bags, boxes, packages, and ribbons on the gift table. Jenny just shook her head. That's what wives do, I think. Watch their husbands do silly things and then shake their head.
Either way, I think he did a great job.
So that's it.
And if you still haven't gotten your thank-you card, they're on their way. I'm serious. Really.
We held the party in the back patio of our building, and we had just enough chairs (with me and our friend J.-P. standing about most of the day) for everyone to sit down. For the most part, this summer has been great weather-wise (with only a few really hot days), and this was no exception. (I don't know if you can see it, but the deviled eggs are on the table there. I ate 2.)
Our friend Katia really did a bang-up job of organizing the shower, and here she is with her really cute daughter, Zoe. (Katia informed me that Barnabas will likely have to take Zoe to her senior prom 17 years from now, so I'm having Kristen start the designs on the corsage this weekend.)
Of course, there were two other little girls there, Lily and Eva, who will also have their eye on the monkey in the years to come. There will be some tears, I'm sure, but in the end, they'll all be great friends. At least on Facebook.
We got a lot of really nice gifts from everyone, and our friend Rob (whose wife, Jenny, just had a baby 10 days ago, sure to be Barnabas' best pal), took some pictures of them. Actually, he took all of the pictures (and well, too), but because he's an Art Director, he felt compelled to better compose all of the bags, boxes, packages, and ribbons on the gift table. Jenny just shook her head. That's what wives do, I think. Watch their husbands do silly things and then shake their head.
Either way, I think he did a great job.
So that's it.
And if you still haven't gotten your thank-you card, they're on their way. I'm serious. Really.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tick Tock
I have no clue what more has to be done in preparing for Barnabas. We're just waiting.
Everything is set. The painting, the constructing, the washing and folding.
Right now, the only thing that we need is Barnabas, and unlike most of the packages we get in the mail, there is no tracking number. Kristen went to the doctor's yesterday for her now-weekly checkup, and there is no change width or thickness or size or any of the strange ways doctors measure how soon someone should be giving birth.
So although Kristen would really like to have the monkey arrive right-now-this-instant-thank-you-very-much, it's not going to happen, and we still have those three weeks (or more) to go.
(I do love how so many people say conflicting things about childbirth: it's not that bad/it's the worst pain I ever felt; first-time mothers are usually late/first-time mothers are always early.)
I guess we need to think of things to do for the next couple of weeks, especially now that Twister is out of the question.
Everything is set. The painting, the constructing, the washing and folding.
Right now, the only thing that we need is Barnabas, and unlike most of the packages we get in the mail, there is no tracking number. Kristen went to the doctor's yesterday for her now-weekly checkup, and there is no change width or thickness or size or any of the strange ways doctors measure how soon someone should be giving birth.
So although Kristen would really like to have the monkey arrive right-now-this-instant-thank-you-very-much, it's not going to happen, and we still have those three weeks (or more) to go.
(I do love how so many people say conflicting things about childbirth: it's not that bad/it's the worst pain I ever felt; first-time mothers are usually late/first-time mothers are always early.)
I guess we need to think of things to do for the next couple of weeks, especially now that Twister is out of the question.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Organizamation
I'm going to type something now that most people are going to laugh at (and not the ha, ha-type laugh, but the scoff-type of laugh):
Having this baby is going to help me get a lot of my unfinished projects on track.
And I'm not talking about baby-related projects either (although I'll be doing plenty of them). I'm talking about all of those things that I've started and not finished or never started to begin with.
I think following through with things is one of my biggest challenges in life (and I'm pretty sure it's up there with everyone). I'm not saying that I have all these great ideas and just don't have time for it. I'm saying that I waste too much time on things that I really don't need to be doing.
We bought one of these for Barnabas. Basically, it's a machine that tells you when you last fed your baby or changed your baby or napped (parallel construction, people) your baby, and it makes it so that you can (as much as possible) keep everything on a schedule.
Yes, yes, I know. Having a baby isn't that easy. Feeding should be every 2 hours, but it may be every 1 1/2. Naps should be an hour, but maybe they don't last that long or happen at all.
But at least there's a semblance of a schedule going on, right?
And maybe that's what I need. So now, after I come home from work and finish dinner, maybe I should do some writing or cleaning or organizing instead of watching television or surfing the Internet. Sure, I won't be able to do them for hours at a time -- and certainly less when Barnabas arrives -- but maybe a half hour, a scheduled half-hour. And just so you don't think I'm being selfish, I want Kristen to have this time, too.
There are too many things to get done, and maybe we all need a grown-up Itzbeen to help us get them completed.
Having this baby is going to help me get a lot of my unfinished projects on track.
And I'm not talking about baby-related projects either (although I'll be doing plenty of them). I'm talking about all of those things that I've started and not finished or never started to begin with.
I think following through with things is one of my biggest challenges in life (and I'm pretty sure it's up there with everyone). I'm not saying that I have all these great ideas and just don't have time for it. I'm saying that I waste too much time on things that I really don't need to be doing.
We bought one of these for Barnabas. Basically, it's a machine that tells you when you last fed your baby or changed your baby or napped (parallel construction, people) your baby, and it makes it so that you can (as much as possible) keep everything on a schedule.
Yes, yes, I know. Having a baby isn't that easy. Feeding should be every 2 hours, but it may be every 1 1/2. Naps should be an hour, but maybe they don't last that long or happen at all.
But at least there's a semblance of a schedule going on, right?
And maybe that's what I need. So now, after I come home from work and finish dinner, maybe I should do some writing or cleaning or organizing instead of watching television or surfing the Internet. Sure, I won't be able to do them for hours at a time -- and certainly less when Barnabas arrives -- but maybe a half hour, a scheduled half-hour. And just so you don't think I'm being selfish, I want Kristen to have this time, too.
There are too many things to get done, and maybe we all need a grown-up Itzbeen to help us get them completed.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Note to Self: Recharge Daily
On Friday, I thought I lost Kristen.
No, not in the medical-drama sort of way ("Doctor, we're losing him!"), but in the where-the-heck-is-she sort of way. And it was not pretty on my part.
Here's how it went down (I sound really "street", don't I?):
During the summer, my company lets its employees leave early on Fridays; unfortunately for Kristen, her company isn't as nice (overall they're nicer; in this instance, however, they're not). So I usually take the 2:34 train home, do whatever errands I have to do (eat ice cream, think of trades for my imaginary baseball league, ponder exercising only to decide that it's best to eat more ice cream), and then pick her up from the train station.
Most times, Kristen will call me from the office and tell me which train she's on (usually, it's the 5:21); sometimes, though, she's in a rush, so she'll call me from the downtown station or while the train is moving. It's no problem, because we're only a 5 minute drive away from the Rogers Park stop. (Are you taking notes? There will be a test.)
By 5:30, I hadn't heard anything from Kristen, but I decided to drive over to the train station anyway, and park with all the other picker-uppers. At 5:45, when the train rolled into the station, I didn't see Kristen. No big deal. I call her cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail. I call her work. After a few rings, it, too, goes to voicemail.
I figure that she missed the 5:21 and is now sitting on the train in the station downtown (where cell phone reception isnt' very good), waiting for the 5:43. So I, too, wait, and read my book. I try her cell a couple of more times, but it always goes to voicemail.
Hmm.
So, the 5:43 arrives at just before 6, and no Kristen. Now I'm starting to freak out a little bit. I mean, she's nearly 9 months pregnant! So I start driving around, going up and down the streets between the train station and our house (it's about 8 blocks -- maybe a little more; I've walked it a few times, and it takes me around 20 minutes). So I drive up and down, back and forth, looking for her.
Nothing.
It's a hot day out -- a humid, Chicago summer day. It had rained earlier, so it's even muggier than usual. Up and down, back and forth.
Now I'm getting a little frantic.
(I'm still calling her cell and her work, but now I'm adding our home number to my list. Still just voicemail.)
It seems like I've been driving around for about a half hour, and I'm starting to panic. (A side note: during my drive, I'm listening to NPR, and they have a story about the best BBQ place in Texas that has been creating something of a sensation in this small town. Listen to it. It'll make you drool. This however did not placate my fears.)
As I turn off Clark and onto Albion for what seems like the fiftieth time, my cell phone rings. It says "HOME" on it, but I still answer, not with "How are you?" or "Are you okay?", but with "Where are you?" (I'm not so good under pressure it seems). Of course, Kristen, being a normal person, answers, "I'm at home. Where are--", but I cut her off.
I then begin cursing. Yelling. (I'll censor myself because we know of some of your sensibilities.) "*#($&*@!!! Why didn't you call me? How did you get home? Don't $%@^^& do this! Are you okay? %$%!@^!" And then, suddenly, I'm a wreck. I'm in tears, bawling like I haven't in probably 30 years. I speed home.
What happened was this: I missed her when she came off the train. Her cell phone ran out of battery. There are no taxis in the area (it's too residential for there to be cabs at 5:30 in the afternoon). There are no payphones anymore (can you find one if you really need to?). So, Kristen walked. And I panicked.
And not only did I panic, but after I spoke with her and found out she was okay, I became a complete wreck. I mean, Kristen was fine (if not a little tired and overheated). Yet I was this bawling pile of flesh. As soon as I heard her voice, all the things that could've gone wrong (and didn't) came flying into my mind. Strangely, I wasn't really thinking about those things while I was driving around looking for her. I was thinking more of "gotta find her, gotta find her, gotta find her", like I was a bloodhound searching out an escaped convict. But it wasn't really anything specific or overly terrifying. But when I finally spoke with her, all I could think of was "what if she's hurt, what if there's something wrong, what if Barnabas is hurt". It was this rush of every horrible possibility.
I don't know what this says about me. Maybe I have to toughen up or something. Maybe I have to be a bit more rational. Maybe I have to panic more when I don't know what's happening and less when I know that everything's okay.
In any case, it was scary, but ended happily and with no one worse for the wear.
And, best of all, we had BBQ for dinner.
No, not in the medical-drama sort of way ("Doctor, we're losing him!"), but in the where-the-heck-is-she sort of way. And it was not pretty on my part.
Here's how it went down (I sound really "street", don't I?):
During the summer, my company lets its employees leave early on Fridays; unfortunately for Kristen, her company isn't as nice (overall they're nicer; in this instance, however, they're not). So I usually take the 2:34 train home, do whatever errands I have to do (eat ice cream, think of trades for my imaginary baseball league, ponder exercising only to decide that it's best to eat more ice cream), and then pick her up from the train station.
Most times, Kristen will call me from the office and tell me which train she's on (usually, it's the 5:21); sometimes, though, she's in a rush, so she'll call me from the downtown station or while the train is moving. It's no problem, because we're only a 5 minute drive away from the Rogers Park stop. (Are you taking notes? There will be a test.)
By 5:30, I hadn't heard anything from Kristen, but I decided to drive over to the train station anyway, and park with all the other picker-uppers. At 5:45, when the train rolled into the station, I didn't see Kristen. No big deal. I call her cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail. I call her work. After a few rings, it, too, goes to voicemail.
I figure that she missed the 5:21 and is now sitting on the train in the station downtown (where cell phone reception isnt' very good), waiting for the 5:43. So I, too, wait, and read my book. I try her cell a couple of more times, but it always goes to voicemail.
Hmm.
So, the 5:43 arrives at just before 6, and no Kristen. Now I'm starting to freak out a little bit. I mean, she's nearly 9 months pregnant! So I start driving around, going up and down the streets between the train station and our house (it's about 8 blocks -- maybe a little more; I've walked it a few times, and it takes me around 20 minutes). So I drive up and down, back and forth, looking for her.
Nothing.
It's a hot day out -- a humid, Chicago summer day. It had rained earlier, so it's even muggier than usual. Up and down, back and forth.
Now I'm getting a little frantic.
(I'm still calling her cell and her work, but now I'm adding our home number to my list. Still just voicemail.)
It seems like I've been driving around for about a half hour, and I'm starting to panic. (A side note: during my drive, I'm listening to NPR, and they have a story about the best BBQ place in Texas that has been creating something of a sensation in this small town. Listen to it. It'll make you drool. This however did not placate my fears.)
As I turn off Clark and onto Albion for what seems like the fiftieth time, my cell phone rings. It says "HOME" on it, but I still answer, not with "How are you?" or "Are you okay?", but with "Where are you?" (I'm not so good under pressure it seems). Of course, Kristen, being a normal person, answers, "I'm at home. Where are--", but I cut her off.
I then begin cursing. Yelling. (I'll censor myself because we know of some of your sensibilities.) "*#($&*@!!! Why didn't you call me? How did you get home? Don't $%@^^& do this! Are you okay? %$%!@^!" And then, suddenly, I'm a wreck. I'm in tears, bawling like I haven't in probably 30 years. I speed home.
What happened was this: I missed her when she came off the train. Her cell phone ran out of battery. There are no taxis in the area (it's too residential for there to be cabs at 5:30 in the afternoon). There are no payphones anymore (can you find one if you really need to?). So, Kristen walked. And I panicked.
And not only did I panic, but after I spoke with her and found out she was okay, I became a complete wreck. I mean, Kristen was fine (if not a little tired and overheated). Yet I was this bawling pile of flesh. As soon as I heard her voice, all the things that could've gone wrong (and didn't) came flying into my mind. Strangely, I wasn't really thinking about those things while I was driving around looking for her. I was thinking more of "gotta find her, gotta find her, gotta find her", like I was a bloodhound searching out an escaped convict. But it wasn't really anything specific or overly terrifying. But when I finally spoke with her, all I could think of was "what if she's hurt, what if there's something wrong, what if Barnabas is hurt". It was this rush of every horrible possibility.
I don't know what this says about me. Maybe I have to toughen up or something. Maybe I have to be a bit more rational. Maybe I have to panic more when I don't know what's happening and less when I know that everything's okay.
In any case, it was scary, but ended happily and with no one worse for the wear.
And, best of all, we had BBQ for dinner.
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