Life, Love, & the Pursuit of Parenthood

Dessert, Anyone?

2012-03-03T07:58:00.009-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a restaurant having dinner with some friends, enjoying a girls' night out and some uninterrupted adult conversation. It was getting later in the evening and the plates had been cleared away but no one was in a rush to leave (gotta make sure you stay long enough to let the hubby get the kids in bed, after all). The waiter came by and asked if anyone was interested in dessert.

I answered right away.

Nope. None for me.

I told the waiter I'd take my bill whenever he could bring it. I was full, but not stuffed. Comfortable. I cozied in to my glass of Pinot Noir. One friend ordered a cocktail, the other, a creme brulee. We continued to chat and giggle as we swapped stories about our kids. A night out without our babies and yet, somehow, the conversation always came back around to them.

As the minutes ticked by, though, I found myself eyeing the dessert menu. It was just sitting there gaping open, beckoning for me to take a look. I started thinking that maybe I was too quick to make a decision earlier. I had, after all, dismissed it without looking at any of the choices. I had just assumed that nothing could have topped the dinner and the conversation. And I wasn't sure I wanted to risk ordering a dessert that didn't live up to my expectations. I knew that I didn't technically need anything else. God knows, my metabolism (and my thighs) would thank me later.

But my eyes kept wandering. Maybe I wasn't that full. The triple chocolate layer cake did sound amazing. Where was our waiter?? I wished he could just bring the check already so the decision would be made for me. I wouldn't want to make him run back to cancel out my ticket.

The minutes ticked by and he finally showed up with the bill. But by then, my resolve was weakened. Still, I reached into my purse for my card and went to place it on the table. But I stopped short. I was aware that my girlfriends had stopped mid-sentence and were now staring curiously in my direction.

"Is something wrong with your check, miss?" (Side note: major brownie points to the waiter for making me feel young).

"No. It's fine. I'm....just...." I trailed off.

"I think I spoke too soon," I said to him apologetically. "I've decided I'd really like dessert after all. Would it be too much trouble for you to add it to my check?"

"Absolutely no trouble at all," he reassured me. "Do you need more time to look at the dessert menu?"

"No, I think I know exactly what I want now."

And with that, I slipped my card back into my wallet and closed my purse. When I looked up, my friends looked at me knowingly and snickered. "We knew you would change your mind."

And I think now, looking back, I knew it all along too.

Just a Giggle

2012-02-18T18:43:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine and I were recounting the other day a funny experience I had while I was at VCU. It was one of those embarrassingly hilarious moments that has lived on, despite the fact that it still kinda makes me want to crawl under a table when I think about it.

I was sitting outside on a gorgeous spring day (probably skipping class) and had taken the opportunity to grab a hummus wrap from one of the local cafe's for lunch. My friend Reggie walked over and plopped down beside me and we started chatting about the weather, music, random stuff. While we were talking (and quite unbeknownst to me) a fly had landed on my wrap. I had just finished telling Reggie about how I was planning to go out and catch some music later that night. He nodded his head and then said, without any change of inflection, "..fly on your wrap."

Not, "hey- there's a..." to preface the last part, or even so much as a motion to swat it away. I've always reasoned that maybe if he had done either of those two things, I would have realized that what he was saying should be taken in the most literal sense. But Reggie is black. He's also an awesome musician {little bitty plug for Bon Iver here} ;-). I say that, not because it really matters (especially the race thing) but because it at least gives a bit of context.

Always one to try and keep up with the trends, in that moment, I just assumed that this was some new phrase akin to "that's cool," or "I dig" or whatever else jazz guys said. So, without breaking eye contact with him, I nodded my head and said, "yeah," in agreement. There was silence for about 5 seconds. By this point, I can only assume that the fly had had enough time to not only walk the entire surface area of my sandwich, but also barf on it a half-dosen times. Reggie shook his head, and repeated himself- this time overly-enunciating each word. "Kristin, THERE IS AN ACTUAL FLY ON YOUR WRAP." I looked down just in time to see it buzzing away.

Ohhh.

He burst out laughing, then playfully busted my chops for trying to be "down" as I frantically thought of a way to recover. But there wasn't any graceful way out of that one. It was out there. I was not only white, but white trying not to be white. As the day progressed, several of my other friends got wind of my new catch-phrase. Even months later, I would randomly find it scribbled on notepads around my apartment, and a few of my favorite people still like to give me a hard time about it.

Where am I going with this? I'm not really sure. I just like to laugh. Sometimes when things feel a little too heavy or serious, I look for levity where I can get it. I don't even mind others having a good laugh at my expense every once in a while- or at least, not in this instance. It's kinda funny to me too, that of all of the random memories of what feels like the lifetime ago I spent at VCU, this particular one consistently comes to the surface and never fails to make me giggle just a bit.

Some days, those giggles are what gets me through the day. ;-)

Lessons In Chocolate

2012-02-16T06:17:00.000-08:00

Jake and I have never been big Valentine's Day people. We avoid going out to eat- opting to stay home, cook a nice dinner, and open up a good bottle of wine. We usually exchange cards, and occasionally there are flowers for me, and that's usually it. Very low key. Now, if you know me, you know I like big. I like overdone. I like surprises. I can take an idea that I'm on fire about and run like the wind. I love planning and organizing. My heart can usually be found in the teensiest details of holidays and celebrations. In the end, I want to make a fuss over you, so just sit back, dammit, and let me have my way.

My husband on the other hand, doesn't like a fuss. Wants to fly under the radar. Less is more. Thinks a birthday is just another excuse to spend money for more stuff. He will tell you he already has enough stuff and he truly means it. This is a man who would be content with a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and maybe his iPhone or laptop.

Let me break it down for you even further. This is a typical conversation we have a couple of times a year:

Me: What would you like for Christmas/your birthday/Easter/Chinese New Year?

Jake: Nothing. I don't need a thing. (translation: I don't need anything at all).

Me: Okay, cool. But seriously, what do you want?

Jake: Really, nothing. I don't want anything. (translation: your love is all I'll ever need in this world).

Me: Oh. {fidgets and looks away}

Jake: Why? What do you want??

Me: Oh. You don't have to get me anything. (translation: there's a strategically placed magazine lying on my side of the bed up in our room, turned to p16 and you BETTER take a hint).

Flame me if you will, but after five years of marriage, no man in his right mind should show up on a major recognized holiday empty-handed, especially if he was instructed not to buy anything. I'm so sure of this that I plan to prepare Milo well in advance. I will tell him that when his future girlfriend/wife says she doesn't want anything, she's LYING. As a matter of fact, she wants that pair of shoes that she was eyeing five months earlier when you met her at the mall to grab dinner. It was probably when she said, "ooh, I wonder if they have those in my size." Or, if she fawns all over her girlfriend's new ring/bracelet/bag in front of you, you better PAY ATTENTION. She's only saying it out loud like that because she wants you to hear it and be able to conjure it up eleven months later when she says, "oh, you don't need to get me anything."

Does this make me sound shallow? Probably. But that's a limb I'm willing to put myself out on for a while, and here's why.

Because it actually isn't about the gift.

I know it sounds like I just contradicted myself, but let me explain. The night before Valentine's Day, I had to make a quick run to a nearby Walgreens to pick up some more Motrin for my little teething monster. While I was there, I walked past two well-dressed men standing in the card section and happened to overhear one of them joke to the other, "I'm not reading all of these. As long as I show up with something..." There were actually quite a few men in the card section that night. Some of them well-dressed. Some were in sweats with 5 o-clock (make that more like 8 o'clock) shadows. Young guys. Middle-aged men. The whole gamut.

I understand that Valentine's Day is really nothing more than a ploy to get consumers to spend more money and put unnecessary pressure on husbands, wives, parents, kids, and teachers to have something to hand their Valentines. And still, something in me cringed when I heard that exchange. I didn't think about it much more though, until Jake came home on Valentine's night with a dozen red roses and a card. The roses were beautiful, don't get me wrong. And the card was one that really spoke to what we shared as a couple- beautifully written and thoughtfully picked, I'm sure.

But there was a perceived problem: there were no chocolates. Yes, I'm aware that some women didn't get anything at all for Valentine's Day. I'm also aware that pointing out the absence of a heart-shaped box of truffles in light of the fact that I was given roses AND a card might make me sound incredibly spoiled. Furthermore, I'm aware that my husband is the bees knees and that he would prefer we didn't celebrate Valentine's Day at all for the reasons mentioned in the previous paragraph. I know all of this in my very core. But the thing is, I just really wanted some chocolates. I had even gone as far as to tell him this a couple of weeks ago. I was sure of it. It wasn't something I had simply hinted or given subliminal messages about. So I was disappointed, as much as I tried not to be. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I struggled against feeling entitled because, in typical me-fashion, I had gone all out (even though I had done it because I wanted to, not because I had ulterior motives).

Still, it bugged me, and he could tell. So I told him. Then I felt like crap. Then he felt like crap. Then I felt even more like crap for making him feel crappy. At first, even I couldn't figure out why it felt like such a big deal to me. Then, about halfway through an awkwardly-silent dinner (which also didn't taste nearly as good after my "where's the chocolate" conversation) I realized that it actually wasn't about the chocolate. I realized it had more to do with the crazy long hours we've both been working lately- him at his job, me at home with the kids. It's the almost constant-state of fatigue we find ourselves in, how we often go to bed at different times because there's always some project keeping one of us up, and how we can be in the same room with each other but sometimes not really see each other. And all of that lent itself to a small paranoia that saw my husband standing in that group of men at Walgreens the other night, randomly plucking out a cheesy card written in iambic pentameter because "anything would do." Yes, I wanted chocolate. But, I think what I really wanted was to know that, even after almost 6 years of marriage and 2 kids, we're still in sync with each other. That we can still tune out all of the ambient noise- the deadlines, appointments, kids, finances, artistic endeavors and everything in between- and dial into each other.

Of course, we don't need a holiday to reaffirm the bond we have with each other. I'm often guilty of putting a lot of pressure on a single day instead of realizing that I can take full advantage of the other 364 days a year to do the same thing. So I guess we both learned a valuable lesson the other night. Jake learned that there is no such thing as overrated chocolate (really, there's not. All chocolate is all good, all of the time).

And I learned that sometimes, it's not really about the chocolate at all...

"Go Shorty, It's Your Birfday"

2012-02-12T19:10:00.000-08:00

My godparents walked in the door around 3:35 at the peak of Milo's birthday party. Popcorn was scattered on the floor, clusters of kids galloped through with cups of hot chocolate, and a duet of wails pierced through the ambient noise downstairs. Motorized toys whizzed between people's heels and a group of older elementary-aged kids had apparently created a secret society in our downstairs bathroom. No one was gained entrance because no one knew the correct password. As I hugged my godfather, he just shook his head, laughing and said matter of factly, "you've lost your ever-lovin' mind."

It was then that I noticed a few adults huddled close together in our dining room. At first, I thought they looked somewhat amused, but upon further inspection, I actually decided they looked scared. Milo clung fiercely to my leg and I gratefully took the opportunity to whisk him upstairs and nurse him. I knew, however, that it would take him all of four minutes to eat, and I wondered momentarily if I could get away with offering to feed anyone else's baby while I was at it. You know, just to buy myself some more time.

But all of the chaos was to be expected. We invited close to 70 people and 60 showed up. When it comes to birthdays, my motto has always been Go big or go home. No apologies. I wanted a special day for my boy, and that's exactly what we had. The mere fact that we had so many of our loved ones under one roof was, in and of itself, enough of a gift- both sets of grandparents, great-grandparents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, friends from close by, friends from a few hours away. With the exception of a handful that didn't get to be here, these were the people that made this birthday so poignant. Strip away everything else, and we still had more than sixty reasons to be thankful. That's just beautiful.

(Instead of a guestbook, I asked people to write a message to the birthday boy on a picture that we'll hang in his room).

And that would have been enough. But there was a little bit of extra sparkle to the day- some "icing on the cake" (and I later discovered, quite a bit on the wall- literally). Richmond has had an unusually warm winter this year, much to my dismay. With average temperatures in the mid 50's since November, I had all but given up hope that we would even see so much as a single snowflake this year. I forged ahead in planning Milo's "Winter ONEderland" party, despite visions of people drinking hot cocoa in short-sleeved shirts and flip-flops. But then my mom told me the day before his party that they were forecasting the temperature to drop sharply the next day, so I was relieved to think it would at least be cold outside, for once.

Then, around 3:30 yesterday, as our guests mingled and tried to dodge loud, hyper children, I looked outside and literally shrieked like a kindergartner as white, chunky snowflakes started swirling outside. Richmond's first official "snow" of the season (those of you in the north and midwest- go ahead and have a good laugh here).

There was an almost palpable excitement in our house. Kids pressed their noses against window panes and watched. A few more guests trickled in and shook the wintry wetness off their coats. Some weren't even wearing coats, as it was 50 degrees only a couple of hours before the party started. In a matter of minutes, the ground was covered in a thin blanket of snow. Once Milo was situated in his high chair, I rounded everyone up and a chorus of 60 voices sang happy birthday to him as it continued to come down.

He clearly wasn't as caught up in the moment as I was.

(Really, were we that off-key??)

But, for all of the tears, it was still as close to perfect as I could have imagined it being.

And, as if on cue, the snow stopped a few minutes before the party ended as guests began to bundle up to head home. The kids each got a pair of mittens and some of the homemade hot chocolate mix we served at the party. Hopefully, Richmond still has a day or two more of wintry weather up it's sleeve so they can actually enjoy them in the right setting. ;-)

Milo may not remember anything at all about his first birthday, but it's one that I certainly won't forget. :-)

Come One, Come All

2012-02-11T07:49:00.003-08:00

In about 4 hours, there will be approximately 65 people coming over to celebrate my little guy's first birthday. So why am I sitting here writing a blog? Um, that's a good question. I don't know. It could be that I'm in denial of all that I still have left to do. Or it might be that I've just decided not to give a rip about some of the smaller stuff and let today be what it is.

For example. should I really bother cleaning the floors before 25 kids come busting through our door? I think not. But the Susie Homemaker in me wants things to be spotless. Then the voice of reason (for the purpose of this blog, I will refer to him as "Jake") reminds me that our house is never going to be spotless. Ever again. This makes my skin crawl a little but I try to ignore it.

I love that so many people are coming to help us celebrate- to have some of our most favorite people all under one roof is something I refuse to be too busy to recognize today. We are incredibly blessed. And I say that from a place of humility and gratitude.

Nevertheless, I'm pumping 35 adults full of coffee, and 25 kids full of hot chocolate and cupcakes. (I apologize in advance to all the parents for the potential meltdowns at bedtime. You are coming at your own risk). :)

And something tells me there will be a very large glass of wine- and perhaps a few tylenol in my near future this evening...

(Pictures to come). :)

Dear Ella. . .

2012-02-02T11:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Ella,

We have not had the best day today. My mommy brain is trying desperately to understand what the big difference is between the clementine I handed you for a snack and the one you said you wanted. They are both orange. They are both round. They are the same size. Neither one of them has splotches.

But you wanted "dat one." As in, the one that I hadn't already just peeled and painstakingly de-seeded (for the love of all things holy, why aren't ALL clementines seedless?) And because it was only 9:20 a.m. and my second cup of coffee hadn't fully kicked in, I decided I was too tired to peel "dat one right dare."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to you this morning.

And then about an hour later, I tried ever so gently to explain to you, sweetie, that blueberry muffins don't just materialize out of thin air. I know it hurts. Mommy has wished the same would happen with peanut M&M's and Double Stuf Oreos. But now, our next door neighbors have also been made aware that we have no muffins.

Remember when we played hide and seek this morning while Milo took his nap and I was hiding behind the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't actually tell you that we were playing hide and seek. I just went and hid there and played Words With Friends for six beautiful, solitary minutes while you took a brief hiatus from whining and danced to the Fresh Beats.

It was just one of those days, I guess. And the rain didn't help. I hated that it rained this morning, which meant that we couldn't go swing. Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to go to the playground too. All mommies know that the playground = long naps and God knows Mommy needed that kind of a nap from you today.

I just want you to know, Bug, that I'm trying to see things from your perspective- really, I am. I understand that you didn't want to put your pants on before we went to Target. And although I do want to indulge your flair for the dramatic, I draw the line at letting you hop down from the cart and walk around on all fours, pretending to be a cat while we're in Target. I'm also sorry that your legs aren't long enough yet to reach the pedals of Mommy's car that you wanted to pretend to drive when we got home, which somehow meant that I was supposed to carry you up the front walkway into the house, but in doing so, made you scream even louder that you wanted to go back outside and walk in the house by yourself all over again.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed in your face today when you cried so hard that you farted. Mommy doesn't mean to invalidate your feelings, sweetie. It's just that if I don't laugh, I'll cry too. It just seemed like the better option at the time. I did cry though, while you were reading your book to me at naptime. Two little wispy tears that rolled out of the corners of both of my eyes that you couldn't see while I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling in your room and listened to your sweet sing-songy voice. And in that moment, I prayed I wouldn't remember that, barely five minutes before, I was pleading and cajoling- practically selling my soul to the devil himself- to get you to go upstairs and take your nap. I just prayed that I would only remember you "reading" to me about the little boy and his penguin who wanted to fly.

You know how you like to pretend to fill up the gas tank in your car? Well, Mommy's tank is sitting on empty today. "Running on fumes" is probably a more accurate description. But it doesn't mean that I love you any less. It just means Mommy is tired. But that's why God invented 7:30 bedtimes. I used to think it was because that's when YOU go to bed, but now, I think it's because he knew that parents would fall into their own beds, exhausted, at ten minutes after eight on a Thursday night. I've come to terms with the fact that some days, being "mommy" to you and your brother takes extra amounts of a lot of things that I don't have even sufficient amounts of-- patience, energy, grace, humor, humility, perspective, adventure.

Oh, and blueberry muffins.

So, thanks for being patient with ME.

Love you to the moon and back....

More Than Fine

2012-01-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

Just a few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a skype session with my emetophobia therapist. I had the calendar on my phone pulled up like I usually do to mark down our next session. For several months, we met with consistency every Thursday evening for an hour. Then, after some considerable progress had been made on my part, we transistioned to every other week. Occasionally, one of us would have a schedule conflict and it would then become three or four weeks between our sessions. But the tone had started to change. I wasn't having to work as hard to peel back the layers of my anxiety. I was becoming more comfortable with my own vulnerability. I noticed that we were talking more about "life stuff" and less about throwing up. The pictures and videos (yes, videos) of people being sick were becoming less gruesome and more, well, just people getting sick.

"Well, you tell me when you'd like to see me again," she said.

*blink blink*

What? I needed clarification.

"You've worked really hard to get to this point and you've got all the tools you will ever need when you start to find yourself feeling anxious. You're ready to just go and live your life now, and see how your emetophobia reacts with it. But my guess is that you're gonna be just fine. More than fine, actually."

This was it. She was breaking up with me. Not only that, but she was employing the whole, "well, it's obvious that you're moving on to bigger and better things, so now it's time for me to let you go" tactic. I sat there for a second, stunned, and looked down at the following Thursday's date on my phone. The fact that it was pure white nothing-ness was terrifying. Keep in mind that up until this point, I had been gradually exposing myself to pictures of vomit. First it was pencil sketches, then cartoons, then on to actual pictures of puke piles- chunky vomit, watery-vomit, dried splotches on roadways and floors. Then on to pictures of people mid-heave with their heads hanging over toilet bowls and trash cans. And finally, the last level of desensitization: watching entire video clips of real life people tossing their cookies for one reason or another, complete with sounds: carsickness, stomach flu, one too many shots of crappy vodka and one poor, unsuspecting girl who had her roommate spike her morning coffee with syrup of ipecac. (Why anyone thinks this stuff is worthy to 1) be shot on video and 2) be put on youtube, is truly beyond what I can comprehend. But maybe that's why I'm in therapy to begin with).

The point is, that moment of realizing I was being "let go" was in many ways more petrifying to me than anything I had experienced up until that point in my therapy. What now? I wanted to argue with her, that no, I wasn't ready. I was like a college graduate who had dutifully completed all of her degree requirements but was suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually walking across the stage and accepting the diploma she had worked so hard for. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted it. I was afraid that if I allowed myself to believe that I was finally strong enough to stand with my feet firmly in place, that maybe it would all be an illusion and the ground that I thought was so steady would give way beneath me.

We have some friends who live out on the west coast that got a real kick out of the devastating earthquake that shook the east coast last August. Not because they were insensitive, but because we all flipped our nut over something that they probably experience a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, for them, earthquakes are inevitable, so the only thing they can do is practice being prepared for one when it hits. The safest places are in doorways and under sturdy tables. (Whatever you do, don't run outside like I did and look up at the sky to rule out the rapture). Since our friends have young kids, they do their best to drill them on what to do without freaking them out in the process. Children in schools participate in earthquake drills on a regular basis and practice quickly getting into position under their desks or the cafeteria tables. My friend's youngest daughter asked her one day why they couldn't just hang out under the table all the time, just in case. And to that, her mom simply said, "because that's not really living, sweetie. That's just being afraid to live."

As I reflect on the first few sessions I ever had with Anna, I remember that she never promised me a life without anxiety. She did, however, promise me that I could start living again, in spite of it. But it requires that I resist the urge to hang out under my dining room table, for all of the "just in cases," that 99% of the time never come to fruition anyway. There's nothing wrong with taking shelter when a storm comes out of nowhere, but once it passes, it can be easy to forget that we're supposed to crawl back out, hug our loved ones, and begin to rebuild.

Lyrics from a song that was always on repeat during some of my darker times. . .

"When I wake in the morning, I want to blow into pieces

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

When I'm up with the sunrise, I want more than just blue skies

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

I'm not giving up, not giving up now

Not giving up, not backing down

More than fine, more than bent on getting by

More than fine, more than just okay."

(Switchfoot, More Than Fine)

Dear Baby Corbin. . .

2012-01-25T18:36:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby Corbin,

You were four weeks old today when your parents watched you take your last breath. I'm writing this letter to you because it's all I know to do. As a mommy, I'm just having such a hard time wrapping my head around all of this, and I know I'm far from the only one. You see, I don't know your mommy and daddy personally, or your big brother, who I'm sure is old enough to understand that something went very wrong, but I pray is still young enough that the coming years will dull the edges of this memory. I'm sure that he was the proudest and most loving big brother to you ever.

Sweet baby boy, you were so loved in your 28 days here on this earth. I have seen pictures of you and the word "angelic" fails to do you justice. As I looked at your pictures, I've tried in my own mortality to understand how your newborn perfection could be met with so many unanswered questions. What went wrong? Why won't you ever wake up? Why wouldn't you live long enough to be embarrassed by having those beautiful newborn photos dragged out in front of your future girlfriends?

I want to tell you something about your mommy, Corbin. She is one of the strongest and most beautiful women I think I would ever have the privilege of knowing. I am told that she held you all the time while you were sleeping, often times refusing to have her own basic needs met, just so she could be assured that she would be the one holding you when you grew your wings. I'm sure she went without sleep and probably at times forgot to eat and drink. Every moment- and every second of every moment- was for you, little one. Many times, I have found myself wondering if she knew, before you were born, that she was this strong. And I bet she wouldn't have ever wanted to find out in this way. No one would.

Your life was short, but it wasn't wasted. You left a legacy for so many, like myself, who never knew you, but who carried you in their hearts these past few weeks. If anything, you taught us how to hold on more tightly to our own children. To not take for granted even the slightest upset, right down to the 2 a.m. wake-ups and yes, even the tantrums, because all at once, they reminded us that your parents never even got to hear you cry. You showed us, in your own quiet way, how to better love our children. You see, I thought I knew how to hold my son. I even thought I knew exactly what he smelled like. But this past week, I realized how many times I have held him without really holding him. And so I took the time to memorize everything about him- every fat roll in his thighs, every dimple, the way his lips pucker when he starts to snore. I learned that no matter the time of day, he smells like the perfect combination of baby powder and banana. I thought I knew my daughter inside and out by now, too.. But in these past few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her while she draws and scribbles. Mesmerized, I've watched her as she reads books to her Elmo on her bed. I've listened to her tiny voice inflections and noticed how when she laughs- when something is really funny to her- it starts in her belly, uncontrollable, and bubbles it's way up into a shriek and at the very end, she'll stick just the tip of her tongue out between her teeth. And I noticed for the first time, the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel-brown eyes. I've stood outside the door to her room almost every night this week, just to listen to her sing herself to sleep.

Sweet Corbin, I'm so infinitely sorry that it took your sleep to make me realize what I have right in front of me. I'm devastated that not even your doctors have any answers. And if I'm honest, more than a little part of me is angry with a God that I claim to believe in that would even allow you to only be here- but not really here- for such a short time. My only prayer right now (because I don't know how or what else to pray) is that your mommy and daddy can find even an ounce of comfort in knowing that your precious life has touched so many others- even those that only saw your sweet face in pictures. You are loved, little one, and you will be forever missed.

12/28/2011-1/25/2012

"I Don't Know How to Say It Yet."

2012-01-23T04:15:00.000-08:00

My mom tells me that when I was younger and would get upset trying to communicate something to them, I would often heave a dramatic sigh and say, "I can't know the words." Ella says something similar to this now when she's mid melt-down (ten years from now, she's gonna love me for posting this picture). Lately, she'll shake her head and say, "I don't know how to say it yet, momma." Sadly, it occurred to me that this is one of those rare moments when I often stop and actually try to empathize with my daughter. The truth is that sometimes I forget she's only two. She started talking early- and often. (Very often). That, combined with her almost off-the-charts height makes her look older to me, so I am guilty of treating her, and therefore expecting her to act, like she's four. It probably doesn't sound like a big difference, but the developmental milestones between ages two and four are huge, and those are some pretty unrealistic expectations to place on a kid. How frustrating it must be to want to be able to say something and not know how to get it out.

As parents, we know that our children are constantly evolving and learning. We have seen from our own experience and the experience of others that what they can't do today, they will be eventually be able to do in the coming days, weeks, and months. So, under normal circumstances, we don't sweat it. But children don't see the big picture (clearly, given the plethora of tantrums). Ella isn't yet aware of her own steady trajectory yet. She only understands the moment she's in, and right at this moment, she has this thought inside her noggin that is too much for her vocabulary to keep up with. Maybe it's that she wants to show me how to play a game she learned at preschool. Or that she's afraid of something in her room at night that she can't articulate. Whatever the case, in that particular moment, I wonder if it's possible she believes she'll never possess the ability to say what she wants to say. Does she think that this is as good as it's gonna get?

It occurred to me that there are those moments when I act exactly like my two year old (you know, minus the crapping in my pants). I become frustrated and often disenchanted when I have ideas, thoughts, and artistic endeavors that I know are waiting to take shape, but that I don't yet have the means with which to articulate. What if I could see myself the way I see Ella, particularly when she's red in the face and upset that she doesn't have the words. No parent in their right mind looks at their child in this moment and belittles them by saying, "why don't you learn to talk correctly?" We understand this is just another minor obstacle to be hurdled as they grow into their own person. And so we coax it out of them. We tell them it's okay- to give it time. Maybe, then, we should view ourselves in the same light- as artists, wives, mothers. Most of us are positively certain we haven't reached our full potential (and tend to believe, perhaps, that it can't ever be reached). Even given this, there's often the tendency to interpret our momentary setbacks and missed opportunities as the closing chapter, when in reality, we're only half-way through the book.

Just something I've been thinking about lately...

P52 Challenge: I Have a Dream

2012-01-21T08:05:00.000-08:00

Back in the worst years of my anxiety, I thought I would never be able to function a part from depending on anti-anxiety meds. I wasn't sure that I could do anything on my own without some kind of safety net underneath to catch me. This weeks photo challenge is called, "I have a dream" in honor of the late Dr. Martin Luther King. I thought a lot about my dreams and aspirations and how I'm 29 years old with two kids and still haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up. But when I look back at the me from my early 20's, I realize that perhaps I'm already living out a dream that at one point, I thought I'd never see- to be healthy and happy. This, I'm sure, had to happen before any of my other dreams could be realized. So today, I'm grateful for the baby steps, the-two-steps-forward-and-one-step-backs, for grace that has been extended to me above and beyond what I deserve, and for the beautiful life that I'm living, not because I've learned to live without anxiety, but in spite of it.

Linking up to My3boybarians P52 challenge!

"Is That Your final Answer?"

2012-01-17T09:49:00.000-08:00

I used to love watching "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." Who doesn't love Regis Philbin? And who doesn't love getting large sums of money? Winning combo.

I think that the entire game show was worth watching not because people cared who wanted to be a millionaire but because they actually wanted to know: "is that your final answer?" The lights dimmed. A thin layer of perspiration appeared on the participants forehead. And I always pictured somebody sitting in the audience with their bongos, awaiting their cue to start pounding away for dramatic effect. In some cases, you could clearly see the confidence in the person's eyes. Other times, there was hesitation, wavering. More sweat. Why don't they just use their lifeline?!?! And then you suddenly realize you're forgetting to breathe, too.

But what if Regis hadn't bothered to throw out the "is that your final answer?" bit? Probably wouldn't have been nearly as enticing to watch.

"The answer is C, ______."

"Okie doke. Next question."

Lame.

Something about the finality of things really shakes people up. Because if you believe that something can or can't be undone, this can result in acute paralysis. (Particularly for someone like myself who finds it hard to decide which coffee creamer she wants in her coffee on any given day). Decision making is not my strong point, it's true. I've wrestled with everything from choosing a major in college (understandable) to which shade of gray I wanted to paint a room (and for the record- there isn't just one kind of gray. There are purple grays, green grays, blue grays...and it DOES SO matter). *ahem* Really and truly, one of the worst questions you can ask me is, "are you SURE???"

Marketers know this and have zeroed in on it. We live in a culture that inundates us with choice. I remember it took me hours to register at Babies R Us when I was pregnant with Ella. I spent two hours alone in the bottle/nipple/breast pump aisle. Who knew that there were so many types of nipples?? Not this girl. If you don't have kids or care to look at bottle-feeding accessories, then make a mental note of how many different kinds of toilet paper there are the next time you're out grocery shopping: angel soft, quilted, with aloe, extra thick, scented, select-a-size, tube-free...the list goes on. All of this fuss over something you're ultimately going to wipe your ass with. Seriously.

If it takes me 15 agonizing minutes to decide whether I want Charmin, Quilted Northern, or the toilet paper with the cute teddy bear on it, you can only imagine the weight of topics like, "do we want a third?" or, "do I want to go back to school?"

My husband is a great decision-maker: "Let's have Chinese for dinner."" I'm going to buy that new set of speakers." "I'm going to be a vegetarian for a while." Even, "I feel like our family is complete." He says it and there's usually no looking back.

Me? Sometimes, I feel like I wait for the confirmation to come that I'm making the right decision. I look for the writing on the wall, wait for the impact of the 2 x 4 upside my head. But I'm coming to realize that those moments are usually few and far between, and those that experience them are probably more of the exception rather than the rule. I have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes- maybe lots of times- I just won't be 100% sure. I may have a hunch. If I'm really lucky, I may even be 90% sure, but that's all I'm getting.

But I guess if we were always 100% sure of everything, there'd be no need for faith...

P52 Challenge: "Made With Love"

2012-01-14T17:23:00.000-08:00

I have posted several times how mommy-hood has turned me into a sentimental shmuck. Although I still continue to ridicule my parents for proudly displaying choice pieces of truly "special" artwork from my childhood, I can at least say that I finally have the perspective that comes with from giving birth (hell, I almost cried when I saw my daughter's very first poop. It was a true masterpiece). And although she still continues to grace me with those "masterpieces," she at least now balances it out using other mediums that are, ahem, less nauseating.

I love that she's crafty and artistic. I love that she tells me what she's painting as she's painting it, and how she'll stand back for a second and cock her head to one side, and then say "THERE. Whadya think momma?"

So I tell her that it's stunning. Because to me, it is. And although I'm pretty sure it might be something that, years from now, will make her cringe with embarrassment (especially when I decide to break it out at her sweet sixteen party), for me, it's like a good wine you keep tucked away- it will only become more cherished and beautiful as it ages. A simple piece of paper and washable finger paints that managed to capture the essence of my little girl.

This post is linked up to my3boybarians P52 photo challenge. :)

Coping With Anxiety: Alter Egos and Words of Reassurance

2012-01-12T06:13:00.000-08:00

Phobias are weird, complex creatures. I've always thought of my emetophobia as an extension of me, in some perverse way- kind of like my alter ego. Some performing artists claim to have one that appears when it's time to go on stage. Beyonce's alter ego is called "Sasha Fierce." So for the purpose of this blog post, I used an online alter ego name generator (proving that there is in fact, a website for everything and also that I clearly don't have enough to do this morning). Anyway, according to this generator, my alter-ego's name is. . . brace yourself . . .

Silky Shalanda.

(I can't make this stuff up).

Kristin is the one who gets things done. She's the one who performs in front of groups of people, thinks on her feet, rolls with the punches, and enjoys taking risks. She's adventurous, spirited, often seeking out the comical in the mundane. But the minute her stomach starts to turn, twitch, or do anything else deemed "unusual," Silky Shalanda shows up. Total party pooper, this one. In the past, Silky has been known to cook her chicken until it has the appearance and taste of burlap. She doesn't want to do anything too strenuous, risky, or otherwise FUN because what if that would make her get sick? One of her more annoying habits was to ask "do you think I'm going to throw up?" Silky Shalanda's husband Jake- a.k.a. "Loose Goose Lucifer" (again, can't make this stuff up if I tried)- got tired of answering that question, but he almost always politely obliged her.

Old habits die hard, it's true. And so it seems, alter ego's have a knack for popping up long after they've worn out their welcome. I'd rather that Silky vacate the premises indefinitely, but she does come around less and less these days, thankfully. In the meantime, I've set a few personal and realistic goals in regards to my anxiety and one of those is to stop asking inane questions (to be fair, I've always known they were inane, but again, old habits are hard to break). As a little girl, I remember asking my parents quite often if I was going to throw up nearly every night at bedtime (I had a scary projectile vomiting experience when I was about 4 that woke me up in the middle of the night and that I suspect was the catalyst for most of this). I asked them this same question every night, like clockwork, even when I felt fine. And every night, they'd reply- "no, you're not going to get sick." (Sometimes it was more like, "for the love of God, NO, stop asking THAT!" But you get the idea....) At the peak of this phobia a few years ago, I once again found myself asking the same question to Jake. And his response was the same as theirs, often times in the same weary tone of voice. . . "No, babe, you're not going to throw up. I PROMISE you." It's kind of like asking him, "hey, do these pants make me look fat??" Any husband who doesn't want to ultimately end up sleeping on the couch knows that there's a very correct answer to this question. In the same way, my husband (God love him) had become conditioned to giving the correct answer when I asked him if I was going to throw up. Of course not. It's what he knew I wanted to hear in that moment.

Now, if I really stop to think about it, there are a couple of obvious problems with this scenario. I'm asking for reassurance about what my body is doing and ironically, I'm the only one who really knows what's going on. Anxiety? Heartburn? Stomach bug? IBS? Even *I* don't ultimately know if I'm going to get sick, so why on earth would my husband or parents know? As a child, I think it's one thing to take your mommy and daddy's word at face value because they're your world and often times, your sole source of comfort. But as a grown adult...well, I should know better than to rely on anyone else's interpretation of what's going on in my small intestines. (But hey, that didn't stop me from trying).

My emetophobia therapist just posted a blog article on seeking reassurance from other people in times of anxiety. Check it out, because whether or not you struggle with a fear of throwing up or being sick, EVERYONE struggles with anxiety and part of our nature as human beings is to seek reassurance in times of stress- it's how we cope. But, as her article points out, it can often do more harm than good, especially in the case of this kind of anxiety. When you tell a loved one that "no, you're not going to get sick," you unknowingly reaffirm that this is something they should continue to be afraid of and, to go one step further, that it is something actually dangerous to them. Every time I asked my parents- and consequently each time I asked Jake- if I was going to throw up, their well-intentioned words of consolation were actually doing more harm than good. (And to be fair, had they said, "well yes, Kristin, I think you are probably going to throw up..." there would have been mass hysteria, so I can't blame them). It's tempting to want to do whatever we can to console the people that we love and to, in the very least, temporarily take the edge off of their fear. But it's a very short term solution to what is often times a long-term battle.

So the answer to that question is different these days. The last time Silky Shalanda showed up (which was several weeks ago) and asked Jake if she was going to throw up, he simply replied without missing a beat, "I don't know. But I DO know that you're going to be okay, no matter what."

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but oddly enough, Silky Shalanda left after that and I haven't seen much of her since then.

So now, this will become my answer to Ella and Milo when they need reassurance, for whatever reason. I know that I'll be tempted to tell them what they want to hear, but I hope that I remember my therapists words- and my own personal experiences- so that I promise them only what I do know. And that is simply: "mommy will be right here, no matter what happens."

"Sweet Shot Tuesday" aka (When It's Okay Not to Share)

2012-01-10T13:57:00.000-08:00

I'm always complaining to Jake that we have so many pictures of the kids (duh) but hardly any pictures of us WITH the kids. I want more family pictures. I want Ella and Milo to remember what I looked like now- before all the gray hairs and wrinkles settle in for good. After reading a post on clickinmoms with tips on how to include yourself in pictures with your kids, I decided, "it shouldn't be THAT hard, right?"

And once again, I was reminded that I needed to take that expectation bar that I already thought I had placed low enough and lower it once more. And then again. Nope. Maaaaybe just another inch. Okay, right THERE.

This picture, while by no means perfect, was one of my favorites from that afternoon. I kiss Milo like this all the time. Kiss him while he's nursing, kiss him while he's looking off in a different direction- just press my lips against his soft, chubby cheeks and smell his delicious baby-ness. I love it when both of my kids nap at the same time- don't get me wrong- but I have grown to really cherish those afternoons when Milo wakes up early from his nap. It's almost as if he knows this is one of the only times he doesn't have to share his mama.

Linking up with My3boybarians "Sweet Shot Tuesday." :-)

P52 Challenge: "Resolution"

2012-01-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

Some of you may already be aware that I'm starting to get into photography (you know, in all of my spare time). :D Thanks to Pinterest, I stumbled across this lovely blog, and started working through the 31 Days Photo Series. (Extremely helpful, especially for someone who still considers herself a novice).

So I've decided to participate in m3b's P52 Challenge- posting one photo every Friday (using the weekly assignments given) from now through the end of the year. This week's topic was simply called, "Resolution." Somewhat ironically, I scribbled this quote (one of my all time favorites) in between pages of unfinished potential song lyrics, journal-type entries, and random moments of personal breakthrough over the last two years:

"Above all, be true to yourself, and if you cannot put your heart into it, take yourself out of it." ~Gerard Way

Anything worth doing is worth messing up a few times until you get it right. So for me, 2012 will be about being less-than-perfect, but more than willing...

"E" Stands for Extrovert

2012-01-04T17:49:00.000-08:00

I have often said that God has a sense of humor, but never has it been so apparent to me than since I had kids. For example, I'm an introvert. Not the "socially-awkward-hermit" type, thank you very much. I just prefer to process things internally. I recharge by going off by myself. I have a few very close friends as opposed to a mile-long contact list in my phone of people that only "kinda" know me.

And then somehow, I managed to give birth to a raging extrovert. Of course, we didn't know this right away, but it became apparent rather quickly. She has big eyes like her momma, big mouth like her daddy. :D (love ya, babe!)

I sometimes still don't know how to handle her. She sings loudly in the grocery cart at the store (complete with hand and arm motions). She hams it up for bystanders. Introduces herself often to perfect strangers and invites them to come to the playground with us (and in most cases, we're not even heading to the playground, so this is usually news to me). People, animals, yes- sometimes even plant life, are all subject to her queries. And what do I while this is happening? Stand around awkwardly and pretend to play with my iPhone because, for the love, I just want to get in and out of the store without having another innocent shopper or street walker find out that Milo pooped in the tub last night.

So Little Miss Congeniality started preschool yesterday. And in typical Ella-bug style, she marched right in to her classroom, introduced me and Milo to her teachers (not even kidding), found her cubby and immediately started baking a purple cake in the play kitchen. Yep, that's my girl. Later, friends texted and called to see how I was holding up. "*sigh* I guess I'm hanging in there..." I typed, as I sat with a mug of coffee in my hand while Milo took his morning nap and I suddenly found myself reclaiming my living room. And while it's true that, once upon a time, I cried for an hour when we moved her from our bedroom precisely two feet across the hall to her nursery, I was shocked at my own level of emotional stability yesterday. Turns out all of us were ready (well, as ready as we could be) for her to reach this milestone. I did get a little bit nostalgic when I walked upstairs into her room and saw "Monkey" (her most beloved stuffed animal) lying on her bed. People told me children grow up fast, but I guess I just always thought they meant the "slow" kind of fast. Or that maybe they'd turn around and say, "gotcha! just kidding!"

Turns out, they weren't joking. It's actually the fast kind of fast. The "I-can barely-remember-when-you-were-a-baby" kind of fast.

Time for you to spread your first set of wings, baby girl. We love you.

New Years and Little White Flags

2012-01-03T06:10:00.000-08:00

It's January 3rd and everyone is probably off to a great start. We've cleaned out our closets, purged our pantries, stocked our shelves with nutritious foods, dug out our gym membership cards and hit the ground running (some of us, quite literally). Maybe we've decided that this year is the year we're finally going to lose the weight, stick to a routine, take that trip, start the new business we've been talking about for years, quit making excuses...the list goes on and on.

Like everyone else, I sat down last week and wrote out some commitments (I refuse to call them "resolutions") for 2012. And as I skimmed them over, I began to notice a theme. Almost all of them centered around the idea of "following through." Some pertained to art projects, others to my social calendar (such as it is with two small kids), or implementing new ideas for music lessons. Some of it even came down to finishing remaining chapters of a few books. And as I took stock of the list, I realized that I have become the queen of unfinished projects, bouncing from one thing to the next. On rare occasions, I stick it out and see something through to completion (thankfully, my degree in music education is one such example). When we moved into our new house this past summer, I sacrificed sleep in the name of getting boxes unpacked and put away. I just wouldn't let myself rest until our kitchen looked like a kitchen. (But I suspect that had more to do with me being anal than anything else). On the flip side, I'm notorious for getting half way into a painting or a new book and not finishing it or fleshing out a new idea for another blog or song, only to let it it sit around until it goes stale.

There are several reasons why I think I do this. I suspect some of it is possibly a mild form of ADD. (If you really want to see me in full ADD mode, just send me to a craft store. One time, I almost hyperventilated when I brought out my Pinterest app in the middle of Hobby Lobby). Occasionally, I've fallen in love with the idea of something and then when I start it and realize it's not at all what I thought it would be, I find that to be reason enough to drop it like it's hot.

But the God-honest truth is that most of it is fear-based. There are two kinds of fear, though. There's usually an initial fear about logistics. How am I going to pull it off? How will I find the resources? This kind of apprehension, in my opinion, is both necessary and good. It usually propels us forward to find solutions. But many times, the "how's" can quickly evolve into the "what if's." What if I invest everything I have into _______, and it sucks/no one likes it/it's not the best of the best of the best? This kind of fear is crippling because we'll almost always find more reasons to stay right where we are than where we actually want to be. And it's tricky because it can often disguise itself as apathy. All of the sudden, we start dismissing our "crazy" ideas. We say we don't care. We tell people we lost interest. But what we don't want anyone to know is that we've had little white flags tucked away somewhere within arms reach. We want to give ourselves an easy out, just in case.

(Oh, and just for the record, when I say "we," I basically mean "I").

So there, I've just outed myself once again. For the better part of the last five years, I've been working to stop giving myself easy outs, or "just in cases." I never went anywhere without an emergency plan, and then a backup emergency plan in case that emergency plan fell through. And at the end of 2011, do you know what I had?

Two unused emergency plans.

Because I didn't take any risks big enough to even come close to needing them. And because I want to hold more in my hands at the end of this year, here are a few of the things that are on my list of commitments...

--to read 12 books, start to finish. (Doesn't seem like a lot for some, but trust me, I'm not an avid reader so that will be an accomplishment). :)

--to collaborate on and complete a Christmas album (Jake and I have been talking about doing this for at least 3 years now).

--to actively flesh out ideas for a new photography blog/business (as I can afford to get more gear).

--to write more, submit more articles, and lock down more freelance work. (I want to get published some day. There, I said it).

--to begin mentoring/teaching piano lessons to children in the elementary school here in our neighborhood.

I write these not because I'm seeking affirmation or a pat on the back, but because I know that accountability is everything when it comes to taking risks. If we don't tell people what we're doing or what we're about, then we can tell ourselves that it doesn't matter if we haven't followed through with any of it. But maybe it actually does matter. Maybe, in fact, something that fails (even fails miserably) is still worth more than something that hasn't even come to fruition.

So maybe, this year, it's time we put away all of our little white flags for good.

Snapshots from 2011: A Year In Review

2011-12-31T08:58:00.000-08:00

2011 was a year of change for our family (I say this like I think that some years should be completely static). But there were some very major life-changes this past year. So let me start with the obvious (and most awesome).

Our precious Milo was born on February 9, 2011.

(P.S. the transition from 1 to 2 is as hard as everyone said it would be. I'm not sure why I didn't believe them). :)

In May, my parents and grandmother (a.k.a. "Memama" and "P-pop") moved back to Virginia after living in Michigan for three years. To say that we're glad to have them living close to us again is an understatement. My dad and his birthday buddy share a special little bond.

In June, our Ella-bug turned two.

Right on the heels of her second birthday, we packed up our little house and moved back to the city. (Disclaimer: I do not recommend moving with young children).

(And I finally got to do a nursery for Milo) :)

Let's see....there was an earthquake in August. (Took us a long time to pick up the pieces).

Followed by a hurricane. How we never lost our power is still a mystery.

And a beach trip that was cut short when we realized that vacations with two little kid aren't really vacations. (But hey, we tried).

In October, we took Ella to see Yo Gabba Gabba Live. It's true that we had way more fun than she did.

Then, we discovered that the more kids you have, the quicker the holidays go by. Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas seem like a blur now. But I can't believe how much more fun it is to celebrate times like those with your kids. And all this time, I thought my parents were the ones missing out...

I can't help but be grateful when I look back on this past year and how our family has grown- in all senses of the word. We have much to celebrate today as we say goodbye to a truly pivotal and poignant year in our lives. :)

Santa WTF

2011-12-23T18:50:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't thoroughly enjoy a bad Santa pic? I confess that I was a bit disappointed this year that Milo actually didn't cry when he was placed on Santa's lap (and Ella flat out refused to go near him). I was really hoping for another screaming Santa pic. Thankfully, I was able to enjoy a good laugh at others expense with some of these treasures, so I thought I would post a few. Enjoy!

"He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake...."

Look like somebody already knew how to make the yuletide gay.

"Shhh....I hid the under-eye concealer...."

{whispers} "He's an angry elf."

If anything every qualified for a big, fat W.T.F- this is it, folks.

Don't everyone get too excited now...

Angela suspected he wasn't the REAL Santa Claus, but she just couldn't put her finger on why..."

Santa, the Joker and Jon from Jon and Kate +8 got together and made a kid. Ta-Da!

"Run, Run Rudolph"

2011-12-19T07:44:00.000-08:00

My Papaw was a man of few words and was known, among many things, for his candidness and dry wit. I remember that every year on Christmas morning, after the final present was opened and we found ourselves once again sitting in the remnant of boxes, toys, wrapping paper, mounds of clothes and half-empty mugs of egg-nog and coffee, he would reply with the most stoic of faces, "well, it's all over for another year."

And that was that.

We all laughed and rolled our eyes, but I always cringed just a bit. He was right. All of that build up, all of that anticipation... and then it was over within minutes. Sometimes I feel that Christmas morning is a bit like the last day of vacation. You try to enjoy it, but always with the looming heaviness that you have to return to work and "real life" the next day. Interestingly enough, the New York Times published an article some time ago about how vacations affect your happiness but I found myself reading it and thinking how one could easily replace the word "vacation" with the word "Christmas." The study was published in the journal Applied Research in Quality of Life, and was conducted to show that the largest increase in a person's level of happiness was directly related to simply planning a vacation or trip. According to research, the anticipation alone boosted happiness for upwards of eight weeks. Ironically, almost all people- regardless of how relaxing the vacation was- reported going back to baseline levels of happiness nearly right away after returning from vacation. And those that were only "somewhat relaxed" on their vacation reported the same levels of happiness of those that didn't even go on vacation that year.

So, if what this article is claiming is true and could be applied to any event, then 1) it would seem that the happiest time for all of us in the midst of the holiday season is actually right now. Today. This week. Maybe even last week. And 2) we get out of Christmas what we put into it. (That seems like a very cliche thing to say, but it couldn't be more true). As I was wrapping gifts the other night and the smell of my great-great grandmother's applesauce cake baking in the oven permeated the house, I realized that this (the preparation, the traditions that we're creating around our family and faith) is Christmas to me. The problem is that I often don't slow down enough to realize that Christmas isn't just a day I'm counting down to, not even as it pertains to the Christian faith. I think it's actually bigger than that. It's meant to encompass a spirit, a perspective, even a rhythm of life. Yet for so many of us- especially those of us blessed with type A personalities {casually whistles and glances away}, this time of year often becomes the complete antithesis of what we hope for it it to be. We practically give ourselves ulcers trying to beat the clock, get the last of the Christmas cards mailed in time, schedule family get-togethers, clean, bake, decorate, wrap, spend and of course, second-guess that gift we bought for such-and-such.

This, my friends, is what December is usually like for me. Each year, I vow to approach it differently. And each year, I conveniently forget how exhausted I was the Christmas before. I miss the forest for the trees. I miss Christmas because I'm too busy trying to make Christmas.

I hope that makes sense. It may not. I'm currently running on 5 hours of sleep because I was up late last night finishing Christmas cards, wrapping gifts and more or less acting like I wasn't going to be awakened at the butt-crack of dawn by either my 2 1/2 year-old or 10 month-old. (Guilty as charged). ;-) So for all of my friends and family and for anyone else who happens to stumble upon this post, I wish for you peace and joy and perhaps a little bit of relief in knowing that Christmas cannot be manufactured or manipulated, nor can it be created or coerced. It simply IS.

You can let yourself off the hook now (and I'm going to do my best to follow my own advice). ;-)

Grace and Peace to you, and Merry Christmas! :)

Oh Christmas Tree

2011-12-08T05:52:00.000-08:00

I've talked about the crappy Christmas puff painting "art" that I did for my parents (sadly, when I was old enough to know better). They kept it. They had it laminated. And every year, it claimed a spot right in the middle of my parents' refrigerator. *cringes*

Oh the embarrassment. Why, I wondered, was there the need to hang on to drawings of disfigured people and ambiguous objects? And they simply replied, "One day you'll understand, when you have kids of your own."

(Pshh. Yeah, right. )

But then, Ella and I decided to decorate ornaments yesterday.

OH. Now I get it.

Thus, I give you my most cherished ornament on our tree this year. :)

Stealing Christmas

2011-12-03T11:57:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, I thought that I was above being scammed. I hated to hear stories of the elderly or disabled having money taken right out of their pockets but even so, I usually assumed it was a due to an unfortunate combination of "assholery" (it's my new word) on the part of the scammer and naivete on the part of the victim.

A Macbook Pro was supposed to arrive at our house yesterday at 1 pm. But it didn't. It never will, actually. And only after we did more extensive research did we realize- too little, too late- that we had been scammed. Awesome. All of the credentials had checked out. We had gone to all the various (and completely legitimate) sites and google-searched names. Nothing looked remotely suspicious. Jake wired the money through western union to a third party parcel service that told us they would then send us the laptop once they received the money. When the confirmation email didn't come yesterday morning, Jake got a bad feeling- a feeling he said he had the day before as well, but had just chalked up to a case of "buyer's remorse." Something just wasn't adding up right, but we both wanted to believe that this person was good on their word. {Hey! *looks up* someone wrote the word "gullible" in the sky!. . .} (sigh)

First, there's that horrible, sinking feeling when you realize someone made a fool out of you. Then a split second after that, a burning desire to get even, followed at last by the realization that doing so would only be stooping to their level. Of course, we reported it, but have zero expectations that this person will be caught. What's done is done. So, it seemed like a good alternative to instead, kick ourselves over and over again. Thankfully, we were able to absorb the loss, but there were other people that had been scammed by this person. Would any of them have to tell their kids that there would be no Christmas presents this year because they lost their money to some asshole without a conscience? I struggled with whether or not to accept that the unfortunate message this season is one that claims people simply can't be trusted, or that people aren't good. Who wants to walk around with that chip on their shoulder during Christmas?

This, unfortunately, has been just another thing to add to a list of some other rather disappointing events this week. No- Jake and I were not enrolled in the jelly of the month club, but let's just say that there were certain things that I had built up in my mind, counted too much on, maybe hoped a little too hard for. (Who, me?!?) Of course, I'm not saying that hope doesn't have a place and purpose in our every day lives because it absolutely does. But I often find it's a tough balancing act for me to maintain a sense of hope without a posture of entitlement. I want to think that the things I hope for should come about-and particularly, the way that I want them to- because of x, y, and z.

But life just doesn't work that way. Here I am, 29 years old, and apparently still scamming myself into believing that life should go the way I want it to based on a cause-effect equation. Sure, some things do work out that way. But many things don't. Technically, Jake and I should have gotten our laptop because we gave that person our money, but we didn't.

By the end of this week, the question gradually evolved from "why did this happen?" to "why did it affect me like this?" Of course, the first question was much easier to answer because I could direct my frustration to other people and other circumstances. It was their problem, not mine. But the second question was much more difficult to answer because it had everything to do with me and the simple fact that I've been putting too much of my hope in the wrong kinds of things- into life events, things, money, even into my relationships. In the end, not one of those things can withstand the pressure that I put onto them to be my happiness, joy, or quick-fix. So if, at the end of a week filled with certain disappointments, I'm still sulking and seething over what should have been, well then, I've lost more than just money. I've lost my sense of joy and contentment. And that was something that I handed over willingly- like I believed I didn't have a choice.

But I did.

So maybe this is another lesson in the "nothing in life is guaranteed" category. I often say this like I truly believe it, but too many times, I find myself in situations that causes me to act the complete opposite. So today, as I type on my "old" laptop, I'm grateful that the things in my life that have fallen through were just things. We have our health, we have each other, and we have infinitely more than we deserve to have- and for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Confusing Complacency with Contentment

2011-11-20T08:07:00.000-08:00

I will never forget my theory and analysis professor at VCU. She was a feisty but lovable woman and she never sugar-coated anything. One particular morning when she was handing back graded assignments, she came around to me and I immediately saw the B- in the upper right-hand corner. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Then I flipped the paper over and there it was, scrawled in fierce, barely legible red ink:

Kristin, you are riding the coattails of your own talent and doing just enough to get by. I'm not impressed.

Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. Like a child getting the "I'm so disappointed in you" talk by their parents, at that precise moment, I wished she would have just gone ahead and given me an F. Not only had I not given it my best, I had been called out for it. I remember that I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but it stuck with me. She wasn't someone who knew me particularly well, yet if it was that painfully obvious to her that I wasn't truly giving myself over to something, I wondered what the other people in my life who did know me, see?

Nearly seven years later, I still think about that remark. I've often wondered why it stuck with me (other than the simple fact that we always tend to replay the negatives more than the positives). It was just an assignment- certainly not even a pivotal one at that. I think it carried so much weight, though, because it spoke to something much deeper in me than just a temporary moment of slacking off. Instead, I had developed a posture of complacency.

The problem is that in our culture, we confuse complacency with contentment. Contentment is defined as "enjoyment of whatever may be desired" or simply having enough. Complacency, on the other hand, is defined as "being contented" but "to a fault."

Take a balloon, for example. A balloon can be blown up, inflated, stretched. But it has limits. If those limits are blatantly disregarded, there is usually a loud pop. (In our world, we might call this breakdown). Contentment could be illustrated as a fully-inflated balloon- reaching its full potential, but not exceeding it. Complacency, then, is a balloon that thinks it's been blown up to it's full size when in fact, it hasn't even been stretched at all. It's not even aware that it could be so much more, but it's content to stay the way it is because as we all know, stretching can hurt. And there is always a risk that maybe you could stretch too much and then there might be irreparable damage. Or failure. Complacency likes to sit on the sidelines because, well, it's just safer that way.

If you've ever found yourself saying things like, "What does it REALLY matter?" or "it's not worth it," or "It's okay because no one else is doing it either," I hate to break it to you, but you're settling. And I only know this because I've said it far too much in my life. The reason my professor's words stung so many years ago is because she hit on a truth about myself that I didn't want to acknowledge- a truth that couldn't simply be fixed by turning back around and handing in an A + worthy project. It would involve pushing into something bigger than myself, something uncomfortable and unknown. It would mean changing my entire way of thinking.

So I did. I changed my perspective and everything has been awesome since then.

What, you don't believe me? Good. Because that's not how it works. (I wish). Things have been awesome, but they've also been downright hell-ish at times, too.

There is no one-time quick fix for complacency. And I wish I could say that it is (and was) only relegated to academia, but it extends far beyond into my marriage, my parenting decisions, my music, teaching, and writing. For some odd reason, I operated under the assumption that I would grow up, get married and become a mommy, and when I did, I would magically morph into someone who was no longer prone to complacency. But if anything, it's an even tougher battle now than it was when I was 21, especially since I have so much more on my plate than I did then. Instead, I got married, became a mommy and now I'm having to grow up. There are simply too many things that keep me busy, numb, and ultimately chasing my own tail and unfortunately, it's these things often get more of my attention than the things that really matter.

I can honestly say that most days, I just want to be comfortable. So much so, that I've gotten quite good at letting myself off the hook from everything from working out to writing...to letting the kids watch too much TV...to driving by the homeless guy at the nearby intersection and pretending not to notice. The truth that I act like belongs to everyone else but me is very simple, yet inescapable: I'm not called to be comfortable. Lots of times, this goes against everything I act upon in my day-to-day life. We're all creatures of comfort, to some extent or the other. But we're supposed to take risks. We're made to face fears and confrontations (whether good or bad) and come out better for them. We're built to love others more than ourselves. If we're lucky, we might embrace that early enough in our lives to act on it.

It's easy for me to think that my story is all about being a wife and a mommy and while I know that's undeniably a huge and very important piece to the puzzle, there's more. Lately, I've been wondering how much my tunnel vision has affected my way of thinking. What does it look like to live into a bigger story? What are you giving yourself to (for better or perhaps, for worse) this holiday season?

You Say Placenta, I Say "No Thank You."

2011-11-15T11:30:00.000-08:00

I don't remember a lot about the first few minutes right after both Milo and Ella were born other than lying on the cold OR table shaking and trying not to throw up. But oddly enough, I do remember that my OB asked if I wanted to see the placenta.

Dude, did you not just hear me ask the anesthesiologist for more Zofran? Pretty sure I don't want to look at some slab of pulsating blood and tissue. But thanks for the offer, weirdo.

The thing is, it's probably not weird to some. The mere fact that he even asked must have meant that it wasn't such an outrageous request in his line of business. On the other end of the spectrum, I am of the "just show me the baby when he/she gets here" school. No, I don't want mirrors. No, I don't want to peek over the curtain as you slice open my abdominal wall. And I certainly don't want to see my placenta. I might get flamed for saying this, but I honestly thought I would view the birthing process differently after I had my own spawn. Bringing new life into the world in and of itself is a beautiful miracle. But witnessing the actual act of birth is not so much. There was fluid and poop and blood everywhere. The stench of rust and iron and other odors that I didn't want to try to identify was overpowering. If I weren't paralyzed from the waist down, I would have bolted out the door.

That's just me. I can't speak for the majority.

On the other hand, if you're an artist that is blessed with a strong stomach and a fascination for internal organs, I have GREAT news. You can now hand-stitch a placenta teddy bear for someone you love. Because who doesn't want to snuggle with crusty organ remnants? Watch out Build-A-Bear- there's some competition lurking.

I got intrigued about what other things people like to do with their after-births. I'm kinda sorry I started looking, but now it's too late and I don't want to be the only one sitting here with my mouth gaping open. So while I'm told that the teddy bear would make a great stocking stuffer, if it's not your bag, here are a few other options:

Make placenta art!!

Get a placenta facial!!

Plant a placenta tree!!

Want a late-night snack? Now you don't have to go to Wendy's to "eat great, even late." (Some people really swear by this as a mood regulator).

(I just threw up a little in my mouth).

The options are truly endless. Don't be afraid to experiment. Me? I'd just prefer to play with the actual children that were nourished by it. But you know, to each their own. ;-)

Killed Through Comparison: Chasing Shadows

2011-11-12T06:25:00.000-08:00

My husbands old iPhone became a running joke in our house. For years, he had the iPhone 3G, what we now refer to as "the dinosaur." The thing took 10 seconds to bring up a webpage (you know, an eternity in Apple world) and he was constantly dropping calls and having texting issues. Due to several "mishaps" (I won't bore you with tales of my negligence here), I was able to upgrade to an iPhone 4 when it became available this past summer, but he continued to hold onto the dinosaur because "it worked well enough." (He has the patience of a saint, this man). So of course, I was all about my new iPhone 4- it was fast, it was bright, it was smart, it took fabulous pictures. But above all of that, it was the new phone. In my shallow pea-brain, I decided I was hip, so, like any loving wife would do, I shamelessly flaunted it in front of him. Look how fast it is, see how new it is? Isn't it awesome? Then, not even 4 months later, there was talk of an even newer iPhone and rumor had it this one would actually talk back to you. Wait, what? Talk about a buzz kill.

A month after that, a package addressed to my husband arrived on our front step and inside was a brand-spankin' new iPhone 4S. Suddenly, my phone didn't seem like all that. It wasn't the latest and greatest anymore. Checking the weather on my phone wasn't nearly as awesome as asking SIRI herself, not to mention the fact that my husband is now enjoying being the one to do the flaunting.

But this is exactly what good, strategic marketing does. It always stays one step ahead, luring you forward, telling you in small yet significant ways that you shouldn't be satisfied with what you already have, that you're not complete until you have XY and Z. The cryptic message brought to us by mass media eventually permeates to the core of who we are, until we are looking for approval and validation around every corner.

Do I look like I belong?

Am I wearing the right brands?

What if I mess up?

Am I good enough??

I do it without even realizing I'm doing it. I'll catch myself eyeing another woman, (especially another mom), another house, another blog- and before I know it, I've decided that I don't have it together like everyone else does. I need more, and I need better. My house needs more furniture and that room really needs a new rug. My writing could be better. My blog design could be more eye-catching. I don't have all organic products in my shopping cart. Why are her children sitting quietly in their stroller and mine are melting down? I should be cooking homemade dinners ever night. I wish I had her high cheekbones. On and on it goes until my head is spinning. A friend of mine sweetly commented the other day how calm and collected I seemed for having two young kids and that mommyhood "looked good on me." I'll admit that for a second, I felt validated. I had made the cut. But really, I felt something in between humbled and flabbergasted. I knew I couldn't let her think the same things about me that I probably project onto every other mom that I see. And while I would hope that there is at least a shred of truth to what she said- that part of my life's fulfillment here on this earth all along was to be Ella and Milo's mommy- I also know what many people didn't see. That I was barely keeping my head above water not more than a month ago and that it took me nearly seven months to admit that I was dealing with PPD.

I'm not alone in that struggle. According to a recent USA Today report, there's been a 400% increase in anti-depressant use since the 1980's and women are 2.5 times more likely to take them than men. In essence, 1 out of every 4 women is medicated. It's just a hunch, but I'd be willing to bet that the majority of those are moms, especially those of young children.

There is no denying that parenthood is the toughest job out there. The neurological responses to hormones and sleep deprivation alone can certainly create the perfect recipe for depression and anxiety. But is there more to it than chemicals? What about those self-imposed, unrealistic expectations we suddenly find ourselves buried beneath? What about the isolation? What about those false assumptions that everyone else is doing life better than we are? As women, are we essentially chasing shadows of something that doesn't even exist? One that's always two steps ahead of us, ever elusive, never quite within our reach? At the end of our pursuit, we turn the corner only to find that whatever (or whoever) it was that we were chasing wasn't nearly as big or as great as they had first appeared to be.

I've turned that corner more times than I can count. I'm a living, breathing example of a type A perfectionist. My best is often never good enough. For years, I thought this was one of my greatest attributes. In the right conditions, it's worked in my favor, but more often than not, it's led to numerous downfalls. That's the thing about chasing shadows- you can never catch them. Really, the best thing you can hope for is to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that's casting the shadow and realize that your perception of it and the reality of it are usually two entirely different things.

Small Word, Big Perspective

2011-11-10T06:50:00.000-08:00

Have you ever realized how much power is taken out of something if you were to place the word "just" in front of it? Lately, I've been thinking about how much anxiety could be reduced in my life if I started implementing this one, simple word into my vocabulary more often. Most people who struggle with different forms of anxiety have trouble contextualizing certain situations. They tend to make bigger deals of things that don't necessarily need to be big deals.

This word sneaks it's way into our daily conversations probably several times a day without us realizing it. Phrases like, "It's just a little bump- you're okay." "It's just a cold." "It's just for another five minutes." It's just a thing. It has the ability to take the edge off of just about anything, almost instantly. (On the flip side, there are things in our universe that we will never be able to downplay and that, quite frankly, would be completely inappropriate to even attempt to. It will never be "just" cancer. "Just" a divorce. "Just" war. "Just" a job loss. They are devastating on so many levels and often leave us feeling powerless against them).

But what about those little things that suddenly seem bigger than they should be? In those cases, perhaps all we're missing is a little bit of perspective- and that is surely the one thing in our life that we always have control over to some extent. So instead, what if it was just an off day? What if it was just a bad meeting? What if it was just someone else's opinion? What if that meant that you didn't have to let those things define you after all?

I think this is particularly helpful with anxious situations. I've been putting this into practice a lot lately, asking "what if it was just throwing up?" And I'll be completely honest- It took me longer than I'd like to admit that maybe, just maybe, the world wouldn't end. Maybe life would go on, just as it always does. I think it took me so long to admit it because I knew that it would mean coming face to face with the fact that all of the effort I put into worrying and avoiding and obsessing was all for nothing.

Ouch.

Of course, I'm not claiming that this is a quick fix for any kind of circumstance. If something in your life is in need of becoming "just" something instead of the reason you're constantly reaching for your pepcid tablets or Xanax, it's ultimately going to be boil down to an overall posture- not simply a change in your vocabulary. Identifying those things that trigger stress/anxiety is often half of the battle.

Are there things in your life that demand more of your time and attention than you want them to? You have control over that. Redefining your perspective = redefining your reality.

A Plea: Please Help This Family Bury Their Son...

2011-11-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

Oh how my heart is breaking tonight. I share this story because, in the midst of this "30 days of Thankfulness," I had the nerve to sit on my couch this morning and moan to a friend that both of my kids had colds and were up during the night. Whoa is me. DIdn't they just have colds a month ago? Because I'm pretty sure that means we should be done getting colds until next year.

Then I read this story. A little boy, born just a few months before Ella, diagnosed with acute lymphatic leukemia when he was only 4 months old. He spent most of his life attached to tubes and machines, undergoing a bone marrow transplant and fighting to see his third birthday. His little brother- born this past March- was, in fact, his bone marrow donor. They lost him a little bit at a time, slowly. He gave up his fight yesterday afternoon while his Momma held him.

Within minutes of reading it, I found myself standing at the foot of Ella's bed, watching her breathe in and out, then soaking in the warmth of her body as I scooped her up into my arms for just a few seconds. Afterward, I tiptoed into Milo's room and laid my hand gently on his back as I listened to his soft snoring and watched his red angel lips pucker while he dreamt. I was all at once filled with such intense gratitude for this life that I live and yet pissed beyond belief that any parent should have to hold their child while they breathe their last breath. And I'm scared. Because I know deep down inside that there's no reason this couldn't happen to me. For as much as life is precious, it seems it is that much more unpredictable.

These parents have just done something I hope and pray to God I never have to do. It is truly every parent's worst nightmare. And just when you think it couldn't get any tougher for this family, the dad found out he was fired from his job at the company he had worked at for several years because of the amount of time he had to take off of work to care for his family. Yes, you read that correctly. Fired. They have drained their savings account due to the cost of medical bills and are now in the position of having to come up with enough money to bury their own son.

Could I ask something of you? During this season of thankfulness, if your child(ren) are healthy and sleeping away up in their beds, maybe you would consider donating something to this family in their honor? (Paypal address is listed on Tyler's website). Every penny counts. If nothing else, just hug your loved ones close and cherish the moment you have with them right now- right this second. it's the only moment that really matters, and the only one we're ever guaranteed.

Rest in peace, Tyler. <3

Thirty Days of Thankful {Days 1 and 2}

2011-11-02T10:43:00.000-07:00

This probably should be the "29 Days of Thankful" but it doesn't have that nice alliteration and I plan to make up for it. Yesterday- the first day of November, I was thankful for a day to run errands and go to the grocery store by myself. This was something that would not have made it on the thankful list 3 years ago, but now joins the ranks with other things like oh, a shower, or maybe an uninterrupted cup of hot coffee (you know, instead of having to stick it in the microwave two or three other times to re-heat it). I wouldn't trade these crazy, exhausted years for anything, but I'm sure my husband might like it if I smelled good, occasionally. ;)

TODAY, I'm thankful for family- both Jake's and mine here in the area. I sometimes wonder how we would make it without them and I'm also fairly certain that NONE of us would have survived the move this summer without their help. I was never able to live close to my grandparents when I was younger, so the fact that Ella and Milo are already so close (and not just in proximity) to my parents and Jake's parents is something I consider a huge blessing. Between their aunts, great aunts, cousins (and second cousins) and even great grandparents, my children are continually showered with love and affection by family members who want to have a part in helping to raise them, and I love this. I love it, not just because it means that we don't have to shoulder the heavy responsibilities of raising our kids on our own, but because I hope it means that we are helping to continue the legacy set forth by our parents, and that is exactly what is printed on the picture in our playroom: "Other things may change us, but we start and end with family."

Motherhood: Forever Redefining "Gross."

2011-10-31T11:37:00.000-07:00

"Momma, Momma!! My nose came out! My nose came out!! You come and get it please?"

This is what I heard first thing this morning. Maybe I should have been alarmed, but I figured it was highly unlikely that I would walk into my daughter's room and see her sitting on her bed with part of her face missing. But I was curious to find out what exactly had caused her little imagination to take flight so I darted up the steps. And there she was, standing at her gate (aka her "cage door") with a long trail of snot coming out of her nose, across her lips and hanging off of her chin. "My nose came out! You wipe it please?" There was a point in time in my younger years when I would have come at her with approximately 16 tissues so as not to touch any of the sliminess. Especially if it was the greenish-yellow kind. But not anymore. I've left those ways behind.

I've decided that motherhood is so often this junction of cute and repulsive. Well, it's repulsive to everyone else but you. Being a mommy gives you a sort of immunity to gross things. (My personal opinion here, but I think the training for this begins with the ten long months of weird and sometimes disgusting things that happen to your body when you're pregnant). Before Ella and Milo came along, I did my fair share of babysitting and nanny-ing and it often took everything in me not to gag while changing diapers or wiping snotty noses. Back then, I had been known to use a third of a package of wipes for one solitary poopy diaper. Now that I understand how much it costs to buy wipes and diapers, I shudder. (I shouldn't have accepted payment from those parents...) Now, I've mastered the wipe triple fold. Took me a couple of months to get it down, but I'm pretty proud of myself for conserving. Then there are days like today, when I was changing one of Milo's infamous blowouts (poor kid only goes once every 2 days at best and has been that way for months). This is usually a 3-4 triple folded wipe job, AT LEAST. Mid wipe-down, I realize that there are no more wipes in the package and not only that, there are no more refills in the drawer (because of course, they're all downstairs in a Target bag waiting to be unpacked). *%#*!! There was still a considerable amount of poop to be wiped up- enough that I didn't want to have to pick him up and transport him downstairs or I knew we'd both need a bath. I looked around for something to improvise with....and landed on a pair of his socks. (Yes. I did what you think I did). But it had to be done. Not one of my finer moments, but at least they were somewhat soft and...they folded up well inside of the diaper...(sigh)

This got me thinking about some other classic gross-to-everyone else mom-isms? (Disclaimer: if you have actually frozen your placenta, then diced it up and blended it for smoothies and such- you're exempt. You win. Nothing I put here could ever possibly trump that. You're a friggin' rockstar).

--Your child starts choking/gagging/coughing at the dinner table and you instinctively cup your hands under their chin just in case they puke. Because moms apparently love to catch vomit in their hands (Probably because they'd rather most of it go there than all over the carpet). It truly must be an instinctive mom move- like flinging your arm across the passenger seat when you have to break suddenly in the car. I'm pretty freaked out by puke and even I can't explain why I do this every time either one of the kids gags.

--The scratch n sniff test: it's brown and it's near the bottom of your shirt. Is it poop, chocolate, apple butter? Only one way to find out. The crazy thing is, it shouldn't matter what it is because most people would throw it in the wash regardless. But as a mom, I've become accustomed to wearing food as a kind of accessory in my outfits. It's the norm these days. It's sad I know, but if I realized I was looking at the residue of a smooshed chocolate chip cookie, I would sadly probably move on about my errands. But I draw the line at poop. Hence why the scratch and sniff test is valid.

--You take bites of your kids' already partially eaten food. I used to watch parents do this in disgust. How could she put that partially chewed gummy worm in her mouth?? And now I know. Because they offered it to you- that's why. The first time your little girl or boy takes the initiative to share something special off of their plate with you- YOU WILL EAT IT. And you will love it. Because you're now a sap. (You might throw up a little in your mouth afterward, but you will learn to disguise that well too).

--You will carry a bowl of poop into the living room, set it on the floor for your husband and other family members to see, and have a dance party around it. At first, you might let yourself think you're doing this because you want to over-emphasize what a big deal this is to your 2 1/2 year old. But then you realize you're not really over-emphasizing it. You're being 100% genuine. You're actually more excited than a kid on Christmas morning. There is a small turd in the potty and you are considering taking a picture of it and posting it on facebook. HUGE deal.

There is obviously a lot more I could add to this (since the list seems to grow on a daily basis). But for now, I think this is all my stomach can handle writing about. ;-)

"How to Sleep Deprive Your Mommy" (reposted)

2011-10-26T06:12:00.000-07:00

Since I have a few friends who have just become new mamas (and some that are new mamas again) I am reposting this because, well, it seems that babies everywhere are staging a coup through sleep deprivation. Grab another cup of coffee and enjoy!

"Dear Fellow Babies,

OK, here's my situation. My Mommy has had me for almost 3 months. The first few weeks were great--I cried, she picked me up and fed me, anytime, around the clock. Then something happened. Over the last few weeks, she has been trying to STTN (sleep through the night). At first, I thought it was just a phase, but it is only getting worse. I've talked to other babies, and it seems like its pretty common after Mommies have had us for around 5-6 months. Here's the thing: these Mommies don't really need to sleep. It's just a habit. Many of them have had some 30 years to sleep--they just don't need it anymore. So I am implementing a plan. I call it the Crybaby Shuffle.

It goes like this:

Night 1--cry every 3 hours until you get fed. I know, it's hard. It's hard to see your Mommy upset over your crying. Just keep reminding yourself, it's for her own good.

Night 2--cry every 2 hours until you get fed.

Night 3--every hour.

Most Mommies will start to respond more quickly after about 3 nights. Some Mommies are more alert, and may resist the change longer. These Mommies may stand in your doorway for hours, shhhh-ing. Don't give in. I cannot stress this enough: CONSISTENCY IS KEY!! If you let her STTN (sleep through the night), just once, she will expect it every night. I KNOW IT'S HARD! But she really does not need the sleep; she is just resisting the change. If you have an especially alert Mommy, you can stop crying for about 10 minutes, just long enough for her to go back to bed and start to fall asleep. Then cry again. It WILL eventually work. My Mommy once stayed awake for 10 hours straight, so I know she can do it.

The other night, I cried every hour. You just have to decide to stick to it and just go for it. BE CONSISTENT! I cried for any reason I could come up with:

My sleep sack tickled my foot.

I felt a wrinkle under the sheet.

My mobile made a shadow on the wall.

I burped, and it tasted like rice cereal. I hadn't eaten rice cereal since breakfast, what's up with that?

The dog said "ruff." I should know. My Mommy reminds me of this about 20 times a day. LOL.

Once I cried just because I liked how it sounded when it echoed on the monitor in the other room.

Too hot, too cold, just right--doesn't matter! Keep crying!!

I had drooled so much my sheets were damp and I didn’t like it touching me.

I decided I was sick of all the pink in my room so I cried.

It took awhile, but it worked. She fed me at 4am. Tomorrow night, my goal is 3:30am. You need to slowly shorten the interval between feedings in order to reset your Mommies' internal clocks. Sometimes my Mommy will call for reinforcements by sending in Daddy. Don’t worry though, Daddies are not set up for not needing sleep the way Mommies are. They can only handle a few pats and shhing before they declare defeat and send in the Mommy.

Also, be wary of the sleep sheep with rain noises. I like to give Mommy false hope that listening to the rain puts me to sleep so sometimes I pretend to close my eyes and be asleep and then wait until I know Mommy is settling back to sleep to spring a surprise cry attack. If she doesn’t get to me fast enough I follow up with my fake cough and gag noise that always has her running to the crib. At some point I am positive she will start to realize that she really doesn’t really need sleep.

P.S. Don't let those rubber things fool you, no matter how long you suck on them, no milk will come out. Trust me."

Germs, Germs...

2011-10-21T19:52:00.000-07:00

It's only a matter of time before your kids experience their first "throw-up bug." And I know what you're thinking- so what? It's true that for most people, this is not a major consideration when it comes to having kids, but it is for some people who struggle with emetophobia. Some emetophobic women ultimately decide that they won't ever have kids because children, as we all know, are walking petrie dishes. It obviously crossed my mind, although never in the sense that I swore off having a family. I just wondered how I would react, or if I would be able to "hold it together" for my kids' sake. I wondered if- despite my best efforts- they might still pick up on my fear and become afraid of it themselves.

Ella got it for the first time when she was 13 months old- in the summer, oddly enough. I heard her coughing in the middle of the night, went into her room to check on her, and saw that she had gotten sick. The phobic part of me wanted to run and get Jake first, but the Mommy in me took over and I was instantly overwhelmed with empathy as I scooped up my scared little girl out of her crib (at which point she proceeded to puke all over me as well). In the moment, I did what I needed to do, caught off guard by my own intestinal fortitude. Thankfully, Jake helped with the clean up while I consoled her as best as I could. I was 9 weeks pregnant with Milo at the time, so I became even more anxious at the thought that I wouldn't be able to discern "stomach bug" nausea from the "first trimester" nausea I was already battling. I remember we finally got Ella back to bed and she slept through the rest of the night. I, on the other hand, laid out on our couch and shook from my frazzled nerves, too afraid to let myself go to sleep for fear I would wake up sick too. (Neither Jake or I caught it).

This is just one of many instances over the last few years that prompted me to get a handle on the anxiety. Not just for my sake, but for the sake of my family. There are few things that I have learned to be absolute truths as a mommy, but one of them without a doubt is this: when your kids are sick, they want YOU. Not Daddy. Only Mommy will do. (Heck, to this day, I still want my mom when I'm sick). So while some moms might aspire to be able to ride rollercoasters with their kids, I want to be the mom that can sit there and hold her daughter's hair back while she barfs into a trashcan, or rub my sons back when he feels sick. The truth is, as someone who has dealt with emetophobia, I may never be totally nonchalant about vomit- ever. But I do believe that I will get "throw-up grace" on throw-up days- that ability to be strong, present, and (hopefully) cool as a cucumber when my kids need me.

So when those times happen, I will not put myself (or them) in a plastic bubble. I will not. No matter how much I might want to. {Repeats mantra}. But so help me God, I will clean and sanitize the shit (literally) out of my home when these unwanted intestinal visitors come around. Hey, it's my prerogative. And because I'm probably much more OC about it than the average person, I've collected a lot of good cleaning/sanitizing ideas and tips over the last few years and just recently came across this post to on how to get rid of the germs AND do it in an eco-friendly way. (There are some pretty good suggestions in the comment section too!)

So do all of your fellow germaphobes a favor and check it out! Good stuff! :)

Steve Jobs: Celebrating Curiosity

2011-10-06T06:38:00.000-07:00

"Your time is limited so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
~ Steve Jobs

Ella sits on our couch and navigates her way through the apps on the home screen of my iPhone and I watch her today, thinking that she'll never truly understand just how much her future has been shaped by a man named Steve Jobs. As soon as she was old enough to grab for toys, she began passing up her Elmo phone in hopes of getting her tiny fingers around my iPhone. Milo also seems much more intrigued by it than any of the other toys we've bought for him. They're no dummies. They may wet their pants, but they know a good product when they see it. :-) The more I've heard about Steve Jobs and his passing, the more I realize that it's not going to be enough for me to simply tell them that he was the genius behind the cool, tech-y toys that they will continue to enjoy. Rather, I want them to know that those "toys" were a direct result of his character and work ethic:

Innovative.

Passionate.

Artistic.

A man who understood that good is the enemy of great.

A man who's curiosity ultimately led him- and subsequently the entire world- into a new age of thinking, navigating, connecting, reasoning, and being.

This is the reason I hope they never stop asking why or how. You just never know where those two questions will take you. Without curiosity, there's no creativity. And without creativity, there's no life.

Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. And thank you for bringing us along for the ride.

"Jagged Little Pill"

2011-10-04T09:01:00.001-07:00

There comes a point in time when you realize you aren't willingly giving yourself to something anymore. The realization had actually been there for months, but I decided to finally admit it to myself two weeks ago. At some point over the last few months, I think I stopped living and started simply surviving. Every day felt like a struggle. Survival until naptime, then survival until bedtime. I would tell Jake that we survived a trip to Target. Last month, we survived the six hour car ride to the beach. Then we survived the beach, but barely (we came back 3 days early). Life became about getting from point A to point B in one piece. I observed other moms when I went out and although I know that nothing is ever what it appears (boy, do I know that one), I started feeling like maybe every other mom except me knew the secret to enjoying their kids. I began to think that maybe I was missing part of the "mom" gene- the one that made me less irritable, more forgiving, more flexible, more....happy. I kept thinking, aren't these are supposed to be the years of our lives- being parents to two beautiful, healthy kids? Isn't this what I always wanted? Why do I feel like this??

So I called my OB and told him I wanted my money back. :)

Okay, not exactly. But I did call him and tell him that this wasn't what I signed up for. Something more was going on. I knew there would be exhaustion, illness, raging hormones, hectic schedules, and days when I would feel like I was barely getting by. But I didn't expect to lose myself in all of it, to forget who I was and the things that I enjoyed. I told him that I couldn't get excited about going shopping, or carving pumpkins, or wine tasting. {gasp?!?!} That Christmas seemed overwhelming instead of occupying it's usual spot as my most favorite time of the year. That I cooked food and ate it, but didn't really taste it. I couldn't finish sentences, couldn't focus. I went to bed exhausted and somehow managed to wake up even more exhausted. My entire body ached. I watched life happen to everyone else but somehow felt like a bystander in my own. I explained how I felt guilty for no reason at all and that I didn't feel like I had anything to bring to the table anymore as a wife, a mother, or a friend. I had given the best of what I had to give for so long, until there was nothing left to give but leftovers. I felt stale, used up. I sobbed to the poor nurse on the phone (she must have been so glad she answered) that I was afraid I would blink- just like everyone promises me that I'll do- and they will be 18 and 16, and when I look back at these "best years"- I'll realize I spent them being numb. I knew if I was going to get better, I had to make myself say it out loud: I think I have PPD.

One script for Zoloft and a couple of weeks later, it's amazing how much better I feel. I feel relieved to know that I wasn't totally losing it after all. I had been carrying something around that wasn't mine to hold onto. A weight was instantly lifted off of me, I think, before I even took the first pill. In hindsight, there were a lot of contributing factors: I'm right in the middle of an exhausting season of life- and there's really no quick fix for that. I'm also a proverbial milk factory for my son, who happens to have the appetite of an NFL linebacker, which keeps me literally "on demand" 24/7 and I think my hormones have hormones now. But I suspect some of my recent restlessness, too, is because I'm simply not pouring my energy into anything else other than my family. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that except for the realization that being a stay-at-home mommy simply isn't enough for me, nor is it bringing out the best in me. And it was an entirely different kind of pill to swallow to finally be okay with admitting that. For so long, I was afraid to actually say it because I thought it meant I had failed. Like, if I actually had a boss as a stay-at-home mom, maybe this would be the part where I had to turn in my two weeks. Maybe I would have even been fired.

But I'm okay with this, with coming to the conclusion that it hasn't turned out how I thought it would. At the end of the day, I have an amazing family. I have two happy, healthy kids, an amazing and devoted husband- and I'm hopelessly in love with all of them. But there's a nagging that something more is required of me outside of this, and I think I finally understand that in a way I haven't since I first became a mom. Maybe something more is required of me because I have so much. I was talking to one of my dearest friends the other day and she said to me, "sometimes, you have to get lost outside of yourself, or you'll be lost inside yourself." It was exactly what I needed to hear.

So now I embark on another journey. I'm not exactly sure what it entails or where it will take me, but for the first time in months, I'm not numb anymore. And that's a great start.

"What's That Smell??"

2011-09-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

There are few things I find more disgusting than, say, pulling a sippy cup of old milk out from it's week-long hiatus under our sofa. But lucky me.... today's treat was a pile of dried puke in the corner of Milo's room (and it clearly wasn't from Milo). This is definitely another first. I guess I never thought I would just happen to stumble upon something like this, in part, because I'm usually pretty tuned in to Ella when she says her stomach hurts. Honestly, I figured if she did get sick, (if it wasn't all over me), then she would probably tell me or show me, or somehow I would just know.

Rewind to a few nights ago though and it makes sense: I brought Milo in to his room to feed him and put him down and told Jake that I smelled throw up. He came in the room, sniffed, looked at me and said, "you and that NOSE." Shook his head and left the room. I said, "it's called mom nose and it's quite accurate, thank you very much." I can tell the difference between teething poops, regular poops and dairy allergy poops, smell spit up from across the room, differentiate between a carrot and sweet potato stain on a shirt just by sniffing it, and of all things-- I know vomit when I smell it. Everyone does. It probably takes all of us back to our days in elementary school when some poor kid didn't make it to the bathroom and then the janitor whipped out that horrid orange stuff. Ugh.

So now, I'm stifling the urge to say, "I told you so!"- only slightly stronger than my urge to gag and run for the Lysol. She must have gotten sick while she was playing, then just moved on to something else. I never heard a word from her about it. She has told me that her tummy hurt over the last few days, but she also tells me this often at bedtime as a stall tactic, and has otherwise seemed fine. So for now, I'm just grateful I didn't have to fight going into my "stomach bug OC" mode because well, I didn't know about it. On another level, it's in some way reassuring to me to know that it wasn't even a big enough deal for her to say anything to me, even though I hate that she was sick and I didn't know.

So, lesson learned from my two year old (and one that I'm unfortunately dropping some bones to have to re-learn myself): Life is too fun to let a little puke ruin it.

Slow and Steady

2011-09-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

There's no other way to say it: some days, it's still hard for me to accept that anxiety is a regular part of my life. It's not who I am, but it sure does feel that way. On the one hand, I know I'm making progress because I probably wouldn't have setbacks (at least, what I perceive them to be). Ironic as it might sound, I know that If I'm feeling uncomfortable/nervous/anxious, it's usually because I'm doing something to push the envelope and that brings a bit of perspective. On the other hand, it's been five years. FIVE. On my own self imposed time-line of recovery, I was supposed to be sky-diving by now. Maybe running marathons. Getting a degree in clinical psychology so that I can help people through this very same process. (See the problem?)

I never thought of myself as a competitive person. I think I assumed this because I never played a lot of sports and I always associated being competitive with something like running up and down the field with a hockey stick, or maybe getting so pissed in a tennis match that I break the racket over me knee. Turns out, I am pretty competitive- it's just not super-obvious. I don't want to do something unless I know it's going to be the best at it (competitive meets perfectionism). I don't want to do something if I think I'm going to fail miserably (competitive meets passive-aggressive perfectionism. Oy). And I especially love to prove people wrong- defy the odds. If you want to motivate me, just tell me I can't do it.

The irony of this anxiety though, is that I'm not out to prove anyone wrong but myself. Not a single person in my life in the past five years (or ever, actually) has said to me, "Kristin- you're in way too deep and there's no way you'll be able to do ____ again. Might as well throw in the towel."

The only person saying those things to me is me.

So, a couple of truths for today, in case anyone else can identify....

Truth #1: I would feel a lot better about myself on those particularly anxious days if I talked to myself the way that all the people I love in my life talked to me.

Truth #2: There is no deadline to recovery. Slow and steady wins this race.

Day 4- Oh, the Packing {Chill the Eff Out Series}

2011-09-16T12:05:00.000-07:00

One more day until we leave for the beach. "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow...you're only a day aWAYYYYY." {Okay, moving on}.

Every year, I make a list of the things we need for the beach. (Note that my definition of "need" and my husband's definition vary slightly. Last year, he said, "what do we need a portable DVD player for? She'll be fine." Let's just say that this year, the portable DVD player was one of the FIRST things I secured for our 6 hour car ride). But that list has more than doubled over the last 3 years. And every year, I vow not to overpack. I scale down the list. I take only what's necessary. (Sort of. Because, it always turns out that I DO need 4 pairs of shoes, and I will not waver on that). And every year, I stand back and look at my car, and it always looks more like we're going to some kind of Fisher Price toy expo than the beach.

So I've spent all day today sorting laundry, packing, and meticulously planning outfits (rather than my usual tactic of throwing random things into the bags and saying, "I'll figure it out when we get there)." I'm actually quite proud of myself, regardless of the fact that it took half the day. And of course, I got a little bitter because Jake came in the door tonight, threw some boxers, T-shirts, pants, shorts, flip-flops and deoderant in his half of the suitcase in 5 minutes flat and said, "well, I'm all packed."

Hmph.

But it's all good. Even if it turns out that my sanity is packed up somewhere in the back of my car with the eleven other bags, I'm fairly confidant it will be restored around this time tomorrow evening when I'm finally able to breathe in some fresh, salt-water air. :)

Day 3 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

2011-09-15T12:22:00.000-07:00

You know those days when you sit on the floor with your kids while they play, and everyone has woken up from their naps in a sunny disposition, dinner is already in the crockpot and you just smile and say, "ahhhh..."

Today isn't one of those days. Matter of fact, today is the complete antithesis of that day. So here, I give you, "My Life Is So Horrible and My Mommy Doesn't Love Me," by Ella and Milo.

If you don't laugh, you cry. So I'm choosing to laugh.

(...all the way to the wine cabinet.)

Happy Friday Eve everyone! :)

Day 2 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

2011-09-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

When I was about 3, I decided to scribble a silver crayon all over the back of my parents dark orange corduroy couch. I was doing it a favor, I SWEAR.

Consequently, that was one of the first spankings I ever remember getting...

And now, 26-ish years later, I have a an artistic and extremely expressive little girl of my own who loves to prove to me, time and time again, that what goes around comes around. Thanks Ella!! *thumbs up*

That would be the back of her door in her room.

It's going to stay that way for a while too. On that note, I would like to claim false advertising because those crayons are, in fact, NOT washable. (At least, not as it pertains to soap and water). So, I guess until the door gets a fresh coat of paint, I'm just going to- wait for it- chill the eff out. ;-)

Day 1 {"Chill the Eff Out Series"}

2011-09-12T07:05:00.000-07:00

I'm throwing in the towel.

I've been letting far too many little things get to me. I suppose that everyone's definition of "little" is different, but for me, it truly is the "little" things that drive me batty. ISFJ's like myself love to have control- all the time, over everything. (A coincidence that I've dealt with anxiety for a large majority of my life? I think not). Anyhoo, there's nothing like having kids to make you realize once and for all that control, really and truly, is nothing but an illusion. Yay! .....???

In terms of priorities, the question no longer is, "what should I do first?" (assuming I would actually be able to knock out my entire to-do list in one day. HAH). Instead, it's become, "what is the worst possible consequence if ____ doesn't get done?" All this week, I will be posting pictures of things that I've decided to chill the eff out about, for the sake of my family and my own sanity. No facades. No sugar-coating. No bitching. (Okay, maybe just a little griping, but under my breath). Some of the things that get under my skin will probably be hilarious to some, but hopefully relatable to others. We all have our vices, right?

{deep breath} Here goes.

I give you....my kitchen sink (dun-dun-DUUNNNN).

I almost always clean as I go, after breakfast, after snacks, after lunch. Can't STAND to have messes or clutter. But I've decided I don't technically need to clean them all up right away. I can wait until naptime (but not a second longer, daggone it. Hey, progress is progress). Maybe eventually I'll work up to letting them go...*gasp*....ALL DAY before I wash them. ;)

Exhale

2011-09-06T04:48:00.001-07:00

I like to talk out both sides of my mouth sometimes. Not super proud of that. For example, I talk about how I wish that the kids would sleep in and give me that much more time to center myself for the day. And then on the rare occasion that they both sleep in (it should be noted that "sleeping in" means 7:45 a.m.), I can't leave well enough alone and find myself worrying that maybe something is wrong. So instead of sitting back with that second cup of coffee, I risk forfeiting my alone time in the morning to creak open their doors and watch their little bellies go in and out.

Ironically enough, simply watching them sleep centers me in a way that few other things can. There's something so soothing about watching a slumbering babe- completely unaware of world events, politics, terrorist threats, deadlines, mounting to-do lists. Watching them sleep reminds me that I, too, came into this world with an innate sense of being in the moment. I slept when I needed rest. I ate when I was hungry. I played with abandon. Whatever it was I was doing at the time almost always got 100% of my focus. The concept (burden) of multi-tasking was not yet dictating the structure of my entire day.

Do more. Be more. Not enough. Finish this. Start this. Don't forget. Email, text, call, log on, connect and whatever you do, don't drop the spinning plates you're balancing all day, every day. Round and round and round...

Then, the inevitable crash and burn.

Thank you, my sweet boy, for reminding me that sometimes it's enough to just breathe in and out.

Milo Takes Flight

2011-09-06T04:18:00.001-07:00

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose."

I've heard this phrase a good many times since the kids were born. Maybe it's just me, but I almost always have high expectations that either saying or hearing it will make me feel better, and I'm always sorely disappointed.

And hey, speaking of "sore,"... Milo got up close and personal with our stairs two days ago. Every single one of them, to be exact, all the way down to our hardwood floor. Try as I might, I cannot get that sickening thud out of my head or the sound of Jake yelling and the terrifying scream (although I think it was actually mine and not Milo's). He seemed okay, sans the hysterical crying and a growing goose egg on his forehead, but we became pretty concerned when he started throwing up and then proceeded to get sick four more times before I hurried him and Jake out the door to the E.R. I sat on the couch with Ella and cried. God love her. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay mama. Milo fall down and bump his head. He get a bandaid, make it feel better."

Oh if only it were that easy, baby. I didn't feel like trying to explain to her that there are some things that band-aids just can't fix. I figure she'll learn that soon enough though, so I'd like to let her believe that for as long as she wants. Instead, what I'd like to have a quick fix for are the inevitable pangs of mom guilt. I've already been sensitive to the fact that my little bean has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention, (although thankfully, he has nothing to compare it to). But he doesn't have his own scrapbook like his sister's, doesn't have nearly the same amount of pictures in the ol' iPhoto library, kid came into the world already missing a finger. When Ella was born, we had visitors streaming in and out of our hospital room all day, every day. I finally had to tell people we couldn't see them because I was flat exhausted. I still remember when Jake went out to announce, "It's a GIRL!!!!" to our families and it was immediately followed by hoots and hollars and all kinds of jubilant screeches, so much so that a few nurses reprimanded them for being too loud. When Milo was born, things were just different- as they almost always are with the second. Less fanfare, less attention. I spent the first day of his life lying in a hospital bed, barely able to hold him, nauseated and shaking from pain meds while my parents and Jake's parents popped in and out to meet him. Mom guilt then too, but I think the percocet took the edge off of it that day.

So to say that I've been conscious of the fact that he hasn't gotten near the limelight that his sister has (and her limelight could stand to be put on a dimmer switch, in my humble opinion) is an understatement. And a couple of years from now, I get the bonus of being able to tell him about the time he did his best imitation of a slinky all the way down our stairs. You know, just to rub some salt in that "Why Wasn't I Born First?" wound.

So a couple of realizations I learned the hard way (although probably not nearly as hard as they were for him):

1. 6 month olds who've just learned to crawl are incredibly fast.

2. Momma's with adrenaline pumping through their veins are also incredibly fast. I think I bounded up the steps by threes in about 1.5 seconds to get to him and practically pulled my hamstring.

3. A goose egg IS, in fact, a good sign.

4. Vomiting is sometimes not (although not altogether unusual).

5. It's usually not the worst case scenario. And that was the case for us as well, thankfully. But my mind still went there- and I knew it would. That's part of being a mom. The other part of being a mom is honoring that little voice that tells you to go with your gut, just in case. (It would have been nice, in my case, had that voice decided NOT to be on mute or "en espanol" when I left my child up in his room "just for a minute" to play with his toys while I went to throw clothes in the washer. Lesson learned. *sigh*

6. I don't remember things from when I was 6 months old-- and neither will he. THANK GOD.

So needless to say, there's a lot of gratitude in our house today.

That, and two more brand-spankin' new baby gates....

"Kristin, Meet Change."

2011-09-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." (Bruce Barton)

Some people love change. I'm not one of them. Oh, I like the idea of change. Won't it be great for Ella to have a brother or sister? Wouldn't it be nice to move back to the city? What if I were to start up my own business from scratch or go back to school- how awesome would that be? The truth is- all of those things are awesome. But my downfall is that I tend to idealize the end result without considering all the steps that have to happen in between. For example, when we started trying for #2, it didn't really occur to me that my second pregnancy would be the emotional roller-coaster that it was, nor that I would be sick for a good two-thirds of it. I just pictured two little cherubs sitting on the floor together, giggling and eating ice cream cones. (For the record, both kids have yet to actually sit on the floor together eating ice cream cones and giggling, but I'll sure as hell take a picture of it for posterity's sake if it happens).

And then there was our plan to move back into the city. That's been about as fun as, well, moving with two small kids is (in other words, I have gray hairs now). I remembered back to when we moved right after we got married- how I sat for hours on our kitchen floor, sipping coffee, gingerly flipping through cookbooks and enjoying the entire process of unpacking my kitchen, taking my time deciding where each knick-knack went. For some bizarre, illogical reason, I pictured myself doing the same thing again this time, then proceeded to scare Jake (and even myself) by my tazmanian devil-like antics as I hurriedly shoved pots, pans and cookie sheets into any available cabinet during naptime one day (still haven't found my butter-dish, but that's another story). Again, I pictured our new house and my mind went in a thousand directions simultaneously about how I wanted to decorate each room. I pinned the crap out of my boards on Pinterest. I pictured Jake and I perusing stores for various statement pieces, artwork, etc. I decided we would go antique-ing and try to have all original, one-of-a-kind pieces. Then I envisioned our backyard and the future garden we would plant so that when Ella and Milo got done giggling and eating their ice cream cones on the floor, they could mosey on outside and pick their own tomatoes and peppers...

What's that, you say? Moving costs money? Oh, right.

What's that? My daughter doesn't even like vegetables? {sigh}

So I sometimes get excited about the thought of change. But I have to admit that these days, that excitement is relegated mostly to getting my hair highlighted or the season's latest trends. In all honesty, there's been quite a bit of change (aside from the aforementioned ones). Here's the quick run-down: I gave birth in February and have since been attempting the transition from one to two kids. Haven't mastered it- probably never will. Jake's responsibilities at his work increased ten-fold soon after Milo was born, adding additional stress on his end. Then, our best friends moved 6 hours away. A month later, we moved out of the house that we were newlyweds/new parents in. My parents also moved back into town after being away for three years. And last, but certainly not least, the faith community we've been a part of that had for so long been a place of stability started transitioning and undergoing some pretty major changes. I had been plugging along, keeping myself busy, noticing that life was actually quite different, but not really accepting it, until one day out of the blue (or perhaps, not so out of the blue) I found myself driving home from a meeting with our faith community, completely broken. All of those changes had finally caught up to me, forcing me to finally acknowledge them. As the tears fell, all I could sputter and sob to Jake was that nothing felt familiar anymore. I felt alone. I was supposed to feel happy, because overall, most of the changes were good. Instead, I felt bewildered. "Life" just looked so different from how I had pictured it in my head not even a year ago.

And that's probably the bigger issue: I get an idea about how something should be, and I think it should be that way mostly because it maintains my sense of comfort. So many times, I pray and ask God to give me the change I want- on my terms- because, silly girl that I am, I think I should be able to call the shots. Then, when change comes knocking on my door, bringing it's two BFF's "awkwardness" and "uncertainty," I act surprised, as if that wasn't part of the game plan.

So yeah, there's been a lot of awkwardness in the last few months. There's been inconvenience. There have been moments when I've gotten my panties in a wad and declared, "I didn't sign up for this!" But the reality is that I can let the change make me or break me, but one thing is certain- it's always around the corner. I may not always welcome it with open arms, but in these last few weeks, I think I've finally began to understand that underneath the awkwardness, uncertainty and discomfort, all changes are capable of narrating a beautiful story- even a redemptive one, if I let them.

So here's to continuing on with the narrative with all of it's moments- the good, the awkward and hopefully, the poignant.

The Beautiful Stuff

2011-08-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

I'm not really sure how, but we still have power. (Although I'm sure that now that I've typed it, the lights will flicker and go out). In any case, we're feeling SO incredibly lucky. And while Irene was bending and snapping trees and power lines outside, Ella and Milo seemed intent on doing the same to my nerves, but alas, we have survived. Kids are in bed, glass of wine is in hand and I'm feeling very much DONE with this week. Mother nature can kindly take her storms and tectonic plate-shifting and shove it.

In spite of the storms (both literal and metaphorical), there were some good moments today. Ella and I made "smores sticks." So easy and fun and she loved it. :)

(....and then I wondered what in God's name I was thinking giving chocolate to a house-bound two year old).

Then, after relentlessly begging to sit up in our bay window and watch the rain, I finally gave in to her, all while keeping a watchful eye out for falling branches. She was so fascinated to just sit and watch the storm that I became entranced too.

And of course, Milo had to get in on the action- per her request. I love that she asks me to get him and bring him to her.

While the storm was raging outside, memories were being created inside. Would I have missed out on them had it been any other day? Would I usually just sit and watch the rain? (Um, nope). Unfortunately, sometimes it takes something like a hurricane (or an earthquake) to get us to slow down (or perhaps stop dead in our tracks) and take a good look at the beautiful stuff. Needless to say, I'm feeling very grateful- especially at the end of this particular week.

"Irene"

2011-08-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

Gotta love Richmond. We're all- "holy crap-- go out and buy up all the bread, water, toilet paper and chocolate chip cookie dough because Jesus is coming!!!" every. single. time. mother nature decides to send us a storm. Granted, the last time a hurricane got this close to us, it caused some pretty significant damage, so I'm not saying a little bit of concern isn't warranted (and certainly, those in the Carolinas have good reason to be prepared). But since Irene is a "Category 2" storm, and more than likely staying far enough east of us to put us solidly in the orange "tropical storm warning" area, I see no need to prepare for the apocalypse just yet. Matter of fact, I'm beginning to think I'm the only one who's not freaking out about Irene. (I mean seriously, how can you be scared of something named "Irene?" It's like being afraid of your great-grandmother). Now, if someone were to change her name to, oh I don't know- "Hurricane Bad-Ass" or "Hades" I might be more enticed to go out and buy three dozen jumbo packages of bottled water, ply-board and lots of batteries.

Instead, here is my hurricane "emergency" kit:

Playdough
Crayons, coloring books, paints
Yo Gabba Gabba and Baby Einstein DVD's
Books
Dark Chocolate
Popcorn
Ingredients for crockpot Vegetarian Tortilla soup
Craft and scrapbooking materials
Wine
Corkscrew (duh)
Earplugs
Tylenol, Motrin
Scented candles
Yoga Pants

I realize I could eat my words. But I'm hoping and praying that I don't, and that for once, the forecasters are right. If that's the case- call me weird- but I'm kinda looking forward to a rainy weekend. Stay safe (and sane!) everyone. <3

Sometimes Love Hurts

2011-08-26T10:50:00.000-07:00

Milo is loving life right now (well, except for yesterday- but that's another post). If I were to list his current "hobbies," they would include: pinching (he's perfecting that pincer grip and especially enjoys using it on the tender, meaty parts of the backs of my arms), pterodactyl-like screeching, drooling, gnawing, the tummy twist-and-shimmy (a Milo original) and army-crawling whilst attempting to pull random, inanimate objects off of table tops and dressers by their cords. (He's gonna be the popular one at the playground, no?)

I'm also starting to believe that he's enjoying kicking my @$$. I'm not just referring to his 3 hour schedule during the day or the fact that he's been waking up a few times a night for the past 2 weeks due to teething (he finally popped his bottom two teeth a few days ago! Yay? Maybe?) The sleep deprivation kicks my butt too, but in a different way. As I just alluded, we've recently entered what I like to call the "happy-slapping" phase. It's cute, and I'll take it because I know all too well that this eventually segues into the "Eff-off, Mom, I Can Do It MYSELF" terrible two's slapping phase. But while I can tolerate the quasi-coordinated flailing of limbs, I gotta say- kid can pack some punch! At a healthy 20 pounds (and some change) at 6 1/2 months, I guess that's to be expected. I'm still nursing him several times a day and although I love bonding with my baby boy, I gotta admit I'm looking a little rough around the edges: I have bruises on my triceps and my forearms, scratches under my nose and on my cheeks and claw marks across my chest. On several occasions, I've had tufts of hair pulled out by the roots. Then the other day, I learned- in the most painful way- that I can no longer wear my dangly earrings (I'm not even sure what I was thinking by wearing them to begin with). I'm also pretty sure that "the girls" will never forgive me for continually subjecting them to "the piranha." Matter of fact, Jake may not forgive me for subjecting them to him either. It's never usually a good sign when your husband walks in while you're undressing and asks (in reference to your parts), "is that, um, normal?" (What- the fact that they're hanging down to my belly-button and are the color of heirloom tomatoes? What's not normal about that??)

Alas, I know this is a season- a relatively short one, at that. So what if he causes me to wince every now and then? When it comes down to it, I guess love just plain hurts sometimes. :) (I think I'd take the physical pain over the other kind ANY day). My boy is loving me the only way he knows how. In the meantime, I'm going to try to figure out how to wear some protective gear during our nursing sessions that won't end up sending him into therapy 15 years from now....

"Enough"

2011-08-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

I'm a list-maker. I write lists of lists. A few times, I've even written down on my "to-do" list to remember to make a list of the things I need to list for the store. Yeah. Exactly. Hi, my name is Kristin and I'm anal.

Moving on though- I love being able to check off boxes as I go. There's a pretty nifty but simple app I use on my iPhone called TeuxDeux- LOVE it. (Another confession: I like to put things on my list that I've already done, just so I can have the gratification of crossing it off as soon as I jot it down. Some might call that cheating. I call it incentive).

But here's the problem with living by the list: I became so quick to label my day "good" or "bad" depending on how much of my to-do list got accomplished. I used to have it in my head that every. single. thing. needed to be crossed off of that list and if not, I bought into the notion that I had somehow failed. After Ella was born, I quickly realized I needed to re-visit that idea, otherwise I was looking at many days of "fails" by my ultra-unrealistic standards. Then, Milo was born and I re-defined my expectations yet again. Oh, I still write things down, but it's different now. Instead of lists, it's more, "don't forget the milk." Or, "you walked into this room to get your coffee" or "don't forget to shave."

So I've been operating under a new mantra lately and that is, "Let today be enough." I've even started writing it down on the top of all of my lists because I need to read it and be reminded that today, this precise moment, truly is enough. If it's not, then I'm simply trying to do too much. It doesn't make me happy to admit this, but my greed often extends further beyond just my resources. It encompasses my expectations of myself- and others- always wanting more time, more opportunities, more efficiency. But when I lay my exhausted head down on my pillow each night, I realize that my greedy standards haven't served any greater purpose than to wear me out or make me feel guilty because I'm not, in fact, super-mom/super-wife. And it's quite likely that I've missed out on more important things because I've had such tunnel-vision.

If I'm guided by the premise that I've always been given enough- because I truly have, in every imaginable circumstance- then I can trust that "today is enough" and that tomorrow will be enough as well. I will somehow be given the grace, the time, the patience {exhausted sigh accompanying that one}, the breathing space, the cuddles, the sense of humor {Lord PLEASE}, the caffeine....and on and on- to arrive at the end of the day thankful, instead of dissatisfied.

"It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's...an Earthquake?"

2011-08-23T14:09:00.000-07:00

So....there was an earthquake today. If this is news to you, it's quite likely that you can't see, hear or read. Or maybe 30 second periods of seismic shaking in your house is a regular occurrence (and I will refrain from going any further with that one). When it happened, I was just about to check out at Old Navy. It's funny to me that I have a tendency to jump to the worst conclusion in every other mundane circumstance, except the ones that aren't so mundane. (You know, like an earthquake). Instead, I stood there thinking up every other possible (but somewhat illogical) scenario for why I couldn't keep my balance. The following progression happened in about 8 seconds:

First:

"Dang, they've got some serious AC/ventilation system issues up in this place" (Plausible).

Then...

"Are we close to a railroad track?"

Then...

"Damn, this is one doozy of a panic attack...wait, why is everyone else reaching for their Xaanax too?"

Then...

"I bet it's a jet taking off. That's what it is."

Then...

"Nope, it's a helicopter. Definitely a helicopter. Some poor person is being medi-vacced from the roof of this Old Navy building."

Then....

"OMG it's the rapture. I must be getting ready to leave this earthly vessel behind!" (But can I take the suede ankle boots with me?)

Then...

Oh. Okay, it's an earthquake. Maybe I shouldn't be inside the building under these big box-things, hanging lights, and shelves. Off I go.

I looked around to see how everyone else was reacting. Some people were running to their cars. Some were huddled close together in doorways.

Others were so shaken up, they just stood there, frozen:

I rushed home to my babies- who were staying with Grammy- to find that they were both still sound asleep. Really?! I couldn't hope to sleep that good with a glass of wine and some Ambien. Then I came home to our house and couldn't believe what I saw in the kitchen...

That was it. The only sign in my house that an earthquake had actually occurred.

I make light of it, but in all seriousness, it could have been worse and I'm grateful there's been only minimal damage and no casualties. (And after this, I simply cannot imagine what the people in Haiti felt a couple of years ago). So, an eventful afternoon- to say the least- and another thing to add to the list of "Things I Would Rather Not Encounter, Ever Ever Again."

A Confession {Of Sorts}

2011-08-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

Some days just begin with a short fuse, unfortunately. Today is one of them. I attribute it mostly to the usual fatigue, plus a teething and irritable baby, another meltdown (brought to me by the terrible-twos), and a growing to-do list of chores I can't ever seem to make a dent in. I had just put Milo down for his morning nap and went to switch on the monitor in our living room but turned it to the wrong channel. I immediately heard wailing and gnashing of teeth, and a pi$$ed mom who was yelling, "GET UP!! Go sit on the potty NOW!!...{rumble-rumble, static, mutter, heavy-sigh, possibly a four-letter word}. "I am SO tired of...{static, more wailing}..I said GET UP!!!!"

And I smiled for the first time all morning.

Because a few doors down, some poor mom had also apparently hit her breaking point by 9:33 a.m. I could just hear the fatigue in her voice. She, too, was cleaning up poop, pee, spit-up, dishes, and crusted macaroni & cheese on booster seats from the night before, when all she probably wanted to do was sit her @$$ down somewhere and have a bloody mary. (It's Sunday, for cryin' out loud).

Oh, Angel-Care monitor. You were so worth the money. Not only can I put my baby down to sleep with a certain peace of mind, but I can also eavesdrop on other houses in my neighborhood, you know, when I start to think that we're the only ones just trying to survive until naptime.

URGENT

2011-08-19T05:00:00.000-07:00

There are no words to adequately describe the desperation I feel for this little girl. She is dying, and she needs redemption. Read about Lilliana's Ransom. here. This blog is a friend of a friends, and after reading this story, I felt like the very least I could do was re-post on my blog.

What would happen if we truly let our hearts break? If we just didn't turn a blind eye- because we just couldn't live with ourselves if we did? This is happening. Right now. No more pretending...

Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 2 Year Old}

2011-08-14T05:38:00.000-07:00

1. There is no sleeping in.

2. If it's light outside, it's time to get up. {Were you not aware that we live on a farm? Fresh eggs anyone??}.

3. If Mommy and Daddy stayed up late last night, I will wake up at least an hour earlier the next morning.

4. If Mommy and Daddy had that special red drink they never let me try, I will wake up at least TWO hours earlier the next day.

5. When Mommy gets up to feed Milo, I figure she might as well stay up, so I'll stand at the gate to my room and start throwing toys and wooden food down the stairs.

6. I will sing Yo Gabba Gabba songs at the top of my lungs if the toys and wooden food elicit no response.

7. I will stand .25 inches away from Mommy's face, all while poking her in the ear, nose and eye and asking for waffles. Especially on mornings when Daddy lets her sleep in.

8. I'm most curious between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m. and this is when I ask Mommy all of my good questions (I try to get them in before her first cup of coffee) . "Does Brobee have ears? Can I have some strawbehwwies? What's that name? Mommy, you change your shirt? What's in dat ceweal bar? Is dat Curious George's Daddy? Where's P-pop? Are those cars sleeping too?"

Check back soon for the "Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 6 Month Old}" post...

"I Do It By Myself."

2011-08-13T07:20:00.001-07:00

My daughter is a lot of things, but timid, she is not. I am continually amazed at her sense of adventure and her "take no prisoner's" attitude, but find myself watching her take on new challenges with baited breath. (For the record, we've only had one trip to the ER and ironically enough, it was because she tripped over her own two feet and became fast friends with the corner of our shoe-mold).

So, to my Ella-"Go-Getter"-Bug: May you always have enough confidence to climb the highest jungle gym on the playground (with kids four times your age), enough humility to know when to ask for help, and enough determination to get back up when you fall off said jungle gym. In turn, I promise I'll always be there to cheer you on, and remember to let you be a kid. (And of course, be on standby with lots of hugs and Dora band-aids, just in case).

Seriously though- there's nothing you can't do. <3

"These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.."

2011-08-09T13:35:00.000-07:00

In honor of my little boy's half-birthday, a few things that are simply and utterly "Milo."

1. The grin. It's like he can't get his mouth wide enough and his eyes become little slits. This was the first grin I ever caught on camera- when he was not quite 6 weeks old:

And just last week...

2. The cheeks. (I adore both sets of them, but in the interest of sparing some of his future embarrassment, I'll be nice). Nom nom nom.

3. He's been such a good sport when it comes to tolerating his big sister. {She loves her Mi-yo}.

This will lovingly be dubbed, the "Desitin incident."

4. I've always had a thing for blue eyes (obviously). :) And I adore his. {Please don't change}!

5. I also love that he's 100% a Momma's boy. Sorry ladies, he's in a long-term, committed relationship. Fully attached (I'm sure you can wager a bet on what). But for the past few months, he's become increasingly affectionate. He grabs my cheeks with his hands and pulls me to his face, mouth open, drool abundant, and plants his smackers on my chin/nose/cheeks/eyes- basically whatever is available. It literally gives new meaning to the phrase "suck face." My son has this down pat (perhaps this should be a point of concern in oh, another 15 years?)

Like so:

6. And finally, this.

Happy 6 months to my lovable, squeezable, happy "Mi-yo Bean." <3

Just "Stuff?"

2011-08-07T13:46:00.000-07:00

I may be many things, but a hoarder, I am not. I can't STAND clutter. (Smeone should have warned me about having two kids 20 months apart. Wait, that's right- they did). It looks like a Fisher Price bomb went off in my living room at any given time of day. Since we just recently moved, I've been in a very special frame of mind, trying to find homes for things on shelves, packing away storage bins, breaking down boxes, cursing under my breath and generally finding myself quite shocked at the amount of "stuff" we've accrued over the last five years.

I had always thought myself to be a realist when it came to deciding whether or not to save or "chuck" something. It was usually the latter of the two. "Out with the old, in with the new" was my motto. Obviously, pictures and family heirlooms are a different story altogether, but my general rule of thumb was that if I hadn't worn/used/looked at something in over 6 months, it was gone. Someone else could benefit from it. I would even go so far to say that I could stand to be a little more sensitive in this area. When Jake recently asked me if I was going to keep my wedding dress, I nonchalantly replied- "Nah. It's just taking up space." (Shallow alert: if it was a true designer gown, that would not have been my reply). ;)

In truth, I just never grew that attached to stuff.

{Says the woman who sat on the floor of the living room today, sniffling and crying as I went through bin after bin of Ella's baby clothes}. I'm going to preface this by saying that I'm pretty darn sure that mother nature is days away from giving me her first gift in over 15 months (I know you wanted to know this, right?). The point being, my hormones are on overdrive at the moment and I have found myself crying at odd and random times throughout the last week. But in my quest to tackle the post-move clutter from my house, I made a few appointments with several children's consignment stores around town and am scheduled to drop off the first few bins tomorrow morning. Originally, it was just another task on the to-do list. But when I sat down and started sifting through the itty-bitty onesies and outfits, I was flooded with memories of my little baby Bug and oh, the tears started coming. Her hospital hat, the itty bitty bikini she wore our first summer at the beach, some of my favorite outfits that I realized I had completely forgotten about, her first halloween costume, the outfit she wore when we visited Santa, the cute (albeit pointless) shoes that I couldn't resist buying for her- all tucked away so many months ago when I had said "just in case we have another girl." When we found out Milo was Milo, I couldn't have been happier even though a part of me knew I would never have as much fun dressing him as I did her. (And I was right).

Although I'm quite sure that we are done (or, done enough for me to say that I'm selling her clothes to consignment), something in me aches. Much the way it did the first time she said, "Go, Mommy. I do it myself." Much, I'm sure, the way it will on her first day of preschool. And oh GOD, her first day of Kindergarten- and every grade after, as I realize that my baby is getting older, and ironically, my memory is getting weaker. Even now, I try to conjure up images of her when the newborn sleepers were hanging off of her tiny arms and legs. Some memories are as clear as if they happened yesterday. But many have gotten swept up in the chaos of life, packed away like the little rompers and dresses I forgot we even had.

The practical side of me knows we don't have the space. But now, Kristin "the mommy" confronts the Kristin of 10 years ago- the carefree, untethered one who swore she would never be convinced to hang on to just "stuff." She said a lot of things though, before she had kids...

"Do-Over" (and over and over and over)

2011-08-03T12:05:00.000-07:00

I've often made mention of Ella's obsession with Yo Gabba Gabba. Because of that, I frequently walk around the house/grocery store/Target singing their very crack-infused but catchy songs. One of Ella's favorite's is "keep trying, keep trying, don't give up, never give up. . ." She'll sing it to herself sometimes, when she's trying to fix a toy or buckle herself into her carseat. I'll hear her saying in her sing-songy lilt, "keep trying Ewwa, keep trying, don't give up. . ." A-freakin-dorable.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning to get some bloodwork done. I've been suspecting that I'm anemic due to the fact that I've made several dietary adjustments as of late. That, and I'm bruising like an over-fondled bag of apples, not to mention I'm seriously fatigued (you know, more than just your average mom of two). So I walked in to my appointment today when a) I'm already exhausted, lightheaded, and slightly nauseated b) I'm incredibly hormonal (that gets it's own letter) and c). I hate the doctor's office. I seriously can't stress that enough. Every time I go, I have to find my Zen place, do deep breathing and sing silly songs in my head (how's that for quirky?). Ever since I developed my anxiety disorder, doctor's offices have unfortunately served as a reminder of the dark place I lived in for the period of 3 years after Jake and I were married. Even now when I'm clearly stronger, better and more confidant, it still requires a ton of mental and emotional energy for me to go to appointments, and multiply that times fifty when I have to get bloodwork done. Before I can stop myself, I've already fast forwarded the horror movie in my head to the last scene when I'm passed out on the floor because I got woozy, or worse, I've thrown up my breakfast/lunch/iced grande half-caf two pump classic Americano from Starbucks.

The demons of emetophobia still beckon from time to time. Most days, I find that I have both the mental and emotional capacity to beat them back. Some days I can even knock them into next week (whatever that means). But today, I let them get the best of me and told myself that I simply didn't have it in me to sit in a lab with a needle stuck in my arm. So I excused myself quietly from the waiting room, gave the receptionist a lame excuse (read: big white lie) and left. Luckily, she penciled me in for a later time today. I came home, flopped down on the couch with some lunch and every intention of taking a nap (for real, this time) and switched on the TV. Of course, it's always tuned to Nick Jr and when it came on, I immediately recognized Plex, Brobee and the others and wouldn't you know, they're singing "keep trying, keep trying, you'll get it right, you'll get it right."

I know it's crazy that I'm about to wax philosophical off of something akin to a 22 minute acid trip, but the show has some merit in the lessons it teaches. (Seriously people, don't bite your friends. It won't end well). Ella and Milo will both inevitably have their share of missed opportunities and set-backs as they grow up. That's just life. But in this household, those situations will only be deemed failures if nothing is learned from them. Lucky for them, they have a momma who is well-acquainted with having to try, try again- for things that many people wouldn't even give a second thought to. A couple of things I intend to pass on to them:

-It's okay to get beat down, but staying down is simply not an option.
-Showing up is half the battle.
-Victories are victories, no matter how seemingly small and insignificant they might be to someone else.
-When you're offered a second (third, fourth, one hundred fifty-fifth) chance, you take it and say "thank you."

Now- lucky for me- I get to put all of these into practice again today at 4 pm. (I'll be that annoying person sitting in the lab singing the Yo Gabba Gabba songs under my breath). :)

Inappropriate Lyrics

2011-08-01T19:24:00.000-07:00

I truly thought I was pretty well versed in nursery rhymes and kiddie songs by this point. I mean, I literally fall asleep and wake up to lyrics of songs like, "Don't Bite Your Friends" and "The Poop Goes in the Potty". Somehow, I think they lack staying power (except in the darkest recesses of my brain, where I desperately want to tune them out). Catchy? Yes (unfortunately). True classics? Hell, no. Thankfully, when I was little, it was "You Are My Sunshine" and "Baa Baa Black Sheep." My mom and dad used to sing "You Are My Sunshine" to me just about every night while I was in the bathtub or right before bed. That was our song so it's always held a special place in my heart. Consequently, the first piece of artwork I bought for Milo's nursery in our new house was this:

I plan to buy the second part to that song and hang it at another spot in his room...

Such a simple, sweet little song. Melodically stable. Non-abrasive, calming and soothing. The perfect lullabye, really. So I thought that maybe I'd take it one step further and find prints for the rest of the lyrics, interspersing them throughout the room as a mini-theme for his nursery. But unbeknownst to me, there's a second (and third) verse to this old standby and after reading it, I realized perhaps there's a reason I never knew about it:

"The other nite, dear,
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and cried."

{Debbie Downer trombone sound effect here}

Yeah, that would make a great print to hang over his crib. On second thought, maybe a wall hanging of lyrics to "Poop Goes in the Potty" isn't so bad after all.

"Whatcha Gonna Do With All That Junk..."

2011-07-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Milo came in to the world at a very average 7 lbs, 7 oz. He is now 29 inches long and almost 19 lbs at 5 1/2 months. (And I wonder why I stay exhausted). :) He still nurses every 3 hours (sometimes less) and will only take a bottle of breastmilk begrudgingly after the appointed 20 minutes of screaming, shrieking and looking around frantically for me. Yes, to say I'm loved and needed is an understatement. To say that he has a healthy appetite is an even bigger one.

I love that random people want to point this out to me. They NEED to tell me how big he is. (Kinda like the "you haven't had that baby yet??" comments when I was 54 weeks pregnant and ready to pop). Something about a chunky baby with big leg rolls makes people lose their mind. Although I have to agree, my son's cheeks are pretty delicious. :) So just for fun, here are a few of the comments I've {we've} received- especially as of late:

1. "That looks like it hurts." (Referring to me carrying Milo with one arm. And no, it doesn't hurt. Because my arm is actually numb).

2. "What are you feeding that guy??" (small animals and badly-behaved little children).

3. "Well, just look at those leg rolls. Hope nothing's hiding in there." (First of all, um, gross? And secondly- what exactly would one hide in their rolls? Like, oops- THERE'S his binky! I knew I put it somewhere...)

4. "That's a big baby! What is he, about 11-12 months?" (Nope, he just wears 12-18 month clothes...)

5. "You've certainly got your hands full." {snickering and shaking head}. This one KILLS me. I'm not sure it's actually in reference to Milo, but the fact that I'm dragging Ella to the car- mid-tantrum and in 95 degree heat- while hoisting Milo onto my opposite hip and wearing spit up on my left shoulder. Again, what is the appropriate response to this? I mean, it's kinda awkward. Maybe I should reply with something equally as obvious: "Hey, thanks! You've certainly got brown hair!"

Thankfully, for all of the inane comments I've gotten, there have been twice as many sweet ones. (But let's be honest, they're just not as fun to write about). :)

Ella and the Bee

2011-07-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a good speller. Writing and reading were some of my favorite subjects in school and I loved to participate in our school's spelling bees. I actually made it to Dallas, Texas in the regional spelling bee when I was nine years old but quickly realized I was a bit out of place when I looked around and saw other kids sitting there with open dictionaries on their laps. {Dorks} I was the first one out at that bee (someone had to do it, right?) and thus ended my spelling bee days.

Until now. I've decided that perhaps those years haven't been in vain after all because as it turns out, we're living with a 3-foot tall, brown-eyed myna bird. I've already talked of having to censor myself and certain music in the car. No more wordy-dirds coming from momma (at least I try not to). But it's not even the four letter slip-ups that I'm censoring these days. It's mentioning going to the pool, or the beach, or that maybe we'll bake cupcakes later. Or that we're going to Target. Or (directed at Jake) are there any "c-o-o-k-i-e-s" left in the pantry? Have you seen her "b-i-n-k-y?" "Should she have "m-i-l-k" or water?"

I realized that we've got ourselves into a bit of a spelling rut when, the other day, Jake hollered to me from the kitchen, "hey babe, I can't find the "c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e...c-h-i-p-s (we keep a bag around for baking...or, well, eating by the handful, basically). But by the time he got to the end of the word "chocolate" and took a breath to keep spelling, I was already lost. It was almost 10 pm and my brain was fried. And you better believe Ella's on to us about it. She may not know what, exactly, we're trying to spell just yet- but she knows it's code for something we don't want her to know about. According to my mom and dad, we had a cat named "G-O-K" when I was three or four. Apparently, I named him that because I had heard my parents spell "C-A-T" a few too many times. As in, "do you think we should let the 'c-a-t' in tonight?" (He was a bit of a rogue, kinda wandered around and didn't technically belong to us, but we fed him and brought him in, especially when the weather was bad). So I decided that I could spell too. One night at dinner, I casually asked if we were going to let the "G-O-K" in after we finished eating. After that, he was always lovingly referred to as "G-O-K Kitty." And my parents- like us- realized the futility in spelling more than half of the words in our conversations because kids learn to make inferences awfully early in life.

That being said, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the first words Ella learns to spell are in some way related to chocolate or cookies or bubbles.

"The Cheese Stands Alone..."

2011-07-25T11:36:00.000-07:00

I always wondered why The Farmer and the Dell ended with the phrase, "the cheese stands alone." Was it Linburger? Was it waiting around for the right glass of wine? Perhaps someone couldn't eat it because they would then suffer hours and hours of horrible stomach cramps, diarrhea and nausea. (On second thought, maybe the reason as to why the cheese stands alone is better left unsaid).

Over the past few years, I've had an on-again, off-again relationship with ice-cream. With the exception of those glorious ten months when I was pregnant with Ella (okay, make that eight months- the first two were not glorious by any stretch), I haven't been able to eat so much as one bite of ice cream without dire consequences and lots of toilet paper, if you get my drift. I tried taking Lactaid pills and was frustrated that they had little to no impact. So I thought, well okay. I just can't eat ice cream. Probably better for me in the long-run. I moved on to sorbets, even though I continued to stare longingly at the pints of Ben and Jerry's at Kroger and reminisce. Those were the good ol' days.

Then one day- not long after my eventual split with ice cream- I went to Starbucks and ordered my usual tall, non-fat caramel macchiato and within minutes of drinking it, I was racing home to the bathroom, doubled over with stomach cramps. It seemed that milk was the next dairy item to be put on the "eat this only if you want to feel like you're dying" list. Yogurt eventually followed suit. I mourned the loss of my Chobani greek yogurts I used to eat every day.

Milk and ice cream were things I knew I could do without, however. I knew I could drink Lactaid, eat other refreshing cold desserts, and I could even say farewell to yogurts, but I clung desperately onto my cheese. I said (to my small intestines, I guess) you can take my ice cream, dammit, and you can take my milk and yogurt, but if you think I'm going to part ways with my beloved cheese, you've got another thing comin'. Of course, it's not like I can very well tell my small intestines to shape the eff up and start breaking down lactase again. But I tried. I willed it to happen. I ate my cheese hesitantly, cautiously, and with a dimming glimmer of hope as the cramps inevitably set in.

It's been one week without cheese. I feel so alone. No more lasagna, no more pizza, no cheese on sandwiches, no chips and queso, no macaroni and cheese....no cheese and wine....I'll stop the list there as I'm sinking into more and more of a depression. I'm aware that in the long run, this is a much healthier direction for me to go, but I don't wanna. {said in whiniest voice possible}. I'm kicking and screaming all the way.

"The cheese stands alone,
The cheese stands alone
I can't eat dairy-O
The cheese stands alone."

Number Five

2011-07-23T05:46:00.000-07:00

Five years ago on July 22, 2006, I married "a guy named Jake" (as he came to be coined in the many back-and-foth emails between me and the mutual friend who set us up on our blind date). I wish I could say I remembered a lot about that day, but it was such a blur and it went so quickly that only a few things (albeit, AMAZING things) still stand out in my memory. So, in honor of the day that changed my name- and my life :) - here some of the more humorous things I do remember:

1. It was hot. I'm talking sweat running down my legs under my dress, gross, sticky HOT. But hey, that's what happens when you're finacee proposes in December and you realize you're too impatient to wait an entire year to get married and have the December wedding you've always dreamed of. So I decided mid-July would work. (I still scratch my head over that). But I guess that means plenty beach trips to celebrate our anniversary. Thankfully, we "only" had 92 degree weather that day, as opposed to the 106 it reached yesterday.

2. I only got one bite of my beautiful cake- the bite that Jake gave me. ONE bite. I won't even say what was spent on this cake. Thankfully, everyone else raved about it, but I was pretty bummed that I more or less had to take their word for it since I was simply too busy to partake.

3. We decided to cut costs by hiring an {amazing} band to play for the first two hours and then loaded up Jake's iPod with some of our favorite tunes for the last 2 hours. Seemed like a great idea, right? Until our first dance song came on (which wasn't played by the band) and there was this awkward silence as someone was trying to find it on the iPod. *crickets* And then Justin Timberlake's "Like I Love You" blasted through the speakers. Definitely NOT our first song by a long stretch, but a good little comic relief, if anything.

4. We piled ourselves- elated, but also hungry and exhausted- into the limo that was taking us to our hotel, popped open the bottle of champagne that was chilled and waiting, and then asked our driver to please, for the love of God, stop at the nearest Wendy's so we could stuff our faces with a few Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers. It was dire. And amazingly, they paired well with the subtle notes of almond, vanilla and cherry blossoms in our champagne.

5. The ironic thing that sticks out most in my mind about that day is my complete lack of ability to actually remember the finer details, try as I might to conjure them up. Which is why I'm glad we didn't spend tens of thousands of dollars on the event, even though it would have been incredibly easy to do. I remember thinking that everything would be thrown completely off if I couldn't have those centerpieces and that color for the table linens. But at the end of the day, I was just as married as I could be- just as happy as I could be. nd five years (and one day) :) after the fact, though the days may be long and exhausting, I can't imagine going to sleep and waking up beside anyone else. :)

"Mommy Kisses"

2011-07-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

We are right smack dab in that cute stage when kisses can keep a trembling lower lip from becoming an all-out wail. In our household, they cure just about everything from eczema to a bloody elbow. On top of that, we're stocked with Dora and Snoopy band-aids out the wazoo, but Ella often declines them in favor of having me hold her in my lap for a few minutes and giving her "mommy kisses."

So it seems, for now, that my kisses have healing powers. And I'll gladly kiss her scabby toes and knees and goose-eggs as long as she'll let me because I know a time is fast approaching when the cuts and scrapes will go much deeper and won't be easily numbed by anything I do or say.

In her little two year old noggin, I can make anything better (well, almost anything). How I wish I lived in that sweet naivety with her, too. Instead, I have to continually remind myself that being "mommy" isn't defined by my ability to make things "better" or less painful. Obviously, there are days when that's part of the job description and it satisfies something deep in my soul to be able to comfort them in a way no one else can. But, as cliche as it sounds, pain is inevitable and it's counterpart, fear, is seductive. Our culture has made it increasingly easy to grow up believing that there are ways to get around everything that's difficult and especially, to be exempt from the latter two.

To let Ella and Milo believe this for themselves as well would be the ultimate disservice. I can't keep the pain from happening. But I can be there to give "mommy kisses," in whatever form it takes over the years.

The Grass Is Greener (No, Literally, It Is!)

2011-07-19T13:42:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love most about our new house is that it has a front and back yard- with GRASS. Those who know us and have been to our last house know that our yard was, well, hardly a yard. We were good at growing weeds and our grass was best described as "ground cover." We bought the house as a starter home with plans to be in it for about three to four years and then put it on the market sometime between our first and second baby.

But the economy wouldn't have it that way. And as it turns out, Milo followed Ella by a close 20 months and I wasn't in any shape- physically or mentally- to try and move while pregnant. So nearly five years after we first moved in, my rambunctious daughter was confined to a deck and a small area of dirt behind it. After Milo got here, we finally decided that we just couldn't put off moving any longer. I was so desperate for Ella to have a yard to run around and be a kid in that I told Jake our next house could quite literally look like the Haney place on Green Acres as long as it had a decent back yard for her to run around in.

Turns out, we have an awesome backyard and a great house. We feel extremely grateful for both. But there have been several times in the past 2 weeks when I've found myself wanting more. Not necessarily a better or bigger house, or even a better or bigger backyard. But more...STUFF. I've been in the throes of brainstorming, decorating, and essentially re-doing every room in our house. (Ah, Pinterest, how I love thee). Milo now has his own room and moved into Ella's crib, therefore inheriting her dresser and other furniture. Which meant Ella needed "big girl" furniture, which meant spending more money. We now have a formal dining room...which, of course meant we needed a dining room table and chairs (and right now, we can still only seat four people at a time. Sorry, everyone else will have to get their Kabuto on and sit on the floor Japanese-style). Then there was a new kitchen table and chairs. Then oops- our old bedroom furniture wouldn't fit up the narrow back staircase. Voila! New bed and dresser for our bedroom. New sectional sofa for the living room. We haven't even begun to tackle area rugs, wall decor, art and new window treatments. I now refuse to let myself go on Etsy because of the 11 items currently in my cart that I can't purchase all at once because whadyaknow, we're not made of money after all.

I have no reason to wallow and every reason to be thankful. But for every minute I'm thankful, there's another minute not far behind it when I'm thinking, "I want....we need..if only..." My tunnel vision prohibits me from seeing everything we already do have. And then Ella comes up to me with her bright pink ball and says, "Mommy, go outside and kick the ball?" So I stop unpacking, stop playing decorator, stop thinking that our house would be just a bit more perfect if I could go ahead and buy that armoir I saw listed on Etsy...and we go outside to run around in our yard, our yard with GRASS...and I watch the sheer delight wash over her face as she runs around, giggling and squealing. This is all she wants. Even though it's a new house and new surroundings, as long as Mommy, Daddy and Milo are here, her world is okay and she's perfectly content.

So somewhere between two and twenty nine, we trick ourselves into believing that having more means living more. Having better stuff means living better. And sometimes, it takes running around barefoot in your backyard to bring everything back into focus. :)

My Week In a Nutshell

2011-07-13T13:16:00.000-07:00

Life has been a bit hectic, to say the least. Here it is, in a nutshell:

1. We finally moved back into the city. Do you hear that? That's me breathing a deep sigh of contentment. Conveniently right behind us is a cute wine shop, an eclectic little coffee shop, several restaurants, and an antique shop. What more could I need? :)

2. I love everything about our house- except for the fact that we don't have internet until next Tuesday. Nothing charming about that. Since blogging by iPhone is difficult at best, I'll be making up for lost time next week.

3. Ella had her first scary-high fever last weekend. It just happened to coincide with our first night in the new house and her first night in her "big girl" bed. I was so exhausted that I didn't even have the energy to cry. Thankfully, she turned a corner yesterday and is much better now. Meanwhile, I keep looking for the box that contains my sanity. I swear I packed it somewhere.

4. Jake and I have decided we're DONE with big life changes for, oh, at least the next decade. Between Milo's arrival in February, Jake's new job "promotion" (of sorts) in March/April, and this move, I'm surprised that I haven't picked out but just a few straggly gray hairs. People ask if there's going to be a third baby and I laugh in their face. I do this because if I don't laugh, I think I might cry.

So that's all for now. Boxes are 98% unpacked, a few pictures have even made it up on the walls and everything is pretty much put away. I'm a bit anal-retentive about organization, so while we're still sleeping on a mattress on the floor in our bedroom, our pantry looks pretty spectacular (if I do say so myself). :)

Pictures to come later (once I figure out which box I put the USB cable in). :)

"Not Fair."

2011-07-06T07:43:00.000-07:00

I- like the rest of the nation- struggle to accept a verdict that just shouldn't be. Every time I see Caylee Anthony's picture, I can see Ella's face instead- her big, inquisitive, brown eyes and mischievous grin. I begin to feel my blood boil, my stomach turn, the tears begin spilling over. I'm reminded of the occasional times I would catch my mom staring at the tv screen with tear-stained cheeks as yet another story unfolded of neglect or abuse. Of course, I could understand why it upset her, but it never fully resonated with me until now. When I became a mommy, suddenly, every story on the news became extremely personal. How could he leave his kid in a hot car in the middle of August? What possessed her to drive her car into the river and drown her kids? How could someone leave a 12-hour old baby in a dumpster? How? Why?? And so I will never again watch the news without thinking, "that could be Ella...what if that was Milo?" Unfortunately, at times like this, we come face to face with the sobering reality that we don't choose the families we're born into. And so on the one hand, I'm reminded how eternally grateful I am for the my own upbringing. My own sense of purpose is re-defined in the life and legacy I'm creating for my own children. But on the other hand, I struggle to come to terms with this word, "fair."

We hear it over and over again, don't we? "Well, sometimes, life's just not fair." Just the other day, I said those very words to Ella as she crumpled to the kitchen floor in a sobbing heap when I wouldn't let her have more goldfish. And there it was again- one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind when the verdict was read last night. "Not fair" is a sore understatement in a circumstance like this. So are we simply placating each other because we just have nothing better or more productive to say? Interestingly enough, studies conducted at UCLA in 2008 indicated that reactions to fairness are "wired" into the brain and that, "Fairness is activating the same part of the brain that responds to food in rats... This is consistent with the notion that being treated fairly satisfies a basic need." [1] Unfortunately, issues of "fairness" are everywhere we turn. It's not fair that some children slowly starve to death while I wash down three-quarters of Ella's leftover pasta and veggies every night that she won't touch. It's not fair that babies are born with HIV because their mommies have HIV because there's an epedimic and there's really no other alternative to life. It's not fair that the choices an adult or parent makes can forever influence the rest of their children's {sometimes short-lived} lives. It's not fair that cancer chooses to strike whoever it pleases without any consideration to age, family or prior health condition.

But I think the looming question underlying the issue of "fairness" is, "where's the justice?" How do we right the wrong? As soon as our children develop the cognitive ability to understand the concept of right and wrong, we begin the process of discipline and setting boundaries and we explain to them that there are consequences for wandering outside of those boundaries. Often, the worse the choice is, the worse the punishment is. And in the case of a murdered 2 year old- when something is this wrong, there is a burning indignation. Outrage. Shock. Maybe we even feel a sense of personal responsibility. We feel we shouldn't have it this good when others don't. I think deep down inside all of us, there is the innate desire go to sleep at night knowing the villain is behind bars, or the cure for cancer has been found, or that children won't go to sleep hungry. The American philosopher John Rawls says this: "Justice is the first virtue of social institutions, as truth is of systems of thought."

And today, I- like the rest of the nation- fight against the growing paranoia that our institution has let us down, and that justice has not, in fact, been served. Again. So it seems, we will continue to go to bed each night with diminishing hopes for reconciliation of the warring parts of our government and ourselves. We wait for rectification. And we are reminded to hold even tighter to all the good things we have, because sometimes, that's really all we can do.

Distressing vs De-Stressing

2011-07-02T07:29:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure I've always displayed a natural bent toward the arts. My parents will tell people it started when I scribbled silver crayon all over the back of their 70's orange corduroy couch when I was two (but really, in my defense, I thought it could use a little help). Writing, drawing and tinkering on our piano were things I always gravitated towards, especially since being an only child forced me to create my own fun.

The trend has continued, however as of late, I've found myself wanting to be a bit more adventurous, like getting into photography (although I really haven't done much with that over the last few months) and baking Ella's Yo Gabba Gabba cake for her birthday. I find something quite addicting about throwing myself head-first into some kind of creative outlet, especially one that seems involved and/or difficult. My problem is that I tend to romanticize the process and have exceedingly high expectations of the end result (read: perfectionism). So half-way into Ella's YGG-turned-WTF- cake, I realized that I might be in over my head. But I had stacks of cake and globs of fondant on every square inch of our counter and the thought of crying uncle made me sick to my stomach (or was that the exorbitant amounts of buttercream icing I was licking during the process?) In the end, a two day-long process ended with a pretty good-looking cake, if I do say so myself. Of course, it wasn't as perfect as I wanted it to be (although nothing ever is, right?). And I'm not even sure that Ella really cared as much as I thought she would because- wait, that's right- she's TWO. But I felt the gratification of seeing a project through to it's completion (and the fact that the completion was edible and didn't look like crap).

So the next daring project I'm throwing myself into is furniture restoration. Originally, I had looked at some furniture at Pottery Barn Kids, but since we're moving and moving costs money, I nixed that idea. Then I looked at Target, but felt I would be sacrificing quality for convenience (though I'm not knocking Target because God knows I spend entirely too much money in that store). I eventually ended up scouring Craigslist for a furniture set and came across this:

Although it's definitely in need of a little TLC and a fresh coat of paint, it's in great condition overall, and has a lot of potential. I love the girly, vintage-ness of it. :) So once again, I've plunged myself into all things furniture restoration and beefing up on a few blogs like this one and also this. Then, I went to Home Depot, sporting the same lost and confused look on my face that I see some men wearing when they're in the grocery store. An hour and approximately 70 bucks later, I headed home. And now, on this long July 4th weekend, the fun begins.

Did I also mention we're moving this week and that I'm painting both Ella and Milo's rooms in the new house?

Who bites off more than she can chew?? THIS girl.

"MINE"

2011-06-28T09:18:00.000-07:00

The brain of a 2 year old is fascinating to me. They're perpetual sponges, sopping up buckets of information and storing it away until one day, seemingly out of nowhere, they bust out a new verse from a random song or count to 13 in Spanish. These are the wonder years because by the time you get to be my age, you do inane things like stuff dirty clothes into the diaper genie and throw poopy diapers in the laundry hamper. (Yep, just did that this morning. All new record low). But I digress. Ella simply astounds me the rate in which she's learning new concepts every day.

One thing that has already been completely hard-wired into her little noggin, however, is the concept of "MINE." I'm not exactly sure where she learned this word and I doubt she heard it from me or Jake, nevertheless, she picked it up somewhere and immediately knew the context to use it in, just like any other toy-hoarding tot. To say that sharing is not second-nature to these creatures is an understatement. But is it for any of us? I distinctly remember taking my lunch to school when I was only 5 or 6 and not wanting to share any of my Farley's fruit snacks. I knew someone would ask. But they were mine and I wasn't about to give them up. So I did what any kid would do: I opened the bag and coughed all over them, ensuring that no one would want to touch them after that. (Real classy, eh? Truth be told, I miiight still do this with my dark chocolate). All around the lunch-table, my classmates and I were in bidding wars about who wanted to trade their Little Debbie for a fruit roll-up or something else, but I had a death grip on my lunch box. I didn't want to share, plain and simple.

But I grew out of that.

Okay, I lied. I haven't grown out of it. That would be nice. I try not to be selfish, but I fail. Sometimes I doubt I even try not to be selfish. And I could sit here and say, "it's just our human nature that we all come into this world hard-wired to look out for #1 and it's just the way it is..." to make myself feel better, but what that does feel like is a cop-out, even if there's a shred of truth in it. Over the last few weeks, I've realized that my selfishness comes in the form of a sense of entitlement, in feeling like I deserve certain things, acknowledgments, praise, even naps. My iPad got cracked a few weeks ago (I'm still so sad I can barely talk about it), and I tried to reason with myself that they (Apple) should replace it for me because it wasn't entirely my fault that it got knocked off the coffee table. (P.S. Apple products and toddlers are like oil and water). Or, our family should be able to move into that house because we called about it first and it really is perfect for us, so naturally, we should be able to get it. Hell, I even feel like I deserved that parking space at Target today because it was hot and I had two kids with me. Screw everyone else. That little old lady who can barely see above her steering wheel, driving a boat on wheels and who probably only walks at a brisque .325 mph? Nope. That's my parking space. I saw it first. I put my blinker on first, dammit!

On second thought, maybe I do know where Ella picked this up after all. If she can remember random lyrics to a song she's heard only a handful of times, why shouldn't she be intuitive enough to pick up on this idea of entitlement? This is a concept that isn't often spoken but acted out. And lately, I'm afraid I've been letting my actions speak louder than my words.

So there you have it. Another "aw, crap!" realization that hit me square between the eyes. Something to keep chipping away at. And while I'm at it, now might also be a good time to retire the Eminem CD from regular use in the car...

"It's a Good Day"

2011-06-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit this, but I have to try really hard to not be "the glass is half-empty" kind of person. It probably has to do with the anxiety I sometimes experience and how I like to jump to the worst conclusion because I can't keep my mind from racing. The point is that I realize I have that tendency- however and whenever I developed it- and it's something I don't care to pass on to either of my kids (among other traits). Parenthood is awesome in that it gives you this clean slate to work with (make that awesome and scary as hell). But I believe that optimism is a seed that, if planted early and cultivated over time, produces a perspective- and ultimately a life- of gratitude.

A few months ago, Jake started a ritual with Ella at her bedtime that when we tuck her in bed, we say, "today was a good day." We start listing things off the top of our heads about why that day was a good day- things we did, people we saw, what we're thankful for. And every single time I turn out the light and close the door, I'm reminded that our list is infinitely longer than the five or six reasons we named at bedtime- a roof over our head, clean water to drink, our health, a refrigerator and pantry full of food, to name only a few. If we never had play-dates and ice cream and trips to the swimming pool, life would still be awesome. So this exercise is just as much a reminder to mommy and daddy as it is to Ella, and eventually Milo.

But I confess that, even given all of the good things we have, it's tough to do this some days. As much as I want to say that I live in this place of gratitude and contentment, I often don't. I'm usually all too ready to have my "this day can SUCK IT" pity party when Milo won't nap and Ella has whined all morning or when the day doesn't go as I've planned. It's hard to lay Ella down in her bed only moments after a major meltdown when I've lost my temper and raised my voice and still be able to say, "today was a good day."

But it is. Even when there are umpteen timeouts. Even when there are tears and arguments and mommy fails. Even when my hair is greasy and I haven't had a shower. This is an exhausting season that will pass. But years from now, when there are heartbreaks, bad grades, and general teen angst, I still want to be able to say this to them. Because if they don't hear it from me or Jake, I fear that they may not learn to look past the trivial things- (the things that I'm guilty of allowing to get my own panties in a wad) and appreciate that every, single day is a good day. If you're alive and breathing and you are loved, it's a good day. End of story. It doesn't mean there isn't pain. It doesn't mean that some days aren't excruciatingly hard. Learning what it means to live in tension is truly difficult, and I'll be the first to admit that I have yet to master it. Finding something beautiful on the other side of it might be even harder. But it's a lesson worth learning- and for me, it's a lesson worth instilling in my children. Pain and beauty are never mutually exclusive.

Inevitably, there will be things I won't be able give to my kids, but I hope that perspective isn't one of them. I want them to see that they truly have everything if they can learn to see the world through "the glass if half full" eyes.

Anatomically IN-Correct

2011-06-17T06:51:00.000-07:00

There are certain conversations you just never picture having with your kids until the moment that you actually have them. Luckily, we aren't having the "where do babies come from" talk for a good long while, but Jake and I are already arguing about who has (I mean "gets") to have that convo. These days, the questions revolve around body parts. In the last year, I've probably answered thousands of Ella's "wizzat?"("what's that?") questions. But lately, her "wizzats??" have been directed at certain anatomical features, forcing me to choose one of three options: 1). Shoot straight. Use the big words: The vagina and the penis (why did it feel weird to even type that?). 2. Use some slang. You know, the Va-Jay Jay and Mr. Wiggy (sounds like a porn gone horribly wrong). Or 3. I could pretend like I don't see what she's pointing to. "Wizzat Mommy??" {staring off into the opposite direction} "What's what? I don't see anything?"

Suffice it to say, #3 didn't pan out. Oh, but we are obsessed with body parts in this house. We have naked dance parties after bath-time (and by we, I mean those of us that are under 3 feet tall). Ella has, in fact, discovered that her little brother has something she doesn't. And her natural reaction, initially, was to want it too. The first time I explained to her that this little part that looked really cool and different belonged to him and only him and that no, she couldn't take it (more importantly, it's, um, attached) and that no, she couldn't grow one for herself, there was an all out crumple-to-the-floor meltdown about wanting her own "peanut." She begged for a peanut for a solid 20 minutes.

This is definitely one for the baby book.

{Cue Ella's first date in 14 years}: "Hi Ella's date ______, nice to meet you. Ya'll have fun at the movies. Oh Bug, you know what I was just thinking about earlier today...? Remember that time when you were helping mommy bathe Milo and you started crying because you wanted your own peanut? Gosh, you were so cute."

I. Can't. Wait.

"WWNPD"

2011-06-16T07:34:00.000-07:00

Or, "What would normal people do?"

This has become my mantra over the last several months. But first I have an announcement: I'm not normal. (Shocker, I know). But really, who is? So for me, maybe this mantra should go one step further and say, "what would someone who isn't emetophobic do?"

Before I go any further, let me just preface this by saying that this is not a "hooray for me" post. I'm far from celebrating nor do I want to give the appearance that I've got my shit together. We all- every single one of us- have crap to deal with. We have our vices. We have weaknesses and sore spots and bruises and scabbed over injuries. And while we come to understand that the pain will eventually subside, we also know that the scars sometimes last forever. The anxiety can feel like it will last forever too. I know for a fact that there are so many people who struggle with anxiety and phobias, but would never speak out about it for fear of being labeled a freak or a weirdo. This has been my struggle. It's tempting to want to take that fear and make it your identity and let it define you for the rest of your life. Maybe for some, it's anxiety over work. For others, it's a fear of never measuring up. For me, it's this.

So what would a normal person do? (And by normal, I mean someone who doesn't fear their own body). In essence, they just do life, one day at a time, like everyone else. They don't over-think things. They don't obsess about what they're eating and whether it could potentially make them sick. They don't avoid public transportation, or refuse to go places where they might be exposed to other people being sick. They ride rollercoasters at amusement parks. They get pregnant and have babies. When those babies get a little older and get the stomach flu, they sit with them and wipe their faces and tell them that they're going to be okay.

I have to remind myself more often than I would like, that I am, in fact, going to be okay. And not only that I'm going to be okay. I am okay. Better than okay. Even after five years of struggling with the anxiety associated with emetophobia and six-plus months of intense cognitive behavioral therapy, I still have many moments throughout the day when I have to ask myself, "what would a normal person do?" The answer for me is actually found asking that one simple question. Because I know that if I want to be normal (unafraid of throwing up), then I have to act normal. Some days, it means I eat chicken without asking whether it's cooked thoroughly. Or that I let someone else drive the car and be a passenger, forfeiting my illusionary sense of control and risking the (unlikely) chance I will get car-sick. Other days, it will just mean being a mommy- being coughed and puked on (yep, it happened and I lived to tell about it), making multiple trips to the doctor, and purposefully doing things outside what I consider to be my comfort zone for the sake of being present with my kids as they grow up. There are days when I'm still scared of throwing up. But the days that I choose to move past the "what ifs" and focus on the "here and nows" are trumping the days I choose not to.

And for now, that's all that matters.

Wise Words From an Unlikely Source

2011-06-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

In case you didn't know this about me, I take great delight in bathroom and frat-boy humor. I have the mind (and therefore, the maturity, at times) of a 7th grader. I quote lines from movies like Austin Powers and Anchorman on a fairly regular basis and I'm often the one reminding everyone around the restaurant table to add the words "in bed," to the end of the proverb in the fortune cookie. (Really, it makes it taste better, I think). As a matter of fact, Jake and I ordered Chinese from our favorite take-out spot the other night after Ella's party and they gave us four fortune cookies (maybe they assumed by the amount of food we ordered that there should be 4 people partaking but actually, we just love ourselves some noodles and fried rice). We opened three of them, but unfortunately, they said truly profound things like, "you love the color white.." or "happy is the man with much toilet paper.." The point is, they weren't worth reading, nor adding on the fun ending. I saved the other fortune cookie for later but then forgot all about it until today.

Today, I was about to toss the entire cookie, unopened, in the trash can when I decided I should at least open it up to see what wise words awaited me today. And there it was, probably one of the most coherent sayings I've ever read post egg-roll: "Strong and healthy is the individual who asks for help when he needs it."

It's probably nothing more than a coincidence, but I did find it to be very timely on a day I consider a victory if I keep my head above water. Toys and leftover party decorations are strewn across the floor and boxes are waiting to be packed in preparation to move in less than a month. (P.S. I HATE clutter). Ella decided to decorate my favorite pair of pants with a bright orange crayon. I'm also slightly jarred by the realization that I'm still waiting to cross that threshold from "adjusting" to life with two kids to actually "managing" life with two kids. (I'm not sure I'll ever master it). Milo still has trouble taking a bottle and prefers me and only me. My parents have just moved back in town which, overall, is a good thing, but I'm finding that it implies a somewhat delicate balancing act between Kristin the wife, Kristin the mommy, and Kristin the daughter. Lots of change happening in a short amount of time. Lots of change happening for someone who doesn't like change. So if it's true that God shows up disguised as our every-day lives, then perhaps he was also tucked very neatly inside the fortune cookie I almost threw away, and the reminder was very simple: stop trying to be strong for everyone. Stop being sorry that you can't do it all. Let go, just a little bit, and you'll be better for it.

So later this afternoon, I made an executive decision: I called my sitter and asked her if she was available to take both the kids tomorrow for me. I'm not sure at what point in my life I decided that strength meant never asking for help, but I do know that being a mother is proving to be the most effective way of breaking that mentality. So tomorrow, help is coming in the form of a manicure/pedicure and maybe even a nice, long nap, if I'm lucky.

The Difference 365 Days Can Make (Part II)

2011-06-12T19:38:00.000-07:00

I was just telling a friend tonight how it hasn't totally sunk in yet that I'm the mother of a pre-schooler. She's certainly not a baby anymore (in the literal sense of the word, because let's face it, she'll always be my baby) but sometime in the last 6 months- when I basically blinked- she crossed that threshold from toddler to a precocious pre-schooler. She is starting to speak in complete sentences on a fairly regular basis now, holding conversations with me that actually make sense (!) and stepping gracefully into the role of proud big sister (most days, at least). She laughs at jokes, knows her ABC's and will sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star if you ask her to, but when we're in the car, she prefers Adele's "Rollin' In the Deep," "Hey Soul Sister" or anything by the British rock band Athlete. Her favorite colors are green and pink. I refer to her as my little social butterfly, preferring to be right in the middle of what's happening when it's happening. She loves to love, and this is probably one of my most favorite of her qualities. Last week, I left to go to the store and when I started to walk out the door, she turned around and said, "Wuv you Mommy."

And there's that heartbreak again. How could I ever love anything more? How is it that a ball of 6 lbs 15 oz could show me the capacity with which I'm able to love and yet expose the worst of my weaknesses? Come to find out, parenthood exists within these dichotomies. The reality is that it took her a relatively short journey to become my daughter- 41 weeks, to be exact. But it will take me the rest of my life to become her mother, to grow into this role. It's constantly changing and evolving, often requiring "just a little more" when I feel I have nothing left to give.

But talk about a return on the investment.

Hundreds upon hundreds of memories turn those long days of "nothing left" into moments of realizing I have more than I could have ever asked for. And to add to those memories tomorrow morning will be chocolate chip pancakes and a rousing version of "Happy Birthday" to my sleepy 2 year old- my lucky #13 baby girl. :)

The Difference 365 Days Can Make

2011-06-07T19:15:00.000-07:00

This picture was taken June 7th 2010. (Yes, I just posted a picture of my pee stick- deal with it). :) I called Jake- who happened to be overseas in London at the time- but when I couldn't reach him, I texted him a picture of the test, to which he eventually said " I don't really see a line..". {insert Debbie Downer them song here}. But I couldn't fault him. Most guys don't have "line eyes" like we women do. So then I texted him this picture:

Of course, then he believed me. :) I guess something about seeing the word spelled out across the test strip made it more real, even for me. And so we learned that our family of three was going to become a family of four. Life changes and evolves. It's a continual rollercoaster that begs the question: do we clench our teeth and white-knuckle the safety bar? Or do we let go, throw our hands up in the air and enjoy the ride?

June 7th 2011: my baby boy who is 2 days shy of 4 months, and my big baby girl, who is 6 days shy of turning 2.

Life is good. :)

YO! It's Time to Make a Cake!

2011-06-07T10:15:00.000-07:00

Nevermind that watching Yo Gabba Gabba is like watching a 20 minute acid trip- Ella is obsessed with them. So naturally, this year's birthday party theme is "Yo Ella-Ella!", complete with balloons, plates, napkins and table-cloths in the various characters' colors. And because I always jump at the chance to do anything crafty, I decided that for as long as I'm physically able to, I want to make my kids' birthday cakes each year. This was Ella's ladybug cake last year:

It was so much fun to make, and relatively easy, all things considered. On the flip side, this year's cake is turning out to be quite the endeavor. Three tiers, iced with buttercream and fondant and Foofa's head sprouting out of the top. For those of you without kids under the age of ten (or alternately, those who have been living in a cave for the last 4 years) meet Foofa:

In case you're wondering, I have not been able to locate an onion/shallot shaped baking pan for Foofa's head. It would have been much easier to do a Plex head, or even a Brobee head, but Foofa is her favorite, so Foofa it is. After a little brainstorming, I think I have some ideas of how to make it work.

I sheepishly told Jake how much I had spent on all the various pans, cutters, fondant, icing and other doo-dads and I'm sure he wondered why I didn't just order a cake instead. (I'm beginning to wonder that myself). But every artist knows that creativity trumps practicality. It's not convenient. It's not cheap. Some might go as far as to say it's not even smart. After all, I'm afraid I will have a very disappointed little girl on my hands should this cake fall apart. But I've paid my due to Michael's and Baker's Kitchen and told myself I'm investing in memories (yes, I was grasping at straws after the total was rung up). But really, it's a small price to pay to see her face light up. I'm sure of this.

So long as Foofa's head is even remotely recognizable, this will not be a failure. The perfectionist in me may have to take a back seat if only for the the sake of having something that's at least edible, but I have high hopes that what I see in my head will be what I see on my kitchen counter come Friday afternoon. ;-)

So I now have in my possession:

1 roll of parchment paper
several plastic gloves
1 5 lb bucket of Fondant
1 3 lb bucket of buttercream icing (YUMS)
2 soft gel pastes in light pink and black

Square and Round cake pans:

Various fondant cutters, smoothers, and embellishments:

Fondant in various colors for accents:

And last but not least, these colorful puff balls. Confession: I'm not entirely sure what these will be used for. What can I say, it was an impulse buy. ;-)

Wish me luck! :-)

Want a Little Cheese With Your Whine?

2011-06-06T13:03:00.000-07:00

When Ella first started calling me "momma," my heart broke into a tiny thousand pieces and I felt like I just couldn't love her more.

But if I had a nickel for every time I've heard my name in the last week...well, I'd have myself a jar full of nickels, I guess. I never thought I would get tired of hearing that sweet little voice asking for me, wanting me, needing me. But then that sweet little voice got sassy. Those vocal chords grew stronger and seemingly overnight, developed the ability to say {read: shriek, yell, whine} my name a full octave and several decibels higher than before. We've recently reached a stage where the whining is incessant. And it's not because little Miss doesn't know how to communicate well and tell me what she wants. She's just whining because she can and also, I suspect, because she knows it gets under my skin.

Some friends of ours told us that this is a stage that lasts until she goes away to college. They said that she may not whine about the same things (I should hope not), but she will probably always maintain a variance of that sing-songy whimper when she wants or needs something, or alternately, has been told that she can't have said thing. They told us this and then they both laughed (their daughter is now away in college, so I guess they've earned the right to), but I'll be honest- I'm not worried about her making it to college. My nerves are so shot, there are days I wonder if she'll make it to her second birthday.

All joking aside, the whining is truly one of my biggest pet peeves (next to grammatical errors and slow left lane drivers). But I guess until some genius develops a mute button for our kiddos, I'm going to just have to deal. And invest in some good bottles of wine. Ella whine = Mommy wine.

This Little Pig Has Roast Beef, This Little Pig Has None {Help!}

2011-06-03T15:53:00.000-07:00

And this little pig cried "weeeeee weeeee weeeeee" every time she has to make dinner...

I grew up as a meat-and-potatoes kinda girl. While I don't make red meat (or any meat) the focal point of my menu planning, I do enjoy a good filet from time to time and will usually make chicken or fish a couple of times a month.

My hubby, on the other hand, decided he was going to try a vegetarian diet starting in January 2010 and he hasn't looked back since. I'll admit that menu planning got a little bit more complicated, but we still made it work. Then, my daughter went from eating every kind of baby-food I offered her to joining the ranks of picky toddlers everywhere and has basically survived off of Kraft Mac-n-Cheese, cheese, bread and whole grain waffles. I wanted to pull my hair out. I do understand (but unfortunately, don't always tolerate) my daughter's willfullness. I know that when she turns up her nose at the things I put on her plate, I can ultimately toss her a multi-vitamin and feel that we've still got some of our bases covered. However, in the last month, my hubby decided he was going to pull out all stops and go vegan. Now I've gone from pulling out my hair to having an annoying eye twitch. Patches of bald skin and compulsive winking. Awesome.

I still find myself thinking, no dairy? Really? Nothing with milk in it? No butter? No *gasp* cheese?? I suppose when desperate times call for desperate measures, one could always take a face-plant in their backyard and go to town. You're probably never out of options, in that sense. But in all seriousness, I totally understand the reasons he's doing it and I want to be supportive of it. For him, it's not about making a statement or belittling others who choose something different, nor is it a decision based on strong emotions after watching something like Food, Inc. (That being said, I have refused to watch that movie because I know full well that my weak stomach would never be able to look at meat the same way and as of right now, I still opt for the "ignorance is bliss" motto). He just feels that it's the healthiest way to eat. And I can't really argue with him about that (I say, as I research a bourbon demi-glaze for a filet I plan to grill tonight). There have been plenty of times in the last several months that I find myself thinking that I could probably do just fine (if not great) on a vegetarian diet, but I'm just not in any big hurry to get there and there is absolutely no pressure to join him "on the other side." So on the rare occasions I still crave a good steak or some barbecued chicken, I indulge myself and don't think twice about it. In time, I will probably show full-time love to the vegetables. I just don't think I could ever go all-out vegan. No judgment here. I just love me some cheese.

But that still leaves the train-wreck that is my weekly menu planning and cooking. I don't have time to make two different meals every night, especially with a screaming four month-old who inevitably needs to nurse when I have a pot of pasta boiling over on the stove and an overly helpful toddler who wants to have a hand in everything I do in the kitchen. I continue to put new food in front of Ella, sometimes with her usual staples (cheese, pasta), just so I know she will eat something that evening and yet a good portion of what I put on her plate still goes to waste. I know she's not unique in that way. I'm just looking for a simple, easy way to do dinners for 1 eats-anything-that's-put-in-front-of-her adult (that would be me), 1 eats-anything-that-doesn't-have-a-face-or-whose-mother-didn't-have-a-face adult (darling hubby) and 1 über picky 2 year-old who thinks food is much funnier on the floor than in her stomach. Thank God Milo is still breastfeeding. No guess-work there. (Just exhaustion).

I'll take any helpful advice, recipes, cookbook recommendations and/or words of consolation. ;-)

Girl, Interrupted

2011-06-01T19:10:00.001-07:00

I'm a very hard person to talk to on the phone these days. Most times, I resort to texting because at least I don't feel as bad when I get interrupted for the 11th time by a diaper blowout/impromptu dance party/meltdown over not going outside. Or in Milo's case, a painful gas bubble. Luckily, most of my friends are in the same exhasuted stage of life raising little people, so apologies are often not necessary. We all get it. Still, I look back fondly on the days when the phone would ring and I could have a normal thought process and free-flowing conversation without sounding like I suffer from Tourrette Syndrome:

"Hey! How was your-- STOP!! Don't touch that- yucky! Okay, sorry. So you had a good time?

. . . . . . .

"Yeah, we're gonna be there for a week in September and-- No, Mommy already said we're not going to the playground right now...the rates in Myrtle are so much better after Labor Day and it's much less--- HEY! Stop sitting on him- he can't breathe!!"

. . . . . . .

"Hi, I'd like to place an order for delivery please? Yes- I'll have one large-- omigod-Jake-she-just-ran-out-on-the-deck!-- pepperoni and mushroom pizza- wait, no! get in here right now, young lady. I'm so sorry. Yes, light on the sauce. Do you want to go to timeout? A side of cheesy bread. Thanks."

. . . . . . .

And so for obvious reasons, texting is my main method of communication these days, though that's not without it's flubs as well. But at least other people can get a good laugh at your expense. ;-)

When Irish Eyes Are...Unexpected

2011-05-31T17:11:00.000-07:00

Something fun happened to me last week. I went to the grocery store by myself. Holla! But wait, there's more. I was standing in the produce section eyeing the watermelons and cantaloupes when I was startled by someone saying my name- in an Irish accent, no less. And suddenly there he was. No, not Colin Farrell. (Damn!) Far from it. It was my gynecologist. Several thoughts hit me at once. First- this guy is 65 years old and he has a better memory than I do. Especially considering he's used to seeing his patients with little to no clothes on. Second- the last time he saw me, he wasn't exactly looking at my face the entire time, begging the question of whether I should be even more impressed with his memory or that much more mortified. And third- we were standing by the melons. Yep. The irony was almost stronger than the overwhelming urge to squeeze my legs as close together as possible.

It's akin to being a kid and seeing one of your teachers when you're out shopping (but without the memories of cold hard steel up your lady biz). I remember running into my second grade teacher at the grocery store one day and I was awestruck. Teachers actually left school? They had to buy groceries too?? What did they eat? Did that mean they went to movies too? Maybe they actually had lives other than flashcards and spelling tests and report cards. So that day in Kroger, I was jarred not only by the fact that had I just run into a man who had seen parts of me that my husband hasn't even seen (nor does he want to), but also that he was out and about like a normal guy. Without the white coat and scrubs and without all the questions about my cervix. And his cart wasn't, in fact, full of speculums and KY-Jelly like I assumed it would be. (I know because I stole a quick glance). Apparently, he likes watermelon and cheese and cereal. I'm guessing he might even like to go to Target and buy senseless crap because, well, it's Target. He, too, has a life outside of fundal measurements and stirrups and commanding women to push.

So how does one end an awkward run-in like this? "See you, uh, at my next pap smear...?" Probably not. Suffice it to say, I was relieved when he ended it for me with a simple, "enjoy those babies."

Of course. The two culminations of the numerous bodily violations that occurred in suite 500 of our hospital were now sitting at home waiting for me. And that, is a good feeling.

The Forgotten Four Letter Word

2011-05-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

There's a scene in Sex and the City 2 where Charlotte is in the kitchen frantically making cupcakes with her oldest daughter while her younger daughter is in her highchair screaming and throwing a hissy fit. Her older daughter then smears bright red handprints all over the back of Charlotte's cream vintage Valentino skirt, at which point, Charlotte declares a mommy time-out, locks herself in her pantry and starts to cry.

That was me yesterday. Minus the vintage Valentino skirt and gorgeous apartment in upper Manhattan.

In those moments, I struggle against the compulsion to feel ashamed and to feel like I've taken the mommy test and gotten a big, fat FAIL. I even tell myself it's okay when shit goes down in the comfort of my own home and no one else has to see it because then I don't have to tell anyone about it. Then, it's almost like it didn't actually happen. It's a terribly lonely feeling though- not to talk about it. And the reality is that I'm not alone, or unique, in dealing with the really sucky parts of parenting. My best friend texted me a few weeks ago and told me that she, too, was having the Charlotte York Goldenblatt meltdown-in-the-pantry kind of day. Maybe for some, it's the kind of day when you want to wear something other than faded yoga capri pants and a crusty tank-top with remnants of either dried food or poop. Or when you go out on a limb by wearing something cute or new or- hell, just something clean- only to have it spit up on. If you take days like those, toss in a few tantrums, a headache that won't respond to any over-the-counter medicine, you will arrive at a moment when locking yourself in the pantry or bathroom seems like an entirely appropriate alternative. Just slip mommy some of her special pills under the door, please, and GO THE EFF AWAY.

Today, we were leaving the beach when Ella had what I can undoubtedly say was her worst tantrum yet. As I carried her further away from the ocean (she refused to walk), the crying quickly escalated to all out screaming, kicking and writhing. You know it's bad when you're outside at the beach with all of it's other ambient beachy noise and people can still hear your child over all of it. People stared as she did the "limp rag doll" when I tried to put her down. A few times I admittedly just let her drop and roll around on the sand, just so I could catch my breath. A few passers-by gave that knowing "been-there-done-that" apologetic look. I slung her upside down by her feet over my shoulders while she punched and scratched and clawed and kicked and made sounds that didn't sound human. A couple of people even stopped to ask us if we needed help. (Or perhaps they were wondering if they should call child protective services). By the time we got out to our car, I totally expected to see her head do a 360 degree rotation a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist. (Okay, maybe a little strong...but I swear, sometimes demon possession is the closest thing to illustrating the bi-polar mood swings of your average 2 year old).

It was painfully obvious to me on that walk back to our car that I was that mom. My cheeks burned with shame. I was the one who couldn't control her kid. The one that I, myself, had once shot pitiful glances to in the grocery store or in restaurants years ago when I had the pleasure of going sans children. And here I was, now crying right alongside my daughter who was fighting too hard for me to even attempt buckling her in her carseat. At that moment, I desperately wanted that pantry to lock myself in. I wanted to hide my tears and utter helplessness. I wanted desperately to save face. But even greater than all of those things was my gratitude for my best friend and my husband who were there to first, help get Ella strapped into her seat and then, to hand me a paper bag to breathe in and tell me that I wasn't a bad mom. I was just a normal mom going through yet another kind of refining fire. It wasn't a relief, but it was truth.

So the pressing question: why try to save face in moments like those? When there are a plethora of other four letter words that can (and did) escape my lips, why is it that the hardest one for me to say is "help?".

Motherhood isn't for wimps, that's for damn sure.

Love for the Woombie

2011-05-26T11:53:00.000-07:00

I have said it over and over, but it bears repeating: If the epidural was the best money I ever spent pre-baby, then this was the best money I ever spent post-baby. (And a heckuva lot cheaper than the epidural). I was skeptical, at first, that this cocoon-looking sack would really give my tired, hormonal body a good stretch of sleep via my 7 week old daughter, but I was at my breaking point and willing to try anything. Anything. The first night I zipped her up, looking very much like a baby sausage, went to bed around 10 and kept my fingers crossed. I woke up at 5 the next morning and she was still sound asleep. Really? Too good to be true? Only time would tell. But night after night, her stretches of sleep increased, as did my amazement. My under-eye circles started to disappear. I got my sense of humor back. My coffee even tasted better. I stopped being crazy-hormonal-b*tch-from-hell Kristin and started being the girl my husband said he wanted to marry (because I'm pretty sure there were times when he thought, I did NOT sign on for this).

All of this for about 30 smacks.

I got a chance to test out the Woombie's magic again this past February when my son was born. Though not nearly the great sleeper my daughter was (he just now started sleeping through the night at nearly 4 months), he managed 5-6 hour stretches of sleep when he was just a few weeks old and I feel pretty darn confidant that it was largely due to this little piece of fabric. So confidant, in fact, that I just ordered him another one in size "big baby" and have started to nervously watch for the UPS man because I know he may only have a few more days, at best, in the NB size before he busts the zipper. And I fear that may make for a difficult night.

*Diclosure: This is not an official review. Woombie.com did not pay me to say any of this. It's just a little gushing from an over-tired Momma who is finally having her sleep- and sanity- restored.;-)

The Price of My Favorite Pair of Jeans

2011-05-06T15:08:00.000-07:00

I've decided that I shouldn't ever complain about the few extra pounds of baby weight I've yet to shed. History would say it's just not a smart move. The last time I did that after having Ella, I got nailed with a stomach bug, so while I did lose what was left of my muffin top, I was also losing my lunch and dinner and breakfast and, well, you get the idea. Apparently this time around, it's strep throat. (Which I would gladly take any day over the stomach bug). Takes me back to the days when I regularly got strep throat as a little girl. (I always knew it was bad when my doctor had me open my mouth and then reeled back and said, "whoa.") But it's been so long since I've had it and time does a great job of deadening the senses and skewing the details and I forgot just how much it sucks. (Oddly enough, I conveniently forgot certain things about pregnancy too. I somehow remembered that morning sickness "wasn't so bad." Seriously? And now I pray that I will always remember the day I spent on the bathroom floor when my little guy was apparently implanting in my uterus before I let Jake or anyone else talk me into going for #3). But back to the throat thing. It hurts to swallow anything. I forgot about this. Water. Saliva. Sour Patch Kids (I had a hankering for them. Yes, it's weird). What little appetite I do have is satisfied with cherry, orange and grape popsicles and today for lunch, I had mac-n-cheese and a few tater tots. I've adopted the "eat whatever sounds good" rule and have discovered that I have the palate of a 3 year old.

I wish I could say that I always try to find the good in the not-good situations. At times like these, unfortunately, it's much easier to say, "Woe to me. My throat hurts like a b**ch." (I do say it, just not in front of the kids). But today, as I was changing out the last of my winter clothing for spring and summer garb, I thought, well maybe I'll just try on those jeans again. Lo and behold, my favorite pair fits. And the reason they're my favorite pair? Because they're the ones I wore before I got pregnant with Milo- the coveted size 6 that have been sitting under the 11 other pairs of maternity jeans I've had to work my way through. Yes, yes, I might still be pasty and my muscle tone is only "meh," BUT... I didn't have to lie down flat on my bed to get them zipped up and that, my friends, counts as a victory in my book.

So, to the white spots on the back of my throat and my swollen lymph nodes, I say, thank you. Oh, and suck it. I win.

Today, Right This Minute.

2011-05-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

It's one of those days.

I went to bed last night ready to wake up and tackle the day, ready to hit the ground running. But it's 6:49 a.m and the day has already tackled me, has me pinned to the mat. My throat aches, my head throbs, my body is heavy- and not just in reference to the last 10 lbs of baby weight that are still holding onto my thighs for dear life. I imagine for one second that I can just turn over and go back to sleep for a few hours. (Okay, a few days). What if I could just go make a cup of tea, soak myself to the bone in a steamy shower and give myself even an hour to try and swim out of my dense, foggy state?

Today right this minute, I feel broken. I feel sick. Correction: I am sick. Jake is out the door for work at 8:05 and I realize we've barely even spoken this morning. I miss him. Odd how you can miss someone who sleeps beside you every night. I miss talking to him. I miss having coherent thoughts of my own. There may not be that much space between us, but there's just enough distance to fit two small, precious children. Will that distance grow as quickly as they do? I'm afraid of becoming a statistic: a husband and wife who essentially become glorified roommates, sharing a mortgage and divvying up chores and after school activities. I know deep down that we're okay, and that we'll always be okay- and that even when we're not, we'll find our way back. We always have. But today, I wish I was a little more "wife," and a little less "mommy." I wish my body belonged to me again. And so I continue my love/hate relationship with breastfeeding. 3 months down, 9 to go? Maybe only 6?

I sit on the couch listening to Ella chatter in her room and today, right this minute, I don't feel like I'm enough for her. She'll want to go outside and play. She'll want me to get down on the floor and wrestle with her and I know I don't have it in me. So it'll be a morning with Nick Jr and all of our animated friends. I have all of the theme songs memorized. Actually, so does she. Why does that suddenly make feel guilty? The minutes are ticking before Milo will wake up and want to eat. Do people actually hire wet nurses anymore? Where would I even go to look for one? Okay, back to reality.

But my mind wanders. On mornings like these, I play a dangerous game of "what ifs." What if I had a normal 9-5 job, sitting in a cubie climbing out from a mountain of emails and sitting in hopelessly boring and/or unproductive meetings? I would probably call in sick today and put my "out of office" message on my voicemail. I can't be reached. I'm not available. Don't bother. Go away. I'll get back to you tomorrow.

But I can't say that to my almost 2 year old. Nope.

The boss will be needing a clean diaper soon. And then her waffles and yogurt, with a side of strawberries. Then there are the bills, the laundry, the inevitable blowouts and tantrums and spilled sippy cups. Today, I will find a way to keep my head above water at least until naptime, when I can let myself succumb to the tears that I know she won't understand.

The truth is that if I did have that 9-5 job I sometimes visualize in my mind, there's a very good chance that I'd spend at least 6 of those 8 hours thinking about and missing my babies. I need to remember that today. Being a mommy is hard, especially right this minute. But may there be long naps and early bedtimes for us all tonight.

The Art of the Shart.

2011-05-04T05:24:00.000-07:00

Yep, I just said it.

During Milo's first month, it never failed that I would no sooner get a clean diaper on him than his little face would turn beet red and the "gas" that I thought he had already gotten out of his system decided to make another forceful exit- and bring some friends along for the ride. During most diaper changes, I was usually far too concerned with keeping his little man parts covered to consider that there was another "exit" down there that needed guarding. But I've discovered that diapers don't mean a thing, really, and just because parts are covered, doesn't mean you're safe. The other day, I was holding Milo over my shoulder trying to get him to burp. It should also be mentioned that I was sitting on the couch with a bath towel, draped only partially over me because I was halfway through my shower when he decided to start screaming. Since he's always been a bit of a gassy baby to begin with, I wasn't too surprised when he bunched his legs up and started grunting. But I will know better next time.

It took me half a second to realize that something warm and sticky was on my face. In my hair. On my nose and upper lip. In my EYE. Oh GOD, in my EYE.

And it's amazing what goes through your mind in the 2.5 seconds that follow a poop bomb that explodes in your face. After all, this is my own flesh and blood. This is my heart. But he just sharted in. my. face. And in that one instant, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Instead, I just sat there on the couch, paralyzed, afraid to move for fear that I would discover it in more places. And then I started to gag. People who know me well can attest that even though I have a strange and intense fear of throwing up, I hardly EVER do and I have a fairly strong gag reflex. But this nearly pushed me over the edge. In fact, I think I would have rather been thrown up on than this- and that's a BOLD statement coming from me.

So after another shower and a delicate attempt to put hand-sanitizer all over my face (hmmm...alcohol and eyeballs are never a good combo), I recovered. And he just grinned at me. He knew exactly what he'd done. But I think that I do, in fact, have the upper hand. When he comes to me 13 years from now and asks why he has to clean his room/go to school/go to bed early, I'll say, "because I'm your mother and I said so. And because you sharted in my face when you were 2 months old. So there."

The Timeline of "Tired"

2011-04-30T11:42:00.000-07:00

It's currently week 11 of Milo's middle-of-the-night munching. This is exactly four and a half weeks past the point that Ella decided to be an angel and sleep through the night. (Yes, I now painfully understand how lucky we were with her). At first, I was naive enough to think that putting him in the Woombie would work it's magic just like it did with his sister, but alas, we are still waking up at least once in the middle of the night. So I started thinking about this sleep-deprivation thing and I've decided that there's a certain progression down this oh-so-familiar path of fatigue. I think it goes something like this:

Weeks 1 and 2: Some might predict these to be the hardest weeks of adjustment, but surprisingly, these are some of the easier weeks to deal with because you're still riding that hormonal high (and sometimes hormonal VERY low) and you're simply caught up in the newness of your little ball of pudge. You look at your husband with googly eyes as you watch him make the transformation from husband to Daddy, or daddy times two (or three...). Life is sweet. You might even catch yourself saying, "Hey, this isn't so bad. I don't know what I was so worried about. I'm not that tired."

Week 3: this is the game-changer. Something happens in week 3, (or at least it did both times in my case): the newness wears off, the family that was hanging around to help (if you were so lucky) has vacated the premises and "real life" starts to sink in. It's 1:42 a.m. and you're up yet again with your hungry ball of pudge and two realizations hit you. 1) Your husband has a hidden talent you never knew existed in all your years of dating and marriage, which is that he could sleep through a tornado. Perhaps DEAF is a better term. At the same time you also realize that you are now equipped with an acute sense of hearing- one so sharp that you can actually hear the boogers rattling inside your baby's nostrils. You find this to be both alarming and annoying.

Week 4-5: Is it just your imagination, or is your darling little one a little less darling at 2:19 a.m.? You'll do anything to keep yourself awake because, as odd as it sounds, having the jaws of life attached to your boobs isn't enough. So you resort to checking facebook on your phone. What? No one else is posting at 2:30 in the morning? Only one new post? Lame. And then by 5:50 a.m., you're so tired that you hate your iPhone, you hate your leaking boobs, you hate your husband for not being able to lactate (and also for the simple fact that he looks so peaceful sleeping beside you) and you hate your child's incessant booger rattling/grunting/squeaking/farting.

Week 6: Hello, growth spurt. In other words, the 20 minute window of time you used to take a shower is practically non-existent. You might as well not even wear a shirt. When you go to your 6 week PP check-up, your OB asks you about birth control and first, you laugh. Who's having sex?? But then you tell him you'll take them ALL. The IUD, the depo provera shot, the pill- Just throw them all in a goody-bag and you'll be on your way. You can never be too sure.

Week 7-8: At this point, baby randomly throws in a 5 hour stretch of sleep here and there and you're so elated that you almost pee your pants in excitement. Suddenly, 4:30 doesn't seem so bad when you weren't already awake at 2. S/he looks cute again. Your husband's snoring doesn't seem to bother you as much. You think that maybe things are starting to take a turn toward normalcy.

Week 9: Yeah, right. SUCKA! You're back at square one again, and this time it stings that much more because you've had a taste of what semi-decent sleep feels like. You fight the urge to pick up the phone and call your mother to tell her you're sorry for all the shit you put her through and that you love her. She must have put the "I hope one day you have kids who act just like you do" curse on you. You think if this is any indication, the teenage years are going to be AWESOME.

Week 10: You figure out that whatever is left of your disposable income after buying diapers and wipes goes to coffee and under-eye concealer, in that exact order. And then wine.

Week 11: The sleep is getting better. Gradually more nights of 5-6 hour stretches, but not enough that you're willing to bank on anything. You've learned the hard way that these precious babes are notorious for making you think you have them figured out, only to throw a wrench (or teether, whatever) into the plans. So you do what can do to get by- only slightly aware of what day of the week it is, and you think it's already May, but who can be sure? You're confident that one day you'll look back, albeit with a much more well-rested perspective, and think it wasn't so bad.
(But then you can re-read this blog-post and be reminded that it only took 5 days to actually finish it because brain cells only function for so long with inadequate sleep).

Ah well, life goes on. ;-)

It's a Bug's Life

2011-04-09T12:48:00.001-07:00

There are so many reasons why I love my girl. The first time I saw her and she bore holes into me with those big eyes, I knew I was in way over my head. The only person that's wrapped any tighter around her little finger is her daddy and rightly so. But aside from that unconditional, overwhelming "I would lay down in front of a semi for you" bond, I am also in awe of the little person she's becoming and she's constantly keeping her Daddy and me entertained with the many facets of her personality. So I thought I'd share a few things that make Ella our Bug :)

1. She's quick. And I don't mean the way she ran and tripped over her own two feet and busted her head open on the corner of our baseboard kind of quick. (Who knew so much blood could result from a 3/4 inch gash??) I mean that she thinks on her feet. (Well, most of the time anyway). She knows exactly what she wants and she goes for it. That box of cupcakes in the corner of the kitchen counter that I thought I had hidden sufficiently behind the mixing bowls? Nope. She already spotted them from across the room. And that "I love you, momma" hug that she just came up and gave me out of the clear blue? Puh-lease. It's not because she wants to cuddle. She wants a cupcake. And she specifically wants the only chocolate one that's left- the one I've had MY eye on. She obviously doesn't yet know the lengths I'm willing to go to to protect my chocolate...

2. She's no push-over. In fact, she's probably the one doing the pushing most of the time. It's no secret to any of our friends with kids her age that our Bug has a fiery temper. There have been umpteen scoldings and timeouts in the middle of playdates because, yet again, she's bonked someone on the top of the head or smacked them in the face or thrown her sippy cup/binky/Little People figurine down (much the way an enraged football coach takes his cap off and pummels it to the ground). And yet, I find it oddly reassuring that my daughter will never be a doormat. I'm just having a bit of a hard time explaining there are very few times in life when it truly IS okay to throw a right hook (thanks to Daddy for teaching her that one *ahem*) and being told that she cannot have more animal crackers isn't one of those times.

3. She's a feeler. Now, it may be too soon to know if she is a true F on the Meyers-Briggs test, but I'm gonna say that all signs point in that direction. If looks can say a thousand words, then, well, she'd be horrible at poker. As with most kids her age, she wears her heart on her sleeve, and it absolutely melts me. But, while she can be the most loving, empathetic creature- showering Milo, me, Jake or any of her friends with hugs and kisses- a mere 30 seconds later, upon being told that no, she can not watch any more Elmo, she can also emit a shriek that would grow hair on a tomato, deliver a vicious backhand, and then clear all of her Litte People off of the coffee table in one fell swoop of her forearm.

4. She sings. all. the. time. And of course, I would still love her just as much even if she wasn't constantly entertaining Jake and me with her antics on Jake's ukulele, belting out snippets of "Hey, Soul Sister" or "Heartbreak Warfare," or dancing around like a spider monkey on crack to her favorite band, Athlete. But I love that she owns the stage when she takes it. And I'm especially grateful that she hasn't gotten hooked on the Wee Sing Silly Songs collection or anything from Thomas the Train.

5. She's an awesome big sister. Obviously, she has her share of jealous moments and for some odd reason, has become very vocal lately about the breast pump: "No Momma? No, no pump milk?!". (I tell her that it's okay, it scares Daddy too). But she genuinely cares for her "Mi-yo," whether it's sticking his binky back in when it falls out, helping me cover him up at nap time, rocking him in his carseat when he starts to fuss or just leaning in to kiss him on the forehead for no apparent reason. Am I naive enough to think that will continue once he becomes mobile and wants to invade her personal space? No. She'll probably wipe the floor with him. But I also have no doubt that her "take no sh** from anyone" mentality will also make her Milo's greatest advocate and defender, should he ever need it. :)

6. She's this perfect combo of crunchy nature girl meets dress up queen. I know a lot of people will be shocked by this, but I love shoes and designer hand bags. I love to have reasons to get dressed up. I believe that walking out to the mailbox is definitely reason enough to wear lip-gloss and mascara. And I always joked that if I ever had a little girl, I would school her in all things artsy and fashionable. She might reject it and that's okay, but by golly, she's going to know the difference between a real Louis Vuitton and a knock off. However, I didn't always exhibit an affinity for these things. I was the girl running around barefoot in her yard, looking under rocks for lizards and worms and climbing trees- decorating my arms and legs with colorful bruises and scrapes. So it's no surprise that she loves being outside (really, what little kid doesn't?) but I must confess that it was a happy moment to watch her pull out my new platform wedges the other day and say, "ooooh pwetty, Momma." as she attempted to put them on. (That's my girl). ;)

7. She has a higher pain tolerance than I do. This is an extremely good thing, considering she emulates the Tasmanian devil on her more subdued days. As we were running through the park the other day, I could see it coming and thought perhaps putting her in shorts wasnt the smartest idea. Sure enough, she took a spill on the pavement and I stifled a small gasp, but before I could ask her if she was alright, she popped back up, exclaimed, "you okay??" (I guess she thinks this is what she's supposed to say whenever she trips and falls since she's heard us say it) and kept on running, blood oozing down her leg. And the blow to the back of the head that she took the other day which resulted in lots of blood left me clinging to the kitchen countertop to keep from passing out, but by the time she left for the ER with Jake, she was happily walking out to the car, picking up random rocks and chucking them across the yard. 40 minutes after that she was home with a couple of staples in her head and I was still trying to will myself to finish my lunch. Gross.

So those are just a few things that make my Bug the intriguing and nifty little girl she is. And it's an amazing trade-off: I get to teach her how to tie her shoes and count to ten, and in turn, she teaches me how to live in the moment. Play hard, love without inhibition, laugh at the little things, sing at the top of your lungs, cry when it hurts- but most importantly- always get back up and keep running. :)

Why Cry Over Spilled Milk?

2011-03-07T08:22:00.000-08:00

Have you ever thrown a perfectly good piece of meat at the wall recently? My guess is that you haven't. But I have. And although it was instantly regretted, it felt pretty darn exhilarating for that one second. So why did I throw a 6 oz. steak at my wall? Why the drama?

Hormones. It's as simple-and as complicated- as that.

Before anyone should think I make a habit of throwing (read: hurling) food across the room, let me break it down even further: I was ravenously hungry. It was 9 o'clock at night. Jake had been to the store after work to pick up my "filet" which he was told they didn't sell (seriously, what reputable grocery chain doesn't sell filets??) He came home, bathed Ella and gave her dinner, all while I had a fussy 3 week old hanging from my left boob- and then my right. and then my left again- all because of this very torturous phenomenon called "cluster feeding." It was the end of my first week home with both kids and my state of being was catatonic, at best. I had 3 hours of sleep the night before. And 3 hours the night before that...and the night before that...and all the way back for about a month. After a very long and draining week, I was somehow managing to keep my calm, convinced that restoration was coming to me in the form of a juicy filet and a velvety glass of Cabernet.

I sat down, took one bite of the steak, and started to cry. It was tough and chewy. It wasn't a filet. I decided that I couldn't drink my wine with a piece of meat that tasted like that. That would be a waste. Of course, if I couldn't eat the steak or drink the wine, I couldn't eat the baked potato and green beans either. It all had to go together, damnit. This was the meal I had been salivating over all day and it was ruined. Poor Jake. He did the best he could- it wasn't his fault. But I could feel the anger welling up in me. (Apparently, I don't cry over spilled milk, but I have the surprising ability to go ape shit over my red meat. Go figure). So when the bulging vein on my forehead appeared, my sweet husband quickly offered to go out and pick up another steak for me.

But I suddenly realized I had to leave. I had to get out. I didn't want him to go get me a steak. It wasn't about the food anymore. Sure, I wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice steak dinner and a movie while the babies slept, but I also wanted to be able to keep my eyes open past 8:30 p.m. I wanted to be able to run out to Target to get toilet paper and Tylenol without taking 45 minutes to pack up the kids, load them into the car and make it home before Milo screamed his head off needing to eat. I wanted to not smell like sour milk. I wanted jeans that could hide my post-partum muffin top. Even more, I wanted the muffin top to magically disappear, along with the stubborn 15 extra pounds hanging around my thighs. I wanted to be able to use the bathroom by myself or disappear into our bedroom to fold clothes without being followed. I wanted sleep. Sweet, beautiful, elusive sleep. Precious REM cycles. I wanted to feel like I wasn't failing at this "being a mom to two kids" thing. I wanted validation. I wanted to know that at some point, it HAD to get better.

I decided in that instant, I didn't want him to go get me a steak. I wanted him to go get me my life back.

It was almost as if my hand involuntarily reached down to my plate and chucked it before I could even tell myself to stop. And so the tough, chewy steak ricocheted off my wall, leaving a T-bone shaped A-1 stain above the kitchen sink and I proceeded to storm out of the house in tears, (begging the question- who was the real 2 year old in the house?) I got in the car and drove-not entirely sure where I was going- and had a good, ugly cry- you know, the kind with uncontrollable sobs and hiccups and mascara stains all down my neck and shirt. Several minutes later, I eventually arrived at my senses- and at the closest Outback Steakhouse. (I still really wanted steak). While I was waiting for my order, I waited for the guilt to subside. First, that I had acted like a 2 year old and actually thrown my food. And then there was all the mom guilt- those voices that show up to kick you while you're already bruised and bleeding. "You thought you could handle 2 kids. You thought you were ready. You'll never be enough for them both. You're destined to buy stock in waterproof mascara because you'll probably be crying every day for the next 6 months. Your husband could never find you attractive looking like this..." I thought surely Jake was pissed that I had stormed out like that. He was probably just as fed up with me as I was fed up with me, if not more. I was almost afraid to go back home.

And then I got the text. "Are you okay?"

He wanted me to come home. He wasn't angry. He just wanted me to be home.

I picked up my order and drove back in silence. When I walked in, my mess had already been cleaned up and the steak was resting in the garbage can, where I should have thrown it to begin with. I sat down to eat in silence, unable to think of an apology that could possibly make up for the way I had acted. Before any words could come out, the tears interrupted them all over again. Without a word, he reached over and pulled me to him and I realized that nothing else about that night really mattered anymore. Because if I have learned anything about this life I have made with my husband- and this life that we're building with our children- it's that there is room to mess up. There is room to bawl your eyes out and be scared. And come to find out, there's even room enough in our tiny kitchen to test the stain-resistance of our walls. Who'd have guessed?

So these hormones might be here in abundance, but so is love. But love will still be here in abundance long after the hormones have disappeared, and that's all that really matters at the end of the day. And as for sleep? Well, I'm told that it will return in abundance at some point too. I just hope it will be sometime before they start high school...

Milo's Birth Story {or something close to it}

2011-02-20T13:38:00.000-08:00

I'm about half-way into my humongo cup of coffee and feeling somewhat coherent, so I figure now might be a good time to conjure up Milo's birth story before the sleep deprivation and postpartum memory-suppressing hormones rob me of the remaining details. {I love my french press. Just need to give it a shout-out. Moving on....}

I never wrote Ella's birth story out. It was such an incredible and life-changing experience that I *swore* I couldn't ever forget it. Then, reality hit like a ton of bricks (or should I say, "like a spinal tap") when I was lying on the cold O.R. table, feeling my whole body slipping away from my own control and I quickly began to realize there were, in fact, quite a few things I didn't remember {read: chose to repress} from when she was born. As I was feeling the warm numbness take over my legs and the heavy weight on my chest from being flat on my back, the room started to spin and I broke out into a sweat and started to feel very sick. I muttered something to the effect of, "Why is this happening...? I don't remember any of this with my daughter..." And my sweet anesthesiologist gently stroked my hair and said, "Of course you don't remember any of this, honey. That's why you're back here again." She laughed to herself like she had just delivered the best punch line and I decided I might one day be able to laugh at it when I finally got the feeling back in my diaphragm or maybe by Milo's first day of Kindergarten.

This story will be somewhat shorter than Ella's, and probably not nearly as exciting, since I didn't have the 20 hour labor prior to the c-section like I did almost 2 years ago. But here are the bare bones, as well as my very NON-medical interpretation of them.

1). "Your c-section is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Please be here at 5:30 a.m."

Interpretation: "Because we want to pump you full of enough fluid to make your ankles look like sausages and make your chin disappear into your neck. And while we're doing this, we'll be asking you questions about every known virus and infection you've had since you were two and poking you repeatedly in the hand in an attempt to get a blood sample. This will actually only take about 45 minutes, but we thought it would be fun for you to get up at 4:30 and get here extra early because our beds are just THAT comfortable.

2). "Okay, we're ready to take you to the O.R."

Interpretation: But we won't be wheeling your bed in like last time or even taking you by wheelchair. No, no. That's too boring. Instead, we'll make you walk down the hall and flash your crack to everyone you pass and maybe even trip over your own IV bag. {We'll all laugh behind your back and tell you it happens to everyone else, too}. And if you weren't already shaking from nerves, you'll be shaking from the meat locker-like temperature of the operating room. Then, we'll strip you of even more security by asking your husband to wait outside while we insert a long needle into your back, BUT we'll give you a squishy pillow to hold onto in his place.

3). "You're gonna feel a tiny sting."

Interpretation: Really? Was *that* a bee that just stung me?? Because I stepped on a bee with my bare feet when I was three and I barely noticed it. So, dear nurse, although I realize it wouldn't be too prudent to tell your patients, "hey- you're about to feel like a snake is sinking it's teeth into your spinal column," I'd still like to say: Tiny sting, my @$$.

4). "Just lay back and relax."

Interpretation: Mmkay, sure, I'll do that. You go ahead and strap down my arms while I lie flat on my back and feel like I'm suffocating. And I'll have you know, when you just poked me with that sharp object to make sure I couldn't feel anything, I FELT IT. {Enter panic mode here}. But go ahead and cut me open and I'll just "lay back and relax." Oh, and did I mention that I have this insane fear of vomiting? I did? Okay, well, I'm about to tell you again, because the room is starting to spin and I'm feeling a little too warm and I think I might be sick. I NEED MORE ZOFRAN. Where is my husband? Why do I feel like I can't breathe? Don't hand me that basin to puke in. (And for God's sake, why do you give your patients a tiny pinto-bean sized plastic dish to throw up in? Who has that kind of aim??) GIVE ME MORE ZOFRAN. I realize that it's just another day, just another section for you all as you stand over my entrails and talk about the recent Superbowl, but seriously, can we get to the part with the screaming baby? K, thanks.

5). "Lots of pressure now..."

Interpretation: "You thought you couldn't breathe earlier, but just wait. Now we're actually going to push and pull and stretch things and your lungs are going to momentarily come up into your throat." {But oddly enough, I still found myself grateful l wasn't having to use those over-stretched muscles to actually push him out}.

6). 8:06 a.m. February 9th 2011.

Interpretation: What would normally be an average minute on an average day now becomes a defining moment that I'll remember the rest of my life- just the way I remember 7:49 p.m on June 13, 2009 as my Ella-bug's voice pierced the air and I finally crossed the threshold into motherhood. One minute earlier and my world was violently spinning and I couldn't catch my breath and then suddenly, everything around me stopped. He was on the outside. He was real. He was okay. Pink and mad and screaming his little lungs out for his perfect apgars. (Such a little over-achiever already). I felt myself breathe deep and relax- for the first time in a long 10 months. My son, my little My-Ry, born on my dad's birthday- arrived right on time. Not a second too early, not a second too late.

8:06 a.m. and I became a mommy again, crossing a new kind of threshold- one that promised I would be enough, have enough and love more than enough- two times over. My heart has never been so full.

Ode to Sleep

2011-02-05T04:41:00.000-08:00

We've arrived at our last weekend as a family of three. And it started abruptly at 6:01 a.m. when my normally good sleeper decided she would throw her binky out of her crib and then talk (read: whine) about it. I guess she figures that since we're *this* close to having a newborn in our house, we might as well start getting up before we darn well feel like it.

Oh sleep. You've been so good to me over the last 16 months. Please don't forget about me. Please don't forget about my son. And please don't forget the fact that you showed up in very large chunks when Ella was only 5 weeks old and that you graced her with your beautiful 7-8 hour presence by 6 weeks. Yes, I know how lucky I was. But I'm asking to be that lucky again. If it's wrong to hope that this will be a common trait shared between a sister and brother, then I don't want to be right.

In case you decide to hold out on me, I come armed with the Keurig B70 Platinum edition. 5 cup sizes and brewing strengths. A "brew over ice" option, even.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(Ok, but seriously, don't forget about me. Please. Thank you...)

Dear Milo...

2011-02-04T11:56:00.000-08:00

You don't even know what's coming. Right now, all you know is quiet contentment- the warmth and darkness of your now overly cramped living quarters and the gentle swooshing of your Momma's heartbeat. But in just a few hours, you're going to be pulled, kicking and screaming (quite literally) into something cold and foreign, with big, bright lights and strange faces and voices and it will all be very overwhelming for you. I want to go ahead and tell you right now that everything will be okay. You might be afraid for a few minutes, but the fear will pass. It always does, sooner or later. Some of those new faces will bundle you up and make you warm and then one of them will carry you over to someone whose voice you'll recognize. You've heard him talk and laugh and sing and play with your sister. His hands will wrap themselves around your tiny, shriveled fingers and it's these hands that will one day teach you how to hold a baseball and throw a splitter, and how to play an E diminished on the guitar. But these hands will also show you so much more than that- like how to embrace both the beautiful and painful things in life...how to loosen your grip on those things you will want to control and how to hold on tightly to the things that are worth holding on to. This is your Daddy.

He will teach you to live in the moment. And it won't take much time around him for you to come to understand what compassion is- what it looks, feels and tastes like. He will show you that it's okay to let your heart break for other people and that being vulnerable with others has the ability to make you come alive. He loves you more than you'll ever be able to comprehend. I am so excited for you to meet him. And I can say with all of the confidence in the world that he is, and always will be, your biggest fan.

Your Momma has been eagerly awaiting this day too. To say that this has been a bumpy ride for both of us is an understatement. It's been an emotional and anxious 10 months and I'm sure you've been able to sense that. I wish I could've changed so much of that for both of our sakes- especially yours- but the truth behind the scary feelings is that they cause us to grow and change and become stronger people. As you grow up, you will be afraid and have your heart broken and feel pain and your Momma will have to fight a very real and overwhelming urge to want to hold you and protect you from those things (you know, until you're at least 79 years old or so). But there's a journey ahead for both of us, and it's called letting go. The time that you've spent in my belly is the only time I know I'll ever truly be able to hold and protect you as much as I possibly can. I'm fully aware that once the doctor puts you in my arms, I've already begun to let you go. I've already begun to give up control. I've already begun to pray harder than I've ever prayed in my entire life. I did the same with your sister. And I'm still learning to give up that control, still letting go and pulling close, still praying.

Being Mommy to you and your sister is the best thing I will ever do. I can't wait to know who you are. To touch you and know that you're real- that you're not some very active figment of my imagination for the last 10 months. To hold your precious hands and to kiss each tiny finger and toe and to be thankful that you're mine. To be grateful I've been given the privilege of being your mommy. I can't wait to see that first crooked little smile- the one that I'll see in your eyes before it ever makes it's way to your mouth. And then to see you recognize your big sister and to watch her love you in the way that only she'll know how. (For the record, she is going to beat you up and boss you around from time to time. And there will be consequences for her actions, of course. But don't say I never warned you. ;- ) ).

My sweet baby boy: you are loved. You have been hoped for, wanted, dreamt about, prayed over, cried for, celebrated- long before I ever felt you move inside me for the first time, and even more so since then. I love you- more than I did yesterday, but not nearly as much as I will in a few hours.

I'll see you soon. :)

Love,

Mommy