Obstetrics, Cookies, and Some Soup

I'm not exactly rolling in today with a week's worth of insightful links, videos, or books.

While my radar is on, all it's reading is "Move. Move. Move," followed by "Organize. Organize. Organize," followed by "Purge. Purge. Purge."

So, thanks to the Move-Organize-Purge record playing constantly in my head, I'm not the Web's biggest browser this week.

But I did find and use a few links you all might find interesting.

***

I am not a huge recipe follower. And this week's attempts are proof enough why.

Take, for instance, these lemon cookies I tried to bake for a play-date.

Because it's baking, I followed the directions. Mostly because when I don't, I end up with pastries that resemble and taste like lead pucks.

And, to be honest, these cookies were pretty good. They tasted like a sugar cookie. Which is awesome. Because I never make sugar cookies because I don't like the whole "roll-out-then-cut-out-then-roll-out-again-then-cut-out-again" process. Too much mess and flour and room for error.

But for a lemon cookie? These weren't that lemon-y. I wanted a more citrus-like punch, and honestly, they just didn't deliver. Next time, I'd add way more lemon juice and zest.

The next recipe I played with was a bean and barley soup, done up Southwest style.

It was tasty. But only after I added garlic - a lot of it - and doubled and tripled the spices used. Oh, and I added more barley. And more water. And I used the Crock-pot option.

Basically, I was two steps away from making this one up on my own. But hey, it was good.

Speaking of making things up, I used this Italian wedding soup with spinach as a jump-off point. As in I added spinach and sun-dried tomatoes to mine, too.

But that's where the similarities end.

Mine had onions and carrots and celery and more broth and more sun-dried tomatoes and entirely different kinds of meatballs.

And no fennel.

But it was splendid.

If you've not had it, I suggest you try this recipe. And then ad-lib along as you see fit.

***

I get really excited when I see articles about birth in mainstream news outlets.

I read an article this week that was just that.

A lot of people don't understand a lot of the anger and disappointment I - and others like me - feel at our current medical community and how they handle obstetrics. This article high-lights it perfectly.

I want every woman to be made fully aware of her rights, as well as receive full support for what she chooses as a woman in labor, as a woman giving birth, and as a woman navigating life post-partum with newborn. Our country fails miserably at this.

We all deserve better; with articles like this shedding light on these issues, I hope, in my lifetime, we'll get it.

***

I did this shoulder workout this week.

I have an obscene fear of my arms, as I worry they get quite flabby quite easily.

I felt this was a great workout to help that. And that's saying something because I'm not a big "magazine" workout girl.

***

What's on your radar this week? Happy Friday, everyone!

Just When You Thought I Couldn't Get Any Crunchier...

Every person I know who subscribes to the "Earthy-crunchy-granola" kind of mentality has some addendums.

In other words, they have a few things that, no matter how you slice it, they can't give up, no matter how "un-hippie" they are.

Perhaps they dye their hair.

Or perhaps they love fried food.

Perhaps they want a boob job or drive a gas-guzzling SUV or own a fur.

Whatever it is, every hippie has their hang-ups. We all have something we hold dear that doesn't fit in with the rest of our lifestyle, and often, we're pretty unapologetic about it.

Me? Well, I've got a few.

I do dye my hair. I give in to my cravings for hot wings, sometimes. And, when something starts to sprout mold in the fridge, I throw the whole darn container out instead of cleaning and re-using it.

Oh, and I own bleach. And when things get really nasty, I've even been known to use it. Gasp!

Like I said, a girl has her limits.

One such aforementioned limit for me had to do with Aunt Flo.

Or the Crimson Tide.

My period.

It started back when I was exploring around Etsy a few years ago, when I came across a concept called "mama cloth."

Basically, it's sanitary napkins.

Pads.

Made of cloth.

As in re-usable sanitary napkins.

I gave them a quick glance and clicked away with a resounding "No thank you!"

I'm all for natural, green, and chemical-free, but I felt no need to "handle" my period anymore than I already had to.

Fast-forward a few years, and I've just had a baby.

A baby who I cloth diaper.

I chose to use re-usable cloth diapers mainly for health reasons. After reading what's in disposable diapers and the possible side effects of disposable diapers*, I had a mini-freak-out and worried about putting said ingredients up against my kid's gentle, private areas.

Not to mention that cloth diapers would save us a boat-load of money.

So we made the switch, and we never looked back. It's been great; we've saved cash, and I feel better about my child's rear.

Anyhow, all was well in my hippie little world until I was strolling through the health-food store one day and came upon them again.

Mama cloth.

Re-usable, organic cotton pads right there in the natural healing section.

I thought about those suckers all the way home. When I finally put Ella down for a nap, I decided to do some research.

And there lies my first mistake. Once you're informed, it's hard to go on as you were, blissfully unaware.

As I read what was in sanitary pads and tampons, etc., just like Ella's diapers, I freaked.

I did not want said ingredients up against my gentle, private areas (or inserted in them!) No sirree Bob.

But, also, um, ewwwww.

I mean, I was already man-handling and washing my child's pee and poo.

Now you want me to add blood to the mix? I knew I'd have to think this one over.

Then, a few days later, I got an e-mail from one of those deal-a-day sites, and they were selling mama cloth at a great rate, made by a company that also makes cloth diapers I already buy for my daughter.

So, you can see where this is going.

I bought in, and my daughter and I officially own matching "diapers."

And this month, I finally got to use them.

Well, ladies, I have to tell you.

I don't know why I didn't jump on the boat sooner. Years ago, in fact.

I have literally forgotten I'm on my period every day. These suckers are so absorbent, there's no residual wet-ness. (Some research says that the natural cloth actually makes you bleed less than inserting a tampon or using a absorbent, paper-based sanitary pad, due to the chemicals used for maximum absorbency, which supposedly draw blood out faster. I'm not sure if that's true, or if it's the quality materials in the mama cloth, but man! It works, regardless!)

I'm comfortable; they don't leak. And the wash out so clean, with a little hot water and vinegar and baking soda, that they don't even look like you used them.

I tote around a little wet-bag in my purse if I need to change on the go, and it's as easy as pie. No more work than changing a regular pad or tampon.

I am a believer.

An earthy, crunchy, granola-eating, mama-cloth-wearing believer.

Years ago, I didn't think I had it in me. I thought even this hippie had her limits.

But today, I stand before you, re-crunch-ified.

Mama cloth is here to stay, and I am a believer.

***

I realize that, for a lot of people, this is just too much. Not everyone is "that hippie."

Which I totally get, and I totally respect.

But if you're at all on the fence about it; if you've heard of this, and your curiosity was peaked, I suggest you give it a whirl.

I wasn't endorsed for this post. This is one of those rare circumstances where I want to blog about a product because it worked so well, even I was amazed.

It was so not gross, either. Like, at all. I expected it to be a bit of a messy situation, every time I went to the bathroom, but I was pleasantly surprised.

Just like cloth-diapering, it's easier than you'd ever think.

That being said, if you want more specific information, e-mail me or comment below. I can forward links, etc., if you'd like.

***

*I don't consider myself a cloth-diapering expert, nor do I think everyone is cut out to cloth-diaper (or wear mama cloth.) So I don't want to launch into the whole "This is why we do this" saga again.

As it is, a lot of people don't want to read about it, so they can continue disposable-diapering their child in peace. Which I totally get and respect.

It's why I never Google the side effects of hair dye. I just won't wanna know.

But if you are curious, let me know, and I'll forward you my research.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Panic

I have been remarkably calm and cool about this whole moving thing. For me, anyway.

I've been all, "Well, it will work out. This was meant to be. Blabbity-blabbity-blah..."

And then yesterday, I freaking lost it.

After a great morning at the neighborhood park with a few fellow moms and babies, I had a rather routine phone conversation with the base housing office at our soon-to-be home in Georgia.

Nothing alarming was said. Nothing was even set in stone. It was all, "We're working on getting you a house that meets your needs. Blabbity-blabbity-blah..."

And then, after Ella went down for her nap, I started to feel it.

The clenching in my chest. The racing heart-beat. The sweats. The absolute and utter need to DO SOMETHING when there was nothing to do.

I left my husband a message, even though his phone wasn't anywhere near him or his work, asking him to please call the housing office back and that we'd chatted already and that this is what they had said.

And then, I started to pace. I did some laundry. I tried to ignore my mile-a-minute thoughts.

But I couldn't.

The clenching was getting worse. My heart was beating faster. And I was definitely sweating. A lot.

Gosh, I hate this. IhatethisIhatethisIhatethis, I thought.

I do not like being such a control freak. I do not like that "We'll wait and see" is so unsettling to me. I do not like that it sends me into a virtual tail-spin to not have what I know needs to happen set in stone already.

I am a list-maker. I like to check things off. And when whomever it is - my husband, my boss, the military, the housing office - doesn't hop on board with the list? Or doesn't understand why I made the list at all?

Well, sometimes, I freak.

I'll admit, I've gotten a lot better.

A few years ago, if I had gotten news like we received last week, I'd have been hysterical.

I might have cried. I'd definitely have yelled. I'd have paced the floor till I wore a hole in the carpet.

But with Ella, and with age, I've learned to let go more. I've learned that God does have a bigger plan. I've learned that it's not up to me to make sure everything works out right.

Which is why, as of late, I've been so calm about this move. I've been so calm about our next house and our next home-town and our next group of friends. I've prayed for peace, and so far, I've gotten it.

Things were going so well that I didn't even get rattled when we learned the hubs is set to deploy mere weeks after we get to our new place.

I took it all in stride.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, the panic attack came.

The innocuous phone call was the trigger.

But that wasn't the real issue at all.

I can blame the state of our house and my aforementioned statement of "We let things kind of go since we're moving in less than a month." I can also blame the fact that no one in my life quite gets what it's like to be so flipping tense about uncertain, wishy-washy, we'll-see situations.

I am surrounded by a laid-back, easy-going husband, family, and friends.

I am the rogue planner. My husband calls me "The Executer" for a reason.

But when you're standing in a room, absolutely desperate for someone to realize how crazy it makes you feel to "wait and see," and everyone else around is figuratively sipping coffee, chatting and lounging about?

Well, it's unnerving.

And so, yesterday, I think I lost it. The girl inside me who has to have a plan came out. She came raging out, actually.

I kept thinking up choice words to say the next time the housing office called. I debated whether or not I should delegate anything to my husband at all because I worried he "wouldn't get the right thing done." I even debated taking back several decisions we'd already made and starting this whole moving process from scratch.

Luckily, the anxiety paralyzed me. Mostly because, if it hadn't, I may have done something rash.

Instead, I spent the rest of my afternoon with a racing heart and a watchful eye toward the front door, waiting for my husband to walk in so I could unload, emotionally, all over him.

It was not a fun day.

Underneath it all, I felt like a huge failure. I felt like I'd lost. Like I'd let the situation get the better of me.

My mini-anxiety attack won, and I lost. And nothing had been resolved, so we were in the same place we were when I'd started off that morning at the park with Ella and friends.

Panic took control, when all I wanted was control in the first place.

How's that for irony?

***

I cannot tell you enough how much I don't like this about myself.

I envy the ability to "let go" many of my friends have. I wish I was one of those people who can pray about something and then walk away assured. I feel bad because it comes off like I lack confidence in God and humanity by freaking out like I do.

But it's not that at all.

It's a huge error in my personality. But it's an error that's driven me forward in the past; it's made me excel and work hard when others wouldn't. It's made me plow through situations and survive to tell the tale.

I am not someone who plays the ostrich or pretends the ship's not sinking. I deal; I cope.

But I deal and cope messily and emotively and, sometimes, loudly.

I have mini-anxiety attacks, and I lose sleep. I worry worry worry till I can't worry anymore.

It's not pretty, and I know it.

But it's my weakness, and it's a fight every stinking day to reign it in.

It's also a coping mechanism and an enemy of mine all at once. Which makes this symbiotic relationship good for me and bad for me all at the same time.

And, no matter how you slice it, that's a problem.

Which is why, honestly, I don't have a happy ending for this post. Nothing happened, and everything happened. And, well, I'm still anxious. I'm still working on reigning it in.

But I'm not sure I'll ever reign it in, totally.

In short, I don't know if this will ever go away.

***

Tell me, anyone else out there struggle with anxiety and control? Maybe it's not you, but your spouse/best friend/partner who does?

Anyone ever "won" the battle over their anxiety? I'd love to hear below, if you don't mind sharing.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

It's Obviously a Girl Thing

A while back, I admitted to a friend of mine, D, that our master bedroom needed a major overhaul.

After all, at the moment, we're living in a too-small house. So our bedroom has become the inadvertent dumping ground for all things that have no home. (See yesterday's video where I scan down to all the Christmas decor we forgot to take down. Hint: It's currently residing in the bedroom of yours truly.)

It's also still set up for our kinda-sorta co-sleeping arrangement. (Ella normally spends anywhere from 3-6 hours in our bed the second half of the night.)

It's also home to several pieces of mis-matched furniture that had no place in the rest of the house, and therefore, made up their residence in our room of reside.

In short, it's a mess.

And, frankly, I'd had enough of it.

I wanted a new bedspread. I wanted a cleaner layout. I wanted the furniture to at least look purposefully shabby chic and not just, well, accidentally shabby.

My dear friend, D, understood all this.

And it was as we were wondering through Target a few weeks back with our respective babies in tow that I saw it - a coverlet I kinda-sorta liked.

This caused me to launch into a whole diatribe about how I would never, ever buy another comforter for our bed, as it's puffy nature made the piece a big, old pain the butt to wash and, honestly, never looked the same after it's first washing. The stuffing never lays perfectly right again, and, well, the bed looks messy even when made.

Of course, my dear friend, D, understood all this.

I then went on to explain that I was looking for something more like a coverlet, a quilted piece that was heavier and would hold it's shape better.

The one at Target was kinda-sorta the color-scheme and fabric I was thinking of. Which is why I spent about 20 minutes holding up several other coverlets, debating. In fact, I almost purchased one, as they were on clearance, and Lord knows, clearance items don't last long at Target.

Of course, my dear friend, D, understood all of this.

Finally, I decided not to buy the coverlet because it just wasn't quite right, plus they didn't have the one I really liked in the right size, plus I still hadn't decided if I wanted a solid color or a print. So, 30 minutes later, we moved on.

And of course, my dear friend, D, understood all this.

Which is why, yesterday, she was ecstatic to find the comforter she knew I originally wanted, marked down for 70-percent off, on one of Target's infamous end-caps. She immediately wanted to get a hold of me, knowing how I may feel about this.

But, lacking her phone, she had no choice.

So she had her husband text my husband a photo. A perfectly framed photo of the coverlet, in the box, clearly marked with the clearance sticker and all.

It's all making perfect sense, right? I mean, obviously, the picture and price she clearly listed out were for my benefit, and - big picture, here - for the betterment of our master bedroom.

So what does my husband say when he opens said amazing text message and takes a glimpse of said picture? What does he type back to his friend, D's husband, waiting patiently on the other end?

"What the eff is that?"

***

Pardon the kinda-sorta swear-word. (He's a sailor, people. We're lucky he didn't say the real thing.)

But man, did I have to laugh. Because when one guy opens a texted photo from another guy, you totally expect it to me a fart joke or a picture of someone's child spiking a football.

You don't expect it to be of a quilt. At all.

But me? If I'd gotten that text, I wouldn't have even had to read the caption. I'd know what D was trying to communicate.

Obviously, it's a girl thing.

And, unlike D, the hubs obviously doesn't understand all this.

***

This is not the first time my friends and I have texted through our husbands.

Which is why, sometimes, if I originally say, "Tell her we'd love to come to dinner. What can I bring? How does dessert sound? Anyone in their family have allergies to strawberries?" it becomes "Dinner's cool. Dessert cool with you all? Oh, and berries?"

Yeah. That's guy speak. (That's actually rather generous guy-speak, too. My husband does not follow Brittany's Rules of Punctuation when typing, let alone texting.)

They just don't approach things like we do. And they don't text photos of quilts to their friends.

So, tell me, ever had your husband speak for your via text? Do you wish you hadn't? Share below.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Messy Mom Monday: Vlog Style

You all rocked Messy Mom Monday last week.

Like, Took-It-And-Ran-With-It rocked it.

I was so happy. Not only was I in amazing company, but I felt like we all really saw past the clutter on our counter-tops and the piles of laundry we'd yet to fold (Was I the only one that noticed that laundry seems to be all of our No. 1 nemesis?).

We saw that we are all pretty amazing people under our clutter. And that being a good mom has nothing to do with how well we mop our floors or what designer outfits we're (not) wearing.

So, Jess and I are doing it again. In fact, this week, we're vlogging.

Last week, Jen over at Canadian Rhapsody vlogged. And this week, Shannon gave us a hint that she was, too.

So we jumped on board.

Which is shocking for me because, ladies, I hate vlogging.

I hate my voice on camera. I'm never "dressed" enough for it. And, well, I'm kind of awkward and dorky, and I like things better when I can type them out and proofread.

But that's not the point of Messy Mom Monday.

So today, I'm embracing the vlog.

Let's do this.

***

***

Don't you like how I'm like, "I'm not gonna show you our bedroom," and then you catch a glimpse of it anyway in it's god-awful state?

Well, folks, that's what happens when you're using your Macbook as a camera. And when you decide to wash your sheets right before you turn on said Macbook camera. (I swear! You can hear the washing machine in the video!)

Also note that, as of eight hours after I recorded this, the Giant Old TV I Hate in my living room was sold. I did indeed do a happy dance.

Still, funnily enough, after it was all said and done and I had turned off the camera? Well, I kept finding things all over my house that I normally cover up, but now, I just kept thinking, "Aw, man! Shoulda put that on camera, too!"

Apparently this honest vlogging thing is catching.

***

I'll admit, my house is pretty shameful right now. I blame our impending move. Tell me I'm not the only one who, weeks out from a move, just stops caring about putting little things away.

Actually, don't tell me. Just join in for today's Messy Mom Monday.

Write, vlog, or capture your messes - physical, emotional, or otherwise - in any way you see fit.

Then link up below!

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Happy Messy Mom Monday, everyone!

Mommy-ing, Science Projects, and Spaghetti Squash

This week, I spent copious amounts of time researching homes in Washington.

Oops.

Then, once I realized where we were actually going, I spent inordinate amounts of time researching homes, grocery stores, vets, pediatricians, and churches in Georgia.

Anyway, the point is, not a lot has been on my radar this week over than "You're moving in a less than a month, you fool! Go go go!"

Still, I managed to read, cook, and watch a few things you may find interesting.

***

This week, a lot of things were speaking to me on mother-hood.

Mommy-ing.

The maternal act of caring for a child.

After a friend sent me this, I realized that, indeed, other parents experience what I sometimes feel. Other parents consider parts of this wondrous time of raising an infant "dark," at times.

And then, my girl Brittany posted this on her Facebook wall, and, as I read it while my apparently needs-no-sleep infant crawled about my ankles at 8:20 p.m., trying to get the dog's tail, I about cried. Because it's true. Because parenting is hard. Because I'm exhausted and alone a lot, and I never get a break. I never get a weekend. I never get a day off. Parenting a child is freaking tough. Read it, mamas. You need to.

And then, I read this: A wise piece about all the crap we, as parents, hold onto, and what and how our children (want to) respond to it. In short, our crap affects them, even when they don't have the words to tell us how. What an amazing read.

***

Watching this, my heart was touched. First of all, the little girl is adorable. But second and most important of all, it clearly shows the importance of food production in our nutrient sources. (Yes, I am talking about organic eating again.) It's so obvious, even a little girl gets it. So watch this sweet girl's science project, regardless of how you feel about organic goods. It's pretty awesome.

And, on the same note, I stood up and figuratively applauded after reading this article on the importance of diet (not drugs) in controlling behavioral disorders in children, like ADHD.

***

I have made this for dinner twice now. It's gluten-free, tasty, and low-carb. It's also chalk full of nutrients. Plus, it uses an ingredient I'm finding increasingly en vogue these days: Spaghetti squash.

***

What's on your radar this? Happy Friday, everyone!

Georgia

Yesterday, prayers were answered.

In less than a month, my family is moving to Georgia.

Thank the good Lord.

If you thought last Friday was emotional for me, you should have seen me yesterday.

After a sincere mistake by several parties, including myself, I was told and therefore convinced we were moving to Washington.

As in Washington "I'm Basically Covered in a Snowstorm Right Now" State.

This Florida girl was sitting on the floor staring at her little Southern baby, muttering, "Ella, I don't even know how to drive in snow. We're going to freeze."

I just kept saying it over and over and over again.

And then, thank heavens, the confusion was rectified. Washington was a mistake.

And we are going to Georgia.

We got what we wanted.

We got what we (and you all) prayed for.

We are where we, honestly, wanted to end up, if you'd asked us when we first to this place of uncertainty.

Thank you, Lord.

***

I'm still processing, honestly.

I am so freaking grateful and thankful and relieved that I can't really say more than this.

I want to tell you the whole story.

I want to tell you that, once I told my mom I'd made a mistake, that I wasn't taking her first grand-baby clear across the country and was instead moving Ella a mere four hours away, she burst into tears.

I want to tell you how all my girlfriends here rejoiced and clapped and hollered and texted in glee for me. Even though it meant it was real. It meant we were all saying good-bye.

I want to tell you that a new client of mine, who had just moved from the base we're moving to, talked to me for an hour after our session, telling me about how awesome of a small-town it was and how family-and- military-oriented everyone was there.

I want to tell you it all. And I will.

But not right now.

Right now, I'm tired. A huge weight has been lifted, and now, I can finally close my eyes with a little more peace. Plus, right now, I need to come to grips with the packing and the good-byes and the loose ends I need to tie up before we go.

Before we move away.

To Georgia.

We're going to Georgia.

Thank God.

***

Thank you, again, for all your prayers. I so appreciate your support.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!