Living in the Moment

Obstetrics, Cookies, and Some Soup

2012-01-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

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...

2012-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-25T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

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!

Happy Messy Mom Monday, everyone!

Mommy-ing, Science Projects, and Spaghetti Squash

2012-01-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

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!

I Feel...

2012-01-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

...totally excited that so many of you linked up Monday. It was awesome to be in such great company (and not care that my house was a mess even a little bit!)

...amazingly touched that so many of you offered prayers and help and friendship after yesterday's post. Some of you all live near bases that, before, we didn't really want to be stationed at, but I know now that if we are, I can expect at least a few mamas and girls I can meet and hang with. That, in and of itself, is huge for my psyche right now.

...pretty bad that, sometimes, I fill Ella's day with chores, etc. I drag her from one room to the other, doing laundry, folding clothes, sweeping floors. I give her toys and things to play with, and I talk to her a lot of the time, but no baby wants to watch me mop my bathroom. Ugh. I feel like I'll never find the perfect balance.

...slightly sad that I'm not teaching anymore. On Pinterest, I follow a lot of you amazing teachers, and you're always pinning up great ideas and projects and classroom organizational charts, and, man, I kind of miss all that. I find myself "liking" and re-pinning a ton, in case we decide to home-school Ella, and I can incorporate them then. But right now, it makes me miss my old "kids."

...teary-eyed. Because speaking of old "kids," one of my former students, who is a junior in college, wrote on Facebook "I miss Mrs. C [that's me] and [two other teachers she loved.]" You can't do that to this over-tired new mama without making me cry. Whomever said all young adults are trouble didn't meet some of my favorite students.

...incredibly relieved that my husband is now back to working a day shift through our move. I actually don't mind him working nights, but it was getting taxing, especially because, once Ella goes to bed, I've taken to pacing about my house, taking stock of what we have, and figuring out the best way to get it all to, say, Guam.

...pretty darn relieved I didn't start the 18 billion crafting projects I have on my "to-do" list. I've been itching to, but now, I'd be moving them all, finished or not. So, thankfully, I can put it all on the back-burner and craft to my heart's content once we get to our new home. I'll need those projects then to keep me busy, anyway.

...freakishly horrified to start saying good-bye. You'd think I'd be good at it by now, but I'm not. I either break-down totally, sobbing and clinging onto someone for dear life, or I act like I almost don't care, because, in an effort to control myself, I sort of detach and pretend it's not happening. Neither option is great, I'm realizing. But with many hard good-byes on the horizon, I feel either/or coming on.

...scarily nauseous. For the past three days or so, I've been getting waves of nausea out of nowhere. Today's was bad enough that I ran to the bathroom, Ella in tow, plopped her in the door-way and laid between her and the potty, just in case. I didn't throw up, and I haven't any time over the past three days. But at least twice, I felt like I've gotten close. So, in short, I don't know what's going on. (And for all you baby-bump watchers, trust me, that's not it. As a girl who vomited for 20+ weeks pregnant, I know morning sickness. And this is not morning sickness.) Maybe it's the new pro-biotic I started last week, and I've even suspected the organic avocados I've been eating for the past few days. But I just don't think those are it, either. Honestly, I don't know what's going on. So, for now, I'm just grateful I own a ton of ginger tea - my go-to solution for nausea. This mama does not have the time to battle tummy issues right now.

...totally shocked that, Monday, I had to go shopping for Ella and had to buy her 12-month and 12-to 18-month sleepers and clothes. She's 7 months old, people. I am not ready to be shopping in the toddler section, but I am. Sure, all the outfits are too long on her - she's not terribly tall, after all. But thanks to her round-ness and even rounder diaper, she's too small to wear her 9-month sleepers anymore. I stuffed her into one last week, and she literally looked like a striped sausage. Bending her arms appeared taxing and almost impossible. So, it had to be done.

***

So, tell me, how do you feel today?

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

A New Loop

2012-01-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

My husband is in the Navy.

I don't talk about what he does a lot because a) I have no real understanding of it, as I'm a former English teacher, while he does things with nuclear science and physics and whatnot, and b) because he (and probably the Navy) don't like me talking about it, anyway.

Not to mention the fact that I'm not even allowed to see what he does or go anywhere near his "office," so to speak.

So I could paint you a picture, but it would most likely be folklore. I'm just not that well-versed.

Regardless, from what I do understand, he's very good at his job.

How do I know this? Because he was one of a few select sailors who was actually offered a position that would have kept us here (in South Carolina) for another two years, after he finished the training he was put here to do back in the spring of 2010.

I was so happy for him; he's worked his tail off, and for him to be recognized and promoted because of that? Well, I couldn't think of any sailor more deserving.

Plus, the idea of remaining here - a place that is not home but has quickly become one - wasn't such a bad idea, either.

Now, we're military. We know better than to plan for anything. We know things can change. And we know that, "This is how it should go," really means, "If you're lucky, it may go a little bit like this...but most people aren't lucky."

But this time? Well, this time, I thought for sure we had it figured out.

Because, heck, when you're in the military, and your superior officers tell you have a position, you start to rest easy. You believe them. That's their job, after all.

But, you see, that's where we went wrong.

Because, on Friday, the floor fell out from under us.

An arbitrary decision, made by people who don't even know my husband and the few other sailors selected for this promoted position here, rendered the almost impossible true.

In short, on Friday, they basically nixed the job he was supposed to have.

The job was gone. It didn't exist for the taking. Those few sailors resting easy, waiting to see their formal paperwork that said they and their families would be staying here for another two years, were shocked.

So were the higher-ups, in fact.

No one, to be clear, saw this coming.

Even me. And I was the most skeptical of the bunch.

I know not to plan ahead. I know not to assume anything. I know that, when it comes to being married to a military man, you basically have no control over your own fate.

So, on Friday, I was kicking myself for not trusting my gut, for not remaining the one hold-out that believed all this talk might be too good to be true.

Because there I was, at work, a baby on my hip, surrounded by eight of my post-partum moms about to head out for a jog, when I got the call, when I heard my husband say, "I wanted to tell you before someone else got to you..."

My jaw dropped open. And then I went through the motions of working out with my clients while my brain raced about what this all meant.

It meant that, in less than a month, we'd be somewhere else. Moved. Gone. A whole new house. A whole new town. A whole new neighborhood and church and local grocery store.

It meant that, in another month or two, the hubs could be deployed. Missing Ella's first birthday. Maybe Easter. Maybe her learning to walk and talk.

It meant that, at this time next year, I could be freezing my butt off in a climate I'm not used to. Or even living overseas.

It meant that I wouldn't have my girlfriends here so close by. It meant I wouldn't have my friends and go-to babysitters down the street. It meant I'd have to find a new yoga group, a new mommy group, a new breast-feeding group, a new doctor.

It meant Ella wouldn't get to start swim lessons next month. Not here, anyway.

It meant I wouldn't be able to attend our annual children's consignment sale.

It meant saying good-bye to our church family, our Navy family, and our work families.

It meant leaving my current job and maybe not finding another.

It meant my second child wouldn't be born into the hands of the amazing women that helped birth his/her sister.

It meant a lot of things I couldn't comprehend but that kept coming at me in waves, when I'd least expect them.

The thing is, this is expected. If my husband hadn't been offered that position, we'd be moving anyway.

But he was.

He was all-but expressly told he was staying here. That we were staying.

And now? We're not.

At this time next month, I will likely be sitting in a hotel room, my stuff being shipped off to our next home, while we finish up a few odds and ends here and then start out by plane, train, or automobile to our new location.

Where that will be? We have no idea. I can tell you it will likely be Georgia, Virginia, Connecticut, Washington, California, Hawaii, or - gulp - Guam. But I can't tell you any more details than that.

Why? Because I simply don't know.

Still, I spent most of the weekend researching homes in all the areas we could end up. I compared floor plans of the base houses. I decided what room would be Ella's, what room would be ours, what I'd do with the new extra bedrooms (Guest room? Play room? Office?).

It was my way of coping; my way of knowing that next month, I'd be setting up house in a place I'd never lived before.

That I'd be leaving the town where we'd lived for almost two years and finding a new life.

Can I do it? Heck, yes. I'm a military wife. It's what we do.

Am I ready for it? That's the part I'm not sure about.

Are you ever ready to say good-bye to the people you spend time with every day? Are you ever ready to leave the town where your baby was born? Are you ever ready to start from scratch? Again?

Maybe it's because I didn't think this would happen. Maybe it's because I, for once, let myself believe in the false sense of security the Navy was heaping on. Maybe it's because I don't like to say good-bye in the first place.

But man, this time? I'm afraid. I'm worried I won't make new friends. I'm worried I'll be the only mama, like me, with a little girl like Ella.

I'm worried we'll get there; my husband will go out to sea, and I'll be lonely.

But I'm a military wife. This is what we do.

I'll put my big-girl pants and a brave face on, and I will get through this sudden change with few tears and a smile.

This is what we do.

So, yes, I'm moving; I don't have a choice.

But I do have a choice to sink or swim, and as always, I will choose to swim.

After all, I can backstroke with the best of them.

***

Our prayer is that we will know by the end of this week where we are going. History, however, does not look good.

As of late, the detailers (the Navy sailors in charge of placing sailors at certain bases) have been swamped and therefore, a bit behind in dispatching orders. The last group of sailors to leave our base didn't have formal destinations until about a week before they were set to move. I watched those wives finagle that one; I'm not sure I could have handled it as smoothly as some of them did. (Imagine packing up a moving truck and not knowing where you're going. Yeah, that's scary.)

Still, sooner rather than later would be in our best interest. I'm actually at the point where I semi-don't-care where we go; I just want to know already.

However, if I was being honest, I'd tell you we're desperately hoping for Georgia. It's close to my family, and it's not a hugely drastic move on such short notice.

I say that in hopes y'all can send up a quick prayer that the detailer gives us our request. But I also say that knowing full well that the detailer will do what he/she wants, and that we may very well be driving cross-country in three weeks time.

Which would be quite the adventure, albeit a little panic-inducing.

All this to say that, if I'm a bit absent or absent-minded around here, forgive me. I will do my best to keep you all abreast of where the heck we're going, but I can't pretend I'm not a little frantic, with so much to plan for and no real means to plan for it yet.

So, until then, as they say in the Navy, anchors away!

***

Happy Tuesday, y'all.

Messy Mom Mondays

2012-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'm not normally a link-up kind of blogger.

Mostly because I get easily overwhelmed when something has some kind of "Blog about this on this day" kind of structure.

But then, last week, after my frank revelation that no mom - and least of all me - has it all together, I got some inspiration from all of you.

Your comments had me in tears, laughing. They had me nodding my head emphatically, agreeing with you. You all left me feeling like I was in amazing company.

Then, after convening with one amazing mama of four, Jess, over at Dude and Sweeties, we came up with a great idea - an idea that, we hope, can allow all of us mamas who try and have it all together, but sometimes fall a bit short, to revel in the fact that we are great parents even when our face to the world is less than perfect.

Hence Messy Mom Monday.

Because it's almost always physically impossible to have the laundry done and a healthy meal on the table and a clutter-free living room floor and a happy husband riding the couch and children who are entertained, clean, and out of trouble.

Especially if you want to take a shower yourself that day.

It's life; something's always gotta give.

And, in this link-up, our aim is to show it.

Admit that you haven't dusted in three weeks. Admit that you don't fold your laundry. Admit that your haven't shaved your legs since swim-suit season.

Admit it.

After all, those short-comings? Those little imperfections and things you've let slide? They probably mean you had an amazing afternoon of imaginative play with your kids. Or took the time to actually listen to your husband when he told you how his day was.

They don't mean you're a bad a mom. Or a bad person. (After all, non-moms are allowed and encouraged to join in, too.)

They just mean you're human. Messy. Imperfect.

And there's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

***

OK, so enough talking. Let's walk the walk, shall we?

My house, on Sunday, looked like a storm blew threw.

We'll call that storm Ella. Teething Ella.

Girlfriend is whiny and clingy and a nursing machine.

She's also wearing this.
Because I haven't washed baby clothes in a week and a half, I had nothing else to put her in. Hence the aqua and green hoodie with the patriotic, navy-blue, star-covered pants. And the lack of socks because, despite freezing temperatures, she insists on kicking them off because she insists on learning to crawl. Little stinker.

Then there's me.
I threw a sweatshirt on when I ran to the grocery store, but I had to nurse Ella when we got home, so I just whipped that sucker off, and I've been walking around like this ever since.

No bra. Ill-fitting undershirt. Lopsided boobs, on account of the fact that I'm too busy to pump. And baggy pants falling off my waist because they were the sole pair of pants that fit me post-partum, though now that I'm smaller than I was pre-baby, I still wear them, hiking them up with one hand while holding the babe with the other.

Why? Well, it's not because they're attractive. It's because I'm too lazy (and broke) to go out and buy pants that actually fit.

And let's not even talk about the hot-mess that is the actual mirror. Apparently, I need to go get the glass cleaner.

Then there's the house.
Look closely, and you will see how my day went to pot.
That's piles of laundry I was folding around Ella and her toys. Until she wasn't placated anymore, so I grabbed more toys. When that didn't work, I grabbed more toys. And musical instruments. And an activity cube.

Then, I got side-tracked and decided to bust out my planner and start making some lists. So that's down there, too. Not to mention my hubby who had to be called in upon his waking at 4:30 p.m. (he's working night-shifts right now) because his child would not stop whining long enough for me to finish the half load of laundry I started folding seven hours before that.

And, yes, those are my stinking husband's running shoes shoved under the coach. He does stuff like that all the time, and it drives me bonkers.

But you know how long those shoes have been there?

At least a week.

Apparently, my exhausted state has forced me to let go.

More proof that I'm letting go? The drying rack filled with cloth diapers.

That have been there for three days.
I know I've blogged for about my amazingly efficient and easy cloth-diapering system.

Yeah, well, the system sometimes breaks down.

Case in point: Diapers drying on a rack just in time so that, when I need a clean one, I grab it straight off the rack. Forget folding them and putting them away.

Not today, anyway.

Not that today was a total waste.

My kitchen, luckily, is semi-clean. And I did manage to walk away enough to spend some quality time with my girl outside, blowing bubbles and getting our Vitamin D.
Sure, I could have used some of that time to fold more laundry or finally get those shoes out from under the couch.

Heck, I could have used that time to put on make-up. Can't remember the last time I even thought about doing that.

But when it comes down to it, I'd still choose Ella every day of the week, mis-matched clothes and all.

***

OK, now it's your turn. Tell us all about your Messy Mom Mondays and link-up below!

The R-Word, Energy Bites, and A Link-Up

2012-01-13T05:00:00.000-08:00

It has been a week, let me tell you.

Ella has been hit-or-miss when it comes to sleep; my husband is working 12-hour night-shifts underwater, and I keep forgetting to put the laundry in until it's way too late in the day, requiring me to set an alarm so I can switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer.

Let's just pretend that last thing I said actually worked.

OK, moving on...

The good news is, it's Friday, and this week there have been a few things that are on my radar.

***

As a former high-school teacher, and because of my experience working with kids with terminal and chronic illnesses, which sometimes lead to other differences, I am particularly sensitive when it comes to the use of the "R-word."

So, of course, when I stumbled upon this site and it's mission, I fell in love and hopped right on board.

Please check it out. It's message matters to a lot of us.

***

Ella is obsessed with her very own little red wagon, which means I am obsessed with her very own little red wagon.
Forget our former love, the jogging stroller.

She likes to cruise the neighborhood in this wagon like a big girl.

I cannot believe how she just sits there and rides around.

Honestly, this was an amazing Christmas present. Every kid needs a wagon.

***

I made this Crock-pot take on Chinese take-out for dinner yesterday. And I burned it.

Who burns something in a Crock-pot?

This girl.

Still, I have to say, under the "over-done" taste, it seemed pretty good.

But, on a much more successful note, I made these healthy no-bake cookies (with carob chips instead of chocolate) for a play-date, and I thought they were a rousing success. And they couldn't be easier.

***

I am so excited about this coming Monday. Thanks to the great feedback on Tuesday's post, Jess - an amazing and down-to-earth mama to four - and I are hosting a little link-up, where mom's (or, heck, anyone) can get real and, well, messy.

It's going to be awesome. So get ready (to link-up!)

***

Happy Friday, everyone! Have a great weekend!

Please Pass the Butter?

2012-01-12T05:00:00.000-08:00

When a client of mine spends several hours a week with me at the gym, working hard and doing everything right, and they still don't lose weight?

I always end up asking the question, "So, what are you eating at home?"

And, sure enough, they begin to list off the same standard items belonging to a calorie-controlled, perfectly portioned, low-fat diet straight from one of the many books or diet plans we market in our country.

They hold onto such plans like life rafts, and it takes a real come-to-Jesus moment for me to shake them loose and go, "But it's not working!"

And then, even if they can acknowledge that, they still don't want to heed my next piece of advice:

"Try incorporating better sources of fat in your diet - grass-fed beef, avocados, organic dairy."

Immediately, they look at me as if I'm crazy. They begin to doubt my credentials as a trainer, what with me listing off a regimen of typical "high-fat" foods.

It's frustrating, for me and for them. We're stuck at an impasse.

But now? I have a solution.

Now, I'm going to hand them the book Why Women Need Fat by William D. Lassek, M.D., and Steven J.C. Gaulin, Ph. D.

source

While I don't feel like the information in the book is earth-shatteringly new - eat less processed, packaged food; eat organic, grass-fed animal products - I think it finally laid out, clearly, why women in our country gain weight the way they do, historically and personally.

It points a clear finger at the food industry, who made popular the use of corn and soybean oil - a huge source of "bad" fats, or omega-6s. And it lays blame on food and nutrition's governing bodies, who clearly ignored research that showed "low-fat" diets do not help weight-loss or heart-disease, as they were originally intended.

The book then goes on to explain why women need "good" fats - omega-3s (DHA and EPA) - for child-bearing purposes. But in our society, where studies show most American women are taking in only a quarter of the omega-3s necessary, our bodies actually hoard the fat we do take in, which, thanks to our love of packaged, easy food, are omega-6s, so as to make sure our children can reap enough DHA from our fat stores while in the womb.

It's all a messy cycle.

And while the book can get a bit bogged down at times, debating the vast literature that's out there about women's body fat and waist-to-hip ratios (an indicator of health and fertility, as the book explains), I found the read refreshing.

It explained what many of us in the industry already know; thankfully, it finally gives the science behind it.

And, to my great delight, it points a finger at the consumption of margarine, vegetable shortening, and other polyunsaturated fats marketed as low-fat butter substitutes, as the reason for the long-term indicators of weight-gain in women in America - something I've always held to.

Plus, it applauds a practice many nutritionists ignore - praising full-fat, but all-organic (and grass-fed), meats, cheeses, butters, and milks.

Amen and alleluia. We can have our cake and eat it, too. As long as it's made with the real stuff, fresh off the farm.

(The authors also point out that main-stream, non-organic animal products on the grocery store shelves normally come from animals fed a corn-based diet, i.e., a diet high in those nasty omega-6s. So the products on your average grocery store shelves and meat counters should still be eaten warily at best.)

With so many women on the diet train - a practice that actually starves the body and signals it to gain more weight - this book is a must-have if you're female and American.

Other than a few lapses in judgment when it came to trusting out-dated and dis-proven research on birth (they hint around at the fact that the C-section rate in our country is due entirely to the size of our larger babies - a statement that is largely incorrect when you take into account the piles of research and testimony conducted by natural birth-supporting OB-GYNs and midwives), I think any woman can understand the rather complicated compilation of research that supports what many of us have been saying for a while.

Real good tastes good. And real food is good for you.

***

Other bloggers are talking about why fat is no longer the enemy over at the BlogHer Book Club. Join in on the discussion and see what others had to say about Why Women Need Fat right here.

***

This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's Been Seven Months

2012-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Oh Ella girl,

Tomorrow, you will be seven months old.

That's a pretty big deal. I remember thinking, before I had you, that babies 6 months and younger were - you know - legitimate babies. Seven month olds and up? They were pretty much on their way to big-kid status.

And now, now I am sitting here staring at a baby who is growing right before my very eyes. You are such a big kid. Or at least you're getting there.
There is no way to calculate all you've gone through in the last month; every day - nay - every few hours, I feel like I turned around and saw you doing something new.
You started crawling. You scamper backwards quite fast, and in the last few days, you can inch yourself forward, too.
You can get yourself onto all fours from sitting, and you can almost sit up from all fours, as well. You rock back and forth and laugh and laugh and laugh while you do it. It's like you understand that you're on the precipice of supreme mobility; a new world is about to be yours.

With your Pop-Pop.

You cut your first tooth on Jan. 1. Here's hoping that the age-old saying, "What you're doing on New Years is what you'll be doing all year," isn't true for you. Because teething has also rendered you a horrific sleeper.

Nom-nom.

I'll be honest, baby girl. I am bone tired. I don't know how you do it. I've never felt worse than when you would awake suddenly, screaming, with flushed, teething cheeks. Luckily, our first wave of it seems to have passed, though we're gearing up for Rounds Two, Three, Four, and so on.

This past month, you got to go on your first vacation and experience your first Christmas, too. You rocked on your first flight; you even survived an eight-hour road-trip.
And the presents? Well, you were supremely spoiled.

Opening gifts with Mommy

You were thrilled with every gift, plus you loved all the attention you got from your uncles, aunt, grand-parents and all the friends you got to meet.

With her Uncle Duders

You even got to meet your first blogger while we were there.

It's Jess from All-American Jess!

You also learned to clap your hands and are now consistently saying "Mama!" though only when crying.

You reach for people or things you want, and you're getting quite the sassy attitude, for when we take things away from you, you clearly show your distress. Your screeches are getting familiar, as you have taken to eating leaves, jewelry, and dirty napkins at the dinner table. You think you have a right to everything. And when we tell you "No," or take it away, well, you definitely know how to protest.

It's like you already know the world is your oyster.

You with your aunties (some of my oldest and best friends) and all their little boys. You're the only girl for now!

You converse really well. I talk; you babble back. I laugh; you laugh back. Your social cues are pretty hysterical.

You take baths in the big tub, now. No baby bath for you. And, though you're still about 20 pounds - the same weight you've been for the last two months - you're longer. You're actually slimming down. My roly-poly girl isn't nearly so roly anymore.

You're still exclusively breast-fed. I feel like, after this month - what with the teething and the infamous 6-month growth spurt - that is a huge achievement for us. I pray every day that delaying solids and keeping you on breast-milk is doing what we want it to. I can't help that you inherited some wonky genes that make you prone to allergies, etc., (Mommy and Daddy are sorry about that, by the way) but I am so happy we were able to continue on with this breast-feeding journey in an effort to help you.

Though this month has been filled with bite marks and no sleep, I can't help but smile when I think about all we've done. You are such a joy. And every morning, when I lift my too-heavy eyelids and see your sweet face beaming back at me, I can't help but thank my lucky stars that you're mine.

Motherhood is tough, but you, my girl, make it worth it. You make it fun.

I love you forever and always,
Your mama

Pants on Fire

2012-01-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

About 14 times a week, someone asks me, "So, is Ella sleeping through the night yet?"

And about 14 times a week, I want to haul off and punch a perfectly nice stranger square in the face.

Because, as you all are well aware, the answer is "No."

No way. Not on her life.

On the barometer that all babies are measured against, my baby is failing miserably.

Frankly, though, I'm not surprised.

She comes from a long line of poor sleepers. And, well, I'm from the school of thought that most babies who are breast-fed on demand, not left to cry-it-out, and co-sleep with their parents rarely do sleep through the night before the age of 1. (Why do I practice attachment parenting again?)

But still, even if this situation is of our own making, it doesn't make it any easier.

It doesn't necessarily soften the blow every time another mother says, "Oh, well, that's too bad. She'll get it eventually. Little Timmy here's been doing 12 hour stretches since he was eight weeks old!"

It takes every ounce of my inner strength not to slap that woman clear across the face when I hear that.

Because I get it. I get that she rolled the dice and won in the sleep department. And that I rolled the dice and lost. And I get that she's proud of Little Timmy.

I also get that the ungodly amount of sleep I haven't gotten is starting to, possibly, give me some rage issues.

But that rationale doesn't make it any easier.

Non-sleeping babies are hard.

So, in a moment of desperation, in the middle of the sleeping crisis I mentioned yesterday brought about Ella teething, I cried out for help.

I sought refuge in a secret hippie mama group I belong to on Facebook. (I know; I know. That sounds lame. But a girl's gotta find support somewhere.)

Anyway, I basically wrote a message along the lines of, "Tell me that, before she goes off to college, my girl will sleep through the night. Tell me that some day, it will happen. Tell me that there's hope! Tell me there is sleep out there for me! Tell me that, if not, there's some kind of homeopathic cure for this because this mama is losing her mind over here!"

Immediately, I got back plenty of reassuring comments from sympathetic moms who had been where I'd been and found the light at the end of the tunnel. And then, one mom chimed in and brought up something I'd never even thought of.

"Don't get too caught up in comparing your babe to other babies. We all hear that all these babies are sleeping through the night so early on. But what we're forgetting is that, a lot of the times, people are lying about that. For some reason, a lot of people will tell you their babies sleep 12 hours at night when they really don't."

Well, huh.

You know, perhaps she had a point.

Because, yeah, sure, there are babies who do sleep blissfully in their cribs, 12 hours at a time, without the slightest bit of nudging from their parents.

But there's also a lot of us strolling around like the walking dead, sucking down whatever bits of energy we can find in an effort to combat the day on 90 minutes of sleep. All because our 18-pound bundle of joy decided sleep was for sissies.

And just like that, it hit me.

Oh my gosh! She is right! I thought.

People lie.

Understandably, too.

People lie because when 14 perfect strangers ask them, "So, is she sleeping through the night?" they don't want to say, "No. She's not. Now go about your business before I haul off and punch you in the face!"

It's just easier to smile sweetly and say "Oh, yes."

That way, you avoid the barrage of questions that will inevitably follow; about what you're feeding them, and when you're bathing them, and how, exactly, you're ruining them for life by picking them up when they are screaming "MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!" at the top of their lungs.

People lie.

It's genius really. So genius I wonder why I didn't think of it.

Why don't I just say, "Oh, she is. She is sleeping through the night!" and go about my day?

Brilliant plan, I thought.

Then one look in the mirror, and my hope of carrying off that fib was all but lost.

Because I've got circles under my eyes. Eyebrows that haven't been tweeze-d in a month. Dry skin on my chin. Hair frizzing around my brow.

That's my reality.

Add in a 10-year-old sweat-shirt, a pony-tail, and a pair of jeans that are too big on me, and that's what I look like today.

I'm a hot mess.

I'm a mom.

Now, don't get me wrong, there are lots of other moms walking around who are way more hot than messy.

In fact, every day, I see a mom pushing a stroller with a well-dressed baby in it, while she schlepps a designer diaper bag over her shoulder and steps about in perfect, expensive, shiny flats and trouser jeans.

I get that other moms have it together. I really do.

That's there reality, right?

Or is it?

Because now, now that I've been exposed to the idea that moms, in order to save face, actually lie about their lives, I'm beginning to wonder.

Any mom that looks that good, with a baby that age? Can she be trusted?

Especially when she says her house is clean. And that her dog is walked. All while she's pinning meals on Pinterest that look like a four-star chef prepared them.

Something smells fishy. (And I'm not talking me and the fact I haven't showered in about two days.)

That truth is, that mother may in fact be lying.

She may be standing there in her name-brand pants and telling a fib with a smile on her face.

"I made fudge individually carved into the shape of a sparrows for the baby shower" really means, "I bought these online."

Or "You have to try this amazing bisque I made for dinner last night. It's great served with a fillet of sole" really means, "I ordered take-out."

Or "I never have laundry sitting around. It just drives me bonkers" means, "I hire a maid."

Or "Little Tina here basically just potty-trained herself" means, "I have a nanny."

Not every woman, sure. But some of them? Maybe even a lot of them?

They're lying. They have to be.

I see it all the time. Bloggers with gorgeous homes; clean, well-dressed children, and moms who manage to help their kids finger-paint while wearing spot-less white organza.

It's not possible.

I see it on the street, too.

Mothers at the grocery store, holding this month's issue of Gourmet magazine in one hand while showing Mandarin flash-cards to their 3-month-old twins.

It's not possible.

I see it on the faces of mothers I know; mothers who watch the perfectly coiffed woman go by knowing she runs her own successful business, with a happy husband at home, while also growing all her own organic produce and home-schooling their three young children. I see their faces fall, comparing themselves to her.

And I realize, it's not possible.

It can't be.

Because here I sit, the typical American mom, blogging on my couch at 1o p.m at night, looking over my computer screen at the air-conditioning vent that is positively covered in dust and dog hair.

I noticed it last week; I'd wager it's been a good month since I touched it last. But is it dusted? No. Will I dust it tonight? Heck no.

Will I dust it tomorrow? Maybe. If there's time. Which there isn't because I have a part-time job, a blog, a husband, too much laundry to count, and a baby who - oh, that's right! - doesn't sleep through the night. (Or ever.)

There are still two dirty pans soaking in my sink. I have two loads of towels and some of Ella's clothes I haven't put away but that have been clean and folded since Saturday. My kitchen table is littered with things I have to mail, things I have to return, a fruit bowl with a few questionable apples in it that I need to replace, and an over-flowing diaper bag.

I'd post pictures to prove it to you, but I can't find my camera. Oh, and my cell phone is dead.

I haven't worn make-up since last week.

I burned dinner tonight.

That? That is my reality.

And I refuse to believe I'm in the minority here.

In fact, I think most moms are like me.

Which leads me to then believe that, those moms who seem to have the perfect house and the perfect car and the perfect wardrobe and the perfect hair and the perfect husband and the perfect job and the perfect kids - those moms who, in short, have the perfect life?

I don't believe them. Not even for a second.

Maybe, if you have a nanny, a house-keeper, and a cook.

But for the average American mom, that's not possible.

I'm calling their bluff. Liar, liar, pants on fire and all that.

That is not reality.

Even if their baby does sleep through the night.

***

Here's the thing: I don't blame any mother for fibbing. I don't blame them for shoving their clutter into closets when company comes over or bragging about a meal they made, knowing full well they're ordering Chinese take-out later that night.

No one wants to look like a sloppy, unprofessional fool in front of other women.

If anything, we all want to save face in front of the mommy tribe. In some circles, they eat their own. Plus, the stereotype of "catty women" isn't always so off-base.

The fact of the matter is, in our society, where we are expected to work, mother, look great, and "keep" a house that is decorated to the nines, it's hard not to lie. At least a little.

With unattainable expectations, we have to level the playing field somehow. And we do it by saving face and pushing all the unfolded laundry under the bed. Or we lie about the "home-made" cookies we donated to the church bake sale.

It's not meant to be hurtful. If asked, I bet a lot of us don't even realize we're really doing it.

Until you realize it's almost impossible not to do.

***

Now, before the hate mail starts pouring in, accusing me of calling everyone "liars," let me just say this: I am fully aware that there are mothers who do have impeccable homes, beautiful wardrobes, clear skin, and a baby that sleeps through the night. (If that is you, please move in with me and teach me your ways, oh wise sage.)

The point is, I realize not everyone is lying.

But some of us? We're fibbing a bit. Or we're at least committing the sin of omission.

I have. (Let's just say you should never open the closets in my house. Ever.)

I'll admit, I don't like it. A huge part of me wishes we didn't ever do it, in fact. I think it sets a bad standard for other mamas.

It makes them feel inadequate for resorting to store-bought brownies or throwing a birthday party for their toddler filled with ready-made decorations.

It makes them feel like losers if their roots are showing or their bag is a knock-off.

It makes them feel like failures.

And they aren't. Not by a long shot.

It's part of the reason I refuse to lie about the fact that my baby doesn't sleep well.

I am not a bad mom because my hair is a little greasy. I am not a bad mom because my AC grates are dusty. I'm not a bad mom because there are dirty dishes in my sink. And I am not a bad mom because I can't find my camera.

I'm just a mom. Doing her best. Trying to ignore people who tell me I'm "ruining" my child by not sleep-training her.

And trying to be as real as she can be so that other moms, who have under-eye circles, hairy brows, and exhaustion-induced aggression, don't feel alone in this dog-eat-dog world.

***

Do you have it all together? Do you pretend to? Or do you let it all hang out - messy house, sleepless nights, all of it? Share below!

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Dear Teething

2012-01-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Teething,

Simply put, I hate you.

You have turned my baby, who rarely, if ever, cries, into a screaming maniac.

She's not sleeping; I'm not sleeping. And, frankly, it's all your fault.

Granted, you've ganged up with your buddies Growth Spurt and Learning to Crawl, basically rendering Ella a constantly eating, un-explainably fussy, utterly confused, and completely over-tired little machine.

Thanks to you all, my poor baby doesn't know what to do. Who would, with you shoving pointed porcelain prongs through her itty-bitty little gums.

I mean, come on, Teething. Not only does that seem unjust, but it seems downright mean.

And it's not just even Ella I'm worried about. I have a personal bone to pick with you, too.

After all, thanks to you, I think I've totaled out at about five hours of sleep in the last three days. In short, I feel like I've been hit with a pillow case filled with lead and rocks and sharp things over and over and over again.

How did I not see you coming? Why did no one warn me?

It's so bad that I'm regretting not training for you, dear Teething. Think of all that time I didn't go on week-long benders in college. Think of all those years I spent as a good girl. Think of all the time I should have practiced feeling hung-over.

Now, I feel hung over, but without all the fun the night before.

Unless you count being up every 90 minutes with my girl while she writhes in pain fun. (For the record, I don't, Teething. Not even a little bit.)

It's like you enjoy torturing my little girl. My precious baby. My precious, defenseless child. Whose mouth feels as if it's afire, I'm sure.

Teething, you've turned her into a whimpering, slobbering, not-napping mess.

She wakes up all the time at night - and she's never done that. Not even as a newborn.

She's crying enough to wake her father, and that man sleeps through everything.

She's miserable, Teething. Miserable.

And it's all your fault.

I'm combating you the best way I know how - amber teething necklaces, cold teeth-ers, homeopathic teething tablets and gel.

I perish to think what she'd be like at night without those weapons. I fear neither she nor I would make it out alive.

So, I beg of you, go away.

I know I doubted you before. When we felt her first tooth and had barely noticed a whimper on Ella's part prior to it bursting through, I thought I was scott-free. I thought, "Maybe I have an excellent teether!"

And then the truth hit.

Point taken, Teething. Point taken.

Still, now? Now, I hate you, Teething.

I. Hate. You.

With a fiery, deep passion, akin to the figurative flames with which you are piercing my child's gums.

So, again, go the heck away.

I've had so little sleep, I can't be held accountable for what I might do if you don't.

Consider yourself warned.

Lay off my kid's mouth, or I may just haul off and punch you in yours.

Sincerely,
A Mother Who Needs Her Happy Baby Back

What's On My Radar

2012-01-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Months ago, I gave up blogging on Fridays.

I host a play-date on Thursday afternoons, and I try to attend a yoga class on Thursday nights.

Not to mention that all the stuff I've been putting off doing all week seems to come to a head on Thursday evenings, and I have no time to write a post for the next day - Friday.

Plus, let's just be honest; on Thursdays, I'm pretty much brain-dead from the week of mommy-ing and training and generally trying not to suck at life.

So, blog posts on Fridays? Yeah, it wasn't happening.

And it was fine. I was really OK with it.

But something still kept bugging me.

The thing is, a lot of times, I want to share little things with you all - links I've read, books I'm into, things I'm cooking. Kind of like Pinterest, but with a little more intention. It's not about simply what I like, but about what I've actually tried and what I've thought about it.

I gain so much insight, advice, laughs, and great ideas from other bloggers that, though my advice is not always worth much, sometimes I think someone may like what I'm reading, cooking, or picking up off the play-room floor for the 500th time that week.

Plus, it's a way I can link back to some amazing blog posts I'm reading.

So on Fridays, I'm going to try a round-up of what's on my radar that week.

Articles I loved. Dinners I've made. Things I've watched.

Because I like to share. So let's try it out. Maybe it will work. Maybe it won't.

But I like the idea, so let's give it a shot.

***

I'm still not sure if I want to delve into the whole firestorm that is currently going on in the news about mothers breast-feeding in public. Thanks to a "nurse-in" staged at Target stores nationwide last week, breast-feeding moms made the major news networks, and there was plenty of op-ed to follow, many of which came down hard on mothers who choose to breast-feed in restaurants, stores, etc.

While this is nothing new for those of us who do nurse in places other than our homes and public restrooms (Eww!), it was quite the brouhaha on message boards and YouTube. I read hurtful things, and lots of moms were incensed on both sides of the fence.

And then, I read this. This little piece of satire on NIP (nursing in public.)

And I about peed my pants laughing so hard that I had to read it again.

It was, hands down, one of the best things I've read all week.

It makes me wish we approached all conflict with satire. It's just that good.

***

I made these for dinner, and they rocked my world.

I find normal stuffed peppers bland, but these were not. They had - dare I say it? - a flavorful kick to them akin to Mexican cuisine.

Tasty.

***

My mama got me this book for Christmas. I finally got a chance to read it to Ella before bed-time last night.

And, holy cow, did I bawl. It was the ugly cry from about two pages in.

What a beautiful, amazing, perfect book from a parent to a child.

It's safe to say this book belongs on every child's bookshelf. So mothers everywhere can do the ugly cry right along with me.

***

Awhile back, Meredith recommended I listen to the song Kristine's Lullaby when I was putting together a mix of songs for Ella.

Well, it's become our new favorite song around here.

Especially if you have a daughter, I recommend giving it a spin.

I'm humming it right now and have been since I nursed Ella to sleep an hour ago.

It perfectly describes how I feel about raising a daughter in today's world.

***

Speaking of Pinterest, I bit the bullet and joined. (I know, I know. I'm the classic late adopter.)

But now, I am insanely addicted. I want to pin everything and anything and craft myself into oblivion after seeing all the amazing projects people point out on there.

I can't tell you how much sleep I've already lost this week pinning things. It's so bad I'd almost encourage you not to feed into my habit.

But I'm an addict, and I'm still willing to be enabled. So I want to know if you're on Pinterest, too. You can find me here.

***

This PSA had me in tears yesterday. It brings me back to my days of working in health communication. It's so well done and so true and, well, watch it yourself.

It's genius.

***

That's it on my end. What's on your radar this week?

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

A Brown Cylinder

2012-01-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ella and I play a lot.

It's my favorite thing about this age.

She's into everything; anything makes her smile and laugh.

Play-time could involve a plastic cup, and she'd be thrilled.

Which really doesn't explain why my child got the world and a half for Christmas.

Part of the problem is that, no matter what, adults like me are suckers for kid's toys. We want to play with them; we want them to play with them. We fear what will happen if, God forbid, they aren't exposed to the latest and greatest in educational play-things. We don't want to be the parents that didn't expose them to the latest and greatest of play-things.

So, in essence, the baby-toy-makers have us trapped in the perfect labyrinth of mom guilt, American consumerism, and the freakish fear we all have that, if we don't start working with our kids now, they may never get into the London School of Economics, and their lives will be forever ruined!

So, for Christmas, Ella was showered. With musical instruments. Push toys. Sensory pieces, and Baby Einstein.

Santa's worried about Ella's educational future, too.

Case in point: The wooden pull car he brought her filled to the brim with amazing, primary colored, wooden blocks of all shapes and sizes.

Ella loves them.

Or, rather, Ella loves eating them while I hold them up and say emphatically, "Green rectangle."

Ella then continues to nom-nom on the yellow triangle while I start to build a house out of the red squares, while enthusiastically repeating, "Look, it's a cube, Ella! A cube!"

We were doing said song and dance yesterday.

It lasted all of about 15 minutes. Then Ella got distracted by a piece of carpet lint, and I was left cleaning up the mess of blocks.

It was in my clean-up escapades that I realized it.

Something was missing. A block.

One of the columns I'd just used in my red-cube house.

Where the heck was one of the brown columns? ("Brown cylinder, Ella. Brown cylinder.")

It was our - er, her - new toy, and we'd already lost a piece.

I began to search, checking under teddy bears, the coffee table, the floor blanket, pillows, the dog, the baby, in the dog's mouth, in the baby's mouth.

It was nowhere. ("Where's the brown cylinder, Ella? Where's the brown cylinder?")

After searching for the darn brown cylinder for twice as long as we'd played with it, I gave up the ghost.

It had plum disappeared in the place educational toys go to die, I figured.

So, Ella and I went onto greener pastures and went for a walk. ("Look, Ella! Trees! Leafy trees!")

She then napped, nursed, played with more carpet lint, and then got ready for her bath.

I laid her down on her changing table, singing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, Knees and Toes," and began to take off her socks.

Then her headband.

Then, her fleece romper.

It wasn't until I was removing her shirt that I felt it.

Something tumor-like protruding from her butt.

Panicked, I grasped the perfectly smooth and round surface, then pulled.

I was left holding something long, brown, and cylindrical. Straight out of her diaper.

And no, we're not talking about poop.

I held, in my little mom hand, the missing block.

My child, literally, had had it stuck up there the entire afternoon.

"Look, Ella. It's the brown cylinder again! The brown cylinder!"

***

Don't ask me how it got there. I have no idea.

I didn't think an almost 7 month old had the dexterity to stuff things inside her rompers and diapers. But what do I know?

I'm the one that thinks my almost 7 month old has the mental dexterity to absorb colors and three-dimensional geometry, so I'm likely not a good source.

Still, it was a hoot. Made all the better by the fact that I'd literally had a mini-freak-out looking for the missing block, and she'd had it on her the whole darn time.

It almost makes me think she was holding out on me. It's almost like she didn't want to play blocks anymore.

It's almost like she's too good for blocks with Mommy.

Such a snotty baby. It's almost like she's got a stick up her bum.

***

Seriously, what games and activities do/did you play with your 7 month olds?

I love to play with Ella, but a girl can only make up about 18 verses of "If You're Happy and You Know It" before she starts venturing off into body parts and gestures that are a bit too potty-specific for a baby. (I do not want my toddler to be the one at Sunday school screaming, "If you're happy and you know it, make a toot!")

So, spill, all you moms and early-child educators. Let me in on your baby-play secrets.

And quick, before I start writing a series on child development entitled "How to Build Red Cubes."

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

And So It Begins (Again)

2012-01-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

Well, hello 2012.

It's the New Year, and finally - finally - I'm back at it around here.

We got home from our weeks away two days ago, and I've managed to finally - finally - unpack.

Am I the only one who returns with so much stuff from Christmas vacation that it literally takes them the better part of 48 hours to put it all away and clean up?

Really? Just me? Figures I'd take the non-minimalist holiday to the non-minimalist extreme.

Anyway, our tree is down; we've got a new toy chest full of new toys, and Ella is crawling.

While I've been hibernating for the last three weeks, we've entered a whole new realm. And not just because it's a new year, either.

It's funny because last year, when 2011 was new and fresh, I knew what the year would bring: A baby.

Half-way through, we were having our baby. It was our theme, anthem, and focal point for the entire 365 days of the year prior.

But now, being as our girl is 6.5 months old going on 40, and I am (happily) not pregnant, this year has a different kind of feel to it.

It's kind of surprising and inspiring and spontaneous and hopeful all in one.

After all, unlike 2011, 2012 has no pre-conceived notions.

In fact, in true military-spouse fashion, I'm really teetering on the precipice of spontaneity these days, thanks to the U.S. Navy.

We've just received word that we may not be moving in the next two months - we were prepared to be re-stationed come February.

But now, because my darn husband is just so darn good at his darn job, he's been put in the (very small) pile of sailors offered a promotion and an extension of two more years here.

We should know in the next few weeks.

Which means in the next few weeks, I'll be told if I'm moving four blocks over (to a nicer, bigger, more family-friendly home. Yippee!)

Or I'll be booted out not so gently and told to find a home in Georgia, California, Virginia, Washington, Japan, or, um, Guam.

Yippee?

Nothing like the possibility of total upheaval to keep life interesting.

Regardless, it's totally out of my control. And thus, I have little to no anxiety about it. (OK. That's a lie. I have a little. But only a little. And for me, that's saying something.)

It actually has been a good way to face this new year, thus far.

It's forced me to let go; it's forced me to step back and go, "I can't control this situation. What I can control is what I choose to do when this situation occurs. And I choose to thrive. No matter what."

It's kind of my take on the old "grow where you're planted."

If life gives me lemons, I'm not just going to make some lemonade. I'm going to research and re-affirm and re-approach my take on what my actions will be, and likely, I'll opt to make lemon meringue pie instead. And learn to love it. (What can I say? Meringue freaks me out.)

For me, 2012 is really all about intention.

My intention.

I have tried living my life for others - and I don't mean in a self-less way. I mean in the way where I say what others want to hear and do what others want me to do and write what others want me to write.

But in that, I got lost.

I became a slave to to-do lists and schedules and my extreme inability to say, "No. We're not doing that. It's just not where my priorities lie."

It's left me unable to bundle up and take a walk with my baby to look at leaves or enjoy the wind just because I want to; I can't bake a cake just because it's something I'd like to eat.

And I don't want to look down and find myself caught up so much in the drama that I didn't notice that my baby learned how to clap. (And she totally did last week. We're clapping fools around here.)

I don't want to plan a picture-perfect first birthday party and not get to live out her first birthday with her.

I want to approach her life - our lives - with intention. I want to be in the moment. Invested in what's going on. Living it.

Living in the moment. (Wait a minute. Where have I heard that before?)

So what will that look like?

Well, I'm going to invest more in what we do every day. I'm going to invest more time; I may even invest (a little) more money. The house projects, the crafts, the ideas I have. We're going to do them this year.

We'll have a craft/play room. We'll start a family quilt. I'll paint some of my older, more boring furniture bright colors and buy the few things my home needs, but I never let myself have.

I'm also going to invest more in this blog. I'm going back to blogging on Fridays. I want to share more of what I read and write and think and feel. I want to have the time to comment on your blogs instead of just reading them while nursing Ella.

I want to travel more. There are places and people that are close enough to me that I never see. There things I want to go do. There are times where my husband is gone for weeks on end, and if I could just muster up the courage to travel alone with my child, I could form great memories for us both. So, this year, I'm going. I haven't figured out the logistics of it, but mark my words, I will be a traveling mama, even if it means I load up the car with every piece of baby equipment I own just to survive the three hours up to our friend's home in North Carolina.

I'm going to work on me. In the last six months, I've let a lot go that I used to prioritize. I don't want that back, but I do want the focus I used to have for things that I need, emotionally and physically, to come back.

I'm about 15 pounds smaller than I was before I had Ella, and I haven't gotten a chance to celebrate it or even show it off.

Yoga and most of my strength training are inconsistent practices at best; I want to find a way to bring some of those back.

I want to attend more and do more and get involved in more causes close to my heart.

I want to stand up for what I believe in; in church, in social circles, at work, in life, in general.

I want to re-define how I see myself as a mom.

I want to see my piece of our life with intention.

I know; it sounds vague. It is vague. But I'm trying to not dwell so much in the specific and mundane anymore.

For me, it's about facing what life, God, and everybody else throws at me with purpose.

With good intention. An intention to make the best I can out of what I'm given.

That, in essence, is my New Year's resolution.

That's what I want for 2012.

***

What about yourselves? Any 2012 goals and plans? Vague or non-vague? I'd love to hear!

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Still What I'm Needing

2011-12-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here, at 8:30 p.m., still in my parent's house.

Ella and I will be here through the rest of the week, as planned.

Though the Christmas festivities are over, I'm not ready to go home. Tactically, right now, there is no point.

My husband is working 24-7 and has been since he headed back home right after Christmas. And there's no work for me to do, as no clients are interested in hitting the gym during vacation hours.

Which, in short, is fine by me.

To be perfectly honest, I'm in no mood to go back to work yet. I wasn't really happy at work earlier in the month, either.

I was just, for lack of a less cliche phrase, burned out.

I was getting irritated with clients, with my boss, with myself. It was like pulling teeth to smile and come up with interesting and effective work for my clients.

And the rest of my world felt the same way, too.

I was getting massively irritated with everything. Things that are petty and don't normally bother me had me fretting. Things that I normally brush off had me in tears. I was just feeling the itch - the itch to run and get away from my normal life.

I truly adore my life. But it is exhausting. I am married to a military man; my life is lonely sometimes. And in the same instant, it's not. There's an extremely active community and friend's circle I have there. I have a shining, energetic daughter. I have a successful, upstanding husband.

But all of those things can be taxing.

They wear out the extroverted aside of me. They make me want to hide away and beg everyone to leave me alone. They make me resent the fact that no one helps me change diapers or do baths or gives me 20 minutes to take a shower alone almost ever. And it's not like anyone can help that.

But it doesn't change the fact that sometimes, I'm done. I'm holding onto the end of my rope, quickly losing energy and about ready to give up the fight.

Thank God, Christmas came to my rescue.

I got on that plane back on my birthday, and, honestly, didn't look back.

I just needed to be away from my house, my job, my life.

It's the reason I haven't blogged in over a week; I had to be away from that, too.

Thirteen days in, and I'm starting to feel my old self returning.

I'm excited to organize and implement all the toys and activities Ella received for Christmas. I'm starting to get revved up about our move in the next two to three months. I'm beginning to think up amazing New Year's workouts for my mommy clients.

I'm blogging.

Like a lingering but slowly improving cough, I'm starting to recover.

Maybe it's a sign of age. Maybe it's a sign of motherhood. Maybe it's a sign of the fact that I honestly have gotten to a point in my life where I don't give two hoots what anyone thinks about me or my family.

But just as quickly as I was done, I'm starting to be, well, undone.

Because this Christmas? This Christmas I needed. It was as crucial as a blood tranfusion.

My patience was shot. My energy was shot. Life felt like I was picking at the scab I'd been putting over my own exhaustion and needs for a while.

So, I'm grateful I'm still gone. That I'm still at my parents, visiting with childhood friends and meeting their babies and having them meet mine. I needed this to re-charge.

And to be completely honest, right now, I'm still needing it.

***

This isn't the pick-me-up, happy Christmas recaps others are posting. I have one of those. Indeed, our Christmas was magical. Everything is better with a baby, but Christmas? Well, it's like Christmas on steroids.

I'll get that up, eventually.

But for now, we're still making memories and living in the altered, therapeutic state of a relaxed vacation.

I'll be back right after the New Year, so until then, I wish you all a Happy 2012.

May we all re-charge and rejuvenate during these last few days of 2011.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Another Year Forgotten

2011-12-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last week, my dad called me.

Knowing I'd be arriving into town today - a Thursday - we asked, "So, we were thinking of having Grandma and Grandpa over on the Friday or Saturday after you get here for some birthday cake."

There was a long pause.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what he was talking about.

I think I even said, "But why, Dad? Grandma's birthday's in November and Grandpa's isn't until after Christmas."

The long pause continued. I mean, we're talking easily 60 to 75 seconds of me going, "What the heck is my Dad thinking?"

Until, finally, the poor guy managed to utter, "Uh, Brittany, 27 years ago..."

And then I remembered.

It's my birthday. Thursday - today - Dec. 15? It's my stinkin' birthday.

And I, honest to goodness, forgot.

I have been so wrapped up in all other aspects of my life, plus caring for this handful of a baby I've got, that, truthfully, I can't believe a year has passed, and I'm another year older. It seems largely insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.

It's so not important in my own mind that, if my father hadn't spoken up, I'd likely have let the day pass with no more than a "Hmm. There's something I'm forgetting about today..."

My mother says this is simply because I have a child now. Or, in her words, "You've ceased to be important."

I'm pretty sure she's referring to my importance in my own mind, though make no mistake about it, when I hop off that plane today, she's going straight for her grand-daughter.

Any birthday wishes I get will only be an afterthought.

Still, I suppose she's right.

Heck, I joked last month that I'd like cloth diapers and some wooden toys for Christmas.

Talk about a major priority shift.

The skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be would be so ashamed.

But then again, when your every worry and concern is wrapped up in everything your baby needs - not to mention bills and laundry and the current flu making the rounds among our neighborhood - the fancy gifts and a fabulous cake aren't ranking that high on the totem pole for me this year.

Who knows? Maybe they never will again.

So, here's to 27; the year I realized I'm no longer important and that birthdays are no longer a big deal.

If you even remember them, that is.

***

Yep. Today's my birthday. I'm a year older.

I don't feel any older or wiser, though I suppose I am. Older, anyway. Wiser is largely up for debate these days.

I am, in fact, celebrating by braving the airports with an infant today. (Thanks for your tips yesterday, by the way!)

And, maybe, my grandparents will share some cake with me this weekend.

Which I'm sure it will be accompanied by a huffy, unsatisfied sigh.

It'll be the sound of the skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be rolling her eyes in exasperation and defeat.

Poor girl. These days, she never gets to come out and play.

Not even on her birthday.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Up, Up and Away (Goes My Brain)

2011-12-14T05:00:00.000-08:00

I am so excited that tomorrow, Ella and I are heading to my parents' house for a little more than two weeks for the holidays.

And by "excited," I actually mean that I'm about ready to keel over and throw up from the sheer anticipation of the horror that may or may not occur while Ella and I attempt to make said trip.

You see, tomorrow, I fly.

Up, up and away in an airplane.

With a 6 month old. Alone.

There isn't enough tranquilizers in the world that will likely get me through this.

First, consider the fact that I am not a good flyer by myself. I get a bit doomsday surrounded by that many people hurtling through the air in a metal tube.

Add an infant - a loud, chunky, active infant - to the mix? Well, you do the math.

I've been overly preparing in my head for over a month; surveying my packing list, buying a supremo baby carrier, taking the teeny-tiny, easily fold-able stroller out for a spin.

I've read Web sites on flying with infants. I over-analyzed airline schedules to find the optimal time for Ella to be airborne and hopefully happy.

I've prayed countless times that I get an empty seat next to me on the plane so my child doesn't kick someone while she's nursing.

But now? It's almost D-Day. And I'm. Not. Ready.

I keep picturing a packed plane filled with two kinds of people: The baby-haters who glare at you even though your child is sleeping peacefully and roll their eyes and sneer in disgust if they have the unfortunate coincidence of being seated next to you. Or the lecherous, single frat-boy, whose all, "Oooh! She's breast-feeding! Free boobie show for me!"

Thankfully, from drop-off to pick-up, I shouldn't have more than eight hours of travel. Blessedly, I only have to make one connection, as well.

The bad news is, that connection happens to be in purgatory itself: The Atlanta airport. In other words, The Place All Planes Get Grounded For No Explicable Reason Causing You to Live on Subway Sandwiches and Sleep on Benches for About Four Days.

With a baby, mind you.

Don't forget that little nugget of truth: I have to do all this with a baby.

A baby who has no attention span. A baby who likes to whip off my nursing cover, pop off the boob, and give everyone in a 5-foot radius a breast-milk shower.

A baby who has never flown before.

I am sitting here, sweating profusely, at the thought of all this.

I'm already picturing myself walking off the plane, handing my father Ella, and yelling over my shoulder, "Dad, I need a stiff drink and a nap. Stat."

So, all of you seasoned mama flyers, who are rolling your eyes and guffawing at me right now, listen up.

I need your advice. Your wisdom. Your Jedi mind-tricks to getting a baby through two airports and two flights with ease and grace and minimal frizzing of the hair and armpit sweat.

Tell me your secrets.

But don't tell me to give her a bottle or a pacifier. Because Ella hates both of those.

And don't tell me to relax. Because it's too late for that.

I'm panicking, and only your sound, wise advice can stop me.

I need good, concrete tips. Something along the lines of "Bribe the flight attendants with some singles so they can arrange for you to sit in your own private row whilst feeding you endless amounts of Perrier and organic grapes."

Or, you know, tell me how to get through security without losing my mind or my purse.

Wherever your gifts lie.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Deck the Halls with Jugs and Holly

2011-12-13T05:00:00.000-08:00

We decorated our Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day.

Normally, I'm all, "No! No! Don't rush the season."

But when I'm whipping out the Christmas decor for 12 hours straight and spending money on a Frasier fir and leaving halfway through the month of December to visit family?

Well, we can deck the halls as soon as I see fit.

So, yes, on Turkey Day, we were singing carols and showing Ella the advent wreath.

As any baby would be, she was properly non-plussed.

But we kept on trying, dangling her our snowmen and Santa Clauses and ornaments we loved of every shape, color and size right in front of her poor little face.

Finally, she'd had enough.

Girlfriend wanted to nurse, and so, I stopped hanging balls and bells and grabbed her up, turning to the hubs and saying, "Can you just put those last few ornaments on the tree for me?"

He obliged, talking to me while I nursed Ella and ducked her wandering fingers, which like to pinch my nose and any other skin-covered surface she gets her hands on as of late.

He tied and tucked ornaments in all the right places until, finally, he stopped.

In his hand, pinched with semi-disgust and question, he held one of my childhood ornaments.

"Babe, are you sure you want me to hang this one up?"

With barely a glance, I replied, "Yeah, hang all those up."

But he didn't oblige. Instead, he asked again, "You really want to put this on our tree this year?"

Again, I quipped back, "Yes! I want everything I pulled out right there to go on the tree this year."

But he didn't budge. He didn't even move the outstretched ornament in direction of the giant fir in our living room.

I watched him, puzzled, eyes questioning, until finally, I'd had enough.

"Dude! Just hang it up there! Del Del [my God-mother] cross-stitched that ornament for me the year I was born. Of course I want it on our tree! It's been on every tree I've ever had!"

The look on his face would have surprised a court jester.

"Really, Del Del knit this?"

Then, he turned the ornament to face him, wonderingly, and began to laugh.

"Oh, now I see what it says," he explained, seeming relieved. "It says '1984,' the year you were born! That makes a lot more sense. I can see now why you want it hung. It just says '1984!'"

I, undoubtedly, looked at him as if he'd lost his ever-loving mind. My eyebrows were raised, and I was giving them the whole, "Really? Are you that dense?" eye stare, when he finally managed to explain himself.

Or so I thought.

"Before, when I just looked at it, that word knit below the teddy bear, read like 'Jugs,'" he said. "I thought the ornament said 'Jugs.'"
Anyone want to figure that one out?

***

I love my husband, but sometimes, I sincerely wonder where his head has gone.

So tell me, do you have any confusing ornaments on your tree this year?

***

Here's hoping your halls are decked with a whole host of (jug-free and wholly appropriate) ornaments this Christmas.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

It's Been Six Months

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

My baby girl,

Today, you are six months old.

It's been six months since you joined us in this world. Half a year, baby.

Look at you, just one day old.

You're well on your way these days.

My, how things have changed in six months.

You sit up unassisted and have been for almost the entire month. It's like all of sudden, you wanted to do it. So you did. And expertly at that. You almost never fall over. It's impressive. If you had your way, you'd sit up all the time. It is far and wide your new favorite thing.

Rocking your Packer diaper in support of your Pop-Pop's favorite team, bringing your total of custom football cloth-diapers to four.

You also, finally, roll over frequently. You always go back to front, even though you know how to do front to back, and it's far easier. Apparently, you like to the road less traveled.

Thanks to the fact that you are strong and proficient on your belly, you also can get yourself up on your hands and knees and rock for a bit before flopping forward. That, along with the fact that you can stand while holding onto us, makes me realize we're basically a seconds away from you crawling away.

Can this really be happening?

I am not ready.

You are an excellent communicator these days, too.

You reach for things you want - which is everything. You hold your hands up when you want to be picked up, and you're able to handle blocks and rattles and teethers with ease these days. Which is lucky for you, because you can now expertly wield anything well enough to get it into your mouth. I adore it, until you try to eat the dog's ear or your own poop, both of which have almost happened this month.

Ella's dreaming of a naked Christmas

You also mimic really well. You'll say "Hi!" in response to my "Hi!" for about four minutes straight. And when I look at you and emphatically pronounce "Ma-ma!" you purse your lips together and sometimes eke out a "Mwa!"

Your daddy is convinced you're saying "Mama" already, as, when you start to fuss, you normally yell, "Ma-ma! Ma!" I'm thinking it's a fluke, but I won't be upset if he's right.

Sleep-wise, you've gotten better and better. Most nights, you're up to nurse only once, for about five minutes. Sometimes, you'll wake up a second time, but all I need to do is cuddle you into me, and you're right back out. You still prefer to be in bed with us, but you start out the night in your own crib. You nap there, too.

When you nap, that is.

Lately, you seem to feel like you're missing out on life, and I have to positively wear you out before you'll fall asleep and so you'll nap longer than 30 minutes these days.

Thanks to your daddy's schedule, it's been just you and I a lot this month. We do everything together, by virtue of that fact. You've been a trooper during Christmas shopping, especially since you can now sit in the cart. You like to ride around Target, for instance, and bounce and swing your legs and smile wide at everyone who stops and gushes over you - you're very popular with the Target set.

You celebrated your first Thanksgiving with a whole host of sailors. Your daddy and I hosted a dinner for all the single sailors here on base we knew who couldn't get home to family. You spent the entire seven hours they were here smiling and cheesing it up with them. Your appeal is amazing; you even get hardened bachelors to fawn over you. And, like I told your daddy, if I'd had a video camera of them all playing with you, I could have them all married off in a second.

Unfortunately, you didn't get any turkey or taters this holiday. You're still only on breast-milk straight from the source. In fact, as of late, thanks to you hitting your six-month growth spurt a week or so ago, you're back at the breast much more than you used to be. I also think you're teething while you grow. So it's made you want to nurse for comfort more, and in general, it makes you way more clingy.

I don't mind holding you, but your face, if I dare to put your down for too long or too late in the day? Well, it's heart-breaking. You already have a flair for the drama. You pout, fuss, and yell on command. Then turn it off as soon as you get what you want.

I can already tell you're going to be a skilled negotiator; you're quite the personality. And stubborn, to boot. Plus, as your great-grandmother said after seeing you via Skype, "You can see the wheels turning on that one."
Oh, yes, baby girl. You're a smarty who is constantly observing, maneuvering, and thinking. In other words, we're in deep, amazingly blessed trouble.

Never has been my heart been so full as when I'm watching you grow and change. When you babble, it's like music to my ears. I still watch you sleep, and I still tear up. This month's been busy and had some rough moments, but you have made every second of it worth it.
I am so honored to be your mommy; when God gave me the ability to bring you into this world half a year ago, I thought it was the best gift I'd ever received. Now, watching you grow and learn and light up over every new discovery has made that gift multiply in ways I never expected.

I love you, my precious one.

Love,
Your mama

A Clarification? An Apology? A Clari-logy? An Apol-ification?

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

I expected the response I got yesterday.

I did.

And thus, I am still making my way through the e-mails and responding to each and everyone of you with respect, whether you agreed with me or not. (If you didn't attach an e-mail address to your profile, but would like a response, please note below. Many of you would be surprised that I have rather kind things to say to you. I even agree with some of you that weren't too kind to me.)

That being said, I do realize that my "blog persona" is not really anything like my real-life self.

But I'm not so sure all of you realize that.

The fact of the matter is, in person, I'm straight-up boring. I'm not at all confrontational. I'm really happy being me, with my family, by myself.

But I am a trained journalist. I do, and always have, written with authority. It's something ingrained in me; I can't get rid of it.

I'm not a quiet person, but on paper (or the Internet?), I'm even louder.

In my real life, though, I really don't take myself that seriously. At all.

In fact, if you met me in real life, you'd probably not even label me such an extremist, attachment parent.

After all, I love to wear my baby, but I also adore my stroller. Ella and I jog in it every day, and, well, sometimes? I just do not want to deal with the hassle of strapping her into the Ergo carrier.

And, yes, we co-sleep. But my baby also sleeps in her crib for at least the first half of the night, most nights. I have stuff to do around my house, and sometimes, my husband and I like to have a few moments alone without a baby. So into the crib she goes.

And, yeah, I don't let my baby cry it out. But there has been a day or two where I have literally yelled in my infants face, "Please SHUT UP ALREADY!" then put her in her bed and closed the door so I could have a few moments to compose myself. Can't say I'm proud of it, but I birthed a stubborn child, and sometimes, she gets the best of me.

The fact of the matter is, sometimes, I just need a moment without Ella. I plan my week around when I can go to the grocery store. Without her.

And, yeah, I love breast-feeding. But sometimes, I'd give my right arm so that she'd just take a darn bottle of pumped milk already. So I could leave her for more than 90 minutes without guilt. So maybe someone other than me could put her to bed one night in this lifetime.

I hold Ella a lot, but she also spends time in her exer-saucer. She's with me all day, but some part of those days are spent in her bouncy seat.

I don't vaccinate my child, but man alive, have I had a moment or two where I've stared at her and thought, "Dear God, is she getting whooping cough? Have I gone and killed my baby?"

I am not perfect. Not in a long shot.

I've yelled at my husband because he can leave her to go to work. And I can't.

I've cried tears of frustration because I just want a darn latte, but I can't have dairy or caffeine, thanks to the fact that I've, quite honestly, over-researched what should and shouldn't be consumed while breast-feeding. (Ignorance can be such bliss.)

And yesterday? Well, yesterday I literally walked around with my yoga pants on backwards. For six straight hours.

The best part was, the last hour? I had already realized it, and I was just too lazy to go whip them around. I even thought, "Oh, heck, who cares? Ella came out of me. It's not like she cares that the butt of my pants is now giving me one very saggy crotch shot."

I poke fun at myself a lot, too.

I had a dear friend - who full on told me she loved her epidural-births and wouldn't have it any other way (to which I responded, "Good for you!" for the record) - who asked me for a teething solution for her son that's Ella's age.

My response?

"Well, I can get you an amber teething necklace to borrow, but you know me and my crazy hippie crap. Even I don't know if it actually works sometimes."

We laughed while she gave her son a bottle of milk while I nursed my daughter. We get along perfectly fine and often don't discuss our differences. But when we do, it's with the utmost respect for each other.

***

I'm also a walking oxymoron. At a cookie swap next week, I'm making a healthy chocolate chip cookie.

And pound cake. With three sticks of butter.

It's horrible for you. And it's amazing all in the same bite.

Heck, I think I'm wrong for eating it. But sometimes, well, a girl's just wrong. I'm not scared of that.

My own mother had a C-section, three of them, actually. That's how I was born. And I have an awesome mother. She and I just made different choices. Her right was not my right, and her wrong was not my wrong, and, well, that's OK. That, for me, doesn't make a lick of difference in how good of a parent my own mother was.

Why should it? Our status as good mothers is not contingent on conclusions we reach or choices we make, different or alike.

Love does.

***

The fact of the matter is, I don't feel threatened when people think I'm wrong.

I had a woman tell me a few weeks back, upon learning that my child was un-vaccinated at a mutual friend's play-date, to "keep your filthy little germ-breeder" away from her.

I was kind of shocked and appalled at her tone. But I didn't really take offense that she thought I was out-and-out wrong not to vaccinate Ella, as she proceeded to expound on later.

Honestly, I've always felt that I'm secure enough in my decisions that people's disagreements with me don't bother me.

In fact, as many of you stated yesterday, it's only when I doubt myself that I often find myself wounded by people I believe are judging me.

As I get older, that happens less and less.

I also find myself growing more and more confident in my choices. And more and more imperfect, as a whole. I am woefully human, after all.

I don't know. Maybe I'm not sensitive enough. Maybe I'm lacking an empathy gene or something.

I know I hurt people's feelings yesterday, and whether or not you believe me, that was never my intention.

Did I want to make a point? Sure.

But the fact of the matter is, I am too darn busy with my own life to notice whether or not someone chooses to formula-feed their child. In fact, most of the time, if I actually notice someone with formula in hand, I assume it's because they have a need for it; contrary to popular belief, I don't judge based on snap assumptions.

And, when weighing a lot of individual situations, I can see why something I think is wrong in some instances - let's just say formula, again, for continuities sake - can be the right choice in others. It's for reasons like this that I don't concern myself with others' choices on a day-to-day basis, unless they expressly ask for my opinion.

For instance, I have never once left a negative comment on any blog I read, even when they disagree with me, name-call my methods and parents like me, or use a tone I find offensive. (And I have seen many of those posts. And yeah, they weren't so nice. But I truly don't feel the urge to call the writer out on that, either.)

If I really don't like the material, I will stop reading. Some of you did that here yesterday, and that is totally your right. I don't have a problem with that.

But very often, I simply think that my issue with what's written and my opinion of the author's tone is simply that - my opinion. It's coming from my perspective. That isn't the writer's problem that I took it that way, and often enough, I will continue to read. Unless you list my name off word for word, I don't take anything personally.

In other words, yes, I have convictions, but unless you broach those convictions with me, I don't bring it up.

Though the woman who saw me nursing my baby the other day sure did when she immediately quipped, "Isn't she a little old for that?"

But other than being shocked, I didn't really reply.

On my blog, I write about what's important to me, but in the real world, unless asked, I don't just start spouting off about it.

In fact, I'm much more likely to comment on your adorable baby's outfit - What can I say? I'm a sucker for a romper! - than ask what if you had a vaginal delivery.

Because honestly, who just out-and-out asks a woman, "So, uh, did that baby of yours come out of your lady bits?"

***

I"m really not that intense in person.

I'm just a mom trying to survive.

I'm just a mom who honest-to-goodness never wants to hurt anybody.

I don't think every decision I make has a right or wrong answer. There are multiple ways to discipline children, for instance. I don't think there is a right or wrong there, short of, say, beating your kids to a pulp.

There are also multiple ways to diaper babies. Even though I use cloth, that is a preference, not a position of correct-ness. No right or wrong there.

And there are also multiple ways to put kids down to sleep - I love co-sleeping, but I don't think someone is wrong for putting a newborn in a crib instead.

Yes, there are other things I don't agree with, based on the research I've done and the experiences I've had.

There are certain things I think are right and certain things I think are wrong. In parenting. In life, as well.

I assume the same of all us.

I am not shocked that some of you fervently held to your parenting methods yesterday, though they differ from mine. In fact, I applaud you for that, whether you called me names or not.

After all, you are the mother. You know what's best for your babies; I have no say when it comes to what you find right or wrong for your family.

I say that openly, honestly, with my whole heart.

But that also leads me to my last question, which isn't rhetorical, though it may sound that way:

If everyone feels so convicted in their choices, why do you truly care what I think, anyway?

***

I do have a serious side.

I like to talk politics and religion. And I have best friends who are in diametrically opposite faiths and political parties than my own.

We ultimately disagree with each other a lot, but we love each other.

I thought that was normal, but I'm getting the impression lately that far more of you all don't talk about differences with those close to you.

I do feel awkward now, knowing that others aren't coming from the same place as me, knowing that others have not debated faith with their college roommates or politics over the Thanksgiving table.

Maybe that's just my family and my friends. That's OK. I come from passionate stock, I suppose.

And it leaks out into my blog, which yesterday, you all read of your own choice.

But even with that, there was no need to participate in friendly dialogue with me. So those of you who did exchange e-mails with me last night, please know that I truly appreciated it and found a few friends in the mix of this controversy, as well.

***

In closing, I say here's to your beliefs. You have them; I support them. Even if I don't agree with them.

No one ever said I had to, anyway.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Right and Wrong

2011-12-07T05:00:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, a client of mine, who has a 4 month old, was working with me and telling me all about how little sleep she'd been getting lately.

She was exhausted because she'd been up all night sleep-training her baby. She was letting him cry it out.

And cry it out he did. For hours and hours and hours.

But after three days, she said it was getting better. She excitedly told me, "Last night, he only cried for ten minutes and then was asleep for the rest of the night! What a great idea, right?"

I nodded, smiled, and quickly changed the subject.

And, yet, I was unsettled.

After all, I'd lied to her. I'd acquiesced and agreed with a parenting technique I not only don't use, but wholeheartedly feel is wrong.

Yes, I'll admit it: I think sleep-training infants and letting babies cry it out to get them to sleep through the night is out-and-out wrong.

So why did I agree with that mama? Why did I not speak up? Why, when I'm often asked about certain parenting techniques I totally don't agree with, do I not vocalize how I feel?

Social mores, probably. But more likely, it's the insecure woman inside me who doesn't want to say something that will truly make her unpopular.

But today, I'm putting that on the back shelf.

Today, I'm going to make myself, most likely, quite unpopular.

Today, I'm going to talk about right and wrong.

***

Make no mistake about it; I make the decisions I make for my family and my daughter because I believe they are right.

I breast-feed because I have the ability to, and I truly believe that, if you have the biological ability to breast-feed your child, you should.

It's the right thing to do.

I was able to give birth without the aid of pitocin and an epidural. It wasn't because I thought I was tough. And it wasn't because I thought I had something to prove.

I did it because I think it's the right thing to do; I think that's the right way to give birth.

So, if I believe all that, if I believe those are the right things to do, inherently, I also believe other options are wrong.

Formula-feeding, for one. (For the sake of convenience. Not necessity. There are reasons for formula.)

Or unnecessary interventions in labor and birth. (Again, I use the word "unnecessary" because there are - extremely rare - instances in which inductions and C-sections are medically necessary.)

So there. I said it. I believe the way some women give birth and feed their babies is wrong.

You can commence with the throwing of tomatoes now.

I almost don't blame you. After all, even though I believe it, I don't like how it makes me look.

Immediately, I can feel the bile rise in my throat. The insecurity and fear edge in when I type the word "wrong."

Because I know it sounds intolerant. And I know it inspires everyone who, say, elected for pain-killers in labor and delivery* to hate me a little bit.

With the sentences above, I immediately sound like the worst kind of mother. I sound like a mom who judges other mothers, who looks down on them for making a choice different than mine.

But hold the phone and back up.

That's actually not what I'm saying.

After all, my child is only 6 months old, and I have made several wrong choices already.

We are human; we err. We are, inherently, wrong at times.

Heck, today, I can count at least four things I've done wrong. And it's not even noon yet.

Plus, let's be honest here. I know there are plenty of you out there who think that I'm often wrong.

In fact, some of you who know I do things like, say, co-sleep with my child probably think I'm wrong. Those of you who have sleep-trained your child, and feel good about that decision, probably think that, without a doubt, I am incorrect in how I handle my child at night-time.

I realize that. I do. And, honestly, I'm OK with it. I don't hate you for thinking I'm wrong, and I'm just as likely to want to pal around with you as I would with another mama who co-sleeps just like me.

You don't have to parent like me to be my friend.

Mostly because I didn't enter this parenting gig to be right all the time.

And neither did any of you.

***

Take, for instance, one of my amazing blogger friends Jenny. She had a baby boy right around the time that I had Ella.

Jenny, simply put, rocks. She's a nurse. She's an amazing mother and wife. She's a great girl and kind and sweet and, frankly, if I'm half the woman Jenny is, I'll be thrilled.

Like me, she wears her boy in a baby carrier often and breast-feeds.

She also vaccinates her son.

I, as I've said before, have Ella on a (very) delayed and selective vaccination schedule.

I've read books, articles, health journals, interviews with prominent pediatricians, and untold amounts of research on the subject. And still, I do not agree with the standard vaccination schedule we place on our children today.

I do, indeed, think it is wrong.

Jenny disagrees with me. She's also read books, articles, health journals, interviews with prominent pediatricians, and untold amounts of research on the subject.

She does, indeed, think it is right.

I think she's wrong. She thinks I'm wrong. We both, in essence, think we're the right ones; we're making the right choice for our child.

And, yet, we get along. We're even friends.

How? Why? Is it possible to be close to another mom who has vocally said, "I disagree with you. I think you're wrong." (And yes, we have said that to one another. We have the respectful comments on each other's blogs to prove it.)

So, yes, it is. It is very possible.

Here's the thing: Vaccinating or not vaccinating your child does not make you evil. It doesn't make you a bad parent. It doesn't doom you to an eternity burning in hell.

Vaccinating your child does not dictate your status as a good human being.

There are amazing mothers who formula feed their children, let them cry-it-out, and vaccinate them according to the government's recommended schedule.

They are good people. They are great parents. I like them. Heck, some of them I love.

And, yet, I think they are wrong.

They, in turn, think I'm wrong.

But many think I'm a pretty good person, too. Many are my closest friends, even.

Why?

It's because our moral status is not governed by how we give birth or what we feed our children. Our ability to get into the figurative (or literal) gates of heaven does not come down to whether or not we started our child on a diet of all-organic solids at 9 months or jarred baby-food at 4 months. Our efforts to gain respect and love and companionship from our peers should not fall on the shoulders of the question, "Do you vaccinate your child?"

Yes, I think vaccinating a 2 month old is wrong.

But I don't think it's evil, and I don't think it makes for a bad parent.

I just think it's wrong.

And, yet, I receive flak for that. As do others who speak up for whatever they think is right.

In our permissive culture, it's simply not cool to be that black and white.

To say, "No, I don't believe in that."

To stand up and say, "I won't do that. It's not right."

To call something "wrong."

In a culture where everyone wins, we've forgotten what it's like to make a true, hard, fast decision. We've forgotten what it's like to choose, for ourselves, what's right and stand up for that choice.

And, yet, we do it every day.

Every mother out there makes a decision based on what they think is right.

I do. You do.

We're parents; that's what we do.

We do our research, weigh the pros and cons, and make a choice. A choice we think is right.

It may not be what our neighbors think is right. It may not be what our church thinks is right. It may not be what our doctor, lawyer, or best friend thinks is right.

But we do; we think it's right.

And we think the other options - the things we don't do and won't do - are wrong.

That's life. We cannot live in the gray forever. We cannot waft about saying everything is OK.

If everything was truly OK, we'd never make a decision. About anything, let along our children.

I, for one, don't want to live in the gray. I have made, and will continue to make, decisions I think are right for my child.

I won't apologize for them. I don't owe anyone an apology for making informed choices in what I think is the best interest of my child.

And, in turn, I don't expect a mother who chooses different from me to apologize for that, either.

I respect that mother; I can have play-dates and cookie swaps and hour-long phone conversations with that mother.

I can live next door to her and call her my best friend, even.

She can be wrong; I can be right. She can be right, and I can be wrong.

After all, disagreement is not the same thing as judgment.

Even with right and wrong, we can all still have companionship, dialogue, kid-centered-ness, and support.

That is, after all, motherhood.

Whether we agree with each other or not.

***

Go ahead. You know you want to. Tell me, what do you think is right? Or better yet, what do you think is wrong?

I promise, I won't judge you for it. Even if you out-and-out disagree with me. In fact, I'll probably love you a little more because of it.

***

I'm going conclude this little impromptu series on motherhood tomorrow. Check out Posts #1 and #2 if you missed them.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Mom Guilt

2011-12-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Every time I put my child down, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I leave her with my husband for 30 minutes just to go to the grocery store, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I hear her stir in her sleep, and I don't immediately swoop her up in my arms, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I drop her off with a much beloved and trusted friend for one single hour, three afternoons a week, so I can teach a spinning class, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's guilt.

Plain-jane, old-hat guilt.

I don't know why I feel it. I can't explain it.

After all, my girl likes to sit up and play with her toys and scoot about the floor. She's perfectly happy with my husband and my friend for short periods of time. And nine times out of 10, her bed-time stirrings are hardly anything more than a snort then back off to sleep she goes.

And, yet, I feel it.

The all-consuming, overwhelming guilt.

That guilt that has me living in the world of what-ifs: What if she thinks I've abandoned her? What if she doesn't know how much I love her? What if she resents me for this later?

What if she needs me?

The truth of the matter is, I do everything for my child. I play with her, nurse her, put her to sleep, and, when she wakes up, sleep with her.

I don't mind it; I like it. Thanks to the good, old U.S. of A., and my husband's service to it, I don't really have a choice, anyway.

But that dependence I've created; that need she has to turn to me for everything? Well, it's scary.

Because sometimes, I can't be there. Sometimes, I have to do something else. Sometimes, my daughter will have to be in the care of someone other than her mother.

Two weeks ago, after discussing some routine dental work I had to get done in January, I cried on the phone with my mom. Because I didn't want to go. Because I didn't want to leave my daughter for those few hours at the dentist.

Six months later, I still sometimes pull the car over when she's screaming her head off for me. Because I can't take the thought of her back there, yelling for help, and me not stopping to get to her.

And if I don't? If I just keep driving because we're so close to home or because I know she's simply over-tired? I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

At night, when I say a prayer, I always start with, "Lord, please let me daughter know how much I love her." Because I worry every day that she doesn't fully grasp this. That she doesn't feel it.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

The guilt. The ever-present guilt that comes over me because I have done this, that, whatever it is, to my child.

I apologize to her when we go to Target, the grocery store, the bank. I know these aren't fun outings for a baby, and I always feel as if I'd be better off spending that time at home with her, reading books and playing with blocks and practicing our crawling exercises.

We rarely go out to eat at night because her bed-time is so early, and I simply feel it's unfair to make her suffer so we can eat at the new, local dive.

It's the guilt. It's all because of the guilt.

I find myself crying when I change her diaper. Out of the sheer, overwhelming nature of my love for her. Her smiles and laughs and full-body baby gestures bring tears to my eyes, as well.

My heart bursts for this little girl.

But I worry. Oh, how I worry.

I worry I'll disappoint her. That she'll be ashamed of me. That she'll look and question my motives.

I worry that I'm not good enough for her.

The realization that she's all mine - that she'll turn to me one day and say, "Hey, Mom!" hits me over and over and over again.

But the realization that I am a mother? That still feels surreal.

Right now, I just know that the underlying worries never go away. That nothing I have ever done has felt so daunting and so deliberate and so teetering as motherhood.

I almost find myself looking around and waiting for someone to pop up and tell me I'm doing it wrong. To look at me and go, "You're not cut out of this."

Ella makes me happy every day. And that happiness she gives me? Well, I just hope and pray I can give one-tenth of it back to her.

Someone once described it to me as being selfless.

"Motherhood is true selflessness;" I think that was the phrase.

And, yet, that's not a full enough description.

Motherhood is the all-encompassing feeling that you cannot be selfless enough. That everything you eat, drink, do or don't do, say or don't say, use or don't use, will somehow, in some way, affect your child.

In other words, it's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

Even if there's no good reason for it, it's the guilt.

***

I think Mom Guilt is exactly why so many of us struggle with the very issue I described yesterday, i.e., having another child.

Our very nature has us making decisions in the best interest of our child from the moment they come out of the womb. They are always in our mind's eye. After they are born, nothing we do will not be prefaced by a thought of, "But what about the baby?"

It hurts. It's a good pain, most of the time. It's born out of love, after all.

But it hurts.

And sometimes, in weak moments, it wounds. It pounces on us with uncertainty and makes us feel unworthy. It makes us feel alone. It makes us feel like we're failing. That our children will look back one day with disappointment or, worse yet, apathy.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's Mom Guilt.

***

Continuing on tomorrow with my mini-series on mommy-hood. Yesterday's post is here.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Another One

2011-12-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, at midnight, I got a phone call.

It was my neighbor and good friend down the street; she was in labor.

Quickly, she and her husband, and my hubby and I, sprang into action.

We set up the pack-n-play, and they drove down, installed an additional car-seat into our car, and brought in a laundry basket full of clean, toddler-sized cloth diapers.

Then, my 39-week pregnant friend carried in her almost 2 year old, who was half way between asleep and awake.

She rocked him and tried to put him back down before finally leaving and heading over to the birth center where Ella was born almost 6 months ago.

I heard her leave with tears in my eyes.

I then spent the rest of the evening alternating between my baby and her toddler, neither of whom really slept well, thanks to the middle-of-the-night interruption.

Finally, at 4:30 a.m., we all fell asleep, Ella in bed with me, and our friend's toddler, K, asleep in the pack-n-play, with my husband stretched out on the floor next to it.

It was not yet 7 a.m. when I heard the patter of little, footie-pajama-d feet and saw a toe-headed toddler boy push open my door, look up, and exclaim, "Baby!" pointing gleefully at Ella.

We were awake to start the day with two children.

The hubs helped but quickly had to get ready for work, both of us knowing but not saying that I'd be alone with two under age 2 till midnight, when he'd return from his shift on the boat.

And, so, I spooned up some oatmeal for K while nursing Ella, still in my pajamas.

Both babies were surprisingly happy, considering how little sleep we'd all gotten.

I, meanwhile, felt like I'd been run over by a truck.

But I was distracted from the pain by K chasing Marvin the Dog while Ella giggled endlessly at it.

Then, knowing I had no choice because I'd already committed to hosting a play-date/crafting afternoon at my house that day, I loaded both kids up into my car and headed out for the art-supplies store.

It was slow-going leaving the house. It was slow-going getting them both out of the car, too. And it was even slower-going pushing both of them in the cart through the crowded craft-store aisles.

Ella, who likes to bounce in the cart's front seat covered in her cart-cover (How did she get so big that she can actually sit in the cart?), was blowing spit bubbles while K, who was in the bigger, back portion of the cart, kept chewing on the packaging of the supplies I'd throw back there, as the poor boy must have been teething.

And I can't even tell you the looks I got as older woman saw me and clearly thought "Oh, you poor thing, with two little ones like that."

It could have been a harrowing experience.

Except it wasn't.

Because, as loaded them back into the car and drove away, Ella fell asleep, and K looked over and whispered adorably, "Baby! Hush!"

You could have melted my heart right then and there.

Later that afternoon, my friend came back for her toddler. She'd dilated to 5 centimeters and then stopped contracting. She wasn't yet in active labor, so the midwives sent her home, still pregnant, still like me - a mother to only one.

And, as I watched her walk away, I felt it. Something I didn't think I'd feel. Something I'd actually worried I'd never experience.

Jealousy.

Not green-eyed or evil.

But simple envy that soon, very soon, she was going to have two babies to love and not one.

Despite all the work and the hassle and the chaos that it is to have two whole little beings in your complete care 24-7, it's also kind of awesome, too.

I actually, honestly, liked it.

I liked laughing at the toddler with the baby on my hip. And reading to K while Ella sat in my lap. And watching Ella watch K watch Ella as we all sat around on a blanket with some toys.

Granted, there were moments where it came quite the brouhaha - both babes literally blew out their respective cloth diapers within seconds of each other, and at one point, poop was on me, them, and several changing table covers - but it was still actually something I enjoyed.

It felt, well, right.

And, honestly, I didn't expect that. Not in the least.

I love kids. I love K. I watch him all the time.

But after having my own child, I had - have? - real fears over having Baby No. 2.

Will I love them like I love Ella? Will Ella resent sharing my love? Will I get along with one better than the other? Will Ella feel replaced? Will I start to resent them both when I have even less "me" time? Will I ever be able to do anything with two under my roof? Will my house ever be clean again?

Can I parent more than one child?

It's silly, but when I actually think about having another baby, I feel the urge to turn to Ella and apologize. To say, "I promise. You'll be happy about this when you're older."

To try and explain my choices to a 6 month old.

The thought of being away from her while I'm in labor; the thought of her sharing my lap, my love, my bed, my snuggles, my everything? Well, it makes me cry.

And, yes, I know love is infinite. And I know siblings are some of the best gifts we can give our kids. After all, I adore my brothers.

But the love I have for my daughter is unlike any other love I've ever experienced.

And it's so new and special that the thought of that lessening or changing scares me.

But last week, that changed. Last week, for the first time, I realized I could do it.

I realized I could love doing it.

I realized that I wasn't meant just to have one baby. I realized that my heart and mind had the ability to care for more than Ella.

I realized that, at some point, I'd have another one.

***

Now, before you all get any whacky ideas, let me assure you: I don't think it's a good idea to have another one right now.

Ella is still a baby and is still exclusively breast-fed and pretty much attached at my hip. She's not ready to share that, yet.

So, unless we get really lucky, I'm likely not going to be announcing Baby No. 2 any time soon.

But, while life would be easier if Ella was potty-trained and sleeping in a toddler bed before she finds out about a new baby brother or sister, I'm not guaranteeing that will happen, either.

All this to say that Baby No. 2 is still only a theoretical concept, at this very moment.

Right now, my whole point is this: Last week, I renewed my capacity to love. I started to get just the tiniest bit excited about bringing our next child into this world.

I finally started to believe in another one.

***

This week, I'm writing a brief series on motherhood. A lot of these posts have been weighing on me lately, and I figure now's the time get them out there. So stay tuned this week for more on mommies. (And suggestions/questions are, of course, welcome.)

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Am I The Only One...

2011-12-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

...Who doesn't cook dinner when my husband's not home to eat it?

...Who decided showering with my baby is easier than giving her a bath and then bathing myself later?

...Who lights candles and wax warmers when I'm home all alone?

....Who cries every time I see a baby being born on television, the Internet, or in person?

...Who has about 18 craft projects I've started and never finished?

...Who insists on buying a real Christmas tree even if I'm not going to actually be home on Christmas?

...Who enjoys being outside when it's cold?

...Who misses her baby while she naps and therefore checks on her 18 times an hour?

...Who doesn't understand why people don't like coconut?

...Who watched the season finale of Sister Wives and loved it (and who wouldn't mind having a sister wife myself if it didn't involve the obvious sharing of my husband)?

...Who feels like I blinked and my newborn became an almost 6 month old?

...Whose only regret about winter is that the fruit selection is downright paltry at the market?

...Who hates that her husband doesn't work normal hours but doesn't mind a night or two to herself (but only a night or two!)?

...Who feels the need to buy a new sweatshirt even though I own about 42 of them already?

...Who wants to send out an impossible amount of Christmas cards?

...Who is so sick of Thanksgiving leftovers that I'm considering throwing out the last vestiges of sweet-potato casserole and corn pudding?

...Who feels like punching everyone who expresses shock that my child doesn't sleep through the night yet?

...Who needs to quit blogging and go to bed before I lose anymore precious sleep over all of the above?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's Like Shoes For Babies

2011-11-30T05:00:00.000-08:00

Over half of my mommy friends here cloth-diaper.

In my military community - where everyone is trying to stretch a buck - it's just that common.

And, honestly, it's also just that cool.

One of my child-less friends sat around listening to us talk pockets and fitteds and flats one day for about 45 minutes straight when she finally exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! It's like shoes for babies!"

And, in a way, it kind of is.

Cloth-diapering isn't just a means to an end; for many, it's a passion. It's a collection.

I have a friend who has well over 100 cloth diapers. That's easily four to five times the amount she could ever possibly need for her one child, but she's just that into them. She buys every new color, print, and style she can find.

If you're not careful, cloth-diapering your child can indeed become downright addictive.

Still, for those mamas who don't "CD," cloth diapers can easily hide behind a veil of mystery and baby feces.

It's hard to understand how anyone could possibly wash and re-use something that is expressly designed for a child to pee and poop in. And like it.

But we do. And, in all honesty, most of us love it.

So today, I'm going to walk you through how I cloth-diaper. There are a million different methods to doing it, but I've recently got what works for me down pat, and I don't mind sharing, especially since I basically learned everything I know from the cloth-diapering mamas who have gone before.

I am not going to belabor why we cloth-diaper; there are a bazillion places on the interwebs that can tell you why it's cheaper, better for the environment, healthier for your babies' skin and nervous system, and helps improve their fertility later in life.

I'm just going to tell you what we do and how we make it work.

Cloth-diapering has come a long way, and I want to share.

We may pay homage to those who have braved plastic pants, diaper pins, and big cotton pre-folds all for the betterment of their child's bum, but we're a new generation of CD-ers.

Our methods have improved, and we adore cloth-diapering all the more and everything it entails.

We're also pretty proud of the fact we let our babies rock out with their cloth out.

So, we share what we know and love. And that's why today, we're talking cloth.

***

The Stash

There are about 18 billion different choices when it comes down to the modern cloth diaper. Pockets, pre-folds, hybrids, fitteds.

There are covers and all-in-ones. Their are doublers and soakers and inserts.

People write books on this stuff; there are classes on how to cloth diaper.

If you let it, it can be crazy overwhelming.

Luckily, I started cloth-diapering with the easiest method: One-size pocket diapers.

There's Ella at 7 week old rocking a pocket diaper

It's a fleece diaper, with a waterproof shell attached that forms a pocket down the middle of the diaper. In the pocket, you stuff inserts that add to the diapers' absorbency.

It has snaps up the front and around the waist so you can adjust the size of the diaper to fit the baby as they grow. My diapers all fit a baby from 8 pounds until 35 or 40 pounds.

Another shot of a typical pocket-diapered bum

During the day, my baby girl wears these, stuffed with a microfleece insert. (Imagine a giant, fluffy maxi-pad.)

I am not a brand snob; I have BumGenius, Fuzzibunz, Happy Heinys, and many cheap-o diapers that cost a third of what the name brands do.

Pockets are so easy, even husbands can change them. (In a power outtage, no less.)

And honestly? All of them work the same. All of them. It doesn't have to be a huge investment if you don't make it one.

I probably own about 22 pocket diapers, and I change Ella's every two hours or sooner, poop-depending.

But at night-time, things get a little heavier. Literally.

Ella wears one of two combinations: An organic cotton pre-fold (pictured below), stuffed with a Flip Stay-Dry insert (imagine that maxi pad again), closed off with a Snappi (it's the modern era's diaper pin), and covered with a Thirsties cover or a fleece cover a local woman made for me.

There's a pre-fold, closed with a Snappi. It's the cheapest way to cloth-diaper and quite effective.

Our other bed-time diaper entails me folding a Hemp Babies flat, which looks a lot like the cotton pre-fold pictured above, underneath the Flip Stay-Dry insert, then laying it in a Thirsties cover and snapping it all on.

My baby girl is a heavy wetter, and therefore, microfleece inserts and pockets don't cut it at night. She needs organic cotton and hemp - more absorbent, natural materials - to help soak up and draw the pee away from her. The Flip insert helps wick away moisture to keep her skin rash-free.

I have six pre-folds and four Thirsties covers - a waterproof shell that snaps around the baby's diaper, much like the Flip shell pictured below.

This method is more absorbent and more labor-intensive. It's also quite bulky and not practical for day-time use unless I just use the pre-fold diaper.

Lastly, when we travel to a place where I don't have access to a washing machine, I use the Flip hybrid system.

There's Ella at 4 weeks old wearing her Flip shell. Look at how little she was! (Quick Note: A Thirsties cover looks pretty much the same.)

It's got a protective shell that can hold either re-usable inserts or disposable ones. I use the disposable inserts while we're away and just hand-wash the Flip shells should she have a real blow-out.

I have four Flip shells. Most of the time, I can make it through a day with only using one to two Flip shells, as the disposable inserts catch and absorb all the mess, leaving the shell clean for the next insert.

You'll notice I don't use fitted or all-in-one diapers. They are awesome, but they are simply to expensive for my budget, as they require more diapers to get the same job done.

In total, I own more than 30 diapers. This is a decent-sized stash, and I'm never worried about running out of diapers. I do not do laundry every day, either.

***

The Extras

It's not just about the diapers. It's also about a few other things that all cloth-diapering mamas need to make things run a bit more smoothly.

I also use cloth wipes, wipe solution, wet bags, pail liners, and cloth-specific diaper cream. Let's break these down, shall we?

Cloth wipes - If you're washing diapers, why not wash wipes? They are simply pieces of flannel or cotton, cut into squares and serged. You can even use wash-cloths if you'd like. Make your own; I have. They are far more effective at cleaning than regular wipes, as well. I normally only need one to get the job done. And it's just another way you can cut the cost of wipes from your budget.

Wipe solution - If you need to moisten the wipe with something, you can buy a solution to use. The cloth-diapering companies make them. Or you can make your own. I do the latter by mixing 2 cups water to the following: 2 tablespoons olive oil, 2 tablespoons non-allergenic baby wash, 2-4 drops tea-tree oil (a natural germ-killer), and 2-4 drops lavender oil. I keep a miniature spray bottle of the stuff in my diaper bag and a regular bottle on our changing table. It cleans away every last drop of anything left on her skin.

Wet bags - These zippered, water-proof bags fit into your diaper bag so you can throw dirty diapers and wipes in them. I have three, and when one is dirty, it goes in the pail with the dirty diapers, as it's washed with them, too. Then, I just throw another, clean one in my diaper bag.

Pail liners - I use a regular trash-can, with a step-pop lid, as my diaper pail. But I line it with a waterproof pail liner. (I use the Planet-Wise brand.) I own two. And when I go to wash diapers, I simply throw the dirty, used pail liner in with them. It washes right with the diapers, and my second, clean liner is ready to set up in and line the pail.

Diaper cream - You will get build-up, and therefore ruin the absorbency, of your diapers by using creams not specific for cloth. So I use a cream made for a local lady here, or the more nationally recognized brand CJ's BUTTer. Both are completely natural and have kicked even the slightest hint of redness on Ella's bum in the tush, so to speak. But, for those of you looking to save a few bucks, take note: Coconut oil is a natural anti-microbial and amazingly healing and softening for the skin. It also kills yeast, especially if you pair it with a few drops of eucalyptus oil. So, in other words, you can make your own cloth-friendly diaper cream, too. Just another way to save money (and stick it to the man, as my hubby likes to say.)

***

The Laundry

When you get past all the pee and the poop and the initial sticker-shock of cloth-diapering, it all comes down to one thing: The laundry.

If I had a dollar for every person that's told me, "But I just don't have time to do that much more laundry. It would never get done," I'd be rich.

Ask any cloth-diapering mama, though, and they'll tell you that's simply an excuse.

The laundry, in reality, is not that bad. In fact, my workload has not increased by more than 20 minutes a week, I'd say, when it comes to laundering diapers.

The trick, honestly, is having a routine: Wash on the same days, at the same time, every week.

For me, I do diapers every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at 11 a.m. I run my four cycles (a cold rinse, a hot wash with soap, another hot rinse, followed by a cold rinse) then I throw all hemp and microfiber inserts, plus my pre-folds and cloth wipes, in the dryer while laying my diaper covers, wet bags, pail liners, and pockets on a drying rack - outside if it's sunny – to dry. In the evening, right after my daughter goes to bed, I stack everything up and put it in it's respective places in her room.

To keep myself accountable, I pencil it all into my planner, and I set timers so I remember to go back and turn on the next rinse cycle on my washing machine.

Thanks to the sun, my diapers don't have a stain on them, and my washing machine is as clean as can be, too. (For those of your grossed out by washing pee and (liquid-y baby) poop in your washing machine, run a cycle through it with a cup of white vinegar once a month, and you'll never notice the difference.)

Detergent-wise, I don't use expensive cloth-diapering detergents. I've tried them, but there are cheaper solutions that have the same ingredient make-up. My favorite is free-and-clear Dropps, though I've also heard ECOS and Trader Joe's detergents work just as good or better than more expensive options. Regardless of your preference, as long as your detergent is enzyme-and scent-free, it's safe to use on cloth diapers.

The only time washing diapers can be a bit labor-intensive is when you're stripping them, which I do once every six to eight weeks.

Basically, you start your diaper laundry like normal: A cold rinse, followed by a hot wash with detergent. Then, you run another hot cycle with a cup of white vinegar in it. Then, you keep running hot rinses until, when you look in the washer mid-cycle, you no longer see suds, bubbles, or film on the water. (This normally takes me four to five extra hot rinses or short wash cycles.) Once you've achieved that, do a cold rinse and dry as usual.

Stripping helps keep detergent and other things out of your diapers, maintaining their absorbency and keeping them clean against babies' bums.

***

OK, so, that's my daily life, regimen, and roster as a cloth-diapering mom.

So, tell me, what are your questions? I will answer them, and I may even do a post answering them if enough of you are interested.

Also, check out my pal Callie Nicole's blog. Yesterday, she had me and a few other mamas talking about how we cloth-diaper, and today, she's got more of the same. As I said, all of as CD-ers do it differently, and there's no "right" way.

Do your research; ask questions, and figure out a method that works for you.

***

Happy (Diaper) Wednesday, everyone!

A House of Cards

2011-11-29T05:00:00.000-08:00

I have approximately 172 other blog posts I should be writing right now.

About Christmas. And cloth diapers. And mom guilt. And the fact that I'm pretty sure my daughter's schedule is so far out of whack thanks to the long holiday weekend that we'll likely never get it back on track.

But not today.

That will all have to wait.

Because today, I am "that mom," who is going to pepper her social networking pages with gobs of gratuitous photos of her child whether her readers like it or not.

As my child is adorable, I feel it is my prerogative.

And also because it's my blog, so I can do what I want.

And also because my child hasn't slept through the night in, well, ever. Because she doesn't. She laughs at the mere thought of waking up less than three times throughout the night-time hours these days. Darn, 6-month growth-spurt.

In other words, I'm probably balding as you read this, and the odds I'll have a chance to even proof-read this post are slim to none.

Furthermore, I am in no place to pen jaunty witticisms and advice about cloth-diapering.

I have too much on my plate right now.

Not to mention the fact that I - gasp! - still haven't finished my Christmas cards.

I know, I know. All of you crazy people who have all your Christmas shopping, shipping, and schlepping done by July can pick up your jaws now.

I am, as they say, an epic fail. Woefully behind. A big, fat loser.

But enough. I'm desperately trying to shake off my woebegone-ness, and I am currently in the process of designing, addressing, and mailing out my Christmas cards this week.

So this is where you come in.

Remember when I said that we had a little photoshoot this weekend? Of Ella's 6-month photos? Specifically for the Christmas card?

Yeah, that.

Well, the photos are back, and I love them all, and gosh darn it! My kid is so cute that I now have no idea what to do.

So, today, I need your help.

I need you to pick a photo.

And, if you're feeling the creative spirit coming on, caption it.

Give it a title. Or a name. Or something I can write on the Christmas card with it besides the usual "Merry Christmas!"

Please. I'm begging you.

Especially before the aforementioned adorable infant under my roof kills every last dilapidated mommy brain cell I have left.

***

The contenders are:

Photo #1

Photo #2

Photo #3

Photo #4

Photo #5

Photo #6

Photo #7

***

It has been pointed out to me by the experts that be - ahem, you know who you are - that our first family Christmas card should likely have our family on it.

Seeing as how I just adore photos of myself - only not! - I have begrudgingly began considering the possibility.

If I do use one of all of us, it will probably be the following:
Because a) it's not horrendous of the hubs or myself, and b) because I like the lighting in it. In fact, if it didn't include my thighs, I'd likely love it.

But there you have it. The above photo may be on the card, as well, just in case you creative types would like to work it into your catchy little caption and/or greeting, for which, of course, I will be eternally grateful.

Heck, I may just send you a Christmas card as a token of my affection.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Be back tomorrow withe aforementioned cloth-diapering post!

And Then She Was Naked

2011-11-28T08:43:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that my child enjoys being in the buff.

Every night before bath and bed time, we strip her down and let her roll about the floor, naked, on bath towels.

It's the only way we can keep her moderately tolerable during those "witching hours."

It's also so dang adorable that we don't much care.

It's gotten so fool-proof that the few times I've left the hubs with her, I've returned home to find her butt nekkid, playing as happy as a clam on her blankets with her toys.

His reasoning?

"She was starting to get fussy, babe."

And, without a boob to soothe her - she outright refuses a bottle or a pacifier now - he was left with no option, he felt, but to strip her down to her birthday suit and win her instant smile.

So, really, I shouldn't have been shocked about yesterday, when we set out to take her 6-month photos for our Christmas card.

We had a precious outfit picked out. We had just the place to do it.

We were ready.

And so was Ella.

She was as cute as a button, posing and looking off and smiling and just being a the little angel baby she always is.

Until the witching hours hit.

Then, the fussing began.

She was throwing her head back. Wiggling out of poses. Pouting at me and her father and pretty much saying, in so little words, "Mom. Dad. I'm done."

But the photographer wasn't quite finished and wanted to try and get a few more shots.

So, the hubs and I looked at each other, looked at the host of props and toys and outfits we'd brought that were obviously not working, and shook our heads.

We knew what we had to do.

And that is precisely why our child looks like this in half of her 6-month photographs.

***

Happy (Naked) Monday, everyone!

A New Kind of Thankful

2011-11-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

A couple times this week - after nursing Ella, or putting her to sleep, or laughing at the fact that she's learned to stick out her tongue - I've found myself getting all misty-eyed.

In fact, last night, I positively welled up while changing her diaper as she babbled away at me.

It was, honestly, a little bit surprising.

I can't blame post-partum hormones anymore; she's too old. And I can't even blame exhaustion, as I've acclimated to little sleep by now.

There was no real reason I was crying; I just was.

And, as I started brining my turkey yesterday, it hit me what was going on.

This year, I am just so very thankful for my newest family member.

***

Almost half a year ago, my world changed forever. I got the immense honor of giving birth to my first child - my daughter.

She is, without a doubt, the most amazing little experience, person, and dream-come-true all rolled into one.

Just because of her, I am incredibly, a thousand-times over, blessed.

This year, I have a whole new reason to be thankful.

***

I am a sap.

I cry over a lot of things.

But I cry even more these days when watching my daughter.

I pray she knows how happy she makes me. I pray she knows how much I love her. I pray she knows how wanted she was.

And, more so, I pray that I don't disappoint her as a mother; I pray I'm worthy of this precious little being God placed in our lives.

I am feeling tremendously thankful and tremendously ill-equipped all in one fell swoop to be given this little girl.

***

I thought, by now, I'd have gotten used to these feelings.

I thought I'd be used to being a mom.

But sometimes, I'm still shocked she's here; I'm still shocked I was pregnant, gave birth, met her, and jumped feet first into raising a human being who rocks my world every second of the day.

And, more importantly, I'm still shocked at the love and emotion that overwhelm me every day we're together - every day, as we grow closer and closer as mother and daughter.

I can't believe she's mine. I can't believe I've been entrusted with her. I can't believe someone as inconsequential as me will get to raise this amazing little person.

So, yeah, this Thanksgiving? Thanks to Ella, it's very different for me.

Because this year, Ella has made me a whole new kind of thankful.

***

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your families and friends. I am thankful to know you all and count you as friends myself.

Thank you for reading my little piece of the Internet.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! See you all back around here Monday!

Eyeball

2011-11-22T05:00:00.000-08:00

I am a total geek when it comes to my kid.

Each month, as she grows older, I get so excited to whip out the child-development books and see what milestones she has achieved or will achieve soon.

I love watching her grow and charting every new little thing she does.

And, sometimes, when I get worried, I even enjoy spending hours poring over books and Web sites and forums, seeking reassurance that, if she's not above average, she's at least normal. (Even if her mother isn't.)

Not to make it all clinical, but sometimes, I feel like raising Ella is the biggest, most important science project I've ever been entrusted with.

And, gosh darn it, I want to make sure my poster-board isn't barely hanging on by a thread at the science fair. (Not because I care what others think, mind you, but because I'm pretty fond of the subject matter herself.)

Sigh. I really wish I was better at science.

Anyway, now that I've really turned parenthood into something creepy, let me just say this: I'm very intense about my child.

So, a little over a week ago, when she hit 5 months old, I put her to bed and then whipped out my books.

I read all about what Ella will be doing over the next few months. And then, I spent some time browsing the suggestions the "experts" made for helping your child grow and learn.

One suggestion, in particular, caught my eye.

It said that, because most babies Ella's age are babbling prolifically, that, to help them develop language skills, we should start saying words that start or sound like the noises she makes.

So, for instance, if she's chanting, "Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," I would say to her "pal" or "pan."

You get the idea.

Being that Ella is already a social butterfly and talks from sun-up to sun-down (and sometimes in her sleep, to boot) I figured this was a good tool to have in my back pocket. And later that evening, I re-iterated what I'd read to my wonderful husband.

So, the following evening, when I walked in to check on him as he got Ella ready for bed, I shouldn't have been surprised at what I saw.

Ella, getting a bit cranky, screeching, "Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay!"

And my husband, intently holding her, looking deep into her eyes, with the world's most serious expression on his face, repeating back, "Eyeball. Eyeball. Eyeball, Ella. Eyeball!"

I bet even the experts didn't see that one coming.

***

Later that evening, after both the hubs and I had a good laugh about it, we realized that, perhaps, the experts hadn't accounted for something else, either.

Because Ella was tired and getting upset while my husband was steadfastly yelling "Eyeball. Eyeball. Eyeball!" at her, we began to worry that not only would she associate the sound she was making with the word, but also the emotion she was feeling.

So, in the future, when I have a really tired, ticked-off 2 year old walking around screaming "EYEBALL!" at the top of her mad little lungs, you'll know who to blame.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Truth Is Out

2011-11-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

Oh, my dear, sweet blog friends.

I have to admit, reading y'all's comments from last week's "Two Truths and a Lie" post cracked me up.

Some of you know me so well.

And some of you know me so well that I was actually able to confuse you, too.

So, yes, the jig is up. The results are in. And, almost half of you got the answer right - 48 percent of you, to be exact.

Let's go to the polls, shall we?

***

Scenario #1:

You all knew this one. Yep, it's true.

A 5 year old actually asked me if my baby came out of the "hole God made between where you go pee-pee and your bottom."

She was as open as could be about it, too.

And as much as I wanted to deny it - I mean, who wants to talk about the birds and the bees with a random kindergartener? - I didn't.

Maybe it's because I was at the birth center, the place Ella was born. Maybe it's because her mother and the midwives and everyone around there is all "We talk about va-jay-jays all the time!" Or maybe it's because it's nothing to be ashamed of, and I hope that one day, this girl knows how awesome her body is; I hope she knows how strong God made her; I hope she gets that birth and everything about it is natural and good and not scary.

It's something we should be able to talk about.

Maybe not with complete strangers.

But that's a lesson for a different day.

So, yes, I talked about where my baby came from with a 5 year old.

Honestly, it was probably one of the better conversations I had that week.

***

Scenario #2:

I am earthy-crunchy-granola to a fault.

I sometimes feel like I've done more research on alternative health and attachment-parenting than most people in the child-care and-development field.

So, yes, I have read up on elimination communication. I've seen the testimonies and the research. And, though some of you all are totally shocked that anyone would attempt to potty-train a baby, I'm not. I know it works.

In ways, I can even see where it's the best option for a child. It's cleaner, healthier, and less stressful for Mama and Baby in the long run.

And, yet...

...I'm not doing it.

Not in the slightest.

I find nothing wrong with it; in fact, part of me wishes I had the earth-mama grit to try it.

But I don't. I just don't.

I like my cloth diapers. I don't mind changing my baby.

So, this one, for me, is a lie.

Even this hippie has her limits.

***

Scenario #3:

Speaking of a hippie with limits, this hippie ate a hot dog last week.

Oh, yes ma'am. A big, old, delicious, topping-filled hot dog.

You better believe this one is a truth.

Because sometimes? Organic nuts, seeds, quinoa, and veggies just won't cut it.

Once in a while, a girl just needs a hot dog.

***

Thanks for playing, y'all. Hope you had as much fun as I did. I liked this so much, I may have to do it more often around here.

So, until the next time, Happy Monday, everyone!

Tote It Away

2011-11-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

When we moved into military housing nearly two years ago, I almost wept upon stumbling on the bathroom.

It was white, small, and had a shower nozzle that could positively blast the skin right off you.

In other words, it was not exactly "Home Sweet Commode," if you know what I mean.

But, the worst part of it all was that, save one tiny, inch-deep medicine cabinet haphazardly stucco-d up onto the wall over the sink, there was nary a bit storage of space.

In fact, let's just say it: After you stuck our two sticks of deodorant, floss, and tweezers in the medicine cabinet? There was absolutely no room left.

Anywhere.

Ask this girl and this girl. They visited me two weeks after I'd moved in. They saw the complete lack of cabinets and storage space.

For a woman who is married to a man who would buy stock in Q-tips if I let him, this was Bad news with a capital B.

So, what to do?

To be honest, I was so bitter about the whole bathroom, or lack thereof, that I simply didn't know. I was stuck.

Or, rather, I was constantly cleaning up said lack of a bathroom, as unexpected company would arrive, and it would be mad-dash to pick up my make-up teetering on the sink, our razors sitting on the closed toilet, and the magazines my husband seems to collect and left scattered all over the ugly white-tiled floor.

And then we had a baby.

Do you know how much stuff a baby requires for her daily bath? Especially a baby like mine, who takes baths like the Queen of Zanzibar, thanks to her very sensitive skin. (People, there is frankincense and myrrh in her bath lotion. Frankincense and myrrh!)

I had to come up with something. And I had to come up with it fast. I was simply too tired of stepping on my husband's Q-tips and tripping over those precious, but quite entangling, little hooded baby towels.

And, thus, our tote system was born.

Everyone in my family now has a fabric, water-proof tote.

In the tote, they cram all their little bath hopes and dreams, i.e, soaps, razors, lotions, and imminent amounts of Q-tips. (Have you picked up on how much my husband's Q-tip over-usage annoys the mess out of me?)

Ella's tote, for instance, has her eczema lotions, her sensitive-skin soaps, her wash-cloths, and her hooded towels.

The tote resides on the toilet tank or a little stool we placed in the bathroom while said person is using the restroom.

Then, after bathing and all other bathroom business is over, the tote returns to it's rightful place: My hubby's and mine reside in our linen closet; Ella's lives on a hook on her changing table.

Those three totes, along with a few hooks outside the shower for damp towels and some suctioned shelves inside the shower for shampoo and conditioner, have made our teeny, tiny, no-storage-whatsoever bathroom, livable.

And thank the good Lord above, I will never have to step on another Q-tip again.

***

So, tell me, what are the biggest issues you face in keeping your bathroom organized and neat? And what are the best tips you have for keeping your bathroom neat and clutter free?

Post below, or better yet, post over at BlogHer's Life Well Lived feature, where all of us are discussing the tips and tricks to keeping our lives organized. There's also a chance to win a $250 sweepstakes, so while you're there, make sure to enter.

***

Don't forget to take a gander at my Two Truths and a Lie, posted yesterday. I'll be revealing my answers Monday!

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

One of Those Things Is Not Like the Other

2011-11-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

In an effort to lighten the mood around here, let's play a game of Two Truths and a Lie.

I've got three little scenarios down below: Two of them are true. One of them is a bold-faced lie.

I want you to guess which one of them is the lie.

Post it in the comments below, and I'll post the answers on Monday. (I've got something else up my sleeve for tomorrow.)

Get ready, get set, and go!

***

Scenario #1:

Last week, I went in for my annual lady-parts exam at my midwives. I sat down in the waiting room to wait my turn, and I was immediately ambushed by four children under the age of 6.

They were as cute as can be, asking if they could "pet my baby," holding Ella's hand, patting my knees, and all talking at once.

Their mother, pregnant with her sixth child I later found out, smiled wearily at me and reminded them to be gentle with the baby.

Then, after the fascination with Ella had worn off, they kids went back to playing with their toys.

Well, all except the oldest girl, who couldn't have been older than 5, maybe 6.

She sat next to me, holding Ella's hand, telling me she "liked [my] pretty baby," when she stopped, thought for a moment, and then asked a question.

"Did your baby come out of the hole God made between the place where you go pee-pee and your bottom? That's where my mommy's babies came out of. Is that where your baby came out of? Your hole between your pee-pee and your bottom?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, lips trembling, trying desperately not to laugh.

Then, almost without thinking, I quipped back, "Yep, that's where my baby came out of. In fact, that's where most babies come out of, I think."

The little girl smiled and went back to playing with Ella.

***

Scenario #2:

Thanks to the recommendation of some of my like-minded, natural-mama friends, I decided to look into elimination communication, or a method of potty-training your infant, where you teach them to use the restroom with sound cues, etc.

It's based on the idea that babies don't like the feeling of sitting in a dirty diaper, and you can use that motivation, plus the cues all babies give when they are about to urinate or poop, to teach them to use the bathroom on command. It's used widely in other countries, and before the age of 1, children who use elimination communication are largely potty-trained.

It totally made sense to me, so Ella and I started practicing during the day.

When I noticed her making poop-like grunts, sounds, or faces, I'd make a whooshing sound and hold her over the potty or sink.

Within a few days of doing this, our success rate was better than 50 percent. I'd take off her diaper if she began to grunt, hold her over the potty, make a whooshing sound, and, believe it or not, she'd actually poop!

Now, we're working on finding out her cues for urination and implementing elimination communication there, as well.

It's incredible. At this rate, I'm excited to have a baby who may be potty-trained before the age of 1.

***

Scenario #3:

Last week, I was hungry.

I don't know if it was that I was hormonal or that my kid had been nursing like a champ.

But man, every time I turned around, I'd feel famished.

I'd been warned by my midwives not to let myself get too hungry, as that can be a detriment to your milk supply.

So, all week, I was a snacking machine.

Still, largely, I was unsatisfied. I wanted something. Something I couldn't put my finger on.

Something...something bad.

Now, I talk a big game. I'm all "I eat organic and natural and raw and healthy."

And I do. Ninety-nine percent of the time.

But sometimes? I just want something full of sugar and fat and all the crud I don't normally put in my body.

So, when my husband got home on Friday afternoon, I said it.

"We're going out for hot dogs."

And, believe it or not, we did.

At a local restaurant known for their "colorful" franks, I ate a big old dog filled with tons of toppings (home-made black-bean hummus, grilled onions, slaw, and sweet relish), along with crispy, crunchy sweet-potato fries, and few nachos from his plate.

I even had a small, sugar-filled lemonade to boot.

It was glorious.

And I kind of want to go back this weekend.

***

Now, it's your turn. Take a wild gander at which of the above are my truths. And, of course, which of the above is my lie.

There are obvious advantages to my real-life friends and some of you on Twitter, but that's life. It's not fair.

But as long as you play, it sure can be fun.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

On Parenting Without Bloggers

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

I will be completely up-front and tell you that my blog's No. 1 reader?

My father.

The poor guy reads every word I write. And apparently likes it.

In fact, when I'm visiting my parents, he gets a bit miffed that I don't regularly post.

And that's when he's living with me.

The man is nothing short of devoted.

My mom, however?

She's a busy woman, who I talk to a lot, anyway, so she's a frequent, albeit not totally regular, visitor here on the old blog, no matter what she says.

Which is fine and dandy and totally understandable.

Until the woman finally sparks an interest.

Turns out, last week? She was reading. Every comment. Every criticism. Everything. She noticed the controversy I'd stirred up here and here before I did.

She even called me to see what the private, cruel e-mailers had said.

Turns out, when your kid grows up, your mama-bear instinct doesn't go away.

Regardless, we shared a few laughs about the whole thing. Mostly because it's "her fault" that I am the way I am. I'm raising Ella just like I was raised.

So, imagine my surprise when, at the end of last week, she sent me an e-mail. An e-mail entitled "Mom Speaks Out."

Ooh, boy. That's when I knew we all were in trouble.

My mama had written a blog post, people. Her first, and very own, blog post.

So, I'm publishing it. Right below. Read away. I've changed a few commas and periods but not a word otherwise.

I think it's that good.

And I also think it's an amazing reminder to all of us moms, who are gifted with much more open communities and Internet resources than our mothers were, to see what we have as a blessing and not a means to stir up controversy and pick apart someone just because they do it differently than we do.

***

You don’t know me but I, too, follow this blog religiously, and I really wanted to post today to give a different - probably older, but not necessarily wiser - take on the discussions over the last several [weeks.]

I must tell you that I don’t come at this from a totally unbiased place. Because I am Brittany’s mom.

I write this post not because I want to defend her - although I must confess when I read some of the anonymous [commenters] I did go into “mommy” mode and that protective instinct kicked in.

I particularly wanted to shoot off a quick retort to the anonymous poster who called Brittany’s motives as a mother into question. (“But it seems like you need to get your ego about these sorts of things in check. It is not about you being right all the time.”) I wanted to go on notice right than and there that one could find many areas to find fault with Brittany or her blog posts, but I really don’t think anyone who really reads this blog could question her motives as a mom.

Although I have a more personal view of her love and passion for being Ella’s mom, I think all those reading can see that her desire to provide the best possible care for her daughter is most definitely not founded in ego or to prove anyone else wrong! But Brittany is more than capable of standing up for her opinions and the choices she makes for her daughter. And those attempts and methods are probably what is at the root of the discussion.

Yes, I wholeheartedly support her methods at finding holistic ways to nurture her child. After all, I am the crazy person who started her down that path 27 years ago. But really, the methods she has researched and chosen for her child are not taken lightly by Brittany. I know because I have listened to many hours of discussion and anguish over them.

I have tried to listen and give my opinions, but I have also always told her that ultimately it is her decision (along with Ella’s dad’s) to do what they think is right for their beautiful baby. And that, I guess, as many of you have discussed in your comments, is the bottom line.

As mothers we have been entrusted with our children, entrusted with all the decisions that will impact their lives forever. And lets face it, none of us will go through this process without mistakes and insecurities about our decisions.

But with the exception of those people who have not been equipped to handle the job due to mental issues and/or lack of education, most of us take that responsibility seriously and will do the very best we can to make sure our children are secure, healthy and loved.

So I find it hard to believe that as women who are in this difficult job together, we always feel we must take sides.

When I was in this stage of parenting and making decisions about my children’s health, it was more difficult to connect with others who viewed things as I did. There was a community out there, which chose as I did, the more holistic way of nurturing and healing our children, but I did not run into them in the circles I lived in.

So with that in mind, along with the fact that I have a much different personality than my daughter, I approached things differently than Brittany.

I did as I believed quietly. Or under the radar.

I did not share much of what I did with those around me. Because just the little that I put out there was met with much resistance and a lot of animosity.

People did notice how I fed my children and for the most part found ways to mock it and undermine it. They tried to sneak sugar into my children’s diet at every turn, and often times I heard remarks like “Who do you think you are, Mother of the Year?”

So I never shared too much of my philosophies because I did not think I was “Mother of the Year.” I was just trying to do what in my heart I felt was best for them. And never once did I feel like my methods were the only way to love and raise children.

Just the only way that I could do it.

I struggled then with the prevailing feeling from others that, if my way wasn’t like yours ,that somehow that meant that I thought my way was better than yours.

I had great respect for the many mothers I came in contact with and drew upon the knowledge they shared with me. What a shame that I did not feel comfortable sharing mine.

As Brittany entered her life as a mom, I was so overjoyed at the experience she had with the birth of my first grand-daughter and even more overjoyed to see the support system she had found to have her baby in the natural way she had chosen.

That mothers could openly choose between several different methods and have control over their birth process was such a step forward from where we had been when I gave birth years ago. (I might add, should someone misconstrue: I do not believe what Brittany choose as her birth story is the one and only right way to give birth. I am not even sure that I would have what it takes to have done it in the same way.) Because I saw such progress in this area, I so hoped that the world of motherhood my daughter was entering would be a place where all earnest mothers would be accepted.

Where with the advent of the Internet and access to all kinds of information and all kinds of forums for discussions among us, we could get past that place where we draw lines in the sand and try to label one type of parenting as good and the other as bad.

We are all individuals, so unique as women and mothers, and we are nurturers of beautiful, unique human beings that are entrusted to us for a short time.

The same things will not work for all of us.

I have many wonderful friends who parented very differently than I did. Even if they agreed with me on some areas of this tough job, they most certainly did not agree with everything. They, too, studied their options and made their choices and guess what? They had much success at this parenting job, too.

They managed to raise wonderful human beings who are loving and responsible members of society. Because, at the end of the day, what really matters to our children is that they feel safe, respected and loved.

So, I guess I had hoped that with all the advances in technology we would be open to sharing ideas and making our decisions and showing each other some of that same respect and love.

We need to keep working towards that goal because we have so much to share.

***

The funny thing is? I had a similar post saved in my drafts for weeks, way before I even stirred up some unexpected controversy on my blog.

But, putting my apparently huge ego aside, I figured I'd let Mama do the talking this time.

She says it better than I ever could.

Amen, Mama. Amen.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone.

It's Been Five Months

2011-11-14T05:00:00.000-08:00

Oh, my darling girl.

This past Saturday, you turned five months old.

While every second with you has been a gift, I have to say, this past month may have been the most forming for you and I as mother and daughter.

You're coming into your own. You are funny, smart, and, well, sassy.

It's not that you cry so much as you yell.

I often leave you for two seconds, happily playing on a blanket on the floor, and return to find you bellowing at a toy you can't reach or the dog who won't come close enough for you to grab him.

In fact, we've had so few tears as of late that when you do cry, I almost panic. You are, in general, a supremely happy baby.

And a drool-y baby, my dear. A very drool-y baby.

You "talk" to me almost the entire time you're awake, which is pretty much all day. Your nap schedule has remained easy and natural, so even when you wake up from napping, I find you talking, not crying.

In fact, all your "talking" has gotten me in some rather hot water this month. You've chatted your way through church, a yoga class, and several rather important phone calls. I'm pretty sure you don't understand the idea of "quiet time."

Heck, even the middle of the night is not sacred. Even when you wake up sometimes, you start talking to me then, too. If I don't respond, you literally screech and giggle - "Yah! Yah! Yah!" - until I turn and look at you. It would be hysterical, if it wasn't at 2 a.m.

Luckily, those nights are beginning to fade. Over the last week or so, I've noticed your old, better sleep habits returning. We've tweaked our co-sleeping a bit, and I have to say, it's been worth it.

Developmentally, you are all over the map. You're ahead in so many areas - you can get up on your hands and knees very briefly; you mimic us; you can sit up for small periods of time; you can tri-pod for even longer, and you can identify the cause-and-effect features of toys such as rattles and squeakers - but you're not so keen on other things, like rolling over.

The pediatrician didn't seem worried and said you were quite strong. So, as usual, I figure you just like to keep us guessing as you march to the beat of your own drum.

Speaking of marching to your own beat, you're currently in a class all your own - a weight class, that is.

You weighed 18 pounds, 6 ounces at 4.5 months old. As usual, we were the spectacle at the doctor's that Friday, as other pediatricians and nurses came to look at you. Your height has slowed down - you are only average length-wise. But your head - it's all those big brains you've got, my sweet girl - and your body are large and in charge.

That's not an optical illusion. That baby is actually that big.

We actually got to see the midwife who delivered you just last week, and she was shocked that you are almost three times the size you were when you were born. But she still exclaimed, "Oh, she's just beautiful!"

And of course, your daddy and I agree.

We love every roll on you. You are still exclusively breast-fed and, obviously, loving it. Oddly enough, the only other thing you've ingested is the condensation coming off a cold glass of water. It is, quite honestly, your new favorite pastime - drinking glasses, that is. If we're holding you, you track that mason jar of water to and from our mouths obsessively, staring and reaching out your hands. If I'm not careful, you'll lean forward and plant your little mouth right on it, sucking that cool glass surface till kingdom come.

You've also learned to stick out your tongue, blow spit bubbles, and grab onto anything - hair, earrings, facial features. All are fair game when it comes to your little hands.

You've even learned how to give kisses.
While you used to humor me and occasionally suck on a pacifier in the car - your least favorite place in the world - you now outright refuse it. So we gave up and just got rid of them. It has made little to no difference, believe it or not. You are just as happy, or, sometimes, unhappy, in the car-seat as you were before. I dare say you're tolerating the car about 90-percent of the time these days. If you'd told me that four months ago, I'd never have believed it. But it appears we've won you over, and I'm so thankful.

You have, however, found your thumb. You'll chew on it here or there during the day, but now, at night, I'll hear you start to rouse, rooting around, and then you'll get your thumb in your mouth and a few sucks later, you're back out. At a P*mpered Chef party last week, I had you in a sling on my hip, and I was talking away to someone so intently that when I looked down, I was surprised to find you passed out on my shoulder with your thumb in your mouth. So, yes, it appears I may have a thumb-sucker on my hands. I've done some research on it, and because it's such a natural reflex, I'm totally OK with it. Your grandmother is especially thrilled; she thinks a baby sucking her thumb is "super-cute", as she says.

You are wearing 6-9 and 9-month clothing. Thanks to the cloth diaper, you can even manage some 12-month pants. I'm forever sorting through your outfits, and I feel like I've become the mom always giving something away at every play-date we're at. ("Anyone need this Christmas sleeper? It's already too small for Ella, and it's not yet Thanksgiving!")

Some other major milestones this month? Your first Halloween, where you wore a pumpkin sleeper and nursed your way through the holiday. Your first fever, which was hands down my worst mommy-experience to date. And your first nine-hour stretch of sleep at night. (Oddly enough, you hit this amazing milestone in the month you decided to regress majorly in the sleep department. Go figure.)

Just the photo of my sick baby breaks my heart.

You and I ran two 5Ks this month, the last of which was this weekend, where you were none to thrilled with the get-up you had on, all because it was also the morning you experienced your first freeze.

"Mom! Seriously? Pink and fuzzy? Again? Gah! I'm way to cool for this kind of get-up!"

If you had your way, you'd be naked or scantily clad at all times. You like the freedom it allows you to grab your toes and roll about, free as a bird.

I believe this is is what they call "Happy Baby." In yoga and in life.

People laugh at how close we are. While you "allow" other people to hold you, you've taken to getting a bit panicky if anyone other than your father takes you from me. Your eyes worriedly follow me everywhere, and if I walk away for too long, your bottom lip pokes out and quivers. Needless to say, I just don't walk away from you almost ever.

Still, you interact with me in a different way. You pat my shoulder while I'm carrying you, pat my face and breast while I'm nursing you, and sometimes, in your sleep, reach over and pat my belly before snuggling into me.

On the hard days, I tell myself it's your way of saying, "You're a good mama, Mama." But even though it's largely a reflex, I'm sure, I find it endearing.

Not to take too much away from your daddy, though.

When he walks in from work, your whole little self lights up. You bat your arms and grin and squeal and throw yourself toward him. I often hear you two yucking it up when he gives you a bath. (Baths are daddy's thing when he's home to do them.)

Like I said, she l-o-v-e-s her some daddy time.

I'm sure there's a million other things you're doing these days that I'm forgetting. Honestly, it's every other minute that I look around and find you moving a new way or making some sort of new noise. I swear, I'm going to blink, and you'll be 20.

But, even then, I hope I can remember you just like you've been this month. A happy, healthy, sweet-as-pie, but still spunky as all get-out, baby girl.
I love you, my little one. More and more every day.

Love,
Your mama

Thank God, He's Home

2011-11-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Like my husband, my brother is in the military. But he has a very different kind of job.

I'd tell you about it, but to be honest, I don't have any idea where to start.

He works in intelligence and has one of those jobs where no one really knows what, exactly, he does.

He works somewhere, doing something I'm not sure about, when he's stateside.

And when he's not stateside? When he's gone? When he's deployed and in "the black," to use a military phrase?

I have no clue what the boy does.

He leaves, and we're given little to no warning. He heads someplace he can't tell us about. And, most of the time, we have no idea when he's coming back.

The upside? He loves what he does. He believes in it. Whatever "it" is.

But the downside?

It's absolutely, 100-percent terrifying. For us, anyway.

After all, it's not like the international scene is peachy-keen and particularly pleasant these days. And, when left to my own devices and imagination, the situations my brother is dealing with seem a thousand times worse than even the news lets on.

To be honest, I particularly don't like not knowin, though I can handle the element of surprise when it comes in the form of birthday parties, free desserts, and frequent-buyer discounts.

But when it involves my brother's life?

I want to stay firmly away from the edge.

However, for the last six weeks, I have been forced to stand freakishly close to the precipice I want to avoid.

You see, he's been gone. God knows where he is or what he's doing. He's just been gone.

And that's scary for me.

I'll be frank here; I let my imagination run wild while he's been away.

I wonder what could happen to him. I wonder how we'll get word if something does. I think about what I'll have to tell Ella. I worry he won't really get a chance to be my daughter's uncle or his fiance's husband.

It's scary, my mind while he's been away.

Which is why, every night, while saying Ella's prayers with her, I made sure to include, "Lord, please protect Uncle B, wherever he is. Send him home to us safely."

It was my only way of surviving. It was the only thing that I knew how to do.

And, thank the good Lord, our prayers were answered.

Last week, out of nowhere, my mother got a call.

My brother was headed home.

***

This past weekend, my brother landed safely in the states.

So this Veteran's Day? I got my wish.

My brother, one of the many service-members in my family, came home.

Thank you, God.

I could care less about the free meals or the hand-shakes my relatively safe, fellow-Navy-man husband will receive tomorrow.

I'm not all that interested in the pomp and circumstance that will proceed the 5K Ella and I are planning on running tomorrow.

I just care that my brother is safe. That, for now, my whole family can step back and breath a sigh of relief.

Again, thank you, God.

After all, not everyone can say that. Not everyone can praise the good Lord that their veteran has returned home. It brings tears to my eyes because the few times I've let myself imagine that happening to my brother, I can't even picture going on without him.

The world we live in isn't fair, that's for sure. I wish no one had to die serving their country or doing what they believe is right.

But it is a part of our reality, as much as I don't like to even consider the possibility.

Which is why today, I am so incredibly grateful for the people like my brother, who love their job and respect their duties as servicemen and women. Because they truly know the sacrifice they are potentially making.

And that is also why I will continue to pray daily for every single one of them.

So that, like me, everyone will be so lucky as to have their veteran come home one day.

***

I'm running a 5K with Ella in honor of a fallen airmen on Veteran's Day tomorrow. What's everyone else's plans?

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Priorities

2011-11-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

Within one hour yesterday afternoon, I learned of three things.

First, our local health-food store is now selling coconut-milk egg nog.

Second, the Duggars, of 19 Kids and Counting fame, are having baby No. 20.

And third, the child-molestation scandal that was uncovered at Penn State University had thickened, as infamous football coach Joe Paterno's integrity and job was called into question.

Upon learning of scenarios No. 2 and 3, I quickly forgot all about dairy-free holiday beverages. And so, after reading some news stories and watching some ESPN, I turned to my normal social media outlets to see what the buzz was.

I was shocked and appalled at what I found.

Literally, every other Tweet, post and message I read seemed to be vilifying the news-makers that day.

And I'm not talking about Joe Paterno.

There was Duggar-bashing going on the likes of which I've never seen. Telling the modest mother of 19 children that she needed to keep her "legs closed." Calling the Duggars unfit and irresponsible parents. Blaming the Duggar family for pulling a publicity stunt.

Now, here's the thing; I'm no Michelle Duggar. I hope and pray to God above I never have to give birth to 20 children. In fact, I think she may be a little loopy for wanting to go through it all again, in her mid-40s, after having a very difficult pregnancy and outcome with her last baby.

But I will stand by her right to give birth to as many children as she wants to. And, quite frankly, I think she's a pretty nice person, to boot.

Because the truth is? It's her body. It's their family. She's not raising her kids on government dollars. She's not relying on social services to rear her children.

Her current kids are upstanding, well-mannered citizens, whom she and her husband care and provide for adequately.

What can I say to that but "Go forth and prosper, Michelle, go forth and prosper." She's not telling me what to do with my body, so I'm not telling her what to do with hers.

And, yet, people? They were freaking out upon the Duggars announcement yesterday.

They were atwitter on Twitter. They were virtually slapping their faces on Facebook.

You'd have thought the Duggars had stolen money from the elderly. Participated in dog-fighting. Kicked a woman in a wheel-chair.

The way people were talking, you'd have thought someone had been raped.

Oh, wait, that's right.

That did actually happen.

To some poor 10-year-old boy in Pennsylvania. And, until recently, no one was saying a thing.

Worse yet, this poor victim, and 14 others like him, was attacked by a Penn State football coach, on Penn State property, and the man was allowed to retire and was then given continued access to children via his office on campus and the foundation he'd established for underprivileged youth.

And, from the looks of it, Penn State authorities and colleagues seemed to have covered it up.

Upon reading the details of the story yesterday, I found myself running to the bathroom, sick to my stomach, while my husband held our baby girl.

We are talking about a man who ruined the lives of children. Sweet, innocent children. God-given, wonderful, should-not-have-a-care-in-the-world children.

But 15 of their little lives are never to be the same again.

And, yet, the Duggars choose to give life to another sweet little soul, and we're going to call them "sexually depraved"?

Are you kidding me? Do we have our priorities that twisted?

From a personal perspective, on Monday alone, I - little, old, nobody me - received several hateful e-mails and comments telling me I was "full of myself." That I don't care about my child but only about my own "ego." That I'm wrong and hateful to the medical community and anyone who doesn't think like me, as a whole.

Why?

Because I wrote a blog post about an alternative solution to relieve baby ezcema.

Baby ezcema.

You'd have thought I'd slapped babies, instead.

But, honestly? It just leads me to ask, yet again, What is wrong with us?

We attack nobody bloggers for voicing concerns or making statements about what they believe; we call Michelle Duggar names for living out her truth and harming no one in the process.

But a man rapes 15 boys and almost gets away with it? And suddenly we're silent?

That's crap.

Absolute and utter crap.

Where's the public outcry for those kids? Where's the aggressive comments in defense of those boys? Where's the anger for those children?

We're so busy questioning one mom's right to give her child formula, and another mom's decision not to vaccinate her baby, that we're missing out on speaking up for the children who really need our help, our voices, and our time.

We're too busy making villains out of our fellow soldiers to fight the real war.

Shame on you. Shame on me. Shame on us.

So the next time you think of judging another caring mother, think again. The next time you accuse someone of not rearing their children properly, think again. The next time you get angry at some woman who doesn't do things like you do, think again.

There are bigger issues out there. More important places to place your energies.

Get a life. Get a grip. And get your priorities in check.

Let's stand up for the kids who really need it.

Let's put our words where they count.

Let's fight the real war.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

Bounce Becomes Mama's Little Forget-Me-Not

2011-11-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

I do laundry seven days a week. It's systematic, really. Get up, get dressed, nurse the baby. And throw in the requisite load of laundry for that day. Monday, it's diapers. Tuesday, it's the hubs' uniforms. Wednesday, it's sheets and towels. And so on and so forth. Honestly, you'd think I'd be a pro at it by now. I should know my washer and dryer like the back of my hand; I should be so efficient that I'd be able to operate a laundromat out of my own home, right?

Yeah, well, tell that to my husband who went to work last week in a stinky, yet fresh-out-of-the-dryer uniform, because yours truly forgot to put in detergent. Yes, it's true. I did three loads of laundry that day and forgot to add the detergent to every single one of them. Talk about a day wasted. But the fact of the matter is, these days, it's not surprising. I have a new baby, a giant dog, a part-time job, and a military husband who requires a lot of upkeep in the laundry department. (The man has more uniforms than Lady Gaga.) Lately, I'm liable to forget my head if it wasn't attached. Luckily, my baby's loud, or she might get left behind, too.

In other words, this sleep-deprived mama needs a few advantages - a few short-cuts, if you will - to keep her sanity and her laundry smelling good. Enter the Bounce Dryer Bar. Literally, all you do is stick it into your dryer and forget it. And while I'm wracking my brain trying to remember where in the world I left my car keys, the Bounce Dryer Bar is freshening my husband's uniforms quicker than I can say, "Oops! I forgot the dryer sheets!" Not to mention the fact that the bar repels dog hair - Did I mention that 100-pound black dog that sheds all over every fabric surface in our home? - which is basically a god-send for my husbands' dress-white uniforms and my sweet baby girl's pale pink onesies.

And speaking of that sweet baby girl, who has what can only be described as extremely sensitive skin, the Bounce Dryer Bar comes in a "free" option. As a first-time, nervous-Nelly mama, I am extremely happy there's a product out there that leaves her clothes clean, soft, and non-irritating. Thanks to the Bounce Dryer Bar, the whole family's now walking around in clothes that actually smell clean, while Mama over here only has to remember to replace her Bounce Dryer Bar every few months. Thank heavens for that. Now if they could only invent a similar way to dispense laundry detergent...

***

Thanks to Bounce and BlogHer, you have the chance to win big -- a Bounce Dryer Bar and a $50 Visa gift card. To enter the Bounce Dryer Bar sweepstakes, tell me about a laundry mishap youíve had (like leaving out the detergent as I did) in the comments below.

Please consult the following rules: No duplicate comments. You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods: a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry. This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected. The last day to enter the giveaway is Tuesday, Dec. 6 at 5:00 p.m. PST. The Official Rules are available here.

***

For more information about the Bounce Dryer Bar, please consult the frequently asked questions and videos available on Bounce's Facebook page. For more opportunities to win, visit the Bounce round-up page on BlogHer.com to read other bloggers' reviews!

***

I was compensated for my review of the above-mentioned product in this post. However, the opinions and content are solely my own.

Irish Eczema

2011-11-07T05:00:00.000-08:00

We went to the pediatrician's for our 4-month check-up about a week ago.

While there, I had them look at a little rash that comes and goes on Ella's chest and tummy from time to time.*

It looked like heat rash. It wasn't angry in appearance or infected. It was just a little rash that would flare up and then go almost completely away as if on it's own.

The doctor had only glanced at Ella when she exclaimed, "Eczema. She has eczema."

I, of course, freaked. I'd read enough to know that eczema is related to allergies and asthma, and just like allergies and asthma, eczema shows a generally weakened immune system.

I immediately began to wonder what I'd done to weaken my baby's immune system.

I began telling the doctor everything I'd ever eaten, knowing that often an eczema-related outbreak is due to an allergic reaction to something internal, like dairy (which I don't eat), soy (which I don't eat), eggs (which I eat very little of), citrus, or gluten.

The doctor told me she didn't think it was a reaction to food at all, as Ella wasn't showing any other kind of reaction (digestive, behavioral, etc.) to a food source; it was just that Ella had "extremely sensitive skin."

She made some suggestions, and I left the doctor's office even more puzzled, believe it or not; her definition of eczema was nothing like what I'd define eczema as.

So, later, at home, after doing some reading, I deduced that, indeed, Ella didn't really have eczema, medically speaking, at all. She just had skin that was reacting to things.

In fact, what Ella had was much more likely to be classified as "drool rash," according to a few books I read and Dr. Google. Some doctor's classify that as eczema in babies, it turns out.

In addition, a conversation with my mother reminded me that Ella had not inherited my skin tone; she had my husband's skin and, in fact, my mother's - and both of them have extremely dry skin that flares up out of almost nowhere.

Later that night, my mother-in-law re-iterated what my mom had said. In fact, she had a name for it: "Irish eczema." (My husband's family is Irish and fair, as is my mother. I have my father's skin-tone, even though I, too, am half Irish.)

"All my babies had that," my mother-in-law said. "It's not real eczema. It's just sensitive skin."

So, with that, I calmed down.

But I still wanted to find a solution for the rash. And I wasn't thrilled with the doctor's suggestion: She wanted me to put prescription cortisone (a steroid ointment) on it.

But previous reading I'd done had linked cortisone use to respiratory problems and other immuno-suppressed complications. That was a last-resort, as far as I was concerned.

So I whipped out my natural healing books, Googled some things, called our local health-food store, and went to a few places, including Target.

Within a few days, Ella's "Irish eczema" was completely gone.

And, so, today, because so many of you requested for me to share what I did last week, here's what worked for us:

***

The cast of characters** I used are as follows:

From left to right: Emergen-C Vitamin C packets, Vitamin E capsules, olive oil, beta-carotene capsules, Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea Butter & Argan Oil Baby Eczema Therapy, Dove's Sensitive Skin body wash, Boiron Homeopathic Calendula cream, Dr. Bronner's Baby Mild Aloe Vera Organic Hemp soap, Florasone Cream, organic chamomile tea, CJ's Butter, Aquaphor, multi-flora probiotic (including acidopholus), a peri bottle filled with chamomile tea, and Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea, Chamomile, and Argan Oil Baby Head-to-Toe Ointment.

I'm not particularly attached to any of these brands. It's simply what was available at my health-food store or in my medicine cabinet. Largely, I think it's more important how you use these elements for healing that works.

(Quick Note: Natural/homeopathic healing is labor-intensive. At the beginning of this, I was putting stuff on Ella up to six-seven times a day. So if you're looking for a quick-fix, this is not your cup of tea.)

1. Make bath-time, tea-time

We now bathe Ella no more than every other day. Water in and of itself is drying to the skin, and she's a baby. She's not that gross yet.

When she is bathed, I brew a cup of chamomile tea; let it steep for about an hour, and throw it in her bath water, which is luke-warm at best. (I also add a few drops of organic lavender essential oil, as it has a calming effect on the skin, too.)

The bath is quick, and the majority of the time, we pour the chamomile water over her body.

Then, we quickly wash her down with one of two soaps: Dove Sensitive Skin body wash (not for babies, so watch their eyes) or Dr. Bronner's Baby Mild Aloe Vera Organic Hemp Soap. (I much prefer this option, but Dove is good in a pinch.)

When she doesn't get a bath, I quickly sponge her down with a cloth wipe and a few squirts of chamomile tea, which I keep in my post-partum peri bottle. (I knew that thing would come in handy again.) I do the same thing every morning, as well. Chamomile and lavender are calming, and they work topically, as well.

2. Layer on your treatments

Morning and night, I applied the following layers of ointments:

*Florasone - a homeopathic alternative to cortisone, which you use no longer than seven days. (I saw improvement in less than two.) In extreme situations, I'd use it four times a day, as the bottle suggests, but Ella's rash wasn't that bad.
* Calendula cream - a homeopathic treatment for skin irritations, burns, cuts, and abrasions; this stuff works wonders. I use it on diaper rash, too. It's a God-send.
*Vitamin E - I simply bust open a capsule and pour it on the rash and rub it in. (I only use this if I'm noticing a real flare-up or if the skin is starting to really flake and dry out. Vitamin E promotes healing, but you can use too much of it. So once the rash starts to improve and goes away, nix the Vitamin E.)
*Raw shea butter and argan oil ointment - It's a grainy, long-term, deep moisturizer and helps keep the skin hydrated, as dry skin is much more easily irritated. (I found it funny that the stuff I found that contains these ingredients describes itself as "baby eczema therapy." Obviously, this isn't just a problem for Ella.) A great substitute for this would be CJ's Butter - a cloth-diapering-friendly diaper rash cream. It's a colloidal ointment, though, that works on eczema, and if Ella has a bit of a rash in her diaper area, I use this instead of the raw shea butter treatment, as CJ's Butter is a little creamier and a little less intense.
*Aquaphor or lanolin - Basically, this last waxy layer works as a barrier method. It protects the skin from the rubbing of clothes, etc.
*Olive oil - I dab this on any dry spots she may have on her head, legs, ears, or arms.

3. Do up-keep during diaper changes

Every time I changed Ella's diaper, I re-applied the calendula cream and the raw shea butter treatment to the rash, even though it wasn't in her diaper area. Once the rash improved, I dropped the calendula and just kept moisturizing with the raw shea butter at each change. (The brand I'm using has a combined ointment, containing more chamomile, I keep in my diaper bag, as does California Babies, I believe.)

The goal is to keep your baby as moisturized as possible, in an effort to protect her skin.

4. Help your baby along with your own intake

I try and take Vitamin C, beta-carotene, an extra probiotic (acidopholus is best), evening primrose oil (not shown) and some Vitamin E if I notice Ella's skin flaring a bit. Internally, they help get the job done, and since Ella is still exclusively breast-fed, I have to take them for her to reap the benefits.

5. Consider a what else is touching their skin

I have bad news for all you Dreft detergent lovers out there: The stuff has chemicals in, too. That's why it's not safe to use on cloth diapers. And it may be causing a reaction on your child's skin, too.

Make sure you are using a true "free and clear" detergent on your baby's clothes (I like Dropps, which are great for cloth diapers, too) and add in an extra hot rinse when you wash them.

Also, consider buying lotions and soaps made from organic ingredients. It's just another way to eliminate something that may cause a reaction on your baby.

***

Hopefully, this works for you all who asked.

This baby, or "Irish," eczema seems far more common than I ever realized. And, lately, it has my baby taking baths and getting rub-downs like she's a member of some four-star spa. (Or Baby Jesus himself. One of the ointments we're using has frankincense and myrrh in it. You can imagine the Christ-child jokes that have abounded.)

But all that aside, thankfully, this combination of treatments seems to work. I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures, as Ella's skin is clear as can be these days. Even my husband was in awe, and he's not easy to impress.

Simply put, she looks like a new baby.

***

*Our 4-month check up was literally three days after we were recovering from our first fever. I told the doctor that the fever had seemed to aggravate the rash - it was the worst I'd ever seen it - but the pediatrician quickly dismissed me, saying that "didn't make any sense." Still, considering how fast the treatment cleared up, I'm kind of mad that the doctor didn't listen to me. Because obviously, I wasn't making it up, and as Ella got healthier, the irritation cleared up super-quick, and I can't think it's all thanks to my mixture of ointments.

**I bought almost everything here at Target, The Vitamin Shoppe, or my local health-food store. I didn't receive any compensation for mentioning these products. It's just what I found that works.

***

Now, I'm no doctor. I'm not even an expert. I just combined some things I'd heard about and researched, skin-tested my daughter, and, knowing she could tolerate them, went for it. We got lucky, in part.

So, please let me know if you have any questions at all, but I'm sure this isn't everyone's be-all-and-end-all solution.

It's just what worked for us, and if it can help anyone else, I'll be thrilled.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

The Year of The Baby

2011-11-03T05:00:00.000-07:00

Ella was but eight hours old when I said it.

I turned to my husband and let out, "I cannot wait till Christmas this year!"

Mind you, it was June, so I'm pretty sure he didn't respond, assuming I was in some sort of post-partum, euphoria-induced hallucination, but I assure you, I knew I what I was saying.

After all, this would be our first Christmas where we could decorate a tree with our baby. And wrap presents for our baby. And bake Christmas cookies with our baby.

This will be an Ella-themed Christmas, mark my words.

Which is why this year? Our baby is going to be smack-dab, front-and-center on the first piece of the holidays anyone is going to receive from us: Our Christmas card.

I have never been so excited to address untoward amounts of envelopes in my life.

Last year, we used Shutterfly to make our Christmas cards. They produced a quality photo print. They were quick to arrive at our doorstep. And they let me personalize the heck out of their product.
And this year, we have the same plans. But this year, it will be even better.

Because this year, there will be a roly-poly, widely smiling, chubby-cheeked infant on the front of them. And she belongs to us.

I am obviously a new mama because anything with my baby's face on it? Well, it never gets old for me.

Which is why all the in-laws should probably expect Ella calendars, Ella coffee mugs, and other Ella-themed gifts this year.
The more ways Shutterfly allows me to plaster my kids mug on things, the better.
Lucky for me, they have a host of personalized gifts for the making.

Anyone for Ella-themed playing cards this Christmas?

***

I was given 25 free Christmas cards by Shutterfly in exchange for this post, but the information and opinions written are my own.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Right Now...

2011-11-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

...I'm eating a dinner salad out of a mixing bowl. I've done that for supper for the last five nights because my husband is working so much he's basically deployed. And, also, because I'm classy.

...It's my baby brother's 21st birthday. Which means he's officially legal. And I'm officially Mrs. Oldy McOlderson. (Happy Birthday, B!)

...I keep running in to check on Ella while she naps, thinking she's making odd noises, only to realize it's Marvin the Dog I can hear through the monitor, as he shifts his giant form on his futon that still resides in the baby's room.

...I'm actually running my heat. But only after checking with my friend from Ohio that it was legitimately cold enough to turn it on, and I wasn't just being some sort of "wussy Floridian."

...I'm stripping cloth diapers. Which is a whole other post in and of itself. But suffice it to say, I owe my child's precious little bum to white vinegar.

...I cleared up Ella's supposed dry-skin-induced ezcema with my own homeopathic concoction. I want to run back to the pediatrician and yell, "See! Told you it wasn't impossible to fix! And I did it in five days!" But I won't.

...I'm trying to figure out how we're going to afford Christmas gifts for everyone.

...I'm getting excited about Thanksgiving, even though the hubs is working, and we're stuck here without family. Our Navy family has come up with a really fun idea, though, and I'd wager it's going to be a close-close second to being back around my family's Thanksgiving table.

...I think I need a pair of casual, closed-toe slip-ons, a la Toms. (I know. I'm like years behind the boat on this one.) I have boots; I have flats. But I have nothing comfortable enough that also works with my typical, tired mom uniform of jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Any ideas?

...I have some blog posts stirring around that I just need to hit "Publish" on. But I don't want to. Not yet. Timing is everything.

...I have serious fears about having another baby. Because, while I'm pumped about going through childbirth again, I am terrified of taking anything away from Ella. I love her so much that I'd hate to have my attention diverted. Even though I know it's physically impossible, I often worry, what if I don't have enough love to go around?

...I'm getting ready to run another 5K. It's going to be on an airstrip, so the entire 3+ miles will be a straight shot. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

...I wish there wasn't a goody bag of candy corn sitting in my kitchen. That stuff is my kryptonite.

...I have a couple new mommy clients who I love. Figures that I'd get a new crop of potentially awesome friends right before we move again.

...I'm craving baked goods. But I don't want to bake them.

...I have a child who is wearing 6-12 month clothes. And they fit. They aren't even a little too-big on her. Which means I'm pretty sure that my baby could crush most babies with just one of her thighs. That's my girl.

...I wish I was the proud owner of one of the Petunia Picklebottom Ergo baby carriers. So I'm saving my pennies and stalking eBay like it's my job.

...I have already spent too much money on eBooks thanks to the fact that we now own an iPad.

...I hear a baby waking up, and, if my ears are correct, pooping profusely. And just like that, this blog post is over.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Scarier Than Halloween

2011-11-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

I've beaten the dead horse that is my hatred for Halloween around here before.

So suffice it to say, I won't do that again.

But, for the record, Ella did where pumpkin pajamas while handing out candy last night.

I'm not a total spoil-sport.

Regardless, I'm just not a big fan of all things blood and gore, so Halloween isn't my cup of tea.

However, lately, and rather unexpectedly, I have been experiencing my own fair share of blood and gore.

And just like Halloween, it's not been very welcome.

***

Just for posterity's sake, let me re-iterate...

I exclusively feed my child directly from my breasts.

I co-sleep with her.

I wear her in a sling close to my body at least once a day.

She doesn't sleep through the night, still waking to nurse once or twice; and during the day, she eats every three hours.

She doesn't take a bottle. We don't use a pacifier. I don't ever pump in place of a feeding, and when I do pump, it's for about three minutes, once or twice a week. In fact, I haven't pumped in about nine days. And, really, that's totally normal for me.

And, yet, despite all of the above, last week?

I got my dang period.

That's right, my friends.

I am the poster child for how to keep Aunt Flo at bay after having a baby.

I do everything you're supposed to do and avoid everything you're supposed to avoid so that you, too, can remain fruitless and blood-less for at least six months after having a child.

But with Ella little more than four months old, I'm back on the reproductive bandwagon.

Not. Fun.

Apparently, less than 7 percent of women, who breast-feed and parent like I do, get their period within six months of their child's birth. The vast majority of them make it past six months; a sizable amount make it past a year, all because that physical close-ness nursing and co-sleeping provides actually keeps menstruation at bay.

But not me. No, ma'am. That would just be too darn easy.

My body is fully recovered, rarin' to go, and fertile-friendly. My uterus is smiling once again.

But I'm not. Not by a long shot.

Frankly, I was looking forward to a few more months of blood-less bliss.

So pardon me while I whine into my caffeine-free cup of tea, with something along the lines of, "Why, God, why? Why me? I'm a good person! I pay taxes! I pushed a baby out of my lady parts without drugs! Why can't I have a few more months sans the crimson tide?"

Because while your Halloween may have been filled with fake blood, mine was graced with the real kind.

And, right now, for me, that's just as scary.

***

Apparently, this is a sign that I'm "super healthy," according to the experts.

And while I'd like a second opinion, when I told a friend of mine who's a midwife what happened, I believe the exact words were, "Well, I guess you just got lucky."

Honestly, it's really, really rare, they say, for this to happen for a mama like me.

Then again, it's also really rare for your water to break before your contractions start.

And that happened to me.

And it's really rare to have nipples that bleed for six-plus weeks when learning to breast-feed.

And that happened to me.

And it's really rare have a 4.5 month old who weighs 18 pounds.

And just last Friday, I learned that happened to me, too.

The odds, it seems, are in my favor when it comes to me and my reproductive system.

Maybe my uterus and I need to start playing the lottery.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

When I Grow Up

2011-10-31T05:00:00.000-07:00

This weekend didn't feel like a weekend.

In fact, with the hubs working till midnight on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I kept forgetting it was the weekend.

It was just Ella and I, playing catch up after we recovered from our round of the fall virus.

We were committing to the usual: Cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping.

I pretty much always do my grocery shopping on the weekend.

In addition to that, once a month, I hit the bulk store. And always, if I can manage it, I go alone, leaving Ella with her daddy, or I wait until I can take the hubs with me and her.

Handling a baby and several gallons of organic chicken broth can be a bit daunting. I love my daughter, but we're happier if I don't have to juggle both at once.

But, this week, I had no choice.

I had to go to Costco.

Alone.

Blessedly, for most of the trip, Ella did really well.

She was content wrapped up in the Moby for almost my entire venture up and down the aisles of the terribly overcrowded warehouse, but toward the end, she was starting to get tired, as it was nap-time.

Her whimpering began.

In the checkout line, the bag boy couldn't throw my stuff in the cart fast enough. Ella began to inch closer and closer to a break down, and her whimpers became cries.

Still wearing the now profusely fussing baby, I started to push my several hundred pound cart out the door when I saw it: Rain.

A downpour of wind and rain swirled about the parking lot.

Crap.

I threw my sweatshirt hood over my head and Ella's over hers, and I ventured out, wheeling my massive and heavy cart with one hand and bouncing Ella in the Moby in my other.

I was stepping in wet puddles, start and stopping thanks to cars, and trying to ignore all the zig-zagging traffic dancing and splashing around us. We were getting positively soaked.

Finally, way out in the edges of the parking lot, where I'd parked in the former sunshine because it was right next to a cart carousel, I managed to get to my car.

And then, I heard a voice.

"Ma'am. Ma'am?"

A man, dressed in black pants, a shirt, cowboy boots and hat, was approaching me.

He was easily 85 years old.

"Ma'am. You have your hands so full. Please let help you. Let me load your groceries in your car."

By force of habit, I resisted, saying, "Oh no! We're fine! Please don't worry about it!"

Plus, he was so old, I worried some of the bigger boxes full of cans and containers might be too much for him.

But, gesturing back at his wife, who was sitting in their Cadillac waving at Ella and I, he replied, "Please. We insist. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't help you."

So, I let him load my car while I put Ella in her car-seat.

In the rain, both of us working, we exchanged pleasantries about where we were from and what we were doing.

Then, as we were closing my trunk, I found him standing at attention, saluting me.

"I see from your car's stickers that your husband's in the Navy. I'll salute you for his service. I'm retired Air Force, and I appreciate your sacrifice."

It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there.

I thanked him, in return, for his service, and then we parted ways; me unwrapping my Moby and climbing in the front seat, him sitting in his car with his wife and watching me safely drive away.

I waved and smiled wide as we drove by. Then, I turned to Ella.

"See, baby, people are good. Chivalry isn't dead. And when I grow up, I want to be just like him."

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Because I Take It Seriously

2011-10-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

I haven't slept in days.

I'm not even exaggerating.

I've dozed off a bit at night here and there; I took a 45-minute nap on accident yesterday.

But other than that? I haven't slept since 3 a.m. Monday morning.

Why?

My baby was sick.

Lying limp and pathetic all over me, barely whimpering with her little hoarse cry. She was the saddest thing around.

And Lordy be, did it break my heart.

I mean, I think I cried more than she did. I didn't put her down for about 2.5 days. I watched her little being like a hawk. And I poured over book after book after book about children's illnesses and remedies, making sure I wasn't missing something.

Making sure I was doing everything right.

And, then, just when things were starting to get better, just when Ella's little fever broke and her little smiles started to return, the criticism began to pour in.

The anonymous comment from Monday night. The e-mails from readers I don't really know. The passing comment from my boss when I called in sick yesterday.

I've made it very public that I don't use conventional medicine unless things are dire.

I honestly don't believe we should rush to the doctor for every little thing. I think we're doing a world of hurt by putting our kids on most antibiotics, over-testing them, and giving them fever reducers.

In short, thank God for modern medicine. And if I have my way, I truly hope we never have to use it.

I feel about conventional medicine like I feel about birth.

For normal, healthy people, it's not really necessary.

Emergencies? Serious situations? Abnormal health issues?

By all means, I'll be the first one in line at the specialists' office.

But for my child, who has a ragingly good immune system and is exclusively breast-fed by a mother is absolutely meticulous about every little morsel she puts in her body?

The pediatrician is largely unnecessary.

I have one for Ella. She's there should I need her.

But when Ella had a fever earlier this week, I didn't call. Not even once.

Now, granted, I was tempted. Hugely tempted.

As I sat there, administering homeopathic treatments, bathing my little girl in chamomile tea, wrapping her little ankle in a baltic-amber bracelet, sipping vinegar and Vitamin-C water, putting her to the breast so she could get the benefits of the vinegar and the Vitamin-C water, and taking her temperature about 14 times an hour, I. Was. Terrified.

Praying. Seconds away, sometimes, from grabbing my cell phone and calling the doctor.

But the truth was, except for a 30-minute period where her temperature flew up to a high 103 degrees, she was hovering right around 100 degrees the entire 24-hour period - that's not even fever enough for the pediatrician to want me to call. (She says 100.4 is when you should give her a ring.)

She had no other symptoms - no cough, phlegm, congestion, rash, nothing. She was eating, peeing, and pooping. For a while I thought it might be teething or an ear infection. But I quickly ruled out those, too.

And still, I knew, in my heart of hearts, going to the doctor wasn't going to help her.

I'd have to drag a screaming child there; she'd be traumatized from the exam. They'd emit me to run some tests and send me home with an ambiguous antibiotic and instructions to use a fever reducer like Tylenol, which would suppress the fever - a sign that her body is fighting off the virus - and something I had no real interest in suppressing unless it truly got dangerously high.

Then, the test results would come back, and they'd probably tell me she just had some routine virus.

No. Thank. You.

I was not going to subject my child to something that wasn't going to help her in the least bit anyway. (Not to mention, we have her monthly check-up this Friday. Unless it's an emergency, I can always ask her about questions I have then.)

A little while ago, I watched a dear friend collect stool samples for a week from her little boy, all because of a minor breast-feeding problem that her pediatrician denied was even there. Instead, the doctor practically threatened my poor friend, telling her there was always a chance it was salmonella or a severe food allergy.

My friend was terrified, understandably.

Except things didn't measure up. Because my friend's baby? Perfectly happy and thriving. He just had a few specks of red in his poop.

Finally, my friend and I solved the problem on our own, thanks to the help of a natural child-care book. She tweaked a supplement she was taking, and Bam! Her breast-milk returned to normal, and her son's minor issue was fixed.

As one of my hero's, infamous midwife Ina May Gaskin, says, "Remember this, for it is as true as true gets: Your body is not a lemon. You are not a machine. The Creator is not a careless mechanic."

Amen, sister.

My body? My baby's body? They are designed to work.

They are built to withstand a fever. They are capable of surviving then building immunity to a minor bug. Blessedly, we are healthy.

I truly believe that.

And, yet, I sat there, with my piping hot little naked baby sleeping on my bare chest, still freaking out.

"Do I take her to the doctor? Am I making the wrong decision? What if she's the 0.00000001 percent kid who still gets scarlet fever? What if she's got meningitis? What if this is not OK?"

No matter how much research I'd done, no matter how strong my beliefs in my research were, I was still scared out of my mind.

I called my mother about 27 times to seek reassurance. I called my neighbor and dear friend (and former nurse) down the street to have a look at her.

Both, who believe in naturo-pathic healing like myself, told me to hold strong.

So I did. I sat there, trembling in fear, watching every rise and fall of Ella's little chest, praying, "Please, God, don't let me make the wrong choice. Please, let her body heal fine. Please, let this be OK."

***

Around 3 p.m. on Tuesday, Ella lifted her little head from my chest, looked up at me, and smiled.

I quickly took her temperature - 98.7 degrees.

I immediately shouted Thank you, God! and nursed the poor baby, who was starving.

We then took a bath, played some, nursed some more, and read some stories.

It was the first time in 2.5 days she'd let me put her down. Other than the fact that she was still a bit weak, she was fine. She acted like her former, lively, talkative baby-self.

I was so happy, I cried some more.

Then, after we were safely tucked away in bed for the night, I let myself finally feel the relief I was hoping would come.

I finally let myself believe I'd made the right choice - not taking her to the doctor, not giving her Tylenol.

I finally let myself believe I'd done what's best for Ella.

***

I'm not writing this because I'm proud, honestly.

The way I see it, I just made a decision, based on what I know, about what was best for my child.

As mothers, that's what we're asked to do; for me, that's going to be something different than it is for you.

If you would have taken your baby to the pediatrician, I'd tell you, Good for you! You're the mama! You do what you think is best!

That's not my problem. Not everyone has to think like me.

My problem lies with the accusations from people who don't know me - people who read my innocuous post from Monday night - and assume I'm making flippant, off-the-cuff parenting decisions. The people who tell me I'm dangerous because I'm "self-medicating." Or the people who use scare tactics and tell me I am threatening my baby's life.

To them, I wanted to post a picture of my smiling, pudgy, healthy, naked baby this morning and write, %#%*& YOU!

But I didn't. I won't. I will not sink to that level.

Instead, I'll sit here and tell you that I've spent months reading and researching the decisions I make for my child. I've spent days watching her and caring for her and doing everything in my power to do what was best for her while she was sick.

I've spent her lifetime praying over her sweet little self, hoping I was helping her, begging God to let me make the right choices.

It's because I take it so seriously that I make the decisions I make.

It's because I know my child that I choose what I choose.

And it's because I love my little girl that I don't listen to the "well-meaning" comments from people who don't even know me or my baby.

You can accuse me of a lot of other things. But you cannot accuse me of being a bad mom.

Because this parenting gig? I don't take it lightly.

Not by a long shot.

***

Thank you to all of you who wished Ella well this week! She is back to her happy self, and we couldn't be more thrilled.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Sick and Tech-Savvy

2011-10-24T15:58:00.001-07:00

Ella had a cold a month or so ago.

That wasn't fun.

But yesterday?

Way worse.

There were fevers all over the place, topping out at 104. There was a sad, flushed little baby, who barely had the energy to cry. And there was one tired, weepy mommy navigating it all (Was it teething? An ear infection? Or just a virus? I'm still not entirely sure.)

Regardless, we spent all day on the couch like so.

With our new iPad.

Oh, yes. It was our anniversary (and Christmas and birthday) gift to ourselves.

We got it just in time for me to download a WebMD app and some homeopathic eBooks.

Weird way to celebrate, wouldn't you say?

However, I did experiment with the blogging app, too. Hence this post.

Here's hoping this doesn't become a habit, as it took me approximately forever to type this out, with one finger, on a touch screen.

Be back tomorrow with something a little less germ-y and a little more "I typed this using the home keys," if you get what I'm saying.

Happy Tuesday!

Old and Married

2011-10-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

While going to bed at 9:30 on a Saturday night, after a dinner of tomato soup and Greek salad and 30 minutes of flipping back and forth between college football games and a coupon-ing show, it hit me.

We have officially become an old, married couple.

And, today, we celebrate three years of being that old, married - but still in love - twosome.

We've had a baby. We've fine-tuned a budget. And we've written out a will.

Pretty soon, we'll be getting the AARP newsletter for real. And not like the one time I got it on my 21st birthday by accident.

In other words, it's been a crazy, whirlwind of a year. And I couldn't be happier about it.

Watching my husband become a father this year rocked my world. Growing and thriving through the toughest periods in my husband's naval training blew my mind. And now, realizing that we've been married for three whole years, and are currently happier than we've ever been?

Well, that's one for the books.
There is definitely a comfort growing, the longer and longer we're married. It's the kind of comfort that lets you walk around in grungy sweats without a care in the world, knowing your husband won't blink an eye.

But it's also the kind of comfort that intuitively tells you to make certain things a certain way for dinner, just because he likes them like that.

And it's the kind of comfort that lets you watch your friends' marriages and go, "I like her husband, but I could never live with him. I'm glad I married mine. If I wasn't married to him, we'd never make it."

After three years, it's the moment you know that you and your husband make it work; that, in short, you were indeed destined for this person.

And that, because of the God-given marital intuition you've both grown more accustomed to, sweat pants and dinners and other people's marriages don't matter.

It's all about you two, and it has been for quite some time.

My husband wakes up and rolls over when I'm silently lying awake at night, concerned to tears about my daughter's doctor's appointment at the end of the week. Somehow, he just knows.

My husband interrogates the cashier at the nearby cafe about their selection of broth-based soups, trying to find me something dairy-free to eat, and when the cashier still gets it wrong, and gives me a tomato soup filled with cream, he calls the next day to set them straight, telling them to be more careful and that they could have hurt his wife and child by accidentally feeding them dairy.

My husband also dances with our daughter, takes her on his regular jogs, gives me the go-ahead to buy her extra, cute (albeit slightly unnecessary) cloth diapers, and routinely sacrifices his own time and efforts for you and her, without a complaint in the world.

He's by no means a perfect man - and yeah, he can push my buttons and drive me to (nearly) drink sometimes - but he's my husband, and he's my absolute perfect mate, when I step back and look at it.

If anything, three years has taught me that.

Marriages grow and change. That's to be expected.

But am I eternally grateful to get to grow and change and learn with this man, the love of my life, the father of my child, and the man who goes to bat for me when no one else will.

Happy Three Years, Baby. I love you forever.

It Doesn't Take A Dog-Lover to Enjoy Love At First Bark

2011-10-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

Our 100-pound bundle of canine love, Marvin the Dog, has always made us look good.

After all, he was a rescued dog, and a dog who, at the time, had some fairly high-needs, as well.

So, without us, he'd have ended up dead or at the losing end of a dog-fight.

At least, that's what we've always told ourselves.

But after reading Julie Klam's Love at First Bark, I feel a bit shamed that I've taken so much pride in what could be described as a fairly easy animal rescue, in light of the tales Klam tells, which involve, in no particular order, uncontrollable poop and pee in your bed, cab rides in the middle of Manhattan with an empathetic pit bull, and escapades chasing a dog with a jar on it's head through the swamps of Louisiana.
Our Marvin the Dog has nothing on Klam's pack.

And, yet, as a dog-lover, or, heck, as a humane person, I can relate to every word scribbled by Klam about her various experiences with dogs who, whether they knew it or not, tapped into the very soul and touched the author when she needed it the most.

The book reminds me of every tight embrace I've wrapped around my dogs slouchy, big neck after receiving a piece of heart-breaking news, and every drooling chin he's placed on my lap when I needed to do nothing more than pat his gentle, big head.

I could almost feel how Klam felt when Morris the Pit Bull placed his paws on her shoulders and taught her to not sweat the small stuff and instead focus on the big thing what was screaming for her attention; at the time, her marriage.

I know just what she was going through as she fought for Clementine, the dog with so many physical, mental and emotional issues that no one in their right mind would take her on. Until you realized she had the personality of a cheese-ball saint.

And I laughed with her as she, and others like her, chased Jarhead around New Orleans in an attempt to rescue him, while the rest of the world was caught up in the area's demise after Hurricane Katrina and the wonky ways of FEMA.

Klam's point, in it all, is that when you step back and listen to those around you who aren't dragged down by the modern conveniences, pressures, and tangents that society heaps on today's individuals, you can hear, and learn, what's really important.

Right out of the mouths of dogs.

***

The unfortunate part about Love At First Bark is that you expect more of a collection.

For someone like Klam, a true dog-lover and someone so entrenched in her rescue efforts you're surprised it's not her full-time job, you just expect more. More stories. More anecdotes. More dogs.

Still, what there was? I loved.

And I'm willing to bet others did, too.

To check out what other bloggers had to say about Love At First Bark, head on over to the BlogHer Book Club discussion.

***

This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club, but the opinions expressed are my own.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

This Old Bra

2011-10-19T05:00:00.000-07:00

My husband is a real gem.

And, on Tuesday nights, he's taken to helping me fold laundry.

Part of the reason is, he's genuinely trying to be helpful.

And the other part of the reason is because I refuse to learn how to fold his stupid T-shirts like he was taught to way back in Navy boot camp because, gosh darn it, I'm not in the Navy, and I can fold my shirts however I darn well want to!

But, well, he is in the Navy. And even though he doesn't seem to care much about the state of his T-shirts when he wears them for 30 minutes then throws them on the floor because he has to put on a clean one so he can go run to the drug store (insert eye-roll here), he's apparently very persnickety about how they end up before they go on his body.

Whatever.

The point is, he's helping. And I appreciate it.

He's even getting better at telling the difference between my "lounge around the house" yoga pants and my "I actually wear those to yoga" yoga pants. (OK, maybe he's not the only persnickety person around here.)

Regardless, this is why, just last week, he was folding laundry while I was loading the dish washer.

I walked into the living room, doing a last-minute scavenge for cups - both he and I have a propensity to use about 126 water glasses a day - when he began waving something at me.

Something pink.

Or, rather, something that had been pink about, oh, 10 years ago.

"Babe," he said. "I think it's time to buy yourself a new bra."

In his hands, he held a little cotton sports bra - the kind which you layer under things or maybe even sleep in.

In other words, the elastic and straps were shot and offered little to no support.

Worse yet, certain spots had brown stains on them, and the inner layer of mesh was torn.

I'd had the thing for, no joke, at least a decade.

In fact, I have a distinct memory of putting it on in the team locker room after a morning swim practice before high school, back when the elastic was, I believe, a bit more present. (Not that it mattered, as I basically had the cleavage of a skinny 9-year-old boy back in high school.)

And, yet, at almost 27, I stood there, watching my husband grimace and hold it between two pinched fingers of disgust, and I immediately began to protest.

"No!" I cried. "I love that thing! It's so comfortable, and I can throw it on when I'm just working around the house. Plus, I can nurse in it!"

My husband started to talk back. He muttered something along the lines of, "Didn't we just buy you an army of nursing bras?"

He even maintained that I should "treat" myself to a new piece of underwear.

But I stood firm.

And he then folded it gently and placed it atop my pile of "No longer suitable for sports" sports bras.

Victory was mine.

***

See?
Told you I wear it.

In my mind, you see, it's better than wearing no bra at all. (Which, let's face it, I do enough of already.)

So, tell me, what article of clothing do you hold onto? What do you wear that you probably (OK, definitely) shouldn't? Do you find it simply that comfortable? Or does it have nostalgia attached to it? Share below!

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Perspective

2011-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever

Wondered

What

Exactly

They think

About us?

***

I had a realization this weekend as I found myself, along with three other intelligent adults, standing over two babies, making silly faces, clapping my hands wildly, and making "Ahh-oo-Gah!" noises.
Parenting? It turns you into a bona-fide crazy person some times.
We made quite the ruckus, in our attempts to try and get our respective 2 and 4 month olds to smile and look at the camera, and I can only imagine what surrounding people thought.

Then again, we were not the only couples there with little babies, hoping and praying to get photos of our sweet angels on their first trip to the pumpkin patch.
And their their first trip through a corn maze.
And their first time at a petting zoo.
Did it make a bit of difference to them? No sirree Bob.
But it sure was fun showing them around and letting them get the full fall-festival experience.
Complete with a couple of yahoos acting like clowns.

Oh, wait, that's right.

That was their parents.

And, lucky them, they get to catch that show every day of the week.

***

The photos above were taken with our friends, N and L, with their little man, R, who is eight weeks younger than Ella and born at the exact same birth center as she was. In other words, that's Ella's future husband.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Where We're At

2011-10-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

I hate being late.

And last week, Ella and I were almost late for work. Twice.

Yeah, yeah. It was an "almost."

But it was close enough to make things very uncomfortable for this mama who lives by her watch.

So, needless to say, I'm hoping this week will be better. I spent several hours this past weekend mapping things out I normally just wing in the morning hours in hopes that I will once again be my timely self.

Phew! Right?

I'm sure you all are just so darn relieved that you now know I've taken preventative measures to make sure I'm not late to a part-time job that is, no joke, five minutes away from my house.

Your world, I'm sure, has been righted. You will sleep easier tonight with the knowledge that I have at least that under control.

Glad I could help, my friends, glad I could help.

And I'm also glad I can now harangue you with a whole host of other mundane bullets because I'm simply too lazy and too short on time to put together something coherent and actually, well, meaningful.

Please, don't thank me. As long as I can keep you happy, I'm happy.

(In other words, please keep reading and forgive me for writing what may in fact be the world's most boring Monday post. I promise, I don't do this often. Or, if I do, you all are at least kind enough not to point it out to me. For which I thank you. In a timely manner, of course.)

***

This past weekend, Ella and I ran our first 5K since I was 34 weeks pregnant.

See me right there?
Yep, I lived through it.

And the only reason I'm sitting down in that picture is because it was the only position I trusted myself in, in which I would not drop my baby and/or puke all over us both.

Turns out, pushing a child out of your nether regions? Does a number on your upper regions, as well.

My lung capacity is shot. I was huffing and puffing like a pack-a-day smoker half a mile in.

***

I normally like this transition between hot and cold weather in the South. It's nice not to need a jacket but to also be able to wear jeans without your legs sweating like two denim-encased sausages.

But with a baby? Dear God, there's no greater form of torture.

To go to work in the morning, I have to bundle a shivering little Ella up, as we're still running outside with my clients.

But by mid-afternoon, I'm stripping layers off my now-sweating baby, all because it went from cool and crisp to humid and hot all within a few hours time.

Do you know what it's like to wrangle a 4 month old in and out of a hoodie sweat-shirt multiple times a day for a Southerner?

Torture. Pure torture.

***

As of late, I'm getting a bit weary of military life.

I go through phases where I absolutely appreciate the community and structure it provides, and then I have times where I feel like I do now.

Tired. Alone. Super transient and therefore, unable to fully connect.

It's hard, living away from the people that give you roots in a town.

And, knowing that we're about four months away from another move to somewhere totally new and different to us? Well, that's a bit daunting right now.

I'm incredibly sad to leave our Navy family we've built here, but I'm even more upset that we likely aren't heading anywhere close to anyone we already know.

Part of the problem is that my husband is on a schedule of rotating shift work, meaning he basically only comes home to sleep and truly only has one real weekend a month. Holidays are often work days; in fact, it will just be Ella and I at our Thanksgiving table this year.

But the hardest part for me is that it puts a lot of the day-to-day burdens solely on my shoulders, and it then leaves me feeling rushed and incapable of doing anything else.

I'm just kind of exhausted, that's all.

Still, I find far too many of "my kind," i.e., military spouses, are terribly whiny about their husbands' jobs and tight schedules. They lament and complain that their family's every move is dictated by the Navy.

That annoys the mess out of me. After all, no one said this would be easy, and I, for one, am simply grateful that my husband has a job that leaves him relatively safe and gainfully employed.

So, I normally refuse to let myself complain. Which sometimes makes me feel even more alone.

Still, I've been here before. I know it's a phase, and that it, too, shall pass.

I've got too much to do to stop and think about it for too long, anyway.

***

Today, I've got a hair appointment. And, after some (OK, a lot) of lamenting, I've decided I'm going to go darker.

I need a change, and I've never darkened my hair, and my new stylist thinks it would look spiffy. And, also, good.

So, we're going for it.

Heaven help me.

***

After doing some more reading and listening to y'all's suggestions last week, I'm pretty sure Ella is in the middle of your standard 4-month-old sleep regression.

While the problem has not worsened, it has mixed itself up a bit. For instance, she's now getting up three, four, and - last night - five times a night sometimes. She's nursing ravenously almost every time, but she's wide awake for only about 20 minutes or so.

She's also crying when she wakes up, with no means of comfort for the first few minutes, which she never did before.

I'm sure it's also probably yet another growth spurt, which wouldn't concern me much, except for the fact that she's getting so heavy, I strained my back picking her up last week.

Regardless, I've decided to handle said sleep regression by letting her play in her co-sleeper with the lights off by herself, sans toys, when she happily refuses to sleep. When she's fussy, I nurse her, and she then goes down fairly quickly.

It's rough, seeing as I'm not sleeping a lot, but at least she's behaving perfectly normal for her age, which means this, too, shall pass.

***

In other developmental Ella news, Baby Girl can scoot her entire way across the living room if left alone long enough; she can pull herself into a sitting position upon grabbing my hands, and she has found her toes and is currently involved in an operation to reach over her chunky belly and thighs and grab them.
Girlfriend is super advanced, I'm told. People stop me in public a lot and comment on how strong and alert and mobile she is.

Which is all well and good.

But it doesn't explain her absolute refusal to roll from her belly to her back.

I have a distinct feeling she'll be crawling before she can master this typical 3-month skill.

So, for now, I've almost given up.

She's obviously not lacking necessary physical abilities. She just simply has no interest in performing this particular one.

(And if you can't hear my tone of "I'm trying to convince myself this is all OK," I suggest you have your hearing checked.)

***

You know that song, Pumped Up Kicks?

I've been singing it since last week. It's super catchy. And, I thought, upbeat. Which is how I described it while teaching a spinning class.

And then I realized it was about a kid shooting people.

Which reminded me of the time when I put the song The Lighthouse Tale on my birth CD.

Which is about a man who kills himself after his wife dies in an untimely boating accident.

Fitting, no?

***

What's up with everyone else today? Tell me your tidbits!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Help A Mama Out

2011-10-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have a problem.

Not a major one, but, well, in my current state of exhaustion, it seems rather major.

In fact, it's kind of getting epic in my house right about now.

For the first time, the hubs and I are at loss.

We don't know what's up with Ella, and we're turning to you to find out.

***

Ella wakes up once or twice a night. Lately, it's been more like once.

Normally, she rouses between 2:30 and 4 a.m., nurses, and falls right back asleep.

She's wide awake and rarin' to go by 6 or 6:30 a.m., which is fine, because that's when I normally get up anyway. (Occasionally, she'll bust out with a 5 a.m. wake-up time, which doesn't thrill me, but it's not the end of the world.)

However, the last two weeks, I've had a different middle-of-the-night experience with Ella.

Different in a way I never expected.

Take last night:

It was 3:12 a.m., and I heard the noises: The fusses and grunts of a hungry baby being roused by her tummy.

I reached over, grabbed her out of her pack-n-play next to us, and swooped her to the breast. She ate steadily for about 12 minutes.

Then, full, she popped off. And beamed up at me.

Then, she chirped happily.

Then, she reached her little hands up and patted my face and burbled and talked and waxed on about something or other.

For 45 minutes straight.

Seriously, the little babe was happier than a pig in mud.

But she was also louder than a cat in heat.

She's been a highly social, talkative baby since birth. We've always known that. She smiled and coo-d back at people much younger than most babies do. But she's also loud. I mean, LOUD.

Here. Take a listen:

This was taken in the car about three weeks back, but you get the idea. This was what she was doing while laying in bed next to me. And, just in case you didn't catch it the first time, it was 3 a.m.

Hear that trill that sounds like a horse neighing at the end? Imagine that happening, over and over and over again, in the middle of your normally restful slumber.

It was so loud that it woke the dead, otherwise known as my sleeping husband.

For a man that gets up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work for 16 hours straight, let me tell you, he was not thrilled.

I believe his exact words were, "She better be darn glad she's so cute."

Anyway, 45 minutes later, after rocking and walking and putting her in and out of the co-sleeper and trying to nurse her even more and even rationalizing with her, saying, "Ella, it's the middle of the night. It's time to sleep, not play, baby," she finally fell back asleep in my arms.

And I considered that a rousing success.

Why?

Because the night before, the same thing had happened. But that time, it had lasted for 2.5 hours.

Two and a half, loud-and-proud, baby-filled hours.

Lord have mercy on my soul.

***

It was so bad that I almost wished she'd cry. Because with crying, I could do something to help her, soothe her, something.

But no, she was thrilled with life; nothing was wrong, and no matter what I did, she just kept right on singing her song.

I mean, even if I believed in it, I couldn't have even tried letting her cry-it-out. She wasn't crying!

And I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as letting a baby gleefully squeal-it-out. Especially when she's so darn loud that you won't be getting any sleep, anyway.

But after about a week of this, I'm beginning to tire of it. I feel like I've tried everything.

I have tried not engaging her; not smiling back at her or talking to her, but just closing my eyes and rocking and nursing and all that jazz. But my stoicism doesn't deter her. She keeps right on talking to me.

I've put her in bed with us, back in her pack-n-play, even in her own room in her crib. But no matter where she is, she just keeps right on talking.

I've strongly considered just accepting this as her chosen sleep cycle and getting her up to play until she's tired again.

But that seems inappropriate. While I'm no stickler about scheduling an infant, night-time is for sleeping.

At least that's what I thought.

Apparently, my daughter disagrees.

Isn't it a bit early for the rebellious years to start?

***

For reference for all of you willing to help and grace me with your mommy wisdom:

*She normally takes one good nap for two to three hours around lunch-time.
* She also takes about two power naps - one in the morning and one before dinner - lasting anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes.
* Most of the time, that's all the sleep she needs during the day, as evidenced by the fact that she is perfectly happy during the rest of her waking hours.
* She naps in her crib, but still sleeps in our room at night - a lot of the time she's in our bed.
* I truly don't think she's capable of sleeping through the night yet. When she wakes up to eat, you can tell she's hungry. She's not playing around, and she's chugging as fast as she can.
* She's been continuing this pattern of of a middle-of-the-night Glee Fest for about a week now - just enough time to make Mommy very concerned that this may become some sort of habit.

So, now that you've got all the details....HELP!

How do you put a happy baby back to sleep?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

It's Been Four Months

2011-10-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, Ella!

Today, you are four months old. Four months. I can't believe it.

Before I know it, you'll be graduating with your master's in philosophy before back-packing through Central America with complete strangers.

In other words, stop growing. You're pretty much a big girl these days, and I'm not ready for it.

Case in point: Your new favorite toy, the jumperoo/exersaucer. You have no time for silly toys like the bouncy seat or swing anymore. You don't ever want to be in a reclining position unless you're nursing. You like to be upright, looking around, and shouting at the world. I couldn't believe you were old enough for such a big-girl toy, but it turns out, I was simply in denial. You were ready, even though your short little legs can't quite reach the floor yet.

While I think you're height has slowed down, your weight is still up there. You are not light, Baby Girl. But I love it. I'm a fan of sturdy, big babies, and everywhere we go, we get stopped by men, women, and children who ooh and ahh over you and call you a "Gerber baby."

However, I'm not exactly sure what you weigh anymore. We won't find out till the end of the month, as I've had to re-schedule your four-month check-up because I have a hair appointment. I know; as an adult, you're going to hang your head in shame at that one. But no one wants a mama with split ends and roots, Baby Girl, so I better start teaching you your priorities now.

I don't need to wait for the doctor to tell me how beautiful you are, though. Your gummy smile, your rosy cheeks, your sweet eyes and round face; all of it is absolutely exquisite. You have a special smile you always deliver when you see me coming, and I wish the whole world could see how radiant you are.

And smart. Oh boy, we are in trouble with you. Your brain is like a steel trap. You learn things quickly; you respond to your name. You can move yourself from Point A to Point B on your tummy. You study hands and faces and feet. You even already mimic me when I'm talking to you. I read books to you, and you laugh aloud.

You play with us now, and you have an absolutely precious giggle that gets going when you're extremely tickled with your mommy or daddy. It warms our hearts.

But it's not just giggles. You're chatty, sister. I wake up every morning to you talking away. And loudly. I'm not sure what you're saying, but you do, and you're adamant about it. I get looks when I take you out because you're so interactive and social that everyone in the store can hear you.

You nap well for a few hours only about once a day, and bed-time is a snap, though you've pushed your wake-up time earlier and earlier, and sometimes, you're plum exhausting. I don't know how you do it. You wear me out, and yet, you seem to have boundless energy.

You've started flirting with grown men, making everyone laugh as you bat your eyelashes and peek around Mommy to stare at our male friends. You've also learned empathy this month, and now, when you hear another baby cry, you cry, too.

You still exclusively nurse. In fact, you went four-and-a-half hours between two feedings last week when I left you with your father, simply because you had no interest in that darn bottle full of breast-milk. You refused to take it, and instead, waited till I walked through the door to start batting your little arms and legs in excitement, panting, like I couldn't get you the boob fast enough. Whenever you go 3+ hours between feedings, you do the same song and dance. You even shout at me, sometimes, because I can't whip it out and put you on quick enough for your liking. It's pretty darn funny, if I do say so myself.

Still, I adore nursing you, as of late. I get to cuddle you and stroke your head and kiss your cheeks and play with your fingers. It's totally a miracle, that you've grown into such a big girl in such a short period of time. You, in turn, drum your little fingers on me, grab my shirt, and reach your hand up and put it on my face. These are such sweet moments for me.

You are not really fussy at all, but you are definitely high-needs. You still want to be held and moving the majority of the time. You talk to us and want us to talk back. If you can't see me, you scream until I walk into your eyesight. It's because of reasons like this that you're still co-sleeping. I don't think you're ready to find comfort in a crib so far away from your mama.

Regardless, parenting you has become a full-time job. You are demanding, and I can't do anything but play and interact with you these days. I have no idea how other mamas get so much done. By the time you go to bed, I'm just getting a chance to clean, eat, and wonder where my day went.

But the good part of that is, you've really made your daddy and I a family. We go out now, the three of us, and do things that involve us all. You talk; we talk back. We all enjoy walks and outdoor areas and early mornings. I think we've finally grown into a place where we enjoy just being with you, our baby. There are no more dinners out or movies or late-night get-togethers. You can't swing it, so neither can we. And, honestly, we like it that way.

Honest to goodness, every morning I wake up so excited to see your sweet face. I cannot believe how much I love you. I have never found such a challenge and blessing as being a mother to you. I don't know how I loved life before you. You have made my world so much brighter.

Love always,
Your mama

The Quiet

2011-10-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

This weekend, we had a lot of company.

Friends and church members were pouring in and out of our house almost constantly since Thursday afternoon.

It didn't quiet down till yesterday, and last night, while I tidied up what was left of the snacks I'd thrown together for our guests and folded a basket of Ella's laundry I hadn't gotten to thanks to the constant flow of fellowship, I noticed, for once, how quiet it was.

Ella was in bed. My husband was out for a run. It was just me and my house and the occasional snore from Marvin the Dog.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that I don't love being social, because I do, but because entertaining and accommodating is exhausting.

And, then, after my initial exhale, I realized how eerily quiet it was.

In that moment, where I was all but completely alone, I started to miss it.

The people. The family and friends. The laughter and questions and crying babies and all the noise that comes with having a tiny house that is full to the bursting with company.

I'm a bit bipolar about socializing, you see.

While I come off as an extrovert - I'm convinced it's because I'm drawn to jobs that force me to be outwardly confident and social - I'm actually not a true one. In fact, in all those wacky personality tests a person can take, I always test right down the middle of the road. I literally fall right on the line between introvert and extrovert.

And, on any given day, it's no surprise to those who spend a lot of time around me.

I love having friends over or attending an event. I enjoy hanging out with other people. I like throwing together a party.

But I also enjoy sitting on my couch, alone, reading a book. Or padding about my house all day in my pajamas, shunning phone calls, knocks on the door, and e-mail inquiries.

I've turned down invitations just because, mentally, I didn't feel like socializing. I've needed to stay in my house and rejuvenate more than I've needed to communicate some days.

There's a solace in that introvert side of me; it's the part of me that says, "I need to step back and just be in my space with my family."

Which is why, after a big social event, or after several weekends in a row where we are going and doing and filling our schedule full of parties and meetings and such, I tend to breathe that big sigh of relief.

I tend to find solace in the quiet.

I tend to enjoy being alone.

Hence why I was so surprised that this time, after almost four days straight of go-go-go, when I finally found myself alone, I missed it.

The extrovert in me popped out and screamed, "Where'd everybody go? We weren't done yet!"

The silence felt sad. It was more of a let-down than a reprieve.

And it was proof positive that I am one very confusing woman.

***

Ever missed something or someone you never thought you'd miss?

I find this happening to me more and more now that we live in a place where I have no family or friends I've known since childhood.

Lucky for us, our Navy family here, though we've only known them for a little more than year, has filled a huge void in our hearts and homes.

But it's still a lonely time when, in the silence of your peaceful house, you realize you'd give anything to be with the ones who've known you almost your entire life.

Sometimes, then, the quiet isn't so welcome.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

I Like The Night-Life, Baby

2011-10-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

Ella goes to bed between 6:30 and 7 p.m.

A blessed 6:30 or 7 p.m.

And I say that because, though I adore every second I get to spend with my little girl, man, can that baby can put a damper on my to-do list.

So, when bed-time comes, or nap-time hits, I go all drill sergeant on myself.

My inner monologue is literally yelling, "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! GET IT ALL DONE WHILE YOU STILL CAN! NO CHORE LEFT UNDONE! NO PILE OF DISHES LEFT BEHIND! DO YOU HEAR ME? MOVE YOUR BUTT, LADY!"

I'm like a mommy tornado; doing laundry, finishing dinner, washing dishes, putting away blankets and toys, paying bills, making meal plans, packing lunches, baking cookies, returning phone calls, taking a shower, getting everything done I can't do nearly as well while toting around a baby and singing "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" for the 18th time.

Until, finally, thankfully, it's all done. The house is tidy; the chores are (semi) finished.

And I can sit down and relax. Do something, anything, for myself.

Problem is, by the time my butt is ready to ride the couch, it's normally past 10 p.m. I'm more than likely less than two hours away from Ella's first wake-up of the night.

Logic and good-reasoning should tell me to go to bed, immediately, while I still stand a chance of getting about seven hours of sleep.

Except I don't listen to logic and good reasoning.

In fact, lately, I've been laughing in the face of them.

Because around 10 p.m., when my husband normally heads off to bed, I've been doing something stupid - something a little bit out there.

Like reading a book. Or watching a new T.V. show.

Or spending an hour browsing on Facebook.

Not that these are that novel. And it's not like I've never done them before.

It's just that, pre-baby, if I was tired, I went to bed. I had time to read and watch and browse later.

Pre-Ella, I simply didn't ignore that heavy-boned feeling you get when you're plum exhausted. I just listened to my body and got some sleep.

Still, despite my very heavy bones these days, that idea just isn't as appealing to me anymore.

At that tired time of night, my house is also quiet and reasonably clean. My husband and baby are fast asleep. And I, for once, have a moment where no other human being is asking anything of me or physically hanging on me.

So I sit there. Maybe I pop a bowl of popcorn or brew a cup of ginger-honey tea. Maybe I turn on the television or put the computer on my lap. Maybe I even jump in bed with the hubby and baby, along with a new novel with a book-light attached.

It's my equivalent of a stiff drink at the end of a long day of business.

It helps me unwind. It gives me something little, simple, and easy to enjoy.

It's great.

Until it started cutting drastically into my sleep time.

Tuesday evening, for instance, you could have found me awake at 1 a.m., reading in bed.

Then last night, I was on the couch, watching an episode of ABC's Revenge - a show I started watching simply because it was on at that quiet time in the evening, but now, I'm hooked. My husband has no interest in it, so it's just me, in the peace, with a show I never intended to start in the first place, up past 11 p.m.

But this morning - oh, this morning - when Ella woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6 a.m.? I. Was. Feeling. It.

As usual, I was none to pleased with myself.

And, as God as my witness, I actually said aloud, "Tonight, you can not stay up like that again. Tonight, you have to go to bed before 10."

But, even as I said it, even as my own pulse thundered in my over-tired head while Ella chirped away next to me, I knew I it wouldn't happen.

Just like the many nights before, I knew I'd finish loading the dishwasher, putting away the clean cloth diapers, and answering e-mails, before I'd decide to stay up for "just one more chapter" of the book I'm reading. Or I'd give myself "just 15 more minutes on the computer."

I knew I'd find some way to enjoy my quiet house, alone, for a bit more of the evening.

Until, finally, it would be past midnight, and I'd be dozing off just in time for Ella to wake me up.

It's pretty masochistic. But day after day, I find myself continuing to do it.

It's almost as if I'm choosing my sanity over sleep.

Talk about insane.

***

I know I need "me time" so I can be a good mommy and wife. But because my sailor husband is never home, during the day, time doesn't really allow for much of me.

And I'm just not one of those women who can leave dirty dishes in the sink one night so I can read a book and still go to bed on time.

Oftentimes, I'm up till midnight just tidying things up and folding laundry. I don't even get any "me time" on those days.

But I can't stand to leave too much lying out of place when I go to bed. For whatever reason, it actually stresses me out more and causes me to rest less.

And I can't nap when Ella naps simply because, well, my husband and I like to eat dinner and wear clean clothes. That stuff won't happen if I don't take care of it while Ella's sleeping soundly in her crib.

So, for now, I'm tired. But I have no choice but to embrace a night-owl persona if I'd like any time just as me, Brittany, and not as just Mommy and Wife.

***

How do you get "me time?" Do you consider it more important than things like sleep?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!