Seagulls Are Jerks

I have never had a good encounter with a seagull. Every time we go to the beach they are either attacking my beach umbrella, stealing our food, or trying to assault one of my children. I spend the majority of my time shooing them away from our beach blanket or cleaning up the scraps of our lunch strewn all over the sand after being robbed by mobs of birds. They are pesky little creatures and should really think about how badly they treat people.

We went to the beach on Wednesday and my entire picnic got pilfered by seagulls. This happens almost every time we eat oceanside, so at this point, it's probably my fault. Those obnoxious birds waited for us to walk away from the blanket before they ripped open sandwich bags, scattered granola all over the place, and OPENED TUPPERWARE CONTAINERS. Do birds even eat cucumbers? 

Then they pooped everywhere. 

I honestly don't know how to prevent this from happening. They work in groups so I am never dealing with 1 crazy bird. It's thirty or forty maniacal birds using their numbers to intimidate me and take whatever I brought to the beach. I like to call them the flying mafia. These birds are thugs and they are afraid of no one. 

I'm not sure what my options are at this point. Should I offer the seagulls our lunch as soon as we get to the beach so they won't circle our blanket, waiting for me to turn my head? Forget snacks altogether and starve the girls? Try to share as a peace offering? Avoid the beach???

I don't think any of that would work. Seagulls are scavengers by nature. They are going to steal food. They are going to attack children holding sandwiches. They are going to poop all over your blankets. 

Seagulls are jerks. 

The Worst Thing About L.A.

The worst thing about L.A. is the traffic. I know everyone says that about big cities, but until you've experienced it for 9 months, you have no idea how terrible it really is. It's gotten to the point where I don't really want to go anywhere anymore. I can't handle the godforsaken traffic.

The traffic is so bad that it doesn't really matter what fun thing you've just been out doing, once you get stuck in traffic for 2 hours just to travel 30 miles back home, your fun has been ruined. Take today for instance. The girls and I went to the OC Fair. We got there quickly, had a great time with friends, and made sure to leave by 3:45 to beat the rush hour traffic. We sat still for an hour and a half, traveling an inch at a time, just to exit the parking lot. The parking lot! It took another 45 minutes to drive the 2 freeways back to our house. Once we got home, I forgot all about the cotton candy and games and fun day I had with my girls. I just wanted to scream. Argh.

The thing that aggravates me the most about the stupid, ridiculous traffic is that there seems to be no real reason for the jams. One minute you're cruising along, happily traveling at a reasonable pace and the next you're stopping for no apparent reason. JD and I have analyzed this strange phenomenon and we have concluded it always slows down near the ramps allowing more cars into the freeways. It appears that other drivers freak out at the sight of more cars and just stop excelerating. This causes the 40 bajillion other drivers behind them to slow down and before you know it, the whole darn freeway is still, all because some extra cars wanted to drive in one of the 12 lanes. Stupidity, I tell ya. 


I'm not a person that really minds driving in a bunch of traffic. Lots of cars do not intimidate me. When we first moved here, I went places all the time. I thought it was so cool to live somewhere with so much fun stuff to do. But I can't do it anymore. I can't get in my car knowing that it is going to take me 4 hours to go get a hotdog. I can't get back on a freeway just for something fun to do. I can't. I'm staying home.

Today

I've had a really bad day today. I wanted to write about how I got stood up by the Orkin man for the second time this week after waiting around for 2 hours for him to show. I wanted to write about how not awesome it is when your baby refuses to nap while you pace the floors for an appointment that isn't going to happen. I wanted to write about how Beatrice has defied every single thing I've said to her today and how impatient I've been with her. I wanted to write about how when we finally did leave the house to meet friends, we were late and I had a near meltdown on the phone with JD. I wanted to write about how when we came home, tired and hot, we found our house had been intruded upon so we had to pile back into my car, tired and hot, while we waited on the police. I wanted to write about how the intruder was actually the Orkin man who was let in by our landlord, even after we requested to be home for all appointments. I wanted to write about how the Orkin man never sprayed for spiders because there were toys on the floor, left there because I thought he stood me up for the second time and I never imagined he'd ever be in our house without us there. I wanted to write about how much I hate the Orkin man and spiders and our landlord. But I don't want to focus on the negative.

Somewhere in the middle of my bad day, we went to the beach. It was hot and crowded, I was loaded down like a pack mule, the bad day was still happening all around me, but for 2 hours I didn't care.

 

The baby is screaming, it is stifling in our house, and I have no idea what we're having for dinner, but I don't want to write about that. I want to write about the 2 good hours we had today.

I Look Forward To The Day When My Mouth Doesn't Hurt

I had part II of my root canal completed on Monday. There were no flaming matches in my mouth this time, but it was 100 times worse than the first procedure.

During my 2 hour appointment, the dentist drilled my tooth down beneath my gums to create a stump for the permanent crown to sit upon. My gums were angry and mangled. When I left, I had dried blood splattered all over my face. The dentist said the worst was behind me. Didn't he say that the last time?

It's been 5 days since the carnage and boy, my mouth freakin hurts. I have a pretty strong pain tolerance (hello natural childbirth x2), but I think I have reached my limit with this stupid tooth. My gums are throbbing and my teeth are aching from all the clenching I have been doing in response to my throbbing gums. The only relief I have is when I sleep. Because I nurse, I don't feel comfortable taking anything stronger than a Motrin, but I still won't take more than 1 or 2 a day for fear of tainted milk (totally in my head, but still). It is pure misery.

Before I had Beatrice, someone in our hospital birthing class said to me that I was absolutely crazy for wanting to have a med-free birth. "Who would want to feel the pain when you could opt for medication? It's like having a root canal without novocaine." I remember it vividly because it hurt my feelings the way this stranger was taunting me. I thought he was the crazy one because hello, childbirth pains are natural and even though not everyone wants to experience them, it's what is supposed to happen when you have a baby. Having your tooth's roots scraped out with metal instruments then drilled down to a nub, not so much. There is nothing natural about dentistry. Take my word for it.

The one time I want to take advantage of modern medicine, I can't have the drugs. My mouth freakin hurts, y'all. Part III of this nightmare continues in the coming week...

A Place of Our Own

We are down to 2 days before we move in with my brother and sister in law. We are also down a hundred million boxes, 2000 miles of bubble wrap, and 50 bajillion pieces of newspaper. Moving sucks. And it's not just the packing and wrapping and boxing that is so terrible, it's the whole leaving-the-comforts-of-home thing that is really hard for me. I don't like moving. At all.

I freak a little every time I move. The week before our wedding, JD and I were busy packing my things to bring to his place. He was in another room doing something and I was unpacking my clothes when I had a complete emotional meltdown. It hit me that my place was gone and now I had nowhere to feel at home. I knew that eventually his place would feel like home and be my home, but during the time that it didn't, it was going to be hard. There would be no sense of ah-it's-good-to-be-home that you get when you walk in the door after a long day. No comfortable morning routine of coffee and news and cereal bowls left in the sink. Things are different when you first move somewhere new, and that's always hard for me.

This move is especially hard because we are leaving the home we fell in love in. The back patio where JD proposed to me surrounded by hundreds of twinkling tea lights and scattered rose petals. The house where we made our babies and brought the first one home to. We fought here, laughed here, cried here, prayed together for the first time here, were disappointed at plans that didn't pan out here, and celebrated when dreams came true here. This place has been more than a place to live, it's been our home.

And now we're leaving it all behind to live in someone else's home. I know that after a week or 2, Seth and Jenny's house will start to feel like home. Especially after Penelope arrives. But I dread the feeling of not belonging anywhere and not having the comforts of my home at my fingertips. I guess I need to warn everyone about the complete emotional meltdown that's headed their way. I am looking forward to us being so close and having 4 extra arms to hold and love on my babies for 2 months. And my sister in law's cooking. And as long as I can leave a dish or 2 in the sink every morning, I think I will be okay.

Maimed

My left hand is maimed. It is mangled. It is in a state of complete and utter disrepair. See for yourselves.

Okay, so that is computer generated blood. I used it for ultimate impact since my actual hand looks less mutilated. I needed some shock factor to make you believe that it is near amputation status. You'll understand why in a moment. Here's my actual hand.

I suppose I should explain considering it looks almost normal. It all started on Thursday night when I was cooking dinner. I accidentally burned myself with boiling water on my thumb and ring finger. It hurt so badly, I went brain dead for 10 seconds and just left my fingers in the boiling water. They quickly swelled up and started blistering. I tried everything to soothe the burn, but the only thing that worked was aloe. I tape a whole branch of the plant to my blister and left it on for the night. I then tore the blister wide open when removing my wedding rings. More aloe was applied.

The maiming continued on Friday when I was feeding Beatrice a bite of my sandwich and she sneezed mid-bite. Her jaw locked and her teeth sank into my thumb for approximately 5 seconds. It was excruciating. So painful in fact, it briefly crossed my mind to whack her in efforts to release my thumb. I didn't because she is a baby and it was an accident. And I love her. She is lucky for that.

And finally today, while I was putting away the pot that started this whole mess, I scraped the skin off of my middle finger on the wooden shelving in our cabinets. I watched my skin curl up and blood begin to spew. More aloe and more bandages were applied.

So here's what I have going on:

As you can see, this is a very serious situation. I just hope my hand can be salvaged and I can regain some functionality.

I'm Over It

Our dishwasher is on the fritz. It started out only cleaning the dishes on the bottom rack, then the bottom rack dishes failed to come clean. Now after hand washing the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher, all the dishes come out dirty no matter which rack they were on. This is not how dishwashers are supposed to operate, or so I've been told.

This didn't bother me at first. I like washing dishes. It's one of those chores that leaves me feeling accomplished because I can see the progress happening as I work. It's gratifying, in the way that household chores can sometimes be. I like washing dishes so much that I often volunteer to wash other people's too. I have spent many hours hand washing mountains of dirty dishes at old boyfriends' apartments. Too many, actually. Come to think of it, I have dated a lot of slobs. JD was the first boyfriend I had that didn't have moldy, crusty plates littering his countertops every time I came over. It's how I knew he was The One. 


But now, after 3 days of no dishwasher, I'm over hand washing our plates and bowls and glasses and sippy cups and forks and snack cups. We go through a lot of dishes in a day. So many, it requires several sink-fulls of soapy water several times a day. My hands are raw, my back is sore, my countertops are cluttered with drying dishes, and there are way more dirty dishtowels than I'm comfortable with. On the flip side, my rings are the sparkliest they have ever been. I miss my dishwasher. Tomorrow we are going to purchase a new dishwasher. One that we'll only get to enjoy for a month or so, but the new tenants will love it. Have I mentioned that we're renting our place? No? Well, we're renting our place. Yay us! Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

Battle Theodore

My husband is one of a kind. He tries really hard to chant the smart husband mantra "whatever mama wants, mama gets," but mostly he fails. As much as he tries to leave decorating, menu planning, wardrobe decisions, and other things my married friends say their husbands wouldn't care about up to me, he has to voice his opinions. He can't help himself, he has preferences. And I love this about him. He never asks me what he should wear or what to buy his parents for Christmas, he just makes a decision and does it. This makes my job so easy. I love having a decisive man.

Except when it comes to naming our children. If there was ever a time that I wished my opinionated husband didn't care about something, it is when we are naming our offspring. The man is impossible to compromise with and the whole ordeal is infuriating. I'm getting angry just writing about it. You should see how hard I'm pecking at this keyboard. 


We both like old fashioned, traditional names, but that is about all that we agree on. While we have narrowed down our girl list to 2 favorites, our boy list remains empty. He hates my suggestions and decides immediately if a name is a maybe or a no. So far, all but 1 is a no. For some strange reason, he thinks his potential son's name should be masculine and strong. And that's fine, but he acts like I am suggesting that we name him Susan or something. My suggestions are male names. Uncommon male names, but names any manly male would enjoy having. Don't you just love Theodore? Oh what a happy day it would be if my husband conceded to Theodore. 


Of course I understand that naming a child is not the same as deciding what's for dinner. But when every suggestion I make gets nixed the instant I suggest it, I want to scream. Something has to give and it's not my beloved Theodore. In his defense, he is in no hurry to decide since we don't know the sex and still have a few months to pick something. I, on the other hand, feel a strong sense of urgency to go ahead and name this baby. For me, it's part of the bonding process. Plus, I can't wait to start purchasing little monogrammed onesies and burp cloths.

So we're at a standstill. He hates my suggestions and he refuses to make any. I give the man a week and half to decide upon something with me amicably. After that, it is war.

UPDATE:
We have agreed upon a very masculine boy name!! Our girl name remains undetermined, but we have made progress. And while Theodore got vetoed, I really like our choice and am excited. Woot woot!

The Couch

When JD and I got engaged, we bought a new couch. At the time, all of my furniture was hand me downs from my mom and grandmother. And while my olive green velvet couch was the envy of Burton St., I longed for something new. Something grown up. Something that hadn't been sat upon by countless random rear ends for the last 30 years.

We found that something while shopping for lamps one afternoon a few months before the wedding. When I saw it, I fell in love. The couch was tailored yet plush. Sophisticated and comfortable. Neutral but stylish with coordinating paisley pillows and armchair. It was perfect. I petted it and feigned all over it while JD tested the comfort level. It seemed to be perfect for us and all I had to do was say, "honey, what do you think?" and we were writing up the ticket for our new living room ensemble. I was elated.

The furniture was delivered about a week later and for several months, it suited our needs perfectly. The couch looked great with our other furniture and decor. It was long which meant my abnormally tall body could lay on it without having to bend my knees or hang my feet off of the end. We really enjoyed our new furniture............ until visitors came over and said terrible things about it.

You see, our couch is really deep. This makes for great lounging, but when you want to sit and talk or, you know, get up off of the couch, it takes some special maneuvering. Being tall, this isn't much of a problem for me, but my 5 ft sister in law basically has to roll her body off of the thing or else she is stuck in the deep, soft cushions that back up to deeper, softer pillows. The couch is basically made of clouds and if comfort's your thing, you will love it. But if you just want to sit down every once in awhile, you will probably hate it like all of our guests.

After 3 years of lying on this couch, the cushions are misshapen and flat. The paisley print that I once loved irritates me. The comfort level is gone because nursing babies requires a little back support and this couch has zero. Because it is made from marshmallows and cumulous cloud formations. 

The bottom line? This couch sucks. But for some strange reason - probably because it is my first piece of "adult" furniture - I am very defensive about it. If someone says something derogatory about our couch, I automatically chime in and say, "oh it might be hard to get up out of but it's very comfortable and WE LOVE IT." It's like having a child that is totally unruly. You know it, everyone else knows it, but as the parent of that child you cannot say anything bad about him/her because they're yours. You make excuses for the child. You try to mention their good traits, but at the end of the day, you're not kidding anyone. That kid needs to be grounded and we have a lousy couch. Let's just call a spade a spade.

I'm at the point where I can admit that I hate the couch, but I don't know how long you're supposed to keep furniture before you replace it. Growing up, I slept in the same bed until I got married. I only remember 2 couches in my mom's living room: her country blue one with the mauve accent pillows (1990s) and the hunter green/burgundy plaid one (2000s). Granted we were kind of poor growing up, 3 years still seems like not enough time to get your money's worth out of a couch.

It's to the point where JD says something about how stupid our couch is every day. I try to think of ways to revamp it, but I need to just face it: our couch sucks. I have a friend with the exact same furniture and when she saw a picture of our place, the first thing she said was, "ohmygoodness, don't you hate that couch?" Sigh. Yes okay, I hate the freakin' couch. It's a big, dumb, uncomfortable sorry excuse for a piece of furniture. But until I can figure out the appropriate lifespan for an expensive couch, we will continue to inconvenience guests with discomfort and awkward sitting arrangements because it is all we have. If anyone is in the market for a lovely, plush, comfortable couch GREAT for lounging, call me!

It Takes A Little Preparation

If you've been following the blog for at least a month, you know that our place is currently on the market. We knew not to expect much with winter and the holiday season upon us, but we prayed about it and felt like it was the right time to sell. JD and I walked through every inch of our house, exterior living space, and attic with our realtor taking notes of what needed to be done. We spent 2 weeks purging closets, organizing pantries, and rearranging everything. We cleaned, we painted, we prepared. And then, we waited.

It has been a month and we are still waiting for our first showing. It's a little difficult not to get discouraged when we have done everything in our power to prepare our home for potential buyers and the buyers don't come. It has left us feeling a little helpless while bordering on hopeless. Our attitudes have suffered because of it. Our realtor is working every avenue and creating wonderful marketing plans, but so far we have yet to see any fruit from the seed we've all sown in this place.

It has been hard to stay positive when it appears as though nothing is happening for us. Selling is not just something that we would like to happen, it needs to happen. We are in a place in our lives where more space is a need versus a want. We need to move to a larger home sooner than later. And if our place doesn't sell this summer, we are faced with a somewhat desperate situation.

As a last ditch effort to do what I could to spread the word about our townhouse, I emailed every person in my address book that lives in our state. I sent them the listing and asked for their prayers. One of my old friends from college replied with a really awesome real estate prayer. It was very detailed and specific which I appreciated since I hadn't considered praying for some of the things listed. What really struck me about the prayer though was the responsibility that I held in selling this place. The prayer repeatedly stated how the home had been prepared in excellence as if for the Lord. That was very sobering to me because while I originally prepared our home in excellence for the market, I have not kept it in excellent condition. I have made new piles instead of sorting and putting away, I have stuffed things in drawers and closets instead of hanging them neatly, I have cluttered hallways and smudged wood floors and left beds unmade. In my defense, the snow was a mess and keeping our floors shiny and clean has been nearly impossible. Just sayin. 


In my moodiness about the lack of activity we've had on the place, I grappled with the notion that I may have had something to do with it. I keep praying for God to send the right buyer, but if my house isn't in market ready condition, why should I expect God to send me anyone?

Sunday we cleaned this place top to bottom. JD went back up in the attic to rearrange, I scrubbed EVERYTHING, we moved furniture (lots of Cheerios and raisins under the couch), we organized toys. We vowed to keep it this way. I called our realtor (who happens to be my best friend) and told her about my revelation and how we vowed to keep our place in excellence. She was so happy and relieved. She said that she had been praying and asking God what else she needed to be doing. She said that she was so pleased that we had prayed and come to the realization that we did.

So we have committed to keep our townhouse prepared in excellence for the buyer that I know and trust God has in store for us. Maybe now we will get some showings!!!! Are you praying???

Give Me Some Sugar, Sugar

I had a relatively sugar-free childhood. My mother served us Kool-Aid without sugar, unsweetened iced tea, and water. I recall a few sippies of Diet Coke too. I have zero memories of having desserts other than homemade sugar-free Kool-Aid popsicles made in ice trays with toothpick sticks. I know desserts existed because I have photos of my brothers and me blowing out candles atop birthday cakes, but those were probably made with oats, whole grains, and sugar-free Kool-Aid.

Needless to say, when I got older and had more freedom from my mother's hatred of sugar, I binged on the stuff. In high school, I spent my lunch money on a bag of purple Skittles and a Dr. Pepper. I ate candy and soda for lunch everyday for 3 years and it was awesome. My mom never knew. Until now. Hi, Mom. I got a few cavities but blamed it on my ancestry and my lack of flossing. No one needed to know about my little sugar  affair I was having 5 days a week in the halls of education.

When I got to college and moved out of my mother's house, things really got out of control. I could actually buy and store candy in my own living space without my mom discovering it and throwing it away. So I bought tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons of candy. Brach gummy bears were my favorite. I would eat an entire bag during my college algebra class 4 nights a week. Most of my freshman 15 can be attributed to Brach's gummy bears. I was, in fact, turning into a gelatinous bear myself.

Once I began working, I kept canisters (plural) of a variety of candies on my desk. I loved Hot Tamales, Jelly Bellies, Starbursts, purple Skittles, and Twizzlers that had a tart, lemony filling. Those were awesome. 

After several years of eating a diet of mostly candy, my teeth began falling out of my head. Not really. But I had hundreds of thousands of cavities. My teeth hurt. I was fat. It was not working out anymore. But I had a major sugar addiction. I tried giving it up cold turkey, but I would get the shakes at night because I needed/wanted something sweet so badly. I resorted to eating jam by the spoonful. I thought that would just take the edge off. I ended up eating the whole jar in 2 nights. Not good.


It got to the point that my dentist told me I had to stop eating so much sugar. The enamel on my teeth was eroded, I had cavities on top of cavities, and I had trouble chewing because my teeth were so sensitive. About this time, I had a major revelation on my health and took up running while giving up sweets. I got healthy, but I never got over my love of sugar. I learned that eating sweets in moderation wouldn't kill me. And that moderation meant a few times a month, not smaller amounts per day. My teeth got better and I finally kicked my addiction to needing sugar after every meal.

Then I got pregnant. Did you know that one of the side effects of pregnancy is poor dental health? Apparently, your tiny fetus needs the nutrients in your teeth too so all of the tooth vigor you once knew will be extirpated for the sake of your growing baby. And it doesn't get better with flossing. Since having Beatrice, I have 2 abscessed teeth, cavities, and a molar with enamel erosion so bad, my root is exposed. And none of it can be repaired until I quit breast feeding. So basically, I have a mouth full of rotten teeth. Maybe that's why JD doesn't want to play the kissing game anymore.


What does all of this mean? Why am I writing about teeth and sugar???? Because I cannot eat any sweets at all anymore. Not even in moderation. It. Is. TORTURE. Especially at Christmas. I make really good goodies like toffee graham crackers and white peppermint bark. I haven't bothered making anything because I can't eat it. That exposed root makes for searing pain when it encounters sugar. I can't even drink sweet tea. This is probably a blessing in disguise. Especially after yesterday's post. But I can't help be a little bitter (the opposite of sweet, how fitting) at the fact that I can't enjoy my grandmother's jam cake this year. Or my mom's chocolate dipped pretzels. What the heck, mom? You never made those when we were kids. I will sip my water and eat my vegetables while you all indulge in my most favorite thing of all: sugar.

Here is a picture of JD and me with our wedding cake. Look at my face. I'm not kidding, I am serious about sugar.

Prisoner's Diet

I am guilty of judging mothers of picky eaters. If a child only eats 3 things, 2 of which come from a box or a cellophane wrapper, I blame the mother. I always thought that a picky eater was the fault of the parent. Those parents must not offer enough wholesome varieties of food. They must be lazy and not too intelligent if they feed their children macaroni and cheese every meal.

Then I had a picky eater of my own. And I realized that IT IS NOT MY FAULT.

My child has a prisoner's diet. She eats toast, cheese, and water. I'm lucky if she'll eat some bananas or grapes. She won't touch vegetables, meat, or any other foods. My child eats like she's in jail. And I feel responsible.

She hasn't always been this way. When we started table foods, she would eat anything. If I put it in front of her, she would gobble it up. Everyone would comment about what a good eater I had on my hands and I would beam with pride. I felt like I had something to do with her being a good eater. After all, I offered her a wide variety of organic fruits and vegetables, I baked whole grain bread, and I gave her plenty of opportunities for new tastes and textures. I ruled at having a good eater. Now, I fail. I fail miserably and it's driving me crazy.

I try not to get too upset over her poor diet. I continue to offer her lots of different, healthy options. Those options always end up on the floor, but at least they were offered, right? I have come to realize that having a crappy eater is not my fault. It's not anyone's fault. She is a person with her own likes and dislikes. Who happens to dislike everything but bread, cheese, and water, but whatever. Just because my child doesn't eat any fruits or vegetables doesn't mean that I am a bad parent or that I am lazy. It just means that she is picky. And hopefully it is a phase that she will outgrow. One cannot live on bread and water alone, can they? Not without everyone judging the mother, they can't.

I thought that if I let her hold the spoon herself, maybe just maybe, she would eat some yogurt. She loved the spoon. Not so much the yogurt. 

Unthinkables

So the unthinkable has happened. I am sick. I caught JD's beast of a cold and I feel like crap. Beatrice's party is tomorrow and I can't be sick. I didn't make plans to be sick so this has really thrown a wrench into everything. I've been speaking my health into existence (Romans 4:17) and gargling with hot salt water. Wanna know when you're officially a grown up? When you gargle hot salt water without your mom forcing you to do so. Which, by the way is my least favorite thing to do. But when you nurse a baby, you cannot take anything that contains antihistamines or your milk dries up. And wouldn't you know, cold meds are chock full of them. So it's hot salt water and positive speech for me. And a teensy bit of whining. I should've seen the sickness coming. I have been mixing things up all week and rearranging our days for appointments that never existed. I was certain that I had a hair appointment on Wednesday and switched around all of today for a 2 o'clock pediatrician appointment that is not until next week. My brain needs health to operate at full capacity apparently. 

So the party is tomorrow and most everything is completed. Did I mention that we have changed everything about the party? It's no longer at the park, we are having it here with immediate family only. We are serving chili, cider and cake. The 3 Cs of perfect fall party making. The other unthinkable thing? It's actually cold. The high today and tomorrow is in the 50s so our menu will be perfect. However, the downside is Beatrice has her 1 year pictures tomorrow morning. Outside. And all of her dresses and outfits are short sleeved. Will y'all think that I'm a bad mother if I don't make her wear a sweater? Or shoes? Because I'm just warning you now, you will probably see pictures of a 1 year old bare foot and in short sleeves in the cold. I can't ruin 1 year old photos with sweaters and shoes. Don't judge me...


Something unthinkable happened yesterday. 2 somethings, actually. Beatrice had her first (and second) waffle fry from Chick-Fil-A and had pizza for dinner. I have refrained from giving her any junk food her entire life but I figure with all of the cake she is about to eat this weekend, I might as well introduce her to fried, greasy goodness while she has the chance. Plus I'm sick and cooking is not happening right now. She loved it (of course) but she equally loved the lima beans I offered her in attempt to not feel so guilty for feeding my child crap all day.

The last and most unthinkable thing? I think I might love the cat again. He's been sleeping with me on the nights that JD is not here. Plus he seems so concerned with my health, it is kind of sweet. But don't tell JD. I will never hear the end of it. I guess the only other unthinkable things I can think of happening are that the party goes off without a hitch, I wake up feeling better and Beatrice doesn't catch the cold that is attacking my throat and chest right now. PRAY FOR US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dada Is Sick

I never thought I'd ever say this, but I can't wait for JD to go back to work. He's been sick all weekend with a cold and since we share a bed, we've both been up all night for three nights now while he hacks up lungs, sneezes and gets up to blow his nose at all hours of the night. He never sneezes or coughs during the day, I think he saves them up for nighttime. Lucky me. And since the only nights we get to sleep in the same bed together are on his off days, I don't feel right about banishing him to the couch so I can actually sleep. But my goodness, I'm so tired.

I've been averaging about five hours of sleep the last couple of nights and it is not working out for me. I spent all day in my pajamas trying to convince Beatrice to snuggle with me on the couch instead of climbing the stairs and well, doing anything but snuggle with me on the couch. No such luck. She was wild all day.

Sock on the head is a fun game around here. And this was our umpteenth try at coaxing her into taking a family nap. 

She'd rather play all over our bed instead. Figures. 

I took two naps today and even though I have not showered and am still in my pajamas, I feel a little better. JD is still under the weather and will be home one more night with us. He has promised to sleep on the couch so I can sleep tonight but I'm begging him to come to bed with me and just not cough, sneeze, move or breathe at all. Sounds reasonable to me.

Fall

Fall is not my favorite season. I think it's because where I live, fall never fully happens. I live in the South and the South has a bad case of seasonal multiple personality disorder. We are north enough to get snow but south enough to have terrible humidity. Our summers last forever and just when we've had enough of the scorching heat, fall shows up long enough for the sweaters to come out and the fire wood to get stocked. Then it gets hot again. This schizophrenic climate cycle will continue for a couple of months. No one knows how to dress their children for school because it is 40 degrees in the morning and 80 by noon. Layers are our friend. By October, us Southerners are ready for cold weather to catch up to the fall-like activity and changing leaves we've had. Throughout the entire season, we are lucky to get a few cool days. Mostly it's just hot. And then winter hits. Fall needs to get on some meds.

I never get to experience a true fall. But that doesn't stop us from going with the motions and doing fallish things. We have decorated our front porch with fall foliage. We don't have to worry about the mums getting frost bitten when the temperature never drops below 50. 

Hello, Crow Scarer. Beatrice has to touch its nose and eyes every day. 

Today we went to a big farm that has a petting zoo, pumpkin patch and hay rides. It was super fun and screamed fall fun, despite being 81 degrees.

We were hot, covered in hay and the stench of manure filled our nostrils. But our girl loved it. Especially the pumpkins.

JD is still recovering from a cold and the heat made us want to stay in today, but this is fall. Our state may have missed the memo, but that's not going to stop us from participating in the fall festivities. I also can't be stopped from participating in fall fashion. I will wear my boots in October and a little 80 degree weather isn't going to stop me. 

Happy fall everyone! Here's to hoping you're enjoying yours no matter what the weather is like.

Moms Are Like Glue

At the risk of sounding cliche, becoming a parent has changed everything in my life. And while it is all mostly for the better, the one thing I don't think I will ever get used to is not having sick days or time off. When you're a mother, you have to go and do and conquer. Despite how awful you feel, diapers still need to be changed, babies still need to be rocked and husbands (and babies) still need to eat. Mom has to pull it together, even when she feels like she is falling apart.

I feel like I am falling apart. I have had less than 5 hours of sleep for the past 3 nights and I am worn down. When I get this tired, my patience runs out and my housekeeping takes a back seat to everything. JD would have a fit if he came downstairs and saw the place. Before I had a child, I would just catch up on sleep during the day or take it easy until I felt rested. That is not an option now and I'm beginning to accept that it may never be. With JD working the night shift and sleeping during the day, I have to get up regardless of how little sleep I got the night before and press on. Beatrice slows down for no one.

It's not just being tired that is taking its toll on me, I have so much to do. Beatrice's party is a week from today and I have several projects started that need finishing. I have to finish the blanket that I am making her and pick out a cake. I have to finalize the menu and clean this house. I have to grocery shop and fold laundry. And because I'm so tired, I don't feel like doing any of it. My dining room table has looked like this for 3 days now:

That's what 3 weeks of coupons look like. Don't get that behind, trust me. It is no fun.

JD has a cold and he is up in the bed feeling like crap. I don't mind that he gets to settle in until he feels better, but sometimes I wish I could take a day off to stay in bed and feel better. But I'm the mom. I've got to keep it together so we all don't fall apart.

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A Really Good Story About A Really Bad Morning

I had a terrible morning. I realized I had screwed up an Etsy order so I had to frantically remake a grey diaper cover into a brown diaper cover and have it shipped no later than one o'clock to ensure that it arrived on time for my recipient's photo session. I put Beatrice down for her morning nap and prayed that God would have her sleep until I was finished with the cover. As I began to crochet, I realized that I was going to run out of brown yarn. I began praying and believing that God would work a miracle and make my yarn last. I mean if Jesus could feed 5000 with five loaves and two fishes, surely God would let me make one measly diaper cover out of barely enough yarn. Just as I was coming to the end of the yarn, Beatrice woke up. She slept 22 minutes and my diaper cover was halfway complete. I began to get angry.

It was 10:30 so I decided I had enough time to make a quick run to Hobby Lobby for more yarn. I got Beatrice up and we left. On the way, I prayed that my yarn would be available and that it would be on sale. We got there and went to the needlework department. Among 500 varieties of yarn in the tweed section sat an empty hole. That empty hole was supposed to house my barley brown yarn. Instead, it was empty. I stared at the empty space and thought about what the appropriate response should be. Do I give up and go home and refund my buyer's money? Do I cry? I decided to get angry with God. "You've got to be kidding me, God," I fumed. "This isn't just for me, you know. Someone is relying on me and I need Your help." I knew I was treading on thin ice taking it out on Him but I felt let down. I decided not to give up hope quite yet. I ventured to another craft store close by.

I said the same prayer about my yarn being in stock and on sale before I walked in. Beatrice and I made our way to the yarn and saw the tweed display. They had tons of my brand all out in the open. I saw the browns and started scanning for barley. Nothing. Nothing but another empty hole where barley should be. I started getting teary eyed because this really wasn't about me. I wanted to make this person's baby the perfect accessory and photo prop. If I were waiting on something for Beatrice to arrive, I would be terribly disappointed if I got an email saying "sorry, I ran out of yarn." Not very professional or courteous.

So I got back in the car and started crying angrily at God. "See God, I can't really trust you," I thought. I didn't dare say it. "Why don't you care about this when it's so important to me and this other person?" I knew I had no right to think that because God has proven Himself faithful time and time again in my life, but I was upset that He seemed to be ignoring me.

I went to the last craft store in town and told God that this was it. I went to the yarn section and lo and behold on the top shelf was barley tweed. In abundance too. I began crying. "Why did I ever doubt you, Father?" I prayed. "Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!" When I got the register to pay, the clerk pulled out a coupon and I got a 50% discount. Yep. God had answered my prayer in entirety.

I got in my car and started sobbing. I felt so guilty about getting angry with God and ultimately, not trusting Him to pull through for me. Often I think of God as my heavenly Santa Claus sitting up there waiting to give me anything I ask as long as I am a good girl. When the first store was out of my yarn, I pouted and questioned why He would do this to me. I'm good after all. And I asked. Shouldn't He give when I ask?

I love that God cares about even the smallest details of our lives. Not completing the brown diaper cover wouldn't have been terrible. I already had a grey tweed one made. But He cares about the little things in our lives as much as the big. And I love how He does things His way. Making me drive to three different stores was probably to teach me that I really can trust Him with my life because after each failed attempt, I became more desperate for His intervention. And a little lesson in patience probably was due too.

So I finished the diaper cover without any anxiety about anything else going wrong. I figured God had shown me that He had plans to prosper me all along (Jeremiah 29:10-12). It was mailed on time and will be there on Saturday. I needed a reminder that I can trust God with all of the concerns of my life. Even the yarn ones. He is Faithful and I love Him.

Another crappy part to my morning was my toe. I hung my little piggy on the door frame in the pantry and I'm pretty sure I broke it. It is all swollen and purple and I can't bend it. But thanks to Christopher Moltisanti of Sopranos fame, I know that there is nothing you can do for a broken toe except let it heal. I will however, be praying for a speedy recovery. Because God cares about toes too. And I love that I referenced The Sopranos in a post about God.

I Am A Freak

I've been described as a freaker. I tend to freak out in stressful situations. Instead of handling stress like an adult, curling up in a ball and crying comes more naturally to me. So that's what I do. I cry, I throw tantrums on the couch directed towards God and I don't deal like an adult. Hello my name is Aly and I am emotionally weak. Not to be confused with mentally unstable, just so you know. I'm not a loon. Just the type of person that crumbles under pressure instead of standing up against it. I feel like there needs to be that disclaimer when one's mental capabilities are being questioned by oneself. 


I have had a rough past couple of days. We are still not adjusted to JD's new midnight shift and Beatrice has finally cut her first tooth after 8 months of teething. Every time she has drooled, chewed something or cried since she was 2 months old I have been told that she is teething... I have made it my personal responsibility to make sure that JD sleeps during the day. It has put me under tremendous stress as it is impossible to keep a 10 month old quiet. Between this, the incessant crying at all hours of the night from new teeth and not having my helper/husband home has led me to want to do lots of this:

Instead, I have felt sorry for myself and cried at inappropriate places like in the car on the way to the zoo, at the grocery store and at church. Actually I couldn't help the crying. I think. It felt so right at the time. I have accepted that I am not emotionally strong. I can struggle through tough situations and prevail on the other side, but I will cry and blubber the whole time. I am a baby. Is that okay?


I know it's not okay. I am a mother now for goodness sake. I can't be crying and stomping my feet every time something is hard or not the way that I planned it. I think I just set such a high bar for myself that when I can't achieve it, I freak. And just so you know, I am well versed in trusting God and asking for His help. However, when He doesn't help right away, I freak on Him too. This is definitely not okay. I'll spare you all of the gory details but when Beatrice only slept for 30 minutes after I begged God to let her sleep for 2 hours the other morning so I could nap, I cried and kicked the blanket off of the couch while asking God why He refused to help me. Out loud. I threw an out loud fit at God. And then I repented. 

But the most not okay thing about it is that there is a tiny, little girl watching my every move. She is learning how to act and react from me. And whether I want to admit it or not, I am forming the norm for her by the way that I choose to act. Because freaking is a choice, no matter how natural it feels. For the next several years, I will be her only example of a mother, wife and woman. And I don't want her to think that it is okay to freak out when things are hard. I want her to have poise and a confidence that God is her refuge and help in time of need (Psalm 18:2).

So after all of the freaking out I did this weekend, I think I'm feeling better. I realize that things don't have to be perfect. And I am not going to feel responsible for JD's sleep anymore. I may still cry every now and then, but I am going to try to let things go and choose to not freak out. And keep my tantrums at God to a minimum.

Beatrice says "go with the flow mom."

I Need A Shower

It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I am still in my pajamas. I have not had a shower yet. My hair is a disgrace and my teeth are not brushed. If you came to my house right now, you would ask me if everything was alright because I never not get ready for the day. It's this stupid night shift JD is on. It has me all out of sorts and my hygiene is suffering because of it.

I hate waking up early but because I am an adult and I used to have a 9 - 5 job, I have grown accustomed to getting showered and dressed early in the day. After I had Beatrice and sleep became a precious commodity acquired whenever I could get it, I fell out of the habit of getting ready in the morning. I would nap until noon and then drink coffee until 3. Sometime before bed, I would shower and change clothes. This made for a depressed Aly. I need showers, clothes, make up and sunlight to feel like a productive person. If I go too long without any of those, I get very melancholy.

Because of JD's schedule, he sleeps during the day. He has made it very clear that each day my objective should be to ensure that he sleeps soundly for 8 solid hours, AKA I better be quiet and keep Beatrice quiet. So I have become a prisoner in our house. A silent, dirty, unkempt prisoner. Our shower is in the master bathroom. Drying my hair is out of the question while he is sleeping so I just wait until he wakes up. Yesterday I tried showering in Beatrice's bathroom but she nearly climbed into the tub with me. I spent more time trying to keep her out and dry than I did bathing myself. Plus I forgot to bring soap so I had to use her baby bubble bath which didn't make me feel very clean. I laugh in the face of mild, unscented soaps. So today, I just haven't showered. And I feel like crap.

I would totally leave the house everyday to alleviate the pressure of keeping a baby quiet but I can't leave without a shower. So our days consist of lots of shushing from me and lots of squealing from her. And lots of grumpy stomping downstairs from JD complaining that he hasn't slept all day because of us. Oh and you know what else? I'm eating ice cream out of the carton right now because that's what people who don't shower and wear their pajamas all day do. In 1 short week I have gone from Suzy Homemaker to a slob that internet shops all day (a big box from Pottery Barn came today, woo hoo!) and eats junk food while waiting for Oprah to come on for her husband to wake up so she can finally take a shower with real soap.