Oct 052013
 
Babies... they sure are cute, but they don't listen very well!

Babies… they sure are cute, but they don’t listen very well!

“Women make plans and God laughs.” That is the phrase that I jokingly uttered to my doctor last week as we were discussing my birth “plan.”  It became yet another shining example of why I should learn to keep my big fat mouth shut. Because, now, someone is laughing. And it sure as hell isn’t me.

I know that when it comes to pregnancy, as well as most things in life, the only thing you can absolutely plan on is that nothing will ever go as planned. I really, really DO know this. But, despite this knowledge, and against my better judgement, I had a plan for how this birth was going to happen. My parents were going to fly in from Colorado on the 19th, and I was definitely going to go into labor on the 20th. (My actual due date.) They would be here to take care of my toddler while I rushed to hospital – and it’s a good thing that they would be here, because this labor was going to go fast! That’s the way it’s supposed to happen with baby #2, right? That’s what various moms, doctors and articles all claimed. A fast and (relatively) easy and (somewhat) painless birth. This promise of an easy labor was the one thing that I clung to throughout this pregnancy. It was the one thing that got me through when everything else was so much harder the second time around. I should have gotten a money back guarantee on that one.

Ok, so where was I? Ah yes, my “plan”. So after this miraculous and joyous labor, my perfect, healthy, handsome and not-at-all-coneheaded boy would emerge into the world. My husband would hold him up above his head and all the nurses would hum “Circle of Life.” I would stay at the hospital for a couple of days, and my parents would bring my daughter to come meet her new baby brother. We would do everything just as friends, blogs and books recommend to ease the introduction between the new siblings, and my daughter would be delighted to meet her new best friend. She would hug me hard and kiss him very gently, and declare that she loves her new brother more than anything! And we would capture it all in photos and videos, and in these captured moments I would look as fresh and beautiful as Duchess Kate. And we would all live happily ever after. Are you laughing yet? Because, like I said, someone is. And it still aint me.

On Monday I went to get an ultrasound because the baby was measuring a bit small. Ironic isn’t it? I spent the first half of pregnancy complaining that I was too big and now I am concerned that I am too small. The baby is fine, thank God. Actually, he is more than fine. He seems to be having the time of his (short) life in there.

As the doctor was looking at the ultrasound, she says, “So the first interesting thing I see is that the baby is breech (head up instead of down).”  And my reaction?  “Wait, what? I’m sorry. I thought you said he was breech! Heh-heh. That is hilarious because on Thursday his head and all other body parts were exactly where they were supposed to be and I am 37 weeks along and dangerously close to giving birth and babies don’t just up and move like that, do they?”  Apparently they do. I guess kids don’t follow our plans, even when they are 0 years old.

After listening to the ultrasound doctor crush my dreams of an “easy” and “beautiful” labor with her doom and gloom predictions of a necessary C-section, and after an embarrassing explosion of tears in the elevator, complete with requisite strangers totally staring and yet somehow awkwardly avoiding eye-contact, I sat in my car in shock for a full 10 minutes. And cried. Then, realizing that this was costing me $1000 per minute in doctor’s office parking fees, I started my car, stopped crying, and did the only thing that someone like me could do in this situation… began planning.

After talking to my OB, I got a bit more hopeful. She was optimistic (although I am pretty sure that she cursed when she heard that the baby was now breech.) She had a plan. And once I had a list of things to do, I began to feel better.  I went to prenatal chiropractor, who opened my hips to make my pelvis more “inviting”. I stacked up pillows and lay inverted while I watched “Breaking Bad”. I burned incense at my pinky toes for 10 minutes to encourage movement. I talked to my baby and asked him to please turn around. Then I yelled at my baby and demanded he turn around. Then I felt guilty and apologized to my baby for yelling and gently told him that he could do what he thought was right, but I would really appreciate it if he could please, please turn around. But most importantly, I started to get right with the idea that I may have to have a C-section, or I may not. But no matter what, nothing was going to go as planned and maybe, possibly, potentially, that was ok.

And then somehow… it all worked.

He is now head down where he is supposed to be and I am tentatively excited. I don’t know what will happen now. He is small and still moving more than he should be, so there is potential that he could flip again. The doctor thinks she may have to induce next week. Or that I will possibly go into labor naturally any time now (2 weeks early). Or that he might continue to surprise us all, and hang out just a little bit longer. The only thing I know is that I can’t plan on anything anymore. And maybe, possibly, potentially it will all be ok anyway.

Alright, now I’ve gotta run. I have birth announcements and first birthdays and preschool and college and weddings to start planning for.

photo credit: Nina Matthews Photography via photopin cc

May 172013
 

For some odd reason, some people think that because you are pregnant they can say things to you that they would never say to a non-pregnant person.  Like growing a life inside your belly somehow makes you suddenly immune to comments on your looks, weight, parenting style or dietary choices. I mean, would you ever ask a non-pregnant person how much weight she has gained lately?  Would you ever tsk at her drinking a diet coke or eating a hamburger?  Would you ever stroke her belly??  The answer to these questions should be no. If it is not, you need to see a therapist. So if you wouldn’t say these things to a non-pregnant person, why is it suddenly ok to say them to a pregnant woman?

I have had enough invasions of privacy lately without hearing your thoughts on my body parts, thank you very much. I have peed in more cups, spread my legs more often, and had more conversations about my bodily functions than Lindsay Lohan, and quite frankly, I am tired of sharing myself.  Do I sound bitter and cranky? Because I am. I already feel enough like a human Tupperware container without people treating me like I am no longer human. So thanks, but keep your thoughts on how I look to yourself.  Unless, of course, you want to tell me how amazing my boobs look. Because right now, they are pretty amazing!

Basically, what I am saying is that if you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all. If you are not sure if it is nice, just don’t say it. If you still need further clarification, read below for my list of things you should never, ever say to a pregnant woman. Ever. Unless, of course, you were wondering what a swollen, pregnant fist tastes like.

1)  It’s only 9 months.

Ok, first off, 40 weeks is more than 9 months. Second, YOU try feeling nauseous, ugly, angry, sad, hungry, uncomfortable, gaseous and swollen for even 9 days and tell me that it doesn’t feel like 9 years!

2)  Wow!  You are only x months pregnant??  You are huge!

Even if it is said with a smile, or followed by a compliment or a comment that I am “all belly”, the only thing I hear is “Holy shit, you are fat!” And it makes me to slap the smile off your skinny, non-pregnant face.  Sorry, there goes the bitterness again.

3)  You can’t eat that/drink that/do that!

Thank you pregnancy police.  I am well aware (waayyy too aware) of what my dietary limitations are.  This is between me and my doctor.  I assure you that I am doing everything I can to create a healthy environment for my growing child, and that may or may not include an occasional caffeine fix, piece of fish or sip of wine. I did all three during my first pregnancy, and also lifted things that weighed more than a piece of paper, highlighted my hair, and painted my nails.  My child is just fine. Why don’t you focus on your own kid, who is eating a can rubber cement right now?

4) Are you sure that you are gaining enough weight?  You need to eat more. You are exercising too much.

This is just as annoying and unhelpful as the fat comments.  Every body is different.  This is true even during pregnancy. If a woman is truly gaining too much weight or not gaining enough, rest assured that her doctor will let her know.  Just like in non-pregnant women, there’s no reason to make anyone feel guilty or uncomfortable about her body.  Ever.

5 )  You must be having a girl.  Carrying a boy makes you glow, but a girl steals your beauty while you are pregnant.

Great. So not only am I fat, but now I am ugly too? Thanks so much. (Yes, someone actually said this to me during my first pregnancy. Seriously?? Seriously.)

6)  I only gained 20 pounds when I had a baby and I lost it right away.

Good for you. Now shut the hell up and let me eat my double cheeseburger in peace.

7)  Are you sure you are not having twins?

Translation: “You are a complete whale.” Ask yourself this – Are you really worried that in this day and age a second baby could have snuck into my uterus, undetected by doctors and modern technology? I’m not buying it. Or are you just trying to think of a “nice” way to ask me why I am so huge?  There is no nice way, so keep your thoughts about my weight to yourself or you will have your heart ripped out (and likely eaten) by a hungry, hormonal pregnant woman.

8)  Can I touch your belly?

No you cannot, creeper.  I wouldn’t want you to touch my stomach while I was not pregnant, let alone when there is only a thin layer of skin between your grubby hands and my perfect baby.  Shudder.  But now you have put me in the awkward position where I either have to say no and feel like a total a-hole or let you touch me. Thanks for that.

** This question, however, is preferable to the people who actually lunge for your belly, unannounced. I would never, ever touch a stranger’s body, so while is it acceptable for strangers to touch you while you are pregnant??

9)  You don’t like being pregnant?! Wow. I loved every second of my pregnancy.

Perhaps there are a few select women who truly love being pregnant, but I can personally guarantee that no one loves every second of it. There are many incredible things about being pregnant – like the moment that you first feel the baby move inside of you. Or simply the fact that your body is capable of creating another living, breathing human. However, I think that any woman who says that they loved every second of 9 + months of discomfort, mood-swings, cravings, nausea, pain, sleeplessness, bloating, and weight-gain is either forgetting, lying or Mother Teresa.

I am sure that there are many more insane things that people say to pregnant women.  Have you ever said anything you regretted to someone or did someone say something hilariously terrible to you while pregnant?  Please share and we can mock this dumbass together…even if the dumbass is you.

 

May 022013
 
Hell yeah, I ate all the cupcakes!!

Hell yeah, I ate all the cupcakes!  And they were delicious!

5 Things I Have Eaten Recently:

1)  Queso dip, 5 layer bean dip and approximately a half pound of corn chips. As an appetizer.

2)  A smoothie made from greek yogurt, bananas, mango, pineapple and 3 different kinds of weird sprouts that made the smoothie crunchy.  All in a misguided attempt to counter-balance the bagel with cream cheese that I ate 10 minutes prior.

3)  Almost an entire box of dry Fiber One Chocolate cereal.  I will spare you the details but, please don’t ever do this!!!

4)  A cupcake.  Ok… three!!

5)  An entire jar of bread and butter pickles… which I don’t even really like.

 

5 Things I Have Cried About Recently

1)  That phone (or something) commercial where we see the little boy in all stages of his life, ending with him giving his mom a tour of his dorm room.  “It all goes so fast!! Sniffle, sniffle”

2)  Every single time I feel that my husband just “doesn’t understand me.” (ie. at least twice a week)

3)  A video of my daughter taking some of her first steps in our front yard.  She is smiling proudly as she drunkenly moves towards me on her wobbly little legs.  Her chubby fingers are laced in mine as… Oh crap… here we go again!

4)  The day I really wanted Mexican Food but Pinches Tacos was closed.  Ok, I didn’t actually cry, but I did get pretty teary-eyed.

5)  Any movie, tv show, commercial, webisode, viral video, or infomercial featuring a baby, toddler, small child, animal dressed to look like a small child, person with small features, midget or gymnast.

 

What does all of this mean????

I’m pregnant!!!!!
photo credit: FUNKYAH via photopin cc

Apr 242013
 

Two and a half years ago, while pregnant with my daughter, I started a journal to my unborn child.  I had a lot of questions, fears and emotions (imagine that: an emotional pregnant woman!)  Mostly I just felt like I had a lot to say to this little baby growing inside me, but I felt like a complete a-hole actually walking around talking to her. I have always had a much easier time writing rather than talking, especially when it comes to any subject that registers on an emotional scale of more than .0005. I can barely stutter my way through a difficult face-to-face conversation, but I can bare my soul on paper. That is part of the reason I started this blog in the first place:  I had a lot to say, but was too chicken shit to actually SAY any of it.

So for these reasons, I started a journal to my unborn child.  I have kept up with it since her birth, although not as often as I would like as actually having a child takes up most of my time. However, I hope to continue writing in it and saying all the things that I can never actually say to her until I feel that the time is right to give the journal to her.

A few days ago was my daughter Lyla’s second birthday.  And rather than writing a separate blog post about the immeasurable ways that she has changed my life in the two years since she was born, instead I am going to share with you the entry that I made into my daughter’s journal.

 Dear Lyla,

 A little over two years ago, I was anxiously awaiting your arrival. I was full of questions and fears, and there was so much that I did not know. Now, you are two years old, and I am full of new questions and fears. I am still learning every day, and thank goodness you are a kind and patient teacher. One thing that I have learned in the last two years is how little I knew until the day you came into my life.

 I knew that I would love you, but I didn’t know what this kind of love meant. I had no idea that this depth of love was even possible until you showed me how.

I didn’t know how addicting your smell would be.  

 I knew that you would change my life, but I didn’t know how much you would change me.  You have made me stronger than I ever imagined, more patient than I ever thought possible, and more compassionate than I ever dreamed I could be. You have brought out the best in me, and shown me parts of myself that I didn’t even know existed.  

 I knew that you would make me a better mother, but I didn’t know that you would make me a better daughter, wife, sister and friend. I didn’t know you would make me a better person.

I didn’t know what amazing conversations we would have, even at the age of two.

 I knew you would be my daughter, but I didn’t know you would be my confidant, my partner in crime, my fashion critic, my favorite companion and my best friend.

 I knew that I would have much to teach you, but I didn’t know how much you would teach me.  Every. Single. Day.

I didn’t know such big farts could come out of such a little person. 

I didn’t know that once I became a mom, I could never unbecome one, even if I wanted to just for an hour or two.  I didn’t know that even when you are not there, you are always in my mind and my heart.  

I didn’t know how hard I could laugh.

I didn’t know how much I would worry. Every second. Every minute. Every day.  I also didn’t know how this could possibly be a bittersweet thing. I worry so much because I love you so fiercely. And even though worrying can be exhausting, that kind of love feels good. So I embrace the worrying. I do know that you don’t understand what this means, but I hope that you have your own child someday and then you will know.

Lyla, there is so much that I didn’t know then and that I still don’t know now.  I have made many mistakes over the past two years, and I am sure that I will make so many more before you ever read this.  The one thing I do know is that my love for you somehow grows every day.  I know that you inspire me, amaze me, and make me happier than I ever thought I could be. I know I must be doing ok at this mom thing, because you are the most incredible little person that I have ever met.  Happy birthday my beautiful daughter.  I love you more than you will ever know.

Love,

Mommy

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Apr 012013
 

I don’t know what it is, but today has been an unusually great day.  My daughter slept in until nearly 9 o’clock and I woke up feeling more rested than I have in years. My husband greeted me in bed with a cup of hot coffee and then told me that he had gotten up early and cleaned both the bathrooms. I had a healthy and delicious Kale smoothie for breakfast.  Then I took a long, hot bath where I deep conditioned my hair, shaved 75% of my body and finally finished that book I have been reading for at least 2.5 years.

All my bills are paid, all my work is done, and I have crossed off all the items on my To Do list.  Actually I am kind of bored. (ps.this is the first time I have had time to be bored since 2001) Best of all, My daughter hasn’t thrown a single tantum all day!

Then I…

Oh,  forget it. If you believe even a word of this then

a)  Get a reality check.

b)  Check your Calendar.

Ahhhhh!!

Ahhhhh…  yeab right!

 

photo credit: Lotus Carroll via

Mar 192013
 

Thank You

 

For the last two weeks my daughter has been sick.  A high fever, double ear infection, mucus in her lungs and fever blisters in her mouth. And, of course, I am sick too. If it is actually possible not to get whichever illness your child has, I haven’t found a way.  I guess I could stop kissing and snuggling her when she needs it most.  I guess I could refuse to hold her in my arms while she whimpers in pain and coughs in my face.  But to me, that’s not possible.  Maybe I could get a gas mask. But that is a slippery slope, and suddenly you are wearing a doctor’s mask and gloves in the airport, opening doors with your elbow while you chug Airborne from a camelpak.

Needless to say, it has been a rough couple of weeks.  A solid night’s sleep has eluded me for longer than I care to think about.  Many a night has been spent on the floor next to my daughter’s bed, or in the chair in her room, or with her snoring and kicking me all night in my bed.  But the other night, as a lay next to my twitching daughter, rubbing her tiny back in circles, I was reminded of the many nights when I was little and sick and my mom laid with me in my bed, rubbing my back. I remembered how, in those moments, it was the only thing that seemed to make me feel better.  I remembered the way that even when I was in college, when I got sick I wished my mom was there to rub my back and make me feel better.  Somehow a smelly frat guy drunkenly rubbing my back didn’t have quite the same effect.

I started thinking about all the sacrifices that parents make for their children, and all the sacrifices my parents made for me.  Rubbing backs until your hand feels like it will fall off, wiping noses with your shirt (gross but true), risking illness to make your child feel better for even an instant, wiping butts for what must feel like an eternity, driving mini-vans even though you swore you never would… the list goes on and on.  And I have to say that for all the sacrifices that parents make, parenthood is a thankless job.  No one gives you a medal, or even notices the things you do. Certainly not your children.

However, it may be a thankless job, but it certainly is one that pays you back tenfold.  You may not get a “thank you” but you do get a smiling, happy child. You may not get a trophy, but you get to see your babies grow up to be the amazing people you knew they could be.  You may not get any kind of acknowledgement –  in fact, you may even get tears and screams and tantrums in exchange for the all the sacrifices you make – but you also get the love that fills your heart so full that there is not enough room for the screams and tears to stay very long.

And while no thanks is expected, a little thank you here and there might be nice… especially when it is 3 am and you are sleeping on your daughter’s cold, hard, floor. Again.  So parents, here you go:

To all the parents out there:  THANK YOU.

Thank you for doing all that you do to keep your children happy, healthy and safe.  I see you at the grocery store, struggling with your screaming child and keeping your cool anyway. I see you at the park, playing with your children instead of tapping away at your phone. I see you reading books instead of letting them zone out in front of the TV at night.  I see you fighting to get vegetables in their bellies instead of Cheetos, even though it would be so much easier to just give them what they want.  I see you at work, looking like a zombie because you were up all night with a sick child. I see you all. I appreciate you.  Thank You.

And now the most important Thank You I could say, one that I should have said long ago, but never knew how…

To My Mom and Dad,

Thank you for comforting me when I was sick and for rescuing me from imaginary monsters at 3 am. For listening to all my stories, laughing at all my jokes (mostly about poop and pee), and cheering me on at all my sports games.  Thank you for giving up your social life so that you could shuttle me around to every sport, activity and party my little heart desired.  Thank you for snooping through my stuff and getting into my business, even when I screamed and said I hated you.  Thank you for protecting me from myself. Thank you for telling me every day that you loved me.  And for letting me follow my heart and move to California, even though it must have been so hard to let me go.  Thank you for hoping that I didn’t have to come back, while kind of hoping that I did.  Thank you for a million more things that are far too numerous to type.  And most of all, thank you for never telling me about all these amazing things you did for me, but instead letting me figure it out on my own.  I love you.

And to everyone who has read this far… thank YOU.

Now, where’s my medal??
photo credit: Avard Woolaver via photopin cc

Mar 142013
 

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.” 

~Louise Erdich, The Painted Drum

I think this explains perfectly the wonderful, painful journey of parenthood.  For nothing fills your soul, breaks your heart and swallows you up more than being a parent.

 

Apple Tree of Life

Apple Tree of Life

photo credit: Mez Love via photopin cc

Feb 252013
 

A couple of months ago my husband and I had a fight.  Not simply a disagreement. Not an argument. Not even a simple, clean fight.  We had a knockdown, drag-out, say-things-you-will-regret-later kind of fight.  It was an experience that rarely happens, and I am going to do my best to make sure that it never happens again.

The details of what we argued about don’t really matter, but here’s the gist:  he said something that pissed me off and I totally over-reacted (as usual), got defensive (per normal), and got angry (yep, again normal. Sigh.) Again, the details of what he said that triggered all of this don’t really matter, but what I came to realize throughout that very long night is that: truly, it’s not him, it’s me.

I got so upset because something he said touched a very deep vein of insecurity in me. Nearly everyone I know has their insecurities, and I am no exception. I am insecure about many things: the size of my thighs, the shape of my breasts, the nasally sound of my voice. Insecurity is not a new thing to me. But lately I have added a new insecurity to the list. This insecurity has shaken me to my very core, because that is what I am insecure about – My very core.  Not my thighs or my breasts or my belly or my laugh. I am insecure about Me. Mostly because I don’t know who Me is anymore.

Since becoming a mom, I have struggled to define myself outside of that title.  I used to be many things – A writer, a producer, a loving wife, a best friend, a dirty-joke-teller, a great secret-keeper, a full-time foodie and wino, a sometime hip-hop dancer. But when my daughter was born, a new me was born too, and now I often feel as though I have been stripped down to a single thing: Lyla’s mommy.   Believe me, Lyla’s mommy is really great thing to be, but sometimes I feel as though it is just not enough.

Perhaps it is my fault. Since having a baby, I quit my full-time job and now freelance part-time. I have given up most of my hobbies. I see much less of my friends. But these are all choices that I made, and I am not sure that I would make them any differently. My most rewarding job is my daughter. She is also my favorite hobby and my best friend. And that is beautiful. But yet, I still feel lost sometimes.

I used to be full of stories and jokes and opinions.  Now, I often find myself struggling for interesting things to talk about at dinner parties.  My clever anecdotes about potty training, and hilarious stories of Mommy and Me shenanigans can only take me so far.

I used to have an exciting job.  Something I worked very hard at and was very proud of.  Now, when people ask me what I do, I  come up with some sort of vague answer about how I kinda stay home with my daughter and sort of work part-time from home.  It’s as though I feel like neither job is good or exciting enough to warrant anyone’s curiosity.  Instead I steer the conversation towards my husband or a friend or someone whose life is more worthy of examination.

I used to love getting dressed up, carefully planning each outfit the day before. Now, I spend my days in yoga pants and hoodies.  I sometimes go for days without putting on make-up or even washing my hair. This is probably because I can often go For days without seeing another adult besides my husband and the cashier at Trader Joe’s.

Time passes. There are wonderful days and boring days and tough days. My daughter grows bigger and sometimes I feel as though I am growing smaller.  I get further and further away from the person I used to be,  but somehow I don’t get much closer to discovering the person I am now.

Although my fight with my husband was awful, something good came out of it.  It forced me to take a hard look at myself and realize that I need to make some changes.  I need a Mommy Make-over, and not the kind that requires a nip and tuck, or even a new hair-cut. I realized that I need to take care of my newborn self the way that I took care of my newborn daughter.  I need to love and nurture myself, and every once in a while, to put my own needs at the top of the list.

I know that it is February, and now is when people are breaking their New Year’s resolutions, not making them, but I think that any positive change can happen any time you decide to make it happen.  So this year my resolution is this: I am going to spend a lot less time thinking about who I used to be or who I should be, and spend a lot more time discovering who I am.  Who I really am. Right at this moment.  Not the “new and improved, healthier, skinnier, friendlier, better wife, better mother” me.  But just me. Right now. What I REALLY enjoy doing.  What REALLY makes me happy.  Then I am going to spend a lot less time thinking about it, and a lot more time actually doing it. And hopefully once day, when I am old and grey and I have time to think about these things, I will discover that I have always known who I am.  And it has nothing to do with any job I held, or clothes that I wore, or hobby I perfected.  Perhaps it is some complicated equation that has to do with the people I love, added to the experiences I have had, multiplied by the laughs I have shared.   But I haven’t quite figured that out yet.  So for now, I’m going to try to think less and live more.  Talk to me when I’m 80.  By then I should have it all figured out.  Maybe.

 

Travel makes me happy!

Travel makes me happy!

photo credit: Stuck in Customs via photopin cc

Jan 232013
 

Today has been a tough day. Not as tough a day as many people around the world are having – fighting illness, war, abuse, hunger, poverty, and the inability to use the correct there/their/they’re – but more of a day full of annoyances and frustrations. Minor in terms of the scope of problems that I just mentioned, but that knowledge doesn’t make me feel less frustrated.  And I am trying not to feel guilty about that.  Sometimes we just need to feel frustrated.  To give into to it for a minute before we can get over it.  So I am.

My daughter hasn’t been feeling well for the past few days.  She has had a fever and has been waking up through the past few nights, which then causes her to be cranky during the following days because she is tired.  So I have gotten little more than a couple of hours of restless sleep for the past few nights, which has led to me also being cranky during the day.  So when my daughter has total meltdowns because I won’t allow her to put a plastic bag over her head, or she throws the lotion on the floor-causing it to explode all over the carpet, or when she smacks me the face with the force of a miniature prize-fighter, my own exhaustion and crankiness cause me to want to have a total meltdown.  What can I throw?  Who can I smack in the face?

Here’s the thing though.  It will pass.  One night soon (please God, please) she will feel better and get a good night of sleep.  And then so will I.  And life will be good again… until it’s not.  That’s the way parenting goes.  It is tough. It is wonderful. Often both at the same time.

So, I am not writing this post to ask for advice on how to get through this.  And I am certainly not writing this post to give advice on how to get through a similar situation.  I am simply writing this to remind everyone that Tough happens.  It happens to the best of us.  And to the not-even-close-to-the-best-of-us.   It happens in big problems and small annoyances. And sometimes we let our frustrations get the best of us.  Sometimes we even throw things or have meltdowns. And sometimes that’s ok… as long as you are not at work.  Or at a restaurant with tablecloths.  Or the grocery store.  Or on public transportation.  Or really anywhere in public if you can help it.

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I am woman, hear me roar!!! (in the privacy of my own home, of course.)

photo credit: Darwin Bell via photopin cc

Jan 032013
 

It’s been a while since I have posted a random thought.  I am not sure if that is because I have become less random or because I have less thoughts. Either way, here’s one that has been plaguing me lately:

What the hell do I do with all these lovely Holiday cards???!!!

First of all, as someone who sent my very first holiday cards this year (only to family, but STILL) I now know first-hand how much work goes into them. Someone took time out of their busy lives to create, order and/or buy the cards, find my address, buy stamps, lick the envelopes (gross!) and get them in the mail in time for me to receive them and (theoretically) hang then for the world to see. They are filled with delightful photos of people I love, painstakingly chosen from thousands of sub-par photos taken throughout the year. Some have personal messages, handwritten with care, but all have been sent with love and wishes for a great holiday season and happy new year.

But, now that the holiday season is done and the happy new year has begun… what the hell do I do with them? Throwing them away makes me feel like an asshole. The thought of tossing your friends’ children’s faces into the recycling bin next to junk mail and way too many wine bottles is sickening. However, keeping all of these cards to add more clutter to my already post-holiday clutter is even more sickening.

What to do, what to do.  I guess, like most things that I don’t want to deal with, like oil changes and my anger issues, I will just leave them for the hubby to contend with.  Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?

I can't bear to throw away cards... unless you send me a picture of your cat dressed up as Santa. Then it goes into the trash upon arrival.

I can’t bear to throw away cards… unless you send me a cutesy picture of your cat dressed up as Santa. Then it goes into the trash upon arrival.

 

photo credit: Viola & Cats =^..^= HAPPY HOLIDAY ! via photopin cc