Crafting with Cat Hair is a Real Thing

I'm 35. It pains me a small amount to type that. And yet, so it is. I wouldn't think about it a whole lot but for this baby I'm carrying around that keeps reminding me that I'm no spring chicken anymore. I'm like the spring chicken's great, great, great, great grandma's grandma. Another doctor visit this morning reminded me that having babies after 35 is less easy than having them at 25. (I realize this is common knowledge). Currently, I have pregnancy-related high cholesterol, low iron, high glucose levels and heartburn to rival the Colorado fire outbreak. Turns out that the labeling of my current season of life as "Advanced Maternal Age" is, in fact, a real thing and also a bummer.

But, all of this is only slightly more interesting than the terrible choice we made on Netflix the other night (Madea's Witness Protection Program, if you were wondering). So, I'll take my A.M.A. issues and move on. I just needed to overshare for a sec.

So, let's talk about Pinterest. I love Pinterest. I keep reading articles and blog posts about how Pinterest is giving us all inferiority complexes and driving us to break the tenth commandment by coveting each other's fondant cake sculptures and non-dairy, gluten-free, low-cal crockpot masterpieces. But, honestly, I don't suffer from these Pinterest-y problems so much. (Note: I have plenty of other coveting/comparison/inferiority problems, just not that one.) Pinterest is basically my virtual happy place.

However, I do find that, on occasion, pinners on Pinterest sometimes pin things that make me want to question their freedom to pin or use a toaster without supervision. You know what I'm talking about. Here are a couple examples:

Is this really happening out there?

These pants make my eyes burn.

And one more for good measure:

I'm curious what undergarments would be appropriate for this outfit.

In light of these sorts of pins, I came up with a list of boards and possible pins that I have yet to see on Pinterest but expect to see any day. Here you go:

Board #1

Crafts/DIY You Don't Have Time For:

-Make toothpick sculptures of your children (The new family heirloom).

-Handcarve your own scrabble pieces.

-Make a quilt out of your childhood Barbies' doll clothes. (Bonus points if you use Barbie hair for a fringe).

-Knit your own towels and washcloths. (Bonus points for harvesting your own wool from sheep you raised in your back yard).

-Learn to taxidermy (Seriously knocks out that Christmas list in no time. Stuffed squirrels for everyone!)

Board #2

Innovative/Out of the Box Recipes:

-Pumpkin bread with a coleslaw mix-in

-Healthy vegetable ice cream sundae - top with your favorite pureed veggie!

-Baked chicken stuffed with last night's leftovers - economical!

-Meatball pancakes with ketchup syrup

-Fried egg ice cream with bacon bits topping

Board #3

Good Ideas You Haven't Thought of Yet:

-Easiest Meal Ever- Place a roast, baking potatoes, green beans, a loaf of french bread and a gallon of sweet tea in a crockpot. Cook until dinner time.

-Substitute English peas for chocolate chips.

-Freeze apple sauce into sticks and use like you would butter.

-Make beef broth popsicles.

Honestly, I had a few more lists but realized that some of them aren't just figments of my imagination, but are actually happening out there. (i.e. bake your own goldfish, make your own dishwashing liquid, etc.)

Anyhoo, I pretty much just entertained myself for a half hour coming up with these. I'm curious what craziness you've seen on Pinterest recently. Do share.

Until next time, maybe you should try your hand at this recipe for milk pudding with Turkish fairy floss, or possibly actual floss:

 

It's a Forty Clorox Wipes Kind of Day

So, it's summer and I'm hot. Only not in the way that Jennifer Aniston or Ryan Gosling is hot. I'm currently the opposite of that kind of hot. Sadly, I'm just the old-fashioned, livin'-in-the-deep-south, big humid hair hot. Which means I'm eating a lot of popsicles and devising ways/excuses to stay inside air conditioned buildings at all times.

I feel the need to talk about what it's like to be seven months pregnant in the Deep South in the summer while pottytraining a three-year old. Does this sound like the beginning of a horror movie to you? If so, you might should visit another blog at the moment. But come back later when I have a sweet-smelling newborn and Starbucks is offering their fall-themed lattes (i.e. caramel apple, pumpkin spice, etc.).

I underestimated how different being pregnant the second time around would be. I forgot about one's center of gravity being compromised while pregnant until I fell on my rear end at Chic fil a this week whilst trying to tie my child's Converse sneakers. At this stage of the game, I'm not even phased by that sort of indignity. I mean, let's get real. I'm sporting maternity shorts these days and once you cross that line, there's really no point in being embarrassed by anything anymore.

My first babe was born in the last week of fall, so I was rocking my dark wash jeans and wearing colorful cardigans with serious panache while drinking tea, reading books, and occasionally taking leisurely walks in the golden air of autumn. It was gloriously awesome.

Fast forward 3.5 years. It's summer. I'm wearing whatever keeps me from overheating and falling over into a nearby bush. My three-year old is consistently showing up sans pants or underwear to inform me that he has compromised his clothing, and the bathroom, while trying to visit the potty. It's not pretty, people. Not at all.

Speaking of potty training. I know you've been wondering if I was ever actually going to do this, considering my child is able to do long division and drive motorized vehicles. I kid. He's only 3.5, but he's obviously old enough to not be wearing diapers. Anyhoo, I'd like to point out that he's my first child. I'll do better with the next one. Right? Basically, the update here is that he's wearing Lightning McQueen underwear like a champ these days. Number 1 is pretty much in the bag, while Number 2 is still a crapshoot (pardon my potty-themed pun). If anybody out there has any suggestions for how to make the magic happen with Number 2, I'd be eternally grateful. And if your idea works, I'll mail you cookies. For reals.

Meanwhile, if I survive the 95 degree, humid hair days of a Georgia summer, we'll be welcoming the new babe into our little family o' three sometime late August/early September. Despite my complaints regarding my resembling someone who swallowed a beach ball, I'm still rather in awe of this part of our family's story. I honestly didn't think I'd have the privilege of carrying another little one around for forty weeks. As hard as it is, it's also so miraculously good. It still feels surreal that we get to be parents for the second time.

Well, that's what's happening in our hot little corner of the world. Not a whole lot and yet enough to make me want to nap for three days straight. Got to go. Someone just walked in pant-less, which is never a good sign. And I just ran out of Clorox wipes. Fail.

Stay classy out there.

It's a good thing the little guy's so cute. 

Otherwise, the poop in the pants thing would seriously cause 

me to consider running away from home.

A Diaper Box Rant

I feel like I should give you a heads up here and let you know that it's possible this post could include a bit of political ranting that you may or may not feel up for if you're just sitting down with your granola this morning. Or it's possible this post might take an unexpected turn and become an emotional ode to the jar of Nutella in my pantry, you really just never know. I'm just saying, be prepared for anything.

Today was another monthly heartbeat check-up for Le Bebe and she passed with flying colors. (High fives all around). However, there was a bit of unpleasant information that I was made aware of while there. During my appointment, I, a bit nervously, let the midwife know that I'm pretty sure I'm going to want to schedule another c-section this time around. (I realize some of you out there might be shaking your heads in disapproval, so if you want to chat with me about my reasons for this decision, I'm totally up for that.) After hearing my explanation regarding my last c-section, she was totally understanding and awesome. Then (prepare yourselves, oh lovers of natural birthing methods), I brought up an issue we've recently discovered regarding our insurance. Turns out, our $3500 deductible starts over seven days before my due date. Well, la tee da, the midwife says, because they do c-sections a week early anyway, so it shouldn't be an issue. But, then, I counter with the fact that I need it done 1 day earlier so as to avoid having to pay a deductible we would have just met a mere 24 hours before. And here is where the story takes a dark turn and I began to consider moving to Canada (which wouldn't actually do me any good, other than to be nearer to the fictional home of Anne of Green Gables).

The midwife informs me that, come July, the new healthcare plan will begin to take its effect and the government will no longer allow healthcare providers to induce or, apparently, perform c-sections before the 39 week mark. This restriction is apparently in place regardless of the doctor's discretion regarding a patient's health issues, including diabetes and hypertension to name a couple, that might be complicated by waiting to deliver after 39 weeks (i.e. scary). Because this doctor's office schedules c-sections at 39 weeks anyway, I would only be asking to deliver my baby 24 hours earlier, which would have no effect on her health or mine. Plus, the added bonus of saving $3500 that we could put toward her college fund, or a new carseat, or to offset the cost of the 45,098 diapers we'll have purchased by the time she's 3.

So, obviously, I'm rather incensed at this news and the reality of a government official somewhere making a decision about my healthcare, trumping even my doctor's decision and judgment. But, to be honest, there's something else here that makes me even more likely to stand on a soap box (or diaper box, whatever's handy) and hold up a picket sign. Just before meeting with the midwife, I spent a little time waiting in the exam room reading in Marie Claire about all the actresses who've been making poor fashion choices involving mid-drifts lately. Suddenly, amidst the bizzare fashion ads, mid-magazine was an article listing all the states that have been making it more difficult lately to have an abortion after 20 weeks. The editors were up in arms about this injustice as well as the "totally unreasonable" requirement that some states have made insisting that a pregnant woman hear the heartbeat of her baby before she decides whether or not to abort it. Marie Claire editors wanted me to be aware of how my personal rights were being encroached upon and that I needed to write to my congressmen to demand that I be able to do what I want with my body and the fetus growing inside of it. I felt my baby girl jump and I immediately closed the magazine. I was tempted to burn it but didn't have a lighter on me.

To sum up, I think what I'm most bothered by after this morning's appointment is, not that I might lose a few thousand dollars because the government restricts when I can have my own baby, but that our government sanctions fully developed babies, with perfectly formed eyes and noses and hearts that beat at 140 beats a minute, to be disposed of like insignificant tissue. And yet, at the same time, it imposes restrictions on mothers who are choosing to have their babies, implying that those babies suddenly have human status and deserve to be protected by the beneficent government. Obviously, I don't believe that's the actual motivation behind this governmental restriction. I can only imagine the reasons behind this decision made by people totally removed from the realm of actual health care.

All of this only makes me more aware of how vulnerable the smallest ones in our society are and that our government has more and more say over their entry into the world, either as living, wanted babies or as aborted, inconvenient fetuses.

I find myself asking the question, what on earth can I do to make a difference? How can I be a part of the culture of abortion being upended and help rescue the more than a million little ones a year who are being aborted?

Right now, I'm going to keep loving this little one inside me as hard as I can and pray that, for all the other precious babes who aren't loved and who aren't wanted, that their mothers' hearts would be miraculously changed. I know there's more I can do. I'm just not sure what it is yet.

Pray with me for all those mothers who need hope and for the little ones who need rescuing.

 "Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, plead the widow's cause."- Isaiah 1:17

"A person's a person, no matter how small." - Horton Hears a Who"

Remember this guy? My first babe, the Samster.

Home

This past week had me feeling uneasy and sad as I watched the news and read the constant online updates about Boston. I also laid awake at night trying not to think about the abortion doctor on trial for killing babies after they'd been born and the Planned Parenthood representatives who are unbelievably defending him. The weight of the evil that human beings are capable of has been weighing heavy on my spirit and I've struggled to understand why God doesn't stop injustices like these. I want justice for Boston and for those babies and for the innocents around the world who are being abused and mistreated and exploited. All of that suffering together feels like it weighs a million pounds and lately I've felt its heaviness in my chest along with the frustration of my own limitations regarding what I can do to help ease any of that suffering.

But, a quote I read this week keeps coming to mind and I've been pondering it, wondering at its implications and feeling hope that perhaps there is something I can do, and am already doing.

"Peace in the world begins with peace at home."

I have no idea who said it, but the simplicity of that statement rings with so much truth. I can't help but think of those two brothers in Boston who orchestrated all that tragedy, and wonder what their experience was as boys growing up far from this country. I can't help but think that the homes and the families that so many children like them are growing up in are places without peace and without the sense of physical security, emotional safety and spiritual nurturing that a child desperately needs.

I'm mulling all this over as I consider Sam and the little one that we anticipate meeting this summer. What kind of home are we creating and how will it impact the spirits of our children? Rachel Jankovic, who blogs at desiringgod.com writes in one of her essays about the sacrifices of motherhood and the weight of the little things we do in the lives of our small ones. It struck me how all those little things given and sacrificed and sometimes even wrung out of us add up and shape the childhood that becomes the foundation of our children's stories. I needed her reminder:

"God loves the little offerings. Given in faith, that plate of PB&J’s will feed thousands. Given in faith, those presents on Christmas morning will bring delight to more children than you can count. Offered with thankfulness, your work at home is only the beginning. Your laundry pile, selflessly tackled daily, will be used in the hands of God to clothe many. Do not think that your work does not matter. In God’s hands, it will be broken, and broken, and broken again, until all who have need of it have eaten and are satisfied. And even then, there will be leftovers."

What I do at home as a mom matters. To my children and to the people whose stories will intersect with theirs.

And yet, peace in my home may come at a personal cost to me at times. It will affect what television shows and movies we watch, what music we listen to, who we allow into our home, the kind of conversations we have and the tone of our voices when we talk to each other, what media we allow and what books we read. All the little decisions we make to create a home that is a refuge where our children will become who they will be, all of this carries immense weight. It matters and the proof of that is all around us in the choices that are being made by so many who are unfamiliar with peace in their homes and in their hearts and their lives. 

Being a parent comes with what feels like an infinite number of responsibilities. But, I'm beginning to think that perhaps cultivating a home that shelters and nurtures and protects and radiates peace is one of the most important offerings we can make as parents.

Even as I say that, I know that I'm incapable of making that happen on my own. Matt and I are going to make mistakes, maybe even big ones, as we attempt this. But, I'm reminded of the scripture that says, "He is our peace," and there's relief in knowing that ultimately, Jesus is responsible for the peace that we so desperately need. If I'm welcoming him into my heart and my home, peace will follow.

I'm curious how you might be cultivating peace in your home. I'd love to hear your suggestions.

    And the effect of righteousness will be peace, and the result of righteousness, quietness and trust forever. 

- Isaiah 32:17 -

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places.

- Isaiah 32:18 -

Finger Mustache (obviously)

Le Bebe

So, I've been thinking about all these things I wanted to write about on this blog for, oh, the last three months. And yet, no posts. Every time I thought, "Hey! I'll write about Sam's current obsession with playing air guitar" or "I bet everyone wants to know how ridiculous our trip to Wal-Mart was today in minute by minute detail," I found myself realizing that I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to write about the minutia of my stay-at-home mama life right now because the thing I really wanted to write about here was all I could think about. But, I waited. And, so, no posts. I realize how emotionally draining the wait must have been for you, dear readers, and so I'm sending each and every one of you a jar of Nutella to make up for it. Ok, that's not true, but I would if I could.

If you've read anything on this blog in the last two years, you're probably aware of two things: 1. I am currently raising a small person named Sam, which is very much like raising a small monkey that can count to eleventeen and, 2. I had two miscarriages over the past two years, which has been a significant part of our family's story.

(If you're interested, you can read about that here: The Unexpected and here: Again.)

It goes without saying, this season hasn't been the easiest to walk through. And in the midst of what we've experienced regarding some intense grief, I've also become very aware of how many others there are like me whose hopes regarding growing their families have been disappointed. Realizing I'm not alone in this experience has been comforting, but it's also so hard to understand why God withholds children from families that would love them so well. I haven't quite made my peace with this, but I have reached a place where I can trust God in spite of those questions.

In light of all this, I've been hesitant to share our current family news in part because I've been uncertain about whether it was safe yet but also because I have so many dear friends whose hearts are hoping for what mine has been these last few years but are still in the difficult place of waiting and wondering.

And yet, I know that while shared grief is halved, shared joy is doubled (*thanks to my friend Lex for that little bit o' wisdom). And, so, with a full heart, I want to share with you that our family will be a family of four coming early September when we welcome this little one into our home:

Oh, and by the way, this one's a girl. Hello, tutus, princesses, and fairies.

This guy still isn't quite sure what to make of this whole deal:

But, so far, he's given us a few name suggestions for the babe. They are, in order of importance, Bob, Elizabeth, Joseph, and "Rescue Guy." Obviously, we're taking all these under consideration, but that last one really seems to pulling out in front. Baby Rescue Guy just has that certain je ne sais quois.

Sam's also requested to not have to carry his baby sister in his belly at any point in time. I'm letting him off the hook on that one and have agreed to carry the baby, but only if he promises to accept the pottytraining process and stop wearing diapers before September. Seriously, people. Pottytraining will be the end of me.

So, there's the update. Now, I can maybe get back on here and write about regular stuff like cookie recipes and Target trips and the neverending saga of, you guessed it, pottytraining. You're on the edge of your seat now, aren't you.

Let's meet back here soon, friends, same time (not really), same channel (or website), same curious tales of a small guy named Sam.

And, now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

I Used to Blog Here

So, as it turns out, I am mentally incapable of keeping up a blog during major life transitions. I'm acutely aware of all those blogger moms out there who blog like champs hours after delivering babies; moments after cooking a five course dinner for their seven children (complete with perfectly edited photographs); or in the midst of a crazy day of house-cleaning, running children to school, while possibly working on their first book about parenting and eating only unprocessed foods. These women deserve kudos for being able to string two sentences together much less actually blog about their lives in the midst of the crazy town that is motherhood.

As it turns out, I'm not of of these women. Despite my love of blogging and putting down the words that tell the story of our little life, I am a big wimp when it comes to life transitions. Our current life transition is: MOVING. We've been living in our new house for approximately one week and a day and it still feels like we live in a cavernous storage unit, complete with echoes.

All this to say, I'm a bit of a crazy person right now. And I'm not sure how long I'm going to be a crazy person for. Maybe another month? Surely, we'll be all moved in by then and I'll actually be able to find things like my child's socks and my other pair of glasses and that key that opens the box that has the important documents that prove I'm married and am an American citizen. I really hope I find that last thing, but it's not looking so good right now.

So, in the unlikely event that you've been checking my little ol' blog and wondering why I haven't been updating you on the details of my riveting life as a stay at home mama, well, now you know why.

I'll be back, though. If I survive this move. And if I don't get deported for not being able to find my passport/marriage certificate/social security card. If that happens, remember me as I was.

Toddler Party Insanity

(Note: To all of you moms out there who can pull off toddler parties with style and panache and not end up on tranquilizer pills, I salute you. I am not worthy to ride in your mini-van. This post is for those of us who are still hoping to take a shower today, despite the fact that it's almost time for dinner.) 

(Note #2: This post was written last week, which means that the birthday has come and gone, but there are still cupcakes left if you want one.)

So, I'm a mom to a toddler who's turning the big 3 next weekend. He's aware of this fact because we've been telling him about it for a few weeks, trying to get him excited. I mean, it's a big deal. Three years of Sam, three years of being alive, three years of wearing diapers. (Seriously. That has to add up to like 908,000 diapers). It's been a good run of babyhood and toddlerhood. And I'm ready to celebrate. Maybe even party like it's 1999. Whatever that means.

I'm planning on taking cupcakes to his school next week for his little classmates to get hopped up on sugar and sing "Happy Birthday" in high-pitched voices while all kinds of pandemonium breaks out as the excitement of having something other than goldfish for snack takes hold. (If Sam's preschool teachers are reading this, I'd like to apologize in advance.)

I've ordered a Matchbox "Cliffhanger" Firestation from Target that Sam has specifically, and repeatedly, requested. Requests for specific toys is a new thing and it has me a teensy bit concerned that commercialism is about to become a thing. I'm trying hard to mute the commercials during The Backyardigans but the singing, dancing, stuffed animal houseshoes still look pretty awesome even without sound. What?

OK, so here's the deal about the party. It's not going to be a big deal. I mean, he's 3 for crying out loud. He doesn't know about all the insanity on Pinterest and how moms are crafting life-size images of their children with marshmallow cream and fondant. He also doesn't know that toddler moms everywhere are instagramming the hipster parties they've planned for their children in hopes that somebody in the reality television industry might possibly notice their creative genius and maybe even pick them up for a TLC show next fall called "Insane Toddler Parties" where children receive gold-plated Rolls Royce Big Wheels and eat caviar-laden cupcakes. I kid.

Probably somewhere in my heart of hearts, there's a little part of me that wishes I had the creative "skillz" of those Pinteresting moms who make cakes from scratch and craft intricate party decorations with moveable parts to hang from the ceiling.

I am not that mom. We'll be having family over and I'll make cupcakes and there'll be some presents to open. But, there won't be a theme. And there won't be a pinata full of candy. And, sadly, there won't be a thirty foot tall bounce house shaped like Lightning McQueen. So, in lieu of actually having an awesome toddler party, I thought I'd just post a few pictures of parties that other toddlers' moms hosted for you to enjoy. Here goes:

Numero Uno: Cowboy Party

I think little Enzo had a cowboy themed party. But, maybe it was just a cow theme, because I'm noticing a lot of cow print stuff here. Either way, I bet Enzo will never forget this party. At least not until next week.

Numero Dos: Mad Scientist Party

20 bucks says this kid grows up to be a nerd. Or maybe cure cancer. (That's the kind of far-reaching power these toddler parties can have).

Numero Tres: Sesame Street Party

Somebody baked some serious quantities of cake for this party. 

Numero Quatro: Fireman Party

This is what I would have done were I a better mother, I mean, if I had a nanny, a personal assistant, and a masseuse on call.

I think it's possible I may be harboring some residual guilt over not being the kind of mom who is awesome at kid parties, and maybe feeling a teensy bit jealous of moms who actually do this kind of stuff. I'll be adding this to my list of things to get therapy for. Not really. I just might need to eat one more peanut butter ball to make me feel better about my creative deficiencies. (Today's peanut butter ball count: three).

Regardless of all that...

Happiest of birthdays to our Sam.
You are loved more than you will ever know, buddy.