tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56205303666906500692024-03-13T07:01:44.629-04:008-Pound PreemiePassing along the knowledge I've gleaned from learn-as-you-go parenting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger270125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-63837976450958183652012-01-17T14:22:00.000-05:002012-01-17T14:22:27.229-05:00Loving Andy as the new regional managerGuest post written by Michelle Fall<br />
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At first when Andy came on the show The Office, I was not a fan of his. He was just some annoying guy who clearly never matured past the age of 18. But he has really grown on me since then and has basically become my favorite character. Now that Michael Scott is gone from The Office, he is my favorite current character. So to me, it was only appropriate that he be Michael's replacement as the regional manager.<br />
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I did not expect that to happen, though. I looked online a lot before the new season premiere to find some spoilers about who the new boss would be and while i was online looking, I ran across some info on <a href="http://internet.clear.com/">internet providers</a>. I read about it some and after that I decided to change over my apartment's internet service to it.<br />
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My highlight of Andy being the <a href="http://www.officetally.com/the-office-the-list">new regional manager</a> right now is the bet that he made about getting a tattoo. I cannot believe that he even went through with getting it! Just another reason that I love his character.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-12219330004432448382012-01-04T07:56:00.000-05:002012-01-04T07:56:54.873-05:00Testing my resolve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://api.ning.com/files/Pub0qM02TYS3njwnQXbi8r8H4biQx543mb2xQinp3pPaBSs04ojEb3t9WPTMUBOmQjCL0aI*oupmPPnscnqKF5StutxAb9S1/newyearsresolutions300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="http://api.ning.com/files/Pub0qM02TYS3njwnQXbi8r8H4biQx543mb2xQinp3pPaBSs04ojEb3t9WPTMUBOmQjCL0aI*oupmPPnscnqKF5StutxAb9S1/newyearsresolutions300.jpg" /></a></div>This year, I decided to go simple with my New Year's Resolutions. No insane, unattainable goals (run a marathon in June! lose 50 pounds!), but simple things, like start counting calories again, exercise more, drink more water, cut down to only one pot of coffee a day. I also resolved to be more patient with my husband and son, and to try to not stress about little things so much.<br />
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I almost broke all of my resolutions January 1st.<br />
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The first issue was that the first day of the new year fell on Sunday. Which meant that, instead of sleeping in and having a lazy day off from work, I had to get my butt in gear to get to church. And I had to do all this without my typical morning pot of extra-strong black coffee.<br />
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When I got to church, it became obvious that my resolutions about patience and not stressing so much were going to be tested. We were low on volunteers for children's church (because, duh, New Year's), so we were going to have to combine all three classes: nursery, preschool, and elementary.<br />
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The end result was myself and three other volunteers being responsible for 21 kids.<br />
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Fortunately, God intervened and blessed me with sweet, well-behaved kids. I can find no other way to explain how we didn't lose anyone, or have anyone have a bathroom accident, and only had one child melt down into tears (fortunately, her mom was one of the volunteers).<br />
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I'll admit I was bummed that I didn't get some of the one-on-one time I'm used to with my preschoolers. (My one, well, you're not supposed to have "favorites", but in many ways, she kind of is for me, kept wanting me to sit down to play a game with her, but I was too busy endlessly circling and counting kids, making sure none had slipped out of the room and gone missing.) It was also bittersweet how many of the kids were upset that we weren't going to have a Bible story (just not possible to plan a lesson that will hold the attention of kids aged 0 to 10).<br />
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But there were upsides, like that I got to meet and talk to some of the elementary kids, who were so cool and smart and funny. I never thought you could have such a great conversation with kids who hadn't even reached "tween" status.<br />
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And I did feel a great sense of personal accomplishment, that I was able to help wrangle two dozen kids without major incident. When I got home I was exhausted, and I just slumped on the couch to drink beer and play PS3, but it was a happy kind of exhausted.<br />
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So I'm proud to say that it's the fourth day of 2012, and I haven't broken a resolution yet. Just have to make it another 361 days.<br />
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Oh crap, it's a leap year. Fine, another 362 days.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-20911543025689439682011-12-21T08:07:00.000-05:002011-12-21T08:07:31.508-05:00Welcome to Adulthood, Population: Me (+ a few billion others)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_llzi52p66g1qd8gl4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" oda="true" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_llzi52p66g1qd8gl4.jpg" width="320" /></a>A lot of days, I don't feel like much of an adult. Sure I have things like a kid, and a mortgage, and a really awesome corner office, all to myself. But I also do thinks like eat Milk Duds (and nothing else) for lunch, or just wear whatever old skirt and shirt combo that was initially bought because it fit my Christian high school's dress code. (If you've met me more than once, it's likely that you've seen me in clothing that's almost a decade old.)</div><br />
So there's a lot of times when I feel only like a pseudo-grown-up. I have this mythical image in my head of a "real" grown-up being someone who can change the oil in their car, or make a casserole from scratch, or knows how to get stains out of things using club soda. ("Real" grown-ups are also people who own club soda, presumably for the express purpose of getting stains out of things.)<br />
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Last night I was talking to my Dad about how I'm always baffled by how completely <em>useful</em> my husband is. He's a hands-on daddy, he can repair almost anything, and he can look at a kitchen full of ingredients and assemble them into magical, restaurant-quality meals. I have a hard time even recognizing raw ingredients as <em>food</em>. If there's nothing in the pantry that isn't single-serve, with the cooking directions printed on the label, I'll just go hungry.<br />
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My Dad and I were commiserating about how confusing cooking is, like, "Why does flour go into everything? I get it for stuff that's baked, but what about the other stuff?" My Dad responded, and I am not exaggerating this quote in any way:<br />
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<strong>"You know what makes me mad? Eggs. People put eggs in everything. Like, a cake is mostly like bread, but you have to put an egg in there. I don't know why. I feel like eggs are like paper clips; you run through a whole lot of them for no good reason."</strong><br />
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Now, my Dad is someone whom I respect as a "grown-up". He generally seems like he has things together, and that's he's capable and competent enough to do whatever needs doing. But seeing his utter bafflement at the ubiquitousness of eggs made me realize that there are a lot of basic things he probably can't do, either. He gets cooking about as well as I do, and he probably couldn't change the oil in his car, either. I don't think he even owns any club soda.<br />
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So maybe I'm setting the bar for "adulthood" a little too high. After all, I do a lot better at playing grown-up than a lot of people my age. I own a house, and I pay my bills on time. My son has regular check-ups. I get good performance reviews at work, and people at church trust me to watch their kids, and I'm a regular blood donor (my blood, not the kids'). Sure, a lot of the time I feel like I'm just improvising, but I don't know if that feeling ever goes away. My college freshman English teacher, whom I absolutely adored, once told me that you will never, ever, truly feel like you know what you're doing, and she was in her sixties. (She also had a butterfly tattoo she had gotten on her 50th birthday, and nicknamed me "Penny Lane" the first day of class, so, obviously this is someone I respect.)<br />
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I may not be sixty, nor even halfway to sixty (not yet!), but I'm starting to feel like Mrs. Huyck was right. After all, if one of the smartest grown-ups I know is still confused by eggs, maybe there's hope for an idiot like me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-63698695808099989992011-12-19T07:58:00.000-05:002011-12-19T07:58:04.084-05:00A Facebook app I would pay money for...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dL-Yp9rRsu8/TWPf56tf5JI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/qAO_DfB86eE/s400/facebook_baby_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" oda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dL-Yp9rRsu8/TWPf56tf5JI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/qAO_DfB86eE/s400/facebook_baby_m.jpg" /></a></div>Last night, I got a text from my little sister. It simply read: "Don't get on Facebook."<br />
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But, alas, it was too late. I had already seen that day's pregnancy announcement.<br />
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Yes, "that day's". See, around the holidays, all the happy little preggers women like to start announcing all their happy little pregnancies. There were five new pregnancies announced on my Facebook feed last week. That's like, one per workday. (I'm assuming pregnancy announcements get the weekends off.)<br />
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And it's not like I'm not happy for all my pregnant friends. On a per individual basis, I am happy for each and every one of them. Thrilled, even. But when the announcements are coming at me rapid-fire, it's just a reminder that I failed again this cycle, that I'm still not pregnant. It also makes me feel even lonelier and more isolated, because it seems like everyone can get pregnant except for me.<br />
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So, I have been thinking of a design for a new Facebook application that would make everyone else's pregnancies easier on me. (Because, obviously, people I haven't spoken to since high school should be taking my feelings into consideration before they decide to grow their families.) Here are some of the features for my new app, which I'm tentatively titling "Bitter Infertile":<br />
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<strong>Filters and spaces out pregnancy announcements, to no more than two per week.</strong> Given my friends' rates of reproduction, this may mean that I don't find out someone's pregnant until after she gives birth. That's fine because, while cute little preggo-bellies make me sad, I no longer get emotional around newborns. (Yay, personal growth!) This also gets me out of baby showers. Speaking of which...<br />
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<strong>Automatically blocks baby shower e-vites.</strong> It'd be cool if I could also make it automatically order and ship something from the online registry, and have a computer send a card in my handwriting, but I just don't think the technology's there yet.<br />
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<strong>Changes profile pictures of sonograms to funny pictures of cats.</strong> Cats are hilarious.<br />
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<strong>Edits baby-related status updates to include coupons for things the pregnant offender can't currently enjoy.</strong> So, every time my friend complains about morning sickness, I get a discount off a bottle of tequila (so I can enjoy some "morning sickness" of my own). Or, if my pregnant friend complains about being tired, their status update includes a printable gift card for Starbucks, so I can get an espresso and remind myself that pregnant women aren't allowed much caffeine.<br />
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<strong>Re-direct ultrasound videos to Jenna Marbles vlogs.</strong> Jenna Marbles is one of the few things on the internet more hilarious than cats.<br />
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<strong>If anyone <a href="http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/tagged/MommyJacking">mommyjacks</a> my status update, their Facebook account gets deleted.</strong> Not as in, I unfriend or block them, but they are totally denied Facebook access. If it could make their computer catch fire, that would be even better. (Same goes for people who make those annoying comments about how you're not a "real" mom until you have multiple kids.)<br />
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Okay, so, obviously, I mean this all in good humor. (At least, I hope that's obvious.) And I totally get that the whole "pregnant women on Facebook are annoying" is a product of my own neuroses. So I want to extend a big congratulations to all my friends who have just announced that they're expecting, my friends who are farther along, my knocked-up friends who haven't announced yet, and all their menfolk suffering along with them. And a Merry Christmas to all, fully-grown humans and fetuses alike.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-21913764605436940142011-12-14T08:23:00.000-05:002011-12-14T08:23:08.834-05:00"Only child"ren get a bad rap.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="http://rlv.zcache.com/warning_only_child_t_shirt-p235330353105131753z7tqq_400.jpg" width="320" />It started this past Sunday when my husband had to work and my two-year-old son, who normally goes home with him for a nap during 2nd service, had to endure two consecutive church services. In the same classroom, with the same lesson he had just heard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not only that, but I always teach second service preschool, as to avoid being in the same class as my son. Not that I'm avoiding my kid, but it's hard for a young toddler to understand that, while I'm <em>his</em> mommy, I also have to be <em>everyone else's</em> teacher.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To only compound the matter further, there is a little girl who is always in my class who, though I try not to play favorites, I do have a closer relationship with than I do the other kids. (Regular attendee, friends with her mom, see her more often, etc.) Since she's there every week, she's used to getting a little bit extra attention from me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This has led to, on the rare occassions when my son is in my class, him and this little girl (who are normally the sweetest of friends) getting into tiffs over who gets to sit in my lap. Doesn't seem like a big deal, but, again, we're dealing with sleepy toddlers here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, this repeated itself this past Sunday, with my son being a fussy grumpus with the other kids yet, magically, transforming into a sweet and helpful little child the second service ended and the others' parents picked them up. Suddenly he was helping with clean-up, chatting up the other adult volunteers, etc.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of the other teachers turned to me and asked, "So...he's an only child then?"</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She said it without an ounce of snark, but it still smacked my sensitive ego like an accusation. I responded, "Is it really that obvious?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Oh, no, it's just he's obviously a lot happier with adults than with other kids, and I just see that a lot with the only children I work with."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My brain started hissing little doubts at me, rattling off the horrible "only child" stereotypes. I made a mental checklist:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Spoiled.</strong> Well, yes, no doubt. To a degree, our household revolves around my son, how he's feeling, what he wants to do, etc. If we want to watch the news or play video games or whatever, it happens after he goes to bed, because we spend our time up to that point entertaining him. We frequently plan activities based on what he would enjoy, and my husband and I have probably been on less than ten dates since he was born. He has his pageants, and, sometimes, I just get off work early to take him out to the park, or for ice cream. The extended family, particularly the grandparents, contribute to the spoiling, and he has a seemingly endless stream of new clothes and toys. So, yes, definitely spoiled.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Selfish.</strong> Not by a long shot. Maybe it's the mitigating influence of preschool, close cousins, and a ton of church friends, but my son is actually more generous than most kids his age. With the exception of his "babies" (the glow worm-esque seahorses he sleeps with) and his prized Gravedigger truck, he'll willingly share even of his toys, and even offer to share treats and goodies with others. (No matter how gross that is, particularly when he's trying to share something like a lollipop.) So, no, I don't really think this stereotype fits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Bratty.</strong> On occassion, sure, but no more frequently than any other two-year-old. Next.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Jealous.</strong> Okay, he does definitely fit this one, particularly over me. If he thinks another kid is trying to steal my attention from him, he'll cling to my legs and declare, "My mommy!" I address it as best as I can, but he does do it too frequently. We'll work on it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Domineering.</strong> My son has high-energy, but he's also a go-with-the-flow type kid. He'll let the other kids decide what to play, what to do. When he tries to get bossy, it's more likely to be at home. (He particularly enjoys ordering our pets around, which works about as well as you can imagine.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Precocious.</strong> Not that this is a bad thing, but it's true in his case, as well. He is very independent, and often tries to act like a mini-adult. But, in a way, it's cool have a toddler who can get his own snack, feed himself, and then clean it up afterward, all without being told. And, as mentioned in the preceding story, he is very comfortable with adults, and likes being the center of attention.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, no, I don't think there's anything wrong with my only child. I would like to be able to give him a sibling, but only for his benefit, not because I believe it would correct some presumed fundamental flaw in his personality. And, let's face it, whether you have one kid or twelve kids, someone is going to be convinced you have the wrong number, and that <em>they</em> have hit on the perfect formula.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-54241896500525260872011-12-08T07:58:00.000-05:002011-12-08T07:58:50.188-05:00I'm going through Great Wolf Lodge withdrawal.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="233" mda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PUo7JBUjU2c/Shru1UnSFOI/AAAAAAAAOpc/MVQ0dlZHmQ0/GreatWolfLodgeHowlinInterior.jpg" width="320" />Sorry for being MIA the last couple of weeks, but I've been crushed by the weight of my social calendar. Not something to complain about, really. I've been having a blast.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This past Sunday through Tuesday, for instance, I spent with my family on our first ever vacation to Great Wolf Lodge. This place is amazing. We walked into the lobby (which is about 80 feet high) and it was beautifully decorated with Christmas trees, a huge hearth, and a life-sized gingerbread house. It even smelled incredible, with some sort of piney fragrance they were pumping in through the ducts.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The whole place is huge, but manages to have everything you could want while still keeping with the "lodge" theme. (They even had a Dunkin' Donuts on-site, but with regular DD prices. Sweet.) In addition to the water park, there's a cafeteria, gift shop, huge arcade, etc.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And the water park itself is awesome. They have some of the best waterslides I've ever been on (that scary pic up top is from the Howlin' Tornado), but without the huge lines and endless walking that comes with a typical water park. Also, there was a bunch of stuff for the little kids, so even my son could play relatively-independently. (Extra nice touch: They provide life vests for the kids, gratis.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can't beat the place for convenience, either. You get a wristband your first day there, which serves not only as your entrance to the water park, but also is your room key. Yeah. High-tech. If you want, you can even attach a credit card to it, and spend the rest of your stay just waving your wrist at a scanner when you want to buy something. (Even works on vending machines!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Everything was wonderful. Our room was lovely, the food was great, and there was so much to do, but without feeling like you had to rush. Even the nearby malls and restaurants were nice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I only had one real complaint, and it was with the door latch. You see, my two-year-old son quickly figured out three things: he could open the door to our room, the band on his wrist was money, and the vending machine was right down the hall.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At first we used that little door latch thing (you know, the thing you use if you only want to open the door a crack?), but it was too low, and he could reach it. Therefore, we had no way of locking my toddler in the room with us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Around 5:00 a.m. one morning I was awoken by the sound of the door and a little wedge of light shining in. I could just make out my son's silhouette. "Baby, where are you going?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's okay Mommy. I be right back." (Reminder: This kid is <strong>two</strong>. Not even two-and-a-half. Two.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Um...no. Go back to bed."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So...yeah. Great Wolf Lodge, move your door latches a little higher, because some of us have kids who are way too adventurous (and tall) to stay in the rooms all night.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The only other problem was when it came time to leave. My son was not down with this idea. In fact, he was quite resistant to it. There was some screaming and crying and, finally, some bribing with icecream.</div><br />
Even now, my son keeps asking when we're going to go swimming and do more water slides with Papa & Mimi. He's having trouble with the fact that, even though we were at a water park a couple of days ago, it's still winter, so our pool at home isn't open. (First world problems though, amirite?) Fortunately, we've got him all excited and distracted with his school Christmas play this afternoon, and his pageant coming up this Saturday in Asheville.<br />
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As for me, I actually am quite happy to be back home and settling into a normal routine again. I got caught up on my work pretty quickly, and, though, like everything else, the beds at GWL were perfect, I'm happy to be back in my own.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-52323036300976825332011-11-29T07:42:00.000-05:002011-11-29T07:42:45.581-05:00Coordinating Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="213" src="http://joneslife.net/wordpress2/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/Ryan-and-Britton-Opening-Gifts.JPG" width="320" />One of the few upsides of my years in retail management is the toolbox of useful skills it has left me with, skills that are particularly useful here at the holidays. I multi-task like a champ, can giftwrap with my eyes clothed, decorate with a shoestring budget, and scheduling for three houses is nothing after you've scheduled holiday shifts for twenty employees. I'm awesome with my time management, which is why I've had all my Christmas presents (stocking stuffers included) wrapped and stashed in the attic for weeks. As much as anyone can be, I am organized at Christmas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Unfortunately, the last couple of Christmas mornings, chaos has reigned supreme. We typically spend the day at my parents' house, which is awesome because there is a lot of space and the kids all get to be together with the extended family. The problem is, once we start passing out presents, patience becomes an issue for the kids, and space becomes an issue for everyone. The adults are walled in behind their boxes of gifts while the kids are asked to stare down their mountain of presents and patiently wait for everyone to take turns opening one. It doesn't work.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I've been putting the majority of my thought-power into figuring out a system where we can still have everyone take turns opening one gift at a time, but that also leaves everyone room to move, and doesn't require toddlers to have the patience of a Buddha.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, I think I've got it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the current incarnation of our gift-distribution system, the presents are moved from where they are scenically piled under the tree and passed out to their recipients, so everyone has a pile in front of them. This blocks foot traffic, and gives the little ones the irresistible temptation of a mountain of presents. To resolve these problems, I propose that we sort everyone's gifts into piles, but leave these piles in front of the Christmas tree. This way, we can still see how many gifts everyone has left (so that we can skip turns as needed, and no one runs out too fast), but it will make it easier for people to get up and move around as needed, and will also make it easier to clean up trash (wrapping paper, ribbon, etc.) as we go.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To keep the kids from getting restless, we should enlist them as "Santa's little helpers" (like elves, not the dog from "The Simpsons"). The kids can bring everyone their gifts one at a time. This will give them something to do, and keep them from getting bored while they wait for their turn. Also, maybe it will help to reinforce the moral that it is better to give than to receive.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, all of these "problems" are things most people would love to have. Too many presents, too many babies, too much loving family all together at Christmas. When these are the worst of my worries, I have a lot to be thankful for this holiday season.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-695390272065937722011-11-21T08:19:00.000-05:002011-11-21T08:19:15.893-05:00Holiday Witness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://12geo.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/black-friday-electronics1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="216" src="http://12geo.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/black-friday-electronics1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I love the holidays. Thanksgiving is only three days away, and I am already counting down to Christmas. I have an attic full of already-wrapped Christmas presents, and the only reason my house isn't yet fully decorated is because my husband flatly refuses for us to have lights or a tree up before Thanksgiving. (Or, as he put it, "Show Turkey Day some proper respect!")<br />
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However, there was a time in my life when I wasn't so enthusiastic about the month of December. This was during those bleak years of my life that I worked in retail.<br />
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Now that I've returned from the front lines of store management, I have some hard news for my fellow Christians: A lot of you are really terrible customers, and you're not bearing good witness.<br />
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As a service to those still trapped in the service industry, I'm going to explain some common problems and how you can avoid them so that you aren't damaging your faith. (If you can't follow these basic rules, then I recommend taking the cross of your neck or the fish off your car before you go out for Black Friday.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Scenario #1: The item you want is out-of-stock.</span><br />
<strong>Wrong way:</strong> Scream at the nearest stockperson/cashier/unfortunate soul in a polo and khakis about how irresponsible they are for not making sure there were enough for <em>you</em> to get one. It's not your fault for waiting till the last minute! You've been busy with all your church activities! It's there fault for running out of the item, no matter how close it is to Christmas. You want to talk to a manager! You want the number for their corporate office! You want a $50 gift card! Etc.<br />
<strong>Right way:</strong> Recognize that the person responsible for ordering the products is probably not on the floor or, possibly, not even in the store. (A lot of stores operate on an auto-replenishment system, with order levels determined by corporate.) Ask nicely if someone will check to see if there are any available in the back. Be patient while you wait; it is virtually a guarantee that the store is both busy and understaffed. (The recession has hit retailers harder than most.) If no more are available in the store, you can ask when the next shipment will be in, and if you can leave your name and number for them to alert you when the product you want arrives. If you do all this politely, there is a good chance they will go out of their way to special order or hold one for you. Retail employees are not accustomed to being treated like humans, so if you are nice to them and then tell them, "Merry Christmas and God bless," when you leave, and you will have made a more impactful witness than a Tour de France's worth of bicycling Mormons.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Scenario #2: A store employee wishes you, "Happy Holidays."</span><br />
<strong>Wrong way:</strong> Go on a tirade about how you are a CHRISTIAN so you celebrate CHRISTMAS. CHRISTMAS is the one true holiday, and Jesus is the reason for the season, thank-you-very-much. Blame the cashier for everything that's wrong with the country and make some unsupported statements about the Founding Fathers creating America as a Christian democracy. Demand to speak to a manager. Demand the number for the corporate office. Threaten to involve your whole church in a boycott of the entire retail chain.<br />
<strong>Right way:</strong> Say, "Thank you, the same to you." After all, the person speaking is probably missing holiday time with their family so you can shop for yours, and has probably heard in a dozen team meetings this week about the correct use of religion-neutral greetings. Just an hour ago she probably got blasted by a Jewish or Muslim person when she accidentally told them, "Merry Christmas." Also, recognize that, <u>when someone tells you "Happy Holidays", they are not persecuting your faith, they are being inclusive of your faith. Expecting every person to say and hear "Merry Christmas" is an example of Christians demanding special treatment, and makes us look like entitled, petty brats.</u> The "War on Christmas" is all in your head.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Scenario #3: The store decorations offend you.</span><br />
<strong>Wrong way:</strong> Express shock and outrage that the store is glorifying "Satan Claus" and there isn't a manger scene in sight. Scream to all within earshot about how Christmas trees are a holdover from pagan fertility celebrations. Shield your children's eyes lest they cast sight of a dreidel or menorah. Complain that candy canes are too phallic. Etc.<br />
<strong>Right way:</strong> Get it through your head that "offended" does not equal "persecuted". Also, get over yourself. Santa Claus ain't going nowhere.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-87881667226078290322011-11-14T08:21:00.000-05:002011-11-14T08:21:00.832-05:00Natural Pageant vs. "Natural" Pageant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lazypalace.com/img01/child-beauty-pageant03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="http://www.lazypalace.com/img01/child-beauty-pageant03.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><em><span style="color: #666666;"><---What "natural" means, apparently.</span></em><br />
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This past Saturday was my son's second ever toddler pageant. Having done one, I thought I was better prepared for what to expect. I'm an idiot.<br />
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My son's first pageant was a low-key affair; some kids and their parents in a hotel conference room, one outfit, one time onstage, and about 25% of the contestants were boys. My amazing little boy won (yay!), we got a plastic crown, a sash, and a couple of trophies, and were home in time for lunch. It was also a natural pageant, and I made a vow to only put him in natural pageants, as I feel that the glitz pageants aren't appropriate for children.<br />
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This past weekend's pageant was also billed as a natural pageant, though it did have an outfit-of-choice category, meaning that a clothing change would be required. The OOC was supposed to be Christmaswear, so I chose a pair of green corduroys, a red shirt with a few rhinestones (very macho, and I got it at Kid2Kid for $5), and an adorable black top hat that my husband sewed a snowflake onto. The hat made the outfit, and it was incredibly adorable. For the "beauty" portion, we just decided he would wear his suit, like last time.<br />
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The pageant was located in a town over 2 hours away, and registration opened at 10:00, so I was up before 6:00, double-checking that we had everything and packing extra toys, snacks, etc. My dad and mom came this time to provide a cheering section, so we all drove up together. In true toddler fashion, my son stayed awake most of the drive, and then fell asleep for the last 20 minutes. We had to wake him up to get him out of his carseat, and I was worried about how cranky he might be.<br />
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When we got to registration, it became obvious that we, the adults with him, were going to be the cranky ones. We were surrounded by toddler girls with their hair in curlers and moms carrying garment bags. When we got to the dressing room, it was a fog of hairspray and, "natural" pageant though it was supposed to be, there was plenty of make-up being applied, and even hairpieces being pinned in. I saw the surreal image of a little girl, not even school age, carrying a plastic box with her curly fake hair in it. Plenty of the little girls were crying, and I bristled when I heard one mom say, "Beauty is pain."<br />
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There wasn't much for my son and I to do to get ready. We hung up his suit, but he had come dressed in his Christmaswear. I brushed his hair, and we carried his top hat out to our seats.<br />
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And...they didn't start on time. So all around us, all of us parents and assorted family were trying to keep our restless little ones still and primped. They only started about 10 minutes late, but 10 minutes is an eternity in bored two-year-old time. (It turns out, the emcee had to bow out at the last minute, so the pageant director was filling in for her. Too much for one person to do, obviously.)<br />
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When they did finally start, I was a little turned off by what I saw. Some of the coaching from the parents in the audience was really over the top, and, though a lot of the little girls looked adorable, the staged motions were more "fake" than "cute".<br />
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I was also a little disheartened to find that, though there were probably 50 contestants, less than 5% were boys. My son had very little in the way of competition, and his main competitor was twice his age and far more experienced.<br />
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I tried introducing us to the boy and his mom when we were out in the hall for line-up, but the mom was standoffish and the boy sullen. His sister was competing, so he had been entered into the pageant concurrently. It was obvious to everyone except his mother that he didn't want to be there.<br />
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Fortunately, my son was totally opposite. The few times during the long (about 8-hour) day that he got bored or fussy, he perked up the second he was told it was his turn onstage. I'm sure the emcee could hear him out in the hall when he heard his name. "Yay! Mommy! Let's GO!"<br />
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I walked onstage with him, trying to stand behind him and just make sure he hit all his "X"s. (They have literal "X"s taped on the floor so the kids cover all the stage during their walk.) My little man hammed it up, waving at his Papa and Nana, and blowing kisses. There were a couple of times he got distracted by the confetti on the stage, and once or twice he wanted to wander over to look at the trophies, but he smiled big the whole time and was obviously having fun.<br />
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I wish all the kids had been enjoying themselves that much. I heard plenty of moms out in the hall and the dressing room, berating and criticizing their children for poor performances. I heard cursing, and mild threats. It wasn't a good atmosphere, and I was relieved when the competition was finished and it was time to take an intermission while the judges tallied the scores.<br />
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At this point, no one in our party really cared much about crowning. We wanted to get out of that building and eat Taco Bell and complain about the nutcase stage parents who had been surrounding us all day. Everything had gone on waaay longer than expected, and we couldn't imagine a better reward than getting to leave that tiny backwoods town and get home.<br />
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Still, though; we'd made it this long, might as well see how the Little Man did.<br />
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Long story short, he did amazing. He finished up with lots of goodies, like the stocking full of candy and participation trophy that all the contestants received, a couple of medallions (for things like "Best Hair"), and one huge four-feet-tall trophy that he is in awe of. I was thrilled because he also came in first place out of all the boys, and won the Winter Wonderland 2011 King crown, sash, and trophy. So, three new trophies, two new medallions, a crown, and a sash. Also a stocking full of candy that he had mostly eaten by the time we got home.<br />
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Though he had a good time, and his prizes were lovely, I don't think we'll be doing many more pageants with that company any time soon. The day was long, things weren't run very smoothly, and I didn't feel like it was a truly "natural" pageant (probably because I don't think "fake hair" equals "natural"). However, I am looking forward to the end of January. There's a pageant with a low entry fee only about an hour away, and, as long as my little boy keeps having fun with them, it's something we'll keep trying.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-90769583938143144542011-11-08T07:58:00.000-05:002011-11-08T07:58:27.184-05:00All My Children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lMxqr4326B4/TPCGLmevRnI/AAAAAAAAAK8/VbtZvkPS7o8/s640/boy+and+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lMxqr4326B4/TPCGLmevRnI/AAAAAAAAAK8/VbtZvkPS7o8/s640/boy+and+dog.jpg" /></a>My son's youngest cousin, my soon to be one-year-old nephew, appears to be allergic to dogs. The dogs at my parents' house come around him and his eyes immediately start to turn red, and water.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All while my son runs tearing by, holding out a squeaky toy so the dogs will chase and jump on him. It makes me really bummed for my nephew.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My son loves animals, and the bond he shares with our pets is precious. Last night he spent about 20 minutes wrestling around on the floor with our ever-so-patient hound-dog-and-something mix. He hugged her, and giggled like a maniac when she licked his face. (It grosses me out, but my son thinks doggy kisses are the best thing ever.) He played tug with her over a piece of rawhide, chasing her down and pulling the treat right out of her jaws every time she got it away from him. Though we kept warning him to be gentle on the doggy, and leave her food alone, not once did she snap or even growl at him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Later that evening, he decided it was one of our cat's birthday, so he built him a cake out of duplo blocks and sang to him, bringing him toys as "presents". Then he got the cats all together to play "coffee party" (like tea party, but for boys raised by caffeine addicts). He set cups in front of the cats, and made them pretend to drink from them. The cats were remarkably patient with this, probably because my son insists on being the one to give them treats daily.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I looked over at one point, and saw that he had a grip on our feral rescue's front paw, just holding onto it. None of our cats are declawed, but, judging from the way my son was neither crying nor bleeding, the cat was very calmly letting him hold onto his foot. (If you have ever had a cat, or even been around them much, you know that they really don't like for anyone to touch their feet.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I asked my son, "Baby, what are you doing with Ash?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I hold kitty hand."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The kicker is, if myself or my husband tried to do that, we would have a few new piercings in our palm. But our animals tolerate almost everything from our son. I guess since they've been around since before he was born, and have seen him raised from a newborn, they accept him as part of their "pack". So they treat him like their pup or kitten; maybe a little annoying at times, but they don't expect him to know any better.</div><br />
And it helps us, too, in that my son now naturally knows how to act around animals. When we've been out and run into other dogs at the pet store or walking around the neighborhood, strangers have always complimented us on his good manners with other people's pets, how he waits for permission to touch the dog, then holds out his hand (underneath the dog's chin, never over it's head) for the dog to sniff before petting him. My son was the darling of the volunteers at a greyhound rescue event we checked out, and we were told repeatedly how gentle and calm he was with the dogs. Which makes sense, if you think about it. Animals are a part of his everyday life, not a novelty, so he doesn't get overexcited by the presence of new ones.<br />
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Also, I have to hope that, being raised around animals, my son will never reach a point where he starts pestering us for his "own" puppy or kitten. The ones we already have are pretty much his, at this point, anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-36936233167150559032011-11-04T08:15:00.000-04:002011-11-04T08:15:49.431-04:00Kissing the stress (and the dream) goodbye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="http://images.ddccdn.com/images/pills/mmx/t104400f/clomid.jpg" />So, about 6 weeks ago, I started my first cycle on Clomid.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In case you're unaware, Clomid is a medication that induces ovulation in women who do not ovulate consistently on their own (like me). It does this by (literally) screwing with your brain chemistry and tricking your body into pumping your hormone production into overdrive. So...yeah. It takes a women already struggling with the emotional turmoil of infertility, and ramps up her hormone levels. Hijinks ensue.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I won't get into a big general lists of Clomid's side effects, because Dr. Google can do a better job of explaining all those to you. Since this is my blog, however, I will share what issues have befallen me (and hope this will help explain part of why I have been so M.I.A. on the posting front).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first side effect I noticed was the temperature changes. I have always been very cold-natured and dreaded winter, but now I can walk around in 60 degree weather in short sleeves without being miserable. That's about the only good part about having an elevated body temperature. As part of TTC, I do BBT charting, and I can verify that my basal temperature during my ovulatory phase is way higher than before. This makes it really difficult to determine where my ovulation temperature spike is. It's a bummer. The worst part, however, is the hot flashes. I get them like a menopausal woman, and they suck so much worse than I had expected. It's like a panic attack, but with sweating. I can't explain it. It's awful.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next fun bit has been the accelerated hair loss. The hormones in Clomid dry out some women's hair and, if you're hair is already very fine, like mine, this makes in fall out. Don't get me wrong; I don't have big chunky bald spots on my head. But every time I wash or brush my hair, I'm losing strands by the handful. I can't even brush my hair back from my face without losing a few pieces. But at least it's thinning in a uniform fashion all over my head, and not giving me a horseshoe look or anything.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The worst side effect of Clomid, however, has easily been the pain. Clomid, particularly if prescribed to a woman who can ovulate a little bit (however sporadically) naturally, can result in the ovaries (in my case, half an ovary) being overstimulated. Stick with me here, because we're going to get into a little bit of human reproductive anatomy. Normal ovulation is follicle matures, follicle ruptures, egg is released, everyone happy. <strong>In an overstimulated ovary lots of follicles mature, then lots of follicles rupture, then lots of eggs are released, and then you and your brood of children get a reality show on TLC.</strong> Of course, ovaries are very small, and they really only have a lot of space for one or two of these rupturing follicles. So when, in an overstimulated ovary, you get a lot of this maturing and popping going on, it swells up, and sucks, really, really hard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah, that's why I couldn't write Wednesday. Because my right side was swollen to the point that my pants button bruised my stomach. It hurt, and made me feel sick as a dog. Also, it makes me look fat though, fun fact, due to the nausea and general lack of appetite, I've actually lost weight since this started.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's the real kicker...it doesn't appear that Clomid is working for me. After my first cycle trying it last month (on my second, currently) they did some bloodwork. Though I did succeed in ovulating (go me!), my progesterone levels are still not high enough to sustain a pregnancy past the first few weeks. So, even if I got pregnant, I would have an early miscarriage.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In theory, if I stick with the Clomid, it might raise my progesterone level enough to be useful. If the Clomid doesn't work, my doctor wants to do an in-office procedure to determine if my fallopian tube is blocked. If it is, the next option would be corrective surgery.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, you know, I just don't think I'm willing to do that right now. My body has been through a lot the past couple of years and, wimpy though it may be, I don't want to subject it to any more trauma, especially if it's not medically necessary. And even if IVF was an option (which, financially, it's not), morally, it's not really something I feel 100% about. (Not judging on anyone who has done IVF; I'm just not comfortable with it <em>for me</em>.)</div><br />
I've talked it over with my husband, and I told him that, as much as I want my son to be a big brother, I'm pretty sure I want to stop trying if the oral medications fail. I don't want any surgeries, and I don't want to have to inject myself with hormones, and I don't want to spend two days a week at an RE's office. I'm not giving up hope but, for the moment, I am willing to accept my physical and emotional capabilities.<br />
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And my husband, because he's awesome, said he would fully support whatever steps I was willing, or not willing, to take. Then the next afternoon, he came home from work with a bunch of information about local adoption programs. That's my guy, the problem-solver.<br />
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So that's been my life, lately. I feel like crap, pretty much constantly, and I don't want to feel this way anymore. In a way, I'm very disappointed in myself, because I hate to fail at anything, and I really hate giving up. But I also know that I've got too many other wonderful things in my life right now to let anything block my view of them. And this doesn't mean we might not try again in the future. It just means that, if nothing breaks our way in the next six weeks, we're going to take a little break from it.<br />
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I'm not even as sad about it as I expected to be. I have a loving family, amazing friends, and one perfect son I already get to call my own. Things could always be better, but they could also be a lot worse.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-42816445170125902272011-11-02T07:46:00.000-04:002011-11-02T07:46:52.076-04:00Today's Post DelayedHad a big fun post on practical evangelism planned, but just couldn't hack it out this morning. In a lot of pain, and worrying the Clomid may be causing OHSS (ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome). It's supposed to be pretty common, but, not to be a whiney-pants, this is really, really painful. Going to try to work on the post later, when I feel like sitting up and thinking for that long.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-21747421085630501682011-10-31T08:06:00.000-04:002011-10-31T08:06:02.417-04:00Last-minute costumes for moms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="http://cdn.ismashphone.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/6a00e55225079e88340133f5057008970b-pi.jpg" />If you're like me, you've spent most of your prep time for this year's Halloween focused on making the holiday fun for your kid. Choosing an adorable costume, figuring out trick-or-treat routes, and watching the Halloween episode of "Yo Gabba Gabba" to help him get prepared. (Also, shut up; I love me some "Yo Gabba Gabba".)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, at least for me, such was not always the case. Halloween used to be my <em>thang</em>. Working on costumes weeks in advance, debating on whether or not to brave the crowds on Franklin Street, deciding Hillsborough Street was too lame and involved too much walking in uncomfortable shoes, and inevitably finding myself at Legends. (There is no party like a gay club on Halloween.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can also admit that, prior to the birth of my son, I was one of those girls who went just a liiiiittle on the slutty side with my costumes each year. Schoolgirl, vampire (corsette + fangs), cigarette girl (won a costume contest with that one, but the dress was so short I specifically bought matching undies for the occassion).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, I don't want to dress slutty for Halloween anymore. I've outgrown it, and I'm a mom now. I don't want to present any image that I would be embarrassed for my son to see pictures of years down the road.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, I still love Halloween. And now that I've got my son all prepared, I'm realizing that I still really want to dress up for tonight. Of course, it's the last-minute, so a costume is going to require all my creative MacGyver skills.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, a lot of people are throwing on a black turtleneck and some wire-rimmed glasses, carrying around an iPhone and saying they're Steve Jobs. I think that's a bit insensitive, personally, and I own no Apple products.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I started thinking about what's in my closet, and got some ideas. Then I realized that it's probably very similar to what most moms have in <em>their</em> closets, and I have a chance to do some good here. So, in case you waited until the last second (like me!) here are some easy Halloween costumes you can throw together for tonight.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Princess/Beauty Queen:</strong> Old bridesmaid dress + tiara. If the dress is pastel, or very simple, throw a white shawl over your shoulders, and wear white dress socks with your pumps. Now you're a 1950s prom date.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Bride:</strong> Your old wedding dress. Duh.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Annie Hall:</strong> Dress pants, vest, tie, and black flats. Baggy everything. Glasses and a hat. You can probably raid your hubby's closet for the necessary materials.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Pirate:</strong> Billowy dress shirt and harem pants tucked into boots. Bandana. Stuffed parrot. Overuse of the word "Arrrgh".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>'80s Chick:</strong> Scrunchie (for sideways ponytail). Loud make-up. Old sweatshirt with the neck cut out, slung to the side with one shoulder exposed. Stirrup pants. Lots of bright colors. For extra effect, dig out your old ghetto blaster (or walkman) and blare some Cyndi Lauper. If you're feeling particularly brave, wear rollerblades.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>'70s-Era David Bowie:</strong> My costume choice for this evening, it's basically a combination of the prior two choices. Pirate clothes, but with the '80s make-up. The more glitter, the better, and draw a lightning bolt across your face with red lipstick (google "Aladdin Sane" to get what I'm talking about). Plus, it's not really like it's crossdressing 'cause, come-on, it's vintage David Bowie. As long as you're more "Ziggy Stardust" with your costume (and less "Thin White Duke"), it's really more appropriate for a woman to wear it than a man.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-47465040654933596222011-10-27T08:10:00.000-04:002011-10-27T08:10:17.286-04:00The Other "First"s<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://notamystery.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/bubble-kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="http://notamystery.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/bubble-kid.jpg" width="246" /></a>As parents, we are really big on our baby's "first"s. First tooth, first step, first Christmas, etc. And while these things are important, they're also kind of boring. Most "first"s are things all kids have in common.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I started thinking about it the other morning, when my son was being a bit fussy getting ready for school, and I grabbed the first thing at hand: a sheet of bubblewrap from a recent postage delivery. As I showed him how to pop it, and watched his face light up with giggles, it occurred to me that he had never played with bubblewrap. This was a first. Sure, it's probably not as big a deal as a first haircut, or anything like that, but it made his morning. After all, what kid doesn't like bubblewrap? (Of course, true to his habit of renaming everything, he calls it "squeezy-pop".)</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just the other week, we went to our State Fair. It was actually his third time going, so that wasn't a first, but it <em>was</em> his first time going on the pony ride. And it was perfect. He loves horses, but had barely even seen one in real life. Getting to pet the pony, and then the look on his face when I told him he could ride it, was priceless. I walked next to him, arm extended just in case, but he held onto the saddle horn like a champ and wore the biggest smile the whole time. When the ride was over, he patted "his horsey" and told him goodbye, then ran off to brag to his Daddy, Papa, and Mimi (who had, of course, been watching the whole time). For the next several days, any time anyone asked him if he had fun at the fair, his only response was, "I rode the horsey!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We had another fun "first", this month. Though I've been dressing him up for Halloween since he was three months old, and he was big enough to go trick-or-treating this year, this is the first year he got to pick out his costume. Since, apparently, no one sells astronaut costumes anymore (thanks for shutting NASA down, jerks), he found an airplane pilot costume. He loves it because he gets to tell everyone he flies airplanes (I think he's trying to fool the TSA into letting him get through to an actual jet) and I like it because it's an adorable little suit with a tie and matching hat. But it's extra-special because, unlike the shark costume of last year, or the cow costume of the year before, he picked it out. Of course, it was just about the most expensive toddler costume at the Halloween Store, but that's my fault for telling him he could pick whatever he wanted <em>before</em> I scoped out the price tags.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These last few months have just had so many wonderful "first"s. His first time seeing fireworks. His first time helping pick out and wrap Christmas presents. His first candy apple. His first time watching "Firefly" (probably only a big deal for nerd parents).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's just so exciting that, even as my baby gets older, the "first"s never stop coming. Though I'll admit that I'm not looking forward to the things like "first car drive" or "first date".</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-48551405733040952802011-10-25T08:44:00.000-04:002011-10-25T08:44:38.466-04:00We do Christmas right...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/chicago-hearts-trivia/files/2011/06/christmas_presents_2_470x350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238px" src="http://www.chicagonow.com/chicago-hearts-trivia/files/2011/06/christmas_presents_2_470x350.jpg" width="320px" /></a>Everyone may be picking out costumes and getting their candy ready for trick-or-treaters, but in my house, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.</div><br />
To explain, there are two things you should know about me: 1.) I love the holidays. 2.) I hate crowds.<br />
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From October 1st until New Year's Day, I am a happy woman. As much as I hate shopping for myself, I love buying gifts for other people, and I spend hours at the mall, stores, and on shopping websites, getting ideas, making lists, and comparing prices. I want to find the perfect gift to put a big, genuine smile on the recipient's face when they open their present.<br />
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But I despise crowds, particularly when I'm in my gift-shopping happy place, so it's imperative that I get all of my gifts bought weeks before Black Friday.<br />
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I also just love the time with my family, whether it's taking my son trick-or-treating with his cousins, or having everyone stuff our faces together on Thanksgiving. I love the complete pandemonium that is a Christmas Day with a ton of people and kids underfoot. I love Christmas Eve services with my church family. I love the food, and the hot chocolate, and stockings, cheesy holiday movies and the way Christmas trees smell, and just everything about the entire Holiday season.<br />
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It's also great that I have so many kids to spoil, now. Way back before any of us were married or had kids, I used to try to buy for my sisters like I was an extra parent (not that we didn't have plenty of those already). But now, I've got four babies who can get cute clothes, and toys, and games and, honestly, whatever they ask me for.<br />
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Maybe that's why, a week before Halloween, I find myself sitting on the living room floor with my son, watching "Cars" and showing him how to wrap gifts. We're wrapping the toys I let him pick out for his cousins, and I'm impressed by the way he remembers exactly which toy is for whom. I have a mug of black coffee and he has a sippy of milk, and we have the artificial fireplace turned on. (Only the light though; it's 65 degrees outside, and we don't need the heat.)<br />
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My little boy is being silly, and drapes wrapping paper over my head, saying, "I'm gonna wrap Mommy up!" We finish with the gifts and pile them into boxes. We have three boxes worth of presents wrapped now. We're maybe halfway done.<br />
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Sadly, the boxes will have to sit in the attic for at least a month. As much as I'd like to go ahead and start with my Christmas decorating, it's way too early to get a tree.<br />
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I'm also having to force myself to hold off on working on the gift baskets. I've already wrapped the non-perishable items, but the cooking and baking and goodies-making will have to wait until closer to the big day.<br />
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But until it's time to string the lights and hang the stockings, I'm going to sate myself through spoiling my kids on Halloween and Thanksgiving. They're like the warm-up holidays for Christmas.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-20005690779778477232011-10-21T08:49:00.000-04:002011-10-21T08:49:28.521-04:00Maybe it IS the end of the world...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.womansday.com/var/ezflow_site/storage/images/wd2/content/family-lifestyle/holidays/momfidence-toy-shopping-tales/286877-1-eng-US/Momfidence-Toy-Shopping-Tales_full_article_vertical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" rda="true" src="http://www.womansday.com/var/ezflow_site/storage/images/wd2/content/family-lifestyle/holidays/momfidence-toy-shopping-tales/286877-1-eng-US/Momfidence-Toy-Shopping-Tales_full_article_vertical.jpg" width="270px" /></a></div>Some of you may remember that the Rapture is five months late, and the guy who said it was coming this past May 21st, Harold Camping, recanted and said that the really REAL Rapture was coming today, October 21st.<br />
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And maybe he wasn't so off-base, because it's gotta be a sign of the end times when <strong>I</strong> start thinking, "Hey, maybe being a SAHM wouldn't be so terrible."<br />
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Okay, obviously I need to back up. Here's the TL;DR version of it: I took a sick day with my son when he really wasn't that sick.<br />
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(The long version, for those who are interested: My son has had a nagging case of the cough and sniffles for the last few days, and didn't sleep for crap Wednesday night. No fever or tummy issues, so technically I <em>could</em> have sent him to preschool, but I knew he would just be miserable the whole time, and spread that misery to his teachers and classmates, mostly in the form of tantrums. His coughing also made it so I didn't sleep too well, and I woke up exhausted Thursday morning, and getting ready to be at work by 7:30 just seemed that too much energy to expend.)<br />
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Anyway, unlike the times we've stayed home because he's just miserably sick, my son was feeling okay enough to be in a good mood, and excited about his day home with Mommy. We both slept in a little bit, woke up in time to kiss Daddy bye, and then hung out on the couch for a little while, eating cereal and playing "Gran Turismo V". (I let him hold the extra PS3 controller and he pretends like he's driving. Also, I let him pick out the new cars we buy.)<br />
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Around 8:00 or so, I put on "Finding Nemo" for him to watch while I did a bit of telecommuting (checking and responding to e-mails) and a bit of goofing-off (playing World of Warcraft). When the movie ended, I grabbed a quick shower, while he played with his blocks in the bathroom. (I trust him to an extent, but I still won't let him out of eyesight for the 15 minutes it takes to shower.)<br />
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He was very excited because I had told him earlier that we could go to the toystore to pick out Christmas gifts for his cousins. (My obsession with finishing my Christmas shopping early is fodder enough for a whole separate post.) I got us both dressed, allowed him to bring ONE toy with him for the car (he picked a toy horse), and we headed out the door.<br />
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Now, I have a couple of kids' consignment shops near my house that are my "regulars", but I had already picked those over the previous week. (Kid2Kid and Children's Orchard, both in Cary for those who are interested.) There's an awesome place called Once Upon a Child that's about 10 exits west on I-40, but that I almost never visit just because it's not on the way to anything, unlike the other stores, which are both near the Crossroads Shopping Center and the Cary mall.<br />
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Since I had a free day and a happy baby, I made the trek to Once Upon a Child. And it was totally worth it. My little man picked out several more gifts for his cousins, which made him happy and which I found so precious. I let him pick out two toys for each cousin and was very pleasantly surprised at how well he understood their interests and what was age-appropriate for each of them. (The only thing I put my foot down on was refusing to buy a tutu for his oldest cousin, because she is saturated with girlyishness as it is.)<br />
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Also, while he wasn't looking, I snuck to the counter with this really cool toddler-appropriate toy train set, that came with the tracks and the engine and the cars and everything. Super excited about that one.<br />
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I also got him a pair of sneakers for $5.50, and they honestly look barely worn. I love consignment stores.<br />
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It was about 11:30 by the time we finished up at Once Upon a Child, and I figured it was time to get something in his tummy. Since we were already out Harrison Avenue, I decided to treat him with a trip to Brig's. For those who are unaware, Brig's is a very nice, but affordable, restaurant that serves amazing breakfast and is always inexplicably filled with old people. I don't care; I love it.<br />
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The ridiculously friendly hostess seated us and grabbed a booster sit for my mini-Man. We were promptly greeted by Stephen, the absolute best waiter I have ever had in my life. Stephen had my coffee in about 3 seconds flat, and brought it with a coloring book and crayons for my son. He gave us time to look over the menu, and when he returned, I ordered a triple stack of chocolate chip hotcakes for my son and I to split.<br />
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That was my mistake. Those jokers were huge. We could have split one between the two of us and been full. Instead, I just put one on the extra plate and let my son go to town. He is getting pretty good with utensils, but it's still messy for him to feed himself. By the time he was finished, his face was just caked in chocolate chips and whipped cream. But he didn't get any on his clothes or in his hair, so I consider that a personal victory.<br />
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I got his face and hands all cleaned up, as he neatly stacked his utensils and napkin on his plate. Stephen had already dropped the check off for "Whenever you're ready, please don't feel rushed", and I helped my son down from his booster seat so we could head off to pay. Because he has awesome manners, my sweet little two-year-old picked up his plate and tried to head off to the kitchen. (At home and at school, he puts his dishes up in the sink after meals.) I had to explain to him that, at restaurants, someone comes and does that for you. He put the plate down, and said his goodbyes to Stephen and the people at the nearby tables.<br />
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Yeah, my kid is aggressively friendly.<br />
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We paid, and went for a little walk around the strip mall, just to blow off some steam after gorging ourselves. We peeked around in the nicest Hallmark store I've ever seen (they had free coffee for the moms and a coloring area for the kids), then we passed by a (mercifully, closed and locked) dance studio. My son looked in the windows and stopped in his tracks, huge smile on his face.<br />
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"TROPHIES! LOTS OF TROPHIES!"<br />
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It was true. They had their dozens of trophies lining shelves all along the front entrance, a brilliant marketing strategy, no doubt. My son started pulling on the locked door. "Mommy! Trophies! Big trophies!"<br />
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Yeah, ever since he found out what trophies are this past weekend when he won two of them, he has been REALLY excited about trophies. He even seems to have grasped that trophies are something he has to earn; not something Mommy can just buy for him.<br />
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I finally got him to wave and say "bye" to the trophies, and we continued on our way. He kept on prattling about those trophies though, in that "English-as-a-second-language" way of his. "Mama, I win big trophies," he told me. "I go pageant and get trophy."<br />
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Eventually, we got back to the car for our last quick outing, to Crossroads to hit up Michael's and Kid2Kid. As always, Michael's was packed, even though it was 1:00 on a Thursday afternoon. The long lines were worth it though, as I was able to snag some nice baskets (for gift baskets) for only about $3 each. We dropped in to Kid2Kid, and I grabbed the last of his cousins' gifts, and a cute red, "Christmasy" shirt for him. We paid, and we got out of there.<br />
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He passed out for the brief car ride home, which proved to be a bit of a curse. By the time I got us and our bags of goodies into the house, it was about 2 hours passed his usual naptime, but those 10 minutes of sleep he got in the car must have been a power nap, because nothing I could do would get him to sleep. He was still wide awake and hyper when my husband got home, and ended up going to bed about an hour early.<br />
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That gave me extra time to hang out with my husband, watching DVRed tv shows ("American Horror Story", anyone?) and wrapping the presents we'd bought. It was such a good day, it makes it hard to think about heading back to work this morning.<br />
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But, hey, at least tomorrow's the weekend.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-77778360391660547272011-10-17T08:09:00.000-04:002011-10-17T08:09:52.002-04:00My Son's First Trophy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="212px" oda="true" src="http://www.eastcoastusapageant.com/StatePageants/MD/Maryland%20Photos/2009-03-22-0007+tweaked-web2.jpg" width="320px" />Well, my son's first pageant was this past Saturday and, all-told, I think he did very well. I can't say the same for myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For starters, I got way too stressed out for no real reason. Part of the curse of being a perfectionist, I suppose. I got so obsessed with wanting everything to go perfectly for him that I probably made it worse on him, and for that, I'm sorry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first thing I did wrong was to get there too early. I got there about 20 minutes before registration was supposed to start, which doesn't sound too early, until you factor in that I then had to keep a 2-year-old occupied for 20 minutes in a hotel lobby. We rode the elevators a lot.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also tried to make a little small talk with the other moms, not just to size up the competition (though I was doing that, too), but just to be friendly and kill some time. There was only one other boy in my son's age division (18-35 months) but, though he was a couple of months older than my son, this was his fourth pageant. The parents also had a daughter in the 3-5 year-old division, a stunning little girl in a dress that probably cost more than the one I got married in. Intimidating.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When registration opened (a few minutes late, but who's counting?), we were one of the first in line, so my son was contestant #2. Big mistake. You go in order of your contestant number. So instead of getting to see the other kids show us what to do (since we were clueless) we were the second ones to cross the stage.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We did get some time to practice, which was nice. My son was not in a "pageanty" mood at that point, so he and I just blew off a little steam, being silly and pretending to race. He also schmoozed with the judges, because they were pretty young ladies, and he is a charmer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, the pageant was under way. This was the hard part, because I had to get my 2-year-old boy to sit still and be quiet while people talked. What he really wanted to do, of course, was crawl under the chairs and crash his toy truck into things.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When it was our turn to take the stage, I carried him most of the way (allowed for the kids under 3) and then put him down in front of the judges. He smiled, waved, and walked with me back off, even telling the judges, "Bye!" I was sure we'd blown it, since he had been nervous about coming out at first, and I had to carry him for the first bit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, after what felt like forever with a squirmy toddler, the other kids had finished, and everyone was called up to receive their participation trophies. We were dismissed while the judges deliberated and tallied their scores.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I tried telling my son, "Look at your trophy! You won!" Since the other kids had so much more experience, I was sure he wouldn't place, so I was trying to make a big deal out of his participation trophy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He may be only two, but he wasn't buying it. He looked around at the other kids with their trophies identical to his, and he pointed to the award table, where the larger trophies, sashes, medallions, and crowns sat. "No Mommy. That's my trophy."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yes...my child is ridiculously competetive and arrogant. And he's still being potty-trained. This doesn't bode well for his teen years.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After another eternity of trying to keep him occupied and his suit clean, it was time to sit down and applaud the winners. We clapped for the little girls who won "Prettiest Eyes" and "Prettiest Smile". I was humbled and happy when my son was awarded the "Personality" sash, convinced that it was the nicest thing they could think of to give him (all the kids get something, so they can feel like they "won"). We continued on, cheering for the winners of the modeling and photography competition, best-dressed, etc.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then it was time to award the crowns.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I told my impatient, wiggly little boy, "As soon as we're done clapping for the other kids, we can go home and get icecream." His response? "Mommy, I wanna go get my trophy," pointing to the awards table again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"No honey, that's not ours," I whispered, while the boy and girl overall runners-up went to the stage to receive their sashes. I was so focused on calming him down that I didn't register that they were announcing the boys overall winner, with a total combined score of 19 out of 20, to be contestant #2.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It took them actually saying his name for it to sink in that, oh crap, he won. Not that I don't have faith in my kid, not in the least. I just didn't expect him to beat out the more experienced children, especially at his first pageant.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We went to the stage, him in his socks. (I had let him kick off his uncomfortable dress shoes while we were sitting in the audience, and there wasn't time to get them back on.) He smiled very big when he was handed "his" trophy and the crown was set upon his head. I got the paperwork for Nationals from the judge, gathered up his sashes, and we scooted back to our seat. I got his shoes back on by myself (he had a death grip on those trophies), gathered up our bag, and we got out of there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was so exhausted that he was asleep in his carseat by the time we were out of the hotel parking lot, but he still was holding both trophies. We hung out with his cousins and my parents for a bit, and he tried to give his smaller, participation trophy to his cousin, not understanding that that's not exactly how trophies work. Later that night, he insisted on wearing his crown during dinner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, not that it's any surprise to me, but my boys a winner. We even have an entry to Nationals if we want it. (Probably not, since it would require travelling to New York.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, I would have been just as proud if we'd come home empty-handed, because my boy was brave and gracious in the attempt. But winning, especially on our first try, feels really good, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Though, I will admit, I never thought my son's first ever trophy would be for a pageant.</div><div align="left"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-73525044463089139552011-10-13T07:58:00.000-04:002011-10-13T07:58:32.154-04:00Pageants don't have to be stupid.First off, let me apologize for the sporadic posting schedule lately. I have a couple of big posts on the backburner that I'm saving for when I have the time and (emotional) energy to write about them.<br />
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That being said, I just wanted to do a little blurb today thanking and endorsing the <a href="http://www.pageantwin.com/">All American Girl & Boy Pageant</a>. Their local team has been so friendly and supportive in helping me prepare my son for his first pageant this Saturday, and I really believe they are a good group of folks.<br />
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Even though they stress that they are a "natural" (not "glitz") pageant, I was really worried about what I would be up against this weekend. A look at their website reassured me. The pictures were of adorable children in age-appropriate clothes, little or no make-up, genuine gap-toothed smiles to the camera.<br />
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The mission statement was just as good: <strong>"Our pageant believes that children should look like children. All clothing should be age appropriate. We do not believe in artificial tanning, fake hair and excessive makeup! We believe that pageants should be fun and inexpensive! We like our contestants to look natural and to be themselves."</strong><br />
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A world of difference from nightmares like you see on "Toddlers & Tiaras".<br />
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I'm getting really excited for Saturday, and I'm hoping the experience lives up to my expectations. But, sink or swim, celebration or disaster, rest assured that I'll be updating you about it next week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-61103272225249966272011-10-11T08:32:00.000-04:002011-10-11T08:32:02.253-04:00Little Mr. Sunshine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="213px" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RzFuseMFEYs/TSv0qdvD_HI/AAAAAAAAASs/_nhkw7qo_9c/s320/LittleMissSunshine3.jpg" width="320px" />There are a few things people should know about me, not the least of which is my tendency to seize and obsess upon an idea. I'm intensely focused, to a flaw, but it's a trait that I can recognize in myself. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew it would mean I would someday be a "----- mom", whether that be "hockey mom", "band mom", "Science Olympiad mom", etc. Whatever my child was interested in, I would be invested, 100%.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, even before I found out for sure I was having a boy, I never thought there would be even the remotest possibility anyone could call me a "pageant mom".</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm a tomboy, born and bred, so my experience with child beauty pageants is limited to "Little Miss Sunshine" (one of my favorite movies) and "Toddlers & Tiaras" (my favorite TLC show for when I need to scream at the t.v., besides "Dance Moms").</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I especially had never considered the possibility of entering my <em>son</em> into a toddler pageant. Don't get me wrong; I am all for circumventing outdated gender notions. However, I think people who use their kids as props to further their own social agendas are jerks and, honestly, crappy parents.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In other words, what I'm trying to say is that I would never submit my son to a traditionally feminine activity as some sort of underhanded feminist tactic. /end disclaimer</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, if my son showed interest in something that is more typically "girls-only", well, I would be a total hypocrite to try to stop him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This all started a couple of weeks ago when my son and his cousins went to have portraits done. In addition to him posing like a pro, big smiles and eyes on the camera for every shot, my little runway rockstar had the time of his life. Here he was, a 2-year-old boy in a suit and tie, and he was upset when it was time to stop taking pictures. "Move out of the way honey, it's your cousin's turn," I told him. "Pictures all done."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Nooo! Not all done! More pictures!" I then spent the next 20 minutes distracting him with blocks so he wouldn't photobomb his cousins' portraits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The pictures came out great. As I mentioned, he was modeling in every single one. It was then that some family members started mentioning, "Maybe he could do this for real."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I loved the idea, not just because I'm a mom and someone was flattering my kid, but also because I love getting to do things with my son. He's still too young for sports or instruments, but this was something I could involve him in, without a lot of (or any, ideally) money, and he already seemed to really enjoy it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was through researching toddler modeling that I found out a lot of kids get their break through pageants. It makes sense. They're practicing walking in front of a crowd, smiling, posing, and getting their pictures taken.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And it just seemed perfect for my son. He's a natural ham, and loves being the center of attention. His first time on stage, when he was about 16 months, he was supposed to be playing a sheep with his classmates in a Christmas play put on by his preschool. His entire role was to walk across the stage with his "flock" (his teacher was the shepherd) and say "baa".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not my boy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My little sheep broke away from the pack and took center stage. Seeing a sanctuary full of eyes on him, he got a huge grin on his face, and broke into dance. When his teacher chased after him, he ran over to the confused 4-year-old playing a wise man, and tried to grab his microphone. (What he was going to say, I have no idea. His vocabulary was pretty limited at that point.) While one shepherd herded the rest of the little sheep back down the aisle, his teacher had to pick him up and carry him offstage, while he kept trying to dance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I'm not really worried about whether he's too shy for pageants, or might get stage fright.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I started researching pageant companies in my area, just to get an idea of what was out there. I was lucky to find several that only supported "all natural" pageants, meaning no big hair, make-up, fake teeth ("flippers"), etc. The pictures were promising. The little boys were just adorable, gap-toothed kids in cute little suits, and the girl were pretty and natural, in age-appropriate dresses. No "Toddlers & Tiaras" style tarting-up allowed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I shot off some e-mails to the directors, women who were very friendly and sane (a pleasant surprise, and far from the stereotypical pageant director my mind had envisioned). A couple even mentioned that their sons did pageants, and assured me that the process is much easier for boys.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I registered my son, and our first pageant is this Saturday. I'm very nervous and excited, though there doesn't seem to be much to it. For his age group, there's only one outfit, and no talent performance. (In other words, no costume changes or complicated routines to practice.) Kids under the age of four are required to be escorted across the stage by a parent, so that makes me feel better. (Though, as my Dad pointed out, my son will need an escort to make sure he gets off the stage, not on it.) Basically, all I have to do is dress my son up nice, try to brush his crazy hair flat, and hold his hand while we walk across the stage. Easy-peasy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, then again, I am a bit obsessive. I've got both his suit and my outfit hung up nicely in the closet, so I can just take a quick iron to it Saturday morning. I'll change him once we get to the venue, so he doesn't get his suit all wrinkled in the carseat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We've even been practicing our little pageant walk, with me reminding him to smile and wave. (We may throw in blowing kisses, as long as he feels like doing it. I'm not going to force him, because that would be fake and cheesy.) And I've been YouTube-ing videos of toddler pageants, trying to get an idea of what exactly is going to happen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If this Saturday goes well, this may be something we continue on a semi-regular basis. Which means I would be a "pageant mom".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, I have it easier than my husband. He kowtows to my son's whims worse than anyone, which means he could end up being a "pageant dad". Probably not the activity he had imagined participating in with his little boy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And if it totally bombs, then we'll just break out and "Little Miss Sunshine" the crap out of it.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-59905844611497206072011-10-06T08:24:00.000-04:002011-10-06T08:24:29.093-04:00Poverty is not a character flaw.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320px" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_A7WnpsN4e1s/TUNajtZGe8I/AAAAAAAAAc4/0ghAb6JRlUo/s320/GoodBetterBlessed_JoelOsteen.jpg" width="290px" /><em><span style="color: #444444;">Special thanks to my awesome Core Group ladies for inspiration for today's post.</span></em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Most people in the church world, and even those outside it, have heard of Joel Osteen. He has multiple megachurches and has become a millionaire through books, speaking engagements, etc.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you listen to one of his sermons, or read one of his books, it becomes apparent why he has such a huge following. He is a prosperity, or "health and wealth" preacher, meaning he tells people what they want to hear. Mainly, that, "God wants YOU to be RICH."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's a pretty nice thought, right? He even provides seminars on how you can "unleash your inner champion" and do all these different things to let God rain out his blessings upon you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Needless to say, I think this sort of Santa-Jesus teaching is a bunch of crap.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For one thing, God never promised to make us have perfect health and rock-solid finances. He promised to take care of us. If you have a roof over your head (even if it's a homeless shelter's roof) and food on your table (even if it's from the soup kitchen), you need to be thanking God for your blessings. If you look at the Bible, Jesus and the Disciples weren't exactly living in the lap of luxury. But, as they travelled, they ate, and fellowshipped, and gave thanks to God for the blessings he had provided them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe that's the problem with our cushy modern lives. Maybe God has spoiled us a little too much. If we were living in some war-torn, famine-stricken country, we wouldn't be stressing so much over whether or not we could afford to get our kid a PSP for Christmas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I am guilty of this; I am so, so very guilty of this. I stress when I don't get to put as much as I would like into my savings account each month, and I forget to thank God for my healthy son and husband, and our good jobs, and our (mostly) running cars. I stress about paying the mortgage and forget what a blessing a mortgage is compared to rent.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Worse than our spiritual ingratitude, is the flipside to prosperity preaching. If God promises us health and wealth for or faithfulness, there becomes an unspoken assumption that those who are not similarly blessed must be struggling because of their own faults.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Or maybe it's not an unspoken assumption, when you have people like <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/cain-tells-occupy-wall-street-protesters-blame/story?id=14674829">political frontrunner Herman Cain saying, "If you don't have a job and you're not rich, blame yourself!"</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This attitude even extends to the majority of American Christian churches, particularly in the way outreach is handled. In a lot of churches (most, but not all), outreach to the poor is a long-distance project. Maybe you take up a special offering, or you do a canned food drive, but most of the people who occupy the pews will not step foot in a shelter. If you do, it's imperative that you maintain an air of separation. You can ladle food onto plates, smile, and say, "God bless you," but you don't actually <em>socialize</em> with these people. After all, most of them are probably drug addicts, or criminals, or have some sort of mental illness. Good, wholesome people don't choose this life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It just makes me want to shake people until they get it through their heads that <em>no one</em> chooses that life. But that's a hard truth, and people are happier not believing it. We've gotten so comfortable that we've lost the attitude of "there but by the grace of God go I", and we've adopted this cultural view that the homeless and destitute are wholly responsible for their situation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A friend of mine works with a woman who, not long ago, became homeless. She was blessed enough to have friends to stay with but, had she not, she would have been out on the streets. Not a drug addict. Not schizophrenic. A young woman with a job who just fell upon hard times, as so many in the US have.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, yeah, I get a little irritated when <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/faithbased/2008/01/pentecostalism_for_the_exurbs.single.html">Osteen says that it was God's hand that his plane ticket got upgraded to first-class</a>. Because, somewhere probably only a few miles from the Compaq Center, where he tells his 47,000 congregation members that they just have to speak their blessings into being, there's a single mother deciding whether to buy groceries or pay her rent on time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And as she prays urgently to God for Him to take care of her family, a stadium full of comparatively wealthy people listen to sermons on how standing up straight and smiling on purpose can help them with their real estate investments.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-82231949579008561322011-10-04T07:59:00.002-04:002011-10-04T08:01:00.893-04:00Monday Night Solo<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.donnabellas.com/family/mothers/mother-son/drawing/Mommy-and-son.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" kca="true" src="http://www.donnabellas.com/family/mothers/mother-son/drawing/Mommy-and-son.jpg" width="320px" /></a><a href="http://www.donnabellas.com/family/mothers/mother-son/drawing/Mommy-and-son.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a>If I'm honest, I can admit that I pretty much hit the jackpot when it comes to husbands. My hubby can repair anything like he's MacGyver, but has the domestic skills of Martha Stewart. He's also, easily, the most hands-on Dad I know, with full capability and willingness to feed, change diapers, give baths, tuck into bed, etc. This has proven itself in the amazing bond he shares with our son. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Which is why my husband going back to school at night has caused a period of adjustment for our family. Every Monday, he rushes home to take a shower and eat an early dinner with us (usually around 5:00) before he has to hit the highway and attend class from 6:00 to 10:00. This means he sees my son before work in the morning, for a very brief period thereafter, and the baby has long been in bed by the time he gets home.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So Mondays are hard.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Last night wasn't so bad. My son didn't cry when my husband left, and I distracted him by taking him upstairs for a bath (one of his favorite things, no sarcasm). But, though he didn't say anything direct about missing his Daddy, it was pretty obvious.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Playing with his toy boats in the bathtub, he told me that the big boat was the "daddy" and the little boat was the "baby". Then he started talking about one of his various beloved Pixar movies, "Finding Nemo".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Nemo's daddy go away, but he come back," he told me. "Yes," I agreed. "Daddies always come back."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">"It's not scary," he said, which is what he always says when he is scared of something. (For obvious reasons, he is very afraid of the scene where the divers catch Nemo.) "My Daddy coming right back," he then told me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Well honey, Daddy will be back after you go to bed. After you go to bed, when you wake up, you get to see Daddy."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Daddy sad?" he asked. Lately, he's gotten to the age where he internalizes everything, so he thinks everything is his fault. Last week, he thought Daddy didn't come to LifeGroup (bible study and fellowship) with us because he had gotten in trouble earlier. Actually, Daddy just had too much reading to catch up on. But the whole ride home he still told me how he was going to tell Daddy he was sorry and give him a big hug, even though he hadn't gotten in trouble for hours.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Anyway, I tried to explain that Daddy wasn't sad or mad with us, but that he had to go to school. I think that may be the part that confuses my son, the idea of grown-up school. I guess he pictures his Daddy listening to Bible stories and making macaroni art.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually, all the Daddy questions tapered off, and we got down to just having some "us" time. On Mondays, because I am indulgent of my spoiled child, he and I just lay on our tummies on the bed and watch Pixar movies. (Hey, we get plenty of active/creative/learning/etc. play every other night of the week.) Last night we tried "The Incredibles", which he pretty much considered a snoozefest, so we swapped it for an old favorite, "Tangled". We danced and jumped on the bed to "I Got a Dream", and made horsey noises along with Maximus. Towards the end, I explained that, since it was a little past his bedtime, we would have to brush our teeth and go right to bed after the movie ended. Giving him prior warning helped, and he went to bed without a peep.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">This allowed me to devote my full attention to a little project I'd been working on with my laptop during the movie. I can't go into too much detail, but I can provide a little backstory. As both a cost-saving measure and an attempt to add a more personal touch during the holidays, my husband and I made gift baskets for our parents and my grandma last year. The central gift, which was a big hit, were these custom calendars I had designed with pictures of my son and kind of cute/funny captions. It was strongly hinted (a.k.a. "I was flat-out told") that these were expected to be a yearly tradition.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Well, I'm competetive in general, and with myself in particular. So there was no way I was just going to do the same old calendars as last year. The calendars had to be topped.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I spent hours, multiple folders, applications, and websites open, working on a very intense, detailed, grueling, but, also kind of fun and creative, project last night. When my husband got home, I didn't ask about his class like I usually would, but instead insisted he come upstairs to give the final stamp of approval to my work. After all my effort, I was suddenly nervous (as I always am) that what I've been working so hard on sucked.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">He loved it, and thought everyone else would, too. After much assurance that it wasn't too cheesy (but just cheesy enough, in the good way), I finalized the project. He got me to quit agonizing over it, and we went downstairs and watched the DVRed season premiere of "House", where I finally got around to asking how his class had gone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After our brief chance to hang out, it was after 11:00 before we got to bed. I was exhausted when I fell asleep, but pleased with myself for managing a whole night, and even achieving a degree of productivity, without my best friend and partner.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-23458119036178066132011-09-30T08:07:00.000-04:002011-09-30T08:07:23.432-04:00Link Round-Up: Attack on Yuppies EditionIn lieu of your regularly-scheduled blogging, I'm providing some links to places on the web where I've been wasting time lately. Today's theme is what the the title suggests; all the following links tie in to the permeating cluelessness of the bourgeoisie.<br />
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And, as always, 8PP is in no way affiliated with the following sites, and therefore does not endorse 100% of their content.<br />
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First up, you may have heard of these guys in the news...<a href="http://www.adbusters.org/campaigns/occupywallstreet">Occupy Wall Street</a>. This is a group of peaceful protesters that, about two weeks ago, initiated a sit-in on Wall Street. Their slogan is, "We are the 99%," referring to the way that the richest 1% in America own the majority of the wealth and therefore tend to get all the breaks. The group is largely composed of kids who followed the American dream; went to college, studied hard, and graduated with a mountain of student debt and no job prospects in a failing economy. (Sadly, an all-too-common story nowadays.) They are trying to empower the masses and show that it's not the big banks who deserve the bailouts, but us working-class heroes. Unfortunately, media coverage has been ignoring their message while focusing on the more sensational aspects, like the NYPD officer who pepper sprayed a group of penned in, non-resisting female protesters.<br />
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It's not all bad news, though. The movement, largely grassroots, is gaining a lot of momentum on the ground, and Occupy Together is spreading across the country. There is an opportunity in almost every state now for people to march on the major financial and government districts of their area. If you're one of the 99%, you're in NC, and you're interested, and if you're down for some <u><strong>peaceful</strong></u> protesting (no Che Guevaras need apply), check out Occupy Charlotte, starting tomorrow. I heard they're even arranging for carpool to help people get there.<br />
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This ties in well with my second link. <a href="http://www.playspent.org/">Spent</a>. Do you believe that most people facing homelessness are there because of bad decisions, character flaws, addiction, or mental illness? Urban Ministries of Durham has some news for you. To make the issue of poverty hit home for those who have been blessed enough to be clueless about it, they've come up with a computer game that simulates what it's really like to be poor. You start off as an unemployed single parent who has recently lost their home. You have $1,000 left in savings. You have to take whatever crappy minimum wage job you can get, and try to make it through the month. You have some tough choices to make, like whether you can afford to pay for your child to play sports, or if you are going to have the gas or the electric turned off, since you can't pay both bills. It's depressing, but eye-opening. Even if you make it to the end of the month with a little bit of money left, you don't really "win". After all, the end of the month just means that rent is due tomorrow. See if you can play the game without feeling a punch in your gut. Good luck.<br />
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After you play Spent, you're going to need something to cheer you up. And there's no better place to laugh at clueless yuppies than on <a href="http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/">STFU Parents</a>. Now, as the name would imply, there is going to be some profanity. But the reality-based humor more than makes up for it. This is a site where people can send in screencaps from Facebook of various moronic things parents have posted, whether it's TMI photos of baby poop or labor, or entitled whining from Moms who think the world should revolve around them, etc. The funniest ones, to me at least, are where the ridiculously stuck-up stay-at-home trophy wife is bemoaning not getting her first choice in caterer's for her 1-year-old's birthday party that she invited 200 people to. Seeing people like that complain about how hard life is after you played Spent is kind of hilarious, if frustrating.<br />
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Don't worry about these people being publicly embarrassed, however. The blog moderator blocks out all the names so that no one can be identified by their post. As an added bonus, see if you can see the "Mom's Gold Star" I got for the time I compared my toddler to a puppy!<br />
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I hope these links provide you enough entertainment until I can get back on a regular posting schedule. I'm starting Clomid for a few days, so don't be surprised if the next update is a list of reasons why I hate every person I've ever met, but especially my husband. (From all I hear, Clomid makes you murderously crazy and rage-filled. Good times!)<br />
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Have a good weekend, everyone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-10036619844084325302011-09-26T08:03:00.000-04:002011-09-26T08:03:05.340-04:00I'm kind of a big deal.There are so many things about being a Mom that are just...awesome. One of the coolest unexpected perks though is when your kid gets to that just-perfect age where they become convinced you are superhuman.<br />
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My son is at that point, that wonderful, brief time where Mommy and Daddy are magic. I love it. There are so many little, basic things that I can do that leave my son in awe of me, and that is incredible. Here are some examples.<br />
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<strong>Action:</strong> Telling him he can pick out any costume he wants from the Halloween store at the mall.<br />
<strong>Perception:</strong> "Mommy is rich!"<br />
<strong>Reality:</strong> I felt like crap that no one seemed to have his first choice, an astronaut costume. Also, everything at the Halloween store is cheap and made in the Far East, so none of the toddler costumes were over $30. Of course, he picked the airplane pilot costume, that was $29.99.<br />
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<strong>Action:</strong> Baking cookies for him.<br />
<strong>Perception:</strong> "Mommy is a master chef!"<br />
<strong>Reality:</strong> I am a terrible cook, and the cookies were largely inedible, since I didn't add enough shortening and they had the consistency of cornbread. No one else wanted the cookies besides the toddler with indiscriminate taste.<br />
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<strong>Action:</strong> Playing with puppets with him.<br />
<strong>Perception:</strong> "Mommy is some amazing and hilarious combination of Jim Henson and Steve Martin...back in the '70s when both were way more relevant."<br />
<strong>Reality:</strong> I'm a 26-year-old with a college education and a turtle hand puppet, which I have given an old man voice and made clumsy to the point of slapstick. But, for a 2-year-old, a grumpy turtle going, "Argh! My knees!" while sliding backwards off a wheel is the height of comedy.<br />
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<strong>Action:</strong> Taking him to the museum or aquarium and pointing out all the different species of fish to him.<br />
<strong>Perception:</strong> "Mommy is a genius!"<br />
<strong>Reality:</strong> Mommy used to work at a fish store and is a bit of an amateur liminologist, a hobby almost as nerdy as lepidoptery or stamp-collecting.<br />
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<strong>Action:</strong> Fixing Brobee's scratched-up eye.<br />
<strong>Perception:</strong> "Mommy has magical healing powers!"<br />
<strong>Reality:</strong> I colored in the scratched part of his toy's eye with a Sharpie while he napped.<br />
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There are just so many ways my son makes me feel like this amazing person, because that's how he sees me. Like how there's no one else he wants to play toy guitars and rock out with when a cool song comes on Pandora. Or how, after seeing my bandage from giving blood, he slid an elastic hairband up his elbow and proudly announced, "I got a boo-boo like Mommy."<br />
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Of course, I'm not doing anything incredible. I'm just taking a little extra time; extra time to go costume-shopping, or to the museum, or to fix a toy, or bake some truly awful desserts. But it's those little things, beyond just providing food and shelter, that take me from being a mother to being a Mommy.<br />
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If you have kids, you're probably a superhero in their eyes, too. And if you're not, it's really easy to change that.<br />
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Just takes a little time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-38482878596238780072011-09-25T14:34:00.003-04:002011-09-25T14:36:10.517-04:00Military GirlfriendPost contributed by Hilton Miranda <br />
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This military girlfriend thing is about to kill me. James has been in the field for 9 days and I have had absolutely no contact. My only saving grace is that I spent all of last weekend with him in Virginia and stocked up on quality time together. I am so proud of him, though, this is all worth it. I find myself writing emails that I know he won’t read until he returns to the base, but it’s my daily way of filling him in on life. This has become routine for me when he’s in the field, but last month when he returned to the base, J had a surprise for me. We could skype using the <a href="http://www.directstartv.com/">Satellite TV</a> they have on base! He was reading my emails on a timed computer and was only allowed 5 minutes to read everything since all the guys needed access. But, with this, we can have up to 15 minutes to talk to each other face-to-face and catch up! Gotta love technology. Hopefully this will make the next year go by faster.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620530366690650069.post-32037869796780987022011-09-25T10:01:00.001-04:002011-09-25T10:01:49.785-04:00Straight Talk No-Contract Plans
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