tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17755181489171421492024-03-05T02:25:05.662-07:00Birdie Belle // Grabbing life by the earsAngelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.comBlogger498125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-79848692062623749792016-08-01T22:47:00.002-06:002016-08-01T22:47:37.974-06:00In the spirit of Mary LouIt's no secret, I'm a sweater. Well, I guess if it was a secret, it's certainly not now. Anyway, in past posts I've been brutally honest about all of the things that make me sweat . . . running (but that's a given), motherhood, making choices, reading my writing in front of other people (but apparently not sharing goodness-knows-what from the safety of my computer), and any number of other things. Also on that list, attending the gymnastics lessons of my daughter. Now, before you think that I've got some sort of condition that prevents me from being comfortable in public, I do. Just kidding. I don't. Most of the time. What I do have is a condition that prevents me from being comfortable in a gym without air conditioning where no less than 74 kids under the age of 6 are 'tumbling' on a hot August day. Gracious. Let me back up . . .<br />
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Birdie's best friend in the entire world signed up for gymnastics. Well, she didn't, she's four but her mom did. You get the picture. Since Birdie would like to spend the majority of her days in the company of Josie, we signed up for gymnastics. It's just an hour one night a week but I'm pretty sure I see a future star in her. We've got the Olympics on our mind. But heavens, not Rio . . . I sweat just thinking about it. And there's another instance of the sweating.<br />
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Gosh I get sidetracked.<br />
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Last Monday was the first class and Birdie excelled. Wait, that's her biased mother talking. She had a great time and not only has she talked about it each day since, she's worn her leotard at least once a day so that she's ready at a moments notice should a flash mob gymnastics class pop up. You can't be too prepared.<br />
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Fast forward to today and this is where our adventure begins. A spot for Olive, who had previously been on a wait list for the Teeny Tumblers class (ages 1-3), which happens at the same time as Birdie's, has opened up. She's in. That means that I'm also in. Yep, the parents join the child for a half hour of organized chaos. Though I knew this, and though I wore shorts and a t-shirt to class, I was still overdressed for my inability to naturally cool myself. You guys, I started sweating just walking Olive to the other side of the gym! Though it would probably be really strange and uncomfortable for everyone else if I wore a leotard to my 1 year-olds gymnastics class, it just might be the ticket. Perhaps a visor with a built in fan would be the answer. I don't know but I've got to figure out something before next Monday.<br />
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Every floor surface is some variation of springy and so it's not just walking that goes on . . . it's balancing and bouncing, tripping and falling, tip-toeing and then stomping when the next type of floor isn't quite as flexible as the last. There was a moment when I chased a running Olive down the super long trampoline, and let me tell you, I'm no gazelle. I'm sure the other parents (whose kids were slightly less disrupting than mine) thought I was nuts and "Good lawd, where are this women's parenting skills?! Get a handle on your kid, woman!!"<br />
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I mentioned I started sweating just walking Olive across the gym? It was an all-out-flood 10 minutes in. I was visibly pitting out by 12 minutes and looking for the water fountain (and the exit) by 20. Did I mention class is 30 minutes long?! My hair was even in a pony tail!! Of course, I got those fantastic sweat ringlets next to my ears and on my neck almost immediately . . . there's no hiding you're sweating when it's running down your temples. I tried to act all nonchalant but honestly, when no one else is sweating it's a little beyond obvious. Every other parent was fresh as a daisy, even the mother who had her infant strapped to her chest. NOT A DROP OF SWEAT! The teachers weren't sweating and they'd probably been in that hot, humid, super-smelly gym for 8 hours! Do you think if I doused myself in baby powder before I went that would help? Maybe soak up some of that ridiculousness? I suppose I'd just have sticky baby powder everywhere then. Never mind, that's a terrible idea.<br />
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Oh man, I guess I'm just destined to be 'that girl'. The lots in life we're forced to deal with.<br />
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Here's hoping I can find a reasonable solution by next week. T-minus 7 days . . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c6ZHHvS6xIR8-aXKmPEV-JIRBUG0NoiFK01NrQfMCf5WSi-suZT2gFV1riYz3YntQwGccdv5TFD1-KfvaLgd-MhjlaMiFcTirhGrlAtP6-VQKUxbf97D7CTElOu4sWlgsCAIpW2HTwg/s1600/IMG_0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c6ZHHvS6xIR8-aXKmPEV-JIRBUG0NoiFK01NrQfMCf5WSi-suZT2gFV1riYz3YntQwGccdv5TFD1-KfvaLgd-MhjlaMiFcTirhGrlAtP6-VQKUxbf97D7CTElOu4sWlgsCAIpW2HTwg/s640/IMG_0224.JPG" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birdie and Josie on their first day of gymnastics.</td></tr>
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-26278488389460926292016-06-30T15:09:00.001-06:002016-06-30T15:17:17.385-06:00Yearly updateIt's been a year since I've written so I figured an update was in order...just not now. Mostly I logged in to make sure that my account still existed. Wouldn't that be the pits to see that you couldn't get into your own blog? I cringe just thinking about it. Speaking of pits, it is hot here in northwest Montana and my deodorant is woefully unprepared. Anyway...more soon...I promise. It'll definitely happen<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> before 2017.</span><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj8lmeiaX9u_FFMRwvZdt6sERPBY9Gv4cKuuiL-bREpv2k8iriCD-HdxP5Q30CX8HBVa3EoiusAloVlhN7vnYq9gFx15Fd-ghOJRhSlWZphzqzH9FyMIivpzFcbFzFTpbNBkKw6PFmc8/s640/blogger-image-55360318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj8lmeiaX9u_FFMRwvZdt6sERPBY9Gv4cKuuiL-bREpv2k8iriCD-HdxP5Q30CX8HBVa3EoiusAloVlhN7vnYq9gFx15Fd-ghOJRhSlWZphzqzH9FyMIivpzFcbFzFTpbNBkKw6PFmc8/s640/blogger-image-55360318.jpg"></a></div>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-35969723428926384982015-06-29T23:21:00.001-06:002015-07-01T12:38:10.179-06:00Pride comes before the slipWe recently celebrated a friend's wedding and because all of us were completely clothed (which is appropriate when it comes to weddings, and because it doesn't always happen with toddlers) I thought it might be a good time to get a family photo. I get the let's-take-a-family-photo-every-time-we're-somewhat-put-together gene from my dad. He had it bad when I was growing up. Or at least that's my memory of it. I'm pretty sure we took a picture every Sunday after church, when all I wanted to do was change out of my itchy tights and my older sister wanted to listen to her cassette tapes in the privacy of her bedroom. Or maybe she wanted to re-curl her hair in the privacy of her bedroom. Or just be away from her little sister in the privacy of her bedroom. That's probably closer to the truth right there.<br />
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Anyway, I jump at the opportunity to take pictures . . . I blame my dad. And his dad. And for the heck of it, his dad's dad.<br />
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That night, just before falling asleep, I decided to upload one to Facebook. After all, who doesn't like to share a photo they're proud of with friends and family and those couple of people in your friend list who you really don't know? Reading the comments from people is fun and let's be honest, most of us (or maybe it's just me) don't mind a little pat on the back, a little 'hey, you look great', 'your kids are adorable', 'your husband is super handsome' (for that I'd have to smash your fingers). We (or again, maybe just me) probably lean heavily on the side of posting the good photos. The 'highlight reel' as I've heard it called. No early morning selfies here! For one, my bed head wouldn't fit in the frame and two, I'm pretty sure you could smell morning breath through the screen. Is that just me? Does anyone else out there choose what they post very wisely? Am I all alone in this? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?<br />
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So imagine my surprise when I checked Facebook the next day and instead of posting this, which I had totally planned to do, . . .<br />
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Let's see, there's Birdie, Craig, Angela, and Olive. Oh, and Angela's slip! Fantastic. It is the equivalent of giving a presentation to a group and then walking away realizing only later that you've got something stuck in your teeth. To use the word mortified would be a huge stretch because I wasn't that, but I was slightly embarrassed. Embarrassed enough to wonder if anyone would notice if I took it down and replaced it with the first photo. Would the people who already liked it, and then saw it again in their feed, think they had a case of deja vu? Could we play a fun game of 'count the differences in these pictures'? Would anyone notice a little Photoshop job? Then pride got in the way. Or wait, maybe pride was my companion from the get-go on this. That's probably a little closer to the truth. Social media, you bring out the worst in me.<br />
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On the plus side, now everyone knows I'm wearing a slip and there will be no wardrobe malfunction from this girl. Unless you count the malfunction that happens when you wear a slip and a camisole . . . and all of the women reading this just nodded their head . . . one rolls up, the other rolls down and you're left with an unsightly bulge in a place where there should be no bulge. On top of that, the slip is one I stole from my mother back in the 90's and the elastic has given up the ghost, so there's no hope for it staying in place unless you one, never sit down, or two, never get up.<br />
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All of this leads to two questions* . . . why do I still have <strike>one</strike> alright, three slips that I stole from my mom in the 90's and why am I still wearing them? I don't often have occasion to use the long navy blue one. Actually, never do I have occasion to wear it. Long, dark colored skirts that can accommodate a navy blue slip with fancy lace detailing** aren't part of my wardrobe. Looking back at it, they've really never been part of my wardrobe. Maybe I'll just give that one back to my mom. The mid length one is slightly too long for almost all of the skirts I own so I do the up-and-over-fold-over at the waistband, creating a weird second layer that feels like one part girdle and one part really lame. In its own right it makes for a strange gathering of material camoflauged only by wearing a blouse-y shirt, which then limits your outfit choices. Oh believe me, the irony is not lost on me that my wardrobe is limited by my very own wardrobe. The third one gets the most action, and apparently spends the most time in the public eye as evidenced by this picture, but like I mentioned earlier has elastic that's totally helpless.<br />
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I've got a friend, who shall remain nameless, who is in the same predicament, wearing slips stolen from her mother decades ago, who actually cut off the extra length of her too long undergarments. Unfortunately what she was left with was shorter, fuller slips that are unraveling at the edge. Not cute.<br />
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I think I've got a few options. One, get new friends who wear 21st century clothes. Two, breakdown and spend the money to join my new friends in wearing 21st century clothes. Three, never speak of this again in public.<br />
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I'd tell you what I'm going to do but I've made my choice and I can't talk about it anymore.<br />
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<i>*Actually, three questions . . . why am I telling you all of this?!</i><br />
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<i>**The word fancy is used loosely here. Very loosely.</i><br />
<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-40923187029799804292015-04-22T00:18:00.001-06:002015-04-22T13:36:01.203-06:00Missing the markI got sucked in. Not the stand-in-line-at-5:30-and-wait-for-the-store-to-open variety, more of the check-what's-left-two-days-later type. What exactly sucked me in? Only the biggest shopping fiasco since black Friday . . . the Lilly Pulitzer for Target launch that happened Sunday morning. It broke the internet and sold out in some stores within minutes and now Target is doing a little PR cleanup with angry shoppers while Ebay is full of people selling their loot for two and three times as much as they paid for it. I guess the early bird gets the worm, or the floral print shift dress in this case. You know who doesn't get the worm? The girl who goes on a Tuesday afternoon with her two kids in tow. She gets, well, she gets, um, gosh, what does she get? Not the floral print shift dress that's for sure, and not the satin jumpsuit she had her eye on, which in the end is probably a good thing considering satin is not a friend to sweat no matter how big the print is on it.<br />
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I had heard, in passing, that Target and Lilly Pulitzer were doing a line together and it piqued my interest, mostly because I have a not-so-secret dream that I'm from the south, or maybe the east coast, and I wear fashionable shift dresses while I make cocktails for the guests at my clam bake. It seems reasonable then that I should own something from the very brand that has a corner on the resort/beach/clam-bakes-and-cocktails market. Right? Right.<br />
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While I was aware of the quicker-than-expected clearing of shelves at Target stores around the country I thought that maybe our store in northwest Montana might have a few pieces left so the girls and I headed there this afternoon. Right away I saw the huge signs for the collection and much to my delight, there were still clothes on it. Clothes in my department! The actual jumpsuit that I'd seen online . . . I'd landed in a veritable utopia! Could it be? Along with a couple of adorable dresses for the girls I grabbed the remaining two sizes of the jumpsuit and headed to the dressing room.<br />
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Now typically, if there is no one needing the handicapped stall in the dressing room, and if you have an infant in the cart, they will let you pop in there, cart and all, to make the entire experience a little easier. Unfortunately that was not the case this time so the girls and I crammed into a room with Olive sitting on the floor and Birdie looking under the walls. Thank heavens we had no neighbors.<br />
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I grabbed the larger of the two sizes to try on first* and I new the instant it hit my thighs that my backyard party, the one where I'd be wearing a palm-leaf print jumpsuit with sandals and a statement necklace, wasn't going to work out how I'd imagined. Not unless said jumpsuit was meant to be tighter than a sausage casing and shorter than a capri pant. I could barely stand up straight. I don't think that's what Lilly P. had in mind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tZbncAnHmq0Yd4ouK3V_43Yx8Rd1iD-iOFQACOx64-1t3dV01oeU1q_iLo7VBUJDOaPaIOjfQTAllFJauVXRC0emBfw8hz-f-9i7q5M3J-fzjceMeco0e7MJfDcR1_zjc0qY4h7CTOM/s1600/Lilly+P2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tZbncAnHmq0Yd4ouK3V_43Yx8Rd1iD-iOFQACOx64-1t3dV01oeU1q_iLo7VBUJDOaPaIOjfQTAllFJauVXRC0emBfw8hz-f-9i7q5M3J-fzjceMeco0e7MJfDcR1_zjc0qY4h7CTOM/s1600/Lilly+P2.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One is going to make a run for it, the other would like to make a run from the palm fronds, and me, well, I'm a little more Polish sausage than Palm Beach.</td></tr>
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What the heck? Who determined these sizes? I recently cleaned house in regards to sugar in my diet and the rest of my clothes (of the same size that I was trying on) are loose so in what resort-wear, beach-fashion world does this happen? Obviously those women who host amazing dinner parties full of lobster rolls and crudités are not eating. And right then I came up with a new name for her . . . Lilly Petitelitzer . . . and I muttered rude things about her under my breath.<br />
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I scrambled to get the obviously-too-small jumpsuit off without ripping it (because raise your hand if that's ever happened . . . no? . . . yeah, me neither) and back into clothes that I could breathe in. All the while Birdie was opening and closing the door to our dressing room and looking at me like she was going to make a run for it in her tutu. Olive was busy finding herself in the mirror and looking astonished. Actually, maybe her astonishment was the result of the tight palm fronds on her mother's thighs. Who knows. What I did know was that my jumpsuit dreams were a thing of the past. Not one to give up easily, I perused the rack again and briefly considered the one remaining dress that was in a size three times larger than I usually wear. Given what had just happened in the dressing room, it looked promising. I came to my senses though and decided that no matter how badly I wanted to host a grown-up party that included fresh seafood and appetizers with fancy names, looking like a tank with a ruffle around the bust probably wasn't my best option. So long Lilly Petitelitzer. So long.<br />
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We careened our way through the rest of the store and, while there were no clothes to be had for me, I did spy a Lilly P. hammock in the home section and for a scant moment imagined that maybe I could get out my sewing machine and use it to make a one-of-a-kind creation. After all, judging by their apparent sizing, it was going to take that much material to cover this body of mine. I came to my senses, mostly because Birdie threw a massive fit about gardening tools and hammock material is not known for its drape. Besides, I have no idea how I'd incorporate the tassels that were part of it.<br />
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We made it home and out of curiosity I decided to research the Lilly P. size charts. As luck would have it, not only did Lilly P. do a line for women, she also did a line for girls of the same styles, using the same fabric.<br />
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No.<br />
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It couldn't be.<br />
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I didn't.<br />
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I compared photos. I looked at the differences between the two . . . a gathered elastic top for the girls, a v-neck for the women. A white belt for the women, a fake drawstring for the girls. A price difference of $20 between the two and yet in my rush I hadn't noticed any of this. Instead, I had rolled my eyes at The Man, or more appropriately The Woman, that is the fashion world and decider of sizes. I cursed those skinny girls who can wear palm fronds without looking like a rain forest.<br />
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Turns out, it was a girls jumpsuit that I tried on. While that made me feel better about the sizing, it kind of made the entire situation that much more ridiculous. Guess you're not Lilly Petitelitzer after all.<br />
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Who's up for a clam bake and fancy cocktails at my house? I'll still wear sandals and a statement necklace, I'll just probably be wearing jeans instead of a jumpsuit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKC1QQPVKBhLKO40EPBS-GY8LoPlMM6oGejcX6aEGV_xA8dGw0qlkiHwkrm_lkGiriQYGAJqxDpIlzxhHi1loX1SD0TVoy15IO99eP6zdk5zz8AIkZ9bSHfLN-Cl9ux52yomb19IWrV_Y/s1600/Lilly+P4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKC1QQPVKBhLKO40EPBS-GY8LoPlMM6oGejcX6aEGV_xA8dGw0qlkiHwkrm_lkGiriQYGAJqxDpIlzxhHi1loX1SD0TVoy15IO99eP6zdk5zz8AIkZ9bSHfLN-Cl9ux52yomb19IWrV_Y/s1600/Lilly+P4.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah yes, it should be a little looser in the thighs. And I see that this<br />
women is able to stand up straight.</td></tr>
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P.S. For any of you selling this jumpsuit (or the long sleeved dress in this print) on Ebay in women's sizing . . . I'll be glad to take it off your hands for exactly as much as you paid for it plus shipping.<br />
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<i>*All girls know that when trying on two sizes of the same thing always try the larger one on first, that way, if it's too big you get to go down a size. It does nothing for the self-esteem if you start the other way and things don't work out as planned.</i><br />
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-77718659745760258692015-03-01T22:47:00.000-07:002015-03-02T07:23:00.926-07:00WatermelonIn the 6th grade my choir teacher taught us that if we ever forgot the words to a song, we were supposed to silently mouth the word 'watermelon' until we caught back up. Apparently watermelon looks like every other word in the dictionary when said and so no one in the audience would be the wiser. Of course this lesson completely falls on its face if you're doing a solo and forget the words. Or if more than 5 kids in the choir forget the words at the same time. Or if that one kid forgets the silently part of the instructions and starts belting out the word 'watermelon' in the middle of "America the Beautiful." However, that same teacher did tell us that a loud mistake was the best kind of mistake. Her reasoning was that even in your mistakes you should have confidence. There's probably a big life lesson there but right now I'm concentrating on saying the word 'watermelon'.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6gyTZtGkrGtEkDtVY_aQVdMnZ8xvPxlQNTOMoutJyz34xXHY4oq6e5SNXzwxitugapOXJEYI44IUnpi5VE1XK3oIsSYYhLvbRI9V9XiqVUtHixAqP1JEbZ9HG7MWEne4MISnbFlOZhb8/s1600/Christmas+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6gyTZtGkrGtEkDtVY_aQVdMnZ8xvPxlQNTOMoutJyz34xXHY4oq6e5SNXzwxitugapOXJEYI44IUnpi5VE1XK3oIsSYYhLvbRI9V9XiqVUtHixAqP1JEbZ9HG7MWEne4MISnbFlOZhb8/s1600/Christmas+portrait.jpg" height="426" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how my head feels about blogging lately, just a little fuzzy and with twinkly lights. By the way, a late Merry Christmas to you all from my family to yours. Really, we looked all sorts of put together that night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I feel like I've forgotten the words to my blog so I've been over here mouthing words for the past three months, at least in my head. Words like <i>"I have no time"</i> and <i>"I should be doing something more important</i>.<i>"</i> You guys, somehow I've run out of words. Well, not really run out of words (because my husband will tell you that's not true), I'm just unsure of what to write about. I could write about my children but I wonder if that gets old. I start to fear that they'll hate me for it when they're 13. I guess that's probably a little bit of a given, what with the hormones and all, and I don't suppose we can live in fear of the what-ifs since they rob us of the right-nows, but still. It's the same fear I have about getting another* tattoo. If I get one now will I hate it when I'm 80? Does the hate at 80 outweigh the love at 39? Yikes, is 39 too old? And I've just given myself another reason to rethink that tattoo. Maybe I should get my nose pierced instead.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BVMo-k5ya__YwLE8GaDbvHFBZJSHN6f6N_QcllOkUkxqCWVkBP8Y7VhwDzRWOkAVNrMfqUc5KKkcj5yZCb6XnWZUD9fxZ0lDKNVKH7zkK0NdpktFi-VDaq6Iaphhaa9GEFvD6uzrtDA/s1600/Birdie+-+February.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BVMo-k5ya__YwLE8GaDbvHFBZJSHN6f6N_QcllOkUkxqCWVkBP8Y7VhwDzRWOkAVNrMfqUc5KKkcj5yZCb6XnWZUD9fxZ0lDKNVKH7zkK0NdpktFi-VDaq6Iaphhaa9GEFvD6uzrtDA/s1600/Birdie+-+February.jpg" height="640" width="426"></a></div>
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Back to writing about my children . . . there really is so much material when you live with people who refuse to wear pants and who routinely fall over from a seated position. I'll let you guess who's who in this family. The opportunities I have to write about are pretty endless, it just seems like my time is not and the essentials get in the way of writing. Laundry. Dishes. Sleep. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.**<br>
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I've considered writing about my neighbor but I really don't know her and she might get suspicious if I ask her for an interview. Here's what I do know, she has no less than 5 dogs in her yard at any given time. Because they are small dogs with high-pitched barks, it sounds like a pack of Huskies is waiting to start the Iditarod every time we go outside. Add to that the tendency for the Scottie dog to bark from his perch right next to the lawn chair in the tree and well, what you've got is a reason to call the authorities. Who has a lawn chair in their tree? Who sees that they have a lawn chair in their tree and doesn't remove it? The first time I saw it I thought that maybe she'd gotten a strong gust of wind at her house, one that we didn't receive on the other side of the fence, and by golly it just whipped that chair right on into her willow. Certainly it would be noticed and removed in a timely manner. It's been there since last summer.<br>
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I've thought about writing about the gray hair that Craig so kindly*** pointed out to me the other day but I'm not sure you're waiting with bated breath for that one. Really, is any one waiting with bated breath? What is bated breath anyway? Sounds fishy to me. Wait, that's probably baited breath. Never mind.<br>
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I still consider opening up my old journals and giving you a peak inside of those. After all, it would be instant content and I'm only making fun of my 20 year old self. That's really a last resort and I may turn those into greeting cards or wrapping paper or fire starter instead. Lots of possibilities there but probably the latter.<br>
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I guess I could tell you about the Etsy shop that I opened but here's where I get nervous**** and self-conscious and oh my goodness my palms are sweating. Alright, here's the rub . . . I opened an Etsy shop, <a href="http://www.snailspapergoods.etsy.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">SnailsPapergoods</span></b></a>, with some of my art and I don't know why, and maybe it's just me, but I get a little freaked out to share that. Which of course makes it hard to sell anything if people don't know you're selling something. I always sucked at fundraisers in school. I've been creating small 3"x3", hand cut paper collage canvases for a while now and a few of them are on my site as well as a couple of cards with more to come. Here's the <a href="http://www.snailspapergoods.etsy.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">link</span></b></a> and by golly, I hope you check it out. Oh gosh, my palms are sweating again.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbHcPYjUYXblLZ1FBFvjBvSFqN_n73Weca_Mh9v3FtEyQIi0-be-VHcuvzE19hPz1e8J5_kpPDIB6V3fNurO5foA32Oyinq4-1CU_b1fb7Ss76USiTVVy3zeeQLotDlw5MkfwewU089c/s1600/Happy+Birthday+canvas+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbHcPYjUYXblLZ1FBFvjBvSFqN_n73Weca_Mh9v3FtEyQIi0-be-VHcuvzE19hPz1e8J5_kpPDIB6V3fNurO5foA32Oyinq4-1CU_b1fb7Ss76USiTVVy3zeeQLotDlw5MkfwewU089c/s1600/Happy+Birthday+canvas+front.jpg" height="426" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Happy Birthday canvas with a bunch of tiny pieces. My tweezers got a work out with this one.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIRpOR4XJPAympeFRCI6yxO3FpAqMyB7bPrnBGG04GNhNAW5GCCfk_0-ydM__VdNoE5sZGMwOcoxztC47SUUk1pIfF1GbNVNIw1toTlH7tDapVanzdRU8W1f7CNTLQoHWBHD5hJdobwo/s1600/Happy+Birthday+canvas+side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIRpOR4XJPAympeFRCI6yxO3FpAqMyB7bPrnBGG04GNhNAW5GCCfk_0-ydM__VdNoE5sZGMwOcoxztC47SUUk1pIfF1GbNVNIw1toTlH7tDapVanzdRU8W1f7CNTLQoHWBHD5hJdobwo/s1600/Happy+Birthday+canvas+side.jpg" height="426" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the side.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXo-HktzbLN7q5tFBMGjHvPp2oiJ0jw0TyfnjaLZ6e00684So7IA8Zs_U12EhqqTpFtkyX5QiZnWRPJvTWyLkl4ZyoLijsLkF1Mvd0kb7RMxsE18uNJf5cykvGy6LTNi0ftg1PKy2UFI/s1600/Kalispell+canvas+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXo-HktzbLN7q5tFBMGjHvPp2oiJ0jw0TyfnjaLZ6e00684So7IA8Zs_U12EhqqTpFtkyX5QiZnWRPJvTWyLkl4ZyoLijsLkF1Mvd0kb7RMxsE18uNJf5cykvGy6LTNi0ftg1PKy2UFI/s1600/Kalispell+canvas+front.jpg" height="640" width="426"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love where I live so I made a canvas for it. <br></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>I suppose, now that I've sat here and taken an inventory of things to write about, I do know the words to my blog after all. I can probably quit mouthing watermelon over here in the corner. Maybe. We'll see. I'm not going to make any promises. I have a hard time with commitment. And decisions. I've said too much.<br>
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Fingers crossed it won't be another three months before I write again.<br>
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<i>*Another?! you say. That's a different story for a different day but it involves my Aunt, a national holiday, and brunch on a Sunday after church. Well, that's pretty much the whole story right there. </i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i>**I'm kidding, I don't really watch that. Very often. Almost never. Have you ever seen so much plastic surgery in one place? </i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i>***I'm not sure there's ever a kind way to point out a woman's gray hairs. </i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i>****More nervous than if I were to let you read the aforementioned journals.</i><br>
<br>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-68093705478180085052014-11-12T21:07:00.004-07:002014-11-12T21:09:06.331-07:00Social pressure<div class="MsoNormal">
We recently spent a few days, including Halloween, at the
ranch as it was time to gather and sell the calves. Through a friend of mine I
found out that the small town closest to the ranch has a Halloween carnival for
the kids. Perfect, I figured. We'd hit the carnival for as much time as a
toddler can muster and then visit the houses of the two people I know in town
and that'd be it. Halloween 2014 would be complete and I'd have the requisite
pictures to show for it.</div>
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She was going to be Dorothy. I was certain it was going to
be perfect . . . her hair in braids with white ribbons, ruby red slippers, a
brown felt bag to hold her candy . . . there's just one thing I didn't
consider—she might not want to dress up. It never crossed my mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When Birdie told me in no shortage of ways that she didn't
want to dress up, after I'd asked her about it in an equal number of ways, I
was dumbfounded. Happy Hallo-what? What child doesn't want free candy?
Apparently mine. Maybe she didn't understand I reasoned. Maybe if she knew that
her cousins were going she'd be all in. No dice. Maybe if I explained to her
what a carnival was and what it meant to trick-or-treat. Trick-or-no was her
answer. Maybe a last minute costume change, after all I had also packed a pair
of butterfly wings and a tiny tiara. No thank you very much. Maybe no costume
at all, let's just make the carnival. Nope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It became obvious that we weren't going and I'd be lying if
I said I wasn't disappointed. I was just sure I knew what our Halloween was
going to look like. We'd make memories, I'd take pictures, I'd parent her
through an inevitable melt-down, and then while laying in bed that night I'd
eat the rest of her candy . . . specifically anything containing chocolate and
peanut butter. Oh hey there Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!<o:p></o:p></div>
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It would be an experience to stick in the memory box in my
mind, not to mention I could be one of those parents who posts ADORABLE
pictures of their kids on social media. I really wanted to post adorable
pictures of her. To read the comments that said "your kid is the cutest!'
In some far off reasoning of my mind it might have meant that I was successful
in that day. That I can give her three nutritious meals, limit her screen time
to an acceptable level, AND dress her up like a movie character from 75 years
ago. That we were all smiles all night as we traipsed through town. But it
wasn't to be. I couldn't get her dressed. And it was okay. She's her own person
and if she doesn't want to be Dorothy well then, who am I to say she has to be?
Besides, do any of us remember what we dressed up as when we were 2? Would she
even have known what was going on? Am I any less of a parent because I didn't
have adorable pictures to post of our successful Halloween? This I know, my
legacy as a parent won't hinge on my ability to dress her up in a blue and
white checked dress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We blew bubbles on the front porch instead and enjoyed the
insanely-mild October weather.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Olive wore her bunny costume and I wore the tiny tiara, it
was Halloween after all.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And instead of the town carnival, Birdie's cousins came over
and trick-or-treated at Grandma's front door. Fruit snacks and M&Ms in her
little brown bag and she was thrilled. It was more than enough.</div>
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Maybe next year we'll join in on Halloween, and maybe we
won't, but whatever happens I think I've got plenty of adorable pictures to
post, more than enough memories to store, and one little girl who's too young to say that she doesn't want to dress up . . . </div>
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Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-9894020386379876362014-10-28T15:58:00.000-06:002014-10-28T15:58:04.080-06:00Trunk spaceFinding time to blog regularly has taken a bit of a backseat to my life as of late . . . oh let's call it what it is, regular blogging is in the trunk. It's riding around with me constantly but I can't seem to find the time to sit down and do it. As it is, I started writing this post 3 weeks ago. I'm not giving up on blogging but I will tell you, I'm known for letting things ride around in my trunk for a really long time. Don't believe me? Read about it <a href="http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2012/02/westward-ho.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Though I won't make any guarantees that the actual items* riding around in the back of my car will see the light of day anytime soon, I'll see if I can't improve that when it comes to blogging. In any case, here are a few moments from our past month. Enjoy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My hands are kind of full which doesn't leave a bunch of time for blogging.</td></tr>
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<i>*Current items actually riding around in my trunk include a sled, a stroller, a bag for Salvation Army, winter boots, and up until recently a life jacket.</i><br />
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<b>The Vet</b><br />
<br />
I took my cat Vera to the vet recently. I say that's a type of fun rivaled only by a root canal. Add a toddler and an infant to the mix and you've got yourself a genuine social event. Sure beats those lazy, uneventful mornings at the park.<br />
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I hadn't planned on a trip to the vet but Vera was looking, and sounding, a bit mournful. More so than Siamese usually sound.* On top of that her tail was dragging along behind her like the train on a wedding dress so I figured something was up. As it happens, a broken tail is what's up and broken tails are not something to be trifled with. Neither are trains on a wedding dress. The vet instructed me to keep her indoors for the next week, give her medicine twice a day, and monitor her bathroom habits. And that's when I started looking around the room positive that I was part of an SNL skit. It all seemed a little too surreal. Was I really sitting there with my two year old, who convinced me that the exam room scared her and she needed to watch Peppa Pig on my phone, and my newborn, who was vigorously sucking my pinkie since we were (both) uncomfortably close to our next nursing rendezvous, while the veterinarian described to me the bathroom maladies that can come with a broken tail? Turns out I was. It also turns out that Vera has a unique tolerance to sedatives. The cat that I was assured would still be knocked out from having x-rays taken was wide awake and ever-so-noisy for the ride home. I considered holding the cat carrier out my window while I drove to lessen the noise. Thank heavens for her it's only a 2 block ride.<br />
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<i>*If you have a Siamese, have ever heard a Siamese, or have watched the Siamese sing during Lady and the Tramp, you know what I mean. Mournful.</i><br />
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<b>Battle Selection</b><br />
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At one time or another, all of us have been advised to 'choose your battles wisely'. In my own life that has never made more sense than now, while I'm in the trenches of parenting a toddler. There aren't too many things that I get worked up about and while that may be a good thing, my anxious mind sometimes wonders if it's an apathetic thing. And then I start to worry that my not worrying is really not caring. And then I get anxious. It's such an irrational cycle. But a cycle it is. All this talk of cycles makes me want to ride my bicycle. Not really but if you're going to type cycle that many times you can't help but think of spandex. Well, maybe you can. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and my mind started bushwhacking through the underbrush . . . that's about the only way I can describe what just happened to this conversation.<br />
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Anyway, in thinking about parenting and battles and whether or not certain situations really matter, I decided I'd better give myself some guidelines to help me through this time in my life.<br />
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Battles worth fighting include anything that starts with me saying the following . . .<br />
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- Don't lasso your sister<br />
- Quit licking your shoes<br />
- Do not touch her eyeball<br />
- Please put your pants on<br />
- Do not take your diaper off<br />
- That doesn't go in the toilet<br />
- Bathwater stays in the bathtub<br />
- Do not stick that up your nose<br />
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I'm sure there are, and there will be, many others but so far here's where I draw the line. It's for my own sanity.<br />
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<b>The Bathroom Incident</b><br />
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The title alone on this one scares me, and if it doesn't scare you than you scare me. Not really. Well maybe.<br />
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Alternative titles for this could be <i>How Not to Knock Your Infant Off the Toilet </i>or <i>Blowouts and Tiny Bathrooms : The Mothers Survival Guide</i>.<br />
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This is hands down the worst I've ever felt as a mom so I reasoned, why not share it? Craig and the girls and I were traveling back from the ranch in the semi and made a stop in East Glacier for lunch. I had just changed Olive so I figured leaving the diaper bag in the truck would lighten my already pack-mule approved load. I should know better. Just take the diaper bag with you every time. Every time.<br />
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A blowout of epic proportions ensued, and after Craig ran out to get the diaper bag my better judgment told me I should have brought in in the first place, Olive and I headed to the bathroom. I opened the door to find roughly 16 square feet of space divvied up between a toilet, a sink, and a trash can. Not exactly the elbow room I was hoping for but what were my options? I was looking at them. All of them. I balanced the carseat on the toilet and readied my supplies. Then, with deft hands and nimble movements I began the task of cleaning and changing her by holding her with one hand and doing the dirty work with the other. That sentence is a little deceiving. Deft hands and nimble movements don't typically characterize me as my husband, ever so lovingly, would be quick to attest. At times my hands have the dexterity of a slice of meatloaf and nimble has never been used to describe my movements. At least not by me. (Mom, I'm leaving the door (wide) open there so that you can leave a comment and describe my movements as nimble because that's what moms do . . . we reassure. So go ahead and lay it on. Thick.)<br />
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As all moms know when it comes to a blowout, the first trick is getting the blown-out outfit off. It takes a little problem solving, a dashing of ingenuity, and sometimes a bit of origami to get that onesie folded up properly and over the head, or down the body, of your child without further disrupting its contents. My meatloaf hands* pulled through just fine and we entered the cleaning stage of our endeavor. It's possible I used upwards of 43 wipes so though I may not be nimble, I am thorough.<br />
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I reached into my bag for a diaper and that's when I discovered that I had nary a size 2 diaper for Olive. Not a single one, though I did have a couple of size 4's meant for her sister. Obviously it would have to do, so with a fresh diaper securely fastened around her armpits I put a clean outfit on her and debated whether or not to just throw away the previous one. On one hand it was full of (fill in the blank), on the other hand it was a gift. Could it be bleached or was it a lost cause? Did I mention that I was sweating by this time? That's pretty standard in these types of situations. Making decisions is just the death of me.<br />
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I placed her back in her carseat and began to clean up my surroundings and gather my things. And that's when I did it. While reaching to throw something away I knocked she and her carseat off of the toilet. Did I mention I hadn't buckled her in? Nope. No safety restraints here. The carseat flipped over, dumping her out, and they both landed on the floor. There was my 7 week old with a diaper up to her armpits and her onesie not yet buttoned on the linoleum underneath the bathroom sink in a restaurant 2 hours from home. I was horrified. And sad. And embarrassed. And mad at myself. And now I was really sweating. I scooped her up, consoled her, and tried to get she and I, the carseat, and a onesie full of **** (because I decided to keep it) out of the bathroom without causing more of a scene than I was sure I already was. Craig helped me maneuver the tiny hallway leading from the tiny bathroom into what is a pretty small restaurant and because my levels were reading on the more emotional side, I opted to leave the rest of my party in the booth and my veggie sandwich on the plate and take Olive outside. We were quite a sight I'm sure . . . Olive in her gigantic diaper and me crying like a baby on the streets of East Glacier.<br />
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In the wise words of my father, it's something I'll never forget and she'll never remember. Thank goodness for that or I'd need to start saving money for future counseling sessions now.<br />
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<i>*That is a terrible word picture. They're not really like meatloaf but sometimes they are a bit clumsy as I would imagine meatloaf would be if it had a personality. </i><br />
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-66323221789856553392014-09-18T14:48:00.001-06:002014-09-18T14:49:05.308-06:001 + 1 = sheer chaosI am 27 days into being the mother of 2 and I've got to tell you, I didn't see this coming. I mean, granted I saw this child coming, that was a given. It's hard not to see that one headed your way when you literally walk by faith because you can no longer see your feet, the waistband of every pair of pants you own is made up of 12 inches of elastic, and there's someone kicking your liver from the inside . . . although, that does lead to a perfect transition to talk about the show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" on TLC. Actually, let's not talk about that because quite honestly I can't wrap my head around that. There's just no way that pregnancy could ever sneak up on me. In my experience pregnancy is like an elephant. Or maybe me pregnant is like an elephant. Or whatever. I just know they won't be profiling me anytime soon.<br />
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Back to the past 27 days. Who knew so much would change just by adding a tiny person to the mix? Granted our little Olive wasn't exactly tiny at 9 pounds 6 ounces but someone's got to blow this wide open and have the courage to say that the second baby will turn your world upside down and shake it for loose change. No one warned me. All anyone ever said was how wonderful it was to add another child to the family . . . how my love would multiply . . . that we would wonder how we ever managed without her. Of course I've found these things to be true, there's no denying that, but as I replay those conversations in my head I'm convinced those were the words of mothers who haven't slept since 2006. The glazed eyes should have given them away. I totally should have called their bluff.<br />
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Like the first, the second one doesn't come with a manual and though I don't need instructions for feeding or sleep schedules, I could use a few helpful hints on how to survive. All I want to do is make it out alive.<br />
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I could use at least 2 more arms because there's only so much you can do while holding a newborn who can't support her own head. What you can't do are the dishes, the laundry, your makeup, or anything relating to your toddler . . . who really wants you to hide in her teepee with her. You can walk around the house in your yoga/sweat/now-too-big-maternity pants looking dazed and you can do squats/lunges/calf raises but let's not get ahead of ourselves by starting to workout!<br />
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The advice to "sleep when the baby sleeps" is all well and good with the first child but with the second one, though it may be even more important than the first time around, it also feels a little more impossible. If I can't shower during nap time, or pluck my eyebrows, or use the restroom unaccompanied when can I? Oh sure, I could get up early (or stay up as the case may be after Olive's crack-o-dawn breakfast) but I'm never quite ready to face the day at 5:00. Nap time is the reward for persevering through the rest of the day.<br />
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It hasn't taken long to discover that life is a little more lenient with a second child. I haven't seen the bottom of my dirty clothes hamper in about 28 days. I think the clothes that I'm currently wearing are clean. I'm buying diapers on Amazon because the thought of attempting a store that doesn't have a drive-up option with the two of them makes me itch. We may make our maiden voyage to Target this afternoon but then again we may not because there's the itching. The dishes are never completely done since inevitably someone wakes up, needs a diaper change, has just spit up what seems to be an impossible amount of milk, can't find their pacifier, wants to go outside, needs a bath, continues to spit up, is having a meltdown, or any other number of things. There is dried macaroni underneath the kitchen table, Birdie has had way too much screen time in the past 3 weeks, and I started writing this post 7 days ago.<br />
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To put the icing on the cake so to speak, while juggling a car seat, a diaper bag, and a stack of unopened mail I unknowingly left the trash of a Mexican lunch in my car 10 days ago only to discover it yesterday. Let me just say that my Secret Cuban pork taco was no longer keeping any secrets. Never have I smelled something so rank and that's coming from someone two kids deep in diapers. (Anyone want to buy a Ford Expedition with a little south of the border charm?)<br />
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Life is crazy-good, but mostly good. I'm lacking in sleep (but I've got clean hair!), I spend roughly 24% of every day nursing which means I carry with me the faint aroma of milk (at least I think it's faint), and if you were to show up at my house unannounced I guarantee there would be dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor, and at least one person crying (I won't name names but it's possible it might be me). If you were to show up at my house, and I knew you were coming, things would be exactly the same.<br />
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Life with two.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYmxprcw8Lk8lMtA8vfLkl4HPEJJgY3MhLp0P27my_BsFoQFPwovHr1lUjB7MW47h42jGFQn6FXM3G027l_JN0ZFugZvUlxEb-Ry9EIOo1TNTCcPZxGKhaeJ37uFfbiWKRg-5qtSg8uc/s1600/Birdie+on+blankets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYmxprcw8Lk8lMtA8vfLkl4HPEJJgY3MhLp0P27my_BsFoQFPwovHr1lUjB7MW47h42jGFQn6FXM3G027l_JN0ZFugZvUlxEb-Ry9EIOo1TNTCcPZxGKhaeJ37uFfbiWKRg-5qtSg8uc/s1600/Birdie+on+blankets.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{Olive's big sister}</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBR201i21fSKjrmGEijGOdtjfIEH-C8g9PP8AHXSrVnjyT_WZq8RpYIbneblZWZe0kpylIp0lvzqJ181js8esWtBotEmabnIF82-U2L79PAHTUdi6iUNPxvioJSL03rTSvS8faPBJcko/s1600/Olive+and+pig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBR201i21fSKjrmGEijGOdtjfIEH-C8g9PP8AHXSrVnjyT_WZq8RpYIbneblZWZe0kpylIp0lvzqJ181js8esWtBotEmabnIF82-U2L79PAHTUdi6iUNPxvioJSL03rTSvS8faPBJcko/s1600/Olive+and+pig.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{Birdie's little sister}</td></tr>
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-40241014418658027812014-08-17T15:07:00.002-06:002014-08-17T15:12:42.771-06:00Nearing the endIt's the final countdown (deedle-dee-dee . . . deedle-de-de-de . . . deedle-deee-deee-deee . . . deedle-de-de-de-de-de . . . ) Alright, stop singing along with Europe and focus. This is not a post about 1980's hair bands but while I've got you thinking about AquaNet and electric guitars, can I just say that my favorite 80's song is "When I'm With You" by Sheriff. At the risk of sounding corny, I love that song! Something about that falsetto note at the end that gets me every time . . . takes me right back to 8th grade and my crush on a certain boy. Since that didn't work out, and because I moved from one state to another near the beginning of my 9th grade year, I transferred said crush to someone else that year . . . same song, different boy. For the record, that crush didn't work out either. You know, I'm starting to rethink my whole 'favorite song' award . . .<br />
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Alright, focus. No more hair bands. Let's just talk about hair or maybe bands. Not really.<br />
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Folks, we are less than a week away from meeting this baby and I've got to say, I think that's about all I've got in me. Baby. Actually, what I meant to say is a week. My ankles can't handle much more. Neither can my hands but let's concentrate on my ankles. They start each day looking kind-of-close to normal and by mid-afternoon they start to resemble those old high tops that you could pump up with air by squeezing a certain part of the shoe. By the time I go to bed they look eerily similar to elephant ankles (which aren't ankles at all), and that would explain the decreased speed I have as the day progresses. Miracle of miracles though, they're back to almost-normal by morning. I'm going to credit the 56 trips to the bathroom that I take any given night for that. Pregnancy is a strange and mysterious thing I say. And then after pregnancy you're rewarded with parenthood which is another strange and mysterious thing. Life is weird.<br />
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The fast-approaching arrival of this baby is surreal in a sense. I swear that I was just looking at two little lines on a stick and shouting to Craig that we were having another baby . . . which was then followed by tears as I looked at my 17-month old and thought <i>"How in the world can I love another one?! I don't want her to feel left out. Wait, it's just us three! Maybe I've changed my mind."</i> Let me reassure you that the moment I saw that first ultrasound, where all you can see is a little bean-shaped shadow with a flickering heart I knew, without a doubt, that there was room in my heart for him or her. I knew that our family wouldn't be whole until we met this one. That's not to say that I haven't had my weepy moments lately as I consider these final days of our family of three because, well, I've had them. I'm not FREAKING OUT about the whole thing but I am sort of <span style="font-size: x-small;">freaking out</span> if I'm honest. I mean, what if we don't get a good sleeper this time around? What if there are an inordinate number of blowouts? What if I suddenly forget everything I've learned over the last two years of being a mom. What if I never get my ankles back? Where in this little house are we going to put this baby? And that is when I really start to FREAK OUT. (Not really, we've got a plan . . . it's called the lottery.)<br />
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I packed my hospital bag yesterday, and that was the last thing on my must-get-these-things-done-or-else list so I guess we're ready. Granted, I couldn't quite figure out what to pack so I consulted a few lists written by experts online and packed every single thing they said. We'll be pulling a trailer up to the hospital doors. I wonder if they've got an adjoining room or perhaps a storage shed for my belongings. And there goes the sarcasm again. Can you believe it? On this blog? Crazy. Actually, one of the lists I read said to be sure to bring pictures of your older kids so that they would know you haven't forgotten about them when they come to visit you in the hospital. And right then I fell on the floor and died. And quit looking at lists. And took the framed 8x10 of Birdie out of my bag. And went with my gut and packed clothes that would fit my gut and not squish my gut because clothes that are gut-squishers are the worst. Are you tired of the word gut? I am.<br />
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Seriously though, all my bags are packed, I'm ready to go, I'm standing here outside your door . . . and now you're singing John Denver. Since he doesn't qualify as a 1980's hair band, we can just talk about his hair. Or not.<br />
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There isn't anything left on my must-get-these-things-done-or-else list so if my doctor called tomorrow and needed to reschedule my c-section, well I guess I'm ready. Sort of. I think. Mostly. No, we are. And we're excited. Very, very excited. While I've still got time though, I think I'll go buy a few more lottery tickets. Maybe we can get an addition put on the house before Friday.Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-81092229966129445412014-07-24T22:28:00.000-06:002014-07-25T07:44:56.120-06:00A slip of the tongueJust the other day I read an article written by a young woman who has decided that she doesn't want to have children. Among reasons like not wanting to be woken up before 9 in the morning and feeling like she can't be responsible for herself let alone another person, part of her decision to not become a mother is her fear that she won't do it right. It was then that I started talking to her through my computer saying things like <i>Of course you won't do it right! None of us know what we're doing! It's a total crapshoot this raising kids and all. What am I going to feed my child for lunch is a question I ask myself daily. Where's my instruction manual? Why didn't anyone WARN ME?!</i> And so many more affirming, confident, full-of-hope phrases. I'm sure she didn't hear me but here's a case in point of 'not doing it right'. There are so many more examples that I could pull from my scant two years of motherhood but I need to save a little bit of my dignity. And more importantly, my child's.<br />
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Kids are sponges that soak up everything around them. I'd like to say that my child is the spongiest of them all but that's just a mother bragging and we all know that a mother bragging about her own child completely negates the brag. It's useless. It's at this time that I'd like to call upon my own mother to brag about my child. Unfortunately she's probably busy so that won't work either. Besides, a grandmother bragging about her own grandchild at least half-negates the brag. We'll just go back to the general statement that all kids are sponges that soak up everything around them.<br />
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The soaking up isn't so much the problem, it's the wringing themselves out that can be the source of much teeth-grinding and hair-pulling*.<br />
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Say for instance your child has heard you when you've dropped the rocking horse on your foot or you've bumped into the door or you've tripped over shoes for the 712th time** not so quietly say "Oh dammit!" That child will soak that phrase right up and save it for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or really any day that it's completely inappropriate for a 2-year old to say that phrase which is every day. She'll break it out in the car, at the store, at home, and on the swings all the while loving how it sounds coming out of her mouth. So she'll repeat it. Over and over and over. The first time you'll smirk while holding it together because even thought it's admittedly kind of funny it is SO NOT FUNNY at the same time. You know better than that! Your parents didn't raise you that way and you will not raise your child that way! Get a grip on yourself. Be the adult, Angela.<br />
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Seeing that it's a bit of a game, you won't make a big deal about it (which only encourages her) rather you just redirect. Redirect. <i>"Let's use a different word." "Nope, that's not a word we use." "Let's try 'Oh shoot!'", "Mommy should have never used that word, so you can't either." "No." </i>Even in the midst of the redirect you'll wonder if you're doing it right. Is there something else you should do? Is there a secret to this?<br />
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Not having heard it for days and days you will THINK the knowledge of that phrase slipped out of her ear while she slept one night and that you're in the clear.<br />
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And then she will break it out in just about the worse place ever. No, not church . . . while she's sitting on the floral couch (the one that's pristine and sits on couch risers to make it taller) at your Grandmother's house. Your 93-year-old Grandmother who you have only heard say 4 harsh things in your ENTIRE 38-year old life, none of which included a swear word. As you're visiting with relatives you haven't seen in over 7 years. Relatives who have obviously never met your sweet girl. And you will want to crawl under the afghan on the back of the couch, the one that's never unfolded, and hope that no one heard your precious child softly say "Oh dammit!" with a smile on her face. And then she will say it again. Louder. And you know, you just know that everyone in the room heard it because by this time she has repeated herself more than once. And you will want to die. In fact, you will hope to die right there but you won't and as a parent you will have to deal with it. So you'll distract her with fruit snacks and an iPhone. I'm kidding, you'll lean over and address the situation with that I'm-really-serious-don't-say-that-again mom look and tone of voice and you will hope against hope that her young brain understands the severity of what you're saying and what might happen if it doesn't. Should it continue you know that you'll need to remove her from the mauve and blue rose-printed couch and take her into one of two other rooms in the apartment, both of which are in earshot, and talk/redirect/whatever there and that's really not going to be any better than addressing it in front of your very polite family members.<br />
<br />
You'll hold your breath and continue your adult conversation, and quite honestly try to wrap it up as quickly as possible, while waiting for that little voice to pipe up again. It won't, thank goodness, but there's a lesson to be learned which is mostly for me. Swear silently. Not really. Well, maybe sometimes. But more importantly, you're living with a sponge and that sponge has eyes and ears. Always be mindful of that.<br />
<br />
As a parent I know this won't be my last slip of the tongue, my last screw-up, my last poor choice. I know I won't get this totally right but that doesn't stop me from at least trying. Parenthood is scary but I think therein lies the beauty of it all. She's growing and so am I. She's learning and so am I. I just hope my learning curve is a bit quicker than hers so that I can stay ahead of the game.<br />
<br />
So to the woman who wrote that article, maybe you'll change your mind about having children and maybe you won't and whatever you decide is perfectly fine. Just don't let the fear of not doing it right get in the way of one of life's greatest adventures. Because boy is it an adventure!<br />
<br />
I need to go buy more fruit snacks . . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*Mine, not hers.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>**I am HORRIBLE at spatial relations. I swear the earth is too small for me because I run into/trip over/knock down things on an <strike>daily</strike> hourly basis. It's really annoying and I totally blame my dad for this glitch . . . he's got the same issue. All I can say is don't put the two of us in china shop at the same time. Or really at any time.</i></div>
Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-46586755776801729282014-07-05T21:16:00.001-06:002014-07-05T21:54:05.206-06:00Preparing for the unknownI am obviously pregnant . . . there's no hiding it now. Unless I invest in a muumuu or three, which given the impending summer heat might not be a bad idea for my thighs (get a little air circulating), there's no getting around the fact that I can no longer see my feet. Who cares about fashion. Or maybe muumuu's are in fashion? Anyone have the skinny on that? Pass it along if you do, I'm on the edge of desperation.<br>
<br>
Anyway, so we've established the fact that I'm pregnant. In my 32nd week to be exact, which puts me due the latter half of August for those of you keeping track. There's no one keeping track? Good, otherwise I'd be concerned about your stalker-ish behavior and have to turn you in to the proper authorities. (Is there such a thing as improper authorities? I digress.) Like my first pregnancy, Craig and I have decided not to find out the gender until he/she is born. And then we're still keeping it a secret. Not really. Maybe for like a day just to prolong the suspense. We'll see what happens. Hormones will make a person do funny things.<br>
<br>
As was the case when I was pregnant with Birdie, I've had a handful of people say to me after asking if we know what we're having <i>"Oh, I couldn't do that! I have to know the sex of my baby. I have to be prepared!"</i> That got me thinking . . . am I unprepared? How are we going to manage? Crud.<br>
<br>
Since I enjoy being prepared for any situation that may arise at any given time*, I've created a list of sorts, complete with directions, to help myself in this area. I've titled it "Preparing for the Unkown", that way I don't get it mixed up with any other lists that are currently taking up space on my kitchen counter. Like say the list of people whose calls I need to return. Or the list of things to do this summer. Or the list of bills to pay. I'd like to accidentally lose that last one. Mixing up my lists could have major ramifications. I shudder to think.<br>
<br>
So here's what I've come up with. Feel free to use this if you are currently pregnant with a mystery baby, or think that you might be someday. I know I'm printing it out and putting it on my fridge. Right next to my grocery list. Hope I don't get those two mixed up or we're going to end up with green beans in the delivery room and I'll be looking for a baby in aisle 12.<br>
<br>
<b>Preparing for the Unknown</b><br>
<b><i>Getting ready for a baby whose gender is a mystery</i></b><br>
<br>
<b>1. Buy diapers</b><br>
Thanks HEAVENS that diapers are gender-neutral! Unless there is a concern that the characters which are printed on the diapers to make them trendy (Hey there Mickey!) are going to have a long term effect on your child, diapers are an easy piece of baby equipment to stockpile before giving birth. Boy, girl . . . there is no difference when you're talking about diapers. Unless you're talking about the debate between cloth and disposable and then I can't help you. That's an entirely different topic and I'm playing the part of Switzerland on that one . . . neutral.<br>
<br>
<b>2. Buy clothing</b><br>
Things might feel like they're getting dicey with this step, after all, it would seem that EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF BABY CLOTHING EVER MADE IS GENDER SPECIFIC! Oh the blue and the pink with the race cars and the bows. The dogs and frogs. The princesses and angels. What's a mom to do? Babies need clothing, that's a non-negotiable. Of course you can slack while you're in the hospital and use as many blankets as they will allow to keep your baby swaddled up like a tiny burrito the entire time, but you run the risk of strangers thinking that you're neglecting your child. That comes with it's own host of problems so it's just not worth it. Not worth it I say.<br>
<br>
You can go a couple of routes here. One would be to guess the gender and buy accordingly. You've got a 50/50 chance so I ask you, do you feel lucky? If you do, you might also consider playing the lottery since babies, though they are tiny burritos, can be pricey. Like the kind you add guacamole and sour cream too at a Mexican restaurant. Why are those ingredients extra by the way? I've never understood that.<br>
<br>
Another less brazen approach is to buy the accepted gender-neutral colors of green, yellow, and white. You cover a few bases with the baby-appropriate pastels** but you don't quite commit to one sex or the other. White can be a bit scary, what with the blowouts and the spit up and all, but it can also be bleached so it's got that going for it. As I type this, I'm wondering semi-outloud if you're supposed to bleach baby clothes. That might be on the list of things-not-to-do so check with your doctor or your doula or your neighbor on that one. Heck, just Google it. I would but I'm feeling sort of lazy right now. I need more air circulation. And we're back to the muumuu's.<br>
<br>
The oh-my-goodness-she-might-be-a-little-left-of-center approach is to get white onesies and dye them bold colors. Bold I tell you! Who says babies can't wear red and royal blue and kelly green? Last time I looked there were no rules against purple and orange, except for maybe together, so go for it. Tell everyone that pastels are passé and just jump into a bit of color. Life is too short to be bland. Can I get an amen?! Amen. Thank you. You're welcome.<br>
<br>
<b>3. Create a space for baby to sleep</b><br>
If you haven't started hyperventilating at the thought of buying clothing for a child you've never met, this may be where you fall apart. There is universal pressure to have a nursery ready before the baby comes home. Have you checked Pinterest lately? Nursery ideas galore! We all know that babies will SCREAM THEIR HEADS OFF if they arrive home after their birth to find that THEIR PARENTS HAVE NOT DECORATED THEIR BEDROOM IN COLOR COORDINATING LINENS AND WALL ART! And so it begins. The demands. The screaming. The fits.<br>
<br>
Here's what I remind myself regarding a nursery . . . newborns can only see about 8-12 inches from their face when they come home. (I should qualify that sentence and say that I'm reminding myself of all of this with the second baby. Before Birdie was born I did have a nursery ready and it made me feel a little more in control of the situation. That feeling lasted for about 20 minutes.) They have no idea whether or not the rug matches the blankets which are color-coordinated with the artwork on the walls. If they do then you've got yourself a genius and I'd get him or her enrolled in college stat. And again, start playing the lottery . . . college is expensive and I highly doubt that in 18 years it's going to be cheaper than it is today.<br>
<br>
However, if there is the desire to get baby's space ready (which is totally me . . . hello nesting!), there are always the gender-neutral options of cream or white or light grey or heck, pastel green and yellow. There is something about being ready and having a space for baby to come home to that is awfully soothing . . . for the baby and the parents.<br>
<br>
<b>4. Decide what baby will eat</b><br>
You've got two options here, breast milk and formula and either of them will work for whatever gender baby you give birth to. Thank goodness!<br>
<br>
So there you have it, my 4 step plan for Preparing for the Unknown. As I look at this list I feel confident that I am 75% prepared.***<br>
<br>
Diapers - check.<br>
Clothes - check . . . unless it's a boy and then guess who's going shopping once all of Birdie's gender-neutral hand-me-downs are too small? That's right, Craig.<br>
Food - check<br>
Sleeping arrangements - and this is where we fall apart. I have no idea where this baby will live. Perhaps a dresser drawer? In the bathtub? On top of the dryer? We have a 2 bedroom house and while one room is occupied by Craig and I, the other is currently housing this baby's older sister. It's a slight hurdle . . . one that I don't doubt we'll figure out . . . but thinking of the logistics makes me a little nervous so I don't spend much time thinking about it. In an effort to keep my nerves calm I guess I'll start on my next list . . . Naming a Baby whose Gender is a Mystery. We don't have names yet! 7 weeks and counting. And there are my nerves.<br>
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<br>
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<i>*I should have been a Boy Scout but there are obvious roadblocks in that dream. Namely, I'm not a boy.</i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i>**Who decided on pastels anyway? </i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i>***As I type that, it doesn't sound all that great. In school wasn't a 75% a C? That's no way to go into parenthood.</i><br>
<br>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-24774174158450810712014-06-13T12:11:00.000-06:002014-06-13T15:08:40.632-06:0022 months and 28 days, and not a day moreWhen I was working outside of the home, my favorite day of the week was Thursday for the sheer fact that the next day was Friday. Even though I work in the home now, I'm still a fan of Thursday. I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. I like to wait until the end of the day on my birthday to open my presents. I love not knowing the sex of the baby that I'm carrying because I can dream in both directions that way. (Besides, I figure that I'll know if it's a boy or a girl for the rest of my life so what's 40 weeks of the unknown.)<br />
<br />
The anticipation of days/holidays/what's to come excites me usually more than the actual event and though I think that's probably a hardwired part of my personality, and unlikely to change, there is one area that I plan on being more 'in-the-moment' for.<br />
<br />
Birdies age.<br />
<br />
I realized it the moment I wrote it down last Sunday. I was signing her in for nursery at church and in the box marked age I wrote 2. The instant the ink left the pen in my hand I regretted it. Why did I write 2? She's not 2 yet. Her birthday is in July. She's' still 1 . . . there's no need to rush these things. Even prior to Sunday, I've heard myself tell people when they ask how old she is that "she's almost 2", "she'll be 2 in July", "she's closing in on 2". Not that it's not true but I wonder why I don't just say 1. I wonder why I age her up. There's nothing wrong with the age she is right now. I certainly don't tell people that "I'm closing in on 39", that "I'll be 39 in September", or that "I'm almost 39." I'm quite content being 38 and so I will suck that one dry until the very last minute on September 5.<br />
<br />
I plan on doing the same with her. She's got plenty of time to be 2, an entire year to be exact, so I'll give her that. If this last year has been any indication of just how quickly it goes (and this is where I start getting teary) there's really no need to jump ahead by even a month. Before I know it she will be 3 and then 7 and then 12 and then she'll be asking for the keys to the car (and this is where her dad starts crying). It took my breath away earlier this week when on the way home from the park I looked in the rearview mirror to see her sleeping and was astounded at how she was all of the sudden so much older. How the baby in her is truly gone. How we are so far away from those first days of getting to know each other. Even though the smell of her brand-new nursery and the heat of the summer she was born are firmly etched in my memory, they're also etched in the past. And it shocked me.<br />
<br />
I made a commitment right then to quit anticipating the next birthday (unless it comes to planning) and upcoming milestones. To tell people her current age, not what age she's going to be. Instead of looking ahead to big things, to realize that big things are happening today . . . while my baby is still 22 months and 28 days, and not a day more.<br />
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May you grow up to righteous</div>
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May you grow up to be true</div>
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May you always know the truth</div>
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And see the lights surrounding you</div>
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May you always be courageous</div>
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Stand upright and be strong</div>
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May you stay forever young.</div>
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- Bob Dylan, 'Forever Young'</div>
Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-56646149827338449832014-06-11T14:31:00.001-06:002014-06-11T22:42:17.978-06:00Not playing aroundThere is an alternate universe happening at a playground just 10 miles up the road, and it could be happening in your town. Don't worry, I'm just as surprised as you are. This morning Birdie and I headed to a neighboring town to play at a different park for her and honestly, for a little change of scenery for me. Truth be told, my desire for a change of scenery was further spurred on when I realized that I could stop at my favorite coffee stand for an iced latte. In the words of Charlie Sheen, "winning". Those are the only words of Charlie Sheen's that I'll be using in this post. Unless I come up with something from the movie <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091445/" target="_blank">Lucas</a>. Gosh I loved that movie. Or maybe I loved Charlie Sheen. Or possibly Corey Haim. Perhaps both. Am I giving away my age here? Let's get back to the playground.<br />
<br />
To set the stage, I must confess that my beauty routine in the morning is less of a routine and more of a haphazard (heavy on the hazard) throwing of cosmetics at my face and bobby pins at my hair. It consists of a little makeup and pulling my hair back because quite honestly, I'm not loving my hair right now. It's a strange length and 6 out of 7 days it's in a 'messy bun' (which I still haven't quite mastered, which is probably fine because high school girls are maybe the only ones who should be rocking it, not almost 39-year old mothers. Crud, I gave away my age.) What's it doing on the 7th day you ask? You got me! On that day it has a mind of it's own.<br />
<br />
Anyway, my morning routine was pretty routine and Birdie and I left the house with me feeling confident that we both looked presentable for public consumption. I'm guessing that's not the right word there. Whatever. I dressed as I normally do for a morning spent kicking mulch out of my sandals and chasing Birdie with the sunscreen.<br />
<br />
We got to the park, delicious iced latte in hand, and for a brief moment I looked around for fear that I had walked in on an someones private party. There were mothers there who had not only washed and dried their hair, they'd STYLED IT!! Add to that their outfits (think adorable sandals and summer dresses / skinny jeans and blousy blouses), which were slightly more fancy than my hand-me-down maternity shorts (for which I am very grateful), v-neck t-shirt from Target, and last summer's Chacos and I went from fab to frumpy in about a nanosecond. Oh it wasn't a 'whoa is me' moment at all, just an observation . . . where are these women from?! At least there was one mother who was slightly disheveled having apparently run to the park with her child in a jogging stroller. The negative there is that her clothes matched her stroller AND like I said, she ran to the park. Overachiever. If that weren't enough, the men at the park were in on it too. I'm almost positive that one dad had just finished a photoshoot for GQ, aviator sunglasses and 2-day stubble included. Sheesh.<br />
<br />
On the plus side, Birdie looked adorable. She let me put pony-tails in her hair and I even remembered to wash her face. Mom for the win!<br />
<br />
We had a fantastic couple of hours and after a while I forgot that I wasn't wearing Grecian-style sandals with my skinny jeans (because there is no room for skinny jeans in my life right now) and that my cascading waves were hiding in a 'messy bun' (I'm not sure I'd qualify them as cascading anyway). After all, we were all just moms playing at the park with our kids. Some just had a little more lip gloss on than others.<br />
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-84666408529891688082014-06-10T14:14:00.000-06:002014-06-10T21:36:07.465-06:00Oh I see . . .I don't have the best eyesight. On the plus side, I don't have the worst eyesight either so let's just count our blessings. And then name them one by one.*<br />
<br />
Back to my eyesight. Like I was saying, it's not super great but thank goodness for glasses. Glasses come in handy for things like, oh gosh, seeing. Unfortunately they're not great for seeing if you're not wearing them. For instance, when I decide against wearing them in the shower . . . you know because they get all wet and stuff . . . I can't see. Same goes for swimming. When I take them off at night I can't see, however, and I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, there have been many nights that I've worn them to bed. Sometimes my overactive mind imagines a scenario where I might need to be able to see the instant I wake up at 3:17AM and heaven forbid I should have to shuffle around on my nightstand, no doubt knocking off books and ponytail holders in the process, to find them. Inevitably they will be upside down and I'll poke myself in the eye with them and whatever scenario I imagined happening at that time of night will be done and it will all be for nought. Sometimes it's not an overactive mind that causes me to wear them to bed, sometimes I'm just lazy and the act of taking them off while I lay in bed and reaching over to put them on my nightstand, where again, I'll knock off the phone or a glass of water, is just too much. I can't take them off before I get into bed for fear that as a result of my poor eyesight I'll stub my toe on my way into bed, fall and try to catch myself by grabbing stuff off of my nightstand. Damn nightstand.<br />
<br />
Gosh, this was not going to be a post about my nighttime eyewear habits! This was going to be about what can happen in the shower when you're not wearing your glasses. But since that sentence seems a bit odd, maybe I'll stick to my nighttime routine.<br />
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Alright, back to the shower. So typically after breakfast, and when Birdie is thoroughly enjoying an episode of Micky Mouse Clubhouse (that I swear is ALWAYS a rerun. Are there only like 8 episodes of that or what?), I sneak in to take a quick shower. I feel pretty confident there's not much that can go wrong in those 10 minutes. And 94% of the time nothing does. That leaves 6%.<br />
<br />
Yesterday she was part of the 6%.<br />
<br />
Somewhere between "mischka mushka Mickey Mouse" and the Hot Dog Dance, she got bored of Mickey and his friends so she wandered into the bathroom. Fine.<br />
<br />
She climbed on the toilet to wash her hands. Fine. (Better than climbing in the toilet I say!)<br />
<br />
She drug her little chair from her bedroom into the bathroom so that she could stand on that and brush her teeth. Fine.<br />
<br />
I watched her (while squinting my eyes and reasoning that somehow it improves my poor eyesight) grab her toothbrush and toothpaste so I went back to rinsing my hair.<br />
<br />
And then I heard her gag.<br />
<br />
Turns out that it wasn't a tube of toothpaste that she grabbed but rather my liquid foundation. All the squinting in the world didn't help me make that out from 5 feet away.<br />
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Perhaps I'll start wearing my glasses in the shower.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't mind the width of my nose or the puffiness of my lips.<br />
I'm blaming pregnancy.</td></tr>
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<i>*Are you singing that song now? Because I am!</i><br />
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<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-38425204730976955102014-05-29T00:25:00.002-06:002014-05-29T00:25:27.781-06:00Wranglers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Life has a way of never staying the same for too long. I used to have a hard time with that. I liked things consistent (Which I still do to some degree . . . on the other hand, I like a healthy dose of spontaneity as well. Have I mentioned that I'm indecisive?).<br />
<br />
Recently, life reminded me of its propensity to change during our annual branding weekend at the ranch. In year's past (with the exception of two years ago when I was pregnant with Birdie and roughly the size of a double-wide trailer) I helped as much as a non-cowgirl can with gathering the cattle, giving shots and medicine, helping in the kitchen, and a variety of other things. Give me a job and I'll do it. Unless it has something to do with bulls and then I get an almost-instant rash and have to go lay down for no less than 17 hours. Ugh, the bulls. Still freaking me out on a regular basis.<br />
<br />
Though I am pregnant again this year (and thank goodness more closely resembling a single-wide trailer*) I was less-sidelined by that than by a certain almost-two-year-old. My job this year was one of 'Kid Wrangler'. No helping down at the corrals for me. I was busy trying to keep Birdie and the other 6 kids under the age of 10 occupied all the while keeping an eye out for the rattlesnakes that are now out of their dens for the summer.** That's a whole lot of busy right there. Praise be there were 3 other adults also with the title of 'Kid Wrangler'. It does take a village after all. (Just a quick note so you're not confused by the number of kids, there were actually 8 but the oldest at 10 takes part in all of the action at the corrals. She didn't need wrangling whatsoever.)<br />
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Since I wasn't down at the corrals much, other than during the 7 minute increments that the kids thought it would be fun to go down and look at the cows before they got bored and wanted to do something else***, I didn't get many pictures of the ranch work that goes into branding weekend. What I did get were a lot of people pictures and I tell you what, those are better than cow pictures any day of the week. Well, most days of the week. Unless you really really like cow pictures than I suppose you might be disappointed by my people pictures. And then I guess that's your own thing and you might need an attitude adjustment. I'll stop talking now and show you this year's branding in pictures . . . which like I mentioned before won't contain a lot of pictures of the actual branding.<br />
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And now we're talking in circles!<br />
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Let's just get to the pictures.<br />
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Kid wrangling at it's finest. If it wasn't the blonde one darting out of the picture . . .<br />
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. . . it was the darker blonde one.<br />
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I finally gave up and this is how I got all eight of them in the picture.<br />
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Since branding weekend is all about the cattle and the work that goes into it, here's a quick peek into what that day kind of looked like both during and after. If it's been too long since you read the preceding paragraph you'll remember that I was a kid wrangler the entire weekend, not a cattle wrangler. I also didn't wear Wranglers but that's mostly because I don't own any. Hard to wear them if ya don't have them!<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Some people not only helped with branding but were also able to keep their Instagram account current over the course of the weekend. I was not one of those people. This girl was . . .</span></div>
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Speaking of cell phones, let me just say that the reception is spotty at the ranch. Super spotty. The spots where a phone works are incredibly small and completely random based on carrier. That's not to say that we didn't go to great lengths to find those spots. It was a cell phone scavenger hunt! </div>
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Once a spot was found you parked yourself there and caught up on what you feared you might have been missing. Turns out, there probably wasn't a lot that was being missed but oh the anxiety of not having cell service! Makes me shaky just thinking about it.</div>
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Though branding weekend is about the cattle, it's also about the extracurricular activities that take place like shooting from the bluff. This year was no different and most everyone got in on the action either by taking a turn trying to blow clay pigeons out of the sky or for the younger crowd, helping launch them.<br />
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When we weren't busy laughing and shooting and looking at the incredible landscape from atop the bluff we were flying a kite, a first at branding but certainly not the last year that will happen.<br />
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The weekend was so full of goodness, even in the kid wrangling department. Maybe especially in the kid wrangling department.<br />
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These two were inseparable, except when they were fighting like 4 year olds do, but even then that didn't last very long.<br />
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This one carried on the tradition of someone losing a tooth during branding. Last year it was his older sister, this year it was his turn.<br />
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This lady performed a minor miracle when she convinced Birdie to let her braid her hair AND wash her face. Both of these things are unheard of at our house.****<br />
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Transforming her from this . . . </div>
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. . . to this! Extreme Makeover Ranch Edition.<br />
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And the one on the right spent the weekend looking cute and being sweet like always. (As shown in this photo, there was also a day that she and Birdie pretended they were twins, at least when it came to clothing.) </div>
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Like it is each year, branding weekend was amazing and full and fantastic. We're already looking forward to next year, when there will be 9 kids under the age of 11. I'm guessing I'll be a kid wrangler again and that's fine by me.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">26 weeks pregnant.</td></tr>
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By the way, this is not me jumping. This pregnant lady is getting no air these days!</div>
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If you'd like to see what a non-pregnant year at branding looks like for me (and to see more pictures of cows) you can read about past years here . . .<br />
<br />
http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2013/05/branding-2013.html<br />
http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2011/06/leaving-mark.html<br />
http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2010/06/c-m.html<br />
http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2009/05/hot-irons-and-rolling-rocks.html<br />
http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2009/05/hot-irons-part-2.html<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*That is not flattering. Not at all.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>**I wish they'd find dens that were in Wyoming or Texas or South America. Do rattlesnakes ever migrate? If not, they should . . . right on out of Central Montana.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>***I'm learning that kids of a certain age have the attention span of flies. If we weren't down at the corrals we were at the creek. When that got old it was time for sidewalk chalk and then bubbles and hey, let's go on a Ranger ride maybe even down to the corrals to see the cows again!</i><br />
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<i>****I assure you, it's not for lack of trying.</i><br />
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Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-397871796490138622014-05-05T21:46:00.005-06:002014-05-05T22:45:19.193-06:00Let me spell it out for youI've entered a new phase in motherhood. The one where I spell out select words when in the company of my child so that she doesn't know what I'm saying. Words like s-w-i-n-g and p-a-r-k and i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m and n-a-p but most importantly f-r-u-i-t-s-n-a-c-k-s.<br />
<br />
Especially f-r-u-i-t-s-n-a-c-k-s.<br />
<br />
I go so far as to mouth those letters without sound and add in hand signals so that there is no possible way she knows what I'm saying and yet, she knows. Heaven help us if I inadvertently say that word out loud. There'd better be fruit snacks in the house or I'm up a creek without a paddle . . . there's trouble in River City. (Where is River City by the way? I'm guessing it's up a creek somewhere.)<br />
<br />
Back to the s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g. I suppose I'm working out my brain a bit with this new phase. I've got to be honest, it's about the only part of me that's working out these days. (And I had such good intentions with this pregnancy. I was going to be that girl who only gained weight in her abdomen. The girl you can't tell is pregnant unless you see her from the side. And then that fog cleared from my head and I remembered that my body doesn't work like that. Every part of me likes to join in on the fun. I don't know if I classify it as fun.)<br />
<br />
I digress, this is not a post about my weight. I'll do that another time. No I won't.<br />
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All this to say that if you and I are having a conversation and I start to spell whatever it is I'm saying to you, I'm s-o-r-r-y.<br />
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In non-spelling related news, I wanted you all to know that I feel pretty confident that I'm going to be the grand prize winner at the Bizzare Dream Awards that will be handed out probably never. You can just go ahead and withdraw your entry because I dreamt about Coolio the other night.<br />
<br />
Yep.<br />
<br />
Coolio.<br />
<br />
It was the Coolio of 20 years ago but without the strange braids. Not sure if that makes it better or not but I can tell you that he had wonderfully soft hair.<br />
<br />
I feel strange writing that sentence. Craig feels strange that I wrote that sentence.<br />
<br />
Anyway, we were at a record release party in the desert where I spent most of the time picking up 2x4s that were scattered around the sand lawn with Coolio and from what I gather, touching his hair. Makes perfect sense I say!<br />
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At this point in pregnancy going to bed has become an adventure. What with the required side sleeping, legs that do involuntary high kicks, and my midnight wanderings either for something to eat* or because my bladder has reached max capacity, the wildly strange dreams only add to the excitement.**<br />
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The pregnant woman's mind . . . it's a gangsta's paradise.<br />
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Sorry, I couldn't help myself.<br />
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<i>*There may be a link between my midnight wanderings and weight gain. I can neither confirm or deny this.</i><br />
<i><br />
**I can't wait for the heartburn to start.</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-78121003187181179012014-04-16T14:45:00.000-06:002014-04-20T12:10:14.924-06:00The second graduating class of Write Doe BayI went to a writers retreat and survived and before I continue on I must tell you that I read my work.<br />
<br />
OUTLOUD.<br />
<br />
In front of STRANGERS.<br />
<br />
WHO COULD SEE MY FACE!<br />
<i>(You can read all about my anxieties regarding this retreat <a href="http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2014/03/security-blanket.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</i><br />
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You guys, pardon the shouting but seriously! The first few words are always the hardest, kind of like when you break up with someone (why I'm using this analogy I don't even know), but you find your groove and the words start sliding out of your mouth and then you end with something really stupid like "It's not you, it's me" and "I still want to be friends" and somehow that makes it better. I didn't end with those words but I did talk about the crazy perm I had in middle school and that took the place of "I still want to be friends" and it all worked out just fine. I mean, I think we're all still friends. I didn't break out into a sweat however I cannot be certain that my face and neck didn't turn red. What's done is done so whatever. If they did at least no one awkwardly pointed it out afterwards like that one girl (who shall remain nameless) did in high school speech class. I really need to let that go, it's been 21 years.<br />
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Back to Write: Doe Bay and the whole reason you're reading this post anyway. My traveling companion and I left on the oh-my-gosh-what-are-we-doing-up-so-early flight Thursday morning and began the journey of a lifetime not only because of what we were about to embark on but because it was seriously a journey a'la <i>Planes Trains and Automobiles</i>. I only wish John Candy was with us trying to sell shower curtain rings.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyhm7w-htOsTmtO3Ws-GGLwVp5OrmvHkoHKLrl3bIWU0orVamqw0RnUIUdUhyphenhyphenGvCR6W2IXycNP7FXJM_GbZ73ZAnJnJAtBl3KEt3zZbMoI5MfZxCYsg9l_QuJjtylvTbzh2TcO2zlNGw/s1600/Doe+Bay+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyhm7w-htOsTmtO3Ws-GGLwVp5OrmvHkoHKLrl3bIWU0orVamqw0RnUIUdUhyphenhyphenGvCR6W2IXycNP7FXJM_GbZ73ZAnJnJAtBl3KEt3zZbMoI5MfZxCYsg9l_QuJjtylvTbzh2TcO2zlNGw/s1600/Doe+Bay+9.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good morning Seattle.</td></tr>
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The flight to Seattle was short and sweet. Getting the rental car was somewhat of a breeze. Picking up our total-stranger-of-a-travel-companion was slightly less of a breeze (no thanks to GPS), and once we established that we weren't in the company of an axe murderer*, we were off to catch the ferry. How did we know that Stacey wasn't a few crayons short of the 64-count box? We asked. It's common knowledge that if you ask someone if they have plans make you disappear, they have to tell the truth. It's in the rules somewhere. I'm sure of it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the ferry, Sarah and Stacey share the good news with their husbands that everyone in <br />
the car is completely normal. Completely might be a stretch.</td></tr>
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<i>You know, if I get all linear in my description of these four days away this thing is going to turn into a book. Wait a second, with the knowledge I gleaned on Orcas Island perhaps I'll get it published! Bear with me (it's not supposed to be 'bare' is it?), this may be long . . . </i><br />
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We arrived at Doe Bay Resort, we found our cabin, we explored the area, and we waited. Waited to run into anyone that looked like they might be there for the retreat. Waited for the unknown. Waited for who knows what.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnA3WAFssvHmofGxJM42j8Lu5gQ4qI0eVo-5Hasz60gWZNjEuVqPKFfObw2Z4DA7aMY079Qg6pA_Adc1WLtapspWH3_8qLT-MySYNY1DpRZpY19pqJndb624Kat-vQ5TWObUkXPhjwQ0M/s1600/Doe+Bay+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnA3WAFssvHmofGxJM42j8Lu5gQ4qI0eVo-5Hasz60gWZNjEuVqPKFfObw2Z4DA7aMY079Qg6pA_Adc1WLtapspWH3_8qLT-MySYNY1DpRZpY19pqJndb624Kat-vQ5TWObUkXPhjwQ0M/s1600/Doe+Bay+7.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meditation Point at Doe Bay.</td></tr>
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There was an informal meet and greet at the Doe Bay Cafe the first night and I've got to be honest, I felt like the new kid at a high school where only popular people went. I felt awkward and out of place. I was questioning why I had even come when I discovered that I'd forgotten to pluck the two wiry hairs that have a habit of appearing on my chin at really inopportune times. There was not enough reasoning in the world to convince me that the people across the room weren't whispering about the girl in the glasses with the two-hair goatee. I wondered if anyone would notice me looking at the ferry schedule for the next departure or frantically searching for a pair of tweezers. It was going to be a long weekend.<br />
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Having mostly survived the evening, Sarah and I headed back to our cabin. Mind you, when we checked in we were the only two people in it. Fast forward seven hours when we returned from the Cafe to find every light on, more luggage than we had originally dropped off, and some empty wine glasses. What the? Sarah got all 'fight or flight' (heavy on the fight) and decided that we were going to stay up until the interlopers showed up. What if our roomies were snotty? What if they smelled like beef jerky and garlic? What if they were men? What if they were men who smelled like beef jerky and garlic? Aw, heck no! We laid in bed semi-panicked at the situation . . . Sarah with her headlamp on and me doing my best impression of a dead opossum** . . . and waited. Turns out it was a fantastic pair of sisters from Louisiana and a beautiful woman from Chicago. I continued to play the part of roadkill while Sarah introduced herself and we all turned in for the night. I'm going to blame pregnancy hormones, and my relief that they didn't smell like patchouli and garlic, on my lack of interaction. My apologies to the three of you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwn6Xyzjs-cg9iLkTu7wzjstn7uneXvT6Tq5myywO8AmADgJLSpO2RcMxjAMNYICxaHhSDmN_mwn8UoDLIcf9UxJu2SEbL6zvg__X3awJ8x9irbFlDHTHWKop4uDDIE7VTu6TyTkKVsKI/s1600/Doe+Bay+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwn6Xyzjs-cg9iLkTu7wzjstn7uneXvT6Tq5myywO8AmADgJLSpO2RcMxjAMNYICxaHhSDmN_mwn8UoDLIcf9UxJu2SEbL6zvg__X3awJ8x9irbFlDHTHWKop4uDDIE7VTu6TyTkKVsKI/s1600/Doe+Bay+10.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Padma cabin roomies. Not a whiff of beef jerky or garlic!</td></tr>
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The next morning we all swan dived into two full days of writing, talking, listening, crying, and laughing and I'm not sure I have the words to properly explain it. The stories. Oh the stories that people shared and the depth-of-their-soul guts that it took to read the words they had written. I was, and still am, amazed. Sharing a <a href="http://birdiebelle.blogspot.com/2014/01/john-casablancas.html" target="_blank">post</a> you've written about your secret desire to go to John Casablancas modeling school in middle school is one thing, reading something you wrote about the loss of a child or a parent or anything else for that matter is an entirely different thing. To those of you who read your work, and are reading this now, a very sincere and heartfelt 'thank you' for letting me into your world.<br />
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Along with the writing there were meals of epic deliciousness shared that were prepared by Rebekah (or possibly Rebecca). Right behind the building where our retreat was held there was a beautiful garden where in-season food is sourced as well as a few chickens. Let me clarify, the chickens are not sourced from the garden, just the food. I came home and asked Craig if he'd ever considered having chickens so that we could have fresh eggs and they could eat our kitchen scraps. To me it sounded like a win-win (even though they sort of weird me out, the chickens not the eggs). To him it was confirmation that I brought home a little hippie.*** Not an actual little hippie. Wait. This is going south. Forget I ever said anything. Long story short, we're not getting chickens.<br />
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Beyond the writing and the meals there were the people. If all else was stripped away, and I was just left with the people, it would have been more than enough. There was such a cross-section of life represented. Not only were we geographically different, we were individually different and yet in the words of Maya Angelou "We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike." Never in my life has this been more true.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYRukQx9Wg-Tr66Kd0HYdDkZTtyrg_GSZGZ0lIdF2NePL1BEmsnS4NIYo20WW71cJh-IK_yG9AGE_THPYzCmg_BEDZ8QsVqrMWhMe9EOnsowZPvLw9A7iHeQwD723wzKZ3yBzCDVIZJw/s1600/Doe+Bay+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYRukQx9Wg-Tr66Kd0HYdDkZTtyrg_GSZGZ0lIdF2NePL1BEmsnS4NIYo20WW71cJh-IK_yG9AGE_THPYzCmg_BEDZ8QsVqrMWhMe9EOnsowZPvLw9A7iHeQwD723wzKZ3yBzCDVIZJw/s1600/Doe+Bay+11.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The second graduating class of Write: Doe Bay. Photo by Jesse Michener<br />
<a href="http://jessemichener.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;" target="_blank">http://jessemichener.com</a></td></tr>
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The weekend wrapped up Sunday morning and though there was a palpable feeling of wanting to get home, back to life, to Birdie and Craig, there was also the desire to suck every last moment out of this experience. We took a quick dip in the spa, actually my feet and ankles took a dip since the rest of me probably shouldn't sit around in hot water. We found our way to the ferry and had lunch and ice cream cones while we killed two hours waiting for it to arrive. We continued conversations with new friends on the hour long crossing, and we drove south, the way we had come, back to the airport where it all began. We said goodbye to our new, but sure to be forever, friend Stacey and found our way to our gate to wait for our plane. And just like that it was done. The adventure so eagerly anticipated was finished. I've got a feeling though, that this is just the beginning.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyUD9y7OZIVuwEEfrqIJ-GZ9Nx7JcgZ7ln9kxCpb9ws8oanJvTLxx4DNXHkte7oBOq_fhROsTk1npvqXjm_uUi7cDwINTiDYARW2ol41ZYeA9YdX8F3DXt8gfWXehIJ7W28sSxnlINKc/s1600/Doe+Bay+1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyUD9y7OZIVuwEEfrqIJ-GZ9Nx7JcgZ7ln9kxCpb9ws8oanJvTLxx4DNXHkte7oBOq_fhROsTk1npvqXjm_uUi7cDwINTiDYARW2ol41ZYeA9YdX8F3DXt8gfWXehIJ7W28sSxnlINKc/s1600/Doe+Bay+1.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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Thank you Doe Bay, you are in my heart forever.<br />
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(To <a href="http://www.kellehampton.com/" target="_blank">Kelle Hampton</a>, <a href="http://www.digthischick.net/#sthash.gsJ0cGCw.dpbs" target="_blank">Nici Holt Cline</a>, <a href="http://clairebidwellsmith.com/" target="_blank">Claire Bidwell Smith</a>, Daniel Blue, <a href="http://babybythesea.net/" target="_blank">Jenn</a>, and <a href="http://www.jessemichenerphotography.com/" target="_blank">Jesse</a> there aren't enough thank you's in the world for making my four days on Orcas Island unforgettable.)<br />
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<i>*Why is it always an axe?</i><br />
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<i>**I'd take my name off of your short list of people-you'd-call-in-a-fight.</i><br />
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<i>***My apologies to anyone who is a hippie, who wants to be a hippie, or who formerly was a hippie. I mean nothing offensive by that phrase.</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-48957937997663285812014-03-28T22:24:00.001-06:002014-04-01T21:00:32.912-06:00Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's been a busy week in blog land! Three posts in one week? What's gotten into me? I better not write too much or I'll have absolutely no words left for my writing retreat. And cue the anxiety dreams. Let's just say that I'm making up for all of those lame weeks that I didn't post a single thing. Not a word. Nary a thought. Who uses the word nary? This girl, that's who. And might I suggest that you do as well? And that concludes my public service announcement for rarely used words. </div>
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Continuing on with this post . . . life has been big and busy lately although it's probably just me that's big. I kid you not, I've got mass expansion going on here but it's all for a good cause. A little cause. A good little cause that will be joining us in August.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgB0DVtZpsRGkdbdsjkzNlCEIjD3LsJlujoWxsTcOAH41VKGMBNZVpXgI2z04LTGaayBk63lKMKABi4eKd7EVnNFXamEYdNr9SYREA42bbbJoDR_8PxDhyphenhyphen31kBCK9P5nPeOJsPZF9UuU/s1600/Locally+grown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgB0DVtZpsRGkdbdsjkzNlCEIjD3LsJlujoWxsTcOAH41VKGMBNZVpXgI2z04LTGaayBk63lKMKABi4eKd7EVnNFXamEYdNr9SYREA42bbbJoDR_8PxDhyphenhyphen31kBCK9P5nPeOJsPZF9UuU/s1600/Locally+grown.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
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Baby #2 will be making an appearance in about 20 weeks although he or she has already made its presence known as it pertains to the size of my waist. Who am I kidding, it's my entire body. Can I just tell you that I decided stuffing myself into my regular jeans was no longer worth it at 7 weeks?! There's only so much a girl can take.* Just today my doctor was talking about muscle memory and how our bodies change quicker with each pregnancy . . . the only thing I can figure is that my muscles have the memory of an elephant! They did not forget one bit where they were 2 years ago . . . "<i>Oh, you're pregnant? Fantastic! Let's all just take a deep breath and relax. Now relax a little more. Hey you around the middle, see if you can let loose another notch. Let's go for the muffin top. The jumbo muffin top. Think big, thighs! Bigger! Upper arms we're going for cafeteria lady arms. We want bat wings! Double up chin, double up!" </i>Where in the world am I carrying this child? If not for our ultrasound today I would have guessed that there were parts and pieces scattered throughout my body. I know, the muscles in my arms, chin, and thighs shouldn't have a memory but they do. At least that's what I'm going with.</div>
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I am praying that whatever part of me controls edema has contracted amnesia and has absolutely no recollection of ever filling the empty spaces of my body with inordinate amounts of fluid. Have mercy that was bad! I mean I survived and it was awfully fun watching my legs slowly return to their normal size once Birdie was born but I'd really love to keep in touch with my ankles this time around. We've got a pretty good relationship and I just don't want to chance that. On a more superficial level, I really want to wear skirts this summer, maybe even shorts, and if I have the same knees as last time** anything shorter than a capri might cause panic in public.</div>
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While looking through my archive of photos to compare Birdie's ultrasound to Baby #2, I passed through photos of those first few months of being a mom. And I remembered just how scared I was. How anxious I was about so many many things. Things that seem beyond ridiculous now but were very real to me then. Wondering if I would ever bond with her and she with me. Wondering if I was 'doing it right'. Wondering what in the world I had gotten myself into and so much more. Thankfully with time, and to be completely honest with you a very perceptive doctor who recognized that my anxieties had strayed slightly beyond healthy and prescribed medication, those worries faded away. Now that's not to say they haven't been replaced with other (admittedly ridiculous) worries, like what in the world am I going to pack for lunches when she's in the 3rd grade or what if she decides she hates me when she's 13 or how am I going to keep an eye on her when she's in college, but I'm learning that that's probably just a part of parenthood. And life. And being human. </div>
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Looking at Baby #2, I'm confident I know how to breastfeed and change diapers. I'll know it's normal that newborns sleep pretty much all day (and to take advantage of that!) and I'm pretty sure I can bathe an infant. I also recognize that reading all of the how-to books is not a good choice for my brain. They're a little overwhelming. </div>
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I'm not worried about what I've gotten myself into this time around and though it's guaranteed that I won't 'do it right' all of the time I'm no longer anxious about bonding or the love that I have and can give to a child or children. If parenthood has taught me one thing it's that our hearts are exponentially larger than we can ever imagine. </div>
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Memories are good (unless we're talking muscle memory and then all bets are off) and I can't wait to make some with this little one.</div>
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See you in August, baby.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWCXDgXH2bY5z86cVDpuKIOg5cmhuZskQ0jYlEVnnvD6GDpA642vQs9HchdB8LckUN13-kU788Uzjo0_764BdFj6oFVWA4339yHo3STQfUPRYkOd2m9KXLrSJdPIYMlQJUWFJ-siu0_g/s1600/Baby+M+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWCXDgXH2bY5z86cVDpuKIOg5cmhuZskQ0jYlEVnnvD6GDpA642vQs9HchdB8LckUN13-kU788Uzjo0_764BdFj6oFVWA4339yHo3STQfUPRYkOd2m9KXLrSJdPIYMlQJUWFJ-siu0_g/s1600/Baby+M+2.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>*On the plus side, wearing maternity pants when they're a little too big does something wonderful for the brain. I like to call it a false-sense-of-skininess or FSOS for short.</i><i> </i><br />
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<i>**Which was no knees.</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-73295649443241499722014-03-27T13:26:00.001-06:002014-03-27T14:35:17.116-06:00Confusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I shaved my legs today (and the title of this post is all making sense). While that's not necessarily noteworthy, unless you plan on writing a book called <i>Shaving</i>, apparently my new-to-shaving 12-year old self came back to life and did the job for me. It looks like I took a cheese grater to the back of my ankle, my left shin is missing a chunk, and I never knew that knees could bleed that much. Maybe there's a refresher course I can take . . . </div>
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Speaking of my 12-year old self, she was weird (as shown in the picture below). Glasses? Made out of clay? With clay eyes? Let's not even start on the hair. Birdie doesn't stand a chance (as shown in the picture below the picture below). Sorry kid. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxPZVe276k7ues-0goClLz0-Grjoeyu8Di8xUG-cLOc-Y-h9v-S9E0IL8TWWtTg_oQkI3Om1A7BHuqtLoQmYgZae-2P6-9hjdI-04f-sshWeavQ7EZlYeF7LcKZfJxg5BmyPl6-ihXK8/s1600/Blue+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxPZVe276k7ues-0goClLz0-Grjoeyu8Di8xUG-cLOc-Y-h9v-S9E0IL8TWWtTg_oQkI3Om1A7BHuqtLoQmYgZae-2P6-9hjdI-04f-sshWeavQ7EZlYeF7LcKZfJxg5BmyPl6-ihXK8/s1600/Blue+glasses.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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While we're on the subject of Birdie, I feel I need to clear up something here. In case you are new to this blog and fear that I am one-of-those-moms* who name their blog after their child and that's all I ever write about, fear not, I named my child after this blog. Not really. Here's the background . . . I used my Great Grandmother's name for this blog, Birdie Belle.** When our daughter was born (years after I started this blog) we did use Grandma Birdie's first name but we chose our own middle name which is not Belle, it's Bell. Not really again, it's Cecilia. Anyway, to put any confusion to rest I am changing the name of this blog. No I'm not. We're changing the name of our child. Still not true. It's just going to stay somewhat confusing forever or until Birdie grows up and decides she wants to go by her middle name. Given her fantastically independent personality (as shown in the picture below), she may just decide to do that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking like her Dad at Big R.</td></tr>
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Carry on.<br />
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<i>*Not that there's anything wrong with those moms, I'm just not them. And they're not me. But I'm pretty sure we could all be friends and have play dates at the park.</i><br />
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<i>**Depending on who you talk to it's possible her name was Birdie Mae Belle but that's of no consequence unless I decide to write a book about our family's history, which I don't. At least not today.</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-26443081778119460572014-03-25T19:55:00.000-06:002014-03-25T19:55:25.642-06:00Security blanketI don't like to be vulnerable. Raise your hand if you're in the same boat. Sorry, that's an unfair request. You can put your hands down, that is if you were vulnerable enough to raise them in the first place.<br />
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Back to the exposé at hand . . . like I was saying, I'm not a huge fan of being vulnerable. That's why I write a blog. You know, because everything is anonymous and all.* That's also why I signed up for a writers retreat. And right then my heart skipped a beat and my stomach sank because holy cow, what am I doing going to a writers retreat?! It's possible I may have to read my writing OUTLOUD in front of STRANGERS who can SEE MY FACE! Ooh, we'd be up a creek without a paddle then. </div>
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Here's the skinny (which is not me) - I stumbled across a writers retreat on Instagram (isn't that how it always happens?) and my first thought was to text a cousin and say <i>"Hey, we should go!"</i>. Mind you, I had not looked at any details. How else does a person fly by the seat of their pants? (Speaking of flying, we have to fly there so go ahead and refill the anxiety med prescription now.) Anyway, I text my cousin and give her the very sparse lowdown that I have. We sign up that evening, still not knowing much other than the cost and the name of the retreat center. I still hadn't looked at a map to see where this was being held. It could have been on the moon for all I knew. Details.<br />
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It is limited to the first 25 people and we snag two of the last available spots. Other than the one person that my cousin knows, we know no one. I don't know about my cousin by I feel like I'm running off a cliff sans parachute. I'm wild and carefree and needing to figure out childcare arrangements for 4 days. And there's reality.<br />
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Of course Craig is completely onboard with being a single parent for 4 days, it's just that I haven't been without Birdie for more than one night in the past 21 months. Craig hasn't been alone with her for more than one night in the past 21 months. He's semi-serious when he says he wishes I wouldn't go. I'm more than semi-serious when I say he'll be just fine.<br />
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We're less than three weeks away from the retreat and I don't think it's hit me yet. Well, it has but via uncomfortable dreams about having the worst case of writers block there ever was . . . <i>"I can't think of anything to write. I don't know how to write. What's my name?"</i> About being corrected on improper punctuation . . . <i>"Writes with way too many commas and an abnormal number of ellipses."</i> About developing pit stains and flushed cheeks when asked to read my work out loud.** That's never a good look, especially when they happen together. Although I suppose massive rings of sweat might draw the attention away from the flaming red cheeks, or it could work the other way. Either way, I'm creating a mental image that is slightly unnerving and it's possible that I'm sweating just thinking about it.<br />
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Too much.<br />
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Anyway, with each day that passes it's becoming a little more real. I just printed out the ferry schedule and our rental car reservations.*** It turns out the retreat isn't on the moon but instead on the much more easily accessible Orcas Island in Washington. A quick flight, a little drive, a ferry ride, another drive and we're there in Doe Bay. Given the logistics, perhaps the moon would have been easier.<br />
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I don't know what to expect but I'm going expecting wonderful. Wonderful people. Wonderful scenery. Wonderfully red cheeks when it's my turn to read my writing in front of strangers. And now I'm sweating.<br />
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<i>*Except that part where you know my name. And where I live. And you've seen my picture. Crud.</i><br />
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<i>**That happened once in high school thank you very much.</i><br />
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<i>***Yes, I'm that traveler . . . the one with the printed out maps in the manila folder just in case the old iPhone and all of it's technology decides to take a day off. </i></div>
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Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-26454774349904696282014-02-26T13:55:00.001-07:002014-02-26T15:45:36.473-07:00BullseyeSo I realize that you don't come to this blog to read about my exploits at Target but can you just humor me a bit while I tell you of our most recent visit (which ended approximately 73 minutes ago)? Thanks.<br />
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First off, I don't know where you live or if the term 'cabin fever' means anything to you but here in the frigid, never-ending-winter* state of Montana, cabin fever is a disease that is like none other. I heard through the grapevine that they're working on a vaccine for it.** It typically happens in February and/or March and/or sometimes April when winter just won't loosen her steely grip. Oh sure, it might be a blue bird day here (translation: super sunny with cloudless blue skies) but when the thermometer says 10, there's not a whole lot you can do outside. Especially outside with a toddler if you want everyone to keep their nose. And/or their fingers. Or both.<br />
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All this to say, I had an extreme case of cabin fever yesterday. Extreme. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin although that could have been something else. I should get that checked out. Anyway, I totally planned on loading Birdie up after her nap and running a few errands. She typically naps somewhere between 11:30 and 12:00 so I was certain I'd be out the door by 1:30 at the latest. Have I ever mentioned that kids can be unpredictable? Maybe it was because she slept in later or possibly because she was all hyped up on 'Mickey Mouse Clubhouse' and had done the Hot Dog Dance no less than 13 times but she did not go down for a nap until 1:00. I started to die a little bit knowing that we were looking at at least 3:00 before we threw off the stale air of the house.<br />
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Long story short, we left the moment she opened her eyes at 3:15 and stayed gone for a few hours and it was glorious however, I vowed that today would be different. No waiting for a nap that was 2 hours late today! Up and at 'em after just 7 rounds of the Hot Dog Dance***!<br />
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This morning we headed to Target because that's where all stay-at-home moms go. We wander the aisles with glazed eyes and buy things like toilet paper, tylenol, and new hair products . . . just in case we go somewhere and have time to try a new 'do.<br />
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I was so intent on getting out the door that I promptly forgot my list of things to buy. Knowing that my brain is not what it once was, but feeling quite certain that once we reached the store I would remember (go ahead and laugh here), I pressed on. There was no way the house was sucking me back into it's vortex.<br />
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We found a cart and loaded Birdie along with her blankie and her gigantic stuffed purple goat from Costco that she really wanted to bring with her. Did I mention that the purple goat is gigantic? It stands to reason that it was purchased at Costco since everything there is massive. I digress.<br />
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I ran through and got the items that I could remember on my list and then like a rookie, I went to the toy section. What the?! That's like taking a dog to Petco and expecting it not to go crazy near the bin-o-treats. I make these choices and simultaneously think that I've gone nuts. To further drive the point home, I let Birdie out of the cart so she can WALK AROUND!! Walk around. In the toy section. While I'm pushing a cart with 30 rolls of toilet paper on the bottom rack so every time I turn a corner I knock something off of a shelf.<br />
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I'm busy following (chasing) her through the toy section and having a grand time until I get the stink eye from another mother who's own children are sitting perfectly in the cart. Birdie is in the middle of shrieking at the Schwinn's and I'm trying to move my cart (and the toilet paper) around this woman but it's not going well. And then my phone rings. I answer it. I answer it!! As if I don't have enough going on.<br />
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I realize the error of ALL my ways (letting her out of the cart, going through the toy section, answering my phone) and she and I head toward the front of the store. Here's where things get dicey . . . knowing that I can't keep track of her in line if she's not in the cart, I distract her with something shiny and lift her back in next to the monstrous stuffed goat.<br />
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It. Does. Not. Work.<br />
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There are tears and screams and we're across the aisle from the check-out and everyone turns to look. Alright, not everyone but it sure seemed like it. I'd say a good 63% of people turned around to make sure that I wasn't kidnapping her. Apparently our frustrated faces looked enough alike that there was no question I was her mother.<br />
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There were a few tense moments but we made it to the counter with only a few strange looks from others when she got distracted by the conveyer belt and calmed down. It's not the first time a conveyor belt has saved my bacon.<br />
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If only the joy of the conveyor belt could have transferred to me in the parking lot when I realized that the Suburban parked next to me was approximately 3 inches from my driver's side. I was the one who started screaming then.<br />
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Side note : Sometimes my phone proves to be my saving grace in the store although then I end up with a bunch of pictures like this . . .<br />
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and this . . .<br />
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Speaking of pictures, she's slowly mastering the art of the partial-face-selfie so now my Photo Stream looks a lot like this . . .<br />
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Life with a toddler.<br />
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<i>*Funny side note here - I actually heard myself say to someone the other day that winter wasn't too bad and at least it wasn't too long. The friend that I said this to looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a third eye. "Not too long?" she asked. "Are you on drugs?" was her next question. I'm proud to say that I'm not on drugs but looking back at that conversation, it's possible I got second hand smoke from somewhere. Winters are long. Really, really long.</i><br />
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<i>**It's called Movetoflorida</i><br />
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<i>***Anyone else singing that? Just in case you're not, here's a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNKs_uUs8FI" target="_blank">link</a></i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-33887738052571021762014-02-16T22:25:00.002-07:002014-02-17T14:52:02.056-07:00CobblerThis is not a post about fruit cobblers, though they are delicious. I myself am more a fan of fruit crisps . . . something about the crumbly topping made of oatmeal and brown sugar and chunks of butter. There aren't many things that chunks of butter don't make better. Was that sentence weird? Are there double negatives there? Do double negatives make a positive? Do two wrongs make a right? And I'm off course.<br>
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Like I was saying, this is not a post about cobblers of the fruit variety, but let's just reestablish the fact that they are delicious.<br>
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This is about feet. Particularly my feet. And fruit cobblers are sounding like a better post right about now.<br>
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The last time I wrote I told you of my desire to get rid of everything I own to make more space in our little house. I clarified that by saying I wasn't getting rid of everything of course because that would be a little extreme . . . however I was getting rid of things I didn't use, clothes that didn't fit, and shoes that squeezed my bunionettes. And I was serious.<br>
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Now you might think that bunionettes is just a cute way to reference bunions (as if adding the 'ettes' at the end makes almost anything cuter) . . . <br>
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Lizards - not cute<br>
Lizardettes - possibly cute (I imagine them with pink bows on their heads)<br>
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Donuts - not necessarily not cute but . . .<br>
Donettes - cuter than donuts and you can eat more because they're so little<br>
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Pugs - not really cute in my book (what with the bulging eyes and all)<br>
Puggettes - very high on the cuteness meter*<br>
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Bunions - oh so very not cute<br>
Bunionettes - still not cute<br>
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So here's the deal. Bunionettes, like bunions, are when the bones and tendons that connect your outer toes to your feet go all crazy and and want to explore what kinds of angles they can achieve by bending toward your foot instead of staring straight ahead like the rest of their comrades. The difference is that bunions happen to your big toe and bunionettes happen to your little toe. I've got bunionettes. And they're ridiculous. My hopes of becoming a foot model are completely dashed and I had a lot riding on that. I'm not sure what, but I can tell you it was a lot.<br>
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In my old(er) and sometimes wiser years, I have realized a few truths in life. One is to never pass up a restroom.** Another, among others that I keep locked away in my brain,*** is that shoes that don't fit aren't worth it. No matter how cute. No matter how deep a discount.<br>
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When you've got bunionettes (does anyone else picture majorettes when I say bunionettes? I totally see them tossing a baton in the air and marching with the band) you've got to be careful about your shoe selection. You don't want to be squeezing those little guys into a shoe that's too narrow or else they turn into big guys who press against the side of your shoe until your toe goes numb. Plus they hurt your chances at becoming a foot model.<br>
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Along with getting rid of any shoes that even marginally squeezed my feet, I recently braved Wal-Mart to check out the Dr. Scholl's Custom Fit Orthotic Center. (I should have stuck with a post about fruit cobbler.)<br>
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I headed straight to the pharmacy area of Wal-Mart where the machine is located with the delusion that perhaps the store wouldn't be crowded that day.**** Maybe there wouldn't be 17 people in line for their flu shot. There were 18. I suddenly felt self-conscious about standing on the foot mapping contraption without my shoes on in front of a bunch of strangers. It's the same way I feel about the blood pressure cuff at the grocery story. I'm always curious to know how the old blood pressure is doing but I wimp out right before I sit down. Instead I veer away at the last minute and start looking at nasal sprays, as if they were my intended destination all along. Nasal sprays are never my intended destination.<br>
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I bit the bullet (and took my chances that the sign that read 'machine disinfected daily' was true) and jumped on. To heck with the people waiting for their flu shot. Who cares what the two women standing near me chatting about a third woman's bladder might think. (For the record, I think it's very unkind to talk about someone else's bladder when it's not there.) The machine ran through a few questions, made me stand on one foot and then the other, asked my weight (whoa!), and then recommended the type of orthotic for me which are all conveniently located on the side of the machine. It was really quite simple and now I feel like I'm walking on air and so do my bunionettes.<br>
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Not one to just leave well enough alone and buy wider shoes and semi-custom orthotics and toe spacers, from here on out I'm going for the <b><a href="http://www.sasshoes.com/" target="_blank">SAS Shoes</a>.</b> Craig is going to have a hard time controlling himself when I'm wearing these puppies. . . <br>
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Speaking of Craig, when he found out that I was going to write a post about my feet and publish it on the internet for the whole world to see he said 'I love you anyway.' He also said that the shape of a persons foot has a direct correlation to their lifestyle. For instance, his feet are straight and narrow indicating that that's how he's lived his life. He then very kindly pointed out that mine are crazy and cracked. He apparently sees a bigger picture here. I just told him that I love him anyway.<div><br></div><div>After all that you might still be wondering why I titled this post cobbler....I have a not so secret dream to make a pair of shoes that fit my feet properly. They may be roughly the same width as big birds feet but you can bet they won't be squeezing the bunionettes.<br>
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<i>*Before you start googling puggettes, there is no such thing. I just made it up. Not sure why pugs were floating around in my brain . . . that could be a post for another day.</i><br>
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<i>**And now I sound like I'm 73.</i><br>
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<i>***Probably next to the pugs.</i><br>
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<i>****I realize that the term 'uncrowded' and 'Wal-Mart' will never be in the same sentence. Ever.</i></div>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-63876215575531070092014-02-10T12:23:00.002-07:002014-02-11T10:39:00.213-07:00JiggyI'm going through a purging stage which means that Craig has cancelled cable so that I can no longer watch <i>Hoarders</i>.<br />
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All kidding side, I really have decided that there's just too much stuff in this house and I'm tired of shuffling it around. I don't want to be adept at moving piles of paper or figuring out ways to rearrange shoes so that they take up less space. I just want less stuff. So I'm purging. No mercy. It's all going. Well, not all of it, that would be ridiculous. I'm sure you get the gist.<br />
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My closet has been weeded out and those shirts, which have a habit of riding up, are riding on out. I despise shirts that ride up. They get stuck in your armpits, you spend most of the day tugging at the hem, and you rue the moment you walked out the door with them on. I'm not sure there's anything worse.*<br />
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I'm getting rid of two sets of glasses that have never been used in our 3 years of marriage. You know how I know that they've never moved off their shelf in the cupboard? Well, just because I live here and I know whether or not we've used them. Sheesh. Beyond that, the rings of dust around them tell me so.<br />
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There are random vases that I never use, candle holders that are collecting dust, shoes that squeeze my bunionettes**, and just general miscellany that is taking up space. Space that our 900 square foot home doesn't have to spare. Besides, with a toddler it's already completely overrun by toys so we can't have shoes that don't fit and coffee makers that we don't use. Priorities people. Priorities.<br />
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So far the most impressive purge, after any shoes that felt like vice grips,*** is my collection of CDs. It dawned on me that I had a wonderful 8-drawer cabinet that was housing CDs I never listened to. A cabinet that could be used to store so many other things if it were empty.***** Oh sure, I still enjoyed the music on said CDs but thanks to the internet and iTunes and technology in general, I rarely listened to them. Thanks technology. That was a bunch of money down the drain.<br />
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The process of putting them on my computer has not been as daunting as I thought it would be, which is what always deterred me in the past. What has slowed me down however, is paying attention to which ones I signed and making sure that I Sharpie over my name. That's right, I put my name on my CDs. Just take a moment and roll your eyes or laugh or call a friend and say you once heard of a girl who actually put her name on her CDs. Here's what I've deduced about the whole situation . . . the CDs that I signed were ones I bought in college so apparently there was either a heavy threat of CD-heists at UW-Whitewater and Will Smith's single of <i>Gettin' Jiggy Wit It</i> was huge on the black market or I often lent out my CDs and wanted to be sure to get them back. While you're busy figuring that out, I've got a few more that need special attention from my Sharpie.<br />
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<i>* I lie. Pants that ride up are no friend of mine.</i><br />
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<i>** That's another post for another day. I'll just say this, I have a dream and it involves becoming a cobbler.</i><br />
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<i>*** Before you think that I often buy shoes that don't fit, let me assure you that I only do that if they're on sale.****</i><br />
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<i>**** Not really. Well, sometimes. But seriously, as any mother will tell you (go ahead and chime in mothers) my feet got all sorts of crazy weird during pregnancy and shoes that previously fit no longer do. I'm going to blame it on the fact that I had to wear flip flops for 7 months of my pregnancy thanks to my friend edema. You know, I think I'll blame a lot of things on edema.</i><br />
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<i>***** That's probably defeating the purpose.</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-83710513286334245712014-01-15T23:15:00.000-07:002014-01-15T23:15:31.184-07:00Running awayNot really. No one is running away. That I know of. Actually, the cats do every couple of days but they always make their way home. There are times when I think it would be okay if they didn't.<br />
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Oh my gosh, I'm a terrible pet owner. Someone is dialing the Humane Society right now.<br />
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This was not going to be a post about my cats but I do love them and would be devastated if they left and never returned. At least for like a day and then I'd get over it. Seriously, I would be sad. Sort of. Oh alright, enough. I'm going to take a quick break from this post and go give them a quick I-love-you-and-I'd-be-sad-if-you-left-and-didn't-come-back scratch behind their ears. Unless they've run away.<br />
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Alright already!! This is not turning out how I planned.<br />
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Like I was saying, this is not a post about anyone running away, it's actually a post about my hormones.<br />
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And things just got weird.<br />
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Someone reading this just got uncomfortable.<br />
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The person writing this just got uncomfortable.<br />
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Maybe I should make this a post about my cats after all. A lot of someones just got uncomfortable.<br />
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Okay, so back to my hormones . . . because I believe in 99.9% honesty on this blog* I must tell you that my hormones have run away. Or maybe they've run amok. Either way . . . they are completely unreliable.** They're up, they're down, they're absent, they're smothering me. They're out of control. Which in turn makes me a little out of control. Which makes Craig want to run away with the cats. I can't say that I blame him on days when the hormones are doing the funky chicken.<br />
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In other non-hormone-related news (amen!), Birdie and I recently discovered the indoor gym at one of the local malls. It's been a good option for us to have, especially as I continue to try and teach her the importance of sharing toys, and space, with other children. I've come to recognize that she has very defined personal space guidelines at times. It's anyones guess as to what they are but don't worry, she'll let you know if you're encroaching on them. At least if she gets pushy with the kids at the gym they'll have mats to cushion their fall.<br />
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And we're totally getting blacklisted from the gym.<br />
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Maybe wacky hormones run in the family.<br />
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<i>*There's still that .1% that I just can't share. After all, the internet is here for a really, really, really long time.</i><br />
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<i>**By their very nature are hormones ever reliable?</i>Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1775518148917142149.post-71778728681121091062014-01-09T20:54:00.001-07:002014-01-09T20:54:20.831-07:00John CasablancasI'm not sure if every girl goes through the 'I'm-sure-I-have-what-it-takes-to-be-a-model' phase but I do remember a time in my life that, though I probably never said it out loud, I was sure I had the 'look' the magazines were after.* What was that look you ask? It was the crooked bangs, buck teeth, weird-developing body look that I was totally rocking. Highly sought after in the late '80s.<br />
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I studied the ads for John Casablancas Modeling School in the back of my sister's <i>Seventeen</i> magazines and tried to imagine a scenario that would convince my parents that enrolling me in the 6-week course was a good idea.** I was sure in my own imagination that my career would be a quick transition from catalog model to the catwalks in Milan with Milla Jovovich.*** Isn't that how it always goes?<br />
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My dream was further spurred on when my best friend in the whole wide world (because that's the kind of best friends you have in the 8th grade) convinced her parents that modeling school was JUST the thing they needed to enroll her in. K had super long legs, beautiful fair skin, and ice-blue eyes,**** and I was working with a partially grown-out perm and average height. We were pretty close to the same. I vaguely remember trying the whole 'her-parents-are-letting-her-do-it' plea but to no avail. The closest I got to John Casablancas and his school was when I attended the final catwalk/fashion show with K and her mom to see what she had learned. I secretly hoped the scouts would notice my 'look'. I'm sorry to report that they did not . . . unbelievable since that perm was ah-mazing!<br />
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All this to say that though my modeling dreams died in junior high,***** I might have a mini-me on my hands.<br />
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She totally posed for this shot.<br />
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<i>*Right about 7th grade. Possibly 8th as well.</i><br />
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<i>**I never quite figured out a scenario I felt was convincing enough.</i><br />
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<i>***She was the same age as me so certainly if she could do it so could I!</i><br />
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<i>**** She still does.</i><br />
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<i>*****Or did they? Milla is still modeling . . . </i><br />
<br />Angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07166626304614419195noreply@blogger.com0