The Loudest Known Clock

In fifth grade, my friends began to get their bedrooms updated to "teen appropriate." For most of them, it was trading out pastels for bold, older colors. They went from pink to bold teal, light purple to bright blue, pastel yellow to in your face purple. Growing up, I had teal painted walls with a balloon wallpaper border along the top. I also had very dark furniture and got no direct light in my room.

It was dark.

I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.

While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.

Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.

So much pink.

My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.

It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)

I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.

I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.

How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.

After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.

It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)

My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.

"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."

The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.

So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.

Back in Fashion

It happened this week. I told someone I was wearing something I had had since high school. Upon realizing this, I was amazed and wondrous, as the size I am now and the size I am now are like night and day.

So, here's what happened. I went to a coffee shop with a friend of mine who was in town. We both wished to escape tiny humans and enjoy a conversation that was not interrupted by the tiny humans (or the husbands). Something you don't realize when you usually converse with a two-year-old and not an adult: you can't have a conversation while there are toddlers present, as they will demand your attention either by talking over you or falling on their face. So, we left the tiny humans with our husbands and escaped for two glorious hours of adult conversation at a local coffee shop.

Now, I love this coffee shop. It was the first one suggested to me upon arrival, but I nixed because it was tiny, cramped, and dark. I wound up going there because it was small and I had a tiny human who was crawling everywhere. I fell in love with it for an array of reasons, none having to do with the coffee. They have a FULL-SIZE CHANGING TABLE. They also gave my daughter a full cup of whipped cream mostly because she was so well behaved while my friend and I had coffee. EMO was maybe nine months at the time. She was crawling and I spent the majority of the time chasing her down when she'd get too far from me. (I would have just let her crawl away, but there were others in the shop and they didn't seem to think I should be letting my kid crawl around the coffee shop.) But, she didn't fuss or complain, simply went back to exploring once I brought her back to our corner. The other's times I've taken her, they've almost always given her something, though never again a full cup of whipped cream (which I ate most of because she was too busy crawling away).

The last time I'd gone to the coffee shop to get coffee with my dad, they'd totally redone the place and it felt bigger, brighter, and totally different, so I wanted to go sit in it and enjoy it without a toddler. While the barista was crafting our lattes, he mentioned that my jean jacket was a hot trend and they were "totally back." (Yes, he did, in fact, say that to me.) We proceeded to have a conversation about how things keep coming back in fashion. He really wanted the 80s to return and for men to wear crop tops. (I was not aware that was a thing for dudes in the 80s, but what the hell do I know? I wore whatever my mother put me in throughout my life in the 80s.) My friend mentioned henleys were coming back in and she'd just gotten rid of her whole collection of henleys, to which I responded, "I only ever get rid of stuff that doesn't fit. If it fits, I keep it just in case."

This is very true. Hence why I have a jean jacket from high school. I also have my Doc Martens from high school. All three pairs. (Which until two years ago when I bought a pair of full price Tory Burch flats, were the most expensive shoes I had ever bought for myself at $120 for the shoes and $110 for the sandals.) I have a sweatshirt and top from Abercrombie. They belonged to my brother and he rejected them. They swam on me in high school, they fit now. The jean jacket was also too big when originally purchased. And here's why: my mom refused to believe me when I told her I wore an XS.

Yup. She refused to believe that at seventeen I knew what size I wore. I had been in denial for a few years, but by that point, I had owned up to the fact I wore a size zero. I accepted it and had embraced the fact I was non-existant. I knew, in the back of my head, that so many of my peers would have loved to buy size zero jeans from American Eagle, who have been jealous of me as I bought double zero jeans from Abercrombie (yeah, double zero. I was double non-existent at Abercrombie & Finch). I wore XS shirts because I had no boobs and going to a bigger size didn't make the shirts any longer.

My mother, who did my laundry, honestly thought I was wearing clothes that were too small simply based on what these items looked like when she washed them. She commented quite often about the size of the shirts when she'd washed them, but never when they were on me. She bought me a crop top. I was never brave enough to really wear it, but she did buy it for me. I've no idea why. I was sixteen. She told me I ought to embrace the body I had at the moment as one day it'd be gone.

Like usual, she was right. And I did listen to her, hence why I owned up to the fact I was not a size 4 and began buying the size that fit: zero. (And man did I feel better about myself when I no longer had a saggy butt and had to wear belts to keep my too large pants up.)

Anyways, in the spring of my junior year, for some reason, we were at Old Navy. I didn't really shop at Old Navy in high school after I embraced my non-existence because they didn't make non-existent clothing. So, my mother and I were at Old Navy and she proclaimed she was buying me clothes. This was strange for a wide array of reasons. She had decided when I was ten she wasn't ever buying me clothing and since I was thirteen I had to pay for my own clothes. Also, I didn't NEED anything. By this point in my life, I had enough clothing to clothe the entire school and then some. (Not that many people wore non-existant sized clothing. This was tragic on many levels, most being I could never trade clothes with my girlfriends as they all wore size four or larger.) But, I was not about to argue with my mom paying for clothes, so I went along for the ride.

We both really liked what the mannequin was wearing, so she agreed I could get the jean jacket and red checkered shirt. When we went to get the clothes, I discovered Old Navy actually carried XS. (They did not have size zero pants, though. I did check.) I grabbed the XS, but my mother said, "No. You're not that small."

I think I blinked.

"You need a small."

I did not argue with her. I simply agreed and got the small shirt and jacket.

As whenever I have new clothes, I was super excited to wear the new outfit and planned to wear it on a field trip to the art museum in downtown Chicago. The morning of the trip, I excitedly put my new stuff on and realized a major flaw.

Everything was too big. The shirt was swimming on me, especially in the chest area. Even with my super bra (either filled with air or water, as Victoria Secret carried both to give you bigger boobs and since I had none and everyone who made clothing seemed to think us non-existant people had huge boobs, I had to wear padded bras and the ones filled with air or water looked more natural), the shirt was too big. I put the coat on over it and the coat was down passed my knuckles-- which was great. I loved sleeves that were too long, but the jacket was not the fitted, cute thing it was on the mannequin. It was wide and boxy.

I wore the outfit anyway, as I was running late and figured that at least my pants fit. I didn't take the jacket off all day and no one told me I looked cute.

I never wore the shirt and jacket again while in high school. I've no idea where the shirt went, but I hung onto the jacket. I think my mom sent me off to college with it. I wore it one day and discovered the pockets were sewn in such a manner they gave me inside pockets that were perfect for my ID. So, I wore it a lot in college because it had extra pockets. The jacket even went to Scotland with me. When cooler weather rolls around, I always unearth it from where ever it is and start wearing it again.

As I stood in the coffee shop at thirty-three-years-old and now wearing a size 8, I stared at the jacket I've merrily worn since I became a size 4. It's always fit since that time. Always. (Except when I was six months pregnant and it didn't button over my humungous boobs.) Was my jacket kinda like the Traveling Pants? It was kinda like a traveling coat. It's been to Scotland, Alaska, Texas, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Oklahoma. It's likely to go off and go to more places because every time I've sat down to replace the stupid thing, I can never find a better coat. And yes, I have sat down to replace it a few times. There's just never a coat that's...well, that coat. So, I give up and just go back to wearing a coat bought by my mother in 2001.

And, guess what? I'm totally in fashion right now with my sixteen-year-old denim coat.

Heed Not the Crazy Singing Lady

I have always loved music. Since I was a baby if I believe my parents. So, logically, once I found about musicals, I was a goner.

The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)

There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.

Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.

I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."

In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)

I love Singing in the Rain, but I hate West Side Story. (Which was reaffirmed last night when I watched it on TMC.) 

Basically, if it's a musical movie, I've seen it.

BUT

I'm currently obsessed with Hamilton. I got on that boat late, but I've been listening to it enough lately my child has started singing it without prompting. EMO began singing last night as she was getting ready for bed, "FOR SHAME! FOR SHAME! I WANT GREEN TOOTHPASTE! FOR SHAME!"

Pilot Boy looked at me like I had done something horrible, but I shrugged as at first, I didn't know what the hell she was singing. She usually needs prompting to sing Hamilton tunes. I spout out the chorus for "My Shot" and she can finish it. She sings along at the end of all King George's songs. She randomly shouts words during the raps, but she's never just begun spouting off things. 

I had a feeling it was from Hamilton, but I had to look it up to figure it out which song.

"Farmer Refuted."

I couldn't stop laughing. While I do enjoy that song, it's not one that we tend to perform together when we do listen to the soundtrack (I am that crazy woman in her car waving her arms and pointing while at a red light with a child in the back doing the same thing). 

EMO shouted her version of "Farmer Refuted" till she fell asleep. 

Hiding in Plain Sight

Five years ago this week, I went to Florida for the first time.

Also, five years ago this week, I suffered from the most crippling panic attack I've ever had.

It pretty much continued until I was back in Alaska. But, after my very public breakdown when it began (who says you can't continuously cry for 12 hours?), I kept my ongoing anxiety and panic to myself throughout the trip.

This week, I'm reliving the trip through my past Facebook posts on their handy: LOOK WHAT YOU DID IN THE PAST button.

I sound very chipper and like I'm enjoying myself.

I do not remember enjoying much.

(I wrote a huge post about the trip (leaving the panic out) but it never posted and was eaten by Blogger. I got mad, and never tried again.)

I remember being unable to enjoy any meal because my stomach was also twisting in knots. I remember worrying about meals and eating because that's just what I do when I'm in a panicking state. I remember getting so overheated I couldn't do anything other than try to calm myself down (which didn't work very well) because it was so damn hot and humid in Florida (to me, everyone else thought it was lovely). I remember that after this trip, I couldn't even manage to go to Target without having a panic attack.

Five years ago this week, panic took over my life.

Five years ago this week, I developed a disorder that took over my entire life and still controls a lot of what I do.

And I still have no idea what set me off.

I will never know because most panic disorders just kind of happen. And you don't always understand why you just have to learn to recognize the symptoms and deal with them in a way you're comfortable with.

I can't fly without a Xanax now. But, I can now ride in the car for over 45 minutes without any drugs. I can go out to eat again without drugging myself and go new places within town without taking a Klonopin. I finally found a breathing exercise that works for me to calm and slow my heart rate. I take drugs to help me sleep, but hell, I'm sleeping again so I don't care. (I also can't loose weight because of this drug but don't care because I am sleeping through the night for the first time in five years (not counting right after having a baby when I could sleep whenever and likely forever).)

Most people don't realize sometimes when I'm being socially awkward it's not actually because I'm socially awkward but because I'm having a panic attack. No one knows. Because unless I start crying, me having a panic attack pretty just looks like me sitting in a dark corner by myself watching the world go by. My husband only knows because he recognizes the breathing exercise, but the people at the auto show last year didn't know I was having a panic attack as I pushed my stroller to the entrance just by looking at me.

I looked like a mother pushing a stroller.

Underdressed, but still. There are crazy people who don't dress properly. (I am that crazy person.)

Five years ago, I felt like I was falling apart at the seams and I desperately wanted help.

Four years go, I made myself work through various panic attacks to get this help.

Due to getting help, I can walk into the Med Group and not have a meltdown, I can wear clothing that is kind of weather appropriate, and I can get in the car on a Sunday night and go to Oklahoma City and enjoy dinner with some guy I don't really know but knows my husband well.

Instead of thinking, "I can't do this," I think, "I can do this. Breathe in two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

First Day of School

Today EMO started preschool. I had to wake her up, as today she decided she wanted to sleep in. She was a little befuddled when I dressed her shortly after waking her, but she went with it. While I got ready, she ate her blueberries and drank some of her milk. While we've been telling her she's going to school, today she seemed to understand that today was the day she'd get to go. She was super excited.

Upon arriving, my daughter said, "Go, Mama, go!" She made a shooing motion, so her dad and I left.

I had two and a half hours to myself. Pilot Boy told me I should take this time to clean the house. I glared at him as he whisked himself off to work. Instead, I downloaded the photos I took before we left, edited them, and sent one of the less blurry ones to my family. After this was done, I still had two hours left, so I was like, "Ugh. Fine. I'll clean."

So, I cleaned up the family room, reorganized things, and realized how many bikes/riding thing my daughter has (four). It was really enjoyable to sit in the quiet house and have it be clean. I could see the couches, the floor, and the carpets were vacuumed and there were no fur-tumbleweeds blowing around.

It was so enjoyable, I almost did in fact forget to go get her.

Pilot Boy send me a text at about ten reminding me to get her. I joked that I'd forgotten I had a daughter, thanks for reminding me.

Somehow, forty five minutes flew by and as I was like, "Oh, I should go get her." Then I looked at my watched and realized I was late.

I hurried over to the school, stood in line, and was greeted by my daughter saying, "Mama, you came back!"

This is how she always greets me when I've been gone for an extended period, be it I ran off to do errands or she was asleep. Sometimes, all I have to do is be in the other room and she greets me as if she wasn't really aware I'd come back from where ever I was, even though I tell her I'll be right back.

When I go to get her from her nap, she will say to me: You came back!

Just like she greeted me this morning when I woke her up. And when I came to get her at school. And when I came back from the bathroom.

Words are Flowing

EMO had words. Lots of words. Most of them are easy to understand, even. Sample of her favorites words:

• Mama
• Daddy! (there is always an exclamation mark after that one...)
• Bucky
• Mook (also known as milk)
• Melmo (AKA Elmo)
• Gapes (grapes)
• Luce (Lucy)
• Bye!
• Hi.
• Peas (please)
• Tanks (Thanks)
• Tigey (Tiger)
• Basue (Basil the Dog)
• Horsie!
• NEIGH!
• Bark!
• No
• Potty
• Poo poo
• Toot
• Hungee (Hungry) 
• Mac N Cheese
• Mee
• Smoothie
• Phone
• Moovie (TV)
• Mickey
• Goofy
• Funneee
• Silly
• Tickle
• Puckle (pickle)
• Berry
• Elsa (Anna)
• Elsa (Elsa)
• George (yeah, she can say it right)
• Daniel
• Cat
• Doc
• Lambie
• Jammie
• Dress
• Shoes
• Car seat
• Pretty
• Awesauce (Awesome. She loves "Everything is Awesome" and will sing it with you if you want)
• Bayme (Baymax)
• Purse
• Okay
• Muzic (Music)
• Frozen
• Let it go
• Sit
• Sleepy
• Leepsteak (Lipstick)
• Lotion
• Shoewer (Shower)
• Brush yur teeth (brush your teeth, which means she wants to brush her teeth as well as you better brush yours)
• Dinner
• Scared
• Safe ("Bucky safe" is what she usually tells me, as she happened to accidentally see the scene of Captain America where Bucky fell off the train. I'd thought I'd paused the movie when I went to get her after nap time, but hadn't. She was very concerned for Bucky, so I told her he was fine. She didn't let up till I assured her Bucky was safe, so now she always tells me Bucky is safe.)
• Tissyou (Tissue)
• Seeick (Sick)
• Choke
• Don't die 
• Diznee (Disney)

And those are the only ones I can think of while I'm sitting here while she's napping (after telling me she wasn't tired. She was out instantly.) 

We're Full of Beans

Two years ago today, around this time, I told my husband it was time to go. He was on the phone with his grandmother (it was her birthday), so he said, "Well, looks like we're having a baby, so I'll talk to you later."

After dropping the dog off at the neighbor's house, we drove the the hospital, where for four hours I labored without drugs because I was only a centimeter when I arrived and they won't admit you till you're three.

I almost punched the nurse who told me I was only a centimeter. I'd been in labor since three am.

The being who was causing me so much pain two years ago just said "Bye" to the TV show she's watching, standing roughly a foot in front of the TV. The being who was making me double over in pain two years ago is currently 35 inches tall, 27 pounds, and has a mouth full of teeth. The being I'd yet to meet two years ago will turn two tomorrow while she watches Sesame Street. Though, I might make her watch Kelly and Michael as that was what was on the TV when she was born. I remember it quite clearly because I kind of wanted to laugh when they later wondered what time she was born. Like her mother, no one was looking at the clock. But, unlike her mother, I was half paying attention to the TV, so I knew roughly when she was born due to where Kelly and Michael were in their opening.

I still haven't lost my baby weight. My boobs are still huge. My hair is finally recovering from the horrors of being pregnant (I was not one of those who had shiny, thick pregnancy hair. I had flat, dull, thin hair-- likely because EMO was stealing all my hair for herself.)

My house usually looks like it was hit by a tornado, the kitchen is always dirty, and there is always laundry that doesn't get done. The dog seems to shed more suddenly, my hair is more curly, and I always want to go to bed at nine pm, but make myself stay up till ten.

I dance around more, I sign stupid songs I make up and someone actually laughs now, there's someone else in the house making up words or mispronouncing them other than me, and I am never truly alone.

EMO knows lots of words: poo poo, pee, puty (computer), okay, oh no, fone (phone), clock, choo choo (train), neigh, sursily (seriously), Melmo (Elmo), Goofy, doggy, daddy, mama, ug (hug), Anna (who is actually Elsa), Scott!, MeMe (who is named MeMe), Toodles, car, toot, Me, Bye, Hi, Gumpy (Grandpa), cammy (camera), shower!, movie (means TV), ouch, shoes!, and likely others I can't think of at the moment.

She's my long limbed baby with lots of hair. She's determined, stubborn, and a dare devil.

Two years ago, I didn't know her. Now, I couldn't imagine not.

Let It Go

When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher who was awesome. He was great for a wide array of reasons, but mostly because --and I don't remember why he said what he did-- he told us if we had any problem, any worry, anything we needed help with to just send it up to God. And he shrugged his shoulders, turned his hands over and lifted them up as if he was handing God whatever the problem was.

He claimed it worked.

I was doubtful.

I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.

I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.

So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.

I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.

I let go.

I sent it up to God to deal with.

And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.

Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.

Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.

And I always feel lighter.

It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.

It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.

Why?

Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.

So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.

I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.

And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.

I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.

And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.

I let go.

Does the issue still exist?

Yeah.

Does it still kind of bother me?

Yes.

But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.

Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.

Milestone Upon Milestone

When you've got a child, you hit miles stones constantly. When they first lift their heads up whilst on their tummies, when they manage to sit up unaided, when they stand up unaided, then they start walking around and never stop. They get teeth, they begin to eat food, stop drinking breast milk and/or formula. They grow out of newborn clothing, then three months clothing, six month clothing, nine month, twelve months, and just when you think they have slowed they no longer fit into 18 months. Just when you think you've got this whole having a child thing under control, they begin talking.

Miles stones. So many mile stones.

EMO (who still munches time, but I think I'm gonna call her EMO from now on here, as she can be kinda emo sometimes) just hit another milestone: preschool registration. Granted, I didn't fill out the mountains of paper work, got copies of her shot records, or whatever else is needed to really "register," but I did fork over money to reserve her spot at a preschool at a local Methodist Church.

I know nothing of preschool. Especially when the kids are only two. I began preschool when I was turning three. And other than screaming when my mother left me, wearing my shoes on the wrong feet, and being hit in the head with a metal truck, I don't remember much.

I was not a social child. I was perfectly content at home, alone, and entertaining myself by pretending my clothes were people. By the time I was three, we'd moved to a neighborhood where there were children who were my age, several in fact. They became my childhood friends and several of them attended the Frog School as I have always called it. (I've no idea what it's actually called some 30 years later.) I cannot tell you if I had a good experience there. I don't remember a lot of those year other than I wasn't allowed to be Rainbow Bright and had to be a bear, I cried a lot at the start of each day when my mother left me, and a little boy threw a truck at my head for reasons I could never figure out.

Preschool is important. I know that much. I also know EMO is a social being and unlike myself really likes other people and going out. Since she was born, I've been dragging myself out mostly for her benefit (mine is just a side benefit). We go shopping. We go to art class. In the summer months I take her to the gym and let her socialize with those whose parents would also like to work out and not have a child climbing all over them when they are trying to do Russian twists or downward dog. It was last summer I realize I needed to do something with EMO to expose her to more kids, as she LOVED it when other kids showed up, no matter their age. Shortly after I began to panic on what do to with the poor kid (didn't need day care, couldn't see paying for it if I didn't need it), one of the girls who I had been friends with as a small child and gone to the Frog School with (and put our shoes on the wrong feet together) posted on Facebook her two-year-old daughter had started Frog School.

I was like, "Wait? Two-year-olds can go to preschool?!"

And I instantly began to see if there were places other than the fancy place in town to send EMO. (Well, it might not be fancy, but they won't even post their tuition prices online. You must call.) After an afternoon of searching, I found a preschool taking place in a Methodist church. Due to this, I decided this was it. This was where EMO was going.

I grew up going to a Methodist Church and some of my best memories are in that musty, dusty smelling building. I am not overly religious. I was allowed to form my own believes and will allow my daughter to do the same. But, I am partial to Methodist Churches. I knew the moment I entered, I'd picked the right joint. It felt like home, familiar, and even smelled the same as the church I'd gone to as a kid. Since I had no idea where I was supposed to meet the woman who was going to give us a tour, I wandered a little till I heard the sound of children and headed down the stairs.

It was like walking back in time. While not everything was the same (no half finished Noah Ark murals on the walls and not totally made out of cinder blocks, there was something comforting about the building. The church was huge, so it took us a while to find the offices. We then sat and waited a little while, EMO pointing out all the fruits that were taped to the walls and failing to find the banana when asked.

As the tour took place, I was struck more and more how the building, thousands of miles away from the church of my childhood, was startling like my own. We walked through their "fellowship hall" and man, I was taken back. While the church itself is a lot more beautiful than the one I attended for years, it still felt right.

So, I filled out the form to reserve her spot, forked over $48 for the art fee, EMO waved goodbye to the tour lady (who had put her shoes back on and her coat, my girl is not shy in the least), while the other girl who was on the tour who was about a year older screamed.

While I wouldn't say the girl was horrible, she was really testing boundaries. The mother was mildly embarrassed, but handled it well. I tried not to feel smug while EMO held my hand, put away toys when asked, and was all around the perfect toddler that make others think, "Hey, this wouldn't be so bad if my kid was as well behaved as EMO." A friend of mine who gave birth this passed weekend said the same thing after sitting with EMO when I got my haircut last week.

While EMO does throw fits, they almost always happen at home, and if they are in public she fails to get the reaction she wants, usually doesn't get what she wants, and gets Angry Mom face. This seems to work. She might pout, but soon someone will say something to her and she'll smile again.

EMO still refuses to eat anything green (except pickles), won't eat meat (except hot dogs), and won't eat anything healthy other than fruit. She has a skin allergy to peanut butter, but sometimes to get protein into her (she recently decided she was above eggs), I feed it to her in limited qualities (mostly if I barely put any on the bread, she doesn't get it all over her face). She is still the most horrible napper known to man, but she will take them. Sometimes. She always goes to bed at eight, usually is asleep by nine and doesn't wake till seven the next morning. She won't eat breakfast if I make it, but if it's in smoothie form she will eat it.

My little girl is growing up. She is testing her boundaries to see what she can get away with. She will start school next fall.

Do I miss the newborn stages? The cuddles, the baby smell, nursing, the quiet, the being immobile?

No.

About the only thing I miss is...nothing. I was anxious for her to get to this stage, where she was discovering things, playing, and talking (or trying). I wake up each morning exhausted (because I have that cold that won't go away and cannot stop coughing), but I smile as it's another fun filled day with EMO. That kid has been independent and stubborn since she came out. Being a newborn frustrated her to no end. She wanted to sit up. She wanted to roll away. When she was finally able to do these things...she was so proud. And once she started walking, god, I've never seen a happier child.

Today, as we toured the school, she held her hand out to me, she dragged me to the bins of toys, then abandoned me instantly when there were other children were around.

I smiled, didn't feel sad. I felt elated.

EMO is going to love preschool, just as she's loved every, single milestone she's reached so far on her way to being an independent person.

A Green Cookie

I've wanted a chocolate chip cookies for quite awhile, but didn't actually want one due to this whole "being healthy" thing I'm trying (and sometimes failing at). So, today, since I'm out of spinach, I had to figure out a new healthy treat to feed Time Muncher. I had zucchini, so thus, I made Zucchini Chocolate Chip Cookies. And because I can't leave well enough alone, I tweaked another recipe. The original can be found here. There is likely nothing wrong with that recipe. I just didn't have enough honey (or local honey for that matter) and I added some almond flour. Because I've got some and I have to do something with it. I also added ginger. Because I always add ginger to stuff like this.

Pilot Boy told me these were very good cookies and he almost alway detests when I "experiment" with chocolate chip cookies.

Anyways, here ya go:

Chocolate Chip Cookies with Hidden Zucchini

1/2 cup virgin olive oil (Weird, I know. While all I could smell of the batter of the olive oil, can't taste it once it's baked)
1 egg
1/3 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup white whole wheat flour
3/4 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup almond flour (or, 1 cup of all purpose)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda (or if you're an idiot, 1/2 tablespoon and then attempt to pick out some once you realize your mistake. Didn't seem to affect the recipe too badly.)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1 whole zucchini, finely shredded and squeezed to rid of some of the liquid
1/2 cup big chocolate chips (I used dark ones)
1/2 cup mini chocolate chips. (and some over flow if you like chocolate)

What to do with all these things:

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line your cookie sheets with parchment or slip mats. Or not.

2. In a bowl with high sides and that is of medium size, combine the olive oil, egg, white sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla extract. Once these items are in the bowl, use an electric mixer (or a stand one if you want) and...MIX! Until the sugar dissolves.

3. In another bowl of medium size, combine the flours, baking soda, salt, and spices. Combine in a method of your choosing. (I stirred it with a spatula!)

4. Add the dry to the wet. Use your electric mixer till just combined.

5. Then add the zucchini and mix till the greens tuff is throughly mixed into the dough.

6. Dump the chocolate chips in and use the handy spatula (or spoon, fork, or whatever) to combine.

7. Don't panic when all you smell is olive oil.

8. Drop tablespoons of dough onto the cookie sheets, spacing them apart a bit as they do spread a wee bit.

9. Put into the oven and leave there for between 12-15 minutes. (I left mine in for 13:30.)

10. Remove from the oven and allow to cool on the cookie sheets for two minutes.

11. Transfer to wire wracks to complete cooling.

12. Eat.

All Things Green and Sweet (Getting a Toddler to Eat Green Things)

So, once upon a time I had a child who ate anything I fed her. Kale and parsnips, check. Quinoa and blueberries, check. Peas, carrots, and sweet potatoes, check. Any combination of baby food I tried, Time Muncher snarfed down. I was thrilled. I had a child who would eat literally anything! Even things I detested.

Then, I started feeing her actual food, meaning non-baby food. Suddenly, zucchini was littering the floor, peas were being thrown at Basil Bea Dog, and even grilled chicken was left behind to be fed to the dog. I tried sneaking veggies into things she ate, but she'd figure me out and the hour long veggie frittata I had slaved over was smashed into the cup holder on her high chair (followed by her evil genius laughter).

I suddenly had a picky eater. And most problematic was her refusal to eat all things green, even honeydew.

I mentioned this to her doctor (after searching Pinterest and finding a few things to try when it finally cooled down as almost everything required baking) and he mentioned green smoothies.

"It's what we fed our daughter when she refused her greens," he said smiling easily and looking almost fond at the memories.

So, after her doctor appointment, I went to the Neighborhood Market by Walmart (because it's colder there and less crowded and I have a panic disorder), I got a huge bag of kale and spinach, along with some frozen fruit. So, I set up to make smoothies.

I had gone through a smoothie phase when I was in my first trimester, then I decided my blender couldn't handle ice and gave up.

So, while Time Muncher was sleeping, but close to when she was going to wake, I whipped up one of the green smoothie recipes I'd found on Pinterest.

Or, well, I fudged it as I didn't have everything. I mean, I try to be healthy, but I didn't have almond milk, coconut water, or any of the other "healthy" things people these days seem to always have on hand.

I thought it was a little gross the concoction I'd made, but Time Muncher sucked it down. I put the left over into some pouches and gave those to her whenever she was hungry over the next few days. Put anything in a pouch and she will eat it.

I branched out into green smoothies that I liked. The best combo I found happen to use kale. I figure since I'm feeding her spinach muffins, she can get a dose of kale in her smoothie.

Yeah, spinach muffins. These things are so good, I can't stop eating them. They are seriously brilliant. I followed this recipe here. The only change I made was I used white whole wheat all purpose instead of white, but that's all I changed, so I will direct you there instead of rehashing the recipe.

Now, for smoothies, I did look at recipes, but for the most part, I found if I just eyeball it, they turn out better. So, here are my fool proof, toddler approved, green smoothies.

KALE SMOOTHIE

Overflowing handful of chopped kale
Splash of vanilla extract (very small)
Thawed mango and strawberries (or fresh)
A soup spoon or two of plain greek yogurt.
A dash of cinnamon. Or ginger. Or whatever strikes your fancy.

1. Add all ingredients to blender.
2. Turn blender on (after you've plugged it in). Blend.
3. When everything is blended and you cannot see any kale bits remaining, pour into sippy cup and serve instantly.
4. Either put left overs into pouches to enjoy the next day, or finish it yourself.

SPINACH SMOOTHIE

Overflowing handful of spinach
Splash of vanilla extract (very small)
Canned pineapple, chopped or crushed. Or buy the slices and cut them yourself
Half a banana, cut up to ease the pain on the blender.
1/2 c of whole milk
A dash of cinnamon, ginger, or whatever spice you'd like.

1. Put everything into the blender.
2. Plug blender in.
3. Blend until you see no more spinach anywhere.
4. Pour into spippy cup and watch your toddler consume spinach without his or her knowledge.
5. Eat the left overs yourself. Or put in another sippy cup to be enjoyed tomorrow.

The last thing I've snuck spinach into is pancakes. It occurred to me, after finding out how much Time Muncher loved pancakes, she might eat them even if they are green. So, I turned to the trusty Pinterest, found some spinach pancake recipes and went from there.

SPINACH PANCAKES
Tweaked from here.

One large handful of spinach
3/4 cup of plain greek yogurt
1/3 cup of milk (I use whole milk since they are for Time Muncher)
1 large egg
1 tablespoon oil (I used veggie)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup white whole wheat flour
1/4 cup almond flour (if you have on hand, if not, leave it out)
1 tablespoon of sugar (any type you feel like using, I used white due to the fact it was sitting right there)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

1. Plug in your blender. Put a skillet on the stove and turn it on to medium to heat.
2. Put all wet ingredients into the blender with the spinach.
3. Blend, blend, blend, blend.
4. Whilst blending, get a large mixing bowl and combine the dry ingredients. Stir until they are combined.
5. Add the wet to dry and mix. If the batter is still too thick, add more milk. If it's too thin, add a little bit of flour. (Each time I've made this, the batter's been too thick, so I added a little more milk. Batter should be thin, but not liquified.)
6. Using a tablespoon, add a dollop of batter to the skillet. Depending on skillet, you might get more or two into the pan.
7. Stand and stare at them till they start to bubble. If they don't bubble (because they are too thick) wait about two or three minutes if you like timing things.
8. Flip!
9. Sing a little ditty in your head.
10. Upon finishing your ditty (which ought to be two minutes or so long), remove pancake from skillet.
11. Wait for it to cool before feeding it toddler.

To reheat the left overs you will likely have (unless your husband is home and he eats them all because they are "SO SMALL! Why are they mini pancakes? Why can't you just make regular pancakes?"), microwave for 25 seconds to heat the middle, then warm on a heated skillet or griddle for a minute just to crisp the outside up. You'd never know they were nuked. Trust me.

Time Munching with Wiggles

A year ago, I was exhausted, elated, freaked out, exhausted, anxious, and exhausted. Why?

I'd just had a baby.

By this time (roughly 7pm), I'd adjusted to the fact I had this small being dependent on me and I had peed the three mandatory times required for me to be able to go home the next day. I'd been fed, drugged, and was looking forward to sleeping. As I might have mentioned, I was exhausted.

A year later, I'm no longer exhausted, but I am constantly tired. It usually hits at about 7pm. I just get utterly exhausted and desperately want to go to bed.

However, someone who no longer really Wiggles doesn't wish to sleep at seven.

Or much.

That much hasn't changed in the year of life. My kid still doesn't like sleeping much. She does, though, seem to understand she needs it and will do it. For some stretches. She takes one nap, sometimes two hours long. She sleeps from about 8 till 12, then 12 till 6.30, 7 if we're lucky. On bad days, she wakes up at 4 am ready to get up and face her day.

Crazy child.

She walks now more than she crawls. She's into everything and I'm not sure how she sees as her hair is always in her face. (She won't wear barrettes and yanks out elastics.) Her feet are not big enough for most walker-shoes, as she wears a 2.5, not a 4. She wears a size 12 in length, but a 6 in with. Everything still makes a trip into her mouth and she loves to chew on books. Unloading the DVD bins is a daily activity, as well as handing Mommy all the DVDs as if they are precious jewels.

My days speed by at the speed of light and by the time we put Time Muncher (formerly known as Wiggles) I cannot for the life of me figure out where the day went. While I might not be able to explain to you what I exactly did today, I'll will have either gotten dressed to leave the house or dressed to work out. If I dressed to work out, I almost always get it down during nap time. I might not unload the dishwasher, but I will work out. Days I work out AND unload the dishwasher are REALLY AMAZING DAYS.

The past year as seen Time Muncher go from a squirming, funny looking newborn, to a pretty little baby, to a long, lean walking machine. Her hair went from just on her head to everywhere, and her teeth went from zero to four. She laughs, cries crocodile tears, and claps her hands for Elmo. She always stops what she's doing when Frozen starts and will attempt to dance to any music she hears.

She takes her socks off, tends to loose one shoe, hates for you to put things over her head, but will always help you remove her shirts. She likes to give people things and then stare at them while they hold them. She usually doesn't want them back. She love to knock things over and hates when Dad leaves the room when she's cranky.

Everyone tells me she's beautiful, she looks like me, and she's utterly adorable (especially when she waves at them or claps her hands). I tend to agree with all these assessments and I love that she loves almost all food we give her (except cheese and spinach ravioli). She drinks water, love wheat puffs she can share with Basil Bea Dog, and rolls around on the dog bed like it's her own.

I know life has changed with the addition of Time Muncher, yet I am still me. And I am proud of this. I did not loose myself. I changed-- I no longer spent two hours to get ready to leave the house. I can get ready to go somewhere in under 30 now, including a shower! I still write, still do art projects, and still bake sugary things I shouldn't likely be eating. I sewed a diaper bag, painted half a bedroom, wrote several stories, edited several stories, scrap booked, and got into oil paints. I still love clothes, buy too many pairs of shoes, and adore designer purses. I just also love buying shoes, clothes, and toys for TM. I love building block towers for her to knock over, reading books to myself while she chews on another and is clearly not listening to me, and walking her down the mean streets and not get hit by cars because the town lacks sidewalks. I like taking TM shopping. She likes to get out and see the sights.

I am less house bound since TM and will likely remain that way as she's super social. And now that she's walking and playing, she'll likely like some friends.

A year ago, I had a baby. A year ago, I didn't know what was going to happen, yet I was looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the next year of development and every year after. Will I miss her being a baby? Being a newborn who didn't do anything except lie there and stare at the ceiling?

No. I'm one of those weird people who will not miss those days because they were boring and frustrating. My child didn't want to cuddle, she wanted to be independent. She was so happy the day she figured out how to move on her own. I do cherish the moment she wants to cuddle, when she sits in my lap and happily sucks on her two fingers and ceases moving.

Those moments...those I like.

Diaper Update

Wiggles is now almost 11 months old. She weights 19 pounds and I've no clue how tall she is as I haven't gotten her to be still long enough to measure her. Her legs have finally chunked out a bit, but she is still long and skinny for a baby. Likely because she is NEVER still. Even when she's asleep she's not still.

We still battle for naps, still have issues sleeping through the night. But sometimes it does happen: sleeping through the night.

Only we had a problem: diaper overflow.

My beloved Luvs were no longer containing the outflows. In the past, when this occured, it was time to go to the next size up. While she was in the weight limit for the diapers in the past, her legs were usually a little too skinny for the next size, her her loads were ready so we just strapped her in and hoped for the best. This time, she is no where near the weight limit for the size 4. She is firmly in size three, yet they do not hold enough pee.

Pee is my enemy now, not poop. (Unless she pees and poops at the same time, then it is a disaster.) During the day, I can change her diaper every two hours. However, HUGE COMMA, at night, I am not waking her up to change her diaper. It ends in tears. Trust me. I woke her once at four to change her diaper because she hadn't woken at her usual time for a bottle. I'd hoped I could get the wet diaper off, put a dry on one, and put her back down.

Not so lucky.

So, the next day, I went to investigate diapers, just as I had when she was still in my belly. This time, though, I had more options. Did you know there are like two different versions of diapers for her size in Pampers? And Huggies? But Luvs only had one type of diapers and they simply do not hold enough pee to go all night long without a diaper change. But, they do make diapers that go that long. After spending a little too long staring at diapers, I picked up small packs of Pampers Cruisers and Huggies Snug and Dry. Both claimed they held 12 hours worth of wetness.

Pampers Cruisers were up first. I put it on her before her nap that day--which she actually took! It was two hours long. In the Luvs, I'd have a very heavy diaper after a two hour nap. With the PC diapers, I had a half full diaper of pee. Happy, I changed her diaper and put her in a Huggies one. Instantly, I hated the Huggies on. I don't like them-- plain and simple. They seem flimsy. At least her legs fit into the holes this time. She wore it for four hours while crawling around and no leaks. I've used the Huggies Snug and Dry at bedtime and so far, no leaks and no overly full diapers. Same with the Pampers.

She's slept through the night at least three times since I bought the new diapers and only one time did Pilot Boy put the wrong diaper on her at night. I had a damp baby come morning when she spent the entire night in the Luvs diaper (she usually wakes up when wet, but she's growing or something).

So, after we finish the Luvs, we're switching to Pampers Cruisers and I will forlornly stare at my empty pocket book but no longer have to change her pants every three or four hours.

An Ode to Shoes

I love shoes. I've loved shoes since I was 13 and realized I owned almost fifty pairs of them. I was awed and amazed to discover I had an obsession with shoes. Since that point in time, I've continued to hoard shoes, loving everything about them except one thing: wearing them.

I hate wearing shoes.

I walked around barefoot whenever I could get away with it. I took off my shoes as soon as it is feasible. I was that person who will take her shoes off on the plane and put my feet on the gross carpet. Why? Because due to the fact I hated wearing shoes, I had about ten inches of callouses on my feet. I could hardly feel anything.

Till I got my first pedicure.

It's been all downhill since that point in time because do you know what they do to your feet when you get a pedicure? They scrap your feet and remove the callouses.

I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I wanted to rip my foot out of the tiny woman's grasp, as what the hell was she doing?

I didn't though and I regret it all the time. Why? Because up till that point, shoes, when I did deem to wear them, didn't bother me. I never got blisters. I never had to break shoes in.

Then, my years of work hardening my feet was taken away from me and suddenly my feet always hurt. Shoes gave me blisters on my heels, my big toes, between my toes when I wore flip flops for the first time in a season, and worst of all I had to break shoes in suddenly.

I'd never had to do that before.

Why the hell do people get pedicures? Seriously. I've gotten maybe four total in my life and each time they scrap away my callouses on my feet I think, well, maybe this time will be different.

It's not.

Yeah, my feet look pretty, but my shoes and I have a hard relationship after this point.

I haven't had a pedicure in seven years. I got one before I got married. Mostly because I was like, "What the heck? It's fifty degrees. I can wear flip flops." I mored when the polish finally began chipping and swore I'd get another one in the summer. Maybe keeping up with the whole foot scrapping would help?

Then, I never got another one.

I thought about it. Multiple times, but I've never gone. Even while I was pregnant. Mostly because I had no idea where to go to get it done other than the place by Walmart and I was like, "I don't want to go there by myself. It's alway awkward."

So, yeah. I've got seven years of callouses on my feet, but I still have to break in shoes.

That's where I am going with this: breaking in shoes.

I finally broke down and bought a pair of Tory Burch flats. I've only wanted a pair for seven years. The only reasons I didn't do it before now was because I had a minor heart attack each time I saw the price of a pair. Then, as discussed in a previous post, I discovered designer resale. And I know what you're thinking: used shoes. Ick. But, seriously, I'm not about to pay $400 dollars for a pair of heels I might wear twenty
times in the next seven years.

LK Bennett Sledge

Stuart Weitzman Corkswoon

But, oh, how I lusted after Kate Middleton's shoes. I love the Sledge by LK Bennett and the Corkswoon by Stuart Weitzman. I seriously wanted the Corkswoon, but I cannot pay $400 for a pair of 4 1/2 inch platforms I won't be able to walk in. Towering high heels and I are not friends after my pregnancy. About 3 1/2 inches is what I can get away with without a platform and four with, but that extra half inch is not doable. I cannot walk. And it breaks my heart, BUT, I found the perfect subs for the Corkswoon and they are super comfortable. Last spring, I was tooling around JC Factory's website and found a very similar pair. They were navy, wedges, but used rope rather than cork. However, I was never able to find a look-a-like pair for the Sledge within my low price point and in my size. I'd find the perfect pair, but they'd not have my size.

Tragic. On many levels.

Then one afternoon, I logged onto ThredUp and there they were: the LK Bennet Sledge. In the Right color.

I don't think I even really thought about it, I put it in the cart and checked out before I even realized what I was exactly doing: buying used shoes. I did not even care. All I could think: I was going to own a pair of $400 designer shoes! And I only paid $77 for them!

I was giddy by the time the shoes arrived and threw them on my feet as fast as possible.

They were a little tight in the shoe box, but I didn't care. I owned a pair of LK Bennett shoes! And the ones I'd lusted after for years! Also, as I wore them around the house to get used to them/break them in, I discovered if I put my foot in sides, my toes didn't get squished. (I know, does that make sense? No.) I also discovered, if I wore them with socks, I could wear them longer. The only issue was finding no show socks that were low enough cut not to shoe. (I've yet to find them.)

Anyways, so I had my first pair of high end designer shoes and I could not stop thinking about my next pair. (The same thing happened when I first bought a designer purse, I couldn't stop thinking about my next one.) I trolled the two resale sights I use and never came across what I really wanted: a pair of Tory Burch flats. Oh, sure, both sites have a lot of Tory Burch flats, just none in my size. I spent months waiting and hoping, but never did they show up.

Then one day, Pilot Boy said something that made me think: I could buy a pair of designer shoes at full price. (Then I shuddered.) So, I ventured out onto the retail sites online and began to research. I looked at Stuart Weitzman, read reviews. What I like about his wedges is the heel base is larger than on most wedges, making it easier to walk in. Yet, I still could not bring myself to pay for a pair of shoes I might not be able to walk in, so I turned my sites to Tory Burch.

I can walk in flats. I've always wanted a pair of Reva flats for seven years. I remember when I first saw them on PurseBlog (yeah, weird I know). The writer had just gotten a pair and loved them. That weekend, I was at Dillards (I think) and saw a pair on display. I grabbed it up, flipped it over, and promptly put it back down.

For newly wed and currently unemployed me, they were way too much money.

I didn't pick up another pair till we were in San Antonio and at an outlet mall. I went into the overly crowded Tory Burch outlet thinking maybe I could get a pair of flats. The store was a zoo, so I just waked around quickly looking for shoes. I found a pair, flipped it over, and promptly put it back.

The outlet shoes cost the same as the non-outlet shoes.

And that's the thing about outlet malls I've come to discover: their not any cheaper any longer. Retailers MAKE clothes for their outlet stores. Yeah, they have "sales" on them, but in reality its not any cheaper than going to the actual store if they had a sale.

So, before I had a panic attack in the overly crowded store, I left and decided I'd just buy the flats another day. (I'd just gotten a pair of Ray-Bans, so I figured the flats were out of the question for that trip.)

Fast forward two years and my current obsession with designer shoes.

I've wanted these shoes for seven years. Yes, they've changed over the years, but the Reva flat is still made, still comes in black and gold.

Only, I really hate gold.

And I really do hate labels. (Odd, I know.)

When I first began lusting after the Reva flat, no one knew who Tory Burch was, nor knew her logo. Now, they do. So, yeah. But, it was mostly the gold logo that turned me away from the Reva flats currently available. I was surfing around the Tory Burch site and found the flats for me: Mini Miller.

Mini Miller Flat in yellow

I am not sure what is mini about them, but they are the typical Tory Burch flat, but the logo is done in the same color, and in this case leather, as the shoe itself. After a few days of thinking about it, I bought them.

And like when I bought my first (and third) designer purse, I fretted about the purchase. Like my first designer purse, I cannot brag about not paying full price, as I did. Tragically. Why? Because each and every time Tory Bruch has a sale, the flats are never on sale in my size. NEVER. Everyone must wear an 8.5. Seriously. Anyways, so, the shoes showed up a few days ago. After the dog stopped barking (UPS delivered and he cannot stealthily deliver anything due to the noise his truck makes never mind his instance on ringing the bell), I unpacked the shoes and stared.

I've never had a designer shoe box before. The LK Bennett shoes didn't come in a box, they were simply wrapped in bubble wrap. Now, I know, why does it matter. Most people throw away shoe boxes. I used to, but now I keep my shoe boxes and store shoes in them. You know, so they don't get dusty. I started doing this in Alaska when I had a shelf to keep the boxes on. Now, I have a shelf for shoes to display them, so I keep the ones I wear often on there and the nicer ones all in boxes, sometimes doubled up if they don't have boxes due to being bought at TJ Maxx.

Anyways, so I spent a lot of time staring at the box. I also spent quite a bit of time looking at the wrappings, as that is one thing I just love about ordering designer things from the designer's website: the packaging. I'm pretty sure I only like this due to the fact I ran my own shop for four years and took pride in how I presented the handbag to it's new owner via it's wrappings. So, I spent quite a bit of time enjoying the shiny paper and shoe box before I actually took the rubber band (nice purple elastic thing) off and looked at the shoes.

Yup. Those were the shoes I ordered.

I put them on and stared at my feet. I almost expected something to happen, but nothing did other than Wiggles deciding she also like the trappings of my shoes and made the box explode of packaging.

Not knowing if I ought to keep them or not, I wore them around the house, realizing they were kind of uncomfortable. Now, I didn't expect them to be like my boat shoes, instantly comfortable. They are hard leather and need breaking in. And today, after three days of having these shoes I decided to "break them in" quickly by use of a hair dryer. I found it on Pinterest. So, I was like, eh, worth a shot. Especially after I am not sending them back. Between the fact I do really like them, Wiggles has drooled all over them a few times before decided, No. I do not like Tory Burch as much as LK Bennett (yes, she nawed on my LK Bennett shoes. She loves them.) So, I took my hair dryer, blasted the shoes for a total of 8 seconds each then put them one with a pair of SmartWool socks.

They are a lot more comfortable with the SmartWool socks on, even if I look like an idiot due to the fact I'm wearing designer flats, SmartWool socks in grey and blue, and exercise pants. (I'm dressed for working out this afternoon when Wiggles goes to sleep, not just because I didn't feel like putting proper pants on this morning.)

However, part of me knows that if I'd never gotten a pedicure all those years ago, I wouldn't be breaking shoes in at this moment and instead would be dancing around merrily not having any idea what blisters felt like.

The Somewhat Healthy Triple Chocolate Muffins

So, I'm trying to eat healthier. You know, to loose those last ten baby pounds that are hanging out around my middle. I've been working out at least three times a week, but as usual, my diet is always the hardest thing to alter. Mostly due to my love affair with sugar.

I love sugar.

So much.

I troll Pinterst often for "healthy" baking recipes. Granted, most times I get distracted by all the other sugary goodness out there, but I decided I'd try a "healthy" one today. Granted, I lacked the whole wheat flour and unsweetened almond milk, but whatever. I actually had the coconut oil! And I had the zucchini.

Yeah. That's right. I baked something sweet and chocolate with zucchini.

And they are utterly brilliant. They are not very sweet, likely due to the use of half the sweeter called and the use of dark chocolate, but they are so good. And they hit the spot. And you cannot taste the zucchini at all.

So, here's the recipe, which I adapted from here. Her recipe is healthier than mine, due to her use of white whole wheat flour and unsweetened almond milk. I did cut the honey, but I used regular flour, so I will call mine....

The Somewhat Healthy Triple Chocolate Muffins

1 1/4 cup of your choice of flour
1/3 cup of unsweetened dark coco powder (or whatever you have)
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 tablespoon vanilla (I love vanilla, but you can use 1 teaspoon if you don't love it like me)
2 tablespoons of coconut oil
1/3 cup of honey (just fill the 1/3 cup in half)
1 egg
1 egg white
1 cup of shredded zucchini
1/4 cup of unsweetened applesauce
1/2 cup of dark chocolate almond milk
1/2 cup chocolate chips
1/4 cup of white chocolate chips, plus a few to sprinkle on the top before baking

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Line muffin tin with liners and spray. (Seriously, no matter what kind of liners you're using, spray them with nonstick cooking spray. These babies like to stick, so spray away.)
(Random: I tested out silicone muffin liners and they are AWESOME. The muffins popped right out and I can reuse them again and again.)
3. Shred the zucchini into the smallest bits you can manage.
4. Put the pile of zucchini in two paper towels, find a sink, and squeeze. Make sure all the extra water gets out. If you soak through the first set of paper towels, get another set and squeeze till no water comes dripping out. Set aside.
5. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, coco, baking soda, salt and whisk together. Set aside.
6. In a large bowl (hopefully one with tall sides) combine the coconut oil, egg white and egg, and vanilla. Mix on medium till you cannot see any bits of coconut oil. The mixture should be smooth.
7. Add the zucchini, unsweetened applesauce, and almond milk. Mix till combined on the low setting.
8. Slowly add the dry ingredients, mixing till combined.
9. Fold in the chocolate chips.
10. Spoon into the muffing liners. The original recipe said you'd get 12, but I got 18 filling each about half full.
11. Bake for 22 -25 minutes. I put mine in for 23 minutes and 30 seconds. But, every oven is different.
12. Let cool for awhile. (I didn't time this part.) Once cool, remove from muffin liners and enjoy.

the world is wide

My favorite episode of Doctor Who happens to be "Closing Time." While my Doctor might be David Tennant, my favorite episode of all time is "Closing Time." And not just because I had the song by Semisonic stuck in my head each time I happened to either see the title, hear it, or think about it. No, I actually like the episode because I think it's well done. It's funny, serious, there's a baby, and Craig is awesome. My favorite lines of the show still stem from "Utopia," but overall, "Closing Time" is my favorite episode.

Speaking of "Closing Time," I happened across this post on Facebook today. I read the whole blog post before watching the video, but like the author, I thought the song was about the bar closing and getting kicked out. And while fifteen year old me had never set foot in a bar, I still loved the song. I taped it when it was on the radio and played it over and over-- no where near like how I hit repeat on the Backstreet Boys or 'N Sync, so my dad is likely to know all the lyrics, but I am able to recall them easily enough to sing it in my mind when I see "Closing Time."

So, I watched the above video. I stared at Wiggles (who spent most of the time I was trying to watch it on VOLUME SETTING LOUD), laughed, misted up, and then proceeded to go download the song. Because, even thought 15 year-old me loved it, 15 year-old-me failed to have iTunes (due to the fact it wasn't invented yet).

It does make me wonder how many other songs that seem straight forward are not what we think. (I know many of the songs I like are sometimes not about what I think. And sometimes the words are even wrong. It breaks my heart that "Adam's Song" is not  The dream is over, I've survived but rather The tour is over, I've survived. Makes me glad I didn't contribute that quote to them on my yearbook senior year. Mostly because I didn't have room if I wanted my own name on it. Turns out, it was a quote by myself, as I'd heard the lyrics wrong.)

Birth, Poop, Wiggles Worm, and Cankles

Giving birth was as horrible as I thought it'd be. It sucked. It was uncomfortable, long, and painful. Even with an epidural--which only totally numbed one side of my lower regions. Oh, and I threw up. (Mostly due to the pain and contractions during the time epidural ran out, though no one told me till after Wiggle Worm appeared.)

And of course the hip where Wiggle Worm got stuck on the way down was on the side where the epidural wasn't working.

So, after twenty seven hours of labor (fifteen which were spent at home, three which were spent walking around the hospital without pain killers waiting to dilate to three centimeters, as they wouldn't admit me till I was fully three centimeters (I was tragically only one when I arrived after fifteen hours of suffering), and at least one was spent in heavy labor without an epidural because the bag ran out), I spent two hours trying to push my kid out and not getting anywhere because she was stuck in my right hip. (She'd come down a little and go right back.)

I honestly have no clue why anyone would not want an epidural. Because even if it didn't fully work, how the hell does anyone deal with the pain without at least some of the edge taken off. (Granted, I am a huge wimp, so maybe I'm not the best person to ask?)

After twenty seven hours of pain and suffering (and cursing even thought Pilot Boy kept chiding me when I did), I was presented with a wiggly baby with a full head of hair and a skin tone at least three times darker than my own. Pilot Boy commented, "That baby's darker than you and she'd never seen the sun."

She clearly has her father's skin and not mine. (I'd make a vampire look tan.)

Anyways, after channeling a scene out of Kill Bill that freaked out the whole room, grossed out my husband, and went unnoticed by me as I was staring at the tiny being on my chest, the room cleared out and I was left behind with a baby and a tired husband. (I slept after they'd put the epidural in, but Pilot Boy didn't.) We spent two hours alone with our new baby, marveling at her and trying not to fall asleep.

I was exhausted. I don't even want to think about how I'd felt if I'd failed to sleep a bit.

So, two hours after I'd popped out a baby with a thirteen inch round head, Pilot Boy and the baby left to go to the nursery and I had to go to the bathroom.

They make you try to go like a normal person, even though I told them I wasn't going to be able to. After my appendix was removed, I couldn't go, so why would I be able now? No matter how many times I told them this, they refused to believe me and made me try. I might have been able to, as guess what? I really had to go. But, there was this stupid thing that was supposed to measure the amount that kind of was in the way. Add on the uncomfortable toilet, and there was no way I was going to go.

And upon seeing how swollen I was down there, I can't think why they'd thought I'd be able to go on my own in the first place.

Seriously, after not seeing anything down there for four months, I was rather shocked to see it again and it looking so alien. (Even if I knew this was going to happen. I read all about it.)

After having an argument with the nurse in charge of me with whether I ought to take a percocet without eating anything for over twelve hours (I do not have a good relationship with heavy duty pain killers that you take orally. Inject it into my butt and I'm fine, but give me a pill and it is all down hill), I was left alone for about a half hour till lunch showed up.

Lunch made me want to throw up, but the ibuprofen they'd given me shortly before they kicked me out of the birthing room (because the day Wiggle Worm was born was busy, so I went to a better room) wasn't doing anything for the pain, so I forced myself to eat some of it. (Seriously, do not give greasy lasagna or anything tomato based to someone who hasn't eaten for an extended period.) The nurse returned and made me take the percocet.

I took it, only because unlike vicodin, I can take one percocet without it making me sick. She seemed to think I was making a big deal out of nothing, but I know me. I know my reactions and I had told the nurse at the doctor's office, but clearly they didn't put that in my chart or anything as they were sitting there trying to shove the very drug I said didn't agree with me down my throat.

I only took one percocet and it knocked me out for four hours. Which was fine. We were all tired. But I didn't take it again. I just asked for ibuprofen when the pain got annoying.

The rest of the hospital stay was fine. I finally peed on my own the required three times (they won't release you till you pee three times) and my swelling finally began to go down enough they weren't freaking out. (It hadn't gone down any in the time between they tried to make me pee the first time and four hours later when I demanded they aid me in emptying my full bladder.) The baby was fine, so they released us the next day.

By five in the afternoon, forty eight hours after we'd left to go to the hospital, we were home.

While I was happy to be home, that night as I held a screaming child who refused to sleep, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I was exhausted, in tears, sore, and my ears hurt. (She can really wail.)

And I had to constantly pee.

I had read that a lot of women can't feel they have to pee after giving birth.

I felt like I had to constantly pee. For awhile, it was worst than my third trimester as I had to go every half hour. At least with the whole not sleeping thing (she seriously didn't sleep for almost twenty four hours unless one of us was holding her), it wasn't so bad. But, I did get tired of peeing as there is a huge production to going potty after giving birth.

And don't get me started on leaving the house...it was a huge ordeal and not due to the kid. It was simply me and all the crap I needed to go to the bathroom. Luckily I never had to go when we ventured out in those early days...

The other thing that was surprising was the fact I lost my ankles.

I hadn't noticed till we were home, but my feet were swollen. Like seriously swollen to the point I looked disfigured. I'd never read you get swelling AFTER giving birth. Well, in your feet. Other things I knew swelled.

I didn't fit into any of my shoes except my flip flops and even thought were too tight, as they left marks on my bloated feet.

Luckily, I didn't have to go anywhere other than the pediatrician and Wiggle Worm brought a cold spell, so I was able to wear pants that hid my feet and (lack of) ankles. It was seriously gross.

The other surprising thing?

I think I peed out most of my baby weight, as about a week after she was born I was back to only weighing eight pounds more than I did before I got pregnant. I had my waist back three days after giving birth (well, I had a waist. It is still two inches bigger than it was, but that's mostly due to the baby weight hanging out over my abs. And the fact my abs aren't back together yet). I was wearing my pre-baby jeans two weeks later and most of my shorts also fit for the most part. While most of my jeans are low rise, I clearly don't have a lot of low rise shorts. Anything that has to go up over my belly doesn't fit too well. And due to my boobs being larger than ever, none of my tops really fit still. (Stupid boobs.)

However, now that I can exercise again (it being six weeks), hopefully my shorts that are higher rise will fit in the next few months. And after I stop breastfeeding, my boobs will shrink. (I know, who wants their boobs to shrink? I do. I hate them. I've hated them since they began growing when I got pregnant.)

So, six weeks into this mother thing, what do I think?

At times I think: What the hell was I thinking?

At other times I think: OMG. She's adorable, but why won't she stop crying so I can eat/sleep/shower/potty?

Most of the time I think: I can do this. I can do this.

And evidently being a mother has calmed me down. My therapist was shocked to see how well I was put together and how clam I was there sitting in front of her. I've done a few things that I wouldn't have done before (went to OKC for the day...to an air show. Only someone forgot to put the stroller in the car, thus we wound up going to Panera. OMG, I miss civilization).

Thing surprising about my baby girl?

1. She's a super pooper. What does that mean? Well, you know how boys spray pee everywhere so they tell you to cover them whilst changing them? Yeah, so my kid does that with poop. I'm not sure how such a little body can put out so much force, but she's sprayed poop all over the walls of her room, the curtains and anything with in reach. The first time she did it my parents were here and they heard me shout, "SERIOUSLY!?"

My mom came to see what had me screaming and shouting.

She was pretty shocked to find the room near the changing table covered in orange goop.

And then my baby girl peed all over the wall.

Yeah, she sprayed pee as well. On the wall. She'd peed all over herself and the changing pad before, but never did I think she'd hit the wall. She wasn't even pointed in the direction of the wall, but she peed on the wall.

(She also projectile spit ups. I think her favorite past time is to get Mom wet.)

2. She is utterly determined to move. (Hence Wiggle Worm.) While in the womb, she did a lot of wiggling, not a lot of kicking. Hence, the Baby Earthquakes. Anyways, so she came out and she wiggled.

All the time.

She always has to have her hands free, so when we wrapped her up, she'd unwrap herself. (Then wail because she was no longer snug as a bug.) Also, when we began to put her on her back on her play mat, she would always be kicking and waving her arms. When we began putting her on her tummy she'd move her legs like she wanted to crawl, but was prevented because she failed to use her arms and her head didn't come up. She pivots around her head in a circle, powered by her super long legs.

3. My kid is all limbs.

Seriously.

She has long arms, long legs, long toes, long feet, long fingers, and a somewhat long torso. She is just freaking long.

I had no legs upon birth. I was just a torso with some feet.

The Homestretch

One week till my due date.

My bag is packed and I'm ready to go.

And I'm showing now signs of labor. I'm still, as the doctor put it, closed up tight.

Bah.

I'm ready for this baby. Well, as much as I can be. I've got everything ready to go for her, I just need the actual baby. As I said recently, I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready to meet the kid who keeps kicking me from the inside even though I know it's hard for her as there's not much room for her. (Pilot Boy keeps looking at my belly and wondering how a 18 inch long baby is supposed to fit in there. She is a contortionist. Duh.)

Other than the constant peeing, the inability to get comfortable, the constant being overly hot, the swollen feet, and the curious happenings of my digestive track, I'm just peachy.

Okay, I lie. I'm so ready to not be pregnant. I've been warned it'll be at least three months till I feel like my old self again, but hell, I'm just looking forward to not randomly falling over, being able to stand at the counter, and not peeing constantly. (I'd also like to be able to sleep for more than 45 minutes, but I'm not totally mental. I know babies don't allow for much sleep. At least they get you ready for it by pressing on your bladder with their heads for the final four weeks of pregnancy!)


When I first found out I was pregnant, I kept thinking, "Oh god. I'm not ready for this. Oh god."

I kept repeating that over and over and over till about a month ago when I was like, "Okay. I'm ready. Now, come out!"

She's not listening. (I never thought she would. My own dog won't listen to me, why would my own kid.)

It's also the strangest thing to be sitting around waiting for something to happen that you know has to happen, yet you have no clue when it'll happen. It's hard to plan anything, as you NEVER know when you MIGHT just RANDOMLY go into labor. (Also, relatives want to make plans to visit, yet I don't want to be overwhelmed as I know myself well enough to know I won't be able to handle anyone other than Pilot Boy and my mother for the first few weeks. I think I've finally managed to convince people of this, so they've given me a month.)

I've made a birth announcement as well. All I have to do is add a photo and the unknown information (weight, length (or wing span as Pilot Boy insists), and the date and time of birth).

Well, my hips hurt from sitting here for too long, so I'm going to end this post and move to another location.

A Quest for Salsa

You'd think it wouldn't be hard to find salsa, but it is. Trust me.

Before I met Pilot Boy, I had no desire to eat salsa. I hated hot foods and thus never ventured near the salsa bowl or a Mexican restaurant. This all changed when Pilot Boy waltzed into my life because the boy lives to fry his tongue and Mexican food is his all time fav.

Whilst dating, there was this Mexican restaurant in West Lafayette, Indiana he liked and we went to quite often. The joint always brought two different salsas, one mild, one hot. This worked well for the pair of us, as Pilot Boy likes to burn his tongue and I'd rather keep my taste buds.

During our time in Fairview Heights, IL, there was this perfect Mexican restaurant right near our apartment complex and we spent almost every Friday night (or when we failed to want to make dinner) eating at this place. They also had good salsa.

Then, we moved to the Dirt Hole.

You'd think that living on the Texas boarder, you'd find GREAT Mexican food and salsa would be easy to get.

LIES. ALL LIES.

To date, the best Mexican food I've consumed has been within the state of Indiana. And the best salsa I've eaten came out of my kitchen.

Yeah, you read that right: I make my own salsa.

While we were living in Texas, there were store bought salsas that were okay. In Texas, there were so many available I don't think we ever got the same one twice. Then we moved to Alaska where they had no idea about salsa, let alone chips.

Oklahoma isn't much better. The lone okay Mexican restaurant in town doesn't actually give you chips and salsa with your order, as they don't have a table. They are a drive through restaurant. (Their food is really good, though. Likely the best in town.)

I'd been tooling around Pinterst for awhile, looking at salsa recipes. I'd gotten a new blender as a house warming present from my parents. It claimed it worked as a food processor as well (hence why I got it). Finally, after going through every, single salsa our tiny town shops had to offer, I decided I'd just make my own. So, I bought all the stuff and made it.

It was 1,000 times better than any of the jars we had in our fridge rotting away because they sucked.

(I was also over zealous the first time I made salsa and also made my own chips, which were really good, but labor intensive.)

Anyways, I've made the recipe a few times. (Oh, find it here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa.)

The first time I made it, I had no ground cumin, so I put in chipotle powder. I also had gotten the Rotel diced tomatoes with green chiles in them, not the plain ones.

The second time I made it, I only used half a can of diced tomatoes and it came out looking brown. (It tasted fine, it just wasn't very red.)

The third time, Pilot Boy made it by just dumping in what I could remember. I forgot the honey and he failed to listen to me when I told him he was over blending. We also didn't have any fresh cilantro, as the cilantro we had had gone all slimy.

We threw that one out.

The last batch I made, I pretty much followed the recipe, only I used paprika. I also failed to put enough salt in and didn't have a fresh lime.

HOWEVER, since I made the batch, I've been adding a little more salt and some Bold Taco Seasoning by Penzey. And a bit more lime juice, as I don't think Pilot Boy put enough in. (He didn't seem to think we needed a full tablespoon to compensate for lack of fresh lime.)

It is heavenly.

So, here is the recipe tweaked from the original one: (Once more found here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa)

What you need:

1 can of 14-oz canned diced tomatoes
(drain a bit of the water out unless you like watery salsa)
1 can of 10-oz Rotel Mild (with green chilies)
Some roughy chopped onion.
(Roughly chopped is the key, as you're putting it in the blender. I'd say add as much onion as you like. I hate onions, so I put maybe 1/4 of a red onion in.) 
1 clove of garlic.
(PEEL IT. DO NOT CHOP IT UP EITHER. If you do not have an actual clove, put the equivalent of the powder stuff or whatever you've got in the garlic department. First time I used minced garlic, a heaping 1/2 tablespoon.) 
1 teaspoon of honey
1/2 teaspoon of salt, plus extra if you feel you need it.
1/4 teaspoon ground chipotle or 1/2 Penzey Bold Taco Seasoning plus 1/4 paprika
Juice of one lime
(Or put a tablespoon or two of lime concentrate.) 

Directions:
1. Gather all ingredients.
2. Chop your onion. Roughly.
3. Peel your garlic clove. (If you have one.) 
4. Open your cans of tomatoes.
5. Dump everything into the blender.
6. Plug the blender in. (Very important.) Turn blender on. (Also muy importante.) Blend on high for 10 seconds, or low for 30. Do not over blend or you'll liquify it.
7. Put it in a jar or whatever you wish to store your freshly made salsa within.
8. Enjoy. (I figure it keeps for maybe a week. Only one jar we've made, the first, made it passed a week and looked kind of funky after a week in a half of living in the fridge.) 

Now, I know these food/recipe posts usually have photos to go along with them, but I don't have photos of me making salsa at the moment. However, I wanted to write this down before I forgot. Or had a baby and thus was busy bonding with said baby.