Monday, May 10, 2010

Guest Post From Mommy and Molly!

Hi Readers,
As promised, here is the guest post from Alissa over at Mommy and Molly. Alissa is a dedicated, hard-working gal who manages to care for an adorable baby girl, Molly, while juggling the life of a work-at-home-mom. Make sure you check out her blog! And her Twitter feeds are great, too! Her handle is @MollyandMommy. Thanks for treating us to a guest post, Alissa!

My little girl is 8 months old and has yet to sleep through the night (okay, maybe she has once....but that's it).

A lot of people ask me how she sleeps, and when I respond with "She wakes up 3-4 times a night" they look at me like I just told them my dog died. Seriously. It's like people think that as soon as a baby is past a certain age they should be sleeping all night.

Does it bother me that I do not get much sleep? Not really. I do not mind it because I stay at home with her and can take a nap if need be. Have I considered sleep training/Cry it Out/Ferber....etc? Yes. But you see, I am not your typical new mom. I bed-share, baby wear, breast feed....I practice Attachment Parenting, and I love it.

Before Molly was born, I thought I would NEVER be an Attachment Parenting mom. I thought those mothers breastfed their children until they were 8 and found it a strange way of parenting. Little did I know how central it would become in my life.

From the moment Molly was born, I did not want her to be away from me for one second. She stayed in my hospital room, slept on me in the hospital bed and when I got her home, she stayed in bed with me. I wore her in my Moby when she cried and it calmed her down. I thought I would only breastfeed until she got her first tooth---she now has three teeth and I am still nursing.

There are so many things I thought that parenting would be before I actually had a child, and Molly has proved all of it wrong...and then some. What is funny is I continue to think that that "Oh, I will never spank Molly" "She will be weaned by the time she is one"...etc. When in reality, I have no clue what the future holds.

It can only be good things though, right? Like her sleeping through the night.

I can only hope.

Friday, May 7, 2010

From A to Zen

Hi Readers!
Some of what I detail below you might already know about me. But the cool part is that I had to do a little background/explaining in this post because it's being featured over at Mommy and Molly today! Alissa was kind enough to offer me the opportunity to guest post on her site after I asked if she would do a guest post here. What luck! So read it here, read it at Mommy and Molly, and be sure to check out Alissa's guest post on Monday!

I'm what you might call a type-A personality: organized, a tad anal, lover of lists and having to know exactly what the next step is. Sure, I'm a bit of a control freak. Sure, I drive some people crazy. Sure, I could probably benefit from some Valium. But most days, that personality drives my work and brings some stability to life. When I found out I was pregnant I was told by numerous people that I could just throw all that out the door. There's NO way to keep a schedule when you have a baby, they said. NO WAY. Like, don't even TRY, they said. So, kind of taking their word for it, I took a step back and let myself relax a bit. I was fully prepared for the you-only-get-to-sleep-once-
every-couple-hours gig. So why not this, too? Roll with the punches, right? And you know what? It worked. Dammit if it didn't actually work! Type-A, control-freak, list-making me was actually able to relax, sit back and take things as they came. Only I didn't realize how effective this new, Zen-like let-things-go-as-they-go approach was until a good six months into motherhood.

I was blessed with an extremely easy pregnancy. No morning sickness, no crazy weight gain, hardly any bloating (I think I'll stop here so you stop hating me). Yes, near the end I got a bit uncomfortable and was peeing every two minutes. But I just told myself that many women have it much worse and it'll all be over in just a few weeks. Zen Moment Realization One! As I type this, I'm thinking to myself, "YOU ARE A CRAZY WOMAN. Those last few MONTHS were awful! So uncomfortable! Not able to indulge in a delicious cocktail to take the edge off!" But honestly, in the moment, I was a pillar of strength. Possibly even glowing.

Due to my small stature (I'm "petite") and ever-growing size of my baby (Over 8 lbs. at my 37 week checkup), my doctor and I decided to go ahead an induce at week 39 should I be showing no signs of progress. (Side note: Everyone has their own opinion on induction, due dates, etc. I am by NO means telling you what to do here. Merely sharing what I decided to do for my specific situation.) Some women might freak out a bit here. Especially type-A freaks like me, who might, I don't know, start Googling "likelihood of induction with small frame and large baby" or some other asinine equivalent phrase. Cough. Or whatever. But then I remembered my little inner-mantra of going with the flow, and I calmed down. Quite a bit. And was actually able to enjoy my last few days at work and alone time with my husband. Zen Moment Realization Two! REALLY? I actually managed to inch back from the ledge and not dive deep into the bowels of Doctor Google? After my doctor telling me we might be inducing in a couple weeks? At this point, I wonder if I wasn't so high on hormones that it completely clouded my usual judgment.

And, of course, induction day came. We checked into the hospital at 2 a.m. Oh? You didn't know that "scheduled" inductions aren't really scheduled so much as thrown in if there's enough staffing at the hospital? Ha! Anyway...where was I? Oh yes. Induction day. We checked in, I got hooked up to all the monitors and the ever-important Pitocin drip, and we were on our way. TO HAVING A BABY. Was I freaked out? Nah. I was eerily calm and collected. I just hung out, let the Pitocin do its thing, watched some TV, dozed in and out of sleep and sat on my ass. And when the Pitocin REALLY started working its magic and giving me those horrendous contractions that only Pitocin can do? I was STILL calm. I breathed and clenched and squeezed my eyes so tight. And then I got moved to a new room where the lovely anesthesiologist (Hey, I typed that right on the first try! Go me!) gave me the nectar of the gods and hooked me up with that awesome epidural. That gigantic needle going in my back the exact same moment as a hugely painful contraction came on? Psh. The pain was just pain. We still had a long way to go. Zen Moment Realization Three! HOLY SHIT BALLS. I'm sorry, for swearing, but it's hard for me to put into words just how I feel right now. Looking back on it, that pain is like no other pain I've EVER felt. I can still feel phantom pain if I think about it. And guess what! That wasn't even delivering-a-baby pain! That was just contractions and a stupid needle in my back! But it still hurt and it still remains VIVID in my memory.

Does anyone know the statistics for inductions that end in c-sections? I think it's fairly high. Well, I'm in that high number. (Side note again: Everyone has their own opinion on c-sections, etc. I am by NO means telling you what to do here. Merely sharing what I decided to do for my specific situation.) While I had progressed (comfortably, thanks to my lovely epidural) to about a 7, I'd been going for 12 hours. And hadn't made much progress in the last couple hours or so. So when my doctor stopped by to check me and suggested we go with a c-section, I was all, "sounds like a plan!" Oh, and did I tell you that the contractions were so strong at some points that they were causing my baby's heart rate to increase? And they had me wearing a stupid oxygen mask for hours at a time to help with that? But that whole time I just laid there, watching some Arrested Development DVDs (CRUCIAL to the hospital bag, y'all. If your hospital has DVD players make sure you pack some DVDs to pass the time), joking with my husband and sneaking a few naps in. My nurse kept me apprised of any issues and/or progress. She explained why they wanted to do oxygen. She told me a c-section might be in my future. And I just nodded my head, said it all sounded good, and let's get this show on the road. Zen Moment Realization Four! DID Y'ALL READ THE PART ABOUT BABY HEART RATE AND OXYGEN AND C-SECTION????? I could use some freaking oxygen right now just thinking about it! I should have known I was being waaaay too relaxed about the situation when my nurse commented, more than once, that I was one of the most calm patients she'd ever had. Okay, Nurse Julie, you happy now? BECAUSE I AM FREAKING OUT that I was so calm. Seriously. I'm wondering how all this was humanly possible. And I was that human.

After a successful c-section, we spent another three days in the hospital, and then went home. Like with the baby. They were letting us take her home and her whole life was our responsibility. And we brought her into the house where we told the dog to calm down and smell his new baby "sister." And we fell into this whole parenting gig. And we had the "WHY WON'T YOU STOP CRYING???" moments. And we had the "Babe, come see this gigantic poop!" moments. And now we're in the "Oh my gosh, she just clapped!" and "Look! She's sitting up all on her own!" and "I feel a little tooth bump!" moments. Every moment of every day is different and challenging and satisfying and shows us just how blessed we are. And I hate to say it, but it really took me almost this long to realize how ZEN I was (and mostly am still) about being a mother. I am a textbook 180 when it comes to my attitude and approach to parenting before and after actually becoming a parent. Yes, I still churn out lists like a Mofo. Yes, some people at work still can't stand my anal attention to detail. Sure, my baby has her schedule that I try to protect. But I also know that any little hiccup can completely implode any schedule or plans I've made. And what was once a panic attack-inducing thought is now just a fact of life. A life that I never dreamed in a million years I would be lucky enough to have.

Thursday, April 29, 2010


Is that how you spell comeuppance? You know what? I don't even care (and that's saying A LOT) right now, because I am hurtling through such a shame spiral, I don't have time to spell-check myself. I just read this: and my eyes bulged and I mentally smacked myself around and I felt awful. Because, in case you haven't noticed. I'M A TAD JUDGY. I can't even tell you how many times I've uttered, "That kid is WAAAAY too old for a stroller!" in disgust to my husband while in public. Or tongue-clucked a mother for letting her child run free in the grocery store. And I know it sounds like I'm covering up my tracks at this point, but in almost all other realms, I'm very much a believer in the "You never know what they're going through" school of thought. You're late and didn't call? I don't know what you're going through...maybe your mom is in the hospital and the last thing you thought of was to call me to cancel our stupid COFFEE DATE. Sometimes this gets me in trouble, silently fuming when someone was just plain late. But I'm going to sigh a HUGE wind gust of relief the one time my coffee date's mom is in the hospital because that means I didn't pile another gigantic burden on that person.
Man, do I type fast when I actually have some opinions to express! Anyway. Wow. For all you Christians out there, let's try to practice the golden rule a bit better. And for you non-religious folks? Let's try to make the universe a better place to live. (Inside your head and not aloud ruining peoples' days) Judging is what it is. But you're at a 10 and I need you at about a two (myself included).

Tuesday, March 23, 2010


Time for me to update this blog, yo! I have a handful of posts swirling around in my head, but have yet to actually sit down and type them out. And I've been pondering this mommy blogging thing and how best to go about it, and basically over-thinking EVERYTHING. So yes, I'm still alive. And no, I don't have a good post ready for you. Just yet. But once I get my game plan completed, I hope to have some more content for you. Maybe even photos! But probably not.

Stay (not too closely) tuned!

Monday, March 8, 2010

File under T for "Things I Never Thought I'd Say"

Once you become a parent, you say a lot of things you never thought you'd say. Like ever. And oh, the massive amounts of things you said you'd never DO, and then you GO OFF AND DO ALL OF THEM. So yeah, I was a bit surprised (horrified?) when I barked to my husband as he made his way to the deep freeze, "Stay outta my milk!" And he was all, "Geez, calm down, I wasn't going to touch your milk, okay?" Wow. Two sentences I never pictured exchanging in my marriage with my husband. But as all breastfeeding mothers in the universe can understand, that milk is like liquid gold...or diamonds...or something equally rare and finite in supply. That milk is precious, that milk is important, and that milk needs to be cataloged with care and attention to detail. Deep-freeze milk apparently lasts only 6 months. And by "lasts," I mean is "good for your baby according to Google or whatever." So, not unlike my other tendencies to organize and put things in order, I dated each bag of milk before putting it in the deep freeze, and when we actually started using the frozen milk, I organized it chronologically so we'd always be using the oldest milk first. Did that desire to use older milk first merit a weirdo "stay outta my milk!" statement? Probably not. But my husband loves me, and therefore puts up with my ticks. To varying degrees.
Like our cloth diapers. We have a wide variety of colors. When stuffing them (they're pocket diapers, to those who are cloth diaper pros), we put one insert in for "day" diapers and two inserts in for "night diapers." After a load is dry, I sit on the couch and stuff them. My lovely husband often asks if he can help and asks me to toss him a few to stuff. I always toss him supplies for the "night" diapers...and always in the same color. Not because we need to match the Baby's pajamas to specific diapers, but because that weird, irrational voice in my head says, "why have two differently colored night diapers when you could have matching ones?" Yes, that's exactly what I think. And I don't think it's weird until my husband points out that it is. And again the whole, "wow, I never thought I'd be saying that" feeling surfaces. In fact, that feeling makes an appearance at least daily.
I can tell you that I've said the word "vagina" more times in the six-ish months I've been a parent than collectively my entire life before that. Yes, as a woman, I have a vagina. All my girlfriends have vaginas. All my female relatives do. And yes, even my baby girl does. Whose fault it really is that I say that word so often. I can't help myself! I, who knows why, feel the need to narrate everything I'm doing when I'm with her. And now we're going to wipe your vagina with the baby wipe and get all the poop off! Next, Mama's going to put some cream on your vagina so it's not so irritated! My baby is currently in a grabby phase, and shoots her hand out to grab anything and everything she can. Which, yup, you guessed it, includes her vagina. Stop grabbing your vagina, little lady! Mama doesn't want you to hurt your vagina! And now I fear all traffic on this site will be a lot of disappointed people who just wanted to see pictures of vaginas. Sorry! What a great way to start the week!

Friday, February 26, 2010

Sabado Gigante

Last Saturday, after we'd had a full week to recover from family and friends descending on our house to wish my husband a happy birthday, we finally had a "normal' weekend back to ourselves. All week I was looking forward to a nice, just-the-three-of-us weekend with our usual errands, taking in some college sports, just generally chillaxin' in the chill zone (kudos to those who correctly identified that reference). And then on Thursday night I came down with a shuttering case of the stomach flu. For 24 hours I rotated sleep, trips to the bathroom, chugs of Pedialyte, doses of Tylenol and cupfuls of Pepto. All the while, my superfantastic husband cared for Baby. Saturday morning comes and I'm, thankfully, feeling great. I nurse Baby and decide a family breakfast outing is in order, since my stomach has been completely emptied and is in desperate need of a refill. And THEN what happened? This all sounds innocent enough. Where the hell is this story going, Moleskine Mama? Well, I'll TELL you. After we took in about an hour of a local college sporting event, my husband dropped Baby and me off at home and headed back to watch the rest of the game. I asked if he was going to be gone long, and he nonchalantly said probably not, he'd probably be too tired to stay out long. HOURS tick by. I text him asking him to pick up some dinner on his way home. I ask when I might be expecting food (if this post tells you anything about me, it's that I am ALL ABOUT food...apparently) to be in my stomach. Husband says at least an hour or two. FOR REALZ? This is when my ugly completely-irrational-I-do-everything-because-I'm-the-mom-overlord beast rears its nasty head and I snippily text back, "Don't bother, I'll be in bed by then." Husband doesn't let on that he senses texting tone and just replies, "Sorry." I sullenly wash bottles, yearn for some fast food, but out of principle refuse to eat anything in the house. Because maybe...just MAYBE...the Husband will show up with surprise! Some food, just in case you were still up when I got home! Watch the time click by, get hungrier and hungrier, mentally refuse to eat any food unless it's of the surprise variety, give up, brush teeth, go to bed, pass out of STARVATION.
Sunday morning comes, and while I, empty stomached and cranky, am changing Baby, Husband cheerily strolls in and asks what our plans are for the day. Ugly completely-irrational-I-do-everything-because-I'm-the-mom-overlord beast surfaces and I snap, "I'M doing whatever I feel like doing for hours at a time while YOU watch the Baby." He innocently asks what that might entail, and I grumpily mumble something about whatever I damn well feel like, who cares. Who knew when he walked into the nursery that he was going to face my passive-aggressive wrath? The poor guy would have been much better prepared had he come bursting in with a pitchfork and torch.
Fast-forward to an almost-silent car ride to church, numerous compliments on how beautiful our baby is, me putting on a smile because that's what you do, and sitting down for our very first New Member Class. Where I am schooled in a good 'ole fashioned MAJOR Catholic guilt-fest. Father J talks about open communication, about how humans really at a basic level just need to speak and to be heard. And an instant sensation of mighty, mighty guilt piles on to me.
Really, people, what freaking bug crawled up my butt that I needed to be so nasty to my husband? AFTER HE CARED FOR ME AND THE BABY WHILE I WAS SICK. Commence self-hatred. I'd like to think I would have had this revelation regardless of church attendance (Right? I'm capable of these things...).
After my cloud of unworthiness lifted, I realized that sometimes we just have freaking bugs crawl up our butts. Sometimes we just have DAYS. I just wish there was a way to arm my husband with that pitchfork and torch before I drop the passive-aggressive-snippy-ugly-mood bomb on him.
So here, here, husbands all over the world. And life partners and spouses in general. You put up with a lot of crap (not including the literal crap your sweet babies produce), and I can't thank you enough for your patience, understanding and willingness to chock it up to just a teensy bit of crazy. The teensiest teensy bit.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Blogging is hard!

Well, not really. But you know what IS? Grassroots fan development. I suppose it couldn't hurt to actually, I don't know, SHARE the blog with people I know. Perhaps.
In other news, I've spent entirely too much time ogling other blogs and fretting over lack of followers (both here and on Twitter)...should probably get some work done at some point. I would be an awful campaign manager.
Okay, list time!
Things that made me smile this week (it's only effing Wednesday? Gah.):
  • B laughing uncontrollably as H and I ate dinner. She sat in her Bumbo on the table, just laughing like the funniest effing thing in the whole world was watching us munch on salad like cows in a pasture.
  • Getting my new issue of InStyle in the mail.
  • Watching my favorite college basketball team win.
  • Bringing new photos of B into the office to put in frames on my desk.
  • Thinking about family visiting soon.
  • Holding hands with H in the car.
  • Watching the Saints win the Superbowl. Neither from there, nor am I a fan, but that city deserves a reason to celebrate after all they've been through.
  • Possible (positive!) work changes in the future.
Next week is absolutely crazy, y'all. Once the madness passes I'll provide some insight. Judgy insight.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

"Friends," Friends, "friends" and friends

Wouldn't it be nice if real life was like the TV show, "Friends"? All your best friends live by you, understand your lifestyle and want nothing more than to be another harmonious piece in the orchestra of your life. We could all suspend disbelief and pretend like we can have a baby who conveniently sleeps when we want and is completely tote-able to our friends' places for fun game nights and our friends still want to have us over even though we have a kid. And wouldn't it be nice if the bloggers you liked could actually be your friend in real life? But just your luck, the bloggers you really love who you could TOTALLY see being friends with (in a total non-stalker manner) live all the way across the effing United States. And lastly, what about having friends in REAL LIFE? The word "friends" seems to take on a whole new meaning once you're an adult with a spouse and a child. Your friends from college are spread all over the country. Your friends from high school still live in the town you grew up in. And in my case, most of the friends I have now do not have children. I knew it was inevitable, going to fewer gatherings once we had B. I was not ready, however, for the lack of invites. Surely, I thought, we'd still get invited. We'd just decline because the timing didn't work well with B's bedtime. But over the past few months I've had the slow realization that the invites aren't coming anymore. People are just plain skipping over us. It all dawned on me this past weekend when we didn't get ONE invite to a Superbowl gathering. Not a peep. And our friends love them some par-tay-ing. And I know not to take it personally. But it's just such a commentary on our new life as parents.
And don't even get me started on making Mommy Friends. (You DO want to get me started? Okay.) We've lived in our current city for about four years now. And let me tell you, I had to WORK at making friends. People in our city were just...different...from what I was used to. More superficial, wealthier, more exclusive. As someone who doesn't really like people to begin with, being tossed into this new community where I had to start fresh was a HUGE hurdle for me. I slowly but surely made friends with my husband's coworkers and their spouses. From there it sort of bloomed out to meeting other people. But I still found myself with only a few core friends. And then motherhood happened and all of a sudden I felt pressured to make friends not only for myself, but for B. Mommy friends. Mommies and babies and play dates and fitting this all in on the weekend because weekdays are a circus of daycare drop off, work, daycare pick up, a window of an hour for one last feeding, then down for the night to wake up and do it all again the next day. And then, when it seems the pressure will absolutely swallow me whole, I step back and breathe. And just effing RELAX. Because the more I agonize over it as opposed to, I don't know, DOING SOMETHING about it, I sprout one more gray hair. So here's the deal, people. I'm going to be ecstatic every time we receive an invite to a child's birthday party. I'm NOT going to feel sad about all the adult parties we're missing out on. Because, above all else, I want to be the kind of mother that B can be close to and love. And when I'm freaking out like only an incredibly type-A, neurotic, everything-has-to-be-just-so person can do, I'm not being that kind of mother. Being a mother is something no one can perfect. All you can do is try your best, know that plans are most likely going to implode, and move on with your life. Or, if you're me, just have the general, lofty goal of "make more friends." No stipulations, just plain 'ole friends, with or without child.
After the Bud Light Superbowl commercial featuring a guy crashing his wife's book club, I told H that I could never be in a book club. And he said, "Why? Because you're too judgy?" And I said yes. Hmmm...I wonder if that has anything to do with my inability to make friends????

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Defying Gravity

I remember one day, riding in the car with my brother, a long time ago...I think it was during the summer...and a song came on the radio that made him smile. He looked over at me and said, "isn't it funny how songs can just transport you back in time? You can recall the exact period in your life that the song reminds you of." And then he went on to tell me about how this particular song reminded him of junior high and why it did. I kind of shrugged it off, agreeing that I suppose he was right, but not really thinking much of it. Then, some time in high school, I had The Moment. The Moment where I heard a song on the radio and time instantly rewound 10 years. My childhood home had a beautiful oak tree at the end of the driveway. It was perfect for climbing up into and just sitting. When I was little I would sneak my one of my brothers' Madonna tapes and take my little cassette player and listen to Madonna in the oak tree. Away from the house, away from anyone's watchful eye, I was free to be a "big girl," singing along to my Madonna tape, daydreaming about the future. When I had The Moment, I remember smiling, thinking of my six year-old self.
Since I had my first Moment, I've had many similar moments, always smiling and thinking back to that time in my life. Sleepovers, summer camp, high school dances. And you can never predict when a Moment will happen. They have a way of sneaking up on you.
Such a Moment happened this week while listening to Pandora. I was just sitting at my desk at work, and "Defying Gravity," sung by cast members of the TV show "Glee" came on. Before I knew it, it was the fall and I was home on maternity leave with TB. I was holding her, walking around the house because she loved motion and hated being put down. I was doing laps around the family room trying to catch bits of the show each time I passed the TV. But I stopped and watched as the characters Kurt and Rachel sang "Defying Gravity" to see who would earn the solo. And then Kurt purposely flubbed the high notes so he wouldn't get the solo--a solo meant for a female--to avoid embarrassing his dad, with whom he was struggling to connect. Kurt was trying so hard to defy gravity by auditioning for a part he loved SO much, but bowed out because he loved his dad even more. And it wasn't until "Defying Gravity" played yesterday on Pandora that I truly thought about the gravity of "Defying Gravity."
Maybe it's because I'm now a mother, but as "Defying Gravity" played, my heart ached for Kurt. And my heart ached for TB. I found myself wanting to give the TV show character a hug, reassuring him that his dad loves him no matter what, and to always go after your dreams. Words my parents always told me growing up. I thought back to my days sitting in the oak tree, listening to my little cassette player, daydreaming about all the possibilities of my life ahead. I wanted to hold TB and tell her all those things.
TB isn't even six months old yet, but I have so many hopes for her. I hope she has her own Moments to reflect on, and her own dreams to aspire to. I hope she knows, above all, that TH and I love her no matter what. I hope she tries to defy gravity.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Revenge of the list

I could go on and on about how how much I loooooooove lists. Lists organize, prioritize, give a sense of accomplishment, provide motivation. My love affair with lists will never end. But today I discovered that they can also drive a person friggin' bat ess crazy.
I attended a workshop this week where I took some notes on a handout, as well as in my padfolio. The handout contained some interesting points that I'll surely use in the future. But in my padfolio I found this list:
  • Red stars
  • Skull smoking cig
  • Scorpion
  • Dice
  • Heart with thorns bleeding
  • Blood drops on claws
  • Naked woman
  • Fleur de lis
  • Swordfish
  • Cross
  • Roses
  • Amor heart
  • Horseshoe
  • Shark
  • Beetle
  • Sword thru skull
  • Bird
People, tell me what the EFF that list could possibly mean! What in the world do those things have in common, and what the hell was I doing writing them in my padfolio? I stared, blankly, at the list for minutes. MINUTES. And then suddenly it dawned on me. (Ready for the big reveal? Sitting on edge? Nah, me neither) This is a list of items I saw on the fabric of a tote bag hung on the chair in front of me. I (now) clearly remember thinking, "It's times like this I wish I owned a camera phone." Because words alone cannot describe the oddity of this tote. I studied the tote for quite a while, examining the stitching to see if this was perhaps a homemade creation. Which would make sense, in my opinion. But as far as I could tell, this woman actually purchased this bag at a retail location. I quickly jotted down the list of items on the fabric, trying to cover my writing all, "I'm in third grade and don't want anyone copying off my spelling test," lest my fellow workshop attendees see what I'm writing and refuse to network with me afterward, saying under their breath, "WEIRDO." (Because that's what life is all about, apparently. Avoiding the term "weirdo.") After I had the list thoroughly documented, I closed my padfolio and became distracted by thoughts of making my own non-weirdo tote the coming weekend. Yeah, with all that extra time I have on my hands. HA.
Happy Friday, everyone. And since I'm a lemming (and wouldn't mind having a Bumbleride for me-self), hop on over to Feisty Frugal & Fabulous to enter to win a new Bumbleride Indie stroller!

Monday, January 25, 2010

Intro to the blog...again.

Hi folks,
Due to my inability to manage a blog "anonymously," I had to delete my very first post and repost with my pen name. Thanks for indulging my a) blogging blunders and b) NEEDZ ATENSHUNS!

Original post:
So here it first blog post. I feel like I should launch into a big 'ole diatribe about why I decided to start a blog, what I plan to write about, share more about myself. I guess I could do all those things. Or none of them. The most overwhelming feeling I have is, "Are there really any people out there who want to read my thoughts/opinions/observations, or do I need to just open a Word doc on my computer like Creed Bratton?"

So let's start with the name of the blog: Moleskine Mama. I think I'm very clever ("How's that working out for you, being clever?") because the the name not only incorporates alliteration, which is a LITERARY TERMS I HAZ DEGREE IN RITING, but succinctly describes what I plan to post about: anything one might jot down in a moleskine notebook. Middle-of-the-night-that's-so-funny Jerry Seinfeld type musings, eavesdropping on people's conversations in Target, stupid things I do in my every day life, and maybe even a "that's so friggin' cute" moment while watching The Baby (TB). I might also talk about The Husband (TH). What I will not do is post photos of myself or my family, share personal details like my real name, or identify people in my life by their real names. Will posts have an over-arching theme, all tied together like a nicely packaged thesis? Probably not. Will they make you think deep thoughts? Even less likely. But I hope they'll make you laugh, or at least sympathetically chuckle, because apparently I think I'm funny and clever enough to write a blog people will actually read.
So let's launch into one of my favorite things: lists.
  • Lists (and crossing items off lists)
  • Movies (and quoting them incessantly)
  • Parentheses (apparently)
  • Sarcasm
  • Judging those I probably have no business judging
  • Diet Coke
  • Sports (mostly men's college basketball)
  • Food Network
  • Passively stalking people on Facebook
  • Graphic design
  • Writing
  • Crafting/attempting Martha Stewart-esque projects
  • Naps
  • Post-it notes ("I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.")

  • Most seafood
  • Misusing the variations of "there," "your" and "to"(Want to see my nervous "Lisa Turtle allergic to Screech" twitch? Send me an e-mail saying, "Hi their! I just wanted too know if your going to happy hour tonight.)
  • Superfluous apostrophes
  • I guess most grammatical errors, although I'm sure you'll find plenty in these posts.
  • Clowns
  • Any political/religious/lifestyle extreme. Because really, no one is 100 percent correct on everything. Shades of gray people, shades of gray.
Cripes, this is like one of those e-mail chain surveys/Facebook notes on steroids! I get to talk all about mememememe! What shall I share next?

Take ON me

I don't claim to be the smartest person in the world. Nor do I wax philosophical about how much better I am than you (well, at least not to your face). But boy did I get a reality check this weekend. Inspired by "back in the day" photos people were posting on Facebook, I decided to give the new scanner a whirl and get some similarly aged photos up. With TH out for a guys' night, TB fast asleep and the house to myself, I browsed through old photos, chose which ones to scan, and plopped down at the computer to get those suckers up. Ahhhhh, MM, 'tis you who is the sucker. Scanning is an easy process, no? I opened the bed, put my photo face down, closed the bed and pressed the green button. Green means go, right? Press green button. Nothing. Press green button repeatedly, cursing scanner. FINE. Go to desktop and click on scanner icon. THUMP! "You're doing something completely forbidden" sound of death thump resounds. Some crap about not being able to scan comes up. let's...just...use the troubleshooter? First step: make sure the scanner is plugged in. Well that seems easy enough. Locate cord, see cord is perfectly plugged into surge protector, pat myself on the back for reading instructions. Press green button. Press press press press press press press GREEN BUTTON. Scratch head, confused, and think perhaps that ONE outlet on the surge protector is faulty. Unplug, plug scanner back into a wall outlet. Press green button. You see where this is going, people. I've just wasted a good 10 minutes of my life trying to figure out how to operate a scanner I KNOW works, because TH installed and tested it just weeks before. So, adding to my brilliance, I finally give up and refer to the installation manual. Steps 1-4 have been established. Step 5: Turn scanner on., what? The beautiful graphic in the manual shows an arrow pointing to the on/off button on the SIDE of the scanner. OMG. In the words of Bif Tannen, "Well lookie what we have here!" An EFFING ON BUTTON THAT I FAILED TO PUSH BEFORE TRYING TO SCAN A PHOTO. Sheepishly press on button. THEN push green button. My photo is scanned in all of five seconds. Happily scan numerous photos, post to Facebook, go to bed exhausted at what an idiot I've become. (Side note: I own an Epson Perfection V500 Photo Scanner, and it is a wonderful piece of equipment. Quick, easy [unless you're an idiot like myself] and photos came out great. I have yet to try the slides and negatives scanning, but looking forward to doing that once I recover from my on button debacle.)
In other news, I had my first, defensive "Mama Bear" moment yesterday at church when the man in the pew next to me (holding his 8 week-old son) asked how old TB was and I said about 5 months. To which he replied, "Wow, she's SMALL!" And I'm all (in my head), "Wow, you can shut up now!" Really wanting to comment on how his baby looked like Benjamin Button. But I just smiled my good, Christian smile, and changed the topic. That is likely the first and last time this week I play the role of "nice Christian."

Thursday, January 14, 2010

I never used to be this creepy...I don't think...

I have a problem. Since the wonderful world of Facebook was opened to me six whole years ago, I've slowly been falling deeper and deeper into the world of internet stalking. Not like dangerous stuff. More like calling someone and hanging up. And not even that direct. I can't help it. I looooooove knowing what other people are up to, want to see photo updates, want to know them, but not really KNOW them, you know? And at the same time, because I know I'm not the only nut job out there, I keep my privacy settings VERY private. I'm just a friggin' hypocrite. Or maybe I'm just selfish...give, give, give me to me, while I never provide anything in return. Who knows. Regardless, I need to curb this problem. What was once some innocent link-following on Facebook has turned into full-fledged Googling and blog searching. And LinkedIn! And Twitter! It's a GD smorgasboard of stalking platforms out there! So you heard it here first...I'm trying to quit. The first step to quitting is recognizing you have a problem, right?

Since I'm a poop, I haven't posted on there the numerous random things I've been thinking would make appropriate posts...too lazy, actually doing work/baby caring/life, whatev. So here's a list (LISTS! YAY!) of those thoughts...
  1. I saw an advertisement the other day for Espresso Sliders. SLIDERS. What the eff? Is everything miniature now by default a "slider?" I love me some REAL sliders, so I'm a little miffed the term is now bastardized. What's next, tampon sliders (ooooh, pun!)? Come on folks, let's stretch those marketing brains a tad and not just fall on some, "but it's so hot right now!" word. P.S. there IS a term for what you're trying to sell: it's called espresso macchiato, bees.
  2. Not that I don't have an appreciation for my life and how forunate I am to have it, but man, there are some times where I am just UBER grateful. Friends, co-workers, people I don't even know that I read about...they all have so many issues and problems and MAJOR things going on in their lives, that me being a whiny little bee about, jeebus, anything, makes me realize just how good I have it, and to shut the eff up.
  3. I am hugely disappointed by the fact that my daughter will likely have numerous classmates named after Twilight characters. You know what, Edward and Jacob are great boy names...that are now and forever associated with the word "team." (Side note: I am on neither team, as Twilight is dreck, and yes, I'm stating that as my official opinion even though I've never read a page. And all my knowledge of Twilight is based on Burger King commercials advertising Team Edward and Team Jacob cups.)
Okay, off I go to NOT stalk people on the internet.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Mommy, mama, mum, mumma, mom, mommy, Lois...

(For those of you who don't watch Family Guy, I apologize for the incoherent post title above.)

Sooo...part of the whole reason I started this blog was because I was fairly (and still am) addicted to a) (I'm what they call a "lurker," someone who never posts but just reads), and b) I was reading about and observing all these women who literally blog FOR A LIVING. Okay, not so much on thebump...most of those women just have glorified brag books as blogs, logging their daily interactions with their child(ren). Which, don't get me wrong, is a great and wonderful way to chronicle some of the most challenging and rewarding times in a woman's life. But a small handful of those "bumpies" (just threw up in my mouth a little bit for actually using that term) have some interesting things going on and I actuallly find myself liking what they're putting out in the universe. I think I think what a lot of readers do (and what those bloggers are trying to get across): THANK GOD SOMEONE ELSE HAS EXPERIENCED THIS WITH THEIR CHILD. Throw in a little wry humor, some cute baby photos, witty commentary, and you have yourself a mommy blog. So maybe that's what I'm going for here...I don't know yet. But do I have to "out" myself and actually put a face on my blog? Why can't I just be the Girl in the Green Scarf a la Confessions of a Shopaholic (HORRENDOUS movie, by the by)? I guess I'll worry about that once I actually have any semblance of a following.

Speaking of confessions, hypothetical readers, here's a random list of some...some mommy-related, some not...
  • I read boards, like, way too much. Although I never post anything, I totally, flat-out judge almost everyone on there...because, in case you didn't know, I'm a judge-y person. I know I shall one day receive my comeuppance, and I'm not looking forward to it.
  • I hate myself for repeatedly getting the line, "I'm throwin' on my Louboutins" stuck in my head throughout the day. (But love the fact that I know how to correctly spell "Louboutins.")
  • I am the kind of woman I would hate if I were not myself: I was back into pre-pregnancy jeans two weeks after giving birth. Two months after giving birth those jeans were hanging off me and I had to buy new jeans, a size smaller. Breastfeeding does wonders, people. I wish I could attribute exercise, a healthier diet, forgetting to eat...but none of those things happened. My "exericse" was lazily walking around the mall for an hour pushing a stroller, making numerous stops to browse. My "diet" was shoving whatever I could easily prepare one-handed into my mouth. And forget about forgetting to eat. FEED ME, SEYMOUR.
  • The first couple months of motherhood I seriously doubted myself...and my ability to raise a child. And I have an angelic child. The Baby is so healthy, so happy and is a great sleeper. Yet, in those first few weeks, I literally found myself holding TB up to my face and seething, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?????" as she wailed because she was probably just effing gassy or something.
  • I (not so secretly) aspire to acquire enough of a following (and blog acumen) to do what Amalah does...only with less cussing. Because I'm still terrified of my mother stumbling upon this and wringing her hands, her head hung low, muttering, "I didn't raise her to talk like that!" No, mother, you did not. And for that reason alone, I shall resort to "initial speak," which my brother instituted in his household upon having kids.
Well, folks, that's about all the ramblings I have for now...more (much, much more) at a later date.