Ever have one of those days?

Ever have one of those days with your kid? You know, the kind where you take her into a store for a quick perusal and she finds a strangulation hazard in three minutes flat? And you know she found it because in the 20 seconds you had actually managed to focus on the reason for your trip, she wanders away from you and you locate her by the "Hey Mama, I can h-gaaaah" that you hear from 5 feet away. When you turn to look, she's got a cord around her neck and grimace on her face.

Yes, one of those days.

Or one of those days where, in an effort to get food on the table (cause that's your job too), you pause for a second to appreciate how smoothly things are going. Maybe a little too smoothly. And definitely too quietly. So when you ask your kid what she's doing and she says "I'm playing in my room," you instantly determine that you are hosed. This is confirmed when you call her out to see you and she comes trotting in with one arm behind her back, certain that you'll never figure out that she's hiding something back there.

What were you doing?

"Nuffing."

No, what where you doing?

"Cleaning da floors."

And that's when you find that the bathroom hand soap has been squirted all over the bathroom floor, her bedroom floor, her bedside table, her bed, and one sandal -- the other one, thankfully, is still on her foot.

10 minutes are spent coaching her on how to clean up her mess. 10 minutes of your life you'll never get back.

At this point you breath a little easier. The worst is over. Because what could she come up with in the two minutes that you take to go back to the kitchen & make sure dinner wasn't ruined?

Turns out, she comes up with Desitin. The sticky, smelly Desitin that just the other day you had found her smearing all over her boot and told her she was not to get into. Right -- the very same stuff. Except this time she is huddled under the quilt on the far side of the bed trying to avoid detection, rubbing it on her hands and arms. Why? Just because she can, I guess.

Aaaaand game over. Time out clock begins... now. Tears, wailing, an actual - and I kid you not - boo hoo, pleas for release, demands for Noggin.

For the love of God, if I could just get dinner on the table!

She is freed and makes a bee line for higher ground. Now that she's upstairs with her aunt you feel safe, and take advantage of the situation by sitting (that's right, sitting) for five minutes. Dinner is ready. You make her a plate, hopeful that when get some food in her belly the beast will be silenced.

But not so much. Because in calling her to dinner you've interrupted what clearly must be the best episode of Ni-Hao Kai-Lan ever, and you hear about it. All through dinner. Lots of sobbing, but very little eating.

Oh, sweet Lord.

Before the evening ends she will have consumed 4 and a half chocolate chip cookies and you don't even care. She's in bed. Tomorrow is a new day.

And then tomorrow comes. But it's no longer one of those days; now, it's one of those weekends -- one of those rainy, stormy, stuck-inside-all-day weekends.

Chasing the cats.

Using the sofa as a trampoline.

Using her baby stroller as a battering ram.

Honing her macrame skills with the cords from the blinds.

Insisting that the neighborhood dog running through the yard needs to be fed, and weeping when you won't let her go after it.

Save. Me. Now. It's not even noon.

Lemme just say that next weekend, when the Papa is home?

I'm so off duty.

Hear me rawr

If you know me at all, you know that I am not an overt feminist. Some might assume that I am not a feminist at all.

Well, you'd be wrong.

While not a supporter of many of the agendas of the feminist movement, I do believe that women are meant to enjoy the same opportunities that men do -- when that is logical. Women are equally deserving of good jobs, quality educations, and sound medical care, just like their male counterparts. But this may not mean we are entitled to always enjoy the same opportunities because, in case you hadn't noticed?

We are wildly different creatures. And for that I say Amen. Different is amazing, and interesting, and beautiful, and quite literally life-giving.

This isn't really a post about equal rights. This is about about equal access to something vital to the well-being of women everywhere: sound medical care.

Probably because of our historically male-driven paradigm (men work/men provide/men lead/men protect/etc), a lot of medical research is conducted with men in mind. Or, maybe more accurately, with men as the primary source from which data is collected. Heart disease, for example, manifests itself quite differently in a woman than it does in a man -- but in the past most public education campaigns were designed around the classic symptoms found in men, as most research had typically been done on the male population. I don't believe this was deliberate, just an unfortunate outcome of an outdated mindset.

The good news? The medical community seems to be catching on to this. Women's health is being discussed in many outlets and researchers are casting a wider net, looking for clues to the genesis - and cures - for disease in both men and women.

But I'm here to tell you, we still have a long way to go. I know this because I'm experiencing the imbalance myself.

I'm not sure when I first heard about PCOS, or polycystic ovary syndrome. I know the first time I ever heard a doctor mention it to me was more or less in passing, as she went over the results of a rather lengthy history I had provided. Buried between the meatier topics of obesity and diabetes risks was a quick castoff, a mention that I had all the classic signs of PCOS -- fun stuff, like being overweight, having irregular periods, oily skin, unwanted facial hair -- and so I probably had that as well. That was it.

A few months later I had a miscarriage.

Soon after that, in a discussion about insulin resistance, I was put on Metformin. It was explained to me that this would help my body overcome the insulin resistance, thereby helping me achieve better weight loss results. The side effects could be unpleasant (and yes, they can be) but we should give it a go. And so we did.

Never one to shy away from the internet for more information, I started doing some searches on this new medication I was taking. It didn't take long before I saw that it was frequently prescribed for women with PCOS -- and hadn't I been told I probably had that, too? With a little more digging I found that Metformin was known to help women with PCOS get pregnant. Get pregnant, and stay pregnant.

That's when I knew that there was no "probably" about it. I really had this thing, this PCOS. And I had likely lost a baby because of it. And nobody told me it might happen.

Happily, I got pregnant again -- thanks to that Metformin, I have no doubt -- and had a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Perhaps I've mentioned her before?

So life went on. I lost more weight. Then I lost my mother, and my father, and most of my resolve, and the weight soon returned. I continued to see my doctors, an ob-gyn and a new internist, and I always brought up PCOS. Not really knowing what to ask, I would tell them that another doctor told me I probably had it. And in lock-step, each doctor would shrug, say yes you probably do, and there's little you can do about it. Eat right. Exercise. Lose weight. Next question.

And I know that their answers were correct. Correct, but not complete.

I'm learning that PCOS, obviously unique to women, is a parallel to something the medical community calls Syndrome X, a high-insulin metabolic state. While my primary concern with PCOS arose from infertility, some recent reading has also taught me that PCOS, like Syndrome X, can lead to diabetes, high blood pressure, and cardiovascular problems. Additionally, because PCOS effects the hormonal function of the ovaries, women with chronic and/or severe cases are also at risk for ruptured cysts, ovarian twisting, internal bleeding, endometriosis, endometrial hyperplasia, and endometrial cancer.

An increased risk for cancer. There's absolutely nothing that terrifies me more.

I think that's worth more than a shrug and a passing comment, don't you? Three doctors -- three female doctors -- never told me any of this. Maybe they didn't know. But they should, and now I do.

Look, I'm not going to lie: Losing weight and getting pregnant were big motivators for learning more about this thing, and they are still big motivators for trying to overcome it. But the more I learn the more I realize that there is more at stake here than dropping a few dress sizes and having another baby. There is my life, and growing old with Rob and raising Sara.

Why didn't they tell me? I don't suppose it matters now. What matters is that I don't let them off the hook so easily in the future. I know better what to ask, and who to seek if they can't provide the answers.

Because I'm a woman. And I deserve that kind of healthcare.

[[RAWR]]

Dying a million tiny deaths

OK. If I had the time and the money and the chutzpa to go there, I would totally go see House Beautiful's 2009 Kitchen of the Year.

Why?

Ina Garten.

Ina Garten will be there.

Ina Garten will be there, in an amazing kitchen.

Ina Garten will be there, in an amazing kitchen that she inspired.

And I know if I went we would be best friends.

Because that's how it works, right?

(I love you, Ina.)

(Seriously.)

Photo courtesy of The Food Network, via thebarefootcontessa.com

(Please don't sue me for copyright infringement.)

Not words I would use to describe myself, but...

I think there is truth in some this -- at least for today.

Considerate Dreamer

you are a dreamer

Your combination of abstract thinking, appreciation of beauty, and cautiousness makes you a DREAMER.

You often imagine how things could be better, and you have very specific visions of this different future.

Beauty and style are important to you, and you have a discerning eye when it comes to how things look.

Although you often think more broadly, you prefer comfort to adventure, choosing to stay within the boundaries of your current situation.

Your preferences for artistic works are very refined, although you vastly prefer some types and styles to others.

Though your dreams are quite vivid, you are cautious in following up on them.

You are aware of both your positive and negative qualities, so that your ego doesn't get in your way.

A sense of vulnerability sometimes holds you back, stifling your creative tendencies.

You're not one to force your positions on a group, and you tend to be fair in evaluating different options.

You are balanced in your approach to problem-solving, not letting your emotions hold you up.

You prefer to have time to plan for things, feeling better with a schedule than with keeping plans up in the air until the last minute.

You do your own thing when it comes to clothing, guided more by practical concerns than by other people's notions of style.

If you want to be different:

Your imagination is a wonderful asset, but don't just dream—be bold enough to take action and explore new things!

Consider a wider range of details and possibilities when thinking about the present and the future—don't be too set in your ways.

how you relate to others

you are considerate

You trust others, care about them, and are slow to judge them, making you CONSIDERATE.

You value your close relationships very much, and are more likely to spend time in small, tightly-knit groups of friends than in large crowds.

You enjoy exploring the world through observation, quietly watching others.

Relating to others so well, and understanding their emotions, leads you to trust people in general, even though you're somewhat shy and reserved at times.

Your belief that people are generally well-intentioned contributes to your sympathy regarding their problems.

Although you may not vocalize it often, you have an awareness of how society affects individuals, and you understand complex causes of people's behavior.

You like to look at all sides of a situation before making a judgment, particularly when that situation involves important things in other people's lives.

Your close friends know you as a good listener.

If you want to be different:

Because other people would benefit immensely from your understanding and insight, you should try to be more outgoing in social situations, even when they make you uncomfortable. Others will want to hear what you have to say!

Thanks to @zigged for the link!

And to prove there's no sour grapes

Some blogs I've recently stumbled across that I love:

www.joythebaker.com

I would totally love hanging with this girl. And not just because of the Red Velvet Black & White cookies, Root Beer Float Cake, or Brown Sugar Bacon Waffles (though none of those things would hurt). No, I would dig an afternoon with her because she's funny, clever, and as nice as can be. (Thanks to Casey @ mooshinindy.com for pointing us to this site with her rave review of the Root Beer Float Cake.)

www.conversationswithacupcake.blogspot.com

In keeping with the baking theme, I bring you Conversations With a Cupcake. This blogger has managed to blend mad baking skills with charm, wit, and illustrations. Oh, and she does some very generous things along the way. I've found my birthday cake for next year at this site -- seriously, I've already sent the link to my sister.

www.nestingplacenc.blogspot.com

I love this woman because she loves fabric. The fact that she has a knack for easy, accessible, and often inexpensive home decor just sealed the deal. When I knew it was true love? Her window mistreatments, where she created lovely valances without the benefit of a sewing machine, curtain rods, or a hammer. Cause why bother with a hammer when your high heel will do?

www.sew-funky.blogspot.com

A New Zealander with crazy crafting skills. I found her while searching for a tutorial on freezer paper stenciling. She had only been on my blogroll for a couple of days when she posted about her mother's sudden death, and now my heart aches for a woman who I don't even know.

littlelivesphotography.com

OK, full disclosure: Elaine is one of my BFFs. Has been for the longest time: college, marriage, miscarriage, birth, losing our mothers, losing weight, gaining weight, scrapbooking, singing, traveling, and more laughing than I can begin to list. So of course I follow her blog -- but she also happens to be an awesome photographer. And she's just as genuine & nice in real life as she seems to be on her blog. I know, I know... I'm a lucky girl.

houseonhillroad.typepad.com

This is one of those blogs that makes me want to chuck it all and stay at home so I can sew all of Sara's clothes, grow & preserve all of our food, and snap awesome shots of everything while I do it. I used her twirly skirt tutorial to make my first (and only) successful item of clothing and am itching to try the coffee cozy pattern next. Because the only thing better than that first cup of coffee is that first cup of coffee with a cute cozy surrounding it.

So, what about you? Which blogs are you loving these days?

Woe is them

The internet is an amazing thing.

Over the last ten years it's become an almost indispensable thing for most of us -- I know that I, personally, have used it to:

• "Date" my husband (before he decided it would be easier to move than drive 20 hours to & from Indiana every weekend)
  
• Plan my wedding
  
• Find long-lost family and arrange a reunion to finally meet them
  
• Track my pregnancy
  
• Find my job
  
• Look for a house
  
• Look for houses for other people
  
• Decide not to buy a house
  
• Look for contractors
  
• Renovate my house
  
• Learn to sew
• Reconnect with old friends

And then there are the daily things -- tracking the sales at the supermarket, finding recipes, reading the news, getting directions, checking the weather, looking for hotels, reading blogs...

Ah, reading blogs.

Blogs are probably the most interesting thing out there. Most (like mine, I fully admit) are not really worth the time spent reading them, at least to people other than family & friends. Some are blatant marketing tools. Others never really get off the ground. But now and then a blog really hits on something: an audience, an idea, a movement, whatever. These bloggers have a voice that people like to hear. Some set out hearing that voice from the beginning, while others evolve, like the classic "mommy blogger" who eventually manages to filter her thoughts down to one main idea -- say, going organic with your family.

I've often wondered if I need to find a voice too. But that assumes that I'm trying to cultivate a following (I'm not) and that I have the talent to sustain it (I don't). This blog is for me and for my daughter. I'm flattered when people stumble across here and find something I've said interesting or funny or useful, but that's just gravy.

Over my decade or so traveling the internet and reading blogs I've had the pleasure of watching a few bloggers transcend that gap between personal story-telling and public speaking. Sometimes I think it's just happenstance; sometimes it seems to be very deliberate. Either way, I continue to follow them because I, too, happen to like what they have to say.

Except.

Except when they write posts explaining to their readers how they just don't have the time to write for them right now. These same readers, whose loyalty and encouragement has granted them a public forum, opportunities for income, sometimes even entire careers -- no time. Too busy. Too conflicted. Too in demand.

Too full of themselves.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think bloggers owe their readers anything. Unless, of course, their readership has earned them sponsors, ad revenue, freebies, and book deals. Then I think they do owe us something: the voice they so earnestly wanted us to hear in the first place. Because without regularly sharing that voice, their audience -- along with all those benefits -- eventually disappears.

And without a doubt a new blogger will be happy to fill their shoes. Because the Next Big Thing? Is already out there.

Forget Orlando

Oh no.

Despite what you have been led to believe by The Mouse, the happiest place on Earth can actually be found on East 86th Street in Indianapolis.

The internets have led me to a local shop that quite literally took my breath away when I stepped into it for the first time yesterday.

(Thank you, internets.)

Quilts Plus is now, I am sure, going to be both my salvation and my undoing, the place that lifts me up when I am down while at the same time torturing me with its endless (literally endless) possibilities.

Quilts Plus, I hate you for loving you so.

Unlike the Other Stores Which Shall Remain Nameless, the staff at Quilts Plus are nice -- friendly you might say, though I quiver a little at the realization of this, even as I type. No fabric nazis here; in fact, when the chief-cutter-in-charge said hello I quietly admitted to her that I had never been there before, and instead of sneering at me she actually welcomed me. With a smile. And enthusiasm!

But better than this, if you can dare to imagine, is the fabric. The FABRIC. THE MILES AND MILES AND MILES OF WOVEN EYE CANDY. BOLT AFTER BOLT OF FIBER FANTASY. STACKS AND STACKS AND STACKS OF TITILLATING TEXTILES.

Excuse me while I take a moment.

My mind literally started to spin when I rounded the first corner and spied the "kids collection." If only I had twelve more for whom to make totes and skirts and curtains and pillows galore. And seriously -- seriously, I tell you -- I could feel the breath catch in my throat when I rounded the next corner and realized that I had a least another half of the store to peruse.

Oh, and peruse I did.

But what really won me over, more than the fabulous staff and mind-boggling inventory, was that they had exactly what I wanted. The fabric I've been mooning over online for weeks now -- Moda, Amy Butler, Michael Miller, on and on and on -- was all there waiting for me. Even the one design that had been eluding me* at Etsy** (whose vendors, lets face it, have all the awesome stuff) was there standing in the stack just waiting to go home with me. I maybe might have squealed a little.

OK I did squeal a little. Don't judge me. The ladies at Quilts Plus didn't. They understand.

Quilts Plus, Quilts Plus, Quilts Plus... I think we've got a future together.

Miss you already.

*Sorry, no sneak previews... I've picked this out as a special gift for someone!

**I love Etsy so much that I have already plotted out my own online shop. I even have a name for it. And no, I'm not telling you what it is.

Just a thimbleful

It's true that everything that's awesome about being a mom would fill every ocean in the world -- the first time you see your baby would probably fill just one to overflowing all by itself.

It's equally true that some things about being a mom aren't quite so endearing. But because I know how fortunate we are to have such a happy, healthy, smart, funny, beautiful girl* I will limit my list of complaints to the liquid equivalent of a thimble. And in this thimble you would find:

• Weekend wake-up calls when you've been given the clear to sleep in. "Mama! It says eight-oh-eight and that means I want you to get up now!"
• Negotiating... well, everything.
• Debating the fundamental benefits of going poo in the potty.
• Stepping on rocks, dolls, crayons, plastic caps, Hot Wheels, grapes, and all things small.
• Having an audience in the bathroom. Every. Single. Time.
• Donning a bathing suit in public. (ONLY for my daughter. And to everyone at the Jordan Y today, my sincerest apologies.)
• Shiny purple things.
• Time outs.
• Naps refused.
• Pinky Dinky Doo. Worse yet, Lazy Town.

See, it's not a long list. And, I suppose, more than a fair trade.

*Yes, I do know this. I am reminded every, single day -- and I never take it for granted.

Might've been wrong

Perhaps got a little ahead of myself on yesterday's post about Something coming.

Or maybe the Something came and is just better known as The Shit. As in, The Shit Hitting the Fan.

What a day. I was exhausted by 10 o'clock this morning.

Oy.

Enough with the pregnant

Four people from work
Two old friends
Three announcements in past two weeks

And no, I'm not.

Something

Today as I sat in a meeting where I essentially explained to my boss that what we really need is someone to do my job who isn't me (you know -- in a nutshell), I got butterflies. I chalked it up to the many many great unknowns in my workplace these days and didn't think too much more about it.

And then driving home I felt it again. That feeling you get in your stomach when you go over a hill, or when you are waiting for something to happen, something you've anticipated and are excited about, but also a little scared about, too. You know -- Something, with a capital "S."

I felt it most of the evening, and I wonder what it is. I wonder if the me that I don't listen to often enough knows something I don't know. I wonder if Something really is coming.

Or maybe not.

I do know that it feels like the time is ripe for change. Not the kind of change that I'm trying to engineer (Lord knows how that doesn't work) but change that just comes, like kids growing and leaves turning and your wedding day come and gone seemingly in spite of yourself.

I'm not going to try and figure out what this is, or when it's coming, or even if it's coming. But for the first time in a long time I feel ready for Something to happen, no matter what it is. My life, in all of its smallness, has prepared me for whatever Something comes next. I've figured out that I can do it, whatever "it" is.

And so we will see.

New obsession

I meant to keep track of the designers on these lovelies, but I'll chalk my oversight up to pain. Anywho... aren't these gorgeous? The list of things I am planning to make (but don't know how to make) is growing thanks to the wonderful world of fabric.


I guess I best get to learning, huh?







I totally see kitchen towels in my future with these cuties...





Oh, and I felt like one of the cool kids earlier today when I was over at Amanda Soule's site and saw she had picked the same fabric for one of her projects (failed, which -- let's face it -- makes me like her all the more) that I've been loving on as well.


Having little girls does have it's upsides. Unicorn fabric? Why not!

Love was in the air

This story could have totally been about Rob (substituting cats for the dog, of course). I laughed so hard I was crying when I read it.

Just like she loves Mr. Nielson, I love Rob, too. I know I'm two hours early, but happy fifth anniversary my sweet!

(If you aren't familiar with the story of the Neilsons, it's remarkable -- surviving a devestating plane crash is really just the beginning. An amazing family to be sure.)

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear person who doesn't know me that well:

I realize that making small-talk is the socially acceptable thing to do, and I want you to know -- I don't mind small talk. In fact, I appreciate your effort.

But I'd also like to let you know that while asking about my preschooler is a perfectly delightful way to engage in said small talk, asking me if I'm "going to have another" is not. In fact, that kind of conversation is entirely the opposite of "small talk;" it is (I would dare say) rather "large talk." This question, much like asking the mother of multiples if she underwent fertility or the soon-to-be mother if she's had that baby yet, is better left unasked.

You see, the answer to the question is not simple. I could say no, and then you might ask why -- and again, the answer to that falls squarely under the umbrella of "large talk." Or I could say yes, and you might ask when -- but I think filling you in on those kinds of details might be considered "too much information." Or I could say I would love to, and we've tried, and I really want my daughter to have a sister or brother more than anything in the world but after three years it's beginning to look more & more like that may never happen --

But that answer might leave you feeling awkward, which really defeats the point of "small talk."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry or anything. And it's certainly not your fault because it's a question that dozens before you have asked as well. Somehow, somewhere along the line, society decided that it was alright to make these kinds of casual inquiries -- probably right about the same time we started watching The Real World and Big Brother and Jon & Kate + Eight, learning much more about perfect strangers than we ever had a right to know.

So let's make a deal, OK? You don't ask if we're going to have another, and I won't lie & say "oh, I don't know, maybe sometime, we'll just have to see..."

Because lies are not "small talk," they are "false talk." And I'm just not in to that sort of thing.

Thanks for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Sara's mom

The only couture that would fit me

Hey!

You may have noticed that I am becoming more & more interested in all things free.

WELL.

How's about a free mini PC?

It's true! Jenny Rapson over at Blissful Style is coordinating a giveaway of one HP Mini 1000 - Vivienne Tam edition! It is small, it is lightweight, it is fast.

Most importantly, it is cute.

As a shameless pursuer of all things free, I have entered -- and I really want to win.

How about you?

Time

Time this morning to 

dry my hair (all the way)

pick up a bit

enjoy a cup of coffee

sit with Sara while she eats breakfast

check a blog or two

dream a little bit

say hello 

to

you.

Hello!

That's one small library tote for Sara, one giant leap for Mamakind

You have to understand where I'm coming from: My mom? Not a domestic diva. She could sew a button on Dad's pants when under extreme duress, but that was about it. Anything "fancy" -- like hemming pants, let's say? -- required a trip to the tailor on Broad Ripple Avenue. (Who, I swear, is the same first-generation American tailor wearing the same sandals with the same white socks today, just like he did when I was a kid. Ah, consistency.)

So it's not like she taught me the ins & outs of sewing. We didn't have a sewing machine to be sure. And my few encounters with the sewing nazis at Joann's didn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling about taking it up as a new hobby. In fact, even friends and family members that I had observed in action seemed to morph into something a little less than "exuberant" when I watched them put their Singers into action.

Still, I am particular enough, and creative enough, and cheap enough that I decided that I needed to learn how to sew. For real. My sister got me a sewing machine two Christmases ago, and I was very excited about. Then I found excuses (some of them actually valid) not to pull it out. The thing seemed ironic in every way: archaic, yet mechanically beyond my mental grasp; freeing, yet paralyzing; full of potential, yet fruitless without me doing... something.

So one day I threw caution to the wind and pulled it out. I spent an hour just working up the courage to turn the blessed thing on. And then?

Then I jammed it.

My first "project" was to make some placemats for Sara - because if there is one thing I feel strongly about, it is providing my child with seasonally-appropriate placemats. So I cobbled together two of them: a red one for Valentine's Day and a green Snoopy one for St. Patrick's Day. I didn't actually measure, or bother to cut straight lines -- and it showed -- but at the end of the evening I had produced two functional, if not fashionable, seasonal placemats for my three-year-old.

And this is the point in the story where you learn about my tendency to exercise poor judgement while basking in the glow of minor victories. Thinking I had made it over the learning-to-sew hump I decided I could make a simple denim jumper for Sara. The pattern said "VERY EASY," after all. How hard could it be?

Turns out, very hard. At least when you don't know what you're doing. I should have put the fabric back when I realized I didn't understand how much I was supposed to buy (ah, the lure of the fabric.... but that's another post). As luck would have it, that day I happened to meet the only pleasant sewing lady on the north side of Indianapolis*. She didn't snarl at me when I asked her if she could cut fabric for me, and despite my absolute certainty that she would sneer, like all the others before her, when I admitted that I was little more than an amateur she was actually helpful. Helpful!

Too bad she wasn't so helpful as to come back to my house and walk me through that blasted jumper because making it was, shall we say, treacherous. Sara wore it once (yes once!), so the week I spent making it wasn't a complete waste. (But mostly.)

This little reality check slowed me down quite a bit. The sewing machine seemed to mock me from the corner, knowing as well as I did that I really wasn't worthy. It sat, unused, for weeks on end. Eventually Rob took it back to our house where it sat perched atop an old loo gathering dust. At least I felt like I was having the last metaphorical laugh.

But eventually the bug bit again. Sara's doll cradle needed a new matress and I decided that if I couldn't sew something acceptable to a three-year-old then I shouldn't sew anything at all. And so I did. And she loved it.

Stoked by this apparent turning of the tide, I dared to imagine other small projects: Blankets for her baby dolls. Maybe a pillow for the cradle. Maybe...

A tote bag.

And then we took this wonderful trip to the library, and I knew it would happen. Because my kid? She had to have a book bag. A cute one, too.

So I scoured the internets for the perfect (read: simple) pattern, something cute and not too boring but one that wouldn't cast me into a pit of despair like the demon jumper before it. Two weeks later, I found it: The Pink October.

God bless Dianne Hadaway and her site for sharing this pattern -- along with simple, illustrated instructions (and a tutorial on boxed corners!) -- with the masses. After I read through the directions three times, stepped away for a couple of days, read them again, slept on it, had a strong cup of coffee, and read them again, I felt ready.**

Eight hours later?

Sara's library tote. With a pocket! And a coordinating fabric to line it! I lined something! And just to prove that it all was, indeed, meant to be, the child loves it. LOVES. IT. And it fits her books perfectly -- just big enough that it holds her Stella and Clifford books while still being manageable when full.

Ah, sewing machine. I am still not your match. You have settings I can only dream of using and your bobbin still vexes me. But I'm not through with you yet.

I'll be back.

Yes, I know the Dora undershirt is ridiculously small. I'll let you take it up with her next time she insists on wearing it.

*OK technically, Carmel. Which is counter-intuitive but a fact nonetheless.

**This should in no way imply that Dianne's instructions were inadequate, incomplete or poorly written; instead this should absolutely imply that the reader of said instructions (me) was incompetent.

New love

A rainy Saturday with a busy three-year-old is always a crap shoot.

But!

Ours has, so far at least, turned out to be a pretty good one -- thanks in no small part to our (newly renewed) effort to get by on the cheap.

Yes, I sense a new series coming:  Indy On the Cheap

As for my new love?  The new (grossly over-budget, chronically delayed, much maligned) Central Library.  I had never been before today, and I must say I'm sorry I waited so long.  So many possibilities -- I can't wait!  If you are one of the six people left in Central Indiana who hasn't been yet, you should go.  Soon.

Now, off for some fresh-baked cookies & then a snore with the Bear.  More adventures to follow....  puddle jumping will likely be on the agenda.

Happy Rainy Saturday!

Puddle jumpers

In a twist that surprises even me, I have come to realize that the thing I love doing more than anything in the world is taking Sara on a walk in search of puddles. Because really, what is better than a three-year-old in rain gear -- pink & purple kitty-cat rubber boots, purple & pink butterfly slicker -- bobbling down the way looking for the perfect splashing opportunity?

Nothing. Nothing is better.

The surprise on her face and the belly laugh that follows when she jumps into a particularly deep & muddy puddle... nothing is better.

The smell of the honeysuckle that hangs heavy in the humidity and the way she wrinkles her nose when she smells the flowers... nothing is better. Nothing.

The time we spend together, talking about nothing and everything while she connects the dots from one little pool to the next... Right. There is simply nothing better.

Thank you, God, for rain and honeysuckle and pink & purple kitty cat boots, and thank you for giving me this girl who is teaching me about all the best things in life, one puddle at a time.

My new goal

Here is my newest goal/aspiration/fantasy:

That the number of undocumented workers rustling around my property cannot be used as a direct measure for my overall happiness.

I'm just saying.

Bummer (but I can't help it)

Michael J. Fox: Adventures of an Incurable Optimist - Michael J. Fox
courtesy ABC


I watched a broadcast last week done by Michael J. Fox that looked at the traits of optimists. Fox considers himself to be a hopeless optimist, and given how he is living his life despite what he is up against, I would have to agree.

It was an interesting and hopeful hour, as you would expect. Fox looked at optimists from NYC to Chicago to Bhutan, featruing dairy farmers and actors and baseball fans and some guy handing out free newspapers to New Yorkers. He listened to their stories and perspectives and then visited with researchers who are trying to determine whether optimism is a choice or a product of genetics.

They seem to lean toward genetics. Which is a bummer, because I tend toward pessimism. (Figures.)

The most interesting thing for me, though, was learning that optimists and pessimists tend to benefit from stimuli that feed their disposition -- in other words, an optimist will perform better if bolstered by positive input prior to a task; the pessimist will perform better if fed negative input prior to a task. The reasoning? Evidently pessimists look for problems not just to seek out the negative, but to prepare solutions to those problems.

Which explains why I can look at any given room at any given time and determine eight different ways my kid can kill herself. OK maybe not kill herself -- but at least do permanent damage. (You think I'm kidding? Think again.)

Anyway, I am a little bummed that I seem to be stuck with a pessimistic outlook on life but it's good to know that my brain is always looking for a way around the roadblocks. Of course now I want to read all of Fox's books, but I don't know how I'll begin to do that given all the other stuff I need to work on. Hmmm. I guess I'll just have to find a way...

Not funny ha-ha

Bodies are funny.

I was looking at the portrait work on a photographer's website today and was suddenly struck by how very odd the human body really is.

It is hard and angled
and
soft and round.

It is soft and smooth
and
stubbly.

It is flabby
and
strong.

It is oily
and
wet
and
dry
and
hairy.

It is always changing.

It is never good enough.

It is the best I've got -- at least in this moment.

Bodies are odd: gangly, bendy, wiggly, bumpy
and
mysterious: autonomic, reflexive, cyclic
yet
beautiful: in the eye of the beholder.

My body limits me
and
enables me.

It allows me to see - hear - smell - taste - feel
the world
and then
remember it.

It gives me life
and
someday will take it away.

No two are alike
and yet
I have just described my body
and
yours.

I hate my body
and
I love it for giving me a child.

Bodies are funny.
Not funny ha-ha
but
curious
compelling
puzzling.

An amazing mystery.

Perhaps I should take better care of it
and
learn to love it after all.

Thinking

I've been thinking about blogging quite a bit lately. Haven't had much to say, I guess.

Here's what else I've been thinking about:

Kitchen tile
Bathroom tile
Range hoods
Kitchen cabinets
(Are you detecting a theme?)

What I'm good at
Cooking
Writing
Day dreaming
Not much else

Yoga

Sleep
Never enough sleep

My friends
Elaine
Amy
Bill
Mollie
Tricia
Angie
Megan
You (Yes. You.)

Business time
Too tired
(Never enough sleep)

Sara
Keeping her alive
Keeping her happy
Sometimes, mutually exclusive endeavors

Moving
More space
Our own stuff
Lots of windows
A patio
Flowers
Vegetables

Vacationing
Michigan
Maine
Outer Banks
Oregon
Disney (Because... right. It's Disney.)

Breathing

My broken Tab key
(Sara)
(Keeping her alive)

Dreaming big dreams
Gardening
Photography
Friends
Coffee
Rest
Home
Crafting
Cooking
Mothering
Playing

Mom
Dad
(Always)

You
Most definitely, you
I miss you
(Yes. You.)

Are you real sleepy?

If you are married and tired, you have to see this. Don't ask me how I came upon it. Just watch it.

Happy Easter!

Ours was an exhausting but lovely day. Hoping yours was, too!

The drought is over

Have published several updates to the house blog.

Enjoy!
Amy

Here's what I want to know

Why is it that, at the age of 38 -- having gone through 12 years of public education, 4 years of college, and 2 years of graduate school; been married; changed jobs (a few times); had a baby; lost both parents; lost weight; gained weight; moved (five times); served as a trustee; encountered fertility problems; and undertaken the demolition and renovation of my home -- why is it that after all of this, my face still breaks out?!

I mean come on! I always thought clear skin was a right of passage. Apparently I stand corrected.

Can't mother nature throw a girl a bone?

The tomboy's daughter

First, an apology of sorts:  My mother was a wonderful woman and there are so many ways in which I was more like her and less like me.  She was patient and thoughtful in ways that I am not.  She was athletic and coordinated.  She was content to be our foundation and never seemed to require the limelight.  She fiercely loved her family.  All of these qualities will always be what I remember and treasure most about her.

So when my sister reads this (and I know she will) she should just put a sock in it, because I'm not about to say anything mean about Mom.

But here's the deal:  Mom was a tomboy.  She played hockey and softball with the neighborhood boys and she was good -- better than most of them, in fact.  She played semi-pro softball when she was a teenager.  Idolize movie stars?  Nope.  Mom went after autographs of the hockey players that were known to board at her house when she was a kid.  And after she married Dad it became quite clear who the more talented athlete was; they had to settle on bowling as an activity they would enjoy together because losing to Mom at every other kind of sport was just a little too much for Dad's pride.  

This was her idea of makeup, for all of my 36 years with her:  frosted blue eyeshadow and strawberry-red lipstick.  Penciled on eyebrows.  Hot pink blush.  Halston cologne.  Of course this was only for going out -- no need to "put her face on," as she put it, for working around the house.

So I didn't grow up in a home where Mom trained me up on the secrets of choosing the right lip color or finding a dress that was flattering.  Her idea of the ideal haircut was "short."  That's all, just "short."  Manicures?  No.  Brow-shaping?  HA!  Stylish handbags or seasonal wardrobes?

Um, no.  No, no, no.

Consequently I am a girly-girl flunkie.  I guess I don't mind this so much, but it would be nice to be able to pull off something more than a pink sweater and mascara and feel like I'm dressed to the nines.  In fact the concept of being "pretty" is really more than I can bear.  There are lots of reasons for this, but even if I lost all the weight I need to lose and developed a sudden tolerance for panty hose and stiletto heels, I'm fairly certain that at the end of the day I'd still struggle with the idea of being "pretty."  Mostly because I just wouldn't have any idea where to start.  I would always feel like a poseur.

I read other womens' blogs, and they all seem to exude...  I don't know.  Femininity, I suppose.  They seem to have a handle on the finer points of being a woman, knowing just the right shade to stain their lips, having perfectly rosy cheeks, pairing a full, flirty skirt with the cutest strappy sandals, sporting just enough bangles to pull their look together without going too far, keeping their husbands under some sort of estrogen-induced spell.

I can't imagine such things.  Even writing about them with me in mind makes me cringe.

And so now I'm the Mama.  With a little girl who watches my every move and hears my every word, but more importantly somehow knows my truths without me even speaking them.  It worries me that my own misconceptions or distorted notions about beauty and being a woman are being absorbed by that amazing, wonderful little sponge without my realizing it.

I do not believe I am pretty; I do believe she is beautiful.  I do not believe I'm worth the effort of figuring it out; I do believe she is worth every effort.  I do not believe that I can pull off femininity, whatever that is; I do believe she is the very essence of it.

There is no time now to try and work through this, to figure it out so I don't leave her as confused as I am.  The time for me to teach her is here and now.  And I haven't the first clue how to do it.

Mothering.  It really should come with an instruction manual.  Or at least a subscription to Vogue.

Educate me

I don't claim to be a mental giant when it comes to business (or anything else, for that matter).

But I'm perplexed. How is it that the federal government (i.e. the Obama administration) is able to decide who will/will not be the CEO of a large US corporation? I don't want to extrapolate this to the extreme, but if they can do that, then can they also decide who will be the manager of the speech therapy deparment at IU/Riley Hospitals? And if they can't -- why not?

And if they can? Oh. My. God.

What's the distinction? If it's about money -- well, I'm sure that my employer receives plenty of government funds. If it's about sending a message to the public -- well, healthcare is an easy target, too.

By the by, I don't really have an opinion one way or another about Rick Wagoner or his handling of GM and I'm just as sick of highly-paid executives begging for money to keep their poorly-operated business afloat as the next guy. But still... I'm concerned about the fine line between the government "bailing out" a company and the governement "running" that company. Where does it stop, exactly?

Greetings from the Sheraton

Blogging today from the lobby of the Sheraton at Keystone at the Crossing, where I am attending the Indiana Speech-Language-Hearing Association's annual convention.

Yes -- it is just as exciting as it sounds.

So far have only attended one session, presented by my boss.  Seemed a good idea to go.  He mentioned me a couple of times during the session which was a little odd.  I kept thinking that if I was someone else in the audience I would wonder who this Amy chick is and think that she wasn't such a big deal even though she probably does.

This little revelation says a lot about me, I think.  None of it good.

Anywho, I'm not all that excited about the presenters/sessions this year but I need the continuing ed so here I sit.  I have run into several old friends & colleagues, which is a lot of fun and most of the reason I come (continuing ed aside).

Meh.  Would rather be home with Sara.

Itchy

Just had a little spontaneous minor surgery. Love that.

I have had this lump/bump on the top of my head for awhile now, but for a long time it was just sort of a curiousity -- it didn't really bother me so I forgot it was there. But over the last few weeks it's been bugging me a lot and started getting bigger. So, I decided to have it checked out.

Because have I ever mentioned that both of my parents died of cancer, and I have a three year old to raise? Yes? Just checking.

Rob informs me this AM that he'd like to come with me because he's been worried about it too. Huh. Bonus points to him for not letting on that he's worried, cause, you know... then I would have worried. (HA!)

Anyway, she looks at it & says blah blah blah, it's probably benign, blah blah blah, we can remove it if you want, blah blah blah, do you want to do it now? And next thing you know she's doing minor surgery on my head.

I mean I know it's nothing but it's still kind of fun to say that I had spontaneous minor surgery on my head.

That was about 90 minutes ago and now that thing itches like a mother. (What does that mean, anyway -- "like a mother?") I have a big iodine stain, a clump of hard, crunchy hair and a nasty yellowish spot about the size of a nickel in the middle of my head, which I am more or less hiding by this new giant headband I got at Kohl's on Sunday. Talk about your fortuitous purchases. But it was Kohls, and everything is always on sale at Kohls. Plus Sara said she wants to "share" it with me. Uh-huh.

Oh -- and did I mention IT ITCHES?

March 23: The day the camel's back broke

Today is my birthday.  I am old enough now that birthdays aren't really something I care too much about.  This is not to say that I don't appreciate being remembered, as I surely do; I just don't need to feel like queen for the day.

So, the highlight of my day thus far has been a Fiber One bar that I had as a late morning snack.  Seriously.  It was good.

More importantly, today is the day that I officially became psychologically (if not bureaucratically) divorced from my job.

Why?

Because today, I forgot to pick up my child from school.

It makes me sick.  Not because she was left stranded there (Rob, in an Elaine Brenner-like moment, just seemed to know that I was going to blow it and called me ten minutes before the end of school to confirm that I had indeed dropped the ball).   But because my stupid, aggravating, meaningless job somehow trumped my daughter today.  How can that possibly be?

It's ironic in a way:  I have recently been thinking about the working mom's dilemma, how we seem to think (or perhaps have been tricked into believing) that we can have it all.  It's not true, I don't care who says otherwise.  Oh sure, we can do it all -- poorly.  We can work and keep house and cook and clean and sort mail and do laundry and make sure our kids shoes fit (more or less) and go to the teacher conferences and return phone calls and e-mails and buy birthday presents and arrange for a co-worker's baby shower have a toothbrush by the sink for our kid every night.  But we can't do it all 100% of the time, and we can't do any of it really really well.  We can't find time to spend time with our husbands enough, or see our friends enough, or do something we enjoy enough, or sleep enough, or plan enough, or relax enough, or attend work functions enough, or play with our kids enough.

We can't.  Don't let anyone tell you any different.

So today was the last straw.  I am done trying to serve two masters.  I will give face time to one, but it can't have the rest of me; it's not worth it.  I just don't care about my career -- never have, never will.  It's a paycheck.

The bottom line is this:  I can never, ever let something as trivial as a job distract me from my child again.  And I don't think that's unreasonable.

The low-down on our down-lows

Casey over at Moosh in Indy is much braver than I will ever be. Younger and snappier and cuter, too (even if she does have chubby knees).

She'll tell you all about how it sucks to have PCOS over at her blog, if you're interested. I'm not going to unload my story, but I will say that this badass of the reproductive world has evidently decided to play dirty with me.

Prick.

Here's something this former academic geek just realized a couple of days ago:
The only test I've ever failed? The pregnancy test. It's strictly pass/fail, and no amount of homework can prepare you for it.

It bites, man.

Addendum:  My apologies to Casey for the salty language.  I guess you can say that she is classier than me, too.

Help save my neighborhood firehouse

You can go here to read my thoughts on the matter.

Or you can just go here and sign a petition to try & help save it*.

Please, and thank you!


*Let me know if you do -- leave me a note in the comments!

Borrowed blog

Posted this today over at 6249:

I think it would be safe to say that my mom hated her kitchen.

I mean really, really hated it. It wasn't very big and was in need of cleaning updating repair demolition renovation for years. Now that Rob and I are going through that process I think I understand (no no, I KNOW I understand) why Dad just never mustered up the strength to do it. There were big structural problems; a few new cabinets and shiny new linoleum would not have sufficed.

So, she lived with it: no ceiling, 45-year-old ugly flooring with the spots worn off from use, about 10 square feet of counter space, no room to move let alone work. Not that Mom was what you would have called a cooking enthusiast; no, she was more a reluctant meal provider. And provide she did, for nearly fifty years. Although her own mother had pretty mad cooking skills, my mom probably picked up most of her own recipes by meeting my dad's culinary requests: farm food. Fry it, boil it, cook it til it's done. If it starts green make sure it doesn't end that way. Bacon grease is the third essential seasoning. And if it dirties more than two pans? Well, it wouldn't dirty more than two pans, not if Mom had anything to do with it.

The kitchen though, despite its sad lot in life, was still the hub of the home. We probably spent as much time sitting in there, on those uncomfortable wooden chairs in various states of reliability, as we did in the living room. Maybe even more. Dad, having grown up spending a good deal of his childhood with his Depression-surviving grandparents, was rather reluctant to keep the heater set above 65 no matter how cold it got outside. Mom's solution? Head into the kitchen, turn on the oven & then prop it open for a few hours. I remember finding her in there one day with the gas burners on the stovetop going, too.

Yes, the house was notoriously cold.

But not the kitchen. It was also never very organized. Or tidy. Or clean, for that matter. But it never lacked for food or drink - or pens or rubber bands or screwdrivers or envelopes or gadgets or sunglasses or reading glasses or batteries or matches or just about anything else you could think of. The kitchen was indeed Mom's command center.

And so I had mixed emotions when the day came to gut it. A loved and hated space, but full of memories. When my mother-in-law offered to empty it for me I felt obliged to argue with her but secretly (or not so secretly) was relieved, because not only was this a big project, it was a big deal. When I went in there a few days later, so appreciative that I had somehow managed to escape the job, I opened up the cabinets -- the ones filled with her dishes and address books and old crocks that hadn't been used for decades -- and found nothing.

Nothing except the notes Mom left behind, scribbled on the backs of her cabinet doors: An eye chart she had to use when I was a kid. The phone number for our neighborhood paper boy -- from 1980. A list of her kids' phone numbers. A sticker with the code for a combination lock, long gone. The number for L.S. Ayres. Random names and numbers of people I never knew.

All the ephemera of her life, easily retrieved behind those doors.

And the ephemera, I couldn't part with.

So Rob, being Rob, offered to save the doors for me. Every last one. Those old, ugly doors so in need of... I don't even know what. But I'll figure it out. They're going to go up into my attic, where I'll put them back into use. Probably to start collecting my own notes and messages, my own ephemera.

Our project has moved along now, so much so that nothing remains of my mom's kitchen. Even the walls have been stripped and moved, and it takes a good bit of imagination and thinking on my part to remember where things used to be. Mom, I'm sure, would have loved it -- though more for its elevated role as hub of the home rather than its improved function for meal preparation.

No, I won't miss that kitchen. But I sure do miss the cook.

You should go there

This is my favorite new site. It's like a picture book. Yes, yes -- I know there are words. But I like just scrolling through and looking at all the beautiful things.

Love!

Sara at the farm

Hop on over to Sara's site for some pictures from this weekend.

My new kitchen?

Also huge. Kinda freaking me out huge.

Never mind what you've heard

They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. I think in this case it's the t-shirt.

While Rob was out in Pennsylvania a few weeks ago, the big snow we got melted and our alley was chockablock with mud puddles just ready for the jumping. Even this mess-avoiding Mama couldn't deny her child the pleasure of a romp through the mud.

True to form, the adventure started before we even left the house. That's when I discovered this wonderful work of art on my sister's kitchen wall. She could not have been prouder. (Relax, it's chalk.)



Here she is demonstrating her best mud-flinging moves. It took some perfecting, let me tell you.


And here she stands in all her glory. There is nothing* I don't love about this picture, and I think it might be the closest thing to the real Sara I've ever seen in a photo: hand-me-down boots two sizes too big and a Tinkerbell ringer shirt with a not-even-close-to-matching sweater she had to wear because it came from her Aunt Trish; messy hair totally blinged out with who knows how many pretties; and a cheap but highly prized white plastic cross (proclaiming "Jesus [hearts] Me" in gold letters, or course) that she picked up in Sunday school at a church we were visiting.

This is, without a doubt, every bit my kid. And I love her so much it's crazy.



*Nothing that a little better camera work on her mother's part couldn't fix... darn you, soft focus!

Attic

There's finally an attic.  It's huge.  When the house is done I'm pretty sure my family will only see me if they make there way up there.

Starting to get anxious about the costs of finishing everything.  We are doing the buying/installation of a lot of the finishes.  Not only trim & paint & doorknobs (the doorknobs!  you can't imagine how many doorknobs are in your house) but small things like, oh... the kitchen.  So, in thinking about my attic I've resolved to do it all (caveats to follow) by either reusing or repurposing things we already have or by using thrifted items.  Lord knows we have enough random pieces of furniture and tchotchke already up there that I can make a good dent without much of an investment besides my time and a little elbow grease.  

There might have to be a couple of exceptions, like a good work table or two and a couple of ergonomic chairs as well.  But other than that, I have no real excuse for laying out a lot of money on this space.  Besides, I kind of like the challenge and will have some fun doing it.  And it seems fitting, doesn't it?  To fill my attic back up with castoffs -- only this time, with a new life!