Snapshots from 2011: A Year In Review

2011 was a year of change for our family (I say this like I think that some years should be completely static). But there were some very major life-changes this past year. So let me start with the obvious (and most awesome).



Our precious Milo was born on February 9, 2011.





(P.S. the transition from 1 to 2 is as hard as everyone said it would be. I'm not sure why I didn't believe them). :)




In May, my parents and grandmother (a.k.a. "Memama" and "P-pop") moved back to Virginia after living in Michigan for three years. To say that we're glad to have them living close to us again is an understatement. My dad and his birthday buddy share a special little bond.










In June, our Ella-bug turned two.








Right on the heels of her second birthday, we packed up our little house and moved back to the city. (Disclaimer: I do not recommend moving with young children).



(And I finally got to do a nursery for Milo) :)






Let's see....there was an earthquake in August. (Took us a long time to pick up the pieces).






Followed by a hurricane. How we never lost our power is still a mystery.






And a beach trip that was cut short when we realized that vacations with two little kid aren't really vacations. (But hey, we tried).






In October, we took Ella to see Yo Gabba Gabba Live. It's true that we had way more fun than she did.




Then, we discovered that the more kids you have, the quicker the holidays go by. Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas seem like a blur now. But I can't believe how much more fun it is to celebrate times like those with your kids. And all this time, I thought my parents were the ones missing out...




I can't help but be grateful when I look back on this past year and how our family has grown- in all senses of the word. We have much to celebrate today as we say goodbye to a truly pivotal and poignant year in our lives. :)

Santa WTF

Who doesn't thoroughly enjoy a bad Santa pic? I confess that I was a bit disappointed this year that Milo actually didn't cry when he was placed on Santa's lap (and Ella flat out refused to go near him). I was really hoping for another screaming Santa pic. Thankfully, I was able to enjoy a good laugh at others expense with some of these treasures, so I thought I would post a few. Enjoy!










"He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake...."









Look like somebody already knew how to make the yuletide gay.










"Shhh....I hid the under-eye concealer...."












{whispers} "He's an angry elf."












If anything every qualified for a big, fat W.T.F- this is it, folks.












Don't everyone get too excited now...















Angela suspected he wasn't the REAL Santa Claus, but she just couldn't put her finger on why..."














Santa, the Joker and Jon from Jon and Kate +8 got together and made a kid. Ta-Da!

"Run, Run Rudolph"

My Papaw was a man of few words and was known, among many things, for his candidness and dry wit. I remember that every year on Christmas morning, after the final present was opened and we found ourselves once again sitting in the remnant of boxes, toys, wrapping paper, mounds of clothes and half-empty mugs of egg-nog and coffee, he would reply with the most stoic of faces, "well, it's all over for another year."

And that was that.

We all laughed and rolled our eyes, but I always cringed just a bit. He was right. All of that build up, all of that anticipation... and then it was over within minutes. Sometimes I feel that Christmas morning is a bit like the last day of vacation. You try to enjoy it, but always with the looming heaviness that you have to return to work and "real life" the next day. Interestingly enough, the New York Times published an article some time ago about how vacations affect your happiness but I found myself reading it and thinking how one could easily replace the word "vacation" with the word "Christmas." The study was published in the journal Applied Research in Quality of Life, and was conducted to show that the largest increase in a person's level of happiness was directly related to simply planning a vacation or trip. According to research, the anticipation alone boosted happiness for upwards of eight weeks. Ironically, almost all people- regardless of how relaxing the vacation was- reported going back to baseline levels of happiness nearly right away after returning from vacation. And those that were only "somewhat relaxed" on their vacation reported the same levels of happiness of those that didn't even go on vacation that year.

So, if what this article is claiming is true and could be applied to any event, then 1) it would seem that the happiest time for all of us in the midst of the holiday season is actually right now. Today. This week. Maybe even last week. And 2) we get out of Christmas what we put into it. (That seems like a very cliche thing to say, but it couldn't be more true). As I was wrapping gifts the other night and the smell of my great-great grandmother's applesauce cake baking in the oven permeated the house, I realized that this (the preparation, the traditions that we're creating around our family and faith) is Christmas to me. The problem is that I often don't slow down enough to realize that Christmas isn't just a day I'm counting down to, not even as it pertains to the Christian faith. I think it's actually bigger than that. It's meant to encompass a spirit, a perspective, even a rhythm of life. Yet for so many of us- especially those of us blessed with type A personalities {casually whistles and glances away}, this time of year often becomes the complete antithesis of what we hope for it it to be. We practically give ourselves ulcers trying to beat the clock, get the last of the Christmas cards mailed in time, schedule family get-togethers, clean, bake, decorate, wrap, spend and of course, second-guess that gift we bought for such-and-such.

This, my friends, is what December is usually like for me. Each year, I vow to approach it differently. And each year, I conveniently forget how exhausted I was the Christmas before. I miss the forest for the trees. I miss Christmas because I'm too busy trying to make Christmas.

I hope that makes sense. It may not. I'm currently running on 5 hours of sleep because I was up late last night finishing Christmas cards, wrapping gifts and more or less acting like I wasn't going to be awakened at the butt-crack of dawn by either my 2 1/2 year-old or 10 month-old. (Guilty as charged). ;-) So for all of my friends and family and for anyone else who happens to stumble upon this post, I wish for you peace and joy and perhaps a little bit of relief in knowing that Christmas cannot be manufactured or manipulated, nor can it be created or coerced. It simply IS.

You can let yourself off the hook now (and I'm going to do my best to follow my own advice). ;-)

Grace and Peace to you, and Merry Christmas! :)

Oh Christmas Tree

I've talked about the crappy Christmas puff painting "art" that I did for my parents (sadly, when I was old enough to know better). They kept it. They had it laminated. And every year, it claimed a spot right in the middle of my parents' refrigerator. *cringes*

Oh the embarrassment. Why, I wondered, was there the need to hang on to drawings of disfigured people and ambiguous objects? And they simply replied, "One day you'll understand, when you have kids of your own."

(Pshh. Yeah, right. )

But then, Ella and I decided to decorate ornaments yesterday.




OH. Now I get it.


Thus, I give you my most cherished ornament on our tree this year. :)

Stealing Christmas

I have to admit, I thought that I was above being scammed. I hated to hear stories of the elderly or disabled having money taken right out of their pockets but even so, I usually assumed it was a due to an unfortunate combination of "assholery" (it's my new word) on the part of the scammer and naivete on the part of the victim.

A Macbook Pro was supposed to arrive at our house yesterday at 1 pm. But it didn't. It never will, actually. And only after we did more extensive research did we realize- too little, too late- that we had been scammed. Awesome. All of the credentials had checked out. We had gone to all the various (and completely legitimate) sites and google-searched names. Nothing looked remotely suspicious. Jake wired the money through western union to a third party parcel service that told us they would then send us the laptop once they received the money. When the confirmation email didn't come yesterday morning, Jake got a bad feeling- a feeling he said he had the day before as well, but had just chalked up to a case of "buyer's remorse." Something just wasn't adding up right, but we both wanted to believe that this person was good on their word. {Hey! *looks up* someone wrote the word "gullible" in the sky!. . .} (sigh)

First, there's that horrible, sinking feeling when you realize someone made a fool out of you. Then a split second after that, a burning desire to get even, followed at last by the realization that doing so would only be stooping to their level. Of course, we reported it, but have zero expectations that this person will be caught. What's done is done. So, it seemed like a good alternative to instead, kick ourselves over and over again. Thankfully, we were able to absorb the loss, but there were other people that had been scammed by this person. Would any of them have to tell their kids that there would be no Christmas presents this year because they lost their money to some asshole without a conscience? I struggled with whether or not to accept that the unfortunate message this season is one that claims people simply can't be trusted, or that people aren't good. Who wants to walk around with that chip on their shoulder during Christmas?

This, unfortunately, has been just another thing to add to a list of some other rather disappointing events this week. No- Jake and I were not enrolled in the jelly of the month club, but let's just say that there were certain things that I had built up in my mind, counted too much on, maybe hoped a little too hard for. (Who, me?!?) Of course, I'm not saying that hope doesn't have a place and purpose in our every day lives because it absolutely does. But I often find it's a tough balancing act for me to maintain a sense of hope without a posture of entitlement. I want to think that the things I hope for should come about-and particularly, the way that I want them to- because of x, y, and z.

But life just doesn't work that way. Here I am, 29 years old, and apparently still scamming myself into believing that life should go the way I want it to based on a cause-effect equation. Sure, some things do work out that way. But many things don't. Technically, Jake and I should have gotten our laptop because we gave that person our money, but we didn't.

By the end of this week, the question gradually evolved from "why did this happen?" to "why did it affect me like this?" Of course, the first question was much easier to answer because I could direct my frustration to other people and other circumstances. It was their problem, not mine. But the second question was much more difficult to answer because it had everything to do with me and the simple fact that I've been putting too much of my hope in the wrong kinds of things- into life events, things, money, even into my relationships. In the end, not one of those things can withstand the pressure that I put onto them to be my happiness, joy, or quick-fix. So if, at the end of a week filled with certain disappointments, I'm still sulking and seething over what should have been, well then, I've lost more than just money. I've lost my sense of joy and contentment. And that was something that I handed over willingly- like I believed I didn't have a choice.

But I did.

So maybe this is another lesson in the "nothing in life is guaranteed" category. I often say this like I truly believe it, but too many times, I find myself in situations that causes me to act the complete opposite. So today, as I type on my "old" laptop, I'm grateful that the things in my life that have fallen through were just things. We have our health, we have each other, and we have infinitely more than we deserve to have- and for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Confusing Complacency with Contentment

I will never forget my theory and analysis professor at VCU. She was a feisty but lovable woman and she never sugar-coated anything. One particular morning when she was handing back graded assignments, she came around to me and I immediately saw the B- in the upper right-hand corner. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Then I flipped the paper over and there it was, scrawled in fierce, barely legible red ink:

Kristin, you are riding the coattails of your own talent and doing just enough to get by. I'm not impressed.


Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. Like a child getting the "I'm so disappointed in you" talk by their parents, at that precise moment, I wished she would have just gone ahead and given me an F. Not only had I not given it my best, I had been called out for it. I remember that I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but it stuck with me. She wasn't someone who knew me particularly well, yet if it was that painfully obvious to her that I wasn't truly giving myself over to something, I wondered what the other people in my life who did know me, see?

Nearly seven years later, I still think about that remark. I've often wondered why it stuck with me (other than the simple fact that we always tend to replay the negatives more than the positives). It was just an assignment- certainly not even a pivotal one at that. I think it carried so much weight, though, because it spoke to something much deeper in me than just a temporary moment of slacking off. Instead, I had developed a posture of complacency.

The problem is that in our culture, we confuse complacency with contentment. Contentment is defined as "enjoyment of whatever may be desired" or simply having enough. Complacency, on the other hand, is defined as "being contented" but "to a fault."

Take a balloon, for example. A balloon can be blown up, inflated, stretched. But it has limits. If those limits are blatantly disregarded, there is usually a loud pop. (In our world, we might call this breakdown). Contentment could be illustrated as a fully-inflated balloon- reaching its full potential, but not exceeding it. Complacency, then, is a balloon that thinks it's been blown up to it's full size when in fact, it hasn't even been stretched at all. It's not even aware that it could be so much more, but it's content to stay the way it is because as we all know, stretching can hurt. And there is always a risk that maybe you could stretch too much and then there might be irreparable damage. Or failure. Complacency likes to sit on the sidelines because, well, it's just safer that way.

If you've ever found yourself saying things like, "What does it REALLY matter?" or "it's not worth it," or "It's okay because no one else is doing it either," I hate to break it to you, but you're settling. And I only know this because I've said it far too much in my life. The reason my professor's words stung so many years ago is because she hit on a truth about myself that I didn't want to acknowledge- a truth that couldn't simply be fixed by turning back around and handing in an A + worthy project. It would involve pushing into something bigger than myself, something uncomfortable and unknown. It would mean changing my entire way of thinking.

So I did. I changed my perspective and everything has been awesome since then.

What, you don't believe me? Good. Because that's not how it works. (I wish). Things have been awesome, but they've also been downright hell-ish at times, too.

There is no one-time quick fix for complacency. And I wish I could say that it is (and was) only relegated to academia, but it extends far beyond into my marriage, my parenting decisions, my music, teaching, and writing. For some odd reason, I operated under the assumption that I would grow up, get married and become a mommy, and when I did, I would magically morph into someone who was no longer prone to complacency. But if anything, it's an even tougher battle now than it was when I was 21, especially since I have so much more on my plate than I did then. Instead, I got married, became a mommy and now I'm having to grow up. There are simply too many things that keep me busy, numb, and ultimately chasing my own tail and unfortunately, it's these things often get more of my attention than the things that really matter.

I can honestly say that most days, I just want to be comfortable. So much so, that I've gotten quite good at letting myself off the hook from everything from working out to writing...to letting the kids watch too much TV...to driving by the homeless guy at the nearby intersection and pretending not to notice. The truth that I act like belongs to everyone else but me is very simple, yet inescapable: I'm not called to be comfortable. Lots of times, this goes against everything I act upon in my day-to-day life. We're all creatures of comfort, to some extent or the other. But we're supposed to take risks. We're made to face fears and confrontations (whether good or bad) and come out better for them. We're built to love others more than ourselves. If we're lucky, we might embrace that early enough in our lives to act on it.

It's easy for me to think that my story is all about being a wife and a mommy and while I know that's undeniably a huge and very important piece to the puzzle, there's more. Lately, I've been wondering how much my tunnel vision has affected my way of thinking. What does it look like to live into a bigger story? What are you giving yourself to (for better or perhaps, for worse) this holiday season?

You Say Placenta, I Say "No Thank You."

I don't remember a lot about the first few minutes right after both Milo and Ella were born other than lying on the cold OR table shaking and trying not to throw up. But oddly enough, I do remember that my OB asked if I wanted to see the placenta.

Dude, did you not just hear me ask the anesthesiologist for more Zofran? Pretty sure I don't want to look at some slab of pulsating blood and tissue. But thanks for the offer, weirdo.

The thing is, it's probably not weird to some. The mere fact that he even asked must have meant that it wasn't such an outrageous request in his line of business. On the other end of the spectrum, I am of the "just show me the baby when he/she gets here" school. No, I don't want mirrors. No, I don't want to peek over the curtain as you slice open my abdominal wall. And I certainly don't want to see my placenta. I might get flamed for saying this, but I honestly thought I would view the birthing process differently after I had my own spawn. Bringing new life into the world in and of itself is a beautiful miracle. But witnessing the actual act of birth is not so much. There was fluid and poop and blood everywhere. The stench of rust and iron and other odors that I didn't want to try to identify was overpowering. If I weren't paralyzed from the waist down, I would have bolted out the door.

That's just me. I can't speak for the majority.

On the other hand, if you're an artist that is blessed with a strong stomach and a fascination for internal organs, I have GREAT news. You can now hand-stitch a placenta teddy bear for someone you love. Because who doesn't want to snuggle with crusty organ remnants? Watch out Build-A-Bear- there's some competition lurking.

I got intrigued about what other things people like to do with their after-births. I'm kinda sorry I started looking, but now it's too late and I don't want to be the only one sitting here with my mouth gaping open. So while I'm told that the teddy bear would make a great stocking stuffer, if it's not your bag, here are a few other options:

Make placenta art!!



Get a placenta facial!!



Plant a placenta tree!!





Want a late-night snack? Now you don't have to go to Wendy's to "eat great, even late." (Some people really swear by this as a mood regulator).




(I just threw up a little in my mouth).


The options are truly endless. Don't be afraid to experiment. Me? I'd just prefer to play with the actual children that were nourished by it. But you know, to each their own. ;-)

Killed Through Comparison: Chasing Shadows

My husbands old iPhone became a running joke in our house. For years, he had the iPhone 3G, what we now refer to as "the dinosaur." The thing took 10 seconds to bring up a webpage (you know, an eternity in Apple world) and he was constantly dropping calls and having texting issues. Due to several "mishaps" (I won't bore you with tales of my negligence here), I was able to upgrade to an iPhone 4 when it became available this past summer, but he continued to hold onto the dinosaur because "it worked well enough." (He has the patience of a saint, this man). So of course, I was all about my new iPhone 4- it was fast, it was bright, it was smart, it took fabulous pictures. But above all of that, it was the new phone. In my shallow pea-brain, I decided I was hip, so, like any loving wife would do, I shamelessly flaunted it in front of him. Look how fast it is, see how new it is? Isn't it awesome? Then, not even 4 months later, there was talk of an even newer iPhone and rumor had it this one would actually talk back to you. Wait, what? Talk about a buzz kill.

A month after that, a package addressed to my husband arrived on our front step and inside was a brand-spankin' new iPhone 4S. Suddenly, my phone didn't seem like all that. It wasn't the latest and greatest anymore. Checking the weather on my phone wasn't nearly as awesome as asking SIRI herself, not to mention the fact that my husband is now enjoying being the one to do the flaunting.

But this is exactly what good, strategic marketing does. It always stays one step ahead, luring you forward, telling you in small yet significant ways that you shouldn't be satisfied with what you already have, that you're not complete until you have XY and Z. The cryptic message brought to us by mass media eventually permeates to the core of who we are, until we are looking for approval and validation around every corner.

Do I look like I belong?

Am I wearing the right brands?

What if I mess up?

Am I good enough??



I do it without even realizing I'm doing it. I'll catch myself eyeing another woman, (especially another mom), another house, another blog- and before I know it, I've decided that I don't have it together like everyone else does. I need more, and I need better. My house needs more furniture and that room really needs a new rug. My writing could be better. My blog design could be more eye-catching. I don't have all organic products in my shopping cart. Why are her children sitting quietly in their stroller and mine are melting down? I should be cooking homemade dinners ever night. I wish I had her high cheekbones. On and on it goes until my head is spinning. A friend of mine sweetly commented the other day how calm and collected I seemed for having two young kids and that mommyhood "looked good on me." I'll admit that for a second, I felt validated. I had made the cut. But really, I felt something in between humbled and flabbergasted. I knew I couldn't let her think the same things about me that I probably project onto every other mom that I see. And while I would hope that there is at least a shred of truth to what she said- that part of my life's fulfillment here on this earth all along was to be Ella and Milo's mommy- I also know what many people didn't see. That I was barely keeping my head above water not more than a month ago and that it took me nearly seven months to admit that I was dealing with PPD.

I'm not alone in that struggle. According to a recent USA Today report, there's been a 400% increase in anti-depressant use since the 1980's and women are 2.5 times more likely to take them than men. In essence, 1 out of every 4 women is medicated. It's just a hunch, but I'd be willing to bet that the majority of those are moms, especially those of young children.

There is no denying that parenthood is the toughest job out there. The neurological responses to hormones and sleep deprivation alone can certainly create the perfect recipe for depression and anxiety. But is there more to it than chemicals? What about those self-imposed, unrealistic expectations we suddenly find ourselves buried beneath? What about the isolation? What about those false assumptions that everyone else is doing life better than we are? As women, are we essentially chasing shadows of something that doesn't even exist? One that's always two steps ahead of us, ever elusive, never quite within our reach? At the end of our pursuit, we turn the corner only to find that whatever (or whoever) it was that we were chasing wasn't nearly as big or as great as they had first appeared to be.

I've turned that corner more times than I can count. I'm a living, breathing example of a type A perfectionist. My best is often never good enough. For years, I thought this was one of my greatest attributes. In the right conditions, it's worked in my favor, but more often than not, it's led to numerous downfalls. That's the thing about chasing shadows- you can never catch them. Really, the best thing you can hope for is to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that's casting the shadow and realize that your perception of it and the reality of it are usually two entirely different things.

Small Word, Big Perspective

Have you ever realized how much power is taken out of something if you were to place the word "just" in front of it? Lately, I've been thinking about how much anxiety could be reduced in my life if I started implementing this one, simple word into my vocabulary more often. Most people who struggle with different forms of anxiety have trouble contextualizing certain situations. They tend to make bigger deals of things that don't necessarily need to be big deals.

This word sneaks it's way into our daily conversations probably several times a day without us realizing it. Phrases like, "It's just a little bump- you're okay." "It's just a cold." "It's just for another five minutes." It's just a thing. It has the ability to take the edge off of just about anything, almost instantly. (On the flip side, there are things in our universe that we will never be able to downplay and that, quite frankly, would be completely inappropriate to even attempt to. It will never be "just" cancer. "Just" a divorce. "Just" war. "Just" a job loss. They are devastating on so many levels and often leave us feeling powerless against them).

But what about those little things that suddenly seem bigger than they should be? In those cases, perhaps all we're missing is a little bit of perspective- and that is surely the one thing in our life that we always have control over to some extent. So instead, what if it was just an off day? What if it was just a bad meeting? What if it was just someone else's opinion? What if that meant that you didn't have to let those things define you after all?

I think this is particularly helpful with anxious situations. I've been putting this into practice a lot lately, asking "what if it was just throwing up?" And I'll be completely honest- It took me longer than I'd like to admit that maybe, just maybe, the world wouldn't end. Maybe life would go on, just as it always does. I think it took me so long to admit it because I knew that it would mean coming face to face with the fact that all of the effort I put into worrying and avoiding and obsessing was all for nothing.

Ouch.

Of course, I'm not claiming that this is a quick fix for any kind of circumstance. If something in your life is in need of becoming "just" something instead of the reason you're constantly reaching for your pepcid tablets or Xanax, it's ultimately going to be boil down to an overall posture- not simply a change in your vocabulary. Identifying those things that trigger stress/anxiety is often half of the battle.

Are there things in your life that demand more of your time and attention than you want them to? You have control over that. Redefining your perspective = redefining your reality.

A Plea: Please Help This Family Bury Their Son...

Oh how my heart is breaking tonight. I share this story because, in the midst of this "30 days of Thankfulness," I had the nerve to sit on my couch this morning and moan to a friend that both of my kids had colds and were up during the night. Whoa is me. DIdn't they just have colds a month ago? Because I'm pretty sure that means we should be done getting colds until next year.

Then I read this story. A little boy, born just a few months before Ella, diagnosed with acute lymphatic leukemia when he was only 4 months old. He spent most of his life attached to tubes and machines, undergoing a bone marrow transplant and fighting to see his third birthday. His little brother- born this past March- was, in fact, his bone marrow donor. They lost him a little bit at a time, slowly. He gave up his fight yesterday afternoon while his Momma held him.

Within minutes of reading it, I found myself standing at the foot of Ella's bed, watching her breathe in and out, then soaking in the warmth of her body as I scooped her up into my arms for just a few seconds. Afterward, I tiptoed into Milo's room and laid my hand gently on his back as I listened to his soft snoring and watched his red angel lips pucker while he dreamt. I was all at once filled with such intense gratitude for this life that I live and yet pissed beyond belief that any parent should have to hold their child while they breathe their last breath. And I'm scared. Because I know deep down inside that there's no reason this couldn't happen to me. For as much as life is precious, it seems it is that much more unpredictable.

These parents have just done something I hope and pray to God I never have to do. It is truly every parent's worst nightmare. And just when you think it couldn't get any tougher for this family, the dad found out he was fired from his job at the company he had worked at for several years because of the amount of time he had to take off of work to care for his family. Yes, you read that correctly. Fired. They have drained their savings account due to the cost of medical bills and are now in the position of having to come up with enough money to bury their own son.

Could I ask something of you? During this season of thankfulness, if your child(ren) are healthy and sleeping away up in their beds, maybe you would consider donating something to this family in their honor? (Paypal address is listed on Tyler's website). Every penny counts. If nothing else, just hug your loved ones close and cherish the moment you have with them right now- right this second. it's the only moment that really matters, and the only one we're ever guaranteed.

Rest in peace, Tyler. <3

Thirty Days of Thankful {Days 1 and 2}

This probably should be the "29 Days of Thankful" but it doesn't have that nice alliteration and I plan to make up for it. Yesterday- the first day of November, I was thankful for a day to run errands and go to the grocery store by myself. This was something that would not have made it on the thankful list 3 years ago, but now joins the ranks with other things like oh, a shower, or maybe an uninterrupted cup of hot coffee (you know, instead of having to stick it in the microwave two or three other times to re-heat it). I wouldn't trade these crazy, exhausted years for anything, but I'm sure my husband might like it if I smelled good, occasionally. ;)


TODAY, I'm thankful for family- both Jake's and mine here in the area. I sometimes wonder how we would make it without them and I'm also fairly certain that NONE of us would have survived the move this summer without their help. I was never able to live close to my grandparents when I was younger, so the fact that Ella and Milo are already so close (and not just in proximity) to my parents and Jake's parents is something I consider a huge blessing. Between their aunts, great aunts, cousins (and second cousins) and even great grandparents, my children are continually showered with love and affection by family members who want to have a part in helping to raise them, and I love this. I love it, not just because it means that we don't have to shoulder the heavy responsibilities of raising our kids on our own, but because I hope it means that we are helping to continue the legacy set forth by our parents, and that is exactly what is printed on the picture in our playroom: "Other things may change us, but we start and end with family."

Motherhood: Forever Redefining "Gross."

"Momma, Momma!! My nose came out! My nose came out!! You come and get it please?"

This is what I heard first thing this morning. Maybe I should have been alarmed, but I figured it was highly unlikely that I would walk into my daughter's room and see her sitting on her bed with part of her face missing. But I was curious to find out what exactly had caused her little imagination to take flight so I darted up the steps. And there she was, standing at her gate (aka her "cage door") with a long trail of snot coming out of her nose, across her lips and hanging off of her chin. "My nose came out! You wipe it please?" There was a point in time in my younger years when I would have come at her with approximately 16 tissues so as not to touch any of the sliminess. Especially if it was the greenish-yellow kind. But not anymore. I've left those ways behind.

I've decided that motherhood is so often this junction of cute and repulsive. Well, it's repulsive to everyone else but you. Being a mommy gives you a sort of immunity to gross things. (My personal opinion here, but I think the training for this begins with the ten long months of weird and sometimes disgusting things that happen to your body when you're pregnant). Before Ella and Milo came along, I did my fair share of babysitting and nanny-ing and it often took everything in me not to gag while changing diapers or wiping snotty noses. Back then, I had been known to use a third of a package of wipes for one solitary poopy diaper. Now that I understand how much it costs to buy wipes and diapers, I shudder. (I shouldn't have accepted payment from those parents...) Now, I've mastered the wipe triple fold. Took me a couple of months to get it down, but I'm pretty proud of myself for conserving. Then there are days like today, when I was changing one of Milo's infamous blowouts (poor kid only goes once every 2 days at best and has been that way for months). This is usually a 3-4 triple folded wipe job, AT LEAST. Mid wipe-down, I realize that there are no more wipes in the package and not only that, there are no more refills in the drawer (because of course, they're all downstairs in a Target bag waiting to be unpacked). *%#*!! There was still a considerable amount of poop to be wiped up- enough that I didn't want to have to pick him up and transport him downstairs or I knew we'd both need a bath. I looked around for something to improvise with....and landed on a pair of his socks. (Yes. I did what you think I did). But it had to be done. Not one of my finer moments, but at least they were somewhat soft and...they folded up well inside of the diaper...(sigh)

This got me thinking about some other classic gross-to-everyone else mom-isms? (Disclaimer: if you have actually frozen your placenta, then diced it up and blended it for smoothies and such- you're exempt. You win. Nothing I put here could ever possibly trump that. You're a friggin' rockstar).

--Your child starts choking/gagging/coughing at the dinner table and you instinctively cup your hands under their chin just in case they puke. Because moms apparently love to catch vomit in their hands (Probably because they'd rather most of it go there than all over the carpet). It truly must be an instinctive mom move- like flinging your arm across the passenger seat when you have to break suddenly in the car. I'm pretty freaked out by puke and even I can't explain why I do this every time either one of the kids gags.

--The scratch n sniff test: it's brown and it's near the bottom of your shirt. Is it poop, chocolate, apple butter? Only one way to find out. The crazy thing is, it shouldn't matter what it is because most people would throw it in the wash regardless. But as a mom, I've become accustomed to wearing food as a kind of accessory in my outfits. It's the norm these days. It's sad I know, but if I realized I was looking at the residue of a smooshed chocolate chip cookie, I would sadly probably move on about my errands. But I draw the line at poop. Hence why the scratch and sniff test is valid.

--You take bites of your kids' already partially eaten food. I used to watch parents do this in disgust. How could she put that partially chewed gummy worm in her mouth?? And now I know. Because they offered it to you- that's why. The first time your little girl or boy takes the initiative to share something special off of their plate with you- YOU WILL EAT IT. And you will love it. Because you're now a sap. (You might throw up a little in your mouth afterward, but you will learn to disguise that well too).

--You will carry a bowl of poop into the living room, set it on the floor for your husband and other family members to see, and have a dance party around it. At first, you might let yourself think you're doing this because you want to over-emphasize what a big deal this is to your 2 1/2 year old. But then you realize you're not really over-emphasizing it. You're being 100% genuine. You're actually more excited than a kid on Christmas morning. There is a small turd in the potty and you are considering taking a picture of it and posting it on facebook. HUGE deal.


There is obviously a lot more I could add to this (since the list seems to grow on a daily basis). But for now, I think this is all my stomach can handle writing about. ;-)

"How to Sleep Deprive Your Mommy" (reposted)

Since I have a few friends who have just become new mamas (and some that are new mamas again) I am reposting this because, well, it seems that babies everywhere are staging a coup through sleep deprivation. Grab another cup of coffee and enjoy!


"Dear Fellow Babies,

OK, here's my situation. My Mommy has had me for almost 3 months. The first few weeks were great--I cried, she picked me up and fed me, anytime, around the clock. Then something happened. Over the last few weeks, she has been trying to STTN (sleep through the night). At first, I thought it was just a phase, but it is only getting worse. I've talked to other babies, and it seems like its pretty common after Mommies have had us for around 5-6 months. Here's the thing: these Mommies don't really need to sleep. It's just a habit. Many of them have had some 30 years to sleep--they just don't need it anymore. So I am implementing a plan. I call it the Crybaby Shuffle.

It goes like this:

Night 1--cry every 3 hours until you get fed. I know, it's hard. It's hard to see your Mommy upset over your crying. Just keep reminding yourself, it's for her own good.

Night 2--cry every 2 hours until you get fed.

Night 3--every hour.

Most Mommies will start to respond more quickly after about 3 nights. Some Mommies are more alert, and may resist the change longer. These Mommies may stand in your doorway for hours, shhhh-ing. Don't give in. I cannot stress this enough: CONSISTENCY IS KEY!! If you let her STTN (sleep through the night), just once, she will expect it every night. I KNOW IT'S HARD! But she really does not need the sleep; she is just resisting the change. If you have an especially alert Mommy, you can stop crying for about 10 minutes, just long enough for her to go back to bed and start to fall asleep. Then cry again. It WILL eventually work. My Mommy once stayed awake for 10 hours straight, so I know she can do it.

The other night, I cried every hour. You just have to decide to stick to it and just go for it. BE CONSISTENT! I cried for any reason I could come up with:

My sleep sack tickled my foot.

I felt a wrinkle under the sheet.

My mobile made a shadow on the wall.

I burped, and it tasted like rice cereal. I hadn't eaten rice cereal since breakfast, what's up with that?

The dog said "ruff." I should know. My Mommy reminds me of this about 20 times a day. LOL.

Once I cried just because I liked how it sounded when it echoed on the monitor in the other room.

Too hot, too cold, just right--doesn't matter! Keep crying!!

I had drooled so much my sheets were damp and I didn’t like it touching me.

I decided I was sick of all the pink in my room so I cried.

It took awhile, but it worked. She fed me at 4am. Tomorrow night, my goal is 3:30am. You need to slowly shorten the interval between feedings in order to reset your Mommies' internal clocks. Sometimes my Mommy will call for reinforcements by sending in Daddy. Don’t worry though, Daddies are not set up for not needing sleep the way Mommies are. They can only handle a few pats and shhing before they declare defeat and send in the Mommy.

Also, be wary of the sleep sheep with rain noises. I like to give Mommy false hope that listening to the rain puts me to sleep so sometimes I pretend to close my eyes and be asleep and then wait until I know Mommy is settling back to sleep to spring a surprise cry attack. If she doesn’t get to me fast enough I follow up with my fake cough and gag noise that always has her running to the crib. At some point I am positive she will start to realize that she really doesn’t really need sleep.

P.S. Don't let those rubber things fool you, no matter how long you suck on them, no milk will come out. Trust me."

Germs, Germs...

It's only a matter of time before your kids experience their first "throw-up bug." And I know what you're thinking- so what? It's true that for most people, this is not a major consideration when it comes to having kids, but it is for some people who struggle with emetophobia. Some emetophobic women ultimately decide that they won't ever have kids because children, as we all know, are walking petrie dishes. It obviously crossed my mind, although never in the sense that I swore off having a family. I just wondered how I would react, or if I would be able to "hold it together" for my kids' sake. I wondered if- despite my best efforts- they might still pick up on my fear and become afraid of it themselves.

Ella got it for the first time when she was 13 months old- in the summer, oddly enough. I heard her coughing in the middle of the night, went into her room to check on her, and saw that she had gotten sick. The phobic part of me wanted to run and get Jake first, but the Mommy in me took over and I was instantly overwhelmed with empathy as I scooped up my scared little girl out of her crib (at which point she proceeded to puke all over me as well). In the moment, I did what I needed to do, caught off guard by my own intestinal fortitude. Thankfully, Jake helped with the clean up while I consoled her as best as I could. I was 9 weeks pregnant with Milo at the time, so I became even more anxious at the thought that I wouldn't be able to discern "stomach bug" nausea from the "first trimester" nausea I was already battling. I remember we finally got Ella back to bed and she slept through the rest of the night. I, on the other hand, laid out on our couch and shook from my frazzled nerves, too afraid to let myself go to sleep for fear I would wake up sick too. (Neither Jake or I caught it).

This is just one of many instances over the last few years that prompted me to get a handle on the anxiety. Not just for my sake, but for the sake of my family. There are few things that I have learned to be absolute truths as a mommy, but one of them without a doubt is this: when your kids are sick, they want YOU. Not Daddy. Only Mommy will do. (Heck, to this day, I still want my mom when I'm sick). So while some moms might aspire to be able to ride rollercoasters with their kids, I want to be the mom that can sit there and hold her daughter's hair back while she barfs into a trashcan, or rub my sons back when he feels sick. The truth is, as someone who has dealt with emetophobia, I may never be totally nonchalant about vomit- ever. But I do believe that I will get "throw-up grace" on throw-up days- that ability to be strong, present, and (hopefully) cool as a cucumber when my kids need me.

So when those times happen, I will not put myself (or them) in a plastic bubble. I will not. No matter how much I might want to. {Repeats mantra}. But so help me God, I will clean and sanitize the shit (literally) out of my home when these unwanted intestinal visitors come around. Hey, it's my prerogative. And because I'm probably much more OC about it than the average person, I've collected a lot of good cleaning/sanitizing ideas and tips over the last few years and just recently came across this post to on how to get rid of the germs AND do it in an eco-friendly way. (There are some pretty good suggestions in the comment section too!)

So do all of your fellow germaphobes a favor and check it out! Good stuff! :)

Steve Jobs: Celebrating Curiosity

"Your time is limited so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
~ Steve Jobs


Ella sits on our couch and navigates her way through the apps on the home screen of my iPhone and I watch her today, thinking that she'll never truly understand just how much her future has been shaped by a man named Steve Jobs. As soon as she was old enough to grab for toys, she began passing up her Elmo phone in hopes of getting her tiny fingers around my iPhone. Milo also seems much more intrigued by it than any of the other toys we've bought for him. They're no dummies. They may wet their pants, but they know a good product when they see it. :-) The more I've heard about Steve Jobs and his passing, the more I realize that it's not going to be enough for me to simply tell them that he was the genius behind the cool, tech-y toys that they will continue to enjoy. Rather, I want them to know that those "toys" were a direct result of his character and work ethic:

Innovative.

Passionate.

Artistic.

A man who understood that good is the enemy of great.

A man who's curiosity ultimately led him- and subsequently the entire world- into a new age of thinking, navigating, connecting, reasoning, and being.

This is the reason I hope they never stop asking why or how. You just never know where those two questions will take you. Without curiosity, there's no creativity. And without creativity, there's no life.


Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. And thank you for bringing us along for the ride.

"Jagged Little Pill"

There comes a point in time when you realize you aren't willingly giving yourself to something anymore. The realization had actually been there for months, but I decided to finally admit it to myself two weeks ago. At some point over the last few months, I think I stopped living and started simply surviving. Every day felt like a struggle. Survival until naptime, then survival until bedtime. I would tell Jake that we survived a trip to Target. Last month, we survived the six hour car ride to the beach. Then we survived the beach, but barely (we came back 3 days early). Life became about getting from point A to point B in one piece. I observed other moms when I went out and although I know that nothing is ever what it appears (boy, do I know that one), I started feeling like maybe every other mom except me knew the secret to enjoying their kids. I began to think that maybe I was missing part of the "mom" gene- the one that made me less irritable, more forgiving, more flexible, more....happy. I kept thinking, aren't these are supposed to be the years of our lives- being parents to two beautiful, healthy kids? Isn't this what I always wanted? Why do I feel like this??

So I called my OB and told him I wanted my money back. :)

Okay, not exactly. But I did call him and tell him that this wasn't what I signed up for. Something more was going on. I knew there would be exhaustion, illness, raging hormones, hectic schedules, and days when I would feel like I was barely getting by. But I didn't expect to lose myself in all of it, to forget who I was and the things that I enjoyed. I told him that I couldn't get excited about going shopping, or carving pumpkins, or wine tasting. {gasp?!?!} That Christmas seemed overwhelming instead of occupying it's usual spot as my most favorite time of the year. That I cooked food and ate it, but didn't really taste it. I couldn't finish sentences, couldn't focus. I went to bed exhausted and somehow managed to wake up even more exhausted. My entire body ached. I watched life happen to everyone else but somehow felt like a bystander in my own. I explained how I felt guilty for no reason at all and that I didn't feel like I had anything to bring to the table anymore as a wife, a mother, or a friend. I had given the best of what I had to give for so long, until there was nothing left to give but leftovers. I felt stale, used up. I sobbed to the poor nurse on the phone (she must have been so glad she answered) that I was afraid I would blink- just like everyone promises me that I'll do- and they will be 18 and 16, and when I look back at these "best years"- I'll realize I spent them being numb. I knew if I was going to get better, I had to make myself say it out loud: I think I have PPD.

One script for Zoloft and a couple of weeks later, it's amazing how much better I feel. I feel relieved to know that I wasn't totally losing it after all. I had been carrying something around that wasn't mine to hold onto. A weight was instantly lifted off of me, I think, before I even took the first pill. In hindsight, there were a lot of contributing factors: I'm right in the middle of an exhausting season of life- and there's really no quick fix for that. I'm also a proverbial milk factory for my son, who happens to have the appetite of an NFL linebacker, which keeps me literally "on demand" 24/7 and I think my hormones have hormones now. But I suspect some of my recent restlessness, too, is because I'm simply not pouring my energy into anything else other than my family. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that except for the realization that being a stay-at-home mommy simply isn't enough for me, nor is it bringing out the best in me. And it was an entirely different kind of pill to swallow to finally be okay with admitting that. For so long, I was afraid to actually say it because I thought it meant I had failed. Like, if I actually had a boss as a stay-at-home mom, maybe this would be the part where I had to turn in my two weeks. Maybe I would have even been fired.

But I'm okay with this, with coming to the conclusion that it hasn't turned out how I thought it would. At the end of the day, I have an amazing family. I have two happy, healthy kids, an amazing and devoted husband- and I'm hopelessly in love with all of them. But there's a nagging that something more is required of me outside of this, and I think I finally understand that in a way I haven't since I first became a mom. Maybe something more is required of me because I have so much. I was talking to one of my dearest friends the other day and she said to me, "sometimes, you have to get lost outside of yourself, or you'll be lost inside yourself." It was exactly what I needed to hear.

So now I embark on another journey. I'm not exactly sure what it entails or where it will take me, but for the first time in months, I'm not numb anymore. And that's a great start.

"What's That Smell??"

There are few things I find more disgusting than, say, pulling a sippy cup of old milk out from it's week-long hiatus under our sofa. But lucky me.... today's treat was a pile of dried puke in the corner of Milo's room (and it clearly wasn't from Milo). This is definitely another first. I guess I never thought I would just happen to stumble upon something like this, in part, because I'm usually pretty tuned in to Ella when she says her stomach hurts. Honestly, I figured if she did get sick, (if it wasn't all over me), then she would probably tell me or show me, or somehow I would just know.

Rewind to a few nights ago though and it makes sense: I brought Milo in to his room to feed him and put him down and told Jake that I smelled throw up. He came in the room, sniffed, looked at me and said, "you and that NOSE." Shook his head and left the room. I said, "it's called mom nose and it's quite accurate, thank you very much." I can tell the difference between teething poops, regular poops and dairy allergy poops, smell spit up from across the room, differentiate between a carrot and sweet potato stain on a shirt just by sniffing it, and of all things-- I know vomit when I smell it. Everyone does. It probably takes all of us back to our days in elementary school when some poor kid didn't make it to the bathroom and then the janitor whipped out that horrid orange stuff. Ugh.

So now, I'm stifling the urge to say, "I told you so!"- only slightly stronger than my urge to gag and run for the Lysol. She must have gotten sick while she was playing, then just moved on to something else. I never heard a word from her about it. She has told me that her tummy hurt over the last few days, but she also tells me this often at bedtime as a stall tactic, and has otherwise seemed fine. So for now, I'm just grateful I didn't have to fight going into my "stomach bug OC" mode because well, I didn't know about it. On another level, it's in some way reassuring to me to know that it wasn't even a big enough deal for her to say anything to me, even though I hate that she was sick and I didn't know.

So, lesson learned from my two year old (and one that I'm unfortunately dropping some bones to have to re-learn myself): Life is too fun to let a little puke ruin it.

Slow and Steady

There's no other way to say it: some days, it's still hard for me to accept that anxiety is a regular part of my life. It's not who I am, but it sure does feel that way. On the one hand, I know I'm making progress because I probably wouldn't have setbacks (at least, what I perceive them to be). Ironic as it might sound, I know that If I'm feeling uncomfortable/nervous/anxious, it's usually because I'm doing something to push the envelope and that brings a bit of perspective. On the other hand, it's been five years. FIVE. On my own self imposed time-line of recovery, I was supposed to be sky-diving by now. Maybe running marathons. Getting a degree in clinical psychology so that I can help people through this very same process. (See the problem?)

I never thought of myself as a competitive person. I think I assumed this because I never played a lot of sports and I always associated being competitive with something like running up and down the field with a hockey stick, or maybe getting so pissed in a tennis match that I break the racket over me knee. Turns out, I am pretty competitive- it's just not super-obvious. I don't want to do something unless I know it's going to be the best at it (competitive meets perfectionism). I don't want to do something if I think I'm going to fail miserably (competitive meets passive-aggressive perfectionism. Oy). And I especially love to prove people wrong- defy the odds. If you want to motivate me, just tell me I can't do it.

The irony of this anxiety though, is that I'm not out to prove anyone wrong but myself. Not a single person in my life in the past five years (or ever, actually) has said to me, "Kristin- you're in way too deep and there's no way you'll be able to do ____ again. Might as well throw in the towel."

The only person saying those things to me is me.

So, a couple of truths for today, in case anyone else can identify....


Truth #1: I would feel a lot better about myself on those particularly anxious days if I talked to myself the way that all the people I love in my life talked to me.

Truth #2: There is no deadline to recovery. Slow and steady wins this race.

Day 4- Oh, the Packing {Chill the Eff Out Series}

One more day until we leave for the beach. "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow...you're only a day aWAYYYYY." {Okay, moving on}.

Every year, I make a list of the things we need for the beach. (Note that my definition of "need" and my husband's definition vary slightly. Last year, he said, "what do we need a portable DVD player for? She'll be fine." Let's just say that this year, the portable DVD player was one of the FIRST things I secured for our 6 hour car ride). But that list has more than doubled over the last 3 years. And every year, I vow not to overpack. I scale down the list. I take only what's necessary. (Sort of. Because, it always turns out that I DO need 4 pairs of shoes, and I will not waver on that). And every year, I stand back and look at my car, and it always looks more like we're going to some kind of Fisher Price toy expo than the beach.

So I've spent all day today sorting laundry, packing, and meticulously planning outfits (rather than my usual tactic of throwing random things into the bags and saying, "I'll figure it out when we get there)." I'm actually quite proud of myself, regardless of the fact that it took half the day. And of course, I got a little bitter because Jake came in the door tonight, threw some boxers, T-shirts, pants, shorts, flip-flops and deoderant in his half of the suitcase in 5 minutes flat and said, "well, I'm all packed."

Hmph.

But it's all good. Even if it turns out that my sanity is packed up somewhere in the back of my car with the eleven other bags, I'm fairly confidant it will be restored around this time tomorrow evening when I'm finally able to breathe in some fresh, salt-water air. :)

Day 3 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

You know those days when you sit on the floor with your kids while they play, and everyone has woken up from their naps in a sunny disposition, dinner is already in the crockpot and you just smile and say, "ahhhh..."

Today isn't one of those days. Matter of fact, today is the complete antithesis of that day. So here, I give you, "My Life Is So Horrible and My Mommy Doesn't Love Me," by Ella and Milo.




If you don't laugh, you cry. So I'm choosing to laugh.

(...all the way to the wine cabinet.)


Happy Friday Eve everyone! :)

Day 2 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

When I was about 3, I decided to scribble a silver crayon all over the back of my parents dark orange corduroy couch. I was doing it a favor, I SWEAR.

Consequently, that was one of the first spankings I ever remember getting...

And now, 26-ish years later, I have a an artistic and extremely expressive little girl of my own who loves to prove to me, time and time again, that what goes around comes around. Thanks Ella!! *thumbs up*





That would be the back of her door in her room.

It's going to stay that way for a while too. On that note, I would like to claim false advertising because those crayons are, in fact, NOT washable. (At least, not as it pertains to soap and water). So, I guess until the door gets a fresh coat of paint, I'm just going to- wait for it- chill the eff out. ;-)

Day 1 {"Chill the Eff Out Series"}

I'm throwing in the towel.

I've been letting far too many little things get to me. I suppose that everyone's definition of "little" is different, but for me, it truly is the "little" things that drive me batty. ISFJ's like myself love to have control- all the time, over everything. (A coincidence that I've dealt with anxiety for a large majority of my life? I think not). Anyhoo, there's nothing like having kids to make you realize once and for all that control, really and truly, is nothing but an illusion. Yay! .....???

In terms of priorities, the question no longer is, "what should I do first?" (assuming I would actually be able to knock out my entire to-do list in one day. HAH). Instead, it's become, "what is the worst possible consequence if ____ doesn't get done?" All this week, I will be posting pictures of things that I've decided to chill the eff out about, for the sake of my family and my own sanity. No facades. No sugar-coating. No bitching. (Okay, maybe just a little griping, but under my breath). Some of the things that get under my skin will probably be hilarious to some, but hopefully relatable to others. We all have our vices, right?

{deep breath} Here goes.



I give you....my kitchen sink (dun-dun-DUUNNNN).




I almost always clean as I go, after breakfast, after snacks, after lunch. Can't STAND to have messes or clutter. But I've decided I don't technically need to clean them all up right away. I can wait until naptime (but not a second longer, daggone it. Hey, progress is progress). Maybe eventually I'll work up to letting them go...*gasp*....ALL DAY before I wash them. ;)

Exhale

I like to talk out both sides of my mouth sometimes. Not super proud of that. For example, I talk about how I wish that the kids would sleep in and give me that much more time to center myself for the day. And then on the rare occasion that they both sleep in (it should be noted that "sleeping in" means 7:45 a.m.), I can't leave well enough alone and find myself worrying that maybe something is wrong. So instead of sitting back with that second cup of coffee, I risk forfeiting my alone time in the morning to creak open their doors and watch their little bellies go in and out.

Ironically enough, simply watching them sleep centers me in a way that few other things can. There's something so soothing about watching a slumbering babe- completely unaware of world events, politics, terrorist threats, deadlines, mounting to-do lists. Watching them sleep reminds me that I, too, came into this world with an innate sense of being in the moment. I slept when I needed rest. I ate when I was hungry. I played with abandon. Whatever it was I was doing at the time almost always got 100% of my focus. The concept (burden) of multi-tasking was not yet dictating the structure of my entire day.

Do more. Be more. Not enough. Finish this. Start this. Don't forget. Email, text, call, log on, connect and whatever you do, don't drop the spinning plates you're balancing all day, every day. Round and round and round...

Then, the inevitable crash and burn.


Thank you, my sweet boy, for reminding me that sometimes it's enough to just breathe in and out.

Milo Takes Flight

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose."

I've heard this phrase a good many times since the kids were born. Maybe it's just me, but I almost always have high expectations that either saying or hearing it will make me feel better, and I'm always sorely disappointed.

And hey, speaking of "sore,"... Milo got up close and personal with our stairs two days ago. Every single one of them, to be exact, all the way down to our hardwood floor. Try as I might, I cannot get that sickening thud out of my head or the sound of Jake yelling and the terrifying scream (although I think it was actually mine and not Milo's). He seemed okay, sans the hysterical crying and a growing goose egg on his forehead, but we became pretty concerned when he started throwing up and then proceeded to get sick four more times before I hurried him and Jake out the door to the E.R. I sat on the couch with Ella and cried. God love her. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay mama. Milo fall down and bump his head. He get a bandaid, make it feel better."

Oh if only it were that easy, baby. I didn't feel like trying to explain to her that there are some things that band-aids just can't fix. I figure she'll learn that soon enough though, so I'd like to let her believe that for as long as she wants. Instead, what I'd like to have a quick fix for are the inevitable pangs of mom guilt. I've already been sensitive to the fact that my little bean has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention, (although thankfully, he has nothing to compare it to). But he doesn't have his own scrapbook like his sister's, doesn't have nearly the same amount of pictures in the ol' iPhoto library, kid came into the world already missing a finger. When Ella was born, we had visitors streaming in and out of our hospital room all day, every day. I finally had to tell people we couldn't see them because I was flat exhausted. I still remember when Jake went out to announce, "It's a GIRL!!!!" to our families and it was immediately followed by hoots and hollars and all kinds of jubilant screeches, so much so that a few nurses reprimanded them for being too loud. When Milo was born, things were just different- as they almost always are with the second. Less fanfare, less attention. I spent the first day of his life lying in a hospital bed, barely able to hold him, nauseated and shaking from pain meds while my parents and Jake's parents popped in and out to meet him. Mom guilt then too, but I think the percocet took the edge off of it that day.

So to say that I've been conscious of the fact that he hasn't gotten near the limelight that his sister has (and her limelight could stand to be put on a dimmer switch, in my humble opinion) is an understatement. And a couple of years from now, I get the bonus of being able to tell him about the time he did his best imitation of a slinky all the way down our stairs. You know, just to rub some salt in that "Why Wasn't I Born First?" wound.

So a couple of realizations I learned the hard way (although probably not nearly as hard as they were for him):

1. 6 month olds who've just learned to crawl are incredibly fast.

2. Momma's with adrenaline pumping through their veins are also incredibly fast. I think I bounded up the steps by threes in about 1.5 seconds to get to him and practically pulled my hamstring.

3. A goose egg IS, in fact, a good sign.

4. Vomiting is sometimes not (although not altogether unusual).

5. It's usually not the worst case scenario. And that was the case for us as well, thankfully. But my mind still went there- and I knew it would. That's part of being a mom. The other part of being a mom is honoring that little voice that tells you to go with your gut, just in case. (It would have been nice, in my case, had that voice decided NOT to be on mute or "en espanol" when I left my child up in his room "just for a minute" to play with his toys while I went to throw clothes in the washer. Lesson learned. *sigh*

6. I don't remember things from when I was 6 months old-- and neither will he. THANK GOD.

So needless to say, there's a lot of gratitude in our house today.

That, and two more brand-spankin' new baby gates....