tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67357950314155827682024-02-20T08:29:21.153-06:00Domestic GoddessingSarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.comBlogger222125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-68859018641611857972012-03-07T15:22:00.000-06:002012-03-07T15:22:03.499-06:00Domestic Goddessing Sanity-SaversDomestic goddessing can be a drag sometimes. It can be mundane, crazy, fabulous and terrifying all in one day. Here are my top 5 sanity savers:<br />
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1. <span style="color: purple;"><strong> <span style="background-color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">Boxed Wine</span>.</span></strong></span> I keep a box of wine in the pantry so that I can have a glass in the evenings. Don't be snooty- they make very good boxed wine these days and it will save you from wasting a whole bottle when you just want a glass or two. My faves are California Black Box, Pepperwood Grove and Bota Box.<br />
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2. <strong><span style="color: blue;">Party Music.</span></strong> I keep a fun playlist of music on my I-Pod for when I'm cleaning. It pumps me up, I get things done faster and it inevitably turns into a dance party for me and my son. Oh- and I try to listen to kid music <em>as little as possible.</em><br />
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3. <span style="color: blue;"><strong>Synchronized Nap Time.</strong></span> It doesn't always happen, but I work all morning for it. Just an hour and a half to read, enjoy a cup of tea, call my sister or enjoy silence. Beautiful silence.<br />
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4. <span style="color: blue;"><strong>Mommy Exchange.</strong></span> I'm blessed to have always lived by <strong>amazing</strong> fellow stay-at-home-mommies. We trade baby-sitting once a week. My son gets to play with buddies, and I get to run errands without his helpful assistance. <br />
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5. <strong><span style="color: blue;">Tony Horton's 10-Minute-Trainer.</span></strong> It's a hard workout- but it's short and that's all about this mommy is going to get of uninterrupted time. I exercise during my baby's morning nap, and my son knows to play independently or his hiney will be marched to his room.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YWLLU9x-Pt5QmjaKRixbNBeG89rOSlB8CmB49nLn04su3hqNMGzX5MZyGHLUg9MCEbXGhdNDhxU8ukRJWgUmVgdl9hqETORwjV2OA34IZVbE18Hh5tUl3vzTDz4mGzVb0MkZl95Di5HL/s1600/img_3755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YWLLU9x-Pt5QmjaKRixbNBeG89rOSlB8CmB49nLn04su3hqNMGzX5MZyGHLUg9MCEbXGhdNDhxU8ukRJWgUmVgdl9hqETORwjV2OA34IZVbE18Hh5tUl3vzTDz4mGzVb0MkZl95Di5HL/s320/img_3755.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Mr. Helpful</em></div> Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-91578288005204089062012-03-05T20:46:00.001-06:002012-03-05T21:03:10.681-06:00Dream Home and DiscontentOne year ago my husband had 2 days to move to a different city and start a new job. Since that threw us into a tailspin of decisions, we opted to rent a small house in the city until we are settled here and know where we want to live. So, here I am, a stay-at-home-Mom in a very tiny house....day after day...4 people sharing a bathroom the size of a postage stamp. Don't even get me started on my closet for I might weep. Eventually, we will buy a home with some land and we won't be crashing into each other all day.<br />
<br />
Eventually.<br />
<br />
I caught myself grumbling about it and immediately felt terrible. This isn't the first time I've been here. I know what it's like to spend years wishing for something bigger and better. My family spent 18 years saving and planning for the "dream home" while living in a small house that we outgrew. I look back on my childhood, and we were always looking and praying for the perfect dream home and growing increasingly unsatisfied where we were. I wish it wasn't like that. I loved my childhood in our little house in the country with the occasional coon that ran amuck in the closet. (Really, it did. And it bit my Dad. And I think Mom threatened to sue someone, but I'm not sure who was responsible for the rouge critter.)<br />
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I made a deal with myself that I wouldn't waste this time in our home grumbling and pouting. Nope, I'm going to organize, rearrange, down-size and enjoy it, even when my kitchen-the-size-of-a-closet starts to get me down. <br />
<br />
We're making memories here- important memories. I was 31 months pregnant in this house. We brought our baby girl home in this house. We learned to be a family of four in this house. All of our family have come to visit and love on our babies. I learned how to take apart a dishwasher in this house.<br />
<br />
Who knows, I might get my big, fancy house and miss how crowded it is here. I might miss only having to clean one bathroom. I might miss how our 3 bedrooms are crammed right next to each other and somehow my children are both in bed with us in the morning. Heck, I might even miss how one person is always doing the bathroom dance while yelling at the door, "ARE YOU DONE IN THERE YET?!"<br />
<br />
I'll wage a war on my discontent, because we're a family and that's enough. I won't miss this time with them wishing I was somewhere bigger and better. They are my bigger and better.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-63687984335862430112012-02-13T08:44:00.000-06:002012-02-13T08:44:47.039-06:00Mooched Mommy Idea #16: Defeating Winter ChapBabies with chapped cheeks bum me out. It looks painful and I want to smear lotion all over their sweet faces. Even if they're not my babies...which would be weird...so I keep my lotion to myself.<br />
<br />
Winter chap and the kisses from 6 grandparents could leave my babies with red and raw cheeks, but my Mom mooched this idea when my sis and I were babies and shared it with me:<br />
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<a href="http://www.marykay.com/skincare/moisturization/10027910/10027910/default.aspx">Mary Kay's Night Emmolient Cream...better known as "the pink stuff.'</a><br />
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It's amazing. I would never lead you astray when it comes to beauty products, my friends. I put the thick goo on my babies' faces every day and they have yet to get chapped cheeks or lips. It can withstand the dryness that the winter brings and I even use it on my face if it starts to get itchy and uncomfortable.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Go buy some right away. Your skin will thank you. To my 3 male readers: you are not too manly for the pink stuff, get yourself to your local Mark Kay rep immediately.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Happy baby cheeks:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32mr6FjSnMN1QrLuQuuPuAe0pO9jg6x3GnmIBSCtvpKEI6Tfnw9dn7tju4Yy6-OVZ7Xr1CqA2kWBAOxuRVYMqyVtokQGYDrqvJvy_9UTgm7BD07S4Ixb6MIFHCGg4iZm94NhJNmxoD8eM/s1600/img_3746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 241px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 170px;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32mr6FjSnMN1QrLuQuuPuAe0pO9jg6x3GnmIBSCtvpKEI6Tfnw9dn7tju4Yy6-OVZ7Xr1CqA2kWBAOxuRVYMqyVtokQGYDrqvJvy_9UTgm7BD07S4Ixb6MIFHCGg4iZm94NhJNmxoD8eM/s320/img_3746.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-6391112378717238292012-02-07T09:47:00.000-06:002012-02-07T22:20:30.295-06:00The Mommy Cheerleader<a href="http://www.emergingmummy.com/search/label/Practices%20of%20Mothering" target="_blank"><img alt="EmergingMummy.com" height="213" src="http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b32/PoetStyles/EmergingMummyCarnival-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
What are some of the things you do regularly in your practices of parenting? <br />
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My mummy friend, Sarah, had an on-going series about this topic and invited us to join in! And so, here is mine:<br />
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<em>I regularly do cheers from my junior high and college cheerleading days to motivate my son.</em><br />
<br />
Why? <br />
<br />
I had started to become a nag. I nagged my son about hurrying to get out the door. I nagged him again to get in the car QUICKLY. I nagged him to get out of the car QUICKLY. I nagged so much he finally began telling me, before I could nag, "MOM, I'M DOING IT KLICKLY!"<br />
<br />
And it hit me: I did not want to be a nag. First, who likes to be around a nag? Second, when has constant badgering ever really had a positive effect? I don't want his memories of his childhood to be of me, mommy dearest, shrilling at the top of my lungs for him to HURRY! CLEAN! WASH! OBEY!<br />
<br />
So, I laid to rest the nag, and I resurrected the cheerleader. Oh yes, yours truly and her white legs cheered in junior high and college. I remember every cheer, every move, every dance and every stunt. I decided to use this useless knowledge to motivate my little dude.<br />
<br />
When it's time for us to leave the house and he won't hurry?<br />
<br />
<strong>L-E-T-S G-O, Let's go! Let's go!</strong> <br />
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When it's time for him to clean his toys at the end of the night and he is not interested?<br />
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<strong>Be aggressive, B-E aggressive! B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E, aggressive!!!</strong><br />
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Yes, I am clapping, stomping and jumping my heart out while he giggles and does what I've asked. It changed everything, really. We're happy when we're hurrying, when it's time to clean and any other time he lacks some motivation. In fact, just the other day, he wanted a snack and I was reluctant to put down my book and go get it for him.<br />
<br />
"MOMMY! " he shouted, "L-E-T-S-G-O! Let's go! Let's go!"<br />
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And I smiled the entire time I got his snack.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-47221519173454947562012-01-22T21:43:00.000-06:002012-01-22T21:43:48.276-06:00Raising a DaughterGuy Delcambre's blog post, <a href="http://guydelcambre.com/blog/2012/01/saving-a-little-girl/#more-1147">Saving a Little Girl,</a> got me thinking tonight.<br />
<br />
I have a little girl now; I think I'm still surprised about it. I was so sure my life would be full of a herd of little boys, and then she came along:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTJFE0310L7WeaKNgDUEiE8QLL_A7Pecu7_stETbBJ94R-TXwggcKZQOGkDG7oH2xyLF8wD2B1QbH09_MxcqyDVXXYhIxyLQjiyJRAKaYhVSNcGctUFm9h3zNJmNhioOQ5GrG9Bex7G3J/s1600/0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTJFE0310L7WeaKNgDUEiE8QLL_A7Pecu7_stETbBJ94R-TXwggcKZQOGkDG7oH2xyLF8wD2B1QbH09_MxcqyDVXXYhIxyLQjiyJRAKaYhVSNcGctUFm9h3zNJmNhioOQ5GrG9Bex7G3J/s320/0002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Oh my, how I adore this little sweet pea. When I hold her and think about this special mother-daughter relationship that I get to have with her, I am often reduced to tears. I want to tell her everyday how wonderful, lovely and amazing she is. I want her to know how much her Jesus loves her. I want her to be strong, confident and exactly who she was put on this earth to be. I want to shield her from all of the ugly this world hurls on females.<br />
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I know the wolves will come. They will lie to her, they will try to rob her confidence and steal her joy. I got a small glimpse of it when a well meaning friend hoped my healthy daughter would be "thin and beautiful" when she outgrew her fat rolls. I tried very hard not to kick my friend in the shins for such a ridiculous remark.<br />
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So I started making a plan:<br />
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<a href="http://www.emergingmummy.com/2011/06/in-which-i-promise-not-to-call-myself.html">I will not call myself fat.</a> (Idea mooched from Sarah at Emerging Mummy)<br />
I will not refer to the little dudes in her life as "boyfriends." (Seriously, why start that crap?)<br />
I will encourage health; not skinny and airbrushed.<br />
I will build her up.<br />
Lastly, and most importantly, her father and I will stand between her and that pressure with our big Can o' Whoop Ass. <br />
<br />
Because she's <em>our</em> girl.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-90026290133525482362012-01-18T21:30:00.031-06:002012-01-18T21:43:34.235-06:00Mooched Mommy Idea #15: The Mommy HatAs much as it pains me to admit it, my mommy-style is somewhat.....lacking. Yes, my friends, sometimes the effort and the glam is simply not there.<br />
<br />
I recently discovered a way to jazz it up a bit when I ran into a college buddy and fellow domestic goddess at the park. She looked adorable as I was slumming it in my ponytail and Velveeta-on-my-sweatpants look. Her look was simple, really. She took a super-cute hat and paired it with the classic jeans and t-shirt. That's it- and she looked fab.<br />
<div><br />
<br />
I immediately went to Ross and bought 3 hats. <br />
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It works! No matter what I'm wearing, a stylish hat and some red lipstick rocks the mom look even if my outfit is blah. Or splattered with baby goo.<br />
<div><br />
My idea is so popular, even Angelina Jolie had to copy me:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHxT8m-i-6aqw4akkKfW9zUQs9ACC3-6xPIOtNvcccj0AY6MWA6dueNs8a5FxjiM9rHlkQfwpYd0cvD3WXjB5gob1Nrw6HibenTZ73uipI9Ao1kC0oZjU7F6gUJZm4Ia-BRWCGkKjVcpI/s1600/hat1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHxT8m-i-6aqw4akkKfW9zUQs9ACC3-6xPIOtNvcccj0AY6MWA6dueNs8a5FxjiM9rHlkQfwpYd0cvD3WXjB5gob1Nrw6HibenTZ73uipI9Ao1kC0oZjU7F6gUJZm4Ia-BRWCGkKjVcpI/s1600/hat1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is what I look like now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Of course.</div></div>Some ideas:<br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDHWIcSH-5lrwBZ91InyHaHUAcwcBKExbUzVWrAbnjRKQEnwGC-bMx21ewGJEHISHtrxdWUBBU7nxbeqfXFe-K0bxelBiFrJUr0iz2c_fF9FbP0yD7S4tZrS1ep1uOroa1ArZ55u-uJ1n/s1600/Pumpkin1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="155" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547809676982166530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDHWIcSH-5lrwBZ91InyHaHUAcwcBKExbUzVWrAbnjRKQEnwGC-bMx21ewGJEHISHtrxdWUBBU7nxbeqfXFe-K0bxelBiFrJUr0iz2c_fF9FbP0yD7S4tZrS1ep1uOroa1ArZ55u-uJ1n/s200/Pumpkin1.jpg" style="height: 265px; width: 340px;" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaFHkvXUYQXP_4VeMREodY8wbkxK_uHLE26YE24l2jDiJCg26-YX7Ng-wPZ4OAXMWsZUHiPixBkXQ7U_K5xllgHYaYQZHkPJLoNYWvuEhAtYRVpmxJDi2nbxEmir4fUPhRQvCYkDbhHw1/s1600/IMG_1976.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="148" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547810110280974146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaFHkvXUYQXP_4VeMREodY8wbkxK_uHLE26YE24l2jDiJCg26-YX7Ng-wPZ4OAXMWsZUHiPixBkXQ7U_K5xllgHYaYQZHkPJLoNYWvuEhAtYRVpmxJDi2nbxEmir4fUPhRQvCYkDbhHw1/s200/IMG_1976.JPG" style="height: 201px; width: 270px;" width="200" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrucYvNkVN5vz1uvuXQyGviBtF-oJO0jb1dFkZzYGy3UhuA6lT4JVeIr8sPfgzo0cWifgLVYT3D8SExwH4FtumxfcP7M0XXIzlD_i36t13oqgUirARGRV-uVvA66eeFreGmCN6AMfqO6H/s1600/img_2278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrucYvNkVN5vz1uvuXQyGviBtF-oJO0jb1dFkZzYGy3UhuA6lT4JVeIr8sPfgzo0cWifgLVYT3D8SExwH4FtumxfcP7M0XXIzlD_i36t13oqgUirARGRV-uVvA66eeFreGmCN6AMfqO6H/s200/img_2278.jpg" width="133" /></a></div></div>Tah-dah! (I apologize to my male readers for completely wasting your time with this post.)<br />
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<div></div></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-12091516748508022152012-01-08T22:26:00.001-06:002012-01-08T22:32:57.163-06:00Lilah Joy's Birth Story<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">“Honey, take your time, cause I don’t mind, waitin’ on a woman.”</div>-Brad Paisley<br />
<br />
We had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity for our little lady to arrive. My friends and family were afraid to text or call me anymore. My husband didn’t know which woman he was coming home to at night. I had tried every natural method to go into labor, and at the end gave up on it all, sat on the couch, cried and ate nachos.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I went to the point that my doctor and I weren’t comfortable waiting anymore, so an induction was scheduled. I cried for 3 days about it since I wanted an all-natural experience, but I wanted a safe arrival more so we arrived at the hospital, excited and scared, at 5:30 in the morning to start the induction. I curled my hair and everything.</div><br />
I heard that Pitocin contractions were more intense, but I was convinced that I could power through it and, hopefully, deliver my daughter in a short amount of time. Seriously, I was already dilated to a 3 and my body had been labor-ready for almost 3 weeks, (my doctor had been telling me, “any second now!”) I was convinced that my body just needed a little push to get the party started.<br />
<br />
The contractions started around 8:00. My wise and fabulous doula was there, coaching me through the pains. My husband, sister and mother took turns massaging me and encouraging me. At this point, I was still laughing and telling stories in between contractions. Natural birth? Bring it! <br />
<br />
Then something started changing fast. I had less time in between contractions and they were at maximum intensity for way too long. I braced myself; I just knew I was in transition and I would get to push and finally meet our daughter. My doctor came in to check my progress, and I assumed she would tell me that I was dilated to a 10. I prided myself and my brave 3 hours of natural labor. Iwas ready for the great dilation news!<br />
<br />
“You’re still a 3.” My doctor quietly said.<br />
<br />
And I lost it. I mean, really lost it. Like, <em>no emotional control</em>. I had been in horrible pain that I thought was progressing my labor, but it turns out I was just in maximum pain and still at a 3. I now hated the number 3. And I gave up, right then and there. <br />
<br />
“I WANT AN EPIDURAL! “<br />
<br />
My husband and doula reminded me of my well-thought out natural birth plan while my loyal sister shot out of the room and yelled up and down the hall for the epidural fairy. My Mom and my doula coached me through the contractions from hell and my husband consulted with my OB. I tried to focus, but I was really trying to figure out how to rip out my IV’s and run for the door. <br />
<br />
I continued to fall apart. I was biting the bed and yelling “MAMA!!”. (Cause when you hurt like that, only yo momma can make it better). My doula and my Mom got bossy, (I needed it), and I tried not to vomit as the contractions ripped through my body.<br />
<br />
Anyone who came between me and an epidural at that point was my enemy.<br />
<br />
30 agonizing minutes later- the elixir of life was coursing through my body. Apparently, it was just what I needed because I dilated from a 3 to a 10 in 2 short hours. My doctor walked in and said it was time. I remember saying, “I get to meet her now…I finally get to meet my daughter!”<br />
<br />
My husband held my hand, my mother cried, my sister took pictures and my doula faithfully kept to the remainder of my tattered birth plan. 2 pushes later, Miss Lilah Joy finally, <em>and I do mean finally</em>, graced us with her arrival. When my son was born, I wept. When she was born, I laughed…and I couldn’t stop laughing. There was this perfect little lady in my arms. And yes, she was very much worth the wait.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZmZvJf_V0unXyLBB6ayYQfPC9fQN6o88YLaTtwfWjl_uHOs4Sp8Y1-MGp8b0jAyJd-_GPXaBWYLyfCozfXtR33Qt0qTtEvz2GXLm9nP2u-AG8aZhe6V9gwsVL2JHAvVBlnPOJOR1I1Uo/s1600/img_3024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZmZvJf_V0unXyLBB6ayYQfPC9fQN6o88YLaTtwfWjl_uHOs4Sp8Y1-MGp8b0jAyJd-_GPXaBWYLyfCozfXtR33Qt0qTtEvz2GXLm9nP2u-AG8aZhe6V9gwsVL2JHAvVBlnPOJOR1I1Uo/s320/img_3024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-63548752885510066022011-06-08T10:59:00.002-05:002011-06-08T10:59:00.732-05:00The Things We Do for LoveI had to confront one of my biggest fears today.<br />
<br />
I signed my son up for swimming lessons this afternoon, and in the process, he saw the happy place that I have worked so hard to keep hidden.<br />
<br />
The public pool.<br />
<br />
Have I mentioned that we are currently living in the town I grew up in? Well, we are. And I didn't go to the public pool when I had the 16-year-old body to do it, and I certainly don't want to now.<br />
<br />
But he does, and he stood at the fence with huge tears rolling down those big, brown eyes, and asked if we could please go swimming and could he wear his new Spiderman swimming suit? I looked at all of the tan, skinny cuties running around in bikinis who probably don't eat cheese fries as a food group, and I bought a pool pass. My baby wants to swim, and he doesn't care that mommy has Irish skin and waddles these days.<br />
<br />
I've got 3 things going for me here:<br />
<br />
1. I'm not on the prowl for a man, and my husband is aware that my legs are glowsticks and I'm somewhat large these days. He's responsible for the latter. So, seriously, who am I trying to impress?<br />
<br />
2. I bought a hot pink hat. I can totally go to the public pool now that I have my hot pink hat.<br />
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3. I think I can get away with keeping the large, flowy cover-up on the whole time.<br />
<br />
So off to Target I went to buy some sunscreen, a maternity bathing suit and a pool floatie. We are in business. I can go to the public pool. And, if I run into someone from high school, I'm gonna smile and toast to this season in life; the season that took me out of the insecurities of high school, and put me into my big 'ol bathing suit with my 3-year-old that makes me forget that I cared in the first place.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-78994939205915195372011-06-06T14:00:00.000-05:002011-06-06T14:00:32.869-05:00My Job is Entertaining....<em>A few wedding observations thus far.....</em><br />
<br />
-Don't hit on the wedding planner. It's a waste of time; we're working. And, in my case, married and 6 months pregnant. But, yes, I'm oddly flattered...<br />
<br />
-The most overlooked place to meet women is a wedding. It is my observation that men group together and drink at weddings instead of dancing with the beautiful ladies that are in abundance. Put the beer down, pop a breath mint and ask one to dance.<br />
<br />
-If you cannot dance, then march in place. I watched a guy march all evening on the dance floor. That's it- that's all the game he had. He was surrounded by lovely ladies all night. <em>March on, brother.</em><br />
<br />
-If you're married, dance with your wife. Chances are, she has on a new dress, new heels and quite possibly a spray tan. Show her off. It's also perfectly acceptable to cop a feel on the dance floor, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
-Do not bring children to weddings. If you have to, (or it's a family wedding), then <em>watch</em> them. Keep them away from jumping on the cake, pulling down the lights, knocking over tables or wreaking havoc. No one thinks the little pumpkin is adorable when they are out-of-control....especially the wedding planners. <br />
<br />
-If you are a lady, wear a slip if you're going to wear a dress. Stained glass in a chapel is unforgiving, and it will shine a light on your business. All of it.<br />
<br />
-Go on Youtube and learn the line dances to "Cotton-Eyed Joe," "Copperhead Road," "Cupid Shuffle," The Cha-Cha," and, (if you're really ambitious), "Thriller." The DJ always plays these songs, and they are a BLAST to dance to!<br />
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-It's not necessary to ask for "just a <em>tiny</em> piece of cake." We know you'll be back for seconds, have a big chunk...it's a wedding!<br />
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-If you wear Spanx with your dress, be careful about twirling on the dance floor. The whole place will know you're wearing bright, white Spanx if you start spinning in a state of drunken happiness.<br />
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-If it is someone else's wedding, it is never an appropriate time to have a lengthy conversation about <em>your </em>wedding. If you're not the bride, no one cares. Really.<br />
<br />
-Deodorant. It's important.<br />
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<em>I freaking love my job, I really do.</em>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-44349472529544639152011-06-01T23:47:00.000-05:002011-06-01T23:47:24.088-05:00The Real Weight WatchersI don't use my blog to rant.<br />
<br />
Forgive me for breaking my own rule today.<br />
<br />
When did it become okay to tell a pregnant woman personal opinions and observations about her weight? Was this acceptable at some point in history? Is this one of those things that has gone to the wayside with a more politically correct society, yet some older folks still think it's okay to say any damn thing that comes to their mind when they see a pregnant woman?<br />
<br />
In the past month, in no particular order, these comments have been directed towards me:<br />
<br />
-Don't worry, you look good fat.<br />
-You're more HUGE every day!<br />
-You've really spread out with this pregnancy.<br />
-Hey, FATSO!<br />
<br />
Awesome. But not really.<br />
<br />
I present the only acceptable things to say to a woman that is already feeling insecure about her growing body:<br />
<br />
<em>-You look stunning!</em><br />
<em>-You need to eat, can I buy you some icecream?</em><br />
<em>-You are radiant- you glow!</em><br />
<em>-How lucky is this baby?!</em><br />
<br />
I am confident that those comments will prevent a preggo from bursting into tears and having a meltdown upon looking in the mirror.<br />
<br />
Thank you. I am done. I am off to reclaim some of my dignity and get over myself.<br />
<br />
The end.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-4882637450199360532011-05-31T22:13:00.000-05:002011-05-31T22:16:31.220-05:00The Wedding Day Conspiracy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtguoCAWVAdAjM-rJGCGyVXA3wlhyphenhyphenOkQahxJ7-wfNhK85J8JYdlh344GaGzQsnsLj34GN4-OZc934nLvEiDCFnga5rOGGI-xIphf3GuXsgK9P9XjYhH_dB48NBBVPNU7QC63YIBAgOPoV4/s1600/sara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I went to a beautiful wedding this weekend. Such a lovely bride, such a stunning dress....such a tiny waist. <br />
<br />
<br />
I started to think....what happened to my waist since my wedding day? See the evidence below:<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtguoCAWVAdAjM-rJGCGyVXA3wlhyphenhyphenOkQahxJ7-wfNhK85J8JYdlh344GaGzQsnsLj34GN4-OZc934nLvEiDCFnga5rOGGI-xIphf3GuXsgK9P9XjYhH_dB48NBBVPNU7QC63YIBAgOPoV4/s1600/sara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtguoCAWVAdAjM-rJGCGyVXA3wlhyphenhyphenOkQahxJ7-wfNhK85J8JYdlh344GaGzQsnsLj34GN4-OZc934nLvEiDCFnga5rOGGI-xIphf3GuXsgK9P9XjYhH_dB48NBBVPNU7QC63YIBAgOPoV4/s320/sara.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Tiny waist. I can breathe and everything in that dress. Slender arms, no hint of chin fat. I didn't even have to say, "Let me know when you're about to take this picture so I can suck in!"<br />
<br />
Something happened. I can't explain it. But, it's something dark and sinister. Maybe it has to do with being happy in life. Maybe it's getting older. Maybe it's eating McDonald's when I'm pregnant instead of salad. <br />
<br />
I saw this picture of myself today...and I wept:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy5KEwItZD8F69HE8zeu5wIjmPfPvTE55fH4HgT_uAUsInkQxl3rY7EKnK1H60tzLsTIlYajzu9EATAt32qFIxkbC5j6-C6k2V3EEJrlVM70gKK9db887ryfZN5bqsgniPs23NDVi2mOm/s1600/IMG_2996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy5KEwItZD8F69HE8zeu5wIjmPfPvTE55fH4HgT_uAUsInkQxl3rY7EKnK1H60tzLsTIlYajzu9EATAt32qFIxkbC5j6-C6k2V3EEJrlVM70gKK9db887ryfZN5bqsgniPs23NDVi2mOm/s320/IMG_2996.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<br />
2 chins. Sausage arms. Dolly Parton bust. Big 'ol baby belly. Sigh.<br />
<br />
<i>Better not tell this weekend's bride about this evil, unstoppable force.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy5KEwItZD8F69HE8zeu5wIjmPfPvTE55fH4HgT_uAUsInkQxl3rY7EKnK1H60tzLsTIlYajzu9EATAt32qFIxkbC5j6-C6k2V3EEJrlVM70gKK9db887ryfZN5bqsgniPs23NDVi2mOm/s1600/IMG_2996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-84099742467541111392011-05-22T08:11:00.000-05:002011-05-31T22:16:08.221-05:00Mommyhood: Take 2It's pure excitement to have a second baby. With my first, it was 50% excitement, 50% terror. This time around, though, I'm just not scared anymore. I don't plan on drowning in insecurities and 37 baby books that all say different things.<br />
<br />
I've been pondering what I want to do differently this time around and, true to form, I made a Top-Ten list:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">What I wish I would Have Done the First Time...</span></b><br />
<br />
1. I will not live in fear that I don't know what's best for my baby. And I won't be afraid to tell a well-meaning relative/friend/stranger, "Thank you for your advice, but I'm her Momma."<br />
<br />
2. I will not ruin my life and my daughter's life by trying to put her on a stringent schedule right away. I'm going to get to know her, enjoy the chaos and hold her as much as I can.<br />
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3. I won't debate my position on vaccines anymore. I've done the research, I've talked to doctors and we feel this is best for our babies.<br />
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4. I'm going to buy the most comfortable rocking chair known to man. Lord knows I'm going to be in it enough to make it worth the bucks. My best bud spent hundreds on hers, (I thought that was silly), but her back and hiney were much happier than mine, I'm sure.<br />
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5. I'm going to "wear" my baby this time. I wish I would have bought the sling with my first- he just loved being close to me all the time and carrying him everywhere was hard on my back.<br />
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6. I'm going to, (gulp!), stop eating dairy after the baby is born. My first-born would have had a MUCH happier belly if I had done that for him.<br />
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7. I will complain about not eating dairy and I will give you the evil eye if you eat ice cream in front of me.<br />
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8. I will have my Mom and Sis in the delivery room. Everything went wrong the first time, and I had never felt so alone. (Yes, my husband was there, but he stayed with our son when the nurse had to take him away.) <br />
<br />
9. I will buy a nice, soft robe for my hospital stay. One that will keep all my chubby bits hidden when I have visitors.<br />
<br />
10. I will ENJOY her...I will drink her in...I won't rush...I won't give myself a beating everytime I don't have my "to-do" list checked off...I will cherish this time.<br />
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The end.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-11228404429425074172011-05-20T04:15:00.030-05:002011-05-20T04:15:00.790-05:00It's a What??! Huh? How Did THAT happen?I'll never be that Momma that can wait till the baby's born to find out if I have a son or daughter. Nope, I feel that 5 months is long enough to wait.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, off to the sonographer I went. I thought it was a waste of time, really. I knew I was having a boy as my pregnancies were identical, I have rock-solid mothering instincts, (insert: sarcasm), and I had already made a bet with my sister that it was a boy. (My bets with my sister are brutal and humiliating).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Imagine our surprise when Leslie, while intently studying the picture on the screen, said, "It's a <strong>girl."</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mouth dropped open. Me, who was to be the mother of a herd of boys, apparently had a daughter. Um, how did that happen? I know what to do with boys: buy play clothes and direct them to dirt. I've watched my girlfriends with their daughters, and it just looks harder with slightly more, um, drama. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, oh my word, I'm so excited I can hardly stand it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have a daughter! I get to buy pink and frilly outfits! We can have tea parties and play dress-up! I can put gigantic bows in her hair! <em> She won't get married and leave me! </em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So very many things to be thrilled about. I've already delegated sewing projects to my Mom and Mother-in-Law. This little princess shall be greeted in style: frills, ruffles, glitter and a nursery with fru-fru in every corner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cause I'm the mommy of a daugther now. It's how we roll.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-70055498576404742332011-05-18T14:18:00.000-05:002011-05-31T22:16:18.036-05:00Shame and McDonald'sI've kind of fallen off the wagon.<br />
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Almost a year ago, I swore off any meat that was cheap and easy. I changed our grocery budget to accommodate healthy, organic meat and dairy. I ate fish when we went out, and I only ate vegetarian when I had to eat fast food.<br />
<br />
You would think that I would be even more dilligent now that I am pregnant. (Yeah, me, too!!)<br />
<br />
That is not the case.<br />
<br />
I just ate 2 meals at McDonald's. I could not function until I had a cheeseburger, nuggets and fries. I am gross. I wouldn't let Cale have any...but yet I subjected my growing baby to this grease-fest. And then I had a Twix bar and a Nestle Crunch Bar.<br />
<br />
I am hungry all the time. Like.... I. Can't. Get. Enough. Food. In. My. Belly.<br />
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I didn't have this problem with my first pregnancy. I don't know what to do. Don't tell me to stop, or I will cry and tell you not to judge me. I will tell you that I'll go on Weight Watchers in October. I will tell you that I deserve this since I puked my guts out the first 4 months.<br />
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But don't take away my nuggets. I couldn't take it.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-45975603105396643422011-05-04T08:06:00.026-05:002011-05-04T23:40:58.517-05:00Ode to MummyMy Mom and I have a strange relationship. I did not realize this until my boyfriend, now husband, told me once, "I can't believe how you and your Mom talk to each other. I mean, you say ANYTHING!" He was mortified; I thought it was normal.<br />
<br />
We had a fairly typical mother/daughter relationship during my childhood. She was the queen bee, she could control my behavior with "the eye", she never tolerated disrespect, she was the first one I ran to when I was hurting, she preached that all boys had cooties, she was more concerned about being my mother than being my friend, she monitored my make-up, she intervened when I tried to stuff my bra with cotton balls....you know....the usual mom stuff.<br />
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The big switch happened, however, once I was an adult. She became much more fun. We'd go dancing, shopping, road tripping and churching...and never once did I get "the eye." She went from parent to friend, and I've never had such a blast.<br />
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When I became a mommy, I needed her like never before. I couldn't function unless she was in the next room. I couldn't even give my baby a bath without going into a panic. I fell apart, and she put me back together and became my biggest cheerleader. <br />
<br />
Now, as I'm settling into motherhood and she is living in the fun and freedom of grannyhood, I have to laugh at the irony of the latest transition. I told her today to watch her mouth. I take her with me to the grocery store because I think she eats out too much. I stay at home with my kiddo while she traipses off to Florida, Hawaii and Europe. Total role reversal.<br />
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The one thing that has stayed constant is that we still say anything to each other. While I was looking at a ring in the jewelry department today, she very seriously informed the saleslady that I needed to buy a ring because I was pregnant and no one would marry me.<br />
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Not so typical, but one hell of an amazing Mom.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-8056494607636607922011-04-14T09:31:00.002-05:002011-04-14T09:31:00.599-05:00On God and JelloThe most important part of our weekly grocery trip is when my son gets to choose his Jello color. It is a very important decision, my dear readers. He wakes up talking about it, "Mommy, today I'm gonna get BLUE Jello! Or maybe YEWWWOW!"<br />
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We discuss this vital choice on the car trip there, carefully weighing cherry Jello against orange Jello. When we finally get to the beautiful Jello display, I allow him to stand up in the cart so he can make a fully informed decision. He'll choose, and then change his mind. He'll put his hand up to his chin in deep comtemplation. He'll freak out a litte, "RED! NO-WAIT PURPLE! NO STRAWBERRY!" and he'll do this until I tell him he has one more minute to decide. He'll scrunch up his face in great concentration, and make his choice.<br />
<br />
I had a revelation as I watched him pour over this decision: Is this what my life decisions look like to God? You know, the choices I agonize over on a daily basis? Does God chuckle when I lose sleep over those decisions that seem so HUGE to me, but that actually won't, you know, make the world stop spinning? That maybe I take myself a little too seriously sometimes and all it is is a stinkin' Jello decision? I kind of think I've been schooled by my 3-year-old yet again.<br />
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And I further proved it to myself as I stressed about our house: Do we drop the price? Do we lease it? Will I live with my Dad forever?? As I went a little nuts, I felt a chuckle in my heart and heard, "Blue Jello or Purple Jello?"Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-34561678668049902642011-04-12T08:25:00.012-05:002011-04-12T08:25:00.459-05:00My FairytaleIt's my husband's birthday on Sunday and I want to blog about him in lieu of my annual naughty birthday card. (He buys the most beautiful, sentimental cards for me and I can't seem to stay away from the cards that shock him. I figure it's okay because I'm having his second baby and all.)<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure I fell in love with this man the first time I saw him in boots and a cowboy hat. Of course, it might have been when he watched me wolf down an entire burger and fries at I-Hop and it didn't phase him. There was also the time he wrote out a Psalm in calligraphy for me when he found out I played the guitar, (he thought the 3 chords I knew were sexy.) Actually, it was probably when he told me that he was not interested in being my friend- he was interested in being my man, and I needed to knock off the games. Yep, that was probably it. We've been butting heads and making out ever since.<br />
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It's not always a fairytale. With 2 first-borns trying to navigate marriage, there are clashes. Marriage isn't really easy for us; we work at it. We take our unhappy hinies to marriage counseling when nothing else is working. And we sit, side-by-side, and work harder. We eat our pride. We say "I'm sorry." Our fairytale probably looks different, but I see it everywhere:<br />
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I see it when he fathers our son...I see it when he talks to my growing belly and tells him/her about the many Daddy adventures they will have together...I see it when he makes Hamburger Helper for all of us when I can't muster the energy to get off the couch...I see it when he tells me I'm a great Mommy when I feel like I suck...I see it when he gets more angry than I do when a client or vendor is rude to me....I see it when he thanks me for doing household chores...I see it when he lets me sleep in on Saturday morning and then brings me donuts and coffee...I see it when he prays over our family...I see it when he writes me love letters and leaves them for me to find at work... And I think I actually swooned the day he cleaned up my puke bucket after a rough night of "morning" sickness. I mean, that's a lot of love, my friends.<br />
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At the end of the day, everyday, he comes home to me. Night after night, I'm in his arms. He tells my make-upless- death breath- sleeping in an old t-shirt- self every morning that I'm beautiful. Then, he goes off to work so thatI can live out my dream of stay-at-home mommying. He also comes home early when said dream feels like a nightmare and I need alone time and a tub of icecream.<br />
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That's the stuff real fairytales are made of, I think. And I am thankful.<br />
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<img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhki8xa6LnMJInjEQ_kjSqJwSNdzuaukP4m4mOqZsaVJXkF4ru6UIBCA2zBkTHnaWjAk5SgGh-JyCXSwLU-oGse1SSoM6kdQr_-md2zz5MspP_yk2_bV5He81X7LlYgcSvcE0voD4MagsNX/s320/wedding.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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Happy birthday, my love.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-70345194710017680762011-04-11T08:11:00.002-05:002011-04-11T08:11:00.817-05:00PregoFit: Week One (I am Sore)As I downed my second bowl of Lucky Charms last week, I had a revelation that I needed to take better care of myself and my little cupcake, (what I am calling the baby.) I went from only being able to hold down baked potatoes and crackers in my first trimester to the blessed 4th month where I ate everything in sight.<br />
<br />
I could use a little balance.<br />
<br />
So, I ordered <a href="http://www.pregofit.com/">PregoFit,</a> a total body work-out for each month of pregnancy, and did my very first workout since my 7th week. I'm not gonna lie, I'm soft and jiggly right now and it was painful. However, after trying out several wimpy pregnancy work-outs with my first pregnancy, (sitting on a chair, breathing and stretching didn't really do anything...), I was pleasantly surprised to get my butt kicked by Kristin. She's not afraid to actually, you know, WORK OUT while pregnant. She modifies each work-out to the specific month you're in while inflicting a little pain and smiling the whole time.<br />
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I was not able to smile the whole time, though.<br />
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I did, however, feel I was getting a great work-out. My muscles are sore and I'm excited to find an exercise program that will keep me strong during my pregnancy and after.<br />
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Look out, Gisele Bundchen, I just might put you to shame....Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-50376820120549421602011-04-06T21:55:00.000-05:002011-04-06T21:55:17.845-05:00My EverestEver see the "Friends" episode where Joey tries to eat an entire Thanksgiving turkey by himself? He looks at the bird, sighs and proclaims, "YOU ARE MY EVEREST!" <br />
<br />
Potty training is MY Everest.<br />
<br />
I tried last summer when all of my mommy friends, (who ALL have girls), successfully potty trained their princesses in , like, an hour. After cleaning poo off the carpet for the 5th day in a row, I declared that he could wear diapers for the rest of his life for all I cared. And I put the training pants away and waited until I saw some "signs of readiness."<br />
<br />
Dude, here's the big secret: a boy will never show a sign of readiness because having to go to the bathroom interrupts his playing time and it's easier if he can just doodie in the diaper and keep on playing. And, when it is convenient for <em>him</em>, mommy can clean him up.<br />
<br />
I've been duped by a 3-year-old.<br />
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Mr. Diaper Lover insists that he needs diapers, no matter how many pairs of cool underwear I buy for him, (Buzz Lightyear, pirates, trains.....) We told him that the diapers are going in the trash this weekend. He cried. He yelled. He wanted to put in an emergency call to Granny. Too bad for him that we are ALL tired of changing nasty diapers.<br />
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Saturday is D-Day for him. My husband and I are devoting the entire day to the "Progressive Potty Training Method." Basically, all we do for a day or two is potty train and reinforce it. I have all of the necessary items. I am determined to be positive and pleasant. I am ready and motivated.<br />
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Please pray that I do not lose my christianity on Saturday.<br />
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Amen.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-18186555224517642292011-03-30T22:42:00.001-05:002011-03-30T22:47:30.216-05:00On Men and MeatWhat is it with men and steak? All I did was buy a few steaks on sale. I asked Team Estrogen, (mom and sis), for advice and they voted that my steaks were fine for grilling.<br />
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Tonight, when I innocently asked my Dad to grill them while I finished the baked potatoes, there was a long silence and I think I actually heard his heart break when he looked at my shameful steak selection.<br />
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Apparently, they were sandwich steaks. And puny enough to cook in 5 minutes. And too unmanly to eat.<br />
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I asked him to grill them anyway; I was positive that they would taste fabulous with the right seasoning. Naturally, the first thing my husband said when he walked through the door was, "these steaks....these steaks are so thin! Why did you buy these?!" And then I think he wondered why he married me. And then he tore his clothes and sat in ashes.<br />
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And bless Dad's heart, he went into daddy-mode. He came upstairs with 4 articles about steak from his personal food library. Then he read them to me. And then he showed me a diagram of a cow and where each cut of meat comes from. To top off my education, we are apparently going to the local butcher for a final lesson.<br />
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Because no daughter of his will ever bring home a $3 steak if he has anything to say about it.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-3351238635715244962011-03-29T22:38:00.000-05:002011-03-29T22:38:36.735-05:00Green Acres<div>So, I've been living in the country for 3 months, (with foxes, bobcats, rats in the tractor, mice in the field, snakes in the pond and the random aroma of cow poo.) <br />
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We moved in with my Dad at Green Acres when my husband got a job that required him to <em>start in 2 days in Oklahoma City</em>. I stayed behind for a month to get the house ready to sell, drank a lot of wine after full days of single parenting and began to grieve the loss of our amazing community in Tulsa. Although I was thrilled to be with my family again, losing my kick ass group of mommy friends was bumming me hard. </div><br />
<div></div>So I did the rational thing with our brand new health insurance and got pregnant. You know, cause I had some free time and all. <br />
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<div></div>After Christmas, Cale and I left Tulsa and then managed to stay sick for about 2 months solid. Not awesome, but wedding season was over so we were able to recoop while watching cable and crying together about missing our "old house." You never saw a more pathetic pair.<br />
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<div></div>Just like that, winter is over and now it's spring. My first trimester is complete and I am working hard to gain back the 17 pounds I lost. Cale has adjusted and decided he loves the country, (and needs a dog.) I get to see my husband doing something he loves. My son has his Grandad...and there have been many manly adventures. And the miracle that I didn't think would happen a second time for me did, indeed, happen. I'm going to have another baby. <br />
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Happy Spring.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-41231139830215180072011-03-28T20:50:00.000-05:002011-03-28T22:27:43.351-05:00A Boy's First GroupieThere's a reason some boys never move on from being a "rock star." Think about it: the teen female audience is the most fiercly loyal and enthusiastic you will ever get. And most boy bands, (<em>I'm looking at you New Kids on the Block, Hanson and Backstreet Boys...and I am still trying to get tickets for the Dallas concert</em>), are unable to move on after such devotion. Bless their hearts. It's sad, really. Wait a minute....maybe it starts before the screaming girls. With a much more loyal and crazed female. <br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4e9Bw1_5SHuoypDhHu65dUdTqFprTMrBcMFDIn-lxyMz3V1Dp3PKqrji0tsHUxoN6wCz21Zeh1M5ePFp67CoNSchgWOkv-KuUNJbZvCddlUNNK_I7iidJjiC3SaFTlMm8tjB9hICxdueg/s1600/IMG_2169.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547814117086585074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4e9Bw1_5SHuoypDhHu65dUdTqFprTMrBcMFDIn-lxyMz3V1Dp3PKqrji0tsHUxoN6wCz21Zeh1M5ePFp67CoNSchgWOkv-KuUNJbZvCddlUNNK_I7iidJjiC3SaFTlMm8tjB9hICxdueg/s400/IMG_2169.JPG" /></a> </p>And yet another star has been born.....Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-74706642522802642632010-12-07T10:35:00.004-06:002010-12-07T10:35:00.220-06:00Mooched Mommy Idea #14Toddlers and food will inspire even the strongest mother to break into the liquor cabinet.<br /><br />Getting our little blessings to eat is hard. Getting them to eat healthy is a whole different level of hard. I hear, and say, these things all the time:<br /><br /><em>"All he'll eat is chicken nuggets."<br /><br />"All he wants is ranch dressing and cookies."<br /><br />"He needs CALORIES!"<br /><br />"He'll eat once I bribe him!"<br /><br />"Why does he love something one day and hate it the next?"<br /><br />"It's so discouraging to cook 3 meals a day and all he wants is peanut butter."<br /><br /></em><br />When my son is particularly difficult, I like to fantasize about the day when he will be old enough to cook a meal, in which I will spit out said meal and say, "I DON'T WIIIIIIKE IT!!!" And then I will request fruit snacks and jelly beans for dinner.<br /><br />It helps me cope.<br /><br />My mommy friend, Carolyn, discovered that her toddler ate better when she could walk and eat. I've been trying it, <em>and it works</em>! There has been less pleading and frustration on our part, and he eats better. We still have our basic dinner rules:<br /><br />1. No yelling, fits or spitting at the table.<br />2. No treats if dinner is not eaten.<br />3. I will only make him a special meal if what I cooked is too spicy or ethnic.<br /><br />Other than that, I'm open to suggestions. I'll try every one. And, so far, the "walking around and eating plan" seems to be working. I'll care about the importance of eating at the dinner table another day.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWrLxmKddTPJcqU8Ruaug-hHIeKoWE0Q0aeK3yqR9PJ_J6dpKS46qpWkvJwXF0Cza61kqBjBTz4cpkaIgou34R52rw5MQw6dlcqBoTKfutQdYwhOmY9EE_dCW8wnqVQER6g4TkIXcRCYs/s1600/img_1644.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547430539864630226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWrLxmKddTPJcqU8Ruaug-hHIeKoWE0Q0aeK3yqR9PJ_J6dpKS46qpWkvJwXF0Cza61kqBjBTz4cpkaIgou34R52rw5MQw6dlcqBoTKfutQdYwhOmY9EE_dCW8wnqVQER6g4TkIXcRCYs/s400/img_1644.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><em>Suprisingly, getting him to eat cheesecake is not a challenge....<br /></em>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-35356925838780341212010-12-05T22:18:00.005-06:002010-12-05T22:34:21.347-06:00Catch-UpWell, howdy! I've been a bad blogger. Very, very bad blogger. Wedding season and campaign season collided at the same time...and I think we're still recovering.<br /><br />To add to it, we decided to enroll in Dave Ramsey classes, sell our house, move to Oklahoma City, change jobs and, um....move in with my DAD. You know, cause it's cool to move in with your Dad when you're 32. Clearly.<br /><br />I think it's going to be fun, though. And, since we're married and all, maybe my Dad won't make my husband leave the house by 11. I hope.<br /><br />Anywhoo, it's just until our house sells or one of us goes crazy.<br /><br />This is a pictorial representation of my feelings about all of the changes:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFw92ffsuZBlD71p5zYqH_ykduv2_4n_xKvpV1m3Q9yOYUVnfXi5lIeXIEHydKbG9nctVC8j4OG2xhUxAA4cQMqJ-x9auYmF0-aGPtotOJUreDsWBMJTqwEv7h8R3skH6Ycv7Ob9_Yd4uv/s1600/IMG_2127.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547420284107780818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFw92ffsuZBlD71p5zYqH_ykduv2_4n_xKvpV1m3Q9yOYUVnfXi5lIeXIEHydKbG9nctVC8j4OG2xhUxAA4cQMqJ-x9auYmF0-aGPtotOJUreDsWBMJTqwEv7h8R3skH6Ycv7Ob9_Yd4uv/s400/IMG_2127.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><em>You're welcome.<br /></em>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6735795031415582768.post-82680261296050113062010-11-01T22:12:00.003-05:002010-11-01T22:30:34.098-05:00Mooched Mommy Idea #13I can't explain how much this impacted me, so I'll just have to copy and paste. This Mooched Idea comes from Donald Miller:<br /><br /><a href="http://donmilleris.com/2010/10/26/children-dont-learn-that-they-matter-from-the-bible-they-learn-it-from-you/">Children Don't Learn They Matter From the Bible. They Learn it From You.</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXj5uPpMK3r_B7p9vuS-pBA_QKYYnWjdoGfA-iyJBqWE-OW_Vp_Kf1mc_6ZvLpIWF4AaEKkcfFmDQRjmtsDv4twwK5gMKkbLsEdFnMkXMbYk_0Lz-Xn8s0IwfGnNuOMFRx-QFQ3EoizFq/s1600/img_1632.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534786819059835026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXj5uPpMK3r_B7p9vuS-pBA_QKYYnWjdoGfA-iyJBqWE-OW_Vp_Kf1mc_6ZvLpIWF4AaEKkcfFmDQRjmtsDv4twwK5gMKkbLsEdFnMkXMbYk_0Lz-Xn8s0IwfGnNuOMFRx-QFQ3EoizFq/s400/img_1632.jpg" /></a></p>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322454997460199108noreply@blogger.com1