The first cold of the season has struck in the house of us and so far it has only struck me. But, oh, has it struck me hard. It started out as a throat thing, you know, where you begin to wonder if you swallowed nails or dined on cactus unexpectedly. Then it turned to...
I am a neti expert.
A neti lover.
So when I received a battery operated neti pot from BlogHer?
I waited for the perfect sinus issue to test it out.
That issue came last night, as did the test.
Final answer?
Give this to an amateur and they’re gonna drown.
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(This entire video was recorded, edited, uploaded and posted from my Motorola Xoom with the built in Movie Studio App. Even cooler? I did it all with one hand while the baby snoozed in my other arm.)
((Also, pardon the, um, layout issues I’m having. Consider it an workout for your brain. Sorry about that. Working on it!!)
Fold fluff, crevice crap, chub cheese. Caring for a chubby baby is sometimes similar to caring for a very wrinkly dog. Those folds have to be cleaned and prepped properly or you can be left with some incredibly gross stuff. Most babies, skinny or chubby, end up making a batch of neck cheese somewhere in...
Spoiler alert: my baby is going to be Perry the Platypus for Halloween. Her semi-aquatic feet came in the mail the other day and I am geeked beyond all logic and reason to get her in her full costume. (Fedora? Of course she’ll have a fedora.) But wait, it gets better. When you have a...
I gave Vivi some sage advice on surviving the next few months. You know, stuff like “Don’t whack yourself in the face!” and “TAKE NAPS!” But she’s a horrible listener so I doubt she paid attention to any of it.
Ears on baby clothes? Only kittens are cuter. (Sometimes puppies. Or baby Platypi.)
SPEAKING OF BABY PLATYPI.
Vivi’s Halloween costume is shaping up nicely. Just waiting on one tiny brown felt fedora to arrive.
Of course my baby is going to be a semi aquatic mammal who doubles as a secret agent for Halloween.
Was there really any other option?
I am mad at my breasts.
Not a funny “HAHA!” mad, but legitimately angered by their existence.
I used to enjoy them. They stayed up where they were supposed to, they balanced out my bottom half and they filled out dresses and t-shirts with ease.
I was measured again and guess what? I’m still (STILL!) a 34F. EFFFFFF.
That’s a big bra full of two big failures.
It’s as if they stayed the same size hoping it would mask the fact that they simply did not work.
If the loss of a breastfeeding relationship needs to be mourned I have reason to believe that I have reached the valley between anger and loneliness.
I’ve been unhappy with particular body parts in the past. My nose is a bit too big, my thighs a bit too meaty, my stomach a bit too soft, my skin a bit too pale. But none of these ever affected anything but my own selfish vanity. My nose sniffs, my thighs get me from point A to point B, my stomach carried my two babies and my skin, well. My skin keeps my guts in.
But my boobs, they failed my baby.
And it makes me really, really angry.
All they ever had to do in this life was feed a baby. Nothing else. (Although they did get my husband to notice me eleven years ago, even though he’ll deny it and claim it was my sparkling personality that caught his attention.)
They didn’t do their job.
They just sit here on my chest like two giant fleshy mistakes staring back at me everyday.
“YOU KNOW YOU GUYS FAILED RIGHT?” I want to scream at them. “YOU DON’T DESERVE GOOD BRAS AND SOFT FABRICS!”
It’s a really weird feeling. To feel utter disappointment and regret in a physical part of yourself. Like a bad tattoo you can’t undo. They will always be there reminding me of their failure. I’m not the one that failed…it was them, and yet they’re attached to me.
Other people may never understand the shame and anxiety these things cause me. But for now? It’s all I can feel when I look at them.
Anybody else?
I spoke in church today.
I read a talk that I composed on my laptop from articles on the Internet and then presented it through Evernote on my tablet.
The man that spoke after me was an adorable grandfather who gestured at my Xoom and said “I don’t have any idea what that thing she just used is called.”
He talked about technology and how connected we are today.
About how “Sometimes smart people with smart phones do dumb things.”
Amen to that. (Politicians.)
I came home and googled a thing or two.
20 trillion text messages are received every day.
200 million tweets are sent per day.
42 million pieces of content are shared on facebook EVERY HOUR.
And those numbers aren’t slowing down.
He went on to say if we can believe that this kind of connection can happen even though we barely witness a sliver of it ourselves, is it really so hard to believe that whatever higher power we believe in listens to us when we talk to Him/Her? (Of course in our case it’s God that’s listening and we talk to Him through prayer.)
Roaches are pretty much the only things that have been around longer than prayer in some form.
When I’m having a hard time it’s really easy to come here and write. To call a friend an talk. To make brownies and eat. But sometimes it’s best to hit my knees and pray.
It really is the oldest form of therapy and connection.
It’s free, you don’t have to shower to do it and it never breaks or suffers from technical difficulties.
Unless Heaven or the being you believe in starts selling Missoni, you always have an open line of connection with someone who loves you and will always listen without interrupting.
All you have to do is start talking.
I like taking pictures.
Sometimes I like to call myself a photographer the same way Addie likes to call herself a grownup. Sure she’s more grownup than she was four years ago but she still has a very long way to go. I’m better at taking pictures now than I was four years ago but I still have a very long way to go too.
Most days I simply consider myself a picture taker.
A memory maker.
A moment catcher.
I saw something in passing a few weeks back about the ‘100 strangers‘ project.
You take 100 pictures of 100 strangers. Well, probably more than 100 pictures because who’s super photogenic on the first click? Not this girl. But the point is to end up with 100 photos of 100 people whom you’ve never met before.
I like meeting people. I like taking pictures of people.
So this seems like a good little project for me.
Way better than that 365 garbage I keep starting and giving up on. You people who can complete a 365? Hats off to you, I’m just not that kind of person.
And that’s totally okay.
I’m going to have cards made. Exactly 100 of them. They will give a little description of my project and my hopes and dreams that come along with it. I hope my strangers will share their stories with me. Either when I capture them or later when they realize I’m not conducting some strange social experiment.
The anticipation of working on this project loosens the grip around my throat ever so slightly.
I am excited about it.
Inspired by it.
I’ve also decided to make one pin from Pinterest a reality each week. No sense in looking at that much pretty and doing nothing about it. Last week it was this peach cobbler. We had the missionaries over and they actually giggled into their desserts claiming it was ‘the absolute best peach cobbler they had ever had.‘
I made it with white peaches. I grew up with a white peach tree in my backyard. I was pretty spoiled with good peaches in my childhood. No, I didn’t take a picture of the cobbler because we ate it all before I could. I guess that’s a good sign right?
I emailed the girl who posted the recipe to thank her. Turns out she lives in Indy too. We’re going to be friends. I can tell.
The more I dive into this Internet stuff the smaller the world becomes. And it’s wonderful. Can you imagine if everyone who likes to take pictures took pictures of 100 strangers? By the time we all grew up we’d all have ‘being photographed as strangers’ in common.
Tell me about your projects. Is there one you’re working on? Or one you’re dreaming of? Anybody want to do this 100 strangers business with me? And if I meet you on the street will you let me take your picture? (Also, if you know who any of the girls are in these pictures will you let me know? Thanks.)
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This post is sponsored by Hallmark’s “Life is a Special Occasion” campaign.
