Dum faces? I haz em.

Slouching moosh and Mocha

Slouching Mom, me and Mocha

Andi, Hedder, Kim, moi, Redneck

cheezburger? FAIL.

Represent! (Colorado and Indiana)

Aimee and moi representin’ the Savvy Source (She’s the Denver chick. Iz the Indy chick.)
Bossy Moosh Joy Liz

Bossy, Me, Jess and Liz for Fling it Girl.

I heart Canada and Utah

Andi, Hedder, Kim, moi, Redneck
Casey in the most expensive shoes at macy's

$1700 COWgirl boots. EmPHAsis on the COW.

Trots E. Cheese

the moosh’s first trip to Chuck E. Cheese was today for a neighbors birthday party.

the moosh learned about the trots about an hour into the party.

the moosh had to leave her panties behind in a garbage can.

We had to leave early.

Mommyblog haters hate it when mommybloggers write about poop.

Hate away haters, I’ll have Chuck E. dig out those Cinderella panties and send ’em to you.

That’s all I have to say about my day.


Dropping eggs and shoving fat kids.

In my head is a little room that I keep all my post ideas in. It is currently quite full, and yet there is a fat kid blocking the door so none of the posts can get out.

That fat kid is this post.

You may have noticed me talking about pregnancy the last few days. A few newer readers assumed I was trying to ease you all into a little secret known as “I’m totally pregnant.” Alas, that is not the secret, as much as I wish it was.

It is me trying to remember all I can about the one pregnancy I had in case in doesn’t happen for me again, it’s dawning on me that this is a huge possibility. At least once a day the moosh asks about her brothers and sisters and wonders where the heck they are. I simply tell her it’s not my turn yet.

It may never be my turn again.

82% of monogamous couples who participate in unprotected sex will get pregnant within 9 months. It’s been over three years for us. To that? I say, “bah.”

This is where I get a little crazy. While I would never wish a miscarriage upon anyone, and I myself have never experienced the heartache that surely results from one, I almost wish it would happen to me.

To give me some sort of twisted assurance that my body is still capable of getting pregnant.

Crazy right?

Alas, with all this focus on not being able to get pregnant, I forget this whole thing called Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG) that is quite likely to happen again if and when I ever do get pregnant. It was bad enough the first time and I only had to worry about myself. But now I have the moosh to worry about and I’m thousands of miles away from any family.

So before I even worry about the stress (and blessing of course) of having two children, I have to worry about staying alive for the 9 months it will take to bake the second one. I don’t have 60 pounds to lose this time.

I’d like to be all faithful and thankful that it’s not happening because it’s just not our time yet. And yet having babies born around me all. the. time. makes me a little jealous and huffy. Why is it everyone else’s turn? Their oldest kids are younger than the moosh in most cases. Meh.

I’m able to hold on to that faith for a while. A sweet woman at church wrote me a random note saying that it’s not my fault that I can’t get pregnant, the Lord needs me just the way I am for now so that I can do His work. And it’s true, I couldn’t do a lot of what I do with a second mop of curly hair in tow.

It’s really hard to throw myself a pity party when I look at it that way.

Yet at the same time, it’s so easy to look at it in the sense that I’m just not stable enough to handle two.

So actually the Lord is doing everyone a favor and keeping me a mother of one. Heh. You’re welcome Cody.

Pessimism, optimism, I can go either way depending on the day.

As for adoption? While I greatly admire those who choose to adopt, we have yet to feel that adoption is what we personally are meant to do.

There may be more on this subject later. But I’ve pretty much shoved the fat kid through the door. We’ll see if he parks it on the stoop now or scrams.

they’re purely ornamental.

I didn’t breastfeed. the moosh had a bottle within the first 24 hours of her life.

She was bottle fed with formula for her entire first year of life.

And guess what? She’s darn healthy and well adjusted for a little kid who had a bottle shoved down her maw for the first 12 months of her life.

Now some die hard breastfeeding mother out there is grumbling at me.

I tried.

Boy howdy did I try.

In the first few moments after she was born, I nursed her. It was so easy, so natural. Even the nurses said I made it look too easy. After the first day, things weren’t going so well. I was bleeding, I was chapped, I was sore. I dreaded nursing her. Nurses and lactation consultants came in to help (read, lactation consultants came in and felt me up something fierce.) Yet nothing came out, not even the colostrum they promised me would come. the tiny moosh screamed, and after a bottle she calmed down, she fell asleep, and I felt relieved. (And when I say relieved I mean I felt a huge amount of guilt for giving my child a bottle because I was going to be nurser extraordinaire.) There was no physical change in my boobs. Not throughout pregnancy, not after birth. (Well, except for the saggy thing. Darn you sag.)

Pediatricians and nurses kept telling me to KEEP UP WITH THE NURSING! My milk would come! Don’t give up! Don’t be one of those moms! Nursing will save society! I promised them I would.

Thus began my ritual of nurse, feed, pump. Every time the moosh woke up to eat I would start by nursing her, even though nothing was coming out. I would then have to bottle feed her because homegirl was hungry and pissed that all I did was shove an empty boob in her mouth. When she was finally settled down it was time for me to pump.

Encourage those puppies to produce!

Yet nothing ever came out. The only thing that hit the inside of that bottle was my sore bleeding nipple.

I did this at every feeding for two weeks.

I tried Reglan.

Correction, I was prescribed Reglan but the good pharmacist caught that I had a history of anti depressants and encouraged me to talk with the doctor that prescribed it. When I told the doctor that I was prone to intense depression he said “DO NOT TAKE THAT REGLAN.” Apparently Reglan, let loose in a postpartum woman’s system with a history of depression can lead to the postpartum woman jumping in front of moving cars and stuff.

Way to take a good history DOCTOR.

This is when I began to realize not a single doctor or nurse who forced nursing upon me was aware of my sickness while pregnant. I got pregnant at 180 pounds, I went home from the hospital with a new baby at 120 pounds.
That’s how sick I was.

No one bothered to consider that I was so emaciated from cooking that little baby that I had absolutely no reserves left for making milk. How could they? As soon as the moosh came out I was done with the puking.

I called the lactation consultant assigned to my boobs and asked her if there was a possibility that it would be physically impossible for me to nurse due to my HG while pregnant.

“I suppose” she said.

“Well then I’m done, this is ridiculous. You can come pick up your machine (pump) tomorrow.”

“But ma’am! There’s so much you haven’t tried! Brewer’s yeast! Supplemental nursers!”

I cut her off. “I am bloody, I am tired, my body is physically incapable of providing milk for my baby. I was bottle fed and I turned out okay. I’m sure my kid will too. Thank you.”

And guess what? The guilt was gone. the moosh was bottle fed, which was actually a huge blessing for me because it allowed others to watch her while I recovered from some serious postpartum depression.

So there you go.

I didn’t breastfeed. I tried. My body failed me.


So this one time, on the way to lamaze…

…we almost got divorced.


I admit, it was my idea to do the whole Lamaze thing. IT’S WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO!

But now that I have a neighbor who is eleven and a half months pregnant it’s all rushing back to my just how lame Lamaze was for us, and that fateful day that I actually seriously considered doing all this baby junk on my own.

“If you have the kid on the day of my final I’ll just have to come after it’s over.”


“Oh yeah, well who’s going to pay the bills if I flunk out of school?”


“My teacher said there’s no excuses for anything not no way not no how.”

“(enter another pregnant all caps raving rant here ending with IF THE BIRTH OF YOUR CHILD ISN’T ALL THAT IMPORTANT TO YOU THEN I’LL JUST DO IT ON MY OWN WHO NEEDS YOU!”

We finally made it to Lamaze. I was steaming FREAKING mad. Crying even. I didn’t want HIM to touch me. I didn’t even want to admit that he was the one who impregnated me.

Have I ever mentioned that I was bat crap crazy when I was pregnant? Because now would be a good time to mention it. I was prone to raving rants of lunacy. At least weekly. More on that later.

Bad news bears.

I forget my point. But there’s an awful lot that’s rushing back with a really pregnant lady around more.

For example SOMEBODY, who just happens to be really pregnant and lives right down the street from me, woke up at four am yesterday to wash, fold and hang her new baby’s clothes. But I’m not naming names.

Somebody else, named me, headed out at midnight to buy a new shower curtain the day before her due date. Not only did she buy a shower curtain, she IRONED IT, STARCHED IT and hung it up before going to bed at 2 am and waking up in labor at 5 am. (The glories of having a baby near Christmastime. Stores are open late to pregnant nesting whims.)

Ah pregnancy. Craaaaazzzziiieeesss….


I love my camera. Love it, stroke it, kiss it, hug it, can’t get enough of it.

I sometimes get overwhelmed at how much my camera is capable of. Will I ever be able to do it justice? (This is where some of you sweet people get all “OH BUT CASEY YOU’RE SO GOOD!” and I’m all “THANK YOU! THAT’S SO SWEET!”)

However you must understand I have set my expectations unrealistically high. My mom is an amazing landscape photographer. I grew up watching her take thousands of brilliant images almost effortlessly.


my favorite picture that my mom has taken

Of all the photos my mom has taken, this one will forever be my favorite.

My best friend is an amazing journalistic photographer. I want to suck them dry of all they know, and someday when I can I will.

But for now, I get frustrated with f stops and ISO and RAW and shutter speed and OH MY WHY DOES THAT LENS COST SO MUCH? But then I have to remember, this camera has only been in my hands for four months.

Cody’s been in my hands for almost eight years and he’s still a mess. (Dear Cody, love you. -Red)

So instead of being bummed about the pictures I didn’t get, I’m going to focus on moments that I did.
Lunch with my lady
Like this one, having lunch with my best friend in San Francisco. She is one of my greatest blessings.
Whatever do you mean you didn't do cartwheels in your room?
Who else ditched out on the parties early to do cartwheels in their room just because they could?
My favorite photo from my trip.
This one is by far my favorite. Heather, Kim and I ditched out on a session to go take pictures. Instead of asking someone to take a picture for us we found a shiny window to do the job. We were quite the scene, three giggly girls with SLRs lined up taking pictures of a window. People didn’t quite know what to make of us. But we did, and we were happy.
The token Casey jumping shot

I was happy. The whole trip was one big pinch me high. It’s disappointing that not everyone enjoyed it and feels it necessary to drag out their disappointment and unhappiness. But as I said, it was what you made of it. And to the people who spent it with me, you could not have made it any better for me. Thanks. Thanks to every single person who stopped me to say thank you or hi or good job or nice shoes. To those I didn’t get to meet, I’m doubly bummed. 1,000 women is a lot to meet. Especially when a lot of the time is spent hiding in a corner with nervous bubble gut. (like me! HI!)

If I was a jerk to you, I’m sorry. Chances are I was on my way to a bathroom to, well, you know. I didn’t meet a single person this year that hurt my feelings or that I felt slighted by. Yes, even Sweetney was a doll to me. So please, before you feel like spreading nastiness around the internets about someone who was mean to you, maybe they didn’t mean it, maybe they just had to poo too. Or maybe they lost their favorite nose hair clipping trimmers and were bummed about it at the moment you decided to say hello.

Benefit of the doubt ladies. Benefit of the doubt.

Huh. Well. That was a random post.

Just be nice dammit.

And tell me what you’re working on that gets you overwhelmed too.

I pray you will dance.

I got an email from a reader the other day who happens to have a lot in common with my occasional bouts of crazy. She told me she started reading my blog when I posted “The Overdose“, the post I read at the Community Keynote at BlogHer ’08. She is currently treading some heavy waters with depression.

This is what she said:

…And then there’s this: I guess I just wanted to say … um … thanks for posting that picture. Because right now, and in the past year or so, I really haven’t been able to begin to believe that one day…I might want to get up and dance. But there you are, and you’re dancing, and you’re rocking out. And it made me smile.

So thanks.

Miss A, these are for you.
Me dancin' courtesy of Jennster
Me dancin' courtesy of Jennster

My prayers are with you, and with anyone else who may be hurting.


Not a period too soon.

So uh, just wondering…

How many of you at BlogHer started your period early? Because I thought it was just coincidence that five of the women that I met the first night were on their period. Then there were my roommates. Then there was the girl that I pottied next to after dinner one night who’s period took her (and her white! pants!) completely by surprise.

Then there was me. I wasn’t due for another week.

And yet yesterday at the airport, SURPRISE!

I’m sure the Westin is still reeking with estrogen.


Yes, pictures are coming. SOMEONE, despite her best editing and whittling, ended up with over EIGHT HUNDRED pictures from the last five days. Yeesh.