Nightmares of the Martha sort.

Little kids have nightmares. Dragons, giant stining insects and monsters are typical little kid nightmare fodder.

My kid?

Spices.

My kid has nightmares about spices.

She is scared to death that “the spices” are going to come get her. They were in her room the other night and a bunch of ladybugs came in to eat them. She also told her dad he had eyes all over his shirt. We had to make sure she really was awake and didn’t sneak out back to lick one of those “magic” toads.

Just so you’re aware, spices don’t come out in the day, only in the dark. They are in bottles and apparently teddy bears eat the spices. We have set up a perimeter of teddy bears around her bed and put a plastic toy hammer in her hand at bedtime in case any of the spices break through the teddy bearrier. (PUN!)

So far it’s worked well, I awake each morning to a nightly spice report, none spotted since Friday night.

Now tell me how in the world does one interpret the dream of a three year old involving parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme? She does call her dad’s kisses spicy, from all of his whiskers, I wonder if him kissing her each night is subconsciously registering as something coming to get her.

How’s that for parenting guilt?

Hey dude, no more kissing your sleeping child, you’re giving her nightmares.

Titles vs. Truths.

I hate saying “I’m a mom.”

I also don’t like saying “My husband is in Law School.”

I feel that both descriptions give a stereotypical image to whoever is hearing them.

When someone says “I’m a mom/dad,” the childless will most likely picture lazy afternoons spent on the couch with children playing about your feet. Those with children will picture grocery store trips with cranky children, late nights soothing nightmares and OH THE ENDLESS MESSES YOU TOO MUST HAVE TO CLEAN UP. Rarely will either group picture you following your hobbies and dreams or being a friend, sister, brother or mother to whomever may need one.

Truth is I am a mom, but I also love to bake, I love to go out on evenings by myself and take pictures of stuff. I love to hang out in bookstores and look at photography books. I like to give myself pedicures. I thrive on bringing people who are hurting a meal or a treat of some sort. I love to play card games with my husband. I like to color in coloring books. I go to church every Sunday. I drive in a carpool. I use reusable shopping bags. I plan elaborate vacations in my head. I cry at old movies and sitting around a table with my friends is as close to perfect as life can get.

While it’s true that Cody spends an awful lot of time pouring over law books in a sterile law library, he also loves to golf. He knows football better than I know my own toes. He plays basketball with his friends every Tuesday night. He takes the moosh out on Daddy/Daughter dates to get ice cream. He writes me love notes on the bathroom mirror. He likes to go to electronics stores and stare at TV’s. He listens to books on tape. He can make the moosh giggle and laugh harder than anyone else in this world.

While many of us can claim some sort of title in this world, be it parent, executive, farmer, dancer, dentist or truck driver, it doesn’t mean that we are the same as every other parent, executive, farmer, dancer, dentist or truck driver.

Maybe motherhood came easy to you and you find yourself wondering “what the heck is her problem and why is she crying all the time?” towards a new mom. Just because two women can become moms doesn’t mean it’s going to be the same journey for both of them. It’s not our job as humans to judge or analyze. It’s our job to step in and take over whatever hurt, pain or responsibility that we can. Or to share in whatever small victories, joys or celebrations we can.

A stay at home dad in California, while sharing the same “title” as a stay at home dad in Texas are going to have lives and personalities worlds apart from each other. A working mom in Washington has many of the same struggles as a working mom in LA. While they each have their own unique struggles it doesn’t mean that one or the other is doing any better of a job, they are both doing the best they can.

Next time you see a frazzled parent who has just soothed a colicky baby, try not to offer your advice on what you did with your kids, or what your friend’s friend did (unless they ask.) During those moments of silence when the baby is asleep let them talk about what made them them before the baby came along, and how they hope to share their passions with their kids. Ask them what they like to do, what they are passionate about. (Not what they liked to do or were passionate about) What dreams do they have past 8 hours of sleep at night? As bad as new beginnings can suck, it will end.

As a new mom I was always so bothered that no one looked past the baby in my arms. No one asked how I was outside parenthood, despite the haze of new motherhood I still had passions and interests that didn’t involve Huggies or sleep schedules. Same goes for someone in school. Or in a new career. Or in the hospital with cancer. There is so much more that defines a person beyond parent, cancer patient, student or professional. Rarely ever is it what we see on the outside that makes a person phenomenal. Often it’s what they do when no one’s looking. What they choose to do with their free time instead of what they need to or are supposed to be doing with their time.

Let’s start paying attention to it.

Follicular Miracles Part Deux

Remember when I was all “OOH! I HAVE A HAIR GIRL! OOH SHE’S AWESOME! LOOK WHAT SHE DID!”

Refresher, she did this:
After

Well shortly after telling everyone about her and raving about her, she busted up her shoulder and is no longer able to do hair.

I’ve been in mourning. Unable to face another stylist search. That is until yesterday. By chance I walked into a funky salon in a very eclectic part of town looking for a particular curl creme for the moosh. We were headed off to have her haircut cut at one of those chain places when I asked if anyone there was good at curly cuts.

Why yes there is and she’ll be here at one.

Sweet.

As I paid for the moosh’s new do I asked “What about me?”

How about 4:15 tomorrow?

Deal.

This morning?

This:
September Before

Even great haircuts die hard, horrible, tragic deaths.

This evening?

This:
September After

I have finally embraced what my natural curl allows me to do and what it keeps me from having to do (like curl my entire head of hair, instead I just have to curl the top layer. Sweet.)

Nicole @ Alchemy Art + Aesthetics did moi.

Aynie hooked the moosh up.

1043 Virginia Ave. Indianapolis (In Fountain Square) 317.634.9700

Attitude Shmattitude

I am currently in a bet with my husband that I can have a good attitude for seven whole days.

Some of you just gasped! Wondering how anyone in their right mind could go seven whole days with a sunshine sparkle outlook on life.

Others of you gasped! Wondering what the hell my problem is that I have to make a bet with my husband to be a nice person for seven days.

You see, Cody jokes. A lot. He claims that it’s his duty to bug me since I never had a brother. However after dealing with boys since Kindergarten I’m well aware that it is a boys calling in life to bug girls. To find one to bug ’til death do you part. Except in my case it’s for time and all eternity. Eternity is a long time to be bugged y’all.

With all the bugging and the joking and the HA! HA! I can get a little miffed. A little ticked. A little annoyed. A little short. Pretty soon Bad Attitude Betty is at the door calling for Cody’s fresh blood. So I’m taking a week to practice a good attitude toward bugging. Not only from Cody, but from humidity, grumpy kids, piles of laundry and law school.

So far? I know for a fact that I married exactly whom I was supposed to, more on that gagtastic realization later. I also know that with all this humidity I haven’t had to buy a single bottle of lotion for two years. I’ve learned that when the resident three foot grump goes on tirade, she’s more than happy to hang out in her room for an hour and color her frustrations out. I finally found a laundry combination that actually has me looking forward to stuffing my face into basketfuls of freshly folded laundry. And law school? Dude. My husband is thisclose to finishing right near the top of his class in law school. LAW SCHOOL. Dude rocks my world.

At the end of seven days he will be making me a three course dinner (see that? CONFIDENCE!) involving crab in some form (not krab, crab. crab crab crab.)

Anybody else want to take the challenge? While I won’t share my crab, Cody makes a wicked mashed potato.

blog fizzle. fo’ shizzle.

Blog burnout.

We’ve all suffered it.

We’ve all felt guilty about it.

Laaaaaaame.

I personally haven’t had much to write about. I took my kid to a horse show, to pick raspberries and to get her some new pants that go past her ankle bone. Last night we hit up the circus and today we’re trekking down to Louisville to go to the Temple.

While we’ve had fantastic time, I don’t really expect you to care a whole lot that I’ve eaten enough raspberries to make my fingers red or that packing away clothes the moosh has grown out of sent me into a heap of weepiness.

So I don’t write about it. Instead I live it. And I don’t feel guilty about it.

OH! There was a time. If my blog when longer than three days without a post? I’d start throwing myself in front of cars and purposely placing myself in awkward situations in hopes blog fodder would result.

Laaaaame.

It’s okay if you don’t want to write. It’s okay if you have nothing to write about. Personally I’m thankful when people value my time enough by not posting posts such as “HoHum, I have nothing to write about so, um, I like went to the store and grandma came over and we made cookies and LOOK! here’s a picture of my kid with something kind of funny on their head! Sorry this sucks so bad, I’m a sucky blogger wah wah.”

Shooshie.

Quit talking mean about yourself. LOVE yourself. Love your blog. Love your readers. Loooooove.

If you went to the store and made cookies with grandma all while you kid had something funny on their head? EMBRACE IT! Tie it together! Get that ol’ brain working! One fantastic FANTASTIC example of beautiful simple posting is Angela over at Moon Cookie. (Oh hai Angela! Hope you don’t mind, I just love you too much. You’re too wonderful not to share with the world.)

This brings me to guest posting. Some people poo-poo guest posts. However if you have unique readers that a fellow blogger doesn’t, and you want to share their wit! and funny! and talent! with your readers than go ahead, try it out. Take a blog nap while you’re at it. And if someone asks YOU to guest post but you’re already in the blog dumps? Say no. And for the love don’t feel guilty.

I personally have guest posted twice for ladies suffering from blog fizzle in the last week.

This one is about the Hello Kitty jammies that almost were.

And this one is about leather drama.

Funny side note, I emailed these posts to both ladies for them to publish at their leisure. The formatting somehow went all wonky on my One Plus Two post. However the formatting is just right on Don Mills Diva. You know what? I think I kind of sound like a raging drunk on Jen’s blog. People have complained about my SPACES! and my HARD RETURNS! But really? Hard returns make me what I am.

Big House of Pain.

First of all, take a gander at your left index finger. See all those keys surrounding it? Now imagine typing with three extra cush band-aids on that finger and you’ll be where I’m am at this moment. Nothing much, just a little minor surgery while trying to cut the best canteloupe ever in the history of melons. I should have known something was up when the knife cut into the rind like butter.

Anyway.

That was just a lame excuse to excuse myself from typos.

ONTO THE GAME!

Cody and I are Utah fans. We piled into the car early Saturday morning and took the five hour drive up to Ann Arbor Michigan. I myself took a five hour sleep. Dramamine, mmm. My husband decided to wear a BRIGHT RED “take the big house” shirt.

Through the streets of Ann Arbor.

I walked 15 feet behind in case of projectiles. Punches were thrown, lives were threatened and OH THE FOUR LETTER WORDS!

Thank heavens my husband is a big man or someone may have thought it a good idea to throw him in a garbage can.

When we finally made it into the stadium with the other 108,000 fans, the trash talking began. Thankfully I was between my husband and another man of large stature who had the trash talk skills. Left unattended at a football game I would get my trash kicked.

Michigan scored first. OH that made those blue and maize people COCKY. Then Utah scored but missed their field goal. The Michigan fans were out of their MINDS! with trash talk. Then Utah scored again. And again.

I’ll tell you what. I would have never believed 108,000 people could be so quiet. So humbled. As soon as it was obvious Michigan was going to lose the fans began to bail. Michigan fans? You may be passionate (Hello! Getting married at a football game?), but loyalty seems to be optional. And you seriously have an unhealthy relationship with really cheesy high fives.
What do you think she got in return?
Michigan Fan
The Big House
Painted Ute
F-22 Flyover
Third best day of his life.
The Big House in little sunglasses
A sea of Michigan Fans
Michigan Fans High Five, A LOT.
Can you tell who won?
Michican fans clear out fast when they lose.
Utah takes The Big House
Victorious Utes
(Say hi to the little fetus Ute fan in the picture! And no, it’s not me!)
Celebratory Pizza under an ironic sign.

never always.

With motherhood, marriage and the loss of certain calendar spreads, it becomes more and more obvious that I will never be a lot of things. But with wifehood and motherhood also comes a new appreciation for what I can, and hopefully will accomplish.

I will never be the hot chick on the back of some guys motorcycle.

I will be the girl behind the bike of a little kid, teaching her how to ride without training wheels.

I will never be a cheerleader at the sidelines of an NFL game.

I will be the cheerleader at the sidelines of a little league game with juice boxes at the ready.

I will never be a famous singer.

I will get to sing duets in the car to Barbie soundtracks.

I will never bring men to their knees.

I will always have band-aids for skinned knees.

I will never cause a room to stop and stare when I enter.

I will cause tears to stop with nothing but a hug.

I will never win prestigious awards to frame.

I will get “I LOVE YOU MOM” written in crayon, maybe even Sharpie, on my wall.

I will never be the leading lady in a Hollywood blockbuster.

I will always be the only one who can make my husband his favorite meal the way he likes it.

I will probably never cure a disease or deliver a baby.

I will always show upĀ  on doorsteps with casseroles for people who just got out of the hospital, lost a loved one or had a baby.

I will never make millions laugh with my “male candor and feminine wit”.

But I can always make my kid laugh so hard she can’t breathe.

I will never be featured in National Geographic.

I will always be featured on the walls of my own house and on the walls of grandma and grandpa back home.

I will never wrestle alligators.

I will wrestle wet naked babies in the bathtub or tantrum throwing toddlers in the aisles of Target.

I will never be a mom to millions.

But I will always be the mom to at least one.

*****

What will you never always be?